Fic: Inlaqueo
Title: Inlaqueo
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Sylar/Heidi
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for sexual themes and a bit of violence
Summary: Four ficlets, ranging from about 200 words to 500. All 5YG-verse of course; one takes place before 5YG and the rest after. Basically...we have Sex God!Sylar, Superman!Sylar, Babysnatcher!Sylar and Captive!Sylar. *facepalm*
Word Count: 1,266 total
Notes: I couldn't write anything for weeks, and then all of a sudden these popped into my head when I was supposed to be studying for my architecture history exam. Funny how that works...
I can even hear someone's moods-the tiniest changes in a heartbeat.
Dale Smither didn’t know the half of it, had no inkling of the full potential of her power. But Sylar does.
He lowers the shields and focuses. It’s second nature to block out the insignificant background noise: the faraway car engines, the murmurs of staff and security as they walk the halls, the rustling of the bedsheets around his legs and Heidi’s. He drinks in every signal she gives off-tiny whimpers at the back of her throat each time she exhales, so soft she’s probably not even aware of them. The hitching of her breath as it bursts in and out of her lungs, ragged, like water rushing over pebbles. The scraping and rending, fragile skin cells dying under her fingernails when she rakes them down his back.
It’s more than just the textbook mechanics of the soundwaves hitting his eardrums, reverberating through canals. It sinks in deeper and clearer, taking hold almost like the high from a drug, until he can hear every emotion in the whirlwind of her mind.
His Nathan-mask hides a grin of savage triumph when she comes; her spark of something close to euphoria, flaring bright and hot, gradually fades to deep contentment. Love is there, too-and even though it’s not for him, but for the man whose face he wears, just for this one moment he’s able to forget.
He may not have the power to read her thoughts, but he knows this is the next best thing.
* * *
The sky is cloudless blue and the sun glinting brightly when the bomb explodes.
Heidi has time enough to register the ear-splitting roar-another terrorist attack-before she’s struck full in the side by something falling from the sky. She feels herself airborne and closes her eyes, anticipating the impact, waiting for the enveloping blackness of unconsciousness or death.
It doesn’t come, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s not falling-she’s soaring. Her eyes snap open and she sucks in a sharp breath, seeing the ground skimming far beneath her.
“Don’t struggle,” a voice commands her fiercely, brooking no argument, and her frozen mind finally lets her feel the arms clamped ironclad around her waist. It’s only a matter of seconds before her rescuer slows and descends, setting her down on both feet.
She stands numbly, a part of her aware that she should be thanking him-thanking him for saving her life with her husband’s stolen power-but the distant cacophony overrules her and she turns her head to listen. Sirens’ wails rise, mingling with the anguished cries of the suddenly bereaved, and chills race along Heidi’s skin in spite of the balmy temperature.
“Did you do it?” she demands, whirling, and Sylar’s mouth quirks, one eyebrow rising as he shakes his head.
“Generally not my style.”
“But you knew about it. You must have known.” She finds herself stepping closer, eyes sweeping him. The sun illuminates his face, highlights the tiny flecks of dust and debris dotting his hair and coating his eyelashes. His skin is splattered with blood, and she’s not sure if it’s hers or his.
“Could you have stopped it?” she goes on, voice now hushed. “Could you have saved those people?”
His eyes are dark and almost emotionless; his fingertips hover over her face, barely brushing her cheek. “None of them means anything to me.”
* * *
Heidi’s not sure what wakes her in the dead of night, whether an out-of-place sound, a sense of foreboding too well-honed, or just simple blind chance. She knows only that she’s suddenly wide awake, and that something is very, very wrong.
She scans the room without sitting up or turning her head, eyes darting rapidly, pupils wide as she tries to turn shadowy masses into familiar objects.
Nothing out of the ordinary, and she steels herself for the next step, pushing herself upright with one quick motion.
A cool breeze blows through the half-open window, stirring the curtains, and a streak of moonlight makes jagged patterns on the floor and the walls. It provides just enough light for her to identify the black shape standing off to one side of her bed.
It’s not his presence alone that startles her, threatens to release the scream wedged in her throat. It’s the little bundle he holds, soft paleness almost disappearing in the dark of his sleeves, rising just clear of the wooden bars of the crib.
“Don’t look so horrified, Heidi,” Sylar says with cool amusement in his voice. “She’s just as much mine as she is yours.”
* * *
She sits in the darkened car in the equally darkened parking lot, surroundings nearly pitch-black save for the muted glow from a solitary streetlight. That, and the fluorescent light from the digital clock on the car’s dashboard, reading 2:10 am.
2:11. 2:12. 2:13.
Finally she lets out a long, resolute breath and pulls her keys from the ignition. In the deserted lot, the slam of the car door seems abnormally loud, like a gunshot.
The security guard at the complex raises an eyebrow at her, but her credentials check out and he waves her through. He probably wouldn’t have questioned her even if she didn’t have the badge-she’s the former First Lady, after all.
Force of habit keeps her shoulders squared and her walk brisk even though the hallways are virtually empty. The rhythmic clacking of her heels echoes off the blank walls.
Her muscles grow tighter with each heavy door she bypasses until finally she’s standing in front of his cell. She breathes in deeper and deeper until her lungs strain, and she consciously unclenches her fingers and toes.
She flips on the light.
Sylar lies in fetal position on the floor, inches away from the concrete slab of a bed. The pitifully thin mattress atop the slab is askew, and she guesses that he tried and failed to lift himself onto it. He jerks sharply as he wakes, one hand upraised against the unforgiving harsh light flooding his cell, and he squints at her through the window.
It takes a moment, but his eyes widen slightly with recognition. She sees his lips form her name, though if any sound comes out, she doesn’t hear it.
His face is a mosaic of bruises and gashes, red and black, purple and yellow. She glances around the cell and sees blood on the walls and floor, stains that no one bothered to clean. Her eyes close briefly and she tries to ignore the twinge in her chest. Peter had been tight-lipped about what exactly they were doing to their new captive, but she wasn’t so naïve as to think they would be gentle.
The almost vicious sense of retribution she’d initially felt has faded now to an odd disquiet.
She’s unable to watch him attempt to drag himself across the floor to the window, and she finds herself entering the cage, lowering herself to sit next to him.
Seconds tick by, turning to minutes. He asks her to stay, voice scratched and ruined, and she does, though her heart is in her throat. She doesn’t resist when he reaches for her hand, raising it to his mouth. His breath is hot and shallow against her skin, his lips like sandpaper grazing over her fingertips and knuckles.
He adjusts his grip on her hand, turning it over in his palm. His mouth slides down to the inside of her wrist, and he pauses. A grin splits his lips, cracking them further.
“Your pulse is racing,” he says.
She snatches her hand away.
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairing: Sylar/Heidi
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for sexual themes and a bit of violence
Summary: Four ficlets, ranging from about 200 words to 500. All 5YG-verse of course; one takes place before 5YG and the rest after. Basically...we have Sex God!Sylar, Superman!Sylar, Babysnatcher!Sylar and Captive!Sylar. *facepalm*
Word Count: 1,266 total
Notes: I couldn't write anything for weeks, and then all of a sudden these popped into my head when I was supposed to be studying for my architecture history exam. Funny how that works...
I can even hear someone's moods-the tiniest changes in a heartbeat.
Dale Smither didn’t know the half of it, had no inkling of the full potential of her power. But Sylar does.
He lowers the shields and focuses. It’s second nature to block out the insignificant background noise: the faraway car engines, the murmurs of staff and security as they walk the halls, the rustling of the bedsheets around his legs and Heidi’s. He drinks in every signal she gives off-tiny whimpers at the back of her throat each time she exhales, so soft she’s probably not even aware of them. The hitching of her breath as it bursts in and out of her lungs, ragged, like water rushing over pebbles. The scraping and rending, fragile skin cells dying under her fingernails when she rakes them down his back.
It’s more than just the textbook mechanics of the soundwaves hitting his eardrums, reverberating through canals. It sinks in deeper and clearer, taking hold almost like the high from a drug, until he can hear every emotion in the whirlwind of her mind.
His Nathan-mask hides a grin of savage triumph when she comes; her spark of something close to euphoria, flaring bright and hot, gradually fades to deep contentment. Love is there, too-and even though it’s not for him, but for the man whose face he wears, just for this one moment he’s able to forget.
He may not have the power to read her thoughts, but he knows this is the next best thing.
* * *
The sky is cloudless blue and the sun glinting brightly when the bomb explodes.
Heidi has time enough to register the ear-splitting roar-another terrorist attack-before she’s struck full in the side by something falling from the sky. She feels herself airborne and closes her eyes, anticipating the impact, waiting for the enveloping blackness of unconsciousness or death.
It doesn’t come, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s not falling-she’s soaring. Her eyes snap open and she sucks in a sharp breath, seeing the ground skimming far beneath her.
“Don’t struggle,” a voice commands her fiercely, brooking no argument, and her frozen mind finally lets her feel the arms clamped ironclad around her waist. It’s only a matter of seconds before her rescuer slows and descends, setting her down on both feet.
She stands numbly, a part of her aware that she should be thanking him-thanking him for saving her life with her husband’s stolen power-but the distant cacophony overrules her and she turns her head to listen. Sirens’ wails rise, mingling with the anguished cries of the suddenly bereaved, and chills race along Heidi’s skin in spite of the balmy temperature.
“Did you do it?” she demands, whirling, and Sylar’s mouth quirks, one eyebrow rising as he shakes his head.
“Generally not my style.”
“But you knew about it. You must have known.” She finds herself stepping closer, eyes sweeping him. The sun illuminates his face, highlights the tiny flecks of dust and debris dotting his hair and coating his eyelashes. His skin is splattered with blood, and she’s not sure if it’s hers or his.
“Could you have stopped it?” she goes on, voice now hushed. “Could you have saved those people?”
His eyes are dark and almost emotionless; his fingertips hover over her face, barely brushing her cheek. “None of them means anything to me.”
* * *
Heidi’s not sure what wakes her in the dead of night, whether an out-of-place sound, a sense of foreboding too well-honed, or just simple blind chance. She knows only that she’s suddenly wide awake, and that something is very, very wrong.
She scans the room without sitting up or turning her head, eyes darting rapidly, pupils wide as she tries to turn shadowy masses into familiar objects.
Nothing out of the ordinary, and she steels herself for the next step, pushing herself upright with one quick motion.
A cool breeze blows through the half-open window, stirring the curtains, and a streak of moonlight makes jagged patterns on the floor and the walls. It provides just enough light for her to identify the black shape standing off to one side of her bed.
It’s not his presence alone that startles her, threatens to release the scream wedged in her throat. It’s the little bundle he holds, soft paleness almost disappearing in the dark of his sleeves, rising just clear of the wooden bars of the crib.
“Don’t look so horrified, Heidi,” Sylar says with cool amusement in his voice. “She’s just as much mine as she is yours.”
* * *
She sits in the darkened car in the equally darkened parking lot, surroundings nearly pitch-black save for the muted glow from a solitary streetlight. That, and the fluorescent light from the digital clock on the car’s dashboard, reading 2:10 am.
2:11. 2:12. 2:13.
Finally she lets out a long, resolute breath and pulls her keys from the ignition. In the deserted lot, the slam of the car door seems abnormally loud, like a gunshot.
The security guard at the complex raises an eyebrow at her, but her credentials check out and he waves her through. He probably wouldn’t have questioned her even if she didn’t have the badge-she’s the former First Lady, after all.
Force of habit keeps her shoulders squared and her walk brisk even though the hallways are virtually empty. The rhythmic clacking of her heels echoes off the blank walls.
Her muscles grow tighter with each heavy door she bypasses until finally she’s standing in front of his cell. She breathes in deeper and deeper until her lungs strain, and she consciously unclenches her fingers and toes.
She flips on the light.
Sylar lies in fetal position on the floor, inches away from the concrete slab of a bed. The pitifully thin mattress atop the slab is askew, and she guesses that he tried and failed to lift himself onto it. He jerks sharply as he wakes, one hand upraised against the unforgiving harsh light flooding his cell, and he squints at her through the window.
It takes a moment, but his eyes widen slightly with recognition. She sees his lips form her name, though if any sound comes out, she doesn’t hear it.
His face is a mosaic of bruises and gashes, red and black, purple and yellow. She glances around the cell and sees blood on the walls and floor, stains that no one bothered to clean. Her eyes close briefly and she tries to ignore the twinge in her chest. Peter had been tight-lipped about what exactly they were doing to their new captive, but she wasn’t so naïve as to think they would be gentle.
The almost vicious sense of retribution she’d initially felt has faded now to an odd disquiet.
She’s unable to watch him attempt to drag himself across the floor to the window, and she finds herself entering the cage, lowering herself to sit next to him.
Seconds tick by, turning to minutes. He asks her to stay, voice scratched and ruined, and she does, though her heart is in her throat. She doesn’t resist when he reaches for her hand, raising it to his mouth. His breath is hot and shallow against her skin, his lips like sandpaper grazing over her fingertips and knuckles.
He adjusts his grip on her hand, turning it over in his palm. His mouth slides down to the inside of her wrist, and he pauses. A grin splits his lips, cracking them further.
“Your pulse is racing,” he says.
She snatches her hand away.