fic: Ritual (55): Sometimes I Really Need You
Title: Ritual (55): Sometimes I Really Need You
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Volume Three, "Villains": episode "The Eclipse part 2"
Warnings: see pairing and rating, implied underage character, mild violence
Summary: Moments between brothers. Glimpses of lust. Brief flashes of anger. Snapshots of vulnerability in the midst of an undying love.
Note: Written on the fly, unbeta'd; sanity-saving (?) measure. This is not really chronologically structured; some time frames will be obvious, some won't.
Heroes and associated characters belong to Tim Kring, Tailwinds Productions, and NBC/Universal, not to me.
"Busy tonight?"
"Ummm... sorta..."
"In other words, no. Meet me at the Printer's Hotel on Second. I've got a room for the evening; having a meeting there in twenty minutes, but it'll be over by seven."
"Dinner?"
"Come hungry."
"Huh. That's you, Mr. Attorney."
"I'll make sure you're fed, somehow."
"I'm sure... I'm sure you will."
"Good boy. I'll see you then."
"You could at least say 'good man'. Fuck you. I'm not coming."
"The hell you're not."
Peter arrived at the hotel at seven. Asked after his brother at the front desk; was shown up to his suite. In the hallway, he passed men in suits that might have been politicians, lawyers, or bankers. Behind the door of the suite, Nathan's eyes glittered, his sleeves already unbuttoned and rolled up over his tanned, muscular arms. Peter felt the gravitational force of him pulling him into the room, closing his eyes, pressing his knees down against the floor.
"That's right," Nathan said. "You want it."
* * * * *
"Oh... not you again..." A theatrical groan, and Nathan turned over on his bed, where he lay reading the Yale Law Journal in inadequate light.
Pajama-clad Peter just giggled mischievously, and hopped into bed beside his brother, wrapping his arms around Nathan's waist. "Hey, hey, hi. You doin' okay? You didn't finish your dinner."
"I lost my appetite. It's just withdrawal from the pain pills; I'll be all right in a day or two." Really, it was from the double whiskeys he'd had with his father before dinner; not saying no as Arthur topped up his shot glass over and over again. Whiskey; the traditional anaesthetic. His healing body still ached where the shrapnel had torn into him; the scabby, bruised stump of his amputated thumb matched its throbbing with his head, with his heart. He'd tried to drink it away, and nearly succeeded.
And now Peter's arms around him felt good. Warm. Melting the pain and tension out of him. It was so good to have him here; Nathan wondered how he'd done without Peter in his bed every night before. He was still just a kid, but he had a kind of sensual magic that Nathan rarely encountered. He turned back toward Peter, onto his back, put an arm around him, kissed his forehead. He smelled like roasted garlic and salted caramels. Nathan wanted to taste, but just smiled and lay still. Peter was his brother. Still just a kid. Kinda. But with urges now. Weird ones, with Nathan in the middle. Weird urges that Nathan didn't understand, but didn't mind.
Peter switched off the reading lamp, and took the magazine from Nathan's hands, setting it elsewhere. He lay alongside, head nestled on Nathan's shoulder. None of his usual prattle, blah blah blah about high school hallway politics and girls and video games and What Crazy Thing Ma Did Today. No; just silence and warmth, and Peter's hands gently stroking Nathan's torso, like he was petting a very large cat.
But it would happen; it always did. More than a habit; a nightly ritual that Nathan had grown to expect, to long for as well as anticipate. He loved this. It was the best part of his day; the most personal, secret, ecstatically joyous time. Such cuddly bliss, but horrible and thrilling at the same time. It didn't matter if he told Peter to stop; Peter wouldn't, couldn't. Nathan didn't blame him. He didn't really want Peter to stop.
Peter seemed more agitated than usual tonight. More pent up. Upset about something, never mind the sparkly grin he'd worn when he first came into the room. He clung to Nathan more than embraced him, his fingers gripping the cloth of Nathan's pajama trousers tightly. Nathan stroked Peter's hair comfortingly, but said nothing; they lay in silence and it seemed right.
Peter's breath emerged in a choked sob. He squeezed himself hard against Nathan's hip where Peter knew good and well Nathan had been lacerated; it hurt. It hurt. Yes God no yes NO. Yes... Nathan pressed his hand against Peter's chest, asking for restraint; Peter grabbed the hand and held it tight, rubbing his erection against Nathan's tender scars. "Ahh, sh- Ow," Nathan complained, but softly. His cock ached, swelling, pressing against the cloth, against the covers.
"Just..." Peter mumbled. He ducked his head against Nathan's shoulder, knocking skull against collarbone. His breath hitched in his throat and came out a long, infinitely quiet moan. "Just need you."
"Go to bed, Pete."
"You're drunk."
"And you're a brat. You've got school tomorrow. Go... go do your homework." Nathan turned away again, shutting his eyes tight until no light got through.
"Sorry," Peter said. "I'm sorry. I'm such a fuckup." He let go of Nathan's hand, edging away.
"No, you're not. Give me a kiss. C'mon." Nathan turned back, offering up his mouth. Peter kissed him, quickly, denying himself. Denying Nathan a taste of the caramels. "Don't talk like that. Now, go to bed. Good night, pup."
"Good night, hound dog," Peter said. Sounding happy. The little shit. The dirty little passive-aggressive abuser.
Nathan rolled back over, and couldn't sleep, fists clenched with desires he couldn't let himself imagine.
* * * * *
How could he just leave me like that? I can't fucking fly. He knows this. Has he been waiting for this moment? Did I burst his bubble when he found out that anything he could do, I could do? Did I take away that thing that made him special?
The fucked thing is that I kind of understand some things about him now. Like how he could be so into guns and weapons. That machine gun actually felt pretty good in my arms. I wanted to shoot those assholes. I didn't really, but I totally did. I hope I winged a couple of 'em anyway... Guns and bullets. Me. I never went shooting with him and Dad back in the day; not after Pinehearst. Gah, fucking PINEHEARST! Did he really name it that? Named a whole institution after my scene of failure? Of weakness, or so he thinks, and always thought?
I hate my father. I hate him. I hate Nathan, too. Nathan's just like him. In all the ways I hoped he would never be, Nathan's just fucking like him.
I wish I could make these mosquitoes explode. If I could, I'd set them on fire. Zap 'em out of the air with a little spark. That would be fun. I miss that. I miss so many of my abilities. But on the other hand, were any of them really mine? Just like me; I just copy. I just follow. I just cower in Nathan's shadow, shouting at him while he flies away. Just like always. Just like my whole life and all of eternity.
I could kill him. I wish I could. I wish I could have his throat in my hands; I wish I could just crush the life out of him. I had my chance. All those times that he looked up at me and said, "Choke me. Wrap your hands around my throat and push down with your thumbs. Not too hard; just a bit. I want to see stars. I want to see you through the stars while you fuck me." Why the hell didn't I just kill him then?
But no. I loved him. I wanted to give him anything he asked for, even if it scared me, even if it sickened me. Nothing he could do to me was wrong. He hurt me so bad so many times and I just went running back for more. He owned me. Owns. Still owns. I'd still go running to him. If he showed up right now, right in front of me, I'd go running into his arms, even if I had to shoot myself in disgust afterwards. I can't help it. I'm his and he knows it.
For a while I was his better. But then Dad... Ohhhh that son of a bitch. Oh, if I have the chance, I'm going to make him sorry. I will, for once in my life, make him sorry. I'll make him sorry for fucking my mom (tried and true, he's a motherfucker, and no lie). I'll make him sorry for raising Nathan to be a heartless martinet. I'll make him sorry for shitting on me year after year after year, for trying to make me feel like compassion and accountability and loyalty and love were stupid hippie shit, that I'd never amount to anything. When he KNEW. When he knew I was the greatest of them all.
Was.
Oh, Nathan, I miss you. I miss you so much.
* * * * *
"...Oh, yes, right there."
"There?"
"Ahhhhhh. Umm. Oh. Yes, that's it."
"I can feel it. God, I can feel it jumping."
"Yeah, that's me...
"Kiss me right now, fucker, right now. Show me how much you love it-show me how good I do it!"
"Ha ha... mmmmm. Mm. Mm, you've got a dirty mouth, little boy."
"And you've got a dirty butt, but I love you anyway."
"I do not."
"Heh! You're so predictable. So, so predictable."
"I'll get you back for that. Uhhhhhh... oh, I'll get you back for that..."
"Whatever. Shut up. Come for me. Come on. All over me. Mmm... all over yourself. Yeah. That's it. Oh, yeah, that's so beautiful..."
"Oh, fuck. Aggggh. Oh, fuck, Peter, fuck. Ahh."
"Yes, you want it? Yes?"
"Ummmf... Show me the stars... In me, yes-yes. Like that. Uff!"
"A kiss? A kiss? Give it to me. Don't I fuck you better. Don't I fuck you better than any of those bitches. I'm the best and you know I am. I'm the best because I love you the best. More than anybody ever has or anybody ever will. I fuck you good. I'm made for you. I was born for you-"
"Don't. Don't joke about that."
"I'm not fucking joking."
"Enough, or we're done."
"...No... wait, seriously? No. Wait, I'm sorry. No. Hey, I'm sorry. I said I was sorry. C'mon! I haven't even come yet!"
"You should have thought about that before-"
They broke apart. Nathan got up and walked to the far edge of the room, leaving Peter bent and groaning on the couch, pulling hopelessly on his sticky erection, aching and cold now. Nathan sighed a very put-upon sigh, like As usual, and Peter felt rage crackle through his veins.
He flung himself up, out at Nathan, grabbing him by the shoulder, by the hair. Nathan fought back with big-handed slaps that rang out in the silent air like gunshots. His elbow hit Peter in the jaw, and Peter sagged to the ground, cross-eyed with the pain, profound and immense, obliterating everything in the world except that.
Everything until the gentleness of Nathan's lips against his forehead and his hands, trying to get at the spot that he'd struck. Everything but Nathan's solicitous murmurs. "Aw, aw, Pete. I'm sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't mean to hurt you, baby. I'm sorry. C'mon, get up."
They returned to the couch, and Peter sank down onto it, laughing dryly. His laughs grew more robust as the absurdity of the situation dawned on him-two naked men, spattered with fresh semen, having a slap fight over nothing, their wangs swinging in the breeze, hair mussed, and Nathan's lips so reddened from kissing that he looked like he wore lipstick. "I was," Peter gasped, "I was speaking metaphorically, okay? There's this thing called 'dirty talk' that I like to do; you ever heard of it?"
Nathan shook his head, not infected by Peter's hilarity. "Don't talk about what you were made for," he said. "I... I don't know. You were made for love. From love. Out of love. What else do you need to know?"
"Do you know something you're not telling me?" Peter asked. Nathan just shook his head again, but more definitively, and since he had access to Peter's face, he kissed the sore spot, which barely even hurt any more. Peter gazed at him, taking his hand, easing it to his still-hard cock, encouraging Nathan to stroke. "I am for you," he insisted. "Whatever the original intention. I love you. And I can't change that. No matter how else I feel about you; I love you."
"I love you too," Nathan replied, following the urge. His hand moved over Peter's cock, first gently then firmly, faster and harder; he lay over Peter, kissing his neck, his chest, his nipples, the muscle of his shoulder. Peter moaned openly, sinking back into the mood, his heightened senses rapidly reloading into overdrive. He felt Nathan's smile against his skin. "I love you and this feels so good... So good, yeah? Yeah?" He gazed down at Peter, at his bright eyes and awed expression. "Yeah? Are you ready? Are you there? Yeah?"
"Ahhhh...! Ah, there. Yes. Oh, yes, there. That's it. Ohhhhh. You always get me."
"I know you inside and out."
"Inside... God, yeah. Ohhhh. Don't stop. Oh, let's pretend. Let's pretend it's all right. Yes. You and me. Always."
END (55)
Pairing: Peter/Nathan
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Volume Three, "Villains": episode "The Eclipse part 2"
Warnings: see pairing and rating, implied underage character, mild violence
Summary: Moments between brothers. Glimpses of lust. Brief flashes of anger. Snapshots of vulnerability in the midst of an undying love.
Note: Written on the fly, unbeta'd; sanity-saving (?) measure. This is not really chronologically structured; some time frames will be obvious, some won't.
Heroes and associated characters belong to Tim Kring, Tailwinds Productions, and NBC/Universal, not to me.
"Busy tonight?"
"Ummm... sorta..."
"In other words, no. Meet me at the Printer's Hotel on Second. I've got a room for the evening; having a meeting there in twenty minutes, but it'll be over by seven."
"Dinner?"
"Come hungry."
"Huh. That's you, Mr. Attorney."
"I'll make sure you're fed, somehow."
"I'm sure... I'm sure you will."
"Good boy. I'll see you then."
"You could at least say 'good man'. Fuck you. I'm not coming."
"The hell you're not."
Peter arrived at the hotel at seven. Asked after his brother at the front desk; was shown up to his suite. In the hallway, he passed men in suits that might have been politicians, lawyers, or bankers. Behind the door of the suite, Nathan's eyes glittered, his sleeves already unbuttoned and rolled up over his tanned, muscular arms. Peter felt the gravitational force of him pulling him into the room, closing his eyes, pressing his knees down against the floor.
"That's right," Nathan said. "You want it."
* * * * *
"Oh... not you again..." A theatrical groan, and Nathan turned over on his bed, where he lay reading the Yale Law Journal in inadequate light.
Pajama-clad Peter just giggled mischievously, and hopped into bed beside his brother, wrapping his arms around Nathan's waist. "Hey, hey, hi. You doin' okay? You didn't finish your dinner."
"I lost my appetite. It's just withdrawal from the pain pills; I'll be all right in a day or two." Really, it was from the double whiskeys he'd had with his father before dinner; not saying no as Arthur topped up his shot glass over and over again. Whiskey; the traditional anaesthetic. His healing body still ached where the shrapnel had torn into him; the scabby, bruised stump of his amputated thumb matched its throbbing with his head, with his heart. He'd tried to drink it away, and nearly succeeded.
And now Peter's arms around him felt good. Warm. Melting the pain and tension out of him. It was so good to have him here; Nathan wondered how he'd done without Peter in his bed every night before. He was still just a kid, but he had a kind of sensual magic that Nathan rarely encountered. He turned back toward Peter, onto his back, put an arm around him, kissed his forehead. He smelled like roasted garlic and salted caramels. Nathan wanted to taste, but just smiled and lay still. Peter was his brother. Still just a kid. Kinda. But with urges now. Weird ones, with Nathan in the middle. Weird urges that Nathan didn't understand, but didn't mind.
Peter switched off the reading lamp, and took the magazine from Nathan's hands, setting it elsewhere. He lay alongside, head nestled on Nathan's shoulder. None of his usual prattle, blah blah blah about high school hallway politics and girls and video games and What Crazy Thing Ma Did Today. No; just silence and warmth, and Peter's hands gently stroking Nathan's torso, like he was petting a very large cat.
But it would happen; it always did. More than a habit; a nightly ritual that Nathan had grown to expect, to long for as well as anticipate. He loved this. It was the best part of his day; the most personal, secret, ecstatically joyous time. Such cuddly bliss, but horrible and thrilling at the same time. It didn't matter if he told Peter to stop; Peter wouldn't, couldn't. Nathan didn't blame him. He didn't really want Peter to stop.
Peter seemed more agitated than usual tonight. More pent up. Upset about something, never mind the sparkly grin he'd worn when he first came into the room. He clung to Nathan more than embraced him, his fingers gripping the cloth of Nathan's pajama trousers tightly. Nathan stroked Peter's hair comfortingly, but said nothing; they lay in silence and it seemed right.
Peter's breath emerged in a choked sob. He squeezed himself hard against Nathan's hip where Peter knew good and well Nathan had been lacerated; it hurt. It hurt. Yes God no yes NO. Yes... Nathan pressed his hand against Peter's chest, asking for restraint; Peter grabbed the hand and held it tight, rubbing his erection against Nathan's tender scars. "Ahh, sh- Ow," Nathan complained, but softly. His cock ached, swelling, pressing against the cloth, against the covers.
"Just..." Peter mumbled. He ducked his head against Nathan's shoulder, knocking skull against collarbone. His breath hitched in his throat and came out a long, infinitely quiet moan. "Just need you."
"Go to bed, Pete."
"You're drunk."
"And you're a brat. You've got school tomorrow. Go... go do your homework." Nathan turned away again, shutting his eyes tight until no light got through.
"Sorry," Peter said. "I'm sorry. I'm such a fuckup." He let go of Nathan's hand, edging away.
"No, you're not. Give me a kiss. C'mon." Nathan turned back, offering up his mouth. Peter kissed him, quickly, denying himself. Denying Nathan a taste of the caramels. "Don't talk like that. Now, go to bed. Good night, pup."
"Good night, hound dog," Peter said. Sounding happy. The little shit. The dirty little passive-aggressive abuser.
Nathan rolled back over, and couldn't sleep, fists clenched with desires he couldn't let himself imagine.
* * * * *
How could he just leave me like that? I can't fucking fly. He knows this. Has he been waiting for this moment? Did I burst his bubble when he found out that anything he could do, I could do? Did I take away that thing that made him special?
The fucked thing is that I kind of understand some things about him now. Like how he could be so into guns and weapons. That machine gun actually felt pretty good in my arms. I wanted to shoot those assholes. I didn't really, but I totally did. I hope I winged a couple of 'em anyway... Guns and bullets. Me. I never went shooting with him and Dad back in the day; not after Pinehearst. Gah, fucking PINEHEARST! Did he really name it that? Named a whole institution after my scene of failure? Of weakness, or so he thinks, and always thought?
I hate my father. I hate him. I hate Nathan, too. Nathan's just like him. In all the ways I hoped he would never be, Nathan's just fucking like him.
I wish I could make these mosquitoes explode. If I could, I'd set them on fire. Zap 'em out of the air with a little spark. That would be fun. I miss that. I miss so many of my abilities. But on the other hand, were any of them really mine? Just like me; I just copy. I just follow. I just cower in Nathan's shadow, shouting at him while he flies away. Just like always. Just like my whole life and all of eternity.
I could kill him. I wish I could. I wish I could have his throat in my hands; I wish I could just crush the life out of him. I had my chance. All those times that he looked up at me and said, "Choke me. Wrap your hands around my throat and push down with your thumbs. Not too hard; just a bit. I want to see stars. I want to see you through the stars while you fuck me." Why the hell didn't I just kill him then?
But no. I loved him. I wanted to give him anything he asked for, even if it scared me, even if it sickened me. Nothing he could do to me was wrong. He hurt me so bad so many times and I just went running back for more. He owned me. Owns. Still owns. I'd still go running to him. If he showed up right now, right in front of me, I'd go running into his arms, even if I had to shoot myself in disgust afterwards. I can't help it. I'm his and he knows it.
For a while I was his better. But then Dad... Ohhhh that son of a bitch. Oh, if I have the chance, I'm going to make him sorry. I will, for once in my life, make him sorry. I'll make him sorry for fucking my mom (tried and true, he's a motherfucker, and no lie). I'll make him sorry for raising Nathan to be a heartless martinet. I'll make him sorry for shitting on me year after year after year, for trying to make me feel like compassion and accountability and loyalty and love were stupid hippie shit, that I'd never amount to anything. When he KNEW. When he knew I was the greatest of them all.
Was.
Oh, Nathan, I miss you. I miss you so much.
* * * * *
"...Oh, yes, right there."
"There?"
"Ahhhhhh. Umm. Oh. Yes, that's it."
"I can feel it. God, I can feel it jumping."
"Yeah, that's me...
"Kiss me right now, fucker, right now. Show me how much you love it-show me how good I do it!"
"Ha ha... mmmmm. Mm. Mm, you've got a dirty mouth, little boy."
"And you've got a dirty butt, but I love you anyway."
"I do not."
"Heh! You're so predictable. So, so predictable."
"I'll get you back for that. Uhhhhhh... oh, I'll get you back for that..."
"Whatever. Shut up. Come for me. Come on. All over me. Mmm... all over yourself. Yeah. That's it. Oh, yeah, that's so beautiful..."
"Oh, fuck. Aggggh. Oh, fuck, Peter, fuck. Ahh."
"Yes, you want it? Yes?"
"Ummmf... Show me the stars... In me, yes-yes. Like that. Uff!"
"A kiss? A kiss? Give it to me. Don't I fuck you better. Don't I fuck you better than any of those bitches. I'm the best and you know I am. I'm the best because I love you the best. More than anybody ever has or anybody ever will. I fuck you good. I'm made for you. I was born for you-"
"Don't. Don't joke about that."
"I'm not fucking joking."
"Enough, or we're done."
"...No... wait, seriously? No. Wait, I'm sorry. No. Hey, I'm sorry. I said I was sorry. C'mon! I haven't even come yet!"
"You should have thought about that before-"
They broke apart. Nathan got up and walked to the far edge of the room, leaving Peter bent and groaning on the couch, pulling hopelessly on his sticky erection, aching and cold now. Nathan sighed a very put-upon sigh, like As usual, and Peter felt rage crackle through his veins.
He flung himself up, out at Nathan, grabbing him by the shoulder, by the hair. Nathan fought back with big-handed slaps that rang out in the silent air like gunshots. His elbow hit Peter in the jaw, and Peter sagged to the ground, cross-eyed with the pain, profound and immense, obliterating everything in the world except that.
Everything until the gentleness of Nathan's lips against his forehead and his hands, trying to get at the spot that he'd struck. Everything but Nathan's solicitous murmurs. "Aw, aw, Pete. I'm sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't mean to hurt you, baby. I'm sorry. C'mon, get up."
They returned to the couch, and Peter sank down onto it, laughing dryly. His laughs grew more robust as the absurdity of the situation dawned on him-two naked men, spattered with fresh semen, having a slap fight over nothing, their wangs swinging in the breeze, hair mussed, and Nathan's lips so reddened from kissing that he looked like he wore lipstick. "I was," Peter gasped, "I was speaking metaphorically, okay? There's this thing called 'dirty talk' that I like to do; you ever heard of it?"
Nathan shook his head, not infected by Peter's hilarity. "Don't talk about what you were made for," he said. "I... I don't know. You were made for love. From love. Out of love. What else do you need to know?"
"Do you know something you're not telling me?" Peter asked. Nathan just shook his head again, but more definitively, and since he had access to Peter's face, he kissed the sore spot, which barely even hurt any more. Peter gazed at him, taking his hand, easing it to his still-hard cock, encouraging Nathan to stroke. "I am for you," he insisted. "Whatever the original intention. I love you. And I can't change that. No matter how else I feel about you; I love you."
"I love you too," Nathan replied, following the urge. His hand moved over Peter's cock, first gently then firmly, faster and harder; he lay over Peter, kissing his neck, his chest, his nipples, the muscle of his shoulder. Peter moaned openly, sinking back into the mood, his heightened senses rapidly reloading into overdrive. He felt Nathan's smile against his skin. "I love you and this feels so good... So good, yeah? Yeah?" He gazed down at Peter, at his bright eyes and awed expression. "Yeah? Are you ready? Are you there? Yeah?"
"Ahhhh...! Ah, there. Yes. Oh, yes, there. That's it. Ohhhhh. You always get me."
"I know you inside and out."
"Inside... God, yeah. Ohhhh. Don't stop. Oh, let's pretend. Let's pretend it's all right. Yes. You and me. Always."
END (55)