Fic: Life Piled Tight and High
Rating: hard R
Word Count: 2,902
Disclaimer: All Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: So this is what happens when I don't write any fic for about a month- porn. Some of the most explicit porn I've managed to date.
Summary: Future!AU in which Peter and Claude are part of the Rebel resistance against Nathan and Danko. Call it a year into the fight.
Claude always gets the most dangerous jobs. The ones that bring him closest to their enemies. Infiltration, sabotage, information-gathering. With his experience and ability, it only makes sense. He’s been working on it, can even fool infrared when at his strongest. Only Hiro’s power is- would have been better suited. Peter ponders once again how they might rectify that situation because it’s really not fair on Claude, sending him out so often with so little support because of the awful danger. Sometimes he’s gone for days and days, spare messages dotting the time like sparks in a long dark night. Quietly subsisting on those sparks is a hell Peter never wished to know, and he burns in it while going about his own work, which thankfully never ends. Except on quiet nights. Then, there is anger at the injustice of it all, and sometimes tears, and all manner of sentimental longing that causes Peter’s cheeks to burn at the thought of Claude ever discovering.
The... rebel force? Resistance movement? Freedom fighters? Whatever this collection of powered individuals who know enough to fight back is- they’ve found a temporary haven in an abandoned airplane hangar. It’s big enough for everyone, and they achieve privacy with tents and rooms made of ropes and tarps. A suite of offices at the front has become headquarters, and also bedrooms for those who have earned them, like Claude.
Most pressing work done for the day and having his orders for tomorrow, Peter does his best impression of relaxing as he plays cards with Matt Parkman and two others. He pays the shallowest attention to Matt when he wins another hand and swears with a laugh that he’s not cheating. Peter’s eyes are magnetized to the hangar’s side door and various images flash through his mind of what he might see come through it. Or might not see. There has been no communication for the last eighty hours. Peter has about twelve left.
Finally, the door opens, admitting a drained but calm-looking Lisa Greene, Claude’s back-up/handler/contact. She catches his eye- and smiles. “I fold. G’night, guys,” Peter says, standing and turning on his heel. It occurs to him as he walks that he might want to be at the debriefing. The responsible urge gutters just as quickly when he spots the back of a sandy brown head and heavy coat through the main office’s window. Heart suddenly grown too big for his chest, Peter decides whatever is said won’t change what he has to do tomorrow and makes his way to the first office. He closes the door behind him and stands a few feet inside the room, tries to steady his breathing with a hand on the back of his head. He feels like he might hyperventilate if Claude doesn’t get there soon- he just needs... he’s running out of time, can’t wait anymore, he needs...
The door opens and he spins around. Claude walks in, looking... terrible. Dead on his feet in every sense but literal. Scarecrow-thin in his baggy clothes, eyes a fathomless ice field, and suddenly Peter feels like the biggest idiot in the world. Waiting in Claude’s room like he’s expecting- what? How dare he pull something like this on Claude, who’s already done so much? Why can’t he give the man a night’s peace? Hasn’t he more than earned it? “Sorry,” he tries to say, but has to pause and cough some spit into his arid mouth. “Sorry, I... You probably want to get some sleep.”
A sketch of a smile graces Claude’s face. “Right,” he says, “I ran back here like my arse was on fire for a little shut-eye.”
It’s a mean thing to do, making someone in Peter’s state of mind work through layers of sarcasm and insinuation, but he finds a smile lighting up his own face as he reaches a conclusion, “So... I should stay?”
Claude stares at Peter for a moment, shaking his head with a few faint chuckles. “Never change, Pete.”
The empath’s “Okay” is swallowed up when Claude erases the space between them and kisses him like his mouth holds the room’s only oxygen. Relief escapes Peter in a moan as his fingers dig into Claude’s hair and he tilts his head to get even closer. Their tongues slide together warm and soft- Claude tastes like headquarters’ strong, black coffee. They stumble back and nearly miss on the way down to the inflatable cot. Then it’s a grunting struggle to sort out the tangle of their legs until Claude is straddling Peter. They’re plastered to each other, but still Peter can’t get close enough. He strips off his light jacket and Claude is quick to pull his shirt over his head, leaving Peter naked from the waist up. He lets out a second, louder moan as Claude’s hands run up his torso, all while stealing as many kisses as he can and pushing his hands beneath Claude’s coat.
The man yanks the coat off like it offends him and cups Peter’s head. The empath leans into the touch and Claude takes the opportunity to draw out happy gasps and hums with his mouth on Peter’s neck and chest.
His fingers are tingly and unresponsive, but Peter manages to get them to grasp Claude’s shirt and pull it off. The man pauses and leans back, letting Peter see his bare chest in the faint glow of the electric lantern placed by the cot. As Peter’s eyes and fingers light on each of Claude’s old scars, fresh relief sings in him. Each familiar mark on the man’s body is evidence that he’s alive, that he survived yet another deadly mission. There’s one that’s still dulling to white, but it’s okay. Peter was there for that one. He lets his touch linger now as he recalls the night that followed this wound. When Claude first came to him, cheeks a surprisingly bashful pink, gaze raw and overwhelming. They had to be careful not to split Claude’s stitches, but nothing can taint that memory for Peter. So he relives it every time he checks the scars.
“Three days, Claude. More than three days,” he murmurs.
“Sorry. Had to.”
He nods, “I know.” It’s not as if he hasn’t done the same. Will do the same. Peter lies back on the cot, closes his eyes to focus only on Claude’s weight above him. Hot and heavy and breathing, shifting and grinding their hips together. They groan as friction burns through their bodies and Peter thrusts up mindlessly, desperate to be touched.
Claude’s quick to oblige him, though Peter still frowns at the loss when he sits up and repositions himself between the empath’s legs. All is forgiven when Claude’s nimble fingers free Peter’s cock from his pants and underwear. All is forgotten when the wet warmth of Claude’s mouth envelopes him. A lazy swirl of his tongue around the head has Peter arching off the cot, fists clenched as he reminds himself why it would be a bad idea to grab Claude’s head and push as deep as he can go. A firm hand on his stomach is good persuasion, and Peter clings to its influence when the other hand strokes in time with steady sucks. The edge is in sight when Claude swallows his cock almost to the base, then pulls off with one long slurp. Then he’s lying on his stomach next to Peter, who’s trying to convince his heart not to explode. “Hey, Pete, y’know what I was thinking, these last few days?”
The aching need to come subsides enough for Peter to crack his eyes open and find Claude’s face in the dark. “Uh...” is the closest he gets to a coherent response.
“I was thinkin’... all these little chores I’m sent to do... they’re bloody dangerous! I’ve been a lucky bastard to’ve made it this far with barely a scratch on me. Might not stay so lucky. And I was thinking it’d be a shame to die without ever knowin’ what it’s like to have you inside me.”
“Oh,” Peter says once the information has bounced across his brain a few times and sunk to the bottom.
Claude squints at him, “Yeah, ‘Oh.’ So, you want to or not?” Then he blinks, seems to retreat, “Unless... if you don’t, then-”
Peter lets out a choked laugh, wraps an arm around Claude’s neck and leans up to kiss the other man firmly.
Taking it for the cue it is, Claude rolls onto his back and Peter follows, settling half on top of him. There is a moment where memory sweeps in on Peter again- looking down at Claude’s face in the gloom and seeing him bearded and unconscious, laid out on the couch of Peter’s apartment. Minutes away from cutting ties with the empath in a few cruel words and a slammed door. That world barely seems real anymore for so many reasons, among the sparse good ones being this moment, right here.
He leans close, nuzzles the man’s neck. “How do you want to do this, Claude? Like this? How did you imagine it? Three whole days- I’ll bet you know exactly what you want. Tell me and I’ll do it. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. I want you so much...”
“Fuck, Pete,” he hears Claude growl, “Keep talking like that an’ we’ll be done before we start.”
“Did I talk when you thought about us doing this?” Peter asks as his hands slip down to Claude’s fly, “Did I tell you how good I was going to make you feel?”
Peter’s hand finds Claude’s cock and softly encloses the hard flesh. “Yes!” the man gasps, nodding sharply.
Peter grins, “Now we’re getting somewhere. I love that you thought about us when you were gone.” He strokes Claude slowly, puts his mouth close enough to touch the man’s ear, “I love thinking about you jerking off while thinking about us.”
Claude’s cock jumps and another gasp that’s almost a sob escapes him. “Pete, I need you.”
“I need you too.” Peter kisses the skin below his lips and rolls away to wriggle out of his pants. As Claude does the same, Peter sits up, “We have lube, right? It’s been... shit, where did I put that thing?” He pats ineffectually at his empty pockets, turns his eyes up to search his memory, until he hears Claude’s quiet laughter.
“Check my left coat pocket, mate.”
Peter grins as he fetches the tube and finds a condom as well, “Always be prepared, huh?”
“After three whole days of thinking, I wasn’t about to leave anything to chance, was I?”
His grin widening, Peter crawls back on top of Claude and relishes the slow kisses he receives. He sinks down until they’re skin-to-skin, and is lost once again in the incredible feeling of being this close to Claude. Wide palms on his back, rising and falling on a strong chest, acres of smooth skin to touch, a thick cock pressing urgently against his own. Peter has to force himself to sit back on his knees, though he gets to run both hands down Claude’s flanks, over his hips, and draw his thighs up, massaging the long lines of muscle. “You know you still haven’t given me much to go on, what you want me to do. Tell me.”
He watches Claude’s face, reluctance chasing arousal back and forth beneath closed eyes. “Touch me, Pete.”
“Where? I’m not a mind-reader. At least, not right now.”
A few low chuckles at the stupid joke ease Peter’s worry that he’s pushing Claude too hard. He’s not even sure where this insistence is coming from- he just wants to hear... what’s in Claude’s head. Every filthy word. “The hole, Pete. Use your fingers.”
“Okay.” Peter slicks his fingers and slides forward so his thighs cradle Claude’s hips. He runs the tips along the crease of the man’s ass, carefully noting his twitch and shudder. His deep inward breath.
“Pete, kiss my neck, while... while you finger me.”
The unprompted request sends a wave of heat through the empath, who rushes to comply. He hovers over Claude, laying soft kisses just below his jawline. Claude’s legs fall open wider as Peter’s finger circles his hole.
Barely a minute passes before Claude is harshly whispering, “More...”
Peter hums his agreement, sucking and nipping at Claude’s neck as his finger slips inside. He grins to feel the man’s own fingers digging into his back, to feel his breath quicken and pulse double. He adds another, pushes deeper and crooks them, searching for- “God, Pete, there!”
Peter grins into Claude’s neck and strokes his prostate as lightly as he can. Still the man is making incredible sounds of desperate pleasure between ragged breaths. Peter doesn’t dare touch his own throbbing erection, knowing the slightest contact while watching this will toss him into climax like a pebble going over a cliff. This becomes a serious problem when Claude starts begging in pants to be fucked, how much he needs Peter, needs to feel his cock in him. “Okay, okay, just- give me a minute. I need a breather.”
Claude groans in frustration, “Fuck your breather, I’m about to explode here!”
“That makes two of us!” Peter whines back. He removes his fingers and lets his damp forehead fall to Claude’s sternum, trying to regain a fraction of control with which to see this through. He’s not sure he could live with himself if he ends up ruining this opportunity.
The process of retrieving a condom helps more than he thought it would, though rolling it on is a teeth-grinding experience. He only makes it by having Claude viciously pinch the skin of his arm.
“Now?”
“Uh huh.”
Claude sighs in relief and drags Peter close. The empath lines himself up and pushes inside slowly. The breather has undone some of the good his fingers did- Claude is tight and furnace hot. The new problem becomes not pushing into him in one thrust but instead taking it slow, drawing out every sensation he can. He feels drunk, head drooping down as he breathes in Claude’s scent. All words have erased their meanings by the time Peter is fully seated. All he can do is gaze down at Claude and breathe, think about how lucky he is to have this when shadows have swallowed so much of his life. Think about what he would do to protect it. Thinks about how much he- “You awake, Peter?”
“Huh? Uh, yeah.”
“Good. Thought I broke you for a minute. Care to get on with things?”
Peter can’t help laughing. Introspective bubble burst and happy for it, he begins thrusting in a slow and shallow rhythm. Claude hums his approval, lifting his hips to meet Peter. As he picks up speed, the empath braces himself with a forearm on the cot and reaches down to stroke Claude’s erection.
The man arches and gasps, “Ahh, perfect- that’s perfect. Just like that.”
Blood roars in Peter’s ears as the last of his control drains away and he loses himself to movement. Faster and harder until drops of sweat run down his temples and Claude is the only thing that exists in the world. “Are you close?” he asks.
Claude doesn’t answer, just shifts the angle of his hips slightly and wraps his hand around Peter’s furiously moving one. Tightens the grip and in seconds he’s gone rigid, come spilling out onto his stomach and face drawn in a silent scream of pleasure. Peter follows almost instantly, shockwaves pounding through his body until he collapses boneless on top of Claude.
Both men are asleep before a thought of cleaning up can be formed.
***
Peter washes himself, gets dressed, and packs what he’ll need- all while pretending he’s still in Claude’s arms. He reviews the job again with Matt, his handler and benefactor. If they have the training, the people who have powers Peter needs are always on his support team.
Matt blinks and starts, “Hey, ah, I gotta- be somewhere else for a minute.”
“What?” Peter replies, but the telepath’s already walking away, exchanging a nod with Claude, who is approaching. Peter smiles, “Morning. I was hoping I’d get to see you before I left.”
“You could’ve mentioned y’had a job.”
Peter gives a bashful shrug, “Sorry. It slipped my mind.”
Claude gives a sarcastic snort, rolling his eyes. He sighs and studies the ground for a moment, eventually meeting Peter’s gaze, “Well, take care, then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“Got it,” Peter says, then pulls Claude into a tight hug. Eyes closed, he breathes deeply, hoping to draw a part of the man inside to keep forever.
Don’t d- “Don’t die, Peter...” I need- “I need you to come back.”
Sorrow pierces Peter’s heart and makes his eyes sting behind the lids. “I need to come back to you.” He pulls out of the hug only far enough to kiss Claude. One firm, lingering kiss before letting go, for now. Then Matt is walking past, telling Peter it’s time to go as a car pulls up in front of the hangar’s side door. The empath blinks his eyes clear and lifts his bag onto his shoulder. Walks backwards a few steps with a smile on his face until Claude rolls his eyes again and shuts the door.
Kinda-sorta-in-the-same-'verse-but-not-really-connected sequel: Floating on a Tidal Wave
Word Count: 2,902
Disclaimer: All Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: So this is what happens when I don't write any fic for about a month- porn. Some of the most explicit porn I've managed to date.
Summary: Future!AU in which Peter and Claude are part of the Rebel resistance against Nathan and Danko. Call it a year into the fight.
Claude always gets the most dangerous jobs. The ones that bring him closest to their enemies. Infiltration, sabotage, information-gathering. With his experience and ability, it only makes sense. He’s been working on it, can even fool infrared when at his strongest. Only Hiro’s power is- would have been better suited. Peter ponders once again how they might rectify that situation because it’s really not fair on Claude, sending him out so often with so little support because of the awful danger. Sometimes he’s gone for days and days, spare messages dotting the time like sparks in a long dark night. Quietly subsisting on those sparks is a hell Peter never wished to know, and he burns in it while going about his own work, which thankfully never ends. Except on quiet nights. Then, there is anger at the injustice of it all, and sometimes tears, and all manner of sentimental longing that causes Peter’s cheeks to burn at the thought of Claude ever discovering.
The... rebel force? Resistance movement? Freedom fighters? Whatever this collection of powered individuals who know enough to fight back is- they’ve found a temporary haven in an abandoned airplane hangar. It’s big enough for everyone, and they achieve privacy with tents and rooms made of ropes and tarps. A suite of offices at the front has become headquarters, and also bedrooms for those who have earned them, like Claude.
Most pressing work done for the day and having his orders for tomorrow, Peter does his best impression of relaxing as he plays cards with Matt Parkman and two others. He pays the shallowest attention to Matt when he wins another hand and swears with a laugh that he’s not cheating. Peter’s eyes are magnetized to the hangar’s side door and various images flash through his mind of what he might see come through it. Or might not see. There has been no communication for the last eighty hours. Peter has about twelve left.
Finally, the door opens, admitting a drained but calm-looking Lisa Greene, Claude’s back-up/handler/contact. She catches his eye- and smiles. “I fold. G’night, guys,” Peter says, standing and turning on his heel. It occurs to him as he walks that he might want to be at the debriefing. The responsible urge gutters just as quickly when he spots the back of a sandy brown head and heavy coat through the main office’s window. Heart suddenly grown too big for his chest, Peter decides whatever is said won’t change what he has to do tomorrow and makes his way to the first office. He closes the door behind him and stands a few feet inside the room, tries to steady his breathing with a hand on the back of his head. He feels like he might hyperventilate if Claude doesn’t get there soon- he just needs... he’s running out of time, can’t wait anymore, he needs...
The door opens and he spins around. Claude walks in, looking... terrible. Dead on his feet in every sense but literal. Scarecrow-thin in his baggy clothes, eyes a fathomless ice field, and suddenly Peter feels like the biggest idiot in the world. Waiting in Claude’s room like he’s expecting- what? How dare he pull something like this on Claude, who’s already done so much? Why can’t he give the man a night’s peace? Hasn’t he more than earned it? “Sorry,” he tries to say, but has to pause and cough some spit into his arid mouth. “Sorry, I... You probably want to get some sleep.”
A sketch of a smile graces Claude’s face. “Right,” he says, “I ran back here like my arse was on fire for a little shut-eye.”
It’s a mean thing to do, making someone in Peter’s state of mind work through layers of sarcasm and insinuation, but he finds a smile lighting up his own face as he reaches a conclusion, “So... I should stay?”
Claude stares at Peter for a moment, shaking his head with a few faint chuckles. “Never change, Pete.”
The empath’s “Okay” is swallowed up when Claude erases the space between them and kisses him like his mouth holds the room’s only oxygen. Relief escapes Peter in a moan as his fingers dig into Claude’s hair and he tilts his head to get even closer. Their tongues slide together warm and soft- Claude tastes like headquarters’ strong, black coffee. They stumble back and nearly miss on the way down to the inflatable cot. Then it’s a grunting struggle to sort out the tangle of their legs until Claude is straddling Peter. They’re plastered to each other, but still Peter can’t get close enough. He strips off his light jacket and Claude is quick to pull his shirt over his head, leaving Peter naked from the waist up. He lets out a second, louder moan as Claude’s hands run up his torso, all while stealing as many kisses as he can and pushing his hands beneath Claude’s coat.
The man yanks the coat off like it offends him and cups Peter’s head. The empath leans into the touch and Claude takes the opportunity to draw out happy gasps and hums with his mouth on Peter’s neck and chest.
His fingers are tingly and unresponsive, but Peter manages to get them to grasp Claude’s shirt and pull it off. The man pauses and leans back, letting Peter see his bare chest in the faint glow of the electric lantern placed by the cot. As Peter’s eyes and fingers light on each of Claude’s old scars, fresh relief sings in him. Each familiar mark on the man’s body is evidence that he’s alive, that he survived yet another deadly mission. There’s one that’s still dulling to white, but it’s okay. Peter was there for that one. He lets his touch linger now as he recalls the night that followed this wound. When Claude first came to him, cheeks a surprisingly bashful pink, gaze raw and overwhelming. They had to be careful not to split Claude’s stitches, but nothing can taint that memory for Peter. So he relives it every time he checks the scars.
“Three days, Claude. More than three days,” he murmurs.
“Sorry. Had to.”
He nods, “I know.” It’s not as if he hasn’t done the same. Will do the same. Peter lies back on the cot, closes his eyes to focus only on Claude’s weight above him. Hot and heavy and breathing, shifting and grinding their hips together. They groan as friction burns through their bodies and Peter thrusts up mindlessly, desperate to be touched.
Claude’s quick to oblige him, though Peter still frowns at the loss when he sits up and repositions himself between the empath’s legs. All is forgiven when Claude’s nimble fingers free Peter’s cock from his pants and underwear. All is forgotten when the wet warmth of Claude’s mouth envelopes him. A lazy swirl of his tongue around the head has Peter arching off the cot, fists clenched as he reminds himself why it would be a bad idea to grab Claude’s head and push as deep as he can go. A firm hand on his stomach is good persuasion, and Peter clings to its influence when the other hand strokes in time with steady sucks. The edge is in sight when Claude swallows his cock almost to the base, then pulls off with one long slurp. Then he’s lying on his stomach next to Peter, who’s trying to convince his heart not to explode. “Hey, Pete, y’know what I was thinking, these last few days?”
The aching need to come subsides enough for Peter to crack his eyes open and find Claude’s face in the dark. “Uh...” is the closest he gets to a coherent response.
“I was thinkin’... all these little chores I’m sent to do... they’re bloody dangerous! I’ve been a lucky bastard to’ve made it this far with barely a scratch on me. Might not stay so lucky. And I was thinking it’d be a shame to die without ever knowin’ what it’s like to have you inside me.”
“Oh,” Peter says once the information has bounced across his brain a few times and sunk to the bottom.
Claude squints at him, “Yeah, ‘Oh.’ So, you want to or not?” Then he blinks, seems to retreat, “Unless... if you don’t, then-”
Peter lets out a choked laugh, wraps an arm around Claude’s neck and leans up to kiss the other man firmly.
Taking it for the cue it is, Claude rolls onto his back and Peter follows, settling half on top of him. There is a moment where memory sweeps in on Peter again- looking down at Claude’s face in the gloom and seeing him bearded and unconscious, laid out on the couch of Peter’s apartment. Minutes away from cutting ties with the empath in a few cruel words and a slammed door. That world barely seems real anymore for so many reasons, among the sparse good ones being this moment, right here.
He leans close, nuzzles the man’s neck. “How do you want to do this, Claude? Like this? How did you imagine it? Three whole days- I’ll bet you know exactly what you want. Tell me and I’ll do it. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. I want you so much...”
“Fuck, Pete,” he hears Claude growl, “Keep talking like that an’ we’ll be done before we start.”
“Did I talk when you thought about us doing this?” Peter asks as his hands slip down to Claude’s fly, “Did I tell you how good I was going to make you feel?”
Peter’s hand finds Claude’s cock and softly encloses the hard flesh. “Yes!” the man gasps, nodding sharply.
Peter grins, “Now we’re getting somewhere. I love that you thought about us when you were gone.” He strokes Claude slowly, puts his mouth close enough to touch the man’s ear, “I love thinking about you jerking off while thinking about us.”
Claude’s cock jumps and another gasp that’s almost a sob escapes him. “Pete, I need you.”
“I need you too.” Peter kisses the skin below his lips and rolls away to wriggle out of his pants. As Claude does the same, Peter sits up, “We have lube, right? It’s been... shit, where did I put that thing?” He pats ineffectually at his empty pockets, turns his eyes up to search his memory, until he hears Claude’s quiet laughter.
“Check my left coat pocket, mate.”
Peter grins as he fetches the tube and finds a condom as well, “Always be prepared, huh?”
“After three whole days of thinking, I wasn’t about to leave anything to chance, was I?”
His grin widening, Peter crawls back on top of Claude and relishes the slow kisses he receives. He sinks down until they’re skin-to-skin, and is lost once again in the incredible feeling of being this close to Claude. Wide palms on his back, rising and falling on a strong chest, acres of smooth skin to touch, a thick cock pressing urgently against his own. Peter has to force himself to sit back on his knees, though he gets to run both hands down Claude’s flanks, over his hips, and draw his thighs up, massaging the long lines of muscle. “You know you still haven’t given me much to go on, what you want me to do. Tell me.”
He watches Claude’s face, reluctance chasing arousal back and forth beneath closed eyes. “Touch me, Pete.”
“Where? I’m not a mind-reader. At least, not right now.”
A few low chuckles at the stupid joke ease Peter’s worry that he’s pushing Claude too hard. He’s not even sure where this insistence is coming from- he just wants to hear... what’s in Claude’s head. Every filthy word. “The hole, Pete. Use your fingers.”
“Okay.” Peter slicks his fingers and slides forward so his thighs cradle Claude’s hips. He runs the tips along the crease of the man’s ass, carefully noting his twitch and shudder. His deep inward breath.
“Pete, kiss my neck, while... while you finger me.”
The unprompted request sends a wave of heat through the empath, who rushes to comply. He hovers over Claude, laying soft kisses just below his jawline. Claude’s legs fall open wider as Peter’s finger circles his hole.
Barely a minute passes before Claude is harshly whispering, “More...”
Peter hums his agreement, sucking and nipping at Claude’s neck as his finger slips inside. He grins to feel the man’s own fingers digging into his back, to feel his breath quicken and pulse double. He adds another, pushes deeper and crooks them, searching for- “God, Pete, there!”
Peter grins into Claude’s neck and strokes his prostate as lightly as he can. Still the man is making incredible sounds of desperate pleasure between ragged breaths. Peter doesn’t dare touch his own throbbing erection, knowing the slightest contact while watching this will toss him into climax like a pebble going over a cliff. This becomes a serious problem when Claude starts begging in pants to be fucked, how much he needs Peter, needs to feel his cock in him. “Okay, okay, just- give me a minute. I need a breather.”
Claude groans in frustration, “Fuck your breather, I’m about to explode here!”
“That makes two of us!” Peter whines back. He removes his fingers and lets his damp forehead fall to Claude’s sternum, trying to regain a fraction of control with which to see this through. He’s not sure he could live with himself if he ends up ruining this opportunity.
The process of retrieving a condom helps more than he thought it would, though rolling it on is a teeth-grinding experience. He only makes it by having Claude viciously pinch the skin of his arm.
“Now?”
“Uh huh.”
Claude sighs in relief and drags Peter close. The empath lines himself up and pushes inside slowly. The breather has undone some of the good his fingers did- Claude is tight and furnace hot. The new problem becomes not pushing into him in one thrust but instead taking it slow, drawing out every sensation he can. He feels drunk, head drooping down as he breathes in Claude’s scent. All words have erased their meanings by the time Peter is fully seated. All he can do is gaze down at Claude and breathe, think about how lucky he is to have this when shadows have swallowed so much of his life. Think about what he would do to protect it. Thinks about how much he- “You awake, Peter?”
“Huh? Uh, yeah.”
“Good. Thought I broke you for a minute. Care to get on with things?”
Peter can’t help laughing. Introspective bubble burst and happy for it, he begins thrusting in a slow and shallow rhythm. Claude hums his approval, lifting his hips to meet Peter. As he picks up speed, the empath braces himself with a forearm on the cot and reaches down to stroke Claude’s erection.
The man arches and gasps, “Ahh, perfect- that’s perfect. Just like that.”
Blood roars in Peter’s ears as the last of his control drains away and he loses himself to movement. Faster and harder until drops of sweat run down his temples and Claude is the only thing that exists in the world. “Are you close?” he asks.
Claude doesn’t answer, just shifts the angle of his hips slightly and wraps his hand around Peter’s furiously moving one. Tightens the grip and in seconds he’s gone rigid, come spilling out onto his stomach and face drawn in a silent scream of pleasure. Peter follows almost instantly, shockwaves pounding through his body until he collapses boneless on top of Claude.
Both men are asleep before a thought of cleaning up can be formed.
***
Peter washes himself, gets dressed, and packs what he’ll need- all while pretending he’s still in Claude’s arms. He reviews the job again with Matt, his handler and benefactor. If they have the training, the people who have powers Peter needs are always on his support team.
Matt blinks and starts, “Hey, ah, I gotta- be somewhere else for a minute.”
“What?” Peter replies, but the telepath’s already walking away, exchanging a nod with Claude, who is approaching. Peter smiles, “Morning. I was hoping I’d get to see you before I left.”
“You could’ve mentioned y’had a job.”
Peter gives a bashful shrug, “Sorry. It slipped my mind.”
Claude gives a sarcastic snort, rolling his eyes. He sighs and studies the ground for a moment, eventually meeting Peter’s gaze, “Well, take care, then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“Got it,” Peter says, then pulls Claude into a tight hug. Eyes closed, he breathes deeply, hoping to draw a part of the man inside to keep forever.
Don’t d- “Don’t die, Peter...” I need- “I need you to come back.”
Sorrow pierces Peter’s heart and makes his eyes sting behind the lids. “I need to come back to you.” He pulls out of the hug only far enough to kiss Claude. One firm, lingering kiss before letting go, for now. Then Matt is walking past, telling Peter it’s time to go as a car pulls up in front of the hangar’s side door. The empath blinks his eyes clear and lifts his bag onto his shoulder. Walks backwards a few steps with a smile on his face until Claude rolls his eyes again and shuts the door.
Kinda-sorta-in-the-same-'verse-but-not-really-connected sequel: Floating on a Tidal Wave