Day 76, February 24, Evening
Sylar saw Peter's smile and felt him press his cheek into his hand. I'm…I'm holding Peter's face. I'm not hurting him. He smiled! As soon as he realized that, he felt the weight of responsibility settle over him, the pressure was nearly crushing. He wants me to take care of him. (I was going to- I mean, I am, but I was just trying to change his ice packs out so he could sleep more…) With Peter's eyes shut, the empath missed his wide-eyed look. Sylar cleared his throat, feeling so much less prepared than he had been three minutes ago. "How do you feel?"
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"Better." Peter pulled away slowly, letting his still-serious eyes linger on Sylar's face. Once he was a foot away, he sighed, stretched, and winced. It felt like he was finding every bruise inflicted during the fight. "Ow." He winced again, starting to roll over and then hesitating. "Thanks for sticking with me. I don't think I would have actually rested without it."
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"Of course," he answered quickly, feeling the more normal distance between them was another important clue that something had, once again, changed. Fuck! Am I answering him what he wants or the truth? Is he going to care about that right now? It was helpful to know he might have to figuratively sit on Peter to allow him to heal. "Um…It's dinner time. Do you want to eat anything?" Am I allowed to ask that?
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"Yeah," he said, sitting up to put his shoes back on in case they went anywhere. "I'm not queasy anymore. Which might be because it was a really mild knock to the head and all I needed was some rest, or maybe the Zofran hasn't worn off." He stood up. "Or both." He looked over Sylar, who had more swelling on his face than Peter had expected. He walked around the bed and approached. "Let me take a look at you?"
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Sylar forced a light laugh at that, closer to two huffs of air. It wasn't funny. He wasn't certain why he felt the need to laugh off the comment about Peter's nausea. It hadn't been a very pointed insult. It served to kill his sex drive and he probably needed that. Otherwise his urges were demanding that he lie atop Peter, possibly strip him down, and continue touching him everywhere else with that innocent/seductive tone again. Or worse, kiss him. Sylar felt when Peter noticed him. "Um…Okay." It sounded like a question but he couldn't grasp what it was that Peter needed to see.
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Peter looked at the cut – no ointment applied, then at the swelling along jaw and cheek – skin warm, no ice packs nearby except the ones he'd made for Peter. "You didn't take care of yourself," he said softly, raising his brows, "but you took care of me?" Peter chuckled. "You make a great nurse - all the right instincts, including the complete lack of self-care. I think you're due for your antibiotics again, assuming you took them this morning like you were supposed to."
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Sylar allowed a tight grin at that, uncomfortable for most of what was said. He felt stupid for forgetting the antibiotics and now he hurt more because Peter had pointed out his pain. "I took them this morning. What do you want to eat?" He took up the ice packs to return them to the freezer.
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Peter ran his tongue along his front teeth. All were present and accounted for. Several were less firmly fixed in his head than he wanted. "Something soft. Soup again would be great." He went to the fridge, pulling out the milk. "Times like this, I wouldn't mind a smoothie." He surveyed the possible ingredients. "Grapes, yogurt, milk, maybe peanut butter…Not sure how those flavors would go together. I think I'll just have an ice cream bar for dessert instead." He went about setting the table and pouring drinks, making himself useful while Sylar cooked.
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Sylar hummed, amused about everything else, but suspicious that Peter was trying to soothe his ego about the soup earlier. This time they shared a vegan broth vegetable soup – Peter approved because Sylar had checked. It's not like he thinks any real animals died. I guess he's consistent that way. He kept an eye on his patient, watching for signs of nausea or general disgust. As he ladled the soup into bowls, he asked, "Why did you do that? Put my hand on you." He brought the bowls to the table Peter had prepared, waiting until now to ask partly as a distraction because he had props.
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Peter heard Sylar's question as he took his seat. He licked his upper lip very slowly, eyes meeting Sylar's briefly before dropping to his spoon and bowl. He couldn't think of a good answer, so after an uncomfortable pause, he blurted out, "You did it first, last night." That sounds so ridiculously defensive. He looked up. "I wanted your hand there." This time, he spoke definitively with solid eye contact, like it was the final word and only explanation he needed to give. It was certainly the only explanation he wanted to give – just about anything else led down the rabbit hole of guilt and mixed emotions, especially about their kiss earlier.
Peter felt like he ought to be certain, that he should be able to give himself entirely and without reservation like he had with previous partners, or not do it at all. He was afraid it looked like he was toying with Sylar. He felt guilty that Sylar didn't need to be fucked with any further by the Petrellis, and yet here Peter was being less than crystal clear, leaving Sylar to deal with Peter's messy issues. Sylar – who had given Peter most of those messy issues. He swallowed and went back to his soup, keeping his head down and not inviting further discussion.
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Yeah, I did. Sylar admitted to himself how that sounded by light of day. The rest of Peter's explanation wasn't much of one. The direct look Peter gave with it told him to drop it. It was dangerously close to Talking About It. So he dropped it. It probably makes a lot of sense to him. Maybe it felt good on his face…after I punched it. After that, Sylar kept his mind on his own business, hastily eating his own food to get the dishes done and because he didn't want to see if Peter felt like vomiting.
At this point, asking questions might make him puke. That's so romantic. No wonder he can't wait to get his hands on you. He scrubbed at the dishes harder than necessary, feeling angry at Peter, himself, stupid Nathan and Angela being part of everyone's problems, and the stupid world in general. He knew it was ridiculous to be so put out by someone having excellent reasons he himself had created for that someone not wanting to fuck him. Sex is stupid anyway.
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Peter felt both relieved and guilty that there was no further conversation. When Sylar took the lead on cleaning up, Peter spent only a few more mouthfuls on his soup, taking the still half-full bowl to set near the sink for Sylar to do next. Peter cleared the table otherwise of crackers, napkins, and his glass, pushing the salt and pepper together in the middle for next time. Then he retreated to the bathroom for a prep routine that provoked even more mixed emotions.
He was excited – yesterday, Peter had been so turned on he could hardly keep it in his pants. Sylar had felt himself up with Peter's hand that night. Today they'd kissed. Now they were about to go to bed with one another again, having managed to get through the challenges of the day without parting. Under normal circumstances, Peter would have expected to get laid tonight. But hell, under normal circumstances, he would have been laid last night, sometime after Sylar had ran Peter's hand over his bare dick. The impending culmination was obvious enough that Peter showered, carefully brushed his still-sore teeth, and cleaned thoroughly. He would have shaved, but his face hurt, so he simply made sure his t-shirt and boxers were fresh and not stained. He climbed into bed as Sylar took his turn in the bathroom. After a moment of thought, Peter rose from the bed to click on the kitchen light again. Whatever happens, I want to see him, and for him to see me.
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While Peter took longer than usual in the bathroom, Sylar sweated with nervous energy. Peter was just checking his injuries, he told himself. Peter was already jerking off in private. Did he always shower before bed? He hadn't before his nap after the fight…Maybe it was just a compulsive nurse thing, cleaning himself after a fight. Was he so nauseous that he was vomiting quietly? Sylar half expected to be banished to the couch or abandoned for the guest bedroom. The other half of him expected…well, he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Hence the nervous energy that led him to shut the curtains to the large windows overlooking the city, then locking the front door.
Just in case, Sylar showered, too. The rest of his routine was more or less normal besides making sure he didn't smell or taste like anything disgusting, not that Peter would be tasting him, of course. It took him longer because of the shower and because he stalled, avoiding facing Peter again until it became unavoidable.
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Peter's excitement was tempered by a host of other uncertainties. They'd fought. He hurt. He was still angry at Sylar. Sylar remained a murderer - an unexplained murderer, who'd both admitted he'd done wrong and tried to brush off the killings as self-defense or otherwise justified. Just because Peter had decided he would give a relationship a chance didn't mean he didn't have questions. Quite to the contrary, it was the very idea of being with Sylar more intimately that had prompted Peter's intrusive questions earlier, the ones that had led to the fight.
There were a lot of answers he wanted, things he'd not insisted on before because he didn't think it was right to require answers in exchange for basic companionship. But this wasn't basic companionship anymore. Peter felt he had all sorts of rights to share or not share his body based on the other person's history or character. Could he trust them? Were they kind? Was he special to them? The answers he had for Sylar on these fronts were mixed at best. It made Peter anxious and unsure. Nevertheless, he smiled and sighed when Sylar came out. Sylar didn't look like a murderer, dressed as he was for bed. Can I just…put that aside for tonight? Should I?
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He looked at Peter, lying on the bed, clean and probably waiting for him. Being fully dressed for bed was no deterrent to Petrelli's gaze, it never was. His lips twitched at a grin in return. When he arrived at his side of the bed (my side of the bed?) he stripped off his shirt before climbing in.
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Peter looked up and down the line of Sylar's body when the man took off his shirt. He had woke that morning wrapped around this man's naked body. He was handsome with a lovely lean form. Peter was still admiring it when Sylar climbed in bed, leaving the blanket and sheet at waist level so his top half was bare. The impulse to touch him was irresistible. Peter turned towards him, putting a few fingers on Sylar's forearm. He touched, looked at where he touched, then up at Sylar's face.
Peter found his breath quickening, his heart rate picking up, his dick coming to life and all just because of the anticipation. The confusion churning inside only made him more desperate for release. He wanted to fuck and get it over with, and at the same time, he wanted to put aside all his doubts, his fears, the past, and the future, and just be in the here and now. Just live and breathe and touch and be touched. Give up trying to sort everything out. Give up on making sense of how Sylar could be soft and warm under Peter's hand and yet hard and cold enough to have done the things he'd done. Just be.
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That touch was a message. Sylar exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It was fucked up to desire Peter to touch him again, touch him more – or to desire to touch Peter again, more. Whether that message was 'this is normal' or Peter initiating something more was unclear. The fact that Peter started anything with that innocent and gentle contact said something entirely different and he felt so relieved he couldn't process it. His next breath was deeper because of that.
To show his acknowledgement, he moved his lips and his eyes slid towards Peter without moving his head. Sylar flexed that forearm as his only response.
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Peter didn't know how to take the lack of response. There was a response, definitely: Sylar was looking at him now and had moved just a little, but it wasn't the sort of signal that told Peter the interest was mutual. His lustful anticipation ramped back down as quickly as it had surged to life. If I were using Sylar's playbook from earlier today, then I'd be kissing him anyway right now. But I'm not him. Peter's eyes lingered on Sylar's lips, wondering about the slight movement they'd made. It hadn't been a mouthed word or lip-licking or a blown kiss. Then he looked at Sylar's hair, considered mussing it, but remembered that putting his hand on Sylar's head was a big 'no'.
It struck Peter as problematic that he couldn't seem to get that hammered into his brain solidly enough not to think about doing it. Peter leaned back a few inches, which was really just a return to a normal pose from the eager, forward position he'd had before. His attention went back to Sylar's forearm, which he petted with slow, thoughtful motions, occasionally glancing up to take in Sylar's expression. Maybe he wants to take it slow, too. Maybe I had the wrong idea for tonight. We did just beat the crap out of each other today. He's hurt. I couldn't handle kissing him earlier. He's just keeping himself safe.
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Peter…wasn't advancing. But that was average Peter behavior: a gentle touch followed by overthinking nonsense. Just take advantage already. Do I have to walk you through everything? He didn't want the opportunity to pass by – he couldn't afford to let it. Sylar rolled on his side to face Peter, lifting that extended hand to rest it on his lower back. He glanced at Peter for a moment, then pretended that other things caught his interest and kept his gaze calm and moving.
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Oh! Peter nodded slowly, his brows raised a little at this definitive sign of interest. His fingers made small circles on the soft skin of Sylar's side and back. He dropped that hand further down to Sylar's spine as he scooted forward an inch or two. They weren't pressed together, but they were close enough that Peter could feel the tantalizing awareness of another person, up and down the front of his body. His hand traced out a more expansive motion, casually roaming up and down the elastic band of Sylar's boxers, tingling lightly as it went. He watched Sylar's face for reaction as Peter slid his hand down over smooth cotton and the modest swell of Sylar's ass.
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That was better. Peter understood that message even if Sylar was reluctant to send it. It felt wrong to be this close, face-to-face to a man in bed. (Is that the problem? I'm not supposed to start things in bed? Bed is a safe zone – that's what he wanted). It also felt incredibly forbidden and made his skin heat up at the soft touching. He was a little embarrassed that Peter was watching him. Sylar knew he was being tested and kept his expression under strict control even when Peter began touching his ass.
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Tension was spiraling up in Peter again, not knowing Sylar's signals, not sure what he needed to be doing or how much. He wished they could kiss, but he didn't want a repeat of earlier and without having given an explanation, there was no way Sylar would know what to do or not do. Besides, Peter's mouth hurt. Very carefully, Peter brought his knee forward and lightly bumped Sylar's, then lifted and hooked it over Sylar's legs. He scooted forward again, bringing their bodies together. It was a commitment of a sort – making clear the sort of interest he had (the sort of interest that an erection pressed to you tended to imply). Peter adjusted his lower arm, folded between them with his hand settling on Sylar's chest now that they were closer. The other gripped lightly at Sylar's rear end.
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Sylar exhaled and blinked in reaction. Peter's leg was over both of his; Peter's hands were on him, grabbing his butt, and Peter's erection was pressed against him now. It was all very serious. He didn't know what kind of reaction, non-reaction, or action he should be doing. I know what I want to do, he thought darkly, other forbidden things flitting about his brain and he tried not to let them settle. None of those are the point of this exercise. It's about him. He remembered being at the library and Peter freely confessing a fantasy: Sylar giving him a blowjob with a specific angry and eager expression. In many ways, Sylar would rather be fucked than have to give a blowjob, but he wasn't being asked his preference here clearly.
Being halfway between Peter's legs solved a few things. Sylar reached out to take hold of Peter's face, right around the jaw and ear, pushing with that forearm placed against Peter's chest to roll the man onto his back and coming up with Peter's legs around him. He allowed himself to savor the position, the view for a moment.
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Peter had barely started to move his face into Sylar's hand when the other man pushed him over. With a different partner, it would have meant nothing, but with Sylar, everything was layered with other meanings. Peter's mouth opened and he panted lightly, but it was with momentary apprehension rather than excitement. Sylar, over him – there was a disturbing flash of when Peter had Sylar laid out on the sheetrock at Mercy Hospital, crouched over him with, first with his fists and then with a nail gun. Positions reversed. What would he do to me if he had me at his mercy like that? I'm not safe! What the hell am I doing? Is he thinking about any of that? Or does he just think he's going to top? The very thought made Peter's skin crawl. It might have been sexy in theory, but the very visceral, immediate reality of it was terrifying.
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Peter looked so terribly stunned, though not as aroused as he would have liked. Peter was paying close attention and seconds ago he'd been stiff and ready. With his hand still in place on Peter's jaw, he took hold of some of the empath's hair to pull his head to the side, dipping down to rest his teeth against that muscular throat. Instinctively his hips slid up and in, a slow thrust of his hard organ against Peter's. At the same time, he was breathing out and in before taking a snappy bite out of the man's neck with a grunt. Oh, God...It drove him wild.
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Uh, no…? Peter found himself freezing up, stress and conflicting imperatives fogging his thinking. He put his hands on Sylar, stiff, palms out, trying to decide if he should shove him off or not. The whole idea was to have sex with him tonight. Why am I freaking out? He's doing exactly what I intended to do. Except he desperately wanted to not do it now. Sylar ground into him, pressing across all the right places, teeth sharp against sensitive flesh, stimulating Peter in spite of his fear. Fuck…he's hard. (That's sexy.) What do I do? I'm the one who started this. I can't even claim it was him like I can for the kiss. This is my fault.
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Sylar could have easily stayed there, right there in the sweet spot, biting and humping Peter to climax. But it would have been Sylar's climax, not Peter's. It took him a few extra seconds to notice, pushing aside the sensations of his throbbing dick and Peter's unfamiliar geography of hard groin and balls and thighs splayed out for him. He could feel the other man's tension, pressed this close as they were. I wish I could kiss it better, he thought ruefully, letting his mouthful slip from his teeth in what he hoped was a sexy manner. He released the empath's hair and slid that hand down the man's clothed chest and side as he lifted himself up the few inches he could spare. As soon as he could, Sylar was looking for Peter's eyes, wondering just how badly he'd fucked up. Again. So soon.
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Peter swallowed roughly and started breathing again, so thankful for Sylar backing off before things had become worse. He still had the sensation of pins and needles over his extremities – no pleasant tingling this time, just sharp, flittering pain. At least he didn't have Sylar biting his neck anymore, frotting against him, and escalating things so much he could barely think. He rubbed his hands up and down the outside of Sylar's arm and side, a little too fast, the motion betraying his nerves, but at least he was breathing and making motions. Fuck. I don't know if I can handle this. He backed off though. I wanted to do this. He's been okay with me so far. Maybe I still want to do it?
He met Sylar's eyes briefly and nodded even though he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. He was just agreeing, because he had a mass murderer grinding on him, his brother's killer, a man who'd killed him as well, and Peter felt prohibited from doing anything about any of that. Somehow he'd ended up in bed with the guy of his own volition, held an equal role in instigating all this, and now didn't know how to get out (or if getting out was what he really wanted to do – he still sort of wanted to do this. Despite everything, his body hadn't stopped being excited over it.)
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It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Peter was still erect, but he wasn't particularly active and certainly not vocalizing anything (not that he had to – it was Sylar's job to figure those things out). I can work with that. Shoving his own rampant desires aside, switching gears, he braced for the unsavory task ahead.
He slid down Peter's body, spreading the man's legs as he went by necessity, and dragging his hand over a stupid cotton shirt instead of hot, soft flesh. He aimed his actions to be sensual, teasing, seductive. When he was crouched between the muscular spread legs, he let his hand drift over Peter's erection, covered in boxers all the while staring up intently under his brows, daring Peter to say no. The look was important, a fine balance between asking permission and getting attention before he proceeded without asking.
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Oh! Oh? Oh fuck. Peter realized what Sylar was going to do as the man did it. It was a relief and the opposite at once. He's not going to fuck me. (Try to – I'd stop him.) He's going to suck me off. (Or try to – am I going to stop him?) Peter was still panting, the overall tension finally making his erection flag, and the concern that his flagging erection would disappoint or upset Sylar making Peter's arousal ebb even faster. Fuck. This isn't working. He has to be feeling that I'm not hard anymore. I can't fake this. (And I wouldn't.)
Peter met Sylar's eyes, seeing an expression he'd fantasized about and never imagined he'd get to see in the flesh – Sylar crouched over him, ready to take him in his mouth and pleasure him. It was hot, sexy, and arousing on several levels at once, salvaging what had become a downward spiral. He's doing this for me! He's doing this because I said I wanted it, back in the library. He's doing it because I said getting together was going to take work. This is him working on it. He might not even like giving blow jobs. This is okay. It's going to be okay. I can do this. We're both doing this.
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God, he could smell Peter and that was so good. That scent made his mouth water. Sylar knew he could eat this man alive and felt his cannibalistic side awakening. But before he looked back at what he was holding, he could feel the difference – a change. Peter was going soft. Sylar's felt his heart rate skip a terrible beat. He was instantly ashamed and confused, hiding his fallen expression. What had he done wrong? Was Peter remembering everything - now of all times? I don't do it for him: filthy, pathetic, threatening animal. He's used to better. It's just business. He swallowed, trying to mind his own business and not draw attention to anything. If he failed, it could ruin everything. Carefully, he worked at peeling the other man's boxers off.
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Peter drew in a deeper breath, the realization that he wasn't the only one making an effort here giving him relief from his racing, fearful thoughts. It calmed him down and brought back focus. Do I want him as a lover? Sylar was looking down now, making it difficult for Peter to see his face. Because that's what's about to happen. I thought about this yesterday. Peter searched his feelings, digging deeper than the instinctive fight/flight/freeze response. He was more than a mere animal. My mind hasn't changed. Not really. I'm just scared. He licked his lips, took a few more breaths, and lifted his hips so Sylar could slide off the boxers he was working on.
"Hey," Peter said softly, his voice shaky, "give me a minute here. I got a little too…wound up." He put one hand on Sylar's bare shoulder, the other on Peter's dick. He stroked both, petting Sylar while pulling up and down on his shaft. He was still just getting Sylar's profile, which was another mixed bag of yes and no. Sylar's discomfort told him he was doing this for Peter, for Peter's benefit, and while Peter acknowledged and appreciated that, he would have rather Sylar was enthusiastically enjoying the whole thing for his own behalf. But we're just getting started. He's trying. I'm trying. It doesn't have to be perfect. We'll work this out. He's doing this for me. Best gratitude I can show him is to accept it. Like he said, 'Just let it happen.' It's okay. Don't ask for more than he can give.
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Sylar nearly started with surprise to hear Peter's voice. It was highly unusual in the middle of…this process. He wished the communication was a relief (part of him was greatly relieved to know he'd done the right thing in continuing and stripping Peter's underwear), but there was the concern that he'd fucked up so badly that Peter had to say something about it, instead of just enjoying the ride Sylar had promised. It applied to Peter touching him…and touching himself. That's probably really normal. I wouldn't know. Nath- HE would know. That's sick. I can't focus. I have to focus. What he's doing is a good thing, right? Peter's touch was gentle and practically platonic. Sylar waited, being touched and trying not to stare while being unsure of himself.
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His erection returned faster than he'd expected once Peter focused on what he could do for Sylar – for both of them, maybe – to make this work. He wanted it to work. He was certain they both did. Hanging onto that thought and thinking about how Sylar had looked at him earlier made him hard. "I think I'm good." And I don't think I'm going to last long anyway.
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Oh, good. More talking, he thought without any real feeling. I'm too stupid to make it work right the first time without help. No wonder I'm a turn-off. Committed now, he had no choice but to carry through. Now Peter was waiting on him, hard and expectant. The dick looked like a dick. Not an enormous monstrosity in length or width, healthy with no warts or other telltale signs of disease. The flesh was a lighter tone than the rest of Peter's skin from lack of exposure to the sun and the head was a dark pink. Peter's balls weren't huge or overly hairy and Sylar didn't know anything about pubic hair to give an assessment of Petrelli's (but it didn't seem like enough in comparison to his own).
Time became fuzzy and he lost track of a few things, desperate to focus and zone out at the same time. When he noticed his own delay, he snapped to with a rush of upset. I'm just the sex toy here. Do the fucking job already! He was desperate to maintain whatever respect Peter had of him up until this point. He knew one blowjob could erase so much hard work, his struggle to be viewed as something acceptable, make deals and arrangements for safety, the unasked for comforts Peter had already given. He was terrified of what would come after: abandonment, degradation, starvation, being back in this familiar, helpless position, being reduced back to nothing and having to submit to that because he'd agreed to it – to all of it. And the anger. The anger of having to put out for the hypocrite who'd took his mind and tossed it away so casually. The not-knowing was enough to make him feel weak.
He remembered that those same things would happen to him if he didn't follow through right here and now, too. This was the less risky of the two paths. That decided him and from nowhere, he heard a long-forgotten gruff voice: Do it, boy.
He couldn't look at Peter, his motions automatic like his body no longer responded to his control. Sylar swallowed and moved in, opening his mouth until the back of his palate struck the end of Peter's dick. Slowly his tongue and lips closed around the shaft as he waited for Peter to begin thrusting. The taste was mild and meaty.
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It took Peter only a second of looking down the length of his body at Sylar crouched there, dick in mouth, unmoving, for him to realize something wasn't right. The man's hesitation, then gulping him down without prelude and waiting in immobility like he didn't know what to do next cemented it. But even so, Peter wasn't sure what to do about it. They were very literally in the middle of the act. A thought he'd had months earlier in this place came to him again – the suspicion that Sylar wasn't gay, or attracted to men at all, but knew Peter was and so was playing that role to bring them together. This is not the time to interrogate him about his motives. He wants to do this. I want him to do it (and maybe not all for the right reasons, but whatever). He's doing it. And no one's getting hurt. I'll figure it out later.
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Peter didn't move, didn't say anything. Sylar quickly attempted to recover. Clearly Peter wanted him to work for it and that wasn't the usual script. Okay. I wasn't ready for that. He began bobbing his head while he hated giving the appearance that he was enjoying this.
(Sylar's dick was. This was so filthy, so erotic. This was Peter Petrelli. The strong, clever, evil, sweet, heroic, aggressive, domineering, empathic little hottie. This was, generally speaking, a sex act and a forbidden one at that. The wrongness filled his nervous system with a different and equally confusing, powerful reaction. Part of him hated this cautious, participatory nature of having his mouth fucked and felt it should be some kind of bestial possession of ownership).
The shaft rubbed against his inner cheeks as he began to attempt to suction. It was an unnatural sensation – his mouth attempting to hold onto the penis as his own head attempted to withdraw the organ from his mouth. The tip created the most friction, being pushed in and out. His tongue had nowhere else to go but press up against the shaft as it passed, giving him a taste regardless of his feelings about it (honestly, mixed). He had to time his breathing. He could feel Petrelli's fucking heart beat through his dick – firm, quick, excited, intimate.
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"Oh yeah. Yeah." Peter said breathily as Sylar began to move. He stroked the top of Sylar's nearer shoulder encouragingly, feeling the man's mouth hot and wet around him. His body knew what to do, even if there was a part of his mind that was still a conflicted mess: Was Sylar lacking in enthusiasm? Should Peter do something about that? Should he just let this happen without complicating things or being demanding? Was this like the flogging Sylar had asked for and then blamed Peter for? Should Peter even be doing this at all? What if Sylar bit him? I'm going to lose it again if I keep thinking about this. He wants me. I know he does – the way he looks at me, that he's doing this, he's trying to make this work, kissing me today, wanting me with him, all that biting and lust from him. Feel his mouth, his tongue! He's being so careful. This feels great. Might be easier for him if he wasn't doing all of me. (Why isn't he using his hands?)
Peter reached down, insinuating his own hand into things. He grasped his shaft at the base. "Let me hold here. You do the tip?" With his other hand, he caressed Sylar's shoulder and then cupped behind his neck to feel the velvety soft hairs on the back of it. It was more intimate contact than Sylar had ever offered or allowed before, granted now without a glare or a twitch. It was like Peter's touch was welcome. Oh, this is so good! "Fuck yes. Oh yeah. Yeah," Peter huffed out. The feeling of Sylar's lips on his hand was surprisingly almost as stimulating as the suction on the glans. He wished he could just touch Sylar's face, put his fingers on the man's lips, and find a way to kiss him without flinching.
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There were more words. Directions. Instructions. He flushed with shame again, but complied, strangely enjoying the balm of Peter's hand on the back of his neck, tickling at his hair. In many ways, focus on the tip was easier on his mouth. It had that lollipop motion that he was more familiar with except his lips were continually bumping wetly into Peter's fist as it stroked the rest of his shaft. Peter was swearing. The tone of his breathing had changed – sexier, needier, sensual. It made him uncomfortable, and powerful.
It was much simpler to suction harder at the spongey head of Peter's dick, his tongue in play to avoid scraping it on his teeth. It brought an unpleasant salty taste to his mouth, different from the vaguely private taste of the shaft that mostly tasted like Peter smelled. Everything but that new taste was bearable. Now he wondered how long it would take for Peter to pop (and how long he could keep this up – his jaw was already protesting – and what he would do when Peter climaxed).
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Every now and then, Sylar would glance up, meeting his eyes. Peter was watching intently the first time, having been admiring the way Sylar's hair fell in artless disarray across his forehead, watching the bunching of his shoulder muscles and he bobbed up and down. Peter's expression was one of disbelief and lust – that he might be this lucky was difficult to wrap his mind around.
The second time, he smiled, trying to connect with Sylar because this was intimate, he was vulnerable, and Sylar was doing this for him, on his behalf, and Peter was very clear on that. The third time, Peter surrendered to it all. He met Sylar's eyes briefly, then let his head fall back and his mouth hang open as a surge of arousal swept through him. He was getting close. He moved the hand that had been touching Sylar's shoulder to his own chest, pushing up his shirt so he could stroke up over his belly, lightly rake his chest, and then pinch his nipples.
XXX
The third time Sylar looked up it was no longer begrudging (at least, on the inside). Peter had specifically requested an intense and desirous look while being sucked off. The second time had earned him a perverted smile and he wasn't sure how to take that. The third time…Peter was lost and it was a sight to see. Sylar had never been in a position to view his…partner while giving a blowjob before. A few pubic hairs, smooth skin, rippling muscle and ribcage rising and falling as Peter touched on himself, scratching at his nipples and chest. The empath's head was thrown back – maybe his eyes were closed – with that fantastic throat and jawline on display. Sylar felt…part of that process, involved, in control, and hungry for those few seconds of observation.
XXX
"Oh! Oh! I'm going to come!" It was a hoarse whisper – a sense of etiquette that he ought to let his partner know, in case Sylar didn't want to stick it out to the end. Peter's legs stiffened as he struggled to keep his hips from bucking, because it was also rude to jab someone in the mouth. For all Peter's talk about topping and his fantasies in making Sylar service him, he wanted Sylar on board with him. He put his free hand to his neck, to the spot Sylar had been biting just a few minutes earlier. Over the last few months, much of his masturbation had included touching where Sylar's teeth had marked him. He didn't have a bruise now, but he pressed it anyway, remembering the sensation. Everything built up inside of him – all the tension coiling up, flooding over and through him, finding release. Panting hard, he came.
XXX
A swift check showed Peter was no longer looking at him and Sylar's expression tightened out of concern. Don't puke. Don't gag. Don't make a mess. Don't do anything. Let him finish. He has to finish. (This is the worst part). Sylar was tense, but he had to keep stroking Peter's penis with his mouth, hands braced against the bed, ready to shove himself away. Anxiously he watched as Peter pinched and abused his neck. There was nothing there – the angle didn't provide confirmation, but he would have noticed earlier if Peter had something there. What a random spot to- Oh! Oh.
That needless gesture was so sweet and so stupid it shocked him for the last few motions and made him forget the inevitable. And then Peter was coming, spilling in his mouth and the angle was horrible. The semen flooded over his tongue, around the shaft, forcing him to taste it. His back arched until his abdomen left the mattress and he gripped the sheets, forcing himself to stay in place and not make a mess. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God…(If I swallow, I might vomit. If I don't…What happens if I don't? Can I make it to the bathroom? Will he be upset? Is there something I'm supposed to do after?)
XXX
Breathing hard, Peter let his hand drift down from his neck towards his waist, pulling down his shirt along the way. He looked at the top of Sylar's dark head, seeing no more than a mop of hair from his point of view. There was no movement whatsoever – none of the delicious, post-orgasm suckling that would have moved him to pleasant aftershocks. There was only stillness from Sylar. Peter tried to get his brain to think about that, because he knew it was important even if he couldn't get enough neurons firing to figure out what it meant.