Reasons Unknown, Part 1
Title: Reasons Unknown
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
A/N: Just because I want to get it out already. Why oh why can I not just write a bit of limo!smut without it turning into...whatever the hell this is? Let me just say: there's a point to way it's structured, there really is, and it will hopefully all make sense after the other 2 parts are up,(and yes that does sound really dirty), which will be between tomorrow and Friday.
Peter let out an embarrassingly loud moan as his head fell back, fingers scrambling vainly for purchase at soft, rich smelling leather, because as much as he wanted to grab at the shoulders of the man who was currently going down on him, for some reason, that seemed a little too intimate and he still had really, totally, absolutely no idea how he’d ended up here.
“Got a light?” a voice, accented, piercing, cut through his thoughts (of Nathan, and Heidi, and how even his mom was looking happy, and how his dad had actually been in the same room with him for more than an hour without an argument breaking out, and how he wasn’t really sure where he fit into this sudden image of internecine harmony the Petrelli family at large seemed to be projecting). It took him a moment to process the words.
“I don’t smoke,” he snapped out, still a bit on edge, and looked, expecting just another businessman, someone from the London office, maybe, a diplomatic blowhard, one more tuxedoed and entitled and unwanted jerk.
“’s not what I asked, mate,” the man said, as Peter took in tall, plain suit (cheap enough that his mother would’ve made a devastatingly polite grimace), open collared shirt, no tie, light brown hair, small scowl, and the most unbelievably, impossibly blue eyes he’d ever seen.
And he smiled, fingers curling around the commemorative match book in his jacket pocket.
He was going to fall off the seat, he was sure he was going to fall off the seat, and probably take his companion with him, and that…that would really suck, because then he’d stop doing that with his tongue and…another, even louder moan and blue eyes found his, amused, maybe, annoyed, and damn it, he was stopping.
“S…sorry,” Peter managed to stutter out, as that mouth slid off his dick and quirked into an especially irritating grin, and it was maybe a little fucked up that that almost made him come, all on its own.
“Smoking kills, you know,” he said, trying to strike a match with desperate fingers, and realizing that that was pretty near impossible. Took a breath as the man smiled at him, wide and a lot more amused than he had any right to be. Nicotine addicts weren’t supposed to be that patient.
“Not at this rate, it doesn’t,” and now he was actually grinning, damn it. Grinning, ear to considerable ear, and watching him with enough focus to be considered staring and more than enough focus to be considered unnerving.
He blushed, and managed, purely by chance, to light the match in a hiss of sulfur and startled yelp as the tiny flame licked over his fingertip.
“Loud one, aren’t you?” Claude smirked up at him, long, elegant fingers still stroking along his thigh, brushing under his knee, and this was really getting pathetic, because that set off a rush of blood that he could practically hear, straight to already almost painfully blood-rushed parts of his anatomy.
“Apparently,” he sighed, eyes closed and hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into his palms keeping him at least a little coherent. A very little.
“Apparently?” he could hear the smugness even if he didn’t see it, and feel the heat of his breath against overly-sensitive skin.
And then what he could feel was Claude shifting, pulling himself back onto the seat, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to sit up or cover himself or what and opening his eyes didn’t really seem to be an option.
“You’re all right,” the man was informing him, and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the innate confidence in the voice or the dry-warm-rough palm under his hand, the soft-gentle-easy brush of the man’s fingers over his, that made him believe it.
But he did; smiled, as the hand under his slide over it, fingers spreading across his palm and it all seemed so much more than a handshake, which is all that it really, technically was.
“Claude,” the man gave him a half nod that it took him an embarrassingly long time to interpret as an encouragement, or maybe expectation.
“Peter,” he said, not quite sure why it almost sounded like a whisper, other than the fact that his breathing had become increasingly erratic.
“Peter?” there was some degree of kindness to the voice, and he felt a little more tempted to look at him.
“Yeah?”
“You all right?”
He swallowed, and opened his eyes sheepishly.
Claude was watching him, again, blue eyes impossibly deep and focused and he shouldn’t have gotten such a thrill out of that but did; did so very much that he couldn’t really couldn’t think, couldn’t really respond, except to give an incredibly lame little wave.
And he groaned as his head fall back, half in embarrassment, half in a complete inability to do anything else as Claude chuckled and winked up at him, before lowering his head.
“You…” he swallowed, hand still warm against Claude’s, breathing still unpredictable. “You still feel like killing yourself?”
And why he phrased it that way, he’d never know, except that it made Claude kind of sort of laugh, and that was enough to make him glad he did.
“If I do?” the man grinned, letting go of his hand but also moving closer, and Peter couldn’t tell if this was an improvement or not.
Breathing wise, not so much; but the scent he was picking up, light and spiced and simple, he really did like that, so on the whole, he figured, better.
“Well, the…the parking lot’s probably better,” he nodded with an authority he didn’t have. “More, you know…” he winced at how obvious he was being. “…private.”
Claude’s mouth was around him again, and for some reason he couldn’t stop watching, as the man shifted onto one knee, his head bobbing up and down with each wicked drag of that tongue and he was totally and completely shocked that he’d lasted this long.
Claude’s hand had found his, guiding it to the back of his head, and Peter wasn’t sure why, really, but it seemed like permission and his hair was soft and cool and smooth curled around his fingers, and there was a sound, pleased and warm and vibrating through him, setting his skin buzzing and his body shifting, sliding against the much-too-slick leather, needing so much more than he knew how to ask for, not that he’d have been able to speak anyway.
And then it was all too much, too warm, too good; his head falling to the side and his lungs straining for air, his fingers tangled (much too tight, he told himself, much too tight) in light brown hair, one leg dangling off the edge of the seat and one elbow pressing painfully against the seatbelt, not that he noticed any of that.
“You comin’ or not?” Claude grinned at him again, as he gave a quick glance into the ballroom: Nathan and Heidi, missing; the original Mr. and Mrs. Petrelli, dancing; official photographers, occupied at the free bar.
“I just have to-“ and Claude’s hand was on his arm, the slightest, warmest pressure, and his eyebrows were raised, as if expecting something. Oh. What he’d been saying. “Just have to make sure I won’t be, you know, missed. Or something. Not that anyone’s going to care but…”
The hand on his arm had slipped lower, to his back, turned guiding, and he didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
It wasn’t that he’d passed out, exactly. As far as he knew, he’d just sort of…drifted, and come back, to the sound of Claude sitting up, to the feeling of wetness against his cheek (condensation of his breath against the leather, he figured), the feeling of every muscle in his body having decided they’d done their duty for the day and didn’t really need to participate in anything else.
Which was not great, because he’d also come back to the feeling that it was suddenly very cold, thin pants and shirt and warm skin where both had ridden up, against clammy, sticky leather, and that the only way he’d ever feel warm again was for Claude to wrap his arms around him and hold him against his chest, for ever.
Not the healthiest of beliefs to have, probably, but his brain didn’t seem to want to contribute anything else, as his lungs started aching from the fact he’d been holding his breath.
He turned his head, and Claude was looking down at him, and for some reason, Peter didn’t feel quite as intimidated about wanting to kiss him and fall asleep against him and never be anywhere else.
“Peter- you- Pete,” and if Claude had thought that was going to discourage him, he was really sadly mistaken.
Because it just felt too good, pressing up against him, kissing him, sliding his arms up under the man’s jacket and across his back, to stop just because he was talking.
He was being reckless. He knew that; there were so many reasons why this was a really bad idea, chief among them being, he had no actual idea who this guy was.
Beyond him being the guy who was letting himself be kissed against the wall of a parking garage with a desperation Peter didn’t really want to examine, and then was kissing him back, hard and thorough and all of the sudden standing up was much harder than it should have been.
He smiled without thinking, fingers curling automatically around the edges of the man’s jacket (and why he was still wearing his, while Peter’s was lying crumpled on the floor, along with his shoes and his tie, didn’t seem to make a lot of sense) and pulling him back down.
Kissing him on the mouth again, and the taste was…odd, something that’d take getting used to, sure, but not that bad, the tongue and the warmth and the…the presence of Claude, heavy against him but careful, easy, stroking back his hair and rocking against him just barely, that made up for it.
And he could feel it, (mature, Pete, really fucking mature, part of him said, but he ignored it), rubbing against the inside of his thigh and the instinctual flood of Oh my god, he wants me too-fueled relief warring with his nervousness at the possibility of this going further than he ever had before with another guy had him blushing and sliding his hands to Claude’s chest, not sure if he wanted to push him away or just…just feel his heart beat, his breathing.
“So?” Claude’s head was cocked to the side, watching him, as he (thankfully, and without fumbling like an idiot) managed to slip the key into the door and open it.
“What?” he said, still a little breathless, partly from the kiss, even though that’d been a while ago, and partly from the residual adrenaline rush that apparently came with stealing limousine keys.
“Where’d you get those, then?”
And that was a good question. Hanging on one of those typical key racks valets used, and the fact that he’d managed to sneak close enough to the bunch of drivers who hung out together at events like these to take it was a little weird.
At least he hadn’t needed to bribe anyone, which had been his initial plan, but was never really a good idea now that his parents, who could offer better bribes, had found out about his tendency to escape from events.
“Stole it?” he kind of grinned, holding the door open as invitingly as he could and waving Claude in.
With a kind of courage that wasn’t really his, and a moment of inspiration that was all luck, with his brain not exactly working at full speed, he moved a hand lower, stroked hesitantly along the front of Claude’s pants.
The sharp intake of breath, which practically stole the air from Peter’s lungs, was encouraging.
Incredibly encouraging, as Claude tilted his head, a different angle to the kiss that let him breath a little easier, have the presence of mind to pull at the already straining zipper.
And it was…strange, warm and dripping against his fingers and…wider than he’d expected, pulsing against his palm and it was hard to concentrate, even with Claude not kissing him anymore.
Probably because instead of kissing him, Claude was panting and whispering against his neck, voice low and perfect and god, he was probably going to come again, just from that.
He wasn’t quite sure how it’d happened, really. One minute there’d been talking, and flirting, as much as he could manage, what with everything that came out of his mouth sounding unbelievably dumb, a half-hearted conversation of leather seats and limos and how there were ashtrays and booze, in limos, and then Claude was kissing him the only way he ever really wanted to be kissed again.
A hand around the small of his back and another in his hair, and maybe, he thought back hazily, he’d started it this time, too, because kissing Claude was a lot easier than trying to talk to Claude and the only real worry was that maybe he wasn’t kissing Claude well enough but…the man didn’t really seem to have any complaints, as he eased Peter off his lap and against the leather seat.
He did come again, just from that, along with the feeling of Claude thrusting against his palm and then coming, too, with a barely-stifled moan and the slight pressure of teeth against his neck, before he moved his head.
And they breathed against each other for a moment that felt like forever, that Peter kind of wished could be forever, even with him half fallen off the seat and Claude’s weight against his chest made it impossibly difficult to catch his breath at all and the feeling of sticky wetness between them going from really incredibly hot to, really, a little bit gross.
Then Claude pulled away from him, with one more of those literally breath-taking kisses, the kind he really should learn how to give, that didn’t do much toward helping him think straight again.
“We used to have sleep-overs in one of these,” he half-giggled, half sighed against Claude’s shoulder, wrapping the man’s jacket tighter around himself.
“Is that right?” Claude said into his hair, amused, maybe a little tired. Probably a lot tired. He felt a lot tired, anyway.
“I...uh,” he yawned, shifting to rest a little more comfortably. “I’d read about this girl who went to Harvard, after living in a car…out of her car…when she was little and…”
“You thought you’d give it a try?” and it was more amused this time, a little teasing, but Peter wasn’t too mad.
“Hey, I was six, okay?” he glanced up, pushing a hand against the warm, steadying chest. “I didn’t quite understand, you know…”
“Causality?” Claude smiled down at him, and he didn’t really feel the need to say anything else.
Just lay back against the warm body, arm wrapping along his waist, and shutting his eyes.
“Did it work?” Claude said, after a moment of stroking at his hair, gentle and lulling and it took him a while to figure it out.
“Not exactly,” he mumbled, feeling altogether too good to worry about it. “Did for Princeton.” Although legacy and a very large donation had probably played more of a role. Not that he’d wanted to go, but it wasn’t like that ever mattered.
Not that any of that was worth thinking about, at the moment.
“There’s tissues…somewhere around here…” he managed to say, as he tried to pull himself up into a less reclined position. Claude winked at him and tossed him the box, and Peter held back a laugh. “…which you’ve found already.”
And it was kind of incredibly awkward, him trying to clean himself up, trying to pull his pants and his underwear up, without hitting his head on the roof, and he had to wonder how Claude had managed, what with his longer legs and arms and…everything.
The line of thought made him blush, again, as he concentrated on making sure his fly was up and that his shirt was basically buttoned, if not tucked in, and then he glanced over at Claude, who looked to be on the verge of hilarious laughter.
“What?”
“You done?” Claude grinned at him, now lounging with surprising comfort at the opposite end of the seat, arm draped over the armrest and a strand of hair over his eye.
Which he then blew off, casually, and Peter couldn’t hold back a snort that turned into a giggle that turned into a couple more.
“What?” Claude scowled at him, sudden but even having just met him (god, probably less than two hours ago), Peter could tell he wasn’t all that upset.
“I do that,” he smiled, easing closer, Claude lifted an arm to let him settle against his shoulder. “Blowing my hair out of my face, I do that.”
“Fantastic,” Claude said down at him, rolling his eyes.
Then kissed him on the forehead, which told Peter everything he really needed to know.
“Oi,” he could feel someone shaking his shoulder, but he didn’t really feel like doing anything about it. “Pete. Wake up.”
“No,” which was pretty direct, not that the person shaking him seemed to get the picture.
“’m late, Pete,” voice sounded strained, and a little bit upset, but still gentle. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay…” he sighed, and rolled over, nestling further into whatever it was that was wrapped around him. “See ya.”
Claude was gone by the time he woke up.
Which was a little bit disappointing, until he remembered he’d tried to wake him up, and then it was really disappointing.
Because now he was gone and he didn’t even get a last name and that was…kind of, for lack of a better word, slutty on his part, and now he’d never see him again and he couldn’t have just woken up instead of…
It was too big for him. The jacket he was wearing.
And there was a matchbook in it.
And it didn’t have Heidi and Nathan’s names in flowing gold script written on it.
What id did have written on it, in business like green ink, was Best Western Hospitality House, 145 East 49th Street, New York City, NY 10017.
Fantastic was the first word that came to mind.
Part 2
*
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. At all.
A/N: Just because I want to get it out already. Why oh why can I not just write a bit of limo!smut without it turning into...whatever the hell this is? Let me just say: there's a point to way it's structured, there really is, and it will hopefully all make sense after the other 2 parts are up,(and yes that does sound really dirty), which will be between tomorrow and Friday.
Peter let out an embarrassingly loud moan as his head fell back, fingers scrambling vainly for purchase at soft, rich smelling leather, because as much as he wanted to grab at the shoulders of the man who was currently going down on him, for some reason, that seemed a little too intimate and he still had really, totally, absolutely no idea how he’d ended up here.
“Got a light?” a voice, accented, piercing, cut through his thoughts (of Nathan, and Heidi, and how even his mom was looking happy, and how his dad had actually been in the same room with him for more than an hour without an argument breaking out, and how he wasn’t really sure where he fit into this sudden image of internecine harmony the Petrelli family at large seemed to be projecting). It took him a moment to process the words.
“I don’t smoke,” he snapped out, still a bit on edge, and looked, expecting just another businessman, someone from the London office, maybe, a diplomatic blowhard, one more tuxedoed and entitled and unwanted jerk.
“’s not what I asked, mate,” the man said, as Peter took in tall, plain suit (cheap enough that his mother would’ve made a devastatingly polite grimace), open collared shirt, no tie, light brown hair, small scowl, and the most unbelievably, impossibly blue eyes he’d ever seen.
And he smiled, fingers curling around the commemorative match book in his jacket pocket.
He was going to fall off the seat, he was sure he was going to fall off the seat, and probably take his companion with him, and that…that would really suck, because then he’d stop doing that with his tongue and…another, even louder moan and blue eyes found his, amused, maybe, annoyed, and damn it, he was stopping.
“S…sorry,” Peter managed to stutter out, as that mouth slid off his dick and quirked into an especially irritating grin, and it was maybe a little fucked up that that almost made him come, all on its own.
“Smoking kills, you know,” he said, trying to strike a match with desperate fingers, and realizing that that was pretty near impossible. Took a breath as the man smiled at him, wide and a lot more amused than he had any right to be. Nicotine addicts weren’t supposed to be that patient.
“Not at this rate, it doesn’t,” and now he was actually grinning, damn it. Grinning, ear to considerable ear, and watching him with enough focus to be considered staring and more than enough focus to be considered unnerving.
He blushed, and managed, purely by chance, to light the match in a hiss of sulfur and startled yelp as the tiny flame licked over his fingertip.
“Loud one, aren’t you?” Claude smirked up at him, long, elegant fingers still stroking along his thigh, brushing under his knee, and this was really getting pathetic, because that set off a rush of blood that he could practically hear, straight to already almost painfully blood-rushed parts of his anatomy.
“Apparently,” he sighed, eyes closed and hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into his palms keeping him at least a little coherent. A very little.
“Apparently?” he could hear the smugness even if he didn’t see it, and feel the heat of his breath against overly-sensitive skin.
And then what he could feel was Claude shifting, pulling himself back onto the seat, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to sit up or cover himself or what and opening his eyes didn’t really seem to be an option.
“You’re all right,” the man was informing him, and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the innate confidence in the voice or the dry-warm-rough palm under his hand, the soft-gentle-easy brush of the man’s fingers over his, that made him believe it.
But he did; smiled, as the hand under his slide over it, fingers spreading across his palm and it all seemed so much more than a handshake, which is all that it really, technically was.
“Claude,” the man gave him a half nod that it took him an embarrassingly long time to interpret as an encouragement, or maybe expectation.
“Peter,” he said, not quite sure why it almost sounded like a whisper, other than the fact that his breathing had become increasingly erratic.
“Peter?” there was some degree of kindness to the voice, and he felt a little more tempted to look at him.
“Yeah?”
“You all right?”
He swallowed, and opened his eyes sheepishly.
Claude was watching him, again, blue eyes impossibly deep and focused and he shouldn’t have gotten such a thrill out of that but did; did so very much that he couldn’t really couldn’t think, couldn’t really respond, except to give an incredibly lame little wave.
And he groaned as his head fall back, half in embarrassment, half in a complete inability to do anything else as Claude chuckled and winked up at him, before lowering his head.
“You…” he swallowed, hand still warm against Claude’s, breathing still unpredictable. “You still feel like killing yourself?”
And why he phrased it that way, he’d never know, except that it made Claude kind of sort of laugh, and that was enough to make him glad he did.
“If I do?” the man grinned, letting go of his hand but also moving closer, and Peter couldn’t tell if this was an improvement or not.
Breathing wise, not so much; but the scent he was picking up, light and spiced and simple, he really did like that, so on the whole, he figured, better.
“Well, the…the parking lot’s probably better,” he nodded with an authority he didn’t have. “More, you know…” he winced at how obvious he was being. “…private.”
Claude’s mouth was around him again, and for some reason he couldn’t stop watching, as the man shifted onto one knee, his head bobbing up and down with each wicked drag of that tongue and he was totally and completely shocked that he’d lasted this long.
Claude’s hand had found his, guiding it to the back of his head, and Peter wasn’t sure why, really, but it seemed like permission and his hair was soft and cool and smooth curled around his fingers, and there was a sound, pleased and warm and vibrating through him, setting his skin buzzing and his body shifting, sliding against the much-too-slick leather, needing so much more than he knew how to ask for, not that he’d have been able to speak anyway.
And then it was all too much, too warm, too good; his head falling to the side and his lungs straining for air, his fingers tangled (much too tight, he told himself, much too tight) in light brown hair, one leg dangling off the edge of the seat and one elbow pressing painfully against the seatbelt, not that he noticed any of that.
“You comin’ or not?” Claude grinned at him again, as he gave a quick glance into the ballroom: Nathan and Heidi, missing; the original Mr. and Mrs. Petrelli, dancing; official photographers, occupied at the free bar.
“I just have to-“ and Claude’s hand was on his arm, the slightest, warmest pressure, and his eyebrows were raised, as if expecting something. Oh. What he’d been saying. “Just have to make sure I won’t be, you know, missed. Or something. Not that anyone’s going to care but…”
The hand on his arm had slipped lower, to his back, turned guiding, and he didn’t bother finishing the sentence.
It wasn’t that he’d passed out, exactly. As far as he knew, he’d just sort of…drifted, and come back, to the sound of Claude sitting up, to the feeling of wetness against his cheek (condensation of his breath against the leather, he figured), the feeling of every muscle in his body having decided they’d done their duty for the day and didn’t really need to participate in anything else.
Which was not great, because he’d also come back to the feeling that it was suddenly very cold, thin pants and shirt and warm skin where both had ridden up, against clammy, sticky leather, and that the only way he’d ever feel warm again was for Claude to wrap his arms around him and hold him against his chest, for ever.
Not the healthiest of beliefs to have, probably, but his brain didn’t seem to want to contribute anything else, as his lungs started aching from the fact he’d been holding his breath.
He turned his head, and Claude was looking down at him, and for some reason, Peter didn’t feel quite as intimidated about wanting to kiss him and fall asleep against him and never be anywhere else.
“Peter- you- Pete,” and if Claude had thought that was going to discourage him, he was really sadly mistaken.
Because it just felt too good, pressing up against him, kissing him, sliding his arms up under the man’s jacket and across his back, to stop just because he was talking.
He was being reckless. He knew that; there were so many reasons why this was a really bad idea, chief among them being, he had no actual idea who this guy was.
Beyond him being the guy who was letting himself be kissed against the wall of a parking garage with a desperation Peter didn’t really want to examine, and then was kissing him back, hard and thorough and all of the sudden standing up was much harder than it should have been.
He smiled without thinking, fingers curling automatically around the edges of the man’s jacket (and why he was still wearing his, while Peter’s was lying crumpled on the floor, along with his shoes and his tie, didn’t seem to make a lot of sense) and pulling him back down.
Kissing him on the mouth again, and the taste was…odd, something that’d take getting used to, sure, but not that bad, the tongue and the warmth and the…the presence of Claude, heavy against him but careful, easy, stroking back his hair and rocking against him just barely, that made up for it.
And he could feel it, (mature, Pete, really fucking mature, part of him said, but he ignored it), rubbing against the inside of his thigh and the instinctual flood of Oh my god, he wants me too-fueled relief warring with his nervousness at the possibility of this going further than he ever had before with another guy had him blushing and sliding his hands to Claude’s chest, not sure if he wanted to push him away or just…just feel his heart beat, his breathing.
“So?” Claude’s head was cocked to the side, watching him, as he (thankfully, and without fumbling like an idiot) managed to slip the key into the door and open it.
“What?” he said, still a little breathless, partly from the kiss, even though that’d been a while ago, and partly from the residual adrenaline rush that apparently came with stealing limousine keys.
“Where’d you get those, then?”
And that was a good question. Hanging on one of those typical key racks valets used, and the fact that he’d managed to sneak close enough to the bunch of drivers who hung out together at events like these to take it was a little weird.
At least he hadn’t needed to bribe anyone, which had been his initial plan, but was never really a good idea now that his parents, who could offer better bribes, had found out about his tendency to escape from events.
“Stole it?” he kind of grinned, holding the door open as invitingly as he could and waving Claude in.
With a kind of courage that wasn’t really his, and a moment of inspiration that was all luck, with his brain not exactly working at full speed, he moved a hand lower, stroked hesitantly along the front of Claude’s pants.
The sharp intake of breath, which practically stole the air from Peter’s lungs, was encouraging.
Incredibly encouraging, as Claude tilted his head, a different angle to the kiss that let him breath a little easier, have the presence of mind to pull at the already straining zipper.
And it was…strange, warm and dripping against his fingers and…wider than he’d expected, pulsing against his palm and it was hard to concentrate, even with Claude not kissing him anymore.
Probably because instead of kissing him, Claude was panting and whispering against his neck, voice low and perfect and god, he was probably going to come again, just from that.
He wasn’t quite sure how it’d happened, really. One minute there’d been talking, and flirting, as much as he could manage, what with everything that came out of his mouth sounding unbelievably dumb, a half-hearted conversation of leather seats and limos and how there were ashtrays and booze, in limos, and then Claude was kissing him the only way he ever really wanted to be kissed again.
A hand around the small of his back and another in his hair, and maybe, he thought back hazily, he’d started it this time, too, because kissing Claude was a lot easier than trying to talk to Claude and the only real worry was that maybe he wasn’t kissing Claude well enough but…the man didn’t really seem to have any complaints, as he eased Peter off his lap and against the leather seat.
He did come again, just from that, along with the feeling of Claude thrusting against his palm and then coming, too, with a barely-stifled moan and the slight pressure of teeth against his neck, before he moved his head.
And they breathed against each other for a moment that felt like forever, that Peter kind of wished could be forever, even with him half fallen off the seat and Claude’s weight against his chest made it impossibly difficult to catch his breath at all and the feeling of sticky wetness between them going from really incredibly hot to, really, a little bit gross.
Then Claude pulled away from him, with one more of those literally breath-taking kisses, the kind he really should learn how to give, that didn’t do much toward helping him think straight again.
“We used to have sleep-overs in one of these,” he half-giggled, half sighed against Claude’s shoulder, wrapping the man’s jacket tighter around himself.
“Is that right?” Claude said into his hair, amused, maybe a little tired. Probably a lot tired. He felt a lot tired, anyway.
“I...uh,” he yawned, shifting to rest a little more comfortably. “I’d read about this girl who went to Harvard, after living in a car…out of her car…when she was little and…”
“You thought you’d give it a try?” and it was more amused this time, a little teasing, but Peter wasn’t too mad.
“Hey, I was six, okay?” he glanced up, pushing a hand against the warm, steadying chest. “I didn’t quite understand, you know…”
“Causality?” Claude smiled down at him, and he didn’t really feel the need to say anything else.
Just lay back against the warm body, arm wrapping along his waist, and shutting his eyes.
“Did it work?” Claude said, after a moment of stroking at his hair, gentle and lulling and it took him a while to figure it out.
“Not exactly,” he mumbled, feeling altogether too good to worry about it. “Did for Princeton.” Although legacy and a very large donation had probably played more of a role. Not that he’d wanted to go, but it wasn’t like that ever mattered.
Not that any of that was worth thinking about, at the moment.
“There’s tissues…somewhere around here…” he managed to say, as he tried to pull himself up into a less reclined position. Claude winked at him and tossed him the box, and Peter held back a laugh. “…which you’ve found already.”
And it was kind of incredibly awkward, him trying to clean himself up, trying to pull his pants and his underwear up, without hitting his head on the roof, and he had to wonder how Claude had managed, what with his longer legs and arms and…everything.
The line of thought made him blush, again, as he concentrated on making sure his fly was up and that his shirt was basically buttoned, if not tucked in, and then he glanced over at Claude, who looked to be on the verge of hilarious laughter.
“What?”
“You done?” Claude grinned at him, now lounging with surprising comfort at the opposite end of the seat, arm draped over the armrest and a strand of hair over his eye.
Which he then blew off, casually, and Peter couldn’t hold back a snort that turned into a giggle that turned into a couple more.
“What?” Claude scowled at him, sudden but even having just met him (god, probably less than two hours ago), Peter could tell he wasn’t all that upset.
“I do that,” he smiled, easing closer, Claude lifted an arm to let him settle against his shoulder. “Blowing my hair out of my face, I do that.”
“Fantastic,” Claude said down at him, rolling his eyes.
Then kissed him on the forehead, which told Peter everything he really needed to know.
“Oi,” he could feel someone shaking his shoulder, but he didn’t really feel like doing anything about it. “Pete. Wake up.”
“No,” which was pretty direct, not that the person shaking him seemed to get the picture.
“’m late, Pete,” voice sounded strained, and a little bit upset, but still gentle. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay…” he sighed, and rolled over, nestling further into whatever it was that was wrapped around him. “See ya.”
Claude was gone by the time he woke up.
Which was a little bit disappointing, until he remembered he’d tried to wake him up, and then it was really disappointing.
Because now he was gone and he didn’t even get a last name and that was…kind of, for lack of a better word, slutty on his part, and now he’d never see him again and he couldn’t have just woken up instead of…
It was too big for him. The jacket he was wearing.
And there was a matchbook in it.
And it didn’t have Heidi and Nathan’s names in flowing gold script written on it.
What id did have written on it, in business like green ink, was Best Western Hospitality House, 145 East 49th Street, New York City, NY 10017.
Fantastic was the first word that came to mind.
Part 2
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