Gabriel/Peter twin 'verse or just Sylar-in-one-of-his-incarnations-as-Gabriel/Peter?

Kick-Ass (Kick-Ass/Red Mist or Dave/Chris

ahaha yes I would so read the fuck out of that too.

Astrid has to admit that she was the last person to find herself in this position, but quite frankly, after that, she's ready to start a blog or shout from the rooftops: Sex with an older man? Rocks, girls!

Not that she'll be doing anything like that any time soon. Right now, she is settling back into a pair of arms that are warm, and wrinkled, and soft, and feeling like the queen of the world. "Whoo," she says, a laugh breaking up the sound.

Walter chuckles and kisses her hair right behind her ear. "You were magnificent," he says, and his voice is chocolate-rich.

"Me?" She laughs. "Walter, you just-- I don't even know how you did that. I think I lost count after the third time." She twists in his arms, looks up at him, and he puts well-worn fingers on her face and draws her in for a kiss. "I'm... I'm not going to catch my breath for another week," she murmurs, though she's the one talking a blue streak right now.

He calls her on it. "You seem to be doing an admirable job." Damn it, she would have to try to bluff a genius. She cuts off any further smart-ass remarks by kissing him soundly.

When the kiss is through, he looks at her seriously, runs a finger down one stubborn curl of her hair. "Astrid, dearest, I hope you know what this has meant to me--"

She settles down into the crook of his arms. "Shut up and enjoy it, Walter," she chides. But she knows. When his lips mist over her jawline, when he folds her up like something precious he might never catch again, she knows exactly what it means.

Lawl!!! I'm so glad you appreciated! :D :D

I'm so glad you liiiiiiikied <3

eee! So glad you liked! :) :)

Dude, shotgunning = ULTIMATE WIN. <3

"See, that -- is not -- even --" Mozzie was going to say "fair," but vocalization that came out instead was... not so much a word, really. Maybe a phoneme.

"Are you complaining?" Neal sounds amused, smug. Of course. He gets off on feeling like he's winning, which seems to be how he usually feels when he's got Mozzie naked and squirming on his back on the couch, he himself still dressed and unruffled except for the one sleeve very deliberately rolled up. Makes him feel like he's got, ahem, the upper hand. Let him think that -- as far as Mozzie's concerned, Neal's the one doing all the work.

He bites his lip as Neal crooks his two fingers inside of him, pressing up at just the right angle.

"You --" gasp "-- have a talent."

"Just one?" Neal teases, and starts to work a third finger in, smooth-nailed and slippery with lube. It feels like too much, like it ought to hurt, but instead it's just... a lot of feeling, all at once. Drowning out everything else. Neal twists his fingers to tease Mozzie's prostate just as he finally deigns to apply his other hand -- clever and quick -- to his straining cock, his eyes never leaving Mozzie's face. He's watching so carefully, Mozzie can tell, judging micro-expresions and small intakes of breath, making the moment-to-moment decision to keep teasing when he could just --

"For the love of God, Neal!" is the closest to begging that Mozzie's ever going to get, but it does the trick. The fingers inside him are as confident as the ones wrapped around his cock, and he comes hard, Neal watching intently the whole time. When he's pretty sure he's regained motor control, he wraps an arm around Neal's shoulders and pulls him down to the couch alongside him. If the kid wants to complain about his outfit getting ruffled now... eh, let him.

We need to get you laid so much more often. ;)

_{Movie-verse. Not quite sure when in the timeline this would actually have happened, though. *hands waves it with fic-magic*}

The soapy water makes Dave hiss in pain as it pours down over the graze-marks on his back. The sponge held in Red Mist's hand is barely touching his flesh as he helps to wash the blood and dirt away, but it still hurts. Coming in from a night of fighting crime always hurts.

The shower sprinkles down upon them, as light as they could make it go. He really hopes his dad doesn't come home any time soon: he doesn't want to have to explain why he's showering with another guy. He doesn't think he can even explain it to himself.

They're both still wearing their masks if nothing else (that's the good thing about having a scuba suit as your costume) in a last-ditch attempt at concealing their identities from each other. Dave isn't too sure why he's bothering, actually. Red Mist is on his side: they're heroes, both of them. Why shouldn't they know each other's true identities? True names, even.

He hisses against when Red Mist brushes the sponge against his wounds once more. "Are you okay?" Red Mist asks. He even manages to sound concerned, and Dave smiles.

He nods. "It hurts a little," he confesses, which is kind of the biggest understatement in the world. Even with damaged nerves, this stings. If he could feel like other people, it might be even worse.

"Sorry," Red Mist says, before Dave feels the ghost of his lips at the crook where his shoulder means his neck. Red Mist presses a kiss against his skin, gentle but lingering.

Dave barely breathes for a few moments. He's pretty sure that superheroes aren't supposed to kiss each other - at least not in the kind of comics that he reads.

Then again, Batman and Robin were always pretty close. And what about Captain America and Iron Man?

Generally speaking, superheroes aren't supposed to shower together either, but it had seemed like a good idea when Red Mist had pointed out that he wouldn't be able to clean his back by himself. Feet splashing in the water at the bottom of the shower, Dave turns around. He can see the nerves on Red Mist's face, the fear in his eyes despite the way they are hidden behind his wet, black mask.

"I shouldn't have done that. Sorry. You're just- you're kind of cool. We both are, I mean."

Dave has never been cool in his life. He gets the feeling that this guy hasn't either: cool guys don't dress up in weird outfits and run around town beating people up. They're too busy going to parties and getting drunk and hooking up.

They're not cool. They're something else.

"It's okay," he says. "I didn't mind it."

Red Mist starts to grin, uncertainly as if he isn't sure whether or not to do it, whether he can believe him. "Awesome." He pauses for a second, water dripping down their skin, before he says, "So, can I do it again?"

And Dave is, like, in love with Katie. But she thinks he's gay, and now he's kind of starting to think maybe she's not 100% wrong about that.

He nods, barely aware of himself doing it.

A fraction of a second later, he has his first Big Gay Kiss.

It's kind of awkward, with his wet scuba mask restricting them, but that works. He likes it. Red Mist's mouth is uncertain when he kisses him, and Dave thinks this is a first for both of them. They're clumsy and uncertain, pushing and licking just to see what works and what doesn't. Dave can feel Red Mist's body flush up against him, his skin hot even in contrast to the warm shower.

They are unsteady at first, neither one too sure what they're doing, but it isn't long before Red Mist takes over, harder, harsher, faster. His hands press against Dave's chest and he shoves him back against the cold tiles, pinning him there.

"Fuck," Dave hisses. "Shit, that hurts."

His back is aching, raw wounds pressed hard against the wall.

Oh my god, this is PERFECT. ♥ ♥ ♥ Your Dave voice is spot on, and I love the whole tentative, fumbling, awkward thing, because it's so true, neither one of them is actually cool or has any idea what they're doing, and that's what makes it great.

I love this to shreds, thank you so much!

YAY! This is totally awesome!
♥
Super heroes helping each other fighting crimes!:p

OMG I wasn't the only one who thought about pairing them when I saw the movie. Also? This fic is awesome.

Hi! *waves*

Hope you enjoy this. I agree, fandom needs moar cuddling!

********
Jim likes mornings best. In the mornings, they're all too drowsy to care about logic, or about who's in sickbay, or about what ridiculous tentacled creature Jim might have to fight today. He's come to crave the half an hour or so before the alarm goes off; without telling the others, he's programmed the computer to raise the lights to 5%, then 10, over the course of those thirty minutes. So Jim lies there in a computer's approximation of aubade, listening to Spock and Bones breathe.

Spock falls asleep on his back but wakes every morning, without fail, spooning into Jim. His breath is warm and damp on the back of Jim's neck. Spock's long pale arm drapes over and beyond Jim's shoulder, fingertips ghosting across to McCoy beyond. He insinuates one foot under Jim's and one above, and Jim can feel the beat beat beat of his pulse there, where their bodies intersect.

Bones curls in, head tucked just so beneath Jim's chin. His hair carries the sterile tang of medicine and Jim breathes it in, careful to maintain the long slow rhythm of sleep. But his breath hitches just a little, and Bones stirs. "Jim?"

"S'okay, Bones. Go back to sleep." He presses a kiss to McCoy's forehead.

"Please stop talking. We have seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds before the alarm sounds," murmurs Spock from Jim's other side. Jim can feel him burrow deeper into the blankets, breathing slow and steady again. Jim matches it. He is deliciously warm. Seventeen minutes, he thinks with a sigh.

Jim loves mornings best.