Fic: Opportunities
Title: Opportunities
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Adam/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: He looks half-dazed, paintbrush canted in one hand, like it's been there so long it doesn't want to let go.
AN: Written with the 'paint' prompt for paxlux who wanted paint, lots of paint!
Peter's been painting in the dark, not that it matters, Adam doesn't think he actually sees what he's doing, not properly. What he's been doing for- he glances at the clock, christ three hours.
It's more early than late now and there's green and red paint splashed up one of Peter's arms, white spots across the other. He looks half-dazed, paintbrush canted in one hand like it's been there so long it doesn't want to let go.
Adam takes slow careful steps, like Peter's a wild animal that might startle, and very gently takes his elbow.
"Peter?"
Peter does look at him then, hair curling over the edge of his forehead. There's just enough to fall in his eyes now, just enough, and Adam likes it like that. He likes the vulnerability it lends Peter's face. He looks so much less like an angry vigilante behind that hair.
He can't resist pushing at it with his fingers, though it seems immune to human interference. Peter tips his head, looks at him.
"You left," Adam tells him quietly. "I was worried."
"I think I needed to- " Peter turns around, looks at what he's painted, Adam can make out blood behind his left shoulder, and what looks like a severed head. He touches the air-cooled length of Peter arm, pulls him back round.
Peter's mouth is half-open and soft but he's been stood in the basement too long because it's also cold under Adam's.
But not for long, not for long at all. Adam pushes him, pushes until there's the wet sound of skin hitting paint and Peter inhales sharply at the chill, trying to curve away from the sensation and finding only Adam. He pauses, crushed against the slick canvas and then the paintbrush clatters to the floor, his hands find Adam's waist and the back of his neck and hold him there, while Peter kisses him back.
Just for a second, just long enough to drag him back into the world, before he's pulling away.
"The painting," he says breathlessly, though there's little chance it isn't already a ruined mess under the slide of Peter's back and shoulders.
"I don't need to see it," Adam tells him, half against and half into his mouth. "I don't need to see it Peter."
He finds Peter's waist, cool under his fingers, they slide down, taking the loose edge of his pants with them. Until they can't help but fall, and then Adam wraps one arm all the way round him, smearing paint from fingertips to knuckles and dragging it across the still-clean bend of Peter's spine.
"Adam?" Peter's voice has that quiet needy tone it has just before it breaks, just before he breaks. Adam will admit to growing far too attached to that sound.
He breaks beautifully, fingertips digging in Adam's back, pulling him in until wood cracks. Adam treads on something that breaks, slick wetness between his toes and over the bottom of his foot, and he can't help laughing into Peter's mouth.
He wonders if he needs to convince Peter again that he isn't going to take his portents of the future and build his own plans around them.
Where Peter is concerned Adam has learnt to plan for opportunities rather than wait for the opportunity to put his own plans into motion.
And this is such a wonderful opportunity.
Peter seems to concur, finally, and there are long fingers sliding under the hem of his own shirt, leaving trails of green as they move higher, dragging the fabric in bunches until he can push it over Adam's head and leave it to drop, and Peter's fingers are wet and cold and it's delicious.
"I hope you're not planning on making me a portent of the future?"
Peter's fingers flex, then smooth their way down and Adam knows his skin is wet and colourful, Peter glances down, makes a noise and moves his hands again.
"Green suits you."
Adam laughs and pushes at Peter's hair, tipping his forward and kissing him again.
Peter lets Adam push him this time, lets him press him into the canvas and paint splatters out in tiny droplets while Peter's arms push it sideways, smearing the edges of the picture, and it's such a visceral thing that Adam holds him there while he kisses him.
Peter's strong when he wants to be but he lets Adam bruise his waist and wrist, lets him push until Peter's too slippery to hold, and then it's enough just to try and catch him, to smear paint across his hips and the curve of his ass, down the back of one thigh and then across the sides of his face when Adam has to catch there, has to hold his head still and kiss him like he's always wanted to.
Peter's hands pull at his waist, and then slide lower, and his own pants are no more eager to stay than Peter's were. Though Peter's hands find reason to stay, sliding in slick, frustrating passes down the length of his cock, but never staying long enough to build up any sort of rhythm.
"Peter," it's not a whine, really it's not.
But Peter laughs into his mouth, and kisses him like it's an apology. Adam tips away and slides down the collection of curves and angles that make up Peter, hands on his upper thighs. Peter watches him, fingers twitching in mid-air.
Adam raises an eyebrow at him, and Peter laughs and thread his fingers through what he can of Adam's hair, and Adam suspects his hair is now green, he laughs too, a burst of air sliding across the edge of Peter's cock.
Peter makes a quick, surprised noise and pushes. Adam opens his mouth and Peter gasps like he wasn't expecting it. All the air shudders out of him and his hands are suddenly tight, Adam's hair clings to the wet edges of Peter's fingers when he pulls on it. When he pushes in across the flat length of Adam's tongue.
Adam lets him, lets Peter have exactly what he wants until his mouth drops open to drag air, then Adam twists his head away.
The wet length of Peter's cock drags down the length of Adam's throat and the contact makes Peter groan in frustration. Then he pouts and he looks so beautifully colourfully ridiculous that Adam wants to kiss him again. He doesn't know why he's resisting, he rarely resists when he wants something.
Peter doesn't object to being dragged down to his level, silly boy.
Though being on the floor does bring up some new and interesting goals, like leverage. So far Peter's winning, balanced on one arm, kissing down into Adam's space. His other hand is pulling at the edge of Adam's hips, frustrated in its inability to catch hold, though the intent is clear enough.
Adam can't help laughing, Peter catches his face in retaliation and kisses him, and when his hands slide free Adam can feel the slick wetness on his own cheeks.
"Now that was completely unfair."
Peter presses him into the floor, using his own body weight when his hands prove too slippery, stomach sliding across the edge of Adam's cock in a way that isn't slippery but is immensely distracting nonetheless.
Adam's hands grasp his waist and hold him there, and Peter doesn't even try and slip away. Instead he groans, mouth opening at the edge of Adam's throat and trailing down, and the paint has to taste absolutely vile under his teeth and tongue but he doesn't stop. There are teeth in his breastbone, round the edge of a nipple and then a tongue sliding down the middle of his stomach. And Adam is no longer bothering to hold the noise that's half laughter and half appreciation when Peter lifts his head.
"Paint," he says, as if that explains everything, which to be fair, it does.
"That's terribly unhygienic," Adam points out, and really he's not laughing at all, not even a little.
"For anyone else maybe."
"Are you suggesting we abuse my superpowers for sexual gratification?"
Peter sways up and kisses him instead of answering, kisses him and pushes him into the wooden floor that's never, ever going to come clean, wood slippery under Adam's elbows and one bare foot, and he feels duty bound to make sure Peter is party to at least some of the amusing indignity.
But Peter is already sliding a knee under one of his, pushing it up in one long movement, while his body presses Adam into the wood. Peter knows that Adam doesn't mind enthusiasm, but sometimes he's compelled to follow the rules. Long slippery cold fingers slide into him and Adam laughs into Peter's mouth, then tips his head back and groans under the quick push of fingers.
Peter looks drunk, all wide eyes and shudder of breathing, like he might snap in half and Adam could watch him break like that, could watch him beg. But he grasps Peter's wrist and pushes it free, then slides his leg up Peter's waist.
Peter catches it, holds it in steel fingers.
"Turn over," he says breathlessly.
Adam raises an eyebrow and then does as he's told. His fingers slip briefly on the wood until he finds a clean patch of floor. Peter's hands slide over his waist, smooth all the way down and then spread his thighs.
Peter slides all the way inside in one quick push. A flicker of selfishness that Adam thinks he has drummed into him and it's fierce and it's good but it still has Adam groaning into the floor.
He doesn't wait, doesn't settle, he slides back and then pushes in again and Adam makes a noise that's half encouragement and half demand that Peter understands well enough.
Peter's warm under the paint wherever he presses, layers of it, drying tackily whenever it's left without fingers or hands to spread it around. Peter slides tacky hands up Adam's back, smearing colour over what little clean skin remains and making him slippery all over and Adam shudders under the gesture and pushes back, hard enough for Peter to swear under his breath.
One of Peter's hands pulls down his chest, fingers dragging on skin, all the way down until it can smooth over and curl round his cock, tight slippery fingers that move in quick, indulgent slides. Which shake apart any intention Adam would have had, and turn it into breathless noises.
Peter's other hand moves up his side, looking for somewhere to catch, it settles for the curve of Adam's shoulder, fingers dug into the muscle and Adam groans when his spine bends under every push.
The room smells like paint, Adam can't smell anything else underneath, he feels like he's breathing it in, quick and light headed but too close to care in the slightest.
Peter is more than close, breath a mess of gasps, fingers digging in where they hold. Digging in until there are red smears on Adam's shoulder which aren't paint and Peter's begging then, quick breathless little noises, but then Adam stops noticing anything. Because he's breathing through his own release that Peter's hand drags out of him, he's the one groaning and lost and too heavy for his own arms to hold and Peter's determination to get ever deeper simply pushes his own twisting, weakening pleasure somewhere hot and endless.
Until Peter makes a noise that's wounded and stills against his back, and when his breath finally shivers out in a groan Adam can feel it all the way through. Then Peter relaxes, hands smoothing where they still rest, then sliding free of his skin entirely. And Adam can't feel him any more, but he can hear him breathing like he's dying.
Adam lets himself collapse in a series of slithering movements that leave his cheek pressed into the floor, his breath leaves condensation on a bare patch of wood, and a combination of sweat and paint dries on his back.
"I think I may, perhaps, need a shower," Adam declares eventually.
Peter laughs breathlessly beside him.
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Adam/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: He looks half-dazed, paintbrush canted in one hand, like it's been there so long it doesn't want to let go.
AN: Written with the 'paint' prompt for paxlux who wanted paint, lots of paint!
Peter's been painting in the dark, not that it matters, Adam doesn't think he actually sees what he's doing, not properly. What he's been doing for- he glances at the clock, christ three hours.
It's more early than late now and there's green and red paint splashed up one of Peter's arms, white spots across the other. He looks half-dazed, paintbrush canted in one hand like it's been there so long it doesn't want to let go.
Adam takes slow careful steps, like Peter's a wild animal that might startle, and very gently takes his elbow.
"Peter?"
Peter does look at him then, hair curling over the edge of his forehead. There's just enough to fall in his eyes now, just enough, and Adam likes it like that. He likes the vulnerability it lends Peter's face. He looks so much less like an angry vigilante behind that hair.
He can't resist pushing at it with his fingers, though it seems immune to human interference. Peter tips his head, looks at him.
"You left," Adam tells him quietly. "I was worried."
"I think I needed to- " Peter turns around, looks at what he's painted, Adam can make out blood behind his left shoulder, and what looks like a severed head. He touches the air-cooled length of Peter arm, pulls him back round.
Peter's mouth is half-open and soft but he's been stood in the basement too long because it's also cold under Adam's.
But not for long, not for long at all. Adam pushes him, pushes until there's the wet sound of skin hitting paint and Peter inhales sharply at the chill, trying to curve away from the sensation and finding only Adam. He pauses, crushed against the slick canvas and then the paintbrush clatters to the floor, his hands find Adam's waist and the back of his neck and hold him there, while Peter kisses him back.
Just for a second, just long enough to drag him back into the world, before he's pulling away.
"The painting," he says breathlessly, though there's little chance it isn't already a ruined mess under the slide of Peter's back and shoulders.
"I don't need to see it," Adam tells him, half against and half into his mouth. "I don't need to see it Peter."
He finds Peter's waist, cool under his fingers, they slide down, taking the loose edge of his pants with them. Until they can't help but fall, and then Adam wraps one arm all the way round him, smearing paint from fingertips to knuckles and dragging it across the still-clean bend of Peter's spine.
"Adam?" Peter's voice has that quiet needy tone it has just before it breaks, just before he breaks. Adam will admit to growing far too attached to that sound.
He breaks beautifully, fingertips digging in Adam's back, pulling him in until wood cracks. Adam treads on something that breaks, slick wetness between his toes and over the bottom of his foot, and he can't help laughing into Peter's mouth.
He wonders if he needs to convince Peter again that he isn't going to take his portents of the future and build his own plans around them.
Where Peter is concerned Adam has learnt to plan for opportunities rather than wait for the opportunity to put his own plans into motion.
And this is such a wonderful opportunity.
Peter seems to concur, finally, and there are long fingers sliding under the hem of his own shirt, leaving trails of green as they move higher, dragging the fabric in bunches until he can push it over Adam's head and leave it to drop, and Peter's fingers are wet and cold and it's delicious.
"I hope you're not planning on making me a portent of the future?"
Peter's fingers flex, then smooth their way down and Adam knows his skin is wet and colourful, Peter glances down, makes a noise and moves his hands again.
"Green suits you."
Adam laughs and pushes at Peter's hair, tipping his forward and kissing him again.
Peter lets Adam push him this time, lets him press him into the canvas and paint splatters out in tiny droplets while Peter's arms push it sideways, smearing the edges of the picture, and it's such a visceral thing that Adam holds him there while he kisses him.
Peter's strong when he wants to be but he lets Adam bruise his waist and wrist, lets him push until Peter's too slippery to hold, and then it's enough just to try and catch him, to smear paint across his hips and the curve of his ass, down the back of one thigh and then across the sides of his face when Adam has to catch there, has to hold his head still and kiss him like he's always wanted to.
Peter's hands pull at his waist, and then slide lower, and his own pants are no more eager to stay than Peter's were. Though Peter's hands find reason to stay, sliding in slick, frustrating passes down the length of his cock, but never staying long enough to build up any sort of rhythm.
"Peter," it's not a whine, really it's not.
But Peter laughs into his mouth, and kisses him like it's an apology. Adam tips away and slides down the collection of curves and angles that make up Peter, hands on his upper thighs. Peter watches him, fingers twitching in mid-air.
Adam raises an eyebrow at him, and Peter laughs and thread his fingers through what he can of Adam's hair, and Adam suspects his hair is now green, he laughs too, a burst of air sliding across the edge of Peter's cock.
Peter makes a quick, surprised noise and pushes. Adam opens his mouth and Peter gasps like he wasn't expecting it. All the air shudders out of him and his hands are suddenly tight, Adam's hair clings to the wet edges of Peter's fingers when he pulls on it. When he pushes in across the flat length of Adam's tongue.
Adam lets him, lets Peter have exactly what he wants until his mouth drops open to drag air, then Adam twists his head away.
The wet length of Peter's cock drags down the length of Adam's throat and the contact makes Peter groan in frustration. Then he pouts and he looks so beautifully colourfully ridiculous that Adam wants to kiss him again. He doesn't know why he's resisting, he rarely resists when he wants something.
Peter doesn't object to being dragged down to his level, silly boy.
Though being on the floor does bring up some new and interesting goals, like leverage. So far Peter's winning, balanced on one arm, kissing down into Adam's space. His other hand is pulling at the edge of Adam's hips, frustrated in its inability to catch hold, though the intent is clear enough.
Adam can't help laughing, Peter catches his face in retaliation and kisses him, and when his hands slide free Adam can feel the slick wetness on his own cheeks.
"Now that was completely unfair."
Peter presses him into the floor, using his own body weight when his hands prove too slippery, stomach sliding across the edge of Adam's cock in a way that isn't slippery but is immensely distracting nonetheless.
Adam's hands grasp his waist and hold him there, and Peter doesn't even try and slip away. Instead he groans, mouth opening at the edge of Adam's throat and trailing down, and the paint has to taste absolutely vile under his teeth and tongue but he doesn't stop. There are teeth in his breastbone, round the edge of a nipple and then a tongue sliding down the middle of his stomach. And Adam is no longer bothering to hold the noise that's half laughter and half appreciation when Peter lifts his head.
"Paint," he says, as if that explains everything, which to be fair, it does.
"That's terribly unhygienic," Adam points out, and really he's not laughing at all, not even a little.
"For anyone else maybe."
"Are you suggesting we abuse my superpowers for sexual gratification?"
Peter sways up and kisses him instead of answering, kisses him and pushes him into the wooden floor that's never, ever going to come clean, wood slippery under Adam's elbows and one bare foot, and he feels duty bound to make sure Peter is party to at least some of the amusing indignity.
But Peter is already sliding a knee under one of his, pushing it up in one long movement, while his body presses Adam into the wood. Peter knows that Adam doesn't mind enthusiasm, but sometimes he's compelled to follow the rules. Long slippery cold fingers slide into him and Adam laughs into Peter's mouth, then tips his head back and groans under the quick push of fingers.
Peter looks drunk, all wide eyes and shudder of breathing, like he might snap in half and Adam could watch him break like that, could watch him beg. But he grasps Peter's wrist and pushes it free, then slides his leg up Peter's waist.
Peter catches it, holds it in steel fingers.
"Turn over," he says breathlessly.
Adam raises an eyebrow and then does as he's told. His fingers slip briefly on the wood until he finds a clean patch of floor. Peter's hands slide over his waist, smooth all the way down and then spread his thighs.
Peter slides all the way inside in one quick push. A flicker of selfishness that Adam thinks he has drummed into him and it's fierce and it's good but it still has Adam groaning into the floor.
He doesn't wait, doesn't settle, he slides back and then pushes in again and Adam makes a noise that's half encouragement and half demand that Peter understands well enough.
Peter's warm under the paint wherever he presses, layers of it, drying tackily whenever it's left without fingers or hands to spread it around. Peter slides tacky hands up Adam's back, smearing colour over what little clean skin remains and making him slippery all over and Adam shudders under the gesture and pushes back, hard enough for Peter to swear under his breath.
One of Peter's hands pulls down his chest, fingers dragging on skin, all the way down until it can smooth over and curl round his cock, tight slippery fingers that move in quick, indulgent slides. Which shake apart any intention Adam would have had, and turn it into breathless noises.
Peter's other hand moves up his side, looking for somewhere to catch, it settles for the curve of Adam's shoulder, fingers dug into the muscle and Adam groans when his spine bends under every push.
The room smells like paint, Adam can't smell anything else underneath, he feels like he's breathing it in, quick and light headed but too close to care in the slightest.
Peter is more than close, breath a mess of gasps, fingers digging in where they hold. Digging in until there are red smears on Adam's shoulder which aren't paint and Peter's begging then, quick breathless little noises, but then Adam stops noticing anything. Because he's breathing through his own release that Peter's hand drags out of him, he's the one groaning and lost and too heavy for his own arms to hold and Peter's determination to get ever deeper simply pushes his own twisting, weakening pleasure somewhere hot and endless.
Until Peter makes a noise that's wounded and stills against his back, and when his breath finally shivers out in a groan Adam can feel it all the way through. Then Peter relaxes, hands smoothing where they still rest, then sliding free of his skin entirely. And Adam can't feel him any more, but he can hear him breathing like he's dying.
Adam lets himself collapse in a series of slithering movements that leave his cheek pressed into the floor, his breath leaves condensation on a bare patch of wood, and a combination of sweat and paint dries on his back.
"I think I may, perhaps, need a shower," Adam declares eventually.
Peter laughs breathlessly beside him.