[Heroes] Of blowing up and blowjobs
Title: Of blowing up and blowjobs
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,356 (W)
Warning(s): Pre-series. Bad jokes. Worst title ever. Underage.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the black adder beta.
"Move over."
Here's Peter Petrelli, sixteen years old, a pillow under his armpit and a Ninja Turtles shirt now one or two sizes too small, but so worn out it fits him perfectly. Raphael's (or is it Donatello's?) face has been horribly disfigured during an armed fight, coffee against jam, three months before. (Nobody thought about removing the stain.) His hair is spread across his face in the convincing imitation of a dead rodent and his eyes are half-closed, buried somewhere behind the hair. A weak erection is mostly hidden by the fabric and the dark.
A growl of uncertain nature rises from the deepness of the mattress.
"It's...", a brown tuft, then a forehead, then a square jaw emerge from the pillow's guts, "three in the morning, for fuck’s sake."
"I can't sleep." Peter shrugs and throws his pillow against the headboard, opens the bedsheets and shoves himself in, moving the ex-sleeping carcass with just the weight of his body. For a moment the silence falls on them. Then Peter sits up and starts slapping his pillow, turning it up and down and fluffing it to make it comfortable enough.
"For Christ's sake, Peter, let that poor thing live," Nathan groans, moving Peter's elbow away from his face.
Peter lies down on his back, turning briefly to his left and to his right. "What is this mattress made of? Stone? The floor is softer."
"You want to sleep on the floor?"
"It's cold."
"So sorry."
Peter turns by Nathan's side, spying on Nathan's face, covered by the sheets up to his nose. Nathan's got his closed eyes, and when he breathes the air makes a strange whistle against the hem of the blanket. Peter leans his cheek on the pillow and looks at him with his wrinkled forehead, focusing on a spot exactly in the middle of Nathan's eyebrows.
Nathan opens his eyes. "Now what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm focusing."
"What?"
"I can't sleep."
"Then?"
"I don't want to sleep."
"And you don't want me to sleep either?"
"Exactly."
Nathan half-closes his eyelids, darting Peter a look of intense hatred. Then he turns to his side, with a sudden snap of the covers that sounds like a moral slap. Annoyed, Peter crawls closer, skipping the little trench between the two pillows. Nathan's one is warmer, and smells like him.
"Nathan?"
"Mmmmm."
Peter rests his hand on Nathan's arm, gently moving the sheets away. Nathan must have had a shower before he went to bed; his nape smells like mint. “C’mon,” Peter mutters, shaking his shoulder. “Turn around.”
Nathan grabs his hand and pushes it away.
“I’ve had a nightmare.”
“Tell it to your teddy bear.”
“You were dead. It was my fault.”
“You kept me awake till I died?”
“No. There was an explosion. I… I exploded.”
“Oh, wow.” The image is so ridiculous he can’t even think of a witty reply.
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Exploding?”
“Seeing you die.”
It’s something about the way he said it, maybe; or maybe in the meanwhile that side of the pillow got too warm. Anyway Nathan turns around, his eyes open, and considers him for a couple of seconds. Reading it as a go-ahead, Peter crawls closer and lets Nathan hug him, hiding his face against Nathan’s T-shirt. The strip of naked skin above the collar of the shirt is casually right beneath his lips, so Peter kisses it.
“It was a sad dream, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you often have a hard-on thinking about my death?”
“Now that you remind me…” Peter lifts up on an elbow, digging his face in the crook of Nathan’s neck. “You were kinda sexy disintegrated.”
“Uh, I feel better then.” Nathan’s hand, steadily still on Peter’s hip, searches for the hem of Peter’s shirt by little steps and casually lifts it, spreading his fingers on the bare skin of his back. “Did you lock the door?”
“Mmmmyeah,” Peter purrs, settling better on Nathan’s body and rubbing his erection against his inner thigh. He could tell him that after the dream became less sad and more interesting; that a couple of handcuffs, a blindfold and a hospital bed appeared; that actually, between the infinitesimal electric shots of his neurons, they’ve had more sex than they ever have in real life, and at least in a couple of ways he’s sure they never will.
Instead Peter silently pulls the shirt up to Nathan’s armpit, while Nathan’s hand reaches out to grab Peter’s buttock under the boxers’ fabric in that languid and possessive way he has to touch him, conscious but always as if on the edge of a regret, and with that subtext of smug reproach that seems like muttering: “… you naughty boy”.
Peter’s lips squeeze a nipple softly but let it go almost at once, moving down to put a hasty series of kisses on Nathan’s belly. It could be he’s still sleepy, but he’s got such a relaxed look, completely different from the other times, that Peter is slightly surprised. Nathan didn’t ask him if he’s sure he locked the door, didn’t look around even once, didn’t even remind him to be quiet. Whatever it is, Peter hopes it’s going to last.
He’s rapidly exploring the navel zone when he feels Nathan’s fingers moving through his hair and squeezing it softly; it probably is a caress, but Peter interprets it in a more interesting way, grabs Nathan’s boxers’ rubberband and pull them down.
“I’m happy you’re not dead,” Peter declares, his eyebrows clenched in a wrinkle, then he lowers his face and starts licking it slowly, from the base to the tip.
“Thanks, Pete. Love you too,” Nathan murmurs, chewing on the words. Peter breathes on the hot skin between his legs, arousing a little tide of shivers.
“Mmm-mmm,” Peter replies, noncommittally, enjoying the moment when he takes it in his mouth and Nathan tightens his fingers around Peter’s hair, releasing it a moment after. Below his half-closed lids, Nathan looks like he can’t look away. Stroking with the tip of his tongue a tiny spot that always earns him the loudest reactions, Peter mentally smiles and reaches out along Nathan’s hip, finding his fingers. Nathan plants his short nails on his palm.
“I’m so happy you’re not dead,” Peter declares some time after, his voce deformed by a yawn while he stretches his limbs in every direction. Dodging an extended fist, Nathan grabs his pillow and places it to go back to sleep.
“Don’t force me to imagine the last half an hour with a corpse playing Nathan Petrelli’s role.”
“Well, there is rigor mortis. There is a funny joke about a gravedigger…”
Nathan turns towards the wall and presses a hand on his ear, singing in his mind the first tune he can think of (L.A. Law’s theme, it seems).
“… and so they invented the blowjob.”
“It’s finished?”
“Yes. They lived happily every after and stuff. Except the dead, I mean.”
“Thanks for the story, mommy. Good night.”
“The kiss…?”
“You didn’t even brush your teeth.”
“Hey, it’s your sperm.”
“Oh, really?”
“And saliva is a disinfectant. C’mon…”
Peter moves a leg on Nathan’s hip to climb over him and have him pinned on the bed, but a sudden noise out of the door freezes them. They listen in perfect silence for almost a minute, intertwined together from shoulders to feet like fettuccine becoming cold in the plate. But whatever it was (“Sounded like steps.” “Mom?” “I don’t know.”), the night seems to have had it swallowed up.
“Good night,” Nathan repeats eventually, freeing himself from the tangle of limbs and pushing Peter to the blank half of the bed.
Peter snorts and curls up towards the bedside; in a minute he’ll have occupied all the bed, shoved a knee into Nathan’s stomach and reduced the bedsheets to a crumpled heap.
When Nathan turns around and passes an arm around his belly, pressing a kiss on his temple, Peter mutters with an annoyed tone: “Next time I’ll dream it was your testicle that exploded”.
“Ouch.”
They both shiver, then everybody turns by his side.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,356 (W)
Warning(s): Pre-series. Bad jokes. Worst title ever. Underage.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the black adder beta.
"Move over."
Here's Peter Petrelli, sixteen years old, a pillow under his armpit and a Ninja Turtles shirt now one or two sizes too small, but so worn out it fits him perfectly. Raphael's (or is it Donatello's?) face has been horribly disfigured during an armed fight, coffee against jam, three months before. (Nobody thought about removing the stain.) His hair is spread across his face in the convincing imitation of a dead rodent and his eyes are half-closed, buried somewhere behind the hair. A weak erection is mostly hidden by the fabric and the dark.
A growl of uncertain nature rises from the deepness of the mattress.
"It's...", a brown tuft, then a forehead, then a square jaw emerge from the pillow's guts, "three in the morning, for fuck’s sake."
"I can't sleep." Peter shrugs and throws his pillow against the headboard, opens the bedsheets and shoves himself in, moving the ex-sleeping carcass with just the weight of his body. For a moment the silence falls on them. Then Peter sits up and starts slapping his pillow, turning it up and down and fluffing it to make it comfortable enough.
"For Christ's sake, Peter, let that poor thing live," Nathan groans, moving Peter's elbow away from his face.
Peter lies down on his back, turning briefly to his left and to his right. "What is this mattress made of? Stone? The floor is softer."
"You want to sleep on the floor?"
"It's cold."
"So sorry."
Peter turns by Nathan's side, spying on Nathan's face, covered by the sheets up to his nose. Nathan's got his closed eyes, and when he breathes the air makes a strange whistle against the hem of the blanket. Peter leans his cheek on the pillow and looks at him with his wrinkled forehead, focusing on a spot exactly in the middle of Nathan's eyebrows.
Nathan opens his eyes. "Now what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm focusing."
"What?"
"I can't sleep."
"Then?"
"I don't want to sleep."
"And you don't want me to sleep either?"
"Exactly."
Nathan half-closes his eyelids, darting Peter a look of intense hatred. Then he turns to his side, with a sudden snap of the covers that sounds like a moral slap. Annoyed, Peter crawls closer, skipping the little trench between the two pillows. Nathan's one is warmer, and smells like him.
"Nathan?"
"Mmmmm."
Peter rests his hand on Nathan's arm, gently moving the sheets away. Nathan must have had a shower before he went to bed; his nape smells like mint. “C’mon,” Peter mutters, shaking his shoulder. “Turn around.”
Nathan grabs his hand and pushes it away.
“I’ve had a nightmare.”
“Tell it to your teddy bear.”
“You were dead. It was my fault.”
“You kept me awake till I died?”
“No. There was an explosion. I… I exploded.”
“Oh, wow.” The image is so ridiculous he can’t even think of a witty reply.
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Exploding?”
“Seeing you die.”
It’s something about the way he said it, maybe; or maybe in the meanwhile that side of the pillow got too warm. Anyway Nathan turns around, his eyes open, and considers him for a couple of seconds. Reading it as a go-ahead, Peter crawls closer and lets Nathan hug him, hiding his face against Nathan’s T-shirt. The strip of naked skin above the collar of the shirt is casually right beneath his lips, so Peter kisses it.
“It was a sad dream, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you often have a hard-on thinking about my death?”
“Now that you remind me…” Peter lifts up on an elbow, digging his face in the crook of Nathan’s neck. “You were kinda sexy disintegrated.”
“Uh, I feel better then.” Nathan’s hand, steadily still on Peter’s hip, searches for the hem of Peter’s shirt by little steps and casually lifts it, spreading his fingers on the bare skin of his back. “Did you lock the door?”
“Mmmmyeah,” Peter purrs, settling better on Nathan’s body and rubbing his erection against his inner thigh. He could tell him that after the dream became less sad and more interesting; that a couple of handcuffs, a blindfold and a hospital bed appeared; that actually, between the infinitesimal electric shots of his neurons, they’ve had more sex than they ever have in real life, and at least in a couple of ways he’s sure they never will.
Instead Peter silently pulls the shirt up to Nathan’s armpit, while Nathan’s hand reaches out to grab Peter’s buttock under the boxers’ fabric in that languid and possessive way he has to touch him, conscious but always as if on the edge of a regret, and with that subtext of smug reproach that seems like muttering: “… you naughty boy”.
Peter’s lips squeeze a nipple softly but let it go almost at once, moving down to put a hasty series of kisses on Nathan’s belly. It could be he’s still sleepy, but he’s got such a relaxed look, completely different from the other times, that Peter is slightly surprised. Nathan didn’t ask him if he’s sure he locked the door, didn’t look around even once, didn’t even remind him to be quiet. Whatever it is, Peter hopes it’s going to last.
He’s rapidly exploring the navel zone when he feels Nathan’s fingers moving through his hair and squeezing it softly; it probably is a caress, but Peter interprets it in a more interesting way, grabs Nathan’s boxers’ rubberband and pull them down.
“I’m happy you’re not dead,” Peter declares, his eyebrows clenched in a wrinkle, then he lowers his face and starts licking it slowly, from the base to the tip.
“Thanks, Pete. Love you too,” Nathan murmurs, chewing on the words. Peter breathes on the hot skin between his legs, arousing a little tide of shivers.
“Mmm-mmm,” Peter replies, noncommittally, enjoying the moment when he takes it in his mouth and Nathan tightens his fingers around Peter’s hair, releasing it a moment after. Below his half-closed lids, Nathan looks like he can’t look away. Stroking with the tip of his tongue a tiny spot that always earns him the loudest reactions, Peter mentally smiles and reaches out along Nathan’s hip, finding his fingers. Nathan plants his short nails on his palm.
“I’m so happy you’re not dead,” Peter declares some time after, his voce deformed by a yawn while he stretches his limbs in every direction. Dodging an extended fist, Nathan grabs his pillow and places it to go back to sleep.
“Don’t force me to imagine the last half an hour with a corpse playing Nathan Petrelli’s role.”
“Well, there is rigor mortis. There is a funny joke about a gravedigger…”
Nathan turns towards the wall and presses a hand on his ear, singing in his mind the first tune he can think of (L.A. Law’s theme, it seems).
“… and so they invented the blowjob.”
“It’s finished?”
“Yes. They lived happily every after and stuff. Except the dead, I mean.”
“Thanks for the story, mommy. Good night.”
“The kiss…?”
“You didn’t even brush your teeth.”
“Hey, it’s your sperm.”
“Oh, really?”
“And saliva is a disinfectant. C’mon…”
Peter moves a leg on Nathan’s hip to climb over him and have him pinned on the bed, but a sudden noise out of the door freezes them. They listen in perfect silence for almost a minute, intertwined together from shoulders to feet like fettuccine becoming cold in the plate. But whatever it was (“Sounded like steps.” “Mom?” “I don’t know.”), the night seems to have had it swallowed up.
“Good night,” Nathan repeats eventually, freeing himself from the tangle of limbs and pushing Peter to the blank half of the bed.
Peter snorts and curls up towards the bedside; in a minute he’ll have occupied all the bed, shoved a knee into Nathan’s stomach and reduced the bedsheets to a crumpled heap.
When Nathan turns around and passes an arm around his belly, pressing a kiss on his temple, Peter mutters with an annoyed tone: “Next time I’ll dream it was your testicle that exploded”.
“Ouch.”
They both shiver, then everybody turns by his side.