Old Fic: Cold
Title: Cold
Author: Khirsah
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Uncanny X-Men
Pairing: Bobby/Jean-Paul
Summary: His hands are cold.
Disclaimer: Oh, I wish.
***
Cold, but not cold enough to make him pull away from the tight grip and firm strokes. Not cold enough to make him whimper and turn on his side. Not cold enough to end this.
“Ah, ah merde,” he breathes, hips rocking up sharply. His nipples are tight and flushed from continued pinching, sore peaks ultra-sensitive as Jean-Paul draws in a ragged breath and fucks up into that frozen hand. His clothing is strewn across the floor and his body is streaked with sweat. His hair is wild, falling across the pillow and into his eyes as he thrashes his head back and forth, drawing in hard, painful gasps.
Cold. Cold and hard and, God, taking everything he has. Splitting him open and rutting him raw and fuck fuck fuck he can’t do anything but howl.
“So good,” Jean-Paul says, “ah, oui, oui, s’il te plait.” His cockhead is slick and glistening, beads of precome escaping from the tip with each rhythmic jerk. He twists his hips, heels digging into the mattress, and moans as equally cold fingers cup his balls, tugging them roughly, almost cruelly. A jerk of his cock and drops of precome spatter across his belly, painting whirls like the ancient carvings Ororo has taken to showing him during lunch. Another jerk and “Ahhh merde, Bobby!” nails running along the bottom crease of his balls.
His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open and vulnerable and wet as his belly, wet as his cock, wet as the slick, aching clench of his muscles as he rocks up into the punishing grip. A hand gone from his balls, enough to make him snarl then melt into a whimper as fingers nudge against his slick hole. Opening wide, two fingers pushing him apart with a demanding little thrust that has him fucking up off of the mattress with a strangled howl and “Oui oui more.”
Three fingers, perhaps too soon but so very good, not so much preparing as invading and fucking and taking and spearing him wide. His breath catches as he rotates his hips, pushing down against those fingers and the slightest rake of nails. “Now, oh s'il te plait now.”
Withdrawing with a low squelch, as if his body were fighting to keep them aside. Then, mercifully, the flat cold head pressing against his pucker and “Ah merde freezing, yes, fuck me,” as it pushes in. Muscles loosening then clenching as fingers tighten on Jean-Paul’s cock and stroke down with a rough twist that has him screaming. He turns his head, biting the pillow to muffle his cries, not caring for once about stains or thread count or anything but that hand that cock splitting him open, lifting him up off the mattress, fucking into the tight, impossible heat of his body.
“Faster, faster,” he demands, rocking down then up, down then up, downthenup downthenup and it is enough to build a rhythm, enough to make him tremble with the strain. His foreskin is peeling back, come threading down the shaft and dripping into the dark curls of his pubic hair as he demands in a harsh litany of French for faster, harder, more. Always more, voice breaking as the searing cold batters against his prostate. He can almost see the curve of it moving against the flat white of his belly, can feel the prickle of frost making his pucker clench and loosen and urge in more of the shaft.
Orgasm is inevitable, but Jean-Paul denies it as long as he can, biting his mouth and caught between two extremes of cold. The sheets have been kicked completely awry, his hair is tangled black and silver about his pale face and he would give anything for a kiss now-all his years of laying beneath faceless, panting men and none of it matters, none of it comes close to measuring against the building pressure, the certainty of orgasm, the aching desperation for a cold tongue down his throat and a cold mouth on his and cold words spiraling into his body
“Je te adore! Je te amour!”
as he comes with a blistering howl, scalding streams of come spattering over his chest and belly.
He's jerking, moaning, and finally collapsing back with a hiss. Jean-Paul can almost see steam rising from the pools of come, but maybe that’s his imagination. Fingers squeeze his spent cock one last time, not quite so cold anymore, and he tugs the metal dildo out of his body slowly, tilting it up so he can watch its progress.
His body lets it go, finished with it, and he tosses it aside. One hand presses to his belly, stroking through the pools of come and his fingers are beginning to get feeling back. Jean-Paul flexes them, wincing at the sharp tingles, and if he turns his head he can see the bowl of ice, now mostly melted.
If he soaks his hand in the freezing water long enough, when he touches his cock it feels like Bobby. If he soaks a dildo, he can pretend it’s Bobby’s cock, but the vision fades as soon as those lips don’t brush his and that tongue doesn’t press into his mouth and those words are never, ever spoken.
Je t’adore. Je t’amour.
In the end, it isn’t sex. In the end it’s just cold.
Author: Khirsah
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Uncanny X-Men
Pairing: Bobby/Jean-Paul
Summary: His hands are cold.
Disclaimer: Oh, I wish.
***
Cold, but not cold enough to make him pull away from the tight grip and firm strokes. Not cold enough to make him whimper and turn on his side. Not cold enough to end this.
“Ah, ah merde,” he breathes, hips rocking up sharply. His nipples are tight and flushed from continued pinching, sore peaks ultra-sensitive as Jean-Paul draws in a ragged breath and fucks up into that frozen hand. His clothing is strewn across the floor and his body is streaked with sweat. His hair is wild, falling across the pillow and into his eyes as he thrashes his head back and forth, drawing in hard, painful gasps.
Cold. Cold and hard and, God, taking everything he has. Splitting him open and rutting him raw and fuck fuck fuck he can’t do anything but howl.
“So good,” Jean-Paul says, “ah, oui, oui, s’il te plait.” His cockhead is slick and glistening, beads of precome escaping from the tip with each rhythmic jerk. He twists his hips, heels digging into the mattress, and moans as equally cold fingers cup his balls, tugging them roughly, almost cruelly. A jerk of his cock and drops of precome spatter across his belly, painting whirls like the ancient carvings Ororo has taken to showing him during lunch. Another jerk and “Ahhh merde, Bobby!” nails running along the bottom crease of his balls.
His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open and vulnerable and wet as his belly, wet as his cock, wet as the slick, aching clench of his muscles as he rocks up into the punishing grip. A hand gone from his balls, enough to make him snarl then melt into a whimper as fingers nudge against his slick hole. Opening wide, two fingers pushing him apart with a demanding little thrust that has him fucking up off of the mattress with a strangled howl and “Oui oui more.”
Three fingers, perhaps too soon but so very good, not so much preparing as invading and fucking and taking and spearing him wide. His breath catches as he rotates his hips, pushing down against those fingers and the slightest rake of nails. “Now, oh s'il te plait now.”
Withdrawing with a low squelch, as if his body were fighting to keep them aside. Then, mercifully, the flat cold head pressing against his pucker and “Ah merde freezing, yes, fuck me,” as it pushes in. Muscles loosening then clenching as fingers tighten on Jean-Paul’s cock and stroke down with a rough twist that has him screaming. He turns his head, biting the pillow to muffle his cries, not caring for once about stains or thread count or anything but that hand that cock splitting him open, lifting him up off the mattress, fucking into the tight, impossible heat of his body.
“Faster, faster,” he demands, rocking down then up, down then up, downthenup downthenup and it is enough to build a rhythm, enough to make him tremble with the strain. His foreskin is peeling back, come threading down the shaft and dripping into the dark curls of his pubic hair as he demands in a harsh litany of French for faster, harder, more. Always more, voice breaking as the searing cold batters against his prostate. He can almost see the curve of it moving against the flat white of his belly, can feel the prickle of frost making his pucker clench and loosen and urge in more of the shaft.
Orgasm is inevitable, but Jean-Paul denies it as long as he can, biting his mouth and caught between two extremes of cold. The sheets have been kicked completely awry, his hair is tangled black and silver about his pale face and he would give anything for a kiss now-all his years of laying beneath faceless, panting men and none of it matters, none of it comes close to measuring against the building pressure, the certainty of orgasm, the aching desperation for a cold tongue down his throat and a cold mouth on his and cold words spiraling into his body
“Je te adore! Je te amour!”
as he comes with a blistering howl, scalding streams of come spattering over his chest and belly.
He's jerking, moaning, and finally collapsing back with a hiss. Jean-Paul can almost see steam rising from the pools of come, but maybe that’s his imagination. Fingers squeeze his spent cock one last time, not quite so cold anymore, and he tugs the metal dildo out of his body slowly, tilting it up so he can watch its progress.
His body lets it go, finished with it, and he tosses it aside. One hand presses to his belly, stroking through the pools of come and his fingers are beginning to get feeling back. Jean-Paul flexes them, wincing at the sharp tingles, and if he turns his head he can see the bowl of ice, now mostly melted.
If he soaks his hand in the freezing water long enough, when he touches his cock it feels like Bobby. If he soaks a dildo, he can pretend it’s Bobby’s cock, but the vision fades as soon as those lips don’t brush his and that tongue doesn’t press into his mouth and those words are never, ever spoken.
Je t’adore. Je t’amour.
In the end, it isn’t sex. In the end it’s just cold.