Frigid (X-Men Movieverse, John/Bobby)
Title: Frigid
Fandom: X-Men (Movieverse)
Characters: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake
Prompt: 020 - Colourless
Word Count: 314
Rating: R
It’s a stupid whim, and John’s almost embarrassed. Except he doesn’t have time for embarrassment, because his heart is suddenly pounding in his chest, and his eyes are wide with possibility.
He acts before he can think on it, before shame can really settle in.
His clothes are a scattered pile on the floor within moments, and he might have ripped a button on the shirt, but he doesn’t really care.
His fingers dip into the glass, snag an ice cube, and it’s slippery and as cold as expected, but it’s the tremor in his hands that makes him fumble with it, almost dropping it several times.
The first touch against his chest actually makes him whimper and, yeah, he’s not going to dwell on that.
It’s been too long, and he’s flushed and sweating already, and he needs to hurry, needs to not to think about it. Needs to close his eyes and remember the way Bobby’s eyelids used to flutter, the way he bit at his lip.
The ice is almost painfully cold against his skin, but that doesn’t stop him. Just makes it better, makes it more real, even though it isn’t.
Doesn’t matter, John’s libido is easy enough to fool, damn near desperate to be fooled.
The ice has melted by the time his hand slides lower than his stomach, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers are still wet and cool, and he can still pretend it’s not his hand at all, and he gasps as his palm wraps around himself, head snapping back and hips jerking up into it.
Too good to be true, because it is, but John doesn’t have time for shame, John only has time for Bobby and for memories and for the familiar-new sensation of the ghost of Bobby’s hand moving between his legs, and it’s just like old times, except for how it isn’t.
Fandom: X-Men (Movieverse)
Characters: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake
Prompt: 020 - Colourless
Word Count: 314
Rating: R
It’s a stupid whim, and John’s almost embarrassed. Except he doesn’t have time for embarrassment, because his heart is suddenly pounding in his chest, and his eyes are wide with possibility.
He acts before he can think on it, before shame can really settle in.
His clothes are a scattered pile on the floor within moments, and he might have ripped a button on the shirt, but he doesn’t really care.
His fingers dip into the glass, snag an ice cube, and it’s slippery and as cold as expected, but it’s the tremor in his hands that makes him fumble with it, almost dropping it several times.
The first touch against his chest actually makes him whimper and, yeah, he’s not going to dwell on that.
It’s been too long, and he’s flushed and sweating already, and he needs to hurry, needs to not to think about it. Needs to close his eyes and remember the way Bobby’s eyelids used to flutter, the way he bit at his lip.
The ice is almost painfully cold against his skin, but that doesn’t stop him. Just makes it better, makes it more real, even though it isn’t.
Doesn’t matter, John’s libido is easy enough to fool, damn near desperate to be fooled.
The ice has melted by the time his hand slides lower than his stomach, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers are still wet and cool, and he can still pretend it’s not his hand at all, and he gasps as his palm wraps around himself, head snapping back and hips jerking up into it.
Too good to be true, because it is, but John doesn’t have time for shame, John only has time for Bobby and for memories and for the familiar-new sensation of the ghost of Bobby’s hand moving between his legs, and it’s just like old times, except for how it isn’t.