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Porn battle fic: Fringe/BSG, Boomer/Peter Bishop
disclaimer: not mine
fandoms: BSG, Fringe
characters: Peter Bishop, Sharon Valerii
rating: R, sex
length: 1600
prompt: hot chocolate
notes: this was way longer and sort of angstier than intended. oh well.
Life is Way Too Short (Kiss Me)
by ALC Punk!
"You look like you could use a drink." Peter knows it's a horrible line to use, but tries to tell himself it's a perfectly innocent thing to say, that he isn't trying to pick up the hot chick at the bar. It's the lost look on her face that he can see reflected in the mirror that called him over. She reminds him too much of Walter when he's having a bad memory day.
There's an awkward moment when she doesn't really seem to see him, then her mouth curves a little and her eyes focus. "You buy every girl a drink with a line like that?"
"Only sometimes." Honesty always works best, for him. With a little boyish charm thrown in, though Peter isn't really feeling boyish, he's always had decent luck with women. "And who says I'm buying?"
The curve turns into an amused smile. "What are you having?"
"Well," she hasn't told him to piss off, so he takes the empty stool next to her, careful not to crowd. "I was thinking tequila."
"Mmm. Good choice." She gestures and raises two fingers at the bartender. Peter's a little impressed that the woman can read her lips from down the bar, but he's always thought the tall blonde was good at what she does.
Two glasses and a bottle settle in front of them. "On the house." She winks at his companion and slinks back to a customer.
"Six," she frowns after the bartender. She blows out an annoyed breath, then looks at him. "Who are you?"
"Peter."
"Sharon." For a moment, she's distracted again, watching the blonde. Then she shakes her head and grabs the bottle to pour out two neat shots, sliding one his way.
"What should we drink to?" It's polite to ask her.
"Earth." There's a wealth of sarcasm in her voice and the glass tips up before he can ask why.
"To Earth." The tequila is sharp, scraping down his throat and knifing his belly before the taste hits and he grunts. "Why Earth?"
Sharon just shakes her head and pours another round. "To friends." There's something bitter there, along with the sarcasm.
"To sisters," the bartender says, grabbing Peter's glass.
Both women down the tequila, and Peter feels a little uncertain--left out of some private grief that he can't quite understand. There's something between them, and he wonders if he's stepping on toes, sitting next to Sharon.
"To friends," Peter murmurs, raising his water glass.
'Six' laughs, sliding the shot glass back his way before returning to her work.
"You know her, huh?"
"Could say that." Sharon pours again. "To stupid myths and destinies."
"To destiny." His echo feels off. To him, destiny is following in Walter's footsteps with no time for anyone but himself. "Fuck destiny," he adds. The tequila is almost mellow.
"Fuck it," Sharon agrees, rolling the expletive around her mouth as though it's new, different.
"In the ear," suggests Peter.
A giggle escapes Sharon and she nudges his shoulder with her own. "You're all right."
"Thanks."
She grins at him and it reaches her eyes. "So who are you, Peter?"
"The son of a crazy scientist." The truth is easier than some elaborate lie. And he can handle Walter being in his life now. Mostly.
Sharon blinks. "Sounds familiar. Does it always snow here?"
It's a weird question, but he doesn't really care; he answers it and fires back one of his own. They fall into a rhythm: tequila, questions, conversation. It's not the small talk that he's used to making, and it's more honest than flirting, though he's not sure what she's getting out of it.
He finds himself telling her more about Walter, about a childhood that he sometimes feels disconnected from.
"Must be nice to have one that's real," she says, but Peter doesn't ask what she means.
There's something about her that fascinates him. Maybe it's the way her fingers play with her glass or the light in her eyes when she talks about constellations like a second year astronomy student, her hands gesturing and their arms tangling and legs brushing. The air charges with a sort of electricity he's finding harder and harder to ignore.
She feels it to, falling silent at one point before shifting closer, her thigh pressing his.
The level in the bottle stops dropping, and he wonders if they're clear-headed enough for where he thinks they're going. Sharon puts the top on and makes a joke about not being Starbuck, then sobers and picks up her empty glass.
Around them, the bar is still full, still shifting like a bar. It's only where they are that there's a strange little bubble of silence.
Peter leans over for one of the glasses of water waiting for someone else's order, and hands it to her, raising his. "Drink up."
"To the dead friends we miss," Sharon whispers.
Sipping his not-so-cold water, Peter wonders how many dead friends she has.
Her mood changes, and the empty shot glass smashes into the mirror over the bar before she stands. "Let's get the frak out of here."
"Fuck," he corrects.
Sharon looks at him, eyes wide and dark with too many emotions to name. "Fuck. Fuck," she leans into him, tall enough to kiss him without a stretch. If she wants to. "Fuck me, Peter."
"I--" That wasn't why he'd offered to buy her a drink. He's stopped using the bar scene for casual sex a long time ago.
Her mouth brushes his, and the spark between them goes to his head. He kisses her back, one hand brushing her cheek before she breaks the kiss. "C'mon, Peter, live a little."
She grabs his hand, and he doesn't object as she tows him through the crowd.
No one seems to really focus on them, and he wonders if this is some ridiculously twisted dream.
They end up in the women's bathroom, Sharon ordering the woman in the corner out. The half-dressed cow-girl puts her drugs away and leaves, almost cowering away from Sharon.
Maybe it's the energy crackling off of her. Peter grabs her shoulders, pushing her up against the door to kiss her. There's something hot about a woman in charge, and Sharon is all business when she kisses him back. She tastes like tequila, her tongue sliding teasingly against his before her hands yank his shirt up.
"Not so fast--" he hangs onto her hips, holding her still as he drops his head to kiss her neck.
She laughs, the sound ugly, "Not fast enough."
It's almost a fight, then, getting her to slow down. He gets his hands on her breasts, rolling her nipples against his palms, and she gasps into his mouth. God. He could stay like this for hours, just making her twitch and shift. She's got other things on her mind, though.
Sharon walks him into the counter, rubbing up against him like a cat until he's hard and wondering how much longer he can take it.
A little laugh escapes her as her fingers slide under his waistband, stroking him before she steps back. It only takes her a minute to unfasten her pants, and Peter stares at the long, long legs underneath them, eyes following the movement of her hands and her white panties as they glide down to the floor.
He has no idea when she lost her shoes, and he wonders if that's a good idea--bathroom floors aren't exactly sanitary, after all.
"Peter, get over here," she orders.
God. It's the business voice again, and he grins at her as he pulls himself free, shoving his pants down a little.
She doesn't have to do much to get him sliding between her legs. They're close enough in height that she twists, and he thrusts, and they're connected by more than words and electricity.
"Gods," she murmurs, her mouth on his neck. "Don't hold still, Peter."
His hands on her hips, he moves, speeding then slowing, picking up the rhythm that works for her (anything works for him, especially the way she curses, the way fuck melts into frakfrakfrak) until she's grinding into him, her head up and her back arched.
He gets one hand on her breasts again, loving the feel of her hard nipple against his palm. The feel of her is perfect, and he pinches her nipple, hoping the tequila doesn't send him off early.
"Peter," she breathes as he pinches again and again until she's writhing, muscles tightening around him so he can barely move.
Holding her hips, stilling himself, he lets her slump forward before moving again.
It doesn't take long, and she giggles against his neck, her teeth leaving marks, the pain sending him over before he's ready.
They stay like that, Sharon's ass half-on the counter, her legs around his waist until she touches his shoulder. "Six is going to be pissed if we block the bathroom much longer."
"Bartender, right?"
She nods, kissing his neck and then straightening. "Right. Friend of mine."
All business again, and the connection shifts, leaving him feeling strangely cold.
They clean up and dress, Sharon is faster despite having more to put on. Her shoes are back when she reaches up to unlock the door. "Hey, Peter?"
"Yeah?" He's thinking about driving back to the hotel, trying to climb into bed without waking Walter and having to explain things.
"I'm hungry. You want to get a hot cocoa and breakfast?"
It wasn't that late, but he can feel that connection brushing back against him, and he shrugs. "Sure. But don't you want coffee?"
"Nah. I leave coffee to the Sixes and my sister."
-f-
fandoms: BSG, Fringe
characters: Peter Bishop, Sharon Valerii
rating: R, sex
length: 1600
prompt: hot chocolate
notes: this was way longer and sort of angstier than intended. oh well.
Life is Way Too Short (Kiss Me)
by ALC Punk!
"You look like you could use a drink." Peter knows it's a horrible line to use, but tries to tell himself it's a perfectly innocent thing to say, that he isn't trying to pick up the hot chick at the bar. It's the lost look on her face that he can see reflected in the mirror that called him over. She reminds him too much of Walter when he's having a bad memory day.
There's an awkward moment when she doesn't really seem to see him, then her mouth curves a little and her eyes focus. "You buy every girl a drink with a line like that?"
"Only sometimes." Honesty always works best, for him. With a little boyish charm thrown in, though Peter isn't really feeling boyish, he's always had decent luck with women. "And who says I'm buying?"
The curve turns into an amused smile. "What are you having?"
"Well," she hasn't told him to piss off, so he takes the empty stool next to her, careful not to crowd. "I was thinking tequila."
"Mmm. Good choice." She gestures and raises two fingers at the bartender. Peter's a little impressed that the woman can read her lips from down the bar, but he's always thought the tall blonde was good at what she does.
Two glasses and a bottle settle in front of them. "On the house." She winks at his companion and slinks back to a customer.
"Six," she frowns after the bartender. She blows out an annoyed breath, then looks at him. "Who are you?"
"Peter."
"Sharon." For a moment, she's distracted again, watching the blonde. Then she shakes her head and grabs the bottle to pour out two neat shots, sliding one his way.
"What should we drink to?" It's polite to ask her.
"Earth." There's a wealth of sarcasm in her voice and the glass tips up before he can ask why.
"To Earth." The tequila is sharp, scraping down his throat and knifing his belly before the taste hits and he grunts. "Why Earth?"
Sharon just shakes her head and pours another round. "To friends." There's something bitter there, along with the sarcasm.
"To sisters," the bartender says, grabbing Peter's glass.
Both women down the tequila, and Peter feels a little uncertain--left out of some private grief that he can't quite understand. There's something between them, and he wonders if he's stepping on toes, sitting next to Sharon.
"To friends," Peter murmurs, raising his water glass.
'Six' laughs, sliding the shot glass back his way before returning to her work.
"You know her, huh?"
"Could say that." Sharon pours again. "To stupid myths and destinies."
"To destiny." His echo feels off. To him, destiny is following in Walter's footsteps with no time for anyone but himself. "Fuck destiny," he adds. The tequila is almost mellow.
"Fuck it," Sharon agrees, rolling the expletive around her mouth as though it's new, different.
"In the ear," suggests Peter.
A giggle escapes Sharon and she nudges his shoulder with her own. "You're all right."
"Thanks."
She grins at him and it reaches her eyes. "So who are you, Peter?"
"The son of a crazy scientist." The truth is easier than some elaborate lie. And he can handle Walter being in his life now. Mostly.
Sharon blinks. "Sounds familiar. Does it always snow here?"
It's a weird question, but he doesn't really care; he answers it and fires back one of his own. They fall into a rhythm: tequila, questions, conversation. It's not the small talk that he's used to making, and it's more honest than flirting, though he's not sure what she's getting out of it.
He finds himself telling her more about Walter, about a childhood that he sometimes feels disconnected from.
"Must be nice to have one that's real," she says, but Peter doesn't ask what she means.
There's something about her that fascinates him. Maybe it's the way her fingers play with her glass or the light in her eyes when she talks about constellations like a second year astronomy student, her hands gesturing and their arms tangling and legs brushing. The air charges with a sort of electricity he's finding harder and harder to ignore.
She feels it to, falling silent at one point before shifting closer, her thigh pressing his.
The level in the bottle stops dropping, and he wonders if they're clear-headed enough for where he thinks they're going. Sharon puts the top on and makes a joke about not being Starbuck, then sobers and picks up her empty glass.
Around them, the bar is still full, still shifting like a bar. It's only where they are that there's a strange little bubble of silence.
Peter leans over for one of the glasses of water waiting for someone else's order, and hands it to her, raising his. "Drink up."
"To the dead friends we miss," Sharon whispers.
Sipping his not-so-cold water, Peter wonders how many dead friends she has.
Her mood changes, and the empty shot glass smashes into the mirror over the bar before she stands. "Let's get the frak out of here."
"Fuck," he corrects.
Sharon looks at him, eyes wide and dark with too many emotions to name. "Fuck. Fuck," she leans into him, tall enough to kiss him without a stretch. If she wants to. "Fuck me, Peter."
"I--" That wasn't why he'd offered to buy her a drink. He's stopped using the bar scene for casual sex a long time ago.
Her mouth brushes his, and the spark between them goes to his head. He kisses her back, one hand brushing her cheek before she breaks the kiss. "C'mon, Peter, live a little."
She grabs his hand, and he doesn't object as she tows him through the crowd.
No one seems to really focus on them, and he wonders if this is some ridiculously twisted dream.
They end up in the women's bathroom, Sharon ordering the woman in the corner out. The half-dressed cow-girl puts her drugs away and leaves, almost cowering away from Sharon.
Maybe it's the energy crackling off of her. Peter grabs her shoulders, pushing her up against the door to kiss her. There's something hot about a woman in charge, and Sharon is all business when she kisses him back. She tastes like tequila, her tongue sliding teasingly against his before her hands yank his shirt up.
"Not so fast--" he hangs onto her hips, holding her still as he drops his head to kiss her neck.
She laughs, the sound ugly, "Not fast enough."
It's almost a fight, then, getting her to slow down. He gets his hands on her breasts, rolling her nipples against his palms, and she gasps into his mouth. God. He could stay like this for hours, just making her twitch and shift. She's got other things on her mind, though.
Sharon walks him into the counter, rubbing up against him like a cat until he's hard and wondering how much longer he can take it.
A little laugh escapes her as her fingers slide under his waistband, stroking him before she steps back. It only takes her a minute to unfasten her pants, and Peter stares at the long, long legs underneath them, eyes following the movement of her hands and her white panties as they glide down to the floor.
He has no idea when she lost her shoes, and he wonders if that's a good idea--bathroom floors aren't exactly sanitary, after all.
"Peter, get over here," she orders.
God. It's the business voice again, and he grins at her as he pulls himself free, shoving his pants down a little.
She doesn't have to do much to get him sliding between her legs. They're close enough in height that she twists, and he thrusts, and they're connected by more than words and electricity.
"Gods," she murmurs, her mouth on his neck. "Don't hold still, Peter."
His hands on her hips, he moves, speeding then slowing, picking up the rhythm that works for her (anything works for him, especially the way she curses, the way fuck melts into frakfrakfrak) until she's grinding into him, her head up and her back arched.
He gets one hand on her breasts again, loving the feel of her hard nipple against his palm. The feel of her is perfect, and he pinches her nipple, hoping the tequila doesn't send him off early.
"Peter," she breathes as he pinches again and again until she's writhing, muscles tightening around him so he can barely move.
Holding her hips, stilling himself, he lets her slump forward before moving again.
It doesn't take long, and she giggles against his neck, her teeth leaving marks, the pain sending him over before he's ready.
They stay like that, Sharon's ass half-on the counter, her legs around his waist until she touches his shoulder. "Six is going to be pissed if we block the bathroom much longer."
"Bartender, right?"
She nods, kissing his neck and then straightening. "Right. Friend of mine."
All business again, and the connection shifts, leaving him feeling strangely cold.
They clean up and dress, Sharon is faster despite having more to put on. Her shoes are back when she reaches up to unlock the door. "Hey, Peter?"
"Yeah?" He's thinking about driving back to the hotel, trying to climb into bed without waking Walter and having to explain things.
"I'm hungry. You want to get a hot cocoa and breakfast?"
It wasn't that late, but he can feel that connection brushing back against him, and he shrugs. "Sure. But don't you want coffee?"
"Nah. I leave coffee to the Sixes and my sister."
-f-
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Aw, Boomer and confused but sweet Peter. Angsty feels just about right.
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:D :D
I like this!! (how well they get along,,,and how well they do)
*memories this*
dare I beg for a sequel?
(at the very least, I'm going to have to find icons of them now)
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I'm still amused that what was supposed to be porn ended up angsty and not so porny. And Peter IS a sweet guy.
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I'm sort of tossing around ideas for a full crossover (I've got vague ideas about infiltrating Earth and some of the Fringe mythology about the coming war having to be related).