A sleek black man entered his cab—that was all he really could be called as he near-glided into his seat. He nodded to Mohinder, who returned the gesture amicably, putting the vehicle in gear.
"Where t—" His head became flooded with foreign images, memories surging violently to the fore. His body was already plotting a course before he could catch up.
He threw an alarmed glance to his backseat, speech temporarily eluding him. The man tossed back his own, dark eyes unblinking as sunlight bounced off of his shaved head, giving it a slight sheen. His hands twitched, that alone sending Mohinder into a panicked frenzy. The man drew his lips back over his teeth in a cold mockery of a smile, bringing a finger to his lips.
Zane had always liked to play games, and Mohinder, so help him, loved to oblige him.
"Don't touch," he said gently, pushing Mohinder's arms behind his back and climbing to straddle him, trapping the slighter man against the couch. Mohinder took a breath, trying to calm himself as their erections slid together through denim.
Zane Sylar was grinning lightly, but there was a darkness in his eyes—something that should have told Mohinder something. It was always about control, and even Mohinder could admit that as large hands wound themselves in wiry curls, tugging at the base of his skull. He winced even as cold lips descended upon his, tongue prodding the confines gently.
His fingers itched to trace the man's ribs, run over his nipples; cup his face—Mohinder was too tactile a person, and for him this was too much. He let out a groan, hips bucking under Zane's as he tried desperately to gain mobility of his hands. They seemed pinned by some otherworldly force, but Mohinder knew they were simply crushed between his back and the sofa.
Zane smiled devilishly, pulling at the hem of Mohinder's shirt. He attempted to move his arms again, but this once again proved futile as Zane moved his appendages for him to remove the article of clothing, as if he were a small child.
He brought Mohinder's hand to his lips, dragging his teeth across the wrist, tongue darting out to taste the thready pulse. Mohinder fought for control of his lungs as his heartbeat picked up and his breathing became erratic, his face thoroughly flushed.
Sylar took a long digit into his mouth, encasing the finger in radiant heat; sucking it languidly. Mohinder let out a soft cry, his body seeking friction it could not obtain.
He felt that same force, that had pinned him down, animating him, and his breath caught as his hand withdrew from Zane's mouth with a quiet pop. Both hands found their way down the larger man's torso, eliciting small noises Mohinder couldn't help but revel in. Reaching the clasp on Zane's pants he paused, searching the other man's eyes.
They danced with a wild fire he had never seen, and the sight enticed him, drawing him further in as he replaced his lips on Zane's. They kissed noisily, enjoying each other while the world raged outside.
Snapping out of his reverie, he noted that the car was in park. He clutched at his chest, trying to dial down the speed at which his heart was racing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, detecting movement from the seat behind him.
The dark man looked as impassive as ever, and tilted his head innocently to the side. He shifted into drive—his body seemed to know where he was going.
Mohinder's lips gained purchase on the shaft, tongue lapping at the head hesitantly. Zane whimpered, fingers flexing in the Indian's hair, causing him to hiss. He pitched forward, overwhelming Mohinder—who, by some small miracle, managed not to cough.
He gripped the pale erection at the base, drawing it away from the back of his throat before pushing his mouth as far as it would stretch, using what small amount of control he could muster to take away from the overzealous man above him.
His efforts proved futile as Sylar continued to buck into the wetness, never enough to draw blood but certainly enough to cause discomfort.
Mohinder had always liked to be used, and Sylar was more than happy to oblige him.
He found himself at the base of a bridge where he could hear running water, parked in his taxi. He took in a deep shuddering breath and closed his eyes against the migraine that threatened.
Mohinder had that eerie feeling that he had forgotten something, but hadn't a clue what it was. On a whim, he flicked his eyes behind him, and saw something shiny catch the light through a window. A windchime and a short, scripted note stared up at him nondescriptly.
He reached back and grabbed the note, reading it curiously—frowning when it was in a different language (and one that was neither Tamil nor English).
Oublier est être sauvés.