Title: Morning After Sex
Characters: Sylar, Peter Petrelli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Drunk but otherwise consensual sex with the mild dub-con that implies, and rough sex with full consent.
Word count: 3,500
Setting: The Wall
Summary: Sylar navigates a rocky start to getting what he wants from Peter Petrelli.
He's drunk. He doesn't mean this. What do I do? Sylar stared up at the ceiling as Peter passionately mauled his neck with lips and teeth. Under other circumstances, it would be incredibly arousing. The empath had Sylar pinned to the bed by a hand on his shoulder and the weight of his body. His other hand cupped Sylar's thigh, holding it up at Peter's hip while Peter rubbed his half-mast erection into Sylar's groin. They were clothed for bed – t-shirts and boxers on both of them, but for all Peter seemed to care, they could have been naked. This was not how Sylar had expected things to go.
Earlier, when the evening had wound down and Peter took his blanket and pillow to the couch, Sylar had jumped in to recommend a board game before bed – something simple and fun to pass the time, hoping Peter would forget about his intention not to share a bed with Sylar again. The last time they'd done that, Peter had ended up riding his ass for one slow, delicious grind, that had been inevitably followed by Peter backing off, then resolving to fix the 'problem' by sleeping on the couch from now on.
Sylar had other plans. But it wasn't the game of Sorry! that had prompted the sex. After one game, there had been best two out of three, then the addition of a bottle of vodka Sylar had found in the back of a cabinet. Sylar had made simple screwdrivers – vodka and orange juice – going exceptionally heavy on Peter's drinks after the first one. If Peter noticed, he didn't say. All Sylar had intended was to get him next to him in bed so they could rest peacefully. To give the alcohol time to take effect, Sylar had asked Peter about parties he'd gone to in college. It had been a good question. Peter had had a lot to say about fraternity wild life and a lot to laugh about. Alcohol definitely loosened his tongue. And he had quite the scandalous past, even for a Petrelli.
After that, it had been simple to toss Peter's pillow on the bed and follow it with his blanket. Peter laughed more and teasingly objected. He swayed on his feet near the couch as he made snarky comments until Sylar (a little tipsy himself) pushed Peter on the bed, too. But Peter had snagged an arm and dragged Sylar into bed with him. That was fine, but Peter had lost no time in moving on him.
I started this. Am I responsible? Should I stop him? Ah! In the midst of Sylar's indecision, Peter pulled down Sylar's boxers and took hold of his mostly-erect penis. Peter looked at him in the dim lighting. "Yeah?" Peter asked. That was Sylar's cue. He knew it was. This was the time to say, 'You know, Peter, maybe we should wait until I haven't made you too whiskey-dick drunk to perform' or 'Let's wait until morning, when you're sober.' But he said nothing. This act was going to happen, sooner or later, and Sylar would rather it was over with than wait until Peter's resolve cracked at some future point. Sylar wanted someone in his bed and if he had to deal with the occasional drunk fucking to get it, then so be it. Sylar pulled Peter to him, kissing him on the lips. It was a pleasure he'd yet been denied.
Peter groaned and tried to melt into him, pushing into Sylar's kiss as his hand began to pump at Sylar's member. Their tongues swept against one another. Sylar relaxed, letting his lids flutter. It would go better if he just let it happen and Peter was certainly doing a passable job. The taste of alcohol and citrus still lingered in his mouth. Sylar cupped the back of Peter's head and held him to him. He liked the kisses. They continued until he was achingly hard down below, the pressure and friction from Peter's fist just beginning to chafe him. Sylar touched at Peter's hand, hoping to communicate that further rubbing was going to be counterproductive. Peter understood. He left off stroking, gave one last kiss, and then scooted down the bed to replace his hand with his mouth.
Sylar's eyes got big. He hadn't expected this either. He wished he'd left the light on so he could watch better, but there was no doubt Peter was giving him head. He could feel the hot, wet mouth, the occasional edge of teeth, and the muscular laving of tongue. Peter had one hand wrapped around the base of Sylar's dick and the other jerking energetically at his own. It was like he was actually getting off on having Sylar's penis in his mouth. The sounds Peter was making certainly confirmed that. Sylar felt his arousal peaking much sooner than he'd expected. The whole idea – Peter sucking him off, Peter getting off to it – the slapping noises of Peter's fist rapidly working himself, the lewd sound of Peter's moans as he shoved more and more of Sylar's shaft into his mouth. He was deliberately gagging himself on it. Sylar couldn't contain himself any longer. He came with a trembling groan. Peter coughed and slurped and gasped, coming himself not long after.
Sylar stared down the bed, dumbfounded. His dick still stood, wet but clean. He even swallowed. He watched as Peter grimaced at his own spunk left on the sheets, then pulled up his boxers and clumsily climbed up beside Sylar. He collapsed there, slinging one arm lazily over Sylar's chest and nuzzling his face against Sylar's shoulder. A few moments later, he was asleep. Sylar stared at the ceiling again, vacillating between reliving the startling turn of events and worrying about what would happen the next morning. Peter might have passed out, but for Sylar, sleep was harder to come by.
Sylar woke when Peter sat up. He rolled over to see Petrelli sitting on the edge of the bed and holding his head in both hands. Sylar blinked away the gritty residue of what uneasy rest he'd been able to achieve. Seeing Peter's obviously distressed pose, he reached out a cautious hand to stroke his fingertips down Peter's back, over the cotton of his rumpled t-shirt. He hoped he was seeing evidence of a hangover and not … remorse, or something worse. Peter dropped his hands halfway. In a quiet voice, he said, "We fucked, didn't we?"
Remorse then, not the hangover, along with the option of 'worse' than regret. The disappointment of Peter's response was heavy in Sylar's gut. The possibility that Peter didn't remember clearly, and that Sylar could conceivably convince him the whole thing had been a dream, passed through his head. Sylar hesitated, then answered truthfully. "Actually, you sucked me off and masturbated. We didn't fuck per se."
Peter turned on the bed to face him, his posture still bent but his eyes piercing. "How much vodka were you putting in my drinks?"
Sylar swallowed. As a veteran partier, Peter knew when he'd been effectively roofied, even if the drug of convenience was ethanol rather than rohypnol. Sylar took a long moment to weigh the consequences of telling the truth. He didn't care about any of the possible benefits he might enjoy from lying, but rather how he'd feel about himself and the kind of person he wanted to be. Those things had become surprisingly important to him. He said, "Enough to get you in the bed. But I didn't expect-" He shrugged, glancing over at the side of the bed where they'd made out.
Peter crossed his arms and stared at Sylar for a long time. Sylar met his gaze, but not so long as for it to be a challenge. He looked over Peter's shoulders and chest and forearms, remembering how the man had tasted and what he'd smelled like up close. Sylar looked at Peter's lips, which Peter was biting. He'd enjoyed the kisses the most. No matter what Peter decided to do, Sylar didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to regret the night. Even clumsy, quick, and lost in alcohol-fueled self-absorption, Peter had still been a good lover.
"I'm going to believe you," Peter finally said, rising from the bed. "Because I know me. And that's why I didn't want to sleep in the same bed with you. I knew what would happen." Peter looked pissed and frustrated. He bared his teeth as he looked away, then turned back to Sylar. "You didn't expect it. Fine. But was that what you wanted to happen?"
Sylar met Peter's gaze again. He had an intuition that this wasn't a time to be coy – Peter was asking a very important question, his body language saying he was on the verge of leaving but wanted to check one last thing. Sylar sat up, leaning forward, never taking his eyes off Peter's. For a few seconds, he let every shred of naked ambition and desire show in his face: the Hunger, unveiled. "I want all of you." Peter's body, his mind, his attention, his affection, his ability, his family, his connections, his money, his status, his importance in the world, and him, all wrapped up in one neat package of Peter Petrelli.
Peter stared into his eyes. Sylar saw the man's nostrils flare slightly, his chest rising and falling in a more pronounced way. His face flushed subtly and his eyes darkened. This wasn't the first time he'd seen lust written on Peter's features, but it was the first time that Peter didn't pull himself away and kill the impulse before it took him over. Peter climbed back in the bed in a fluid motion, reaching where Sylar was sitting up and shoving him flat on the mattress. Peter followed, kissing him suddenly and roughly, both needy and demanding. Sylar thrilled to it, exultant inside that he'd moved Peter to this. This time, Peter wasn't drunk. This time, Peter wasn't stopping. This time, to hell with regret.
Sylar wrapped his arms around Peter and kissed him back just as ferociously, his larger mouth giving him an advantage. He would have fucked Peter's mouth with his tongue if he could have, but Peter was already adjusting himself to grind a growing erection into Sylar's groin. He pulled down Sylar's boxers over his butt cheeks, breaking away to ask, "Lube?"
Of course, Sylar had some. He'd picked it up weeks ago partly to be ready, but mostly to get under Peter's skin by showing him he was ready despite Peter's protestations that it would never happen. Sylar twisted and rolled, reaching his long limbs to the nightstand to retrieve it. Peter stripped off Sylar's boxers as he reached, the latest sexy thing in a rapidly building sequence of very sexy things. Sylar got back into position with Peter between his legs as Peter shoved off his own boxers and followed a second later with his shirt. Not to be outdone, Sylar shed his t-shirt as well. Both naked now, he handed over the bottle. Peter squirted the gel liberally on his hand, then went forward for another series of aggressive kisses, forcing Sylar's head back on the pillow. Peter's knees pushed Sylar's thighs up on either side, spreading and opening him.
Sylar felt the cool lube applied to the crack of his ass. It was a strange sensation when coupled with Peter's hot tongue exploring his mouth. When he was done with Sylar's ass, Peter's slicked hand went to Sylar's shaft, pumping it with a firm grip – no chafing this time. Peter's hand slid up and down him like tight silk. Sylar moaned softly as a shudder ran through him. He was so glad he wasn't having to do this – he wasn't having to pursue, to pressure, to maneuver or encourage Peter. Peter was finally, finally taking what Sylar had offered so many times. And he was doing it without questions, like he owned Sylar, like Sylar belonged to him.
But there was one question. Peter bit Sylar's lip hard enough to make him whine. When the flesh popped free, Peter asked, "How do you want it?"
Dazed with the reality of getting what he wanted, Sylar huffed, "I will take everything you've got, as hard as you can give it!"
Peter bit him again, this time both lips, and in the same moment, his anus was breached by Peter's fingers – multiple, as far as Sylar could tell, and not gentle. They filled him, sweeping back, forth, and ringing him. Peter was lubing him up inside and out. Getting him ready. It was going to happen.
The next step was Peter shifting his weight back to his knees as he sat up. The hand he'd previously been using to brace himself, he now used to tug upward on Sylar's rear, trying to get it right where he wanted it. Peter made another squirt of lube, messy this time, and slathered his penis with it. Sylar bridged up to meet him. Peter leaned forward and stared vacantly at the wall over the head board, his attention entirely focused on where his slippery hand was guiding an equally slick dick into the cleft of Sylar's body. His other hand clutched Sylar's lower back. Sylar felt the knob of Peter's dick pressing against him. With all the lubricant, he opened before the pressure with obscene, embarrassing ease.
Even if his body was giving it up like a whore, Sylar was still processing the sensations for the first time. Peter's shaft was much bigger than a pair of fingers. It was hotter, wetter, and more insistent. He was being violated with a foreign body, penetrating his own in a way he was hitherto unfamiliar with. His sphincter muscles threatened to cramp around the intrusion. The keen edge of pleasure-pain made Sylar gasp and arch.
"Yeah, fuck you," Peter whispered, his face inches from Sylar's. "You want it all? You're getting it all!" He swooped in for another kiss, difficult given the position and their relative heights. The hand that had been positioning Sylar's butt wasn't needed there anymore, though, and Peter hooked the back of Sylar's neck with it instead. It pulled Sylar up for the kiss Peter demanded at the same moment that Peter drove the rest of himself up Sylar's ass. Sylar's struggled to breathe, but Peter had no mercy to allow it. He didn't deliver a single thrust, but a series of them, one after another as he claimed Sylar's mouth and ass at the same time. Peter had only gone slow during the initial insertion for his own safety. A third of his length had been involved then, but now at the end of each plunge, he was entirely sheathed inside of Sylar.
Sylar's head was spinning when Peter finally stopped stealing his oxygen and shifted position so he had more leverage. Though Sylar could breathe now, the fucking only intensified now that Peter could brace himself. Peter slammed into him, jamming his loins against Sylar's body as though his force might allow him to get another precious half-inch inside. His balls slapped rudely against Sylar's crack. Peter's grip had shifted from Sylar's neck to his shoulder, fixing Sylar in place to receive the punishing thrusts. It was overwhelming. Peter was relentless, dishing out such a pounding that Sylar felt like he was breaking apart inside. He worried for a moment that he might be bruised, or even injured to be used like this, and in the next instant he hoped he was. He opened himself in every way possible, letting himself go, letting the experience blot him out for the moment. He was nothing but a fleshy ball of tangled sensations, overlapping and surging, riding high on the pain, the ecstasy, and the release from uncertainty. He came profusely, his pent-up jism spattering up his belly and clotting in his stomach hairs.
With a final series of urgent, aggressive slams into Sylar's ass, Peter put both hands to Sylar's hips and shoved them together as firmly as possible, like he was straining to press inside of him dick first. A connection, whispered through Sylar's brain, bringing him back to lucidity just in time to feel the base of Peter's penis throbbing as he delivered his load as deep inside of Sylar as he could. No condom. No barrier. No protection. It was exactly as Sylar had wanted it.
He panted. His whole body had a low-level shaking going on from both the physical adrenaline dump and the overpowering emotional response that was surging through him. He felt achingly vulnerable. And simply aching. As Peter withdrew, the shaking became a brief shudder of pain. Sylar felt like he'd been violently and thoroughly ass-fucked into oblivion, which he had. He was so sore, his asshole was overstimulated and every muscle involved overexerted. Sylar was strangely proud of what he'd asked for, received, and endured. He'd taken everything Peter could dish out and come out the other side. Peter, dull-eyed and spent for the moment, pushed down one of Sylar's legs to climb over it and lay at his side, much as he had when drunk, but this time further up the bed. He pulled Sylar to him and cuddled him to his chest, with a satisfied sigh.
Sylar tenderly caressed Peter's collarbone, tracing out the structure before moving up to the delicate throat and neck. He tilted his head up to nip Peter's Adam's apple, and taste the sweat on his skin. His thoughts were awhirl with memories of Elle and Lydia. Had they felt like this after he'd fucked them? He didn't think so. This seemed so much more intense than what Sylar had done to them. He felt torn open and laid bare, mostly in a psychological sense, but there was definitely a physical component as well. He didn't have regeneration here. He worried that Peter had fucked him gaping, but if he had, then that was Peter's responsibility. There was so much he felt comfortable surrendering now. (This, too, worried him.) Anything Peter asked of him, Sylar would have tried to give.
Peter petted his back and rubbed his face against the top of Sylar's head. It was the part he could get to, having settled against the bed after putting himself several inches above Sylar. It was nice, though, Sylar thought, not to be the tall one for once. He felt safe, secure, and cozy. Peter pushed back his hair from Sylar's forehead, a motion that would have normally provoked a flashback of fear and anxiety from having his mind wiped. He still felt something deep and dark stab through him, but his response was to yield entirely in primal submission. For all Sylar's sublimated terror, Peter's action was to harmlessly rub the tip of his nose against the bared skin and then give him adoring pecks along the hairline.
It was so innocent and pure that Sylar chuckled and relaxed again. There was one other deep-seated fear he needed to put to rest – that Peter was going to come to his senses, freak out, and leave him. Sylar leaned back to look Peter in the face. "Do you still have regrets?"
"About this? No. Last night … if I'm going to hell for what we did last night, the penalty isn't any different if I do it once or a million times. And anyway," he said, tipping his head forward so his forehead rested against Sylar's, "It's not hell if I can find love in it."
"Love?" Sylar choked out. "I thought you were just getting off, like with those people at the parties."
"You're not like those people at the parties. This is about us." Peter sighed and looked away with a chastened expression. "Sometimes I … feel more about things than people want me to."
"That's what makes you so special, Peter." Sylar slid his arms around Peter, holding him in turn. The idea that Peter might feel love for him was making his heart flutter (whether Peter felt love already or merely thought it possible he might 'find' it later – both were more than Sylar ever thought he'd have). It seemed like such a strange accident of fate, that he might have stumbled into the sort of person who bonded with people so fast, easily, and securely that even someone like Sylar was a candidate as a partner, as a connection. It fit with what he knew about Peter, even about the man's ability. "You don't have to be ashamed of that."