Homecoming
Title: Homecoming
Author: Harikari
For: megmatthews20
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Words: 2352
Summary: Sylar comes home.
Warnings: Non-con, violence, angst, rather dark, some bondage, etc.
Disclaimer: Don't own em'. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: A repost. This was written for the wonderful megmatthews20 and the heroes_exchange com. A huge thanks to all who have already commented on this over there! <3
-----
It was pouring now; fat drops of rain were thwak, thwak, thwaking against the car's windshield as they barreled down the stretch of road at 65 miles per hour.
Tracy was driving, her fingers (manicured nails shimmering prettily) folded tight around the steering wheel and a wild gleam in her eyes. She hadn't said a word since she'd picked him up, since he'd settled into the passenger's seat and snapped the door shut behind him.
Uneasy, Mohinder shifted. Pressed his forehead up against the cool glass of the window and gazed at the world (darkened by nightfall) that was rushing by outside. He watched lines of trees, square businesses, semi-tall apartment complexes until the car slowed and made a tight turn into a mostly empty parking lot.
"Get the bags," ordered Tracy as she pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the vehicle. "I'll be back."
Mohinder straightened in his seat; nodded. The door closed and the geneticist took in a deep breath, took a moment to stretch before reaching back and grabbing the two smallish bags that were waiting in the back seat. Tracy's bags -- he'd had nothing but the clothes on his back when the woman had picked him up, had had nothing when he'd fled from the burning Pinehearst building.
"Room 9A," came the woman's voice as he was stepping out of the car. Still hauling the bags, he leaned against the gaping door to close it; followed the blond as she wound her way through the parking lot.
She stopped at a door sporting a brass number "9" and a brass letter "A", took the key (an actual key, not one of those cards that most of the newer hotels and motels seemed to use) she'd gotten and opened it.
"Nothing fancy," she said as she stepped into the room, Mohinder crowding in behind her. "But it'll do."
The geneticist nodded. Strode over to the small, wooden table that was tucked into one corner and placed the bags on top of it; dropped into one of the rickety looking chairs. Feeling suddenly exhausted, miserable, he put his elbows up on the table and leaned into them. Ran slender fingers through his hair. "Where's Nathan?" he asked. "Do you know? What...what are we going to do now?"
He felt tired, lost. He felt horrible. Didn't know what to think, what to do. Didn't know...
"You're tired," breathed Tracy after a pause. And she walked over to him; stopped when he could feel her behind him, could feel her breath stirring his hair. "You should relax. Take a shower, maybe. Eat something. Get some rest."
Mohinder abruptly felt heat overtake his neck, his face. A shower. Of course. After all he had been through. After everything...
I must absolutely reek.
Embarrassed, he stood. Realized he had nothing clean to change into. He would just have to -
"You don't have to."
Mohinder looked up. "What?"
"You don't have to take a shower right now, Mohinder. If you're too tired-"
"No. I feel like taking one. I need one." He turned away, stopped when a slim and feminine hand grasped loosely at his wrist.
"Are you sure?" asked the blond. "If you're too tired..." She trailed off, paused for a moment before she started up again. "I think you're fine just the way you are, Doctor."
It was almost a purr.
Mohinder started. Looked wide-eyed at the woman before him. "What?" he asked.
And thought, What? Was Tracy...trying to hit on him? On him? Right now? After everything that had happened? After everything they had done, she had done, he had done?
"Just don't force yourself if you are too tired," she replied. She sounded normal now. "Not on my account."
Mohinder nodded. Tracy let go of his wrist and he headed for the bathroom; stepped into the little, well lit room before swiftly closing and locking the door behind him.
I must be imagining things. That was it. Had to be it. He was tired and stressed, his brain was addled...
Mohinder swallowed hard. Moved away from the door and turned on the shower. As the pipes made noise and lukewarm water rained down into the tub he stripped.
He let his soiled clothes fall to the floor, climbed into the tub and under the warm spray of water.
The shower was soothing. He closed his eyes, tried to force thoughts of faulty formulas and abilities and mistakes and Arthur Petrelli and Peter Petrelli and Molly and Matt and...everything else from his mind.
The last of the soap he'd used had rinsed off and the tension in his shoulders was beginning to ease when there was a sharp rap on the door. A second later it burst open.
"Sorry," said Tracy before Mohinder (other than pulling the almost transparent shower curtain more firmly closed) could react. "Just...clothes. You need clothes, right? I have some here."
"Yes," managed Mohinder, still taken aback and wondering idly why the woman had men's clothes with her (perhaps they were Nathan's?). "Uh...thank you." He didn't know what else there was to say. He could tell her to get out, that he didn't appreciate her having barged in on him. But the woman had picked him up, was apparently trying to help him...
Wait.
The geneticist blinked. Stared at the woman in front of him. The steam that had started to fill the room and fog the mirror over the sink made her appear eerie -- ghostly and unreal. "The door." He had locked it. He had closed it and locked it behind him. He knew he had.
"Tracy..." He trailed off, shook his head. His fingers tightened around the curtain. "The door...?"
At first Mohinder thought it was the thickening steam playing tricks with his eyes. Tracy seemed to be wavering in front of him. Changing.
"Wh...," he uttered, and then he realized what was happening. Tracy was changing. Shifting. Her blond hair and curves were melting away. Morphing into something...morphing into someone else.
Hair shortened and turned dark, limbs lengthened and gained muscle, breasts sunk in and disappeared and were replaced with a broad and powerful chest...
Mohinder gasped. His heart started beating fast in his own chest. He stepped back; stepped back until his spine was pressed flat against the damp wall and he was under the now cooling spray of the shower again, pulling and clutching at the curtain in such a way that it was nearly wrapped around him. "Sylar," he breathed.
And for a moment he could hardly think. Couldn't comprehend what it was he was seeing. Sylar. Sylar here. With him. His father's killer. The very reason he had created the formula that had led to most of the trouble he had just been through in the first place.
Shaking, he took in a breath and-
Sylar moved. Before Mohinder could even attempt to bolt away he'd torn the shower curtain from the geneticist's grip and was standing in the tub, towering over the other man, his jeans and t-shirt and tennis shoes getting soaked and one of his large palms pressed against Mohinder's mouth. "Don't scream. I didn't...you weren't supposed to find out so soon." He leaned in close, so close that the geneticist could feel moist breath on his neck. "Don't scream, Mohinder."
Aware of how vulnerable he was, shaking and panicking and breathing hard, Mohinder grabbed for the larger man's wrist and tried to pry it away from his mouth. He wouldn't scream -- he knew for a fact that there was no one around who could help him, knew that if he did scream and someone did come (hotel office staff, the police, anyone) they'd have no chance against the serial killer -- but he certainly wasn't going to do nothing. He was going to fight, try and get away, do something.
Sylar opened his mouth as if to say something else and Mohinder squeezed; dug his blunt nails into the killer's wrist and drew blood. Sylar hissed and the geneticist struck out, managed to hit the other man's knee with his own. But he had no leverage and the tub was slippery -- when the killer backed up a step and let out a grunt he tried to use his brief advantage and struck out again. Slipped.
He yelped behind the hand on his mouth -- started to fall and closed his eyes, braced himself for the impact and the pain...
Sylar caught him under the arms and hoisted him up like he was nothing.
"No!" Mohinder (his determination not to cry out forgotten in his panic) yelled and struggled.
"I told you not to scream," growled the killer and it was his turn to strike out. He rolled one large hand into a fist and swung, caught the geneticist just behind the ear.
Stunned by the blow, Mohinder went limp. He felt it as Sylar placed one arm under his shoulders and another behind his knees and lifted him. Heard him grunt with the exertion; knew what was happening but couldn't move, couldn't do anything about it because he felt light headed and sick, on the verge of passing out.
Sylar moved, carried him out of the bathroom and dropped him on top of a bed. "It wasn't supposed to be this way. Not like this. When I saw you on the road I thought maybe I could..." He trailed off, shook his head. Left the dazed geneticist sprawled nude on the worn comforter.
The serial killer walked over to the wooden table, unzipped one of the small bags sitting atop it and pulled out a roll of duct tape.
Mohinder blinked again. Brought his hand up to probe at the spot behind his ear. It wasn't bleeding. "What is this?" he managed to ask; it came out sounding slurred. "Where's Tracy?"
Sylar sat near the edge of the bed. Began to work at the tape -- tore off a sizable piece and leaned over his captive. He reached for the smaller man, took hold of his arm and lifted it; secured it to one of the bed's metal posts with the tape. He got up, did the same to the other arm before tearing off one slightly smaller strip and pressing it over the now squirming geneticist's mouth.
"I think you know," he finally answered. And then he sighed, settled on the bed again and bent so that his mouth was nearly touching that juncture between the other man's neck and shoulder.
Mohinder, his head clearing now, let out a muffled whimper and arched his back, pulled hard at the thick strips of tape holding him. Calmly, Sylar placed his palm on his chest and forced him flat. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, Mohinder. When I saw you... I was going to keep you with me -- with me as Tracy -- for a while and..." He shook his head again. Brought up a hand and ran fingertips over the geneticist's ankle, up one bare thigh.
Mohinder shook his head sharply back and forth, let out another yell from behind the muffling tape and kicked out. Sylar said nothing -- simply twitched his wrist. Invisible hands rose up from nowhere and held the geneticist, stilled his struggles.
His telekinesis, thought Mohinder, and he groaned.
"I don't know if you remember but... Shortly after we first met I mentioned destiny. Us." Hovering, the serial killer breathed deep. He moved one hand up, ran thick fingers through the geneticist's longish and wet hair -- stared at Mohinder's face, into his brown eyes (they were watery with unshed tears now). "We strayed," he continued as his hand migrated. Moved down and over the slighter man's dark chest before pausing at his belly button.
Mohinder breathed deep behind the tape. The large, warm hand was an unwelcome weight across his belly.
"We've both done things...met people. We've both... It doesn't matter. Like I said, I didn't want it to be exactly like this but it doesn't matter in the long run, Mohinder. We're back together. It's okay. It's destiny."
His hand moved again; strayed lower. Stopped when the killer was firmly gripping his captive's limp penis. "Home."
Mohinder screamed. Tried to move, get away, do something -- anything to stop Sylar. But the invisible hands tightened. And the tape muffled the scream to something meek. He was trapped. Helpless. Images, memories began to flash through his mind (he and the man he'd thought was Zane kissing heatedly, touching, sucking -- Sylar's twisted apartment and the look on Peter's face, on Molly's face, on Maya's face when the killer had attacked them) and he started to sob.
"Don't cry, Mohinder." The killer's grip on his penis had tightened. His hand started to move -- nothing elaborate or exotic, a steady pulling and pressure that made the geneticist whimper, had his penis hardening involuntarily. "You'll get used to this...all of this, being with me. We'll stay together from now on. No more straying. No more stupidity. You'll help me when I need your help. I'll protect you from the storm that's coming. And you'll learn to like it." His pace quickened and Mohinder whimpered again, tears falling from his eyes and down his face. "All of it."
Without stopping his pulling Sylar leaned down, kissed at the smaller man's neck. Licked at it.
It was the feeling of teeth running over the skin at his neck that did it. The heat, the pressure, the steady pulling proved too much for Mohinder and -- despite his desperate want not to, despite the tears running down his cheeks and the screaming refusal in his mind -- he came. Hard. Spattered the blankets, himself, Sylar's hand.
The tension that had been building in Mohinder's gut was gone; his body went limp, no longer fighting the invisible hands.
Sylar sat up, grinned at him. "Home," he said again, and gave the penis in his hand (limp once more) one last squeeze before letting go.
Mohinder closed his burning eyes, shivered.
Author: Harikari
For: megmatthews20
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder
Words: 2352
Summary: Sylar comes home.
Warnings: Non-con, violence, angst, rather dark, some bondage, etc.
Disclaimer: Don't own em'. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: A repost. This was written for the wonderful megmatthews20 and the heroes_exchange com. A huge thanks to all who have already commented on this over there! <3
-----
It was pouring now; fat drops of rain were thwak, thwak, thwaking against the car's windshield as they barreled down the stretch of road at 65 miles per hour.
Tracy was driving, her fingers (manicured nails shimmering prettily) folded tight around the steering wheel and a wild gleam in her eyes. She hadn't said a word since she'd picked him up, since he'd settled into the passenger's seat and snapped the door shut behind him.
Uneasy, Mohinder shifted. Pressed his forehead up against the cool glass of the window and gazed at the world (darkened by nightfall) that was rushing by outside. He watched lines of trees, square businesses, semi-tall apartment complexes until the car slowed and made a tight turn into a mostly empty parking lot.
"Get the bags," ordered Tracy as she pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the vehicle. "I'll be back."
Mohinder straightened in his seat; nodded. The door closed and the geneticist took in a deep breath, took a moment to stretch before reaching back and grabbing the two smallish bags that were waiting in the back seat. Tracy's bags -- he'd had nothing but the clothes on his back when the woman had picked him up, had had nothing when he'd fled from the burning Pinehearst building.
"Room 9A," came the woman's voice as he was stepping out of the car. Still hauling the bags, he leaned against the gaping door to close it; followed the blond as she wound her way through the parking lot.
She stopped at a door sporting a brass number "9" and a brass letter "A", took the key (an actual key, not one of those cards that most of the newer hotels and motels seemed to use) she'd gotten and opened it.
"Nothing fancy," she said as she stepped into the room, Mohinder crowding in behind her. "But it'll do."
The geneticist nodded. Strode over to the small, wooden table that was tucked into one corner and placed the bags on top of it; dropped into one of the rickety looking chairs. Feeling suddenly exhausted, miserable, he put his elbows up on the table and leaned into them. Ran slender fingers through his hair. "Where's Nathan?" he asked. "Do you know? What...what are we going to do now?"
He felt tired, lost. He felt horrible. Didn't know what to think, what to do. Didn't know...
"You're tired," breathed Tracy after a pause. And she walked over to him; stopped when he could feel her behind him, could feel her breath stirring his hair. "You should relax. Take a shower, maybe. Eat something. Get some rest."
Mohinder abruptly felt heat overtake his neck, his face. A shower. Of course. After all he had been through. After everything...
I must absolutely reek.
Embarrassed, he stood. Realized he had nothing clean to change into. He would just have to -
"You don't have to."
Mohinder looked up. "What?"
"You don't have to take a shower right now, Mohinder. If you're too tired-"
"No. I feel like taking one. I need one." He turned away, stopped when a slim and feminine hand grasped loosely at his wrist.
"Are you sure?" asked the blond. "If you're too tired..." She trailed off, paused for a moment before she started up again. "I think you're fine just the way you are, Doctor."
It was almost a purr.
Mohinder started. Looked wide-eyed at the woman before him. "What?" he asked.
And thought, What? Was Tracy...trying to hit on him? On him? Right now? After everything that had happened? After everything they had done, she had done, he had done?
"Just don't force yourself if you are too tired," she replied. She sounded normal now. "Not on my account."
Mohinder nodded. Tracy let go of his wrist and he headed for the bathroom; stepped into the little, well lit room before swiftly closing and locking the door behind him.
I must be imagining things. That was it. Had to be it. He was tired and stressed, his brain was addled...
Mohinder swallowed hard. Moved away from the door and turned on the shower. As the pipes made noise and lukewarm water rained down into the tub he stripped.
He let his soiled clothes fall to the floor, climbed into the tub and under the warm spray of water.
The shower was soothing. He closed his eyes, tried to force thoughts of faulty formulas and abilities and mistakes and Arthur Petrelli and Peter Petrelli and Molly and Matt and...everything else from his mind.
The last of the soap he'd used had rinsed off and the tension in his shoulders was beginning to ease when there was a sharp rap on the door. A second later it burst open.
"Sorry," said Tracy before Mohinder (other than pulling the almost transparent shower curtain more firmly closed) could react. "Just...clothes. You need clothes, right? I have some here."
"Yes," managed Mohinder, still taken aback and wondering idly why the woman had men's clothes with her (perhaps they were Nathan's?). "Uh...thank you." He didn't know what else there was to say. He could tell her to get out, that he didn't appreciate her having barged in on him. But the woman had picked him up, was apparently trying to help him...
Wait.
The geneticist blinked. Stared at the woman in front of him. The steam that had started to fill the room and fog the mirror over the sink made her appear eerie -- ghostly and unreal. "The door." He had locked it. He had closed it and locked it behind him. He knew he had.
"Tracy..." He trailed off, shook his head. His fingers tightened around the curtain. "The door...?"
At first Mohinder thought it was the thickening steam playing tricks with his eyes. Tracy seemed to be wavering in front of him. Changing.
"Wh...," he uttered, and then he realized what was happening. Tracy was changing. Shifting. Her blond hair and curves were melting away. Morphing into something...morphing into someone else.
Hair shortened and turned dark, limbs lengthened and gained muscle, breasts sunk in and disappeared and were replaced with a broad and powerful chest...
Mohinder gasped. His heart started beating fast in his own chest. He stepped back; stepped back until his spine was pressed flat against the damp wall and he was under the now cooling spray of the shower again, pulling and clutching at the curtain in such a way that it was nearly wrapped around him. "Sylar," he breathed.
And for a moment he could hardly think. Couldn't comprehend what it was he was seeing. Sylar. Sylar here. With him. His father's killer. The very reason he had created the formula that had led to most of the trouble he had just been through in the first place.
Shaking, he took in a breath and-
Sylar moved. Before Mohinder could even attempt to bolt away he'd torn the shower curtain from the geneticist's grip and was standing in the tub, towering over the other man, his jeans and t-shirt and tennis shoes getting soaked and one of his large palms pressed against Mohinder's mouth. "Don't scream. I didn't...you weren't supposed to find out so soon." He leaned in close, so close that the geneticist could feel moist breath on his neck. "Don't scream, Mohinder."
Aware of how vulnerable he was, shaking and panicking and breathing hard, Mohinder grabbed for the larger man's wrist and tried to pry it away from his mouth. He wouldn't scream -- he knew for a fact that there was no one around who could help him, knew that if he did scream and someone did come (hotel office staff, the police, anyone) they'd have no chance against the serial killer -- but he certainly wasn't going to do nothing. He was going to fight, try and get away, do something.
Sylar opened his mouth as if to say something else and Mohinder squeezed; dug his blunt nails into the killer's wrist and drew blood. Sylar hissed and the geneticist struck out, managed to hit the other man's knee with his own. But he had no leverage and the tub was slippery -- when the killer backed up a step and let out a grunt he tried to use his brief advantage and struck out again. Slipped.
He yelped behind the hand on his mouth -- started to fall and closed his eyes, braced himself for the impact and the pain...
Sylar caught him under the arms and hoisted him up like he was nothing.
"No!" Mohinder (his determination not to cry out forgotten in his panic) yelled and struggled.
"I told you not to scream," growled the killer and it was his turn to strike out. He rolled one large hand into a fist and swung, caught the geneticist just behind the ear.
Stunned by the blow, Mohinder went limp. He felt it as Sylar placed one arm under his shoulders and another behind his knees and lifted him. Heard him grunt with the exertion; knew what was happening but couldn't move, couldn't do anything about it because he felt light headed and sick, on the verge of passing out.
Sylar moved, carried him out of the bathroom and dropped him on top of a bed. "It wasn't supposed to be this way. Not like this. When I saw you on the road I thought maybe I could..." He trailed off, shook his head. Left the dazed geneticist sprawled nude on the worn comforter.
The serial killer walked over to the wooden table, unzipped one of the small bags sitting atop it and pulled out a roll of duct tape.
Mohinder blinked again. Brought his hand up to probe at the spot behind his ear. It wasn't bleeding. "What is this?" he managed to ask; it came out sounding slurred. "Where's Tracy?"
Sylar sat near the edge of the bed. Began to work at the tape -- tore off a sizable piece and leaned over his captive. He reached for the smaller man, took hold of his arm and lifted it; secured it to one of the bed's metal posts with the tape. He got up, did the same to the other arm before tearing off one slightly smaller strip and pressing it over the now squirming geneticist's mouth.
"I think you know," he finally answered. And then he sighed, settled on the bed again and bent so that his mouth was nearly touching that juncture between the other man's neck and shoulder.
Mohinder, his head clearing now, let out a muffled whimper and arched his back, pulled hard at the thick strips of tape holding him. Calmly, Sylar placed his palm on his chest and forced him flat. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, Mohinder. When I saw you... I was going to keep you with me -- with me as Tracy -- for a while and..." He shook his head again. Brought up a hand and ran fingertips over the geneticist's ankle, up one bare thigh.
Mohinder shook his head sharply back and forth, let out another yell from behind the muffling tape and kicked out. Sylar said nothing -- simply twitched his wrist. Invisible hands rose up from nowhere and held the geneticist, stilled his struggles.
His telekinesis, thought Mohinder, and he groaned.
"I don't know if you remember but... Shortly after we first met I mentioned destiny. Us." Hovering, the serial killer breathed deep. He moved one hand up, ran thick fingers through the geneticist's longish and wet hair -- stared at Mohinder's face, into his brown eyes (they were watery with unshed tears now). "We strayed," he continued as his hand migrated. Moved down and over the slighter man's dark chest before pausing at his belly button.
Mohinder breathed deep behind the tape. The large, warm hand was an unwelcome weight across his belly.
"We've both done things...met people. We've both... It doesn't matter. Like I said, I didn't want it to be exactly like this but it doesn't matter in the long run, Mohinder. We're back together. It's okay. It's destiny."
His hand moved again; strayed lower. Stopped when the killer was firmly gripping his captive's limp penis. "Home."
Mohinder screamed. Tried to move, get away, do something -- anything to stop Sylar. But the invisible hands tightened. And the tape muffled the scream to something meek. He was trapped. Helpless. Images, memories began to flash through his mind (he and the man he'd thought was Zane kissing heatedly, touching, sucking -- Sylar's twisted apartment and the look on Peter's face, on Molly's face, on Maya's face when the killer had attacked them) and he started to sob.
"Don't cry, Mohinder." The killer's grip on his penis had tightened. His hand started to move -- nothing elaborate or exotic, a steady pulling and pressure that made the geneticist whimper, had his penis hardening involuntarily. "You'll get used to this...all of this, being with me. We'll stay together from now on. No more straying. No more stupidity. You'll help me when I need your help. I'll protect you from the storm that's coming. And you'll learn to like it." His pace quickened and Mohinder whimpered again, tears falling from his eyes and down his face. "All of it."
Without stopping his pulling Sylar leaned down, kissed at the smaller man's neck. Licked at it.
It was the feeling of teeth running over the skin at his neck that did it. The heat, the pressure, the steady pulling proved too much for Mohinder and -- despite his desperate want not to, despite the tears running down his cheeks and the screaming refusal in his mind -- he came. Hard. Spattered the blankets, himself, Sylar's hand.
The tension that had been building in Mohinder's gut was gone; his body went limp, no longer fighting the invisible hands.
Sylar sat up, grinned at him. "Home," he said again, and gave the penis in his hand (limp once more) one last squeeze before letting go.
Mohinder closed his burning eyes, shivered.