Don't Fret Precious, I'm Here

Don't Fret Precious, I'm Here

It’s magnificent, really, the sight that graces Sylar’s eyes. There, upon warm flesh are glimpses of the long, blackened and cauterised wound that runs from sternum to naval, vicious. Thin charcoal lumps flake off at each gentle rise and fall of Mohinders chest, soft puffs of air passing his lips and fogging above him.

For days now he has been like this; Sleeping Beauty. Snow White with the piece of poisonous apple still between her lips. And for days Sylar has watched over the lithe form of his prisoner and lover, stretched out upon his bed and thought it good.

But of course, what similarities do these gracious beauties of fairytale all possess? Other than their weakness and looks, and the enticement of them, ripe for the taking... ah, the villain, scheming and wicked and poised to take said beauty’s innocence. The villain in the disguise of the hero, come to bestow a sweet kiss to those lips and at the same time, plunge a knife through the virgin heart. It seems oddly fitting, really, what with Mohinder lying there, so tantalising, so very debauched and violated.

In other words... utterly gorgeous.

Mohinder begins to stir, breath hitching and eyelids twitching as if in the throes of a nightmare. For a moment, Sylar is fascinated. For a moment he wonders what it’d be like to awaken his pet from his slumber... to hold him in his arms and soothe away the fears... but such a thought is fleeting, only to be replaced by the temptation of something else entirely. Yesterday he had held darling Mohinders tender organs in his very hands. Yesterday he’d used the recently acquired pyrokinesis to seal the wound shut and revelled in the sharp tang of cooked flesh in the air.

Picking up the limp, ragdoll body into his arms, Sylar pads all too silently into the bathroom, deadly, the tiles chill and soothing underneath his bare feet. Mohinder is in that place between sleep and wakefulness, that place where you no longer know what is reality, and what is in the black pit of your thoughts. And thus, Mohinder isn’t entirely aware of being lowered into the large, deep-set bath... or of ice cold water lapping around him. But the distinct feeling of pressure is there, and the chill invading his flesh and making his blood run cold. So very cold.

The bath is slow to fill, its rise steady yet gradual, and Sylar is there, straddling Mohinders hips, sitting on firm thighs and in his still dazed and sleepy state there really is no hope of moving. And oh... Mohinder should learn to sleep lightly, shouldn’t he?

It’s only when the frost permeates him and water invades his nose does Mohinder awaken, pushing himself up just out of the water to take in a grateful, shuddering breath. And Sylar allows it, allows this tiny shred of oxygen for Mohinder even as he presses his lovers’ shoulders down with his hands, strengthened by the nuances of telekinesis, watching with amusement as his pet begins to struggle, hands scrabbling at the edge of the bath to try.... oh to try and pull himself up, yet failing miserably. His fingers, clawed to find purchase, merely slip, unable to grip.

Hold that precious air inside, yes, -- keep it safe -- but he needs more. His chest aches for it and still Sylar presses him down, arousal evident and that smirk on his lips, whilst Mohinder twists and turns to break free from his prison. He can only hold his breath for so long, and the tick-tock of time running out is too loud in his ears, too ominous, along with the muted rush of water and the distinct murmur of laughter. And it’s only when his lungs burn for it and he’s poised on the edge to breathe in that water and simply let go... is he free.

“You should trust me, Mohinder.” Sylar murmurs, head cocked to one side. “I wouldn’t let you die such a... bland death.”

Fear tinged with blatant outrage, one that Mohinder can’t voice, too busy drawing in the thick, wonderful air to be glaring at a smug Sylar, who’s still straddling his hips, though now blessedly spread out on the tiled bathroom floor.

Air, sweet air and it’s never tasted so good. Panting for breath, sucking it in with the thrill of adrenaline rushing through his veins and Sylar takes pity on him. His lips press to Mohinders and with that kiss there is salvation, breathing into him not only air but a need, a need so dirty that it makes his flesh break out in sensitivity. The kiss rejuvenates him, soft and gentle at first, but it crescendo’s towards hard passion and bruised lips soon after.

Want you. Need you. And it’s as if Sylar can see right through him, right through the wet, trembling form pressed so tightly against him, the droplets from that sun-kissed chest soaking into his t-shirt, sticking uncomfortably. Telekinesis rips all semblance of clothing away, leaving Mohinder utterly bare and nude to his eyes, and oh yes... he drinks in the sight, savours it. Truthfully, only tattered pants had been retaining Mohinder’s dignity anyway, but like this, Sylar can fully appreciate him. And that wound? Why, it only serves to enhance his dear pet’s features.

Warm, rough hands slide up Mohinders thighs and part them roughly, pressing him down with invisible limbs with more strength than previously thought, and the delightful almost-mewl that passes those bruised lips only incites Sylar further. He wants to touch, to bruise and mark this body so that everyone can see exactly what is his.

“I want to hear you scream.” He murmurs, huskily, and he draws a line against the soft and tender flesh of inner thigh, blood seeping down in a thick rivulet as a clean wound is opened, and Mohinder can only gasp, pained, nerve endings on fire as it’s always the tiny wounds that hurt the most.

“I want to hear you beg.” Another insignificant cut, on the sensitive crease of thigh to hip and Sylar leans in to lick that droplet of blood away, smearing the cherry red fluid across his lips in the process. Mohinder’s breath hitches and yet... he can’t stop staring at the ceiling, his focus point as those calloused fingers gently trail across his balls. He’s tense, expecting a flash of pain to either those, or to the arousal itself, but instead there’s searing pain along his calf and he moans in surprise, the muscle twitching in complaint.

“Well? Aren’t you going to beg, Mohinder? It’ll be so much fun if you do...”

A scowl is fixed onto those sharp features and Sylar chuckles, amused. “If you don’t I’ll cut out your tongue.” And it’s so very casual, right there, that delicious smirk that’s all too happy to add to the taunting and Mohinder practically shudders with want. It’s obvious. He just won’t open his mouth and say it. Naughty boy. “...Very well then...”

“No! No...” Deep, uneven breaths and Mohinder can taste sharpness in his mouth, hot, copper. Just a faint hint and the knowledge that Sylar will make good on his word almost turns that taste to ash. “Please. Just... Sylar... do it.”

“Hm? What’s that, Mohinder?

“....”

“Well?”

After a long silence Mohinder licks his too-dry lips. “...Fuck me. Please.”

Sylar on the other hand, just looks like the cat that got the canary; smug and far too pleased with himself. “I don’t know why you play this game. You know you want it... I know you want it... so why resist?” He says, words slow and deliberate, in a tone that on one hand brooks no argument and yet on the other is just so... gratifyingly sensual, heavenly to the point of being syrup to the senses.

Spreading his legs further, Mohinder steels himself. Indeed, why does he resist when he yearns for it so? There’s a reason... and that is that there is a part of him that hasn’t yet been broken by Sylar. And yet he wants. Wants, but doesn’t. Tugged this way and that and immersed in abstract confusion as to what he wants but by now it’s already too late. That last part of him melts away at the touch of slickness; slickness giving way to bluntness and then... then... it’s all there, hot, throbbing hardness inside intermingled with the bitter ache of pain and a sharp indescribable sting... how did he ever live without this? Why did he ever deny it?

For weeks he has been living in fear and anticipation, poor sweet Mohinder, caught in the spider’s web and unable to break free for fear of losing such a thing, losing Sylar’s odd affection and fascination with his body, his need to control Mohinder to breaking point. But now, with each hard and unyielding thrust into him, Mohinder can feel himself blurring around the edges. It’s like an out of body experience, the echo of pleasure dancing along his veins, up and down to pool in his cock, with the panting grunts of the beast above. It’s delicious, this friction, though Sylar taunts, avoiding that saccharine spot inside that can give Mohinder so much pleasure, denying him in the face of his rejection and that slickness runs down sun-kissed thighs, crimson, staining the tender flesh virgin red.

The thrusts quicken, and the harsh exclamations of pleasure causes a tightening in Mohinders gut, and he's so close, on the precipice, it's too soon and it’s all too much already and oh... he’s barely even begun to enjoy it... and it’s over. The hot rush inside and Sylar’s husky groan and blunt teeth biting relentlessly into Mohinders shoulder and and and...

...Nothing. Mohinders body remains coiled and tense, cock dark and straining for release and yet, none comes.

“Tut tut.” That voice is breathless in his ear, utterly sated. “Bad pets don’t get to come.”

That heavy weight on top of him is gone, and no matter how much he strokes himself to achieve blessed release, it doesn’t come. Like an invisible vice around the base of his cock Mohinder mewls unashamedly, slumping onto the cold tiles, breathing heavily. And all there is, is the soft, muffled laughter as his heart stutters in his chest and his body fails entirely.