Summertime
Title: Summertime
Pairing/character: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Summary: Fairly PWP-ish, established relationship smut that takes place, in my mind, way past season 2 (not that that really matters), after Claude returns and they all live happily ever after. Yes, this is total fluffy wish-fulfillment smut.
Disclaimer:: As per usual, no, not mine at all.
A/N: Well it's...done. I'd forgotten how much I hate trying to write Claude's POV. Damn snarky English people.
The window unit had sputtered its dying breath earlier that morning, waking them both to the undisputed if sarcastically declared glory of New York City summer, and even Peter, die-hard optimism with technopathic leanings, had declared it a lost cause.
Everything had its time and place, after all.
The sluggish sound of traffic barely squeezed through the windows, flung opened as they had been, in an attempt to welcome even the slightest breeze, the barest hint of coming autumn, but the air itself was too hot to move.
It was only the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen, a ridiculously wide-eyed black cat with a pendulum tail, a pernicious reminder of his failure to wean Peter off his need to surround himself with the garish and the unwanted, (a trait he had more than enough reason to be thankful for, to be sure, but nonetheless…), managed to convince Claude that time was passing at all.
That, and the grating, grinding stutter of the oscillating fan as its head reached the end of its path before beginning it again.
It wasn’t enough to convince him that he wasn’t stuck in some sort of time loop Peter was managing to generate in his sleep, though.
But Peter was quiet, peaceful in a way he hadn’t been…privileged to see before (not that he would’ve phrased it like that to anyone else, and didn’t have trouble even admitting it to himself), and if it took a state of immutable, heavy heat to grant him that moment, he supposed he’d have to settle for it.
For a loop of watching Peter, shirtless and flushed, tangled in sheets that might’ve felt cool and fresh the night before but had not manage to retain their crispness through the body heat and the glare of the summer sun since then.
Mouth barely open, soft breaths without panicked mumblings and whimpers, no indications of immanent rude awakenings, a spot of quiet and peace that didn’t go amiss, and Claude couldn’t help but be glad for it.
The light seemed to glowed warmer and dark eyelashes fluttered, then Peter smiled, and time began again.
“Hey,” the young man yawned. Stretched, just barely, as if any movement at all through the thick air was exhausting, and kept smiling, slightly teasing this time. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“Not much else to do,” He gave as much of a shrug as he could, and smiled back. It was disturbingly easy to do. “Bit dull, though. Think you could add droolin’ to your repertoire? Might’ve been more interesting.”
“You love it,” Peter murmured drowsily and nuzzled against his crumpled pillow, eyes looking about ready to flutter shut again. “Makes you feel all protective or…something…”
“Me? Protective?” he laughed, and Peter gave him another sleepy smile. “’m not the one with all the powers, Pete. Anyone around here’s going to go protecting it’d have to be you, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, I’ll…I will…” Peter yawned, turning on his side, body tensing for a moment, anticipating wakefulness, before relaxing again as he reached out a hand.
“Just about doomed, aren’t I?” Claude grinned. “Sad, really. Was pretty much gettin’ used to this, the good life, but it seems my protector’s not quite up to the task, is he?”
Peter huffed loudly at him, as if offended, and his hand slapped lightly against Claude’s chest.
But it was with a grin, and a look, and the subtle shift closer that Claude had come to recognize and found none too subtle at all.
“’s too hot, Pete,” he sighed, bringing his hand over the one still pressed to his chest, and rolling his eyes as Peter’s fingers curled around his.
“That would kind of be the point,” Peter said, biting maddeningly at his lower lip, and bringing their tangled hands closer. Pressed an open mouthed kiss to Claude’s wrist and smiled again. “Come on…”
“No,” but already he could feel his resolve breaking. Perhaps melting would’ve been a better term, with Peter inching closer and the slightly tepid air blown their way by the struggling fan.
Peter raised an eyebrow and pouted, gave an overly-dramatic sigh Claude knew better than to laugh at, before rolling over onto his back.
“Claude?” he heard, after a moment, and glanced to his left.
“Yeah?”
“What time is it?”
“Dunno, mate,” and he wasn’t terribly eager to turn and look. Later than they should be in bed, doubtlessly.
Peter chuckled and rolled over again, dark eyes suddenly very innocent, as he shifted closer.
And then was leaning over him, fumbling with the alarm clock that had made its way to his bedside table only by virtue of it being more useful there, out of reach of individuals much too enamored of the snooze button.
Claude rolled his eyes and tried to take a breath, as Peter stretched over him, not touching, of course, but his radiated heat almost a physical presence against Claude’s chest.
A completely unapologetic, “Sorry,” burbling from crookedly smiling lips and another quiet laugh as Claude sighed, the scent of sweat and hair falling across his face as Peter turned his head.
Made a great show of glancing at the clock and shifting, one knee falling, completely accidentally, between Claude’s legs as he went to steady himself.
Looked down at him, brown eyes shifting between gold and green, and grinned, as Claude did his best to appear unaffected.
“Check that out,” Peter murmured, quieter than he needed to be, but Claude refused to lean closer. “Eleven-thirty already.”
“Mm,” he said, letting a hand fall to the young man’s waist, linger there as long as it could, before the sun-warmed skin of Peter’s back and the suddenly hazy look in his eyes drove him to distraction. “’Bout time for lunch, then,” he grinned, because he couldn’t go around encouraging this sort of thing, and pushed him off.
Onto the bed, of course; he wasn’t that much of a bastard, no matter what Peter might think.
Or say, under his breath, as he flopped back against suddenly much too warm sheets.
And that was enough to make Claude grin and follow, settle easily above him, hands in Peter’s hair and knees straddling his waist.
“You were sayin’?” he leaned down, the air between them warm enough to make his lungs ache, but hovering there for a moment.
“Control freak,” Peter was laughing, and Claude could feel him arching up, chest rubbing against his, legs falling further apart as warm fingers slipped under his shirt.
“Teenager.”
“You wish,” and Peter didn’t seem to want to continue the conversation, if the mouth suddenly lunging against his own was any indication, and that was hardly disappointing in the least.
The light scrape of teeth against his lower lip and then a tongue pressing against his, desperately grasping fingers seemingly torn between digging into his back and pulling his shirt off altogether, and hips that were bucking up against him with enough force to make him worry about actually being thrown off, and Claude couldn’t help but laugh.
The sound seemed to make Peter squirm, head falling back for a moment as he blinked up, gasping, fingers scrambling to get Claude’s shirt off, as if it were suddenly the most important mission in the world and, for once, it happened to be one Claude would agree with.
“Fine,” Claude said, pulling back for a moment to slip it over his head, and trying not to look too surprised as Peter pulled him back down again, an arm around his waist, a hand sliding through his hair, lips parted, and still Claude couldn’t help himself. “Not my fault if you get heatstroke.”
Peter half-laughed, half-gasped, and he leaned down to catch the sound.
He tried his best not to get lost in it, the mingling of hot breaths and slide of slick skin as they rocked against each other, Peter’s legs around his waist trying to bring him closer, closer than they ever could be, before he had to pull away.
“What?” Peter gasped at him, flushed and panting and breathless, not that Claude was feeling any more stable, especially considering what he was looking at. “What?”
Which is why he just glanced further down, let his fingers slide casually along the waistband of Peter’s light cotton shorts, and smirked at Peter’s, “Oh. Yeah.”
And the legs around his waist fell back, and he rolled off, letting Peter squirm out of what clothes he had left as he tried to do the same.
Then Peter was kissing him again, teeth clacking against his, fingers digging into Claude’s arm as he pulled him closer.
“Now,” Peter started mumbling, head falling back, as Claude slid on top of him and kissed down his neck, following the heavy breathes that had the young man’s chest pressing against his, almost searing his skin. “Now, now, now, Claude, you-“
“Now, then?” he managed a grin, let his hand slide lower. Nipped lightly at a collar-bone, even as he knew it wouldn’t leave a trace and couldn’t help gasping as Peter arched up against him. “Not…” he breathed, against impossibly hot skin, was almost surprised it didn’t end up steam. “Tomorrow or…next week or…” Peter laughed, amidst desperate little choking sounds Claude couldn’t help loving, as his fingers slipped in, and Peter began thrusting up against him. “Or an hour from-“
“No,” Peter said, serious and quiet, brown eyes shinning practically gold. “Now,” a deep breath and a small smile, a hand coming up to stroke at Claude’s hair, and whispered, almost as an afterthought, “Please.”
“Right, then,” he smiled back, kissing Peter as he slid inside, slow, steady as he squirmed, those desperate little sounds of his vibrating against Claude, his hips snapping up to meet every thrust.
Peter came first, with eyes shut and mouth open to one last, quiet gasp; pulsing warm and wet against Claude’s stomach.
And he did his best to wait, to let Peter recover, before moving again, but there were hot breaths and a gasping mouth against his neck, and arms draped around his neck, and hazy murmurs of “Claude,” and “Love you”, and it wasn’t long before it all became too much and he was gone, too.
Lost to anything but the fingers carding through his hair and stroking at his back, the soft, peaceful breathes against his skin, the impossible warmth of Peter that was bordering on unpleasant again.
But not enough to move, he told himself; not now, not just yet.
Not till he could move again, roll off slowly, try and catch his breath, a goal made all the more difficult by Peter curling up next to him, body hot and loose and a little too desperate to drape over him.
Uncomfortably so, really.
And he should’ve pushed him away, talked him into a shower, into going out to purchase a means of air conditioning that did more than just push hot air around, into anything but falling asleep on his shoulder, but by the time Claude could manage speech, it was much too late.
Peter was asleep, and it was past noon, and he had nothing much to do but wait for him to wake up again.
*
Pairing/character: Peter/Claude
Rating: R
Summary: Fairly PWP-ish, established relationship smut that takes place, in my mind, way past season 2 (not that that really matters), after Claude returns and they all live happily ever after. Yes, this is total fluffy wish-fulfillment smut.
Disclaimer:: As per usual, no, not mine at all.
A/N: Well it's...done. I'd forgotten how much I hate trying to write Claude's POV. Damn snarky English people.
The window unit had sputtered its dying breath earlier that morning, waking them both to the undisputed if sarcastically declared glory of New York City summer, and even Peter, die-hard optimism with technopathic leanings, had declared it a lost cause.
Everything had its time and place, after all.
The sluggish sound of traffic barely squeezed through the windows, flung opened as they had been, in an attempt to welcome even the slightest breeze, the barest hint of coming autumn, but the air itself was too hot to move.
It was only the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen, a ridiculously wide-eyed black cat with a pendulum tail, a pernicious reminder of his failure to wean Peter off his need to surround himself with the garish and the unwanted, (a trait he had more than enough reason to be thankful for, to be sure, but nonetheless…), managed to convince Claude that time was passing at all.
That, and the grating, grinding stutter of the oscillating fan as its head reached the end of its path before beginning it again.
It wasn’t enough to convince him that he wasn’t stuck in some sort of time loop Peter was managing to generate in his sleep, though.
But Peter was quiet, peaceful in a way he hadn’t been…privileged to see before (not that he would’ve phrased it like that to anyone else, and didn’t have trouble even admitting it to himself), and if it took a state of immutable, heavy heat to grant him that moment, he supposed he’d have to settle for it.
For a loop of watching Peter, shirtless and flushed, tangled in sheets that might’ve felt cool and fresh the night before but had not manage to retain their crispness through the body heat and the glare of the summer sun since then.
Mouth barely open, soft breaths without panicked mumblings and whimpers, no indications of immanent rude awakenings, a spot of quiet and peace that didn’t go amiss, and Claude couldn’t help but be glad for it.
The light seemed to glowed warmer and dark eyelashes fluttered, then Peter smiled, and time began again.
“Hey,” the young man yawned. Stretched, just barely, as if any movement at all through the thick air was exhausting, and kept smiling, slightly teasing this time. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“Not much else to do,” He gave as much of a shrug as he could, and smiled back. It was disturbingly easy to do. “Bit dull, though. Think you could add droolin’ to your repertoire? Might’ve been more interesting.”
“You love it,” Peter murmured drowsily and nuzzled against his crumpled pillow, eyes looking about ready to flutter shut again. “Makes you feel all protective or…something…”
“Me? Protective?” he laughed, and Peter gave him another sleepy smile. “’m not the one with all the powers, Pete. Anyone around here’s going to go protecting it’d have to be you, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, I’ll…I will…” Peter yawned, turning on his side, body tensing for a moment, anticipating wakefulness, before relaxing again as he reached out a hand.
“Just about doomed, aren’t I?” Claude grinned. “Sad, really. Was pretty much gettin’ used to this, the good life, but it seems my protector’s not quite up to the task, is he?”
Peter huffed loudly at him, as if offended, and his hand slapped lightly against Claude’s chest.
But it was with a grin, and a look, and the subtle shift closer that Claude had come to recognize and found none too subtle at all.
“’s too hot, Pete,” he sighed, bringing his hand over the one still pressed to his chest, and rolling his eyes as Peter’s fingers curled around his.
“That would kind of be the point,” Peter said, biting maddeningly at his lower lip, and bringing their tangled hands closer. Pressed an open mouthed kiss to Claude’s wrist and smiled again. “Come on…”
“No,” but already he could feel his resolve breaking. Perhaps melting would’ve been a better term, with Peter inching closer and the slightly tepid air blown their way by the struggling fan.
Peter raised an eyebrow and pouted, gave an overly-dramatic sigh Claude knew better than to laugh at, before rolling over onto his back.
“Claude?” he heard, after a moment, and glanced to his left.
“Yeah?”
“What time is it?”
“Dunno, mate,” and he wasn’t terribly eager to turn and look. Later than they should be in bed, doubtlessly.
Peter chuckled and rolled over again, dark eyes suddenly very innocent, as he shifted closer.
And then was leaning over him, fumbling with the alarm clock that had made its way to his bedside table only by virtue of it being more useful there, out of reach of individuals much too enamored of the snooze button.
Claude rolled his eyes and tried to take a breath, as Peter stretched over him, not touching, of course, but his radiated heat almost a physical presence against Claude’s chest.
A completely unapologetic, “Sorry,” burbling from crookedly smiling lips and another quiet laugh as Claude sighed, the scent of sweat and hair falling across his face as Peter turned his head.
Made a great show of glancing at the clock and shifting, one knee falling, completely accidentally, between Claude’s legs as he went to steady himself.
Looked down at him, brown eyes shifting between gold and green, and grinned, as Claude did his best to appear unaffected.
“Check that out,” Peter murmured, quieter than he needed to be, but Claude refused to lean closer. “Eleven-thirty already.”
“Mm,” he said, letting a hand fall to the young man’s waist, linger there as long as it could, before the sun-warmed skin of Peter’s back and the suddenly hazy look in his eyes drove him to distraction. “’Bout time for lunch, then,” he grinned, because he couldn’t go around encouraging this sort of thing, and pushed him off.
Onto the bed, of course; he wasn’t that much of a bastard, no matter what Peter might think.
Or say, under his breath, as he flopped back against suddenly much too warm sheets.
And that was enough to make Claude grin and follow, settle easily above him, hands in Peter’s hair and knees straddling his waist.
“You were sayin’?” he leaned down, the air between them warm enough to make his lungs ache, but hovering there for a moment.
“Control freak,” Peter was laughing, and Claude could feel him arching up, chest rubbing against his, legs falling further apart as warm fingers slipped under his shirt.
“Teenager.”
“You wish,” and Peter didn’t seem to want to continue the conversation, if the mouth suddenly lunging against his own was any indication, and that was hardly disappointing in the least.
The light scrape of teeth against his lower lip and then a tongue pressing against his, desperately grasping fingers seemingly torn between digging into his back and pulling his shirt off altogether, and hips that were bucking up against him with enough force to make him worry about actually being thrown off, and Claude couldn’t help but laugh.
The sound seemed to make Peter squirm, head falling back for a moment as he blinked up, gasping, fingers scrambling to get Claude’s shirt off, as if it were suddenly the most important mission in the world and, for once, it happened to be one Claude would agree with.
“Fine,” Claude said, pulling back for a moment to slip it over his head, and trying not to look too surprised as Peter pulled him back down again, an arm around his waist, a hand sliding through his hair, lips parted, and still Claude couldn’t help himself. “Not my fault if you get heatstroke.”
Peter half-laughed, half-gasped, and he leaned down to catch the sound.
He tried his best not to get lost in it, the mingling of hot breaths and slide of slick skin as they rocked against each other, Peter’s legs around his waist trying to bring him closer, closer than they ever could be, before he had to pull away.
“What?” Peter gasped at him, flushed and panting and breathless, not that Claude was feeling any more stable, especially considering what he was looking at. “What?”
Which is why he just glanced further down, let his fingers slide casually along the waistband of Peter’s light cotton shorts, and smirked at Peter’s, “Oh. Yeah.”
And the legs around his waist fell back, and he rolled off, letting Peter squirm out of what clothes he had left as he tried to do the same.
Then Peter was kissing him again, teeth clacking against his, fingers digging into Claude’s arm as he pulled him closer.
“Now,” Peter started mumbling, head falling back, as Claude slid on top of him and kissed down his neck, following the heavy breathes that had the young man’s chest pressing against his, almost searing his skin. “Now, now, now, Claude, you-“
“Now, then?” he managed a grin, let his hand slide lower. Nipped lightly at a collar-bone, even as he knew it wouldn’t leave a trace and couldn’t help gasping as Peter arched up against him. “Not…” he breathed, against impossibly hot skin, was almost surprised it didn’t end up steam. “Tomorrow or…next week or…” Peter laughed, amidst desperate little choking sounds Claude couldn’t help loving, as his fingers slipped in, and Peter began thrusting up against him. “Or an hour from-“
“No,” Peter said, serious and quiet, brown eyes shinning practically gold. “Now,” a deep breath and a small smile, a hand coming up to stroke at Claude’s hair, and whispered, almost as an afterthought, “Please.”
“Right, then,” he smiled back, kissing Peter as he slid inside, slow, steady as he squirmed, those desperate little sounds of his vibrating against Claude, his hips snapping up to meet every thrust.
Peter came first, with eyes shut and mouth open to one last, quiet gasp; pulsing warm and wet against Claude’s stomach.
And he did his best to wait, to let Peter recover, before moving again, but there were hot breaths and a gasping mouth against his neck, and arms draped around his neck, and hazy murmurs of “Claude,” and “Love you”, and it wasn’t long before it all became too much and he was gone, too.
Lost to anything but the fingers carding through his hair and stroking at his back, the soft, peaceful breathes against his skin, the impossible warmth of Peter that was bordering on unpleasant again.
But not enough to move, he told himself; not now, not just yet.
Not till he could move again, roll off slowly, try and catch his breath, a goal made all the more difficult by Peter curling up next to him, body hot and loose and a little too desperate to drape over him.
Uncomfortably so, really.
And he should’ve pushed him away, talked him into a shower, into going out to purchase a means of air conditioning that did more than just push hot air around, into anything but falling asleep on his shoulder, but by the time Claude could manage speech, it was much too late.
Peter was asleep, and it was past noon, and he had nothing much to do but wait for him to wake up again.
*