Written for the Italian P0rn Fest on LJ. The prompt was 'Claire/Peter, Have you ever had sex?', so I guess I haven't to specify that they're related and she's underage. It's set during the last episodes of season I, after Peter asks Claire to shoot him. Hope you'll like it!
Liar
Vodka tastes horribly, it's bitter and enough to make her throw up all she has eaten in the last two days – not so much, to tell the truth. Maybe it was strawberry vodka or something like that what she had enjoyed at a party, and not pure vodka. Claire snorts. As if the taste mattered something. She didn't find a stronger liquor than that in the sideboard of the Petrellis, and she doesn't want to do anything but dull her senses. Turn off the brain and be able to try to accept that infernal situation, or at least cohabit with it.
The night breeze tickles her face, ruffling her loose hair. She pours another glass and swallows. Another grimace of disgust. Her legs begins to tremble, and maybe this is good… maybe she will collapse and not wake up for the next three, four, a hundred days. You bet.
She closes the eyes and leans with the hands to the balustrade of the balcony, breathing deeply.
"You're ready?"
He's there, by her side, worried for her. And everything seems like a farce. "Don't waste your breath"
Peter looks at the small table and shakes his head, without under standing. "You… drank?!"
"What d'you want to do, say it to my father?" awfully impudent.
The boy covers his face with a hand, without knowing where to look. "What are you trying to do, can you just tell me…?"
Claire bursts out laughing, hysterical and rambling. "But what the hell does it matters to you…?"
"Nothing, you're right" even Peter has leaned to the balustrade, now. And his face is something that goes over resignation. It almost seems as if he's smiling.
Claire lowers the eyes when she feels a tear running down her cheek. Against them alcohol can't do anything. "If I weren't there… who would you ask it to?"
Peter's face is expressionless when he stretches an arm to caress her air. "I'll make you a coffee"
Claire turns towards him when he's nearly arrived at the door. "Have you ever had sex?"
He flares up like a teenager, he wishes to have misunderstood but something tells him that he hasn't. "You totally need a…"
"… I'm not drunk, Peter"
He moves a step towards her, his eyes in hers. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because otherwise I will never do it"
The boy open his arms and rolls the eyes. "Yes. And now?"
Claire swallows a lump. He's terribly near, and terribly adult. And terribly breathtaking. And it's all his fault, he has to pay the consequences. "If I ask you something that you wouldn't like to hear… can you promise me that we're going to pretend it never happened?"
Peter scrapes a temple, shaking the head. He wish he could ask her what fucking language she's speaking, and remind her that he's not in the right mood to listen to the mental disorders of a sixteen years old girl. That nobody would, if he were at his place. He would also like to stop looking at her in that way. But it's been her to enter his life and challenge his rule with such arrogance, she has to pay the consequences.
"Can I kiss you?" and Claire isn't ashamed, not now that she has said it aloud, not now that there is alcohol to make her feel more confident.
Everything falls down. Every rule, right or wrong, that Peter has ever known. It all falls down when he takes her face in his hands and kisses her lips with strength, almost violence. She tastes like alcohol and insecurity, but it's a dangerously good flavor. That takes him to make his hands run along her back and pull her closer, making him feel relieved when her hands make their way in his too grown hair – maybe it's not so wrong if we both want it.
Peter knows that it is his body and not his heart to lead him when he lets himself falling on the chair behind him and drags Claire to sit astride him, but he also knows that it is the heart to want her as close as possible.
He takes off the t-shirt urgently, throwing it on the ground and smiling at the spasmodic way she's biting her lip. He opens her shirt tearing away nearly all the buttons, before making it slide along her shoulders, then he unlocks her bra and takes it off.
He hears her holding her breath and sees her closing the eyes when he covers both her breasts with the hands, before raising them around her neck and pulling her against him to kiss her again.
Two tongues gone mad that fight irreverently, the muscles of Peter's chest that rub with insistence against her breasts, pushing them when one's arms make their way along the other's back.
Claire shivers and all she wants is shivering harder, she loves him and would like to find the courage to shout him 'I hate you'. She kisses his chest angrily, her hands locked around his wrists. Peter's breath is every second noisier and more irregular.
The girl lifts her head to kiss his lips and mask a moan when she feels Peter's erection becoming insistent, and a part of her knows that if she was sober terror would paralyze her, or maybe would have already done it much earlier.
Peter's hands are quick when they unbutton his black trousers, lowering the zip with a sharp move. He raises the eyes and points them violently into hers. "Have you ever done it?"
Tears are misting her eyes, so she winks them and throws out a "… yes" tremulous, and yet defiant. And she couldn't explain either to herself why.
Peter sighs and unbutton his jeans, freeing the erection that now pulses with life, for her.
It must hurt so much. Claire tries to look away and starts when she feels Peter's hand lowering her zip, just the strictly necessary to have access to her entry. He would like to undress her from every fucking cloth and only God knows how much – and how much he has tried to deny it, fighting like a madman - but it's like also the stars that fills the night sky of New York would make him jealous. Nobody in that moment must be allowed to see her like he does, because nobody would understand anything.
He lifts her hips and places her better above him, letting his member make its way inside her.
Claire gasps, the burning is terribly strong. And Peter feels something breaking at the rhythm of his pitiless thrust.
"Liar" he hisses between his teeth, taking her face in his hands. "Liar…"
Claire doesn't oppose resistance to his hungry lips, a second later his hands are back on her hips and she lets him moving her as a doll. She opens the mouth a bit more when Peter's tongue becomes insistent. And even if she hasn't kissed him before that fool night, inside her she knows that this isn't him, as this is not her.
What both don't know, is that they're themselves more than they've ever been.
Claire starts moving in her turn, senselessly happy. Hers is an anguished smile when, driven by the movements of Peter's tongue she pushes a breast between his lips.
It was this, the secret to pretend that nothing is happening, to revel in the illusion that tomorrow may never come, that there is at least one corner on earth where the universe is not that lame.
She groans when Peter's hands seep in her trousers and take her by the buttocks, pulling her closer against him, and she locks a fist around his wet hair. Maybe it is a joke of destiny, but right in that moment she reminds that under her fingers there is the point from where she extracted that enormous splinter of glass in what seems to be another life.
And then she feels like chocking because they're all craps, the universe is lame even on that balcony, even under those fucking stars.
She deepens the face in Peter's neck and pulls his hair, she scratches his back and bites the sweaty flesh. And she cries, Claire, because she doesn't want. She doesn't want to shoot him, she doesn't want to be the person she is, she doesn't want him to be her uncle. And there is no one who cares.
A hand caresses her back, soft and slow, and a sob escapes from her lips, shaking her shoulders. She doesn't know how it's happening, but she finds her forehead pressed against Peter's.
She would like not to think about how much his sweaty hair covering graceless his eyes render him so beautiful that it hurts, but she knows that no one would care either about this.
She intertwines the fingers of both hands with Peter's, while their bodies are shaken by the orgasm. The open mouths are pressed one against the other, without even the strength to kiss.
Those light eyes so brutally reddened are a stab to Peter's heart, and not a wounds of the ones which regenerate. He uses the last and poor energies still in his body to wipe the tears with his lips, stopping when he arrives at a corner of Claire's mouth.
"Stay by my side tomorrow"
And Claire wishes to slap his face. "Fuck you, Peter…"