A Sucker Born Every Minute
Title: A Sucker Born Every Minute
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Fandoms: Heroes, Supernatural.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Supernatural episode Tall Tales.
A/N: It's gratuitous crack. I have no excuses.
I wanted to do a sequel to All Ye Faithful (and indulge my love for Sam/Gabriel). This is the... weird result.
This is not the strangest thing he's ever done.
It's not even worthy of his (admittedly epic) list of debaucheries.
Indeed, in a lifetime of absurdities and fickle, fickle hours, it seems almost… common.
Almost.
“Do I pass inspection then?”
He stands in the center of the room, leaning against a white-haired mop; the scent of pine seeping across the floor. A uniform clings to him, his name stitched lazy across the pocket. He isn’t certain exactly where Peter found coveralls long enough to fit (they're tailored lewd, meant to offer every curve, every curious twitch. Not one shiver of skin to be seen and yet he still feels exposed) but he accepted them regardless. And isn’t that just… ridiculous?
“You look good enough to eat.”
Claude quirks a brow with that; feeling a sudden, delicate weight inside his hand. He glances down, not entirely surprised to see a lollipop posed now between his fingers. He twirls it. “Your teleportin’s gettin' better... Didn't even see you move that time."
“I try. Now-- Suck it.”
And he sighs, only a little labored; unwraps the candy and places it in his mouth. It's strawberry-sweet. He lets a tongue peek out to tease it, wondering why a boy insists on this particular fantasy. An archangel is demeaned, he's certain, made a mere trickster. A janitor. And yet… “You know, Sammy,” he drawls, acquiescing to a game, "this ain't exactly me at my best. Givin' head to a bloody lolly."
There's no expected reply, no carefully chosen characterization. Instead there is just wide eyes and wet lips and soft, soft, breaths.
Oh.
He knows that look. Biblically, as it were.
"Say-- Say that again."
He blinks, confused. "What?"
"The thing. You just said."
"That--?" He frowns. "... Givin' head to a bloody lolly?"
Peter stares.
So does Claude.
Peter pounces.
Claude... doesn't mind.
And, between the kisses and quick gasps, the tangle of flesh and laughter, he catches: "That's the hottest thing I’ve ever heard."
And he'll protest that later, offer words far more impressive; seductions, intentional. But now...
Now...
"I got somethin' better than a lolly for ya, Pete."
.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Fandoms: Heroes, Supernatural.
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Supernatural episode Tall Tales.
A/N: It's gratuitous crack. I have no excuses.
I wanted to do a sequel to All Ye Faithful (and indulge my love for Sam/Gabriel). This is the... weird result.
This is not the strangest thing he's ever done.
It's not even worthy of his (admittedly epic) list of debaucheries.
Indeed, in a lifetime of absurdities and fickle, fickle hours, it seems almost… common.
Almost.
“Do I pass inspection then?”
He stands in the center of the room, leaning against a white-haired mop; the scent of pine seeping across the floor. A uniform clings to him, his name stitched lazy across the pocket. He isn’t certain exactly where Peter found coveralls long enough to fit (they're tailored lewd, meant to offer every curve, every curious twitch. Not one shiver of skin to be seen and yet he still feels exposed) but he accepted them regardless. And isn’t that just… ridiculous?
“You look good enough to eat.”
Claude quirks a brow with that; feeling a sudden, delicate weight inside his hand. He glances down, not entirely surprised to see a lollipop posed now between his fingers. He twirls it. “Your teleportin’s gettin' better... Didn't even see you move that time."
“I try. Now-- Suck it.”
And he sighs, only a little labored; unwraps the candy and places it in his mouth. It's strawberry-sweet. He lets a tongue peek out to tease it, wondering why a boy insists on this particular fantasy. An archangel is demeaned, he's certain, made a mere trickster. A janitor. And yet… “You know, Sammy,” he drawls, acquiescing to a game, "this ain't exactly me at my best. Givin' head to a bloody lolly."
There's no expected reply, no carefully chosen characterization. Instead there is just wide eyes and wet lips and soft, soft, breaths.
Oh.
He knows that look. Biblically, as it were.
"Say-- Say that again."
He blinks, confused. "What?"
"The thing. You just said."
"That--?" He frowns. "... Givin' head to a bloody lolly?"
Peter stares.
So does Claude.
Peter pounces.
Claude... doesn't mind.
And, between the kisses and quick gasps, the tangle of flesh and laughter, he catches: "That's the hottest thing I’ve ever heard."
And he'll protest that later, offer words far more impressive; seductions, intentional. But now...
Now...
"I got somethin' better than a lolly for ya, Pete."
.