Fic: The Butterfly Effect
Title: The Butterfly Effect
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Peter
Pairings: Moheter, Mylar
Warnings: Strong violence and language. Written in second-person, present tense from Sylar's perspective.
Summary: Butterflies have eyes on their back, painted there naturally, marring their perfect colours to ward off predators.
He's just as pure and perfect as a butterfly. He just needs his mask of protection.
A/N: This was originally written for someone and posted on mylar_fic - I reposted it here because someone was requesting Mohinder!tortured fics down there. :3 Also cross-posted on y!gallery.
God, he is so beautiful.
You think this, every single time you do it. Looking him over, his torso heaving in heavy pained breaths, blood and sweat smeared over his back, beautiful sculpted shoulderblades streaked with the sticky, dark red liquid. Hyperventilation is flushing his face, and you just sit back and watch him. He could choke, yes, or pass out, but those are risks worth taking. The pure beauty of it is striking. You feel numb in awe, knowing you're the reason he's suffering so, knowing you're the reason his skin is slick with sweat, knowing you're the reason his already beautiful frame is pushed to the very edge between breathtaking art and positive suicide.
He's so fragile in his strength.
Watching such suffering is almost like a drug... You always want more.
It started when you found the bite mark on his neck. You demanded a reason, demanded retribution. He's not allowed to stray. He's supposed to stay perfect, pristine, forever yours.
But he's strayed. He's tasted the fruit of the Forbidden Tree.
You had to.
As soon as that other man's name dirtied his lips you knew. It was unavoidable. You had to mark him, to permanently scar him. He had to know the rules. He had to be made to understand.
He is not free.
He is yours.
At first you thought about killing the other. Slaughtering the bastard before him might press the point irreversible into his mind. But it seemed... Coarse. Pointless. Counter-intuitive.
Lurking at a street corner, you found the answer. It seemed so simple, but so perfect. Nature and God had given you the answer.
Butterflies have eyes on their back, painted there naturally, marring their perfect colours to ward off predators.
He's just as pure and perfect as a butterfly. He just needs his mask of protection.
For a long time you thought about how. Where. What. What could possibly be perfect enough to scar him? Where would be the most effective place? He had to always feel it, always know it was there. He had to be unable to hide it. And every time some fucker tried to touch him they would see it and they would know.
He, now, has become the very thing he had tasted.
Forbidden fruit. Sweet and beautiful and perfect and damning.
Anyone touches him, and you would know. It would be a constant form of protection, of connection between you and him.
The first time you did it the heady scent of fear and blood mixed and went straight to your head, your fist gripping his hair and forcing his head down. You lost control, fucked him hard into the mattress, smearing the blood everywhere, making him scream. He passed out as you bucked into him, pain bursting behind his eyes so suddenly as you came that conciousness was immediately gone. You let him sleep, staying in the apartment. You heard that hoarse cry of surprise and pain when the shower spray hit him. You tasted his bitter tears.
It was perfect.
You let it heal for only two or three days every time, enough to scab completely, to start to begin producing a soft pink new skin cover. Then you trace your fingertip over the old wounds, ripping them open perfectly, forcing yourself to keep only so shallow to not permanently damage him somehow.
You can't remember if it was the third or fourth time. You accidentally went too deep. His eyes rolled back into his head and he shuddered and spluttered and fell lifeless. He was still breathing, but you knew then, you'd struck a nerve. You forced it to heal, ripping blood from one of your adversaries and salving it into the wound. You cursed yourself, you had to start over, but it was a valuable lesson to learn. You'd almost lost him then.
This time has to be the sixth time. You're still watching him. He's spitting up saliva and mucus, the pain pushing his body almost to physical illness again. This happens almost every other time. He gets so used to it, he starts to feel numb, and you have to add a new element. It was this time that you laced the telekinesis with a slight bit of ice, freezing the wounds as you cut them.
(Telekinesis has always been the tool of choice. It cuts so perfectly, rounding when it needs to, always cutting straight, and you can feel the wounds split apart as you guide your fingertip over the old scabs. The perfect cut to mar his perfect body.)
You leave him after a moment, pausing outside the door to hear him quietly begin sobbing. You're admiring his strength, his pure stubbornness. He refuses to let you have all of it. All of him.
He's naive. You already have all of him. You always have.
You make sure to stay around his apartment building, purchasing coffee a block or two away. This has always been a precaution. You listen to his every movement, making sure he's okay, that he'll survive the night.
You don't want him to overdo it. He might hurt himself. He's lost a lot of blood...
But then he does every time. You're sure he'll be fine.
You're listening still. He gags for a little while, sobs mixing with the harsh force and making him choke. Finally he settles enough to drag himself to the bathroom. He has no clothes on and does not hesitate to slip, pained and weary, into the shower. He whispers soft pleading questions to himself, leaning against the tile heavily, and you wonder greedily how much blood is being slicked over the wall.
The water starts. You catch that little gasp of pain and smile.
He slips out of his shower and tenderly begins to towel himself off. You've decided to leave, to go to your own apartment, and start to walk in the general direction, lost in your thoughts. Just a few more times, you think. Just a few more times and you'll have your butterfly's eyes.
Right as you're leaving the range of hearing him, another voice enters his apartment, and you stop. You turn your head, suddenly, growling softly. That bastard is back. He just does not get the hint.
Immediately you're storming back towards his apartment. He's sitting at the table quietly, the visitor talking jovially of nothing as they get cozy around his apartment. No, you're thinking furiously. Don't you fucking touch him. He's my butterfly.
The visitor approaches him, speaking softly about love and loneliness. He sounds tired in his responses, wasted, weak. That is your fault and you derive a slight bit of pleasure at that fact. You're the reason he's like that. You're the reason he's so fragile.
The visitor kisses him softly and you're leaping over a building. Fuck the humans. You have business to attend to.
But you're pausing, at his quiet voice. He's telling the visitor 'no'. He's refusing the advances.
You hesitate on the roof, listening in silence.
The visitor demands softly to know what is wrong. His disgusting voice is washing over your butterfly, who is listening, exhausted. It becomes heated. The visitor grabs him, presses his chest down into the table, and you're starting to move again. No one is allowed to taste him as you have.
He's protesting weakly, quietly, though he stops after a moment as the visitor places soft kisses up his still damp spine. You're furious, landing heavily on the roof of his apartment building, hands glowing in your fury. But something peculiar is happening, and you're hesitating again. The visitor has discovered the perfect cuts, still fresh, right at the base of his neck. He's sighing softly.
The visitor backs away slowly, muttering in awe, shock and disbelief. You're smirking, knowing that that bastard could never comprehend the lesson, knowing that he has learned it and accepted it. Knowing that the eyes on his back are working.
You're quickly moving, down stairs and halls, until you're outside his door, waiting.
You hear the visitor murmur the five letters carved in his back, the same hurt and disgusted tone to the whisper, and kick down the door immediately.
You had to hear them. You had to hear it.
SYLAR.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Peter
Pairings: Moheter, Mylar
Warnings: Strong violence and language. Written in second-person, present tense from Sylar's perspective.
Summary: Butterflies have eyes on their back, painted there naturally, marring their perfect colours to ward off predators.
He's just as pure and perfect as a butterfly. He just needs his mask of protection.
A/N: This was originally written for someone and posted on mylar_fic - I reposted it here because someone was requesting Mohinder!tortured fics down there. :3 Also cross-posted on y!gallery.
God, he is so beautiful.
You think this, every single time you do it. Looking him over, his torso heaving in heavy pained breaths, blood and sweat smeared over his back, beautiful sculpted shoulderblades streaked with the sticky, dark red liquid. Hyperventilation is flushing his face, and you just sit back and watch him. He could choke, yes, or pass out, but those are risks worth taking. The pure beauty of it is striking. You feel numb in awe, knowing you're the reason he's suffering so, knowing you're the reason his skin is slick with sweat, knowing you're the reason his already beautiful frame is pushed to the very edge between breathtaking art and positive suicide.
He's so fragile in his strength.
Watching such suffering is almost like a drug... You always want more.
It started when you found the bite mark on his neck. You demanded a reason, demanded retribution. He's not allowed to stray. He's supposed to stay perfect, pristine, forever yours.
But he's strayed. He's tasted the fruit of the Forbidden Tree.
You had to.
As soon as that other man's name dirtied his lips you knew. It was unavoidable. You had to mark him, to permanently scar him. He had to know the rules. He had to be made to understand.
He is not free.
He is yours.
At first you thought about killing the other. Slaughtering the bastard before him might press the point irreversible into his mind. But it seemed... Coarse. Pointless. Counter-intuitive.
Lurking at a street corner, you found the answer. It seemed so simple, but so perfect. Nature and God had given you the answer.
Butterflies have eyes on their back, painted there naturally, marring their perfect colours to ward off predators.
He's just as pure and perfect as a butterfly. He just needs his mask of protection.
For a long time you thought about how. Where. What. What could possibly be perfect enough to scar him? Where would be the most effective place? He had to always feel it, always know it was there. He had to be unable to hide it. And every time some fucker tried to touch him they would see it and they would know.
He, now, has become the very thing he had tasted.
Forbidden fruit. Sweet and beautiful and perfect and damning.
Anyone touches him, and you would know. It would be a constant form of protection, of connection between you and him.
The first time you did it the heady scent of fear and blood mixed and went straight to your head, your fist gripping his hair and forcing his head down. You lost control, fucked him hard into the mattress, smearing the blood everywhere, making him scream. He passed out as you bucked into him, pain bursting behind his eyes so suddenly as you came that conciousness was immediately gone. You let him sleep, staying in the apartment. You heard that hoarse cry of surprise and pain when the shower spray hit him. You tasted his bitter tears.
It was perfect.
You let it heal for only two or three days every time, enough to scab completely, to start to begin producing a soft pink new skin cover. Then you trace your fingertip over the old wounds, ripping them open perfectly, forcing yourself to keep only so shallow to not permanently damage him somehow.
You can't remember if it was the third or fourth time. You accidentally went too deep. His eyes rolled back into his head and he shuddered and spluttered and fell lifeless. He was still breathing, but you knew then, you'd struck a nerve. You forced it to heal, ripping blood from one of your adversaries and salving it into the wound. You cursed yourself, you had to start over, but it was a valuable lesson to learn. You'd almost lost him then.
This time has to be the sixth time. You're still watching him. He's spitting up saliva and mucus, the pain pushing his body almost to physical illness again. This happens almost every other time. He gets so used to it, he starts to feel numb, and you have to add a new element. It was this time that you laced the telekinesis with a slight bit of ice, freezing the wounds as you cut them.
(Telekinesis has always been the tool of choice. It cuts so perfectly, rounding when it needs to, always cutting straight, and you can feel the wounds split apart as you guide your fingertip over the old scabs. The perfect cut to mar his perfect body.)
You leave him after a moment, pausing outside the door to hear him quietly begin sobbing. You're admiring his strength, his pure stubbornness. He refuses to let you have all of it. All of him.
He's naive. You already have all of him. You always have.
You make sure to stay around his apartment building, purchasing coffee a block or two away. This has always been a precaution. You listen to his every movement, making sure he's okay, that he'll survive the night.
You don't want him to overdo it. He might hurt himself. He's lost a lot of blood...
But then he does every time. You're sure he'll be fine.
You're listening still. He gags for a little while, sobs mixing with the harsh force and making him choke. Finally he settles enough to drag himself to the bathroom. He has no clothes on and does not hesitate to slip, pained and weary, into the shower. He whispers soft pleading questions to himself, leaning against the tile heavily, and you wonder greedily how much blood is being slicked over the wall.
The water starts. You catch that little gasp of pain and smile.
He slips out of his shower and tenderly begins to towel himself off. You've decided to leave, to go to your own apartment, and start to walk in the general direction, lost in your thoughts. Just a few more times, you think. Just a few more times and you'll have your butterfly's eyes.
Right as you're leaving the range of hearing him, another voice enters his apartment, and you stop. You turn your head, suddenly, growling softly. That bastard is back. He just does not get the hint.
Immediately you're storming back towards his apartment. He's sitting at the table quietly, the visitor talking jovially of nothing as they get cozy around his apartment. No, you're thinking furiously. Don't you fucking touch him. He's my butterfly.
The visitor approaches him, speaking softly about love and loneliness. He sounds tired in his responses, wasted, weak. That is your fault and you derive a slight bit of pleasure at that fact. You're the reason he's like that. You're the reason he's so fragile.
The visitor kisses him softly and you're leaping over a building. Fuck the humans. You have business to attend to.
But you're pausing, at his quiet voice. He's telling the visitor 'no'. He's refusing the advances.
You hesitate on the roof, listening in silence.
The visitor demands softly to know what is wrong. His disgusting voice is washing over your butterfly, who is listening, exhausted. It becomes heated. The visitor grabs him, presses his chest down into the table, and you're starting to move again. No one is allowed to taste him as you have.
He's protesting weakly, quietly, though he stops after a moment as the visitor places soft kisses up his still damp spine. You're furious, landing heavily on the roof of his apartment building, hands glowing in your fury. But something peculiar is happening, and you're hesitating again. The visitor has discovered the perfect cuts, still fresh, right at the base of his neck. He's sighing softly.
The visitor backs away slowly, muttering in awe, shock and disbelief. You're smirking, knowing that that bastard could never comprehend the lesson, knowing that he has learned it and accepted it. Knowing that the eyes on his back are working.
You're quickly moving, down stairs and halls, until you're outside his door, waiting.
You hear the visitor murmur the five letters carved in his back, the same hurt and disgusted tone to the whisper, and kick down the door immediately.
You had to hear them. You had to hear it.
SYLAR.