Bobby having fun involves a number of things mixed together to be successful. The most important rule being: get him alone. First step's halfway down but standing where anyone can walk by wouldn't be his idea of a comfort zone on any given day. That's precisely where they differ. It seems to him that John can be exactly who he is anywhere - damn the consequences. He doesn't allow himself the same luxury.
Privileges and the lack of them fly out the window because there are hands down his pants, touching him, and they're hot (almost too hot) through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. Screw alcohol; Bobby's pretty sure that mouth and those hands are a force of God, especially when they're both focused on him. All at once. He turns his face and lets out a disappointed noise when John's mouth keeps going, grazing, towards his ear.
He's so black and white that he likes kissing. Thinks it's a huge part of foreplay.
"John," and it's just a breath, because all the effort he has from the overload being inflicted gets forced into another noise. A lower and deeper groan as he feels that hand fist around him. He can't help himself. All that dirty talk and so his cheeks are flushed. Pink and flaring across his nerves. His ears probably match. His teeth sink into his lower lip and it muffles the cry he makes in response to the squeeze; it's hard but he's grown accustomed to a bit of roughness when they get together. He's sort of learned to like it.
His arms extend, reaching, and he pulls John to him by the front of his shirt. Lets his dick do the thinking when he slips his hands up under his t-shirt. The guy's such a control freak when he's in charge that Bobby doubts he'll get farther than that, so he touches all he can greedily, with palms spread wide. "You're going to finish what you start, because you want this. You want me hard and swelling against your tongue just as badly as you want me inside you. Just as much as you like it when I scream when you're the one fucking me."
I <3 your Bobby. Just so you know.aduro_xJuly 21 2011, 09:47:19 UTC
John positively revels in forcing Bobby out of his comfort zone. Part of it's the somewhat demented joy of corrupting the innocent, good little Boston boy, but that enjoyment is just as much a product of him genuinely wanting Bobby to loosen up and have fun. For all his brashness and arrogance, John is far from being one of those teens deluded by his youth into thinking he's immortal. His life prior to arriving at Xavier's taught him, if nothing else, that life is not a guarantee. No use wasting whatever time they have, so they might as well just do whatever they want and damn the consequences, right?
He tried explaining that philosophy to the Professor once. Didn't go over so well, and he still got assigned extra chores. Doesn't mean he stopped believing it.
John picks his head up, just slightly, when he hears his name being whispered like a prayer, like it's all Bobby can do to get it out into the open. He's blushing, either from embarrassment or simply because he's turned on (John would like to believe it's an interesting combination of the two). Nice.
So busy studying Bobby's face as he is, John doesn't see the hands headed toward him until it's too late. Not that he would resist anyway, but he very much prefers to be in control. Then again, there's a part of him that secretly loves it when Bobby's in charge, ordering and demanding and needing. It's the same part that also scares the hell out of John on those rare occasions he really gets to cut loose with his powers, when he feels the insane urge to just surrender completely to the fire and let it rage out of control, wild and unstoppable and consuming everything in its path. Even him. He's never pretended that he doesn't have a self-destructive streak.
John looks up at Bobby when he speaks, his eyes, a much darker blue than Bobby's own, going nearly black with lust. Maybe Bobby's not so opposed to middle-of-the-hallway sex after all.
"So what if I do? That supposed to mean I can't still be a dick and fuck you over just for fun?" John could do it, too. Probably. He's never actually tried, precisely for the very reasons Bobby just listed, but he's reasonably certain he could get Bobby wound up and then leave him frustrated and horny beyond measure.
When Bobby's fingertips skitter over his nipples, John retaliates with another hard squeeze, then dips his hand, cupping the balls and rolling them, tugging gently but firmly enough to keep Bobby's undivided attention.
"I do like that, yeah. Like the way you taste, the way you pull my hair, that little twitching thing your hands do when you come...yeah. I like that." Finally, he pulls one of his hands out of Bobby's pants and, just to surprise him, grabs the back of his head to pull him in for a kiss, hard and frantic and not even pretending to be a warm up of any kind; he's immediately delving his tongue into Bobby's mouth, his tongue sliding against Bobby's in time with every stroke of his hand.
I also love your John, just so we're clear. and if I didn't have work, there would be more dialogue.hypothermiacJuly 21 2011, 18:26:59 UTC
As he should. To this day, he's one of the only people who can get him to go against himself. That gets him to do more than he'd ever dream of being capable of on his own. He's reserved. He's a gentleman. He tries to be everyone's best friend. Most people don't see past that, so they make the mistake of thinking those are all of his layers. They aren't. Would he really hang out with the so-called bad boy if he didn't have a dark side of his own somewhere underneath?
They weren't raised the same and they don't always get along but they can relate to each other, for the most part. Yeah, there are things they don't mention but hello, they're dudes, last he checked. That's a given. They fight and they fuck and they laugh it out over xbox controllers later while calling each other fags. (Okay, so that's mostly John, but still.)
And he happens to be about seventy-percent against screwing in the hallway, but he also trusts this guy to not steer him too wrong. Everything they've done, they've come out of alive, so he has to give credit where credit is due. He's also pretty turned on by the public aspect, which is surprising, because he didn't think he was an exhibitionist. Maybe it's just because he's being jerked off. Yeah, that's - that's definitely it.
He likes being in control as much as the next person, because there's something thrilling about not having to be the clinical, do things by the book guy. Something exhilarating in just being able to take and do and command. He can be an immovable force when he wants to be (hard as ice) or he can be like he is now, practically liquefied. Shapeable.
His hips give a sporadic jump, rolling aimlessly, up into John's hand for a lapse in time. It's no easy task to accomplish when his fingers keep drifting and giving Bobby something new to experience. His own fingers curl harshly into John's shoulders, palms bite into his collarbones and it's for a multitude of reasons. He needs something to hold onto. "Fuck," he hisses, head thumping back against the wall (and shit he hopes that isn't a classroom) because he's too gone to care. Dizzy with it. He's breaking out into a cold sweat and while he's inherently focused, he's having trouble finding his words.
That means he's fairly grateful when their mouths get shoved together; unrelenting and unapologetic, leaving him breathless and frantic. It dawns upon him that John's a bastard, only fleetingly. Bobby's hand drop dangerously and fast; they flash flood down his chest, his stomach, then give way over his hips (but they're still not done.) Not where he wants them. He figures if he's going to suffocate from as fiercely as he's kissing back, teeth bumping, tongues rolling, he might as well hyperventilate happy. His lips part and he breaks for air, lets out a noise he'll deny being anything but manly and slides his hands right around to the back of John's waistband. Sure, it's his show, but there were no ground rules about touching.
His knuckles scrape against denim and he forgets to care from where they're tightly pressed between John's jeans and his underwear, grasping, with his only goal being to pull him flush against his own hand. It's the closest Bobby can get to having him pressed against him, and right about now he's too transparent to pretend to be subtle. To save himself some much needed oxygen, he goes for John's neck with his teeth, hips restlessly rolling.
No worries, it's perfect! :) And this got ridiculously long. Sorry.aduro_xJuly 22 2011, 01:59:46 UTC
John didn't see past that "gentleman" act at first, either. When he first showed up at the school, not too long after Bobby, all he saw was some douchey frat boy type, an Abercrombie & Fitch model with a perfect smile that indicated his family must have had a good insurance plan. John instantly hated him. Then they were paired up together because, hurr durr, fire and ice, isn't that Cyclops just so clever, but John found other curious ways they fit together as well. Bobby was reserved most of the time, reasonable, rational, and kept John grounded (usually). John, meanwhile, was headstrong and willful, and saw it as his personal mission to drag Bobby out of his self-imposed shell. Not that John was a social butterfly by any stretch of the imagination; he was about as anti-social as it got. But that was just it: he wasn't afraid to tell people exactly what he thought of them and in what specific, colorful way they could go fuck themselves, and Bobby needed someone like that in his life just as much as John needed someone to hold him back when he was about to let his mouth get him into serious trouble.
A short, almost strangled noise escapes John's throat when Bobby's hands are suddenly everywhere, moving too quickly for his brain to keep up. Bobby's hips are rocking against his hand, thrusting himself into John's fist, and John can't help but smirk. Or, well, try to, given the way he's currently preoccupied with trying to suck Bobby's tongue down his throat.
He shudders as Bobby's hands keep roaming, sliding across overheated skin and then suddenly latching on to his ass, pulling him tightly against Bobby's body. Those hands, fuck, those hands...John could (and, on one memorable occasion, did) get off from Bobby's touch alone, even without actually paying attention to his dick. Maybe he's a masochist (okay, he knows he's a bit of a masochist), but he loves the almost painful sensation of Bobby's hands going ice cold over his own feverishly hot skin. The contrast is almost too much, almost too sharp and drastic, and it always takes John's breath away, but he absolutely craves it. He doesn't like the cold, generally, but Bobby's different. He's also cold, yes, but there's an odd warmth underneath it all, the heat of a human body, radiating even through the chill. John's convinced that one of these days he's going to look down and see steam rising off his body wherever Bobby's fingers touch him.
John chuckles quietly at that oh-so-"manly" whine, but the laughter very quickly turns to a whimper of his own when Bobby's mouth moves against his neck, biting a little, just the way he knows John can't resist, the bastard.
"Bo-Bobby," John stammers, though he doesn't exactly have a plan for what he's trying to say. He just feels the need to say something, because if he doesn't he's going to say the hell with it and just bend over right then and there. Patience may be a virtue, but John's never claimed to be the virtuous sort.
One especially sharp bite makes his back arch and his hand tighten again around Bobby's cock, and it also serves as a helpful reminder that, hey, he had a plan and this is still his game. His hand fists tightly at Bobby's hair to pull his head up for another searing kiss just before he drops down to his knees, lifting the hem of Bobby's shirt to kiss at his stomach while his hands busy themselves with pushing his jeans off his hips and letting them drop around his ankles. Once they're out of the way, he flashes a quick, impish grin up at Bobby before beginning to mouth over the obvious bulge in his underwear, sucking on the head as best he can, well aware that Bobby can feel the intense heat of his mouth even through the fabric.
"Somethin' you want, Drake?" he asks innocently, hands reaching up to grasp Bobby's hips and keep them from rolling forward. "Thought you were all about being responsible and shit, not getting a blowjob in the middle of a hallway?" John glances down at his watch and then looks back up, eyebrows raised. "Class'll be out soon." In another half hour, sure, but Bobby doesn't need to know that.
It's okay! I'm usually the one who does that, so I was delightfully surprised.hypothermiacJuly 22 2011, 08:25:56 UTC
In that case, it’s always John’s lucky day, in regards to temperature. The more Bobby has going on, the less control he has, the more he shoots off in either direction. He’s not like John, he doesn’t overheat. He starts forgetting what he is and who he is and what he’s doing, but at least he’s never given anyone frostbite. They burn each other in devastatingly different ways, both inside and outside of the danger room. Sometimes, he does it on purpose. Okay, most of the time. The first was an accident but he’s like a kid playing with something he knows he’s not supposed to have - in on the secret and not above hinting that he’s so fucking onto everyone involved.
Lost in it, eyes blown, lips swollen…his fingers stutter from where he’s palming John’s ass and everything starts to dip, down from knuckles to fingertips. They drift, raise up, rake over the elastic band and just as they graze skin, he’s getting his lips mauled once more and it’s every bit as desperate and calloused as John’s noises. The kind that make his eyes slip shut and his head drop, chin to chest, as the other teen drops down his body. Out of sight isn’t out of mind. He gropes blindly, catches hair and pushes his hand into it, buries it deep where his fingers curl and twist.
Bobby uses the other to hold his shirt up, bunched at his stomach. God (has nothing to do with what’s going down), those kisses. John’s mouth. His fucking mouth. It’s a fetish all its own, and not even the legit kind. It’s not even a real oral fixation. He talks and Bobby either wants to punch his front teeth out or knock him flat on his back so he can straddle him and make him say more of those obscene things he’s pretty sure don’t belong in real life. They tug him all out of proportion, twist him into asymmetry.
His heart thuds, pounds, so loud he can hear it in the back of his head. Were he in a more sentient state of mind, he might try and yank his jeans back up. Not to stop, never to stop. But being so exposed is like asking for expulsion. Pleading for it. He swears it skips a beat between that devilish grin plastered on John’s face and when he leans in but he’s probably being melodramatic. He swallows, rough and dry, cries out with a cracking voice. There’s no air, except for the gasps he’s sucking down. He shivers when he has no right to, because he’s giving the exact opposite reaction to heat.
He has to admit…there’s a part of him that doesn’t care what John’s saying, that wants to push him back down, that wants him to put his mouth to better use. He mutilates his friend’s name into some kind of frustrated growl. "Screw class and screw you," he pops off with, half-annoyed that he's going to have to ask for it. Since he’s pinned to the wall (by his hips anyway), no amount of trying to arch forward is going to get him where he wants to be. One tug and he jerks John’s head back while his hand slides down from his stomach, straight to the front of his underwear.
Selfish and entitled and so freaking turned on that it’s starting to ache; every second he doesn’t feel some kind of touch is another throbbing mess, and no, not the good kind. He palms himself, going from good boy to slut in zero seconds.
“You know what I wa-hh-nt.” His stubborn streak will never, ever, get him laid. Which is why it's a great thing it's only hanging by a thread.
Nope, I'm a babbler of the worst kind. Kindred spirits, yo. *fist bump*aduro_xJuly 22 2011, 09:04:59 UTC
John laughs, really laughs, at Bobby's meager attempt at an insult. It's not the disdainful snicker most people get, or the obliging half-chuckle others get when John's in a mood -- or, more likely, being forced -- to be somewhat civil, but a true, honest laugh, deep and rich. Bobby's really the only one who ever gets to hear it. Rogue, now and then, because as much as he kind of wants to shove her out in front of a bus sometimes, she can also get in some good zingers when John pushes her hard enough. But really, it's only ever Bobby. Only him. And isn't that just a fucking joke? They're like a bad teen movie cliche and John fully realizes that, just as much as he resents it. Of course the bad boy would earn the trust and affection of the school's golden girl, the one with perfect grades and who helped out all the other students and was everyone's best friend. Just turned out that this time, the girl had different parts.
"Screw me?" John repeats, thoroughly enjoying how worked up Bobby's getting. "Well, yeah, that's the plan, eventually. But the whole class, Bobby? You're an unappreciative, greedy bitch."
Bobby reaches down to start pawing at himself like...well, like a horny teenage boy being teased past the breaking point. John's having too much fun to let it go that easily, though.
"I have a pretty good idea, yeah. But looks like you've got the situation, uh, pretty well in hand already," he announces cheerfully, wholly unrepentent for his terrible pun. Finally, though, since he knows there's a fine line between teasing and torturing and it's a line he's dangerously near, he pushes Bobby's hand away from his crotch and then tugs his boxer briefs down to join the pile of clothes pooled at Bobby's feet.
"But just 'cause I have a 'pretty good' idea doesn't mean I couldn't use some suggestions," John continues, because damned if he's going to shut up anytime soon. He's feeling unusually playful today for some reason, which could either be a blessing or a curse for Bobby, depending on how desperate Bobby gets. John's leaning toward curse.
"I mean, I'm pretty sure I'll start with just licking, get that one little spot right under the head that always has you fucking begging in seconds. You know the one, right?" He looks up, eyes wide and devious as he strokes Bobby's cock, slowly and firmly and with deliberate patience because he wants to prove to both of them that he still fucking owns Bobby. Whether that's really true or not is up for debate, but whatever. Details.
"I'll work on that spot to get you really going, then suck on the head. Just the head. Lick all around it, in it...sounds good, doesn't it?" He leans in as if to put an end to Bobby's suffering, but veers at the last moment to lick a sharp hip bone, biting it and then smoothing the marks with his tongue.
[ooc: also? we could totes do a 'verse, if you're interested. I've been looking for a good Bobby for a while now and I'm in love with yours. *hearts for eyes*]
Naturally, the bad movie cliché goes right over his head. Not even in one ear and out the other, but completely over. Unfathomable. They’re just them, not stereotypes. Not people shoved in boxes with labels scrawled on masking tape stuck to their foreheads. He’s not cynical enough to see anything that black and white. Everything’s neutral. Unique. His point of view gives the world an optimistic shine and maybe that’s ignorant (or willingly stupid) but that’s what happens when Jaded’s just a song on the radio.
Although, he is visualizing things that require a creative tongue to be explained properly, so maybe that says something. Now he isn’t regularly a vengeful person but his mind is in two kinds of gutters and he’s considering dragging John through them as company. He thinks one of them is particularly more enjoyable than the other but he can never be too sure, because there’s a certain guy in this room whose pain and pleasure scale is busted. He licks his lips then, choosing to follow what’s being set out for him in words. It’s the plan, screwing John and yet, he’s not seeing any leeway. It begs a question, it really does.
“I figure at least one of them has to run off at the mouth less than you do,” he snarks and yeah, maybe it’s strained but it isn’t any less valid.
There’s a lazy smirk lifting his lips and he knows he’ll probably regret saying that, but as much as he’s putting up with, he thinks John should be able to deal. He’s here, isn’t he? That says enough. You know, besides the fact that he doesn’t really have it in him to be intentionally malicious, unless severely provoked. John’s pushing limits but he’s not even close to that side of Bobby.
…or maybe he’s closer than he thinks after a pun like that. He’s seconds away from snapping off with something else when there’s movement. Action. He bites the inside of his cheek and has the time to glance up, away, to scan the hall. Not being in the moment might be fun for John but it only reminds him of where they are and what they’re doing and how simple it would be for someone to round the corner his back’s pressed against and run screaming in the other direction. (Or videotape, except that he’s banking on the former.)
He zones back in like his attention never left, staggers into temporary relief. His dick gives an interested twitch in John’s hand, despite Bobby being lost to the power play. Don’t get him wrong, he likes the imagery, the sensations and he loves John on his knees. It’s just that he also hates how powerless it is to only be able to watch, to barely be able to touch. It’s so .. binding. So is keeping his gaze level with John’s face through the calculated flicks of his wrist.
“Oh, fuck-” Bobby pushes his cheek into the wall, tries to cool off. Tries to get new air circulating, tries everything to keep from feeling like he’s an open flame. Nothing helps because those words are burning him alive from the inside out and that’s it. That’s just it. His hand’s descended to John’s neck and he draws it back through his hair, across his scalp, raking blunt nails in the process. He’s hit a new high for apathy on hair pulling.
“Shit, John, please. I need you to-,” he exhales. "I need your lips wrapped around me or your tongue tracing me, hot and wet and dripping. God, I need to fuck your mouth." He's spewing word vomit and he didn't need a shot of rum and coke to do it, thank you very much.
[ ooc; I have all of the interest in this! And that is shy-making but I don't get to play him much and I am enjoying bouncing him off of your John. You're definitely one of the best I've RPed with. So, I say let's do this shit! ]
John pretends he doesn't see the world in black and white. He knows it's not the healthiest outlook. It's just that the vast majority of his life's experiences have either been really bad or, occasionally, really good, and he doesn't have the right brain chemistry or the right memories to think in shades of gray. Er. That would be a...what, mixed metaphor? Fuck. He's thinking too much, letting himself ramble in his head when what he should be doing is...well, Bobby.
He looks up, eyebrows lifted, as he tries to puzzle out exactly how much of Bobby's remark is their usual banter and how much of it is genuine irritation. He decides he doesn't care. "Yeah, well, you think one of them can do better, you're more than welcome to walk right back into class, drop your pants, and start auditioning for your next favorite cock sucker, but I think we both know you'd come back and beg for me."
He's teasing back, he thinks, but there's a faint note of sincerity there, just a hint of sharp, calculated arrogance that most find simultaneously attractive and infuriating about him. John doesn't particularly care about that, either.
The barbed words roll easily from a mouth that looks far too generous, a face that looks far too innocent. They're both walking contradictions, really. Bobby's the walking popsicle, the ice man (or Iceman, which John gives him no small amount of shit for before seriously, Drake, that was the product of your creativity?) and yet he's warm, sociable, friendly. He has a good heart, which is part of what keeps John intrigued, even if he won't admit as much because fuck it, that kind of crap's for pussies. John, meanwhile, can be far colder than his powers would suggest. He has the wild anger and the relentless spirit to match, but on a very fundamental level he can also be exceedingly cold and detached. Someday, maybe, he'll write all these thoughts down, just to rip the pages out and burn them to ash like he does with everything else he puts to paper.
He looks up and notices Bobby's careful glances around the hallway, and he responds with a less than kind bite to Bobby's hip. Again. He can joke all he likes, but John knows too well that he's the greedy one. And right now, he wants Bobby's total and undivided attention.
Just as he's about to point this out, however, long, thin fingers tangle in his hair, pulling and scratching in a way that throws John off balance. His hair is a weak spot. Bobby fucking knows it's a weak spot. All Bobby has to do is pull his hair, scratch his nails against his scalp, and John is unreservedly his for the taking. Now is no different, despite the fact that, damn it all, he's still supposed to be the one in charge here.
Bobby's pleading, filthy words are like a jolt of white hot lust shot straight through John's brain, and when he looks up again his pupils are dilated and his nostrils are flaring with the force of his increasingly ragged breathing.
"If that's really what you want, Bobby boy," he practically coos, making a show of very slowly licking his lips, "why didn't you just say so?"
He can be such a little shit sometimes.
Satisfied that Bobby is unraveling before him into a tangled mass of weak limbs and stammered pleas, John finally (!) leans forward to trail his tongue from base to tip, just as promised. He goes agonizingly slowly, long hours of practice making it easy for him to immediately find that delicate place he mentioned moments earlier and flicking his tongue restlessly and mercilessly against it. His arm is over Bobby's lower stomach, pinning him to the wall (with Bobby's permission, of course, because he's bigger and stronger and could easily move him if he wanted and they both know it), the hand turned down to hold Bobby's cock right where he wants it. His free hand cradles the balls, and now and then, just to be especially taunting, he scratches a fingernail against the blindingly sensitive spot just behind them.
[ooc: *blushes like mad, yo* Thank you so much! Aww, I feel all warm and fuzzy now. Agreed! Let us make with the plotting and...stuff. Yes.]
There’s nothing wrong with that. At least he gets a read of people, probably on a first impression. Bobby has a knack for believing a majority of people are innately good, when that isn’t always the case, especially with the raising hostility humans feel towards mutants. He knows there are struggles but he genuinely believes that humanity can rise above stereotypes and what they grew up believing. That they can be educated. He’s the guy that needs to learn things the hard way, because of his sheltered life, and that isn’t exactly a healthy existence either.
He struggles in pinpointing and separating confidence from brutal honesty, and if he didn’t know John any better he might suspect a hint of insecurity in throwing the words out there in the first place. But he does know better and the tone conveys his message and he sort of hates that tough guy act of his, since he’s seen him without it. He cycles through their classmates faces like a mental slideshow, pausing on a few people. “Mmh-you really think Scott’d be down with that? Because I mean, I wouldn’t mind auditioning a few of them. So many tongues.”
Is he serious? Nah, he’d never go for public nudity where he knew people could see him. And he’s too chicken shit to even pretend he can sleep with multiple people, at the same time. Bobby knows John knows that, but there’s still some smugness in his tone. It’s almost a dare to be called out. There’s nobody he wants, right now, more than John. Maybe his mind wanders and his gaze wanders but it’s this he comes back to, every time, and it isn’t a consolation prize. But come on, he has to give him some shit for it.
He bites, he stares, he licks and Bobby makes all the inappropriate noises in between. Captured and torn, thrown into shambles and reduced down to a babbling excuse of who he normally is. “And I would,” he pants out, strangled noise slipping through. “I would fucking beg for you. Until my tongue was numb and my throat was raw.” The end of his last word breaks off into a groan and he forgets what he’s trying to say.
John’s arm is the only thing that keeps him bound in place and it’s a good thing it’s there, because he bucks up and finds resistance. Good for John, anyway. He’s not convinced it’s the right policy to follow for himself. Bobby slumps into the wall, shoulders pressed rigid, skin too hot under his remaining article of clothing (his shirt).
The hand on John’s head moves again, grasps the hair at the nape of his neck. Urging him on. “God, yes, John-agh-don’t stop.” He’s also apparently forgotten he’s not supposed to be so vocal. Bobby’s shameless in his lust, once the going’s gotten. It’s slow and torturous and he wouldn’t expect anything less from John.
He might be patience guy when he’s got his pants on but once they’re off and he’s hard? Whole different story. He’s got one empty hand, so he reaches for John’s cheek, traces his jaw; cradles his face. More, more, more is all he can think but it isn’t what he’s giving voice to.
[ ooc; Lol probably be more practical if we take this to PMs! ]
One day, I will not write a novella-length reply. This is not that day.aduro_xJuly 23 2011, 02:51:57 UTC
John doesn't need to be able to read people, because his default setting is always on "trust no one and believe nothing." Again, that's probably not the healthiest philosophy, but John's reasonably certain he wouldn't have survived this long without developing a serious case of paranoia. Most would probably say he's overreacting, that his life couldn't possibly have been that bad...people like Kitty, for instance. Or Drake. Except that Bobby knows better than to patronize him like that, and he's actually never told John to quit exaggerating about the long stretch of suck that has been his life so far.
Bobby speaks again and John's drawn back out of his thoughts, shooting the other boy a dangerous glare. "If all you want's a damn tongue, I'll get you one of those fleshlight things for Christmas. But it won't be warm," he warns, dipping just the very tip of his tongue into the slit in the head of Bobby's cock, "and it sure as fuck can't do this." Without warning, he licks his finger and then reaches back to slide it into Bobby, pushing past the tight, resistent ring of muscle and forcing it deeper until his palm prevents him from going farther. He wiggles the tip enough to graze the prostate, then presses harder against it just to see how Bobby reacts.
"I know you would," John answers finally, never having been worried in the slightest that Bobby might stray. He's a good boy. Loyal. Like a fucking labrador. But John also sees how he looks at him sometimes, when he thinks John's not paying attention. He knows what it's like to fall asleep with Bobby's fingers drawing lazy patterns against his back and pressing the occasional kiss to the top of his head. It's so sappy and ridiculous that John chokes from it, but it scares him, too, because try as he might to fight it, he likes it. God help him, he actually likes waking up with Bobby tangled around him like a giant barnacle, and some days, far more often than he'd like to imagine, he just watches Bobby while he sleeps, fingertips tracing the strong line of his jaw and his twitching eyelids. John's lucky. He understands that. He just doesn't understand this, doesn't know what the hell it is that Bobby sees in him or why he can't just use Bobby for a good lay and then forget about him, just like he's always done. Just like he's always been treated himself.
Maybe it's the hair-pulling.
John hisses in something that isn't really pain (that would imply he didn't like it, which most certainly is not the case) when Bobby's hand tightens in his hair. He's about to mutter some other filthy promise into Bobby's skin to make him shudder when he's stopped by the gentle touch to his face. His first instinct is to turn his head and shake the hand off because dammit, he doesn't need to be petted like that, but the chill of Bobby's hand feels nice against his cheek. Fuck. He's such a pushover these days.
Hungry and hoping to shut down the barrage of conflicting thoughts and emotions his mind's throwing at him, John opens his mouth wide and gradually works his way down Bobby's cock, getting a little farther each time. For the final push, he forces himself to relax enough to take all of it into his mouth, the head bumping against the back of his throat. He's never had much of a gag reflex, and an entirely misspent youth trained him on how to suppress it further. Handy little trick to master.
He doesn't stop until Bobby's pubic hair tickles his nose. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks as hard as he can, pulling back very slowly to create a kind of vice grip on Bobby's cock. It releases from his mouth with an obscene pop, and John's red-faced and panting and still working his finger against Bobby's prostate and Christ, he wants it, wants everything, right fucking now.
I figure if you don't, I will.hypothermiacJuly 23 2011, 05:47:26 UTC
Probably because unlike Kitty, he takes John at face value and for every word he shares with him. Barring the ones that are so obviously a joke, even he can pick up on it. What minuscule bits and pieces of John’s life that have been cryptically spelled out in his general direction, he knows things aren’t pretty. He can guess some of it but he prefers not to paint a picture that doesn’t fit on his easel. He’d like to know everything, every situation, but he knows from experience that he’ll get a show and tell on John’s time and never out of his own curiosity. He’s not okay with that but such is life. It isn’t fair but he accepts it.
Truth be told, there’s something seriously sexy about John when he’s angry (and not just the ranting, apathetic, being a general dick persona he wears daily) but genuinely put-off. His temper isn’t something to play with but Bobby likes stirring the pot; watching his eyes spark. His own wit is unsurprisingly lacking in the midst of all this. He drops his head back into the wall and fails to notice what might be painful under normal circumstances. His back arches, pushes him off balance, inches his hips closer to John. His breath has become a series of pants and groans. Eyes that shut tight from the feel of John tonguing his slit suddenly open wide. Adam’s apple bobbing, he makes a noise that doesn’t (at the time) sound to him like it echoes.
Fuck if he has pitch control.
It’s too much, too fast, and he feels the burn and stretch of John’s finger inside of him, bumping into his prostate. If he had more hindsight, he’d be muffling his noises into the inside of his wrist with clenched teeth. It turns out he doesn’t. And his body’s at a loss with what it wants to do; push back against his hand or buck into his mouth. Maybe it’s both. He does know that he can’t take much more of this. Yeah, he’s got stamina and all, but he’s a teenager and he hasn’t so much as jerked off in two days.
Despite what stories either of them spin, he’s never had a friend as good as John or… whatever they are. He’s careful not to be the one to call it anything. He learned his lesson on that one, only to fall right back into this same habit. Into what they’re doing now. So he doesn’t treat them special or like something he owns or expects to always be there; he takes things as they come and he enjoys them, and sometimes John falls asleep first and he gets to have things the way he wants them. In the form of a draped arm and one sheet and a shared cup of mouthwash in the morning. It’s so boring - the morning stuff - so plain and normal that it shouldn’t be what anyone looks forward to but that’s the kind of shit that makes him excited.
Alternatively, an end to all reflection and the beginning of John’s mouth sucking him down works too. He grants one wish in the form of dropping his hand away, while the other loosens and allows John all the free-form movement he wants. His brain shuts off and any restraints or self-resolve he has remaining dissolves like acid’s been poured on them. He short-circuits into saying John’s name like a mantra. He sucks his stomach in and feels the tremble down his spine to his thighs; his lungs mimic it. “Fuckfuckfuck. Oh, fuck, John.”
Perfect timing that he pulls back when he chooses to, because that’s about as much as he can hold back. His muscles stop protesting, now that he can stop tensing them. Gag reflex or lack thereof, if he doesn’t hear a verbal okay, he’s not ramming into anyone’s mouth. He whines, fucking whines, at the loss of pressure, from the lack of lips around him. Then cuts his gaze down like a spotlight, gives John the attention he craves as he rides back against his hand, grinds his hips, certain that the other boy can feel him convulsing. It's a steady look, lips parted, when he wraps a fist around his dick and brushes it along John's jawline, down to his gasping mouth. Not something he'd try if they weren't already drowning in depravity.
The hand in John's hair drops, follows the line he just made with his dick, then curls under his chin. "Get up here."
Bobby's jerking hips, his quickened breath, the fingers that tighten in his hair with every involuntary spasm, the...echo. What? John glances up at the noise, barely refraining from laughing because damn, he forgot how loud Drake gets sometimes. John teases him about it sometimes, when they're still panting and coming back down. For whatever reason, John has his times when he's incredibly affectionate while the haze of orgasm still has him in its grasp, so he nuzzles Bobby's neck and kisses his shoulder and laughs softly about how everyone on their floor knows exactly what they're doing. Other times, he just drops down next to Bobby afterward, saying nothing and stroking his fingertips over Bobby's mouth as if that gesture alone is enough to warn him that the walls are thin and teenagers are horrible little gossipy monsters.
They're not even remotely close to that point yet (even besides the fact that, right, not in bed either) and Bobby's already getting loud enough to raise the dead, or at least draw the attention of any other students who happen to be skipping class. John should be horrified and clamp a hand over Bobby's mouth to shut him up, but instead he pushes on, trying to rip the noises out of Bobby's throat, make him come undone and forget all about the fact that they're still very much out in the open. Detention would be so worth it, especially if Summers got stuck babysitting them. He'd be all uncomfortable and awkward, and John would just smile with false politeness at him for the entire half hour. Maybe he'd bring a lollipop with him just to make things that much more awkward, test how long it took before Scott told him to leave and not do it again (or at the very least, please, for the love of God, keep it in his room).
The chanting of expletives and his name nearly drive John over the edge, which is a shame considering he's woefully underserviced right now. Bobby's entire body feels like it's vibrating with barely contained pressure; John whimpers softly as he allows himself a moment of imagining what it'll feel like when he finally lets Bobby release that tension.
"Fuck, baby," he whispers, and he can justify it because hey, it's close enough to "Bobby" and he doesn't really think the other boy's paying too much attention anyway. John's breath catches in his throat as he watches Bobby fuck himself against his hand, rocking down against him like a bitch in heat. It's dirty and so unlike the sweet, innocent Bobby everyone else sees that John almost laughs. Innocent his ass. He may have more experience, but Bobby can get him off faster and more easily than anyone or anything else John's ever encountered. Maybe that's what it's supposed to be like when it's with someone you actually give a damn about, rather than just another warm, willing body as lonely and desperate for some kind of human connection as you are.
John shakes the thought away and tries to let that laugh out, but it dies on his tongue when he watches Bobby wrap his hand around his cock and start stroking it, and...and oh, that's nice, rubbing it just so against John's lips and the side of his face. He hasn't shaved in a couple days and he's pretty sure someone in his lineage fucked a porcupine at some point because he gets stubble at a ridiculously fast rate. He wonders how the prickly little hairs feel against the sensitive skin of Bobby's cock, and just as he opens his mouth to ask exactly that, Bobby reaches down to cup his chin and order -- order! -- him to his feet. John complies immediately. Leave it to him to get housebroken by someone like Bobby fucking Drake.
He brings his mouth just millimeters away from Bobby's when he stands, close enough to kiss but not actually doing so. When he speaks, his breath is warm and vaguely damp against Bobby's lips.
"Fuck me," he demands, reaching down to cover Bobby's hand with his own, helping him stroke his cock. "Fuck, Bobby, do it, do it right now, just fucking bend me over, throw me against the wall, I don't fucking care, just do it," John rambles, giving a hopeful push of his hips against Bobby's to let him feel how hard and eager he is already. As if that's not obvious enough by now.
sob this is so taboo and I looked for a permission's post. Left it open. /).(\hypothermiacJuly 23 2011, 22:28:58 UTC
If they get caught, he knows he won’t talk to John for a couple of days. He’ll sulk it off, blame him, protest he didn’t want to do this in the first place. Having shame doesn’t mean he’s ashamed of what they have, and that seems important to remember when his ears turn red.
Speaking of which, he does register that little slip-up and he’s sure in a universe where he isn’t about to spontaneously burst at the seams or start rutting against the wall or John’s face (whatever’s handy), his heart might do one of those hiccupping leaps that leaves his bones stiff and his mouth open, and his everything drifting in a sea of fuzzy static. Yes, he really thinks in those terms. But this isn’t that universe. This is the one where he’s mindless and turned on and inescapably drawn to the pulse he can hear in his ears and with being determined to chase it with his body. John’s not the only greedy one.
It’s a contrast, one of many, in everything that spirals around them like barbed wire. And hey, he isn’t the poet here. He knows it’s probably weird but he likes John with five o’clock shadow, brushing against his thighs, his dick, his fingers. Everything feels good at the right angle (god, maybe he’s a bigger slut than either of them thought, going on like he is.)
Count the seconds it takes for Bobby to snap. One, John’s on his feet and standing so close he can feel his breath and taste the shared air transferred between their lips, without ever brushing them together. Their knuckles bump, graze, snag and he doesn’t even care that despite the guidance it’s mostly his own hand - that’s two. Three and he’s got another contrast, jeans pushed against their hands. More friction. John fires his mouth off, makes demands, and Bobby’s hands pause at the front of his pants where he’d already been reaching to tear the button open - the zipper’s hiss pauses, kind of like his breathing.
But-and it’s the objection that shows in his eyes-what about condoms and preparation and being safe? What about the class bell and the halls flooding with people, their friends and enemies, their teachers? He only has to think about it for a second (and that’s five) before he twists them around, flips John around so it’s probably his cheek that presses into the wall. He thinks in detention slips and permanent records, rulers and hail marys (what the heck, since when is he Catholic?) Handcuffs and metal bars and all the melodrama in the world, in this moment.
His mouth finds the back of John’s neck, claims it with teeth and tongue, scraping and tracing, bruising and soothing while he works him out of his pants. God knows neither of them need the foreplay, not really, but he can’t just fuck John. This is the wrong place and the wrong time, but that doesn’t stop the way his index fingers curl under the band of the shorter male’s underwear as he inches them down. He’s crowding him in, shameless about the pants draped around his ankles and the way they make him shuffle.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Bobby promises, reaching around to roll John’s balls in his palm, enjoying the weight of them. He slides his fingers up his shaft, curls them and makes sure every twist of his wrist is measured and that it bumps against John’s tip on purpose. There’s no way to describe how much he loves this, because he severely sucks at the wording thing, so he shows it. Busies his free hand with rubbing John’s ass; caressing a cheek.
Bobby’s breath’s an endless stream against the nape of his neck and it isn’t by any means cold when he smiles against the skin he’s resumed sucking on, but his hand might be when it drifts up to shove John’s shirt up his back, past where Bobby’s dick is pressing against him. “I’m just not going to use my dick.” He adds, hands on the move again, down John’s thighs and he follows their dip. Swaps places with where the pyromaniac was, until he's the one on his knees nipping the back of a hip, kissing the swell of his ass, opposite of the hand fanned out on John’s other cheek.
Bobby can do hard and fast, he just refuses to do it when he thinks it might hurt in a way that won’t be good for both of them. But if John wants to stop him, he already showed him how easy it is to pull hair earlier. Only he better be quick about it, if he objects.
...huh. I probably *should* put up a permissions post, huh? Anyway, it's all good! :Daduro_xJuly 24 2011, 03:39:44 UTC
The side of John's face is pressed firmly against the wall, and he watches with disinterest as the warmth of his breath forms a tiny spot of condensation on the wainscotting for a second or two before it evaporates. For a brief, insane moment, he wants to move down the hall a few feet so that he's pressed against the mirror instead, just so he can breathe on the glass and write something like "I was fucked here" in the fog. There's probably a really good reason why he has the longest running detention record of anyone in the school.
There's a flurry of movement behind him that culminates in lips and tongue and teeth against his neck. John reacts instinctively, head lolling to the side to grant Bobby better access while he presses his hips back, angling them so that he can grind denim against bare flesh, at least until he feels his jeans and boxers drop to his ankles. He falters, mouth dropping open when Bobby finally makes that promise, accompanied by a skillfully manipulative hand working his cock.
...wait, what?
John blinks, twice, three times, trying to clear the lustful haze from his mind so that he can actually form words, and maybe even string those along into something resembling coherent sentences. What the hell is that supposed mean, "I'm just not going to use my dick"?
His entire body goes rigid when he feels Bobby moving behind him, kissing and teasing everywhere. God, how did they even get to this point in the first place? It was just supposed to be about sex, initially, just a way to have fun and release normal physical urges in the boarding school of the damned. It was always supposed to be quick and rough and frantic, hidden away late at night when the lights were out and they didn't have to face each other, not because John's ashamed at all or even makes any secret of the fact he's not the slightest bit choosy about what equipment his new toy's packing, but because...because it's Bobby. He of the stupid jokes and lectures about why John needs to quit screwing around with zombies or Nazis or zombie Nazis or whatever else he's trying to kill in a video game because they really need to study for that chemistry test. Bobby, the heir apparent to Scott Summers's throne of entitled douchbaggery and a lifetime of pleated khakis.
Then they started kissing, making out with no real intentions of going any farther than that; sometimes it led to sex, but just as often it ended simply because their mouths got tired. Worse still, sometimes they don't even do that, they just touch. Sitting too close together when they're watching a movie. Sharing a bed so they can watch videos on the other's laptop, virtually sitting atop each other. Studying in the library and Bobby's hand is on John's thigh under the table, and John doesn't try to move it or even really acknowledge it. It's just there, a constant reminder of Bobby's presence and the seriously messed up arrangement they have.
It was just supposed to be about mindless fucking, damn the emotional attachments, and yet here they are. Bobby is practically worshiping John's body and all John can think is that this is too good to be true, even while he hates himself for it at the same time. It's not supposed to be like this. He doesn't want Bobby to lavish attention on him like this. He doesn't want to "make love" or whatever hideously girly euphemism Bobby would use. But...it feels nice. In a visceral, physical way, of course, yes, but it registers somewhere in John's mind that he enjoys this slow, attentive kind of intimacy as well. Bobby's the first to ever show it to him, and now and then it overwhelms John when he thinks about, makes him hyperventilate and then have to chain smoke through a pack of cigarettes just to keep from having a panic attack.
"Bobby," he whispers, not even sure if he can be heard and not at all certain if it's a warning or a plea. He twists around far enough to reach back and push his fingers through Bobby's hair, tugging at it as soon as he gains purchase. He can't be bothered pretending to hide how desperately horny he is right now, and he shoves his hips back toward Bobby's face. Whatever Bobby wants is exactly what John needs, and now.
I don't have one either but I also will write almost anything.hypothermiacJuly 24 2011, 07:46:58 UTC
That happens to be exactly what he gives to him, because he’s never been much for holding out for what John made him ask for. It just takes a hand in his hair and his hips slightly pushed out like they are for Bobby to take the hint and move his mouth where they both want it. Go big or go home, right? That’s something John taught him, and he’s not gonna lie, it’s a pretty big deal.
He uses the one hand on his cheek to help spread him apart when he dips out an exploratory tongue, traces up the divide of John’s ass. That’s the only experimental thing about it. Then Bobby lowers his mouth back down, face tilted to the side as he licks his way into him. It’s aggressive, for what it’s worth, because he doesn’t actually (all the time) think in the same purple prose John thinks he does. He says making love like that’s what they’re doing, and okay, maybe (a huge maybe) when he isn’t so afraid of his own commitment issues he looks at John and thinks things he knows he has no right applying to them. Maybe he feels entitled affection before he can stop himself. Maybe he wants certain highlights of other relationships he knows won’t work with who they are or what they have.
And maybe, maybe in a part of his brain he’ll never bring up or confess, he’s sort of, kind of, fucking ridiculously mad for John in ways that people might call being in love. He still doesn’t get why that means they’re making it, why just because he cares about things like pain tolerance and unnecessary aches after it should mean it isn’t only fucking. Because they know each other’s names and brief histories and every day routines, is that why? Some day he’ll ask John. Some day.
Right now he’s got other plans. They entail no such considerations, just action. Tongue curled, mouth open, he’s rubbing the tip of his tongue in messy lines and circles, until he feels muscle give way and he can actually bury his tongue inside John. Lips affixed as he makes a messy show of all those hours of kissing they do in the light or the dark. He moves his tongue from side to the side, aiding in slicking John up, until his face stops him from pushing in any deeper. He applies the same careful attention to this that he does to reading a textbook and while to most people that might imply laziness, it actually means he’s wholly invested in fucking John with his tongue.
A few more flicks upwards inside him and then he’s pulling back and pushing his tongue back in. Working in and out of him as fast as he can. It’s not as solid as his fingers would be or as all-consuming as his dick would be, splitting him open - it’s fluid and maddening but he hopes it’s also kind of good too, in its own way. He never knows with John, what he’s going to react to or how; he has to listen raptly to the hitches in his breathing and how high or low his profanity is, where it breaks off, but most importantly what his body’s saying, because John’s mouth can try to fool him but his muscles can’t.
He should be making good use of his other hand, instead of clenching it around a hip and holding John steady but it keeps him from twitching and instinctively recoiling away from Bobby’s ministrations. He never intentionally tries to take more than he's offered, he simply has a knack for unwillingly doing it anyway. He bets he's doing it now. In the way he pulls back for heavy heaves of air, then manages what inhales he can through his nose as he leans back in to vigorously tracing the ring of muscle, face turning here and there.
Some people think sex is about pain, about taking and taking and taking, but he likes to give back as much (if not more) than he's swindling out of it. He doesn't think it stops being fucking because it isn't in a gritty alleyway and maybe there's lube involved, or that when one of their faces is mashed down into a pillow with someone's hand buried in their hair it isn't about not talking or not seeing. It just is. Bobby doesn't need missionary style or their arousals rubbing together or even pet names like the one John spewed moments ago. Doesn't aim for eye contact and whispers in ears and soft pets down ribcages that mean so much more than either of them are prepared for. If they happen, that's okay, but he's isn't springing for any of that.
Same here, homey. Same here.aduro_xJuly 24 2011, 09:35:28 UTC
The first hint of tongue on his flesh makes John shudder, and it's all he can do to resist the powerful urge to force himself back into Bobby's face. He knows from experience that Bobby isn't (always) the sweet, gentle thing everyone believes him to be, but it still usually surprises John when he acts fearlessly on something he wants. Which, in this case, happens to be John himself. Something else John doesn't really understand, but hey, gift horses and shit. He's not complaining.
It's not love. It's not. Granted, John doesn't actually know what love really entails, but he's pretty sure this isn't it. This is just...it's just sex. Sometimes rough, sometimes not, but it's still just sex. Sure, maybe sometimes they share the same dinner. Maybe they have inside jokes that can send John into helpless fits of laughter. And so what if John just happens to know Bobby's favorite bands, or his favorite TV shows, or exactly how he likes his clothes folded because he's a neurotic little fuck? That doesn't mean anything. They're roommates. John would know these things regardless.
But they do, they mean everything, because John just doesn't care enough about anyone else to know much of anything about them. It's not just that he's forced to spend more time with Bobby than any other students; it's that when Bobby talks, John listens (okay, usually). Even when he doesn't talk, John's still listening, absorbing every scream and whisper revealed by his body language, his breathing, the bored tap of his fingers against a book, the irritated tapping of a pen on a notebook when he's doing homework, the stifled laughter when he's trying hard not to laugh at something stupid John just said or did because he doesn't want to start a fight. John hears all this, and he really, really wishes he didn't. Life would be much easier.
And as far as body language goes, Bobby's doing nothing short of flashing a neon sign above his head just begging John to fuck him senseless. Or to do the fucking himself. Whatever. Look at all the fucks John does not give right now.
John moans involuntarily, surprising even himself with how easily Bobby's getting under his skin. He bends one arm against the wall, resting his head upon his forearm, while his free hand reaches down to wrap around his cock, stroking slowly and purposely drawing the sensation out as long as possible. He can feel Bobby, wet and cool but also warm and that makes no sense but it's true, all of him, so very close and seemingly wrapped around him, inside him, and then there's a nose pressing against him and holy Christ Bobby's really going for it, isn't he? John greatly appreciates a good, thorough job. No half-assing anything for him, thanks.
Heh. Half-assing.
"Fu-uuck, Bobby, God," he forces out, voice cracking slightly as he squeezes himself and then reflexively tries to push back even more. There's nowhere left to go; Bobby's already buried as deeply as he can possibly get, but it's not enough, it's never enough, because John is selfish and hungry and he just...he wants, so much, and nothing Bobby gives him is ever enough even when it's so much more than what he thinks he deserves.
No, it's not quite the same enjoyment John would get from a couple well-aimed fingers, not the same mind-bending pleasure he'd get from Bobby's cock thick and deep inside him, but it's nonetheless deeply satisfying. He reveals as much in the way his breath is beginning to catch in his throat and the way his hips are turning in slow, restless circles because he's trying so hard not to reach back and grab Bobby's hair again to force him that half a millimeter deeper. He bites his fist instead, groaning around it and feeling the noise reverberate everywhere through his body. Fuck. Bad idea.
"More," he blurts out in that peculiar way of his that's somehow both begging and demanding, at once submissive and controlling. "Jesus -- don't stop, don't stopdon'tstopdon'tstoprightthereBobbyfuckrightthere," he continues in one long breath, back arching, hips thrusting back in wanton abandon as something snaps in his brain, probably the tiny amount of patience he had left.
Privileges and the lack of them fly out the window because there are hands down his pants, touching him, and they're hot (almost too hot) through the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. Screw alcohol; Bobby's pretty sure that mouth and those hands are a force of God, especially when they're both focused on him. All at once. He turns his face and lets out a disappointed noise when John's mouth keeps going, grazing, towards his ear.
He's so black and white that he likes kissing. Thinks it's a huge part of foreplay.
"John," and it's just a breath, because all the effort he has from the overload being inflicted gets forced into another noise. A lower and deeper groan as he feels that hand fist around him. He can't help himself. All that dirty talk and so his cheeks are flushed. Pink and flaring across his nerves. His ears probably match. His teeth sink into his lower lip and it muffles the cry he makes in response to the squeeze; it's hard but he's grown accustomed to a bit of roughness when they get together. He's sort of learned to like it.
His arms extend, reaching, and he pulls John to him by the front of his shirt. Lets his dick do the thinking when he slips his hands up under his t-shirt. The guy's such a control freak when he's in charge that Bobby doubts he'll get farther than that, so he touches all he can greedily, with palms spread wide. "You're going to finish what you start, because you want this. You want me hard and swelling against your tongue just as badly as you want me inside you. Just as much as you like it when I scream when you're the one fucking me."
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He tried explaining that philosophy to the Professor once. Didn't go over so well, and he still got assigned extra chores. Doesn't mean he stopped believing it.
John picks his head up, just slightly, when he hears his name being whispered like a prayer, like it's all Bobby can do to get it out into the open. He's blushing, either from embarrassment or simply because he's turned on (John would like to believe it's an interesting combination of the two). Nice.
So busy studying Bobby's face as he is, John doesn't see the hands headed toward him until it's too late. Not that he would resist anyway, but he very much prefers to be in control. Then again, there's a part of him that secretly loves it when Bobby's in charge, ordering and demanding and needing. It's the same part that also scares the hell out of John on those rare occasions he really gets to cut loose with his powers, when he feels the insane urge to just surrender completely to the fire and let it rage out of control, wild and unstoppable and consuming everything in its path. Even him. He's never pretended that he doesn't have a self-destructive streak.
John looks up at Bobby when he speaks, his eyes, a much darker blue than Bobby's own, going nearly black with lust. Maybe Bobby's not so opposed to middle-of-the-hallway sex after all.
"So what if I do? That supposed to mean I can't still be a dick and fuck you over just for fun?" John could do it, too. Probably. He's never actually tried, precisely for the very reasons Bobby just listed, but he's reasonably certain he could get Bobby wound up and then leave him frustrated and horny beyond measure.
When Bobby's fingertips skitter over his nipples, John retaliates with another hard squeeze, then dips his hand, cupping the balls and rolling them, tugging gently but firmly enough to keep Bobby's undivided attention.
"I do like that, yeah. Like the way you taste, the way you pull my hair, that little twitching thing your hands do when you come...yeah. I like that." Finally, he pulls one of his hands out of Bobby's pants and, just to surprise him, grabs the back of his head to pull him in for a kiss, hard and frantic and not even pretending to be a warm up of any kind; he's immediately delving his tongue into Bobby's mouth, his tongue sliding against Bobby's in time with every stroke of his hand.
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They weren't raised the same and they don't always get along but they can relate to each other, for the most part. Yeah, there are things they don't mention but hello, they're dudes, last he checked. That's a given. They fight and they fuck and they laugh it out over xbox controllers later while calling each other fags. (Okay, so that's mostly John, but still.)
And he happens to be about seventy-percent against screwing in the hallway, but he also trusts this guy to not steer him too wrong. Everything they've done, they've come out of alive, so he has to give credit where credit is due. He's also pretty turned on by the public aspect, which is surprising, because he didn't think he was an exhibitionist. Maybe it's just because he's being jerked off. Yeah, that's - that's definitely it.
He likes being in control as much as the next person, because there's something thrilling about not having to be the clinical, do things by the book guy. Something exhilarating in just being able to take and do and command. He can be an immovable force when he wants to be (hard as ice) or he can be like he is now, practically liquefied. Shapeable.
His hips give a sporadic jump, rolling aimlessly, up into John's hand for a lapse in time. It's no easy task to accomplish when his fingers keep drifting and giving Bobby something new to experience. His own fingers curl harshly into John's shoulders, palms bite into his collarbones and it's for a multitude of reasons. He needs something to hold onto. "Fuck," he hisses, head thumping back against the wall (and shit he hopes that isn't a classroom) because he's too gone to care. Dizzy with it. He's breaking out into a cold sweat and while he's inherently focused, he's having trouble finding his words.
That means he's fairly grateful when their mouths get shoved together; unrelenting and unapologetic, leaving him breathless and frantic. It dawns upon him that John's a bastard, only fleetingly. Bobby's hand drop dangerously and fast; they flash flood down his chest, his stomach, then give way over his hips (but they're still not done.) Not where he wants them. He figures if he's going to suffocate from as fiercely as he's kissing back, teeth bumping, tongues rolling, he might as well hyperventilate happy. His lips part and he breaks for air, lets out a noise he'll deny being anything but manly and slides his hands right around to the back of John's waistband. Sure, it's his show, but there were no ground rules about touching.
His knuckles scrape against denim and he forgets to care from where they're tightly pressed between John's jeans and his underwear, grasping, with his only goal being to pull him flush against his own hand. It's the closest Bobby can get to having him pressed against him, and right about now he's too transparent to pretend to be subtle. To save himself some much needed oxygen, he goes for John's neck with his teeth, hips restlessly rolling.
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A short, almost strangled noise escapes John's throat when Bobby's hands are suddenly everywhere, moving too quickly for his brain to keep up. Bobby's hips are rocking against his hand, thrusting himself into John's fist, and John can't help but smirk. Or, well, try to, given the way he's currently preoccupied with trying to suck Bobby's tongue down his throat.
He shudders as Bobby's hands keep roaming, sliding across overheated skin and then suddenly latching on to his ass, pulling him tightly against Bobby's body. Those hands, fuck, those hands...John could (and, on one memorable occasion, did) get off from Bobby's touch alone, even without actually paying attention to his dick. Maybe he's a masochist (okay, he knows he's a bit of a masochist), but he loves the almost painful sensation of Bobby's hands going ice cold over his own feverishly hot skin. The contrast is almost too much, almost too sharp and drastic, and it always takes John's breath away, but he absolutely craves it. He doesn't like the cold, generally, but Bobby's different. He's also cold, yes, but there's an odd warmth underneath it all, the heat of a human body, radiating even through the chill. John's convinced that one of these days he's going to look down and see steam rising off his body wherever Bobby's fingers touch him.
John chuckles quietly at that oh-so-"manly" whine, but the laughter very quickly turns to a whimper of his own when Bobby's mouth moves against his neck, biting a little, just the way he knows John can't resist, the bastard.
"Bo-Bobby," John stammers, though he doesn't exactly have a plan for what he's trying to say. He just feels the need to say something, because if he doesn't he's going to say the hell with it and just bend over right then and there. Patience may be a virtue, but John's never claimed to be the virtuous sort.
One especially sharp bite makes his back arch and his hand tighten again around Bobby's cock, and it also serves as a helpful reminder that, hey, he had a plan and this is still his game. His hand fists tightly at Bobby's hair to pull his head up for another searing kiss just before he drops down to his knees, lifting the hem of Bobby's shirt to kiss at his stomach while his hands busy themselves with pushing his jeans off his hips and letting them drop around his ankles. Once they're out of the way, he flashes a quick, impish grin up at Bobby before beginning to mouth over the obvious bulge in his underwear, sucking on the head as best he can, well aware that Bobby can feel the intense heat of his mouth even through the fabric.
"Somethin' you want, Drake?" he asks innocently, hands reaching up to grasp Bobby's hips and keep them from rolling forward. "Thought you were all about being responsible and shit, not getting a blowjob in the middle of a hallway?" John glances down at his watch and then looks back up, eyebrows raised. "Class'll be out soon." In another half hour, sure, but Bobby doesn't need to know that.
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Lost in it, eyes blown, lips swollen…his fingers stutter from where he’s palming John’s ass and everything starts to dip, down from knuckles to fingertips. They drift, raise up, rake over the elastic band and just as they graze skin, he’s getting his lips mauled once more and it’s every bit as desperate and calloused as John’s noises. The kind that make his eyes slip shut and his head drop, chin to chest, as the other teen drops down his body. Out of sight isn’t out of mind. He gropes blindly, catches hair and pushes his hand into it, buries it deep where his fingers curl and twist.
Bobby uses the other to hold his shirt up, bunched at his stomach. God (has nothing to do with what’s going down), those kisses. John’s mouth. His fucking mouth. It’s a fetish all its own, and not even the legit kind. It’s not even a real oral fixation. He talks and Bobby either wants to punch his front teeth out or knock him flat on his back so he can straddle him and make him say more of those obscene things he’s pretty sure don’t belong in real life. They tug him all out of proportion, twist him into asymmetry.
His heart thuds, pounds, so loud he can hear it in the back of his head. Were he in a more sentient state of mind, he might try and yank his jeans back up. Not to stop, never to stop. But being so exposed is like asking for expulsion. Pleading for it. He swears it skips a beat between that devilish grin plastered on John’s face and when he leans in but he’s probably being melodramatic. He swallows, rough and dry, cries out with a cracking voice. There’s no air, except for the gasps he’s sucking down. He shivers when he has no right to, because he’s giving the exact opposite reaction to heat.
He has to admit…there’s a part of him that doesn’t care what John’s saying, that wants to push him back down, that wants him to put his mouth to better use. He mutilates his friend’s name into some kind of frustrated growl. "Screw class and screw you," he pops off with, half-annoyed that he's going to have to ask for it. Since he’s pinned to the wall (by his hips anyway), no amount of trying to arch forward is going to get him where he wants to be. One tug and he jerks John’s head back while his hand slides down from his stomach, straight to the front of his underwear.
Selfish and entitled and so freaking turned on that it’s starting to ache; every second he doesn’t feel some kind of touch is another throbbing mess, and no, not the good kind. He palms himself, going from good boy to slut in zero seconds.
“You know what I wa-hh-nt.” His stubborn streak will never, ever, get him laid. Which is why it's a great thing it's only hanging by a thread.
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"Screw me?" John repeats, thoroughly enjoying how worked up Bobby's getting. "Well, yeah, that's the plan, eventually. But the whole class, Bobby? You're an unappreciative, greedy bitch."
Bobby reaches down to start pawing at himself like...well, like a horny teenage boy being teased past the breaking point. John's having too much fun to let it go that easily, though.
"I have a pretty good idea, yeah. But looks like you've got the situation, uh, pretty well in hand already," he announces cheerfully, wholly unrepentent for his terrible pun. Finally, though, since he knows there's a fine line between teasing and torturing and it's a line he's dangerously near, he pushes Bobby's hand away from his crotch and then tugs his boxer briefs down to join the pile of clothes pooled at Bobby's feet.
"But just 'cause I have a 'pretty good' idea doesn't mean I couldn't use some suggestions," John continues, because damned if he's going to shut up anytime soon. He's feeling unusually playful today for some reason, which could either be a blessing or a curse for Bobby, depending on how desperate Bobby gets. John's leaning toward curse.
"I mean, I'm pretty sure I'll start with just licking, get that one little spot right under the head that always has you fucking begging in seconds. You know the one, right?" He looks up, eyes wide and devious as he strokes Bobby's cock, slowly and firmly and with deliberate patience because he wants to prove to both of them that he still fucking owns Bobby. Whether that's really true or not is up for debate, but whatever. Details.
"I'll work on that spot to get you really going, then suck on the head. Just the head. Lick all around it, in it...sounds good, doesn't it?" He leans in as if to put an end to Bobby's suffering, but veers at the last moment to lick a sharp hip bone, biting it and then smoothing the marks with his tongue.
[ooc: also? we could totes do a 'verse, if you're interested. I've been looking for a good Bobby for a while now and I'm in love with yours. *hearts for eyes*]
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Although, he is visualizing things that require a creative tongue to be explained properly, so maybe that says something. Now he isn’t regularly a vengeful person but his mind is in two kinds of gutters and he’s considering dragging John through them as company. He thinks one of them is particularly more enjoyable than the other but he can never be too sure, because there’s a certain guy in this room whose pain and pleasure scale is busted. He licks his lips then, choosing to follow what’s being set out for him in words. It’s the plan, screwing John and yet, he’s not seeing any leeway. It begs a question, it really does.
“I figure at least one of them has to run off at the mouth less than you do,” he snarks and yeah, maybe it’s strained but it isn’t any less valid.
There’s a lazy smirk lifting his lips and he knows he’ll probably regret saying that, but as much as he’s putting up with, he thinks John should be able to deal. He’s here, isn’t he? That says enough. You know, besides the fact that he doesn’t really have it in him to be intentionally malicious, unless severely provoked. John’s pushing limits but he’s not even close to that side of Bobby.
…or maybe he’s closer than he thinks after a pun like that. He’s seconds away from snapping off with something else when there’s movement. Action. He bites the inside of his cheek and has the time to glance up, away, to scan the hall. Not being in the moment might be fun for John but it only reminds him of where they are and what they’re doing and how simple it would be for someone to round the corner his back’s pressed against and run screaming in the other direction. (Or videotape, except that he’s banking on the former.)
He zones back in like his attention never left, staggers into temporary relief. His dick gives an interested twitch in John’s hand, despite Bobby being lost to the power play. Don’t get him wrong, he likes the imagery, the sensations and he loves John on his knees. It’s just that he also hates how powerless it is to only be able to watch, to barely be able to touch. It’s so .. binding. So is keeping his gaze level with John’s face through the calculated flicks of his wrist.
“Oh, fuck-” Bobby pushes his cheek into the wall, tries to cool off. Tries to get new air circulating, tries everything to keep from feeling like he’s an open flame. Nothing helps because those words are burning him alive from the inside out and that’s it. That’s just it. His hand’s descended to John’s neck and he draws it back through his hair, across his scalp, raking blunt nails in the process. He’s hit a new high for apathy on hair pulling.
“Shit, John, please. I need you to-,” he exhales. "I need your lips wrapped around me or your tongue tracing me, hot and wet and dripping. God, I need to fuck your mouth." He's spewing word vomit and he didn't need a shot of rum and coke to do it, thank you very much.
[ ooc; I have all of the interest in this! And that is shy-making but I don't get to play him much and I am enjoying bouncing him off of your John. You're definitely one of the best I've RPed with. So, I say let's do this shit! ]
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He looks up, eyebrows lifted, as he tries to puzzle out exactly how much of Bobby's remark is their usual banter and how much of it is genuine irritation. He decides he doesn't care. "Yeah, well, you think one of them can do better, you're more than welcome to walk right back into class, drop your pants, and start auditioning for your next favorite cock sucker, but I think we both know you'd come back and beg for me."
He's teasing back, he thinks, but there's a faint note of sincerity there, just a hint of sharp, calculated arrogance that most find simultaneously attractive and infuriating about him. John doesn't particularly care about that, either.
The barbed words roll easily from a mouth that looks far too generous, a face that looks far too innocent. They're both walking contradictions, really. Bobby's the walking popsicle, the ice man (or Iceman, which John gives him no small amount of shit for before seriously, Drake, that was the product of your creativity?) and yet he's warm, sociable, friendly. He has a good heart, which is part of what keeps John intrigued, even if he won't admit as much because fuck it, that kind of crap's for pussies. John, meanwhile, can be far colder than his powers would suggest. He has the wild anger and the relentless spirit to match, but on a very fundamental level he can also be exceedingly cold and detached. Someday, maybe, he'll write all these thoughts down, just to rip the pages out and burn them to ash like he does with everything else he puts to paper.
He looks up and notices Bobby's careful glances around the hallway, and he responds with a less than kind bite to Bobby's hip. Again. He can joke all he likes, but John knows too well that he's the greedy one. And right now, he wants Bobby's total and undivided attention.
Just as he's about to point this out, however, long, thin fingers tangle in his hair, pulling and scratching in a way that throws John off balance. His hair is a weak spot. Bobby fucking knows it's a weak spot. All Bobby has to do is pull his hair, scratch his nails against his scalp, and John is unreservedly his for the taking. Now is no different, despite the fact that, damn it all, he's still supposed to be the one in charge here.
Bobby's pleading, filthy words are like a jolt of white hot lust shot straight through John's brain, and when he looks up again his pupils are dilated and his nostrils are flaring with the force of his increasingly ragged breathing.
"If that's really what you want, Bobby boy," he practically coos, making a show of very slowly licking his lips, "why didn't you just say so?"
He can be such a little shit sometimes.
Satisfied that Bobby is unraveling before him into a tangled mass of weak limbs and stammered pleas, John finally (!) leans forward to trail his tongue from base to tip, just as promised. He goes agonizingly slowly, long hours of practice making it easy for him to immediately find that delicate place he mentioned moments earlier and flicking his tongue restlessly and mercilessly against it. His arm is over Bobby's lower stomach, pinning him to the wall (with Bobby's permission, of course, because he's bigger and stronger and could easily move him if he wanted and they both know it), the hand turned down to hold Bobby's cock right where he wants it. His free hand cradles the balls, and now and then, just to be especially taunting, he scratches a fingernail against the blindingly sensitive spot just behind them.
[ooc: *blushes like mad, yo* Thank you so much! Aww, I feel all warm and fuzzy now. Agreed! Let us make with the plotting and...stuff. Yes.]
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He struggles in pinpointing and separating confidence from brutal honesty, and if he didn’t know John any better he might suspect a hint of insecurity in throwing the words out there in the first place. But he does know better and the tone conveys his message and he sort of hates that tough guy act of his, since he’s seen him without it. He cycles through their classmates faces like a mental slideshow, pausing on a few people. “Mmh-you really think Scott’d be down with that? Because I mean, I wouldn’t mind auditioning a few of them. So many tongues.”
Is he serious? Nah, he’d never go for public nudity where he knew people could see him. And he’s too chicken shit to even pretend he can sleep with multiple people, at the same time. Bobby knows John knows that, but there’s still some smugness in his tone. It’s almost a dare to be called out. There’s nobody he wants, right now, more than John. Maybe his mind wanders and his gaze wanders but it’s this he comes back to, every time, and it isn’t a consolation prize. But come on, he has to give him some shit for it.
He bites, he stares, he licks and Bobby makes all the inappropriate noises in between. Captured and torn, thrown into shambles and reduced down to a babbling excuse of who he normally is. “And I would,” he pants out, strangled noise slipping through. “I would fucking beg for you. Until my tongue was numb and my throat was raw.” The end of his last word breaks off into a groan and he forgets what he’s trying to say.
John’s arm is the only thing that keeps him bound in place and it’s a good thing it’s there, because he bucks up and finds resistance. Good for John, anyway. He’s not convinced it’s the right policy to follow for himself. Bobby slumps into the wall, shoulders pressed rigid, skin too hot under his remaining article of clothing (his shirt).
The hand on John’s head moves again, grasps the hair at the nape of his neck. Urging him on. “God, yes, John-agh-don’t stop.” He’s also apparently forgotten he’s not supposed to be so vocal. Bobby’s shameless in his lust, once the going’s gotten. It’s slow and torturous and he wouldn’t expect anything less from John.
He might be patience guy when he’s got his pants on but once they’re off and he’s hard? Whole different story. He’s got one empty hand, so he reaches for John’s cheek, traces his jaw; cradles his face. More, more, more is all he can think but it isn’t what he’s giving voice to.
[ ooc; Lol probably be more practical if we take this to PMs! ]
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Bobby speaks again and John's drawn back out of his thoughts, shooting the other boy a dangerous glare. "If all you want's a damn tongue, I'll get you one of those fleshlight things for Christmas. But it won't be warm," he warns, dipping just the very tip of his tongue into the slit in the head of Bobby's cock, "and it sure as fuck can't do this." Without warning, he licks his finger and then reaches back to slide it into Bobby, pushing past the tight, resistent ring of muscle and forcing it deeper until his palm prevents him from going farther. He wiggles the tip enough to graze the prostate, then presses harder against it just to see how Bobby reacts.
"I know you would," John answers finally, never having been worried in the slightest that Bobby might stray. He's a good boy. Loyal. Like a fucking labrador. But John also sees how he looks at him sometimes, when he thinks John's not paying attention. He knows what it's like to fall asleep with Bobby's fingers drawing lazy patterns against his back and pressing the occasional kiss to the top of his head. It's so sappy and ridiculous that John chokes from it, but it scares him, too, because try as he might to fight it, he likes it. God help him, he actually likes waking up with Bobby tangled around him like a giant barnacle, and some days, far more often than he'd like to imagine, he just watches Bobby while he sleeps, fingertips tracing the strong line of his jaw and his twitching eyelids. John's lucky. He understands that. He just doesn't understand this, doesn't know what the hell it is that Bobby sees in him or why he can't just use Bobby for a good lay and then forget about him, just like he's always done. Just like he's always been treated himself.
Maybe it's the hair-pulling.
John hisses in something that isn't really pain (that would imply he didn't like it, which most certainly is not the case) when Bobby's hand tightens in his hair. He's about to mutter some other filthy promise into Bobby's skin to make him shudder when he's stopped by the gentle touch to his face. His first instinct is to turn his head and shake the hand off because dammit, he doesn't need to be petted like that, but the chill of Bobby's hand feels nice against his cheek. Fuck. He's such a pushover these days.
Hungry and hoping to shut down the barrage of conflicting thoughts and emotions his mind's throwing at him, John opens his mouth wide and gradually works his way down Bobby's cock, getting a little farther each time. For the final push, he forces himself to relax enough to take all of it into his mouth, the head bumping against the back of his throat. He's never had much of a gag reflex, and an entirely misspent youth trained him on how to suppress it further. Handy little trick to master.
He doesn't stop until Bobby's pubic hair tickles his nose. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks as hard as he can, pulling back very slowly to create a kind of vice grip on Bobby's cock. It releases from his mouth with an obscene pop, and John's red-faced and panting and still working his finger against Bobby's prostate and Christ, he wants it, wants everything, right fucking now.
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Truth be told, there’s something seriously sexy about John when he’s angry (and not just the ranting, apathetic, being a general dick persona he wears daily) but genuinely put-off. His temper isn’t something to play with but Bobby likes stirring the pot; watching his eyes spark. His own wit is unsurprisingly lacking in the midst of all this. He drops his head back into the wall and fails to notice what might be painful under normal circumstances. His back arches, pushes him off balance, inches his hips closer to John. His breath has become a series of pants and groans. Eyes that shut tight from the feel of John tonguing his slit suddenly open wide. Adam’s apple bobbing, he makes a noise that doesn’t (at the time) sound to him like it echoes.
Fuck if he has pitch control.
It’s too much, too fast, and he feels the burn and stretch of John’s finger inside of him, bumping into his prostate. If he had more hindsight, he’d be muffling his noises into the inside of his wrist with clenched teeth. It turns out he doesn’t. And his body’s at a loss with what it wants to do; push back against his hand or buck into his mouth. Maybe it’s both. He does know that he can’t take much more of this. Yeah, he’s got stamina and all, but he’s a teenager and he hasn’t so much as jerked off in two days.
Despite what stories either of them spin, he’s never had a friend as good as John or… whatever they are. He’s careful not to be the one to call it anything. He learned his lesson on that one, only to fall right back into this same habit. Into what they’re doing now. So he doesn’t treat them special or like something he owns or expects to always be there; he takes things as they come and he enjoys them, and sometimes John falls asleep first and he gets to have things the way he wants them. In the form of a draped arm and one sheet and a shared cup of mouthwash in the morning. It’s so boring - the morning stuff - so plain and normal that it shouldn’t be what anyone looks forward to but that’s the kind of shit that makes him excited.
Alternatively, an end to all reflection and the beginning of John’s mouth sucking him down works too. He grants one wish in the form of dropping his hand away, while the other loosens and allows John all the free-form movement he wants. His brain shuts off and any restraints or self-resolve he has remaining dissolves like acid’s been poured on them. He short-circuits into saying John’s name like a mantra. He sucks his stomach in and feels the tremble down his spine to his thighs; his lungs mimic it. “Fuckfuckfuck. Oh, fuck, John.”
Perfect timing that he pulls back when he chooses to, because that’s about as much as he can hold back. His muscles stop protesting, now that he can stop tensing them. Gag reflex or lack thereof, if he doesn’t hear a verbal okay, he’s not ramming into anyone’s mouth. He whines, fucking whines, at the loss of pressure, from the lack of lips around him. Then cuts his gaze down like a spotlight, gives John the attention he craves as he rides back against his hand, grinds his hips, certain that the other boy can feel him convulsing. It's a steady look, lips parted, when he wraps a fist around his dick and brushes it along John's jawline, down to his gasping mouth. Not something he'd try if they weren't already drowning in depravity.
The hand in John's hair drops, follows the line he just made with his dick, then curls under his chin. "Get up here."
He isn't asking.
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They're not even remotely close to that point yet (even besides the fact that, right, not in bed either) and Bobby's already getting loud enough to raise the dead, or at least draw the attention of any other students who happen to be skipping class. John should be horrified and clamp a hand over Bobby's mouth to shut him up, but instead he pushes on, trying to rip the noises out of Bobby's throat, make him come undone and forget all about the fact that they're still very much out in the open. Detention would be so worth it, especially if Summers got stuck babysitting them. He'd be all uncomfortable and awkward, and John would just smile with false politeness at him for the entire half hour. Maybe he'd bring a lollipop with him just to make things that much more awkward, test how long it took before Scott told him to leave and not do it again (or at the very least, please, for the love of God, keep it in his room).
The chanting of expletives and his name nearly drive John over the edge, which is a shame considering he's woefully underserviced right now. Bobby's entire body feels like it's vibrating with barely contained pressure; John whimpers softly as he allows himself a moment of imagining what it'll feel like when he finally lets Bobby release that tension.
"Fuck, baby," he whispers, and he can justify it because hey, it's close enough to "Bobby" and he doesn't really think the other boy's paying too much attention anyway. John's breath catches in his throat as he watches Bobby fuck himself against his hand, rocking down against him like a bitch in heat. It's dirty and so unlike the sweet, innocent Bobby everyone else sees that John almost laughs. Innocent his ass. He may have more experience, but Bobby can get him off faster and more easily than anyone or anything else John's ever encountered. Maybe that's what it's supposed to be like when it's with someone you actually give a damn about, rather than just another warm, willing body as lonely and desperate for some kind of human connection as you are.
John shakes the thought away and tries to let that laugh out, but it dies on his tongue when he watches Bobby wrap his hand around his cock and start stroking it, and...and oh, that's nice, rubbing it just so against John's lips and the side of his face. He hasn't shaved in a couple days and he's pretty sure someone in his lineage fucked a porcupine at some point because he gets stubble at a ridiculously fast rate. He wonders how the prickly little hairs feel against the sensitive skin of Bobby's cock, and just as he opens his mouth to ask exactly that, Bobby reaches down to cup his chin and order -- order! -- him to his feet. John complies immediately. Leave it to him to get housebroken by someone like Bobby fucking Drake.
He brings his mouth just millimeters away from Bobby's when he stands, close enough to kiss but not actually doing so. When he speaks, his breath is warm and vaguely damp against Bobby's lips.
"Fuck me," he demands, reaching down to cover Bobby's hand with his own, helping him stroke his cock. "Fuck, Bobby, do it, do it right now, just fucking bend me over, throw me against the wall, I don't fucking care, just do it," John rambles, giving a hopeful push of his hips against Bobby's to let him feel how hard and eager he is already. As if that's not obvious enough by now.
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Speaking of which, he does register that little slip-up and he’s sure in a universe where he isn’t about to spontaneously burst at the seams or start rutting against the wall or John’s face (whatever’s handy), his heart might do one of those hiccupping leaps that leaves his bones stiff and his mouth open, and his everything drifting in a sea of fuzzy static. Yes, he really thinks in those terms. But this isn’t that universe. This is the one where he’s mindless and turned on and inescapably drawn to the pulse he can hear in his ears and with being determined to chase it with his body. John’s not the only greedy one.
It’s a contrast, one of many, in everything that spirals around them like barbed wire. And hey, he isn’t the poet here. He knows it’s probably weird but he likes John with five o’clock shadow, brushing against his thighs, his dick, his fingers. Everything feels good at the right angle (god, maybe he’s a bigger slut than either of them thought, going on like he is.)
Count the seconds it takes for Bobby to snap. One, John’s on his feet and standing so close he can feel his breath and taste the shared air transferred between their lips, without ever brushing them together. Their knuckles bump, graze, snag and he doesn’t even care that despite the guidance it’s mostly his own hand - that’s two. Three and he’s got another contrast, jeans pushed against their hands. More friction. John fires his mouth off, makes demands, and Bobby’s hands pause at the front of his pants where he’d already been reaching to tear the button open - the zipper’s hiss pauses, kind of like his breathing.
But-and it’s the objection that shows in his eyes-what about condoms and preparation and being safe? What about the class bell and the halls flooding with people, their friends and enemies, their teachers? He only has to think about it for a second (and that’s five) before he twists them around, flips John around so it’s probably his cheek that presses into the wall. He thinks in detention slips and permanent records, rulers and hail marys (what the heck, since when is he Catholic?) Handcuffs and metal bars and all the melodrama in the world, in this moment.
His mouth finds the back of John’s neck, claims it with teeth and tongue, scraping and tracing, bruising and soothing while he works him out of his pants. God knows neither of them need the foreplay, not really, but he can’t just fuck John. This is the wrong place and the wrong time, but that doesn’t stop the way his index fingers curl under the band of the shorter male’s underwear as he inches them down. He’s crowding him in, shameless about the pants draped around his ankles and the way they make him shuffle.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Bobby promises, reaching around to roll John’s balls in his palm, enjoying the weight of them. He slides his fingers up his shaft, curls them and makes sure every twist of his wrist is measured and that it bumps against John’s tip on purpose. There’s no way to describe how much he loves this, because he severely sucks at the wording thing, so he shows it. Busies his free hand with rubbing John’s ass; caressing a cheek.
Bobby’s breath’s an endless stream against the nape of his neck and it isn’t by any means cold when he smiles against the skin he’s resumed sucking on, but his hand might be when it drifts up to shove John’s shirt up his back, past where Bobby’s dick is pressing against him. “I’m just not going to use my dick.” He adds, hands on the move again, down John’s thighs and he follows their dip. Swaps places with where the pyromaniac was, until he's the one on his knees nipping the back of a hip, kissing the swell of his ass, opposite of the hand fanned out on John’s other cheek.
Bobby can do hard and fast, he just refuses to do it when he thinks it might hurt in a way that won’t be good for both of them. But if John wants to stop him, he already showed him how easy it is to pull hair earlier. Only he better be quick about it, if he objects.
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There's a flurry of movement behind him that culminates in lips and tongue and teeth against his neck. John reacts instinctively, head lolling to the side to grant Bobby better access while he presses his hips back, angling them so that he can grind denim against bare flesh, at least until he feels his jeans and boxers drop to his ankles. He falters, mouth dropping open when Bobby finally makes that promise, accompanied by a skillfully manipulative hand working his cock.
...wait, what?
John blinks, twice, three times, trying to clear the lustful haze from his mind so that he can actually form words, and maybe even string those along into something resembling coherent sentences. What the hell is that supposed mean, "I'm just not going to use my dick"?
His entire body goes rigid when he feels Bobby moving behind him, kissing and teasing everywhere. God, how did they even get to this point in the first place? It was just supposed to be about sex, initially, just a way to have fun and release normal physical urges in the boarding school of the damned. It was always supposed to be quick and rough and frantic, hidden away late at night when the lights were out and they didn't have to face each other, not because John's ashamed at all or even makes any secret of the fact he's not the slightest bit choosy about what equipment his new toy's packing, but because...because it's Bobby. He of the stupid jokes and lectures about why John needs to quit screwing around with zombies or Nazis or zombie Nazis or whatever else he's trying to kill in a video game because they really need to study for that chemistry test. Bobby, the heir apparent to Scott Summers's throne of entitled douchbaggery and a lifetime of pleated khakis.
Then they started kissing, making out with no real intentions of going any farther than that; sometimes it led to sex, but just as often it ended simply because their mouths got tired. Worse still, sometimes they don't even do that, they just touch. Sitting too close together when they're watching a movie. Sharing a bed so they can watch videos on the other's laptop, virtually sitting atop each other. Studying in the library and Bobby's hand is on John's thigh under the table, and John doesn't try to move it or even really acknowledge it. It's just there, a constant reminder of Bobby's presence and the seriously messed up arrangement they have.
It was just supposed to be about mindless fucking, damn the emotional attachments, and yet here they are. Bobby is practically worshiping John's body and all John can think is that this is too good to be true, even while he hates himself for it at the same time. It's not supposed to be like this. He doesn't want Bobby to lavish attention on him like this. He doesn't want to "make love" or whatever hideously girly euphemism Bobby would use. But...it feels nice. In a visceral, physical way, of course, yes, but it registers somewhere in John's mind that he enjoys this slow, attentive kind of intimacy as well. Bobby's the first to ever show it to him, and now and then it overwhelms John when he thinks about, makes him hyperventilate and then have to chain smoke through a pack of cigarettes just to keep from having a panic attack.
"Bobby," he whispers, not even sure if he can be heard and not at all certain if it's a warning or a plea. He twists around far enough to reach back and push his fingers through Bobby's hair, tugging at it as soon as he gains purchase. He can't be bothered pretending to hide how desperately horny he is right now, and he shoves his hips back toward Bobby's face. Whatever Bobby wants is exactly what John needs, and now.
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He uses the one hand on his cheek to help spread him apart when he dips out an exploratory tongue, traces up the divide of John’s ass. That’s the only experimental thing about it. Then Bobby lowers his mouth back down, face tilted to the side as he licks his way into him. It’s aggressive, for what it’s worth, because he doesn’t actually (all the time) think in the same purple prose John thinks he does. He says making love like that’s what they’re doing, and okay, maybe (a huge maybe) when he isn’t so afraid of his own commitment issues he looks at John and thinks things he knows he has no right applying to them. Maybe he feels entitled affection before he can stop himself. Maybe he wants certain highlights of other relationships he knows won’t work with who they are or what they have.
And maybe, maybe in a part of his brain he’ll never bring up or confess, he’s sort of, kind of, fucking ridiculously mad for John in ways that people might call being in love. He still doesn’t get why that means they’re making it, why just because he cares about things like pain tolerance and unnecessary aches after it should mean it isn’t only fucking. Because they know each other’s names and brief histories and every day routines, is that why? Some day he’ll ask John. Some day.
Right now he’s got other plans. They entail no such considerations, just action. Tongue curled, mouth open, he’s rubbing the tip of his tongue in messy lines and circles, until he feels muscle give way and he can actually bury his tongue inside John. Lips affixed as he makes a messy show of all those hours of kissing they do in the light or the dark. He moves his tongue from side to the side, aiding in slicking John up, until his face stops him from pushing in any deeper. He applies the same careful attention to this that he does to reading a textbook and while to most people that might imply laziness, it actually means he’s wholly invested in fucking John with his tongue.
A few more flicks upwards inside him and then he’s pulling back and pushing his tongue back in. Working in and out of him as fast as he can. It’s not as solid as his fingers would be or as all-consuming as his dick would be, splitting him open - it’s fluid and maddening but he hopes it’s also kind of good too, in its own way. He never knows with John, what he’s going to react to or how; he has to listen raptly to the hitches in his breathing and how high or low his profanity is, where it breaks off, but most importantly what his body’s saying, because John’s mouth can try to fool him but his muscles can’t.
He should be making good use of his other hand, instead of clenching it around a hip and holding John steady but it keeps him from twitching and instinctively recoiling away from Bobby’s ministrations. He never intentionally tries to take more than he's offered, he simply has a knack for unwillingly doing it anyway. He bets he's doing it now. In the way he pulls back for heavy heaves of air, then manages what inhales he can through his nose as he leans back in to vigorously tracing the ring of muscle, face turning here and there.
Some people think sex is about pain, about taking and taking and taking, but he likes to give back as much (if not more) than he's swindling out of it. He doesn't think it stops being fucking because it isn't in a gritty alleyway and maybe there's lube involved, or that when one of their faces is mashed down into a pillow with someone's hand buried in their hair it isn't about not talking or not seeing. It just is. Bobby doesn't need missionary style or their arousals rubbing together or even pet names like the one John spewed moments ago. Doesn't aim for eye contact and whispers in ears and soft pets down ribcages that mean so much more than either of them are prepared for. If they happen, that's okay, but he's isn't springing for any of that.
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It's not love. It's not. Granted, John doesn't actually know what love really entails, but he's pretty sure this isn't it. This is just...it's just sex. Sometimes rough, sometimes not, but it's still just sex. Sure, maybe sometimes they share the same dinner. Maybe they have inside jokes that can send John into helpless fits of laughter. And so what if John just happens to know Bobby's favorite bands, or his favorite TV shows, or exactly how he likes his clothes folded because he's a neurotic little fuck? That doesn't mean anything. They're roommates. John would know these things regardless.
But they do, they mean everything, because John just doesn't care enough about anyone else to know much of anything about them. It's not just that he's forced to spend more time with Bobby than any other students; it's that when Bobby talks, John listens (okay, usually). Even when he doesn't talk, John's still listening, absorbing every scream and whisper revealed by his body language, his breathing, the bored tap of his fingers against a book, the irritated tapping of a pen on a notebook when he's doing homework, the stifled laughter when he's trying hard not to laugh at something stupid John just said or did because he doesn't want to start a fight. John hears all this, and he really, really wishes he didn't. Life would be much easier.
And as far as body language goes, Bobby's doing nothing short of flashing a neon sign above his head just begging John to fuck him senseless. Or to do the fucking himself. Whatever. Look at all the fucks John does not give right now.
John moans involuntarily, surprising even himself with how easily Bobby's getting under his skin. He bends one arm against the wall, resting his head upon his forearm, while his free hand reaches down to wrap around his cock, stroking slowly and purposely drawing the sensation out as long as possible. He can feel Bobby, wet and cool but also warm and that makes no sense but it's true, all of him, so very close and seemingly wrapped around him, inside him, and then there's a nose pressing against him and holy Christ Bobby's really going for it, isn't he? John greatly appreciates a good, thorough job. No half-assing anything for him, thanks.
Heh. Half-assing.
"Fu-uuck, Bobby, God," he forces out, voice cracking slightly as he squeezes himself and then reflexively tries to push back even more. There's nowhere left to go; Bobby's already buried as deeply as he can possibly get, but it's not enough, it's never enough, because John is selfish and hungry and he just...he wants, so much, and nothing Bobby gives him is ever enough even when it's so much more than what he thinks he deserves.
No, it's not quite the same enjoyment John would get from a couple well-aimed fingers, not the same mind-bending pleasure he'd get from Bobby's cock thick and deep inside him, but it's nonetheless deeply satisfying. He reveals as much in the way his breath is beginning to catch in his throat and the way his hips are turning in slow, restless circles because he's trying so hard not to reach back and grab Bobby's hair again to force him that half a millimeter deeper. He bites his fist instead, groaning around it and feeling the noise reverberate everywhere through his body. Fuck. Bad idea.
"More," he blurts out in that peculiar way of his that's somehow both begging and demanding, at once submissive and controlling. "Jesus -- don't stop, don't stopdon'tstopdon'tstoprightthereBobbyfuckrightthere," he continues in one long breath, back arching, hips thrusting back in wanton abandon as something snaps in his brain, probably the tiny amount of patience he had left.
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