Sexual Tension Part III: 'Needs'
Title: Sexual Tension Part III: 'Needs'
Characters: Sylar (Gabriel Gray)/Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, implied torture.
Word count: 3,821
Setting: Inside the Wall
Summary: The World's Most Effed Up Gift RP expansion with game_byrd (writing for Peter). 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 - doesn't matter. Sylar just wants resolution.
Oh, that voice! And more than that, the question. Peter’s hand expressed his feelings with ridiculous clarity - he clasped Sylar’s hand over the top, squeezed it, stroked the back of it, slid around to meet palm to palm like a handshake, another squeeze with one finger after another in quick succession and then a squeeze all over. He was still holding Sylar’s hand when he was done, having laughed while he did it. The laugh was a little goofy, completely uncalculated and unselfconscious. It was a spontaneous laugh of being thrilled and pleased.
The idea of his preferences taking center stage was so appealing. He liked pleasing others - make no mistake about that - but while making Sylar happy was not on his list of things to do, the idea of flipping that and being served by Sylar sped Peter’s breathing and made him fidget with eagerness. He put his foot back next to Sylar’s, his knee rubbing unevenly and nervously.
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Sylar was nearly panting now, for different reasons than stress and fear. His hand was being palmed and molested - he couldn't see Peter to be sure if it was intended as any kind of foreplay or not, hell if it mattered! His cock continued to fill up and he flushed warm all over. He wanted that touch and those hands all over him...preferably while he was naked. He knew the dangers of these fantasies (yes, these were legitimate and now somewhat encouraged); he was likely to be very disappointed. Sylar consoled himself with the knowledge that he'd at least...had his hand held. Nicely. Peter seemed almost nervous - was it nerves? I'm the one tied up, why would he be nervous? The laughter was a little scary. I hope he's just blowing off steam and that isn't a preview for...painful things. It didn't sound like a sadistic laugh, but he couldn't be sure, blind and horny as he was.
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“I like …” Peter’s statement was interrupted by a thought about how quickly he was letting himself be seduced here. Some caution was called for. This was a killer he was talking to - Nathan’s killer. Peter had no plan. There was a nail gun over there on the table and a lot of scary, scary things in the room. Peter felt a moment of helpless, confused worry. What the hell was he supposed to do? Hate on the guy for years? Forever? And yeah, he didn’t like Sylar and he did hate him, but the constant expression of that was destroying his soul. This tiny glimpse of letting Sylar do something to please him? Was that wrong? He conveniently avoided thinking of what lengths he might go to or where the cutoff was between ‘okay’ and ‘too far’.
Instead, Peter looked down at the hand he was holding so enthusiastically, realizing his own hand had done the equivalent of the happy puppy dance on Sylar’s a few moments before. He thought he ought to be embarrassed about that. But he just felt happy, flushed, heart beating faster, leg moving against Sylar’s in an anxious, irregular tapping. Is this wrong? He really didn’t want to be wrong. He didn’t want this to be wrong. It felt good and it had been a long time since Peter had felt even a brush of how good this was. So Sylar was the instrument. Why did that matter?
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Don't stop, Sylar pleaded quietly, even in the confines of his own head, though it echoed and rebounded in his skull anyway. Somehow this scene was working and Peter was at least, finally! looking at the option of using him. It was going way better than he (still) dared to hope. He'd longed to ask, longed to hear what Peter had to say here. He knew he couldn't go back to the fists-and-denial routine Peter had been using until now. He did his very best to appear interested and open, listening with all his might. Harmless, as a look, if he could pull it off, would only help now, too. He wanted Peter's knee much closer than it was, uneven rhythm or not. Again his cock, pressed firmly against him would be fantastic (and unlikely).
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Peter squeezed Sylar’s hand again, releasing and drawing back, fingers tickling over Sylar’s palm. “I like touching. I like-" Doubt closed his throat again, making him sound … he didn’t know - so ashamed he couldn’t get the words out? Or so excited? He took a deep breath, lightly taking Sylar’s hand again, wrapping his left over the top of it. “I like kissing. I like fucking … and frotting.” Why the hell am I telling this guy this shit? Am I going to get in trouble later because of this? Peter tried to imagine future scenarios where Sylar mocked him with what he was saying, using the words against him. What Peter was confessing to seemed so bland though that he couldn’t imagine any taunt would have teeth. Of course, his libido had every incentive at the moment to make his current activities seem harmless.
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Sylar's control slipped and his lips parted as he listened to things that were far too good to be true. He'd swallow the lie right now if it was all a lie. His exhale was tinged with vocalization of need, louder than he wished it to be. I'm going to explode. Oh my God... His chest rose and fell deeper, his left hand clenching into a fist to prevent a full out struggle for freedom so he could act on what he'd heard. Peter Petrelli had given him a (admittedly short) list of turn-ons, things to do, instructions and they were so, so hot. So mild and basic and desirable. Sylar knew he'd have no problem whatever in providing and fulfilling those needs because they matched his own truest, deeper needs - the same ones he'd never dared to see the light of day. Was this even possible? He didn't care, he wanted to try it all and try it now. I don't know what frotting is, but if it's anything like the rest of that stuff...hell, even if it isn't, I'll do it. Just let me try.
Peter continued, needlessly, so Sylar clamped his mouth shut, with effort, on further comments.
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“I don’t like being hurt.” Peter looked over at the tables of stuff, finding it much easier to imagine Sylar using those things against him. His leg stilled and his hands drew back a half inch or so. “Really … I don’t like pain. I can take it, but if … if I think you’re trying to hurt me, it’s all over.” That was … much more complicated than the few words Peter was putting to it. He wasn’t averse to bottoming to a sadist or taking masochistic enjoyment from a variety of things, but all of those required a certainty in Peter’s mind that his top’s end goal was evoking pleasure. If he thought someone was getting off on hurting him rather than getting off on him getting off on being hurt, then … well, it was over. That person was an enemy - wrong - bad - dangerous - mean. It seemed simpler to put some hard and clear limits up front. He could be nuanced later. That his mind didn’t even linger on the idea that he was already making plans for ‘later’ was a sign of how lust-addled his thinking had become.
“That’s why I like you tied up like this. You can’t …” get to me. “I’m safe. I need to feel safe.” Peter slid his hand back into a full handshake, fingertips splaying to touch the handcuff and jostle it a little. He sighed wistfully. “What’s going to happen after I let you out of this chair? Later? How is it going to change things between us if I … ‘let it all out’ or whatever and hurt you? Or, if I,” Peter’s fingertips danced along the soft, tender flesh on the inside of Sylar’s wrist, “do something else?” Like … something not painful at all?
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Sylar's mind didn't exactly stumble...He thinks I'm going to hurt him? Wh- I know why, but...That's ridiculous! Doesn't he get how this works? No...obviously not. He doesn't understand the rules. In a way, he skipped over that concern. If what he said happens, I don't fucking care about it. Funny that with Sylar in position to be hurt and in a lot of pain, Peter was the one stipulating his unwillingness to be in that position. It was a double-standard and one Sylar was sadly well-familiar with. He expected it from Peter and Petrellis.
"You're perfectly safe, Peter. I can't...do anything." Anything at all, he helpfully supplied himself, again, jingling the chains of the handcuffs for emphasis. I'm helpless and harmless; you can see that. He made it sound like a promise, one he intended to keep. Given Peter's kinks, Sylar would be 'getting some', too, so hurting the empath would be just plain stupid (not that he'd planned to really hurt the guy anyway because Sylar, unlike Peter, knew the rules). His desire to hurt Peter at all would diminish, but not disappear entirely, if the pleasant kinks were an option. He'd be getting something closer towards 'real', something vastly more important than delivering pain. The only worry Peter need have was Sylar wanting sex (and touching and attention) too much, too often if that was the case.
There was no way he'd get a shot at being an active participant, something like a worthy bedmate, deserving and capable of feeling pleasure. That was an upgrade Sylar hadn't anticipated. Like...a real person? Why would he treat me like someone he likes? He doesn't have to at all. I know he doesn't like me. He'd been picturing something along the lines of any of their other encounters - yeah, torture was included heavily in that package deal; it always was. That was all he had to go on, really. Sylar was all-too aware that he deserved no better than being brained with a blunt object, drugged and lashed down, tortured and used to his opponent's content. So long as Peter was kept happy, that was all that mattered. Sylar would be serving his sentence. All would be right with the world. Why ever would his pleasure factor into it? It wasn't a requirement Sylar got to quibble over. He'd be lucky to get any kind of action and this was not a negotiation.
Lover? I can do that. I want a chance to try. He splayed his wrist for Peter's fingers to play with; God, that felt so good, just being touched.
He was drawn into listening again by Peter's continued dialogue (Would he shut up and get on with it already?) Now he was confused. "What do you mean? Nothing happens." Peter mentioning 'let it all out/hurt you' made his stomach lurch unpleasantly at the reminder, the threat, the prospect that this was too good to be true; of course it was. To have something wonderful like kissing and touching dangled before him only to have it snatched away on a whim...Peter was just teasing. Oh. That's...clever of him. That stung worse than Sylar would admit. His arousal was somewhat dampened.
"I'm only going to do something after if you don't do anything right now," Sylar allowed his desperation to leak into the threat, voice wavering and rough like his throat was tight. "I wouldn't-...I know the rules. I know how this goes." Okay? I've done this before. Everyone agrees; I can't touch you. I'm the monster, remember? You'd be doing the right thing and self-defense is for good people. "Shut up and do something already." His brain wiggled something into his perception, one of those things Peter said he wanted that Sylar could provide, "You're in control and I'm on board with this," he admitted, using Peter's specific phrasing (specifying consent seemed weird to him) to keep his own desires concealed. He prayed that would tip Peter's scales.
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Two threats plus two confusing ambiguities minus one ego stroke minus one positive statement. The math was not in Sylar's favor. Not that Peter was that calculating about it. With him it was more an issue of which way the scales tilted and two to one was a definite slant that he didn't like. He pulled in a long, steady breath; withdrawing his hand from Sylar's and pushing his chair back noisily as he got to his feet. “You want me to do something, huh? Didn't like what we were doing?” His voice was low and threatening, preferring to carry this off with bluster rather than bludgeoning.
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Sylar let out something of a (nervous) chuckle, "Which, beating me up or petting my hand? You'll have to be more speci-" but then his voice and breath choked off.
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Peter put one foot directly between Sylar's, his knee against the seat of the chair and brushing the inside of one of Sylar's thighs. He leaned in, putting one hand on the corner of the back of Sylar's chair and capturing the man's chin with the other. His fingers dug in enough to hurt a little, especially with the blows to the face Sylar had taken earlier. “Fine. I'm in control, huh?” Just how much did 'I'm on board with this' mean? Did it mean the sort of free rein Peter thought Sylar was trying to convey? “I want to hear you say that again.” Peter let go of Sylar's chin, his hand dropping to the arm of the chair. Otherwise, he stayed where he was, but pushed back on the chair back and lifted on the arm, testing to see how easy it was to shift the center of balance and rock it back on two legs.
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Sylar's first thought was 'Oh!' at the leg against his thigh then 'Ah!' as Peter gripped his chin like he was an unruly child...or about have his lights knocked out. He couldn't see, hadn't been expecting it so his cringe was pure instinct, one he couldn't very well prevent. That move made him look frightened and startled, things he'd rather not telegraph, but Peter's grab and Sylar's flinch, brief though it was, happened so fast there was no other reaction to be made. He grunted displeasure, though, partly because he enjoyed it, and yeah, the threat of being held in place, blind, while offering sex (and torture) while being pounded to a pulp was scary and interesting. The man's grip hurt - but it was a kind of good hurt. He was being put in his place and Sylar hoped that place involved something sexual as his adrenaline pumped and his body yearned from action.
But Peter wasn't finished. The intimidation tactics were so much more effective since Sylar couldn't see. No wonder the Company had literally kept him caged in the dark - it caused psychological disturbance. Sylar felt his center of gravity shift backwards and he swallowed the yelp he wanted to make, but just barely. He had not been expecting that. Attached to the chair was he was, he was going wherever the chair did - if Peter pushed, Sylar would fall back. Sylar clamped his hands to the armrests and sent his legs flailing all of a few inches because they were trapped to, finding no balance except what Peter provided. He felt only the chair and in a way, that was desensitizing. He couldn't really tell how far he was from the floor without the gift of sight, his sense of being connected to the face of the planet was gone when his feet couldn't touch it. He felt gravity just fine, though.
Sylar growled, genuinely not happy with that this time. Peter was using biological reactions against him (clever, admittedly), but they were tricks Sylar's body couldn't circumvent. Forcing himself to breath through his nose when he wasn't dropped to the floor - Peter must be holding him up (He's holding me up? That must be taking some muscle...Apparently, his mind was treacherous). When he said nothing, Peter dipped him back again and that answered the question of 'how far will Peter take this?' sufficiently enough for Sylar to answer. "You're in control." Clearly, asshole. Sylar's voice was low and purposeful, a little pointed. He wasn't admitting defeat or submission....nor was he challenging outright.
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“Good.” Peter stopped messing with the chair and straightened, backing away. “I'm in control,” he snapped, unconsciously mimicking his father's tone. “Are you going to do what I tell you to do?”
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That tone sounded somewhat familiar, but it sounded like a good thing. He's enjoying this, big time. That only made Sylar that much more excited. That and he got to feel the ground underneath his feet again - that had been a bit helpless there for a minute (not that he was less helpless when he could feel the ground, but it was something basic and tangible and he wouldn't argue with that). He breathed better in relief. He couldn't tell if that was his cue to entice or not, so he settled for a combination. "Yes, Peter," he hissed, biting out the agreement, inviting with his tone when using the man's name. He wondered what the fuck he'd just signed himself up for there.
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Peter stood next to one of the poles, one hand on it with the other at his side. He was about four feet from Sylar - not far - and facing him. “Okay. Then tell me what the rules are.”
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Time out. Peter wanted to spend his time talking about that? But I don't wanna talk about that...Sylar mentally whined and squirmed. Peter was going to make him say aloud what he should already know? What really got to him was that Peter seemed to just now be getting the picture, and, given Sylar's gratuitous hinting, that was just ridiculous and a bit insulting. Not my fucking fault I have to slow-walk him there. Speaking aloud 'I'm worthless and I deserve to die' was not on Sylar's list of things to ever say. He didn't want Peter to ever know that. It went against all of Sylar's aggressive, superior performing and that put him already in an interesting position.
Peter couldn't see his eyes, that was a small blessing now. Sylar licked his lips, swallowing, literally working himself up to this. He had to say it; he'd been caught. If he didn't, Peter would leave and that would be it - Sylar's word would be useless in future. People only pay attention to what you say. "You can do whatever you want. I'm not supposed to retaliate," was his simplified statement. 'Supposed' was a little loose, but Sylar couldn't, in good conscience, promise to hold to it. Historically he'd lasted over twenty-five years with Virginia before snapping too badly so it was almost a non-issue. 'You deserve it' was such insurmountable logic to overcome after all. He was offering up his greatest weakness on a plate...to get sex. You've really hit a new low. Peter could, and would, abuse that as much as the day was long until Sylar's brittle psyche snapped like a tinder twig. But to dig himself out of the worthless hole he'd gotten himself into, he blurted, "I know what happens if I do."
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'Supposed'? Those are the rules? Peter's head was cocked to the side in interest, consternation, and curiosity. I do what I want and you … what? You sure as hell don't cooperate, so what does that mean? “What happens if you retaliate?” He couldn't not ask.
"You won't … play with me."
Play? Like this is all a game? Do these rules only apply to now and later is different? Or, like, later is normal? Peter took two slow steps back to Sylar (he was so tempting!), then detoured to the left to circle him warily instead of stopping right in front. What Sylar had said was all kinds of interesting and one of those kinds was tightening Peter's pants.
You're on board.
I'm in control.
You'll do what I tell you.
There's no retaliation.
Nothing happens later.
He'd made a little more than one complete circuit now, saying nothing the whole time, trying to make sense of the buzzing in his mind. He put out his hand, touching the point of Sylar's left shoulder. He dragged his fingers across the top of left shoulder, over the bare back of neck (such warm and delicious skin), and then across the top of right shoulder. He paused there, fingertips only touching at the point of Sylar's right shoulder, keeping contact. Because he could. Because it was allowed. Because, fuck!, it was being invited. Not that Sylar hadn't made the invitation clear in the past, but ...
Is this for real? He's … he could be tricking me, right? Why the fuck would he trick me by letting me tie him up? It's bait. He's the bait. Peter looked around the room, swallowing. He dropped his hand and walked over to the six foot long 2x4 leaned against the wall. He picked it up, then set it back down. He walked behind the tables, looking, touching things now - smooth wood of a baseball bat, flimsy blue medical gloves, the chill clink of chain. He righted a fallen bottle of lube next to a box of condoms. He looked over at Sylar, brows furrowed.
So what's the trap? He thudded one finger against the box of condoms a couple times. 'Play with me', 'do something already'. That's the trap - fuck him. Or get him off. Apparently that doesn't have to involve sex. What am I getting myself into? Am I going to do this? Peter moved on to shift the stapler and scissors, then stepped around the cases of water bottles and stacked buckets. He walked back over to Sylar, hesitating in front of him for a long moment before reaching back for his chair. He couldn't just walk out. He couldn't release Sylar and walk out. He should. He knew that. But he couldn't, couldn't bring himself to do it - not with this much temptation and invitation and offering and promises that Peter mostly believed that it wouldn't go too far and he wasn't going to fuck everything up and …
Peter pulled his chair close, sitting directly in front of Sylar, and touched the man on the top of each knee - one hand to each. He waited a beat, then slid the hand to the inside of the knee, the beginning of the thigh, and stroked softly before giving the smallest nudge outward. He meant it as a request, not a demand, but he didn't know how Sylar would take it. He watched Sylar's posture, breathing, and response. Spread for me?
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