Fic: Floating on a Tidal Wave
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,558
Disclaimer: All Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: Man, I've been sitting on this little PWP idea for months! And so, to celebrate my last day of undergrad classes, I thought I'd finally trot it on out.
Summary: In the same AU 'verse as Life Piled Tight and High. The resistance movement has settled in Coyote Sands.
Claude’s just settled down with a book and coffee when the door to his and Peter’s cabin at Coyote Sands is pushed open. Panic floods him as he registers a figure dressed all in black from his heavy boots to his thick coat to his knit cap- until the cap is pulled off. Then Claude smiles before he can remember to temper it with sarcasm. “Back early?”
Peter seems focused on stomping the slush off his boots, but Claude catches the edge of his returning smile, “Uh, yeah. We needed to- regroup.”
Claude frowns now as he stands and crosses the room. “So you’re off again soon.”
“Yeah, tonight. Probably. Late.”
Peter faces him, and he’s a little paler, a little more drawn than Claude likes to see him. He doesn’t let it stop him from leaning in and kissing Peter softly, hand on his cheek. He moves in close, drawn by the empath’s warmth, mind already buzzing with the options a good five hours opens to them. His fingers move to the zipper on Peter’s coat, gets it down a few inches before gloved hands on his wrists stop him, before Peter pulls away. “What’s wrong?” Claude murmurs.
“Uh, it’s just... we can’t really- I can’t... not right now.”
“Hm. Seem to’ve lost the end of your sentence there, mate. Let me see if I can help you find it. Pretty sure it starts with ‘because.’”
Peter chuckles, his cheeks flushing from something other than the frigid air outside. But he sobers quickly, “We were compromised this morning. Attacked.”
The words put an end to Claude’s joking as well. “Anyone killed?”
Peter cocks his head, squinting, “We don’t think so, yet. They captured Tom Geelani.”
“Who, the magnetic bloke?”
He nods, “We needed him. He’s the only person with the right abilities.”
A notion presents itself to Claude, “Y’mean you’re the only person with the right abilities, unless he’s returned.”
“We’ll get him back. We’ll do the job, and then we’ll find him.” Claude gets the feeling Peter is saying that to an audience of two. “But, for now, I need to hang on to his power.”
Claude’s brow furrows over a half-smile, “So do it. It’s not like it was before- you choose what powers you take now. We both know that.” It was an almost painful relief to discover the change in Peter’s empathy. No one should’ve had to deal with the fear, the responsibility of unlimited absorption. Especially not someone like Peter Petrelli. If it hadn’t been for the change, Claude wouldn’t be here now, ducking his head for another kiss.
He also wouldn’t have been met with air as Peter recoils, a rueful look plastered on his face. He opens his mouth-
“Don’t bloody say it, all right? Told you- explain, don’t apologize. An explanation I can use, an apology I can’t.”
Peter sighs. “I get powers through touch now. Do you think I can-?” He pauses, dark gaze flickering to the ceiling before dropping down to burn into Claude’s, “When we’re like this... I always have your power afterwards. I want it.” He swallows, “I love walking around flickering for hours- everbody knowing what I just did, what we just did.”
They’re both breathing hard now. Hot chills run all over Claude’s skin. His mouth tingles for contact. “Pete...”
“But I can’t risk it right now. No matter how much I want to.”
Claude considers this briefly. “I can’t touch ya’ skin-to-skin, yeah?” Peter nods, still annoyingly apologetic. “Okay, always did love a good challenge.” Before the empath can stop him, Claude’s fingers slip past the open neck of his coat and the sweater beneath, pulling up the thin undershirt below that. He presses the fabric over the lower half of Peter’s face, then kisses him. Initial results aren’t spectacular. Just a steady pressure and a hint of warmth past the barrier. But slowly the warmth increases, the fabric is dampened by their breath and saliva. Claude feels Peter tilt his head, press harder. He does the same, mouth opening and tongue touching at cotton. He finds himself gasping slightly when he detects movement on the other side- Peter’s tongue, looking for his.
Claude presses Peter against the door, wills his own body heat if nothing else to make it through layers of thick winter clothing. Peter’s hands run up his back, his arms wrap tight and squeeze. Still, it’s no more than pale imitation. Claude’s thigh finds its way between Peter’s legs and the empath gives a quiet moan. He rocks and Claude feels him stirring. Feels his own response not long after. But it’s only enough to aggravate him, make him crave the touch of Peter’s bare skin against his. He has to match his memories with the sounds Peter makes now as he bucks with growing urgency.
“Give us a glove, Pete.”
“Uh huh.” Behind Claude’s back, the empath lets go long enough to yank one off and hand it over.
Claude lets go long enough to slip it on before turning his attention to Peter’s trousers. He keeps getting distracted by the searing palm that has landed on his shoulder and dug its fingers into the muscle. Eventually, he manages to free Peter’s cock from his pants- the forthcoming sigh of relief makes him grin. He watches the empath’s face curiously as he strokes hardened flesh through the glove. Peter’s eyes flutter very agreeably and he all but goes on tip-toe to meet Claude’s grip. He gasps raggedly, “Ahh... heh, Claude, you’re a genius...”
“Nah, just clever when I’ve good reason to be.” He almost forgets not to lean in and kiss- somewhere, anywhere. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself while Peter presses his head back against the door, eyes screwed shut as he thrusts harder into Claude’s gloved hand. Claude ends up with his forehead pressed against the door as well, dangerously close to touching Peter. He takes what friction he can get from where his groin meets the empath’s hip.
Peter lets out a desperate whimper by his ear, “I don’t... I don’t know if this... ah, so close... I can’t-”
“Sure you can. You can, Peter. Look at me.”
Their eyes meet, blue flame focus on blown-pupil black, and Peter’s head falls forward. He kisses Claude’s mouth hungrily and the man groans in his throat at the soft heat, until Peter breaks free with a cry as he comes. “Ohh... oh god... - oh shit.” Sudden alarm jerks the empath out of his post-orgasm slump against the door. He wobbles out of Claude’s arms and into the kitchen beyond while hastily zipping himself back up. He paws through drawers until he pulls out a spoon, all while grumbling curses and self-recriminations under his breath. Claude leans against the door- watching, waiting. Trying desperately to ignore the heavy throb in his pants.
Peter holds a hand palm-down over the spoon, which sits on the counter. He draws his hand to the left, and the spoon sluggishly follows. “Thank god,” Peter breathes. He turns back to Claude, “That was a close one.”
Claude grunts in response, then mutters, “Sorry.”
Confusion filters through Peter’s relief, “What for?”
Claude gestures at him, “For the panic attack you had just now. Still selfish, I guess. Even with a war on. I should’ve taken no for an answer.”
Peter just grins at him. Holds Claude’s gaze with his own as he closes the distance between them, then runs his own gloved hand over the man’s cheek. Down his neck, chest, over his stomach to squeeze his flagging erection. Claude’s eyes fall shut and his mouth falls open as pleasure radiates all the way through him. Peter doesn’t waste time in wrapping his hand around Claude’s cock and giving it the slow, tight strokes that make his toes curl. “Pete... you were right before.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I’m a fucking genius.” Of course, the glove’ll never win a contest against Peter’s bare hand- or any other part of his body he feels like using in this manner- but the smooth synthetic fabric is a novelty if nothing else, slipping along Claude’s length easily. A little too easily, in fact. Claude’s brow furrows as he thrusts into Peter’s grip, waiting for the pressure to finally burst. “Fuck...” he growls in frustration, “I see what you were gettin’ at now...”
“You do, don’t you? Here, hang on.” Claude cracks his eyes open to watch Peter drag his shirt back up over his face with his free hand, then lean in to press his covered mouth hard against Claude’s neck, giving the tendon that runs to his shoulder a softened bite. The man moans and lets his cheek fall against Peter’s hair. A few more fierce jerks of his hips and he comes, pleasure soaking through his muscles and leaving him sagging against the door.
“You can’t stay there, you know,” he hears Peter say from far off sometime later. “I’ll have to leave eventually.”
“Climb out the window.”
He smirks to hear Peter’s laughter, smiles to feel hands run along his chest, shirt fabric brushing his sensitized skin. “Claude...”
“Hm?” he opens his eyes in time to close them again, as Peter gives him a swift kiss.
“I have to go do laundry,” the empath murmurs, “This is my only pair of gloves.”
Word Count: 1,558
Disclaimer: All Heroes characters belong to Tim Kring.
A/N: Man, I've been sitting on this little PWP idea for months! And so, to celebrate my last day of undergrad classes, I thought I'd finally trot it on out.
Summary: In the same AU 'verse as Life Piled Tight and High. The resistance movement has settled in Coyote Sands.
Claude’s just settled down with a book and coffee when the door to his and Peter’s cabin at Coyote Sands is pushed open. Panic floods him as he registers a figure dressed all in black from his heavy boots to his thick coat to his knit cap- until the cap is pulled off. Then Claude smiles before he can remember to temper it with sarcasm. “Back early?”
Peter seems focused on stomping the slush off his boots, but Claude catches the edge of his returning smile, “Uh, yeah. We needed to- regroup.”
Claude frowns now as he stands and crosses the room. “So you’re off again soon.”
“Yeah, tonight. Probably. Late.”
Peter faces him, and he’s a little paler, a little more drawn than Claude likes to see him. He doesn’t let it stop him from leaning in and kissing Peter softly, hand on his cheek. He moves in close, drawn by the empath’s warmth, mind already buzzing with the options a good five hours opens to them. His fingers move to the zipper on Peter’s coat, gets it down a few inches before gloved hands on his wrists stop him, before Peter pulls away. “What’s wrong?” Claude murmurs.
“Uh, it’s just... we can’t really- I can’t... not right now.”
“Hm. Seem to’ve lost the end of your sentence there, mate. Let me see if I can help you find it. Pretty sure it starts with ‘because.’”
Peter chuckles, his cheeks flushing from something other than the frigid air outside. But he sobers quickly, “We were compromised this morning. Attacked.”
The words put an end to Claude’s joking as well. “Anyone killed?”
Peter cocks his head, squinting, “We don’t think so, yet. They captured Tom Geelani.”
“Who, the magnetic bloke?”
He nods, “We needed him. He’s the only person with the right abilities.”
A notion presents itself to Claude, “Y’mean you’re the only person with the right abilities, unless he’s returned.”
“We’ll get him back. We’ll do the job, and then we’ll find him.” Claude gets the feeling Peter is saying that to an audience of two. “But, for now, I need to hang on to his power.”
Claude’s brow furrows over a half-smile, “So do it. It’s not like it was before- you choose what powers you take now. We both know that.” It was an almost painful relief to discover the change in Peter’s empathy. No one should’ve had to deal with the fear, the responsibility of unlimited absorption. Especially not someone like Peter Petrelli. If it hadn’t been for the change, Claude wouldn’t be here now, ducking his head for another kiss.
He also wouldn’t have been met with air as Peter recoils, a rueful look plastered on his face. He opens his mouth-
“Don’t bloody say it, all right? Told you- explain, don’t apologize. An explanation I can use, an apology I can’t.”
Peter sighs. “I get powers through touch now. Do you think I can-?” He pauses, dark gaze flickering to the ceiling before dropping down to burn into Claude’s, “When we’re like this... I always have your power afterwards. I want it.” He swallows, “I love walking around flickering for hours- everbody knowing what I just did, what we just did.”
They’re both breathing hard now. Hot chills run all over Claude’s skin. His mouth tingles for contact. “Pete...”
“But I can’t risk it right now. No matter how much I want to.”
Claude considers this briefly. “I can’t touch ya’ skin-to-skin, yeah?” Peter nods, still annoyingly apologetic. “Okay, always did love a good challenge.” Before the empath can stop him, Claude’s fingers slip past the open neck of his coat and the sweater beneath, pulling up the thin undershirt below that. He presses the fabric over the lower half of Peter’s face, then kisses him. Initial results aren’t spectacular. Just a steady pressure and a hint of warmth past the barrier. But slowly the warmth increases, the fabric is dampened by their breath and saliva. Claude feels Peter tilt his head, press harder. He does the same, mouth opening and tongue touching at cotton. He finds himself gasping slightly when he detects movement on the other side- Peter’s tongue, looking for his.
Claude presses Peter against the door, wills his own body heat if nothing else to make it through layers of thick winter clothing. Peter’s hands run up his back, his arms wrap tight and squeeze. Still, it’s no more than pale imitation. Claude’s thigh finds its way between Peter’s legs and the empath gives a quiet moan. He rocks and Claude feels him stirring. Feels his own response not long after. But it’s only enough to aggravate him, make him crave the touch of Peter’s bare skin against his. He has to match his memories with the sounds Peter makes now as he bucks with growing urgency.
“Give us a glove, Pete.”
“Uh huh.” Behind Claude’s back, the empath lets go long enough to yank one off and hand it over.
Claude lets go long enough to slip it on before turning his attention to Peter’s trousers. He keeps getting distracted by the searing palm that has landed on his shoulder and dug its fingers into the muscle. Eventually, he manages to free Peter’s cock from his pants- the forthcoming sigh of relief makes him grin. He watches the empath’s face curiously as he strokes hardened flesh through the glove. Peter’s eyes flutter very agreeably and he all but goes on tip-toe to meet Claude’s grip. He gasps raggedly, “Ahh... heh, Claude, you’re a genius...”
“Nah, just clever when I’ve good reason to be.” He almost forgets not to lean in and kiss- somewhere, anywhere. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself while Peter presses his head back against the door, eyes screwed shut as he thrusts harder into Claude’s gloved hand. Claude ends up with his forehead pressed against the door as well, dangerously close to touching Peter. He takes what friction he can get from where his groin meets the empath’s hip.
Peter lets out a desperate whimper by his ear, “I don’t... I don’t know if this... ah, so close... I can’t-”
“Sure you can. You can, Peter. Look at me.”
Their eyes meet, blue flame focus on blown-pupil black, and Peter’s head falls forward. He kisses Claude’s mouth hungrily and the man groans in his throat at the soft heat, until Peter breaks free with a cry as he comes. “Ohh... oh god... - oh shit.” Sudden alarm jerks the empath out of his post-orgasm slump against the door. He wobbles out of Claude’s arms and into the kitchen beyond while hastily zipping himself back up. He paws through drawers until he pulls out a spoon, all while grumbling curses and self-recriminations under his breath. Claude leans against the door- watching, waiting. Trying desperately to ignore the heavy throb in his pants.
Peter holds a hand palm-down over the spoon, which sits on the counter. He draws his hand to the left, and the spoon sluggishly follows. “Thank god,” Peter breathes. He turns back to Claude, “That was a close one.”
Claude grunts in response, then mutters, “Sorry.”
Confusion filters through Peter’s relief, “What for?”
Claude gestures at him, “For the panic attack you had just now. Still selfish, I guess. Even with a war on. I should’ve taken no for an answer.”
Peter just grins at him. Holds Claude’s gaze with his own as he closes the distance between them, then runs his own gloved hand over the man’s cheek. Down his neck, chest, over his stomach to squeeze his flagging erection. Claude’s eyes fall shut and his mouth falls open as pleasure radiates all the way through him. Peter doesn’t waste time in wrapping his hand around Claude’s cock and giving it the slow, tight strokes that make his toes curl. “Pete... you were right before.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I’m a fucking genius.” Of course, the glove’ll never win a contest against Peter’s bare hand- or any other part of his body he feels like using in this manner- but the smooth synthetic fabric is a novelty if nothing else, slipping along Claude’s length easily. A little too easily, in fact. Claude’s brow furrows as he thrusts into Peter’s grip, waiting for the pressure to finally burst. “Fuck...” he growls in frustration, “I see what you were gettin’ at now...”
“You do, don’t you? Here, hang on.” Claude cracks his eyes open to watch Peter drag his shirt back up over his face with his free hand, then lean in to press his covered mouth hard against Claude’s neck, giving the tendon that runs to his shoulder a softened bite. The man moans and lets his cheek fall against Peter’s hair. A few more fierce jerks of his hips and he comes, pleasure soaking through his muscles and leaving him sagging against the door.
“You can’t stay there, you know,” he hears Peter say from far off sometime later. “I’ll have to leave eventually.”
“Climb out the window.”
He smirks to hear Peter’s laughter, smiles to feel hands run along his chest, shirt fabric brushing his sensitized skin. “Claude...”
“Hm?” he opens his eyes in time to close them again, as Peter gives him a swift kiss.
“I have to go do laundry,” the empath murmurs, “This is my only pair of gloves.”