"That Night at the Motel" (Sylar, Mohinder)
Title: That Night at the Motel (or, “How Inane Can I Make This Title?”)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to NBC and Tim Kring.
Characters: Mohinder and "Zane".
Pairing: Mylar!
Table/Prompt: Table 4, Prompt 15 (Want).
Word Count: 737
Spoilers: "Run" and "Unexpected".
Warnings: PWP. On crack. Manly luvvins and superficial bruising. Not non-con, but could be read that way, so I'll mention it just to be safe.
Summary: …you know the meaning of PWP, yes?
Author's Notes: Because I'm a bad doobie who forgot it was threthiel9's birthday. Also I fail at smut, but okay. Forgiveness and enjoy? :D
~
It was a seedy little motel, but it was cheap and close to Dale's garage, and they were hardly on a luxury tour in any case. When you divide your time between a cab and a laptop, and steal time from the first to spend more with the second, you don't tend to have the money for five-star homes away from home.
The door, cheap and old though it was, was giving a good fight to whoever was trying to open it. Mohinder stood by the moth-eaten bed and wondered whether to shout for help, until the whoever-it-was admitted grudging defeat and just knocked instead.
He'd been in the middle of getting undressed, so he pulled on his dressing-gown and slippers before cautiously opening the door, leaving the security chain in place.
"...Zane?"
Just a sliver of the man's face was lit by the naked bulb in Mohinder's room. The pupil of Zane's eye was picked out in yellow, as was his rough cheekbone, and the corner of his lopsided smirk.
"Mohinder. Can I come in?"
"Well-of course," said Mohinder, a little surprised by the question. But maybe he wants to talk about Dale, or about his own abilities, he rationalised as he slipped back the security chain and let the door open all the way.
Had Zane always been this tall? Mohinder couldn’t help noticing the slight shift to avoid the top of the doorframe, or the way the shadows clustered around him like moths to a light. He felt pierced by the man’s eyes, and acutely aware of how little he was wearing under the dressing-gown. But a second later Zane was normal again, and Mohinder was already writing off the impression as his own overactive imagination.
“What can I do for you?”
Without looking behind him, Zane reached back and closed the door with a click. He opened his mouth as if to speak-but then, before Mohinder had time to brace himself or even realise what was happening, he had moved swiftly forward and that mouth was grasping at his own. Zane’s lips were soft but he used them like a weapon, scraping them across Mohinder’s skin, hunting for him; his teeth scraped Mohinder’s lips, over and over, till his mouth was sore and his tongue tasted coppery.
His back crushed to the plasterboard wall, Mohinder rigidly fought for breath and tried to cross his legs because-what was this? Where had this come from? Half to his surprise, he found his hands on Zane’s taut shoulders, pulling him deeper, closer towards him; with an effort he moved them around and onto the man’s chest, intending to push him away, really, except that somewhere they got lost and ended up in the tangled warmth under his shirt.
Zane’s tongue was large and rough and explored his mouth like a conquistador, almost choking him at first until he pushed his own head forward and felt the corners of the man’s mouth curl upward against his cheek. He tried to say something-he wasn’t sure what, but that made no difference because all that came out was a long, low animal sound that Mohinder hardly recognised as his own voice. At some point in the course of events his dressing-gown had found itself very suddenly on the floor, and he was vaguely aware of Zane also shedding his clothes with almost superhuman speed.
Then in a breath Mohinder was face-down on the bed, lifting his head out of the musty blanket. He barely had time to register surprise before he felt large hands clamping down on his own and a sharp weight on his back. He wasn’t thinking in words any more, just sensations-the bruises pounded into his shoulder-blades, the thick mist in front of his eyes, the fire exploding up and down his body. His own frantic breaths were loud in his ears and accompanied by a drawn-out cry that could have sprung from either of them.
Behind him came a barking laugh.
Zane pulled out as abruptly as he’d entered, leaving Mohinder to pant and ache on the damp sheets, and to try in vain to work out what had just happened. His whole body was shaking, cold with sweat and spent adrenaline, and it was a few minutes before he could focus or even lift his face away from the smell of salt and mildew.
By then, he was alone in the room.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to NBC and Tim Kring.
Characters: Mohinder and "Zane".
Pairing: Mylar!
Table/Prompt: Table 4, Prompt 15 (Want).
Word Count: 737
Spoilers: "Run" and "Unexpected".
Warnings: PWP. On crack. Manly luvvins and superficial bruising. Not non-con, but could be read that way, so I'll mention it just to be safe.
Summary: …you know the meaning of PWP, yes?
Author's Notes: Because I'm a bad doobie who forgot it was threthiel9's birthday. Also I fail at smut, but okay. Forgiveness and enjoy? :D
~
It was a seedy little motel, but it was cheap and close to Dale's garage, and they were hardly on a luxury tour in any case. When you divide your time between a cab and a laptop, and steal time from the first to spend more with the second, you don't tend to have the money for five-star homes away from home.
The door, cheap and old though it was, was giving a good fight to whoever was trying to open it. Mohinder stood by the moth-eaten bed and wondered whether to shout for help, until the whoever-it-was admitted grudging defeat and just knocked instead.
He'd been in the middle of getting undressed, so he pulled on his dressing-gown and slippers before cautiously opening the door, leaving the security chain in place.
"...Zane?"
Just a sliver of the man's face was lit by the naked bulb in Mohinder's room. The pupil of Zane's eye was picked out in yellow, as was his rough cheekbone, and the corner of his lopsided smirk.
"Mohinder. Can I come in?"
"Well-of course," said Mohinder, a little surprised by the question. But maybe he wants to talk about Dale, or about his own abilities, he rationalised as he slipped back the security chain and let the door open all the way.
Had Zane always been this tall? Mohinder couldn’t help noticing the slight shift to avoid the top of the doorframe, or the way the shadows clustered around him like moths to a light. He felt pierced by the man’s eyes, and acutely aware of how little he was wearing under the dressing-gown. But a second later Zane was normal again, and Mohinder was already writing off the impression as his own overactive imagination.
“What can I do for you?”
Without looking behind him, Zane reached back and closed the door with a click. He opened his mouth as if to speak-but then, before Mohinder had time to brace himself or even realise what was happening, he had moved swiftly forward and that mouth was grasping at his own. Zane’s lips were soft but he used them like a weapon, scraping them across Mohinder’s skin, hunting for him; his teeth scraped Mohinder’s lips, over and over, till his mouth was sore and his tongue tasted coppery.
His back crushed to the plasterboard wall, Mohinder rigidly fought for breath and tried to cross his legs because-what was this? Where had this come from? Half to his surprise, he found his hands on Zane’s taut shoulders, pulling him deeper, closer towards him; with an effort he moved them around and onto the man’s chest, intending to push him away, really, except that somewhere they got lost and ended up in the tangled warmth under his shirt.
Zane’s tongue was large and rough and explored his mouth like a conquistador, almost choking him at first until he pushed his own head forward and felt the corners of the man’s mouth curl upward against his cheek. He tried to say something-he wasn’t sure what, but that made no difference because all that came out was a long, low animal sound that Mohinder hardly recognised as his own voice. At some point in the course of events his dressing-gown had found itself very suddenly on the floor, and he was vaguely aware of Zane also shedding his clothes with almost superhuman speed.
Then in a breath Mohinder was face-down on the bed, lifting his head out of the musty blanket. He barely had time to register surprise before he felt large hands clamping down on his own and a sharp weight on his back. He wasn’t thinking in words any more, just sensations-the bruises pounded into his shoulder-blades, the thick mist in front of his eyes, the fire exploding up and down his body. His own frantic breaths were loud in his ears and accompanied by a drawn-out cry that could have sprung from either of them.
Behind him came a barking laugh.
Zane pulled out as abruptly as he’d entered, leaving Mohinder to pant and ache on the damp sheets, and to try in vain to work out what had just happened. His whole body was shaking, cold with sweat and spent adrenaline, and it was a few minutes before he could focus or even lift his face away from the smell of salt and mildew.
By then, he was alone in the room.