ugly love
Title: Ugly Love
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17 (for language, sex, and canon incest)
Status: 1/1, Complete
Word Count: around 4500
Summary: "He’s told her that he loved her before - in the company of family who expect it and see it as nothing more than a familial obligation. But he’s never told her for real. He’s never told her with his eyes on hers."
my eternal gratitude to mutinousmuse, who has restored my faith in the concept of betas :) thank you, so much!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
-----
He’s told her that he loved her before - in the company of family who expect it and see it as nothing more than a familial obligation. But he’s never told her for real. He’s never told her with his eyes on hers.
Goddamn it and goddamn him.
He ignores her at her other family’s dinner on Friday.
Maybe ignore is the wrong word. He overlooks her like she’s a child, cuts her off if she tries to speak to him, doesn’t let her participate in the grown up conversation. It’s like she’s sitting at the kid’s table again at Thanksgiving.
He’s pretending that none of it happened and that makes her madder than anything.
He thinks because he didn't technically fuck her that it’s all back to normal. Or as normal as it ever got between them.
She knows better.
-----
One week earlier
-----
She’d wanted him since the first day she saw him. The day she ‘accidentally’ bumped into him in the large, empty hall. It had been the first time she’d ever used the bump and greet, something that she usually thought was low class and desperate. But she did it that day. That’s how much she’d wanted him on first sight.
Everything she learned after was a minor detail. It really all sounded pretty dirty when she thought about it considering the situation, but she didn't care anymore, was long past the whole issue. It wasn’t going to stop her, as far as she was concerned.
She was tired of not getting what she wanted.
There’s also the fact that he wants her too. She didn’t know how she knew, could never explain her complete certainty of that fact. Because he sure as hell has never said anything to her about it.
So noble, is what her dad says. A truly good person who looks out for everyone, is what her other father says. He’s so kind and selfless, is what both families say. He’s really welcomed her into her new life. They think it’s adorable, that their little friendship is just too cute.
He fucks her with his eyes when he thinks she’s not looking.
She’d never doubted that he wants her. She’s just tired of waiting for him to act on it.
It had been an okay night so far. Standard Friday ritual. She came over to his apartment with a DVD. He let her in. They ordered a pizza, ate M&M’s, and talked on the couch.
They drank some wine. She leaned her head on his leg while they watched two pretty actors make love. He seemed uncomfortable but he didn't say anything, didn't nudge her head away. A year ago that would have satisfied her. She would’ve called that a successful night.
Not anymore. She was tired of waiting, tired of scheming and playing coy. She wanted him, all of him, and she was going to have him. And this stupid hang up, this…reluctance on his part was the last barrier, the last thing that was preventing her from having him completely.
She knew it might not be easy. She had to talk a good man into doing something that’s (supposedly) against the law, nature, and his better judgment. And he was really putting up a hell of a fight.
She’d long ago given up coaxing him with her gestures and dark looks, because he just pretended not to get it and looked away. She’d graduated to full on physical assault. Anything she could think of to get him to lose control.
He never did though, and it was irritating.
She couldn’t count how many times she ‘happened to’ fall asleep on him, how many times she’d sat on his lap when there was clearly an empty chair. She even let him ‘accidentally’ walk in on her while she was changing once.
She’d tried every seduction technique she could think of, and he still kept his hands off her.
But not this Friday. She vowed to herself that it was going to be different tonight. She wore a short, flippy skirt on purpose and after the movie finished, she decided it was time.
She curled her fists when he went to the bathroom. She slipped her shoes off before she locked his front door. And she turned all the lights off because it would probably be easier for him that way.
She felt shaky and a little bit giddy because it was really happening and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to throw up or scream or tear all her clothes off.
A lot of thoughts crossed her brain as she walked slowly to the hallway outside of his bathroom.
Changing her mind was not one of them.
There was no way in hell she was losing her nerve about this. A year ago she would have died at the thought of seducing someone. But she’d been psyching herself up for this. Failure was not an option.
She waited for him in the hallway, shifted into the shadows. She tried not to think of the way a cat shimmies before it pounces.
It’s not like she was the queen of experience. She’d had some, mostly awkward grappling on couches or in cars. But after that she got it, got what all the fuss was about. She’d had a taste - a few short, unsatisfying ones that were just practice, weren’t real, didn’t count.
Now she wanted to taste what it would be like with him. With him it was going to be very, very real.
She’d had plenty of time to think about what she was doing. She’d weighed the consequences and implications carefully, and had decided that she just doesn’t give a shit. She’d long ago accepted that this wasn’t a pretty kind of love, and that’s okay.
There is no way in hell that they weren’t meant to be together, to fit together. It’s going to work. He doesn’t have to touch her for her to know that. It's going to work and it’s going to be fabulous, and she knows she’s never going to forget it and he hasn’t even put his hands on her yet.
Not in that way at least.
He gets her hot enough just by being in the same vicinity. Just by the way their gaze vibrates across a room.
She’s tired of trying to decipher the way he looks at her, deep and inscrutable.
She’s tired of wondering what he looks like without any clothes on.
She’s tired of touching herself and pretending it’s him.
She’s tired of thinking about what he’ll feel like inside of her.
It was time for the real thing, and if she had to make the first move, then so be it.
The sound of a door opening pierced her thoughts, and every muscle in her body instantly went rigid.
The light in the bathroom flipped off, and he stumbled a little as he walked into the pitch-black hallway.
He blinked, and braced himself against the wall with one slim hand.
Her eyes had already adjusted to the dark, already zeroed in on their target.
“Who killed the lights?” He spoke pleasantly, and for a minute she felt a little guilty because the poor guy had no clue what was about to happen.
She took a quick breath for courage, and then she pushed him flush against the wall.
“Hey-” She swallowed his protest, his surprised little gasp, with her lips.
There was a quick game of push and pull before he wrenched her away from his body and spoke incredulously. “What are you doing?”
When she’d imagined this in her mind, this was always the part where she got scared, where she came closest to losing her nerve. But she didn’t feel scared at all now, just eager to get his lips back on hers. Their quick kiss had done nothing but convince her further that she’d made the right decision.
“I’m doing what I want to do,” she said.
She shoved herself against him, her breasts rubbing against his chest. She kissed him again, slowly running the tip of her tongue on the inside of his bottom lip.
He turned his head, breaking her hold on his mouth. But not quickly enough, not fast enough for her to miss the fact that he had pressed his lips against hers.
That small return of pressure was a victory - a small but important one.
Still, she half-expected him to push her away again, to fold her arms over her chest and tell her thanks but no.
But he didn't, and she made the most of it. She wasn't as tall as him, but she pulled his face down, tipped his head over hers.
She kissed him this time in a way that felt hot and dangerous to her, leading with her tongue, boldly pushing into his mouth. She pressed the back of his head eagerly with her hand. He tasted like wine and chocolate.
“Stop it,” he said in a strangled sort of voice, and he seemed to be gasping for breath.
“Make me,” she muttered through her lips and onto his.
His hands were cupped her elbows, like he was getting ready to pull her away. When the wrenching never came, she only got braver, and swayed her hips into his. It felt something like triumph when she felt him harden against her stomach.
She was winning. It was happening.
He was wearing a pair of loose cotton slacks. She’d been careful to study their layout during the movie, and she deftly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.
“Don’t,” he said, though he made no move to stop her.
“Why?”
“This is sick,” he said shakily.
“So?” She sighed softly, and she felt his hands tighten on her arms.
“Don’t you care?” he asked incredulously.
“Don’t you?” she said sarcastically, as she slipped her hand into his boxers.
He never answered, just moaned and dropped his head back against the wall with a thud.
Her fingers slid over him, at first slow and lingering, and his moans grew louder.
She whispered softly in his ear, words meant to encourage him as she stroked faster and faster.
When her hand increased its rhythm, he started mumbling words back at her, very dirty ones that she had never heard come out of his mouth.
She bit gently at his neck, and she could feel his tendons straining. She sucked at the delicate skin just above his collarbone, and practically purred with pleasure when she felt his arms come around her back and his fingers grasp her butt.
“Are you ready?” she whispered.
“Oh, God…” he croaked.
She hopped onto his waist, and he barely had time to catch her thighs.
“I’m ready for you to fuck me,” she muttered into his ear, and she heard his pants slide down his legs.
“We can’t. It’s wrong.” He spoke again in that awful, choking voice.
“Shut up,” she said, as she slid over him leisurely. She was biting the bottom of her lip, pearls clenched into soft crimson. She could feel him, hard and pressing, and so damned hot.
This time his lips moved over hers, and she moaned with pleasure. His fingers dug into her thighs, and he slid his hands under her skirt. He ran his hands up her flesh, which made her gasp and seemed to only spur him on.
He was losing control, and the thought thrilled her, the knowledge that she had inspired the frantic clutching of his hands, that he was murmuring her name and breathing heavily for her was incredible.
He grasped her tighter against his chest and they seemed to be turning, rolling along the hallway until he had her pressed up against the wall.
He was so much more than the boys she had messed around with. He just felt older, better - his skin felt different, more rugged than the soft flesh of the boys her age. The scratch of his stubble on her neck was foreign feeling, but not unpleasant.
His fingers fumbled past the thin fabric of her underpants, tugging them forcefully down her hips. She raised one delicate ankle as he pulled them off, and he wasted no time in reaching between her legs.
Her breath hitched, and his mouth returned to hers.
Her last entirely cognizant thought was the realization that she was playing in deep, deep water. And that it felt very, very good.
Now all of her careful planning, her deliberate movements and game plan were gone, because he was stroking her and it was better, so much better than she’d ever imagined it could be.
He hit a spot that made her feel frantic and wild, and she squirmed underneath him but, thank God, he never took his hand away.
She made an odd little grunting sound when she came, and she probably would have been embarrassed if she hadn’t been nearly unconscious. It was fast and fierce and a tiny bit mind-blowing.
His hand remained, even though she was spent and trembling. She looked for his expression but it was too dark. He softly kissed her and she wondered why he wasn't inside of her already.
When she began to ask, his hand started moving again and he didn’t take it away until he made her come again, her eyes pinched shut. The feeling that shook up and through her was ferocious, grabbing her harder and more intense than any stupid orgasm that she had ever given herself.
When she opened her eyes she was lying flat on her back in the hallway, and he was above her, kneeling between her legs.
The moonlight from the window slanted over her body, and she could finally see his face. Some small part of her was glad that he was just as out of sort, just as sweaty and shaken as she was.
She parted her legs a little, inviting and ready.
But he wasn't moving now as he crouched over her, his arms on either side of her.
“What?” she asked.
He didn't say anything, and rocked back onto his knees. Wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
She propped herself up by the elbows. “What are you waiting for?”
He stood up abruptly and his eyes darted over her body with something like panic in them.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”
He crunched his features together, and then he was gone.
-----
She waited for him, like a moron. Waited for him to come back, to say he’d been stupid and wrong and to just fucking come back and finish what he started.
But he didn't, and it was morning.
So she took the train back to her house. Her parents don’t get worried if she doesn’t come home on the weekends, because she sometimes decided to stay with her other father, if she got stuck in the city and it was too late for a train.
She gave this excuse when she got back. They accepted it and didn't ask questions. Her father read the paper. Her mother whispered to the little dog. Her brother played his DS. She ate blueberry pancakes. MySpace. Jogging suit and her weekly chores. Bullshit.
She went to school that week and was so mad that she mouthed off in Trig class and got detention for the whole week, only adding to her bad mood.
And when she had dinner with her other family that weekend, she couldn’t believe that he sat there across from her, like nothing had happened. For one crazy minute she wanted to confront him, in front of all of them, but the minute passed and she was glad that it did.
He didn't even have the decency to look her in the eyes at dinner. Every time she lifted her eyes to his face, his gaze shifted elsewhere.
She’d cry if she weren’t so pissed off at him. Goddamn it and goddamn him.
She mulled it over during dinner, right through the lemon curd and cake. Her biggest (only?) mistake that she could see was the wine. The alcohol was a rationalization. She knew it and she knew that he knew it too.
The alcohol only gave him an excuse to do what he wanted, or tried to do, at least. He’d never have done it without an excuse. And now he was probably trying to write it all off as a crazy drunken episode, one that’ll never happen again because he won’t let it.
Drunk, her ass. Sure, they’d downed the better part of a bottle of merlot (which she hated to drink in the first place). But she hadn’t been drunk, hadn’t even been buzzed. And if she hadn’t, then surely he, who was bigger and had a way higher tolerance anyway, hadn’t been drunk either.
She stayed late and watched a movie with her brothers after dinner. He didn't leave, but was careful to stay in a room where there were other people the entire time. Probably so she couldn’t corner him. As if that’d stop her at this point.
She made all the right comments and laughed in all the right parts of the movie, but her mind was far from the cartoon characters on the screen.
Finally it was late enough that the family was heading to bed. They offered her the room that she sometimes used but she declined loudly enough for him to hear. She kissed her other father goodnight, even went so far as to open the front door and slam it loudly behind her.
She leaned against the iron railing on the porch. It was moments like this that she wished she smoked or something. Instead she idly watched the minutes pass on her phone, ten, twenty, thirty, and gave herself an internal pep talk.
She unlocked the door quietly as she snuck back into the house.
She had left her coat in the closet as an excuse (a good and valid one). She quietly pulled it out of the closet and draped it over her arm. Just in case.
The lights were off in the foyer, and she tiptoed up the stairs. She had a pretty good idea where he would be hiding and it was a joke, this hiding and stalking and…denial, really, is all it was. Ridiculous. She was putting an end to it tonight.
The room she stayed in when she was here was small, just a bed and a fireplace, but she liked cozy rooms. The light was on, and she slowly pushed the door open.
He was lying on the bed, his arms crossed over his face.
“Hi,” she said, tossing her coat to the floor.
He didn't startle, didn't seem surprised that she was there.
“Go. Home.” He spoke in a terrible, furious tone that took her aback.
“No,” she said, and crossed to the bed.
He sighed, and it wasn’t a kind sound. It was frustrated and annoyed. “Go away, now,” he said in that same pissed off voice. He lifted his arms off of his face, but didn't look at her.
“And I said no.”
His arms jerked back onto the mattress, and he launched off of the bed. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
She didn't say anything, but she felt all that good courage that she’d been working up on the front porch start to drain out of her.
He leaned his arms onto the mantle of the fireplace, and faced away from her.
She started toward him.
His arm lifted up, and she felt herself pushed onto the bed. She didn't say anything, but she couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that he’d used his powers on her, that he’d pushed her.
Not that it hurt, not that she even could be hurt, or that it was a very hard push in the first place, but he was always so patient and kind and she’d never, ever seen him push anyone.
“You know what? You want it so bad? You can’t stand it? Fine. I’m tired of saying no,” he said, and he started to unbutton his shirt.
“Good,” she said, a little tremulously, trying to sound more confident than she felt at the moment.
“Good, huh?” He asked mockingly as he kicked his shoes off. “Yeah. Right. You don’t even care if I hate you or myself for it, do you?” He slipped his shirt off, threw it hard at the chair in the corner.
She wanted to protest, tell him he was wrong or something, but the way he spoke it was like…like he really hated her at the moment. And he still wouldn’t fucking look her in the face.
“It only matters what you want. Screw what anybody else wants, right?” He jerked his belt open and through his belt loops, still facing away from her.
She wanted it all right, but the bitterness in his voice was frightening her. “Stop it. You make it sound so ugly.”
“It is.” He bit out the words harshly, and she cringed.
“But this is what you wanted. You think it’s okay for your uncle to give you an orgasm. So let’s go.” His harsh words echoed in her ears and she was sure she was blushing - not in a good way.
He finally turned around to face her, and she couldn’t bear to look at him, she felt so ashamed. He was standing there in just his pants, his hands raised on either side. “I give up, okay? You win. Here I am.”
She pulled her feet up under her and concentrated on her toes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
He spoke to her sarcastically. “You sure knew what to do in my apartment last week.”
Last weekend, a million years ago, and she suddenly knew how stupid she’d been, was being. She didn't want it like this.
Not with his face looking like that, when she snuck a peek through her lashes. Dark and angry and accusing.
He crawled onto the bed and straddled her. Nearly tore the buttons off of her shirt when he pulled it off of her. He yanked her jeans down and there wasn’t anything good or nice about this, not at all. But she didn't stop him because at least this was something, and she was so tired of having nothing at all.
He stood up and unbuttoned his pants.
She laid back on the bed, where she saw the ceiling with no boy in front of it and she wanted to giggle or cry because she was thinking of England, and God, this wasn't right. It was…mechanical, lonely, and cold.
He returned completely nude, and pulled her up by the torso. His hands didn't linger over her skin, didn't caress her in the way that she’d hoped they would. He hadn’t even kissed her, and as soon as she realised that, her eyes burned a little and she thought she really might cry.
At the moment she resigned to it, to this…to it being this way, she lifted her arms to help him undo her bra. She wrapped her arms around his neck loosely, just because there was nowhere else to put them.
He finally unhooked her bra. When he pulled away from her a little, she didn't let go.
His eyes finally met hers with something like an electric shock, one that made her want to slap her forehead for being so dumb last week. It wasn't any easier in the dark. It couldn’t ever happen in the dark.
He had put up a great fight, struggled against her in any way, every way he could. She understood that. But he couldn’t deny it, deny her when he looked at her, really looked.
There was only truth in those long moments of staring between them, had been that way from the beginning, and what she saw in his eyes right now made her want to cry with relief.
She didn't know how long they sat there and watched each other, but it was awhile. It might have been minutes or days. But the next thing that happened involved his mouth on hers and she never knew, not ever, who kissed who first.
Maybe neither of them did, and they’d already been kissing the whole time, because that’s what it felt like.
His arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other running down her spine. His forehead tipped against hers, and his eyes, no longer dark and unreadable, were warm and liquid and looking at her with a promise behind them, one that she hoped she was answering with her own.
Their kiss was slow, and deep, and she pulled him closer to her, pulled him down and over her. The heat from his body joined her own, and her legs parted to hold him, to cuddle him, to settle him deeper.
It was more than sex. This was going to be more than sex.
He expelled the air in his lungs, blew it over her body softly. Then he kissed her stomach, her ribs, her breasts. His hands grasped her shoulders, and wound around her. He whispered all sorts of things to her, sliding the words down her neck, following the trail of his lips.
His hands ran up and down her torso, caressed her breasts, tangled in her hair, and she couldn’t help smiling. It felt like there were sparks in his fingers, and they lingered in her every curve.
This was how she wanted it.
She wanted to apologize, to tell him ‘sorry’. He knew what for. But when she tried to he kissed it away, and told her not to worry anymore. He looked at her deeply and said that it was all okay, and that he loved her, God, he loved her more than anything in the world and he made a hitching noise in the back of his throat as he entered her.
It had been awhile since she first bumped into him in the wide, empty hallway. This moment, this one right here, was the one that she’d wanted since then. Wanted it for the both of them.
He started moving over her, his eyes never leaving hers.
She thought of all those times, the millions of little ones that had passed between them, quiet and soft but not unnoticed.
The way he looked at her in the car.
He wrapped his arms around her legs.
The way he tucked his arm around her shoulders.
The rhythm increased and she dug her fingers into the pillow.
And always, always, what happened when their eyes caught and swear to God that it crackled and she wasn’t sure if she loved or hated the way that it burned her.
She was close, so close now. Whenever she winced with pleasure, he rubbed his palm over her forehead, and she remembered not to close her eyes, that he wanted her to look at him. He hadn’t told her. She just knew.
When she came all she saw was the same recognition of ecstasy reflected in his warm gaze. He watched hungrily as her face contorted and she tried to be quiet because they were still in her other father’s house and they’d really have to find a better place to do this in the future.
Because she certainly didn't intend on stopping. Not now. Not ever.
His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he grabbed her legs tighter as he continued to pump into her body.
If he ever did want to stop, she was pretty sure that she could talk him out of it.
His eyes widened and he looked heavenward for the briefest moment before he bit back a cry. His chest was heaving as he cupped her face with one hand and looked at her. She felt him shudder deep inside her.
She smiled at him, that coy little half-smirk that she knew he liked. He smiled gently in return and he lowered his body onto hers, spent and sated.
She wrapped her arms around him, and whispered what she wanted to tell him. He curled his arms around her, and whispered back.
-----
This isn’t the kind of thing that they write songs about.
This isn’t the kind of thing you talk to your friends about.
It’s dirty and ugly and wrong and they both know it.
But it’s real and it lasts.
A/N: *points at mutinousmuse*. this is all her fault. she let me sneak a peek at her upcoming fic ‘Marked’ and it is naughty and intense and fabulous and you guys are going to love it when you read it. anyway, it made me want to write my own naughty and intense piece, hope you liked it :)
Author: missaliceblue
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: NC-17 (for language, sex, and canon incest)
Status: 1/1, Complete
Word Count: around 4500
Summary: "He’s told her that he loved her before - in the company of family who expect it and see it as nothing more than a familial obligation. But he’s never told her for real. He’s never told her with his eyes on hers."
my eternal gratitude to mutinousmuse, who has restored my faith in the concept of betas :) thank you, so much!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
-----
He’s told her that he loved her before - in the company of family who expect it and see it as nothing more than a familial obligation. But he’s never told her for real. He’s never told her with his eyes on hers.
Goddamn it and goddamn him.
He ignores her at her other family’s dinner on Friday.
Maybe ignore is the wrong word. He overlooks her like she’s a child, cuts her off if she tries to speak to him, doesn’t let her participate in the grown up conversation. It’s like she’s sitting at the kid’s table again at Thanksgiving.
He’s pretending that none of it happened and that makes her madder than anything.
He thinks because he didn't technically fuck her that it’s all back to normal. Or as normal as it ever got between them.
She knows better.
-----
One week earlier
-----
She’d wanted him since the first day she saw him. The day she ‘accidentally’ bumped into him in the large, empty hall. It had been the first time she’d ever used the bump and greet, something that she usually thought was low class and desperate. But she did it that day. That’s how much she’d wanted him on first sight.
Everything she learned after was a minor detail. It really all sounded pretty dirty when she thought about it considering the situation, but she didn't care anymore, was long past the whole issue. It wasn’t going to stop her, as far as she was concerned.
She was tired of not getting what she wanted.
There’s also the fact that he wants her too. She didn’t know how she knew, could never explain her complete certainty of that fact. Because he sure as hell has never said anything to her about it.
So noble, is what her dad says. A truly good person who looks out for everyone, is what her other father says. He’s so kind and selfless, is what both families say. He’s really welcomed her into her new life. They think it’s adorable, that their little friendship is just too cute.
He fucks her with his eyes when he thinks she’s not looking.
She’d never doubted that he wants her. She’s just tired of waiting for him to act on it.
It had been an okay night so far. Standard Friday ritual. She came over to his apartment with a DVD. He let her in. They ordered a pizza, ate M&M’s, and talked on the couch.
They drank some wine. She leaned her head on his leg while they watched two pretty actors make love. He seemed uncomfortable but he didn't say anything, didn't nudge her head away. A year ago that would have satisfied her. She would’ve called that a successful night.
Not anymore. She was tired of waiting, tired of scheming and playing coy. She wanted him, all of him, and she was going to have him. And this stupid hang up, this…reluctance on his part was the last barrier, the last thing that was preventing her from having him completely.
She knew it might not be easy. She had to talk a good man into doing something that’s (supposedly) against the law, nature, and his better judgment. And he was really putting up a hell of a fight.
She’d long ago given up coaxing him with her gestures and dark looks, because he just pretended not to get it and looked away. She’d graduated to full on physical assault. Anything she could think of to get him to lose control.
He never did though, and it was irritating.
She couldn’t count how many times she ‘happened to’ fall asleep on him, how many times she’d sat on his lap when there was clearly an empty chair. She even let him ‘accidentally’ walk in on her while she was changing once.
She’d tried every seduction technique she could think of, and he still kept his hands off her.
But not this Friday. She vowed to herself that it was going to be different tonight. She wore a short, flippy skirt on purpose and after the movie finished, she decided it was time.
She curled her fists when he went to the bathroom. She slipped her shoes off before she locked his front door. And she turned all the lights off because it would probably be easier for him that way.
She felt shaky and a little bit giddy because it was really happening and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to throw up or scream or tear all her clothes off.
A lot of thoughts crossed her brain as she walked slowly to the hallway outside of his bathroom.
Changing her mind was not one of them.
There was no way in hell she was losing her nerve about this. A year ago she would have died at the thought of seducing someone. But she’d been psyching herself up for this. Failure was not an option.
She waited for him in the hallway, shifted into the shadows. She tried not to think of the way a cat shimmies before it pounces.
It’s not like she was the queen of experience. She’d had some, mostly awkward grappling on couches or in cars. But after that she got it, got what all the fuss was about. She’d had a taste - a few short, unsatisfying ones that were just practice, weren’t real, didn’t count.
Now she wanted to taste what it would be like with him. With him it was going to be very, very real.
She’d had plenty of time to think about what she was doing. She’d weighed the consequences and implications carefully, and had decided that she just doesn’t give a shit. She’d long ago accepted that this wasn’t a pretty kind of love, and that’s okay.
There is no way in hell that they weren’t meant to be together, to fit together. It’s going to work. He doesn’t have to touch her for her to know that. It's going to work and it’s going to be fabulous, and she knows she’s never going to forget it and he hasn’t even put his hands on her yet.
Not in that way at least.
He gets her hot enough just by being in the same vicinity. Just by the way their gaze vibrates across a room.
She’s tired of trying to decipher the way he looks at her, deep and inscrutable.
She’s tired of wondering what he looks like without any clothes on.
She’s tired of touching herself and pretending it’s him.
She’s tired of thinking about what he’ll feel like inside of her.
It was time for the real thing, and if she had to make the first move, then so be it.
The sound of a door opening pierced her thoughts, and every muscle in her body instantly went rigid.
The light in the bathroom flipped off, and he stumbled a little as he walked into the pitch-black hallway.
He blinked, and braced himself against the wall with one slim hand.
Her eyes had already adjusted to the dark, already zeroed in on their target.
“Who killed the lights?” He spoke pleasantly, and for a minute she felt a little guilty because the poor guy had no clue what was about to happen.
She took a quick breath for courage, and then she pushed him flush against the wall.
“Hey-” She swallowed his protest, his surprised little gasp, with her lips.
There was a quick game of push and pull before he wrenched her away from his body and spoke incredulously. “What are you doing?”
When she’d imagined this in her mind, this was always the part where she got scared, where she came closest to losing her nerve. But she didn’t feel scared at all now, just eager to get his lips back on hers. Their quick kiss had done nothing but convince her further that she’d made the right decision.
“I’m doing what I want to do,” she said.
She shoved herself against him, her breasts rubbing against his chest. She kissed him again, slowly running the tip of her tongue on the inside of his bottom lip.
He turned his head, breaking her hold on his mouth. But not quickly enough, not fast enough for her to miss the fact that he had pressed his lips against hers.
That small return of pressure was a victory - a small but important one.
Still, she half-expected him to push her away again, to fold her arms over her chest and tell her thanks but no.
But he didn't, and she made the most of it. She wasn't as tall as him, but she pulled his face down, tipped his head over hers.
She kissed him this time in a way that felt hot and dangerous to her, leading with her tongue, boldly pushing into his mouth. She pressed the back of his head eagerly with her hand. He tasted like wine and chocolate.
“Stop it,” he said in a strangled sort of voice, and he seemed to be gasping for breath.
“Make me,” she muttered through her lips and onto his.
His hands were cupped her elbows, like he was getting ready to pull her away. When the wrenching never came, she only got braver, and swayed her hips into his. It felt something like triumph when she felt him harden against her stomach.
She was winning. It was happening.
He was wearing a pair of loose cotton slacks. She’d been careful to study their layout during the movie, and she deftly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.
“Don’t,” he said, though he made no move to stop her.
“Why?”
“This is sick,” he said shakily.
“So?” She sighed softly, and she felt his hands tighten on her arms.
“Don’t you care?” he asked incredulously.
“Don’t you?” she said sarcastically, as she slipped her hand into his boxers.
He never answered, just moaned and dropped his head back against the wall with a thud.
Her fingers slid over him, at first slow and lingering, and his moans grew louder.
She whispered softly in his ear, words meant to encourage him as she stroked faster and faster.
When her hand increased its rhythm, he started mumbling words back at her, very dirty ones that she had never heard come out of his mouth.
She bit gently at his neck, and she could feel his tendons straining. She sucked at the delicate skin just above his collarbone, and practically purred with pleasure when she felt his arms come around her back and his fingers grasp her butt.
“Are you ready?” she whispered.
“Oh, God…” he croaked.
She hopped onto his waist, and he barely had time to catch her thighs.
“I’m ready for you to fuck me,” she muttered into his ear, and she heard his pants slide down his legs.
“We can’t. It’s wrong.” He spoke again in that awful, choking voice.
“Shut up,” she said, as she slid over him leisurely. She was biting the bottom of her lip, pearls clenched into soft crimson. She could feel him, hard and pressing, and so damned hot.
This time his lips moved over hers, and she moaned with pleasure. His fingers dug into her thighs, and he slid his hands under her skirt. He ran his hands up her flesh, which made her gasp and seemed to only spur him on.
He was losing control, and the thought thrilled her, the knowledge that she had inspired the frantic clutching of his hands, that he was murmuring her name and breathing heavily for her was incredible.
He grasped her tighter against his chest and they seemed to be turning, rolling along the hallway until he had her pressed up against the wall.
He was so much more than the boys she had messed around with. He just felt older, better - his skin felt different, more rugged than the soft flesh of the boys her age. The scratch of his stubble on her neck was foreign feeling, but not unpleasant.
His fingers fumbled past the thin fabric of her underpants, tugging them forcefully down her hips. She raised one delicate ankle as he pulled them off, and he wasted no time in reaching between her legs.
Her breath hitched, and his mouth returned to hers.
Her last entirely cognizant thought was the realization that she was playing in deep, deep water. And that it felt very, very good.
Now all of her careful planning, her deliberate movements and game plan were gone, because he was stroking her and it was better, so much better than she’d ever imagined it could be.
He hit a spot that made her feel frantic and wild, and she squirmed underneath him but, thank God, he never took his hand away.
She made an odd little grunting sound when she came, and she probably would have been embarrassed if she hadn’t been nearly unconscious. It was fast and fierce and a tiny bit mind-blowing.
His hand remained, even though she was spent and trembling. She looked for his expression but it was too dark. He softly kissed her and she wondered why he wasn't inside of her already.
When she began to ask, his hand started moving again and he didn’t take it away until he made her come again, her eyes pinched shut. The feeling that shook up and through her was ferocious, grabbing her harder and more intense than any stupid orgasm that she had ever given herself.
When she opened her eyes she was lying flat on her back in the hallway, and he was above her, kneeling between her legs.
The moonlight from the window slanted over her body, and she could finally see his face. Some small part of her was glad that he was just as out of sort, just as sweaty and shaken as she was.
She parted her legs a little, inviting and ready.
But he wasn't moving now as he crouched over her, his arms on either side of her.
“What?” she asked.
He didn't say anything, and rocked back onto his knees. Wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
She propped herself up by the elbows. “What are you waiting for?”
He stood up abruptly and his eyes darted over her body with something like panic in them.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”
He crunched his features together, and then he was gone.
-----
She waited for him, like a moron. Waited for him to come back, to say he’d been stupid and wrong and to just fucking come back and finish what he started.
But he didn't, and it was morning.
So she took the train back to her house. Her parents don’t get worried if she doesn’t come home on the weekends, because she sometimes decided to stay with her other father, if she got stuck in the city and it was too late for a train.
She gave this excuse when she got back. They accepted it and didn't ask questions. Her father read the paper. Her mother whispered to the little dog. Her brother played his DS. She ate blueberry pancakes. MySpace. Jogging suit and her weekly chores. Bullshit.
She went to school that week and was so mad that she mouthed off in Trig class and got detention for the whole week, only adding to her bad mood.
And when she had dinner with her other family that weekend, she couldn’t believe that he sat there across from her, like nothing had happened. For one crazy minute she wanted to confront him, in front of all of them, but the minute passed and she was glad that it did.
He didn't even have the decency to look her in the eyes at dinner. Every time she lifted her eyes to his face, his gaze shifted elsewhere.
She’d cry if she weren’t so pissed off at him. Goddamn it and goddamn him.
She mulled it over during dinner, right through the lemon curd and cake. Her biggest (only?) mistake that she could see was the wine. The alcohol was a rationalization. She knew it and she knew that he knew it too.
The alcohol only gave him an excuse to do what he wanted, or tried to do, at least. He’d never have done it without an excuse. And now he was probably trying to write it all off as a crazy drunken episode, one that’ll never happen again because he won’t let it.
Drunk, her ass. Sure, they’d downed the better part of a bottle of merlot (which she hated to drink in the first place). But she hadn’t been drunk, hadn’t even been buzzed. And if she hadn’t, then surely he, who was bigger and had a way higher tolerance anyway, hadn’t been drunk either.
She stayed late and watched a movie with her brothers after dinner. He didn't leave, but was careful to stay in a room where there were other people the entire time. Probably so she couldn’t corner him. As if that’d stop her at this point.
She made all the right comments and laughed in all the right parts of the movie, but her mind was far from the cartoon characters on the screen.
Finally it was late enough that the family was heading to bed. They offered her the room that she sometimes used but she declined loudly enough for him to hear. She kissed her other father goodnight, even went so far as to open the front door and slam it loudly behind her.
She leaned against the iron railing on the porch. It was moments like this that she wished she smoked or something. Instead she idly watched the minutes pass on her phone, ten, twenty, thirty, and gave herself an internal pep talk.
She unlocked the door quietly as she snuck back into the house.
She had left her coat in the closet as an excuse (a good and valid one). She quietly pulled it out of the closet and draped it over her arm. Just in case.
The lights were off in the foyer, and she tiptoed up the stairs. She had a pretty good idea where he would be hiding and it was a joke, this hiding and stalking and…denial, really, is all it was. Ridiculous. She was putting an end to it tonight.
The room she stayed in when she was here was small, just a bed and a fireplace, but she liked cozy rooms. The light was on, and she slowly pushed the door open.
He was lying on the bed, his arms crossed over his face.
“Hi,” she said, tossing her coat to the floor.
He didn't startle, didn't seem surprised that she was there.
“Go. Home.” He spoke in a terrible, furious tone that took her aback.
“No,” she said, and crossed to the bed.
He sighed, and it wasn’t a kind sound. It was frustrated and annoyed. “Go away, now,” he said in that same pissed off voice. He lifted his arms off of his face, but didn't look at her.
“And I said no.”
His arms jerked back onto the mattress, and he launched off of the bed. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
She didn't say anything, but she felt all that good courage that she’d been working up on the front porch start to drain out of her.
He leaned his arms onto the mantle of the fireplace, and faced away from her.
She started toward him.
His arm lifted up, and she felt herself pushed onto the bed. She didn't say anything, but she couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that he’d used his powers on her, that he’d pushed her.
Not that it hurt, not that she even could be hurt, or that it was a very hard push in the first place, but he was always so patient and kind and she’d never, ever seen him push anyone.
“You know what? You want it so bad? You can’t stand it? Fine. I’m tired of saying no,” he said, and he started to unbutton his shirt.
“Good,” she said, a little tremulously, trying to sound more confident than she felt at the moment.
“Good, huh?” He asked mockingly as he kicked his shoes off. “Yeah. Right. You don’t even care if I hate you or myself for it, do you?” He slipped his shirt off, threw it hard at the chair in the corner.
She wanted to protest, tell him he was wrong or something, but the way he spoke it was like…like he really hated her at the moment. And he still wouldn’t fucking look her in the face.
“It only matters what you want. Screw what anybody else wants, right?” He jerked his belt open and through his belt loops, still facing away from her.
She wanted it all right, but the bitterness in his voice was frightening her. “Stop it. You make it sound so ugly.”
“It is.” He bit out the words harshly, and she cringed.
“But this is what you wanted. You think it’s okay for your uncle to give you an orgasm. So let’s go.” His harsh words echoed in her ears and she was sure she was blushing - not in a good way.
He finally turned around to face her, and she couldn’t bear to look at him, she felt so ashamed. He was standing there in just his pants, his hands raised on either side. “I give up, okay? You win. Here I am.”
She pulled her feet up under her and concentrated on her toes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
He spoke to her sarcastically. “You sure knew what to do in my apartment last week.”
Last weekend, a million years ago, and she suddenly knew how stupid she’d been, was being. She didn't want it like this.
Not with his face looking like that, when she snuck a peek through her lashes. Dark and angry and accusing.
He crawled onto the bed and straddled her. Nearly tore the buttons off of her shirt when he pulled it off of her. He yanked her jeans down and there wasn’t anything good or nice about this, not at all. But she didn't stop him because at least this was something, and she was so tired of having nothing at all.
He stood up and unbuttoned his pants.
She laid back on the bed, where she saw the ceiling with no boy in front of it and she wanted to giggle or cry because she was thinking of England, and God, this wasn't right. It was…mechanical, lonely, and cold.
He returned completely nude, and pulled her up by the torso. His hands didn't linger over her skin, didn't caress her in the way that she’d hoped they would. He hadn’t even kissed her, and as soon as she realised that, her eyes burned a little and she thought she really might cry.
At the moment she resigned to it, to this…to it being this way, she lifted her arms to help him undo her bra. She wrapped her arms around his neck loosely, just because there was nowhere else to put them.
He finally unhooked her bra. When he pulled away from her a little, she didn't let go.
His eyes finally met hers with something like an electric shock, one that made her want to slap her forehead for being so dumb last week. It wasn't any easier in the dark. It couldn’t ever happen in the dark.
He had put up a great fight, struggled against her in any way, every way he could. She understood that. But he couldn’t deny it, deny her when he looked at her, really looked.
There was only truth in those long moments of staring between them, had been that way from the beginning, and what she saw in his eyes right now made her want to cry with relief.
She didn't know how long they sat there and watched each other, but it was awhile. It might have been minutes or days. But the next thing that happened involved his mouth on hers and she never knew, not ever, who kissed who first.
Maybe neither of them did, and they’d already been kissing the whole time, because that’s what it felt like.
His arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other running down her spine. His forehead tipped against hers, and his eyes, no longer dark and unreadable, were warm and liquid and looking at her with a promise behind them, one that she hoped she was answering with her own.
Their kiss was slow, and deep, and she pulled him closer to her, pulled him down and over her. The heat from his body joined her own, and her legs parted to hold him, to cuddle him, to settle him deeper.
It was more than sex. This was going to be more than sex.
He expelled the air in his lungs, blew it over her body softly. Then he kissed her stomach, her ribs, her breasts. His hands grasped her shoulders, and wound around her. He whispered all sorts of things to her, sliding the words down her neck, following the trail of his lips.
His hands ran up and down her torso, caressed her breasts, tangled in her hair, and she couldn’t help smiling. It felt like there were sparks in his fingers, and they lingered in her every curve.
This was how she wanted it.
She wanted to apologize, to tell him ‘sorry’. He knew what for. But when she tried to he kissed it away, and told her not to worry anymore. He looked at her deeply and said that it was all okay, and that he loved her, God, he loved her more than anything in the world and he made a hitching noise in the back of his throat as he entered her.
It had been awhile since she first bumped into him in the wide, empty hallway. This moment, this one right here, was the one that she’d wanted since then. Wanted it for the both of them.
He started moving over her, his eyes never leaving hers.
She thought of all those times, the millions of little ones that had passed between them, quiet and soft but not unnoticed.
The way he looked at her in the car.
He wrapped his arms around her legs.
The way he tucked his arm around her shoulders.
The rhythm increased and she dug her fingers into the pillow.
And always, always, what happened when their eyes caught and swear to God that it crackled and she wasn’t sure if she loved or hated the way that it burned her.
She was close, so close now. Whenever she winced with pleasure, he rubbed his palm over her forehead, and she remembered not to close her eyes, that he wanted her to look at him. He hadn’t told her. She just knew.
When she came all she saw was the same recognition of ecstasy reflected in his warm gaze. He watched hungrily as her face contorted and she tried to be quiet because they were still in her other father’s house and they’d really have to find a better place to do this in the future.
Because she certainly didn't intend on stopping. Not now. Not ever.
His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he grabbed her legs tighter as he continued to pump into her body.
If he ever did want to stop, she was pretty sure that she could talk him out of it.
His eyes widened and he looked heavenward for the briefest moment before he bit back a cry. His chest was heaving as he cupped her face with one hand and looked at her. She felt him shudder deep inside her.
She smiled at him, that coy little half-smirk that she knew he liked. He smiled gently in return and he lowered his body onto hers, spent and sated.
She wrapped her arms around him, and whispered what she wanted to tell him. He curled his arms around her, and whispered back.
-----
This isn’t the kind of thing that they write songs about.
This isn’t the kind of thing you talk to your friends about.
It’s dirty and ugly and wrong and they both know it.
But it’s real and it lasts.
A/N: *points at mutinousmuse*. this is all her fault. she let me sneak a peek at her upcoming fic ‘Marked’ and it is naughty and intense and fabulous and you guys are going to love it when you read it. anyway, it made me want to write my own naughty and intense piece, hope you liked it :)