Fic: Starless Heaven (Heroes)
When Mohinder comes home, he finds Sylar up on a chair, changing a light bulb from the overhead lamp, his other arm stretched out for balance.
“What are you doing?” asks Mohinder, with a laugh.
“It was burned out,” says Sylar, by way of explanation.
“I know that,” returns Mohinder. “Why aren’t you just using telekinesis?”
Sylar glances up at his hand, then down at Mohinder. “I guess I felt like doing it myself,” he says.
“You look like you’re doing a disco move,” Mohinder grins. “Let me help you down.”
Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, and drops down, lightly, from the chair. “Welcome home,” he says, softly, and he kisses Mohinder, long and sweet.
Mohinder releases an indrawn breath. “That was nice,” he murmurs, “and something smells wonderful.”
“It’s takeout,” Sylar tells him. “Thai, from that little corner restaurant. I know how you like it spicy.”
The smile blooms fresh on Mohinder’s face. “What is this, a special occasion?”
Sylar shrugs. “You ready for dinner, or do you want to wait?”
Mohinder nods. “Let’s have it now.” He presses a kiss to Sylar’s mouth. “Then we’ll have all night.”
Sylar smiles, almost shy.
“What dishes did you get?” asks Mohinder, getting plates from the cabinet in the kitchen.
“Pad Thai, egg noodles and a curry,” calls Sylar, from the other room.
“What kind of curry?” asks Mohinder, setting the plates on the table.
The corner of Sylar’s mouth twists. “Yellow,” he says.
“You,” says Mohinder, moving up behind Sylar, “are amazing.” He kisses Sylar on the neck, moving his hands around Sylar’s waist.
For a moment, Sylar closes his eyes. The warmth of Mohinder’s body - but, not now. Later.
He pulls away, and gestures to the seat across the table. “Dinner is ready.”
- - - -
“You taste like Pad Thai,” says Mohinder, landing on top of Sylar on the bed.
“You taste like yellow curry,” counters Sylar. “I don’t understand how you can eat food that spicy.”
Mohinder licks a trail up the side of Sylar’s neck, laughing low and sultry. “It’s culture,” says Mohinder, biting delicately below Sylar’s jaw. “You have none.”
“Spicy food is not cultured,” says Sylar. “It’s barbaric,” but his voice is a little airy, his breath not completely even.
Mohinder notices, and takes ruthless advantage, kissing him until Sylar can’t breathe at all, only gasp, groan into Mohinder’s mouth. He breaks away when it starts to get too much, when Mohinder’s hands move to the bottom of his shirt.
“Wait,” says Sylar.
Mohinder backs off.
“Turn over,” says Sylar. “On your stomach. Naked.”
Mohinder raises an eyebrow.
“C’mon,” Sylar urges, and Mohinder does, slipping his shirt over his head.
“Need me to do anything else?” Mohinder asks, with an edge of irony, and Sylar moves over him, his thighs straddling Mohinder’s hips.
In response, Sylar trails fingers across Mohinder’s back, feeling, pressing here and there. The tough spots aren’t hard to find - Mohinder’s posture can be bad, sometimes, and there are knots of discomfort just here, and here…
Sylar sees the goosebumps spread across Mohinder’s skin, and he chases them, stroking all over until Mohinder exhales, relaxes into the mattress.
Then Sylar concentrates, and he presses on a knot, massaging, pushing a little too hard, then backing off. Pressure in deep, sweeping touches, with Sylar’s fingers on Mohinder’s skin, and Sylar’s mind, Sylar’s telekinesis inside him, easing the muscles from there.
Mohinder loves this, Sylar knows. The double-massage is far beyond what most people on the planet can hope to manage, and he does it for Mohinder, only for Mohinder.
“Oh god,” Mohinder moans, but it’s not like sex, where Mohinder pushes up against him, fighting for every instant of intimacy. Here he relaxes, trust in every line of his body. The need is still there, smoldering under Mohinder’s skin, but it’s on hold, quiet beneath the siren call of skin on skin.
Sylar’s hands move down, to Mohinder’s cleft, tracing just over his hole, then outwards to his thighs, his ass. He can hear Mohinder getting harder, the erection starting to grow uncomfortable, and he retreats, lets Mohinder shift position.
And now, finally - Sylar presses Mohinder on, with fingers and tongue and mind, until Mohinder trembles with need under him, until his thighs spread and his breath hitches and Sylar knows that if he pushed it, if he wanted, he could make Mohinder beg.
Mohinder shudders under him, in climax, and Sylar holds him close, until the aftershocks die down.
“What about you?” asks Mohinder, turning, as soon as he’s recovered.
Sylar clasps a hand around his own erection and fists it, moving into Mohinder’s lap. “Do you want me?” he asks, softly.
“Of course,” says Mohinder, immediately. “I want you all the time.”
It’s enough - the orgasm is bright and quick, and then it’s Mohinder’s turn to hold him close, close enough to forget everything that’s come before.
“What was all this?” asks Mohinder, after a long silence. “Tonight, dinner, everything.”
“I just wanted to make you happy,” Sylar says, so softly, into Mohinder’s neck.
Mohinder moves back so that he can see Sylar’s eyes, so that there are no secrets. “You do make me happy,” he tells Sylar, intent, honest, raw, and for the first time, Sylar doesn’t see any of the old pain, any echo of the hatred Mohinder used to hold for him.
Mohinder cups Sylar’s cheek, in one hand. “I am so in love with you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Sylar smiles.
“What are you doing?” asks Mohinder, with a laugh.
“It was burned out,” says Sylar, by way of explanation.
“I know that,” returns Mohinder. “Why aren’t you just using telekinesis?”
Sylar glances up at his hand, then down at Mohinder. “I guess I felt like doing it myself,” he says.
“You look like you’re doing a disco move,” Mohinder grins. “Let me help you down.”
Sylar takes Mohinder’s hand, and drops down, lightly, from the chair. “Welcome home,” he says, softly, and he kisses Mohinder, long and sweet.
Mohinder releases an indrawn breath. “That was nice,” he murmurs, “and something smells wonderful.”
“It’s takeout,” Sylar tells him. “Thai, from that little corner restaurant. I know how you like it spicy.”
The smile blooms fresh on Mohinder’s face. “What is this, a special occasion?”
Sylar shrugs. “You ready for dinner, or do you want to wait?”
Mohinder nods. “Let’s have it now.” He presses a kiss to Sylar’s mouth. “Then we’ll have all night.”
Sylar smiles, almost shy.
“What dishes did you get?” asks Mohinder, getting plates from the cabinet in the kitchen.
“Pad Thai, egg noodles and a curry,” calls Sylar, from the other room.
“What kind of curry?” asks Mohinder, setting the plates on the table.
The corner of Sylar’s mouth twists. “Yellow,” he says.
“You,” says Mohinder, moving up behind Sylar, “are amazing.” He kisses Sylar on the neck, moving his hands around Sylar’s waist.
For a moment, Sylar closes his eyes. The warmth of Mohinder’s body - but, not now. Later.
He pulls away, and gestures to the seat across the table. “Dinner is ready.”
- - - -
“You taste like Pad Thai,” says Mohinder, landing on top of Sylar on the bed.
“You taste like yellow curry,” counters Sylar. “I don’t understand how you can eat food that spicy.”
Mohinder licks a trail up the side of Sylar’s neck, laughing low and sultry. “It’s culture,” says Mohinder, biting delicately below Sylar’s jaw. “You have none.”
“Spicy food is not cultured,” says Sylar. “It’s barbaric,” but his voice is a little airy, his breath not completely even.
Mohinder notices, and takes ruthless advantage, kissing him until Sylar can’t breathe at all, only gasp, groan into Mohinder’s mouth. He breaks away when it starts to get too much, when Mohinder’s hands move to the bottom of his shirt.
“Wait,” says Sylar.
Mohinder backs off.
“Turn over,” says Sylar. “On your stomach. Naked.”
Mohinder raises an eyebrow.
“C’mon,” Sylar urges, and Mohinder does, slipping his shirt over his head.
“Need me to do anything else?” Mohinder asks, with an edge of irony, and Sylar moves over him, his thighs straddling Mohinder’s hips.
In response, Sylar trails fingers across Mohinder’s back, feeling, pressing here and there. The tough spots aren’t hard to find - Mohinder’s posture can be bad, sometimes, and there are knots of discomfort just here, and here…
Sylar sees the goosebumps spread across Mohinder’s skin, and he chases them, stroking all over until Mohinder exhales, relaxes into the mattress.
Then Sylar concentrates, and he presses on a knot, massaging, pushing a little too hard, then backing off. Pressure in deep, sweeping touches, with Sylar’s fingers on Mohinder’s skin, and Sylar’s mind, Sylar’s telekinesis inside him, easing the muscles from there.
Mohinder loves this, Sylar knows. The double-massage is far beyond what most people on the planet can hope to manage, and he does it for Mohinder, only for Mohinder.
“Oh god,” Mohinder moans, but it’s not like sex, where Mohinder pushes up against him, fighting for every instant of intimacy. Here he relaxes, trust in every line of his body. The need is still there, smoldering under Mohinder’s skin, but it’s on hold, quiet beneath the siren call of skin on skin.
Sylar’s hands move down, to Mohinder’s cleft, tracing just over his hole, then outwards to his thighs, his ass. He can hear Mohinder getting harder, the erection starting to grow uncomfortable, and he retreats, lets Mohinder shift position.
And now, finally - Sylar presses Mohinder on, with fingers and tongue and mind, until Mohinder trembles with need under him, until his thighs spread and his breath hitches and Sylar knows that if he pushed it, if he wanted, he could make Mohinder beg.
Mohinder shudders under him, in climax, and Sylar holds him close, until the aftershocks die down.
“What about you?” asks Mohinder, turning, as soon as he’s recovered.
Sylar clasps a hand around his own erection and fists it, moving into Mohinder’s lap. “Do you want me?” he asks, softly.
“Of course,” says Mohinder, immediately. “I want you all the time.”
It’s enough - the orgasm is bright and quick, and then it’s Mohinder’s turn to hold him close, close enough to forget everything that’s come before.
“What was all this?” asks Mohinder, after a long silence. “Tonight, dinner, everything.”
“I just wanted to make you happy,” Sylar says, so softly, into Mohinder’s neck.
Mohinder moves back so that he can see Sylar’s eyes, so that there are no secrets. “You do make me happy,” he tells Sylar, intent, honest, raw, and for the first time, Sylar doesn’t see any of the old pain, any echo of the hatred Mohinder used to hold for him.
Mohinder cups Sylar’s cheek, in one hand. “I am so in love with you,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Sylar smiles.