Sylar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
heroslayer) wrote2009-04-25 09:28 pm
heroslayer) wrote2009-04-25 09:28 pm
for just_fck_me: wall sex
(The Master is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
savagestime and is used at their request. Based on this picture--never mind the fact that it's a man and a woman, rather than a man and a man.)
The first time you meet him, it isn't really a meeting.
You're walking past a hardware store in DC, minding your own business--or as much as you can be, anyway--and avoiding Danko and being Agent Taub. It's not exactly early, only mid-morning actually, but the street is strangely empty, and you like to think it's because of you. You might be dead, and the only people that really knew your face to begin with were the people at Building 26, but you still carry yourself like bad news, and the illusion makes you feel good about yourself. And considering the week you've been having, you think you deserve it--let people see you and remember.
That want for people to recall and cower disappears when you see him, though. He catches your attention, hunched over a dumpster at the end of the alley next to the store, rifling through it like a madman. You can't be sure what he's looking for--probably food, as he's dressed in a dark, fraying robe that seems to suggest he's homeless--but you're still curious. Mostly because you keep seeing flashes of light, brief and yellow-orange, coming from something he has his fingers wrapped around, and you can't help but wonder if he doesn't have any ability. He doesn't sound like your usual fare, but those little sparks remind you of your radioactivity, and powered or not, you still need the thrill of the kill. Maybe that makes you the monster you're supposed to have been--you never kill normal people--but murder on your own terms reminds you of you, and you're afraid you're starting to forget that.
So, you meander down the alley towards him, hands held out at your side, just in case he gets the bright idea to run, and make just enough noise to catch his attention.
He wheels on his heels, and you're disappointed to find that those bursts of light weren't from any ability, but from the thing he's holding in his hands, but he still has your attention. He's singed to the bone, those robes of his matted to patches of seeping skin, and the when he faces you, the entire alley smells sick-sweet, like a barbecue gone horribly wrong. He's a corpse walking, more damage apparent than should be possible for him to still be alive let alone moving, and still he stares at you, his eyes dark but shining--lucid--and he doesn't look afraid. How could you not be interested in that.
You take a step forward and he giggles hysterically, the sound rattling through ruined lungs, and you can't help but crack a smile. Maybe you were wrong about the lucid part. Another step, and he turns the thing he's been clutching on you--the weapon, because that's what you're suddenly sure it is--and you scarcely have a moment to think before it's screaming and you burn like the sun.
It takes you what feels like hours to heal from that one, and when you come back, he's gone. You go and find a bench to sit on after that, to catch your breath, and Danko finds you. You go back to your life, to Taub's life, grudgingly, but you find yourself hoping you see him again, whoever he was. He's the only thing unrelated to your growing lack of control over your new ability you've had in awhile.
The second time you see him, you're coming back from the Miller place, where you scribed your name on the wall as a reminder, at Danko's heels. He only registers as a flash of black on the corners of your vision, but somehow, you know it's him, so you break off from the group. No one has noticed your absence before when you've taken point to bag the people like you Nathan's Hunter has found, so no one will miss you now, you figure.
You follow him down his latest alley--he seems to be sticking to them, and you can understand why; you always did--shifting back into yourself with only a mild amount of difficulty. It doesn't hurt anymore, just feels strange, like warm wax on your face, but it's more of an effort to gather yourself, now. Like trying to sweep scattered dust into one place in order to get rid of it. Thankfully, though, he doesn't give you much time to think about it, as he's turning on you again, the weapon in his hand at the ready.
You hold up a hand to stop him. "Wait."
Silence falls between you but at least he's not shooting at you again. You stare at him; he stares at you. Then, finally, he tucks the weapon back into his filthy robes, muttering something about how he should have known. How you feel wrong, like him, whoever he is, and then he's gesturing you over.
For some reason, you feel compelled to sit down on the stairs that lead up to the loading dock of one of the buildings you're between, and you look up at him, feeling inferior, somehow. You can't help but wonder if you were wrong about your original assessment of him, thinking he had no abilities, because this feels distinctly like something he's doing to you. Like you wouldn't be sitting if he hadn't forced you, somehow. "Who are you?"
He waves a hand at you, pragmatic in spite of his scars, and you shift over so he can sit down, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't get too close to you either, but that doesn't bother you--you want his name, and so you ask again.
He smiles, teeth unnaturally white against charred, puckered lips. "I am the Master."
You get the feeling that, at one time, he took as much pleasure in telling people his name as you used to take in crowing your own at the top of your lungs at anyone who dared use your real one. He used to, but he's too tired for pleasure now, and you feel suddenly compelled to fix that. In a genuine way, your blood able to fix anything, and you've never quite gotten around to testing that particular aspect of Claire's ability. And so you tell him, "I can fix you."
He tells you he's been like this before, thanks to some doctor--the last part is said with a sneer that still manages to border on strangely fond, somehow--and you can't seem to imagine it. Nor can you understand why he seems to be brushing you off in the first place. You know what it's like to be burnt to a crisp, thanks to Angela and Claire and your own stupid mistakes, and you can't imagine walking around like that for very long.
You insist; he asks if you're one of those do-gooder types. You laugh almost as hysterically as he did the last time you saw him, and gesture to your clothes. Taub's teammates may not have noticed the bloodstains there, but he does, and he grins suddenly, wildly, before agreeing to let you do your thing.
His eyes drop to the skin on the back of his hand, to watch it as it heals, and he makes some comment about how it's good to have his body back. He's likes this one, he says, and his own ability to regenerate decided it didn't want to work after his impromptu viking funeral--he mutters about how he thinks that has something to do with his refusal to regenerate, earlier--so it's a good thing he's fond of this model. You're fond of what you have, too, of being Sylar, and you go to say something about that, near breaking at the thought that you don't get to keep what's yours (you're dead, you made it happen, you're dead), when he raises that weapon of his again.
There's a flash and you actually manage a scream this time before it all goes black. You wake up a handful of minutes later jealous--you shouldn't have fixed him--and cold, doomed to a fate worse than death in having to return to Danko. It's not fair that someone else should get to be themself when all you want to do is be you, but you have no choice, and you know that there will come a time when walls and smug comments aren't enough.
The last time you see him, you're looking for an anchor.
You've considered a few alternatives--you can get your mother's things from the police easily enough--but you want something living. You'd much rather Suresh, you think, even if whatever childish little crush you had on him an age ago has gone cold, but you don't know where he is, and you need something now. The Master is just convenient. Particularly considering the fact that you see him wandering the streets on your way back to Taub's apartment.
Stopping the car, you lean across to push the passenger side door open. "Get in."
He stares at you for a moment, like he's horrified, and you can't help remembering him saying you felt wrong. You only have a split second to wonder if he's like you and can somehow hear all the abilities floating around in your head, and then he's getting in the car. "Ooh, lovely trick," he comments.
"I have a few," you tell him coldly, your voice coming out of Taub's mouth, and then you're driving back to the poor, dead agent's apartment in silence.
He gets out before you do, but you're the one that makes it to the door first, and you lead him up the stairs to your living quarters. He makes some kind of comment about your flat--maybe that's why you picked him, because his accent reminds you of certain Indian geneticists--and then he's shoving you against the nearest wall, hard. You're sure you feel something in your arm snap as he twists it behind your back; he's stronger than he looks.
You struggle for a moment, grunting, shifting back into yourself as a matter of reflex as you know you, personally, are more imposing than the man whose life you've stolen, and maybe the change will make him back off. It doesn't, and instead, he puts a hand to your stomach, pulling you back against his chest, before he presses up on his tiptoes so he can put his mouth near your ear. It all feels so unnaturally backwards.
"Relax," he purrs, letting his fingers wander out over your ribs. You moan without thinking about it, pain and pleasure both radiating out from his fingers as it always has, when someone's touched your side like that, and he smiles against your skin. "Good boy."
Pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear, he lets his hand creep lower, finding the waist of your jeans. He toys with the fabric idly, half-teasing and half trying to coax you into submission still, and then he's unbuttoning the clasp. He rocks back a little onto his heels, his mouth level with your throat now, and he hums against your skin for a moment, amused, before murmuring, "You know, I normally don't do these sorts of things with human--particularly humans like you--but well. Who's counting!"
He undoes your fly sharply, fingers working past fabric to curl around your length with no warning. Where he's sharp and rough about that, though, he's surprisingly gentle in the way he strokes you, feeling out your erection like it's something new and wonderful he's discovered and he needs to know every inch of it. He never makes a sound--no whimpers, no comments about how good you might feel, warm against his near frigid flesh, nothing like that--and you can't help but think that he's humoring you. You're a pet that's done a good job, and this is just him throwing you a bone. Luckily for you, you don't care much at the moment, your eyes sliding closed as you lean forward into the wall for support, hips jerking into his hand.
You moan, teeth finding your lower lip hard enough that you can taste copper in your mouth for an instant, and he shushes you lightly, more amused than actually wanting silence. Then he's picking up the pace, your thrusts speeding up to meet the movements of his hands with wanton abandon, tension hooking in your stomach so sharply that you shudder back into him for an instant, in between the pushes of your hips. It doesn't catch him off balance, though; he doesn't take so much as a step backwards. He's just there, steady, his pulse thrumming oddly against your back (you'd be sure he had two hearts, if you could so much as see straight, right now).
And when you break, hard and fast, he traces his fingers over you a few more times, the feeling torture on oversensitive skin, and then he's withdrawing, leaving you panting against the wall.
"God," you murmur.
"No, no. It's Master," he chirps, shuffling behind you as he reaches for something in his pocket. "But I suppose God will do." A pause, and then, "Can I help you?"
You never get the chance to answer, though, as all your meetings have ended the same thus far, and this one is no different. A burst of light, the little mechanical thing in his hand screaming, and a flash of pain, then you're collapsing against the wall, vision dimming so fast it would make your head spin if you weren't dead.
You come to ten minutes later and he's gone; you know you won't be seeing him again.
Still sore somehow, you get up from the floor, fix your pants so you don't look utterly violated, should Danko choose this very second to show up, and stagger over to the phone. If you can't have him as an anchor, you'll take the next best thing. And that in mind, you put in a call to the NYPD for your mother's things.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 2309
savagestime and is used at their request. Based on this picture--never mind the fact that it's a man and a woman, rather than a man and a man.)
The first time you meet him, it isn't really a meeting.
You're walking past a hardware store in DC, minding your own business--or as much as you can be, anyway--and avoiding Danko and being Agent Taub. It's not exactly early, only mid-morning actually, but the street is strangely empty, and you like to think it's because of you. You might be dead, and the only people that really knew your face to begin with were the people at Building 26, but you still carry yourself like bad news, and the illusion makes you feel good about yourself. And considering the week you've been having, you think you deserve it--let people see you and remember.
That want for people to recall and cower disappears when you see him, though. He catches your attention, hunched over a dumpster at the end of the alley next to the store, rifling through it like a madman. You can't be sure what he's looking for--probably food, as he's dressed in a dark, fraying robe that seems to suggest he's homeless--but you're still curious. Mostly because you keep seeing flashes of light, brief and yellow-orange, coming from something he has his fingers wrapped around, and you can't help but wonder if he doesn't have any ability. He doesn't sound like your usual fare, but those little sparks remind you of your radioactivity, and powered or not, you still need the thrill of the kill. Maybe that makes you the monster you're supposed to have been--you never kill normal people--but murder on your own terms reminds you of you, and you're afraid you're starting to forget that.
So, you meander down the alley towards him, hands held out at your side, just in case he gets the bright idea to run, and make just enough noise to catch his attention.
He wheels on his heels, and you're disappointed to find that those bursts of light weren't from any ability, but from the thing he's holding in his hands, but he still has your attention. He's singed to the bone, those robes of his matted to patches of seeping skin, and the when he faces you, the entire alley smells sick-sweet, like a barbecue gone horribly wrong. He's a corpse walking, more damage apparent than should be possible for him to still be alive let alone moving, and still he stares at you, his eyes dark but shining--lucid--and he doesn't look afraid. How could you not be interested in that.
You take a step forward and he giggles hysterically, the sound rattling through ruined lungs, and you can't help but crack a smile. Maybe you were wrong about the lucid part. Another step, and he turns the thing he's been clutching on you--the weapon, because that's what you're suddenly sure it is--and you scarcely have a moment to think before it's screaming and you burn like the sun.
It takes you what feels like hours to heal from that one, and when you come back, he's gone. You go and find a bench to sit on after that, to catch your breath, and Danko finds you. You go back to your life, to Taub's life, grudgingly, but you find yourself hoping you see him again, whoever he was. He's the only thing unrelated to your growing lack of control over your new ability you've had in awhile.
The second time you see him, you're coming back from the Miller place, where you scribed your name on the wall as a reminder, at Danko's heels. He only registers as a flash of black on the corners of your vision, but somehow, you know it's him, so you break off from the group. No one has noticed your absence before when you've taken point to bag the people like you Nathan's Hunter has found, so no one will miss you now, you figure.
You follow him down his latest alley--he seems to be sticking to them, and you can understand why; you always did--shifting back into yourself with only a mild amount of difficulty. It doesn't hurt anymore, just feels strange, like warm wax on your face, but it's more of an effort to gather yourself, now. Like trying to sweep scattered dust into one place in order to get rid of it. Thankfully, though, he doesn't give you much time to think about it, as he's turning on you again, the weapon in his hand at the ready.
You hold up a hand to stop him. "Wait."
Silence falls between you but at least he's not shooting at you again. You stare at him; he stares at you. Then, finally, he tucks the weapon back into his filthy robes, muttering something about how he should have known. How you feel wrong, like him, whoever he is, and then he's gesturing you over.
For some reason, you feel compelled to sit down on the stairs that lead up to the loading dock of one of the buildings you're between, and you look up at him, feeling inferior, somehow. You can't help but wonder if you were wrong about your original assessment of him, thinking he had no abilities, because this feels distinctly like something he's doing to you. Like you wouldn't be sitting if he hadn't forced you, somehow. "Who are you?"
He waves a hand at you, pragmatic in spite of his scars, and you shift over so he can sit down, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't get too close to you either, but that doesn't bother you--you want his name, and so you ask again.
He smiles, teeth unnaturally white against charred, puckered lips. "I am the Master."
You get the feeling that, at one time, he took as much pleasure in telling people his name as you used to take in crowing your own at the top of your lungs at anyone who dared use your real one. He used to, but he's too tired for pleasure now, and you feel suddenly compelled to fix that. In a genuine way, your blood able to fix anything, and you've never quite gotten around to testing that particular aspect of Claire's ability. And so you tell him, "I can fix you."
He tells you he's been like this before, thanks to some doctor--the last part is said with a sneer that still manages to border on strangely fond, somehow--and you can't seem to imagine it. Nor can you understand why he seems to be brushing you off in the first place. You know what it's like to be burnt to a crisp, thanks to Angela and Claire and your own stupid mistakes, and you can't imagine walking around like that for very long.
You insist; he asks if you're one of those do-gooder types. You laugh almost as hysterically as he did the last time you saw him, and gesture to your clothes. Taub's teammates may not have noticed the bloodstains there, but he does, and he grins suddenly, wildly, before agreeing to let you do your thing.
His eyes drop to the skin on the back of his hand, to watch it as it heals, and he makes some comment about how it's good to have his body back. He's likes this one, he says, and his own ability to regenerate decided it didn't want to work after his impromptu viking funeral--he mutters about how he thinks that has something to do with his refusal to regenerate, earlier--so it's a good thing he's fond of this model. You're fond of what you have, too, of being Sylar, and you go to say something about that, near breaking at the thought that you don't get to keep what's yours (you're dead, you made it happen, you're dead), when he raises that weapon of his again.
There's a flash and you actually manage a scream this time before it all goes black. You wake up a handful of minutes later jealous--you shouldn't have fixed him--and cold, doomed to a fate worse than death in having to return to Danko. It's not fair that someone else should get to be themself when all you want to do is be you, but you have no choice, and you know that there will come a time when walls and smug comments aren't enough.
The last time you see him, you're looking for an anchor.
You've considered a few alternatives--you can get your mother's things from the police easily enough--but you want something living. You'd much rather Suresh, you think, even if whatever childish little crush you had on him an age ago has gone cold, but you don't know where he is, and you need something now. The Master is just convenient. Particularly considering the fact that you see him wandering the streets on your way back to Taub's apartment.
Stopping the car, you lean across to push the passenger side door open. "Get in."
He stares at you for a moment, like he's horrified, and you can't help remembering him saying you felt wrong. You only have a split second to wonder if he's like you and can somehow hear all the abilities floating around in your head, and then he's getting in the car. "Ooh, lovely trick," he comments.
"I have a few," you tell him coldly, your voice coming out of Taub's mouth, and then you're driving back to the poor, dead agent's apartment in silence.
He gets out before you do, but you're the one that makes it to the door first, and you lead him up the stairs to your living quarters. He makes some kind of comment about your flat--maybe that's why you picked him, because his accent reminds you of certain Indian geneticists--and then he's shoving you against the nearest wall, hard. You're sure you feel something in your arm snap as he twists it behind your back; he's stronger than he looks.
You struggle for a moment, grunting, shifting back into yourself as a matter of reflex as you know you, personally, are more imposing than the man whose life you've stolen, and maybe the change will make him back off. It doesn't, and instead, he puts a hand to your stomach, pulling you back against his chest, before he presses up on his tiptoes so he can put his mouth near your ear. It all feels so unnaturally backwards.
"Relax," he purrs, letting his fingers wander out over your ribs. You moan without thinking about it, pain and pleasure both radiating out from his fingers as it always has, when someone's touched your side like that, and he smiles against your skin. "Good boy."
Pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear, he lets his hand creep lower, finding the waist of your jeans. He toys with the fabric idly, half-teasing and half trying to coax you into submission still, and then he's unbuttoning the clasp. He rocks back a little onto his heels, his mouth level with your throat now, and he hums against your skin for a moment, amused, before murmuring, "You know, I normally don't do these sorts of things with human--particularly humans like you--but well. Who's counting!"
He undoes your fly sharply, fingers working past fabric to curl around your length with no warning. Where he's sharp and rough about that, though, he's surprisingly gentle in the way he strokes you, feeling out your erection like it's something new and wonderful he's discovered and he needs to know every inch of it. He never makes a sound--no whimpers, no comments about how good you might feel, warm against his near frigid flesh, nothing like that--and you can't help but think that he's humoring you. You're a pet that's done a good job, and this is just him throwing you a bone. Luckily for you, you don't care much at the moment, your eyes sliding closed as you lean forward into the wall for support, hips jerking into his hand.
You moan, teeth finding your lower lip hard enough that you can taste copper in your mouth for an instant, and he shushes you lightly, more amused than actually wanting silence. Then he's picking up the pace, your thrusts speeding up to meet the movements of his hands with wanton abandon, tension hooking in your stomach so sharply that you shudder back into him for an instant, in between the pushes of your hips. It doesn't catch him off balance, though; he doesn't take so much as a step backwards. He's just there, steady, his pulse thrumming oddly against your back (you'd be sure he had two hearts, if you could so much as see straight, right now).
And when you break, hard and fast, he traces his fingers over you a few more times, the feeling torture on oversensitive skin, and then he's withdrawing, leaving you panting against the wall.
"God," you murmur.
"No, no. It's Master," he chirps, shuffling behind you as he reaches for something in his pocket. "But I suppose God will do." A pause, and then, "Can I help you?"
You never get the chance to answer, though, as all your meetings have ended the same thus far, and this one is no different. A burst of light, the little mechanical thing in his hand screaming, and a flash of pain, then you're collapsing against the wall, vision dimming so fast it would make your head spin if you weren't dead.
You come to ten minutes later and he's gone; you know you won't be seeing him again.
Still sore somehow, you get up from the floor, fix your pants so you don't look utterly violated, should Danko choose this very second to show up, and stagger over to the phone. If you can't have him as an anchor, you'll take the next best thing. And that in mind, you put in a call to the NYPD for your mother's things.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 2309