[Heroes] You can sleep while I watch you
Feb. 9th, 2008 06:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scandalinbohemiaTitle: You can sleep while I watch you
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1309 (W)
Warning(s): Underage sex, ideal (?) incest
Spoiler(s): None.
Thanks to:snopes_faith, the tireless beta.
Notes: Sequel to You can sleep while I drive. You can read this first, if you want, but you'll lose something.
Summary: Peter's not an early bird.
Written for:eryslash's birthday. I love you, dear.
You wake up with Peter curled around your hip, a sort of big skinny cat with his bangs sprawled on his face and his lips vaguely pouting in his slumber. He's got the peaceful and satisfied expression of one who went to bed sated, his leg between yours and his arm lying comfortably across your body. With your fingertips you move his hair from his eyes, tucking it behind his ears. Peter's got the creases of the pillow stamped all over his face, and you don't know how long it's been since you've seen such a thing.
They could be your redemption - the creases of the pillow stamped on Peter's face.
You watch him sleep and are surprised that he occupies so much space in the bed; that his head's so heavy on your shoulder and his leg pins yours against the mattress. In any other moment, he looks smaller, thinner, weaker, more in need of protection. Now that he's sleeping, he looks like he extends to every shadow of the bed and occupies every corner, and he looks like his arms are larger and stronger, his legs intertwined with yours longer, his face older, his stubble thicker. He looks more peaceful and confident than you remember - so noisily he sleeps as if challenging the night, with his arm around your waist and the cocky, pouty expression of who doesn't fear bad dreams.
He looks like he doesn't need you, and if you disappear he won't notice.
Peter sighs and turns onto his side, and you follow him. He's got an asymmetric face, a crooked mouth and not enough flesh on his bones; one arm slightly thinner than the other, one eye slightly bigger, his nipples slightly prominent. You examine him in every smallest detail and wonder what you find so attractive about him. He's not handsome. You'd hardly define him good-looking. If he were a woman, he would be the ugliest one you've ever slept with.
You rest a hand on his arm and your lips on his shoulder. It's winter but Peter keeps sleeping half uncovered, with the edge of the sheets clenched under his armpit. When you kiss his ear, you feel his arm's skin raise in a light shiver.
For some reason, he warms up your blood. He lets you fuck him with a fierce sweetness that drains your strength and watches you with the infinite intensity of who can still indulge in genuine wonder. He ambushes you in the middle of the day, on the couch, on the table, on the kitchen counter. He makes it impossible for you to fold a blanket or fry an egg, and if he sees you're drinking he assaults you as if he's been abstaining for all his life. While you do it, he tells you he loves you, he's crazy for you, he's yours and you can do anything you want to him - that if you just asked he would never ever do it with anyone else, ever. He calls your name when he comes and, when he does, it seems like everything makes more sense - that reality is more real, and your life isn't slipping through your fingers.
You caress his belly under the sheets, tracing with your thumb against the thin line of hair that starts from his navel and sinks in his groin. Peter sighs a little louder. You kiss his neck and jaw, breathing on his cheek.
Sometimes you feel guilty, and think that everybody who sees the two of you will understand what you do at first sight. After such a long time it's new to worry again about what people think, and control every gesture and word, and be afraid they'll be misinterpreted. And offer just the most reassuring image, the best profile, the whiter smile - the joke that won't sound ambiguous, the laughter at the right moment, and touch just when it'll seem neutral and casual even if you've wanted to for hours. You don't go out that often, and if it were up to you, you could even not go out at all, but Peter's seventeen and you're afraid that if you keep him at home, sooner or later he'll start to hate you.
After such a long time, it's new to be afraid.
"Oh, yes," mutters Peter, his mouth pressed on the pillow. "Oh, yes, don't stop. Nathan..."
He bends an arm back around your nape, pulling you closer. You kiss his chin and throat while you feel him shivering with pleasure.
"Nathan..."
"I'm here," you whisper in his ear. "I'm here for you. Just for you."
Peter opens his eyes, turning his face towards you, and you kiss him and keep stroking him with a slow, constant pace. Peter's body is weak with slumber when it moulds back against yours, his lips soft and open in a kiss that for once doesn't bite nor suck your tongue. It's rare for you to make the first step, and you feel there's something cowardly in having done it while Peter was asleep, but he doesn't seem to be complaining.
"I love you. Christ, Nathan, I'm fucked up. Love you too much," he moans, leaning his hand on yours.
You smile and don't know if you can believe him. You could even have fallen in love with him. Then the fear, the tenderness and the wonder would make sense. Those sudden stabs at your chest, the regrets, the afterthoughts, the sunny days - that all would make sense. It would make sense that you've not drunk a drop in a month, and that you shave every morning. The mirror would make sense, and its telling you that you're too old for such things. Your life would make sense, and hell, Nathan, this is serious stuff.
Even your death would make sense.
"Yes," you answer. "Oh yes, you're so fucked up", and you don't know anymore if you're talking with Peter or yourself, because you're under the impression that both of you are, each in his own way.
Peter grasps your hand with his and sighs noisily, his eyes closed again. The sheets have been moved down and you can see everything, from his hot cheeks to his white inner thighs, from your privileged angle upon his shoulder. Peter moans and arches toward your joined hands, and when he comes he tilts his head back abruptly and slaps your face with his ever too long hair. When Peter comes, you've got a taste of shampoo in your mouth.
"Mmm," moans Peter some minutes after, curling in a ball towards the bedside. "Thanks. Wake me up like this in the morning."
"It is morning," you point out. The blinds are half closed, but there's already light in the bedroom and between the slats you can see a slice of gloriously blue sky.
Peter opens one eye. "I'm hungry, then."
"You know where the fridge is."
"No breakfast in bed?"
"You think you're in a hotel?"
Peter turns and cuddles against your hip, in the same position you've found him when you woke up. "Yes. I even have my very own whore."
"Mine should have his hair cut."
"Not worth it for mine. He'll start losing it soon."
Peter opens his eyes and looks at you with his usual askew grimace. And you feel your ears creak in the attempt to push your smile back down your throat, but it's useless.
The alarm clock starts ringing. With the greatest calm and without turning back, Peter stretches out a hand towards the nightstand and melts it to a clot of metal and plastic. It must be the third or fourth he's destroyed like that, but this time you've got no wish to reproach him.
"'Night, Nate," he announces closing his eyes.
This could be your redemption, after all.
"'Night, Pete."
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1309 (W)
Warning(s): Underage sex, ideal (?) incest
Spoiler(s): None.
Thanks to:
snopes_faith, the tireless beta.Notes: Sequel to You can sleep while I drive. You can read this first, if you want, but you'll lose something.
Summary: Peter's not an early bird.
Written for:
eryslash's birthday. I love you, dear.You wake up with Peter curled around your hip, a sort of big skinny cat with his bangs sprawled on his face and his lips vaguely pouting in his slumber. He's got the peaceful and satisfied expression of one who went to bed sated, his leg between yours and his arm lying comfortably across your body. With your fingertips you move his hair from his eyes, tucking it behind his ears. Peter's got the creases of the pillow stamped all over his face, and you don't know how long it's been since you've seen such a thing.
They could be your redemption - the creases of the pillow stamped on Peter's face.
You watch him sleep and are surprised that he occupies so much space in the bed; that his head's so heavy on your shoulder and his leg pins yours against the mattress. In any other moment, he looks smaller, thinner, weaker, more in need of protection. Now that he's sleeping, he looks like he extends to every shadow of the bed and occupies every corner, and he looks like his arms are larger and stronger, his legs intertwined with yours longer, his face older, his stubble thicker. He looks more peaceful and confident than you remember - so noisily he sleeps as if challenging the night, with his arm around your waist and the cocky, pouty expression of who doesn't fear bad dreams.
He looks like he doesn't need you, and if you disappear he won't notice.
Peter sighs and turns onto his side, and you follow him. He's got an asymmetric face, a crooked mouth and not enough flesh on his bones; one arm slightly thinner than the other, one eye slightly bigger, his nipples slightly prominent. You examine him in every smallest detail and wonder what you find so attractive about him. He's not handsome. You'd hardly define him good-looking. If he were a woman, he would be the ugliest one you've ever slept with.
You rest a hand on his arm and your lips on his shoulder. It's winter but Peter keeps sleeping half uncovered, with the edge of the sheets clenched under his armpit. When you kiss his ear, you feel his arm's skin raise in a light shiver.
For some reason, he warms up your blood. He lets you fuck him with a fierce sweetness that drains your strength and watches you with the infinite intensity of who can still indulge in genuine wonder. He ambushes you in the middle of the day, on the couch, on the table, on the kitchen counter. He makes it impossible for you to fold a blanket or fry an egg, and if he sees you're drinking he assaults you as if he's been abstaining for all his life. While you do it, he tells you he loves you, he's crazy for you, he's yours and you can do anything you want to him - that if you just asked he would never ever do it with anyone else, ever. He calls your name when he comes and, when he does, it seems like everything makes more sense - that reality is more real, and your life isn't slipping through your fingers.
You caress his belly under the sheets, tracing with your thumb against the thin line of hair that starts from his navel and sinks in his groin. Peter sighs a little louder. You kiss his neck and jaw, breathing on his cheek.
Sometimes you feel guilty, and think that everybody who sees the two of you will understand what you do at first sight. After such a long time it's new to worry again about what people think, and control every gesture and word, and be afraid they'll be misinterpreted. And offer just the most reassuring image, the best profile, the whiter smile - the joke that won't sound ambiguous, the laughter at the right moment, and touch just when it'll seem neutral and casual even if you've wanted to for hours. You don't go out that often, and if it were up to you, you could even not go out at all, but Peter's seventeen and you're afraid that if you keep him at home, sooner or later he'll start to hate you.
After such a long time, it's new to be afraid.
"Oh, yes," mutters Peter, his mouth pressed on the pillow. "Oh, yes, don't stop. Nathan..."
He bends an arm back around your nape, pulling you closer. You kiss his chin and throat while you feel him shivering with pleasure.
"Nathan..."
"I'm here," you whisper in his ear. "I'm here for you. Just for you."
Peter opens his eyes, turning his face towards you, and you kiss him and keep stroking him with a slow, constant pace. Peter's body is weak with slumber when it moulds back against yours, his lips soft and open in a kiss that for once doesn't bite nor suck your tongue. It's rare for you to make the first step, and you feel there's something cowardly in having done it while Peter was asleep, but he doesn't seem to be complaining.
"I love you. Christ, Nathan, I'm fucked up. Love you too much," he moans, leaning his hand on yours.
You smile and don't know if you can believe him. You could even have fallen in love with him. Then the fear, the tenderness and the wonder would make sense. Those sudden stabs at your chest, the regrets, the afterthoughts, the sunny days - that all would make sense. It would make sense that you've not drunk a drop in a month, and that you shave every morning. The mirror would make sense, and its telling you that you're too old for such things. Your life would make sense, and hell, Nathan, this is serious stuff.
Even your death would make sense.
"Yes," you answer. "Oh yes, you're so fucked up", and you don't know anymore if you're talking with Peter or yourself, because you're under the impression that both of you are, each in his own way.
Peter grasps your hand with his and sighs noisily, his eyes closed again. The sheets have been moved down and you can see everything, from his hot cheeks to his white inner thighs, from your privileged angle upon his shoulder. Peter moans and arches toward your joined hands, and when he comes he tilts his head back abruptly and slaps your face with his ever too long hair. When Peter comes, you've got a taste of shampoo in your mouth.
"Mmm," moans Peter some minutes after, curling in a ball towards the bedside. "Thanks. Wake me up like this in the morning."
"It is morning," you point out. The blinds are half closed, but there's already light in the bedroom and between the slats you can see a slice of gloriously blue sky.
Peter opens one eye. "I'm hungry, then."
"You know where the fridge is."
"No breakfast in bed?"
"You think you're in a hotel?"
Peter turns and cuddles against your hip, in the same position you've found him when you woke up. "Yes. I even have my very own whore."
"Mine should have his hair cut."
"Not worth it for mine. He'll start losing it soon."
Peter opens his eyes and looks at you with his usual askew grimace. And you feel your ears creak in the attempt to push your smile back down your throat, but it's useless.
The alarm clock starts ringing. With the greatest calm and without turning back, Peter stretches out a hand towards the nightstand and melts it to a clot of metal and plastic. It must be the third or fourth he's destroyed like that, but this time you've got no wish to reproach him.
"'Night, Nate," he announces closing his eyes.
This could be your redemption, after all.
"'Night, Pete."