Heroes: "On the Rocks" (Peter/Niki, Peter/Claire imagery, R)
Title: On the Rocks
Author: airspaniel
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Niki, Peter/Claire imagery
Word Count: 1004
Spoilers: "Five Years Later"
Notes: ANGST.
Summary: She is every man's fantasy. Except his.
He sips his scotch and watches the stage. The dancer is tall, blonde, whip-thin and aggressive. She demands full attention, long legs winding around the silver pole, hands in her hair, on her breasts; every movement powerful, erotic and calculated. Her smile is wicked and promising.
You want me. You need me. But you can't have me. You're all lucky I'm giving you this much.
And the men eat it up. They really do. They are putty in her well-manicured hands, just waiting for their mistress to give them more. Mistress “Jessica,” riding high on their devotion.
Peter laughs and drains the glass. It's such a fucking act. He walks behind the bar and pours himself another. He's glad he's invisible; she hates it when he drinks and he doesn’t need her disapproving stare right now.
Theirs is an arrangement of convenience. He's alive; she's alive, so why not? Especially when everything that matters is dead and gone, and neither of them can have what they want. Not anymore.
On stage, she drops to her knees; pouting red lips in a girlish "play with me" expression. She crawls to the edge of the stage like a predator, shoulders rolling, long legs extended behind her, inches away from her worshiping subjects. And any one of them would have gladly dropped a million dollars for the chance to touch, just barely brush fingers against her sacred calves.
She is every man’s fantasy. Except his.
When Peter fucks her later (and he will fuck her, hard; she'll beg him for it. Beg him to make her forget.), he'll bend those coveted limbs back against her chest, knees over his shoulders, pinning her to the bed with his hard body. He’ll lick and bite the sensitive skin behind her kneecaps, and dig rough fingers into the silky flesh of her thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, as he thrusts into her willing body. Or maybe she’ll fall on her knees for him, all wet red mouth, searching tongue and elegant, demanding hands; so eager to get him off… Any one of the men in the room would kill to be in his position.
The entire time, he will pretend she is someone else. This happens every night.
For her part, she moans and bucks under him, strong hands pulling him even deeper inside. Holding him there until he pins her arms with his mind and fucks her relentlessly, violently, while she is powerless against him. Her eyes clench shut, face contorted in an expression that could be pleasure, could be pain, made of pure desire.
She loves it. Her vocabulary is reduced to screams and whimpers, pleas in a sex-dark rasp in his ear
oh god, oh GOD, I love you, I love you… Don’t stop! Oh, god, I love you so much...
He knows she isn’t talking to him, but that’s all right. He’s not thinking of her anyway. He caresses skin the color of moonlight, remembering the golden sun. Where his hands hold hips so slender he can feel the bone, he imagines youthful muscle, the body of an athlete. When she loses patience and throws him on his back with inhuman strength, riding him desperately, as if his cock were a blade she could impale herself upon, he closes his eyes tightly and conjures that golden skin. Sees her face, open and innocent and wanton, bright eyes that can’t decide whether to close in pleasure or gaze at him in awe, settling for a half-lidded adoration that sends electric pulses through every inch of his body. Gold on gold, her long hair falls around her face and shoulders, lightly grazing her flushed cheeks, her neck, her pink candy nipples, and Peter can’t resist anymore. He takes them into his mouth one at a time, teasing the firming flesh, savoring the taste of cinnamon and sweat and sunshine.
Niki gasps and arches under his tongue. She comes, shuddering, and he is transfixed by her face, sweet salt tears making iridescent trails over her laughing cheekbones. He knows she would feel silly about crying later, but right now it was just too much, too intense, too perfect… And, like him, she had wanted and waited for so long. She falls forward, burying her face in his neck, suddenly shy. When the words fall from her full, angelic lips, dirty and lustful, the contrast goes straight to his dick.
“Come for me,” Niki pants, breathless and weak. “Oh, please…”
He’s never been able to refuse Claire anything. He holds her tightly, one hand around her waist, the other buried in the spun gold at the base of her neck. When he comes, he bites through his lip, breaking the spell; muffling the name he so badly wants to be screaming. They both know this is a lie, but that would be going too far. The tear heals almost instantly, and he licks the blood away. The room seems somehow darker. Niki sobs against his chest. He holds her close, knowing it isn’t because of him. This happens every night, too. Soft blonde hair (the wrong color, wrong texture) falls through his fingers as he lulls her to sleep, comfortable at least in the role of caregiver. When she does still, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, trying so desperately to recapture the scent of honey, vanilla and destiny.
Through the haze of booze and cigarettes, he can almost do it.
Peter shakes his head and turns again to the stage. All that will come later, as it came last night and the night before. It’s a sick, sad routine. He considers his sex kitten on the pole, stilettos gleaming, and wonders if she feels as empty as he does. His scotch is gone, ice clinking forlornly against the sides of the glass. He stands and pours another. Another hour before the night truly begins, and the cycle starts again.
He sips his scotch and watches her dance. And wishes he had died years ago.
Author: airspaniel
Rating: R
Pairing: Peter/Niki, Peter/Claire imagery
Word Count: 1004
Spoilers: "Five Years Later"
Notes: ANGST.
Summary: She is every man's fantasy. Except his.
He sips his scotch and watches the stage. The dancer is tall, blonde, whip-thin and aggressive. She demands full attention, long legs winding around the silver pole, hands in her hair, on her breasts; every movement powerful, erotic and calculated. Her smile is wicked and promising.
You want me. You need me. But you can't have me. You're all lucky I'm giving you this much.
And the men eat it up. They really do. They are putty in her well-manicured hands, just waiting for their mistress to give them more. Mistress “Jessica,” riding high on their devotion.
Peter laughs and drains the glass. It's such a fucking act. He walks behind the bar and pours himself another. He's glad he's invisible; she hates it when he drinks and he doesn’t need her disapproving stare right now.
Theirs is an arrangement of convenience. He's alive; she's alive, so why not? Especially when everything that matters is dead and gone, and neither of them can have what they want. Not anymore.
On stage, she drops to her knees; pouting red lips in a girlish "play with me" expression. She crawls to the edge of the stage like a predator, shoulders rolling, long legs extended behind her, inches away from her worshiping subjects. And any one of them would have gladly dropped a million dollars for the chance to touch, just barely brush fingers against her sacred calves.
She is every man’s fantasy. Except his.
When Peter fucks her later (and he will fuck her, hard; she'll beg him for it. Beg him to make her forget.), he'll bend those coveted limbs back against her chest, knees over his shoulders, pinning her to the bed with his hard body. He’ll lick and bite the sensitive skin behind her kneecaps, and dig rough fingers into the silky flesh of her thighs, hard enough to leave bruises, as he thrusts into her willing body. Or maybe she’ll fall on her knees for him, all wet red mouth, searching tongue and elegant, demanding hands; so eager to get him off… Any one of the men in the room would kill to be in his position.
The entire time, he will pretend she is someone else. This happens every night.
For her part, she moans and bucks under him, strong hands pulling him even deeper inside. Holding him there until he pins her arms with his mind and fucks her relentlessly, violently, while she is powerless against him. Her eyes clench shut, face contorted in an expression that could be pleasure, could be pain, made of pure desire.
She loves it. Her vocabulary is reduced to screams and whimpers, pleas in a sex-dark rasp in his ear
oh god, oh GOD, I love you, I love you… Don’t stop! Oh, god, I love you so much...
He knows she isn’t talking to him, but that’s all right. He’s not thinking of her anyway. He caresses skin the color of moonlight, remembering the golden sun. Where his hands hold hips so slender he can feel the bone, he imagines youthful muscle, the body of an athlete. When she loses patience and throws him on his back with inhuman strength, riding him desperately, as if his cock were a blade she could impale herself upon, he closes his eyes tightly and conjures that golden skin. Sees her face, open and innocent and wanton, bright eyes that can’t decide whether to close in pleasure or gaze at him in awe, settling for a half-lidded adoration that sends electric pulses through every inch of his body. Gold on gold, her long hair falls around her face and shoulders, lightly grazing her flushed cheeks, her neck, her pink candy nipples, and Peter can’t resist anymore. He takes them into his mouth one at a time, teasing the firming flesh, savoring the taste of cinnamon and sweat and sunshine.
Niki gasps and arches under his tongue. She comes, shuddering, and he is transfixed by her face, sweet salt tears making iridescent trails over her laughing cheekbones. He knows she would feel silly about crying later, but right now it was just too much, too intense, too perfect… And, like him, she had wanted and waited for so long. She falls forward, burying her face in his neck, suddenly shy. When the words fall from her full, angelic lips, dirty and lustful, the contrast goes straight to his dick.
“Come for me,” Niki pants, breathless and weak. “Oh, please…”
He’s never been able to refuse Claire anything. He holds her tightly, one hand around her waist, the other buried in the spun gold at the base of her neck. When he comes, he bites through his lip, breaking the spell; muffling the name he so badly wants to be screaming. They both know this is a lie, but that would be going too far. The tear heals almost instantly, and he licks the blood away. The room seems somehow darker. Niki sobs against his chest. He holds her close, knowing it isn’t because of him. This happens every night, too. Soft blonde hair (the wrong color, wrong texture) falls through his fingers as he lulls her to sleep, comfortable at least in the role of caregiver. When she does still, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, trying so desperately to recapture the scent of honey, vanilla and destiny.
Through the haze of booze and cigarettes, he can almost do it.
Peter shakes his head and turns again to the stage. All that will come later, as it came last night and the night before. It’s a sick, sad routine. He considers his sex kitten on the pole, stilettos gleaming, and wonders if she feels as empty as he does. His scotch is gone, ice clinking forlornly against the sides of the glass. He stands and pours another. Another hour before the night truly begins, and the cycle starts again.
He sips his scotch and watches her dance. And wishes he had died years ago.