hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2007-04-23 11:11 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2007-04-23 11:11 am
Entry tags:
Heroes – We're Made Out of Blood and Rust, Nathan/Peter, R
First of all, I have to say that last night's Entourage was so awesome (how awesome was it?) it was so awesome that there were tears. And impossible Ari love. And possible shout outs. At one point it was better than sex. Certainly the gayest straight show you'll ever see. And it was just -- if you are not watching Entourage you are missing something really special. Yes, I am biased, fuck off.
Now, as I understand it, today is some sort of holiday -- Petrelli Day? Does that ring any bells for anybody else either? Maybe you should look at the icon.
I promised something in this vein to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
slodwick, antheia and literaryll a long time ago, but I've been blocked. This is 1000+ words of apology -- it's not the one I set out of write, it's the one that sparky77 inspired.
Heroes
Nathan/Peter, R
Off-screen drug usage. Petting. Stuff like that.
Spoilers for 1.01 and 1.02
We're Made Out of Blood and Rust
Peter opens the door eating a banana. The phallic symbolism is a little heavy considering Nathan hasn't even set his foot inside the apartment, and it doesn't help that Peter's just standing there, chewing slowly while blocking Nathan's way and licking his lips.
Nathan's nostrils flare slightly. "You said it was an emergency." His tone is clipped because this is a public access hallway, and Peter's making smacking noises.
Peter blinks, cocking his head to the side so his bangs fall across his eyes. Nathan can feel the growl in the back of his throat. He left meetings for this.
Peter takes another bite of his banana and hooks a thumb in the waistband of his khakis.
Important meetings.
Very important -- "I hurt myself," Peter says idly, and Nathan immediately snaps to attention, because this is what he does -- he cleans up messes.
He cleans up Peter.
In an instant Nathan's pushing Peter over the threshold and shutting the door behind him.
"You hurt yourself how?" he asks, studying Peter over thoroughly, grabbing Peter's elbow to turn him around, taking in bare feet, wrinkled pants and a threadbare tee shirt.
He can't see any blood, but that doesn't mean anything to them.
Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there.
When Peter completes a full circle, Nathan's eyes snap back up to his face. Peter's got a bit of banana in the corner of his mouth and his corneas are red. Nathan's eyes narrow.
Peter smirks. "Wheee," he says in a dry tone.
"What the hell did you --" Nathan cuts himself off and takes a step directly into Peter's personal space.
Peter's brown eyes are hooded, and he follows Nathan's movements languidly, all the while chewing on that stupid banana. Nathan can feel his lips pulling into a thin line as he sniffs the air around Peter.
He refuses to acknowledge the fact that he can feel Peter's body heat brushing against his exposed skin, even though his palms are itching and the collar of his shirt feels as though it's starting to chafe.
Peter's not chewing anymore, he's just breathing. On Nathan's skin.
God save Nathan. He's going to commit fratricide.
"You're fucking stoned." Nathan says flatly. "You called me out of a meeting with the city council leaders, because you're stoned?!"
Nathan moves to step back at the same time that Peter's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Sometimes Nathan forgets how quick Peter is when there's something he wants. Sometimes Nathan forgets that he's trained Peter to be this way.
"I bit my lip," Peter says, "that's an injury."
"You bit your lip," Nathan repeats slowly; he can feel the rage quivering in his muscles. "That is not an injury."
"Is it only an injury when you do it?" Peter's smile is slow and seductive, and Nathan has to look away. This is not going to happen now. It's the middle of the fucking workday. Peter's never had any sense of propriety though, this is what Nathan gets for having a brother who's a nurse.
This is what Nathan gets for a lot of things.
Once upon a time, Nathan told Peter there was nothing he couldn't do if he tried -- that there was nothing Peter couldn't have if he wanted it badly enough. Now that his advice is coming home to show what it's learned, Nathan has no one else to blame.
There's a soft thud, and when Nathan looks down, Peter's tossed the banana skin a couple of feet away. Nathan sighs. Peter's hold on his wrist has slipped and Peter's thumb is now rubbing the center of Nathan's hand.
Nathan makes a perfunctory attempt to pull away. He's not trying very hard. "You couldn't have just called and said you wanted to see me?" Nathan asks Peter's right ear.
"You wouldn't have come," Peter points out. "You would've had meetings. Or been with Heidi. Or had a fundraiser."
"You make it sound like I always have an excuse." Nathan's looking at Peter's jaw, at his mouth. He's working his way around to looking Peter in the eye again.
There is no one Nathan can't make eye contact with, no one he can't lie to, except Peter always makes things difficult. He's never understood 'later' or 'not now' or 'not here.' Nathan's probably responsible for this too, but these parts of his memory tend to rust over until Peter comes by and shakes them up.
Nathan's jaw clenches when Peter steps forward, he's still drawing circles on Nathan's palm but now his thigh is insinuated between Nathan's legs.
"One day you're going to run out of excuses," Peter says quietly. His words brushing over the shell of Nathan's ear. "One day you're going to give me what I want."
Nathan stiffens. "What we want," Peter corrects himself.
Nathan's cock is throbbing in the confines of his briefs and his suit. It would be so easy for him to shove Peter away and stomp out of the apartment. For him to fling Peter onto the sofa and yank down his khakis, flip him over on his hands and knees and fuck him until Peter didn't know what he was talking about and Nathan didn't care about control or propriety or elections that he never wanted to run.
It would be good.
Oh, fuck, it would be so good.
Nathan can imagine how tight Peter is. His fingers are twitching because they know how hot Peter would be. All the noises he would make in the back of his throat just for Nathan. How Peter would push Nathan down on the sofa and climb on top of him and ride --
Nathan jerks away when he realizes this isn't just happening in his mind, Peter is whispering all of these things into his ear. All these dirty, filthy, wrong images that Nathan sees, Peter sees too.
"You're high," Nathan announces, hoping his voice isn't as wobbly as he thinks it is. "You need to sober up."
"I thought this is what you wanted," Peter points out. "You said, 'see a doctor. Get some drugs. Don't pull a Roger Clinton'."
Nathan can see the rust falling from this particular memory in flakes. Large, sheet-like flakes. "You jumped off of a building," Nathan says icily, finally meeting Peter's gaze again. "I think you're long past Roger Clinton."
"I flew." Peter's in Nathan's space again -- they've never learned about boundaries. "You flew too. Do you really think I believe any of these excuses you give me? Did you ever think this would stop me from wanting you?"
"I don't care what you believe," Nathan snaps.
"That's not true; you wouldn't fight me so hard if it were."
"Grow up, Pete." As Nathan moves to side-step Peter, Peter's lips brush against his ear and Nathan can't help the shudder then goes through his body.
"You can't fight me on this forever," Peter says quietly as Nathan strides away.
Nathan stops in the middle of the living room. He's not going to turn around. He's not going to -- "Go for a walk. Get some coffee. Meet a girl. Get laid," he enunciates over his shoulder.
"Pretend," Peter spits into the silence. "You want me to pretend that this isn't here. That you don't feel it too."
"I feel that my campaign manager is going to be pissed off that I'm not at headquarters." Nathan retorts mildly. The front door is mere steps away; Nathan can make it in seconds.
Or he can until Peter's hand lands on his shoulder. It's the touching that gets Nathan every time, and he turns in a half-circle like a marionette on a string, as though he's not the one in control of his own actions.
Peter's eyes are wide open and his gaze meets Nathan's head on. Nathan watches as Peter closes his eyes and leans forward, he should move away, but he can't. Nathan flinches when Peter's lips brush against his cheek, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or dissatisfied.
"Go back to work, Nathan," Peter whispers quietly. "We'll fight about it tomorrow."
Nathan gives Peter an appraising look as he pulls back into his own space. "We always fight about it tomorrow," Nathan says.
Peter shrugs and gives him a small smile. "Gotta have something to look forward to."
Nathan can feel the disappointment radiating in waves. He tells himself it's not from the both of them. This is just the drugs talking. It would help if he were high too.
"I'll talk to you later," Nathan says, kissing Peter on the cheek quickly before he can think too hard about it.
"It's always later with you," Peter says as Nathan walks away. "What if there's not a later?"
Nathan turns back to roll his eyes as he finally gets his hand on the knob of the front door. "We're always going to have a later, Pete. I promise."
Peter's smile is small. "Promises, promises."
-end-
Beta by the irrepressibleantheia
The title is from 'Honey and the Moon' by Joseph Arthur and the lyric goes, "We're made out of blood and rust/ looking for someone to trust without a fight."
"Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there" is paraphrased from 'We Still Haven't Turned Around' by Gomez.
Now, as I understand it, today is some sort of holiday -- Petrelli Day? Does that ring any bells for anybody else either? Maybe you should look at the icon.
I promised something in this vein to
slodwick, antheia and literaryll a long time ago, but I've been blocked. This is 1000+ words of apology -- it's not the one I set out of write, it's the one that sparky77 inspired. Heroes
Nathan/Peter, R
Off-screen drug usage. Petting. Stuff like that.
Spoilers for 1.01 and 1.02
Peter opens the door eating a banana. The phallic symbolism is a little heavy considering Nathan hasn't even set his foot inside the apartment, and it doesn't help that Peter's just standing there, chewing slowly while blocking Nathan's way and licking his lips.
Nathan's nostrils flare slightly. "You said it was an emergency." His tone is clipped because this is a public access hallway, and Peter's making smacking noises.
Peter blinks, cocking his head to the side so his bangs fall across his eyes. Nathan can feel the growl in the back of his throat. He left meetings for this.
Peter takes another bite of his banana and hooks a thumb in the waistband of his khakis.
Important meetings.
Very important -- "I hurt myself," Peter says idly, and Nathan immediately snaps to attention, because this is what he does -- he cleans up messes.
He cleans up Peter.
In an instant Nathan's pushing Peter over the threshold and shutting the door behind him.
"You hurt yourself how?" he asks, studying Peter over thoroughly, grabbing Peter's elbow to turn him around, taking in bare feet, wrinkled pants and a threadbare tee shirt.
He can't see any blood, but that doesn't mean anything to them.
Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there.
When Peter completes a full circle, Nathan's eyes snap back up to his face. Peter's got a bit of banana in the corner of his mouth and his corneas are red. Nathan's eyes narrow.
Peter smirks. "Wheee," he says in a dry tone.
"What the hell did you --" Nathan cuts himself off and takes a step directly into Peter's personal space.
Peter's brown eyes are hooded, and he follows Nathan's movements languidly, all the while chewing on that stupid banana. Nathan can feel his lips pulling into a thin line as he sniffs the air around Peter.
He refuses to acknowledge the fact that he can feel Peter's body heat brushing against his exposed skin, even though his palms are itching and the collar of his shirt feels as though it's starting to chafe.
Peter's not chewing anymore, he's just breathing. On Nathan's skin.
God save Nathan. He's going to commit fratricide.
"You're fucking stoned." Nathan says flatly. "You called me out of a meeting with the city council leaders, because you're stoned?!"
Nathan moves to step back at the same time that Peter's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Sometimes Nathan forgets how quick Peter is when there's something he wants. Sometimes Nathan forgets that he's trained Peter to be this way.
"I bit my lip," Peter says, "that's an injury."
"You bit your lip," Nathan repeats slowly; he can feel the rage quivering in his muscles. "That is not an injury."
"Is it only an injury when you do it?" Peter's smile is slow and seductive, and Nathan has to look away. This is not going to happen now. It's the middle of the fucking workday. Peter's never had any sense of propriety though, this is what Nathan gets for having a brother who's a nurse.
This is what Nathan gets for a lot of things.
Once upon a time, Nathan told Peter there was nothing he couldn't do if he tried -- that there was nothing Peter couldn't have if he wanted it badly enough. Now that his advice is coming home to show what it's learned, Nathan has no one else to blame.
There's a soft thud, and when Nathan looks down, Peter's tossed the banana skin a couple of feet away. Nathan sighs. Peter's hold on his wrist has slipped and Peter's thumb is now rubbing the center of Nathan's hand.
Nathan makes a perfunctory attempt to pull away. He's not trying very hard. "You couldn't have just called and said you wanted to see me?" Nathan asks Peter's right ear.
"You wouldn't have come," Peter points out. "You would've had meetings. Or been with Heidi. Or had a fundraiser."
"You make it sound like I always have an excuse." Nathan's looking at Peter's jaw, at his mouth. He's working his way around to looking Peter in the eye again.
There is no one Nathan can't make eye contact with, no one he can't lie to, except Peter always makes things difficult. He's never understood 'later' or 'not now' or 'not here.' Nathan's probably responsible for this too, but these parts of his memory tend to rust over until Peter comes by and shakes them up.
Nathan's jaw clenches when Peter steps forward, he's still drawing circles on Nathan's palm but now his thigh is insinuated between Nathan's legs.
"One day you're going to run out of excuses," Peter says quietly. His words brushing over the shell of Nathan's ear. "One day you're going to give me what I want."
Nathan stiffens. "What we want," Peter corrects himself.
Nathan's cock is throbbing in the confines of his briefs and his suit. It would be so easy for him to shove Peter away and stomp out of the apartment. For him to fling Peter onto the sofa and yank down his khakis, flip him over on his hands and knees and fuck him until Peter didn't know what he was talking about and Nathan didn't care about control or propriety or elections that he never wanted to run.
It would be good.
Oh, fuck, it would be so good.
Nathan can imagine how tight Peter is. His fingers are twitching because they know how hot Peter would be. All the noises he would make in the back of his throat just for Nathan. How Peter would push Nathan down on the sofa and climb on top of him and ride --
Nathan jerks away when he realizes this isn't just happening in his mind, Peter is whispering all of these things into his ear. All these dirty, filthy, wrong images that Nathan sees, Peter sees too.
"You're high," Nathan announces, hoping his voice isn't as wobbly as he thinks it is. "You need to sober up."
"I thought this is what you wanted," Peter points out. "You said, 'see a doctor. Get some drugs. Don't pull a Roger Clinton'."
Nathan can see the rust falling from this particular memory in flakes. Large, sheet-like flakes. "You jumped off of a building," Nathan says icily, finally meeting Peter's gaze again. "I think you're long past Roger Clinton."
"I flew." Peter's in Nathan's space again -- they've never learned about boundaries. "You flew too. Do you really think I believe any of these excuses you give me? Did you ever think this would stop me from wanting you?"
"I don't care what you believe," Nathan snaps.
"That's not true; you wouldn't fight me so hard if it were."
"Grow up, Pete." As Nathan moves to side-step Peter, Peter's lips brush against his ear and Nathan can't help the shudder then goes through his body.
"You can't fight me on this forever," Peter says quietly as Nathan strides away.
Nathan stops in the middle of the living room. He's not going to turn around. He's not going to -- "Go for a walk. Get some coffee. Meet a girl. Get laid," he enunciates over his shoulder.
"Pretend," Peter spits into the silence. "You want me to pretend that this isn't here. That you don't feel it too."
"I feel that my campaign manager is going to be pissed off that I'm not at headquarters." Nathan retorts mildly. The front door is mere steps away; Nathan can make it in seconds.
Or he can until Peter's hand lands on his shoulder. It's the touching that gets Nathan every time, and he turns in a half-circle like a marionette on a string, as though he's not the one in control of his own actions.
Peter's eyes are wide open and his gaze meets Nathan's head on. Nathan watches as Peter closes his eyes and leans forward, he should move away, but he can't. Nathan flinches when Peter's lips brush against his cheek, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or dissatisfied.
"Go back to work, Nathan," Peter whispers quietly. "We'll fight about it tomorrow."
Nathan gives Peter an appraising look as he pulls back into his own space. "We always fight about it tomorrow," Nathan says.
Peter shrugs and gives him a small smile. "Gotta have something to look forward to."
Nathan can feel the disappointment radiating in waves. He tells himself it's not from the both of them. This is just the drugs talking. It would help if he were high too.
"I'll talk to you later," Nathan says, kissing Peter on the cheek quickly before he can think too hard about it.
"It's always later with you," Peter says as Nathan walks away. "What if there's not a later?"
Nathan turns back to roll his eyes as he finally gets his hand on the knob of the front door. "We're always going to have a later, Pete. I promise."
Peter's smile is small. "Promises, promises."
-end-
Beta by the irrepressible
antheiaThe title is from 'Honey and the Moon' by Joseph Arthur and the lyric goes, "We're made out of blood and rust/ looking for someone to trust without a fight."
"Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not there" is paraphrased from 'We Still Haven't Turned Around' by Gomez.
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