HEROES!
Awesome episode, which I really need to watch a thousand more times before I can comment on in properly.
***
Nathan/Claire, NC-17, handed to me by the producers on a silver platter.
***
She has no idea what time it is when she wakes to the ghostly sensation of his fingers trailing through her hair. His breath gusts against her chin and still carries a hint of tequila. She bites her lip and feels a shiver run down her spine as his finger traces the shell of her ear.
"Nathan," she whispers. She wants to ask what he's doing. But she doesn't.
"Sorry," he says, just as low. His hand slides away in the darkness.
The distance is unbearable. They just got past that, she can't stand it. "No, it's okay."
They're alone in this room, in the dark, in Mexico. Hundreds of miles from anyone she knows, or anyone he knows. When his fingers card through her hair again, she reaches out, too. Her hand finds the solid warmth of his side in the dark. She can feel his muscles moving as his fingers trace her eyebrow, her cheekbone, her jaw.
His fingers slip lower, touching the soft part of her throat under her jaw, and it's a spot that used to be ticklish, but now the sensation it provokes is very different.
She still doesn't know what he's doing, but that's a lie. She knows.
There's no mistaking the way his fingertips slide and spread across her bare skin uncovered by the low curve of her tanktop.
Just tell him to stop, she thinks. He would. He did, moments before.
But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything.
Neither does he.
His hand is on her shoulder, now, just holding it, not moving. His palm is damp and warm on her bare skin, and it's uncomfortable in the sticky heat of the room.
She realizes after a moment of perfect stillness that he's not going any further. But he's also not pulling away.
Your move.
She's too afraid to make it, though. Not sure that she wants to, but also not sure that she doesn't. She'd wanted to see him as a person, real and vulnerable. Naked. She isn't sure if she meant that literally.
Then he sighs, softly, and shifts away, lying on his back, making her hand lose contact with his side.
No.
"Don't--" she says.
"Claire," he says, catching her hand and holding her away when she reaches for him. His tone is low and disapproving, as if it wasn't him that started this in the first place. As if she's a misguided child he has to correct.
She's not, and he lost that right seventeen years ago, when he decided to pretend she wasn't a problem.
So she rolls up onto her side, over him. He's big underneath her, startlingly so. He's not a big man, but she hasn't been in a position like this with anyone but teenagers. He's broader and more solid. More like her father, and that thought sends another wave of confusing signals through her brain and her body. She thinks, He's not. Not really. Not like that.
And then she kisses him.
He doesn't move, but she doesn't stop, even as fear is paralyzing her spine. She kisses along his closed lips, down to his jaw, to where those scars are that she doesn't know the origins of. Then he exhales sharply, and suddenly clamps his hand on her wrist and shoves.
Her breath leaves her in a harsh rush as she's pinned to the bed by his still-surprising mass. He kisses her, hard, crushing her lips to her teeth. She opens her mouth just to gasp and his tongue presses inside, sliding against hers, tasting like tequila and something harder to define, something just him. Her body lights up like a firecracker, nothing like anything she's ever felt before.
She doesn't know how to respond, what to do, until he pulls a tiny fraction away and whispers, "Just relax, honey. Let me lead."
His plans may be stupid, but one thing she's seen is he commits to them, heart and soul, until they shatter beneath him.
And now she's committed, too. Her body is shaking and her insides are twisting, and between her legs she's hot and wet. No denying this, no questions to ask. What her body is demanding is simple, and she latches onto that simplicity.
His hands are big and broad and are pushing up her shirt. She lets him lead; she raises her arms and lets him peel it off, discarding it. It feels good to be rid of the sweaty spandex, and even the warm air feels cooler on bare skin. One hand cups her breast, lifting it and squeezing, and she hears his soft hum of approval and she knows it's twisted, but a part of her feels proud to have pleased him.
He mouths her nipple quickly, then releases it and slides down.
Oh, is he going to--surely he's not--
But he is. He pulls her pants down and drops to his stomach between her thighs and oh God, his tongue is there. She presses her hand into her mouth and bites down to muffle her cry, not even sure who she's trying to keep from hearing it. He holds her still and doesn't let up. She shuts her eyes and breathes through her nose until it's too much, too much, not enough, just enough--
She shudders and bucks against his mouth and he makes that sound of approval again. She can feel it vibrate against her, and it sends another small aftershock through her.
He rises up and slides up her body, and he kisses her again. He smells like her, and tastes like her, but it's oddly okay, it's surprisingly good.
She can feel him, pressed against her thigh, hot and hard through his pants, and the next time their mouths separate, she says, "It's okay, you can."
He shakes his head, cheek to cheek with her. His hand slides down and presses over a certain spot, low on her abdomen and he murmurs, "No. It's not safe."
She shudders at the reminder of the danger of this, far beyond the usual.
"But I want--" she can't say it, she doesn't have words for it that she can say out loud. She wants him to feel good, she wants to make him feel what he made her feel, but she's too afraid to do what he did.
He moves his hand again, catching hers, lacing their fingers together and then sitting up, pulling her along with him. Upright, some of the light from the street falls across his face and she can see him. Hair falling over his forehead, eyes wide. In the dark, she can barely recognize him. She hardly knows him.
He tugs her hand down and presses it against that hard, hot ridge under his fly, then lets go.
"I'm not very good at this," she says.
"That's okay," he whispers. Already, she can hear that shaking in his voice, that she's only heard a few times before in her life. "Just touch me."
His knees are spread and his hands are just resting on the bed. He's wide open to her touch, trusting her, letting her explore.
She shapes her hand around his cock and gives it a small, experimental squeeze.
"Harder," he says. "You can open my pants if you want."
She realizes she likes that gentle guidance. She finds the small zipper and tugs it down and he sighs, "Yeah," as his cock slips out of his fly, still clothed in his underwear.
It takes a moment of feeling around to figure out the fly of his underwear, but then, suddenly, her hand is inside, touching bare flesh, and he groans and moves his hips. Her insides clench and her tender parts twitch.
She pulls it out and squeezes it again.
"Harder," he says, again.
She tightens her hand until she can feel the firm veins of it straining under her grip.
"Ah," he says, but it's not pain. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Move your hand, now. Up and down."
She does, carefully, nervous about the way the skin moves with her hand, bunching and stretching. It's amazing how hard he is. She thinks it has to hurt.
But the sounds he's making don't sound like pain, and what little he says is only encouragement.
He suddenly lifts one hand, licking his own palm and then reaching down, rubbing the round top of his cock with it. "Faster," he says.
She moves faster. He's rocking his hips into her hand now, rubbing the head of his cock with spit-wet fingers. "Yeah, yeah. More. Faster."
Fast enough now that it hurts her wrist a bit--not that it matters. She doesn't care, anyway, she's staring at her own hand and his and his cock. She feels it swell harder against her tight grip and that sends another cascading reaction through her body. God, she wants it inside of her.
"Ah," he says, "I'm gonna... I'm close. I'm so close. Don't stop--don't--"
Then he freezes, motionless but for his cock, which is pulsing in her hand. He has it cupped to his own belly, his shirt. She can smell his come, salt and base, and it hits her deeply and primally.
"Oh, God. Nathan," she says, awed.
He slumps, panting.
***
In the morning, he says, "I was drunk," but in the afternoon, he caresses her throat as he returns her father's necklace.
***
End
***
Nathan/Claire, NC-17, handed to me by the producers on a silver platter.
***
She has no idea what time it is when she wakes to the ghostly sensation of his fingers trailing through her hair. His breath gusts against her chin and still carries a hint of tequila. She bites her lip and feels a shiver run down her spine as his finger traces the shell of her ear.
"Nathan," she whispers. She wants to ask what he's doing. But she doesn't.
"Sorry," he says, just as low. His hand slides away in the darkness.
The distance is unbearable. They just got past that, she can't stand it. "No, it's okay."
They're alone in this room, in the dark, in Mexico. Hundreds of miles from anyone she knows, or anyone he knows. When his fingers card through her hair again, she reaches out, too. Her hand finds the solid warmth of his side in the dark. She can feel his muscles moving as his fingers trace her eyebrow, her cheekbone, her jaw.
His fingers slip lower, touching the soft part of her throat under her jaw, and it's a spot that used to be ticklish, but now the sensation it provokes is very different.
She still doesn't know what he's doing, but that's a lie. She knows.
There's no mistaking the way his fingertips slide and spread across her bare skin uncovered by the low curve of her tanktop.
Just tell him to stop, she thinks. He would. He did, moments before.
But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything.
Neither does he.
His hand is on her shoulder, now, just holding it, not moving. His palm is damp and warm on her bare skin, and it's uncomfortable in the sticky heat of the room.
She realizes after a moment of perfect stillness that he's not going any further. But he's also not pulling away.
Your move.
She's too afraid to make it, though. Not sure that she wants to, but also not sure that she doesn't. She'd wanted to see him as a person, real and vulnerable. Naked. She isn't sure if she meant that literally.
Then he sighs, softly, and shifts away, lying on his back, making her hand lose contact with his side.
No.
"Don't--" she says.
"Claire," he says, catching her hand and holding her away when she reaches for him. His tone is low and disapproving, as if it wasn't him that started this in the first place. As if she's a misguided child he has to correct.
She's not, and he lost that right seventeen years ago, when he decided to pretend she wasn't a problem.
So she rolls up onto her side, over him. He's big underneath her, startlingly so. He's not a big man, but she hasn't been in a position like this with anyone but teenagers. He's broader and more solid. More like her father, and that thought sends another wave of confusing signals through her brain and her body. She thinks, He's not. Not really. Not like that.
And then she kisses him.
He doesn't move, but she doesn't stop, even as fear is paralyzing her spine. She kisses along his closed lips, down to his jaw, to where those scars are that she doesn't know the origins of. Then he exhales sharply, and suddenly clamps his hand on her wrist and shoves.
Her breath leaves her in a harsh rush as she's pinned to the bed by his still-surprising mass. He kisses her, hard, crushing her lips to her teeth. She opens her mouth just to gasp and his tongue presses inside, sliding against hers, tasting like tequila and something harder to define, something just him. Her body lights up like a firecracker, nothing like anything she's ever felt before.
She doesn't know how to respond, what to do, until he pulls a tiny fraction away and whispers, "Just relax, honey. Let me lead."
His plans may be stupid, but one thing she's seen is he commits to them, heart and soul, until they shatter beneath him.
And now she's committed, too. Her body is shaking and her insides are twisting, and between her legs she's hot and wet. No denying this, no questions to ask. What her body is demanding is simple, and she latches onto that simplicity.
His hands are big and broad and are pushing up her shirt. She lets him lead; she raises her arms and lets him peel it off, discarding it. It feels good to be rid of the sweaty spandex, and even the warm air feels cooler on bare skin. One hand cups her breast, lifting it and squeezing, and she hears his soft hum of approval and she knows it's twisted, but a part of her feels proud to have pleased him.
He mouths her nipple quickly, then releases it and slides down.
Oh, is he going to--surely he's not--
But he is. He pulls her pants down and drops to his stomach between her thighs and oh God, his tongue is there. She presses her hand into her mouth and bites down to muffle her cry, not even sure who she's trying to keep from hearing it. He holds her still and doesn't let up. She shuts her eyes and breathes through her nose until it's too much, too much, not enough, just enough--
She shudders and bucks against his mouth and he makes that sound of approval again. She can feel it vibrate against her, and it sends another small aftershock through her.
He rises up and slides up her body, and he kisses her again. He smells like her, and tastes like her, but it's oddly okay, it's surprisingly good.
She can feel him, pressed against her thigh, hot and hard through his pants, and the next time their mouths separate, she says, "It's okay, you can."
He shakes his head, cheek to cheek with her. His hand slides down and presses over a certain spot, low on her abdomen and he murmurs, "No. It's not safe."
She shudders at the reminder of the danger of this, far beyond the usual.
"But I want--" she can't say it, she doesn't have words for it that she can say out loud. She wants him to feel good, she wants to make him feel what he made her feel, but she's too afraid to do what he did.
He moves his hand again, catching hers, lacing their fingers together and then sitting up, pulling her along with him. Upright, some of the light from the street falls across his face and she can see him. Hair falling over his forehead, eyes wide. In the dark, she can barely recognize him. She hardly knows him.
He tugs her hand down and presses it against that hard, hot ridge under his fly, then lets go.
"I'm not very good at this," she says.
"That's okay," he whispers. Already, she can hear that shaking in his voice, that she's only heard a few times before in her life. "Just touch me."
His knees are spread and his hands are just resting on the bed. He's wide open to her touch, trusting her, letting her explore.
She shapes her hand around his cock and gives it a small, experimental squeeze.
"Harder," he says. "You can open my pants if you want."
She realizes she likes that gentle guidance. She finds the small zipper and tugs it down and he sighs, "Yeah," as his cock slips out of his fly, still clothed in his underwear.
It takes a moment of feeling around to figure out the fly of his underwear, but then, suddenly, her hand is inside, touching bare flesh, and he groans and moves his hips. Her insides clench and her tender parts twitch.
She pulls it out and squeezes it again.
"Harder," he says, again.
She tightens her hand until she can feel the firm veins of it straining under her grip.
"Ah," he says, but it's not pain. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Move your hand, now. Up and down."
She does, carefully, nervous about the way the skin moves with her hand, bunching and stretching. It's amazing how hard he is. She thinks it has to hurt.
But the sounds he's making don't sound like pain, and what little he says is only encouragement.
He suddenly lifts one hand, licking his own palm and then reaching down, rubbing the round top of his cock with it. "Faster," he says.
She moves faster. He's rocking his hips into her hand now, rubbing the head of his cock with spit-wet fingers. "Yeah, yeah. More. Faster."
Fast enough now that it hurts her wrist a bit--not that it matters. She doesn't care, anyway, she's staring at her own hand and his and his cock. She feels it swell harder against her tight grip and that sends another cascading reaction through her body. God, she wants it inside of her.
"Ah," he says, "I'm gonna... I'm close. I'm so close. Don't stop--don't--"
Then he freezes, motionless but for his cock, which is pulsing in her hand. He has it cupped to his own belly, his shirt. She can smell his come, salt and base, and it hits her deeply and primally.
"Oh, God. Nathan," she says, awed.
He slumps, panting.
***
In the morning, he says, "I was drunk," but in the afternoon, he caresses her throat as he returns her father's necklace.
***
End