Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 23: No Retaliation
Title: No Retaliation
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violent sex, coercion during sex, possible dub-con. Peter gets really dark.
Word count: 7,000
Setting: The Wall.
Summary: Peter tries to resist Sylar’s advances, but his own darkest desires betray him.
Notes: Beta by means2bhuman. Set a few days after a fist fight between the two of them, but that’s immaterial to the story itself. Also, they usually eat breakfast together.
Another rejection of Sylar’s advances was delivered; the man in question tried to kill Peter with his eyes.
Peter weathered Sylar’s angry glare, answering with a slow, unimpressed blink and looking away. The other man kept looking at him anyway - he could see that in his peripheral vision, as well as when Sylar finally stood. Peter glanced back and started to rise as well, only to be told, “Stay,” like he was a dog or something. Huffing a bit, Peter obeyed, assuming Sylar was going to get something out of the fridge and was just telling Peter, rather rudely, that there was no reason to get up, from where he was sitting in the kitchen of Sylar’s apartment.
But Sylar stopped behind him, directly behind him, and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter glanced up and back, not sure what was coming. He tensed all over, seeing that Sylar had something small and black in his hand. A moment later, its identity as a comb was clear but that didn’t really lead to Peter relaxing. What the hell?
“Hold still,” Sylar snapped, the hand on Peter’s shoulder holding him firmly in his seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Improving the scenery.” And with that, Sylar began to touch the comb to Peter’s hair - gingerly at first, with just the teeth of it touching against the out of place locks.
Peter frowned, caught by indecision. He didn’t want Sylar touching him like this - he’d given no permission (it hadn’t been asked), it was overly intimate, and it made Peter feel like a child. On the other hand, he’d turned Sylar down again, and he knew that had to hurt. This was Sylar’s revenge? If he thwarted it, Sylar, like anyone with an ego, would just find another way to stand up for himself. This wasn’t painful … just a bit embarrassing. It wasn’t like there was anyone here to see it. Peter faced away and sat quietly, allowing Sylar to have his way.
It wasn’t bad. Sylar moved very slowly, making multiple passes, each a little deeper than before, until the comb was lightly scraping against Peter’s scalp. There was something awkward and odd about the motions, as if Sylar had never combed anyone’s hair other than his own. Peter wasn’t exactly that experienced at it either, but the various barbers and hair stylists he’d been to had always handled him much more familiarly. Peter had always enjoyed getting his hair done by a professional. It was nice now, even with the less practiced touch.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the tension drain away. Sylar shifted from combing sections and started doing long strokes from the hairline over Peter’s forehead to the nape of his neck. They were slow, careful, dragging motions. Peter took another deep breath, easing up. This feels really good. It’s not so bad. A lot better than other ways he could resolve the fight. Or react to it. He could have yelled, or snarked, or told me to leave, or whatever. Yeah, this is nice.
Sylar’s hand lifted off his shoulder and a moment later, Peter felt it displacing the hairs over his temple with tiny, furtive motions. The combing fast became repetitive as Sylar split his attention, obviously putting most of it on his free hand. He’s petting me, Peter thought. What do I do about that? I could tell him to quit - another rejection, that I won’t even let him touch me. Is this so bad, though? I’m here in his apartment trying to help him. This isn’t sexual. At least, not unless he starts humping me through the back of the chair. Is it bad that he’s touching my hair? It feels good. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’s okay … right?
Peter breathed out slowly and leaned back in his seat. Sylar took that as acceptance and started touching him more freely, stroking his hair, threading his fingers through it, carding it back, and playing with Peter’s bangs. He mussed it, then combed it flat. He skimmed the rim of Peter’s ear, provoking Peter to twitch his head away. Sylar waited a beat, then touched that ear again, this time deliberately, sliding his index finger more firmly around the top of the cartilage shell. Peter shifted to the side in his seat, jerking his head away with a huff. “Hey! Stop it!”
Sylar’s free hand was back on Peter’s shoulder with lightspeed. The pace of the combing sped up, but neither of these actions helped. Peter felt annoyed and irritable. He shook his head in a twisting motion. “That’s enough.”
“Let me finish.” There was a faint undertone of pleading to Sylar’s voice, but Peter was unmoved by it.
He shifted his head to the other side now, avoiding Sylar’s attentions. “You finished a long time ago. All you’re doing now is perving on me. Quit it.”
“You liked it,” Sylar accused with an edge of smugness as he walked back to his seat. He tugged a couple captured strands of Peter’s hair from the teeth of the comb, and raised them to his lips with a leer. Sylar brushed them across his lips and inhaled.
Peter sighed, but otherwise ignored the display. “Yeah, I did,” Peter said, voice softening. He looked away and changed the subject. “How’s your headache today?” After a long pause, Sylar accepted that, and they spoke of the hair thing not at all for the rest of the day.
The next morning, though, Sylar took out his comb and laid it on the table next to his plate. He looked up at Peter from under lowered brows. It was a challenge, calling Peter out to say something about it. Peter met Sylar’s intense stare for a long beat, enough to establish he wasn’t intimidated, then looked down at his food. “You ever had cinnamon toast?” Peter asked, deciding to explore other breakfast options rather than discuss the looming threat that Sylar was going to brush Peter’s hair. Let him win this one. He wants it. It hardly matters. Of all the things he wants to fight over, that’s it? I can deal with that.
Sylar let the conversation go where it would as they ate. Always before, Peter had finished first, but Sylar had a mission. He ate fast, scraping his plate clean in (for him) record time. His hand settled on the comb and he checked Peter for reaction again. Peter met the man’s eyes much more briefly this time, and looked away more definitively. He felt weird about it, glancing back to see Sylar assuming an expression of a man gathering his courage, before Sylar rose and walked behind him. Peter sat up straight in his chair and leaned back.
Peter had a lot of thoughts while Sylar played with his hair. Primary among them was the morality of this. He couldn’t find where it was wrong, though it felt wrong. It felt wrong because Peter enjoyed it; it felt wrong because he was sure Sylar enjoyed it. But what was wrong with enjoying something together? He couldn’t consider it sexual; it wasn’t inappropriate - a bit weird, yes, but helping groom and care for people was something Peter had done himself without qualm.
Sylar said not a word while he did it, nor did he touch Peter’s ears. His hair got a thorough tousling, which continued until Peter’s temper finally turned and he’d had enough. He pulled his head away and said quietly, and only needed to say once, “You’re done.” Sylar stroked the back of Peter’s neck once as he walked away, and he remained in a markedly better than normal humor all day long.
After that, it became the normal way the morning went - they’d eat, then Sylar would get his fifteen minutes of petting Peter on the head, followed by Sylar being pleased the rest of the day. It frustrated Peter, at himself, at how quickly and how much he started to look forward to that time. And he was envious of what a kick Sylar clearly got out of it. As the days ticked by, he found himself getting irritable where it had initially been soothing. He still looked forward to it, but he was excited by it, and agitated. The attention, the handling, that private moment of intimacy that he forbade any other manifestation - it had infected him. He’d let it slip past his defenses and now he was desperate to respond rather than just passively receive. He wanted to do so much more than just brush hair in return. He wanted to do things he refused to even think about, or admit to himself, which left him tense and wanting.
But then one morning, while heading to the fridge for more juice, he hit on what he could do.
XXX
Peter expected a jump or at least a twitch when his hands came down on either of Sylar’s shoulders. There was no response whatsoever. Not that Sylar continued moving - he didn’t; he just sat there perfectly still. If it had happened to Peter, he would have said something, he would have moved, he would have looked back; he would have reacted. Sylar’s reaction was the non-reaction, a negative image, where he stopped acting and sat in tense passivity, like Peter had hit the pause button on the man.
That wasn’t what Peter had had in mind. He wanted to make Sylar happy. He wanted to get the same sort of hands-on contact Sylar got to do with Peter when he combed his hair, but Peter had heretofore been unable to justify to himself doing it in return. But now he’d hit on a way for it to make sense to himself, in a way that wasn’t wrong or immoral or a betrayal. Massage therapists, chiropractors, and physical therapists weren’t doing anything wrong to touch their clients like this. Peter was trained as a nurse and paramedic - the therapeutic impact of positive touch was huge. He’d managed to talk himself into the idea that this was a medical service. Not, you know, Peter caressing Sylar’s body without permission or warning.
He began to rub, very gently at first, using the same pressure with each hand. Sylar’s muscles were hard and stiff, like he was poised. Unhappy about that, Peter smoothed his hands to either side, stroking the top of Sylar’s shoulders and the deltoid. He recalled his own jumpy complaints and initial resistance to Sylar’s touch. He assumed Sylar would relax if he kept at it and demonstrated that this was just a shoulder rub - no big deal, nothing to freak out about.
He rubbed lightly, alternating with stroking and petting. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured, dipping his head because he was starting to feel acutely embarrassed and unwelcome at this. Sylar’s continued frozen act was putting Peter off. He breathed in, smelling Sylar - the faint, clean odor of masculinity and shampoo, fresh from the morning’s shower, wafting up from the man’s scalp. People had this bubble around them, a range of a couple inches within which Peter, whose nose wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t non-functional by any means, could pick up people’s scents. It was something of a cue to him, not just a ‘you’re really freaking close to someone’ cue (which it was), but also a cue that if he’d gotten this close without a definitively nonsexual context, that he was cleared for takeoff. He felt the most delightful tingling fireworks going off in his gut.
This was about where Peter’s hindbrain started having a lot of say in the goings-on.
He inhaled another breath, making a small sound in the back of his throat and swallowing. His hands enfolded the superior edge of the trapezius muscles, thumbs lining up along the spine and burying themselves in the delicate, downy hair at the nape of Sylar’s neck. He gripped more firmly, massaging with knowledgeable, sensitive hands. “Relax,” he said again, this time a whisper, more intimate than it should have been, but still loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He could feel that Sylar was slightly less tense, which was probably an involuntary response to the manipulation. Or he was just getting tired, which gave Peter an idea.
“Okay, listen. I want you to do something for me.” Peter stopped rubbing, but left his hands resting lightly on Sylar’s shoulders. He liked the simple feeling of the warmth of the man’s skin a lot more than he’d expected. “I want you to tense up your neck and your shoulders as much as possible. Got it?”
He would have thought Sylar was deaf if it weren’t for the shift he felt under his hands. He was obeyed, if not answered. Sylar’s frame hardened, muscles like corded cable under his skin. Peter couldn’t help running his fingers along the man’s neck and the top of his back, feeling the difference. Gooseflesh rose on Sylar’s skin, and his breathing became audible as Sylar dropped his mouth open slightly.
“Keep it up until it starts to burn. Tight as you can. It shouldn’t take long. Keep it clenched up.”
“Why?” Finally, Sylar had spoken.
“I don’t think you know how to relax. I’m going to show you how. Is it hurting yet?”
Sylar was silent, and Peter felt the most bizarre urge to give the guy a kiss on the back of the neck just to get a reaction. He moved his thumb in a small circle over the bulge of a vertebra at the base of Sylar’s neck. When he thought he detected a slight tremor of muscle strain, he said, “Now stop. Relax. Let it go.”
Sylar exhaled in a huff, then drew in a deeper breath and let it out, too. The muscles slackened and eased; they were softer and rolled under his hands more easily. Peter leaned down, putting his lips closer to Sylar’s ear as he started to lightly massage. “Feel that? Isn’t that better? Let the tension go. Let it out. Just relax.” He smoothed his hands out to either side. “Let’s do it again, just not for as long. Okay?”
“You’re … trying to get me relaxed?” Sylar asked uncertainly.
“Yeah,” Peter said, straightening. He gave Sylar’s deltoid a slight pinch. “Tighten up here. We’ll do it again.”
He saw the muscles tighten up, and a minute later, on command, release. “Do you feel that?” Peter asked, insistent about getting feedback here. “Do you feel how different it feels when you relax?”
Sylar’s back was sagging a little and the set of his head was different. That was what Peter was going for. “Yes,” Sylar answered quietly. “It feels better.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. You carry around so much tension.”
Sylar made a small grunt. Peter chose to interpret it as affirmation. He went back to kneading Sylar’s shoulders, who now had enough flex in his frame that Peter could shift Sylar’s whole upper body a little with each palpation. It was gratifying that the guy was loosening up. “You gotta learn to relax, man. Just let it go. Be present in the moment.”
“Oh,” Sylar purred in a deep, resonant tone, “I am completely present.”
Peter chuckled in amusement at that. It didn’t hurt that it was sexy, and Sylar speaking in that tone of voice gave him a thrill. His right hand darted forward to give Sylar a lingering pat on the side of the neck. The skin there had a different texture - thinner and more sensitive than the back of his neck; hot, with the same faint oil as his face. Peter liked it. Even more, he adored how Sylar immediately tilted his head back and to the side, baring the part Peter had touched in a wordless plea to have it repeated. Peter saw that and didn’t think enough about what he was doing. He moved his hands to either side of Sylar’s neck, fingertips finding his sternomastoids and rubbing small circles.
Sylar slowly tipped his head backward until it bumped against Peter’s stomach. He looked up with a wide-eyed, worshipful expression, as if blown away by what was happening. Peter smiled down at him, letting himself get lost in those beautiful, rich brown eyes - so clear, so deep, so expressive. He had lovely lashes, startling whites, and flawless skin, all framed by those impressively solid and dark brows. There was nothing menacing about them at the moment as he stared up, looking utterly vulnerable and open. Peter’s breath started coming faster and shallower. His fingers, running partly on autopilot, brushed up and down Sylar’s neck, drifting over to his throat. Sylar gave a few slow, languid blinks, sighing in complete submission to whatever Peter wanted to do. Peter could feel the slightest vibration of a hum, purr, or some other vocalization too faint for him to hear.
And Peter was gone, adrift in a sea where the only anchor was Sylar’s face - attention that was wholly and completely on Peter, like there was nothing else in existence for Sylar. It made Peter feel important, appreciated, and respected. That was so blinding Peter could hardly think. He was responding in other ways as well - heart pumping faster as rambunctious butterflies fluttered in his gut, turning Peter’s smile goofy and infatuated, which only seemed to intensify Sylar’s expression. Sylar rolled his head back and forth very subtly, the smallest motion against Peter’s stomach.
Peter was mesmerized, his fingers tracing the strong line of Sylar’s jaw, thumbs straying just slightly onto the man’s freshly shaven cheeks. Their texture was silky and smooth - a rare thing for Sylar, but it was only breakfast. The scent of his aftershave stirred from his skin as a slight flush colored it. Peter’s hands moved to cup Sylar’s jaw, thumbs rubbing into the masseter muscle.
“That feels good?” Peter asked faintly.
“Wonderful,” Sylar crooned, and Peter smiled, blushing. He shifted his weight and licked his lips, watching the small motions Sylar’s lips made from the movements of Peter’s hands. Truly the man felt boneless with relaxation at the moment, head lolling against Peter’s stomach. Peter moved his hands towards Sylar’s chin, manipulating it slowly with the spontaneous goal of moving Sylar’s mouth, watching it part and close, asymmetrically and at his touch. Sylar had such a generous mouth, plush lips for a man without being disproportionate or unattractive. To the contrary, they were perfect. Peter wondered what they would feel like pressed against his own, or trailing across his cheek, or nibbling down his throat, suckling at his nipple, dragging across his belly … wrapped around his cock. Peter made a tiny groan of want, feeling tight in his pants.
Lips. They were beautiful lips. Just like Sylar’s eyes - his two most perfect physical traits, both set on a face so handsome it could arrest the breath and send the heart aflutter. Peter’s thumb strayed across the lower corner. The lip was soft and smooth, just like it looked, and Sylar’s mouth opened wider, breath tickling out as his brows turned up to look both needy and desirous. God, that expression! Peter’s mind was helpfully presenting him with ways to meet those desires and he’d lost himself so fucking badly that his mind floundered, struggling to remember why dragging Sylar back to his bed and screwing his brains out was off the menu. Faced with such a perfect, willing creature, what sane person would have ever decided that?
Peter found the answer, a freezing cold jolt running through him as he realized that a simple neck rub had somehow escalated into him cradling Sylar’s face, caressing the man’s plump lower lip while running porn scenarios through his brain to pick the one he most wanted to enact. “A … uhhh …” he said, paling fast as fear and alarm painted themselves on his face.
Sylar’s expression shifted, too, no longer the invitation to sin it had been before. “Peter?” he asked with trepidation. The weight of his head lifted off Peter’s stomach.
“I … I … I can’t. No. I’m sorry,” Peter stammered out, letting go and backing away. He still had a hard-on, even if it was fading about as fast as it could from its previously rampantly erect state.
Sylar sat up and turned to face him, looking like a man desperate for water, but unable to keep it from slipping through his fingers. “Peter!”
Peter’s thoughts were a clamoring welter of mental noise - remembering the feel of Sylar’s skin, the carnal intentions Peter had had, Nathan’s death, someone’s hot blood on his hands, fire, ice, the rush of air … things less distinct and a mess of urges and emotions, like the whole of his empathy turning on at once. He stumbled to the door and escaped.
XXX
Peter looked up guardedly from where he was resolutely pumping weights. He’d been at it for hours since the issue that morning. Sylar had a paper sack with him, top rolled up. He set it on the bench near the door. “Brought sandwiches,” he offered simply.
Peter made a half-nod-like gesture at him and went back to work, hunching in a little on himself. He was embarrassed and still a bit freaked out. Sylar had made his intentions and desires crystal clear some time back, but Peter couldn’t claim Sylar had seduced him here. His own lusts had done him in. And now, instead of the firm, no-nonsense, defensible position that he wasn’t interested … well, Peter had pretty much blown that right out of the water. The degree to which he’d wanted had surprised even Peter, something that he was still turning over in his mind.
Sylar came closer, leaning against the exercise bike across from Peter. He rolled his shoulders and his neck in an exaggerated motion. “I’ve been trying those exercises you suggested this morning. You know, learning to relax. I thought maybe you’d like to check.”
Peter colored profusely and mumbled, “No, I’m sure you’re doing fine.”
“There’s nothing like a hands-on approach, Peter. You know that.”
Peter said nothing and moved his feet uneasily, continuing his bicep reps, watching the floor between Sylar’s feet.
Long seconds passed before Sylar said, his voice edged by pleading, “Peter, there’s no one else here. No one will judge you. No one will know.”
Peter shook his head, still staring at the floor.
“It’s just you and me.”
Peter frowned. Lack of better options was not a reason why he wanted to be with someone. Though he had to admit, as the days and weeks and months had crept by, he had become desperate for more than he had.
Seconds dragged by in noticeable silence. He could hear Sylar’s breathing, sharp and distressed. It said a lot about how genuine he was, which made Peter feel like an incredible cad. “I won’t hurt you,” Sylar added desperately, grasping at straws for what to offer.
Unknowingly, the killer had hit on something that was a big concern for Peter. Peter’s eyes snapped up to Sylar’s, pinning him so forcefully that Sylar looked frightened for a moment, before he managed to tuck that expression behind a veil of momentary blankness. Sylar could tell he’d stumbled on something and continued, “I won’t. You’ll be safe. You can do whatever you want. I won’t do anything to you. No revenge. Nothing.”
“Sylar …” Peter held up his hand to stop the guy, putting down the weight with the other. He sighed, and rubbed slowly at his face. The futility of his abstinence assaulted his senses and not for the first time. Time had worn down his other objections - for the past couple weeks, he’d let himself be combed and caressed by the guy every morning and he was pretty sure Sylar jerked off after breakfast each time. There just didn’t seem to be any point to fighting about it and if he was going to be safe … “Okay.”
“’Okay’ what?”
“’Okay’ we’ll …” Peter didn’t know how to say it. He wasn’t even sure what he was offering. His available brainpower was absorbed with 'No revenge' and 'You can do whatever you want', coupled with an image of Sylar's face looking up at him that morning, and the feel of his lip under Peter's thumb. He tried to blink it away. “We’ll figure it out.”
XXX
They ate. Sylar combed Peter’s hair. It wasn’t something Peter cooperated with much. They were on a bench against the wall in the weight room, which didn’t make it easy for Sylar to stand behind Peter, had he tried. Peter could have turned sideways, or moved to one of the pieces of equipment, but he did nothing. A lot of nothing had happened while they’d eaten, too. Peter, still pondering what he’d agreed to, determinedly didn’t make eye contact. Sylar fidgeted in the silence. Maybe that had something to do with his current approach, which was to scoot close until their knees bumped, then reach out with the comb. Obligingly, Peter bowed his head forward, but that was the only assistance he gave.
It was the first time Sylar had done this facing Peter, and Peter found his eyes rising in curiosity to read the other man’s expression. It was studious and attentive, not at all the lustful or engrossed look that Peter had imagined. Or maybe that was just the face Sylar was using now that he could be seen.
He finished; put away the comb. Then Sylar reached back, taking Peter’s chin in his hand and tugging him forward as he leaned in. As soon as Peter recognized he was being pulled in for a kiss, he jerked away and sat up straight, leaving Sylar to tilt back to vertical more slowly, a sulky, suspicious look on his face to go with the hard, unwelcoming one on Peter’s.
“Tell me again what ‘okay’ means,” Sylar asked guardedly, like he felt he was getting ripped off here.
Peter looked away, exhaling. He’d been thinking about that as he ate. “It means … It means I’m going to try. I’m … going to be … open, I guess. To you. It’s not something I’ll say no to automatically, but it doesn’t mean I’m …” automatically going to say yes, either. “I don’t know,” he ended with a frustrated shake of his head. He felt like he was the bad guy here, not falling into line and letting Sylar have his way with him, or whatever the plot was. He stared blankly at the floor for a while, before finally turning to look at Sylar, who had been sitting still and silent the whole while.
Sylar reached out, telegraphing clearly, and touched a stray lock of Peter’s long bangs. He rolled it briefly between his fingers, then leaned forward to tuck it behind Peter’s ear. “You like it when I touch you like this,” Sylar said, making it a question.
“I like it when you touch me,” Peter agreed, making his answer broader intentionally. He shifted his knee against Sylar’s, drawing attention to the contact he hadn’t objected to or pulled away from. It was just getting presumptively pulled into kisses when he wasn’t ready that he wasn’t into. Well, that and probably a host of other things, an inconvenient number of them involving his brother’s killer, who was perversely also the guy he had the unbearable hots for at the moment - enough so that he literally had trouble thinking at times. The universe, or at least my sex drive, has a pretty sick sense of humor.
A small cock of Sylar’s head indicated he’d heard Peter’s distinction. Instead of pulling his hand away, he curled his fingers and skimmed the knuckles down the side of Peter’s face. Peter leaned forward receptively. He could see the ‘ah’ on Sylar’s face as he started exploring a careful, arm’s length intimacy that was a leap beyond what they’d done before, even if it wasn’t the immediate kiss Sylar had expected. He fingers trailed across Peter’s jaw and up his cheek, over the patchy hints of stubble. They came down the side of Peter’s nose, making Peter’s lids tremor - not quite a flutter, but this slow torture was sexier than any rushing would have been. Peter’s lips parted, eyes darkening, and he turned his face a little so Sylar’s fingers came down over his lips instead of the corner of his mouth.
Sylar paused there, rubbing one finger back and forth over Peter’s lower lip, folding it down just a little. He paused in the middle and Peter reached up to capture that hand, pulling it away and looking at it. Sylar frowned at first, then lost that expression for one of watchfulness as he realized what Peter was doing. Peter examined the hand, turning it palm up and touching over it feather-light. Sylar tensed a little, probably involuntary, probably ticklish. Peter stroked along the sensitive skin more firmly, tracing each finger and taking his time about it.
When done, he lifted Sylar’s hand, molding it to cup his cheek. He shut his eyes, holding it to him, breathing in the faint scent that accompanied the appendage. Sylar flexed his fingers a bit under where Peter was holding him, making short strokes of fingertips over the side of his face. Peter opened his eyes, turned his head a little, and bit Sylar on the fleshy part of the base of his thumb. Sylar made a noise of desire, mouth opening as his fingers twitched and his other hand went to Peter’s knee. Peter’s tongue flicked out to lick along the trapped flesh, evoking an actual groan this time from the other man.
He released him, moving his hand to Sylar’s face for the briefest brush before sweeping behind his head to bury into his hair. Sylar leaned forward eagerly, eyes on Peter’s lips. An inch or two from the prize, Peter’s hand made a fist, Sylar stopped with a gasp and a flash of anger.
Peter raised a brow at Sylar’s expression. “Anything I want?”
“That’s what I said,” the other man growled.
“No revenge? No retaliation?”
Sylar looked over Peter’s shoulder, eyes losing focus for a moment. “Not if you hold up your end of the bargain.”
“There’s a bargain, huh?” Peter’s hand twisted and Sylar bared his teeth at the pain. “You didn’t mention that before.” Peter was right in the other man’s face, his free hand on Sylar’s forearm. Sylar’s other hand held in mid-air, as though not sure what to do. “What’s my end?” Peter demanded.
“I’ve seen how you look at me. Act on it!”
Deal. Peter jerked Sylar forward to kiss him, brutal, fast, and hard, leaving the man breathless and gaping when Peter pulled him away by the hair, tilting his head back to bite the side of his throat firmly enough to bruise. Sylar grunted. Peter yanked him back again. “Anything?” When Sylar didn’t answer instantly, Peter twisted his hand in the man’s hair again. “I want to hear you say it!”
“Yes,” Sylar snarled.
Peter kissed him again immediately, a little softer this time, loosening his grip. This time he let his tongue play along Sylar’s lips - wet, delicious, and just as wonderfully plump as they’d looked. The idea of being able to do anything he wanted to Sylar - hell, the reality of it - was making him hard for the second time today. This was the kinkiest game he’d ever played, no doubt, and he’d played some doozies. He needed to know the rules, though. “What do you want to do?”
“You’re the one with the last name of Petrelli here. You call the shots.”
“Hm,” Peter hummed, kissing Sylar gently on the neck, licking and sucking softly. Sylar’s free hand finally found a home on Peter’s shoulder, holding him. He had Sylar right where he wanted him at the moment, Peter’s fist still in his hair, holding the man’s head back and exposing his throat to Peter’s questing mouth. “I need a hint, though. You like kissing?”
“I like what you’re doing.” Sylar was panting, his hand rolling over Peter’s shoulder restlessly.
“Kay,” Peter said, nibbling up to the man’s jaw, kissing and tasting, losing himself in the moment as his mind supplied him images of Sylar in lust for him, trying on dominant or submissive for size. “You prefer fucking or being fucked?”
Sylar snorted and said sarcastically, “I don’t know, Peter. How are you as a bottom?”
Peter tilted Sylar’s head back to even to look right into his eyes. “Wildly enthusiastic,” Peter rasped, locking his lips over Sylar’s startled ones, turning his head to plunge his tongue inside deeply. Sylar made a surprised noise at the invasion, then a moan as he sagged into it. Peter snatched him away before he got too invested. “How are you? As a bottom?”
“Uh.” Sylar blinked uncertainly. “Fine. Good, actually.” Peter could see the man trying to bolster the poor advertising his tone had given.
Peter didn’t let Sylar finish getting his feet under him, and pressed him. “You ever done it?”
“Yes,” Sylar said with a curl of the lip.
Peter tilted his head, watching him carefully. That disgust on Sylar’s face answered in the negative as to whether he’d liked it, so Peter skipped that as a question. “Were you willing?”
Sylar’s eyes dulled and his expression faded towards fear. He evaded the question with, “I said you could do whatever you wanted.”
Rape? Huh. Peter kissed him again, lighter, and this time Sylar took the initiative in forcing himself into Peter’s mouth. Peter let him have a good, long plundering. When they parted, Peter said, “Good. You’re in luck. I prefer to bottom.” He pressed his cheek to Sylar’s, rubbing against him and getting an overload of sensation. It pulled an inarticulate ‘guh’ noise from Sylar. “Anything else I need to know here?” Peter whispered in his ear before pulling away. Sylar’s eyes darted around Peter’s face, but he said nothing. Peter went on, “You like oral?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I’ve met people who didn’t. But I like it, so we’re in sync there.” Peter placed a light kiss on the point of Sylar’s chin, needing only a tiny tug to keep the other man from trying to make it lips-to-lips. Sylar was easily trained (or at least a fast learner). Peter liked that. “What about other stuff? Kinks I need to know about? Things that freak you out?”
“I can take anything you want to try.”
Peter’s brows rose and his head snaked forward, biting Sylar hard on the thinner skin just under his jaw. Fingers dug into his shoulder and curled around his elbow, drawing him closer rather than pushing him away. Sylar groaned. Peter leaned away, staring at the reddened, darkening mark. He’d never done that with another partner, but the situation with Sylar was extraordinary in a lot of ways. Peter had a lot of anger that he’d been keeping buried in the interests of being civil. Intimacy was stripping that away, fast. He wanted to hurt Sylar. No retaliation.
XXX
Peter rose from sore knees, blow job complete, and kissed Sylar open-mouthed as the shower rained down on both of them. He was watching for the moment of alarm, and not disappointed, when it crossed Sylar’s features after their mouths met. Whether or not Sylar could taste himself was irrelevant - it was the idea and just how far Sylar’s ‘anything goes’ would go. Sylar had a moment of tense revulsion before shutting his eyes and sliding his hands around Peter’s back, tonguing him in return.
XXX
Peter turned Sylar around, nudging his legs apart for a more thorough swabbing and scrubbing. Sylar looked back hesitantly, knuckles turning white where his fingers flexed against the tile. But he made no objection. Peter kissed him on the shoulder. “I might have my mouth down here later. Need you squeaky clean.”
Sylar’s befuddled expression was priceless. He either wasn’t familiar with rimming, or didn’t understand why Peter might do that for him.
XXX
Peter handed over the lube, as it was clear Sylar was about to fuck him without it. It was a reality check for Peter. It wasn’t the first sign that Sylar was a virgin at this, but it sealed the deal. “Prep me first,” Peter insisted. A few moments later, Peter laughed and wrestled Sylar onto his back. “No, no, no. We’re going to have a demo first on you, so you know what I’m talking about. Don’t worry,” he said to Sylar’s look. “I won’t fuck you.”
“You can,” Sylar said, his voice rough.
“Kinda had my heart set on the other,” Peter sighed, kissing him again for Sylar’s complete submission. It didn’t cease to amaze, thrill, and arouse him to have such a powerful man going to such lengths to please him.
XXX
It took Peter a few moments to figure out why Sylar had stopped. “Just because I’m done doesn’t mean you have to be. Finish,” he ordered, watching as Sylar’s eyes ran over Peter’s face as if double checking his sincerity. Peter drew back his knees a little further and pulled Sylar forward, deeper inside of him. A barely guarded expression of relief settled on Sylar before being chased off by lust as he began plowing Peter in earnest again. Peter jerked him down for another savage kiss, followed by mauling Sylar’s throat for the umpteenth time.
XXX
Peter lay half propped up, his fingers tracing the bruises and bite marks that littered Sylar’s jaw, neck and upper chest. The guy had a couple on his back, too, one on his arm and another decorating a butt cheek. Other than a few possible bruises, Peter was untouched. “Do you mind? These marks?”
“No.”
Peter smiled faintly, frightened by what he was becoming. “I’ve never done this to anyone.” His eyes went up to Sylar’s, which were steady and unbothered by the surprising violence of Peter’s passion. He seemed serene - utterly fulfilled by the use he was being put to.
“I’m glad,” Sylar said in one of his customary plurisignifications.
XXX
“Tell me you hate me!” Peter snarled, ramming into Sylar from behind, one hand fisted in his hair while the other held him steady at the hip. Sylar made a guttural gasp at the force being used.
“I-I hate you,” Sylar said insincerely, confused by the order.
“Tell me you wish I was dead.”
“I wish you were dead,” Sylar said with more emphasis.
“Tell me you’re glad you killed Nathan.”
“I …” Sylar shuddered.
Peter twisted his hair, arching him back as Sylar made a muffled sound of pain. “Say it!”
“I’m-I’m glad I killed Nathan.”
“Now tell me you deserve this for everything you’ve done.”
XXX
“Oh God! I love you. I love you doing this. Fucking me. God, fuck me, yeah! Sylar? Come- Ow!”
Sylar slapped him hard, leaving Peter blinking and wordless. A second later, Peter started to struggle away. Sylar grabbed him, long arms and strong hands, pinning him.
“Hey! Let go of me! Stop it!”
“Shut the fuck up! Shut up!”
Sylar shoved him up against the headboard, still deep inside of him, and managed to get his hands on both of Peter’s wrists. He was tight enough between Peter’s legs that he was impossible to kick. Peter squirmed, skewered on Sylar’s shaft, feeling every inch of it sheathed so deeply inside of him, the hands clasped firmly around his wrists, and the sting on his cheek. He wanted to fight. He ended up moaning.
“Fucking liar,” Sylar snarled, and gave his ass the hammering of his life.
XXX
Peter pleaded, “What was it I said?”
“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it!”
“Sylar …” Peter snatched the shirt out of the man’s hands in frustration, momentarily thwarting Sylar’s attempt to leave. “If you’re going to run out on me, at least tell me why!”
Sylar tipped his head down, glaring and managing to be intimidating even half dressed. “I will fuck you, be fucked by you, talk dirty, whatever. But I will not be lied to!”
Peter blinked, affronted. “You think I was lying when I said I enjoyed it?”
Sylar crowded into his face, and his whisper was more frightening than any yelling would have been. “Tell me again how much you love me, Peter Petrelli.”
XXX
Days passed in silence. Then finally …
A shy look.
A derisive snort.
Sidling closer.
Walking away.
Thock! A piece of gravel smacked Sylar between the shoulder blades.
An angry glare.
An impish mien; another small stone, bounced up and down in a palm.
Shoved against the wall, stone lost, Sylar’s mouth crushed against Peter’s.
A wanton moan; fingers curling into hair; hips grinding against the taller man.
Pants unfastened, whirling Peter so he faces the wall, hot breaths in the man’s ear, followed by an unbearable tongue.
Lube snagged out of the pants pocket as they’re shoved down. Peter hands it back to Sylar’s bark of laughter.
A kiss, tender and sweet, gentle and lingering, at the join of Peter’s shoulder and neck, from behind, as he’s prepped. Inhaling his scent. It’s been missed - oh so much!
A joining of bodies, out in the street. Release. Turning back to face Sylar, hugging him, cuddling, stroking with hesitant fingers. Mindful of the need to be careful with Sylar.
Combing his hair. Taking care of the little brat. Still amused that Peter had lube with him.
“I do. Love you.”