GUYS
I might maybe have spread joy but only by being a BAD BAD PERSON.
Over on the Heroes Kink Meme thread I might maybe have written some requests. Some very wrong requests.
Sylar/anyone, necrophilia.
(set in the five years gone universe)
He'd "borrowed" Nathan's body several times before finally catching up to the guy and taking him apart. It was worth it; the Petrellis had got in his way enough times that turning up on Nathan's doorstop, dressed in his body, decorated in that beautiful, fucked up little brother's come was pretty much the best part of that whole year.
Of course, once he'd taken on Nathan's powers - flying, how ironic given the firmly down to earth nature of the older Petrelli brother - it seemed a waste to just leave him there. That brain had rested in such a lovely shell; long eyelashes brushing against cheeks that refused to go entirely pale, even in death - frowning to the end, stoic through the pain - Sylar could never have resisted. And if he was the next stage of evolution, who was to say what was right or wrong anyhow?
Cooling legs parted easily after a few brief moments stretching them out to ease the rigormortis, strong thighs offering no resistance as Sylar slid in. He wondered whether it would have been better to have forced Nathan, felt him squirming, felt him fighting back - but then, he'd always liked the idea of dolls. Little people you could pull apart and stick back together and they worked just the same - or differently, if that was what you wanted.
He fucks Nathan at first, slows down until it's just sex after a while, then fucks him again; he could do what he wanted, could make illusions, could even get Peter over here fucking his brother's corpse without even knowing it if he wanted, but after he comes he's bored again. Just another corpse. Just another vessel, someone on the way to glory.
Even so, he doesn't burn this corpse or abandon it. He buries this one.
Isaac/any pairing, Isaac getting off on a painting.
While Isaac only ever gave away the one sketchbook, he'd had several when growing up. Generally when he drew the future, he'd never known what was going to come out - he just sketched or painted and it happened.
Even so, his teenage years seemed to have influenced what parts of the future he'd seen; sketches of himself with an amazonian queen, dark skin and fiery eyes, sketches of other people too; the indian gentleman made savage by the nightmare, the blonde twins in one body with the man who could shift through walls beneath them.
He remembers still the first sketch he ever got off to; two men, too similar though one was masculine angles with beautiful eyes, the other beautiful angles with masculine eyes, together, and he'd known it was secret, didn't know who they were but knew if they were found out then it would ruin them. He sketched both with women, threw out sketches of the beautiful-angled one with a woman too similar to the one in his self-portraits, but they kept coming back to each other over and over, desperate and clinging and lost in one another.
He'd stroked himself raw over that first picture of them, had started painting once before stalling, too aware that if they were real, if what he saw of them was real, this could ruin them if they ever found out. He didn't want to paint that; didn't want to paint a world where they could not be together in secret trysts where only Isaac could watch.
He'd burnt the scraps of painting, but had kept those sketches for himself.
Over on the Heroes Kink Meme thread I might maybe have written some requests. Some very wrong requests.
Sylar/anyone, necrophilia.
(set in the five years gone universe)
He'd "borrowed" Nathan's body several times before finally catching up to the guy and taking him apart. It was worth it; the Petrellis had got in his way enough times that turning up on Nathan's doorstop, dressed in his body, decorated in that beautiful, fucked up little brother's come was pretty much the best part of that whole year.
Of course, once he'd taken on Nathan's powers - flying, how ironic given the firmly down to earth nature of the older Petrelli brother - it seemed a waste to just leave him there. That brain had rested in such a lovely shell; long eyelashes brushing against cheeks that refused to go entirely pale, even in death - frowning to the end, stoic through the pain - Sylar could never have resisted. And if he was the next stage of evolution, who was to say what was right or wrong anyhow?
Cooling legs parted easily after a few brief moments stretching them out to ease the rigormortis, strong thighs offering no resistance as Sylar slid in. He wondered whether it would have been better to have forced Nathan, felt him squirming, felt him fighting back - but then, he'd always liked the idea of dolls. Little people you could pull apart and stick back together and they worked just the same - or differently, if that was what you wanted.
He fucks Nathan at first, slows down until it's just sex after a while, then fucks him again; he could do what he wanted, could make illusions, could even get Peter over here fucking his brother's corpse without even knowing it if he wanted, but after he comes he's bored again. Just another corpse. Just another vessel, someone on the way to glory.
Even so, he doesn't burn this corpse or abandon it. He buries this one.
Isaac/any pairing, Isaac getting off on a painting.
While Isaac only ever gave away the one sketchbook, he'd had several when growing up. Generally when he drew the future, he'd never known what was going to come out - he just sketched or painted and it happened.
Even so, his teenage years seemed to have influenced what parts of the future he'd seen; sketches of himself with an amazonian queen, dark skin and fiery eyes, sketches of other people too; the indian gentleman made savage by the nightmare, the blonde twins in one body with the man who could shift through walls beneath them.
He remembers still the first sketch he ever got off to; two men, too similar though one was masculine angles with beautiful eyes, the other beautiful angles with masculine eyes, together, and he'd known it was secret, didn't know who they were but knew if they were found out then it would ruin them. He sketched both with women, threw out sketches of the beautiful-angled one with a woman too similar to the one in his self-portraits, but they kept coming back to each other over and over, desperate and clinging and lost in one another.
He'd stroked himself raw over that first picture of them, had started painting once before stalling, too aware that if they were real, if what he saw of them was real, this could ruin them if they ever found out. He didn't want to paint that; didn't want to paint a world where they could not be together in secret trysts where only Isaac could watch.
He'd burnt the scraps of painting, but had kept those sketches for himself.