Title: Sated
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rape, mixed signals, mistakes, errors in judgment, violent sex, blood involved in sex, non-canon ability attribute for Peter
Word count: 9,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar knows Peter is attracted to him, but Peter's morals prevent him from starting anything. Sylar believes that doesn't keep Peter from being the recipient of something Sylar starts.
"Enough of this," Sylar growled, grabbing Peter by the shoulder and pulling him around. Peter wasn't quite done with the backswing on the hammer; the momentum assisted Sylar, just like he knew it would. He shoved Peter up against the brick, where Peter landed with a startled look and a 'whuff' of expelled air. Sylar didn't give him a chance to recover his equilibrium. Instead, he planted his lips over Peter's, pressing him fiercely and passionately into the wall.
"Nnng!" Peter made a noise, acting like he was trying to scale the wall backwards. The sledgehammer clunked loudly to the ground, the metal head ringing once on the asphalt before the wooden handle whacked against the ground. It featured no more in the scene. Sylar breathed out hotly against Peter's cheek and sucked in air just as fast as he continued to work his mouth on the struggling Italian. He pressed his body against Peter's, trapping him, both of his hands roaming up and down Peter's sides, alternately grabbing and caressing. Peter's resistance was laughably insincere. His hands caught at Sylar's arms, but he made only the most token of shoving motions. At least half his efforts had been wasted scrabbling at the bricks behind him – like that would do him any good. Sylar didn't believe Peter was that unaware.
Peter had known it was coming, Sylar was sure of that. He could feel Peter's body responding as Sylar wedged a knee between Peter's legs and pushed it up. Peter gripped it with his thighs. His next half-swallowed sound was a moan. Sylar finally stopped kissing him to grin in victory.
"No," Peter said faintly, pushing at him half-heartedly.
Sylar leaned against the hands on his shoulders, panting open-mouthed in Peter's face, his eyes inches away from Peter's. He put his hand to Peter's groin, cupping the hardened flesh. "Yes." He kissed him again and for a moment, Peter kissed back. The thrill of success ran through Sylar a second time.
Peter twisted his head aside, breathing fast and shallow. "I can't-"
"Fine," Sylar snapped. "Then don't. It's on me. That's what you want – deniability, a clean conscience." He rubbed firmly up and down on the bulge in Peter's pants. Peter's breath caught and his eyes half-rolled back. Sylar knew he had the man. He purred, "Let me be the dirty one. This is all my fault." Peter shut his eyes entirely and turned his face away. Sylar pushed the ineffectually interfering hands out of the way. He kissed Peter's exposed throat, continuing to massage his dick through his pants. His own erection was straining at the fabric, but he neglected it for now. The occasional inadvertent contact with Peter's hip would have to do. He would break this stallion to saddle if it were the last thing he did.
He bit the side of Peter's neck – warm, solid muscle. He nibbled at the delicate tissue in the front, scraping his nose on some imperfectly shaved and heretofore unnoticed bit of scruff under Peter's chin. He moved his knee higher and braced it on the wall, letting Peter ride him, while at the same time he opened the man's pants and pushed them out of the way as much as he could. It didn't free Peter's shaft entirely, but there was enough to work with. The flesh was hot and thick in his hand. It was dry until he spat liberally on his palm and took hold of the tip. Peter shuddered. The man responded to every touch like a finely tuned instrument. The sounds he made were things of pure beauty. Riveting. Peter's hands had settled on Sylar's sides, clinging to the fabric and occasionally grabbing deeper to dig into the skin. His eyes were glazed with passion. Sylar cradled the back of Peter's head and kissed him full on the lips again, pumping at his erection with sure, rapid strokes. Peter twitched in time with them, like his dick controlled the nervous system for his whole body.
Sylar's tongue was exploring the inside of Peter's mouth when Peter's demeanor changed. The Italian breathed out, relaxed, and extended his arms around Sylar. His tongue engaged and his lips started moving in tandem. Sylar was doubly surprised – first that he really hadn't noticed until now how unresponsive Peter was being (aside from noises and irregular grasping), and how good it was to connect like this. If he'd been so inclined, his own eyes might have rolled up in pleasure. He growled into Peter's mouth and pressed harder against him in rhythmic thrusts. His hand on Peter's dick moved faster still. Peter drew him closer, moaning with every shove that pinned him to the brick, quivering with the constant stimulation to his genitals. Peter's orgasm shook him, his breath stuttering and huffing. A moment later, hot ejaculate surged over Sylar's hand.
Sylar grinned down at him with the height of smug superiority. "Ah," he whispered to Peter, "we finally made true what you said – you came for me. How sweet." Still grinning, he kissed a dazed-looking Peter on the lips. He finally released his own cock, jerking himself only briefly before striping Peter's abdomen and dick with Sylar's jism. "There. You dirty boy. But it's still all my fault. Not yours." Sylar tucked himself away and buttoned his jeans. Peter's face seemed to be clearing, some awareness coming back to it. He looked overwhelmed. In one act, Sylar had catapulted their relationship from never-ending sexual tension into something very, very sexual. He'd won; Peter had lost. But it wasn't like Peter hadn't enjoyed it. Sylar clapped both hands to the wall on either side of Peter's head. He leaned in. "Was it good for you, dear?"
Peter gave him a wary look and an oddly chaste peck on the lips. Then he scooted sideways out from under Sylar's looming presence. "Fine, yeah. Good." He tried to put his now-floppy dick away without touching any of the slimed parts. It was impossible. Peter huffed and touched it anyway, buttoning his pants over the mess and then wiping his hand furiously on the side of his pants leg as he continued to move away.
Sylar was watching him intently, brows drawn together. Something was not right. "That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement."
"Go fuck yourself." Peter was now well out of arm's reach and seemed to have put himself back together mentally. Sylar's brows drew together even more. He cocked his head in puzzlement. But instead of giving answers, Peter spun on his heel and left.
The next day, Sylar woke earlier than usual to the ringing sound of metal hitting brick. He'd heard it enough that it made his skin crawl. He hated it. He and Peter had been finally working things out between them, making progress, seeming to develop an actual friendship, until they'd had a final stupid fight. Peter turned away from him. Then and there, the wall existed. From that point on, Peter did nothing but eat, sleep, and pound on the damn wall. There was no way he could go back to sleep with the constant reminder going on of what might have been. He stomped downstairs after seeing to his normal morning routine to find Peter doing exactly what it sounded like he was doing – beating pointlessly on the wall, yet again.
"I thought yesterday might have convinced you to bang something else for once," Sylar called out as he sauntered down the alley. Peter didn't answer. Sylar sighed and rolled his eyes. This better not be another silent act. He leaned against the wall a few feet away from where Peter was hitting it, and leered at Peter's already sweaty body. "Did you even have breakfast this morning? You're going to need your energy for everything I'll be doing to you later." No reply. Except that Peter was obviously hitting the wall harder and louder than he'd been doing before. Sylar shook his head and made an exasperated sound, shoving away from the wall and throwing up his hands. "Fine. Be that way. You'll change your tune when you get horny again." He walked off, trying to find a part of the city where he didn't have to hear the incessant racket. Even though he could find places where it was muffled, he could never completely escape it. It drove him mad.
It was the fourth day when Sylar's patience broke. When Peter's break for breakfast or brunch or early lunch or whatever lasted only a precious seven minutes before he was back at the damn wall, Sylar threw his own hardly started meal in the trash and stalked down to the alley. He'd avoided it before, since Peter wouldn't talk to him, interact, or even look at him whenever he was in one of these moods of his. For a while Sylar stood there, glaring at Peter, letting Peter know he was there, he was fed up, and he wasn't going to take this for much longer. If Peter cared, he didn't show it. He swung the hammer with the same mechanical precision he'd used all along.
The next time Peter cocked back, Sylar stepped up and yanked it out of the man's hands. Peter spun, grabbing after the wooden shaft in surprise, like for a moment he'd thought he'd merely dropped it. When he saw Sylar, he scowled. Sylar spat out, "I'm done with this!" He strode forward, forcing Peter to back up until his back was against the wall, or else be in direct contact. Sylar held the hammer up and to the side. "No more hammering! I could shove this up your ass. Is that what you want? Is this some plea for attention? You're obviously not going to-" get out this way, was how Sylar had intended to finish. But Peter shoved him, then hit him across the face with a right cross. The taste of blood was delicious. It was on, now.
Sylar dropped the hammer. Despite the threat, it would feature no more in this scene, either. Sylar bodily slammed Peter into the wall, taking another tag on the face along the way. Peter was in a bad position to be swinging punches – no wind-up or maneuvering room meant his blows were half-strength at best. Sylar had survived the worst Peter could do before. These were mere love-taps. Sylar kissed. Peter bit him, hard. Sylar grabbed Peter's crotch and squeezed even harder. Peter let him go before his sharp teeth did more than bite through Sylar's lip. Peter's willingness to throw everything into this was making Sylar high on adrenaline. His grip on Peter's parts loosened and rubbed. Peter whined and looked away. Sylar growled and ravaged his neck, leaving smears of blood from his own bleeding mouth matched by hickeys and rapidly darkening bruises from his teeth. If he broke the skin, he didn't care. Peter had set the bar with trying to bite off his lower lip.
But Peter wasn't fighting him anymore. The Italian's dick was hard, begging to be let out to play. Sylar's own was just as eager. Sylar kissed over Peter's jaw, then his cheek, then, throwing caution to the wind, he turned Peter to face him so they could kiss on the lips. But this time, Peter didn't savage him. Peter winced, possibly at the blood, and acted confused about the taste. "Are you okay?" he asked, like he hadn't been the one to have caused the injury.
It was the first thing Peter had said to him in days. Sylar didn't let it throw him. "Not yet." He opened Peter's jeans and pushed them downward. "Let me fuck you and I will be."
Peter just stared at him, mouth open, breath coming in pants. He looked so beautiful, so surprised and innocent. Sylar kissed him again, scooping up balls and shaft in one hand, kneading for a moment, then sliding his grip up so he could pump methodically. "Yeah," Sylar purred, feeling Peter's arms slip around him as they pressed close. Peter nuzzled at his hair, hips moving with the motions of Sylar's hand. "I want everything you have," Sylar whispered into Peter's ear, before pushing away and turning Peter to face the wall. He jerked Peter's jeans down to his knees, cupping his bare ass against Sylar's clothed groin, and resumed jerking him off with a reach-around. One of Peter's hand braced himself against the wall. The other caressed Sylar's forearm. When he seemed close, Sylar let go, stepping back and opening his own jeans. He didn't need to push them down as far. Slapping Peter's hand away from his shaft (he didn't want Peter finishing without him), he tugged back Peter's pelvis and positioned him for rear entry.
He spat repeatedly, slathering his saliva onto Peter's asshole. Taking Peter this way for the first time, out in an alley without lube, wasn't the best choice logistically, but Sylar wanted what he wanted. It was here for the taking. He took.
Peter cried out when Sylar shoved inside of him. He'd been plenty aroused, but ready – perhaps not. Peter's knees wobbled, then he found his footing and pushed back. Sylar slammed in the rest of the way, eating up the secondary cry of passion and pain. He knew it hurt. It was tight and hot and Peter sounded like he was hyperventilating. The Italian had both hands on the wall to support him, fingers digging into the crappy mortar between the bricks. Sylar rode him hard with every intention of breaking him and from the sound of it, a fair degree of success. Peter moaned and hiccupped and gasped. Sylar buried a hand in Peter's dark hair, twisting his head around so he could see the face. Peter's mouth was slack and smeared with Sylar's blood. His throat was blotchy with marks he would be sporting for a week, at least. Sylar cupped a hand around Peter's delicate neck, completely owning him. He would have gone further, but he came at that point. It was sooner than he would have liked. He'd intended to plow Peter more thoroughly, but he had to admit the man was his in any case.
His own aftershocks having passed, Sylar reached around front to finish Peter off. What he found was limp and dripping. A good look determined that Peter had come earlier, staining the wall with his emission. Sylar bent forward, delicately moved Peter's shirt to the side, and bit his shoulder hard enough to break skin. Peter cried out and twisted away, pulling his body off of Sylar's still somewhat engorged cock, then stumbling on the jeans bunched around his ankles. He fell, landing on the rough pavement. Sylar smirked at him and put himself away. "That's for the lip," he said, reaching up to explore just how many holes Peter had put in him. He counted only two – made by the incisors, he was sure. In the meantime, Peter tugged at his jeans and underwear like he didn't know how they worked.
Sylar looked down at the lack of Peter's progress. "Did I break you?" he asked incredulously. Peter finally seemed to have worked out how to get himself dressed again, and was struggling to his feet. He made no answer. He kept his head down as if he really needed to see to button his pants. Sylar thought about that strange little kiss Peter had ended the last session with. He reached out to take Peter's chin in his hand, only to have Peter flinch away so hard he nearly fell down again, catching himself against the wall and giving Sylar a wild look. Sylar stiffened and stayed still, aware for the first time of how wrong everything had been, right from the beginning.
Peter still didn't speak. When he recovered his footing, he circled wide and strode away fast (while walking funny – Sylar wasn't sure if he should be amused by that or worried). Sylar blinked after him. Worry infested his gut.
Sylar woke abruptly to the sound of silence. His head snapped to the side. It was past eight. For the last few days, since their first coupling, Peter had been starting his daily exercise in futility well before now, as if the sex had kicked him into overdrive somehow. Sylar scrambled out of bed and threw on his clothes. Something was definitely wrong. He'd thought so the day before, but now he was certain. He hurried down to the alley to find exactly what he'd expected. It was the same as the day before, when he'd fucked Peter. The hammer still lay to the side, discarded. The day before, he'd left Peter alone for the rest of the day. Both of them had gotten off and despite the weird vibes, Sylar had wanted to be left alone to bask in his achievement. Now he knew he'd fucked up.
Peter wasn't at the breakfast diner. He wasn't at his apartment (and Sylar broke in, searched it, and came up empty-handed). He wasn't in the park or the library or the rec room. He wasn't at the Y or the penthouse or back at the alley. Towards the end of the day, Sylar caught sight of him on edge of the roof of a tall building, some thirty stories up. It was too far for yelling to carry, but Sylar spoke anyway, "Please don't jump." Nathan had watched Peter step off a building about this tall – step right off and fall through the air, just to prove a goddamn point. He suspected, very strongly, that Peter had a point to prove now. When minutes passed and Peter just stared down at him, Sylar went inside and headed up to the roof. When he got there, Peter was gone. All he could be sure of was that Peter hadn't jumped (or if he had, he'd flown, because the pavement below was clear).
It was harder to find Peter after that. Sylar stopped his crazed searching halfway through the next day. It was just burning up energy. A proper stalking was relaxed. He waited where he could watch the door of Peter's apartment building, but Peter couldn't see him until he stepped out. There were two doors. After Peter saw him the first time (and ran – literally ran half a block to put some distance between them), he varied which door he'd use, so Sylar saw him less often. Sylar quit following when he realized he was, again, driving Peter to adopt new strategies to avoid him. He felt miserable – confused and angry. He couldn't make heads or tails of Peter's behavior during the sex. That the man's words didn't line up with his actions was nothing new. That he would be so traumatized by it now didn't make sense, but there it was. After a week, Sylar withdrew. He waited. Loneliness would bring Peter to him eventually. Chasing him would only make him run all the faster.
Sylar was sitting on the ground by the wall, keeping company with the neglected hammer, when Peter stepped around the corner and stopped. They watched each other across the distance for a few minutes. Sylar dropped his head and examined the bunched folds of the denim of his jeans. A few minutes later, footsteps scuffed along the pavement, coming towards him. Peter stopped some twenty feet away. Sylar glanced up at him. Arms crossed, Peter's nose was wrinkled in disgust. The marks Sylar had put on him had disappeared in the weeks since they'd been together here. "Go fuck yourself!" Peter said vulgarly. "Get the fuck out of here."
Now it was Sylar's turn to be quiet. He nodded, got to his feet and slunk away. The sound of hammering filled the afternoon. It was strange, though, that after so long without it, Sylar actually welcomed the noise.
He came back the next morning. Peter hit the wall harder while Sylar was there. He stayed most of the day, making no attempt at conversation and doing nothing other than enjoying being in the presence of another human being. Peter didn't tell him to leave until the end, but when he did, Sylar went.
The morning after that, Peter was waiting for him in the alley, the long-handled sledgehammer held in both hands. He glared at Sylar. Sylar walked closer than he'd dared before, hands held loosely to either side. It was like he was trying to soothe a wild animal. Peter lunged forward when he got too close, moving faster than Sylar had expected, even though he'd known an outburst was coming – it was how people worked. The head of the hammer slammed into his breastbone, knocking the wind out of him. He let the weapon's momentum and Peter's force put him to the ground. It had been a simple thrust, not a swing. It was the only time Peter had hit him with the hammer, despite those frequent feelings that one of these times, Peter would paste him.
Sylar kept both hands on the ground where he'd caught himself and made his body language inoffensive. He'd been mentally prepping for this since Peter had started talking to him again, or at least all twenty or so words he'd delivered in the form of barked orders for him to get out of Peter's sight. Peter menaced him, but didn't swing. Sylar kept his head down and stayed still. Instead of continuing the attack, after a moment of tense shifting of the hammer from one grip to another, Peter pointed the head of it at Sylar and said roughly, emphasizing every word, "I was not willing!"
"I've figured that out," Sylar said promptly, tight-lipped but calm. And he had, as confusing as the whole thing was. Unmistakeable signals had somehow been misinterpreted. There was no other explanation. He, who prided himself on knowing how things worked, had fumbled what might have been the most important moment of his life, aside from taking abilities in the first place. He thought they'd been playing a game – it was all, always a game, right? - but he'd been wrong.
"Oh yeah?" Peter pulled back as though to swing after all. Sylar ducked his head and made an elaborate, slower-than-it-needed-to-be cringe. He'd done this often enough to know how to unwind someone, and he knew Peter well enough to know which buttons to push. One of which was to give Peter absolutely no shit, no matter how tempting it might be to do so. Peter shifted again, changed his stance, and let the hammer fall to his side. He came a step closer. "When?"
"Right after the second time." Again, tight-lipped. Sylar still wasn't looking at him. Eye contact might be dangerous. He didn't expect Peter to be well-behaved about this. He didn't require it (not that he was in a position to require anything of Peter). He was fairly sure Peter would let him survive it, which was more than Sylar could say were their positions reversed. He was on full damage control mode here.
Peter sank to the ground, holding the hammer to him. Sylar glanced up at him now – a brief, steady look, not furtive or sneaky. Peter met his eyes for a moment, then they both looked away at the same time. He could see in his peripheral vision that Peter looked back at him almost immediately. Peter said, "You have the Hunger. You should know."
Sylar kept his eyes on a particular bit of asphalt between them. "I should know what?" He let his voice relax a little.
"The- my ability-" Peter shook his head.
Sylar's head came up as it clicked for him – finally! "You have … a Hunger … for empathy?"
"Contact," Peter choked on the word, then cleared his throat. "Maybe … intimate … contact. I think."
"You can't stop yourself," Sylar said quietly, looking away as the impact of that hit him. His kills. The impulse. His inability to stop it once it began. But Peter never had to kill anyone to get their abilities. He just touched them, was near them, with them. Peter practically gave off pheromones – his chemistry with everyone and everything was so good. But once triggered, if that were a compulsion as all-encompassing as Sylar's Hunger? It fit with Peter's pathetic inability to push him away once Sylar had forced the issue. It was just a fusion of Lydia's erotically-powered empathy and his own acquisitive compulsion.
"I didn't want it!" Peter stiffened, tensing as if to rise.
"I know," Sylar said quickly, adding in a respectful nod of his head. It was sincere, which was different from how these scenes usually played out. "You said I should know. Now that I understand, I do. I know. You didn't want it, but it happened anyway."
"You did it!"
"I did it." Sylar nodded, giving a little more eye contact as he owned his responsibility – also new.
Peter huffed and eased back down. "I didn't understand what was happening, but it's the only thing that makes sense. I've had it before, with your ability. That's what it felt like."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Sylar asked carefully and quietly, doing his best not to make it sound like an accusation.
"I didn't know. I've never …" He shrugged. "The only other times I was that close to people while I had my ability, I wanted it. The first time with you … I thought I must have done it on purpose … somehow … triggered it, or something."
Sylar nodded. As crazy and vague as that was, Sylar was well familiar with it. "Why is your Hunger at work, but not mine?"
"I don't know!" Peter's tone was offended. Sylar didn't look away, but he kept his expression blank. Peter scowled and looked away instead. "Maybe because I'm using my ability to be here and you aren't? Or," he grasped at ideas, "because you've had your ability a long time and can control it? I've always had a problem with that – control. I've never …" He trailed off again.
Peter had started that sentence twice now and left it unfinished both times. An odd thought occurred to Sylar. "You've never had sex with a man?"
"No, it's not that." Peter shook his head dismissively. Sylar relaxed a little more. Much as Nathan's memories indicated Sylar wasn't Peter's first experience in that manner, he couldn't be absolutely sure without Peter's input. "I've never been unable to stop myself like that. When everything in me said no, but I was doing it anyway. Except there at Kirby, and that was Ted's power, not … this."
Sylar's brows lofted with a melancholy look. "I know what you mean."
Peter shot him a put-out look in response. "Yeah, I get it. I fuck people and you kill them. But I have a choice in the circumstances and so did you. You might have noticed the last few weeks I stayed the fuck away from you." Peter pointed at him. Sylar made a pained wince. It was for show, but he felt it, too. He hadn't liked being alone, especially because he felt like he and his actions were the reason for the solitude. Peter finished, "If I can do it, you can do it."
Sylar considered those words, wondering if that was a threat to stay away longer still. Damage control mode again: "You don't have to leave. I won't touch you again."
"That's good to know. Not what I meant, but good to know." Sylar watched him patiently until Peter continued, "You don't have to be a killer. I went years without even knowing this about myself. We can find your triggers and avoid them."
"Easy as that?" Sylar said dully.
Peter rolled his eyes and got to his feet, still hanging onto the hammer. "No, of course it's not. But it's a place to start!"
"We can start there," Sylar said agreeably, inwardly hoping Peter wasn't going to leave. This was the most conversation he'd had in nearly a month. "We could start now," he added, trying not to sound desperate.
Peter looked down on him, giving him half a smile. "I know it's not as easy as all that." He went to a knee in front of Sylar. Peter grabbed the front of Sylar's shirt, making a fist in the fabric. Sylar stiffened, successfully fighting the urge to defensively grip Peter's hand or wrist. He'd just promised not to touch him, after all. "And the first thing we're going to do is find my limits, my triggers, and map them out." He tugged and pushed on Sylar, moving him around a few inches apparently just to show he could do it. Sylar went with the motions. Peter continued, "Are you game for that?"
"Anything."
"Good," Peter said. "We're going to sleep together tonight. Go clean up your apartment, wash your sheets, whatever you need to do. I'll be over after dinner."
Sylar gaped at him. Peter let go, and reached out to touch Sylar on the nose with the tip of his index finger. Sylar shut his mouth, staring down at the weird touch. Peter turned his hand, rubbing the side of his finger now against the top of Sylar's nose, from root to tip. Then he patted him twice on the cheek. It was a mostly familiar Petrelli family caress, though the nose thing was new and far more affectionate than Sylar thought he deserved. He hurried to his feet as Peter headed over to the wall to inspect the brick. "We're going to sleep together?"
"Yep. Unless you tell me off." Peter sounded cheerful about it.
"But I-" Sylar tilted his head. "Why have you forgiven me?"
Peter turned to regard him soberly. "The signals were mixed. I know that. It's not like I can't remember what happened. You didn't know. Now that you do, things are different. I know what I need from you and I'm going to take it." He looked at the wall again, choosing a spot to spend the rest of the day pounding on. "Also," Peter said as he hefted the hammer, "you're using proper lube next time. I bled for two days after that. No more." He swung forward, hitting the wall with a crack of sound, but not of brick. "No blood anywhere else, either. I don't do blood."
"Mm," Sylar hummed, moving clear of the hammer's arc. He would readily give up blood if he got more of other things, but he was still having trouble wrapping his mind around Peter's sea change. "You enjoyed it." He must have. It was the only thing that made sense – and it was certainly gratifying to think.
The sledgehammer bounced off the wall with Peter's next swing, and Peter recovered it smoothly to pivot and face him. Sylar was so sure he was about to be struck that his flinch was real. "You take that the fuck back," Peter said with deadly seriousness.
"I take it back," Sylar intoned the same way, thinking that taking it back wasn't the same as claiming it was untrue. It just seemed … unwise to say at the current moment.
"Everything that idea leads to is … bad. I get to say what I enjoy and I don't enjoy being raped."
Sylar nodded twice. The r-word had finally come out. He didn't argue it. It was, after all, the essence of 'not willing'. Consent did not have a direct relationship to pleasure, as he well knew. People were twisted, perverted monsters inside – every one of them, including Peter, he reflected as he looked at the intensity on the Italian's face.
Peter's stance relaxed a little. "Listen, we've already fucked. I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen. Instead, I'm going to learn how to control this thing and I'm going to use you to do it. Unless you don't want it. Speak up if that's the case. I'm not going to force you."
"I'm willing."
"Okay." Peter nodded decisively. He gave Sylar an overt, head-to-toe ogling. "You want me."
Sylar smiled and leaned his shoulder against the brick, crossing his arms over his chest and his feet at the ankles. It was a sexy pose and he knew it. He lifted his chin as if in challenge. "Yes."
"Good." Peter reached out and touched his face again, this time to stroke his cheek and lightly grip his chin for a moment. "I'll see you tonight then." He turned back to the wall. It was much more polite than the 'fuck off' Sylar had received the last two times Peter had told him to take a hike. He went now, parting on a good note while it was offered.
He lifted the freshly laundered sheet and light blanket so Peter could slide into his bed. Willingly. It still blew Sylar's mind. Peter had opted to wear boxers to bed, or at least leave on the boxers he'd had under his jeans. They were different jeans than he'd been wearing at the wall. He smelled clean and fresh, which was better than Sylar had expected. Many of his expectations were wrong, he realized. For example, he'd stripped naked only to find Peter wasn't going quite that far. Sylar had climbed into bed as he was, letting it look like that was how he liked it instead of neurotically putting on his pajama pants.
Peter settled in more than a foot away. It was a narrow bed, a twin, but Peter still managed to be as far away as possible. It was easy enough as Sylar had done the same on the opposite side. Sylar swallowed. He kept his distance and his hands to himself. He didn't want to screw this up, even if Peter was repeatedly demonstrating that he wasn't the fragile creature Sylar had supposed him to be. He could be broken, but he obviously didn't stay that way. Sylar found a lot to respect in that. It was oddly practical.
Peter touched him. First, it was along the smooth skin of his shoulder and deltoid. Then it was the hairy part of his chest. Sylar watched Peter's face. It showed interest and wonder and caution. Peter looked at Sylar looking at him, and scooted a little closer. He leaned in to brush Sylar's lips. The touch was so slight that Sylar shivered. He wanted more, but Peter seemed to be testing him. Especially with the way Peter looked at him from only a few inches away. Coming to some decision, Peter reached up to stroke his cheek, whispering, "You can touch me," before kissing him again, firmly and for real this time.
Sylar shivered again, kissing back as he slid a hand over Peter's side, pausing over the waistband of his boxers. Himself, he'd been erect since the moment Peter knocked, not that he was certain he was getting any. A fitting torture, he'd thought, would be for Peter to literally only sleep him with him, making him pay penance for being so rash by requiring him to lay with Peter without truly 'laying' with him. Apparently that was paranoia, or at least Peter was going to give kisses. They hadn't kissed much before. Doing it now was lovely. It gave him feelings, warm ones. He moved his other hand to Peter's face, touching at it gently as they continued to explore one another's mouths. Peter's toes stroked along his shin and the top of his foot. He almost laughed at the sweet novelty of playing footsie while making out.
In a moment, Peter was cuddling up to him, rolling Sylar onto his back and letting one leg ride up over Sylar's. Their chests pressed together as they became even more involved. Sylar sank his hands into Peter's hair, fondling it and using the opportunity to position the man's head where he wanted it for further osculation. Peter smelled great. His body was firm and he was hard elsewhere, as well. His groin pressed to Sylar's hip. Sylar growled, devouring Peter mouth-first. If he was this lost in it, he couldn't imagine where Peter was, but apparently the Italian wasn't as far gone as Sylar had thought. Finally, Peter pulled away, panting. His expression was flushed and glazed. Sylar bared hungry teeth at him, eyes lingering on Peter's unbitten lips before going to his eyes. He had let Peter pull away, all the while knowing that if he held him, Peter would let him have his way as much as he wanted. It was such a temptation, but it would break the trust between them – a trust Peter so casually assumed was there, that Sylar wanted it to be there as well.
"Stop, stop," Peter whispered to himself, and then threw himself facedown on his side of the narrow bed. Their shoulders still touched. Sylar stroked himself idly a few times, briefly considering the pros and cons of excusing himself to the bathroom to jerk off. If Peter was going to do this a lot, as he'd implied with the whole 'find my limits and map them out' thing, then patience and tolerance on Sylar's part would be necessary. Both would be easier to achieve if he wasn't suffering from constant blue balls. With the scent of Peter on his skin and the taste of him in his mouth, it would be simple to get off right now. But he waited. His hand fell away from himself. He wanted the real deal and he wanted it willing and eager. If it took long and aggravating testing to get there, then that was what he'd do.
Peter lifted himself to an elbow. "I can stop," he said, sounding happy about it. He smiled. "I wasn't sure I could."
"Hm," Sylar said. He made a yearning sigh.
Peter touched along Sylar's arm, then thought better of it. He turned in place to face away, adjusting the pillow under his head. "Maybe we should just go to sleep."
Lying on his back, Sylar exhaled deeply, rolled his eyes, and looked at the ceiling. This was going to be rough. Minutes passed. Then more. His body, aware of his own nakedness and the nearly-naked state of his bedmate, insisted on maintaining a constant level of readiness. Just in case. It left him keyed up and awake. He stayed still though. Peter, on the other hand, shifted. A lot. Sylar had every indication that Peter was discomfited in the same way, but too stubborn to do anything about it.
More minutes. More shifting. Sylar might have been able to calm down if Peter had drifted off, or showed any sign of drifting off. But Peter Petrelli was either an enemy or a lover and at the moment he coded as both, and he was just as alert and awake as Sylar was. Since he knew Peter wasn't going to end this, he finally spoke. "When I … first manifested my ability … I used a rock to hit a man in the back of the head. I was … driven. It was right in my own shop. It was stupid. The windows were glass. Anyone could have seen. I … did it right there on the floor. I didn't even move him until after." He swallowed, mouth dry. His erection had magically disappeared. His balls ached, but Sylar ignored it.
Sylar sighed. "He had telekinesis. It sank into me so deep that it imprinted on my DNA. All the other abilities, I knew how to use them after I'd seen what I needed to see, but that one became part of me. It was the first time I sated my hunger." He left it hanging there, unwilling to speak aloud the possible parallels between abilities. He didn't know for a fact how Peter's worked, but it would go a long way towards explaining why Peter was in bed with him after everything, if Peter had imprinted on him the same way.
Peter lifted his head slightly. "Yeah?"
"I'm telling you this because of what happened next. I didn't understand what I'd done, or rather, why I'd done it, any more than you say you did after I … raped you … the first time. I tried to kill myself. It didn't work. The Company found me. They gave me another victim. They told me to take him. They set me up, made it irresistible, or at least hard to resist. They told me it was okay. They … encouraged me." He turned his head in Peter's direction. "I'm not going to do that to you. I'm not going to encourage you to do something you don't want to do." Sylar swallowed again. "When I said I wouldn't touch you again, I meant it. If you ask, I will leave you alone, or at least not tempt you like that again, ever. Even if you're lying here next to me." Sylar looked away, at the ceiling once more. "But I want you to know, that if you genuinely want, you, and not just the Hunger, then it's here." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I … am here."
Peter was quiet and still. Sylar relaxed, glad to have gotten that off his chest. Finally off high alert, he thought he could manage to get to sleep now. He pulled up the covers and tucked himself in. He'd no more than done it when Peter rolled over, studying him in the dimness. "I suppose I've proven my point," Peter said.
"That you can stop yourself? Clearly." It had elements of being disappointing, but it also established there was a line between what Peter wanted and what his ability wanted. Without that line, there could be no free choice. Without that line, Sylar would never know if he was truly desired as the person he was.
"At least … that far."
Sylar ran his fingers along the delicate tissues of Peter's throat. "You've always been a temptation to me. More would be no different."
Peter caught his hand, then twined fingers with Sylar. "I want different. Things have to change between us. They already have. The only question is," Peter paused to swallow, and then slide over and lift himself so he was straddling Sylar, "whether I let things change, or I change them." Fingers still twined with one hand, he caught Sylar's other wrist with his free hand and held them both to the pillow on either side of Sylar's head. He leaned in and kissed him, deep and slow and sensuous. Sylar moaned and arched gradually, lifting and shifting Peter on top of him. He liked the feel of his weight. It was the same and different from Elle, which still ranked as the most intense sex he'd ever had with a woman.
"Change me," Sylar whispered as Peter left off his mouth and worked down Sylar's neck, nipping and sucking gently enough to be a tease. Sylar arched again in a slow writhe. "Give me a way out, Peter. I'm trapped." He wiggled his hands, but he meant something a lot bigger than the way Peter was holding him down. Peter rubbed his face on one side and then the other in the dark hair at the top of Sylar's chest. He must have shaved mid-afternoon, because there wasn't any scruff. It was delightful – the sensation, but even more the idea of Peter primping and preparing for him, for this. Sylar grinned, shyly at first, then bigger, because what was happening was so incredibly good. Peter squirmed his hips down over Sylar's groin, where Sylar's newly erect organ was mashed beneath something soft and almost hot. Peter's balls, Sylar suspected.
Peter let go of Sylar's hands, letting his own trail down Sylar's forearms, then down his sides. Peter scooted further south, his mouth continuing to work its way down Sylar's sternum. It was only then that his ultimate destination became clear. "Oh," Sylar said.
"Ohhhh," Peter echoed much more sexily, having reached his navel. He poked his nose into it. Sylar chuckled. This was the exact opposite of fucking someone hard and dirty up against a wall, out in the open. He wouldn't say it was better or worse, but definitely different. Peter's hands slid over Sylar's hips, traveling a little down his thighs before circling back up. He adjusted so his knees were between Sylar's legs and did another stroking sweep with his fingertips. He kissed the baby-soft skin directly above the start of serious pubic hair, Sylar's erection only inches to the side. Peter's hair brushed it.
"Mmm," Sylar purred, giving a hopeful roll of his hips. He touched Peter's hair, winding it through his fingers. Peter lifted his head, found one of Sylar's hands after it was free from his mane, and sucked on two fingers. Sylar chuckled again. "Wrong appendage."
Peter spat them out. "Sometimes you've got to try new things. Sample something different. Like this." He inhaled deeply over Sylar's cock and then the tip of his tongue teased along it, leaving a wet trail from base to head. Sylar breathed out in a huff, his fist tightening reflexively when Peter took the glans into his mouth and began to suck. "Mmm," Peter hummed throatily.
It felt fantastic – hot, wet, moving stimulation, suction hard then soft then harder still. Sylar panted. He fisted Peter's hair. At this angle, it looked like he was the one bobbing Peter's head up and down on his cock, but in reality he was letting Peter do it. That Peter wanted to do it, was doing it, was a deep and continuing thrill all of its own.
"Peter … Petrelli … is sucking … my cock," Sylar said, smirking down at the scene. A second later, teeth menaced him and Peter seized his balls. "Oh, fuck yes," Sylar hissed. Peter tilted up his shaft and sucked more determinedly, kneading the balls in his hand. Sylar hung onto his hair, tugging on it experimentally. Peter growled, pulling back and glowering up at Sylar, hair strewn across his face. It was such an image. Sylar felt a surge go through him. He was close. He let go of Peter's hair, cupped his head and nudged downward. Peter got the message. He sucked harder still, now focusing only on the tip. His other hand held the shaft steady.
Sylar felt the orgasm lighting him up from inside. "Suck me," he breathed. "Take me." He didn't have a chance to be more articulate or to navigate Peter's possible preferences regarding spitting or swallowing. He just knew he wanted Peter to take every part of him, no matter how disgusting or abnormal. To his credit, Peter did not lose a drop.
After, Peter let go of Sylar's cock and knelt with his forehead on Sylar's hip. He shuddered, breathing hard.
"Are you in control of yourself?" Sylar asked with languid curiosity. Peter shook his head after a beat and began climbing up Sylar's body, picking a side rather than continuing to straddle him. He shucked off his boxers on the way. Peter kissed Sylar's shoulder and put his dick into his hand. Sylar stroked it idly, still high from his own release. "Can you tell me no, could you stop and walk away if you had to? Do you want to?"
"Fuck, Sylar," Peter whined. "I don't know." He put his hand over Sylar's and tried to move him faster. It didn't work.
"How easy you are to abuse. How much you must trust me," he mused. "You said you remember what happens? Then remember this: beg."
"Please," Peter said immediately, shameless in his need.
"That's beautiful," Sylar murmured. "You're mine. You're so much mine. I take very, very good care of what's mine, Peter." With that, Sylar shifted downward to return the favor of fellatio as Peter knelt next to him. Peter's dick was hot in his mouth and surprisingly acceptable as far as taste went. It didn't take long, which he suspected was more a testament to how turned on Peter was than his own skills. He swallowed, just as Peter had, and laid down with him. He went to Peter's head, kissing him open-mouthed. They fell asleep entwined around one another.
In the morning, they went at each other again, ending just as wrapped up. The need for food didn't drive them out of bed until near noon and after several more bouts. Sylar wondered if things had flipped between them, because now he felt like he was the one who didn't want Peter out of his reach. Too far away to touch was suddenly too far. Strange things were happening to his heart, like the sort of things that had made him willing to face Noah Bennet without powers, just to give Elle a longer head start. "How long can we do this?" Sylar asked over a steaming cup of black coffee, irrationally jealous of the open refrigerator door between himself and Peter.
Peter looked at him for a moment, then shut the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice. "Eventually we have to go back."
Sylar didn't have to ask what he meant. Peter's beliefs about 'out there' were unshakable. Although Sylar wouldn't believe until he saw it himself, one thing he knew was that it was pointless to try to talk Peter out of it. For Peter, there was another world 'out there' where people needed to be saved and Sylar was supposed to do the saving. It had been preposterous before. Now he was willing to do anything Peter asked of him. "How long until you go back to trying to get out?" He'd been jealous before of the attention Peter gave the wall. He couldn't imagine how he was going to react when Peter took up the hammer again after all of this between them.
Peter took a drink of juice. "How long do you want it to be?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because if we're together, then I want to be together."
"We're talking about being together now?" Sylar's mind buzzed with possibilities about what Peter was implying. Among other things, there was that Peter wasn't going to turn his attention away from Sylar and to the wall, and instead have both of them work as a team to a common goal. But more urgent was that Peter was proposing they were … together.
"What we just did," Peter gestured in the direction of the thoroughly mussed bed, "that's being together."
Sylar's lips pursed. He looked from the bed to Peter. He felt himself flushing all over again, being aroused for the fifth or sixth time already this day. He tried to keep a damper on his excitement. "We're connected now. You see that? That's what you're saying?" He felt like that moment when he had just felt where an ability was in a person's brain, but hadn't quite copied it yet. It was there; he was touching it; it was real; he knew it. But this thing between them wasn't his yet until Peter agreed.
Peter exhaled heavily and said with a serious voice, "Yes." He crossed the one step between them and set his juice on the counter. He cupped Sylar's stubbled cheek and kissed him. "Yes, I see that. And I know what that means to you."
Sylar swallowed and had to remind himself to keep breathing as evenly as possible. He doubted Peter knew … entirely, because he'd never shown his hand quite that much, but Peter wasn't stupid. Certainly, Sylar assumed his expression was communicating all sorts of things he wouldn't intend if he were trying to guard himself. He kissed Peter back, carefully, not wanting to show the intensity of emotion that was filling him. His eyes were burning all of a sudden. He turned away and put his coffee down. "I thought this was just until … you got the Hunger worked out." His throat was malfunctioning, too. It was harder to speak than it should have been.
Peter leaned on the counter next to him, facing the opposite direction. Their elbows touched. "I have it worked out as much as I need."
Sylar looked at him, a stab of worry leaving him concerned Peter didn't need him anymore. That didn't fit with Peter's other words, though. "What do you mean?"
"You," Peter provided.
Sylar relaxed. "Me?"
Peter looked down and scuffed at the floor. "I like you," he said quietly. "I think this can work."
"With me?" His eyes were burning again. He wondered if Peter would believe him if he said the coffee fumes were irritating his eyes. He didn't think so.
Peter shrugged. He looked embarrassed. "Yeah. The last few times I've been with people, it didn't work out well, but I don't know how to deal with this except to try. I just … when I have to, I throw myself into things. Sometimes I fly." He looked into Sylar's eyes. "It's always scary, but this feels right."
Sylar turned to face him. "That's what you meant by 'eventually'? That we're going to work on this … together … before we try to leave … also together?"
"As long as it takes." Peter reached up and gently wiped away a tear that had escaped the corner of one of Sylar's eyes. "You know how I am."