Heroes: "Surrender" (Mylar, R)
Title: Surrender
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: rebootfromstart
Genre: Angst
Prompt: Alone in a crowd
Rating: R
Word Count: 1617
Notes: For the mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 1 - "angst week"
Summary: Mohinder takes a long walk on a cold night.
He walks through Times Square, bright lights, loud noise; the crushing press of people half-hurrying, half-wandering like cattle to the slaughterhouse. A group of tourists stops sharply in front of him to take a picture, and a large woman with even larger sunglasses slams rudely into his arm.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” she spits as she walks away, taking a deep drag of her cigarette.
He doesn’t notice. He sidesteps the tourists, hiking the collar of his coat up against the bitter wind that roars through the streets; through this canyon of concrete and electricity.
When he drove a cab, it feels like years ago, he avoided this place like the plague. Too much congestion, too many people. The endless cacophony of car horns and sirens and street corner gospel and music… none of it was conducive to moving forward or concentration.
Now it’s the only way he can think clearly. The silence in his head has become deafening. And he hasn’t moved forward in a while, despite how fast he’s been running.
He wonders, idly, how many of the hundreds of bodies in this mob have abilities. Surely, for a population sample this large there would be at least a few. He doesn’t think too deeply on it, letting sound and sensation overtake him. Shapes and lines blur as he lets his eyes lose focus, moving mindlessly with the human tide. It feels good to yield, to act and react without thought or responsibility.
Then he feels it; a primal twinge in the back of his head. And he knows he is not alone.
He stops short and the crowd parts around him like water flowing past a river stone. His eyes snap forward, and he is transfixed by black. A seeming abyss in the mass of color and light. Dark hair, dark clothes, thick dark brows lowered over eyes that are darker still; eyes like smoldering coals.
This is a cold-blooded murderer, a parasite, a nightmare incarnate. A gruesome chimera who has killed, over and over again, with no remorse; hands not even touching his prey. Mohinder wonders if he can feel it when his victims die. If their last moments shudder on the edges of his perception as surely as the force of a knife blade in gasping flesh.
Those coal-black eyes meet his, and the shiver that wracks his thin frame has nothing to do with the chill air. Nothing to do with the thought of his father, or Eden, or Dale, or a man named Zane he never met.
Instead he is consumed by the memory of strong hands and pale skin, late nights in strange beds, and frenzied kisses that always tasted like water. His mouth is dry as he remembers those eyes burning with desire for him, setting his senses on fire with lust.
His feet move forward, though he knows he should turn away. But it is too late for that. Far too late. He is compelled like a moth to a candle flame.
And like the moth, immolation is his destiny.
He closes his eyes briefly, breathing deeply, trying to regain composure. When he opens them, the man is gone. He falters, stumbling in his tracks, like a man waking from a strange dream. There is no sense of relief, no fear, no anger.
He is disappointed, and he hates himself for it.
Hates himself for wanting, above all else, the touch of his father’s killer.
He turns down a side street, disgusted, and wishes he could disappear. The crowd is thinner here; only a few people loiter at the doors to clubs and hotels. He buries his hands in his coat pockets and walks faster, running away again.
A feather-light touch brushes against the back of his neck, and he inhales sharply. He doesn’t bother turning around, knows there’s no one there, and keeps walking. The touch becomes a pressure, firm and insistent, leading him away from the streetlights. He follows, as if he had a choice.
The faint orange glow of the sodium lights casts eerie shadows across the narrow alleyway. A red luminescence in the corner of a loading dock catches his eye and Sylar steps out, eyes shining like a predator. He leaps from the concrete ledge, black coat billowing dramatically, and lands, considering the man in front of him.
“You’re shaking.” Sylar observes, dryly. He stalks forward, invading the smaller man’s personal space. “You cold?”
Mohinder swallows heavily. “N-no,” he stammers. In this moment, he hates himself for showing weakness. He clears his throat, and repeats himself more confidently. “No, I’m not.”
Invisible tendrils of telekinetic energy wrap around his wrists, his waist, his ankles, and he sighs into the touch. He has no choice now but to stay where he is, and the surrender feels so good.
“Look at you,” Sylar begins, laughing softly. “You want me so bad I can almost taste it. But you won’t let yourself.”
“Let myself what?” Mohinder retorts, straining defiantly, if dishonestly, against his bonds. Sylar’s response is a harsh scorching breath against his ear.
“Admit it. Admit that you want me to touch you.” Sylar runs a long finger down one lightly stubbled cheek and Mohinder’s breath catches in his throat. “Admit that you want me to kiss you.” He closes the distance between their faces slowly, whispering, giving voice to all of Mohinder’s darkest desires. “Admit that you want me to throw you down right here and fuck you till you bleed, till you scream. You want me to be merciless with you.”
Barely an inch between them now, and Sylar lets his eyes slide closed. Mohinder is so wrapped up in the moment, panting hard; he doesn’t feel the unseen pressure recede. He leans forward, expecting resistance, and is thrilled and horrified to discover the force that stops his momentum is a pair of full, slightly parted lips. They press softly against his own, uncharacteristically tentative, waiting for him to make the next move.
He does, tongue swiping across the man’s lips, coaxing them open. Sylar smiles around him, and returns the kiss oh so gently.
Then, suddenly, it isn’t gentle. There is nothing gentle about the way they intersect; nothing soft in the lines of their bodies, nothing kind in their kisses.
Mohinder is slammed against the dingy brick wall of the alleyway, Sylar pinning him with his body. There is no room for doubt, for self-hatred; no room for anything but the hips grinding against his. The hands on either side of his head, locking him in place. The thigh thrust between his legs, keeping them apart. The burning mouth that, oh god, sears him to the bone as it bites down on the sensitive spot behind his ear. He gasps and whines, running frantic hands up Sylar’s back, tangling them as best he can in the short dark hair.
Sylar growls. “You want me to fuck you hard, right here against this wall?”
Mohinder can’t respond in words, instead surging forward and capturing that taunting mouth in another bruising kiss. It is all too brief, as Sylar fists a hand in his dark curls and twists him around, forcing his face against the rough brick. It scrapes his cheek, but he doesn’t care; there’s a hot body covering his and a powerful arm winding around his waist, hand sliding too slowly downward to the fly of his jeans. He moans desperately, torn between thrusting forward against that teasing hand and arching backward, bringing their bodies even more tightly together.
Sylar just laughs and presses his hand harder. “I killed your father,” he says, coldly. “I watched him die. And I am not sorry.” He traps Mohinder’s earlobe in his teeth, biting hard, and is gratified when the other man can’t completely stifle a scream. “Do you still want me?” he hisses, “Still want me to make you bleed for it?”
Mohinder feels the salt sting of tears starting in his eyes, and clenches his teeth to suppress it. He knows the answer, has always known the answer. And Sylar is waiting.
“Y-yes.”
Sharp teeth sink in to the flesh of his neck, followed by a soothing tongue, and Mohinder is quickly being driven wild. “Then I have a lesson for you, Professor.” It is hot, unbearably hot as he is shoved harder against the wall, Sylar leaning impossibly closer to whisper in his ear.
“We all want what we can’t have.”
And he is gone, leaving Mohinder freezing and breathless, shuddering with need and frustration and anger. He reaches trembling fingers to his face, to the pattern of brick still imprinted on his cheek, and is not at all startled when they come away bloodstained. He turns around, collapsing back against the wall, completely defeated.
He is sick and broken and ashamed, and the wind whips around him, colder than ever. He slides down to sit heavily, burying his face in his arms, trying to shut out the world; to forget.
But he knows he can’t. Just like he can’t forget the last time. The same way he knows it will happen again. He promises that next time will be different, that next time…
A moment passes, and he emerges from the alleyway, seemingly composed. He abandons the shadows to fall once again into the bright anonymous throng on 42nd Street.
And if his eyes are distant and glassy, and his face is wet with blood and tears, nobody notices or cares.
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: rebootfromstart
Genre: Angst
Prompt: Alone in a crowd
Rating: R
Word Count: 1617
Notes: For the mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 1 - "angst week"
Summary: Mohinder takes a long walk on a cold night.
He walks through Times Square, bright lights, loud noise; the crushing press of people half-hurrying, half-wandering like cattle to the slaughterhouse. A group of tourists stops sharply in front of him to take a picture, and a large woman with even larger sunglasses slams rudely into his arm.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” she spits as she walks away, taking a deep drag of her cigarette.
He doesn’t notice. He sidesteps the tourists, hiking the collar of his coat up against the bitter wind that roars through the streets; through this canyon of concrete and electricity.
When he drove a cab, it feels like years ago, he avoided this place like the plague. Too much congestion, too many people. The endless cacophony of car horns and sirens and street corner gospel and music… none of it was conducive to moving forward or concentration.
Now it’s the only way he can think clearly. The silence in his head has become deafening. And he hasn’t moved forward in a while, despite how fast he’s been running.
He wonders, idly, how many of the hundreds of bodies in this mob have abilities. Surely, for a population sample this large there would be at least a few. He doesn’t think too deeply on it, letting sound and sensation overtake him. Shapes and lines blur as he lets his eyes lose focus, moving mindlessly with the human tide. It feels good to yield, to act and react without thought or responsibility.
Then he feels it; a primal twinge in the back of his head. And he knows he is not alone.
He stops short and the crowd parts around him like water flowing past a river stone. His eyes snap forward, and he is transfixed by black. A seeming abyss in the mass of color and light. Dark hair, dark clothes, thick dark brows lowered over eyes that are darker still; eyes like smoldering coals.
This is a cold-blooded murderer, a parasite, a nightmare incarnate. A gruesome chimera who has killed, over and over again, with no remorse; hands not even touching his prey. Mohinder wonders if he can feel it when his victims die. If their last moments shudder on the edges of his perception as surely as the force of a knife blade in gasping flesh.
Those coal-black eyes meet his, and the shiver that wracks his thin frame has nothing to do with the chill air. Nothing to do with the thought of his father, or Eden, or Dale, or a man named Zane he never met.
Instead he is consumed by the memory of strong hands and pale skin, late nights in strange beds, and frenzied kisses that always tasted like water. His mouth is dry as he remembers those eyes burning with desire for him, setting his senses on fire with lust.
His feet move forward, though he knows he should turn away. But it is too late for that. Far too late. He is compelled like a moth to a candle flame.
And like the moth, immolation is his destiny.
He closes his eyes briefly, breathing deeply, trying to regain composure. When he opens them, the man is gone. He falters, stumbling in his tracks, like a man waking from a strange dream. There is no sense of relief, no fear, no anger.
He is disappointed, and he hates himself for it.
Hates himself for wanting, above all else, the touch of his father’s killer.
He turns down a side street, disgusted, and wishes he could disappear. The crowd is thinner here; only a few people loiter at the doors to clubs and hotels. He buries his hands in his coat pockets and walks faster, running away again.
A feather-light touch brushes against the back of his neck, and he inhales sharply. He doesn’t bother turning around, knows there’s no one there, and keeps walking. The touch becomes a pressure, firm and insistent, leading him away from the streetlights. He follows, as if he had a choice.
The faint orange glow of the sodium lights casts eerie shadows across the narrow alleyway. A red luminescence in the corner of a loading dock catches his eye and Sylar steps out, eyes shining like a predator. He leaps from the concrete ledge, black coat billowing dramatically, and lands, considering the man in front of him.
“You’re shaking.” Sylar observes, dryly. He stalks forward, invading the smaller man’s personal space. “You cold?”
Mohinder swallows heavily. “N-no,” he stammers. In this moment, he hates himself for showing weakness. He clears his throat, and repeats himself more confidently. “No, I’m not.”
Invisible tendrils of telekinetic energy wrap around his wrists, his waist, his ankles, and he sighs into the touch. He has no choice now but to stay where he is, and the surrender feels so good.
“Look at you,” Sylar begins, laughing softly. “You want me so bad I can almost taste it. But you won’t let yourself.”
“Let myself what?” Mohinder retorts, straining defiantly, if dishonestly, against his bonds. Sylar’s response is a harsh scorching breath against his ear.
“Admit it. Admit that you want me to touch you.” Sylar runs a long finger down one lightly stubbled cheek and Mohinder’s breath catches in his throat. “Admit that you want me to kiss you.” He closes the distance between their faces slowly, whispering, giving voice to all of Mohinder’s darkest desires. “Admit that you want me to throw you down right here and fuck you till you bleed, till you scream. You want me to be merciless with you.”
Barely an inch between them now, and Sylar lets his eyes slide closed. Mohinder is so wrapped up in the moment, panting hard; he doesn’t feel the unseen pressure recede. He leans forward, expecting resistance, and is thrilled and horrified to discover the force that stops his momentum is a pair of full, slightly parted lips. They press softly against his own, uncharacteristically tentative, waiting for him to make the next move.
He does, tongue swiping across the man’s lips, coaxing them open. Sylar smiles around him, and returns the kiss oh so gently.
Then, suddenly, it isn’t gentle. There is nothing gentle about the way they intersect; nothing soft in the lines of their bodies, nothing kind in their kisses.
Mohinder is slammed against the dingy brick wall of the alleyway, Sylar pinning him with his body. There is no room for doubt, for self-hatred; no room for anything but the hips grinding against his. The hands on either side of his head, locking him in place. The thigh thrust between his legs, keeping them apart. The burning mouth that, oh god, sears him to the bone as it bites down on the sensitive spot behind his ear. He gasps and whines, running frantic hands up Sylar’s back, tangling them as best he can in the short dark hair.
Sylar growls. “You want me to fuck you hard, right here against this wall?”
Mohinder can’t respond in words, instead surging forward and capturing that taunting mouth in another bruising kiss. It is all too brief, as Sylar fists a hand in his dark curls and twists him around, forcing his face against the rough brick. It scrapes his cheek, but he doesn’t care; there’s a hot body covering his and a powerful arm winding around his waist, hand sliding too slowly downward to the fly of his jeans. He moans desperately, torn between thrusting forward against that teasing hand and arching backward, bringing their bodies even more tightly together.
Sylar just laughs and presses his hand harder. “I killed your father,” he says, coldly. “I watched him die. And I am not sorry.” He traps Mohinder’s earlobe in his teeth, biting hard, and is gratified when the other man can’t completely stifle a scream. “Do you still want me?” he hisses, “Still want me to make you bleed for it?”
Mohinder feels the salt sting of tears starting in his eyes, and clenches his teeth to suppress it. He knows the answer, has always known the answer. And Sylar is waiting.
“Y-yes.”
Sharp teeth sink in to the flesh of his neck, followed by a soothing tongue, and Mohinder is quickly being driven wild. “Then I have a lesson for you, Professor.” It is hot, unbearably hot as he is shoved harder against the wall, Sylar leaning impossibly closer to whisper in his ear.
“We all want what we can’t have.”
And he is gone, leaving Mohinder freezing and breathless, shuddering with need and frustration and anger. He reaches trembling fingers to his face, to the pattern of brick still imprinted on his cheek, and is not at all startled when they come away bloodstained. He turns around, collapsing back against the wall, completely defeated.
He is sick and broken and ashamed, and the wind whips around him, colder than ever. He slides down to sit heavily, burying his face in his arms, trying to shut out the world; to forget.
But he knows he can’t. Just like he can’t forget the last time. The same way he knows it will happen again. He promises that next time will be different, that next time…
A moment passes, and he emerges from the alleyway, seemingly composed. He abandons the shadows to fall once again into the bright anonymous throng on 42nd Street.
And if his eyes are distant and glassy, and his face is wet with blood and tears, nobody notices or cares.