(no subject)
OK THAR GOES MY POSTING RESOLOUTION. I need to post like, five fics to make up for it, so....here.
FIC ONE. I think I'm making myself a new genre called Porny Horror.
Title: Vampyre
Characters/Pairing: Petlar...
Set: AU, random!verse. Sylar is a vampire. SHOCK SHOCK.
Rating/Warnings: Sex, Non/Dub-con, Minor Blood Play, Slight Pain Play...um. Yeah..
Summary: Your lips say one thing, but your body says another.
A/N: Written for mission_insane's "Vampire" prompt on Themed/Porny Horror.
It’s dark by now, burning hot stars splattered over the sky in patterns that remind him hungrily of bloodstains. He’s never made sense of constellations. He pads along the pavement, movement loping and long, hands buried deep in the pockets of a trench coat that only adds to his mysterious effect. It’s not the magic of disappearing he wants.
Peter has that magic. He turns to see Sylar standing only a foot behind him, soft serpent smile over his mouth. His eyes widen, and then fade away into invisibility. He falls over his own feet backwards to scramble away, but Sylar doesn’t need to hear to know that. He can smell Peter. Peter smells like no one he’s ever encountered before, mix of musk and sweat over skin, deep taste that is deliciously thick. He could almost swallow the scent, lets his lips slide open and snaps at the air with a clack of incisors to try and catch it. He steps forwards quickly, pushes right into the invisible Peter and shoves them both back to a wall.
Peter flickers back with dark eyes wide still. His eyes are, in fact, darker than Sylar’s own. Peter’s eyes are almost indistinguishable from his pupil, burnt brown that flecks green in certain lights. Here, they look trapped and black.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing alone in an alley like this?”
Sylar looks at him with his head tilted to one side, tongue flicking over his teeth in turn. The incisors slice, and he tastes blood. It’s not satisfying. Blood is silky, but his own tastes slowly heavy, reluctant. As though it must be carved and lured out of him, resistant.
Peter pants, chest pushing against Sylar’s own. Their hands are entwined, arms lifted above their heads, Peter’s pinned to the wall. Sylar has laced their fingers together. Confusion lets him hesitate a fraction rather than use his powers; not that they could work. The moonlight protects Sylar’s form, the hot stars offer blessings in protection as apology for their curses on him. He doesn't take his existance as a curse anymore; he takes it as a gift. Something dark and powerful, shadowy legends shrouding him, one word: Vampyre.
Peter’s smell slides down his throat and sticks. It’s hot over his skin and he lets his eyes close in a long, sweeping blink. His eyelashes are dark, and his eyes are ringed with shadows that makes the movement all the more dramatic. They only highlight his pale skin, the brush of dark stubble over his neck. His eyebrows are slashed low over his eyes.
“Sylar,” Peter says. His voice is low. The name is hissed, drawn-out s that makes Sylar flick his tongue amusedly inside his mouth to honour the reptilian connotations. He watches Peter’s lips as he says the name, naturally pink compared to his skin, the bottom one crooked to an uneven centre.
Sylar drops the left, dodges in to Peter’s neck to catch skin between his teeth. He nips, and keeps hold as he buries his nose in the smell. He briefly inhales before opening his lips and dragging his tongue upwards over the jugular vein, meets Peter’s jaw. He mouths, sucks and swallows over the skin, runs his tongue over and leaves a pale red mark. Peter’s breathing has spiked; Sylar can feel his racing heart as Peter’s chest is pressed to his own. He angles their wrists together and feels it pulse through.
“Ah.”
Peter gasps involuntarily when Sylar slips back down his neck and bites again. The taller man pushes his weight into holding Peter at the wall, licks at the spot. Peter’s pheromones taste almost as attractive as he smells, something that lingers over the sharp points of his teeth. He had never dared to place himself in the situation of tasting Peter more intimately than smell. He’s smelt Peter before, exuding scents from far away and oblivious to the inevitable and irresistible attractions they offered. But he had never believed he would be so lucky to feed off him, to find him whilst hunting and open his mouth to claim him.
“No.”
Sylar lifts his head up and his eyes are hooded as he stares the source of noise. He rubs his cold lips over Peter’s before kissing the bottom one. Peter’s lips are almost rough, and despite his protest, he parts them before Sylar does. Sylar lets their tongues rub together. He had forgotten his hunger in catching Peter, his movements had been lazy and curious, but this has reawakened it. Not just bloodlust skitters through his veins now, hot, heavy carnal lust joins it. The differentiating chemicals combine, lets him devour Peter’s mouth with a newly found fevour. There’s blood amongst their kiss from Sylar’s cut tongue, and Peter scrapes his own against the sharp white points of their teeth.
“No, no,” Peter moans into his mouth.
Sylar rocks their hips and arches his back, expresses his pleasure through movement whilst Peter makes stifled grunts into their mouths. His own hips rub against Sylar’s roughly, seek friction. Sylar rips the kiss apart and leaves Peter dazed, returns to his neck. He is faster this time, more violent. He nips his way down and leaves a trail of disappearing red marks, licks and sucks over the skin and almost crushes Peter into the wall. He catches a section and rolls his tongue across it, leaves a blemishing lovebite. It stands out against Peter’s skin with a strong contrast to the pale angel, some darkness deeper than the red that the devil has inflicted.
Peter becomes helpless in his grasp, melts under his fingers. He lets his head rest back against the wall and exposes more of the pale flesh for Sylar to explore. His submission is total. He starts to sigh as Sylar scrapes pointed teeth over the top of his collarbone, rolls his hips against the vampire’s in more erratic movements.
“What’s happening to me?” he whispers to the sky.
Sylar drops his hands to Peter’s thighs, skims his fingertips over his own trench coat and unbuttons it before lifting Peter up. Peter wraps his legs around Sylar’s hips, underneath the dark coat and against the black denim jeans. He tilts as far back as he can, flutters his eyes closed.
Sylar scents Peter once more, gently flicks his tongue out over his vein. He opens his jaw wider and lets the tips of his teeth sink into the skin, marking, not breaking. A jerk of his neck slides them sharply under the skin, and Peter cries out. His fingers bite into Sylar’s shoulders, where he’s clenching his hands and pulling him closer.
Sylar thrusts against Peter still, lets one hand push under the Empath’s waistband and wraps his fingers around hard cock. Peter grinds down onto Sylar’s crotch and pushes into the grip with shaky bucks of his hips. Sylar continues his own slow hip rolling into Peter, feels warmth building in his stomach.
He draws his lips back and laps at the blood on Peter’s neck, sucks over the wound. Deep ruby droplets dance over his tongue, and he is greedy. The mark heals over and he groans angrily, sinks his fangs once more past the skin. Peter moans and clenches his lip between his teeth, speeds up desperate thrusts, chants his denial over and over.
They continue like that, Sylar stealing minimal drops of blood and biting Peter open again, renewed moans of pleasure and the word no, from the younger man every time. His cock is slick with pre-come and Sylar resettles his grasps, slides to run a nail across his perineum. Peter chokes on a scream and Sylar bites him again, letting him shudder while his orgasm envelops him. Peter jerks his head and tears his neck open more, lets blood run freely across Sylar’s tongue as tears tighten his throat. He sobs no one more time, and Sylar sets his lips around the cut and edges it with his tongue, nibbles with his teeth once more. His lips are warmed and wet with Peter’s delicious blood, and he comes with his mouth clamped over Peter’s neck and tasting him.
Peter lets him rut into his aftershaking body to ride out his orgasm, pushes his neck at an angle to offer better access. Sylar drinks for long moments before pulling away, removing his hand and letting Peter down to the floor. The Empath stays with his head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed, shaking from the most intense pleasure he thinks he's ever felt.
“Don’t stop.”
Sylar swoops to the other side of his neck and pierces the skin smoothly, fangs adapted to cause minimal pain; unless he wants otherwise. But Peter barely notices this time, just raises his hands and grips to Sylar's shoulders. He's half holding himself up and half trying to push the monster away, but it's a losing battle. Sylar gulps and lets hot iron swill over the roof of his mouth, flicks his tongue and tastes the tang of salt. His hand is covered in Peter’s come, and he smears it over the man’s hip roughly and smiles into the bite.
He keeps his teeth firmly in the skin to prevent it healing over and doesn’t move, allows Peter’s blood to drain away. The man eventually turns limp in his arms as he passes out, and only then does Sylar lift his mouth away and lick his lips. He runs a cautious tongue over his razor-sharp bloodied teeth as well and collects the last drops of Peter’s blood.
He’s never tasted anyone so good. It isn’t only his blood. It’s the pheromones and scent of him, the sex appeal he exudes as a person to Sylar’s human side. It’s as though Peter has been made to satisfy his every need.
And Peter enjoys it.
Maybe.
That still gets me. I wrote that, and I don't know if Peter wanted that or not. He's just too confusing.