Fic: You Shouldn't Trust Your Instincts
Title: You Shouldn't Trust Your Instincts
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 711
Pairing: Sylar/Peter
Spoilers: No episode-specific references
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
Notes: Originally written for the Sekrit Cabal Porn Battle at
cerebel_fics. Prompt: 'betrayal'. Everything else I've written has been Mylar, so I decided to try this pairing for a change.
Peter isn’t sure how this happened, how it started, but he wouldn’t stop it if he could. Sylar’s hands are hot against his ribs, Sylar’s tongue is rough inside his lips, and he can feel the desperation and need behind them.
He tightens his arm around the other man as if he’s trying to pull him into his own skin. Maybe this is what he’s meant to do, he thinks. Maybe he can somehow fix whatever’s gone wrong inside Sylar. He can feel it, now, even better than Sylar himself can.
“Please,” Sylar suddenly breathes against his mouth.
Peter almost laughs - like either one of them could turn back now - and looks into Sylar’s eyes. They’re wide and so vulnerable. He could get lost in the want he sees inside them. But he knows, somehow, that Sylar would never admit to that, so he trails his tongue along the line of Sylar’s jaw to his neck.
“Fuck me,” he whispers in Sylar’s ear, “now.” And he knows that it was the right thing to say, that it’s what Sylar wanted to hear, by the hissing breath drawn against his neck.
Peter has to softly guide Sylar - whatever intuitive understanding he might have of how things work, it’s clear he hasn’t done this much. But when Sylar’s cock is finally all the way inside him, and Sylar almost collapses against his neck with a shuddering breath, Peter has to fight down an overwhelming thrill. He’d never really realized that something as basic as this could be so powerful, too.
Peter squeezes his legs tighter against Sylar’s sides and bucks slightly against him, willing him to move. And Sylar does, pulling out partly and then pushing back inside him, so gently, and barely brushes his lips against Peter’s, and Peter is almost overwhelmed by how unexpectedly tender it feels.
Peter tries to hold on to rational thought, but he can’t, not when they seem to fit together so well that it’s almost as if they both were made for this moment. He can hear Sylar’s heartbeat, hear the faint whisper of blood rushing faster and faster through his veins, and gives in to the beauty of it. He can tell when Sylar passes the same point of surrender even before Sylar braces himself and starts to fuck Peter in earnest. Peter wraps his fingers around Sylar’s biceps and moves upwards to meet Sylar’s thrusts, desperate for more even though he wants to make this last as long as humanly possible. But when Sylar suddenly shudders and arches against him, breath catching deep inside his chest, Peter looks up at his face and can’t hold on any longer. They come together, Peter moaning so deeply that it almost sounds like a sob.
Afterwards, Peter curls on his side with Sylar wrapped around him. He lifts Sylar’s hand from his chest, looks at the intricate detail of the creases on Sylar’s fingers, closes his eyes as Sylar runs his other hand through Peter's hair and brushes lips against his neck. Peter relaxes and drifts and just feels. Then Sylar’s hand suddenly tightens in his hair and pulls his head at an angle.
“Oh, Pete,” Sylar whispers. “Always the optimist. You really do only see what you want to see in people, don’t you?”
Peter suddenly feels a pressure on the back of his head - no, inside his head, somehow. He tries to pull away but Sylar holds firmly to his hair. He tries to pull up something, anything, out of his repertoire of abilities, even just basic telekinesis, but somehow he can’t quite grab hold of any of it. All he can think of is the feel of Sylar’s skin against his own. The pressure grows, turns into a sharp pain pushing against the inside of his skull, and he moans again, a sound that crescendos as it goes on, as the pain builds and intensifies. Sylar presses closer against his back, cock hard again already.
“You're a pretty good lay,” Sylar murmurs in his ear, “but believe me, I’m gonna enjoy this even more.” And Peter’s hands clutch at open air as the room blurs before his eyes.
The last thing Peter is conscious of is the feel of Sylar’s teeth against his neck.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 711
Pairing: Sylar/Peter
Spoilers: No episode-specific references
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not writing this for profit.
Notes: Originally written for the Sekrit Cabal Porn Battle at
cerebel_fics. Prompt: 'betrayal'. Everything else I've written has been Mylar, so I decided to try this pairing for a change.
Peter isn’t sure how this happened, how it started, but he wouldn’t stop it if he could. Sylar’s hands are hot against his ribs, Sylar’s tongue is rough inside his lips, and he can feel the desperation and need behind them.
He tightens his arm around the other man as if he’s trying to pull him into his own skin. Maybe this is what he’s meant to do, he thinks. Maybe he can somehow fix whatever’s gone wrong inside Sylar. He can feel it, now, even better than Sylar himself can.
“Please,” Sylar suddenly breathes against his mouth.
Peter almost laughs - like either one of them could turn back now - and looks into Sylar’s eyes. They’re wide and so vulnerable. He could get lost in the want he sees inside them. But he knows, somehow, that Sylar would never admit to that, so he trails his tongue along the line of Sylar’s jaw to his neck.
“Fuck me,” he whispers in Sylar’s ear, “now.” And he knows that it was the right thing to say, that it’s what Sylar wanted to hear, by the hissing breath drawn against his neck.
Peter has to softly guide Sylar - whatever intuitive understanding he might have of how things work, it’s clear he hasn’t done this much. But when Sylar’s cock is finally all the way inside him, and Sylar almost collapses against his neck with a shuddering breath, Peter has to fight down an overwhelming thrill. He’d never really realized that something as basic as this could be so powerful, too.
Peter squeezes his legs tighter against Sylar’s sides and bucks slightly against him, willing him to move. And Sylar does, pulling out partly and then pushing back inside him, so gently, and barely brushes his lips against Peter’s, and Peter is almost overwhelmed by how unexpectedly tender it feels.
Peter tries to hold on to rational thought, but he can’t, not when they seem to fit together so well that it’s almost as if they both were made for this moment. He can hear Sylar’s heartbeat, hear the faint whisper of blood rushing faster and faster through his veins, and gives in to the beauty of it. He can tell when Sylar passes the same point of surrender even before Sylar braces himself and starts to fuck Peter in earnest. Peter wraps his fingers around Sylar’s biceps and moves upwards to meet Sylar’s thrusts, desperate for more even though he wants to make this last as long as humanly possible. But when Sylar suddenly shudders and arches against him, breath catching deep inside his chest, Peter looks up at his face and can’t hold on any longer. They come together, Peter moaning so deeply that it almost sounds like a sob.
Afterwards, Peter curls on his side with Sylar wrapped around him. He lifts Sylar’s hand from his chest, looks at the intricate detail of the creases on Sylar’s fingers, closes his eyes as Sylar runs his other hand through Peter's hair and brushes lips against his neck. Peter relaxes and drifts and just feels. Then Sylar’s hand suddenly tightens in his hair and pulls his head at an angle.
“Oh, Pete,” Sylar whispers. “Always the optimist. You really do only see what you want to see in people, don’t you?”
Peter suddenly feels a pressure on the back of his head - no, inside his head, somehow. He tries to pull away but Sylar holds firmly to his hair. He tries to pull up something, anything, out of his repertoire of abilities, even just basic telekinesis, but somehow he can’t quite grab hold of any of it. All he can think of is the feel of Sylar’s skin against his own. The pressure grows, turns into a sharp pain pushing against the inside of his skull, and he moans again, a sound that crescendos as it goes on, as the pain builds and intensifies. Sylar presses closer against his back, cock hard again already.
“You're a pretty good lay,” Sylar murmurs in his ear, “but believe me, I’m gonna enjoy this even more.” And Peter’s hands clutch at open air as the room blurs before his eyes.
The last thing Peter is conscious of is the feel of Sylar’s teeth against his neck.