Bonding Rituals: The Finer Points Of Tickling

by Natalia Carter

Fandom: Action

Paring: Peter Dragon/Stuart Glazer, what else would you expect me to write?? :)

Rating: R

Status: new

Archive: Pretty please do!

Series/Sequel: Part three in a series . . . sequel to "Intuition" and "Collect Calls"

Disclaimers: Does anyone really care? Just in case, they still belong to Chris Thompson and FOX, although I treat them better and they should be mine because I love them even though they don't get good ratings :)

Notes: I like writing in Stuart's voice. It's a little hard to do, but once I get into that adorable little head of his, it's fun fun fun! OW! Peter, cut that out! Put that big stick away! Yes, I KNOW he's your Stuart. I was joking around, really I was . . . Ahem. Like I said, a sequel . . . Thanks to Mr. Boyer, who gave me the courage to go on; to Bast, who offered to beta (next time, I'm taking you up on your offer); and to Raphael, who I love.

Summary: Peter and Stuart have a discussion, with some interesting results.

Warnings for Snuggly Boys, Cynical Stuart, Ticklish Stuart, Impish Peter, and Stuart On The Floor (no, not like *that*, get your minds out of the gutters)

by Natalia Carter

Peter has no trouble falling asleep in my arms, flat on his back on my couch, head in my lap. He's exhausted, and with good reason--it's been a long week. But, even with the man of my dreams asleep in my lap, I have a rough time sleeping on the couch. *Figures,* I think bitterly.

I carry Peter carefully upstairs, amazed at how light he is, and settle him into my bed. He rolls over, snuggles into the covers, burying his face in my pillow with a little moan. I suddenly want very much to climb into bed with him, wrap my arms around him and hold him for the few hours that are left before daylight, but something stops me. I instead take a spare blanket from a closet and curl up on the floor, falling into a shallow and unsatisfactory sleep.

***

When I wake up, I find that Peter has joined me on the floor. Sometime during the night he crawled out of my bed, pulling blankets and pillows with him, and curled up next to me on the floor, his head on my chest, arms around me. I stay there for a moment, frozen in position, while Peter sleeps. But after a minute, I get a cramp in my arm and I shift it a tiny bit.

His eyes open, and I'm suddenly drowning in them, lost in his steady gaze. I open my mouth to say something, not quite sure of what's going to come out. "Peter, I-" He shakes his head, crawling up my body until we're nearly face-to-face.

"Don't, Stuart," he murmurs. Then he kisses me.

There is no time for thought, for contemplation between Peter and I. There is only this sudden, desperate lunge for each other, ripping at clothing, our mouths glued together desperately, helplessly. His hands glide over me, and I dissolve instantly into a quivering, moaning mass of desire.

"Peter--Peter," I manage to gasp, making a concentrated effort to ignore some very interesting movements of his mouth on my stomach. He looks up, and again I get that strange feeling I'm drowning in his eyes.

"Hmm?" Such a sensual little hum, punctuated by a gentle kiss just below my ribcage.

"We really should--the bed is much more comfortable," I squeak out. He gazes contemplatively at me, then grins and pulls rapidly away. He leaps into my bed and sprawls out on one side, still smiling at me. He pats the bed beside him in a clear invitation. I join him in an instant, laying on my side, facing him. We look at each other for an instant; then he reaches for me, and everything else fades away.

***

He sleeps in my arms afterwards, dozing off somewhere in the delerium of kissing, holding, touching that followed our lovemaking. I hold him, not quite sure that my mind isn't playing tricks on me. Peter is soft and warm against me, limbs tangled up in mine. I want to stay awake, to preserve this moment between us, but I can't. Even though it is almost 8 AM, I close my eyes and fall asleep with almost no trouble.

***

I wake to empty arms, and am immediately terrified. "Peter?" I call, climbing out of bed and moving to the edge of the loft. I lean over the railing and spot him moving toward the kitchen. He looks up at me and grins brilliantly, then bounds across the room and up the stairs in an instant. He wraps me in a hug, kissing my cheek as he clings to me.

"Good morning, Stuart," he says, pulling back a little before taking my face in his hands and kissing me gently. It's a quiet kiss, one that rings of certainty, of rightness, and I look at him in astonishment. "You felt it," he says, that little smile creeping across his face. It's all I can do to nod. I kiss him this time, experimentally, and decide I definitely felt it.

"Peter, we need to talk," I whisper against his forehead. He nods, and leads me down the stairs, his hand clasped in mine. We settle on the couch together, me curled up on one end, him snuggling up against me. Funny, I never pegged Peter as one to blatantly snuggle, to wrap himself around someone and never let go.

But that's what he does, tangling his arms around my waist and resting his head on my shoulder. I can't help wrapping my arms around him, holding him as tightly as I dare. "We need to talk about this before we go any farther," I begin, unconsciously rubbing his arm.

"Talk about what?" he asks, hugging me breifly.

"This. Us. Last night. This morning," I summarize. He laughs.

"Well, that makes it a lot easier," he teases, before calming down.

"Peter, I need to know you're serious," I say. "You've got to be in this for real. I can't play games with you, Peter, because if I let myself get involved and then you left me, it would kill me. I wouldn't survive it."

Peter pulls away from me, springing up off the couch. I sink back, miserable to be losing him, but glad I didn't let myself go too deep. A long moment passes before he speaks to me. "Are you in this for real, Stuart?" he asks, his eyes huge. There's something hurt in his eyes, something wounded and ancient, and I suddenly suspect I'm looking at the cause of Peter's hardass, don't-give-a-shit attitude. Someone hurt him, someone he trusted and loved walked out, and he had never been able to recover. The bitterness, the cruelty, the hatred . . . it was all a coping mechanism, to keep him from getting too close, from getting involved, from getting burned again.

"Who hurt you, Peter?" I ask him quietly, standing up and putting my hands on his shoulders. "Was it Jane? Or before her?"

He's speechless, looking down, tears running down his cheeks. I cup his chin, turn his face up towards me. "Jane," he whispers, blinking rapidly. "She left me. I hated her before that, but she just abandoned me." His eyes get bigger, if that's possible. "I hate being left."

"I won't leave you. I'm serious, Peter," I whisper, kissing his forehead. "I'm in this for real. If you want this, I will never leave you."

He closes his eyes and gives a little sigh, folding himself into me, his arms going around me. I press a kiss to the top of his head, and that draws another tiny sob-like breath from him. "I want it, Stuart. I want to come home to you every day for the rest of my life. I want to be able to hold you like this. I won't ever leave you, because I couldn't bear it. I couldn't stand being away from you." He looked up at Stuart. "I'm in it for real, Stuart."

I can do nothing but hug him, holding him close, almost afraid that if I let him go he'll vanish, taking this moment along with him.

"Stuart," his voice comes after a moment, muffled against my shoulder, "Stuart, sweetie, I can't breathe." He wiggles a bit in my arms, not looking to get away, seeking only an extra inch or so. I loosen my hold on him, an almost embarrased smile on my face.

"Sorry," I say, then do a belated double-take. "Wait a minute, what did you call me?"

Peter looks at me, suddenly thrown off base. "I called you sweetie," he repeats.

I grin. "That's what I thought you said," I murmur, kissing his forehead again, this one longer, lingering. He stays pressed against me for a moment longer, then pulls away, an impish smile on his face. It's a look I've never seen before on Peter, and I rather like it.

"I think we should go back to bed," he says, fighting not to laugh.

"Oh really? Are you tired?" I wiggle my eyebrows at him, and he giggles--yes, giggles. Peter-Fucking-Dragon, giggling like a six-year-old.

"Not exactly," he responds, his voice dropping down an octave. Then he giggles again and breaks away from me, dashing across the big open room and up the stairs. Halfway up, he stops and looks back. "Come on, Stuart," he calls, a big playful smile on his face. "You gonna come get me?"

My own smile grows; Peter's playing with me, and I like it. I'm eating it up. "Oh yeah, I'm comin' to get you," I mock-growl, bounding after him, taking the stairs three at a time. He shrieks and races off again. If the smile on my face gets any bigger, I'm going to explode, and I won't care. I won't fucking care.

I catch Peter just before the bed, grabbing him in a rather impressive flying tackle and tumbling us both onto the bed in a squirming, giggling heap. In the middle of all this playing, he reaches up and kisses the tip of my nose. "I love you." He's dead serious as he says it, and it takes me by surprise.

"I love you too," I say, meaning it every bit as much as he did.

Peter looks at me for a minute, then gets that grin back and digs his fingers into my ribs--little bastard, he *knows* I'm wildly ticklish. I have to get him back, so I latch on to his shoulder, sucking so hard I'm sure it'll leave a mark. I pull back and laugh--he's *mine* now, mine to mark and mine to love and mine to tickle.

And oh yeah, he's *fun* to tickle.

end
1/17/00