Across the Universe
Title: Across the Universe
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Word-count: 1400+
Summary: Plaude in spaaace. Basically. Why? I have no real idea, beyond this picture ;). There is absolutely no plot explanation to be had here, at all. It's space PWP; I guess we'll all just have to accept that. Unless of course you want me to go into what my original plot for the events leading up to this are, in which case...ask me, I guess? Spoiler alert: Firefly crossover!
A/N: For the "future!AU zippers" prompt on the kink meme, although I didn't finish it soon enough to post it there and it got too long for comment porn anyway. And...gosh, is this...silly and random and smutty and just...odd.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way shape, or form.
Peter’s asleep when he gets back, which is hardly a surprise.
And he knows it won’t really last, for all that he moves around their quarters carefully, quietly as he can.
Peels off gloves, steps out of boots, knows he should’ve done it all earlier but that would’ve meant waiting longer to come back to this, pathetically enough.
The tiny room and thin mattress, the warm glow of Peter’s skin in scant artificial light.
Imminently preferable to the empty vastness, the heavy darkness of-
“Hey.” Soft, half-whispered, and he turns around, to see Peter smiling at him. Softly, eyes unfocused and hair mussed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, mate,” he smiles back, simple answer for a simple moment, not entirely accurate but true enough, for now.
Knows better than to tell him to go back to sleep, and merely hopes he will, if he takes long enough in undressing.
But he won’t, of course, and that much is obvious even before the boy rolls to his side and pats lightly at the thin mattress, an invitation Claude’s not about to refuse, even though he knows he probably should.
Not with dark eyes watching him so steadily, and that light flush already spreading across Peter’s chest.
“In a minute, Pete,” he chuckles, moving to unzip his suit. “I’ve just got to-“
“I’ll do it,” Peter mumbles, around another yawn. “C’mon. Easier with two.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he whispers, without really knowing why. Eases into the bunk anyway, and can’t help but smile at the arms that automatically drape around his waist and then forehead pressed to the back of his neck.
“You know what I meant,” Peter sighs, and Claude feels his hand shift, slid unto his hip. Stroke lightly against the smooth metallic cloth, before fingers trail up.
A lingering kiss at his nape, wet and soft. The gentle brush of Peter’s breath against his skin, and he reaches back, lets fingers settle against the boy’s hip. Traces slow circles as far as he can reach, the tips of his fingers pressing lightly along Peter’s back.
Because of course Peter sleeps shirtless, because of course he doesn’t care if Claude’ll ever get a full night’s sleep, because it’s not as though he needs to be fully alert during the day.
And Peter giggles, as if he knows, and sucks lightly at the hint of shoulder accessible at the moment.
Then kisses lower, warmer, further as he pulls lazily at the zipper, fingers trailing lightly along newly exposed skin.
Lips sliding and tongue darting out, light swipes infuriating and soothing at once, for the familiarity if nothing else, and Claude half-turns in retaliation.
Hand reaching down and under soft cloth, a light stroke before Peter pushes his arm away, annoyed, but not terribly so, if his ragged little breaths between the kisses are any kind of indication.
Not that Claude’s doing much better himself, and he turns his head, feeling the warmth of Peter’s chest against his back, the slim arms twining around his waist and under his suit.
And his lips on Claude’s chin, then cheek, then mouth.
Too awkward, too tangled for a full kiss, and Peter’s lips slide away.
“Hold on,” he feels, mumbled against his back, as quick and desperate fingers press and drag along Claude’s side.
Smooth their way over his shoulder, pushing the slick material down his arm, replacing it with warm strokes of his palm
And then Peter’s hand on his shoulder pulls him down, flat against the mattress, shifting half on top of him and half scrambling to strip him of the rest of the suit.
Yanking and frustrated and nearly dislocating his shoulder and he can’t help laugh, in his exhaustion, in the face of Peter’s absolutely focused and fierce expression.
“Easier, was it?”
“Shut up,” Peter grumbles, straddling him easily, a distracted hand through his hair pushing it back.
Leaning down for a sudden kiss, one palm pressed to Claude’s chest and another freeing his arm from its constraints.
Peter’s tongue thrusting into his mouth, head turning, searching for a better angle.
Sucking at his bottom lip, sweat-slicked skin sliding against Claude’s chest as he pulls his suit further down.
“Hips,” Peter gasps, in between kisses along his neck, teeth glancing and followed by slick presses of tongue. “Up…please.”
And because he asks so nicely…
He lifts up, back arching, brings their chests together, his cock brushing against the young man’s in a moment of dizzying contact that has him choking back a groan and Peter’s forehead dropping against his shoulder.
Peter’s hand slides under his back as he grins.
Pushes him back to his side, more quick, hot kisses to the side of his neck as he can’t help but squirm, impatient motion to help Peter’s warm hands sliding down his hips and easing the rest off the suit, the pants underneath.
A pile of shiny copper fabric crumpled by the end of the bed.
Not that he particularly cares, at the moment.
Because there’ll be tomorrow, for complaints about cavalier treatment of expensive equipment.
But for now, there’s only Peter, eager hands against his chest and stroking at his stomach, heated kisses, teeth glancing along his neck.
Arousal wars with amusement, as Peter growls, possessive and confident, and he settles for a chuckle that bleeds into a groan as that easy palm curls around his cock and gives a forceful stroke.
“Claude,” panted, labored and desperate. And Peter stops, words apparently too much, or not enough, for what it is he wants, and Claude would tease him about it, if he could.
But the boy rocks against him, again, erection dripping and sliding against his back, until he takes a steadying breath and followed by a kiss, swift and wet, and he turns to meet it fully.
Peter shifts, arm wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him closer, body arching up against him before Claude can even catch his breath.
The aching thrill of heat wherever they touch, which might as well be everywhere at the moment, Peter’s lips on his and legs tangled with his own, hips sliding against each other as much as they could be with bodies that seem all too happy to keep clinging to each other with a desperation that’s no less real for being completely unnecessary.
Because there’s nowhere the other would rather be, he’s fairly sure, than in that moment, in that bunk, mouths gasping into each other and bodies, eased by sweat and familiarity, rocking together at a maddening pace.
His hands on Peter’s hips, fingers pressed against the straining, shifting muscles of his back.
Peter’s mouth against his, and then not, panting once again in to his neck as he feels the boy’s hips thrust up again, feels ever inch of Peter’s body press tighter against his, as Peter comes across his stomach and collapses into his arms.
And he’d take a minute to grin, at how utterly spent Peter suddenly looks, dark hair plastered to his forehead, skin flushed with exertion and hot to the touch, eyes glazed and lips parted.
Except that he can think of anything beyond the slow, distracted, but nonetheless effective roll of hips against his, the practiced fingers along straining skin, and encroaching exhaustion thus far kept at bay by the intoxication of Peter’s body against his.
And it all hits at once, the heat and scent of Peter, the wet lips teasing pressed to his neck, the hand pressed to his chest, above his heart which, he figures, would be just like Peter to search for, at that moment.
The final release of tension from an afternoon’s separation and he’d worry about that, the intensity of it, and should at least try and remember to worry about it, after his body is able to register air, and sense, and anything beyond the anchoring warmth of Peter as their bodies still and their eyes shut.
***
“Claude?”
He blinks, stirs from his moment of unconscious happiness, and glances down into soft eyes.
Waits, for the inevitable, and is unsurprised to find warm fingers slowly tangling with his as Peter nestles closer, dark head on his shoulder and breathing steady against his chest.
“Expectin’ someone else, were you?”
“No, you’re fine,” Peter yawns, a strain of tire amusement in his voice. “Just fine...”
“’m thrilled, mate.”
“Shh,” and Claude can’t help but roll his eyes, as Peter mumbles a quiet. “Go to sleep, already.”
*
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Word-count: 1400+
Summary: Plaude in spaaace. Basically. Why? I have no real idea, beyond this picture ;). There is absolutely no plot explanation to be had here, at all. It's space PWP; I guess we'll all just have to accept that. Unless of course you want me to go into what my original plot for the events leading up to this are, in which case...ask me, I guess? Spoiler alert: Firefly crossover!
A/N: For the "future!AU zippers" prompt on the kink meme, although I didn't finish it soon enough to post it there and it got too long for comment porn anyway. And...gosh, is this...silly and random and smutty and just...odd.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way shape, or form.
Peter’s asleep when he gets back, which is hardly a surprise.
And he knows it won’t really last, for all that he moves around their quarters carefully, quietly as he can.
Peels off gloves, steps out of boots, knows he should’ve done it all earlier but that would’ve meant waiting longer to come back to this, pathetically enough.
The tiny room and thin mattress, the warm glow of Peter’s skin in scant artificial light.
Imminently preferable to the empty vastness, the heavy darkness of-
“Hey.” Soft, half-whispered, and he turns around, to see Peter smiling at him. Softly, eyes unfocused and hair mussed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, mate,” he smiles back, simple answer for a simple moment, not entirely accurate but true enough, for now.
Knows better than to tell him to go back to sleep, and merely hopes he will, if he takes long enough in undressing.
But he won’t, of course, and that much is obvious even before the boy rolls to his side and pats lightly at the thin mattress, an invitation Claude’s not about to refuse, even though he knows he probably should.
Not with dark eyes watching him so steadily, and that light flush already spreading across Peter’s chest.
“In a minute, Pete,” he chuckles, moving to unzip his suit. “I’ve just got to-“
“I’ll do it,” Peter mumbles, around another yawn. “C’mon. Easier with two.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he whispers, without really knowing why. Eases into the bunk anyway, and can’t help but smile at the arms that automatically drape around his waist and then forehead pressed to the back of his neck.
“You know what I meant,” Peter sighs, and Claude feels his hand shift, slid unto his hip. Stroke lightly against the smooth metallic cloth, before fingers trail up.
A lingering kiss at his nape, wet and soft. The gentle brush of Peter’s breath against his skin, and he reaches back, lets fingers settle against the boy’s hip. Traces slow circles as far as he can reach, the tips of his fingers pressing lightly along Peter’s back.
Because of course Peter sleeps shirtless, because of course he doesn’t care if Claude’ll ever get a full night’s sleep, because it’s not as though he needs to be fully alert during the day.
And Peter giggles, as if he knows, and sucks lightly at the hint of shoulder accessible at the moment.
Then kisses lower, warmer, further as he pulls lazily at the zipper, fingers trailing lightly along newly exposed skin.
Lips sliding and tongue darting out, light swipes infuriating and soothing at once, for the familiarity if nothing else, and Claude half-turns in retaliation.
Hand reaching down and under soft cloth, a light stroke before Peter pushes his arm away, annoyed, but not terribly so, if his ragged little breaths between the kisses are any kind of indication.
Not that Claude’s doing much better himself, and he turns his head, feeling the warmth of Peter’s chest against his back, the slim arms twining around his waist and under his suit.
And his lips on Claude’s chin, then cheek, then mouth.
Too awkward, too tangled for a full kiss, and Peter’s lips slide away.
“Hold on,” he feels, mumbled against his back, as quick and desperate fingers press and drag along Claude’s side.
Smooth their way over his shoulder, pushing the slick material down his arm, replacing it with warm strokes of his palm
And then Peter’s hand on his shoulder pulls him down, flat against the mattress, shifting half on top of him and half scrambling to strip him of the rest of the suit.
Yanking and frustrated and nearly dislocating his shoulder and he can’t help laugh, in his exhaustion, in the face of Peter’s absolutely focused and fierce expression.
“Easier, was it?”
“Shut up,” Peter grumbles, straddling him easily, a distracted hand through his hair pushing it back.
Leaning down for a sudden kiss, one palm pressed to Claude’s chest and another freeing his arm from its constraints.
Peter’s tongue thrusting into his mouth, head turning, searching for a better angle.
Sucking at his bottom lip, sweat-slicked skin sliding against Claude’s chest as he pulls his suit further down.
“Hips,” Peter gasps, in between kisses along his neck, teeth glancing and followed by slick presses of tongue. “Up…please.”
And because he asks so nicely…
He lifts up, back arching, brings their chests together, his cock brushing against the young man’s in a moment of dizzying contact that has him choking back a groan and Peter’s forehead dropping against his shoulder.
Peter’s hand slides under his back as he grins.
Pushes him back to his side, more quick, hot kisses to the side of his neck as he can’t help but squirm, impatient motion to help Peter’s warm hands sliding down his hips and easing the rest off the suit, the pants underneath.
A pile of shiny copper fabric crumpled by the end of the bed.
Not that he particularly cares, at the moment.
Because there’ll be tomorrow, for complaints about cavalier treatment of expensive equipment.
But for now, there’s only Peter, eager hands against his chest and stroking at his stomach, heated kisses, teeth glancing along his neck.
Arousal wars with amusement, as Peter growls, possessive and confident, and he settles for a chuckle that bleeds into a groan as that easy palm curls around his cock and gives a forceful stroke.
“Claude,” panted, labored and desperate. And Peter stops, words apparently too much, or not enough, for what it is he wants, and Claude would tease him about it, if he could.
But the boy rocks against him, again, erection dripping and sliding against his back, until he takes a steadying breath and followed by a kiss, swift and wet, and he turns to meet it fully.
Peter shifts, arm wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him closer, body arching up against him before Claude can even catch his breath.
The aching thrill of heat wherever they touch, which might as well be everywhere at the moment, Peter’s lips on his and legs tangled with his own, hips sliding against each other as much as they could be with bodies that seem all too happy to keep clinging to each other with a desperation that’s no less real for being completely unnecessary.
Because there’s nowhere the other would rather be, he’s fairly sure, than in that moment, in that bunk, mouths gasping into each other and bodies, eased by sweat and familiarity, rocking together at a maddening pace.
His hands on Peter’s hips, fingers pressed against the straining, shifting muscles of his back.
Peter’s mouth against his, and then not, panting once again in to his neck as he feels the boy’s hips thrust up again, feels ever inch of Peter’s body press tighter against his, as Peter comes across his stomach and collapses into his arms.
And he’d take a minute to grin, at how utterly spent Peter suddenly looks, dark hair plastered to his forehead, skin flushed with exertion and hot to the touch, eyes glazed and lips parted.
Except that he can think of anything beyond the slow, distracted, but nonetheless effective roll of hips against his, the practiced fingers along straining skin, and encroaching exhaustion thus far kept at bay by the intoxication of Peter’s body against his.
And it all hits at once, the heat and scent of Peter, the wet lips teasing pressed to his neck, the hand pressed to his chest, above his heart which, he figures, would be just like Peter to search for, at that moment.
The final release of tension from an afternoon’s separation and he’d worry about that, the intensity of it, and should at least try and remember to worry about it, after his body is able to register air, and sense, and anything beyond the anchoring warmth of Peter as their bodies still and their eyes shut.
***
“Claude?”
He blinks, stirs from his moment of unconscious happiness, and glances down into soft eyes.
Waits, for the inevitable, and is unsurprised to find warm fingers slowly tangling with his as Peter nestles closer, dark head on his shoulder and breathing steady against his chest.
“Expectin’ someone else, were you?”
“No, you’re fine,” Peter yawns, a strain of tire amusement in his voice. “Just fine...”
“’m thrilled, mate.”
“Shh,” and Claude can’t help but roll his eyes, as Peter mumbles a quiet. “Go to sleep, already.”
*