fic: Ritual (50): The Primal Scene
A T'giving holiday treat!
Title: Ritual (50): The Primal Scene
Pairings: Arthur/Angela, Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through episode 3.08: "Villains"
Warnings: see pairing; voyeurism, rough consensual play, underage non-involved character, Freudian weirdness :)
Word Count: about 6300
Summary: Peter's primal scene: the origin at the age of five, the true understanding at age twenty-five. Beta/reassurances from 47_trek_47.
Note: If the concept of a child witnessing adult sex acts offends you, please skip this story.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
---
Heroes is not my property; I just like to take it out for a spin now and again.
The expression "primal scene" refers to the sight of sexual relations between the parents, as observed, constructed, and/or fantasized by the child and interpreted by the child as a scene of violence. The scene is not understood by the child, remaining enigmatic but at same time provoking sexual excitement. [http://nosubject.com/Primal_scene]
MARCH 2005
Peter only allowed himself to be hypnotized once.
He was in his final year of nursing school, taking an advanced clinical psych course, and when offered the choice between studying hypnosis (including being hypnotized himself) and memorizing an entire book of obsolete psych meds, he chose the hypnosis side. He outwardly said he was interested in it to find out about using self-hypnosis in acute pain management, but really, he just wanted to see if he actually could be hypnotized, and what it would feel like. He was curious about the secrets, and abilities, hidden in his own subconscious mind.
On the morning of his session, he sat in a comfy chair in a dimly lit room with the instructor, a gentle-faced older lady, who spoke to him quietly, soothingly.
"Relax. Concentrate on your breathing. Feel your body calming down; feel it slowing. You're very relaxed now, in a safe place. Now... Imagine yourself in a very comfortable place. Someplace comfortable. Your bed. Your bed from when you were a child, when you were safe. Try to remember. Are you there? Now, remember your favorite childhood memory. Do you see it? You see it clearly. See the details. You thought that you forgot the details, but you never lost them."
Peter stayed relaxed, but the memory that unfolded was far from his favorite. It was something he had mostly forgotten, true, but never completely; it was always somewhere in the back of his mind. But he never thought that he'd remember it with such utter clarity.
***
He was five years old. It was bedtime; he was tucked in, soft flannel blankets enclosing him, warm and safe. His mother perched on the edge of his little bed, reading 101 Dalmatians to him (that was a detail that he'd never lost). Her voice was soft and dreamy. She was so beautiful. He wanted to hug her and kiss her some more-he hadn't had nearly enough hugs and kisses for one day. His heart was so full of love he felt breathless.
He yawned, and she closed the book, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. "You're sleepy, little man," she said. "Time to close your eyes. Good night, Peter."
Peter didn't close his eyes, gazing adoringly up at her. "Good night, Mommy," he answered. "Can I have a puppy?"
"No, dear. You're too young, and your father doesn't care for dogs."
Peter didn't know what "doesn't care for" meant. Was it the same as "don't mind"? He asked, "Is Ducky here?"
Angela glanced down beside the bed, where a rubber-ducky-shaped nightlight was plugged into a baseboard outlet. "Ducky's sleeping right now," she said. "Close your eyes, and you'll be sleeping too."
Peter closed his eyes, but when sleep didn't happen instantly, he opened them again. "I'm awake!" he piped up, and laughed.
"You'll have to try harder," Angela said. She smiled, but glanced toward the doorway. "Now, close your eyes. Good night; sleep tight."
"Good night, Mommy," Peter said again. "Mommy! What if I get scared?"
"You won't get scared," Angela said, her smile tightening slightly. "But if you do, you have my permission to get up and wake Ducky up with the switch. You'll be safe as long as Ducky's here, even if he's asleep."
"I love Ducky," Peter said.
"Yes, it was a very nice gift from Nathan," Angela replied. When she spoke again, her voice was firmer, without any space for further questions. "All right, sweetheart. Good night." Before Peter could even try again to get her to stay, she turned off his lamp, and left the room, closing the door most of the way, but leaving it slightly open so that the light from the hallway spilled in. Peter watched her go, and then closed his eyes again.
But he didn't sleep. He thought about getting the book that had been just read to him and trying to read it himself, but he didn't know how to turn his lamp on. He thought about the puppies and Cruella deVil and her ropes of emeralds, and was scared; he thought about Ducky keeping him safe, and he thought about Nathan. Nathan was away at school, but he had given Peter the nightlight while he was home for Christmas. At Christmas, Nathan had hugged Peter for a long time-almost as long as Peter wanted-and then picked him up and played Superman with him, swooping Peter's body through the air while Peter held out his fists and made triumphant superhero music with his voice.
Peter didn't yet have words to describe missing someone, but whenever he thought about Nathan, it made him sad.
He climbed down out of bed and sat on the floor next to Ducky, and tried to find the big, fat switch on the side to turn on the nightlight. In the dark, it was hard, and his fingers were clumsy. When he finally clicked the switch, Ducky lit up for just a moment, then made a snapping noise, and went dark.
Peter just sat there and stared for a moment. He almost began to cry, but he found it hard to do when there was nobody else around. He just wanted to bring Ducky back to life. Peter didn't want to be afraid of the dark. He didn't want to think about ghosts or monsters or Cruella deVil or being lonely. He needed Ducky's friendly yellow glow.
Mommy could fix him.
He stood up and padded out of his room, his bare feet silent on the carpeted floor as he headed to his parents' bedroom. The hall lights were turned down low, but not yet dark. Mommy and Daddy were probably still awake, and he could ask Mommy to fix Ducky and maybe read him the happy ending of the story. Daddy hadn't been home for dinner, but he had come just in time to tell Peter good night. And he looked kind of mad, but sometimes, with Daddy, it was hard to tell. But this was an emergency.
They were awake. Peter could hear their voices. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but their urgently whispering voices sounded strange. It was the kind of intensity that sounded like a fight. Peter hesitated outside the door, shrinking back against the wall, afraid, now, to go in. They didn't sound like his parents; they were speaking in a completely different way than Peter had ever heard.
Peter was a good listener, though.
His father. "How am I supposed to believe you? What cause have you ever given me to trust you?"
His mother's response was softly pleading. "It's over, I tell you. I swear it. It's done. And I'm so sorry."
"No, you're not." The bedroom's floorboards creaked. It was impossible to sneak around in there without being heard. Angela gave a barely audible gasp. "You did what you did, and you're not stupid; you knew exactly what you were doing and what I'd think. You just don't seem to care."
"Arthur... please..." She was breathing hard. "I do... I do care... Don't you understand?" Her next words were whispers. "Can't you see?"
Silence followed this, and Peter's curiosity got the better of him; he crept closer to the door, sank down onto the ground, and peeked into the room.
Her dark hair unpinned and tumbling loose around her face, Angela stood against the wall, Arthur pushing her into it with his body, trapping her there. His hands crushed her skirt up, squeezing and gripping her thighs; his head moved rapidly from side to side, his mouth pressing against her neck. Her hands pressed against his chest, but she wasn't pushing him away; her eyes were closed, mouth open, emitting tiny, shaky, gasping breaths. At a certain angle, Peter could clearly see that he was actually biting her neck, snapping pinches of skin between his gleaming teeth.
Peter froze with terror, his eyes going so wide that it hurt. Somehow, even though she was being pinched and bitten and suffocated, his mother didn't seem frightened; in fact, her parted lips wore a strange, savage smile. Her gasps became tiny cries. "Oh... oh... oh..." The pink tip of her tongue swept against the corners of her smudged red lips.
She hadn't been wearing red lipstick when she tucked Peter into bed.
Arthur clapped his hand over her mouth, and hissed, "Sssssh." Then, his left hand still held over Angela's mouth, he brought up his right hand and grabbed her between the legs. Peter could see that Arthur wasn't smiling; instead, he looked furious, with knitted brow and his mouth pressed into a grim line. Angela's eyes rolled, the eyelids fluttering, and she groaned against his hand.
Peter held his breath. He had never been so scared, so confused. He wanted to stop looking, but he couldn't even blink.
One of her legs rose up, against Arthur's thigh. The shoe dangled from the tip of her stockinged toe. Shiny, red, pointy shoes with high heels; sheer black stockings with solid black toes and heels. He had never seen those shoes before. They looked painful, impossible. He didn't know how she balanced on one thin, fragile-looking heel. Then she didn't, she angled slightly forward, onto the toe, her heel raising from the back of the shoe. Arthur was holding her up, lifting her slightly off the floor with his hand between her legs, pressing hard into her. At the hem of her skirt, her stocking tops stretched against the garters holding them, somewhere underneath.
She groaned again, deeper and louder. He thrust his hips against her, between her spread thighs; her leg wrapped around his thighs, pulling him closer. Arching up against him, her hips banging softly against the wall. Arthur reached into her white silk blouse, a button popping off and skittering across the floor, and he grabbed a breast, gripping it tightly, half lifting it out of her blouse. He pressed his mouth against his hand, over her mouth, and grunted, "This? Mine. You hear me? Mine." He pulled his hand away and stared at her.
Angela weakly replied, "Yours." Or maybe it was "Yes."
Peter couldn't tell. He felt very strange, like he had to pee, like he couldn't quite breathe. Daddy was hurting Mommy, but Mommy wasn't trying to get away. The sight of the garters bothered him more than he could understand; it was scarier than the biting. Did all women have such strange devices under their skirts? Her shoe was falling off, and she didn't even seem to care. He wished Nathan was here. Nathan could make sense of this; Nathan could stop it. Peter could only hide on the floor, in the dark, moment by moment becoming more afraid to tear his eyes away. He didn't want to see anymore, but he needed to stay, and protect his mother.
With a sudden, fumbling motion, Arthur unzipped his slacks and pressed inward, hard. Peter couldn't see what was happening; his father was turned away from Peter, giving Peter a clear view of the shifting, tormented emotions passing over Angela's face. Her eyes opened wide, rolling back a little, and she pleaded, "No, not here-not like this."
"Yes, here," Arthur insisted, pushing her skirt all the way up to her waist. "I know you; you're ready. Why should I wait?" She had no underwear on. Peter felt a new thrill of terrible shock and shame and fear. Why wasn't Mommy wearing underwear? Didn't mommies always wear underwear? He had seen her naked before. Of course. But that was different; he wasn't looking. That was before he even knew he shouldn't be looking. When he was smaller they would sometimes lie together in bed, nude, napping in summer heat, cuddling like a mother wolf and her cub. He remembered her kisses and the slightly rough texture of her skin, the scars on her tummy, the smell of her breasts, the memory of nursing from her. But this was different; he was a big boy now and they didn't take naps together. That was from when he was a baby. He could remember being a baby in her arms. He shouldn't see her naked hip, curving upward to her stomach; he shouldn't see her trembling like that.
He loved her. He couldn't bear to watch her being hurt. He couldn't bear the smell of her now; it was unfamiliar, different, foreign. A sweaty, musky smell, wild and strange.
"Arthur... oh... Oh!"
That sound! That choked, gasping cry; something he'd never heard, never imagined, couldn't comprehend.
Without realizing that he spoke aloud, Peter softly whispered, "Don't..."
Arthur paused, just for a second. Peter held his breath again.
But his father hadn't seemed to have heard. With another bestial grunt, Arthur wrapped his hand around Angela's throat, choking off her air, silencing her completely. He thrust hard into her once, twice, a third time, harder. She submitted, silent, her eyes begging, then closing. Submitting completely. Complete and utter surrender. He could do whatever he wanted to her; she wouldn't fight.
Peter almost ran into the room then, terrified that his mother was being choked to death; but just in time, Arthur released her throat and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. Gasping gratefully, Angela's hands slid around Arthur's waist, and she tipped her head back, encouraging him to kiss her where he had just been gripping her. "You know I love you anyway, don't you?" Arthur whispered, kissing the tight red marks on her neck. "Even with all the shit you put me through?" Angela just nodded in response, her smile unmistakable, and she arched her hips toward him, urging him on.
Peter gulped, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat scratchy.
Angela's hands slid down to Arthur's back to his buttocks, and gripped hard, yanking him roughly toward her. He drove in sharply; she gasped and moaned. She put the back of her hand against her mouth, muffling her vocalizations, and both of her feet left the ground, her thighs riding Arthur's waist. Peter thought they looked like circus acrobats, or trapeze artists clinging to each other on delicate swings, and in his fascination, he momentarily forgot to feel scared.
Then Arthur grabbed Angela by the shoulders and slammed her down onto the bed a few steps away, and Peter jumped despite himself. Angela's hands had never left Arthur's buttocks, and now she scrabbled at the waistband of his trousers. He reached back and smacked her hand. "Leave it," he snapped. To Peter's bafflement, Angela gave a husky, knowing laugh. Arthur tapped her sharply against the jaw with the flat of his hand, and she laughed again, her tongue worrying against her lower lip like it itched. And then she moaned again; his back arched above her, his hips held tight between her legs, and he wrapped his fingers around her throat again and began rubbing against her in earnest.
Peter felt cold. His Daddy had suddenly become a stranger to him; a monster on top of his mother, hurting her-she couldn't even make a sound anymore. But now Arthur's hands were at her sides, balancing himself as he drove into her, and Angela was softly laughing again, or crying, or... almost praying to him. "Yes... yes... I'm yours... all of this is yours... I'm sorry; I'll be good. I'll be good. Oh, yes."
Arthur ground to a breathless, furious climax, then collapsed over Angela. She sighed with relief, and ran her long, red fingernails through his hair, relaxing, her eyes closed, pressing kisses against the side of his face. Arthur lay very still, and Peter allowed himself to blink at last.
"Go to bed, Peter," Arthur said then.
Peter wet himself. Angela stiffened and opened her eyes, but before she could look over and glimpse Peter peeking through the crack in the door, Peter had bolted back to his own room, grabbed all the covers and pillows off the bed, and crawled underneath it.
He was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. He clutched his new teddy bear around the neck, burying his face in its soft plush, then he relaxed his grip, feeling guilty and weird. It made him start to cry; just the idea that he was strangling his teddy. This was what men did to the things they loved. "No..." He cuddled the bear and kissed it. "I'm sorry, teddy," he said, his tears making the plush wet and chewy. His whole world was wet and chewy, and cold, and he couldn't do anything about it but cry.
But the next thing he knew, it was bright, sunny morning, and the nanny was calling his name, wondering where he was.
Later that day, Peter got a puppy. It worked. He forgot what he had seen.
***
After Peter had finished his hypnosis session, he had a date scheduled with Nathan for lunch at the little Italian bistro located halfway between the District Attorney's office and Peter's apartment. He found his way to the bistro in a daze.
He had chosen not to tell his instructor about what he had remembered; it was obvious by looking at him that he had uncovered something major, and she didn't press. She did ask, "Are you glad that you saw what you saw?"
"I don't know yet," Peter said. "I gotta process a little bit."
And so, lunch with Nathan. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.
Nathan looked good, of course. Glowing. His congressional campaign was going well, and his latest law case had been a resounding success, gaining him a lot of very positive press. He was being exactly the perfect son for Arthur. Doing everything right. Being Arthur's boy.
"You look pale," Nathan said to Peter. "It's not a crime to use a tanning bed, you know. Or are you jockeying for spring break in Fiji?"
Peter didn't respond to the bait. He had no appetite, and he didn't really want coffee; only the glass of water on the table interested him. He let Nathan ramble on about himself for a while, ordered a bruschetta and soup to be polite, and stared, not at Nathan, but at Nathan's reflection in the window. Looking for the resemblance.
"I've got a scenario for you," Peter said, when he had a chance, because Nathan's mouth was full. "A scene I want to do with you."
"Like, a scene scene?" Nathan asked curiously, wiping his lips with his napkin and raising his eyebrows. Peter nodded, unable to meet Nathan's interested, curious gaze. Nathan grinned, though. "Huh. Interesting. Does it require elaborate props that I'm going to have to buy?"
"No," Peter said. "You just... have to say and do certain things. It's really like a scene. Like we're actors, playing roles."
"I'm still not quite getting it. Isn't this kind of formal? I mean, if you want to play, we can play, but... with what, character names? Costumes?" he pressed, as Peter shook his head no to both questions. "What brought this on?"
Peter took a deep breath, and shrugged. The mere mention of "play" coming from Nathan's lips made him shudder with frustrated desire; this time, the frustration came from within himself; he didn't really know what he hoped to get from such an encounter. All he knew was that he was compelled to ask for it. "Uh... just something. Something I thought of that needs elaboration. Something I need to clarify. A scenario that I just... want to explore." He paused and added, "With you. It has to be with you."
"Nursing school is having a very interesting effect on you," said Nathan, and gave in to his urge to laugh. Peter met his eyes then, his expression dead serious. Nathan's laughter mellowed to a grin. "You are one weird dude," he mused, shaking his head. "Yeah, all right. We can do a scene."
Peter reached into his messenger bag for his spiral notebook, ripped off the last page, and handed it to Nathan. Nathan blinked, and slowly accepted the page. These were the notes that Peter had hastily scribbled while he was in the subway on the way over here. He hadn't specified much; no names named, no setting specified besides THEIR BEDROOM. He had transcribed everything that he could, his pen scrawling excitedly. Writing it down was the first part of ownership; the words taking shape, defining themselves, becoming more solid. It was real. It had happened. But was it happening to him even now, without his conscious control?
No mention of right and wrong. Stripping it of moral positions was the first step.
HER HEAD THROWN BACK.
HE BITES HER NECK SIX OR SEVEN TIMES. NO MARKS.
HE JAMS HIS HAND INTO HER CUNT. HARD. SHE LIKES IT.
Nathan read it over, his eyebrows staying raised. "Whoa," he said. "This is like a... Did you just make this up?" Peter shook his head, and Nathan lapsed into silence again, reviewing. "All right, if this is what you want to do."
"It is," Peter said. "Just once. It doesn't have to always be like this. It shouldn't be."
"It's not that different from the way it is now, sometimes," Nathan replied.
"Yeah," Peter acknowledged, and felt that strange, twisting sensation in his stomach; something he hadn't felt so clearly since he was a child. Like he was being torn in half, into thirds; heart, mind, and... desire... self-destructiveness... fighting it out inside him. And yet, this is how his life had always been. "I know. I wanna... see if there even is any difference."
His eyes searched Nathan's face; he did resemble. So strongly. He was about the same age now as Arthur had been. Peter made a series of strange faces as he fought off tears and snarls of rage, grimaces of fear; he took some deep, calming breaths. He suddenly felt a stab of regret that he had taken the hypnosis course; this was all very uncomfortable.
"It's hot," Nathan added, still reading over the paper, not noticing Peter's struggle. Then, he folded the sheet of paper, folded it again, and began to tear it into tiny fragments. Peter blinked at him in surprise. Nathan nodded reassuringly and tapped the side of his head. "I've got it. Memory palace. You got it?" he asked, and Peter nodded jerkily. Nathan was cool. "I'm free next Friday afternoon; that work for you?"
"Sure. Thanks," Peter said, and let out his breath in a long, slow sigh of relief.
"I owe you one, anyway," Nathan mentioned, returning to his lunch, "after that whole Dixon business."
Peter mumbled, "Oh, you know... any time..."
"It really means a lot to me, Peter," Nathan insisted. "I really need my head clear right now. You did a good thing."
"Glad I could help," Peter said, blushing a little. That midnight emergency had been the last time they'd lain together; and Peter didn't want to admit that he'd been so sleepy the whole time that he didn't remember it too well. But that had been simply much more meaningful for Nathan than for him; that was Nathan unburdening himself of a secret that had been tormenting him for decades. If he was going to turn around and use Nathan in the same way, so be it. That was the arrangement, the promise, the bond; I am at your service. "My place, two o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me," said Nathan.
***
At first, Nathan and Peter just sat across from each other, Peter on the edge of his bed, and Nathan rolling up his sleeves in the chair at Peter's desk. Peter stared at the floor, lost in himself, not moving, even as his heart was pounding roughly in his chest. Nathan regarded him curiously. "You wanna do this?" he asked softly. "Or do you just wanna... lie down."
Peter slowly looked up, but couldn't maintain eye contact. "No, I do," he replied quickly.
"You are 'Her', correct?" Nathan asked.
Peter wanted to strangle him for being so matter-of-fact. It all seemed ridiculous now. "Well, obviously," he said, "I-"
"It's not obvious at all, Peter."
"It's so obvious. You know. You've seen it. I'm..." As quickly as Peter's anger flared, it vanished, leaving him more confused than ever. "Help me," he murmured.
"Well, get up," Nathan said, his voice quiet and reasonable. Controlled. "That's not how you wrote it."
Peter stood up. Nathan stood, too, and approached him, reaching out to pull the tails of Peter's shirt from his waistband. Peter took a deep breath of Nathan's scent and felt calm descend over him. "Thanks," Peter murmured. "My head's all over the place, I..."
"How am I supposed to believe you?" Nathan replied smoothly, in the same tone of voice as before. "What cause have you ever given me to trust you?"
Peter blinked slowly as the words sunk in. It all sounded completely different in Nathan's voice; softer and richer, without the upstate accent, without the vitriol. Nathan just wasn't angry. Wasn't dangerous.
"You're mad at me, remember," Peter whispered.
Nathan just cupped his hand around the back of Peter's neck and kissed him softly and sweetly on the lips. "Right," he said. "Gotta get into character."
"You want to hurt me," Peter said. Desire throbbed in his voice.
Nathan shook his head a little. "At the moment, I don't," he confessed. "You're beautiful."
Peter looked away. "I'm a little tramp," he said. "I'm stepping out. I'm stepping out just to make you angry. Or..." It was so horrible saying these things about his own mother-their mother. He didn't even know if it was true; what were his memories? They could easily be falsehoods... or at least, incomplete truths. "Or to turn you on," he guessed suddenly. "Make you appreciate me."
"I hate that," Nathan said.
"Makes you mad?"
"No... it makes me disappointed."
"It's not you, remember."
"It's not?" Nathan asked, somehow calm and confrontational at once.
Peter stared at him. "It's over, I tell you. I swear it. It's done. And I'm so sorry." He didn't sound anything like his mother. His tone of voice was completely different; he was speaking instead of whispering. And he didn't sound afraid, or contrite. And yet, somehow, it kind of worked. Anyway, Nathan smiled.
"No, you're not," he replied. He put his hands on Peter's chest, stroking down his body, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down. "You did what you did, and you're not stupid; you knew exactly what you were doing and what I'd think. You just don't... seem to... care." Nathan's words trailed away as he watched Peter pull down his underpants as well, and kick them into a neat pile beside his bed.
"I do care," Peter replied. He closed his eyes for a moment, and repeated to himself, Arthur, please. "I do... can't you understand? Don't you... don't you... see..."
Nathan had already reached between Peter's legs, stroking the ball sac with his fingertips. Peter wanted to tell him to stop jumping ahead, but it felt too good to protest. Nathan reached further in and down, and when he encountered the base of the plug protruding from Peter's asshole, he flicked it with his fingernail. Peter gasped, despite himself.
"Get against the wall," Nathan advised him softly. "That's my favorite part."
"This is all going wrong," Peter moaned quietly, walking to the only space along the wall, nearly in his entire apartment, where he could actually stand with his back to a wall, and not a book case. It was nowhere near his bed, unfortunately, but they could address that when they got there. Before Peter could make contact with the wall with his hands, Nathan grabbed him from behind and shoved him into it, belly against the wooden slats. "Oh, no, no, no, not like that..."
"Hmm," Nathan said, arching against Peter's ass with his hips. "No?" He chuckled as Peter shook his head. "Oh, no, you're attached to this female-centric approach to this character you're playing..."
"Shut up," Peter snapped.
"Where was I?" Nathan mused pleasantly. "Oh. Yes. This." He bit sharply down on the back of Peter's neck. Peter cried out in pain and surprise. Nathan bit again, more on the side, and continued his line of bites as he turned Peter around to face him, leaving a bright ring of pink rosettes.
"Don't mark me, fucker!" Peter protested.
"They won't leave marks, I promise. Unless you're bruising easily these days. You're too skinny." Before Peter could complain any more, Nathan pressed his lips down onto his, opened his mouth with his tongue, and soul-kissed Peter until his knees buckled. When Nathan laid his hand over Peter's mouth, Peter licked his fingers, and Nathan smiled.
"Sssh," Nathan soothed. He kissed his hand held over Peter's mouth, and parted his fingers so that his tongue could find its way through to Peter's. His wet fingers slid across Peter's cheek, freeing his mouth completely.
He reached down again, and cupped Peter's balls, gripped the base of his cock, massaging slowly but firmly up and down. Nathan kissed Peter's forehead and whispered, "This right here? Mine. You hear me? Mine. You understand?"
"Yeah," Peter whispered shakily.
Nathan twisted the plug in Peter's ass, then pulled it out and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. He pushed two fingers into the snug, hair-lined crevice, into the hole, deep up toward Peter's spine. "Yes!" Peter gasped. "Oh, god, yes... yes..."
"I think you're supposed to say 'no, not here'," Nathan teased, pushing the fingers in hard.
"Fuck that," Peter breathed.
Nathan laughed. "I don't think... we can do it like this. If you want to turn around..."
"No," Peter said, decisive, even though he was flushed and hyperventilating. "Just put it on me. Rub it on me. Let me feel it."
"Feel what?" Nathan prompted.
"Cock. Please. Cock." Peter laughed at himself, and put his arms around Nathan's shoulders, arching up against him, looking down at the sight of Nathan's wrist disappearing under his shirt-tails, watching the muscles move, then feeling the deep violation of his fingers inside. A process; one moment linked to another, one action begetting the next... Peter gasped, "Just give it to me..."
"Oh, God, I love you," Nathan murmured. He took his hand from Peter's face and kissed him, pulled his fingers out of Peter's ass, unzipped his trousers and freed the dangling, stiffening flesh that Peter had begged for.
"You love me anyway..." Peter grasped Nathan's cock in his hand, and pulled it, stroked it, rubbed it against his own pulsing, dripping, rigid organ. "Even with all the shit I put you through..."
"That's my line."
"We're not them," Peter said, rolling his eyes, laughing more, giddy with the sudden rush of freedom. "We've got our own games."
"'Them'?" Nathan echoed. He looked searchingly at Peter.
Peter shook his head. "Please don't ask. I can never tell you. Really."
Nathan gave him a searching look. "Okay," he said. "Can I fuck you?" He kissed the corner of Peter's mouth. "Just you and I?"
"Yes," Peter answered.
Nathan disrobed; Peter left his shirt on, and lay back on his bed, legs open invitingly. Nathan stood beside the bed for a moment, lubing up his cock, stroking himself, looking down at Peter. Peter reached under his own shirt to touch his nipples. "Yours," he whispered dreamily.
"You don't step out on me," Nathan said. Peter blinked at him innocently, admitting nothing. "Right?" He climbed onto the bed, settling between Peter's thighs, raising them, parting them, giving himself access to the inside. He didn't hesitate to thrust himself inside, and didn't pause or relent at Peter's agonized cry.
"Don't! Ohhhh, ohhh, oh God." A tear ran out of his eye.
"You begged me," Nathan said, reaching a sufficiently violating depth, and stopping there. "What's that about? What are you trying to say? Too much? You begged me."
Peter couldn't find words. "Oh...! ohh...! Oh..." His fingers slid up and down Nathan's arms; his breath hissed; his eyes rolled. Nathan just watched and smiled. Slowly, Peter was able to relax a little, and catch his breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll be good."
"Will you?" Nathan mused. He kissed Peter gently on the lips once more, then wrapped his fingers around Peter's throat. Peter blinked rapidly, helplessly. Nathan smiled wickedly. "I lied," he said. "This is my favorite part."
He went slow. But deep. By the time Nathan had sunk himself in to the balls, Peter had his fingers over Nathan's, trying to make him let go. Nathan released him and kissed his Adam's apple. "No, that's not me," Peter gasped. "No."
"It is," Nathan murmured, kissing Peter's lower lip, arching in again, holding Peter open to receive him. Peter moaned helplessly. "It is, or you wouldn't have asked for it. You're curious."
"I don't like it." Even as he said it, Peter frowned to himself, wondering if what he was saying was true. The genuine truth was that it scared him; it sickened him that he saw it being done to his mother. But so intriguing that she liked it. The red shoes... He groaned helplessly, lust mounting in him faster than he could control it. He could see the surprised expression on Nathan's face, and he wanted to control himself so that Nathan wouldn't get the wrong idea. But... he was moaning and cawing like a dying animal, his body spasming.
"That's right," Nathan said, grinning, eyes glinting. He thrust into Peter fast and shallow, then culminated in a single deep shove that produced a streamer of come from Peter's dick. "You don't like it. That's... her. Not you. My God, Peter. My God. You are so fucking twisted."
Peter couldn't stop shaking. The orgasm had hardly reduced his tension at all; he hadn't felt it. It was purely physiological. He needed more. "Fuck me," he said. He squirmed out of Nathan's grasp, and turned himself over, shoving his ass up against Nathan's hips. Nathan obligingly repositioned his cock against Peter's anus and drove inside. "Yes, that," Peter shouted. "Yes, that. Wreck my ass and tell me you love me."
"I love you, you sick fuck," Nathan said. He kissed Peter's shoulder and the back of his neck, embraced his belly, holding him for a moment.
"Say my name?" Peter mumbled. More tears now; almost there. Or maybe that was just the orgasm he wanted, needed, so badly by now. It was as though he had waited his whole life to come. He was almost there. "Do me quick and hard. Do it. Hurt it. Just fuck me and tell me my name."
Nathan laughed. He had no idea of Peter's torment. "Pete, you dumbass," he declared. He thrust, quick and clean, his body slick and hot against Peter's ass, then leaned in and embraced him again, whispering, "Peter."
Peter was so grateful that he was being held so that he wouldn't shake himself to pieces. Their voices rose in harmony together, different tones of "Ohhhhhh," accompanied by the quiet swishing of the fuck, reaching a crescendo, then staggering, fading away. Peter held his aching cock in his hand; this second orgasm hadn't produced almost any spunk, and it left him throbbing and achy, but profoundly satisfied. Whole, now. Complete.
"Come inside me," Peter whispered. "And stay there."
"Yeah," Nathan groaned, rocking back and forth, already in the midst of his orgasm. "Ahhhhhhhh...." He finished with a luxurious sigh, relaxing, his weight on Peter's back, arms looped around him. "Mmmmmm. That's good. That was kinda fun."
"Oh, God, that was so traumatic," Peter contradicted. He felt ravaged and sore. The aching and throbbing inside him might have been somewhat delicious in the moment, but he knew he'd be in pain tomorrow. "Just... all of it."
Nathan helped him turn over, and lay beside him, running his fingers along Peter's torso, wetting his fingertips with sweat and semen and tracing the contours of Peter's nipples. "So who was it, Peter?" he asked.
Peter blinked at him, a deer in headlights. "I told you, I can't tell you," he murmured.
Nathan stroked Peter's back comfortingly, and tried again. "Is it someone I know?"
"I can't. Tell you. Get it? It's personal." Peter shook his head. "Okay, fuck it, I made it all up. Okay?"
"The second 'okay' means a lie, Pete. Don't think I don't know you." Nathan shook his head. "Okay, never mind. It's personal. I should just be glad I got a fuck out of it."
"You can have another one, too," Peter murmured, eager, even though he already ached inside. He'd do it; he'd do it and he'd love it.
Nathan shook his head. "You owe me one," he corrected. "I haven't had a good cock in my ass for way too long."
Peter couldn't resist a smile. "A 'good' one, as opposed to a bad one? You steppin' out on me?" he asked, tucking a wisp of Nathan's hair behind his ear. It didn't quite work; Nathan's hair had a mind of its own.
"Yours," Nathan said, his face, his voice, his eyes serious. "I only want yours. I'll only accept yours. But..." he trailed his finger up over Peter's chest, tracing his earlobe, then sucking it. "Will you put your hands around my throat when I come? I like it."
"And I'm the sick fuck?" Peter mused softly. Finally, he unbuttoned the shirt, and pulled it off, and they were naked together, hiding nothing.
END (50)
A/N: This bears about as much resemblance to actual Lacanian psychotherapeutic practice as Mohinder's research resembles actual genetics. Still, I love a good psychodrama!... I had to get some mention of Peter's dog in there, since TPTB just now decided that he had one... :/ And with fifty Rituals, I'm probably going to take a little break. I'm not out of the game yet, so don't count me out... Thanks to everyone who has read any part of this project. I thought I'd write some fanfic for some quick jollies, but the Ritual series has genuinely changed my life. I appreciate you all.
Title: Ritual (50): The Primal Scene
Pairings: Arthur/Angela, Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: through episode 3.08: "Villains"
Warnings: see pairing; voyeurism, rough consensual play, underage non-involved character, Freudian weirdness :)
Word Count: about 6300
Summary: Peter's primal scene: the origin at the age of five, the true understanding at age twenty-five. Beta/reassurances from 47_trek_47.
Note: If the concept of a child witnessing adult sex acts offends you, please skip this story.
• Ritual Reader's Guide •
---
Heroes is not my property; I just like to take it out for a spin now and again.
The expression "primal scene" refers to the sight of sexual relations between the parents, as observed, constructed, and/or fantasized by the child and interpreted by the child as a scene of violence. The scene is not understood by the child, remaining enigmatic but at same time provoking sexual excitement. [http://nosubject.com/Primal_scene]
MARCH 2005
Peter only allowed himself to be hypnotized once.
He was in his final year of nursing school, taking an advanced clinical psych course, and when offered the choice between studying hypnosis (including being hypnotized himself) and memorizing an entire book of obsolete psych meds, he chose the hypnosis side. He outwardly said he was interested in it to find out about using self-hypnosis in acute pain management, but really, he just wanted to see if he actually could be hypnotized, and what it would feel like. He was curious about the secrets, and abilities, hidden in his own subconscious mind.
On the morning of his session, he sat in a comfy chair in a dimly lit room with the instructor, a gentle-faced older lady, who spoke to him quietly, soothingly.
"Relax. Concentrate on your breathing. Feel your body calming down; feel it slowing. You're very relaxed now, in a safe place. Now... Imagine yourself in a very comfortable place. Someplace comfortable. Your bed. Your bed from when you were a child, when you were safe. Try to remember. Are you there? Now, remember your favorite childhood memory. Do you see it? You see it clearly. See the details. You thought that you forgot the details, but you never lost them."
Peter stayed relaxed, but the memory that unfolded was far from his favorite. It was something he had mostly forgotten, true, but never completely; it was always somewhere in the back of his mind. But he never thought that he'd remember it with such utter clarity.
***
He was five years old. It was bedtime; he was tucked in, soft flannel blankets enclosing him, warm and safe. His mother perched on the edge of his little bed, reading 101 Dalmatians to him (that was a detail that he'd never lost). Her voice was soft and dreamy. She was so beautiful. He wanted to hug her and kiss her some more-he hadn't had nearly enough hugs and kisses for one day. His heart was so full of love he felt breathless.
He yawned, and she closed the book, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. "You're sleepy, little man," she said. "Time to close your eyes. Good night, Peter."
Peter didn't close his eyes, gazing adoringly up at her. "Good night, Mommy," he answered. "Can I have a puppy?"
"No, dear. You're too young, and your father doesn't care for dogs."
Peter didn't know what "doesn't care for" meant. Was it the same as "don't mind"? He asked, "Is Ducky here?"
Angela glanced down beside the bed, where a rubber-ducky-shaped nightlight was plugged into a baseboard outlet. "Ducky's sleeping right now," she said. "Close your eyes, and you'll be sleeping too."
Peter closed his eyes, but when sleep didn't happen instantly, he opened them again. "I'm awake!" he piped up, and laughed.
"You'll have to try harder," Angela said. She smiled, but glanced toward the doorway. "Now, close your eyes. Good night; sleep tight."
"Good night, Mommy," Peter said again. "Mommy! What if I get scared?"
"You won't get scared," Angela said, her smile tightening slightly. "But if you do, you have my permission to get up and wake Ducky up with the switch. You'll be safe as long as Ducky's here, even if he's asleep."
"I love Ducky," Peter said.
"Yes, it was a very nice gift from Nathan," Angela replied. When she spoke again, her voice was firmer, without any space for further questions. "All right, sweetheart. Good night." Before Peter could even try again to get her to stay, she turned off his lamp, and left the room, closing the door most of the way, but leaving it slightly open so that the light from the hallway spilled in. Peter watched her go, and then closed his eyes again.
But he didn't sleep. He thought about getting the book that had been just read to him and trying to read it himself, but he didn't know how to turn his lamp on. He thought about the puppies and Cruella deVil and her ropes of emeralds, and was scared; he thought about Ducky keeping him safe, and he thought about Nathan. Nathan was away at school, but he had given Peter the nightlight while he was home for Christmas. At Christmas, Nathan had hugged Peter for a long time-almost as long as Peter wanted-and then picked him up and played Superman with him, swooping Peter's body through the air while Peter held out his fists and made triumphant superhero music with his voice.
Peter didn't yet have words to describe missing someone, but whenever he thought about Nathan, it made him sad.
He climbed down out of bed and sat on the floor next to Ducky, and tried to find the big, fat switch on the side to turn on the nightlight. In the dark, it was hard, and his fingers were clumsy. When he finally clicked the switch, Ducky lit up for just a moment, then made a snapping noise, and went dark.
Peter just sat there and stared for a moment. He almost began to cry, but he found it hard to do when there was nobody else around. He just wanted to bring Ducky back to life. Peter didn't want to be afraid of the dark. He didn't want to think about ghosts or monsters or Cruella deVil or being lonely. He needed Ducky's friendly yellow glow.
Mommy could fix him.
He stood up and padded out of his room, his bare feet silent on the carpeted floor as he headed to his parents' bedroom. The hall lights were turned down low, but not yet dark. Mommy and Daddy were probably still awake, and he could ask Mommy to fix Ducky and maybe read him the happy ending of the story. Daddy hadn't been home for dinner, but he had come just in time to tell Peter good night. And he looked kind of mad, but sometimes, with Daddy, it was hard to tell. But this was an emergency.
They were awake. Peter could hear their voices. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but their urgently whispering voices sounded strange. It was the kind of intensity that sounded like a fight. Peter hesitated outside the door, shrinking back against the wall, afraid, now, to go in. They didn't sound like his parents; they were speaking in a completely different way than Peter had ever heard.
Peter was a good listener, though.
His father. "How am I supposed to believe you? What cause have you ever given me to trust you?"
His mother's response was softly pleading. "It's over, I tell you. I swear it. It's done. And I'm so sorry."
"No, you're not." The bedroom's floorboards creaked. It was impossible to sneak around in there without being heard. Angela gave a barely audible gasp. "You did what you did, and you're not stupid; you knew exactly what you were doing and what I'd think. You just don't seem to care."
"Arthur... please..." She was breathing hard. "I do... I do care... Don't you understand?" Her next words were whispers. "Can't you see?"
Silence followed this, and Peter's curiosity got the better of him; he crept closer to the door, sank down onto the ground, and peeked into the room.
Her dark hair unpinned and tumbling loose around her face, Angela stood against the wall, Arthur pushing her into it with his body, trapping her there. His hands crushed her skirt up, squeezing and gripping her thighs; his head moved rapidly from side to side, his mouth pressing against her neck. Her hands pressed against his chest, but she wasn't pushing him away; her eyes were closed, mouth open, emitting tiny, shaky, gasping breaths. At a certain angle, Peter could clearly see that he was actually biting her neck, snapping pinches of skin between his gleaming teeth.
Peter froze with terror, his eyes going so wide that it hurt. Somehow, even though she was being pinched and bitten and suffocated, his mother didn't seem frightened; in fact, her parted lips wore a strange, savage smile. Her gasps became tiny cries. "Oh... oh... oh..." The pink tip of her tongue swept against the corners of her smudged red lips.
She hadn't been wearing red lipstick when she tucked Peter into bed.
Arthur clapped his hand over her mouth, and hissed, "Sssssh." Then, his left hand still held over Angela's mouth, he brought up his right hand and grabbed her between the legs. Peter could see that Arthur wasn't smiling; instead, he looked furious, with knitted brow and his mouth pressed into a grim line. Angela's eyes rolled, the eyelids fluttering, and she groaned against his hand.
Peter held his breath. He had never been so scared, so confused. He wanted to stop looking, but he couldn't even blink.
One of her legs rose up, against Arthur's thigh. The shoe dangled from the tip of her stockinged toe. Shiny, red, pointy shoes with high heels; sheer black stockings with solid black toes and heels. He had never seen those shoes before. They looked painful, impossible. He didn't know how she balanced on one thin, fragile-looking heel. Then she didn't, she angled slightly forward, onto the toe, her heel raising from the back of the shoe. Arthur was holding her up, lifting her slightly off the floor with his hand between her legs, pressing hard into her. At the hem of her skirt, her stocking tops stretched against the garters holding them, somewhere underneath.
She groaned again, deeper and louder. He thrust his hips against her, between her spread thighs; her leg wrapped around his thighs, pulling him closer. Arching up against him, her hips banging softly against the wall. Arthur reached into her white silk blouse, a button popping off and skittering across the floor, and he grabbed a breast, gripping it tightly, half lifting it out of her blouse. He pressed his mouth against his hand, over her mouth, and grunted, "This? Mine. You hear me? Mine." He pulled his hand away and stared at her.
Angela weakly replied, "Yours." Or maybe it was "Yes."
Peter couldn't tell. He felt very strange, like he had to pee, like he couldn't quite breathe. Daddy was hurting Mommy, but Mommy wasn't trying to get away. The sight of the garters bothered him more than he could understand; it was scarier than the biting. Did all women have such strange devices under their skirts? Her shoe was falling off, and she didn't even seem to care. He wished Nathan was here. Nathan could make sense of this; Nathan could stop it. Peter could only hide on the floor, in the dark, moment by moment becoming more afraid to tear his eyes away. He didn't want to see anymore, but he needed to stay, and protect his mother.
With a sudden, fumbling motion, Arthur unzipped his slacks and pressed inward, hard. Peter couldn't see what was happening; his father was turned away from Peter, giving Peter a clear view of the shifting, tormented emotions passing over Angela's face. Her eyes opened wide, rolling back a little, and she pleaded, "No, not here-not like this."
"Yes, here," Arthur insisted, pushing her skirt all the way up to her waist. "I know you; you're ready. Why should I wait?" She had no underwear on. Peter felt a new thrill of terrible shock and shame and fear. Why wasn't Mommy wearing underwear? Didn't mommies always wear underwear? He had seen her naked before. Of course. But that was different; he wasn't looking. That was before he even knew he shouldn't be looking. When he was smaller they would sometimes lie together in bed, nude, napping in summer heat, cuddling like a mother wolf and her cub. He remembered her kisses and the slightly rough texture of her skin, the scars on her tummy, the smell of her breasts, the memory of nursing from her. But this was different; he was a big boy now and they didn't take naps together. That was from when he was a baby. He could remember being a baby in her arms. He shouldn't see her naked hip, curving upward to her stomach; he shouldn't see her trembling like that.
He loved her. He couldn't bear to watch her being hurt. He couldn't bear the smell of her now; it was unfamiliar, different, foreign. A sweaty, musky smell, wild and strange.
"Arthur... oh... Oh!"
That sound! That choked, gasping cry; something he'd never heard, never imagined, couldn't comprehend.
Without realizing that he spoke aloud, Peter softly whispered, "Don't..."
Arthur paused, just for a second. Peter held his breath again.
But his father hadn't seemed to have heard. With another bestial grunt, Arthur wrapped his hand around Angela's throat, choking off her air, silencing her completely. He thrust hard into her once, twice, a third time, harder. She submitted, silent, her eyes begging, then closing. Submitting completely. Complete and utter surrender. He could do whatever he wanted to her; she wouldn't fight.
Peter almost ran into the room then, terrified that his mother was being choked to death; but just in time, Arthur released her throat and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. Gasping gratefully, Angela's hands slid around Arthur's waist, and she tipped her head back, encouraging him to kiss her where he had just been gripping her. "You know I love you anyway, don't you?" Arthur whispered, kissing the tight red marks on her neck. "Even with all the shit you put me through?" Angela just nodded in response, her smile unmistakable, and she arched her hips toward him, urging him on.
Peter gulped, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat scratchy.
Angela's hands slid down to Arthur's back to his buttocks, and gripped hard, yanking him roughly toward her. He drove in sharply; she gasped and moaned. She put the back of her hand against her mouth, muffling her vocalizations, and both of her feet left the ground, her thighs riding Arthur's waist. Peter thought they looked like circus acrobats, or trapeze artists clinging to each other on delicate swings, and in his fascination, he momentarily forgot to feel scared.
Then Arthur grabbed Angela by the shoulders and slammed her down onto the bed a few steps away, and Peter jumped despite himself. Angela's hands had never left Arthur's buttocks, and now she scrabbled at the waistband of his trousers. He reached back and smacked her hand. "Leave it," he snapped. To Peter's bafflement, Angela gave a husky, knowing laugh. Arthur tapped her sharply against the jaw with the flat of his hand, and she laughed again, her tongue worrying against her lower lip like it itched. And then she moaned again; his back arched above her, his hips held tight between her legs, and he wrapped his fingers around her throat again and began rubbing against her in earnest.
Peter felt cold. His Daddy had suddenly become a stranger to him; a monster on top of his mother, hurting her-she couldn't even make a sound anymore. But now Arthur's hands were at her sides, balancing himself as he drove into her, and Angela was softly laughing again, or crying, or... almost praying to him. "Yes... yes... I'm yours... all of this is yours... I'm sorry; I'll be good. I'll be good. Oh, yes."
Arthur ground to a breathless, furious climax, then collapsed over Angela. She sighed with relief, and ran her long, red fingernails through his hair, relaxing, her eyes closed, pressing kisses against the side of his face. Arthur lay very still, and Peter allowed himself to blink at last.
"Go to bed, Peter," Arthur said then.
Peter wet himself. Angela stiffened and opened her eyes, but before she could look over and glimpse Peter peeking through the crack in the door, Peter had bolted back to his own room, grabbed all the covers and pillows off the bed, and crawled underneath it.
He was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. He clutched his new teddy bear around the neck, burying his face in its soft plush, then he relaxed his grip, feeling guilty and weird. It made him start to cry; just the idea that he was strangling his teddy. This was what men did to the things they loved. "No..." He cuddled the bear and kissed it. "I'm sorry, teddy," he said, his tears making the plush wet and chewy. His whole world was wet and chewy, and cold, and he couldn't do anything about it but cry.
But the next thing he knew, it was bright, sunny morning, and the nanny was calling his name, wondering where he was.
Later that day, Peter got a puppy. It worked. He forgot what he had seen.
***
After Peter had finished his hypnosis session, he had a date scheduled with Nathan for lunch at the little Italian bistro located halfway between the District Attorney's office and Peter's apartment. He found his way to the bistro in a daze.
He had chosen not to tell his instructor about what he had remembered; it was obvious by looking at him that he had uncovered something major, and she didn't press. She did ask, "Are you glad that you saw what you saw?"
"I don't know yet," Peter said. "I gotta process a little bit."
And so, lunch with Nathan. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.
Nathan looked good, of course. Glowing. His congressional campaign was going well, and his latest law case had been a resounding success, gaining him a lot of very positive press. He was being exactly the perfect son for Arthur. Doing everything right. Being Arthur's boy.
"You look pale," Nathan said to Peter. "It's not a crime to use a tanning bed, you know. Or are you jockeying for spring break in Fiji?"
Peter didn't respond to the bait. He had no appetite, and he didn't really want coffee; only the glass of water on the table interested him. He let Nathan ramble on about himself for a while, ordered a bruschetta and soup to be polite, and stared, not at Nathan, but at Nathan's reflection in the window. Looking for the resemblance.
"I've got a scenario for you," Peter said, when he had a chance, because Nathan's mouth was full. "A scene I want to do with you."
"Like, a scene scene?" Nathan asked curiously, wiping his lips with his napkin and raising his eyebrows. Peter nodded, unable to meet Nathan's interested, curious gaze. Nathan grinned, though. "Huh. Interesting. Does it require elaborate props that I'm going to have to buy?"
"No," Peter said. "You just... have to say and do certain things. It's really like a scene. Like we're actors, playing roles."
"I'm still not quite getting it. Isn't this kind of formal? I mean, if you want to play, we can play, but... with what, character names? Costumes?" he pressed, as Peter shook his head no to both questions. "What brought this on?"
Peter took a deep breath, and shrugged. The mere mention of "play" coming from Nathan's lips made him shudder with frustrated desire; this time, the frustration came from within himself; he didn't really know what he hoped to get from such an encounter. All he knew was that he was compelled to ask for it. "Uh... just something. Something I thought of that needs elaboration. Something I need to clarify. A scenario that I just... want to explore." He paused and added, "With you. It has to be with you."
"Nursing school is having a very interesting effect on you," said Nathan, and gave in to his urge to laugh. Peter met his eyes then, his expression dead serious. Nathan's laughter mellowed to a grin. "You are one weird dude," he mused, shaking his head. "Yeah, all right. We can do a scene."
Peter reached into his messenger bag for his spiral notebook, ripped off the last page, and handed it to Nathan. Nathan blinked, and slowly accepted the page. These were the notes that Peter had hastily scribbled while he was in the subway on the way over here. He hadn't specified much; no names named, no setting specified besides THEIR BEDROOM. He had transcribed everything that he could, his pen scrawling excitedly. Writing it down was the first part of ownership; the words taking shape, defining themselves, becoming more solid. It was real. It had happened. But was it happening to him even now, without his conscious control?
No mention of right and wrong. Stripping it of moral positions was the first step.
HER HEAD THROWN BACK.
HE BITES HER NECK SIX OR SEVEN TIMES. NO MARKS.
HE JAMS HIS HAND INTO HER CUNT. HARD. SHE LIKES IT.
Nathan read it over, his eyebrows staying raised. "Whoa," he said. "This is like a... Did you just make this up?" Peter shook his head, and Nathan lapsed into silence again, reviewing. "All right, if this is what you want to do."
"It is," Peter said. "Just once. It doesn't have to always be like this. It shouldn't be."
"It's not that different from the way it is now, sometimes," Nathan replied.
"Yeah," Peter acknowledged, and felt that strange, twisting sensation in his stomach; something he hadn't felt so clearly since he was a child. Like he was being torn in half, into thirds; heart, mind, and... desire... self-destructiveness... fighting it out inside him. And yet, this is how his life had always been. "I know. I wanna... see if there even is any difference."
His eyes searched Nathan's face; he did resemble. So strongly. He was about the same age now as Arthur had been. Peter made a series of strange faces as he fought off tears and snarls of rage, grimaces of fear; he took some deep, calming breaths. He suddenly felt a stab of regret that he had taken the hypnosis course; this was all very uncomfortable.
"It's hot," Nathan added, still reading over the paper, not noticing Peter's struggle. Then, he folded the sheet of paper, folded it again, and began to tear it into tiny fragments. Peter blinked at him in surprise. Nathan nodded reassuringly and tapped the side of his head. "I've got it. Memory palace. You got it?" he asked, and Peter nodded jerkily. Nathan was cool. "I'm free next Friday afternoon; that work for you?"
"Sure. Thanks," Peter said, and let out his breath in a long, slow sigh of relief.
"I owe you one, anyway," Nathan mentioned, returning to his lunch, "after that whole Dixon business."
Peter mumbled, "Oh, you know... any time..."
"It really means a lot to me, Peter," Nathan insisted. "I really need my head clear right now. You did a good thing."
"Glad I could help," Peter said, blushing a little. That midnight emergency had been the last time they'd lain together; and Peter didn't want to admit that he'd been so sleepy the whole time that he didn't remember it too well. But that had been simply much more meaningful for Nathan than for him; that was Nathan unburdening himself of a secret that had been tormenting him for decades. If he was going to turn around and use Nathan in the same way, so be it. That was the arrangement, the promise, the bond; I am at your service. "My place, two o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me," said Nathan.
***
At first, Nathan and Peter just sat across from each other, Peter on the edge of his bed, and Nathan rolling up his sleeves in the chair at Peter's desk. Peter stared at the floor, lost in himself, not moving, even as his heart was pounding roughly in his chest. Nathan regarded him curiously. "You wanna do this?" he asked softly. "Or do you just wanna... lie down."
Peter slowly looked up, but couldn't maintain eye contact. "No, I do," he replied quickly.
"You are 'Her', correct?" Nathan asked.
Peter wanted to strangle him for being so matter-of-fact. It all seemed ridiculous now. "Well, obviously," he said, "I-"
"It's not obvious at all, Peter."
"It's so obvious. You know. You've seen it. I'm..." As quickly as Peter's anger flared, it vanished, leaving him more confused than ever. "Help me," he murmured.
"Well, get up," Nathan said, his voice quiet and reasonable. Controlled. "That's not how you wrote it."
Peter stood up. Nathan stood, too, and approached him, reaching out to pull the tails of Peter's shirt from his waistband. Peter took a deep breath of Nathan's scent and felt calm descend over him. "Thanks," Peter murmured. "My head's all over the place, I..."
"How am I supposed to believe you?" Nathan replied smoothly, in the same tone of voice as before. "What cause have you ever given me to trust you?"
Peter blinked slowly as the words sunk in. It all sounded completely different in Nathan's voice; softer and richer, without the upstate accent, without the vitriol. Nathan just wasn't angry. Wasn't dangerous.
"You're mad at me, remember," Peter whispered.
Nathan just cupped his hand around the back of Peter's neck and kissed him softly and sweetly on the lips. "Right," he said. "Gotta get into character."
"You want to hurt me," Peter said. Desire throbbed in his voice.
Nathan shook his head a little. "At the moment, I don't," he confessed. "You're beautiful."
Peter looked away. "I'm a little tramp," he said. "I'm stepping out. I'm stepping out just to make you angry. Or..." It was so horrible saying these things about his own mother-their mother. He didn't even know if it was true; what were his memories? They could easily be falsehoods... or at least, incomplete truths. "Or to turn you on," he guessed suddenly. "Make you appreciate me."
"I hate that," Nathan said.
"Makes you mad?"
"No... it makes me disappointed."
"It's not you, remember."
"It's not?" Nathan asked, somehow calm and confrontational at once.
Peter stared at him. "It's over, I tell you. I swear it. It's done. And I'm so sorry." He didn't sound anything like his mother. His tone of voice was completely different; he was speaking instead of whispering. And he didn't sound afraid, or contrite. And yet, somehow, it kind of worked. Anyway, Nathan smiled.
"No, you're not," he replied. He put his hands on Peter's chest, stroking down his body, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down. "You did what you did, and you're not stupid; you knew exactly what you were doing and what I'd think. You just don't... seem to... care." Nathan's words trailed away as he watched Peter pull down his underpants as well, and kick them into a neat pile beside his bed.
"I do care," Peter replied. He closed his eyes for a moment, and repeated to himself, Arthur, please. "I do... can't you understand? Don't you... don't you... see..."
Nathan had already reached between Peter's legs, stroking the ball sac with his fingertips. Peter wanted to tell him to stop jumping ahead, but it felt too good to protest. Nathan reached further in and down, and when he encountered the base of the plug protruding from Peter's asshole, he flicked it with his fingernail. Peter gasped, despite himself.
"Get against the wall," Nathan advised him softly. "That's my favorite part."
"This is all going wrong," Peter moaned quietly, walking to the only space along the wall, nearly in his entire apartment, where he could actually stand with his back to a wall, and not a book case. It was nowhere near his bed, unfortunately, but they could address that when they got there. Before Peter could make contact with the wall with his hands, Nathan grabbed him from behind and shoved him into it, belly against the wooden slats. "Oh, no, no, no, not like that..."
"Hmm," Nathan said, arching against Peter's ass with his hips. "No?" He chuckled as Peter shook his head. "Oh, no, you're attached to this female-centric approach to this character you're playing..."
"Shut up," Peter snapped.
"Where was I?" Nathan mused pleasantly. "Oh. Yes. This." He bit sharply down on the back of Peter's neck. Peter cried out in pain and surprise. Nathan bit again, more on the side, and continued his line of bites as he turned Peter around to face him, leaving a bright ring of pink rosettes.
"Don't mark me, fucker!" Peter protested.
"They won't leave marks, I promise. Unless you're bruising easily these days. You're too skinny." Before Peter could complain any more, Nathan pressed his lips down onto his, opened his mouth with his tongue, and soul-kissed Peter until his knees buckled. When Nathan laid his hand over Peter's mouth, Peter licked his fingers, and Nathan smiled.
"Sssh," Nathan soothed. He kissed his hand held over Peter's mouth, and parted his fingers so that his tongue could find its way through to Peter's. His wet fingers slid across Peter's cheek, freeing his mouth completely.
He reached down again, and cupped Peter's balls, gripped the base of his cock, massaging slowly but firmly up and down. Nathan kissed Peter's forehead and whispered, "This right here? Mine. You hear me? Mine. You understand?"
"Yeah," Peter whispered shakily.
Nathan twisted the plug in Peter's ass, then pulled it out and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. He pushed two fingers into the snug, hair-lined crevice, into the hole, deep up toward Peter's spine. "Yes!" Peter gasped. "Oh, god, yes... yes..."
"I think you're supposed to say 'no, not here'," Nathan teased, pushing the fingers in hard.
"Fuck that," Peter breathed.
Nathan laughed. "I don't think... we can do it like this. If you want to turn around..."
"No," Peter said, decisive, even though he was flushed and hyperventilating. "Just put it on me. Rub it on me. Let me feel it."
"Feel what?" Nathan prompted.
"Cock. Please. Cock." Peter laughed at himself, and put his arms around Nathan's shoulders, arching up against him, looking down at the sight of Nathan's wrist disappearing under his shirt-tails, watching the muscles move, then feeling the deep violation of his fingers inside. A process; one moment linked to another, one action begetting the next... Peter gasped, "Just give it to me..."
"Oh, God, I love you," Nathan murmured. He took his hand from Peter's face and kissed him, pulled his fingers out of Peter's ass, unzipped his trousers and freed the dangling, stiffening flesh that Peter had begged for.
"You love me anyway..." Peter grasped Nathan's cock in his hand, and pulled it, stroked it, rubbed it against his own pulsing, dripping, rigid organ. "Even with all the shit I put you through..."
"That's my line."
"We're not them," Peter said, rolling his eyes, laughing more, giddy with the sudden rush of freedom. "We've got our own games."
"'Them'?" Nathan echoed. He looked searchingly at Peter.
Peter shook his head. "Please don't ask. I can never tell you. Really."
Nathan gave him a searching look. "Okay," he said. "Can I fuck you?" He kissed the corner of Peter's mouth. "Just you and I?"
"Yes," Peter answered.
Nathan disrobed; Peter left his shirt on, and lay back on his bed, legs open invitingly. Nathan stood beside the bed for a moment, lubing up his cock, stroking himself, looking down at Peter. Peter reached under his own shirt to touch his nipples. "Yours," he whispered dreamily.
"You don't step out on me," Nathan said. Peter blinked at him innocently, admitting nothing. "Right?" He climbed onto the bed, settling between Peter's thighs, raising them, parting them, giving himself access to the inside. He didn't hesitate to thrust himself inside, and didn't pause or relent at Peter's agonized cry.
"Don't! Ohhhh, ohhh, oh God." A tear ran out of his eye.
"You begged me," Nathan said, reaching a sufficiently violating depth, and stopping there. "What's that about? What are you trying to say? Too much? You begged me."
Peter couldn't find words. "Oh...! ohh...! Oh..." His fingers slid up and down Nathan's arms; his breath hissed; his eyes rolled. Nathan just watched and smiled. Slowly, Peter was able to relax a little, and catch his breath. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll be good."
"Will you?" Nathan mused. He kissed Peter gently on the lips once more, then wrapped his fingers around Peter's throat. Peter blinked rapidly, helplessly. Nathan smiled wickedly. "I lied," he said. "This is my favorite part."
He went slow. But deep. By the time Nathan had sunk himself in to the balls, Peter had his fingers over Nathan's, trying to make him let go. Nathan released him and kissed his Adam's apple. "No, that's not me," Peter gasped. "No."
"It is," Nathan murmured, kissing Peter's lower lip, arching in again, holding Peter open to receive him. Peter moaned helplessly. "It is, or you wouldn't have asked for it. You're curious."
"I don't like it." Even as he said it, Peter frowned to himself, wondering if what he was saying was true. The genuine truth was that it scared him; it sickened him that he saw it being done to his mother. But so intriguing that she liked it. The red shoes... He groaned helplessly, lust mounting in him faster than he could control it. He could see the surprised expression on Nathan's face, and he wanted to control himself so that Nathan wouldn't get the wrong idea. But... he was moaning and cawing like a dying animal, his body spasming.
"That's right," Nathan said, grinning, eyes glinting. He thrust into Peter fast and shallow, then culminated in a single deep shove that produced a streamer of come from Peter's dick. "You don't like it. That's... her. Not you. My God, Peter. My God. You are so fucking twisted."
Peter couldn't stop shaking. The orgasm had hardly reduced his tension at all; he hadn't felt it. It was purely physiological. He needed more. "Fuck me," he said. He squirmed out of Nathan's grasp, and turned himself over, shoving his ass up against Nathan's hips. Nathan obligingly repositioned his cock against Peter's anus and drove inside. "Yes, that," Peter shouted. "Yes, that. Wreck my ass and tell me you love me."
"I love you, you sick fuck," Nathan said. He kissed Peter's shoulder and the back of his neck, embraced his belly, holding him for a moment.
"Say my name?" Peter mumbled. More tears now; almost there. Or maybe that was just the orgasm he wanted, needed, so badly by now. It was as though he had waited his whole life to come. He was almost there. "Do me quick and hard. Do it. Hurt it. Just fuck me and tell me my name."
Nathan laughed. He had no idea of Peter's torment. "Pete, you dumbass," he declared. He thrust, quick and clean, his body slick and hot against Peter's ass, then leaned in and embraced him again, whispering, "Peter."
Peter was so grateful that he was being held so that he wouldn't shake himself to pieces. Their voices rose in harmony together, different tones of "Ohhhhhh," accompanied by the quiet swishing of the fuck, reaching a crescendo, then staggering, fading away. Peter held his aching cock in his hand; this second orgasm hadn't produced almost any spunk, and it left him throbbing and achy, but profoundly satisfied. Whole, now. Complete.
"Come inside me," Peter whispered. "And stay there."
"Yeah," Nathan groaned, rocking back and forth, already in the midst of his orgasm. "Ahhhhhhhh...." He finished with a luxurious sigh, relaxing, his weight on Peter's back, arms looped around him. "Mmmmmm. That's good. That was kinda fun."
"Oh, God, that was so traumatic," Peter contradicted. He felt ravaged and sore. The aching and throbbing inside him might have been somewhat delicious in the moment, but he knew he'd be in pain tomorrow. "Just... all of it."
Nathan helped him turn over, and lay beside him, running his fingers along Peter's torso, wetting his fingertips with sweat and semen and tracing the contours of Peter's nipples. "So who was it, Peter?" he asked.
Peter blinked at him, a deer in headlights. "I told you, I can't tell you," he murmured.
Nathan stroked Peter's back comfortingly, and tried again. "Is it someone I know?"
"I can't. Tell you. Get it? It's personal." Peter shook his head. "Okay, fuck it, I made it all up. Okay?"
"The second 'okay' means a lie, Pete. Don't think I don't know you." Nathan shook his head. "Okay, never mind. It's personal. I should just be glad I got a fuck out of it."
"You can have another one, too," Peter murmured, eager, even though he already ached inside. He'd do it; he'd do it and he'd love it.
Nathan shook his head. "You owe me one," he corrected. "I haven't had a good cock in my ass for way too long."
Peter couldn't resist a smile. "A 'good' one, as opposed to a bad one? You steppin' out on me?" he asked, tucking a wisp of Nathan's hair behind his ear. It didn't quite work; Nathan's hair had a mind of its own.
"Yours," Nathan said, his face, his voice, his eyes serious. "I only want yours. I'll only accept yours. But..." he trailed his finger up over Peter's chest, tracing his earlobe, then sucking it. "Will you put your hands around my throat when I come? I like it."
"And I'm the sick fuck?" Peter mused softly. Finally, he unbuttoned the shirt, and pulled it off, and they were naked together, hiding nothing.
END (50)
A/N: This bears about as much resemblance to actual Lacanian psychotherapeutic practice as Mohinder's research resembles actual genetics. Still, I love a good psychodrama!... I had to get some mention of Peter's dog in there, since TPTB just now decided that he had one... :/ And with fifty Rituals, I'm probably going to take a little break. I'm not out of the game yet, so don't count me out... Thanks to everyone who has read any part of this project. I thought I'd write some fanfic for some quick jollies, but the Ritual series has genuinely changed my life. I appreciate you all.