Bricks in the Wall, Chapter 91: Shower of Blows
Title: Shower of Blows
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Words: 2,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Definitely a bit rapey towards the end.
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Peter flirts. Sylar takes it too far and doesn't even know it.
Peter slapped that fine ass of Sylar's as Peter jogged by him on his way off the basketball court. He was being playful and teasing, a result of the growing comradery as the exciting game had worn on. Peter seized his water bottle and drank deeply as Sylar turned to follow him, slowly, methodically, dribbling the ball as he did. Like the swat was no big deal. The slow beat drew Peter's eyes, not that he had any problem looking Sylar up and down. The guy was hot. Peter sucked down the last of his water and swiped at his mouth, licking his lips as his hand fell away. Sylar gave new meaning to the phrase, 'tall, dark, and handsome'. Usually, Peter's mind did not linger on his companion's looks, but the game, with its constant jostling and fighting, had created a hyperawareness of the other man. He could smell him, and that was not a bad thing. Not at all. Peter was ogling and for once, he didn't give a damn.
The expression on Peter's face was enough to draw a relaxed smirk from Sylar. Sylar reached out and tousled Peter's sweaty hair. Peter rolled his eyes at the friendly gesture, his air leaving him in a happy sigh. It should have stopped there. It could have stopped there. Then they could have gone back to the game for round two with hardly any interruption. But it didn't happen that way. Peter stood there, still catching his breath from the exertion, and didn't move as Sylar failed to follow the usual social script of taking his hand away. Instead, he came a half-step closer and trailed that hand down the back of Peter's neck, then made a slow sweep around his neck, drifting to his shoulder and then back.
Peter could have pulled away. He should have. He gave a shiver at the touch to his bare skin, to the slight shift of fabric of his sleeveless t-shirt as Sylar's fingers nudged it before returning to the more sensitive skin of his neck. Peter just looked at him, eyes wide. His nostrils flared. His breath pulled in. It felt like his hairs stood on end. He flushed and his lips parted. A totally inappropriate flood of lust filled him.
As if able to read Peter's mind, Sylar's hand hooked the back of his neck and he swooped in, intent obvious. Peter finally woke up from his hormonal inebriation, jerking his hands up between them. Sylar flinched and stopped in place, a few inches from Peter's face, face frozen in expectation of being hit for his forwardness. That struck Peter as being unfair - he was sure his face and body language had communicated clearly to Sylar that he was interested. Hitting the guy over an obvious interpretation would be wrong. Instead, he kissed him, quick and definite, before twisting away and putting some space between them. Sylar's face was priceless.
"Peter?"
Peter shook his head, hoping they could laugh off the whole thing. What he'd done was stupid and he knew it. Sylar looked way too intrigued by it all. Peter came closer and snatched the ball from him, ignoring the questioning tone. "Hey. Let's play ball." The break over, Sylar followed him back out onto the court, where the battle began again. Peter played hard and aggressively, all over Sylar. He pushed himself until he was dizzy, trying to stay one or two steps ahead of the lithe, taller man. He was up by several points when Sylar went down, hitting his elbow with a pop on the parquet flooring. Sylar's wince was fleeting, but Peter saw it all the same. He dropped the ball, stilling it with his foot. He didn't bother to ask if Sylar was okay. "Let me see."
Sylar was on his feet again and didn't resist as Peter took his arm, stabilizing the upper arm and gently palpating the joint. Peter asked, "Do you think it's dislocated?"
"No," Sylar said in a quiet tone that matched Peter's. "I just hit it hard. It's fine."
"You sure?" Peter murmured, now stroking his hand down Sylar's forearm and carefully running the elbow through its range of motion. He looked up at Sylar's face, supposedly to watch for any pain response. He was so close - warm skin under Peter's hands, blood still rushing through Peter's body, both of them breathing heavily.
Sylar put his other hand on Peter's shoulder, idly straightening the turned-under hem of his t-shirt. Then his fingertips ghosted along the side of Peter's neck as before. Peter felt himself flush, heard himself gasp. He saw Sylar reposition himself slightly for what Peter was sure was another attempt to kiss him. And as hot and horny as Peter was, he still knew that was wrong. He dodged back, almost tripping over the basketball at his heels. Recovering, he cleared his throat and said, "I have to go get cleaned up." He left without looking at Sylar again.
He hurried to the showers, thinking he needed a cold one. He got his clothes off in a flash and was under the cool water before he heard the locker room door swing open again to admit Sylar. Each shower was set up in a two-stage booth with a swinging door separating it from the locker room at large. There was a shower curtain dividing the booth into a dry dressing area and the shower part which Peter was in. There were a dozen or so showers. Sylar could get his own. Peter washed privates and pits using the thin shower gel from the dispenser on the wall, then leaned his hands against the tile and slumped. Water cascaded down him. He stared after it as it fell, imagining what it would be like to be each droplet, free, but falling. Sometimes, he wondered if that was his life - the terrifying and terrific elation of freefall before some disastrous ending. His tension began to ebb as he watched one drop after another fearlessly take the plunge and fall from his hair and nose.
The scrape and clink of the shower curtain rings, way too close, was his only warning. Peter whirled, wet hair plastering itself unhelpfully across his face. There was Sylar, in the shower with him. Fear washed through him at the intrusion. Peter whipped his hair out of his face with one hand while the other formed into a fist, attacking the threat without hesitation. He connected, tagging Sylar hard on the jaw. The blow spun Sylar to the tile wall where his hands slapped against the smooth surface to break his momentum. Sylar got them up then, interposing them in case Peter swung again. The posture gave Sylar an unintentional cringing look. Peter blinked water out of his eyes and registered that Sylar was naked, too.
He didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know what to think about it, but it took away a lot of the element of danger Peter's subconscious had initially imagined was there. Sylar didn't let him work it through - the man met his eyes, his expression careful but focused, and lowered himself to his knees. Peter's brows rose and he shuddered as he took in the meaning of the act. He stared down, meeting Sylar's eyes as the man leaned in, slow, steady, and inexorable, with Sylar looking up at him all the while. Peter felt hypnotized by those dark, fathomless eyes. Only peripherally did he see the strong features and the glossy, dark hair scattered haphazardly across Sylar's brow from their violence. Reddened lips parted as Sylar neared his goal. Peter was looking nearly straight down, holding his breath in disbelief. They'd never done anything remotely like this. Hell, the pat on the ass Peter had given earlier was, like, the most. Ever.
Until now. Their previous boundaries were obliterated as Sylar's mouth touched him. Lips parted further and Sylar's clever tongue licked Peter's penis into his mouth, sucking it in. It was soft yet, but the contact was like shocks through Peter's system. He hadn't believed it was going to happen until it did; he hadn't thought if he should allow or prevent it, what he should do. Sylar wasn't touching him at all with his hands, merely leaning forward awkwardly, sucking and pumping at Peter with his mouth. Only one thing occurred coherently to Peter to do: "Um, here." He touched the side of Sylar's head and took a half-step forward so the man wasn't leaning so uncomfortably. Sylar shot him a smirking acknowledgement and went back to work.
Peter finally started to breathe again. He had the feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was awful and he needed to stop it, but his hips seemed to have a mind of their own. His brain fuzzed out and even that weak moral objection was lost in the static. He was hardening fast, even under the uneven attentions he was getting. Sylar had paused to lick him all over, sucking at the sides and base, rolling Peter's dick over his nose, and finally sucking him back in with a wet, satisfying smack. Peter skimmed at Sylar's hair with one hand, the other bracing him against the wall behind Sylar's back. His touch on Sylar's hair was delicate and tentative at first, then turned to fisting it as his breathing hitched with each wave of suction. Sylar's hands were still on his own thighs. Only his mouth worked, alternating hard sucks of the tip with short, tongue-swirling and longer periods of bobbing up and down. The changing pattern was lighting Peter on fire inside.
"This is going to be quick. I'm there." He pulled himself free and turned to direct himself at the wall, his hand pumping furiously to finish. Sylar was having none of it, however, and grabbed him back, touching Peter with his hand for the first time. He thrust Peter's dick back in his mouth just as the cusp of the orgasm hit. Sylar's first suck provoked a lurching half-thrust as Peter expelled his come in the back of Sylar's throat. Sylar winced at being gagged with cock, but he managed to swallow. The gentle, fleshy contractions around the head of Peter's dick made him spurt again with a tortured groan. The next time, Sylar did it on purpose, then pulled back and kept sucking him, kept swallowing, as Peter whimpered and twitched in aftershocks and overstimulation, not able to pull together enough thinking ability to tell Sylar to stop.
When Sylar did stop, it was when he wanted to. Peter moved back to make room as Sylar got to his feet. Peter stared at him, feeling bizarre - haunted, vulnerable, and taken advantage of all at odds with the warm, bubbly feelings of post-orgasmic goodwill. He wanted a hug and to be told it was okay and persuaded that he hadn't just dishonored his family and his brother's memory, even if he didn't think Sylar could do any of those things. All he could think of as Sylar made one last, exaggerated swallow, licking his lips, was that he hadn't asked for any of this, hadn't wanted it, and hadn't done what he should have done to stop it. Now it was too late. Sylar turned to walk out.
"Sylar?" Peter's voice was almost tremulous. Almost.
The man looked over his shoulder, casting his eyes up and down Peter's body as if he owned it. He said, "I'll leave you to clean up," making it unclear if Sylar was leaving to clean up, if he was leaving so Peter could clean up, or both. Probably both.
Peter stared at the shower curtain until it stopped moving. Numbly, he turned the water temperature to as hot as it would go and sat down under the scalding spray. He held himself tightly as though he were cold, the water running over him to wash away what he wouldn't admit were tears.