Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 101: Sated, Part 1
Title: Sated
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rape, mixed signals, mistakes, errors in judgment, violent sex, blood involved in sex, non-canon ability attribute for Peter
Word count: 9,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar knows Peter is attracted to him, but Peter's morals prevent him from starting anything. Sylar believes that doesn't keep Peter from being the recipient of something Sylar starts.
"Enough of this," Sylar growled, grabbing Peter by the shoulder and pulling him around. Peter wasn't quite done with the backswing on the hammer; the momentum assisted Sylar, just like he knew it would. He shoved Peter up against the brick, where Peter landed with a startled look and a 'whuff' of expelled air. Sylar didn't give him a chance to recover his equilibrium. Instead, he planted his lips over Peter's, pressing him fiercely and passionately into the wall.
"Nnng!" Peter made a noise, acting like he was trying to scale the wall backwards. The sledgehammer clunked loudly to the ground, the metal head ringing once on the asphalt before the wooden handle whacked against the ground. It featured no more in the scene. Sylar breathed out hotly against Peter's cheek and sucked in air just as fast as he continued to work his mouth on the struggling Italian. He pressed his body against Peter's, trapping him, both of his hands roaming up and down Peter's sides, alternately grabbing and caressing. Peter's resistance was laughably insincere. His hands caught at Sylar's arms, but he made only the most token of shoving motions. At least half his efforts had been wasted scrabbling at the bricks behind him - like that would do him any good. Sylar didn't believe Peter was that unaware.
Peter had known it was coming, Sylar was sure of that. He could feel Peter's body responding as Sylar wedged a knee between Peter's legs and pushed it up. Peter gripped it with his thighs. His next half-swallowed sound was a moan. Sylar finally stopped kissing him to grin in victory.
"No," Peter said faintly, pushing at him half-heartedly.
Sylar leaned against the hands on his shoulders, panting open-mouthed in Peter's face, his eyes inches away from Peter's. He put his hand to Peter's groin, cupping the hardened flesh. "Yes." He kissed him again and for a moment, Peter kissed back. The thrill of success ran through Sylar a second time.
Peter twisted his head aside, breathing fast and shallow. "I can't-"
"Fine," Sylar snapped. "Then don't. It's on me. That's what you want - deniability, a clean conscience." He rubbed firmly up and down on the bulge in Peter's pants. Peter's breath caught and his eyes half-rolled back. Sylar knew he had the man. He purred, "Let me be the dirty one. This is all my fault." Peter shut his eyes entirely and turned his face away. Sylar pushed the ineffectually interfering hands out of the way. He kissed Peter's exposed throat, continuing to massage his dick through his pants. His own erection was straining at the fabric, but he neglected it for now. The occasional inadvertent contact with Peter's hip would have to do. He would break this stallion to saddle if it were the last thing he did.
He bit the side of Peter's neck - warm, solid muscle. He nibbled at the delicate tissue in the front, scraping his nose on some imperfectly shaved and heretofore unnoticed bit of scruff under Peter's chin. He moved his knee higher and braced it on the wall, letting Peter ride him, while at the same time he opened the man's pants and pushed them out of the way as much as he could. It didn't free Peter's shaft entirely, but there was enough to work with. The flesh was hot and thick in his hand. It was dry until he spat liberally on his palm and took hold of the tip. Peter shuddered. The man responded to every touch like a finely tuned instrument. The sounds he made were things of pure beauty. Riveting. Peter's hands had settled on Sylar's sides, clinging to the fabric and occasionally grabbing deeper to dig into the skin. His eyes were glazed with passion. Sylar cradled the back of Peter's head and kissed him full on the lips again, pumping at his erection with sure, rapid strokes. Peter twitched in time with them, like his dick controlled the nervous system for his whole body.
Sylar's tongue was exploring the inside of Peter's mouth when Peter's demeanor changed. The Italian breathed out, relaxed, and extended his arms around Sylar. His tongue engaged and his lips started moving in tandem. Sylar was doubly surprised - first that he really hadn't noticed until now how unresponsive Peter was being (aside from noises and irregular grasping), and how good it was to connect like this. If he'd been so inclined, his own eyes might have rolled up in pleasure. He growled into Peter's mouth and pressed harder against him in rhythmic thrusts. His hand on Peter's dick moved faster still. Peter drew him closer, moaning with every shove that pinned him to the brick, quivering with the constant stimulation to his genitals. Peter's orgasm shook him, his breath stuttering and huffing. A moment later, hot ejaculate surged over Sylar's hand.
Sylar grinned down at him with the height of smug superiority. "Ah," he whispered to Peter, "we finally made true what you said - you came for me. How sweet." Still grinning, he kissed a dazed-looking Peter on the lips. He finally released his own cock, jerking himself only briefly before striping Peter's abdomen and dick with Sylar's jism. "There. You dirty boy. But it's still all my fault. Not yours." Sylar tucked himself away and buttoned his jeans. Peter's face seemed to be clearing, some awareness coming back to it. He looked overwhelmed. In one act, Sylar had catapulted their relationship from never-ending sexual tension into something very, very sexual. He'd won; Peter had lost. But it wasn't like Peter hadn't enjoyed it. Sylar clapped both hands to the wall on either side of Peter's head. He leaned in. "Was it good for you, dear?"
Peter gave him a wary look and an oddly chaste peck on the lips. Then he scooted sideways out from under Sylar's looming presence. "Fine, yeah. Good." He tried to put his now-floppy dick away without touching any of the slimed parts. It was impossible. Peter huffed and touched it anyway, buttoning his pants over the mess and then wiping his hand furiously on the side of his pants leg as he continued to move away.
Sylar was watching him intently, brows drawn together. Something was not right. "That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement."
"Go fuck yourself." Peter was now well out of arm's reach and seemed to have put himself back together mentally. Sylar's brows drew together even more. He cocked his head in puzzlement. But instead of giving answers, Peter spun on his heel and left.
The next day, Sylar woke earlier than usual to the ringing sound of metal hitting brick. He'd heard it enough that it made his skin crawl. He hated it. He and Peter had been finally working things out between them, making progress, seeming to develop an actual friendship, until they'd had a final stupid fight. Peter turned away from him. Then and there, the wall existed. From that point on, Peter did nothing but eat, sleep, and pound on the damn wall. There was no way he could go back to sleep with the constant reminder going on of what might have been. He stomped downstairs after seeing to his normal morning routine to find Peter doing exactly what it sounded like he was doing - beating pointlessly on the wall, yet again.
"I thought yesterday might have convinced you to bang something else for once," Sylar called out as he sauntered down the alley. Peter didn't answer. Sylar sighed and rolled his eyes. This better not be another silent act. He leaned against the wall a few feet away from where Peter was hitting it, and leered at Peter's already sweaty body. "Did you even have breakfast this morning? You're going to need your energy for everything I'll be doing to you later." No reply. Except that Peter was obviously hitting the wall harder and louder than he'd been doing before. Sylar shook his head and made an exasperated sound, shoving away from the wall and throwing up his hands. "Fine. Be that way. You'll change your tune when you get horny again." He walked off, trying to find a part of the city where he didn't have to hear the incessant racket. Even though he could find places where it was muffled, he could never completely escape it. It drove him mad.
It was the fourth day when Sylar's patience broke. When Peter's break for breakfast or brunch or early lunch or whatever lasted only a precious seven minutes before he was back at the damn wall, Sylar threw his own hardly started meal in the trash and stalked down to the alley. He'd avoided it before, since Peter wouldn't talk to him, interact, or even look at him whenever he was in one of these moods of his. For a while Sylar stood there, glaring at Peter, letting Peter know he was there, he was fed up, and he wasn't going to take this for much longer. If Peter cared, he didn't show it. He swung the hammer with the same mechanical precision he'd used all along.
The next time Peter cocked back, Sylar stepped up and yanked it out of the man's hands. Peter spun, grabbing after the wooden shaft in surprise, like for a moment he'd thought he'd merely dropped it. When he saw Sylar, he scowled. Sylar spat out, "I'm done with this!" He strode forward, forcing Peter to back up until his back was against the wall, or else be in direct contact. Sylar held the hammer up and to the side. "No more hammering! I could shove this up your ass. Is that what you want? Is this some plea for attention? You're obviously not going to-" get out this way, was how Sylar had intended to finish. But Peter shoved him, then hit him across the face with a right cross. The taste of blood was delicious. It was on, now.
Sylar dropped the hammer. Despite the threat, it would feature no more in this scene, either. Sylar bodily slammed Peter into the wall, taking another tag on the face along the way. Peter was in a bad position to be swinging punches - no wind-up or maneuvering room meant his blows were half-strength at best. Sylar had survived the worst Peter could do before. These were mere love-taps. Sylar kissed. Peter bit him, hard. Sylar grabbed Peter's crotch and squeezed even harder. Peter let him go before his sharp teeth did more than bite through Sylar's lip. Peter's willingness to throw everything into this was making Sylar high on adrenaline. His grip on Peter's parts loosened and rubbed. Peter whined and looked away. Sylar growled and ravaged his neck, leaving smears of blood from his own bleeding mouth matched by hickeys and rapidly darkening bruises from his teeth. If he broke the skin, he didn't care. Peter had set the bar with trying to bite off his lower lip.
But Peter wasn't fighting him anymore. The Italian's dick was hard, begging to be let out to play. Sylar's own was just as eager. Sylar kissed over Peter's jaw, then his cheek, then, throwing caution to the wind, he turned Peter to face him so they could kiss on the lips. But this time, Peter didn't savage him. Peter winced, possibly at the blood, and acted confused about the taste. "Are you okay?" he asked, like he hadn't been the one to have caused the injury.
It was the first thing Peter had said to him in days. Sylar didn't let it throw him. "Not yet." He opened Peter's jeans and pushed them downward. "Let me fuck you and I will be."
Peter just stared at him, mouth open, breath coming in pants. He looked so beautiful, so surprised and innocent. Sylar kissed him again, scooping up balls and shaft in one hand, kneading for a moment, then sliding his grip up so he could pump methodically. "Yeah," Sylar purred, feeling Peter's arms slip around him as they pressed close. Peter nuzzled at his hair, hips moving with the motions of Sylar's hand. "I want everything you have," Sylar whispered into Peter's ear, before pushing away and turning Peter to face the wall. He jerked Peter's jeans down to his knees, cupping his bare ass against Sylar's clothed groin, and resumed jerking him off with a reach-around. One of Peter's hand braced himself against the wall. The other caressed Sylar's forearm. When he seemed close, Sylar let go, stepping back and opening his own jeans. He didn't need to push them down as far. Slapping Peter's hand away from his shaft (he didn't want Peter finishing without him), he tugged back Peter's pelvis and positioned him for rear entry.
He spat repeatedly, slathering his saliva onto Peter's asshole. Taking Peter this way for the first time, out in an alley without lube, wasn't the best choice logistically, but Sylar wanted what he wanted. It was here for the taking. He took.
Peter cried out when Sylar shoved inside of him. He'd been plenty aroused, but ready - perhaps not. Peter's knees wobbled, then he found his footing and pushed back. Sylar slammed in the rest of the way, eating up the secondary cry of passion and pain. He knew it hurt. It was tight and hot and Peter sounded like he was hyperventilating. The Italian had both hands on the wall to support him, fingers digging into the crappy mortar between the bricks. Sylar rode him hard with every intention of breaking him and from the sound of it, a fair degree of success. Peter moaned and hiccupped and gasped. Sylar buried a hand in Peter's dark hair, twisting his head around so he could see the face. Peter's mouth was slack and smeared with Sylar's blood. His throat was blotchy with marks he would be sporting for a week, at least. Sylar cupped a hand around Peter's delicate neck, completely owning him. He would have gone further, but he came at that point. It was sooner than he would have liked. He'd intended to plow Peter more thoroughly, but he had to admit the man was his in any case.
His own aftershocks having passed, Sylar reached around front to finish Peter off. What he found was limp and dripping. A good look determined that Peter had come earlier, staining the wall with his emission. Sylar bent forward, delicately moved Peter's shirt to the side, and bit his shoulder hard enough to break skin. Peter cried out and twisted away, pulling his body off of Sylar's still somewhat engorged cock, then stumbling on the jeans bunched around his ankles. He fell, landing on the rough pavement. Sylar smirked at him and put himself away. "That's for the lip," he said, reaching up to explore just how many holes Peter had put in him. He counted only two - made by the incisors, he was sure. In the meantime, Peter tugged at his jeans and underwear like he didn't know how they worked.
Sylar looked down at the lack of Peter's progress. "Did I break you?" he asked incredulously. Peter finally seemed to have worked out how to get himself dressed again, and was struggling to his feet. He made no answer. He kept his head down as if he really needed to see to button his pants. Sylar thought about that strange little kiss Peter had ended the last session with. He reached out to take Peter's chin in his hand, only to have Peter flinch away so hard he nearly fell down again, catching himself against the wall and giving Sylar a wild look. Sylar stiffened and stayed still, aware for the first time of how wrong everything had been, right from the beginning.
Peter still didn't speak. When he recovered his footing, he circled wide and strode away fast (while walking funny - Sylar wasn't sure if he should be amused by that or worried). Sylar blinked after him. Worry infested his gut.
Sylar woke abruptly to the sound of silence. His head snapped to the side. It was past eight. For the last few days, since their first coupling, Peter had been starting his daily exercise in futility well before now, as if the sex had kicked him into overdrive somehow. Sylar scrambled out of bed and threw on his clothes. Something was definitely wrong. He'd thought so the day before, but now he was certain. He hurried down to the alley to find exactly what he'd expected. It was the same as the day before, when he'd fucked Peter. The hammer still lay to the side, discarded. The day before, he'd left Peter alone for the rest of the day. Both of them had gotten off and despite the weird vibes, Sylar had wanted to be left alone to bask in his achievement. Now he knew he'd fucked up.
Peter wasn't at the breakfast diner. He wasn't at his apartment (and Sylar broke in, searched it, and came up empty-handed). He wasn't in the park or the library or the rec room. He wasn't at the Y or the penthouse or back at the alley. Towards the end of the day, Sylar caught sight of him on edge of the roof of a tall building, some thirty stories up. It was too far for yelling to carry, but Sylar spoke anyway, "Please don't jump." Nathan had watched Peter step off a building about this tall - step right off and fall through the air, just to prove a goddamn point. He suspected, very strongly, that Peter had a point to prove now. When minutes passed and Peter just stared down at him, Sylar went inside and headed up to the roof. When he got there, Peter was gone. All he could be sure of was that Peter hadn't jumped (or if he had, he'd flown, because the pavement below was clear).
It was harder to find Peter after that. Sylar stopped his crazed searching halfway through the next day. It was just burning up energy. A proper stalking was relaxed. He waited where he could watch the door of Peter's apartment building, but Peter couldn't see him until he stepped out. There were two doors. After Peter saw him the first time (and ran - literally ran half a block to put some distance between them), he varied which door he'd use, so Sylar saw him less often. Sylar quit following when he realized he was, again, driving Peter to adopt new strategies to avoid him. He felt miserable - confused and angry. He couldn't make heads or tails of Peter's behavior during the sex. That the man's words didn't line up with his actions was nothing new. That he would be so traumatized by it now didn't make sense, but there it was. After a week, Sylar withdrew. He waited. Loneliness would bring Peter to him eventually. Chasing him would only make him run all the faster.
Sylar was sitting on the ground by the wall, keeping company with the neglected hammer, when Peter stepped around the corner and stopped. They watched each other across the distance for a few minutes. Sylar dropped his head and examined the bunched folds of the denim of his jeans. A few minutes later, footsteps scuffed along the pavement, coming towards him. Peter stopped some twenty feet away. Sylar glanced up at him. Arms crossed, Peter's nose was wrinkled in disgust. The marks Sylar had put on him had disappeared in the weeks since they'd been together here. "Go fuck yourself!" Peter said vulgarly. "Get the fuck out of here."
Now it was Sylar's turn to be quiet. He nodded, got to his feet and slunk away. The sound of hammering filled the afternoon. It was strange, though, that after so long without it, Sylar actually welcomed the noise.
He came back the next morning. Peter hit the wall harder while Sylar was there. He stayed most of the day, making no attempt at conversation and doing nothing other than enjoying being in the presence of another human being. Peter didn't tell him to leave until the end, but when he did, Sylar went.