Fic: Bitch
E-mail: violet147@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Mucho kinky boy sex. Yeah baby.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Bobby/John
Summary: Who's really in control here?
Notes: This was written at six in the morning. Which explains the outright smuttiness. Cha.


John ends up grabbing Bobby by his shirt and pushing him against the wall one day after class, right before lunch. Suddenly Bobby is walking into his room, shutting the door, then boom, his back is against the wall and he has one set of dark eyes boring a hole through his forehead. He looks up at those eyes and at the rage in them, and he feels a shiver run through his entire body. He can even feel it in his toes.

“That was very cute, Drake,” John tells him, his voice low and harsh and melodic.

“What are-" Bobby is cut off by John reaching down and putting his hand on Bobby’s belt, but he does not undo the belt; he starts playing with the buckle, his fingers brushing against Bobby’s crotch. Which. Is rather nice, actually, if it weren’t for the fact that John looks as if he can, and will, eat Bobby alive.

“Did you think I wouldn't notice?” he asks. He reaches up and takes Bobby’s earlobe in his mouth, sucking a bit and sinking his teeth into it. “More importantly…” He snakes an arm around Bobby’s waist and pulls Bobby closer, and Bobby can feel the smile on John’s face. “Did you think I wouldn’t care?” he asks.

“John, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bobby answers as he keeps hoping to God no one, Jubilee or Kitty or Peter, happens to swing by to pick him up for lunch and hear all this.

“Yes you do, Bobby,” John says in a sing-song voice, his lips making a trail from his ear to Bobby’s lips, and Bobby’s looking John right in the eyes, and can feel his temperature dropping to unnatural degrees, which is normal for him in periods of great stress. He suspects, though, that this is NOT one of those normal periods, especially with John’s hand on his crotch and John’s lips on his. And holy shit, now John’s got his belt undone, and his pants are down around his ankles. No, this is definitely NOT one of those normal periods of stress-related body temperature drops.

“Can I at least get a chance-"

“No,” John interrupts him, harsh and commanding, his eyes are practically on fire now. “No, Bobby-boy, you don’t get a chance to ask or explain or bullshit with me.” With a fluid twist of his wrists, Bobby’s boxers have joined his pants, and he can only pray that no one knocks on the door. He looks back up at John, who’s got a rather…feral look on his face, like he’s GOING to eat Bobby alive. He grabs Bobby by the hips and lifts his legs up in one smooth motion, with strength that always surprised Bobby no matter how many times he’s seen it, and John leans in and presses himself against Bobby. There’s a rather wicked gleam in his eyes. “Tell me, Drake, does it feel like I care about your excuses?”

Bobby knows that John doesn’t, care, that is, but he can’t manage to care either as John takes one of Bobby’s hands and places it on his zipper. “You know what to do,” he orders, and Bobby does know, and Bobby’s hand knows, and within seconds, John’s zipper’s undone and his boxers are down around his ankles. Bobby realizes that shit, there’s no lube, this is going to hurt, but then John holds his hand up and spits into it, which would seem really gross, but John manages to make it look erotic (plus he doesn’t make a hacking noise as he does it, which helps with the making-it-look-sexy thing). John can make anything look erotic, even mashed potatoes, which he has done, and probably wouldn’t mind doing again.

But there’s nothing as erotic, or mind-blowingly sexy, as John touching himself, which he’s doing right now, wrapping his hand around his cock, wetting it down, looking Bobby in the eye and smirking the entire time. He knows what this does to Bobby, and he continues to do it every single time.

“Just fucking do it,” Bobby hisses out.

“Fucking do it?” John repeats. He leans in closer, and right above his lips, he breathes out, “Or fucking do YOU?”

Bobby grabs him by his face and tries to kiss him, but John doesn’t let him, instead bites down hard on Bobby’s lip. “None of this nice kissy-lovey shit, Drake,” he says, doing an incredible job of balancing Bobby against the wall with one hand while his other keeps stroking his cock, getting himself ready. John looks at him, his mouth set in a scowl, and Bobby’s eyes shut as he feels one of John’s fingers prepping him, but John is not gentle, never has been, and quickly there’s two fingers, then three fingers, and then there’s no fingers at all, but John’s cock, and surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. None of it ever hurts as much as Bobby always imagines it will.

Once he’s all the way in, John grabs Bobby by the hips and finds a rhythm that both of them could probably follow in their sleep, they’ve done this so many times together. Bobby’s hands wrap around John’s neck and he doesn’t say anything, just goes with it and lets the pleasure wash over him. John, though, talks like he always does; he can never shut up for a single second, even when he’s fucking the fuck out of Bobby. “You never fucking learn, Drake, you always have to fuck with me and do things you know you shouldn’t,” he says.

“Like what?”

“I saw you. Saw you with her,” John answers, and when Bobby looks at him, he smiles sadistically. “Saw the way you fucking flirted with her, gave her a fucking ice rose,” he adds. Bobby moans as John’s hips speed up, but the smile on John’s face only becomes more malicious. “The way you talked to that fucking bitch, you fucking know better, Drake,” he says.

John leans his head back and moans himself, his hair falling into his eyes. His hips are so fast that Bobby’s starting to hit his head against the wall with each thrust, and if he’s not careful, someone’s going to hear the thumping and knock and ask what the hell is going on. But John has already solved that; he reaches up and places one of his hands behind Bobby’s head, dulling the sound and the ache. “You fucking do this to me and look…I still take care of you,” John tells him, and while Bobby knows it’s supposed to sound commanding, he can hear what John is trying to hide; he can hear the hurt in John’s voice.

Bobby knows he’s not going to last long, and he knows John’s not going to either; the way his eyes start to flutter open and shut is the tell-tale sign. “You’re mine, Drake,” John ends up saying, looking Bobby in the eye. “You’re my fucking bitch, and don’t you dare think you can offer yourself up to someone else,” he orders, leaning over and kissing him hard.

Bobby lets out a deep groan as he comes, but John’s mouth on his muffles it. John breaks away from the kiss and as he does, he shudders and comes too, back arched like a cat. After a few moments, he lets go of Bobby’s hips and lets Bobby slide down to the floor, stepping back, crouching down, trying to catch his breath. “Remember who owns you, who you belong to,” John tells him. He licks his lips and breathes heavily. “I don’t want to have to remind you like this again,” he adds.

Bobby, although he’s exhausted and the familiar ache in his thighs is starting to sink in, manages to look John in the eye and smile. “Don’t worry,” he says. He crawls over to John, and his smile only gets wider. “I know who owns who here.”


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