Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 18: Butter Butt
Title: Butter Butt
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Butter used as a lubricant
Words: 2500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Pretty much PWP. Sylar has been touching Peter up an awful lot. He finally gets a favorable response out of it.
Sylar thought this was a good time to get the vanilla down. Peter was in front of the spice cabinet, packing brown sugar according to the directions for the cookies. He was positioned perfectly - a situation Sylar had been waiting for. Sylar stepped up close behind him - way too close, brushing-his-body-close - and reached up over him to open the cabinet, brushing Peter again as he leaned in, practically pressing his body to Peter's, even if it was a light touch. The contact high was so intoxicating it gave Sylar a head rush.
He'd expected a grunt, or even more, a verbalized objection. Possibly he'd get elbowed or shoved. Those were the sort of things that had happened before when he'd done things like this. He didn't expect the low, indistinct noise that Peter tried to stifle. It was so surprising that Sylar, usually smoother than that, fumbled moving the cinnamon out of the way and blinked in astonishment. Was that … a moan? Desire? What the hell was that?
Peter had flattened himself to the counter and was perfectly still, his operations with the brown sugar on hold. Sylar set the cinnamon container back upright, retrieving the small, dark glass bottle of vanilla extract. He shifted back, shutting the cabinet, and since Peter hadn't objected, he did the whole, full-body contact all over again. Just because. Peter tucked his head down and to the side, evincing a slight tremor that was no doubt a shudder in the making. Whoa. That's not a 'fuck off'. Sylar set the bottle down without moving his feet at all, remaining right behind his partner-in-cookie-crafting. He waited a beat, again expecting to be rebuffed, but the absence of a refusal spoke loud in the silence.
"You liked that," Sylar purred accusatively, rocking back to being directly behind Peter. Definitely a shudder. Muscles flexed in Peter's neck and jaw as his head came up a little at the words. Tension now. Maybe anger? That's not good. "You don't have to agree," Sylar murmured, trying to sooth. Peter exhaled. Good sign. "You don't have to do anything at all." Sylar bent his head to Peter's shoulder, nipping it firmly, still expecting to get whacked in the face over this. Peter's head went back down, though and the set of his shoulders relaxed.
Sylar touched Peter's sides very lightly, checking for permission, poised for a negative reaction. Peter made another low sound in his throat, choked and quiet. He swallowed more noisily. Sylar plucked at Peter's shirt, drawing it up as he turned his head and inhaled the scent of the man at the base of his neck. There was warmth from his skin and his body radiating up. Getting a little hot under the collar, are we? He pursed his lips and blew softly, getting a sudden intake of breath from Peter and a fully body, uninhibited shiver. Sylar's face brightened. He watched gooseflesh show on Peter's neck. Piloerection, he thought, recalling the word for it. Are you getting erect elsewhere, hm?
His fingers touched smooth, warm skin, sliding over Peter's sides with both hands, inwards towards his belly and up, amazed that he was being allowed this, but then again, Sylar wasn't the only one frustrated and wanting. It had been more than a year for Peter at the very least - much longer for Sylar. "I can understand how difficult this must be for you." Peter tensed again, but Sylar went on, "It doesn't have to be difficult. You're not asking for this. It's just something that's happening." His hands explored Peter's hard, flat chest as he cupped his groin to the man's muscular butt. "It wasn't your idea." Peter started breathing harder, pushing back from the counter just a little to firm up the contact between them.
He's going to let me do this. Oh! Man oh man. He really is. Is that the angle I have to work? No responsibility? No blame for his delicate Petrelli conscience? I can handle that. Make me the guilty party, Peter. Wouldn't be the first time. He turned his hands and drew his fingernails lightly down Peter's chest and stomach, from pectorals to waistline, while he thrust forward with his hips hard enough to trap the guy between his body and the counter. Peter called out, loudly, shamelessly, his voice bouncing around in the small kitchen. His hands came back to grip Sylar's hips, the first definite sign of reciprocation he'd given.
Sylar started pushing his hips against him regularly, rubbing his rapidly growing hardness against Peter's ass. Peter spread his legs as if instinctively, pressing back receptively. Damn, does he ever want it! Little pervert. How long have you been fantasizing that eventually I'd just bend you over something and take you, absolving you of all onus? Send me a fucking note next time, Petrelli, and I'll help you out.
When Peter shoved back harder against him, braced against the counter, Sylar dropped his hands to the front of Peter's jeans, caressing that enticing bulge. Peter wasn't light in the pants. He wasn't enormous, but he was enough. Peter whimpered in need and Sylar could hear the change in quality of sound when the man bit his lip. So sexy. Oh my God. Sylar's own desire was starting to burn hot. He wanted to know how far he could go and he wanted to go there fast. He was pretty sure the answer was 'all the way', but he was still holding himself back. Patience. You've been patient all this time. Just ease him into to it and he'll be yours. Sylar's hands worked the top of the man's pants, popping the button open. Peter stiffened again, this time his head whipping around and for the first time Sylar caught a good look at his face. Peter was terrified. Or at least very frightened.
The expression brought to Sylar's mind times from long ago when he'd been uninterested in an advance very much like this, but had to take it anyway. He didn't want to think about where his words came from: "It'll be all right. It'll be like nothing ever happened. We won't talk about it later." He said them softly, instead of the rough, intimidating tone from his memory. He rubbed his hands over Peter's hips soothingly, and then down the line of his arms to cover his hands, fingers twining briefly. Peter turned his face away again, letting it hang down as he lifted one hand and took it to his fly, unzipping. He took the surprising step of pushing his garments all the way down. Then he reached over with a slightly shaking hand and pulled over the softened butter.
Oh! All the fucking way, Sylar thought, brows rising. Not just the bump and grind then, eh? You don't do anything halfway, do you Petrelli? He ran his hands around and over Peter's cheeks, kneading and spreading them methodically. He leaned in again to cup the line of Peter's body with his own, biting and then kissing at his neck, wondering how Peter liked it - fast and rough? Slow and gentle? He couldn't ask - not without making Peter implicate himself. The lack of words when drawing the butter over said everything.
He reached over and dipped two fingers into the butter, rolling them for a thorough coating. With his right hand he held Peter's shoulder where it joined the neck, a silly precaution as Peter wasn't going anywhere, but it had been more necessary with Gabriel all those years ago. The moans Peter made as Sylar wormed his way inside were incredibly gratifying - not sounds Gabriel had ever made. Enjoying the hell out of this, I see. Sylar smiled, pleased with that. Peter shifted like his knees were weak, but he didn't go down and his pants around his ankles kept him in place. Oh, yes. Trapped here.
He opened his pants, one-handed, and coated himself further with butter. Lube was the trick, he knew. He pulled Peter's ass up and bent his knees slightly, lining himself up as his trousers fell to mid thigh. "Hold still," he murmured - another rote command made meaningless by the context, but Peter obeyed anyway. He nudged inside, finding Peter tight and hot.
Peter groaned deeply, getting out, "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Yeah."
Little more talkative with my dick in your ass? Just think of the wonderful conversations we could have. Sylar started working his way in and out with short prods. Peter shook, his breathing uneven and wracked by moans and mewls. So fucking responsive. Noisy little bastard. Oh God, yes. Come for me, Peter. The tail of Peter's shirt kept dropping between his groin and Peter's cheeks, which was annoying. He loved the alternating warmth and the lewd slapping noise his lower gut made against Peter's posterior. He yanked the interfering fabric out and tucked it into itself at Peter's neck, hearing Peter chuckle a little at his discomfiture.
Sylar had the rhythm down now, moving all the way in and out, his cock entirely encased in Peter's body, then drawing it out only to slam it back home again. He held the man's hips and caressed his sides, reaching up to claw his way down Peter's chest again, listening to the symphony of sex sounds Peter let loose with, along with the occasional expletive or encouragement.
Sylar started moving faster as Peter was shoving back on him more aggressively, hands braced on the counter and ass lifted. The guy was rocking up on his tip-toes and then back into him. Sylar followed the pattern, then sped it up doubletime. Peter's cries changed tenor. Whatever he was doing, it was totally working for Peter, who sounded like he was choking and moaning at the same time. A few seconds later, Peter shoved the brown sugar and measuring cup out of the way, granules littering the countertop as he curled over on it, no longer able to hold himself up against Sylar reaming him out. He collapsed, letting it hold him up against the barrage of ceaseless stimulation.
One of Peter's hands found his dick, grasping the tip and squeezing as he raised up on his toes and stayed there, tension filling his frame. Sylar rammed into him harder, pounding him with everything he had. He could feel himself starting to come undone, warmth flushing him as the world seemed to contract so that the only important thing in it was his dick and Petrelli's delicious ass. Peter's breath caught in a gasp, released in a ragged, "Ah-h-h!" and Sylar felt the man's anus clench hard around his shaft. Peter's knees buckled suddenly, but Sylar held him, burying himself entirely within for his own release.
He held in place, panting while the room stopped spinning and everything came back into focus. He pried his fingers out of Peter's hips, where they'd dug in convulsively for his last thrusts. Peter made a tiny pained noise, blew out air to knock his hair out of the way (though it only fell back over his face) and then shook with a lingering spasm that contagiously transferred to Sylar, making him grip Peter's body anew as his own aftershock ran through him. He pulled back finally, patting the small of Peter's back and tugging up his pants.
As he took the two steps over to get paper towels, Peter straightened. Sylar returned, offering them to the man and then cleaning his hand and himself. He didn't know what to expect for 'next' or how Peter would react. Peter got himself taken care of and pulled up his jeans, refastening them. Sylar absently scanned the counter. Other than needing more butter and having to re-measure the sugar, all was still in order. He reached out and righted the fallen, but fortunately unopened, bottle of vanilla as Peter stepped next to him. Peter touched his hip and now it was Sylar who was apprehensive, not sure what would happen. He had the feeling that he ought to leave - that was the behavior of his only role model for this sort of thing with another male, but it wasn't Sylar's true instinct.
Peter leaned up and kissed him. A jolt ran through Sylar and his breathing quickened again - not arousal, but just the electric sensation of lips against his. It was the first time they'd kissed one another - quick and sweet, a firm press and then over with, leaving Sylar staring in surprise. Peter paused for a moment, and then did it again. This time Sylar kissed back. This is not off-limits? Peter, you're kissing me on the mouth, looking right at me. Are you okay with this? With what happened?
"Thank you," Peter said after they parted.
"Peter …" Sylar swallowed uneasily, caught between pretending arrogance and feeling the vulnerability that was running riot through him. "You don't have to acknowledge this. That was the deal." Your 'free pass', like the one all the Petrellis get.
"I won't do that to you." He patted Sylar's hip again and hugged him, pulling him in close to kiss Sylar's still-very-surprised face.
Sylar blinked, eyes watering unaccountably. Must be some side effect of sex. He pulled Peter's shirt out from where he'd tucked it into his collar and smoothed it down, then as they parted he raised his hands to straighten the collar fastidiously. Bringing his hands around to the front of Peter's head, he busily brushed the guy's silly bangs out of his face and then swiped brown sugar from his cheek. Sylar let his fingers trail down the sides of Peter's face, not sure what to do about these sudden compulsions to care for Peter. Probably just another side effect. Maybe an instinct. A biological imperative. Hell if I know. He straightened the front of Peter's shirt, too, feeling nervous and self-conscious, but doing it anyway.
"Thank you," Peter repeated, dropping his voice a little and tilting his head as if in emphasis for his words.
Sylar looked at him blankly, not sure what response Peter was looking for. What does he want from me? Am I allowed to talk about it? Would I be better off not to? What if I say the wrong thing? At a loss, he responded with, "Cookies?"
Peter chuckled and rolled his eyes, heading to the sink to wash up more properly. "Sure. Cookies." Peter sounded amused, but Sylar had the nagging feeling he'd missed something there. Only later did he realize it was as simple as 'you're welcome.'