Fic: Invisible (Sylar/Claire; NC-17)
Title: Invisible
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Word Count: 1,784
Warnings: S2 spoilerz
Summary: Claire gets a surprise from a seeming stranger in the shower
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
Author's Notes: I was totally going to post something irrelevant and then I was overcome with guilt at not having ficced in FIVE FUCKING MONTHS WHAT and so I did. Just 'cause. For y'all.
It started seemingly out of the blue.
One day, things are normal-- or, at least, as normal as things in your life tend to be on a general basis, which isn't very. Dad is still working for the Company to keep you and mom and Lyle safe, and the three of you stayed in California, not wanting to have to switch lives again and go off running after all dad has done for you. You spend most of your days alone, in your room, in the very back of the classrooms, time spent studying and missing the most important man in your life. West is gone.
One day, things are normal.
The next day, things change.
You know that's normal, you know you're not some weirdo freak for it this time, but this isn't just a typical stupid change that you should be able to deal with rationally. It's stupid. You know that.
But you can't help but feel watched.
It gets worse when you're sleeping.
This night especially. It's only when you climb out of bed and decide to take a shower to take your mind off things-- you won't have to squeeze it in before school like this, either, and that's always a pleasant sort of thing-- that you can relax.
Nothing's hiding in the corners, in the shadows-- there's nothing there, and any noises you hear are doused by the water running down your skin, tiny particles going out of their way to touch and caress every last crevice.
It's then that you freeze.
Something is holding onto your arm and won't let go. You know it's a man; no woman's hand would feel that way-- except that--
There's nothing there.
You wonder whether you blinked and missed it. You wonder whether it would make any difference if he told you his name is Sylar, or that he won't hurt you, when you already know both truths.
You wonder whether you should be unsettled that you've felt like this-- like he's been watching you for weeks, in your sleep, in your dreams, at school, at home--
You don't say anything. You want to-- you want to ask him how long he's held that power, and how he learned about it, and who had to die for him to have it. You want to ask him how he found you, and why he hasn't killed you yet, why the shower isn't running crimson with your beautiful blood yet.
You want to ask him whether this was an accident, or deliberate, catching you like this in the shower. Touching you. Whether he's planned all of this.
You want to know.
You don't ask. All that escapes your mouth is a soft breath as your eyes close. You know you don't have to remind him that you're really not too keen on dying, and no, BDSM is not a turn-on for you.
He seems to know. He seems to know everything, on second thought, and you shiver despite the hot water's comforting caress when his hand moves down your arm only to stop at your elbow as if to caucus with it on where to venture next.
It's only an arm.
He decides he likes your back, hand slipping-- you knew he was standing behind you, you facing the wall far too closely for anything else to be the case-- and then glides lower, as if aided by the water in a smooth stream of lubrication until his hand is resting on the small of your back.
You don't bother opening your eyes. You can't see him regardless-- why not enjoy.
For now.
He won't kill you-- you wonder whether he prepared and didn't come in here fully dressed.
Then his hand plays lower and you shiver again.
It reminds you of the fact that you have no idea why you're consenting to this.
It's not normal. Not rational. It's not even safe.
But on the other note, you realize, the shower doesn't have anything in it with which you could quickly and easily defend yourself, and you decide you'd really love to live another day.
If only it means that maybe, maybe you get to see dad again.
Another part of you remembers that you've partways gotten used to him-- the ever-elusive presence that you just felt but could never see, touch, feel--
Now you're getting a taste of what you've been waiting for, and it feels so much sweeter than choking on your own copper fire, slow trickle down your face.
Dad, you realize, would hate you for liking this.
But dad could never really hate you.
It's as if he knows your conscience is somewhat appeased for the moment, and a second hand joins in the shadowplay, a lone digit running teasingly down your arm.
So far, he's only seen your backside.
To your knowledge.
You wonder whether he saved it-- didn't look. Kept his eyes closed, and then--
The train of thought stops there, when you feel a warm breath on your ear, as if he wants to whisper to you but won't, because he doesn't want to give the game away.
Good. He shouldn't.
The hand at the small of your back is holding on more insistently now, thumb drawing absentminded circles there.
You almost purr. Then you stop yourself.
It's a slow, careful decent that you would never call a seduction for fear of the fact alone.
Sylar. The same name that your own father has held in fear and terror-- one of the very people he was trying to protect you from.
Now you wonder whether he had this in mind, when he considered Sylar's plan of attack on his precious Claire-bear.
Probably not.
It's his cue, of course, to abandon her back and go lower, fingers vaguely tracing the slit all the way downdowndown to slip one inside.
It happens so fast you almost don't expect it, and when it happens-- and at that angle-- you gasp, eyes going wide, one hand reaching forward to grab hold of something for support, and, instead, catching a hand there.
Always prepared, as if he was expecting--
You stop there.
Expecting it.
Precogs are everywhere, and you wonder why the hell you hadn't thought of it before. Maybe he can read your mind, too, maybe he knows you know he's been watching, maybe he knows you think you want it, even if subconsciously. Maybe he knows that you know that he drew this, dreamt this, wrote it, whatever the hell precogs really do.
A struggling part of you wonders why the hell any of this matters when you have a serial killer fingering you.
It doesn't really.
That part doesn't either.
Not when he twists, sharp, almost painful, and you nearly cry out only to bite down on your tongue.
It's a game now, you know. Not to talk. Not when he can just touch.
The finger relents, resurfaces, and takes a step further, drawing circles around your clit. Indirect contact-- it's good, but damn if he isn't a fucking tease about this.
You hate it, not that you'd tell him to stop, not when it's really this much fun. You know he wouldn't stop if you begged him, would only scoff inwardly at your weakness, and not only for begging, but talking, too.
So you say nothing, just holding onto his hand.
Until the other one stops, that is, and grabs hold of your free one, as if you're both in some backwards waltz.
He's making you touch yourself.
Guiding yours onto your breast with his, he moves, like a snake in water, slippery and seductive with definitively smooth movements that aim only to kill. Only this kill will involve a whole lot less Blood, and a lot more Victim.
There's that breath again on her ear, hotter-- closer-- this time, and then he leans forward to bite the outside shell of it.
Mrowr.
His tongue follows near-instantly, slipping over the spots where he bit down, however gently, soothing the spots.
It's then that you notice you haven't even kissed yet.
It's a stupid thing to think, and you know as much, but then again, you're being touched by an invisible man-- it would be masturbation as far as anyone else would think, but, like this, with your eyes closed--
A part of you can't remember the last time you've felt this free.
Another part of you wants to clench up and run, run and hide under a blanket and dad's comfort.
But it's too late now, you're shoved forward, hands held down by stronger, bigger hands against the wall ahead of you, making you stand at an awkward angle, leaning--
Then you feel it, and you know what he's thinking.
A part of you wants to say no.
No, no, correction-- a large part of you that wants to say no.
That same part, however, knows that this could mean more than losing all of the games the two of you are playing; it could mean death.
If he decides to kill you regardless at the end--
Might as well bend over and enjoy. Literally.
Nothing happens.
You wait. 3, 4, 5, maybe 6 seconds, and he relents, hands pulling back, down, down, down your arms, your back, only to seemingly pause to appreciate before pulling away entirely.
You don't understand what's happening until you feel cold hands on your legs, and, suddenly, a tongue lapping away at your clit.
Your knees nearly buckle, and the noise that escapes from your throat is, at best, a strangled one, fingers curling up against cool shower tiles so hard you think you might break the nails in the process.
A mewl, and he speeds up, fingers digging into your thighs.
It's been building for so long-- weeks, one might argue-- that you come almost too quickly, opening your eyes wide at the moment only to see nothing but a blank shower wall, nothing reflected in it.
You wish you'd seen.
But the next moment it's all gone, all feelings are gone, all touches and hints of hands, and you wonder whether it all could be just in your head.
It can't be, not the way you collapse onto the floor, feet feeling weak with tremors, only to have you collapse into sobs.
A part of you feels empty and hollow inside, and you wonder how you would have felt had he actually fucked you.
After that, you don't think about it anymore.
It's a lie, of course, as much as you hate yourself for it and don't want it to be one. As much as you hate the cryptic notes and Phantom-esque roses.
But you try really, really hard.
P.S.: SUP GAIZ
P.P.S.: IT'S SHARK WEEK *\o/*
P.P.P.S.: MOST SINCERE apologies to Otakon peeps. Something sort of Massively Huge and Important came up and I sort of couldn't go. orz
P.P.P.P.S.: JOIN stedelweiss and rivelata! I'm a mod at both places, woop woop, THAT SHOULD BE INCENTIVE ENOUGH.
P.P.P.P.P.S.: DID YOU MISS THE PORN? DID YOU DID YOU DID YOU? I bet you DID.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: I hate people who don't get when you don't want to talk to them.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: BUT I LOVE AWESOME PEOPLE and going to visit them in Shreveport on SUNDAY!!!!
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: AND I AM WRITING CROSSOVER EPIC FIC plzdontlynchme
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: ALSO I am a blonde nao
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: AND I might finally get to see the Dark Knight tomorrow idk? AND CLONE WARS FRIDAY. And maybe Wall-E!
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: and and and I'm going to... I just lost that train of thought. OH THERE IT IS I showed my sister ANIME today and she was SPEECHLESS.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: LASTLY (I swear, if I was lying I'll add PSs before this one I promise) I HAVE FALLEN HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH SUPERNATURAL. :D? EVERYONE GO LOOK AT THE HOT WINCHESTER BOYS. I blame metatarsus completely AND SO CAN YOU
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Word Count: 1,784
Warnings: S2 spoilerz
Summary: Claire gets a surprise from a seeming stranger in the shower
Disclaimer: Not mine! Should it come to this, this is AU and all characters involved in sexual relations in this story are 18 or older.
Author's Notes: I was totally going to post something irrelevant and then I was overcome with guilt at not having ficced in FIVE FUCKING MONTHS WHAT and so I did. Just 'cause. For y'all.
It started seemingly out of the blue.
One day, things are normal-- or, at least, as normal as things in your life tend to be on a general basis, which isn't very. Dad is still working for the Company to keep you and mom and Lyle safe, and the three of you stayed in California, not wanting to have to switch lives again and go off running after all dad has done for you. You spend most of your days alone, in your room, in the very back of the classrooms, time spent studying and missing the most important man in your life. West is gone.
One day, things are normal.
The next day, things change.
You know that's normal, you know you're not some weirdo freak for it this time, but this isn't just a typical stupid change that you should be able to deal with rationally. It's stupid. You know that.
But you can't help but feel watched.
It gets worse when you're sleeping.
This night especially. It's only when you climb out of bed and decide to take a shower to take your mind off things-- you won't have to squeeze it in before school like this, either, and that's always a pleasant sort of thing-- that you can relax.
Nothing's hiding in the corners, in the shadows-- there's nothing there, and any noises you hear are doused by the water running down your skin, tiny particles going out of their way to touch and caress every last crevice.
It's then that you freeze.
Something is holding onto your arm and won't let go. You know it's a man; no woman's hand would feel that way-- except that--
There's nothing there.
You wonder whether you blinked and missed it. You wonder whether it would make any difference if he told you his name is Sylar, or that he won't hurt you, when you already know both truths.
You wonder whether you should be unsettled that you've felt like this-- like he's been watching you for weeks, in your sleep, in your dreams, at school, at home--
You don't say anything. You want to-- you want to ask him how long he's held that power, and how he learned about it, and who had to die for him to have it. You want to ask him how he found you, and why he hasn't killed you yet, why the shower isn't running crimson with your beautiful blood yet.
You want to ask him whether this was an accident, or deliberate, catching you like this in the shower. Touching you. Whether he's planned all of this.
You want to know.
You don't ask. All that escapes your mouth is a soft breath as your eyes close. You know you don't have to remind him that you're really not too keen on dying, and no, BDSM is not a turn-on for you.
He seems to know. He seems to know everything, on second thought, and you shiver despite the hot water's comforting caress when his hand moves down your arm only to stop at your elbow as if to caucus with it on where to venture next.
It's only an arm.
He decides he likes your back, hand slipping-- you knew he was standing behind you, you facing the wall far too closely for anything else to be the case-- and then glides lower, as if aided by the water in a smooth stream of lubrication until his hand is resting on the small of your back.
You don't bother opening your eyes. You can't see him regardless-- why not enjoy.
For now.
He won't kill you-- you wonder whether he prepared and didn't come in here fully dressed.
Then his hand plays lower and you shiver again.
It reminds you of the fact that you have no idea why you're consenting to this.
It's not normal. Not rational. It's not even safe.
But on the other note, you realize, the shower doesn't have anything in it with which you could quickly and easily defend yourself, and you decide you'd really love to live another day.
If only it means that maybe, maybe you get to see dad again.
Another part of you remembers that you've partways gotten used to him-- the ever-elusive presence that you just felt but could never see, touch, feel--
Now you're getting a taste of what you've been waiting for, and it feels so much sweeter than choking on your own copper fire, slow trickle down your face.
Dad, you realize, would hate you for liking this.
But dad could never really hate you.
It's as if he knows your conscience is somewhat appeased for the moment, and a second hand joins in the shadowplay, a lone digit running teasingly down your arm.
So far, he's only seen your backside.
To your knowledge.
You wonder whether he saved it-- didn't look. Kept his eyes closed, and then--
The train of thought stops there, when you feel a warm breath on your ear, as if he wants to whisper to you but won't, because he doesn't want to give the game away.
Good. He shouldn't.
The hand at the small of your back is holding on more insistently now, thumb drawing absentminded circles there.
You almost purr. Then you stop yourself.
It's a slow, careful decent that you would never call a seduction for fear of the fact alone.
Sylar. The same name that your own father has held in fear and terror-- one of the very people he was trying to protect you from.
Now you wonder whether he had this in mind, when he considered Sylar's plan of attack on his precious Claire-bear.
Probably not.
It's his cue, of course, to abandon her back and go lower, fingers vaguely tracing the slit all the way downdowndown to slip one inside.
It happens so fast you almost don't expect it, and when it happens-- and at that angle-- you gasp, eyes going wide, one hand reaching forward to grab hold of something for support, and, instead, catching a hand there.
Always prepared, as if he was expecting--
You stop there.
Expecting it.
Precogs are everywhere, and you wonder why the hell you hadn't thought of it before. Maybe he can read your mind, too, maybe he knows you know he's been watching, maybe he knows you think you want it, even if subconsciously. Maybe he knows that you know that he drew this, dreamt this, wrote it, whatever the hell precogs really do.
A struggling part of you wonders why the hell any of this matters when you have a serial killer fingering you.
It doesn't really.
That part doesn't either.
Not when he twists, sharp, almost painful, and you nearly cry out only to bite down on your tongue.
It's a game now, you know. Not to talk. Not when he can just touch.
The finger relents, resurfaces, and takes a step further, drawing circles around your clit. Indirect contact-- it's good, but damn if he isn't a fucking tease about this.
You hate it, not that you'd tell him to stop, not when it's really this much fun. You know he wouldn't stop if you begged him, would only scoff inwardly at your weakness, and not only for begging, but talking, too.
So you say nothing, just holding onto his hand.
Until the other one stops, that is, and grabs hold of your free one, as if you're both in some backwards waltz.
He's making you touch yourself.
Guiding yours onto your breast with his, he moves, like a snake in water, slippery and seductive with definitively smooth movements that aim only to kill. Only this kill will involve a whole lot less Blood, and a lot more Victim.
There's that breath again on her ear, hotter-- closer-- this time, and then he leans forward to bite the outside shell of it.
Mrowr.
His tongue follows near-instantly, slipping over the spots where he bit down, however gently, soothing the spots.
It's then that you notice you haven't even kissed yet.
It's a stupid thing to think, and you know as much, but then again, you're being touched by an invisible man-- it would be masturbation as far as anyone else would think, but, like this, with your eyes closed--
A part of you can't remember the last time you've felt this free.
Another part of you wants to clench up and run, run and hide under a blanket and dad's comfort.
But it's too late now, you're shoved forward, hands held down by stronger, bigger hands against the wall ahead of you, making you stand at an awkward angle, leaning--
Then you feel it, and you know what he's thinking.
A part of you wants to say no.
No, no, correction-- a large part of you that wants to say no.
That same part, however, knows that this could mean more than losing all of the games the two of you are playing; it could mean death.
If he decides to kill you regardless at the end--
Might as well bend over and enjoy. Literally.
Nothing happens.
You wait. 3, 4, 5, maybe 6 seconds, and he relents, hands pulling back, down, down, down your arms, your back, only to seemingly pause to appreciate before pulling away entirely.
You don't understand what's happening until you feel cold hands on your legs, and, suddenly, a tongue lapping away at your clit.
Your knees nearly buckle, and the noise that escapes from your throat is, at best, a strangled one, fingers curling up against cool shower tiles so hard you think you might break the nails in the process.
A mewl, and he speeds up, fingers digging into your thighs.
It's been building for so long-- weeks, one might argue-- that you come almost too quickly, opening your eyes wide at the moment only to see nothing but a blank shower wall, nothing reflected in it.
You wish you'd seen.
But the next moment it's all gone, all feelings are gone, all touches and hints of hands, and you wonder whether it all could be just in your head.
It can't be, not the way you collapse onto the floor, feet feeling weak with tremors, only to have you collapse into sobs.
A part of you feels empty and hollow inside, and you wonder how you would have felt had he actually fucked you.
After that, you don't think about it anymore.
It's a lie, of course, as much as you hate yourself for it and don't want it to be one. As much as you hate the cryptic notes and Phantom-esque roses.
But you try really, really hard.
P.S.: SUP GAIZ
P.P.S.: IT'S SHARK WEEK *\o/*
P.P.P.S.: MOST SINCERE apologies to Otakon peeps. Something sort of Massively Huge and Important came up and I sort of couldn't go. orz
P.P.P.P.S.: JOIN stedelweiss and rivelata! I'm a mod at both places, woop woop, THAT SHOULD BE INCENTIVE ENOUGH.
P.P.P.P.P.S.: DID YOU MISS THE PORN? DID YOU DID YOU DID YOU? I bet you DID.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: I hate people who don't get when you don't want to talk to them.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: BUT I LOVE AWESOME PEOPLE and going to visit them in Shreveport on SUNDAY!!!!
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: AND I AM WRITING CROSSOVER EPIC FIC plzdontlynchme
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: ALSO I am a blonde nao
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: AND I might finally get to see the Dark Knight tomorrow idk? AND CLONE WARS FRIDAY. And maybe Wall-E!
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: and and and I'm going to... I just lost that train of thought. OH THERE IT IS I showed my sister ANIME today and she was SPEECHLESS.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: LASTLY (I swear, if I was lying I'll add PSs before this one I promise) I HAVE FALLEN HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH SUPERNATURAL. :D? EVERYONE GO LOOK AT THE HOT WINCHESTER BOYS. I blame metatarsus completely AND SO CAN YOU