Its not simply about filling a craving or calming a hunger whenever Sylar descends upon Mohinder. Its about gaining the doctor's zealous life force; taking him in with every cultured drip of blood to own and mark him. Mohinder fought back at first, but Sylar could see through the feeble attempts at struggle.
It was uncharacteristic of the doctor to fight so meekly, and Sylar knew he only did because he thought he should; felt like he shouldn't take pleasure in the sensations. So he allowed Mohinder that. He tolerated the struggle before each sharp, sinking, gasping, gushing bite.
And he didn't mock the doctor for it, nor did he smile at the struggle. Instead he soothed the other man; lulling him with a dull 'Shhhh' and kissing previous bite marks lightly, licking away the scars. Soon Mohinder stopped fighting; accepting the pleasure gained and worshipping the nibbles that left symbols of affection on is body.
The marks – they signified so much more than just a meal had. They represented Mohinder's submission, his willingness to let Sylar feed off of him even though he knew it was wrong. That submission went back farther than either man was willing to speak of, to a time when Mohinder defied everyone he loved, turning his back to help the murderer they loathed. For that devotion, Sylar had vowed to forever keep the doctor safe.
He had to be careful to protect Mohinder, even from himself. In that whirlwind high of tangy, sweet blood rushing down his throat, it was all too easy to lose his control in the gratification. So he had to keep a perfect balance – his hearing in tune with Mohinder's slowing heart beat. It was vital to pull away and unplug from the life-giving socket just before he took too much.
If he ever did indulge in Mohinder to the point of no repair, he would have the heart-breaking task of turning the doctor – something he swore he would never do. But he'd rather see Mohinder in this life of hunger-driven rage than live without him in the memory of taking his last breath.
It came like clockwork; that soft knock on his door. Behind it waited a reserved smile and glistening life-filled eyes that scanned his pale skin. Purely the sight of it all made Sylar feel warm inside, something his arctic body rarely experienced.
They didn't need to exchange pleasantries – they were far past that. Donating his body to keep Sylar alive gave him the right to come and go as he pleased with nothing more than a smile. Sylar accepted that, returning the silent greeting by stroking away loose hanging curls.
Mohinder always elated over the touch. Sylar assumed he made the doctor feel safe and wanted. He was happy to oblige, running ice-cold fingers over all available skin. He was persistently amazed at how little contact it took to make Mohinder's heart slow…or speed up, if that was the desire.
When Sylar reached for the Indian's warm hand, a brown bottle-shaped bag filled the palm and blocked the entrance.
"Drinking, Mohinder?" He inaudibly sniffed the air for traces of alcoholic scent, but found none.
His memory wandered to a stolen night when Mohinder had stumbled from a bar, distraught and driven to a world of Vodka at the dismay he felt over his undead lover. Sylar was there to catch him before he hit the pavement, always watching and following to keep the doctor safe.
That night was a dizzying one; drinking from the inebriated Mohinder had been like drinking a Bloody Mary. The life-giving red liquid was laced with alcoholic sorrow, intoxicating Sylar with each gulp. Ironically the mixture had made him feel ill, and when Mohinder had passed out in his arms from blood loss and alcohol, Sylar rushed to the other end of the alley to empty the pink contents of his stomach. He had been disgusted; not realizing such an amazing feeling could turn so sour.
It was a lesson learned that now haunted him as he frowned at the possibility of Mohinder having shown up with alcohol in his system. He was more than delighted when the contents of the brown bag were revealed to be a bottle of fresh blood. Mohinder rarely stole samples from his work at a genetics lab to bring to Sylar. He understood the offering as telling him he was in need of Sylar's contact, but too anemic to be a meal.
Sylar accepted the gift, laying an ice cold kiss to Mohinder's tepid mouth and taking the bottle.
"I'm too lightheaded right now," Mohinder affirmed.
It was alright, he could wait for what his tongue craved.
Sylar pulled him into a fire and ice embrace, yearning over the feeling of burning hot stubble on his freezing neck. He felt Mohinder's body relax into a barely-audible sigh.
"Don't worry." His breath was chilly in Mohinder's ear, sending a shiver through his core. The doctor shifted into the downward push of Sylar's doting nuzzle, basking in its comforting pressure. He was so full of want and need that it made Sylar's stomach twist. This man – beautiful and intelligent beyond compare – should not have to ache in such a way.
Sylar knew nothing else to do besides take the doctor to a comfortable bed and hold him tightly. He leaned against the headboard and brought Mohinder up to his chest. Like a puzzle piece, Sylar's chin fit seamlessly into a bed of brown curls. Relaxed, he drifted off to the sound of steady breathing and a calm heartbeat. Mohinder, lulled by the rumbles of hunger vibrating through the other man's stomach, fell fast asleep.
In the passing doze, Sylar dreamed. The reverie was terrifying. He envisioned Mohinder threatening to leave him for good; alone and to fend for himself. Despite the way he screamed in objection, Sylar's dream self attacked Mohinder, preventing him from parting. He involuntarily struck the doctor, sending him to the floor in a crash. The blood pooling in Mohinder's mouth, too hard to resist, was sucked out hastily as strong hands pinned flailing wrists to the ground. Sylar stirred in his sleep. His dream self snarled at the outpouring of hateful words coming off a formerly charming tongue. They cut deeper than the fingernails clawing at his pinning hands.
To counteract the verbal attack, Sylar breathed sharply before biting the Indian on the neck. Mohinder gasped, his movement seizing, as lips suctioned harder to the wound, gulping the crimson pleasure in mouthfuls. Like a ravenous monster, he burrowed his lips deeper into the skin, getting one final twitch from the Indian before ripping away. Blood trickling from an agape mouth, his stomach sank at the realization of what he'd done. Mohinder was disheveled, worn out, and near death.
"You're killing me." It was a faint, raspy whisper, pushed out using the last bit of oxygen left. Beautiful brown eyes fluttered shut and a head of curls rolled to the side. Mohinder faded into the floor, the room around him swirling together in a confusing haze.
Sylar blinked his eyes open.
He calmed at the feeling of Mohinder's weight on his chest. To wake him gently, Sylar stroked the Indian's stubbled cheek with the back of his cold hand until he stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and burrowed his face back into a comfortable chest.
"Mohinder."
The doctor grunted at the sound of his name.
"Mohinder, wake up." He caressed the cheek again, more pressure this time, before moving up to run his hand through the unruly curls tickling his chin. The doctor roused.
The weight on his front was lifted as Mohinder sat up, rubbing his eyes, and turned to face Sylar.
"What's wrong?" He yawned sleepily; rubbing his sore neck with one hand and placing the other on Sylar's chest were his head had been, feeling the lingering warmth.
"If I…" He paused, thinking of how to word the question. "Mohinder, if I were to ask you to do something for me, would you?"
Mohinder squinted, trying to focus on the vampire's face in the looming shadows of night.
"You know I would."
"If I asked you to kill me-"
"No!" Mohinder startled him by cutting off the question, yelling his disapproval. Sylar could hear Mohinder's breath begin to shake. "I would never. I could never."
"What if one day I can't stop? I'll hurt you." Sylar's fears rang true; the nightmare had been haunting him for quite some time.
"No you won't." Mohinder's tone was stern as he gripped a handful of the other man's shirt.
Sylar sighed; his breath streaming frigid air across the Indian's arm.
Mohinder shifted forwards, catching a stream of streetlight coming through the window. It illuminated his face, displaying distraught features.
"You won't," he reiterated.
Sylar didn't believe him. He felt the hunger clawing inside, screaming too loudly to be ignored.
He kissed Mohinder, softly at first, and then bit at plump lips to taste the magnificent iron pumping inside. A moan was his reward; he drank that too, swallowing everything the doctor would give him.
And then it hit him forcefully; he was taking too much from his companion and not giving enough back. He was being greedy and that is not the way such a man should be treated.
"What do you want? Tell me and I'll give it to you." Sylar's murmur took Mohinder off guard, causing him to retreat from the blood-soaked kiss. Now in the same stream of light he could view those dark eyes, blackened by the virus that had turned him and sparkling like a diamond from the taste he just had.
"Anything." And he meant it. Whatever Mohinder wanted, what he desired most, Sylar decided then and there he would travel to the ends of the earth to get it.
The silence was almost unbearable. Mohinder's eyes dropped, pensive, scanning the diffused space between them in contemplation.
After moments of thought, his response was a gentle hand tangling itself in Sylar's hair, pulling him forward by the back of the neck. Sylar was confused at the motion, letting the clutch guide his head until his lips met Mohinder's neck. He kissed it at first, not knowing what the doctor wanted.
"I need you to need me." Mohinder's statement was powerful. It sent a jolt through Sylar's cold veins at the realization that all Mohinder wanted was him – all he needed was for Sylar to feed off of him in order to survive. That made him feel special, and Sylar knew all too well what it was like to fulfill such a desire.
He could feel the skin under his lips twitching in a racing pulse; he could practically smell Mohinder's lust with his heightened senses.
Sylar moved to lay the doctor backwards, climbing on top of him and grinding downwards to elicit pleasure, never breaking contact from his cold lips on the warm neck.
So experienced, Sylar slid their clothing off, removing shirts and shifting bodies to aid the disrobing process. Buttons undid themselves under telekinetic guidance while a free hand worked belt buckles and slid restricting pants down both sets of hips.
Mohinder moaned into the contact; the sensation of Sylar's icy grip on his erection was overwhelming, and he bucked his head backwards wildly into the pillow. A cultured groan of his name was all Sylar needed to hear before easing cold fingers into Mohinder. He stretched the muscles just enough – knowing when to stop to keep from hurting the doctor and retain the tightness that would give him pleasure.
Mohinder writhed underneath all three sensations; the lips on his neck, the hand on his erection and the invading fingers. He was closer to the edge than he had ever felt. He throbbed, ached, and wanted anything and everything that Sylar would give him. But it was thwarted instantly as Sylar stopped all motion and moved backwards. Mohinder didn't protest or whine; he knew what was coming.
Slicking his erection with saliva that had been the result of drooling anticipation, Sylar lined himself up. He paused over the doctor to take in his wanton form. They stared, lost in each other's sparkling, hungry eyes; dull streetlight bouncing off of sharp features to create soft shadows. Sylar wasn't sure what he was waiting for. An objection? An act of encouragement? He received the latter when Mohinder tightened his grip around Sylar's biceps, seemingly pleading for the contact to commence. The man above him tightened his lips as he leaned slowly into the body below; Mohinder throwing his head back at the invasion and baring his neck.
Sylar ran his tongue over sharp fangs, wanting that salty/sweet taste of golden flesh, feeling the doctor's back arch as he eased in. A single curl shifted, moving to block Mohinder's vision, but was promptly blown back into place by a gentle wind from Sylar's lips. The air sent chills through Mohinder, visibly shaking through him and quivering around the half-enveloped erection. Sylar bit down on his lip at the vibration on his aching skin, sending ruby droplets plummeting to Mohinder's collarbone. Reflexively, the vampire swooped down to lick away the spilled blood, driving himself deeper into the doctor as he went.
He was owning Mohinder inside and out; feeling him in every way possible with each fevered embrace. He hadn't bitten yet, and the Indian wondered why. The thoughts quickly left his mind as he felt Sylar pushing further, almost too deep, moving and easing past the pain. He relaxed around the intrusion and the initial sting faded. Warm hands were on Sylar's shoulders then, drawing him closer to feel his body.
This wasn't fucking; this was making love - to a vampire no less - and it was an essential part of his life. It was one of the few times he could relinquish himself entirely and still feel safe. And so Mohinder took in every kiss, every plunging grind, every brush of stubble, every touch of frozen skin – as if it were his last.
Sylar felt Mohinder begin to rock down into him as he picked up tempo. Now, the pace was comfortable; mild, vigilant, and starting to feel quite gratifying. He eased in and out, in and out, kissing the doctor like he was the most delicate and beautiful thing he'd ever possessed.
Mohinder's pounding heart grew deafening to Sylar's heightened hearing; thumping like a bass drum. Sylar quickened to its beat. The rhythm wasn't too fast or too vigorous; he couldn't bring himself to push that hard and spoil the moment.
The doctor reacted to the new cadence, trailing his fingers down Sylar's back and digging them into his hips to push them backwards and forwards in measure. Mohinder's deep moan alerted Sylar that he was close to his peak. To taste that pumping/burning/rushing blood right now would climax both men. It was imperative that they finish together, always, and so Sylar moved his mouth from Mohinder's throbbing lips and breathed over old scars on a delicious neck.
With a more forceful thrust into the doctor, he bit – soft at first to break the skin and not startle Mohinder. The initial pain shock waved through the Indian causing him to tighten around Sylar's raiding erection, eliciting a grunt from that thirsty throat.
Sylar couldn't pause his grinding – it was far too pleasurable to be inside the writhing man. He sunk his fangs deeper and gushing crimson flowed freely past a swirling tongue. Mohinder groaned, rolling his head away to give the vampire more room to work. Sylar took the offer, burrowing his face deeper into that blood-smeared neck and sucking with a subdued snarl.
The hunger filled him now – his eyes bright red with fire as he guzzled the doctor and felt the liquid life working to heat his dead body.
Mohinder squirmed into the sensation of Sylar's burning skin, alive again, and the flesh throbbed where hungry teeth penetrated. He could feel the blood rushing to leave his body, aching and pulsing into Sylar's lips as a strong suction guided it from the wound. He felt light-headed and his limbs tingled; eyes fluttering closed at the combined shock of it all. The sticky, wet substance pooling at his back and soaking the sheets eased the friction between his back and the bed.
It ran through him like a tremor – his orgasm screamed out, burning hot, and clenching muscles that latched onto anything available. He clutched roughly at Sylar's hair, unintentionally pushing the fangs deeper into his skin and instigating a harsher pain than before.
"Oh, God!" It was a cry that shook through Sylar's head, pushing out all sounds of thumping blood and causing the vampire to climax. The room spun in a haze of sparkling, dancing light at the sexual and primal high electrifying his body back to life.
"Mmmm," he growled, satisfyingly deep into the scarlet - tarnished neck, thrusting one final time and rocking the bed backwards in sheer animalistic force.
He gasped, wrenching away from the bite with a sickening slurp, blood streaming from rejuvenated lips. It took several minutes for the aching orgasm to end, clearing his mind back to a dull heartbeat. Mohinder lay placid, staring up into the bloody face with heavy eyelids. Worried about the pale complexion crossing that usually golden-brown glow, Sylar pulled out and moved away, wiping the dark liquid from his dripping chin and mouth.
He padded briskly to the bathroom, grabbing a shock white towel, and returned to apply pressure to Mohinder's neck. The doctor stirred at the touch, deafened by a buzzing noise and weighed down by a spinning sensation. He felt a warm hand on his cheek that tilted his head gently to meet eyes above him. They were concerned, scanning him from beneath a furrowed brow, and in his state of dream-like bliss he reached upwards to the figure to stroke its maroon-stained lips.
His finger tips were kissed lightly before being enveloped by a larger hand. Sylar sat on the bed next to him.
"Why did you let me do that to you?" He asked, confused, lifting the towel to make sure the wound was clotting. Mohinder blinked lethargically as it registered who was talking to him.
"You were hungry, weren't you?" he asked, voice almost a whisper.
Sylar nodded.
"So was I." Mohinder smiled, eyes closing in a failed battle to war off sleep.
A fang showed, glinting in insipid light as Sylar grinned. He'd never thought of it that way. They had the ability to feed one another; to keep each other alive.
He knelt beside the bed, fondling brown curls and making sure to stay in tune with that valuable heart beat. The first hint of morning showed through the window; a dim orange glow painting the walls of the room. He licked away the drying blood from Mohinder's neck, savoring the taste before retreating to the window to close the blinds.