Fic: Self Control, Peter/Claude
Title: Self Control
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Lessons in self-control
AN: Written for
30_forbidden prompt 'bitter'
Claude has very few demands when it comes to a place to sleep. The first of which is 'no one bothering him' or maybe that's not quite the first, he thinks that one is probably slightly beneath 'possibility of imminent death?'
Either way Peter Petrelli probably qualifies.
He doesn't even attempt to be stealthy when he slides in next to him, which Claude thinks is just downright rude. In fact he seems to think they're going to share the bed, and not before Peter's paid for his half of it either.
Which Claude can't help but find suspicious because he'd spent most of the evening trying to knock his brains out.
He grumbles 'Stockholm Syndrome' against Peter's mouth....
"You don't keep me chained in a basement," Peter protests and he slithers closer still, hand tangling in the material of Claude's shirt.
"Maybe I should have done." Peter makes a noise that suggests, in some strange and perverted corner of Claude's brain that he might not entirely mind that. "Maybe I did knock some of your brain out after all."
Peter's not listening, he's dragging Claude in, all enthusiastic hair pulling and hot dirty mouth against his own, and it's good, it's really good. He certainly knows what he's doing, all filthy temptation and promise, and Claude has to wonder if anyone has ever escaped the boys determination.
He tugs away, and Peter's got sharp, equally determined, bloody fingers.
"Stop it," he says roughly, and he's glad his voice still sounds authoritative, still sounds determined.
"Why?" Peter says fiercely and jesus there's passion behind everything with him, everything has to be purposeful. It's exhausting, it's such a waste of bloody energy.
"Instant gratification's tacky, at least after the age of about five, and you're the one always complaining that you have no self control."
He can feel Peter scowling against the edge of his mouth.
"I'm not-I'm not like that," he says tightly, frown making his mouth a contradiction to the rest of him, and there it is, that passion again.
"Of course you are, we all are," Claude snatches a handful of waist, bare and warm where Peter's shirt has ridden up. It's indecently smooth under his fingers when he drags Peter in, drags him in and holds him, hips jammed together tightly enough that Peter has no choice but to realise exactly how pervasive instant gratification can be.
"Even I am," Claude says pointedly and Peter groans in a way that's filthy and shouldn't be allowed. "Now much as I would love to roll you over and fuck you, and believe me I would, it's not going to happen."
He shoves, hard enough that Peter ends up sprawled on his back.
"Now get the fuck out of my bed, or I'll kick you out of it myself."
"Technically it's my bed," Peter points out truthfully.
Claude draws up a foot and shoves...hard.
There's a tumbling shift of sheets and flesh, and a dull 'thump.'
Then there's a long quiet moment of almost audible shock before Peter drags himself to his feet. He throws Claude a furious, breathless, impossibly enticing, look...then promptly stomps out of the room.
Peter Petrelli has no self control at all, and that's what he desperately needs, more than anything else.
Claude, however, seems to have the self-control of a fucking saint.
Author: Corona
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: Lessons in self-control
AN: Written for
30_forbidden prompt 'bitter'
Claude has very few demands when it comes to a place to sleep. The first of which is 'no one bothering him' or maybe that's not quite the first, he thinks that one is probably slightly beneath 'possibility of imminent death?'
Either way Peter Petrelli probably qualifies.
He doesn't even attempt to be stealthy when he slides in next to him, which Claude thinks is just downright rude. In fact he seems to think they're going to share the bed, and not before Peter's paid for his half of it either.
Which Claude can't help but find suspicious because he'd spent most of the evening trying to knock his brains out.
He grumbles 'Stockholm Syndrome' against Peter's mouth....
"You don't keep me chained in a basement," Peter protests and he slithers closer still, hand tangling in the material of Claude's shirt.
"Maybe I should have done." Peter makes a noise that suggests, in some strange and perverted corner of Claude's brain that he might not entirely mind that. "Maybe I did knock some of your brain out after all."
Peter's not listening, he's dragging Claude in, all enthusiastic hair pulling and hot dirty mouth against his own, and it's good, it's really good. He certainly knows what he's doing, all filthy temptation and promise, and Claude has to wonder if anyone has ever escaped the boys determination.
He tugs away, and Peter's got sharp, equally determined, bloody fingers.
"Stop it," he says roughly, and he's glad his voice still sounds authoritative, still sounds determined.
"Why?" Peter says fiercely and jesus there's passion behind everything with him, everything has to be purposeful. It's exhausting, it's such a waste of bloody energy.
"Instant gratification's tacky, at least after the age of about five, and you're the one always complaining that you have no self control."
He can feel Peter scowling against the edge of his mouth.
"I'm not-I'm not like that," he says tightly, frown making his mouth a contradiction to the rest of him, and there it is, that passion again.
"Of course you are, we all are," Claude snatches a handful of waist, bare and warm where Peter's shirt has ridden up. It's indecently smooth under his fingers when he drags Peter in, drags him in and holds him, hips jammed together tightly enough that Peter has no choice but to realise exactly how pervasive instant gratification can be.
"Even I am," Claude says pointedly and Peter groans in a way that's filthy and shouldn't be allowed. "Now much as I would love to roll you over and fuck you, and believe me I would, it's not going to happen."
He shoves, hard enough that Peter ends up sprawled on his back.
"Now get the fuck out of my bed, or I'll kick you out of it myself."
"Technically it's my bed," Peter points out truthfully.
Claude draws up a foot and shoves...hard.
There's a tumbling shift of sheets and flesh, and a dull 'thump.'
Then there's a long quiet moment of almost audible shock before Peter drags himself to his feet. He throws Claude a furious, breathless, impossibly enticing, look...then promptly stomps out of the room.
Peter Petrelli has no self control at all, and that's what he desperately needs, more than anything else.
Claude, however, seems to have the self-control of a fucking saint.