Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 77: Twisted
Title: Twisted
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Words: 600
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violent sex, hate-sex
Setting: The Wall
Summary: A fight which turns into sex.
"You son of a bitch!" Peter's second blow cracked Sylar across the chin and for a moment, he thought he'd done some serious damage. He hesitated long enough for Sylar to take advantage, trying to hit Peter in the ribs and ending up slamming Peter's elbow instead. "Bastard!" Peter tried to swing again, but Sylar was too close now. A half step back so he could pummel the guy more only served to bring his heel up against the couch. Sylar bulled into him, tumbling them both onto it.
"Don't- No!" Peter shoved, kicked, and tried to get one of his knees between him and Sylar as the other man climbed between his legs. He hadn't been fast enough, though. "Fuck," Peter said, before punching at Sylar's side because it was the easiest target to get at. Sylar grabbed his wrist; Peter jerked it away. Peter tried to roll them off the couch - being on the floor would at least put him on top and in a better position to bash the guy's face in. Sylar still had a foot on the floor and shoved back. Then Sylar came forward in a clench, putting his body against Peter's so as to rob Peter's blows of any effectiveness and better control him. Peter grabbed Sylar's shoulder, fingers gripping both fabric and flesh beneath. His other hand took the back of Sylar's head, twining through hair and making a fist.
Peter arched against that lean, firm body that pressed against his. Lust sizzled through him. He was hard in an instant - Sylar, no more than a second after him. The violence had his blood pounding. His skin felt electrified by the adrenalin. His breath was rasping in his throat as Sylar mouthed the side of his neck. Peter's hand, in his hair, held the man to him as Peter's hips strained against him.
He didn't think this was the way it was supposed to be. One wasn't supposed to hit one's lovers. You weren't supposed to curse them and call them names and want to grind their face into paste against the floor. Peter's body flushed with even more excitement. All he could think of was how twisted this was, how much he hated Sylar, and how fucking hot it felt. He moaned.
Sylar, in answer, put his hand between Peter's legs and seized his groin through his jeans with a dangerously tight grip. Peter's breath caught. Sylar sucked at his neck and firmly manipulated him. Peter's moan turned to a begging whimper, his fist tightening in Sylar's hair and the fingers of his other hand digging into his shoulder. He came fast, and hard, and shuddering, with Sylar whispering sweet nothings in his ear about who he belonged to and what a filthy little pervert he was. Peter agreed, for the most part, though he didn't have the breath or the inclination to say it out loud.
Before the aftershocks faded, Sylar propped himself up to rub himself against Peter's crotch, pumping away in a clothed simulation of sex. Not that this wasn't sex. Peter wouldn't deny what they were doing even if they hadn't gone so far as getting naked yet. He caressed Sylar's sides and hooked his feet around the back of the other man's knees, giving him gentleness and leverage. Peter tried not to wince at the blood that dripped from Sylar's mouth as the man panted over him, a reminder of violence Peter would deny if he could. Sylar sank to be enveloped by welcoming arms after his peak. For a while now, they would just lie together before things went back to the way they were. And that, Peter thought, had to be the most twisted part of all.