Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 48: Dare Kiss
Title: Dare Kiss
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 900
Summary: Peter and Sylar, in the Wall, are drunk and playing Truth or Dare. Sylar dares Peter to kiss him. It leaves Sylar wishing he hadn’t, but not for the reasons he expected.
Notes: This was a spinoff of MBU chapter 65ish. Or you can think of it as 'concept art' for the idea of Peter and Sylar getting drunk and hanging out in the Wall world, playing Truth or Dare with each other.
“I dare you to kiss me.” Sylar tried to keep his face relaxed, features blank. There were too many emotions struggling underneath; Peter didn’t need to know about any of them. Hope was the most sickening, but self-loathing gave it a run for its money. A kiss was a small thing, easy, almost insignificant, but would Peter do it? Was he willing to get that close?
After a long beat, Peter shrugged and leaned forward. “Sure.” He put his elbows on the desk between them and extended his hands. “Stick out your hand.”
Sylar snorted disdainfully. “I meant a real kiss.” Not my hand, moron. Angry, on edge, already anticipating being turned down, Sylar’s lips pressed into a thin line despite his best efforts to hide his expression. He watched as Peter thought it over. Amazingly, Peter was thinking it over and not dismissing out of hand. Of course, dismissing would mean he’d lose the game and Peter was more competitive than he liked to admit.
Peter made a sharp exhale, really studying Sylar’s face, eyes going over every part of it. Sylar wondered if he was picking where to plant his lips, or deciding if it was a face comely enough to do it with. Was he reading how badly Sylar wanted this? The long pause left Sylar desperate to fidget, feeling he was being inspected, weighed, and- Peter got up, coming around the desk. Obviously, a decision had been reached.
Sylar tilted his head up as he approached. He’s going to do it? His mouth relaxed, tension dialing back as relief rose inside of him and hope started to win out. I suppose it would be bad form to hang onto him and get a proper kiss. Plus he’d probably hit me. But would it be worth it?
“Closed mouth,” Peter said, leaving Sylar to wonder if that was a question or a statement of intention. And whose mouth needed to be closed? The idea that he might have gotten some tongue if he’d only worded his dare more explicitly was maddening. He was distracted from it soon enough. Peter’s right hand came down on Sylar’s right knee, on the top at first but then immediately sliding in … and up. Sylar glanced down quickly, but there wasn’t time to react. Peter’s left hand came to rest on his right shoulder, giving him balance as he leaned in.
He’s definitely doing it. Sylar’s eyes widened dramatically as the reality and immediacy of it hit him. Peter’s scent wafted ahead of him, an air so delicious he wanted to drink it in. Mere lungfuls didn’t do it justice; he wanted it distilled in liquid form. Peter paused in front of him, head tilted, only an inch or two away. While Sylar wanted to lunge forward and take what was on offer, he held his place. He wanted no question of who initiated and he didn’t want to look as ridiculously eager as he really was. It was only going to be a peck, he knew.
Peter’s lips moved, loosening, protruding more; he was puckering up. His left hand glided up the slope of Sylar’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers shifting to cup his head. The right settled slightly, bearing a tiny bit of weight. Peter Petrelli closed that last distance between them, eyes sliding shut as his lips pressed gently into Sylar’s. Sylar inhaled deeply, keeping his own eyes open. He wanted to see this, start to finish, no matter how brief it was.
It wasn’t brief. Peter’s lips pulsed against his, warm and soft and human. Erotic energy flowed all up and down Sylar’s spine; he felt his cock throb. His heart was pounded all of a sudden. Peter wasn’t making this a fleeting thing; he was actually, really kissing him. Peter’s lips made one full motion against Sylar’s still ones, then he repeated it once, twice, then thrice - taking his time about it. Both of his hands moved - a slight stroking of his scalp; small circles on his inner thigh.
Peter pulled away only enough to part them, eyes opening before he came back for one last kiss. There was not a hint of revulsion, hesitance, or regret on his features. Sylar’s, on the contrary, were stunned. He’d sat there unmoving, not participating, hardly even breathing the whole time. Floored was an understatement. That was everything he wanted and he’d just been given the tiniest sample. Hunger, lust, and desire roared to full life as Peter pulled away, leaving behind only a hot puff of breath to caress Sylar’s lips. MORE! his brain screamed at him.
Sylar’s fingers scrabbled at Peter’s arm, halting his departure. Peter looked back at him and smiled, smug at the degree of reaction he’d engendered. “That was a real kiss.” As he pulled himself free of Sylar’s grip and returned to the other side of the desk, self-loathing loomed larger than every other emotion Sylar had at the moment. Peter knew what he was denying him; it was a punishment, and one that he thoroughly deserved. That small taste of heaven reminded him this really was hell.
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: PG
Words: 900
Summary: Peter and Sylar, in the Wall, are drunk and playing Truth or Dare. Sylar dares Peter to kiss him. It leaves Sylar wishing he hadn’t, but not for the reasons he expected.
Notes: This was a spinoff of MBU chapter 65ish. Or you can think of it as 'concept art' for the idea of Peter and Sylar getting drunk and hanging out in the Wall world, playing Truth or Dare with each other.
“I dare you to kiss me.” Sylar tried to keep his face relaxed, features blank. There were too many emotions struggling underneath; Peter didn’t need to know about any of them. Hope was the most sickening, but self-loathing gave it a run for its money. A kiss was a small thing, easy, almost insignificant, but would Peter do it? Was he willing to get that close?
After a long beat, Peter shrugged and leaned forward. “Sure.” He put his elbows on the desk between them and extended his hands. “Stick out your hand.”
Sylar snorted disdainfully. “I meant a real kiss.” Not my hand, moron. Angry, on edge, already anticipating being turned down, Sylar’s lips pressed into a thin line despite his best efforts to hide his expression. He watched as Peter thought it over. Amazingly, Peter was thinking it over and not dismissing out of hand. Of course, dismissing would mean he’d lose the game and Peter was more competitive than he liked to admit.
Peter made a sharp exhale, really studying Sylar’s face, eyes going over every part of it. Sylar wondered if he was picking where to plant his lips, or deciding if it was a face comely enough to do it with. Was he reading how badly Sylar wanted this? The long pause left Sylar desperate to fidget, feeling he was being inspected, weighed, and- Peter got up, coming around the desk. Obviously, a decision had been reached.
Sylar tilted his head up as he approached. He’s going to do it? His mouth relaxed, tension dialing back as relief rose inside of him and hope started to win out. I suppose it would be bad form to hang onto him and get a proper kiss. Plus he’d probably hit me. But would it be worth it?
“Closed mouth,” Peter said, leaving Sylar to wonder if that was a question or a statement of intention. And whose mouth needed to be closed? The idea that he might have gotten some tongue if he’d only worded his dare more explicitly was maddening. He was distracted from it soon enough. Peter’s right hand came down on Sylar’s right knee, on the top at first but then immediately sliding in … and up. Sylar glanced down quickly, but there wasn’t time to react. Peter’s left hand came to rest on his right shoulder, giving him balance as he leaned in.
He’s definitely doing it. Sylar’s eyes widened dramatically as the reality and immediacy of it hit him. Peter’s scent wafted ahead of him, an air so delicious he wanted to drink it in. Mere lungfuls didn’t do it justice; he wanted it distilled in liquid form. Peter paused in front of him, head tilted, only an inch or two away. While Sylar wanted to lunge forward and take what was on offer, he held his place. He wanted no question of who initiated and he didn’t want to look as ridiculously eager as he really was. It was only going to be a peck, he knew.
Peter’s lips moved, loosening, protruding more; he was puckering up. His left hand glided up the slope of Sylar’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers shifting to cup his head. The right settled slightly, bearing a tiny bit of weight. Peter Petrelli closed that last distance between them, eyes sliding shut as his lips pressed gently into Sylar’s. Sylar inhaled deeply, keeping his own eyes open. He wanted to see this, start to finish, no matter how brief it was.
It wasn’t brief. Peter’s lips pulsed against his, warm and soft and human. Erotic energy flowed all up and down Sylar’s spine; he felt his cock throb. His heart was pounded all of a sudden. Peter wasn’t making this a fleeting thing; he was actually, really kissing him. Peter’s lips made one full motion against Sylar’s still ones, then he repeated it once, twice, then thrice - taking his time about it. Both of his hands moved - a slight stroking of his scalp; small circles on his inner thigh.
Peter pulled away only enough to part them, eyes opening before he came back for one last kiss. There was not a hint of revulsion, hesitance, or regret on his features. Sylar’s, on the contrary, were stunned. He’d sat there unmoving, not participating, hardly even breathing the whole time. Floored was an understatement. That was everything he wanted and he’d just been given the tiniest sample. Hunger, lust, and desire roared to full life as Peter pulled away, leaving behind only a hot puff of breath to caress Sylar’s lips. MORE! his brain screamed at him.
Sylar’s fingers scrabbled at Peter’s arm, halting his departure. Peter looked back at him and smiled, smug at the degree of reaction he’d engendered. “That was a real kiss.” As he pulled himself free of Sylar’s grip and returned to the other side of the desk, self-loathing loomed larger than every other emotion Sylar had at the moment. Peter knew what he was denying him; it was a punishment, and one that he thoroughly deserved. That small taste of heaven reminded him this really was hell.