From: "briar lovesjoss" <email@example.com> Date: Sunday, June 01, 2003 3:43 AM Flip by Briar briargoeth[at]yahoo[dot]com Fandom: XMM(2) Rating: R Pairing: Rogue/Bobby/St.John Distribution: List Disclaimer: not for profit.
< Let me give you something. >
Rogue opens the door, expecting to find Bobby. John is sprawled on the lower bunk bed, casually expanding, then shrinking, a ball of fire near his left hand. The lighter's on the right.
After shutting the door behind her, Rogue looks at the open bathroom door.
"Where is he?"
She looks around. Various piles- clothing, comic books, cds-- are obvious and messy in this lived-in place. It smells nice, though. She can't tell whose stuff belongs to whom. They probably share everything. It looks like that.
"We were supposed to meet in the Danger Room fifteen minutes ago."
St. John's gaze is half-lidded, indolently detached, maybe. The fire disappears into a fist. "I told him you'd meet him by the lake instead. Change of plans. You felt like jogging outside today. A little late because you had to discuss a chemistry assignment with Mr. Summers."
He pushes himself up; stands quickly. He closes the distance between them, leans in like a shark sniffing blood. Rogue doesn't like it, how it always seems like he's got something figured behind his eyes.
"Why'd you do that?"
He sniffs her hair. She backs up, meeting the wall.
"What are you doing?" Alarm's in her voice.
His voice is quiet, curious. He presses his body against hers. She is mesmerized by his eyes. They tell her to stay still. She obeys, notices the hard thin line of his lips. The fullness of the lower, how he is very much in control when his arms go smoothly outward, palms to the wall on either side of her face.
She can smell him. He smells just like Bobby.
"How long does it take?"
Rogue flusters, "What?"
"When you touch someone. Suck 'em up. How long?"
"Three seconds." She says it with a grimace, sharply, surprised and angry to be so.
"Do you take their memories?"
"Sometimes, " and she says it softer, which means always. In that haunted space where her look changes from itching towards venom to a tension like she'd been hit in the stomach Johnny targets her open mouth with his, arms suddenly wrapping around Rogue like a Venus fly trap sprung.
Warm. Heat. Wet. Clench.
one, two. three. Four. fi-
PUSH--- she pushes him so hard, he's on the carpet and-
She gasps. It hurts.
The veins are fading from his face, she sees him breathing hard, too, she opens the door and walks out to do something else, there are impressions, fast, hard, and she thinks that Bobby must be a fool not to have noticed that his best friend is in love with him, wants more than to be a fuck buddy--
It only happened once. Before it happened again, and then it only happens sometimes. Never, now that Bobby's just told St. John it's official-- they're an item, boy and girl-- boyfriend, girlfriend, yeah.
And so-- a last roll, Bobby asking- "You awake?" then climbing downwards where John waits, and.
It felt so good that Bobby cried. They slept like that, Bobby on top of him. And he knew that no matter what that bitch did-- only "that bitch" by necessity, because post-coitus knowing it could be the last time, or at least years-- and anyway /John had him first/--
She stops walking down the hallway at a brisk pace, like she's getting ready to run-- because what John gave took something from her, this knowing a chunk that displaced something in herself, made a little vacuum that it could fill, a round peg of hurt-- some large bone of knowledge into the small square shaped something of her soul.
"Where were you?" The quizzical look is so dorky and open and she understands why John-- she feels what John feels, knows what John knows, how Bobby /feels so good--/
"Ah. I got caught up."
"I'm sorry." She brushes her bangs from her face. "It took me a while to get it."
He grabs her gloved hand in his, and tugs her towards a near window.
"It's still a nice day. It's not too late to go jogging outside." Bobby smiles, and her heart is caught.
Now she knows him, too.
"Let's go, sugar."
< It's my turn. >
The world blazes like John's rage, and she takes off her glove to grab his ankle.
Five, four, three-
Kissing Bobby minutes before helps Rogue temper the flaming yard, police included.
Logan, shortly, rises and John is veiny, but looking none the worse for wear.
He gives her a look like he couldn't possibly explain how, in a way, this pain familiar seems almost okay. Rogue, for a second, thinks that it is her emotions and adrenaline which makes the world turn into a loud pounding whirl until the Blackbird hovers towards the porch.
Bobby moves in between them, a hand on each back, ready to push.
Finally, by silence I mean the freedom to read like a butterfly, write like a bee: to wander at will from one interesting thing to another, making no noise, drawn only by delight, and then to settle into the quiet and solitude of your own space and begin the long process of turning all you've gathered into honey. (phillip pullman)
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