unexpected places

Prompt Me, Baby! Prompt Me Hard!

2009-07-05T17:41:47Z

I'm craving a kink meme, but definitely not interested in actually, y'know, hosting one again. Because I'm just not interested in that kind of circus right now, omg. Nor in Mohinder/Sylar, ugh (sorry to the fans of that pairing on my flist...).

So... if anyone has a Nathan/Peter kink meme-esque prompt you'd like me to write, leave it here and if I like it, I'll write something for it. I might also consider Peter/Arthur, Peter/Linderman, any combination of Linderman/Arthur/Angela, and possibly assorted Nathan het pairings. Maaaaaaaybe Peter/Claire, if I really like it.

Oh, BUT, absolutely no Sylar!Nathan prompts. NONE. DO NOT WANT. IS NOT NATHAN.

To give it even more of a kink meme feel, you can be anonymous if you want. :)

ETA: Er, and in light of the recent warnings debate, I'll be posting my responses as separate posts with individual warnings, so them that wish to avoid the hardcore noncon/dubcon will be able to do so at their discretion, but do be warned that the prompts themselves are in here.

Making of Nathan Petrelli: October, 2006, pt 1 (Nathan/Peter, PG)

2009-07-02T04:57:11Z

Title: Making of Nathan Petrelli: October, 2006 [1/?]
Author: Trekker (47_trek_47)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Warnings: Discussions of possible suicide attempts; implied consensual, adult incest; sentence fragments
A/N: Just started randomly rewatching season one and decided to take a shot at retelling it in the MoNP series. This part does not have any smut, but it's all about the Nathan/Peter. Episodes 1 and 2. Very sketchy, may be edited at some point. Stands alone as is, but there will probably be more coming. It would help to read the rest of Making of Nathan Petrelli to catch all the references, but I suppose this also stands alone from that okay.

Summary: Everything's going to hell, and Peter's trying to kill himself. Or going insane. Or worse.

***
If he'd thought retrieving Peter (or their mother, for that matter) from a police station was bad, sitting and staring at him lying unconscious in a hospital bed was a thousand times worse. A million times worse.

But not as bad as watching him step off the roof of a fifteen story building, rambling about destiny.

Watching him fall.

Wondering, for a long, painfully hopeful moment if perhaps this meant he wasn't alone. Wasn't the only freak on the planet who could do things no human should be able to do. Things nothing should be able to do. Even birds only flew within the specifications of the laws of physics.

Then realizing, again, that in fact, he was alone. Peter wasn't going to fly. Peter was just going to fall, and if he didn't do something, Peter was going to hit the asphalt and irreparably shatter and it would all be over. Everything would be over.

So he flew. He stepped out of rational possibility, he made himself a violation of sanity and reason, he broke every defined value of reality and therefore invalidated the possibility of his own existence... because the alternative was even more unthinkable than the impossible.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Everything had made sense before. Everything had been going right. His career, his marriage, Peter.

And then there was a black SUV on an empty highway, and it had all gone to hell.

Everything he'd thought he'd thought he'd known was wrong... and his wife--his beautiful, sensual, sexual wife--had become something else. Totally else. And it was all his fault. His fault because he hadn't been able to behave like... like...

... Anything that deserved to exist.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows braced on the rail of Peter's bed.

I'm going insane, he thought. I must be going insane. Nothing else makes sense. Stress? It could be stress. Something. God, I almost hope I'm going insane.

He rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and made himself sit up, straight posture, shoulders back. Calm. Rational. He'd told Peter to get some drugs. Maybe he should take his own advice.

He stared at Peter's profile. He was so perfectly still. Barely breathing. Why? Why? He'd barely fallen. He wasn't hurt. No bones broken, hardly a bruise. Nathan was the bruised one, around his wrist where Peter's fingers had dug in, holding on.

Nathan reached down and softly pushed the cuff of his right sleeve up a couple inches. Cautiously, slowly, like a child checking under the bed for a monster.

Bruises. Finger-shaped.

Hard evidence.

He could feel the warmth of them when he ran one finger over them.

He shuddered suddenly and yanked his sleeve down, snapping his gaze back up to Peter.

We're both going insane.

But he flew, too.

By then, Nathan hadn't cared about being alone. He hadn't cared about anything. He'd been falling and Peter had been falling, they were both going to die, but they'd die together, and that was okay, that made sense... so much more sense than anything had in six months.

And then Peter's arms were around him, and it still felt like falling... but it wasn't. It was flying.

Flying.

And then, level with the roof of the building, Peter had smiled at him like sunshine, like instead of the worst thing in the world this was the best... and then his eyes had rolled back, and the next thing Nathan knew, they were both in a heap on the top level of the fire escape, surrounded by the ringing reverberations of the struck metal, and Peter was unconscious. Undamaged... but unconscious.

So here they were.

Nathan hadn't even called their mother yet, because he was still trying to formulate some lie that sounded sane.

Peter gasped.

Instinctively, Nathan reached for his shoulder and pressed his fingers in deep. The phrase that came to mind was "grounding him," and the irony of that squirmed in Nathan's brain and truly did feel like insanity.

Peter's eyes were wild and confused. Panicked.

"You're in a hospital," Nathan said, giving him context, knowing it was what he himself would want.

Peter's gaze latched onto him, looking straight into him like he did, like he could see right through to Nathan's soul. Peter hid nothing. Peter tolerated nothing being hidden. How he'd managed to stay even as sane as he was with a tendency like that in a family like theirs was a mystery.

He couldn't be allowed to talk about this, though. Not to anyone else. Preferably not to Nathan, either. It was either impossible or insane, and the revelation of either to the world at large would be far more disastrous to both of them than their mother stealing socks ever could be.

But then something went right, finally.

His next words were, "What happened?"

He didn't remember. Thank God.

"You jumped, Pete. Off the roof of a fifteen-story building," Nathan said, "Tried to kill yourself." Even saying those tightened his throat. No. No, not Peter.

They were harsh things to say, and obfuscations, but they weren't untrue. The intent may have been different, but the effect would have been the same. Peter couldn't have known Nathan could catch him. In a sane world, Peter would have died.

He would have died right there, next to Nathan, horribly.

How could you? How dare you? Don't I have the right to be angry with you? Don't I have the right to live my own life? To have my space when I need it? What the hell gives you the right to punish me like that?

Nathan shuddered inside, even as he covered it with some light quip he barely heard himself say and couldn't force out above more than a whisper.

Twenty-six years ago, he'd found their father slumped over his desk, still holding that pill bottle. Six months ago, it had been the floor of the master bathroom.

Not Peter. Please not Peter.

Peter was denying it. Peter was thinking.

Peter was remembering.

His eyes were distant, until he suddenly pinned Nathan again, with the kind of look Nathan hadn't seen from him since he was a teenager, fascinated by and infatuated with him. Hopeful, amazed and glowing.

"You flew."

Nathan laughed, just once, more a hopeless exhalation than anything humorous. Those words, out loud. Flew. You flew.

A part of him curled up in despair.

"You flew up and you caught me."

"You jumped," Nathan said, because that much was true. He leveled his gaze, looking Peter straight in the eye, trying to imprint the rest of what he said into his mind. "Fifteen feet to a fire escape. I climbed up and carried you down. That's what happened." That's what you have to say happened, Peter. Understand me. Believe me. "The rest is just crazy talk, understand?"

It hurt to see that glow fade from Peter's eyes.

The right thing always hurt these days. Nathan wasn't sure how much more he could take.

"I've gotta go," he said. He squeezed Peter's shoulder and stood. "I'll call Mom."

As he walked away, he felt more completely alone than he had since before the first time Peter had looked up at him with those wide, blue, baby eyes.

***

"Peter's gone," Ma said when he answered his cell phone that evening. For a moment, his heart stopped. Gone? Dead? How? He'd been fine--

But she wasn't done: "He's not in his room. I can't find him anywhere. He's not answering his phone; it goes straight to voicemail."

He breathed again, a long, shuddering exhalation. "Ma. Calm down. I'm on my way."

By the time he arrived, having stopped by Peter's apartment on the way, hospital security and two police officers were involved, but no one had found him. It was when Nathan went to check a stairwell that it occurred to him where he was. Where he had to be. The worst place he could possibly be. Nathan headed up.

Sure enough, he was there, on the roof, perched right on the edge, looking down.

This wasn't the man Nathan knew. This wasn't the guy who left a free ride through law school and paid his own way through nursing school because he was so sure of who he was supposed to be. Like everything else, this wasn't right.

"Peter--"

"Turns out I'm just going insane," Peter said, with a smile that wasn't a smile. He was standing now, so close to the edge. Too close.

Then he stepped back. "Tell me," he said, his eyes shining with tears.

Nathan couldn't move. Peter's heels hung out over an endless drop. "Please. Peter, we've already played this game."

When had they come to this? What had happened to bring them here? How was it he was caught again between losing Peter or admitting that he was wrong, twisted, and impossible?

It wasn't about flying. It wasn't about 'destiny.'

That much was suddenly clear to him, watching Peter waver on the edge of the roof, looking desperate. Begging him to save him.

This was about a phone call at four in the morning, with Peter drunk and wet-voiced on the other end, saying, "What'd I do, Nathan? Just tell me. Please, just tell me. I'll do anything." This was about how Nathan hadn't touched him in six months. "We're broken, Nathan. We're supposed to be connected. I'm losing you, and I can't stand it."

I'm losing myself, Peter. I can't understand anything anymore. But please don't. Don't hurt yourself. Don't take you away from me. I can't lose you.

"We both flew."

We are connected, Pete. We always have been, and it's always been wrong and it's always been unnatural, and this is just the same, just in another way. Please, please get away from the edge. Please.

"You're just telling me what you think I want to hear."

But he wasn't, because Peter was standing three feet above the roof, like Wile E. Coyote would before he'd realized he'd run off a cliff. If this was insanity, it was far more real than Nathan had ever thought it could be.

All he could do was point down.

Peter's joy, Peter's embrace, both were too much. Nathan was relieved, angry, terrified, exhausted. He had to pull away at first and shut his eyes, dizzy from it all.

***

When he drove Peter back to his apartment and stopped at the curb, Peter said, "Come up with me."

He was still high and smiling.

Nathan shook his head. "Pete, I can't."

Peter's smile vanished. "Why?"

He couldn't look at him. "I've got a lot going on right now, okay? I just can't."

"You always have a lot going on."

"Don't," Nathan said, still not looking, still overwhelmed with too many feelings at once. "I can't take any more emotional manipulation from you tonight. Just go."

Peter snorted. "That's what this is now? Everything between us? Emotional manipulation?"

"No." Nathan was too tired to explain and too tired to argue. "Go. Please."

"Fuck you," Peter said. He slammed the door after he got out.

Nathan had to sit at the curb for twenty minutes before he trusted himself to pull back out into traffic.

***
End, part one

Fannish Math

2009-06-16T04:48:09Z

All the posts about Remix + the fact that I didn't sign up this year because I know I couldn't keep the commitment right now = me being a sad puppy :(

It's my favorite fandom thing... I wait for it every year.

Goddamn brain.

Revision

2009-05-31T03:33:55Z

Revising this novel is probably one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Probably this speaks mainly to how easy my life has been, but really, it's like clawing through solid concrete for every word most of the time. Harder than just writing it was, or at least so it seems. During the first draft writing, the trick was turning off the internal editor. Here... you have to turn it on... but you also have to be able to focus it, because you can't fix everything at the same time. It's tough, and it's hard on the soul, and I wonder, constantly, if it's even worth it, even though I've been reassured by everyone who's seen it. Still don't know what an agent would make of it, or a publisher.

I have seriously been tempted to call a psychic, so you all can see how badly this is affecting my mental state... *eyeroll at self*

I am thinking of posting an excerpt of this damn thing, f-locked. Would anyone be interested?

Bored

2009-05-25T23:47:40Z

That is all. Carry on.

ETA: Adrian's been posting a bunch of videos of his cross-Pacific journey. I particularly like this one, in which he waxes slightly philosophical about how his little boat could just disappear, possibly attacked by whales:

And no, according to a comment he made, he's not drunk, just being tossed around by 20' waves. Eesh. Poor woobie.

Fic: Anything You Say Can Be Used Against You (Nathan/Peter, NC-17)

2009-05-25T21:59:18Z

TItle: Anything You Say Can Be Used Against You
Author: Trekker (47_trek_47)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nathan/Peter
Warnings: incest, briefly dubcon-y, D/s, Top!Peter
Author's Notes: Written for Sweet Charity, for my darling snopes_faith.

Summary: During 1961, Nathan and Peter's meeting goes a little differently...

***
Halfway between the middle of nowhere and what the residents of Coyote Sands considered a "town," a single wail of a siren cut through the rumble-crackle of the gravel road under Nathan's tires. His pulse spiked as his eyes jumped up to the rearview mirror, where a local sheriff's car was pulling out onto the road from behind a pinon bush in a cloud of dust. Here? How? Why? His mind ran through a quick series of calculations, measuring the risk of flooring it on this unsafe road, stopping and risking the officer recognizing him, or stopping and just flying.

In the end, his civilized side won out over the rest and he pulled over and waited.

Peter was out there, somewhere, getting God knew what kind of crazy ideas in his head, but he'd just have to keep for a few more minutes. Nathan had already lost him flying after him... getting the car and going into town had seemed wiser than just landing in the town square.

Behind him, the deputy was taking his time in his car. Nathan shut his eyes and took a long, steadying breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. Just some podunk sheriff getting off on pulling over the out-of-towners. Calm down. He couldn't possibly know. He couldn't possibly care.

Stuck as he was, he took a moment to take in the surroundings. Nothing for miles. Just nothing, not even an abandoned shack... just red and orange mesas, bright blue sky, and the scattered, deep-green pinons. What was a cop even doing out here? Surely Nathan was the only car to have passed all day. And, anyway, he'd been going about eighteen. What possible reason was he being pulled over for?

His heart began to pound again, but it was too late, the deputy was out of the car and halfway to him.

Nathan hit the button and rolled down the window, keeping his other hand on the steering wheel carefully, not wanting to give this guy any openings.

"License and registration?" said a familiar voice.

Nathan snapped towards him. "Peter?"

His own half-startled, half-relieved expression started back at him, distorted in orange-mirrored shades. Peter's impassive expression didn't flinch. "License and registration, sir," Peter repeated. His voice was so unwavering, Nathan faltered.

"Pete--" he started to say it wasn't funny.

Peter cut him off, still disconcertingly flat-voiced. "Last chance, sir. License and registration."

Nathan's jaw clenched. This wasn't the time for games. What the hell was Peter thinking? Although there was a small part of him that wondered if perhaps, someone, bizarrely, this just happened to be someone who looked, and sounded, just like his brother. Ridiculous, perhaps, but he'd seen so many stranger things lately...

He tilted his head and peered out, half-blinded by the blazing desert sun. Maybe?

The deputy--Peter--lost his patience. "That's it. Step out of the vehicle. Now. Keep your hands where I can see them."

It had to be Peter. He knew him inside out, he could recognize him just by his scent in a darkened room.

"Sir." The deputy stepped back suddenly. "Get out of the vehicle. Now."

And drew his fucking gun. Jesus. Not Peter? Surely not Peter, not--

Nathan got out of the car, hands up, not even trying to shut the door behind himself. "Easy. Hey, sorry. Sorry." For a moment, he could see down the barrel of the glock with horrible clarity.

"Turn around. Hands on the car. Spread 'em."

He did, quickly. His heart was pounding again as the doubt grew. Perfect. Perfect, piss off the local law enforcement, get them to run your ID, find out your a wanted federal fugitive... shit, shit, shit.

"Look," he said, "I'm really sorry, I thought--"

"Sir, don't make this worse for yourself." Maybe that voice was a little lower, a little rougher than it should have been. Colder. Harder. Maybe he was wrong.

Impersonal hands plucked his wallet from his back pocket. Fuck. Footsteps crunched away over the gravel back towards the sheriff's car. The hot metal of the hood burned under his palms. He thought again of flying. But he didn't.

The footsteps return, too soon, and quicker. Nathan shut his eyes and bit back a groan. Fuck.

"Keep your hands where they are," said the almost-should-be-maybe-familiar voice. It slid from Peter to unknown and back and he couldn't tell, he just couldn't tell. The sun was pounding down, seeping through his shirt and flame-hot on his back.

Then the man was touching him. Patting him down, he realized in a moment, but he still flinched at the hands sliding roughly down his arms, then back up, lingering under his armpits for a moment, feeling for something that at least wasn't there. Thank god he didn't have a gun on him at the moment. Still, he could feel himself beginning to shake, strained by holding so still and by the rush of adrenaline in his veins. He could feel the deputy's pants brushing against the backs of his, and he released a shaky breath, realizing suddenly what an embarrassing position he was in, bent over his car with someone's hands running over his chest, their arms almost around him, their groin almost brushing his ass.

He felt blood rush to his cheeks as his body stirred horribly, reacting in an entirely unwelcome way. Shit, shit. That wouldn't make this guy any fonder of him.

Hands up his back now, and then down and on down the outsides of his legs to his ankles. Quick sweep around the tops of his shoes. He breathed through his nose, trying to calm his own reaction before--

Then up again, up the insides of his legs, and he felt his blush deepen just as the hands reached his groin.

And stopped.

Shit.

Soft sniff of a laugh, and then Nathan squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation as the deputy cupped his palm around his half-hard cock.

There was no amusement in that not-quite-right voice, though, when he stepped back and said, "Stand up. Turn around."

He did, resigned.

The blazing sun was partly behind the other man, on the rise, but still at a low enough angle to painfully backlight him. Still, Nathan squinted through it, trying to see, trying to watch the man's mouth, straining to see that small crook that would give Peter away.

Instead, he was distracted by the man's hand, resting on his gun, when he said, "Sir, I'm going to need you to remove your clothing."

What? Nathan froze.

"Sir." Pure threat in one word, and Nathan could see his hand tighten on the grip of his gun.

Fly, he thought. Just fly. This is insane.

In fact, he was about to, when suddenly there was a crack and the bright desert landscape darkened and his knees hurt.

For a moment, he was sure he'd been shot. Again. Then, as he panted frantically through clear lungs and his vision slowly brightened again, and his cheek began to throb, he realized he hadn't been shot--just hit. Hard.

He gasped, "You--you can't--"

"Shut up."

Everything was dark again, but it was because the other man was standing over him, trapping Nathan on his knees between him and the car, blocking the light. Grabbing him by the hair. "Just shut up," softer, and a shock of impossible-to-deny recognition ran through him at that almost-gentler tone. Peter.

Peter.

Between the pain and the shock, his eyes flooded with tears. "Fuck, Peter. Fuck, you held a gun on me?"

After what had happened? After all of that?

"Shut up," again, rougher, that hand tightening in his hair. Peter's other hand was fumbling with his own fly, unzipping it.

Nathan's cock, still already swollen and sensitive, surged. Holy shit. His mouth watered and his head spun. Yes.

Peter's cock was already hard. He didn't pause before lining it up and pushing it into Nathan's mouth. Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose and whimpered. Peter pushed in chokingly deep, and didn't pull back until Nathan gagged.

"Get me off," Peter said, in that same tone. Nathan glanced up and saw the sunlight glint off the orange mirrors and shuddered. Someone else, even if it was Peter. "Suck me."

He shut his eyes and focused, sucking on Peter's amazingly hard cock, stroking it, rubbing his balls.

"Swallow," Peter gasped, after just moments, and before Nathan even really had time to process that, he was coming. Nathan swallowed convulsively, surprised by the quickness, expecting it to be drawn out. His own cock throbbed, needing more, straining against his pants. He was disappointed. Bizarrely, humiliatingly disappointed. Over too soon.

"Get up," Peter said, stepping back. He barely looked ruffled as he tucked his cock away.

Nathan got up, and started to turn towards his car, ready to leave.

Peter's hard voice stopped him. "Where do you think you're going?"

He stopped, and a small, confused shiver went through him.

"I told you. I need you to undress. Sir." Peter said.

Nathan couldn't see Peter's eyes. His own, uncertain and wild, looked back at him.

"Now, sir."

The taste of Peter's come was heavy on his tongue as he stared at him. There was nothing for miles. No one. Surely. But... who knew?

Then, Peter reached back for the baton on his belt. "Do it."

"Okay," Nathan said, quickly, his hands leaping for his shirt front and a terrible thrill leaping up his spine. "Okay, okay."

Peter just watched, perfectly impassive, as Nathan unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off. He felt suddenly cold in spite of the blaze of the sun on his bare skin. Peter jerked his chin towards him. "Keep going."

His own breathing was getting fast as he undid his pants and let them drop down around his ankles and he stood there, out in the open with his boxer-briefs ridged by his obvious erection.

Peter said, "Shoes. Socks. Everything."

"Pete--"

"I could take you in any time," Peter said. The threat almost seemed to have real weight under it--and it was true, Nathan was at much at risk now as any of them.

Nathan bent and finished stripping, shaking continuously now. It was excitement as much as it was nerves. He saved his underwear for last, but eventually, it had to go. Peter's only reaction as Nathan stood up, completely naked, was to cock his head slightly to the side.

Are you happy now, Peter? What more do you want? What can I do?

"Turn around. Back over the car. Spread your legs."

Christ. I can't. I can't do that. Fuck, we're in public--

"Do it," Peter roared, and grabbed him by the arm and the hair and shoved him around and down.

"Peter--" he said, panicked for a moment, until he realized he was safe, just bent over the hood, alone. He shakily settled his hands on the hood and shifted his legs open and glanced back. Peter was across the road, turned towards the desert, hands clasped around the back of his neck, half-bent over. Nathan could see his back heaving with his hard breaths.

He turned his gaze back to the deep black gloss of the hood and waited.

In a moment, he heard Peter's steps crossing the road back to him.

"You've got a rap list as long as my arm," Peter said, back to that smooth, cool, authority voice.

Nathan exhaled slowly.

"Murder," Peter said. "Betrayal. Treason."

Nathan shut his eyes. Yes. All of that.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you to the wolves."

There wasn't one. All Nathan could say was, "I'm sorry. I love you."

"That's not enough."

The sun burned against the backs of his thighs, his ass, his back. "I know."

"You deserve to pay for what you did."

"Yes." Do it. Hurt me.

Then Peter's hands were on him, on his ass. Not hard or cruel, just stroking him. His cock swelled harder.

"I can't--" Peter said, "--be that guy. I thought I could... but I can't."

"It's okay." Disappointing, but also not.

Peter's hands ran up his back, then down. He heard the rasp of Peter's zipper again and shivered. "Yes. Do it."

Spit wasn't nearly enough to make it comfortable, but he relished the pain as Peter thrust inside of him. This was what he wanted. Punishment. Pleasure. Anger and love. Hard jerks of both of their hips, the car rocking under the force of it, the sharpness of the sensation forcing tears to his eyes.

He couldn't find the coherence for words, just whimpers and yelps. The world was perfectly still around them, as if there was no one else on the planet, no living thing but the pinon and the tumbleweeds.

Peter gasped, "I love you," and Nathan came, shouting, uncaring where they were.

Peter followed soon after.

He let Nathan get dressed.

Just before he started back to the car, Nathan said, "Where'd you get a squad car, anyway?"

Peter glanced back and shrugged. "No one locks their doors around here. Kinda stupid, really."

Nathan watched him go. Once, Peter would have smiled at the sign of trust. Maybe someday he could again.

***
End

Fic: Not A Civilized Debate (Nathan/Angela, NC-17)

2009-05-25T18:09:21Z

Title: Not A Civilized Debate
Author: Trekker (47_trek_47)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nathan/Angela
Warnings: Incest, dubcon/noncon, dark
Spoilers: Just through early season two
Author's Notes: Written for Sweet Charity.

Summary: Angela and Nathan, early season two, just days after he's healed.

***
Once Angela found Nathan, she realized he was exactly where she should have looked in the first place.

She unlocked the door to Peter's apartment with her duplicate key and found Nathan there at the table, scruffy with three days stubble, almost a beard, slouched over a bottle. Instantly, at her entrance, he sat up, and for a moment, turned to her with a look of pure joy.

For a moment, she actually thought it was for her, and her heart did something strange and painful, lunging and twisting.

Then, just as quickly, his eyes went dark and he turned back to his bottle, taking a slug and then spitting out, disgustedly, "Ma."

Of course. He'd thought she was Peter. That made sense.

The apartment reeked of spoiled food and booze, and a hint of acrid old sweat. She shut the door behind herself swiftly, blocking this atrocity from the sight of the world and snapped, "Nathan, for Heaven's sake. What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

He looked at her again, furrowing his brow and cocking his head slightly, as if she were some strange and unpleasant new lifeform. He didn't dignify her question with a reply, just took another drink and turned his gaze toward the window, ignoring her.

She looked around, taking in the apartment, all in disarray and squalor.

"This is unacceptable," she said, firmly.

"Fuck you, Ma," Nathan said, in a complete monotone.

That was also unacceptable. She strode over to him and grabbed the neck of the bottle, pulling it away. His grip tightened instantly, surprisingly fast reflexes for a man so clearly intoxicated, and his eyes flashed with a sudden fire, scorching away the dead indifference. "Get out," he said, still gripping tight, fighting her pull without moving.

"No." He was still her son--the only son she had left. The only family she had left, with the exception of one headstrong and out-of-her-control granddaughter, and she'd be damned if she let this nonsense go on any longer. She'd done her share of time watching Arthur drink himself into oblivion years ago, she wasn't about to see Nathan do the same... waste so much time.

She tightened her grip and leaned in, smelling the alcohol, heavy on his breath. She was close enough to whisper, and she did, gently but firmly. "Nathan. Peter is gone. We have to accept that. You cannot throw your life away."

He jerked his hand, breaking her grip and suddenly standing. "What life, Ma? I don't have a job. I don't have a family. What life?"

She dogged him to the kitchen, where he twisted the metal cap back onto the bottle and put it away, as if he'd already been planning to be done. "You can get it all back, Nathan. Easily. I made your excuses for congress. The DA. It would be simple--"

He spun around and grabbed her, both wrists, digging his fingers in deep. His breath was hot and burned from the scotch. "Nothing is simple anymore. Nothing will ever be simple again. Don't you get that? You saw to that. You, and Pop, and Linderman, that bastard, may he rot in hell--"

Slightly panicked, she shoved back, and he--off-balance and drunk--stumbled back against the counter. "Don't talk about him that way," she snapped. "You have no idea what your father did for you. What Linderman did for you."

His lips twisted into a snarl, but he couldn't push her away, too disadvantaged by his unstable position. "No idea? Why is that? Maybe because you've lied to me my entire life? Lied to Peter--You're lying to me now." At that last, she saw a spark of hope in his eyes that literally made her chest hurt.

"I'm not," she whispered, her throat tightening. "I wish I was. I loved him as much as you do. More. But he's gone."

"You used him," he growled.

"As did you," she said, softly and evenly, as she felt his hands go iron-tight around her wrists again, hurting.

"I saved him. And he saved me. How else could I be alive like this?"

"Are you?" she said, "Alive? Is this living?"

His jaw clenched, but his grip faltered. She broke one hand free and reached up, brushing back his overgrown bangs. She shuddered at the way they stayed where she pushed them, unwashed and unkempt. This was not the son she knew. It was pure horrified fascination that made her slide her hand down his face, feel the harsh scratch of his growing beard under her fingertips.

But he responded as he always did to her touch, going motionless and quiet, even holding his breath. Still. She still had that.

She could use that.

"We're alone, Nathan. Just us." She kept touching him, stroking his face, tracing his cheekbones, his jawline, his windpipe. She could feel him beginning to shake.

"You're lying," he whispered. His eyes avoided hers, soft and scared.

He'd released her completely, so she could press both hands to his chest, through the thermal shirt he wore. "Why would I lie about this? What would I have to gain?"

He said nothing as she caressed him. His breath shuddered.

She ran her hands down his arms, and said, "Believe me... because we need each other, now. More than ever."

"No..."

She caught his hands and stepped backwards, pulling him with her. He followed like a lost child. She needed this power, she knew that. This was all that truly bound him to her. He needed it, too. Without it... without someone, this was what happened to him. But that didn't mean she didn't dislike it. It was something she did, something necessary. An unnatural means to retaining the natural order.

She was leading him to the couch, but he stopped at the doorway to the bedroom. He dropped her hands and walked inside, leaving her. She felt herself frown as he sat on the edge of Peter's rumpled bed.

He tilted his head, eyeing her sideways. "We both know what's happening here, Ma. What's the point in hiding from it?"

She raised her brow, trying to cover her startlement. "All right, then," she said. She stepped into the bedroom. It smelled like him in here, heavy and male. He looked up at her when she stopped in front of him. His eyes were too calm and controlled.

"I want you naked," she said, short and clipped and far more direct than she would usually be, carefully calculated to throw him back off-balance.

He sighed and stripped off his shirt, casting it aside. Her eyes followed the garment and fixed on it for a moment, something tickling her brain about it.

Once it was cast on the floor, off of Nathan's body and out of context, it occurred to her: it was Peter's shirt. And those pants that Nathan was shoving to the floor were Peter's, too. Something shook inside of her. Something was very, very wrong, here. The stakes were higher than she'd feared. She had to get Nathan back. Out of here, away from this, back into her home and her hands.

He was lying back on Peter's bed, looking at home there, naked. His soft cock curled against his thigh, and she cringed inside to see it, reminded again of how wrong this was.

All she showed, outwardly, was calm as she said, "Get yourself hard, dear," and then turned to begin to undo the buttons of her blouse.

When she turned back, stripped down to nothing, he was sprawled out, rubbing himself with one hand, with his face turned to the side, buried in the pillow, eyes closed. He was almost relaxed.

"Nathan," she said, sharply, grabbing his attention.

His eyes snapped open and he fixed her with a hard stare.

None of this was as it should be.

Even as she lay down on the bed and he rolled over her, his eyes barely faltered. His first thrust inside of her was too hard, too deep. She couldn't quite stop her small grunt of discomfort, and she could have sworn that for a moment, he smiled.

"Everything's so much clearer, now," he breathed against her ear, fucking her with a slow, gentle rhythm now. "Who I am. Who you are. What I want. What I believe. What you want me to believe."

"Nathan," she said, again, this time more softly, close to pleading. She couldn't find the strength to put behind the words right then, not with him over her, holding her down and driving into her, different than ever before. Far too different. Not good, not in control. Not in her control, anyway.

He pulled out suddenly and grabbed her shoulder roughly, rolling her over. She literally cried out, startled and frightened. This was not how it was meant to go.

"He's alive," he said.

She twisted against the sheets as she felt him guide his cock up, force it somewhere else, somewhere that made her say, disgustedly, "Oh, Nathan." But she didn't try to stop him. The answer was here somewhere, and the question was too urgent to discard.

"He's alive," he said, again, over her moan as he pushed inside. "He'll come back."

His face was tucked alongside hers, pressed into the pillow as he fucked her ass. The fabric still smelled faintly like Peter, and as Nathan groaned and came, still saying, "He's okay," she understood. Oh, she understood far more than she'd ever wanted to.

She staggered away as soon as she could, grabbing up her clothes and gasping, "How could you? How could you? To Peter?"

He just rolled over, putting his back to her. "You couldn't possibly understand," was all he said.

He was asleep, or passed out, before she even dressed. She left as quickly as she could.

When she got home and was alone, for the first time since the explosion, she wept.

***
End

Aw, Adrian

2009-05-11T23:39:42Z

Adrian posted a bunch of vids from his 3-week voyage to Haiwaii. I could have done without the icky one, but, in general, they are adorable, as usual. No Milo, as he wasn't on this trip (He was making a movie, I believe. This one?).

Vids, of course, are over at buckshotwon.

That Movie. You Know. That One.

2009-05-08T04:45:15Z

So, as some or all of you may know, I've been pretty anti-Star Trek. I saw the promos, with the explosions and the fighting and the cars, and I said, "Double-You. Tee. Eff. That is not Star Trek."

However, due to recent events on Heroes, it occurred to me that these new Trek movies becoming a franchise and thus taking Zach Quinto away from Heroes would be beneficial to me.

So, off I went this evening to see this atrocity. I sat myself down in the theater, stared glumly at the previews, and said, "Go on, J.J. Just go on. Destroy my childhood."

...

But.

Um, guys?

I loved it.

It was adorable, it was in the spirit of Trek in spite of the vicious promos, it was just fun. And also, they tied it into the canon of the real universe in an awesome, twisty, scifi-ish, time-travelish way that just made me go, "Dude. That... is so cool."

I wanna see it again, and not just to contribute another ten bucks to the Save Nathan fund.

In fact, I'm looking forward to the next one, where they'll actually be freer to develop the characters and feel less need for constant in-jokes (which were fun, btw, but I want to see what this group can do on their own power).

So basically... I take it back. I'm a happy former Trekkie. And I kind of love Kirk. How'd that happen?

(FYI, most of the time, Quinto was almost eerily similar to young Nimoy, but every time Spock got cranky or started going on about his mommy issues, he totally turned into Sylar, and those moments were bizarre and disturbing.)

ETA: Also? Simon Pegg. SIMON FREAKING PEGG, OMG. But where was his boyfriend??

Edgar has gone bye-bye

2009-05-06T18:03:26Z

My bedroom window (second floor) is right next to my bed, level with it, and it looks out into a tree. The past couple of weeks, between the adorable, hoppy, twittery Wilson's Warblers and the fluttering, mating cooing doves, my cat has apparently lost his head and started trying to jump out the window to get them. He keeps slamming into the screen, of course. It's a bad habit.

Oh, cats.

OMGHORSIES :D

2009-05-04T02:46:52Z

I rode a horse today! I even made it go places and do things, just by myself, not even with someone leading it around! :D

Now my butt hurts. D:

Fic: Perfect (Milo/Adrian, NC-17)

2009-04-30T04:56:27Z

I have finally managed to write me some RPS. Yes indeed.

Title: Perfect
Author: Trekker (47_trek_47)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Milo/Adrian
Warning: RPS (duh?), also: Pure, schmoopy, fluffy, p0rn.

Summary: Today, Milo doesn't push him away.

***
Milo leans back against the counter of the kitchenette in his trailer, trapped in the cage of Adrian's arms braced around him as Adrian whispers, "You. Are. Amazing." He punctuates the each word with a kiss to Milo's face, anywhere Milo lets him: his cheek, his brow, his nose, his jaw. He takes what Milo gives him. Anything. Everything. It's all good, he loves it, even if it's just a smirk or an eyeroll. Anything, even being gently pushed away with a quiet admonition.

But today... today, Milo doesn't push him away. Today, he whispers those perfect words, not said nearly often enough: "Don't stop. Ah. Adrian, don't stop."

Mi's tired and frustrated. Today he's spent too long filming another of Peter's mistakes, and Adrian loves that for all he complains, Milo cares about saving their fictional world.

But more, he loves that hitch of Milo's hips under his, and the hardness it betrays in Milo's jeans. Yeah. That. Oh, this. Yes.

"Perfect. Beautiful. God, you're so beautiful it kills me." He presses into normally-forbidden territory, licking Milo's neck before finally letting himself kiss his lips. Soft and teasing, because he loves the way that makes Milo growl in frustration and grab the back of his neck, pulling him down and pressing up and kissing him so hard their teeth clack. Yes. Milo's tongue pushes into his mouth and he lets it, lets him possess him, lets him penetrate him. Milo licks the backs of Adrian's front teeth, licks up under his tongue, still pinning him in place with that hard grip at the base of his skull. Adrian can only shiver and let him and luxuriate in this undeniable proof that this perfect man, this angel, wants Adrian as much as Adrian wants him.

They're both panting by the time Milo lets his mouth go, still holding him, staring into his eyes with pupils blown wide, mouth open, crooked lip. Adrian nips that part of his lip, then catches it in his teeth, pressing gently. When he lets go, Milo says, half-disgruntled and half-amused, "I can't feel that, you know."

"But it's so cute," Adrian says, smiling, eyes wide.

Milo chuckles and takes Adrian's left hand in his, rubbing his thumb up Adrian's mangled one, over the smooth scar and the half-nail. "Hypocrit," he murmurs when Adrian pouts.

Then he pushes Adrian back, but not in the bad way; he stays with him the whole time, hands on his shoulders. "I wanna fuck you," he says.

"Anytime, anywhere, any way," Adrian breathes through the dizzy rush of arousal and excitement. He always wants this. Just seeing Milo walk in a room can get him hard. Hearing him say those words in that low growl makes him crazy. A little confused, disoriented. He needs Milo's hands on his shoulders to keep him upright and Milo's gasps against his ears to remind him to breathe.

"Right now, right there," Milo points to the bed, "Really hard."

"yeahokay."

Milo's already unbuttoning Adrian's shirt, one-handed because his other hand is back around Adrian's neck, holding him still as he kisses his mouth again, licking at his lips and sucking on his tongue. It's all Adrian can do to hold onto his hips and steady himself, especially once his shirt's undone and Milo's hand slides inside it, around his flank, pressing firmly against his bare skin, just touching him.

He shuts his eyes and drops his head back, leaving Milo mouthing his throat. He could come. His body's one tight cord, ready to snap, just from that mouth on his pulse point and that hand on his side. No one else. No one else has ever done quite this to him, made him feel like this: fragile glass a heartbeat from shattering.

Milo pushes his shirt off and lets it fall. "Ah, God, Adrian. So hot. You are so fucking hot." Hands on his chest, pushing up, curling around his neck, pressing into the muscle of his shoulders. He looks down into Milo's lust-darkened eyes and sees something wild and almost angry there. It doesn't frighten him. It excites him.

He watches that spark sharpen as he reaches down and wraps his hands around Milo's ass and grips tight, yanking their hips together and just feeling that perfect, firm curve of muscle under the black denim.

"Strip me," Milo says. It's an order.

Adrian peels off Milo's shirt as quickly as if the command had gone straight from Milo's brain to his hands. He falters there, though, taken by all that skin and muscles, smooth and strong. He catches Milo's right arm before he can drop it down and presses his face into his armpit, twisting his head to find that hidden star with his mouth and suck on it. Milo smells like spice and musk here, something expensive, no doubt, with a name anyone who's anyone would know on the bottle. Doesn't matter. Adrian prefers the hint of Milo's sweat to the designer fragrance.

"Mmph." Milo pushes down on his shoulders and Adrian drops to his knees. The carpet in Mi's trailer is cushioned and real wool, no trailer-park acrylic for him. Adrian rubs his face where they both want it, against the bulge in Milo's pants, even as he reaches up and undoes the button. He only moves away long enough to unzip the fly and pull down Milo's jeans and briefs, and then he's back, cupping Milo's balls and licking up his smooth, slim cock.

"Fuck."

As the round head of his cock slips into his mouth, Adrian feels something like Nirvana. He loves the sound Milo makes when he sucks gently.

When he turns his eyes to look up, Milo is looking down, watching him dazedly.

Adrian lets his cock slide out of his mouth and leans against his legs, gazing up. "Fuck me?"

"Yeah. Hell, yeah. Take your pants off."

"Why do I have to do all the work?" Adrian mock-grumbles as he stands and unbuttons and unzips.

Milo just rolls his eyes--a funny thing when he's naked and hard--and says, "In a minute, I'll be doing all the work, Ms. Pretty, Pretty Princess."

Adrian strips the rest of his clothes off and watches Milo's naked ass sway as he swaggers to the bed.

It's almost a double bed, built sideways into the back of the trailer. Most of the cast have piles of old screenplays and sides and clothes and other detritus piled on theirs, but Milo keeps his whole trailer, bed included, rather freakishly neat. The bed even has real sheets, which Milo pulls back before climbing on it and kneeling with his back to the blacked-out and covered window.

Adrian climbs on and stretches out, lying on his side along the edge of the bed. These sheets, like the carpet, are soft. Milo smiles down at him and brushes back Adrian's bangs, runs his fingers through his hair. Adrian tilts his head into the caress, and misses seeing Milo lie down alongside of him. They lie together for a while, chest to chest, touching and stroking everywhere they can reach, watching each other's eyes. They can talk for hours, but right now, they don't need to talk at all.

Not until Milo scootches back against the wall, giving Adrian room as he says, "Lie back?"

Then Milo's reaching over him, getting a condom and a bottle of lube from the shelf.

Adrian loves his family, he would never leave them, and he wants Milo to have that kind of joy in his life, too... but at moments like these, somehow that small ring of latex is a harsh reminder that there are other people in both of their lives. He glances away as Milo reaches down to roll it on.

Milo draws his attention back with a light kiss to his shoulder. There's no accusation in his eyes now.

Once in a horrible while, it's the one thing they fight about, even though neither of them can win. But not now.

Adrian bends his knees and Milo settles between them. Adrian feels it like the click of a magnet to metal. Meant to be. Irresistible attraction.

"Are you ready?" Milo says. "Or do you need--"

"Ready." Now. Please. Need you.

Slick cock, pressure, and then that's it. Milo sighs and Adrian moans and they're together. Finally almost close enough, as Milo drapes himself over Adrian and begins to rock his hips slow and long, tender love-making belying his early erotic threat. Sweat between their chests, bonding them. Milo's cheek against his, rough with show-requisite stubble, catching on Adrian's and scratching his jaw, and oh, oh, yes. Slow but deep, every time pushing as far in as he can, and it almost hurts, but it doesn't, it just feels intense, makes Adrian's toes curl.

"Love the way you feel," Milo murmurs, right into Adrian's ear. "So tight."

"Just you," Adrian says, even though Milo knows it. He likes to hear it. Adrian likes to say it. "No one else, Mi. Just you."

"Ye-ah," Milo whispers, shaking. He pauses at the bottom of his thrust, holding himself deep, pressed against something inside Adrian that aches beautifully but sharply, making him groan in pleasure-pain and arc up against Milo's weight.

"Love you," Adrian gasps as Milo eases back, sending shocks of relief and disappointment up his spine.

He always cracks first. Always says it before Milo. It doesn't bother him, it's just a fact.

Milo's pace picks up, his expression tight and intent. He sucks his stomach in and says, "Masturbate."

Instantly, Adrian reaches down into the space Milo's given him, grabbing himself and trying to keep pace with Milo's hips. For awhile there's nothing but the rasp of their breathing and the slap of skin-on-skin. Sweat breaks out across Milo's furrowed brow, and Adrian can feel something winding tighter inside him as he watches Milo slowly come apart, break down. So calm, so cool, but right now, he's gasping, open-mouthed, staring down with half-blind eyes, so close to coming Adrian can almost feel it.

He loves this moment, when Milo whimpers and shivers and hammers into him and then...

"Oh. Oh. God. Adrian. Ade. Yeah--yeeeeah... Ah, God, I love you. I love you so much."

Just that, just those words and the pulse of Milo's cock coming inside of him are enough to shove him hard over the edge, leave him falling. Flying. Coming.

Perfect.
***

End

Awwww, boys <3

2009-04-30T01:47:36Z

Just listened to a couple of the pre-finale interviews (here and here) with Adrian and Milo. Sooooo cute. OMG, they are so comfortable with each other. I <3 it. I particularly love how quickly Adrian jumps in every time to save Milo from needing to answer any questions about Hayden. I love it when guys get all protective.

Also, in one, Adrian makes some metaphor about throwing the steering wheel out the window while driving and Milo goes off on a tangent about whether you'd need to remove lugbolts to do that, and omg, it is so adorable, and Adrian is all dude, it's a metaphor, and says, with loving exasperation, "God, you're frustrating." OMG. CUTENESS.

And, awww, apparently Milo got all mad at him at some point in London for awhile. POOR ADRIAN, he is clearly still traumatized by it.

Also, apparently, and I think this was actually real, in the midst of the joking about how they're dating, they are being told to tone down their closeness onscreen. Which is both kind of annoying for me as a Petrellicester, and kind of awesome in terms of Milo/Adrian. *G*

Damn it, show! Let them snuggle!

They totally don't need actual interviewers. They just chatter away with each other. *happy sigh*

I also love the part where they're like, "Actually, we don't love the show, we love each other. Wait. Can we say that? I mean, of course we love the show."

And poor Adrian scrambling to find a way to answer questions without being spoilery and Milo continually pulling his ass out of the fire.

And, of course, "Mi." *dies* Makes me wonder if Adrian was the origin of Nathan calling Peter "Pete."

<3 <3 <3

Adrian Pasdar Loves Us

2009-04-29T13:14:10Z

Firstly, he posted a new video for the first time in ages, which consists of an utterly breathtaking oceanscape at dawn and him apparently talking to himself, which is adorable. :) I particularly like it when he yawns and says he's tired. Aww. CUTENESS, OMG.

That'd be here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUlyWOpb6XA

Secondly he commented over there in a general spoilery fashion on the upcoming events of season four:

Just read up on all the posts here. I gotta say I had a lump in my throat when Cris Rose let out the wolf roar in front of my dead body. But listen. I know where the story is headed. SUPPOSED to be headed. And there will come a day where Nathan/Sylar fight for control of Nathan. And if it all goes like it should, we will all have a blast watching that battle (I think you all know whose side I'LL be on. ..)

You folks have made the HEROIC trip for me an intimate experience and I treasure your feedback in this forum. So thank YOU all, and I promise to do my best to deliver the best we can in season 4. Stay tuned.

I am particularly amused by the "SUPPOSED to be." Hee. Oh, Adrian. I hear you, baby. And I love that he's all, "Dude, you guys. Chill. It's all good. I've got it under control."

So, okay. Clearly, the intention was that Nathan!Sylar is, in fact, "really" Nathan. I think the execution of that was severely lacking, but... you know what? I need Nathan. At least as much as Peter does. So... fuck it. I could be onboard for this. And the fact that Adrian is clearly excited about it really does sway me a lot.

Still, the fact that I had to read a bunch of meta to figure out what it "really" meant? Is not a good comment on their story-telling skills. Stupid show. *sigh* Stupid show with such pretty, angsty people on it. Argh.

More Thoughts on Nathan

2009-04-29T01:56:32Z

First, an article (spoilery for the next volume, I guess. I have ceased to care about such things.) Granted, this is just print, so maybe we can't see him rolling his eyes, but Adrian sounds rather genuinely chipper about the whole thing in this interview:

http://www.tvguide.com/News/Heroes-Postmortem-Sylar-1005536.aspx

I have to say, if they really want to make the Nathan/Sylar battle work... they really started it all out wrong. The Graphic Novel says that Matt "transferred Nathan's mind" into Sylar's body, which, okay, if that had been what had gone down? That I would buy that it's "still Nathan." But that wasn't how it went down on the show (nor was it what seemed to be going on in the V5 teaser). Matt just told Sylar he "was" Nathan. Nathan's mind was already quite dead, and therefore, I would assume, difficult to transfer anywhere. I mean, really. This was not a convenient, pre-death Vulcan mind meld.

A hypnotist may be able to convince me that I'm Abraham Lincoln. I might believe it, but that wouldn't make me Lincoln, it would just make me insane. And I sure as hell wouldn't be able to come up with something like the Gettysburg Address, no matter how much I thought I was a brilliant politician. Because I'm not.

I think there is a disconnect between what actually happened on the show and what the Powers That Be are presenting as having happened on the show. Much like the whole thing where Sylar didn't kill Arthur, Peter did, hello? Argh.

Heroes 3.25

2009-04-28T03:19:55Z

snopes_faith: read below the cut.

I hate this show, I really, really do. WTF. Goddamnit. FUCK.

Where the hell was Peter during all of that asshattery? He wouldn't have stood for it, goddamnit. That is fucked up. Just... FUCK. Let him be DEAD. Don't create this fucking parody of him. Goddamnit I hate Sylar so, so, SO much. So much more now. That's not my Nathan. That will NEVER be my Nathan. Goddamnit.

So, for those in the crowd who should NEVER HAVE TO WATCH THAT: Nathan dies (Sylar kills him, of course, fuckity fuck fuck. Cuts his throat. It's very, very, VERY UPSETTING TO WATCH. AND GRAPHIC. THANKS HEROES, YOU JACKASSES.) Then Matt Parkman makes Sylar believe he is Nathan, at the urging of Angela and Noah.

Peter, for some unknown reason, is nowhere to be seen during all this. I can't imagine that he'd really be like, okay, sure, I'll just wait in the hall! So I just don't fucking know. I assume that means he "doesn't" know, but that's bullshit.

Fuck them for keeping Adrian around and killing Nathan. Fuck them for setting up god-knows-how-long of "Nathan" turning slowly back into FUCKING SYLAR. Fuck them for not giving us a clue how much Peter knows about what happened or what his reaction is.

I hate that I care. I don't even want to care. This is bullshit. It's a fucking TV show and it kills me. I hate it.

And the worst part of it all is I'll probably keep watching, to see how it turns out. Shit. I hate this.

I'd cry, but I'm too fucking pissed off.

One tiny thing I liked? Sylar referring to Nathan's perverse memories. Heh. Yes, we know what he's talking about.

Argh. Oh, argh. Worst case scenario, you are here. What the hell do we Nathan fans do now? Help me? Somebody? Haitian my memory so I can just forget what happened after the horrible death scene and just stop watching this fucking show and mourn him properly and move on? Oh, this hurts. it hurts.

crap.

Oh, and also? Poor Ali Larter. Hell. Naked? Jesus. Fuck you, show.

47_trek_47 @ 2009-04-22T07:10:00

2009-04-22T13:10:51Z

OMG, everyone go read the latest Heroes webcomic. It's awesome Petrellicest.

Oh, Heroes

2009-04-21T03:24:42Z

Sylar, Sylar, Sylar, la dee da. I really don't care.

I totally thought this episode was over ten minutes before it was. But, no, there were ten more minutes of screaming at the TV left for me. Thank goodness my downstairs neighbors are ancient and deaf, because I was literally yelling "No, no, no," at the idiots onscreen and probably would have disturbed neighbors who could hear me.

Next week... it's all over next week. And after that I can either relax for a few months or the rest of my life, depending on the survival or lack thereof of a certain fictional Senator.

Also: Dammit, Danko, a little lower next time.

Thank goodness Peter couldn't let him go alone. Damn Nathan for being a dumbass when everyone was trying to tell him not to be, but still, at least Peter went. I was chatting with brighteyed_jill and she can attest to me being totally CAPSLOCK through that whole scene.

And then later... what the hell, Nathan? Are you just going to stand there while Sylar slices your head open? AT LEAST FLY OUT THE WINDOW. Argh. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I swear, I just can't take this stress. I mean... do I even enjoy this show? Or do I just watch and suffer the whole time? Ay yi yi. Someone write me some fanfic or something? I'm writer's blocked. :P

ETA: On a more cheerful note, gosh Adrian and Milo are pretty, aren't they? *happy sigh* Just gorgeous. Jack Coleman, too.

Hmm

2009-04-14T04:03:29Z

Heroes. I... think I liked it? There's a lot to process. It plays hell with all of my thoughts on Angela's history, obviously, and that always annoys me, but... hmm. Either way, Christine Rose onscreen that much is ALWAYS a good thing. And I loved the bit at the end, and maybe even the thing at the very end. I'm sorry, snopes_faith, I'm really sucking at saying anything helpful without being spoilery. I'm feeling very wait-and-see right now.

***
So... Okay. Peter's trying to forgive Nathan. Good. I relaxed a bit just like Nathan did at that. And they're all together, all TALKING to each other, this is good, too. And Peter and Mohinder are in love. That's good, too. Um, but sort of off-topic. Yeah. Noah and Angela are in love, too. I'm still not sure how I feel about that, because on the one hand, it is awesome and I would love it so much if the show actually went there. On the other, I worry about Sandra's continued presence on the show. I don't want to lose her.

I liked that when Sylar inevitably began playing at being Nathan, they ALL saw it, and they ALL know what it means. Thank god for that. I HATE those kinds of fake-out games and such. So, okay. So far... that's okay. Because Sylar and Danko are playing that game WITHOUT having eliminated the real Nathan. That's good, too.

I'm still terrified, of course, and it's this part of the season that I always hate. Not knowing. I don't mean spoilers, really, except maybe the casting kind. Of course, if they're going to do the shape-shifting thing, even casting spoilers are useless. Which sucks. [no spoilers, please, btw, they really just make things worse.]

It really hurts to see my boys still sort of at odds. I don't care how stupid it is, I feel what they feel, and the state of these fictional people's fictional relationship really emotionally affects me. Sometimes, I really hate that. I resent the power this show has over me. I wish I could just watch and have fun with it without stressing so much.

Sorry, off track there. I'm kinda cranky right now, because of hormones and because a lot of RL stuff, both good and bad, has been hitting me this weekend.

Yeah, Amazon, You REALLY Suck. And Not in the Good Way.

2009-04-13T01:20:38Z

Oh, and: Amazon Rank

Oh NOES

2009-04-13T01:12:36Z

I just got a Facebook account. OMG. It's addictive and EVIL.

Heroes

2009-04-07T03:22:45Z

Not nearly so Petrellitastic as advertised, but some great Bennet moments... could have been called "Danko and Noah Have Really Bad Days"

Oh, Peter, please stop saying Nathan's not your brother. It hurts me. And it hurts Angela, too, for that matter.

Also, Bennet apparently drives REALLY fast.

Poor Angela is just falling to pieces. But she clearly realizes that good, old fashioned hard labor is the best way to bring to sparring brothers back together. Also, apparently she and Claire agree with Buffy Summers that "the women have the babies and the men dig up the corpses."

How awesome was Sandra? REALLY AWESOME. Though I still hate the Sylar-as-Sandra scene. But at least they used it later to awesome effect with the real characters. And I loved that Sandra said she believed him, but that didn't make it okay.

Poor eternally-clueless Lyle.

And speaking of Sylar... this was WHY they killed off Candice. It was a GOOD MOVE. The shape-shifting power is really obnoxious. I hate having to constantly second guess whether someone's "really" someone. Especially if they're going to resort to tricks like using his music when it's not actually him. Grr. Also, I'm still very afraid it means Nathan's going to die. And I just couldn't handle that. Anyway, it's just another example of the writers writing themselves right into a corner. Who wants to bet they'll soon be whining about it?

Heh. Peter immediately snuggled pointedly with Claire. Little does he know, she and Nathan have their own little relationship now, too. I kind of liked Peter's petulant little, "what's he doing here?" Oh, Peter, you are perpetually a bratty sixteen-year-old. <3

Goddammit, Matt, you have a daughter, already. Remember her? Cute little brunette? Can locate people with her brain? Oh, never mind. She's off in the ether with Monty and Simon...

How much do I love that Danko is in love with a hooker? This much: <----------------------------> Which is a lot.

And in conclusion: How hot was Nathan in this episode? GUH.

Brief Midepisode Reaction:

2009-04-07T02:23:03Z

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. GODDAMMIT I AM SO SICK OF SYLAR STEALING ALL THE POWERFUL EMOTIONAL MOMENTS ON THIS SHOW.

FUCKFUCKFUCK. GODDAMMIT, I WAS SO PROUD OF SANDRA.

Die, Sylar. DIE.

Also: is Danko's favorite person a hooker? Please let her be a hooker. Because that would be awesome.

ETA: OMG, she is/was! YAY.\

ETA2: Oh, well, okay, they kinda redeemed themselves for that just there, didn't they?

Meme

2009-04-05T15:05:41Z

speccygeekgrrl tagged me to do this meme, and gave me Peter.

1. Do you like this character?
Most of the time. :) Oh, okay, always, even when he's being obnoxious. Especially when he's being obnoxious? <3

2. What name/s do you call this character?
Peter and occasionally Pete, usually when I'm exasperated with him and talking to my television screen.

3. What color do you associate with this character?
Beige? Like his trenchcoat? I dunno.

4. What song do you associate with this character?
I'm hopeless with songs.

5. What astrological sign do you think this character is?
Um, I know pretty much nothing about astrology, but according to the birthdate I gave him for Making of Nathan Petrelli, he's a Taurus. Going by his prop-canon birthdate, he's sort of right on the cusp between Sagittarius and Capricorn. Anyone know what might fit?

6. Of all of the titles that this character appears in, what character do you like to put this character with?
Nathan, duh.

7. What would you want to say to this character?
Consult with trusted others before you act!!! (I would say think, but let's face it, that wouldn't work.)

8. Which do you want to do with this character: Shake hands, hug, or kiss?
Ahem. There is not an option for... Er, anyway. Peter really, really needs a non-manipulative hug, so I'll go with that.

9. Please choose 6 friends with your choice of character.
snopesfaith: Angela Petrelli
eryslash: Sam Winchester
kindkit: 10th Doctor
mystery_sock: Arthur Petrelli
cadesama: Nathan Petrelli
sparky77: Danny Ocean

HEROES!

2009-03-31T05:09:41Z

Awesome episode, which I really need to watch a thousand more times before I can comment on in properly.

***
Nathan/Claire, NC-17, handed to me by the producers on a silver platter.
***
She has no idea what time it is when she wakes to the ghostly sensation of his fingers trailing through her hair. His breath gusts against her chin and still carries a hint of tequila. She bites her lip and feels a shiver run down her spine as his finger traces the shell of her ear.

"Nathan," she whispers. She wants to ask what he's doing. But she doesn't.

"Sorry," he says, just as low. His hand slides away in the darkness.

The distance is unbearable. They just got past that, she can't stand it. "No, it's okay."

They're alone in this room, in the dark, in Mexico. Hundreds of miles from anyone she knows, or anyone he knows. When his fingers card through her hair again, she reaches out, too. Her hand finds the solid warmth of his side in the dark. She can feel his muscles moving as his fingers trace her eyebrow, her cheekbone, her jaw.

His fingers slip lower, touching the soft part of her throat under her jaw, and it's a spot that used to be ticklish, but now the sensation it provokes is very different.

She still doesn't know what he's doing, but that's a lie. She knows.

There's no mistaking the way his fingertips slide and spread across her bare skin uncovered by the low curve of her tanktop.

Just tell him to stop, she thinks. He would. He did, moments before.

But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything.

Neither does he.

His hand is on her shoulder, now, just holding it, not moving. His palm is damp and warm on her bare skin, and it's uncomfortable in the sticky heat of the room.

She realizes after a moment of perfect stillness that he's not going any further. But he's also not pulling away.

Your move.

She's too afraid to make it, though. Not sure that she wants to, but also not sure that she doesn't. She'd wanted to see him as a person, real and vulnerable. Naked. She isn't sure if she meant that literally.

Then he sighs, softly, and shifts away, lying on his back, making her hand lose contact with his side.

No.

"Don't--" she says.

"Claire," he says, catching her hand and holding her away when she reaches for him. His tone is low and disapproving, as if it wasn't him that started this in the first place. As if she's a misguided child he has to correct.

She's not, and he lost that right seventeen years ago, when he decided to pretend she wasn't a problem.

So she rolls up onto her side, over him. He's big underneath her, startlingly so. He's not a big man, but she hasn't been in a position like this with anyone but teenagers. He's broader and more solid. More like her father, and that thought sends another wave of confusing signals through her brain and her body. She thinks, He's not. Not really. Not like that.

And then she kisses him.

He doesn't move, but she doesn't stop, even as fear is paralyzing her spine. She kisses along his closed lips, down to his jaw, to where those scars are that she doesn't know the origins of. Then he exhales sharply, and suddenly clamps his hand on her wrist and shoves.

Her breath leaves her in a harsh rush as she's pinned to the bed by his still-surprising mass. He kisses her, hard, crushing her lips to her teeth. She opens her mouth just to gasp and his tongue presses inside, sliding against hers, tasting like tequila and something harder to define, something just him. Her body lights up like a firecracker, nothing like anything she's ever felt before.

She doesn't know how to respond, what to do, until he pulls a tiny fraction away and whispers, "Just relax, honey. Let me lead."

His plans may be stupid, but one thing she's seen is he commits to them, heart and soul, until they shatter beneath him.

And now she's committed, too. Her body is shaking and her insides are twisting, and between her legs she's hot and wet. No denying this, no questions to ask. What her body is demanding is simple, and she latches onto that simplicity.

His hands are big and broad and are pushing up her shirt. She lets him lead; she raises her arms and lets him peel it off, discarding it. It feels good to be rid of the sweaty spandex, and even the warm air feels cooler on bare skin. One hand cups her breast, lifting it and squeezing, and she hears his soft hum of approval and she knows it's twisted, but a part of her feels proud to have pleased him.

He mouths her nipple quickly, then releases it and slides down.

Oh, is he going to--surely he's not--

But he is. He pulls her pants down and drops to his stomach between her thighs and oh God, his tongue is there. She presses her hand into her mouth and bites down to muffle her cry, not even sure who she's trying to keep from hearing it. He holds her still and doesn't let up. She shuts her eyes and breathes through her nose until it's too much, too much, not enough, just enough--

She shudders and bucks against his mouth and he makes that sound of approval again. She can feel it vibrate against her, and it sends another small aftershock through her.

He rises up and slides up her body, and he kisses her again. He smells like her, and tastes like her, but it's oddly okay, it's surprisingly good.

She can feel him, pressed against her thigh, hot and hard through his pants, and the next time their mouths separate, she says, "It's okay, you can."

He shakes his head, cheek to cheek with her. His hand slides down and presses over a certain spot, low on her abdomen and he murmurs, "No. It's not safe."

She shudders at the reminder of the danger of this, far beyond the usual.

"But I want--" she can't say it, she doesn't have words for it that she can say out loud. She wants him to feel good, she wants to make him feel what he made her feel, but she's too afraid to do what he did.

He moves his hand again, catching hers, lacing their fingers together and then sitting up, pulling her along with him. Upright, some of the light from the street falls across his face and she can see him. Hair falling over his forehead, eyes wide. In the dark, she can barely recognize him. She hardly knows him.

He tugs her hand down and presses it against that hard, hot ridge under his fly, then lets go.

"I'm not very good at this," she says.

"That's okay," he whispers. Already, she can hear that shaking in his voice, that she's only heard a few times before in her life. "Just touch me."

His knees are spread and his hands are just resting on the bed. He's wide open to her touch, trusting her, letting her explore.

She shapes her hand around his cock and gives it a small, experimental squeeze.

"Harder," he says. "You can open my pants if you want."

She realizes she likes that gentle guidance. She finds the small zipper and tugs it down and he sighs, "Yeah," as his cock slips out of his fly, still clothed in his underwear.

It takes a moment of feeling around to figure out the fly of his underwear, but then, suddenly, her hand is inside, touching bare flesh, and he groans and moves his hips. Her insides clench and her tender parts twitch.

She pulls it out and squeezes it again.

"Harder," he says, again.

She tightens her hand until she can feel the firm veins of it straining under her grip.

"Ah," he says, but it's not pain. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Move your hand, now. Up and down."

She does, carefully, nervous about the way the skin moves with her hand, bunching and stretching. It's amazing how hard he is. She thinks it has to hurt.

But the sounds he's making don't sound like pain, and what little he says is only encouragement.

He suddenly lifts one hand, licking his own palm and then reaching down, rubbing the round top of his cock with it. "Faster," he says.

She moves faster. He's rocking his hips into her hand now, rubbing the head of his cock with spit-wet fingers. "Yeah, yeah. More. Faster."

Fast enough now that it hurts her wrist a bit--not that it matters. She doesn't care, anyway, she's staring at her own hand and his and his cock. She feels it swell harder against her tight grip and that sends another cascading reaction through her body. God, she wants it inside of her.

"Ah," he says, "I'm gonna... I'm close. I'm so close. Don't stop--don't--"

Then he freezes, motionless but for his cock, which is pulsing in her hand. He has it cupped to his own belly, his shirt. She can smell his come, salt and base, and it hits her deeply and primally.

"Oh, God. Nathan," she says, awed.

He slumps, panting.

***

In the morning, he says, "I was drunk," but in the afternoon, he caresses her throat as he returns her father's necklace.

***
End