Fic: Undead (Sylar/Claire, NC-17)
ZOMG U GUYZ I BRINGZ PR0N!
Wrote it in class. 8D
As for my filter posts - turns out Part Five that I wrote last night (it was epix, m'dears) isn't the end of things at all. Once again, if you like long, introspective thoughtfulness and follow-up discussions on things like life, existence, spirituality and such, let me know and I'll add you. I like the discussions! I like writing about this stuff, actually putting it down on... screen, I guess. It's like... every post is another small window into my soul. That's cool.
And, you know, if you read them you might actually understand my new icon WHICH IS SO AMAZING AND I LOVE OHBUTWAIT_ILY. I OWE HER MY PANTS.
IN FACT, MOST OF THE PEOPLE ON THAT FILTER I OWE AT LEAST SOCKS TO. FOR BEING AWESOMESAUCE. :3
I might make a soundtrack for this and post it in the filter! Zomg I already have a ton of music that would be on it! \o/
BUT THAT ASIDE, HERE. HAVE SOME SYLAIRE PR0N.
Which reminds me! The Meet The Parents Challenge is still going! You still have until early October, so no pressure. Just reminding. :3
AND IF YOU HAVEN'T READ PART 8 I AM NO LONGER YOUR FRIEND.
Title: Undead
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,031
Warnings: none
Summary: ...killing you would make no sense, as you'realready dead.
Author's Notes: This is just because someone gave me the idea. :3
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.
The thing about still living after a bomb is not living in fear. The only thing to fear is fear itself, and if Claire knows anything about herself, she knows that she has been practically conditioned to fear fear more than anything else.
Paranoia is an everyday villain that's easily defeated. But anxiety is a formidable opponent, nevertheless, and Claire feels herself tense.
"What about Sylar?"
All pills eventually wear off in their ability to be effective. One day she just stops taking them and just pretends for her father's sake.
"You'll be fine."
Claire isn't taking tranquilizers anymore and she isn't so sure about that.
It's days like these when she steps into the hallway to head to the elevator in the "new" Primatech building, that she feels like everyone else is taking tranquilizers. No one in the whole world is worried anymore about anything. The bomb went off safely, the two heroes of the day returned unharmed, Sylar has been "defeated"…
But just like anxiety, Sylar is a formidable opponent, not easily vanquished.
The moment she steps onto the elevator, she senses something's wrong. She's not alone.
The doors slide closed right behind her, too soon to be normal, and suddenly she feels herself pressed up against them, a hand covering her face-
It starts, goes down, and stops suddenly, unexpectedly, and then the hand is gone. She still can't move.
"Well, as long as we're stuck here…"
"You're dead," she breathes, shaking her head in disbelief.
"They're giving you tranquilizers, aren't they? Dammit, Claire, I want you to fight me! I want you to scream, to struggle, to writhe under my touch while I-"
"I stopped taking them!" she fairly shouts, as if raw emotion would make all of it Not True, to make it go away. We just want to protect you, Claire, and it's just better, safer, if you don't care so much.
"Yeah, maybe, but do you even remember what it's like to feel?"
She pauses in her desperate rage if only for just a moment to stare into his eyes.
He means it.
That, more than anything else, shocks her and makes her stop.
"Why are you here? If you're not just going to off me in an elevator, I mean? You're supposed to be dead."
He doesn't miss a beat. "And you're supposed to never die. And here you are, living no life at all. You're just a hollow, lifeless shell who calls herself Claire because it's the one thing you can still cling to."
There are tears in her eyes, and from the look on his face, that's a good thing. "Why are you telling me this?"
That's a different question entirely, and he straightens a bit more - so tall - clearing his throat and refusing to meet her eyes for a second or two.
"Because we're allies in this, not enemies. We both care about life - killing you would make no sense, as you're already dead. I have a feeling you wouldn't even care. You should."
"So, what? You're going to magically revive me so that killing me might be more fun for you?" Her face is distorted into a frown, scorn and contempt written all over it.
And then he smiles, and everything changes.
"No. For now, I just want you to feel again."
When he kisses her, it's almost unexpected, and yet her body reacts to his touch as if she was made for this.
It feels so right that it scares her, so she kisses him harder, pulling him closer, practically flush against her, her hands winding into his hair almost possessively.
More.
He laughs, just so, for a moment against her mouth, and then his hand - one of them - slides down her body and starts to rub her - friction - through her jeans.
"I miss those ridiculously short cheerleading shorts you used to wear."
"Don't get smart. Maybe I'll start wearing them again," she says, smiling despite herself and gasping as she grinds against his hand.
Suddenly he picks her up by her ass and carries her one, two steps, pushing her up against the wall instead of the door…
Her legs wrap around his waist as if it's entirely natural, of their own volition, and then the alarm sounds, shrill and sudden. Someone finally realized that the elevator is stuck in telekinetic limbo.
"Ignore it," he practically hisses, jeans grinding against jeans.
"Your power of concentration is commendable."
"Trust me, it's not easy," he grinds out, and she grins, reveling in his weakness. Her.
"They'll figure it out soon enough that nothing's wrong."
"Everything is wrong with this elevator," he corrects her, and tears through her jeans and her panties. The next thing she knows is that his pants are pooling around his ankles, and that it's about to happen.
"Will this hurt?" he asks, and she knows exactly what the real, underlying question is here.
She's tempted to ask him what he cares any, but she keeps her mouth shut for a moment and then clarifies, "it will always hurt."
The short answer is, of course, no, but riddles are so much fun and then he's suddenly actually inside of her and moving, and she can't think anymore.
It's rapid. It's necessary.
And most importantly, she can feel this.
She cares. She's committed the most dangerous crime of all.
The alarm is off and the elevator is moving and her eyes go wide as she clenches around him.
"It's fine, we'll be-"
That's when he loses it. She can tell. One, two more thrusts and he comes. She doesn't even fight it when she cries out.
When the doors slide open only a moment later, a girl steps out, a vision of innocence, no one noticing her torn jeans.
Shrugging, she tells the maintenance guys and the concerned bystanders too lazy to walk stairs that she has no idea what happened. What went wrong.
They actually believe her, and all she can do is smile to herself and take anotherl ook at the note in her hand.
Not that you need the exercise, but why don't you take the stairwell down to lunch tomorrow instead?
Wrote it in class. 8D
As for my filter posts - turns out Part Five that I wrote last night (it was epix, m'dears) isn't the end of things at all. Once again, if you like long, introspective thoughtfulness and follow-up discussions on things like life, existence, spirituality and such, let me know and I'll add you. I like the discussions! I like writing about this stuff, actually putting it down on... screen, I guess. It's like... every post is another small window into my soul. That's cool.
And, you know, if you read them you might actually understand my new icon WHICH IS SO AMAZING AND I LOVE OHBUTWAIT_ILY. I OWE HER MY PANTS.
IN FACT, MOST OF THE PEOPLE ON THAT FILTER I OWE AT LEAST SOCKS TO. FOR BEING AWESOMESAUCE. :3
I might make a soundtrack for this and post it in the filter! Zomg I already have a ton of music that would be on it! \o/
BUT THAT ASIDE, HERE. HAVE SOME SYLAIRE PR0N.
Which reminds me! The Meet The Parents Challenge is still going! You still have until early October, so no pressure. Just reminding. :3
AND IF YOU HAVEN'T READ PART 8 I AM NO LONGER YOUR FRIEND.
Title: Undead
Characters: Sylar/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,031
Warnings: none
Summary: ...killing you would make no sense, as you'realready dead.
Author's Notes: This is just because someone gave me the idea. :3
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.
The thing about still living after a bomb is not living in fear. The only thing to fear is fear itself, and if Claire knows anything about herself, she knows that she has been practically conditioned to fear fear more than anything else.
Paranoia is an everyday villain that's easily defeated. But anxiety is a formidable opponent, nevertheless, and Claire feels herself tense.
"What about Sylar?"
All pills eventually wear off in their ability to be effective. One day she just stops taking them and just pretends for her father's sake.
"You'll be fine."
Claire isn't taking tranquilizers anymore and she isn't so sure about that.
It's days like these when she steps into the hallway to head to the elevator in the "new" Primatech building, that she feels like everyone else is taking tranquilizers. No one in the whole world is worried anymore about anything. The bomb went off safely, the two heroes of the day returned unharmed, Sylar has been "defeated"…
But just like anxiety, Sylar is a formidable opponent, not easily vanquished.
The moment she steps onto the elevator, she senses something's wrong. She's not alone.
The doors slide closed right behind her, too soon to be normal, and suddenly she feels herself pressed up against them, a hand covering her face-
It starts, goes down, and stops suddenly, unexpectedly, and then the hand is gone. She still can't move.
"Well, as long as we're stuck here…"
"You're dead," she breathes, shaking her head in disbelief.
"They're giving you tranquilizers, aren't they? Dammit, Claire, I want you to fight me! I want you to scream, to struggle, to writhe under my touch while I-"
"I stopped taking them!" she fairly shouts, as if raw emotion would make all of it Not True, to make it go away. We just want to protect you, Claire, and it's just better, safer, if you don't care so much.
"Yeah, maybe, but do you even remember what it's like to feel?"
She pauses in her desperate rage if only for just a moment to stare into his eyes.
He means it.
That, more than anything else, shocks her and makes her stop.
"Why are you here? If you're not just going to off me in an elevator, I mean? You're supposed to be dead."
He doesn't miss a beat. "And you're supposed to never die. And here you are, living no life at all. You're just a hollow, lifeless shell who calls herself Claire because it's the one thing you can still cling to."
There are tears in her eyes, and from the look on his face, that's a good thing. "Why are you telling me this?"
That's a different question entirely, and he straightens a bit more - so tall - clearing his throat and refusing to meet her eyes for a second or two.
"Because we're allies in this, not enemies. We both care about life - killing you would make no sense, as you're already dead. I have a feeling you wouldn't even care. You should."
"So, what? You're going to magically revive me so that killing me might be more fun for you?" Her face is distorted into a frown, scorn and contempt written all over it.
And then he smiles, and everything changes.
"No. For now, I just want you to feel again."
When he kisses her, it's almost unexpected, and yet her body reacts to his touch as if she was made for this.
It feels so right that it scares her, so she kisses him harder, pulling him closer, practically flush against her, her hands winding into his hair almost possessively.
More.
He laughs, just so, for a moment against her mouth, and then his hand - one of them - slides down her body and starts to rub her - friction - through her jeans.
"I miss those ridiculously short cheerleading shorts you used to wear."
"Don't get smart. Maybe I'll start wearing them again," she says, smiling despite herself and gasping as she grinds against his hand.
Suddenly he picks her up by her ass and carries her one, two steps, pushing her up against the wall instead of the door…
Her legs wrap around his waist as if it's entirely natural, of their own volition, and then the alarm sounds, shrill and sudden. Someone finally realized that the elevator is stuck in telekinetic limbo.
"Ignore it," he practically hisses, jeans grinding against jeans.
"Your power of concentration is commendable."
"Trust me, it's not easy," he grinds out, and she grins, reveling in his weakness. Her.
"They'll figure it out soon enough that nothing's wrong."
"Everything is wrong with this elevator," he corrects her, and tears through her jeans and her panties. The next thing she knows is that his pants are pooling around his ankles, and that it's about to happen.
"Will this hurt?" he asks, and she knows exactly what the real, underlying question is here.
She's tempted to ask him what he cares any, but she keeps her mouth shut for a moment and then clarifies, "it will always hurt."
The short answer is, of course, no, but riddles are so much fun and then he's suddenly actually inside of her and moving, and she can't think anymore.
It's rapid. It's necessary.
And most importantly, she can feel this.
She cares. She's committed the most dangerous crime of all.
The alarm is off and the elevator is moving and her eyes go wide as she clenches around him.
"It's fine, we'll be-"
That's when he loses it. She can tell. One, two more thrusts and he comes. She doesn't even fight it when she cries out.
When the doors slide open only a moment later, a girl steps out, a vision of innocence, no one noticing her torn jeans.
Shrugging, she tells the maintenance guys and the concerned bystanders too lazy to walk stairs that she has no idea what happened. What went wrong.
They actually believe her, and all she can do is smile to herself and take anotherl ook at the note in her hand.
Not that you need the exercise, but why don't you take the stairwell down to lunch tomorrow instead?