It's Your Turn (Fic, Future!Peter/Future!Claire)
Title: It's Your Turn
Pairing: Future!Peter/Future!Claire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, Sexual Content, Dark Imagery, Violence, Character Death
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or its characters, and I make no money from the writing of this story.
Spoilers: If you know about the whole 5YG future and stuff, you're good.
Summary: "Teenage queen, the loaded gun, the drop dead dream, the Chosen One..."
A/N: This little piece of depravity was inspired by The Killers--"Read My Mind". You said you were open to any pairing so I hope this one's okay for control issues, CEO. I know you like slash and so do I, jaune_chat, but here's what I got for you. I apologize if it sucks.
Nothing feels quite like cold steel pressed to the base of your spine. And it's definitely not supposed to make your dick hard. The mere sensation of impending death: she's here, finally, her scent filling my nostrils, my niece, my lover, my would-be killer.
I lean back into the muzzle of the gun and moan softly, just loud enough to let her know I feel it, I feel her. I know Claire wants to kill me; she's wanted to for some time now, but I have that feeling that she just can't take that final step.
Because now, where we are, nothing is the way it was supposed to be.
I feel her breath now in my ear, and the words that she wants to say remain only air in her lungs. She continues to breathe, fast, faster, shallow, scared.
She's afraid. Afraid of what she thinks she wants to do to me.
"Do it, Claire," I command, finally reaching down to touch myself. I'm fully hard already, and my own hand just isn't good enough. Really, there's nothing like your lover threatening your immortal life to make you want to turn around, tear her clothes off with just a thought, and make her scream your name.
She hears my thoughts; I taught her to read my mind long ago. Claire thought it would be to her advantage, but it has actually become another weakness that I am able to wield over her. She knows yet again it's useless to try.
I am not afraid of death. I've died more times than I can count by now. So has she.
I feel her press herself flush against my back, her lips against my neck. The gun moves to my temple.
"Peter," she moans, grinding her hips into my buttocks, her free hand moving down my chest, then playing at the hem of my shirt. "I fucking hate you," she grunts, her right hand still holding the gun to my head, that left hand slipping under my shirt now, her palm sliding over my sweaty skin.
"Pull the fucking trigger, Claire, before I take the fucking thing away from you," I breathe, still stroking myself. Claire's hand finds mine, and she pushes me away and takes hold of me, her slender fingers curling around my length in a practiced motion.
"Not yet, Peter. You want one last fuck before I do it?" she groans. Her left hand moves back and forth lovingly, but that murderous right hand is still bearing the gun harder down into my temple. Her breasts are soft and warm against my back.
In one swift motion, I grab her wrist and disarm her, and then I bring the gun around, press the muzzle up under her jaw, and push her down.
"One last fuck before I do it," I growl. I keep the gun pressed to her throat as she instantly drops to her knees, her mouth closing around me, her hands traveling up my thighs, her fingers then gripping my ass. With my free hand I stroke her cheek, my Claire, so beautiful, so perfect, so wrong.
I slide the gun up against her cheek, and she turns her head and begins fellating the barrel of the gun. "Do it, Peter," she moans. "It's your turn." Her lips slide obscenely over the end of the gun, her tongue delving into the barrel delicately, then up, down, more intensely than she's ever done to me, and I know she's more in love with death than she's ever been with me. It's always been that way.
"It's always my turn," I whisper.
That's why Claire can never do it. She can never pull the trigger on me, the way I've done to her so many times before.
I grab a handful of her hair and pull her up to me, still holding the gun to her cheek, and I kiss her, tasting her fear, her expectation, her tears.
"Claire, why are you so fucked up?" I manage, as I push her down and pull her jeans off, my cock positively aching now after watching her little game with our instrument of death.
She doesn't answer, of course. She rolls over to her stomach and lifts herself to meet me, and I slide deep into her, and she's so hot, so wet, not because of me, but because of what I hold in my hand.
"Peter," she cries as she rocks herself back into my thrusts. I play along, just as I always do, tracing the gun down her back, along her glistening tanned skin, and I drive still deeper into her.
"Tell me when, Claire," I say, each of our movements bringing us closer to where niece and uncle should never be. But we're both long past that.
Something I've done so many times. It's not fair that she's just too afraid to do it to me. Claire knows her ability saved my life, and even though she's obsessed with death, she's too in love with me to kill me, even temporarily. She tries every time, but she can't.
But I love her, so I forgive her. And I'm not afraid to give her what she wants. Because Claire will always come back.
"Oh, Peter," she sighs, and I feel her hand on my wrist, pulling the gun tightly to her temple. "Come on, Peter. Now. Now!"
I wait until I feel the heat of her intensify, until her muscles seize around me, her body trembles, and as I come, I say her name as I pull the trigger.
The bullet enters her temple and exits the other side of her head in a split second, and she collapses beneath me, and I go with her, her blood all over me as I cradle her in my arms, turn her over, and wait for her to recover.
Every time I do this, there's always the fear in me that she won't come back this time. I can feel tears that I can't control run down my face as I hold her close.
Claire blinks, her green eyes opening, the hole in her skull ancient history. Just like our love.
We've been making love like this for almost a hundred years now.
As she snuggles into my embrace, and I kiss her, tasting her blood and her tears, I wonder how long it will take her to finally give me my turn.
Pairing: Future!Peter/Future!Claire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, Sexual Content, Dark Imagery, Violence, Character Death
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or its characters, and I make no money from the writing of this story.
Spoilers: If you know about the whole 5YG future and stuff, you're good.
Summary: "Teenage queen, the loaded gun, the drop dead dream, the Chosen One..."
A/N: This little piece of depravity was inspired by The Killers--"Read My Mind". You said you were open to any pairing so I hope this one's okay for control issues, CEO. I know you like slash and so do I, jaune_chat, but here's what I got for you. I apologize if it sucks.
Nothing feels quite like cold steel pressed to the base of your spine. And it's definitely not supposed to make your dick hard. The mere sensation of impending death: she's here, finally, her scent filling my nostrils, my niece, my lover, my would-be killer.
I lean back into the muzzle of the gun and moan softly, just loud enough to let her know I feel it, I feel her. I know Claire wants to kill me; she's wanted to for some time now, but I have that feeling that she just can't take that final step.
Because now, where we are, nothing is the way it was supposed to be.
I feel her breath now in my ear, and the words that she wants to say remain only air in her lungs. She continues to breathe, fast, faster, shallow, scared.
She's afraid. Afraid of what she thinks she wants to do to me.
"Do it, Claire," I command, finally reaching down to touch myself. I'm fully hard already, and my own hand just isn't good enough. Really, there's nothing like your lover threatening your immortal life to make you want to turn around, tear her clothes off with just a thought, and make her scream your name.
She hears my thoughts; I taught her to read my mind long ago. Claire thought it would be to her advantage, but it has actually become another weakness that I am able to wield over her. She knows yet again it's useless to try.
I am not afraid of death. I've died more times than I can count by now. So has she.
I feel her press herself flush against my back, her lips against my neck. The gun moves to my temple.
"Peter," she moans, grinding her hips into my buttocks, her free hand moving down my chest, then playing at the hem of my shirt. "I fucking hate you," she grunts, her right hand still holding the gun to my head, that left hand slipping under my shirt now, her palm sliding over my sweaty skin.
"Pull the fucking trigger, Claire, before I take the fucking thing away from you," I breathe, still stroking myself. Claire's hand finds mine, and she pushes me away and takes hold of me, her slender fingers curling around my length in a practiced motion.
"Not yet, Peter. You want one last fuck before I do it?" she groans. Her left hand moves back and forth lovingly, but that murderous right hand is still bearing the gun harder down into my temple. Her breasts are soft and warm against my back.
In one swift motion, I grab her wrist and disarm her, and then I bring the gun around, press the muzzle up under her jaw, and push her down.
"One last fuck before I do it," I growl. I keep the gun pressed to her throat as she instantly drops to her knees, her mouth closing around me, her hands traveling up my thighs, her fingers then gripping my ass. With my free hand I stroke her cheek, my Claire, so beautiful, so perfect, so wrong.
I slide the gun up against her cheek, and she turns her head and begins fellating the barrel of the gun. "Do it, Peter," she moans. "It's your turn." Her lips slide obscenely over the end of the gun, her tongue delving into the barrel delicately, then up, down, more intensely than she's ever done to me, and I know she's more in love with death than she's ever been with me. It's always been that way.
"It's always my turn," I whisper.
That's why Claire can never do it. She can never pull the trigger on me, the way I've done to her so many times before.
I grab a handful of her hair and pull her up to me, still holding the gun to her cheek, and I kiss her, tasting her fear, her expectation, her tears.
"Claire, why are you so fucked up?" I manage, as I push her down and pull her jeans off, my cock positively aching now after watching her little game with our instrument of death.
She doesn't answer, of course. She rolls over to her stomach and lifts herself to meet me, and I slide deep into her, and she's so hot, so wet, not because of me, but because of what I hold in my hand.
"Peter," she cries as she rocks herself back into my thrusts. I play along, just as I always do, tracing the gun down her back, along her glistening tanned skin, and I drive still deeper into her.
"Tell me when, Claire," I say, each of our movements bringing us closer to where niece and uncle should never be. But we're both long past that.
Something I've done so many times. It's not fair that she's just too afraid to do it to me. Claire knows her ability saved my life, and even though she's obsessed with death, she's too in love with me to kill me, even temporarily. She tries every time, but she can't.
But I love her, so I forgive her. And I'm not afraid to give her what she wants. Because Claire will always come back.
"Oh, Peter," she sighs, and I feel her hand on my wrist, pulling the gun tightly to her temple. "Come on, Peter. Now. Now!"
I wait until I feel the heat of her intensify, until her muscles seize around me, her body trembles, and as I come, I say her name as I pull the trigger.
The bullet enters her temple and exits the other side of her head in a split second, and she collapses beneath me, and I go with her, her blood all over me as I cradle her in my arms, turn her over, and wait for her to recover.
Every time I do this, there's always the fear in me that she won't come back this time. I can feel tears that I can't control run down my face as I hold her close.
Claire blinks, her green eyes opening, the hole in her skull ancient history. Just like our love.
We've been making love like this for almost a hundred years now.
As she snuggles into my embrace, and I kiss her, tasting her blood and her tears, I wonder how long it will take her to finally give me my turn.