(no subject)
Mohinder has always reminded him of a skittish colt; trusting when fed sweet things, when patted on the head and admired. But as soon as there’s a hint of a predator on the air, he’s pawing the ground and ready to flee.
Sylar smiles, perhaps a bit too widely, and skirts the metal table, his hands down by his sides. “No? ‘No’ isn’t an option, Dr. Suresh.” He pretends to think a moment, to weigh his options. “Or should I call you Mohinder now?”
“Don’t you dare use my name,” the geneticist spits, backed against the heavy door, still trying to run.
He can’t help it. He laughs.
“You think they’ve beat me?” he asks, delighted, his voice teetering on the edge between amused and hysterical. “You think just because they’ve taken everything, because they’ve stolen everything,” his words turn shrill, nearly a cry, “you think they’ve won?”
Sylar shakes his head, chuckling, approaching the terrified doctor with a modicum of his old grace and pressing in close, one hand on either side of his face. He shifts his hips forward slightly, the doctor’s unwilling sigh ruffling his hair. Mohinder is still as a statue, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, straight through Sylar.
For a fleeting moment, he sees chocolate give way to crimson, two empty gaping holes in Mohinder’s pretty face, dripping blood and fluid. He wants to press his thumbs inside, to reach back and bury his fingers in cold, slick matter, pull it out, turn it around in his hands. He blinks the image away, a shark’s grin stretching his features.
“This is mine,” he whispers, leaning forward and mouthing the delicate, smooth skin of Mohinder’s throat. “I wanted it, asked for it so many times.”
He can feel the shift of an Adam’s apple under his lips, Mohinder’s breath harsh against his ear. He wishes he could still hear his heartbeat, listen to the tell-tale hammer-but no. First things first.
Testing his luck, he licks a slick path along Mohinder’s neck, bringing their hips into contact once more. He is pleased to find the doctor’s not resisting, even more so to find he’s hard. He thinks of the man’s earlier words, claiming that he hadn’t known who Sylar was before.
“Liar,” he singsongs against Mohinder’s pulse point, feeling him shiver.
Whatever the doctor may claim about the past, he knows now. Sylar bites down hard, listening to Mohinder’s cry echo in his ears, tasting blood, oily and black on the back of his tongue. Hands push him back insistently, but he fights to stay in control, fisting his hands in Mohinder’s jacket.
The doctor’s eyes are wide, tying to pry away his grip, but Sylar’s desperation fuels his strength. He tries to drag Mohinder towards the table, fury flowing through his veins. If he just had his abilities, this would be so easy, if he just-no, not now.
Mohinder is panicking now, raining blows down on him, his fists beating against his shoulders, his chest. Mohinder bloodies his nose, his lip, but Sylar doesn’t let go, can’t.
“We had a connection,” he hisses, pleads. Mohinder sneers at him, pushes hard and Sylar is sprawling across the floor, his head smacking dully on the cinderblock. He laughs.
Mohinder stares down at him, chest heaving from a delicious combination of fury and fear, his erection still painfully obvious. It’s all too familiar and Sylar can’t help but remember, can’t help but see crimson smearing those lips, see trembling fingers wrapped around a gun.
“You’re sick,” Mohinder spits. “Nothing but pathetic, powerless lunatic. You aren’t even a threat anymore.”
His teeth set hard on edge at the words, a scream building in the back of his throat. He crawls forward a few paces, until he’s looking up at Mohinder. On his knees. Helpless. He watches as lust clouds those dark eyes, as Mohinder unwittingly smoothes a hand through his closely cropped hair, gripping the nape of his neck viciously.
“You’re right, Mohinder,” he purrs, locking their eyes for a moment before lowering his own submissively, leaning forward and mouthing the doctor’s denim-clad hard on. Mohinder gasps above him, the sound choked and despairing. “I can’t do anything.”
He unzips the other man’s jeans, palming his erection, hot and heavy, through the thin material of his boxers. Mohinder makes to grab his wrist, to stop him, but Sylar moves first, pinning the man’s hands to the wall. He wants to nail them there, drive rusted metal through unwilling flesh, see the skin part for him in a sea of red.
Not now.
Weeks of wasting away in a concrete cell have left him weakened, he knows, and if Mohinder were really trying, the other man could break his grasp. But the doctor remains still and shaking against the wall, his cock twitching under Sylar’s warm, damp mouth.
When he’s sure Mohinder won’t stop him, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, he abandons his hold on the other man’s wrists, tugging dark jeans and flimsy cotton down over thin hips. Ghosting his breath along the glistening tip, he moves to take Mohinder’s cock between his lips, the throaty moan that yields slithering its way down his spine.
Mohinder’s grasp on the back of his neck is as harsh as his thrust, forcing himself deeper into Sylar’s mouth. The man gets off on this, he knows, his supposed power over Sylar. He feels another bout of hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat, chokes on it, around it, closing his eyes as Mohinder fucks his mouth raw.
After several long moments, he is thrust backwards, Mohinder staring down at him. The Indian’s eyes are bleeding again, but this time…this time there is no beauty in it, no perfect rightness. There is just a wide-open window to the wine-drenched mockery of Mohinder’s soul. The blood drips like a broken faucet, splashing across his pale skin, spreading, sinking in deep like an unforgiving stain.
He wants to shriek, to call out, but Mohinder is pressing his mouth to his, pulling at cotton trousers, biting and clawing. He has Sylar pressed against the cold concrete, hands scrabbling for purchase, twisting and panting underneath him. He can see nothing but oozing, empty sockets and teeth sharpening to dreaded points. This is wrong, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he has the power here, he does, he-
“You wanted me, Sylar?” Mohinder hisses, his grip leaving indentations in Sylar’s skin. “You have me.”
He wants to sob from the wrongness of it all, the sudden break. It’s nothing like he’d thought, nothing like what he’d obsessed over, fixated on. The hands on his hips feel like a vice, pulling him closer and he’s barely hard anymore. He can see the demons surrounding him, biting into his flesh, painting the walls black, the inky substance crawling into his throat and choking him.
The cry tears from his throat finally, pulling free from the tar that threatens to swallow him whole. Mohinder jerks away, his features slipping back into their normal mold as Sylar scrambles back.
“Sylar?” The voice is soft, questioning. Filled with self-disgust. He listens carefully, wraps it around himself.
“I asked for you.” He tells the wall, eyes drifting closed. Listens to Mohinder shift on the cold, concrete floor.
“They’re going to kill me.”
“It’s no more than you deserve.” Mohinder’s words are predictable. Cold. But something lurks underneath that Sylar can’t quite place.
Sylar moves closer to him, reaches out slowly and takes hold of Mohinder’s hand, placing it along the curve of his jaw.
“Can’t you pretend?” he asks, something in him irrevocably broken, something that for once, he doesn’t know how to fix.
“Just for a little while.”
Sylar smiles, perhaps a bit too widely, and skirts the metal table, his hands down by his sides. “No? ‘No’ isn’t an option, Dr. Suresh.” He pretends to think a moment, to weigh his options. “Or should I call you Mohinder now?”
“Don’t you dare use my name,” the geneticist spits, backed against the heavy door, still trying to run.
He can’t help it. He laughs.
“You think they’ve beat me?” he asks, delighted, his voice teetering on the edge between amused and hysterical. “You think just because they’ve taken everything, because they’ve stolen everything,” his words turn shrill, nearly a cry, “you think they’ve won?”
Sylar shakes his head, chuckling, approaching the terrified doctor with a modicum of his old grace and pressing in close, one hand on either side of his face. He shifts his hips forward slightly, the doctor’s unwilling sigh ruffling his hair. Mohinder is still as a statue, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, straight through Sylar.
For a fleeting moment, he sees chocolate give way to crimson, two empty gaping holes in Mohinder’s pretty face, dripping blood and fluid. He wants to press his thumbs inside, to reach back and bury his fingers in cold, slick matter, pull it out, turn it around in his hands. He blinks the image away, a shark’s grin stretching his features.
“This is mine,” he whispers, leaning forward and mouthing the delicate, smooth skin of Mohinder’s throat. “I wanted it, asked for it so many times.”
He can feel the shift of an Adam’s apple under his lips, Mohinder’s breath harsh against his ear. He wishes he could still hear his heartbeat, listen to the tell-tale hammer-but no. First things first.
Testing his luck, he licks a slick path along Mohinder’s neck, bringing their hips into contact once more. He is pleased to find the doctor’s not resisting, even more so to find he’s hard. He thinks of the man’s earlier words, claiming that he hadn’t known who Sylar was before.
“Liar,” he singsongs against Mohinder’s pulse point, feeling him shiver.
Whatever the doctor may claim about the past, he knows now. Sylar bites down hard, listening to Mohinder’s cry echo in his ears, tasting blood, oily and black on the back of his tongue. Hands push him back insistently, but he fights to stay in control, fisting his hands in Mohinder’s jacket.
The doctor’s eyes are wide, tying to pry away his grip, but Sylar’s desperation fuels his strength. He tries to drag Mohinder towards the table, fury flowing through his veins. If he just had his abilities, this would be so easy, if he just-no, not now.
Mohinder is panicking now, raining blows down on him, his fists beating against his shoulders, his chest. Mohinder bloodies his nose, his lip, but Sylar doesn’t let go, can’t.
“We had a connection,” he hisses, pleads. Mohinder sneers at him, pushes hard and Sylar is sprawling across the floor, his head smacking dully on the cinderblock. He laughs.
Mohinder stares down at him, chest heaving from a delicious combination of fury and fear, his erection still painfully obvious. It’s all too familiar and Sylar can’t help but remember, can’t help but see crimson smearing those lips, see trembling fingers wrapped around a gun.
“You’re sick,” Mohinder spits. “Nothing but pathetic, powerless lunatic. You aren’t even a threat anymore.”
His teeth set hard on edge at the words, a scream building in the back of his throat. He crawls forward a few paces, until he’s looking up at Mohinder. On his knees. Helpless. He watches as lust clouds those dark eyes, as Mohinder unwittingly smoothes a hand through his closely cropped hair, gripping the nape of his neck viciously.
“You’re right, Mohinder,” he purrs, locking their eyes for a moment before lowering his own submissively, leaning forward and mouthing the doctor’s denim-clad hard on. Mohinder gasps above him, the sound choked and despairing. “I can’t do anything.”
He unzips the other man’s jeans, palming his erection, hot and heavy, through the thin material of his boxers. Mohinder makes to grab his wrist, to stop him, but Sylar moves first, pinning the man’s hands to the wall. He wants to nail them there, drive rusted metal through unwilling flesh, see the skin part for him in a sea of red.
Not now.
Weeks of wasting away in a concrete cell have left him weakened, he knows, and if Mohinder were really trying, the other man could break his grasp. But the doctor remains still and shaking against the wall, his cock twitching under Sylar’s warm, damp mouth.
When he’s sure Mohinder won’t stop him, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, he abandons his hold on the other man’s wrists, tugging dark jeans and flimsy cotton down over thin hips. Ghosting his breath along the glistening tip, he moves to take Mohinder’s cock between his lips, the throaty moan that yields slithering its way down his spine.
Mohinder’s grasp on the back of his neck is as harsh as his thrust, forcing himself deeper into Sylar’s mouth. The man gets off on this, he knows, his supposed power over Sylar. He feels another bout of hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat, chokes on it, around it, closing his eyes as Mohinder fucks his mouth raw.
After several long moments, he is thrust backwards, Mohinder staring down at him. The Indian’s eyes are bleeding again, but this time…this time there is no beauty in it, no perfect rightness. There is just a wide-open window to the wine-drenched mockery of Mohinder’s soul. The blood drips like a broken faucet, splashing across his pale skin, spreading, sinking in deep like an unforgiving stain.
He wants to shriek, to call out, but Mohinder is pressing his mouth to his, pulling at cotton trousers, biting and clawing. He has Sylar pressed against the cold concrete, hands scrabbling for purchase, twisting and panting underneath him. He can see nothing but oozing, empty sockets and teeth sharpening to dreaded points. This is wrong, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he has the power here, he does, he-
“You wanted me, Sylar?” Mohinder hisses, his grip leaving indentations in Sylar’s skin. “You have me.”
He wants to sob from the wrongness of it all, the sudden break. It’s nothing like he’d thought, nothing like what he’d obsessed over, fixated on. The hands on his hips feel like a vice, pulling him closer and he’s barely hard anymore. He can see the demons surrounding him, biting into his flesh, painting the walls black, the inky substance crawling into his throat and choking him.
The cry tears from his throat finally, pulling free from the tar that threatens to swallow him whole. Mohinder jerks away, his features slipping back into their normal mold as Sylar scrambles back.
“Sylar?” The voice is soft, questioning. Filled with self-disgust. He listens carefully, wraps it around himself.
“I asked for you.” He tells the wall, eyes drifting closed. Listens to Mohinder shift on the cold, concrete floor.
“They’re going to kill me.”
“It’s no more than you deserve.” Mohinder’s words are predictable. Cold. But something lurks underneath that Sylar can’t quite place.
Sylar moves closer to him, reaches out slowly and takes hold of Mohinder’s hand, placing it along the curve of his jaw.
“Can’t you pretend?” he asks, something in him irrevocably broken, something that for once, he doesn’t know how to fix.
“Just for a little while.”