Fic: Whetstone
The home interwebs is out. Again. Thanks for nothing, RCN Cable. I hates you.
Title: Whetstone
Pairing: Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3500
Warnings: Rough sex, bondage
Author’s Notes: This was written for the Valentine's Day heroes_exchange for ibonekoen. Vaguely Season Three, pre-“Fugitives.” And many thanks to my beta jaune_chat for helping me work out the kinks (heh).
Summary: On Valentine’s Day, Peter has a surprise that he knows Sylar wants.
Sylar picked up the pace yet again, almost jogging in the cold February air. He had to get past the next couple making out on the bench as quickly as possible, before he added their ghosts to the hundreds that already inhabited Central Park. He hated being reminded of how normal his relationship wasn’t, and today, of all the stupid holidays, was sorely testing his control. This had to be the fourth couple he’d seen necking along this usually-deserted path, and if he hadn’t been in such a hurry, he would have taken advantage of the relative solitude to erase their sticky-sweetness from the universe.
But the lovebirds were going to get a generous reprieve today; Peter had a surprise for him at home, and all Sylar wanted was to get to the apartment as quickly as possible. That spoiled any chance of recreational homicide, no matter how satisfying it might be.
Before Sylar could make too many murderous plans, his phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, and saw Peter’s name flashing on the display screen. He flicked the phone open in irritation. “I’m almost home. I said I wouldn’t be late. What-.”
“Sylar, I need your help. Please hurry! I-.”
The phone went dead, and all around Sylar, noise faded into the background as all his energy came to focus on one thing: he had to get to Peter.
Sylar had no idea how he made it from the park to the right street, but as soon as he saw Peter’s building, his mind and senses sharpened into battle readiness. He focused on the sounds of the building, listening for any clues as to Peter’s attacker. If they had hurt Peter, if one of them had so much as touched a hair on his head, Sylar would rip them apart. Slowly.
Sylar stormed up the stairs and down their hallway, bursting through the door without a thought for danger. The apartment was dark and silent, and a pang of fear ripped through Sylar as he realized they might already have taken Peter away. Sylar was already across the living room before he registered the candles. The bedroom was aglow with soft, flickering light. In the middle of the room, silhouetted by one dim lamp and sitting in a chair with his arms behind him, was Peter.
“Sylar. It’s you.” Peter said. He looked unhurt, and a quick glance around the room showed Sylar there was no one else present. Peter pulled his hands forward, and was stopped with a jangling of metal. Handcuffs. “Let me out of these. Right now.”
Something was wrong here. Peter had sounded terrified on the phone, but now his voice held something else. Sylar remained poised to strike, unable to let go of the energy that had brought him to the killing edge of anger. “Peter, what-?”
“I don’t know what your plan is,” Peter said, squirming in his chair. The tight t-shirt he was wearing rode up, leaving a pale stripe of his belly exposed. “But you won’t get away with it.”
Sylar stared, uncomprehending.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” Peter said. There was a strange undertone to his voice that Sylar couldn’t quite figure out. “Wondering what you were going to do to me.” He looked up coyly through his dark lashes.
The realization hit Sylar in a rush. Peter was playing. The adrenaline-fueled energy churning inside him crystallized almost instantly into a deep, pulsing hunger: not an insatiable hunger for abilities, but a blinding lust for Peter.
“I’m helpless.” Peter rattled his handcuffs and sat back in the chair, spreading his legs just enough to be suggestive. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
Did Peter know-could he possibly know how many times Sylar had dreamed this? Even when they were enemies, he’d wanted Peter like this. Had Peter known all along? Had he seen into Sylar’s dreams? Or had he guessed?
“Sylar.” Peter called him back to the moment. Even in the dim light of the candles, Sylar could see the flush on his face. “What are you going to do?”
Sylar wanted to play this scene. He’d stopped himself from playing this scene so often, and now here Peter was, offering it up on a silver platter. He’d be a fool not to take advantage. “I can do whatever I want to you,” he heard himself say. “Are you scared?”
“No.” Peter’s response was immediate and honest, a truth beyond the scene he was trying to create. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said. He tilted his chin up, but even in that show, that play of defiance, Sylar could see the innocence and naked sincerity that had attracted him to Peter in the first place.
“We’ll see about that.” Sylar surged forward to grab Peter by the hair pulling him up to standing. To his credit, Peter neither flinched nor tried to pull away. The cuffs came with him: they hadn’t been attached to the chair. “I want to see what you’ve got.”
Peter stood placidly while Sylar pulled at his shirt. Even when Sylar tore the shirt to get it off past his cuffed wrists, Peter stayed still. His lips were parted slightly, and his breath came in shallow pants as he let Sylar manhandle him. A dark trail of hair crept down Peter’s belly to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Pale, unblemished skin called out to be marked. Peter stayed still while Sylar’s eyes and hands roamed over him. His trust was perfect. Sylar wondered if Peter understood that Sylar was a sharpened knife, and baring his throat this way only made Sylar want to cut.
“Whatever you need,” Peter whispered.
“Stop that. You have no right,” Sylar snapped before he realized that Peter wasn’t reading his mind-couldn’t any more. He was disappointed with himself for being so obvious.
Peter didn’t seem to notice Sylar’s irritation. Without waiting to be told, Peter sank to his knees and turned his eyes up to Sylar, waiting for instruction.
Sylar was suddenly furious with Peter for setting this up, for tempting Sylar to take something that Peter couldn’t possibly want to give. He wanted to punish Peter; he wanted Peter to understand that he shouldn’t play games with Sylar’s dark side. His hand was flying before he realized what he wanted to do. His backhand blow sent Peter to the floor. The smack of flesh against flesh was satisfying: it was more personal than telekinesis.
Peter sat back up on his knees almost immediately, and licked a speck of blood from his mouth. He looked up at Sylar; his eyes seemed darker than they had a moment ago. “I told you, you can’t scare me.” The tremble in his voice wasn’t fear. Sylar knew fear; this was something else: eager expectation. “Do what you want,” Peter whispered. “Whatever you want.”
A thrill pulsed through Sylar, head to toe. Peter was certainly enticing: bare chest and blue jeans, angelic face with a spot of blood, and best of all, complicit.
Sylar unbuckled his belt and pulled it loose. He held it looped in his hand a moment and watched Peter bow his head in submission. He realized with a detached awe that Peter was expecting to be beaten. He thought that Sylar was going to take the belt to him, and even though his healing power was gone, he was prepared to accept that pain.
“Not this time,” Sylar said. He dropped the belt to the floor. Peter still didn’t move, and Sylar wasn’t sure whether to interpret that as relief, disappointment, or something else entirely. Sylar stripped off his shirt and set to work unbuttoning his jeans as he watched Peter, who kept his eyes trained steadily on the floor. Sylar was well on his way to hard. Peter could do that to him any time, let alone when he was bound and submissive. “You know where this is going, don’t you Peter?” he asked.
Peter nodded. “I’ve known for a while.” He leaned back, displaying the smooth, lean line of his chest and letting his knees slide apart ever-so-slightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Hungry. Now that you have me, what are you going to do about it?”
Sylar was sick of Peter’s taunting. “You’ll see,” he growled. He shoved Peter and sent him sprawling to the floor on his stomach. Without his hands to catch him, Peter landed hard and had the breath knocked out of him. Sylar tore at Peter’s jeans, pulling them and Peter’s boxer shorts down past his hips. Peter tried to roll over, but Sylar pushed him back down with a hand between his shoulder blades.
Sylar’s arousal and his thirst for violence vied for dominance seeing Peter like this: naked and pinned down and helpless. He wanted to fuck Peter right now. He wanted to break his neck. Instead, he darted down, pressing his body onto Peter’s, and bit his lovely, pale shoulder. Peter drew in a quick breath-surprise and pain-but he didn’t struggle. That quieted the worst of Sylar’s thirst for blood.
“You have no idea about the hunger, Peter,” he warned. “Don’t tempt me.”
“But I do tempt you,” Peter said softly. He rolled his hips up, pressing his ass against Sylar’s erection. “Even when I don’t try.”
Sylar pulled Peter up by his bound hands, throw him down roughly onto his back, and climbed on top of him again. “Is this what you want?” Sylar hit him again, just to see another drop of blood well up where Peter’s lip was cut. “Is this what you were trying to tempt me into?”
Peter was shaking and sweating. When he opened his eyes, Sylar was taken aback to see the pleasure in them. He did want this. At that moment, Sylar became aware of Peter’s erection standing conspicuously between his thighs. Peter was getting off on this. “I know I tempt you,” Peter panted. “I know I do, but I can’t help it.”
Peter was mesmerizing, drawing him in like a snake charmer. Sylar realized he was rubbing against Peter, sliding their cocks together. He forced himself to stop, and reminded himself that he was in control here.
“Sylar.” Now Peter was whispering. “You can have me. You can take me.”
Sylar wasn’t exactly sure where Peter’s little scene ended and total honesty began, but he had a feeling it was right about here. Peter wanted him to understand something important here, and Sylar was nothing if not excellent at putting together the pieces of a puzzle. He knew exactly how to give Peter what he was asking for.
Sylar quickly climbed off Peter to flip him onto his front. He reached out his hand, and the supplies he needed flew to him from the bedside table. Sylar squeezed some lube onto his fingers and wiped it onto his dick as he positioned himself over Peter again. That was all the prep he had time for. He shoved his hips forward, bumping his cock against Peter’s hole. Peter jumped in alarm and let out a surprised grunt.
“Shh.” Sylar wrapped one hand around his dick, and his other arm around Peter’s waist, and began forcing his way in. Peter’s wrists snapped against the cuffs, his hands clenching into fists. He was impossibly, deliciously tight.
“You said I could have you,” Sylar whispered. “You said I could have this.” It was slow going, breaking Peter open on his cock, but he could feel Peter trying to relax and breathe through the pain. “You said you could take it.”
Peter strained against the cuffs. He spread his knees wider. His breath came out in a pained shudder, but still, he relaxed. Sylar moved down and in slowly, without pausing, until he was flush against Peter, wrapped around him, pressed against him, breathing the same air.
“Am I hurting you?” Sylar asked.
“No.”
Sylar felt the peculiar tremor in his brain that signaled a mistruth. “You’re lying.” Sylar slammed his hips against Peter, even though going deeper was impossible, and was gratified with a pained moan. “Do you want me to stop?”
Peter pressed his face into the floor and didn’t answer. Sylar pulled out just a fraction, then speared back in. “Do you?” he asked again.
“No,” Peter whispered.
No tremor. It wasn’t a lie.
“Go on.”
There was a time when Sylar would have taken that as a challenge. He could make Peter beg him to stop, he knew. He could hurt him in ways he wouldn’t like, ways he wouldn’t recover from. Part of him still wanted that. But a larger part of him wanted a different power: he wanted to make Peter scream in pleasure, come undone from the inside, and beg him to keep going.
“Do you even deserve my attention?” Sylar asked. He reached a hand down to where their bodies were joined and cupped Peter’s balls in his hand, kneading them against his own.
“Please.” Peter’s breath came out in a huff, and his bound hands curled against Sylar’s chest.
“Patience,” Sylar crooned. With a thought, he clicked open the lock on the handcuffs. He grabbed Peter’s hands and quickly repositioned them above his head, tossing one cuff over the radiator pipe by the wall before fastening it back around Peter’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Peter pulled the cuffs against the pipe, but nothing gave.
“Just making sure you stay put.” Sylar ran a finger down Peter’s spine, wiping off the sweat, but did nothing else.
Peter stayed still, vibrating with anticipating. Sylar enjoyed watching him squirm, and feeling Peter’s body tense around his cock before making an effort to relax again. “What are you waiting for?” Peter asked shakily.
“What do you think?” Sylar reached a hand around Peter and ran two teasing fingers along his cock.
Peter canted his hips up for more contact, and Sylar withdrew his fingers. Peter made a disappointed noise in the back of his throat. “You want me to tell you I want this,” he guessed.
So Peter might have some residual empathy after all. Or maybe just knew Sylar too well. Sylar returned to teasing Peter’s cock with his fingertips. “Getting warmer.”
Peter thought for a moment, clearly making an effort not to make any movement Sylar hadn’t ordered. Finally, he said, “You want me to beg.”
Sylar slid his whole hand around Peter’s cock. Peter let out a happy sigh, and Sylar immediately pulled his hand away. “Let me hear you.”
Peter gathered himself, coalescing his needs into words he could speak as truth. “I need to be what you want,” he began. “I need you to use me. Hurt me if you want to. I need to be strong enough to take you. Please…” He rolled his body back against Sylar. “Please don’t stop. I need this.” Then, softer, “I need you.”
“You just need this,” Sylar squeezed his hand around Peter’s cock. “And this.” He jerked his hips back and plowed into Peter’s ass again. “It doesn’t have to be me. You’d take it from anyone.”
“No!” Peter jerked back against the cuffs so hard Sylar was afraid he’d dislocate his thumb, and tried to buck Sylar off.
Immediately, Sylar grabbed the back of Peter’s neck and pushed him back down, immobilizing him. Peter went slack and sucked in deep breaths. Perhaps the fact that he couldn’t see Sylar made it easier for him to speak freely, because he continued. “It has to be you,” he said, and his words didn’t trigger Sylar’s lie-sensing ability. “You’re the only one who understands what it’s like…What I need. Please, just give me that.”
Sylar rocked his hips shallowly, not quite fucking Peter, just bouncing them together. “Why should I give it to you?”
“I can take it,” Peter insisted. “Whatever you want to do to me, I want you to do. Please, I need you to take me. I need to be-I need…” A hitch in Peter’s breathing interrupted his flow. Sylar rubbed his thumb in little circles against the side of Peter’s cock, soothingly, until he was continued. “I need to be this for you,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I want you to use me like I need to be used. Sylar, please.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Sylar muttered. Peter wasn’t lying, but he couldn’t possibly know what surrendering like that really meant. Still, Sylar wasn’t made of stone, and here Peter was, offering up everything he wanted in a writhing, bleeding, gift-wrapped package.
“I do,” Peter said desperately. He squirmed against Sylar, almost insensible with need. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Please. Sylar, please! Help me.”
Sylar pulled Peter up with an arm around his waist, putting him on his knees so he’d have a better angle. He began fucking Peter in earnest, with deep, violent thrusts that Peter met blow for blow, bracing himself for each stroke and straining against the cuffs. Peter was making low, incomprehensible noises that Sylar couldn’t hope to interpret.
Sylar returned his hand to its place around Peter’s dick. He wrapped his fingers firmly around Peter, creating a tight vice for him to slide through with every punishing thrust. Peter quickly lost the rhythm, and his noises became desperate and incoherent, almost animal. He squirmed under Sylar, rattling the handcuffs and rocking his hips urgently up into Sylar’s hand.
With a cruel grin, Sylar adjusted his angle, hitting a new spot that made Peter go stiff and silent, his cock spasming in Sylar’s hand, spilling onto the floor as his climax burned through him.
Sylar didn’t slow down. He pounded hard into Peter, striving to keep hitting the spot that made Peter moan. He felt euphoric, lightheaded, to be doing this: not holding back, not controlling himself. And Peter had wanted this, begged for this, planned for it, in fact. The way Peter was wantonly writhing under him right now, Sylar thought he could probably slit Peter’s throat and Peter wouldn’t fight him. But he didn’t want to slit Peter’s throat. He loved Peter. He loved Peter and he wanted to keep him safe and whole and his.
With one last powerful thrust, Sylar buried himself to the hilt inside of Peter and came with a shout. He slumped forward against Peter as his breathing and adrenaline came down from their peak.
Beneath him, Peter was very still. Sylar was struck with a pang of doubt. “Peter?” he said softly. He pulled away, gingerly letting his softening cock slip from Peter’s body. There was no immediate response.
Sylar popped the lock on the handcuffs with a wave of his fingers. Peter’s hands slipped out of the cuffs and dropped to the floor. Peter grunted, and rolled onto his side. He could move, at least.
Sylar stumbled to his feet and turned away. He headed into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He didn’t want to see the recrimination in Peter’s eyes, telling him what a monster he was. He didn’t want Peter to have to explain that he’d made a mistake, that he hadn’t realized how dark Sylar’s evil went, that he would be cruel enough to give Peter exactly what he’d asked for.
Peter joined him a few seconds later, moving as slowly and stiffly as an old man. He went right to Sylar and wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning against his back. “Thank you,” he said.
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Sylar craned his neck back, but he couldn’t see Peter’s face. “What for?”
“For my Valentine’s Day present,” Peter muttered. “I got everything I wanted.” Now Peter let go of Sylar’s waist and wormed his way between Sylar and the bathroom sink, right in Sylar’s space so there was no way for him to avoid looking down at Peter. “You’re exactly what I need.”
“You should be scared of me. Of what I can do,” Sylar said. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. Peter should know he was playing with fire. “I don’t care what you say you want.”
“I know you can hurt me,” Peter nodded. “I know you can kill me if you wanted to.” He leaned up to press his lips to Sylar’s, a lazy kiss that opened him up, yielding easily to Sylar as if it were all he wanted in the world. “But you didn’t. Because there’s something else you want more.”
“Maybe,” Sylar said grudgingly, but he was surprised to realize that Peter was right. This, with Peter, was better than any high he’d ever gotten from murder. But he’d be damned if he’d let Peter know how well his little plan had worked.
Peter flashed a smile, and Sylar somehow got the impression that Peter knew exactly how successful he’d been. “And next year,” he said lightly, “You can choose the Valentine’s Day surprise.”
Title: Whetstone
Pairing: Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3500
Warnings: Rough sex, bondage
Author’s Notes: This was written for the Valentine's Day heroes_exchange for ibonekoen. Vaguely Season Three, pre-“Fugitives.” And many thanks to my beta jaune_chat for helping me work out the kinks (heh).
Summary: On Valentine’s Day, Peter has a surprise that he knows Sylar wants.
Sylar picked up the pace yet again, almost jogging in the cold February air. He had to get past the next couple making out on the bench as quickly as possible, before he added their ghosts to the hundreds that already inhabited Central Park. He hated being reminded of how normal his relationship wasn’t, and today, of all the stupid holidays, was sorely testing his control. This had to be the fourth couple he’d seen necking along this usually-deserted path, and if he hadn’t been in such a hurry, he would have taken advantage of the relative solitude to erase their sticky-sweetness from the universe.
But the lovebirds were going to get a generous reprieve today; Peter had a surprise for him at home, and all Sylar wanted was to get to the apartment as quickly as possible. That spoiled any chance of recreational homicide, no matter how satisfying it might be.
Before Sylar could make too many murderous plans, his phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, and saw Peter’s name flashing on the display screen. He flicked the phone open in irritation. “I’m almost home. I said I wouldn’t be late. What-.”
“Sylar, I need your help. Please hurry! I-.”
The phone went dead, and all around Sylar, noise faded into the background as all his energy came to focus on one thing: he had to get to Peter.
Sylar had no idea how he made it from the park to the right street, but as soon as he saw Peter’s building, his mind and senses sharpened into battle readiness. He focused on the sounds of the building, listening for any clues as to Peter’s attacker. If they had hurt Peter, if one of them had so much as touched a hair on his head, Sylar would rip them apart. Slowly.
Sylar stormed up the stairs and down their hallway, bursting through the door without a thought for danger. The apartment was dark and silent, and a pang of fear ripped through Sylar as he realized they might already have taken Peter away. Sylar was already across the living room before he registered the candles. The bedroom was aglow with soft, flickering light. In the middle of the room, silhouetted by one dim lamp and sitting in a chair with his arms behind him, was Peter.
“Sylar. It’s you.” Peter said. He looked unhurt, and a quick glance around the room showed Sylar there was no one else present. Peter pulled his hands forward, and was stopped with a jangling of metal. Handcuffs. “Let me out of these. Right now.”
Something was wrong here. Peter had sounded terrified on the phone, but now his voice held something else. Sylar remained poised to strike, unable to let go of the energy that had brought him to the killing edge of anger. “Peter, what-?”
“I don’t know what your plan is,” Peter said, squirming in his chair. The tight t-shirt he was wearing rode up, leaving a pale stripe of his belly exposed. “But you won’t get away with it.”
Sylar stared, uncomprehending.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” Peter said. There was a strange undertone to his voice that Sylar couldn’t quite figure out. “Wondering what you were going to do to me.” He looked up coyly through his dark lashes.
The realization hit Sylar in a rush. Peter was playing. The adrenaline-fueled energy churning inside him crystallized almost instantly into a deep, pulsing hunger: not an insatiable hunger for abilities, but a blinding lust for Peter.
“I’m helpless.” Peter rattled his handcuffs and sat back in the chair, spreading his legs just enough to be suggestive. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
Did Peter know-could he possibly know how many times Sylar had dreamed this? Even when they were enemies, he’d wanted Peter like this. Had Peter known all along? Had he seen into Sylar’s dreams? Or had he guessed?
“Sylar.” Peter called him back to the moment. Even in the dim light of the candles, Sylar could see the flush on his face. “What are you going to do?”
Sylar wanted to play this scene. He’d stopped himself from playing this scene so often, and now here Peter was, offering it up on a silver platter. He’d be a fool not to take advantage. “I can do whatever I want to you,” he heard himself say. “Are you scared?”
“No.” Peter’s response was immediate and honest, a truth beyond the scene he was trying to create. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said. He tilted his chin up, but even in that show, that play of defiance, Sylar could see the innocence and naked sincerity that had attracted him to Peter in the first place.
“We’ll see about that.” Sylar surged forward to grab Peter by the hair pulling him up to standing. To his credit, Peter neither flinched nor tried to pull away. The cuffs came with him: they hadn’t been attached to the chair. “I want to see what you’ve got.”
Peter stood placidly while Sylar pulled at his shirt. Even when Sylar tore the shirt to get it off past his cuffed wrists, Peter stayed still. His lips were parted slightly, and his breath came in shallow pants as he let Sylar manhandle him. A dark trail of hair crept down Peter’s belly to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Pale, unblemished skin called out to be marked. Peter stayed still while Sylar’s eyes and hands roamed over him. His trust was perfect. Sylar wondered if Peter understood that Sylar was a sharpened knife, and baring his throat this way only made Sylar want to cut.
“Whatever you need,” Peter whispered.
“Stop that. You have no right,” Sylar snapped before he realized that Peter wasn’t reading his mind-couldn’t any more. He was disappointed with himself for being so obvious.
Peter didn’t seem to notice Sylar’s irritation. Without waiting to be told, Peter sank to his knees and turned his eyes up to Sylar, waiting for instruction.
Sylar was suddenly furious with Peter for setting this up, for tempting Sylar to take something that Peter couldn’t possibly want to give. He wanted to punish Peter; he wanted Peter to understand that he shouldn’t play games with Sylar’s dark side. His hand was flying before he realized what he wanted to do. His backhand blow sent Peter to the floor. The smack of flesh against flesh was satisfying: it was more personal than telekinesis.
Peter sat back up on his knees almost immediately, and licked a speck of blood from his mouth. He looked up at Sylar; his eyes seemed darker than they had a moment ago. “I told you, you can’t scare me.” The tremble in his voice wasn’t fear. Sylar knew fear; this was something else: eager expectation. “Do what you want,” Peter whispered. “Whatever you want.”
A thrill pulsed through Sylar, head to toe. Peter was certainly enticing: bare chest and blue jeans, angelic face with a spot of blood, and best of all, complicit.
Sylar unbuckled his belt and pulled it loose. He held it looped in his hand a moment and watched Peter bow his head in submission. He realized with a detached awe that Peter was expecting to be beaten. He thought that Sylar was going to take the belt to him, and even though his healing power was gone, he was prepared to accept that pain.
“Not this time,” Sylar said. He dropped the belt to the floor. Peter still didn’t move, and Sylar wasn’t sure whether to interpret that as relief, disappointment, or something else entirely. Sylar stripped off his shirt and set to work unbuttoning his jeans as he watched Peter, who kept his eyes trained steadily on the floor. Sylar was well on his way to hard. Peter could do that to him any time, let alone when he was bound and submissive. “You know where this is going, don’t you Peter?” he asked.
Peter nodded. “I’ve known for a while.” He leaned back, displaying the smooth, lean line of his chest and letting his knees slide apart ever-so-slightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Hungry. Now that you have me, what are you going to do about it?”
Sylar was sick of Peter’s taunting. “You’ll see,” he growled. He shoved Peter and sent him sprawling to the floor on his stomach. Without his hands to catch him, Peter landed hard and had the breath knocked out of him. Sylar tore at Peter’s jeans, pulling them and Peter’s boxer shorts down past his hips. Peter tried to roll over, but Sylar pushed him back down with a hand between his shoulder blades.
Sylar’s arousal and his thirst for violence vied for dominance seeing Peter like this: naked and pinned down and helpless. He wanted to fuck Peter right now. He wanted to break his neck. Instead, he darted down, pressing his body onto Peter’s, and bit his lovely, pale shoulder. Peter drew in a quick breath-surprise and pain-but he didn’t struggle. That quieted the worst of Sylar’s thirst for blood.
“You have no idea about the hunger, Peter,” he warned. “Don’t tempt me.”
“But I do tempt you,” Peter said softly. He rolled his hips up, pressing his ass against Sylar’s erection. “Even when I don’t try.”
Sylar pulled Peter up by his bound hands, throw him down roughly onto his back, and climbed on top of him again. “Is this what you want?” Sylar hit him again, just to see another drop of blood well up where Peter’s lip was cut. “Is this what you were trying to tempt me into?”
Peter was shaking and sweating. When he opened his eyes, Sylar was taken aback to see the pleasure in them. He did want this. At that moment, Sylar became aware of Peter’s erection standing conspicuously between his thighs. Peter was getting off on this. “I know I tempt you,” Peter panted. “I know I do, but I can’t help it.”
Peter was mesmerizing, drawing him in like a snake charmer. Sylar realized he was rubbing against Peter, sliding their cocks together. He forced himself to stop, and reminded himself that he was in control here.
“Sylar.” Now Peter was whispering. “You can have me. You can take me.”
Sylar wasn’t exactly sure where Peter’s little scene ended and total honesty began, but he had a feeling it was right about here. Peter wanted him to understand something important here, and Sylar was nothing if not excellent at putting together the pieces of a puzzle. He knew exactly how to give Peter what he was asking for.
Sylar quickly climbed off Peter to flip him onto his front. He reached out his hand, and the supplies he needed flew to him from the bedside table. Sylar squeezed some lube onto his fingers and wiped it onto his dick as he positioned himself over Peter again. That was all the prep he had time for. He shoved his hips forward, bumping his cock against Peter’s hole. Peter jumped in alarm and let out a surprised grunt.
“Shh.” Sylar wrapped one hand around his dick, and his other arm around Peter’s waist, and began forcing his way in. Peter’s wrists snapped against the cuffs, his hands clenching into fists. He was impossibly, deliciously tight.
“You said I could have you,” Sylar whispered. “You said I could have this.” It was slow going, breaking Peter open on his cock, but he could feel Peter trying to relax and breathe through the pain. “You said you could take it.”
Peter strained against the cuffs. He spread his knees wider. His breath came out in a pained shudder, but still, he relaxed. Sylar moved down and in slowly, without pausing, until he was flush against Peter, wrapped around him, pressed against him, breathing the same air.
“Am I hurting you?” Sylar asked.
“No.”
Sylar felt the peculiar tremor in his brain that signaled a mistruth. “You’re lying.” Sylar slammed his hips against Peter, even though going deeper was impossible, and was gratified with a pained moan. “Do you want me to stop?”
Peter pressed his face into the floor and didn’t answer. Sylar pulled out just a fraction, then speared back in. “Do you?” he asked again.
“No,” Peter whispered.
No tremor. It wasn’t a lie.
“Go on.”
There was a time when Sylar would have taken that as a challenge. He could make Peter beg him to stop, he knew. He could hurt him in ways he wouldn’t like, ways he wouldn’t recover from. Part of him still wanted that. But a larger part of him wanted a different power: he wanted to make Peter scream in pleasure, come undone from the inside, and beg him to keep going.
“Do you even deserve my attention?” Sylar asked. He reached a hand down to where their bodies were joined and cupped Peter’s balls in his hand, kneading them against his own.
“Please.” Peter’s breath came out in a huff, and his bound hands curled against Sylar’s chest.
“Patience,” Sylar crooned. With a thought, he clicked open the lock on the handcuffs. He grabbed Peter’s hands and quickly repositioned them above his head, tossing one cuff over the radiator pipe by the wall before fastening it back around Peter’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Peter pulled the cuffs against the pipe, but nothing gave.
“Just making sure you stay put.” Sylar ran a finger down Peter’s spine, wiping off the sweat, but did nothing else.
Peter stayed still, vibrating with anticipating. Sylar enjoyed watching him squirm, and feeling Peter’s body tense around his cock before making an effort to relax again. “What are you waiting for?” Peter asked shakily.
“What do you think?” Sylar reached a hand around Peter and ran two teasing fingers along his cock.
Peter canted his hips up for more contact, and Sylar withdrew his fingers. Peter made a disappointed noise in the back of his throat. “You want me to tell you I want this,” he guessed.
So Peter might have some residual empathy after all. Or maybe just knew Sylar too well. Sylar returned to teasing Peter’s cock with his fingertips. “Getting warmer.”
Peter thought for a moment, clearly making an effort not to make any movement Sylar hadn’t ordered. Finally, he said, “You want me to beg.”
Sylar slid his whole hand around Peter’s cock. Peter let out a happy sigh, and Sylar immediately pulled his hand away. “Let me hear you.”
Peter gathered himself, coalescing his needs into words he could speak as truth. “I need to be what you want,” he began. “I need you to use me. Hurt me if you want to. I need to be strong enough to take you. Please…” He rolled his body back against Sylar. “Please don’t stop. I need this.” Then, softer, “I need you.”
“You just need this,” Sylar squeezed his hand around Peter’s cock. “And this.” He jerked his hips back and plowed into Peter’s ass again. “It doesn’t have to be me. You’d take it from anyone.”
“No!” Peter jerked back against the cuffs so hard Sylar was afraid he’d dislocate his thumb, and tried to buck Sylar off.
Immediately, Sylar grabbed the back of Peter’s neck and pushed him back down, immobilizing him. Peter went slack and sucked in deep breaths. Perhaps the fact that he couldn’t see Sylar made it easier for him to speak freely, because he continued. “It has to be you,” he said, and his words didn’t trigger Sylar’s lie-sensing ability. “You’re the only one who understands what it’s like…What I need. Please, just give me that.”
Sylar rocked his hips shallowly, not quite fucking Peter, just bouncing them together. “Why should I give it to you?”
“I can take it,” Peter insisted. “Whatever you want to do to me, I want you to do. Please, I need you to take me. I need to be-I need…” A hitch in Peter’s breathing interrupted his flow. Sylar rubbed his thumb in little circles against the side of Peter’s cock, soothingly, until he was continued. “I need to be this for you,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I want you to use me like I need to be used. Sylar, please.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Sylar muttered. Peter wasn’t lying, but he couldn’t possibly know what surrendering like that really meant. Still, Sylar wasn’t made of stone, and here Peter was, offering up everything he wanted in a writhing, bleeding, gift-wrapped package.
“I do,” Peter said desperately. He squirmed against Sylar, almost insensible with need. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Please. Sylar, please! Help me.”
Sylar pulled Peter up with an arm around his waist, putting him on his knees so he’d have a better angle. He began fucking Peter in earnest, with deep, violent thrusts that Peter met blow for blow, bracing himself for each stroke and straining against the cuffs. Peter was making low, incomprehensible noises that Sylar couldn’t hope to interpret.
Sylar returned his hand to its place around Peter’s dick. He wrapped his fingers firmly around Peter, creating a tight vice for him to slide through with every punishing thrust. Peter quickly lost the rhythm, and his noises became desperate and incoherent, almost animal. He squirmed under Sylar, rattling the handcuffs and rocking his hips urgently up into Sylar’s hand.
With a cruel grin, Sylar adjusted his angle, hitting a new spot that made Peter go stiff and silent, his cock spasming in Sylar’s hand, spilling onto the floor as his climax burned through him.
Sylar didn’t slow down. He pounded hard into Peter, striving to keep hitting the spot that made Peter moan. He felt euphoric, lightheaded, to be doing this: not holding back, not controlling himself. And Peter had wanted this, begged for this, planned for it, in fact. The way Peter was wantonly writhing under him right now, Sylar thought he could probably slit Peter’s throat and Peter wouldn’t fight him. But he didn’t want to slit Peter’s throat. He loved Peter. He loved Peter and he wanted to keep him safe and whole and his.
With one last powerful thrust, Sylar buried himself to the hilt inside of Peter and came with a shout. He slumped forward against Peter as his breathing and adrenaline came down from their peak.
Beneath him, Peter was very still. Sylar was struck with a pang of doubt. “Peter?” he said softly. He pulled away, gingerly letting his softening cock slip from Peter’s body. There was no immediate response.
Sylar popped the lock on the handcuffs with a wave of his fingers. Peter’s hands slipped out of the cuffs and dropped to the floor. Peter grunted, and rolled onto his side. He could move, at least.
Sylar stumbled to his feet and turned away. He headed into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He didn’t want to see the recrimination in Peter’s eyes, telling him what a monster he was. He didn’t want Peter to have to explain that he’d made a mistake, that he hadn’t realized how dark Sylar’s evil went, that he would be cruel enough to give Peter exactly what he’d asked for.
Peter joined him a few seconds later, moving as slowly and stiffly as an old man. He went right to Sylar and wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning against his back. “Thank you,” he said.
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Sylar craned his neck back, but he couldn’t see Peter’s face. “What for?”
“For my Valentine’s Day present,” Peter muttered. “I got everything I wanted.” Now Peter let go of Sylar’s waist and wormed his way between Sylar and the bathroom sink, right in Sylar’s space so there was no way for him to avoid looking down at Peter. “You’re exactly what I need.”
“You should be scared of me. Of what I can do,” Sylar said. He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. Peter should know he was playing with fire. “I don’t care what you say you want.”
“I know you can hurt me,” Peter nodded. “I know you can kill me if you wanted to.” He leaned up to press his lips to Sylar’s, a lazy kiss that opened him up, yielding easily to Sylar as if it were all he wanted in the world. “But you didn’t. Because there’s something else you want more.”
“Maybe,” Sylar said grudgingly, but he was surprised to realize that Peter was right. This, with Peter, was better than any high he’d ever gotten from murder. But he’d be damned if he’d let Peter know how well his little plan had worked.
Peter flashed a smile, and Sylar somehow got the impression that Peter knew exactly how successful he’d been. “And next year,” he said lightly, “You can choose the Valentine’s Day surprise.”