Twist
He's sitting in the corner, his lighter in his hand, flipping, closing, flipping, closing, in an odd rthyme that keeps Mystique on her toes. She's pretending to read a manuel she brought back in from the helicopter: flipping pages and scanning lines. She knows all this already, knows what to do if cabin pressure drops more than ten percent, what to do if the gas tank is punctured, what to do if there's a fire.
Flip. Close. Flip. Close. Over and over again and now he's watching her, eyes painfully dark, a smile that's not there when she looks up from the pages.
"What do you want?" She hisses, tongue briefly peeking out from over the book, serpentine rhyme down, "What do you think you are looking at?"
He smiles, this time for real, "You tell me," he lets the lighter burn for a moment before snapping it shut again.
A warning hiss and she's back to her book; but he hasn't stopped staring, watching, letting his eyes drift and his pattern of snap- close linger.
"So you can be anyone?" He asks, snap-close-snap, "Anyone at all?"
She arcs an eyebrow over the tip of her book but doesn't answer.
"Anyone?"
A nod, but it doesn't seem to pacify him.
"Then why the fuck you're blue?"
A snarl and she's slowly setting the book down, finger tracing the spine as she lets go.
He's laughing, back to focusing on his lighter and his snap-close- snap. Mystique, slips from her chair, hands slightly out to her sides.
"What would you like me to be?" She asks, but doesn't, seemingly at the same time. St. John doesn't look up, suddenly very quiet, very still.
He doesn't have to see; he can hear the shift of cells, the slip of skin, the twist of bone. He's afraid to look up but hopes that his continued manipulation of the lighter can hide that fact.
When Rogue's ungloved hand tightens against his throat all breathing in the room seemed to come to a stop.
"Anyone?" Whispering back his words, she presses hard against his throat, relishing the bumps and grooves of his esophogaus. Her lips are dangerously close to his ear, tickling, twisting as she whispers again, "Anyone at all?"
He doesn't nod, afraid to lose his neck, afraid to lose a part of him. She's got her other hand at the collar of his shirt, playing with the silver snaps, "Do you prefer this?" She whispers into his hair before dragging her lips down, down, down.
He's still got the lighter in one hand, still has it flipping open and closed and open and closed. Snap-close-snap and she's straddled him, hip pressing against his stomach, legs all shifting leather and sleek and smooth.
He wants to say something clever but he can barely push out the carbon dioxide from his lungs.
Their lips never touch, and her hand never lossens, one squeezing fast onto the tendons of his neck, the other slowly unbuttoning one clasp after another.
Snap-close-snap.
"I don't feel anything," Shift of her hips makes her press down against his own, impossibly close, impossibly malleable; licking his ear she whispers, "Come on, you must feel something."
Snap-close-snap.
Smells of brush, of fire, of skin, of oil. She bends in once again, trails her breath up his neck until the tip of her tongue touches the curve of his ear.
A long, slow drag and it's warm and hot and she shifts on his lap. Taut, legs squeeze him even tighter and she leans back, except she's no longer Rogue and she's not Mystique. Blue eyes and blonde hair and a smile that should never be on that face.
"Is this better John?" And his voice is impossibly low and impossibly wet so when he grinds down onto John, a small gasp escaping from his impossibly warm lips. John's fingers go sweaty and he can't help but drop the lighter: snap-close.
"Do you like this?"