(no subject)
electricity and homicidal tendencies - prompts
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: M.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: Four drabbles/ficlets for the prompt table. No particular connection between them.
25. Have it your way.
It takes her two months to finally track him down.
The first thing she says when she sits next to him at the diner is “hey, lover” and the first thing she does is cross her legs so her calf is against his knee. Her eyes are smiling when she reaches to steal a sip of his orange juice.
“We’ve never made love,” he reminds her flatly, not surprised at her presence in the least, and she just laughs.
“Wanna?” she asks, and he can’t help but reach to touch her thigh with a sardonic smirk, squeezing it just a little too hard. He wants to hurt her, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
The muscles under his hand twitch and he feels queasy with the smell of her so close. “You’ve come to stop me, Elle?” She leans her head against his shoulder-warm and soft and her hair tickles his chin-and she sighs resignedly, like this is all domestic and normal.
“Can’t a girl just say hi?” She runs one finger over the back of his hand, and he tries not to concentrate on it, tries not to lurch away.
He hates everything about her-those graceful, sultry curls of her lips and the way her small perfect body moves-he hates it so much he seethes. Her voice hurts, and her smile burns, and it takes Sylar approximately five more seconds of her touch to realize he doesn’t hate anything about her; he hates that she’s not his so completely it paralyzes him.
He hates that she’s a liar and a fake. He hates her games and he hates that he wants her anyway.
“You’re not here to say hi, Elle,” he says under his breath, his teeth clenched.
“Fine,” she submits. “Have it your way.” She pulls back and he watches her pink lips frown and her blue eyes sparkle with disappointment. She looks so beautifully fragile he’s overcome with the urge to break her into little pieces. She starts to smile a little and rests her chin on his shoulder. “I wanna, though.”
It takes a few more seconds to realize what she means, and when he does he looks away-because she’s lying and what he hates the most is he wishes she wasn’t.
02. If that’s all, then go ahead and kill me.
He’s got her.
He doesn’t need to feel her warm skin to kill her, but he wants to, so he steps closer to her wide frightened eyes and surprised gasp. She sparks, blue and hot, and he watches her body short circuit against the wall he’s pinned her to with more than one kind of lust.
“Elle,” he whispers, and he’s disgusted with the reverence seeping into the name.
“Gabriel,” she says, and it isn’t reverent, it’s pleading and small, and his lips tilt up.
“I’m not your Gabriel anymore, Elle,” he tells her, and ignores the how her lips moving around his given name cut into his chest viciously. He’s close now, close enough to dip his head and let his breath touch the slim column of her neck. He grabs her hair-so silky and soft to his touch, just like he remembered-and viciously jerks her head to the side. Her breath hitches; her chest heaves against his when he presses into her. “I’m going to kill you, Elle,” he promises, eyes trailing her beating pulse, her elegantly curved jaw.
“I bet that’s what you say to all the girls,” she snaps out sarcastically, and he chuckles low in his throat.
“I’m going to take your precious gift,” he continues, as if she hadn’t spoke-and he hisses at the current of angry electricity that floods into his body. “Maybe then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever loved with it.”
She sobs, only once, on a harsh choke that shakes into him. “If that’s all,” she says, “then go ahead and kill me.”
He lets his nose brush behind her ear; his lips softly kiss the nape of her neck. He rushes with her answering spark. “If that’s all…?”
“At least then you’ll be dead, too.”
14. I'll kill daddy for you.
She never really liked Daddy that much anyway. She stands over his slightly crispy corpse and tilts her head to the side; feeling a bit like she’d just kicked a puppy.
Kind of good, actually.
She’d never kick a puppy though. They were so cute. Daddy bought her a puppy calendar once when she was little and all locked up inside that stupid room with boring white walls. (She liked pink then. Hot pink! Ugh, the idiocy.) Well, maybe she’d zap a puppy. If it bit her or something.
She’s so busy contemplating puppies and calendars and her dead Daddy that she doesn’t notice her cheeks are soaked with hot streaming messy tears until Sylar’s fingers brush the wetness away.
She jerks her head up, past the blurring dampness, and looks at his hungry eyes-they’re so pretty and black and scary in this exhilarating way, in this way that sucks her right in until she’s falling without caring how hard she lands.
“Elle,” he chokes out in shock and awe-and he should be awed, she thinks; she’s pretty awesome. And then his brow folds in the middle, and he looks sad. “Don’t cry.”
“I just killed my dad,” she says emotionlessly, because she did. For him, because he’s such a stubborn jackass who can’t take a ‘sorry I betrayed you, but I really did fall in love with you’ like a normal person.
A normal person would cry.
A normal person wouldn’t demand compensation, and, she supposed, a normal person wouldn’t offer up her own father’s life as payment.
She thinks.
A sob catches in her chest and Sylar’s expression goes a little soft, sort of like he’s just a dorky watchmaker from Queens with dark-rimmed glasses and adorable sweaters. It’s not until he wraps his arms around her and her fingers curl around his dark cotton shirt and she buries her crumbling face into his chest that she realizes she doesn’t feel good at all, and the thought of her puppy calendar makes her feel a little sick.
And she is sick, she supposes, because she just killed her Daddy for a psychopathic serial killer’s forgiveness, and she’s grateful for his embrace, almost grateful enough not to feel too bad for what she’s done.
“It’s okay, Elle,” he whispers, “I know. I know.”
And he’s not lying, his smooth velvety voice soothing her tearing insides. He’s not lying, because Elle knows he’s killed his mommy, too.
Now they’re even. It’s okay.
16. We’ll do better, right?
Elle realizes this isn’t a fairy tale no matter how much it feels like it is. (She minuses the blood, and the gore, and the maiming, and the killing, and Sylar’s tendency to get a little rough and the fact that she likes that a lot.) In the most childish compartments of her mind, Sylar’s like a prince and she’s like Sleeping Beauty-or maybe more accurately she’s like Belle and he’s the Beast? Whatever, she thinks; it’s doesn’t matter.
It sort of feels like a fairy tale, because one day she was a misunderstood slightly sociopathic Company Girl, and the next Sylar had saved her from being boring and good or whatever. Just swept her right off her feet while she was supposed to be making sure he wasn’t doing any naughty things like trying to escape.
He’s not a real prince though; he’s not heroic (thank god) and he’s certainly not selfless and to be honest he’s kind of an infant about pain (not in the bedroom). But he is a real prince because he’s hers and he takes care of her and lets her maim his victims a bit (it’s her favorite part). He lets her listen to the radio stations she likes (sometimes) and he buys her slushies when she’s in a bad mood. He takes her seriously, which is the most important part-Gaston never took Belle seriously just like no one ever took her seriously, but Sylar does. He listens to her when she’s upset or worried or when she has that gut twisty feeling like something’s wrong (it’s saved them before). He touches her hair and kisses it all better and makes loves to (or fucks, whichever) her until she’s too tired and sated to be upset.
He tells her he loves her, not just to placate her, but because he really means it, and it’s ironically times like those when she realizes this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s much better than that. It’s real.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: M.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Summary: Four drabbles/ficlets for the prompt table. No particular connection between them.
25. Have it your way.
It takes her two months to finally track him down.
The first thing she says when she sits next to him at the diner is “hey, lover” and the first thing she does is cross her legs so her calf is against his knee. Her eyes are smiling when she reaches to steal a sip of his orange juice.
“We’ve never made love,” he reminds her flatly, not surprised at her presence in the least, and she just laughs.
“Wanna?” she asks, and he can’t help but reach to touch her thigh with a sardonic smirk, squeezing it just a little too hard. He wants to hurt her, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
The muscles under his hand twitch and he feels queasy with the smell of her so close. “You’ve come to stop me, Elle?” She leans her head against his shoulder-warm and soft and her hair tickles his chin-and she sighs resignedly, like this is all domestic and normal.
“Can’t a girl just say hi?” She runs one finger over the back of his hand, and he tries not to concentrate on it, tries not to lurch away.
He hates everything about her-those graceful, sultry curls of her lips and the way her small perfect body moves-he hates it so much he seethes. Her voice hurts, and her smile burns, and it takes Sylar approximately five more seconds of her touch to realize he doesn’t hate anything about her; he hates that she’s not his so completely it paralyzes him.
He hates that she’s a liar and a fake. He hates her games and he hates that he wants her anyway.
“You’re not here to say hi, Elle,” he says under his breath, his teeth clenched.
“Fine,” she submits. “Have it your way.” She pulls back and he watches her pink lips frown and her blue eyes sparkle with disappointment. She looks so beautifully fragile he’s overcome with the urge to break her into little pieces. She starts to smile a little and rests her chin on his shoulder. “I wanna, though.”
It takes a few more seconds to realize what she means, and when he does he looks away-because she’s lying and what he hates the most is he wishes she wasn’t.
02. If that’s all, then go ahead and kill me.
He’s got her.
He doesn’t need to feel her warm skin to kill her, but he wants to, so he steps closer to her wide frightened eyes and surprised gasp. She sparks, blue and hot, and he watches her body short circuit against the wall he’s pinned her to with more than one kind of lust.
“Elle,” he whispers, and he’s disgusted with the reverence seeping into the name.
“Gabriel,” she says, and it isn’t reverent, it’s pleading and small, and his lips tilt up.
“I’m not your Gabriel anymore, Elle,” he tells her, and ignores the how her lips moving around his given name cut into his chest viciously. He’s close now, close enough to dip his head and let his breath touch the slim column of her neck. He grabs her hair-so silky and soft to his touch, just like he remembered-and viciously jerks her head to the side. Her breath hitches; her chest heaves against his when he presses into her. “I’m going to kill you, Elle,” he promises, eyes trailing her beating pulse, her elegantly curved jaw.
“I bet that’s what you say to all the girls,” she snaps out sarcastically, and he chuckles low in his throat.
“I’m going to take your precious gift,” he continues, as if she hadn’t spoke-and he hisses at the current of angry electricity that floods into his body. “Maybe then I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever loved with it.”
She sobs, only once, on a harsh choke that shakes into him. “If that’s all,” she says, “then go ahead and kill me.”
He lets his nose brush behind her ear; his lips softly kiss the nape of her neck. He rushes with her answering spark. “If that’s all…?”
“At least then you’ll be dead, too.”
14. I'll kill daddy for you.
She never really liked Daddy that much anyway. She stands over his slightly crispy corpse and tilts her head to the side; feeling a bit like she’d just kicked a puppy.
Kind of good, actually.
She’d never kick a puppy though. They were so cute. Daddy bought her a puppy calendar once when she was little and all locked up inside that stupid room with boring white walls. (She liked pink then. Hot pink! Ugh, the idiocy.) Well, maybe she’d zap a puppy. If it bit her or something.
She’s so busy contemplating puppies and calendars and her dead Daddy that she doesn’t notice her cheeks are soaked with hot streaming messy tears until Sylar’s fingers brush the wetness away.
She jerks her head up, past the blurring dampness, and looks at his hungry eyes-they’re so pretty and black and scary in this exhilarating way, in this way that sucks her right in until she’s falling without caring how hard she lands.
“Elle,” he chokes out in shock and awe-and he should be awed, she thinks; she’s pretty awesome. And then his brow folds in the middle, and he looks sad. “Don’t cry.”
“I just killed my dad,” she says emotionlessly, because she did. For him, because he’s such a stubborn jackass who can’t take a ‘sorry I betrayed you, but I really did fall in love with you’ like a normal person.
A normal person would cry.
A normal person wouldn’t demand compensation, and, she supposed, a normal person wouldn’t offer up her own father’s life as payment.
She thinks.
A sob catches in her chest and Sylar’s expression goes a little soft, sort of like he’s just a dorky watchmaker from Queens with dark-rimmed glasses and adorable sweaters. It’s not until he wraps his arms around her and her fingers curl around his dark cotton shirt and she buries her crumbling face into his chest that she realizes she doesn’t feel good at all, and the thought of her puppy calendar makes her feel a little sick.
And she is sick, she supposes, because she just killed her Daddy for a psychopathic serial killer’s forgiveness, and she’s grateful for his embrace, almost grateful enough not to feel too bad for what she’s done.
“It’s okay, Elle,” he whispers, “I know. I know.”
And he’s not lying, his smooth velvety voice soothing her tearing insides. He’s not lying, because Elle knows he’s killed his mommy, too.
Now they’re even. It’s okay.
16. We’ll do better, right?
Elle realizes this isn’t a fairy tale no matter how much it feels like it is. (She minuses the blood, and the gore, and the maiming, and the killing, and Sylar’s tendency to get a little rough and the fact that she likes that a lot.) In the most childish compartments of her mind, Sylar’s like a prince and she’s like Sleeping Beauty-or maybe more accurately she’s like Belle and he’s the Beast? Whatever, she thinks; it’s doesn’t matter.
It sort of feels like a fairy tale, because one day she was a misunderstood slightly sociopathic Company Girl, and the next Sylar had saved her from being boring and good or whatever. Just swept her right off her feet while she was supposed to be making sure he wasn’t doing any naughty things like trying to escape.
He’s not a real prince though; he’s not heroic (thank god) and he’s certainly not selfless and to be honest he’s kind of an infant about pain (not in the bedroom). But he is a real prince because he’s hers and he takes care of her and lets her maim his victims a bit (it’s her favorite part). He lets her listen to the radio stations she likes (sometimes) and he buys her slushies when she’s in a bad mood. He takes her seriously, which is the most important part-Gaston never took Belle seriously just like no one ever took her seriously, but Sylar does. He listens to her when she’s upset or worried or when she has that gut twisty feeling like something’s wrong (it’s saved them before). He touches her hair and kisses it all better and makes loves to (or fucks, whichever) her until she’s too tired and sated to be upset.
He tells her he loves her, not just to placate her, but because he really means it, and it’s ironically times like those when she realizes this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s much better than that. It’s real.