Break The Tension - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: Break The Tension
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2257
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Set in the For Them verse, a few months after Clash. Written with the 25fluffyfics 'Dinner' prompt.
Summary: "I promised," Sylar clarifies, his lips ghosting at the nape of Mohinder's neck, "That I wouldn't do this until you wanted it. So just tell me if you want it to stop."
He can feel it, Mohinder thinks as he sits in his kitchen alone. He can feel the electricity in the room and the hairs on his arms have stood on edge. It's quiet - if he was a fan of clichés he'd be inclined to call it 'too quiet' - and the ticking sound of the clock on the wall seems to dominate the entire apartment.
He eats quietly, barely able to taste the food in his mouth. He thinks it might be overcooked, possibly even burnt, but he can't pay attention. His grip on the fork is too tight as he warily looks around his apartment. Waiting like this is too difficult. "I know you're there," he calls out. If he's wrong about this, he has no one to look ridiculous to but himself.
The shadows swirl and Sylar steps from them. Like slow, deliberate gunshots, his footsteps cross the room until he takes a seat opposite Mohinder. The table is between them as a solid barrier, but it doesn't feel sturdy enough. Mohinder can feel the heat of Sylar's gaze on every inch of his body; no furniture could protect him from that.
He feels the betraying prickle of his skin as Sylar's eyes sweep over him - there are electric butterflies that spark in his stomach and his grip on his cutlery is tight enough to make his fingers ache.
"You know," Sylar says as he leans back, "You're getting harder to sneak up on."
Mohinder feels his heart buzzing too fast, that flash of adrenaline making him ill, but he tries to smile. "Perhaps you're simply getting worse at sneaking."
Sylar's eyes glint as he watches Mohinder and the smirk on his face is amused - amused but not dangerous, not tonight. That's certainly something new. "I doubt that," Sylar states. "I'm a master sneaker."
And this conversation is ridiculous, Mohinder thinks as he picks at his poor and lonely meal. Here he sits in an apartment he hates with a man he detests - do I? - as they talk about… about god knows what. Nonsense. It's beyond ridiculous, isn't it?
Yet Sylar keeps smiling and watching and he nods as he notices how Mohinder has paused. "Eat up," he advises. "Your food'll get cold."
Mohinder nods and does as he's told - because there's no other choice, not in this situation he's been forced into - and tries not to appear too on edge when Sylar stands again. The killer explores the apartment at a leisurely pace, even though he's been here a thousand times by now. The back of his hand would seem like a stranger compared to Mohinder's home, but he looks around anyway. He opens the cupboards and investigates the fridge and pokes around in the cutlery drawer.
"I'm going to spend the night," he announces as Mohinder finishes his meal and tries not to feel nauseous. "I'm in town for a few days."
A few days is too long - and Mohinder wants to demand to know who is targeted this time, who is losing their life because of this arrangement - but he's not allowed to argue or raise objections. "Of course," he agrees. "You know where the bedroom is."
Sylar's smile contains nothing but sin and darkness as he confirms that. The butterflies in Mohinder's stomach feel aggressive and mean: he looks down and is glad to have chores to focus his attention on.
*
Every second spent with Sylar in the apartment feels like an agonising eternity - but the hours where Sylar is out in the city, loose among the citizens, are so much worse. Mohinder's hand twitched by the phone: one call could have the police pouring in here by the time Sylar returned. He could do it as Sylar was sleeping, even, and get rid of him for good.
Yet he knows how that would play out. The police with their puny guns and bullets are no match for what Sylar could do - and Mohinder doesn't want to find out what will happen if he breaks the arrangement that he and Sylar have come to. He cares too much for his friends and Molly to put them in danger in any way.
So here he is, waiting in the tiger's den and feeling more helpless by the day. It's ridiculous, he thinks, what he'll allow himself to be subjected to. Ridiculous.
The rich scent of food in the oven is beginning to work its way through the air: it's a hideously bland dish and one that he would never make if he was by himself, but he knows it's Sylar's favourite - and it alarms him that that's a piece of trivia he'd ever bothered to learn. Sylar must be rooted into his life by now, buried down so deep that Mohinder wouldn't know where to start to try to get rid of him.
It's dark outside before Sylar walks back in with a grin on his face. He doesn't have a key but he doesn't need one; he never has, always able to waltz in with the aid of his stolen powers. That was one of the many deciding factors in why Mohinder had to leave Matt and Molly behind.
Mohinder tries not to pay attention to him as Sylar walks in. He remains by the kitchen sink instead, with water slopping around his hands. "Dinner's in the oven," he says, and he finds himself glad that Sylar is back this late - he won't have to sit and eat with him now, having already done so.
Sylar sidles into the kitchen but it's only when Mohinder feels him close behind him - too close, so close he can feel Sylar's breath on the back of his neck - that those alarm bells start ringing in his mind. Too late, he thinks as he feels Sylar's hands slip onto his hips, holding him there. "Sylar," he says strongly, because he won't show any weakness in his voice even as Sylar's thumb starts to stroke back and forth over his hipbone, "You said- You promised me that you wouldn't do this."
"I promised," Sylar clarifies, his lips ghosting at the nape of Mohinder's neck, "That I wouldn't do this until you wanted it."
And when Sylar's hand slides under Mohinder's shirt, his warm fingers tracing over his stomach, Mohinder knows what's coming next. He knows the question he'll have to answer. Once upon a time, a long while ago, it would have been an easy decision to make. He would have snarled at Sylar to get the hell away from him and to leave him alone - but now he can only feel the gentleness of Sylar's touch and it makes him shiver.
"So," Sylar says as his fingers skim over the waistband of Mohinder's trousers, "Just tell me if you want it to stop."
I should say something, Mohinder thinks as the top button of his trousers is slowly undone by determined fingers. He should turn around and shove Sylar away with every ounce of strength that he can muster. There are a thousand and one things that he should do - and not one of them include moaning quietly from the feeling of Sylar's lips against his neck.
Sylar chuckles at the sound and starts to peel away the zip. Mohinder's wet hands grip the edge of the sink now, holding on tightly as he tries to work up the will power to tell Sylar to stop. It shouldn't be this difficult - telling a murderer to get his hands off of him should be the easiest thing in the world, should come as an instinct.
Yet as Sylar's hand slips inside his underwear no words of protest sound. Instead he gasps as long fingers wrap around his hard cock. His body feels hot, every single inch of him, and he hears Sylar whispering words of encouragement by his ear. Sylar's hand on him is all he can think about, barely paying attention to the other arm around his waist to hold him or the gentle tone of Sylar's voice.
Even through the haze that Sylar's hand has put him into, he can feel the hardness against his ass as Sylar rubs against him. He moans again, almost choking on the sound; this shouldn't feel so good. It shouldn't turn him on so much.
"You want this, don't you?" Sylar whispers softly to him, his thumb twirling slowly over the top of Mohinder's erection as if he's purposefully trying to drive him mad. "You want me?"
A whimper is ripped from Mohinder's mouth but he can't force himself to say anything more than that: he can't say what he knows Sylar wants to hear. He can't give up this final barrier. He has so little left to hold onto. Everything he owns, everything he has, is now Sylar's - he should be allowed to cling onto his modesty, his integrity, his body, but…
Sylar's hand on him feels so very good, and it's been such a long time since anyone touched him like this, so long since he's allowed anyone to. Science had always seemed more important, and after so long engrossed in his work he'd hardly seemed to even miss the touch of another human being. He'd forgotten how good it feels to connect.
Sylar's breath is warm by his neck and his hand slides over Mohinder's flesh with skilled ease. Mohinder's hand is trembling by now and the heat overriding his body is starting to take over: all that he can feel is this, all he can think about is Sylar, all he can do is surrender entirely. Is it so much worse than his previous submissions? Is allowing Sylar to touch him like this worse than allowing him into his apartment, worse than feeding him, worse than helping him? Which is greater?
He can hear his pulse thudding so loudly and every breath is now accompanied by a soft whimper, a wordless plea for Sylar to continue.
"Please," Sylar whispers by Mohinder's ear. His lips brush softly against his skin, tickling like butterfly feet. "Tell me you want this. Tell me." He presses his lips to the dip behind Mohinder's ear lobe, and he laughs quietly - he almost sounds innocent, Mohinder thinks as his eyes fall shut. "I want to hear you say it, really say it."
Sylar's hand has slowed to a pace on his cock that feels like torture. Mohinder half-closes his eyes and there's some part of him that wants to give in: he wants to moan and beg like a bought whore for Sylar. He could do anything ask for him as long as Sylar doesn't stop, as long as he speeds up again, as long as he continues pushing Mohinder steadily towards that white-out of orgasm that he can feel on the horizon, but-
There's always a 'but'.
There's always his pride, there's always his morals, there's always his dignity.
He curses himself as his breath catches in his throat, but he has to do this. "No," he whispers - and that one word makes this entire situation fracture and break apart. Sylar freezes for moments that seem to last lifetimes, before his tongue clicks against his teeth in annoyance.
Mohinder's heart races as he imagines the violence that might be about to break out - what form would a tantrum take when it had telekinesis and so many other weapons at its disposal? - but Sylar grumbles in annoyance and pulls away sharply. Mohinder's back feels cool once it's relieved from the oppressive heat of Sylar's body pressed tight against him. The water in the sink is cold by now and Sylar seems to make the entire kitchen rattle as he moves away from Mohinder. He kneels down in front of the oven and rescues the meal that had been keeping warm in there.
"You should go to bed," he says without looking back to Mohinder. "Now. Go to your room, get into bed, and go to sleep."
It's only the early evening and Mohinder is far from tired, but he knows an order - and a concealed threat - when he hears it. His hands fumble with the zip and button of his trousers as he hastens to cover himself up again, shame searing through his conscience. This place and the situation he's trapped in is driving him mad. That's the only explanation that he can see.
He drains the water from the sink and does as he's told: there's no other choice for him, not any more. He crosses the apartment with his shoulders slumped and his traitorous cock still hard within the confines of his trousers. If it would only disappear, he thinks he might be able to hide from the worst of the horror that claws at him when he thinks of what he nearly submitted to, but the memory of how Sylar's hand had felt upon him keeps him hard and wanting.
"Mohinder?" Sylar says - quietly but with such strength laced through his voice - and his words root Mohinder's feet to the spot even with his hand on the bedroom door. Sylar pauses, waits, lets the dread stretch out, before he forces a smirk and says, "Wear your collar."
Mohinder's blood boils: he has to bite on the tip of his tongue to stop any curses from spilling forth in Sylar's direction. He swallows down that hatred and forces himself to nod in acceptance. Trapped as always by the consequences of his choices, he pushes open the bedroom door and is glad to leave Sylar behind for the night.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 2257
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Set in the For Them verse, a few months after Clash. Written with the 25fluffyfics 'Dinner' prompt.
Summary: "I promised," Sylar clarifies, his lips ghosting at the nape of Mohinder's neck, "That I wouldn't do this until you wanted it. So just tell me if you want it to stop."
He can feel it, Mohinder thinks as he sits in his kitchen alone. He can feel the electricity in the room and the hairs on his arms have stood on edge. It's quiet - if he was a fan of clichés he'd be inclined to call it 'too quiet' - and the ticking sound of the clock on the wall seems to dominate the entire apartment.
He eats quietly, barely able to taste the food in his mouth. He thinks it might be overcooked, possibly even burnt, but he can't pay attention. His grip on the fork is too tight as he warily looks around his apartment. Waiting like this is too difficult. "I know you're there," he calls out. If he's wrong about this, he has no one to look ridiculous to but himself.
The shadows swirl and Sylar steps from them. Like slow, deliberate gunshots, his footsteps cross the room until he takes a seat opposite Mohinder. The table is between them as a solid barrier, but it doesn't feel sturdy enough. Mohinder can feel the heat of Sylar's gaze on every inch of his body; no furniture could protect him from that.
He feels the betraying prickle of his skin as Sylar's eyes sweep over him - there are electric butterflies that spark in his stomach and his grip on his cutlery is tight enough to make his fingers ache.
"You know," Sylar says as he leans back, "You're getting harder to sneak up on."
Mohinder feels his heart buzzing too fast, that flash of adrenaline making him ill, but he tries to smile. "Perhaps you're simply getting worse at sneaking."
Sylar's eyes glint as he watches Mohinder and the smirk on his face is amused - amused but not dangerous, not tonight. That's certainly something new. "I doubt that," Sylar states. "I'm a master sneaker."
And this conversation is ridiculous, Mohinder thinks as he picks at his poor and lonely meal. Here he sits in an apartment he hates with a man he detests - do I? - as they talk about… about god knows what. Nonsense. It's beyond ridiculous, isn't it?
Yet Sylar keeps smiling and watching and he nods as he notices how Mohinder has paused. "Eat up," he advises. "Your food'll get cold."
Mohinder nods and does as he's told - because there's no other choice, not in this situation he's been forced into - and tries not to appear too on edge when Sylar stands again. The killer explores the apartment at a leisurely pace, even though he's been here a thousand times by now. The back of his hand would seem like a stranger compared to Mohinder's home, but he looks around anyway. He opens the cupboards and investigates the fridge and pokes around in the cutlery drawer.
"I'm going to spend the night," he announces as Mohinder finishes his meal and tries not to feel nauseous. "I'm in town for a few days."
A few days is too long - and Mohinder wants to demand to know who is targeted this time, who is losing their life because of this arrangement - but he's not allowed to argue or raise objections. "Of course," he agrees. "You know where the bedroom is."
Sylar's smile contains nothing but sin and darkness as he confirms that. The butterflies in Mohinder's stomach feel aggressive and mean: he looks down and is glad to have chores to focus his attention on.
*
Every second spent with Sylar in the apartment feels like an agonising eternity - but the hours where Sylar is out in the city, loose among the citizens, are so much worse. Mohinder's hand twitched by the phone: one call could have the police pouring in here by the time Sylar returned. He could do it as Sylar was sleeping, even, and get rid of him for good.
Yet he knows how that would play out. The police with their puny guns and bullets are no match for what Sylar could do - and Mohinder doesn't want to find out what will happen if he breaks the arrangement that he and Sylar have come to. He cares too much for his friends and Molly to put them in danger in any way.
So here he is, waiting in the tiger's den and feeling more helpless by the day. It's ridiculous, he thinks, what he'll allow himself to be subjected to. Ridiculous.
The rich scent of food in the oven is beginning to work its way through the air: it's a hideously bland dish and one that he would never make if he was by himself, but he knows it's Sylar's favourite - and it alarms him that that's a piece of trivia he'd ever bothered to learn. Sylar must be rooted into his life by now, buried down so deep that Mohinder wouldn't know where to start to try to get rid of him.
It's dark outside before Sylar walks back in with a grin on his face. He doesn't have a key but he doesn't need one; he never has, always able to waltz in with the aid of his stolen powers. That was one of the many deciding factors in why Mohinder had to leave Matt and Molly behind.
Mohinder tries not to pay attention to him as Sylar walks in. He remains by the kitchen sink instead, with water slopping around his hands. "Dinner's in the oven," he says, and he finds himself glad that Sylar is back this late - he won't have to sit and eat with him now, having already done so.
Sylar sidles into the kitchen but it's only when Mohinder feels him close behind him - too close, so close he can feel Sylar's breath on the back of his neck - that those alarm bells start ringing in his mind. Too late, he thinks as he feels Sylar's hands slip onto his hips, holding him there. "Sylar," he says strongly, because he won't show any weakness in his voice even as Sylar's thumb starts to stroke back and forth over his hipbone, "You said- You promised me that you wouldn't do this."
"I promised," Sylar clarifies, his lips ghosting at the nape of Mohinder's neck, "That I wouldn't do this until you wanted it."
And when Sylar's hand slides under Mohinder's shirt, his warm fingers tracing over his stomach, Mohinder knows what's coming next. He knows the question he'll have to answer. Once upon a time, a long while ago, it would have been an easy decision to make. He would have snarled at Sylar to get the hell away from him and to leave him alone - but now he can only feel the gentleness of Sylar's touch and it makes him shiver.
"So," Sylar says as his fingers skim over the waistband of Mohinder's trousers, "Just tell me if you want it to stop."
I should say something, Mohinder thinks as the top button of his trousers is slowly undone by determined fingers. He should turn around and shove Sylar away with every ounce of strength that he can muster. There are a thousand and one things that he should do - and not one of them include moaning quietly from the feeling of Sylar's lips against his neck.
Sylar chuckles at the sound and starts to peel away the zip. Mohinder's wet hands grip the edge of the sink now, holding on tightly as he tries to work up the will power to tell Sylar to stop. It shouldn't be this difficult - telling a murderer to get his hands off of him should be the easiest thing in the world, should come as an instinct.
Yet as Sylar's hand slips inside his underwear no words of protest sound. Instead he gasps as long fingers wrap around his hard cock. His body feels hot, every single inch of him, and he hears Sylar whispering words of encouragement by his ear. Sylar's hand on him is all he can think about, barely paying attention to the other arm around his waist to hold him or the gentle tone of Sylar's voice.
Even through the haze that Sylar's hand has put him into, he can feel the hardness against his ass as Sylar rubs against him. He moans again, almost choking on the sound; this shouldn't feel so good. It shouldn't turn him on so much.
"You want this, don't you?" Sylar whispers softly to him, his thumb twirling slowly over the top of Mohinder's erection as if he's purposefully trying to drive him mad. "You want me?"
A whimper is ripped from Mohinder's mouth but he can't force himself to say anything more than that: he can't say what he knows Sylar wants to hear. He can't give up this final barrier. He has so little left to hold onto. Everything he owns, everything he has, is now Sylar's - he should be allowed to cling onto his modesty, his integrity, his body, but…
Sylar's hand on him feels so very good, and it's been such a long time since anyone touched him like this, so long since he's allowed anyone to. Science had always seemed more important, and after so long engrossed in his work he'd hardly seemed to even miss the touch of another human being. He'd forgotten how good it feels to connect.
Sylar's breath is warm by his neck and his hand slides over Mohinder's flesh with skilled ease. Mohinder's hand is trembling by now and the heat overriding his body is starting to take over: all that he can feel is this, all he can think about is Sylar, all he can do is surrender entirely. Is it so much worse than his previous submissions? Is allowing Sylar to touch him like this worse than allowing him into his apartment, worse than feeding him, worse than helping him? Which is greater?
He can hear his pulse thudding so loudly and every breath is now accompanied by a soft whimper, a wordless plea for Sylar to continue.
"Please," Sylar whispers by Mohinder's ear. His lips brush softly against his skin, tickling like butterfly feet. "Tell me you want this. Tell me." He presses his lips to the dip behind Mohinder's ear lobe, and he laughs quietly - he almost sounds innocent, Mohinder thinks as his eyes fall shut. "I want to hear you say it, really say it."
Sylar's hand has slowed to a pace on his cock that feels like torture. Mohinder half-closes his eyes and there's some part of him that wants to give in: he wants to moan and beg like a bought whore for Sylar. He could do anything ask for him as long as Sylar doesn't stop, as long as he speeds up again, as long as he continues pushing Mohinder steadily towards that white-out of orgasm that he can feel on the horizon, but-
There's always a 'but'.
There's always his pride, there's always his morals, there's always his dignity.
He curses himself as his breath catches in his throat, but he has to do this. "No," he whispers - and that one word makes this entire situation fracture and break apart. Sylar freezes for moments that seem to last lifetimes, before his tongue clicks against his teeth in annoyance.
Mohinder's heart races as he imagines the violence that might be about to break out - what form would a tantrum take when it had telekinesis and so many other weapons at its disposal? - but Sylar grumbles in annoyance and pulls away sharply. Mohinder's back feels cool once it's relieved from the oppressive heat of Sylar's body pressed tight against him. The water in the sink is cold by now and Sylar seems to make the entire kitchen rattle as he moves away from Mohinder. He kneels down in front of the oven and rescues the meal that had been keeping warm in there.
"You should go to bed," he says without looking back to Mohinder. "Now. Go to your room, get into bed, and go to sleep."
It's only the early evening and Mohinder is far from tired, but he knows an order - and a concealed threat - when he hears it. His hands fumble with the zip and button of his trousers as he hastens to cover himself up again, shame searing through his conscience. This place and the situation he's trapped in is driving him mad. That's the only explanation that he can see.
He drains the water from the sink and does as he's told: there's no other choice for him, not any more. He crosses the apartment with his shoulders slumped and his traitorous cock still hard within the confines of his trousers. If it would only disappear, he thinks he might be able to hide from the worst of the horror that claws at him when he thinks of what he nearly submitted to, but the memory of how Sylar's hand had felt upon him keeps him hard and wanting.
"Mohinder?" Sylar says - quietly but with such strength laced through his voice - and his words root Mohinder's feet to the spot even with his hand on the bedroom door. Sylar pauses, waits, lets the dread stretch out, before he forces a smirk and says, "Wear your collar."
Mohinder's blood boils: he has to bite on the tip of his tongue to stop any curses from spilling forth in Sylar's direction. He swallows down that hatred and forces himself to nod in acceptance. Trapped as always by the consequences of his choices, he pushes open the bedroom door and is glad to leave Sylar behind for the night.