Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: Written for the Sekrit Cabal Porn Battle; this is the full version of the comment ficlet.
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These days, Mohinder doesn’t fight.
Sylar will find him – in the darkness, always in the darkness – rouse him from sleep, touch him, fingertips to the smooth skin on the inside of Mohinder’s arm, to the lines of his chest. He likes to listen, feel the blood rushing in Mohinder’s veins, the soft whisper of a muscle, tensing, relaxing.
The first few times, Mohinder fought. Tooth and nail, no surrender. He struggled mindlessly, and it took a slow seduction, telekinetic bindings, long, lingering kisses before Mohinder gave in.
But now –
Now Mohinder looks up to him, an emotion not quite definable flickering behind his eyes.
Sylar swallows, and he presses a short kiss, to Mohinder’s mouth.
“Sylar,” begins Mohinder, barely a whisper, but Sylar cuts him off. Tongue in Mohinder’s mouth, and, oh god, he can feel, he can hear Mohinder’s erection, stiffening between them.
“Don’t say anything,” says Sylar, pressing a finger to Mohinder’s lips. “Don’t.”
Mohinder’s eyes are wide, almost puzzled, but with a strange, resigned openness that stuns Sylar, somehow.
“I can’t stay away from you,” confesses Sylar, lowly, in Mohinder’s ear.
Mohinder tilts his head, meets Sylar in a kiss, and for a moment, it’s everything Sylar ever wanted. Desire rising from Mohinder’s body, the easy willingness on his tongue. It’s everything, the pinnacle of achievement, the highest call of his biological imperative.
He can’t wait any longer. Shifts down, between Mohinder’s legs, mouth around Mohinder’s erection. Swallows, and Mohinder keens, shocked, his legs slipping over Sylar’s shoulders, his body shuddering, aimlessly, underneath Sylar.
Sylar pulls away, moves down, further; Mohinder makes a soft noise of protest, and Sylar nips the inside of his thigh.
The first touch of his tongue to the cleft of Mohinder’s ass gets all the reaction he could have hoped for, and more. Mohinder gasps, half-tries to get away, but he’s not under control, he’s falling to pieces and Sylar is here, right here, and he can’t let Mohinder run away from him.
A gentle lick, over Mohinder’s entrance, and Mohinder’s back tenses, his lip caught between his teeth. Then, longer, a little of the way inside Mohinder’s body, opening him up – and Sylar pulls back, teasing. Mohinder shifts, squirms, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his own limbs, distracted as he is.
But Mohinder can’t do anything, anything but surrender to Sylar, and the sooner he sees that the better this will be.
Mohinder sobs, muffled, and Sylar hears a quiet, fleshy noise – realizes that Mohinder has bitten his lip so hard it’s bleeding, just trying –
Trying not to scream.
Sylar pulls Mohinder open, even further, and presses his tongue in as far as he can, into the heat, the tension inside Mohinder. And just like that, Mohinder climaxes, shaking apart, overcome. Shivers through the aftershocks, one after another, and Sylar has to pull back, has to watch his beautiful Mohinder drowning, like this.
“Sylar,” murmurs Mohinder, almost a plea, and Sylar is on him, biting at the underside of Mohinder’s neck, kissing to the hollow of his throat.
“Please,” whispers Mohinder, brokenly, “please.” His legs wrap around Sylar’s waist, the invitation clear, clear in the shattered need of his voice, clear in the tense arch of his spine.
That, Sylar can’t disobey. He fumbles for lubricant, any kind of lubricant – the way Mohinder is offering himself, so wanton – it would be unconscionable to hurt him, even unintentionally.
But then, Mohinder feels this like it’s their first time, doesn’t he?
“Ssh,” Sylar reassures, easing Mohinder through the penetration. Supporting them with telekinesis, when all else fails.
And then he’s in, pressing deeper, Mohinder’s body swallowing him up inch by inch. Mohinder flinches, in pain, and Sylar pauses, hands soothing, pressing a kiss to Mohinder’s chest.
Mohinder relaxes, around him, and Sylar slips deeper, in the entire way. He feels Mohinder shudder around him, a whimper escaping Mohinder’s throat. From the reality, Sylar thinks, of finally having Sylar inside him. Of being joined together so intimately that it doesn’t feel like either one will ever be able to break free.
Sylar finds he can’t hold back – his hands are trembling, his control slipping. He wants to fuck Mohinder into the mattress, hold nothing back, and have Mohinder survive it, want it, arching into his touch, perfection under Sylar’s hands.
Mohinder flinches when Sylar withdraws, though, and Sylar can’t – he can’t —
And so the first stroke is slow, burning through the both of them. Mohinder’s breath hitches in his chest, and he moves into it, pinned underneath Sylar, but still so beautifully willing.
Show me your secrets, Sylar thinks, and he angles differently, shallower.
Mohinder chokes on a scream, aborted into Sylar’s neck. He’s not hard, Sylar knows – it’s too soon – but if Sylar can do this, perfectly right, exactly, precisely, more than even his timepieces never had to be –
Mohinder shrieks, another climax ripping through him, and Sylar follows, helplessly, venting his pleasure inside Mohinder’s body.
Buries his nose in Mohinder’s neck, traces the sheen of sweat glazing Mohinder’s skin.
“We’ve done this before, haven’t we.” It isn’t a question. Mohinder takes Sylar’s face in his hands. “We’ve done this before.”
“No,” Sylar lies.
“We have, I know it,” says Mohinder. “How many times? How many—” and it trails into a half-sob. Sylar keeps him close, and he feels the wet of Mohinder’s tears on his neck.
Sylar regrets, suddenly, sharp and poignant, but he can’t remember what it was that he would have changed.
“Please,” pleads Mohinder, “don’t make me forget again.”
“I have to,” says Sylar.
“Close your eyes.”
“No.” Mohinder’s eyes flash, with a fury too deep to express. “You can’t just come in here, fuck me, and leave me alone –”
“Mohinder,” and Sylar’s tone is a warning.
“Don’t do this to me.”
This can’t be happening. Mohinder is his sanctuary, his relief from the outside world, something pure, beautiful, that he can touch. That he can own.
“Please.” One last word, suspended in the air between them.
Sylar nods. “Whatever you want,” he whispers, and he kisses Mohinder. Soft lips open under his, a tongue brushing against his own.
I’m sorry, Sylar thinks, and he touches the back of Mohinder’s head.
By the time Sylar withdraws, Mohinder is unconscious, sprawled on the rumpled bed.
Sylar slips away, closes the door, quiet, behind him. Maybe – maybe this time he won’t come back.