Fic: Taboo (1/1)
Summary: It's okay to notice that his niece is pretty. In a strictly objective way, of course. What he shouldn't notice is that her lips are luscious and full, the color of ripe raspberries, or that that is, ironically, the flavor of lip gloss she favors.
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Notes: In honor of the season premiere tonight, I figured I would post this.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Canon
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with the television show Heroes. Also, this is purely fiction, written for entertainment purposes only; it is not meant to promote any illegal and/or immoral activities.
Taboo
Peter Petrelli has always been an observant person.
He was always pretty much the wallflower of the family; he watched, listened, felt. It was just who he was.
He's emerged from his shell somewhat, but he still notices things. In fact, he notices a lot. A lot more than he should.
It's okay to notice that his niece is pretty. In a strictly objective way, of course. It's pushing it, but it's even acceptable to notice her hearty laugh -- not an annoying giggle like a lot of teenage girls -- and how it makes him smile every time he hears it.
What's not right are some of the other things he notices.
He shouldn't notice that her eyes are a combination of the sky and cornflowers on a bright August day, or the way her hair bounces teasingly around her shoulders when she walks. He also shouldn't long to run his hands through it, to know the feeling, memorize the soft texture of every flaxen strand.
He doesn't have some new super power; his sense of smell is completely human, so he shouldn't know that she smells like honey. She does, though. He knows. Just like he knows that her skin is soft, like cream, and the way he knows that he sometimes dreams about feeding her strawberries to go with that cream, watching her lips capture and enclose the brazen, seductive sweetness.
He shouldn't notice that her lips are luscious and full, the color of ripe raspberries, or that that is, ironically, the flavor of lip gloss she favors. Fantasies of tasting that lip gloss as he presses his lips to her own are not thoughts that would enter a normal uncle's head. And if they did, they would be pushed away immediately, without a second thought, disgust filling the man's body that such a thought would even dare to pass. A normal, healthy, sane uncle certainly wouldn't lie awake at night, tormented beyond belief at those very thoughts, along with many that aren't nearly as innocent (if you could call fantasizing about incest -- God, but he hates that word -- at any level "innocent").
He shouldn't be aware of how gorgeous she looks when she goes to some formal functions of Nathan's; how the high heels she favors accentuate her legs -- among other things -- all lean muscle and golden Texas tan.
And the feeling of her small, lithe body pressed against him in a familial birthday hug is not something he should still be able to recall vividly -- especially the way certain parts of her anatomy felt against his chest as they stood in that position.
The sunny flash of her teeth as she grins, the exact place on her right cheekbone that she inevitably smudges flower on any time she bakes, the way her thigh feels pressed against his as they sit watching a movie, her favorite pair of pajamas, the fact that she's only kissed three guys in all of her 17 years, and that there are certain movies and that put her "in the mood."
These are all things a just little too intimate for an uncle to know. He should not have noticed, shouldn't have let her confide in him.
But he did, and he still does. It's a compulsion. If she wants to crash at his place, he lets her. He insists that she take his bed, then spends all night on his couch tossing and turning (figuratively, of course, because there's really no room to toss or turn on that particular piece of furniture), thoughts of the woman -- Girl, he reminds himself -- swirling around in his brain like some sick, masochistic tornado.
He notices everything about her. He knows her. He loves her.
He also knows that he can never do anything about it. Ever.
Which is why, for the sake of his own sanity, he never reads anything into any of her actions -- why she tells him some of the things she does.
Because the answer just might be the death of him.
The End
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I may do a companion piece in Claire's POV. What do you all think?
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Notes: In honor of the season premiere tonight, I figured I would post this.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Canon
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with the television show Heroes. Also, this is purely fiction, written for entertainment purposes only; it is not meant to promote any illegal and/or immoral activities.
Taboo
Peter Petrelli has always been an observant person.
He was always pretty much the wallflower of the family; he watched, listened, felt. It was just who he was.
He's emerged from his shell somewhat, but he still notices things. In fact, he notices a lot. A lot more than he should.
It's okay to notice that his niece is pretty. In a strictly objective way, of course. It's pushing it, but it's even acceptable to notice her hearty laugh -- not an annoying giggle like a lot of teenage girls -- and how it makes him smile every time he hears it.
What's not right are some of the other things he notices.
He shouldn't notice that her eyes are a combination of the sky and cornflowers on a bright August day, or the way her hair bounces teasingly around her shoulders when she walks. He also shouldn't long to run his hands through it, to know the feeling, memorize the soft texture of every flaxen strand.
He doesn't have some new super power; his sense of smell is completely human, so he shouldn't know that she smells like honey. She does, though. He knows. Just like he knows that her skin is soft, like cream, and the way he knows that he sometimes dreams about feeding her strawberries to go with that cream, watching her lips capture and enclose the brazen, seductive sweetness.
He shouldn't notice that her lips are luscious and full, the color of ripe raspberries, or that that is, ironically, the flavor of lip gloss she favors. Fantasies of tasting that lip gloss as he presses his lips to her own are not thoughts that would enter a normal uncle's head. And if they did, they would be pushed away immediately, without a second thought, disgust filling the man's body that such a thought would even dare to pass. A normal, healthy, sane uncle certainly wouldn't lie awake at night, tormented beyond belief at those very thoughts, along with many that aren't nearly as innocent (if you could call fantasizing about incest -- God, but he hates that word -- at any level "innocent").
He shouldn't be aware of how gorgeous she looks when she goes to some formal functions of Nathan's; how the high heels she favors accentuate her legs -- among other things -- all lean muscle and golden Texas tan.
And the feeling of her small, lithe body pressed against him in a familial birthday hug is not something he should still be able to recall vividly -- especially the way certain parts of her anatomy felt against his chest as they stood in that position.
The sunny flash of her teeth as she grins, the exact place on her right cheekbone that she inevitably smudges flower on any time she bakes, the way her thigh feels pressed against his as they sit watching a movie, her favorite pair of pajamas, the fact that she's only kissed three guys in all of her 17 years, and that there are certain movies and that put her "in the mood."
These are all things a just little too intimate for an uncle to know. He should not have noticed, shouldn't have let her confide in him.
But he did, and he still does. It's a compulsion. If she wants to crash at his place, he lets her. He insists that she take his bed, then spends all night on his couch tossing and turning (figuratively, of course, because there's really no room to toss or turn on that particular piece of furniture), thoughts of the woman -- Girl, he reminds himself -- swirling around in his brain like some sick, masochistic tornado.
He notices everything about her. He knows her. He loves her.
He also knows that he can never do anything about it. Ever.
Which is why, for the sake of his own sanity, he never reads anything into any of her actions -- why she tells him some of the things she does.
Because the answer just might be the death of him.
The End
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I may do a companion piece in Claire's POV. What do you all think?