fic : in the house of flies (sylar/claire)
Title: In the House of Flies
Rating: NC-17 (sexuality, violence, language)
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Disclaimer: Characters belong to NBC, not me; title comes from the Deftones
Teaser: It takes a few weeks for him to match the effects to the cause.
Spoilers: Only up to 3x02
Notes: My first go at Sylar/Claire, for Kathrynthegr8 at the sylar_claire ficathon, and, yeah, it came out PWP, sigh- and... now I’ve written Sylar, the only character as scary for me to write as Nathan. And, er, unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Sylar misses the red uniform.
It suited her better.
But the blue fits her almost the same way, and he watches her practice in it.
At first he watches from a car (even if Angela is letting him walk around free and easy, he's not stupid) but then he slips into the fenced-in area where the cheerleaders practice three days a week, standing by the fence as she goes through the movements with a grin that doesn’t look like the one she used to have. It’s been there since he opened her up and then put her back together, broke her down and made her something else.
Made her what she’s supposed to be, what she really is.
Besides, she’d have outgrown it anyway.
She won’t admit it but they both know it, are too smart in their separate ways not to.
He moves onto the bleachers, sits and watches until she notices him.
In that moment, she freezes like an animal and stares at him across the distance.
He waits, curious, something spiking inside when she turns away and goes back to practice.
So he stays there until practice is over, and she goes into the locker room after everyone else has left it.
But he doesn’t follow.
Sylar wanders out onto the bleachers and sits and watches her practice, listens to the thundering beat of her heart as she moves fast and easy. Watching, he feels a curl of lust inside as she runs and leaps up, skirt fluttering up around her thighs, showing tanned skin and strong muscles.
Then she comes back down into the arms of the kind of boy Sylar always hated back when they made his life a living hell (because his legs were too long and he had to squint to see because he was too ashamed to wear his glasses).
He’s not that boy anymore, though, and the annoyance fades as she leaps again, as she shows herself off to him.
Today, he follows her into the locker room, trails her as she says goodbye to her friends.
Doesn’t move as she stares at where she knows he’s standing, just waits until, with a twist of her lips, she starts stripping off her uniform. He waits until she’s nude, until he can see bare breasts and naked hips, until she stands still and glares at where he’s standing, daring him to do anything, looking small and furious.
He leaves her there alone, irritation leaving him heated.
But it’s not irritation.
It takes a few weeks of watching her, of her stripping down to nothing, for him to match the effects to the cause.
He wants to fuck her.
Sylar hasn’t felt heated, flushed, hasn’t wanted to push a skirt up in years.
Other things are more important but now it comes back with more intensity than he expects.
He wonders if she understands it, and is left further disgruntled when he realizes that she understands completely.
It takes another few weeks before he steps out in the middle of her usual post-practice little game, comes forward and watches her freeze for a minute, mouth opening in uneasiness. Then her features harden and she pushes her skirt down and off, stepping out of the pile of fabric and gazing at him in a silent dare.
Or maybe it’s an order.
He’s not sure.
Then her mouth tightens and he knows it’s an order.
Disgusted, or maybe just incensed, he leaves her standing in the locker room.
Sylar doesn’t give her the pleasure of breaking her into pieces the way he did so long before during Homecoming.
She’s starting to take her top off and his control slips, just a little.
“Not the top.”
“Fuck you.”
“Leave the top on.”
Claire looks over at him-and then she goes back to taking it off.
His control slips more, and she crashes against the open locker and then jerks the other direction, back striking the wall as he regains his composure and takes careful breaths. When he glances at her, she’s staring at him, watching him.
“I said to leave the top on.”
“I think you have a cheerleader kink.”
“I hated cheerleaders,” and her head slams back against the wall again on principle alone.
But she’s still staring at him.
Wandering over, he studies her legs, shifts his gaze upwards as he touches her knees thoughtfully.
Curious, only absently aware of the way his body is reacting, he slides his hands up and raises her skirt, brushes a hand across the strip of blue fabric that runs between her legs. Aware of eyes on him, he tugs on it, frowning when it refuses to yield. “The pants are attached to the skirt, you idiot.”
He glances at the seams, tears them with a thought and drops the fabric. “Now they’re not.”
Her leg twitches a little, and she makes a noise that suggests she wants to kick him.
She’s hot when he moves his hand closer to her, and for the first time, something in her face flickers.
Not fear, though, just a spark of desperation.
He drags in a breath and he can smell her, breathes out and comes to a decision as he drops his hands.
Claire makes an angry sound in her throat, twists as if trying to get comfortable, and he rethinks his decision.
He loosens his hold just a bit, allowing her legs to relax a little as he skims a palm up a thigh and under her skirt, watching her face as he slides a finger along her slit experimentally. She’s wetter than he expected, and when he presses more firmly, she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and makes a muffled sound low in her throat.
“Thought you hated me…”
“I hate you,” and she rolls her hips as well as she can in an order that scrapes at his nerves.
But he wants this, too.
It’s a… predicament.
So he slides a finger into her slow enough that she hisses in frustration, nods for him to keep going.
Stopping before she’s satisfied, too aroused by the way her breathing’s change, he steps closer, spanning his free hand across her belly, feeling muscles flex violently beneath skin as she tries to move, tries to force him to thrust the way she wants.
“Do you really?”
“I hate you.”
And those muscles are still moving, her body still working to get what it wants, what she wants.
He has her pinned but Claire’s still moving in little ways that grate against his control- her breathing is getting faster, her heart is thundering, and she’s curled her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. And she’s staring at him, pupils dilated and mouth open, and the stare causes a tremor under his skin that he doesn’t expect.
He can break her, crack her into pieces and spatter her against the wall and he did it once, threw her aside because she was standing in the way of what he’s wanted. He has it now, though, can break into pieces and come back together, and she’s wet against his hand and he’s harder than he should be and he almost breaks her into pieces because he has what he needs.
But instead, he pushes a second finger into her, this time fully.
Feels a wave of satisfaction at the way her eyelids flutter but don’t close, at the way her lips move a little but her mouth doesn’t close.
He loosens his hold on her lower half even more, pushes his hand up to her breasts to skim across one under the fabric covering her. She still doesn’t close her eyes, keeps staring at him, so he pushes the cloth up and rubs hard at her nipple with a thumb, the vaguely familiar thrill jolting through him when she lets out a noise that’s more desperate than before.
Her hips jerk, grind, and he does it again, hissing in a breath when she does the same thing again.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes.”
Attention moving away from her breast, grinning at the angry sound she makes, he curves his hand under one of her thighs, pulls her leg up and pushes his fingers deep. Something spikes under his skin when her eyes close for just a heartbeat, when she makes a sound that would be a whimper coming from anyone else. Her eyes are open a second later but now she’s glaring at him openly, eyes darker than they usually are.
“Let me go.”
She wants to move, wants to get what she wants, and he almost wants to let her go just to see it.
“No.”
“I hate you-”
He twists his hand, pushes his knuckle up and grins more broadly when her eyes close and she rocks her hips, clenches around his fingers and all those muscles flex desperately. Excited, he lets more of his control go, taking a long breath when she lifts herself a little and then pushes back down, lifts herself and pushes back down and then keeps doing it in a clumsy but steady rhythm, fucking his hand with more strength than he expects.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes-” and she's rolling against his hand, trying to catch his knuckle when she comes down. “Yes.”
“Then maybe you should stop and prove it.”
“Fuck you,” and she takes him in deep and grinds down and that tremor goes through him again, watching her half-covered breasts and feeling the muscles move under her skin as she groans and doesn’t stop and doesn’t slow. “Fuck you.”
Frustrated, hating it, wanting her to come and get it over with, he lifts her leg higher and starts matching her movements with his own, fingers twisting, curving into her until she jolts and cries out and he does that again and then again until she finally cries out. He stands there and watches her arch, head falling back against the wall, watches her shudder through an orgasm that looks almost painful as it ends, as the tension seeps out of her.
He’s hard and he’s breathing heavily, and she stares at him until he wants to look away, uncertain.
So he drops her, tries to put force into her fall as he lets her go.
But she’s faster than she should be, feet hitting the ground and leaning back against the wall, still staring at him.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes,” and she slides her leg between his, stares at him.
“You know… this is wrong, Claire.”
“Fuck you,” and he wants to break her when he hears the bitter laughter in her voice.
She reaches out, brushes her fingertips across the crotch of his jeans.
He doesn’t push her hand away and so she catches his buckle, undoing it with a flick of her fingers and he pushes her back and makes sure it hurts her. There’s a crack when her head hits the wall but she’s still staring at him, doesn’t have to look down as she opens his jeans and curls fingers around him, tightening until he pushes her back again, harder than before.
“I hate you,” and she lifts a leg, raises it higher until his control snaps and he catches it, digs fingers into her skin and lifts her, pushing her back against the wall, pinning her there. Her eyes are large and her mouth is open and she nods as he pushes her skirt up again, then she closes her eyes and bites her lip as he slides into her and draws her down around him all at once.
She feels tighter like this, and he takes a breath and then another, doesn’t let her move until that tremor’s gone.
She makes a quiet sound when he finally rocks deep, and he feels her muscles flex, tighten.
Her legs tense and he lets go of them, grinning when they wrap around him, loosening his hold further and feeling her push down around him, all of her body working with his as her nails sink into her fists and she stares at him with wide eyes and a lazy smile that makes him move more slowly. Her mouth tightens with annoyance and he slows down even more.
“I hate you.”
“Are you sure?”
When Claire just glares, infuriated, he gets a better grip on her, shifts her and starts moving again, watching her as her eyes close for a moment and her mouth opens and she moans like she did long minutes before, determined sounds that cause a jolt inside him, make him move faster.
She’s tight but not as tight as she was when they started- but it doesn’t matter because she’s clenching, nodding, twisting her hands, trying to brace herself even though she can’t. A part of him wants to glance down, study his fingers leaving bruises that won’t linger, but he watches her face instead, watches her eyes open wider than before and her mouth fall open as she pants, little noises of encouragement spilling out with each thrust into her.
She’s close- he keeps moving and she’s nodding, looking like she’ll kill him if he stops.
He moves and pulls her down and then she’s there, and he gives up the tight hold he has on the rest of her, tasting blood as he bites at the inside of his cheek. She pushes against the wall to take him more deeply, body stiffening as he fills her, trembling as she stares at him the entire time, eyes wide and mouth open, completely undone.
He watches her.
When she’s done, finished, shaking as she drops an arm to his shoulder, curls it around his neck to keep from falling… he lets his control slip that final bit, pushes her back so hard the breath is knocked out of her and she grunts out in anger, comes as she groans and scrabbles at his shoulders.
After a tenuous heartbeat, she breathes out against his neck, makes a little sound of approval.
He pulls out and drops her and she staggers this time because she’s done, has what she wants.
Pushes him away and leans against the wall as he studies her.
“Are we even now?”
“No,” and she shoves at him even as her fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt, stares up at him violently.
“You shouldn’t enjoy it so much-”
“Fuck you,” she tells him bluntly and then jerks when he reaches out, flicks a thumb against the breast that he had loosened from her top. And then she groans as he does it again. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
He’s not bothered by it.
Instead of pretending to be offended, he pulls her top down, smoothes the fabric down across her chest and grins when her eyes close at just that touch.
She wants this.
He can give her this.
“I liked the red better,” he tells her after another thoughtful moment, and he leaves her standing alone, her features looking calmer than they have since he broke her down and made her what she really is.
Rating: NC-17 (sexuality, violence, language)
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Disclaimer: Characters belong to NBC, not me; title comes from the Deftones
Teaser: It takes a few weeks for him to match the effects to the cause.
Spoilers: Only up to 3x02
Notes: My first go at Sylar/Claire, for Kathrynthegr8 at the sylar_claire ficathon, and, yeah, it came out PWP, sigh- and... now I’ve written Sylar, the only character as scary for me to write as Nathan. And, er, unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Sylar misses the red uniform.
It suited her better.
But the blue fits her almost the same way, and he watches her practice in it.
At first he watches from a car (even if Angela is letting him walk around free and easy, he's not stupid) but then he slips into the fenced-in area where the cheerleaders practice three days a week, standing by the fence as she goes through the movements with a grin that doesn’t look like the one she used to have. It’s been there since he opened her up and then put her back together, broke her down and made her something else.
Made her what she’s supposed to be, what she really is.
Besides, she’d have outgrown it anyway.
She won’t admit it but they both know it, are too smart in their separate ways not to.
He moves onto the bleachers, sits and watches until she notices him.
In that moment, she freezes like an animal and stares at him across the distance.
He waits, curious, something spiking inside when she turns away and goes back to practice.
So he stays there until practice is over, and she goes into the locker room after everyone else has left it.
But he doesn’t follow.
Sylar wanders out onto the bleachers and sits and watches her practice, listens to the thundering beat of her heart as she moves fast and easy. Watching, he feels a curl of lust inside as she runs and leaps up, skirt fluttering up around her thighs, showing tanned skin and strong muscles.
Then she comes back down into the arms of the kind of boy Sylar always hated back when they made his life a living hell (because his legs were too long and he had to squint to see because he was too ashamed to wear his glasses).
He’s not that boy anymore, though, and the annoyance fades as she leaps again, as she shows herself off to him.
Today, he follows her into the locker room, trails her as she says goodbye to her friends.
Doesn’t move as she stares at where she knows he’s standing, just waits until, with a twist of her lips, she starts stripping off her uniform. He waits until she’s nude, until he can see bare breasts and naked hips, until she stands still and glares at where he’s standing, daring him to do anything, looking small and furious.
He leaves her there alone, irritation leaving him heated.
But it’s not irritation.
It takes a few weeks of watching her, of her stripping down to nothing, for him to match the effects to the cause.
He wants to fuck her.
Sylar hasn’t felt heated, flushed, hasn’t wanted to push a skirt up in years.
Other things are more important but now it comes back with more intensity than he expects.
He wonders if she understands it, and is left further disgruntled when he realizes that she understands completely.
It takes another few weeks before he steps out in the middle of her usual post-practice little game, comes forward and watches her freeze for a minute, mouth opening in uneasiness. Then her features harden and she pushes her skirt down and off, stepping out of the pile of fabric and gazing at him in a silent dare.
Or maybe it’s an order.
He’s not sure.
Then her mouth tightens and he knows it’s an order.
Disgusted, or maybe just incensed, he leaves her standing in the locker room.
Sylar doesn’t give her the pleasure of breaking her into pieces the way he did so long before during Homecoming.
She’s starting to take her top off and his control slips, just a little.
“Not the top.”
“Fuck you.”
“Leave the top on.”
Claire looks over at him-and then she goes back to taking it off.
His control slips more, and she crashes against the open locker and then jerks the other direction, back striking the wall as he regains his composure and takes careful breaths. When he glances at her, she’s staring at him, watching him.
“I said to leave the top on.”
“I think you have a cheerleader kink.”
“I hated cheerleaders,” and her head slams back against the wall again on principle alone.
But she’s still staring at him.
Wandering over, he studies her legs, shifts his gaze upwards as he touches her knees thoughtfully.
Curious, only absently aware of the way his body is reacting, he slides his hands up and raises her skirt, brushes a hand across the strip of blue fabric that runs between her legs. Aware of eyes on him, he tugs on it, frowning when it refuses to yield. “The pants are attached to the skirt, you idiot.”
He glances at the seams, tears them with a thought and drops the fabric. “Now they’re not.”
Her leg twitches a little, and she makes a noise that suggests she wants to kick him.
She’s hot when he moves his hand closer to her, and for the first time, something in her face flickers.
Not fear, though, just a spark of desperation.
He drags in a breath and he can smell her, breathes out and comes to a decision as he drops his hands.
Claire makes an angry sound in her throat, twists as if trying to get comfortable, and he rethinks his decision.
He loosens his hold just a bit, allowing her legs to relax a little as he skims a palm up a thigh and under her skirt, watching her face as he slides a finger along her slit experimentally. She’s wetter than he expected, and when he presses more firmly, she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and makes a muffled sound low in her throat.
“Thought you hated me…”
“I hate you,” and she rolls her hips as well as she can in an order that scrapes at his nerves.
But he wants this, too.
It’s a… predicament.
So he slides a finger into her slow enough that she hisses in frustration, nods for him to keep going.
Stopping before she’s satisfied, too aroused by the way her breathing’s change, he steps closer, spanning his free hand across her belly, feeling muscles flex violently beneath skin as she tries to move, tries to force him to thrust the way she wants.
“Do you really?”
“I hate you.”
And those muscles are still moving, her body still working to get what it wants, what she wants.
He has her pinned but Claire’s still moving in little ways that grate against his control- her breathing is getting faster, her heart is thundering, and she’s curled her hands into fists, nails biting into her palms. And she’s staring at him, pupils dilated and mouth open, and the stare causes a tremor under his skin that he doesn’t expect.
He can break her, crack her into pieces and spatter her against the wall and he did it once, threw her aside because she was standing in the way of what he’s wanted. He has it now, though, can break into pieces and come back together, and she’s wet against his hand and he’s harder than he should be and he almost breaks her into pieces because he has what he needs.
But instead, he pushes a second finger into her, this time fully.
Feels a wave of satisfaction at the way her eyelids flutter but don’t close, at the way her lips move a little but her mouth doesn’t close.
He loosens his hold on her lower half even more, pushes his hand up to her breasts to skim across one under the fabric covering her. She still doesn’t close her eyes, keeps staring at him, so he pushes the cloth up and rubs hard at her nipple with a thumb, the vaguely familiar thrill jolting through him when she lets out a noise that’s more desperate than before.
Her hips jerk, grind, and he does it again, hissing in a breath when she does the same thing again.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes.”
Attention moving away from her breast, grinning at the angry sound she makes, he curves his hand under one of her thighs, pulls her leg up and pushes his fingers deep. Something spikes under his skin when her eyes close for just a heartbeat, when she makes a sound that would be a whimper coming from anyone else. Her eyes are open a second later but now she’s glaring at him openly, eyes darker than they usually are.
“Let me go.”
She wants to move, wants to get what she wants, and he almost wants to let her go just to see it.
“No.”
“I hate you-”
He twists his hand, pushes his knuckle up and grins more broadly when her eyes close and she rocks her hips, clenches around his fingers and all those muscles flex desperately. Excited, he lets more of his control go, taking a long breath when she lifts herself a little and then pushes back down, lifts herself and pushes back down and then keeps doing it in a clumsy but steady rhythm, fucking his hand with more strength than he expects.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes-” and she's rolling against his hand, trying to catch his knuckle when she comes down. “Yes.”
“Then maybe you should stop and prove it.”
“Fuck you,” and she takes him in deep and grinds down and that tremor goes through him again, watching her half-covered breasts and feeling the muscles move under her skin as she groans and doesn’t stop and doesn’t slow. “Fuck you.”
Frustrated, hating it, wanting her to come and get it over with, he lifts her leg higher and starts matching her movements with his own, fingers twisting, curving into her until she jolts and cries out and he does that again and then again until she finally cries out. He stands there and watches her arch, head falling back against the wall, watches her shudder through an orgasm that looks almost painful as it ends, as the tension seeps out of her.
He’s hard and he’s breathing heavily, and she stares at him until he wants to look away, uncertain.
So he drops her, tries to put force into her fall as he lets her go.
But she’s faster than she should be, feet hitting the ground and leaning back against the wall, still staring at him.
“Still hate me?”
“Yes,” and she slides her leg between his, stares at him.
“You know… this is wrong, Claire.”
“Fuck you,” and he wants to break her when he hears the bitter laughter in her voice.
She reaches out, brushes her fingertips across the crotch of his jeans.
He doesn’t push her hand away and so she catches his buckle, undoing it with a flick of her fingers and he pushes her back and makes sure it hurts her. There’s a crack when her head hits the wall but she’s still staring at him, doesn’t have to look down as she opens his jeans and curls fingers around him, tightening until he pushes her back again, harder than before.
“I hate you,” and she lifts a leg, raises it higher until his control snaps and he catches it, digs fingers into her skin and lifts her, pushing her back against the wall, pinning her there. Her eyes are large and her mouth is open and she nods as he pushes her skirt up again, then she closes her eyes and bites her lip as he slides into her and draws her down around him all at once.
She feels tighter like this, and he takes a breath and then another, doesn’t let her move until that tremor’s gone.
She makes a quiet sound when he finally rocks deep, and he feels her muscles flex, tighten.
Her legs tense and he lets go of them, grinning when they wrap around him, loosening his hold further and feeling her push down around him, all of her body working with his as her nails sink into her fists and she stares at him with wide eyes and a lazy smile that makes him move more slowly. Her mouth tightens with annoyance and he slows down even more.
“I hate you.”
“Are you sure?”
When Claire just glares, infuriated, he gets a better grip on her, shifts her and starts moving again, watching her as her eyes close for a moment and her mouth opens and she moans like she did long minutes before, determined sounds that cause a jolt inside him, make him move faster.
She’s tight but not as tight as she was when they started- but it doesn’t matter because she’s clenching, nodding, twisting her hands, trying to brace herself even though she can’t. A part of him wants to glance down, study his fingers leaving bruises that won’t linger, but he watches her face instead, watches her eyes open wider than before and her mouth fall open as she pants, little noises of encouragement spilling out with each thrust into her.
She’s close- he keeps moving and she’s nodding, looking like she’ll kill him if he stops.
He moves and pulls her down and then she’s there, and he gives up the tight hold he has on the rest of her, tasting blood as he bites at the inside of his cheek. She pushes against the wall to take him more deeply, body stiffening as he fills her, trembling as she stares at him the entire time, eyes wide and mouth open, completely undone.
He watches her.
When she’s done, finished, shaking as she drops an arm to his shoulder, curls it around his neck to keep from falling… he lets his control slip that final bit, pushes her back so hard the breath is knocked out of her and she grunts out in anger, comes as she groans and scrabbles at his shoulders.
After a tenuous heartbeat, she breathes out against his neck, makes a little sound of approval.
He pulls out and drops her and she staggers this time because she’s done, has what she wants.
Pushes him away and leans against the wall as he studies her.
“Are we even now?”
“No,” and she shoves at him even as her fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt, stares up at him violently.
“You shouldn’t enjoy it so much-”
“Fuck you,” she tells him bluntly and then jerks when he reaches out, flicks a thumb against the breast that he had loosened from her top. And then she groans as he does it again. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
He’s not bothered by it.
Instead of pretending to be offended, he pulls her top down, smoothes the fabric down across her chest and grins when her eyes close at just that touch.
She wants this.
He can give her this.
“I liked the red better,” he tells her after another thoughtful moment, and he leaves her standing alone, her features looking calmer than they have since he broke her down and made her what she really is.