(parenthetical) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
parenthetical) wrote2008-07-15 07:00 am
parenthetical) wrote2008-07-15 07:00 am
[untitled; sylar/mohinder suresh, 2155 words]
Title: Untitled
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blindmadness
Word Count: 2155
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder Suresh
Rating: Um, probably R.
Fandom: Heroes
Warning: Uhm, this was meant to be there'safinelinebetweendubconandnoncon, but it strayed closer to the noncon side of the line, I think, so yeah. D:
Summary: Forrazorxrosary for her birthday, and I am seriously reconsidering the wisdom of having dug out this idea for it because I'm paranoid about this one, too. /o\ Also my first foray into Heroesfic at all, let alone this, so augh.
Basically, I have Lots of Thoughts about how Sylar/Mohinder is usually portrayed in fandom, and they can be summed up by OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK DOMESTICITY MAJA SMASH. I said to myself, if I ever write Sylar/Mohinder, it will damn well be complicated and creepy and not fluffy in the least. ...and, um, it was! I think. I also haven't watched Heroes in a long, long time, so yeah. >__>; (Also, it's set between the seasons because I like S1!Mohinder better, dammit.) I hope it worked out decently? ♥ And once again,peridium and her five-second betaing are awesome. :D
Mohinder dreams of Sylar that night. It isn't an unusual occurrence in and of itself -- Sylar populates his nightmares far too often -- but the specific subject matter of the dream definitely is.
It's only the two of them in a room (this is not unusual -- sometimes it's only them, sometimes there are one or two or many other people there, and Mohinder doesn't know whether the times he finds himself helpless to stop Sylar from killing innocents or the times he's alone with him are more terrifying). The room itself is so nondescript as to defy adjectives; were Mohinder trying to focus on it, he doesn't know if he could and without trying, all he really perceives at the edge of his mind are four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. There doesn't seem to be anything else there, anyway -- simply the room itself, Mohinder, and the drastically unfamiliar figure of Sylar, completely relaxed and unguarded, hands raised in surrender.
Mohinder doesn't move, eyes warily fixed on Sylar, who's simply smiling. This, Mohinder knows, is when Sylar is most dangerous, when he smiles -- it means he knows something that Mohinder doesn't yet, and oh, it's good, and he'll be only too pleased to keep him guessing.
"Here I am," Sylar says, very softly, hands in the air. Mohinder doesn't move and he thinks he barely even breathes. "I surrender." He sounds sincere, or as sincere as Sylar's capable of sounding; there's always a trace of mockery in his voice and in the slight upward quirk of his lips, but he doesn't sound as if he's hiding anything just now. "I'm right here. Come and get me."
Mohinder might, but there's the minor inconvenience of his not being an idiot. He stays where he is, unmoving, eyes fixed intently on Sylar, expression all the denial his absurd claim needs.
Sylar's expression shifts to one of confused innocence, smile leaving in favour of a blank face, eyes widening a little. "Isn't this what you want, Dr. Suresh?" he asks in guileless tones, then repeats, "Don't you want this?", but his lips don't move and Mohinder hears the echo of the words inside his mind, and he knows without knowing how that Sylar's killed Matt.
Mohinder takes a slow, careful step back; he can't see a door from where he is, so he assumes it's behind him. Sylar's features slide back into that small, knowing smile. "Are you afraid, Dr. Suresh?" he says quietly, actually speaking now even if his voice is softer than before.
"I would have to be completely stupid not to be afraid of you" is Mohinder's guarded reply, and Sylar laughs, actually sounding pleased.
"And you're certainly not that," he muses, sounding almost proud as he surveys Mohinder closely -- too closely, though Mohinder's opinion regarding Sylar is that everything is too close. "Yet," he adds, and his tone is suddenly almost playful, which makes Mohinder tense even more, "most people avoid the things they fear. You keep looking for me. You keep seeking me out."
Mohinder's mouth feels dry, for whatever reason. His body must be picking up more of a threat from Sylar, by instinct, than his mind - difficult to believe when his mind always considers Sylar a threat. "You killed my father," he says, aware that his voice sounds far too strained for such a seemingly innocuous conversation. "Am I supposed to calmly let you go?"
Sylar smiles. Every muscle in Mohinder's body tenses even more.
"There's that," he says, voice considering, tilting his head to the side a little as if to acknowledge Mohinder's point. "But I think you won't disagree when I say that there's something -- more, shall we say?"
Mohinder would definitely disagree, but Sylar isn't waiting for an answer from him before going on, eyes not leaving Mohinder's. "Revenge is a cold thing, after all, and I see that sometimes, with you. But whatever it is that you want to call it, whatever's between us -- it isn't cold at all, is it, Mohinder?" Mohinder starts back a little at hearing his name; Sylar's expression goes just a little more intense and though his lips move, it's just in his head that Mohinder hears the words. Actually, I'd say it's very much hot.
Mohinder takes a quick stride back, not even thinking about anything but wanting space between himself and Sylar; before he can blink, Sylar's only a few steps away from him and leaning closer. "I -- " Mohinder stops, swallows, then hates himself for the way his voice shakes as he says, "I disagree."
Sylar's expression is unchanging apart from the tiniest of smirks, something even Mohinder might not have noticed were they not so close together. "Do you?"
In fact, the air between them currently feels charged with something that's not cold in the least; Mohinder feels unaccountably warm, his shirt too tight, his mouth dry again. Every instinct he's built up over weeks of tracking and facing Sylar down is screaming for him to back away enough to bolt for the door, but he's completely unable to move, even enough to turn away, even enough to shift his eyes from Sylar's.
Mohinder takes a shaky breath that's far shallower than he intended it to be; he doesn't realize until now that his hands are tightly clenched into fists and takes a moment to try to relax them, try to introduce some note of calm into his body. It doesn't work, but he thinks he can maybe sound like it did anyway and opens his mouth to try -- only to find his speech completely stopped by the light, gentle brush of Sylar's lips against his own.
Before he's even aware he's doing it, Mohinder's lurching back, blindly turning in what he hopes is the direction of the door, going against every impulse that tells him not to turn his back to Sylar -- only to find that the door isn't behind him and a quick, frantic inspection of the room reveals that there isn't any door at all, impossible as it seems, and Mohinder's limbs all tense and turn to lead when he feels the brush of Sylar's lips against his ear.
"Mohinder," is all he says at first, voice low and warm, making the word sound full, almost rich, and Mohinder feels himself shudder against his will. Again, he feels the motion of Sylar's lips whispering across his ear but hears the words only in his mind: Isn't this what we want? Hasn't everything been leading up to this?
No, Mohinder wants to snap out, no, he doesn't want this, this was never what he had in mind -- but his throat seems to have closed up completely, his traitorous body is shuddering at the way Sylar's lips shape each word against his ear, and the time when he maybe could have made a difference passes - he knows it the moment he feels himself being turned and the next second Sylar's weight -- heavy, but not overly uncomfortable past the obvious reason for it to be -- is holding him against the wall.
Mohinder can barely breathe like this; the air forced out of his throat is choked, shaky, just enough to sustain life and nothing else. He feels almost detached from his body as he sees Sylar's hands drift past his shoulders to skim down his chest to settle at his hips, his body pressing closer until Mohinder can feel it everywhere, and he shudders against his will at the sensation, forcing his eyes not to close -- managing to resist enough that they only flutter half-shut as he fights to catch his breath.
There's no chance, not the slightest chance in the world that he could have thought of this on his own or wanted this, but the feeling of Sylar's hand sliding under his shirt to trace up bare skin is almost electric and he has to force himself not to press closer; this time, he does close his eyes. This is Sylar, he forces himself to think in disgust, and the hand currently tracing nails lightly up his chest has the blood of dozens on it -- and he hates him, he does, like he's never hated anyone in his life before or since, and yet -- and yet -- there shouldn't be anything else to it, there shouldn't, but when Sylar's other hand traces further down past his hip, Mohinder feels his hips jerk forward involuntarily and a strangled sound close to a gasp slips past his lips.
It's almost as if he's watching it happen to someone else, from a distance, he has that little control over the situation; he watches as Sylar's fingers carefully dug his pants down, as Sylar's body presses harder against his own, as he feels the air between them grow hotter at the press of skin against skin. He knows, in a dim, distant way, as if recalling a memorized fact, that he should resist, the thought that this is horribly, horribly wrong trying in vain to claw its way through his clouded mind; still, when Sylar's breath exhales warmly against his jaw, all he can think to do is let his head tilt back into it just barely and when his hands settle at Sylar's shoulders, it's a strange but almost natural sensation.
It takes Mohinder some time, detached as he feels from everything that's going on, to notice that Sylar's murmuring words against his skin and shudders are going through him at the motion of every letter brushing his jaw. "Now, isn't this better?" Sylar's saying, voice low and rough, both hands resting on either side of the wall next to Mohinder, pinning him where he is with his body alone. "Don't you think this might solve things? Get rid of at least a little -- tension between us, wouldn't you say? Much less messy than before."
Mohinder doesn't know if he can manage thought right now, let alone speech -- the words barely mean anything to him -- but they seem not to need an answer; the next second, Sylar's weight shifts and Mohinder feels free of it for a moment, taking time to breathe properly, and within a few breaths of air the weight is back, Mohinder feels pressure against his hips, and he feels himself tense as Sylar slides into him.
It doesn't hurt, but it's strange, and he doesn't need to tell himself that this isn't right because he knows it, he can feel it now -- can feel Sylar moving in and out, hips pressing against Mohinder's own, breath hot in Mohinder's ear -- but for some reason, it isn't enough to make him stop shuddering at each shift and thrust, isn't enough to make him stop wanting to press closer even as he wants to squirm to get away, isn't enough to make him resist closing his eyes and letting his lips part. He wonders in a dim, distant way what's wrong with him -- he isn't feeling detached anymore, he's very much inside his body, he just feels as if no matter how horrified by this he is, no matter how little he can really believe this is happening, some part of him (tiny as it may be) feels like it's something that's been a long time coming and is relishing that it's finally happening.
It's that part of him, rather than this rational mind, that notices when Sylar starts to whisper into his ear again. "Say my name," he says softly, and it's an echo of the order Mohinder gave him when he first found out who he was, and he repeats it more firmly, making it an order despite how quiet his voice still is, "Say my name."
It's that part of him that tilts his head back again, that lets his fingers dig into Sylar's shoulders as he shudders, that lets the name escape, "Sylar," little more than just a breath of air ghosting past his lips. It's that part of him that all but takes over, repeats in a louder sound not quite a hiss, "Sylar," confusion and hatred and disgust and desperate urgency all rolled into two syllables. It's that part of him that makes his hips arch forward into each thrust, a vague urge to hurt mingling with a stronger one to press closer, and it's this motion that wakes him up, urges him to a sitting position, gives him the energy to look wildly around for a moment before it sinks in that he's alone, he's in his bed, he's in his room, it's dark and empty, he can relax, he can breathe.
Mohinder eventually manages to calm his breathing, to slow the frantic beating of his heart, to expel the lingering traces of panic and helplessness, but what he can't manage to do is forget that just beyond his fury and fear was a tiny tendril of curiosity edged with wanting that he's afraid he might not have left behind upon waking.
Author:
blindmadnessWord Count: 2155
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder Suresh
Rating: Um, probably R.
Fandom: Heroes
Warning: Uhm, this was meant to be there'safinelinebetweendubconandnoncon, but it strayed closer to the noncon side of the line, I think, so yeah. D:
Summary: For
razorxrosary for her birthday, and I am seriously reconsidering the wisdom of having dug out this idea for it because I'm paranoid about this one, too. /o\ Also my first foray into Heroesfic at all, let alone this, so augh.Basically, I have Lots of Thoughts about how Sylar/Mohinder is usually portrayed in fandom, and they can be summed up by OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK DOMESTICITY MAJA SMASH. I said to myself, if I ever write Sylar/Mohinder, it will damn well be complicated and creepy and not fluffy in the least. ...and, um, it was! I think. I also haven't watched Heroes in a long, long time, so yeah. >__>; (Also, it's set between the seasons because I like S1!Mohinder better, dammit.) I hope it worked out decently? ♥ And once again,
peridium and her five-second betaing are awesome. :DMohinder dreams of Sylar that night. It isn't an unusual occurrence in and of itself -- Sylar populates his nightmares far too often -- but the specific subject matter of the dream definitely is.
It's only the two of them in a room (this is not unusual -- sometimes it's only them, sometimes there are one or two or many other people there, and Mohinder doesn't know whether the times he finds himself helpless to stop Sylar from killing innocents or the times he's alone with him are more terrifying). The room itself is so nondescript as to defy adjectives; were Mohinder trying to focus on it, he doesn't know if he could and without trying, all he really perceives at the edge of his mind are four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. There doesn't seem to be anything else there, anyway -- simply the room itself, Mohinder, and the drastically unfamiliar figure of Sylar, completely relaxed and unguarded, hands raised in surrender.
Mohinder doesn't move, eyes warily fixed on Sylar, who's simply smiling. This, Mohinder knows, is when Sylar is most dangerous, when he smiles -- it means he knows something that Mohinder doesn't yet, and oh, it's good, and he'll be only too pleased to keep him guessing.
"Here I am," Sylar says, very softly, hands in the air. Mohinder doesn't move and he thinks he barely even breathes. "I surrender." He sounds sincere, or as sincere as Sylar's capable of sounding; there's always a trace of mockery in his voice and in the slight upward quirk of his lips, but he doesn't sound as if he's hiding anything just now. "I'm right here. Come and get me."
Mohinder might, but there's the minor inconvenience of his not being an idiot. He stays where he is, unmoving, eyes fixed intently on Sylar, expression all the denial his absurd claim needs.
Sylar's expression shifts to one of confused innocence, smile leaving in favour of a blank face, eyes widening a little. "Isn't this what you want, Dr. Suresh?" he asks in guileless tones, then repeats, "Don't you want this?", but his lips don't move and Mohinder hears the echo of the words inside his mind, and he knows without knowing how that Sylar's killed Matt.
Mohinder takes a slow, careful step back; he can't see a door from where he is, so he assumes it's behind him. Sylar's features slide back into that small, knowing smile. "Are you afraid, Dr. Suresh?" he says quietly, actually speaking now even if his voice is softer than before.
"I would have to be completely stupid not to be afraid of you" is Mohinder's guarded reply, and Sylar laughs, actually sounding pleased.
"And you're certainly not that," he muses, sounding almost proud as he surveys Mohinder closely -- too closely, though Mohinder's opinion regarding Sylar is that everything is too close. "Yet," he adds, and his tone is suddenly almost playful, which makes Mohinder tense even more, "most people avoid the things they fear. You keep looking for me. You keep seeking me out."
Mohinder's mouth feels dry, for whatever reason. His body must be picking up more of a threat from Sylar, by instinct, than his mind - difficult to believe when his mind always considers Sylar a threat. "You killed my father," he says, aware that his voice sounds far too strained for such a seemingly innocuous conversation. "Am I supposed to calmly let you go?"
Sylar smiles. Every muscle in Mohinder's body tenses even more.
"There's that," he says, voice considering, tilting his head to the side a little as if to acknowledge Mohinder's point. "But I think you won't disagree when I say that there's something -- more, shall we say?"
Mohinder would definitely disagree, but Sylar isn't waiting for an answer from him before going on, eyes not leaving Mohinder's. "Revenge is a cold thing, after all, and I see that sometimes, with you. But whatever it is that you want to call it, whatever's between us -- it isn't cold at all, is it, Mohinder?" Mohinder starts back a little at hearing his name; Sylar's expression goes just a little more intense and though his lips move, it's just in his head that Mohinder hears the words. Actually, I'd say it's very much hot.
Mohinder takes a quick stride back, not even thinking about anything but wanting space between himself and Sylar; before he can blink, Sylar's only a few steps away from him and leaning closer. "I -- " Mohinder stops, swallows, then hates himself for the way his voice shakes as he says, "I disagree."
Sylar's expression is unchanging apart from the tiniest of smirks, something even Mohinder might not have noticed were they not so close together. "Do you?"
In fact, the air between them currently feels charged with something that's not cold in the least; Mohinder feels unaccountably warm, his shirt too tight, his mouth dry again. Every instinct he's built up over weeks of tracking and facing Sylar down is screaming for him to back away enough to bolt for the door, but he's completely unable to move, even enough to turn away, even enough to shift his eyes from Sylar's.
Mohinder takes a shaky breath that's far shallower than he intended it to be; he doesn't realize until now that his hands are tightly clenched into fists and takes a moment to try to relax them, try to introduce some note of calm into his body. It doesn't work, but he thinks he can maybe sound like it did anyway and opens his mouth to try -- only to find his speech completely stopped by the light, gentle brush of Sylar's lips against his own.
Before he's even aware he's doing it, Mohinder's lurching back, blindly turning in what he hopes is the direction of the door, going against every impulse that tells him not to turn his back to Sylar -- only to find that the door isn't behind him and a quick, frantic inspection of the room reveals that there isn't any door at all, impossible as it seems, and Mohinder's limbs all tense and turn to lead when he feels the brush of Sylar's lips against his ear.
"Mohinder," is all he says at first, voice low and warm, making the word sound full, almost rich, and Mohinder feels himself shudder against his will. Again, he feels the motion of Sylar's lips whispering across his ear but hears the words only in his mind: Isn't this what we want? Hasn't everything been leading up to this?
No, Mohinder wants to snap out, no, he doesn't want this, this was never what he had in mind -- but his throat seems to have closed up completely, his traitorous body is shuddering at the way Sylar's lips shape each word against his ear, and the time when he maybe could have made a difference passes - he knows it the moment he feels himself being turned and the next second Sylar's weight -- heavy, but not overly uncomfortable past the obvious reason for it to be -- is holding him against the wall.
Mohinder can barely breathe like this; the air forced out of his throat is choked, shaky, just enough to sustain life and nothing else. He feels almost detached from his body as he sees Sylar's hands drift past his shoulders to skim down his chest to settle at his hips, his body pressing closer until Mohinder can feel it everywhere, and he shudders against his will at the sensation, forcing his eyes not to close -- managing to resist enough that they only flutter half-shut as he fights to catch his breath.
There's no chance, not the slightest chance in the world that he could have thought of this on his own or wanted this, but the feeling of Sylar's hand sliding under his shirt to trace up bare skin is almost electric and he has to force himself not to press closer; this time, he does close his eyes. This is Sylar, he forces himself to think in disgust, and the hand currently tracing nails lightly up his chest has the blood of dozens on it -- and he hates him, he does, like he's never hated anyone in his life before or since, and yet -- and yet -- there shouldn't be anything else to it, there shouldn't, but when Sylar's other hand traces further down past his hip, Mohinder feels his hips jerk forward involuntarily and a strangled sound close to a gasp slips past his lips.
It's almost as if he's watching it happen to someone else, from a distance, he has that little control over the situation; he watches as Sylar's fingers carefully dug his pants down, as Sylar's body presses harder against his own, as he feels the air between them grow hotter at the press of skin against skin. He knows, in a dim, distant way, as if recalling a memorized fact, that he should resist, the thought that this is horribly, horribly wrong trying in vain to claw its way through his clouded mind; still, when Sylar's breath exhales warmly against his jaw, all he can think to do is let his head tilt back into it just barely and when his hands settle at Sylar's shoulders, it's a strange but almost natural sensation.
It takes Mohinder some time, detached as he feels from everything that's going on, to notice that Sylar's murmuring words against his skin and shudders are going through him at the motion of every letter brushing his jaw. "Now, isn't this better?" Sylar's saying, voice low and rough, both hands resting on either side of the wall next to Mohinder, pinning him where he is with his body alone. "Don't you think this might solve things? Get rid of at least a little -- tension between us, wouldn't you say? Much less messy than before."
Mohinder doesn't know if he can manage thought right now, let alone speech -- the words barely mean anything to him -- but they seem not to need an answer; the next second, Sylar's weight shifts and Mohinder feels free of it for a moment, taking time to breathe properly, and within a few breaths of air the weight is back, Mohinder feels pressure against his hips, and he feels himself tense as Sylar slides into him.
It doesn't hurt, but it's strange, and he doesn't need to tell himself that this isn't right because he knows it, he can feel it now -- can feel Sylar moving in and out, hips pressing against Mohinder's own, breath hot in Mohinder's ear -- but for some reason, it isn't enough to make him stop shuddering at each shift and thrust, isn't enough to make him stop wanting to press closer even as he wants to squirm to get away, isn't enough to make him resist closing his eyes and letting his lips part. He wonders in a dim, distant way what's wrong with him -- he isn't feeling detached anymore, he's very much inside his body, he just feels as if no matter how horrified by this he is, no matter how little he can really believe this is happening, some part of him (tiny as it may be) feels like it's something that's been a long time coming and is relishing that it's finally happening.
It's that part of him, rather than this rational mind, that notices when Sylar starts to whisper into his ear again. "Say my name," he says softly, and it's an echo of the order Mohinder gave him when he first found out who he was, and he repeats it more firmly, making it an order despite how quiet his voice still is, "Say my name."
It's that part of him that tilts his head back again, that lets his fingers dig into Sylar's shoulders as he shudders, that lets the name escape, "Sylar," little more than just a breath of air ghosting past his lips. It's that part of him that all but takes over, repeats in a louder sound not quite a hiss, "Sylar," confusion and hatred and disgust and desperate urgency all rolled into two syllables. It's that part of him that makes his hips arch forward into each thrust, a vague urge to hurt mingling with a stronger one to press closer, and it's this motion that wakes him up, urges him to a sitting position, gives him the energy to look wildly around for a moment before it sinks in that he's alone, he's in his bed, he's in his room, it's dark and empty, he can relax, he can breathe.
Mohinder eventually manages to calm his breathing, to slow the frantic beating of his heart, to expel the lingering traces of panic and helplessness, but what he can't manage to do is forget that just beyond his fury and fear was a tiny tendril of curiosity edged with wanting that he's afraid he might not have left behind upon waking.