Blue Balls
Title: Blue Balls
Characters: Peter and a fantasy version of Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Graphic sexual content, masturbation
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter has a pair of unsatisfying fantasies while trapped in the Wall verse.
Notes: Inspired by More Between Us Than A Wall. Written in collaboration with means2bhuman. Companion piece to “ What You Want, What I Want”. 2011 Sylar/Peter Advent Calendar bonus entry for December 25.
Peter hadn’t really been keeping track of what he was thinking of. If asked, he’d have said he must have been thinking about the shampoo, and maybe shampoo commercials … particularly the ones where the women seemed to be enjoying it just a little more than was appropriate for public television. Not that the shampoo he was using at the moment felt any different than normal shampoo, but apparently his nether regions had a different feeling about things. Maybe it didn’t have anything at all to do with his thoughts and was just a natural side effect of feeling that nearly two weeks had passed now in this mental prison.
He finished rinsing his hair and raked it back out of his eyes so he could look down on the matter at hand. Or rather, not at hand. His right hand was broken, braced, and had a gallon-sized ziplock bag around it, secured to his forearm with an absurd and somewhat wasteful amount of surgical tape. But it minimized the number of times he had to remove the brace and that was what counted. He’d broken it in one of his first fights here with Sylar. His left hand was also wrapped with tape and bandages - the result of a different fight with Sylar. To say that they didn’t play well with each other was something of an understatement. After he finished the shower, he would carefully remove them, let the injuries and abrasions air dry, and then rebandage, complete with disinfectant and antibiotic ointment.
He ran the fingertips of his left hand over his unexpected tumescence. He’d come once already here, to what amounted to a pornographic memory of Sylar’s. He swallowed and leaned his shoulder blades against the wall of the shower. Was it wrong to get off here intentionally? He wasn’t sure. In his first days here he’d worried that Sylar might know somehow and that experiencing such an intimate act here meant that Sylar had somehow shared in that experience. Since then, Peter had changed his mind on how the world worked. He was pretty sure this was private.
He stroked his fingertips back and forth along the water-slicked skin. It felt good, but all he was touching with was his fingertips. He wanted more, but he didn’t want the scratch and friction that would come with the bandages on his hand. Nor did he want to remove them, which was a little silly because they were already soaked through. He growled and looked at his right hand. Even assuming he was okay with fucking a plastic bag, the pain would definitely stop him.
Still ... I’ve never actually fucked a plastic bag. Might be worth it - who knows? He smiled a little to himself in humor at the idea. He looked at the conditioner bottle, wondering idly how slippery the stuff would get the plastic. It sounded ridiculous, but he was bored and, according to his body, horny. He rubbed the flat side of the ziplock back and forth over his member. It didn’t feel like anything erotic, but … well … he was sort of short on options here. He stroked it back and forth a little more vigorously.
Ow! Damnit. He looked down again at a small slice of pain in an area he didn’t want hurt. He’d managed to catch the head of his dick against the crimped edge of the bag. He didn’t think he’d cut himself, but the prospect of a possible paper-cut to the penis via plastic bag was enough to deter his curiosity. He shook his head. It just wasn’t worth it. Not even for novelty value. He wasn’t that bored. Or horny. Despite the pain, his organ remained as stiff and swollen as it had been before. It made him restless, wanting a release he couldn’t easily grant and wasn’t willing to arrange.
There was another solution. He shut his eyes briefly and began reciting the names of the saints, their holy days, the books of the Bible - the most non-sexual things he could think of. What else isn’t sexy? My work. Work isn’t sexy. Ambulance sirens. Dying patients - totally unsexy. Whoa, wait - dead people - ultimate turn off. Finally, his dick started to agree with him. Little kids. Old people with oxygen tanks. Lifting large patients down the stairs using the stair chair. Getting vomited on. Trying to stroke off with bandages on my left hand. He grinned loosely at said hand, because if he hadn’t had those on, he’d have already taken care of the issue in a much more satisfying manner.
But by now he was soft, leaving him with a mild, dull ache in his balls and at the base of his cock. He rubbed at it a few times, grimacing at the discomfort, then reached up for the conditioner. He went back to what he’d been thinking about before, daydreaming about whether his only companion here had ever seen any of those shampoo commercials and what he thought about them. Maybe, even, what Sylar would sound like instead of one of those over-dramatic women.
Not that Peter would admit to thinking that sort of thing. Not even to himself. Of course not.
XXX
Peter had risen from sleep with something of an erection and managed, just barely, to get it down enough to urinate. It stubbornly returned to full salute while he was brushing his teeth. Snagging a washcloth and some lotion, he walked into his bedroom. As the weeks had passed, he had grown tired of being frustrated and wanting. No one else was here whom he was willing to enter a relationship with. He might as well entertain himself.
He stood before the foot of his bed, looking down on the rumpled covers and trying to decide what to fantasize about. Who would I want to see there? Hm? What would really turn my crank? His left hand stroked slowly at his firm flesh. Who would I want to see in my bed? He spread his legs a little, kneading at himself as he tried to bring to mind the faces he most frequently used as his focus. But faces, here, were in short supply. For all the time he’d been here, he’d seen only one other than his own.
That one face was clearest. Sylar? Ha. Get real. He tried to think of others, but the features were blurred. And anyway, his rebellious mind kept darting back to the one thing he was trying not to think about. Fine, Sylar then. It’s just a fantasy, anyway. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
Peter’s eyes narrowed at the bed and he shook his head, turning sideways to it. I don’t want Sylar in my bed. I want him on his knees. I want him on his knees in front of me, where I can come on his face. Peter lathered his hand with the lotion and started stroking harder with long, slow pulls from bottom to top. I would love to see his face dripping with my come. I’d love to make him taste it, that arrogant prick. Maybe when he wiped it off, he’d wipe off some of that smugness, too.
He tried to think about degrading Sylar, or abusing him, but it wasn’t doing it for him so he changed the fantasy. I know, I’d have him suck me. He wants to do it. I know he does. He knows he does. I’d let him. He’d still be angry, though. I’d look down on that gorgeously handsome face and he’d be glaring up at me with my cock in his mouth. He’d never bite me - he wouldn’t - but I wouldn’t know that for sure. That would be part of the danger, not knowing, but letting him do me anyway.
Peter’s breathing sped up. His rapid pumping changed tempo as he rolled his palm around the head of his cock, imagining Sylar’s tongue laving him, exploring the ridge of his corona and teasing the very tip into his slit. He groaned, arching back just a little as his hips jutted forward involuntarily. Oh yeah. He looked down with narrowed eyes, conjuring Sylar’s face licking over him, lips drawn around his penis while those incredible, piercing dark eyes smoldered up, meeting Peter’s own and promising to drown him in desire.
Oh yeah. I’d be fucking his mouth and he’d be staring up at me, never letting me look away, totally focused on me. And he’d be good at it. Because Sylar is good at everything. If he’s not good at giving head, he’d use his ability and he’d be good at it incredibly fast. You gotta know someone with lips like his is going to be good at it. Those lips would be wrapped around my dick, sucking and pulling, like he was fucking milking me. Oh yeah.
He shifted back to stroking, but this time in shorter jerks near the head of his dick, rubbing his thumb up and down against the frenulum. And he’d want me so much. He’d want me to come. He’d be all into it, really enthusiastic. Angry, yeah, maybe, but really into it, really going to town, letting me in deep, then taking me shallow, then deep again - just whatever he needed to do to get me off. And he’d put his hands on my ass and spread it. Oh! Peter’s legs shifted further apart as his hips moved in sync with his left hand. His right, since healed from being broken, gripped his butt-cheek, fingers digging in.
He’d spread me. He’s got such big hands. Long fingers. Oh God, yeah! He’d brush just his fingertips across me. Peter’s dick throbbed and he felt the beginning of his peak forming as a twist of glowing sensation in his gut, spreading fast through his veins. His breath was coming in short pants and he let loose brief whines that punctuated the wet sound of his lotioned hand pistoning up and down on his cockhead.
His fingers would be playing with my ass while he sucked at my dick. His tongue would be all over it, his lips tight against me, just a little bit of teeth … oh my God … I’m so close … and then … I’d put my hands in his hair … and I’d stroke it. He’s got such great hair anymore. Oh God, baby … baby … I love this … please … I love it. I love yo- Wait, what? Peter teetered on the edge of release, the knowledge of what he’d almost thought/said to Sylar, even as a fantasy, thoroughly fucking with his head.
What the fuck? I don’t love him! But then why would I be fucking him? Peter’s fantasies nearly always included him crooning endearments to his partners, usually much more coherently than he ever managed in real life (such being the essence of ‘fantasy’), but to find himself dreaming of saying those words to Sylar threw him so badly that he found himself holding a spongy, fast-shrinking package. It scared him. There were too many things it could mean - nearly all of them being things he didn’t want to think about.
With a loud, frustrated groan, he threw himself on the bed, landing face up, arms spread to the sides. Shit! God-dammit! What a total boner-killer. He huffed. His balls hurt now. He wasn’t about to try to rub one out again - not until he got his head on straight. A moment passed of confused blankness in his mind, before some small part of him offered, That was really hot, though. I wonder if there’s any chance Sylar would ever … nah. Don’t even go there, Peter. It’s a fantasy. I made it up. That’s all.
One thing was for sure, his erection problem was taken care of, though it had done nothing for his frustration.