Salmon Pink (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
salmon_pink) wrote2007-04-12 09:50 am
salmon_pink) wrote2007-04-12 09:50 am
Entry tags:
(X-Men) Sticky
Title: Sticky
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: John/Rogue
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1390
Timeline: Pre-X2
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
50_smutlets, prompt "whipped cream".
Summary: Invisible lines, sketched in cream.
John started it, because John’s always the one who starts everything. Leaning over her shoulder to stare at the contents of the fridge, seemingly random jibe, just one of many insults that pepper his everyday attempts at conversation. Rogue’s gotten used to it, understands that the more John pokes fun at you, the more proof it is that he likes you.
Snide little comment about her hair, and nobody else would be able to get away with that, because Rogue doesn’t like to talk about her hair. Wears it with pride, white streak just as significant as any battle scar, but there aren’t many people who are allowed to draw attention to it, because there aren’t many people who know how she got it. They all know the rumours, of course, but only John and Bobby have ever asked her about it, John two weeks after the incident, Bobby the day after that. The only people she’s ever told in any kind of detail what exactly happened to her, besides the people who were there with her, and she’d been surprised at how easy it had been, how it hadn’t felt raw, how the words hadn’t gotten caught in her throat.
But, still, she can’t let that lie, even though it doesn’t bother her, because John knows it’s a sensitive subject. Trying to goad her, quips about premature greying, not particularly inspired, but she can feel the boredom radiating from him. And if she doesn’t rise to the bait, he’ll just go and find Bobby, and Bobby isn’t as good at taking a joke as she is.
John pushing further, comments about grandma perms and blue rinses, and Rogue just lets him, lets him think he’s gotten to her, and waits. Waits until he turns away, guard down, thinking she’s ignoring him, no fun if she doesn’t snap back. And Rogue’s hand closes around the whipped cream canister, and then there’s a streak of white in John’s hair before he can even react, and Rogue tries for a superior smirk, but ends up doubling over with laughter at the look on John’s face.
And then she’s squealing and giggling and ducking away as John pounces, and how did she not notice there were two more canisters in the fridge? John glowers at her, but he’s smirking, one in each hand, and then they’re chasing each other around the kitchen table, and there’s whipped cream everywhere. On the floor, over John’s face, down Rogue’s top, smeared all over their skin, sweet and sticky and light.
Rogue’s canister is almost empty, only spurts and dribbles feebly when she spins around to aim at John’s nose. He grins and advances and she laughs and tries to call a time out and finds herself backed into a corner.
And John just doesn’t stop moving closer, canister raised, eyes boring into her own. Too close, presses up against her, barrier of cloth and cream, and Rogue doesn’t see John’s eyes get like that often, only on the few occasions she’s actually watched him play with his fire. Something so focused and sharp, compared to the unimpressed air he so readily projects, but he’s just as surprised as she is, she can see it in the nervous swallows, the awkward movement in his throat.
Rogue’s trapped, pressed into the corner, pinned against the cabinets, and John’s hard, and Rogue does absolutely nothing to stop it when he rolls his hips against hers.
She doesn’t mean to gasp. But, then, she doesn’t mean to do a lot of things. Doesn’t mean to close her eyes and tilt her hips forward. Barely noticeable, but it’s an obvious invitation. And John accepts readily, shudders and exhales through his nose, and rolls his hips again.
Rogue loves Bobby, and loves the way he treats her, and knows that he would never, ever do anything like this. Could never understand that, just maybe, Rogue needs this, pressure and friction and the feeling of wrongness about it. John’s eyelids fluttering, and his lips slightly parted, and Rogue’s eyes are wide open and she can’t stop watching. She knows John’s attractive, she isn’t blind, after all. But suddenly John seems beautiful, and that seems like a ridiculous word to associate with him, the kind of word that would offend him. But it fits, and it’s right, and Rogue pants lightly and licks at the cream at the corner of her mouth.
Hot hard press against her, she can feel the heat of it through their jeans, and it’s so intimate. Can feel the curve, the shape of John’s cock, and she almost feels like laughing, but mostly she feels wet and dizzy.
And John opens his eyes and he looks kind of scared, like maybe she’ll push him away at any moment. Flicker of emotion, steeling himself, because John isn’t the sort of guy who just sits back and lets fear take him. Determination creeping onto his face, into his movements, and Rogue can’t stop staring.
Soft grunt, ducking slightly, and his hands are gripping at her thighs. Gloved hands automatically reach out, and Rogue clings to his shoulders, steadies herself, as John lifts her, pushes her higher up the cabinets, back pressing against the wood. Wraps her legs around his waist, and that’s clearly exactly the right thing to do, because friction, and he’s right there between her thighs, can feel him there, and it’s new and different and Rogue’s head rolls back and hits the cabinet.
Staring at the ceiling, roll of John’s hips pinning her, hands fisting in the sleeves of his t-shirt. Constant wave, sensation, rough but too good to be painful, too perfect. Wanting to spread her thighs, yet needing to tighten her legs around him, conflict and desperation. Listening to all the tiny sounds John makes, hearing the harsh rasp of her own breath, feeling her jeans and her underwear pressing against her, and feeling herself throb to the rhythm of her pulse. Cold spikes shooting down her thighs, across her shoulder blades, and Rogue’s shivering and John’s there with her, and it’s all really happening, and she’s not alone, and she never thought this would be something she’d share with John, never mind that it suddenly makes sense. Pushing boundaries, indecent shove of denim, and Rogue wants to touch, not John but herself. Wishes there was a thinner material between them, wishes gravity would just hurry up and pull her down harder, faster. John supporting her weight, struggling with the pace, and that just makes it better, erratic, and she can feel the strain of it.
Hears him curse, whisper, sounding near broken. Needs to look at him, but, oh, mistake, looking down as he looks up, her chin brushing his cheek. Flash of unwanted invasion, flame and tension and torment, feels everything through him, just for a second, before his head wrenches back, eyes wide, but it’s too late. Feels the sensation through herself, and through John, and she’s lost and orgasm rips through her and she hears John swear again, his memories, hazy and fleeting, flickering through her mind, burning at her, as his hips roll one last time and he groans. Caught in mid-air, suspended by sensation, and then everything seems to shift back into real time, and John’s legs give out and they both slide to the ground.
Rogue lands awkwardly, legs sprawled, still half-wrapped around John’s waist. Breathing heavily, painfully, cream and hair and sweat on her face. Watches John collect himself, because it’s easier than focusing on herself, because it distracts her from the thoughts bouncing in her mind that aren’t her own.
John shifts backwards, hands braced on the floor. Pulls himself to kneeling, and he’s not looking at her. “Don’t tell Bobby, okay?” he whispers, and his voice is far too quiet. Turns to look at her, and she must be frowning, because he laughs shakily and smiles and reaches across to tug at a lock of her hair. Strange tension in the air, not quite awkward, but not quite right, but Rogue can accept it, and can manage a smile of her own before John pulls himself to his feet and waves over his shoulder as he walks out the door. And then Rogue’s alone with her thoughts, and with John’s, and the silence of the kitchen.
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: John/Rogue
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1390
Timeline: Pre-X2
Notes: For
50_smutlets, prompt "whipped cream".Summary: Invisible lines, sketched in cream.
John started it, because John’s always the one who starts everything. Leaning over her shoulder to stare at the contents of the fridge, seemingly random jibe, just one of many insults that pepper his everyday attempts at conversation. Rogue’s gotten used to it, understands that the more John pokes fun at you, the more proof it is that he likes you.
Snide little comment about her hair, and nobody else would be able to get away with that, because Rogue doesn’t like to talk about her hair. Wears it with pride, white streak just as significant as any battle scar, but there aren’t many people who are allowed to draw attention to it, because there aren’t many people who know how she got it. They all know the rumours, of course, but only John and Bobby have ever asked her about it, John two weeks after the incident, Bobby the day after that. The only people she’s ever told in any kind of detail what exactly happened to her, besides the people who were there with her, and she’d been surprised at how easy it had been, how it hadn’t felt raw, how the words hadn’t gotten caught in her throat.
But, still, she can’t let that lie, even though it doesn’t bother her, because John knows it’s a sensitive subject. Trying to goad her, quips about premature greying, not particularly inspired, but she can feel the boredom radiating from him. And if she doesn’t rise to the bait, he’ll just go and find Bobby, and Bobby isn’t as good at taking a joke as she is.
John pushing further, comments about grandma perms and blue rinses, and Rogue just lets him, lets him think he’s gotten to her, and waits. Waits until he turns away, guard down, thinking she’s ignoring him, no fun if she doesn’t snap back. And Rogue’s hand closes around the whipped cream canister, and then there’s a streak of white in John’s hair before he can even react, and Rogue tries for a superior smirk, but ends up doubling over with laughter at the look on John’s face.
And then she’s squealing and giggling and ducking away as John pounces, and how did she not notice there were two more canisters in the fridge? John glowers at her, but he’s smirking, one in each hand, and then they’re chasing each other around the kitchen table, and there’s whipped cream everywhere. On the floor, over John’s face, down Rogue’s top, smeared all over their skin, sweet and sticky and light.
Rogue’s canister is almost empty, only spurts and dribbles feebly when she spins around to aim at John’s nose. He grins and advances and she laughs and tries to call a time out and finds herself backed into a corner.
And John just doesn’t stop moving closer, canister raised, eyes boring into her own. Too close, presses up against her, barrier of cloth and cream, and Rogue doesn’t see John’s eyes get like that often, only on the few occasions she’s actually watched him play with his fire. Something so focused and sharp, compared to the unimpressed air he so readily projects, but he’s just as surprised as she is, she can see it in the nervous swallows, the awkward movement in his throat.
Rogue’s trapped, pressed into the corner, pinned against the cabinets, and John’s hard, and Rogue does absolutely nothing to stop it when he rolls his hips against hers.
She doesn’t mean to gasp. But, then, she doesn’t mean to do a lot of things. Doesn’t mean to close her eyes and tilt her hips forward. Barely noticeable, but it’s an obvious invitation. And John accepts readily, shudders and exhales through his nose, and rolls his hips again.
Rogue loves Bobby, and loves the way he treats her, and knows that he would never, ever do anything like this. Could never understand that, just maybe, Rogue needs this, pressure and friction and the feeling of wrongness about it. John’s eyelids fluttering, and his lips slightly parted, and Rogue’s eyes are wide open and she can’t stop watching. She knows John’s attractive, she isn’t blind, after all. But suddenly John seems beautiful, and that seems like a ridiculous word to associate with him, the kind of word that would offend him. But it fits, and it’s right, and Rogue pants lightly and licks at the cream at the corner of her mouth.
Hot hard press against her, she can feel the heat of it through their jeans, and it’s so intimate. Can feel the curve, the shape of John’s cock, and she almost feels like laughing, but mostly she feels wet and dizzy.
And John opens his eyes and he looks kind of scared, like maybe she’ll push him away at any moment. Flicker of emotion, steeling himself, because John isn’t the sort of guy who just sits back and lets fear take him. Determination creeping onto his face, into his movements, and Rogue can’t stop staring.
Soft grunt, ducking slightly, and his hands are gripping at her thighs. Gloved hands automatically reach out, and Rogue clings to his shoulders, steadies herself, as John lifts her, pushes her higher up the cabinets, back pressing against the wood. Wraps her legs around his waist, and that’s clearly exactly the right thing to do, because friction, and he’s right there between her thighs, can feel him there, and it’s new and different and Rogue’s head rolls back and hits the cabinet.
Staring at the ceiling, roll of John’s hips pinning her, hands fisting in the sleeves of his t-shirt. Constant wave, sensation, rough but too good to be painful, too perfect. Wanting to spread her thighs, yet needing to tighten her legs around him, conflict and desperation. Listening to all the tiny sounds John makes, hearing the harsh rasp of her own breath, feeling her jeans and her underwear pressing against her, and feeling herself throb to the rhythm of her pulse. Cold spikes shooting down her thighs, across her shoulder blades, and Rogue’s shivering and John’s there with her, and it’s all really happening, and she’s not alone, and she never thought this would be something she’d share with John, never mind that it suddenly makes sense. Pushing boundaries, indecent shove of denim, and Rogue wants to touch, not John but herself. Wishes there was a thinner material between them, wishes gravity would just hurry up and pull her down harder, faster. John supporting her weight, struggling with the pace, and that just makes it better, erratic, and she can feel the strain of it.
Hears him curse, whisper, sounding near broken. Needs to look at him, but, oh, mistake, looking down as he looks up, her chin brushing his cheek. Flash of unwanted invasion, flame and tension and torment, feels everything through him, just for a second, before his head wrenches back, eyes wide, but it’s too late. Feels the sensation through herself, and through John, and she’s lost and orgasm rips through her and she hears John swear again, his memories, hazy and fleeting, flickering through her mind, burning at her, as his hips roll one last time and he groans. Caught in mid-air, suspended by sensation, and then everything seems to shift back into real time, and John’s legs give out and they both slide to the ground.
Rogue lands awkwardly, legs sprawled, still half-wrapped around John’s waist. Breathing heavily, painfully, cream and hair and sweat on her face. Watches John collect himself, because it’s easier than focusing on herself, because it distracts her from the thoughts bouncing in her mind that aren’t her own.
John shifts backwards, hands braced on the floor. Pulls himself to kneeling, and he’s not looking at her. “Don’t tell Bobby, okay?” he whispers, and his voice is far too quiet. Turns to look at her, and she must be frowning, because he laughs shakily and smiles and reaches across to tug at a lock of her hair. Strange tension in the air, not quite awkward, but not quite right, but Rogue can accept it, and can manage a smile of her own before John pulls himself to his feet and waves over his shoulder as he walks out the door. And then Rogue’s alone with her thoughts, and with John’s, and the silence of the kitchen.
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lovely and beautiful and so very sad! :( poor john!
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Wow. I mean wow!! This was fantastic. I loved the playful way it started and I think you had both characters voices down really well. I also loved the fact that they both knew it was wrong but they kept going. You captured John's thoughts perfectly - “Don’t tell Bobby, okay?” he whispers, and his voice is far too quiet.
But you just killed me with the ending- And then Rogue’s alone with her thoughts, and with John’s, and the silence of the kitchen.
I think you really captured the essence of an affair in this. They both felt guilty and they both seemed to care about Bobby, but they just couldn't help themselves.
Really beautifully done and it fits so well into the movies. Like a missing scene that explains so much between the three of them...
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(Anonymous) 2007-04-12 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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i LOVE it XD and my desire for smexy kitchen sex is fufilled!
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