(no subject)
FIC THREE!
Title: Of Scars and Kisses
Characters/Pairing: PYLAR =D
Set: Lil' bit in the future..Pete getting his scar.
Rating/Warnings: Non-con mention, then dub-con mention...sad screwiness..
Summary: Ch-Ch-Ch-CHANGES.
A/N: Written for "Change" under Genre/Angst. D'Awwh.
It’s true that Sylar always wakes up cold.
He wakes up icy cold, gasps to life slumped against a vandalized wall in an alley that’s dark even in the middle of day. His pants are round his ankles; his shirt shoulder ripped through with teeth marks. He no longer has to put up with bruises and cuts, his skin slides smooth again. There’s just dried blood streaking down his legs, dirt scraped across his face.
He stands in the street, drags his jeans up and tightens his belt. Rubs his hand over his face, takes off traces of tears. He lets his fingers dance over the features; unmarred. There’s no pitted scar that slashes his face in two as he always expects, a matching gift from his lover. If one can call him that.
Peter uses the term freely for them, twists his lips up and spits it out in sarcastic nonchalance.
Doing okay there, lover?
But then, Sylar’s not sure one can use the term Peter anymore.
It’s the same face, the same voice, the same body. But this Peter doesn’t whine underneath him and protest. The old Peter had big brown eyes filled with tears as he gasped Sylar’s name, he blushed and bit his lips to stop screams. He smiled and kissed Sylar just to hide that smile. Maybe it had started as something else, but it was changing. It was becoming…
This Peter slams Sylar into the wall and literally rips the jeans off him, smashes Sylar’s face into the brickwork when he tries to protest. The first time, Sylar had fought and screamed and writhed and snarled and felt the tears burst from him in agony. He hadn’t seen the face, not until Peter had finished fucking him into the wall and groaned in satisfied anger, pulled away and stepped back.
Sylar had turned around, shaking with a raised pathetic hand to try an ability he knew the stranger was impervious to. And he found Peter staring back at him, sinful smile playing across his lips and new scar ripping his face in two. This Peter’s eyes weren’t those of a lover; they were those of a predator. Predator Peter, lingering in the dark as he had stepped away from the shaking man and smirking as Sylar fell unconscious.
Sylar had never heard the story behind the scar. He had never looked into brown eyes while they together again. He never knew what had happened.
Sylar gets no word, no warning. Outside, inside, private, public. Peter couldn’t care less, grabs a hold of him and pushes him down, laughs to himself as Sylar growls and fights. He loses, nowadays. He loses and Peter takes his prize. Sylar hates himself for the submission he’s forced into, for every thrust that causes him to mewl and gasp and beg for more. It feels good, so painfully good.
There’s barely a memory in the morning.
All Sylar knows is Peter doesn’t kiss him anymore.
He misses that.