...
...I'm not posting fics I have just written at 2AM. Nooo. Not me.
::runs and hides in a corner::
Ok, so these are both for the same prompt, which is POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER for the mission_insane table Mental Illness.
One is crack, the other is not.
Go figure.
Title: Maya
Characters/Pairing: Mylar! Mentions of Sylar/Maya.
Set: 2x11 AU. Established "open" Mylar relationship.
Rating/Warning: Swearing. Het. That's a warning for me.
Summary: Sylar talks to Moinder.
A/N: There IS no PTSD in this. This is just a cracky!joke. NO OFFENSE MEANT.
Sweat, heart rate, tight-closed eyes…
A scream, a yell, nails digging into flesh…
Sylar wakes up in a cold sweat, flailing about in the bed and flings his hand out to hit the switch on the wall. The room fills with light and he sits up, clutches his knees to his chest and digs his nails into his arms.
Mohinder yawns and rolls over to look at him. Sylar looks straight ahead and rocks slowly.
“Nightmares again?” Mohinder asks him in a sleepy voice, rubs his eyes.
Sylar shakes his head rapidly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Mohinder reaches out and traces a lazy pattern on Sylar’s bare side. “We could do something else.”
Sylar shudders for a long time, and Mohinder sits up to eye him warily.
“Sylar…It’s not…?”
Sylar continues to rock.
“She didn’t?!”
He nods.
Mohinder is out of the bed in a second, storming over to the door. Sylar leaps out and catches a hold of his arm, pulls him forcibly back to the bed and throws him on it.
“Well, now it all makes sense,” Mohinder grumbled to himself. “When I suggested going down in the morning to get the formula, which meant we’d have to stay the night and then you didn’t even jump me when we were changing…and I hadn’t seen you in so long.”
Sylar slowly sank onto the bed next to him and examined the floor.
“I might have known there was something wrong,” Mohinder muttered to himself. He turned to Sylar.
“Sorry,” the taller man said quietly. “She just kissed me out of the blue. And then she wanted…”
“And you couldn’t refuse?!”
“Well, sor-ee, didn’t know I was married.”
Mohinder narrowed his eyes, and Sylar shot him a sarcastic look.
There was a long silence between the two of them.
“I’m going to kill that fucking bitch.”
“Yeah, well, leave me the brain,” Sylar muttered.
Mohinder leant over to him suddenly and rested his head against Sylar’s. “You know what?”
“What?”
“The best way to fight fear is to face fear.”
Sylar turned his eyes very slowly to Mohinder, and the smaller man promptly grabbed hold of his face and planted a kiss on his mouth.
“I missed you while you were gone,” Mohinder told him through the kiss. “-Started living with this cute cop.”
“Didn’t know I had a replacement,” Sylar grumbled.
“He’s 190 pounds and fascinated by toy cars.”
“Yeah, well, your replacement was a woman.”
“Ouch.”
Mohinder grew bored of the conversation and decided to pull Sylar on top of him, leaning back on the bed. The killer hesitated.
“I can’t do this, Mohinder. I need time.”
“Fuck me,” Mohinder whined, half in genuine demand and half as an expression of his displeasure.
Sylar shuddered. “The thought of sex…”
Mohinder took pity and kissed the tip of Sylar’s nose. “What was it like?”
Sylar just shook his head. “Purgatory for all my sins. And then some.”
There was a long pause.
“We’ll just snuggle.” .
Title: Cracks
Characters/Pairing: Sylar, Gabriel, Gabiel and Unknowns.
Set: Pre-Sylar.
Rating/Warning: Non-Con gang rape, mental trauma, violence. Random second person usage.
Summary: He starts poking at the new found cracks in his toy,
A/N: Sorry if I misrepresent the disorder...this fic makes me sad.
Sylar watches with fascination as Gabriel wakes in the middle of the night, bites into his pillow, and his body shakes with sobs. He’s watching most of the time now; something interesting has happened and he’s sorry he missed it. It’s not so much fun skulking at the back of Gabriel’s head and whispering things anymore. He likes to be at the front, looking out, using the big brown eyes to have a look at what he might get.
He starts poking at the new-found cracks in his toy. And cracks they are, big, empty cracks make Gabriel weep when no-one’s looking. He cries a lot at night, Sylar notices. Sits up in his bed and leaves the bedside light on, hunches over his knees and rests his chin on them. He hardly sleeps anymore. And when he does drop off, it’s for drowsy minutes at a time, eyes still squinted open. Sylar gets the impression this not-sleep has not-nightmares, because the waking is a violent jerk and hand clamped over his own mouth.
He doesn’t talk as much anymore, either. He’s always been shy, ever since Sylar’s been watching him, but this is different. He’s actively drawing inwards on himself, and he’s doing it beautifully. There’s just enough about him to convince people he’s naturally shy, maybe feeling a bit ill and that’s what changing him. Sylar can tell, though. Sylar can tell his beautiful act is just that; an act.
Sylar knows Gabriel- he thinks he is Gabriel. Either that or some ether entity, some kind of angel. And he knows that’s not happening. But the point it, he knows Gabriel, and he knows people, he can see how this works and just what’s happened. He’s sorry he missed it.
Because if he was there, things would have gone differently.
He wasn’t there, but he can see it all the same, a little figure scurrying along the streets under the lamps that make his skin glow. Fades into the darkness for long strides before being spotted under another lamp, making his progression along the street. Until he steps out into the darkness and doesn’t return into the next light.
Dragged off with a hand clamped over your mouth, ring cutting into the side of your lip, splitting the skin. Maybe you close your eyes because you suddenly know what’s happening. Maybe you give up straight away.
No, you don’t, do you, Gabriel?
You keep your eyes open, you know what will happen, but you do anyway. And you can just see the stars, oh, they look pretty tonight, as the people carry you over the ground and ignore your squirming kicks, just like you ignore their hands.
There’s, how many, one, two, three. Three nice men who are taking you home. But that’s not what they’re doing, is it, Gabriel? And they’re not nice, are they?
Sylar can imagine him biting at the fingers over his mouth, weak little bites that tell them he’s too scared to fight, and the ring cutting deeper because of it. What else? Where do they take him? An alley, a yard, a warehouse. It doesn’t matter.
It’s too dark for you too see much anyway, nothing except the outline of the gun in your face when you’re thrown to the ground, glinting cold metal and the click of the safety. So you close your mouth without being told, and maybe you’re still thinking you can get away. No.
There’s still Sylar hiding in the back of your head, talking, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. You start to pray, but God isn’t listening as they rip off your clothes. There’s the temptation to ask the devil, but he’s stuck in the back of your head, whispering, and he’s lurking rather than being called forward.
Sylar doesn’t want to go into the detail he’s imagined, but either way, it’s not pretty.
Which doesn’t stop him from telling Gabriel he’s beautiful every moment he can.
Which doesn’t stop Gabriel from crying.
...I loves Gabriel. ::lip wobbles::