Put the Needle On It
Title: Put the Needle On It
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Words: 649
Warnings/Notes: Hints of dub-con >>; Written for The Porn Battle, on a whim! So sorry if it sucks XD
It's about the time that Sylar's slammed backwards against the desk, papers and file folders flying all askew, that he knows he's not in charge anymore.
He's mumbling something vaguely about how he's just straightened those, not all that long ago too, and there's most definitely a stapler digging into that fun part at the base of his spine that's sending his back into spasms, but Mohinder doesn't seem to care. There's a leg up between his thighs and a hand skritching nails all up the front of his chest. Cruel eyes, bared teeth, and, huh, Sylar hasn't seen this Mohinder since the spinal tap. It hadn't felt nearly so good back then as it was now.
Did he just get told to shut up?
Damn.
The t-shirt with the certain northernly-located nervous system member and the word "BRAINY" scrawled across the front - hey, he'd thought it was clever - is rucked up around his armpits, nipples exposed to the blazingly cold air of the apartment, and Sylar's aching for that hot tongue to relieve some of the discomfort. He gets rough hands instead, callused from hours and hours of writing and page-turning and God only knows what else he does with those digits but, damn, it feels good and bad and rough and all the right feelings all at once, pinching at his skin and pulling at his fucking heartstrings with a vengeance.
Sylar kind of killed his father. There might be a little reason for Mohinder to get brusque.
The kettle's whistling a shrill kind of screech in the next room (next building? Sylar can't tell), wailing for somebody to just come and make the damn tea, not that Mohinder has any sympathy for kitchen appliances today. Something's gotten into him - going to get into Sylar - and Sylar's lost a button on his pants somewhere between now and the doorway, not that he's going to need it.
He could push away so easily. How simplistic would it be to just twitch a finger and have Mohinder sprawling to the floor that's been in desperate need of a sweep for days, all hands and knees and he'd be back in charge before he could get the 'bad boy' out of his lips. There'd be a hand around someone's throat and a savage twist and a snarl and everybody would be happy.
Maybe something deep down in his gut really really wants Mohinder to just keep going. There's a sickening sort of sadistic pleasure Sylar gets in having his face mashed into weeks and weeks of research, though, flipped over and shoved up against the hickory desk with the coffee stain still splattered all down the side from Mohinder's spilled caffeine break - or lack thereof - the week before. There's definitely that mixed jolt of pleasure and screaming agony when Mohinder doesn't even bother to pull down his jeans before he's buried inside Sylar, spit for lube and knuckles flaring to a bone white with how hard they're pinning the other man's to the desk.
Power play. Since when does Sylar not win?
Three thrusts in and he's already peaking, neatly inside with a grunt of consolation, eyes wired shut as he rides out the orgasm. Mohinder has the decency to wrap long fingers around his cock, at least, jacking him off to each thrust and laughing when he comes apart with that burst of held-in air that's gone stale in his throat, nearly a sob it falls over his lips so urgently. Not so neatly. All over the front of the desk. Sylar's fingers are shaking as he releases the edge of the desk, clearly rattled, crumpled papers sticking half-heartedly to his sweaty palms.
He barely notices the faint skritch of a zipper past the roaring in his ears, and as Mohinder walks into the next room he tells him to clean the mess up.
Humiliation.
This isn't going to be easy to just let go of.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: NC-17
Words: 649
Warnings/Notes: Hints of dub-con >>; Written for The Porn Battle, on a whim! So sorry if it sucks XD
It's about the time that Sylar's slammed backwards against the desk, papers and file folders flying all askew, that he knows he's not in charge anymore.
He's mumbling something vaguely about how he's just straightened those, not all that long ago too, and there's most definitely a stapler digging into that fun part at the base of his spine that's sending his back into spasms, but Mohinder doesn't seem to care. There's a leg up between his thighs and a hand skritching nails all up the front of his chest. Cruel eyes, bared teeth, and, huh, Sylar hasn't seen this Mohinder since the spinal tap. It hadn't felt nearly so good back then as it was now.
Did he just get told to shut up?
Damn.
The t-shirt with the certain northernly-located nervous system member and the word "BRAINY" scrawled across the front - hey, he'd thought it was clever - is rucked up around his armpits, nipples exposed to the blazingly cold air of the apartment, and Sylar's aching for that hot tongue to relieve some of the discomfort. He gets rough hands instead, callused from hours and hours of writing and page-turning and God only knows what else he does with those digits but, damn, it feels good and bad and rough and all the right feelings all at once, pinching at his skin and pulling at his fucking heartstrings with a vengeance.
Sylar kind of killed his father. There might be a little reason for Mohinder to get brusque.
The kettle's whistling a shrill kind of screech in the next room (next building? Sylar can't tell), wailing for somebody to just come and make the damn tea, not that Mohinder has any sympathy for kitchen appliances today. Something's gotten into him - going to get into Sylar - and Sylar's lost a button on his pants somewhere between now and the doorway, not that he's going to need it.
He could push away so easily. How simplistic would it be to just twitch a finger and have Mohinder sprawling to the floor that's been in desperate need of a sweep for days, all hands and knees and he'd be back in charge before he could get the 'bad boy' out of his lips. There'd be a hand around someone's throat and a savage twist and a snarl and everybody would be happy.
Maybe something deep down in his gut really really wants Mohinder to just keep going. There's a sickening sort of sadistic pleasure Sylar gets in having his face mashed into weeks and weeks of research, though, flipped over and shoved up against the hickory desk with the coffee stain still splattered all down the side from Mohinder's spilled caffeine break - or lack thereof - the week before. There's definitely that mixed jolt of pleasure and screaming agony when Mohinder doesn't even bother to pull down his jeans before he's buried inside Sylar, spit for lube and knuckles flaring to a bone white with how hard they're pinning the other man's to the desk.
Power play. Since when does Sylar not win?
Three thrusts in and he's already peaking, neatly inside with a grunt of consolation, eyes wired shut as he rides out the orgasm. Mohinder has the decency to wrap long fingers around his cock, at least, jacking him off to each thrust and laughing when he comes apart with that burst of held-in air that's gone stale in his throat, nearly a sob it falls over his lips so urgently. Not so neatly. All over the front of the desk. Sylar's fingers are shaking as he releases the edge of the desk, clearly rattled, crumpled papers sticking half-heartedly to his sweaty palms.
He barely notices the faint skritch of a zipper past the roaring in his ears, and as Mohinder walks into the next room he tells him to clean the mess up.
Humiliation.
This isn't going to be easy to just let go of.