Fic; Perfect [Heroes, NC-17]
Title: Perfect
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Claire catches Peter in the act of some self love.
A/N: It has a sequel. Finally. Also written for my mission_insane PWP? table. If this isn't spontaneous, I dunno what is.
"... sick, sick fuck," Peter mutters, hitting his head against the pillow. He isn't sure if he's annoyed because he's started to have wet dreams again or because this is the third one this week and it's only Wednesday or because he's having wet dreams about his niece almost every morning now.
But he is most certainly annoyed as he slips his hand into his boxers and begins to stroke.
Annoyed and horny as all hell. It's a combination he can deal with.
It's early and his dream was so vivid that he's achingly hard and in two minutes flat, he's reduced to a flushed, squirming excuse for a man and he's chanting her name like a mantra and it so does not help that his imagination is on speed in the morning, showing him all kinds of dirty and forbidden things that his niece could be doing to him.
On this particular morning, she's straddling him and refusing to let him touch her--she slaps his hand every time he tries--and holding her curls off her neck with one hand and her breast in the other and her hips move just so and he's inside her now and fuck. Just fuck.
He bites his lip, knowing what's coming but he can't stop it and a second later, he moans deep and loud in his throat, "Claire."
"...Peter?"
--
Claire is staring.
Her mouth originally opened to yell at him for not hearing her knocking and making her waste five minutes while she dug through her purse to find her copy of the key to his apartment and now it's just open in shock.
Is he... was that--oh. Yes, he's definitely doing... was that her name?
She wants to turn around and bolt from his apartment but she can't. Because she can't move. Like at all. Like she's glued to the spot just inside the doorway to his bedroom and her eyes are glued at--
--oh God Claire, look away!
She blinks but doesn't move her gaze. The movements of his hand in that area of his body are just too fascinating and she can feel herself turning bright red as she watches.
"...Peter?"
But then she speaks and his eyes snap open and the whole thing just goes to hell.
--
Peter knows his imagination pretty well. He has lived with it oh... his entire life, so when he hears his name, he knows that it isn't imagined. It's real and it sounds an awful lot like...
Oh fuck.
His eyes meet hers instantly and he can hardly think at the moment but he knows this is very, very bad. This is so bad that it makes Sylar look like a fluffy bunny and his hands is just a bastard because it won't stop moving. It's perfectly content to keep on stroking while she watches and he is the sickest fuck to ever exist. He is the king of sick fucks. There is a monument in hell dedicated solely to him right now.
It takes a supreme act of will, one that Peter's very sure he's never been able to put together before, but he finally wrenches his hand away from his cock and pulls it out of his boxers and that doesn't really help things much because his erection's making a lovely tent of the covers because it's not ashamed of itself.
He sits up, slowly and cautiously because it is very uncomfortable to be sitting when he's in this condition but he's got to pretend like it doesn't exist. Like there's nothing wrong. Like she didn't just catch him giving himself a little morning treat and moaning her name in the process.
"Claire," he says, wincing because his voice is husky as he says her name. "I can explain--"
She's there suddenly, right in front of him and her hands are on his shoulders, forcing him to stay seated on the bed. Maybe not forcing but her intent is clear and since most of the blood is not in his brain at the moment, he's not inspired to fight her on it.
"How many Claires do you know?" she asks quietly.
The guilty twist of his mouth is all the answer she needs.
Claire taps her fingers against his shoulders, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. A little piece of him hates that he knows she only worries on her bottom lip when she's debating something. Given their current circumstance, there's really only one thing she can be thinking about. That's not okay with him.
The Petrelli family doesn't need two sick fucks.
"Okay then," she says with a tiny nod, lifting her hands from his shoulders. Not touching anymore. She's made her decision. Peter lets out a sigh of relief.
And then he forgets how to breathe when her hands move to the hem of her shirt and pull the damn thing right off.
Right.
...
What the fuck?
"Claire--"
Her hands move back to his shoulders, using them as leverage as she climbs on his lap, one leg on either side of his hips. Peter's sure that he had a point, that his mouth is open for a reason but he can't get past the fact that her breasts are staring him in the face. There's a bra in the way but still.
Claire's breasts.
Within six inches of his face. One snap of his fingers away from being bare.
Is there something he's supposed to be remembering?
Claire giggles, looping her arms around his neck casually. "You have a boob fetish, Peter," she tells him simply, bringing the object of his rapt attention just a little bit closer to his face. Is she expecting an answer? Because she's really not going to get one.
"I've seen you staring at them before, you know," she continues. The giggle's gone from her voice, replaced by a low, husky quality. "You think I don't notice but I do. You practically drilled a hole in my dress the last time we had dinner at Nathan's."
Wait a minute. Dinner at Nathan's. His brother Nathan. Nathan's daughter, Claire. His niece. On his lap shirtless. This is all so very wrong.
Peter blinks, finally, for probably the first time in almost two minutes and shakes his head a little. He needs to get his mind off what's going on. Needs to pull together something resembling logic. But that's very, very hard at the moment... just like some other parts of him.
Oh boy.
"Wait. We need--"
Her arms tighten around his neck when he shifts, taking away his chance at slipping out from under her without touching her. She's sure that if he puts his hands on her, he isn't going to take them off.
"We don't need to do anything," she tells him, looking him in the eye. She shifts a little in his lap and he begs to differ about that. Something most certainly needs to be done and rather soon because this is getting to be kind of painful.
"I want to do this, Peter," Claire whispers. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."
"I'm your uncle."
She's quiet for a long time, staring at something over his shoulder and he's sure that she's rethinking her actions and coming to the conclusion that this is oh so very wrong. Then her eyes move back to his face. "In a hundred years," she says. "It won't matter that we're related."
And then she kisses him and God help him, he's not strong enough to fight her.
Peter groans against her lips and she groans back as she slides forward in his lap and is she trying to kill him? Because that's what it feels like. It feels like that's exactly what's on her mind as she grinds her hips into his erection. She just makes it worse by sliding her hands down his body and under his boxers, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock.
"You think about me while you do this?" she asks, running the tips of her fingers along him.
It takes him a moment (or several) but he answers in a choked voice, "Yes."
"What do you think about?" she asks low and gravelly in his ear.
One (or several) more moments later, Peter tells her. "About your hair... and, um... oh God, your breasts and..."
Claire shuts him up by clamping his fingers down on his cock and pushing her mouth against his roughly, practically dueling his tongue with hers. "Mm mn," she murmurs, brushing the tip of her nose with his as she shakes her head. "What am I doing?"
What is she doing?
She's straddling him and her shirt is off (though sadly not her bra but he's working on that one, okay? Just give him a minute to be able to think and he'll have it off her in like five seconds... okay, ten, same difference) and her soft, little hands are gripping his cock in a death grip and she's whispering to him and he just might not make it to the part where one of them's on top and he's buried inside of her.
Oh. Wait. Not what she meant.
He draws in a harsh, shaky breath, staring at the line on the top of her bra, mesmerized by the way her breasts move with every breath that she takes. "You, um... pretty much do what you're doing."
Her head cocks to the side. "Is that all?"
"Not all the time."
Claire loosens her grip on him a little, and runs her fingers along him slowly. "What do I do to you, Peter?"
"Everything," Peter confesses, tipping his head back and letting out another groan.
Her fingers still again and he actually whimpers when she does that. And then he whimpers again when she takes her fingers off him completely and places them on his shoulders, pushing him back on the bed. He has the feeling that she's going to end up being the one on top since she's scooting down his body, taking his boxers with her and grinning at him when he's lying completely bare before her.
"Claire?"
Her grin widens and she darts forward suddenly, wrapping her lips around the tip of his cock.
Oh--"Fuck," he hisses, throwing his head back against the bed. His imagination is nowhere near as good as this and he has to give his imagination some credit. It's usually really good. It came up with something that was a very good substitute but now that he has the real thing, he'll never be able to go back to generic again. He is brand name Claire until he dies.
She smiles around him, working him with her tongue and lips before taking him deeper, like she intends to swallow him whole and he thinks he might be okay with that. If she wants him, she can have him but oh God she needs to stop because he's about to--
Oh. Well. Nevermind.
Claire moans as she drinks him down, swallowing slowly like he's the last of that ridiculously good chocolate fondue that Nathan's cook makes around New Year's. He wouldn't have taken her as a swallower. She's much to spirited to just take something like that but he's so glad that he was wrong.
She cleans him off completely with several quick flicks of her tongue and then she releases him, crawling up his body and right when he thinks she's going to kiss him, she rolls off to the side, molding herself to his chest. "Peter?" she murmurs, touching her lips to his shoulder. He is never so glad about not wearing a shirt to bed then in that moment.
"Peeteerrr..." she croons, picking up her head and giving him these wide innocent doe eyes. "You haven't touched me yet."
Well, that was a little hard to do when she was sucking him off and he could barely pull together the necessary thoughts needed to breathe, let alone move his hands along her. He wants to tell her this but he finds that his mouth doesn't remember how to make words. Give him a moment (or several) and he might have something for her.
"You always touch me when I think about you."
Right.
...
What the fuck?
Peter gives her a look that's somewhere between curious and confused and shocked and she gives him a coy little smile in return. "I think about you a lot," she confesses, hardly above a whisper and he swears that he sees a blush spreading along her cheeks.
Well then. He knows exactly what has to be done now.
He rolls her onto her back, pushing one of his knees in between her legs and sliding it up, up, up until it presses against her center and she whimpers softly. He digs in a little, moves his knee in a wide circle and when she returns the movement by moving her hips, he stops and leans over to kiss her to muffle her whimper.
By the time he pulls back to give her time to draw oxygen into her lungs, she's completely naked and she has no idea how that happened exactly.
Claire smiles slowly, shifting on the bed and raising her arms above her head, exposing all of her to him and he just stares at it. He has to stare it. There's like some kind of sick fuck rule that makes him stare at her golden flesh, memorizing exactly how perfect she is. It's a little unfair that she's so perfect while he's such a sick fuck.
"What do you think about?" he asks softly.
"Everything," she whispers.
And that's exactly what he's going to give to her. He lowers his head to her breasts, letting his warm breath wash over her skin until she whimpers and squirms under him and then he gives her what she wants by placing his mouth on her nipple. His hand comes up and pinches the other one as his teeth scrape along the first and it's not long before she's gasping and arching and burying her fingers in his hair in a desperate attempt to keep him where he is.
He slides his mouth down her belly, pausing to swirl his tongue in her navel and then he goes lower, removing his knee and pushing her legs apart and there she is. In all her warm, pink and wet glory. There is Claire and he so desperately wants to taste her.
So he does.
She cries out. He moans. Her fingers find his hair again as she moves her hips and parts her legs further and she all but pushes him closer to her sex. His cock stirs, wanting in on this special place that is causing all the noise.
Peter goes back to his earlier conclusion that she wants to kill him. But, he decides, if that's the case, then he's taking her with him.
He waits until the last possible moment, right before she hits the point of no return, when she still needs more friction to get off and then he lifts his mouth and she actually growls at him. Her face is a mask of annoyance and pleasure and then it's just pleasure as he surges forward and pushes his hard-again cock into her.
They gasp each other's names as they start to move, as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her, and kisses him. She moans quietly when she tastes herself on his lips and he bucks against her roughly and she groans and that spurs him on more and it's just a dangerous cycle that ends in a rough thrust and loud cries as they find their release at almost the same moment.
He slumps off to the side, taking her with him and smiling weakly when she presses herself against his side.
"Pinch me," Claire whispers.
"Why?"
"I want to know that I'm not dreaming again."
Peter kisses her instead of pinching her but it's a good substitute. There's no way that the feel of his lips on hers and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek and the taste of him isn't real. He pulls back a few minutes later and tips his forehead against hers before dropping his head back against the pillow.
"Peter?"
"Mmn?"
Claire strokes the side of his face, watching as he inches closer to sleep. She's not nearly as tired as he is but she has absolutely no qualms about watching him sleep for a while. "When you wake up," she starts, sliding her hand down his neck. "Can we do it again?"
"God, yes."
Author: sweetbelle07
Fandom: Heroes
Character(s): Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Claire catches Peter in the act of some self love.
A/N: It has a sequel. Finally. Also written for my mission_insane PWP? table. If this isn't spontaneous, I dunno what is.
"... sick, sick fuck," Peter mutters, hitting his head against the pillow. He isn't sure if he's annoyed because he's started to have wet dreams again or because this is the third one this week and it's only Wednesday or because he's having wet dreams about his niece almost every morning now.
But he is most certainly annoyed as he slips his hand into his boxers and begins to stroke.
Annoyed and horny as all hell. It's a combination he can deal with.
It's early and his dream was so vivid that he's achingly hard and in two minutes flat, he's reduced to a flushed, squirming excuse for a man and he's chanting her name like a mantra and it so does not help that his imagination is on speed in the morning, showing him all kinds of dirty and forbidden things that his niece could be doing to him.
On this particular morning, she's straddling him and refusing to let him touch her--she slaps his hand every time he tries--and holding her curls off her neck with one hand and her breast in the other and her hips move just so and he's inside her now and fuck. Just fuck.
He bites his lip, knowing what's coming but he can't stop it and a second later, he moans deep and loud in his throat, "Claire."
"...Peter?"
--
Claire is staring.
Her mouth originally opened to yell at him for not hearing her knocking and making her waste five minutes while she dug through her purse to find her copy of the key to his apartment and now it's just open in shock.
Is he... was that--oh. Yes, he's definitely doing... was that her name?
She wants to turn around and bolt from his apartment but she can't. Because she can't move. Like at all. Like she's glued to the spot just inside the doorway to his bedroom and her eyes are glued at--
--oh God Claire, look away!
She blinks but doesn't move her gaze. The movements of his hand in that area of his body are just too fascinating and she can feel herself turning bright red as she watches.
"...Peter?"
But then she speaks and his eyes snap open and the whole thing just goes to hell.
--
Peter knows his imagination pretty well. He has lived with it oh... his entire life, so when he hears his name, he knows that it isn't imagined. It's real and it sounds an awful lot like...
Oh fuck.
His eyes meet hers instantly and he can hardly think at the moment but he knows this is very, very bad. This is so bad that it makes Sylar look like a fluffy bunny and his hands is just a bastard because it won't stop moving. It's perfectly content to keep on stroking while she watches and he is the sickest fuck to ever exist. He is the king of sick fucks. There is a monument in hell dedicated solely to him right now.
It takes a supreme act of will, one that Peter's very sure he's never been able to put together before, but he finally wrenches his hand away from his cock and pulls it out of his boxers and that doesn't really help things much because his erection's making a lovely tent of the covers because it's not ashamed of itself.
He sits up, slowly and cautiously because it is very uncomfortable to be sitting when he's in this condition but he's got to pretend like it doesn't exist. Like there's nothing wrong. Like she didn't just catch him giving himself a little morning treat and moaning her name in the process.
"Claire," he says, wincing because his voice is husky as he says her name. "I can explain--"
She's there suddenly, right in front of him and her hands are on his shoulders, forcing him to stay seated on the bed. Maybe not forcing but her intent is clear and since most of the blood is not in his brain at the moment, he's not inspired to fight her on it.
"How many Claires do you know?" she asks quietly.
The guilty twist of his mouth is all the answer she needs.
Claire taps her fingers against his shoulders, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. A little piece of him hates that he knows she only worries on her bottom lip when she's debating something. Given their current circumstance, there's really only one thing she can be thinking about. That's not okay with him.
The Petrelli family doesn't need two sick fucks.
"Okay then," she says with a tiny nod, lifting her hands from his shoulders. Not touching anymore. She's made her decision. Peter lets out a sigh of relief.
And then he forgets how to breathe when her hands move to the hem of her shirt and pull the damn thing right off.
Right.
...
What the fuck?
"Claire--"
Her hands move back to his shoulders, using them as leverage as she climbs on his lap, one leg on either side of his hips. Peter's sure that he had a point, that his mouth is open for a reason but he can't get past the fact that her breasts are staring him in the face. There's a bra in the way but still.
Claire's breasts.
Within six inches of his face. One snap of his fingers away from being bare.
Is there something he's supposed to be remembering?
Claire giggles, looping her arms around his neck casually. "You have a boob fetish, Peter," she tells him simply, bringing the object of his rapt attention just a little bit closer to his face. Is she expecting an answer? Because she's really not going to get one.
"I've seen you staring at them before, you know," she continues. The giggle's gone from her voice, replaced by a low, husky quality. "You think I don't notice but I do. You practically drilled a hole in my dress the last time we had dinner at Nathan's."
Wait a minute. Dinner at Nathan's. His brother Nathan. Nathan's daughter, Claire. His niece. On his lap shirtless. This is all so very wrong.
Peter blinks, finally, for probably the first time in almost two minutes and shakes his head a little. He needs to get his mind off what's going on. Needs to pull together something resembling logic. But that's very, very hard at the moment... just like some other parts of him.
Oh boy.
"Wait. We need--"
Her arms tighten around his neck when he shifts, taking away his chance at slipping out from under her without touching her. She's sure that if he puts his hands on her, he isn't going to take them off.
"We don't need to do anything," she tells him, looking him in the eye. She shifts a little in his lap and he begs to differ about that. Something most certainly needs to be done and rather soon because this is getting to be kind of painful.
"I want to do this, Peter," Claire whispers. "I've wanted to do this for a long time."
"I'm your uncle."
She's quiet for a long time, staring at something over his shoulder and he's sure that she's rethinking her actions and coming to the conclusion that this is oh so very wrong. Then her eyes move back to his face. "In a hundred years," she says. "It won't matter that we're related."
And then she kisses him and God help him, he's not strong enough to fight her.
Peter groans against her lips and she groans back as she slides forward in his lap and is she trying to kill him? Because that's what it feels like. It feels like that's exactly what's on her mind as she grinds her hips into his erection. She just makes it worse by sliding her hands down his body and under his boxers, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock.
"You think about me while you do this?" she asks, running the tips of her fingers along him.
It takes him a moment (or several) but he answers in a choked voice, "Yes."
"What do you think about?" she asks low and gravelly in his ear.
One (or several) more moments later, Peter tells her. "About your hair... and, um... oh God, your breasts and..."
Claire shuts him up by clamping his fingers down on his cock and pushing her mouth against his roughly, practically dueling his tongue with hers. "Mm mn," she murmurs, brushing the tip of her nose with his as she shakes her head. "What am I doing?"
What is she doing?
She's straddling him and her shirt is off (though sadly not her bra but he's working on that one, okay? Just give him a minute to be able to think and he'll have it off her in like five seconds... okay, ten, same difference) and her soft, little hands are gripping his cock in a death grip and she's whispering to him and he just might not make it to the part where one of them's on top and he's buried inside of her.
Oh. Wait. Not what she meant.
He draws in a harsh, shaky breath, staring at the line on the top of her bra, mesmerized by the way her breasts move with every breath that she takes. "You, um... pretty much do what you're doing."
Her head cocks to the side. "Is that all?"
"Not all the time."
Claire loosens her grip on him a little, and runs her fingers along him slowly. "What do I do to you, Peter?"
"Everything," Peter confesses, tipping his head back and letting out another groan.
Her fingers still again and he actually whimpers when she does that. And then he whimpers again when she takes her fingers off him completely and places them on his shoulders, pushing him back on the bed. He has the feeling that she's going to end up being the one on top since she's scooting down his body, taking his boxers with her and grinning at him when he's lying completely bare before her.
"Claire?"
Her grin widens and she darts forward suddenly, wrapping her lips around the tip of his cock.
Oh--"Fuck," he hisses, throwing his head back against the bed. His imagination is nowhere near as good as this and he has to give his imagination some credit. It's usually really good. It came up with something that was a very good substitute but now that he has the real thing, he'll never be able to go back to generic again. He is brand name Claire until he dies.
She smiles around him, working him with her tongue and lips before taking him deeper, like she intends to swallow him whole and he thinks he might be okay with that. If she wants him, she can have him but oh God she needs to stop because he's about to--
Oh. Well. Nevermind.
Claire moans as she drinks him down, swallowing slowly like he's the last of that ridiculously good chocolate fondue that Nathan's cook makes around New Year's. He wouldn't have taken her as a swallower. She's much to spirited to just take something like that but he's so glad that he was wrong.
She cleans him off completely with several quick flicks of her tongue and then she releases him, crawling up his body and right when he thinks she's going to kiss him, she rolls off to the side, molding herself to his chest. "Peter?" she murmurs, touching her lips to his shoulder. He is never so glad about not wearing a shirt to bed then in that moment.
"Peeteerrr..." she croons, picking up her head and giving him these wide innocent doe eyes. "You haven't touched me yet."
Well, that was a little hard to do when she was sucking him off and he could barely pull together the necessary thoughts needed to breathe, let alone move his hands along her. He wants to tell her this but he finds that his mouth doesn't remember how to make words. Give him a moment (or several) and he might have something for her.
"You always touch me when I think about you."
Right.
...
What the fuck?
Peter gives her a look that's somewhere between curious and confused and shocked and she gives him a coy little smile in return. "I think about you a lot," she confesses, hardly above a whisper and he swears that he sees a blush spreading along her cheeks.
Well then. He knows exactly what has to be done now.
He rolls her onto her back, pushing one of his knees in between her legs and sliding it up, up, up until it presses against her center and she whimpers softly. He digs in a little, moves his knee in a wide circle and when she returns the movement by moving her hips, he stops and leans over to kiss her to muffle her whimper.
By the time he pulls back to give her time to draw oxygen into her lungs, she's completely naked and she has no idea how that happened exactly.
Claire smiles slowly, shifting on the bed and raising her arms above her head, exposing all of her to him and he just stares at it. He has to stare it. There's like some kind of sick fuck rule that makes him stare at her golden flesh, memorizing exactly how perfect she is. It's a little unfair that she's so perfect while he's such a sick fuck.
"What do you think about?" he asks softly.
"Everything," she whispers.
And that's exactly what he's going to give to her. He lowers his head to her breasts, letting his warm breath wash over her skin until she whimpers and squirms under him and then he gives her what she wants by placing his mouth on her nipple. His hand comes up and pinches the other one as his teeth scrape along the first and it's not long before she's gasping and arching and burying her fingers in his hair in a desperate attempt to keep him where he is.
He slides his mouth down her belly, pausing to swirl his tongue in her navel and then he goes lower, removing his knee and pushing her legs apart and there she is. In all her warm, pink and wet glory. There is Claire and he so desperately wants to taste her.
So he does.
She cries out. He moans. Her fingers find his hair again as she moves her hips and parts her legs further and she all but pushes him closer to her sex. His cock stirs, wanting in on this special place that is causing all the noise.
Peter goes back to his earlier conclusion that she wants to kill him. But, he decides, if that's the case, then he's taking her with him.
He waits until the last possible moment, right before she hits the point of no return, when she still needs more friction to get off and then he lifts his mouth and she actually growls at him. Her face is a mask of annoyance and pleasure and then it's just pleasure as he surges forward and pushes his hard-again cock into her.
They gasp each other's names as they start to move, as she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her, and kisses him. She moans quietly when she tastes herself on his lips and he bucks against her roughly and she groans and that spurs him on more and it's just a dangerous cycle that ends in a rough thrust and loud cries as they find their release at almost the same moment.
He slumps off to the side, taking her with him and smiling weakly when she presses herself against his side.
"Pinch me," Claire whispers.
"Why?"
"I want to know that I'm not dreaming again."
Peter kisses her instead of pinching her but it's a good substitute. There's no way that the feel of his lips on hers and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek and the taste of him isn't real. He pulls back a few minutes later and tips his forehead against hers before dropping his head back against the pillow.
"Peter?"
"Mmn?"
Claire strokes the side of his face, watching as he inches closer to sleep. She's not nearly as tired as he is but she has absolutely no qualms about watching him sleep for a while. "When you wake up," she starts, sliding her hand down his neck. "Can we do it again?"
"God, yes."