The Morning After

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: So, in honor of Valentine's Day, and because we've been getting complaints about being too mean to Bob and John lately, a schmoopy flashback to the morning after Video Night. Nothing graphic (at least not yet), just slashy shmoop. ))

Bobby's first thought upon waking up is Blankets? He doesn't normally bother with them; being too cold at night isn't something he has to worry about, so finding a pile of them on his bed is surprising.

It takes another moment for his sleep-fogged brain to clear enough to realize the blankets are mostly wrapped around John. Ah, that explains it. He turns back over to steal a few extra minutes of sleep before bolting upright and doing a classic double-take.

John?!?

It all comes back to him now: convincing John to come back with him to the Institute the night before and watching the movie with everybody... that had been nice. And afterwards, after he'd kicked everybody else out... that had been more than nice. For once, they hadn't even gotten drunk first. But somehow it was a surprise to find John still here.

That's not how they've operated, so far. They'd fought after the first time, at Mimi's (well, after, and before, and pretty much during) and Bobby'd walked away rather than keep fighting. After that, at the park, John'd zipped up his leathers and ridden back to them before Bobby'd even finished cleaning himself off; that had been their pattern since, really.

He's been telling himself that's OK... that it's silly to expect John to stick around and cuddle afterwards, that's just not who he is. Reminding himself that they're "friends with benefits," rather than lovers... while trying to ignore the fact that there's too much between them to just be friends. Reminding himself that it's better than being enemies; better than ending up with one of them charred or shattered the next time the Brotherhood needs to be stopped.

But last night had been something else again, something new and unexpected and awesome, and Bobby is still having trouble believing it'd actually happened. Had they really come back to his room to do something as normal as watch a movie with friends? Had they really chased everybody out afterwards to a parade of knowing grins and innuendo? He'd be wondering whether the whole thing had been a dream if he weren't still sore... and if John hadn't still been here. Hell, if it had been fiction he'd mock it as completely out of character, but it had seemed so right at the time...

...and now, waking up with John next to him, it seems even more so.

Yeah... I could get used to this. More of this, please? He's not sure who he's making the request of... God, maybe, though his old priest would tell him God didn't approve of this sort of thing. Maybe of the writers. Maybe it doesn't matter.

As he burrows under the blankets he's never actually used before, curling up against John's back with an arm around his chest, he nods contentedly to himself. Definitely doesn't matter.

[Pyro]

It doesn’t take much to wake John up; he’s always been a light sleeper. It’s a talent you nurture rather than train out when you’re a terrorist / on the run / *insert latest variation on ‘leading the sort of life he does’ here*, and even if his usual response is, providing there’s no imminent death, to just growl and turn back over, burrow a bit deeper and refuse point blank to budge until a ‘more reasonable hour’ (i.e. ‘something that’s not morning’), if there’s something going on you can guarantee he won’t accidentally sleep through it. So he’s semi awake, if not quite giving up on the cosy numbness of sleep, because of the general buzz of people generally being less lethargic somewhere else in… wherever this is, and because of what he at first assumes is just a cold gust on the back of his neck, which makes him squirm and slide further into the nest of blankets just as something equally cold but more tangible presses into him, a dull weight snaking around in a sleepy embrace.

Sleeping in he’s used to; waking up next to people is pretty new, really (as is waking up without a hangover… but that’s definitely the minor surprise right now), and he’s fairly sure it’s only the cold – too cold to be just ‘normal’ chilled skin, the weird sort of cold which can only be one person – that stops him jumping (well, properly jumping… he still bristles, but that tension only lasts the merest split second before it dissolves into a sluggish oh right, it’s you… grin). And no, that really doesn’t make any sense, but that the whole point; abandoning sense, which hasn’t been that kind to either of them, in favour of just going with what feels right. It still isn’t quite ‘real’, this thing they have, and maybe if they start questioning it too much reality will catch up with the corner they’re hiding in, realise that it’s made some mistake in terms of how much it can accommodate, and implode or something. Which is a ridiculous sort of fear to have, given that they’re on the frontline of the mutant ‘war’ and caught up in all the shit that entails, but at some point (and John’s still not sure when; somewhere between Mimi’s and the park? Or somewhere later than that?) all this became far more important.

And it’s such a fucking cliché, falling like this, everything they said it would be… but it feels good (well, the cliché part rates a ‘good’; the other bit is nearer amazing). Something’s changed, something big, and normally that wouldn’t sit right – normally he’d start panicking about giving that much up, handing so much over to someone – but it’s not like being trapped at all.

Or… if it is, then he just doesn’t care, and could stand to have the bars a little tighter. Because he’s not naïve enough to believe Bobby’s perfect, beyond failing him like every other less important person. He’s just deep enough in to stop caring.

He should probably have left ages back, while it was still dark – regardless of how last night played out, he’s still on enemy territory, still likely to be missed by ‘his lot’ – but he’s still too simultaneously sleep-bleary and drunk on the proximity to Bobby for this to be something other than a vague, timeless bubble, and going anywhere feels like a really, really bad idea right now.

[Bobby Drake]

The way John squirms and burrows deeper into the blankets leaves Bobby suddenly far more awake than he’d been, and he indulges in a few minutes of happy fantasy before reality creeps in to remind him that John isn’t much good for anything without coffee in the morning. At least, he never used to be, and Bobby doubts that’s changed. So he settles for an impulsive kiss at the base of John’s neck and a whispered "Sleep. I’ll be back with coffee…" before sliding out from under the blankets.

It takes him a couple of minutes to find his uniform shorts and pull them on. Then he stops with his hand on the doorknob, his mind suddenly full of doubts. Will John even be here when Bobby gets back? Will someone else come in to talk to him, or Josh, and freak out? He considers fishing Sharky out of John’s pants, figuring he won’t leave without it… but he’s afraid that might chase him away, make him feel trapped or something.

Finally, he compromises by pulling his bathrobe off a hook in his closet and hanging John’s pants and shirt there, letting him know he can get dressed and go if he wants to. John being John, it’s probably the best way to keep him here… an arrangement that makes no sense, except that he’s begun to appreciate the weird ins and outs of John-logic, and it feels right.

He shakes his head then and, not for the first time, wonders what the hell he’s doing in this relationship. It feels like living with a pet wildebeest sometimes… the slightest miscalculation and the whole thing turns into a slashing, biting fight for survival. On the other hand, and he grins despite himself as he runs a finger along the bruise on his neck, that’s not always a bad thing….

He shrugs the bathrobe on before heading down to the kitchen, realizing that the mark on his neck has friends he’d rather not have to explain… and tries not to think about how much he’d really rather be showing them off.

[Pyro]

John squirms again, though this second sign of life isn’t about avoiding the world but the complete opposite; it’s an anti-burrow, as if trying to deepen the kiss, leech more contact from it.

< Sleep…
Yeah, sleep sounds good, anything to stay in bed… Parts are waking up, becoming ever more vociferous with suggestions as to exactly why bed is such a good place for the pair of them…

< I’ll be back with coffee
… and between their fantasies and the sleep sluggishness everywhere else a half-yawned ”Mmmkay” slips out before he can think better of it and the awake bits explain that he’s kinda missed the point of his not getting up.

”No, fuck the coffee” he slurs, another yawn mangling the words together. ”… meaning forget the coffee and fuck m…” Twisting an arm backwards and snaking a hand across, John brushes against…

… okay, take that again. It’s a slightly more awkward twist, more of a flail, and John… is more than a little surprised to find that Bobby isn’t within reach. He turns over, confused; no Bob. Huh. On third thought, then, he probably does need coffee…

*****

It’s not like John’s imagined ‘mornings after’ because until last night it would have been insane (and it still feels like madness now, but a good madness, and one he can’t risk crushing under too many reasons why it can’t exist), but somehow he just knew Bobby would be the gentlemanly breakfast-making sort. Judging from the way Bobby’s pointedly left his clothes hanging ready it seems his assessment of John’s ‘sort’ is equally accurate…

… or tragically wrong… though John shoots that thought dead. Bobby’s too accommodating and nowhere near naïve enough for the gesture to mean anything other than an understanding of his MO… and John, having retrieved and slipped on his boxers (after a brief moment of ‘where the hell…?’ followed by a more prolonged ‘how the hell?’) and Magneto was Right T-shirt (which now feels like a sick joke… but stealing Bob’s clothes would be all sorts of whacked), doesn’t need a reason to feel any guiltier about the instinct…

… an instinct he’s pointedly not thinking about, because it’s not an option. Any second now Bobby’ll be back and he won’t want to think about it… scratch that; won’t be able to. Right. For a few moments those images are enough to distract him, but Bob’s not back (‘course not, he’s making coffee, and unless they’ve replaced the machine it always did take too fucking long…) and the whole scene is several million sorts of absurd – Magneto’s third in command waiting on the leader of the Junior X-Men to bring coffee so they can hide out in bed and avoid the real world just that little bit longer and… fuck, he shouldn’t still be here…

… and the problem with it being here is that it makes it all so much harder to avoid. It had been weird enough last night, being back - because this is still his room… only… not – and only having Bobby close enough to drown in had stopped him surfacing long enough to take that in...

Okay, stop it. Nothing is going to wreck this morning, okay? John’s reconciled himself to the fact this can’t last (or likes to think he has, though it’s getting progressively harder to accept that eventuality) and so stealing what few perfect moments can be leeched from it seems all the more important. Which is why, instead of sticking his jeans back on, he equally pointedly leaves them, just to make the point that he’s not going anywhere…

*****

… and Bobby’s still not back, and the extended *spot the difference* game is getting dull, even if it is a little more complicated than last night’s simple ‘Bobby’s half is no longer the tidy side’ pronouncement made it seem. Because that he can cope with. It’s the little things, the things no one else would notice, which sting; the pile of science books, because there’s no way those could be his (science, here on Planet John, just makes no sense, and he only took it as long as blowing things up and getting Toni to help her *favourite student* could let him scrape through in passable mediocrity). The crappy ballpoints on the desk (because he’d always, always insist on decent pens… and it drove Bob mad, the amount of time he’d waste choosing them, the one thing he’d agonise over finding the right one, when everything else was met with a shrugged ‘whatever’). The slightly lighter rectangle of plaster which hangs like a negative where his Fight Club poster should be.

… okay, dull is completely the wrong word, given what playing the game is doing, because it’s not dull at all, it’s just totally bizarre and incomprehensible, the sensation of simultaneously finding every trace of his having been here wiped out and being pummelled to death with the lingering memories which testify that yes, this was his room. Right now, he’s trying to find everything tangible which links the two, things that Josh hasn’t usurped or Bob erased, so the game becomes ‘What’s still the same?’. Which is why he’s under what used to be his bed, only his legs sticking out, squinting in the intermittent golden glow cast by one of the cheap disposable lighters he’s reclaimed from one of the stashes Bobby either didn’t find or never got around to discarding (Sharky’s still in his jeans pocket, just to drive the point home) and trying to discern whether there’s still a shaky SJA in scorch marks on the underside of the frame.

[Bobby Drake]

Bobby’s never realized how incredibly slow the coffeemaker is, or, for that matter, how long the walk to the kitchen from his room is. He busies himself with other breakfasty things while it finishes… toasts some bread, puts some jam and butter on a plate, segments some oranges, that sort of thing… mostly to distract himself from the urge to run back to his room and make sure John’s still there.

Which would seem silly if it weren’t John… Bobby’s still having trouble believing John was actually here last night, let alone that he’d stayed ‘till morning. That’s a good sign, right?

Right?

The trickling sound of coffee pouring into the pot distracts him before he can decide where exactly where he expects an answer to come from… maybe the coffee’s all the answer he’s going to get. Doesn’t matter. He pours some cream into a small cup, some sugar into another, empties the coffeepot into a pitcher, arranges the whole thing on a tray, and heads back upstairs, promising himself he’ll clean up later.

The walk back to his room takes even longer than the walk to the kitchen did, now that he’s got to balance a tray, and it takes all his willpower to resist the urge to run. He finally reaches the door, though, and backs his way through it.

The first thing he notices, with a sinking feeling in his chest, is the empty bed and the blankets rapidly losing residual body-heat. The second thing, slightly reassuring, is that John’s pants are still hanging where he left them. Only then does he notice John’s bare legs sticking out from under Josh’s bed – John’s old bed, he reminds himself – and the heat-pulse of a lighter underneath it.

Huh? He puts the tray down on the nearest empty surface before asking (not entirely sure he wants to know) "Um… John? What’re you doing down there?"

[Pyro]

… yeah, still there, though for a moment he thinks he’s just looking too hard and reading too much into a more general landscape of knots and wood grain; time’s dulled the blistered wood from a black blister to something more like an old scar, and even before that it was never the clearest signature, because back then he hadn’t had the control to get it to sign quite right. But it’s still there… and in a mad and impulsive moment, before he can think better of it, he adds a slightly better formed ‘4 RD’ because… well, it feels right, and that’s pretty much the only guiding light he’s got in this crazy maelstrom. He doesn’t add any hearts or flourishes or anything, because… well, he’s still John, even if who- and whatever John is keeps shifting whenever he thinks he’s found a footing, and it just wouldn’t sit right. But somehow seeing it spelt out like that, stark and simple, is just… yeah, just somehow right.

< Um… John?
”Mmh-fuck!” … and that, after the pathetic sappy gesture, would be the classic *sitting up and forgetting that the pseudo-ceiling is there*. Oww. As if he didn’t look enough of a tool already… Take two; John slides out from under the bed and sits up, hugging his knees up to his chest and flashing Bobby a grin. ”Morning…”

< What’re you doing down there?"
”Umm..” … ah. Yeah, Bob’s meant to be the girl hopeless sappy romantic in this, so admitting what he was up to isn’t really something John’s planning on doing. His secret. ”I… was…” – and he’s fishing for an explanation, and not really bothering to hide it… because really, what could he have been doing under a bed? Erm… Oh, okay. We can run with that – ”hiding. Under the bed. Because… well, can’t sneak out now.” His shrug is pretty much a silent and that’s that, the quirked grin which follows it you’re expecting sense? Before I’ve had coffee?

[Bobby Drake]

Bobby’s a little disappointed when the bare legs turn out to end in boxers as John slides back out from under the bed, but returns the grin anyway. "Morning, yourself! There’s coffee…"

> " I… was…hiding. Under the bed. Because… well, can’t sneak out now. "

And that’s a lie, but that’s no real surprise, given John – it’s even endearing, in a demented kind of way. Bobby sniffs the faint smell of smoke and squelches a moment’s concern that this might all be some kind of involved Brotherhood plot, ashamed that he even considered the possibility. No way. John might have turned into some kind of terrorist, but he’s still John -- there’s still no way he’d screw me over like that.

Which is not at all the kind of thought he wants to be thinking right now. He lets the robe drop and hops back onto his bed, spreading some jam on a piece of toast and pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Right. No sneaking out… but under the bed is the first place they’d look, you know. Better off hiding under the blankets," he adds, lifting a handful of blankets into a makeshift tent with a quirky grin on his face. "Perfect hiding place. Warmer, too…"

[Pyro]

< There’s coffee
”You know me way too well, Icicle” John’s grin is firmly in the indulgent, rather than admonishing, camp, which is another weird-but-nice surprise - normally the idea that anyone knows him ‘well’ would be one hell of a threat – though not quite ‘nice’ enough to suppress the flare of disappointment when Bobby turns out to have shorts on under the robe (it’s not exactly a surprise; this is Bobby, after all, but it’s a sad little death for idle fantasy none the less).

< Better off hiding under blankets
This is… new. Different. The whole ‘playful’ thing isn’t really something he’s used to – even with Bobby, everything seems to be in the ‘make war’ camp far more often – and the choice of game (fugitive, sleeping with the enemy) cuts a little too close to home… but he can work the ‘exciting’ rather than ‘eek!’ angle, right? If only because of the absurdity of his being ‘playful’…

”Sure, under blankets is good…” He returns the ‘quirky’ grin and hops up into bed alongside Bob, curling behind and around him, fitting through gaps to make himself a cup of coffee (black, as per usual, with enough of the sugar that he fully expects both the spoon to stand up and a reproving look to be sent his way) and steal Bobby’s carefully prepared toast. ”Though there’s a flaw in the plan, Mr. Super-Hero. S’so cosy y’might fall asleep. And then the nasty terrorist might get ideas about sneaking off while you’re off guard. Can’t have that”

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: OK, so this is potentially starting to leave Planet Schmoop and establishing orbit around Planet More-Than-Schmoop. The sensitive are hereby warned to avert their eyes. ))

Bobby’s eyes close almost by reflex as he leans back into John’s chest, feeling more relaxed and content than he’s felt since… well, since last night, really. He chuckles at that realization. I really could get used to this.

He doesn’t even complain when John steals his toast, just burrows back a little deeper and lets the blankets drape around both of them, his hands resting on John’s knees, fingers idly tracing an old scar there, wondering how he’d gotten it. His coffee mug is balanced somewhat precariously on the edge of the headboard, but leaning forward to get to it doesn’t seem worth the effort of disengaging himself, so he contents himself with the smell rising from John’s cup.

He almost asks, as the fourth spoonful of sugar gets stirred into that cup, whether international mutant terrorists get decent dental plans as part of their health insurance… but on second thought, he changes his mind, preferring not to bring up the whole “Mutant Enemy Productions” topic on this particular morning.

> " Though there’s a flaw in the plan, Mr. Super-Hero. S’so cosy y’might fall asleep. And then the nasty terrorist might get ideas about sneaking off while you’re off guard. Can’t have that"

Right. That, right there. The topic he hadn’t wanted to bring up. Because Bobby knows there’s no way life really gets to include waking up like this, or going to sleep the way he had, or any of the happy noises he remembers them making before that, or the things that caused those noises. Their little roleplaying game is exactly ass-backwards… “Mr. Superhero the Nasty Terrorist” isn’t the fantasy part, it’s the reality they’re hiding from.

And yes, Bobby knows that. And knows that John doesn’t live here anymore, and that sooner or later he’s going to go back to his new home, and that sooner or later they’re going to find themselves on opposite sides of a battlefield again. Really, that knowledge is never far from his mind when he’s with John… and rarely far from it when he isn’t.

But damned if I’m going to let it ruin this particular morning, he tells himself fiercely, deliberately drowning his perhaps-too-fearful imaginings of some future struggle in a sea of not-at-all-fearful imaginings of far more imminent struggling.

"Mm," he replies thoughtfully, "…that’s a good point. And you’re right, we can’t have that." He snuggles himself back even further against John, smiling a little at his subtle and not-so-subtle reactions. "So really, I have only two choices. Tactically speaking, I mean." He reluctantly pulls away from his warm cozy chair-back to lean forward, get his knees under him, turn around to face John, replacing hands on opposite knees.

"Either I tie you down securely enough that you can’t escape…" He enjoys the feeling of small hairs prickling along his palms as he slides them down to John’s ankles, pulls those ankles slowly, inexorably further apart, pinning them down to the mattress by main force for a moment before letting them go and leaning forward, taking a quick bite of his stolen toast from John’s hand and wolfing it down, and continuing "…or I make sure you’re in no condition to walk away when I settle down for my cosy little nap. Or maybe both, just to be safe?"

[Pyro]

OOC Leaving Planet Schmoop, heading towards Planet Boytouching, more than likely. Any passengers not signed up for the Smutty Slash tour are advised to disembark here

… and suddenly coffee is a whole lot less interesting than he can ever remember it being, though it’s part of the whole ‘normal couple having breakfast in bed’ thing which is… oddly alluring and, erm, stimulating; John wonders how much of that is down to the ‘normal’ thing and how much to having Bobby pressed up against him… though it’s got to be a balance of both, because it’s not so much the contact as feeling Bobby relax into it which really makes his heart stop for half a beat, because that’s where, not to be too Hallmark-corny, the real magic lies, the fact that for once they’re not each half-expecting the other to turn on them. This isn’t half-fucking-half-fighting. It’s something new and exciting and different (and he has to suppress a laugh at the idea that ‘normal’ life is now strange enough to be exciting…), something stolen from under Fate’s nose because there’s no way they should be able to get away with this without something crazy happening to re-address the balance. But fuck Fate. Fuck everything – the Brotherhood, the past, every fucking thing standing between them and this – because even if it can’t be real it’s happening and it’s theirs.

That in mind, he almost wants to protest as Bobby moves away, shifting forward to pull him back before Oh, right, he catches on and, setting his coffee down out of the way (because he’s got more than an inkling that it’s going to be in the danger zone, and scalds aren’t really the ‘heat of the moment’ he’s hoping to get lost in) and flashing a darkly coy, yet undeniably hungry, grin as Bobby goes to work, biting his bottom lip as he shivers at the contact, sliding his ankles almost before Bobby pushes them and shifting his weight so he’s almost rolling his hips forward only not quite as obviously as that would imply. Instinct, as ever, is the guide he’s trusting in, because things work so much better when he’s not thinking.

”Either I tie you down securely enough that you can’t escape… or I make sure you’re in no condition to walk away when I settle down for my cosy little nap. Or maybe both, just to be on the safe side?
The way John squirms at that should be testament enough to his approving the plan, but just to underline it he leans in as Bobby does, raising one hand to cup under his chin, gently but determinedly guiding Bobby’s lips to his, drinking in, underneath the jam and coffee and other elements that make up ‘normal’ (and again noting how intoxicating ‘normal’ has suddenly become), that weird ‘cold’ which tastes undeniably of Bobby before pulling back and going through the motions of pushing him away, albeit without any real force, feigning indifference with a shrug. ”I guess we could do that, sure.”

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: Yes indeed, Planet Boytouching ahead. Gotta give the boys something to make up for the crap I'm putting them through over on the VDay thread... ))

The kiss is unexpected and delightful, and Bobby giggles at the taste of jam and coffee on John’s lips, both the same and somehow different from the same tastes on his own.

It’s a strange moment for him, balanced on the edge like this, aroused and relaxed at the same time… knowing something is going to happen, but feeling no desparate push to make it happen now, feeling free to take his time with it. He supposes this is what sex is like for normal couples, who aren’t sneaking furtive moments out from under the eyes of hostile forces, who aren’t bucking the entire fabric of their lives every time they… buck.

It’s nice, he thinks, savoring the kiss in a drifty-yet-excited way until John pulls back. No… it’s better than nice. It’s… words fail him, or at least looking for the right word stops seeming like an especially fruitful use of his time, trying not to laugh out loud at John’s show of indifference so, um, pointedly belied by his physical state.

> "I guess we could do that, sure."

He can charge forward now, he knows, and it would be passionate and fiery and all-encompassing, like it always is. But he doesn’t want to lose that appealing playfulness just yet, doesn’t want to give up the feeling of being balanced on the edge. And for once, he wants to push John fully past that so-unconvincing show of indifference… wants him to ask for it. Well, OK, to be honest, wants him to beg for it. With more than just the way he moves.

So he doesn’t pounce on John’s unspoken but unmistakable invitation. Instead he gets up and rifles through the contents of his closet for something suitable. The scarf he got for his birthday, a few years ago, and never wore… an almost-clean pair of sweatpants… yeah, that’ll work. He locks the door as he returns to the bed… then, on further thought, slides the chair from in front of his desk to hook under the doorknob.

"You’d better finish that toast quickly, " he whispers, pushing John back down against the mattress and pulling his free hand down to the edge of it, tying one end of the scarf around his wrist, the other end around one of the bed’s legs… and amused to note, as he picks up his second makeshift restraint, that John still seems utterly unaware of the half-eaten toast he’s still holding in his other hand.

I guess that's a good sign... He’s reminded suddenly of the swings at Westchester Park, of his own all-pervading anxiety about not knowing what he was doing. All of this is equally new to him, but right now it doesn’t matter… he feels like he can do no wrong. It’s a good feeling.

"Too late," he breathes, taking it from slack fingers with his teeth, and securing that hand to the opposite side of the bed. (Well, not exactly securing… there’s enough give in the fabrics that John could pull himself free with a sharp tug. Of course, there’d be no real point to doing this if John wanted to pull himself free.)

Now, he climbs back onto the bed, between John’s still-stretched-out legs, and pins John’s thighs down with his knees, leaning forward with the toast still in his mouth to offer him a bite. Some jam slides off and drops onto his cheek, and Bobby almost ruins it at that moment by laughing at the absurdity of that, but manages not to. Instead he gestures slightly with his chin and his eyes, inviting John to take another bite.

[Pyro]

OOC – Indeed. Bobby-breakfast-boytouching-bondage-bzuh (or Brekkabonda… Cowabunga! ‘nother one for the 100m slash dictionary…) If that’s not your cup of tea sadly neglected coffee then run off over to the VDay thread and enjoy the angst, or go watch the cuteness that is Jorren / Matty&Laurie as your slash/het preferences decree

This, then would be the point where it seems they got the wrong powers; where Bobby’s the one made of fire, charging headlong into…

No, that’s not right. Evidently Bobby’s forgotten the script for these things, because he’s definitely not meant to get up and wander off. For a moment John pouts - dark-eyed pique with a liberal side-order of excuse me? offended - scowling indignantly at being ignored and considering dragging Bobby’s attention back to its rightful place, before catching on and… oh, right. And there’s another rush of the unexpected there, although it’s not quite as innocent as the whole ‘well, normal isn’t too bad’ thing… because he’d never have expected Bobby to actually follow through on the ‘tie-ing down securely’. Kinky bastard… John suppresses an amused smile in favour of a darker, more wantonly coy one… which is wrecked completely and turns into a splutter of shocked giggles he wishes he could suppress as Bobby makes his move and he finds himself pressed into back into the mattress, because even if dom!Bobby is part of the game they’re used to, seductive!Bobby is a whole new crazy twist.

It’s easy to suppress them – they die on his lips, in fact – once he locks eyes with Bobby and sees that no, this is totally serious, which… wow. So if he’s forgotten the toast, it’s because the world’s narrowed down to Bobby-and-nothing-else (or more specifically to a few inches trained on Bobby-and-nothing-else) – Bobby’s diverting enough ‘normally’, of course, but that pales next to this, which renders him nothing less than mesmerising. And if John’s a little too helpful when it comes to the *being restrained* he doubts Bobby will mind (though the idea that he might object sends another jolt and… no, it’s a little too early to bring anything else in; gotta save something for next time, right?) – or, if he does, then as he climbs back up on the bed he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it, and John’s wondering whether he’s gotten hotter (in the literal sense; of the other, there’s no doubt, because the dishevelled morning-after thing, and the glint of mischief, gives him this whole fallen angel edge so John can forgive the fact that the ties aren’t going to hold anything without a degree of pretence because of what it’s doing to the parts that do find themselves frustratingly restrained) or whether it’s just the way he’s turning John’s skin to fire that’s tricking him into thinking that.

It’s an odd mix, being torn between wanting the stolen moments to go on forever and being desperate to move things along… though, unable as he is to make much headway in the ‘moving’ to stave off that hunger himself, that being entirely dependent on Bobby, it’s obvious which one is going to win out. It’s difficult, sure, to pull off casually debauched and deadly serious with jam smeared across his cheek (with his nerves ablaze, the sticky trail is far more irritating than it should be, and he can’t quite set his features right because, unable to get rid of it, they keep quirking beneath the stain) but he gives it his best shot, the words coming out tinged by the growl of frustration and need rolling deep in his throat. ”If you think it’s the toast I’m interested in, B-Drake” – and he almost, almost says Bobby instead, and that much is telling about how ‘normal’ everything somehow is, how far removed from “Mutant Enemy Productions” and all that, but the commanding edge wins out – ”then you’re totally missing the point”

(He doubts that it's possible, really, but just to make sure, to 'drive it that bit nearer home', the last few words are underlined with a subtle shift, and not-so-subtle grin).

[Bobby Drake]

(( OOC: Yes, indeed. Because of, you know, content, and stuff.))

> " If you think it’s the toast I’m interested in, B-Drake, then you’re totally missing the point"

Bobby wants to say the hell with it, toss the toast to one side and suck that unbelievably sexy grin right off John’s face before moving on to bigger and better things… but at the same time, he wants to hold off as long as he can.

Last night, together in his bed, had been a whole other dimension of hot – for the first time he’d been able to squint his memory enough to pretend it was still their room, that they were still on the same side. And it had been incredible, and he gets even hotter remembering it now… but then it had been over, like always, and reality had returned.

And he doesn’t regret a moment of it, but still, it’s the moments just before that he’s savoring most right now, and it’s like that again: if he pretends just a little, it’s like they actually belong here. And Bobby doesn’t want to give that up just yet, doesn’t want it to be over, no matter how incandescent what replaces it is promising to be, no matter how much the pulsing in his blood drives him forward.

Not to mention that there’s something intoxicating about being the one to set the pace like this, about watching John force his words through a growing need he can’t control. He knows exactly how that feels, because he feels it himself, and the idea that John might feel that about him is almost enough to bring him off right then and there.

Bobby wants more of that.

So he leans his weight back on his heels, takes the bite of toast, deliberately chews and swallows it. "Who says you have to choose? Breakfast is an important meal, you know. Gives you energy." He’s not sure one can really eat toast seductively, but he tries his best with a second bite.

"And you’re going to need all the energy you can get… because I wasn’t kidding about leaving you in no condition to walk away." He’s amazed by his own voice, breathless and raspy and harsh, and even more amazed by the effect that voice has on John’s eyes, and the flush of his skin, and the uncontrolled twitches of his muscles, and he understands for the first time why porn actors talk like that… it had always struck him as silly, before, but now he resolves to practice it when he has an opportunity.

He traces the backs of his fingers along the inside of John’s legs, half-tease and half-promise, stopping just a hairsbreadth under the bottom edge of his boxers before leaning forward again to lick the jam off of his cheek, keeping it on his tongue as he moves into another kiss, struggling to keep his balance as the world dissolves into a dizzying, delirious vortex of lips and tongue and jam, punctuated by the patches of fire where his hands and knees touch John, and the ragged exhalations of superheated breath, and the sharp spikes of stumbling teeth on swollen lips.