Waiting At Your Door - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: Waiting At Your Door
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 6460
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the mature_heroes Alternate Universe challenge, with the 25fluffyfics 'sunset' prompt, because there can never be enough vampire!AUs in the world.
Warnings: dub-con/non-con
Summary: In a world where Mohinder found his father murdered with a vampire bite on his neck, every night he hides as the monster in the dark waits to take him next.
Outside of the window, the last strands of daylight are beginning to fade out of sight. Mohinder Suresh sits in his cage-like house and watches them go: he knows what the darkness will bring. There was a time when he had the luxury of ignorance, a time long ago when vampires were nothing but fiction to him and he had no reason to dread the night. There was a time that his father lived in this house - a house full of books and spells and tradition.
Yet that time has passed, punctuated by the body found on the floor two months ago with a bite mark on its neck. By the time Mohinder had found it, that corpse had looked nothing like his father, nothing like the stern and brilliant man who had absently helped to raise him. It had been broken.
Watching from the window, Mohinder wonders how long it will be until his fate is the same. The house is protected with crosses and holy water and salt around the doorways and windows: old superstitions dictated by the books that his father lovingly collected, but so far they have worked. The creature hasn't crossed the threshold, not physically, not yet. Just his voice…
God, his voice.
Mohinder clings on tightly to the wooden stake in his hands, but he won't use it tonight. The problem with vampires, he thinks, is how close to them you have to get in order to destroy them. With limited supplies, there is no way to fight back from a distance - and Mohinder has little doubt that he would be killed before he'd taken even one full step over the threshold.
Outside, the last remnants of sunlight fade. He pulls the curtains shut decisively and blocks out the night, but that thin material won't protect him from what is to come. Stepping away from the window, he moves to the stairway instead, sitting down upon one of the steps as he watches the front door warily. Any second now, he thinks, Any second now.
Three minutes and twenty-four seconds after the sun has set, the knock on his front door sounds. Mohinder's hand tightens on the wood he's holding, and he checks his neck for the chain that holds a cross he doesn't believe in. He's as protected as he can be, but that knocking continues all the same.
Yet the knocking is the best part of the night. What comes after that-
"Mohinder," the voice sing-songs through the door. It sounds amused, like this is nothing more than a game. "Aren't you going to let me in, Mohinder?" A belt of chuckling laughter follows those words, but Mohinder doesn't answer. He stares at the door instead, able to hear as Sylar drags his fingernails down the front of it.
The door has held fast against the vampire for two months now: yet Mohinder always has to fear that this night is the night it will give in. If Sylar gets over the threshold, he shudders to think of the horrors he will bring with him. He still remembers the way his father's eyes had been frozen open in fear when he'd found his body. A shiver runs down his spine at the thought.
"I can hear you in there," Sylar calls. The smile is still in his voice, but Mohinder has no doubts that before the sun rises again it will have given away to frustration and anger. "I can hear your heart beat - so fast, Mohinder. Are you scared? Scared of me?" He pauses: Mohinder can imagine the way he runs his tongue over his canines in anticipation. "I have to say that's quite the turn-on."
He doesn't want to answer back - he wishes that he could sit here and ignore him - but Sylar by now knows exactly how to get a rise out of him. "Will you just leave me alone?" he snaps, the words pouring from him like boiling water.
And there's that laugh again, that chuckle. "Nice to hear your voice," Sylar says. He has no intention on leaving until Mohinder is dead, and they both know it. "I hate that silent treatment you always try out. It's pretty juvenile, isn't it? The nights go much faster when you decide to talk to me."
Mohinder bites his tongue and says no more, but that doesn't stop him.
"It'd go even faster if you'd come out here and see me. Just open the door, Mohinder. We both know you want to."
There's a part of him that does, Mohinder thinks when he clutches so tightly to the stake in his hand. There's a part of him that longs for this to be over: he could hope that Sylar would make it a fast death, a painless one, but he knows that won't be the case. After these months playing this waiting game with him, Sylar will want to draw it out, make it last.
Sylar's voice slips through the doorway like honey. "Just open the door - let me see you again," he says, temptation threaded through every word. Mohinder has done his research: and he knows better than to let himself come face to face with this vampire again. Hypnotic properties linger in a vampire's stare. He can't let himself fall victim to that.
Sylar stays until an hour before dawn, as he always does.
Mohinder sits on the stairs all night, listening to that voice entice him out while waiting desperately for the sun to rise and rescue him.
*
He sleeps through the morning, catching well-earned rest. There are times when he considers leaving this town, but he could never get far enough: Sylar will follow him, he's certain of that. At least in this house, he knows he's secure. Salt, crosses, holy water, everything proscribed by the old myths. This house is as boarded up mystically as a prison is physically: he's safe here, or as safe as he can hope to be.
The fridge is bare when he comes down at midday, so he eats his cereal dry and makes a mental note to run out to the corner shop tomorrow. He doesn't like to leave this place too long, even when he knows that Sylar could not be out there. This is his safety, his fortress. The idea that a ten-minute trip to buy supplies could be the death of him is ridiculous, but Mohinder has come to accept that he's better off paranoid than dead. Every little precaution helps to keep Sylar at bay. One slip up, that's all it would take. One over-sight, one mistake, and then-
No, he decides as he places his spoon down in his bowl. No, he is not going to think about that today. The sun is shining and the day is warm and he doesn't want to think of the fate that stalks him. He finishes his breakfast watching the midday sun in the sky outside his kitchen window, dreaming of a day that this will all be over. He longs to return to his simple life in India, but there's no way unless Sylar is dead. He'd never make it to the airport.
He does the dishes, he tidies the house, he checks the defences, and he reads through more of his father's discoveries on vampire lore - searching desperately for a way to get out of this mess.
As he reads the pages written in his father's neat hand, he tries not to let his mind wander to the vampire that hunts him at night. He can still remember the first night he'd come face-to-face with Sylar, not truly realising at the time what he was facing. He'd been running to the police station, his mind too scattered to think to make a phone call to report his father's death. Head down he'd barrelled into a stranger's chest - he mustn't have been looking where he was going. Supernaturally strong hands had grabbed his arms to keep him from falling, and that voice had been there to soothe his panic.
Sylar talks about it, sometimes. As Mohinder sits on the stairs inside, Sylar will stand on the other side of the door and tell him how that night he could taste the fear on the air as he grabbed hold of him: he says that it was when Mohinder looked up at him, panic and strength warring on his face, that he decided he wanted him.
If I'd just phoned, Mohinder thinks sometimes. If I'd taken another route…
So many what-ifs, so many other possible fates for him. He could be back home right now, if he'd made it to the police station uninterrupted. Instead he's caged in, engaged in a dangerous waiting game with a creature that wants him dead. Every night that he survives through feels like an achievement, but it's not enough.
He doesn't know how much longer he can continue to go on like this.
He reads the pages of his father's notes in the dire search for a sign, a way out of this, as the sun begins its slow descent from the sky.
*
Every night is the same: it surprises him that Sylar doesn't get bored. He knows he has. "Don't you have anything better to do?" he sighs wearily one night.
His question is greeted by a low chuckle from the other side of the door. "Nothing that can't wait," Sylar answers. "I'm immortal, Mohinder - I can do this for years if I have to. Can you?"
Years. Years trapped in this standoff. Mohinder feels as if he's going insane just from the few months they've spent locked like this. There has to be a way out. There has to be an escape, but so far it has easily evaded him. "What's the point?" he says back, though he ought to keep silent. So far he's been working by that school time logic: if you ignore the bullies, they'll go away.
It doesn't seem to be working.
"I'm not sure yet," Sylar muses. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do once I get across the threshold."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you don't want me to be." Sylar laughs and his hand thumps against a protected door that will not give way. "Because the night I met you I decided I was going to taste you - and this chase just makes the wait all the sweeter."
Mohinder's stomach churns and he feels the uncontrollable swell of fear and rage within him. Helplessness and ineptitude rule equally. He stands from where he sits on the stairs, the same step every night holding the same weapon and thinking the same thoughts. This is pointless: he could grow old like this, hiding in his house, but he won't let himself succumb.
No. Not him. Not any more. His eyes lock onto the door and he storms forward to it - he'll open it, face Sylar, and stake the demon before he even knows what's hit him - but when his hand touches the door-handle he realises that Sylar has stopped speaking. He pauses, uncertain.
"C'mon, Mohinder," Sylar calls through the door. "You're not just going to tease me, are you?" On the other side of the door, he can feel Sylar's presence, pressed close as he waits for Mohinder to turn the handle out of a hasty mix of pride and frustration. "Why don't you get it over with? All this waiting - and for what? What are you proving? To who?"
"You'll kill me," Mohinder whispers: any human wouldn't be able to hear the words.
"No. No, you've got it all wrong. What I offer isn't death… It is so much more than that. It can be anything you want it to be." Sylar's voice wraps around him like temptation itself. "Anything, Mohinder. Anything you want. All you have to do is open this door. That's all."
His hand still clings tightly to the door handle, as he wars with himself on whether to give in, give up, or step away from the door and keep fighting until he simply can't any more.
"Just open it," Sylar says. "That's all you have to do, then this is over. Don't you want it to be over?"
And he does, he does so badly, but he knows that his definition of 'over' doesn't match up with Sylar's. His fingers feel stiff from gripping too long and too tightly, but he forces himself to release his hold on the handle. The movement is slow and he takes a step back to try and clear his head.
When Sylar realises what he's done, he slams his palm against the door so hard that it rattles in its frame. "Damn it!" he yells. "Mohinder. Get back here. Get back here."
Mohinder's hand is trembling as he resumes his position on the stairs and takes one deep breath.
He's not ready to give up.
Not yet.
*
He wakes up with a stiff neck and stretches on the bed: it takes him twenty-three minutes of staring at the digital clock on his bedside table to convince himself that he needs to get up. He wishes he could hide under the covers forever, as if all of this might eventually go away.
Milk, he remembers as he gets changed into a clean set of clothes. He'll make a list of supplies, he decides. No doubts he's beginning to run out of all sorts by now. If he can get everything during one rushed trip before sundown, then that'll be that alarming chore completed. He won't need to run back and forth for the next few weeks.
It's wonderful to be outside again when he steps over the threshold. It's cold enough that he should possibly have brought a jacket, and a faint breeze tugs at the black curls of his hair. He smiles and breathes deeply, before he turns to lock the front door behind him.
When he starts the walk into the small town, he feels giddy when a fellow pedestrian smiles at him. It's an absent gesture - he doubts they're even paying attention - but it's human contact and that's worth the world. As always, his thoughts roam to the idea of going for help. Perhaps the police would be able to do…
Do what?
How could a human police force even begin to think about taking on the supernatural? Even Mohinder didn't know the full extent of the abilities that Sylar had picked up during the long centuries of his life. They wouldn't stand a chance and they wouldn't listen to his warnings: they'd be dead in seconds and Sylar wouldn't have a single scratch on him. Mohinder would be luring them to their deaths, and there is no way that his conscience is equipped to handle that burden.
No, he reaffirms as he watches the ground as he walks, I'm on my own for this. Perhaps if he could get in touch with someone that already knew about these dark creatures - perhaps if he could contact someone with experience at hunting them, then-
He's allowing himself to drift into fiction, to think of Van Helsings and other tempting heroes. It won't happen. If anyone is to get him out of this mess, it has to be him - he can't rely on any outside source of help. No one but himself. A lonely battle, but he'll get through it. He just needs a plan.
Inside the small grocery shop, he grabs a basket and slowly works through his list of items that need replenishing. The shop smells of fresh produce and near the back the scent of baking bread wraps around him like a warm blanket on his shoulders. He almost feels guilty for spurning those items when he picks up the cans and frozen food instead: it's easier to store for longer.
The cashier smiles at him as she rings through his purchases, and chats blandly about the weather outside. Mohinder responds enthusiastically - to be talking with someone other that Sylar, to hear a voice that doesn't ring with supernatural temptation, it's like music. "You take care of yourself," she says quietly as she hands him his bags of groceries. She won't meet his eyes.
Mohinder leaves with a distracted smile, his shoulders hunched as he retraces his steps back to his father's old home. He doesn't need to make a stop at the local church to collect holy water - what the priest there thinks of him, he has no idea - as he knows he stocked up well enough last time. There are still two hours before the sun begins to set, but he'd like to be safely locked away before that. Just in case.
As he turns the corner to approach his lonely home, his heart nearly stops in his chest: there are people outside his door.
Two men. Big, tall - one of them appears to have a moustache. Mohinder takes this as a bad omen, almost as bad as the tool kit they have with them and the way they are laughing together as they tamper with the door's lock. One of them appears to be blowing a hair-dryer below the door frame, scattering the lines of salt Mohinder has prepared there. Still holding his grocery bags, Mohinder moves forward though he's certain he should run away.
"What are you doing?" he asks, anger bursting from his mouth.
The men turn to look at him and they grin. It's an ugly expression, causing Mohinder to take a step back. "We got an emergency call-out for the locks," the taller one says. His eyes seem almost black. "Almost done."
"This is my house," Mohinder says - but he doesn't think they care. They aren't ordinary locksmiths, are they? Sylar's stamp is all over them. "You can't- You can't do this. You…"
One of them starts to walk forward until the other places a strong hand on his chest to stop him. They stay grinning, like grotesque and off-duty clowns. "You might want to start running, kid," they warn, with a rumbling laugh. "Sun down's coming soon."
Mohinder looks to the sky, to the sun, then to his watch - and this smirking man is right. There's still some time, but how can it be enough? He doesn't even know what to do now. The men stay in front of the doorway with their arms crossed over their chests like bouncers. That place is no longer safe. He needs to find somewhere secure, he needs to find somewhere to spend the night, he needs to find somewhere to hide.
And there's a time limit now. If he's still out in the open when the sun sets-
He drops his bags to the ground. Before they land with a thud, he's already on the move: running as fast as he can, though he doesn't know where to.
*
Too much time is wasted panicking - and he ends up in a church, sitting in a pew with his hands crossed in his lap. The sun still shines through the stained glass windows, but it won't for much longer. Already the sky is painted with warm reds and oranges. Soon it will be completely black with only the stars and the moon to hold back the darkness.
His breath shivers and he finds himself feeling ill. There are too many shadows in this empty place. Small candles flicker by the doorway: the doors have been locked for the night. Mohinder had to keep himself hidden as the priest prepared to leave. He isn't sure if this ground will offer enough protection for the night, but it's all he has. If this doesn't work- If Sylar makes it through the doors-
The what-ifs continue to haunt his mind in an unending spiral. His hands grasp tightly together and he tries to keep breathing steadily. His heart is beating too quickly: he needs to make himself calm down, because he knows that it excites Sylar to hear his pulse so scared. He feels sick at the thought.
Outside, the sun falls from the sky as if injured. The church languishes in final darkness: Mohinder's breath is loud and accompanied by the gradual creaking of an ancient building.
He waits. His palms sweat and he waits in the darkness for evil to come.
Maybe he won't find me, Mohinder thinks hopefully. Maybe I'm hidden.
And maybe the past months never happened and maybe this is all a dream and maybe life is perfect and maybe he really is as naïve as his father used to tell him - a naïve dreamer ignorant of the world. This has been an education for him, a drop into the deep end as he's left to fend for himself. He's survived for months by himself while being hunted by a monster. That should be an achievement, but sitting in the dark he feels like a failure. He wishes he had a torch, a light, a single speck of hope.
He doesn't hear the door opening.
He doesn't hear the footsteps that must fall on the stone floor.
And he doesn't sense Sylar beside him until a hand closes on top of his own.
He startles, muscles tensing and blood rushing as he tries to yank away - but Sylar's hand is like steel on top of his. In the faint moonlight through coloured glass he can see the glint from Sylar's fangs as he smiles. Sylar's hand shifts to his wrist to clamp him there as the other hand gentle brushes a black curl from Mohinder's forehead. "Caught you," Sylar whispers gleefully, as Mohinder continues to try to escape. It's fruitless, pointless and foolish, but he can't bring himself to stop trying.
Can't look into his eyes, he reminds himself as he looks the other way instead. One look and he's gone, he knows that, but Sylar's hand is so tight around his wrist and his fingers have plunged into Mohinder's hair to stroke it gently. It should make him feel ill, but Mohinder finds a cold-hot shiver spinning down his spine.
"Let me go," he insists through gritted teeth.
He's greeted with a chuckle, a sound he's heard through the safety of a door a thousand times in his lifetime. It's warm, and its familiarity is almost comforting. He can nearly forget that Sylar is a monster who probably wants nothing more than to kill him. The hand on his wrist is almost ice-cold.
"Why a church, Mohinder?" Sylar asks curiously. He doesn't bother to respond to Mohinder's plea for release, his beg for mercy. "Did you really think this old building would defend you?"
"Holy water," Mohinder whispers, "And the crosses - they worked. They…"
"It was the salt," Sylar says. His finger traces down the line of Mohinder's jaw like a drop from an ice cube. "Not these superstitions. You'd have been better off hiding in the sea." He laughs again, and brushes at the soft hair by Mohinder's ear. His cool touch leaves Mohinder's mouth feeling dry. "It's better that it worked out like this though, isn't it? Aren't you glad to finally be done with hiding?"
And he is, god help him, he is. When Sylar's supernatural grip on his wrist is used to draw him tight against his side, Mohinder hardly resists at all. "What now?" he asks. His voice rasps, barely above a whisper. The fear is so blatant. "What are you going to-"
He's silenced when Sylar's finger rests against his lips. "Don't worry," he whispers. "It won't hurt. Whatever I do to you, it won't hurt. You should trust me."
It's Mohinder's turn to laugh now, dry and empty. Sylar's finger against his lips angles to dig his nail into the soft flesh instead, not enough to break the skin but enough to make his breath catch in pain and fear. "Listen, Mohinder," he explains patiently. "I've played along with your little game for long enough now. You've hidden, I've waited, and now I've won. That means you lost - and that means you have to behave now. Am I clear?" His lips press against Mohinder's forehead. From anyone else, that would have been soothing.
His grip on Mohinder's wrist is still unbreakable, but by now Mohinder has stopped struggling. Mere strength and attempted brute force won't get him free: not when Sylar is so much stronger and faster than him. He won't escape if he panics. "You don't need to be scared," Sylar whispers. This time Mohinder fights not to laugh. "I can take care of you - just look up."
Up into his eyes, relinquishing all control and saying goodbye to all fear. His heart won't hammer and he won't feel ill and he'll welcome death, not run from it. Mohinder shakes his head and looks down at Sylar's hand on his wrist instead. He can't do this. He can't knowingly surrender.
"You don't want to?" Sylar says. "It would make this so much easier for you."
"You think I want this to be 'easy'?" Mohinder snaps. His voice echoes in the gloomy shadows of the church. "Just do it," he says. "Just kill me and get it over with."
Sylar stays smiling, and he leans in closer to Mohinder until he can feel the brush of undead, unnecessary breath against his neck. His eyes screw shut in fear as he hears the sound of Sylar inhaling deeply as his lips brush over the pulse point of his neck. With his wrist still tightly captured, Sylar's other hand moves to the back of his head and threads through his curls, holding him still. Lips press to his neck and he feels the wet touch of Sylar's tongue. Any second now, any single second, he knows he will feel the sharp pain as his fangs puncture the skin as death finally welcomes him. He shudders with fear as the anticipation builds.
Yet it doesn't come.
Sylar licks a clean line up to his ear and whispers, "Whoever said I wanted to kill you? If it was just a quick meal I was after, do you think I would have chased you around all this time when I could have simply grabbed someone off the street?"
It's a fair point, Mohinder thinks, but it's impossible to give it too much thought when Sylar's hand is drifting up his inner thigh. He doesn’t even notice that the grip on his wrist has finally been released. He's too busy trying to focus on breathing - his eyes close and he horrifies himself by moaning, breathy and light, when just the base of Sylar's thumb brushes over his clothed cock. Despite the situation he's found himself in, he can feel himself getting hard from Sylar's single-minded attention.
"Can I kiss you?" Sylar asks - but it's not really a question at all, because seconds later he's moving to Mohinder's lips to take exactly what he wants. Mohinder's hand stays between them, resting on Sylar's chest. He's not sure if he's trying to pull him closer or push him away. He should be fighting this.
Did I look into his eyes? he thinks, but he can't remember. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. With this harsh kiss, he can't make himself care.
Sylar's lips press against his and fighting is no longer an option: surrender is, and nothing but. Greedy lips suck the life from him and the centuries of Sylar's experience leave him breathless. It's been so long, so very long since he's been with anyone, since he's felt attention this intense focused in on him like this. Sylar's hand, as it cups and holds and strokes, makes him feel desirable, makes him feel worthy.
It's wrong, Mohinder thinks as his hips buck towards Sylar's hand. The wooden bench they're sitting on is hard and uncomfortable but his senses are infiltrated by Sylar all around. He hears himself moaning again, wanton and desperate, and can only pant for air as Sylar's mouth breaks from his to paint trails along his jaw line instead. "Stop," he gasps. He doesn't want to, he really doesn't want to, but he can't allow this to happen. "Stop it."
Against his skin, Sylar's quiet laugh feels like a tickling set of fingers. "You want it," Sylar tells him. "Don't you?"
And he does - he does so much. He wants to be able to finally stop fighting, because he's weary. Not in body - though his shoulders ache and he's tired, always tired - but his mind, his soul, every inch of his consciousness. He loses a little of himself every day, he thinks. If he could just give in, if he could just give up, then maybe… Maybe…
What?
Maybe he can lose himself in the thought that if he just gives into this tonight then Sylar will lose interest? He's not that foolish. "You killed my father," he states, anger burning. Fury can bring back his logic, his sanity. It can remind him why submission is not an option.
Yet Sylar only smiles and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Yes," he confirms. "I did." No apology, no remorse, no sorrow. A blunt admission - and Mohinder doesn't know how to respond to that. He swallows hard, and Sylar sits back against the pew, disconnected from him. Mohinder holds back a sorry moan from the lack of contact. "Stand up," Sylar orders.
Mohinder obeys without thinking, on his feet in seconds. He wishes that it were lighter in this place. The moonlight that dapples through the windows isn't enough to allay his fears or nerves as he feels the hungry sweep of Sylar's gaze over every inch of him.
"Take your shirt off," Sylar suggests. As Mohinder's hands hurriedly sweep to the buttons, he amends, "Slowly."
His fingers are trembling and fumble uncomfortably under Sylar's watchful eyes. He looks down to distract himself, taking his time as each button reveals a slightly larger strip of skin. Sylar leans forward, closer, enough that Mohinder can almost feel him against him in their cramped conditions. He makes encouraging sounds under his breath, and when Mohinder slips the shirt from his shoulders he groans happily and bites his bottom lip.
"Yes," Sylar whispers under his breath as his hands reach out to tug Mohinder closer to him by his hips. With Sylar sitting down, all he needs to do is lean forward for his lips to brush over the skin below Mohinder's navel. Mohinder has to reach behind him to grasp the wooden pew to keep upright, though Sylar's firm grip on his hips would serve just as well.
Sylar's tongue licks over his skin with the faintest hint of tooth and fang to make Mohinder shiver. His appreciative hands leave their spot on Mohinder's hips to float upward instead, delivering sharp blasts of painful pleasure as he pinches at Mohinder's nipple. He chuckles at the gasping reaction he elicits from Mohinder as his fingers soothe that spot of reddened skin.
"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, words brushed over Mohinder's skin.
"Done what?" Mohinder asks, though focusing on speech is difficult. "Had sex in a church? Or with a vampire? I can't say I have."
Sylar's hand drops from his chest to reach around and slap his clothed ass - not too hard, not too painful, but enough to warn him. The teeth in Sylar's mouth on his stomach seem more noticeable than ever. "Have you ever been fucked by a man?" he clarifies, as blunt as he can be. "Ever been bent over and taken like the whore you are?"
Mohinder can't respond to that, he doesn't know how to. Sylar just laughs and scrapes his teeth painfully over his stomach. He can't tell in the near-dark, but he thinks that the skin breaks enough for a drop of blood to spill. Sylar moans quietly. "I want you to move to the side and kneel on the bench, facing the back of the church," he says. "Lean over the back of the pew."
He isn't sure if he wants to do this any more - Sylar is a monster, how could he forget that? - but there's no other choice that he can see. He shuffles along and steps onto the bench. It's so hard beneath his knees, but he rests his arms on the top of the back and leans as he was told. His eyes fix on the door of the church at the back. They're cracked open slightly from where Sylar broke in without Mohinder noticing.
He moves from Mohinder's side too quickly for him to see. One second Sylar is sitting next to him, the next he's behind him in this cramped space with his hands peeling Mohinder's trousers and underwear down. The church's cold air hits his skin and makes him shiver as Sylar's hands on his bare skin manipulate him into the right position. His trousers have pooled by his knees.
Fingers slip supernaturally fast up the inside of his thigh. While he's still shivering from that touch, there's a blunt pressure at the base of his spine and two fingers press immediately inside him. His breath catches suddenly in the back of his throat and he almost chokes as Sylar works him open. It's not gentle, it's not slow, it's not careful. It's demanding, and Sylar's cold fingers inside him make him feel unexpectedly ill.
"Just wait," Sylar says. He withdraws sharply and his hands pull Mohinder's hips back and down towards him. "I'm going to make you scream."
Mohinder can't work out if that's a threat or a promise, if that's good or bad, but before he can think too much he feels the threatening, blunt pressure of Sylar's cock by his ass. There's little more than an absent-minded lick of saliva from Sylar's palm to ease the way, no protection either, and he wants to beg Sylar not to do this, he wants to ask if there's anything else he can offer instead, but he's frozen and can't do anything but gasp painfully as he's entered with supernatural strength. The burning is intense and his eyes screw shut to try and block the world out, but it doesn't work - the pain is still there, even as his hips writhe in an attempt to escape. Sylar's hands hold him strong and the vampire tries to hush him, tries to soothe him but all he wants is this invasion out of him.
For a second it seems as if he's getting his wish, before Sylar slams in again twice as strong. The air is forced from his lungs in a bitter sob. How did his life come to this?
"Been waiting a long time for this," Sylar whispers in Mohinder's ear. "You're exactly how I thought you'd be. So tight, so scared…" His lips press gently to the soft skin behind his earlobe. "Are you alright? Does it hurt?"
Mohinder nods, and he expects Sylar to snort and be pleased with that - instead his pace slows until he almost seems gentle. His hand moves to wrap around Mohinder's half-hard cock and bring his erection to life once more, and he angles his hips until white stars start to appear and Mohinder finds it hard to breathe for a different reason than pain this time.
"Better?" Sylar asks, and Mohinder can only moan in response. Soft kisses are pressed to the skin on his shoulders and Sylar nips at the nape of his neck.
As Sylar speeds up again, it's different this time - he's not taking what he wants, but giving Mohinder what he needs. His head hangs because it's too much work to support it, and every thrust of Sylar into him causes his body to rock from the impact. It's so good, so very good, and when Sylar's hand closes over his he doesn't resist the tender gesture.
"Sylar-" he gasps. He should hate this, he knows he should hate this, but if Sylar stops now he thinks he might break apart. "Sylar, please- I need…" He doesn't know what he needs, he doesn't know what to ask for, he can only sob with desperation and move his hips with Sylar as the hand on his cock speeds up enticingly.
His chest is shuddering and he gasps helplessly for air.
"Mohinder," Sylar whispers by his ear. He doesn't sound too lost by what they're doing, even if the slow build towards release is turning off Mohinder's rational thought process. "I want to turn you - I want to make you like me." He presses his lips to Mohinder's neck, and whispers against the skin, "Can I? Do you want that?"
Mohinder doesn't know, doesn't care, is past that level of thought until he can only speak and think and be in shattered little whimpers. He's never felt like this before - he doesn't even know what 'this' is, the intensity of sensation that builds within him more than he's ever felt before, but he can't let it go. It's impossible to process what's being said, but at this point he's willing to say that he wants whatever Sylar wants: so he nods.
He consents.
Sylar's pale hand strokes his cock faster and he feels Sylar's smile curl by his neck.
"This might hurt a little," Sylar whispers, but Mohinder barely hears him - he's so close, right at the edge, ready to spill into ecstasy and lose himself altogether. He whimpers at Sylar as he tries to pull himself together. Something is wrong here and he needs the full presence of his mind to handle it. He closes his eyes and tries to hold on a little longer-
There's a sharp pain in his neck and he loses it, his orgasm spasming through him as Sylar's fangs sink into his skin. The blood starts to run, wet heat down his neck to drip onto his collarbone. He jerks and tries to get away, but Sylar's hands hold him fast: the pain is intense enough to override any previous pleasure, and he can still feel Sylar's cold erection strong and hard in his ass.
He sobs, because it can't end like this: yet it is. The world fades around him and his vision swims in dancing patterns. Sylar's hand strokes his hip in a parody of comfort, but Mohinder barely feels it any more. When Sylar slices a cut in his own thumb and places it into Mohinder's mouth, Mohinder drinks without knowing what he's doing. There is black at the edges of the church - the moonlight seems to flicker away.
The world is ending, Mohinder thinks, but he doesn't mind too much.
A new world, after all, waits for him on the other side of this small obstacle of death.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 6460
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the mature_heroes Alternate Universe challenge, with the 25fluffyfics 'sunset' prompt, because there can never be enough vampire!AUs in the world.
Warnings: dub-con/non-con
Summary: In a world where Mohinder found his father murdered with a vampire bite on his neck, every night he hides as the monster in the dark waits to take him next.
Outside of the window, the last strands of daylight are beginning to fade out of sight. Mohinder Suresh sits in his cage-like house and watches them go: he knows what the darkness will bring. There was a time when he had the luxury of ignorance, a time long ago when vampires were nothing but fiction to him and he had no reason to dread the night. There was a time that his father lived in this house - a house full of books and spells and tradition.
Yet that time has passed, punctuated by the body found on the floor two months ago with a bite mark on its neck. By the time Mohinder had found it, that corpse had looked nothing like his father, nothing like the stern and brilliant man who had absently helped to raise him. It had been broken.
Watching from the window, Mohinder wonders how long it will be until his fate is the same. The house is protected with crosses and holy water and salt around the doorways and windows: old superstitions dictated by the books that his father lovingly collected, but so far they have worked. The creature hasn't crossed the threshold, not physically, not yet. Just his voice…
God, his voice.
Mohinder clings on tightly to the wooden stake in his hands, but he won't use it tonight. The problem with vampires, he thinks, is how close to them you have to get in order to destroy them. With limited supplies, there is no way to fight back from a distance - and Mohinder has little doubt that he would be killed before he'd taken even one full step over the threshold.
Outside, the last remnants of sunlight fade. He pulls the curtains shut decisively and blocks out the night, but that thin material won't protect him from what is to come. Stepping away from the window, he moves to the stairway instead, sitting down upon one of the steps as he watches the front door warily. Any second now, he thinks, Any second now.
Three minutes and twenty-four seconds after the sun has set, the knock on his front door sounds. Mohinder's hand tightens on the wood he's holding, and he checks his neck for the chain that holds a cross he doesn't believe in. He's as protected as he can be, but that knocking continues all the same.
Yet the knocking is the best part of the night. What comes after that-
"Mohinder," the voice sing-songs through the door. It sounds amused, like this is nothing more than a game. "Aren't you going to let me in, Mohinder?" A belt of chuckling laughter follows those words, but Mohinder doesn't answer. He stares at the door instead, able to hear as Sylar drags his fingernails down the front of it.
The door has held fast against the vampire for two months now: yet Mohinder always has to fear that this night is the night it will give in. If Sylar gets over the threshold, he shudders to think of the horrors he will bring with him. He still remembers the way his father's eyes had been frozen open in fear when he'd found his body. A shiver runs down his spine at the thought.
"I can hear you in there," Sylar calls. The smile is still in his voice, but Mohinder has no doubts that before the sun rises again it will have given away to frustration and anger. "I can hear your heart beat - so fast, Mohinder. Are you scared? Scared of me?" He pauses: Mohinder can imagine the way he runs his tongue over his canines in anticipation. "I have to say that's quite the turn-on."
He doesn't want to answer back - he wishes that he could sit here and ignore him - but Sylar by now knows exactly how to get a rise out of him. "Will you just leave me alone?" he snaps, the words pouring from him like boiling water.
And there's that laugh again, that chuckle. "Nice to hear your voice," Sylar says. He has no intention on leaving until Mohinder is dead, and they both know it. "I hate that silent treatment you always try out. It's pretty juvenile, isn't it? The nights go much faster when you decide to talk to me."
Mohinder bites his tongue and says no more, but that doesn't stop him.
"It'd go even faster if you'd come out here and see me. Just open the door, Mohinder. We both know you want to."
There's a part of him that does, Mohinder thinks when he clutches so tightly to the stake in his hand. There's a part of him that longs for this to be over: he could hope that Sylar would make it a fast death, a painless one, but he knows that won't be the case. After these months playing this waiting game with him, Sylar will want to draw it out, make it last.
Sylar's voice slips through the doorway like honey. "Just open the door - let me see you again," he says, temptation threaded through every word. Mohinder has done his research: and he knows better than to let himself come face to face with this vampire again. Hypnotic properties linger in a vampire's stare. He can't let himself fall victim to that.
Sylar stays until an hour before dawn, as he always does.
Mohinder sits on the stairs all night, listening to that voice entice him out while waiting desperately for the sun to rise and rescue him.
*
He sleeps through the morning, catching well-earned rest. There are times when he considers leaving this town, but he could never get far enough: Sylar will follow him, he's certain of that. At least in this house, he knows he's secure. Salt, crosses, holy water, everything proscribed by the old myths. This house is as boarded up mystically as a prison is physically: he's safe here, or as safe as he can hope to be.
The fridge is bare when he comes down at midday, so he eats his cereal dry and makes a mental note to run out to the corner shop tomorrow. He doesn't like to leave this place too long, even when he knows that Sylar could not be out there. This is his safety, his fortress. The idea that a ten-minute trip to buy supplies could be the death of him is ridiculous, but Mohinder has come to accept that he's better off paranoid than dead. Every little precaution helps to keep Sylar at bay. One slip up, that's all it would take. One over-sight, one mistake, and then-
No, he decides as he places his spoon down in his bowl. No, he is not going to think about that today. The sun is shining and the day is warm and he doesn't want to think of the fate that stalks him. He finishes his breakfast watching the midday sun in the sky outside his kitchen window, dreaming of a day that this will all be over. He longs to return to his simple life in India, but there's no way unless Sylar is dead. He'd never make it to the airport.
He does the dishes, he tidies the house, he checks the defences, and he reads through more of his father's discoveries on vampire lore - searching desperately for a way to get out of this mess.
As he reads the pages written in his father's neat hand, he tries not to let his mind wander to the vampire that hunts him at night. He can still remember the first night he'd come face-to-face with Sylar, not truly realising at the time what he was facing. He'd been running to the police station, his mind too scattered to think to make a phone call to report his father's death. Head down he'd barrelled into a stranger's chest - he mustn't have been looking where he was going. Supernaturally strong hands had grabbed his arms to keep him from falling, and that voice had been there to soothe his panic.
Sylar talks about it, sometimes. As Mohinder sits on the stairs inside, Sylar will stand on the other side of the door and tell him how that night he could taste the fear on the air as he grabbed hold of him: he says that it was when Mohinder looked up at him, panic and strength warring on his face, that he decided he wanted him.
If I'd just phoned, Mohinder thinks sometimes. If I'd taken another route…
So many what-ifs, so many other possible fates for him. He could be back home right now, if he'd made it to the police station uninterrupted. Instead he's caged in, engaged in a dangerous waiting game with a creature that wants him dead. Every night that he survives through feels like an achievement, but it's not enough.
He doesn't know how much longer he can continue to go on like this.
He reads the pages of his father's notes in the dire search for a sign, a way out of this, as the sun begins its slow descent from the sky.
*
Every night is the same: it surprises him that Sylar doesn't get bored. He knows he has. "Don't you have anything better to do?" he sighs wearily one night.
His question is greeted by a low chuckle from the other side of the door. "Nothing that can't wait," Sylar answers. "I'm immortal, Mohinder - I can do this for years if I have to. Can you?"
Years. Years trapped in this standoff. Mohinder feels as if he's going insane just from the few months they've spent locked like this. There has to be a way out. There has to be an escape, but so far it has easily evaded him. "What's the point?" he says back, though he ought to keep silent. So far he's been working by that school time logic: if you ignore the bullies, they'll go away.
It doesn't seem to be working.
"I'm not sure yet," Sylar muses. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do once I get across the threshold."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you don't want me to be." Sylar laughs and his hand thumps against a protected door that will not give way. "Because the night I met you I decided I was going to taste you - and this chase just makes the wait all the sweeter."
Mohinder's stomach churns and he feels the uncontrollable swell of fear and rage within him. Helplessness and ineptitude rule equally. He stands from where he sits on the stairs, the same step every night holding the same weapon and thinking the same thoughts. This is pointless: he could grow old like this, hiding in his house, but he won't let himself succumb.
No. Not him. Not any more. His eyes lock onto the door and he storms forward to it - he'll open it, face Sylar, and stake the demon before he even knows what's hit him - but when his hand touches the door-handle he realises that Sylar has stopped speaking. He pauses, uncertain.
"C'mon, Mohinder," Sylar calls through the door. "You're not just going to tease me, are you?" On the other side of the door, he can feel Sylar's presence, pressed close as he waits for Mohinder to turn the handle out of a hasty mix of pride and frustration. "Why don't you get it over with? All this waiting - and for what? What are you proving? To who?"
"You'll kill me," Mohinder whispers: any human wouldn't be able to hear the words.
"No. No, you've got it all wrong. What I offer isn't death… It is so much more than that. It can be anything you want it to be." Sylar's voice wraps around him like temptation itself. "Anything, Mohinder. Anything you want. All you have to do is open this door. That's all."
His hand still clings tightly to the door handle, as he wars with himself on whether to give in, give up, or step away from the door and keep fighting until he simply can't any more.
"Just open it," Sylar says. "That's all you have to do, then this is over. Don't you want it to be over?"
And he does, he does so badly, but he knows that his definition of 'over' doesn't match up with Sylar's. His fingers feel stiff from gripping too long and too tightly, but he forces himself to release his hold on the handle. The movement is slow and he takes a step back to try and clear his head.
When Sylar realises what he's done, he slams his palm against the door so hard that it rattles in its frame. "Damn it!" he yells. "Mohinder. Get back here. Get back here."
Mohinder's hand is trembling as he resumes his position on the stairs and takes one deep breath.
He's not ready to give up.
Not yet.
*
He wakes up with a stiff neck and stretches on the bed: it takes him twenty-three minutes of staring at the digital clock on his bedside table to convince himself that he needs to get up. He wishes he could hide under the covers forever, as if all of this might eventually go away.
Milk, he remembers as he gets changed into a clean set of clothes. He'll make a list of supplies, he decides. No doubts he's beginning to run out of all sorts by now. If he can get everything during one rushed trip before sundown, then that'll be that alarming chore completed. He won't need to run back and forth for the next few weeks.
It's wonderful to be outside again when he steps over the threshold. It's cold enough that he should possibly have brought a jacket, and a faint breeze tugs at the black curls of his hair. He smiles and breathes deeply, before he turns to lock the front door behind him.
When he starts the walk into the small town, he feels giddy when a fellow pedestrian smiles at him. It's an absent gesture - he doubts they're even paying attention - but it's human contact and that's worth the world. As always, his thoughts roam to the idea of going for help. Perhaps the police would be able to do…
Do what?
How could a human police force even begin to think about taking on the supernatural? Even Mohinder didn't know the full extent of the abilities that Sylar had picked up during the long centuries of his life. They wouldn't stand a chance and they wouldn't listen to his warnings: they'd be dead in seconds and Sylar wouldn't have a single scratch on him. Mohinder would be luring them to their deaths, and there is no way that his conscience is equipped to handle that burden.
No, he reaffirms as he watches the ground as he walks, I'm on my own for this. Perhaps if he could get in touch with someone that already knew about these dark creatures - perhaps if he could contact someone with experience at hunting them, then-
He's allowing himself to drift into fiction, to think of Van Helsings and other tempting heroes. It won't happen. If anyone is to get him out of this mess, it has to be him - he can't rely on any outside source of help. No one but himself. A lonely battle, but he'll get through it. He just needs a plan.
Inside the small grocery shop, he grabs a basket and slowly works through his list of items that need replenishing. The shop smells of fresh produce and near the back the scent of baking bread wraps around him like a warm blanket on his shoulders. He almost feels guilty for spurning those items when he picks up the cans and frozen food instead: it's easier to store for longer.
The cashier smiles at him as she rings through his purchases, and chats blandly about the weather outside. Mohinder responds enthusiastically - to be talking with someone other that Sylar, to hear a voice that doesn't ring with supernatural temptation, it's like music. "You take care of yourself," she says quietly as she hands him his bags of groceries. She won't meet his eyes.
Mohinder leaves with a distracted smile, his shoulders hunched as he retraces his steps back to his father's old home. He doesn't need to make a stop at the local church to collect holy water - what the priest there thinks of him, he has no idea - as he knows he stocked up well enough last time. There are still two hours before the sun begins to set, but he'd like to be safely locked away before that. Just in case.
As he turns the corner to approach his lonely home, his heart nearly stops in his chest: there are people outside his door.
Two men. Big, tall - one of them appears to have a moustache. Mohinder takes this as a bad omen, almost as bad as the tool kit they have with them and the way they are laughing together as they tamper with the door's lock. One of them appears to be blowing a hair-dryer below the door frame, scattering the lines of salt Mohinder has prepared there. Still holding his grocery bags, Mohinder moves forward though he's certain he should run away.
"What are you doing?" he asks, anger bursting from his mouth.
The men turn to look at him and they grin. It's an ugly expression, causing Mohinder to take a step back. "We got an emergency call-out for the locks," the taller one says. His eyes seem almost black. "Almost done."
"This is my house," Mohinder says - but he doesn't think they care. They aren't ordinary locksmiths, are they? Sylar's stamp is all over them. "You can't- You can't do this. You…"
One of them starts to walk forward until the other places a strong hand on his chest to stop him. They stay grinning, like grotesque and off-duty clowns. "You might want to start running, kid," they warn, with a rumbling laugh. "Sun down's coming soon."
Mohinder looks to the sky, to the sun, then to his watch - and this smirking man is right. There's still some time, but how can it be enough? He doesn't even know what to do now. The men stay in front of the doorway with their arms crossed over their chests like bouncers. That place is no longer safe. He needs to find somewhere secure, he needs to find somewhere to spend the night, he needs to find somewhere to hide.
And there's a time limit now. If he's still out in the open when the sun sets-
He drops his bags to the ground. Before they land with a thud, he's already on the move: running as fast as he can, though he doesn't know where to.
*
Too much time is wasted panicking - and he ends up in a church, sitting in a pew with his hands crossed in his lap. The sun still shines through the stained glass windows, but it won't for much longer. Already the sky is painted with warm reds and oranges. Soon it will be completely black with only the stars and the moon to hold back the darkness.
His breath shivers and he finds himself feeling ill. There are too many shadows in this empty place. Small candles flicker by the doorway: the doors have been locked for the night. Mohinder had to keep himself hidden as the priest prepared to leave. He isn't sure if this ground will offer enough protection for the night, but it's all he has. If this doesn't work- If Sylar makes it through the doors-
The what-ifs continue to haunt his mind in an unending spiral. His hands grasp tightly together and he tries to keep breathing steadily. His heart is beating too quickly: he needs to make himself calm down, because he knows that it excites Sylar to hear his pulse so scared. He feels sick at the thought.
Outside, the sun falls from the sky as if injured. The church languishes in final darkness: Mohinder's breath is loud and accompanied by the gradual creaking of an ancient building.
He waits. His palms sweat and he waits in the darkness for evil to come.
Maybe he won't find me, Mohinder thinks hopefully. Maybe I'm hidden.
And maybe the past months never happened and maybe this is all a dream and maybe life is perfect and maybe he really is as naïve as his father used to tell him - a naïve dreamer ignorant of the world. This has been an education for him, a drop into the deep end as he's left to fend for himself. He's survived for months by himself while being hunted by a monster. That should be an achievement, but sitting in the dark he feels like a failure. He wishes he had a torch, a light, a single speck of hope.
He doesn't hear the door opening.
He doesn't hear the footsteps that must fall on the stone floor.
And he doesn't sense Sylar beside him until a hand closes on top of his own.
He startles, muscles tensing and blood rushing as he tries to yank away - but Sylar's hand is like steel on top of his. In the faint moonlight through coloured glass he can see the glint from Sylar's fangs as he smiles. Sylar's hand shifts to his wrist to clamp him there as the other hand gentle brushes a black curl from Mohinder's forehead. "Caught you," Sylar whispers gleefully, as Mohinder continues to try to escape. It's fruitless, pointless and foolish, but he can't bring himself to stop trying.
Can't look into his eyes, he reminds himself as he looks the other way instead. One look and he's gone, he knows that, but Sylar's hand is so tight around his wrist and his fingers have plunged into Mohinder's hair to stroke it gently. It should make him feel ill, but Mohinder finds a cold-hot shiver spinning down his spine.
"Let me go," he insists through gritted teeth.
He's greeted with a chuckle, a sound he's heard through the safety of a door a thousand times in his lifetime. It's warm, and its familiarity is almost comforting. He can nearly forget that Sylar is a monster who probably wants nothing more than to kill him. The hand on his wrist is almost ice-cold.
"Why a church, Mohinder?" Sylar asks curiously. He doesn't bother to respond to Mohinder's plea for release, his beg for mercy. "Did you really think this old building would defend you?"
"Holy water," Mohinder whispers, "And the crosses - they worked. They…"
"It was the salt," Sylar says. His finger traces down the line of Mohinder's jaw like a drop from an ice cube. "Not these superstitions. You'd have been better off hiding in the sea." He laughs again, and brushes at the soft hair by Mohinder's ear. His cool touch leaves Mohinder's mouth feeling dry. "It's better that it worked out like this though, isn't it? Aren't you glad to finally be done with hiding?"
And he is, god help him, he is. When Sylar's supernatural grip on his wrist is used to draw him tight against his side, Mohinder hardly resists at all. "What now?" he asks. His voice rasps, barely above a whisper. The fear is so blatant. "What are you going to-"
He's silenced when Sylar's finger rests against his lips. "Don't worry," he whispers. "It won't hurt. Whatever I do to you, it won't hurt. You should trust me."
It's Mohinder's turn to laugh now, dry and empty. Sylar's finger against his lips angles to dig his nail into the soft flesh instead, not enough to break the skin but enough to make his breath catch in pain and fear. "Listen, Mohinder," he explains patiently. "I've played along with your little game for long enough now. You've hidden, I've waited, and now I've won. That means you lost - and that means you have to behave now. Am I clear?" His lips press against Mohinder's forehead. From anyone else, that would have been soothing.
His grip on Mohinder's wrist is still unbreakable, but by now Mohinder has stopped struggling. Mere strength and attempted brute force won't get him free: not when Sylar is so much stronger and faster than him. He won't escape if he panics. "You don't need to be scared," Sylar whispers. This time Mohinder fights not to laugh. "I can take care of you - just look up."
Up into his eyes, relinquishing all control and saying goodbye to all fear. His heart won't hammer and he won't feel ill and he'll welcome death, not run from it. Mohinder shakes his head and looks down at Sylar's hand on his wrist instead. He can't do this. He can't knowingly surrender.
"You don't want to?" Sylar says. "It would make this so much easier for you."
"You think I want this to be 'easy'?" Mohinder snaps. His voice echoes in the gloomy shadows of the church. "Just do it," he says. "Just kill me and get it over with."
Sylar stays smiling, and he leans in closer to Mohinder until he can feel the brush of undead, unnecessary breath against his neck. His eyes screw shut in fear as he hears the sound of Sylar inhaling deeply as his lips brush over the pulse point of his neck. With his wrist still tightly captured, Sylar's other hand moves to the back of his head and threads through his curls, holding him still. Lips press to his neck and he feels the wet touch of Sylar's tongue. Any second now, any single second, he knows he will feel the sharp pain as his fangs puncture the skin as death finally welcomes him. He shudders with fear as the anticipation builds.
Yet it doesn't come.
Sylar licks a clean line up to his ear and whispers, "Whoever said I wanted to kill you? If it was just a quick meal I was after, do you think I would have chased you around all this time when I could have simply grabbed someone off the street?"
It's a fair point, Mohinder thinks, but it's impossible to give it too much thought when Sylar's hand is drifting up his inner thigh. He doesn’t even notice that the grip on his wrist has finally been released. He's too busy trying to focus on breathing - his eyes close and he horrifies himself by moaning, breathy and light, when just the base of Sylar's thumb brushes over his clothed cock. Despite the situation he's found himself in, he can feel himself getting hard from Sylar's single-minded attention.
"Can I kiss you?" Sylar asks - but it's not really a question at all, because seconds later he's moving to Mohinder's lips to take exactly what he wants. Mohinder's hand stays between them, resting on Sylar's chest. He's not sure if he's trying to pull him closer or push him away. He should be fighting this.
Did I look into his eyes? he thinks, but he can't remember. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. With this harsh kiss, he can't make himself care.
Sylar's lips press against his and fighting is no longer an option: surrender is, and nothing but. Greedy lips suck the life from him and the centuries of Sylar's experience leave him breathless. It's been so long, so very long since he's been with anyone, since he's felt attention this intense focused in on him like this. Sylar's hand, as it cups and holds and strokes, makes him feel desirable, makes him feel worthy.
It's wrong, Mohinder thinks as his hips buck towards Sylar's hand. The wooden bench they're sitting on is hard and uncomfortable but his senses are infiltrated by Sylar all around. He hears himself moaning again, wanton and desperate, and can only pant for air as Sylar's mouth breaks from his to paint trails along his jaw line instead. "Stop," he gasps. He doesn't want to, he really doesn't want to, but he can't allow this to happen. "Stop it."
Against his skin, Sylar's quiet laugh feels like a tickling set of fingers. "You want it," Sylar tells him. "Don't you?"
And he does - he does so much. He wants to be able to finally stop fighting, because he's weary. Not in body - though his shoulders ache and he's tired, always tired - but his mind, his soul, every inch of his consciousness. He loses a little of himself every day, he thinks. If he could just give in, if he could just give up, then maybe… Maybe…
What?
Maybe he can lose himself in the thought that if he just gives into this tonight then Sylar will lose interest? He's not that foolish. "You killed my father," he states, anger burning. Fury can bring back his logic, his sanity. It can remind him why submission is not an option.
Yet Sylar only smiles and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Yes," he confirms. "I did." No apology, no remorse, no sorrow. A blunt admission - and Mohinder doesn't know how to respond to that. He swallows hard, and Sylar sits back against the pew, disconnected from him. Mohinder holds back a sorry moan from the lack of contact. "Stand up," Sylar orders.
Mohinder obeys without thinking, on his feet in seconds. He wishes that it were lighter in this place. The moonlight that dapples through the windows isn't enough to allay his fears or nerves as he feels the hungry sweep of Sylar's gaze over every inch of him.
"Take your shirt off," Sylar suggests. As Mohinder's hands hurriedly sweep to the buttons, he amends, "Slowly."
His fingers are trembling and fumble uncomfortably under Sylar's watchful eyes. He looks down to distract himself, taking his time as each button reveals a slightly larger strip of skin. Sylar leans forward, closer, enough that Mohinder can almost feel him against him in their cramped conditions. He makes encouraging sounds under his breath, and when Mohinder slips the shirt from his shoulders he groans happily and bites his bottom lip.
"Yes," Sylar whispers under his breath as his hands reach out to tug Mohinder closer to him by his hips. With Sylar sitting down, all he needs to do is lean forward for his lips to brush over the skin below Mohinder's navel. Mohinder has to reach behind him to grasp the wooden pew to keep upright, though Sylar's firm grip on his hips would serve just as well.
Sylar's tongue licks over his skin with the faintest hint of tooth and fang to make Mohinder shiver. His appreciative hands leave their spot on Mohinder's hips to float upward instead, delivering sharp blasts of painful pleasure as he pinches at Mohinder's nipple. He chuckles at the gasping reaction he elicits from Mohinder as his fingers soothe that spot of reddened skin.
"Have you ever done this before?" he asks, words brushed over Mohinder's skin.
"Done what?" Mohinder asks, though focusing on speech is difficult. "Had sex in a church? Or with a vampire? I can't say I have."
Sylar's hand drops from his chest to reach around and slap his clothed ass - not too hard, not too painful, but enough to warn him. The teeth in Sylar's mouth on his stomach seem more noticeable than ever. "Have you ever been fucked by a man?" he clarifies, as blunt as he can be. "Ever been bent over and taken like the whore you are?"
Mohinder can't respond to that, he doesn't know how to. Sylar just laughs and scrapes his teeth painfully over his stomach. He can't tell in the near-dark, but he thinks that the skin breaks enough for a drop of blood to spill. Sylar moans quietly. "I want you to move to the side and kneel on the bench, facing the back of the church," he says. "Lean over the back of the pew."
He isn't sure if he wants to do this any more - Sylar is a monster, how could he forget that? - but there's no other choice that he can see. He shuffles along and steps onto the bench. It's so hard beneath his knees, but he rests his arms on the top of the back and leans as he was told. His eyes fix on the door of the church at the back. They're cracked open slightly from where Sylar broke in without Mohinder noticing.
He moves from Mohinder's side too quickly for him to see. One second Sylar is sitting next to him, the next he's behind him in this cramped space with his hands peeling Mohinder's trousers and underwear down. The church's cold air hits his skin and makes him shiver as Sylar's hands on his bare skin manipulate him into the right position. His trousers have pooled by his knees.
Fingers slip supernaturally fast up the inside of his thigh. While he's still shivering from that touch, there's a blunt pressure at the base of his spine and two fingers press immediately inside him. His breath catches suddenly in the back of his throat and he almost chokes as Sylar works him open. It's not gentle, it's not slow, it's not careful. It's demanding, and Sylar's cold fingers inside him make him feel unexpectedly ill.
"Just wait," Sylar says. He withdraws sharply and his hands pull Mohinder's hips back and down towards him. "I'm going to make you scream."
Mohinder can't work out if that's a threat or a promise, if that's good or bad, but before he can think too much he feels the threatening, blunt pressure of Sylar's cock by his ass. There's little more than an absent-minded lick of saliva from Sylar's palm to ease the way, no protection either, and he wants to beg Sylar not to do this, he wants to ask if there's anything else he can offer instead, but he's frozen and can't do anything but gasp painfully as he's entered with supernatural strength. The burning is intense and his eyes screw shut to try and block the world out, but it doesn't work - the pain is still there, even as his hips writhe in an attempt to escape. Sylar's hands hold him strong and the vampire tries to hush him, tries to soothe him but all he wants is this invasion out of him.
For a second it seems as if he's getting his wish, before Sylar slams in again twice as strong. The air is forced from his lungs in a bitter sob. How did his life come to this?
"Been waiting a long time for this," Sylar whispers in Mohinder's ear. "You're exactly how I thought you'd be. So tight, so scared…" His lips press gently to the soft skin behind his earlobe. "Are you alright? Does it hurt?"
Mohinder nods, and he expects Sylar to snort and be pleased with that - instead his pace slows until he almost seems gentle. His hand moves to wrap around Mohinder's half-hard cock and bring his erection to life once more, and he angles his hips until white stars start to appear and Mohinder finds it hard to breathe for a different reason than pain this time.
"Better?" Sylar asks, and Mohinder can only moan in response. Soft kisses are pressed to the skin on his shoulders and Sylar nips at the nape of his neck.
As Sylar speeds up again, it's different this time - he's not taking what he wants, but giving Mohinder what he needs. His head hangs because it's too much work to support it, and every thrust of Sylar into him causes his body to rock from the impact. It's so good, so very good, and when Sylar's hand closes over his he doesn't resist the tender gesture.
"Sylar-" he gasps. He should hate this, he knows he should hate this, but if Sylar stops now he thinks he might break apart. "Sylar, please- I need…" He doesn't know what he needs, he doesn't know what to ask for, he can only sob with desperation and move his hips with Sylar as the hand on his cock speeds up enticingly.
His chest is shuddering and he gasps helplessly for air.
"Mohinder," Sylar whispers by his ear. He doesn't sound too lost by what they're doing, even if the slow build towards release is turning off Mohinder's rational thought process. "I want to turn you - I want to make you like me." He presses his lips to Mohinder's neck, and whispers against the skin, "Can I? Do you want that?"
Mohinder doesn't know, doesn't care, is past that level of thought until he can only speak and think and be in shattered little whimpers. He's never felt like this before - he doesn't even know what 'this' is, the intensity of sensation that builds within him more than he's ever felt before, but he can't let it go. It's impossible to process what's being said, but at this point he's willing to say that he wants whatever Sylar wants: so he nods.
He consents.
Sylar's pale hand strokes his cock faster and he feels Sylar's smile curl by his neck.
"This might hurt a little," Sylar whispers, but Mohinder barely hears him - he's so close, right at the edge, ready to spill into ecstasy and lose himself altogether. He whimpers at Sylar as he tries to pull himself together. Something is wrong here and he needs the full presence of his mind to handle it. He closes his eyes and tries to hold on a little longer-
There's a sharp pain in his neck and he loses it, his orgasm spasming through him as Sylar's fangs sink into his skin. The blood starts to run, wet heat down his neck to drip onto his collarbone. He jerks and tries to get away, but Sylar's hands hold him fast: the pain is intense enough to override any previous pleasure, and he can still feel Sylar's cold erection strong and hard in his ass.
He sobs, because it can't end like this: yet it is. The world fades around him and his vision swims in dancing patterns. Sylar's hand strokes his hip in a parody of comfort, but Mohinder barely feels it any more. When Sylar slices a cut in his own thumb and places it into Mohinder's mouth, Mohinder drinks without knowing what he's doing. There is black at the edges of the church - the moonlight seems to flicker away.
The world is ending, Mohinder thinks, but he doesn't mind too much.
A new world, after all, waits for him on the other side of this small obstacle of death.