YA fic. I'm going to a special hell
Title: The Speed of Sex
Characters: Tommy. Pietro
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is wrong on so many levels and he doesn’t give a fucking damn.
Warnings/spoilers: Uhhh, possible incest? Speedster sex. Set post 12 sometime.
Notes: I have a feeling I’m going to a special hell for writing this, yes.
Tommy doesn’t give a damn. He knows this is wrong, on so many levels. He just doesn’t give. A. Fucking. Damn. Who cares that he isn’t gay? That this man is so much older than him. Old enough to be his uncle or his dad, something whispers, and he might as well be as far as Billy would be concerned. But Billy and his crackpot theories aren’t here so Tommy doesn’t give a damn.
Nothing else matters but the moment, the milliseconds ticking by. Tommy loses himself in the sensation, the sex. Hands strip him bare, down past the skin and make him shake and vibrate with pleasure. Body presses him so hard against the nearest surface of the moment, counter-wall-floor, sleek and older and adult in a way he can’t match. Not yet. Mouth on his, fighting, sloppy and wet, to dominate. Tommy kisses back frantic and desperate and drags his hands down a bare back, fingers like claws. The groans that gets, against his throat now-just perfect- in slick heat, make him feel accomplished. He grabs that shock of white hair, so exactly like his, and tugs and pulls to where he wants and wraps his legs around at the behest of the knee nudging between his thighs. He wants this and fuck the consequences.
He doesn’t care how this started. There was yelling and frustration and bitterness. . . and a challenge, given and answered. But it’s ages ago in his subjective time; the time they both share. Whether they want to or not. With powers or not. You can take away the running but you can’t take away the speed. No one but another speedster could do this to him. Time just used to crawl with the girls he used to kiss. He had to go so damn slow and it always bored him out of his mind. None of them were worth forcing his interest up.
But this man, Pietro, -Quicksilver, who covers and moves and dances over Tommy’s body, effortless and fluid like the metal of his codename- sets a bruising, all-too-fast pace for them. No time for patience or gentleness or pausing here. The outside world sees them as blurs and it’s so achingly perfect Tommy could scream from it. He doesn’t; that would be giving in.
They barrel on, heedless to the world, lost in a haze of nownowNOW. It’s too damn good and the only thing that can even begin to compare is his own hands. It says something about him. Says something about Pietro, Quicksilver, murmuring in his ear, “Fuck, never been so-fuck!” Says they’re speedsters. Says it all.
It’s overwhelming, and Tommy does scream from it. Pietro, Quicksilver, answers, so close behind even they can’t quite tell who started first, with a satisfied groan and teeth in Tommy’s shoulder, claiming and smug with it.
The next split second it’s over and they’re dressed again, running and leaving nothing but the sonic booms and fading smell of sex behind them. They just run, keeping pace with each other, and it’s almost as good as the sex.
They skid to whirlwind stops near the Avengers’ mansion. Pietro, Quicksilver, is grinning at him, predatory and with a spark Tommy didn’t see in him before, “You’re faster than I used to be. Speed.” The name is an acknowledgment, a promise, and it burns.
Tommy grins back, dark and violent, “Hell yeah, fastest man alive.” It’s a boast but he doesn’t care. It’s a challenge, and an acknowledgment and a promise. The burn heightens.
“Yeah, right! See ya.” And Pietro, Quicksilver, is gone, running with the wind.
Tommy watches him go, no one else could hope to track him, until he’s out of sight. He’s burning and laughing, giddy and well-sexed. He can’t wait until the next time and like hell is he ever going to mention Billy’s crackpot theory.
Even when it turns out to be true.
Characters: Tommy. Pietro
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This is wrong on so many levels and he doesn’t give a fucking damn.
Warnings/spoilers: Uhhh, possible incest? Speedster sex. Set post 12 sometime.
Notes: I have a feeling I’m going to a special hell for writing this, yes.
Tommy doesn’t give a damn. He knows this is wrong, on so many levels. He just doesn’t give. A. Fucking. Damn. Who cares that he isn’t gay? That this man is so much older than him. Old enough to be his uncle or his dad, something whispers, and he might as well be as far as Billy would be concerned. But Billy and his crackpot theories aren’t here so Tommy doesn’t give a damn.
Nothing else matters but the moment, the milliseconds ticking by. Tommy loses himself in the sensation, the sex. Hands strip him bare, down past the skin and make him shake and vibrate with pleasure. Body presses him so hard against the nearest surface of the moment, counter-wall-floor, sleek and older and adult in a way he can’t match. Not yet. Mouth on his, fighting, sloppy and wet, to dominate. Tommy kisses back frantic and desperate and drags his hands down a bare back, fingers like claws. The groans that gets, against his throat now-just perfect- in slick heat, make him feel accomplished. He grabs that shock of white hair, so exactly like his, and tugs and pulls to where he wants and wraps his legs around at the behest of the knee nudging between his thighs. He wants this and fuck the consequences.
He doesn’t care how this started. There was yelling and frustration and bitterness. . . and a challenge, given and answered. But it’s ages ago in his subjective time; the time they both share. Whether they want to or not. With powers or not. You can take away the running but you can’t take away the speed. No one but another speedster could do this to him. Time just used to crawl with the girls he used to kiss. He had to go so damn slow and it always bored him out of his mind. None of them were worth forcing his interest up.
But this man, Pietro, -Quicksilver, who covers and moves and dances over Tommy’s body, effortless and fluid like the metal of his codename- sets a bruising, all-too-fast pace for them. No time for patience or gentleness or pausing here. The outside world sees them as blurs and it’s so achingly perfect Tommy could scream from it. He doesn’t; that would be giving in.
They barrel on, heedless to the world, lost in a haze of nownowNOW. It’s too damn good and the only thing that can even begin to compare is his own hands. It says something about him. Says something about Pietro, Quicksilver, murmuring in his ear, “Fuck, never been so-fuck!” Says they’re speedsters. Says it all.
It’s overwhelming, and Tommy does scream from it. Pietro, Quicksilver, answers, so close behind even they can’t quite tell who started first, with a satisfied groan and teeth in Tommy’s shoulder, claiming and smug with it.
The next split second it’s over and they’re dressed again, running and leaving nothing but the sonic booms and fading smell of sex behind them. They just run, keeping pace with each other, and it’s almost as good as the sex.
They skid to whirlwind stops near the Avengers’ mansion. Pietro, Quicksilver, is grinning at him, predatory and with a spark Tommy didn’t see in him before, “You’re faster than I used to be. Speed.” The name is an acknowledgment, a promise, and it burns.
Tommy grins back, dark and violent, “Hell yeah, fastest man alive.” It’s a boast but he doesn’t care. It’s a challenge, and an acknowledgment and a promise. The burn heightens.
“Yeah, right! See ya.” And Pietro, Quicksilver, is gone, running with the wind.
Tommy watches him go, no one else could hope to track him, until he’s out of sight. He’s burning and laughing, giddy and well-sexed. He can’t wait until the next time and like hell is he ever going to mention Billy’s crackpot theory.
Even when it turns out to be true.