Fic: Scotch, Death Deals and Sleepwalking
Titles: Scotch, Death Deals and Sleepwalking
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairings: Nathan/Peter, Sylar/Adam, Matt/Maya
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
AN: Second mini porn!spree written for paxlux , in which I continue to fail dramatically at making drabbles short.
Scotch, Nathan/Peter, NC-17, (Warnings: incest) Prompt: Bullets
This is the most fucked up thing Nathan has ever done.
He has a hand tangled in Peter's hair, not just resting but pushing, controlling the speed and intensity. Peter's mouth is red wet, shifting up and down the length of his cock in fast, slick slides. It's all wet enthusiasm and very little skill but it's still too good, it's still too much. It's the sort of obscene that makes Nathan's hand tighten in his hair and try and coax him just a little deeper.
Peter makes wet filthy noises and does his best to obey, eyelashes fluttering over eyes that are wide and aroused...and far too fucking drunk.
Nathan's so hard it hurts, so hard that every awkward press of Peter's tongue threatens to unravel every ounce of control he has. His other hand is curled round the solid arm of the chair. He doesn't dare move it, doesn't dare. Because if he has another hand in Peter's hair then he might just give in to the urge to fuck his mouth.
He thinks this is more than enough to send him straight to hell, but Peter makes long awkward groaning noises when Nathan's hand slides through his hair.
He wants to blame that on the scotch sitting untouched on the table, ice half melted and floating like bullets on the surface, he wants to so badly, but two glasses isn't anywhere close to enough to excuse something like this.
Not even fucking close.
Death Deals, Adam/Sylar, R, Prompt: Vengeance
Adam, wakes up on the floor, which is a surprise, though only as far as he hadn't been absolutely certain he was going to wake up at all...considering what Sylar has been doing. And when he moves, consideringly, his hair drags through something wet and tacky.
"Did you get what you wanted?" he asks.
Sylar doesn't answer, instead he drags wet fingers over the curve of Adam's cheekbone, across the relaxed curve of his mouth. He can't resist smiling under the movement, because when you've been alive as long as he has you push more out of habit than anything else. It's a way to pass the time between moments of triumph. And what's a little death between friends?
Adam pushes himself up onto his elbows and Sylar does nothing but watch him. He takes that as ambivalence and sits up all the way, ignoring the wet trail of blood making its way down the back of his neck. He licks at his lips, finds the metallic tang of his own blood there too, which pulls a soft amused noise out of him.
Sylar seems to approve of that slide of red, one hand curls round Adam's throat, all taut fingers and barely restrained fury.
Adam's been threatened in more creative ways.
"I'm also tempted to ask what you were doing with my corpse."
The hand drops and Sylar's mouth tilts into something far more unhappy, brows pulling low over his eyes. Adam laughs and kisses him before he can decide that he's better off dead. His fingers catch the loose material of Sylar's shirt and pull himself in all the way, Sylar doesn't stop him, doesn't push him away, though Adam suspects that's more to do with surprise than anything else. The loose shape of his mouth is still for a long second under Adam's and then it's all heavy push and barely restrained violence. It's a fine line Adam will admit to enjoying. And he can't help but wonder how long it will be before he tastes blood.
When Sylar lets him go he looks almost confused, and that's something new, something interesting. But something he understands.
"There's no world to conquer here," Adam says quietly, breath against the rough edge of Sylar's jaw. "No more power to take."
He catches the trailing edge of Sylar's shirt and drags it back off of his shoulders.
"You can't burn with righteous fury all the time, but you'll be surprised how often opportunities for vengeance present themselves."
Sylar is warm under the slide of Adam's hand, stomach jumping and he makes it easy, so very easy to unbutton and unfasten him in slow careful movements. To slide his hand inside and watch Sylar's face change completely
He wants and he hates that he wants. His hand fists in Adam's tacky hair like that will give him some control over this, but Adam has clever fingers and he's learned to read people far too well.
"Shall I stop?" he says calmly, and when all he gets is a sharp, angry pull from the fingers in his hair and a wet catch of breath Adam can't help the smile. But he suspects Sylar will more than make him pay for it.
Sleepwalking, Matt/Maya, NC-17, Prompt: Newspapers and Books
Someone is watching him, he can feel it more than hear it, that curl of attention like a buzz in his head and it throws him out of sleep and leaves him blinking in the half-light of the living room.
Papers slide off of his lap and a book hits the floor with a thump.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt and he'd completely forgotten that they have a temporary house guest.
Because it's not Mohinder, it's Maya.
She's watching him, from the edge of the carpet, feet bare against the weave. She looks fragile, eyes sleepy, hair a tangled tumble against both sides of her face.
Matt swallows, swallows again and tries to think of something to say. Anything.
But then Maya's moving, knee pushing into the couch cushions, leg brushing against and then over his own. Until she's sliding across his thighs in a way that brings every inch of his skin alive. One long, glide of flesh that never ends and all he can do is hold his arms out stupidly and try to breathe, then try to breathe again.
Maya doesn't speak, she doesn't speak but the low soft murmur of Spanish in her head is quick and nervous. When she settles she's ridiculously light, but she's just in the right place to be weight and warmth and it makes Matt inhale sharply. It makes him say her name when he never intends to. When he wants to protest, to refuse, to be a gentleman because this clearly isn't something that just happens. And he's terrified that he made this happen, that he wanted and god that thought is terrifying and he has to stop this-
He's going to, he's really going to, when she cups his face in small, warm hands; pulls until it's tilted back and then kisses him.
And for long seconds there's nothing, nothing in his head but-
He tips his head back just enough to free his mouth.
"We can't," he says desperately.
"Why not?" Maya's voice is liquid against his skin, a flare of warmth and lips...and then teeth.
Her hair is slippery between Matt's fingers, though he never meant to touch it, never meant to pull her head round and kiss her, really kiss her the way he's wanted to since he met her. And while he's distracted by that her hands are digging between then, digging under them, quick and distracting. Something tears, and fabric catches on the edge of Matt's thigh, one quick pull on the skin before it's gone. And then Maya shifts and grinds down into him, one fluid movement and jesus-
Jesus. She's wet when she presses down into the crushed length of his cock, and he groans into her mouth and doesn't do anything, not a damn thing, when she rises to her knees, hands pulling at the waist of his boxer shorts, nails dragging over the skin when she pulls material down in one impatient tug, and then her hands are round his neck, drawing her in closer.
She tilts her hips and pushes down onto him, and he can't help, can't fucking help pushing up, pushing all the way in and her mouth shudders open, eyes falling half shut and she's beautiful.
And he can't believe he's-
He can't think the word, can't think it even though Maya's moving, hips swaying down and in while Matt's fingers slip-slide over the soft, yellow material of her top, trying to find somewhere to grab, to hold without crushing her, without-
Maya lifts her arms and Matt drags the fabric all the way up, until her breasts are bare and her hair is falling against them, arms sliding back down to wind round his neck and she's warm where she leans in, warm and impossible not to touch, not to hold when she moves, all bend and shift of skin that presses him deeper into the couch, presses him in and holds him there with small hands like she owns him.
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairings: Nathan/Peter, Sylar/Adam, Matt/Maya
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
AN: Second mini porn!spree written for paxlux , in which I continue to fail dramatically at making drabbles short.
Scotch, Nathan/Peter, NC-17, (Warnings: incest) Prompt: Bullets
This is the most fucked up thing Nathan has ever done.
He has a hand tangled in Peter's hair, not just resting but pushing, controlling the speed and intensity. Peter's mouth is red wet, shifting up and down the length of his cock in fast, slick slides. It's all wet enthusiasm and very little skill but it's still too good, it's still too much. It's the sort of obscene that makes Nathan's hand tighten in his hair and try and coax him just a little deeper.
Peter makes wet filthy noises and does his best to obey, eyelashes fluttering over eyes that are wide and aroused...and far too fucking drunk.
Nathan's so hard it hurts, so hard that every awkward press of Peter's tongue threatens to unravel every ounce of control he has. His other hand is curled round the solid arm of the chair. He doesn't dare move it, doesn't dare. Because if he has another hand in Peter's hair then he might just give in to the urge to fuck his mouth.
He thinks this is more than enough to send him straight to hell, but Peter makes long awkward groaning noises when Nathan's hand slides through his hair.
He wants to blame that on the scotch sitting untouched on the table, ice half melted and floating like bullets on the surface, he wants to so badly, but two glasses isn't anywhere close to enough to excuse something like this.
Not even fucking close.
Death Deals, Adam/Sylar, R, Prompt: Vengeance
Adam, wakes up on the floor, which is a surprise, though only as far as he hadn't been absolutely certain he was going to wake up at all...considering what Sylar has been doing. And when he moves, consideringly, his hair drags through something wet and tacky.
"Did you get what you wanted?" he asks.
Sylar doesn't answer, instead he drags wet fingers over the curve of Adam's cheekbone, across the relaxed curve of his mouth. He can't resist smiling under the movement, because when you've been alive as long as he has you push more out of habit than anything else. It's a way to pass the time between moments of triumph. And what's a little death between friends?
Adam pushes himself up onto his elbows and Sylar does nothing but watch him. He takes that as ambivalence and sits up all the way, ignoring the wet trail of blood making its way down the back of his neck. He licks at his lips, finds the metallic tang of his own blood there too, which pulls a soft amused noise out of him.
Sylar seems to approve of that slide of red, one hand curls round Adam's throat, all taut fingers and barely restrained fury.
Adam's been threatened in more creative ways.
"I'm also tempted to ask what you were doing with my corpse."
The hand drops and Sylar's mouth tilts into something far more unhappy, brows pulling low over his eyes. Adam laughs and kisses him before he can decide that he's better off dead. His fingers catch the loose material of Sylar's shirt and pull himself in all the way, Sylar doesn't stop him, doesn't push him away, though Adam suspects that's more to do with surprise than anything else. The loose shape of his mouth is still for a long second under Adam's and then it's all heavy push and barely restrained violence. It's a fine line Adam will admit to enjoying. And he can't help but wonder how long it will be before he tastes blood.
When Sylar lets him go he looks almost confused, and that's something new, something interesting. But something he understands.
"There's no world to conquer here," Adam says quietly, breath against the rough edge of Sylar's jaw. "No more power to take."
He catches the trailing edge of Sylar's shirt and drags it back off of his shoulders.
"You can't burn with righteous fury all the time, but you'll be surprised how often opportunities for vengeance present themselves."
Sylar is warm under the slide of Adam's hand, stomach jumping and he makes it easy, so very easy to unbutton and unfasten him in slow careful movements. To slide his hand inside and watch Sylar's face change completely
He wants and he hates that he wants. His hand fists in Adam's tacky hair like that will give him some control over this, but Adam has clever fingers and he's learned to read people far too well.
"Shall I stop?" he says calmly, and when all he gets is a sharp, angry pull from the fingers in his hair and a wet catch of breath Adam can't help the smile. But he suspects Sylar will more than make him pay for it.
Sleepwalking, Matt/Maya, NC-17, Prompt: Newspapers and Books
Someone is watching him, he can feel it more than hear it, that curl of attention like a buzz in his head and it throws him out of sleep and leaves him blinking in the half-light of the living room.
Papers slide off of his lap and a book hits the floor with a thump.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt and he'd completely forgotten that they have a temporary house guest.
Because it's not Mohinder, it's Maya.
She's watching him, from the edge of the carpet, feet bare against the weave. She looks fragile, eyes sleepy, hair a tangled tumble against both sides of her face.
Matt swallows, swallows again and tries to think of something to say. Anything.
But then Maya's moving, knee pushing into the couch cushions, leg brushing against and then over his own. Until she's sliding across his thighs in a way that brings every inch of his skin alive. One long, glide of flesh that never ends and all he can do is hold his arms out stupidly and try to breathe, then try to breathe again.
Maya doesn't speak, she doesn't speak but the low soft murmur of Spanish in her head is quick and nervous. When she settles she's ridiculously light, but she's just in the right place to be weight and warmth and it makes Matt inhale sharply. It makes him say her name when he never intends to. When he wants to protest, to refuse, to be a gentleman because this clearly isn't something that just happens. And he's terrified that he made this happen, that he wanted and god that thought is terrifying and he has to stop this-
He's going to, he's really going to, when she cups his face in small, warm hands; pulls until it's tilted back and then kisses him.
And for long seconds there's nothing, nothing in his head but-
He tips his head back just enough to free his mouth.
"We can't," he says desperately.
"Why not?" Maya's voice is liquid against his skin, a flare of warmth and lips...and then teeth.
Her hair is slippery between Matt's fingers, though he never meant to touch it, never meant to pull her head round and kiss her, really kiss her the way he's wanted to since he met her. And while he's distracted by that her hands are digging between then, digging under them, quick and distracting. Something tears, and fabric catches on the edge of Matt's thigh, one quick pull on the skin before it's gone. And then Maya shifts and grinds down into him, one fluid movement and jesus-
Jesus. She's wet when she presses down into the crushed length of his cock, and he groans into her mouth and doesn't do anything, not a damn thing, when she rises to her knees, hands pulling at the waist of his boxer shorts, nails dragging over the skin when she pulls material down in one impatient tug, and then her hands are round his neck, drawing her in closer.
She tilts her hips and pushes down onto him, and he can't help, can't fucking help pushing up, pushing all the way in and her mouth shudders open, eyes falling half shut and she's beautiful.
And he can't believe he's-
He can't think the word, can't think it even though Maya's moving, hips swaying down and in while Matt's fingers slip-slide over the soft, yellow material of her top, trying to find somewhere to grab, to hold without crushing her, without-
Maya lifts her arms and Matt drags the fabric all the way up, until her breasts are bare and her hair is falling against them, arms sliding back down to wind round his neck and she's warm where she leans in, warm and impossible not to touch, not to hold when she moves, all bend and shift of skin that presses him deeper into the couch, presses him in and holds him there with small hands like she owns him.