Sexual Tension Part I: 'The World's Most Effed Up Gift'
Title: Sexual Tension Part I 'The World's Most Effed Up Gift'
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, angst, implied torture
Word count: 3,713
Setting: Inside the Wall
Summary: An RP-exchange expansion with game_byrd on my original story/post 'The World's Most Effed Up Gift.' After years of unresolved sexual tension, Sylar finally can't take it anymore. He creates a situation where he gives himself to Peter to do with as Peter wishes - torture, sex, death, all three - doesn't matter. Sylar just wants resolution.
Sylar swung the door open and let Peter pass, promising, “You’ll like it.” Peter stopped walking a few steps in.
Inside was a rather bare room, with a mattress flipped on its side, leaned against the far wall. A blue tarp lay closer to the door, between four poles welded and screwed into the floor, concrete, stripped of any carpet or padding, swept clean. Into the ceiling, he’d located a stud and secured a hook to it, above the tarp, of course. Nearby was a solid metal chair with arms and several construction-type lights. The windows had blinds and air-raid curtains for completely blocking out light. On several long, metal tables were many objects, the assembly of which spoke of gruesome acts that Sylar clearly anticipated.
Lighters, matches, a small bottle of lemon extract, sandpaper. Scissors (those had been hard to add to the list). A few vices and splints, screwdrivers, pliers of assorted sizes, a hammer and a large wrench. Glue and cement and wax, a stapler and tweezers. A 2x4, a thick metal pipe and some various diameters of PVC, needles with some vials of mostly clear liquids for various injection purposes, curare included, light on the sterilization equipment, but there was some there. Medical gloves, some folded sheets and towels, a few stacked buckets and a pallet of water bottles. Chains, handcuffs, rope, wire, duct tape. Lube, lotion, condoms. Mouthwash, soap, a hose that connected to the bathroom’s sink, complete with a nozzle attachment. A whip, a police baton, a Taser, a bat, a box of razors, a box cutter, the SS Kimber handgun. And on top sat a fully stocked, battery-operated nail-gun.
Sylar stood with his back to the open door, proudly yet nervously surveying the scene while Peter did so for the first time. “So…what do you think? I didn’t really know what you…had in mind, but I tried to be thorough.”
XXX
Peter was a lot of things - ‘thoughtful’ tended not to be among them.
But now that he was faced with this room, his mind was like a class full of over-sugared first graders, all yelling for the teacher’s attention at once. Everything he looked at spawned a new thought that the rest of his mind wanted to explore just as much as the dozen other thoughts that had already come into being. He was rapidly overloading under the strain. He stood there and gaped, eyes big, expression stunned and dumbfounded.
A motion out of the corner of his eye allowed one of the louder thoughts to momentarily quell the rest. Is this a trap? Is this intended for me to do to him, or for him to do to me? Is ‘you’ll like it’ honest, or is he twisted enough to think I’d enjoy being tortured? (Wouldn’t.) Or twisted enough to think I’d enjoy torturing him? (Shouldn’t.) Or was it just something he said to get me in here? (I need to get out of here.) Is he going to brain me and tie me to that chair and turn that nail gun on me? (That would suck.)
Peter turned. All Sylar had done was cock his head, probably trying to make sense of Peter’s immobility and relative inexpressiveness. Peter gave him some expressions now. He glared, hands a little out to the sides, lightly balling into fists as he did his best to radiate anger and threat. Sylar stared for a moment, drawing up a bit straighter and starting to loosen his crossed arms in response. Then he blinked, glanced away uneasily, adopted a sullen, put-out look on his face, and stubbornly crossed his arms even more firmly, leaning against the doorway and looking away pointedly. Peter stared him down a little more, just to be sure.
Okay, maybe not a trap.
He walked a few steps further in, still shooting Sylar suspicious glances, trying to deal with the competing suggestions his brain was giving him.
Get out!
I shouldn’t be in here.
I shouldn’t look interested in this.
I could come back later and check this out when he’s not around.
I shouldn’t be interested in this.
I’m not interested in this.
What the hell’s that over there? Is that mouthwash? What the hell would I do with mouthwash during a torture session?
Maybe I could clean his mouth out after it got too full of blood to taste good.
He thought about what that would taste like - medicinal antiseptic over cloying, copper tang of blood. That’s disgusting. I should leave.
The mouthwash would sting in any cuts.
I’m looking too interested. The very fact that I’m still here is wrong.
He’s next to the door. I’d have to walk out next to him. Don’t want to get that close. What if it is a trap?
What if the trap is that he gets me to do something I shouldn’t?
I don’t think that’s enough rope. People always underestimate how much rope things take.
How firm is that pole? He put his hand on it casually and tried to shake it. Seems stout enough. Yeah. Okay. I guess that would work. But for what?
Damn it! I shouldn’t have touched anything! Now it looks like I’m interested!
He glanced over at Sylar again, who was back to watching him. Peter didn’t know what to do about that. He didn’t know what to do about any of this. He felt helpless and ignorant and ill-informed and frustrated all of a sudden and as usual, Sylar was the cause of it. Childish, misplaced anger welled up in him and he strode over to Sylar, getting in his face without the least idea of what he was going to say until words started coming out of his mouth. “What the fuck is all of this? Some sort of sick joke? What the fuck do you expect to happen next?!?”
Peter’s voice was jumping in alarm and he was cursing - clear signs he was rattled. He sounded borderline hysterical to his own ears, so he stopped there, cutting short the rant he thought Sylar deserved but that Peter couldn’t find the right words for, much less the tone.
XXX
In Sylar’s face was an unstable mass of undecided energy packed into a small, delicious form - Peter Petrelli. The man was either about to cry or throw down World War III. Sylar was pretty sure it was the latter (he hoped it was the latter). The sudden tension in the room, the attention, the proximity was making him high...and horny. All he needed to do was make a smart-ass comment to make Peter flip the switch and lash out, then...well...
"You like toys. I thought it was obvious, Petrelli," he purred in a low voice, eyeing the nurse's face, salivating over it like it was his next meal, "You put me where you want me and do...whatever." One thing was absolutely sure to ensure Peter laying down the law (hopefully with his dick, or fists, maybe both). Extending a hand, Sylar reached out into the generous six inches of space between their bodies and laid a heated palm on Peter's crotch, giving the man's junk a squeeze, "I expect you to give it to me," he rasped, half-snarling to further goad his target while keeping his meaning ingeniously vague.
XXX
Goading was hardly necessary. Peter was already moving, backing up for two reasons - one, to get Sylar's hands off of him (it would hurt like hell if the man grabbed); and two, to get room to swing. What little was going through his mind other than tactical considerations were repeated mental reminders of how determined he needed to be here, for his own safety and survival. The stark terror that Sylar intended to chain him to those poles and have his way with him, then kill him (or worse, keep him alive) gave Peter all kinds of adrenaline. What Sylar had actually said was overridden by the fear, anger, outrage, embarrassment, and shame. All Peter knew was that Sylar had brought him to a torture room, made rude and upsetting insinuations, and then proceeded to molest him while acting so turned on that Peter was freaking out.
Peter was going to deal with the threat Sylar posed, get in charge, and stay in charge, if he had to fight like a mad dog to do it. His intentions weren't exactly hard to detect; Sylar was dodging back even as Peter's fist came forward as fast as he could propel it. To his surprise, and probably Sylar's, he actually managed to clip the man a little on that first swing. Sylar fought back, swinging wide as he stumbled against the doorframe.
Sylar started to fall through the doorway, his flailing hand catching on the doorframe. Rather than go all the way to the floor, he ended up something of a crouch. Peter didn’t wait for the man to recover, moving in and trying to pummel him into submission. Sylar managed to dodge and get his other hand up to run interference. Peter still grazed him on the temple and cheek, but Sylar wasn’t going to just squat there while Peter practiced beating up on him. Instead, he threw himself forward, tackling Peter and taking them both to the ground.
Peter went down with another surge of near-hysteria as the back of his mind told him he was frightfully close to smashing into those bars as he fell. Unforgiving concrete combined with Sylar’s weight and Peter’s momentum to drive all the air out of his lungs in a noisy rush. For a moment, he thought he really had hit his head. The moment of stun left him helpless, but all Sylar did was get to his knees. Peter’s mind was still stupidly fixated on the bar. He made a quick glance to the side, assuring him that he'd misjudged - the poles were a good two feet to his left.
XXX
Peter was distracted by something, it didn't matter what, provided it wasn't a weapon. But just to piss Petrelli off, maybe to turn him on, definitely to turn himself on, he grabbed Peter by the legs, spreading them around his own hips. Sylar rubbed himself against Peter's ass and groin, quick and loud with their jeans grinding hard as they panted, watching in sickening amusement as Peter's attention turned back to him in rage, murderous deeds in mind. That's right...Fuck, that felt good...
XXX
Peter curled upward, hooking his legs behind Sylar like the lover Sylar apparently wished he was, but it was fists he was coming up with, not a kiss. It was a difficult combat move that took a lot of abdominal strength and wasted a lot of energy, but Sylar's hands were full and as much as he expected an attack, he hadn't expected that. Peter smacked the man right in the nose, which got him dropped and shoved away. Sylar broke apart, scrambling. Both men hurried to get to their feet before the other. Sylar was first up, but a little slow on the attack. His nose was dripping blood and it took a moment for him to shake the sting from his eyes.
Peter glanced at the doorway, then around himself to orient. His back was to the tables, which sparked an idea. Maybe Sylar would take him seriously if he was armed. After all, there was nothing like a weapon to grant superiority in combat. He lunged for the nearest treasure trove, grabbing something at random because Sylar had seen his action and was rushing to stop it. Peter came up with a hammer, swinging it sideways so fast that it whistled through the air. It missed Sylar by a hair's breadth. The taller man's eyes widened and he jerked back. “Shit, Peter!”
XXX
Little prick has a hammer?! What the fuck's he thinking? None of this is for killing me! Or was it? Sylar supposed, when he had the time to spare, that his death was technically on the menu, same as his body. It wasn't like Peter would let him live beyond torture. Sylar's body would inevitable give out, maybe his mind would, too; Peter would lose interest, become bored of him and Peter couldn't have a liability like him alive. He'd be killed out of paranoia that Sylar would tattle - 'Peter Petrelli fucked me and he liked it. I was good enough to be used for that.' Besides, this was all just back-payment for Nathan's death and all the others. Punishment he'd long deserved.
Peter wasn't good at play-fighting - the kid went all out and so Sylar set about avoiding being bludgeoned to death by what was, oh-so-ironically, both a watchmaker's tool and an object usually paired with NAILS.
XXX
Snarling, Peter pressed his advantage as Sylar put everything he had into dodging. Peter felt absurdly gratified to have Sylar flee before him. It was enough to have him get a bit wild with his swings. When Sylar stumbled on the tarp between the four poles, Peter gave it everything he had only to misjudge Sylar’s juking and clip one of the poles. The lance of jarring pain that shot up his right arm brought back the reality that the fight wasn't over until it was over. Seeing his chance, Sylar leaped at him, grabbing the hammer with one hand and punching Peter with the other. Peter stayed focused on the struggle over the weapon. Although his numbed right arm wasn't able to keep it out of Sylar’s hands, he got hold of the middle of the handle with his left. He managed to twist it free from Sylar's grip, enduring a punch to the side of the head. Peter whacked the man in the mouth with his left fist whilst wrapped around the hammer handle. He was only jabbing from a distance of a foot at best, but the blows still drove Sylar back enough to give Peter much-needed space.
Peter swapped the hammer to his right and grabbed Sylar's shirt front with his left. Sylar's arms came up defensively and he sucked in breath, eyes wide as he scrambled madly to get his feet under him. The clear fear changed Peter’s intention in a millisecond. It wasn't exactly the respect he'd been looking for, but it would do. Instead of finishing the asshole with the hammer, Peter pushed him backwards, threatening with the tool but not actually swinging it. The back of Sylar's knees hit the chair and down he went, hands instinctively grabbing at the arms of the chair. Peter shifted his grip on the hammer to sideways, like he'd done with his left hand, and smacked Sylar right between the eyes. Sylar's head lolled for a moment. Peter spun and went to the table, eyes scanning hurriedly, but even then it was taking him too long. He'd seen handcuffs here somewhere, but there was so much stuff … Ah! There! He grabbed them.
XXX
So this was it. He had no time to react or even watch his miserable life flash before his eyes (it didn't really do that in you're-about-to-die situations anyway). He expected a brief moment of pain followed by the usual blackness and peace - he'd wanted it for a long time; today Peter decided to give him his due, satisfy him, fulfill that wish. But no, it was just a debilitating blow (those hurt way more than death), aching so badly throughout his head until he was unable to think or move much beyond pained writhing. When his vision returned to something like normal, he saw Peter's back was turned. Logic caught up and informed him that Peter was looking for another weapon - this time to finalize things, surely. Well, he wasn't going to make it easy...Sylar rose, unbalanced, nearly falling at first, and did his best to creep up behind the frantic nurse, hands outstretched, reaching for that tempting mane...
XXX
Before Peter could turn around, Sylar had the back of his head and was ramming it down on the table, smashing it painfully into the side of the nail gun. A stack of towels went over and things clattered to the floor as Peter writhed, trying unsuccessfully to get away. Sylar's other hand was on Peter's right, once more trying to peel the hammer out of his grip. Failing that, Sylar lifted Peter’s wrist and bashed hand and hammer into the table and whatever torture implements there were. More stuff fell in a chaotic racket, but Peter kept hold of the hammer.
For a few tense breaths, neither of them did anything else. The fight was exhausting; the adrenaline wearing thin, and right at that moment, neither of them were trying to kill the other. Blood from Sylar's nose dripped onto Peter's back with an irregular patter. Panting, Peter shifted his head slightly to relieve the gouge into his cheek made by some protruding bit of the nail gun.
XXX
Blood already racing, Sylar was delighted to notice the position they were in; Peter bent over the table before him - despite the rather life-and-death nature of the fight. Why can't he just play the fuck along?! He wants it, I know he does, and I'm offering! The hammer...is not...necessary! Once more to torment, he bucked his hips to slide his crotch against Peter's wonderful backside, moving so hard he lifted the shorter man's heels from the floor. Think of what it would feel like inside him...Yeah, Peter, think about how that would feel inside you, you little tramp...
XXX
Peter yelled in inarticulate rage, trying to shake off Sylar’s interference from his right hand (or at least distract him from Peter’s other hand). With his left, he reached up and snapped one handcuff onto Sylar's wrist where he was holding Peter’s neck. Sylar ignored the cuff and finally found the nerve point in Peter's right wrist, fingers jabbing into it mercilessly. His fingers betraying him, Peter finally let go of the weapon.
Sylar made a brief hoot of victory, short-lived as Peter put both hands into shoving himself up off the table, grabbing whatever happened to be under his now-empty right hand. He came around, trying to put his right elbow into Sylar's chest. Peter had hoped for a shot to the solar plexus. He missed, but it still bumped Sylar and gave Peter room. His right hand now had a splint. Peter threw it in Sylar's face, creating a distraction for a much better aimed blow at the center of the man's chest. Sylar batted the splint out of his face in time to be sent sprawling on his ass, coughing and trying to get his breath. All the damage he’d taken had worn Sylar down enough that he couldn’t recover for precious long seconds.
Peter grabbed Sylar by the hair, dragging him the few feet to the chair. Sylar's hands flew up to Peter's wrist, trying to keep himself from being scalped and fighting to get his feet under him.
XXX
Oh, God...Was all Sylar could think, so many memories triggered by the simple action of fingers knotted in his hair, using it like some kind of behavioral handle to position him. He couldn't begin to lie - it got him hard. Even as he was being dragged around for torture. Even if no sex was involved (or maybe especially because none was involved...yet). He cried out, already panting. He gasped with helpless, spontaneous arousal as it mixed through his nerves with the pain and shock and inevitable danger. He struggled some while he was in motion across the floor. He hated it. He loved it.
The terror was a drug all its own and while Sylar still smelt sex in the air, he would remain deliciously on edge. Give me more. He almost didn't give a thought to being maimed or dying.
XXX
Peter slammed the man into the chair and took the opportunity to attach that extra pair of cuffs to the other hand. Sylar held his arms up in front of him, a little dazed and panting as he looked at the cuffs - one on each wrist, but connected to nothing else. He looked up in time to get smashed in the temple by Peter's right fist. Fastening those cuffs to the arms of the chair was easy after that.
Peter wanted to stop, badly. He was breathing so hard the room was spinning. His gut, parts of his face and head, and his knuckles and wrists were killing him. But it wasn't over yet. Sylar was coming around again. Peter went to the tables again, rapidly canvasing for something that wasn't there. Desperate, he snatched up a towel and the spool of heavy gauge wire. Sylar was alert again and just as rapidly assessing his situation.
“Don't,” Peter warned. Sylar ignored him, though, rising to his feet and gathering the awkward, heavy chair behind him, probably intending to rush him. Peter kicked him in the shin. Running around, fighting people with a chair on your back like in the movies was much easier when you had practice, cooperative foes, and an aluminum chair. Sylar went down cursing. Peter yanked the chair back upright, surprised and momentarily disturbed that Sylar helped with that.
He picked up the towel and wire, standing behind Sylar as he unfolded and refolded the towel into a long band. Sylar looked back at him, mouth open in rough pants, hair over his face, bruises littering his skin and blood dripping from nose and mouth. He was quite a sight. If Peter were into torture-porn, that would definitely be tripping his trigger. But he wasn't, so Peter flipped the towel over that face and snugged it up over Sylar's eyes, covering his face from mid-forehead to the top of his cheeks. He spooled off some of the wire, wrapping it as tight as his injured fingers allowed to secure the makeshift blindfold in place. He dropped the rest of the wire to the floor, letting it uncoil loosely around the spool.
Peter walked around the front of Sylar and leaned on one of the poles, looking at the man. And finally … catching his breath. I won. Ha, he thought with tired happiness.
XXX