Fic: it's not forever, it's just tonight
Title: it's not forever, it's just tonight
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: hard R
Word Count: around 1400
Warnings: Spoilers through season 3, AU after the "Villains arc", Implied character death, Sex... Lots and lots of sex.
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: My response to the the prompt "fire" over at sylaire_chall. This fic was inspired by the song "Sex on Fire" by Kings of Leon. Title and cut tag taken from those lyrics. You can hear it here.
As always a very big thank you to my beta eeyore9990, who always makes time for my craziness, has the best ideas, and is the best friend I could ever hope for.
Don't make a sound'>
He wakes with a start; the smell of fire burns in his nose, the taste of ashes coats his tongue. Brief flashes of blonde curls and green eyes skip through his memory, torn apart like wet tissues when he reaches for them with his conscious mind. His sweet angel of death standing over him, large slivers of glass cutting her small hands.
Minutes or hours pass while he watches clouds chase the sun across the sky. He reaches out with numb fingers and touches the small drops of blood mixed in the rubble of what is left of Primatech. A slow smile curls his mouth, and he closes his eyes.
He starts over; hits reset on his life. It isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. A small motel offers comfort in the form of a lumpy bed and a leaky bathroom faucet. Home is where the heart is, or so they say. Having never had a home, Sylar wonders who “they” are and if “they” have ever watched in the mirror while injuries healed themselves. Have “they” ever stood under a scorching shower and touched whole skin were scars should be?
She comes to him that first night, a phantom that clumsily unbuttons her shirt before she shuts the door. Her skin glows silver in the murky light of passing cars beyond the window. Time stops when the bed dips under her weight, and she climbs on top of him.
“You killed my mother.”
“Yes.”
Soft lips find his, her hair tickles his nose. She tastes sweet, like fruity bubblegum and lip gloss. They kiss for hours; his fingers are slick from rubbing between her legs. His cock throbs almost painfully, and still he waits, stilling her hands when her grip becomes too much and his thrusts against her too erratic. He licks the sweat off her skin and uses his teeth to bite her everywhere. He is starving; she is his first meal.
He is inside her when the first light of morning falls across the floor. It isn’t enough, the thrust and pull. He pushes her knees further apart, needs to get further, go deeper, possess her.
“Say something. Talk to me, Claire.” He slows his movements and reaches for her face.
She stares at him with an innocent, unblinking gaze. “You killed my mother.”
“Yes.” Sylar feels his orgasm building in the base of his spine. “Yes.” His heart beats loud in his ears, but he hears the question.
“Are you sorry?” she asks between pants and a long moan. Her body clenches tight around him.
“No.”
She is gone before he can find sleep. He knows the truth. Claire wants to hurt herself, and he is her weapon of choice.
***
Claire enrolls in college. She attends keggers, joins a sorority, and pretends that it is everything advertised on the printouts that paper the school.
In her free time she visits with Angela, who assures her that her fathers are doing well and too busy to spend time with their daughter.
“Time to grow up, dear. Your education is the single most important thing to invest your time and energy in.”
Any mention of The Company or the aftermath caused by Arthur Petrelli and Sylar are quickly swept under the rug when Claire mentions them. She would find it frustrating except she already has personal knowledge of everything that she is being shielded from.
Angela is a direct link to her family, which is why Claire tolerates her attention. Claire isn’t in hiding, not exactly. But Sylar’s body was missing from the fire, and everyone acquainted with him knows the odds. He is out there somewhere, hunting. And they think she is at the top of his hit list.
She endures the company of her grandmother, nodding when she is supposed to and playing her part. But in her mind, she is with Sylar. Fucking him in his bed. The thrill of being wrong, doing wrong pulses through her and causes a throb between her legs.
It is when her carefully built façade crumbles that she finds him again. It isn’t difficult; she can sense him like the shadows in the dark corners of a room. He never denies her.
“How many?”
His head is between her legs, his tongue causing sensations that make her whole body shudder. He doesn’t stop, so she asks again. Demands to know.
“How many?”
The vibrations of his voice when he presses his face into her thigh travel all the way to her neck. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” But he climbs up the bed and looms over her, dark grace that reminds her of a knife’s edge. So sharp and beautiful that she can’t stop cutting herself with it.
He rolls them, reversing their positions. She’s straddling his hips, and she imagines that this is what it feels like to tame a wild beast, break its spirit. The black hair on his chest feels soft beneath the palms of her hands. The thrust that joins them doesn’t surprise her, but she gasps anyway from the feel of him.
“Name them.”
He moves again and a slow delicious shiver runs down her spine. She tries to hold still, not move when a primal urge tells her to. It’s a slow struggle, and she knows she’s won when he grips her hips and moans low in his throat.
“Arthur, Elle, Jesse, Bridget, Candice…”
He reaches for her and pulls her down so he can whisper in her ear while he continues to move them both in an exquisitely slow rhythm. Towards the end he’s stuttering, his fingers tangle in her hair as he continues naming the people he’s murdered.
He kisses her when they both reach their end; she comes first. She always comes first. They don’t talk after, but hold each other in silence for a few moments before she leaves. Claire knows she’s playing with fire. And one day she hopes it will consume her, and then there will be nothing left.
***
He hates waiting for her. There is no schedule, only what she wants, and Claire wants to destroy herself. He wants to be obliging and every time she leaves, he wonders if it will be the last he’ll see of her. If she’s accomplished what she keeps coming back for.
The next time she comes for him he’s ready. He’s always ready for her. This time he slices through her clothes with small flicks of his fingers and pins her to the wall. She shows no fear; why should she?
They kiss with bites and teeth. Sylar has to lift her up so her legs can wrap around his hips. He prefers the foreplay and games they play, but something has changed. There is desperation in her that he can sense, wound so tight that it will snap and break at any moment.
She’s painfully tight around him, and he takes a moment to lathe her nipples with his tongue, one after the other. He makes soft shushing noises like she’s a frightened child and not the woman that has spent night after night in his bed torturing herself while he pleasures her. It’s easier this way.
“Describe them.” She’s breathless and finally wet when he rubs a finger where their bodies meet. This is his favorite part. He can never guess what she’ll want to know.
He pushes her against the wall when he thrusts into her. The wall will have a mark in the morning, unlike Claire; he can never leave a mark on her perfect skin. His hands grip her ass as he balances them both. “I killed a man today.”
She moans in response, and her hands squeeze his shoulders.
“He was hard to kill, fought like the devil himself. I murdered his family while he watched.”
They kiss and pant into each other’s mouths.
“Go on.” She’s excited now; it never takes long once he tells her what she wants to hear.
He speeds up and pounds into her, using her body to satisfy his own. “Do you want to know his name, Claire?”
“Tell me.” Her nails rake down his back and she’s got her eyes locked on his, watching. She’s close now, so close.
He kisses her again and strokes her face when he says the name. “Noah.” Watching her crash is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
It’s the last time he’ll see her like this, smell her sex all over his body. He savors it for as long as he can.
The next time he sees her, his sweet angel of death has turned dark. He barely recognizes her in leather and black hair, but he feels pride of ownership over what she has become. After all, he made her.
Author: kathrynthegr8
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: hard R
Word Count: around 1400
Warnings: Spoilers through season 3, AU after the "Villains arc", Implied character death, Sex... Lots and lots of sex.
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or anything associated with Heroes.
A/N: My response to the the prompt "fire" over at sylaire_chall. This fic was inspired by the song "Sex on Fire" by Kings of Leon. Title and cut tag taken from those lyrics. You can hear it here.
As always a very big thank you to my beta eeyore9990, who always makes time for my craziness, has the best ideas, and is the best friend I could ever hope for.
Don't make a sound'>
He wakes with a start; the smell of fire burns in his nose, the taste of ashes coats his tongue. Brief flashes of blonde curls and green eyes skip through his memory, torn apart like wet tissues when he reaches for them with his conscious mind. His sweet angel of death standing over him, large slivers of glass cutting her small hands.
Minutes or hours pass while he watches clouds chase the sun across the sky. He reaches out with numb fingers and touches the small drops of blood mixed in the rubble of what is left of Primatech. A slow smile curls his mouth, and he closes his eyes.
He starts over; hits reset on his life. It isn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. A small motel offers comfort in the form of a lumpy bed and a leaky bathroom faucet. Home is where the heart is, or so they say. Having never had a home, Sylar wonders who “they” are and if “they” have ever watched in the mirror while injuries healed themselves. Have “they” ever stood under a scorching shower and touched whole skin were scars should be?
She comes to him that first night, a phantom that clumsily unbuttons her shirt before she shuts the door. Her skin glows silver in the murky light of passing cars beyond the window. Time stops when the bed dips under her weight, and she climbs on top of him.
“You killed my mother.”
“Yes.”
Soft lips find his, her hair tickles his nose. She tastes sweet, like fruity bubblegum and lip gloss. They kiss for hours; his fingers are slick from rubbing between her legs. His cock throbs almost painfully, and still he waits, stilling her hands when her grip becomes too much and his thrusts against her too erratic. He licks the sweat off her skin and uses his teeth to bite her everywhere. He is starving; she is his first meal.
He is inside her when the first light of morning falls across the floor. It isn’t enough, the thrust and pull. He pushes her knees further apart, needs to get further, go deeper, possess her.
“Say something. Talk to me, Claire.” He slows his movements and reaches for her face.
She stares at him with an innocent, unblinking gaze. “You killed my mother.”
“Yes.” Sylar feels his orgasm building in the base of his spine. “Yes.” His heart beats loud in his ears, but he hears the question.
“Are you sorry?” she asks between pants and a long moan. Her body clenches tight around him.
“No.”
She is gone before he can find sleep. He knows the truth. Claire wants to hurt herself, and he is her weapon of choice.
***
Claire enrolls in college. She attends keggers, joins a sorority, and pretends that it is everything advertised on the printouts that paper the school.
In her free time she visits with Angela, who assures her that her fathers are doing well and too busy to spend time with their daughter.
“Time to grow up, dear. Your education is the single most important thing to invest your time and energy in.”
Any mention of The Company or the aftermath caused by Arthur Petrelli and Sylar are quickly swept under the rug when Claire mentions them. She would find it frustrating except she already has personal knowledge of everything that she is being shielded from.
Angela is a direct link to her family, which is why Claire tolerates her attention. Claire isn’t in hiding, not exactly. But Sylar’s body was missing from the fire, and everyone acquainted with him knows the odds. He is out there somewhere, hunting. And they think she is at the top of his hit list.
She endures the company of her grandmother, nodding when she is supposed to and playing her part. But in her mind, she is with Sylar. Fucking him in his bed. The thrill of being wrong, doing wrong pulses through her and causes a throb between her legs.
It is when her carefully built façade crumbles that she finds him again. It isn’t difficult; she can sense him like the shadows in the dark corners of a room. He never denies her.
“How many?”
His head is between her legs, his tongue causing sensations that make her whole body shudder. He doesn’t stop, so she asks again. Demands to know.
“How many?”
The vibrations of his voice when he presses his face into her thigh travel all the way to her neck. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” But he climbs up the bed and looms over her, dark grace that reminds her of a knife’s edge. So sharp and beautiful that she can’t stop cutting herself with it.
He rolls them, reversing their positions. She’s straddling his hips, and she imagines that this is what it feels like to tame a wild beast, break its spirit. The black hair on his chest feels soft beneath the palms of her hands. The thrust that joins them doesn’t surprise her, but she gasps anyway from the feel of him.
“Name them.”
He moves again and a slow delicious shiver runs down her spine. She tries to hold still, not move when a primal urge tells her to. It’s a slow struggle, and she knows she’s won when he grips her hips and moans low in his throat.
“Arthur, Elle, Jesse, Bridget, Candice…”
He reaches for her and pulls her down so he can whisper in her ear while he continues to move them both in an exquisitely slow rhythm. Towards the end he’s stuttering, his fingers tangle in her hair as he continues naming the people he’s murdered.
He kisses her when they both reach their end; she comes first. She always comes first. They don’t talk after, but hold each other in silence for a few moments before she leaves. Claire knows she’s playing with fire. And one day she hopes it will consume her, and then there will be nothing left.
***
He hates waiting for her. There is no schedule, only what she wants, and Claire wants to destroy herself. He wants to be obliging and every time she leaves, he wonders if it will be the last he’ll see of her. If she’s accomplished what she keeps coming back for.
The next time she comes for him he’s ready. He’s always ready for her. This time he slices through her clothes with small flicks of his fingers and pins her to the wall. She shows no fear; why should she?
They kiss with bites and teeth. Sylar has to lift her up so her legs can wrap around his hips. He prefers the foreplay and games they play, but something has changed. There is desperation in her that he can sense, wound so tight that it will snap and break at any moment.
She’s painfully tight around him, and he takes a moment to lathe her nipples with his tongue, one after the other. He makes soft shushing noises like she’s a frightened child and not the woman that has spent night after night in his bed torturing herself while he pleasures her. It’s easier this way.
“Describe them.” She’s breathless and finally wet when he rubs a finger where their bodies meet. This is his favorite part. He can never guess what she’ll want to know.
He pushes her against the wall when he thrusts into her. The wall will have a mark in the morning, unlike Claire; he can never leave a mark on her perfect skin. His hands grip her ass as he balances them both. “I killed a man today.”
She moans in response, and her hands squeeze his shoulders.
“He was hard to kill, fought like the devil himself. I murdered his family while he watched.”
They kiss and pant into each other’s mouths.
“Go on.” She’s excited now; it never takes long once he tells her what she wants to hear.
He speeds up and pounds into her, using her body to satisfy his own. “Do you want to know his name, Claire?”
“Tell me.” Her nails rake down his back and she’s got her eyes locked on his, watching. She’s close now, so close.
He kisses her again and strokes her face when he says the name. “Noah.” Watching her crash is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
It’s the last time he’ll see her like this, smell her sex all over his body. He savors it for as long as he can.
The next time he sees her, his sweet angel of death has turned dark. He barely recognizes her in leather and black hair, but he feels pride of ownership over what she has become. After all, he made her.