Title: Dirty Boys
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Words: 1,250
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: They fuck.

Sylar stepped out in front as Peter left the bathroom, clad in only a towel, and started to head down the short hall. "So clean. Let me get you dirty again."

Peter looked surprised, maybe even put off, as Sylar went to his knees. It wasn't the expression Sylar wanted on Peter's face, given the offer, but perhaps the attention would bring Peter around. He'd said, after all, that this was his fantasy – Sylar on his knees, serving him. It was demeaning in a way that simultaneously disgusted and thrilled Sylar. He tugged downward on the towel when Peter didn't immediately drop it. But Peter hung onto it. Sylar stopped then, a beat of mixed, tumultuous emotions – mainly anger at himself for having misread Peter's cues. He'd thought this (or himself) was desired.

Before he could recoil or even consider a safe exit strategy, Peter came down, nearly sitting in his lap. Sylar stiffened, not sure what to do. Pulling away or leaving would only make things worse now, but what was Peter up to? Peter leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Sylar swallowed uneasily, pulling away an inch or two. He was confused as to whether Peter liked to kiss or not – evidence was that he didn't, but then what the hell was he doing?

Peter studied Sylar's face. The set of his shoulders dipped somewhat, then he leaned in again, this time lower, and gave Sylar's neck a light peck. This was a more acceptable kiss from Sylar's point of view. Peter had done similar – kissing his collarbone - while Sylar had masturbated him. Non-face kisses had not been rejected (or maybe it was just kisses started by Sylar that Peter responded badly to?) Peter was waiting, he realized, listening and watching and probably feeling for Sylar's response, his body poised with his mouth a few inches away from Sylar's neck. He was, just as Sylar, trying to figure out what was okay.

Sylar let out the breath he'd been holding and grumbled, "Don't be so tentative. You can do whatever you want."

Peter shifted back just enough to see him. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to take everything you want of me!" Sylar spat out, angry at Peter trying to turn the tables and make this about anyone's desire but Peter's.

Peter gave him a penetrating look and a single, slow nod. Sylar's eyes narrowed slightly. A well-developed sense gave him a few seconds of warning – enough for his heart rate to spike and adrenaline to flood his system. Peter was on him before the process was done.

One of Peter's hands snaked around Sylar's head to grab his hair – not yanking, just grabbing – and the other seized his bicep. Peter lunged forward, his teeth sharp against Sylar's throat and then raking up over stubble to his jawline. It was sudden, like an attack, and despite his instincts screaming at him to defend himself, Sylar threw back his head and exposed his throat entirely. Peter pressed in, climbing on him.

Sylar's hands scrabbled over bare skin. The towel had fallen away. Peter's body was still hot from the shower, fresh and damp. He smelled clean and yet still like himself. Sylar embraced him, holding them together encouragingly as Peter ravished his throat, the side of his face, and what of his shoulder Peter could get to. The sense of the man was overwhelming.

Peter pressed into him, pushing him back and over in his passion. The hand in his hair shifted on the way down and what might have been a nasty knock to the head was conveniently cushioned. Peter's other hand was shoving up Sylar's shirt as he climbed between Sylar's legs. Sylar's legs, which were awkwardly bent as he struggled under the weight of Peter's body to unfold them and straighten them out. It helped that he was flexible, but it was not a good position. Peter's weight went back to his knees and the roaming hand down to Sylar's butt. He gripped and lifted as Sylar bridged upward and righted his legs. The motion brought Sylar's groin directly against Peter's. He was erect.

It was a relief and an excitement for Sylar, who had worried Peter's sexual assault on him was an act or some kind of joke. His legs free now, he wrapped them around Peter, who was using both hands to push Sylar's shirt up and then off. Sylar pulled it over his head and tossed it to the side. Peter was on him again, humping against him like they were having sex, biting his chest, shoving an arm under Sylar's back to hold him closer and pin them together. The vigor and energy was everything he would have expected of a man who worked out daily and could usually best him in a fight.

Sylar reached down between them, cupping and then holding Peter's dick as the other man thrust into his fist. Peter was really going at it. Sylar knew he was going to have bite marks on his chest, a thought that turned him on and made him tighten his legs around Peter's hips. Peter curled his hand over Sylar's shoulder, getting leverage to ram into him even harder. It jogged Sylar's whole body, scraping him over the floor until Peter changed angle to make sure he wasn't going anywhere. The thought of what this would be like if they actually fucked was making Sylar high. He was so hard he ached.

Peter grunted noisily, put his face cheek to cheek with Sylar and pressed into him, the last, rapid flexes of his hips into Sylar's fist taking on an urgent quality. He came seconds later, gasping in Sylar's ear. Sylar kept pumping at Peter's dick, intrigued and pleased to have Peter thrust in time with his motions. It seemed involuntary, along with the spasms that ran through the Petrelli, who was hunched over him, panting. Sylar stroked him slower, finding himself in control of the pace of Peter's ramp down.

"Mmm," Sylar hummed, "That is exactly what I wanted you to do."

"Yeah?" Peter asked, slowly pushing himself to his knees as he seemed to regain his senses. "One other thing, though." Sylar hadn't let go of him. Peter hadn't indicated he wanted him to. Now Peter used one hand to scoop up his messy ejaculate from Sylar's belly and the other to open Sylar's pants. Sylar's hand stopped moving as he stared down himself. Peter took up Sylar's erection in the hand that was slick with his own emission. It was one of the filthiest things Sylar had ever seen (might be 'the' filthiest), being done directly to him.

It was so shocking that he laughed a few times. Peter didn't stop (for which Sylar was grateful) and Sylar's laughter turned to quiet groans of pleasure. He let his head fall back on the carpet while a naked man crouched over him and stroked him off to completion. He came in moments. He would have laughed again with the release, but mirth was dangerous and Sylar didn't want to push his luck with Peter. Not at this early stage.

Instead, he pulled Peter down and … kissed his cheek after a beat of hesitation. Peter allowed it. There was no revulsion. But he didn't move in for a normal kiss, either. He just lowered himself on top of Sylar, putting their bodies together. "You succeeded," Peter said.

"Hm?"

"I'm dirty again."