Fic: Narcissus (Sylar, NC-17)
"I wrote Noaire in class today in terms of an HRG-Claire reunion when I didn't have anything else to do. It was hard to pick, because... I was thinking, oh, Petrellicest reunion or Noaire reunion. But then I thought, oh, I've already written the Petcest reunion, so I might as well write Noaire this time, you know?"
You don't hear that from your 12-year-old sister every day. I swear, I have the best sister ever. XD
So, once I finish this essay, I'm all done until January 18th. X_X (or until my independent study materials come. Ugh. Never mind, winter break, right? :\) But omg you guys! I'm so excited!! Theatre majors totally get workshops on the 14th and 17th before school is back officially and there all the Spring shows are cast and I cannot waaaaiiiittt omg I want to be in theatre again so badly. \o/
This guy Derek and I are going to hang out and it's going to be FABULOUS. I got his number today and he has mine and we talked about how we are so awful being so superficial but we love it anyway. Like how he loves his Banana Republic and I love my Vera Bradley handbag... and then we talked about our figures and the food we eat and YES, if you haven't figured it out by now, he's amazingly gay. Bwahaha. He's so much fun, though. I foresee a lot of hanging out in the future, which would be awesome (he hasn't seen So Notorious!! OMG SO MUCH FUN), because I don't get out of the house nearly enough as it is. I mean... uh, yeah. My only social interactions outside of going to class is... going to hang out with no_urges and Angela. Although there is a Christmas party that looks like it could be a ton of fun. I hardly ever go to parties - this could be excellent!
OH, and we figured out what caused the rash. FINALLY. It was aspertame and such in the sweetener I used. And I stopped using it... about a week ago, so it's clearing up! I'm sosososo glad about that.
I've been horribly lazy about responding to comments, but I SWEAR I will get to it eventually. X_X
Also? 650 friends. O_O
Anyway, now to the real point of this post - HAPPY BIRTHDAY lienne!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG OMG. \o/ *throws confetti &such*
THIS IS YOUR PRESENT: :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Fic: Narcissus
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sylar
Word Count: 1,029
Summary: Sylar masturbates. And thinks. A lot. (Don't we love simplicity?)
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
It's best not to think, he reminds himself one last time stepping in front of the cracked bathroom mirror.
It's not his - it's not even anyone's, really - belonging to the cockroaches in this seedy motel, most likely, and he doesn’t try to claim possession.
He's only borrowing the space, the time, until he moves on. He almost feels guilty, dirty about doing this here, like he should somehow thank the place for letting him intrude like this.
He doesn't bother.
Gabriel would never have done this. It's fine to wet the bed and be made fun of, he was told, but those days are long gone, and Sylar is better than that. He knows what to do, knows that he doesn't need to feel guilty for something so natural.
Gabriel still does.
He pushes that aside and closes his eyes, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down.
He goes in slow motion because the anticipation of the act makes him hard already. Teasing himself.
There's power in that. Power in seeing… how much he can take.
Looking at his face in the mirror, he smiles, hardly, more like a smirk.
Then the pants fall down around his ankles, and the boxers follow, too.
It's just… one of those rights he has… as Sylar. Something he can look back at Gabriel for, before laughing at that old image of him.
An odd sort of laugh escapes him when he spits and takes himself into his hand, the smilesmirkgrin spreading over his face further, as if daring on his visage to tease him more, tempt him further.
Slow, like torture, until he hits the base of the shaft - pubic bone, Gabriel reminds him - and he grins again. Then his hand, each touch spurning him on further, every bit of contact on the sensitive skin driving him a little further down the rabbit hole - and they thought he was insane then - slips slowly back up the shaft until he hits the head, and a strange hiss - still grinning at himself in the mirror - escapes him.
It seems that with every hiss, groan, moan, slight buck of the hips, he feels stronger somehow, empowered, as if he's claiming his god-given right.
He likes to take his time with things that really matter.
And they consider him a narcissus, an egotistical prick who cares about no one but himself.
That's not entirely true.
He cares about all his victims up until the part of the movie where he kills them. He has to. Otherwise, by the time he'd reach them, they'd all be dead. Spoiled goods.
His hand slips over the head, and he doesn't have to bother to spit anymore, the precome a guarantee by now.
His eyes meet his own, and he wonders if his father did it like this, if his father ever-
He doesn't want to think about that, hand slipping down again, more fierce, faster this time, hitting pubic bone, hairs he never shaved because he was taught it was immoral to even look at oneself down there, tickling his skin.
He's losing it, losing that control.
It's not his father. He's not his father. He's… well, he's Sylar, isn't he?
He's the most special person the planet.
His thoughts collide with Peter Petrelli, somewhere, in a magical land of joy and joyness, and he doesn't want to think about that either, hand coming up rougher again.
A loud hiss this time, the grin gone.
Focus.
He closes his eyes briefly, thinking of the immense of amounts of power running through his veins, and he finds the power to control himself again.
Slow, steady.
He's fucking Sylar.
The thought is accompanied by a curious look at himself in the mirror, almost questioning, but with vain sort of undertones, and a hesitant hand - the other one - comes up and slowly runs over his front, over the subtle sheen of his chest, the hair there, thumb hardly resting on his nipples - too sensitive - over the muscles he seems to have accidentally accumulated here and there, unexpected but not entirely unwanted.
His body is amazing, too.
The hand travels lower, over his stomach, and lower still, as his other hand continues to stroke in a slow, steady pace, and it slips slowly down the small trail of hair leading to that magnificent machine that makes him a man.
Gabriel Gray wasn't a man.
The smirk again, this time accompanied by a small gasp, a laugh of sorts, an unexpected breath he didn't plan on taking so suddenly when his hand decides to just graze over his balls.
He's in control, he thinks to himself, hand coming up his front again as he watches himself like some sort of exhibitionist voyeur.
Two-in-one.
The Sylar way. He can't just be content to have one, be one - he has to be more, the better, the stronger.
His hand speeds up, but not because of stray thoughts. Uninvited.
His thoughts - that sort of thing shouldn't have an effect on him, because he's just that. Everything, uninvited. Like a fucking Pandora's box without a lid.
The hand is stroking furiously now - this is his right, his need, his desire, his everything - pure egotistical, narcissistic, exhibitionist, voyeuristic bliss as he watches the manic look in his eyes, the smirk on his face, the amazing man he's become who's always in control.
Even watching himself come - he hardly can, it shakes his whole body, that feeling building in his lower stomach, wishing for nothing but release until it comes, comes, comes, white hot and amazing like him, all in everything and unexpected - it holds a power that he wants to claim as his own. No one watches themselves like this, he's certain of it. No one can.
He's the only one that thinks of his victims, their head cracking open like eggshells, blood everywhere, hot and dirty like this act of selfish, unconditional love, when he comes.
It's like bliss all over. His mind, his body-
When he seemingly comes back to earth, he notices that it's gotten all over the mirror.
Grabbing a few pieces of toilet paper, he wipes it off. He's only borrowing, after all.
You don't hear that from your 12-year-old sister every day. I swear, I have the best sister ever. XD
So, once I finish this essay, I'm all done until January 18th. X_X (or until my independent study materials come. Ugh. Never mind, winter break, right? :\) But omg you guys! I'm so excited!! Theatre majors totally get workshops on the 14th and 17th before school is back officially and there all the Spring shows are cast and I cannot waaaaiiiittt omg I want to be in theatre again so badly. \o/
This guy Derek and I are going to hang out and it's going to be FABULOUS. I got his number today and he has mine and we talked about how we are so awful being so superficial but we love it anyway. Like how he loves his Banana Republic and I love my Vera Bradley handbag... and then we talked about our figures and the food we eat and YES, if you haven't figured it out by now, he's amazingly gay. Bwahaha. He's so much fun, though. I foresee a lot of hanging out in the future, which would be awesome (he hasn't seen So Notorious!! OMG SO MUCH FUN), because I don't get out of the house nearly enough as it is. I mean... uh, yeah. My only social interactions outside of going to class is... going to hang out with no_urges and Angela. Although there is a Christmas party that looks like it could be a ton of fun. I hardly ever go to parties - this could be excellent!
OH, and we figured out what caused the rash. FINALLY. It was aspertame and such in the sweetener I used. And I stopped using it... about a week ago, so it's clearing up! I'm sosososo glad about that.
I've been horribly lazy about responding to comments, but I SWEAR I will get to it eventually. X_X
Also? 650 friends. O_O
Anyway, now to the real point of this post - HAPPY BIRTHDAY lienne!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG OMG. \o/ *throws confetti &such*
THIS IS YOUR PRESENT: :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
Fic: Narcissus
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sylar
Word Count: 1,029
Summary: Sylar masturbates. And thinks. A lot. (Don't we love simplicity?)
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
It's best not to think, he reminds himself one last time stepping in front of the cracked bathroom mirror.
It's not his - it's not even anyone's, really - belonging to the cockroaches in this seedy motel, most likely, and he doesn’t try to claim possession.
He's only borrowing the space, the time, until he moves on. He almost feels guilty, dirty about doing this here, like he should somehow thank the place for letting him intrude like this.
He doesn't bother.
Gabriel would never have done this. It's fine to wet the bed and be made fun of, he was told, but those days are long gone, and Sylar is better than that. He knows what to do, knows that he doesn't need to feel guilty for something so natural.
Gabriel still does.
He pushes that aside and closes his eyes, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down.
He goes in slow motion because the anticipation of the act makes him hard already. Teasing himself.
There's power in that. Power in seeing… how much he can take.
Looking at his face in the mirror, he smiles, hardly, more like a smirk.
Then the pants fall down around his ankles, and the boxers follow, too.
It's just… one of those rights he has… as Sylar. Something he can look back at Gabriel for, before laughing at that old image of him.
An odd sort of laugh escapes him when he spits and takes himself into his hand, the smilesmirkgrin spreading over his face further, as if daring on his visage to tease him more, tempt him further.
Slow, like torture, until he hits the base of the shaft - pubic bone, Gabriel reminds him - and he grins again. Then his hand, each touch spurning him on further, every bit of contact on the sensitive skin driving him a little further down the rabbit hole - and they thought he was insane then - slips slowly back up the shaft until he hits the head, and a strange hiss - still grinning at himself in the mirror - escapes him.
It seems that with every hiss, groan, moan, slight buck of the hips, he feels stronger somehow, empowered, as if he's claiming his god-given right.
He likes to take his time with things that really matter.
And they consider him a narcissus, an egotistical prick who cares about no one but himself.
That's not entirely true.
He cares about all his victims up until the part of the movie where he kills them. He has to. Otherwise, by the time he'd reach them, they'd all be dead. Spoiled goods.
His hand slips over the head, and he doesn't have to bother to spit anymore, the precome a guarantee by now.
His eyes meet his own, and he wonders if his father did it like this, if his father ever-
He doesn't want to think about that, hand slipping down again, more fierce, faster this time, hitting pubic bone, hairs he never shaved because he was taught it was immoral to even look at oneself down there, tickling his skin.
He's losing it, losing that control.
It's not his father. He's not his father. He's… well, he's Sylar, isn't he?
He's the most special person the planet.
His thoughts collide with Peter Petrelli, somewhere, in a magical land of joy and joyness, and he doesn't want to think about that either, hand coming up rougher again.
A loud hiss this time, the grin gone.
Focus.
He closes his eyes briefly, thinking of the immense of amounts of power running through his veins, and he finds the power to control himself again.
Slow, steady.
He's fucking Sylar.
The thought is accompanied by a curious look at himself in the mirror, almost questioning, but with vain sort of undertones, and a hesitant hand - the other one - comes up and slowly runs over his front, over the subtle sheen of his chest, the hair there, thumb hardly resting on his nipples - too sensitive - over the muscles he seems to have accidentally accumulated here and there, unexpected but not entirely unwanted.
His body is amazing, too.
The hand travels lower, over his stomach, and lower still, as his other hand continues to stroke in a slow, steady pace, and it slips slowly down the small trail of hair leading to that magnificent machine that makes him a man.
Gabriel Gray wasn't a man.
The smirk again, this time accompanied by a small gasp, a laugh of sorts, an unexpected breath he didn't plan on taking so suddenly when his hand decides to just graze over his balls.
He's in control, he thinks to himself, hand coming up his front again as he watches himself like some sort of exhibitionist voyeur.
Two-in-one.
The Sylar way. He can't just be content to have one, be one - he has to be more, the better, the stronger.
His hand speeds up, but not because of stray thoughts. Uninvited.
His thoughts - that sort of thing shouldn't have an effect on him, because he's just that. Everything, uninvited. Like a fucking Pandora's box without a lid.
The hand is stroking furiously now - this is his right, his need, his desire, his everything - pure egotistical, narcissistic, exhibitionist, voyeuristic bliss as he watches the manic look in his eyes, the smirk on his face, the amazing man he's become who's always in control.
Even watching himself come - he hardly can, it shakes his whole body, that feeling building in his lower stomach, wishing for nothing but release until it comes, comes, comes, white hot and amazing like him, all in everything and unexpected - it holds a power that he wants to claim as his own. No one watches themselves like this, he's certain of it. No one can.
He's the only one that thinks of his victims, their head cracking open like eggshells, blood everywhere, hot and dirty like this act of selfish, unconditional love, when he comes.
It's like bliss all over. His mind, his body-
When he seemingly comes back to earth, he notices that it's gotten all over the mirror.
Grabbing a few pieces of toilet paper, he wipes it off. He's only borrowing, after all.