Provoke - Part 2

When class eventually ends, I slump my head on my desk and sigh. I just hope I can avoid and escape all the prying eyes on my way back to my room. I really don't want to have to deal with people. Luckily, I can just phase through them all.

Just as I'm about to take a deep breath and go out into the halls bravely, "Hiding here?"

I lift my head at the words and glance around the room. He's the only one left, and he's standing right in front of my desk. Even Professor Summers is gone. Jeez, how did that happen?

"So what if I am?" I reply cautiously.

He shrugs at my words and sets down his notebook and pencil before moving toward the door. I'm not sure what he's doing until he closes the door and, inconveniently enough, locks it from the inside. Sure, I can get out, but, if something happens, no one can get in. Not very reassuring if you ask me.

I sigh again. "What is that you want, John?"

He smirks at that as he sits down in the open seat on my right and puts his feet up on the top of the desk. "I want a lot of things, Kitten," he says as he leans back in relaxation. "But, currently, my top priority is to play a game with you."

"I don't want to play, John," I sigh.

He ignores my words. "You've been anticipating it all period. I could tell."

"Since when have you been a genius psychologist?" I snort in disbelief.

"I don't have to be one. I know you."

"That's a little creepy, John." I tap my fingernails on the tabletop to distract myself. It doesn't work.

"You like it."

I laugh at that. He has such audacity—you have to give him that much. I'd never be able to say half the things that come out of his mouth. "I'm not playing a game with you."

"You're playing a game right now," he reminds me.

"Yes, but not that game. So keep your hands where I can see them, asshole." There, is that audacious enough for him?

He raises an eyebrow at me but complies by placing both his hands on the tabletop in front of us and says, "Yes, ma'am." Then, in a whisper, he adds, "Very hot."

I glare down at his hands there, as if all of his unpleasant qualities lie in those very hands.

"Or you could close your eyes and it wouldn't matter where they go…" he says slowly.

Sadly, they don't.

"I don't think so."

He sighs in defeat. But there's something more to it than that. He's not giving up yet. I doubt he'd ever give up, honestly. "Fine," he says, "I keep my hands to myself—oh, wait, you didn't say that. I keep my hands where you can see them. You can still see them if I do this, can't you?"

I'm so startled that I can't move as he takes down his feet and turns toward me. In no time, his left hand is on my knee and already moving up. To play the game. And all I can focus on is the fact that he's sexually molesting me and that I like it.

And there's no one here to stop it.

Except me.

I look up at him to tell him to stop—though I'm not sure why that's better than just phasing away from him, but it is—but, the next thing I know, his lips are on mine and my eyes are shut and I'm just enjoying the moment.

Wait a minute! That's not part of the game, dammit!

But I'm kissing him back, anyway.

And now I don't know what to do with my own hands. While his is making its way up toward my hip with his other one joining it, mine are still sitting on the desk in front of me. It doesn't seem right to just leave them there. And, then, his hands aren't even on my hips anymore. Instead, they're making their way up my torso. Beneath my shirt. Thank god they're not cold.

He pulls away, and, for a moment, I'm not sure why. But, then—oh my—that's my shirt he's lifting over my head! I follow it with my eyes all the way to the floor, but, once it's out of the way, his lips have found mine again, even if it's for a short period of time. Which it most certainly is. Almost immediately, his mouth has moved away from mine and down onto my neck.

Meanwhile, his hands wrap around my waist—and one even grabs my butt—to pull me off of my seat and onto his open lap. Trailing warmth behind them as they move, his hands, then, make their way up my back and to my own arms, which he moves to better suit the position. The next thing I notice is that my hands have been placed in his hair and on his chest.

Then, he pulls away again and stops his hands right where they are, and his lips are moving, but I don't understand the words. I say "Huh?" just as the words are registering. He said, "Okay, I lied." At my poor question, he repeats himself.

"What about?" I barely manage to get out.

"My top priority. I don't want this to be just a game."

Wow, that's the sweetest thing he's ever said to me. Hold on! Did I just think that John Allerdyce is sweet? That's impossible. In fact, that's beyond impossible! Pyro is a reckless hothead who only thinks about himself.

"I can't do this," I say in a rare moment of bravery as I untangle myself from his grasp. "I have to go." I stumble in my hurry but manage to get off his lap and pick up my shirt from the floor before tugging it on over my head. How could I have let him do this?! And, then, grabbing my books from my desk, I run through the shut and locked door, leaving him in Professor Summers's classroom all by himself. Good riddance.

Once I make it through the mess in the hallways and into my room, I collapse on my bed in a heap, where I come to a conclusion: John Allerdyce can only be sweet if I'm going insane. Maybe the shock of him kissing me was too much. Or maybe his provoking me has made me go crazy. Either way, I must be out of my mind to have come to the conclusion that John Allerdyce could have ever been sweet in his entire life.

And, as I lie here on my bed in silent misery, Professor Munroe's words ring in my ears: "John, please do not partake in any such activities while in my classroom. Violent storms have a tendency to turn up when I see the male reproductive organs in progress."

"What?" he had replied defensively. And then those fateful words: "She's the one that started it. She actually did it."

She had looked at me, then, and spoke. "Kitty, I'd very much like it if you, too, did not partake in those activities in my classroom." Disappointment—disappointment that still makes me feel even guiltier than I already had been.

A knock sounds on my door, but I really don't feel like answering it.

I hope to God that it isn't John come to call on me because I really don't want to hear whatever it is he has to say. I'm still not sure if I can ever look him in the eye again. Despite his part in this, I still feel like he's expecting something out of me, like he's expecting me to be all cute and sweet and believe his crap. I don't, though. Right now, I just feel tainted—partially because he did that to me, partially because I let him, but mostly because I liked it… and him.

"Kitty?!" the person calls in when I don't respond. I recognize the voice as belonging to Bobby. "Kitty, are you in there?"

Jeez, I don't want to talk to him either. Or anyone, really. I feel like I've betrayed them all, like I've lied about being a good girl and a good person. And yet, before in class, Bobby didn't seem swayed by that. Maybe it was just because he thinks this is all John's fault and that, if I weren't near John, I'd be fine. Probably true, but it's still awful of him to think such a horrible thing about John—but he is the one that knows John best.

With a deep breath, I get up and move toward the door, which I open slowly. I poke my head out to look at him, my eyes sad, and he looks back at me. "Yeah?" I say slowly. "What can I help you with, Bobby?"

"Are you all right?" he asks immediately, relief showing as soon as I opened the door. "You've been out of it all day, and… and I've been worried about you since Professor Munroe's class."

I nod in response to his question, adding a short little, "I'm fine, Bobby," but I don't really mean it. He doesn't appear persuaded by it, anyway.

"Would you like me to talk to John about something?" he offers, and I smile at the words. Bobby's really a great friend. I don't know what I'd do without him. "I could tell him to leave you alone if you like."

I shake me head, laughing lightly. "No, that's all right. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, anyway, or what I want, for that matter."

"Yeah, well, he seems rather sure of what he wants," he says bitterly.

"Did he?" I ask sadly. "He said something back there, and I'm not even sure if I understood him correctly. Maybe it's all part of my imagination, though. Maybe it's because that's what I wanted him to say."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he didn't want this to be just a game. Maybe I misunderstood. Or maybe I just interpreted his meaning incorrectly. But it seemed like he meant that he wanted to pursue a relationship with me—but, oh, that doesn't make sense." I groan in my frustration and open the door the rest of the way. "Do you want to come in? Or can you not stay long?"

"No, I was going to meet Rogue in a few. I just wanted to check on you." He smiles worriedly at me for a moment. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Not really," I respond honestly, "but I'll figure something out. I guess I need to talk to him about this all. I'm just not sure how well that will go over."

"You'll do fine, Kitty. I believe in you." He pulls me into a friendly hug, and I can't help but smile. "Well, goodbye for now," he says as he leans away. "I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

"Yeah," I acquiesce.

When he's finally walked away, I sigh again but don't return to my room. Leaning against my doorframe, I decide that I have a few options from which I must choose:

One: I can avoid, ignore, and, in all other ways, never interact with John Allerdyce for the rest of my life.

Two: I can confront him about it, get him to talk to me to tell me what exactly it is that he meant by that statement (if he ever actually made it).

Three: I can commit suicide. Not a very likely option, but still possible. Besides, I would be able to escape all of this confusion.

Four: I can just make out with him and even have sex with him. Maybe then he would be satisfied and leave me alone. And maybe then I'd be able to think properly.

And five: I can act as if nothing ever happened. I can go on like I barely know him and I don't recall ever placing my hand where it shouldn't have been or having him place his hands where they most definitely should not have been.

Well, to begin with, number three is completely out of the question. I am never going to commit suicide over some boy, even if it's John Allerdyce. Number one sounds pretty stupid, too. He'd eventually confront me about it, and that would end horribly. I'm sure of it. And four is also very doubtful. I'm a virgin, and I plan on staying that way until I'm twenty. It couldn't possibly be healthy to have sex now. Besides, wouldn't that just be giving in?

So that leaves me with acting as if it never happened or confronting him about it. And, still, I have no idea what to do. If I act like nothing happened, that could either make him frustrated and leave me alone or it could make him even more intrigued. Confronting him… well, that could totally backfire quite easily. It seems to be the most difficult option—and yet it's the one that I should really be taking. I'm just not sure if I'm prepared to do so.

Where can I find him, anyway?

With about an ounce of determination, I phase my way in the direction of his room and, when I get there, right through the door without knocking. He shares a room with Bobby—probably how they met and became, oddly enough, friends—but he's out with Rogue, so it should be all right.

The dorm is barely lit when I enter and look around. John is lying on his bed, already in his bedclothes (a T-shirt and boxers), and, apparently, trying to go to sleep. He doesn't notice I'm there for a moment, but, as he shakes his head in frustration and rolls over on his side toward the rest of the room, he sees me standing there.

"Hi," I say quietly.

He's stunned for a moment, but he thinks quickly and recovers almost immediately. "I didn't think you'd be speaking to me," he says as he sits up. "I thought you'd be avoiding me entirely, actually."

I sigh as I move toward the other open bed and sit down across from him. "I considered it," I admit with a shrug, "but I didn't think you'd let me get away with that."

He doesn't appear to have a reply to that. He just sits there awkwardly until he finally resigns himself to saying, "Well, uh, you came here to say something, didn't you?"

"Actually, I came here for you to say something. Um, what exactly did you mean earlier when you said what you did?"

"When I said what?"

"That you didn't want this to be just a game. Did you really say that?"

"Er, yeah."

"What did you mean by it?"

"I meant just what I said. I don't want this to be only a game."

"Well, what would you rather it be? A relationship, a short make-out session, what?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of several long make-out sessions, a relationship, lots of extremely hot sex, living together, and hopefully marriage after that. How does that sound?"

I falter at those words, again thinking that I must not have heard him correctly. "Marriage?" I ask in confusion. "It sounds like a really weird dream."

"Not a nightmare?" he says, doing that annoying eyebrow raise for practically the fiftieth time today.

"No," I reply, a small smile forming on my lips. "A good dream, I promise. But an impossible dream." And my smile's gone from my face.

"How so?" he inquires in disbelief. "We can do those first two, right now."

"It won't last," I insist.

"Don't be so sure. It will if we make it last. Do you not want it to?"

"I don't know, John. Just yesterday I thought you hated me—and I thought I hated you, too."

"You don't think that now, though?"

I look away from him for a moment as I say, "I most certainly don't," but my eyes can't help but return to him once the words are out to judge his reaction.

"Then, what's the problem?" he asks. He's so… strong. He won't be persuaded by anything I say here now. He's nonchalant.

"Don't you think this is moving a little fast?" I question, somewhat angered by his indifference and casual way of saying things to put his point across.

"Listen, Kitten, I've liked you for months, and I've just finally gotten up the courage to tell you, so I don't think this is fast at all. Besides, I'm not saying that we go get married tomorrow. Well, we could if you wanted to, but we don't have to." Maybe not so perfect nonchalance anymore, though.

I laugh, happy that he's finally shown something other than indifference toward our situation. "No, not tomorrow."

We just stare at each other for a while before he finally asks, "So, are we dating yet?"

"You never asked."

"Fine. Kitty Pryde, will you be my girlfriend?"

I pause as if considering it before I inquire rather innocently, "Does that mean I have to have lots of extremely hot sex with you?"

"Yes," he says with an amused smirk, "but of course not right away. The long make-out sessions—now that's another story."

"Oh, then, as officially boyfriend and girlfriend, we should get on that right away. I'm not so sure that the whole shirt-removal thing is a good idea, though."

He shrugs at that. "Hey, what ever floats your boat, Kitten."

"Kittens don't like water, though, bud," I remind him, "so you better keep me from getting wet."

I can tell that he wants to roll his eyes at that, but something else must come between him and that tendency. Instead, he says, "No, I think I want to make sure you get wet. Soaking wet. All the time. Even a kitten's got to indulge every once in a while."

It's my turn to roll my eyes then. "Better not keep that gross talk up if you ever want to enjoy any of that extremely hot sex or the long make-out sessions, John."

He smirks at me as he stands up and approaches. "Why would I need to talk?" he says and presses his lips to mine for the third time today. "Why would I even want to," he continues after pulling away for a moment, "when I can do this now without you freaking out on me?"

When he kisses me again, I don't complain. Or reply to his questions—except to fervently return the kiss.

…I just hope Bobby never figures out that we're currently making out on his bed. That might not turn out so well. Besides, making out on other people's beds just so happens to be one of the side effects of being provoked by John Allerdyce. Bobby would get over it. And, frankly, I could care less right about now.