for muses_sex_etc: need
Jun. 26th, 2009 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayer(Baileigh is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
deep_red_bells and is used at their request. This is not biding on the verse unless the mun wants it to be and/or thinks that I didn't butcher her character.)
He hasn't slept for more than a few hours at most in years, his thoughts too full to be bothered with something so mundane. He closes his eyes, tries to quiet his mind, and he gets no where, numbers and fact and memory etching smoky pictures on the insides of his eyelids, coming and going like the rise and fall of a phantom tide. It doesn't bother him much anymore--maybe it did in the beginning, shadows of all the things he understands but no one else ever will near enough to send him falling back into his own madness, but he learned to cope with it, so long ago.
Now, he doesn't mourn his in ability to sleep, he relishes it, revels in it. So long ago he learned how to shield his thoughts just enough to stop the ebb and flow of his mind from keeping Mohinder awake, when he's home to lay with him, and how to let his mind wander just enough to be mistaken for sleeping. He's king of the twilight between awake and the sleep he can't claim anymore, and it suits him. Some of his best ideas come from that place near meditation when he lets his thoughts go to the wind, past and present and future shifting around him like the sand so often used to represent it.
While the others don't understand it--he can't quite find the words to pin down what's become of his mind in five hundred years--they at least accept it. They let him be, afraid to talk to him or to get to close, like he won't be able to pull himself back together if they do. They treat him like he's made of glass, when he rests, and he can't say he blames them. It would be so easy to just let go; be a creature of thought rather than physical being; exist everywhere and no where at once. He stays for them.
And when he senses Baileigh lingering in the doorway of his and Mohinder's room, he gathers up the pieces he's let scatter and comes back to himself, his eyelids fluttering open so that he can consider her. She looks so tired, worn and beaten by time and the immortality she doesn't want anymore, but neither of them comment on it. She nods, unconsciously grateful, and he offers her a small smile before nodding her into the room.
"Julian said you were home," she says, moving to linger near the arm of his chair.
He nods. "No more war, no more reason to be away."
A hum, and she brushes her fingers over his shoulder in a mockery of fondness. Not that she doesn't care about him anymore, all of them having grown far too close and dependent to be able to claim that, more she's just too worn by the years to be genuine. He can't say he blames her, entirely--he's the one with half-dreams of letting himself go to be everything and nothing all at once. Where he blames time and the war, though, she's been worn down by pain and loss; they're two sides of the same coin, somehow.
"We missed you."
"I know." He sighs, reaching up to press his fingers to the bridge of his noise, a gesture that time hasn't taken or changed to suit itself. "I need to go, though. I needed something ... "
"Something to make you feel alive again," she concludes, and he nods, grateful that she understands when he's lost so much of his ability to articulate, over the years. It's why his pattern of speech hasn't changed much--he's more open than he was when they were all young, but now it's a matter of not being able to bend language to his will rather than his own reclusiveness. "Did you find it?"
She watches him with shining eyes, like a magpie with its eyes fixed on the prize, and he's hesitant to tell her no. He doesn't want to be the one to destroy what little hope she has left for the world, for the whole of the verse. And so, instead of answering, he reaches up, fingers curling around her arm to pull her close, lips pressing to hers without warning or hesitation. Of all the things he knows now, he's never known her, and maybe if he can--if he can understand her better--he'll find what he couldn't on any of the worlds the Unification War touched. Maybe then, he'll have something to feed back to her, to fill up that hole time and trial has torn in her heart.
He's not sure she understands that much, but it doesn't stop her from kissing back, slipping into his lap so the whole thing's less uncomfortable for the both of them. He pulls away after a moment, licking at his lips--even after half a millennium, she still tastes like ash and the chill of late fall nights in graveyards and earth--and she slips her fingers up into his hair, reeling him back in. Their second kiss is almost desperate; she understands now.
Hand falling away from her side, he brings it to rest at her hip, fingers fanning out over bone, tugging her closer. Then, palm pressing flat against her, he pushes his hand up her side, slipping under the hem of her shirt, warm against slightly chill skin. She groans a bit, the sound muted by their mouths, and twists into his hand, her mouth on his suddenly almost vicious thanks to reflex. And like that, their dance becomes something more like the struggle they both need it to be.
He peels her shirt off, almost tearing it in the process. She returns the favor, raking her nails over his sides hard enough to draw long red lines over his skin, there and then gone, before slipping off the chair. He chases her and she ends up pinned to a wall, hands pulled up over her head, bound there by one of his. He manages to get her pants open with his other hand, fumbling and breathing hard, and then she gets a hand free, her own strength a match to his. Nails bite into fabric, so deeply that he can feel them through his jeans, and he leans into her, letting her feel his arousal. They moan in tandem, and then she's undoing his pants, fingers slipping past denim to wrap her fingers around him.
Mercilessly, she strokes him, her thumb teasing over his head with every pass, and he groans, the strength of his grip failing so that she can pull free. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close, head dropped to her shoulder as he tries to remember how to breathe, and when he does, he pushes her away, hand batting hers away so that he can take a step back. They stand there for a moment, watching each other, her eyes as dark as he imagines his to be in the spaces between the seconds, and then he's pushing his jeans down, kicking out of them as they hit the floor. She does the same, and then he's pressing against her again, able to feel her heat now, if he wasn't sure he couldn't before.
One hand presses to the wall above her shoulder, the other to her leg, to hitch it up around his waist, and then without preamble, he drives into her, drawing the bastard child of a moan and a whimper from her. He pulls away a second later, almost withdrawing completely, and she digs her nails into his back, twisting just a bit, forcing him back into her. And so becomes their rythym, their thrusts staccato and sharp as they both search for something new to keep them here a little longer.
She breaks before he does, spasming around him with a throaty moan, chest heaving against his as she all but twitches in his arms, but he's quick to follow her down, a cry of his own on his lips. He leans into her in the afterglow, head finding her shoulder again to rest there as they try to catch their breath, and when they do, she makes a soft, almost pleased noise, reaching up with shaking fingers to comb through his hair.
"You found it," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear, genuinely tender rather than a ghost of it, this time.
He's still not so sure, but he mutters something in agreement, anyway. He might not quite have what he's looking for, but at least, with hope, he restored her faith in the idea that there might be something worth living for--something new in a stagnating universe--if only for the time being.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1488
deep_red_bells and is used at their request. This is not biding on the verse unless the mun wants it to be and/or thinks that I didn't butcher her character.)He hasn't slept for more than a few hours at most in years, his thoughts too full to be bothered with something so mundane. He closes his eyes, tries to quiet his mind, and he gets no where, numbers and fact and memory etching smoky pictures on the insides of his eyelids, coming and going like the rise and fall of a phantom tide. It doesn't bother him much anymore--maybe it did in the beginning, shadows of all the things he understands but no one else ever will near enough to send him falling back into his own madness, but he learned to cope with it, so long ago.
Now, he doesn't mourn his in ability to sleep, he relishes it, revels in it. So long ago he learned how to shield his thoughts just enough to stop the ebb and flow of his mind from keeping Mohinder awake, when he's home to lay with him, and how to let his mind wander just enough to be mistaken for sleeping. He's king of the twilight between awake and the sleep he can't claim anymore, and it suits him. Some of his best ideas come from that place near meditation when he lets his thoughts go to the wind, past and present and future shifting around him like the sand so often used to represent it.
While the others don't understand it--he can't quite find the words to pin down what's become of his mind in five hundred years--they at least accept it. They let him be, afraid to talk to him or to get to close, like he won't be able to pull himself back together if they do. They treat him like he's made of glass, when he rests, and he can't say he blames them. It would be so easy to just let go; be a creature of thought rather than physical being; exist everywhere and no where at once. He stays for them.
And when he senses Baileigh lingering in the doorway of his and Mohinder's room, he gathers up the pieces he's let scatter and comes back to himself, his eyelids fluttering open so that he can consider her. She looks so tired, worn and beaten by time and the immortality she doesn't want anymore, but neither of them comment on it. She nods, unconsciously grateful, and he offers her a small smile before nodding her into the room.
"Julian said you were home," she says, moving to linger near the arm of his chair.
He nods. "No more war, no more reason to be away."
A hum, and she brushes her fingers over his shoulder in a mockery of fondness. Not that she doesn't care about him anymore, all of them having grown far too close and dependent to be able to claim that, more she's just too worn by the years to be genuine. He can't say he blames her, entirely--he's the one with half-dreams of letting himself go to be everything and nothing all at once. Where he blames time and the war, though, she's been worn down by pain and loss; they're two sides of the same coin, somehow.
"We missed you."
"I know." He sighs, reaching up to press his fingers to the bridge of his noise, a gesture that time hasn't taken or changed to suit itself. "I need to go, though. I needed something ... "
"Something to make you feel alive again," she concludes, and he nods, grateful that she understands when he's lost so much of his ability to articulate, over the years. It's why his pattern of speech hasn't changed much--he's more open than he was when they were all young, but now it's a matter of not being able to bend language to his will rather than his own reclusiveness. "Did you find it?"
She watches him with shining eyes, like a magpie with its eyes fixed on the prize, and he's hesitant to tell her no. He doesn't want to be the one to destroy what little hope she has left for the world, for the whole of the verse. And so, instead of answering, he reaches up, fingers curling around her arm to pull her close, lips pressing to hers without warning or hesitation. Of all the things he knows now, he's never known her, and maybe if he can--if he can understand her better--he'll find what he couldn't on any of the worlds the Unification War touched. Maybe then, he'll have something to feed back to her, to fill up that hole time and trial has torn in her heart.
He's not sure she understands that much, but it doesn't stop her from kissing back, slipping into his lap so the whole thing's less uncomfortable for the both of them. He pulls away after a moment, licking at his lips--even after half a millennium, she still tastes like ash and the chill of late fall nights in graveyards and earth--and she slips her fingers up into his hair, reeling him back in. Their second kiss is almost desperate; she understands now.
Hand falling away from her side, he brings it to rest at her hip, fingers fanning out over bone, tugging her closer. Then, palm pressing flat against her, he pushes his hand up her side, slipping under the hem of her shirt, warm against slightly chill skin. She groans a bit, the sound muted by their mouths, and twists into his hand, her mouth on his suddenly almost vicious thanks to reflex. And like that, their dance becomes something more like the struggle they both need it to be.
He peels her shirt off, almost tearing it in the process. She returns the favor, raking her nails over his sides hard enough to draw long red lines over his skin, there and then gone, before slipping off the chair. He chases her and she ends up pinned to a wall, hands pulled up over her head, bound there by one of his. He manages to get her pants open with his other hand, fumbling and breathing hard, and then she gets a hand free, her own strength a match to his. Nails bite into fabric, so deeply that he can feel them through his jeans, and he leans into her, letting her feel his arousal. They moan in tandem, and then she's undoing his pants, fingers slipping past denim to wrap her fingers around him.
Mercilessly, she strokes him, her thumb teasing over his head with every pass, and he groans, the strength of his grip failing so that she can pull free. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close, head dropped to her shoulder as he tries to remember how to breathe, and when he does, he pushes her away, hand batting hers away so that he can take a step back. They stand there for a moment, watching each other, her eyes as dark as he imagines his to be in the spaces between the seconds, and then he's pushing his jeans down, kicking out of them as they hit the floor. She does the same, and then he's pressing against her again, able to feel her heat now, if he wasn't sure he couldn't before.
One hand presses to the wall above her shoulder, the other to her leg, to hitch it up around his waist, and then without preamble, he drives into her, drawing the bastard child of a moan and a whimper from her. He pulls away a second later, almost withdrawing completely, and she digs her nails into his back, twisting just a bit, forcing him back into her. And so becomes their rythym, their thrusts staccato and sharp as they both search for something new to keep them here a little longer.
She breaks before he does, spasming around him with a throaty moan, chest heaving against his as she all but twitches in his arms, but he's quick to follow her down, a cry of his own on his lips. He leans into her in the afterglow, head finding her shoulder again to rest there as they try to catch their breath, and when they do, she makes a soft, almost pleased noise, reaching up with shaking fingers to comb through his hair.
"You found it," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear, genuinely tender rather than a ghost of it, this time.
He's still not so sure, but he mutters something in agreement, anyway. He might not quite have what he's looking for, but at least, with hope, he restored her faith in the idea that there might be something worth living for--something new in a stagnating universe--if only for the time being.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1488
no subject
Date: 2009-06-27 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-27 03:31 am (UTC)*marries yet again!*
no subject
Date: 2009-06-27 03:35 am (UTC)