Plunnie beats planning. Every. Single. Time.
Title: Serenade
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: R for implied sex/violence, but not at all darkfic
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Summary: Peter is setting up a surprise for Sylar. Set in a completely unexplained pre-establised relationship between Peter and Sylar. Inspired by buddhist_babe2's comment on my second fifty sentences set.
Peter hums as he sets up the scene. First, he needs to tidy the house. One of the few things he actually remembers from some art class he had taken said that contrast is the way to a bold artistic statement, or something like that. Sylar would definitely appreciate a ‘bold artistic statement’.
Once the house is as close to sparkling as he has the patience and, more importantly, time for, he moves to the next step. He scrawls a hasty note and tapes it to the outside of the inner door, leaving it completely invisible to passerby, but unmissable to anyone with the key to unlock the outer door.
That done, it’s time for the fun part. Completely trashing the place.
Spotless shards of picture frames hide in the carpet and protrude from doorframes. The couch rests in two pieces, meters from the indentations in the carpet marking its home. Dustless books adorn most surfaces, and torn paper covers the rest.
Peter pants in the middle of it all, knowing that anyone who walked into the house would have to surmise an epic fight had just taken place. With a parting singe to the curtains, he moves to the bedroom.
He wedges the door open, leaving anyone who sat on the bed a perfectly framed view of the carnage in the living room. Closing his eyes and letting out a shaky exhale, he slashes over his clothes with reckless telekinetic precision. He alternates ice and fire to truly tatter the remaining bits clinging to him before moving to the nightstand and picking up the rope he had left there.
Handcuffs would be more convenient, but this has to look improvised.
Again, the telekinesis comes in handy, this time for tying knots behind his back. Once properly immobilized, gagged, and trussed to the headboard, he glances at the clock on the wall opposite. He still has a couple of minutes, so he runs over all the preparations in his head. This would be an epic surprise, to be sure.
The minute hand ticks and Peter’s out of time. He closes his eyes and goes deep, taking almost everything.
***
Sylar is pleased, coming home from a satisfying day of work. He expends half a thought towards wondering if Peter remembered- before deciding it isn’t important. All that matters is that when Sylar comes home, Peter is there.
He’s six blocks away when he realizes that the terrified breaths masking an unhealthily fast heartbeat are coming from their home. Pausing a second to focus, he can almost make out the muffled pleading for release, for someone to save-
His steps speed almost of their own accord, bringing him to their door before he has time to process any implications of the sounds still assaulting his ears.
He forgoes the key, and the door opens at a sharp flick of his wrist. He can fix the lock later. As he is about to do the same to the inner door, he sees the note taped to it.
If you are as punctual as I know you are, you have exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes before my body heals and I remember that you aren't a sadistic superpowered murderer breaking into my house.
Go nuts. Have fun. Happy Birthday!
“Oh,” slips out before Sylar can stop it. Well color him surprised, he hadn’t known Peter’d picked up on those fantasies of his. Something like sweetness rises up in him at the thought that maybe he doesn't have to change everything that makes him himself in order to make this relationship work.
He absently notes that the breathing inside had hitched at the sound of the outer door opening, and basks in the rising panic emanating from within.
This will certainly be a birthday to remember, he thinks, as he flings open the door and stalks into the house.
Author: wouldbeashame
Rating: R for implied sex/violence, but not at all darkfic
Characters: Peter, Sylar
Summary: Peter is setting up a surprise for Sylar. Set in a completely unexplained pre-establised relationship between Peter and Sylar. Inspired by buddhist_babe2's comment on my second fifty sentences set.
Peter hums as he sets up the scene. First, he needs to tidy the house. One of the few things he actually remembers from some art class he had taken said that contrast is the way to a bold artistic statement, or something like that. Sylar would definitely appreciate a ‘bold artistic statement’.
Once the house is as close to sparkling as he has the patience and, more importantly, time for, he moves to the next step. He scrawls a hasty note and tapes it to the outside of the inner door, leaving it completely invisible to passerby, but unmissable to anyone with the key to unlock the outer door.
That done, it’s time for the fun part. Completely trashing the place.
Spotless shards of picture frames hide in the carpet and protrude from doorframes. The couch rests in two pieces, meters from the indentations in the carpet marking its home. Dustless books adorn most surfaces, and torn paper covers the rest.
Peter pants in the middle of it all, knowing that anyone who walked into the house would have to surmise an epic fight had just taken place. With a parting singe to the curtains, he moves to the bedroom.
He wedges the door open, leaving anyone who sat on the bed a perfectly framed view of the carnage in the living room. Closing his eyes and letting out a shaky exhale, he slashes over his clothes with reckless telekinetic precision. He alternates ice and fire to truly tatter the remaining bits clinging to him before moving to the nightstand and picking up the rope he had left there.
Handcuffs would be more convenient, but this has to look improvised.
Again, the telekinesis comes in handy, this time for tying knots behind his back. Once properly immobilized, gagged, and trussed to the headboard, he glances at the clock on the wall opposite. He still has a couple of minutes, so he runs over all the preparations in his head. This would be an epic surprise, to be sure.
The minute hand ticks and Peter’s out of time. He closes his eyes and goes deep, taking almost everything.
***
Sylar is pleased, coming home from a satisfying day of work. He expends half a thought towards wondering if Peter remembered- before deciding it isn’t important. All that matters is that when Sylar comes home, Peter is there.
He’s six blocks away when he realizes that the terrified breaths masking an unhealthily fast heartbeat are coming from their home. Pausing a second to focus, he can almost make out the muffled pleading for release, for someone to save-
His steps speed almost of their own accord, bringing him to their door before he has time to process any implications of the sounds still assaulting his ears.
He forgoes the key, and the door opens at a sharp flick of his wrist. He can fix the lock later. As he is about to do the same to the inner door, he sees the note taped to it.
If you are as punctual as I know you are, you have exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes before my body heals and I remember that you aren't a sadistic superpowered murderer breaking into my house.
Go nuts. Have fun. Happy Birthday!
“Oh,” slips out before Sylar can stop it. Well color him surprised, he hadn’t known Peter’d picked up on those fantasies of his. Something like sweetness rises up in him at the thought that maybe he doesn't have to change everything that makes him himself in order to make this relationship work.
He absently notes that the breathing inside had hitched at the sound of the outer door opening, and basks in the rising panic emanating from within.
This will certainly be a birthday to remember, he thinks, as he flings open the door and stalks into the house.