Spoiled
Title: Spoiled
Characters: Sylar/Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word count: 600
Setting: Shattered Salvation (not needed to understand this fic; just know that Peter and Sylar are in a committed relationship)
Summary: Peter has a bad dream and finds comfort.
Notes: Written for the heroes_contest “Spoil” one-shot #31.
A profound sense of loneliness permeated Peter, sinking into his very soul. He was utterly isolated. There was no one for him, no one who knew him, no one he could listen to, no one he could look at, no one he could touch. It was a torture. He ached inside. He’d been deserted and he carried a deep feeling of guilt because of it. It was all his fault, but he wasn’t sure what he’d done. He looked around at the desolate city, trying to discern if there had been an explosion or an epidemic or some other disaster of his doing. Depression and self-blame began dragging him down as he imagined a dozen futures where he’d brought the Apocalypse through stupidity or accident.
Peter struggled against the negative emotions. This was a common dream for him - not quite a nightmare, really - but just a fear taken form. It was familiar enough that he recognized it as unreal. With great difficulty, he wrested his consciousness from his conscience, shrugging off the tattered wisps of illusion and partly waking. He still felt alone, though.
He moved his arms restlessly on the empty parts of the bed next to him, then kicked out to the side. A sudden intake of air met his ears as his foot struck a body. He immediately moved to the source, grabbing Sylar’s left arm and hugging it as the other man remained immobile. A few moments passed, but Peter felt disquieted and unsettled. The stillness of his partner left him unsatisfied. He shifted closer, rolling his face into the seam between Sylar’s arm and body. A second after that, he pulled back, wrinkling his nose with an unhappy grunt. He hadn’t meant to stick his face into the guy’s armpit, but his thinking was still muzzy and thick from sleep.
He cast his arm heavily across his lover’s chest, his fingers scrabbling for a moment on the fabric of the soft, white t-shirt, wadding a little ball of it into his hand. It wasn’t enough. Peter crawled under Sylar’s arm and laid his head on the man’s chest. That was better. Sylar’s fingers curled slightly on Peter’s bare back, just above the waistband of his boxer shorts. Several breaths passed before Peter squirmed again. He was no more sure of what he was trying to achieve than he had been with any of his previous wriggling around, but it was cut short by Sylar rolling on his side and gathering Peter up in his arms, embracing him fully. Sylar pulled him in tight and held him to his breast.
Peter froze at the sudden grapple, momentarily coming fully awake. He felt guilty for having kicked and pawed and disturbed his bed-partner, but at the same time, he felt a wonderful sense of peace for being allowed to indulge his selfishness. He hadn’t thought out his need for comfort and soothing, but he’d felt the hurt inside of him and reached out blindly, fumblingly, for affection and marvelously, it had been granted. Wrapped in his lover’s strength and warmth, Peter pressed his face against Sylar’s chest. He took a deep breath of his partner’s scent and let it out, settling against the other man with a slow, languorous snuggle, crooning softly in sybaritic pleasure.
Sylar kissed the top of his head and said softly, “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”
“Hm?” Peter murmured. Now satiated, he was fast being pulled back into slumber.
Sylar gave him a small squeeze. “Then you remind me.”
Characters: Sylar/Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word count: 600
Setting: Shattered Salvation (not needed to understand this fic; just know that Peter and Sylar are in a committed relationship)
Summary: Peter has a bad dream and finds comfort.
Notes: Written for the heroes_contest “Spoil” one-shot #31.
A profound sense of loneliness permeated Peter, sinking into his very soul. He was utterly isolated. There was no one for him, no one who knew him, no one he could listen to, no one he could look at, no one he could touch. It was a torture. He ached inside. He’d been deserted and he carried a deep feeling of guilt because of it. It was all his fault, but he wasn’t sure what he’d done. He looked around at the desolate city, trying to discern if there had been an explosion or an epidemic or some other disaster of his doing. Depression and self-blame began dragging him down as he imagined a dozen futures where he’d brought the Apocalypse through stupidity or accident.
Peter struggled against the negative emotions. This was a common dream for him - not quite a nightmare, really - but just a fear taken form. It was familiar enough that he recognized it as unreal. With great difficulty, he wrested his consciousness from his conscience, shrugging off the tattered wisps of illusion and partly waking. He still felt alone, though.
He moved his arms restlessly on the empty parts of the bed next to him, then kicked out to the side. A sudden intake of air met his ears as his foot struck a body. He immediately moved to the source, grabbing Sylar’s left arm and hugging it as the other man remained immobile. A few moments passed, but Peter felt disquieted and unsettled. The stillness of his partner left him unsatisfied. He shifted closer, rolling his face into the seam between Sylar’s arm and body. A second after that, he pulled back, wrinkling his nose with an unhappy grunt. He hadn’t meant to stick his face into the guy’s armpit, but his thinking was still muzzy and thick from sleep.
He cast his arm heavily across his lover’s chest, his fingers scrabbling for a moment on the fabric of the soft, white t-shirt, wadding a little ball of it into his hand. It wasn’t enough. Peter crawled under Sylar’s arm and laid his head on the man’s chest. That was better. Sylar’s fingers curled slightly on Peter’s bare back, just above the waistband of his boxer shorts. Several breaths passed before Peter squirmed again. He was no more sure of what he was trying to achieve than he had been with any of his previous wriggling around, but it was cut short by Sylar rolling on his side and gathering Peter up in his arms, embracing him fully. Sylar pulled him in tight and held him to his breast.
Peter froze at the sudden grapple, momentarily coming fully awake. He felt guilty for having kicked and pawed and disturbed his bed-partner, but at the same time, he felt a wonderful sense of peace for being allowed to indulge his selfishness. He hadn’t thought out his need for comfort and soothing, but he’d felt the hurt inside of him and reached out blindly, fumblingly, for affection and marvelously, it had been granted. Wrapped in his lover’s strength and warmth, Peter pressed his face against Sylar’s chest. He took a deep breath of his partner’s scent and let it out, settling against the other man with a slow, languorous snuggle, crooning softly in sybaritic pleasure.
Sylar kissed the top of his head and said softly, “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”
“Hm?” Peter murmured. Now satiated, he was fast being pulled back into slumber.
Sylar gave him a small squeeze. “Then you remind me.”