Fic: "The Sugar Never Helps" (Sylar/Candice, Sylar/Claire) NC-17
Title: The Sugar Never Helps
Author: Steph (andbless_mybaby)
Pairing: Sylar/Candice, Sylar/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Fake underage sex (ageplay), dubious consent
Spoilers: 2.03, "Kindred"
Summary: AU: Sylar wants Claire, and Candice can make it happen. Sort of.
Word Count: 2,330
A/N: Written in the heroes_exchange ficathon. Beta'd by the incredible aevenstar , who came through in a pinch and to whom I am incredibly grateful.
_
Tell me what you want me to be, she whispers softly, her voice like a caress.
Sylar licks his cracked lips.
_
He thinks the cheerleading uniform is a nice touch.
On his lap sits Claire Bennet in the luscious flesh. The pleated hem of her skirt just brushes the top of her knee, and he can’t resist placing his hand there, to feel her satiny skin. Did he just see the horizontal white stripe waver? No, it was surely his imagination. The crown of her head comes just up to his nose, and her bare feet don’t touch the floor. When she looks up at him and smiles shyly, her pretty face blushes and dimples, and he almost comes then and there. The illusion is flawless.
Up close, her eyes are even more incredible than he could have wished for - clear as quartz and incandescent with bright blue nimbuses.
He tilts her chin to kiss her, and she breathes a shudder that shakes the full length of her body.
“Oh, Gabriel!” she sighs.
“Sylar,” he corrects her patiently.
“Sylar,” she amends herself, raptly. “Sylar.” She tastes like bubblegum and toothpaste, a sweet, minty flavor that’s absolutely sinful. He probes the seam of her pursed lips with his tongue, imploring her to yield.
“Kiss me like a woman, Claire,” he instructs her. “Open your mouth a bit.”
She parts her shyly, and the first sweep of her hot, wet little maw with his tongue is downright carnal.
His hand is too large, a paw on the thrusting camber of her breasts shaping her sweater. Beneath the emblazoned cotton (Go, Wildcats!), her heart hammers like a jackknife. He traces the v-neck down her collarbone, and rests lightly on the swell of her décolletage. He ghosts a thumb over her erect nipple, straining the fabric, and her fingers curl on his wrist defensively.
“Ooh,” she breathes. “I don’t let boys do that.”
He flexes his wrist, so that his naughty hand floats several decorous inches away from her chest.
“Why, Claire.” Gravely, he raises an eyebrow, his face and voice melting into a dulcet tone of gentle persuasion. “Surely you don’t think that I would hurt you?”
“No-ooo, not exactly.” She’s biting her lip in a delicious display of maidenly hesitation. “It’s just, well…”
“I understand,” he says. “You are a very special girl. Not bad at all. And I’d never want to disrespect you, you must know that.”
She ducks her head.
“I trust you,” she tells him.
The heat between his palm and her shirtfront is combustible, like a million lit candles. It has been a very long time since Sylar has paused before groping a girl’s curves, being more than ten years removed from the piggish fumbling of early pubescence. There’s all the thrill and none of the awkwardness of pushing, a memory of persuasion that is nostalgic and glorious. Static electricity sends her candy-floss hair into a frenzy when he drags her top over her head.
Meanwhile, his other hand finds the hem of her skirt and crushes it between his fingers. Fingertips brush her thigh as he drags the skirt up, up. His knuckle grazes the edge of her underwear. He is shamelessly manhandling her, feeling an almost holy rapture at the licentiousness of just touching her skin. Claire catches her breath when he traces invisible lines between the toffee-ground freckles on her chest.
“Sweet,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl.”
When he fingers the skates his thumb over the edge of her bra, she presses into him needfully.
“No,” he says quickly. “Tell me I can’t.”
“We shouldn’t.” She lowers her eyes, and looks abashed. “I don’t know what just happened. I’m not usually…”
Sylar can hear himself starting to pant, feels himself growing almost unbearably excited, but he checks himself.
“It’s all right, Claire.” He undoes the hooks deftly. “I will take good care of you. You’ll see.”
No lie, Claire has the prettiest pair of breasts he has ever seen. Her soft little tits are white as vanilla, one scoop apiece. Almost immediately, she crosses her arms over herself. He smirks approvingly at this feckless display of modesty, and touches her wrist.
“No,” he tells her. “You must not be ashamed of yourself. You are a beautiful girl, Claire. There’s no need to be shy with me.” Forcing her arms down, he pulls her against him hard, just for the pleasure of feeling her breasts against him when he kisses her.
The experience is everything he thought it would be.
She is completely pliable, his darling indestructible dolly-girl. Once he’s thoroughly sucked and twisted her plummy nipples and kissed her mouth red and swollen to a high-gloss finish, he stands her up on legs that are suitably unsteady.
“Kneel down, Claire.”
He undoes the drawstring of the shapeless hospital-patient pants and lifts his ass to slide them down his hips. Beside her smooth cheek, his penis looks obscenely big and animalic. The engorged head bumps her mouth, and she blushes scarlet.
“I don’t know… I mean, I’ve never…” she stammers.
A smile twitches on his lips. He gathers a handful of taffy-colored curls, and cradles the side of her head dotingly.
“You’re a smart girl, Claire,” he tells her patiently. “Just give it a little kiss. You don’t need to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
Encouraged, she grips him in her hand. Her fingers wrap around his shaft, and a sigh escapes him, unchecked. Claire’s fingernails are tidy French-manicured squares, and her skin catches his when she moves her wrist fractionally.
Claire is an obedient pupil. She drops tiny kisses along the length of his straining cock, the brush of her lips no weightier than a feather. It’s unbearable. Sylar lolls his head back, and squeezes his thumbs into fists until they hurt. When she bats her lashes upwards and fixes her eyes on him imploringly, he slays his inner Doting Daddy and leans forward.
“I seem to have changed my mind,” he tells her, between gritted teeth. “I want you to suck me off.”
She slides her open mouth down his length experimentally. His shoulders go slack with pleasure at the unmistakable sensation of his glans knocking against her throat. It’s not nice, but he thrusts his hips and makes her gag a little. Claire puckers her lips.
“Teeth,” he hisses, but she’s got it covered.
“Claire” turns out to be a master cocksucker. It isn’t until she’s busily nursing one of his balls and pumping him hard with her fist that he starts to think that it may be the best hummer of his life, but the authenticity is lacking. Torturously, he stops fucking her face.
“Enough,” he says.
She licks her lips.
“Was I not doing a good job?” she asks innocently.
“You know you were.” When she leans down for one last lick, he her hair again, pulls her up his body, frenches her as he arranges her legs and tears the side of her panties. Now she’s nude beneath her kicky little skirt. Her bare-shaven pussy is pink and glistening with arousal. Claire’s standing and he’s sitting; his vantage point is good-one hundred pounds of horny teenaged girl, plenty hot and bothered.
When he slides his hand between her legs, she stops kissing him. He watches her throat work when his long fingers slide through the slickness of her inner lips. A sharp inhalation escapes her when he draws back and sucks his knuckles.
“Sit on my cock,” he orders.
“Yes,” she assents demurely.
He has to push, really grind on her to get inside, to drive into her agonizingly tight virgin sanctum. She keens in his ear, and tenses up. He won’t be walking straight for a goddamn week after popping Claire Bennet’s cherry. Sylar is wildly agitated, eons of human evolution and civilization barely sufficient to stifle his bestial enthusiasm.
“Wider,” he groans, breath coming hot and burning his throat. “Wider.”
She spreads her legs across his lap, crushes her hips against him.
“So fuckin’ hard for you,” he says. His teeth on his lip must be turning it white. “Never been so hard.”
She is stretched open for him, and there could be nothing so hot as his cock impaling her from the root. The fact that she is so small makes him almost dizzy with desire. His urge to break her is so strong, like his heart thudding in the tangled cavity of his chest. He wants to make a sacrament of her; he wants to eat her flesh and drink her blood.
Sylar pulls out, needing to feel the sensation of penetrating her again. She is wetter than he would have thought possible, and the going is much easier, this time.
He starts to move inside her. Slowly, because he is going to explode if he doesn’t watch it. He leans forward and mouth her neck wetly, sucking hard enough that it should leave a mark. He knows she isn’t going to stop him. Her hands skitter along his back, under his shirt, and a little cry crosses her lips. He takes that as a challenge, wants to make her moan loudly and in earnest.
His fingers begin where his teeth left off, slide down over the shelf of her clavicle and then ghost lightly over one breast. They graze lower and find her clit, and then she does moan in just the way that he wanted. Her hips twist in a tight orbit that is undoing him slowly, unwinding him like a loose screw. Claire’s descant exclamations of pleasure are accentuated by her nails digging into his shoulders, scoring his flesh. She holds her breath for endless seconds, and he imagines he can hear the frantic slam of her heart. Inside, she clenches him like a vise. Crushing her pelvis against his hand, she arches her back in obvious pleasure. It’s as if she has become one huge, hungry nerve ending. Her orgasm is apparently wonderful, judging from the way she bows into his body and gasps jaggedly for air.
Now she turns and slides into his mouth for his tongue.
He groans and lurches his body back into motion. Claire tangles her hand in his hair. Roughly, he grabs her fingers and shoves them down between their joined bodies, showing her where he wants her to rub. She is bouncing on his cock, shamelessly masturbating under the tutelage of his fingertips on hers. Sylar can’t even feign control of the situation at this point. He fucks her roughly, only half-aware of his own gasps of her name escaping from somewhere inside his gut.
“You are going to come,” she says finally, sweet-sticky lips mashing against his a last time. It’s too much.
Sylar explodes in a long, hot wave. His eyes roll back, and as his vision goes starry, he sees Claire baring her teeth at him in a way that totally shatters his suspension of disbelief.
_
“I thought you created illusions,” he accuses her.
Michelle, or Candice, or whatever-the-hell-her-name-is makes the perfect vision of post-coital satisfaction, wrapped in a sheet with a shit-eating smirk. Her hair is mussed every which way, and her body is a comma curling in on him. The claustrophobic room reeks bitterly of sweat and mold.
“I do,” she answers.
“So why exactly did you need to actually fuck me?” he asks.
“Oh, silly,” she pats his arm. He jumps back as if singed, and she laughs. “Look at you. How could I possibly resist?”
Like a drugstore knockoff of a designer perfume, she stinks. Cheap and sour on the base note. He stands up quickly from the bed -too quickly, from the screaming stitch in his middle- and retrieves his spilled pants from the clothes on the floor.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says consolingly. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“What secret?”
“Oh, you know.” She stretches her legs and flexes her toes, leering at him appreciatively. “The fact that you’re completely depraved.”
He wrinkles his nose as he soaps and lathers his hands at the sink. His skin is writhing, crawling with filth.
“I’d never want to disrespect you, you must understand that,” she mimics with a giggle. “I’m guessing you’re big on the Nabokov?”
Sylar fastidiously ignores her, although his face is getting hotter and hotter.
“Although, that was pretty hot,” she admits, oblivious to his stony irritation. “Being your jailbait sex queen. Maybe we should try it again sometime.”
He wishes he could flex a hand and throw her against the wall. Snap his fingers and cook her with nuclear energy, turn her into a human popsicle. Or something. Anything to shut her the-fuck-up. Her grating voice is nothing but a reminder of his inability to be.
She’s up and out of bed, percolating coffee and still making terrible conversational noises. Her body seems inexplicably huge under the damp folds of the misappropriated bed linen. The ridiculously exaggerated curve of her hips, her full, mammalian breasts… she’s Jessica Rabbit, she’s a sloppy, sluttish blow-up doll. A full-blown rose, where once there had been the tremulously-blooming bud. Her bare feet slap the wooden floor, and her hair is a garish red slash against his headache, like a blood splatter.
Looking over his shoulder, he realizes that the scratches from Claire’s nails are absent on his unmarked back. They were never there. Staring at Michelle, it all makes sense. She took them. Claire was here, and now she’s gone. Rather, it was all a farce. A mocking, filthy sham, designed to reinforce his impotence.
Sylar wishes hard for the orderly sound of clockwork, for the indication that everything is going to be all right. Instead, he just hears the fearful rush of his pulse in his head, a screaming voice insisting no, no, no. When it hits a full roar, and tiny black spots dance before his vision, he grabs the handle of the coffee cup, and swings, again and again, until he can think straight once more.
_
fin
Author: Steph (andbless_mybaby)
Pairing: Sylar/Candice, Sylar/Claire
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Fake underage sex (ageplay), dubious consent
Spoilers: 2.03, "Kindred"
Summary: AU: Sylar wants Claire, and Candice can make it happen. Sort of.
Word Count: 2,330
A/N: Written in the heroes_exchange ficathon. Beta'd by the incredible aevenstar , who came through in a pinch and to whom I am incredibly grateful.
_
Tell me what you want me to be, she whispers softly, her voice like a caress.
Sylar licks his cracked lips.
_
He thinks the cheerleading uniform is a nice touch.
On his lap sits Claire Bennet in the luscious flesh. The pleated hem of her skirt just brushes the top of her knee, and he can’t resist placing his hand there, to feel her satiny skin. Did he just see the horizontal white stripe waver? No, it was surely his imagination. The crown of her head comes just up to his nose, and her bare feet don’t touch the floor. When she looks up at him and smiles shyly, her pretty face blushes and dimples, and he almost comes then and there. The illusion is flawless.
Up close, her eyes are even more incredible than he could have wished for - clear as quartz and incandescent with bright blue nimbuses.
He tilts her chin to kiss her, and she breathes a shudder that shakes the full length of her body.
“Oh, Gabriel!” she sighs.
“Sylar,” he corrects her patiently.
“Sylar,” she amends herself, raptly. “Sylar.” She tastes like bubblegum and toothpaste, a sweet, minty flavor that’s absolutely sinful. He probes the seam of her pursed lips with his tongue, imploring her to yield.
“Kiss me like a woman, Claire,” he instructs her. “Open your mouth a bit.”
She parts her shyly, and the first sweep of her hot, wet little maw with his tongue is downright carnal.
His hand is too large, a paw on the thrusting camber of her breasts shaping her sweater. Beneath the emblazoned cotton (Go, Wildcats!), her heart hammers like a jackknife. He traces the v-neck down her collarbone, and rests lightly on the swell of her décolletage. He ghosts a thumb over her erect nipple, straining the fabric, and her fingers curl on his wrist defensively.
“Ooh,” she breathes. “I don’t let boys do that.”
He flexes his wrist, so that his naughty hand floats several decorous inches away from her chest.
“Why, Claire.” Gravely, he raises an eyebrow, his face and voice melting into a dulcet tone of gentle persuasion. “Surely you don’t think that I would hurt you?”
“No-ooo, not exactly.” She’s biting her lip in a delicious display of maidenly hesitation. “It’s just, well…”
“I understand,” he says. “You are a very special girl. Not bad at all. And I’d never want to disrespect you, you must know that.”
She ducks her head.
“I trust you,” she tells him.
The heat between his palm and her shirtfront is combustible, like a million lit candles. It has been a very long time since Sylar has paused before groping a girl’s curves, being more than ten years removed from the piggish fumbling of early pubescence. There’s all the thrill and none of the awkwardness of pushing, a memory of persuasion that is nostalgic and glorious. Static electricity sends her candy-floss hair into a frenzy when he drags her top over her head.
Meanwhile, his other hand finds the hem of her skirt and crushes it between his fingers. Fingertips brush her thigh as he drags the skirt up, up. His knuckle grazes the edge of her underwear. He is shamelessly manhandling her, feeling an almost holy rapture at the licentiousness of just touching her skin. Claire catches her breath when he traces invisible lines between the toffee-ground freckles on her chest.
“Sweet,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl.”
When he fingers the skates his thumb over the edge of her bra, she presses into him needfully.
“No,” he says quickly. “Tell me I can’t.”
“We shouldn’t.” She lowers her eyes, and looks abashed. “I don’t know what just happened. I’m not usually…”
Sylar can hear himself starting to pant, feels himself growing almost unbearably excited, but he checks himself.
“It’s all right, Claire.” He undoes the hooks deftly. “I will take good care of you. You’ll see.”
No lie, Claire has the prettiest pair of breasts he has ever seen. Her soft little tits are white as vanilla, one scoop apiece. Almost immediately, she crosses her arms over herself. He smirks approvingly at this feckless display of modesty, and touches her wrist.
“No,” he tells her. “You must not be ashamed of yourself. You are a beautiful girl, Claire. There’s no need to be shy with me.” Forcing her arms down, he pulls her against him hard, just for the pleasure of feeling her breasts against him when he kisses her.
The experience is everything he thought it would be.
She is completely pliable, his darling indestructible dolly-girl. Once he’s thoroughly sucked and twisted her plummy nipples and kissed her mouth red and swollen to a high-gloss finish, he stands her up on legs that are suitably unsteady.
“Kneel down, Claire.”
He undoes the drawstring of the shapeless hospital-patient pants and lifts his ass to slide them down his hips. Beside her smooth cheek, his penis looks obscenely big and animalic. The engorged head bumps her mouth, and she blushes scarlet.
“I don’t know… I mean, I’ve never…” she stammers.
A smile twitches on his lips. He gathers a handful of taffy-colored curls, and cradles the side of her head dotingly.
“You’re a smart girl, Claire,” he tells her patiently. “Just give it a little kiss. You don’t need to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
Encouraged, she grips him in her hand. Her fingers wrap around his shaft, and a sigh escapes him, unchecked. Claire’s fingernails are tidy French-manicured squares, and her skin catches his when she moves her wrist fractionally.
Claire is an obedient pupil. She drops tiny kisses along the length of his straining cock, the brush of her lips no weightier than a feather. It’s unbearable. Sylar lolls his head back, and squeezes his thumbs into fists until they hurt. When she bats her lashes upwards and fixes her eyes on him imploringly, he slays his inner Doting Daddy and leans forward.
“I seem to have changed my mind,” he tells her, between gritted teeth. “I want you to suck me off.”
She slides her open mouth down his length experimentally. His shoulders go slack with pleasure at the unmistakable sensation of his glans knocking against her throat. It’s not nice, but he thrusts his hips and makes her gag a little. Claire puckers her lips.
“Teeth,” he hisses, but she’s got it covered.
“Claire” turns out to be a master cocksucker. It isn’t until she’s busily nursing one of his balls and pumping him hard with her fist that he starts to think that it may be the best hummer of his life, but the authenticity is lacking. Torturously, he stops fucking her face.
“Enough,” he says.
She licks her lips.
“Was I not doing a good job?” she asks innocently.
“You know you were.” When she leans down for one last lick, he her hair again, pulls her up his body, frenches her as he arranges her legs and tears the side of her panties. Now she’s nude beneath her kicky little skirt. Her bare-shaven pussy is pink and glistening with arousal. Claire’s standing and he’s sitting; his vantage point is good-one hundred pounds of horny teenaged girl, plenty hot and bothered.
When he slides his hand between her legs, she stops kissing him. He watches her throat work when his long fingers slide through the slickness of her inner lips. A sharp inhalation escapes her when he draws back and sucks his knuckles.
“Sit on my cock,” he orders.
“Yes,” she assents demurely.
He has to push, really grind on her to get inside, to drive into her agonizingly tight virgin sanctum. She keens in his ear, and tenses up. He won’t be walking straight for a goddamn week after popping Claire Bennet’s cherry. Sylar is wildly agitated, eons of human evolution and civilization barely sufficient to stifle his bestial enthusiasm.
“Wider,” he groans, breath coming hot and burning his throat. “Wider.”
She spreads her legs across his lap, crushes her hips against him.
“So fuckin’ hard for you,” he says. His teeth on his lip must be turning it white. “Never been so hard.”
She is stretched open for him, and there could be nothing so hot as his cock impaling her from the root. The fact that she is so small makes him almost dizzy with desire. His urge to break her is so strong, like his heart thudding in the tangled cavity of his chest. He wants to make a sacrament of her; he wants to eat her flesh and drink her blood.
Sylar pulls out, needing to feel the sensation of penetrating her again. She is wetter than he would have thought possible, and the going is much easier, this time.
He starts to move inside her. Slowly, because he is going to explode if he doesn’t watch it. He leans forward and mouth her neck wetly, sucking hard enough that it should leave a mark. He knows she isn’t going to stop him. Her hands skitter along his back, under his shirt, and a little cry crosses her lips. He takes that as a challenge, wants to make her moan loudly and in earnest.
His fingers begin where his teeth left off, slide down over the shelf of her clavicle and then ghost lightly over one breast. They graze lower and find her clit, and then she does moan in just the way that he wanted. Her hips twist in a tight orbit that is undoing him slowly, unwinding him like a loose screw. Claire’s descant exclamations of pleasure are accentuated by her nails digging into his shoulders, scoring his flesh. She holds her breath for endless seconds, and he imagines he can hear the frantic slam of her heart. Inside, she clenches him like a vise. Crushing her pelvis against his hand, she arches her back in obvious pleasure. It’s as if she has become one huge, hungry nerve ending. Her orgasm is apparently wonderful, judging from the way she bows into his body and gasps jaggedly for air.
Now she turns and slides into his mouth for his tongue.
He groans and lurches his body back into motion. Claire tangles her hand in his hair. Roughly, he grabs her fingers and shoves them down between their joined bodies, showing her where he wants her to rub. She is bouncing on his cock, shamelessly masturbating under the tutelage of his fingertips on hers. Sylar can’t even feign control of the situation at this point. He fucks her roughly, only half-aware of his own gasps of her name escaping from somewhere inside his gut.
“You are going to come,” she says finally, sweet-sticky lips mashing against his a last time. It’s too much.
Sylar explodes in a long, hot wave. His eyes roll back, and as his vision goes starry, he sees Claire baring her teeth at him in a way that totally shatters his suspension of disbelief.
_
“I thought you created illusions,” he accuses her.
Michelle, or Candice, or whatever-the-hell-her-name-is makes the perfect vision of post-coital satisfaction, wrapped in a sheet with a shit-eating smirk. Her hair is mussed every which way, and her body is a comma curling in on him. The claustrophobic room reeks bitterly of sweat and mold.
“I do,” she answers.
“So why exactly did you need to actually fuck me?” he asks.
“Oh, silly,” she pats his arm. He jumps back as if singed, and she laughs. “Look at you. How could I possibly resist?”
Like a drugstore knockoff of a designer perfume, she stinks. Cheap and sour on the base note. He stands up quickly from the bed -too quickly, from the screaming stitch in his middle- and retrieves his spilled pants from the clothes on the floor.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says consolingly. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“What secret?”
“Oh, you know.” She stretches her legs and flexes her toes, leering at him appreciatively. “The fact that you’re completely depraved.”
He wrinkles his nose as he soaps and lathers his hands at the sink. His skin is writhing, crawling with filth.
“I’d never want to disrespect you, you must understand that,” she mimics with a giggle. “I’m guessing you’re big on the Nabokov?”
Sylar fastidiously ignores her, although his face is getting hotter and hotter.
“Although, that was pretty hot,” she admits, oblivious to his stony irritation. “Being your jailbait sex queen. Maybe we should try it again sometime.”
He wishes he could flex a hand and throw her against the wall. Snap his fingers and cook her with nuclear energy, turn her into a human popsicle. Or something. Anything to shut her the-fuck-up. Her grating voice is nothing but a reminder of his inability to be.
She’s up and out of bed, percolating coffee and still making terrible conversational noises. Her body seems inexplicably huge under the damp folds of the misappropriated bed linen. The ridiculously exaggerated curve of her hips, her full, mammalian breasts… she’s Jessica Rabbit, she’s a sloppy, sluttish blow-up doll. A full-blown rose, where once there had been the tremulously-blooming bud. Her bare feet slap the wooden floor, and her hair is a garish red slash against his headache, like a blood splatter.
Looking over his shoulder, he realizes that the scratches from Claire’s nails are absent on his unmarked back. They were never there. Staring at Michelle, it all makes sense. She took them. Claire was here, and now she’s gone. Rather, it was all a farce. A mocking, filthy sham, designed to reinforce his impotence.
Sylar wishes hard for the orderly sound of clockwork, for the indication that everything is going to be all right. Instead, he just hears the fearful rush of his pulse in his head, a screaming voice insisting no, no, no. When it hits a full roar, and tiny black spots dance before his vision, he grabs the handle of the coffee cup, and swings, again and again, until he can think straight once more.
_
fin