Gift
Ahah! Finally! Done! And now exhausted. Grr.
Title: Gift
Characters: Plaude
Summary: River porn, basically.
Rating:: R-ish
Warnings: Another very self indulgent thing.
Spoilers: Nope. None.
Disclaimer: Not at all mine.
Claude sighed, ache of a long day’s work not quite set in, but hovering, biding its time. Waiting for him to go to sleep, before attacking, making the rest of his week miserable.
And if he was at the point of anthropomorphizing pain, then he knew he was in trouble.
He sighed again, dropped to his knees at the bank of what could, in the most charitable terms, be called a river.
He was, of course, infamously miserly when it came to terms in general, and would’ve classified the bloody thing as a stream that could, perhaps, have been making more of an effort.
But the water was clear, at least, cupped in his palm; cool, splashed on his face; fresh, teasing between his lips as he drew out another hand-full to rub through his sweat-matted hair and the back of his neck.
He dropped his fingers below the surface again, let small, brisk ripples ebb around them, as he lowered his head and took a large, gulping drink.
“Hey,” breathed softly at the back of his neck, as arms coiled suddenly around his waist.
The boy was certainly getting better at moving quietly, or he was getting better at letting down his guard.
He wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.
“Hey,” he answered, teasing, as he tried to dislodge the arms around him gently.
Found it impossible, as Peter curled closer, and quite adamantly refused to be moved.
Claude reached down again, resigned, casual, for a handful of water that he brought up to his lips, before quickly throwing it over his shoulder.
And Peter just laughed, sputtering a bit, before dropping another kiss the back of his neck.
“Love you like this,” and Claude couldn’t help but chuckle, raise his eyebrows even though the boy couldn’t see him.
“Sweat-soaked and dust covered?” he grinned, “Got a thing for the common man, have you?”
“Got a thing for you,” which, of course, and smooth hands slipped under his shirt, crept up his chest. “And there’s nothing common about you.”
“Weren’t you sleepin’, pup?” he murmured, as if the lazy looseness of the warmth around him wasn’t answer enough.
“And miss this?” he could hear Peter giggle, as he turned his head in a not terribly comfortable manner, to see still-hooded green eyes and the beginnings of a crooked smile.
“And what’s this?” he laughed, turning back, as his shirt was pushed up.
Raised his arms to accommodate it coming off, and felt a mild shock of skin against skin as Peter brushed against him.
“You,” he could hear Peter grin, as slightly wet hair brushed across his cheek and was followed by a kiss, a wonderfully sweet gesture somewhat tainted by the slow roll of hips that Claude would’ve deemed automatic, unintentional, had Peter not quite recently developed the unstated goal of driving him to distraction at the worst possible times. “All…wet…” quick kiss to his temple, light tongue lapping up a drop of water that had formed there, “And…tired…”
“You like me tired?” He chuckled again, feeling Peter’s hands slide down his sides. “That’d explain it, then.”
“Explain what?” Peter mumbled against his shoulder, lips tracing over an old scar.
“How bloody exhaustin’, you are,” and Peter snorted, bit slightly at his shoulder. “Well, I’m not precisely complainin’, just-.”
“What’s this from?” said softly, curious, with a kiss to skin still sensitive after all this time, and Claude stilled.
“Spear,” he sighed, as careful lips were pressed to his spine. “Barely grazed me.”
“And this?” light brush of fingers below his ribs.
“Almost got stabbed,” and he shut his eyes, felt Peter shift, kiss his shoulder.
“What happened?”
“I moved,” gentle touch to his cheek and he turned, opened his eyes, let his hand fall automatically to the smooth curve of a waist as soft lips met his own and a palm was pressed flat to his chest.
And then he was letting himself be pushed back, Peter sliding on top of him, pressing against him, kissing him between soft panted breaths and quiet desperate noises.
A kind of sweet exuberance with Peter, always, attempts at calculation abandoned half-way through, sometimes even before they’d begun, and it felt, sometimes, like he was overwhelming the boy.
Because Peter would close his eyes, and sigh, and kiss like it was all that mattered, like they were all that mattered.
Which was never the case and never really would be, but it was getting much too easy to pretend otherwise.
Not just when Peter was rocking against him, hips shifting, sliding, tempting, and gasping into his mouth, breathing into him.
But when they awoke together, Peter petulant, or at least as petulant as Peter ever managed to get, at the early hour but still, always, trying.
Curious and honest, needing approval, yes, but also genuinely, distressingly eager to do well. Do right.
And he should’ve hated it; should’ve despaired at it; should’ve been anything other than downright charmed by the idealism and taken completely in by the wide-eyed, mooning looks.
Should’ve been past thinking about it, what with Peter on top of him, flushed and panting and giving him one of the aforementioned mooning looks that would’ve been cloying and suffocating were it not for the crooked smile that accompanied them.
Had he been a romantic, he would’ve figure that was because that smile made those looks Peter’s.
Had he been a romantic, of course.
“Hey,” Peter was murmuring, a dark lock of hair falling across his face. “What’re you thinking about?”
“What?” he smiled, realized that he hadn’t been, reached up to stroke back silken strands.
Silken strands? A voice, half-forgotten but ingratiating, drawled. Really? Not at all sentimental, that.
Was quickly forgotten, in the face of darkened, concerned eyes.
“You were…you looked…distracted,” Peter frowned, elbows pressed lightly to Claude’s shoulders and body hovering. “Are you really tired, because…because we don’t have to…I mean, I can wait, if you-”
Claude chuckled, leaned up to capture lips that smiled against him automatically, to slide his hands up a back that arched under his fingers, pressed trembling, tensing flesh against him and set him choking back a moan at a lazy shift of Peter’s hips.
And then Peter was shifting again, slipping gently stroking fingers from Claude’s hair to his shoulders, around his neck.
Leaving wet traces that were easily ignored and quickly forgotten as he was pulled over, suddenly, one arm still around the boy’s waist and another bracing against the ground.
Peter curving up against him, shivering, panting, wrapping legs around Claude’s waist.
A half-hearted, petulant glare as Claude had to pushed him back, press bucking hips to the ground, had him torn between laughing, and kissing Peter again, coaxing a smile he’d rather feel than just see.
Quick fingers slipping down his chest and across his waist, fiddling with the buttons of his trousers, curling and guiding and stroking, and the scale tipped to the side of kissing him again, as he struggled out of rough cloth and towards warm skin.
A tangle of arms and legs sliding against each other, Peter writhing and making desperate, pleading noises and guiding his hand, gasping against his shoulder at the first, careful finger, snapping his hips up at the ones that followed.
Sighing, deep, shuddering, waiting, when Claude pulled away, and the sight of him like that, flushed and needing, but trusting, always so damn trusting…well, it’s not something he could look at for very long, else that trust would have proved severely misplaced.
He leaned close again, eased in as carefully as he could, with Peter hot around him and shuddering against him, murmuring soft, nonsensical sounds, hips bucking up to meet the first thrust.
Rocking up as Claude’s rhythm quickened, legs wrapping around his waist again, arms dropping to the ground for more leverage, and he was finding it entirely too hard to breathe.
Wet warmth blooming between them and Peter went limp, eyes shut and breaths quick and shallow, fingers curling around soft grass.
Then dark eyelashes fluttered, swollen lips parted, and cool fingers reached towards him, pulled him close again.
And Peter was looking up at him, eyes bright and focused only on him, like he always was.
Smiling at him, soft and tired, but satisfied, satiated, thankful, like this was a gift.
Which, Claude knew all too well, was very much true.
Just not precisely, not only for the person Peter thought it was.
*
Title: Gift
Characters: Plaude
Summary: River porn, basically.
Rating:: R-ish
Warnings: Another very self indulgent thing.
Spoilers: Nope. None.
Disclaimer: Not at all mine.
Claude sighed, ache of a long day’s work not quite set in, but hovering, biding its time. Waiting for him to go to sleep, before attacking, making the rest of his week miserable.
And if he was at the point of anthropomorphizing pain, then he knew he was in trouble.
He sighed again, dropped to his knees at the bank of what could, in the most charitable terms, be called a river.
He was, of course, infamously miserly when it came to terms in general, and would’ve classified the bloody thing as a stream that could, perhaps, have been making more of an effort.
But the water was clear, at least, cupped in his palm; cool, splashed on his face; fresh, teasing between his lips as he drew out another hand-full to rub through his sweat-matted hair and the back of his neck.
He dropped his fingers below the surface again, let small, brisk ripples ebb around them, as he lowered his head and took a large, gulping drink.
“Hey,” breathed softly at the back of his neck, as arms coiled suddenly around his waist.
The boy was certainly getting better at moving quietly, or he was getting better at letting down his guard.
He wasn’t sure which was more dangerous.
“Hey,” he answered, teasing, as he tried to dislodge the arms around him gently.
Found it impossible, as Peter curled closer, and quite adamantly refused to be moved.
Claude reached down again, resigned, casual, for a handful of water that he brought up to his lips, before quickly throwing it over his shoulder.
And Peter just laughed, sputtering a bit, before dropping another kiss the back of his neck.
“Love you like this,” and Claude couldn’t help but chuckle, raise his eyebrows even though the boy couldn’t see him.
“Sweat-soaked and dust covered?” he grinned, “Got a thing for the common man, have you?”
“Got a thing for you,” which, of course, and smooth hands slipped under his shirt, crept up his chest. “And there’s nothing common about you.”
“Weren’t you sleepin’, pup?” he murmured, as if the lazy looseness of the warmth around him wasn’t answer enough.
“And miss this?” he could hear Peter giggle, as he turned his head in a not terribly comfortable manner, to see still-hooded green eyes and the beginnings of a crooked smile.
“And what’s this?” he laughed, turning back, as his shirt was pushed up.
Raised his arms to accommodate it coming off, and felt a mild shock of skin against skin as Peter brushed against him.
“You,” he could hear Peter grin, as slightly wet hair brushed across his cheek and was followed by a kiss, a wonderfully sweet gesture somewhat tainted by the slow roll of hips that Claude would’ve deemed automatic, unintentional, had Peter not quite recently developed the unstated goal of driving him to distraction at the worst possible times. “All…wet…” quick kiss to his temple, light tongue lapping up a drop of water that had formed there, “And…tired…”
“You like me tired?” He chuckled again, feeling Peter’s hands slide down his sides. “That’d explain it, then.”
“Explain what?” Peter mumbled against his shoulder, lips tracing over an old scar.
“How bloody exhaustin’, you are,” and Peter snorted, bit slightly at his shoulder. “Well, I’m not precisely complainin’, just-.”
“What’s this from?” said softly, curious, with a kiss to skin still sensitive after all this time, and Claude stilled.
“Spear,” he sighed, as careful lips were pressed to his spine. “Barely grazed me.”
“And this?” light brush of fingers below his ribs.
“Almost got stabbed,” and he shut his eyes, felt Peter shift, kiss his shoulder.
“What happened?”
“I moved,” gentle touch to his cheek and he turned, opened his eyes, let his hand fall automatically to the smooth curve of a waist as soft lips met his own and a palm was pressed flat to his chest.
And then he was letting himself be pushed back, Peter sliding on top of him, pressing against him, kissing him between soft panted breaths and quiet desperate noises.
A kind of sweet exuberance with Peter, always, attempts at calculation abandoned half-way through, sometimes even before they’d begun, and it felt, sometimes, like he was overwhelming the boy.
Because Peter would close his eyes, and sigh, and kiss like it was all that mattered, like they were all that mattered.
Which was never the case and never really would be, but it was getting much too easy to pretend otherwise.
Not just when Peter was rocking against him, hips shifting, sliding, tempting, and gasping into his mouth, breathing into him.
But when they awoke together, Peter petulant, or at least as petulant as Peter ever managed to get, at the early hour but still, always, trying.
Curious and honest, needing approval, yes, but also genuinely, distressingly eager to do well. Do right.
And he should’ve hated it; should’ve despaired at it; should’ve been anything other than downright charmed by the idealism and taken completely in by the wide-eyed, mooning looks.
Should’ve been past thinking about it, what with Peter on top of him, flushed and panting and giving him one of the aforementioned mooning looks that would’ve been cloying and suffocating were it not for the crooked smile that accompanied them.
Had he been a romantic, he would’ve figure that was because that smile made those looks Peter’s.
Had he been a romantic, of course.
“Hey,” Peter was murmuring, a dark lock of hair falling across his face. “What’re you thinking about?”
“What?” he smiled, realized that he hadn’t been, reached up to stroke back silken strands.
Silken strands? A voice, half-forgotten but ingratiating, drawled. Really? Not at all sentimental, that.
Was quickly forgotten, in the face of darkened, concerned eyes.
“You were…you looked…distracted,” Peter frowned, elbows pressed lightly to Claude’s shoulders and body hovering. “Are you really tired, because…because we don’t have to…I mean, I can wait, if you-”
Claude chuckled, leaned up to capture lips that smiled against him automatically, to slide his hands up a back that arched under his fingers, pressed trembling, tensing flesh against him and set him choking back a moan at a lazy shift of Peter’s hips.
And then Peter was shifting again, slipping gently stroking fingers from Claude’s hair to his shoulders, around his neck.
Leaving wet traces that were easily ignored and quickly forgotten as he was pulled over, suddenly, one arm still around the boy’s waist and another bracing against the ground.
Peter curving up against him, shivering, panting, wrapping legs around Claude’s waist.
A half-hearted, petulant glare as Claude had to pushed him back, press bucking hips to the ground, had him torn between laughing, and kissing Peter again, coaxing a smile he’d rather feel than just see.
Quick fingers slipping down his chest and across his waist, fiddling with the buttons of his trousers, curling and guiding and stroking, and the scale tipped to the side of kissing him again, as he struggled out of rough cloth and towards warm skin.
A tangle of arms and legs sliding against each other, Peter writhing and making desperate, pleading noises and guiding his hand, gasping against his shoulder at the first, careful finger, snapping his hips up at the ones that followed.
Sighing, deep, shuddering, waiting, when Claude pulled away, and the sight of him like that, flushed and needing, but trusting, always so damn trusting…well, it’s not something he could look at for very long, else that trust would have proved severely misplaced.
He leaned close again, eased in as carefully as he could, with Peter hot around him and shuddering against him, murmuring soft, nonsensical sounds, hips bucking up to meet the first thrust.
Rocking up as Claude’s rhythm quickened, legs wrapping around his waist again, arms dropping to the ground for more leverage, and he was finding it entirely too hard to breathe.
Wet warmth blooming between them and Peter went limp, eyes shut and breaths quick and shallow, fingers curling around soft grass.
Then dark eyelashes fluttered, swollen lips parted, and cool fingers reached towards him, pulled him close again.
And Peter was looking up at him, eyes bright and focused only on him, like he always was.
Smiling at him, soft and tired, but satisfied, satiated, thankful, like this was a gift.
Which, Claude knew all too well, was very much true.
Just not precisely, not only for the person Peter thought it was.
*