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aunt_zeldaI still have a cold, I had HORRIFIC dreams last night (one of them involving some of my classmates being robots and trying to strangle me against a wall with a pipe, but I woke up before they killed me so is that a good thing or not? I did pull some awesome moves beforehand, though …), got a bloody nose at three in the morning, and there’s snow on the mountains and frost on the ground down here. And … HE WANTS TO GO TO THE PARTY AS FRIENDS! *SQUEE* This is a START. It is a step in the right direction, the direction that leads to more talking and regular eye-contact!
(So it doesn’t matter if you guys tear this fic down or condemn it as my worst piece yet, because I AM GOING TO THE PARTY WITH THAT-GUY!)
Title:
Rating: R for language and smex. Not graphic smex, but smex all the same.
Word Count: 1, 971 (aprox.)
Characters, Pairings: Adam/Arthur (yes, you read that right) hinted Adam/Hiro, brief cameos of Daphne and Knox.
Disclaimer, Spoilers: I do not own Heroes. I would have thought that was obvious by now. Spoilers up to ‘Dying in the Light’ (aka DAMN YOU TIM KRING YOU SON-OF-A-MARY-SUE!)
A/N: I’m twisting elements from the show’s canon into my own personal verse, and this comes a short time after ‘Eye of the Hurricane.’ (And continuing my trend for lousy titles and creepy Second-Person narration.) This time it’s from Adam’s POV, because I find writing psycho murderers FAR too easy.
This has been in my head since the night of that horrid episode, but of course, I got sick, and them swamped by school and That-Guy, so this was delayed. And, like all twisted, overtly-descriptive smex fics of mine, I am going to blame this on tessykins.
http://aunt-zelda.livejournal.com/87001.html#cutid1 – ‘Eye of the Hurricane’ to which this is a kind of ‘part 2’ I suppose.
You stagger and fall to your knees, head spinning, and throw up the remains of the waffles Claire made for breakfast. You’d had another bite halfway to your mouth when ‘the speedster’ somehow got free and grabbed you.
She’s standing over you now: arms crossed, a cute little scowl on her face. You only met
“Come on,” she says, once again taking your arm and zipping inside the large, sleek building you’d barely begun to notice.
In the non-descript lobby of the building, you and the speedster encounter a man with dark skin and cruel eyes whom you immediately take a dislike to. He eyes you like a parcel that was badly handled in the mail, then turns from you dismissively.
“I take him from here, Daphne.”
She frowns. “Yeah, and I’m supposed to let you take all the credit? I’ve just spent the last few days being tortured by former Company agents to get this guy!”
The man snorts. “What, ‘the dog ate my homework’ was already taken?”
She flares. “I’d like to see you hold up under that! One of them had –”
You take the opportunity to try and make a break for it. It’s a stupid enough move that they might not expect it. Not knowing what’s going on has always been a pet peeve of yours, and seeing as you’ve sufficiently annoyed quite a lot of people in the last four-hundred-odd years, it’s a safe bet that whoever they want to bring you to isn’t someone you want to meet.
She catches you in an instant. The man grabs your arm, glares at her, and begins dragging you down the hall.
“I hope he blames you for the delay, Knox!” she yells, voice echoing in the hall, before zipping away again in a blur of color.
“Who are you?” you demand as the man yanks you into an elevator. As you rise several stories, you adopt a haughty tone. “Do you have any idea who I am? My name is Adam Monroe … you ought to have heard of me.”
He blinks.
You sigh: your name used to inspire fear and/or awe, now not even the lackeys recognize you. Does their ‘boss’ know who you are? Do you know who their boss is? You’re old enough to appreciate surprises, but
~*~
You’re pretty sure that the sight of live (well, mostly) Arthur Petrelli gives you a heart-attack.
You’re 100% sure that you have an honest-to-God heart-attack when you ‘hear’ in your head what he has planned for you.
“No … no! Arthur, please, I can be of use to you!”
The lackey who escorted you upstairs grabs you and forces your arm out, breaking your wrist as he does so. Strength from other people’s fear … wasn’t that an ability they were tracking a while back?
Carp …Hiro …I love you …I never got to tell you …
You don’t stop screaming – pleading – until the doctor casually leans over and slits your wrist with a scalpel.
As the doctor collects your blood into a syringe and jabs it into Arthur Petrelli’s arm, you forget to breathe. He could have killed you just now, killed you for good … and you were powerless … what would have happened? Would you have simply become dust? Would it have hurt? Why didn’t he drain you dry, when he could have become immortal?
The strong man lets go of you, and you slump to the floor, wincing slightly as your wrist snaps back into place.
There’s a dry groaning noise, and you stare up as a man who should be dead sits up and tugs the pipes from his mouth and nose. His eyes find yours, and he grins that chilling grin you remember so very, very well.
“Thank you, Adam … no hard feelings?”
You slowly rise to your feet, rubbing the spot on your arm where the doctor cut. “Fuck you, Arthur.”
He laughs. “What, kill my mentor? It was just to feel that look on your face … I haven’t had a good laugh in almost a year …”
And suddenly, you’re laughing too.
~*~
Twenty minutes later you’re lounging in a fancy penthouse sort of room at the top of the building, drinking tea and scotch with the man you twisted into your disciple so many years ago. You got to him through Linderman (another great man) and thus began to gain influence in American politics. You were such a child back then, believe that they would see your vision of a cleansed world, free of the stains of society, with a generation of superhumans rising from the ashes. He didn’t have a hand in locking you away, but he didn’t try to stop it either. Last year, when Elle casually let slip that he’d died of a ‘heart attack’ (wink wink) you caved in to her tiresome advances. The thought of one of your own choosing that, going where you cannot, dare not, was unbearable.
Still is, actually. Besides, Arthur has the power here. As a young man he was delighted by his power and used it with a giddy sort of respect, but over the years he’s changed, and he might not respect you the way he used to.
“I don’t want any part of this.” you set your glass down and look him in the eye.
He attempts a pout with limited success. His son, Peter, is better equipped for such an expression. “Oh, come on, Adam, stick around for a while … I think you’ll be very impressed with what I’ve got going on here.”
You snort. “I don’t especially care, Arthur. You’re clearly not planning on wiping the slate clean … so why would I want to stay?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why would I let a dangerous individual such as yourself roam free?”
The way he says it chills you to the bone, but you don’t let him see that. “I’ll be good until your little tea-party goes Hindenburg, Arthur, scout’s honor!” you raise your fingers in mock salute. “Hey, why don’t I just mail you a vial of my blood once a month! Then you can profit from my ability without having to house me in the spare bedroom.”
He leans forward. “I can drain you dry and have the labs study your blood, Adam.”
You lean forward too. “Ah, but you haven’t. You could … and you haven’t. You don’t want me dead, Arthur …”
He smirks. “Caught me …” he holds up his hands. “So, oh great wise messiah, why do I want you close by?”
You lean back in your chair. Were you in his position, you know why you’d want you on hand, and it’s not for your blood. “Well … seeing as you’ve divorced Angela – was it your affairs or hers?” he doesn’t answer, so you make a big show of looking around the room, “I don’t see any Swedish twins, so I assume I’m your ‘kept woman?’ as it were?”
He grins that unnerving grin of his.
You shift, masking your mild discomfort with a sensual move. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you … I only just escaped that Company cell a few months ago. And then I was on the run … not much time for” you eye him up and down “… distractions.”
He laughs and stands up, circling around the table to you. “Beat you there, Adam: I haven’t fucked someone in almost a year.”
You raise your eyebrows and open your mouth for a witty retort, but, naturally, he cuts you off by attempting to shove his tongue down your throat.
He never was one for foreplay. Or post-coital snuggling, now that you think on it.
Oh carp … the things I do to survive …
Your jacket is on the floor and he’s making short work of the buttons on your shirt. Is this how Hiro felt when you jumped him the other day? Surely not … you weren’t nearly this aggressive … right?
Once the both of you have lost your shirts, you make the mistake of trying to lead him towards the tantalizingly soft-looking bed in the corner.
He slams you into the wall. “Not the bed,” he snaps, raking your back with his fingernails. “Never the bed …”
“Understood …” you manage to choke out as he shoves you to the floor, yanking your pants off in a feverish, painful way.
“Ow …” you mutter, only half sarcastic.
His hands are becoming more and more possessive now. You feel bruises form and heal and form again. At the sound of a zipper, you keep your eyes ahead, barely holding back a groan as he thrusts into you dry.
He laughs above you, and you’re certain he can see the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Don’t be shy, Adam … let me hear you scream.”
You don’t have much time to debate the pros and cons of complying when he beings to speed up. Praying that there are no lackeys outside, you stop holding back. You make noises even Hiro couldn’t bring himself to make, and then noises that any self-respecting whore would think twice about letting slip. Is it always this painful? If so, why didn’t Hiro complain? You’re so often on top that it’s never been an issue for you, but this certainly puts things into perspective.
Considering the things Arthur is hissing into your ear, you’re quite glad to have something to occupy your mind for a while.
And then …
… it’s over.
“Son of a …” you gasp as he collapses on top of you, forcing you even further to the floor, probably giving you rug-burn in the process.
~*~
Ten minutes after the event, he gets up to take a shower, without a word to you. Typical. You never liked his attitude towards sex, even when it was ‘just fucking,’ and you like it even less now after sharing such a moment with Hiro.
No, the two events are completely different. What you and Hiro had … have … is totally different from what you and Arthur just did. He used you, purely for sex, and probably would have done the same to anyone else after waking up from a year-long coma.
You muse on this as you shower across the hall, idly touching yourself at memories of Hiro. When will you see him again, if ever?
When you return to the room, he’s asleep on the bed, fully-clothed, turned defiantly on his side. You can relate to the need for a new resting position after your stint in the coffin.
With a shrug, you climb into bed as well, rolling over to hide your disgusted expression. As soon as you can, you’re going to escape. You can’t take another round like that with him, not when you’ve acquired a taste for koi.
You exhale slightly …
… and suddenly you’re lying on the floor of an unfamiliar house: Elle, Claire, what’s-his-name, and Claude Rains sitting or standing around you.
Your carp is kneeling beside you, a look of pure fury on his usually adorable face.
Regardless, you feel you should have the first word. “Carp …”
He cuts you off. “I went to rescue you and recapture Daphne …” he angrily shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “But if her boss trusts you enough to sleep beside you, we don’t need Daphne anymore.”
Elle’s hand crackles with blue. Claire whispers in her ear, trying to talk her down. Claude and – that other one – are staring at you like their worst fears have been confirmed.
Bloody hell.
