Heroes fic: Welcome Home

[out_there]

Title: Welcome Home
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Matt/Mohinder
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Dude, not mine. They belong to NBC and everyone else.
Notes: PWP set in those mystery four months before episode 2.01. Thanks to celli for encouraging and cheerleading like crazy. Thanks to nestra for betaing.

Summary: Matt could claim that waking Mohinder is for Mohinder's own good but the truth is far simpler: Mohinder's been away for weeks and now he's in their bed, half-naked.





Standing in the open doorway, leaning a shoulder against the wooden door, Matt watches Mohinder sleep.

Mohinder's lying on his back, stretching diagonally across the double bed, limbs spread wide. He's shirtless, only wearing a pair of navy sweats that Matt suspects are *his*, but Matt doesn't mind. There's something strangely possessive inside him that likes the idea of Mohinder in *his* clothes. Especially when the elastic waistband is old enough to have slipped down low across Mohinder's hips, leaving Matt in no doubt that there's nothing underneath them.

Mohinder's been dead to the world for the last six hours, since he dragged himself in the door at 8am, looking tired and harried. Molly had launched herself into his arms and Mohinder smiled as he held her, but there were dark bruises under his eyes.

"How come you're late?" Molly asked. "You promised to take me to school today."

"There were delays for maintenance," Mohinder said, looking over Molly's shoulder at Matt. A delay that caused me to miss my connecting flight, leaving me stranded in airports for over nine hours, he added inside his head. "Something was wrong with the landing gear, so we couldn't take off until it was fixed."

"You need landing gear to take off?" Molly asked.

"That was my question, too." Mohinder kissed her cheek and then put her down. "But apparently these things cannot be fixed once the plane is in the air."

Molly pulled a face. "That's kind of silly."

"The kid's got a point," Matt said, noticing the stiff way Mohinder was holding himself -- understandable after hours of crappy plastic airport chairs -- and the way he stifled a yawn. "Molly, how about you get your bag? And you, Mister, go straight to bed."

"I promised I'd take Molly to school," Mohinder objected half-heartedly, after a quick, longing glance towards their bedroom. He looked surprised as a yawn escaped. "Sorry."

"You're too tired," Matt said gently, pressing a hand against the small of Mohinder's back and guiding him towards the bedroom. "Molly, honey, come and say goodbye to Mohinder."

"That's really not--"

"You can pick me up from school instead," Molly said, interrupting with a hug around Mohinder's waist. Then they made their goodbyes and Matt walked Molly to school. When he got back, Mohinder was fast asleep, covers cocooned around him.

Now the covers are kicked off and Mohinder is lying against the cream sheets, one arm over his eyes, blocking out the single column of midday sunlight sneaking through a gap in the curtains. And Matt's trying to rationalise waking him up.

He could claim it's for Mohinder's own good -- if he sleeps too much during the day, his body clock will be thrown off and he'll spend the night typing away at his laptop or reading on the couch -- or that he wants to give Mohinder plenty of time to wake up before collecting Molly from school, but the truth is far simpler. It's just that Mohinder's been away for weeks and now he's in their bed, half-naked.

Decision made, Matt shrugs his shirt off and slides his jeans off. (No point getting into bed and then having to get undressed.) Naked, he kneels on the bed and crawls over to Mohinder's side. He nuzzles on a shoulder until Mohinder groans unintelligibly. "Hey."

Another groan. "What time is it?"

"Two hours before we have to pick up Molly."

"Why did you wake me up?" Mohinder asks, annoyed and cranky. (Matt's not the only one who gets grumpy when his sleep is interrupted.)

"Because," Matt says, stopping to nip at Mohinder's shoulder, "we've got two hours before we have to pick up Molly."

Mohinder sighs, like waking up is the world's biggest hardship. "Do I have to open my eyes?"

"No." Matt licks along the curve of collarbone and then starts mouthing the side of Mohinder's neck. "You don't have to do anything. Just lie there and let me enjoy."

"I'm holding you to that," he grumbles and then falls silent as Matt kisses along the artery, pressing his tongue against the pulse and feeling Mohinder's steady heartbeat. He slides a hand across Mohinder's chest, bare skin warm and dry under his palm. There something reassuring in the simplicity of touch, something deep and basic in him that's comforted by having Mohinder here, within arm's reach. It's an opportunity to remember Mohinder's body -- the curve of pectoral muscles, the sharpness of ribs beneath, the soft pliability of skin -- to let his fingers become familiar with it again.

Matt kisses his way up Mohinder's neck, along his jaw to the tender skin behind his ear, noticing Mohinder's cheek smooth against his lips. He must have shaved before collapsing into bed.

Settling onto his side, head propped up on one hand, Matt watches his fingers trace nonsense patterns over Mohinder's skin. He runs them along the jut of hip bones and across the waistband, the back of his knuckles brushing against the worn cotton. Then follows the trail of fine hair past navel to sternum.

For a moment, Mohinder's breath deepens, catching as Matt ghosts his fingers up and down, slowly sliding over chest and stomach; trailing over the same path until Mohinder sighs with it, lips parted and dark curls spread across the pillow.

He's nothing short of beautiful like this: mouth slack, thick eyelashes resting shut, all tension gone from his fine jaw and smooth forehead. So still, almost as if he's asleep, but he's interested. His body -- particularly his tight nipples and the growing tent in his sweats -- proves that.

Yet the only thing Matt can hear from Mohinder's mind is a litany of complaints. I'm too tired. I've been travelling for hours. I'm jetlagged. I haven't been able to sleep in my own bed for weeks.

"Sure." Matt stifles a chuckle. "Your life is hard. Must be a burden to be so gorgeous your boyfriend can't resist feeling you up."

(It's surprisingly easy to call himself a boyfriend. Kind of weird to think that he has a boyfriend of his own, though.)

"This has nothing to do with my looks," Mohinder replies, silently adding, My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, my hair is probably sticking up in all directions and I really am terribly jetlagged.

"So?" Matt kisses him softly, lips sliding over lips, warm and comfortable; the type of kiss that means 'home' and 'mine'.

So I'm sure you would find this more enjoyable if had the energy or inclination to reciprocate. Right now, my most ardent desire is sleep.

Smoothing a hand across Mohinder's chest, Matt hears the mental sigh of pleasure as his palm brushes over one firm nipple. "I'm enjoying myself just fine," he says, rocking his hips to prove his point. And then suppresses a noise of his own as the underside of his cock grazes Mohinder's side.

Mohinder's reply, his first thought, is a whine, selfish and simple: I don't want to move.

"Then don't," Matt says, ducking his head down to scrape his teeth over Mohinder's collarbone. It's one of those things that never fails to make Mohinder gasp. Hooking a thumb under the sweats, he adds, "Well, help me get these off you, then relax and let me take care of it."

He means, 'let me take care of you' -- nearly says it -- but Mohinder might take it the wrong way. This isn't some selfless act. It's all about Matt: about how much he'd missed Mohinder, about how much he loves the feel of him in his arms, naked and gasping. He loves seeing Mohinder lose control, loves knowing that (mostly) ordinary Matt Parkman can turn the stunning Dr Suresh incoherent with lust.

It's an awesome feeling.

"Come on, whatever you want," Matt cajoles and hears the answer almost instantly.

Your fingers fucking me.

Head swimming with the rush of thoughts -- unexpected admiration for hands he's always considered square and wide, practical but barely worth noticing -- Matt manages, "We can definitely do that."

He tugs the sweats lower. Mohinder helpfully lifts his hips.

The sweats come down easy, catching on the back of Matt's hands as he slides palms down the outside of Mohinder's legs. He curls his fingers to brush lightly behind Mohinder's knees. Mohinder squirms a little, ticklish despite all claims to the contrary.

For a moment, Matt sits back on his heels and just looks. Gorges himself on the sight in front of him: long toned legs lying open; cock standing up, head flushed the colour of a blood plum. Matt licks his lips, mouth watering a little.

He plants one hand on the bed and leans over Mohinder to fumble with the nightstand drawer. Grabbing the familiar bottle, he pauses on his way back to drop a light kiss on the tip of Mohinder's nose. He likes the way Mohinder crinkles his nose in surprise (a little like a rabbit, or Samantha from Bewitched). More than that, he likes hearing Mohinder's So childish, thought with amusement and resignation but most of all, with affection.

He drops another kiss on the bottom curve of Mohinder's rib, then his stomach, then his hip, as he crawls back down the bed. Mouth still on Mohinder's skin, he fumbles with the cap, flicks it open and slicks up his fingers.

It's easy to push one finger inside Mohinder. Amazingly easy. It always is. Mohinder takes it with a small sigh of pleasure, like he was made to be touched like this.

Mohinder's not the most relaxed person to live with. He has rules about dishes and vegetables and bedtimes. He has strict guidelines for ironing, suitable TV for Molly, and nobody touching his research notes, ever.

Privately -- very privately, not that he'd ever say it out loud -- Matt thinks Mohinder's a bit of a control freak. But in bed, he relaxes. He's sensual and confident, comfortable inside his skin in a way that Matt envies, almost. Well, sometimes. Most of the time, he just appreciates it.

Matt turns his head, nuzzles the side of Mohinder's cock, tongue sneaking out to skate along the vein, and listens.

You should be kissing me.

It's petulant and demanding, and Matt feels himself grinning goofily. He can't help it, just like he can't help the way something expands inside his chest, something warm and shivery, as he realises that all the things Mohinder struggles against in the rest of his life -- his supposed youthfulness, his perceived immaturity compared to his peers -- he doesn't worry about these things with Matt. He doesn't care if he sounds greedy or childish; doesn't for one instant think that Matt would think any less of him for pouting and complaining, for refusing to act his age.

He's right, and that's what really gets to Matt.

So he crawls up the bed, rearranges himself until he's lying on his side, next to Mohinder, and then curls a hand over his thigh and up. The heel of his hand brushing over Mohinder's balls as he pushes a finger back inside.

"Better?" he asks. Mohinder opens his mouth to reply, but Matt kisses him instead.

Much better, he hears.

He lets Mohinder set the pace. Follows the instructions of slower, deeper, more, harder, yes, whispering in the back of his mind. It's so slow, so gentle, that Matt would find it unendurable. But Mohinder loves it, groaning into Matt's mouth and curling a hand around the back of Matt's neck as Matt gets the pressure right.

At moments like these, Matt's pretty sure he's got the coolest power ever.

Then again, it's not like he needs telepathy to enjoy this. To enjoy Mohinder laid out, spread across cotton sheets, loose and still. But this way, he gets to hear the moment when the slow tease of one finger isn't enough, know when to pull out slowly and reach for the lube. He silences Mohinder's unspoken complaint by sliding his hand over Mohinder's cock -- just once, light and fast, gliding his palm over the head -- making Mohinder break the kiss to gasp.

Then Matt gives him what he wants, presses two fingers into the smooth warmth of Mohinder's body. Twists a little, but keeps it slow and steady.

Breathes through his nose, kissing Mohinder with teeth and tongue. Until his lips feel swollen and over-sensitised. Until he's dizzy and light-headed. Until Mohinder twists his head away, stretching his neck to the side.

It's not even a conscious request. Mohinder's focused -- to a flattering degree -- on Matt's fingers, on enjoying every brush of naked skin against his, and that's all his thoughts reflect. But Matt knows Mohinder, knows that if he drags his teeth over the curve of collarbone -- just there -- Mohinder will groan.

Mohinder does, arching up.

Two fingers inside him now, thrusting in and out. Matt can hear the internal litany -- the pointless, half-formed thoughts: yes, harder, there! Oh! Good, so good, yes -- as Mohinder's arms wrap around him, palming his back, sliding against skin for the sake of it; tensing, freezing, clenching as Matt hits the right spot at the right speed. Mohinder slides a hand down Matt's forearm, holding on and making Matt suddenly aware of the shifting muscles in his wrist as he works his fingers inside Mohinder.

Mohinder's thoughts become more scattered, hips twitching against Matt's rhythm. His breathing is fast, unsteady, and then there's one clear thought: stop!

Mohinder pushes at his wrist, repeating the thought, begging for it, and Matt pulls his hand away carefully, sliding his fingers out of Mohinder's body as gently as he can. For a moment, he worries that he's done something wrong, hurt Mohinder somehow, but as he pulls back, Mohinder shoves at his shoulder, pressing Matt backwards onto the mattress.

Then he's clambering over Matt, forcing a leg between his, rolling his hips against Matt's thigh. Landing sloppy kisses on Matt's shoulder, Matt's neck, whatever skin he can reach, Mohinder grabs Matt's hand and pulls it to his ass with the mental whisper of please!

Matt pushes two fingers inside him but Mohinder pleads for more, incoherently begs for it, so Matt adds another finger. Three fingers, and Mohinder's body is hot and slick around them, welcoming the intrusion. Mohinder is snapping his hips back and forth, rutting against Matt's leg and forcing Matt's fingers deeper. He's too out of breath to kiss; just buries his head against Matt's shoulder, huffing warm, moist air onto Matt's skin.

As he gets closer, Mohinder's breathing becomes louder, more erratic. Thrusts become desperate and ragged. The thoughts inside Mohinder's head feel like background noise -- snatches of words and groans to a primal beat, a pulse thundering with the urge for more and now, good and so close -- something so visceral Matt can almost feel it, and then it all whites out. Disappears in a flash of perfect silence as Mohinder strains, frozen into place, then comes warm and wet on Matt's thigh, spasming around Matt's fingers.

Mohinder holds himself very still, caught in the moment, then the tension rushes out of him and he collapses onto the bed, boneless in Matt's arms.

In the mental calm, Matt pulls his fingers out gently, soothing and slow. Mohinder mumbles against his shoulder, but it's a sleepy sound of protest. There aren't any words spoken or thought.

Matt eases a hand onto the small of Mohinder's back, noting the slow, steady breaths. He's pretty sure Mohinder fell asleep on him.

Despite the fact that Mohinder will probably end up drooling on him, that Matt's left arm will go numb with body-weight pressing it into the mattress while another part of Matt is screaming for attention and getting completely ignored, Matt doesn't have the heart to wake Mohinder up twice in the same afternoon.

This is one of those things he's missed while Mohinder's been away. Not Mohinder falling asleep at the worst time possible, but lying next to someone in bed. Matt's a cuddler. Always has been. And he likes this. Likes wrapping his arms around someone else, likes watching someone else sleep, relaxed vulnerable. There's something about it that...

Well. It makes him feel... strong. Protective. Which is probably the lamest thing in the world.

So it'd be a good idea to never, ever admit that out loud, Matt reminds himself, brushing a few curls back from the side of Mohinder's cheek. Mohinder's eyes are shut, mouth slack, and he's starting to snore a little. With the covers kicked down the bed, they'll probably get cold, but Matt still thinks it's amazing. Amazing that he gets to have this, the apartment and Molly and Mohinder, gets to be a cop again and despite the everyday worries -- and the not so everyday ones, the ones about the Company, about living with powers, about all the weird-ass crap that's happened -- he gets to be happy.

He gets to have afternoons like this, gets to have Mohinder to himself and afternoon sunlight streaking across the bed, warm skin against his and soft sheets under them. He's truly grateful for it.

But he's still damn pleased to see Mohinder's long, dark lashes flutter open.

"Sorry," he says, hiding a yawn behind his hand. "I think I may have drifted off."

"It's cool."

Mohinder kisses him -- a little slow, a little sleepy, but warm and sweet -- and shifts his weight off Matt. Matt discreetly clenches his hand, flexing his fingers to try to get feeling back. The pins-and-needles pain makes him hiss. Then Mohinder smoothes a hand low across Matt's stomach and Matt's suddenly distracted.

"You know," he says, only pulling back enough to breath the words against Mohinder's lips, "if you want to move your hand down a few inches..."

"You wouldn't object?" Mohinder finishes lightly, raking his short nails down and across Matt's left hip.

"Not at all."

Mohinder's a tease. Drags his fingers back and forth, skating closer and closer, but never actually touching Matt's cock. Managing to keep his hand just out of reach, even as Matt twists his hips up.

Matt groans. "Come *on*."

Then Mohinder smiles, bright flash of teeth, and presses a kiss to Matt's lips. It's quick and almost chaste, but it's followed with a kiss to Matt's chin, his Adam's apple, his sternum. Matt drops his head to the pillow as Mohinder moves, drawing himself up on arms and legs and crawling backwards, planting kisses in a line as he goes.

He uses his teeth on the soft skin of Matt's stomach, and that sudden sting is too much, pushes Matt over the edge of horny to desperate. He gets his hands on Mohinder's shoulders, pushing him down. It isn't subtle, isn't polite, but he's hard and Mohinder's so close.

He doesn't care if it's rude, because it works. Mohinder moves down, and after a brief pause -- lapping at Matt's hip, licking the combination of sweat and come from Matt's skin, until Matt groans again -- Mohinder moves to Matt's cock. He licks up the shaft, tongues the slit, and then slides his mouth down. Soft lips caressing, catching on the ridge while his tongue glides over, swirls around the head. Then he starts sucking like it's an Olympic sport.

Definitely a gold medal contender, Matt finds himself thinking as his eyes roll back in his head. He makes a noise, but it sounds more like gargling than anything that should happen in the bedroom.

It takes him a moment to realise he's got his hands clenched in Mohinder's hair, holding him there. He pulls his hands away, knows he shouldn't do that, and gets fistfuls of the sheet instead.

Then Mohinder stops.

"You're not listening," he says.

"What?" Matt lifts his head to stare down the bed. Mohinder's propped up on his elbows, looking up at Matt. His hair is mussed, lips dark, already a touch swollen. He's also about an inch from Matt's red, shiny cock, gleaming with the combination of pre-come and spit. Matt's so hard he feels like he could bend iron bars using his dick, and Mohinder wants to talk about the quality of their communication? "What?"

"You're not listening to my thoughts."

"Little distracted," Matt says, brain foggy. "With things. Things more vital than, you know, powers."

Truth be told, he's a little amazed he gets that many words out.

A twist of the lips, and Mohinder's smiling, no teeth showing this time. "Please," he says, in that way of his. It's clear he's not asking a question but politely phrasing a command.

"Fine," Matt says, letting his head flop back down. "But if you start thinking about, you know, shopping lists, all bets are off."

(Janice had done that. She hadn't meant to, but Matt had still heard it. There's no bigger turn-off than lying on top of someone, huffing away, and then realising they're bored out of their mind and hoping it'll finish soon. So, yeah, even if he hadn't been distracted by Mohinder's wonderful mouth, he probably wouldn't have been listening anyway.)

The first thought he hears puts his doubts to rest: you're so sexy like this.

The next one nearly fries his brain.

I've been thinking about this for the last three days, about getting you naked, about how huge you feel in my mouth.

Mohinder's mouth is back on him -- wet and hot and perfect -- and Matt's clenching at the sheets. Pressing his shoulders into the mattress and desperately trying not to move his hips. Not to thrust into that warm suction.

Then he hears, There is something so immediate, so vivid about sucking your cock. The smell and the taste, the heat of your body, the feel of you against my tongue.

He swears or maybe groans. Matt really doesn't know, but he's moving his hips, squirming. It's only Mohinder's hands -- cool palms and narrow, fine fingers -- holding him down.

The way your hips shift under my hands, the noises you make.

Matt manages to raise his head to stare at Mohinder, who's leaning on his elbows, hands on Matt's hips, eyes shut. There's a frown of concentration between his brows, and he's bobbing his head a little, working his mouth on Matt's cock.

It's what I think about when I'm not here. When I'm standing in some godforsaken hotel shower, I think about getting back here. As I -- what's the phrase you use? -- jerk off, I think about doing this.

Then all bets are off. It's the image that does it. The vision of Mohinder alone in some unfamiliar bathroom, standing under the shower, skin wet and glistening, stroking himself and thinking... thinking of *Matt*. Thinking of *this*.

He doesn't give Mohinder any warning, doesn't think to push him away. Doesn't have time to. He just comes, sudden and hard enough to see spots behind his eyelids.

When Matt forces his eyes open, drags his brain cells back from wherever they'd scattered to, Mohinder's lying beside him with his head on the pillow and his palm flat against Matt's chest. "So..." Matt says, searching for something to say that doesn't involve too many syllables.

Mohinder raises an eyebrow, looking more than a little smug. "So?"

Matt grins and shrugs. Well, makes a half-hearted attempt at shrugging while moving as little as possible. "Welcome home."

Mohinder chuckles, low and relaxed. Then he presses a sweet kiss to the curve of Matt's bicep. "Be it ever so humble."

Comments

[out-there.livejournal.com]

The telepathic thing was really cool - it can be so hard to express what it is you want, and Mohinder's a lucky SOB who doesn't need to!

Heh. Should I admit something slightly embarrassing?

Yeah, I will.

After writing this, I realised that this was one of the few fics where I'd randomly taken a bit of time to imagine myself in the situation with Matt. Like, not just imagine how it would feel to be Mohinder, but to actually place myself in it, which I don't usually do.

*buries head in hands* There is a good chance that Matt just became my fictional boyfriend.

[gothams3rdrobin.livejournal.com]

Heee - and just what is wrong with that? He's pretty cute!

Nothing wrong with placing yourself in the scene! :-) Not as though you do it all the time.