Notes: Written for the International Interfandom Day of Making Out.
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Nathan woke to a kiss, and was alone.
The tv was still flickering in the corner, mute and forgotten. His feet were propped up on the coffee table, his head against the back of the couch, and there was a lingering warmth by his cheek. He didn't dare move, because he'd had this dream before.
If he moved, it disappeared.
"Peter?" he whispered instead, and a finger landed on his lips.
"Ssssh." He felt the sound more than heard it, brushing across his throat, and he swallowed.
This dream was new.
The finger slowly traced the outline of his lips, until he touched his tongue to the tip of it. He heard a hiss of breath, and then it was sliding into his mouth, teasing along his tongue. He closed his lips and sucked, tasting familiar skin, as his eyes stared ahead at nothing. He felt lips against his throat, where the breath had been seconds before. Tasting him, marking him. His head fell back against the couch, allowing easier access.
After all, it was only a dream.
Hands on his shoulders, pressing him back against the couch, and when he lifted his own hands, they came into contact with hips, covered in jeans. Bony and narrow and perfectly sized for his fingers to fit around them. The cushions dipped, as if someone was kneeling on either side of him, leaning over him, and he felt a weight settle onto his legs as the lips moved upward to his ear.
He turned his head, and the lips were pressing against his, tongue licking at the edges of his mouth, running across the inside of his lip, and he couldn't stop a tiny noise from escaping. His hands moved downward, clamped around warm denim-clad thighs as he gave himself in to the kisses, letting himself be claimed.
The world dissolved around them as they kissed, his hands tracing patterns under the hem of a t-shirt he couldn't see. He could no longer feel the couch beneath him, the cushions behind him. All he could feel was the warmth of a mouth, the sinuous movement of a tongue, the friction of legs against his own.
He opened his eyes, barely aware that he had closed them, and stared out a window he should not be able to see from the couch.
Strong hands wrapped into his collar, tugged him closer. "Don't look, Nathan," Peter's voice whispered, just beside his ear. "Don't look."
Nathan looked.
They fell.