(no subject)
Some drabbles I wrote for the peter_mohinder drabblethon. Because I'm bored. Huzzuh.
Title: Tradition
Rating: G
Prompt: Mistletoe
“It’s a tradition.”
“You’re mad, you know that.”
A lopsided smirk. “I’ve heard as much, yeah.”
“I don’t see the point. It’s a parasitic plant...what’s it even supposed to symbolise?”
“I don’t know - stuff. Look, your people put flowers on cows, mine put up parasites in the house. Just humor me.”
“Okay, first of all, that is a gross misconception - ”
“Look, whatever. Just, shut up for two seconds.”
Mohinder sighed and closed his eyes at the feel of dry lips and the taste of red wine. When he opened them again Peter was practically beaming.
“Heh.” The flush of their faces must’ve been from the cold outside, or the wine. Definitely the wine.
Mohinder straightened, cleared his throat, and looked to see if anyone else from the Christmas party - namely Nathan, or Hiro, because he certainly couldn’t keep a secret - was looking. When they weren’t he cleared his throat again.
“Well. Are there any other traditions you have here that I should know about?”
Peter just beamed.
Title: Drifting
Rating: Pg13
Prompt: Memories of things that never happened
When Peter wakes it’s already morning.
The coffee grumbling in the kitchen down the hall and to the right smells something like heaven above the scent of warm skin and herbal shampoo, as he lifts his head from the pillows to stare at the walls of an apartment that is not his own. Pipes moan within the walls and water runs in the next room and Peter blinks, twice. Feels his hair touch the crown of his cheeks, when it’s still shorn to his scalp, and his skin seems to melt into the Egyptian cotton sheets from use and familiarity, and something else. Something that makes his fingertips itch with the memory of mouths and soft skin.
“S’not right.” He kicks back the blankets and travels to the edge of the bed in alarm, looking around the room, eyes darting to furniture and photographs he’s never seen. On the desk in the corner, the tabletop calendar reads January 7th, 2009. “This can’t be happening - ”
“Because it hasn’t. At least, not yet.”
When Peter wakes again it’s in the thin blue space between twilight and dawn. The empty static of the airplane cabin snaps him awake, looking around to find rows of blue upholstered seats and the sterile belly of the fuselage. It’s still March in 2007, on a plane between Odessa and New York City, and he’s going home to bury his brother.
In an hour the plane is going to touch down. Parkman said he had someone bringing files from his investigation to the airport with them to pick him up, and that they could give Peter a lift back to the city if he wanted. He didn’t ask who in Texas, didn’t feel it important enough to ask, but stepping off the curb in New York he will see Mohinder Suresh.
When Mohinder smiles, small and clumsy, it’s the first time Peter’s seen it, but for what it’s worth, it won’t be the last.
Title: Promises Kept
Rating: G
Prompt: Airspace
“I think this is where I say ‘I told you so.’”
The shatter of propulsion in the cracks of dying sunlight still rang in Mohinder’s ears as the gauzy white contrails dispersed overhead in thin blue ribbons against the pink-tinged sky. Before him Peter still hovered a foot above the ground, cheeks red from wind-chill, looking both fey and ethereal and relentlessly smug in spite of it, smirking crookedly as he was. Not at all as though he’d just circled Manhattan in fifteen seconds, rattling windows and setting off car-alarms in his wake.
“So?” Peter asked, touching down effortlessly. “What do you think?” He could be such a show-off when he wanted to be, but under the circumstances it seemed fair enough.
Swallowing down, Mohinder’s mouth clicked shut before opening.
“Do that again.”
And darting up into the sky on the heels of laughter, Peter flew for him, just like he always said he would.
Title: Comes back to me now
Rating: R
Prompt: Reunion
It doesn’t happen with a bang or a whimper, just a half-moan and a whisper over salted collarbone.
When Peter appears again it’s without a sound or apology, pretenses stripped. Discarded, slipping out of the shadows that cut his frame like shedding a second skin. Hello replaces I’m sorry, I saw you die instead of I thought I lost you and it’s only natural at the time. There’s little else between them to justify anything more.
Mohinder’s fingers splay warm and hard on Peter’s belly. Into the crook of his neck he whispers sweet things Peter doesn’t pretend to understand, and suddenly nothing else seems to matter beyond the sound and the taste of his skin like salt beneath his lips, as the outside world scratched beyond the locked apartment door. Need you and want you and now replace the words they don’t say, and for now that’s enough.
Title: Speak
Rating: Nc17
Prompt: Dirtytalk
Heat drips off the edges of aspirated consonants like honey, slipping down the back of Peter’s neck in breathy vowels to pool at the base of his spine. Every word is indefinite, echoed back in a language he doesn’t understand, punctuated by the fingers splayed across his chest and the sweat rolling down his ribs. Mohinder dips each sound into Peter’s mouth through kisses that are slow and open, every letter dropped onto the tip of his tongue in careful articulation that brings flush to his face and fever to his breath.
Where English failed, Tamil rose to fill the spaces between, words thinning into a language of their own on the heels of fluttering breath. Peter could cheat if he wanted to, pluck the meaning of the words from Mohinder’s mind but it didn’t seem as meaningful to his ears if he knew. The knowing wasn’t the important part.
Hands slip, more curious than mouths and tongues down shoulders to chest and stomach. Fingers slide between thighs already wet, opening easily to the notion, drawing a sigh from captured lips as Mohinder kisses his name there in his mother tongue. When Peter blinks sweat from his eyes, he only sees white spots, and shivers as though cold.
Between sheets and skin, beneath Mohinder Peter’s body is all softness and strength. On knees and elbows in sweat-warmed blankets, keen to each stroke, every revolution of their hips, drinking in promises written in liquid warmth. Mohinder kisses them into Peter’s mouth and jaw and shoulder and he shudders to the sound, biting his lip and pushing back on every hissed affirmation, filthy and sweet and indecipherable. They envelope, snare in inky tendrils like the hand between Peter’s thighs and the other stroking his throat, and paint their meaning in his skin where no one need see the name that claims him.
When they come, eyes closed, they collapse, hands and mouths and limbs entangled beneath the sheets. Against Peter’s hair Mohinder murmurs I love you in English, breath cool against his sweat-dotted brow. Pressing a kiss to a salted collarbone Peter knows he doesn’t need to understand it to know that it’s true. Sex was always better without the subtitles on.
Title: Tradition
Rating: G
Prompt: Mistletoe
“It’s a tradition.”
“You’re mad, you know that.”
A lopsided smirk. “I’ve heard as much, yeah.”
“I don’t see the point. It’s a parasitic plant...what’s it even supposed to symbolise?”
“I don’t know - stuff. Look, your people put flowers on cows, mine put up parasites in the house. Just humor me.”
“Okay, first of all, that is a gross misconception - ”
“Look, whatever. Just, shut up for two seconds.”
Mohinder sighed and closed his eyes at the feel of dry lips and the taste of red wine. When he opened them again Peter was practically beaming.
“Heh.” The flush of their faces must’ve been from the cold outside, or the wine. Definitely the wine.
Mohinder straightened, cleared his throat, and looked to see if anyone else from the Christmas party - namely Nathan, or Hiro, because he certainly couldn’t keep a secret - was looking. When they weren’t he cleared his throat again.
“Well. Are there any other traditions you have here that I should know about?”
Peter just beamed.
Title: Drifting
Rating: Pg13
Prompt: Memories of things that never happened
When Peter wakes it’s already morning.
The coffee grumbling in the kitchen down the hall and to the right smells something like heaven above the scent of warm skin and herbal shampoo, as he lifts his head from the pillows to stare at the walls of an apartment that is not his own. Pipes moan within the walls and water runs in the next room and Peter blinks, twice. Feels his hair touch the crown of his cheeks, when it’s still shorn to his scalp, and his skin seems to melt into the Egyptian cotton sheets from use and familiarity, and something else. Something that makes his fingertips itch with the memory of mouths and soft skin.
“S’not right.” He kicks back the blankets and travels to the edge of the bed in alarm, looking around the room, eyes darting to furniture and photographs he’s never seen. On the desk in the corner, the tabletop calendar reads January 7th, 2009. “This can’t be happening - ”
“Because it hasn’t. At least, not yet.”
When Peter wakes again it’s in the thin blue space between twilight and dawn. The empty static of the airplane cabin snaps him awake, looking around to find rows of blue upholstered seats and the sterile belly of the fuselage. It’s still March in 2007, on a plane between Odessa and New York City, and he’s going home to bury his brother.
In an hour the plane is going to touch down. Parkman said he had someone bringing files from his investigation to the airport with them to pick him up, and that they could give Peter a lift back to the city if he wanted. He didn’t ask who in Texas, didn’t feel it important enough to ask, but stepping off the curb in New York he will see Mohinder Suresh.
When Mohinder smiles, small and clumsy, it’s the first time Peter’s seen it, but for what it’s worth, it won’t be the last.
Title: Promises Kept
Rating: G
Prompt: Airspace
“I think this is where I say ‘I told you so.’”
The shatter of propulsion in the cracks of dying sunlight still rang in Mohinder’s ears as the gauzy white contrails dispersed overhead in thin blue ribbons against the pink-tinged sky. Before him Peter still hovered a foot above the ground, cheeks red from wind-chill, looking both fey and ethereal and relentlessly smug in spite of it, smirking crookedly as he was. Not at all as though he’d just circled Manhattan in fifteen seconds, rattling windows and setting off car-alarms in his wake.
“So?” Peter asked, touching down effortlessly. “What do you think?” He could be such a show-off when he wanted to be, but under the circumstances it seemed fair enough.
Swallowing down, Mohinder’s mouth clicked shut before opening.
“Do that again.”
And darting up into the sky on the heels of laughter, Peter flew for him, just like he always said he would.
Title: Comes back to me now
Rating: R
Prompt: Reunion
It doesn’t happen with a bang or a whimper, just a half-moan and a whisper over salted collarbone.
When Peter appears again it’s without a sound or apology, pretenses stripped. Discarded, slipping out of the shadows that cut his frame like shedding a second skin. Hello replaces I’m sorry, I saw you die instead of I thought I lost you and it’s only natural at the time. There’s little else between them to justify anything more.
Mohinder’s fingers splay warm and hard on Peter’s belly. Into the crook of his neck he whispers sweet things Peter doesn’t pretend to understand, and suddenly nothing else seems to matter beyond the sound and the taste of his skin like salt beneath his lips, as the outside world scratched beyond the locked apartment door. Need you and want you and now replace the words they don’t say, and for now that’s enough.
Title: Speak
Rating: Nc17
Prompt: Dirtytalk
Heat drips off the edges of aspirated consonants like honey, slipping down the back of Peter’s neck in breathy vowels to pool at the base of his spine. Every word is indefinite, echoed back in a language he doesn’t understand, punctuated by the fingers splayed across his chest and the sweat rolling down his ribs. Mohinder dips each sound into Peter’s mouth through kisses that are slow and open, every letter dropped onto the tip of his tongue in careful articulation that brings flush to his face and fever to his breath.
Where English failed, Tamil rose to fill the spaces between, words thinning into a language of their own on the heels of fluttering breath. Peter could cheat if he wanted to, pluck the meaning of the words from Mohinder’s mind but it didn’t seem as meaningful to his ears if he knew. The knowing wasn’t the important part.
Hands slip, more curious than mouths and tongues down shoulders to chest and stomach. Fingers slide between thighs already wet, opening easily to the notion, drawing a sigh from captured lips as Mohinder kisses his name there in his mother tongue. When Peter blinks sweat from his eyes, he only sees white spots, and shivers as though cold.
Between sheets and skin, beneath Mohinder Peter’s body is all softness and strength. On knees and elbows in sweat-warmed blankets, keen to each stroke, every revolution of their hips, drinking in promises written in liquid warmth. Mohinder kisses them into Peter’s mouth and jaw and shoulder and he shudders to the sound, biting his lip and pushing back on every hissed affirmation, filthy and sweet and indecipherable. They envelope, snare in inky tendrils like the hand between Peter’s thighs and the other stroking his throat, and paint their meaning in his skin where no one need see the name that claims him.
When they come, eyes closed, they collapse, hands and mouths and limbs entangled beneath the sheets. Against Peter’s hair Mohinder murmurs I love you in English, breath cool against his sweat-dotted brow. Pressing a kiss to a salted collarbone Peter knows he doesn’t need to understand it to know that it’s true. Sex was always better without the subtitles on.