Fic: Untitled Christmas Crack (Peter/Sylar) PG-13ish
Heyas,
K, so, the cap'n was nice enough to let me play in the Advent Calendar, and I'm a little loopy from allergy meds (stupid weather...either be hot or be cold, but MAKE UP YOUR MIND!), and so I bring ye...this.
Title: Untitled Christmas Crack
Author: Moi
Pairing: Peter/Sylar(Gabriel)
Summary: He just wants a nice, semi-normal Christmas. Is that too much to ask?
Warnings: Uh, wee bit o' language. Wee bit o' heavy petting. Naughty things done with a pastry bag (though not as naughty as they could've been, due to length constraints and my inability to not write at least a *little* bit of plot).
All he wants is a nice, semi-normal Christmas. Is that really too much to ask?
It's been four years since the world tilted on its axis, rattled them around like ice in a martini shaker, and dumped them all back out again to land where they may. Four years since Peter Petrelli discovered his brother could fly--and that he himself could do whatever he damn well pleased just by standing next to someone--and this is the first year without creepy shadow organizations, Star-Trek-rivaling manipulation of the space-time continuum, or pending apocalypse. Apocalypses.
Apocalypti?
Whatever. It's the first year since they all discovered their powers that there hasn't been some emergency taking up most of their attention, people have gotten to the point where they only dive for the nearest weapon if his boyfriend moves too fast, said boyfriend has finally learned that no, zombie jokes are not acceptable at the dinner table, and damn it, Peter wants Christmas with the people he loves in the brand new house he and his boyfriend have just moved into.
Or wait, is that boyfriends? Does it count as a threesome if two of them are a split personality?
It might be, Peter reflects, a good idea to lay off the eggnog for now.
He stands in their brand new state of the art kitchen, enormous gas range going full blast and covered with pots and pans of food in varying degrees of completion, and sighs softly. In less than three hours, all of their--well, all right Peter's--friends and family will be arriving for an honest-to-God family Christmas dinner, and despite Sylar's grumbling, Gabriel's hesitance, and the sheer logistical nightmare that cooking for that many people can be, Peter can't wait. It's been a hard road these past few years, and they've faced challenges both within and without. Now, though, things finally look as though they're settling down, and Peter wants to share this new peace with those he cares about.
And all right, there may be a tiny bit of wanting to show Nathan that despite all of his dire predictions and warnings, Peter and Sylar (and Gabriel) really do have a stable relationship, they are serious about each other, and they are in this for the long haul. He can forgive Nathan for being wary...it had taken Peter himself weeks to realize that Sylar wasn't just playing some sick, new game with him when the other started seriously pursuing him. He can even forgive Nathan for flipping out when Peter actually returned those affections (although having Peter kidnapped by that task force that specialized in reversing cult brainwashing had been a bit much). Peter is past it now, and Nathan and Sylar seem to have at least reached a point of mutual respect and agreement that holding a grudge match isn't worth upsetting Peter.
It's not perfect, and probably never will be, but it's pretty good. So...Christmas. Together. Family-like. Mohinder and Matt are bringing Molly, Nathan and Heidi promised to bring Simon and Monty, Hiro and Ando said they'd teleport in as soon as they could, and Peter just got off the phone with Claire, who's just finished with packing up her dorm room for the holidays and will be swinging by on her way back to the Bennetts. Peter feels a goofy smile stretching his face and shakes his head a bit, leaning down to open the oven and check the double pans of lasagna (one vegetarian and one regular) currently browning up nicely. He hasn't really planned a menu...just thrown together the dishes he's good at, and so dinner will be an eclectic mix, to say the least. There's apple pie cooling on the counter, and the clam chowder is just about ready for seasoning.
Satisfied that nothing is about to make the "Domestic Goddess" apron he's wearing a liar, he turns away from the range and moves over into the entrance to the dining room, where the gentler half of his lover is currently ensconced, up to his elbows in colored icing, sparkling candy sprinkles, and enough sugar cookies to put the Yankees' entire lineup into a diabetic coma. Peter's dopey smile softens into something more sentimental as he sidles up behind Gabriel, winding his arms around the watchmaker's trim waist and leaning in to rest his chin on the other's shoulder. Gabriel makes a pleased sort of humming sound in the back of his throat, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge Peter's presence, too focused on the crispy, golden round on the table in front of him, and the large white bag of forest-green icing in his hands.
Peter's eyebrows climb a bit as he takes in the cookie Gabriel is decorating--it's just a round, and so Gabriel is icing it as a Christmas tree ornament. Delicate balls of silvered sugar line the edge, enhancing a complicated pattern of precise stars of rich red, bright yellow, and the green. It's breathtaking in its detail, an absolute work of art. It's beautiful. Perfect.
It's only one of about ten Gabriel has completed in the hour since Peter left him to finish decorating the Christmas cookies.
Peter had made almost eight dozen of them.
"Um...Gabe...hey, that's really nice. But, uh, you do know people are gonna be here soon, right?" Peter tries to sound encouraging...it's hard to tell, sometimes, what Gabriel will take offense at, and the last thing Peter wants to do is upset the watchmaker. He presses a kiss against the side of Gabriel's neck, hoping to take away any sting in the words.
"Hmmm?" Gabriel finishes the last whorl of frosting, simultaneously tilting his head to give Peter better access. "Oh! I hadn't realized how late it was." The other man ducks his head shyly, casting a slightly concerned eye at the pile of cookies spread out on the table. "I-I just wanted them to look nice, I didn't mean--"
"Hey, hey, no problem. They're amazing! Just, you know, we've still got to set the table and everything...maybe make them a little less...complicated?" Peter smiles brightly, tightening his arms around the other man.
"Right...yes...yes, of course. Less complicated. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. It's really cool...they look like something my mom would have had catered. Save some out and you can teach me how to do that, tomorrow." Gabriel brightens at the prospect, and Peter twists his head to kiss the man properly, this time, idly playing with the hair at Gabriel's nape. Before the kiss can lead down any of the usual paths, though, Peter reluctantly pulls back.
"Chowder," he says, apologetically. Gabriel shoots him a wry grin and turns back to the cookies as Peter saunters back into the kitchen. As he crosses the threshold, though, Sylar's mental voice rings out loud and clear in the house.
"Oh for--let me do that! We'll be here all night at this rate!"
Peter very carefully swallows his chuckle as the rustling movement in the dining room takes on a decidedly more--confident (not mention impatient) tone. He's been up since very early that morning, and it's not like Sylar and Gabriel let him get much sleep last night, and he's been throwing himself into cooking and cleaning all day...so he supposes he can be forgiven for it taking a good ten minutes for him to make the connection that:
Sylar + simple domestic task = BAD
"Shit!" Peter throws the spoon back into the chowder and runs back into the dining room.
Sure enough, it is definitely Sylar hunched over the cookies now, Gabriel's simple green button up having been discarded to reveal the nicely tight black tee beneath it, and Gabriel's carefully gelled hair decidedly mussed. It definitely shouldn't be possible for someone to wield a frosting bag in such a threatening manner. Sylar manages it, though, and Peter leans tiredly against the empty doorjamb between the kitchen and the dining room.
"You two are doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Peter asks calmly.
Sylar cheerfully salutes him with the frosting bag, before finishing a line of lurid red icing across the forehead of a snowman cookie. A glance at the, admittedly impressive, pile Sylar has plowed through and frosted reveals an entire regiment of similarly defaced Frosty's.
"Took you long enough," Sylar smirks. He glances up, raking Peter up and down with his eyes in the familiar way that never fails to get Peter's blood rushing to more...southward...places. "Good God, you do realize little Claire never intended for you to wear that thing, don't you?" Sylar indicates the apron with a disdainful sniff.
"Hey, this is a nice sweater--I don't want it to get dirty," Peter protests. "And quit trying to change the subject...you are not traumatizing my nephews with cookies!" He plants his hands firmly on his hips, setting his face into his sternest expression.
Sylar's smirk deepens. He rises from his chair slowly, as the entire mess of cookies, decorations, and frosting starts sliding neatly towards the opposite end of the table. Peter raises a challenging eyebrow as the other man crowds in close to him, hooking his fingers through Peter's beltloops and tugging so that Peter is flush against his chest.
"Really now?" Sylar purrs. He lowers his head to nip delicately at Peter's throat, evening stubble rasping against the skin of Peter's neck. "Well...I guess I'll just have to traumatize them with something else."
After two and a half years, Peter really should've learned to expect stuff like this, by now.
He doesn't, though, and before he can react, Sylar's spun them around so that Peter's back is to the table. A burst of power, and Peter's back is on the table, knees hanging over the edge, arms telekinetically pinned spread-eagle across the shiny mahogany surface. Sylar's not employing his full strength, he realizes in an instant, and if he really wants to, Peter can break the hold easily enough.
When Sylar hops up onto the table as well, straddling Peter's hips and reaching under his sweater to run cool hands up and down Peter's sides, Peter really doesn't want to.
Breath hitching in his throat, Peter swallows heavily. "Wh-what the hell are you d--doing?" The navy-blue wool of his sweater is suddenly shoved upwards, exposing his stomach to the air, and despite the fact that the heat is on, he shivers a bit. Sylar chuckles above him.
"If I have to explain what I'm doing, you haven't been paying attention. Hold still." The invisible force holding Peter to the table increases slightly, still not enough that Peter couldn't get loose, certainly not hard enough to hurt...but enough to let him know Sylar's serious. One of his lover's hands is still trailing up and down his ribcage in an idle caress as Sylar twists above him, leaning over to grab something off the other side of the table. When the object comes into view, Peter's eyes go wide.
"Oh no...no way, you're not--" His words trail off in another gasp as something cool and thick hits his stomach, drawing a line from his breastbone to his navel. Sylar's smile is just a touch disturbing as he paints a few thin lines of icing across Peter's abdomen, before leaning down to follow the same path with his tongue. Peter squirms at the wet heat, the light scrape of teeth on the sensitive skin of his belly, straining now against the force holding him to the table.
"Ah, ah, ah...you expect me to eat this crap, I'm damn well having it my way," Sylar chides, scooping a dollop of bright red icing off of Peter's stomach and lightly smearing it across a nipple, circling the flesh until it's hard under his fingers.
Peter doesn't really care that he can break his lover's grip at this point, just as long as Sylar keeps...on....doing....this.
As if sensing capitulation, Sylar grins wolfishly, raising up to crush their mouths together. The sweet cream taste of the frosting seems positively indecent, considering what they're doing, and Peter moans low in his throat as the other ravages his mouth, reaching down to pull at Peter's belt buckle. He's half-shifted Peter's pants down his hips when there's a soft sort of noise from somewhere behind them.
Instantly, Sylar rolls off of him, already raising his hands as the invisible bonds holding Peter down vanish. Peter's already sitting up, his own hands glowing with a pulse of electric energy, when Sylar's burst of disbelieving laughter pulls him up short.
Nathan and Heidi are standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, the spare key that Peter had given him when they closed on the house dangling limply from Nathan's hand. Behind them, Mohinder is shaking his head wearily, while Matt furiously scrubs at his eyes.
Peter glances down at himself, shirt rucked up, torso smeared with streaks of cookie frosting, pants half-undone and sliding down to hang around his knees. Besides him, Sylar's shoulders are shaking softly, as the other oh-so-thoughtfully struggles to hold in his laughter.
"Were they having sex on the table?! I told you they were having sex on the table! Can we come in yet?" Claire's voice floats in from the living-room, quickly echoed by Simon and Monty clamoring for their Uncle Peter.
Silently, Peter slides off of the table, yanking his pants back up around his waist.
"Dinner's just about done," Sylar says smoothly, jumping off the table himself. "Is that wine?"
Ending notes:
For the record...homemade frosting melts much slower if you keep a cookie sheet in the freezer for a few hours, and lay the decorator bags on that when you're not using them. This keeps the frosting nice and cool, but still malleable.
This, in turn, can make it a VERY interesting toy to play with if your SO and you happen to get bored decorating cookies.
You'll probably never be able to look at a pastry bag the same way again. But it's worth it.
*wicked grin*
Happy Holidays!
K, so, the cap'n was nice enough to let me play in the Advent Calendar, and I'm a little loopy from allergy meds (stupid weather...either be hot or be cold, but MAKE UP YOUR MIND!), and so I bring ye...this.
Title: Untitled Christmas Crack
Author: Moi
Pairing: Peter/Sylar(Gabriel)
Summary: He just wants a nice, semi-normal Christmas. Is that too much to ask?
Warnings: Uh, wee bit o' language. Wee bit o' heavy petting. Naughty things done with a pastry bag (though not as naughty as they could've been, due to length constraints and my inability to not write at least a *little* bit of plot).
All he wants is a nice, semi-normal Christmas. Is that really too much to ask?
It's been four years since the world tilted on its axis, rattled them around like ice in a martini shaker, and dumped them all back out again to land where they may. Four years since Peter Petrelli discovered his brother could fly--and that he himself could do whatever he damn well pleased just by standing next to someone--and this is the first year without creepy shadow organizations, Star-Trek-rivaling manipulation of the space-time continuum, or pending apocalypse. Apocalypses.
Apocalypti?
Whatever. It's the first year since they all discovered their powers that there hasn't been some emergency taking up most of their attention, people have gotten to the point where they only dive for the nearest weapon if his boyfriend moves too fast, said boyfriend has finally learned that no, zombie jokes are not acceptable at the dinner table, and damn it, Peter wants Christmas with the people he loves in the brand new house he and his boyfriend have just moved into.
Or wait, is that boyfriends? Does it count as a threesome if two of them are a split personality?
It might be, Peter reflects, a good idea to lay off the eggnog for now.
He stands in their brand new state of the art kitchen, enormous gas range going full blast and covered with pots and pans of food in varying degrees of completion, and sighs softly. In less than three hours, all of their--well, all right Peter's--friends and family will be arriving for an honest-to-God family Christmas dinner, and despite Sylar's grumbling, Gabriel's hesitance, and the sheer logistical nightmare that cooking for that many people can be, Peter can't wait. It's been a hard road these past few years, and they've faced challenges both within and without. Now, though, things finally look as though they're settling down, and Peter wants to share this new peace with those he cares about.
And all right, there may be a tiny bit of wanting to show Nathan that despite all of his dire predictions and warnings, Peter and Sylar (and Gabriel) really do have a stable relationship, they are serious about each other, and they are in this for the long haul. He can forgive Nathan for being wary...it had taken Peter himself weeks to realize that Sylar wasn't just playing some sick, new game with him when the other started seriously pursuing him. He can even forgive Nathan for flipping out when Peter actually returned those affections (although having Peter kidnapped by that task force that specialized in reversing cult brainwashing had been a bit much). Peter is past it now, and Nathan and Sylar seem to have at least reached a point of mutual respect and agreement that holding a grudge match isn't worth upsetting Peter.
It's not perfect, and probably never will be, but it's pretty good. So...Christmas. Together. Family-like. Mohinder and Matt are bringing Molly, Nathan and Heidi promised to bring Simon and Monty, Hiro and Ando said they'd teleport in as soon as they could, and Peter just got off the phone with Claire, who's just finished with packing up her dorm room for the holidays and will be swinging by on her way back to the Bennetts. Peter feels a goofy smile stretching his face and shakes his head a bit, leaning down to open the oven and check the double pans of lasagna (one vegetarian and one regular) currently browning up nicely. He hasn't really planned a menu...just thrown together the dishes he's good at, and so dinner will be an eclectic mix, to say the least. There's apple pie cooling on the counter, and the clam chowder is just about ready for seasoning.
Satisfied that nothing is about to make the "Domestic Goddess" apron he's wearing a liar, he turns away from the range and moves over into the entrance to the dining room, where the gentler half of his lover is currently ensconced, up to his elbows in colored icing, sparkling candy sprinkles, and enough sugar cookies to put the Yankees' entire lineup into a diabetic coma. Peter's dopey smile softens into something more sentimental as he sidles up behind Gabriel, winding his arms around the watchmaker's trim waist and leaning in to rest his chin on the other's shoulder. Gabriel makes a pleased sort of humming sound in the back of his throat, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge Peter's presence, too focused on the crispy, golden round on the table in front of him, and the large white bag of forest-green icing in his hands.
Peter's eyebrows climb a bit as he takes in the cookie Gabriel is decorating--it's just a round, and so Gabriel is icing it as a Christmas tree ornament. Delicate balls of silvered sugar line the edge, enhancing a complicated pattern of precise stars of rich red, bright yellow, and the green. It's breathtaking in its detail, an absolute work of art. It's beautiful. Perfect.
It's only one of about ten Gabriel has completed in the hour since Peter left him to finish decorating the Christmas cookies.
Peter had made almost eight dozen of them.
"Um...Gabe...hey, that's really nice. But, uh, you do know people are gonna be here soon, right?" Peter tries to sound encouraging...it's hard to tell, sometimes, what Gabriel will take offense at, and the last thing Peter wants to do is upset the watchmaker. He presses a kiss against the side of Gabriel's neck, hoping to take away any sting in the words.
"Hmmm?" Gabriel finishes the last whorl of frosting, simultaneously tilting his head to give Peter better access. "Oh! I hadn't realized how late it was." The other man ducks his head shyly, casting a slightly concerned eye at the pile of cookies spread out on the table. "I-I just wanted them to look nice, I didn't mean--"
"Hey, hey, no problem. They're amazing! Just, you know, we've still got to set the table and everything...maybe make them a little less...complicated?" Peter smiles brightly, tightening his arms around the other man.
"Right...yes...yes, of course. Less complicated. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. It's really cool...they look like something my mom would have had catered. Save some out and you can teach me how to do that, tomorrow." Gabriel brightens at the prospect, and Peter twists his head to kiss the man properly, this time, idly playing with the hair at Gabriel's nape. Before the kiss can lead down any of the usual paths, though, Peter reluctantly pulls back.
"Chowder," he says, apologetically. Gabriel shoots him a wry grin and turns back to the cookies as Peter saunters back into the kitchen. As he crosses the threshold, though, Sylar's mental voice rings out loud and clear in the house.
"Oh for--let me do that! We'll be here all night at this rate!"
Peter very carefully swallows his chuckle as the rustling movement in the dining room takes on a decidedly more--confident (not mention impatient) tone. He's been up since very early that morning, and it's not like Sylar and Gabriel let him get much sleep last night, and he's been throwing himself into cooking and cleaning all day...so he supposes he can be forgiven for it taking a good ten minutes for him to make the connection that:
Sylar + simple domestic task = BAD
"Shit!" Peter throws the spoon back into the chowder and runs back into the dining room.
Sure enough, it is definitely Sylar hunched over the cookies now, Gabriel's simple green button up having been discarded to reveal the nicely tight black tee beneath it, and Gabriel's carefully gelled hair decidedly mussed. It definitely shouldn't be possible for someone to wield a frosting bag in such a threatening manner. Sylar manages it, though, and Peter leans tiredly against the empty doorjamb between the kitchen and the dining room.
"You two are doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Peter asks calmly.
Sylar cheerfully salutes him with the frosting bag, before finishing a line of lurid red icing across the forehead of a snowman cookie. A glance at the, admittedly impressive, pile Sylar has plowed through and frosted reveals an entire regiment of similarly defaced Frosty's.
"Took you long enough," Sylar smirks. He glances up, raking Peter up and down with his eyes in the familiar way that never fails to get Peter's blood rushing to more...southward...places. "Good God, you do realize little Claire never intended for you to wear that thing, don't you?" Sylar indicates the apron with a disdainful sniff.
"Hey, this is a nice sweater--I don't want it to get dirty," Peter protests. "And quit trying to change the subject...you are not traumatizing my nephews with cookies!" He plants his hands firmly on his hips, setting his face into his sternest expression.
Sylar's smirk deepens. He rises from his chair slowly, as the entire mess of cookies, decorations, and frosting starts sliding neatly towards the opposite end of the table. Peter raises a challenging eyebrow as the other man crowds in close to him, hooking his fingers through Peter's beltloops and tugging so that Peter is flush against his chest.
"Really now?" Sylar purrs. He lowers his head to nip delicately at Peter's throat, evening stubble rasping against the skin of Peter's neck. "Well...I guess I'll just have to traumatize them with something else."
After two and a half years, Peter really should've learned to expect stuff like this, by now.
He doesn't, though, and before he can react, Sylar's spun them around so that Peter's back is to the table. A burst of power, and Peter's back is on the table, knees hanging over the edge, arms telekinetically pinned spread-eagle across the shiny mahogany surface. Sylar's not employing his full strength, he realizes in an instant, and if he really wants to, Peter can break the hold easily enough.
When Sylar hops up onto the table as well, straddling Peter's hips and reaching under his sweater to run cool hands up and down Peter's sides, Peter really doesn't want to.
Breath hitching in his throat, Peter swallows heavily. "Wh-what the hell are you d--doing?" The navy-blue wool of his sweater is suddenly shoved upwards, exposing his stomach to the air, and despite the fact that the heat is on, he shivers a bit. Sylar chuckles above him.
"If I have to explain what I'm doing, you haven't been paying attention. Hold still." The invisible force holding Peter to the table increases slightly, still not enough that Peter couldn't get loose, certainly not hard enough to hurt...but enough to let him know Sylar's serious. One of his lover's hands is still trailing up and down his ribcage in an idle caress as Sylar twists above him, leaning over to grab something off the other side of the table. When the object comes into view, Peter's eyes go wide.
"Oh no...no way, you're not--" His words trail off in another gasp as something cool and thick hits his stomach, drawing a line from his breastbone to his navel. Sylar's smile is just a touch disturbing as he paints a few thin lines of icing across Peter's abdomen, before leaning down to follow the same path with his tongue. Peter squirms at the wet heat, the light scrape of teeth on the sensitive skin of his belly, straining now against the force holding him to the table.
"Ah, ah, ah...you expect me to eat this crap, I'm damn well having it my way," Sylar chides, scooping a dollop of bright red icing off of Peter's stomach and lightly smearing it across a nipple, circling the flesh until it's hard under his fingers.
Peter doesn't really care that he can break his lover's grip at this point, just as long as Sylar keeps...on....doing....this.
As if sensing capitulation, Sylar grins wolfishly, raising up to crush their mouths together. The sweet cream taste of the frosting seems positively indecent, considering what they're doing, and Peter moans low in his throat as the other ravages his mouth, reaching down to pull at Peter's belt buckle. He's half-shifted Peter's pants down his hips when there's a soft sort of noise from somewhere behind them.
Instantly, Sylar rolls off of him, already raising his hands as the invisible bonds holding Peter down vanish. Peter's already sitting up, his own hands glowing with a pulse of electric energy, when Sylar's burst of disbelieving laughter pulls him up short.
Nathan and Heidi are standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, the spare key that Peter had given him when they closed on the house dangling limply from Nathan's hand. Behind them, Mohinder is shaking his head wearily, while Matt furiously scrubs at his eyes.
Peter glances down at himself, shirt rucked up, torso smeared with streaks of cookie frosting, pants half-undone and sliding down to hang around his knees. Besides him, Sylar's shoulders are shaking softly, as the other oh-so-thoughtfully struggles to hold in his laughter.
"Were they having sex on the table?! I told you they were having sex on the table! Can we come in yet?" Claire's voice floats in from the living-room, quickly echoed by Simon and Monty clamoring for their Uncle Peter.
Silently, Peter slides off of the table, yanking his pants back up around his waist.
"Dinner's just about done," Sylar says smoothly, jumping off the table himself. "Is that wine?"
Ending notes:
For the record...homemade frosting melts much slower if you keep a cookie sheet in the freezer for a few hours, and lay the decorator bags on that when you're not using them. This keeps the frosting nice and cool, but still malleable.
This, in turn, can make it a VERY interesting toy to play with if your SO and you happen to get bored decorating cookies.
You'll probably never be able to look at a pastry bag the same way again. But it's worth it.
*wicked grin*
Happy Holidays!