{ let's go crazy like the good old days }
This will probably open up a whole world of 5YG-based Nathan-Mohinder-Sylar character/relationship analysis stories that I really don't have time to do, but here it is anyway.
Also. 5YG-Nathan/Mohinder ~ Solidus Snake/Revolver Ocelot in my head. BECAUSE I'M ON CRACK, :DDD wanana, presidential homodrama.
Title: Secrets
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nathan/Mohinder; implied Nathan/Peter, if you squint real hard
Summary: It was never spoken of. Not aloud, or thought of at any capacity that could draw attention to them. To this.
A/N: Requested by/written for rhea_carlysse for the kink!meme. Takes place in the same timeline as "Five Years Gone."
The walls kept secrets.
They whispered in the fluid swing of heavy wooden doors and sighed in the threads of the lavishly upholstery furnishings. Shuddering, tense in slow clicking footfalls down the winding corridors outside, speaking in hushed tones the furtive thoughts of the forty-four dead men who had led this country before him. It was in that way that Mohinder kept secrets, too. Dutiful, quiet; his loyalties heard in tacit ways.
It was never spoken of. Not aloud, or thought of at any capacity that could draw attention to them. To this. Precisely what it was remained unknown, a variable, and behind closed doors it seemed appropriate somehow.
From the doorway or across the desk he would watch and he would wait, and play his part with a demure restraint shining behind thin gold frames. And when no one else was watching he saw the look, the stare; nameless, wordless trust written in the heat of hazel eyes that shifted from gold-green to black when sunlight hit them just so. That stare, and the implicit nod that followed, and he knew, simply understood what this was and what function he served in this. His part in the machine.
So he kept his words - and his secrets - to himself.
There were no words for this anyway. No description for the tight, thin sound that he finds himself making every time firm fingers coil into his hair, after the office doors close and the secretaries and aides have been sent home for the day. The kiss is a formality, more of a respectful gesture than an act of intimacy and intent but still it claims, full and slow and forceful. Teeth nip, tongue-tip tasting, urging, and he feels owned in the way that Nathan owns everything else.
It comes easily enough to him, in the affect of his presence alone, as though he could claim you with just a word or a look if he wanted to. And if Mohinder said he didn’t feel a little swayed by it sometimes, he would’ve been lying.
“I know I can trust you,” he says in distraction. Fingers in Mohinder’s hair and at the base of his throat, eyes dark when they look towards him, through him. Never at him. Lashes lower, a distant sort of contemplation and Mohinder knows he’s being spoken at rather than to, but either way it means just the same. Mohinder only nods, swallows.
He will be there when he needs him. That’s what counts.
Clothes fall away in degrees like the pretenses attached to them. Ties slackened, discarded; shirts untucked and picked open button-by-button, trousers unzipped, slid down, forgotten. Glasses tossed aside. It’s an easy sort of acceptance that brings him to his knees; firm fingers card through his hair with something less than fondness but more than familiarity. His nose pressed to the dark thatch of hair at the base of Nathan’s cock as Mohinder swallowed down around it, throbbing between his lips with each tight slide of skin over straining shaft.
His tongue traces the bisecting vein from root to tip and Nathan groans expectedly, fingers tightening into fists in the dark crown of Mohinder’s hair. When Nathan tells him to stop he does, like he always does, because he expects this now too. He lies across the desk without a word as Nathan coils his hand around his neglected cock and fucks him into polished oak.
Nathan doesn’t look at him when they fuck like this. Doesn’t say his name or pretend to flatter him with caring words and soothing gestures. Who he’s really fucking Mohinder doesn’t know for sure, but he knows it isn’t really him. Not his cock leaking in Nathan’s fist, or his hips bucking back impulsively beneath the hold of bruising fingers. It isn’t Mohinder’s mouth on his throat or his hands tugging his hair or scratching down his spine.
In weaker moments he thinks he wants to know, or is somehow entitled to, but when Nathan closes his eyes and comes hard inside him, Mohinder understands the details don’t count for much anymore.
They will dress again in silence. Nathan will return to his beautiful and distinguished wife, Mohinder to the office to file his reports for the morning briefings. They will not speak of this when they meet again tomorrow, that he is Nathan’s confidant as well as his whore. But as he comes over Nathan’s knuckles with a straining groan, Mohinder knows he will keep more than just his secrets.
Oh, ho!Mohinder. You are made of fail. Go to your room and fondle Peter til I feel better about it.
Also. 5YG-Nathan/Mohinder ~ Solidus Snake/Revolver Ocelot in my head. BECAUSE I'M ON CRACK, :DDD wanana, presidential homodrama.
Title: Secrets
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nathan/Mohinder; implied Nathan/Peter, if you squint real hard
Summary: It was never spoken of. Not aloud, or thought of at any capacity that could draw attention to them. To this.
A/N: Requested by/written for rhea_carlysse for the kink!meme. Takes place in the same timeline as "Five Years Gone."
The walls kept secrets.
They whispered in the fluid swing of heavy wooden doors and sighed in the threads of the lavishly upholstery furnishings. Shuddering, tense in slow clicking footfalls down the winding corridors outside, speaking in hushed tones the furtive thoughts of the forty-four dead men who had led this country before him. It was in that way that Mohinder kept secrets, too. Dutiful, quiet; his loyalties heard in tacit ways.
It was never spoken of. Not aloud, or thought of at any capacity that could draw attention to them. To this. Precisely what it was remained unknown, a variable, and behind closed doors it seemed appropriate somehow.
From the doorway or across the desk he would watch and he would wait, and play his part with a demure restraint shining behind thin gold frames. And when no one else was watching he saw the look, the stare; nameless, wordless trust written in the heat of hazel eyes that shifted from gold-green to black when sunlight hit them just so. That stare, and the implicit nod that followed, and he knew, simply understood what this was and what function he served in this. His part in the machine.
So he kept his words - and his secrets - to himself.
There were no words for this anyway. No description for the tight, thin sound that he finds himself making every time firm fingers coil into his hair, after the office doors close and the secretaries and aides have been sent home for the day. The kiss is a formality, more of a respectful gesture than an act of intimacy and intent but still it claims, full and slow and forceful. Teeth nip, tongue-tip tasting, urging, and he feels owned in the way that Nathan owns everything else.
It comes easily enough to him, in the affect of his presence alone, as though he could claim you with just a word or a look if he wanted to. And if Mohinder said he didn’t feel a little swayed by it sometimes, he would’ve been lying.
“I know I can trust you,” he says in distraction. Fingers in Mohinder’s hair and at the base of his throat, eyes dark when they look towards him, through him. Never at him. Lashes lower, a distant sort of contemplation and Mohinder knows he’s being spoken at rather than to, but either way it means just the same. Mohinder only nods, swallows.
He will be there when he needs him. That’s what counts.
Clothes fall away in degrees like the pretenses attached to them. Ties slackened, discarded; shirts untucked and picked open button-by-button, trousers unzipped, slid down, forgotten. Glasses tossed aside. It’s an easy sort of acceptance that brings him to his knees; firm fingers card through his hair with something less than fondness but more than familiarity. His nose pressed to the dark thatch of hair at the base of Nathan’s cock as Mohinder swallowed down around it, throbbing between his lips with each tight slide of skin over straining shaft.
His tongue traces the bisecting vein from root to tip and Nathan groans expectedly, fingers tightening into fists in the dark crown of Mohinder’s hair. When Nathan tells him to stop he does, like he always does, because he expects this now too. He lies across the desk without a word as Nathan coils his hand around his neglected cock and fucks him into polished oak.
Nathan doesn’t look at him when they fuck like this. Doesn’t say his name or pretend to flatter him with caring words and soothing gestures. Who he’s really fucking Mohinder doesn’t know for sure, but he knows it isn’t really him. Not his cock leaking in Nathan’s fist, or his hips bucking back impulsively beneath the hold of bruising fingers. It isn’t Mohinder’s mouth on his throat or his hands tugging his hair or scratching down his spine.
In weaker moments he thinks he wants to know, or is somehow entitled to, but when Nathan closes his eyes and comes hard inside him, Mohinder understands the details don’t count for much anymore.
They will dress again in silence. Nathan will return to his beautiful and distinguished wife, Mohinder to the office to file his reports for the morning briefings. They will not speak of this when they meet again tomorrow, that he is Nathan’s confidant as well as his whore. But as he comes over Nathan’s knuckles with a straining groan, Mohinder knows he will keep more than just his secrets.
Oh, ho!Mohinder. You are made of fail. Go to your room and fondle Peter til I feel better about it.