Sexual Tension Part VII: 'False Start'
Title: Sexual Tension VII: 'False Start'
Characters: Sylar (Gabriel Gray)/Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, implied torture.
Word count: 4,486
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, 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 the task, 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 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.
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"I didn't-" do anything, Sylar was going to say, reaching out for Peter too late.
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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.
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Sylar's anger built as Peter turned and walked away, presumably for the bathroom to clean up. Sylar paused and dismissed any dialogue he might have - too angry, no words and it was now 'against the rules.' He knew Peter was upset, that much was obvious. Sylar pivoted for the door, arms aching, his mind in chaos - he didn't where to go. There was nothing to be done, but he needed to do something so he didn't feel this 'being taken advantage of' so keenly. Hope was difficult to mix with reality, he knew; should have given up hoping ages ago but it was a hard human reaction to kill it seemed. Mutedly, he knew he was being a hypocrite - promising sex under any conditions yet being disappointed when the condition he expected came about. Though he'd made the proper agreements - no retaliation and his silence, so, according to Peter, he was doing all that was needed to ensure sexual activity again. That's all that matters, he told himself through his fuming rage. A relationship or any kind of affection or gentleness had never been an option. It was the gentleness that confused him in the first place.
As he walked out, fingers on the buttons of his shirt, trying to get them to cooperate, nearly to the door, he heard a strange 'Whump!' sound of something falling to the floor. It wasn't a body; he knew from the sound, but it still caught his attention. He returned quickly, a little worried, to see that Peter had felled the mattress and was now huddled on it in the corner. Now he hesitated because the empath was crying, really crying, those wracking, soul-deep motions evident in his body. Sylar knew what it looked like from Nathan's memories (not that he needed them in this instance). Peter tried to cry quietly and it hit Sylar low in the gut, not erasing his anger, but...adding other, equally strong feelings and reactions to it. Peter looked like a little kid again when he cried - that's all Sylar could see - his face turning blotchy and wet with his hair in his face. It made Sylar feel like he'd viciously kicked his favored puppy. Why the fuck is he crying? How dare he cry? I'm not crying! I'm glad he's crying; he deserves it for treating me that way! His anger still raged in his mind even as he stared at the truly wrenching sight of Peter sobbing by himself. Sylar knew he needed to do something - Peter was incapable of helping himself right now, of that much he was certain. It was a delicate situation, one that held massive repercussions if he screwed up so he took a moment to think (as well as he could with Peter crying before him).
Peter might not take back any of the agreements if Sylar helped now, but Peter had been gentle and kind and unthinkably giving to Sylar when giving him a hand job. They'd begun with a fight, yes, but the only marks Sylar had on him from sexual activity was abused wrists, cramps and soreness. It may not mean much in the long-term, big picture sense - it may not matter to Peter - but those small things meant something to Sylar, so it mattered to him. Peter hadn't...hurt him. Sylar hadn't really meant to hurt Peter, but it made him feel better that Peter wasn't being an asshole about his feelings. Does he....care? No...This is....about him. He's sad for...himself. What's his problem been all this time again - letting other people down? He thinks Emma and Ma and Nathan's corpse are still out there to be ashamed of him. Course he's ashamed of sleeping with me - who wouldn't be? He doesn't think it's bragging rights. He just got his brother's murderer off and now he's....got to face that. That hurts him. He doesn't have any other options. Is that it? He needs to make himself feel better and that's why he's crying. Okay, so it has almost nothing to do with me, but he needs the support. He's just a baby, just a kid still. You did take away his big brother. Perhaps there was a way to express gratitude, get his desired point across and assist Peter out of the shitty situation he was in, at least in making him feel better. I can't be your brother, Peter, but I know what this feels like. I know what you want when things are like this. Sylar would try to give what he himself had always needed and wanted when he cried. Besides, if Peter was supposedly 'the boss', in control and he broke down...it left Sylar on dangerous eggshells with little way to anticipate or please.
Sylar went to the table of goodies and approached Peter with a few items. His pace was unhurried, but purposeful. Sylar set the items next to Peter's curled-up legs as he himself moved to kneel beside the man. He was still angry and incredibly hurt but that was a normal state of being for Sylar and unlike Peter, he was unused to being comforted when he felt bad or needed help. He didn't expect it. It would be his problem; his burden alone and he'd deal with it later even though time would make his feelings burn hotter not colder. This is really fucked up, he reminded himself, not for the first time. He couldn't keep track of who had hurt whom anymore.
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Peter cowered when Sylar approached him, hearing the steps easily enough. He stopped making any other sounds as well, choking off the noises that had been coming unbidden from his throat by means of holding his breath. He didn't look up at first, just shrinking into himself and waiting for whatever was going to happen, to happen. Sylar didn't hit him - he put things down on the floor instead. Peter jumped back from the first object - a plastic bucket that rattled against the concrete floor before settling. He looked at the rest in confusion, unsure if he should let go of his fear at how mundane the stuff was, or if the normalcy was just a cover for what might come next. Then Sylar kneeled next to him, causing heart rate to spike and him to start breathing again in short, fast breaths. His head came up enough to let his darting eyes take in what was happening.
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Sylar watched Peter flinch and stare wide-eyed at the objects beside him - a bucket, the Listerine, paper towels and a pair of large, blue towels - hardly sinister, but Peter didn’t appear capable of that kind of cognition right now. Keeping that (and the fact that Peter looked like a spooked rabbit) in mind, Sylar moved slowly to unfurl a towel around Peter's shoulders and back. It wasn't a blanket, but it would do. The bucket was in case Peter needed to vomit or spit after the Listerine because he couldn't be that okay with Sylar's various 'tastes' in his mouth. The guy wanted to forget it happened and lingering substances on his tongue would be counter-productive. Sylar was familiar with needing or wanting to be clean after something sexual. He placed the bucket and mouthwash nearer to Peter so he could grab them as needed while he took up the second towel, placed in his own lap for now. He'd had sex partners flinch from him before and he'd never liked it. Yes, it was an admission of his superiority and strength; it was a kind of rush, but not the one he truly wanted. Peter especially was one unused to being in the position of needing to flinch from someone: innocent, untouched, privileged - he was doubly unfamiliar with it and so it must have been twice as much a shock to his system.
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Peter swayed a little away from Sylar draping the towel on him, but it wasn't the frightened jerk from earlier. It was just … caution this time, instead of fear. It felt nice. He's helping me? Comforting me? Why? Not that he didn't appreciate it - he did, deeply. It made his chest ache and his stomach lurch, his emotions still very raw and easily pushed one way or the other. I thought he was mad at me? I thought I hurt him? Kinda thought he might kill me, or at least torture me ... Peter stared dumbly at the bucket and mouthwash, trying to make sense of that. My breath is bad? Why would he care? Peter had eaten the guy's come earlier, but they'd kissed after that and it wasn't like they were going to kiss again, so why …? It seemed like all his mind could do at the moment was pose unanswered questions. That he didn't understand why he was being asked to do something didn't mean Peter didn't understand what he was being asked to do.
He picked up the mouthwash and fumbled off the cap, forcing himself to be calm and his fingers to cooperate. He swished dutifully and fully, hating the medicinal taste of Listerine and preferring milder, flavored mouthwashes. But Listerine struck Peter as a very Sylar choice - no middle ground, going to kill those germs no matter what, and perfectly willing to leave a bad taste in people's mouths in the process. He tried to fight down a hint of a smile at that, spitting into the bucket to hide it. He wiped his mouth with the corner of the towel, getting rid of the snot under his nose as well. He scrubbed at it a second time. Satisfied that he was at least passably clean, he looked up at Sylar with what was now a reasonably steady gaze.
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Still kneeling above Peter, Sylar slid a hand up the far side of Peter's throat, both soft and prickly against his hand, getting to touch and see Peter now, not just the other way around like earlier. And badly he wanted to touch - the skin around his wrists would attest that. Peter wasn't dangerous, but he might be reactionary... there was no backlash. Sylar made his usual suicidal leap to see what happened. His hand traveled - caressed - to Peter's face, cupping his clammy cheek a moment before taking hold of his face with a grip on Peter's handsome jaw.
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Touch. Gentle touch. Not hurting. Not being hurt. Tension drained out of Peter's body like water from an overturned cup. It was what he'd wanted all along and couldn't let himself have - why he'd tied Sylar up, chained him down, hadn't let the man return any of the liberties Peter took with Sylar's body. He couldn't allow it, or rather, he hadn't been able to allow it. Giving pleasure to Sylar was marginally acceptable, at least once Peter was drowned in lust and his big head stopped working. Receiving it, willingly, was just too much, though. He couldn't. That was wrong. It was a selfishness and a betrayal that conflicted too directly with his desire to honor his brother's memory and revile his murderer. What Peter couldn't allow earlier, he was too broken now to refuse. His eyelids fluttered as he leaned heavily into Sylar's hand and let pleasure be perpetrated upon his body.
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Sylar knew exactly what he was doing - he hurt, he hated being treated like a thing and his ego wouldn't stand for it; he was going to show Peter he hadn't won or broken him and that he had equal claims to the Petrelli as Peter had on him. Gently but firmly, he brought Peter's face up, still gorgeous despite the stuffy nose and red eyes and tear tracks. If anything, he looked like a sad doll. Sylar held him there, staring down into those watery hazel eyes until Peter saw him and really looked at him, acknowledged him. He was a person, a man; he was above Peter, in control, in position to do him harm; Peter was vulnerable and needing him and he wanted the man to feel that.
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When his head was held still, Peter opened his heavy-lidded eyes, gaze flickering around Sylar's face once, then a second time, trying to divine the man's purpose. Sylar looked calm, resolute, and determined to communicate something. Questions bloomed again in Peter's mind and he tensed. What did I do? What did I say? Why is he looking at me like that? 'Pretend that this didn't happen', 'Our little secret', 'Got it' … it happened. That was what Peter thought Sylar was trying to get across to him: it happened; you're going to face it; you're not going to get to pretend my feelings about it don't count. As much as Peter didn't want to deal with the seething abyss of emotional torment that awaited him if he tackled this issue, it helped him to know that he had to and that it wasn't an option, or an offer, or a deal to negotiate and hope Sylar cooperated. There was to be no cooperation. Peter relaxed again, submitting to the new reality. His expression settled, calming. He pressed forward a little into Sylar's hand rather than trying to draw away. He met Sylar's eyes placidly, reconciled to the challenges he faced. Maybe this means he'll face them with me?
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After a moment to let that sink in, seeing what he needed to see, Sylar leaned down, opening his mouth wide to cover Peter's - claiming, completely possessive and desirous. He ignored the tears and the salty taste and focused on the warmth and soft heat of the man's lips as he moved his own repeatedly over them. He felt his eyes slide shut. Sylar took his time, lingering, savoring, taking what he wanted this time. He wasn't harsh, didn't tongue the man or bite him, but he did consume him. Sylar wouldn't deny that it made his cock swell again. Oh, the things he could do right now...He considered it, of course, but that was a ticket to rapist-label-city; he hadn't been joking about wanting Peter Petrelli's consent, and what's more, his enthusiasm.
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Oh, God! Peter's libido surged to life, full force, taking his brain entirely off-line. A desperate desire ran through him for approval, for affection, for forgiveness for the sin of asking Sylar to ignore the whole encounter. Sylar's lips on his were absolution, baptism through love. One of Peter's hands gripped one side of Sylar's still-unbuttoned shirt, pulling hard even though they were plenty close enough. Peter unmistakably communicated that he wouldn't mind being closer, up against each other, or even on top of one another. They were on the mattress, after all, and methods of satisfying Sylar and proving to the other man that he hadn't wanted to hurt him came flooding into his mind in pornographic technicolor. His other hand went to Sylar's knee, nudging once - fall over with me onto the mattress, take me, show me it's okay, show me you won't hurt me, show me I didn't hurt you too bad and that you don't think I'm horrible for what I'm doing … I am horrible. Oh, Nathan … This was completely morally indefensible. He was broken inside and he didn't think he'd ever be able to put the pieces back together.
Peter's tongue licked along the inside of Sylar's lips, his lust inflamed by the taste, purifying him of the harsh chemical flavor of the mouthwash. He wanted more, and he showed this by tugging Sylar's shirt, tilting his head and pressing their mouths together as he deepened the kiss further. He turned his body to face Sylar's. Peter's eyes were shut, letting himself be pulled under by the sensations, filling him up and setting him free of his wretched self-loathing. It wasn't like what he was doing was any morally worse than what he'd already done. Come on … take me! Give me something else to feel!
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Sylar's eyes shot open in surprise at the reciprocation. "Mmmf?" was his muffled reaction. He'd expected Peter to tolerate the kiss at best, then shove him off once he began to annoy. But no, he felt his shirt being yanked on and it caused him to scoot forward, closer, just to keep his balance (not that he minded). He didn't break away, though he was completely confused. One minute Peter was sobbing his guts out and now...Peter was all over him; kissing, tonguing him, adjusting his position, still hauling on his shirt for still more proximity...Sylar closed his eyes. The nurse seemed plenty into it so...whatever; Sylar didn't see any reason to not take what they both wanted, continue what they were already doing. He could feel his desire spiraling up quickly, spreading through him once more because this was what he'd wanted (if he was honest with himself) in the first go around. He adjusted angles and pressed back in equal measure, allowing Peter's tongue to slither and slide into his mouth, licking away at the slippery organ to taste Peter while his hands buried themselves in Peter's hair, keeping the man in place. Peter moaning was getting him hard. He didn't crouch down to get closer, as much as Peter seemed to want it, mostly because Sylar had no idea what was going on (he liked having access to Peter this way, too) and the moody whiplash would have consequences only for him in the long run if he screwed up, never mind how much he wished to-
Peter swung his nearer limb around Sylar's kneeling stance, placing him between the empath's legs. "Ughn!" he grunted past the tongue in his mouth, his cock, slow to harden at first, now throbbed in his pants. This was a few fantasies in one day; all he could think was that he'd played his cards right somehow - a mental 'Yesss!' ringing in his head. A few moves and he could be on top of Peter Petrelli, grinding and kissing him. He felt like his head was spinning, different from before where he'd had no choice but to go along with things; now he had choices; he could respond or reject and otherwise be engaged - he could touch Peter back. The empath hauled him bodily down between his legs - Sylar dropping heavily onto his hands before he fell over the guy. They broke apart only at that moment, both breathing hard. Sylar stared down at the man below. Peter's chest was heaving beautifully and Sylar's instinct was to strip him and look at the rest of his body, wonderfully bare for the first time, similar to what Peter had done to him. Peter dragged him all the way down atop his firm, muscular, humanly-warm body and once there, Sylar grabbed at Peter's thigh to keep him close and in place.
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“Oooh!” Peter groaned loudly, unabashed, hiking his leg up and putting his heel over Sylar's back, flexing into the hand that was gripping him. He angled his hips for maximum contact, grinding them together as he threw his head back and bared his throat, eyes shut. He quivered when Sylar's lips touched his exposed neck. Peter's hands roamed between the hanging folds of Sylar's shirt, stroking the bare skin over his ribs and contrasting it with the hair-covered patch over his pectorals. He brushed thumbs over nipples before moving on to touch either side of Sylar's neck with questing fingers as he arched into the man with another breathy moan. No more was he done with that then his fingers curled at the back of Sylar's neck, urging him down as Peter leaned up, latching his mouth onto his target.
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The smaller man continued his seduction on Sylar's upper body with touches to his nipples and strokes over his hairy chest, causing Sylar to alternately buck and circle his dick down against Peter's crotch, feeling the matching erection there. He did his best to ignore that, even as it provided fantastic friction, instead focusing on whom he was humping. The idea of humping a man like this was still utterly foreign. Once again, Peter seemed very taken with Sylar's pleasure; it wasn't necessarily a requirement, but the guy did it anyway. The mouth at Sylar's throat felt like it was mauling him - suctioning his flesh and marking him surely. He extended his neck and tilted his head away for more, exhaling grunts and low moans (trying to keep his noise level down, unlike his failure earlier - Peter wanted quiet, so quiet he would get) and the occasional snarl, gripping high at Peter's hamstring, so close to that delectable ass. Ooh, God...fucking....God...
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Peter bit at him, far more reckless and passionate than he'd been with any other lover he could think of, not that his mind was on any of them. No, Peter was very here in the moment, to the exclusion of everything else. Not a shred of thought of consequences, repercussions, things that had gone before or might after. His insides were one burning mess of shuddering emotions and mewling self-loathing that felt like they could only be put to rest by being fucked. He wanted to be violated; he wanted to be opened up and laid bare; he wanted to be hurt and degraded and ravished and used - and Sylar was the instrument of that. Fuck me, damnit! Sylar was too quiet for Peter's liking, which caused him to intensify his efforts.
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Even as Sylar lost himself to the waves of frantic, pawing lust, something bothered him still, and it wasn't just that crude agreement to forget anything had happened, though it contributed. Sylar now had to consider what happened after. Peter obviously wasn't thinking real well. It seemed too good to be true and with his mouth now free, he tried to think it through because there was bound to be consequences of doing anything at all with Peter Petrelli - the latest example was the agreement for silence. Sylar bent his head down to give brief attentions to Peter's long neck - wet, open-mouth kisses and dirty bites between taste-testing. It wasn't enough, but he was close to Peter's ear now, which he licked before murmuring around panted breaths, "Is this a test?" He didn't cease in the action, touching busily on the other side of the man's throat and face, hoping the answer was no; hoping the answer was true. He wanted to be in the clear to do what he wanted and have some semblance of normality in sex...with Peter. Are you going to call this rape after we're done? he wondered, Regret this, too? Desperately, Sylar needed to walk the line between wanted and being regretted and swept under the rug whenever it was convenient.
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Peter jerked away with a tiny yelp from the lick at his ear, the overstimulation like a sudden slap in the middle of sex. Then there was Sylar's question, like the lick was to get his attention. “Uh … what?” That … that's not sexy-talk. What's happening? Did I fuck something up? Am I doing something wrong?
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Characters: Sylar (Gabriel Gray)/Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, bondage, dominance/submission, implied torture.
Word count: 4,486
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, 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 the task, 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 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.
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"I didn't-" do anything, Sylar was going to say, reaching out for Peter too late.
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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.
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Sylar's anger built as Peter turned and walked away, presumably for the bathroom to clean up. Sylar paused and dismissed any dialogue he might have - too angry, no words and it was now 'against the rules.' He knew Peter was upset, that much was obvious. Sylar pivoted for the door, arms aching, his mind in chaos - he didn't where to go. There was nothing to be done, but he needed to do something so he didn't feel this 'being taken advantage of' so keenly. Hope was difficult to mix with reality, he knew; should have given up hoping ages ago but it was a hard human reaction to kill it seemed. Mutedly, he knew he was being a hypocrite - promising sex under any conditions yet being disappointed when the condition he expected came about. Though he'd made the proper agreements - no retaliation and his silence, so, according to Peter, he was doing all that was needed to ensure sexual activity again. That's all that matters, he told himself through his fuming rage. A relationship or any kind of affection or gentleness had never been an option. It was the gentleness that confused him in the first place.
As he walked out, fingers on the buttons of his shirt, trying to get them to cooperate, nearly to the door, he heard a strange 'Whump!' sound of something falling to the floor. It wasn't a body; he knew from the sound, but it still caught his attention. He returned quickly, a little worried, to see that Peter had felled the mattress and was now huddled on it in the corner. Now he hesitated because the empath was crying, really crying, those wracking, soul-deep motions evident in his body. Sylar knew what it looked like from Nathan's memories (not that he needed them in this instance). Peter tried to cry quietly and it hit Sylar low in the gut, not erasing his anger, but...adding other, equally strong feelings and reactions to it. Peter looked like a little kid again when he cried - that's all Sylar could see - his face turning blotchy and wet with his hair in his face. It made Sylar feel like he'd viciously kicked his favored puppy. Why the fuck is he crying? How dare he cry? I'm not crying! I'm glad he's crying; he deserves it for treating me that way! His anger still raged in his mind even as he stared at the truly wrenching sight of Peter sobbing by himself. Sylar knew he needed to do something - Peter was incapable of helping himself right now, of that much he was certain. It was a delicate situation, one that held massive repercussions if he screwed up so he took a moment to think (as well as he could with Peter crying before him).
Peter might not take back any of the agreements if Sylar helped now, but Peter had been gentle and kind and unthinkably giving to Sylar when giving him a hand job. They'd begun with a fight, yes, but the only marks Sylar had on him from sexual activity was abused wrists, cramps and soreness. It may not mean much in the long-term, big picture sense - it may not matter to Peter - but those small things meant something to Sylar, so it mattered to him. Peter hadn't...hurt him. Sylar hadn't really meant to hurt Peter, but it made him feel better that Peter wasn't being an asshole about his feelings. Does he....care? No...This is....about him. He's sad for...himself. What's his problem been all this time again - letting other people down? He thinks Emma and Ma and Nathan's corpse are still out there to be ashamed of him. Course he's ashamed of sleeping with me - who wouldn't be? He doesn't think it's bragging rights. He just got his brother's murderer off and now he's....got to face that. That hurts him. He doesn't have any other options. Is that it? He needs to make himself feel better and that's why he's crying. Okay, so it has almost nothing to do with me, but he needs the support. He's just a baby, just a kid still. You did take away his big brother. Perhaps there was a way to express gratitude, get his desired point across and assist Peter out of the shitty situation he was in, at least in making him feel better. I can't be your brother, Peter, but I know what this feels like. I know what you want when things are like this. Sylar would try to give what he himself had always needed and wanted when he cried. Besides, if Peter was supposedly 'the boss', in control and he broke down...it left Sylar on dangerous eggshells with little way to anticipate or please.
Sylar went to the table of goodies and approached Peter with a few items. His pace was unhurried, but purposeful. Sylar set the items next to Peter's curled-up legs as he himself moved to kneel beside the man. He was still angry and incredibly hurt but that was a normal state of being for Sylar and unlike Peter, he was unused to being comforted when he felt bad or needed help. He didn't expect it. It would be his problem; his burden alone and he'd deal with it later even though time would make his feelings burn hotter not colder. This is really fucked up, he reminded himself, not for the first time. He couldn't keep track of who had hurt whom anymore.
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Peter cowered when Sylar approached him, hearing the steps easily enough. He stopped making any other sounds as well, choking off the noises that had been coming unbidden from his throat by means of holding his breath. He didn't look up at first, just shrinking into himself and waiting for whatever was going to happen, to happen. Sylar didn't hit him - he put things down on the floor instead. Peter jumped back from the first object - a plastic bucket that rattled against the concrete floor before settling. He looked at the rest in confusion, unsure if he should let go of his fear at how mundane the stuff was, or if the normalcy was just a cover for what might come next. Then Sylar kneeled next to him, causing heart rate to spike and him to start breathing again in short, fast breaths. His head came up enough to let his darting eyes take in what was happening.
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Sylar watched Peter flinch and stare wide-eyed at the objects beside him - a bucket, the Listerine, paper towels and a pair of large, blue towels - hardly sinister, but Peter didn’t appear capable of that kind of cognition right now. Keeping that (and the fact that Peter looked like a spooked rabbit) in mind, Sylar moved slowly to unfurl a towel around Peter's shoulders and back. It wasn't a blanket, but it would do. The bucket was in case Peter needed to vomit or spit after the Listerine because he couldn't be that okay with Sylar's various 'tastes' in his mouth. The guy wanted to forget it happened and lingering substances on his tongue would be counter-productive. Sylar was familiar with needing or wanting to be clean after something sexual. He placed the bucket and mouthwash nearer to Peter so he could grab them as needed while he took up the second towel, placed in his own lap for now. He'd had sex partners flinch from him before and he'd never liked it. Yes, it was an admission of his superiority and strength; it was a kind of rush, but not the one he truly wanted. Peter especially was one unused to being in the position of needing to flinch from someone: innocent, untouched, privileged - he was doubly unfamiliar with it and so it must have been twice as much a shock to his system.
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Peter swayed a little away from Sylar draping the towel on him, but it wasn't the frightened jerk from earlier. It was just … caution this time, instead of fear. It felt nice. He's helping me? Comforting me? Why? Not that he didn't appreciate it - he did, deeply. It made his chest ache and his stomach lurch, his emotions still very raw and easily pushed one way or the other. I thought he was mad at me? I thought I hurt him? Kinda thought he might kill me, or at least torture me ... Peter stared dumbly at the bucket and mouthwash, trying to make sense of that. My breath is bad? Why would he care? Peter had eaten the guy's come earlier, but they'd kissed after that and it wasn't like they were going to kiss again, so why …? It seemed like all his mind could do at the moment was pose unanswered questions. That he didn't understand why he was being asked to do something didn't mean Peter didn't understand what he was being asked to do.
He picked up the mouthwash and fumbled off the cap, forcing himself to be calm and his fingers to cooperate. He swished dutifully and fully, hating the medicinal taste of Listerine and preferring milder, flavored mouthwashes. But Listerine struck Peter as a very Sylar choice - no middle ground, going to kill those germs no matter what, and perfectly willing to leave a bad taste in people's mouths in the process. He tried to fight down a hint of a smile at that, spitting into the bucket to hide it. He wiped his mouth with the corner of the towel, getting rid of the snot under his nose as well. He scrubbed at it a second time. Satisfied that he was at least passably clean, he looked up at Sylar with what was now a reasonably steady gaze.
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Still kneeling above Peter, Sylar slid a hand up the far side of Peter's throat, both soft and prickly against his hand, getting to touch and see Peter now, not just the other way around like earlier. And badly he wanted to touch - the skin around his wrists would attest that. Peter wasn't dangerous, but he might be reactionary... there was no backlash. Sylar made his usual suicidal leap to see what happened. His hand traveled - caressed - to Peter's face, cupping his clammy cheek a moment before taking hold of his face with a grip on Peter's handsome jaw.
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Touch. Gentle touch. Not hurting. Not being hurt. Tension drained out of Peter's body like water from an overturned cup. It was what he'd wanted all along and couldn't let himself have - why he'd tied Sylar up, chained him down, hadn't let the man return any of the liberties Peter took with Sylar's body. He couldn't allow it, or rather, he hadn't been able to allow it. Giving pleasure to Sylar was marginally acceptable, at least once Peter was drowned in lust and his big head stopped working. Receiving it, willingly, was just too much, though. He couldn't. That was wrong. It was a selfishness and a betrayal that conflicted too directly with his desire to honor his brother's memory and revile his murderer. What Peter couldn't allow earlier, he was too broken now to refuse. His eyelids fluttered as he leaned heavily into Sylar's hand and let pleasure be perpetrated upon his body.
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Sylar knew exactly what he was doing - he hurt, he hated being treated like a thing and his ego wouldn't stand for it; he was going to show Peter he hadn't won or broken him and that he had equal claims to the Petrelli as Peter had on him. Gently but firmly, he brought Peter's face up, still gorgeous despite the stuffy nose and red eyes and tear tracks. If anything, he looked like a sad doll. Sylar held him there, staring down into those watery hazel eyes until Peter saw him and really looked at him, acknowledged him. He was a person, a man; he was above Peter, in control, in position to do him harm; Peter was vulnerable and needing him and he wanted the man to feel that.
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When his head was held still, Peter opened his heavy-lidded eyes, gaze flickering around Sylar's face once, then a second time, trying to divine the man's purpose. Sylar looked calm, resolute, and determined to communicate something. Questions bloomed again in Peter's mind and he tensed. What did I do? What did I say? Why is he looking at me like that? 'Pretend that this didn't happen', 'Our little secret', 'Got it' … it happened. That was what Peter thought Sylar was trying to get across to him: it happened; you're going to face it; you're not going to get to pretend my feelings about it don't count. As much as Peter didn't want to deal with the seething abyss of emotional torment that awaited him if he tackled this issue, it helped him to know that he had to and that it wasn't an option, or an offer, or a deal to negotiate and hope Sylar cooperated. There was to be no cooperation. Peter relaxed again, submitting to the new reality. His expression settled, calming. He pressed forward a little into Sylar's hand rather than trying to draw away. He met Sylar's eyes placidly, reconciled to the challenges he faced. Maybe this means he'll face them with me?
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After a moment to let that sink in, seeing what he needed to see, Sylar leaned down, opening his mouth wide to cover Peter's - claiming, completely possessive and desirous. He ignored the tears and the salty taste and focused on the warmth and soft heat of the man's lips as he moved his own repeatedly over them. He felt his eyes slide shut. Sylar took his time, lingering, savoring, taking what he wanted this time. He wasn't harsh, didn't tongue the man or bite him, but he did consume him. Sylar wouldn't deny that it made his cock swell again. Oh, the things he could do right now...He considered it, of course, but that was a ticket to rapist-label-city; he hadn't been joking about wanting Peter Petrelli's consent, and what's more, his enthusiasm.
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Oh, God! Peter's libido surged to life, full force, taking his brain entirely off-line. A desperate desire ran through him for approval, for affection, for forgiveness for the sin of asking Sylar to ignore the whole encounter. Sylar's lips on his were absolution, baptism through love. One of Peter's hands gripped one side of Sylar's still-unbuttoned shirt, pulling hard even though they were plenty close enough. Peter unmistakably communicated that he wouldn't mind being closer, up against each other, or even on top of one another. They were on the mattress, after all, and methods of satisfying Sylar and proving to the other man that he hadn't wanted to hurt him came flooding into his mind in pornographic technicolor. His other hand went to Sylar's knee, nudging once - fall over with me onto the mattress, take me, show me it's okay, show me you won't hurt me, show me I didn't hurt you too bad and that you don't think I'm horrible for what I'm doing … I am horrible. Oh, Nathan … This was completely morally indefensible. He was broken inside and he didn't think he'd ever be able to put the pieces back together.
Peter's tongue licked along the inside of Sylar's lips, his lust inflamed by the taste, purifying him of the harsh chemical flavor of the mouthwash. He wanted more, and he showed this by tugging Sylar's shirt, tilting his head and pressing their mouths together as he deepened the kiss further. He turned his body to face Sylar's. Peter's eyes were shut, letting himself be pulled under by the sensations, filling him up and setting him free of his wretched self-loathing. It wasn't like what he was doing was any morally worse than what he'd already done. Come on … take me! Give me something else to feel!
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Sylar's eyes shot open in surprise at the reciprocation. "Mmmf?" was his muffled reaction. He'd expected Peter to tolerate the kiss at best, then shove him off once he began to annoy. But no, he felt his shirt being yanked on and it caused him to scoot forward, closer, just to keep his balance (not that he minded). He didn't break away, though he was completely confused. One minute Peter was sobbing his guts out and now...Peter was all over him; kissing, tonguing him, adjusting his position, still hauling on his shirt for still more proximity...Sylar closed his eyes. The nurse seemed plenty into it so...whatever; Sylar didn't see any reason to not take what they both wanted, continue what they were already doing. He could feel his desire spiraling up quickly, spreading through him once more because this was what he'd wanted (if he was honest with himself) in the first go around. He adjusted angles and pressed back in equal measure, allowing Peter's tongue to slither and slide into his mouth, licking away at the slippery organ to taste Peter while his hands buried themselves in Peter's hair, keeping the man in place. Peter moaning was getting him hard. He didn't crouch down to get closer, as much as Peter seemed to want it, mostly because Sylar had no idea what was going on (he liked having access to Peter this way, too) and the moody whiplash would have consequences only for him in the long run if he screwed up, never mind how much he wished to-
Peter swung his nearer limb around Sylar's kneeling stance, placing him between the empath's legs. "Ughn!" he grunted past the tongue in his mouth, his cock, slow to harden at first, now throbbed in his pants. This was a few fantasies in one day; all he could think was that he'd played his cards right somehow - a mental 'Yesss!' ringing in his head. A few moves and he could be on top of Peter Petrelli, grinding and kissing him. He felt like his head was spinning, different from before where he'd had no choice but to go along with things; now he had choices; he could respond or reject and otherwise be engaged - he could touch Peter back. The empath hauled him bodily down between his legs - Sylar dropping heavily onto his hands before he fell over the guy. They broke apart only at that moment, both breathing hard. Sylar stared down at the man below. Peter's chest was heaving beautifully and Sylar's instinct was to strip him and look at the rest of his body, wonderfully bare for the first time, similar to what Peter had done to him. Peter dragged him all the way down atop his firm, muscular, humanly-warm body and once there, Sylar grabbed at Peter's thigh to keep him close and in place.
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“Oooh!” Peter groaned loudly, unabashed, hiking his leg up and putting his heel over Sylar's back, flexing into the hand that was gripping him. He angled his hips for maximum contact, grinding them together as he threw his head back and bared his throat, eyes shut. He quivered when Sylar's lips touched his exposed neck. Peter's hands roamed between the hanging folds of Sylar's shirt, stroking the bare skin over his ribs and contrasting it with the hair-covered patch over his pectorals. He brushed thumbs over nipples before moving on to touch either side of Sylar's neck with questing fingers as he arched into the man with another breathy moan. No more was he done with that then his fingers curled at the back of Sylar's neck, urging him down as Peter leaned up, latching his mouth onto his target.
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The smaller man continued his seduction on Sylar's upper body with touches to his nipples and strokes over his hairy chest, causing Sylar to alternately buck and circle his dick down against Peter's crotch, feeling the matching erection there. He did his best to ignore that, even as it provided fantastic friction, instead focusing on whom he was humping. The idea of humping a man like this was still utterly foreign. Once again, Peter seemed very taken with Sylar's pleasure; it wasn't necessarily a requirement, but the guy did it anyway. The mouth at Sylar's throat felt like it was mauling him - suctioning his flesh and marking him surely. He extended his neck and tilted his head away for more, exhaling grunts and low moans (trying to keep his noise level down, unlike his failure earlier - Peter wanted quiet, so quiet he would get) and the occasional snarl, gripping high at Peter's hamstring, so close to that delectable ass. Ooh, God...fucking....God...
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Peter bit at him, far more reckless and passionate than he'd been with any other lover he could think of, not that his mind was on any of them. No, Peter was very here in the moment, to the exclusion of everything else. Not a shred of thought of consequences, repercussions, things that had gone before or might after. His insides were one burning mess of shuddering emotions and mewling self-loathing that felt like they could only be put to rest by being fucked. He wanted to be violated; he wanted to be opened up and laid bare; he wanted to be hurt and degraded and ravished and used - and Sylar was the instrument of that. Fuck me, damnit! Sylar was too quiet for Peter's liking, which caused him to intensify his efforts.
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Even as Sylar lost himself to the waves of frantic, pawing lust, something bothered him still, and it wasn't just that crude agreement to forget anything had happened, though it contributed. Sylar now had to consider what happened after. Peter obviously wasn't thinking real well. It seemed too good to be true and with his mouth now free, he tried to think it through because there was bound to be consequences of doing anything at all with Peter Petrelli - the latest example was the agreement for silence. Sylar bent his head down to give brief attentions to Peter's long neck - wet, open-mouth kisses and dirty bites between taste-testing. It wasn't enough, but he was close to Peter's ear now, which he licked before murmuring around panted breaths, "Is this a test?" He didn't cease in the action, touching busily on the other side of the man's throat and face, hoping the answer was no; hoping the answer was true. He wanted to be in the clear to do what he wanted and have some semblance of normality in sex...with Peter. Are you going to call this rape after we're done? he wondered, Regret this, too? Desperately, Sylar needed to walk the line between wanted and being regretted and swept under the rug whenever it was convenient.
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Peter jerked away with a tiny yelp from the lick at his ear, the overstimulation like a sudden slap in the middle of sex. Then there was Sylar's question, like the lick was to get his attention. “Uh … what?” That … that's not sexy-talk. What's happening? Did I fuck something up? Am I doing something wrong?
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