Fic Exchange -- Written for rhea_carlysse
Title: Prove It All Night
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Claude
Spoilers/Warnings (if any): S1; sex stuff.
Prompts: Snarkiness, Bruce Springsteen, and the advantages of being invisible.
Summary: He casually runs his hand through his hair, like it’s not a bloody big deal that the two of us are alone in a hotel room and he’s not wearing a goddamn shirt.
Bloody hell.
Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
I’m sitting there, sort of gaping at him as he comes out of the bathroom, nothing but un-buttoned jeans on. He casually runs his hand through his hair, like it’s not a bloody big deal that the two of us are alone in a hotel room and he’s not wearing a goddamn shirt.
“What?” He noticed me staring at him. Fuck. I quickly turn my head and focus my attention on the utterly fascinating lamp with the flowers on it. The flowers…and the butterflies. Dear God. This room was going to make me go mad, what with the girly lamps and the pastel wallpaper. It was like we were in some sort of home decorating magazine.
Although, people are usually wearing shirts in those things.
I sneak a glance. His burns have healed well, in the past few years. They aren’t anything but faded scars now, and they stretch as he reaches up and turns on the radio that’s placed up on the high shelf.
I shouldn’t be thinking burn scars are sexy, should I? Seems a bit wrong, somehow.
Some Bruce Springsteen song is playing---dunno which one, and don’t really care; never had a fascination with the man---and Nathan fucking Petrelli lies down luxuriously on his bed, like he’s some bloody cat or something. A cat wearing tight, un-buttoned jeans and no shirt.
Must think about other things besides Nathan Petrelli shirtless. Like…like…well, fuck, I can’t very well concentrate on anything else when said shirtless Petrelli is right in front of me, can I?
“Think we’ll get to Vegas in time?” Petrelli asks, scratching the stubble on his chin. Peter was supposed to be in Vegas---took us well long enough to find the lad. Two years, in fact. Couldn’t risk taking a plane; Petrelli wasn’t even supposed to be alive. So, road trip it was.
I had gotten sick of road trips a long time ago.
“Er, yeah. Couple days, maybe.” My eyes were everywhere but on Petrelli’s chest. Must not look. Must not get excited when Petrelli yawns and spreads his arms across the bed, snow-angel style.
The man’s practically begging me to shag him. Except he’s not. Unfortunately.
His bare foot is tapping against the bed’s metal frame. “I like this song,” he says.
“Good for you.” I chew on my pen and stare at the ceiling fan. Must not look.
“You don’t like Springsteen?”
“Not particularly, no. Got a problem with that?”
He shrugs. “Not really. Except you clearly have bad taste in music.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gettin’ smart with me, Petrelli?”
“Nah. Of course not.” He’s being patronizing. What a bastard.
“You know, we could sit ‘ere all night debating our musical preferences, but I, personally, have much more important things to be doing.” Like trying not to leer at you, mate. And you’re making it bloody difficult.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” He picks some dirt out between his fingernails. “I hardly think sitting at a desk chewing on a pen cap constitutes as ‘important’. Or a ‘thing’.”
I, strangely, don’t have a comeback for this, so instead I start chewing on my pen harder.
He looks irritated. Huzzah.
“You can’t think of anything else to do besides that?” he asks, glaring over at me.
“Nope.” I’m practically gnawing the plastic off at this point.
He grunts, and goes back to picking his nails.
That Bruce Springsteen song isn’t over yet, and I am strongly tempted to grab the radio and throw it out the window. But I don’t, for a variety of reasons, one of which is that I am too busy not staring at Petrelli.
He lets out a slow, steady stream of air from his nostrils. “I’m bored.”
“Make that two of us.” The pen cap’s almost broken.
“Jesus.” He’s looking at dangling pen cap and chuckling. “You’re really abusing that thing, huh?”
“What’s it to you?” I snap. I guess I’m a little edgy from my somewhat futile attempts to control my nether regions. Although Petrelli usually gets me pissed off just by being in the same room. Something about those damn politicians. They all ignite my must-punch-in-face reflex. To be fair, though, Petrelli hasn’t been a politician for a couple years now.
But he’s still got that damn politician’s smile. He’s flashing it right now. Fucking bastard. I hate him. I hate him and his lack of a shirt.
He flips himself onto his stomach and rests his fist on his chin. He kinda contemplates me for a couple minutes while I glare at the painting of sunflowers behind him. Must not look.
“You’re interesting,” he suddenly says out of bloody nowhere.
“What?” I accidentally flick my gaze from the painting to his face, which looks…playful? No. I must be imagining things. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“You’re interesting,” he repeats, and blinks up at me like…like a puppy.
The top of the pen cap falls to the floor.
Oh, Christ.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
“Er---” I hastily stand up, almost knocking the chair over. “Glad you think so---but I have to go---get---things---”
And I run out the door like my bloody life depends on it.
***
I come back to the room about ten minutes later, a soda clutched in my hand---don’t even remember buying it, really. I’m about to open the door when I hear the water running inside. Petrelli’s taking a shower.
I shake my head to clear the dirty thoughts, then get an idea and grin mischievously. Time to play an old trick of mine.
I turn invisible and, very quietly, open the door.
It snaps shut. I cringe. The shower doesn’t stop. He hasn’t noticed. Good.
I sit down casually and cross my legs, waiting for him to come back out. Scaring the man should be entertaining. Lord knows it worked with Bennet enough times, back in the day.
Now’s not the time to be thinking about Bennet.
It’s never the time to be thinking about Bennet.
The water shuts off, and I quickly toss the can of soda into the trash. Wasn’t gonna drink it, anyway.
A minute or so later, and Petrelli comes out of the bathroom with just his pajama pants on. Christ, does the man ever wear a shirt? Did he suddenly join a religion that does not allow its members to wear tops? If so, are we within driving distance of the nearest church?
It’s when my mind goes to strange places like this that I know I’m in trouble.
“Stupid fucker,” Petrelli growls, and angrily throws back the comforter on his bed.
I raise an invisible eyebrow. What’s this, now?
“Can’t take a goddamn hint…practically threw myself at him…” He climbs in under the sheets, his face screwed up into a scowl.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. So…he was practically begging me to shag him.
Well. This is an interesting turn of events.
I decide to have some fun with this.
The man’s tossing and turning pointlessly, and I slowly stand up and tip-toe over to his bed.
He’s so angry. He’s beating on the pillow and baring his teeth and even sweating a little.
It’s pretty hot, to tell you the truth.
I graze my finger over his chest.
He jumps. “What the hell?”
I smirk, and my finger slides down to his belly button. He hisses.
“Claude? Is that you?”
I don’t say anything; I just continue to stroke his chest, apparently to his pleasure, as evidenced by the moans he’s making.
God, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.
Okay. Maybe longer than just tonight.
The combination of his moans and me feeling up his chest is making me half-hard already, so I straddle his lap and lay kisses all over that bare chest of his.
“Claude, would you just---oh, fuck!”
I am eternally grateful that the radio is off and Bruce Springsteen isn’t playing in the background.
I start kissing him while my fingers work down below, and he lifts his hands up like he wants to run his fingers through my hair…but, of course, he can’t see me, so he puts his arms down at his sides.
“Can you turn visible now?” he gasps, wrenching his lips from mine.
I let out a quiet chuckle, and lean near his ear to whisper:
“You know you like it invisible, Petrelli.”
He whines in agreement as I yank down his pants.
Of course he does. Everybody likes invisible sex.
“Been so long…” he mutters as I toss his pajamas off to the side.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, mate.” Or try to justify it.
I lean down and slowly start licking. He moans and writhes and I grin.
“An invisible blow job, huh?” he says dryly.
I demonstrate.
“Shit!” He arches and whimpers like a little dog.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
Rating: R
Pairing: Nathan/Claude
Spoilers/Warnings (if any): S1; sex stuff.
Prompts: Snarkiness, Bruce Springsteen, and the advantages of being invisible.
Summary: He casually runs his hand through his hair, like it’s not a bloody big deal that the two of us are alone in a hotel room and he’s not wearing a goddamn shirt.
Bloody hell.
Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
I’m sitting there, sort of gaping at him as he comes out of the bathroom, nothing but un-buttoned jeans on. He casually runs his hand through his hair, like it’s not a bloody big deal that the two of us are alone in a hotel room and he’s not wearing a goddamn shirt.
“What?” He noticed me staring at him. Fuck. I quickly turn my head and focus my attention on the utterly fascinating lamp with the flowers on it. The flowers…and the butterflies. Dear God. This room was going to make me go mad, what with the girly lamps and the pastel wallpaper. It was like we were in some sort of home decorating magazine.
Although, people are usually wearing shirts in those things.
I sneak a glance. His burns have healed well, in the past few years. They aren’t anything but faded scars now, and they stretch as he reaches up and turns on the radio that’s placed up on the high shelf.
I shouldn’t be thinking burn scars are sexy, should I? Seems a bit wrong, somehow.
Some Bruce Springsteen song is playing---dunno which one, and don’t really care; never had a fascination with the man---and Nathan fucking Petrelli lies down luxuriously on his bed, like he’s some bloody cat or something. A cat wearing tight, un-buttoned jeans and no shirt.
Must think about other things besides Nathan Petrelli shirtless. Like…like…well, fuck, I can’t very well concentrate on anything else when said shirtless Petrelli is right in front of me, can I?
“Think we’ll get to Vegas in time?” Petrelli asks, scratching the stubble on his chin. Peter was supposed to be in Vegas---took us well long enough to find the lad. Two years, in fact. Couldn’t risk taking a plane; Petrelli wasn’t even supposed to be alive. So, road trip it was.
I had gotten sick of road trips a long time ago.
“Er, yeah. Couple days, maybe.” My eyes were everywhere but on Petrelli’s chest. Must not look. Must not get excited when Petrelli yawns and spreads his arms across the bed, snow-angel style.
The man’s practically begging me to shag him. Except he’s not. Unfortunately.
His bare foot is tapping against the bed’s metal frame. “I like this song,” he says.
“Good for you.” I chew on my pen and stare at the ceiling fan. Must not look.
“You don’t like Springsteen?”
“Not particularly, no. Got a problem with that?”
He shrugs. “Not really. Except you clearly have bad taste in music.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gettin’ smart with me, Petrelli?”
“Nah. Of course not.” He’s being patronizing. What a bastard.
“You know, we could sit ‘ere all night debating our musical preferences, but I, personally, have much more important things to be doing.” Like trying not to leer at you, mate. And you’re making it bloody difficult.
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” He picks some dirt out between his fingernails. “I hardly think sitting at a desk chewing on a pen cap constitutes as ‘important’. Or a ‘thing’.”
I, strangely, don’t have a comeback for this, so instead I start chewing on my pen harder.
He looks irritated. Huzzah.
“You can’t think of anything else to do besides that?” he asks, glaring over at me.
“Nope.” I’m practically gnawing the plastic off at this point.
He grunts, and goes back to picking his nails.
That Bruce Springsteen song isn’t over yet, and I am strongly tempted to grab the radio and throw it out the window. But I don’t, for a variety of reasons, one of which is that I am too busy not staring at Petrelli.
He lets out a slow, steady stream of air from his nostrils. “I’m bored.”
“Make that two of us.” The pen cap’s almost broken.
“Jesus.” He’s looking at dangling pen cap and chuckling. “You’re really abusing that thing, huh?”
“What’s it to you?” I snap. I guess I’m a little edgy from my somewhat futile attempts to control my nether regions. Although Petrelli usually gets me pissed off just by being in the same room. Something about those damn politicians. They all ignite my must-punch-in-face reflex. To be fair, though, Petrelli hasn’t been a politician for a couple years now.
But he’s still got that damn politician’s smile. He’s flashing it right now. Fucking bastard. I hate him. I hate him and his lack of a shirt.
He flips himself onto his stomach and rests his fist on his chin. He kinda contemplates me for a couple minutes while I glare at the painting of sunflowers behind him. Must not look.
“You’re interesting,” he suddenly says out of bloody nowhere.
“What?” I accidentally flick my gaze from the painting to his face, which looks…playful? No. I must be imagining things. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“You’re interesting,” he repeats, and blinks up at me like…like a puppy.
The top of the pen cap falls to the floor.
Oh, Christ.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
“Er---” I hastily stand up, almost knocking the chair over. “Glad you think so---but I have to go---get---things---”
And I run out the door like my bloody life depends on it.
***
I come back to the room about ten minutes later, a soda clutched in my hand---don’t even remember buying it, really. I’m about to open the door when I hear the water running inside. Petrelli’s taking a shower.
I shake my head to clear the dirty thoughts, then get an idea and grin mischievously. Time to play an old trick of mine.
I turn invisible and, very quietly, open the door.
It snaps shut. I cringe. The shower doesn’t stop. He hasn’t noticed. Good.
I sit down casually and cross my legs, waiting for him to come back out. Scaring the man should be entertaining. Lord knows it worked with Bennet enough times, back in the day.
Now’s not the time to be thinking about Bennet.
It’s never the time to be thinking about Bennet.
The water shuts off, and I quickly toss the can of soda into the trash. Wasn’t gonna drink it, anyway.
A minute or so later, and Petrelli comes out of the bathroom with just his pajama pants on. Christ, does the man ever wear a shirt? Did he suddenly join a religion that does not allow its members to wear tops? If so, are we within driving distance of the nearest church?
It’s when my mind goes to strange places like this that I know I’m in trouble.
“Stupid fucker,” Petrelli growls, and angrily throws back the comforter on his bed.
I raise an invisible eyebrow. What’s this, now?
“Can’t take a goddamn hint…practically threw myself at him…” He climbs in under the sheets, his face screwed up into a scowl.
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. So…he was practically begging me to shag him.
Well. This is an interesting turn of events.
I decide to have some fun with this.
The man’s tossing and turning pointlessly, and I slowly stand up and tip-toe over to his bed.
He’s so angry. He’s beating on the pillow and baring his teeth and even sweating a little.
It’s pretty hot, to tell you the truth.
I graze my finger over his chest.
He jumps. “What the hell?”
I smirk, and my finger slides down to his belly button. He hisses.
“Claude? Is that you?”
I don’t say anything; I just continue to stroke his chest, apparently to his pleasure, as evidenced by the moans he’s making.
God, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.
Okay. Maybe longer than just tonight.
The combination of his moans and me feeling up his chest is making me half-hard already, so I straddle his lap and lay kisses all over that bare chest of his.
“Claude, would you just---oh, fuck!”
I am eternally grateful that the radio is off and Bruce Springsteen isn’t playing in the background.
I start kissing him while my fingers work down below, and he lifts his hands up like he wants to run his fingers through my hair…but, of course, he can’t see me, so he puts his arms down at his sides.
“Can you turn visible now?” he gasps, wrenching his lips from mine.
I let out a quiet chuckle, and lean near his ear to whisper:
“You know you like it invisible, Petrelli.”
He whines in agreement as I yank down his pants.
Of course he does. Everybody likes invisible sex.
“Been so long…” he mutters as I toss his pajamas off to the side.
“You don’t have to explain yourself, mate.” Or try to justify it.
I lean down and slowly start licking. He moans and writhes and I grin.
“An invisible blow job, huh?” he says dryly.
I demonstrate.
“Shit!” He arches and whimpers like a little dog.
Oh, this was going to be fun.