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Well, this is not the fic I wanted to post today, but I need another draft before I can pronounce it decent, so I give you this one instead. It's a rambly little thing that wasn't really going anywhere for a while and I think it shows, but what the hell. I also get the feeling that I've seen this ending somewhere, but I just wanted to finish it.
Title: Slow Morning
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: Peter and Claude dozing in bed.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Claude scrunched up his eyes against the unwelcome burst of sunlight. Who forgot to shut the curtains? Well, he couldn’t be bothered to get up and fix them.
“Pete?”
“Mm?”
“Could you shut those curtains? Can’t sleep.”
“You do it.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“No excuse.”
“Pete.”
Frustrated sigh.
“Fine.”
The curtains creaked, blissfully concealing most of the pestering rays, then rocketed across the room, smacking against the opposite wall with a loud metallic clang. Ah, bugger.
“Crap.”
“Apology not accepted,” Claude mumbled as he rolled over on the bed, burying his face in the pillow as he tugged the blanket over their heads.
“Can’t breathe.”
“Course you can. Just open your mouth and say, ‘ah’”
Peter pressed against his back, draping an arm over his waist.
“You don’t inhale when you say, ‘ah’.”
“Sure you do. At the start.”
“Mm.”
....
“Pete?”
A hand slid over his mouth. He pushed it off.
“Quiet. Sleeping.”
“Okay.”
||||
“Ow!”
“May I suggest looking where you’re going?” Claude said
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me I was late for work?”
Claude glanced up from his very comfortable perch on the bed at Peter, who was scrambling around the room like a hummingbird on acid, desperately yanking random pieces of clothing on his body.
“I tried to. You couldn’t be bothered.”
“You said my name once! That doesn’t count as trying. Oh, shit, it’s 9:40. I’m so dead.”
“Socks,” Claude said as Peter starting toeing a shoe on.
“Oh, right.”
Sharp rattle as the drawer flew open, scattering socks all over the room like soggy lumps of confetti.
“Am I going to have to beat that control into you again?”
“I’m in a hurry, okay? I’ll pick them up later.”
He pulled the socks on whilst standing, doing a funny one legged hop that almost tipped him over into the closet. Claude suspected that only telekinesis kept him upright.
“You know, you’d be much more effective with that if you sat down,” he said.
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You’re an hour late. I don’t think an extra minute is going to matter.”
“Please be quiet, Claude.”
“Oi, don’t take it out on me.”
“I’m not—Where the hell’s my wallet?”
Peter crouched down on the floor, rummaging around, backside in the air. Claude propped himself on his elbow, enjoying the view. He could take him just like this, on his knees and elbows, lovely curve of his back arched against his palms. Food for thought.
“Ah ha!”
Peter brandished the wallet above his head as he stood up, stuffing it in his left trouser pocket.
“Now jacket.” He pulled on the specified garment. “Keys.” They jingled for a moment before disappearing into the opposite pocket. “Bag. Bag, bag, bag.”
“Do you need to rattle off every item out loud?”
“Yes. Shush.”
Slinging the bag’s strap over his head so that it crisscrossed his torso, Peter rushed through the door, turning his head at the last moment to call out, “Bye” then off he went.
Claude stared at the door, then glanced at the window, frowning at the pesky sun glaring through. Maybe he should head off to the couch. It was comfortable enough, if a bit squeaky. Getting up, he headed off to the living room, but not before adjusting the date on the bedside clock.
I wonder how long it’ll take Peter to realize it’s Sunday.
Title: Slow Morning
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: Peter and Claude dozing in bed.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Claude scrunched up his eyes against the unwelcome burst of sunlight. Who forgot to shut the curtains? Well, he couldn’t be bothered to get up and fix them.
“Pete?”
“Mm?”
“Could you shut those curtains? Can’t sleep.”
“You do it.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“No excuse.”
“Pete.”
Frustrated sigh.
“Fine.”
The curtains creaked, blissfully concealing most of the pestering rays, then rocketed across the room, smacking against the opposite wall with a loud metallic clang. Ah, bugger.
“Crap.”
“Apology not accepted,” Claude mumbled as he rolled over on the bed, burying his face in the pillow as he tugged the blanket over their heads.
“Can’t breathe.”
“Course you can. Just open your mouth and say, ‘ah’”
Peter pressed against his back, draping an arm over his waist.
“You don’t inhale when you say, ‘ah’.”
“Sure you do. At the start.”
“Mm.”
....
“Pete?”
A hand slid over his mouth. He pushed it off.
“Quiet. Sleeping.”
“Okay.”
||||
“Ow!”
“May I suggest looking where you’re going?” Claude said
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me I was late for work?”
Claude glanced up from his very comfortable perch on the bed at Peter, who was scrambling around the room like a hummingbird on acid, desperately yanking random pieces of clothing on his body.
“I tried to. You couldn’t be bothered.”
“You said my name once! That doesn’t count as trying. Oh, shit, it’s 9:40. I’m so dead.”
“Socks,” Claude said as Peter starting toeing a shoe on.
“Oh, right.”
Sharp rattle as the drawer flew open, scattering socks all over the room like soggy lumps of confetti.
“Am I going to have to beat that control into you again?”
“I’m in a hurry, okay? I’ll pick them up later.”
He pulled the socks on whilst standing, doing a funny one legged hop that almost tipped him over into the closet. Claude suspected that only telekinesis kept him upright.
“You know, you’d be much more effective with that if you sat down,” he said.
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You’re an hour late. I don’t think an extra minute is going to matter.”
“Please be quiet, Claude.”
“Oi, don’t take it out on me.”
“I’m not—Where the hell’s my wallet?”
Peter crouched down on the floor, rummaging around, backside in the air. Claude propped himself on his elbow, enjoying the view. He could take him just like this, on his knees and elbows, lovely curve of his back arched against his palms. Food for thought.
“Ah ha!”
Peter brandished the wallet above his head as he stood up, stuffing it in his left trouser pocket.
“Now jacket.” He pulled on the specified garment. “Keys.” They jingled for a moment before disappearing into the opposite pocket. “Bag. Bag, bag, bag.”
“Do you need to rattle off every item out loud?”
“Yes. Shush.”
Slinging the bag’s strap over his head so that it crisscrossed his torso, Peter rushed through the door, turning his head at the last moment to call out, “Bye” then off he went.
Claude stared at the door, then glanced at the window, frowning at the pesky sun glaring through. Maybe he should head off to the couch. It was comfortable enough, if a bit squeaky. Getting up, he headed off to the living room, but not before adjusting the date on the bedside clock.
I wonder how long it’ll take Peter to realize it’s Sunday.
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Peter, who was scrambling around the room like a hummingbird on acid, desperately yanking random pieces of clothing on his body.
*snort* Oh, lovely. This was just the sort of thing I needed to read right now, thank you.
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Claude seems to enjoy the potential for beating Peter up again, I notice ;)
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That he does. It's his perverse form of foreplay.
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Oh, I don't think he planned for the comeuppance Peter is actually going to give him. :) Yes, that means sequel. I wasn't going to, but
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