Fic; Sick [Heroes, NC-17]
Title: Sick
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): one-sided Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17 or a really hard R. I dunno.
Summery: Peter gives himself a little relief... to thoughts of his niece.
A/N: This is all darkbunnyrabbit's fault because she was like "I'll write Sylar/Ice Cream Porn if you write Peter/hishand" and I was like "deal" because I didn't think she'd actually do it. And she did and here we are.
"Peter Petrelli, you are one sick fuck," he tells himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror in his bathroom. It's kind of dirty, there's water spots and a smudge of dried shaving cream and he should really take a gallon of gasoline and some matches spend an afternoon cleaning his apartment because it is a mess.
But he doesn't because he's one sick fuck and sick fucks do not live in clean apartments.
Sick fucks do have fantasies about their nieces however. Their blonde, cheerleader, underage nieces. She's so taboo that it should make him sick to even think of her like he does but it doesn't and he's most definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head. He's just glad that Matt's nowhere near him.
Peter stares at himself for a few moments longer before muttering and turning away from the mirror, hitting the light on his way out of the bathroom. He's just very, very a little drunk. That's why he can't get his mind off the mental image of her in a skirt way too short to be decent and a top that left nothing to the imagination, bending over ever so slowly, reaching for something on the ground, and giving him a nice view of her perfect round--
--stop right there you sick, sick fuck.
Sighing under his breath, Peter kicks the table next to his bed, sending his cell phone and alarm clock to the ground and then he fixes them with a glare for making a bigger mess of his apartment. Because it's really their fault.
He knew that going over to Nathan's for dinner was a bad idea. Just knew it and the idea that drinking away his disturbing desires is turning out to be a bad idea too. Because now he has no control over his thoughts and his pants are getting a little too tight.
Looking down at himself, he bites back a curse and rolls his eyes as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground. He unzips his pants and steps out of them, tossing them off to the side too and he gingerly climbs into bed with the idea that if he ignores his erection, that it doesn't exist.
But it does and it's there because of his fucking niece.
He groans, hating himself for thinking of "fucking" and "niece" in the same sentence and his erection throbs, just to let him know that it knows he thought it and it thinks that fucking his niece would be a nice and pleasurable way to spend the night. He disagrees because she's his niece. As in the daughter of his brother. As in family. As in... oh who was he kidding.
He wants to fuck his niece.
He is one sick fuck.
Peter settles on his back, resting his head on the pillow and pulling the covers over himself. And then he just lies there, pretending that he isn't fully erect. Nope. Not paying attention to it. It does not exist. He is not hard because of his niece. He's just a little drunk and now he's trying to sleep off the alcohol. Yes, that's what he's doing. Not thinking about his niece. Not imagining her hand dancing along his stomach, going straight for his crotch and gripping him through the material of his boxers.
But there is a hand dancing along his stomach and someone is holding his erection through his boxers and--oh wait. That's him.
Peter mutters another curse and hits his head against the pillow a couple times. It's one thing to have those kinds of thoughts about his niece and to get hard because of those thoughts. It's an entirely different ballpark, no universe to jack off to those thoughts.
But that's exactly what he's doing as his hand sneaks below the elastic band of his boxers and he grips himself in his fist, just holding his own cock for a few seconds and then he starts to pump.
Yep, he is one sick fuck and he is definitely going to hell now.
Throwing all second thoughts and morals out the window because really, what chance did they stand against his drunken desire, Peter closes his eyes and just gives into what his mind and his body want him to do. They want him to masturbate to thoughts of Claire and that's what he's going to do.
He imagines it's her hand, her soft and tiny hand moving along his heated flesh, alternating between teasing him with her fingertips and enclosing him in her fist, moving up and down and up and down and fuck he needs more room.
Reluctantly, Peter lets go of himself, and withdraws his hand from his boxers, practically shoving the sheets down towards his ankles and his boxers too. Now he's completely free and a shiver runs down his spine as a light breeze from the open window runs along his sensitive flesh.
He brings his palm to his mouth and licks it before going back to what he was doing before, gripping his cock and starting to move faster now, and just letting his thoughts wander. It's all blonde hair and golden skin and soft curves in his mind and she's smirking at him as she strokes him. Yeah, definitely smirking. She's coy like that.
And she's lying next to him, pressing those soft breasts of hers against his side and her leg's hooked over his, her knee just barely grazing his balls and she's very pleased with herself for getting him all worked up.
His back arches off the bed, and his hips move just a little and then more and yep, he's definitely thrusting into his own fist now. It's ridiculous. He's not a teenager anymore. He doesn't need to jerk one off to be able to go to sleep but he wants to. Oh fuck, does he want to. He wants to do this so badly that it's bordering on needing to do it.
Her name's a whisper on his lips and he picks up his pace, his hips rising to meet his fist and he whimpers at the sweet friction, biting down on his lip hard to keep whatever noises that are coming next inside his mouth. He wants to retain some of his dignity during this.
That lasts all of ten seconds before he releases his lip and moans her name, thrusting into his fist with more fervor and impatience and fuck, he needs to come soon because the images that his mind is creating are driving him mad.
She's still smirking at him, of course she would be, coy little brat, and now her chin's resting on his chest and she's giving him an innocent look, completely negated by the movements of her hand but he doesn't mind. He likes the feeling of her soft curls splayed across his skin and her even softer breasts against his chest, practically begging for attention.
Peter opens his eyes and looks down because it feels so real, the thought of her being there and doing this to him that he feels compelled to check. It's not real. It's all in his head and he's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved because of this. He is sure that he hates his highly active imagination for the first time in his life.
His movements haven't slowed one bit and he's so close to coming now but there's something missing. He isn't sure what it is exactly, so he grips himself tighter and slows his movements down, dragging the heel of his palm against his cock and yep, that feels pretty fucking good. Almost like a tongue running along him and... oh, he shouldn't have thought about that either.
Her head's off his chest now, trailing a line of kisses down, in a line pointing straight at his erection and her hand stills at the base of his cock, and then her mouth closes over the top and--fuck, fuck, fuck, that's what was missing. Maybe he doesn't hate his imagination after all.
A whimper escapes his mouth as his balls tighten and the first streams of cum shoot out of him, followed closely by her name and he doesn't stop stroking himself, even though that's what he usually does. He follows it through to the end, uncaring that his fingers are covered in his essence now and once his senses come back to him, he remembers that he hates that sticky feeling.
His hand stops finally, staying loosely wrapped around his base as his senses come back a step further and he realizes what he's just done. He just got off on thoughts of his niece Of his underage niece and he no longer cares about the stickiness on his fingers because he suddenly feels sick and it's not just because of the alcohol he consumed earlier.
Peter slides off his bed, heading back for the bathroom. He just finishes with cleaning off his hand and his now limp cock before his stomach heaves and he empties that alcohol and his dinner too into the toilet. After a few minutes, he reaches up and flushes the toilet, slowly slipping down to lie his head on the cold tile and it feels so good against his flushed skin that he is entirely uninspired to move even though he's completely naked and so close to falling asleep like this on his bathroom floor.
He is one sick fuck and he definitely hates himself for it.
Eventually, Peter sits up and runs his hand through his hair before climbing to his feet. He stares at himself in the mirror and he can see it now. Can see how sick and perverted he is. It's completely obvious to him and so it will be to everyone else and he's going to have to leave the country now.
Or something less drastic like not leave his apartment at all until that tell-tale look disappears. He imagines it'll be a couple of days before that happens and he's glad that he thought to do his grocery shopping yesterday and doesn't have any alcohol in his apartment at the moment.
"Peter Petrelli, you are completely fucked," he tells himself, shaking his head lightly and hitting the light on his way out.
Lookit, a sequel.
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): one-sided Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17 or a really hard R. I dunno.
Summery: Peter gives himself a little relief... to thoughts of his niece.
A/N: This is all darkbunnyrabbit's fault because she was like "I'll write Sylar/Ice Cream Porn if you write Peter/hishand" and I was like "deal" because I didn't think she'd actually do it. And she did and here we are.
"Peter Petrelli, you are one sick fuck," he tells himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror in his bathroom. It's kind of dirty, there's water spots and a smudge of dried shaving cream and he should really take a gallon of gasoline and some matches spend an afternoon cleaning his apartment because it is a mess.
But he doesn't because he's one sick fuck and sick fucks do not live in clean apartments.
Sick fucks do have fantasies about their nieces however. Their blonde, cheerleader, underage nieces. She's so taboo that it should make him sick to even think of her like he does but it doesn't and he's most definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head. He's just glad that Matt's nowhere near him.
Peter stares at himself for a few moments longer before muttering and turning away from the mirror, hitting the light on his way out of the bathroom. He's just very, very a little drunk. That's why he can't get his mind off the mental image of her in a skirt way too short to be decent and a top that left nothing to the imagination, bending over ever so slowly, reaching for something on the ground, and giving him a nice view of her perfect round--
--stop right there you sick, sick fuck.
Sighing under his breath, Peter kicks the table next to his bed, sending his cell phone and alarm clock to the ground and then he fixes them with a glare for making a bigger mess of his apartment. Because it's really their fault.
He knew that going over to Nathan's for dinner was a bad idea. Just knew it and the idea that drinking away his disturbing desires is turning out to be a bad idea too. Because now he has no control over his thoughts and his pants are getting a little too tight.
Looking down at himself, he bites back a curse and rolls his eyes as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground. He unzips his pants and steps out of them, tossing them off to the side too and he gingerly climbs into bed with the idea that if he ignores his erection, that it doesn't exist.
But it does and it's there because of his fucking niece.
He groans, hating himself for thinking of "fucking" and "niece" in the same sentence and his erection throbs, just to let him know that it knows he thought it and it thinks that fucking his niece would be a nice and pleasurable way to spend the night. He disagrees because she's his niece. As in the daughter of his brother. As in family. As in... oh who was he kidding.
He wants to fuck his niece.
He is one sick fuck.
Peter settles on his back, resting his head on the pillow and pulling the covers over himself. And then he just lies there, pretending that he isn't fully erect. Nope. Not paying attention to it. It does not exist. He is not hard because of his niece. He's just a little drunk and now he's trying to sleep off the alcohol. Yes, that's what he's doing. Not thinking about his niece. Not imagining her hand dancing along his stomach, going straight for his crotch and gripping him through the material of his boxers.
But there is a hand dancing along his stomach and someone is holding his erection through his boxers and--oh wait. That's him.
Peter mutters another curse and hits his head against the pillow a couple times. It's one thing to have those kinds of thoughts about his niece and to get hard because of those thoughts. It's an entirely different ballpark, no universe to jack off to those thoughts.
But that's exactly what he's doing as his hand sneaks below the elastic band of his boxers and he grips himself in his fist, just holding his own cock for a few seconds and then he starts to pump.
Yep, he is one sick fuck and he is definitely going to hell now.
Throwing all second thoughts and morals out the window because really, what chance did they stand against his drunken desire, Peter closes his eyes and just gives into what his mind and his body want him to do. They want him to masturbate to thoughts of Claire and that's what he's going to do.
He imagines it's her hand, her soft and tiny hand moving along his heated flesh, alternating between teasing him with her fingertips and enclosing him in her fist, moving up and down and up and down and fuck he needs more room.
Reluctantly, Peter lets go of himself, and withdraws his hand from his boxers, practically shoving the sheets down towards his ankles and his boxers too. Now he's completely free and a shiver runs down his spine as a light breeze from the open window runs along his sensitive flesh.
He brings his palm to his mouth and licks it before going back to what he was doing before, gripping his cock and starting to move faster now, and just letting his thoughts wander. It's all blonde hair and golden skin and soft curves in his mind and she's smirking at him as she strokes him. Yeah, definitely smirking. She's coy like that.
And she's lying next to him, pressing those soft breasts of hers against his side and her leg's hooked over his, her knee just barely grazing his balls and she's very pleased with herself for getting him all worked up.
His back arches off the bed, and his hips move just a little and then more and yep, he's definitely thrusting into his own fist now. It's ridiculous. He's not a teenager anymore. He doesn't need to jerk one off to be able to go to sleep but he wants to. Oh fuck, does he want to. He wants to do this so badly that it's bordering on needing to do it.
Her name's a whisper on his lips and he picks up his pace, his hips rising to meet his fist and he whimpers at the sweet friction, biting down on his lip hard to keep whatever noises that are coming next inside his mouth. He wants to retain some of his dignity during this.
That lasts all of ten seconds before he releases his lip and moans her name, thrusting into his fist with more fervor and impatience and fuck, he needs to come soon because the images that his mind is creating are driving him mad.
She's still smirking at him, of course she would be, coy little brat, and now her chin's resting on his chest and she's giving him an innocent look, completely negated by the movements of her hand but he doesn't mind. He likes the feeling of her soft curls splayed across his skin and her even softer breasts against his chest, practically begging for attention.
Peter opens his eyes and looks down because it feels so real, the thought of her being there and doing this to him that he feels compelled to check. It's not real. It's all in his head and he's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved because of this. He is sure that he hates his highly active imagination for the first time in his life.
His movements haven't slowed one bit and he's so close to coming now but there's something missing. He isn't sure what it is exactly, so he grips himself tighter and slows his movements down, dragging the heel of his palm against his cock and yep, that feels pretty fucking good. Almost like a tongue running along him and... oh, he shouldn't have thought about that either.
Her head's off his chest now, trailing a line of kisses down, in a line pointing straight at his erection and her hand stills at the base of his cock, and then her mouth closes over the top and--fuck, fuck, fuck, that's what was missing. Maybe he doesn't hate his imagination after all.
A whimper escapes his mouth as his balls tighten and the first streams of cum shoot out of him, followed closely by her name and he doesn't stop stroking himself, even though that's what he usually does. He follows it through to the end, uncaring that his fingers are covered in his essence now and once his senses come back to him, he remembers that he hates that sticky feeling.
His hand stops finally, staying loosely wrapped around his base as his senses come back a step further and he realizes what he's just done. He just got off on thoughts of his niece Of his underage niece and he no longer cares about the stickiness on his fingers because he suddenly feels sick and it's not just because of the alcohol he consumed earlier.
Peter slides off his bed, heading back for the bathroom. He just finishes with cleaning off his hand and his now limp cock before his stomach heaves and he empties that alcohol and his dinner too into the toilet. After a few minutes, he reaches up and flushes the toilet, slowly slipping down to lie his head on the cold tile and it feels so good against his flushed skin that he is entirely uninspired to move even though he's completely naked and so close to falling asleep like this on his bathroom floor.
He is one sick fuck and he definitely hates himself for it.
Eventually, Peter sits up and runs his hand through his hair before climbing to his feet. He stares at himself in the mirror and he can see it now. Can see how sick and perverted he is. It's completely obvious to him and so it will be to everyone else and he's going to have to leave the country now.
Or something less drastic like not leave his apartment at all until that tell-tale look disappears. He imagines it'll be a couple of days before that happens and he's glad that he thought to do his grocery shopping yesterday and doesn't have any alcohol in his apartment at the moment.
"Peter Petrelli, you are completely fucked," he tells himself, shaking his head lightly and hitting the light on his way out.
Lookit, a sequel.