Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 22: Playing Hard to Get
Title: Playing Hard to Get
Characters: Sylar, Peter
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content
Words: 2,700
Setting: The Wall
Summary: PWP. Sylar's upset that no one is willing to put up with someone as screwed in the head as he is. Peter proves him wrong. Beta by means2bhuman. I used this as guidance for some of Sylar's emotional reactions. Many thanks to black_sluggard for reccing it.
Sylar just wanted someone to be there for him. He knew he was a complete fuck up, with so few redeeming features as to be not worth saving. The whole world would be better off with him out of it, which was agonizingly ironic because Sylar didn't want the whole world. One part of it would do. Any part. One person, even. And they didn't have to be his - they just had to think he was okay under the layers of fucked-upedness that he knew he had and that he would gladly start trying to peel away … if he just had someone who cared that he was trying.
He'd been slapped in the face, again, by how unlikely it was that he'd ever get what he'd wanted. Peter's scathing comments reminded him of how unworthy he was of anyone's support. He sat on the bench in the park where they'd been arguing, letting his shoulders sag as he put his face in his hands. He'd gradually become more open with Peter in showing his emotions, because really - why not? There was no one else here. The stoic façade didn't protect him from shit. And maybe … fine, let Peter have what he wanted. Let him see that his words had struck home. Let him gloat or whatever it was he wanted to do. At least one of them would be happy.
Sylar's throat felt swollen and constricted. His too-large nose wasn't helping matters by being stuffy all of a sudden. He sniffed, determined to keep breathing even though his body seemed equally stubborn about complicating the simple process. A moment later, Peter sat down on the park bench next to him. Too close, but Peter and boundaries weren't always on speaking terms. Sylar tensed and turned his head away, expecting more of the same diatribe, just at closer range. Instead, Peter put his arm around Sylar's shoulders and squeezed.
"I'm sorry," Peter said gently. "I went too far. I shouldn't have said that."
Sylar turned towards him slowly, eyeing Peter sullenly, expecting to see some sneering, laughing 'Psych! Just kidding!' joke about to spill forth. What he saw was remorse and sympathy.
Peter turned inward with him, using and encouraging the rotation of Sylar's torso. He tightened his arm around Sylar's back, pulling them together until their chests touched. Sylar knew what a hug was, but to be given one right now was so jarring that his mind initially only processed Peter's act in terms of mechanics - each muscle contraction and physical contact registering separately as his mind fumbled on the identity of the gestalt. Whoa. He's … what is he doing? Why?
He started breathing harder, a flush of emotion - gratitude, his mind distantly catalogued - rushing through him from scalp to soles, leaving him warm and tingling. He could have questioned. He could have pushed Peter away and counter-attacked, rallying new energy to defend himself. Instead, he tucked his face against Peter's neck and let his arms creep up around the other man. His hands drifted up over sides that he knew were muscled and ribbed under Peter's shirt, over a back he knew to be both strong and broad. It felt good; it felt welcomed. He felt the silent tears that were wetting Peter's neck, the idea that Peter was apologizing letting Sylar feel safe enough to let go at least a little bit. Maybe he could put down some tiny fraction of the crap piled on him by his shitty life.
Peter stroked his back, patted him quietly and consistently. It had a comforting rhythm to it that reminded Sylar of a magazine article he'd read in an ophthalmologist's waiting room years ago. It was something about there being a distinct pattern of patting that mothers gave to infants that soothed more than any other. It was the same that people gave instinctively in the much rarer instances when they were genuinely trying to comfort another adult. He held to Peter tighter, letting go inside - relaxing and giving up on it all.
It seemed like forever that Peter held him patiently, no hurrying, no rushing, no telling him to man up or get over it. He felt better as his crying jag passed, perversely delighted in fact. Playful, happy - feelings Sylar had been unfamiliar with for so long that they seemed like strange, anomalous conditions. He sniffed repeatedly, clearing his nose and regaining his ability to smell. Besides the salt tang of his weeping, he could smell the man he was embracing. His cock twitched. Sylar pressed the ridge of his nose to the soft flesh of Peter's throat, feeling the man's pulse throbbing so sensuously underneath, and inhaled deeply.
Oh, God. That scent! He'd never had the opportunity to get this close to Peter, much less perv on him like this. Maybe I ought to have emotional breakdowns more often. He breathed in again. Knowing he might never get a chance to do this again, knowing full well he might be ruining the most empathetic gesture Peter had ever made to him, he still didn't stop himself as the tip of his tongue darted out and licked. Peter was salty and wet; tears and sweat. It was an intoxicating combination for Sylar, especially at that moment. I am such a fuck up. But Peter hadn't jerked away, though he had stilled. Sylar tasted again, fully expecting for this to go bad, fast, but it was worth it. He was getting off on this.
Peter pulled aside and pushed him back a little without any of the urgency that would have been normal for someone you hated licking on you inappropriately. It occurred to Sylar that maybe Peter wasn't sure what he'd been doing there. Peter certainly looked perplexed at the moment. Sylar would clear that up - Peter had shown him sympathy; Sylar was, well, pathologically unable to keep himself from see-sawing way too far in the opposite direction. He kissed Peter in a smooth, natural motion, as though he'd done it dozens of times before instead of never.
Now Peter jerked away, shoving him back and holding him stiff-armed. "No!" he barked out, looking alarmed.
You started it, Sylar thought in sick amusement. And oh yeah, he had quite the boner going on. Hugging, smelling, kissing, patting, stroking, tasting - what did Peter expect? He was an idiot if he didn't think that would push Sylar's buttons so firmly that some of them would stick in that position. Sylar patiently pried Peter's hands off him, which Peter allowed, but Peter freaked out and scuttled backwards on the bench when Sylar came in for kiss number two.
Peter's retreat translated to 'play a game', 'teasing', and 'the hunt' in Sylar's twisted brain. Tag, you're it! He grinned and jumped forward after him. Peter leaped to his feet; Sylar followed, prowling closer to him and looking for his opportunity to grab Peter and pull him back close.
"Sylar?"
Sylar chuckled. Their stupid argument was long over with, flushed out of his memory with the emotional release. Peter's body heat still lingered on his chest and arms and face; the taste of him on his tongue - those things had made so much more of an impression. So delicious. His grin was all teeth, his mouth gaping a little in glee. Sylar lunged in too close and Peter smacked him on the cheek. It was half-hearted at best and a far cry from the solid, head-snapping punch Sylar knew Peter could throw. He's playing with me?
It was so rare for anyone Sylar toyed with to play back in return. Actually … he couldn't remember it ever happening. At all. But Peter was novel and special in so many delightful ways. Sylar sprang forward again, expecting and dodging Peter's jab, to snake in a long-armed slap of his own. It popped against the side of Peter's face with satisfying loudness. Like Peter's blow, there was little force to it except for shock value.
Peter snarled and tried to slap him back. For a moment, they fought like a pair of teenage kids in an undignified slap-fest, blocking and dodging and whapping on each other. Glancing blows, all, but Sylar's heart was racing, pumping hard and pushing blood where it needed to be. He felt heavy and full in his groin, excited in many different ways. His ecstatic grin showed it.
Peter gave up the fight (it was probably the grin that put him off) and tried to back out of it. As he retreated, his heel connected with the edge of a planting box and he stumbled, glancing back and trying to change course. Sylar grabbed Peter's shirt and jerked him close, pulling Peter flush with him from head to toe. Sylar was breathing right in his face, feeling his erection pressed into Peter's abdomen. Peter's eyes flew wide. Before he could recover, Sylar kissed him sloppily on the forehead. It was handy - right there in front of his lips. He puckered firmly, hoping that Peter wouldn't head-butt him too hard for this.
Yet Peter didn't counter-attack. He yanked back, throwing his weight away from Sylar, who still had a hold of his shirt. Also, there was still the edge of the planter box to take into account, which tripped Peter up just as surely the second time as the first. Off-balance, they both went down into soft earth and begonias.
He just pulled me down on top of him! Sylar's mind supplied in an overjoyed crow. Even though he knew that was mostly accident, he couldn't help but be thrilled about the serendipitous arrangement. Onto a bed even! Flower bed, but whatever.
Their fighting turned to wrestling, with Sylar's sole goal being to writhe and wriggle on top of Peter as much as possible, humping on him when he could. Peter struggled with him and it was really starting to seem to Sylar that Peter wasn't fighting this as hard as he could. Yeah, Sylar had noticed that before with the flimsy whack instead of a solid punch, but Peter had opportunities even now to knee Sylar in the groin, head butt him, gouge his eyes, punch his throat, or any of a number of fight-ending moves that Peter was … not taking.
Peter was certainly objecting verbally, though: "Would you stop it!" "Sylar!" "Fuck!" "Ow!" "Damnit!" "Quit it!"
And that was when Sylar felt it: he wasn't the only one turned on here. Grabbing Peter by the shoulder with one hand, he put his other to Peter's crotch. Peter froze, hands on his collar and the bicep of the arm now occupied with Peter's groin. That arm rubbed hard and steady, up and down in forceful strokes that made Peter shudder every-fucking-time. This close, Sylar could see as Peter's already dark eyes got darker and lost focus. His breath hitched in beautiful time with Sylar pumping him. Peter flushed and panted, hard as steel under Sylar's palm.
It seemed like forever - a long, crystalline moment where nothing happened except for Sylar making Peter twitch intimately with every pass of his hand. Then Peter shattered it by coming to his senses. He kicked Sylar on the thigh, shoved him away, and rolled, ending up on hands and knees off to the side. It wasn't too hard to get away. Sylar had been thoroughly distracted and felt like he was about to pop off himself just from watching Peter respond. But he wasn't done yet.
They both got to their feet together, with Sylar moving in immediately to finish the job. Peter swung on him and this time, he wasn't playing. He hit Sylar hard, right in the face, causing an actual undignified yelp of unexpected pain. Sylar recoiled, glanced at Peter (saw that there was no follow-through attack coming - something one had to be careful about with Peter) and stooped over, holding his nose and playing up the injury with a low noise.
A few seconds passed as the air sounded with the heavy breathing between both of them. "Ow," Sylar moaned, straightening a little and grimacing. He was starting to think Peter wouldn't fall for his ruse, but here he came, the little Boy Scout, stepping right up to him and beginning to say something about letting him look at Sylar's hurt.
Well, it wasn't hurt that bad. Sylar tumbled Peter back into the same planter they'd been in before. Sylar was gratified to find Peter was still packing heat in his drawers. The fight hadn't taken that out of him. Feeling safer, Sylar grabbed Peter's jaw in one long-fingered grip and kissed him, open-mouthed, while he rutted against Peter hard enough to grind him into the dirt. Peter had every excuse to bite him on the tongue - bite it off, even. Sylar took that risk and played a bet. Like so many seemingly suicidal dangers Sylar had exposed himself to over the years, this one paid off. Peter kissed back, madly and passionately, fingers gripping Sylar's arms and digging in - but not pushing him away. A long minute of surprisingly mutual coupling later, Peter shuddered, gasping around Sylar's mouth. For a brief moment, Sylar thought he'd broken his toy. But no. Peter's fluttering lids and vacant expression spoke of something else. With a last, violent snap of his hips, Sylar joined him in release, laughing from euphoria and victory as soon as his voice started working.
He laughed harder when he saw Peter's face. It looked like the empath was trying to have a half-dozen emotions parade across there at once. Poor guy, Sylar thought with amusement. I'm too much for him. I'm a freak. Someone shows me a moment of kindness, and I have to fuck it up in the most royal and complete way I can. His laugh turned bitter, hopeless, and sad, as Peter shoved him away with an enraged snarl, then rose to stand over him. Sylar curled inward to protect himself from the expected boot party, still wracked with highly inappropriate, hysterical giggles. I always knew I might get killed for fucking with someone, but I never thought I'd be killed for fucking on them.
A few seconds passed as his mirth wound down and the serious regrets, fear, and self-loathing took over. Peter went to one knee next to him, apparently having elected not to exact revenge with his feet. Fists were so much more personal, after all. Sylar cringed and winced when Peter grabbed the front of his shirt. He wanted to take his beating like a man, but he just couldn't. Pain was pain, no matter how much of a psychopath he was. Peter stared at him for a moment, long enough for Sylar's eyes to creep cautiously to Peter's face. Peter looked put-out and exasperated, not angry.
Peter leaned in fast, pulling Sylar towards him, tilting his head and kissing him with a hard, quick, but unmistakable smooch before shoving Sylar all the way back to the ground. Peter huffed. "This is a one-time pass. Next time I say no, you respect it. You hear me?"
"Yes," Sylar said immediately in a small, wondering voice. His fingers traveled to his lips, touching them disbelievingly. He kissed me? There's going to be a next time? His eyes widened. There's going to be a next time!
"Good." Peter stood and started to walk off. He threw his voice over his shoulder, calling out, "I'm going to go get cleaned up. See you tomorrow," like it was no big deal.
Sylar watched the man walk away for a good minute, noticing Peter's stride actually looked … jaunty. He rolled over, finding a stupid grin on his face as unasked for as the sorrow that had marked it before any of this had started. Sylar put his hands over his face again, thinking that maybe he'd found someone crazy enough to put up with his fucked-upedness after all.