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They’d started off on either side of Jon on the bed, taking turns to kiss his mouth, hot, cold, cold, hot. Their hands had begun to roam over his sides, his arms, his front and back, smoothing up his thighs. One of Tim’s hands would come up to play with Jon’s left breast, hot enough to make him whimper but never quite enough to be unbearable, and one of Martin’s, equally cold, would start caressing Jon’s right breast a moment later, mirroring Tim.
Now Jon was caged and crushed between them, Martin burning cold, pressed along his back, one arm wrapped around his belly, and Tim, blazing hot against his front, one arm wound around his shoulderblades, so that he was criss-crossed with hot and cold, never too much of one or the other, always too much of both, and Jon’s whole body was trembling with it, tears prickling in his eyes as he panted.
“It’s all right, darling, we’ve got you,” Martin murmured, his breath chilly against Jon’s left temple.
“That’s right, just let us take care of you, sweetheart,” Tim said, warm against his left temple.
“Pl-ease,” Jon whimpered as they shifted him between them.
He whimpered again when a frigid fingertip slipped between his legs, finding his clit and circling it gently. And then, when another finger, searing hot this time, slid inside him, he cried out, high and breathless.
The two of them moved perfectly in tandem – it wasn’t the first, or even the dozenth, time they’d done something like this – Martin working his clit with a steady pressure that made the pleasure build inexorably, and Tim unerringly finding the spot inside him that made his toes curl and his back arch, cold and hot, hot and cold, pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain, until he came with their names on his lips, a chant, a litany, and they told him he was beautiful and stroked his skin and kissed his face and his neck and his lips, and the tears spilled over and cascaded down his cheeks.
When Martin pushed inside him, Jon’s back arched again, the chill of it almost past bearing as Martin gripped his hips and began to fuck him. It was only made sharper and more terrible by the attention Tim lavished on him, his mouth hot and wet on Jon’s chest and his hands roving greedily across Jon’s skin in burning trails. By the time Martin came, buried deep inside him and sinking the cold knives of his teeth into the skin of Jon’s shoulder, he was crying properly, in little, hitching, uncontrollable breaths. Tim licked the tears off his face and Martin tipped his face backward to kiss his cheeks, soothing the burn of Tim’s tongue.
And then they were shifting him between them again, hot, cold, cold, hot, and Tim was slipping inside him in one quick, smooth motion, punching another cry out of him. He fucked Jon hard and fast and hot, so very hot, while Martin kissed the moans out of his mouth and let his big, soft, cold hands draw icy patterns over his skin. It didn’t take Tim long to come, it never did. He yanked Jon back against him and shouted, and Jon sobbed as Tim’s hands clamped, burning hot, around his waist.
They made him come again after that, each of them putting their mouths on him until he bucked and writhed and sobbed out his orgasms, their hands never off him, their skin never ceasing to brush against his at every possible point. It was more than he could take, but he took it anyway. By the time they’d finished with him, Jon felt boneless, liquid and sweet and immensely tired.
“Sweetheart,” Tim told him, and pressed one scorching kiss to his forehead after bringing them all pastries that didn’t need to be heated in the oven to be perfectly warm.
“Darling,” Martin told him, and kissed each temple with snowflake lightness after bringing them all glasses of water that didn’t need to be chilled in the fridge to be refreshingly cold.
When they went to bed, Jon was once more between them. With Martin radiating cold at his right and Tim radiating heat at his left, Jon enjoyed perfect temperate warmth in the middle.
Jon liked these days. They came in cycles: by tomorrow morning, he knew from experience, Martin would be warm enough and Tim would be cool enough that they’d be able to comfortably, happily, touch and kiss each other, and they would, and they’d touch Jon too, and it would be wonderful. Those days were the best of all, of course, and by far the most frequent, but Jon liked these ones, too. The ones where he had to be between them or they couldn’t touch at all, where they touched him fiercely and ferociously and painfully because it was all they knew how to do.
Jon liked every single day.