*sigh* I am such a disappointment to myself...
So, here I am, wanting to write a bit of dirty nasty and horribly depressing porn, possibly for the kink meme (meme crawl!). And what comes out instead? The crackiest fluff to ever...crack. I don't know. God. For trippypeas; thanks for...encouraging this.
Title: And The Cloak, Really, Would Be Superfluous
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG. For implications.
Word Count: 500-ish.
Disclaimer: I own nothing referenced in this fic at all.
Inspired, at least in part, by this.
“No.”
“Claude…” Peter sighs and rolls his eyes. He knew this would happen.
“I’m not doin’ it, Pete,” Claude growls, with an impressive glare.
“You promised.” Even and logical and not the least bit petulant, because that never works.
Claude snorts anyway, incredulous.
“When'd I do that, then?”
“You know, when we were...” he glances around, suspicious of over-alert ears, and drops his voice to a whisper…“After we…”
“After we what, Pete?” Claude leers, watches Peter blush, faintly, and roll his eyes.
“You know what,” the young man mumbles under his breath, and Claude continues to laugh. At him. “Not that you’ll ever get what again, because…” and Peter shakes his head. Smiles winningly as he changes tact.
Leans up purposefully, hand draped around the man’s neck, his lips wet and lingering as he whispers a soft suggestion against Claude’s skin.
Claude’s grin melts from the sudden warmth of Peter against him, and he sighs as it slips away. Resists the urge to grab him around the waist and kiss him then and there, because giving into that the kind of temptation is what landed him in this situation in the first place.
“Right,” he concedes, rolling his eyes as Peter beams and darts close again to press a kiss to his cheek. “But I’m not doin’ the voices.”
“Claude, there’s no point of doing it if you’re not going to do the voices,” Peter scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just be glad I’m not gonna make you wear the hat.” And Claude resists the urge to ding his ear.
Mostly because it’d mean running after Peter as he practically waltzes back into the bedroom, and there’s two pairs of eyes suddenly watching him much more closely than he’d prefer, their owners having apparently decided that the show going on behind them was more interesting than whatever that was on the television.
Robots, Claude notices, as he gives a wan smile. Robots that apparently turn into cars, defying several laws of physics in the process but he isn’t exactly in the position to complain about that sort of thing himself, is he?
“Okay,” Peter grins, coming out of the bedroom and pressing the well-worn volume into his hands. “We’re ready.”
The television is turned off and three pairs of eyes, in varying shades of green-brown but with laughably similar expressions, are focused expectantly on him before he even manages to sit down.
Claude sighs again, long-suffering but, Peter knows, secretly pleased, and eases the book open to the first page.
Long fingers gentle, as Peter likes to think only he knows Claude can be, against white pages, tongue peaking slightly through his lips, blue eyes flickering over black text.
And then glancing back up at Peter. Winking, quickly, warmly, before Claude looks down with a slight smile, and begins to read.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”
*
Title: And The Cloak, Really, Would Be Superfluous
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Plaude
Rating: PG. For implications.
Word Count: 500-ish.
Disclaimer: I own nothing referenced in this fic at all.
Inspired, at least in part, by this.
“No.”
“Claude…” Peter sighs and rolls his eyes. He knew this would happen.
“I’m not doin’ it, Pete,” Claude growls, with an impressive glare.
“You promised.” Even and logical and not the least bit petulant, because that never works.
Claude snorts anyway, incredulous.
“When'd I do that, then?”
“You know, when we were...” he glances around, suspicious of over-alert ears, and drops his voice to a whisper…“After we…”
“After we what, Pete?” Claude leers, watches Peter blush, faintly, and roll his eyes.
“You know what,” the young man mumbles under his breath, and Claude continues to laugh. At him. “Not that you’ll ever get what again, because…” and Peter shakes his head. Smiles winningly as he changes tact.
Leans up purposefully, hand draped around the man’s neck, his lips wet and lingering as he whispers a soft suggestion against Claude’s skin.
Claude’s grin melts from the sudden warmth of Peter against him, and he sighs as it slips away. Resists the urge to grab him around the waist and kiss him then and there, because giving into that the kind of temptation is what landed him in this situation in the first place.
“Right,” he concedes, rolling his eyes as Peter beams and darts close again to press a kiss to his cheek. “But I’m not doin’ the voices.”
“Claude, there’s no point of doing it if you’re not going to do the voices,” Peter scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just be glad I’m not gonna make you wear the hat.” And Claude resists the urge to ding his ear.
Mostly because it’d mean running after Peter as he practically waltzes back into the bedroom, and there’s two pairs of eyes suddenly watching him much more closely than he’d prefer, their owners having apparently decided that the show going on behind them was more interesting than whatever that was on the television.
Robots, Claude notices, as he gives a wan smile. Robots that apparently turn into cars, defying several laws of physics in the process but he isn’t exactly in the position to complain about that sort of thing himself, is he?
“Okay,” Peter grins, coming out of the bedroom and pressing the well-worn volume into his hands. “We’re ready.”
The television is turned off and three pairs of eyes, in varying shades of green-brown but with laughably similar expressions, are focused expectantly on him before he even manages to sit down.
Claude sighs again, long-suffering but, Peter knows, secretly pleased, and eases the book open to the first page.
Long fingers gentle, as Peter likes to think only he knows Claude can be, against white pages, tongue peaking slightly through his lips, blue eyes flickering over black text.
And then glancing back up at Peter. Winking, quickly, warmly, before Claude looks down with a slight smile, and begins to read.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”
*