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.
What is it about John that draws him back in every time? It’s not the way he thumbs through magazines while Bobby’s talking, acting like he’s ignoring him and it’s not the way they sneak out the window late into the night and go hit up the movie theater or an empty parking lot or hit a liquor store and get smashed in a park. Or the way he hangs back when Bobby’s in the kitchen or the lounge, throwing ideas at other students for some kind of get-together; listening but pretending for all the world he has something better to do. It’s sure not in the way he pop, click, snaps his lighter fifty-thousand times a day or how he doesn’t even have to ask Bobby to pick up lighter fluid if he goes out. It’s not the laughter in cheap kisses when one of them is trying to get out or into something, or the way John tells him his ice sculptures look like shit but never melts them down or shatters them. He doesn’t know what it is specifically; only that John’s not like any other person he’s ever met in his life.
He likes that there are different laughs and smiles, that once you get past the surface, all that apathy’s just bullshit. Not that John likes him knowing that. He knows what every smirk means. He likes locking eyes in a crowded room, quiet or loud, and being able to share a joke without ever opening his mouth. Bobby’s not sure he enjoys bearing witness to John’s temper or being a target for it but he does like following him and being there when it’s over to make sure that this time, his shirt hasn’t gone up in flames.
If someone asks what he sees in John, why they’re friends, all he can do is shrug. There is no right answer. It’s everything and nothing about him.
Bobby doesn’t flinch beneath those realizations or away from John, who keeps trying to get more than there is to give. It’s not that he’s run out of generosity, just that from where he’s kneeling, this is as good as things are gonna get. As far as he can go with his mouth. Every too sharp inhale and too short exhale ignites him and what John says makes him muffle a noise into his body. Lost in his skin. He keeps at it, tongue twisting and flicking until he feels too strained and he has to stop to suck down air in between the nips to what skin he can reach.
For what feels like too long but isn’t any time at all, he breaks away to suck on two fingers, then puts them back before John has time to change his mind about who’s going to be the one with their face pressed into the wall. He knows if he hesitates anymore, they’re going to find his body behind the building. He slides one finger into John, has to use his free hand to grab his own dick or he thinks he’ll be the one screaming from blue balls (hopefully not literally) and buries it to the knuckle. Bobby strokes inside him a few times and doesn’t have to do much else, because John’s got fucking himself against Bobby's hand covered.
He slides his palm back and gets to his feet in the time it takes to add two fingers. He tries not to imagine too much what it’ll be like to have that tight ring of muscle wrapped around him but when his fingers get past the hardest part, he grunts into the back of John’s shoulder. He can’t think anymore. There’s only touch and sound, eyes closed. He wants skin on skin and he wishes they were in their shared room, so he could fling their shirts over his head. A settlement is made in the form of dragging fingers down John’s stomach under his shirt, since he doesn’t need the hand on his dick now that he can feel every roll of his hips against him; practice that has him bumping and rubbing that spot inside John. Once or twice every three or four thrusts. He scissors his fingers one more time and that’s it. That’s all he’s getting.
Neither of them can wait any longer and he’s already forgotten about the clock, so it’s just as well. He opens his eyes, looks down, watches intently as he trades feeling John convulse around his fingertips for fisting himself and fina-fucking-ly rubbing the head of his dick between the cleft of John’s ass. What he exhales is inaudible, what he gasps as he slowly pushes in, gripping himself at the base with eyebrows furrowed in is intelligible.
This, all of this, and them (everything about them) is incomparable to anything else he's ever experienced.
LJ FINALLY seems to have gotten itself straightened out. I think. *wibble*aduro_xJuly 27 2011, 00:06:06 UTC
John's just as puzzled as to why Bobby sticks around. He realizes that the cold, hateful front he puts on for everyone else is exactly that, but it wouldn't be as convincing if there wasn't a fair amount of honesty in it. John is frequently cold and hateful, along with dozens of other unflattering adjectives. He's quick to judge, impatient, brutally sarcastic, manipulative, vindictive...he's not evil and he doesn't consider himself as such, but he also knows he's not a good person. Not the kind Bobby should hang around.
But good old sweet, predictable Bobby...he really is like an abused dog who's always won over by an affectionate pat on the head, no matter how many times he's been screamed at and kicked. John lets him stay, even seeks out his company sometimes. He just doesn't know why. Sure, maybe there's a chance that he just sincerely likes Bobby in whatever capacity he can get him: as a friend, a roommate, someone who lets him copy homework answers, and yes, a casual fuck buddy. Except that doesn't explain why sometimes John catches himself watching Bobby's reflection in the bathroom mirror, when Bobby's going through the usual morning or nighttime rituals and John's still in bed, pretending to be busy. None of that explains why when Bobby was laid up with the flu for several days last year, John kept him supplied with ice cream and movies from the rec room's extensive DVD collection, and spent that first night alternating between getting Bobby to drink some cough syrup and then holding the trash can when it was inevitably thrown right back up.
"Drake, I swear to Christ, if you stop --" John doesn't get a chance to finish his threat as he feels a long, solid finger slip inside him. He gasps and pushes back against it, back and forth and twisting his hips at different angles to try to maneuver the finger where he wants it to go. Then it's gone. Again. John whines -- fucking whines, like, thanks Bobby, really, thanks for making him sound like a pathetic whore -- and shoots an irritated glare over his shoulder. He knows what Bobby's doing. It's not like this is their first time or anything. But sometimes he just wants to say the hell with it. He wants scratches and bite marks, bruises and cuts, anything he can look at later to remind himself that, yes, even for just a few moments, even if it's just for sex, someone actually wanted him. Bobby's capable of it and John knows it, but acting on it is something else entirely, apparently one of the few lines John hasn't managed to lead Bobby over.
"Fuck," John lets out in a harsh whisper, rocking against Bobby's hand and -- oh. And his hips now, too, that's nice. His head drops back onto Bobby's shoulder when he feels teeth against his own, but only for a moment, until he remembers himself and straightens back up. Bobby's hand is that same weird warm-cold against his stomach, oddly gentle compared to the crude way Bobby is trying his damnedest to fuck John out of his mind with just his fingers.
"Yes," John moans, dragging the word out into an obscene hiss, rubbing back against Bobby and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth when Bobby finally begins pushing his way in. John feels himself stretching, muscles protesting even while every other nerve in his body screams its approval. It's a burning, lingering kind of pain, because though Bobby tried in earnest, bless him, spit is a poor substitute for proper lube, but fuck it, John doesn't care in the least. He'll be feeling this one for a while later, a dull, throbbing ache to remind him that Bobby does have at least a little bit of exhibitionist in him. Also, they're going to have to turn into the freaks who carry those little individual packets of lube with them at all times.
As the sharpest edges start to fall away, leaving only blunt pressure, John gives a tentative thrust backwards, testing both himself and the position. Never had it standing and facing a wall before, but so far so good.
"Back up," he orders breathlessly, palming his way down until he's bent at the waist and bracing himself against the wall. The next exploratory push hits a wholly different angle and nearly makes his legs buckle, because fuck if that wasn't the perfect way to hit just the right spot.
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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He likes that there are different laughs and smiles, that once you get past the surface, all that apathy’s just bullshit. Not that John likes him knowing that. He knows what every smirk means. He likes locking eyes in a crowded room, quiet or loud, and being able to share a joke without ever opening his mouth. Bobby’s not sure he enjoys bearing witness to John’s temper or being a target for it but he does like following him and being there when it’s over to make sure that this time, his shirt hasn’t gone up in flames.
If someone asks what he sees in John, why they’re friends, all he can do is shrug. There is no right answer. It’s everything and nothing about him.
Bobby doesn’t flinch beneath those realizations or away from John, who keeps trying to get more than there is to give. It’s not that he’s run out of generosity, just that from where he’s kneeling, this is as good as things are gonna get. As far as he can go with his mouth. Every too sharp inhale and too short exhale ignites him and what John says makes him muffle a noise into his body. Lost in his skin. He keeps at it, tongue twisting and flicking until he feels too strained and he has to stop to suck down air in between the nips to what skin he can reach.
For what feels like too long but isn’t any time at all, he breaks away to suck on two fingers, then puts them back before John has time to change his mind about who’s going to be the one with their face pressed into the wall. He knows if he hesitates anymore, they’re going to find his body behind the building. He slides one finger into John, has to use his free hand to grab his own dick or he thinks he’ll be the one screaming from blue balls (hopefully not literally) and buries it to the knuckle. Bobby strokes inside him a few times and doesn’t have to do much else, because John’s got fucking himself against Bobby's hand covered.
He slides his palm back and gets to his feet in the time it takes to add two fingers. He tries not to imagine too much what it’ll be like to have that tight ring of muscle wrapped around him but when his fingers get past the hardest part, he grunts into the back of John’s shoulder. He can’t think anymore. There’s only touch and sound, eyes closed. He wants skin on skin and he wishes they were in their shared room, so he could fling their shirts over his head. A settlement is made in the form of dragging fingers down John’s stomach under his shirt, since he doesn’t need the hand on his dick now that he can feel every roll of his hips against him; practice that has him bumping and rubbing that spot inside John. Once or twice every three or four thrusts. He scissors his fingers one more time and that’s it. That’s all he’s getting.
Neither of them can wait any longer and he’s already forgotten about the clock, so it’s just as well. He opens his eyes, looks down, watches intently as he trades feeling John convulse around his fingertips for fisting himself and fina-fucking-ly rubbing the head of his dick between the cleft of John’s ass. What he exhales is inaudible, what he gasps as he slowly pushes in, gripping himself at the base with eyebrows furrowed in is intelligible.
This, all of this, and them (everything about them) is incomparable to anything else he's ever experienced.
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But good old sweet, predictable Bobby...he really is like an abused dog who's always won over by an affectionate pat on the head, no matter how many times he's been screamed at and kicked. John lets him stay, even seeks out his company sometimes. He just doesn't know why. Sure, maybe there's a chance that he just sincerely likes Bobby in whatever capacity he can get him: as a friend, a roommate, someone who lets him copy homework answers, and yes, a casual fuck buddy. Except that doesn't explain why sometimes John catches himself watching Bobby's reflection in the bathroom mirror, when Bobby's going through the usual morning or nighttime rituals and John's still in bed, pretending to be busy. None of that explains why when Bobby was laid up with the flu for several days last year, John kept him supplied with ice cream and movies from the rec room's extensive DVD collection, and spent that first night alternating between getting Bobby to drink some cough syrup and then holding the trash can when it was inevitably thrown right back up.
"Drake, I swear to Christ, if you stop --" John doesn't get a chance to finish his threat as he feels a long, solid finger slip inside him. He gasps and pushes back against it, back and forth and twisting his hips at different angles to try to maneuver the finger where he wants it to go. Then it's gone. Again. John whines -- fucking whines, like, thanks Bobby, really, thanks for making him sound like a pathetic whore -- and shoots an irritated glare over his shoulder. He knows what Bobby's doing. It's not like this is their first time or anything. But sometimes he just wants to say the hell with it. He wants scratches and bite marks, bruises and cuts, anything he can look at later to remind himself that, yes, even for just a few moments, even if it's just for sex, someone actually wanted him. Bobby's capable of it and John knows it, but acting on it is something else entirely, apparently one of the few lines John hasn't managed to lead Bobby over.
"Fuck," John lets out in a harsh whisper, rocking against Bobby's hand and -- oh. And his hips now, too, that's nice. His head drops back onto Bobby's shoulder when he feels teeth against his own, but only for a moment, until he remembers himself and straightens back up. Bobby's hand is that same weird warm-cold against his stomach, oddly gentle compared to the crude way Bobby is trying his damnedest to fuck John out of his mind with just his fingers.
"Yes," John moans, dragging the word out into an obscene hiss, rubbing back against Bobby and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth when Bobby finally begins pushing his way in. John feels himself stretching, muscles protesting even while every other nerve in his body screams its approval. It's a burning, lingering kind of pain, because though Bobby tried in earnest, bless him, spit is a poor substitute for proper lube, but fuck it, John doesn't care in the least. He'll be feeling this one for a while later, a dull, throbbing ache to remind him that Bobby does have at least a little bit of exhibitionist in him. Also, they're going to have to turn into the freaks who carry those little individual packets of lube with them at all times.
As the sharpest edges start to fall away, leaving only blunt pressure, John gives a tentative thrust backwards, testing both himself and the position. Never had it standing and facing a wall before, but so far so good.
"Back up," he orders breathlessly, palming his way down until he's bent at the waist and bracing himself against the wall. The next exploratory push hits a wholly different angle and nearly makes his legs buckle, because fuck if that wasn't the perfect way to hit just the right spot.
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