fic: Ritual (25): The Game
Title: Ritual (25): The Game
Pairing/Characters: Peter/Nathan, Heidi
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: mild subtextual spoilers through 2.08 "Four Months Ago..."
Word Count: about 5800
Warnings: Incest, explicit sex, language
Summary: Nathan and Peter choose not to play nice.
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Production. This is a work of fan fiction. Names, places, events, and trademarked brands are used fictitiously.
ONE YEAR AND ELEVEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
Nathan had accepted a pair of excellent courtside-seat season tickets for the New York Knicks in lieu of payment from one of his clients. It wasn't that unusual, even though it wasn't kosher; Nathan knew he wasn't going to be able to get actual money from this guy, whose fraud trial had dragged out for almost four years. When Nathan told Heidi about the tickets, Heidi was not pleased. "Knicks tickets are not going to pay for Simon and Monty's Christmas presents," she said. "And you know I don't like basketball, so there's no way I'm going with you. Why couldn't he have given you a season pass for the Jets?" Heidi was a football fan, and she particularly disliked Madison Square Garden. "You ought to give them to someone else."
"I'll pay for the kids' presents myself, honey," Nathan responded, kissing her gently on the cheek, the way he did when he was extremely annoyed with her. She knew good and well that they weren't hurting for money, not in this house, not while she was wearing eleven thousand dollars of platinum and diamonds on her ring finger. "Well, I happen to like the Knicks, so I'm going to use that pass. The seats are just too good. And it's not like I'm going to try to go to every game; and when I do go, I'll just bring somebody else with me."
"Peter likes basketball," Heidi suggested. "You could take him."
"When his schedule allows, I probably will," said Nathan. "What with all that...how-to-be-a-nurse school, it's kind of hard to chase him down these days."
Heidi laughed dryly. "Oh, I'm sure you will," she said. "Or vice versa. You two usually manage to find a way to get together, even if all you do is fight."
"We are brothers," Nathan pointed out. "That's kinda what we do."
***
The Knicks spectacularly lost the second game of the season. "Well, that sucked," Nathan said after the harsh sound of the final buzzer had died away. Beside him, Peter was staring into space, looking depressed. "Oh well, it's only game two. Maybe they'll get their shit together... eventually."
"I need a drink," said Peter morosely.
"No, you want a drink. You don't need a drink," Nathan replied reflexively, then, as he met Peter's eyes and saw the exaggerated sad-clown pout on his younger brother's face, broke into a smile. "I think I need a drink, though." He stood up and headed for an exit aisle, Peter following close behind him. "Where do you want to go? The VIP club upstairs should be hopping, and they make a nice Manhattan up there."
Peter made a face. "No, it's going to be a depressing scene," he said, "all those sad, drunk people. That's where all the high-rolling gamblers hang out, isn't it? No thanks."
They slowly walked together through the departing crowd. "Why don't we go back to your place, and have a nightcap there?" Nathan suggested.
He hadn't necessarily meant anything by it. He hadn't actually thought too specifically about what he and Peter might do, besides going to a game at the MSG, and going to a club afterward for a cocktail and a post-game analysis. But Heidi wasn't expecting him back until late, and the night was still fairly young.
Last time they'd had a chance to get together had been four months ago, and that hadn't worked out. Last time they'd had a chance, and were able to act on it, had been on Peter's birthday three weeks before that, for twenty sweet, stolen minutes. Was Peter remembering being dragged into a bathroom stall and sucked off in between gifts and champagne? Or was he remembering trading sad smiles over brunch, a planned afternoon alone together having been intercepted by a phone call, summoning Nathan to some last-minute meeting with people from the state congressman's office? Even the prospect of putting his cock in Peter's mouth couldn't supersede Nathan's ambition. Peter accepted that, because he had to. He had been avoiding Nathan since that frustrating brunch, though whether it was because of hurt feelings or simple overwork, Nathan had no idea. They hadn't talked about it. Nathan didn't think there was anything to talk about; he didn't care if Peter had his feelings hurt. Nathan had goals to accomplish. And if Peter was working hard, good for him. But Nathan did wonder. Nathan did miss him. Nathan did want to have another chance.
Peter was staring at him now with a thoughtful look on his face, eyes a little narrower than usual, unsmiling but soft-mouthed, a hint of extra color in his November-pale cheeks. "Sure..." he answered tentatively. "But I don't have anything to drink at home."
Nathan smiled. "We'll stop somewhere on the way and grab a bottle."
"Cool," Peter said.
On the drive back downtown, they discussed the game, but Peter hadn't really been following it very closely, and he had never had a good eye for strategy in the first place. Football was Peter's game, too, and even with that, his experience was almost entirely based on watching it on television and playing it himself. And Peter had never been any good at football because he didn't seem to be able to think more than one or two steps ahead. Nathan had never played basketball in any serious fashion, but he liked to study its use of tactics and split-second decision making, and he loved the beauty of a triumphant move on the court. He tried not to be frustrated at Peter's indifference, but he didn't quite succeed. "How could you have missed that play? It was right in front of you - what, four hundred yards away? What's the point of having courtside seats if you're not going to watch the game?" he fumed.
"Dude, at least you didn't pay for the tickets, okay?" Peter snapped back. "It wasn't a good game, and my head was somewhere else, all right? Step back."
"I'm just saying--" Nathan began, then let his words trail away as he pulled up to a corner shop. He stopped the car and flipped his hazard lights on, then handed Peter his credit card. "Get whatever you want," he said, not looking at Peter, trying to calm his temper. Peter snatched the card away and slammed the door as he went out. Nathan slapped the steering wheel and muttered, "Ungrateful little shit..."
In a minute, Peter returned with a small bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, and settled into his seat, staring out the window and pouting. Nathan glanced at Peter's profile - the mop of dark hair gone wavy from the humidity outside, the dark-blue-and-gray cashmere scarf Nathan had bought for him last Christmas muffled around his neck from collar to chin. So cute when he was angry; cute all bundled up in soft, fuzzy wool. If Peter had been looking at Nathan, he would have seen the faint smile that tugged at the corners of Nathan's lips. But Nathan didn't say anything, just put the car back into gear, and got back on the road, and Peter kept his eyes on the window, his head obviously still somewhere else.
Wondering what Peter was thinking would drive Nathan crazy. He decided that he felt like being sane, at least for the time being. Peter would eventually tell him; he always did. The smart tactic was to just wait Peter out.
The silence persisted until they were upstairs in the hallway outside Peter's apartment. While Peter was engaged in unlocking his front door, Nathan looked in the brown paper bag. He immediately scoffed. "Maker's Mark? Are you fucking kidding me? You had my Visa Platinum, could get anything you wanted, and you got cheap bourbon? How am I supposed to drink this?"
"Figure it out; you're the smart one," Peter said sullenly.
He got the door open, and they went inside. Even in the dark, Nathan could tell how messy and cluttered the apartment was, but street light gleamed through a crack in the heavy curtains, casting a long, thin, golden beam across the floorboards and furniture. The light made the room strangely beautiful, magical and secretive. Music was playing very faintly from Peter's bedroom, some low-key electronic stuff that Nathan didn't recognize, and quickly slipped to the back of his perception. Peter didn't switch on the lights. He turned away from Nathan and hung up his coat, then unwound the striped scarf from his neck, slowly revealing the vulnerable, faintly glowing whiteness of his neck. Without thinking, Nathan reached out, and with a gentle, drowsy leisure, let his fingertips trail over Peter's neck.
"You can bite it if you want," Peter murmured.
Nathan took a deep breath, and lifted his hand away. Peter draped his scarf over his coat on the coathooks by the door and sighed, quietly, resigned. Disappointed.
Nathan's heart had never stopped racing.
He leaned forward and bit down into the curve of ivory muscle underneath Peter's left ear.
Peter gasped faintly in surprise and pain... and yes, something else. If he had to guess, Nathan would call it satisfaction. Peter followed the gasp with a quiet "Mmmm," as though he were the one tasting the slightly perfumey salt of skin in his mouth. Nathan grasped Peter's shoulders in his hands and tightened his jaw, then opened his mouth and bit again, higher, and again below. Peter's humming became sharp, flinching hisses. He even tried to move away, but Nathan held him steady, taking advantage of having permission. If you want... and he did, so he did. Hard. His teeth left deep dents that would probably bruise nastily by morning. Half the fun was the faint moan of relief that Peter gave when Nathan finally let him go.
Peter turned to face him at last, wide-eyed, breathing heavily. He closed the space between them, and kissed Nathan roughly and desperately, but only for a second; Nathan firmly pushed Peter away, and looked into his eyes. Curious how so little light could all be caught in his irises, bringing out their color, that rare and uncanny jade green hidden underneath dark brown.
A memory flashed quickly in Nathan's mind, and he felt almost guilty - Maker's Mark was the whiskey they'd had in the first weekend spent in the summer house in Vermont, six years ago, when they finally stopped pretending, when they had finally done everything they wanted to do. He had forgotten. Peter had sent him a signal, and Nathan had missed it. They really had gone too long without seeing each other.
But they were together here and now. Nathan couldn't help smiling at the beauty of Peter's eyes, the taste of Peter's skin still in his mouth. He fought the smile down, though, his eyes burning into Peter's. Peter didn't back down from the stare. He was sharp-eyed, shoulders as straight as they could be, ready to get down to it. His first play had fumbled, gone nowhere, because Nathan hadn't been paying attention, so he'd lobbed Nathan an easy one. Bite me where I'm vulnerable. There was no mistaking that. Setting the tone. Challenge. Game on, and no playing nice. I'm yours, if you want.
God, yes.
"Pour me a drink," Nathan said.
Peter obligingly stepped over to his kitchen cabinets, opened the bottle, and splashed some whiskey into a small cut-crystal glass, one of their mother's cast-offs. He handed it to Nathan and watched him expectantly.
"Come here, and open your mouth," Nathan said. When Peter stepped closer, Nathan took Peter's jaw between the fingers of his free hand, and pulled Peter's mouth open. Nathan tipped the rim of the glass between Peter's lips, clinking against Peter's teeth, and carefully poured a little trickle of whiskey into Peter's mouth. "Swallow," Nathan ordered quietly. Peter squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, drew away, and closed his mouth. He didn't cough or flinch. Nathan was impressed; he wasn't sure he could have done the same thing. "Good," Nathan said, stroking Peter's hair, taking a swallow of the bourbon himself. The oppressive, sharp-edged sweetness filled his mouth, and he grimaced. He set the glass down on the side table by the chair. "I'll be in charge of how much you drink tonight. Now I know you want to suck me off, so... do it right."
A slow smile spread across Peter's face. He kissed Nathan's lips lightly, sharing just the taste of the alcohol between them, then stepped behind Nathan, tugging Nathan's coat gently from his shoulders. He began to unwrap Nathan like an elaborately packaged gift - unwinding Nathan's scarf and placing it carefully over his coat, carefully loosening the buttons on Nathan's shirt as though he was afraid of tearing them off, folding each article of clothing and placing them all in a neat stack on the coffee table.
At first Nathan was amused, but Peter was taking absolutely forever, and had that little self-satisfied smile on his face that made Nathan want to throw him on the floor and fuck him until he screamed for mercy. Nathan's skin tingled from the chill of the air, from wanting to contact other skin, and Peter could make the removal of a pair of boxer shorts last an eternity.
Finally, Nathan stood completely undressed, naked but for the rings on his fingers. Peter stood back and examined his handiwork, fingers curled against his chin, sizing Nathan up, frowning a little, as if considering taking the rings off, too. Nathan's cock was so hard it hurt. "Okay, so-called sex slave," he said, "bad boy... take off your clothes." He picked up the shot glass and took a mouthful of inappropriate sweetness again. "Let me see it all. Let me figure out if it's worth it or not."
Peter stripped off his clothes in five seconds, tossing them on the floor. It almost made Nathan laugh. He gave Peter the same appraising look, head to toe and back again. Extremely beautiful, as always - almost too skinny, chest still mostly smooth, nipples tight in the cold, a navel that begged to be fucked with the tongue. Peter was as aroused, or at least as erect, as Nathan was, his hand hovering nearby, but not touching. He seemed to be getting something out of this denial. It really had been too long since they'd been together; Peter had started getting off on waiting for it, delaying it as long as possible. Nathan could play that way, if Peter wanted it. "I'm not convinced," Nathan decided, his voice cold, hard-edged. "I think you need to go clean up before you're worth it. Now go do it."
At first, Peter just blinked, and then the smile vanished from his face, and his gaze dropped to the floor. He gave Nathan a resentful glance and headed toward the bathroom, his step heavy. Nathan couldn't help smiling; Peter was so good at playing along. He'd taught his little brother well. This was going to be fun.
***
That asshole, Peter thought furiously, heading into his bathroom, leaving the door open for a moment, but when it became obvious that Nathan had no intention of joining him, he kicked the door closed with a slam.
If Nathan wanted Peter to cool his lust, he'd said exactly the right thing. Nathan knew good and well that Peter hated being told to "go clean up." He didn't mind being called dirty or little or bad or any of those playfully insulting things - in the right context - but he hated "go clean up," and it was such an innocuous thing to say, and a desirable thing to do, that Peter didn't feel like he could nag Nathan to stop saying it. He'd told Nathan before that he didn't like it, but Nathan just blew that off, the way he blew off so many things that mattered to Peter, but not to him. "Don't tell me to go away right after I take your clothes off, bitch!... What kind of idiot is he? What the fuck?" Peter muttered. Didn't Nathan understand anything about how the game was played? He was forgetting things he'd taught Peter himself.
He got into the shower, turned the water up hot, and stood underneath the stinging spray, bracing his weight on his hands spread against the tiled wall. "Fuck," he said, then louder, "fuck fuck fuck!" All night, it had been one step forward, one step back... or sideways... or something, but whatever it was, Peter just didn't feel like they were making progress. Maybe it was Peter's fault after all. He hadn't felt that all that enthusiastic about going to see the Knicks tonight, and had only gone because it was a chance to spend time with Nathan. But he hadn't felt much enthusiasm about spending time with Nathan recently, either.
It was all too frustrating. Too hard to be near him, and have nothing happen, have it be impossible, have to pretend like he was all right with that. He tried to give Nathan his space... with Heidi, with the kids, with the whole law thing that was warping somehow into a politics thing. There wasn't room for Peter in all of that. So Peter backed off. He buried himself in work and school. He tried not to need Nathan, not to want him.
It didn't work. And it didn't seem to have worked for Nathan, either, even though he hadn't said so. All Peter needed to know about Nathan had been in that caress, in those bites. He missed Peter and it made him angry, and Peter didn't know what he was supposed to do about that. And being made to feel like he wasn't good enough wasn't helping. Why didn't Nathan understand?
"Fuck," he said again.
He washed up thoroughly, and shut off the water, and Nathan still hadn't come. Peter's annoyance gave way to curiosity and concern. Obviously they were going to play, and Nathan was a stickler for a shower beforehand, so what was up? Peter toweled off and took a moment to comb his hair - maybe if he looked neat as well as clean, things would feel less weird between them - and opened the door, emerging in a cloud of steam.
Only to be met with a fresh cloud of steam, this one smelling of chocolate.
Nathan stood there, holding a mug right in Peter's face. He handed it over, and said, "You look better." He winked, then went into the bathroom and carefully, quietly closed the door behind him.
Peter just stood there for a moment, blinking, then he sipped at the contents of the mug. Hot cocoa, made double-strength, thick with the powdered mix that Peter kept in his cupboards, and so much whiskey Peter could barely taste the chocolate. A pleasant, sweet, innocent hot drink, perverted with booze, too hot, too sugary, too much of everything. Enjoyed more for what it did than how it tasted, and even so, it tasted damn good. Like in Vermont, where they'd both gotten wasted so they'd have a better excuse to finally do what they wanted. Ah, yes. Peter grinned. Nathan had remembered after all. That devious jerk.
And he'd lit the candles, too. A hippie chick Peter briefly dated had bought him four St. Peter devotional candles as a joke, because he was always such a good guy - "a fucking saint," she'd said. If she only knew. Peter had never bothered to light them; they were just interesting Catholic kitsch items, souvenirs of a relationship that ended before things could go badly. Candlelight made the room look completely different, made his heart beat faster. Made him want to be touched. Made him want to be good.
Drinking from the mug of cocoa, Peter climbed into bed, reached into his bedside table's second drawer, and pulled out the bottle of lube tucked into the front corner. Still plenty left. He only used this particular lube with Nathan. It was very slippery and resilient, and rather expensive; Peter couldn't really afford it on his own. He had to ask Nathan to get it for him. It was Nathan's favorite. Nearly odorless, nearly tasteless. But not completely.
Peter lay there and stroked his cock, which quickly hardened again in his fingers, the stiffening flesh twitching, demanding more. He rubbed himself as best he could without lubrication, but he didn't want to touch lube until Nathan had a chance to taste naked skin, wherever he wanted to taste it. Peter rolled over and rubbed his cock against the flannel bedsheets, moaning to himself, shuddering with lust. All this waiting was making him furious, annoyed at himself for taking the wrong tactic with Nathan. Peter had been hoping Nathan would get impatient, and grab Peter and shove him up against a wall, but instead the big doofus just stood there and let himself be undressed, eyebrow arched, not volunteering anything. Peter punched the surface of the bed and screamed into his pillow, "Fuuuuuuuck!"
"Yes?" came Nathan's voice from a few feet away. Peter jumped and blinked at him, and suddenly realized how drunk he'd gotten from the cocoa, and he hadn't even finished it. Nathan stood there smiling with a towel around his waist. Peter hadn't even noticed the sound of the shower coming on - in fact, it never had.
"You riding out dirty tonight?" Peter murmured curiously.
"I cleaned what needed cleaning," Nathan said.
Peter leaned over and yanked Nathan's towel, with Nathan still wrapped in it, over to him. Peter moved the towel out of his way, and slid his mouth over Nathan's erection, his hands snaking around Nathan's hips, fingers digging into Nathan's buttocks. Nathan gave a startled, indulgent laugh. "Peter... Peter, okay? Okay? All right. Uh. Oh, wow." Peter sucked Nathan's cock all the way to the back of his throat, swallowed twice before taking another breath, and then did it again, just to prove that he had mastered it. Nathan hissed, and he roughly stroked Peter's hair. "Aw, is he hungry?"
Peter looked up at Nathan and said, "You're an asshole."
Nathan didn't miss a beat. "You're a flake," he replied pleasantly. Peter stared back, dumbstruck, but Nathan's fingers lovingly caressed Peter's cheek, his ear. He smiled, and Peter squirmed and relaxed, leaning into Nathan's hand. "Okay, so can we agree we've had enough of that?"
He nuzzled Nathan's hand, rubbed his lips against it, opened his mouth and licked Nathan's fingertips. No. Talk to me however you want. Just don't stop touching me. "I need to get my dick wet," Peter mumbled.
Nathan laughed softly. "Mine first," he said.
"Just a little... just a little," Peter begged.
"I won't be able to stop if I start." He climbed on the bed next to Peter, kissed Peter's belly and ran his tongue around the rim of Peter's navel. Peter squirmed, ticklish. "Okay," Nathan consented faintly, "just a little," and he licked his lips, pressed them down on the tip of Peter's cock, pressing down, forcing the head of Peter's cock past his tightly closed lips into his hot, wet mouth, then lifted his head again, freeing Peter's cock with a wet, popping sound. Peter clenched his fists and groaned shakily, ending on a disbelieving laugh. That had just been the sexiest three seconds of his entire year, if not his whole life. Dammit, why did Nathan always have to one-up him?... Nathan grinned and lay back, propped up on the pillows at the head of Peter's bed. "See? You shoulda waited. It's not like I want to stop, you know. But... weren't you in the middle of something?"
Peter slid down between Nathan's legs, elbows braced on either side of Nathan's hips. "Yeah, I forgot," he replied silkily. Nathan gave a husky laugh, which turned into a long groan at the touch of Peter's tongue curling around his cock, the feel of Peter's mouth taking all of him in.
Then Peter drew back and sharply slapped Nathan's cock with the flat of his hand.
Nathan flinched away and yelped. "Fuck, Pete, ow!"
"I'm not done," Peter said softly, pressing Nathan back down, sucking cock back into his mouth, soothing the skin. Nathan grasped Peter's hair in his hands, holding Peter steady, but he soon got lost in the slick, smooth rhythm of Peter's mouth, and let Peter's hair free. Almost immediately, Peter gave him another smack, and Nathan cried out again. Peter laughed wickedly. "You love it," he said. He sucked, and slapped again. Nathan merely whimpered this time, and Peter moaned in answer. "You love it... I can taste it." He sucked some more, filling his mouth, stretching his tongue, jacking his fingers over the wet shaft until he tasted more pre-come than chocolate. And then another slap, wet-on-wet stinging his fingers - he could only imagine how much it must have stung Nathan.
Good.
Suddenly satisfied, Peter curled up in Nathan's arms. Nathan didn't complain; he held Peter, kissed his face, smiling mistily. "So there," Peter whispered, kissing back. "I hope that hurt."
"It did. You're so bad. I can't even believe how bad you are."
Peter kissed the corner of Nathan's lips, then traced his tongue inside the curves and dips of Nathan's ear. "I'm sorry. From now on, I promise to be good."
Nathan scoffed. "Why would I want you to be good?" He took Peter's hand, and put it on his damp, tingling cock. "I liked that. You wouldn't do that if you were good." Confident that Peter wouldn't take his hand away, Nathan slid two fingers into Peter's mouth, giving Peter very little choice except to suck them. Peter pressed his cock against Nathan's thigh, and Nathan trailed his tongue against the purplish half-circles on the back of Peter's neck. "I love it when you're a brat. And besides... if you're good, that means I don't get to punish you, and then what am I going to ever do for fun?"
Picking up the lube bottle from where Peter had dropped it on the bed beside them, Nathan poured some of the slick gel onto his fingers, sliding one into Peter's ass, grabbing Peter's cock with the other hand, re-introducing it to his mouth. Peter wrapped one leg around Nathan's torso, holding him close, his fingers making a mess of Nathan's hair. "Ah, yes, inside me," he muttered, then, his body rocking back and forth, he found that he couldn't decide which sensation he preferred - the slick wet velvet of Nathan's mouth, or the tingling violation of a finger in his ass, not just thrusting in and out, but twisting, crooking questioningly back and forth inside him. In Nathan's hands, Peter became a groaning, twitching, babbling wreck, so bombarded with pleasure that he couldn't think straight. "Huh - huh - ahhhhh!" he gasped, and saw Nathan flinch, then tighten his jaw, moan, and swallow, instead of feeling that he had come. "No! Wait! That doesn't count!" Peter begged. "Don't stop - I'm not done!"
"I'm done fingerbanging you," Nathan replied, his annoyed, authoritarian voice back. Peter shuddered inwardly with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He relaxed, and submitted completely to Nathan manipulating his body into position, mostly on his back, a little tilted to one side, one leg up. He waited for the few agonizing seconds that it took for Nathan to drench his cock with lubricant, and bit his lip, breathing deep. He is going to fuck the living shit out of me, Peter thought. I kinda wish I'd been good myself now. Of course he likes it when I'm bad, because it gives him permission to fuck all the fight out of me. And I just give it to him - I shove it on him. I give him no choice. I've forced him into this. I've-
The first thrust obliterated Peter's thoughts. He didn't scream; it was too much for that. His breath was stolen away. Nathan stabbed him deep, once, twice, a third time. Then stopped. He trailed a fingertip up the back of Peter's thigh, and that's when Peter screamed. Who could take being roughly sodomized, and tickled at the same time?
Nathan laughed. "It's good," he said.
Peter wrapped the raised leg around Nathan's waist. "Gimme it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Gimme what you saved up. Gimme all of that - unh, oh God, oh God! Oh, goddamit, yes, yes, yes! Fuck yes!" He didn't know how he could say that. It hurt so much, the way Nathan was pounding into him, and his whole body so tightly contained, driving Nathan along a singular axis, so deep, deeper than ever before. It wasn't - it couldn't be - but it felt like it. It felt like Peter had never been fucked before; it hurt more than his very first time. He didn't understand it. But the pleasure was also greater, more concentrated, as though Peter had learned how to transform pain into orgasmic bliss. He guessed he had. He guessed that Nathan had taught him that, too.
And then Nathan stopped for a moment, and Peter was able to catch his breath and sit up. He left a puddle of sweat on the sheets, and immediately lay back down on the wet cold spot as Nathan made him turn over, face down, and raise his hips, sticking his ass in the air. Nathan gave a kiss to both of Peter's buttocks, then grasped them, spreading them, inserting his cock into the space, then sliding it back up and inside. Such a contrast of sensation between the two positions - Peter called out, but entirely in pleasurable bliss now; nothing about this hurt. They were meant to do it this way. This felt the best. Nathan seemed to think so too. "Ah, I missed fucking you," he sighed, gently stroking Peter's back while his hips continued their steady motion. Peter threw off Nathan's rhythm by arching back, whining for more. Nathan held Peter's hips and slammed him back onto his cock. Peter howled with joy. Since he was using his arms, not his hips and back, Nathan could yank Peter back and forth with extraordinary speed. They had never fucked so fast before, as fast as a racing heartbeat, and yet they breathed slowly, deeply, in perfect sync.
Why couldn't it last forever? But it couldn't. "I want you to watch me come," Nathan said.
"Yeah..." Peter agreed, because there was nothing else coherent that he could say.
Nathan stopped again, pulled out, and turned Peter back over. Peter flung his arm up and sighed with blissful relief, then began to softly moan again as Nathan gave his cock a slow, final suck. Peter felt ready to explode; he wondered why he hadn't already, then remembered that he'd already come once tonight. It seemed like forever ago - from before that amazing fuck. But now Nathan was jacking off, fingers flashing on his glossy, quivering-stiff cock, the slit tip pointing toward Peter's own dick, brushing against it, inviting it to play. To come. You too. Peter's lower torso was a slippery mess - so much lube, so much pre-come, so much sweat - and it was nothing to just wipe his hand along his belly and grab his dick in his hand. It was so easy, so perfect to jack off with this perfect slickness. He rubbed the tip of his cock against Nathan's, too, like friends reacquainting. At once, Nathan gave a desperate sigh, and suddenly there was cum on his fingers, and then spurting more out of him, so beautiful. And Peter felt his own this time, like fingers snapping by the thousands inside him, sparking off, igniting his entire body, jetting streaky, ghostly cream all over Peter's belly.
So much. He was definitely a dirty boy now, but utterly at peace. Nathan stood up and went back to the bathroom, taking the towel with him. Peter lay still, smiling, feeling like a tray of freshly glazed cinnamon rolls. Disgusting, but delicious.
After a few minutes (and still no shower), Nathan emerged from the bathroom, went to the front room and returned with the neat stack of his clothes. Under Peter's calm, watchful eye, Nathan proceeded to get dressed again, almost as slowly as he had been stripped. Somewhere after the trousers, but before the button-down went on over the T-shirt, Nathan murmured, "You're a slut. You're a dirty, immoral slut. You know that? The best cocksucker in town. Got an ass that's begging to be tasted and fucked... Your face just screams, Come all over me. Oh, yeah, I know you. You'll bend over in a heartbeat. You're waiting for the command to get on your knees. Am I the only one who knows that?"
"Yes," Peter whispered, smiling.
"Good. Keep it that way."
"Or you'll... what?"
Nathan didn't reply, and Peter's smile turned into a grin, realizing that Nathan hadn't thought that far ahead. Peter ran his fingers through the drying film of semen on his belly, and grimaced; it wasn't quite as sexy now, getting all stiff and tacky. Nathan disappeared into to the bathroom again, and returned with his still-damp washcloth. He tossed it at Peter, hitting him in the face with the big glob of wet, minty-smelling towel.
"Keep it that way," Nathan repeated, grimly and forcefully. Peter just giggled, and wiped himself off with the cold towel.
Then he raised his hand, middle finger outstretched. Nathan arched his eyebrow. "This is your favorite one," Peter explained. "This is the one that makes you go 'Uhhmmmm... stick another one in, please, baby, please.'" He giggled some more, wickedly this time. "And then I do."
Nathan just smiled at him. "That's my boy," he murmured. He reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat, and withdrew a slim pamphlet, which he tossed onto the bed, next to Peter. "Let me know," Nathan added, tightened his scarf, and left the apartment.
Peter picked up the pamphlet - the Knicks 2004-5 season schedule. He examined it and smiled, and wondered if the team would actually get it together. Maybe he had it in him to watch a little bit more basketball.
END PART (25)
A/N: Ritual 25, and the end of the truncated Season 2. I don't know what to think... Despite what it may seem, I am not a sports fan, but I have the feeling that the Petrelli boys are (and I've done my dabbling, so I generally know what I mean). Maker's Mark isn't cheap bourbon - in fact it's generally out of my price range - but it would definitely be beneath a whiskey snob like Nathan. If anyone cares, the music playing in Peter's room is the album Talkie Walkie by Air. Great "doin' it" music.... Anyway, there you have it, sports fans. ^_^ This story is dedicated to Tim Kring (for seemingly forgetting stuff that he taught me about writing!) and Evel Knievel for being awesome and now dead. Thanks again for reading, and let's all hope for a long and healthy Season 3.
Pairing/Characters: Peter/Nathan, Heidi
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: mild subtextual spoilers through 2.08 "Four Months Ago..."
Word Count: about 5800
Warnings: Incest, explicit sex, language
Summary: Nathan and Peter choose not to play nice.
Previous rituals:
(1) :: (2) :: (3) :: (4) :: (5) :: (6) :: (7) :: (8) :: (9) :: (10) :: (11) :: (12) :: (13) :: (14) :: (15) :: (16) :: (17) :: (18) :: (19) :: (20) :: (21) :: (22) :: (23) :: (24)
Heroes is the property of NBC/Universal and Tailwinds Production. This is a work of fan fiction. Names, places, events, and trademarked brands are used fictitiously.
ONE YEAR AND ELEVEN MONTHS BEFORE THE ECLIPSE...
Nathan had accepted a pair of excellent courtside-seat season tickets for the New York Knicks in lieu of payment from one of his clients. It wasn't that unusual, even though it wasn't kosher; Nathan knew he wasn't going to be able to get actual money from this guy, whose fraud trial had dragged out for almost four years. When Nathan told Heidi about the tickets, Heidi was not pleased. "Knicks tickets are not going to pay for Simon and Monty's Christmas presents," she said. "And you know I don't like basketball, so there's no way I'm going with you. Why couldn't he have given you a season pass for the Jets?" Heidi was a football fan, and she particularly disliked Madison Square Garden. "You ought to give them to someone else."
"I'll pay for the kids' presents myself, honey," Nathan responded, kissing her gently on the cheek, the way he did when he was extremely annoyed with her. She knew good and well that they weren't hurting for money, not in this house, not while she was wearing eleven thousand dollars of platinum and diamonds on her ring finger. "Well, I happen to like the Knicks, so I'm going to use that pass. The seats are just too good. And it's not like I'm going to try to go to every game; and when I do go, I'll just bring somebody else with me."
"Peter likes basketball," Heidi suggested. "You could take him."
"When his schedule allows, I probably will," said Nathan. "What with all that...how-to-be-a-nurse school, it's kind of hard to chase him down these days."
Heidi laughed dryly. "Oh, I'm sure you will," she said. "Or vice versa. You two usually manage to find a way to get together, even if all you do is fight."
"We are brothers," Nathan pointed out. "That's kinda what we do."
***
The Knicks spectacularly lost the second game of the season. "Well, that sucked," Nathan said after the harsh sound of the final buzzer had died away. Beside him, Peter was staring into space, looking depressed. "Oh well, it's only game two. Maybe they'll get their shit together... eventually."
"I need a drink," said Peter morosely.
"No, you want a drink. You don't need a drink," Nathan replied reflexively, then, as he met Peter's eyes and saw the exaggerated sad-clown pout on his younger brother's face, broke into a smile. "I think I need a drink, though." He stood up and headed for an exit aisle, Peter following close behind him. "Where do you want to go? The VIP club upstairs should be hopping, and they make a nice Manhattan up there."
Peter made a face. "No, it's going to be a depressing scene," he said, "all those sad, drunk people. That's where all the high-rolling gamblers hang out, isn't it? No thanks."
They slowly walked together through the departing crowd. "Why don't we go back to your place, and have a nightcap there?" Nathan suggested.
He hadn't necessarily meant anything by it. He hadn't actually thought too specifically about what he and Peter might do, besides going to a game at the MSG, and going to a club afterward for a cocktail and a post-game analysis. But Heidi wasn't expecting him back until late, and the night was still fairly young.
Last time they'd had a chance to get together had been four months ago, and that hadn't worked out. Last time they'd had a chance, and were able to act on it, had been on Peter's birthday three weeks before that, for twenty sweet, stolen minutes. Was Peter remembering being dragged into a bathroom stall and sucked off in between gifts and champagne? Or was he remembering trading sad smiles over brunch, a planned afternoon alone together having been intercepted by a phone call, summoning Nathan to some last-minute meeting with people from the state congressman's office? Even the prospect of putting his cock in Peter's mouth couldn't supersede Nathan's ambition. Peter accepted that, because he had to. He had been avoiding Nathan since that frustrating brunch, though whether it was because of hurt feelings or simple overwork, Nathan had no idea. They hadn't talked about it. Nathan didn't think there was anything to talk about; he didn't care if Peter had his feelings hurt. Nathan had goals to accomplish. And if Peter was working hard, good for him. But Nathan did wonder. Nathan did miss him. Nathan did want to have another chance.
Peter was staring at him now with a thoughtful look on his face, eyes a little narrower than usual, unsmiling but soft-mouthed, a hint of extra color in his November-pale cheeks. "Sure..." he answered tentatively. "But I don't have anything to drink at home."
Nathan smiled. "We'll stop somewhere on the way and grab a bottle."
"Cool," Peter said.
On the drive back downtown, they discussed the game, but Peter hadn't really been following it very closely, and he had never had a good eye for strategy in the first place. Football was Peter's game, too, and even with that, his experience was almost entirely based on watching it on television and playing it himself. And Peter had never been any good at football because he didn't seem to be able to think more than one or two steps ahead. Nathan had never played basketball in any serious fashion, but he liked to study its use of tactics and split-second decision making, and he loved the beauty of a triumphant move on the court. He tried not to be frustrated at Peter's indifference, but he didn't quite succeed. "How could you have missed that play? It was right in front of you - what, four hundred yards away? What's the point of having courtside seats if you're not going to watch the game?" he fumed.
"Dude, at least you didn't pay for the tickets, okay?" Peter snapped back. "It wasn't a good game, and my head was somewhere else, all right? Step back."
"I'm just saying--" Nathan began, then let his words trail away as he pulled up to a corner shop. He stopped the car and flipped his hazard lights on, then handed Peter his credit card. "Get whatever you want," he said, not looking at Peter, trying to calm his temper. Peter snatched the card away and slammed the door as he went out. Nathan slapped the steering wheel and muttered, "Ungrateful little shit..."
In a minute, Peter returned with a small bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, and settled into his seat, staring out the window and pouting. Nathan glanced at Peter's profile - the mop of dark hair gone wavy from the humidity outside, the dark-blue-and-gray cashmere scarf Nathan had bought for him last Christmas muffled around his neck from collar to chin. So cute when he was angry; cute all bundled up in soft, fuzzy wool. If Peter had been looking at Nathan, he would have seen the faint smile that tugged at the corners of Nathan's lips. But Nathan didn't say anything, just put the car back into gear, and got back on the road, and Peter kept his eyes on the window, his head obviously still somewhere else.
Wondering what Peter was thinking would drive Nathan crazy. He decided that he felt like being sane, at least for the time being. Peter would eventually tell him; he always did. The smart tactic was to just wait Peter out.
The silence persisted until they were upstairs in the hallway outside Peter's apartment. While Peter was engaged in unlocking his front door, Nathan looked in the brown paper bag. He immediately scoffed. "Maker's Mark? Are you fucking kidding me? You had my Visa Platinum, could get anything you wanted, and you got cheap bourbon? How am I supposed to drink this?"
"Figure it out; you're the smart one," Peter said sullenly.
He got the door open, and they went inside. Even in the dark, Nathan could tell how messy and cluttered the apartment was, but street light gleamed through a crack in the heavy curtains, casting a long, thin, golden beam across the floorboards and furniture. The light made the room strangely beautiful, magical and secretive. Music was playing very faintly from Peter's bedroom, some low-key electronic stuff that Nathan didn't recognize, and quickly slipped to the back of his perception. Peter didn't switch on the lights. He turned away from Nathan and hung up his coat, then unwound the striped scarf from his neck, slowly revealing the vulnerable, faintly glowing whiteness of his neck. Without thinking, Nathan reached out, and with a gentle, drowsy leisure, let his fingertips trail over Peter's neck.
"You can bite it if you want," Peter murmured.
Nathan took a deep breath, and lifted his hand away. Peter draped his scarf over his coat on the coathooks by the door and sighed, quietly, resigned. Disappointed.
Nathan's heart had never stopped racing.
He leaned forward and bit down into the curve of ivory muscle underneath Peter's left ear.
Peter gasped faintly in surprise and pain... and yes, something else. If he had to guess, Nathan would call it satisfaction. Peter followed the gasp with a quiet "Mmmm," as though he were the one tasting the slightly perfumey salt of skin in his mouth. Nathan grasped Peter's shoulders in his hands and tightened his jaw, then opened his mouth and bit again, higher, and again below. Peter's humming became sharp, flinching hisses. He even tried to move away, but Nathan held him steady, taking advantage of having permission. If you want... and he did, so he did. Hard. His teeth left deep dents that would probably bruise nastily by morning. Half the fun was the faint moan of relief that Peter gave when Nathan finally let him go.
Peter turned to face him at last, wide-eyed, breathing heavily. He closed the space between them, and kissed Nathan roughly and desperately, but only for a second; Nathan firmly pushed Peter away, and looked into his eyes. Curious how so little light could all be caught in his irises, bringing out their color, that rare and uncanny jade green hidden underneath dark brown.
A memory flashed quickly in Nathan's mind, and he felt almost guilty - Maker's Mark was the whiskey they'd had in the first weekend spent in the summer house in Vermont, six years ago, when they finally stopped pretending, when they had finally done everything they wanted to do. He had forgotten. Peter had sent him a signal, and Nathan had missed it. They really had gone too long without seeing each other.
But they were together here and now. Nathan couldn't help smiling at the beauty of Peter's eyes, the taste of Peter's skin still in his mouth. He fought the smile down, though, his eyes burning into Peter's. Peter didn't back down from the stare. He was sharp-eyed, shoulders as straight as they could be, ready to get down to it. His first play had fumbled, gone nowhere, because Nathan hadn't been paying attention, so he'd lobbed Nathan an easy one. Bite me where I'm vulnerable. There was no mistaking that. Setting the tone. Challenge. Game on, and no playing nice. I'm yours, if you want.
God, yes.
"Pour me a drink," Nathan said.
Peter obligingly stepped over to his kitchen cabinets, opened the bottle, and splashed some whiskey into a small cut-crystal glass, one of their mother's cast-offs. He handed it to Nathan and watched him expectantly.
"Come here, and open your mouth," Nathan said. When Peter stepped closer, Nathan took Peter's jaw between the fingers of his free hand, and pulled Peter's mouth open. Nathan tipped the rim of the glass between Peter's lips, clinking against Peter's teeth, and carefully poured a little trickle of whiskey into Peter's mouth. "Swallow," Nathan ordered quietly. Peter squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, drew away, and closed his mouth. He didn't cough or flinch. Nathan was impressed; he wasn't sure he could have done the same thing. "Good," Nathan said, stroking Peter's hair, taking a swallow of the bourbon himself. The oppressive, sharp-edged sweetness filled his mouth, and he grimaced. He set the glass down on the side table by the chair. "I'll be in charge of how much you drink tonight. Now I know you want to suck me off, so... do it right."
A slow smile spread across Peter's face. He kissed Nathan's lips lightly, sharing just the taste of the alcohol between them, then stepped behind Nathan, tugging Nathan's coat gently from his shoulders. He began to unwrap Nathan like an elaborately packaged gift - unwinding Nathan's scarf and placing it carefully over his coat, carefully loosening the buttons on Nathan's shirt as though he was afraid of tearing them off, folding each article of clothing and placing them all in a neat stack on the coffee table.
At first Nathan was amused, but Peter was taking absolutely forever, and had that little self-satisfied smile on his face that made Nathan want to throw him on the floor and fuck him until he screamed for mercy. Nathan's skin tingled from the chill of the air, from wanting to contact other skin, and Peter could make the removal of a pair of boxer shorts last an eternity.
Finally, Nathan stood completely undressed, naked but for the rings on his fingers. Peter stood back and examined his handiwork, fingers curled against his chin, sizing Nathan up, frowning a little, as if considering taking the rings off, too. Nathan's cock was so hard it hurt. "Okay, so-called sex slave," he said, "bad boy... take off your clothes." He picked up the shot glass and took a mouthful of inappropriate sweetness again. "Let me see it all. Let me figure out if it's worth it or not."
Peter stripped off his clothes in five seconds, tossing them on the floor. It almost made Nathan laugh. He gave Peter the same appraising look, head to toe and back again. Extremely beautiful, as always - almost too skinny, chest still mostly smooth, nipples tight in the cold, a navel that begged to be fucked with the tongue. Peter was as aroused, or at least as erect, as Nathan was, his hand hovering nearby, but not touching. He seemed to be getting something out of this denial. It really had been too long since they'd been together; Peter had started getting off on waiting for it, delaying it as long as possible. Nathan could play that way, if Peter wanted it. "I'm not convinced," Nathan decided, his voice cold, hard-edged. "I think you need to go clean up before you're worth it. Now go do it."
At first, Peter just blinked, and then the smile vanished from his face, and his gaze dropped to the floor. He gave Nathan a resentful glance and headed toward the bathroom, his step heavy. Nathan couldn't help smiling; Peter was so good at playing along. He'd taught his little brother well. This was going to be fun.
***
That asshole, Peter thought furiously, heading into his bathroom, leaving the door open for a moment, but when it became obvious that Nathan had no intention of joining him, he kicked the door closed with a slam.
If Nathan wanted Peter to cool his lust, he'd said exactly the right thing. Nathan knew good and well that Peter hated being told to "go clean up." He didn't mind being called dirty or little or bad or any of those playfully insulting things - in the right context - but he hated "go clean up," and it was such an innocuous thing to say, and a desirable thing to do, that Peter didn't feel like he could nag Nathan to stop saying it. He'd told Nathan before that he didn't like it, but Nathan just blew that off, the way he blew off so many things that mattered to Peter, but not to him. "Don't tell me to go away right after I take your clothes off, bitch!... What kind of idiot is he? What the fuck?" Peter muttered. Didn't Nathan understand anything about how the game was played? He was forgetting things he'd taught Peter himself.
He got into the shower, turned the water up hot, and stood underneath the stinging spray, bracing his weight on his hands spread against the tiled wall. "Fuck," he said, then louder, "fuck fuck fuck!" All night, it had been one step forward, one step back... or sideways... or something, but whatever it was, Peter just didn't feel like they were making progress. Maybe it was Peter's fault after all. He hadn't felt that all that enthusiastic about going to see the Knicks tonight, and had only gone because it was a chance to spend time with Nathan. But he hadn't felt much enthusiasm about spending time with Nathan recently, either.
It was all too frustrating. Too hard to be near him, and have nothing happen, have it be impossible, have to pretend like he was all right with that. He tried to give Nathan his space... with Heidi, with the kids, with the whole law thing that was warping somehow into a politics thing. There wasn't room for Peter in all of that. So Peter backed off. He buried himself in work and school. He tried not to need Nathan, not to want him.
It didn't work. And it didn't seem to have worked for Nathan, either, even though he hadn't said so. All Peter needed to know about Nathan had been in that caress, in those bites. He missed Peter and it made him angry, and Peter didn't know what he was supposed to do about that. And being made to feel like he wasn't good enough wasn't helping. Why didn't Nathan understand?
"Fuck," he said again.
He washed up thoroughly, and shut off the water, and Nathan still hadn't come. Peter's annoyance gave way to curiosity and concern. Obviously they were going to play, and Nathan was a stickler for a shower beforehand, so what was up? Peter toweled off and took a moment to comb his hair - maybe if he looked neat as well as clean, things would feel less weird between them - and opened the door, emerging in a cloud of steam.
Only to be met with a fresh cloud of steam, this one smelling of chocolate.
Nathan stood there, holding a mug right in Peter's face. He handed it over, and said, "You look better." He winked, then went into the bathroom and carefully, quietly closed the door behind him.
Peter just stood there for a moment, blinking, then he sipped at the contents of the mug. Hot cocoa, made double-strength, thick with the powdered mix that Peter kept in his cupboards, and so much whiskey Peter could barely taste the chocolate. A pleasant, sweet, innocent hot drink, perverted with booze, too hot, too sugary, too much of everything. Enjoyed more for what it did than how it tasted, and even so, it tasted damn good. Like in Vermont, where they'd both gotten wasted so they'd have a better excuse to finally do what they wanted. Ah, yes. Peter grinned. Nathan had remembered after all. That devious jerk.
And he'd lit the candles, too. A hippie chick Peter briefly dated had bought him four St. Peter devotional candles as a joke, because he was always such a good guy - "a fucking saint," she'd said. If she only knew. Peter had never bothered to light them; they were just interesting Catholic kitsch items, souvenirs of a relationship that ended before things could go badly. Candlelight made the room look completely different, made his heart beat faster. Made him want to be touched. Made him want to be good.
Drinking from the mug of cocoa, Peter climbed into bed, reached into his bedside table's second drawer, and pulled out the bottle of lube tucked into the front corner. Still plenty left. He only used this particular lube with Nathan. It was very slippery and resilient, and rather expensive; Peter couldn't really afford it on his own. He had to ask Nathan to get it for him. It was Nathan's favorite. Nearly odorless, nearly tasteless. But not completely.
Peter lay there and stroked his cock, which quickly hardened again in his fingers, the stiffening flesh twitching, demanding more. He rubbed himself as best he could without lubrication, but he didn't want to touch lube until Nathan had a chance to taste naked skin, wherever he wanted to taste it. Peter rolled over and rubbed his cock against the flannel bedsheets, moaning to himself, shuddering with lust. All this waiting was making him furious, annoyed at himself for taking the wrong tactic with Nathan. Peter had been hoping Nathan would get impatient, and grab Peter and shove him up against a wall, but instead the big doofus just stood there and let himself be undressed, eyebrow arched, not volunteering anything. Peter punched the surface of the bed and screamed into his pillow, "Fuuuuuuuck!"
"Yes?" came Nathan's voice from a few feet away. Peter jumped and blinked at him, and suddenly realized how drunk he'd gotten from the cocoa, and he hadn't even finished it. Nathan stood there smiling with a towel around his waist. Peter hadn't even noticed the sound of the shower coming on - in fact, it never had.
"You riding out dirty tonight?" Peter murmured curiously.
"I cleaned what needed cleaning," Nathan said.
Peter leaned over and yanked Nathan's towel, with Nathan still wrapped in it, over to him. Peter moved the towel out of his way, and slid his mouth over Nathan's erection, his hands snaking around Nathan's hips, fingers digging into Nathan's buttocks. Nathan gave a startled, indulgent laugh. "Peter... Peter, okay? Okay? All right. Uh. Oh, wow." Peter sucked Nathan's cock all the way to the back of his throat, swallowed twice before taking another breath, and then did it again, just to prove that he had mastered it. Nathan hissed, and he roughly stroked Peter's hair. "Aw, is he hungry?"
Peter looked up at Nathan and said, "You're an asshole."
Nathan didn't miss a beat. "You're a flake," he replied pleasantly. Peter stared back, dumbstruck, but Nathan's fingers lovingly caressed Peter's cheek, his ear. He smiled, and Peter squirmed and relaxed, leaning into Nathan's hand. "Okay, so can we agree we've had enough of that?"
He nuzzled Nathan's hand, rubbed his lips against it, opened his mouth and licked Nathan's fingertips. No. Talk to me however you want. Just don't stop touching me. "I need to get my dick wet," Peter mumbled.
Nathan laughed softly. "Mine first," he said.
"Just a little... just a little," Peter begged.
"I won't be able to stop if I start." He climbed on the bed next to Peter, kissed Peter's belly and ran his tongue around the rim of Peter's navel. Peter squirmed, ticklish. "Okay," Nathan consented faintly, "just a little," and he licked his lips, pressed them down on the tip of Peter's cock, pressing down, forcing the head of Peter's cock past his tightly closed lips into his hot, wet mouth, then lifted his head again, freeing Peter's cock with a wet, popping sound. Peter clenched his fists and groaned shakily, ending on a disbelieving laugh. That had just been the sexiest three seconds of his entire year, if not his whole life. Dammit, why did Nathan always have to one-up him?... Nathan grinned and lay back, propped up on the pillows at the head of Peter's bed. "See? You shoulda waited. It's not like I want to stop, you know. But... weren't you in the middle of something?"
Peter slid down between Nathan's legs, elbows braced on either side of Nathan's hips. "Yeah, I forgot," he replied silkily. Nathan gave a husky laugh, which turned into a long groan at the touch of Peter's tongue curling around his cock, the feel of Peter's mouth taking all of him in.
Then Peter drew back and sharply slapped Nathan's cock with the flat of his hand.
Nathan flinched away and yelped. "Fuck, Pete, ow!"
"I'm not done," Peter said softly, pressing Nathan back down, sucking cock back into his mouth, soothing the skin. Nathan grasped Peter's hair in his hands, holding Peter steady, but he soon got lost in the slick, smooth rhythm of Peter's mouth, and let Peter's hair free. Almost immediately, Peter gave him another smack, and Nathan cried out again. Peter laughed wickedly. "You love it," he said. He sucked, and slapped again. Nathan merely whimpered this time, and Peter moaned in answer. "You love it... I can taste it." He sucked some more, filling his mouth, stretching his tongue, jacking his fingers over the wet shaft until he tasted more pre-come than chocolate. And then another slap, wet-on-wet stinging his fingers - he could only imagine how much it must have stung Nathan.
Good.
Suddenly satisfied, Peter curled up in Nathan's arms. Nathan didn't complain; he held Peter, kissed his face, smiling mistily. "So there," Peter whispered, kissing back. "I hope that hurt."
"It did. You're so bad. I can't even believe how bad you are."
Peter kissed the corner of Nathan's lips, then traced his tongue inside the curves and dips of Nathan's ear. "I'm sorry. From now on, I promise to be good."
Nathan scoffed. "Why would I want you to be good?" He took Peter's hand, and put it on his damp, tingling cock. "I liked that. You wouldn't do that if you were good." Confident that Peter wouldn't take his hand away, Nathan slid two fingers into Peter's mouth, giving Peter very little choice except to suck them. Peter pressed his cock against Nathan's thigh, and Nathan trailed his tongue against the purplish half-circles on the back of Peter's neck. "I love it when you're a brat. And besides... if you're good, that means I don't get to punish you, and then what am I going to ever do for fun?"
Picking up the lube bottle from where Peter had dropped it on the bed beside them, Nathan poured some of the slick gel onto his fingers, sliding one into Peter's ass, grabbing Peter's cock with the other hand, re-introducing it to his mouth. Peter wrapped one leg around Nathan's torso, holding him close, his fingers making a mess of Nathan's hair. "Ah, yes, inside me," he muttered, then, his body rocking back and forth, he found that he couldn't decide which sensation he preferred - the slick wet velvet of Nathan's mouth, or the tingling violation of a finger in his ass, not just thrusting in and out, but twisting, crooking questioningly back and forth inside him. In Nathan's hands, Peter became a groaning, twitching, babbling wreck, so bombarded with pleasure that he couldn't think straight. "Huh - huh - ahhhhh!" he gasped, and saw Nathan flinch, then tighten his jaw, moan, and swallow, instead of feeling that he had come. "No! Wait! That doesn't count!" Peter begged. "Don't stop - I'm not done!"
"I'm done fingerbanging you," Nathan replied, his annoyed, authoritarian voice back. Peter shuddered inwardly with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He relaxed, and submitted completely to Nathan manipulating his body into position, mostly on his back, a little tilted to one side, one leg up. He waited for the few agonizing seconds that it took for Nathan to drench his cock with lubricant, and bit his lip, breathing deep. He is going to fuck the living shit out of me, Peter thought. I kinda wish I'd been good myself now. Of course he likes it when I'm bad, because it gives him permission to fuck all the fight out of me. And I just give it to him - I shove it on him. I give him no choice. I've forced him into this. I've-
The first thrust obliterated Peter's thoughts. He didn't scream; it was too much for that. His breath was stolen away. Nathan stabbed him deep, once, twice, a third time. Then stopped. He trailed a fingertip up the back of Peter's thigh, and that's when Peter screamed. Who could take being roughly sodomized, and tickled at the same time?
Nathan laughed. "It's good," he said.
Peter wrapped the raised leg around Nathan's waist. "Gimme it," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Gimme what you saved up. Gimme all of that - unh, oh God, oh God! Oh, goddamit, yes, yes, yes! Fuck yes!" He didn't know how he could say that. It hurt so much, the way Nathan was pounding into him, and his whole body so tightly contained, driving Nathan along a singular axis, so deep, deeper than ever before. It wasn't - it couldn't be - but it felt like it. It felt like Peter had never been fucked before; it hurt more than his very first time. He didn't understand it. But the pleasure was also greater, more concentrated, as though Peter had learned how to transform pain into orgasmic bliss. He guessed he had. He guessed that Nathan had taught him that, too.
And then Nathan stopped for a moment, and Peter was able to catch his breath and sit up. He left a puddle of sweat on the sheets, and immediately lay back down on the wet cold spot as Nathan made him turn over, face down, and raise his hips, sticking his ass in the air. Nathan gave a kiss to both of Peter's buttocks, then grasped them, spreading them, inserting his cock into the space, then sliding it back up and inside. Such a contrast of sensation between the two positions - Peter called out, but entirely in pleasurable bliss now; nothing about this hurt. They were meant to do it this way. This felt the best. Nathan seemed to think so too. "Ah, I missed fucking you," he sighed, gently stroking Peter's back while his hips continued their steady motion. Peter threw off Nathan's rhythm by arching back, whining for more. Nathan held Peter's hips and slammed him back onto his cock. Peter howled with joy. Since he was using his arms, not his hips and back, Nathan could yank Peter back and forth with extraordinary speed. They had never fucked so fast before, as fast as a racing heartbeat, and yet they breathed slowly, deeply, in perfect sync.
Why couldn't it last forever? But it couldn't. "I want you to watch me come," Nathan said.
"Yeah..." Peter agreed, because there was nothing else coherent that he could say.
Nathan stopped again, pulled out, and turned Peter back over. Peter flung his arm up and sighed with blissful relief, then began to softly moan again as Nathan gave his cock a slow, final suck. Peter felt ready to explode; he wondered why he hadn't already, then remembered that he'd already come once tonight. It seemed like forever ago - from before that amazing fuck. But now Nathan was jacking off, fingers flashing on his glossy, quivering-stiff cock, the slit tip pointing toward Peter's own dick, brushing against it, inviting it to play. To come. You too. Peter's lower torso was a slippery mess - so much lube, so much pre-come, so much sweat - and it was nothing to just wipe his hand along his belly and grab his dick in his hand. It was so easy, so perfect to jack off with this perfect slickness. He rubbed the tip of his cock against Nathan's, too, like friends reacquainting. At once, Nathan gave a desperate sigh, and suddenly there was cum on his fingers, and then spurting more out of him, so beautiful. And Peter felt his own this time, like fingers snapping by the thousands inside him, sparking off, igniting his entire body, jetting streaky, ghostly cream all over Peter's belly.
So much. He was definitely a dirty boy now, but utterly at peace. Nathan stood up and went back to the bathroom, taking the towel with him. Peter lay still, smiling, feeling like a tray of freshly glazed cinnamon rolls. Disgusting, but delicious.
After a few minutes (and still no shower), Nathan emerged from the bathroom, went to the front room and returned with the neat stack of his clothes. Under Peter's calm, watchful eye, Nathan proceeded to get dressed again, almost as slowly as he had been stripped. Somewhere after the trousers, but before the button-down went on over the T-shirt, Nathan murmured, "You're a slut. You're a dirty, immoral slut. You know that? The best cocksucker in town. Got an ass that's begging to be tasted and fucked... Your face just screams, Come all over me. Oh, yeah, I know you. You'll bend over in a heartbeat. You're waiting for the command to get on your knees. Am I the only one who knows that?"
"Yes," Peter whispered, smiling.
"Good. Keep it that way."
"Or you'll... what?"
Nathan didn't reply, and Peter's smile turned into a grin, realizing that Nathan hadn't thought that far ahead. Peter ran his fingers through the drying film of semen on his belly, and grimaced; it wasn't quite as sexy now, getting all stiff and tacky. Nathan disappeared into to the bathroom again, and returned with his still-damp washcloth. He tossed it at Peter, hitting him in the face with the big glob of wet, minty-smelling towel.
"Keep it that way," Nathan repeated, grimly and forcefully. Peter just giggled, and wiped himself off with the cold towel.
Then he raised his hand, middle finger outstretched. Nathan arched his eyebrow. "This is your favorite one," Peter explained. "This is the one that makes you go 'Uhhmmmm... stick another one in, please, baby, please.'" He giggled some more, wickedly this time. "And then I do."
Nathan just smiled at him. "That's my boy," he murmured. He reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat, and withdrew a slim pamphlet, which he tossed onto the bed, next to Peter. "Let me know," Nathan added, tightened his scarf, and left the apartment.
Peter picked up the pamphlet - the Knicks 2004-5 season schedule. He examined it and smiled, and wondered if the team would actually get it together. Maybe he had it in him to watch a little bit more basketball.
END PART (25)
A/N: Ritual 25, and the end of the truncated Season 2. I don't know what to think... Despite what it may seem, I am not a sports fan, but I have the feeling that the Petrelli boys are (and I've done my dabbling, so I generally know what I mean). Maker's Mark isn't cheap bourbon - in fact it's generally out of my price range - but it would definitely be beneath a whiskey snob like Nathan. If anyone cares, the music playing in Peter's room is the album Talkie Walkie by Air. Great "doin' it" music.... Anyway, there you have it, sports fans. ^_^ This story is dedicated to Tim Kring (for seemingly forgetting stuff that he taught me about writing!) and Evel Knievel for being awesome and now dead. Thanks again for reading, and let's all hope for a long and healthy Season 3.