Sylar was lying flat out on his thin, shabby mattress when he heard the door down the hallway once more. This time there were … fewer of them. He tried to make out the sounds, but all he was sure of was the manager and someone with bare feet. He assumed that was Peter. He'd had most of an hour to consider the man's unexpected and improbable attempt to come to his defense. It made no sense. There no love lost between them, after all. Why not stand by and chortle at the prospect of them shooting Sylar up with who-knows-what? It's what Sylar had been doing, after all, but once Peter saw them going after Sylar, he'd raised a ruckus.
The visitors came into view. Sylar sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and ignoring the stab of pain from his side and back. It was indeed Peter, along with the manager as Sylar had expected, and a third individual whom he hadn't. Tall, lean, dark-skinned, and poised, this was the one whom Sylar had hardly heard coming down the hall. He was stealthy on Sylar's own level – impressive. The manager shoved Peter in the room, zip ties holding the man's wrists together. Peter looked spooked in addition to having a goose-egg on his forehead. The door banged shut behind him. The quiet man left. The one with horn-rimmed glasses stayed. He reached up and switched off the camera, then stood watching them with his hands clasped in front of himself. He smiled in a very disconcerting manner.
Sylar gave him a very long stare, finally turning to look over at Peter, who was breathing hard and sweating, having moved to sit on his bed on the other side of the room. He looked like he was panicking, frantically fumbling at the zip ties, trying to bite them off. Sylar could smell the man's perspiration from across the room. Having caught a whiff, he took a deeper breath. Then another, because he couldn't stop himself. His heart lurched and sped up. Every shred of his attention focused on Peter. He was staring like the man had become an ability incarnate, or the key to power. Sylar stood, paying no attention when the manager at the window chuckled.
Peter froze, looking up from his latest attempt to chew through the plastic. Sylar took one slow step after another towards him. How had he not seen it before? Peter was beautiful. He was perfect. He was everything Sylar wanted to take, to have, to own, to possess. Sylar's mind was fogged with obsession, with a hunger very similar to the one he'd already given in to so many times. Peter's hands were still bound, but that only made him even more attractive. The hands dropped slowly, stopping halfway down and palms outward as though to shield himself.
"You're like an offering," Sylar said, smiling like it was his birthday and Peter had been delivered gift-wrapped for his pleasure. He reached for Peter's shoulder.
"Stay the fuck away from me!" Peter knocked the hand away.
"That's not how it's going to go," Sylar said, snarling at the rejection. "You're in here with me! I'm Sylar! I can take what I want!" He grabbed at Peter, violent and quick, getting a handful of hair. Peter went down on his back on the narrow bed, kicking up and catching Sylar in the upper thigh and hip. Even bare-footed, it still hurt. Sylar wrenched on Peter's hair, yanking him sideways. Sylar climbed on the bed to get around the smaller man's flailing legs. He caught a knee in the side, in the same place he'd been stomped earlier. It sent a lance of pain through him, doubling him over for a few seconds. Peter cowered from him and twisted his head to break Sylar's grip on his hair. In serious pain now, Sylar took the opportunity to punch, momentarily stunning Peter. Sylar kissed him immediately, taking up Peter's hair again with one hand and grasping his crotch with the other. The flimsy pants meant he got everything in one generous handful. He kneaded and pulled, biting Peter's lip in unrestrained passion as Sylar humped against the man's thigh. Nothing else mattered but this carnality. He had to have it.
But then Peter was fighting him again. That was getting old fast. Peter shoved him off and tried to knee him in the side once more. He missed. With all the shoving, kicking, and rolling, he did manage to knock Sylar off the bed. Sylar grabbed Peter's legs and yanked him bodily to the floor with him. "Fine!" Sylar snapped. "I'll fuck you here!" Peter twisted and rolled. Sylar climbed on top of him. They banged up against the table. The smell of Peter was thick in the air. Sylar was positively drunk on it. "Let me- … Stop fighting!" He shoved Peter's pants down around his knees, then struggled with his own. He had to break the drawstring to free himself, engorged and erect, ready to go. For a second, when Peter threw his still-shackled hands over Sylar's head to rest around his neck, Sylar thought Peter was finally into it. Then the vicious little asshole took the knee he'd torn free from his clothes and slammed it into Sylar's midsection – and not just once, but four times, rolling them sideways and continuing until Sylar shoved his way free and vomited on the floor, realizing a moment later that he should have thrown up on Peter, who was scrambling away now.
Sylar panted, sick to his overly bruised stomach and trembling with need. He picked up one leg of the pants Peter had left behind, and then like a complete sicko, put it to his face to inhale the scent he couldn't get enough of. Curled on the floor next to his own emesis, he jerked off to release. Only then did his head clear.
