Fic: Five Fantasies Sylar Pretends He's Never Had
Title: Five Fantasies Sylar Pretends He's Never Had
Rating: R for vague sex
Pairing: Sylar/Elle, Sylar/Claire, Sylar/Maya, Sylar/Eden
Warnings: Sexual content, implied non-con, icky Sylar thoughts
Summary: Five things Sylar wishes to have seen, to have done, to have had. Five things he'll never admit.
1. Worshiped
The Angel of Death stalks through the city streets with his weapon at his side.
Maya never leaves him anymore. She's within reach of his hand at all hours, whenever he requires or simply wants her. She does whatever he asks. Beams death in the direction he points. It took awhile, it's true, took some work to get her to stop crying, to get over it, get over God, get over herself. Now she has, and she's transcendent. She controls her power with grace, now, with ease, choosing targets with a glance and sparing those she likes; a little girl, maybe, or a sightless elderly man gasping in stuttered terror as he hears the choking sounds, the thuds, and then the silence. Maya runs her fingertips lightly over the faces of those she has saved on a whim, and she is a thing to behold. And she is Sylar's. All his.
Maya loves Sylar beyond all reason, she loves him blindly, as though the poison cataracts that slip across her eyes change the world into something darker, and the dark is wonderful. In this fantasy, Maya's morals disappear like faint mist in the sunlight, and Sylar has his powers back, even though he doesn't know how. Sylar prefers to focus the dream on the scene in the restaurant it's giving him; they've ordered a royal spread between the two of them, steaks and lobster and appetizers and your most expensive bottle of wine, please waiter. The food in front of them warrants a bill for hundreds of dollars, but they've barely touched it. They aren't sitting across the table from each other because Maya can't keep her hands off him. It's not just light touches, either - she puts her hands in his pocket, inside his jacket, presses her thumb into his neck and jaw, even slides tantalizing touches against his groin when she wants to see him smile. It's distracting, but Sylar would take this over steak any day. (Outside the dream, good food isn't hard to come by. It's the company he's lacking.)
When they're finished, Sylar calls the waiter over and asks for the check, allows time for him to go through the bother of fetching it. Of course, they have no intention of paying. When the waiter comes back, Sylar nods to Maya and her eyes blacken. Choking sounds can be heard all over the restaurant. The poison leaks down faces and ruins old womens' carefully applied mascara, eyeliner, rouge. Men's tongues bulge out and leak saliva, they scratch frantically at their necks with blunt fingernails, and the slobber and blood spot their spotless suits. People topple over backwards in their chairs and collapse into their soups and salads. Sylar, exempt, bites at Maya's neck, nibbles her earlobe, strokes his hand up her thigh, bare under her dress. Her smile is wide and filled with ruin. The rich die just like everyone else.
Sylar and Maya get up and are careful not to scuff their fancy shoes against the corpses. They dressed for the occasion.
Someday soon, the Angel of Death and his weapon are going to end the world.
2. Feared
This time, he's faster. He reacts before her finger can pull the trigger; one telekinetic swipe and the bullet embeds itself in the concrete wall. Sylar knocks the gun out of Eden's hand and drags into her into his cell by the throat. She lashes out at him with fingernails and feet, but they make no impact on him. He is too high on this, on success. He cannot be taken down.
The way he's dreaming it, now, Bennet and the Haitian don't rush in. No one does and no one ever will. It doesn't make sense, he knows, but that doesn't matter. What matters is Eden, sprawled against the concrete slab that serves as a bed, where he threw her, looking fragile and doelike in the harsh light. Her brown eyes, so goddamn big in that dainty face, are clouded over with terror. Terror and determination, a combination that makes each flavor all the sweeter.
Sweet Eden opens her sweet mouth. What would she tell him, Sylar wonders as he idly paralyzes her vocal cords with a flick of his fingers. Kill yourself? Maybe something gentler. Go to sleep. Or even a simple "let me go". It would have been a mistake, the last one. There would be no telling what he'd do to her before he let her go.
"Now, Eden," Sylar chides, quietly, feeling like the black wolf stalking out from between the trees with the way she's looking at him with her big doe eyes. (In reality, she'd squeezed her eyes shut as she shot herself, but his imagination can render this look in exquisite detail.) "That won't do." He smiles and puts a finger to his lips. "Inside voices only."
Eden whimpers a little as he comes right up to her, puts a hand in her hair, draws it down the side of her face, squeezes her breast in passing before he moves on, finger on her bellybutton, hipbone, thigh. Now her eyes show nothing but fear. The contrast is satisfying.
"On your knees," Sylar orders, the situation oh so sweetly reversed, now, in his mind as he dreams how it could have gone, years later. He forces the issue with a hand on her shoulder and a telekinetic pressure on the back of her knees. "Show me what else that mouth of yours can do."
3. Understood
Usually it's because Elle is hungry that Sylar finds reason to pull the car over. It's a bright yellow convertible, with white leather seats and a radio that always blares too loudly, and he parks in the spreading, serene shade of a tree. When Elle showed him the car, beaming, her grin sparking electricity in his stomach, he had raised an eyebrow. "Too conspicuous," he said. "We're fugitives."
"No, Sylar," she corrects him, blue eyes reflecting the whole of the sky. "We're free."
Sometimes that's followed by live a little, you big jerk and sometimes not. Sylar lets himself indulge in this fantasy a lot and though some of the details vary, some things always stay the same.
He can never quite decide where the tree is that they've parked the car under. A roadside in Mexico, perhaps, or Florida, Texas even. Somewhere sunny and bright with a gentle breeze stirring the warm air around their faces. Sylar unpacks the tuna fish sandwiches he made earlier, eats his slowly, knowing already that Elle will devour hers rapidly and then want the second half of his. He gives it to her. He doesn't mind.
"What's your very, very favorite thing about being on the road?" Elle asks him.
"You," Sylar says without hesitation.
She makes a face around her sandwich. "Flatterer. What's your second favorite thing?"
Sylar thinks about it. "The..." He hesitates. "The endlessness. There's always a road going somewhere. There's always somewhere to turn if you don't like the direction you're heading. There are no... traps."
"Like the future is anything you want it to be," Elle says.
"Almost," Sylar responds. "More like the future is already here."
After Elle is done eating, he pulls her into the backseat with him and slowly undresses her. Unbuttons her blouse, her bra, helps her wiggle out of her jeans. He kisses every piece of skin as it is exposed. (Sometimes, in the fantasy, he kisses her belly the longest, mouthing at the bump of life under there, wondering when he'll be able to feel it kick. Not this time, though.) He slips inside her with the ease of long familiarity. When she comes, she digs her fingers into his back and shocks him - no, that's not right, they're powerless in this fantasy, free of everything, so she just rakes her fingernails down his skin, drawing blood. The pain is okay. Sylar likes to give her what she wants.
Almost two hours after Elle told him she was hungry, Sylar steers the car back onto the open road. The open road stretching forever and ever, under the sky blue like Elle's eyes.
4. Loathed
Claire hunts him like nothing else exists in the world.
She's not a very good hunter. Or rather, she is, because it's certainly true no one else has gotten this close to Sylar yet, but she's hampered by circumstances beyond her control. She has no resources, for one thing. No Company, no psychic friends now that they're all dead, no one to even drive her around. She's determined, though, and he admires that. She tracks him using newspaper articles and by flirting with the clerks at motels she thinks he's stayed at.
What Claire doesn't know is that Sylar has started hunting her back. Oh, if she thinks he didn't notice her on his tail, she's a fool. He noticed, and he decided he liked it, and now he's laying the clues for her to follow. He makes sure to chat up those clerks she loves to flirt with a day or two after he's left a town, tells them where he's headed next and what he plans to do there. If there isn't an ability to be reaped in that particular town, he tries to gain attention somehow, something to get the police to write down his most recent assumed name. Sylar knows Claire will always find him eventually, but he doesn't like her falling too far behind.
As the hunt drags on into months, he lets it get a little more perverse. Leaves his name on a hooker's lips and gives her careful instructions on how to find Claire and drop the necessary information without being obvious about it. When he takes an ability from an attractive young woman, he casually rips her blouse once he's finished with her brain. It displays an artful amount of chest. Oh, he didn't - but Claire will wonder if he did. She'll think about it. Sylar wants her to think about these things, so that they're fresh in her mind when he arranges their inevitable confrontation.
He has a vague idea of it in his mind already. (The fantasy, somehow, never extends into the actual meeting. Just his ideas for it.) Maybe it'll be once Claire's been tracking him for over a year. She'll have to believe that she's been catching up on him lately, that he's been slipping, that he's tired; she'll be slavering with his scent fresh on the ground. Sylar doesn't know how he'll manage this (though he knows he can), but it would be perfect if she realized that he was in the same town she was, more so, that he must be with his intended victim right that moment, and if she could stop it - so Claire will race to the house, gun in sweaty hand, confidence and terror, hate above all. And when she gets there, Sylar will be waiting.
The look on Claire's face when she bursts through the door never manages to make it into Sylar's mind, but he's willing to wait.
5. Loved
This is the simplest one. And his favorite.
It's a spring evening. The air is brisk, but not cold. Gabriel is small again, young, tucked into a light jacket. He sits at the edge of the lawn, grass stains on his ankles and the seat of his pants, and watches his brothers race to the apple tree.
In this fantasy, Gabriel was never given up for adoption. Angela loved him enough to keep him, despite everything she saw. He was raised into power, into wealth, into the certainty that he could do anything he wanted, become anything he wanted. Shoehorned into a mundane life as a watchmaker was never an option. Following someone else's dreams and neuroses - not an option. Gabriel gets a bedtime story read to him every night.
Nathan is much older and taller than Peter, and he reaches the tree first, but Peter could never be far from Nathan, and he's close behind. They clamber up the branches recklessly, not minding the scrapes the bark inflicts on their hands and knees. Peter snatches up an apple and throws it; it whacks the side of Nathan's head. Gabriel watches them, content.
Someone settles beside him. It's Angela, sitting on the grass despite how it will undoubtedly mark her beautiful clothes. "Gabriel," she says, warmly, and her arm comes around his shoulders. Gabriel leans into it.
"Mommy," he says. "Who am I?"
She kisses the top of his head. "You're my Gabriel. And you're special, Gabriel, just the way you are," she says. "And I love you just the way you are. You don't ever have to change. Remember that."
Angela helps him to his feet and gives him a gentle push in the direction of the tree, where his brothers are playing. "Go on, have fun," she laughs. "And come back in time to wash up before dinner."
Gabriel runs, tumbles, skips; Gabriel could fly forever on the wings she has given him.
Rating: R for vague sex
Pairing: Sylar/Elle, Sylar/Claire, Sylar/Maya, Sylar/Eden
Warnings: Sexual content, implied non-con, icky Sylar thoughts
Summary: Five things Sylar wishes to have seen, to have done, to have had. Five things he'll never admit.
1. Worshiped
The Angel of Death stalks through the city streets with his weapon at his side.
Maya never leaves him anymore. She's within reach of his hand at all hours, whenever he requires or simply wants her. She does whatever he asks. Beams death in the direction he points. It took awhile, it's true, took some work to get her to stop crying, to get over it, get over God, get over herself. Now she has, and she's transcendent. She controls her power with grace, now, with ease, choosing targets with a glance and sparing those she likes; a little girl, maybe, or a sightless elderly man gasping in stuttered terror as he hears the choking sounds, the thuds, and then the silence. Maya runs her fingertips lightly over the faces of those she has saved on a whim, and she is a thing to behold. And she is Sylar's. All his.
Maya loves Sylar beyond all reason, she loves him blindly, as though the poison cataracts that slip across her eyes change the world into something darker, and the dark is wonderful. In this fantasy, Maya's morals disappear like faint mist in the sunlight, and Sylar has his powers back, even though he doesn't know how. Sylar prefers to focus the dream on the scene in the restaurant it's giving him; they've ordered a royal spread between the two of them, steaks and lobster and appetizers and your most expensive bottle of wine, please waiter. The food in front of them warrants a bill for hundreds of dollars, but they've barely touched it. They aren't sitting across the table from each other because Maya can't keep her hands off him. It's not just light touches, either - she puts her hands in his pocket, inside his jacket, presses her thumb into his neck and jaw, even slides tantalizing touches against his groin when she wants to see him smile. It's distracting, but Sylar would take this over steak any day. (Outside the dream, good food isn't hard to come by. It's the company he's lacking.)
When they're finished, Sylar calls the waiter over and asks for the check, allows time for him to go through the bother of fetching it. Of course, they have no intention of paying. When the waiter comes back, Sylar nods to Maya and her eyes blacken. Choking sounds can be heard all over the restaurant. The poison leaks down faces and ruins old womens' carefully applied mascara, eyeliner, rouge. Men's tongues bulge out and leak saliva, they scratch frantically at their necks with blunt fingernails, and the slobber and blood spot their spotless suits. People topple over backwards in their chairs and collapse into their soups and salads. Sylar, exempt, bites at Maya's neck, nibbles her earlobe, strokes his hand up her thigh, bare under her dress. Her smile is wide and filled with ruin. The rich die just like everyone else.
Sylar and Maya get up and are careful not to scuff their fancy shoes against the corpses. They dressed for the occasion.
Someday soon, the Angel of Death and his weapon are going to end the world.
2. Feared
This time, he's faster. He reacts before her finger can pull the trigger; one telekinetic swipe and the bullet embeds itself in the concrete wall. Sylar knocks the gun out of Eden's hand and drags into her into his cell by the throat. She lashes out at him with fingernails and feet, but they make no impact on him. He is too high on this, on success. He cannot be taken down.
The way he's dreaming it, now, Bennet and the Haitian don't rush in. No one does and no one ever will. It doesn't make sense, he knows, but that doesn't matter. What matters is Eden, sprawled against the concrete slab that serves as a bed, where he threw her, looking fragile and doelike in the harsh light. Her brown eyes, so goddamn big in that dainty face, are clouded over with terror. Terror and determination, a combination that makes each flavor all the sweeter.
Sweet Eden opens her sweet mouth. What would she tell him, Sylar wonders as he idly paralyzes her vocal cords with a flick of his fingers. Kill yourself? Maybe something gentler. Go to sleep. Or even a simple "let me go". It would have been a mistake, the last one. There would be no telling what he'd do to her before he let her go.
"Now, Eden," Sylar chides, quietly, feeling like the black wolf stalking out from between the trees with the way she's looking at him with her big doe eyes. (In reality, she'd squeezed her eyes shut as she shot herself, but his imagination can render this look in exquisite detail.) "That won't do." He smiles and puts a finger to his lips. "Inside voices only."
Eden whimpers a little as he comes right up to her, puts a hand in her hair, draws it down the side of her face, squeezes her breast in passing before he moves on, finger on her bellybutton, hipbone, thigh. Now her eyes show nothing but fear. The contrast is satisfying.
"On your knees," Sylar orders, the situation oh so sweetly reversed, now, in his mind as he dreams how it could have gone, years later. He forces the issue with a hand on her shoulder and a telekinetic pressure on the back of her knees. "Show me what else that mouth of yours can do."
3. Understood
Usually it's because Elle is hungry that Sylar finds reason to pull the car over. It's a bright yellow convertible, with white leather seats and a radio that always blares too loudly, and he parks in the spreading, serene shade of a tree. When Elle showed him the car, beaming, her grin sparking electricity in his stomach, he had raised an eyebrow. "Too conspicuous," he said. "We're fugitives."
"No, Sylar," she corrects him, blue eyes reflecting the whole of the sky. "We're free."
Sometimes that's followed by live a little, you big jerk and sometimes not. Sylar lets himself indulge in this fantasy a lot and though some of the details vary, some things always stay the same.
He can never quite decide where the tree is that they've parked the car under. A roadside in Mexico, perhaps, or Florida, Texas even. Somewhere sunny and bright with a gentle breeze stirring the warm air around their faces. Sylar unpacks the tuna fish sandwiches he made earlier, eats his slowly, knowing already that Elle will devour hers rapidly and then want the second half of his. He gives it to her. He doesn't mind.
"What's your very, very favorite thing about being on the road?" Elle asks him.
"You," Sylar says without hesitation.
She makes a face around her sandwich. "Flatterer. What's your second favorite thing?"
Sylar thinks about it. "The..." He hesitates. "The endlessness. There's always a road going somewhere. There's always somewhere to turn if you don't like the direction you're heading. There are no... traps."
"Like the future is anything you want it to be," Elle says.
"Almost," Sylar responds. "More like the future is already here."
After Elle is done eating, he pulls her into the backseat with him and slowly undresses her. Unbuttons her blouse, her bra, helps her wiggle out of her jeans. He kisses every piece of skin as it is exposed. (Sometimes, in the fantasy, he kisses her belly the longest, mouthing at the bump of life under there, wondering when he'll be able to feel it kick. Not this time, though.) He slips inside her with the ease of long familiarity. When she comes, she digs her fingers into his back and shocks him - no, that's not right, they're powerless in this fantasy, free of everything, so she just rakes her fingernails down his skin, drawing blood. The pain is okay. Sylar likes to give her what she wants.
Almost two hours after Elle told him she was hungry, Sylar steers the car back onto the open road. The open road stretching forever and ever, under the sky blue like Elle's eyes.
4. Loathed
Claire hunts him like nothing else exists in the world.
She's not a very good hunter. Or rather, she is, because it's certainly true no one else has gotten this close to Sylar yet, but she's hampered by circumstances beyond her control. She has no resources, for one thing. No Company, no psychic friends now that they're all dead, no one to even drive her around. She's determined, though, and he admires that. She tracks him using newspaper articles and by flirting with the clerks at motels she thinks he's stayed at.
What Claire doesn't know is that Sylar has started hunting her back. Oh, if she thinks he didn't notice her on his tail, she's a fool. He noticed, and he decided he liked it, and now he's laying the clues for her to follow. He makes sure to chat up those clerks she loves to flirt with a day or two after he's left a town, tells them where he's headed next and what he plans to do there. If there isn't an ability to be reaped in that particular town, he tries to gain attention somehow, something to get the police to write down his most recent assumed name. Sylar knows Claire will always find him eventually, but he doesn't like her falling too far behind.
As the hunt drags on into months, he lets it get a little more perverse. Leaves his name on a hooker's lips and gives her careful instructions on how to find Claire and drop the necessary information without being obvious about it. When he takes an ability from an attractive young woman, he casually rips her blouse once he's finished with her brain. It displays an artful amount of chest. Oh, he didn't - but Claire will wonder if he did. She'll think about it. Sylar wants her to think about these things, so that they're fresh in her mind when he arranges their inevitable confrontation.
He has a vague idea of it in his mind already. (The fantasy, somehow, never extends into the actual meeting. Just his ideas for it.) Maybe it'll be once Claire's been tracking him for over a year. She'll have to believe that she's been catching up on him lately, that he's been slipping, that he's tired; she'll be slavering with his scent fresh on the ground. Sylar doesn't know how he'll manage this (though he knows he can), but it would be perfect if she realized that he was in the same town she was, more so, that he must be with his intended victim right that moment, and if she could stop it - so Claire will race to the house, gun in sweaty hand, confidence and terror, hate above all. And when she gets there, Sylar will be waiting.
The look on Claire's face when she bursts through the door never manages to make it into Sylar's mind, but he's willing to wait.
5. Loved
This is the simplest one. And his favorite.
It's a spring evening. The air is brisk, but not cold. Gabriel is small again, young, tucked into a light jacket. He sits at the edge of the lawn, grass stains on his ankles and the seat of his pants, and watches his brothers race to the apple tree.
In this fantasy, Gabriel was never given up for adoption. Angela loved him enough to keep him, despite everything she saw. He was raised into power, into wealth, into the certainty that he could do anything he wanted, become anything he wanted. Shoehorned into a mundane life as a watchmaker was never an option. Following someone else's dreams and neuroses - not an option. Gabriel gets a bedtime story read to him every night.
Nathan is much older and taller than Peter, and he reaches the tree first, but Peter could never be far from Nathan, and he's close behind. They clamber up the branches recklessly, not minding the scrapes the bark inflicts on their hands and knees. Peter snatches up an apple and throws it; it whacks the side of Nathan's head. Gabriel watches them, content.
Someone settles beside him. It's Angela, sitting on the grass despite how it will undoubtedly mark her beautiful clothes. "Gabriel," she says, warmly, and her arm comes around his shoulders. Gabriel leans into it.
"Mommy," he says. "Who am I?"
She kisses the top of his head. "You're my Gabriel. And you're special, Gabriel, just the way you are," she says. "And I love you just the way you are. You don't ever have to change. Remember that."
Angela helps him to his feet and gives him a gentle push in the direction of the tree, where his brothers are playing. "Go on, have fun," she laughs. "And come back in time to wash up before dinner."
Gabriel runs, tumbles, skips; Gabriel could fly forever on the wings she has given him.