Phone Call
Title: Phone Call
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Word Count: 1, 505
Warnings: It’s syrupy Sylaire sex drizzled into one phone call. freetheelves2 put me up to it!
Disclaimer: You can't sue me. You get nothing!
Summary: Today he regrets his words deeply. Prompt #009: Game.
There is a game they play, he and Claire.
They waltz, they skirt the issue. It’s as simple as sex, it’s more complicated than love.
It’s so easy, loving to hate each other the way they do.
Liquid addiction on the tip of his tongue he can’t get enough of.
Today they twist the game. I don’t want to see you, she had said with a persistent frown.
I don’t have to see you, he responded, I just have to feel you.
Today he regrets his words deeply. Good, she had said, smiling coyly and walking away, pulling her skirt down to maintain her decency, you’ll have to wait nice and long for it.
He cannot wait anymore. His lust crackles so vibrantly in the dark of his soul that it makes him attempt to pace away his hard on unsuccessfully. Fucking bitch. Claire is a fucking bitch. Claire is a bitch he wants to fuck very badly.
Sylar has tried to avoid thinking about it, but it’s universal knowledge that the more you try not to think, the deeper your unhealthy obsession blossoms, like dead roses spreading their disease. He hates admitting this dependency, hates the way she knows how to use it against him all the time. But it’s fair trade when you look at it both ways; Claire can manipulate it to her advantage because she knows his weakness, and Sylar will always remind her that he knows hers intimately. Dependence, death.
Right now he really feels like he should kill her for driving him crazy. There are repercussions from denying a man in dire need. He swears he will use his telekinesis on her the next time he gets to see her.
He reaches for the telephone and punches in the digits, literally jabbing at the keys so hard the buttons might pop from their squares.
It rings and rings and rings.
“Hello?”
If you don’t come here, I’m going there, he says, running his hand through his hair.
“Breaking point already?” Her smile, her laugh, it sounds in his ears and his fingers are itching to reach around a perfectly slender neck like hers and snap.
Sylar doesn’t reply, only distractedly fixes his gaze on a spot on the bed where he thinks the bounce is best.
Claire sighs. “We can do this another way. I’ll just tell you what I’m wearing.”
We are not having this conversation.
“Really?” There is a loud click. “Because I’ve just shut the door and I’m gonna shimmy right out of these shorts.”
Immediately, he debates with himself if he should submit to her. There are reasons, desperate reasons why he lets it happen and has no say, and this time it’s because he wants to avoid the hassle of facing at least two very able Petrellis at once. But if he gives in, she wins.
“Hold on, let me climb into bed.”
Fuck it, he thinks, and he goes to set her up on speaker phone with the volume turned low enough for him to hear. Nobody else gets to listen to his Claire getting herself off like this.
He takes off his shirt in a hurry and presses his forehead to the wall while he listens to her breathing fill the room steadily. All he can think of is lips, lips, lips, when he brings his hand from his neck, dragging it flat along his chest over a nipple, and down the flat plane of his stomach, to meet his other hand tucked into the waistband of his pants, waiting and wanting and needing more than just his own touch.
He thinks of Claire’s lips wrapped around his cock and sucking it in deeply, tongue flexing against his skin so roughly until he bucks uncontrollably.
Jesus, he needs to come so badly that the aching in his balls and the hard swell of his cock is almost painful, almost profound.
“Tell me you want me,” she says.
You know that I want you. All the time. And I really have to touch you.
It’s strange how the words that leave his mouth makes heat rise to his face like it does now. He can feel the flush raze the apples of his cheeks when he vocalizes his thoughts and shoves elastic past the bones of his hip.
“I miss your taste, Gabriel,” she drawls through the speakers. “Even if they’re only games we play.”
When she lets out a subtle mmm, he starts with wiping the clear pearl off the tip of his member before stroking it with a sigh.
I’m not Gabriel, Claire. They’re more than just games, you and I know that.
He doesn’t know what they are, but they cope with life and death the only way they know how.
Touch yourself.
He closes his eyes, like the first time he got to be surrounded by her. The shudder that keeps at the base of his spine fans out to the rest of his body in satisfaction when he increases the force of his thrust.
“My fingers aren’t enough.” He recognizes the way Claire rasps - it sounds the same way when he sinks his index into her. “They aren’t like yours…” she tries to catch her breath, “…not thick enough.”
Sylar groans and cups the weight of his sac as he pulls an image from his brain, of her needily thrusting fingers into wetness he’s so familiar with. She’s right, because when he inserts just two digits, she’s stretched around them so delightfully.
It reminds him of the time she was on her knees, leaning back with those gorgeous thighs spread for him. The way she moaned when he curved his fingers, fuck, it was obscenely hot when she shivered and clenched, getting her juices all over his palm. It makes him push the foreskin over the crown and tug it back down again, applying pressure he fully appreciates.
I won that round.
He remembers the first time they began their game. It was Claire’s first time, but there was nothing first about it at all. Sylar recalls it so clearly, how raw, how dirty it was, like how it feels now when he blindly strokes in time with her moans. Sweat and sex, fast, how he took her, merciless, growling against her neck. And when he came then, he pulled out, getting thick spunk over her sore clit, at her entrance even when she begged for him to lose himself inside of her. It was so good, that pleasure uncoiling in his chest, when he just smiled, drawing the head of his cock from her sensitive nub and pushing into her, mixing fluids and sex together.
He was already lost long before that.
I also won that round. Thinking about it always makes his mouth run dry. Coupled with his fingers around his shaft, moving up and down and up and down, his eyes are about to roll to the back of his skull.
It’s almost as if she’s ignoring him with the moans she tries to keep from escaping. She hates to show that she’s losing her nerve.
“Oh fuck,” Is it a whimper? He can’t tell; he’s handling his near-purple cock with ease. “Oh…”
Fuck, Claire. Why do you do this to me?
“What do I do to you?” she can barely speak.
You break me down and rile me up thinking you can get away with all of it, but I know that all you want is for me to take you into my arms and watch the world collapse around us.
“Fuck you.”
It wasn’t my idea to start this round.
His mind spirals into a frenzy when he imagines her climaxing, from the way she cries out and the way she sounds like she’s almost hyperventilating.
What are you afraid of?
I’ll be here, I’ll get us there. I’ll kiss you, Claire, I’ll make everything go away.
Their kiss is what sends him over the edge, when the feeling of warmth exploding in his chest overtakes him. He drops his jaw and groans unabashedly, just thinking about the way their mouths meet and how much passion he puts into kissing her, making her feel like they’re the only two in the world. There’s nothing coming through from the other end of the line.
Claire…
Something is at the tip of his tongue, something irreversible, so Sylar bites down on it, hard, to keep it from slipping out. He doesn’t have to say it, but the fact that she knows it’s ready to be said marks her victory.
When Sylar comes, he gets it on the carpet, a little on the phone, but mostly on his fist, as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly and the patch of wallpaper by his head rips apart loudly.
“I win.”
Before he knows it, the dial tone hits him. Shit. Now he has to clean up.
Sylar: 7. Claire: 13. He’s far behind on this one. Luckily for him, he can catch up during cheer practice tomorrow.
I'll win, Claire. I'll win eventually.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Word Count: 1, 505
Warnings: It’s syrupy Sylaire sex drizzled into one phone call. freetheelves2 put me up to it!
Disclaimer: You can't sue me. You get nothing!
Summary: Today he regrets his words deeply. Prompt #009: Game.
There is a game they play, he and Claire.
They waltz, they skirt the issue. It’s as simple as sex, it’s more complicated than love.
It’s so easy, loving to hate each other the way they do.
Liquid addiction on the tip of his tongue he can’t get enough of.
Today they twist the game. I don’t want to see you, she had said with a persistent frown.
I don’t have to see you, he responded, I just have to feel you.
Today he regrets his words deeply. Good, she had said, smiling coyly and walking away, pulling her skirt down to maintain her decency, you’ll have to wait nice and long for it.
He cannot wait anymore. His lust crackles so vibrantly in the dark of his soul that it makes him attempt to pace away his hard on unsuccessfully. Fucking bitch. Claire is a fucking bitch. Claire is a bitch he wants to fuck very badly.
Sylar has tried to avoid thinking about it, but it’s universal knowledge that the more you try not to think, the deeper your unhealthy obsession blossoms, like dead roses spreading their disease. He hates admitting this dependency, hates the way she knows how to use it against him all the time. But it’s fair trade when you look at it both ways; Claire can manipulate it to her advantage because she knows his weakness, and Sylar will always remind her that he knows hers intimately. Dependence, death.
Right now he really feels like he should kill her for driving him crazy. There are repercussions from denying a man in dire need. He swears he will use his telekinesis on her the next time he gets to see her.
He reaches for the telephone and punches in the digits, literally jabbing at the keys so hard the buttons might pop from their squares.
It rings and rings and rings.
“Hello?”
If you don’t come here, I’m going there, he says, running his hand through his hair.
“Breaking point already?” Her smile, her laugh, it sounds in his ears and his fingers are itching to reach around a perfectly slender neck like hers and snap.
Sylar doesn’t reply, only distractedly fixes his gaze on a spot on the bed where he thinks the bounce is best.
Claire sighs. “We can do this another way. I’ll just tell you what I’m wearing.”
We are not having this conversation.
“Really?” There is a loud click. “Because I’ve just shut the door and I’m gonna shimmy right out of these shorts.”
Immediately, he debates with himself if he should submit to her. There are reasons, desperate reasons why he lets it happen and has no say, and this time it’s because he wants to avoid the hassle of facing at least two very able Petrellis at once. But if he gives in, she wins.
“Hold on, let me climb into bed.”
Fuck it, he thinks, and he goes to set her up on speaker phone with the volume turned low enough for him to hear. Nobody else gets to listen to his Claire getting herself off like this.
He takes off his shirt in a hurry and presses his forehead to the wall while he listens to her breathing fill the room steadily. All he can think of is lips, lips, lips, when he brings his hand from his neck, dragging it flat along his chest over a nipple, and down the flat plane of his stomach, to meet his other hand tucked into the waistband of his pants, waiting and wanting and needing more than just his own touch.
He thinks of Claire’s lips wrapped around his cock and sucking it in deeply, tongue flexing against his skin so roughly until he bucks uncontrollably.
Jesus, he needs to come so badly that the aching in his balls and the hard swell of his cock is almost painful, almost profound.
“Tell me you want me,” she says.
You know that I want you. All the time. And I really have to touch you.
It’s strange how the words that leave his mouth makes heat rise to his face like it does now. He can feel the flush raze the apples of his cheeks when he vocalizes his thoughts and shoves elastic past the bones of his hip.
“I miss your taste, Gabriel,” she drawls through the speakers. “Even if they’re only games we play.”
When she lets out a subtle mmm, he starts with wiping the clear pearl off the tip of his member before stroking it with a sigh.
I’m not Gabriel, Claire. They’re more than just games, you and I know that.
He doesn’t know what they are, but they cope with life and death the only way they know how.
Touch yourself.
He closes his eyes, like the first time he got to be surrounded by her. The shudder that keeps at the base of his spine fans out to the rest of his body in satisfaction when he increases the force of his thrust.
“My fingers aren’t enough.” He recognizes the way Claire rasps - it sounds the same way when he sinks his index into her. “They aren’t like yours…” she tries to catch her breath, “…not thick enough.”
Sylar groans and cups the weight of his sac as he pulls an image from his brain, of her needily thrusting fingers into wetness he’s so familiar with. She’s right, because when he inserts just two digits, she’s stretched around them so delightfully.
It reminds him of the time she was on her knees, leaning back with those gorgeous thighs spread for him. The way she moaned when he curved his fingers, fuck, it was obscenely hot when she shivered and clenched, getting her juices all over his palm. It makes him push the foreskin over the crown and tug it back down again, applying pressure he fully appreciates.
I won that round.
He remembers the first time they began their game. It was Claire’s first time, but there was nothing first about it at all. Sylar recalls it so clearly, how raw, how dirty it was, like how it feels now when he blindly strokes in time with her moans. Sweat and sex, fast, how he took her, merciless, growling against her neck. And when he came then, he pulled out, getting thick spunk over her sore clit, at her entrance even when she begged for him to lose himself inside of her. It was so good, that pleasure uncoiling in his chest, when he just smiled, drawing the head of his cock from her sensitive nub and pushing into her, mixing fluids and sex together.
He was already lost long before that.
I also won that round. Thinking about it always makes his mouth run dry. Coupled with his fingers around his shaft, moving up and down and up and down, his eyes are about to roll to the back of his skull.
It’s almost as if she’s ignoring him with the moans she tries to keep from escaping. She hates to show that she’s losing her nerve.
“Oh fuck,” Is it a whimper? He can’t tell; he’s handling his near-purple cock with ease. “Oh…”
Fuck, Claire. Why do you do this to me?
“What do I do to you?” she can barely speak.
You break me down and rile me up thinking you can get away with all of it, but I know that all you want is for me to take you into my arms and watch the world collapse around us.
“Fuck you.”
It wasn’t my idea to start this round.
His mind spirals into a frenzy when he imagines her climaxing, from the way she cries out and the way she sounds like she’s almost hyperventilating.
What are you afraid of?
I’ll be here, I’ll get us there. I’ll kiss you, Claire, I’ll make everything go away.
Their kiss is what sends him over the edge, when the feeling of warmth exploding in his chest overtakes him. He drops his jaw and groans unabashedly, just thinking about the way their mouths meet and how much passion he puts into kissing her, making her feel like they’re the only two in the world. There’s nothing coming through from the other end of the line.
Claire…
Something is at the tip of his tongue, something irreversible, so Sylar bites down on it, hard, to keep it from slipping out. He doesn’t have to say it, but the fact that she knows it’s ready to be said marks her victory.
When Sylar comes, he gets it on the carpet, a little on the phone, but mostly on his fist, as he squeezes his eyes shut tightly and the patch of wallpaper by his head rips apart loudly.
“I win.”
Before he knows it, the dial tone hits him. Shit. Now he has to clean up.
Sylar: 7. Claire: 13. He’s far behind on this one. Luckily for him, he can catch up during cheer practice tomorrow.
I'll win, Claire. I'll win eventually.