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Tis is the fic I wanted to post earlier, though I'm still not sure if I like it, but I need to post it already before it eats my brain. It's Claude first person pov, which I've enver done before and am not convinced I got right, but I really wanted to do something in first person.
Title: Cold Night
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: Claude isn't a cuddler.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
All right. Let’s get one thing straight here. I don’t “cuddle”. Never have. I can lean against my partner for a few minutes after sex, sure, but I don’t glomp onto them like an octopus swallowing up its prey like this boy does, attaching himself to me with all four limbs as if I were going to float away or sink into the mattress. Now how am I supposed to get any sleep when I can’t even move my legs or turn over? I need space to move around. Yes, I know, you’re supposed to be still while you sleep, but I roll over a lot, okay? I can’t just close my eyes and be out like a light. That doesn’t mean I need the whole bed to myself unlike what some folk insist on implying at every turn even though I said I was sorry, broken record that he is. It was an accident. Happens all the time, right? And I didn’t kick him off the bed, either. I was just trying to get comfortable and like I said, I roll around. He was lying too close to the edge. Gravity took its course. Nothing sinister or resentful or even slightly mocking about it for once. He didn’t have to carry on about it for two days, moping around all doe-eyed and pouty lipped, dragging apologies out of me just to make him stop.
But see? Right there. the very reason why I don’t appreciate having someone glued to my skin for the whole night. No need to worry about someone else drooling on you, making your arm wake up five minutes after the rest of your body because his head pinched your arteries, ram you in the throat with his elbow.
Oh, he was ever so apologetic about that one (as he should be), making me four different kinds of tea before I felt sorry for him and finally chose one, getting me pizza from my favorite place (with extra pepperoni), buying me a movie I’d been wanting to see for a long while but never got around to (and which I never told him about, either). I almost called him on it, but that dejected puppy face he put on whenever I rubbed my throat (not on purpose; well, maybe some of the time) was starting to eat at my insides. It’s not like I was accusing him of hitting me as payback for all those times I knocked him about on the roof (which were for his own good). He’d never do that. Too low and vindictive for an upstanding boy scout like him, all freshly washed shirts and “eat your vegetables”. Wouldn’t be Peter, would it? Sometimes I wish he weren’t so damn vulnerable, so open and ready for someone to rip inside him and gobble him up, ‘cause that’s what everyone’s being doing. His mother, his brother, his father, too, no doubt, before he kicked it, upper crust peacocks jabbing at the helpless chick who still hasn’t figured out how to use his wings. I’m just trying to steer him in a direction that doesn’t involve him becoming somebody’s talking monkey. But it seems he doesn’t like my way of doing that.
He left me alone that night. I didn’t ask him to or anything. Just shoved off me after we were done and lied across the other side of the bed, murmuring a small “good night” before turning his back to me. Now that unnerved me. He’d never done that before. My breath hadn’t even slowed down yet. What the hell was he up to? From the heated thrust of orgasm, I was suddenly thrown into a cold vacuum of empty air above me. He didn’t have to leave so soon. Could have lingered a little longer. And he showed his back to me, yanking up the covers so that I saw nothing but a bundle of hair instead of his face. Meaning that he was proving a point. Cute. He hit me and I was the one getting punished for it? Never mind that he was giving me the space I asked for. Screw that. He didn’t have to treat me as if I wasn’t even here. Fine, then. I’ll just ignore him, see how long he can last being all alone on his side of the bed. he’s the one who needs me to lull him to sleep, not the other way around. Finally, I could get some proper sleep without having to worry about drool or odd, whistly snoring or knees pressing way too high between my legs. I rolled onto my left side, away from him, and settled in.
Except that it didn’t really work that way, just like it never, ever does. Why can’t things follow the plan just once?
I fluffed up the pillow to the right plumpness, bent my legs, and folded my hands beside my head. The perfect position, one I hadn’t been allowed to indulge in since we started sleeping together. except that no actual sleeping was going on. Like I said, I take a while. And he was so damn quiet. He’s never that quiet, even when he’s on me. His breathing is always so vivid, so wispy and frail as it brushes on my skin. Granted, he was too far away from me to hear him properly, but it still bothered me that I couldn’t. and then that bugged me. We hadn’t been doing this long enough for that to become routine. So why did the room feel like someone threw a giant tarp over it? He wasn’t, either. Nor was I, though I sorely needed to by that point. My hip was starting to get sore, not used to being in that one position for so long while I’m still conscious. But turning over would mean facing him and looking at him and I was not doing that yet.
All right, that’s it, I told myself. Either fall asleep or go to the couch, but I couldn’t do that, for how would that look? First I kick him (accidentally) from the bed, then I flee his presence altogether by acting like a scorned lover, all melodramatic gestures and screw yous? Oh, no.
Was he even still awake? What the hell was I talking about? Of course he was still awake. That boy couldn’t sleep unless I stroked his back as if he were some child asking his nana to read him a story. How he survived before running into me, I’ll never know. He was playing me, the cheeky bastard. As if I were going to give in.
My side was starting to cramp. Shit, Peter, do something.
There! The bed shifted. Was he rolling over? The amount of bouncing and scratchy rustling of the sheets told me yes.
“Mmm.”
Oh. Hoping you can coax me back into your arms with a seductive, little moan? Think again.
Tick tick went the clock. The bed bounced again, and again, the sheet growing tight, then slack around my body as he rolled onto his back, his sides, his front, probably experimenting all angles before giving up and flopping down with a disgruntled, “Hmmf” that made me smile.
Uncomfortable, are we, Peter? Good. Because God knows I was. Which way was he facing now, I wondered? If he was back towards the window, I could turn around and relieve the ache in my side.
Which turned out to be a bad move, for he was looking straight at me.
“What?” I demanded. “Are you trying to rouse the dead so they’ll roam the streets and eat us all?”
“What?” Him that time, a sulky frown barely discernible in the dark.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Keats himself came over and demanded that you let him rest in peace with all the tossing you’re doing. The bed ain’t an exercise machine.”
“I’m trying to get comfortable.”
“Oh, are you back to trying now? Best get to the doing before dawn. I don’t fancy sleeping with sun in my eyes.”
“Well, excuse me, but I’m having some trouble falling asleep right now.”
“You were the one who buggered off to the other side of the bed.”
“That’s what you wanted. You’ve been pestering me about it since we started sleeping together. So why aren’t you asleep now I’ve left you to your loneliness?”
“You keep shaking the bed.”
“Oh, I’m shaking the bed. What about all that “I need to move around and breathe” drivel you keep shoving down my throat? You’ve been lying there like a lump for over ten minutes. You’re the one who ‘s not even trying to fall asleep.”
“I’ll fall asleep when I sodding please.”
“Why don’t you now?”
“You keep distracting me.”
“I—“ Pete cut himself off, shaking his head as if he held some sort of superior position in this argument, then turned over again, yanking the blanket over his head so that it poked me in the mouth. “Fine, then. I won’t distract you anymore. I‘ll be a good, little boy and leave you to your closeness issues until you decide to make up your mind.”
Closeness issues? You can’t blame me for those, now can you? I spit out the blanket, tugging it down to my shoulders. Make up my mind? It was already made up. He’s the one who wouldn’t let me sleep.
Except that it wasn’t. Because somewhere along the way between me deciding to teach him how to control his powers and us kissing that this whole living together mess coming together, I’d actually started to depend on the guy. I needed to hear him breathe. And not just near me, not just within hearing range, but on me, in me, on my flesh, on my tongue, on... everything. Damn, I missed his warmth. I’d noticed that the apartment doesn’t have the best heaters in the world, but when did it start being so cold? One flimsy comforter wasn’t enough to keep it back.
Aw, hell.
“ Huh? What are you doing?”
“Quiet, Petrelli.”
Okay, so technically spooning counts as cuddling. Screw it. it felt good, okay? Peaceful. Warm skin and salty, almost sweet scent and the solid, essential presence of his body touching me. He stroked the top of my hand with his palm, twining his fingers with mine.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, soft and contrite.
“I’m sorry I kicked you off the bed.”
A glimmer of moonlight caught his mile.
“I knew it.”
Title: Cold Night
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Claude/Peter
Summary: Claude isn't a cuddler.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
All right. Let’s get one thing straight here. I don’t “cuddle”. Never have. I can lean against my partner for a few minutes after sex, sure, but I don’t glomp onto them like an octopus swallowing up its prey like this boy does, attaching himself to me with all four limbs as if I were going to float away or sink into the mattress. Now how am I supposed to get any sleep when I can’t even move my legs or turn over? I need space to move around. Yes, I know, you’re supposed to be still while you sleep, but I roll over a lot, okay? I can’t just close my eyes and be out like a light. That doesn’t mean I need the whole bed to myself unlike what some folk insist on implying at every turn even though I said I was sorry, broken record that he is. It was an accident. Happens all the time, right? And I didn’t kick him off the bed, either. I was just trying to get comfortable and like I said, I roll around. He was lying too close to the edge. Gravity took its course. Nothing sinister or resentful or even slightly mocking about it for once. He didn’t have to carry on about it for two days, moping around all doe-eyed and pouty lipped, dragging apologies out of me just to make him stop.
But see? Right there. the very reason why I don’t appreciate having someone glued to my skin for the whole night. No need to worry about someone else drooling on you, making your arm wake up five minutes after the rest of your body because his head pinched your arteries, ram you in the throat with his elbow.
Oh, he was ever so apologetic about that one (as he should be), making me four different kinds of tea before I felt sorry for him and finally chose one, getting me pizza from my favorite place (with extra pepperoni), buying me a movie I’d been wanting to see for a long while but never got around to (and which I never told him about, either). I almost called him on it, but that dejected puppy face he put on whenever I rubbed my throat (not on purpose; well, maybe some of the time) was starting to eat at my insides. It’s not like I was accusing him of hitting me as payback for all those times I knocked him about on the roof (which were for his own good). He’d never do that. Too low and vindictive for an upstanding boy scout like him, all freshly washed shirts and “eat your vegetables”. Wouldn’t be Peter, would it? Sometimes I wish he weren’t so damn vulnerable, so open and ready for someone to rip inside him and gobble him up, ‘cause that’s what everyone’s being doing. His mother, his brother, his father, too, no doubt, before he kicked it, upper crust peacocks jabbing at the helpless chick who still hasn’t figured out how to use his wings. I’m just trying to steer him in a direction that doesn’t involve him becoming somebody’s talking monkey. But it seems he doesn’t like my way of doing that.
He left me alone that night. I didn’t ask him to or anything. Just shoved off me after we were done and lied across the other side of the bed, murmuring a small “good night” before turning his back to me. Now that unnerved me. He’d never done that before. My breath hadn’t even slowed down yet. What the hell was he up to? From the heated thrust of orgasm, I was suddenly thrown into a cold vacuum of empty air above me. He didn’t have to leave so soon. Could have lingered a little longer. And he showed his back to me, yanking up the covers so that I saw nothing but a bundle of hair instead of his face. Meaning that he was proving a point. Cute. He hit me and I was the one getting punished for it? Never mind that he was giving me the space I asked for. Screw that. He didn’t have to treat me as if I wasn’t even here. Fine, then. I’ll just ignore him, see how long he can last being all alone on his side of the bed. he’s the one who needs me to lull him to sleep, not the other way around. Finally, I could get some proper sleep without having to worry about drool or odd, whistly snoring or knees pressing way too high between my legs. I rolled onto my left side, away from him, and settled in.
Except that it didn’t really work that way, just like it never, ever does. Why can’t things follow the plan just once?
I fluffed up the pillow to the right plumpness, bent my legs, and folded my hands beside my head. The perfect position, one I hadn’t been allowed to indulge in since we started sleeping together. except that no actual sleeping was going on. Like I said, I take a while. And he was so damn quiet. He’s never that quiet, even when he’s on me. His breathing is always so vivid, so wispy and frail as it brushes on my skin. Granted, he was too far away from me to hear him properly, but it still bothered me that I couldn’t. and then that bugged me. We hadn’t been doing this long enough for that to become routine. So why did the room feel like someone threw a giant tarp over it? He wasn’t, either. Nor was I, though I sorely needed to by that point. My hip was starting to get sore, not used to being in that one position for so long while I’m still conscious. But turning over would mean facing him and looking at him and I was not doing that yet.
All right, that’s it, I told myself. Either fall asleep or go to the couch, but I couldn’t do that, for how would that look? First I kick him (accidentally) from the bed, then I flee his presence altogether by acting like a scorned lover, all melodramatic gestures and screw yous? Oh, no.
Was he even still awake? What the hell was I talking about? Of course he was still awake. That boy couldn’t sleep unless I stroked his back as if he were some child asking his nana to read him a story. How he survived before running into me, I’ll never know. He was playing me, the cheeky bastard. As if I were going to give in.
My side was starting to cramp. Shit, Peter, do something.
There! The bed shifted. Was he rolling over? The amount of bouncing and scratchy rustling of the sheets told me yes.
“Mmm.”
Oh. Hoping you can coax me back into your arms with a seductive, little moan? Think again.
Tick tick went the clock. The bed bounced again, and again, the sheet growing tight, then slack around my body as he rolled onto his back, his sides, his front, probably experimenting all angles before giving up and flopping down with a disgruntled, “Hmmf” that made me smile.
Uncomfortable, are we, Peter? Good. Because God knows I was. Which way was he facing now, I wondered? If he was back towards the window, I could turn around and relieve the ache in my side.
Which turned out to be a bad move, for he was looking straight at me.
“What?” I demanded. “Are you trying to rouse the dead so they’ll roam the streets and eat us all?”
“What?” Him that time, a sulky frown barely discernible in the dark.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Keats himself came over and demanded that you let him rest in peace with all the tossing you’re doing. The bed ain’t an exercise machine.”
“I’m trying to get comfortable.”
“Oh, are you back to trying now? Best get to the doing before dawn. I don’t fancy sleeping with sun in my eyes.”
“Well, excuse me, but I’m having some trouble falling asleep right now.”
“You were the one who buggered off to the other side of the bed.”
“That’s what you wanted. You’ve been pestering me about it since we started sleeping together. So why aren’t you asleep now I’ve left you to your loneliness?”
“You keep shaking the bed.”
“Oh, I’m shaking the bed. What about all that “I need to move around and breathe” drivel you keep shoving down my throat? You’ve been lying there like a lump for over ten minutes. You’re the one who ‘s not even trying to fall asleep.”
“I’ll fall asleep when I sodding please.”
“Why don’t you now?”
“You keep distracting me.”
“I—“ Pete cut himself off, shaking his head as if he held some sort of superior position in this argument, then turned over again, yanking the blanket over his head so that it poked me in the mouth. “Fine, then. I won’t distract you anymore. I‘ll be a good, little boy and leave you to your closeness issues until you decide to make up your mind.”
Closeness issues? You can’t blame me for those, now can you? I spit out the blanket, tugging it down to my shoulders. Make up my mind? It was already made up. He’s the one who wouldn’t let me sleep.
Except that it wasn’t. Because somewhere along the way between me deciding to teach him how to control his powers and us kissing that this whole living together mess coming together, I’d actually started to depend on the guy. I needed to hear him breathe. And not just near me, not just within hearing range, but on me, in me, on my flesh, on my tongue, on... everything. Damn, I missed his warmth. I’d noticed that the apartment doesn’t have the best heaters in the world, but when did it start being so cold? One flimsy comforter wasn’t enough to keep it back.
Aw, hell.
“ Huh? What are you doing?”
“Quiet, Petrelli.”
Okay, so technically spooning counts as cuddling. Screw it. it felt good, okay? Peaceful. Warm skin and salty, almost sweet scent and the solid, essential presence of his body touching me. He stroked the top of my hand with his palm, twining his fingers with mine.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said, soft and contrite.
“I’m sorry I kicked you off the bed.”
A glimmer of moonlight caught his mile.
“I knew it.”
