Harsh Lesson
Title: Harsh Lesson
Characters: Sylar/Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, taunting, harassment
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: It takes Sylar a while to learn to take Peter seriously. It’s a harsh lesson to learn.
Author’s Notes: Not related to or particularly inspired by More Between Us Than A Wall, or any of my other Wall-related fics. I had trouble sleeping last night and let my mind wander over something that had been bothering me lately. I’ve read too many ‘violent Peter beats the crap out of Sylar’ fics recently and while yeah, the boys are prone to violence towards each other in canon, with no shortage of reasons why they’d be that way in fanfic, it was bothering me. I wondered why it bothered me. And for some reason that led to me writing the sort of scenario that was bothering me. I am so silly sometimes. Please forgive me for not making much sense.
It started with a kiss. Peter hadn’t asked for the kiss, nor had he wanted it, but it wasn’t the kiss itself that was the problem. The real problem was that when Peter tried to pull away after a moment of surprised immobility, Sylar grabbed his hair and held Peter to his lips against his will. Peter twisted back and away, telling Sylar in no uncertain terms that he was not to touch his hair without his permission. He didn’t mention anything about the kiss, which Sylar noticed and decided that meant Peter wanted him, wanted it, wanted more. Sylar laughed and reached for his hair again. Peter jerked back and got away from him. Sylar laughed more.
Sylar didn’t try to kiss him again right away, but he did reach out teasingly to grab at Peter’s hair, time after time. It was irresistible and Peter had painted a target on his head by announcing it was off limits. Off limits this, Petrelli! You can’t keep me from touching it when I want to, Sylar thought. Peter jerked away from him and tried to stay more than an arm’s length from him. For Sylar, though, the game was afoot. He’d reach out and try to pet or stroke Peter’s hair whenever he got a chance. It was a constant harassment and he knew it was getting under Peter’s skin. That’s what made it so much fun. Peter tried one more time to tell him to cut it the hell out, but Sylar only laughed, urged on all the more by Peter’s impotent fussing. It was funny to Sylar, a joke. He didn’t catch that Peter wasn’t joking.
The next time Sylar managed to touch his hair, Peter swung on him. The fight was on and Peter, as he often did, fought like a wild animal. It didn’t help - he lost anyway. Maybe it would have been okay had that been the end of it, but Sylar held him down and gloated, stroking his hair, laughing and telling Peter that he’d learn to like it, that he’d only been making such a deal of it because he wanted the attention, that he had lovely hair and it was a crime not to let Sylar touch it. Miserable, aching and beaten, Peter suffered the violation in exchange for not being hurt worse, but the words wounded him in a way no blow could have.
The next morning, with shaky hands, Peter did the deed. He bagged up the results and went out to find Sylar with his head held high in defiance. Sylar gaped at him when he saw, shocked and horrified in equal measures. Peter threw the bag in the man’s lap. “You liked my hair so much, you can fucking have it!” He’d cut it short, no more than an inch long, and the long, lovely, dark brown locks Sylar had taunted him about were now in a plastic sack. Sylar could touch it all he wanted, but Peter ... Peter stalked off. Sylar, for the first time, realized he’d fucked up.
Sylar tried to apologize. Peter would have none of it. And it was like the loss of his hair had flipped a switch inside of Peter. Even though he’d been the one to cut it off, the blame was placed squarely on Sylar and really … Sylar couldn’t argue that. Peter became violent. Now it was Sylar who needed to stay more than an arm’s reach from Peter, because Peter nearly vibrated with rage and would lash out at Sylar whenever he got close. His short hair was a constant reminder to both of them. For days it seemed like Peter was looking for any opportunity, any excuse to attack, whether with harsh words the likes of which rarely passed Peter’s lips, or with blows fast and furious, ending with a quick retreat and a refusal to engage.
Peter was fighting dirty even for Peter, not sticking around to let Sylar retaliate. He’d just run off after getting a few licks in, waging a constant hit-and-run war that made Sylar cringe to even see Peter, never sure if and when he’d be assaulted. It occurred to him that this had to be, in a way, how he’d made Peter feel with the constant harassment of his hair. It seemed grossly unfair though. He hadn’t been hurting Peter - just teasing him (over and over and over again, despite objections, taunting, laughing, provoking, staging things, touching his own hair in mockery and threat, talking about styling Peter’s hair, or how Peter obviously liked having his hair pulled during sex, might even have a hair fetish … in retrospect, Sylar admitted he’d been a bit excessive about it).
Too long of being the target of sneering, glaring, and a seething hatred the likes of which Peter hadn’t even displayed for Nathan’s sake finally provoked Sylar to approach Peter and tell him to take his best shot - he wouldn’t fight back. Sylar wasn’t sure what he’d get - if Peter would back down, skulk away, taunt him, ignore him, hit him and stop, or beat the crap out of him. What he got was a long silence and then Peter took him at his word. Then followed it by beating the crap out of him until Sylar was struggling with consciousness, barely managing to stay on his hands and knees, wanting to take his beating like a man and hoping like hell this would be the end of it. Peter had railed at him for much of the drubbing about whether Sylar had any smart ass remarks to make now, did he like the way Peter looked, did Peter look like a fucking victim to him anymore, what else of Peter’s did he want so maybe Peter could cut that off too and give it to him …
Sylar took it silently, not understanding why the words hurt worse than the fists. He fell over on the floor when Peter finally stopped. He could have sworn Peter started crying in frustration, but Sylar wasn’t in the best of shape to notice. He just lay there and wanted to die, visions of Peter mutilating himself rather than letting Sylar touch him floated through his mind. Sylar couldn’t see how he could get what he wanted - someone to touch, a human presence, a companion. He’d fucked everything up somehow. There was something he was not doing right.
Minutes passed before Peter began touching him. To Sylar’s surprise, these were not violent touches. Sylar let himself be urged up to sitting and walked back to his apartment, ridiculously grateful for every touch Peter was giving him. Sylar didn’t ask for the contact and he didn’t take advantage of it. He thanked Peter over and over through his busted up mouth and with lingering looks that he broke off the moment Peter looked back at him. He tried not to threaten or challenge. Rather than drawing away, Peter gave him more touches. Dimly, it impacted Sylar that he was getting what he’d wanted all along.
But the caretaking ended eventually and Peter drew away. He wasn’t bristling with rage anymore though and Sylar was careful not to provoke him. Still, he was distant and largely silent for the next few days, letting every conversation Sylar tried to start die within a couple exchanges. Sylar was lonely. Eventually, he provoked. It was on purpose. A few intentional jabs and being too close was all it took. Peter hit him and Sylar put up a token defense. This was going to hurt and he knew it, but he endured it because he had hopes of what might come afterward. Peter only hit him a couple times before stopping. Sylar huddled, silently waiting. It took a few minutes for Peter to calm down, and when he did, he came over and put an arm around Sylar, helped him up, and it was wonderful.
It didn’t take long for Peter to catch on. Sylar said something mocking to start a fight and Peter got in his face. Sylar winced away. He hated himself for it, but there was only so much being hit in the face a person could endure without getting a conditioned reaction. With surprising gentleness, Peter told him, “Stop it. Just stop,” and reached out to put his hands on Sylar’s shoulders and rub. He touched Sylar’s neck while Sylar stood there stunned and unbelieving. Peter touched his face and then stroked his chest, telling him, “It wasn’t the kiss that bothered me.” Peter touched him more, and Sylar took it as quietly as he took the beatings. When Peter stopped, Sylar ached for more, but at least he had no other pains.
The next time Sylar tried to provoke him, Peter snapped irritably, “I told you to stop doing this!” This time, Sylar stopped and he stopped immediately. He was pushing Peter too far, just like with the hair. Starting fights wasn’t going to work. Assaulting Peter wasn’t going to work. Touching him without his consent wasn’t going to work. It hit home that none of these things were going to get him what he wanted. “What can I do then?” stumbled out of Sylar’s mouth, blurted unexpectedly.
Peter snorted and answered, “Rub my fucking feet.” With a contemptuous motion of his feet he offered them in what was probably jest. After a moment of blinking, Sylar went to his knees and reached for them, keeping his head down. Begging, groveling, on his knees like a dog - Sylar railed at himself inside. But Peter didn’t retract his offer and Sylar removed Peter’s shoes and socks carefully, setting them aside. He rubbed. Peter was ticklish, but said nothing other than jerking his feet away when Sylar’s touch displeased him. Sylar quickly adjusted what he was doing so that Peter didn’t jerk away. He was being allowed to touch and that wasn’t lost on him, even if it had a demeaning element to it.
A few days later, Sylar actually asked: “Can I rub your feet?” and after a moment of looking wary about it, as if he were trying to sense the trap, Peter nodded and unlaced his shoes himself. Sylar did a thorough job, keeping his eyes cast down and his outrageous sense of entitlement tucked away. There was something to be said for humility as a tactic to get what he wanted. It was much less painful than the other ways, but Sylar knew he was having to reshape himself to do it. He knew also that if he so much as breathed a mocking word at Peter over letting him do this, that it would never happen again and if he was lucky, they’d go back to the hitting. If he were lucky. He kept his mouth shut and was grateful for what he was being allowed.
Feet turned into calves, and then shoulders and finally hands and forearms. Peter started touching him back and then swift on the heels of that, Peter offered to kiss him. It seemed out of the blue. Sylar was sitting close, massaging Peter’s forearm, caressing it and enjoying the texture and feel of another human being when Peter leaned in and puckered with a clear intention.
It didn’t take long until he was getting more than he’d ever dreamed of. He was deliriously happy about it and so, so thankful. Peter’s hair was growing out, but Sylar was always scrupulous about keeping his hands from it. One day they were lying in bed together and Peter took his hand, putting it on the side of his head. Sylar froze there until it was Peter who moved his hand in a petting motion for him. Peter said, “You have my permission.”
Sylar leaned in slowly, still stroking Peter’s hair, and kissed him.
Characters: Sylar/Peter Petrelli
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, taunting, harassment
Word count: ~2,000
Setting: The Wall
Summary: It takes Sylar a while to learn to take Peter seriously. It’s a harsh lesson to learn.
Author’s Notes: Not related to or particularly inspired by More Between Us Than A Wall, or any of my other Wall-related fics. I had trouble sleeping last night and let my mind wander over something that had been bothering me lately. I’ve read too many ‘violent Peter beats the crap out of Sylar’ fics recently and while yeah, the boys are prone to violence towards each other in canon, with no shortage of reasons why they’d be that way in fanfic, it was bothering me. I wondered why it bothered me. And for some reason that led to me writing the sort of scenario that was bothering me. I am so silly sometimes. Please forgive me for not making much sense.
It started with a kiss. Peter hadn’t asked for the kiss, nor had he wanted it, but it wasn’t the kiss itself that was the problem. The real problem was that when Peter tried to pull away after a moment of surprised immobility, Sylar grabbed his hair and held Peter to his lips against his will. Peter twisted back and away, telling Sylar in no uncertain terms that he was not to touch his hair without his permission. He didn’t mention anything about the kiss, which Sylar noticed and decided that meant Peter wanted him, wanted it, wanted more. Sylar laughed and reached for his hair again. Peter jerked back and got away from him. Sylar laughed more.
Sylar didn’t try to kiss him again right away, but he did reach out teasingly to grab at Peter’s hair, time after time. It was irresistible and Peter had painted a target on his head by announcing it was off limits. Off limits this, Petrelli! You can’t keep me from touching it when I want to, Sylar thought. Peter jerked away from him and tried to stay more than an arm’s length from him. For Sylar, though, the game was afoot. He’d reach out and try to pet or stroke Peter’s hair whenever he got a chance. It was a constant harassment and he knew it was getting under Peter’s skin. That’s what made it so much fun. Peter tried one more time to tell him to cut it the hell out, but Sylar only laughed, urged on all the more by Peter’s impotent fussing. It was funny to Sylar, a joke. He didn’t catch that Peter wasn’t joking.
The next time Sylar managed to touch his hair, Peter swung on him. The fight was on and Peter, as he often did, fought like a wild animal. It didn’t help - he lost anyway. Maybe it would have been okay had that been the end of it, but Sylar held him down and gloated, stroking his hair, laughing and telling Peter that he’d learn to like it, that he’d only been making such a deal of it because he wanted the attention, that he had lovely hair and it was a crime not to let Sylar touch it. Miserable, aching and beaten, Peter suffered the violation in exchange for not being hurt worse, but the words wounded him in a way no blow could have.
The next morning, with shaky hands, Peter did the deed. He bagged up the results and went out to find Sylar with his head held high in defiance. Sylar gaped at him when he saw, shocked and horrified in equal measures. Peter threw the bag in the man’s lap. “You liked my hair so much, you can fucking have it!” He’d cut it short, no more than an inch long, and the long, lovely, dark brown locks Sylar had taunted him about were now in a plastic sack. Sylar could touch it all he wanted, but Peter ... Peter stalked off. Sylar, for the first time, realized he’d fucked up.
Sylar tried to apologize. Peter would have none of it. And it was like the loss of his hair had flipped a switch inside of Peter. Even though he’d been the one to cut it off, the blame was placed squarely on Sylar and really … Sylar couldn’t argue that. Peter became violent. Now it was Sylar who needed to stay more than an arm’s reach from Peter, because Peter nearly vibrated with rage and would lash out at Sylar whenever he got close. His short hair was a constant reminder to both of them. For days it seemed like Peter was looking for any opportunity, any excuse to attack, whether with harsh words the likes of which rarely passed Peter’s lips, or with blows fast and furious, ending with a quick retreat and a refusal to engage.
Peter was fighting dirty even for Peter, not sticking around to let Sylar retaliate. He’d just run off after getting a few licks in, waging a constant hit-and-run war that made Sylar cringe to even see Peter, never sure if and when he’d be assaulted. It occurred to him that this had to be, in a way, how he’d made Peter feel with the constant harassment of his hair. It seemed grossly unfair though. He hadn’t been hurting Peter - just teasing him (over and over and over again, despite objections, taunting, laughing, provoking, staging things, touching his own hair in mockery and threat, talking about styling Peter’s hair, or how Peter obviously liked having his hair pulled during sex, might even have a hair fetish … in retrospect, Sylar admitted he’d been a bit excessive about it).
Too long of being the target of sneering, glaring, and a seething hatred the likes of which Peter hadn’t even displayed for Nathan’s sake finally provoked Sylar to approach Peter and tell him to take his best shot - he wouldn’t fight back. Sylar wasn’t sure what he’d get - if Peter would back down, skulk away, taunt him, ignore him, hit him and stop, or beat the crap out of him. What he got was a long silence and then Peter took him at his word. Then followed it by beating the crap out of him until Sylar was struggling with consciousness, barely managing to stay on his hands and knees, wanting to take his beating like a man and hoping like hell this would be the end of it. Peter had railed at him for much of the drubbing about whether Sylar had any smart ass remarks to make now, did he like the way Peter looked, did Peter look like a fucking victim to him anymore, what else of Peter’s did he want so maybe Peter could cut that off too and give it to him …
Sylar took it silently, not understanding why the words hurt worse than the fists. He fell over on the floor when Peter finally stopped. He could have sworn Peter started crying in frustration, but Sylar wasn’t in the best of shape to notice. He just lay there and wanted to die, visions of Peter mutilating himself rather than letting Sylar touch him floated through his mind. Sylar couldn’t see how he could get what he wanted - someone to touch, a human presence, a companion. He’d fucked everything up somehow. There was something he was not doing right.
Minutes passed before Peter began touching him. To Sylar’s surprise, these were not violent touches. Sylar let himself be urged up to sitting and walked back to his apartment, ridiculously grateful for every touch Peter was giving him. Sylar didn’t ask for the contact and he didn’t take advantage of it. He thanked Peter over and over through his busted up mouth and with lingering looks that he broke off the moment Peter looked back at him. He tried not to threaten or challenge. Rather than drawing away, Peter gave him more touches. Dimly, it impacted Sylar that he was getting what he’d wanted all along.
But the caretaking ended eventually and Peter drew away. He wasn’t bristling with rage anymore though and Sylar was careful not to provoke him. Still, he was distant and largely silent for the next few days, letting every conversation Sylar tried to start die within a couple exchanges. Sylar was lonely. Eventually, he provoked. It was on purpose. A few intentional jabs and being too close was all it took. Peter hit him and Sylar put up a token defense. This was going to hurt and he knew it, but he endured it because he had hopes of what might come afterward. Peter only hit him a couple times before stopping. Sylar huddled, silently waiting. It took a few minutes for Peter to calm down, and when he did, he came over and put an arm around Sylar, helped him up, and it was wonderful.
It didn’t take long for Peter to catch on. Sylar said something mocking to start a fight and Peter got in his face. Sylar winced away. He hated himself for it, but there was only so much being hit in the face a person could endure without getting a conditioned reaction. With surprising gentleness, Peter told him, “Stop it. Just stop,” and reached out to put his hands on Sylar’s shoulders and rub. He touched Sylar’s neck while Sylar stood there stunned and unbelieving. Peter touched his face and then stroked his chest, telling him, “It wasn’t the kiss that bothered me.” Peter touched him more, and Sylar took it as quietly as he took the beatings. When Peter stopped, Sylar ached for more, but at least he had no other pains.
The next time Sylar tried to provoke him, Peter snapped irritably, “I told you to stop doing this!” This time, Sylar stopped and he stopped immediately. He was pushing Peter too far, just like with the hair. Starting fights wasn’t going to work. Assaulting Peter wasn’t going to work. Touching him without his consent wasn’t going to work. It hit home that none of these things were going to get him what he wanted. “What can I do then?” stumbled out of Sylar’s mouth, blurted unexpectedly.
Peter snorted and answered, “Rub my fucking feet.” With a contemptuous motion of his feet he offered them in what was probably jest. After a moment of blinking, Sylar went to his knees and reached for them, keeping his head down. Begging, groveling, on his knees like a dog - Sylar railed at himself inside. But Peter didn’t retract his offer and Sylar removed Peter’s shoes and socks carefully, setting them aside. He rubbed. Peter was ticklish, but said nothing other than jerking his feet away when Sylar’s touch displeased him. Sylar quickly adjusted what he was doing so that Peter didn’t jerk away. He was being allowed to touch and that wasn’t lost on him, even if it had a demeaning element to it.
A few days later, Sylar actually asked: “Can I rub your feet?” and after a moment of looking wary about it, as if he were trying to sense the trap, Peter nodded and unlaced his shoes himself. Sylar did a thorough job, keeping his eyes cast down and his outrageous sense of entitlement tucked away. There was something to be said for humility as a tactic to get what he wanted. It was much less painful than the other ways, but Sylar knew he was having to reshape himself to do it. He knew also that if he so much as breathed a mocking word at Peter over letting him do this, that it would never happen again and if he was lucky, they’d go back to the hitting. If he were lucky. He kept his mouth shut and was grateful for what he was being allowed.
Feet turned into calves, and then shoulders and finally hands and forearms. Peter started touching him back and then swift on the heels of that, Peter offered to kiss him. It seemed out of the blue. Sylar was sitting close, massaging Peter’s forearm, caressing it and enjoying the texture and feel of another human being when Peter leaned in and puckered with a clear intention.
It didn’t take long until he was getting more than he’d ever dreamed of. He was deliriously happy about it and so, so thankful. Peter’s hair was growing out, but Sylar was always scrupulous about keeping his hands from it. One day they were lying in bed together and Peter took his hand, putting it on the side of his head. Sylar froze there until it was Peter who moved his hand in a petting motion for him. Peter said, “You have my permission.”
Sylar leaned in slowly, still stroking Peter’s hair, and kissed him.