Work Text:
"Ay, Claire, we should not be doing this." Gloria's protest is weakened by the sultry rasp of her voice, by the way her fingers are tangled up in blonde hair, pulling Claire closer rather than pushing her away.
"Shut up, Gloria."
Claire doesn't want to think about all the reasons why Gloria's right. They shouldn't be doing this. It's wrong, on so many levels, and Claire's pretty sure there's a very special place in hell reserved for people who even fantasize about doing this with their stepmothers.
Oh dear god. Gloria is her stepmother.
But that's the problem, really; that's been the problem all along. Claire had her life all figured out until her father brought home a woman half his age, with perfect breasts and hips that curve so sensuously it should be illegal. She told herself, and everyone else who would listen, that it was all about the money—there was no way a woman that gorgeous would be interested in her father for any other reason.
In retrospect, she can see quite easily that she was just jealous—not of Gloria, of her bombshell body and ability to flirt her way into or out of anything, but, absurdly, of her father for getting to touch that body, for being on the receiving end of those bedroom eyes.
Then Gloria's nails scrape along the back of her head, and Claire really doesn't want to be thinking about her father anymore. Especially with one of those perfect breasts filling her hand, and those hips arching against her own, and the warm caramel skin of Gloria's neck under her lips.
Deep inside of Claire Dunphy, hidden beneath the wholesome mom-next-door facade she's built up over the years, there is a girl who likes to break the rules. That girl was wild, and free, and did crazy things like make out with girls at college parties to impress guys, only to find she enjoyed it far more than the guys did.
That girl is clawing her way to the surface now, past a decade and a half of carefully constructed self control, to clutch at Gloria's waist, to wedge a knee between two supple thighs. She's shoving a hand into impossibly tight jeans, fingers skidding over slippery silk to press against slick heat, and shuddering as Gloria's breath stutters against the side of her face.
She doesn't know how they got here. One minute they were arguing heatedly about the tissue paper flowers that Claire designed for a dance at Alex's school—they were perfect, but of course Gloria had suggestions, of course Gloria thought she could do better—and the next Claire was pressing Gloria up against the wall of her own living room, kissing her like she was trying to make a point. Which she was, really, but this isn't usually her method of choice.
Claire pushes aside the flimsy silk panties and dips her fingers inside, and Gloria's halfhearted protest is forgotten amidst the string of jumbled English and Spanish words being pulled from her throat that are rapidly becoming more and more vulgar, if Claire is translating correctly (she grew up in Los Angeles—even without taking Spanish in school, she knows the fun words).
It's ridiculous, really, that she ever made fun of Gloria's accent, because right now, rough and thick in her ear, that accent is pure sex, and Gloria doesn't even need to touch her, barely needs to do anything more than just speak, and Claire is quivering with need.
Not that Gloria is idle. Even as she arches and grinds down against Claire's hand, her own hands are on a journey of their own; one gripping tight to Claire's shoulder, the other tugging at the button of Claire's jeans, popping it free and sliding in. It's awkward and they're getting in each other's way and it really makes it hard for Claire to focus, but Gloria's fingers are rubbing in just the right spot and Claire can't bring herself to do anything but keep going, to thrust and rock and pant into Gloria's collarbone as a delicious tightness builds in her abdomen.
Much to her dismay, Claire comes first, shuddering and gasping and leaning heavily against Gloria to keep her knees from giving out beneath her. It figures that Gloria would even be able to best her at this. After a moment's recovery, Claire redoubles her efforts, more determined than ever to see the other woman come undone at her touch.
It doesn't take long—if it was a competition, it would be a close one—before Gloria is leaning back against the wall, crying out in Spanish to various holy figures and clenching hot around Claire's fingers. A victorious grin stretches Claire's lips; men are easy—Phil is especially easy—but there is something wholly satisfying about being able to do this to a woman.
Moments pass in heated silence, their gazes meeting then skittering awkwardly away as they process what exactly just happened. Eventually they come to their senses enough to remove their hands from each other's pants, soft moans escaping as fingers slide over aroused flesh on their way out.
"We must never speak of this," Gloria says in a hushed voice, eyes hooded and dark and focusing on Claire's lips like she wants nothing more than to kiss her again.
"Right." Claire nods, licks her own lips in response. Nothing good could come of anyone finding out about this. The kids would be horrified. Mitchell would probably be pissy for a while before settling into a regular routine of mocking her mercilessly about it. Phil would just think it was hot, and pout because she didn't get it on camera. Her dad...well, if she was lucky, he would be too busy being confounded by the fact that he somehow raised two children who aren't straight to be too angry about the fact that she just had sex with his wife.
Or the fact that she already wants to do it again.
Yeah, it's better if they never speak of this.
end.