"Wonderful", R, Neal, Peter UST
Title: Wonderful
Author: coffeethyme4me
Pairing: Neal, Peter UST
Rating: R
Written for a beautiful prompt by elrhiarhodan, copied at the end of the story.
Words: 550
Since Peter caught me again, I’ve been painting more. Originals. Caffreys. No more Van Gogh, Degas, the odd Picaso, so out of my typical genre. Now it’s me in my apartment - increasingly I think of it as *my* apartment - doing the skyline in charcoal and the contours of an open book in deep poignant oils. I’ve put sweat equity into my own life suddenly. Because of him.
At first it felt like he was all there was - Peter Burke and the FBI. Straight, wholesome living. Boredom. Traps. What a terrifying feeling to start to *like* it. To get settled in my own skin. To want to pick up the paints, not in some kind of impossible challenge to myself, but for the sheer happiness of how the brush feels in my fingers, how the charcoal stains the ticklish flesh of the outside of my hand.
And I’ve painted him. I’ve lashed a canvas with the red of my heart, newly beating hard again, steady for the first time. I’ve done page after page of Peter Burke in my journal, chanced a few towering paintings that I keep under tarps in case he pops by for a beer or an “all-nighter”. And then when he sits next to me on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees and smiling at me like I’m unknowable and he likes it, I memorize the lines of his face, the curve of neck, the strength in his hands, and I know I’ll paint in a fever straight through till morning and the dawn breaks over the work like a benediction.
But I’m damned. Because I’m falling in love with him, and he sure does like me quite a lot. I want him. And he thinks he’s a surrogate big brother for me. What I want would be equal to incest for him. I want to lick his gorgeous cock under the city stars. I want to fall asleep in his lap, an old movie barely audible on the TV. I want to lie under him, his chest to my back, our sweaty legs frictioning. I want to writhe, impaled, the two of us silent and slowly fucking toward some heaven.
And so I paint that. I commit the cardinal sin of painting him fucking me. I use hot blues and cold orange flames - my body burning for him, his open mouth close to my ear. I paint shadows symbolic of all the secrets I keep under countless smiles. And though it hurts, though it’s impossible and never and no and stop, stop, stop, I go with it. I’m in the pure river flow of it, destined for the crash of the rocks. I feel wonderful. Because he’s there at all. Wonderful. Because I get forty-six hours a week with him. Wonderful because there are worse things than longing hearts: there are broken ones, and Peter is soft with mine. Whether he knows that he holds this fragile, live thing in his hands or not - he is so tender with me.
Since Peter caught me again, I’ve been painting more. Since I’ve been painting more, I’ve caught myself. I look inside the dark of my private heart, and what I see is beautiful, even though it hurts.
It’s so surreal. But I feel wonderful….
END
“Wonderful”
by Annie Lennox
I wanna have you
'Cause you're all I've got
Don't wanna lose you
'Cause it means a lot
All the joy this world can bring
Doesn't give me anything
When you're not here ...
Idiot me
Stupid fool
How could you be
So uncool?
To fall in love with someone who
Doesn't really care for you
It's so obscure...
But I feel...
Wonderful
Yes I feel...
Wonderful
God, it makes me be so blue
Everytime I think about you
All of the heat of my desire
Smokin' like some crazy fire
Come on here
Look at me
Where I stand
Can't you see my heart burnin'
In my hands?
Do you want me?
Do you not?
Does it feel cold baby?
Does it feel hot?
I wanna hold you
And be so held back
Don't wanna need you
But it's where I'm at
Thinkin' bout you every day
How come I was made that way?
It's so surreal...
But I feel... wonderful
Yes I feel ... wonderful
Author: coffeethyme4me
Pairing: Neal, Peter UST
Rating: R
Written for a beautiful prompt by elrhiarhodan, copied at the end of the story.
Words: 550
Since Peter caught me again, I’ve been painting more. Originals. Caffreys. No more Van Gogh, Degas, the odd Picaso, so out of my typical genre. Now it’s me in my apartment - increasingly I think of it as *my* apartment - doing the skyline in charcoal and the contours of an open book in deep poignant oils. I’ve put sweat equity into my own life suddenly. Because of him.
At first it felt like he was all there was - Peter Burke and the FBI. Straight, wholesome living. Boredom. Traps. What a terrifying feeling to start to *like* it. To get settled in my own skin. To want to pick up the paints, not in some kind of impossible challenge to myself, but for the sheer happiness of how the brush feels in my fingers, how the charcoal stains the ticklish flesh of the outside of my hand.
And I’ve painted him. I’ve lashed a canvas with the red of my heart, newly beating hard again, steady for the first time. I’ve done page after page of Peter Burke in my journal, chanced a few towering paintings that I keep under tarps in case he pops by for a beer or an “all-nighter”. And then when he sits next to me on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees and smiling at me like I’m unknowable and he likes it, I memorize the lines of his face, the curve of neck, the strength in his hands, and I know I’ll paint in a fever straight through till morning and the dawn breaks over the work like a benediction.
But I’m damned. Because I’m falling in love with him, and he sure does like me quite a lot. I want him. And he thinks he’s a surrogate big brother for me. What I want would be equal to incest for him. I want to lick his gorgeous cock under the city stars. I want to fall asleep in his lap, an old movie barely audible on the TV. I want to lie under him, his chest to my back, our sweaty legs frictioning. I want to writhe, impaled, the two of us silent and slowly fucking toward some heaven.
And so I paint that. I commit the cardinal sin of painting him fucking me. I use hot blues and cold orange flames - my body burning for him, his open mouth close to my ear. I paint shadows symbolic of all the secrets I keep under countless smiles. And though it hurts, though it’s impossible and never and no and stop, stop, stop, I go with it. I’m in the pure river flow of it, destined for the crash of the rocks. I feel wonderful. Because he’s there at all. Wonderful. Because I get forty-six hours a week with him. Wonderful because there are worse things than longing hearts: there are broken ones, and Peter is soft with mine. Whether he knows that he holds this fragile, live thing in his hands or not - he is so tender with me.
Since Peter caught me again, I’ve been painting more. Since I’ve been painting more, I’ve caught myself. I look inside the dark of my private heart, and what I see is beautiful, even though it hurts.
It’s so surreal. But I feel wonderful….
END
“Wonderful”
by Annie Lennox
I wanna have you
'Cause you're all I've got
Don't wanna lose you
'Cause it means a lot
All the joy this world can bring
Doesn't give me anything
When you're not here ...
Idiot me
Stupid fool
How could you be
So uncool?
To fall in love with someone who
Doesn't really care for you
It's so obscure...
But I feel...
Wonderful
Yes I feel...
Wonderful
God, it makes me be so blue
Everytime I think about you
All of the heat of my desire
Smokin' like some crazy fire
Come on here
Look at me
Where I stand
Can't you see my heart burnin'
In my hands?
Do you want me?
Do you not?
Does it feel cold baby?
Does it feel hot?
I wanna hold you
And be so held back
Don't wanna need you
But it's where I'm at
Thinkin' bout you every day
How come I was made that way?
It's so surreal...
But I feel... wonderful
Yes I feel ... wonderful