Heroes One Shots
As the door creaked open, Matt adopted a particularly stern face. Just because he was sprawled on a couch, one arm cuffed above his
head to a frustratingly secure heating pipe, wasn’t going to stop him giving Molly the telling off of her life. She was going to learn the consequences of waiting until her guardian was asleep and then locking him up so that she could skip out on being grounded. So far his mental tally included at least three more months of being grounded and having the cost of a lockable cabinet for his cuffs taken out of her allowance.
That was the plan. Unfortunately, the plan didn’t allow for Mohinder being the source of the creak. There was also no plan for Mohinder cracking up into hysterical laughter at the sight of him.
"Mohinder, this isn't funny," said Matt, head flopping back onto the arm of the sofa above his head.
"Actually it is,” corrected Mohinder, walking over to the couch. “It's incredibly funny. Because you, a trained detective, have been outwitted by an eleven year old girl."
“An eleven year old girl who should be grounded!”
“She seems to think otherwise.”
"Where is she?" Matt could hear the mixture of concern and frustration in his own voice..
"Outside, talking with the kid from next-door. She warned me that you might be a little, stretched, right now." From Mohinder’s tone, he was enjoying this far too much.
Matt studiously ignored the pun "I don't like that kid. He seems shady."
"You’re just bitter because his mother complained about your snoring. Molly’s perfectly safe. Apparently she can look after herself."
"Yeah, sure, fine, laugh at the man handcuffed to a radiator. Just get the spare key from the drawer over there, will you?"
"Why?"
"What?" Matt had passed annoyed and was now progressing to pissed.
"Why would I want to un-cuff you?" Mohinder asked, in a suspiciously innocent manner that Matt had learned to fear.
"Oh no,” Matt shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “No, you've got to be kidding me."
Mohinder raised an eyebrow. No, he really wasn't kidding.
"It's broad daylight!” Matt protested “Molly could be back any second!"
"Not when I’ve just given her permission to go to the movies with Garth and his mother." Mohinder dropped his bag on the floor and leaned over Matt, grinning. "She wants to see Prince Caspian. We've got hours." Mohinder emphasised the last world, drawing it out in what in Matt’s opinion was a blatant attempt at seduction. Unfortunately, it was also an effective attempt at seduction.
"Don't do that," Matt said.
"Don't do what?" Mohinder was being playful. This, in Matt’s experience, usually led to just one thing, which he’d rather not be doing in the middle of his apartment with a one arm completely out of commission.
"That. That purr thing that you do. Stop it."
"As you wish," Mohinder bent down further and whispered in Matt’s ear. "Master."
Matt’s mind was suddenly overwhelmed by a flash of images from Mohinder’s too-close consciousness. All of these involved him, Mohinder, lots of bare skin and some things that Matt wasn’t sure were legal, or even physically possible. Normally this sort of thing felt invasive and pissed him off. This time, Matt thought, he’d let it slide. "What was that?" Matt asked, blinking.
"Non-verbal communication." Mohinder smiled and kissed Matt, unleashing another barrage of scenarios; this time instead of images there were faint sounds, whispered ideas of exactly how Mohinder planned to take advantage of the situation. All the while Mohinder’s tongue lazily insinuated itself in Matt’s mouth, slowly searching out and stroking all the sensitive spots. He eventually pulled back and Matt collected his thoughts.
"That was..." Matt paused, trying to think of the right word.
"Ingenious?" Mohinder supplied.
"I was thinking more of obscene"
The resulting deep, throaty chuckle that sounded so close to his ear made Matt start thinking of baseball statistics, his evil fourth-grade teacher, Rosie O'Donnell; anything to avoid physical signs that he was responding to Mohinder’s game. The fact that Mohinder had chosen that precise moment to bite and then lick his earlobe wasn't helping things any.
“You’re not going to stop, are you?” Matt panted, resigned. As if in answer, Mohinder moved from teasing Matt’s ear to his neck, scraping his teeth down the skin and then retracing his path, licking and sucking on the red areas.
One thing was clear above all else. They were both wearing far too many clothes. Since he was pulling at Matt’s t-shirt, Mohinder must have come to the same conclusion.
“You’re looking a little warm, Matt.” Mohinder said, pulling away. “As a doctor I’d recommend you loosen some of this constraining clothing.” As though demonstrating, Mohinder began to unbutton his own shirt.
“That’s some good advice there, doc. I’ll get right on it” Matt said sarcastically, as he tugged ineffectively at his own shirt.
“Need a hand with that?” Mohinder asked
“I’d say yes but I’m not sure what you’d do with the hand.”
Mohinder smirked and straddled Matt on the couch. Matt shivered at the temperature difference as Mohinder’s hands slowly pushed the t-shirt up his body. He dragged the fabric past Matt’s head and then stopped. Matt shifted, attempting to free up the fabric bunched beneath his shoulders. Mohinder remained still and the smirk had taken on a darker tone.
“What are you doing?” said Matt, trying to work out where Mohinder’s current train of thought had derailed.
“Move your arm, the free one.” Mohinder commanded.
Matt tried to move and found his formerly moveable arm was now heavily restricted by the shirt.
“No,” he said to Mohinder, summing up as much authority as a half-naked restrained man could. Mohinder ignored him entirely and began to work on his pants.
Matt could see exactly where this was going now and knew the futility of trying to convince Mohinder not to do something when his mind was made up."Look, shouldn't we have a safe-word or something?"
"We both know you can stop me whenever you like."
“Uh, I’ve been trying to stop you since you came in,” Matt pointed out.
Mohinder finished pulling down Matt’s jeans, leaving them around his ankles. “If you really want me to stop,” Mohinder breathed, straddling Matt once more and blowing hot air onto his now naked chest “then you know what to do.” As Mohinder began to lick a trail of swirls and circles downwards, Matt struggled to remember exactly what it was that he knew. When Mohinder reached the waistband of his boxers and breathed over the raised mound of fabric, Matt decided to give it one last shot.
"You should stop."
"Really?" Mohinder's eyes flicked up to meets Matt's. "Then stop me." With that, Mohinder unceremoniously shoved the boxers downwards causing Matt’s erect cock to bob with the movement. Before it had time to still, Mohinder was swallowing down the head, hand wrapped around the base and moving both hand and tongue with a torturous rhythm. Already sensitive from both Mohinder’s earlier telepathic show and his more recent actions, Matt screwed his eyes up and concentrated on calming down. Breathing through each slow stroke, he brought himself back from too close to the edge; only for Mohinder to intensify his assault. Matt again tried to reel himself back in. As he breathed through the consistent onslaught on his senses, Matt wondered if he finally had managed to get one over on Mohinder.
It was stupid to think that, Matt decided, because that would be the exact moment that the bastard started to laugh. The deep-pitched vibrations were overwhelming and Matt’s resistance snapped.
“Too much! Too much!” he yelled, and Mohinder obediently stopped laughing and removed his mouth from Matt’s cock.
Matt’s entire body sagged back against the cushions as Mohinder crawled up the couch, sitting himself on Matt’s waist. He leaned down and kissed Matt, more urgently than before. The bound man barely noticed as Mohinder stepped off the couch and began to undo his own pants. Matt broke the kiss this time, rolling his neck and shoulders to try and relieve the ache this position was causing. Mohinder threw his pants to the side, shorts quickly following and then reached for his bag.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked, still staring upwards and trying to unknot his muscles.
“You’ll see,” was Mohinder’s response.
As Matt began to try and shake off the pants bunched around his ankles, Mohinder reappeared. “Uh-uh”, he smiled, kissing Matt. “I think I like you like this. Vulnerable.” Another drawn out word and Matt idly wondered whether Mohinder actually could talk him to orgasm. It was definitely something to try another time.
He gasped as Mohinder climbed back onto the couch, their naked bodies touching for the first time. Mohinder sat up straight, one leg either side of Matt’s waist, and looked down at him.
“It does have its downsides, though,” Mohinder sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to do most of this myself.”
Matt didn’t have time to wonder what ‘this’ was before Mohinder squeezed a measure of the hastily retrieved hand-cream into his palm and reached behind for Matt’s cock. His movements weren’t regular or particularly rhythmic but right now, they didn’t need to be. The slipperiness of the cream and the pressure of Mohinder’s hand were enough to make Matt’s breathing uneven. When the hand was withdrawn, he nearly moaned with disappointment.
“And I suppose I’ll have to do this myself too.” Matt lifted his head up at this complaint, and was greeted with the sight of Mohinder coating the fingers of his hand with the same cream. Matt was lost for words.
The expressions that passed over Mohinder’s face as he stretched and coated himself were a sight Matt hadn’t paid attention to before. If he hadn’t been able to see the obvious evidence of Mohinder’s arousal several inches from his face, he’d have sworn that it was pain clouding his face. When Mohinder began to bite his lip Matt closed his eyes and groaned. By the time he opened them again, Mohinder was smiling down at him.
“Ready?” Matt nodded slightly and Mohinder leaned back, slowly working his way down onto Matt’s cock. When he finally paused, Mohinder stared intensely at Matt. “Still want me to stop?”
Matt tried to answer as Mohinder began to move, building an accelerating rhythm
"You, ah, you need, fuck, you, ohgodifyoustopnowI'llkillyou." Matt’s garbled reply seemed to spur Mohinder on as he reached an arm around the back of the couch for stability and began to stroke his cock. Matt tried to focus on Mohinder’s pace and began to time his own thrusts with the downward movement of Mohinder. For this he was rewarded with a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
Mohinder shifted positions and now the back of the couch groaned with every shove. The small practical voice inside Matt's head prayed it would hold out long enough for them to finish. It didn’t have long to wait as Mohinder began to shudder and semen spilled over his hand onto Matt’s chest. The pulse coursed through Mohinder and into Matt who thrust into his own orgasm, breathing heavily. Eyes closed he stilled and felt Mohinder’s weight against his chest.
Both sets of breathing settled and Mohinder shifted, reaching up and untangling Matt’s un-cuffed hand from his t-shirt. Matt flexed the arm slightly before settling it along Mohinder’s shoulders, his hand curling in Mohinder’s thick black hair.
“You know,” Matt said sleepily, “if we don’t clean this up soon it’s going to be really nasty when we separate.”
“Thought I was the practical one” was Mohinder’s muffled reply. He slid over Matt and stood up, walking over to the dresser where the spare key to the handcuffs was kept. While he did that, Matt wriggled the pants and shorts down his legs and off his feet. Mohinder unlocked the cuff and Matt sat up, massaging some life into his newly freed arm.
"I think I wrenched my shoulder. How are we going to explain that to Molly?"
"Maybe you fell off the couch?" suggested Mohinder, returning the cuffs and key to the dresser and grabbing the box of tissues.
"C’mon, she's not stupid,” said Matt, rolling his shoulder a few times.
"Yes, but she's also eleven and I suspect she doesn't really want to think about the two of us having sex." Mohinder handed Matt some tissues and began to clean himself up
"Oh,” said Matt, rubbing away the cream and semen.
"Yes."
They both set about tidying up and redressing. When they were done, only the scratches on the paintwork of the radiator were evidence that anything had happened.
"So,” said Matt, sitting down on the couch “The Incredible Hulk is out next week."
"Yes?" answered Mohinder, giving Matt an uncomprehending look.
Matt turned to him and smirked, "Next time, you’re falling off the couch."
Title: Bourbon
Rating: PG-15 (for language and because I’d hate to think I’d written a PG-13 fic)
Pairing: Claude/Bennet
Warnings/Spoilers: Language, Alcohol Abuse, Bad Single Entendres, Spoilers up to Kindred.
Recipient/Prompts: runningondreams / regret, flight, and alcohol
Summary: "You know how many company employees had to shoot their own partner? One. The only one who was fucking his goddamn partner.”
AN: Written for the Sekrit Santa exchange at rare_heroes and cross posted like the bitch it is. I know, I know, it was meant to be for christmas day. But it's almost christmas day here so consider it an early present from your limey friend.
"Watching, always watching. I worked with you for years, I know when you're around, I can tell. It's not like you try to hide, beyond the obvious."
Bennet threw the bottle into the wall opposite. The dregs dripped down the wall between the shards sticking into the godawful, patterned wallpaper. Slowly even the glass slid down, leaving the sweet residue to slowly congeal.
"You remember the afternoon on the bridge?" Bennet said to the silent room, taking a swig from the new bottle. "You have any idea how hard that was? No, of course you don't, because you don't have a fucking family for The Company to hold against you." He was angry but his voice began to break. He breathed deeply, gulped another mouthful down.
"You were right, anyway. They turned on me too. Tried to kill me. Maybe I should have let them." Bennet continued, melancholically.
"You have any idea what it feels like to have a death sentence hanging over you? Bennet smiled bitterly. "Actually, I guess you do. But I can't run away. I have responsibilities.”
He stared at the floor, like a scolded puppy.
“I have a family." Bennet repeated.
Bennet fell silent for a moment, then screamed "Don't mock me, you smug bastard!"
He seemed to realise too late that there had been no other voice. The room was as lonely now as it had been when he rented it for the night. No matter how much he fantasized, there was no sign that he was being watched. He was alone. He was always alone, here. Another gulp of bourbon.
"I'm going to die, bullet through the skull. You like the symmetry?" He didn't stop. It didn't seem to matter that he was shouting at the wall, Bennet needed to pretend that Claude was listening.
"My own daughter won't even care. Not like me. I cared. I fucking cared that I had to shoot you. Just because you couldn't stay beneath the radar."
Bennet snorted. "You know how many company employees had to shoot their own partner? One. The only one who was fucking his goddamn partner." The new bottle of bourbon weighed Bennet's right hand down heavily, clinking as it hit the side of the bed. The movement of the liquid inside made the bottle sway slightly, dragging Bennet’s hand with it.
He switched focus again. "It was never on my terms, was it, Claude? It was always you. ‘C'mon rookie, let's give the neighbours something to really worry about.’ And ‘Better make sure these motel beds are up to Company standards.’”
The bottle was dragged up violently, as though Bennet was going for a second try at demolishing the wall. But his hand failed to release the neck and instead the momentum dragged him forwards, leaning almost doubled over at the end of the bed. Staring at the floor, Bennet continued.
"I never got a look in. It was always "Not now, rookie, not here." It was all goddamn bullshit. I hope you really are fucking dead this time."
The bottle grazed the floor as Bennet swayed precariously back and forth, eyes shut by the liquor in his system, his meeting with the floor seeming inevitable.
Clink.
The bottle had connected with something solid. Bennet dragged his eyelids open to see a scuffed black boot. It had a friend and both had jean-covered legs growing up from inside them. Bennet tilted his body towards the bed, leaning back on his forearms either side of him. His glasses had fallen off somewhere between bottles and he squinted upwards, tried to focus on the figure.
"While you're down there mate, it's been a while..." Claude tapered off, but the cheshire cat grin remained.
Bennet launched himself at the intruder with all the grace and balance due to a man currently two thirds through his second bottle of liquor. He lumbered at Claude, pushing him against the wall.
"This works too, I guess, but can we move a bit, there's something sticky-" Bennet's fist cut him off. Even at point blank range there was barely any force behind it, but Claude still caught Bennet's wrists to prevent a repeat performance.
"You bastard," Bennet slurred. "You goddamn bastard, where the fuck have you been?"
"Good Ship Lollipop, want a toffee apple?" Claude laughed as Bennet tried to wrest his wrists free. He pulled the struggling drunk closer to him.
"I've been around. Bit here, bit there. A lot here actually. What does Sandra think you're doing every Wednesday night?"
"Team buildin' at work."
Claude laughed again. "Same excuse, different company. Sandra's a very forgiving woman."
"I love her," Bennet said, sincerity evident in every word.
"I know you do."
"Don't love you. Hate you. Fucking invisible asshole."
"Speaking of which..."
Bennet started thrashing again and Claude decided to stop playing. In one smooth movement, Claude released Bennet's hands to grasp the swaying head.
"Don't throw up," Claude ordered before pulling Bennet into a kiss. Bennet stopped thrashing and stood completely still. Not a muscle moved and Claude pulled away, wondering if Bennet had managed to pass out standing up.
Bennet stood, smirking at Claude, with eyes shining in a way that Claude couldn't quite place.
"Three things you should know Claude. One," Bennet held up a finger and Claude noticed that the swaying had stopped. "This is not your night; this is my night."
Claude looked suspiciously at Bennet, then the door, then Bennet's right hand as it tightened around his arm, preventing escape. Bennet's other hand raised a second finger.
"Two, you're not going anywhere until I say so."
Claude could feel his fight or flight instincts rearing up. Where was bloody Petrelli when you needed him?
"Three," Bennet said, all hint of a slur gone. "I'm not. That. Drunk."
Claude smiled and raised his eyebrows. This was going to be interesting.
AN: Those who have seen the film Beerfest may find certain aspects of this story familiar. It’s not plagiarism; it’s the highest form of flattery.
Title: Broken
Pairing: Matt/Candice
Rating: R for situation
Warnings: Bondage, Mind-fuckery,
Disclaimer: All My Heroes Are Belong Tim Kring
Word Count: 510
AN: The room in which I am writing this is so hot and humid that I can only have my computer on for a few hours at a time, otherwise it overheats. That was my inspiration. And also why this is so short.
In the humid heat of the shack, sweat dripped regularly onto the floor. Dripdripdrip in quick succession from his head, hanging limply away from the wall. The leather restraints ground roughly into his wrists, so deep that he could feel streaks running down his arms and drops falling from his fingertips. Drip. Drip.
Not quite as fast as the sweat. That was good, wasn’t it? Meant the blood wasn’t flowing as quickly? He hadn’t paid much attention to first aid training at the Precinct. Did they cover things like this? Well, not exactly like this, but it was good that the blood was dripping more slowly, wasn’t it? It must be good, just like thinking was good. Thinking his own thoughts. Not having to listen to other people’s, especially hers. What she made him see: Janice, the baby, the bullets, Audrey, Ted’s body; that was bad enough. He tried not to look into what she was thinking.
He was slumped forwards now, too tired to stand up straight, even as the leather bands wore their way through his wrists and shins. So tired. So tempted to just throw in the towel. But she’d told him what would happen when he gave in. Couldn’t give in. Wouldn’t give in.
Candice ran a hand through his hair, twisting the strands between her fingers. He hated it, she knew he hated it and he knew that she knew. But he was too tired to fight that now. She could have that little victory.
Her hand moved down his cheek, stroking pathways through the glistening sweat. She bowed her head slightly, positioning it so close to his that every hot breath was an added torture. She cradled his jaw with one hand and brushed the moisture from his forehead with the other. The dripdripdrip ceased. Only the slower, more worrying trickle continued.
She’d stopped using Janice. That had always made him more determined to resist and she’d learned that now. These days it was only her; whispering, promising, tempting. She spoke softly to him, like a lover’s murmur - comforting and enticing.
“Just let go, Parkman,” she breathed, and from any other lips it would sound so sweet. He tried to focus on the other sound in the room.
Drip.
He didn’t have the energy to move as she kissed him, her lips barely stroking his. It was chaste, she never pressed him. He knew she was waiting; she wanted him to invite her in.
“I’ll make it all go away.” And she would, he knew she would. She’d change the whole world around him if he asked. He shouldn’t ask. He couldn’t ask.
Drip.
“I’m not going to stop.” It was starting again. The same speech, every day.
“I’m going to keep going until you break.” He had to remember to fight. But he was so tired.
Drip.
“And when you break, I’ll take care of you.” His head sagged further down. Maybe he could pass out, put this off a little longer.
Drip.
“Then we’ll be together. Broken. Forever.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Title: Found
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers up to How To Stop An Exploding Man, Violence, Graphic descriptions of Sex.
Summary: “Any number of people knew how to find him. Two people would be able to track him wherever he went. But still, only one person knew, right at this moment, where he was.”
Word count: 1937
Disclaimer: All my Heroes are belong to Tim Kring et al.
A/N: Special thanks to airspaniel for supplying the soundtrack. Vast FTMFW! Crossposted like a bitch and posted here because I'm a snob when it comes to formatting.
One person knew where he was.
Any number of people knew how to find him. Two people would be able to track him wherever he went. But still, only one person knew, right at this moment, where he was.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his ‘death’ interfered with the girl’s gift. But he doubted it. They thought he was dead; one knew he was alive.
He had any number of theories as to how this one had found him. He’d hoped to be able to ask some day. But he’d heard the car engine approaching an hour ago and was fairly confident that this visit would proceed just as those before. No words; plenty of sounds, but no words. That was the deal with this one. Words complicated things too much; they poked holes in the mud-and-stick dam which held back their reason, history, everything that would rationally prevent this from happening.
So neither said anything, body language notwithstanding. This one arrived, they fucked, they slept and he left.
If he listened carefully he could just make out the heartbeat in the car. It was…wrong. Different. It was impossible to explain but he could tell. It was racing, but not in the usual way. This visit would be different. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with that.
--------------
The first visit had called up similar feelings. He’d heard the car as it made its way up the hill. He’d searched out the heartbeat, straining to hear it over the cacophony of the engine. He’d waited until the car was almost to the shack before he’d accepted what his ears were telling him. He had recognised the beat, he wasn’t mistaken, someone had found him and he knew exactly who it was.
Gently closing the door he’d drifted gently until lying on the ceiling. Soon after a knock on the door was quickly followed by the twist of the handle. The entry was not tentative; the visitor stalked in, slamming the door behind him. He’d shucked off his coat while scanning the rest of the room. It was clear, even from the ceiling, that the thin shirt and pants could not conceal a weapon. The man finally looked up, eyes locking with Sylar’s. The expression was familiar; he’d seen the same look of brutal determination while strapped to a chair in the apartment in New York. Seconds later he’d suffered an excruciating lumbar puncture.
With that image clear in his mind, he descended, landing almost toe-to-toe with this one, the only one to find him in three months.
“Mohind-”
Sylar barely finished the second syllable. He had expected a lot from this visitor; recriminations, threats, even violence. He hadn’t expected anything this vicious. The fingers wrapped around the back of his neck dug into his skin painfully, the force of the grip crushing his mouth to Mohinder’s. A sharp bite to his lower lip made him gasp, an opportunity Mohinder fully exploited. Only when the strange tongue began to ransack his mouth did Sylar regain his senses enough to fight back. Gripping cotton-covered shoulders tightly he began resist. At this reaction the hand around his neck rose to grip his hair, pulling sharply on it. Mohinder broke the kiss to whisper the only words said in four visits.
“Shut up.”
Head spinning Sylar absently wondered why he was allowing himself to be abused like this. Before he could continue the thought, a hand began to roughly massage his groin. Any chance of intelligent thought at that moment was driven out and replaced by a feral need for more. More friction, more heat, more everything. His hips arched and were pushed forcefully back against the wall. Another touch, another thrust, another shove. Sylar’s every attempt to gain control of the situation was rebuffed.
----------------
Later, long after Mohinder had left, he wondered why he had allowed it. In a blink he could have thrown Mohinder across the room, or frozen him to the spot, or burned the flesh from his bones. Any number of things he could have done and didn’t. At the time he’d assumed that he was too caught up in the moment.
Watching his visitor’s slumped posture behind the wheel, he was now beginning to realise how wrong he had been. The same thoughts now ran through his head as then. Please, please don’t stop.
--------------
Mohinder broke the kiss to drag Sylar’s sweater off him. He seemed to take a moment to survey the newly vulnerable, semi-naked form in front of him, finally meeting Sylar’s gaze with a look of such intensity that a warm charge shot down his spine and into his cock. The smile accompanying the look was pure predator. A half-formed thought on where Mohinder had learned to smile like that was driven from his mind as the man leapt upon his still-open mouth.
If the first kiss had been powerful, then this was dizzying; more a fight than an embrace. Teeth clashed, tongues thrust against each other, and central to it all was an explosion of hatred, lust, passion and sheer animalism. The kiss was a battle, not for dominance but survival. Sylar conceded defeat as he pulled away to breathe.
Gasping for breath, both men stood for an immeasurable time. Mere inches separated them and Sylar could still taste Mohinder in his mouth.
Sylar’s head lolled back to rest on the wall, giving Mohinder uninhibited access to his neck. Such a tempting offer was readily taken up. A low growl sounded deep in Sylar’s throat as his neck was bitten and sucked and licked unceasingly. He barely registered the downward movement of the attack until a tongue flicked his already-sensitive nipple.
He arched into the touch only to be forcibly pushed back into the wall. Exploiting the weakness, Mohinder licked the sensitive spot over and over before dragging his teeth roughly over it. Sylar yelled incomprehensibly as Mohinder lavished the same treatment on the hitherto neglected nipple, pinching and stroking its abused counterpart all the while.
Unable to withstand the torture any more, Sylar grasped a handful of Mohinder’s hair, tilting his head upwards into another bruising kiss. His mind flooded with sensation, Sylar barely managed to undo the buttons of Mohinder’s shirt. Once free of this distraction, Sylar raked his fingers harshly down soft, brown skin. He swallowed the gasp drawn out by this with a smile, and moved his hands around the writhing body in his grasp. Finally reaching his target, Sylar bit down on Mohinder’s lip as he roughly dragged his fingers down the prominent swelling in Mohinder’s pants. The noise this elicited was somewhere between a gasp and a yell, but so wanton that Sylar had to break the kiss to stop himself from coming.
Before he knew what was happening, Sylar was turned and pushed face first into the wall. His legs were kicked apart and his jeans were loosened and pulled down to knee level. His boxers soon followed, exposing his sensitized cock to the cold air inside the cabin. There was barely time to acclimatize before the noises behind him made his cock jerk. A sound of a zipper being drawn down was followed by rip of a foil packet and the unmistakeable sound of liquid being poured onto skin.
If he hadn’t been sure before, Sylar knew now exactly how this was going to end.
A first oily finger traced its way between his cheeks, stroking the cleft with feather-light touches. The almost-contact was unbearable and Sylar arched towards it. Instead of the touch he was craving, the finger was removed entirely. The frustrated rumble in his throat was cut off as the finger breached his entrance; sliding in from tip to base, then moving slowly out again only to re-enter fully. A second finger joined it as Mohinder pulled Sylar’s head back by the hair. As the fingers worked inside him, Mohinder’s mouth attended to his neck. Each inward thrust was punctuated by a bite to the neck; each lingering, stretching withdrawal matched by a tongue lapping the fresh red welts.
A third finger was added and Sylar bit back a groan, refusing to give Mohinder the satisfaction. All thoughts of pride were lost when that third finger was crooked and stroked across that spot inside.
As he moaned and panted into the wall, Sylar heard Mohinder’s quiet laughter. He could feel anger rising inside him; the bastard was laughing at him! But with each stroke of the finger, the fire was extinguished and all Sylar could do was breathe through it.
He stood gasping as the fingers were removed, eyes noticing his hands bracing the wall. He shifted his weight to just one hand, moving the other towards his engorged and already-leaking cock.
Even before he could touch himself, Mohinder’s cock penetrated his opening. The grip on his hair tightened and the angle prevented him from moving away from the pressure. He winced as the full length was thrust into him, condom and lubrication doing little to help. With each thrust the pain lessened and he began to match the rhythm with his hand. Sylar knew from the fast pace that neither of them would last long. He came first, semen shooting upwards, coating his chest and the wall. His orgasm pushed Mohinder too far and the man came with a choked gasp soon after.
For a time they stood fixed in place, Sylar resting on the wall and Mohinder leaning on Sylar’s back. Eventually Mohinder removed himself, gathering his clothes before he left. Sylar watched him leave, before falling into bed and sleeping soundly.
-------------------
He was surprised when, over a week later, no-one had been sent after him. He was amazed when three weeks later Mohinder returned. Even by the fourth visit Sylar was unsure whether he would see Mohinder again. After they spent the night together he knew they would. It was not a comforting thought.
---------------
The second time, he’d met Mohinder at the door, allowing himself to be pushed inside and on to the bed. After that time, he’d seen hesitation cross Mohinder’s face, conflict visible in dark brown eyes. Still he had left. By the fourth visit, not only was Mohinder staying the night, but Sylar had awoken to find a head of thick black curls laid on his chest, an arm thrown possessively over his pale stomach.
The same stomach lurched when the car stopped outside. This is where the dam would break, he could see that now and all he wanted to do was run. But this one had found him before and would do so again.
Sylar stood in the doorway, watching the guarded expression on Mohinder’s face as he exited the car. Dark brown eyes wouldn’t quite meet his own until directly in front of him. Smooth, soft fingertips brushed his cheek and this kiss was everything the others weren’t. Gentle, hesitant and heartbreaking. He tried to continue it even as Mohinder tried to break it off, as much to put off the inevitable as to prolong the feeling. Eventually, too soon, pliant lips left his and now he refused to meet those eyes.
“They know,” whispered Mohinder.
“It’s over,” heard Sylar.