Originally published: 02/17/10 on Livejournal. (See profile for links.)
Title: Sweet Dreams Are Made of These
Rating: Adult/NC-17
Summary: Peter is dreaming, and it's not what he expected.
Spoilers: Season 1-4
Warnings: Rimming. Don't read if that squicks you.
Written for the Peter/Sylar Prompt Fest at the sylar_peter community on Livejoural. The prompt: "NC17. PWP. Porn. Sexytimes. Bottom!Sylar. Peter's having wet dreams about Sylar."

Peter sank gratefully into his couch with a small moan. He'd just come off a double shift at the hospital, exhausted, aching.

"Me and my hero complex," he sighed to himself, tilting his head back to rest against the cushions, staring briefly at the ceiling, "Why do I do this to myself?"

No one answered him of course, and Peter sighed again as he let his eyes slip closed.

Just a little nap, then I'll make some dinner. An hour, tops… he thought as he let himself doze…

"You really do work too hard Peter," a familiar voice purred, and Peter opened his eyes to see Sylar standing over him, head cocked slightly to the side as he regarded the paramedic calmly, "it's not good for you to work such long hours."

Peter gave a half-hearted chuckle, replying, "Somebody's gotta save the world."

Sylar grinned and laughed quietly, a wicked glint in his eyes that Peter knew all too well.

"And it might as well be you," he purred, sliding into Peter's lap, long legs folded on either side of Peter's hips and his fingers trailing deliciously over his chest, "and I believe heroes deserve their rewards…"

Any reply that Peter might have had was cut short when Sylar pressed his lips against his, eyes sliding closed and breathing a small moan in satisfaction.

Peter sighed contently, hands sliding slowly up Sylar's thighs, the denim rough against his palms as he grasped his hips.

"I want you to fuck me," Sylar breathed against his lips, a hot puff of breath that sent shivers through Peter's whole body and made him painfully, demandingly hard.

"Your wish is my command," Peter growled, seizing the hem of Sylar's shirt and yanking it up and over his head as Sylar ground down on him, salacious little moans breathing hot through his mouth into Peter's.

"God, you're so hot," Peter murmured appreciatively, running his hands up Sylar's chest, every wanton sound and writhe of his body driving Peter mad with want.

Suddenly Sylar pulled away and slid out of Peter's lap with a sneaky wink. Peter opened his mouth to protest until Sylar's hands went to his jeans, undoing the button and sliding down the zipper in a slow tease.

"Cocktease," Peter smirked, ripping his shirt over his head in one smooth motion and reaching for his zipper.

"Oh no you don't" Sylar purred, and suddenly Peter found his hands held down at his sides by invisible bonds.

"That's cheating," Peter remarked and Sylar smiled devilishly, sliding his jeans off his hips and down his legs before kicking them off to the side casually.

"All's fair in love and war sweetheart," Sylar purred, and Peter's slacks began to undo themselves.

Peter jerked when a telepathic touch caressed his chest and slid lower, leaving goose bumps in its wake and drawing a groan from his throat.

"Fuck," he panted and suddenly Sylar was kneeling between his legs, sucking Peter's stiff cock between his hot lips with a wanton whine.

"Fuck!" he half-shouted again, jerking up into the tight, wet heat of Sylar's sinful mouth uncontrollably until Sylar pinned his hips too, unwaveringly sucking and bobbing over Peter's cock with practiced, flawless ease.

"God, please," Peter groaned, struggling against the telekinesis in vain, body straining and fighting to move against the invisible power.

Sylar's lust-blown eyes flicked up to his and it sent a jolt of pleasure through him. He panted with unrestrained lust as Sylar slid torturously slowly up his cock, eyes never leaving his as he released the head with a small pop.

"Tell me what you want," Sylar demanded quietly, breathing a small, cool breath against Peter's wet cock that made him moan sharply.

"To fuck you," he replied immediately, and Sylar smiled slowly with heavy-lidded pleasure, "I want you, please…"

"Then I'm yours," Sylar promised softly as he slid back into Peter's lap, thigh muscles tensing as he positioned himself over Peter's immobilized body.

Peter's head thunked back against the sofa as Sylar began to slowly pierce himself on Peter's straining cock, still not letting up his telekinetic grip on Peter's hands or hips.

Finally Sylar kissed Peter's neck sweetly as he sheathed him entirely inside his hot, tight opening with a satisfied sigh.

"Breath Peter," he smirked, and Peter realized he'd been holding his breath.

He released it in a trembling pant and titled his head to kiss the taller man with a little whine of desire.

"Good boy."

Suddenly Peter felt his bonds released and he immediately seized Sylar, grabbing a fistful of his lover's dark hair in one hand and crushing their lips together. The other slid around his waist to grip him hard, using it for leverage to thrust in and out of him in tight, pleasurable jerks.

Sylar was a wanton creature in his arms, hands never stilling, always moving, caressing, scratching, pressing while his mouth preformed a multitude of pleasures, the hot slide of his tongue accompanied by a sultry bite.

And the sounds he was making, every whine and moan and pant going straight to Peter's cock and he experimented, angling his hips and moving his hands and changing their pace to see how many noises he could elicit from his lover's throat.

Sylar ground forward against his belly, rubbing his cock against the hard muscles of his abdomen and Peter took the hint, reaching between them to grip Sylar's cock in a tight fist, practically making him convulse in pleasure and tearing a ragged shout from his throat.

Suddenly everything went white hot as his orgasm ripped through him, a choked cry escaping his throat as he spilled his seed in Sylar's willing body and felt him come too, cock jerking in his fist as white coated their bellies…

Peter awoke with a start, panting hard as his head reeled somewhere between reality and the dream world, trying to make sense of what was happening, and what was imagined.

"Fuck," he panted, pressing a hand over his eyes as he caught his breath, his skin almost feverishly hot.

What the hell was that? He thought dizzily, the dream replaying itself in his mind's eye almost against his will, and he groaned, Sylar. Why is it always Sylar? He bemoaned groggily.

He cursed again when he realized that his come was cooling uncomfortably in his trousers, sticking to him most unpleasantly.

What was he, sixteen? He was working too hard, that had to be it.

He pushed all thoughts of Sylar from his head as he pushed himself up off the couch and headed for the shower. He would wash, make some dinner, and go to bed, and this whole thing would be just a weird memory by tomorrow.

It would.

Peter was in the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Sylar cook, stirring a pot here and there and looking busy, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"You look really sexy when you cook," Peter declared, coming up behind the taller man, wrapping his arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck.

Sylar laughed in a delicious, silky purr and stirred the pasta, steadfastly ignoring Peter's wandering hands and traveling mouth.

"You're a terrible distraction," Sylar mused, and Peter gave a low chuckle, breath tickling over his neck and making him shiver.

"You don't mind," Peter said confidently, and Sylar scoffed.

"When it means a burnt dinner I do," he answered, even as Peter's hands slid over his hips and to his belt, undoing his trousers entirely and slipping a hand inside.

Sylar gave a little groan, rocking into the touch as Peter stroked him in time to the hard grind of his hips against Sylar's ass.

"Easily solved," Peter murmured, reaching around with his free hand and turning off all the burners.

He enjoyed the startled gasp when he grabbed the back of Sylar's shirt and spun him around, hand still working his hardening shaft as he bent him over the table, grinding against him from behind more adamantly now.

"Fuck," Sylar growled, pushing back against the hard outline of Peter's cock.

Peter smirked and grasped Sylar's jeans, pulling them down and letting Sylar kick them off under the table. Sylar's shirt was next, shoved roughly up until he could slip out of it, pushing it over the opposite side of the table and onto the floor.

Peter kissed a path down Sylar's spine, following the outline of each vertebra with his lips and tongue.

Sylar gave a little moan and arched slightly, muscles flexing in the most delightful way.

Peter just grinned as he went lower, finally kneeling on the floor behind him, hands caressing his ass and thighs almost reverently.

Sylar began to pant when Peter spread his cheeks gently, breathed a cool puff of breath against his asshole.

"God yes," Sylar pleaded and Peter smirked devilishly.

He started low, at his perineum and licked slowly upward with the flat of his tongue, feeling every delicious shiver that coursed through Sylar's body until he reached his tailbone, left a gentle bite at the base of his spine before doing it again.

By the third swipe of his tongue Sylar was trembling, muffled moans and whines panted with every breath.

Peter used the tip of his tongue to dance teasingly around Sylar's opening, giving little moans of want himself that puffed hot against Sylar's skin.

"Peter, please," Sylar begged in a breathy whine that was so alluring that Peter rewarded him, pressing his tongue into Sylar's tight orifice.

Sylar bucked and arched with a desperate cry and Peter pushed deeper, thrusting his tongue in and out in a quick succession while his lover moaned.

"More," Sylar managed to plead harshly and Peter obliged, adding a finger now along with his thrusting tongue, crooking it to rub and press against the other man's prostate maddeningly.

Sylar was completely slick now and Peter added a second finger, scissoring him open and pressing his tongue as far as he could inside his tight passage.

Sylar jerked back against him and cried out, holding white-knuckled to the table edge and keening high in his throat.

With a final hard thrust of his tongue Peter withdrew, fumbling for his belt buckle as he stood over Sylar's shaking form.

"Fuck… yes… please…" Sylar panted at the sound of Peter's buckle, and Peter didn't have the control to do more than push his clothes down his hips and plunge into Sylar's waiting heat.

There was something astonishingly hot about the fact that Peter was still dressed while Sylar lay naked over the table, arching and moaning with every hard thrust.

Peter growled and grabbed his hair in a tight fist, the other hand holding his hip hard enough to bruise as he pounded into him so hard the table actually began to move in short bursts across the floor.

Peter angled his hips and knew he struck gold when Sylar began to cry out with every thrust, pushing back against his assault with a hard jerk.

Peter reached around and grabbed Sylar's cock, barely had to stroke him once, twice, before he came, hot burst of come across his hand and he was tightening with a choked-off scream and Peter exploded, pleasure hitting him so hard he blacked out…

Peter sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing like he had just ran a marathon and sweating.

He groaned as he caught the tail end of his orgasm, come staining the front of his sleep shorts in a wet, sticky mess.

He flopped back down with another moan, panting as his head reeled and his body hummed in the afterglow.

Shit.

Peter didn't really start to worry until the fifth night he woke up with ruined sheets and haunting images of Sylar in his mind's eye.

He collapsed back on the bed with a frustrated groan, pushing his sweat-damp hair away from his eyes groggily.

As of now, he'd had dreams that involved Sylar riding him on the couch, of fucking the taller man over the kitchen table, having that sinful mouth of his blowing him in the back of the ambulance between shifts, pressing Sylar into the cool tiles of the shower, and the one he had just woke up from, which was an astoundingly inappropriate use of their flying ability.

"This has gotta stop," Peter whispered to nobody, "My laundry bill just can't afford it…"

He looked blearily at the digital clock beside his bed. Four-fifteen am.

He sighed heavily before sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He had to be at the hospital at seven, might as well shower and get ready now…

Maybe I'll go out for breakfast, he thought idly, trying to cheer himself up, The Club Diner is open 24/7 I think…

Peter was dreaming again. He knew he was, had almost dreadedly waited for it to happen, but still he couldn't fight it, couldn't change it as the dream took shape in spite of him.

But this one was different. Usually the dreams started off with playful banter between them, a sexy tease as a prelude to their dirtier, rougher activities.

Not now. Now Peter was exactly where he had started off; in his bed.

But instead of being alone, as he had been when he fell asleep, Sylar was there, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and running a gentle hand over his chest.

His hand strayed lower, slid under the sheets and Peter gave a small murmur of encouragement when those long fingers slid around him, holding gentle but firm and working him with languid, easy strokes.

Peter shifted lazily, rolling onto him and kissing his mouth affectionately, sighing contently when Sylar wrapped his long limbs around him, palms sliding along his back and arms as Peter slid inside him, his passage still slick from their previous lovemaking.

He chose a steady, even rhythm that was easy to keep, kissing and nibbling Sylar's shoulders and neck and collarbones while the taller man moaned contently with pleasure.

Time didn't seem to hold any value here, the seconds and minutes blurring together and it didn't matter because it all just felt good in every best way.

He slid up on his arms, used one for balance and leverage while the other touched Sylar, running sensually down his chest and belly to his cock, stroking in lazy time to his gentle thrusts and watching each other.

He watched Sylar come apart, arching and moaning breathily, tightening around him and they rocked together as Peter came too, panting a tiny, breathless cry.

Sylar pulled him down, kissed his mouth in the afterglow, heedless of the white splash across their bellies that was already cooling.

They'd need a shower, and Peter amusedly thought about the dirty look the old lady next door would give them tomorrow morning for running the water this late.

But that faded easily into his background thoughts when Sylar licked along his lip gently, sweetly…

Peter woke feeling disoriented. He sat up, looked around, half expecting to see Sylar curled up next to him as he had been in the dream.

He laid back down, brows furrowed in thought.

That one had been… different. All the others had been lustful, fast and dirty- just hard, good fucks. But this one… it had been down-right sentimental.

He sighed heavily and groaned; throwing an arm across his eyes.

"Ok universe, I think I get it," he finally sighed, "Sylar."

He looked over at his cell phone, charging, as it always did, on his nightstand.

You shouldn't, he told himself, it'll just end in disaster; you'll look like a fool Pete.

Still the phone sat there, completely unassuming, but holding all kinds of implications.

Almost against his will, he found himself reaching for the phone and dialing Sylar before he could think about it and change his mind.

"Hello Peter," came Sylar's voice after barely two rings, "What drives you to the phone at this hour?"

Peter looked startlingly at the clock, suddenly realizing it was two am.

"Crap, sorry," he muttered, "I didn't even look at the time."

"I don't mind," Sylar commented, "What's on your mind?"

Peter swallowed hard, forcing the words past his lips, "Can you come over?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Peter barely dared to breathe.

"Sure," Sylar finally replied quietly, his voice unreadable, "I'll be there in five minutes."

He hung up.

Peter stared at his phone, mind reeling.

Crap, what was he doing?

Too late to bemoan bad decisions, Sylar was going to be there soon.

Peter hauled himself out of bed to throw on clothes that were at least marginally acceptable for company, settling on gray sweatpants and a plain, white t-shirt.

He'd barely moved from his bedroom to the living room when there was a knock on his window that made him jump.

And there he was, standing on the fire escape in his usual black, collar turned up against the wind.

Peter opened the window and Sylar stepped in, tall frame ducking to fit.

"Don't you use doors anymore?" Peter scoffed, closing the window behind him.

"This is easier," Sylar shrugged, "I can just fly straight to you, instead of trying to find somewhere inconspicuous to land to so I can use a door. Not practical," he grinned, a coy smirk that sent butterflies into a frenzy in Peter's stomach; he'd seen that look a dozen times in his dreams, but Sylar continued, thankfully oblivious to Peter's inner turmoil, "Plus the startled look on your face was too precious to pass up."

Peter managed to scoff, turning away from that amused grin to walk into the kitchen, "You're a jerk," he threw over his shoulder.

"So you've told me, and yet here I am," Sylar replied, following, "an invited guest."

Peter gave another nervous scoff as he put water in the kettle for tea. Now that the initial surprise of seeing Sylar on the fire escape had worn off, he was suddenly acutely aware that the man who had pervaded his dreams for the last week was in his kitchen, had come at a moment's request, and was now watching him bustle around the kitchen in his sweatpants. This suddenly seemed like an extravagantly bad idea.

Cripes.

"What's the matter Peter?" Sylar asked, and Peter looked over his shoulder at him, hand extended half-way into a cabinet to get mugs, "you're all worked up over something, I can tell. I can practically hear your brain scrambling about it," Peter jumped when Sylar telekinetically flicked the burner of the stove off, "Come on Peter, talk to me."

Peter sighed and closed the cabinet, keeping his back to Sylar and trying to organize his thoughts.

"I keep dreaming about you," Peter finally admitted, his heart speeding up nervously, "I thought if I saw you I might be able to figure out why."

"Indeed," Sylar said quietly, "What kind of dreams?"

Peter felt the blush creep up into his face at the dreaded question. He wasn't sure how to answer.

He suddenly felt Sylar's fingers on the back of his neck, and before he could stop him, Sylar was using Lydia's ability, pulling his wants and needs from him so fast it left him reeling.

Abruptly Sylar spun him around, pressed him against the counter and attacked his mouth with a desperate kiss.

Peter froze in shock, completely taken aback until he found himself returning the kiss, wrapping his arms around Sylar's waist and giving a tiny moan into his mouth. He felt even better than in his dreams.

Finally Sylar pulled away enough to whisper quietly, "Your dreams. Tell me. What happens?"

Dizzily Peter tried to pull enough brain cells together to answer him.

"I'm fucking you," Peter finally forced out, and Sylar groaned, rubbed against him and kissed him again.

"Good dreams," Sylar murmured and Peter trembled, pushing Sylar out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom, "and I think we should definitely act them out."

Peter laughed and kissed him again, already working the buttons of his jacket, "Most definitely."

Sylar smiled and went willingly into the bedroom, Peter close behind.

He didn't think it was really necessary to tell Peter about his newest ability.

Dreamwalking was a useful thing.