"Because the pain defining me is holding me lifeless..."
Title: Because the pain defining me is holding me lifeless…
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Sylar
A/N: Possible spoilers for "The Wall" (4x17). Basically PWP; sort of dub-con/contains bloodplay, so if that kind of thing bothers you, I'd skip this one. Title taken from Trading Yesterday's "Change My Name".
It’s only a matter of time.
Only a matter of time before fighting turns to fucking, always accompanied by the same twinge of regret, the same anger, the same lust that’s driven as much by a desire for revenge as anything else; much as they hate themselves for it, they know they’ll end up here again, every time.
Every fucking time.
So it’s only a matter of time before Sylar has Peter pressed to the Wall, bodies flush together, breath hitching as their teeth click in a bruising kiss that’s more violence than desire.
Only a matter of time before they’re stumbling back to the apartment that passes for home- because “if we’re gonna do this, we might as well fucking get it right”- fingers grasping and groping with more a sense of possession than longing.
Only a matter of time before Peter’s tossed unceremoniously back on the pristine bed and pulled up to meet Sylar’s body, the clothes separating them disappearing in an atmosphere that’s more desperation than love.
Because whatever this is between them, it sure as hell isn’t love.
That much is evident in the way Sylar forces Peter to his knees, the way Peter bites at Sylar’s thigh in violent retaliation; it’s clear in Sylar’s response as he drags Peter back to his feet, forcing his teeth open as he licks in, searching for the bitter, metallic taste of his own blood on Peter’s tongue.
And when Sylar latches on to Peter’s collar, the Petrelli can feel him biting for bone; he pulls Sylar back with one sharp tug of ink-black hair, but the killer’s mouth comes away red and grinning and Peter can feel the heat and the sting as a steady stream of blood drips down his bare chest.
Sylar crushes their mouths together, carelessly splitting his own lip as he feeds Peter his own blood, reveling in the way the Petrelli struggles against his hold, blood and sweat smearing between their bodies.
“You fucking-” Peter manages to force Sylar back, spitting red out on the sheets with a grimace. “I fucking hate you,” he growls, but softer this time, and Sylar can see the flicker behind his eye that tells him-
“You fucking like it.” Sylar’s delighted, and his malicious smirk is only the beginning. “Some boy scout, you’re just as sick as I am, you-“
He’s cut off by another brutal kiss, all teeth and sharp edges as he slices through Peter’s lower lip, the blood mingling between their mouths.
Then Peter pulls back and pushes Sylar flat on the bed, sliding down his body without preamble. The killer groans in anticipation, letting his head fall back on the mattress as warm breath moves between his legs, that ridiculously long hair tickling his skin-
And then his eyes are squeezed shut in pain, fists curled into the sheets as Peter mirrors his initial bite on the other thigh, deeper and sharper than the first. This time, it’s clear: he wants pain.
He wants blood.
Peter lifts his head moments later, his tongue leaving a trail of red along Sylar’s stomach as he moves back up the killer’s body, greeting him with a crimson smile that leaves Sylar impossibly hard, straining to taste, to touch. He attempts to hook an ankle around Peter’s, flip their position, regain his control. He’s thrown off, though, when Peter ducks to press their open mouths together, tongues tangling, tasting as they kiss and kiss, oddly languid in the motions though both know this is nowhere near done.
Somewhere in the midst of the kiss, Sylar manages to flip them; it’s him that slips down Peter’s body next, sinking his teeth in just enough to decorate Peter’s stomach, his chest with various sets of bite marks, searching for the perfect place to-
Peter’s groan as Sylar presses in, slicing through the skin taut below his navel, is nothing short of feral, and the sound alone is enough for Sylar to lift his head, an expression of amusement and lust crossing his features before he lowers himself once more to lick an appreciative stripe up the length of Peter’s cock, blood still hot and heavy on his tongue.
He spits the burning liquid onto the sheets before kissing Peter this time, removing that final barrier as their bodies press together, legs spread, hips nestled, an impossibly perfect fit. “Fuck,” Sylar hisses as his cock slides along the crack of Peter’s ass, thoughts of tight and heat and need bypassing any attempts at coherency.
He slips a hand between Peter’s legs, to open him up, heighten the anticipation, maybe- or maybe you just want to use his blood as lube, never tried that before, have you- but Peter’s pulling him back, warning him off with a ruthless glare and “enough waiting,” rolling a condom from god knows where onto Sylar’s dick and pulling him forward, eyes glittering dangerously. “Fuck me. Like this. I want to feel every fucking inch every time you fuck into me.” He arches his neck to nip at Sylar’s split lip, re-opening the wound where the blood had clotted. “Fuck me,” he reiterates, cupping Sylar’s ass to drag him in.
Pulling Peter’s hands away, Sylar takes charge- no way in hell does he plan on letting such an opportunity go to waste. He guides himself in with one hand on his dick and the other tangled in Peter’s hair, keeping the Petrelli’s eyes locked on him at every moment. He’s trying not to lose control, because in a way, he wants this to last- wants to torture Peter with his cock until the Petrelli is a shaking mess in his arms, between his legs- but at the same time, he wants- he wants-
“Fuck it,” and he’s fucking into Peter hard and fast, bending his neck to break skin as Peter’s head falls back, mouth slack, eyes unfocused at the pain, the traces of pleasure that pass through his body like shocks. There’s silence for a moment, just the slap of skin on skin as Sylar thrusts, unrelenting, into Peter’s less-than-responsive form, his own moans muffled against the Petrelli’s skin as he draws blood with the hunger of an animal.
A pause as Sylar shifts his angle, never quite dragging his teeth away from Peter’s pale chest, and it’s only moments before the smaller man’s disapproving hiss fades to low pants, moans echoing in the back of his throat as his legs come up to wrap around Sylar’s waist, pull him in deeper, nails raking down his back until the skin gives.
Peter’s fingers come away red, and he offers one to Sylar between gasps; the killer smirks and sucks it down until the tip hits the back of his throat, drawing a satisfied noise from the man beneath him.
The finger leaves Sylar’s mouth stained with twice as much blood, nearly having succeeded in biting clear through to the bone, but neither can bring himself to care that the sheets beneath them are soaked with crimson, twisted and torn from the violence of their tryst; all that matters is them, drawing ever closer to release, to the end of this game, this competition that can’t mean a thing but matters more than anything else in this place where only they are real, only they exist.
Sylar presses his mouth to Peter’s ear, sliding his closed teeth along the outline of the smaller man’s jaw, sending a shiver through his body. “Do it,” Peter tells him, voice barely louder than a whisper, but Sylar hears. Sylar knows.
He drags his teeth back once more and opens his mouth, closing around Peter’s jaw; a sound like paper tearing cuts through the air, a rivet of red flowing down the curve of Peter’s neck, and it’s all over. The last sharp tug of pain for Peter, the fresh taste of blood for Sylar: they’re matched like some fucked up yin and yang, the pain and its embodiment, the blood and its origin. That’s all it takes to set them over the edge, clutched desperately to one another because these final moments are all they have left- to bruise, to mark, to touch, to taste- to claim- and when they stop shaking they know that the only thing left is to pull apart, to act as though it never happened. To look past the clothes discarded on the floor, the bloodied, ripped sheets beneath their battered bodies, to face one another as though, well, as though nothing’s changed.
And they swear off it, again and again, but a promise to oneself is easily broken- and here, who else is there?
Every end is just a pause, and every cut and bruise that fades will be replaced by countless more; after all, it’s only a matter of time before they end up here again, stuck in the same twisted dance that kills them and keeps them alive in this hell that’s all their own.