Fic: Hypnotist (Heroes)
The first thing Mohinder feels is the touch on his cheek, the fingers trailing from jaw to brow, light and soft and insistent. He wakes up to it, turning his head towards warm fabric - he’s not on a pillow, he’s resting, on someone.
The first thing he feels is the touch, yes, but the first thing he remembers is the pain.
He twitches, and all he can think of is the horror, the shock, his skin blistering, the fragment of a bone breaking the skin of his arm. He saw it -
“Sssh,” and somehow, the reassurance doesn’t just seem physical, but mental too - Mohinder’s heartbeat slows, and the hand on him moves to his neck, tracing unknowable patterns on dark skin.
A familiar hand. A familiar touch.
“Nathan?” Mohinder breathes, and his eyes open, finally. He blinks, even in the low light of the room, and he realizes his head is in someone’s lap - Nathan’s lap - and he turns his head, cranes it upwards.
And immediately tenses, twisting away. He’s going to get to the ground and run, run as fast as he can - that it’s impossible never crosses Mohinder’s mind. He just knows that he has to go and go now, before -
Sylar catches Mohinder’s wrist, and pulls him back. Mohinder’s limbs feel sluggish; they won’t move properly, like he’s in quicksand, and he can’t struggle, can’t get away. His skin -
- his skin is unmarked. Smooth. And his limbs are whole. Sylar must have healed him, saved his life. Mohinder wonders whose power that must have been. How they died. How Sylar stole it from them.
The truth hits Mohinder with stunning, awful clarity.
“It was you,” he accuses, “it wasn’t Nathan, it was you-”
Sylar’s eyes grow distant, cold. “I wanted to kill him all over again,” Sylar confides into Mohinder’s ear, his breath tickling the side of Mohinder’s neck, “every time you said his name.”
Mohinder shivers; Sylar’s teeth catch the flesh of his neck, and he can feel his pulse pounding, can imagine how the blood would trickle down his neck, if Sylar bit a little harder, just there.
“You were in love with me,” Sylar corrects softly, a dash of amusement in his tone. “It was always me. Never him.”
“You’re a murderer,” Mohinder protests, trying to squirm away, again, but what hope does he have? Sylar is so powerful, so much more powerful than him, and after five years, he must know everything about Mohinder, enough to anticipate every struggle, head it off before Mohinder even knows about it himself.
“So was Nathan,” says Sylar. “And so are you.” Sylar brushes Mohinder’s hair back from his face, eerily tender, and Mohinder’s heart pounds. He trembles, at Sylar’s fingertips, in anticipation and want, so intense he can barely control it, can barely keep his breathing steady. “The Haitian,” murmurs Sylar. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You betrayed me, Mohinder.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the consequences,” Mohinder shoots back, though a gritted jaw.
“It doesn’t matter,” says Sylar. “We can be together now. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No,” Mohinder snaps.
“Liar,” Sylar returns, a hard edge in his voice. “You dreamed about it, with Nathan. You dreamed you would live together, free of worry. So that you could love him.”
“You’re not Nathan,” Mohinder protests, weakly.
“I’m so much more than Nathan Petrelli.” Sylar’s hands move across Mohinder’s skin, claiming, soothing, and Mohinder is surprised at how much he wants it - he hitches up a little, sweat beading on his skin.
“I can show you so much more,” Sylar continues, and then his hands still, and Mohinder feels something, something -
The sensation crawls up his body hot and slow and sweet - it must be a power, some kind of intense power, and it renders Mohinder immobile, helpless in the onslaught of so much pleasure, so much need. Mohinder moans, softly, and his eyes close. He should be fighting, he knows he should be fighting, but he isn’t, and all he wants is to drown, just give in, and let the waves close over his head.
“That’s it,” murmurs Sylar, “just like that.”
Mohinder presses his lips into a line - he wants Sylar to kiss him, so badly, so very badly. He wants to know it’s Sylar, to feel Sylar above him, against him.
Sylar pulls Mohinder up, and presses his mouth to Mohinder’s, fingers curling tenderly around Mohinder’s waist. Mohinder retreats, just a little, and takes in a breath of air. Of course, Sylar can probably read his thoughts, if Sylar killed Peter Petrelli and took his powers, the powers hard-wired into Petrelli’s DNA. Peter could read minds, and that means that -
“Don’t think about him,” Sylar says, more of a command than a request, and he kisses Mohinder, again. This time, Mohinder’s legs shift to either side of Sylar’s body, straddling him, and Sylar licks so deep all Mohinder can do is moan into it, ride the waves of passion.
He should have to strain to be in this position. It’s awkward, his muscles should barely be able to hold it, but they can, and they can easily. Sylar must be holding him up, and Sylar must be doing this, making him feel this way -
Mohinder buckles as a spectacularly intense sensation hits him, body and mind - not just physical pleasure, but a kind of emotional release, a feeling of possession and ownership and safety, safety above all. He can’t think, can’t breathe, and it overwhelms him, chokes off every sense, every thought. He can’t remember where he is, or what’s just happened, or anything except that he’s Sylar’s, of course he is, Sylar owns him, Sylar has owned him forever, and he would do anything, anything to keep it that way…
“What do you want?” breathes Sylar, his voice husky in Mohinder’s ear.
“Fuck me,” says Mohinder, “fuck me please,” and he’s begging, but it doesn’t matter. He can beg here, and Sylar will give him what he wants, because he’s cherished, coveted.
Mohinder can feel the smile against his skin. “Of course,” comes Sylar’s response, and Mohinder shudders. He’s nothing, nothing except what Sylar wants him to be -
Sylar kisses him, tongue slipping past Mohinder’s lips to the inside of his mouth. He barely remembers to struggle, to fight, push against the invading tongue, just to make the surrender that much more beautiful.
It’s all too much for him. He’s frail, only human, and Sylar can do anything now, he has so much power he’s practically a god and it’s building too fast - Mohinder can feel Sylar kinetically stretching him open, moving with Mohinder’s body, inescapable, easing deeper and stretching wider, until it feels like Mohinder already is being fucked, steady and sure and exactly the way he likes it. Exactly, and that’s the touch of experience, isn’t it? Nathan - Sylar knows him inside out, now, knows everything to drive him crazy, and he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.
“Come for me, Mohinder,” and Mohinder barely has time to register the strange echo, the harsh quality to Sylar’s voice before he convulses, his body torn with ecstasy and euphoria, his entire body on fire, centered on that one place deep inside.
Mohinder gasps for air, exhausted and sweat-soaked, against Sylar’s chest. His mind starts to clear, and he blinks - he can get away, he can, if only he submits just a little further, waits until Sylar is unaware, maybe.
“You won’t escape that easily.”
Mohinder can feel the almost-laughter in Sylar’s tone, and he bristles, tensing.
“You still want me,” Sylar whispers, in Mohinder’s ear, the strange echo back in his voice. “You’re hard for me, and desperate.”
“What,” breathes Mohinder, but his body obeys mindlessly, too far under Sylar’s control. Mohinder bites his lip in almost-discomfort as he gets hard again, maybe harder than he’s ever been in his life, just from Sylar’s command.
Oh, he needs - he needs. He needs Sylar inside him, now, or he might die from the emptiness, the lack inside his body that he’s never known before. He aches for it, hungers so badly, and yet he can wait, he can pull back and hold on because Sylar will give it to him, Sylar will give him what he needs, so long as Mohinder trusts and surrenders and gives Sylar his faith…
“That’s right,” Sylar tells him, soft and sure as Mohinder’s control dissolves, “don’t fight, it’ll be fine, don’t fight.”
Mohinder twists up against Sylar, in a wordless plea, but Sylar doesn’t give him what he needs, doesn’t do anything but watch with dark eyes and turn up the sensation, intensify it again and again until Mohinder can’t even hold himself up, he’s so helpless, so overcome.
And finally, Mohinder goes still, tense and on the edge, on the very edge - but he won’t go over, not until Sylar wants him to.
Sylar holds him steady, with a kiss to Mohinder’s cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” Sylar confides, his voice low.
Mohinder shivers, and Sylar shifts them, so that Mohinder is above him, and he lets Mohinder sink, so slowly, onto his erection.
This doesn’t burn, doesn’t hurt at all. Sylar has conquered all his resistance already. There’s nothing left to fight, no hurt left for Mohinder to call his own. Sylar has taken that away from him, too, he’s taken everything…
At Mohinder’s hesitation, the desire flares, burns within him even brighter, and Mohinder succumbs, letting Sylar urge him into motion, into a lazy pace, each stroke long, deep inside. It feels odd, somehow, different than anything Mohinder has experienced before - it’s like there’s an undercurrent of emotion that Mohinder can’t quite sense, can’t quite feel, drowned out over the tumult of his own want. But then, he realizes it isn’t drowned out at all, it’s just so subtle, so invasive he couldn’t even see it - Sylar is sharing his own sensation with Mohinder, his own want, his fierce and obsessive lust.
With a cry, Mohinder climaxes, even more intensely than before, and Sylar does, too - Mohinder feels it, and he experiences it, and he experiences his own, all at the same time. It’s all too much, and when Sylar cradles Mohinder in his arms, easing his strained muscles, soothing him, Mohinder lets go. Sobs, really, but not from grief or despair, just from an intensity of emotion that he has no capacity to control or suppress.
Finally, Mohinder is spent, and he curls, exhausted and docile, into Sylar’s chest.
He still might be able to escape, he knows, might even be able to get close to Sylar and kill him -
Sylar tenses, very subtly, but Mohinder notices. Sylar is in his head, listening to his thoughts. And that? That’s fine, because Mohinder doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want to hurt Sylar. He could stay here forever.
Sylar strokes his cheek, gentle, like Mohinder is delicate as glass and even easier to shatter. Mohinder closes his eyes, inhaling the musk, the sweat, the smells of sex, and beneath - something that’s all Sylar’s own.
After a time, he sleeps.