iris | twenty-something | uk | multifandom blog featuring asoiaf, twd, hannibal, soa, movies, comics, all the morally grey characters and upstart sidekicks, bad meta in tags. crushes on unlikely actors. not sorry.
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[image transcription: âĐŻ наŃиŃŃŃ Đ˝Đ° ŃŃОНо ПодводŃ, а пОŃОП ĐąŃŃŃŃĐž ĐżĐžĐšĐ´Ń Đ´ĐžĐźĐžĐš,â which translates to âI will draw a bear on the desk, and then I will quickly go home.â]
hi there, i was assigned you for the trick or treat exchange but your dear creator letter is friends only on LJ. would you mind unlocking it so i can see it? i want to write you a fic you'll like!
It should be fixed now! I had it locked to private while I finished editing it but I think I fixed it last night - sorry for the delay! I always forget how quickly they do assignments for Trick or Treat! (Plus, Iâm a terrible person whoâs been out every night this week playing ice hockey. :)) Iâm sure Iâll love whatever you write. <3
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For our little NSFW ficlet-for-ficlet deal: Nightingale/Peter, 3 + 7 (and whatever else you want to fit on :)).
Linn, youâve already seen this and betaâd it and all that awesome amazing fic writing partner-in-crime stuff but here is the fic, finally posted.Â
I put it on AO3 because it wound up longer than expected (around 2k). But itâs also under the read more, too. (:
Summary:Â In which Peter gets soaked to the skin on his way home and Nightingale maybe finds a novel way to warm him up.Â
The rain starts when heâs halfway down Gower St but thatâs okay because Peter Grant enjoys the small things in life like knowing that when he gets home he can have a hot shower, get changed, and truly leave the grime and smoke of London behind him and the afternoon heâs had to boot.
He also enjoys the appreciative looks he starts getting after a while â which is about the moment he realises heâs wearing a white t-shirt which is now effectively see-through. Brilliant. Well, at least this proves heâs got plenty to feel good about â not that Nightingale hadnât already made him feel that way several times over this morning which, well, might account for somewhat more of his high spirits than heâd like to admit.
The thing with him and Nightingale was pretty new but it was anything but tentative, at least once he managed to get Nightingale into bed or pushed up against a wall or, generally, in some way engaged in acting on what they both wanted rather than thinking about it.
Theyâd ironed out a lot of the things which came of thinking about it, too, but Nightingale still occasionally looked at him with a frown that seemed to Peter to say that he was considering breaking things off. That, in Peterâs opinion, was definitely not okay. It was also definitely ridiculous given the fantastic sex they were having. And Peter is damn sure heâs not the only one who thinks the sex is fantastic, judging from the way Nightingale had arched and moaned underneath him earlier and pulled and rocked andâ okay, Peter does not need to be thinking about this right now and giving people other reasons to stare at him in the street.
The walk back to the Folly really does feel longer than usual. Possibly because of the rain but also because heâs now trying not to get a full-on erection while being gaped at by UCL students out of the windows of the university buildings he passes. He tries to reassure himself with the fact that he can always build wanking off into his showering plans â not that that particularly helps with his attempts to think unsexy thoughts so that he doesnât wind up guilty of some form of public indecency given that, yeah, his jeans are clinging almost as tightly as his t-shirt by this point even if they are, mercifully, less see-through.
He actually has the situation largely under control by the time he walks through the front door of the Folly. He seriously contemplates whether he ought to take off most of his clothes right away and drape them over the conveniently placed statue of Isaac Newton in an attempt not to drip an obvious trail upstairs and thus avoid annoying Molly but stops short, just taking off his shoes and socks. He hopes that might at least mitigate the damage and avoid treading quite so much water into the carpeting.
He thinks heâs being quiet enough as he walks upstairs barefoot that thereâs no way Molly will catch him and frown at him until he takes off his clothes and lets her exchange them with a towel (which is what he somewhat horrifyingly expects would happen if she caught him); but, when he passes the reading room, he hears his name and stops short. Itâs Nightingale, of course, calling his name from inside. And Peter is really hoping this isnât a case thing, not some urgent matter which will require him to leave the Folly post-haste, cold wet clothes sticking to his skin be damned.
He stands in the doorway of the reading room, waiting for Nightingale to say whatever it is heâs going to say. He lets his mind snag on the thought that maybe, just maybe, this day is about to take a turn for the way fucking worse and that those brooding expressions heâs caught on Nightingaleâs face are going to turn into a big damn talk leaving Peter standing there, shivering and humiliated in his wet clothes, listening to how this has all been one big mistake.
Only Nightingale has got up out of his chair, folded his suit jacket over the back of it, and then wordlessly closed almost all the gap between them. And this, in Peterâs estimation, doesnât seem like the opening move of a break-up talk.
Nightingale stops short, just a foot or so away from him and thereâs this look in his eyes thatâs hungry and heavy. He only looks away for a second and thatâs to glance out of the window and confirm that Peterâs being utterly drenched is not due to anything other than the charming English weather.
When his eyes return to Peter, itâs not Peterâs face he seems interested in. Nightingale gaze fixes on Peterâs chest. Peter knows he must be able to see through the fabric not only to the curve of muscle but also to the way his chest is rising an falling, a clear sign that heâs breathing heavier than he ought to be.
Nightingale says âMay I?â and even waits for a response before stepping into Peterâs personal space which really shouldnât be a good kind of infuriating. And then there are Nightingaleâs hands, running over the wet fabric, tracing over already erect nipples. Nightingale kisses him, open-mouthed but slow enough that itâs almost cruel, his hands still on Peterâs chest.
Peter isnât sure whether he takes a step backwards first or whether Nightingale steps forward but he finds himself with his back against the wall pretty soon with Nightingaleâs torso pressed against his, Nightingaleâs hands hooked with his thumbs just inside the waistband of Peterâs jeans at the back. And, god, this is better than having a wank in the shower.
The distance between their chests increases a a little when Peter presses his erection against Nightingaleâs thigh and Nightingale rocks his own hips in against Peterâs proving that, sure, Peter may appreciate the small things in life but not all the things he appreciates are small.
He grins against Nightingaleâs mouth, then uses the break in the kiss as an opportunity to move his mouth down to Nightingaleâs neck, bringing up hands to loosen his tie and fumble open the top two buttons of his shirt. Nightingale gasps at the feel of Peterâs cold hands against his neck but sighs when Peter runs his mouth over the skin, breathing warmth back over it, and letting his hands quest downwards over Nightingaleâs clothes.
Thereâs a drop of water beading down the side of Peterâs face and heâs still pretty fucking cold but he takes a moment to appreciate sight of Nightingale, when Nightingale steps back and his own shirt is practically soaked through at the front where itâs been pressed against Peterâs. Peter is pretty damn sure thereâll be wet hand prints on the back, too, where his hands have been and on his suit trousers from when Peter had groped his arse with not a lot of sophistication. (It had been worth it for the way Nightingale had bucked his hips. Sophistication be damned.)
Between the way his shirt clings unevenly to his chest, the loose tie and the mark forming on his neck almost of a colour to match his kiss darkened lips, Nightingale looks utterly taken apart. Peter grins and uses the opportunity of the distance between them to pull Nightingaleâs shirt out from where itâs tucked into his suit trousers and start to unbutton the rest of the shirt. Nightingale stands there somewhat obediently, like he knows that Peterâs enjoying the view, but he doesnât stop entirely, loosens his tie the rest of the way and drops it to the floor like heâs throwing down a gauntlet. He meets Peterâs eyes just as Peter finishes on the last button and makes sure heâs got Peter watching as he shrugs out of the shirt and closes in on him again.
Their hips grind against each other through wet jeans and quickly moistening suit trousers and Peterâs starting to think that this is some new kind of torture when Nightingaleâs hand presses against the top of his abdomen and then undoes the button of his jeans, sliding down the zip and then reaching with a bizarre ease, given that Nightingale is definitely not looking at what heâs doing, inside the drenched cotton of Peterâs boxer shorts (which, yeah, okay, so itâs not all rainwater at this point).
Nightingaleâs hand is warm and skilled and Peter feels like his whole body arches embarrassingly. But he thinks heâs still got control, sort of, mostly, enough that heâs going to be able to unbuckle Nightingaleâs belt and reciprocate except for how Nightingale breathes against his ear that he knows how he can really warm Peter up, tongue darting out quick and sure to run along the shell of Peterâs ear. Then Nightingale is kneeling in front of him, both hands carefully peeling down the layers of wet denim until Peterâs jeans are around his ankles. And then the boxer shorts, too.
Peter just watches, trying to brace himself against the wall with his hands until Nightingale takes hold of Peterâs wrist with one hand and moves it so itâs cupping the back of his head. There is a brief moment of eye contact, a gleam in Nightingaleâs eye and then, oh fuck.
Nightingaleâs tongue is warm and a moist and his hand on Peterâs balls is, well, a really nice touch if Peter says so himself and heâd grin at the double-entendre if it werenât for the fact that higher brain function isnât exactly a thing he is capable of right now, especially not when Nightingale seems pretty damn determined to make sure that every inch of Peterâs cock gets in contact with the warmth of his mouth. And, fuck, if Peter doesnât know that Nightingale is capable of it.
Peter doesnât consciously make the decision to let go, either of the wall with his other hand or of his inhibitions, but let go he does. He gasps and moans and tightens his fingers in Nightingaleâs hair a little more than he means to which, based on Nightingaleâs response, isnât something he ought to be sorry for. His hips buck more than he ought to let them but that is, apparently, another thing that Nightingale doesnât exactly object to.
He tries to hold on longer by closing his eyes and tilting his head back and not thinking about the way Nightingale is moving his tongue, or the hollowed out look of his cheeks when he sucks but, well, it might not be embarrassingly fast but Peter comes pretty damn fast in the end.
Peter feels a certain sort of sadness about the fact that he isnât going to get to feel the warmth of Nightingaleâs mouth around his cock anymore except, well, some of that is made up for by the way Nightingale visibly swallows and by the way he gets up after and kisses Peter, runs his tongue over Peterâs, tasting of him in a way Peter never really thought heâd enjoy except for how, when itâs Nightingale, he apparently really does.
They kiss for a long time and Peterâs reaching for Nightingaleâs belt buckle when their mouths finally part and thereâs a pause where their faces are inches from each other and Peter says âI canât believe Iâm still wearing this shirt,â knowing itâs stupid and not the right thing to say, even as he says it.
But Nightingale smiles at that, sounding more measured than any man has a right to as he says, âGet yourself out of those jeans and weâll see what we can do about that.â And Peter does, struggling and inept for a moment and pulling up his boxer shorts as he does so because, well, he has some sense of propriety at least. And then Nightingale takes his arm and pulls him toward the nearest bathroom. And it looks like Peterâs going to get that hot shower after all and Nightingale, too.
Itâs only later when theyâre reluctantly getting dressed and Peter is finally not soaking wet anymore, for better or worse, that he gets up the guts to ask the question which has been bothering him on-and-off since this whole thing started.
âYou donât regret this, do you?â He asks, going for casual and missing by a mile.
âNo,â Nightingale says. He meets Peterâs eye as he responds, looks a little caught and shocked and says, âHow could I regret this?â
Peter looks down and then up again. Heâs just pulled a t-shirt on â blue this time with Fabricati Diem, Pvncti Agvnt Celeriter on it which Nightingale definitely frowned at the first time around but doesnât seem to be paying any attention to now.
Peter stumbles through saying âOnly I-â and doesnât know how to say that the way Nightingale looks at him sometimes makes him think that Nightingale really does regret it.
âDo you?â Nightingale asks, as though heâs aware that Peterâs come up against something heâs unable to express. âRegret it?â Nightingale adds, his look somewhere between flirtatious and concerned. And then, when Peter doesnât answer, Nightingale sits down on the bed next to Peter with something like a heavy air of resignation and says âBecause I fear you might and that you wouldnât feel you had any recourse to,â a pause and the slight uncharacteristic gesture of a raised hand, âcall the whole thing off, given the nature of our professional relationship.â
âYou really think that?â and Peter thinks itâs probably not the right moment to climb onto Nightingale and press him back into the bed but he wants to and he canât stand the distance and the ridiculousness of the idea that he might want to call time on this, so he does it anyway, good sense be damned. He even pins one of Nightingaleâs hands and manages to provoke a grin when he says, âI promise you, if I ever stop wanting this, Iâll let you know but, right now, right here, I want this and I want you and I really, really donât want to stop.â
Which is, of course, just when Molly rings the bell for dinner.Â
Something that sort of dawned on me as we sort of got into that first week of shootingâŚwhat the heart of the story is for me: family, and protecting family, and doing everything you can. As an actor, you cannot make a judgement about the characters youâre playing. You canât say âIâm playing a bad guy.â Youâre saying âIâm playing a man whoâd do everything to protect his best friend.â - Robert Knepper
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Sometimes I wonder whether, if Iâd been the one that went for coffee and not Lesley May, my life would have been much  less interesting and certainly much less dangerous. Could it have been anyone, or was it destiny? When Iâm considering this I find it helpful to quote the wisdom of my father, who once told me, âWho knows why the fuck anything happens?â Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch