Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 21: Sweet Surrender
Title: Sweet Surrender
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content
Words: 1,600
Setting: The Wall
Summary: PWP. Sylar and Peter, in the Wall, have been making out and getting one another off. Peter finally gets fed up with Sylar's overbearing behavior and does something about it. Sylar finds that far more enjoyable than he expected.
Sylar devoured Peter's mouth with ferocious energy, wrapping his lips around Peter's, sucking at them, and dragging his teeth across them. He was desperate for more, to draw Peter in as much as he could, taste him, savor him, swallow him down. He was lost in the experience of taking someone … so much so that it was startling when Peter grunted, grabbed his head, and pulled him back. Sylar would have recoiled entirely, but Peter's fingers flexed, tips pressing in and subtly blocking him.
Sylar held still after that, equal parts angry at having his happy time interrupted and frightened that he might have done some unknown thing to irrevocably foul things up. Peter looked over his face silently, then drew him back slowly, lips parting to renew the kiss.
Whatever, Sylar thought of the speed bump. Maybe he just wanted to look at me. He didn't care. He returned to kissing with abandon, but it lasted only a few seconds before Peter jerked him back, gripping harder and putting Sylar right back where he had been before.
Rage boiled in him at being manhandled. Sylar went still, glaring forcefully and blowing air out his nose in displeasure. He wasn't the only one unhappy. Peter frowned and Sylar would have thought they were about to have a fight, or at least an argument, but that Peter was still holding his head. That gesture made Sylar keep his lips sealed, as well as the certainty that anything he said right now would be the wrong thing. He didn't know what was going on, but that Peter was still holding him, eyes flitting between his own and his lips, told him that he wasn't being rejected. Maybe … he's playing?
He breathed out more slowly and evenly, the glower fading as he studied Peter's face only inches from his own. Peter adjusted his hands, thumbs moving over and a little ahead of Sylar's temples, fingers spreading through his hair. It was sensuous, but Sylar understood Peter was getting a better grip to fix his head in place. For the moment, Sylar cooperated. Peter was (or at least had been), after all, letting him make out with him. He'd find out what was going on before fighting about it.
Peter's frown disappeared and he moved forward slowly, leaning up on his toes so as to brush Sylar's lips. It was silent and careful and for a moment Sylar did nothing in direct response. Then he shivered, a mental vision of being confined, strapped down, helpless on Level 5, and yet wonderfully molested by this very same Peter Petrelli flashed behind his eyes. With a lustful sound in the back of his throat, his chin jutted forward and he tried to go back to the zealous manner he'd used before. He was blocked, though. Peter twitched his own head away an inch and held Sylar firm.
Anger blazed in Sylar's eyes for a moment, then it subsided with a small smile. He's playing; playing at controlling me. That made him laugh inside, but he allowed Peter his pretenses. Whatever gets you off, Peter. The other man came back in, gentle and slow, lips moving softly over Sylar's. Sylar relaxed his mouth, letting it fall open a little, letting his lips loosen, and letting his neck unwind from the stiffness it had adopted.
"Scoot down a little," Peter murmured, and Sylar bent his knees a little in response, bracing against the wall behind him. Peter kissed his lower lip and then his upper in small, sucking smooches that included a delicious swipe by his tongue. Sylar made another sound of need, but this time didn't act on it. Peter paused as if considering that, then tilted his head to the side and kissed softly, full mouth on mouth. Sylar's hands crept up Peter's back as though of their own volition. Holding still and not responding with his mouth was setting the rest of his body on fire, desperate to take what was right in front of him.
Peter's tongue touched his, prodding it lightly, and Sylar shivered with the sensation. He kissed back, unable to resist, but he kept his motions small, and not the rampant vigor he'd been using before. Peter moaned in encouragement and pressed his body to Sylar's. His hands combed through Sylar's hair to the back of his head, where one cradled his skull and the other drifted down to his neck, stroking so softly as to tickle. Sylar shuddered again, eyes feeling like they were going to roll back in his head from pleasure.
He wasn't sure what Peter was doing - playing, controlling, teasing? - but it was totally working for Sylar, more intensely even than it would have been if he'd still been going to town, eating Peter's face like he'd been doing earlier. He kept having these erotically-charged imaginings of restraints and being sexed against his will … or sort of against his will. It was Peter, after all. Peter controlling him … him letting Peter control him. The idea that he could trust Peter enough to give up control to him … it was making him ache in his pants, making his heart hammer faster and faster against his chest. He was glad of the wall at his back, because his knees were growing weak from the fantasy running non-stop now in his head. Peter's lips gave it reality as they trekked across his cheek to suck at his earlobe. Peter's attentions blended seamlessly into the mental illusion. Sylar's fingers dug into Peter's back, over his shoulder blades, as Peter turned Sylar's head to get better access to ear and throat.
Sylar imagined being tied down, helpless, vulnerable, unable to escape … it would be a game he'd set up with Peter, explained and planned beforehand, but staged or not, he'd still be utterly powerless when the moment came. Unable to strike back; unable to get away. In his fantasy, Peter would treat him so tenderly, with such unfailing trust and support, warmth and love. He'd still have passion, just as Sylar could now feel Peter starting to rock their erections together, through the strained denim separating them. But it wouldn't be the frantic, desperate pace Sylar had set so far in their dalliances. It was be deliberate, calm, going only as fast as Peter wanted it to, and Sylar would be forced to progress at someone else's pace. Yet despite the surrender of control, Peter would still progress. He wanted Sylar; he truly did. Sylar wouldn't be denied. He'd get what he needed - without having to take, without having to force.
He shuddered again, drowning in arousal and barely restrained desire as Peter turned his head back and kissed his mouth. Sylar, totally into the headspace, passively and gratefully accepted the kiss with a mewl of pleasure. Peter smirked. The hand that had been on the side of Sylar's neck drifted down his chest, pausing to brush back and forth across his shirt, finding the hardened nubs and tweaking them - one, then the other. Sylar's breath panted out and his lids fluttered. He gave himself over to Peter to toy with, feeling the hand go lower as Peter leaned in for another leisurely kiss, sliding his tongue within Sylar's welcoming mouth. Sylar groaned as Peter's hand brushed down the bulging front of his jeans, then unbuttoned and opened them. Another kiss was provided as Peter's fingers teased along the outline Sylar made in his underwear, a wet patch besmirching the front.
Peter pushed the white cotton cloth down, took him in hand, and started to pump. Sylar whimpered, eyes shut, fingers digging into Peter's shoulders. Peter nuzzled his face, rubbing the tip of his nose against Sylar's, and against his cheek. Sylar had completely given up initiative. He shook like a leaf, already on the edge of release. He'd surrendered completely, giving himself to Peter on a silver platter, letting Peter drive. He came so quickly it was embarrassing - a few handfuls of strokes and he gushed with a spasm and a cry. Peter kissed him again, drinking in the noise he'd made, then sucking on his lower lip, and his upper, just like how he'd started.
Sylar looked at him with glazed eyes, feeling twitchy and frightened, worried that Peter knew (or didn't know) how vulnerable he'd let himself be, and how solidly the whole thing had rocked his boat. If Peter didn't know, then did Sylar need to pretend that his unusual excitement had been on purpose? And if Peter did … what did it mean to be that safe with someone? It was boggling. Sylar had no frame of reference. Peter put Sylar's clothes somewhat to rights and snuggled against him, nudging Sylar into standing taller once more. Sylar was still too mentally staggered to do anything but loosely hold his companion, aware of the regular motions Peter's arm and hips were making, slowly intensifying until Peter groaned into Sylar's collar, at a spot already sloppy wet from Peter drooling and kissing on him while he'd jerked himself off.
They stood together, all quiet breathing, warm bodies, and cooling damp spots. Finally, Sylar's recovering thoughts hit upon a possible way to spin this. "Peter Petrelli. I think you get off on controlling me."
Peter glanced up at him and raised one brow. "You're a pretty scary guy, Sylar," he said, neither confirming nor denying, which Sylar took as an unconditional affirmation.
What a funny little man, who can admit that he's scared of me, but not that he'd rather be in charge. Licking his lips slowly, Sylar looked off into the distance and smiled, giving Peter a squeeze. "I think we can work something out."