(no subject)
Because I owe some people porn. And also, just look at my icon. You know you want to see them bump and grind, so don't even lie.
Title: The clawfoot bathtub
Author: eonism
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder, Molly, Matt
Word Count: 3,170
Author's notes: Takes place after Lightning in an empty cup. General season two spoiler stuff.
Summary: There were no words that Peter wanted to use to define exactly what it was that made him stay at Mohinder’s apartment night after night, and the feeling in the core of his chest that came from stealing kisses in the backseats of cabs or in bedroom doorways when no one else was around.
It was not a sex thing.
There were no words that Peter wanted to use to define exactly what it was that made him stay at Mohinder’s apartment night after night, and the feeling in the core of his chest that came from stealing kisses in the backseats of cabs or in bedroom doorways when no one else was around. But that did not make it a sex thing. The notion was too new to contemplate, sparked by a closeness they had never shared, until now, in glances from across the kitchen table or in the brush of fingertips when Peter offered to walk with Mohinder to the grocer’s for bread and milk, and Mohinder smiled in that rare, open way that he did that made Peter’s stomach flutter tightly.
Most of all, it was not a love thing. Of all the things it wasn’t, it particularly wasn’t that.
It was about a pillow and a blanket in the clawfoot bathtub where Peter had gone to sleep. There was no empty bed or space on the sofa, taken up by the bodies already packed in the too-small apartment like sardines, stepping on toes and over toys in the living room that Matt had told Molly to pick up a thousand times a day. Peter stepped on toes just being there, he thought, taking up the meager spare room at the kitchen table when Mohinder made him coffee or tea, and on the end of the couch when he stared at the comforting glow of Molly’s Saturday morning cartoons.
Sometimes she sat beside him in her pajamas, eating Fruit Loops out of a colorful ceramic bowl filled with pink-tinged milk and asking him questions about what it was like to explode or come back to life. Peter could only shrug, and feel a little like a science fair project when giving whatever vague explanation he could before Mohinder shooed Molly away, calling upon the new “no eating on the sofa” rule when he finally ran out of excuses not to ask Peter such personal questions. It was sweet but unnecessary, and still left Peter smiling a little dopily whenever he did it, looking at Mohinder from over his shoulder as he herded his daughter back into the kitchen to sit at the table like a reasonable person.
At least Matt had finally stopped looking at Peter out of the corner of his eye as though he was going to explode. Or at the very least, pee on the rug. Sometimes Peter wondered if Matt would put him out in the hallway if given enough reason to, reduced to the place of Mohinder’s disobedient house-pet, living off of table scraps and begging for his attention.
Somewhere in the world, Peter knew Claude was probably laughing at him.
Yet anything was better than going home to an empty apartment. It was still a sore spot in Peter’s mind, bursting at self-imposed seams with Nathan’s memory like the ghost that had broken his bedroom mirror. The evidence was written out in the half-consumed, name-brand food still sitting in the refrigerator, and the family snapshots of birthday parties and bad hair cuts on the walls and scattered across the coffee table. It had stopped being his home four months ago; this was no more his home either, but this was where Mohinder was, and…well. He was all Peter really had anymore, for better or worse, and there was nowhere else he could imagine himself wanting to be.
Even for that there was no hope in finding a bed to sleep in anymore, either, with the broken metal legs of the ancient beige pull-out’s flattened mattress. The two small bedrooms were divided amongst the other two men and Molly, leaving no vacancies, except for that Mohinder’s bed provided, warm like his skin and smelling of clean cotton and aftershave. Peter laid in it sometimes, at night, when Mohinder was working at the desk in the corner of the room under the thin parameters of lamp-light, sifting through notes and laboratory reports and other carefully sorted papers that made tight lines in his brow. He liked to watch the scientist, and felt somehow at home, making silent ritual as he waited for Mohinder to switch off the light and come to bed, so Peter could run his hands beneath the misleading long-sleeved tee and lick his lips open to breathe in his breath.
Some nights Peter could stay, and others he could at least sneak in after Molly’s bedroom light was out, climbing beneath skin-warmed sheets with a whine of old springs and hands finding his hips in the dark. His body slid easily into the now familiar dip in the left side of the mattress, dry lips seeking his bottom lip as his hands traveled, fingertips carefully following the soft path of thin black hairs curling beneath Mohinder’s navel down into the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Inside the thin cotton of his briefs Mohinder lengthened against his palm, hot and soft in Peter’s hand with a swallow and a sigh.
The solution was temporary, because Mohinder’s bed was nearly always occupied midway through the night on the heel of small bare feet padding in from the next room, when Molly’s knock at his door told Peter it was time to go before Mohinder’s silent, sorry look could. And Peter took his pillow and borrowed blanket, tried not to look as pitiable as he certainly felt and retreated to the clawfoot bathtub in the next room.
“Peter?”
The creak of hinges brought Peter’s attention to the door, eyes darting across the dark bathroom to the hallway light slicing across the wall behind him. Pushing back the nest of blankets, Peter sat up. He half-expected the flip of the light switch when Mohinder carefully pushed shut the door behind him, failing to hear the turn of the lock.
“I’m sorry,” Mohinder said softly, ruffling a hand through his pillow-mussed curls as he padded over cold linoleum on bare feet. Behind him the pale blue night-light by the pedestal sink lit the small strip of floor between the wall and the tub in thin margins of light. “10-year-olds have little concept of timing, I’m afraid…”
Mohinder’s creased white t-shirt was at least one size too big for his frame, pooling around his collar bone. It slid off his slender squared shoulders and hung limply around his waist, just above the low ride of rumpled sweatpants; his hair was still disheveled looking, despite his efforts to finger-comb it back into place. In any case it made the corners of Peter’s mouth quirk fondly.
“Did you get her back to sleep?” Peter asked. His eyes followed Mohinder’s shuffling gait as he perched himself on the broad rim of the porcelain tub, and Peter tried not to look too hopeful.
“Yes,” Mohinder chuckled gently, “Finally.” Another sorry glance in Peter’s direction; it reminded him of how often he had been seeing looks like that lately. “Another nightmare. And you know how she is, insisting on sleeping with me again. Now she’s somehow wedged herself sideways across the bed. There’s barely any space left for me, I’m afraid, let alone enough to squeeze you in.”
Peter shrugged, putting a hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “Don’t worry about it,” he offered, and smiled reassuringly, “dad-stuff comes first. I’ll be fine in here.”
“Yes but it isn’t really fair to you. And I haven’t exactly made this any easier, with our…situation, as it is right now.” A sigh, canting his head to level Peter a look made far more endearing by the pajamas and pillow-hair. “You’ve been far too sweet about all of this, and it’s more than I deserve. Especially after making you sleep in the bathtub all week.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ve slept in crappier bathtubs than this,” he admitted, and gathered himself up on his knees, craning his neck to meet Mohinder’s level, “you should’ve seen where I lived when I was in college.” Brushing the tips of their noses together Peter kissed him softly with half-closed eyes. “My mom rescued me during my first semester and made me stay at home for the rest of the year. It was kinda embarrassing.”
“I imagine it would be,” Mohinder said, and laughed softly between their lips. “She seems…intimidating.”
“She is.” Winding his fingers into the fabric of Mohinder’s sleep shirt Peter pulled him closer, urging him to lean over the side of the tub until Mohinder was holding on to it for balance. “And I don’t mind the tub,” Peter said, into the spaces where their mouths did not quite touch, “Stop being a mom.”
Another soft chuckle, and when Peter drew away Mohinder followed, unexpected but not unappreciated, maneuvering his legs over the lip of the bathtub and settling down in front of the younger man.
“I would hardly call this mothering,” Mohinder defended himself with feigned sobriety. Leaning forward he kissed Peter, slowly and in full, hands coming to his face to ease him back until he was pressed into the pillow propped against the wall of the bath. With a sigh Mohinder slid his fingers into the short strands of Peter’s hair until he was poured over the length of him, their limbs rearranging themselves to fit as neatly as possible within in the narrow belly of the tub.
“Is this how you decided to make it up to me?” Peter asked, to which Mohinder smirked into the kiss with a low purr of laughter.
“Something like that.”
Peter brought his hands up, resting on Mohinder’s chest and sliding down in slow circles, under his t-shirt and passed the waistband of his sweatpants. He was surprised to be met with soft skin and wiry curls instead of cotton and elastic, the length of Mohinder’s shaft curving gently into his palm. Against his mouth Mohinder groaned, warm and straining under Peter’s touch, and opening his eyes he swallowed and sighed.
Peter meant to say something, to ask Mohinder if he was sure about this. Molly was still asleep in the next room, but Mohinder was already hard, his erection thrumming between Peter’s fingers and tongue dipping softly between his lips, his hands coming down from his face to his shoulders and back, resting on his waist. No coherent question came to mind, and as the need to even ask ebbed away in the back of his throat Peter moaned instead, shifting beneath his weight to bring his legs wide around Mohinder’s hips. Calves hooked behind the scientist and held him in place and Peter cupped his straining length, sucking his clever tongue and closing his eyes with a shiver.
Peter was sure enough of what they were doing as callused fingers slipped beneath the fall of his shirt to trace the notches of his spine, hardening in the black gym shorts he slept in as his hips flexed gently into Mohinder’s groin, breathing sharply into the space between their mouths. The friction was exploratory, teasing if anything as Mohinder drew away to set lips and teeth to Peter’s chin, audibly swallowing as he paused, as though in waiting, perhaps for his consent or further instruction. In any case Peter gave both, hands coming behind Mohinder to slide into the back of his sweats, cupping the firm curves of his ass and pushing their hips together with a low, appreciative groan.
Mouth still on Peter’s chin Mohinder chuckled, a throaty purr of a laugh, traveling like warm honey down the length of his spine. Careful wriggling and the maneuvering of deft hands brought Peter’s shorts and briefs down, pushed out of the way, letting his erection slip free. Reaching between them Mohinder palmed Peter’s neglected length, gently thumbing back his foreskin to tease across the slitted head to milk from his throat a husky grunt - “Fuck” - caught by Mohinder’s mouth and swallowed away when he sealed their lips together again.
Peter arched up his touch, a shallow, needy buck, breathing sharply into the kiss. His erection dug into Mohinder’s stomach and then his hipbone, hoping to gain some degree of friction in the heat between their bodies, the slick of pre-come already leaving a damp stripe in the fabric of his sweats. Biting at his bottom lip Peter pushed them down Mohinder’s hips to the tops of his thighs, and shivered at his throaty groan when their erections touched.
Mohinder immediately began to pull away, to pull his sweats back up in some semblance of decency as he muttered something into Peter’s mouth about lube, to which Peter shook his head. Bringing a hand up Peter licked his palm, reaching between them to wrap his fingers around Mohinder’s length, slicking him with saliva as he throbbed to his touch and let out a long, tight breath.
“You should - ah - let me help you get ready,” Mohinder breathed, pressing a groan into Peter’s bottom lip as he prepared him in sure strokes. Despite the soft censure his fingers closed around white hipbones to bring their hips into alignment, his erection sliding easily against the cleft of Peter’s ass and shifting down in the nest of sheets Peter brought his knees wider around the slink of a darker waist.
“S’okay,” Peter murmured, voice thick, and nipped at the seam of Mohinder’s mouth as the hands on his ass urged them together. “S’good like this. You won’t hurt me, I promise...”
If Mohinder had reservations they melted with a sigh and angle of his head, tracking hot kisses from the corner of Peter’s lips to his chin and beneath his jaw, finding that little spot that made his eyes close and his mouth open crookedly. Dropping a hand to guide himself inside he shifted his hips forward, pressing into the hot clasp Peter’s body offered, and beneath him Peter let out hard, dry sob, high and sharp in the relative silence the bathroom provided. Opening, shifting around the initial stretch and burn and pull of being filled he bit his lip and groaned, pulling Mohinder closer, feeling of his cock working its way inside of him carefully, mindful of the resistance and the lack of preparation.
Mohinder panted, hands tight on Peter’s hips as he took seat somewhere deep, thick and hot and so very good, and pressing his forehead to Peter’s brow, withdrew.
“Peter.” With a grunt Mohinder shuddered and shifted his knees in the nest of blankets, seeking a better angle. “You’re - you’re so - ”
“S’okay,” Peter panted, and reaching up tangled a hand in sweat-warm curls, keeping the other man there, “s’good, just - oh, god - ”
It was shallow at first, careful, because Mohinder was always so careful about things like this. It was something in his personality that Peter found himself quietly fond of since the first night he found himself in his bed, kissed and touched and rocked into the tired mattress as though he were fit to crack like glass. Mohinder could be sweet like that, in subtle ways Peter did not expect him to be and made him forget the things that still circled outside the apartment door.
An exploratory thrust, then another, bolder, sharper; Peter pushed back, holding him closer, forcing him deeper, skin on skin. A rhythm was found; fast to build in each measured buck, as deep and full as the slant of the bathtub’s edge would permit. The fabric of Mohinder’s sleep pants chafed the bared skin of Peter’s thighs but sharing a moan he forgot the mild discomfort, voices echoing softly in the otherwise empty bathroom, their bodies rocking in the cramped space afforded between the walls of the tub.
“Harder,” Peter whined, shameless, unthinking, and fingers in Mohinder’s hair he urged his head up to kiss him, open and wet and broken between fevered breaths. “Fuck - just, harder.”
“Peter - ”A slight tilt of his hips made him gasp, seeking out the angle that Mohinder knew from adequate practice made Peter’s cock leak and his ribs sweat.
“Fuck,” Peter echoed back, voice ragged, fevered, seeing bright white spots in his peripheral, “oh, Christ, Mohinder - fuck.”
“You’re always so - eloquent, during sex,” Mohinder breathed hotly against his mouth, and smiled in a sly way that nearly blinded Peter in the dark. “It’s endearing.”
At that Peter laughed, a rare, honest sound and for a moment felt somehow weightless, exposed in ways beyond the sex. One of those love things again, or at least something alarmingly close, that had no place in bathtubs or the kind of quiet, careful sex they were having beneath old sheets, trying not to wake everyone else as Matt and Molly slept on the other side of the paper-thin bedroom walls. The kinds of things that were coming to mean more and more to him than Peter was prepared to admit, having already lost so much.
And Peter wanted to respond somehow, to echo something back, but closing his eyes again he was already coming in the space between their bodies, pressing a whine into Mohinder’s bottom lip and tugging gently at his salt-damp hair. To keep him close, or just to keep him, feeling Mohinder shudder and buck and pull him nearer with a strangled cry, each muscle in his arms and back tensing as orgasm washed visibly over his body.
They do not uncouple immediately, as Peter was used to with other lovers, older affairs, rolling over and pulling away to opposite sides of the bed, sometimes to sleep but usually to leave. Shifting stiff limbs they untangled, clumsy in the afterglow as they maneuvered onto their sides within the meager space of tub’s tapered belly, his knees framing Mohinder’s waist where their hips were still joined before he withdrew, already soft again, leaving Peter sore at the loss.
Beside him Mohinder looked tousled and somehow amazing in a way only he could achieve, eyes wet and dark and mouth full from kissing, heat reddening his cheeks and dotting his brow in sweat. Reaching up Peter brushed wayward curls from Mohinder’s forehead, and with a sigh kissed him, soft and unhurried as he waited for his breath to slow and his blood to cool.
“Can’t you stay?” Peter asked, and tried not to sound as needy as he knew he looked, already expecting the answer. “Just for a little while? Matt’s in the next room, if Molly wakes up again he can handle it.”
Hands came up to frame Peter’s face and Mohinder dipped his tongue inside his mouth. “I know,” he answered, breathing softly between Peter’s lips, “and he’s going to. And tomorrow she’s sleeping with Matt, whether either of them likes it or not.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth slanted, crookedly optimistic. “Does that mean I’m allowed to sleep in the bed?” Score one for the house-pet after all.
“Well - I think we’ll have to invest in a less noisy mattress,” Mohinder said, and smiled in a way that made Peter’s stomach tighten, “but it’s a start.”
And for now that was all he could have asked for.
Just for the record, I've never personally had hot gay sex in a clawfoot bathtub. But I'm willing to bet it's fun to watch.
Title: The clawfoot bathtub
Author: eonism
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to NBC. I'm just having a laugh at their expense
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Mohinder, Molly, Matt
Word Count: 3,170
Author's notes: Takes place after Lightning in an empty cup. General season two spoiler stuff.
Summary: There were no words that Peter wanted to use to define exactly what it was that made him stay at Mohinder’s apartment night after night, and the feeling in the core of his chest that came from stealing kisses in the backseats of cabs or in bedroom doorways when no one else was around.
It was not a sex thing.
There were no words that Peter wanted to use to define exactly what it was that made him stay at Mohinder’s apartment night after night, and the feeling in the core of his chest that came from stealing kisses in the backseats of cabs or in bedroom doorways when no one else was around. But that did not make it a sex thing. The notion was too new to contemplate, sparked by a closeness they had never shared, until now, in glances from across the kitchen table or in the brush of fingertips when Peter offered to walk with Mohinder to the grocer’s for bread and milk, and Mohinder smiled in that rare, open way that he did that made Peter’s stomach flutter tightly.
Most of all, it was not a love thing. Of all the things it wasn’t, it particularly wasn’t that.
It was about a pillow and a blanket in the clawfoot bathtub where Peter had gone to sleep. There was no empty bed or space on the sofa, taken up by the bodies already packed in the too-small apartment like sardines, stepping on toes and over toys in the living room that Matt had told Molly to pick up a thousand times a day. Peter stepped on toes just being there, he thought, taking up the meager spare room at the kitchen table when Mohinder made him coffee or tea, and on the end of the couch when he stared at the comforting glow of Molly’s Saturday morning cartoons.
Sometimes she sat beside him in her pajamas, eating Fruit Loops out of a colorful ceramic bowl filled with pink-tinged milk and asking him questions about what it was like to explode or come back to life. Peter could only shrug, and feel a little like a science fair project when giving whatever vague explanation he could before Mohinder shooed Molly away, calling upon the new “no eating on the sofa” rule when he finally ran out of excuses not to ask Peter such personal questions. It was sweet but unnecessary, and still left Peter smiling a little dopily whenever he did it, looking at Mohinder from over his shoulder as he herded his daughter back into the kitchen to sit at the table like a reasonable person.
At least Matt had finally stopped looking at Peter out of the corner of his eye as though he was going to explode. Or at the very least, pee on the rug. Sometimes Peter wondered if Matt would put him out in the hallway if given enough reason to, reduced to the place of Mohinder’s disobedient house-pet, living off of table scraps and begging for his attention.
Somewhere in the world, Peter knew Claude was probably laughing at him.
Yet anything was better than going home to an empty apartment. It was still a sore spot in Peter’s mind, bursting at self-imposed seams with Nathan’s memory like the ghost that had broken his bedroom mirror. The evidence was written out in the half-consumed, name-brand food still sitting in the refrigerator, and the family snapshots of birthday parties and bad hair cuts on the walls and scattered across the coffee table. It had stopped being his home four months ago; this was no more his home either, but this was where Mohinder was, and…well. He was all Peter really had anymore, for better or worse, and there was nowhere else he could imagine himself wanting to be.
Even for that there was no hope in finding a bed to sleep in anymore, either, with the broken metal legs of the ancient beige pull-out’s flattened mattress. The two small bedrooms were divided amongst the other two men and Molly, leaving no vacancies, except for that Mohinder’s bed provided, warm like his skin and smelling of clean cotton and aftershave. Peter laid in it sometimes, at night, when Mohinder was working at the desk in the corner of the room under the thin parameters of lamp-light, sifting through notes and laboratory reports and other carefully sorted papers that made tight lines in his brow. He liked to watch the scientist, and felt somehow at home, making silent ritual as he waited for Mohinder to switch off the light and come to bed, so Peter could run his hands beneath the misleading long-sleeved tee and lick his lips open to breathe in his breath.
Some nights Peter could stay, and others he could at least sneak in after Molly’s bedroom light was out, climbing beneath skin-warmed sheets with a whine of old springs and hands finding his hips in the dark. His body slid easily into the now familiar dip in the left side of the mattress, dry lips seeking his bottom lip as his hands traveled, fingertips carefully following the soft path of thin black hairs curling beneath Mohinder’s navel down into the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Inside the thin cotton of his briefs Mohinder lengthened against his palm, hot and soft in Peter’s hand with a swallow and a sigh.
The solution was temporary, because Mohinder’s bed was nearly always occupied midway through the night on the heel of small bare feet padding in from the next room, when Molly’s knock at his door told Peter it was time to go before Mohinder’s silent, sorry look could. And Peter took his pillow and borrowed blanket, tried not to look as pitiable as he certainly felt and retreated to the clawfoot bathtub in the next room.
“Peter?”
The creak of hinges brought Peter’s attention to the door, eyes darting across the dark bathroom to the hallway light slicing across the wall behind him. Pushing back the nest of blankets, Peter sat up. He half-expected the flip of the light switch when Mohinder carefully pushed shut the door behind him, failing to hear the turn of the lock.
“I’m sorry,” Mohinder said softly, ruffling a hand through his pillow-mussed curls as he padded over cold linoleum on bare feet. Behind him the pale blue night-light by the pedestal sink lit the small strip of floor between the wall and the tub in thin margins of light. “10-year-olds have little concept of timing, I’m afraid…”
Mohinder’s creased white t-shirt was at least one size too big for his frame, pooling around his collar bone. It slid off his slender squared shoulders and hung limply around his waist, just above the low ride of rumpled sweatpants; his hair was still disheveled looking, despite his efforts to finger-comb it back into place. In any case it made the corners of Peter’s mouth quirk fondly.
“Did you get her back to sleep?” Peter asked. His eyes followed Mohinder’s shuffling gait as he perched himself on the broad rim of the porcelain tub, and Peter tried not to look too hopeful.
“Yes,” Mohinder chuckled gently, “Finally.” Another sorry glance in Peter’s direction; it reminded him of how often he had been seeing looks like that lately. “Another nightmare. And you know how she is, insisting on sleeping with me again. Now she’s somehow wedged herself sideways across the bed. There’s barely any space left for me, I’m afraid, let alone enough to squeeze you in.”
Peter shrugged, putting a hand on Mohinder’s thigh. “Don’t worry about it,” he offered, and smiled reassuringly, “dad-stuff comes first. I’ll be fine in here.”
“Yes but it isn’t really fair to you. And I haven’t exactly made this any easier, with our…situation, as it is right now.” A sigh, canting his head to level Peter a look made far more endearing by the pajamas and pillow-hair. “You’ve been far too sweet about all of this, and it’s more than I deserve. Especially after making you sleep in the bathtub all week.”
Peter chuckled. “I’ve slept in crappier bathtubs than this,” he admitted, and gathered himself up on his knees, craning his neck to meet Mohinder’s level, “you should’ve seen where I lived when I was in college.” Brushing the tips of their noses together Peter kissed him softly with half-closed eyes. “My mom rescued me during my first semester and made me stay at home for the rest of the year. It was kinda embarrassing.”
“I imagine it would be,” Mohinder said, and laughed softly between their lips. “She seems…intimidating.”
“She is.” Winding his fingers into the fabric of Mohinder’s sleep shirt Peter pulled him closer, urging him to lean over the side of the tub until Mohinder was holding on to it for balance. “And I don’t mind the tub,” Peter said, into the spaces where their mouths did not quite touch, “Stop being a mom.”
Another soft chuckle, and when Peter drew away Mohinder followed, unexpected but not unappreciated, maneuvering his legs over the lip of the bathtub and settling down in front of the younger man.
“I would hardly call this mothering,” Mohinder defended himself with feigned sobriety. Leaning forward he kissed Peter, slowly and in full, hands coming to his face to ease him back until he was pressed into the pillow propped against the wall of the bath. With a sigh Mohinder slid his fingers into the short strands of Peter’s hair until he was poured over the length of him, their limbs rearranging themselves to fit as neatly as possible within in the narrow belly of the tub.
“Is this how you decided to make it up to me?” Peter asked, to which Mohinder smirked into the kiss with a low purr of laughter.
“Something like that.”
Peter brought his hands up, resting on Mohinder’s chest and sliding down in slow circles, under his t-shirt and passed the waistband of his sweatpants. He was surprised to be met with soft skin and wiry curls instead of cotton and elastic, the length of Mohinder’s shaft curving gently into his palm. Against his mouth Mohinder groaned, warm and straining under Peter’s touch, and opening his eyes he swallowed and sighed.
Peter meant to say something, to ask Mohinder if he was sure about this. Molly was still asleep in the next room, but Mohinder was already hard, his erection thrumming between Peter’s fingers and tongue dipping softly between his lips, his hands coming down from his face to his shoulders and back, resting on his waist. No coherent question came to mind, and as the need to even ask ebbed away in the back of his throat Peter moaned instead, shifting beneath his weight to bring his legs wide around Mohinder’s hips. Calves hooked behind the scientist and held him in place and Peter cupped his straining length, sucking his clever tongue and closing his eyes with a shiver.
Peter was sure enough of what they were doing as callused fingers slipped beneath the fall of his shirt to trace the notches of his spine, hardening in the black gym shorts he slept in as his hips flexed gently into Mohinder’s groin, breathing sharply into the space between their mouths. The friction was exploratory, teasing if anything as Mohinder drew away to set lips and teeth to Peter’s chin, audibly swallowing as he paused, as though in waiting, perhaps for his consent or further instruction. In any case Peter gave both, hands coming behind Mohinder to slide into the back of his sweats, cupping the firm curves of his ass and pushing their hips together with a low, appreciative groan.
Mouth still on Peter’s chin Mohinder chuckled, a throaty purr of a laugh, traveling like warm honey down the length of his spine. Careful wriggling and the maneuvering of deft hands brought Peter’s shorts and briefs down, pushed out of the way, letting his erection slip free. Reaching between them Mohinder palmed Peter’s neglected length, gently thumbing back his foreskin to tease across the slitted head to milk from his throat a husky grunt - “Fuck” - caught by Mohinder’s mouth and swallowed away when he sealed their lips together again.
Peter arched up his touch, a shallow, needy buck, breathing sharply into the kiss. His erection dug into Mohinder’s stomach and then his hipbone, hoping to gain some degree of friction in the heat between their bodies, the slick of pre-come already leaving a damp stripe in the fabric of his sweats. Biting at his bottom lip Peter pushed them down Mohinder’s hips to the tops of his thighs, and shivered at his throaty groan when their erections touched.
Mohinder immediately began to pull away, to pull his sweats back up in some semblance of decency as he muttered something into Peter’s mouth about lube, to which Peter shook his head. Bringing a hand up Peter licked his palm, reaching between them to wrap his fingers around Mohinder’s length, slicking him with saliva as he throbbed to his touch and let out a long, tight breath.
“You should - ah - let me help you get ready,” Mohinder breathed, pressing a groan into Peter’s bottom lip as he prepared him in sure strokes. Despite the soft censure his fingers closed around white hipbones to bring their hips into alignment, his erection sliding easily against the cleft of Peter’s ass and shifting down in the nest of sheets Peter brought his knees wider around the slink of a darker waist.
“S’okay,” Peter murmured, voice thick, and nipped at the seam of Mohinder’s mouth as the hands on his ass urged them together. “S’good like this. You won’t hurt me, I promise...”
If Mohinder had reservations they melted with a sigh and angle of his head, tracking hot kisses from the corner of Peter’s lips to his chin and beneath his jaw, finding that little spot that made his eyes close and his mouth open crookedly. Dropping a hand to guide himself inside he shifted his hips forward, pressing into the hot clasp Peter’s body offered, and beneath him Peter let out hard, dry sob, high and sharp in the relative silence the bathroom provided. Opening, shifting around the initial stretch and burn and pull of being filled he bit his lip and groaned, pulling Mohinder closer, feeling of his cock working its way inside of him carefully, mindful of the resistance and the lack of preparation.
Mohinder panted, hands tight on Peter’s hips as he took seat somewhere deep, thick and hot and so very good, and pressing his forehead to Peter’s brow, withdrew.
“Peter.” With a grunt Mohinder shuddered and shifted his knees in the nest of blankets, seeking a better angle. “You’re - you’re so - ”
“S’okay,” Peter panted, and reaching up tangled a hand in sweat-warm curls, keeping the other man there, “s’good, just - oh, god - ”
It was shallow at first, careful, because Mohinder was always so careful about things like this. It was something in his personality that Peter found himself quietly fond of since the first night he found himself in his bed, kissed and touched and rocked into the tired mattress as though he were fit to crack like glass. Mohinder could be sweet like that, in subtle ways Peter did not expect him to be and made him forget the things that still circled outside the apartment door.
An exploratory thrust, then another, bolder, sharper; Peter pushed back, holding him closer, forcing him deeper, skin on skin. A rhythm was found; fast to build in each measured buck, as deep and full as the slant of the bathtub’s edge would permit. The fabric of Mohinder’s sleep pants chafed the bared skin of Peter’s thighs but sharing a moan he forgot the mild discomfort, voices echoing softly in the otherwise empty bathroom, their bodies rocking in the cramped space afforded between the walls of the tub.
“Harder,” Peter whined, shameless, unthinking, and fingers in Mohinder’s hair he urged his head up to kiss him, open and wet and broken between fevered breaths. “Fuck - just, harder.”
“Peter - ”A slight tilt of his hips made him gasp, seeking out the angle that Mohinder knew from adequate practice made Peter’s cock leak and his ribs sweat.
“Fuck,” Peter echoed back, voice ragged, fevered, seeing bright white spots in his peripheral, “oh, Christ, Mohinder - fuck.”
“You’re always so - eloquent, during sex,” Mohinder breathed hotly against his mouth, and smiled in a sly way that nearly blinded Peter in the dark. “It’s endearing.”
At that Peter laughed, a rare, honest sound and for a moment felt somehow weightless, exposed in ways beyond the sex. One of those love things again, or at least something alarmingly close, that had no place in bathtubs or the kind of quiet, careful sex they were having beneath old sheets, trying not to wake everyone else as Matt and Molly slept on the other side of the paper-thin bedroom walls. The kinds of things that were coming to mean more and more to him than Peter was prepared to admit, having already lost so much.
And Peter wanted to respond somehow, to echo something back, but closing his eyes again he was already coming in the space between their bodies, pressing a whine into Mohinder’s bottom lip and tugging gently at his salt-damp hair. To keep him close, or just to keep him, feeling Mohinder shudder and buck and pull him nearer with a strangled cry, each muscle in his arms and back tensing as orgasm washed visibly over his body.
They do not uncouple immediately, as Peter was used to with other lovers, older affairs, rolling over and pulling away to opposite sides of the bed, sometimes to sleep but usually to leave. Shifting stiff limbs they untangled, clumsy in the afterglow as they maneuvered onto their sides within the meager space of tub’s tapered belly, his knees framing Mohinder’s waist where their hips were still joined before he withdrew, already soft again, leaving Peter sore at the loss.
Beside him Mohinder looked tousled and somehow amazing in a way only he could achieve, eyes wet and dark and mouth full from kissing, heat reddening his cheeks and dotting his brow in sweat. Reaching up Peter brushed wayward curls from Mohinder’s forehead, and with a sigh kissed him, soft and unhurried as he waited for his breath to slow and his blood to cool.
“Can’t you stay?” Peter asked, and tried not to sound as needy as he knew he looked, already expecting the answer. “Just for a little while? Matt’s in the next room, if Molly wakes up again he can handle it.”
Hands came up to frame Peter’s face and Mohinder dipped his tongue inside his mouth. “I know,” he answered, breathing softly between Peter’s lips, “and he’s going to. And tomorrow she’s sleeping with Matt, whether either of them likes it or not.”
The corner of Peter’s mouth slanted, crookedly optimistic. “Does that mean I’m allowed to sleep in the bed?” Score one for the house-pet after all.
“Well - I think we’ll have to invest in a less noisy mattress,” Mohinder said, and smiled in a way that made Peter’s stomach tighten, “but it’s a start.”
And for now that was all he could have asked for.
Just for the record, I've never personally had hot gay sex in a clawfoot bathtub. But I'm willing to bet it's fun to watch.