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Worship Our Gods Forever
folder
G through L › Heroes
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,537
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › Heroes
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,537
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Heroes, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Worship Our Gods Forever
Our Screams Shall Trail to Angels
Sweet, the ghost of damp flesh against damp flesh... and it’s something that has never crossed Mohinder’s mind. So delicious that it’s practically sinful, a backhand across the face, an act that’s almost depraved... corrupted at the very core that it’s so rotten that its sticky sweetness drips along flesh so smooth that he’s almost... almost... almost losing his mind.
Warm lips and a slick tongue and it’s night and day, sun kissed to skin pale and unhindered by scar or markings, and all the better to kiss and touch and fuck and... Such bliss can’t be like this, the arch of bodies and the bitter ache between his thighs that leaves him utterly breathless. Nude. His mind is naked and open and Sylar can see it all, deep and embedded within and he’s drawing it out. Bit by bit. Piece by fucking piece. Drawing it out with each distinct thrust of his cock into Mohinders ass, each soft murmur of sensual nothings intermingled with the wretched breath of corruption, it’s sickly sweet juices staining Mohinders soul.
But he needs it. He wants it. The slick push and pull and taut pleasure and pain, and it’s wonderful. A perversion. Debauchery. Even as silken hair is tugged harshly to reveal an unmarked throat all he can feel is that depravity, can taste it in the air and it’s never tasted so sweet. Lips... Rough lips that burn past all his defences and leave their mark, aching and red, virginal.
Sound... is limited to them, the huff of pleasure from his captor -- his lover -- the slap of flesh to flesh, the crescendo of cries, tears and eyes so wide that they can see it all... And fuck... it’s beautiful.
When he tips over that final edge, screaming, the beast behind growls through his release, a satiated animal curled around its prey. Willing prey, with neck tilted in casual submission, as the sticky sweet infected fluid seeps into every pore, pulsates through his body as it breaks him and cracks him open, pained, pieces of the puzzle held together by a Sylar that seems too sane, too knowledgeable, too ... too... ohfuckeverywheretogethercloseinsideandit’sjusttoomuch...
And for once in his life... Mohinder really doesn’t give a shit.
Sweet, the ghost of damp flesh against damp flesh... and it’s something that has never crossed Mohinder’s mind. So delicious that it’s practically sinful, a backhand across the face, an act that’s almost depraved... corrupted at the very core that it’s so rotten that its sticky sweetness drips along flesh so smooth that he’s almost... almost... almost losing his mind.
Warm lips and a slick tongue and it’s night and day, sun kissed to skin pale and unhindered by scar or markings, and all the better to kiss and touch and fuck and... Such bliss can’t be like this, the arch of bodies and the bitter ache between his thighs that leaves him utterly breathless. Nude. His mind is naked and open and Sylar can see it all, deep and embedded within and he’s drawing it out. Bit by bit. Piece by fucking piece. Drawing it out with each distinct thrust of his cock into Mohinders ass, each soft murmur of sensual nothings intermingled with the wretched breath of corruption, it’s sickly sweet juices staining Mohinders soul.
But he needs it. He wants it. The slick push and pull and taut pleasure and pain, and it’s wonderful. A perversion. Debauchery. Even as silken hair is tugged harshly to reveal an unmarked throat all he can feel is that depravity, can taste it in the air and it’s never tasted so sweet. Lips... Rough lips that burn past all his defences and leave their mark, aching and red, virginal.
Sound... is limited to them, the huff of pleasure from his captor -- his lover -- the slap of flesh to flesh, the crescendo of cries, tears and eyes so wide that they can see it all... And fuck... it’s beautiful.
When he tips over that final edge, screaming, the beast behind growls through his release, a satiated animal curled around its prey. Willing prey, with neck tilted in casual submission, as the sticky sweet infected fluid seeps into every pore, pulsates through his body as it breaks him and cracks him open, pained, pieces of the puzzle held together by a Sylar that seems too sane, too knowledgeable, too ... too... ohfuckeverywheretogethercloseinsideandit’sjusttoomuch...
And for once in his life... Mohinder really doesn’t give a shit.