Fic: Power (Angela/Nathan, NC-17)
Not actually written for my kink meme, but for a private prompt, I give you all NATHAN/ANGELA. Oh, you'd better believe it's dubcon. And incest, obvs.
***
Nathan goes still when she touches him.
Today he holds the power of the United States government in the palm of his hand. Today it is only his good grace that keeps her safe and free.
But, still, all it takes is her hand on his shoulder, and he surrenders. Completely. Instantly. Between one beat of her heart and the next, his eyes go from dark and angry to uncertain, from determined man to frightened boy.
That is power. And it will always be hers.
He breaks away after a moment, crossing the room to the wet bar and pouring himself a drink he almost certainly doesn't actually want. She knows he just wanted the excuse to cross the room, to try to break her spell.
He throws back the unwanted whiskey in one swallow, the he shuts his eyes, bows his head, and stands, holding the empty tumbler.
Sometimes--most of the time--she lets him escape.
But today...
No, not today.
She first dreamed of him when he was less than an inch long, barely there, not even perceptible yet in her figure. Arthur hadn't even known yet that he existed, because she hadn't decided yet if she wanted him. Things had been difficult, then. That night, she'd dreamed, terribly vividly, of the agony of labor, of blood and screams that she was shocked were her own. Of the frantic rush to the OR, and of waking up to Arthur slumped in a chair beside her bed, tie undone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair in hopeless disarray, and tears in his eyes--and the horrible, horrible certainty that her baby was dead.
Then the joy of discovering he was not.
She'd told Arthur she was pregnant that morning.
She walks to him now, and picks the tumbler from his hands. She lets their eyes meet for a flicker of a second, then sets the tumbler down and pours another finger of scotch.
"I'm fine," he says, but he takes the glass when she hands it back to him. Their fingertips brush, and she doesn't miss the moment his spine straightens and doubt flickers in his eyes. He takes a sip and when she doesn't move, leaving only inches between them, close enough for them to feel each other's heat, he edges back a small step, putting more space between them. He turns to look at the painting beside the bar, as though that was always his intention. His next gulp leaves nothing but dregs behind.
The future is flexible. It never stays the same. Chaos theory sees to that. She sees glimpses, possibilities, warnings... but one thing she's noticed is that some things don't change. The future resists the chaos, events try to cling to the timeline.
Nathan always has power, just as Peter always walks a constant, drunken line between salvation and destruction.
"Take your coat off," she says, walking to the couch. "Stay awhile. Keep your mother company."
"Ma," he says, not moving. She's not even touching him. "I should--"
"You're out to change the world, Nathan. Maybe to destroy it. Would you really begrudge your widowed mother a few hours of companionship?"
"Ma--" he says, again. His voice is rough and tight. His knuckles are pale around the tumbler.
She sits. "Nathan. Take your coat off."
He sets down the tumbler and he does it. She smiles.
She woke one morning from two dreams, twining around each other: one of being trapped in an underground prison full of zombie-like prisoners, all drugged and staggering, all under the watch of an adult man whose eyes perfectly match those of her five-year-old son; the other of her father and the way the rough callouses on his fingers would catch on the soft, secret parts of her skin and the way he was the one person in her life she'd never been able to fight. She didn't miss the connection. That morning, she told the nanny she'd give Nathan his bath.
"Come sit beside me," she says.
He does, but not near her. She moves closer and he says, "How have you been?" Next he'll be talking about the weather. Or sports. Things he doesn't care about and knows nothing about, but he'll say anything to try to make this into a conversation.
She curls her fingers around his tie, slowly shifting the knot side to side, loosening it. He's motionless. He says his name for her again, making it low and and urgent and pleading. Don't do this.
He's taller than her, stronger than her. One press of a button on his cellphone could bring federal agents to his rescue. Simply walking away would end this.
But he doesn't move.
She slips off his tie and lets it fall to the floor. One small pinch undoes the first button of his silk dress shirt. Then the next. The next. His chest hair tickles her knuckles.
This is the moment it always gets more complicated. This is the moment when her insides begin to tremble and her skin flushes hot. And this is when she catches the scent of musk and sweat, not her own, even though he still hasn't moved. One part of him has--but nothing else. His shoulders are still tight and tense; his fingers are digging into the edges of the cushions of the couch.
She reaches the last button and pushes his shirt open, down his arms. He finally moves, but only enough to let it slide off and fall behind him. She can see his hands shaking before he clutches the cushions again. He's a beautiful man. So much like his father.
"You want this," she murmurs, leaning in, whispering into his ear as she curls her hand around the part of him that has moved. He's hard and hot in her hand. He exhales harshly through his nose. He doesn't fight her. "You want it as much as I do. This is proof."
Of course he doesn't. Not exactly. She knows she never did when it was her in his place. But want is complicated. Different parts of the brain go to war with each other, and everything gets confused, and when Nathan is confused... she's there to tell him what he needs to hear. She's there to tell him what to believe.
She releases his cock and slides her hands up his chest. Her own body burns at the way he doesn't fight her. At the way his nipples harden under her touch. "That's my boy," she says.
"Ma," he says, and the plea is now for something very different than it was before.
"Come upstairs," she says. This part is the hardest. This part is dangerous. Without her hands on him, he can sometimes come back to himself. He can sometimes make his break.
Today he doesn't.
In her bedroom, she tells him to take off his clothes, and he does it, and then stand beside the bed, naked and half-hard, watching her strip quickly and silently. He never lets his eyes touch hers.
There's no half about anything by the time she reaches him and lifts his hands and puts them on her body. "Touch me."
She can still feel him trembling as his cold hands move across her skin, warming slowly. His broad palms cup her breasts and she hears him inhale sharply as she watches his thumbs, one whole and one mangled, rub across her nipples.
And then he slides down to his knees, his lips glancing along down her body as he goes, his hands settling on her hips. He leans in and opens his mouth, kissing her, licking her, pressing in.
"Yes. Good. That's good." She regrets the small tremor in her voice as his tongue swipes across her clit, electric and perfect.
She holds both himself and her in place with her hands on his shoulders, digging in and pressing down. He's lost now, pressing his face into her, sucking and licking, desperate to make her feel good, to hear her say--
"Yes. Just like that."
Keep control. She has to keep control, but it's hard with him like this, kneeling before her, eager as a dog, desperate for approval, drowning himself because he needs her praise that badly.
And he is good at this. He's learned. He pays attention. In spite of herself her body is shaking and her breath is quickening. He knows just when to push in deeper and when to pull back. He knows where to press the point of his tongue, when to bite.
She knows she's about to come and far from wanting to deny him that satisfaction, she wants to give it to him. She wants to make him feel good, to make him feel worthy. She wants him to remember who makes him feel like that.
She lets herself cry out, once, as she shudders against his mouth.
He looks up at her after, swiping his chin clean with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark and he's lost to lust, now, hazed out and willing. She doesn't have to say anything when she lays back on the bed.
He's shaking, still, all over as he covers her with his body. She strokes his cheek and whispers, "Such a good boy. You keep me safe."
"How do you want it?" he whispers, because it's just between them, even if there isn't anyone around to overhear.
"Hard and fast." Her fingers are woven into his hair, keeping him where she can see his eyes, that look so much like Arthur's. "Don't hold back. Don't treat me like I'm breakable."
He takes her at her word, unquestioning. Slams into her, deep, and she can't stop herself from arching back and shouting. They're alone. The servents know better than to venture up here at times like these.
He doesn't let up. He fucks her hard and deep, shaking the bed, blacking out her mind for a little while. Sweat rolls down his sides, free and wet, dampening her fingers, but he doesn't stop or even slow. He has his orders. He knows what she wants. He will make his body do what he has to. Tomorrow and the next day, his back will be twinging, but he won't let it show.
When she comes, she rakes her nails down his sides. It's a mistake. She tries not to leave marks. But she loses it, just for a moment, just long enough to leave trails of parallel welts that he'll see later, in the shower. So maybe it's a good thing. After all, no one else will see them now.
He's making small noises in his throat, needy whines. Eyes screwed shut, body now shaking only with exhaustion. She knows what he needs. What he's waiting for. She knows she could tell him to stop now. To get dressed and leave. He would.
Instead, she says, "Shh, it's okay. It's okay. Slow down." His eyes open and he looks down at her. His hair is plastered to his forehead. He's watching. Waiting. Like a dog with a milkbone balanced on his nose. He's still moving inside of her, gently now, soft nudges of tired hips. Her body is so sensitive even that is almost too much. Is so good.
She holds his gaze for a long time, watching the emotion in his eyes slide from need to fear to love and back.
Finally, she says, "It's okay. Come for me, Nathan."
He does, with a broken cry, then falls down on her, burying his face in her shoulder, clinging to her. She strokes his hair and says she loves him as he cries.
Today she holds the power of the United States government in the palm of her hand.
***
Nathan goes still when she touches him.
Today he holds the power of the United States government in the palm of his hand. Today it is only his good grace that keeps her safe and free.
But, still, all it takes is her hand on his shoulder, and he surrenders. Completely. Instantly. Between one beat of her heart and the next, his eyes go from dark and angry to uncertain, from determined man to frightened boy.
That is power. And it will always be hers.
He breaks away after a moment, crossing the room to the wet bar and pouring himself a drink he almost certainly doesn't actually want. She knows he just wanted the excuse to cross the room, to try to break her spell.
He throws back the unwanted whiskey in one swallow, the he shuts his eyes, bows his head, and stands, holding the empty tumbler.
Sometimes--most of the time--she lets him escape.
But today...
No, not today.
She first dreamed of him when he was less than an inch long, barely there, not even perceptible yet in her figure. Arthur hadn't even known yet that he existed, because she hadn't decided yet if she wanted him. Things had been difficult, then. That night, she'd dreamed, terribly vividly, of the agony of labor, of blood and screams that she was shocked were her own. Of the frantic rush to the OR, and of waking up to Arthur slumped in a chair beside her bed, tie undone, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair in hopeless disarray, and tears in his eyes--and the horrible, horrible certainty that her baby was dead.
Then the joy of discovering he was not.
She'd told Arthur she was pregnant that morning.
She walks to him now, and picks the tumbler from his hands. She lets their eyes meet for a flicker of a second, then sets the tumbler down and pours another finger of scotch.
"I'm fine," he says, but he takes the glass when she hands it back to him. Their fingertips brush, and she doesn't miss the moment his spine straightens and doubt flickers in his eyes. He takes a sip and when she doesn't move, leaving only inches between them, close enough for them to feel each other's heat, he edges back a small step, putting more space between them. He turns to look at the painting beside the bar, as though that was always his intention. His next gulp leaves nothing but dregs behind.
The future is flexible. It never stays the same. Chaos theory sees to that. She sees glimpses, possibilities, warnings... but one thing she's noticed is that some things don't change. The future resists the chaos, events try to cling to the timeline.
Nathan always has power, just as Peter always walks a constant, drunken line between salvation and destruction.
"Take your coat off," she says, walking to the couch. "Stay awhile. Keep your mother company."
"Ma," he says, not moving. She's not even touching him. "I should--"
"You're out to change the world, Nathan. Maybe to destroy it. Would you really begrudge your widowed mother a few hours of companionship?"
"Ma--" he says, again. His voice is rough and tight. His knuckles are pale around the tumbler.
She sits. "Nathan. Take your coat off."
He sets down the tumbler and he does it. She smiles.
She woke one morning from two dreams, twining around each other: one of being trapped in an underground prison full of zombie-like prisoners, all drugged and staggering, all under the watch of an adult man whose eyes perfectly match those of her five-year-old son; the other of her father and the way the rough callouses on his fingers would catch on the soft, secret parts of her skin and the way he was the one person in her life she'd never been able to fight. She didn't miss the connection. That morning, she told the nanny she'd give Nathan his bath.
"Come sit beside me," she says.
He does, but not near her. She moves closer and he says, "How have you been?" Next he'll be talking about the weather. Or sports. Things he doesn't care about and knows nothing about, but he'll say anything to try to make this into a conversation.
She curls her fingers around his tie, slowly shifting the knot side to side, loosening it. He's motionless. He says his name for her again, making it low and and urgent and pleading. Don't do this.
He's taller than her, stronger than her. One press of a button on his cellphone could bring federal agents to his rescue. Simply walking away would end this.
But he doesn't move.
She slips off his tie and lets it fall to the floor. One small pinch undoes the first button of his silk dress shirt. Then the next. The next. His chest hair tickles her knuckles.
This is the moment it always gets more complicated. This is the moment when her insides begin to tremble and her skin flushes hot. And this is when she catches the scent of musk and sweat, not her own, even though he still hasn't moved. One part of him has--but nothing else. His shoulders are still tight and tense; his fingers are digging into the edges of the cushions of the couch.
She reaches the last button and pushes his shirt open, down his arms. He finally moves, but only enough to let it slide off and fall behind him. She can see his hands shaking before he clutches the cushions again. He's a beautiful man. So much like his father.
"You want this," she murmurs, leaning in, whispering into his ear as she curls her hand around the part of him that has moved. He's hard and hot in her hand. He exhales harshly through his nose. He doesn't fight her. "You want it as much as I do. This is proof."
Of course he doesn't. Not exactly. She knows she never did when it was her in his place. But want is complicated. Different parts of the brain go to war with each other, and everything gets confused, and when Nathan is confused... she's there to tell him what he needs to hear. She's there to tell him what to believe.
She releases his cock and slides her hands up his chest. Her own body burns at the way he doesn't fight her. At the way his nipples harden under her touch. "That's my boy," she says.
"Ma," he says, and the plea is now for something very different than it was before.
"Come upstairs," she says. This part is the hardest. This part is dangerous. Without her hands on him, he can sometimes come back to himself. He can sometimes make his break.
Today he doesn't.
In her bedroom, she tells him to take off his clothes, and he does it, and then stand beside the bed, naked and half-hard, watching her strip quickly and silently. He never lets his eyes touch hers.
There's no half about anything by the time she reaches him and lifts his hands and puts them on her body. "Touch me."
She can still feel him trembling as his cold hands move across her skin, warming slowly. His broad palms cup her breasts and she hears him inhale sharply as she watches his thumbs, one whole and one mangled, rub across her nipples.
And then he slides down to his knees, his lips glancing along down her body as he goes, his hands settling on her hips. He leans in and opens his mouth, kissing her, licking her, pressing in.
"Yes. Good. That's good." She regrets the small tremor in her voice as his tongue swipes across her clit, electric and perfect.
She holds both himself and her in place with her hands on his shoulders, digging in and pressing down. He's lost now, pressing his face into her, sucking and licking, desperate to make her feel good, to hear her say--
"Yes. Just like that."
Keep control. She has to keep control, but it's hard with him like this, kneeling before her, eager as a dog, desperate for approval, drowning himself because he needs her praise that badly.
And he is good at this. He's learned. He pays attention. In spite of herself her body is shaking and her breath is quickening. He knows just when to push in deeper and when to pull back. He knows where to press the point of his tongue, when to bite.
She knows she's about to come and far from wanting to deny him that satisfaction, she wants to give it to him. She wants to make him feel good, to make him feel worthy. She wants him to remember who makes him feel like that.
She lets herself cry out, once, as she shudders against his mouth.
He looks up at her after, swiping his chin clean with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark and he's lost to lust, now, hazed out and willing. She doesn't have to say anything when she lays back on the bed.
He's shaking, still, all over as he covers her with his body. She strokes his cheek and whispers, "Such a good boy. You keep me safe."
"How do you want it?" he whispers, because it's just between them, even if there isn't anyone around to overhear.
"Hard and fast." Her fingers are woven into his hair, keeping him where she can see his eyes, that look so much like Arthur's. "Don't hold back. Don't treat me like I'm breakable."
He takes her at her word, unquestioning. Slams into her, deep, and she can't stop herself from arching back and shouting. They're alone. The servents know better than to venture up here at times like these.
He doesn't let up. He fucks her hard and deep, shaking the bed, blacking out her mind for a little while. Sweat rolls down his sides, free and wet, dampening her fingers, but he doesn't stop or even slow. He has his orders. He knows what she wants. He will make his body do what he has to. Tomorrow and the next day, his back will be twinging, but he won't let it show.
When she comes, she rakes her nails down his sides. It's a mistake. She tries not to leave marks. But she loses it, just for a moment, just long enough to leave trails of parallel welts that he'll see later, in the shower. So maybe it's a good thing. After all, no one else will see them now.
He's making small noises in his throat, needy whines. Eyes screwed shut, body now shaking only with exhaustion. She knows what he needs. What he's waiting for. She knows she could tell him to stop now. To get dressed and leave. He would.
Instead, she says, "Shh, it's okay. It's okay. Slow down." His eyes open and he looks down at her. His hair is plastered to his forehead. He's watching. Waiting. Like a dog with a milkbone balanced on his nose. He's still moving inside of her, gently now, soft nudges of tired hips. Her body is so sensitive even that is almost too much. Is so good.
She holds his gaze for a long time, watching the emotion in his eyes slide from need to fear to love and back.
Finally, she says, "It's okay. Come for me, Nathan."
He does, with a broken cry, then falls down on her, burying his face in her shoulder, clinging to her. She strokes his hair and says she loves him as he cries.
Today she holds the power of the United States government in the palm of her hand.