Getting It, Chapter 2: Getting It On
Title: Getting It On
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Words: 1,300
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter tries to seduce Sylar, but it misfires.
Sylar watched Peter rise from the pool, a modern-day Adonis. It gave him cause to remember that Italians posed as models for the Roman and Grecian sculptors whose work was so often upheld as the epitome of the human form. Well, except for the small penis the statues usually sported. He had reason to believe Peter's endowments were much more generous, especially if the current, eye-catching tenting going on in Peter's swim trunks was an indication. Sylar couldn't stop looking at that, watching how the wet cloth clung and shifted, trying to imagine the details of the columnar shape. A quick shake of Peter's head sent droplets flying, a few hitting Sylar's bare feet as he rested in the pool chair, making his toes flex and squirm in response. He just hoped he'd get to do more than look at a distance. His fingers itched to touch and explore where, for now, only his gaze could go. Not that he minded. What Peter was doing to him was a fascinating inversion of the hunt. Sylar couldn't tell if he was predator or prey - if he was luring Peter to him or being pursued. Either way, he liked it.
Peter prowled over to him, smirking when he saw Sylar's obvious sight-line. He stopped less than an inch away at the foot of the pool chair, drawing himself up. Muscles flexed slightly as he rose on his toes and settled, hands on hips and head tilted. Sylar felt himself flush from the direct, unabashed scrutiny. He gripped the arms of the chair more tightly, feeling a heaviness growing in his groin. He didn't know what his expected role was. Roles made him comfortable because they gave him a script.
Not sure what else to do, he leered, looking Peter up and down like he was something to eat. He over-sold it, smiling broadly and exuding a confidence he didn't feel, ignoring the nervous butterflies in his stomach. Peter's face made a small, perplexed frown as the sparkle in his eyes turned to a suspicious glint at the falseness. With a sharp chill shooting through him at how quickly he'd been seen through, Sylar shifted gears. He extended a foot and rubbed his big toe up and down Peter's shin in quick, solicitous motions. He dropped the fake grin and let his expression do what it would, which was to raise brows in concern and widen eyes in fear that he was going to screw this up before it even started. He wanted Peter's attention and approval more than anything else and it looked like he might finally get some positive proof of it.
Peter's visage cleared, replaced by intensity - slightly furrowed brows and direct, unflinching eye contact. Sylar felt like he was under a microscope as Peter moved forward to straddle Sylar's chair, literally standing over him in two quick strides. Before Sylar could process that Peter was almost on top of him, the man leaned in, one hand coming down on the arm of the pool chair, the other on the frame of the back. Eyes fixed on Sylar's, Peter dipped. He paused a hand's breadth away, a stray lock of water-darkened hair falling over his face, shedding a cold drop on Sylar's chest. It felt like an electrical shock. He pulled in a sharp breath, heart pounding from all the mixed feelings he was having.This is really going to happen! All he could think about was how he'd taken Elle when the opportunity presented itself, and so he tried the same with Peter. His hand snaked behind Peter's neck and pulled him in the rest of the way, lips locking over Peter's, sucking at his mouth, expecting to have it taken away from him at any moment.
But it wasn't. Peter leaned into the kiss, settling down until Sylar felt his wet, cool trunks press over his own, crotch to crotch. Sylar's already stiffening dick surged. He couldn't stop the bodily jerk he made, eyes flying wide at the weird, pleasurable pressure. His free hand left the arm of the chair to touch tentatively, fingertips only, against Peter's sides, as he wriggled and shifted under the occupant of his lap. He liked that. He could feel Peter's groin, hard and soft against him, but he wasn't brave enough to drop his hand to feel him out. His head was spinning, breath coming in fast, noisy pants against Peter's cheek. Peter tried to turn his head, but Sylar prevented it. One hand still holding Peter's head where he wanted it, he brought the other to the side of Peter's face, cupping his cheek to keep him still as he mouthed over him clumsily. He could taste the chlorine on Peter's skin and feel the faint bristles with his lips as he worked the skin around Peter's mouth. More chilled drops of water fell on him, every one a small jolt. He could feel Peter's wet hair trailing against his face as the other man squirmed in his grip, trying to move in ways Sylar was resisting.
Finally, with a couple of determined tugs, Peter pushed off from where he was still braced on the arm and back of the pool chair, pulling his head free of Sylar's grasp and rocking back on Sylar's hips in the process. It was a wave of penile sensation that made Sylar completely forget about Peter yanking away. He let his head fall back, mouth open and eyes shut as he rolled his hips into Peter's body, opening his eyes again at the deep, breathy exhalation Peter made in response. Sylar chuckled deep in his throat at how flushed Peter was, with the heavy lids and puffy lips. He'd never seen anyone look so ready to fuck.
"Finally going to give it up to me, are you?" Sylar gloated with a smug grin. "I've had your mouth. Let's see what the rest of you is like." He reached out possessively, trying to tug Peter forward by pulling at his mostly-folded knees.
Peter jerked like he'd been slapped, the crude insult making him flush redder and bare his teeth. Three blinks later, he was up off Sylar's lap and the expression of desire had vanished like it was never there. Cool air rushed in where Peter's warmth used to be pressed against Sylar, a loss that Sylar grabbed after futilely. Peter got out of his reach and turned to glare at him, arms braced stiffly at his sides, hands curling into fists. Sylar pulled back, retreating into his chair. His head tucked down and shoulders came up, hands loose and ready between them to fend off blows that didn't come.
It was words instead. "Fuck you!"
"Go fuck yourself, then!" he rejoined, angry that Peter wasn't going to give him what he wanted. Obviously, he had misread him, thinking Peter would surely be as vulnerable and receptive as Elle had been. Snarling, he turned his face away and watched out of the corner of his eye as Peter stalked away to the showers, with the distinct feeling he'd have been happier if Peter had stuck around and kicked the crap out of him instead (and a lot happier if, after kicking the crap out of him, Peter had had his way with him). He lay there silently until long after Peter had left the spooky quiet of the pool room, plotting his revenge for the unwarranted rejection. Peter had a breaking point and if Sylar was good at one thing, it was in pushing people past that.