To The Victor Goes...
Title: To The Victor Goes...
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Fandoms: Heroes, Batman.
Spoilers: General comic references.
Warnings: None.
A/N: Smut and smark? Yeah. That's all I got.
It’s been... forever since I’ve written in this universe. I had some extra time, though, and wanted to try another chapter (albeit one that is a prequel and has no real value beyond porn). My justification? Origin stories are necessary.... and save me from having to think of an actual plot. See? It all works out.
Red.
Everything is red.
The night. The air. The stars.
They've been born again, made to a bright burgundy, all heat and static and mechanical surrealism. A goggled view of the world and good deeds are somehow changed, watched from a rooftop perch. Questioned. Observed. Because the streets are pulsing below, with infra-sensibilities. And rope. Lots of rope.
Well... someone's been studyin' his westerns...
It's a lasso twist, a tight knot, and thieves are captured quick; forced together, straddling concrete and a lamppost. Inelegant. Undone. But these are not the first to be taken. An evening has been filled with such things, bounding along avenues, punishing the wicked and the wary. Justice. Vendetta. It's now the same.
Claude isn't certain he approves.
And yet--
He cannot look away.
Compelled by every graceful motion, every feat of lightning and flame. Too much. Too much. They're explosions, dangerous, vicious.
And yet--
Beautiful.
They're... beautiful.
A boy is... beautiful.
And Claude can't resist.
Hasn't been able to since two weeks before, when they met, when they clashed, when they tangled brief and glorious. His mouth burns still from the laughters traded then. From a kiss.
You're turnin' sentimental. Old fool.
....
'M not old. 'M... mature.
He blinks.
Yeah. Right.
He frowns at his own absurdity, glances back to his goggles. But they're... empty. He huffs, adjusts the settings, finds them still without a hero.
What the-- Where'd he go?
"Didn’t your mother teach you not to spy on people?"
Oops.
But he doesn't startle. Doesn't flinch. Even as he wants to. Instead he just removes his glasses, slowly spins, is greeted by a Bat: perfect in his melodrama, the billowing cape and sulky stares. "Nope. She just taught me not to get caught."
"I guess it didn't take?"
He shrugs, stands, stretches. It's meant to be without care, but dark eyes still chase him, flicker across leather.
Well, well...
"I was wonderin' when you'd notice, mate."
"I noticed when you first arrived," explains the Bat. "I've just been busy. And I knew you weren't going anywhere." He scowls. "You've been following me."
"I don't deny it." Claude gloats. "It's been a nice view." And he isn't sure if there's a blush beneath the mask (it's new, replacing the domino style from before. That one offered cheeks, which he licked. Their first meeting was momentary but still enjoyed) but he has the urge to take; ambles forward, circling with a hawk's intent, relishing the way a boy tenses. Pretty prey. "And you know I can't help myself around... good things."
"You should've."
"Oh?"
"Yes," comes the growl, annoyed. "Because now I'm going to have to take you in."
"I don't think that's necessary," he says, smirking, sure. "You've made your quota', haven't you?" He reaches out to stroke a shoulder, to soothe, but his hand is caught. Held.
Uh oh...
"No," answers the Bat, fingers clasping fierce. "I haven't."
And it’s a blur of movement, a power envied; the seconds weeping as they're shamed. Speed. It has him trapped, shackled suddenly and forced forward. March, march, march.
Really shouldn't think this is excitin'...
He'll marvel at his own perversions later, though, knows now he must negotiate. Prison is for the common, after all: the weak, the maddened dreamers. It wasn't meant for him. He's a far better breed of criminal. The distinction is clear and proud. "I've already made plans for this evenin', you know. 'Fraid we'll have to do this another day."
"You brought it on yourself," dismisses a hero, walking him toward the edge of the roof.
Claude prays they're meant to fly from it instead of fall, decides the chance is still too much. Hurries, "But, if you lock me up, how will you ever learn about what's gonna happen?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"'Course you don't. Which is why we need to make a trade. Information for freedom. Yeah?" He's gratified when they pause. "Interested?"
"What is it?"
"Not tellin'. Not until you promise to let me go. You're one to keep your word, I bet. All noble..." It's a drawled mockery, answered surprisingly with an invasion of thoughts; telepathy peeking inside, trying to take the truth. Claude quickly disguises himself Oriental, allows only foreign flavors to pass. His mind becomes a bloom of jasmine and cherry blossoms.
It makes a champion pout. "You're cheating."
"Yep." The accusation doesn't hurt. He's had far worse flung toward him. And it's somehow special that this one is all a boy can give.
"Tell me."
“Not without a promise,” he reminds. “Trust me, mate. You’ll be wantin’ to do this. It's well worth your trouble.”
Silence. Silence. Anger.
Then--
“Fine.”
He’s never heard a more aggravated submission.
He loves it.
Mine.
“Now-- If you’d be so kind?” He raises his hands, anticipant.
“Not until you talk,” the Bat grits out. “I need to make sure it’s right.”
“You think I’d lie to you?”
A glare.
“Fair enough.” He leans back on his heels, rocking in contemplation. Finally begins, “There’s gonna be a breakout. From Primatech.” It’s their terrible asylum, the great riddle in the city center. “Guy named Knox. Thinks he some kind of scarecrow or summat. Always tryin’ to worry people.” He chuckles, derisive. “His crew wants him out, though. And in three days they’ll try it. Unless you’re there to stop them.”
A frown, crooked and considering.
He ignores the urge to bite iit.
“How do you know this?” his (his, his, his) crusader then asks.
Claude smiles, amiably. “I’ve got my sources.”
“And they’re okay with you helping me?”
“Probably not. But I don’t care too much about that, friend. I’ve got my own reasons.”
“Such as?”
“What? You don’t think I could be an upstanding member of society?”
The gaze is flat and unamused.
“Well... you’d be right,” he admits. “But, just because I don’t go flouncin’ around in a cape, doesn’t mean I don’t like to see certain people stay locked up where they belong. You’re not the only one with a conscious, you know.”
“I somehow think I am.” But that doesn’t stop him from moving forward, removing the bonds. They’re hidden along a belt, secured. And then he backs away, turning as if to leave. Without a glance. Without a goodbye.
That... will not do.
“Hey!” calls Claude, desperate still for recognition. This is the only one to see him. The only one to understand. He can’t simply let him... go. “Don’t you want to hear the rest?"
The Bat looks toward him once more, puzzled. “What rest?”
“I know more than just that, friend. Lots of things. Lots of evil-doer things. If you’re willin’ to listen.”
A glower, sullen, before: "I'm listening."
"Good," he nods. "That's just what I wanted to hear. Although... What I have to say ain't cheap, y'know. It's gonna have a cost."
"And what's that?"
"A kiss."
".... What?"
"A kiss," he repeats.
"That-- No." A boy is sputtering now, unnerved. "Not going to happen. No. No."
"Why not?" he asks. "'S not like we haven't already done it before." A first meeting, a need for diamonds, the temptation all too sweet. But he was found unexpectedly, cornered and cautioned and commanded stop. Escape seemed impossible... until inspiration came, allowed the reprieve. Wet mouth to mouth. A share of soft surprise. Together, together, gasping. Distraction left them both dizzy. He merely recovered first and ran. Now-- Now he's not running. "Just one," he presses, "and then you'll learn all sorts of things."
There's fury behind a mask, and desire too. Uncertain. It's a war, the sides drawn dark and agitated. For him.
Delicious.
"Do we have a deal?"
No response.
"This is a one-shot thing, friend. Goin'' goin', gone, y'see?" He waggles his brows. "So... deal?"
".... Yes."
"What was that?"
"Yes, okay? Yes."
"Oh, good," leers Claude. "I was hopin' you'd agree." And it's a slither of arms then, fingers settling at hips. He tugs his champion (because he's enough of an egotist to believe this all for him) closer, offers heat and tongue and slow seduction. Careful. The body beneath him is unyielding, refusing even to reply. But a thief is patient, willing, knows the prize in persistence.
One. Two. Three.
And then--
Acceptance.
There.
And it's earnest now, a greet of hurried taste. The kiss is deepened, played hot and greedy and long. Until he must pull away, must breathe. Even as he must also grin when a boy whimpers with the loss. No gasp could steal his humor. He traces his thumb across a lip, drags it down to a Kevlar shoulder; laments that it's still cold. "Quite the chastity belt you've made for yourself," he murmurs, flicking at the seam. "That's why I prefer a zipper."
His Bat swallows, shallow and stunned.
Claude simply leans in, mumbles, "In case you didn't know: that was an invitation."
That's all it takes.
He's shoved back, thudding loud against the wall, claimed with quick lips and quicker mewls. Frenzied. They're thrusting against each other, a messy, wonderful collapse. Close. His cock begins to harden, trapped between leather and solid skin. He groans at the sensation, the sound breaking high when hands roam against him, reach to metal teeth and yank them down. Open.
But there are no hands, he realizes. Because his wrists are still pinned.
Then what-- Oh.
Telekinesis. It's telekinesis, he knows; an ability traveling against cloth, sliding into the gap, trailing down his chest. Ribbons of cold sighs. He frets when they part, some slipping down his belly, others waltzing to his waist. Thighs are nudged, caressed. Hips are nuzzled. And then-- His cock is taken, cradled gently and out. Exposed.
He keens, pushes forward, tries to urge the touches stronger. But they’re fleeting things, teases. They’re searching flesh, playfully exploring every weakness. While their master is holding him still, sucking bruises to a neck.
And it’s obscene, he thinks, for his cock to be like... this. Stroked with air. While his balls are rolled with thoughts, not truth. Maddening. Not the intention for a night. He was sure he'd be the one offering touch, had imagined legs spread wide; a boy above, riding him in just a cowl.
But this-- This is good too.
Really good.
There's a laugh in the distance.
He almost doesn't recognize it; feels it more than understands.
What--?
"Did you really think you were the only one who knows things?"
Wait--
What?
It's a sudden blur of images then, the endeavor's of an evening. They shiver between them, every success, every motion: each wild and frantic and made for... him. Those thunder bursts and storm arches, those barely tempered screams.
His.
All... his.
Illusions, they, and meant to entice.
He'll be offended later.
Now--
“Do you really think any of this would be happening if I didn’t want it?” The question is coupled with a fast grip, a palm replacing power. Jerking. Hard. A glove is coarse and thick against him; a perfect, painful friction.
He cries out, helpless, as he’s taken. Unable to resist. Unable to even want to.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” his hero whispers. “For you to show up again. Wanted to see you. Because I’m the only who does that, right? I’m the only one who sees you? Just me?” The words are hissed between kisses, rushed. “Shouldn’t-- Shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t want this. Not you.” He groans. “But you-- I needed-- I needed--”
Claude comes before the confession is given. Hates himself for it. For the interruption. But this is too much, too now, and he can only whine, tumble after. Sag exhausted against the wall. He can’t even manage a proper irony as he’s tucked back into his costume, zipped and pressed and cleaned (though white, he notes, is smeared against his knee, not the brick).
Of course it is...
“I should be leaving now.”
What-- What?
A knight is somehow defeated. “Next time,” he begins, quiet, anxious, “I’ll have to take you in. To jail.”
“Better-- Better make this time count then,” Claude slurs, trying to reach for him again.
He’s denied with another kiss, this one chaste against his cheek. And sad. So sad. “It already did.”
And, before he can beg for something, anything, more, please, more, a boy vanishes.
Going. Going. Gone.
Well... That was... different.
He stumbles up, swaying just a little.
I’m thinking there might be some complications in this...
A pause, a smile.
Worth it.
.
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Fandoms: Heroes, Batman.
Spoilers: General comic references.
Warnings: None.
A/N: Smut and smark? Yeah. That's all I got.
It’s been... forever since I’ve written in this universe. I had some extra time, though, and wanted to try another chapter (albeit one that is a prequel and has no real value beyond porn). My justification? Origin stories are necessary.... and save me from having to think of an actual plot. See? It all works out.
Red.
Everything is red.
The night. The air. The stars.
They've been born again, made to a bright burgundy, all heat and static and mechanical surrealism. A goggled view of the world and good deeds are somehow changed, watched from a rooftop perch. Questioned. Observed. Because the streets are pulsing below, with infra-sensibilities. And rope. Lots of rope.
Well... someone's been studyin' his westerns...
It's a lasso twist, a tight knot, and thieves are captured quick; forced together, straddling concrete and a lamppost. Inelegant. Undone. But these are not the first to be taken. An evening has been filled with such things, bounding along avenues, punishing the wicked and the wary. Justice. Vendetta. It's now the same.
Claude isn't certain he approves.
And yet--
He cannot look away.
Compelled by every graceful motion, every feat of lightning and flame. Too much. Too much. They're explosions, dangerous, vicious.
And yet--
Beautiful.
They're... beautiful.
A boy is... beautiful.
And Claude can't resist.
Hasn't been able to since two weeks before, when they met, when they clashed, when they tangled brief and glorious. His mouth burns still from the laughters traded then. From a kiss.
You're turnin' sentimental. Old fool.
....
'M not old. 'M... mature.
He blinks.
Yeah. Right.
He frowns at his own absurdity, glances back to his goggles. But they're... empty. He huffs, adjusts the settings, finds them still without a hero.
What the-- Where'd he go?
"Didn’t your mother teach you not to spy on people?"
Oops.
But he doesn't startle. Doesn't flinch. Even as he wants to. Instead he just removes his glasses, slowly spins, is greeted by a Bat: perfect in his melodrama, the billowing cape and sulky stares. "Nope. She just taught me not to get caught."
"I guess it didn't take?"
He shrugs, stands, stretches. It's meant to be without care, but dark eyes still chase him, flicker across leather.
Well, well...
"I was wonderin' when you'd notice, mate."
"I noticed when you first arrived," explains the Bat. "I've just been busy. And I knew you weren't going anywhere." He scowls. "You've been following me."
"I don't deny it." Claude gloats. "It's been a nice view." And he isn't sure if there's a blush beneath the mask (it's new, replacing the domino style from before. That one offered cheeks, which he licked. Their first meeting was momentary but still enjoyed) but he has the urge to take; ambles forward, circling with a hawk's intent, relishing the way a boy tenses. Pretty prey. "And you know I can't help myself around... good things."
"You should've."
"Oh?"
"Yes," comes the growl, annoyed. "Because now I'm going to have to take you in."
"I don't think that's necessary," he says, smirking, sure. "You've made your quota', haven't you?" He reaches out to stroke a shoulder, to soothe, but his hand is caught. Held.
Uh oh...
"No," answers the Bat, fingers clasping fierce. "I haven't."
And it’s a blur of movement, a power envied; the seconds weeping as they're shamed. Speed. It has him trapped, shackled suddenly and forced forward. March, march, march.
Really shouldn't think this is excitin'...
He'll marvel at his own perversions later, though, knows now he must negotiate. Prison is for the common, after all: the weak, the maddened dreamers. It wasn't meant for him. He's a far better breed of criminal. The distinction is clear and proud. "I've already made plans for this evenin', you know. 'Fraid we'll have to do this another day."
"You brought it on yourself," dismisses a hero, walking him toward the edge of the roof.
Claude prays they're meant to fly from it instead of fall, decides the chance is still too much. Hurries, "But, if you lock me up, how will you ever learn about what's gonna happen?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"'Course you don't. Which is why we need to make a trade. Information for freedom. Yeah?" He's gratified when they pause. "Interested?"
"What is it?"
"Not tellin'. Not until you promise to let me go. You're one to keep your word, I bet. All noble..." It's a drawled mockery, answered surprisingly with an invasion of thoughts; telepathy peeking inside, trying to take the truth. Claude quickly disguises himself Oriental, allows only foreign flavors to pass. His mind becomes a bloom of jasmine and cherry blossoms.
It makes a champion pout. "You're cheating."
"Yep." The accusation doesn't hurt. He's had far worse flung toward him. And it's somehow special that this one is all a boy can give.
"Tell me."
“Not without a promise,” he reminds. “Trust me, mate. You’ll be wantin’ to do this. It's well worth your trouble.”
Silence. Silence. Anger.
Then--
“Fine.”
He’s never heard a more aggravated submission.
He loves it.
Mine.
“Now-- If you’d be so kind?” He raises his hands, anticipant.
“Not until you talk,” the Bat grits out. “I need to make sure it’s right.”
“You think I’d lie to you?”
A glare.
“Fair enough.” He leans back on his heels, rocking in contemplation. Finally begins, “There’s gonna be a breakout. From Primatech.” It’s their terrible asylum, the great riddle in the city center. “Guy named Knox. Thinks he some kind of scarecrow or summat. Always tryin’ to worry people.” He chuckles, derisive. “His crew wants him out, though. And in three days they’ll try it. Unless you’re there to stop them.”
A frown, crooked and considering.
He ignores the urge to bite iit.
“How do you know this?” his (his, his, his) crusader then asks.
Claude smiles, amiably. “I’ve got my sources.”
“And they’re okay with you helping me?”
“Probably not. But I don’t care too much about that, friend. I’ve got my own reasons.”
“Such as?”
“What? You don’t think I could be an upstanding member of society?”
The gaze is flat and unamused.
“Well... you’d be right,” he admits. “But, just because I don’t go flouncin’ around in a cape, doesn’t mean I don’t like to see certain people stay locked up where they belong. You’re not the only one with a conscious, you know.”
“I somehow think I am.” But that doesn’t stop him from moving forward, removing the bonds. They’re hidden along a belt, secured. And then he backs away, turning as if to leave. Without a glance. Without a goodbye.
That... will not do.
“Hey!” calls Claude, desperate still for recognition. This is the only one to see him. The only one to understand. He can’t simply let him... go. “Don’t you want to hear the rest?"
The Bat looks toward him once more, puzzled. “What rest?”
“I know more than just that, friend. Lots of things. Lots of evil-doer things. If you’re willin’ to listen.”
A glower, sullen, before: "I'm listening."
"Good," he nods. "That's just what I wanted to hear. Although... What I have to say ain't cheap, y'know. It's gonna have a cost."
"And what's that?"
"A kiss."
".... What?"
"A kiss," he repeats.
"That-- No." A boy is sputtering now, unnerved. "Not going to happen. No. No."
"Why not?" he asks. "'S not like we haven't already done it before." A first meeting, a need for diamonds, the temptation all too sweet. But he was found unexpectedly, cornered and cautioned and commanded stop. Escape seemed impossible... until inspiration came, allowed the reprieve. Wet mouth to mouth. A share of soft surprise. Together, together, gasping. Distraction left them both dizzy. He merely recovered first and ran. Now-- Now he's not running. "Just one," he presses, "and then you'll learn all sorts of things."
There's fury behind a mask, and desire too. Uncertain. It's a war, the sides drawn dark and agitated. For him.
Delicious.
"Do we have a deal?"
No response.
"This is a one-shot thing, friend. Goin'' goin', gone, y'see?" He waggles his brows. "So... deal?"
".... Yes."
"What was that?"
"Yes, okay? Yes."
"Oh, good," leers Claude. "I was hopin' you'd agree." And it's a slither of arms then, fingers settling at hips. He tugs his champion (because he's enough of an egotist to believe this all for him) closer, offers heat and tongue and slow seduction. Careful. The body beneath him is unyielding, refusing even to reply. But a thief is patient, willing, knows the prize in persistence.
One. Two. Three.
And then--
Acceptance.
There.
And it's earnest now, a greet of hurried taste. The kiss is deepened, played hot and greedy and long. Until he must pull away, must breathe. Even as he must also grin when a boy whimpers with the loss. No gasp could steal his humor. He traces his thumb across a lip, drags it down to a Kevlar shoulder; laments that it's still cold. "Quite the chastity belt you've made for yourself," he murmurs, flicking at the seam. "That's why I prefer a zipper."
His Bat swallows, shallow and stunned.
Claude simply leans in, mumbles, "In case you didn't know: that was an invitation."
That's all it takes.
He's shoved back, thudding loud against the wall, claimed with quick lips and quicker mewls. Frenzied. They're thrusting against each other, a messy, wonderful collapse. Close. His cock begins to harden, trapped between leather and solid skin. He groans at the sensation, the sound breaking high when hands roam against him, reach to metal teeth and yank them down. Open.
But there are no hands, he realizes. Because his wrists are still pinned.
Then what-- Oh.
Telekinesis. It's telekinesis, he knows; an ability traveling against cloth, sliding into the gap, trailing down his chest. Ribbons of cold sighs. He frets when they part, some slipping down his belly, others waltzing to his waist. Thighs are nudged, caressed. Hips are nuzzled. And then-- His cock is taken, cradled gently and out. Exposed.
He keens, pushes forward, tries to urge the touches stronger. But they’re fleeting things, teases. They’re searching flesh, playfully exploring every weakness. While their master is holding him still, sucking bruises to a neck.
And it’s obscene, he thinks, for his cock to be like... this. Stroked with air. While his balls are rolled with thoughts, not truth. Maddening. Not the intention for a night. He was sure he'd be the one offering touch, had imagined legs spread wide; a boy above, riding him in just a cowl.
But this-- This is good too.
Really good.
There's a laugh in the distance.
He almost doesn't recognize it; feels it more than understands.
What--?
"Did you really think you were the only one who knows things?"
Wait--
What?
It's a sudden blur of images then, the endeavor's of an evening. They shiver between them, every success, every motion: each wild and frantic and made for... him. Those thunder bursts and storm arches, those barely tempered screams.
His.
All... his.
Illusions, they, and meant to entice.
He'll be offended later.
Now--
“Do you really think any of this would be happening if I didn’t want it?” The question is coupled with a fast grip, a palm replacing power. Jerking. Hard. A glove is coarse and thick against him; a perfect, painful friction.
He cries out, helpless, as he’s taken. Unable to resist. Unable to even want to.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” his hero whispers. “For you to show up again. Wanted to see you. Because I’m the only who does that, right? I’m the only one who sees you? Just me?” The words are hissed between kisses, rushed. “Shouldn’t-- Shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t want this. Not you.” He groans. “But you-- I needed-- I needed--”
Claude comes before the confession is given. Hates himself for it. For the interruption. But this is too much, too now, and he can only whine, tumble after. Sag exhausted against the wall. He can’t even manage a proper irony as he’s tucked back into his costume, zipped and pressed and cleaned (though white, he notes, is smeared against his knee, not the brick).
Of course it is...
“I should be leaving now.”
What-- What?
A knight is somehow defeated. “Next time,” he begins, quiet, anxious, “I’ll have to take you in. To jail.”
“Better-- Better make this time count then,” Claude slurs, trying to reach for him again.
He’s denied with another kiss, this one chaste against his cheek. And sad. So sad. “It already did.”
And, before he can beg for something, anything, more, please, more, a boy vanishes.
Going. Going. Gone.
Well... That was... different.
He stumbles up, swaying just a little.
I’m thinking there might be some complications in this...
A pause, a smile.
Worth it.
.