Drabble: Life-like
Title: Life-like
Author: Butterflyweb
Rating: R
Warning: fucked up!Mohinder, non-con, shortness
Words: 366
Summary: The Haitian took more than Sylar's memories. He took his mind.
A/N: Sort of works for the haitian memory challenge. Inspired by the Dresen Dolls' Coin-Operated Boy, the lyrics of which are in the cut.
He does his best not to think about it.
He has other things to focus his mind and energy on these days, things that require his utmost attention. He tries his best to explain this to Peter; Peter, whose eyes have become so shadowed, like caverns in his pale face. Peter doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need him to. He has all he needs and if that ever seems hollow, well, he doesn’t think about it.
Slowly but surely, his ties to the outer world begin to fade. He tries not to notice, concentrates on Zane. Zane, who’s not Sylar, not anymore, and he’s Mohinder’s responsibility now. Peter doesn’t like it, insists that Sylar Zane is little more than a shell, a glorified wind-up doll. Mohinder clenches his jaw and tries not to think about it. Runs his fingers through dark brown hair that he’s let grow long and tries not to flinch when he catches blankly staring eyes.
It’s easy to pretend, most of the time. Curling up beside him on the couch, lying next to him in bed. Mohinder makes them breakfast in the mornings, chattering about everything and nothing, and if Zane doesn’t respond, well, he’s always been quiet. Every now and then, though, when the silence gets too heavy, Mohinder will make some horrible joke, imagining a shy grin and easy laughter. It may be empty, but it’s something.
But when it’s dark and he’s stretched out over him, sheets pooled on the floor, it’s harder to ignore. He kisses a lax mouth, twisting his hands in too-long hair and fucking unresponsive flesh. Zane lies still, watches him with expressionless eyes, not reciprocating, not resisting, not even aroused. It angers Mohinder, frustrates him and he bites at full lips, scratches his nails across pale skin, drawing blood. He fucks him raw and rough, trying his damnedest to get anything, any kind of feeling to cross Zane’s features, but it’s in vain.
He stumbles off into the bathroom when he’s done, vomiting in the toilet and falling asleep with his back against the tiled wall, Zane naked and bleeding in his bed.
He does his best not to think about it.
Author: Butterflyweb
Rating: R
Warning: fucked up!Mohinder, non-con, shortness
Words: 366
Summary: The Haitian took more than Sylar's memories. He took his mind.
A/N: Sort of works for the haitian memory challenge. Inspired by the Dresen Dolls' Coin-Operated Boy, the lyrics of which are in the cut.
He does his best not to think about it.
He has other things to focus his mind and energy on these days, things that require his utmost attention. He tries his best to explain this to Peter; Peter, whose eyes have become so shadowed, like caverns in his pale face. Peter doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need him to. He has all he needs and if that ever seems hollow, well, he doesn’t think about it.
Slowly but surely, his ties to the outer world begin to fade. He tries not to notice, concentrates on Zane. Zane, who’s not Sylar, not anymore, and he’s Mohinder’s responsibility now. Peter doesn’t like it, insists that Sylar Zane is little more than a shell, a glorified wind-up doll. Mohinder clenches his jaw and tries not to think about it. Runs his fingers through dark brown hair that he’s let grow long and tries not to flinch when he catches blankly staring eyes.
It’s easy to pretend, most of the time. Curling up beside him on the couch, lying next to him in bed. Mohinder makes them breakfast in the mornings, chattering about everything and nothing, and if Zane doesn’t respond, well, he’s always been quiet. Every now and then, though, when the silence gets too heavy, Mohinder will make some horrible joke, imagining a shy grin and easy laughter. It may be empty, but it’s something.
But when it’s dark and he’s stretched out over him, sheets pooled on the floor, it’s harder to ignore. He kisses a lax mouth, twisting his hands in too-long hair and fucking unresponsive flesh. Zane lies still, watches him with expressionless eyes, not reciprocating, not resisting, not even aroused. It angers Mohinder, frustrates him and he bites at full lips, scratches his nails across pale skin, drawing blood. He fucks him raw and rough, trying his damnedest to get anything, any kind of feeling to cross Zane’s features, but it’s in vain.
He stumbles off into the bathroom when he’s done, vomiting in the toilet and falling asleep with his back against the tiled wall, Zane naked and bleeding in his bed.
He does his best not to think about it.