What You Want, What I Want
Title: What You Want, What I Want
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation, some language, fantasy, talk of sex fluids, sexual inexperience/anxiety and potential sexual abuse.
Setting: During MBU (behind the Wall).
Word count: 2,893
A/N: Written in response to Game_byrd's piece " Blue Balls". This is not MBU canon, but it is inspired by More Between Us. A sort of CHARACTER STUDY.
They had found a pattern: Peter doing something semi-athletic and generally useless unless it was playing piano (which was anything but useless) and Sylar reading or fixing, deconstructing and refixing watches and clocks.
Sometimes, Sylar would admit, he was not completely focused or focused at all on the reading he pretended to be interested in. Just like now. It wasn’t like Peter cared so long as he was quiet and out of the way; it wasn’t like the other man looked over to check up on him.
Sylar checked up on Peter, though. Every little movement was of interest. Perhaps it was because Peter was ‘broken’, technically; perhaps it was because Peter was a Petrelli, perhaps because of Nathan (God, he hoped not!); perhaps it was because Peter was a hero. Or because the man was the last one on earth besides Sylar himself. It was a great mystery the level of interest Peter, unknowingly, uncaringly, gained. Sylar couldn’t explain it, try as he might.
Sylar did not consider himself to be “into” men. He had to ask himself every day if his interest in Peter was for Peter as himself or the ‘last man on earth’ theory coming into literal play. To a degree his hand was being forced - he wouldn’t have made moves on Peter had there been others around. It was the luck of the draw, or so he chose to believe; it could have been so very much worse. Being stuck with Parkman or Noah as that ‘last man on earth’? There would be little interest in either as a person and they would not be interested in him as one either, not that they could see him as human in any case.
Sylar had been happily straight before all this. But the world lacked breasts, correct anatomy and feminine curves so Sylar adapted. That’s what he told himself anyway. Eventually the sexual tension, sexual deprivation, would drive them both mad and one thing would lead to another and….Well, it was just inevitable.
It was the anatomy, Sylar decided, that bothered him most. The times he’d had sex (with women, obviously), he’d been in charge, on top (maybe not in the top position) and calling the shots. He had been the aggressor, the dominant; he’d been the man, literally. No woman had any penetrating appendages or incorrect orifices (at least that *he* had used) that would prove to put him off the act or make him uncomfortable. The women had submitted to his actions and, as a result, been pleasured by them. He’d never had any complaints (rather surprising given that all three times he’d never been in full control of his powers, and only once had he been sane while doing the deed).
With women…he was good in bed, not discounting the occasional mental holiday or lack of control of his powers if he had any at all. But there was something mentally wrong to him about (soberly) taking a man, complete with dick and ass, into bed with him. He had no idea of his role or what his bedmate liked. And then said future bedmate had a grudge. And Sylar’s ass had never had the unique ‘pleasure’. It was a recipe for something akin to rape, but it would be a consenting act; so something equating to some ‘kinky’, BDSM scene that would leave him...probably bloody, bruised, unsafe and unsatisfied to say the least. What was the appeal?
Oh, yes: Peter.
Wonder of all wonders, he’d always noticed Peter. Anyone would call him cute and handsome, great personality, the works, really. The guy had it all. Peter was “it”. Technically…Mohinder was on par as far as looks went (personality and the rest was sorely lacking), but Sylar had never been interested in the scientist that way. Mohinder was an idiot and he didn’t have the grace to make his fuck-ups look good, unlike Peter.
Sooner or later Peter would want to. It was nature and the urge natural even if the options weren’t. So…what was Sylar going to do when that happened? He would be be flattered, disgusted, then angry. Very worried, too. He lacked experience (he didn’t want to even think the ‘V’ word. If he said it aloud, he feared Peter would dismiss him or abuse that fact). Men liked blowjobs, he knew that; he was a man after all, even if he didn’t actively seek them out. Peter could, quite possibly, be amused and satisfied with blowjobs for years. Sylar seriously longed for a Q&A just so he could pin down Peter’s preferences and have something to go on. It would be helpful and ease a lot of his mental tangles. Alas, it was unlikely.
Okay, say Peter asks me for a blowjob…What am I gonna say? “You just want to see me on my knees”. No, no. Sylar reined in all his snarking replies. Peter had every power to be cruel in this, too. Sylar would admit he was paranoid about being humiliated, degraded and forced to do gross, unsanitary, nonsexual things as either a precursor to the sexual stuff or not getting there at all. The potential for abuse, with Sylar’s overactive imagination and Peter’s strength and reasoning, was limitless and it did wonders to kill any libido he might have for servicing the man.
I’d rather not kneel. Maybe I’d have him sit on a counter top or a table and I’d sit on a chair next to him. He winced at the image, at even thinking about it. He sure as hell won’t take me to bed for this so it’s going to be kinky location 101. How am I gonna cover up the fact that I don’t want his dick in my mouth and that I’ve never sucked one before? I sure as hell don’t want his jizz in my mouth, I don’t want to taste him, and I’m not going to swallow any Petrelli spawn, no thanks. So…spitting, then.
He’s not going to want teeth. I know that’s a problem sometimes. Then there's cramping...I don’t want to choke but he might make me. Deep-throating, isn't it? There’s the whole problem of drooling, not being able to breathe or throwing up even. Shit, what if that happens? More than anything, Sylar hated the subservience of the act, being placed in the feminine role for it. Of course he didn’t want to play or appear the whore, but he would rather appear oversexed than be forced to beg. Then eye contact: to look, not to look…He sighed, adjusting the book mostly for show, moving on from his list of ‘don’t wants’. They were only getting in the way after all.
I’d like…getting someone off with my mouth, that’s a plus. Kissing and licking and biting. I enjoy feeling someone else through my mouth; that feels great. Somewhat sadly, he couldn’t claim he’d even gone down on a woman before. Maybe it was something to do with hygiene; he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of putting his tongue on something potentially unclean although the taste was something he felt sure he could manage. Hell, Sylar barely knew what a blowjob felt like. He’d not exactly been paying attention when it had been performed, much more busy with moaning and feeling and not cumming. But, being orally inclined, he supposed all he needed to do was trick his mind around the act as his mind was being problematic.
The old ‘pretend I like it’ Jedi mind trick, self-performed of course. Then I’ll be…sucking him down like there’s no tomorrow. I’d jerk him off a lot, pretend to be pissed off and enjoying it at the same time. It took real mental effort to play it out in his head as a face full of dick was intimidating even to him. It was certainly sexually intimidating. I’d lick him first, like a taste test, I assume he’d be hard already. I’d be nervous to touch him if he wasn’t; I’d screw it up if I had to do that. He’d like one thing and I’d be doing another…That’s a quick way to get popped in the face. He avoided thoughts of blackened eyes and broken noses after trying to service Peter. He didn’t think it would come to that, but who knew? Maybe I could ask- tell him that if he hits me, I won’t do it? Sylar put that thought away for further examination because it was important to him. Maybe if I thought of it like…giving a blowjob how I’d like to get one? Would that work? Fool my mind into thinking I’m sucking myself or something? It’s sick, sure, but…desperate times. It would certainly make it more…entertaining.
Pursing his lips at the idea, he moved on. I do like his noises…I wonder if I took control if he’d be more…vocal? That would definitely make me feel better. His noises turn me on; I could get into it if he made noise. I wonder what he sounds like…At that, Sylar’s gaze snaked over with evil, filthy, lewd intent to fixate on Peter’s back. I know I could turn him on if I just talked dirty to him. Everyone likes that. Unless he does his goody-two-shoes act and gets…modest, no, he’s not modest. He gets off on someone showing interest, so interest I would show. Telling him how hot that makes me when he moans…ooh, yeah. I could so get into that. Shit.
Sylar glanced down at his suddenly interested member now pressing against his pants. He no longer knew if he was mentally addressing Peter or his own dick and it hardly mattered. Watching that sexy, crooked mouth fall open if I sucked him just right. Why didn’t I think of this before? I’d *offer* fucking blowjobs to see and hear that…His erection was eagerly tenting against his jeans now and he was seconds away from grabbing and pleasing it, satisfying it, his book completely forgotten. The current thoughts made him all kinds of horny, never mind that it was probably unlikely to happen in a way for him to get into it. He could, and would, pretend.
Watching him squirm and try to get more, maybe run his hands over that neck or his chest, those funny little nipples of his. Watch him blush and pant…Then he would taste so good. Jesus…Sylar twisted on the couch and tried to keep it subtle, even behind Peter’s sexy back. Maybe if I got brave I’d reach for that hot ass of his, give it a squeeze he wouldn’t forget, maybe rub myself a little through my jeans…See those big, beautiful eyes roll back in his head and watch him spread his legs wide for me or thrust to get in deeper, get closer. Maybe he’d put his hands in my hair…No, he wouldn’t. Scratch that. His dick was aching now, and obvious. Sylar mumbled some excuse, paying no attention to the reply, setting aside his book and making a casual dash for the nearest bathroom. Gasping once he was there, his mind was in complete fantasy mode now whether he liked it or not, fueled by each pump his heart sending blood to his dick. Sylar placed a hand on the sink, grinding a furious palm against his engorged zipper, thoroughly disregarding his reflection in the mirror in favor of eyeing his bulge. “Shit,” he muttered, ignoring the awkward echo in all the tile.
To completely enjoy himself, he knew he would have to start over at the beginning as where he’d left off was all but the end. Rewind…We’d end up against a wall somewhere, maybe a little angry, a little aggressive. I’d grab him, kiss that…that mouth. God, that sassy little mouth. The same one that haunted him although he wished it didn’t. Peter’s lips had lots of qualities to arouse or be arousing. Honestly when the man panted it was like a commercial for condoms or some phone-sex service. Finally get a taste of him, make him moan until he needs air then lick on those lips when they get swollen and used.
That was it. He didn’t want to be jerking off, least of all to this, but it beat any old memories of Lydia or Janice, and his dick was not going to diminish any time soon. It felt disrespectful (why he bothered?) to Peter but that dirtiness only made it hotter. It could be said that the forbidden angle (and really, what wasn’t forbidden to him?) really got him going. Down went the tab to his zipper, out came his needy organ, already slicking itself up and ready for release. Sylar took himself in a firm, tight grip to slow down a bit, but it was difficult.
Rip that tight black shirt off over his head and grope him all over because I want to feel what he’s been teasing me with. Get my hands under those jeans and squeeze his ass, maybe rub him a bit with my cock. Sylar hissed loudly in the silence of the bathroom, although he’d forgotten where he was by now, his fist teasingly stroking his shaft up and down, not nearly as hard as he wanted. Mark up his neck with bites and hickeys. No way you’re forgetting me, Peter. Dig my fingers into all that soft hair…make him look up at me and admit he’s begging for this, the little slut.
Imagining Peter’s breathy response was seriously doing him in, but still he held out. If the fantasy was this good, surely the reality would make him pop off in seconds flat. Sylar’s eyes were closed, his head back, mouth open, for the most part quiet. Then I’d make him strip, make him show himself off for me. I’d strip for him, too, let him see what he’s been missing out on…I’d rub myself all over him until we smell like each other. Here Sylar’s mind hit an underground landmine. I don’t wanna fuck him in the ass, but I do. God, I do, so bad. I think it would make me cum way too fast…not like his mouth is going to be any better…worse, whatever. His mouth is cleaner, but he might bite…Sylar told himself to literally fuck it - this was a fantasy. It was not like any of the imagined events would ever happen. Seriously, Peter letting him take control? Unlikely. Peter asking for a blowjob? Way more likely.
Go for it. I’d grab his face and put him on his knees and rub that cute pout all over my dick and I’d pet his hair back and it wouldn’t stay in place… The problem with masturbating was not enjoying it; it was enjoying it too much. Any fantasy was likely to have him bursting (he thought) embarrassingly quickly. He just didn’t do it (jerking off) enough to elongate his…times, he supposed they were.
In spite of that, his hand was firmly twisting away at his root, eyes still blissfully closed as he humped his hand lightly, legs spread and hips cocked forward. Sylar tuned out the sounds of his hand sliding over his skin so intimately and focused on Peter’s gorgeous face ready to suck him down.
The thrill of even imagining Peter Petrelli on his knees, blowing him was a serious head rush of power-play. His personalized hero (looking more like a slut at the moment), eager to serve and save the day. Sylar's head was a bit fuzzy with lust, but the I-talian Eagle Scout, the Golden Boy, sucking him off like a pro would definitely count as a win in his book.
Then I’d guide his mouth over me and tell him not to bite me or he’d regret it and he’d nod, so eager, and take me down. Sylar grunted, imagining the heat and wetness inside the other man’s mouth. He’s been with men, so he’d know how to work my dick and keep it tight and I’d pull his head down and watch him take it all…I’ve always wanted to know how that lip of his feels, adding more stimulation and I’d use his cute face, make him bob up and down and swallow around me until he made all those desperate noises and tried to push me away while I fuck his throat.
(Then I’d dig my fingers into his hair and hold him down on me while I thrust a bit…)
Clearly picturing Peter Petrelli’s bang-curtained face with a mouth full of throbbing cock, sucking the life out of it, wet and deep with that faulty lip had Sylar’s hand jacking with increased speed over himself, slick and easy now. His gasps and hard breathing filled the bathroom with only a speck of attention and shame, his hips moving against his hand. Seconds later he stiffened, feeling the hot rush in his abdomen and balls before giving off a low grunted groan of more completion that he had any right to feel as his dick gushed out into the bowl of the sink.
His release was hard, quick yet sustained, melting his nerves and setting his brain on fire as he went numb and his cock felt like it was burning. He didn’t feel much of anything except his orgasm, not even his continued, jagged, messy stroking for some minutes.
Several breaths after that his embarrassment was back in full force for having basically defiled a sink. His options had been underwear, toilet or sink. Red-faced and nervous from long experience, he hastily, shakily cleaned the sink out and scrubbed his hands after temporarily washing his dick, replacing it only after the cleansing processes of everything else. Amazingly he hadn’t heard his mother’s voice screaming (“GABRIEL!!” or “God can see you!”) in his mental ear…and that this fantasy had been with a man, too…He literally threw his mind away from that line of thought. Sylar swallowed and took a deep breath, smoothing back his hair and looking anywhere but the wall of mirrors he faced. Now to face Peter…
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Masturbation, some language, fantasy, talk of sex fluids, sexual inexperience/anxiety and potential sexual abuse.
Setting: During MBU (behind the Wall).
Word count: 2,893
A/N: Written in response to Game_byrd's piece " Blue Balls". This is not MBU canon, but it is inspired by More Between Us. A sort of CHARACTER STUDY.
They had found a pattern: Peter doing something semi-athletic and generally useless unless it was playing piano (which was anything but useless) and Sylar reading or fixing, deconstructing and refixing watches and clocks.
Sometimes, Sylar would admit, he was not completely focused or focused at all on the reading he pretended to be interested in. Just like now. It wasn’t like Peter cared so long as he was quiet and out of the way; it wasn’t like the other man looked over to check up on him.
Sylar checked up on Peter, though. Every little movement was of interest. Perhaps it was because Peter was ‘broken’, technically; perhaps it was because Peter was a Petrelli, perhaps because of Nathan (God, he hoped not!); perhaps it was because Peter was a hero. Or because the man was the last one on earth besides Sylar himself. It was a great mystery the level of interest Peter, unknowingly, uncaringly, gained. Sylar couldn’t explain it, try as he might.
Sylar did not consider himself to be “into” men. He had to ask himself every day if his interest in Peter was for Peter as himself or the ‘last man on earth’ theory coming into literal play. To a degree his hand was being forced - he wouldn’t have made moves on Peter had there been others around. It was the luck of the draw, or so he chose to believe; it could have been so very much worse. Being stuck with Parkman or Noah as that ‘last man on earth’? There would be little interest in either as a person and they would not be interested in him as one either, not that they could see him as human in any case.
Sylar had been happily straight before all this. But the world lacked breasts, correct anatomy and feminine curves so Sylar adapted. That’s what he told himself anyway. Eventually the sexual tension, sexual deprivation, would drive them both mad and one thing would lead to another and….Well, it was just inevitable.
It was the anatomy, Sylar decided, that bothered him most. The times he’d had sex (with women, obviously), he’d been in charge, on top (maybe not in the top position) and calling the shots. He had been the aggressor, the dominant; he’d been the man, literally. No woman had any penetrating appendages or incorrect orifices (at least that *he* had used) that would prove to put him off the act or make him uncomfortable. The women had submitted to his actions and, as a result, been pleasured by them. He’d never had any complaints (rather surprising given that all three times he’d never been in full control of his powers, and only once had he been sane while doing the deed).
With women…he was good in bed, not discounting the occasional mental holiday or lack of control of his powers if he had any at all. But there was something mentally wrong to him about (soberly) taking a man, complete with dick and ass, into bed with him. He had no idea of his role or what his bedmate liked. And then said future bedmate had a grudge. And Sylar’s ass had never had the unique ‘pleasure’. It was a recipe for something akin to rape, but it would be a consenting act; so something equating to some ‘kinky’, BDSM scene that would leave him...probably bloody, bruised, unsafe and unsatisfied to say the least. What was the appeal?
Oh, yes: Peter.
Wonder of all wonders, he’d always noticed Peter. Anyone would call him cute and handsome, great personality, the works, really. The guy had it all. Peter was “it”. Technically…Mohinder was on par as far as looks went (personality and the rest was sorely lacking), but Sylar had never been interested in the scientist that way. Mohinder was an idiot and he didn’t have the grace to make his fuck-ups look good, unlike Peter.
Sooner or later Peter would want to. It was nature and the urge natural even if the options weren’t. So…what was Sylar going to do when that happened? He would be be flattered, disgusted, then angry. Very worried, too. He lacked experience (he didn’t want to even think the ‘V’ word. If he said it aloud, he feared Peter would dismiss him or abuse that fact). Men liked blowjobs, he knew that; he was a man after all, even if he didn’t actively seek them out. Peter could, quite possibly, be amused and satisfied with blowjobs for years. Sylar seriously longed for a Q&A just so he could pin down Peter’s preferences and have something to go on. It would be helpful and ease a lot of his mental tangles. Alas, it was unlikely.
Okay, say Peter asks me for a blowjob…What am I gonna say? “You just want to see me on my knees”. No, no. Sylar reined in all his snarking replies. Peter had every power to be cruel in this, too. Sylar would admit he was paranoid about being humiliated, degraded and forced to do gross, unsanitary, nonsexual things as either a precursor to the sexual stuff or not getting there at all. The potential for abuse, with Sylar’s overactive imagination and Peter’s strength and reasoning, was limitless and it did wonders to kill any libido he might have for servicing the man.
I’d rather not kneel. Maybe I’d have him sit on a counter top or a table and I’d sit on a chair next to him. He winced at the image, at even thinking about it. He sure as hell won’t take me to bed for this so it’s going to be kinky location 101. How am I gonna cover up the fact that I don’t want his dick in my mouth and that I’ve never sucked one before? I sure as hell don’t want his jizz in my mouth, I don’t want to taste him, and I’m not going to swallow any Petrelli spawn, no thanks. So…spitting, then.
He’s not going to want teeth. I know that’s a problem sometimes. Then there's cramping...I don’t want to choke but he might make me. Deep-throating, isn't it? There’s the whole problem of drooling, not being able to breathe or throwing up even. Shit, what if that happens? More than anything, Sylar hated the subservience of the act, being placed in the feminine role for it. Of course he didn’t want to play or appear the whore, but he would rather appear oversexed than be forced to beg. Then eye contact: to look, not to look…He sighed, adjusting the book mostly for show, moving on from his list of ‘don’t wants’. They were only getting in the way after all.
I’d like…getting someone off with my mouth, that’s a plus. Kissing and licking and biting. I enjoy feeling someone else through my mouth; that feels great. Somewhat sadly, he couldn’t claim he’d even gone down on a woman before. Maybe it was something to do with hygiene; he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of putting his tongue on something potentially unclean although the taste was something he felt sure he could manage. Hell, Sylar barely knew what a blowjob felt like. He’d not exactly been paying attention when it had been performed, much more busy with moaning and feeling and not cumming. But, being orally inclined, he supposed all he needed to do was trick his mind around the act as his mind was being problematic.
The old ‘pretend I like it’ Jedi mind trick, self-performed of course. Then I’ll be…sucking him down like there’s no tomorrow. I’d jerk him off a lot, pretend to be pissed off and enjoying it at the same time. It took real mental effort to play it out in his head as a face full of dick was intimidating even to him. It was certainly sexually intimidating. I’d lick him first, like a taste test, I assume he’d be hard already. I’d be nervous to touch him if he wasn’t; I’d screw it up if I had to do that. He’d like one thing and I’d be doing another…That’s a quick way to get popped in the face. He avoided thoughts of blackened eyes and broken noses after trying to service Peter. He didn’t think it would come to that, but who knew? Maybe I could ask- tell him that if he hits me, I won’t do it? Sylar put that thought away for further examination because it was important to him. Maybe if I thought of it like…giving a blowjob how I’d like to get one? Would that work? Fool my mind into thinking I’m sucking myself or something? It’s sick, sure, but…desperate times. It would certainly make it more…entertaining.
Pursing his lips at the idea, he moved on. I do like his noises…I wonder if I took control if he’d be more…vocal? That would definitely make me feel better. His noises turn me on; I could get into it if he made noise. I wonder what he sounds like…At that, Sylar’s gaze snaked over with evil, filthy, lewd intent to fixate on Peter’s back. I know I could turn him on if I just talked dirty to him. Everyone likes that. Unless he does his goody-two-shoes act and gets…modest, no, he’s not modest. He gets off on someone showing interest, so interest I would show. Telling him how hot that makes me when he moans…ooh, yeah. I could so get into that. Shit.
Sylar glanced down at his suddenly interested member now pressing against his pants. He no longer knew if he was mentally addressing Peter or his own dick and it hardly mattered. Watching that sexy, crooked mouth fall open if I sucked him just right. Why didn’t I think of this before? I’d *offer* fucking blowjobs to see and hear that…His erection was eagerly tenting against his jeans now and he was seconds away from grabbing and pleasing it, satisfying it, his book completely forgotten. The current thoughts made him all kinds of horny, never mind that it was probably unlikely to happen in a way for him to get into it. He could, and would, pretend.
Watching him squirm and try to get more, maybe run his hands over that neck or his chest, those funny little nipples of his. Watch him blush and pant…Then he would taste so good. Jesus…Sylar twisted on the couch and tried to keep it subtle, even behind Peter’s sexy back. Maybe if I got brave I’d reach for that hot ass of his, give it a squeeze he wouldn’t forget, maybe rub myself a little through my jeans…See those big, beautiful eyes roll back in his head and watch him spread his legs wide for me or thrust to get in deeper, get closer. Maybe he’d put his hands in my hair…No, he wouldn’t. Scratch that. His dick was aching now, and obvious. Sylar mumbled some excuse, paying no attention to the reply, setting aside his book and making a casual dash for the nearest bathroom. Gasping once he was there, his mind was in complete fantasy mode now whether he liked it or not, fueled by each pump his heart sending blood to his dick. Sylar placed a hand on the sink, grinding a furious palm against his engorged zipper, thoroughly disregarding his reflection in the mirror in favor of eyeing his bulge. “Shit,” he muttered, ignoring the awkward echo in all the tile.
To completely enjoy himself, he knew he would have to start over at the beginning as where he’d left off was all but the end. Rewind…We’d end up against a wall somewhere, maybe a little angry, a little aggressive. I’d grab him, kiss that…that mouth. God, that sassy little mouth. The same one that haunted him although he wished it didn’t. Peter’s lips had lots of qualities to arouse or be arousing. Honestly when the man panted it was like a commercial for condoms or some phone-sex service. Finally get a taste of him, make him moan until he needs air then lick on those lips when they get swollen and used.
That was it. He didn’t want to be jerking off, least of all to this, but it beat any old memories of Lydia or Janice, and his dick was not going to diminish any time soon. It felt disrespectful (why he bothered?) to Peter but that dirtiness only made it hotter. It could be said that the forbidden angle (and really, what wasn’t forbidden to him?) really got him going. Down went the tab to his zipper, out came his needy organ, already slicking itself up and ready for release. Sylar took himself in a firm, tight grip to slow down a bit, but it was difficult.
Rip that tight black shirt off over his head and grope him all over because I want to feel what he’s been teasing me with. Get my hands under those jeans and squeeze his ass, maybe rub him a bit with my cock. Sylar hissed loudly in the silence of the bathroom, although he’d forgotten where he was by now, his fist teasingly stroking his shaft up and down, not nearly as hard as he wanted. Mark up his neck with bites and hickeys. No way you’re forgetting me, Peter. Dig my fingers into all that soft hair…make him look up at me and admit he’s begging for this, the little slut.
Imagining Peter’s breathy response was seriously doing him in, but still he held out. If the fantasy was this good, surely the reality would make him pop off in seconds flat. Sylar’s eyes were closed, his head back, mouth open, for the most part quiet. Then I’d make him strip, make him show himself off for me. I’d strip for him, too, let him see what he’s been missing out on…I’d rub myself all over him until we smell like each other. Here Sylar’s mind hit an underground landmine. I don’t wanna fuck him in the ass, but I do. God, I do, so bad. I think it would make me cum way too fast…not like his mouth is going to be any better…worse, whatever. His mouth is cleaner, but he might bite…Sylar told himself to literally fuck it - this was a fantasy. It was not like any of the imagined events would ever happen. Seriously, Peter letting him take control? Unlikely. Peter asking for a blowjob? Way more likely.
Go for it. I’d grab his face and put him on his knees and rub that cute pout all over my dick and I’d pet his hair back and it wouldn’t stay in place… The problem with masturbating was not enjoying it; it was enjoying it too much. Any fantasy was likely to have him bursting (he thought) embarrassingly quickly. He just didn’t do it (jerking off) enough to elongate his…times, he supposed they were.
In spite of that, his hand was firmly twisting away at his root, eyes still blissfully closed as he humped his hand lightly, legs spread and hips cocked forward. Sylar tuned out the sounds of his hand sliding over his skin so intimately and focused on Peter’s gorgeous face ready to suck him down.
The thrill of even imagining Peter Petrelli on his knees, blowing him was a serious head rush of power-play. His personalized hero (looking more like a slut at the moment), eager to serve and save the day. Sylar's head was a bit fuzzy with lust, but the I-talian Eagle Scout, the Golden Boy, sucking him off like a pro would definitely count as a win in his book.
Then I’d guide his mouth over me and tell him not to bite me or he’d regret it and he’d nod, so eager, and take me down. Sylar grunted, imagining the heat and wetness inside the other man’s mouth. He’s been with men, so he’d know how to work my dick and keep it tight and I’d pull his head down and watch him take it all…I’ve always wanted to know how that lip of his feels, adding more stimulation and I’d use his cute face, make him bob up and down and swallow around me until he made all those desperate noises and tried to push me away while I fuck his throat.
(Then I’d dig my fingers into his hair and hold him down on me while I thrust a bit…)
Clearly picturing Peter Petrelli’s bang-curtained face with a mouth full of throbbing cock, sucking the life out of it, wet and deep with that faulty lip had Sylar’s hand jacking with increased speed over himself, slick and easy now. His gasps and hard breathing filled the bathroom with only a speck of attention and shame, his hips moving against his hand. Seconds later he stiffened, feeling the hot rush in his abdomen and balls before giving off a low grunted groan of more completion that he had any right to feel as his dick gushed out into the bowl of the sink.
His release was hard, quick yet sustained, melting his nerves and setting his brain on fire as he went numb and his cock felt like it was burning. He didn’t feel much of anything except his orgasm, not even his continued, jagged, messy stroking for some minutes.
Several breaths after that his embarrassment was back in full force for having basically defiled a sink. His options had been underwear, toilet or sink. Red-faced and nervous from long experience, he hastily, shakily cleaned the sink out and scrubbed his hands after temporarily washing his dick, replacing it only after the cleansing processes of everything else. Amazingly he hadn’t heard his mother’s voice screaming (“GABRIEL!!” or “God can see you!”) in his mental ear…and that this fantasy had been with a man, too…He literally threw his mind away from that line of thought. Sylar swallowed and took a deep breath, smoothing back his hair and looking anywhere but the wall of mirrors he faced. Now to face Peter…