Getting It, Chapter 3: Getting It Out
Title: Getting It Out
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Words: 1,300
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar tries to seduce Peter, but it misfires.
Peter had had as much of Sylar's crap as he could take. He shoved Sylar against the wall, one hand to the middle of the asshole's chest. It was just a simple shove, not a sternum thrust or anything dangerous. Sylar went, not bothering to defend himself. He looked like he'd expected it. Wanted it, maybe, if the way he flexed against the wall, panting through parted lips and watching Peter with half-hooded eyes was any indication. He looked like the very picture of lust.
Peter wanted that so much, so badly. But every time he got close to Sylar, the man turned to insults and insinuations that Peter was his, along with boasts about what he was going to do with and to Peter's body. It frightened Peter and the fear translated into anger, and physical force. There were few things that got his ire up like the casual assumption on Sylar's part that Peter's desire made him Sylar's plaything.
With a choked noise of exasperation, Peter grabbed Sylar by the shoulder and spun him, putting him face-first to the brick so he didn't have to look at his lewd face. The whole reason why they were fussing was that Sylar would not stop flirting since the incident at the pool. Comments like, 'When are we going back to the pool? I like you best when you're wet' had done nothing good for their already difficult relationship. It took Peter a half second to realize Sylar had let Peter position him without resistance or snark, a first in days, but then again, this was the physically closest they'd gotten. Peter had been pointedly keeping his distance after the difficulty at the pool - having his head held where he didn't want it and then getting insulted for giving in to it. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Now, he blinked at Sylar's back, his own shoulders slumping and breath slowing. He felt tired - tired of fighting with Sylar over something they obviously both wanted but just couldn't seem to make work.
His eyes were distracted by the motion of Sylar splaying his hands out to either side, turning his head to one side and tucking in his chin. Sylar waited quiet and still, eyes sliding shut despite the tension that outlined the stiff way he stood. Peter waited a long beat. Under other circumstances, such a capitulation would have been accompanied by Sylar running his mouth. Nothing was said. It looked like a surrender of sorts. Peter hoped like hell it was - that would be so incredible, to have Sylar at his mercy at last.
Peter tested Sylar's intent. He reached out and roughly jostled Sylar's shoulder with the extended fingers of his right hand. It was like a hard poke, but it wasn't going to hurt him. Aside from opening his eyes and flicking them back without moving his head, Sylar barely reacted. Peter knew he was being manipulated and drawn in, but he didn't mind. He wanted it - wanted Sylar to want him, to ask for him, to beg him. He put his hand on Sylar again; same place, but this time he left it there. He could feel the warmth under his palm, the soft fabric of the form-fitting cotton t-shirt Sylar was wearing. Sylar made the smallest vocalization and swayed a half-inch or so in the direction of Peter's touch. It made Peter's heart melt and other parts harden.
Peter rolled his hand over Sylar's rounded deltoids and down to the biceps, fingers toying with the edge of the sleeve. Sylar's eyes shut again and a faint smile, unseen by Peter, played across his lips for only a second. Peter stepped closer, slotting his feet in on the inside edge of both of Sylar's, giving them each a little nudge, enough that Sylar accommodatingly spread a few inches more for him.
Cautiously, Peter held himself stiff and straight, not molding himself to Sylar's body like he'd like to. He was so tense he hurt. A few offensive words from Sylar could ruin this, and Peter had no control over that. He didn't want another fight. He wanted to do this - he wanted tenderness, hot sex, affection, and attention. He wanted respect and joy and all those things that were in his fantasies, but the man he was dealing with wasn't a fantasy. He was real, he was autonomous, he was dangerous, and unpredictable. He could do anything, and so Peter moved carefully.
Barely containing his breathing, he put one hand on the brick next to Sylar's head and dropped the other under Sylar's arm to run down his side. It provoked another stifled whine and a shift towards the touch. That was so exciting. Peter's breath pushed out in a rush. He tugged up the man's shirt and touched bare skin directly, his breath catching in a rough chuckle of disbelief that this was actually working so far. Sylar sank down, pushing his ass sharply and abruptly backwards into Peter's groin, catching Peter's swelling cock at the wrong angle and bending it painfully. Peter hissed and shoved him flat against the wall again, struggling against the animal desire to hurt the guy in retaliation. He leaned in, face at the level of the taller man's neck. "Stay," he whispered hoarsely, "where I put you."
Peter was panting hard now. He hadn't realized how much his excitement had spiraled up until he went to speak, finding his voice rough and his heart racing. Now his face was right here, inches from Sylar's skin, close enough to smell the sweat the man was exuding, to see a bead of it slide free from the fine hairs over his temple and travel down the stubble of his cheek. Without thought, Peter licked off that salty moisture, causing a shudder to run through them both. Fingers clenched against the masonry - both Sylar's and Peter's - and Peter went on to gently kiss the nape of Sylar's neck, parting his lips to tease the tip of his tongue across him, tasting the delicious skin. Sylar's breath stopped for a moment. Bracing his forehead on Sylar's shoulder, Peter let both hands fall to Sylar's hips, circling there and tormenting his increasingly restless partner with an implication of more that he didn't deliver. Not yet. Not until they talked a little, worked something out, until Peter had the assurance he needed that this was going to play out okay for both of them.
"Mmm," Peter purred, rubbing his cheek across Sylar's shoulder and luxuriating in breathing in his warmth. "I'm not going to be giving it up, Sylar. That's not how this is going to go."
Sylar made a derisive chuckling that irritated the hell out of Peter even in his lust-addled state. "Tell me how you think things will go down, Peter, because I assure you that youwill be going down."
"What?" He shoved him, hard, against the unforgiving brick.
Sylar grunted, air expelled, then writhed against the wall slowly and lasciviously. "I'm giving you want you want - a justification."
"I don't want a 'justification'," Peter spat out. He backed away, hands trembling as the adrenaline made him shocky. It was falling apart, had already fallen apart. Sylar glanced back at him, looking incredulous that Peter wasn't with the program. Peter said, "I want some respect, appreciation ..." He shook his head. He sounded like a loser to have to say that, to beg for someone to treat him right. Shame ran through him. He made his escape before it got worse.
"Peter!"
He didn't turn - just kept walking.