First Heroes Oneshot -- hopefully not the last
Title: Thin Line
Author: yours truly
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Fandom: Heroes
Genre: slight angst, fluff, smut
Rating: NC-17 for sex!fail
Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I always wish I do.
Summary: Maybe there was another reason Peter so vehemently denied Sylar as his brother. (Season 3, if I recall)
Spoilers: Hopefully none. Just me reading between lines that don't exist.
Notes: This is my first time writing any non-asian celebrity fanfiction. lol. Please be patient with me, and hopefully I will improve.
Thin Line
Nathan and Peter Petrelli. There could be no Sylar in the equation. His mother lied countless times before, why couldn't this be a lie as well? Why should Peter succumb and immediately accept this murderer, this fiend as a part of his loved ones? It was a good thing Nathan wasn't around to witness this farce of a family.
It truly was a joke. God's sense of humor was unparalleled, unpredictable, and most of all, shocking.
Angela's eyes are dark and repentant as she stands in front of Peter, her favorite son, begging him (more than Sylar) to forgive her for the constant secrets. Peter does little more than scoff, brushing his hair out of his eyes. How does one come to terms with being related to a blood-thirsty killer?
Angela reaches out to soothe away the aching she has once again caused, but Peter grabs her wrist before she can soil his skin with any more of her deception.
"No," Peter growls through clenched teeth. "It's going to take a hell of a lot more than that, mother."
"Wait, Peter." Angela's hand is denied once more as Peter storms out and into the street with all this turmoil still fresh in his mind.
~~~~~~
Anger.
Peter feels anger like never before. His mother could not be trusted, his brother would turn his back on his own kind without batting an eye, and now Sylar -- the rampant, power-hungry monster -- has joined his clan of imperfect beings. In a way, it made sense. Looking back at the monstrosity that was Angela, and all the times Peter wished he could drive his fist through Nathan and force the darkness out, Sylar really did fit well. He doesn't think himself to be saint-like, nor is he always righteous and kind, but he strives for a likeness of that, and that's what makes him different. That's what makes him good.
That's what keeps him from accepting Sylar as family.
Speak of the devil (reincarnated, that is).
"Peter," His blood boils to degrees beyond human sustainability. "Did mom tell you--"
"Don't you ever call her that!" Peter grabs a fistful of Sylar's shirt bringing them so close to one another, he feels like he can almost hear what Sylar is going to say next before it slips out.
"She's my mother too, Peter." It rolls off his tongue as though he's always known, as though Peter was the only person in the dark this entire time. He seems proud to have such a corrupt person as his maternal role model in fact.
If it were any other day, perhaps Peter would feel the same. But as it stands, she is a lying, devious woman, and who knows what else Peter will find out tomorrow.
The ramblings within Peter drown out Sylar's plea for him to loosen his grip, so he subtly tries to remove the whitened knuckles himself as best he can. In retrospect, Sylar realizes it wasn't quite a good idea, considering the murderous aura permeating from every pore of his brother's body.
"Peter--" Peter flinches, grimaces, slamming Sylar to the nearest wall promptly.
"Don't talk to me. Don't speak to my mother. And if I see you anywhere close to her home, I will make sure you have no vocals chords left to call out to her with." Peter lets the cotton slip from his fingers. "Is that clear, brother?"
Anyone is capable of becoming a monster when the need arises. In Peter's case, whenever his family was involved, excluding Sylar, he could feel his power growing tenfold. Sylar wasn't the heartless killer Peter would usually tremble in front of, he became a danger to the wellbeing of the people he cares for -- something of a nuisance.
It makes him chuckle.
Sylar's eyes widen slightly. "You may think you have power over me, but you don't." He pushes Peter backward slowly, enabling himself to wipe out the wrinkles created a few moments earlier. "You know," He pauses, smirks even. "If this were any other day, I would have already cut your head open Peter."
Peter bites back his words; he hates repeating himself. There's no use, no point keeping Sylar out of his mother's home if that's where she wants a sadistic man like him to be.
~~~~~~
Sweat drips down his brow, his eyes sliding back and fourth below his lids, he throws the blanket off; his body responding instinctively to the rise in temperature caused by his mental distress.
"Peter," Sylar whispers into the shell of his ear. "Peter I know why you don't want me in your family."
Turning abruptly, Peter feels droplets of an obscure liquid dripping onto his crisp, white sheets. Sylar's hands are covered in what appears to be red paint, but Peter knows better. His gaze slowly follows the curves of Sylar's bare upper body, watching the delicate rise and fall of his toned chest. It seems to appease Peter's earlier state as his eyes search to drink in more of the alien body. Then he reaches those silent vortexes and for some reason he can't tear his eyes away from Sylar's no matter how much he struggles to do so.
Suddenly a statement said with such sensuality pierces through him, despite how mesmerizing Sylar's eyes had become. "You don't want to love me like a brother because you want to love me a different way, don't you?"
Unbeknownst to him, Peter must have nodded because Sylar's lips are nearing at an astounding pace, and he can't get his body to cooperate to deprive the mischievous man of what he wants.
"Are you sure this isn't what you want Peter?" Sylar says, in a low growl that tingles every inch of the smaller man's anatomy.
But before Peter can answer, he's awake, covered in perspiration, his chest heaving from the fright of almost giving into something he's certain he would never long for.
And although now he's aware it was only a dream, Peter steps out of bed to look around his cozy apartment for remnants of the vicious hunter. But there aren't any to be found because it was in fact a reverie, plain and simple.
Why can't he shake the feeling of being watched though?
~~~~~~
A few days pass, and despite still feeling betrayed by his beloved mother, Peter pays her a visit.
He knocks on the door gently, aware that if she doesn't notice it, one of her domestics will. What he doesn't expect, however, is Sylar to be standing in front of him. "Peter! I'm glad you decided to come, I need to speak with you."
Peter all but shoves Sylar to the ground as he forces his way in. "What have you done with her?!" The confusion across Sylar's face could not be more obvious if he tried.
"She invited me for breakfast, calm down." Sylar dusts off his dark jeans as he pushes himself off the carpeted floor. "But I only accepted because I hoped you'd be here so we could discuss some things."
A glare with more destructive force than a tsunami is sent in response. "I'm not here to see you, Sylar. Get away."
But he's more persistent than expected. "Mother isn't here." Sylar grabs either of Peter's shoulders, closing the door and locking it quickly after pulling the slighter man further inside. "I won't let you leave unless you hear me out."
Peter attempts to get out of Sylar's hold but fails. "Don't underestimate me Sylar. I will gladly hurt you if that's what it takes."
A desperate sigh escapes Sylar's frowning lips. "Why do you have to be like this?" He lets himself fall on the stairway, head leaning on the post. "I just wanted to know if you'd seen the future, seen how I turned out in it." He feigns a smile; clearly he's having his doubts just as Peter is.
"Do I belong here?" Sylar slides his fingers through his hair slowly, his head resting in both hands.
This is the first time Peter ever noticed how sullen of a man Sylar could be; he's hurting inside just as much as Peter is, if not more. The sudden urge to pat Sylar on the back strikes him, but he shakes it off as part of his selflessness. Sylar doesn't deserve to be cared for, consoled, loved.
"You want me to answer that?" Peter crosses his arms to his chest, leaning against the front door. "I don't think I'm the best person to answer."
"But you are," And the conviction in the taller man's voice startles him. "If someone as warm and altruistic as you thinks I don't deserve a family, then I guess I really don't."
Peter wants to leave it at that, wants to let Sylar take his coat and walk out as he is preparing to, but he can't. There's a force stronger than hate that guides Peter at times like these, and he often wishes he could turn it off and fix it, like a malfunctioning appliance. But he's human, and humans are made to sympathize with their kind. Most importantly, humans are social beings who strive more than other creatures for a life partner.
"Just," And Peter wants to kick himself for even thinking about what he's going to say next. "give us some time. Give me some time. It's hard to swallow such a significant change."
Sylar looks up from his hands, trying to read the expression on Peter's face. It's genuine; he means what he's saying and Sylar doesn't have to read minds to know it's true. He can sense the change of heart, feels the shift in body language. It's oddly comforting being accepted by a man like Peter.
"Thank you," Sylar puts a hand out for Peter. "I mean it truly."
Peter hesitates, but finally takes the foreign hand in his own, shaking it firmly. All that exudes from the touch is warmth, in all senses of the word. Sylar smiles, as sincerely as he can, before letting go of the soft skin in Peter's palm.
"So," Peter feels awkward asking Sylar and not Nathan about their mother, but it can't be helped. "Do you know where she went? When she'll be back?"
Sylar clears his throat, standing up. "Something about having dinner with an old friend."
Peter knows exactly who that is, and that 'dinner' usually consists mostly of too many cocktails and a drunken grandmother. "Well, guess I'll come back tomorrow then."
Sylar raises a brow. "It's just a meal, can't be more than two or three hours."
Peter laughs low in his throat, as if teasing Sylar. "You haven't been a Petrelli long enough."
The laugh creeps up on Sylar, almost contagiously, as he grins. "Clearly," Sylar stuffs his hands in his jean pockets. "Care to share with me?"
It's getting uncomfortable but Peter doesn't want it to show, doesn't want to drive Sylar back down that rabbit hole where the only fuel to his fire is murder. "How 'bout another time?"
Peter turns on his heels, unlocking the front door. "Tell--" He hesitates. "--mom I passed by."
~~~~~~
Sylar feels guilty staying in the same room Peter used growing up, so he quickly sneaks out of bed when Angela goes to sleep and heads for the living room instead. As he makes his way to the linen closet, grabbing a comforter for himself, he hears a lulling sound; low, heavy breaths.
Intrigued, he follows the pleasant sound to its source. Careful not to wake the person, Sylar makes his way into the living room where he was planning to slumber. His height does put him at a disadvantage for sneaking around, considering how hard it is for him to hide or to muffle his footsteps. But's it's remarkably dark in the living room so he persists and finally reaches the flowery sofa.
Sylar squints, forcing his eyes to captivate any and all light possible, but it proves to be more difficult than predicted. Bending down in attempt to discover who exactly stole his idea before he even thought of it, he catches a glimpse of uncovered skin.
Sylar's mind runs laps around every gutter it can find, every muscle in his hand begging for him to concede and explore the wonderful patch of flesh, but he fights the ache in the pit of his stomach, regaining his composure.
Leaning in closer, the soothing sound resonates more powerfully, pulling him into a trance of want and need to find out who this mystery person is. Man or woman doesn't matter, as long as they can be persuaded into letting him touch.
Against his strongest will, his fingers find their way to the bare skin, tickling along ribs most delicately as to not wake the stranger. It's definitely a man, Sylar thinks, as his fingertips discover a dormant nipple above a toned chest.
The man turns over, catching the fingers with his own, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes to no avail. "Who is it?" Peter's voice is husky and brimming with the sleep he craves so much.
Sylar pulls his hand away, covering his mouth with it. (If Peter find out I'm touching his chest, he will definitely disown me as a brother forever. Why didn't I just go back to bed.)
Peter sits up, grabbing hold of the Sylar's hand before he can escape back upstairs. Confession time, Sylar decides. "Sorry Peter, I--" Sylar begins to start his apology but is interrupted by a jolt that courses through his arm, sending him sloppily down on the couch next to Peter.
"Don't worry Sylar," Sylar doesn't want to be turned on by how erotic Peter's voice sounds, but he is. "I knew it was you."
Brows forming a crease between his eyes, Sylar opens his mouth to protest but Peter's index is there, faster than he thought possible, pressing against his lips seductively. "I said don't worry."
Peter pulls back, feeling the tension between them. "But why were you touching me like that?" His tone is surprisingly calm; no hidden emotions, no anger shining through, just curiosity.
"I--I'm not sure. I just wanted to touch." Sylar wonders if he's been unloved for so long that he can't seem to control his urges. Perhaps that was the cause of this awkward situation.
"That's funny," Peter coughs. "Because I had a dream about you recently."
"Oh--" Sylar leans closer.
"But I'd rather not talk about it now, if you don't mind."
Sylar rubs his hands together. "Yeah, sure, I get it. Murderer in your dream, not a good thing."
Silence. A deafening silence that makes Sylar wish he was still rampant and makes Peter regret ever bringing up such an embarrassing topic.
"Well," Sylar grabs his comforter from the floor. "I'll be going to sleep now. Rest well."
~~~~~~
"Sylar."
He thinks he's starting to lose grip of reality, could be a meltdown, guilt from all the murders.
"Sylar."
It persists, it nags at him, continues through the pillow covering his face.
"Sylar--"
He shifts; there's weight atop him. It keeps him from escaping what he thinks is his insanity caused by the perpetual ticking of how things work.
"Sylar!"
It's real, he thinks, it has to be.
Sylar opens his eyes slowly, warily. It's Peter, straddling his lap, eyes softer than he's ever seen, his lips curled into a sweet smile (one that doesn't match the current position).
"Is something wrong? Are you here to kill me?" Although Sylar asks that, he knows the answer, he knows Peter isn't the type of man to kill another in his sleep.
Peter laughs, a real laugh, where his mouth twists slightly and his eyes shine brighter than all the stars in the sky. Or maybe that's Sylar's heart talking.
"Don't make this harder--" Peter presses his lips to Sylar's gingerly, trying out the taste. "I just needed to see for myself."
Sylar is a smart man. "Does this have to do with your dream?"
Peter looks away, then back, licking his lips. "And if it does?"
Sylar pulls Peter in close, kissing along his jaw until his lips are at ear level. "Then I can please you in ways you can't imagine, if you let me."
Inhibition be gone, Peter thinks as he sucks on Sylar's lips and tongue more erotically than he planned to. Teeth soon follow, replacing the soft pillows, chewing on swollen red lips until they throb with as much tension as beneath Sylar's blanket.
"Is this what you want from me, Sylar?" Peter sucks a spot just below Sylar's jaw, reddening it with each passing moment. "Is this what you needed from me?"
Sylar holds back a moan, grabbing Peter's hips and grinding hard into him with each new mark created on his neck. "I need you, Peter."
And just like that, with those four words, Peter is pulling down Sylar's pants, followed by his own, falling into a world much unlike what he's used to. The same goes for Sylar who has always known how to seduce women, but Peter, he's in his own league.
Sylar's eyes concentrate on every flash of emotion spreading across Peter's face as he straddles roughly. His own length flush against Peter's, burning a hole deep inside, but fulfilling the previous ache that they both were experiencing.
"I don't care if it hurts," Peter moans, gripping Sylar gently. "But I need to feel more now."
And with no more warning than that, Peter drives him down onto Sylar's erection, crying out with the deep burn it provokes. He's afraid to move for a moment, afraid he won't heal if he moves too much, and Sylar seems to think so as well.
Sylar presses soft kisses to Peter's temple, awaiting the next move from Peter. It takes every ounce of strength and power he's stolen to not thrust hard and fast into Peter, but he succeeds, and he's sure Peter loves him more for it.
Slowly, steadily, Peter begins to grind his hips, progressing to lifting his hips up and down. His needy, little whimpers send waves of pleasure all over his skin, down his spine and between his legs, but he still doesn't thrust into the gentle man above him.
"Peter, how does it feel?" Sylar's eyes roll back in his head, his fingers curling into Peter's behind for support.
"As good as you look." Peter nibbles over Sylar's shoulder, suddenly moving at a much faster speed; the question like a subtle push into ecstasy. "And you look so, so good."
Sylar feels his cock twitch and can't help his hips from jerking up into Peter. The sultry sound that it drags out convinces him to continue. Thrusting in time with Peter's movements, both men are sweating and panting more than they ever have before.
"So close--" Peter pulls Sylar's bottom lip with his teeth.
That's all it takes for Sylar to see stars and then a blinding light, the orgasm coursing through every pore and muscle, forcing it into Peter. Feeling the warmth fill him up, it pushes Peter over the edge of sanity and he's coming faster than he can try to catch it with his hands.
They both lie, limbs tangled and in utter bliss, waiting for the excitement to end. The orgasm passed, but the itching, the anxiousness they both felt when it started remains. Peter wonders if he's some kind of nympho for wanting seconds right away, so he waits patiently instead. Sylar smiles, kissing Peter deeply, his hand unafraid of touching the reminder of what just happened.
"I should wipe it--" Peter starts.
"We're not done yet." Sylar licks his fingers.
And before Peter can process it, he's below Sylar and there's a succulent mouth doing the most perverted things. (He wishes he could film it.)
"I kinda hope--" Sylar lets Peter's length go with a 'pop' sound. "You're not really my brother."
THE END!
Comments are ♥ and I hope there aren't too many mistakes.
I will gladly fix them if you find any.
Author: yours truly
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
Fandom: Heroes
Genre: slight angst, fluff, smut
Rating: NC-17 for sex!fail
Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I always wish I do.
Summary: Maybe there was another reason Peter so vehemently denied Sylar as his brother. (Season 3, if I recall)
Spoilers: Hopefully none. Just me reading between lines that don't exist.
Notes: This is my first time writing any non-asian celebrity fanfiction. lol. Please be patient with me, and hopefully I will improve.
Thin Line
Nathan and Peter Petrelli. There could be no Sylar in the equation. His mother lied countless times before, why couldn't this be a lie as well? Why should Peter succumb and immediately accept this murderer, this fiend as a part of his loved ones? It was a good thing Nathan wasn't around to witness this farce of a family.
It truly was a joke. God's sense of humor was unparalleled, unpredictable, and most of all, shocking.
Angela's eyes are dark and repentant as she stands in front of Peter, her favorite son, begging him (more than Sylar) to forgive her for the constant secrets. Peter does little more than scoff, brushing his hair out of his eyes. How does one come to terms with being related to a blood-thirsty killer?
Angela reaches out to soothe away the aching she has once again caused, but Peter grabs her wrist before she can soil his skin with any more of her deception.
"No," Peter growls through clenched teeth. "It's going to take a hell of a lot more than that, mother."
"Wait, Peter." Angela's hand is denied once more as Peter storms out and into the street with all this turmoil still fresh in his mind.
~~~~~~
Anger.
Peter feels anger like never before. His mother could not be trusted, his brother would turn his back on his own kind without batting an eye, and now Sylar -- the rampant, power-hungry monster -- has joined his clan of imperfect beings. In a way, it made sense. Looking back at the monstrosity that was Angela, and all the times Peter wished he could drive his fist through Nathan and force the darkness out, Sylar really did fit well. He doesn't think himself to be saint-like, nor is he always righteous and kind, but he strives for a likeness of that, and that's what makes him different. That's what makes him good.
That's what keeps him from accepting Sylar as family.
Speak of the devil (reincarnated, that is).
"Peter," His blood boils to degrees beyond human sustainability. "Did mom tell you--"
"Don't you ever call her that!" Peter grabs a fistful of Sylar's shirt bringing them so close to one another, he feels like he can almost hear what Sylar is going to say next before it slips out.
"She's my mother too, Peter." It rolls off his tongue as though he's always known, as though Peter was the only person in the dark this entire time. He seems proud to have such a corrupt person as his maternal role model in fact.
If it were any other day, perhaps Peter would feel the same. But as it stands, she is a lying, devious woman, and who knows what else Peter will find out tomorrow.
The ramblings within Peter drown out Sylar's plea for him to loosen his grip, so he subtly tries to remove the whitened knuckles himself as best he can. In retrospect, Sylar realizes it wasn't quite a good idea, considering the murderous aura permeating from every pore of his brother's body.
"Peter--" Peter flinches, grimaces, slamming Sylar to the nearest wall promptly.
"Don't talk to me. Don't speak to my mother. And if I see you anywhere close to her home, I will make sure you have no vocals chords left to call out to her with." Peter lets the cotton slip from his fingers. "Is that clear, brother?"
Anyone is capable of becoming a monster when the need arises. In Peter's case, whenever his family was involved, excluding Sylar, he could feel his power growing tenfold. Sylar wasn't the heartless killer Peter would usually tremble in front of, he became a danger to the wellbeing of the people he cares for -- something of a nuisance.
It makes him chuckle.
Sylar's eyes widen slightly. "You may think you have power over me, but you don't." He pushes Peter backward slowly, enabling himself to wipe out the wrinkles created a few moments earlier. "You know," He pauses, smirks even. "If this were any other day, I would have already cut your head open Peter."
Peter bites back his words; he hates repeating himself. There's no use, no point keeping Sylar out of his mother's home if that's where she wants a sadistic man like him to be.
~~~~~~
Sweat drips down his brow, his eyes sliding back and fourth below his lids, he throws the blanket off; his body responding instinctively to the rise in temperature caused by his mental distress.
"Peter," Sylar whispers into the shell of his ear. "Peter I know why you don't want me in your family."
Turning abruptly, Peter feels droplets of an obscure liquid dripping onto his crisp, white sheets. Sylar's hands are covered in what appears to be red paint, but Peter knows better. His gaze slowly follows the curves of Sylar's bare upper body, watching the delicate rise and fall of his toned chest. It seems to appease Peter's earlier state as his eyes search to drink in more of the alien body. Then he reaches those silent vortexes and for some reason he can't tear his eyes away from Sylar's no matter how much he struggles to do so.
Suddenly a statement said with such sensuality pierces through him, despite how mesmerizing Sylar's eyes had become. "You don't want to love me like a brother because you want to love me a different way, don't you?"
Unbeknownst to him, Peter must have nodded because Sylar's lips are nearing at an astounding pace, and he can't get his body to cooperate to deprive the mischievous man of what he wants.
"Are you sure this isn't what you want Peter?" Sylar says, in a low growl that tingles every inch of the smaller man's anatomy.
But before Peter can answer, he's awake, covered in perspiration, his chest heaving from the fright of almost giving into something he's certain he would never long for.
And although now he's aware it was only a dream, Peter steps out of bed to look around his cozy apartment for remnants of the vicious hunter. But there aren't any to be found because it was in fact a reverie, plain and simple.
Why can't he shake the feeling of being watched though?
~~~~~~
A few days pass, and despite still feeling betrayed by his beloved mother, Peter pays her a visit.
He knocks on the door gently, aware that if she doesn't notice it, one of her domestics will. What he doesn't expect, however, is Sylar to be standing in front of him. "Peter! I'm glad you decided to come, I need to speak with you."
Peter all but shoves Sylar to the ground as he forces his way in. "What have you done with her?!" The confusion across Sylar's face could not be more obvious if he tried.
"She invited me for breakfast, calm down." Sylar dusts off his dark jeans as he pushes himself off the carpeted floor. "But I only accepted because I hoped you'd be here so we could discuss some things."
A glare with more destructive force than a tsunami is sent in response. "I'm not here to see you, Sylar. Get away."
But he's more persistent than expected. "Mother isn't here." Sylar grabs either of Peter's shoulders, closing the door and locking it quickly after pulling the slighter man further inside. "I won't let you leave unless you hear me out."
Peter attempts to get out of Sylar's hold but fails. "Don't underestimate me Sylar. I will gladly hurt you if that's what it takes."
A desperate sigh escapes Sylar's frowning lips. "Why do you have to be like this?" He lets himself fall on the stairway, head leaning on the post. "I just wanted to know if you'd seen the future, seen how I turned out in it." He feigns a smile; clearly he's having his doubts just as Peter is.
"Do I belong here?" Sylar slides his fingers through his hair slowly, his head resting in both hands.
This is the first time Peter ever noticed how sullen of a man Sylar could be; he's hurting inside just as much as Peter is, if not more. The sudden urge to pat Sylar on the back strikes him, but he shakes it off as part of his selflessness. Sylar doesn't deserve to be cared for, consoled, loved.
"You want me to answer that?" Peter crosses his arms to his chest, leaning against the front door. "I don't think I'm the best person to answer."
"But you are," And the conviction in the taller man's voice startles him. "If someone as warm and altruistic as you thinks I don't deserve a family, then I guess I really don't."
Peter wants to leave it at that, wants to let Sylar take his coat and walk out as he is preparing to, but he can't. There's a force stronger than hate that guides Peter at times like these, and he often wishes he could turn it off and fix it, like a malfunctioning appliance. But he's human, and humans are made to sympathize with their kind. Most importantly, humans are social beings who strive more than other creatures for a life partner.
"Just," And Peter wants to kick himself for even thinking about what he's going to say next. "give us some time. Give me some time. It's hard to swallow such a significant change."
Sylar looks up from his hands, trying to read the expression on Peter's face. It's genuine; he means what he's saying and Sylar doesn't have to read minds to know it's true. He can sense the change of heart, feels the shift in body language. It's oddly comforting being accepted by a man like Peter.
"Thank you," Sylar puts a hand out for Peter. "I mean it truly."
Peter hesitates, but finally takes the foreign hand in his own, shaking it firmly. All that exudes from the touch is warmth, in all senses of the word. Sylar smiles, as sincerely as he can, before letting go of the soft skin in Peter's palm.
"So," Peter feels awkward asking Sylar and not Nathan about their mother, but it can't be helped. "Do you know where she went? When she'll be back?"
Sylar clears his throat, standing up. "Something about having dinner with an old friend."
Peter knows exactly who that is, and that 'dinner' usually consists mostly of too many cocktails and a drunken grandmother. "Well, guess I'll come back tomorrow then."
Sylar raises a brow. "It's just a meal, can't be more than two or three hours."
Peter laughs low in his throat, as if teasing Sylar. "You haven't been a Petrelli long enough."
The laugh creeps up on Sylar, almost contagiously, as he grins. "Clearly," Sylar stuffs his hands in his jean pockets. "Care to share with me?"
It's getting uncomfortable but Peter doesn't want it to show, doesn't want to drive Sylar back down that rabbit hole where the only fuel to his fire is murder. "How 'bout another time?"
Peter turns on his heels, unlocking the front door. "Tell--" He hesitates. "--mom I passed by."
~~~~~~
Sylar feels guilty staying in the same room Peter used growing up, so he quickly sneaks out of bed when Angela goes to sleep and heads for the living room instead. As he makes his way to the linen closet, grabbing a comforter for himself, he hears a lulling sound; low, heavy breaths.
Intrigued, he follows the pleasant sound to its source. Careful not to wake the person, Sylar makes his way into the living room where he was planning to slumber. His height does put him at a disadvantage for sneaking around, considering how hard it is for him to hide or to muffle his footsteps. But's it's remarkably dark in the living room so he persists and finally reaches the flowery sofa.
Sylar squints, forcing his eyes to captivate any and all light possible, but it proves to be more difficult than predicted. Bending down in attempt to discover who exactly stole his idea before he even thought of it, he catches a glimpse of uncovered skin.
Sylar's mind runs laps around every gutter it can find, every muscle in his hand begging for him to concede and explore the wonderful patch of flesh, but he fights the ache in the pit of his stomach, regaining his composure.
Leaning in closer, the soothing sound resonates more powerfully, pulling him into a trance of want and need to find out who this mystery person is. Man or woman doesn't matter, as long as they can be persuaded into letting him touch.
Against his strongest will, his fingers find their way to the bare skin, tickling along ribs most delicately as to not wake the stranger. It's definitely a man, Sylar thinks, as his fingertips discover a dormant nipple above a toned chest.
The man turns over, catching the fingers with his own, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes to no avail. "Who is it?" Peter's voice is husky and brimming with the sleep he craves so much.
Sylar pulls his hand away, covering his mouth with it. (If Peter find out I'm touching his chest, he will definitely disown me as a brother forever. Why didn't I just go back to bed.)
Peter sits up, grabbing hold of the Sylar's hand before he can escape back upstairs. Confession time, Sylar decides. "Sorry Peter, I--" Sylar begins to start his apology but is interrupted by a jolt that courses through his arm, sending him sloppily down on the couch next to Peter.
"Don't worry Sylar," Sylar doesn't want to be turned on by how erotic Peter's voice sounds, but he is. "I knew it was you."
Brows forming a crease between his eyes, Sylar opens his mouth to protest but Peter's index is there, faster than he thought possible, pressing against his lips seductively. "I said don't worry."
Peter pulls back, feeling the tension between them. "But why were you touching me like that?" His tone is surprisingly calm; no hidden emotions, no anger shining through, just curiosity.
"I--I'm not sure. I just wanted to touch." Sylar wonders if he's been unloved for so long that he can't seem to control his urges. Perhaps that was the cause of this awkward situation.
"That's funny," Peter coughs. "Because I had a dream about you recently."
"Oh--" Sylar leans closer.
"But I'd rather not talk about it now, if you don't mind."
Sylar rubs his hands together. "Yeah, sure, I get it. Murderer in your dream, not a good thing."
Silence. A deafening silence that makes Sylar wish he was still rampant and makes Peter regret ever bringing up such an embarrassing topic.
"Well," Sylar grabs his comforter from the floor. "I'll be going to sleep now. Rest well."
~~~~~~
"Sylar."
He thinks he's starting to lose grip of reality, could be a meltdown, guilt from all the murders.
"Sylar."
It persists, it nags at him, continues through the pillow covering his face.
"Sylar--"
He shifts; there's weight atop him. It keeps him from escaping what he thinks is his insanity caused by the perpetual ticking of how things work.
"Sylar!"
It's real, he thinks, it has to be.
Sylar opens his eyes slowly, warily. It's Peter, straddling his lap, eyes softer than he's ever seen, his lips curled into a sweet smile (one that doesn't match the current position).
"Is something wrong? Are you here to kill me?" Although Sylar asks that, he knows the answer, he knows Peter isn't the type of man to kill another in his sleep.
Peter laughs, a real laugh, where his mouth twists slightly and his eyes shine brighter than all the stars in the sky. Or maybe that's Sylar's heart talking.
"Don't make this harder--" Peter presses his lips to Sylar's gingerly, trying out the taste. "I just needed to see for myself."
Sylar is a smart man. "Does this have to do with your dream?"
Peter looks away, then back, licking his lips. "And if it does?"
Sylar pulls Peter in close, kissing along his jaw until his lips are at ear level. "Then I can please you in ways you can't imagine, if you let me."
Inhibition be gone, Peter thinks as he sucks on Sylar's lips and tongue more erotically than he planned to. Teeth soon follow, replacing the soft pillows, chewing on swollen red lips until they throb with as much tension as beneath Sylar's blanket.
"Is this what you want from me, Sylar?" Peter sucks a spot just below Sylar's jaw, reddening it with each passing moment. "Is this what you needed from me?"
Sylar holds back a moan, grabbing Peter's hips and grinding hard into him with each new mark created on his neck. "I need you, Peter."
And just like that, with those four words, Peter is pulling down Sylar's pants, followed by his own, falling into a world much unlike what he's used to. The same goes for Sylar who has always known how to seduce women, but Peter, he's in his own league.
Sylar's eyes concentrate on every flash of emotion spreading across Peter's face as he straddles roughly. His own length flush against Peter's, burning a hole deep inside, but fulfilling the previous ache that they both were experiencing.
"I don't care if it hurts," Peter moans, gripping Sylar gently. "But I need to feel more now."
And with no more warning than that, Peter drives him down onto Sylar's erection, crying out with the deep burn it provokes. He's afraid to move for a moment, afraid he won't heal if he moves too much, and Sylar seems to think so as well.
Sylar presses soft kisses to Peter's temple, awaiting the next move from Peter. It takes every ounce of strength and power he's stolen to not thrust hard and fast into Peter, but he succeeds, and he's sure Peter loves him more for it.
Slowly, steadily, Peter begins to grind his hips, progressing to lifting his hips up and down. His needy, little whimpers send waves of pleasure all over his skin, down his spine and between his legs, but he still doesn't thrust into the gentle man above him.
"Peter, how does it feel?" Sylar's eyes roll back in his head, his fingers curling into Peter's behind for support.
"As good as you look." Peter nibbles over Sylar's shoulder, suddenly moving at a much faster speed; the question like a subtle push into ecstasy. "And you look so, so good."
Sylar feels his cock twitch and can't help his hips from jerking up into Peter. The sultry sound that it drags out convinces him to continue. Thrusting in time with Peter's movements, both men are sweating and panting more than they ever have before.
"So close--" Peter pulls Sylar's bottom lip with his teeth.
That's all it takes for Sylar to see stars and then a blinding light, the orgasm coursing through every pore and muscle, forcing it into Peter. Feeling the warmth fill him up, it pushes Peter over the edge of sanity and he's coming faster than he can try to catch it with his hands.
They both lie, limbs tangled and in utter bliss, waiting for the excitement to end. The orgasm passed, but the itching, the anxiousness they both felt when it started remains. Peter wonders if he's some kind of nympho for wanting seconds right away, so he waits patiently instead. Sylar smiles, kissing Peter deeply, his hand unafraid of touching the reminder of what just happened.
"I should wipe it--" Peter starts.
"We're not done yet." Sylar licks his fingers.
And before Peter can process it, he's below Sylar and there's a succulent mouth doing the most perverted things. (He wishes he could film it.)
"I kinda hope--" Sylar lets Peter's length go with a 'pop' sound. "You're not really my brother."
THE END!
Comments are ♥ and I hope there aren't too many mistakes.
I will gladly fix them if you find any.