I'm Going To Break You: Part 3 (Mylar slash fanfic)

[aunt_zelda]

Title: I’m Going to Break You: Part 3

Rating: Probably R

Genre: Angsty, nasty stuff

Warnings: Torture, sick ‘romance,’ Sylar at his worst 

Disclaimer: Uh … obviously I don’t own Heroes, because if I did, I’d have them making out on screen instead of in slash fics or my twisted mind …

Recap If You’re Lazy And Won’t Follow My Lovely Links: Sylar showed up at Mohinder’s apartment and, after some bickering and unwanted (or is it?) kissing, Sylar forced Mohinder into bed with him. It’s morning and Sylar’s repeating the scenes from ‘Parasite.’  

My Thoughts: Ok, so, I’m getting bored with this fic. So I’m posting parts 3 and 4 (the last ones) at the same time.

 

Sylar left him alone after that, hunching over Mohinder’s laptop across the room, hacking and scanning and taking it all in. Of course, the List wasn’t there: Mohinder had smashed it ages ago, promising never to continue it again. And, with Molly, what was the point of tracing bloodlines?

Hours passed. Mohinder wondered idly if he’d die of thirst, or if Sylar was merely reenacting the events after Mohinder had drugged the chai.

He realized it was the latter when Sylar abruptly got up, grabbed a gun from the hiding spot under the coffee table, and approached Mohinder.

“Now, by this time, you’d broken the code, I’d begged for salvation, which you could have provided rather easily, and shot me,” he fingered the gun in his hand.

Mohinder was almost beyond caring at this point. “So, do you want me to beg you for salvation? Should I fake cry too?”

A snarl escaped Sylar’s lips. “That wasn’t fake crying,” he spat, telekinetically ripping the duct tape off of Mohinder and hurling him into a wall. “You never could read people, could you Mohinder?” he shook his head.

Mohinder realized he had control of his limbs. Before Sylar could notice a change in his heartbeat or something, he bolted for the nearby window: he was only about three stories up, and there was an old newspaper stall just below the window that could break his fall somewhat.

But Sylar was too fast, too powerful, and Mohinder was flattened against the wall within five seconds of trying to escape.

“That was stupid of you,” Sylar sounded as though he were a teacher berating a bad student. “So stupid, in fact, that I'm contemplating actually shooting you.”

The gun flipped over, cocked, and pointed directly at Mohinder's forehead.

No, Mohinder desperately thought, no, I can't die! Molly ...

But not just Molly ... what about his mother? How would she react when she found out that yet another member of her family had died? Shanti, Chandra, and now Mohinder ...

“Begging is suggested,” Sylar interrupted Mohinder's thoughts. “That would make this so much more memorable,” he grabbed the gun out of the air and pressed it into Mohinder's forehead. “How does it feel, Mohinder?” he demanded, a terrifying light in his eyes that had nothing to do with Ted Sprauge's ability. “How does it feel to have someone else holding your life in their hands, someone who can just jerk their finger and end you forever?”

Mohinder's breath was getting shallow.

“You killed –” he began, but Sylar silenced him with telekinesis.

“If you're not begging, then I don't want to hear it,” the gun pressed even harder into Mohinder's forehead. “Yes, I've killed. They didn't deserve their abilities, Mohinder, they were wasting them with their pathetic ignorance, denial, fear,” he stepped closer to the Indian, keeping the gun pressed to his head. Now Sylar's voice was a poisonous whisper. “I'll do more good than they'd ever have been able to dream about, I'll save the world.”

“It's already been saved,” Mohinder retorted: the telekinesis had loosened slightly.

Sylar laughed. “As long as Peter Petrelli is alive, this fate of the entire world is in jeopardy. He needed his brother to fly him up into the stratosphere to blow up, because he couldn't possibly have, oh, I don't know, harnessed the power, or maybe flown himself up? He is an empath after all. No, Mohinder,” Sylar let the gun fall to his side and whispered softly in the other man's ear. “I can control my powers, Peter, that pitiful excuse for a hero, killed his own brother and still didn't learn to keep his powers in check. You'd think that the invisible man beating him up with a stick would have worked for a bit longer,”

“Invisible man?” Mohinder asked, confused.

Sylar laughed. “Oh, that's right, you haven't met Claude! Peter's old lover, British accent, tried to teach the empath control via beating him up a lot ...” Sylar looked meaningfully at Mohinder. “Ring any bells?”

Mohinder shook his head. “I haven't been on the best of terms with Peter since …”

Sylar laughed. “Since you refused to sleep with him,” his laugh became louder. Mohinder resisted the urge to flinch or cover his ears.

“That amuses you?” Mohinder asked.

Sylar trailed off into chuckles. “I didn’t think that Mr. Petrelli had such good taste,” he rubbed his cheek against Mohinder’s slightly, a travesty of affection. “But enough about Peter, I don’t want to think about him right now,” he locked eyes with Mohinder, who suddenly felt invisible hands around his throat. “Never speak his name again, ever. Do you understand?!”

Mohinder managed to nod some how, his hands uselessly groping around his throat.

“Good,” Sylar smiled eerily. The invisible hands were gone. Sylar leaned forward again, lips brushing Mohinder’s ear.  

“I’m going to break you,” he whispered, drawing pleasure from Mohinder’s ragged breath. “And when you’re good and broken, I’m going to fix you,”

“Fix me?” Mohinder gasped. “Does that mean you’ll kill me?”

“Perhaps,” Sylar shrugged. “It depends on how badly you’re broken.”