Fic: Paper Hearts (Sylar/Claire) NC-17
Title: Paper Hearts (Four Stolen Powers That Sylar Considered Using On Claire, and One that He Did)
Author: Steph (andbless_mybaby)
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub-con, reference to non-con
Spoilers: S3 to date
Summary: The title says it all, really.
Word Count: 1,400
Author's Notes: Written for theheroes_exchange Valentine swap, for mydnight_dreams
i. - flight
Someday soon, Sylar’s going to be able to fly. He’s going to find Nathan Petrelli and fucking eviscerate him, spill his brains all over the floor for one of his do-boys to clean up. If anyone ever had it coming, it’s the Senator. And Sylar has always wanted to feel the sky.
After that, he’s going to find Claire. It shouldn’t be hard. Even if she changes her name, even if she runs to the ends of the Earth, he’s going to track her down. He can smell her, virginal and scared, holed up in whatever pretty house and pretty life Noah Bennet’s got her caged. Waiting for him, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird.
He is going to soar down on her, a grand gesture. He’s going to grab her struggling little hands in his and hit the atmosphere. There are things that a girl her age should know, and he’s going to use her daddy’s power to show her. Curiously, he wonders about the mid-flight dynamics of getting up under her little cheerleading skirt where she’s hot and tight, working his fingers in until the thin air swallows her cry.
Of course, he’d hate to misjudge and drop her. Even an indestructible girl doesn’t deserve to be unceremoniously dumped from the Mile High Club into the Pacific Ocean.
Sylar’s definitely going to fly.
But maybe not with her.
ii. - time/space manipulation
Tomorrow, she will need him.
Under the spectral sodium vapor streetlamp of a deserted avenue in post-apocalyptic New York City, Sylar will look like Jesus in Converse and a t-shirt. Where the ashes of the damned waft down the train corridors, he will find her. Bewildered and scared, orphaned and friendless, she’ll take his hand when it offers it.
Left alone in a radioactive Wonderland for long enough, he knows, a touch will feel like rain on the cracked earth. Even his. If he’s patient and waits out the days and weeks of the fallow season, she will eventually turn to him and rub her cold little face all over his. There’s no shame between ghosts, and not another soul in all of lower Manhattan to see when Claire takes his palm and drags it under her shirt, flat against the incongruous quivering of her heart.
Will he move it lower then, and edge his fingers into the delta of her threadbare jeans to feel where she is hot and alive and wanting him and what he has to offer?
No.
Truth is, he can honestly think of several ways he’d rather spend his time than in a nuclear hellhole. Not even with present/future Claire, caught in a nightmare physics equation with dust in her hair and eyes looking at him like a friend.
iii. - persuasion
“Suck my cock, Claire.”
He can just imagine uttering that obscenity, and her doing it. Or would he have to say, “You want to suck my cock, Claire?” Focusing overmuch on the fine details nearly derails him, so he dismisses the procedural question for the time being.
His fingers curl in on themselves, imagining the warmth of her scalp under her hair and the pressure he would not have to exert to push her lips down his belly.
Claire would be a tentative fellatrix, he thinks. Wondering if she’s done it before, he’s almost comfortable wagering himself that she has not. But he’s seen the determined set of her darling mouth when she sets her mind to something, and imagines that must count for something. Maybe a lot.
He likes the idea of her fumbling just a bit, second-guessing her hands and maybe taking in too much of his dick when she goes for it the first time. Gagging just a little - now that, that he really likes. He’s always had a keen imagination; he can virtually feel her breath coming faster as he (gently) fucks her mouth.
“Stop, Claire,” he’d say just before he exploded. And Claire would listen, she’d be such a good girl with her chin shiny and lips swollen. He could say, “swallow,” and she’d do that too. But he’d probably come on her face, and smear semen down the perfect curve of her jaw.
Sylar’s too pragmatic for mindless fantasy. What happens after the act, he wonders - after Claire has been convinced to perform every abasement that even his (admittedly really perverse) imagination can devise? The thought of her shame, while not at all unpleasant, is still distasteful. After careful -extensive- consideration, he determines that this course of action is not the most ideal.
But it’s still a glorious thought.
iv. - invisibility
He thinks about slipping into her room at night like a ghost.
When would she wake up, he wonders? Would it be when he pulled back the covers, or when his hands smoothed her thighs and pushed up the hem of her nightgown? Sylar imagines Claire sighing in her sleep, her lips apart and just the barest wisp of a moan escaping when he spreads her knees.
He wouldn’t even be able to see his own fingers catching the blonde curls on her pillow and making a ring of thumb and forefinger over her nipple, pinching it lightly. Would Claire, caught in a dream, picture someone else holding her wrists above her head and moving their hips slowly against hers? Would she wake up with the smell of his skin on her pillow, and would he wait in her chair for her to untangle from the sheets? More likely, he thinks, she would wake up terrified in the midst of the act to the painful and unfamiliar sensation of a man inside her, and scream for help.
In his mind is a perfect image of the curve of Claire’s upper arm, and the sunrise off her golden eyelashes still closed. Unaccustomed tenderness chokes him, and he stifles the idea until it goes away.
* - memory manipulation
Over Valentine’s Day dinner, sparks fly between Claire and the date she knows as Gabriel.
When the waiter places an exquisitely-plated tiramisu between them, Claire lays her napkin aside.
“This looks delicious,” she says. “But I think you should take me to bed, now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
The waiter brings them their check, and he pays cash. They don’t wait for a box for the rest of dessert.
In the car, Claire leans over and whispers something absolutely filthy in his ear.
He runs all the red lights.
_
In the foyer of his apartment, Claire giggles as she tries to get his coat off.
“You’re too tall!” she complains.
“So maybe you should let me handle that.” He throws the offending garment over the back of his couch, and takes hers as well. “Actually, why don’t you let me handle all this.”
“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Claire mock-pouts, but she wriggles against him exquisitely when he unzips the long line of her dress down her back.
“Actually,” he says archly, when he sees her red lace underwear. “You can keep these. I strongly approve of these.”
“That is so - oh!” She squeaks in the most endearing way when he scoops her up and wraps her legs around his waist.
In his bedroom, he gingerly deposits her on the pillows, and climbs up on the bed below her.
He nudges her legs apart, and smooths one hand up the long expanse of her stocking-clad thigh. An almost fetishistic thrill at the sight of the black seams runs up his spine, and he pauses at the embroidered tops of the stockings, adjacent to the lacy and translucent gusset of her panties. He runs his thumb over the pale, exposed strip of thigh, and watches Claire squirm. Lightly, slowly, he spider-walks his fingers up to her crotch, feels for the damp spot that he knows will be spreading there.
“Touch me,” she goads him breathlessly. “Please.”
“Yes,” he says obligingly. “Yes.”
-
Afterwards, he dozes off amidst the rumpled sheets and perfume of sex and well-kept girl.
“Can I tell you something?” Claire’s voice is soft and drowsy under his arm.
“Of course,” he replies.
“I know that it hasn’t been very long, so… don’t take this wrong.”
“I won’t.”
“I feel like… you know, like I’ve known you a long time.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” she echoes, sounding dismayed as she sits up quickly. “See? It sounded weird. I know. I didn’t mean…”
“I know how you feel,” he says soothingly, easing her back down on his body. “I feel the same way.”
_
end.