Disclaimer- I own nothing.
And Then There Were Two
Iceman/Bobby
It seems that one of us is going to be moving out sometime soon. Two days ago John got to leave the infirmary, and yesterday Storm came by. She smiled, and said, "You two are old enough that you can have separate rooms by now, I think. So I'll set up another room, and one of you can move out." She looked at us both, daring someone to argue. I just smiled ruefully and nodded. John didn't seem to react at all.
So now I'm helping haul all his shit into another room, two doors over from this one. He's throwing his clothes into a box haphazardly and grumbling about being put to the trouble of cleaning his room. I want to tell him that this hardly counts as cleaning, but I just laugh. "Did you really expect anything else, after she walked in on us?" Apparently he had forgotten about that, because I see a blush creeping up the back of his neck.
"Oh. Right. Well, this is still bullshit," he mutters stubbornly.
"Sure. Hey, what d'you want me to do with all these books?" I'm not really exaggerating, about 'all the books,' either. He doesn't seem to have much… stuff (not much music, video games, technology, not even all that many clothes), but there are a lot of books on his side of the invisible line that we crew across the room when we first moved in.
In fact, it wasn't invisible at first. I had dropped my sweater on the floor on what he saw as his side, and he flipped a shit. Quietly. Just burned a line down the middle of the floor and looked at me, then kicked the sweater over the line very deliberately.
"Uh, let me get them. Can you take this over?" I return to the present with a faint smile and take the box from him. Walking down the hall, I'm almost in the door before I'm intercepted. Peter (whose room happens to be between John's and mine, poor bastard) walks out of his room and gives me a bemused look. I grin at him and say, "John's moving out."
His brows come together and he frowns, and I realize what that probably sounds like. "Oh, no! Not, like, leaving the mansion, moving out. Just, being kicked out of the room." I hope he doesn't ask me why, because I'm not sure how tolerant he is about the whole, gay thing and I don't want to have to say it. But he just sort of nods, so I guess that's alright. I go into the room (exactly the same as mine), dump the box of shirts and stuff next to the dresser that I know will never be used.
I wander back to the room to find Kitty perched on top of a box and chattering to John, who looks as though he's trying very hard to tune her out and not really succeeding. Then she sees me, and grins slightly manically. "Hey! So one of you is being kicked out? Why? Oh, is it 'cause dear Storm knows about," she grins and waggles her eyebrows, looking spectacularly pleased with herself, "you two?"
I sigh. "Yes Kitty, it is because she knows about us. And now I'm going to have to ask you to leave so we can make out. Sloppily." I grin at her, and she stares for a minute. Then she starts laughing so hard she nearly falls off of the box. "Alright, I'm gone," she chirps, waving over her shoulder as she walks through the wall into Peter's room. I hear a muffled noise of surprise (almost a yelp, but that couldn't be right, could it?) from the poor, harassed mutant, and have to stifle a laugh.
"And stay out of my walls, Shadowcat!" I yell after her as an afterthought.
Only now does John sigh, and relax. I sit on the bed and grin over at him suggestively. "You know, now that I've said it, we'd better make out. Just in case." He laughs, a smooth, unself-conscious sound that makes my knees weak (lucky I'm sitting down), and says, "Well, I wouldn't want to make you a liar, now would I?" He walks towards me, and I almost forget to reply, "No, you really wouldn't."
He plants a hand on either side of my legs and leans forward until we just barely brush lips. I want to wrap my arms around him but feel like I shouldn't, so I lean forward, my hands lying ineffectually in my lap. He laughs and backs away just far enough that I can't reach him without grabbing him or leaning far enough to fall off the bed. I growl (or maybe whimper) in protest and he ducks in with another fleeting kiss, his tongue swiping across my lips. I sit there for a minute, probably with my mouth hanging open, before I remember my dignity. More specifically, I remember that theoretically I have some. It probably wouldn't be happy about this.
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward. He looks magnificently surprised for a moment and then, happily, he is too close for me to see properly. I can feel him quite well now, though. I'd say it's an excellent trade-off.
His hands are just working their way into my shirt when he breaks off and backs away slightly. He can't get far away though, since he's crouched over my legs and my grip on his shoulders is quite unrelenting. I look at him curiously, my brain still lust-addled (or maybe just John-addled) and wait for him to do something. He takes a deep breath and slips one hand out from under my shirt to run through his hair. "The door… is open still," he mutters, looking like he's trying to remember why that's important. I glance over and it is. Barely. No big deal, I decide.
"And, and we have packing to do. Well, you have packing to do," I add, since apparently we're objecting to the kissing despite the fact that it is quite fun. And excellent. And awesome. "Yeah," he says, nodding once. "Packing." Then he pushes me, gently but insistently, onto my back. "But… I could do it later."
"Mmm," I hum encouragingly, shifting to the side and lying back, "later." He kisses the side of my face. "Much later," I add decidedly, as he licks at my earlobe. I shiver. "Hell, maybe never." He nips approvingly at my neck. I think I babble inanely for a while. I don't really bother to stop talking, or take notice of anything until he's got half of my shirt off. Then I decide that it isn't really fair that I'm having all the fun here. I suppose I should return the favour.
With this in mind I roll over on top of him, my shirt unbuttoned and hanging from my arms, and pin his arms to the bed. He grins up at me, dark eyed and panting.
I can't be expected to resist an image like that, and I don't. I affix my mouth to his, kissing sloppily and eagerly and still holding his arms down. He's arching up off the bed to get closer, and I can feel him moving against me, his shirt feeling nice but unsatisfying against my bare chest and stomach. I ought to deal with that, but I don't really want to stop kissing him. I have to breathe, though, and I suppose that I could multi-task a little.
With that in mind, I remove my hands from his wrists and slide his shirt up. John, wonderful person that he is, lifts his arms up and squirms cooperatively. I drop the shirt over the edge of the bed, forgotten in the haze that his squirming under me creates. He peers at me curiously, and then his lips curve delightedly and he does it again, deliberately and slowly.
I groan, grinding against him ineffectually, and he laughs. I want to be offended, but he is still moving against me, sending warm spikes of pleasure up my spine with each movement, and I could forgive quite a lot as long as he keeps going. "You're pretty new to this, huh Drake?" I wonder hazily why he's calling me Drake now, of all times, and I'm amazed at how coherent he is; I'm afraid to open my mouth for fear of what might come spilling out of it (idiotic babblings, or worse yet, dangerous truths). His voice is pitched lower than usual and hoarse and there's a mischievous curve to his smile and his eyes are challenging me, and he is utterly irresistible. I wonder if he knows it. Maybe that's why he's so smug all the time.
"Yeah, I guess," I admit guardedly, proud that nothing compromising has gushed forth ('I love you,' comes to mind, and I banish the words to the back of my mind). "That's not," he pauses to fasten his hands onto my hips and guide my movement, "surprising, I guess." I let him direct me and surrender to the sensations that are bombarding me. My hands are wandering again, trying to discover everything about his body all at once, and then they enlist my mouth in the effort, and he doesn't seem to mind at all, one hand reaching back and around to grope at my ass.
I buck forward, slightly shocked by the sudden squeeze. Then I am far more concerned with his other hand, which is straying also. I shut my eyes, and most definitely do not whimper. At all.
With a sudden burst of courage or foolishness, I return the gesture, stroking at the hardened bulge in his pants clumsily. My bravado lasts only until I realize that I'm not exactly sure what to do next. I resort to sporadically copying his motions (which feel amazing, incidentally. Mind-blowing, although that's probably an unfortunate word choice) and hoping that he approves. He seems to, groaning and panting at me and letting his head loll back, eyelids fluttering shut.
I think that seeing that probably pushes me right over the edge (and then some); my spine shudders and I feel an orgasm building. My hand moves erratically, jerking too quickly, but that is probably alright since he is stiffening, thrusting upwards, hands clutching at my back and sides, eyes tightly shut. His name spills from my lips, again and again, and I drink in the sight of him. He is dishevelled, sweating and panting, face drawn into a strange grimace or smile.
And he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Then we're done, and I'm sitting on top of him in quite an awkward position, lanky limbs tangled together and stickiness drying in my pants. "God, John," I say, my voice as weak and shaky as my arms, should I try to move them. He smirks at me, twisting out from under my body to sit sort of upright and curled around me. He makes me think of my mom's stupid, spoiled cat sometimes. Not that I would screw the cat, but the way he moved just then was positively feline (smug and contented and self-satisfied).
"I answer to both," he says, with all the smugness of someone who has just unleashed a bad joke upon you, and knows there is nothing you can do about it. I groan, but I would mind much more if not for the fact that his voice still sounds so low and hoarse and breathy, making me recall his pants and gasps. "You're terrible," I sigh, into the skin of his neck.
"No, I'm amazing actually."
"And so full of yourself." He turns to me, grinning broadly, but then bites his lip and looks away. I'm a little bewildered. "We should get cleaned off," he suggests, and I sigh. That's true, but I'd really just like to sit here and continue to lethargically feel up the shirtless John sitting next to me. I can hardly be blamed for feeling quite contented where I am right now, and he seems to feel the same, since he isn't moving either. Then something occurs to me, and the chill of horror dispels some of my warm, sleepiness.
"John, were we very loud?" He looks at me in puzzlement for a minute before comprehension dawns on his face. "Only, the door was open, and there is a girl next door who can peer through walls, and…" I'm feeling warm again, but this time it is the uncomfortable heat of embarrassment spreading through my body. "And," he continues, his voice strangely unaffected, "there are mind-readers in the building, and probably at least one little weirdo with supersensitive hearing. I'm talking about you," he barks, chuckling.
"God," I say. "We're gonna have to move out, John. I don't think I'll be able to have sex, knowing that some thirteen year old might be listening in." He smiles at me strangely, fleetingly, and then laughs. "Whatever, you prude. Little girls aren't nearly as innocent as you seem to think they are. Now I'm going to have a shower. Coming?" And he stands up, shirtless and in stained pants, and walks out of the room. I'm left staring open-mouthed at the door, and wondering if he meant it the way I heard it.
I later realize that he was carrying clothes with him, and that there is more than one shower in the nasty, communal bathroom. Even later, cleaned and showered, we finally move his crap into the new room and proceed to christen a few of the sturdier bits of furniture, though not as completely as I would have liked to.
So. I may be drawn into the smut-writing vortex if I am not careful. This is really quite fun. *cackles evilly*
Colvine
