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Worship Our Gods Forever
folder
G through L › Heroes
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,535
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › Heroes
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,535
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.
And To Her Dead Reflection
And To Her Dead Reflection
Warm, wet tissue and muscle; it radiates fragility, this knowledgeable organ and so full of life. It gives Sylar his strength and his unquestionable will, of the sort that leaves Mohinder literally weak at the knee’s. The corruption of such an unblemished soul is so very sweet, sweet and yet bitter --bittersweet -- akin to the salty copper of the still hot, pulsating organ that presses insistantly against his lips.
Control, yes, embedded there like a minute and casual suggestion and yet, at first there’s the utter disgust at such an act, fueled by the old-life, of times too far gone wherein Mohinder would graciously decline such fine cuisine and rather, attend to some other work well into the night. Such days are dead and gone, a mere ghost that haunts him from time to time, mocking him for the nights where he is selfish and ...mutilated... humiliated... loved.
Struck down by the frostiness in Sylar, an icy displeasure, an animal poised on the brink. Mohinders heart skips a beat, sucking in a breath, inhaling the musky scent that suffocates him, chokes him. And so the throat is arched in an abstract symbol of submission, clear, wanton and plush lips part for a treat that is graciously broken down, flushed, dripping with life-blood.
Warm slickness on the palate and with it the tainted thought that perhaps that candy-sweet rottenness has left behind a certain after-taste, one that echoes of the mixed pain and pleasure of so many nights intertwined, glorious and sweat-slicked. How can Mohinder describe such a thing? Ah so simple... he cannot... and upon first acrid taste he aptly discovers that he is hooked. Addicted to the taste of grey-matter on the tongue and furious bloodied kisses, of Sylar pressing him down onto chill concrete painted cherry red and just taking what is most certainly his.
“Yours, yes, forever”. Desperation born of need in Mohinders eyes, body marred by bloody fingertips that smooth and caress over sun-kissed flesh, of satisfied murmurs, hot and breathy in his ear.
Beside them, however, the split and broken form of a guiltless, unnamed soul lies prone, having fought for her last breath, shock and disbelief sharp and distinguished on her features, frozen there, whilst her attackers fuck like the animals that they are.
And well... it’s always nice to share, isn’t it?
Warm, wet tissue and muscle; it radiates fragility, this knowledgeable organ and so full of life. It gives Sylar his strength and his unquestionable will, of the sort that leaves Mohinder literally weak at the knee’s. The corruption of such an unblemished soul is so very sweet, sweet and yet bitter --bittersweet -- akin to the salty copper of the still hot, pulsating organ that presses insistantly against his lips.
Control, yes, embedded there like a minute and casual suggestion and yet, at first there’s the utter disgust at such an act, fueled by the old-life, of times too far gone wherein Mohinder would graciously decline such fine cuisine and rather, attend to some other work well into the night. Such days are dead and gone, a mere ghost that haunts him from time to time, mocking him for the nights where he is selfish and ...mutilated... humiliated... loved.
Struck down by the frostiness in Sylar, an icy displeasure, an animal poised on the brink. Mohinders heart skips a beat, sucking in a breath, inhaling the musky scent that suffocates him, chokes him. And so the throat is arched in an abstract symbol of submission, clear, wanton and plush lips part for a treat that is graciously broken down, flushed, dripping with life-blood.
Warm slickness on the palate and with it the tainted thought that perhaps that candy-sweet rottenness has left behind a certain after-taste, one that echoes of the mixed pain and pleasure of so many nights intertwined, glorious and sweat-slicked. How can Mohinder describe such a thing? Ah so simple... he cannot... and upon first acrid taste he aptly discovers that he is hooked. Addicted to the taste of grey-matter on the tongue and furious bloodied kisses, of Sylar pressing him down onto chill concrete painted cherry red and just taking what is most certainly his.
“Yours, yes, forever”. Desperation born of need in Mohinders eyes, body marred by bloody fingertips that smooth and caress over sun-kissed flesh, of satisfied murmurs, hot and breathy in his ear.
Beside them, however, the split and broken form of a guiltless, unnamed soul lies prone, having fought for her last breath, shock and disbelief sharp and distinguished on her features, frozen there, whilst her attackers fuck like the animals that they are.
And well... it’s always nice to share, isn’t it?