Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5494.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Luke_Campbell/Sylar
  Character:
      Luke_Campbell, Sylar
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt/Comfort, Porn, Non-Penetrative_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-03-18 Words: 3045
****** My Broken One ******
by perdiccas
Summary
     Luke wrenches his arm as he and Sylar escape from another government
     ambush. Sylar gives him a bath and washes his hair.
Notes
     Luke is 17.
     Winner Best Sylar/Luke Fic (R-NC-17) at the Heroes Slash Awards
     Summer 2009
     Winner Best Hurt/Comfort at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009
     Runner Up Best One Shot at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009
Luke makes it to the motel room on his own two feet. He's cradling his arm,
sweating and swearing under his breath as his vision whites out around the
edges. He has to grit his teeth against the pain but he does it. Sylar brings
up the rear, nodding his head with a big false smile at the retiree couple
unloading their car across the lot. Luke hopes that he and Sylar look like two
tired people, sullen for having been on the road a few hours too long and
nothing like men with the Government breathing down their necks and a trail of
bodies to show for it.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Luke sags. He wants to hold it all in, to not
let Sylar see how much he's hurting but he's been biting his tongue for over an
hour as they raced across rough hewn, uneven roads, every pothole making his
eyes water as he shook like rag doll in the car. Luke whimpers pitifully and
his grip on his injured arm slips. The blackness that has been crowding at the
corners of his eyes suddenly rushes in and everything's a blur. His knees
buckle and his stomach churns. Luke feels clammy all over, queasy and unsteady,
as he sways with the searing pain in his shoulder.
"Hey!" Sylar says. "Hey, Luke!"
Luke can't answer; between trying to stand and trying to breathe, there's no
energy left for trying to speak. He puts on his best fake smile, the one that
says, "No, Dad, it's ok. You didn't really hurt me when you hit me," and prays
to god that Sylar won't see his weakness and think him a dead weight that needs
to be got rid of. But Sylar stares at him with those calculating eyes, tilting
his head to the side and seeming to see the lie, though Luke hasn't said
anything at all. When Sylar presses his palm gently to Luke's bum arm, Luke
howls in pain. He sobs dryly, and there's no point in keeping up a façade so
cracked, so Luke concentrates on simply trying to not puke because he's
embarrassed himself enough already.
Sylar circles around him. Luke pants, quick, shallow breaths that make his head
feel light and stays the pain as he teeters on the edge of passing out. He
keeps his busted arm huddled to his chest and cringes in on himself when Sylar
steps nearer. In the mirror, Luke can see his own eyes, red and wild and wary,
but Sylar doesn't touch this time, at least not his arm.
"It's dislocated," Sylar says, stroking one long finger across Luke's cheek.
Luke, stupid fucking moron that he is, tries to shrug it off. He shudders with
the redoubled pain that ricochets through him and wails. Luke's skin burns hot
with shame, face wet with tears he can no longer keep at bay.
"Gotta hurt like a bitch," Sylar says, and maybe Luke's starting to hallucinate
from the pain but… is that a hint of pride in Sylar's voice? "We passed two
motels before this one. You're an idiot for not asking to stop sooner."
Sylar doesn't sound mad. He's chuckling, almost indulgent and that makes Luke's
head spin more than the breath that he can't quite catch. He doesn't have time
to wonder what it means because Sylar's hands are on him, one firm to the
centre of his back and the other curving loosely round his waist. He guides
Luke to the bed, a telekinetic embrace keeping him up when he stumbles.
Luke lies on the bed where he's put, still whimpering, as Sylar hovers over
him. He's near enough that Luke can smell the bitterness of the too-strong
diner coffee on his breath.
"This is gonna hurt," Sylar whispers calmly.
"Hush," Sylar says as one wide palm slaps over Luke's mouth before he can say
no. Luke screams, Sylar's lips on his forehead, and he passes out to the
sickening pop of his shoulder being yanked back into place.
                                      ***
When Luke wakes, he's aching all over but he's warm, deliciously warm and he
thinks he can cope with the throbbing pain as long as the heat that's all
around him never goes away. He shifts a little but it hurts when he tries to
lift a hand to rub at his face. The warmth is still there, sucking him down,
urging him to lie still and let the pain be numbed. So, Luke gives in and
dropping his hands lazily back to his sides. They splash wetly where they land
and that's not right. Luke fights a rising panic as he struggles through the
haze to open his eyes.
"Try not to move." Sylar's voice is a comforting, familiar rumble near his ear
and the first thing Luke sees is the strong outline Sylar's nose, just inches
from his own. Luke's thoughts are scattered and he can't quite latch on to
where he is or why he's there but Sylar is here too, so near and so calm, and
Luke instinctively relaxes, lolling back in the encompassing heat of the water
with Sylar there to take control.
"Here, take these." Luke opens his mouth without question to the painkillers
that Sylar presses at his lips and he gulps obediently at the bottled water
that Sylar holds up to his mouth. When some dribbles from the corner of Luke's
mouth, it's Sylar's fingers that absently feather over his skin and brush the
mess away.
"Why? Wha--?" Luke tries as his eyes slowly begin to focus. Through the steam
thick air he can see that he's in a bath, bubbles to his chin, and Sylar's
kneeling on the bathroom tiles at his side. Sylar's sleeves are rolled to his
elbows and he has one hand dipped beneath the water, settled casually on Luke's
chest, stopping him from trying to sit or sinking further down.
Under the water, Luke's naked. Even his threadbare boxers are stripped from him
and when he notices, he feels a thousand times hotter with a blush that
cascades down him. Sylar merely smirks at him and hums. He soaps a wash cloth
and gently starts to scrub the sweat and grime from around Luke's neck.
"I can do it," Luke snaps.
He's ashamed to be so exposed, and wants to hide away so that Sylar can't see
how skinny he is around his chest, how plump around his waist. He wants to lash
out before Sylar can note and mock the fine, fair hair that barely dusts his
legs and groin. He needs to prove to Sylar that though he thinks he's seen how
brittle Luke is beneath the layers of the clothes he wears, appearances can be
deceiving and Luke is stronger than he will ever know, that Luke is strong
enough to stand at Sylar's side.
But, when Sylar holds out the cloth to him, rolling his eyes at Luke's
petulance, Luke finds it still hurts too much try to move his arms. He bites
his lips 'til he tastes blood on his tongue, inch by slow inch moving the
washcloth along his chest. When he tries to slide it higher, to pick up where
Sylar had left off and clean his neck, Luke whimpers. Sylar takes the washcloth
back from Luke's barely resisting fingers.
Luke settles back against the porcelain rim of the tub, screwing his eyes shut
in defeat, breathing heavily in pain and confused arousal as Sylar's hands
glide over him. He tries to bring his knees to his chest, to cover himself from
Sylar's piercing gaze in anticipation of when the bubbles will die off. Sylar's
smirk becomes a laugh and Luke flushes miserably, half-wishing that Sylar would
leave to let him lick his wounds in peace, yet all the while thanking whatever
gods there might be that Sylar's still here to taunt him at all.
"Would you relax?" Sylar says, still chuckling. "The water will keep your
muscles from cramping and help stop the worst of the bruises. It was either
this or hold you up under a hot shower. Trust me that this is the less awkward
of the options."
Luke nods and keeps his eyes shut to Sylar's face, still close enough that Luke
can feel the hot huff of Sylar's breath on his brow. Right now, Luke doesn't
think anything could possibly be more awkward. Sylar's using both hands to
lather Luke's chest, rubbing in soapy circles that brush tantalisingly over
Luke's nipples, pebbling against his will and it won't be long before Sylar's
hands shift downwards to where there is nothing but bubbles to hide how Sylar's
touch affects him.
Luke feels as if his body is not his own. He's screaming at himself inside his
head that now isn't the time to give into these dark and dangerous desries, but
his will is no match for the conflicting press of gentle hands that Luke has so
often seen kill and the sedate lap of the cosseting water around him.
Everything Luke experiences is tinged with the distant edge of pain. Luke talks
when he's nervous and now, he's can't stop babbling. His throat is dry and his
voice is hoarse, and all his traitorous body aches to do is settle back and let
himself be petted.
"How long was I out?"
He spreads his legs without meaning to, knowing his cock is plump and swollen,
slowly rising up to meet Sylar's touch.
"Not long," Sylar says.
Broad hands slide the lather further down, ghosting over the faint grooves of
Luke's ribs to his belly, pinching and kneading at the soft flesh there. Blunt
nails, cut down to the quick, scrub over Luke's stomach. The point of one
finger delves, curious, into Luke's navel. Luke squirms.
"And the agents?" Luke asks, voice quavering.
A heat hotter than the water that coddles him or the blush that prickles at his
skin fans out from Luke's groin and makes him whine unconsciously with want.
"We lost them."
Fingertips stroke along Luke's hips. Palms smooth soap along his upper thighs.
There's no way that Sylar hasn't noticed the head of Luke's cock peeking from
the water's surface. Luke still hasn't the courage to open his eyes and look.
"Are you sure?" he asks, pretending to himself that his voice isn't breathless
and broken with desire. "Because we thought we lost them before and--Oh god!"
Luke's eyes snap open when Sylar tickles at his balls. The pads of his fingers
drag up Luke's shaft and Luke gasps, half wondering if this is all a fever
dream that'll leave him with a mortifying wet patch in his lap when Sylar wakes
him. Then, Sylar's fist closes round his length and he's sliding his soap slick
palm loosely up and down. Luke doesn't care anymore why only that Sylar doesn't
stop.
"Stop worrying," Sylar says, and Luke obeys, groaning softly at Sylar's steady
strokes as his mind clears of everything but the thrum of pleasure rocking
through his core. "You did good, Luke."
Sylar drops a soft kiss to Luke's temple as his thumb presses lightly to Luke's
slit. He traces circles around Luke's tip and brushes lower, following the line
of the ridge of his cock and settling in a steady rhythm at that spot below the
crown. Luke sighs out a mewl, and cranes his neck to Sylar, nuzzling against
his cheek as he begs for more, peppering pretty, little kisses to Sylar's jaw
anywhere his lips can reach. Sylar makes that indulgent sound again and ducks
his head obligingly, pressing his lips to Luke's in a long, tender kiss.
With his good hand, Luke clutches at Sylar's shirt, tugging him closer. Water
splashes up messily as Luke arches up to him. He wants to somehow cleave them
closer, to pull Sylar into the narrow tub atop him, but all this writhing isn't
good for his shoulder, and now, when Luke whimpers, it's as much with pain as
it is desire.
"Calm down, Luke," Sylar murmurs but Luke doesn't want calm, he wants Sylar as
he knows him: Sylar, predatory, looming over him; Sylar, hungry, pressing
against him; Sylar, demanding, ramming into him. Luke wants to feel the full
force of Sylar's single-minded desire and know that he, not power or the past,
is what Sylar wants to so violently possess.
Luke clings to Sylar tighter, yanks at his shirt to drag him down nearer,
lifting his neck from where it rests on the tub to mash their lips together
harder until he aches from the awkward angle and his lips are rubbed red-raw
from Sylar's stubble. Luke doesn't care about the pain; he welcomes it,
relishes it because what's a little extra soreness when for once he's finally
getting what he wants? But Sylar turns away from his desperate, needy kisses
and the hand that's on Luke's chest warningly holds him back.
"You're going to hurt yourself and you're no use to me broken, Luke."
That has Luke settling down, trying to ignore the confusing whorl of threatened
rejection, an icy sting in the pit of his gut, and shattering euphoria. Luke
feels giddy enough to laugh and cry and puke all at once because finally,
finally, here and now, someone, Sylar cares enough to want to keep Luke safe.
He lies passive in the tub, his dick still thick and flushed, bouncing against
his belly and slapping through the water with every ragged breath he takes.
Sylar pulls back and strips out of his sodden shirt. When Luke raises his good
hand to absently trace the pattern of his chest hair, Sylar waits for a moment
and lets him touch. Then, Sylar takes Luke's curious fingers in his own and
brings his hand to his mouth, kissing each of Luke's damp fingertips before
laying Luke's arm back down at his side.
Sylar stands and Luke's eyes fly wide at the bulge in Sylar's jeans. His cock
twitches with a new wave of hormones that hurtles through him, leaving him
harder and dripping. Sylar sees it, muttering, "Oh, Luke," as he smoothes the
hair back from Luke's forehead. He takes the showerhead down from the wall as
Luke's hand sneaks up again, dragging along his fly as Sylar starts the water
through the shower, adjusting the temperature as it falls in a stuttering
stream at Luke's feet. He tries to thumb open Sylar's fly but Sylar shakes his
head and lightly slaps his hand away.
"Later," he promises when Luke starts to pout.
The water from the shower is warm and it's only when it's raining down on
Luke's scalp that he realises the bath has began to cool and he's sitting in
chest deep tepid water, goose pimples rising on his skin. Sylar angles Luke's
chin, tilting back his head to thoroughly wet his hair. The water trickles
hotly down behind Luke's ears, splattering noisily to the water that already
fills the tub.
He gives a little pulse of microwaves and the water around him heats to match
what's coming from the showerhead. Sylar clucks his tongue but doesn't
complain. Luke thinks that this shouldn't count as the cardinal sin of playing
with his powers when it so clearly serves a purpose. If Sylar thinks the bath
has chilled too much, he might insist on covering Luke up. Now, the showerhead
is gone and strong fingers massage shampoo into Luke's grimy, sweat greased
hair.
"Sylar," Luke groans as firm thumbs work circles at his temples, knead at the
base of his skull and ruffle his hair only to slick it back down again. Sylar's
fingers comb through his locks, rubbing at his skin until Luke's scalp squeaks
clean against his soapy fingers.
With a curving palm against Luke's brow to shield his eyes from the shampoo,
Sylar washes away the lather until the water streaming down Luke's chest in
rivulets runs clear. Then, Luke hears the snick of the shampoo bottle again and
the slide of skin on skin as Sylar rubs his palms together briskly, more of the
fresh, citrus scented shampoo slicking his hands. Luke thinks that Sylar must
be enjoying this as much as he is because who really bothers repeat the lather
and the rinse?
Luke sighs, both content and not. He's too relaxed with Sylar's fingers in his
hair to want this to ever end but the ache in his groin won't be ignored. He
thinks he shouldn't be getting so turned on from this, from having Sylar be so
gentle when what Luke admires most is when he's ruthless. He thinks he
shouldn't let the insipid fragrance of the soap, wafting around in the hazy,
steam filled room, lull him into a stupor when if he really takes the time to
smell it, the scent is sickly and cloying, overpowering Sylar's musk no matter
how near Sylar leans over him, Luke's nose almost pressed to his armpit as
Sylar curls over him and rinses out his hair.
Luke rocks his hips, sighing pitifully; there's nothing to ride against but
parting water. He just out his chin and gently latches his teeth to Sylar's
bottom lip, tugging down until Sylar stoops in closer to kiss him.
"Please," Luke whispers, breath hot, caught between their mouths.
Sylar nods and keeps up the kisses, his hand reaching below the water to grasp
the base of Luke's straining cock. He kisses along Luke's rounded cheeks,
lapping at the flush that's seeping along Luke's freckles as his fingers circle
and pull up tight. He nibbles at Luke's jaw line, still soft with puppy fat not
yet lost, and his lips brush at Luke's throat to feel the rumble of his moans
as Sylar's palm slides back down his cock. Slow and tight and steady, Sylar
strokes him, littering kisses to his sopping hair, to his fluttering lashes,
down to his collarbones where the water bobs lazily against Sylar's soft, full
lips in waves. He sucks at Luke's throat, teeth grazing lightly against the
tendon of his neck, and, stifling a cry of "Sylar!" in Sylar's hair, his nose
buried to Sylar's crown, Luke comes, thick ribbons of semen mixing with the
bubbles in the water.
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