(no subject)
Inspired by a song about, of all things, cocaine addiction. Seeing as this fic marks the one-year anniversary of me wasting all my time on this pairing, it's lolappropriate.
Title: Better for the Loss
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Mohinder/Peter, shades of Peter/Caitlin
Spoilers: General spoilers through 2x07
Summary: It had felt somehow surreal, like a trick of light that had brought this about, mouths and hands melding together in the stark contrast of circumstances.
Background song: Interpol, Rest My Chemistry
I saw a sign that says “okay”
Gotta take a ride, just recline in the faraway
Got to take some time to realize
--
The chair’s leather cushion is easy to fit his knees against as Peter sits to straddle Mohinder’s lap, thighs fitting neatly in the space between the plastic arms around the slink of darker waist. It doesn’t even occur to Peter to try to bite down on the reedy moan that shivered up his throat and from between their open mouths. Not until it’s already passed, slipping out, catching heedlessly in the space between them and Mohinder’s eyes slide towards the laboratory’s locked door for any sign of discovery. When none comes Peter slides his hands into Mohinder’s hair and breathes against his lips, We’re alone now, it’s okay, and when he says Stay Mohinder does, groaning into the kiss as Peter lowers himself down.
Fingers splay over his hipbones. The connection of bodies brings sweat to his back in droplets like ice over his ribs and spine and in his throat his whines, low, mindful of where they are. Inside of him it aches, a burn that sets his teeth into his lip and brackets hips with fond hands and rasping words in a language he doesn’t recognize. Peter doesn’t have to, because the ache is beautiful and so are the sighs it wrings out with it as he feels Mohinder take seat somewhere deep.
He can feel it rather than hear it, this pinprick of whispers; murmurs gleaming behind his eye sockets like a hundred little secrets, wet and husky and reverent with want. It’s like reading a love letter in reverse, all fat and stupid sounding when he tries to wrap his tongue around the words, which fit so squarely on his tongue that he could taste it with every passing thought and breathless gasp. When he opens his mouth to kiss Mohinder’s lips Peter wonders if he can taste it too, and bringing himself up to bear back down again he knows that Mohinder can.
He doesn’t remember what it’s like being with another man, or this man for that matter. Perhaps he never has, for all that he knows. Mohinder’s never spoken of a past together or let the thought slip when Peter was around, but sometimes when he looks at him from across the room when he thinks Peter doesn’t notice he can feel it, somehow, like something whispering at the back of his mind.
But if he has, it must’ve been something like this, Peter imagines, over the dipping of tongue along the inside of his mouth. It feels like muscle-memory, something to do with the sandpaper of stubbled cheeks and the cock in his belly and breathy whispers like liquid warmth, slipping down the back of his neck in honey and want.
Something soothing in its familiarity or maybe just familiar in its soothing; whatever the misfiring synapse or dimly lit recall it still brought hands to shirt lapels and their mouths together, as though by some inevitable sway.
It had felt somehow surreal, like a trick of light that had brought this about, mouths and hands melding together in the stark contrast of circumstances. At the time the spaces between Peter’s fingers had felt cell-fitted for the touch of Mohinder’s hand; the thin webbing that gathered delicately between his digits seemed made for kissing and apparently was, Mohinder taking his hand at the palm to kiss its center before pressing his lips to the skin there. Trailing his mouth up the length of Peter’s thumb he watched his eyes as Peter watched him in turn, pupils dark and swollen in this light, his mouth slack on a fluttering breath as he held Mohinder’s shoulder and made a little sound in the back of his throat, soft and unfamiliar to his own ears.
It’s something that’s happened before, Peter thinks, and knows some part of him wants to believe. Lend some weight to this rhythm that has him panting through open-mouthed kisses; something proper to hang his name upon in a dim flash of déjà vu, rather than the simple emptiness at this loss of time with each shiver and downward stroke.
It isn’t like it was, with her, soft and forgiving. When they made love it was like a get out of jail free card, her warm skin beneath his hands a silent consent that he can run as long as he likes, because she will be there. Mohinder is not quite so indulgent, with his stubbled chin and quiet needing and hands that seem to know him, persistent and somehow indecent despite the doctorate and the prim edge of tongue. He doesn’t have to be.
Peter doesn’t want him to be, either. He knows Mohinder is something else entirely, and for what it’s worth Peter thinks he likes it.
In his lap Peter shifts, trying to widen the distance between his knees, go deeper, more open, palms sweating over tensing shoulders. The angle of his hips is exploratory, changing trajectory, deepening the friction until he bites his lip and buries a moan into Mohinder’s neck. Against him Mohinder stiffens into the chair with a panting Oh, stroking down Peter’s chest and ribs with a fondness that seems out of place between acquaintances, and arching up into this slick heat between them until he finds something inside of Peter that makes his cock leak and his legs melt into the leather framework beneath them.
“Peter, you’re - ” Mohinder tries to gasp, to explain, his voice dark and eyes wet and lidded with a reverence that Peter can feel through the splayed fingers on his skin. “You’re so - ”
He means to respond, somehow, to echo something back. But closing his eyes he’s coming hotly in the space between their bodies, pressing a whine into his bottom lip and tangling his hands through Mohinder’s hair to keep him close. Keep him steady, because a few hungry thrusts and he’s holding Peter against him with a strangled cry, arms shaking, each muscle tensing as orgasm washed visibly over his body.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, Peter finds, to have a man come inside of him. Not an unpleasant one but still new enough that he finds himself still holding on, keeping Mohinder close as they simply breathe in each other’s space, as though without him he would crumble or at best float away.
He means to move but can’t, glued to the spot by the salt of their skin and the damp warmth between his thighs. Mohinder kisses him then, slow and open, and strokes a hand across Peter’s scalp that feels suddenly heavy in the languor of inelegant afterglow.
Lifting his eyes to meet the other man’s, Peter gathers himself up enough to ask, “I’m what?” and the way Mohinder smiles in turn is slow and sexy and almost breathtaking.
“You’re so,” he begins, and moves to trace the line of Peter’s lip as though in some archaic form of mediation, still full and flush from kissing, “…very perfect.”
It happens then, like flipping on a light switch. Gauzy lamplight stretches over his vision like a strip of cellophane and fingertips track the line of his throat in the silence like a secret. His mouth moving soundlessly to make words he can’t quite hear but beneath him the sheets are warmed by salt and skin and needing whispers, and breathing in his space Mohinder’s eyes seem to take up everything. A fragment in time like a stitch popped, aged and blurred at its edges as it slips from the cracks of his mind in a fallen Polaroid snapshot, spilling from his lips and through the spaces between his fingers in a gasp.
It’s déjà vu, or some private fascination, or maybe something else entirely. Something that he pulled from another time and another place and another them where the world didn’t need saving, and he didn’t have to doubt the feeling he got when he caught Mohinder watching him. But holding his face and kissing his mouth, there is only this and only now and for now that is all that Peter needs.
Title: Better for the Loss
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Mohinder/Peter, shades of Peter/Caitlin
Spoilers: General spoilers through 2x07
Summary: It had felt somehow surreal, like a trick of light that had brought this about, mouths and hands melding together in the stark contrast of circumstances.
Background song: Interpol, Rest My Chemistry
I saw a sign that says “okay”
Gotta take a ride, just recline in the faraway
Got to take some time to realize
--
The chair’s leather cushion is easy to fit his knees against as Peter sits to straddle Mohinder’s lap, thighs fitting neatly in the space between the plastic arms around the slink of darker waist. It doesn’t even occur to Peter to try to bite down on the reedy moan that shivered up his throat and from between their open mouths. Not until it’s already passed, slipping out, catching heedlessly in the space between them and Mohinder’s eyes slide towards the laboratory’s locked door for any sign of discovery. When none comes Peter slides his hands into Mohinder’s hair and breathes against his lips, We’re alone now, it’s okay, and when he says Stay Mohinder does, groaning into the kiss as Peter lowers himself down.
Fingers splay over his hipbones. The connection of bodies brings sweat to his back in droplets like ice over his ribs and spine and in his throat his whines, low, mindful of where they are. Inside of him it aches, a burn that sets his teeth into his lip and brackets hips with fond hands and rasping words in a language he doesn’t recognize. Peter doesn’t have to, because the ache is beautiful and so are the sighs it wrings out with it as he feels Mohinder take seat somewhere deep.
He can feel it rather than hear it, this pinprick of whispers; murmurs gleaming behind his eye sockets like a hundred little secrets, wet and husky and reverent with want. It’s like reading a love letter in reverse, all fat and stupid sounding when he tries to wrap his tongue around the words, which fit so squarely on his tongue that he could taste it with every passing thought and breathless gasp. When he opens his mouth to kiss Mohinder’s lips Peter wonders if he can taste it too, and bringing himself up to bear back down again he knows that Mohinder can.
He doesn’t remember what it’s like being with another man, or this man for that matter. Perhaps he never has, for all that he knows. Mohinder’s never spoken of a past together or let the thought slip when Peter was around, but sometimes when he looks at him from across the room when he thinks Peter doesn’t notice he can feel it, somehow, like something whispering at the back of his mind.
But if he has, it must’ve been something like this, Peter imagines, over the dipping of tongue along the inside of his mouth. It feels like muscle-memory, something to do with the sandpaper of stubbled cheeks and the cock in his belly and breathy whispers like liquid warmth, slipping down the back of his neck in honey and want.
Something soothing in its familiarity or maybe just familiar in its soothing; whatever the misfiring synapse or dimly lit recall it still brought hands to shirt lapels and their mouths together, as though by some inevitable sway.
It had felt somehow surreal, like a trick of light that had brought this about, mouths and hands melding together in the stark contrast of circumstances. At the time the spaces between Peter’s fingers had felt cell-fitted for the touch of Mohinder’s hand; the thin webbing that gathered delicately between his digits seemed made for kissing and apparently was, Mohinder taking his hand at the palm to kiss its center before pressing his lips to the skin there. Trailing his mouth up the length of Peter’s thumb he watched his eyes as Peter watched him in turn, pupils dark and swollen in this light, his mouth slack on a fluttering breath as he held Mohinder’s shoulder and made a little sound in the back of his throat, soft and unfamiliar to his own ears.
It’s something that’s happened before, Peter thinks, and knows some part of him wants to believe. Lend some weight to this rhythm that has him panting through open-mouthed kisses; something proper to hang his name upon in a dim flash of déjà vu, rather than the simple emptiness at this loss of time with each shiver and downward stroke.
It isn’t like it was, with her, soft and forgiving. When they made love it was like a get out of jail free card, her warm skin beneath his hands a silent consent that he can run as long as he likes, because she will be there. Mohinder is not quite so indulgent, with his stubbled chin and quiet needing and hands that seem to know him, persistent and somehow indecent despite the doctorate and the prim edge of tongue. He doesn’t have to be.
Peter doesn’t want him to be, either. He knows Mohinder is something else entirely, and for what it’s worth Peter thinks he likes it.
In his lap Peter shifts, trying to widen the distance between his knees, go deeper, more open, palms sweating over tensing shoulders. The angle of his hips is exploratory, changing trajectory, deepening the friction until he bites his lip and buries a moan into Mohinder’s neck. Against him Mohinder stiffens into the chair with a panting Oh, stroking down Peter’s chest and ribs with a fondness that seems out of place between acquaintances, and arching up into this slick heat between them until he finds something inside of Peter that makes his cock leak and his legs melt into the leather framework beneath them.
“Peter, you’re - ” Mohinder tries to gasp, to explain, his voice dark and eyes wet and lidded with a reverence that Peter can feel through the splayed fingers on his skin. “You’re so - ”
He means to respond, somehow, to echo something back. But closing his eyes he’s coming hotly in the space between their bodies, pressing a whine into his bottom lip and tangling his hands through Mohinder’s hair to keep him close. Keep him steady, because a few hungry thrusts and he’s holding Peter against him with a strangled cry, arms shaking, each muscle tensing as orgasm washed visibly over his body.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, Peter finds, to have a man come inside of him. Not an unpleasant one but still new enough that he finds himself still holding on, keeping Mohinder close as they simply breathe in each other’s space, as though without him he would crumble or at best float away.
He means to move but can’t, glued to the spot by the salt of their skin and the damp warmth between his thighs. Mohinder kisses him then, slow and open, and strokes a hand across Peter’s scalp that feels suddenly heavy in the languor of inelegant afterglow.
Lifting his eyes to meet the other man’s, Peter gathers himself up enough to ask, “I’m what?” and the way Mohinder smiles in turn is slow and sexy and almost breathtaking.
“You’re so,” he begins, and moves to trace the line of Peter’s lip as though in some archaic form of mediation, still full and flush from kissing, “…very perfect.”
It happens then, like flipping on a light switch. Gauzy lamplight stretches over his vision like a strip of cellophane and fingertips track the line of his throat in the silence like a secret. His mouth moving soundlessly to make words he can’t quite hear but beneath him the sheets are warmed by salt and skin and needing whispers, and breathing in his space Mohinder’s eyes seem to take up everything. A fragment in time like a stitch popped, aged and blurred at its edges as it slips from the cracks of his mind in a fallen Polaroid snapshot, spilling from his lips and through the spaces between his fingers in a gasp.
It’s déjà vu, or some private fascination, or maybe something else entirely. Something that he pulled from another time and another place and another them where the world didn’t need saving, and he didn’t have to doubt the feeling he got when he caught Mohinder watching him. But holding his face and kissing his mouth, there is only this and only now and for now that is all that Peter needs.