fearless, effusive and full of grace for shuiraya
Title: fearless, effusive and full of grace
Recipient: shuiraya
Author: ?
Characters: Mohinder/Peter
Rating: NC17
Summary: Mohinder needs a night off, even if he doesn't know it, and Peter's determined to see that he takes it.
Notes: Set roughly two years in the future. AU premised around a departure from canon after 1.11.
"I can tell you this about the boy. He was fearless. He was effusive. And he was full of grace.
"So maybe it was just greed that made Batman take him? Maybe it was sympathy for his situation? Recognition?
"Maybe no good general would turn down the opportunity to implement a gifted soldier.
"Or maybe the Dark Knight knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that he couldn't face the entirety of his mission alone." - Tim Drake (Robin), reading a file on Dick Grayson (Nightwing), written by Bruce Wayne (Batman); Devin Grayson, Gotham Knights #10, p. 11.
* * *
Of all them, Mohinder works the hardest. Painstaking research, unobtrusive observation, long planning of whether, when and how to approach, then the quiet and almost always successful bid to bring in the new recruit. If Nathan is a shark, opportunistic and brutal, Mohinder is a panther, patient and ruthless.
It's not a perfect metaphor, but there are others.
Claire says Mohinder is Giles, but then, she thinks she's Buffy. They argue over who is more special, but in the end, she always smiles her wry, sad, far-too-wise smile and tells Peter he is her Angel. Only their curse isn't a gypsy's revenge but shared blood. No chance of them having that world-ending moment of perfect happiness. If only she knew. Sometimes Peter thinks she's the only one who doesn't know about him and Nathan. But then he remembers that only Mohinder really knows for sure.
That is Mohinder's function. To know things. He is the Seeker.
Hiro says that makes him Professor Xavier to Hiro's Nightcrawler, Claire's Wolverine, and Nathan's Northstar. Nathan hates when Hiro says that, because he is not gay. Peter just rolls his eyes, because Nathan is also not a homophobe, it's just his politician showing. They all know Isaac is Destiny, no question there, and Hiro tells Peter that he is Rogue or Synch, but Peter's seen the movie. He's Jean Grey, with the potential for the Dark Phoenix always inside him, if anyone. They try not to talk about it, but since the last encounter with Sylar, no one really argues with him when he says it anymore. He almost killed Nathan, which he supposes makes Nathan Cyclops. Nathan likes that metaphor better but mostly because he's jealous of Mohinder's influence.
No one remembers how it began, Nathan vying with Mohinder for the leadership he never sought. It seems it has always been that way.
It makes Peter think of the Justice League from the comics he began reading with the patient before Simone's dad and never stopped. Claire as a young Wonder Woman, their integrity and compassion. Hiro as their Green Arrow, as warm and clever as he is dedicated. Nathan as a dark Superman, their brash strength and determination. And Mohinder as a lighter Batman, unpowered but unparalleled in his detective skills and charismatic in his silences. Isaac teases that this makes Peter Superboy, but he leaves off the Prime, just like he never mentions Jean Grey or Sylar in Peter's hearing. But Peter knows that he is really Nightwing, who hero-worships Clark and aches with need for Bruce.
Peter likes this metaphor the best, though it, also, is not perfect. At least it gives him the right to do what he is about to.
Mohinder may be almost as focused as Bruce, but Peter is even more shameless than Dick, and he has been planning this for weeks. Their Batman works too hard, and he is taking Christmas Eve off. He needs it.
* * *
Laden with gifts, Peter arrives at Mohinder's at precisely six o'clock. Mohinder dislikes tardiness, and it feels like punctuality, even if he is not expected. He hums "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," though it is not his favorite; the tune is jauntier than either "O Come All Ye Faithful" or "O Holy Night," and he is in a jaunty mood.
Though he has a key, Peter knocks. The idea that Mohinder might have guests seems ridiculous, but he didn't call ahead, and he was raised to be courteous.
Mohinder answers the door wearing the orange shirt. No one should look good in that color orange, but Mohinder does. The contrast makes his skin tone richer, his teeth whiter, and when he smiles, Peter falls into those chocolate brown fuck me eyes, and wonders how he got so damned lucky.
"Hi." His eyes feel too bright and his smile lopsided, but Mohinder always makes him feel like a kid at Christmas. Until he makes him feel whole and sexy and wanted just for him. "My mom made cookies-" Lie, he made them himself, but that would pose too much obligation too soon, and he doesn't need Mohinder to thank him for the gingerbread men. Just to let him in. "And she said to take some to that 'nice Indian boy you and Nathan spend so much time with.'"
Mohinder arches one eyebrow. "'Nice Indian boy.' Not Nathan's description, I take it?" The hint of bitterness in that warm-sexy voice is nothing new and Mohinder doesn't mean to flay old wounds. Peter knows this. Mohinder is far too pragmatic to dwell on what cannot be changed; he has long since encompassed Peter's relationship with Nathan, even if it can't be said that he has accepted it.
Ducking his head, Peter demurs. "Nathan's not here." But I am. "Can I come in?"
Mohinder steps back from the doorway, giving Peter a chance to appreciate the way bright orange flattens over his trim stomach to tuck into jeans that fit, oh god, too well, everywhere. It's not fair that any one man should be this sexy.
Peter's cheeks flush and he drops his gaze to high-arched bare feet kissing worn wood floors. Even the man's toes are sexy.
When he looks up again, the hurt is gone from Mohinder's face. His mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile, and his eyes sparkle with laughter. "I thought you wanted to come in."
"I do," he says, letting his fingers trail across Mohinder's torso on his way by.
After he hangs his jacket on the coat rack, Peter heads for the kitchen. Behind him, the bolt slips into the lock, the chain rattles into place - they can't be too careful, though it wouldn't stop Sylar or half-a-dozen of the other metas who might be after them. But they have learned to take nothing for granted.
Nothing of their safety, Peter amends, as he looks around Mohinder's kitchen. Empty pizza boxes on the counters, take-out containers in the overflowing trash, rinsed but unwashed dishes in the sink. He shakes his head and gives Mohinder a chiding look over his shoulder.
Now it's Mohinder's turn for embarrassment. He drags long fingers through his hair, kissable mouth shaped in a rueful half-smile. "I've been busy."
For someone so subtle, he has, definitely, mastered the statement of the obvious. "When aren't you?"
Unlike the rest of the kitchen, the little table is tidy. A stack of papers sits next to Mohinder's laptop. Two pens and a highlighter lay beside them, in straight perfect lines, because they wouldn't dare disrupt Mohinder's orderly thoughts by being crooked or out of place. The pens make him grin, and when Peter sets down the bag with Mohinder's gifts, he makes sure to angle one ten degrees with the brush of his little finger.
The cookies go on top of the fridge, and Peter is humming again while he tidies up.
"You don't need to do that."
"Want to," Peter replies, and he does. Taking care of Mohinder is a Peter thing. Not a hero thing, or a politician's brother thing.
When Mohinder sits, he straddles the chair and rests his chin on his forearms. Dark eyes follow Peter's movements, then snag on the crooked pen. Peter knows the instant it happens, because Mohinder grimaces and reaches out to straighten it.
Laughing, Peter tilts his head toward the small shopping bag. His bangs fall in his face, and he pushes them away. "Go on, open them."
"It's not Christmas yet."
"You don't celebrate Christmas."
"And yet-" Mohinder's smile is wicked. "You bought me Christmas presents. Logic dictates I should treat them as such."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Plenty of families open their gifts on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning."
He realizes what he's said at the same time Mohinder does, and when their gazes lock, there's a new warmth there. Of course, they are family, all of them, but tonight at least, it's just he and Mohinder.
"Very well." Lifting the bag with both hands, Mohinder tilts his head to look at Peter as though something has just occurred to him. He sets the sack down again, closer to him. "Speaking of families, Peter, shouldn't you be with yours this evening?"
Making busy with the trash, Peter lets his gaze slide off Mohinder's beautiful face. "Nathan dragged Heidi out to a function and shipped the kids off with Micah, Niki and DL. Mom has half-a-dozen parties tonight." He shrugs. "I'd rather be with you."
"I have to work, Peter." Mohinder protests but the vowels are liquid, the consonants soft.
"I know. I'll be quiet. I just want to be here." That he has no intention of being quiet -- unless Mohinder orders him to before he spits him on his thick, walnut brown cock - matters not at all. "And anyway, you have to eat, don't you?"
"There's literally nothing here."
Peter loves the way he says "litra-ly" instead of "literally." Despite the slurring of the word, it sounds elegant. Like the man.
"I thought you might say that." Pulling out his cell, Peter hits redial, leans back against the counter on his elbows and gives Mohinder a cheeky grin. "Quit stalling and open your presents. I'm on it."
Outflanked, Mohinder sighs, and Peter watches from under his lashes while he lifts each box from the brown paper bag. Unlike Nathan who weighs and shakes and listens to packages, Mohinder doesn't try to guess, or at least he doesn't seem to. Just sets them on the blue and white checked tablecloth before folding the bag in thirds and holding it out to Peter.
It amuses him that Mohinder let the kitchen get to this state, but when Peter is there to make him attentive to his mundane surroundings, he folds the trash as crisply as he does his laundry.
Tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Peter takes the bag. A woman greets him, apologizing for having put him directly on hold, and asks, in thickly accented English, how she may help. "Uh huh, hi, this is Peter Petrelli. I called earlier?"
Mohinder glances up from carefully unwinding the metallic green and silver ribbon from the larger of two flat boxes, this one wrapped in festive metallic red. He waggles his fingers, go on, open it, at the same time as he tells the hostess, "Yes, that's the one," when she confirms Mohinder's address.
While Mohinder works the top off the box, she rattles off the order. Eyes all for Mohinder, Peter replies, "Yeah. About how long?"
Twenty minutes, she estimates. He almost asks her to hold it so he'll have time to blow his lover before dinner, but Mohinder is humoring him now, and there's no telling how long that'll last before he insists on getting back to work. Peter can seduce him out of it by going his knees, but he prefers enthusiastic participation to reluctant permission.
"Great," he tells the hostess instead. "Put a 25% tip on the card I gave you." It's Christmas Eve after all.
Snapping the phone shut with the muffled clack of industrial plastic, Peter exhales slow around an even slower smile. Mohinder's fingertips caress the cream-colored raw silk of the shirt Peter knows will fit him like a second skin.
"It's lovely, Peter, thank you."
Usually when people say that, it's sort of a blow-off, but from Mohinder it's more like a confession of intimate gratitude. And, sure, Peter knows some of that is the warmth of his accent, but some of it is that Mohinder doesn't say things he doesn't mean. Sometimes Peter thinks he's constitutionally incapable of it - most often when Peter wishes he'd bend a little, like when Nathan gets to ranting and Mohinder is being tactless.
But Nathan is not here, and they are. "I'm glad you like it. You'll be sexy as hell in it," he blurts out, then shakes his head to hide his grin.
"When am I not?" Mohinder teases, because he can. Because he knows that the slightest show of dominance makes Peter hard for him.
"Never." The word comes out soft, and the admission feels staggering, even though Mohinder already knows.
He turns his back on Mohinder's soul-baring gaze and gets to work on the dishes. "Open the other flat one next." It's by far the more personal of the remaining two, and he thinks Mohinder may appreciate him being busy when he opens it.
Over the running water, Peter hears the white paper crinkling. Mohinder will be slipping off the gold and purple ribbons - traditional Easter colors, not Christmas, but the symbolism of death and resurrection pleases Peter, even if Mohinder does not recognize it. He might, though; he knows a shocking number of things Peter can't imagine he has a use for.
The paper crackles then sort of shushes, which will be the sound of Mohinder folding it. The box lid makes a slightly deeper noise, one Peter has no name for, but recognizes as flexing cardboard.
Even the burble of water and scrape of the dish sponge don't cover the catch in Mohinder's breath or the choked sob, and Peter doesn't need to look to know that his long fingers caress the carved wood frame with it red-faced image of Yama, god of death. He doesn't need to see Mohinder's face to know the grief in it. Peter sets a clean plate in the drying rack and picks up the next, turning up the water to give Mohinder the illusion, if not the actuality, of privacy.
It is not until Peter is putting the last dish in the rack and turning off the water that Mohinder speaks. "Where did you…?"
He glances over his shoulder while he dries his hands on a dishtowel; it has seen better days. "Your mother."
Mohinder's back tightens. "I wish you had not-"
"I didn't." He lets his mouth curve into a dirty-secret smile. "Your colleague at the university, Professor Blowhard, got it for me."
"He's not so bad, Peter." An unwilling laugh loosens the muscles of Mohinder's back. Not enough, it's never enough, because Mohinder stores his stress in upper back and biceps. But Peter knows how to fix that. It's what the third present is for.
"Maybe." He doesn't tell Mohinder about the bitter lecture he'd been treated to about Chandra Suresh, or how he'd had to grit his teeth just to make it to the part of the phone call where the pompous jackass finally agreed to ask Mohinder's mother for the photograph.
Instead, because he knows dinner will be here any minute, he lets himself down onto the chair behind Mohinder. Spreads his thighs wide around Mohinder's hips, and wraps his arms around his waist, face pressed between knotted erector spinae muscles just to breathe him in. "It was presumptuous, I know, but…" But I love you and you drive yourself too hard to make a dead man proud. "He's important to you."
Nathan would flinch away, as much from the vulnerability in his words as from the uninvited physical contact or the press of his cock to Nathan's ass. Inhaling deeply, Mohinder just covers his hands with one of his own. "I was nine years-old in that picture, just home from school. Excited to show my father the new skills I had learned in soccer. He rarely made the time to spend with me, even then, and when he did, it always felt-"
The buzzer sounds and Peter slides off the chair to his feet. "Like a holiday?" he says with a soft smile.
"All right, you've made your point." Mohinder isn't as annoyed as he sounds, but it's twice in one night Peter's outmaneuvered him, and he hates that Peter can be this manipulative. Peter will take the momentary spurt of anger, if it means Mohinder will take at least tonight off. "Get the door."
"Going. You can unwrap the last box. It's nothing special." It's not. Sandalwood-scented massage oil. Yeah, he had it custom-blended so that it won't make Mohinder's satiny skin greasy, but still, it's the implications that are meaningful and Mohinder won't miss them.
When he lets the delivery driver in, Peter is humming "We Three Kings." It may not be as jaunty as "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," but it feels appropriate.
* * *
Over dinner from their favorite Indian place, Raja Rani, Peter relents a little. They talk about work, the two recruits Mohinder's been studying, because Mohinder will relax more easily if Peter lets him unspool the threads of his thoughts. One is a woman, a few years younger than Niki, with abilities in the same class as Peter's. Only instead of sharing by borrowing, she shares by giving - in this case, giving life energy to plants, animals, anything that grows. The other is just a kid, a fire starter or pyrokinetic.
Mohinder thinks Pamela can learn to use her abilities for healing, but he's not happy about Rafael. Peter suggests Claude; his rough discipline taught Peter control, and Peter offers himself as an object lesson in what can happen if Rafael won't learn to channel his power. For a minute, it seems Mohinder will object, will tell Peter no. He never likes when Peter puts himself in danger. But he doesn't. In the end he nods, and suggests Peter bring Claire along, just in case the boy gets crazed at their approach.
It's such a perfectly Mohinder moment, mental aikido of such amazing grace, that Peter cannot help but smile as he clears away the dishes. And when he's finished washing them, he presses an open-mouthed sloppy-wet kiss to the back of Mohinder's neck. "I'll be careful, I promise."
Mohinder reaches up, threads his fingers through the back of Peter's hair. "Thank you," he murmurs, by which Peter knows he really means please.
"C'mon." Peter nips the point of Mohinder's ear. "Let's go test out your Christmas present. You're tense."
"If I have work to do?" His rich spiced chai voice melts Peter with its warmth.
The protest is pro forma, but Peter answers anyhow, unbuttoning the top two buttons of the orange shirt and slipping his hands inside. "Then I'll sprawl facedown-naked on the couch and cast lust-filled glances at you from across the room until you don't, or until you can't anymore."
Mohinder's chest rises on a long inhale, and Peter palms down it until his face is buried in the crook of his throat again. "And if I manage to resist your come-hither wiles?"
Too late for that; he is already shifting, softening under Peter's touch. The only question remaining: how long he will let Peter stay in control. Still, Peter smiles into warm brown skin. "Then I'll come thither and straddle your lap, until you cup your hands around my bare ass and drag my leaking cock against the rough orange cotton of your shirt."
A soft growl, and then Mohinder rises. He holds out his hand for Peter's, and when Peter takes it, lacing their fingers together and scooping up the massage oil with his other hand, Mohinder gives him a heated gonna fuck you slow and deep stare. "I can't have you ruining my favorite shirt. I suppose we'll have to take it off."
Hot, liquid desire pools in his belly, so intense it steals his breath. Mohinder has always been able to do this, turn him inside out with a look. Peter might resent it, if he didn't know Mohinder could fuck him right again. "We should probably get rid of your jeans, too."
"I am rather fond of them."
Mohinder's small apartment seems the length of a football field, or maybe it's just that he's wanted this, skin-on-skin, his hands on his lover's beautiful body since before the gingerbread browned. By the time they make the few short steps to the bedroom, the pads of his fingers itch with the need to touch. They feel clumsy and leaden over the buttons of first Mohinder's shirt and then his own.
Mohinder has to rescue their shirts from the floor, because Peter is too busy skimming his fingers over tight pecs, flat nipples, toned abs to care. Jeans and boxer-briefs join the tidy pile on the dresser, and it is all Peter can do not to sink to his knees right there and swallow down that gorgeous cock until the blunt head rubs the back of his throat.
"On the bed, face down," Peter says on a breathy whisper.
"It can wait."
He looks up into eyes gone full-dark with need and shakes his head. "Massage first."
Mohinder laughs, but it comes out a growl. "Peter…"
"Please. I want to." His voice sounds stronger, and he's proud of that.
With a tilt of his head, Mohinder catches Peter's gaze. What he sees there, Peter isn't sure. Desire, determination, love, he feels them all, but whatever it is Mohinder sees, it has him nodding.
Mohinder prowls toward the bed, that's the only word for the sleek movement, then stretches decadently over the down duvet Peter insisted on buying after the first winter night in this place. The chill doesn't touch them now, but by morning, without it, their teeth would be chattering.
Box springs older than Peter is groan when Peter crawls up behind Mohinder. He idly adds "mattress set" to the list of things he'll buy Mohinder in the coming year, but he is far too busy drinking in the sight of Mohinder arrayed before him in perfect trust to care about the busted spring poking him in the knee. Six feet of chocolate brown satin stretched over whipcord strength, his to touch and kiss and rub himself over? It's better than the train set Peter begged an entire year for when he was twelve and spent the whole week after Christmas building one track at a time with Nathan. He almost doesn't know where to touch first.
Even while he opens the massage oil and pours it into his hands, Peter is straddling Mohinder, knees embracing lean hips. Giddiness waves over him, probably inspired by the sweep of his already leaking cock over the taut muscle of Mohinder's ass, and he has to close his eyes for several meditative breaths of sandalwood and musk before he calms again.
It's not as though he's never seen or touched the man before, not as though they haven't been lovers for two years already. They just haven't had much time lately, and the idea of an entire night for lovemaking bubbles through Peter, extravagant and sensual, like the Krystal his other family no doubt drinks, even as the heels of his hands press into the curve of Mohinder's lower back.
Long muscles stretch under the upward strokes, and Peter's eyelids fall shut again to the sound of soft, pleased groans. He puts his entire body into each stroke: grounding Mohinder with the squeeze of his thighs, arousing him with the slick skid of his erection, relaxing him bit by bit with knowing hands, and loving him with the occasional press of his lips to shoulder, neck, even his cheeks when he moves back up the bed from working the knots out of corded calves.
That, the woodsy sweetness of the massage oil over the satin curve of his lover's tight ass proves almost too much. He wants to spread Mohinder's thighs and bury his face there, licking and fingering until Mohinder invites him inside. He could, Mohinder likes to let him sometimes - though, Peter suspects its just one more way of tying strings to him. Still, he bucks and moans for Peter's cock, and Peter wants the strings. They pull both ways.
He could, but he doesn't, though he does press his thumbs between Mohinder's thighs and slide them up through the crack of his ass. And he does play over the entrance, slick, scented fingertip circling and teasing until Mohinder growls and grabs the pillow at his head.
Hearing his refined, intellectual lover reduced to primal animal sounds has Peter up on his hands and knees, breath catching on a whimper, before he's even thinking about the fact Mohinder's beneath him. Mohinder seizes the opportunity to roll and pull Peter down to him.
No sooner do their chests touch than Mohinder's lips part and reach for Peter's. It's been so long, too long, god he needs him so much -- Peter keens into Mohinder's mouth. And when Mohinder's fingers tangle in his hair to force their mouths together, he opens, willing and so needy.
And suddenly finishing the massage seems like a waste of valuable time, time that could be spent with Mohinder's dick filling him up, soothing the empty ache of not enough, never enough, yoursyoursyours. Peter whines and shifts restlessly against the hand at his lower back, holding him pinned against the searing length of Mohinder's cock, against the hand in his hair, holding him captive to the tongue owning his mouth.
Now, he wants Mohinder right. now. "Pleaseplease, Mohinder, please," he whimpers, panting and pushing down against the bed.
But Mohinder doesn't let him go, just flexes his hips up into Peter. Pulls their bodies flush and kisses him deeper. He rubs himself in the slick mess of his precome on Peter's stomach, and Peter's cock slips back and forth in his own on Mohinder's.
Then he is panting, grinding his aching, leaking dick against Mohinder's abs, begging with his body to be allowed to come, to be allowed to ride, to be flipped and plowed, he doesn't care. He needs to get off, needs to get fucked, needs needs needs.
Mohinder breaks the kiss and Peter sobs, pleads, "Need you, god, I need you."
Raising his head, Mohinder inhales deeply then speaks slow, precise and sultry over his ear, "I need you too, Peter," before burying his teeth in Peter's throat.
A short, sharp cry, and Peter comes, shooting fast and hard and sudden. The words alone would be enough, Mohinder's admission everything he ever dreams and so much more, but his teeth and their claim that Peter is his, fuck discovery and disapproval and discretion, Peter is his, and Peter's coming so hard his skin aches.
Mohinder's hands keep him from flying apart; they stroke and soothe, easing him down until his breathing slows. Words press against his lips, the I love you he wants to say but still doesn't know if Mohinder will accept.
Eyes closing, he gives himself this one minute to feel it, trails sloppy-soft kisses over Mohinder's shoulder where he is tightly held. Then he pushes up onto his elbows, Mohinder lets him, and lets him lean down with a wry grin and whisper, "Sorry," against his mouth before he rights himself over Mohinder's hips.
"Wanting me enough to come from my kisses is hardly something to be sorry for." Mohinder smiles, and Peter falls again, tumbling deep into those fuck-me eyes.
Before he thinks what he is doing, he scoops the warm slippery mess of his come off their bodes and spreads it over Mohinder's cock. Mohinder tilts his head to watch, slow heat rising in his eyes at Peter's touch. God he loves that, loves the way Mohinder's eyes absorb the light when he needs Peter.
"Gonna ride you now, okay?" Peter slurs, already lifting up.
Mohinder groans an appreciative "oh, yes," then gentle fingers grip his hip; the other hand guides Mohinder's cock to his tight, unprepped hole.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Peter bears down. Pain and pressure and friction and heat, but his own come lubes them just enough that Peter can take that beautiful dick deep into his ass. Make Mohinder feel as good as he makes Peter feel.
Mohinder's berry-pink tongue swipes over his lips, followed by his teeth. As their hips connect, Peter remembers it surprised him the first time, the color of Mohinder's tongue and that he also bites his mouth when they fuck like this, and it makes him smile despite the burning stretch of Mohinder deep inside.
Mohinder rocks up into him with a soft, sweet moan. Peter hisses at the sudden movement, but it feels good, so good, to hear Mohinder's need. When Mohinder gives him a worried frown, Peter trails a hand down his walnut-brown chest and shakes his head. "S'good, just surprised me."
He lifts and lowers himself, to show it's okay, and now it's Mohinder hissing. Hissing, fingers spasming on Peter's hip, and trying so hard to let Peter give this to him. Up and down, over and over, until he sweats freely and Mohinder bucks beneath him, fingers bruising his marks into the pale skin over Peter's hips.
"Peter," Mohinder growls, pulling himself upright. Arms under Peter's arms and over his shoulders, he drags him down hard, impaling him on his cock and splitting him wide, then kisses him hot and fierce. "On your back."
He does as he's told. No question, Mohinder is taking control now, and Peter gives over completely to Mohinder's needs.
Ankles over his shoulders, Mohinder takes him. Each stroke hard, deep, and true. He fucks like he works: all of his attention focused on this one thing. Owning Peter with his dick. Peter welcomes him and it, moaning like the slut that he is for this man, his beautiful mind, and his burning intensity.
And this time when he comes, he takes Mohinder with him. A last, brutal slam, and liquid warmth floods his ass, filling him up. There is primal satisfaction in Mohinder's sweat-streaked face and hoarse cry, and this is what Peter wants. What he always wants.
To be what Mohinder needs.
* * *
When Peter wakes, Mohinder sits at the small desk in his bedroom. This does not surprise Peter. The screensaver of hard candies rolling one after another down inclined planes that tip and see-saw does.
Mohinder holds the picture Peter gave him the night before. His fingertip traces the swirls of Yama's water buffalo's horns, and he appears lost in thought.
Content to breathe with him, Peter props himself up on his elbow.
"Good morning, Peter."
He should've known better than to think Mohinder wouldn't notice the change in his breathing, or the whine of the box spring when he shifted his weight. "Morning."
Setting down the picture frame with a last lingering glance, Mohinder rises and pads back to bed. Once there, he slips off the sweat pants and t-shirt he'd put on to ward off the morning chill, folds and puts them on the nightstand, then rejoins Peter in bed.
This, too, surprises him, but far be it from Peter to protest Mohinder taking extra time to be together.
His lover looks at him a long minute, private smile curving his full lips. Then he leans in and kisses Peter, mouth tasting of gingerbread, black tea, and milk. His tongue sweeps through Peter's mouth, apparently not caring about morning breath, or content to kiss it away. "Your mother never baked a cookie in her life," he says when he pulls back.
Impish, Peter grins. "Well, there was this one time…"
Mohinder growls playfully and pins him back on the bed. Even if he couldn't feel Mohinder's cock stirring against his thigh, he wouldn't care. Seeing the man relaxed and easy is as good as sex.
Well, almost.
The way Mohinder's eyes darken while he's looking down at Peter says he'll probably get both, and if he wasn't protesting Mohinder coming to bed, he sure as hell isn't going to protest getting fucked. But then Mohinder's mouth twists, not quite frowning, but less happy.
The effect is instantaneous, Peter's hand burying in that thick black hair and his legs twining with Mohinder's. "What?"
"I didn't get you a present."
Relief brings a smile back to Peter's face. He tilts his head, rolling his eyes. "Is that all? You don't celebrate Christmas."
Mohinder still isn't smiling, but at least he's stopped looking like something is wrong. "But you do."
Arching his hips insistently, Peter pulls him down and nips at his mouth. "Which is why I got you presents."
"I still feel I should give you something," he purrs against Peter's lips, but now the corners of his mouth turn up in a wicked-sexy smile.
Peter grins. "You could give me your dick in a box."
One elegant eyebrow arches up so fast and hard, Peter bursts out laughing. When his belly stops shaking and Mohinder's cock stops skating between them on a slick of soft oils and precome, Peter's nose wrinkles. "You need to get out more," he tells him. But he doesn't bother to explain the Saturday Night Live skit from two years ago. Mohinder wouldn't understand why it was funny anyway.
"I think not." Mohinder's tone couldn't be dryer, but his eyes flash with mirth. "I could blow you," he drawls, slow and filthy, and Peter goes hard so fast his gut cramps. Nothing turns him on like hearing that rich, cultured voice talking slutty fuck-me talk.
Mohinder's mouth feels like wet velvet on his dick, and there are days he'd do anything for it. Today isn't one of them. He'll have to leave soon, go spend Christmas with Mom, Nathan and Heidi and the kids, and maybe it's petty and because Nathan would be pissed if he knew, but when Peter goes, he wants to take a piece of this, his Christmas with him.
Squirming out of Mohinder's grasp, Peter rolls to his stomach and pulls one knee up to open himself wide. Eyes heavy-lidded, he slurs, sultry, "Fuck me again instead."
Sitting up, Mohinder reaches over to the nightstand, opens the drawer, and gets out the lube. Peter buries his face in the pillow, breathing in sandalwood, spice, and sex. Mohinder. He hears the slick-wet sound of Mohinder's hand fisting over his cock, then the quiet thud of the lube falling back into the drawer and the shush-thud of it closing.
Then Mohinder covers him, chest to his back. Peter's ass stretches, burning, to accommodate the wide head of his lover's cock. Even with the generous lube, it hurts, but Mohinder knows and takes care in penetrating him. He waits until Peter's breathing steadies out again before sliding in the rest of the way.
When their hips connect, Mohinder stops again, nuzzles and lips against Peter's throat. "I'm glad you came over."
Not quite a thank you, but from a Mohinder who Peter has kept from work? It is a benediction. It embarrasses him a little. He shrugs against Mohinder's chest, whimpering when it pulls him wider and Mohinder flexes his hips to work himself deeper. "Even Batman needs a night off," he manages around a gasp.
"Mmmm. I thought I was Professor Xavier. That's what Hiro says." Mohinder licks a wide, wet stripe along Peter's jaw.
"Batman's much sexier." Peter's hands fist in the sheets when Mohinder pulls out most of the way.
An easy glide and he is in again, then his hips rotate, wiry pubic hair and heavy sac taunting Peter's perineum. Moaning wantonly, Peter arches back as much as he can. Wanting more. Wanting Mohinder. "Fuck me." He's whining, he knows he is, but he doesn't care. Mohinder likes it when he shows his desire.
"So good." Clever fingers find his and weave their hands together. Mohinder is determined to take this slow and Peter doesn't know whether to sigh in contentment or scream. "You know how I love to hear that. You always know what I need."
Breathing rough and raspy, Peter presses his forehead into the pillows, exposing the back of his neck, submissive. "I like to give you what you need."
"You are what I need, Peter." Sharp teeth lock around his nape, sharp but not harsh. Mohinder holds him this way, claiming him with long, lazy thrusts, and possessing him in a way that makes Peter's chest feel tight and warm. "Come over tonight after Christmas dinner?"
Even if Mohinder is subconsciously marking his territory with each deep thrust, and by being sure he's not going to bed with Nathan, it feels so damned good to be wanted, just for him.
Of all of them, Mohinder works the hardest. Mohinder is not Batman, and Peter is not Nightwing. But Mohinder will take the night off for him. They are partners, and they can depend on each other.
So, Peter moans his yes around a brilliant smile, and gives himself over to their needs.
Recipient: shuiraya
Author: ?
Characters: Mohinder/Peter
Rating: NC17
Summary: Mohinder needs a night off, even if he doesn't know it, and Peter's determined to see that he takes it.
Notes: Set roughly two years in the future. AU premised around a departure from canon after 1.11.
"I can tell you this about the boy. He was fearless. He was effusive. And he was full of grace.
"So maybe it was just greed that made Batman take him? Maybe it was sympathy for his situation? Recognition?
"Maybe no good general would turn down the opportunity to implement a gifted soldier.
"Or maybe the Dark Knight knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that he couldn't face the entirety of his mission alone." - Tim Drake (Robin), reading a file on Dick Grayson (Nightwing), written by Bruce Wayne (Batman); Devin Grayson, Gotham Knights #10, p. 11.
* * *
Of all them, Mohinder works the hardest. Painstaking research, unobtrusive observation, long planning of whether, when and how to approach, then the quiet and almost always successful bid to bring in the new recruit. If Nathan is a shark, opportunistic and brutal, Mohinder is a panther, patient and ruthless.
It's not a perfect metaphor, but there are others.
Claire says Mohinder is Giles, but then, she thinks she's Buffy. They argue over who is more special, but in the end, she always smiles her wry, sad, far-too-wise smile and tells Peter he is her Angel. Only their curse isn't a gypsy's revenge but shared blood. No chance of them having that world-ending moment of perfect happiness. If only she knew. Sometimes Peter thinks she's the only one who doesn't know about him and Nathan. But then he remembers that only Mohinder really knows for sure.
That is Mohinder's function. To know things. He is the Seeker.
Hiro says that makes him Professor Xavier to Hiro's Nightcrawler, Claire's Wolverine, and Nathan's Northstar. Nathan hates when Hiro says that, because he is not gay. Peter just rolls his eyes, because Nathan is also not a homophobe, it's just his politician showing. They all know Isaac is Destiny, no question there, and Hiro tells Peter that he is Rogue or Synch, but Peter's seen the movie. He's Jean Grey, with the potential for the Dark Phoenix always inside him, if anyone. They try not to talk about it, but since the last encounter with Sylar, no one really argues with him when he says it anymore. He almost killed Nathan, which he supposes makes Nathan Cyclops. Nathan likes that metaphor better but mostly because he's jealous of Mohinder's influence.
No one remembers how it began, Nathan vying with Mohinder for the leadership he never sought. It seems it has always been that way.
It makes Peter think of the Justice League from the comics he began reading with the patient before Simone's dad and never stopped. Claire as a young Wonder Woman, their integrity and compassion. Hiro as their Green Arrow, as warm and clever as he is dedicated. Nathan as a dark Superman, their brash strength and determination. And Mohinder as a lighter Batman, unpowered but unparalleled in his detective skills and charismatic in his silences. Isaac teases that this makes Peter Superboy, but he leaves off the Prime, just like he never mentions Jean Grey or Sylar in Peter's hearing. But Peter knows that he is really Nightwing, who hero-worships Clark and aches with need for Bruce.
Peter likes this metaphor the best, though it, also, is not perfect. At least it gives him the right to do what he is about to.
Mohinder may be almost as focused as Bruce, but Peter is even more shameless than Dick, and he has been planning this for weeks. Their Batman works too hard, and he is taking Christmas Eve off. He needs it.
* * *
Laden with gifts, Peter arrives at Mohinder's at precisely six o'clock. Mohinder dislikes tardiness, and it feels like punctuality, even if he is not expected. He hums "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," though it is not his favorite; the tune is jauntier than either "O Come All Ye Faithful" or "O Holy Night," and he is in a jaunty mood.
Though he has a key, Peter knocks. The idea that Mohinder might have guests seems ridiculous, but he didn't call ahead, and he was raised to be courteous.
Mohinder answers the door wearing the orange shirt. No one should look good in that color orange, but Mohinder does. The contrast makes his skin tone richer, his teeth whiter, and when he smiles, Peter falls into those chocolate brown fuck me eyes, and wonders how he got so damned lucky.
"Hi." His eyes feel too bright and his smile lopsided, but Mohinder always makes him feel like a kid at Christmas. Until he makes him feel whole and sexy and wanted just for him. "My mom made cookies-" Lie, he made them himself, but that would pose too much obligation too soon, and he doesn't need Mohinder to thank him for the gingerbread men. Just to let him in. "And she said to take some to that 'nice Indian boy you and Nathan spend so much time with.'"
Mohinder arches one eyebrow. "'Nice Indian boy.' Not Nathan's description, I take it?" The hint of bitterness in that warm-sexy voice is nothing new and Mohinder doesn't mean to flay old wounds. Peter knows this. Mohinder is far too pragmatic to dwell on what cannot be changed; he has long since encompassed Peter's relationship with Nathan, even if it can't be said that he has accepted it.
Ducking his head, Peter demurs. "Nathan's not here." But I am. "Can I come in?"
Mohinder steps back from the doorway, giving Peter a chance to appreciate the way bright orange flattens over his trim stomach to tuck into jeans that fit, oh god, too well, everywhere. It's not fair that any one man should be this sexy.
Peter's cheeks flush and he drops his gaze to high-arched bare feet kissing worn wood floors. Even the man's toes are sexy.
When he looks up again, the hurt is gone from Mohinder's face. His mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile, and his eyes sparkle with laughter. "I thought you wanted to come in."
"I do," he says, letting his fingers trail across Mohinder's torso on his way by.
After he hangs his jacket on the coat rack, Peter heads for the kitchen. Behind him, the bolt slips into the lock, the chain rattles into place - they can't be too careful, though it wouldn't stop Sylar or half-a-dozen of the other metas who might be after them. But they have learned to take nothing for granted.
Nothing of their safety, Peter amends, as he looks around Mohinder's kitchen. Empty pizza boxes on the counters, take-out containers in the overflowing trash, rinsed but unwashed dishes in the sink. He shakes his head and gives Mohinder a chiding look over his shoulder.
Now it's Mohinder's turn for embarrassment. He drags long fingers through his hair, kissable mouth shaped in a rueful half-smile. "I've been busy."
For someone so subtle, he has, definitely, mastered the statement of the obvious. "When aren't you?"
Unlike the rest of the kitchen, the little table is tidy. A stack of papers sits next to Mohinder's laptop. Two pens and a highlighter lay beside them, in straight perfect lines, because they wouldn't dare disrupt Mohinder's orderly thoughts by being crooked or out of place. The pens make him grin, and when Peter sets down the bag with Mohinder's gifts, he makes sure to angle one ten degrees with the brush of his little finger.
The cookies go on top of the fridge, and Peter is humming again while he tidies up.
"You don't need to do that."
"Want to," Peter replies, and he does. Taking care of Mohinder is a Peter thing. Not a hero thing, or a politician's brother thing.
When Mohinder sits, he straddles the chair and rests his chin on his forearms. Dark eyes follow Peter's movements, then snag on the crooked pen. Peter knows the instant it happens, because Mohinder grimaces and reaches out to straighten it.
Laughing, Peter tilts his head toward the small shopping bag. His bangs fall in his face, and he pushes them away. "Go on, open them."
"It's not Christmas yet."
"You don't celebrate Christmas."
"And yet-" Mohinder's smile is wicked. "You bought me Christmas presents. Logic dictates I should treat them as such."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Plenty of families open their gifts on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas morning."
He realizes what he's said at the same time Mohinder does, and when their gazes lock, there's a new warmth there. Of course, they are family, all of them, but tonight at least, it's just he and Mohinder.
"Very well." Lifting the bag with both hands, Mohinder tilts his head to look at Peter as though something has just occurred to him. He sets the sack down again, closer to him. "Speaking of families, Peter, shouldn't you be with yours this evening?"
Making busy with the trash, Peter lets his gaze slide off Mohinder's beautiful face. "Nathan dragged Heidi out to a function and shipped the kids off with Micah, Niki and DL. Mom has half-a-dozen parties tonight." He shrugs. "I'd rather be with you."
"I have to work, Peter." Mohinder protests but the vowels are liquid, the consonants soft.
"I know. I'll be quiet. I just want to be here." That he has no intention of being quiet -- unless Mohinder orders him to before he spits him on his thick, walnut brown cock - matters not at all. "And anyway, you have to eat, don't you?"
"There's literally nothing here."
Peter loves the way he says "litra-ly" instead of "literally." Despite the slurring of the word, it sounds elegant. Like the man.
"I thought you might say that." Pulling out his cell, Peter hits redial, leans back against the counter on his elbows and gives Mohinder a cheeky grin. "Quit stalling and open your presents. I'm on it."
Outflanked, Mohinder sighs, and Peter watches from under his lashes while he lifts each box from the brown paper bag. Unlike Nathan who weighs and shakes and listens to packages, Mohinder doesn't try to guess, or at least he doesn't seem to. Just sets them on the blue and white checked tablecloth before folding the bag in thirds and holding it out to Peter.
It amuses him that Mohinder let the kitchen get to this state, but when Peter is there to make him attentive to his mundane surroundings, he folds the trash as crisply as he does his laundry.
Tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Peter takes the bag. A woman greets him, apologizing for having put him directly on hold, and asks, in thickly accented English, how she may help. "Uh huh, hi, this is Peter Petrelli. I called earlier?"
Mohinder glances up from carefully unwinding the metallic green and silver ribbon from the larger of two flat boxes, this one wrapped in festive metallic red. He waggles his fingers, go on, open it, at the same time as he tells the hostess, "Yes, that's the one," when she confirms Mohinder's address.
While Mohinder works the top off the box, she rattles off the order. Eyes all for Mohinder, Peter replies, "Yeah. About how long?"
Twenty minutes, she estimates. He almost asks her to hold it so he'll have time to blow his lover before dinner, but Mohinder is humoring him now, and there's no telling how long that'll last before he insists on getting back to work. Peter can seduce him out of it by going his knees, but he prefers enthusiastic participation to reluctant permission.
"Great," he tells the hostess instead. "Put a 25% tip on the card I gave you." It's Christmas Eve after all.
Snapping the phone shut with the muffled clack of industrial plastic, Peter exhales slow around an even slower smile. Mohinder's fingertips caress the cream-colored raw silk of the shirt Peter knows will fit him like a second skin.
"It's lovely, Peter, thank you."
Usually when people say that, it's sort of a blow-off, but from Mohinder it's more like a confession of intimate gratitude. And, sure, Peter knows some of that is the warmth of his accent, but some of it is that Mohinder doesn't say things he doesn't mean. Sometimes Peter thinks he's constitutionally incapable of it - most often when Peter wishes he'd bend a little, like when Nathan gets to ranting and Mohinder is being tactless.
But Nathan is not here, and they are. "I'm glad you like it. You'll be sexy as hell in it," he blurts out, then shakes his head to hide his grin.
"When am I not?" Mohinder teases, because he can. Because he knows that the slightest show of dominance makes Peter hard for him.
"Never." The word comes out soft, and the admission feels staggering, even though Mohinder already knows.
He turns his back on Mohinder's soul-baring gaze and gets to work on the dishes. "Open the other flat one next." It's by far the more personal of the remaining two, and he thinks Mohinder may appreciate him being busy when he opens it.
Over the running water, Peter hears the white paper crinkling. Mohinder will be slipping off the gold and purple ribbons - traditional Easter colors, not Christmas, but the symbolism of death and resurrection pleases Peter, even if Mohinder does not recognize it. He might, though; he knows a shocking number of things Peter can't imagine he has a use for.
The paper crackles then sort of shushes, which will be the sound of Mohinder folding it. The box lid makes a slightly deeper noise, one Peter has no name for, but recognizes as flexing cardboard.
Even the burble of water and scrape of the dish sponge don't cover the catch in Mohinder's breath or the choked sob, and Peter doesn't need to look to know that his long fingers caress the carved wood frame with it red-faced image of Yama, god of death. He doesn't need to see Mohinder's face to know the grief in it. Peter sets a clean plate in the drying rack and picks up the next, turning up the water to give Mohinder the illusion, if not the actuality, of privacy.
It is not until Peter is putting the last dish in the rack and turning off the water that Mohinder speaks. "Where did you…?"
He glances over his shoulder while he dries his hands on a dishtowel; it has seen better days. "Your mother."
Mohinder's back tightens. "I wish you had not-"
"I didn't." He lets his mouth curve into a dirty-secret smile. "Your colleague at the university, Professor Blowhard, got it for me."
"He's not so bad, Peter." An unwilling laugh loosens the muscles of Mohinder's back. Not enough, it's never enough, because Mohinder stores his stress in upper back and biceps. But Peter knows how to fix that. It's what the third present is for.
"Maybe." He doesn't tell Mohinder about the bitter lecture he'd been treated to about Chandra Suresh, or how he'd had to grit his teeth just to make it to the part of the phone call where the pompous jackass finally agreed to ask Mohinder's mother for the photograph.
Instead, because he knows dinner will be here any minute, he lets himself down onto the chair behind Mohinder. Spreads his thighs wide around Mohinder's hips, and wraps his arms around his waist, face pressed between knotted erector spinae muscles just to breathe him in. "It was presumptuous, I know, but…" But I love you and you drive yourself too hard to make a dead man proud. "He's important to you."
Nathan would flinch away, as much from the vulnerability in his words as from the uninvited physical contact or the press of his cock to Nathan's ass. Inhaling deeply, Mohinder just covers his hands with one of his own. "I was nine years-old in that picture, just home from school. Excited to show my father the new skills I had learned in soccer. He rarely made the time to spend with me, even then, and when he did, it always felt-"
The buzzer sounds and Peter slides off the chair to his feet. "Like a holiday?" he says with a soft smile.
"All right, you've made your point." Mohinder isn't as annoyed as he sounds, but it's twice in one night Peter's outmaneuvered him, and he hates that Peter can be this manipulative. Peter will take the momentary spurt of anger, if it means Mohinder will take at least tonight off. "Get the door."
"Going. You can unwrap the last box. It's nothing special." It's not. Sandalwood-scented massage oil. Yeah, he had it custom-blended so that it won't make Mohinder's satiny skin greasy, but still, it's the implications that are meaningful and Mohinder won't miss them.
When he lets the delivery driver in, Peter is humming "We Three Kings." It may not be as jaunty as "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," but it feels appropriate.
* * *
Over dinner from their favorite Indian place, Raja Rani, Peter relents a little. They talk about work, the two recruits Mohinder's been studying, because Mohinder will relax more easily if Peter lets him unspool the threads of his thoughts. One is a woman, a few years younger than Niki, with abilities in the same class as Peter's. Only instead of sharing by borrowing, she shares by giving - in this case, giving life energy to plants, animals, anything that grows. The other is just a kid, a fire starter or pyrokinetic.
Mohinder thinks Pamela can learn to use her abilities for healing, but he's not happy about Rafael. Peter suggests Claude; his rough discipline taught Peter control, and Peter offers himself as an object lesson in what can happen if Rafael won't learn to channel his power. For a minute, it seems Mohinder will object, will tell Peter no. He never likes when Peter puts himself in danger. But he doesn't. In the end he nods, and suggests Peter bring Claire along, just in case the boy gets crazed at their approach.
It's such a perfectly Mohinder moment, mental aikido of such amazing grace, that Peter cannot help but smile as he clears away the dishes. And when he's finished washing them, he presses an open-mouthed sloppy-wet kiss to the back of Mohinder's neck. "I'll be careful, I promise."
Mohinder reaches up, threads his fingers through the back of Peter's hair. "Thank you," he murmurs, by which Peter knows he really means please.
"C'mon." Peter nips the point of Mohinder's ear. "Let's go test out your Christmas present. You're tense."
"If I have work to do?" His rich spiced chai voice melts Peter with its warmth.
The protest is pro forma, but Peter answers anyhow, unbuttoning the top two buttons of the orange shirt and slipping his hands inside. "Then I'll sprawl facedown-naked on the couch and cast lust-filled glances at you from across the room until you don't, or until you can't anymore."
Mohinder's chest rises on a long inhale, and Peter palms down it until his face is buried in the crook of his throat again. "And if I manage to resist your come-hither wiles?"
Too late for that; he is already shifting, softening under Peter's touch. The only question remaining: how long he will let Peter stay in control. Still, Peter smiles into warm brown skin. "Then I'll come thither and straddle your lap, until you cup your hands around my bare ass and drag my leaking cock against the rough orange cotton of your shirt."
A soft growl, and then Mohinder rises. He holds out his hand for Peter's, and when Peter takes it, lacing their fingers together and scooping up the massage oil with his other hand, Mohinder gives him a heated gonna fuck you slow and deep stare. "I can't have you ruining my favorite shirt. I suppose we'll have to take it off."
Hot, liquid desire pools in his belly, so intense it steals his breath. Mohinder has always been able to do this, turn him inside out with a look. Peter might resent it, if he didn't know Mohinder could fuck him right again. "We should probably get rid of your jeans, too."
"I am rather fond of them."
Mohinder's small apartment seems the length of a football field, or maybe it's just that he's wanted this, skin-on-skin, his hands on his lover's beautiful body since before the gingerbread browned. By the time they make the few short steps to the bedroom, the pads of his fingers itch with the need to touch. They feel clumsy and leaden over the buttons of first Mohinder's shirt and then his own.
Mohinder has to rescue their shirts from the floor, because Peter is too busy skimming his fingers over tight pecs, flat nipples, toned abs to care. Jeans and boxer-briefs join the tidy pile on the dresser, and it is all Peter can do not to sink to his knees right there and swallow down that gorgeous cock until the blunt head rubs the back of his throat.
"On the bed, face down," Peter says on a breathy whisper.
"It can wait."
He looks up into eyes gone full-dark with need and shakes his head. "Massage first."
Mohinder laughs, but it comes out a growl. "Peter…"
"Please. I want to." His voice sounds stronger, and he's proud of that.
With a tilt of his head, Mohinder catches Peter's gaze. What he sees there, Peter isn't sure. Desire, determination, love, he feels them all, but whatever it is Mohinder sees, it has him nodding.
Mohinder prowls toward the bed, that's the only word for the sleek movement, then stretches decadently over the down duvet Peter insisted on buying after the first winter night in this place. The chill doesn't touch them now, but by morning, without it, their teeth would be chattering.
Box springs older than Peter is groan when Peter crawls up behind Mohinder. He idly adds "mattress set" to the list of things he'll buy Mohinder in the coming year, but he is far too busy drinking in the sight of Mohinder arrayed before him in perfect trust to care about the busted spring poking him in the knee. Six feet of chocolate brown satin stretched over whipcord strength, his to touch and kiss and rub himself over? It's better than the train set Peter begged an entire year for when he was twelve and spent the whole week after Christmas building one track at a time with Nathan. He almost doesn't know where to touch first.
Even while he opens the massage oil and pours it into his hands, Peter is straddling Mohinder, knees embracing lean hips. Giddiness waves over him, probably inspired by the sweep of his already leaking cock over the taut muscle of Mohinder's ass, and he has to close his eyes for several meditative breaths of sandalwood and musk before he calms again.
It's not as though he's never seen or touched the man before, not as though they haven't been lovers for two years already. They just haven't had much time lately, and the idea of an entire night for lovemaking bubbles through Peter, extravagant and sensual, like the Krystal his other family no doubt drinks, even as the heels of his hands press into the curve of Mohinder's lower back.
Long muscles stretch under the upward strokes, and Peter's eyelids fall shut again to the sound of soft, pleased groans. He puts his entire body into each stroke: grounding Mohinder with the squeeze of his thighs, arousing him with the slick skid of his erection, relaxing him bit by bit with knowing hands, and loving him with the occasional press of his lips to shoulder, neck, even his cheeks when he moves back up the bed from working the knots out of corded calves.
That, the woodsy sweetness of the massage oil over the satin curve of his lover's tight ass proves almost too much. He wants to spread Mohinder's thighs and bury his face there, licking and fingering until Mohinder invites him inside. He could, Mohinder likes to let him sometimes - though, Peter suspects its just one more way of tying strings to him. Still, he bucks and moans for Peter's cock, and Peter wants the strings. They pull both ways.
He could, but he doesn't, though he does press his thumbs between Mohinder's thighs and slide them up through the crack of his ass. And he does play over the entrance, slick, scented fingertip circling and teasing until Mohinder growls and grabs the pillow at his head.
Hearing his refined, intellectual lover reduced to primal animal sounds has Peter up on his hands and knees, breath catching on a whimper, before he's even thinking about the fact Mohinder's beneath him. Mohinder seizes the opportunity to roll and pull Peter down to him.
No sooner do their chests touch than Mohinder's lips part and reach for Peter's. It's been so long, too long, god he needs him so much -- Peter keens into Mohinder's mouth. And when Mohinder's fingers tangle in his hair to force their mouths together, he opens, willing and so needy.
And suddenly finishing the massage seems like a waste of valuable time, time that could be spent with Mohinder's dick filling him up, soothing the empty ache of not enough, never enough, yoursyoursyours. Peter whines and shifts restlessly against the hand at his lower back, holding him pinned against the searing length of Mohinder's cock, against the hand in his hair, holding him captive to the tongue owning his mouth.
Now, he wants Mohinder right. now. "Pleaseplease, Mohinder, please," he whimpers, panting and pushing down against the bed.
But Mohinder doesn't let him go, just flexes his hips up into Peter. Pulls their bodies flush and kisses him deeper. He rubs himself in the slick mess of his precome on Peter's stomach, and Peter's cock slips back and forth in his own on Mohinder's.
Then he is panting, grinding his aching, leaking dick against Mohinder's abs, begging with his body to be allowed to come, to be allowed to ride, to be flipped and plowed, he doesn't care. He needs to get off, needs to get fucked, needs needs needs.
Mohinder breaks the kiss and Peter sobs, pleads, "Need you, god, I need you."
Raising his head, Mohinder inhales deeply then speaks slow, precise and sultry over his ear, "I need you too, Peter," before burying his teeth in Peter's throat.
A short, sharp cry, and Peter comes, shooting fast and hard and sudden. The words alone would be enough, Mohinder's admission everything he ever dreams and so much more, but his teeth and their claim that Peter is his, fuck discovery and disapproval and discretion, Peter is his, and Peter's coming so hard his skin aches.
Mohinder's hands keep him from flying apart; they stroke and soothe, easing him down until his breathing slows. Words press against his lips, the I love you he wants to say but still doesn't know if Mohinder will accept.
Eyes closing, he gives himself this one minute to feel it, trails sloppy-soft kisses over Mohinder's shoulder where he is tightly held. Then he pushes up onto his elbows, Mohinder lets him, and lets him lean down with a wry grin and whisper, "Sorry," against his mouth before he rights himself over Mohinder's hips.
"Wanting me enough to come from my kisses is hardly something to be sorry for." Mohinder smiles, and Peter falls again, tumbling deep into those fuck-me eyes.
Before he thinks what he is doing, he scoops the warm slippery mess of his come off their bodes and spreads it over Mohinder's cock. Mohinder tilts his head to watch, slow heat rising in his eyes at Peter's touch. God he loves that, loves the way Mohinder's eyes absorb the light when he needs Peter.
"Gonna ride you now, okay?" Peter slurs, already lifting up.
Mohinder groans an appreciative "oh, yes," then gentle fingers grip his hip; the other hand guides Mohinder's cock to his tight, unprepped hole.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Peter bears down. Pain and pressure and friction and heat, but his own come lubes them just enough that Peter can take that beautiful dick deep into his ass. Make Mohinder feel as good as he makes Peter feel.
Mohinder's berry-pink tongue swipes over his lips, followed by his teeth. As their hips connect, Peter remembers it surprised him the first time, the color of Mohinder's tongue and that he also bites his mouth when they fuck like this, and it makes him smile despite the burning stretch of Mohinder deep inside.
Mohinder rocks up into him with a soft, sweet moan. Peter hisses at the sudden movement, but it feels good, so good, to hear Mohinder's need. When Mohinder gives him a worried frown, Peter trails a hand down his walnut-brown chest and shakes his head. "S'good, just surprised me."
He lifts and lowers himself, to show it's okay, and now it's Mohinder hissing. Hissing, fingers spasming on Peter's hip, and trying so hard to let Peter give this to him. Up and down, over and over, until he sweats freely and Mohinder bucks beneath him, fingers bruising his marks into the pale skin over Peter's hips.
"Peter," Mohinder growls, pulling himself upright. Arms under Peter's arms and over his shoulders, he drags him down hard, impaling him on his cock and splitting him wide, then kisses him hot and fierce. "On your back."
He does as he's told. No question, Mohinder is taking control now, and Peter gives over completely to Mohinder's needs.
Ankles over his shoulders, Mohinder takes him. Each stroke hard, deep, and true. He fucks like he works: all of his attention focused on this one thing. Owning Peter with his dick. Peter welcomes him and it, moaning like the slut that he is for this man, his beautiful mind, and his burning intensity.
And this time when he comes, he takes Mohinder with him. A last, brutal slam, and liquid warmth floods his ass, filling him up. There is primal satisfaction in Mohinder's sweat-streaked face and hoarse cry, and this is what Peter wants. What he always wants.
To be what Mohinder needs.
* * *
When Peter wakes, Mohinder sits at the small desk in his bedroom. This does not surprise Peter. The screensaver of hard candies rolling one after another down inclined planes that tip and see-saw does.
Mohinder holds the picture Peter gave him the night before. His fingertip traces the swirls of Yama's water buffalo's horns, and he appears lost in thought.
Content to breathe with him, Peter props himself up on his elbow.
"Good morning, Peter."
He should've known better than to think Mohinder wouldn't notice the change in his breathing, or the whine of the box spring when he shifted his weight. "Morning."
Setting down the picture frame with a last lingering glance, Mohinder rises and pads back to bed. Once there, he slips off the sweat pants and t-shirt he'd put on to ward off the morning chill, folds and puts them on the nightstand, then rejoins Peter in bed.
This, too, surprises him, but far be it from Peter to protest Mohinder taking extra time to be together.
His lover looks at him a long minute, private smile curving his full lips. Then he leans in and kisses Peter, mouth tasting of gingerbread, black tea, and milk. His tongue sweeps through Peter's mouth, apparently not caring about morning breath, or content to kiss it away. "Your mother never baked a cookie in her life," he says when he pulls back.
Impish, Peter grins. "Well, there was this one time…"
Mohinder growls playfully and pins him back on the bed. Even if he couldn't feel Mohinder's cock stirring against his thigh, he wouldn't care. Seeing the man relaxed and easy is as good as sex.
Well, almost.
The way Mohinder's eyes darken while he's looking down at Peter says he'll probably get both, and if he wasn't protesting Mohinder coming to bed, he sure as hell isn't going to protest getting fucked. But then Mohinder's mouth twists, not quite frowning, but less happy.
The effect is instantaneous, Peter's hand burying in that thick black hair and his legs twining with Mohinder's. "What?"
"I didn't get you a present."
Relief brings a smile back to Peter's face. He tilts his head, rolling his eyes. "Is that all? You don't celebrate Christmas."
Mohinder still isn't smiling, but at least he's stopped looking like something is wrong. "But you do."
Arching his hips insistently, Peter pulls him down and nips at his mouth. "Which is why I got you presents."
"I still feel I should give you something," he purrs against Peter's lips, but now the corners of his mouth turn up in a wicked-sexy smile.
Peter grins. "You could give me your dick in a box."
One elegant eyebrow arches up so fast and hard, Peter bursts out laughing. When his belly stops shaking and Mohinder's cock stops skating between them on a slick of soft oils and precome, Peter's nose wrinkles. "You need to get out more," he tells him. But he doesn't bother to explain the Saturday Night Live skit from two years ago. Mohinder wouldn't understand why it was funny anyway.
"I think not." Mohinder's tone couldn't be dryer, but his eyes flash with mirth. "I could blow you," he drawls, slow and filthy, and Peter goes hard so fast his gut cramps. Nothing turns him on like hearing that rich, cultured voice talking slutty fuck-me talk.
Mohinder's mouth feels like wet velvet on his dick, and there are days he'd do anything for it. Today isn't one of them. He'll have to leave soon, go spend Christmas with Mom, Nathan and Heidi and the kids, and maybe it's petty and because Nathan would be pissed if he knew, but when Peter goes, he wants to take a piece of this, his Christmas with him.
Squirming out of Mohinder's grasp, Peter rolls to his stomach and pulls one knee up to open himself wide. Eyes heavy-lidded, he slurs, sultry, "Fuck me again instead."
Sitting up, Mohinder reaches over to the nightstand, opens the drawer, and gets out the lube. Peter buries his face in the pillow, breathing in sandalwood, spice, and sex. Mohinder. He hears the slick-wet sound of Mohinder's hand fisting over his cock, then the quiet thud of the lube falling back into the drawer and the shush-thud of it closing.
Then Mohinder covers him, chest to his back. Peter's ass stretches, burning, to accommodate the wide head of his lover's cock. Even with the generous lube, it hurts, but Mohinder knows and takes care in penetrating him. He waits until Peter's breathing steadies out again before sliding in the rest of the way.
When their hips connect, Mohinder stops again, nuzzles and lips against Peter's throat. "I'm glad you came over."
Not quite a thank you, but from a Mohinder who Peter has kept from work? It is a benediction. It embarrasses him a little. He shrugs against Mohinder's chest, whimpering when it pulls him wider and Mohinder flexes his hips to work himself deeper. "Even Batman needs a night off," he manages around a gasp.
"Mmmm. I thought I was Professor Xavier. That's what Hiro says." Mohinder licks a wide, wet stripe along Peter's jaw.
"Batman's much sexier." Peter's hands fist in the sheets when Mohinder pulls out most of the way.
An easy glide and he is in again, then his hips rotate, wiry pubic hair and heavy sac taunting Peter's perineum. Moaning wantonly, Peter arches back as much as he can. Wanting more. Wanting Mohinder. "Fuck me." He's whining, he knows he is, but he doesn't care. Mohinder likes it when he shows his desire.
"So good." Clever fingers find his and weave their hands together. Mohinder is determined to take this slow and Peter doesn't know whether to sigh in contentment or scream. "You know how I love to hear that. You always know what I need."
Breathing rough and raspy, Peter presses his forehead into the pillows, exposing the back of his neck, submissive. "I like to give you what you need."
"You are what I need, Peter." Sharp teeth lock around his nape, sharp but not harsh. Mohinder holds him this way, claiming him with long, lazy thrusts, and possessing him in a way that makes Peter's chest feel tight and warm. "Come over tonight after Christmas dinner?"
Even if Mohinder is subconsciously marking his territory with each deep thrust, and by being sure he's not going to bed with Nathan, it feels so damned good to be wanted, just for him.
Of all of them, Mohinder works the hardest. Mohinder is not Batman, and Peter is not Nightwing. But Mohinder will take the night off for him. They are partners, and they can depend on each other.
So, Peter moans his yes around a brilliant smile, and gives himself over to their needs.