Fic: The View That Comes With You
Title: The View That Comes With You
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 3300+
Summary: In which there is porn and really that's it, aside from some hair ruffling and also some totally original Claude and/or Peter issues that I have never addressed before, ever. Additional sarcasm may or may not be included. Sequel to Ask which is something that, ironically, I don't think anyone actually asked for.
A/N: I was all panicky and "All I ever write is porn, woe!" and then I realized...not only have I not posted fic yet this year, I haven't written/posted anything higher than PG13 since August 2010. Yay, me? Title from this song.
Claude’s not the easiest of men to surprise.
A career built on seeking out individuals with abilities that by definition defied well-established scientific principles, combined with a naturally cynical disposition that’d only been enhanced by his own scientific principle defying ability, has made him wary, yes, but it’s also made him quite at ease with the broad range of humanity’s capabilities, motivations, and desires. Generally speaking, he’s quite comfortable saying that he knows what to expect of people, and that they rarely let him down.
But if he’d been asked to guess what it would take for Peter Petrelli to end up not only in his lap, not only kissing him, and not only doing so with almost ridiculous abandon, but to also be entirely sober at the time, he would not have guessed that a bit of out-of-practice guitar playing would be all it took. He supposes there’s really no accounting for taste.
The fact that he’s over-thinking it, that he would’ve guessed. But it’s impossible not to. Weeks of trying to keep himself from getting too close, months of guilt and worse, several bloody years without having to deal with this sort of situation, and he can’t even imagine what’s going through Peter’s head. Well, no, actually, he can imagine it: nothing, nothing at all, because if there’s anyone who would act on such a reckless, thoughtless, stupid impulse without thinking through the potential minefield he was waltzing into, it would indeed be Peter.
Peter. Who’s still on top of him, who’s still kissing him much too hard, and who’s now begun to make soft, unnecessarily pleasing sounds against his mouth.
And it’s not like he wants to stop him, to stop this, because he doesn’t. He’s got a beautiful young man pawing away at him and melting into every hesitant touch he lets himself venture, he’s not about to turn him down. But there’s no denying it’s been a while, no avoiding the fact that he’s not entirely sure how much Peter’ll want or how much he’ll be able to give him.
“Hey,” Peter’s voice cuts through his already muddled thoughts, and he glances up. Peter’s lips are quirked up in a corner, as if on the verge of a smile, and his eyes are already mostly there. His hands are on Claude’s shoulders now, and his thighs are under Claude’s palms. “Can I…can I ask you something?”
Obviously, he wants to say. Apparently. Something smart, at the very least. But for some reason, with Peter that close, all he can manage is, “Yeah?”
“Do you want it? I mean, the guitar, I was gonna…” Peter gives a distracted, shaky laugh, and kisses him again. Pulls back enough to be able to speak, but not far enough that their lips don’t brush with every other word. “Give it to you. If you…” a deep breath and he sweeps in again, all wet lips and roaming hands. “Thought you might…”
“I…” he has to close his eyes and can’t think of anything to say anyway, so he opens them again. “I dunno, I-”
Peter sways, somehow; tilts his head, and their lips meet at an angle. It’s not terribly comfortable, and Claude turns his own head to be able to accommodate it rather than answer any more questions. Peter manages to press even closer then, his torso flat against Claude’s chest. Claude wraps his arms around him to make sure he stays there.
“God, you feel good,” Peter says, his eyes hooded, his breaths shallow. “Wanted to…wanted to do this for so…” he surges into another kiss, and slides his hands down Claude’s chest in the process. Separates enough to be able to pant, “You are so warm.”
He should be. He feels like he’s on fire, with Peter rocking against him determinedly, and continuing to kiss him as if it’s the one and only thing keeping him alive. He feels the young man’s fingers running down his sides, and then up. It makes him shudder, makes him tighten his grasp on Peter’s waist and let his head fall back against the edge of the couch. Peter follows, begins to trail kisses down his throat. Claude runs his hands over Peter’s chest, then up to his shoulders. He can feel the strain of muscle underneath his clothes. Peter’s hands slip lower, along his hips. He thinks he may stop breathing.
Peter pulls back just long enough to drag his shirt off over his head and let it drop to the floor. Then he’s back, kissing Claude’s neck. Grasping Claude’s wrists, guiding his hands till they rest about level with his hips. Claude finds himself almost reluctant to move them. Peter’s just so smooth, and yielding, and almost too perfect to touch.
He runs an experimental hand up his back, finally, and Peter moans. The sound is everywhere, quavering and erotic and suddenly enough to set Claude off. He pushes Peter away, slightly, and feels a chill against his skin where Peter’s lips had been.
“What? Are you…” Peter’s eyes are instantly full of concern. “You don’t want to? It’s okay. I didn’t mean to...if you don’t…”
“Pete,” he sighs, and holds on to him lest the young man make the very stupid, very predictable, very Peter decision to pull back entirely and fall over himself in the desire to accommodate him.
“You…you wanna slow down? It’s okay, we can-“
Claude leans up, just to stop him from talking. It works for a bit; Peter’s mouth opens against his and his breathing quickens and his hands move up till they’re wrapped around the back of Claude’s neck. But he pulls back again eventually.
“I mean it. Anything you don’t wanna do, just-“
“Don’t want to talk,” he says, a little quickly, and based on the look on Peter’s face, he’s pretty sure the lad’s not going to let him leave it at that. He drops his head against the back of the couch and gets a good look at the ceiling for a few seconds, as he feels Peter shift till he’s basically upright. Still sitting in Claude’s lap, though, which is not going to do anything for his control of the situation.
“Hey,” Peter says, his hands stroking along Claude’s shoulders, down his arms. “Listen. This is okay. We’re okay. Okay?”
He’s too blown away by Peter’s eloquence to respond verbally, but does nod, in the hope that he’ll stop feeling the intense concern of Peter’s gaze boring into him. He does; it’s replaced by a rush of warmth as Peter leans in again, his mouth finding its way to right below Claude’s ear.
His hands rest flat on Claude’s chest for a moment, as he just breathes against him. Steadying, somehow, which must’ve been the intent. Claude lets his own palms settle against the small of Peter’s back and plans to keep them there for the time being. Anything else seems like too much of a risk.
“I’m gonna unbutton your shirt now,” Peter murmurs, his tongue flickering just barely at Claude’s skin, and the building ache to just thrust against him flares. Peter seems to realize it; whispers a quick “Hold on,” even as his fingers work at the buttons. He’s quick about it, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise. Claude wonders at it anyway and counts it as a victory that he’s able to keep his mouth shut.
Lets Peter get on with it, with the buttons and the whispering against his neck and the sliding his shirt off his shoulders. The movement forces Claude’s hands away from where they’ve anchored on Peter’s skin.
“I can-”
“I know you can,” Peter murmurs, his hands still pushing Claude’s sleeves down. Even once the shirt’s off, Peter’s fingers stay curled around his wrists, pinning them to the couch. His lips stay warm and lingering at the point where Claude’s neck meets his chest.
Peter takes a deep breath, sighs, and the wet brush of warmth against already sensitive skin makes Claude suck in a quick gulp of air himself. Peter chuckles at that, and nuzzles closer. Lets go of his wrists, presses his hands against Claude’s chest, and kisses up along his neck. “Are you hard?”
Claude chokes out a laugh and jerks his head up. Peter’s own head rises, and he meets Claude’s eyes. Smiling, slightly, with red and swollen lips. He leans in till their foreheads touch. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, softly, but with obvious amusement, and Claude resists the urge to smack him. He manages mostly because one of Peter’s hands has taken the opportunity to drop to Claude’s still-clothed erection, and is rubbing against it almost cautiously.
And it’s not enough, nowhere near, but it’s maddening in the way Peter’s continued proximity is, and his eyes close. He feels Peter breathing against his lips, the pattern of inhalations and exhalations quickening, even, as the soft, slow strokes stay that way.
“You want me to touch you?”
Claude forces his eyes open. Peter’s are half-shut, and his lips are parted, and as far as Claude can tell, it’s a sincere question. No teasing edge, no assertion of dominance. Just asking.
“Yes.”
“How?” Peter says, low and breathless, while unfastening a couple of buttons and sliding a zipper down. “I mean…fast or slow or…wet, what do you-“
He grabs at Peter’s shoulders and considers shaking him a little. Doesn’t, but does make sure Peter’s looking at him. With concern, obviously, because it’s Peter.
“What?” he even sounds worried, like he thinks he’s done something wrong.
“Nothin’. Just…however. However y’like.”
Peter lets out a quick, relieved sound that’s closer to a giggle than it isn’t, and turns his head enough to press a brief kiss to Claude’s mouth. His hand just about dives between Claude’s pants and his waist, then lower. Quick, glancing contact, like he’s trying to figure out the angle, and Claude looks down for a moment before the fingers in his hair guide his head back up. Peter’s forehead bumps against his again.
His eyes are softer, but still dark as they stare straight at him. His breaths are coming in hot, wet puffs now, and they’re somehow enough to distract from the warm hand currently curled around Claude’s erection.
Although that is all Peter’s doing, just holding him. Like he’s getting him used to the feeling. It’s a bit condescending and entirely frustrating and Claude’s not sure he appreciates it. But he’s also not sure he doesn’t appreciate it enough to protest, to shove him off or anything like that.
“What’re you-”
“Just…” Peter lets out a surprised, breathy chuckle, even as he slides his fingers up the shaft. “You’re really big, that’s all.”
He has to roll his eyes. Has to, just to prove the point, even though what he really wants to do is close them and to sway into the sweet, strong grip of Peter’s hand. “For Christ’s sake, Petrelli.”
“What?” Peter’s eyes open a little wider and the corners of his lips tug down a bit, as if he’s partway to a frown.
“Enough with the porno. You haven’t got to-”
Peter kisses him then, apparently because he can. The angle makes it awkward and messy but Peter’s hands, the one still sliding up and down along his cock and the one griping the back of his head and smoothing light fingers along his scalp, are skilled. His tongue’s not bad, either. It plays along Claude’s lips for a moment, which should feel ridiculous and it does, a bit, but mostly it feels good.
Peter pulls his mouth back. He keeps stroking at the same steady, deliberative pace, and Claude struggles not to lose himself to it.
“You don’t like me talking,” Peter says, voice low and thick with something he can’t identify.
“Don’t…” he gathers in as much air as he can while trying to keep his hips from thrusting. His head wants to fall back but Peter’s hand keeps it up, and somehow his gaze keeps Claude’s eyes open. “Don’t…quite…see the point.”
That makes Peter smile, for some reason.
“The point is…” a twist of the wrist and Claude gasps. “I want you to be…” Peter leans in for a brief kiss and then barely pulls back. “Comfortable. Telling me what you want…”
“Pete-”
“Knowing just how…hot…I think you are…” he’s close, nerve-rackingly close, but Peter’s hand slows as if he knows and is purposefully keeping him on the edge. “How much I wanna feel you…inside of me…” Peter’s forehead bumps up against his and his grip on the back of Claude’s neck tightens, like he’s holding himself up that way, too. “God. I just want you to fuck me so bad, Claude. Just…” the rough quick strokes resume and Peter’s breaths match his and it’s over almost before he knows it.
They both gasp. Peter’s mouth is on his almost immediately, which means it’s going to take that much longer for him to be able to function again at all. Peter’s hand slips from Claude’s cock to Claude’s chest, where it runs through the still-warm traces. Aimlessly, pointlessly, but the trails left by his fingers cool and flare, alternatively, as Claude tries to recover.
He has to close his eyes to do it. Peter lets his head fall back this time. He keeps still because he doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to, as Peter’s tongue slides along the side of his neck, then begins to lap its way across his chest. Taking in every remaining trace of come, thoroughly, like he actually enjoys the taste all that much.
Then Peter’s mouth starts working its way back up, and he presses himself tight against Claude’s body. Chest to chest, and he can feel Peter’s erection between them, even as the young man drops his arms around Claude’s neck and nuzzles their noses together.
“Should’ve just sucked you off, huh?” Peter says, low and lazy, letting out a chuckle as Claude tries to choke out a response.
“Should’ve just…” he wraps an arm around Peter, enjoys the skin of his arm rubbing up against the warm planes of Peter’s back, the soft strands of Peter’s hair yielding easily to the explorations of his fingers. The young man feels strong and solid in his arms and he wants, very surely, more so than he’d ever acknowledge or be able to understand, to hold on to him. “Christ.”
Peter has the good grace not to grin, but Claude can tell he wants to, and he can’t even quite hate him for it. Can’t help but sigh as Peter’s lips settle against his throat.
“I’ll give you a minute,” Peter murmurs, between wet flicks of his tongue, and Claude laughs as he runs his hands down his back again.
“Gonna need a bit more than that, mate,” he feels Peter chuckle against him, and then give a satisfied little hum once Claude’s hand slides down his hip and between his legs. “If you want me to fuck you, that is.”
“Mm, I can wait,” Peter’s hips sway as he rocks against Claude’s hand. His jeans are rough against Claude’s palm but he can feel the warmth of Peter’s erection underneath them.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says, lightly. Gives a quick squeeze, and smiles at Peter’s gasp. The young man drops his hands to Claude’s shoulders, bracing himself, and sways again. Claude glances up; Peter’s eyes are shut and his mouth is open.
And he almost can’t believe it, how affected Peter seems to be by this. A part of him, a part he’s not terrible proud of, feels actual suspicion at it. He tries to ignore that, drown it out, focus his attention elsewhere. Devotes his energy to undoing Peter’s trousers and drawing out his cock.
It’s thick and full and hot in his hand, and Peter’s body stills. His breathing stays quick and sharp, and his hands grip almost painfully at Claude’s shoulders. He tries to stroke, tries to keep a good rhythm, but it feels off. Peter’s still tense, biting at his lower lip, as if trying to keep himself from doing or saying something.
Claude can’t quite bring himself to ask what. He just slides his other hand back around Peter’s thigh, and lets it linger there as he considers the logistics of the situation.
“Sit up,” he says, finally, letting his hand fall away from Peter’s cock and around Peter’s other thigh as well.
“Wh-why?” Peter sounds utterly rattled and doesn’t even open his eyes.
“Go on, then,” he pulls the young man forward, till he’s kneeling perpendicular to the couch. It puts the bright red flush across Peter’s stomach at about eye level.
“Claude-”
“Just...” he ducks his head as far as he can. It strains his neck more than a bit, and the added weight of Peter makes it just on the edge of painful. Peter makes a quick apologetic sound and suddenly his hands are off Claude’s shoulders and scrambling at the back of the couch.
“What’re you-” cut off with a gasp as Claude slides his lips over the head and gives it a light suck. “Fuck. Yes.”
It’s the last coherent thing to come out of Peter’s mouth for a while. After that there’s a lot of choked out moans, mostly, as Claude works his tongue up and around, along the slit, down the shaft.
It goes well for a while; Claude’s vantage point of sitting underneath him with his forehead braced against Peter’s stomach makes Peter’s alternating sharp gasps and deep gulps of air more intimate than just having his cock in his mouth would suggest, and even that’s not as difficult to get used to as he’d remembered.
Then Peter’s hips give a thrust that Claude isn’t quite expecting, and almost gags at, and as uncomfortable as that is for him, he’s even less eager to deal with Peter’s reaction to it than he is to experience it again.
And he’s right to be, because Peter whimpers almost comically, pulling back until he slips out of Claude’s mouth. His hands slide into Claude’s hair again, cradling the back of his head, and when Claude glances up, he seems to be trying to form a breathless apology.
“Don’t, ’s fine,” Claude says, preemptively, and drops his head again. Draws the now slick, impossible warm and hard and dripping flesh back into his mouth, and gives it another deep suck. His hands are still around Peter’s thighs, and he pulls them forward, before guiding them back. Peter grunts, and his hips buck again. Claude’s ready for it this time; relaxes his throat, keeps his lips tight around him, and tries to make as encouraging a sound as he can.
Peter catches on surprisingly quickly. One hand goes back to the edge of the couch, bracing himself again as he rocks. The other stays in Claude’s hair, fingers half stroking, half pulling as he thrusts in and out. Mumbling something that’s impossible to decipher, pushing past the careful, considerate shell he’s built around himself. He gives an almost brutal shove, and his grip in Claude’s hair tightens and keeps Claude’s head still as he floods Claude’s mouth.
Then Peter sighs. Lets go. Goes back to stroking, gently, at the back of Claude’s head, the nape of his neck. Moves to pull back, but Claude keeps his mouth around him, swallowing until he softens completely against his tongue.
Even then he lets it slide out slowly. Drops his lips to the curve of Peter’s hip, and starts licking his way back up. Makes it as far as Peter’s navel before his head is pulled back again and Peter’s mouth is forced against his, which is entirely all right by him.
They lie tangled together in the aftermath. Peter’s body is loose and warm, impossible to move, and he mostly doesn’t mind. His breath leaves damp little trails along Claude’s throat, followed by slow, soft kisses. His fingers run idly along Claude’s stomach.
For his part, Claude lets his hands travel. Over Peter’s shoulders, down his arms. Following the curve of Peter’s spine, down to the small of his back. He’s reluctant to go further. Peter nuzzles against his neck and he feels like he doesn’t have to.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Peter sounds halfway there already, but Claude nods before he can stop himself.
“Why’s that, then?” he says, running his other hand through Peter’s hair, and the young man gives a drowsy chuckle before speaking again.
“I’m hungry. And you owe me dinner. At least.”
“That all it takes for you to put out?”
“Lucky you, huh?” Peter lifts his head. His eyes are bright and his hair is well beyond mussed. Claude gives it a ruffle for good measure rather than respond.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 3300+
Summary: In which there is porn and really that's it, aside from some hair ruffling and also some totally original Claude and/or Peter issues that I have never addressed before, ever. Additional sarcasm may or may not be included. Sequel to Ask which is something that, ironically, I don't think anyone actually asked for.
A/N: I was all panicky and "All I ever write is porn, woe!" and then I realized...not only have I not posted fic yet this year, I haven't written/posted anything higher than PG13 since August 2010. Yay, me? Title from this song.
Claude’s not the easiest of men to surprise.
A career built on seeking out individuals with abilities that by definition defied well-established scientific principles, combined with a naturally cynical disposition that’d only been enhanced by his own scientific principle defying ability, has made him wary, yes, but it’s also made him quite at ease with the broad range of humanity’s capabilities, motivations, and desires. Generally speaking, he’s quite comfortable saying that he knows what to expect of people, and that they rarely let him down.
But if he’d been asked to guess what it would take for Peter Petrelli to end up not only in his lap, not only kissing him, and not only doing so with almost ridiculous abandon, but to also be entirely sober at the time, he would not have guessed that a bit of out-of-practice guitar playing would be all it took. He supposes there’s really no accounting for taste.
The fact that he’s over-thinking it, that he would’ve guessed. But it’s impossible not to. Weeks of trying to keep himself from getting too close, months of guilt and worse, several bloody years without having to deal with this sort of situation, and he can’t even imagine what’s going through Peter’s head. Well, no, actually, he can imagine it: nothing, nothing at all, because if there’s anyone who would act on such a reckless, thoughtless, stupid impulse without thinking through the potential minefield he was waltzing into, it would indeed be Peter.
Peter. Who’s still on top of him, who’s still kissing him much too hard, and who’s now begun to make soft, unnecessarily pleasing sounds against his mouth.
And it’s not like he wants to stop him, to stop this, because he doesn’t. He’s got a beautiful young man pawing away at him and melting into every hesitant touch he lets himself venture, he’s not about to turn him down. But there’s no denying it’s been a while, no avoiding the fact that he’s not entirely sure how much Peter’ll want or how much he’ll be able to give him.
“Hey,” Peter’s voice cuts through his already muddled thoughts, and he glances up. Peter’s lips are quirked up in a corner, as if on the verge of a smile, and his eyes are already mostly there. His hands are on Claude’s shoulders now, and his thighs are under Claude’s palms. “Can I…can I ask you something?”
Obviously, he wants to say. Apparently. Something smart, at the very least. But for some reason, with Peter that close, all he can manage is, “Yeah?”
“Do you want it? I mean, the guitar, I was gonna…” Peter gives a distracted, shaky laugh, and kisses him again. Pulls back enough to be able to speak, but not far enough that their lips don’t brush with every other word. “Give it to you. If you…” a deep breath and he sweeps in again, all wet lips and roaming hands. “Thought you might…”
“I…” he has to close his eyes and can’t think of anything to say anyway, so he opens them again. “I dunno, I-”
Peter sways, somehow; tilts his head, and their lips meet at an angle. It’s not terribly comfortable, and Claude turns his own head to be able to accommodate it rather than answer any more questions. Peter manages to press even closer then, his torso flat against Claude’s chest. Claude wraps his arms around him to make sure he stays there.
“God, you feel good,” Peter says, his eyes hooded, his breaths shallow. “Wanted to…wanted to do this for so…” he surges into another kiss, and slides his hands down Claude’s chest in the process. Separates enough to be able to pant, “You are so warm.”
He should be. He feels like he’s on fire, with Peter rocking against him determinedly, and continuing to kiss him as if it’s the one and only thing keeping him alive. He feels the young man’s fingers running down his sides, and then up. It makes him shudder, makes him tighten his grasp on Peter’s waist and let his head fall back against the edge of the couch. Peter follows, begins to trail kisses down his throat. Claude runs his hands over Peter’s chest, then up to his shoulders. He can feel the strain of muscle underneath his clothes. Peter’s hands slip lower, along his hips. He thinks he may stop breathing.
Peter pulls back just long enough to drag his shirt off over his head and let it drop to the floor. Then he’s back, kissing Claude’s neck. Grasping Claude’s wrists, guiding his hands till they rest about level with his hips. Claude finds himself almost reluctant to move them. Peter’s just so smooth, and yielding, and almost too perfect to touch.
He runs an experimental hand up his back, finally, and Peter moans. The sound is everywhere, quavering and erotic and suddenly enough to set Claude off. He pushes Peter away, slightly, and feels a chill against his skin where Peter’s lips had been.
“What? Are you…” Peter’s eyes are instantly full of concern. “You don’t want to? It’s okay. I didn’t mean to...if you don’t…”
“Pete,” he sighs, and holds on to him lest the young man make the very stupid, very predictable, very Peter decision to pull back entirely and fall over himself in the desire to accommodate him.
“You…you wanna slow down? It’s okay, we can-“
Claude leans up, just to stop him from talking. It works for a bit; Peter’s mouth opens against his and his breathing quickens and his hands move up till they’re wrapped around the back of Claude’s neck. But he pulls back again eventually.
“I mean it. Anything you don’t wanna do, just-“
“Don’t want to talk,” he says, a little quickly, and based on the look on Peter’s face, he’s pretty sure the lad’s not going to let him leave it at that. He drops his head against the back of the couch and gets a good look at the ceiling for a few seconds, as he feels Peter shift till he’s basically upright. Still sitting in Claude’s lap, though, which is not going to do anything for his control of the situation.
“Hey,” Peter says, his hands stroking along Claude’s shoulders, down his arms. “Listen. This is okay. We’re okay. Okay?”
He’s too blown away by Peter’s eloquence to respond verbally, but does nod, in the hope that he’ll stop feeling the intense concern of Peter’s gaze boring into him. He does; it’s replaced by a rush of warmth as Peter leans in again, his mouth finding its way to right below Claude’s ear.
His hands rest flat on Claude’s chest for a moment, as he just breathes against him. Steadying, somehow, which must’ve been the intent. Claude lets his own palms settle against the small of Peter’s back and plans to keep them there for the time being. Anything else seems like too much of a risk.
“I’m gonna unbutton your shirt now,” Peter murmurs, his tongue flickering just barely at Claude’s skin, and the building ache to just thrust against him flares. Peter seems to realize it; whispers a quick “Hold on,” even as his fingers work at the buttons. He’s quick about it, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise. Claude wonders at it anyway and counts it as a victory that he’s able to keep his mouth shut.
Lets Peter get on with it, with the buttons and the whispering against his neck and the sliding his shirt off his shoulders. The movement forces Claude’s hands away from where they’ve anchored on Peter’s skin.
“I can-”
“I know you can,” Peter murmurs, his hands still pushing Claude’s sleeves down. Even once the shirt’s off, Peter’s fingers stay curled around his wrists, pinning them to the couch. His lips stay warm and lingering at the point where Claude’s neck meets his chest.
Peter takes a deep breath, sighs, and the wet brush of warmth against already sensitive skin makes Claude suck in a quick gulp of air himself. Peter chuckles at that, and nuzzles closer. Lets go of his wrists, presses his hands against Claude’s chest, and kisses up along his neck. “Are you hard?”
Claude chokes out a laugh and jerks his head up. Peter’s own head rises, and he meets Claude’s eyes. Smiling, slightly, with red and swollen lips. He leans in till their foreheads touch. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, softly, but with obvious amusement, and Claude resists the urge to smack him. He manages mostly because one of Peter’s hands has taken the opportunity to drop to Claude’s still-clothed erection, and is rubbing against it almost cautiously.
And it’s not enough, nowhere near, but it’s maddening in the way Peter’s continued proximity is, and his eyes close. He feels Peter breathing against his lips, the pattern of inhalations and exhalations quickening, even, as the soft, slow strokes stay that way.
“You want me to touch you?”
Claude forces his eyes open. Peter’s are half-shut, and his lips are parted, and as far as Claude can tell, it’s a sincere question. No teasing edge, no assertion of dominance. Just asking.
“Yes.”
“How?” Peter says, low and breathless, while unfastening a couple of buttons and sliding a zipper down. “I mean…fast or slow or…wet, what do you-“
He grabs at Peter’s shoulders and considers shaking him a little. Doesn’t, but does make sure Peter’s looking at him. With concern, obviously, because it’s Peter.
“What?” he even sounds worried, like he thinks he’s done something wrong.
“Nothin’. Just…however. However y’like.”
Peter lets out a quick, relieved sound that’s closer to a giggle than it isn’t, and turns his head enough to press a brief kiss to Claude’s mouth. His hand just about dives between Claude’s pants and his waist, then lower. Quick, glancing contact, like he’s trying to figure out the angle, and Claude looks down for a moment before the fingers in his hair guide his head back up. Peter’s forehead bumps against his again.
His eyes are softer, but still dark as they stare straight at him. His breaths are coming in hot, wet puffs now, and they’re somehow enough to distract from the warm hand currently curled around Claude’s erection.
Although that is all Peter’s doing, just holding him. Like he’s getting him used to the feeling. It’s a bit condescending and entirely frustrating and Claude’s not sure he appreciates it. But he’s also not sure he doesn’t appreciate it enough to protest, to shove him off or anything like that.
“What’re you-”
“Just…” Peter lets out a surprised, breathy chuckle, even as he slides his fingers up the shaft. “You’re really big, that’s all.”
He has to roll his eyes. Has to, just to prove the point, even though what he really wants to do is close them and to sway into the sweet, strong grip of Peter’s hand. “For Christ’s sake, Petrelli.”
“What?” Peter’s eyes open a little wider and the corners of his lips tug down a bit, as if he’s partway to a frown.
“Enough with the porno. You haven’t got to-”
Peter kisses him then, apparently because he can. The angle makes it awkward and messy but Peter’s hands, the one still sliding up and down along his cock and the one griping the back of his head and smoothing light fingers along his scalp, are skilled. His tongue’s not bad, either. It plays along Claude’s lips for a moment, which should feel ridiculous and it does, a bit, but mostly it feels good.
Peter pulls his mouth back. He keeps stroking at the same steady, deliberative pace, and Claude struggles not to lose himself to it.
“You don’t like me talking,” Peter says, voice low and thick with something he can’t identify.
“Don’t…” he gathers in as much air as he can while trying to keep his hips from thrusting. His head wants to fall back but Peter’s hand keeps it up, and somehow his gaze keeps Claude’s eyes open. “Don’t…quite…see the point.”
That makes Peter smile, for some reason.
“The point is…” a twist of the wrist and Claude gasps. “I want you to be…” Peter leans in for a brief kiss and then barely pulls back. “Comfortable. Telling me what you want…”
“Pete-”
“Knowing just how…hot…I think you are…” he’s close, nerve-rackingly close, but Peter’s hand slows as if he knows and is purposefully keeping him on the edge. “How much I wanna feel you…inside of me…” Peter’s forehead bumps up against his and his grip on the back of Claude’s neck tightens, like he’s holding himself up that way, too. “God. I just want you to fuck me so bad, Claude. Just…” the rough quick strokes resume and Peter’s breaths match his and it’s over almost before he knows it.
They both gasp. Peter’s mouth is on his almost immediately, which means it’s going to take that much longer for him to be able to function again at all. Peter’s hand slips from Claude’s cock to Claude’s chest, where it runs through the still-warm traces. Aimlessly, pointlessly, but the trails left by his fingers cool and flare, alternatively, as Claude tries to recover.
He has to close his eyes to do it. Peter lets his head fall back this time. He keeps still because he doesn’t think he could move even if he wanted to, as Peter’s tongue slides along the side of his neck, then begins to lap its way across his chest. Taking in every remaining trace of come, thoroughly, like he actually enjoys the taste all that much.
Then Peter’s mouth starts working its way back up, and he presses himself tight against Claude’s body. Chest to chest, and he can feel Peter’s erection between them, even as the young man drops his arms around Claude’s neck and nuzzles their noses together.
“Should’ve just sucked you off, huh?” Peter says, low and lazy, letting out a chuckle as Claude tries to choke out a response.
“Should’ve just…” he wraps an arm around Peter, enjoys the skin of his arm rubbing up against the warm planes of Peter’s back, the soft strands of Peter’s hair yielding easily to the explorations of his fingers. The young man feels strong and solid in his arms and he wants, very surely, more so than he’d ever acknowledge or be able to understand, to hold on to him. “Christ.”
Peter has the good grace not to grin, but Claude can tell he wants to, and he can’t even quite hate him for it. Can’t help but sigh as Peter’s lips settle against his throat.
“I’ll give you a minute,” Peter murmurs, between wet flicks of his tongue, and Claude laughs as he runs his hands down his back again.
“Gonna need a bit more than that, mate,” he feels Peter chuckle against him, and then give a satisfied little hum once Claude’s hand slides down his hip and between his legs. “If you want me to fuck you, that is.”
“Mm, I can wait,” Peter’s hips sway as he rocks against Claude’s hand. His jeans are rough against Claude’s palm but he can feel the warmth of Peter’s erection underneath them.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says, lightly. Gives a quick squeeze, and smiles at Peter’s gasp. The young man drops his hands to Claude’s shoulders, bracing himself, and sways again. Claude glances up; Peter’s eyes are shut and his mouth is open.
And he almost can’t believe it, how affected Peter seems to be by this. A part of him, a part he’s not terrible proud of, feels actual suspicion at it. He tries to ignore that, drown it out, focus his attention elsewhere. Devotes his energy to undoing Peter’s trousers and drawing out his cock.
It’s thick and full and hot in his hand, and Peter’s body stills. His breathing stays quick and sharp, and his hands grip almost painfully at Claude’s shoulders. He tries to stroke, tries to keep a good rhythm, but it feels off. Peter’s still tense, biting at his lower lip, as if trying to keep himself from doing or saying something.
Claude can’t quite bring himself to ask what. He just slides his other hand back around Peter’s thigh, and lets it linger there as he considers the logistics of the situation.
“Sit up,” he says, finally, letting his hand fall away from Peter’s cock and around Peter’s other thigh as well.
“Wh-why?” Peter sounds utterly rattled and doesn’t even open his eyes.
“Go on, then,” he pulls the young man forward, till he’s kneeling perpendicular to the couch. It puts the bright red flush across Peter’s stomach at about eye level.
“Claude-”
“Just...” he ducks his head as far as he can. It strains his neck more than a bit, and the added weight of Peter makes it just on the edge of painful. Peter makes a quick apologetic sound and suddenly his hands are off Claude’s shoulders and scrambling at the back of the couch.
“What’re you-” cut off with a gasp as Claude slides his lips over the head and gives it a light suck. “Fuck. Yes.”
It’s the last coherent thing to come out of Peter’s mouth for a while. After that there’s a lot of choked out moans, mostly, as Claude works his tongue up and around, along the slit, down the shaft.
It goes well for a while; Claude’s vantage point of sitting underneath him with his forehead braced against Peter’s stomach makes Peter’s alternating sharp gasps and deep gulps of air more intimate than just having his cock in his mouth would suggest, and even that’s not as difficult to get used to as he’d remembered.
Then Peter’s hips give a thrust that Claude isn’t quite expecting, and almost gags at, and as uncomfortable as that is for him, he’s even less eager to deal with Peter’s reaction to it than he is to experience it again.
And he’s right to be, because Peter whimpers almost comically, pulling back until he slips out of Claude’s mouth. His hands slide into Claude’s hair again, cradling the back of his head, and when Claude glances up, he seems to be trying to form a breathless apology.
“Don’t, ’s fine,” Claude says, preemptively, and drops his head again. Draws the now slick, impossible warm and hard and dripping flesh back into his mouth, and gives it another deep suck. His hands are still around Peter’s thighs, and he pulls them forward, before guiding them back. Peter grunts, and his hips buck again. Claude’s ready for it this time; relaxes his throat, keeps his lips tight around him, and tries to make as encouraging a sound as he can.
Peter catches on surprisingly quickly. One hand goes back to the edge of the couch, bracing himself again as he rocks. The other stays in Claude’s hair, fingers half stroking, half pulling as he thrusts in and out. Mumbling something that’s impossible to decipher, pushing past the careful, considerate shell he’s built around himself. He gives an almost brutal shove, and his grip in Claude’s hair tightens and keeps Claude’s head still as he floods Claude’s mouth.
Then Peter sighs. Lets go. Goes back to stroking, gently, at the back of Claude’s head, the nape of his neck. Moves to pull back, but Claude keeps his mouth around him, swallowing until he softens completely against his tongue.
Even then he lets it slide out slowly. Drops his lips to the curve of Peter’s hip, and starts licking his way back up. Makes it as far as Peter’s navel before his head is pulled back again and Peter’s mouth is forced against his, which is entirely all right by him.
They lie tangled together in the aftermath. Peter’s body is loose and warm, impossible to move, and he mostly doesn’t mind. His breath leaves damp little trails along Claude’s throat, followed by slow, soft kisses. His fingers run idly along Claude’s stomach.
For his part, Claude lets his hands travel. Over Peter’s shoulders, down his arms. Following the curve of Peter’s spine, down to the small of his back. He’s reluctant to go further. Peter nuzzles against his neck and he feels like he doesn’t have to.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Peter sounds halfway there already, but Claude nods before he can stop himself.
“Why’s that, then?” he says, running his other hand through Peter’s hair, and the young man gives a drowsy chuckle before speaking again.
“I’m hungry. And you owe me dinner. At least.”
“That all it takes for you to put out?”
“Lucky you, huh?” Peter lifts his head. His eyes are bright and his hair is well beyond mussed. Claude gives it a ruffle for good measure rather than respond.