(X-Men) Slow Flash
Title: Slow Flash

Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: Jean/Ororo
Rating: NC-17
Words: 976
Timeline: Pre-X1

Notes: For 50_smutlets, prompt "paddle".

Summary: There's a different side to Jean, a secret, reserved for slick flesh and twisted sheets.



Ororo’s lost track of time. The curtains are drawn and the air around them is thick with sex, and she can’t even focus enough to reach beyond the room, can’t even feel the weather outside. Can’t sense the clouds or the wind, and for once it doesn’t bother her. Tired and trembling and pushing herself, needing more, and her concentration drifts away, piece by piece, and it’s always been this way, that inability to hold on to herself through pleasure.

Jean, on the other hand, always seems more powerful in these moments. Ororo can’t understand it, how she can keep her focus as her body shakes and seizes, how each rip of pleasure can only fuel her abilities. The longer their time together stretches, the more the sharpness in Jean’s eyes grows, the more objects quiver around them, levitate and shoot across the room and crash to the floor.

Ororo’s learnt to ignore the noise, to block out the phenomenon. It may have scared her at first, it may still have the ability to make her jump on occasion, but she trusts Jean’s control, and she trusts Jean.

Hard not to trust a woman with such a talented tongue, and Jean always grows more experimental the longer they’re wrapped in the sheets, the longer they’re wrapped around each other. Tentative touches at first, gentle and teasing and Ororo always feels shy because of them, like she’s being explored for the first time. Jean can make her feel like a virgin every time they meet, it always feels new.

But Jean’s never content, and Ororo’s learnt to recognise that look that means Jean’s tapped into something, some hidden part of her sexuality that she likes to keep hidden until it’s called upon. And then it’s techniques and positions that Ororo’s surprised the prim and proper Jean Grey has ever heard of, and Ororo’s learnt to just let it happen.

Her fingers dig into the wooden headboard, head ducked, hair in her face. There’s a mirror on the wall above Ororo’s bed, and she’s glad there isn’t one in Jean’s room, because that might just be too much. Too much to see herself, naked and kneeling, Jean lying beneath her, face between Ororo’s legs, tongue working a wicked kind of magic over her. Slippery muscle, wet and writhing, licking around her, pushing inside, opening her, and Ororo feels as if her body might just fall apart if Jean doesn’t stop, but she can’t pull away. Too many times already, and she’s ready and aching and dizzy from it, and Jean’s hands are on her, gentle but firm, guiding her, easing her up slightly, then pulling her back down. The rhythm of it, and Ororo’s groaning, and she lets Jean manipulate her, and tries not to think about how she’s fucking herself on Jean’s tongue.

Jean’s hands at her hips grip a little harder, her movements become a little more rushed, and Ororo feels a groan rumble through her chest, head rolling back as her spine arches, stretched out in every way. She’s not sure what she gasps, isn’t sure if there are words there or only frantic noises, and the seize of her muscles, the tremble that rocks her, the heated flush and the cold sweat, it’s all familiar and it still takes her by surprise as it tears through her, leaves her panting and writhing against the air around her. Unfocused, raw and needy and pulsing and exhausted, and her strength leaves her quite suddenly, flopping forward, forehead resting on the arm braced against the headboard, knees still pressing into the pillow, as Jean eases herself away.

She has a sudden flash of Jean smirking, tongue dragging over used lips, even though her back is to Jean, and Ororo can’t be sure if it’s her own imagination, or if Jean wants her to see.

She waits patiently for her vision to stop spinning, watching the assortment of objects drifting through the air through the curtain of her hair. Pens, books, a hairbrush, one of her shoes, Jean’s bra. The bedside lamp, struggling to circle the bed with the others, but kept leashed by the plug still attached to the wall socket.

“It’s getting late,” Ororo sighs, and her voice is still shaky.

“Mm,” Jean murmurs, sounding distracted.

“I should go,” Ororo says, although she doesn’t feel like moving.

And something chills, something the air, something she doesn’t have control of, something that isn’t the weather. Everything around her freezes, objects stopping perfectly still in the air. Ororo blinks and watches, and thinks maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer. And then the hairbrush suddenly spins around, the only moving object in the motionless room, and Ororo doesn’t have a chance to react before it sails across the room.

The solid thwack of the back of it connecting with her ass effectively drowns out her yelp of surprise.

The lethargy in her muscles is shaken in a second, kneeling up more fully, spinning around to stare open-mouthed at Jean.

“Yes, you should go,” Jean purrs, and her smirk is the kind Ororo only sees in the bedroom, only it’s sharper, playful but not to be played.

The objects drop to the floor, the bulb in the lamp smashing as it lands, and that smirk is gone, and the air feels normal again. Jean stands, slipping on her shirt, and she looks dazed and content and how Ororo had felt only moments before. And Ororo feels like she’s missing something, like maybe Jean’s missing it too, but the feeling is muffled almost instantly, slipping away from her, and Ororo can’t hold to her suspicions. Feels them disappearing, and can’t remember why she would want to hold them, and then everything is hazy and she feels so sensitized and warm, and the hairbrush lies forgotten on the bed.