Author's Note: I do not ship Flare. This story is a present for Crystal's 21st birthday because I promised her one a while ago... so, happy birthday, Crystal...? Haha. This was very... interesting to write.
Review if you wish... yeah. That would be nice. Or possibly really awkward. I don't know.
I do not own Degrassi or any of its characters.
Skies of charcoal strained against a thick cloud bank – the threat of rain over Toronto. Not that the chill was any surprise; as winter ebbed away to spring there had been hardly a whisper of sunshine at all. Gloom of a March afternoon mirrored the storm brewing in a young girl's eyes as she made her way through bustling crowds. Every so often she would throw apprehensive glances back as a child who fears being caught sneaking cookies.
If Eli knew...
Her over-protective boyfriend would never understand. Every text he sent to make plans went along the lines of coffee, a Tarantino film fest, even the diligent completion of English homework, but somehow Clare did not think a visit to Father Greg would be on the agenda. And so she trudged on.
This church was unfamiliar to Clare. It was rather beautiful in a classic way with spires and an antique bell tower, however its sheer size dwarfed her, intimidated her. Creaks and pops resounded in the entry when she eased the brass-laden wood door open. She winced at the sound, embarrassed even with no one around to hear; she did not relish disturbing the peace.
All was silent in the chapel. Nothing stirred. No one appeared. Saints adorned in light and gaudy jewel-tones gazed haughtily down upon the girl that did not belong. Perhaps during Mass, teeming with worshipers, this room could hold the same comfort and shelter that Clare found in her own church. Its present emptiness made such a thing hard to imagine, and set her heart racing. Placing an unsteady hand on a nearby pew, Clare took a moment to gather her thoughts.
She had come to see Father Greg about Fitz. As confused as his sudden conversion had left her, she could not ignore the evidence of abuse he has revealed so matter-of-factly in her living room the week before. The boy had made mistakes but he was in more trouble than he would admit, and Clare was anything but careless. Someone needed to step up.
A movement near the confessional caught her eye and she started.
"Father Greg?" Her call was hushed, timid; the vast room swallowed it whole.
"Clare." The familiar voice that haunted many a feverish and worrisome nightmare was unmistakable.
Ever the polite person, Clare crossed slowly to where Fitz now stood gawking at her as though the Lord himself had popped down for an afternoon chat.
"What are you doing here?"
"I, um... I was hoping to speak with Father Greg."
"He goes around to some of the church ladies' houses for supper on Fridays. It's just me here. Community service." He gestured to the broom and garbage bag at his feet.
They fell into an awkward silence then. Clare rolled a tender pink lip between her teeth and waited anxiously for the question that was sure to come.
"Were you going to talk about me?" Fitz's voice was rife with defeat, but not surprise. "I figured you might. You're a good person, Clare."
Bright blue eyes met slate; a sadness lay there heavy as stone. It was all too obvious that Fitz accepted his fate at home no matter how horrid. Clare's kind heart was overwhelmed by a helpless ache.
One cautious step forward as the boy before her sank onto the enclosed confessional bench.
"It's getting worse, isn't it?"
Fitz gave no vocal response but lifted his shirt to reveal a battered torso. The original bruising had spread like disease across his skin. Everything was gray and blue, purple and sickly yellow stains. Clare swallowed back tears and slid into the booth beside him. She didn't know what to say. Gently, carefully she trailed trembling fingers over his abused muscles.
"It looks worse than it is," Fitz winced weakly, attempting a brave smile.
"Fitz..." Clare's voice shook just as badly as her hand which was suddenly tangled with longer, rougher fingers.
"Don't cry." the comfort was hushed and Clare felt immediate guilt. She should be the one caring him, strange as it all was.
Once again their eyes met. Fitz's intentions were clear. However their surprise was mutual when Clare acted first. She cupped a hand around his cut cheek and kissed him, the only thought in her mind focused on easing his pain.
The boy's shock burst quickly. His fingers rested at her hips as the kiss was returned with fervor. Tongues explored new teeth, new heat. Lips crushed, softened, and crushed again in their urgency to come closer. The proximity pressed Clare's cross necklace into her clavicle; she barely noticed the metal's bite on skin.
Somewhere a shift occurred. Before either teen could assess the action Clare was looming over Fitz, a knee on either side of him. They never broke their kiss. Porcelain fingers tipped with neon nails wandered insistently down, down, tracing the stiffened shape of anatomy she was so unfamiliar with. Fitz gently broke contact to catch her gaze.
"Clare..." His voice was thick with precaution.
"Please," the girl murmured, a throaty purr in the sanctuary quiet. "Don't say anything."
Mouth captured mouth again. A click alerted Fitz to the fact that Clare had shut the door; they were concealed in the cramped booth, alone together. No boyfriends, no religion, no school rules or parents. Just rebellion and hazy mixed-up healing.
Clothes began to pile on the floor without care to consequence. Clare's milky skin contrasted bleakly against Fitz's wounds – perfection and flaw, tragically beautiful as their bodies collided. Once freed from the cloth Fitz had been so strained against, Clare wrapped tentative fingers around the erection's base, gliding slowly upward to run a thumb over his head. A guttural moan hummed in Fitz's throat.
The small space did not allow much movement, but then Clare was quite compact. Taking care not to think, she slid down between parted thighs. This was right for the moment. Any pause for thought would drag it all away. For once in her life her body forced her to do before her mind had time to say no. She was new at this but the nerves dissolved when she took Fitz into her mouth. The weight on her tongue was strange yet warm and surprisingly pleasant. Lips moved slowly as the girl tried to take as much of him as possible, feeling herself grow wetter with each of Fitz's groans. His fingers twisted hungrily in her hair in an attempt to anchor himself. It was all he could do to not thrust into her every movement. As she suckled at his most tender spot, Fitz cupped one full breast roughly. An expert pinch of her nipple caused Clare to shudder around his cock, sending Fitz reeling.
"Clare," he hissed between his teeth. He forgot to be gentle then, wrenching her up to his lap with a sudden force. It ached to take her mouth away, but he did not want to finish that way.
The curve of her swan neck was nuzzled and sucked – sure to leave marks later – as he slipped two fingers into her. Clare's mouth hung open in silent shock. A third finger convulsed her body around its core. Twisting and scissoring, Fitz pumped his fingers until she was a writhing animal in his arms. Wild fires took place of the placid eyes like gems set in her visage. It stirred something wicked in him to see this angel burning for his touch. Her mouth crushed down upon his again and again, trying to speak without words.
"What do you want?"
She could merely moan and shove a hand through his soft spikes of hair.
"What do you want, Clare?" Fitz murmured gruffly, knowing full well what the answer would be.
His hand slowed and slid away, leaving a glistening trail up Clare's warm stomach.
An adjustment for better position.
A hand smoothing the hair from her nape.
Lips enveloping soft lips for a gentle moment.
A hasty push as his member screamed for attention once more.
Clare's flushed and sweaty face contorted in pleasured agony. She rocked with delicate, breathless exclamations at every powerful thrust. Fitz had her pressed up against the inner wall, flesh pillowing through the patterned window that separated confessor and priest. She was a feral cat digging claws into his back. He throbbed within her, faster and faster, gentle to lull her to false calm before taking her even more roughly than before. Tears coursed tracks down her cheeks and Fitz kissed them away, concern and lust battling away inside. His teeth and tongue worshiped her collar bone, her throat, her perfect earlobes. Slam. Tangled up in each other. Slam. New pressure in every collision. Slam. Her tightness caressed him as nothing ever had before. Slam. She whimpered, allowing her head to loll back in ecstatic torment - consuming his pain into herself, running wet with his rapture.
"Sweet little Saint Clare." His husky breath in her ear shot flames down her spine. A hand dove for her clitoris as Fitz got close, desperate to finish Clare at the same time. She squirmed and gasped under his deft fingers.
"Give. In. To. Me." The words were little more than panting now. Tonguing her breasts with callous hunger, Fitz buried himself deep into Clare as he came, shuddering and biting her flesh to still his shouts. The two were simultaneously electrified. Hips bucked forward uncontrollably. Nails shrieked over shoulder blades. Heaves for breath, for words, for more, more filled the humid air blanketing them in the dim confessional.
And then she was limp in his grasp.
A trembling mess.
A wilted angel.
Cradled into Fitz's chest and huffing quietly, Clare summoned just enough strength to look the boy full in the face.
Her features danced and flickered through countless emotions as though unsure of where to land.
"I know," Fitz sighed, bestowing a chaste kiss and cuddling her close. "I know."