FIC: There Were So Many Things
Title: There Were So Many Things
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Peter and Claude
Genre: Drama, Angst, Romance
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season one
Summary: Peter just thinks and dreams -- and the line between dream and reality blurs.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Tim Kring owns it all.
A/N: This fic is for xmen_geek because it’s her birthday. It’s also my first time writing Heroes. Wow. Go me. Also…there is like no dialogue in this. There’s like three lines…I don’t really know how I pulled that off, but whatever. If you think it sucks, then shoot me. XD
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There were blasts -- red, orange, white…and warmth. Sweat would cover his body and his fingers would tremble against wrinkled sheets as he laid writhing and screaming in a cold, lonely bed. They would last nights and days and every single one would hurt him just as much as the last. Peter Petrelli had been trapped in his own world of painful illusions and unrecognizable violence. Nothing was as it seemed, and the panic it caused was almost like a massive bomb implanted in his chest; one that exploded and blew him into a billion little pieces every time it became too much to handle.
There were so many people. Faces he’d seen before and people he’d met in various places -- all of them seemingly having something in common -- meeting in scenes of his mind as though they had some greater purpose. But Peter could never make sense of them. Simone was there. He remembered that fact and somehow always had to ask himself if she’d always seemed so far out of reach. And there was Nathan, too. His brother that stood stone faced and still in front of him as the bursting array of explosive color blasted from his body like fireworks; Nathan, his own flesh and blood, also so far out of his reach.
All of the faces - they stared at him, watched him even as he began to heat up -- a sacrificial kaleidoscope of energy standing in the middle of the street threatening to create a war zone single handedly. Alone -- he felt so lonely standing there as everyone who was supposed to care about him did nothing and could provide no answer to his desperate pleas.
Horrific images plaguing his sleep and creating chaotic fits throughout the night. There were so many images and feelings -- buildings, smoke, benches, children, parks, schools, family -- snapshots passing through a hazy trail in his brain like a filmstrip from an old silent movie. Painfully he would dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands so hard the flesh would tear open and small speckles of bright red blood would appear on the surface of his skin. Feet would kick violently until the restraints of twisted blankets became too much to bear and loneliness and abandonment would turn into a panicked frenzy of claustrophobia. Dreaming dreams of a dying Earth and a never ending destruction all at his own finger tips.
It petrified him.
Even several months after the fact the dreams still haunted his sleep. There were so many nights that Peter would lie awake and stare at the ceiling just waiting for slumber to overtake him and torture him more. The cracks in the plaster above his bed would remind him of black concrete torn from the ground and crumbled beneath his feet; while the repeated drip sounding from his bathroom sink counted off the seconds like a time bomb -- mercilessly teasing him that it would only lead him into a slumber of apocalyptic margins.
That he was, in fact, a time bomb.
And he would glare at the ceiling through locks of unruly hair, and throw himself around so he would lie on his stomach; his face full of pillow -- too scared to watch the room, and too scared to close his eyes. There was always so much fear.
And yet, amongst all of the catastrophe and danger one thing always haunted him. A smile, spread far across the stubbly cheeks of a mad stranger. Laughing at his panic and inability to control -- taunting him to stand up and be a man…the only person amongst all of the stoic faces that challenged him to take it all on and fight. Claude stood completely unfazed, almost relaxed even, and only laughed. The man would laugh and laugh and his eyes would never leave Peter’s.
It burned at his very core to see someone with dancing eyes producing this gut wrenching laugh in his most dire and desperate time. The image tattooed itself onto the empath’s brain; fuelling a fiery anger and a passionate plea to fight harder. So badly he wanted to crawl his way across the blurring sidewalks of his dreamscape and clutch onto the British man and beg him for help.
To scream at him for leaving him…to beg for answers…why?
Why did Claude stand out so much? Why was he the only one with the unspoken challenge to beat it, and why was he the only one trying to gauge a reaction? Why, after so many months later, was he still haunting the dreams…and…
Peter would fly up in his bed, throat producing a loud, echoing scream emitted from primal fear. So many thoughts, and burdens, and wants, and…
Claude.
So dark in the room, but Peter could still hear his own breathing, and he could still hear the raspy sound of his voice echoing off the walls of the empty space as he screamed --but most of all, when that fear overpowered him, he could feel Claude. In the still air of the night, that large hand would grab him roughly by the front of the shirt and pull him back down into the sweat soaked sheets. Vague blurs of color and horror still crept around the backs of his eyelids, threatening to return him to the confinement of his nightmares. But there, in the present, he only laid in a black room, in a warm bed -- with not a man who laughed in his face, but a man who shook him out of the scream…who was next to him looking annoyed as hell.
“Ya need ta stop doin’ that!” he would hiss.
“Sorry,” Peter whispered like he always did, trembles in his voice.
And then the shine of Claude’s eyes would always catch him off guard in the black of the night. He was gruff and bitter, and he would always sound annoyed when Peter woke him up, but those eyes…the same eyes that twinkled with laughter in his dreams, would be coated with concern in his reality. And without a word, Peter would throw his arm around Claude, silently promising him that moments like that only remained between them -- perhaps only maybe to assure him that it was, in fact, okay to voice that concern as well.
Claude would grunt and shift his weight, mostly against Peter, and inconspicuously he’d hold him back. The weight of the limb around his ribs would give Peter an indescribable satisfaction; the world wouldn’t be laughing at him just then. Instead, the world couldn’t see him. He was alone and safe -- just with Claude -- and any sort of impending doom or blinding terror would dissipate. No one else would be there and no threats would await him. Claude would not allow any sort of loss of control, and the security of that fact -- and the loosely fitted arm circled across his chest -- reassured Peter.
In small moments of appreciation, sometimes Peter would turn onto his side and face him. The shining blue of Claude’s eyes would still be there; he wouldn’t close them until Peter was sleeping again -- this the empath knew, even if Claude never spoke of it. Claude wouldn’t usually say anything when Peter faced him, instead he would stare -- and never dare look away -- until the empath made his next move. The older man was never one for outright emotions or sentimentality. Claude was always so subtle unless he was being angry or annoyed. The black of the night in the comfort of the bed was no exception.
So Peter would initiate, thinking perhaps maybe it was okay to just show his gratitude for Claude’s silent support. Tender touches weren’t usually something they did, but just about anything was enough to make Peter happy. His right hand would snake up to Claude’s neck; fingers would curl around the side of it as he pulled him forward so their lips could meet. It would be the empath that would slightly part his lips and caress the Brit’s gently, and Claude would always hesitate. It wasn’t a bad thing, this Peter knew, it was more as though the invisible man was letting Peter test him -- perhaps Claude was even just enjoying it. But it was only a few second pause, and then the older man would kiss him back.
Claude would grab fistfuls of Peter’s hair in attempts to push them together as close as possible. The empath would hold him -- his shoulders, his arms -- he liked feeling the warmth of his flesh, rather than just trying to be rough. Their movements would never mirror each other, instead, Claude would be rougher…desperate and erratic. Peter just loved to feel him and take him in for what it was worth. Slow, curious movements better suited him. In turn, it made their time together unpredictable and erratic…which was fine for both of them.
After Claude found his way into Peter’s mouth, it was only a matter of moments before the older man was working on rolling on top of the empath. No longer in control, Peter obediently rolled onto his back and pulled Claude closer to him. He traced lines around the invisible man’s ribs and down his side until he reached the hem of his shirt. Slowly and gently he would slide his hands underneath the fabric; the empath was aware of every curve, contour, and imperfection he ran his hands over -- and never did he get bored with exploring Claude’s body. The fact alone that he was the only person on the planet that could possibly get this close to the man was a turn on in itself.
It never took long for Claude to get unbearably aroused. A small moan escaped his lips when he felt the throbbing erection pushed against the swell of his hip bone. Not wasting any time, both Claude and Peter worked on getting their shirts off. With all of his demanding excitement, Claude always seemed to beat him in the race, and would already be working on Peter’s shorts before the empath had even removed the older man’s shirt. As soon as both pieces of fabric were gone, Claude crushed his lips back against Peter’s; slipping his rude and demanding tongue through his lips in search for the empath’s.
Hands traveled; Peter’s slow and deliberate along Claude’s spine and all the way up to his neck and through his hair, and Claude’s desperate and all over -- along Peter’s chest and nipples, along his ribs, and down past his navel and right on through until the older man had a nice, firm grip around the empath’s erection. Peter let out a low hiss at the sudden contact; hips bucked out violently, fucking Claude’s hand. The Brit only grunted in reply, quickly covering Peter’s mouth with his own to prevent him from making any more noise, just like he always did.
The empath’s eyes rolled back as Claude continued both his assault on his mouth, and as he pumped Peter’s cock swiftly. The younger man broke into a sweat as he writhed and panted below his lover’s body. When Claude finally pulled away from his mouth, a loud moan escaped Peter and he thrusted forward again. He absolutely loved the feeling of being covered in Claude; it was a painstakingly beautiful time in the night where all the other horrors would disappear, and they would be hidden alone and together. And even if Claude didn’t say a single word through the whole thing, Peter only had to look at him and see those eyes and he’d know things were good.
And they got even better when Claude got bored of the hand stuff, and he decided to move down Peter’s body and envelope the weeping cock into his mouth. Peter didn’t know what to do with himself, and could only throw his hands up to his hair and clutch it in closed fists as Claude bobbed up and down his length. Jolts of painfully arousing excitement shot through his body, sending him into a bucking fit on top of the mattress. Claude always put his free hand down on Peter’s hip, and gripped the swell of bone there to ease him. And when the invisible man opened his eyes and made eye contact with the empath, Peter would get lost in the dancing blue of them -- and he would see that familiar glint of challenge in them; the same eyes that laughed him through fights in his dreams, and the same eyes that showed his hidden concern during the screaming in the night. It didn’t take much for Peter to lose himself in a climax after that point. And once again, Claude’s orbs would dance in amusement just like they always did; the sex was one war that the invisible man didn’t expect Peter to completely stand up to.
The feel of the shocking euphoria of an orgasm sent waves of affection over Peter; ones that were so welcomed and enjoyed. Gently he lowered his hands from his hair and Claude had let him touch him; unruly locks were swept away from the older man’s face, and then Peter had traced a shy, but loving finger down the side of his cheek until Claude finally caught him and began his ascent back up the slender body. Instantly their mouths connected, once again sending Peter deep into the mattress just feeling Claude -- memorizing everything in the perfect reality.
Like always, Claude liked to skip the foreplay and get right to the sex. The invisible man reached over to the crooked night table and grabbed for a bottle of lube. Peter didn’t have to watch his actions to know what he was doing, instead he opted to watch his face to decipher what he was feeling. The empath could have easily just read his thoughts, but he found it so much less erotic. He preferred subtle detail -- Claude was just so much more interesting that way.
Claude’s head tilted back and for the first time since they began he squeezed his eyes shut. The older man used to fingers to spread Peter open as he entered, and he slowly pushed his cock up into the empath -- and finally let out a low, guttural moan. Sweat soaked bed sheets twisted through Peter’s fingers until his joints were white. The younger man let a small smile spread across his swollen lips. “Oh god…”
At the sound of Peter’s voice, Claude tilted his head forward again and focused on creating a rhythm for his movements. He placed one hand carefully around Peter’s hip, and the other one rested under the empath’s knee as he gently pushed the leg up and forward. The younger man slid his hand down his side until he found Claude’s, and slowly covered it with his own before rocking along in sequence with him. During that time Claude never protested to Peter’s hand holding, and the empath reveled in the fact. It was a silent pact of support, and perhaps even love, that they never said out loud to each other. It was something that Peter loyally believed was there, and he refused to believe otherwise just because of moments like that.
Claude let out another groan as he quickened his pace. Peter squeezed the older man’s fingers as he did so; the penetration arousing him to another erection. The empath bit his lip and shook his sweat soaked hair from his eyes. Claude was watching him again, breathing heavily as he moved. The sight was enough to provoke Peter into shamelessly grabbing himself and he began pumping his hand rhythmically along with Claude’s thrusting. The laughing twinkle in Claude’s eyes was immediately replaced with a dark, lusty gaze; no longer was the older man eyeing Peter’s face, but instead watched him hungrily as he pleasured himself. As if on instinct, Claude began frantically increasing his pace; his abdominal muscles tightly contracted, and he let out a loud groan. “Ah bloody hell!”
The invisible man dug his nails into Peter’s flesh as he came inside of him. Hair clung to his forehead, and that soft reassuring look returned to his glossy eyes. Peter jerked himself harder one, two, three more times before coming onto his own stomach -- vaguely aware of all the unsaid words between them. The invisible man only grinned at the sight and slowly, after pulling out, bent over Peter’s body and lazily lapped up the mess with a wet tongue. The empath lightly arched his back at the touch, and ran his hand up through Claude’s hair.
And like he always did, Claude collapsed next to him on the bed. Instead of the loose, awkward hold from before, the older man held him tightly. Peter could feel the hot breath escape Claude’s lips and the hair of his eyelashes flutter against his skin. And the empath would remember exactly why Claude always seemed to be the one that stood out in his dreams -- why it was always his face that haunted him.
Because he couldn’t live without it -- he needed it to survive his worst nightmares…to make it through the black of the night.
And despite what the grumpy Brit didn’t say, Peter knew that he felt the same way. There were so many things that went unsaid between them, but there was never any doubt in his mind what the answers were.
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Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Peter and Claude
Genre: Drama, Angst, Romance
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season one
Summary: Peter just thinks and dreams -- and the line between dream and reality blurs.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Tim Kring owns it all.
A/N: This fic is for xmen_geek because it’s her birthday. It’s also my first time writing Heroes. Wow. Go me. Also…there is like no dialogue in this. There’s like three lines…I don’t really know how I pulled that off, but whatever. If you think it sucks, then shoot me. XD
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There were blasts -- red, orange, white…and warmth. Sweat would cover his body and his fingers would tremble against wrinkled sheets as he laid writhing and screaming in a cold, lonely bed. They would last nights and days and every single one would hurt him just as much as the last. Peter Petrelli had been trapped in his own world of painful illusions and unrecognizable violence. Nothing was as it seemed, and the panic it caused was almost like a massive bomb implanted in his chest; one that exploded and blew him into a billion little pieces every time it became too much to handle.
There were so many people. Faces he’d seen before and people he’d met in various places -- all of them seemingly having something in common -- meeting in scenes of his mind as though they had some greater purpose. But Peter could never make sense of them. Simone was there. He remembered that fact and somehow always had to ask himself if she’d always seemed so far out of reach. And there was Nathan, too. His brother that stood stone faced and still in front of him as the bursting array of explosive color blasted from his body like fireworks; Nathan, his own flesh and blood, also so far out of his reach.
All of the faces - they stared at him, watched him even as he began to heat up -- a sacrificial kaleidoscope of energy standing in the middle of the street threatening to create a war zone single handedly. Alone -- he felt so lonely standing there as everyone who was supposed to care about him did nothing and could provide no answer to his desperate pleas.
Horrific images plaguing his sleep and creating chaotic fits throughout the night. There were so many images and feelings -- buildings, smoke, benches, children, parks, schools, family -- snapshots passing through a hazy trail in his brain like a filmstrip from an old silent movie. Painfully he would dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands so hard the flesh would tear open and small speckles of bright red blood would appear on the surface of his skin. Feet would kick violently until the restraints of twisted blankets became too much to bear and loneliness and abandonment would turn into a panicked frenzy of claustrophobia. Dreaming dreams of a dying Earth and a never ending destruction all at his own finger tips.
It petrified him.
Even several months after the fact the dreams still haunted his sleep. There were so many nights that Peter would lie awake and stare at the ceiling just waiting for slumber to overtake him and torture him more. The cracks in the plaster above his bed would remind him of black concrete torn from the ground and crumbled beneath his feet; while the repeated drip sounding from his bathroom sink counted off the seconds like a time bomb -- mercilessly teasing him that it would only lead him into a slumber of apocalyptic margins.
That he was, in fact, a time bomb.
And he would glare at the ceiling through locks of unruly hair, and throw himself around so he would lie on his stomach; his face full of pillow -- too scared to watch the room, and too scared to close his eyes. There was always so much fear.
And yet, amongst all of the catastrophe and danger one thing always haunted him. A smile, spread far across the stubbly cheeks of a mad stranger. Laughing at his panic and inability to control -- taunting him to stand up and be a man…the only person amongst all of the stoic faces that challenged him to take it all on and fight. Claude stood completely unfazed, almost relaxed even, and only laughed. The man would laugh and laugh and his eyes would never leave Peter’s.
It burned at his very core to see someone with dancing eyes producing this gut wrenching laugh in his most dire and desperate time. The image tattooed itself onto the empath’s brain; fuelling a fiery anger and a passionate plea to fight harder. So badly he wanted to crawl his way across the blurring sidewalks of his dreamscape and clutch onto the British man and beg him for help.
To scream at him for leaving him…to beg for answers…why?
Why did Claude stand out so much? Why was he the only one with the unspoken challenge to beat it, and why was he the only one trying to gauge a reaction? Why, after so many months later, was he still haunting the dreams…and…
Peter would fly up in his bed, throat producing a loud, echoing scream emitted from primal fear. So many thoughts, and burdens, and wants, and…
Claude.
So dark in the room, but Peter could still hear his own breathing, and he could still hear the raspy sound of his voice echoing off the walls of the empty space as he screamed --but most of all, when that fear overpowered him, he could feel Claude. In the still air of the night, that large hand would grab him roughly by the front of the shirt and pull him back down into the sweat soaked sheets. Vague blurs of color and horror still crept around the backs of his eyelids, threatening to return him to the confinement of his nightmares. But there, in the present, he only laid in a black room, in a warm bed -- with not a man who laughed in his face, but a man who shook him out of the scream…who was next to him looking annoyed as hell.
“Ya need ta stop doin’ that!” he would hiss.
“Sorry,” Peter whispered like he always did, trembles in his voice.
And then the shine of Claude’s eyes would always catch him off guard in the black of the night. He was gruff and bitter, and he would always sound annoyed when Peter woke him up, but those eyes…the same eyes that twinkled with laughter in his dreams, would be coated with concern in his reality. And without a word, Peter would throw his arm around Claude, silently promising him that moments like that only remained between them -- perhaps only maybe to assure him that it was, in fact, okay to voice that concern as well.
Claude would grunt and shift his weight, mostly against Peter, and inconspicuously he’d hold him back. The weight of the limb around his ribs would give Peter an indescribable satisfaction; the world wouldn’t be laughing at him just then. Instead, the world couldn’t see him. He was alone and safe -- just with Claude -- and any sort of impending doom or blinding terror would dissipate. No one else would be there and no threats would await him. Claude would not allow any sort of loss of control, and the security of that fact -- and the loosely fitted arm circled across his chest -- reassured Peter.
In small moments of appreciation, sometimes Peter would turn onto his side and face him. The shining blue of Claude’s eyes would still be there; he wouldn’t close them until Peter was sleeping again -- this the empath knew, even if Claude never spoke of it. Claude wouldn’t usually say anything when Peter faced him, instead he would stare -- and never dare look away -- until the empath made his next move. The older man was never one for outright emotions or sentimentality. Claude was always so subtle unless he was being angry or annoyed. The black of the night in the comfort of the bed was no exception.
So Peter would initiate, thinking perhaps maybe it was okay to just show his gratitude for Claude’s silent support. Tender touches weren’t usually something they did, but just about anything was enough to make Peter happy. His right hand would snake up to Claude’s neck; fingers would curl around the side of it as he pulled him forward so their lips could meet. It would be the empath that would slightly part his lips and caress the Brit’s gently, and Claude would always hesitate. It wasn’t a bad thing, this Peter knew, it was more as though the invisible man was letting Peter test him -- perhaps Claude was even just enjoying it. But it was only a few second pause, and then the older man would kiss him back.
Claude would grab fistfuls of Peter’s hair in attempts to push them together as close as possible. The empath would hold him -- his shoulders, his arms -- he liked feeling the warmth of his flesh, rather than just trying to be rough. Their movements would never mirror each other, instead, Claude would be rougher…desperate and erratic. Peter just loved to feel him and take him in for what it was worth. Slow, curious movements better suited him. In turn, it made their time together unpredictable and erratic…which was fine for both of them.
After Claude found his way into Peter’s mouth, it was only a matter of moments before the older man was working on rolling on top of the empath. No longer in control, Peter obediently rolled onto his back and pulled Claude closer to him. He traced lines around the invisible man’s ribs and down his side until he reached the hem of his shirt. Slowly and gently he would slide his hands underneath the fabric; the empath was aware of every curve, contour, and imperfection he ran his hands over -- and never did he get bored with exploring Claude’s body. The fact alone that he was the only person on the planet that could possibly get this close to the man was a turn on in itself.
It never took long for Claude to get unbearably aroused. A small moan escaped his lips when he felt the throbbing erection pushed against the swell of his hip bone. Not wasting any time, both Claude and Peter worked on getting their shirts off. With all of his demanding excitement, Claude always seemed to beat him in the race, and would already be working on Peter’s shorts before the empath had even removed the older man’s shirt. As soon as both pieces of fabric were gone, Claude crushed his lips back against Peter’s; slipping his rude and demanding tongue through his lips in search for the empath’s.
Hands traveled; Peter’s slow and deliberate along Claude’s spine and all the way up to his neck and through his hair, and Claude’s desperate and all over -- along Peter’s chest and nipples, along his ribs, and down past his navel and right on through until the older man had a nice, firm grip around the empath’s erection. Peter let out a low hiss at the sudden contact; hips bucked out violently, fucking Claude’s hand. The Brit only grunted in reply, quickly covering Peter’s mouth with his own to prevent him from making any more noise, just like he always did.
The empath’s eyes rolled back as Claude continued both his assault on his mouth, and as he pumped Peter’s cock swiftly. The younger man broke into a sweat as he writhed and panted below his lover’s body. When Claude finally pulled away from his mouth, a loud moan escaped Peter and he thrusted forward again. He absolutely loved the feeling of being covered in Claude; it was a painstakingly beautiful time in the night where all the other horrors would disappear, and they would be hidden alone and together. And even if Claude didn’t say a single word through the whole thing, Peter only had to look at him and see those eyes and he’d know things were good.
And they got even better when Claude got bored of the hand stuff, and he decided to move down Peter’s body and envelope the weeping cock into his mouth. Peter didn’t know what to do with himself, and could only throw his hands up to his hair and clutch it in closed fists as Claude bobbed up and down his length. Jolts of painfully arousing excitement shot through his body, sending him into a bucking fit on top of the mattress. Claude always put his free hand down on Peter’s hip, and gripped the swell of bone there to ease him. And when the invisible man opened his eyes and made eye contact with the empath, Peter would get lost in the dancing blue of them -- and he would see that familiar glint of challenge in them; the same eyes that laughed him through fights in his dreams, and the same eyes that showed his hidden concern during the screaming in the night. It didn’t take much for Peter to lose himself in a climax after that point. And once again, Claude’s orbs would dance in amusement just like they always did; the sex was one war that the invisible man didn’t expect Peter to completely stand up to.
The feel of the shocking euphoria of an orgasm sent waves of affection over Peter; ones that were so welcomed and enjoyed. Gently he lowered his hands from his hair and Claude had let him touch him; unruly locks were swept away from the older man’s face, and then Peter had traced a shy, but loving finger down the side of his cheek until Claude finally caught him and began his ascent back up the slender body. Instantly their mouths connected, once again sending Peter deep into the mattress just feeling Claude -- memorizing everything in the perfect reality.
Like always, Claude liked to skip the foreplay and get right to the sex. The invisible man reached over to the crooked night table and grabbed for a bottle of lube. Peter didn’t have to watch his actions to know what he was doing, instead he opted to watch his face to decipher what he was feeling. The empath could have easily just read his thoughts, but he found it so much less erotic. He preferred subtle detail -- Claude was just so much more interesting that way.
Claude’s head tilted back and for the first time since they began he squeezed his eyes shut. The older man used to fingers to spread Peter open as he entered, and he slowly pushed his cock up into the empath -- and finally let out a low, guttural moan. Sweat soaked bed sheets twisted through Peter’s fingers until his joints were white. The younger man let a small smile spread across his swollen lips. “Oh god…”
At the sound of Peter’s voice, Claude tilted his head forward again and focused on creating a rhythm for his movements. He placed one hand carefully around Peter’s hip, and the other one rested under the empath’s knee as he gently pushed the leg up and forward. The younger man slid his hand down his side until he found Claude’s, and slowly covered it with his own before rocking along in sequence with him. During that time Claude never protested to Peter’s hand holding, and the empath reveled in the fact. It was a silent pact of support, and perhaps even love, that they never said out loud to each other. It was something that Peter loyally believed was there, and he refused to believe otherwise just because of moments like that.
Claude let out another groan as he quickened his pace. Peter squeezed the older man’s fingers as he did so; the penetration arousing him to another erection. The empath bit his lip and shook his sweat soaked hair from his eyes. Claude was watching him again, breathing heavily as he moved. The sight was enough to provoke Peter into shamelessly grabbing himself and he began pumping his hand rhythmically along with Claude’s thrusting. The laughing twinkle in Claude’s eyes was immediately replaced with a dark, lusty gaze; no longer was the older man eyeing Peter’s face, but instead watched him hungrily as he pleasured himself. As if on instinct, Claude began frantically increasing his pace; his abdominal muscles tightly contracted, and he let out a loud groan. “Ah bloody hell!”
The invisible man dug his nails into Peter’s flesh as he came inside of him. Hair clung to his forehead, and that soft reassuring look returned to his glossy eyes. Peter jerked himself harder one, two, three more times before coming onto his own stomach -- vaguely aware of all the unsaid words between them. The invisible man only grinned at the sight and slowly, after pulling out, bent over Peter’s body and lazily lapped up the mess with a wet tongue. The empath lightly arched his back at the touch, and ran his hand up through Claude’s hair.
And like he always did, Claude collapsed next to him on the bed. Instead of the loose, awkward hold from before, the older man held him tightly. Peter could feel the hot breath escape Claude’s lips and the hair of his eyelashes flutter against his skin. And the empath would remember exactly why Claude always seemed to be the one that stood out in his dreams -- why it was always his face that haunted him.
Because he couldn’t live without it -- he needed it to survive his worst nightmares…to make it through the black of the night.
And despite what the grumpy Brit didn’t say, Peter knew that he felt the same way. There were so many things that went unsaid between them, but there was never any doubt in his mind what the answers were.
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