fic: Wet Dreams
Title: Wet Dreams*
Pairing: Noah/Tracy, past Noah/Sandra, Noah/water?
Rating: hard PG-13?
Warning: non-graphic masturbation, swearing.
Summary: It's kind of like making out with the shower.
A/N: Written both for heroes_contest's water picture prompt, and this prompt from heros_kink_meme.
*goddamnit, I'm witty.
When Claire finally leaves - having taken his clothes to the laundromat, washed them, dried them, and folded them up neatly and put them away - Noah breathes a sighs of relief. Not because he doesn't love seeing his daughter, and not because he isn't ridiculously grateful he has one family member still in his life, but because of the exact opposite. His grip on what he has is so heartbreakingly tenuous that he doesn't even like to think about it, lest that's the straw that breaks the figurative camel's back.
One day, and one day soon, Claire isn't going to want to hang around with her dad when she's got parties and friends and better things to be doing with her time, and she's going to realise that the only reason he's still in Washington is because he's relying on her too much, and doesn't want to be alone.
He shuts off the TV and rubs a hand across his eyes; it's late and he should probably have a shower. Not that he has to get up for anything, but he's trying not to wallow.
The dial squeaks harshly as he turns it - struggles to turn it, really, and he's curses his landlord as the pipes creak and shudder and cold water begins to dribble out. He holds his hand underneath the showerhead, standing in nothing but his boxers.
A minute later, the water is still ice cold. “Fuck,” he murmurs, tugging his boxers off, kicking them aside, and getting in regardless. He always has liked a good dose of suffering.
He grabs for the shampoo bottle, squinting and flinching as water hits his face. He used to only need glasses for seeing things in the distance; reading he could do unaided, but now he has to hold the bottle to his nose to read the writing. Shower gel.
Fuck it, what's the difference anyway?
He soaps up his hair, and shuffles his rapidly numbing feet to keep up circulation; squeezes out some more gel and washes under his arms, and thinks about how threatening he'll have to be to get his landlord to call a plumber out. He scrubs at his hair some more before sticking his head back under the cold stream - and finds it warmer. Just a little at first, but the water quickly heats up, his toes lightly tingling at the relieving presence of warmth.
He rolls his shoulders, hot water running down between his shoulder blades and going some way to loosen the tension. Sandra always said that he carried a lot of tension in his shoulders - she took a class once, and afterwards she bought all those sweet smelling massage oils and drafted him in as a test subject.
He rests his head against the tiled wall and sighs. It's been so long since he's seen Sandra - he's spoken to her once in past four months, when she called him up and made him promise he'd look after Claire because of that whole suicide thing. She didn't want to talk about reconciliation, and after he'd hung up, he'd realised that he hadn't asked a single thing about Lyle. His biological son. Jesus Christ.
He can't blame her for being short with him; he's damn lucky that she hasn't filed charges against her; after all, he did attack her that one time. Which wasn't his fault, and he thought she was actually shape-shifting serial killer, but that's always been the story of his life. His work has always found a way to destroy what little he has.
And goddamnit, it's been so fucking long. He's though about other women, pretty thoroughly and in great detail, but he hasn't done anything about this... tension.
It doesn't take long, with thoughts of Sandra and her massage oils, and that website he may or may not have been on once or twice, to get him hard, and the hot (quickly crossing over from warm to 'steam billowing out of the shower unit') water helps. It drips down his arms and around his torso and down his neck, and it almost feels like an embrace.
He braces one hand against the tiles and shuts his eyes, ducking his head back under the water so it wets his face and gets in his mouth. Under his feet, water gurgles, slightly ominously he might think if he was really paying attention. He shuffles over, freeing up the grate to let the water drain away, and wraps one hand around his erection, sinking his teeth into bottom lip to keep from grunting. Not that there's any need to keep quiet, but between work and kids and periods of couch-exile, he's learnt to jerk off quietly.
“Noah.”
He opens one eye. Closes it again. Takes a deep breath. Fuck.
“Tracy.” He turns his head, shaking water from his hair. “Any particular reason you're in my shower?”
She shrugs, her translucent body rippling with the movement.
“Well, if you'd changed your mind about killing me, you'd have done it already, I suppose,” he reasons. Reluctantly, he brings both hands up to rinse under the showerhead - it seems like the very least he can do to salvage some scraps of dignity out of this situation.
“I suppose so,” she echoes, and takes a step closer. She's blurry to his eyes, and the patterned tiles behind her give her body a bizarre sort of shifting tattoo, but it hasn't escaped his notice that she's kind of incredibly stunning, and the closest he's ever got to seeing a woman who isn't his wife or girlfriend naked in the shower was watching Psycho when he was thirteen.
“Has it been a while, Noah?” she murmurs. She cocks her head, and he can guess that she's looking down.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tracy,” he warns. “Seriously, why are you in my shower?”
“It's been a while for me too,” she says, deflecting. “Things got a little bit too hot and heavy with the last guy I slept with.” She rests her palms on his shoulders - her touch is warm and slippery and more like an extension of himself than a separate person; the way her hands mould to his skin is more than a little pleasant.
“I thought you weren't doing this kind of thing any more,” he argues, nevertheless uncrossing his arms. “It's not like I don't know about your little favours to Malden.”
She drops her arms. “Goddamnit Bennet, do you try to sabotage every good situation you find yourself in?”
That sounds suspiciously like something what Claire's being saying recently, minus the 'Bennet', and probably with a more muttered 'goddamnit'. “It is a distinct possibility,” he replies, not entirely sure why he's said it; he's told something that feels like the truth to someone without it being a life or death situation.
She laughs sharply, as surprised by it as he is, apparently, and then her lips are against his, wet and warm and kind of like making out with the shower.
It crosses his mind, briefly, that this is just a little like incest, in the typical convoluted turns his life takes these days, but then Tracy is kind of... all around him, and he does wonder how her power works, but he finds that he really doesn't care all that much.
She runs her hands around his waist and back in something like a slow tickle, making him shiver and sweat at the same time. He allows his eyes to slide shut again, and closes his fingers around his erection.
“Let me help,” she whispers, and her warm hand slips over his as he works it up and down and up and downandupanddown until-
He's pretty sure he curses something really loud and really non-age-appropriate as he comes, and the sheer relief of it floods his body until he stumbles back to lean against shower wall.
“Tracy,” he mumbles, opening his eyes. To find himself alone again. The shower blasts him with cold water, and this time he definitely does curse something really goddamnit fucking loudly.
On the steamed up glass wall, there's a message written out: Don't get used to this. You'll have to earn it next time.
Pairing: Noah/Tracy, past Noah/Sandra, Noah/water?
Rating: hard PG-13?
Warning: non-graphic masturbation, swearing.
Summary: It's kind of like making out with the shower.
A/N: Written both for heroes_contest's water picture prompt, and this prompt from heros_kink_meme.
*goddamnit, I'm witty.
When Claire finally leaves - having taken his clothes to the laundromat, washed them, dried them, and folded them up neatly and put them away - Noah breathes a sighs of relief. Not because he doesn't love seeing his daughter, and not because he isn't ridiculously grateful he has one family member still in his life, but because of the exact opposite. His grip on what he has is so heartbreakingly tenuous that he doesn't even like to think about it, lest that's the straw that breaks the figurative camel's back.
One day, and one day soon, Claire isn't going to want to hang around with her dad when she's got parties and friends and better things to be doing with her time, and she's going to realise that the only reason he's still in Washington is because he's relying on her too much, and doesn't want to be alone.
He shuts off the TV and rubs a hand across his eyes; it's late and he should probably have a shower. Not that he has to get up for anything, but he's trying not to wallow.
The dial squeaks harshly as he turns it - struggles to turn it, really, and he's curses his landlord as the pipes creak and shudder and cold water begins to dribble out. He holds his hand underneath the showerhead, standing in nothing but his boxers.
A minute later, the water is still ice cold. “Fuck,” he murmurs, tugging his boxers off, kicking them aside, and getting in regardless. He always has liked a good dose of suffering.
He grabs for the shampoo bottle, squinting and flinching as water hits his face. He used to only need glasses for seeing things in the distance; reading he could do unaided, but now he has to hold the bottle to his nose to read the writing. Shower gel.
Fuck it, what's the difference anyway?
He soaps up his hair, and shuffles his rapidly numbing feet to keep up circulation; squeezes out some more gel and washes under his arms, and thinks about how threatening he'll have to be to get his landlord to call a plumber out. He scrubs at his hair some more before sticking his head back under the cold stream - and finds it warmer. Just a little at first, but the water quickly heats up, his toes lightly tingling at the relieving presence of warmth.
He rolls his shoulders, hot water running down between his shoulder blades and going some way to loosen the tension. Sandra always said that he carried a lot of tension in his shoulders - she took a class once, and afterwards she bought all those sweet smelling massage oils and drafted him in as a test subject.
He rests his head against the tiled wall and sighs. It's been so long since he's seen Sandra - he's spoken to her once in past four months, when she called him up and made him promise he'd look after Claire because of that whole suicide thing. She didn't want to talk about reconciliation, and after he'd hung up, he'd realised that he hadn't asked a single thing about Lyle. His biological son. Jesus Christ.
He can't blame her for being short with him; he's damn lucky that she hasn't filed charges against her; after all, he did attack her that one time. Which wasn't his fault, and he thought she was actually shape-shifting serial killer, but that's always been the story of his life. His work has always found a way to destroy what little he has.
And goddamnit, it's been so fucking long. He's though about other women, pretty thoroughly and in great detail, but he hasn't done anything about this... tension.
It doesn't take long, with thoughts of Sandra and her massage oils, and that website he may or may not have been on once or twice, to get him hard, and the hot (quickly crossing over from warm to 'steam billowing out of the shower unit') water helps. It drips down his arms and around his torso and down his neck, and it almost feels like an embrace.
He braces one hand against the tiles and shuts his eyes, ducking his head back under the water so it wets his face and gets in his mouth. Under his feet, water gurgles, slightly ominously he might think if he was really paying attention. He shuffles over, freeing up the grate to let the water drain away, and wraps one hand around his erection, sinking his teeth into bottom lip to keep from grunting. Not that there's any need to keep quiet, but between work and kids and periods of couch-exile, he's learnt to jerk off quietly.
“Noah.”
He opens one eye. Closes it again. Takes a deep breath. Fuck.
“Tracy.” He turns his head, shaking water from his hair. “Any particular reason you're in my shower?”
She shrugs, her translucent body rippling with the movement.
“Well, if you'd changed your mind about killing me, you'd have done it already, I suppose,” he reasons. Reluctantly, he brings both hands up to rinse under the showerhead - it seems like the very least he can do to salvage some scraps of dignity out of this situation.
“I suppose so,” she echoes, and takes a step closer. She's blurry to his eyes, and the patterned tiles behind her give her body a bizarre sort of shifting tattoo, but it hasn't escaped his notice that she's kind of incredibly stunning, and the closest he's ever got to seeing a woman who isn't his wife or girlfriend naked in the shower was watching Psycho when he was thirteen.
“Has it been a while, Noah?” she murmurs. She cocks her head, and he can guess that she's looking down.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tracy,” he warns. “Seriously, why are you in my shower?”
“It's been a while for me too,” she says, deflecting. “Things got a little bit too hot and heavy with the last guy I slept with.” She rests her palms on his shoulders - her touch is warm and slippery and more like an extension of himself than a separate person; the way her hands mould to his skin is more than a little pleasant.
“I thought you weren't doing this kind of thing any more,” he argues, nevertheless uncrossing his arms. “It's not like I don't know about your little favours to Malden.”
She drops her arms. “Goddamnit Bennet, do you try to sabotage every good situation you find yourself in?”
That sounds suspiciously like something what Claire's being saying recently, minus the 'Bennet', and probably with a more muttered 'goddamnit'. “It is a distinct possibility,” he replies, not entirely sure why he's said it; he's told something that feels like the truth to someone without it being a life or death situation.
She laughs sharply, as surprised by it as he is, apparently, and then her lips are against his, wet and warm and kind of like making out with the shower.
It crosses his mind, briefly, that this is just a little like incest, in the typical convoluted turns his life takes these days, but then Tracy is kind of... all around him, and he does wonder how her power works, but he finds that he really doesn't care all that much.
She runs her hands around his waist and back in something like a slow tickle, making him shiver and sweat at the same time. He allows his eyes to slide shut again, and closes his fingers around his erection.
“Let me help,” she whispers, and her warm hand slips over his as he works it up and down and up and downandupanddown until-
He's pretty sure he curses something really loud and really non-age-appropriate as he comes, and the sheer relief of it floods his body until he stumbles back to lean against shower wall.
“Tracy,” he mumbles, opening his eyes. To find himself alone again. The shower blasts him with cold water, and this time he definitely does curse something really goddamnit fucking loudly.
On the steamed up glass wall, there's a message written out: Don't get used to this. You'll have to earn it next time.