Haymaker [Heroes]
Title: Haymaker
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Elle
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex. Language. Violence. S3 Spoilers. All the good stuff. Couple parts might seem dubconish but, they're not really. Also unbeta'ed. Point out my fail if you see it.
Prompt: Sylar/Elle-3x02, After Sylar tries to kill Elle and gets captured, Elle visits him in his cell. Angry, hatesex ensues. From the Ficfest @ sylarelle
Summary: See above.
Haymaker
Sylar's eyes crack open, just barely, and he finds his world to be little more than a blend of grey and white and black and everywhere in between. Breathing seems optional but he’s sure he still needs to do it. Blurry figures speak in blurry voices a foot away, or maybe a mile away, he’s not quite sure. One’s angry, and one is just disappointed. His hands feel like jelly and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any legs.
Minutes, hours, days go by and then the voices stop. The disappointed voice walks away. The angry one stays.
Rip and yeah, it hurt, but now he can’t really remember that. But he knows he’s happy to have that thing out of his nose. His eyes can’t focus but he thinks he sees blond snakes falling around his head.
“Wake up,” the angry voice says, but he thinks this is gonna take some time. So he falls asleep, just in case.
----
Once more his eyes crack open, but this time everything is more lucid, though the coloring seems about the same. He most definitely has his legs now, though. It takes him a minute or two to get his bearings, but when he looks out the window he sees a huge “5” plastered on the wall and knows exactly where he is. That stupid bitch fried him like a Twinkie at some chubby Midwestern state fair and now he’s stuck in this godforsaken cell for who knows how long. Again.
Shit shit shit, he thinks, and pounds his fist into the slab underneath him that they insist is a bed, though he’s pretty sure the Geneva Convention would disagree.
“Now, now,” a voice behind him purrs. He spins around to face the sound.
It’s the angry voice.
He immediately stands, but she lifts a finger and lets a very, very pretty little spark curl around her fingertip. “Ah ah ah,” Elle says as a reprimand, and he lifts his hand to wipe that smirk clean off her face.
Nothing. Well, that’s not true. She wobbles a little, thrown slightly off balance, but is most definitely not plastered against a wall where she should be.
“That’s right, tiger. You may be weaned off the good stuff, but I thought it’d be best to keep you, well, ‘toned down,’” she whispers, her hands a veritable charade of her sentence. “So did my boss.”
It doesn’t take a genius to hear the hostility in that word. “Your boss, hm? Who is it now that daddy’s not around?”
A jolt to the stomach singes his company issued t-shirt and shuts him up. “Shut up,” she whispers to punctuate. “Just - shut up.”
Fair enough, he thinks as he falls back on his cot, rubbing his stomach to soothe the phantom, tingling pain, happy to see that even though it’s painfully slow, he is still healing. She’s every right to be angry, he figures, but damn it if he doesn’t either. They were an eye for an eye now, sort of, but he had a feeling they’d move on to ears and noses and tongues soon enough.
Elle, never one to pass up an opportunity to hear herself speak, continues. “Mama Petrelli’s in charge now,” she whispers bitterly, crossing her arms. “She seems to think I don’t have any kind of real purpose around here. That my daddy was just keeping me around, that all I’m good for is as muscle, as a prison guard,” she finishes, her words hostile and angry.
He can see her hands begin to light up and a little spark twist itself around her cheek. It seems to throw her off, and she twitches slightly before taking a deep breath. “But I must say,” she continues, her voice playful again, “I always did think I was pretty good at keeping those level 5’s in line.”
Fantastic, he thinks, and rolls his eyes as he looks away from her. Of all of the people he wanted to see in front of him, well, Elle was probably one of them. But of all of the people he wanted to see in front of him when he was neutered of any possible chance of killing them, well, that was another situation entirely.
But enough of that. “Don’t you have any other prisoners to torture?” he says, not bothering to look her in the eye. She laughs like a witch, so he closes his eyes and sighs.
“Funny story,” she begins, and he can hear the click click of her heels as she walks closer to him. “When you tried to kill me, I had to defend myself the only way I knew how,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” he snaps, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well,” she interrupts, “a charge that big - it shut down the grid. All of the other inmates, poof, gone,” she says, and he bets she made a hand gesture for that one too.
Suddenly he feels her hands on his shoulders and he jerks slightly, but isn’t fool enough to pull away. “So it’s just you,” she whispers lightly in his ear, running a finger across his jaw, “and me,” she bites, her voice suddenly angry and aggressive.
He barely has time to swallow before she punches him in the side of the head and he falls heavily on the cement floor, blood pooling under his head and electricity dancing across his face. After what feels like an eternity, he feels his skull bones snap and pop back together and he shakes his head, trying to get his bearings. But before he can stand, her fancy designer heels are digging into his back. His attempt to strangle a moan is thwarted when she twists her heel, pushing his t-shirt into his flesh. Blood pools and seeps into the fabric and he curses under his breath. Wet clothing is so uncomfortable.
Finally, she breaks the small silence between them, to his dismay. “How do you like that?” she says like some sort of dominatrix villain. “How does it feel to be on the other end?”
Well, not that great, actually. That’s why he’s usually not here. But he won’t say that, just grits his teeth and closes his eyes when she looks at him.
That’s not good enough, apparently, because before he knows it she lands a kick to his ribcage. It hurts, bad, and he involuntarily rolls to on his side and nearly on his back. Which is exactly what she wanted, because now she’s on him, straddling him like he needs to be tamed, her hand woven through his hair so his head is pulled back and he can’t help but look her in the eyes.
“How,” she spits, “do you like,” she lifts a finger up that reminds him a little too much of himself, “this,” she says (and it’s not a question, not really) before pressing the finger against his forehead. She lets out a white-hot charge from her fingertip and drags it across his forehead, splitting and welting the skin. It feels like she’s dragging crushed glass across his skin and he lets out a yell from somewhere deep in his chest.
The smile that crosses her lips is so fucking smug he wants to slap it off. So he does.
It wasn’t hard enough to throw her off of him but it does stop the pain in his head, long enough for it to heal up. She lifts her hand to her cheek and curses when she tastes blood in her mouth from a cut on her lip.
“You fucker,” she spits, literally, before she presses her hands against his chest and shocks his heart out of rhythm. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath and regulate, and she stays right over him, pressing down on his chest with her hands and her face just inches from him, her breath warm and moist.
They sit like that for a while, her staring at him like she wants to devour him and him trying to pick something from her features, figure out her game, before he leans up a little, invading her space. She could have pulled back but she doesn’t, just stares at him like they’re playing some weird game of chicken, and settles her hips against him a little more. She tries to hide the little flutter her eyes do when she does, but it’s painfully obvious.
“What do you want, Elle?” he says, irritated and impatient. “You want me to fight back? Want me to push you around and make it look like this,” he emphasizes, looking her up and down, “was my idea?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs, and she twitches a little when she feels him begin to grow hard beneath her. What the hell does she expect? Obviously something else, but he takes advantage of her inattention and grabs both of her arms roughly, throwing her off of him and against the wall next to them.
“You’re sick, you know that?” he mutters as his fingers bruise her skin. She struggles a little, her body letting out little sparks here and there, but nothing she seems to be doing of her own volition. In fact, she seems like she’s in pain.
“Yeah, well,” she starts, hissing as he pushes her legs on either side of him so he can kneel between them, “I’m not the only one.”
Touché, he thinks, and begins to finger the fabric of her blouse. It’s cut modestly but buttoned low, her bra peeking out now that it has shifted down a little. He runs his hand up her arm and around to her neck, running his thumb across her cheek. He can feel her heart beating under his palm like a hummingbird.
He kisses where his hand was, feeling her fluttering pulse under his lips. He lets them linger there and breathes in her scent, and it’s all citrus and ozone and sweat. She squirms a little under him once more, putting up a pathetic fight, but it’s obvious she’s not in control of her powers enough to blast him like she had before. He could knock his heart out of rhythm again, maybe, but he was confident he could still hold her down if she did. He can tell she’s starting to panic a little now at the change of dominance, and he can’t help but smile.
“Spark me all you want,” he whispers against her neck as the muscles in his biceps twitch under her static fingers. “As you’ve noticed, doesn’t quite have the same effect as before.”
She lets out a frustrated grunt and presses her chest out in an attempt to push him off of her, but it’s no use. So he pushes right back, feeling himself grow harder when she cries out in pain as the hard concrete wall presses against her back. “Let me go,” she hisses.
“Stop acting like you want me to,” he hisses right back, and slams her harder into the wall. She yelps and stiffens, and he moves the hand on her neck so it covers it completely, causing her to cough and choke. “Stop acting like this isn’t exactly what you want, but you’re too ashamed to get it any other way.”
She stays mute, staring at him intensely. But she doesn’t say no, don’t say much of anything really, just mutters “Fuck you,” before rolling her hips up to graze his. She doesn’t touch him directly, not yet, but the fabric of his pants rubs against his skin as she touches it and he bites back a groan at the sensation.
He takes that as a green light and pushes down against her, rubbing his hardness against her as her back presses even harder into the wall behind them. He wastes no time with her shirt, grabbing both sides and ripping the buttons off as he pulls it apart. Her bra is pretty, plaid and blue lace, and he plunges one of his hands under it to cup her breast. She breathes in quickly and stares down at his hand like it’s a spider crawling across her chest.
“God, Elle,” he can’t help but say, feeling it spill out of his mouth. Before she can come back with some witty reply he cuts her off with his mouth, hearing her whimper and try to speak beneath his lips. She tastes so good, fresh and clean, and the way her tongue is trying to jam its way down his throat makes him wonder if she’s trying to kiss him or suffocate him. Maybe it’s both.
Deciding their current position is doing them no favors, he grips her waist and moves her away from the wall, laying her on the cold floor beneath them. He positions himself over her, pinning her hands down over her head with one hand and keeping her body from twisting away by laying his weight against her. He then continues to kiss her, running his free hand through her hair as he does. She wiggles a little, but remains relatively calm.
Too calm, he decides. Figures he kinda likes when she fights back, likes feeling her sparks dance across his skin. So he lets her hands go and they immediately grip the sides of his face, pushing their kiss deeper as his skin sizzles and burns.
He lets her hair go and allows his hands to travel down the side of her body, down to her thighs and then back up, and he plays with the waist of her dress pants before moving over to the button. He doesn’t rip this one, instead undoes the button and zipper so he has some access, and pushes his hand under the waistband of both her pants and underwear. His hand pushes hard against her and she can’t hold in her cries, letting it slip past her lips against his cheek.
He strokes her for a few seconds, letting his fingers tease, before her hand shoots down between them to guide him, make him touch her like she wants to be touched. She wraps her hand around his wrist and guides him to rub her clit furiously, biting her lips as she does, and he feels her grow wetter and wetter. She’s impatient and demanding, little sparks dancing across her cheeks as she works her way toward orgasm.
No, he thinks, and pulls his hand away. She cries out like she’s in pain, but he knows better; once she’s got what she wants, she’ll leave him here with enough frustration for a lifetime. No, he’s not gonna let her first try at revenge be that easy.
Getting her pants off is easy when she helps so much, kicking them off until they’re pooled at her feet and she’s wearing nothing but a ripped shirt, a bra, and a steely glare. As he reaches down to unhook the little front clasp centered between her breasts (too easy), she reaches down and undoes the drawstring on his pants. With her knees she pushes them down, and as he tries to kick them off she grabs his erection and he hisses, feeling blood pulse and redirect and trying to think about anything but how good her soft hand feels as it strokes him up and down.
“Alright,” he manages to grunt out, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and he unceremoniously pushes himself inside of her. She seems surprised, and a strangled cry is ripped from her throat as she shudders. He begins to pump in and out of her slowly but harshly, with purpose, and she whimpers at every hard thrust.
“Hey, killer,” she says, her voice stunted by his forceful momentum, “Think you can make me come?”
He breathes in as slowly as he can and tries not to fall into her trap. “I don’t care if you do or not.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she whimpers patronizingly. “Your ego disagrees. Figure out what I like, nerd.”
“Well, from what I heard, you like fucking prisoners so looks like I’m off to a good start,” he interrupts, wanting to put his hand over her mouth to shut her up but knowing she’d probably just bite.
Little sparks singe his skin and she hooks her leg across his back, pushing him down all the way against her. “Don’t act like you know me,” she snaps, acting angry but he’s pretty sure it’s just that, an act, because she grinds against him hungrily as he rests against her. “The only me you know doesn’t even exist.”
Ah yes, pretty Elle in her flowery shirts and with her soft, timid voice. His eyelids flutter closed for a moment and he can almost smell that day, a mixture of old books and peaches. Can almost feel her soft little lips against his, shy and apologetic. He remembers wondering if she were a virgin. He’s somehow relieved that she’s not.
In his momentary lapse of attention she manages to land a pretty heavy blow on his shoulder, throwing him off guard just long enough for her to roll him over and mount him swiftly. He concrete is cold and rough against his back and he can see why she did that. This also allows her to have him all the way inside of her, lets her push and grind herself against his hips as she seeks friction, her walls clenching around him in anticipation.
Impatient, he grabs her shoulder and yanks her down closer to him, kissing her sloppily as he pushes up and pounds into her, his hand on the small of her back as he gently pushes her back down on him with every thrust. Her hands slam down on either side of his head and she breaks the kiss so she can look him in the eyes as she fucks him. She tries to keep her gaze focused and cold but she fails, her eyes rolling and her eyelids fluttering.
So she speaks instead. “Pretty, naïve girl, in the city all by herself,” she whispers, continuing her previous narrative. “Did you honesty think a girl as pretty as me would be interested in a guy like you?”
He bites his tongue and pushes down harder on the small of her back, thrusting deeper inside of her and loving the way she gasps and falters. “Shut up,” he murmurs, barely audible.
“A watchmaker,” she sneers, her voice airy, “who could barely form a sentence in front of me? Please.”
He’d say it again but he knows she wouldn’t listen, so he puts his hand on her throat, shutting her up momentarily as he pushes her off of him. As she stumbles and falls, he lifts her tiny weight onto the cot and sits her on the edge of it before spreading her thighs and entering her once again with little warning. He buries his face in her shoulder and pushes into her as quickly as he can, pressing her against his chest.
But it doesn’t stop her, why would it, and she continues, “I’m not sure what’s more pathetic…”
He won’t ask her to clarify, absolutely wont. His grip on her back falters and she falls back, her hands behind her propping her up so she’s leaning back. Her breasts bounce with every thrust, perfectly framed by the bra and shirt on either side. Won’t. Say. Anything.
No matter, of course. “The fact that you couldn’t keep your finger out of someone’s brain long enough to go on a date with someone like me,” she says breathily, her head lolling back a bit before returning to its upright position so she could stare at him once again, “or the fact that you even believed someone like me was actually interested in someone like you,” she finishes. She then shoots up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she reaches down between the two of them to finish herself off.
“I’m pathetic?” he snaps, angry and frustrated and so close he can barely stand, “At least I have some dignity. You’re fucking your father’s killer.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that one, and she probably never will. But he’s okay with that, because the only answer he needs from her right now is the one she’s giving him as she pants his name his ear. She comes around him hard, gasping and moaning as she claws and grips his back, discharging little static bolts with every contraction. It’s enough to send him over too and soon enough he’s making a mess of her, pressing into her as deep as he can as he comes.
And with that she pushes him off of her like he were on fire, sweat dripping down her nose as she scrambles off the cot, picking up her discarded clothes and redressing hastily. Feeling underdressed, he pulls his pants back on and then falls down against the floor below him, his back against the cool concrete. She takes that as an opportunity to kick him in the ribs once more as she storms out.
“I know you hated him,” he yells after her, and she stops in her tracks. “Your father. Deep down inside, somewhere, you did. I can tell. You wanted him gone, don’t pretend like you didn’t.”
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers and it’s acidic, biting, but he can’t help but smile because he sees her light up, uncontrolled current racing over her body, and she shudders and clenches her jaw in pain.
She’ll be back, because no one else can fix her. Not like he can.
Twenty minutes later he’s being held down by four brutes in scrubs and has another tube shoved up his nose. All the grays start to fade together once more, and he falls asleep thinking of the five sounds of lever escapement, the feeling of power beneath his fingertips, and her.
Characters/Pairings: Sylar/Elle
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex. Language. Violence. S3 Spoilers. All the good stuff. Couple parts might seem dubconish but, they're not really. Also unbeta'ed. Point out my fail if you see it.
Prompt: Sylar/Elle-3x02, After Sylar tries to kill Elle and gets captured, Elle visits him in his cell. Angry, hatesex ensues. From the Ficfest @ sylarelle
Summary: See above.
Haymaker
Sylar's eyes crack open, just barely, and he finds his world to be little more than a blend of grey and white and black and everywhere in between. Breathing seems optional but he’s sure he still needs to do it. Blurry figures speak in blurry voices a foot away, or maybe a mile away, he’s not quite sure. One’s angry, and one is just disappointed. His hands feel like jelly and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any legs.
Minutes, hours, days go by and then the voices stop. The disappointed voice walks away. The angry one stays.
Rip and yeah, it hurt, but now he can’t really remember that. But he knows he’s happy to have that thing out of his nose. His eyes can’t focus but he thinks he sees blond snakes falling around his head.
“Wake up,” the angry voice says, but he thinks this is gonna take some time. So he falls asleep, just in case.
----
Once more his eyes crack open, but this time everything is more lucid, though the coloring seems about the same. He most definitely has his legs now, though. It takes him a minute or two to get his bearings, but when he looks out the window he sees a huge “5” plastered on the wall and knows exactly where he is. That stupid bitch fried him like a Twinkie at some chubby Midwestern state fair and now he’s stuck in this godforsaken cell for who knows how long. Again.
Shit shit shit, he thinks, and pounds his fist into the slab underneath him that they insist is a bed, though he’s pretty sure the Geneva Convention would disagree.
“Now, now,” a voice behind him purrs. He spins around to face the sound.
It’s the angry voice.
He immediately stands, but she lifts a finger and lets a very, very pretty little spark curl around her fingertip. “Ah ah ah,” Elle says as a reprimand, and he lifts his hand to wipe that smirk clean off her face.
Nothing. Well, that’s not true. She wobbles a little, thrown slightly off balance, but is most definitely not plastered against a wall where she should be.
“That’s right, tiger. You may be weaned off the good stuff, but I thought it’d be best to keep you, well, ‘toned down,’” she whispers, her hands a veritable charade of her sentence. “So did my boss.”
It doesn’t take a genius to hear the hostility in that word. “Your boss, hm? Who is it now that daddy’s not around?”
A jolt to the stomach singes his company issued t-shirt and shuts him up. “Shut up,” she whispers to punctuate. “Just - shut up.”
Fair enough, he thinks as he falls back on his cot, rubbing his stomach to soothe the phantom, tingling pain, happy to see that even though it’s painfully slow, he is still healing. She’s every right to be angry, he figures, but damn it if he doesn’t either. They were an eye for an eye now, sort of, but he had a feeling they’d move on to ears and noses and tongues soon enough.
Elle, never one to pass up an opportunity to hear herself speak, continues. “Mama Petrelli’s in charge now,” she whispers bitterly, crossing her arms. “She seems to think I don’t have any kind of real purpose around here. That my daddy was just keeping me around, that all I’m good for is as muscle, as a prison guard,” she finishes, her words hostile and angry.
He can see her hands begin to light up and a little spark twist itself around her cheek. It seems to throw her off, and she twitches slightly before taking a deep breath. “But I must say,” she continues, her voice playful again, “I always did think I was pretty good at keeping those level 5’s in line.”
Fantastic, he thinks, and rolls his eyes as he looks away from her. Of all of the people he wanted to see in front of him, well, Elle was probably one of them. But of all of the people he wanted to see in front of him when he was neutered of any possible chance of killing them, well, that was another situation entirely.
But enough of that. “Don’t you have any other prisoners to torture?” he says, not bothering to look her in the eye. She laughs like a witch, so he closes his eyes and sighs.
“Funny story,” she begins, and he can hear the click click of her heels as she walks closer to him. “When you tried to kill me, I had to defend myself the only way I knew how,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, I’m familiar with it,” he snaps, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well,” she interrupts, “a charge that big - it shut down the grid. All of the other inmates, poof, gone,” she says, and he bets she made a hand gesture for that one too.
Suddenly he feels her hands on his shoulders and he jerks slightly, but isn’t fool enough to pull away. “So it’s just you,” she whispers lightly in his ear, running a finger across his jaw, “and me,” she bites, her voice suddenly angry and aggressive.
He barely has time to swallow before she punches him in the side of the head and he falls heavily on the cement floor, blood pooling under his head and electricity dancing across his face. After what feels like an eternity, he feels his skull bones snap and pop back together and he shakes his head, trying to get his bearings. But before he can stand, her fancy designer heels are digging into his back. His attempt to strangle a moan is thwarted when she twists her heel, pushing his t-shirt into his flesh. Blood pools and seeps into the fabric and he curses under his breath. Wet clothing is so uncomfortable.
Finally, she breaks the small silence between them, to his dismay. “How do you like that?” she says like some sort of dominatrix villain. “How does it feel to be on the other end?”
Well, not that great, actually. That’s why he’s usually not here. But he won’t say that, just grits his teeth and closes his eyes when she looks at him.
That’s not good enough, apparently, because before he knows it she lands a kick to his ribcage. It hurts, bad, and he involuntarily rolls to on his side and nearly on his back. Which is exactly what she wanted, because now she’s on him, straddling him like he needs to be tamed, her hand woven through his hair so his head is pulled back and he can’t help but look her in the eyes.
“How,” she spits, “do you like,” she lifts a finger up that reminds him a little too much of himself, “this,” she says (and it’s not a question, not really) before pressing the finger against his forehead. She lets out a white-hot charge from her fingertip and drags it across his forehead, splitting and welting the skin. It feels like she’s dragging crushed glass across his skin and he lets out a yell from somewhere deep in his chest.
The smile that crosses her lips is so fucking smug he wants to slap it off. So he does.
It wasn’t hard enough to throw her off of him but it does stop the pain in his head, long enough for it to heal up. She lifts her hand to her cheek and curses when she tastes blood in her mouth from a cut on her lip.
“You fucker,” she spits, literally, before she presses her hands against his chest and shocks his heart out of rhythm. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath and regulate, and she stays right over him, pressing down on his chest with her hands and her face just inches from him, her breath warm and moist.
They sit like that for a while, her staring at him like she wants to devour him and him trying to pick something from her features, figure out her game, before he leans up a little, invading her space. She could have pulled back but she doesn’t, just stares at him like they’re playing some weird game of chicken, and settles her hips against him a little more. She tries to hide the little flutter her eyes do when she does, but it’s painfully obvious.
“What do you want, Elle?” he says, irritated and impatient. “You want me to fight back? Want me to push you around and make it look like this,” he emphasizes, looking her up and down, “was my idea?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs, and she twitches a little when she feels him begin to grow hard beneath her. What the hell does she expect? Obviously something else, but he takes advantage of her inattention and grabs both of her arms roughly, throwing her off of him and against the wall next to them.
“You’re sick, you know that?” he mutters as his fingers bruise her skin. She struggles a little, her body letting out little sparks here and there, but nothing she seems to be doing of her own volition. In fact, she seems like she’s in pain.
“Yeah, well,” she starts, hissing as he pushes her legs on either side of him so he can kneel between them, “I’m not the only one.”
Touché, he thinks, and begins to finger the fabric of her blouse. It’s cut modestly but buttoned low, her bra peeking out now that it has shifted down a little. He runs his hand up her arm and around to her neck, running his thumb across her cheek. He can feel her heart beating under his palm like a hummingbird.
He kisses where his hand was, feeling her fluttering pulse under his lips. He lets them linger there and breathes in her scent, and it’s all citrus and ozone and sweat. She squirms a little under him once more, putting up a pathetic fight, but it’s obvious she’s not in control of her powers enough to blast him like she had before. He could knock his heart out of rhythm again, maybe, but he was confident he could still hold her down if she did. He can tell she’s starting to panic a little now at the change of dominance, and he can’t help but smile.
“Spark me all you want,” he whispers against her neck as the muscles in his biceps twitch under her static fingers. “As you’ve noticed, doesn’t quite have the same effect as before.”
She lets out a frustrated grunt and presses her chest out in an attempt to push him off of her, but it’s no use. So he pushes right back, feeling himself grow harder when she cries out in pain as the hard concrete wall presses against her back. “Let me go,” she hisses.
“Stop acting like you want me to,” he hisses right back, and slams her harder into the wall. She yelps and stiffens, and he moves the hand on her neck so it covers it completely, causing her to cough and choke. “Stop acting like this isn’t exactly what you want, but you’re too ashamed to get it any other way.”
She stays mute, staring at him intensely. But she doesn’t say no, don’t say much of anything really, just mutters “Fuck you,” before rolling her hips up to graze his. She doesn’t touch him directly, not yet, but the fabric of his pants rubs against his skin as she touches it and he bites back a groan at the sensation.
He takes that as a green light and pushes down against her, rubbing his hardness against her as her back presses even harder into the wall behind them. He wastes no time with her shirt, grabbing both sides and ripping the buttons off as he pulls it apart. Her bra is pretty, plaid and blue lace, and he plunges one of his hands under it to cup her breast. She breathes in quickly and stares down at his hand like it’s a spider crawling across her chest.
“God, Elle,” he can’t help but say, feeling it spill out of his mouth. Before she can come back with some witty reply he cuts her off with his mouth, hearing her whimper and try to speak beneath his lips. She tastes so good, fresh and clean, and the way her tongue is trying to jam its way down his throat makes him wonder if she’s trying to kiss him or suffocate him. Maybe it’s both.
Deciding their current position is doing them no favors, he grips her waist and moves her away from the wall, laying her on the cold floor beneath them. He positions himself over her, pinning her hands down over her head with one hand and keeping her body from twisting away by laying his weight against her. He then continues to kiss her, running his free hand through her hair as he does. She wiggles a little, but remains relatively calm.
Too calm, he decides. Figures he kinda likes when she fights back, likes feeling her sparks dance across his skin. So he lets her hands go and they immediately grip the sides of his face, pushing their kiss deeper as his skin sizzles and burns.
He lets her hair go and allows his hands to travel down the side of her body, down to her thighs and then back up, and he plays with the waist of her dress pants before moving over to the button. He doesn’t rip this one, instead undoes the button and zipper so he has some access, and pushes his hand under the waistband of both her pants and underwear. His hand pushes hard against her and she can’t hold in her cries, letting it slip past her lips against his cheek.
He strokes her for a few seconds, letting his fingers tease, before her hand shoots down between them to guide him, make him touch her like she wants to be touched. She wraps her hand around his wrist and guides him to rub her clit furiously, biting her lips as she does, and he feels her grow wetter and wetter. She’s impatient and demanding, little sparks dancing across her cheeks as she works her way toward orgasm.
No, he thinks, and pulls his hand away. She cries out like she’s in pain, but he knows better; once she’s got what she wants, she’ll leave him here with enough frustration for a lifetime. No, he’s not gonna let her first try at revenge be that easy.
Getting her pants off is easy when she helps so much, kicking them off until they’re pooled at her feet and she’s wearing nothing but a ripped shirt, a bra, and a steely glare. As he reaches down to unhook the little front clasp centered between her breasts (too easy), she reaches down and undoes the drawstring on his pants. With her knees she pushes them down, and as he tries to kick them off she grabs his erection and he hisses, feeling blood pulse and redirect and trying to think about anything but how good her soft hand feels as it strokes him up and down.
“Alright,” he manages to grunt out, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and he unceremoniously pushes himself inside of her. She seems surprised, and a strangled cry is ripped from her throat as she shudders. He begins to pump in and out of her slowly but harshly, with purpose, and she whimpers at every hard thrust.
“Hey, killer,” she says, her voice stunted by his forceful momentum, “Think you can make me come?”
He breathes in as slowly as he can and tries not to fall into her trap. “I don’t care if you do or not.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she whimpers patronizingly. “Your ego disagrees. Figure out what I like, nerd.”
“Well, from what I heard, you like fucking prisoners so looks like I’m off to a good start,” he interrupts, wanting to put his hand over her mouth to shut her up but knowing she’d probably just bite.
Little sparks singe his skin and she hooks her leg across his back, pushing him down all the way against her. “Don’t act like you know me,” she snaps, acting angry but he’s pretty sure it’s just that, an act, because she grinds against him hungrily as he rests against her. “The only me you know doesn’t even exist.”
Ah yes, pretty Elle in her flowery shirts and with her soft, timid voice. His eyelids flutter closed for a moment and he can almost smell that day, a mixture of old books and peaches. Can almost feel her soft little lips against his, shy and apologetic. He remembers wondering if she were a virgin. He’s somehow relieved that she’s not.
In his momentary lapse of attention she manages to land a pretty heavy blow on his shoulder, throwing him off guard just long enough for her to roll him over and mount him swiftly. He concrete is cold and rough against his back and he can see why she did that. This also allows her to have him all the way inside of her, lets her push and grind herself against his hips as she seeks friction, her walls clenching around him in anticipation.
Impatient, he grabs her shoulder and yanks her down closer to him, kissing her sloppily as he pushes up and pounds into her, his hand on the small of her back as he gently pushes her back down on him with every thrust. Her hands slam down on either side of his head and she breaks the kiss so she can look him in the eyes as she fucks him. She tries to keep her gaze focused and cold but she fails, her eyes rolling and her eyelids fluttering.
So she speaks instead. “Pretty, naïve girl, in the city all by herself,” she whispers, continuing her previous narrative. “Did you honesty think a girl as pretty as me would be interested in a guy like you?”
He bites his tongue and pushes down harder on the small of her back, thrusting deeper inside of her and loving the way she gasps and falters. “Shut up,” he murmurs, barely audible.
“A watchmaker,” she sneers, her voice airy, “who could barely form a sentence in front of me? Please.”
He’d say it again but he knows she wouldn’t listen, so he puts his hand on her throat, shutting her up momentarily as he pushes her off of him. As she stumbles and falls, he lifts her tiny weight onto the cot and sits her on the edge of it before spreading her thighs and entering her once again with little warning. He buries his face in her shoulder and pushes into her as quickly as he can, pressing her against his chest.
But it doesn’t stop her, why would it, and she continues, “I’m not sure what’s more pathetic…”
He won’t ask her to clarify, absolutely wont. His grip on her back falters and she falls back, her hands behind her propping her up so she’s leaning back. Her breasts bounce with every thrust, perfectly framed by the bra and shirt on either side. Won’t. Say. Anything.
No matter, of course. “The fact that you couldn’t keep your finger out of someone’s brain long enough to go on a date with someone like me,” she says breathily, her head lolling back a bit before returning to its upright position so she could stare at him once again, “or the fact that you even believed someone like me was actually interested in someone like you,” she finishes. She then shoots up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she reaches down between the two of them to finish herself off.
“I’m pathetic?” he snaps, angry and frustrated and so close he can barely stand, “At least I have some dignity. You’re fucking your father’s killer.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that one, and she probably never will. But he’s okay with that, because the only answer he needs from her right now is the one she’s giving him as she pants his name his ear. She comes around him hard, gasping and moaning as she claws and grips his back, discharging little static bolts with every contraction. It’s enough to send him over too and soon enough he’s making a mess of her, pressing into her as deep as he can as he comes.
And with that she pushes him off of her like he were on fire, sweat dripping down her nose as she scrambles off the cot, picking up her discarded clothes and redressing hastily. Feeling underdressed, he pulls his pants back on and then falls down against the floor below him, his back against the cool concrete. She takes that as an opportunity to kick him in the ribs once more as she storms out.
“I know you hated him,” he yells after her, and she stops in her tracks. “Your father. Deep down inside, somewhere, you did. I can tell. You wanted him gone, don’t pretend like you didn’t.”
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers and it’s acidic, biting, but he can’t help but smile because he sees her light up, uncontrolled current racing over her body, and she shudders and clenches her jaw in pain.
She’ll be back, because no one else can fix her. Not like he can.
Twenty minutes later he’s being held down by four brutes in scrubs and has another tube shoved up his nose. All the grays start to fade together once more, and he falls asleep thinking of the five sounds of lever escapement, the feeling of power beneath his fingertips, and her.