Sexual Tension Part VI: 'The World's Most Effed Up Pillow Talk'
Title: Sexual Tension part VI: 'The World's Most Effed Up Pillow Talk'
Characters: Sylar (Gabriel Gray)/Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, implied torture.
Word count: 4,037
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.
Peter reached over his head for the trailing end of the rope, sorting between the two to get the right one. “I’m going to take down the rope,” he warned in a neutral tone. “You might want to hang onto the bars at first.” A hard jerk later, the end of the rope fell unfettered from hook to bar. Peter pulled on the other end of it, drawing it through the cuffs and removing the impediment to them sliding down the poles. It didn’t release Sylar, but it would make him a lot more comfortable, able to move his hands up and down freely.
Peter dropped the rope to the side and stepped forward, running a possessive hand from the midpoint of the back of Sylar’s thigh up his leg and over his buttocks to the small of his back, hand skimming directly over the man’s crack on the way. I could really get used to this, Peter thought of how he could handle Sylar without consequence. The back of his mind buzzed in dissension - there were consequences, all right. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to ignore the repercussions this whole dalliance was going to have.
But for now, he tugged aside Sylar’s shirt collar and kissed him on the skin of the upper line of his shoulder, nibbling slightly as Peter was still high on endorphins and warm, fuzzy feelings of affection. He wanted to curl up under a soft blanket with his partner, embrace and confess undying feelings of tenderness and devotion. Not that he thought they’d be returned. And if they were, Peter would probably freak out. He smiled wanly, finally having a little understanding of why so many of his own partners had ditched him after the first date. Peter Petrelli could be too clingy by far. Not a problem with Sylar, he thought as he stroked from Sylar’s hip upwards to ribs. “You are delicious,” Peter purred, meaning it as merely a general observation about Sylar's sexiness, though his subconscious was probably betraying him.
XXX
"The empath released Sylar's arms from their more upright position. Sylar jerked in surprise as something...the rope! landed on his head in consequence but he was still attached via cuffs tothe poles which he'd held onto as per instruction." His arms immediately ached, cramping in the new, relaxed position; he grimaced and muffled his hiss about it. He then sighed; it felt better. He felt....he didn't know and certainly couldn't describe it - better than before yet with new and different worries. As if to address that, Sylar felt a hand on his thigh, traveling up...up...Maybe he is gonna fuck me? Or he's threatening to; promising to? He straightened, he knew he did, in reaction to that because any number of things could follow that hand as it traced over the last place he wanted it. Right after, though, Peter was tugging his shirt aside for more skin and mouth on his shoulder - Sylar dropped his head forward, relaxing his frame again with a tiny groan. Peter didn't quit touching him and Sylar adored the hell out of it, marking a sound and squirming closer to the hand and his partner's body, feeling like an unsafe idiot but it felt so good, he could hardly care. So, so dangerous. He purred back with only a trace of smugness (but with healthy appreciation, gratitude, how on earth was he going to thank Peter for this?), having enough of Peter's fucked-out tone of voice so close to his body, "Finger lickin' good." You can have this any time, wow. More than any time you want it, actually. He's...good. Damn, is he ever good.
XXX
Sylar swaying into him, towards him, did all sorts of good things for Peter's ego. Peter was mouthing along the upper line of Sylar's shoulder, rooting sedately under the shirt and imbibing the trapped scent there when Sylar said his piece. A second later, Peter froze. He saw me? Fuck, he saw me? A ridiculous panic ran through him, right on the heels of a thrill - goose-bumps. The Did he see me? that he thought next was more hopeful than upset, although he tried for the moment to squash that. I'm in control here, right? Peter rose up on his toes, looking over Sylar's shoulder at the blindfold. It was … mostly in place. It looked rumpled and tampered with. Probably rubbed against something, Peter realized. I've got to be in control.
Peter put his right foot forward, close against Sylar's heels, and braced himself with his left. His left hand ran up Sylar's spine until he buried it in the man's hair and made a fist, knocking aside the blindfold in the process. His right arm wrapped around the man's chest, just below Sylar's arms. Peter pulled back and down on Sylar's hair, pushing just an inch with the foot against his heels. The man had no leverage against him - pulled backwards, unable to get his feet under him with pants around his ankles and an obstruction (Peter's foot) directly behind. The main thing that kept him from falling were the shackles around his wrists. Peter's arm around him was just a failsafe - in case Sylar's feet kicked out from under him and he started to fall.
XXX
Ah! And then there was light...and a hand in his hair. Sylar felt himself dragged back, feet unmoving. He panicked because this was just like the chair, however long ago, but without the chair. Fuck...gravity... On instinct, his arms tried to move to catch or otherwise support himself but came up short. He couldn't get balance with his feet either, so he hung by his wrists which was uncomfortable and painful to his hands. Trying to break my thumbs? Shit. He didn't go easily - flexing his arms in attempts to pull himself away (not effective, of course, because of the hand in his hair and he lacked the arm-strength necessary against his companion's better position), yanking at the cuffs, trying to get a hold on them or the poles but Peter had him pulled taut. That avenue exhausted, he made to move the rest of his body but was trapped by...something behind his foot still trapped in his fucking pants. He thrashed again a few times to test his restraints, all of them. Snap my neck? He wouldn't need to do all this to do that, though...What the hell is he doing then?
XXX
Peter waited several tense moments as Sylar stilled and the vulnerability of his position was made clear - arched, naked, Peter the only thing holding him up. For the first time, Peter could see the full glory of Sylar's expressive face. His own was flushed, a little damp from the exertions, lust stamped on it firmly. Peter's lips were parted as he breathed. A quick glance down Sylar's body had him panting again - arousal and excitement, even if his dick was still on siesta at the moment. But that was only a glance. His main attention was to Sylar's face, locking eyes with him. “Someone's been peeking,” he growled, shifting Sylar a few inches and tightening his grip around the man's chest while he did it. The hand at the back of Sylar's head turned his face towards Peter, who dipped his. Lips closed over Sylar's teasingly at first, then firmer as Peter sank into it, making a sound of pleasure and possession deep in his throat.
XXX
But Peter didn't move or say anything while Sylar...adjusted. He snarled to show he wasn't beaten, no matter what came next. He felt like a trapped animal or some kind of bondage freak. Well, I did just let him jerk me off. A man. Peter Petrelli no less. (And I liked it). Dimly, he felt Peter's hand around him and he wondered what that was doing - it wasn't feeling him up, obviously. He could see Peter's face now with ease, or as much ease as his neck arched all the way back as it was, held in place. That, along with his legs and core muscles, were strained by the positioning - he already felt rubbery after his orgasm, his muscles spent, and he wished to be released from the cuffs to stretch at least, maybe make a break for it and lie down somewhere safe to enjoy reliving the event...But Peter wasn't through. How long will he hold me here? How long can he hold me? Is this...punishment? Sylar eyed the most likely answer - Peter's face. Gorgeous face, intent and intense (more so from the angle Sylar viewed him from), post-coital in a way. It was freaking lickable. Sylar wanted his hands free for different reasons than just being freed now. Oh, let me go. The things I wanna do to you. I can return the favor, no bondage necessary.
The nurse's face wasn't...that angry or violent even; in fact, Peter still looked to be in the mood. A quick look down his rather spread frame darkened Peter's eyes and clued Sylar in immediately. Ooh. Punishment. I see, he thought gleefully, unable to prevent the slight smirk on his mouth from being disobedient and inspected as a result. It made his heart rate increase once more with fervor - though he didn't know if he was feeling ashamed or slutty for being ogled. It didn't slip past him that Peter was allowed to 'peek' but Sylar was not. He would have squirmed and chuckled had his throat been able; as it was, he swallowed and stared back as Peter met his gaze, making sure his own was filthy and inviting.
Sylar didn't know how to answer Peter’s observation; 'And I'm not sorry' was his primary thought, the second being 'what would you do in my position?' and the third, 'It's not fair otherwise.' While his mouth was already open, he put it in motion to answer before his head was tilted (like it or not, he was being moved where Peter wanted him to be). He breathed hard, feeling only warm, lush lips on his, a vocal exhale of "Oh..." that was laced with desire. He's desperate to make me hard again, I swear...Hands, I want my hands! I wanna touch you, too. He's kissing me...Wow, so good...Again, he tried tugging himself free, something of a compliment to Peter, while savoring the gentle-but-passionate kiss he was being given. Bent backwards - literally! - tied up, naked, disobedient and getting macked on. He began to whine, the need to touch back overwhelming him; Sylar pushed up and into Peter's mouth as much as he could. If being greedy would gain rewards, he'd be Peter's whore, no problem.
XXX
He wants me! All those signs of desire were what Peter ached for and for several long moments, he continued the kiss because he was getting them. He only stopped out of consideration for the strain of Sylar's position. Peter pulled back slightly, parting their lips as he opened his eyes again. Evading Sylar's mouth, Peter kissed a few times along the man's cheek and then rubbed the tip of his nose against the side of Sylar's, closing his eyes briefly in bliss. He drew away with reluctance and propped the man up slowly.
XXX
Peter's lips left him and Sylar opened his eyes naturally to see why. He watched with a hazy stare as Peter smooched on his face and gave him the most tender eskimo kiss - nose to nose. Sylar had no words for that, a bit breathlessly surprised, but he was sure he'd remember it for a long, long time.
XXX
Sure that Sylar was back on his feet, Peter went to his knees behind him, hands settling on the outside of Sylar's upper thighs and stroking downwards to his jeans. “Hold still,” Peter said in a low voice. “I'm going to pull your pants up.” He jiggled them a little to get the hem of one out from under Sylar's shoe. Once he was sure he could bring them all the way up, Peter hesitated, mesmerized and distracted by the inviting flesh just inches from his face. He leaned in and kissed Sylar's butt cheek softly as one hand released the pants to stroke gently at Sylar's hair-covered shin. He kissed several more times and nuzzled over towards the man's hip, simply enjoying the moment and letting his mind be blank. He wanted more - to hold and caress, be held and caressed. The belief that the latter wasn't an option (and even more, his twisted, conflicting emotions about allowing it to even be possible) brought him back to what he was doing on his knees. He got his feet under him and pulled Sylar's pants up, drawing them up carefully over his hips.
XXX
That doesn't sound dirty at all. It was a nice gesture, though, the pants; even if Sylar didn't understand it. Mid-motions, he felt light contact to his buttock - three linear touches of Peter's flesh. He's...covered, though, so what...? Twisting around to try to view the source, he discovered it was Peter's face, or more accurately, his mouth. Oh...he thought, interested despite himself. It was an odd place (close to other, less-kissable places he'd assumed would garner more attention) to be kissed; exciting him with it's oddity and newness. Sylar breathed an audible noise as Peter kept that up, rubbing his face into Sylar's skin as he went, pants momentarily forgotten. He closed his eyes and drank it in until he felt the denim sliding up his legs and again, he assumed that was all Peter would do.
XXX
Peter moved directly behind Sylar, nibbling idly at a shoulder blade through the shirt as his arms wrapped around Sylar's front and tucked him away with attentive care. He double-checked that everything was clear before pulling up the zipper, refastening the button, and tugging on the belt loops to make sure the jeans were positioned right.
XXX
Once more his groin was handled. Sylar felt the oversensitive shocks, somewhat dulled over time, still shuddering through him - touch in its rawest form, after orgasm, being mainlined into his nervous system. It's been a really long time...He's gonna...do my pants for me? Um...Sylar squirmed away, accidentally locating Peter's crotch with a bump of his ass when the zipper came up, just as a precaution, but there was no incident. He found himself breathing again.
XXX
With a deep sigh, Peter ducked under Sylar's arm to stand in front of him. Right in his gaze. The power of those eyes and the awareness of … expectations, judgment, maybe even questions that Sylar might pose to him about his conduct and his choices, questions Peter didn't want to answer … it made Peter shrink a little, glancing down and back and forth nervously. Fear and anger sparked in the back of his head. He hugged Sylar abruptly, squeezing shut his eyes and escaping the experience of being watched before those sparks could find fuel and ignite.
Peter adjusted his embrace, working his arms under Sylar's still-open shirt and running them over the man's smoothly muscled back. He nuzzled at his collarbone, but he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Peter leaned back, bringing his hands around to the front. After a briefer caress of the man's chest than he wanted, Peter raised them to either side of Sylar's face, cupping rather than holding. Only then did he lift his guilty eyes. “Sylar …” A nervous thumb stroked across a cheek. “I'm going to make you an offer. If we leave this room and you let me pretend that … that this didn't happen, if you don't make me face it ...” Peter couldn't take looking at him any longer, dropping his eyes first to his hands and then to Sylar's throat, finally to his hairy chest. This is cowardly, Peter condemned himself with a swallow. This is the most shitty thing I've ever done to anyone. But Peter couldn't think of any other way out of the quandary of his morals. He could only hope that with a little time maybe he'd figure it out.
XXX
Sylar did his best to hug back using only his body, reveling in the act of being hugged. An offer? Sylar's head canted to the side an inch or two, curious and beginning to dread given Peter's body language. The only preparation he had for this was history, repeating itself. 'Pretend that this didn't happen.' He knew what came next; he knew what had happened, too. It wasn't good for him. How could it be?! How could it?! I couldn't...do anything, couldn't get him off, what did he expect?! That's what the blindfold was for. He spent the entire time picturing you were someone else - that's what all that talk was. Some old boyfriend, I bet. Doesn't want to lose 'Emma' over this. Forgettable, regrettable, a mistake, that's all it was; why would you ever think otherwise? Why would you ever hope that? I don't know why he even bothered getting me off then...What was all that for? Sylar recapped it simply: the guy he liked, he corrected himself, the guy he wanted action from was that afraid of him and wished to Haitian away the memory of sexual activity with him. Like he came with a re-set button. No feelings. Of course not. You're a thing. Disposable.
Every feeling he'd felt earlier felt like nausea, rising up to grip him by the throat. Rage and undistilled despair flooded him. He couldn't keep his stomach afloat, feeling it plummet with accompanying chills to his nerves before they went painfully numb. His face betrayed him for precious few seconds - eyes shut, head ducked away until he could recover a mask of some sort. His only rationale was 'it's just a hand job.' He would have hated to be fucked and told 'pretend it didn't happen', though he suspected it would come to that one day. The greater act, the more discomfort (or outright pain) and humiliation involved wouldn't warrant a different policy.
It hurt worse because he'd been in a similar situation before; it stung like the acid saline that pricked at his eyes; ridiculous. Probably the best time of his sexual life and 'pretend it didn't happen' was the pillow talk. Truth be told, one of the worse case scenarios he'd envisioned had included this; he shouldn't be surprised. He should certainly never be hopeful for anything more...how had he gotten that idea in his head? Oh, right...Peter getting him off so selflessly, talking to him and being gentle. Briefly he debated offering to do a better job at getting Peter off, next time, seeing that Peter was unsatisfied; he discarded the idea. It made him look desperate and it was Peter's own fault for positioning him badly and not giving the correct instructions for what he wanted. He inhaled to recover; he had an act to pull off and more than one bargain to keep. Sylar straightened up, shifting his shoulders back.
"Got it," he croaked, nodding roughly. "That's...to be expected," Ha ha ha ha! Cause this is normal for me. Vomiting, regret and self-loathing are common side-effects after sex acts with me. "Keep my mouth shut until you want it open, I got it," Sylar agreed, feeling like his skin wanted to crawl off his body now, mainly due to the kindness and gentleness Peter had displayed. Guy's desperate; you're convenient, you'll suffice, you know this. You offered him 'just sex' and that's what he wants. His face was successfully blank as he forced himself to look at Peter. "Our little secret." He tugged on the handcuffs to indicate them, "Do you mind?" he asked, so quietly it was nearly a whisper; his first request for Peter to do something for him that day: please let me go, I want to cease existing, or disappear. Don't want to be where I'm not wanted; unfortunately, that's everywhere. Thank God he was dressed already. While he thoughtlessly, hurtfully agreed to whatever it was Peter wanted, his subconscious was already plotting. Talking about it may not communicate his anger, but he knew his fists would do just fine later. It was insulting and devaluing. Retaliation for that kind of (he thought, needless) hurt would leak out somehow. Occasional blind sex is better than nothing, he consoled himself. There was no 'deal', no illusive fake offer, it wasn't even a choice; Peter Petrelli wanted to ensure Sylar's silence permanently. Damn him, but it was effective. Gotta love that deniability. Not Peter's whore, then, but Peter's toy.
XXX
Oh, no! No, no, no! Pain from Sylar’s reaction hit Peter like a physical blow, aching in the middle of his chest and radiating out to his extremities in an agonizing wave that left his hands nerveless and dropping from Sylar's face, his legs weak and wanting to collapse in shame. He didn't bother trying to conceal it and when Sylar asked to be released, Peter jumped at it, his mind racing to figure out how this had gone so bad so fast. What did Sylar expect from me? Did he think I'd be all 'wow, this was fun, we should have done it sooner!'? There were reasons why I never wanted to do it before! I knew I was fucked up … fucked up to have done it, fucked up to have fucked it up. He hesitated at Sylar's left wrist, some Petrelli instinct shouting a wordless warning in his head that lines had been crossed, Sylar was angry and deeply hurt, Peter knew himself - he wasn't going to defend if attacked (not under these circumstances), and that letting the guy go right now might be very dangerous. Peter didn't know if it was masochism, suicidal tendencies, some sense of fairness, or all three that moved him to slide the key into the lock and rotate it, the faint click preceding the loosening and opening of the mechanism. He wrapped his hand firmly around the key, perversely unwilling to give it up even as he cringed, expecting to be struck. I'm sorry!
No blow fell. Peter moved to the right one, eyes darting past to look at the mattress leaning against the wall. He just wanted to curl up on it and do nothing for a while, until the worst of his feelings passed. He didn't know what to do about Sylar. He couldn't look at him. Reaching for the right handcuff, he knew this might be his last chance to say anything substantive, maybe his last chance to say anything at all. Apologies, excuses, and explanations flew through his head, rejected before they even coalesced. If he got to say anything, and only one thing, what would that be? “That was fantastic. You were wonderful.” His voice broke as a sob threatened. I'm so sorry! “Thank you,” he got out roughly, blinking off the tears and sniffing. He slotted the peg-like key into the hole and turned it. Sylar was entirely free.
Peter didn't wait for Sylar to hit him, push him down, or leave. He went straight to the mattress, flopping it down to the floor where it landed with a rush of air much more dramatically than Peter wanted. He sat down immediately on the far edge of it, near the corner of the room, body angled away from Sylar. He put his forehead against the wall, trying to shut out everything, hoping that the next order of business wasn't Sylar using the things in the room on him. At that thought and the sounds behind him, he shuddered as he cried as quietly as he could. I'd deserve it. Some saner part of his brain tried to argue for self-preservation and at least looking back to see what Sylar was up to, but the part in control would have none of it. Raw, vulnerable, frightened, ashamed - he huddled, unable to stop his traitorous mind from replaying little bits of ecstasy from their previous activities while telling himself he'd been wrong to do it, had hurt Sylar in doing it, and would never get to do it again.
XXX