Title: High Fever
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: John/Bobby
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1766
Timeline: X-Men – The Last Stand
Notes: Spoilers.
Summary: Screaming, and panic, and Bobby, and John is in control.
People slammed into each other, knocked each other down, trampling over allies and friends to reach safety. The screams in the air mingled with the roar of flames and the delicate sound of fractured glass raining to the ground.
It was fucking beautiful.
The alley John had chosen was the perfect vantage point to watch the chaos unfold; too tight to tempt those running for their lives into seeking its shelter, but the opening still pointing to the burning building. Mutants and humans alike fell past in a blur, terrified.
Terror.
He'd created that terror.
He was a terrorist.
That never got old.
He could feel the flames licking their way higher up the walls, reaching for the upstairs laboratory, hungry to devour the so-called 'cure'. He was tempted to close his eyes, concentrate harder, coax them and hurry them and feed them.
But then he'd have to miss out on the petrified faces, and why would he do that?
Especially when one face in particular had found him, breaking away from the crowd, stumbling awkwardly into the alley and jarring his shoulder, obviously painfully, against the bricks.
Bobby being there was the best kind of surprise. Like wanting a cowboy hat for your seventh birthday, and getting the horse, saddle and endless desert to go with it. He'd recognise him anywhere; through a crowd, from behind, already a little broader in the shoulders and hair just a touch longer at the back, but still the same old Bobby. All that tension and worry written into his spine, carrying the weight of the crowd's troubles like the martyr Xavier had wanted them all to be.
It made sense, in a roundabout way. Rogue had been John's first thought, upon hearing of the 'cure', after the inarticulate emotions, the disgust and anger and fear and hate. And, of course, Bobby was still with her, because Bobby loved her, and Bobby knew that love was for life, in the same way that John knew it didn't exist.
And even if it quickly became apparent that Bobby was searching for her, didn't know if she was actually there, it still made sense, because Rogue liked to think her name held certain expectations, and Bobby was a lost puppy in her wake.
Just standing close to him again was exquisite torture, and the masochist in John had to take a moment to simply stare, almost pressed against Bobby's back by the crowd, able to see his profile more clearly with each frantic turn of his head.
God, the look on Bobby's face when he realised just who was right behind him. John missed that look, was the only thing about Bobby that he allowed himself to miss. The confusion, and how could Bobby be so smart and so fucking clueless?
And that look seemed so much more raw, now that they could class themselves as enemies, rather than friendly rivals.
Enemies.
Fuck.
And it would have been perfect if Bobby could. Just. Let. Go.
But Bobby was the epitome of control; hell, the boy had an untouchable girlfriend, self-restraint had become second nature after a point.
Wouldn't fight. Wouldn't add to the carnage John had been sent to create. Wouldn't crack.
Which made the way he was clutching at the wall, panting and sweating and wild, all the more tempting.
Bobby was scared.
Bobby was scared, yet he'd still fought his way through the crowd, the mob, to find John.
John shivered. He hoped Bobby didn't notice.
Bobby began to limp towards him, leaning on the wall for support, a graze on his left cheek and determination in his eyes.
John could still feel the flames, singing in delight as they swept through the corridors, destroying everything they touched.
He didn't register himself moving, just the change of expressions on Bobby's face, the jolt backwards, one hand coming up in some feeble form of defence.
Bobby's back hit the grime-encrusted wall, and John's lips were pressed against the corner of Bobby's mouth, and he was inhaling Bobby's scent like an animal, and people were still shrieking and praying for their lives.
There was barely room for them to stand in the cramped alley in such a way, and Bobby's eyes were squeezed shut, and his fingers were curled into the moss growing between each brick, and he still wasn't fighting back.
John hated him.
His hands clawed down Bobby's chest, tugging his t-shirt high enough that his fingers could slip underneath, nails raking over sensitive skin and leaving marks that Bobby wouldn't be able to explain away. Bobby's skin was hot, hotter than anybody with the name Iceman had a right to be, and he was still panting and still not looking at John, still hiding behind closed eyes and an open damp mouth.
John could hear a child screaming, knew if he turned his head he'd probably see it near the end of the alley. It was scared, and maybe in pain.
He didn't care. If anything, he hoped it was hurting.
His fingers scrabbled awkwardly with Bobby's fly, wrenching it down, sliding his hand into the warmth behind it, and Bobby was already hard in his hand.
Bobby hissed and whimpered, and this was always how John got to see him at his most vulnerable, and that made him squeeze just a little too tight, press their chests together, drag his lips over Bobby's cheek and pant into Bobby's ear.
All those thoughts that he worked so hard to keep buried scratched at his mind, all the memories of nights in the Academy, Bobby unable to sleep and Rogue unable to help him. Flashes of Bobby, flushed and groaning and urging John's hand faster, and John hated to indulge him, wanted every moment to last, but it was always worth it when Bobby's breath caught and he momentarily forgot that they were surrounded by other student's bedrooms and telepaths. The noises he made, and John wouldn't let himself think about them, not ever, because he'd gotten sick of the looks Psylocke gave him very quickly.
And their last time together, Bobby moaning John's name, covering his mouth in realisation, God, he'd never said anybody's name before, not even hers, and Bobby had fled the room as soon as he'd stopped trembling, which meant he probably hadn't noticed that John had come untouched, and John had laid awake in bed for hours, planning what he'd say, and then Siren had screamed and everything was different.
And Bobby was shaking his head from side to side, neck arched and throat exposed and head leant back against the wall, and every turn of his head was getting more moss in his hair.
John could see somebody fall into the alley in his peripheral vision, smashing their face against the brick, pulling themselves up and disappearing back into the crowd seconds later, but Bobby's eyes were closed and he was biting his lip against anything that might escape. John's brain knew exactly where to touch to drive Bobby crazy, but his hands wouldn't obey, and he couldn't find a rhythm, and there wasn't enough room between them, and John was fucking trembling and he couldn't stop.
Leaving marks was Against The Rules, rules that were never written down or spoken of, but John was a Bad Guy now, he was a terrorist, and he didn't have to follow any rules. Didn't have to stop himself from biting at Bobby's neck, and that got a response because Bobby gasped raggedly and his hands came up to John's shoulders, and there wasn't room to push him away, but Bobby was trying.
Bobby's eyes were open again, and John could see reality returning to him, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bobby glanced back to the crowd, remembered who he was and why he was there.
John growled and smacked Bobby's arms away with his free hand, and then he was kissing him, and damn that was a mistake. They'd never kissed, the thought had never even occurred to John, and he could feel the shudder than ran through both of them, and suddenly he couldn't get enough. Bobby was moaning, and John was too, and he had to let go of Bobby, got to taste the desperation in his groan, and his hands moved to Bobby's hips, and they were pulling him flush to John's body.
It was getting more difficult to focus on the near tangible fear of the crowd, and it was getting more difficult to care, and he was supposed to be relishing in his part in the War, but instead he was whining into Bobby's mouth and yanking Bobby's jeans and boxers down to his thighs.
And Bobby wrenching his head away from the kiss, shoving John roughly, was just another distraction, and he barely felt the wall behind him hitting his back, there was so little room there, and then he was pressing forwards, hand back on Bobby's cock, free arm pinning one of Bobby's wrists to his chest.
John's hands were still shaking, and that just led to him getting a firmer grip, and Bobby was baring his teeth, hand tangling in John's collar, glaring with more anger than he'd mustered when John had repeatedly flirted with Rogue just to get a rise out of him. And John was so hard, and he needed to look down, and he needed to never stop looking into Bobby's eyes, trying to pour every ounce of hatred into his glare.
Bobby was the first to break, eyes fluttering shut, gasping and sounding like he was in such pain. Hips canting forwards, grip on John's collar barely a step away from choking him, hissing and cursing, and his come was warm on John's hand. And Bobby was still shuddering and groaning when John dropped his hand to his own jeans, and he'd barely cupped himself through the fabric when he felt something inside himself break, and everything went cold, and everything burned, and his head thunked against the wall behind him when it rolled back, and all he could think of was how he'd wanted Bobby to have return to the Mansion with John's come on him, in the same way John would have to walk the streets with Bobby's stains on his shirt.
He didn't pause to gather his thoughts, he barely paused to breathe, and then John was stalking away, hurrying away, shoving his way through the crowd, the flames out of control and creeping towards the screaming mutants, and he knew that Bobby wasn't following him.