{ drowning in the wake of delight }
Oh sweet jesus. I actually let myself use the words "cock" and "ass" in a P/M story, :O Somebody call the cops, ya'll -- I've fallen off the fluff-wagon.
Title: Incubus (aka the dream!sex fic. 8D)
Pairing: Mohinder/Peter. Maybe.
Rating: Mature audiences.
Continuity: Somewhere in between the events of "Seven Minutes to Midnight" and "Homecoming." Yes, I realize it's dangerous to post a Heroes fic on Sunday night but I'm going to do it anyway. Canon will never crush my dreams, damnit.
Summary: It was his country and his home and his own and yet so clearly not, the small slivers of space between his perceptions and his rationality splitting wide and far in the silence.
There is love to be made
So just stay here for this while
Perhaps heart strings resuscitate
The fading sounds of your life
The fine lines dictating his sense of bearing in the world had been worn threadbare, fuzzy in the clutter of recollections skewed by time and distance and thoughts that didn’t quite match his motivations anymore. He’d come home to start over and found that secrets and lies had filled the spaces in his memories - his father, his sister, the years wasted on skirmishes and resentment - and in the dark the thoughts turned still, melding, molding into something else entirely in the edges of his rationality where the chaos continued to hum. He slept, and had felt awake; now that he was awake he felt he was still dreaming, slipping through the tears made in his family history.
It crept over the creases of his brain like that edge of thrill found in the feel of foreign fingertips, painting fleeting trepidation in the ridges of his spine and in the sense of space being distorted quietly in the corners of the room where he wasn’t supposed to notice, like the flutter of the drapes or the glow of lamplight now pale and gray in the half-night of the darkened apartment. It was his country and his home and his own and yet so clearly not, the small slivers of space between his perceptions and his rationality splitting wide and far in the silence.
The warm hands ghosting over the tops of his thighs didn’t belong here, in his room, nor did the eyes or the mouth or the slim white hips they belonged to. They belonged in New York with the man they loosely constructed, all clumsy smiles and bright eyes and fidgeting fingers that played with loose strands of dark hair when he spoke. The Petrelli boy, Peter; the eager believer who dropped on his doorstep armed with a hopeful stare and lopsided smirk and his dead father’s theories, plucked from his recent history on the other side of the earth like a vision cobbled from the edges of his restive mind, too much, too good to be true.
He hadn’t thought about him since he’d left New York - at least that’s what he assured himself, chasing away lazy mental equations about the angles of artless eyes and timid smiles - watching him stand washed out and wide-eyed beneath the blinking fluorescent light of the trembling carriage car where he’d last known him. The night in the subway, when he’d taken him by the hand and tried to show him, to tell him, speaking of fate and the future and of wild stories about time-travelers and cheerleaders. Before Mohinder had ducked beneath the safety of a callous remark and turned away to retreat, back to his dead father’s cluttered apartment to nurse his emotional wounds. To pack his bags and go back to India, and not have to think about the future or destiny or the desperate look in hazel eyes.
And seeing him, here, now, it pricked of a guilt that somehow felt long overdue in the static that hung between them, a tributary of silence made from the ocean he’d left in the subway car that night.
When the other man appeared it was without a whisper, a thought, as though he’d been there intrinsically, within the paint on the walls and the grain of the hardwood floors. He seemed to slip in out of the dark, slender form cut from the shadows at his back, round eyes lit up from beneath black hair like a spray of fireworks in the sullen bands of moonlight filtering through the drapes. He didn’t speak, not at first; just parted the hush on the heels of footfalls that never broke the silence and ghosted the soft pads of thumb over the sheer angles of mahogany jaw that somehow felt at home on Mohinder’s skin.
In another time, another country, in any other state of mind he would’ve resisted the touch of the American boy’s skin, ducked away and defaulted behind an offhand remark. Shrug it off and file it away, stuck on the shelf with everything else that threatened to slip past the tenuous safeguards he’d built up between him and the world that had all-too-often seen him as the useless son of a crackpot theorist. But the look of promise in eyes blown wide in the intermittent dark threatened to suck him into their depths like a sweet/soft event horizon, peeling at the edges of his already thinning defense mechanisms like strips of electrical tape. Pulling him in over their edge, unwound thread by thread on their revolving precipice.
Without words he somehow understands this, whatever this is, putting a name on the hum of chaos looping inside his skull with the brush of soft hands and eyes that seem endless in the silence. And despite his own better judgment, a part of him wanted to believe that, just for one night. Meek kisses on the edges of his lips are quiet and full of a trust that feels somehow at home in the dark; after everything that’s happened - spreading his father’s ashes, the dreams, the discovery of his long-dead sister whose place in his father’s eyes he’d had no hope of filling - he just can’t summon the resolve to turn them away.
Hands seek the heat of skin and encircling a slim waist he licks along the softness of palate and a keen pink tongue, to pull a throaty sound from behind the teeth clacking so gently to his. Led by warm hands he finds himself guided towards the bed and doesn’t resist it, two pairs of legs shifting backwards in time until the backs of his thighs bump into the firm obstacle the mattress imposed to send them both across the duvet, a tangle of arms and hands and mated mouths and slender thighs pitched haphazardly over his hips. His hands clasp around the curves of hipbone and he disentangles himself long enough to bring them both upright, hoisting Peter up by his waist to straddle his lap. His fingers slip beneath the protective fall of thin black t-shirt to trace the contours of a body still foreign and new, roaming over the ridges of spine and the angles of flexed white back as the boy who shouldn’t have been here bent forward to ghost his teeth over the ridge of Mohinder’s bottom lip.
“I know I shouldn’t have come here,” he murmurs, and it’s a sweetly sorry sound. Cupping the sides of Mohinder’s face he stops to rest his forehead against his, his breathing a softly assuring metronome in the silence, and smoothing fallen strands from bottomless eyes Mohinder kissed his chin and the corners of his mouth to taste the salted sweetness of his skin. “You don’t have to believe me, if you still don’t want to…I just didn’t know if I’d see you again...” He didn’t know what to believe anymore and slipping black t-shirt from pale shoulders he didn’t care, tossing it away to capture soft lips in a kiss that will certainly bruise in the morning before fixing his teeth on the hollows of a long white throat.
It didn’t really matter what he believed; not with warm hands on his skin and his mouth on the column of soft smooth neck.
Fingers tighten over buttons, tangle in the loose folds of fabric. Lips and tongue paint constellations over the shallow definitions of long flat torso, the hands gripping at his back and shoulders locking, caught between the urge to crush their bodies together and yet pull him over himself like a second skin, just disappear inside him and hide away. What he’s hiding from he doesn’t know and doesn’t dare ask, and like everything else about Peter the gesture is artless and desperate and somehow endearing in ways he can’t bring himself to question when they’re this close.
Shirt falls to the floor; belts and shoes are kicked aside. Salt sweetens the slide of pale fingertips over the edges of sun-kissed skin as reedy whispers punctuate the silence, and flies half-undone slacken around hips that pivot against one another in a desperate gravitational pull. Peter kisses him like a man half-starved, open and wet and hungry for something, anything that he could to give him, all tongue and eager lips and soft stubble sandpapering his cheek and chin. Mohinder possessively grasped at the angles of hipbone to keep close the sharp roll of half-clothed groin to his own, making white skin his beneath the bruising flush his hands will leave behind long after morning comes, like the points of a map leading him back to this mouth and these hands and those dark and bottomless eyes.
Dipping his fingers beneath the meager protection of denim waistband to hug the soft curves of Peter’s hips and ass he pulls a keening sound from the mouth so enrapt with his own, soft thighs tensing around his cock so tight that it sends fire in thick lines up and down the length of his spine and there’s the sudden sharp lack of that artlessness makes his teeth clench with an impulsive buck of his hips.
In transitions made smoother by the slickness of skin they trade places with Peter beneath him, and with two quick tugs and the maneuvering of angling hips and impatient hands all clothes are discarded, tossed aside to join everything else. Needy fingers dive across his scalp to push the salt-slick curls from his face and after a few deep kisses Peter slips his teeth over the ridge of his bottom lip and pulls Mohinder down over him, arms and legs slipping around him, folding around his neck and waist in a velvet coil. Hips slide into alignment on an axis all their own, the inherent geometry of thighs and chests and groins juxtaposed and interchanged in the sleekness of sweat and wet kisses and tongues that lapped at the edges of shoulders and collarbones and flat toned stomachs.
He kisses the angles of throat and chin and beneath him his boy is beautiful, lips bruised and spit-shinned and his eyes as dark and boundless in paling strips of moonlight as they had been in the static fluorescence of that train car in New York however many dreamless nights ago. Pale fingers find his, hands threaded together in slender stripes of white and brown and sinking to the hilt into that tense and needy and knowing heat he realizes just what he had left behind.
When he hears Peter whispering his name like a prayer in the dark, he knows a part of him never really left.
&&&
When Peter awakes in a plane high above the empty Texas plains he knows he is alone again, save the dull humming behind his eye sockets and the taste of salt lingering on the corners of his mouth. The world around him lurches, then rights itself around his field of vision; just where he’s been dreaming he doesn’t yet know, but as dark brows knit over sleep-dimmed eyes errant fingers stray, tracing the edges of his still-tingling lips as they move to make the name of the man whose dreams he’d slipped into.
And somewhere in the world Mohinder wakes, and watching strips of moonlight through the bedroom curtains thinks of dark eyes.
x-posted to heroes_slash and peter_mohinder
Title: Incubus (aka the dream!sex fic. 8D)
Pairing: Mohinder/Peter. Maybe.
Rating: Mature audiences.
Continuity: Somewhere in between the events of "Seven Minutes to Midnight" and "Homecoming." Yes, I realize it's dangerous to post a Heroes fic on Sunday night but I'm going to do it anyway. Canon will never crush my dreams, damnit.
Summary: It was his country and his home and his own and yet so clearly not, the small slivers of space between his perceptions and his rationality splitting wide and far in the silence.
There is love to be made
So just stay here for this while
Perhaps heart strings resuscitate
The fading sounds of your life
The fine lines dictating his sense of bearing in the world had been worn threadbare, fuzzy in the clutter of recollections skewed by time and distance and thoughts that didn’t quite match his motivations anymore. He’d come home to start over and found that secrets and lies had filled the spaces in his memories - his father, his sister, the years wasted on skirmishes and resentment - and in the dark the thoughts turned still, melding, molding into something else entirely in the edges of his rationality where the chaos continued to hum. He slept, and had felt awake; now that he was awake he felt he was still dreaming, slipping through the tears made in his family history.
It crept over the creases of his brain like that edge of thrill found in the feel of foreign fingertips, painting fleeting trepidation in the ridges of his spine and in the sense of space being distorted quietly in the corners of the room where he wasn’t supposed to notice, like the flutter of the drapes or the glow of lamplight now pale and gray in the half-night of the darkened apartment. It was his country and his home and his own and yet so clearly not, the small slivers of space between his perceptions and his rationality splitting wide and far in the silence.
The warm hands ghosting over the tops of his thighs didn’t belong here, in his room, nor did the eyes or the mouth or the slim white hips they belonged to. They belonged in New York with the man they loosely constructed, all clumsy smiles and bright eyes and fidgeting fingers that played with loose strands of dark hair when he spoke. The Petrelli boy, Peter; the eager believer who dropped on his doorstep armed with a hopeful stare and lopsided smirk and his dead father’s theories, plucked from his recent history on the other side of the earth like a vision cobbled from the edges of his restive mind, too much, too good to be true.
He hadn’t thought about him since he’d left New York - at least that’s what he assured himself, chasing away lazy mental equations about the angles of artless eyes and timid smiles - watching him stand washed out and wide-eyed beneath the blinking fluorescent light of the trembling carriage car where he’d last known him. The night in the subway, when he’d taken him by the hand and tried to show him, to tell him, speaking of fate and the future and of wild stories about time-travelers and cheerleaders. Before Mohinder had ducked beneath the safety of a callous remark and turned away to retreat, back to his dead father’s cluttered apartment to nurse his emotional wounds. To pack his bags and go back to India, and not have to think about the future or destiny or the desperate look in hazel eyes.
And seeing him, here, now, it pricked of a guilt that somehow felt long overdue in the static that hung between them, a tributary of silence made from the ocean he’d left in the subway car that night.
When the other man appeared it was without a whisper, a thought, as though he’d been there intrinsically, within the paint on the walls and the grain of the hardwood floors. He seemed to slip in out of the dark, slender form cut from the shadows at his back, round eyes lit up from beneath black hair like a spray of fireworks in the sullen bands of moonlight filtering through the drapes. He didn’t speak, not at first; just parted the hush on the heels of footfalls that never broke the silence and ghosted the soft pads of thumb over the sheer angles of mahogany jaw that somehow felt at home on Mohinder’s skin.
In another time, another country, in any other state of mind he would’ve resisted the touch of the American boy’s skin, ducked away and defaulted behind an offhand remark. Shrug it off and file it away, stuck on the shelf with everything else that threatened to slip past the tenuous safeguards he’d built up between him and the world that had all-too-often seen him as the useless son of a crackpot theorist. But the look of promise in eyes blown wide in the intermittent dark threatened to suck him into their depths like a sweet/soft event horizon, peeling at the edges of his already thinning defense mechanisms like strips of electrical tape. Pulling him in over their edge, unwound thread by thread on their revolving precipice.
Without words he somehow understands this, whatever this is, putting a name on the hum of chaos looping inside his skull with the brush of soft hands and eyes that seem endless in the silence. And despite his own better judgment, a part of him wanted to believe that, just for one night. Meek kisses on the edges of his lips are quiet and full of a trust that feels somehow at home in the dark; after everything that’s happened - spreading his father’s ashes, the dreams, the discovery of his long-dead sister whose place in his father’s eyes he’d had no hope of filling - he just can’t summon the resolve to turn them away.
Hands seek the heat of skin and encircling a slim waist he licks along the softness of palate and a keen pink tongue, to pull a throaty sound from behind the teeth clacking so gently to his. Led by warm hands he finds himself guided towards the bed and doesn’t resist it, two pairs of legs shifting backwards in time until the backs of his thighs bump into the firm obstacle the mattress imposed to send them both across the duvet, a tangle of arms and hands and mated mouths and slender thighs pitched haphazardly over his hips. His hands clasp around the curves of hipbone and he disentangles himself long enough to bring them both upright, hoisting Peter up by his waist to straddle his lap. His fingers slip beneath the protective fall of thin black t-shirt to trace the contours of a body still foreign and new, roaming over the ridges of spine and the angles of flexed white back as the boy who shouldn’t have been here bent forward to ghost his teeth over the ridge of Mohinder’s bottom lip.
“I know I shouldn’t have come here,” he murmurs, and it’s a sweetly sorry sound. Cupping the sides of Mohinder’s face he stops to rest his forehead against his, his breathing a softly assuring metronome in the silence, and smoothing fallen strands from bottomless eyes Mohinder kissed his chin and the corners of his mouth to taste the salted sweetness of his skin. “You don’t have to believe me, if you still don’t want to…I just didn’t know if I’d see you again...” He didn’t know what to believe anymore and slipping black t-shirt from pale shoulders he didn’t care, tossing it away to capture soft lips in a kiss that will certainly bruise in the morning before fixing his teeth on the hollows of a long white throat.
It didn’t really matter what he believed; not with warm hands on his skin and his mouth on the column of soft smooth neck.
Fingers tighten over buttons, tangle in the loose folds of fabric. Lips and tongue paint constellations over the shallow definitions of long flat torso, the hands gripping at his back and shoulders locking, caught between the urge to crush their bodies together and yet pull him over himself like a second skin, just disappear inside him and hide away. What he’s hiding from he doesn’t know and doesn’t dare ask, and like everything else about Peter the gesture is artless and desperate and somehow endearing in ways he can’t bring himself to question when they’re this close.
Shirt falls to the floor; belts and shoes are kicked aside. Salt sweetens the slide of pale fingertips over the edges of sun-kissed skin as reedy whispers punctuate the silence, and flies half-undone slacken around hips that pivot against one another in a desperate gravitational pull. Peter kisses him like a man half-starved, open and wet and hungry for something, anything that he could to give him, all tongue and eager lips and soft stubble sandpapering his cheek and chin. Mohinder possessively grasped at the angles of hipbone to keep close the sharp roll of half-clothed groin to his own, making white skin his beneath the bruising flush his hands will leave behind long after morning comes, like the points of a map leading him back to this mouth and these hands and those dark and bottomless eyes.
Dipping his fingers beneath the meager protection of denim waistband to hug the soft curves of Peter’s hips and ass he pulls a keening sound from the mouth so enrapt with his own, soft thighs tensing around his cock so tight that it sends fire in thick lines up and down the length of his spine and there’s the sudden sharp lack of that artlessness makes his teeth clench with an impulsive buck of his hips.
In transitions made smoother by the slickness of skin they trade places with Peter beneath him, and with two quick tugs and the maneuvering of angling hips and impatient hands all clothes are discarded, tossed aside to join everything else. Needy fingers dive across his scalp to push the salt-slick curls from his face and after a few deep kisses Peter slips his teeth over the ridge of his bottom lip and pulls Mohinder down over him, arms and legs slipping around him, folding around his neck and waist in a velvet coil. Hips slide into alignment on an axis all their own, the inherent geometry of thighs and chests and groins juxtaposed and interchanged in the sleekness of sweat and wet kisses and tongues that lapped at the edges of shoulders and collarbones and flat toned stomachs.
He kisses the angles of throat and chin and beneath him his boy is beautiful, lips bruised and spit-shinned and his eyes as dark and boundless in paling strips of moonlight as they had been in the static fluorescence of that train car in New York however many dreamless nights ago. Pale fingers find his, hands threaded together in slender stripes of white and brown and sinking to the hilt into that tense and needy and knowing heat he realizes just what he had left behind.
When he hears Peter whispering his name like a prayer in the dark, he knows a part of him never really left.
&&&
When Peter awakes in a plane high above the empty Texas plains he knows he is alone again, save the dull humming behind his eye sockets and the taste of salt lingering on the corners of his mouth. The world around him lurches, then rights itself around his field of vision; just where he’s been dreaming he doesn’t yet know, but as dark brows knit over sleep-dimmed eyes errant fingers stray, tracing the edges of his still-tingling lips as they move to make the name of the man whose dreams he’d slipped into.
And somewhere in the world Mohinder wakes, and watching strips of moonlight through the bedroom curtains thinks of dark eyes.
x-posted to heroes_slash and peter_mohinder