[Heroes] Unimaginative (Nathan/Peter, NC-17)
Title: Unimaginative
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,618 (W)
Warning: You did see the pairing, didn't you? And, uh, underage.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the treehouse beta.
Notes: For snopes_faith, who requested "one month after Memory Of Trees, late one night after the household is asleep". (Yeah, she beta-reads her gifts too. Such is my shamelessness.) I'm not satisfied with it. Oh, well.
You ate dinner almost without talking and then watched a movie of Peter’s choice. On the couch, Peter slowly reached towards you and to lean his head on your shoulder. Youwatched all the movement out of the corner of your eye and were going to get up, mumbling something about another bag of popcorn, but you didn’t.
“You all right?” Peter asked you, completing the movement and settling himself comfortably against your shoulder. You all right?, he asked, as if challenging you to answer you weren’t, and then explain why.
“Sure. Why?” you counterattacked, passing your arm around his shoulders. Just because it was starting to tingle, you told yourself.
Peter muttered something unintelligible and you stayed like this for the next half an hour, when you took possession of your arm and shoulder back and left the drawing room. You brushed your teeth and put on pyjamas trousers and stood in the doorway, telling Peter to finish watching it without you because you were too sleepy. He just glared at you and said: “Okay”, tonelessly, turning his head to the TV screen with his crossed arms on his chest.
You went to bed.
+
You woke up about 3 a.m., suddenly thirsty. You passed by the couch Peter was sleeping on without paying too much attention, even if when you reached the fridge you weren’t thirsty anymore and it took a while to remember why you’d got up. While you were drinking, Peter groaned softly from the depths of the couch, a sound half way between nose and throat, and he turned around with a rustle of blankets.
You passed by him again. The blankets were twisted around his naked legs; one hand was pushed inside his boxers up to the wrist. He was breathing in quick, light puffs against the pillow, making from time to time that throaty noise that seemed a sound died on its way to become a word.
You collected a crumpled lap of the blankets and freed it from his legs, draping it over his body. In the shadows, his arm moving quietly under the fabric was nearly invisible.
You woke up about 4 a.m. feeling like you hadn’t slept a minute, with the confusion and headache typical of afternoon awakenings. Then Peter moved in your bed, draping a leg over yours. The blankets were crumpled at the feet of the bed, his body stretched on the mattress next to yours and naked apart from the crinkled rectangle of the boxers around his groin.
“Peter?”
“Mmmm.”
You instinctively withdrew towards your half of the bed. Peter’s leg slided with a thud on the mattress. “What did we do?”
(You went back straight to your room. Yes, maybe you stayed and watched him for a couple of minutes longer than strictly necessary, but you didn’t touch him. You didn’t tell him to come to your bed. You didn’t undress him. You’re sure. Or so you think.)
“Mmmmmnathan,” Peter purrs, crawling closer, his eyes still shut. “Hug me.”
“Peter. Wake up.” Your head spins. “What’re you doing in my bed?”
Peter passes an arm around your neck, pulling you down on the pillow. “It’s hot in the other room,” he mutters. “Sleep. Mom won't see.”
Partially pinned to the bed, you close your eyes and open them again, waiting for the mist in your head to clear.. You’d remember it, if something had happened. It’d be branded inside you, like it was the last time; and even if your memory were playing tricks on you, your body would remember it nonetheless, it would tingle and tell you that something’s happened.
Eventually you sit up. You pull the pillow from under Peter’s cheek and get to your feet, then reach the couch and lie down on it with a sigh. The blankets and the couch cover are cool. While you try to reach a comfortable position, you pull out a long piece of fabric from under your back and realise it’s Peter’s T-shirt with the Greenpeace logo. You close your eyes, hoping slumber will have mercy and relieve you from the image of Peter sleeping in your bed, the ruffled and tousled expression of one who deems himself satisfied enough for one night - but it doesn’t happen. Your watch reads four-twenty when Peter steps barefoot in the drawing room and opens the fridge, somewhere beyond the back of your couch, spreading the yellowish and wide light throughout the whole room.
“Have you finished the beer?”
You don’t answer.
“I know you’re not sleeping.”
“Now I’m not.”
Peter steps closer with the open carton of milk in his hand, and sits on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t look like he slept much either. He looks at you for a couple of seconds, then he drinks some milk. “You coming back to the bedroom? The couch’s hard.”
“Too hot.”
Peter puts down the milk on the floor and leans against you, kissing your lips. He’s got milk on the thin hair upon his upper lip. Before you can push him away, he withdraws and rests his ear on your heart, keeping still like this, half-sitting and half-lying on your chest.
“Peter...”
“What’s the use? We did it already.”
“We didn’t... We were drunk.”
Peter breathes in, like he wanted to say something, but he doesn’t. He looks up and you take his face in your hands, both out of affection and to keep him at distance. He smiles the smile of one who already knows how the movie ends, and that it’s something so predictable and obvious, but he’s not going to tell you if you don’t get it by yourself. “Are you coming?” he whispers. His cheeks slip from your hands. He kisses your jaw, your earlobe. “Please, Nathan?”
“No.” You try to move him away, but your hands stay soft on his shoulders. “We talked about it.”
“You talked. I didn’t promise anything,” Peter whispers, threading his hand under your T-shirt, caressing your ribs with his fingers and following the hairy line under your navel with his thumb. He turns his wrist on your belly, pushing his hand under the pyjamas’ rubber band and inside your boxers.
“Peter!”
“We’re not doing anything more than last time, okay?” Peter declares, extracting his hand and climbing on top of your legs. “This doesn’t count.” His hands try to grab your wrists and pin them to the pillow, but you struggle, resting your palms on his hips to move him away from your body. Except you don’t, and your hands stay rigid and still around him.
“I love you. And you love me,” Peter whispers on your mouth wet with saliva. One hand, below, pulls aside the fabric, and his erection rubs against yours.
“This isn’t... God, Peter, this is not the point.”
“Relax. There’s nobody here. It’s not like last time.” For some reason, you think about three-year-old Peter, when he slipped into your bed because he was afraid of the dark and first thing he always reassured you nobody had seen him enter. Now he grabs your cock and his in the same hand, stroking them slowly. “I thought somebody would walk in on us,” he whispers with an excited, triumphant smile. “I was sure. Here’s so quiet. Here’s...”
You press your palm on his mouth. Peter frowns for a split second, then he leans further on top of you, leaning a hand on the pillow next to your cheek. When you caress the border of his lips with your thumb, Peter licks your nail with the tip of his tongue and squeezes it gently between his teeth, his eyes never leaving you.
He’s yours. He repeats it to you any time he can. He’s been yours since he was old enough to walk on his own legs. You’ve been his first word, his first toy, his first instruction book to the world. And it’s not like you’re forcing him. He’s come to you willingly; he wanted you before the treehouse, before you started to realize how serious your obsession was. You’ve never forced him. You couldn’t.
“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. You close your hand around his; Peter holds a sigh violently between his teeth. It’s not the smoothest manoeuvre, but Peter lets you guide him obediently. Your left hand wanders his body with more liberty than you allowed yourself last time, with all those clothes and fear, and Peter looks at you like he wants to eat you.
This time, when it’s all finished, it doesn’t feel like your blood cooled down immediately in your veins, but slowly, calmly, while you catch your breath. You half-close your eyes while Peter frees a knee sunk between the couch’s cushions and lies down on you, heavy with that bony, unexpected weight of teenagers.
“This time don’t kick me out, okay?” he murmurs, snuggling cosily on your shoulder.
“I’m not,” you whisper.
“Last time you did. You kicked me out like a... sort of a...”
You close your eyes. “Can we stop talking about it?”
“You did.”
“I know.”
You both keep silent - you pinned to the couch, he clinging to your shirt like a child. Tomorrow you’re going to tell him there’s not going to be a next time. Tomorrow, in the daylight, when this won’t look like a kind of dream already fading into the alarm clock’s beep.
Your dreams have always been quite unimaginative.
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,618 (W)
Warning: You did see the pairing, didn't you? And, uh, underage.
Thanks to: snopes_faith, the treehouse beta.
Notes: For snopes_faith, who requested "one month after Memory Of Trees, late one night after the household is asleep". (Yeah, she beta-reads her gifts too. Such is my shamelessness.) I'm not satisfied with it. Oh, well.
You ate dinner almost without talking and then watched a movie of Peter’s choice. On the couch, Peter slowly reached towards you and to lean his head on your shoulder. Youwatched all the movement out of the corner of your eye and were going to get up, mumbling something about another bag of popcorn, but you didn’t.
“You all right?” Peter asked you, completing the movement and settling himself comfortably against your shoulder. You all right?, he asked, as if challenging you to answer you weren’t, and then explain why.
“Sure. Why?” you counterattacked, passing your arm around his shoulders. Just because it was starting to tingle, you told yourself.
Peter muttered something unintelligible and you stayed like this for the next half an hour, when you took possession of your arm and shoulder back and left the drawing room. You brushed your teeth and put on pyjamas trousers and stood in the doorway, telling Peter to finish watching it without you because you were too sleepy. He just glared at you and said: “Okay”, tonelessly, turning his head to the TV screen with his crossed arms on his chest.
You went to bed.
+
You woke up about 3 a.m., suddenly thirsty. You passed by the couch Peter was sleeping on without paying too much attention, even if when you reached the fridge you weren’t thirsty anymore and it took a while to remember why you’d got up. While you were drinking, Peter groaned softly from the depths of the couch, a sound half way between nose and throat, and he turned around with a rustle of blankets.
You passed by him again. The blankets were twisted around his naked legs; one hand was pushed inside his boxers up to the wrist. He was breathing in quick, light puffs against the pillow, making from time to time that throaty noise that seemed a sound died on its way to become a word.
You collected a crumpled lap of the blankets and freed it from his legs, draping it over his body. In the shadows, his arm moving quietly under the fabric was nearly invisible.
You woke up about 4 a.m. feeling like you hadn’t slept a minute, with the confusion and headache typical of afternoon awakenings. Then Peter moved in your bed, draping a leg over yours. The blankets were crumpled at the feet of the bed, his body stretched on the mattress next to yours and naked apart from the crinkled rectangle of the boxers around his groin.
“Peter?”
“Mmmm.”
You instinctively withdrew towards your half of the bed. Peter’s leg slided with a thud on the mattress. “What did we do?”
(You went back straight to your room. Yes, maybe you stayed and watched him for a couple of minutes longer than strictly necessary, but you didn’t touch him. You didn’t tell him to come to your bed. You didn’t undress him. You’re sure. Or so you think.)
“Mmmmmnathan,” Peter purrs, crawling closer, his eyes still shut. “Hug me.”
“Peter. Wake up.” Your head spins. “What’re you doing in my bed?”
Peter passes an arm around your neck, pulling you down on the pillow. “It’s hot in the other room,” he mutters. “Sleep. Mom won't see.”
Partially pinned to the bed, you close your eyes and open them again, waiting for the mist in your head to clear.. You’d remember it, if something had happened. It’d be branded inside you, like it was the last time; and even if your memory were playing tricks on you, your body would remember it nonetheless, it would tingle and tell you that something’s happened.
Eventually you sit up. You pull the pillow from under Peter’s cheek and get to your feet, then reach the couch and lie down on it with a sigh. The blankets and the couch cover are cool. While you try to reach a comfortable position, you pull out a long piece of fabric from under your back and realise it’s Peter’s T-shirt with the Greenpeace logo. You close your eyes, hoping slumber will have mercy and relieve you from the image of Peter sleeping in your bed, the ruffled and tousled expression of one who deems himself satisfied enough for one night - but it doesn’t happen. Your watch reads four-twenty when Peter steps barefoot in the drawing room and opens the fridge, somewhere beyond the back of your couch, spreading the yellowish and wide light throughout the whole room.
“Have you finished the beer?”
You don’t answer.
“I know you’re not sleeping.”
“Now I’m not.”
Peter steps closer with the open carton of milk in his hand, and sits on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t look like he slept much either. He looks at you for a couple of seconds, then he drinks some milk. “You coming back to the bedroom? The couch’s hard.”
“Too hot.”
Peter puts down the milk on the floor and leans against you, kissing your lips. He’s got milk on the thin hair upon his upper lip. Before you can push him away, he withdraws and rests his ear on your heart, keeping still like this, half-sitting and half-lying on your chest.
“Peter...”
“What’s the use? We did it already.”
“We didn’t... We were drunk.”
Peter breathes in, like he wanted to say something, but he doesn’t. He looks up and you take his face in your hands, both out of affection and to keep him at distance. He smiles the smile of one who already knows how the movie ends, and that it’s something so predictable and obvious, but he’s not going to tell you if you don’t get it by yourself. “Are you coming?” he whispers. His cheeks slip from your hands. He kisses your jaw, your earlobe. “Please, Nathan?”
“No.” You try to move him away, but your hands stay soft on his shoulders. “We talked about it.”
“You talked. I didn’t promise anything,” Peter whispers, threading his hand under your T-shirt, caressing your ribs with his fingers and following the hairy line under your navel with his thumb. He turns his wrist on your belly, pushing his hand under the pyjamas’ rubber band and inside your boxers.
“Peter!”
“We’re not doing anything more than last time, okay?” Peter declares, extracting his hand and climbing on top of your legs. “This doesn’t count.” His hands try to grab your wrists and pin them to the pillow, but you struggle, resting your palms on his hips to move him away from your body. Except you don’t, and your hands stay rigid and still around him.
“I love you. And you love me,” Peter whispers on your mouth wet with saliva. One hand, below, pulls aside the fabric, and his erection rubs against yours.
“This isn’t... God, Peter, this is not the point.”
“Relax. There’s nobody here. It’s not like last time.” For some reason, you think about three-year-old Peter, when he slipped into your bed because he was afraid of the dark and first thing he always reassured you nobody had seen him enter. Now he grabs your cock and his in the same hand, stroking them slowly. “I thought somebody would walk in on us,” he whispers with an excited, triumphant smile. “I was sure. Here’s so quiet. Here’s...”
You press your palm on his mouth. Peter frowns for a split second, then he leans further on top of you, leaning a hand on the pillow next to your cheek. When you caress the border of his lips with your thumb, Peter licks your nail with the tip of his tongue and squeezes it gently between his teeth, his eyes never leaving you.
He’s yours. He repeats it to you any time he can. He’s been yours since he was old enough to walk on his own legs. You’ve been his first word, his first toy, his first instruction book to the world. And it’s not like you’re forcing him. He’s come to you willingly; he wanted you before the treehouse, before you started to realize how serious your obsession was. You’ve never forced him. You couldn’t.
“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. You close your hand around his; Peter holds a sigh violently between his teeth. It’s not the smoothest manoeuvre, but Peter lets you guide him obediently. Your left hand wanders his body with more liberty than you allowed yourself last time, with all those clothes and fear, and Peter looks at you like he wants to eat you.
This time, when it’s all finished, it doesn’t feel like your blood cooled down immediately in your veins, but slowly, calmly, while you catch your breath. You half-close your eyes while Peter frees a knee sunk between the couch’s cushions and lies down on you, heavy with that bony, unexpected weight of teenagers.
“This time don’t kick me out, okay?” he murmurs, snuggling cosily on your shoulder.
“I’m not,” you whisper.
“Last time you did. You kicked me out like a... sort of a...”
You close your eyes. “Can we stop talking about it?”
“You did.”
“I know.”
You both keep silent - you pinned to the couch, he clinging to your shirt like a child. Tomorrow you’re going to tell him there’s not going to be a next time. Tomorrow, in the daylight, when this won’t look like a kind of dream already fading into the alarm clock’s beep.
Your dreams have always been quite unimaginative.