Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 28: Given and Taken
Title: Given and Taken
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Handcuffs, graphic sexual content
Word Count: 3,600
Summary: In the Wall, Sylar tries something desperate to get Peter's attention.
Sylar clicked the handcuff into place when he heard Peter approaching. He had no idea if this plan was going to work. It seemed a bit risky even for him, a man who had long taken suicidal risks for a living. But he was getting desperate here in this lonely place. The anger and energy Peter had carried with him for the first months here had faded and then they'd settled into a boring, monotonous routine. Every advance Sylar made was politely rebuffed, so it was time to abandon polite and go straight for overt. It helped that Sylar knew Peter was into him. He'd seen the looks, heard the occasional sharp intake of breath and noisy swallows. Sometimes he could almost feel Peter's reciprocal lust, but until now, there'd always been some dodge Peter could use to deny it.
It would be impossible to deny this.
Peter came around the corner, headed towards the gym. Sylar couldn't see him, as he was facing away, but he could imagine. Despite how unnecessary it was, Peter came fully dressed to work out, carrying a gym bag. It was another of those ruts they'd sunk into. It was what he did every day, with the expectation of changing and showering here. What he saw had to jar those expectations.
Sylar was buck naked, standing face to the wall in the gym, hands cuffed over his head with the chain looped through a piece of iron piping that he'd already tested for strength. Next to him was a backless bench with a towel and a bottle of lube, should he be so lucky as to need it. He'd thought about adding implements for the infliction of pain, but he didn't want to look too eager for that.
Peter's footsteps had stopped. Now came the job of luring him in. Assuming, of course, Peter even wanted the bait. Before Peter had rounded that corner, Sylar had been so certain. Now that he knew that not only was his posterior on display, but he was trapped with no easy way out … doubt racked him. He shifted his weight uneasily as his breathing sped up.
“Sylar?” Peter's voice sounded choked. He was probably startled, maybe even flabbergasted. Sylar shifted again, chain clinking against the pipe. This might have been a monumentally bad idea. But Peter walked closer when Sylar didn't answer, his steps slow but undeniably closer. It was a good sign. Hopefully. Maybe. Because it was not lost on Sylar that Peter's anger about Nathan, about who Sylar had been before, was not entirely gone. He was making himself utterly helpless here, completely and literally exposed to whatever whim might strike the other man.
He could see Peter in his peripheral vision, off to the right.
“What is this?” Peter's voice was deeper, heading towards husky if Sylar didn't miss his mark. Oh yes, that was such a good sign.
“An offer,” Sylar said quietly, struggling to keep his voice level.
Peter's bag hit the floor and a few more slow, cautious steps brought him closer. “Of what?” Peter was bending forward, trying to catch Sylar's eyes.
Gooseflesh pimpled Sylar's skin and to his own complete surprise, he blushed crimson, turning his face away and pressing it against his left bicep. Peter had to be able to see that, because he was pretty sure that even the back of his neck turned red. “Me,” he mumbled in a low, frightened tone. He couldn't have faked that much sincerity if he'd tried. The situation was still balanced on a razor's edge. Peter took another step nearer, ending more behind him than to his side. Sylar sensed more than felt some motion of air along his back. Peter was close enough to touch him, but there was no contact - just the tickling, otherworldly sensation of proximity, like Peter had slowly waved his hand close to Sylar's skin. He shivered, arching a little and pulling at the chain.
Peter's voice sounded too close, immediately on his right shoulder, carrying so well even though it was an inquiring whisper. “Where's the key?”
The idea that Peter might just uncuff him and walk away shot through Sylar. How humiliating that would be - to have offered everything, everything!, up to and including torture - and to be cast aside as unwanted, left to get dressed on his own and figure out how to face up to Peter later. That would be the worst. It threatened to throw him into panic, just the suspicion of it. Voice trembling, he answered, “Please.”
Fingers touched him then, right at the top of his left hip. They skimmed down over hip bone and the subtle curve where hip gave way to tendon before it was sheathed by the muscles of the butt or thigh. They loitered briefly there, tracing a few small circles before returning to his waist and settling there. “You're cold.”
“Not for long,” Sylar said in his deepest, most seductive voice, finding his confidence in Peter's touch.
This time he could swear he could feel Peter's breath on his shoulder. “I need to know - where's the key?”
Sylar shut his eyes and hung his head. If he didn't comply, it wasn't going to gain him anything. Peter could always just walk away and leave him here, or perhaps worse yet, go on with his workout. No, that wouldn't be worse. The idea of Peter staring at him throughout his workout was hot, even if it denied Sylar the level of interaction he wanted. No, worst would be if he just left. “On the bench. Under the towel.”
Conceivably, it was within Sylar's reach. That had been the idea. He could stretch out a foot and reach it, should things go bad. He didn't need to look to hear Peter retrieve it, but he did when Peter didn't return immediately. A furtive glance revealed Peter to be looking at the bottle of lube with a slightly cocked head, like he hadn't noticed it before. Well … he'd probably been distracted by Sylar's naked body. Sylar smirked faintly at the thought. Peter straightened and Sylar resumed his defeated pose as the other man returned to him. Peter's hand smoothed up his spine from the small of his back to his shoulders. It was certainly a possessive gesture, one that made Sylar's pulse race despite how undecided things still were.
Peter's hand moved up along his arm - triceps, elbow, and forearm, coming to rest at his wrist. Skilled fingers tested the metal ring and for a moment Sylar's fear that Peter would release him reigned supreme. Then another realization set in - no, Peter was just making absolutely sure Sylar couldn't get away.
Clever boy.
“Metal cuffs are going to bite into your wrists pretty bad,” Peter said reasonably, his body so close to Sylar's back that he felt the faintest scuff of fabric on his rump and shoulder. “And your arms are going to cramp before very long. Are you sure this is how you want to be?”
It's the only way you'll take me, Peter, Sylar thought in frustrated desperation. It had taken him a lot longer than it should have to realize that Peter was afraid of him - months even. Peter was a brave man and he was willing to face his fears, but that didn't make them less present. Sylar had hit upon the idea of making himself entirely vulnerable, completely at Peter's mercy, as a way of evading that obstacle. Peter wouldn't fear him if he made himself helpless. If it hurt a little along the way - well, Sylar was no stranger to enduring a little (or a lot) of pain to get what he wanted. It would be familiar. Maybe even fun. “I want,” he rasped out, “to be taken.”
He wanted to be valued. He wanted to be wanted. He had no fucking coin in this realm. Money was meaningless, powers were non-existent, and he didn't even have any useful reputation or status to buoy him. He had, and was, nothing unless Peter wanted him and it was clear that connection wouldn't be initiated by Peter. More days than Sylar wanted to count had shown him that.
Peter's hand traced back down his arm slowly, contemplatively, coming to rest on his shoulder. Sylar looked back now, eyes wide and uncertain. His fate, as it had for so long, rested in Peter's hands. Peter's expression was clouded by lust - lids heavy, lips parted, skin slightly flushed - but he was still warring inside. Sylar racked his brain for what would nudge Peter over the edge, struggling to think back through their hundreds of mundane, frequently impersonal encounters and tease out some key to Peter Petrelli's soul that would give him a tiny bit of leverage.
It occurred to him that what he, Sylar, was asking for was so selfish - pleasure me, I'm bored and horny - that it was a shock to him that Peter had even come this far. He'd just assumed that Peter wanted what was on offer and would provide what Sylar desired. Like it was fated, or chemistry, or an ability - something Sylar didn't have to work at. It was surely perverse that he was the bound and helpless victim here who was dictating the terms of the scene. That was when it came to him what he needed to do to win Peter's cooperation. “I want you,” he whispered roughly.
That was it - so perfect and crystalline that Sylar wondered if his Intuitive Aptitude was still working, even here. He saw the shift in Peter's expression, the darkening of his eyes as pupils dilated, heard the heavier breathing. Peter's hand dropped, fingers ghosting across his back and dancing across ribs. Peter leaned forward, head tilting and coming up on his toes in an obvious invitation. Sylar arched and twisted awkwardly, meeting Peter's lips for their first kiss. It was clumsy and strained, but oh-so-real and sweet. So sweet, that even with his arch-enemy chained to a wall to do with as he pleased, Peter wanted to start things with a gentle press of lips.
When they parted, Peter nuzzled along his cheek as Sylar settled back into a less difficult position. He shivered at the unexpected intimacy and friendliness of that gesture. It was so unnecessary. Sylar had expected a fast, hard fuck and perhaps some abuse, or maybe no fuck at all and for Peter to vent his latent furies on him. Either was preferable to things continuing unchanged. He hadn't thought he'd actually be treated nicely.
What was Peter like in bed? It had been the subject of so many fantasies on Sylar's part. And Nathan's, too, that dirty-minded pervert. But regardless of what Peter was like with others, Sylar hadn't expected to rate that treatment. He'd just wanted to be something other than a nobody - someone special to Peter, someone other than his fellow prisoner in this screwed up empty world. Sylar wanted to have meaning.
Peter dipped, both hands resting on Sylar's waist as his lips created a line of four damp impressions horizontally across his back. After the last, he rose a few inches and bit him where the skin protruded over his shoulder blade.
Sylar whimpered. He knew he needed to give Peter cues and encouragement, not that it was difficult. Quite to the contrary. The uncertainty was fading fast and his own lust was rising, along with his parts. He felt warmth flooding his entire frame. No, he wasn't still cold. He'd been right about that much, as well as what would finally break through Peter's resolve. That knowledge was rushing through his veins, thrilling and filling him. He sawed the chain back and forth a bit, rattling it. He wished he could use his hands on his partner, now that he thought Peter was willing, but he had to endure the conditions he himself had imposed.
Patience.
Peter bit him on the shoulder, moving up directly behind him so Sylar could feel his clothed body chafing against his own bare one. The man's hands swept slowly around to his front, flowing along his abdomen and then climbing upward. Sylar breathed harder, sorry that Peter was skipping his main masculine attribute, but loving the tease. He was hugged against Peter's body and given a full press and rub.
Sylar spread his legs invitingly. “Take me,” he ordered.
“No,” Peter answered immediately.
“What?” Shock colored his voice as a pit of despair threatened to open in Sylar's gut.
“You don't get to tell me what to do.” Sylar could hear the smile in Peter's voice. Peter's arms wrapped around him again, holding them tight together and forcing Sylar to take some of the weight on his wrists. He grimaced, shifting his grip to hold the chain itself. Then he was bitten again, Peter's teeth hard against the bunched muscle of his right deltoid. A moment later, Peter's left hand slid up into his hair, pulling his head back roughly so lips could tenderly caress his cheek in a strange juxtaposition of expectation and reality.
Sylar whined, getting it now (or so he imagined). He flexed back, pushing his ass into Peter's groin, feeling that his display was quite appreciated.
“Let me know if I'm hurting you,” Peter breathed into his ear, “too much,” he added with a nip. He sucked at the lobe and then ran his tongue around the outer edge, giving Sylar's skin gooseflesh again and making him come up on his toes. Peter only jerked him back down to finish the job and this time Sylar moaned. The hand not occupied with Sylar's hair drifted down his front, testing one nipple and then the other, scratching through the chest hair in between. Sylar twitched in response to each pinch and rotation. It was enough fun that Peter's hand lingered there while he buried his face against the back of Sylar's hair, doing some perverted thing where he moved his face back and forth to feel the hair against his skin.
Another bite was delivered to the opposite deltoid, and Peter's hand dropped lower, skimming around his navel where it was briefly joined by the other, before dropping the rest of the way. Sylar's cock was at full attention, the tip bumping into his lower abdomen to alert him in case he hadn't noticed the heaviness or the straining, eager fullness. “This is what I want,” Peter whispered to him, kissing and laving the top of his shoulders as his fingers wrapped around a generous shaft.
Sylar's breath jerked at the touch and his hips followed suit almost immediately. Peter pressed him forward, closer to the wall so that Sylar rested his cheek against the mostly smooth, painted masonry of the gym wall. It gave him more leverage to push back with and let him take the weight of their bodies' motions on his forearms rather than his wrists. It was just a day for revelations - Sylar marveled how Peter knew this, how he knew what to do, how he knew what positions would strain and what sort of cuffs were best for this and how it would be better for Sylar if he was more flush with the wall. Had someone fucked Peter up against a wall like this before?
Nasty, dirty, filthy mental images flooded his brain as Peter's hand began to pump his cock, Peter's groin gyrating against Sylar's ass in time. Not for the first time, Sylar wished he wasn't so damn helpless here, able to do nothing at all but experience having someone else pleasure him. He moaned again, wanton and desirous. He could at least indicate what he liked and this … this was incredible.
“I want to have you in the palm of my hand,” Peter murmured to him. “I want to feel you responding to every, single, little, thing, I do,” Peter said, punctuating his pauses with tweaks to Sylar's nipples, gaining tiny squeaks and wriggles. “I want to be in control. I want to have you do, what I want you, to do.”
Sylar's mind flew to Peter's oft-repeated request about Emma and the carnival. Oddly, with his cock in Peter's talented hand, he couldn't imagine why he'd ever refused the guy anything - anything at all. Preventing some broad from killing the world or whatever was immaterial next to getting this again. Sure, I'll do whatever. Just keep fucking me. Sylar's brains had truly run out his ears.
“I don't have to bring you pleasure.” Peter paused in his stroking, leaving Sylar shifting his hips fruitlessly, no resistance to thrust into. Peter's free hand came up to the bottom of Sylar's breastbone, where he drug his nails down Sylar's exposed and vulnerable belly hard enough to leave furrows and provoke a gasp and brief writhe from the unexpected pain.
“Fuck!” Sylar hissed.
Peter's hands left him entirely and Sylar regretted that single word. He regretted it so, so much. Come back! Peter?
“I don't have to bring you anything.”
Sylar whipped his head around, staring back in desperation. Surely Peter wasn't going to quit now. Was that his game? To get Sylar hot and bothered and on the cusp and then leave him? Maybe to mock and torment later? Would torture start now?
Peter stepped away from him, turning his back. He picked up the bottle of lube from the bench, squirting some in his hand. The sudden tension in Sylar's chest eased. Peter returned, leaned in, and kissed him again, hand reclaiming its previous place. Cool, slick wetness coated him, vastly increasing the sensation. Sylar's hips bucked against the hand and he felt himself spiraling back up even faster than before. He groaned aloud as his face returned to rest against the wall. He jerked hard on the chain, letting himself go, letting himself forget about everything and just experience. He made guttural, bestial grunts as Peter's fist slipped up and down, squeezing and releasing. Sylar rose up on his toes, made restless by his impending climax. His fingers clenched and unclenched as the spasm built within him.
“So strong,” Peter murmured, one hand moving faster on Sylar's cock while the other wrapped securely around his chest, holding him in place to take Peter's ministrations. Sylar yanked on the chain again, trapped, held, restrained, pleasured. His arms ached, fire creeping into the muscles and spreading faster now that he was fighting with his bonds in earnest. His legs splayed in some animal instinct of complete sexual submission. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be embarrassed as hell, but this was scorching hot. Ecstasy flooded through him. His eyelids fluttered and his ball sac tightened. A moment later, his load splattered against the wall, accompanied by a gasping groan.
He sagged, brain off-line as surely as if he'd been clobbered over the head. He felt, though didn't really understand, as Peter wiped his lube-smeared hand rapidly on his own jeans and then reached up along Sylar's arms. He felt Peter fumble at the device and then take one of Sylar's hands and put it over his opposite wrist. “Hold yourself here. Hang on to yourself for a sec.” Too dazed to ask questions, Sylar complied. A moment later there was a metallic click and the handcuffs swung free from one wrist. Peter's hands immediately covered his own, guiding them down slowly. Sylar's arms trembled. Sylar hadn't realized how much they'd started to suffer from the position.
Peter pulled him backwards a few feet and with a clatter of knocking the lube bottle out of the way, sat them both sideways on the bench with Peter spooned behind him.
He's going to fuck me now? It seemed both appropriate and incongruous. Sylar had submitted entirely; Peter had gotten his power trip or whatever the fuck it was he needed to break down his otherwise impenetrable wall of scruples. But on the other hand, why go to all that bother if he just wanted to get his dick wet? He'd had a much better opportunity while Sylar was chained down.
But Peter didn't do much of anything. He held Sylar. Hugged him. Rested his chin on his shoulder, made possible by the relaxed, satiated slouch Sylar was in. Peter breathed more slowly. He lost his erection. Every now and then, he'd give Sylar a small peck or his thumb would stroke back and forth across his chest. It was quiet and still and safe-seeming.
Sylar's heart slowed from the racing staccato it had been keeping up. His own breathing eased. He was given the luxury of staying relaxed, rather than worrying if someone might shoot at him or otherwise burst in. Hell, he didn't even have to look at Peter and worry what the other man made of Sylar's own expression. He just got to rest, gather himself, and recover. He had the weirdest fluttery feeling in his gut at how nice it was.
He shifted slightly, the first shreds of self-consciousness coming over him. Peter's hands strayed down Sylar's arms, rubbing his wrists and turning each of them so that Peter, peering over his shoulder, could see if they were all right. It was a proprietary interest, Sylar realized. He belonged, now. Peter had taken him at his word. Taken. It was exactly what Sylar had hoped for.