My muse appears to have expired
Hey wow so what is up.
Anyway I figured I would do a post here just to say what is going on at the moment in terms of my fanon.
1) I found old-written porn that made me LOL. So I'm going to use it as one of my writing prompts for mission_insane, because I believe you are allowed to use a limited amount of pre-written ones.
2) I seem to have started making a Peter/Sylar video. Who knows if it will ever come to fruitition?
3) Meta for 3x14 on the way! Isn't that EXCITING?
4) Sarah's Fic? I revised the first part of it and I think I shall post it up so people can tell me what they are thinking?
5) I was digging through files and found the most hilarious crack story I started forever ago where Sylar gets turned into a kitten. Don't even ASK ME where that came from. Just seeing how I used to write is funny to me, so I might finish that off and post at some time in the future.
6) Six is my lucky number. Just that there is annoyingly no new projects going on. Also I keep wanting to write screwy het?! Who is AU-ing my life?!
Anyway, here is the lulzy early pornay fic. THIS DOESN'T MAKE SEEEEENSE.
Title: Denial
Characters/Pairings: Petlaaaaaar as ever.
Set: Jeez, um...AU Season Oney?
Rating/Warnings: boysmexing, swearing, bad porn, so n00bish it's cracky, almost something that's a hint of consent confusion?
Summary: Peter is basically a whore. YES THAT IS IT.
A/N: This works for Sylar, "You're Gorgeous When You're Angry" at mission_insane I guess. ...also LOL again.
He’s sure it was Sylar that first started it anyway, which surprised him. He’d have thought of either of them, it would have been him. But Sylar does have that surprising quality.
So, yes, it was Sylar that started it and leapt at him, hissing like a cat, all body force and claws and Peter couldn’t do anything because he was too surprised.
But it made sense.
What else could they do?
What else could they do when they could both do everything?
There was no point, no point in standing meters away and throwing the light at each other like they used to, blue cold red hot light flung when they both just absorbed it and healed.
At least this way, it’s a fight.
But it’s a fight which Sylar always ends on top of him, and he’s wriggling underneath and it’s not his fault he’s grinding them together and his shirt’s been scorched off by one of them. He just likes it, too much, likes it in a brutal manner. Sylar's so furious and it radiates off him, real honest emotion.
Sylar must like it too, somewhere repressed and deep down, on top of a writhing Peter who vamps his pained moans up to pornographic. Sylar’s legs are somehow tangled and straddling his own, heavy denim jeans brushing one another. The shirt clinging over his chest is thin, and Peter arches his back and bucks his chest forward to bring his skin against it.
It is not his fault if that puts Sylar off balance, if that makes the killer lose his stance and fall until he’s lying heavy on top of Peter. Peter still grinding and bucking and thrashing underneath him, and he’s suddenly aware he’s pushing his hips right up against Sylar’s in a manner that aches of sexuality.
It’s like some weird ritual denial, two of them on the floor scrabbling for one another and 'accidentally' swapping pleasures. Sylar smacks him across the jaw with a tight fist, and Peter gasps in a way that sounds filthy even to his own ears and wets his lips with a quick flick of tongue. He’s no longer focused on blowing Sylar apart, but his mind and eyes have started to slip as he thinks on just blowing him.
Yes, he said, he admits it. It’s in his head, now, right now, with Sylar still on top of him. Crude and oh-so-childish. The idea of the man crawling up him and fucking his face, Sylar growling above him and rolling his hips against Peter’s own in faux innocence even as he pictures it.
He can’t help it. He’s getting hard, he can feel the blood thumping down his body and leaving his head helplessly empty. His hand works it’s way to the neck of Sylar’s shirt, the other one creeping without his will to the top of the man’s jeans and pushing him down. Sylar spits on his face.
“No,” he snarls at the young man. Peter throws his head back to crack on the floor and thrusts into Sylar’s crotch, feels that the man is hard through the material between them. He keeps rolling their hips and pulls Sylar down further onto him, weight pressing them into the ground.
“I said no, you filthy fucking whore,” Sylar growls to him. Peter’s hand slips to his belt and he works it off, pushes Sylar’s trousers and boxers down in one movement. They hang around his knees awkwardly and Peter’s hand returns to his own jeans to rid them too.
He kicks them and bucks and writhes until they hang around his ankles and grasps at Sylar’s bare skin, pushes his hands up his shirt and over his back greedily. He tries to shift his hips to push his cock against Sylar’s, but the man is moving back, scrabbling his jeans up.
“Fucking fuck me,” Peter demands with his eyes still closed. His hand in Sylar’s shirt collar slips to his neck, pulls the killer’s face close to his and he kisses the lips. Sylar struggles against his grasp, but Peter keeps a firm hold and starts to bucks his hips again.
“No,” Sylar tells him. His voice is shaking, and Peter gets the feeling even Sylar can't tell if it's from arousal or anger. Peter knocks his hands out from under him and lets the bigger man fall on top of him, rolls them over and pins him down.
“Then-let-me-” he gasps. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he rubs in short, desperate strokes against Sylar’s hip, jacks himself from strictly the friction. The heat builds, and he lets go of his grip on Sylar to groan and reach a hand to touch himself.
Sylar sits up in a second, and Peter would go flying backwards if it weren’t for the big hands in the small of his back. He smirks as he pushes at Sylar’s waistband, awkwardly maneuvering the jeans to his knees again and straddling the kneeling position. Sylar plunges his tongue into Peter’s mouth and pulls his grip tighter, pressing Peter’s bare chest into his own. Peter lifts himself, leans in a strange angle. He slips himself down on Sylar’s cock and bites at the man’s lips in a wince. He wriggles, brushes his prostate, groans.
Sylar’s nails dig into his back and he whines into Peter’s mouth. The Empath grabs a hold of his shoulders, lifts himself and twists his hips sharply before sliding down again. Sylar tears his mouth away to seek Peter’s collarbone, and he bites. His hands slip to Peter’s hips and he thrusts up into the younger man, keeping time with their frantic scrabble.
“Yeah…Harder. Harder,” Peter begs through broken breath. Sylar obliges, fucks into him harder, and Peter slams down onto his cock with every stroke, flushed face and open gasping mouth as Sylar sucks on the hollows of his throat.
They can’t make it last and they don’t want to. They’re too desperately close for that already, so Sylar keeps groaning when Peter twists and Peter bites his lip bloody when Sylar skims his hand against his cock. It’s an odd muffled silence punctuated only by swears and skin against skin in the empty room.
Peter comes first, arches into Sylar hard, grinds down and rocks his hips to ride out the orgasm. His hair sticks to his forehead and his fingers slip over Sylar’s sweat-sheened shoulders as he keeps riding. Sylar tilts his head up and catches his mouth as he comes afterwards, bites on Peter’s tongue to muffle a sigh.
They continue to rock shallowly for a few more moments, before Peter pants and lifts himself off, reaches for his jeans. He pulls them up and buttons them, eyes Sylar warily. The killer’s head is tilted back as though it’s too heavy for him, eyes closed and still kneeling with deep breaths. He looks up suddenly.
“I said no.”
Sylar stands quickly and pulls his own jeans up, stares at Peter with something akin to betrayal written on his face. Peter’s eyes drop as he tilts his head and parts his lips.
He shrugs uselessly. “I’m sorry.”
Sylar shakes his head. He turns and Peter smiles, speaks.
"I still don't like you."
Sylar spins and punches him across the jaw, sends him reeling. “I hate you.”
Peter stumbles and raises a hand to crack his jaw back into place. “Oh, but why?”
Sylar glares at him and turns again, strides out the door without looking back. Peter hears him storm downstairs and slam the door. He edges to the window to see Sylar disappearing down the dark street and slides down the wall of the abandoned house.
Sylar started it, anyway.
He leans out the window to shout one last thing.
"You're cute when you're mad, you know!"
PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ok yes.
Anyway I figured I would do a post here just to say what is going on at the moment in terms of my fanon.
1) I found old-written porn that made me LOL. So I'm going to use it as one of my writing prompts for mission_insane, because I believe you are allowed to use a limited amount of pre-written ones.
2) I seem to have started making a Peter/Sylar video. Who knows if it will ever come to fruitition?
3) Meta for 3x14 on the way! Isn't that EXCITING?
4) Sarah's Fic? I revised the first part of it and I think I shall post it up so people can tell me what they are thinking?
5) I was digging through files and found the most hilarious crack story I started forever ago where Sylar gets turned into a kitten. Don't even ASK ME where that came from. Just seeing how I used to write is funny to me, so I might finish that off and post at some time in the future.
6) Six is my lucky number. Just that there is annoyingly no new projects going on. Also I keep wanting to write screwy het?! Who is AU-ing my life?!
Anyway, here is the lulzy early pornay fic. THIS DOESN'T MAKE SEEEEENSE.
Title: Denial
Characters/Pairings: Petlaaaaaar as ever.
Set: Jeez, um...AU Season Oney?
Rating/Warnings: boysmexing, swearing, bad porn, so n00bish it's cracky, almost something that's a hint of consent confusion?
Summary: Peter is basically a whore. YES THAT IS IT.
A/N: This works for Sylar, "You're Gorgeous When You're Angry" at mission_insane I guess. ...also LOL again.
He’s sure it was Sylar that first started it anyway, which surprised him. He’d have thought of either of them, it would have been him. But Sylar does have that surprising quality.
So, yes, it was Sylar that started it and leapt at him, hissing like a cat, all body force and claws and Peter couldn’t do anything because he was too surprised.
But it made sense.
What else could they do?
What else could they do when they could both do everything?
There was no point, no point in standing meters away and throwing the light at each other like they used to, blue cold red hot light flung when they both just absorbed it and healed.
At least this way, it’s a fight.
But it’s a fight which Sylar always ends on top of him, and he’s wriggling underneath and it’s not his fault he’s grinding them together and his shirt’s been scorched off by one of them. He just likes it, too much, likes it in a brutal manner. Sylar's so furious and it radiates off him, real honest emotion.
Sylar must like it too, somewhere repressed and deep down, on top of a writhing Peter who vamps his pained moans up to pornographic. Sylar’s legs are somehow tangled and straddling his own, heavy denim jeans brushing one another. The shirt clinging over his chest is thin, and Peter arches his back and bucks his chest forward to bring his skin against it.
It is not his fault if that puts Sylar off balance, if that makes the killer lose his stance and fall until he’s lying heavy on top of Peter. Peter still grinding and bucking and thrashing underneath him, and he’s suddenly aware he’s pushing his hips right up against Sylar’s in a manner that aches of sexuality.
It’s like some weird ritual denial, two of them on the floor scrabbling for one another and 'accidentally' swapping pleasures. Sylar smacks him across the jaw with a tight fist, and Peter gasps in a way that sounds filthy even to his own ears and wets his lips with a quick flick of tongue. He’s no longer focused on blowing Sylar apart, but his mind and eyes have started to slip as he thinks on just blowing him.
Yes, he said, he admits it. It’s in his head, now, right now, with Sylar still on top of him. Crude and oh-so-childish. The idea of the man crawling up him and fucking his face, Sylar growling above him and rolling his hips against Peter’s own in faux innocence even as he pictures it.
He can’t help it. He’s getting hard, he can feel the blood thumping down his body and leaving his head helplessly empty. His hand works it’s way to the neck of Sylar’s shirt, the other one creeping without his will to the top of the man’s jeans and pushing him down. Sylar spits on his face.
“No,” he snarls at the young man. Peter throws his head back to crack on the floor and thrusts into Sylar’s crotch, feels that the man is hard through the material between them. He keeps rolling their hips and pulls Sylar down further onto him, weight pressing them into the ground.
“I said no, you filthy fucking whore,” Sylar growls to him. Peter’s hand slips to his belt and he works it off, pushes Sylar’s trousers and boxers down in one movement. They hang around his knees awkwardly and Peter’s hand returns to his own jeans to rid them too.
He kicks them and bucks and writhes until they hang around his ankles and grasps at Sylar’s bare skin, pushes his hands up his shirt and over his back greedily. He tries to shift his hips to push his cock against Sylar’s, but the man is moving back, scrabbling his jeans up.
“Fucking fuck me,” Peter demands with his eyes still closed. His hand in Sylar’s shirt collar slips to his neck, pulls the killer’s face close to his and he kisses the lips. Sylar struggles against his grasp, but Peter keeps a firm hold and starts to bucks his hips again.
“No,” Sylar tells him. His voice is shaking, and Peter gets the feeling even Sylar can't tell if it's from arousal or anger. Peter knocks his hands out from under him and lets the bigger man fall on top of him, rolls them over and pins him down.
“Then-let-me-” he gasps. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he rubs in short, desperate strokes against Sylar’s hip, jacks himself from strictly the friction. The heat builds, and he lets go of his grip on Sylar to groan and reach a hand to touch himself.
Sylar sits up in a second, and Peter would go flying backwards if it weren’t for the big hands in the small of his back. He smirks as he pushes at Sylar’s waistband, awkwardly maneuvering the jeans to his knees again and straddling the kneeling position. Sylar plunges his tongue into Peter’s mouth and pulls his grip tighter, pressing Peter’s bare chest into his own. Peter lifts himself, leans in a strange angle. He slips himself down on Sylar’s cock and bites at the man’s lips in a wince. He wriggles, brushes his prostate, groans.
Sylar’s nails dig into his back and he whines into Peter’s mouth. The Empath grabs a hold of his shoulders, lifts himself and twists his hips sharply before sliding down again. Sylar tears his mouth away to seek Peter’s collarbone, and he bites. His hands slip to Peter’s hips and he thrusts up into the younger man, keeping time with their frantic scrabble.
“Yeah…Harder. Harder,” Peter begs through broken breath. Sylar obliges, fucks into him harder, and Peter slams down onto his cock with every stroke, flushed face and open gasping mouth as Sylar sucks on the hollows of his throat.
They can’t make it last and they don’t want to. They’re too desperately close for that already, so Sylar keeps groaning when Peter twists and Peter bites his lip bloody when Sylar skims his hand against his cock. It’s an odd muffled silence punctuated only by swears and skin against skin in the empty room.
Peter comes first, arches into Sylar hard, grinds down and rocks his hips to ride out the orgasm. His hair sticks to his forehead and his fingers slip over Sylar’s sweat-sheened shoulders as he keeps riding. Sylar tilts his head up and catches his mouth as he comes afterwards, bites on Peter’s tongue to muffle a sigh.
They continue to rock shallowly for a few more moments, before Peter pants and lifts himself off, reaches for his jeans. He pulls them up and buttons them, eyes Sylar warily. The killer’s head is tilted back as though it’s too heavy for him, eyes closed and still kneeling with deep breaths. He looks up suddenly.
“I said no.”
Sylar stands quickly and pulls his own jeans up, stares at Peter with something akin to betrayal written on his face. Peter’s eyes drop as he tilts his head and parts his lips.
He shrugs uselessly. “I’m sorry.”
Sylar shakes his head. He turns and Peter smiles, speaks.
"I still don't like you."
Sylar spins and punches him across the jaw, sends him reeling. “I hate you.”
Peter stumbles and raises a hand to crack his jaw back into place. “Oh, but why?”
Sylar glares at him and turns again, strides out the door without looking back. Peter hears him storm downstairs and slam the door. He edges to the window to see Sylar disappearing down the dark street and slides down the wall of the abandoned house.
Sylar started it, anyway.
He leans out the window to shout one last thing.
"You're cute when you're mad, you know!"
PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Ok yes.