Fandom: Heroes RPS/FPS, AU
Pairing: Sendhil/Sylar, implied Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: R
Summary: Mohinder receives a video in the mail.
Notes: Written for the Heroes Actor/Character Kink Meme, for the prompt "smug".
I found him in an underwear catalogue. Enjoy.
S
That's all the post-it attached to the CD case says. Mohinder recognizes the neat and blocky handwriting (though he wishes he didn't), and his first instinct is to break the disk in half and toss it out the window to watch it get run over by the heavy New York traffic outside.
He doesn't, though. Man is uniformly a curious animal, he reasons with himself; it's only natural for him to want to know what perversities that deranged, sick mind has thought up this time. So Mohinder brews himself a cup of chai and lets the CD-ROM run on his laptop. It holds one video file.
The face that appears on the screen startles him, nearly making him choke on his chai and spill it down his shirt. He curses under his breath and looks around the living room frantically, searching for the hidden camera or even a dark shadow looming in the corner, but nothing. Mohinder returns his eyes to the screen, and realizes that the face on the screen isn't actually himself; the man is looking directly into the camera with a playful, seductive smile that Mohinder would never, ever make at any person, much less at a camera.
When the man speaks, the difference becomes even more evident. "Are you going to join me, or do you want me to play with myself?" The accent is unmistakably American and Mohinder settles back in his chair, slightly relieved.
The camera pulls back to reveal the man sitting in the center of a couch. What Mohinder can glimpse of the room is drab, with an old yellow carpet and beige walls. The man isn't naked, as Mohinder had expected, but rather wearing a pair of white boxer briefs. I found him in an underwear catalogue, the words flash in Mohinder's mind. His legs are spread wide and a large hand is caressing his thigh. Mohinder notes the shape of the muscles on his legs, torso, and arms, all much more well-defined than his own.
A figure clad in dark blue jeans and a black shirt steps in front of the camera. Mohinder tenses, just a slightly bit, clutching the cup in his hand; he'd recognize that silhouette anywhere. Jeans are yanked down to reveal a pale ass and Mohinder winces, but the man on the couch merely laughs lightheartedly, flips Sylar over to lie on the couch, and straddles his legs.
The camera zooms in on Sylar's half-hard cock and the dark hand circling its base. Soon lips come down to take the head between them, full bottom lip stretching as Sylar grows harder and larger, and Sylar is making noises, his voice increasing in volume as his words increase in ridiculousness: "Oh yeah, yeah, that's good, swallow it, com'on, I know you can take it deeper, yeah, use that slutty mouth."
Mohinder rolls his eyes and gets up for another cup of chai.
Doppelganger, he tells himself as he pours tap water into the rusty kettle. Not at all unusual. In his father's office, tucked away in a corner of his bookshelves between the far wall and the floor, were books exactly on this topic, among books on other genetic curiosities his father enjoyed dabbling in. Mohinder had devoured them in those humid summer holidays of his youth. There were dozens of reported cases of this phenomenon. It was nothing but an accumulation of random genetic coincidences, highly unlikely but not impossible, resulting in a passing (and purely superficial) resemblance. That Sylar should find a sick sort of pleasure in it was none of Mohinder's concern. What was happening in that shabby room had absolutely nothing to do with him, either in spirit or body.
Mohinder tells himself all this while he pours hot water from the whistling kettle, breathes deeply, and picks up the steaming mug steadily in his hands. His steps are measured as he returns to his desk. He places the mug next to the laptop and settles in his chair, then takes a moment to check a few appointments on his desk calendar before opening the laptop again.
The video has run nearly to its end. The figures have moved, and Mohinder sees Sylar's dark spiky hair covering the toned abdomen of the other man. With Sylar's mouth occupied, the audio is almost silent. Mohinder sips his tea. There is a groan, then a few shallow intakes of breath. Finally, Mohinder thinks and shifts in his chair, ready to close the file and move on to his schedule for the afternoon. He has vile after vile of samples that weren't going to examine themselves.
Mohinder's finger freezes on the eject button of the drive. With only half a minute left of the video, Sylar has walked up to the camera. The zoom is adjusted. Sylar stares into the iris of the camera--no, into Mohinder's eyes. The gaze is unwavering, pinning Mohinder there; there is no doubt in those eyes, those eyes are looking at him. Mohinder feels his jaw clench, his brows furrow. Goosebumps rise along his arms and nape as the distance between himself and the men on screen seems to crumble, and Mohinder feels as though Sylar is there with him, in the room; he feels a body, warm against his back, and a soft brush of air against his cheek.
"Even tastes like you," Sylar says with a smug grin.
Mohinder yanks the CD out of the laptop, breaks it in half, and tosses it out the window to join the countless others before it.
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