Sexual Tension Part IV: 'Getting On Board'
Title: Sexual Tension Part IV: 'Getting On Board'
Characters: Sylar (Gabriel Gray)/Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, implied torture.
Word count: 3,840
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.
Sylar couldn't help tilting his head away, for more, when Peter touched his neck. It left him shivering in the aftermath when Peter pulled away. Okay, I could maybe get used to this blindfold thing. Everything was heightened and he felt like his clothes were restricting (they were - his cock) and too heavy, too much against his skin that already felt like one raw nerve in the slightly chilly air. It was fantastic. Anticipation was never something he'd gotten before during sex and this was possibly, literally, the best foreplay he'd ever had. Suddenly he could see the appeal, the use it held. Always in the past, he'd been the one forced to turn his partner on just to get any action - he got off on inflicting pleasure, sure, but he'd never really understood it fundamentally, not like this. This was so...mild. He wanted more touch and far less clothing. Sylar's imagination was going wild in the dark, hoping he'd end up with a lap full of naked Peter Petrelli. Hell, it'd be hot even if Sylar was kept clothed.
The ringing, woody thud of the 2x4 was obvious and unnerving. Again, his reactions were made primal and uncontrollable because he couldn't see - really he had a much better poker face than this, nerves of steel (with a short-fuse temper). He stiffened and not in a pleasant way. Right. He was...just teasing. He'd just fucking with you. He didn't mean that; how could he? Sylar set himself up for torture and disappointment once more. It'll still be fun. Why would he want to fuck you anyway? He thinks you're sick and dirty. In the more evil sector of his mind, he couldn't help but applaud Peter for his cleverness at combining soft touch with (so far) the threat of torture and pain. It was ridiculously effective because it struck at Sylar's mind - always the most vulnerable spot he possessed.
Peter returned to the chair, drawing closer still. After he’d been playing with the toys it wasn’t the best sign possible - he could have a number of objects nearby. When Sylar felt both hands, he was relieved a little. A twitch of motion towards the insides of his knees…Is that…? Oh…oh, God, yeah, it is, he thought, correctly interpreting the rather obvious signal, with something like panicked moan in his head. Spread his legs for teasing and pleasure or opening himself to vulnerability so Peter could torture his privates. The idea of being emasculated didn’t thrill him but the one about spreading his legs because Peter might have something naughty planned…A fifty-fifty shot, pure temptation and threat on either side. He took a breath, held it…and parted his legs while holding back a cringe.
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Peter scooted forward in his chair so that his knees bumped the front of Sylar's seat. His hands stayed in contact with Sylar's legs. Fingers splayed over the top of the thighs, while his thumbs rubbed slow circles on the inside. They made a steady, but very gradual progression up, towards Sylar's groin. They were both still clothed, fully, and Peter had no idea how much trouble he was going to get into for doing this. He was almost certain Sylar would not later characterize this as taking advantage or violating him. This was … play. Sex play. More rough, serious, and intense than anything Peter had ever done, but it was still consensual and mutual (in Peter's eyes at least) regardless of Sylar's state of restraint.
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Nothing happened - Sylar released the breath he’d been holding. The quiet persevered. The only noise was their rapid breathing and the slight sound of Peter's hands rubbing his jeans (almost his skin!). The empath kept up the contact, lightly stroking over him, soothing him; his intentions becoming clearer as time passed. Sylar felt like his panting was filling up the room, his heart beating so fast that Peter could hear it. Sylar couldn't help wonder why Peter didn't, well, pounce. The lack of speed was surely counter productive to Peter's goals - after all, why touch Sylar like this? What on Earth did Peter get out of it? Slow and steady and soft had never once entered his mind as a possible theme for their sex....assuming this was sex. That wasn't to say Sylar was complaining (well, not much: the blindfold, handcuffs, lack of a game plan and ability to participate annoyed him a bit); this was just all very, very new. Maybe...he wants something. Is he too shy to say something he wants? Is he afraid I'll judge him? Afraid I'll say no or something? He's probably leading up to something, trying to butter me up. That made sense. This wasn't for Sylar's benefit. Because the only people to touch him anything like this had wanted something from him and it usually wasn't the sex itself.
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In a soft voice that was almost a murmur, Peter said, “I feel like we should be having a conversation about something really important about now. But … I have to confess, my thinking's not too clear at the moment.” He was breathing harder, watching his hands make that inexorable trip up Sylar's long legs, towards the join of them. Sylar's physical response was undeniable. Peter's head was hanging. Tension bound up his form. He wanted what was on offer so bad that his hands shook just a little.
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Sylar released a nervous chuckle that was half-relieved, grinning a bit on reflex. He had to agree. With Peter touching him like this, his own mind was warm and fuzzy and quiet. It was addictive. He can't think? He's that turned on? Fuck, that's hot. How that was possible, he didn't know. Sometimes Peter acted like Sylar was lip-lickingly tempting...but most of the time Sylar appeared to have all the appeal of an incurable boil on Peter's person. That said, he'd done next to nothing towards actively arousing the Petrelli, yet here the man was, stroking up his thighs like Sylar was some sort of treat, long denied. Sylar's toes were flexing in his shoes from the time-consuming touches, legs spread embarrassingly wide, his cock throbbing eagerly as he panted harder than he wanted to admit. It was all he could do not to bite his lip, make some noises and hurry Peter the hell up even though he sort of didn't want this to end. Maybe bucking his hips would...No. Peter was right, the little things were 'doing something'. He also knew where he wanted those wandering hands...Peter couldn't see, but Sylar's eyes and brows were furrowed in forehead-sweating concentration, pleading...or maybe that was bliss? Was Peter shaking? Just from this? If that was true then this was sex, it was going somewhere and it was going somewhere oh-so-fucking good.
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Is this betraying Nathan? Is just letting this fucker live betraying Nathan? Am I betraying Nathan every day that passes here that I talk to this guy and eat lunch with him and go exploring and talk to him about song lyrics? Am I betraying him by being polite? Or nice? Or … with what I'm doing right now? Panting lightly, Peter stopped with his fingers touching the bunched fabric where thigh met hip. His thumbs were a bare inch or two from the end. He let his weight settle for a moment, feeling the heat from this more intimate part of Sylar's body. Peter smiled wanly, knowing his hesitation had to be delicious and frustrating at the same time - it certainly was to him, building tension to an unbearable degree. Should I touch him? Is that the test? The line to cross? Can I go back afterwards? He says I can. But so what if I can? That doesn't really change it.
After a moment of cessation, his fingers bunched and probed against the folds of denim. He couldn't not continue. The effort of will it would take to stop seemed beyond him. “I'm not going to hurt you. At least,” Peter amended, “I don't intend to hurt you.”
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Thighs wonderfully tensing and relaxing now, Sylar let his head drop back a few inches as his fists clenched - anything to avoid fucking his pelvis at the air and jerking his wrists raw against the handcuffs. "Uuh..." was his first, official sound; he hoped there would be more, something of a moaned grunt signaling his need. He also hoped making that noise hadn't...fouled things up. Peter probably wasn't doing this to fulfill any need of Sylar's. Peter was feeling up a rather ticklish spot - the join of his hips and legs, although it was more about the fabric than the flesh underneath. Sexual frustration seemed like such a mild term now...He could just as easily be groping my cock! I have been working for this and waiting for you to make a move for so fucking long! Every move of the man's fingers sent tingles and ripples of reciprocal sensation to other parts of his body, not limited to his penis and that was beyond glorious - it was like he could feel Peter's fingers everywhere he needed or wanted them and the man was only touching the folds of his pants. Peter Petrelli, you fucking minx...!
At that point he would have agreed to nearly anything. He didn't believe Peter, not one bit, but the words did sink in (probably to be inspected and analyzed to death at a later date). Sylar merely nodded, his head spinning, neck loose (he had blood busily rushing other places). "Okay," he breathed, breathy and breathless, had no air to do more than that. But the main, burning question he had to voice, aware that he might be overstepping and ruining whatever fantasy Peter had going on. He wanted to know and didn't at the same time. Voice somewhat slurred, he nearly-whispered back, "What are you gonna do?" To me?
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Oh, that tone of voice! It was so helpless and open and raw. Peter had heard it before, at another time when he was totally in control of the situation, Sylar spread-eagled under him, the smell of blood and sweat in the air. Last time he'd wanted to destroy Sylar. This time? This time Peter wanted to destroy himself - drown in the erotic and forget everything else that ever had or ever might happen, everything but this moment, the sensations, and the feelings flowing through him.
His hands rose to Sylar's, fingers trailing along the backs of his hands, tickling across sparse, dark hairs, and then over his clothed forearms. Peter slid both of his hands under Sylar's arms, gripping the armrests to support his next move. A dim awareness ran through his mind that a determined Sylar could smash his fingers between elbow and metal. But Sylar didn't seem disposed to that. Peter felt safe enough for what they were doing. Besides, he wasn't supposed to 'retaliate', whatever that meant. Peter stood, leaning forward close enough to Sylar's face to feel his breath, close enough that Sylar could feel his own.
Still whispering, voice deepened by lust, Peter said, “I'm going to chain you up between two of those poles and have my way with you.” He leaned in, letting his lips brush Sylar's cheek right under the blindfold, reveling in Sylar's sharp intake of breath at the contact. “And you're going to let me.”
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Sylar felt Peter's hands moving up his arms - physics, not his eyes, telling him that Peter was getting closer to do so. The empath's hands ended up in a funny place, Sylar frowned unseen behind the towel, but he wasn't given much time to consider that. He felt Peter's breath. On his face. He's really close, was all he could think, his own cognition apparently shutting down as much as Peter's. Sylar's head raised slightly, seeking out the man's face as if he wanted to look him in the eyes. He was clueless as to Peter's purpose in being that close. Sure, he said kissing, but he was just pulling my leg, right? Peter told him what he had planned, though; he told him! The answer had him shivering as if he were suddenly cold, but he was oh-so warm because a flush of heat followed right after the shudder. His cock was going to point due north if Peter teased him much longer - it was currently pressed hard against his pants. While he hadn't jumped at feeling Peter's breath, he inhaled when he felt something human and soft against his cheek. Wh-...Was that...? Sylar would have nodded again, but he didn't want to accidentally head-butt the guy he presumed was actually freaking kissing him. That was definitely 'something'. Is he going to do that all day? It took willpower, serious willpower not to squirm at the very idea, at that kiss, at the idea of more.
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Peter brushed again, this time lips on lips but only the faintest touch before Peter pulled away, pushing himself upright. He yearned to do more and told himself that he would, just … soon. First he had to get things set up. He took up the end of the rope and gave it a hard jerk. The first slip knot came free and the second one loosened. Another pull released both. He snaked it out and reached down to rub the back of his hand against the back of Sylar's, one last touch before turning away.
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Oh, fucking Jesus...Those were indeed Peter's lips. And that was almost an official kiss. Finally. Thank goodness. Sylar wanted so much more than that; he wanted to taste; he wanted the illusion of Peter being desirous for himself. He's just teasing. He just told you what he's going to do. Sylar swallowed, shifting his weight, trying to shift his dick around to a more comfortable position (yeah right). Nowhere on that list or in the rules did it say anything about being comfortable or...interested. You're here to please him; that's all. Sylar knew he was going to start shaking soon, tension and sex running through him, all the light touches, getting stronger, growing quicker.
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Peter picked up his chair and moved it under the hook in the ceiling, tarp crinkling underfoot. He looped the rope over the hook and pulled it down, getting a good length on either side. He took it around two of the poles, then stepped back on the chair to tie the rope off up high and as tight as he could pull it (another slip-knot, they were so useful for quick release). It made a triangle of the rope, with the point being the hook, the legs extending to the poles, and the base stretching between them about six or seven feet off the ground, just a little lower than Peter could reach. He stepped down, batting the trailing ends of the rope out of the way as he went to fetch the keys to the handcuffs.
Peter returned to Sylar, circling him slowly, trailing his hand over arm and then shoulder. He wanted to rush, but this was no time for it. Impatience and restless energy coiled in his gut. One other thing needed to be taken care of. He stopped behind the man, pulling the utility knife from his pocket and choosing the clippers. He cut the dangling wire and adjusted the blindfold, tightening and securing it more firmly after returning the knife to his pocket. That done, he leaned over Sylar's shoulder, lips touching along the hair over the man's ear, and then the exposed top of his forehead. He was finding it harder and harder to resist getting all over the guy.
“Mmm,” he hummed, hands stroking down over Sylar's shoulders and the front of his chest. Peter's groin was pressed to the back of the chair. He rubbed back and forth a couple times. “You are a lovely man,” Peter purred, giving small kisses to the skin he could find, inhaling the scent from Sylar's hair. It was heady and satisfying. All the tension had the man hot and smelling like it. Peter loved that proof that he was wanted.
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It had been a lifetime since a man had pawed over him. This time was different; beatings aside, Peter was being remarkably gentle and interested. Hell, this time made him want to participate. Sylar didn't know if that was their situation, being alone as they were, or their history (with or without any Petrellis' involvement), or if this was Peter-specific. Is he like this with everyone? I don't care, he dismissed. It wasn't important. For a moment he thought he'd be rid of the blindfold, but no. Peter was attaching it better. Almost a shame. He did want to see the guy naked, though. Sylar tilted his head away, biting his lip when the empath came to mouth over him, making lusty noises in his ear and that was more than fantastic. I'm lovely? That was a little surprising. "Uuh..." he exhaled another groan-type sound at having his upper body caressed. Pe-ter...he wanted to beg, but didn't, not yet.
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Peter circled again, moving to unlock the handcuffs from the chair and trying to school himself to patience. In a more normal, but still low voice, Peter said, “I'm going to need you to stand up. I'll lead you over to where I want you. Then you'll lift your arms and let me hook you up.” Peter caressed one of Sylar's palms after releasing him, adding huskily, “You know what happens if you don't play by the rules.” Peter tugged upwards on the handcuff he held. “Come on.”
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Sylar stood slowly as directed after hearing the click of handcuffs, wary of losing his balance when upright. Not that he thought Peter would trip him or anything - he didn't think that. Still, he kept his feet connected to the floor as he walked, taking that first hesitant step to see if his legs were truly free. He didn't appreciate being led like a dog or a lamb to slaughter. Peter was slightly patronizing him in reminding him of the rules he knew by heart already. His spikes of anger didn't filter through, although transport was a very vulnerable time for both men and should Sylar have wished to act, now was the ideal moment.
He's going to string me up? Sylar, for the life of him, couldn't determine how that position would be much better - surely having Sylar lie down, spread eagled like a starfish on the floor would be best? Getting his clothes off and having access to...everything, yes, standing was good for that. It made less sense than he'd like, but he said nothing and followed Peter onto the tarp (this time very wary of tripping, although Peter led him carefully).
"Stop here," Peter commanded and Sylar did. Obediently. He was a little disgusted with himself at that.
His hands were raised partly with Peter's own power, but Sylar assisted until he heard the relocking of the cuffs to the poles. He now stood as a giant 'Y' shape. Briefly, gently, he tested the give the pole had - first towards himself, then forward and back, then up and down. There was some slack in a horizontal direction, quite a bit if he really tried at it, hearing the light metallic screech of cuffs against the pole, but he didn't. He knew how that would look - like he wanted out or away or was unhappy with his treatment or placement. Well, it wasn't like I was expecting a four-course candlelit dinner and rose petals.
He hurt worse standing, the blood circulation was stronger, his cock hung heavier in his jeans and every flush of arousal seemed to zing past his bruises and lacerations, but it was all a good pain for now. He knew he'd tire quickly of the position; it was either hold his arms up, try to grasp the cuffs, poles or rope or hang his wrists by the cuffs. He stood still, aside from one stretch of shoulders and back from being cramped and slammed around, and listened for whatever Peter did or commanded next, presuming of course the guy wouldn't leave him hanging in more ways than one.
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Peter waited for a moment, watching Sylar's minor explorations of his new position. He cooperated! He did what I asked. Of course, he wants to get fucked … but still. Wanting to recapture lost momentum, Peter stepped close, in front of Sylar for now. He rested his right hand on the man's left side, just under the ribs, reveling in Sylar's responsive shift, almost a squirm. Oh yes, Peter liked this position. It put Sylar completely at his disposal, though he knew it also limited how much time he had to play before it became too stressful to be any fun - for Sylar, at least, and that mattered to Peter. He slid his hand up, over ribs and the outer edge of pit and up triceps to elbow. He tickled across the joint and started back down as Peter's left hand found the same starting place just above the waist on Sylar's right side.
Peter eyed the blindfold, still glad of the illusion of privacy even though he wouldn't mind seeing an appreciative expression to encourage him. He was getting more sure that no look would cross Sylar's face that would put Peter off, but he left the blindfold there anyway. It was another indication of Peter's control of things, Sylar specifically. His right hand left Sylar's shoulder to cross to his jaw, gently following it down to his chin. His other hand came up Sylar's ribs, but then detoured over his chest, feeling the bump of nipple as he passed. One hand was on Sylar's chin now, cupping it with thumb and forefinger, the other was at the opening of his shirt, over the center of his collarbone. “Are you still on board with this?” Peter asked huskily.
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Sylar allowed his head to loll wherever Peter wanted it to go. "Uhmm..." he said in response to Peter's wandering hand. He startled in reaction to having his surprisingly hard nipple brushed. Huh. Those are hard. Then again, maybe it was less of a shock given how damn turned on he was right now. Peter still sounded very into it and the sound in his voice was sending ripples of lust through Sylar. Thank God I'm tied in place, he thought, even as he wished to be free to reciprocate and molest every inch of Peter. The little slut was asking for it anyway. The only thing Peter had to worry about was being jumped in a dark alley so Sylar could return the favor. Sylar gave a deep chuckle, high on hormones and Peter, murmuring an enthusiastic, "Absolutely." Fuck yes, I'm on board. All the way, give it to me! Why did I not do this sooner?
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