Free Falling

By Alaricnomad

A/N: Heavy sexual content. Reader discretion advised.

He knew he should have felt dirty, should have felt wrong and monstrous, should have felt like he was destroying something pure and precious, desecrating something sacred and beautiful. He should have felt that way, but reality was far different from what should have been. He had to wonder if the knowledge that this was far from the first time they had done this made the situation that much better or that much worse.

They were a melancholy contrast, raven and night against gold and sunlight, but coming together they cast the shadows of their sin. The blood coursing through their bodies pumped harsh and hot through the veins as if to spite them in their shared DNA. Incest…such a bitter, ugly would that sadly couldn't even faze them anymore, the two of them so far gone.

Age of consent or not, he was still ten years too old for her, still family, too world-weary in his own skin to be touching her the way he was, letting her touch him. But if his soul was going to burn for this, if her hands upon his skin were the key to his damnation, he was gladly condemned. The blue-green eyes staring down at him, the soul reflected in them far too mature and weathered then what should have been her right, held the gaze of his lover, his salvation, his judge and jury.

Besides, with the way she levered over him, pushing her hips against his as her hands trailed up his still-clothed thighs, he found it far too damned hard to feel anything remotely close to guilt or shame.

A strange thrill ran through him as she brushed back his hair, baring the vulnerable hollow of his throat, lightly dragging a nail down the muscles contracting as he swallowed hard. Claire pressed her lips to his throat, sucking at the skin, feeling his pulse racing beneath her lips. The steady thrumming of his life's blood was a surreal reassurance, and the vulnerability of his pose an illusion, for their proximity reinforced his mimicry of her powers in every single way.

She found herself wondering at the strange contradiction he so often displayed, that same invulnerability seeming never to penetrate his mind as he let his overprotective impulses assert themselves again and again with every fight they faced, making her feel very much the little girl as he lectured, chastised and coddled.

He was never patronizing or condescending, only incredibly authoritarian when it came to keeping her safe, and while deep down she knew the whole thing only stemmed from how much he cared about her, she could not help slightly resenting him for it. Every time he treated her anything like a child in the outside world, she found herself invariably reminded that the things he did to her in the shelter of their bedroom made her feel nowhere remotely child-like.

He groaned almost involuntarily at the intimacy of her touch, his jeans tightening painfully as his nether regions filled with aching need, and he watched her every move as she traced the same finger down his cheek and jaw line, grasping his chin to draw his mouth to hers.

Peter moaned, obediently parting his lips as she kissed him, letting himself be pushed back to the bed, her tongue stroking against his in a way that had him trembling in desire. Trailing down his jaw and neck in heated kisses, she worked at the button and fly to his trousers, pushing the material down his hips, drawing from him a guttural groan as she pushed her hand into his boxer-briefs and curled her fingers around the hard flesh of his arousal.

His head reared back, his back arching as she caressed him, his breath ragged and broken as he stared up at her, his eyes full of dark intensity and raw ardor. "Claire," he whispered throatily, his voice a near growl as she straddled him, rolling her hips against him. He grasped her hips roughly, pulling her to him as he pushed inside her.

Claire's lips parted in soundless pleasure as he filled her, the sudden sensuality blinding as she clutched at his shoulders for balance, his hands digging into her hips as he guided her, moving her above him.

Their lovemaking was ardent and frenzied, dizzying heat a palpable sensation between them. Peter felt the blood pounding harshly in his head, his body strained and tense, slick with sweat and aching for release as he lay back and let her ride him. He ran calloused fingertips down the silken texture of her legs, cupped her knees in his hands and met her urgent pace as he bucked against that gloriously welcoming heat again and again.

She whimpered out his name and entwined her arms around his neck, Peter rearing upward to return the embrace as strong arms wrapped around her hips, pulling her almost crushingly close. She found herself clinging to him, moving fervently against him as every powerful thrust sent their bodies jarring and the headboard slamming into the wall, the two of them locked so tightly she had no idea where she began and he ended.

His eyes locked on hers, the rich brown of them so opaque with heavy emotion they seemed almost black and the gaze was mesmerizing, penetrating in a way that bespoke an intimacy that even seemed to transcend even the desperate entwining of their corporal forms. She could feel connection between them flare to life, burning and brilliant in the unexpected rush of emotion in her mind and heart that left no use to denial that this was just desire of the flesh.

His hand reached up, brushing back hair from her eyes to meet her gaze, the gesture so tender and bespeaking of the emotional intimacy tangled between them, past and present, accompanied almost prophetically by a sudden clenching in her belly, an exhilarating coiling of a sweet tension building toward that final culmination.

"Feel it, Claire, don't hold back. Finish for me, let me feel you…" the smooth, silken tones of his voice sounded through her mind, nearly as arduous a caress as the feeling of him inside her. And she found herself giving in to the soft-spoken orders, her eyes involuntarily closing as she climaxed, a half-sobbed scream muffled as she bit down into his shoulder.

The metallic taste of blood from broken skin was as unexpected and unnoted as her nails burying themselves into his back, raking down his spine, the pain on his part only dully noted as her completion set off his own- healed within a few moments without his notice. His head dropped back and his baritone voice reverberated in gravelly satisfaction, emptying inside her in harsh, shuddering orgasm.

Satiated, exhausted bodies lay upon one another, entwined in a tangle of naked skin and scattered bed sheets. Peter absently nuzzled against her neck, brushing a whisper of a kiss against her nape, watching her giggle involuntarily at the tickling sensation. She wrinkled her nose at him, disconcerted as always at being caught in such a feminine action, and he grinned unrepentantly, dropping soft kisses down her collarbone in successful distraction.

She lay back against the bed, sighing with lazy contentment as his body stretched out over hers like a living blanket, the softness of his lips trailing down her neck and shoulder a delightful, stirring caress.

She ran her hands down his back, feeling the subtle play of muscles contracting and relaxing under her touch. As her fingers traced the hollow between his shoulder blades, her eyes roamed over him. A thin sheen of sweat generated by their activities coated his torso and in the amber light projected by the single lamp in the corner, as his skin glistened in the faint illumination, he seemed to almost glow.

He was…golden…illustrious…and she could not help herself from appreciating the sleek physique he displayed. There were the chiseled definitions of his abdomen and chest, the new breadth of his shoulders, the power lying dormant beneath weathered skin as she brushed her fingers along his arms, the muscular shape of his thighs and legs.

Hero worship, adolescent crushes…lust and teenage admiration couldn't come close to the feelings Peter Petrelli managed to stir in her. For all the world she thought of him as her own personal white knight, her hero and savior, it was times like this, as she could feel the lingering presence of him cradled within her body, the rampart thundering of his heart against her breast, the warm brush of his breath against her neck as he sharply exhaled, she was reminded that he was just a man…a man who needed her as much as she needed him.

She remembered the first time they had come together like this, in the aftermath of an attack by Sylar when she'd rushed haphazardly forward to push him out of the way, uncertain if they had been close enough for him to absorb her healing. The pain of the knife burying itself into her gut had been nearly nonexistent, as she nonchalantly wrenched the blade free from her abdomen and watched the flesh reknit itself into perfect health, whirling around to demand if Peter was alright. The harsher reality of that situation culminated in Peter's barely contained rage, the anger hot and burning in his eyes, the tight clench of his jaw as he pulled her aside once they were in the clear and tore into her about suicidal idiocies.

She wasn't sure just how they came to that stage. One moment she had been facing him, angry and defiant in all her seventeen-year-old glory, and then his mouth was clamping down over hers, his hands hoisting her up to wrap her thighs around his waist, fingers gliding up her naked skin wherever he could touch.

She knew he regretted it later; their coupling rough and hurried, kisses hungry, touches desperate. Her virginity was abandoned that night, the tight pinch of pain when he first entered her gone as quickly as it came in the intensity of pleasure, passion and dizzy confusion, as he took her hard and fast and quick against a brick wall in a New York back alley.

She collapsed trembling in his arms in the aftermath of her first climax, and his hands were gentle for the first time that night as he let her down on shaky legs, held her steady as he pulled up her pants and underwear, refastening the buttons of her blouse and smoothing down her hair, righting himself to some form of respectability.

He draped his coat around her shoulders, hooked an arm around her waist and numbly hailed them a cab back to his apartment, all the while not daring to meet her eyes, his face a clouded mess of sad confusion and sharp, poignant guilt.

When they arrived back at their shared home, he'd led her to the bathroom, joined her in the shower and tenderly washed the blood from her skin. He kissed, nuzzled and coddled, whispered apologies and endearments against her skin as his touch did delightfully sinful things to her libido and had her pressing into him with want. He took her to bed and made love to her, he said softly, the way he should have from the beginning, again and again until she finally slumped against the warmth of his body with an exhaustion that went beyond the capability of coherent thought, falling into a dreamless sleep.

She'd woken up the next morning to pancakes, coffee and his solemn, soft dark eyes in the kitchen. They never discussed it after that, falling into the same tangled pattern of need and dependence and some strange thing murkily mirroring love that kept them coming back to each other again and again.

There was nothing simple about their lives, nothing simple or easy about their chasing of some doomsday destiny and the burdens of the hunted superheroes they were supposed to be. They knew this better than anyone.

Claire knew that, as she let her fingers trace over the scar etched around his eye, obscured normally by his fall of raven-black bangs, noting the existence of half-a-dozen more littered across his naked body, byproducts of the times they found themselves separated by missions- usually trans-state in the way they sought out those with emerging powers or went out to save the way, depending on what Isaac's paintings prophesized to them.

He gently rolled her onto her back, arms sinking into the bed on either side of them to support his weight as he leaned over her, slowly sliding his way down her body.

"Peter…" his name came out in a breathless whisper as he nuzzled against her skin, trailing his tongue between her breasts. She mewled softly, fingers digging into his scalp as she held his head in place, his mouth fastening over one erect nipple, the rough palm of his hand molding to the other. She arched into his touch, pushing her hips into him, urging him lower.

Peter obliged, his hand sliding between her thighs to find the wetness of her arousal, parting the folds of her sex as he slid his fingers inside her. Rubbing against her clit, she moaned, her hips arching against his hand and her nails digging painfully into his neck as he continued to suckle on her breast, moving his hand against her, the double stimulation too much for her to bear.

"God, Peter!" her head reared back, her eyes fluttering closed as he rubbed and teased her, soft sounds of pleasure spilling from her lips with every simulating touch.

She reached for his quickly hardening erection, pumping him in time with his strokes and he pushed against her hand, the two of them rocking together as their eyes met, her legs parting to greet him as he sank back into welcoming tight heat of her body.

Peter fixed her with a soft gaze in his eyes, "Claire…"


His throat tightened, his lips unable to form the words he sought and instead he shook his head, idly pressing a light kiss to the curve of her slender neck, his hands tangling in silken blond curls as he tilted up her face and kissed her, her mouth melting against his in soft, incredible warmth. Her lips parted to deepen the kiss, and he gladly reciprocated as she drew him even closer, her hands gliding up his back, grasping for his shoulders as he slowly began moving once more.

He should feel wrong, he should feel dirty…but he felt nothing but complete- after so long of feeling empty with every fight and every struggle to survive- as her arms linked around his neck and her lips brushed against his ear, whispering to him in heated, loving words. He loved her with long, deep thrusts, her hips grinding against his with each stroke in slow, sensuous rhythm, and it was like flying all over again- like hanging on a highwire, or teetering over the edge.

And Peter Petrelli gladly took the fall.