Fic: Ignorance is Bliss
Title: Ignorance is Bliss
Characters: Peter and Claire
Genre: Foof, PWP, Metafic
Spoilers: Speculation on Claire’s Daddy
Rating: R/NC-17 (There’s sort of sex with a consenting minor, and I say sort of because this fic addresses Claire’s bogus age.)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Heroes or any of its characters, and if I did, I’d be feeling a little sheepish about all the discrepancies concerning Claire’s age.
Summary: A foofy, smutty, little fic in which Claire and Peter discuss opening a manila envelope that contains her birth certificate and coincidentally, the identity of her biological father.
A/N: God, I can’t believe I even wrote this. It’s just a little something inspired by all the speculation and comments about Claire’s daddy and her ever-changing age, just one of those things I jotted down while taking a little break from The Queen of Hearts.
[Edit: When I said I was taking a break from TQoH, I didn't mean it was going on hiatus. The break's already over, lasted long enough for me to write this little fic and eat some cookies.]
Ignorance is Bliss
Claire was lying on the bed with Peter stretched out beside her, sheet covering their nude forms. Frowning, she fiddled with the unopened manila envelope that had just come in the mail that day. After a long, frustrating search, she’d finally been sent a copy of her birth certificate and with it, the identity of her father.
Peter stretched before turning on his side to face her, smiling down at her languidly. “Are you ever going to open it? Or do you just intend on playing with it?”
Claire traced her finger along the sealed flap. “What if it says something bad?”
Amused, he chuckled, “Like what?” reached a hand out to play with her hair.
“Like…” she trailed off, trying to think of a good example, “What if they’ve changed my age again? For all I know,” waved the envelope at him, “this little slip of paper could tell me I’m really fourteen.”
His eyes darted down to the upper slope of her breasts, soft flesh not quite covered by the sheet, and he stared, mouth going dry. “You don’t look fourteen.”
“I don’t look fifteen, either,” she countered indignantly, “but that’s what the writers are trying to pass me off as.”
Shrugging one shoulder, “What’s one year younger?” gave her a crooked grin, “I’m already going to hell for being a lecherous old man.”
Claire smiled over at him and worked a finger beneath the flap, started easing the envelope open, but then she hesitated, anxiety festering in her gut. “Maybe I don’t really want to know.”
“Of course, you want to know,” he assured, leaning in to nuzzle the side of her neck. “You’ve been looking for your real father for a while now.”
“Yeah,” she conceded, “but what if I don’t like what I find out?”
He nipped at the sensitive flesh of her neck, mouthed his way down her throat, heated breaths wafting over her skin, and he questioned huskily, “How bad could it be?”
Claire snorted, gestured a hand around wildly, “Haven’t you heard what everyone’s been saying?” His tongue trailed along her collarbone as he grunted something in the negative. “One guess is that my dad is Mr. Linderman.”
Raised an eyebrow, “Linderman?” flicked his tongue into the hollow of her throat before asking, doubtful, “You think your real father is a notorious mob boss?” His hand fisted into the sheet, pulling it down, material dragging over her nipples as he exposed her breasts.
“Maybe,” she breathed, heart rate speeding up.
Chuckling, his lips brushing against the curve of her breast, “What are the odds of that?” took a nipple between his teeth and pulled gently.
Closing her eyes at the sensation, she bit back a moan, responded defensively, “It could happen.” He laved at the little bud with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, and this time she did moan, arching into his touch, panting a little before regaining her focus, “Okay, what about Claude?”
He blew across the moistened skin of her breast, prickling her flesh, “What about Claude?” slipped his hand beneath the sheet, splaying it out across her tummy.
She huffed, “Some people think he’s my real dad.”
Peter shrugged one shoulder, “He’s an okay guy,” his hand slowly ventured lower, “Kinda on the crazy side,” fingertips tracing along her navel, lower still, brushing the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, “but I’m sure we can work through that.”
Claire tilted her hips up, urged him even lower, till his fingers slid where she wanted them, rubbing against that bundle of nerves, just a few delicious strokes before he shifted his weight over her. Nudging her thighs apart, he gently eased himself between them, her knees rising on either side of his body, soles of her feet pressed flat on the mattress.
She struggled to remember what the hell they’d been talking about, finally figuring it out and telling him grumpily, “Lots of people think my adoptive father might actually be my real one.”
His hand smoothed up along the side of her thigh, cupping her bottom, raising her hips so he could ease into her, “So you don’t get a shiny new daddy,” pushed his hips forward, sliding the rest of the way in. “You’ll live.”
Eyes widening, her arms rose above her head to grip the edge of the mattress, trembling as he grinded his hips against hers. Her breaths came out harsh and labored, as she reveled in the feel of the slow, torturous slide of his body, his chest brushing against her aching nipples. Blinking a few times, she tried to focus her thoughts; there was something really important she had to discuss with him. “What if it’s Nathan?”
So very carefully, he began sliding out of her, lips moving sensually along her throat, then a quick snap of his hips, and her eyes shot open, back arching sharply off the mattress as she cried out. He mumbled absently into the crook of her neck, “What if who’s Nathan?”
Rolling her hips into his, her fingers clenched, grip on the bed tightening, “What if my father’s Nathan.”
Peter pulled back to look down at her in horror. “Why would you even suggest a thing like that?”
She growled in frustration, “Because everyone else won’t stop suggesting it,” thrust her hips against his, demanding that he continue.
He shook his head, “Whatever,” lowered his weight back onto her, “If it’s Nathan, we’ll deal,” then slanted his mouth over hers, sucked her lower lip between his teeth, indulging in lewd kisses as he rocked into her.
“But Peter,” she panted, inner muscles clenching around him, heat coiling, her thighs squeezing against his hips as she struggled to point out, “If it is Nathan, that means the two of us are related.”
Smiling against her lips, he coaxed her hips up to meet his. “So we’ll move to one of those incest-supporting southern states.”
She let go of the mattress long enough to slap his arm. “I’m serious, Peter,” gasped when he plunged into her, filling her, “Don’t you think it’d be kind of gross to get it on with your niece?”
Peter’s hips stilled, and he raised his head, frowning down at her. “What are you trying to say?”
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, “I’m trying to say that, if you turn out to be my uncle,” she paused before finishing miserably, “I just don’t think I can have sex with you anymore.”
Peter stiffened. “No more sex?”
She shook her head sadly, “No more sex.”
His expression was appalled, voice desperate, “None at all?”
“None at all,” she confirmed.
He started panicking, “Ever?”
“Not so much as a hand job.”
Peter looked crestfallen, and his eyes darted around the room, trying to find some sign that she was kidding, that this was all a bad joke, and they finally landed on that awful manila envelope. It was staring at him, smirking up at him, taunting him with its power to ruin his sex life. Oh God. He’d never see Claire in her cheerleading uniform again, never slide his hand up under that tempting little skirt…
His face filled with determination, resolving never to let such an atrocity happen. Grabbing the envelope, he threw it into the trashcan beside the bed, and not long after, a lit match joined it, catching fire, forever incinerating all evidence of Claire’s paternity.
“There. Problem solved.”
Claire prepared to scold him for throwing away the only chance she had of learning about her father, but his lips caught hers, his tongue sliding sinfully against her own as his hips resumed pumping, his pace now frantic from almost losing her, forcefully pressing her into the mattress.
She sighed happily.
Ignorance is bliss.
Characters: Peter and Claire
Genre: Foof, PWP, Metafic
Spoilers: Speculation on Claire’s Daddy
Rating: R/NC-17 (There’s sort of sex with a consenting minor, and I say sort of because this fic addresses Claire’s bogus age.)
Disclaimer: I don’t own Heroes or any of its characters, and if I did, I’d be feeling a little sheepish about all the discrepancies concerning Claire’s age.
Summary: A foofy, smutty, little fic in which Claire and Peter discuss opening a manila envelope that contains her birth certificate and coincidentally, the identity of her biological father.
A/N: God, I can’t believe I even wrote this. It’s just a little something inspired by all the speculation and comments about Claire’s daddy and her ever-changing age, just one of those things I jotted down while taking a little break from The Queen of Hearts.
[Edit: When I said I was taking a break from TQoH, I didn't mean it was going on hiatus. The break's already over, lasted long enough for me to write this little fic and eat some cookies.]
Ignorance is Bliss
Claire was lying on the bed with Peter stretched out beside her, sheet covering their nude forms. Frowning, she fiddled with the unopened manila envelope that had just come in the mail that day. After a long, frustrating search, she’d finally been sent a copy of her birth certificate and with it, the identity of her father.
Peter stretched before turning on his side to face her, smiling down at her languidly. “Are you ever going to open it? Or do you just intend on playing with it?”
Claire traced her finger along the sealed flap. “What if it says something bad?”
Amused, he chuckled, “Like what?” reached a hand out to play with her hair.
“Like…” she trailed off, trying to think of a good example, “What if they’ve changed my age again? For all I know,” waved the envelope at him, “this little slip of paper could tell me I’m really fourteen.”
His eyes darted down to the upper slope of her breasts, soft flesh not quite covered by the sheet, and he stared, mouth going dry. “You don’t look fourteen.”
“I don’t look fifteen, either,” she countered indignantly, “but that’s what the writers are trying to pass me off as.”
Shrugging one shoulder, “What’s one year younger?” gave her a crooked grin, “I’m already going to hell for being a lecherous old man.”
Claire smiled over at him and worked a finger beneath the flap, started easing the envelope open, but then she hesitated, anxiety festering in her gut. “Maybe I don’t really want to know.”
“Of course, you want to know,” he assured, leaning in to nuzzle the side of her neck. “You’ve been looking for your real father for a while now.”
“Yeah,” she conceded, “but what if I don’t like what I find out?”
He nipped at the sensitive flesh of her neck, mouthed his way down her throat, heated breaths wafting over her skin, and he questioned huskily, “How bad could it be?”
Claire snorted, gestured a hand around wildly, “Haven’t you heard what everyone’s been saying?” His tongue trailed along her collarbone as he grunted something in the negative. “One guess is that my dad is Mr. Linderman.”
Raised an eyebrow, “Linderman?” flicked his tongue into the hollow of her throat before asking, doubtful, “You think your real father is a notorious mob boss?” His hand fisted into the sheet, pulling it down, material dragging over her nipples as he exposed her breasts.
“Maybe,” she breathed, heart rate speeding up.
Chuckling, his lips brushing against the curve of her breast, “What are the odds of that?” took a nipple between his teeth and pulled gently.
Closing her eyes at the sensation, she bit back a moan, responded defensively, “It could happen.” He laved at the little bud with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, and this time she did moan, arching into his touch, panting a little before regaining her focus, “Okay, what about Claude?”
He blew across the moistened skin of her breast, prickling her flesh, “What about Claude?” slipped his hand beneath the sheet, splaying it out across her tummy.
She huffed, “Some people think he’s my real dad.”
Peter shrugged one shoulder, “He’s an okay guy,” his hand slowly ventured lower, “Kinda on the crazy side,” fingertips tracing along her navel, lower still, brushing the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, “but I’m sure we can work through that.”
Claire tilted her hips up, urged him even lower, till his fingers slid where she wanted them, rubbing against that bundle of nerves, just a few delicious strokes before he shifted his weight over her. Nudging her thighs apart, he gently eased himself between them, her knees rising on either side of his body, soles of her feet pressed flat on the mattress.
She struggled to remember what the hell they’d been talking about, finally figuring it out and telling him grumpily, “Lots of people think my adoptive father might actually be my real one.”
His hand smoothed up along the side of her thigh, cupping her bottom, raising her hips so he could ease into her, “So you don’t get a shiny new daddy,” pushed his hips forward, sliding the rest of the way in. “You’ll live.”
Eyes widening, her arms rose above her head to grip the edge of the mattress, trembling as he grinded his hips against hers. Her breaths came out harsh and labored, as she reveled in the feel of the slow, torturous slide of his body, his chest brushing against her aching nipples. Blinking a few times, she tried to focus her thoughts; there was something really important she had to discuss with him. “What if it’s Nathan?”
So very carefully, he began sliding out of her, lips moving sensually along her throat, then a quick snap of his hips, and her eyes shot open, back arching sharply off the mattress as she cried out. He mumbled absently into the crook of her neck, “What if who’s Nathan?”
Rolling her hips into his, her fingers clenched, grip on the bed tightening, “What if my father’s Nathan.”
Peter pulled back to look down at her in horror. “Why would you even suggest a thing like that?”
She growled in frustration, “Because everyone else won’t stop suggesting it,” thrust her hips against his, demanding that he continue.
He shook his head, “Whatever,” lowered his weight back onto her, “If it’s Nathan, we’ll deal,” then slanted his mouth over hers, sucked her lower lip between his teeth, indulging in lewd kisses as he rocked into her.
“But Peter,” she panted, inner muscles clenching around him, heat coiling, her thighs squeezing against his hips as she struggled to point out, “If it is Nathan, that means the two of us are related.”
Smiling against her lips, he coaxed her hips up to meet his. “So we’ll move to one of those incest-supporting southern states.”
She let go of the mattress long enough to slap his arm. “I’m serious, Peter,” gasped when he plunged into her, filling her, “Don’t you think it’d be kind of gross to get it on with your niece?”
Peter’s hips stilled, and he raised his head, frowning down at her. “What are you trying to say?”
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, “I’m trying to say that, if you turn out to be my uncle,” she paused before finishing miserably, “I just don’t think I can have sex with you anymore.”
Peter stiffened. “No more sex?”
She shook her head sadly, “No more sex.”
His expression was appalled, voice desperate, “None at all?”
“None at all,” she confirmed.
He started panicking, “Ever?”
“Not so much as a hand job.”
Peter looked crestfallen, and his eyes darted around the room, trying to find some sign that she was kidding, that this was all a bad joke, and they finally landed on that awful manila envelope. It was staring at him, smirking up at him, taunting him with its power to ruin his sex life. Oh God. He’d never see Claire in her cheerleading uniform again, never slide his hand up under that tempting little skirt…
His face filled with determination, resolving never to let such an atrocity happen. Grabbing the envelope, he threw it into the trashcan beside the bed, and not long after, a lit match joined it, catching fire, forever incinerating all evidence of Claire’s paternity.
“There. Problem solved.”
Claire prepared to scold him for throwing away the only chance she had of learning about her father, but his lips caught hers, his tongue sliding sinfully against her own as his hips resumed pumping, his pace now frantic from almost losing her, forcefully pressing her into the mattress.
She sighed happily.
Ignorance is bliss.