(no subject)
broken hearts and concrete floors - missing scene
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: K.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The title is a song by Dashboard Confessional.
Summary: Elle knows it’s all the more reason to not love him. Missing season one Sylar/Elle scene that takes place sometime between episodes 11 and 14, while Sylar is captured after Homecoming.
06. If anybody cared, we’d be different.
Elle’s told to stay away from Sylar when they bring him in, of course. The orders come from daddy himself, but Elle was never one for orders.
She likes to consider them “guidelines” she sometimes follows when convenient, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s here and there is that she’s told to stay away, but she most certainly does not. It takes some persuasion on her part (okay, so she zapped the guard a little unconscious), but she visits him.
She tilts her head to the side, hands bright with electricity and studies him through the bulletproof company-mandated glass-he’s cute-all pale skin and dark purple crescents under his lashes. He’s all big brown eyes and chapped lips, curled on his side.
She doesn’t allow more than a moment to pass-doesn’t allow any emotion to flood her at the crippled sight of him, and skips into his cell with a pretty smile and sparks on the tips of her fingers.
“Hey, baby,” she coos, and falls to her knees near his stomach.
His dark eyes move, finally, and settle on hers with flashing rage. His nostrils flare, and his fingers clench. He’s so sedated he can hardly move, and while that will make this less fun, it won’t suck all the fun out of it.
“Miss me?” she mocks-and she doesn’t mean it, or maybe she does, she’s not sure.
She folds her legs and drapes herself over him-over his soft side, resting her head coyly against his ribs. He hardly has the strength to arc his neck to see her, but he does-just for her, she thinks giddily.
“Elle,” he whispers roughly, faintly, angrily, reverently.
She hums and pats his head, beaming. “That’s my name,” she announces cheerfully, and she lets her hand linger over the short cut, detour down the ridge of his face, over the sharp stubble of his beard. It’s painful and scratchy under her fingertips, all untamed and sexy.
She’s not cheerful at the moment at all, but that’s all the more reason to act like it, so she smiles, wide and sweet, and nuzzles her nose into his side, letting the pads of her fingers settle at his lips. She feels a warm puff of exhale and giggles.
“Get out,” he croaks, and even in the throes of near-unconsciousness he manages to sound scary.
Elle doesn’t scare easily, never has. So she pouts, instead of crying. “You don’t wanna see me?”
“No,” he responds without hesitation, and his eyes slip close; his head falls to the floor with an exhausted thud.
She feels indignation fill her all up, and she sits and stares at his prone, steadily breathing form. She wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but god, it still hurt not to get one. Electricity sparks her up, and she shoves his shoulder harshly, jolting him with an angry rush and trying to fight back the rejected tears.
It’s petty, and silly, and really immature, but he lets out a hoarse scream and his eyes snap open, and that makes it worth it. He falls onto his back, and Elle straddles him, enjoying how solid and real he is beneath her. “Bastard,” she curses. “Do you know how many rules I broke getting in here? Some appreciation wouldn’t kill you.”
He coughs up some blood, violently, his hands limp, palms towards the ceiling. She wants to slap him for looking so fucking helpless, but is too fascinated by the stain of crimson on his cracked lips. She leans forward to hold his shoulders and smiles at his fierce glare.
“A little birdie told me you went after Bennett’s little Claire-bear,” she drawls, and then she frowns dramatically, “and failed.”
His entire face transforms; it darkens so beautifully Elle feels the depth of his determination at her core. Her mouth waters when his hands grab her forearms and he forces her face close to his, his grip surprisingly strong, firm enough to bruise. “I won’t next time,” he promises, and Elle’s fingers crawl up his neck to stroke the beating of his frantic pulse.
She slides, pushes, grinds down at his hips, her nails lightly scratching trails behind his ears as she holds his head in place. His gaze goes all disoriented-less focused and liquid hot. “Kay,” she responds flippantly, because she believes it, and she’s thinking about other things at the moment.
“Why are you here?” he asks breathlessly.
She smiles. They have some history and a few open wounds to salt, that’s why. Although, that doesn’t justify possibly killing another agent for the sake of molesting her first love. Well, it does, but Elle knows that doesn’t measure up to most people’s standards.
“I wanted to see you,” she whines, and it’s close to the truth enough. “All locked up in here.” She sighs, and strokes back his hair, wiggling further down-her thighs are at his hips, and she presses her stomach to his, ignoring the pain in her knees. “All powerless and hopeless and pretty.” She taps his nose with a zap and he flinches; his teeth clench closed with a hiss that delights her.
He looks at her steadily, forcefully aware, his hands releasing her to settle lazily over her knees-although Elle knows he’s just faking, knows he just doesn’t have the strength to hold onto her. He’s looking at her curiously, like she’s something to studied, understood, desired. She likes it, even if he just wants to open her skull to do it.
“Pretty?” he repeats, and Elle laughs softly, touches his lips-they’re hard and dry, save for the thick wetness of blood, and she smears that onto her thumb.
“Gosh, sweetheart, do you want me to repeat it?” she kids, and brings the digit, glistening with crimson, to her mouth. She smiles as he watches her tongue flick over it, her lips closing into an ‘o’ around it before she pulls it out with a pop.
Delicious.
“That was sick,” he says, not disgusted, no-no, Elle can tell from the slightly mad look in his eyes he’s not disgusted in the slightest. “You’re sick, Elle.”
“So the doctors say,” she admits. “They say that about you, too.”
“You made me this way,” he says darkly, and Elle scoffs.
“Uhm, no,” she counters, and rests her head on his chest. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend they’re in a bed at some private resort or in the sand on some remote island or anywhere fucking else but this prison. “You were sick already,” she argues, and keeps her arms around his neck in some weird horizontal embrace. “I just gave you the extra… push.” She says it regretfully, because even now, even as she denies guilt, she harbors it like armor. “Anyway, he was grabby when you weren’t looking,” she lies. “I’m glad you killed him.”
She shivers when his limp arms make their way around her waist. “I trusted you,” he growls.
“Wah, wah,” she mutters. “Everyone lies.” To her. To him. No one really cares. Maybe if someone did, they’d both be different. “I was thinking though, I could manage not lying to you again.”
“Is that why you’re here…” he says, his voice amused and lilting, as if he just figured everything out. He probably did, with all that intuitive aptitude.
“Shh,” she shushes him, and this time she relaxes and really does close her eyes. She could sleep like this, curled up in his arms. “You’re ruining the moment.”
And he does quiet-he actually does, and she snuggles against his body with a content sigh when his fingers reach to play with her hair. She decides she likes it when he plays with her hair.
That’s how Noah finds her, his angry voice cutting through the peaceful, sleepy silence, screaming at her about orders and protocol and blah, blah, blah. She pecks Sylar’s cheek and looks deep into his blank gaze, giggling when Noah wrenches her to her feet and starts to drag her out.
What she really wants to do was cry and hold onto him forever, but Elle knows that’s all the more reason not to.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Sylar/Elle
Rating: K.
Table: here
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The title is a song by Dashboard Confessional.
Summary: Elle knows it’s all the more reason to not love him. Missing season one Sylar/Elle scene that takes place sometime between episodes 11 and 14, while Sylar is captured after Homecoming.
06. If anybody cared, we’d be different.
Elle’s told to stay away from Sylar when they bring him in, of course. The orders come from daddy himself, but Elle was never one for orders.
She likes to consider them “guidelines” she sometimes follows when convenient, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s here and there is that she’s told to stay away, but she most certainly does not. It takes some persuasion on her part (okay, so she zapped the guard a little unconscious), but she visits him.
She tilts her head to the side, hands bright with electricity and studies him through the bulletproof company-mandated glass-he’s cute-all pale skin and dark purple crescents under his lashes. He’s all big brown eyes and chapped lips, curled on his side.
She doesn’t allow more than a moment to pass-doesn’t allow any emotion to flood her at the crippled sight of him, and skips into his cell with a pretty smile and sparks on the tips of her fingers.
“Hey, baby,” she coos, and falls to her knees near his stomach.
His dark eyes move, finally, and settle on hers with flashing rage. His nostrils flare, and his fingers clench. He’s so sedated he can hardly move, and while that will make this less fun, it won’t suck all the fun out of it.
“Miss me?” she mocks-and she doesn’t mean it, or maybe she does, she’s not sure.
She folds her legs and drapes herself over him-over his soft side, resting her head coyly against his ribs. He hardly has the strength to arc his neck to see her, but he does-just for her, she thinks giddily.
“Elle,” he whispers roughly, faintly, angrily, reverently.
She hums and pats his head, beaming. “That’s my name,” she announces cheerfully, and she lets her hand linger over the short cut, detour down the ridge of his face, over the sharp stubble of his beard. It’s painful and scratchy under her fingertips, all untamed and sexy.
She’s not cheerful at the moment at all, but that’s all the more reason to act like it, so she smiles, wide and sweet, and nuzzles her nose into his side, letting the pads of her fingers settle at his lips. She feels a warm puff of exhale and giggles.
“Get out,” he croaks, and even in the throes of near-unconsciousness he manages to sound scary.
Elle doesn’t scare easily, never has. So she pouts, instead of crying. “You don’t wanna see me?”
“No,” he responds without hesitation, and his eyes slip close; his head falls to the floor with an exhausted thud.
She feels indignation fill her all up, and she sits and stares at his prone, steadily breathing form. She wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but god, it still hurt not to get one. Electricity sparks her up, and she shoves his shoulder harshly, jolting him with an angry rush and trying to fight back the rejected tears.
It’s petty, and silly, and really immature, but he lets out a hoarse scream and his eyes snap open, and that makes it worth it. He falls onto his back, and Elle straddles him, enjoying how solid and real he is beneath her. “Bastard,” she curses. “Do you know how many rules I broke getting in here? Some appreciation wouldn’t kill you.”
He coughs up some blood, violently, his hands limp, palms towards the ceiling. She wants to slap him for looking so fucking helpless, but is too fascinated by the stain of crimson on his cracked lips. She leans forward to hold his shoulders and smiles at his fierce glare.
“A little birdie told me you went after Bennett’s little Claire-bear,” she drawls, and then she frowns dramatically, “and failed.”
His entire face transforms; it darkens so beautifully Elle feels the depth of his determination at her core. Her mouth waters when his hands grab her forearms and he forces her face close to his, his grip surprisingly strong, firm enough to bruise. “I won’t next time,” he promises, and Elle’s fingers crawl up his neck to stroke the beating of his frantic pulse.
She slides, pushes, grinds down at his hips, her nails lightly scratching trails behind his ears as she holds his head in place. His gaze goes all disoriented-less focused and liquid hot. “Kay,” she responds flippantly, because she believes it, and she’s thinking about other things at the moment.
“Why are you here?” he asks breathlessly.
She smiles. They have some history and a few open wounds to salt, that’s why. Although, that doesn’t justify possibly killing another agent for the sake of molesting her first love. Well, it does, but Elle knows that doesn’t measure up to most people’s standards.
“I wanted to see you,” she whines, and it’s close to the truth enough. “All locked up in here.” She sighs, and strokes back his hair, wiggling further down-her thighs are at his hips, and she presses her stomach to his, ignoring the pain in her knees. “All powerless and hopeless and pretty.” She taps his nose with a zap and he flinches; his teeth clench closed with a hiss that delights her.
He looks at her steadily, forcefully aware, his hands releasing her to settle lazily over her knees-although Elle knows he’s just faking, knows he just doesn’t have the strength to hold onto her. He’s looking at her curiously, like she’s something to studied, understood, desired. She likes it, even if he just wants to open her skull to do it.
“Pretty?” he repeats, and Elle laughs softly, touches his lips-they’re hard and dry, save for the thick wetness of blood, and she smears that onto her thumb.
“Gosh, sweetheart, do you want me to repeat it?” she kids, and brings the digit, glistening with crimson, to her mouth. She smiles as he watches her tongue flick over it, her lips closing into an ‘o’ around it before she pulls it out with a pop.
Delicious.
“That was sick,” he says, not disgusted, no-no, Elle can tell from the slightly mad look in his eyes he’s not disgusted in the slightest. “You’re sick, Elle.”
“So the doctors say,” she admits. “They say that about you, too.”
“You made me this way,” he says darkly, and Elle scoffs.
“Uhm, no,” she counters, and rests her head on his chest. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend they’re in a bed at some private resort or in the sand on some remote island or anywhere fucking else but this prison. “You were sick already,” she argues, and keeps her arms around his neck in some weird horizontal embrace. “I just gave you the extra… push.” She says it regretfully, because even now, even as she denies guilt, she harbors it like armor. “Anyway, he was grabby when you weren’t looking,” she lies. “I’m glad you killed him.”
She shivers when his limp arms make their way around her waist. “I trusted you,” he growls.
“Wah, wah,” she mutters. “Everyone lies.” To her. To him. No one really cares. Maybe if someone did, they’d both be different. “I was thinking though, I could manage not lying to you again.”
“Is that why you’re here…” he says, his voice amused and lilting, as if he just figured everything out. He probably did, with all that intuitive aptitude.
“Shh,” she shushes him, and this time she relaxes and really does close her eyes. She could sleep like this, curled up in his arms. “You’re ruining the moment.”
And he does quiet-he actually does, and she snuggles against his body with a content sigh when his fingers reach to play with her hair. She decides she likes it when he plays with her hair.
That’s how Noah finds her, his angry voice cutting through the peaceful, sleepy silence, screaming at her about orders and protocol and blah, blah, blah. She pecks Sylar’s cheek and looks deep into his blank gaze, giggling when Noah wrenches her to her feet and starts to drag her out.
What she really wants to do was cry and hold onto him forever, but Elle knows that’s all the more reason not to.