(no subject)
Title: The Falcon and the Cheetah.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Daphne/Nathan.
Summary: Prompt: Nathan/Daphne - The cheetah chases the falcon.
Notes: Yet another Yet Another Heroes Anonymous Kink Meme fic.
When Daphne runs, it's like she stays still and the world moves for her. It's addictive, this power, and she can't turn back from it now, can't turn away from this life it's given her.
Nathan Petrelli doesn't need any power for the world to move for him, he was born into it replete with a silver spoon and a key that opened any lock.
Linderman tells her that Nathan likes blondes. That he needs to be kept tabs on. You're not... really his type, but he'll think you're cute, he says, you'll intrigue him.
On the street corner in Washington where they talk, people look at her strangely.
-
She becomes Nathan's private courier, though, of course, he doesn't realise this courtesy has been extended to him. As the newest junior senator, he's constantly getting deliveries, all of which are somehow sent via Pinehearst. She's at his new apartment nearly every day with large brown envelopes, and at first he's short with her, signing for the packages without really looking, toeing the door closed in her face.
Then one day he looks up. And he smiles that pearly white shark's smile at her.
“You've delivered to me before, haven't you?” he asks, and when he hands her the clipboard, he doesn't quite let go immediately. She slides it from his grip.
“I'm the company's fastest courier, sir,” she replies, none of it a lie.
“Nathan,” he corrects. Smiles wider. “My name's Nathan.”
-
Her surveillance of him isn't restricted to their daily meetings at his door; from his building to his office to place he has lunch with the imposing blonde to the church he spends an hour in every night, Daphne follows him. It's creepy and makes her feel very much like a stalker, but it's not thieving and it's not quite illegal yet. Her father would be proud.
Or she likes to tell herself that, at least.
Nathan almost catches her a couple of times, feels the whisper of her on his cheek as she shoots past, and he frowns, touching his face and shaking it off as draught or freak weather, though it's a phenomenon that only he seems to experience. And when his papers explode in a flurry, blowing across his desk in the late hours of the evening, he tries to put it down to someone leaving a window open. On the days he feels he can pick up his bible and read a passage, he wonders if this feeling of being watched is something of the divine variety.
Mostly he thinks he's just going mad.
-
At the door, now, he says, “God, something else?” and smiles. “I swear they think I have no social life.”
She laughs as he flirts with her; he's not her type at all, she prefers the sensitive arty boys, but it's the Bill Clinton effect. She can't help but be drawn to him, even if she doesn't like him.
Outside of their apartment door meetings, Nathan's spending more and more time with the tall blonde, the kind of woman that Daphne was always instinctively disliked, because she has the body and the face and attitude to get ahead in life. Her and Nathan are two sides of the same coin, and they look good together, look right together.
She watches his apartment at night; Pinehearst's got her a place in the building across the road, one with a perfect view straight into his lounge. Normally, he comes home late, and she'll watch him getting through the main doors, then minutes later see a light switch on and his dark body pass by the window.
This night, though, he goes out late. It's past one in the morning and he stumbles down the front steps and out on to the street. As always, she follows.
-
He doesn't stop until he gets to the Key Bridge, weaving slightly as he runs his hands along the railings. She hangs back, and in the dark silent night, she can hear the rise and fall of his voice, though she can't make out the words. He gazes up at the moon, rubbing his hands back and forth over the railings, and takes a couple of faltering steps, not a touch of his normal composure in this drunken state.
And then he shoots straight up into the sky like a rocket. He's so fast she almost loses sight of him; she searches out the sky until she sees his silhouette against the moonlight. It's an awing sight, Nathan suspended over the water, and her breath catches in her throat. He shoots up higher, then dives down, crossing beneath the bridge. She spins with him, her quick eyes able to catch every darting movement. He swoops over and under the bridge, and in this moment he is utterly beautiful, and though she can't see his face, she thinks these brief moments must be actual happiness.
When he flies away in a puff of white cloud, she runs, wondering who can get to his apartment first.
-
She waits for ten minutes sitting against his door before she hears a thump and his soft cursing as he bangs into furniture.
She takes a breath. She could turn back now, no harm done.
She knocks on the door.
When Nathan answers, his face is open in a way she's never once seen in the time she's been watching him. His skin is flushed, his pupils wide, his hair wild and his lips chapped from the wind. The effects of the alcohol he's had has worn off, she can tell, replaced with what she can only imagine is the incredible natural high of flying far far above the city.
She presses her lips to his before he can speak, sliding her hands into hair that's messy and thick.
He's gives almost no resistance, kicking the door shut behind her and pressing her against it. She's a good few inches shorter than him, and she throws her arms around his shoulders, dragging herself up into his embrace; upper arm strength was a necessity in her childhood.
His kiss consumes her, deep and probing, and she feels like she's never really been with a man before tonight, before his hands were on her ass and around her waist and underneath her t-shirt.
He carries her the distance to his bed, lying her back on the soft sheets, and in her ear he whispers, “Why are you here?” though his voice sounds far away, like he's really still outside floating above that bridge.
“I don't know,” she replies honestly. She has yet to tell him an actual lie.
He dispenses with his clothes quickly, and she can't help but runs her fingers over the newly healed gunshot wound. The skin is tight and pale, a hairless patch on his chest, and she runs her tongue around it.
“Is this okay?” she asks, sitting up, hands on his hips to steady herself. His reply is a half groan, half grunt, a sharp nod and shut eyes. She sheds her t-shirt and jeans, kneeling in front of him again while he touches her body with feather light fingers, tracing scars and marks that she's long been ashamed of, but that he seems to find wholly fascinating.
He smiles, sliding his thumbs from her hips to waistband of her panties, working them down slowly.
“Exactly how old are you?” he asks, brushing his fingers over her but not giving her the relief she craves. His voice sounds a little more aware, and she pushes a hand into his boxers, gripping his cock firmly and kissing him hard. Hard enough that he moans, forgets the beginnings of his concerns and lets her push him back against the sheets.
“Old enough,” she whispers and manoeuvres his erection into her. “You'll like this, promise.”
She curls an arm around his neck, and cradles the back of his head, the fingers of her other hand twisting and caressing his hair, and after a couple of grinds against him, she starts.
Her body vibrates from head to toe, and she bears down on him, moving back so that he slides deeper into her. To begin with he moans, his hands helplessly fluttering along her body, his mouth pressing frantic kisses to any place he can reach, then he ceases to make any sound, just pressing his head into the bed and arching his back against the intense pleasure.
She kisses his chest again, and runs her fingers over his scar, and she can feel her release building already, thinks his can't be far behind.
“Oh-- God, fuck,” he chokes out, and she slips her hands around his back slick with sweat. His eyelids flutter, his fingers clench in the sheets.
“Cl-close?” she stammers out, and he whines in response.
She presses her face into his chest and holds on tight when she comes, followed by him shortly after as his feet scrabble against the bed and she feels him lose control inside her.
For minutes neither of them can catch their breath, and she gives up entirely on the idea of moving off him, instead turning her head to fit neatly against his collarbone. He strokes her hair, his hands then moving down her back, tracing random patterns on her skin. He moves just enough to pull out of her, then stills.
And for once, the world is as still as she is.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Daphne/Nathan.
Summary: Prompt: Nathan/Daphne - The cheetah chases the falcon.
Notes: Yet another Yet Another Heroes Anonymous Kink Meme fic.
When Daphne runs, it's like she stays still and the world moves for her. It's addictive, this power, and she can't turn back from it now, can't turn away from this life it's given her.
Nathan Petrelli doesn't need any power for the world to move for him, he was born into it replete with a silver spoon and a key that opened any lock.
Linderman tells her that Nathan likes blondes. That he needs to be kept tabs on. You're not... really his type, but he'll think you're cute, he says, you'll intrigue him.
On the street corner in Washington where they talk, people look at her strangely.
-
She becomes Nathan's private courier, though, of course, he doesn't realise this courtesy has been extended to him. As the newest junior senator, he's constantly getting deliveries, all of which are somehow sent via Pinehearst. She's at his new apartment nearly every day with large brown envelopes, and at first he's short with her, signing for the packages without really looking, toeing the door closed in her face.
Then one day he looks up. And he smiles that pearly white shark's smile at her.
“You've delivered to me before, haven't you?” he asks, and when he hands her the clipboard, he doesn't quite let go immediately. She slides it from his grip.
“I'm the company's fastest courier, sir,” she replies, none of it a lie.
“Nathan,” he corrects. Smiles wider. “My name's Nathan.”
-
Her surveillance of him isn't restricted to their daily meetings at his door; from his building to his office to place he has lunch with the imposing blonde to the church he spends an hour in every night, Daphne follows him. It's creepy and makes her feel very much like a stalker, but it's not thieving and it's not quite illegal yet. Her father would be proud.
Or she likes to tell herself that, at least.
Nathan almost catches her a couple of times, feels the whisper of her on his cheek as she shoots past, and he frowns, touching his face and shaking it off as draught or freak weather, though it's a phenomenon that only he seems to experience. And when his papers explode in a flurry, blowing across his desk in the late hours of the evening, he tries to put it down to someone leaving a window open. On the days he feels he can pick up his bible and read a passage, he wonders if this feeling of being watched is something of the divine variety.
Mostly he thinks he's just going mad.
-
At the door, now, he says, “God, something else?” and smiles. “I swear they think I have no social life.”
She laughs as he flirts with her; he's not her type at all, she prefers the sensitive arty boys, but it's the Bill Clinton effect. She can't help but be drawn to him, even if she doesn't like him.
Outside of their apartment door meetings, Nathan's spending more and more time with the tall blonde, the kind of woman that Daphne was always instinctively disliked, because she has the body and the face and attitude to get ahead in life. Her and Nathan are two sides of the same coin, and they look good together, look right together.
She watches his apartment at night; Pinehearst's got her a place in the building across the road, one with a perfect view straight into his lounge. Normally, he comes home late, and she'll watch him getting through the main doors, then minutes later see a light switch on and his dark body pass by the window.
This night, though, he goes out late. It's past one in the morning and he stumbles down the front steps and out on to the street. As always, she follows.
-
He doesn't stop until he gets to the Key Bridge, weaving slightly as he runs his hands along the railings. She hangs back, and in the dark silent night, she can hear the rise and fall of his voice, though she can't make out the words. He gazes up at the moon, rubbing his hands back and forth over the railings, and takes a couple of faltering steps, not a touch of his normal composure in this drunken state.
And then he shoots straight up into the sky like a rocket. He's so fast she almost loses sight of him; she searches out the sky until she sees his silhouette against the moonlight. It's an awing sight, Nathan suspended over the water, and her breath catches in her throat. He shoots up higher, then dives down, crossing beneath the bridge. She spins with him, her quick eyes able to catch every darting movement. He swoops over and under the bridge, and in this moment he is utterly beautiful, and though she can't see his face, she thinks these brief moments must be actual happiness.
When he flies away in a puff of white cloud, she runs, wondering who can get to his apartment first.
-
She waits for ten minutes sitting against his door before she hears a thump and his soft cursing as he bangs into furniture.
She takes a breath. She could turn back now, no harm done.
She knocks on the door.
When Nathan answers, his face is open in a way she's never once seen in the time she's been watching him. His skin is flushed, his pupils wide, his hair wild and his lips chapped from the wind. The effects of the alcohol he's had has worn off, she can tell, replaced with what she can only imagine is the incredible natural high of flying far far above the city.
She presses her lips to his before he can speak, sliding her hands into hair that's messy and thick.
He's gives almost no resistance, kicking the door shut behind her and pressing her against it. She's a good few inches shorter than him, and she throws her arms around his shoulders, dragging herself up into his embrace; upper arm strength was a necessity in her childhood.
His kiss consumes her, deep and probing, and she feels like she's never really been with a man before tonight, before his hands were on her ass and around her waist and underneath her t-shirt.
He carries her the distance to his bed, lying her back on the soft sheets, and in her ear he whispers, “Why are you here?” though his voice sounds far away, like he's really still outside floating above that bridge.
“I don't know,” she replies honestly. She has yet to tell him an actual lie.
He dispenses with his clothes quickly, and she can't help but runs her fingers over the newly healed gunshot wound. The skin is tight and pale, a hairless patch on his chest, and she runs her tongue around it.
“Is this okay?” she asks, sitting up, hands on his hips to steady herself. His reply is a half groan, half grunt, a sharp nod and shut eyes. She sheds her t-shirt and jeans, kneeling in front of him again while he touches her body with feather light fingers, tracing scars and marks that she's long been ashamed of, but that he seems to find wholly fascinating.
He smiles, sliding his thumbs from her hips to waistband of her panties, working them down slowly.
“Exactly how old are you?” he asks, brushing his fingers over her but not giving her the relief she craves. His voice sounds a little more aware, and she pushes a hand into his boxers, gripping his cock firmly and kissing him hard. Hard enough that he moans, forgets the beginnings of his concerns and lets her push him back against the sheets.
“Old enough,” she whispers and manoeuvres his erection into her. “You'll like this, promise.”
She curls an arm around his neck, and cradles the back of his head, the fingers of her other hand twisting and caressing his hair, and after a couple of grinds against him, she starts.
Her body vibrates from head to toe, and she bears down on him, moving back so that he slides deeper into her. To begin with he moans, his hands helplessly fluttering along her body, his mouth pressing frantic kisses to any place he can reach, then he ceases to make any sound, just pressing his head into the bed and arching his back against the intense pleasure.
She kisses his chest again, and runs her fingers over his scar, and she can feel her release building already, thinks his can't be far behind.
“Oh-- God, fuck,” he chokes out, and she slips her hands around his back slick with sweat. His eyelids flutter, his fingers clench in the sheets.
“Cl-close?” she stammers out, and he whines in response.
She presses her face into his chest and holds on tight when she comes, followed by him shortly after as his feet scrabble against the bed and she feels him lose control inside her.
For minutes neither of them can catch their breath, and she gives up entirely on the idea of moving off him, instead turning her head to fit neatly against his collarbone. He strokes her hair, his hands then moving down her back, tracing random patterns on her skin. He moves just enough to pull out of her, then stills.
And for once, the world is as still as she is.