Eris Laughed (Sylar/Candace, Sekrit Santa)
Title: Eris Laughed
Author: Vibishan
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Candace, about the same level of Sylar/Virginia vibes as on the show
Summary: Candace finds out what she wants to know.
Warnings: hatesex, sex as a weapon, interrogation!sex, serious pain during sex
For: Drunken_hedghog
Prompts: Sylar’s S2! Entrance not being the first time he woke up, hatesex, and Candace winning.
…Beep…
“Shhh. Don’t worry baby, you’ll be alright.”
…Beep…
“…art thou among women, and Blessed is…”
…Beep…
“Mrs. Gray, I’m afraid we can’t wake him. He does seem to be dreaming, however; as long as he doesn’t slip into a coma…”
…Beep…
“Please Lord, bless this boy, please, heal my baby - In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti...”
…Beep…
“Oh, hush-a-by -”
…Beep beep beepbeepbeeeeeee-
Sylar jerked, about to sit up, when a deep, searing pain jolted through him. He thrashed and groaned, blinking open bleary eyes.
“Gabriel!” The shrill cry rang out, intimately familiar, glaringly impossible. But her face swam into focus, pinched and gasping with what looked like - relief? - and unmistakable.
“Mom?” Sylar muttered, still incredulous.
Her hands ran his arms and shoulders, grabbing and releasing handfuls of the thin white gown.
“Gabriel, you’re alright, oh thank the lord, oh my baby -”
He stared at her, not bothering to puzzle out the sterile room or the blinking equipment within it; he could only handle one break in reality at a time, and she took precedence.
He stared at her, unable to process her typical fussing beyond its perfectly-remembered effect on the escaped wisps of her hair and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“But you died,” he objected stupidly.
“What? No! It was you -” Sylar jerked. “We almost thought we lost you.”
“How.” he demanded. She ran her fingers through his hair.
“There was a horrible accident. One of the vehicles flipped off the road and nearly crushed you. As it is, you were pierced through by a bit of chrome, broke almost a dozen bones and suffered a severe concussion. When the infection took…your fever only just broke, you’ve been raving in mad dreams for weeks.”
“Dreams.”
“Oh my, yes. It was a terrible fever, and maybe some of the drugs contributed, you’ve been spouting the craziest flights of fantasy I ever -”
“I’m Gabriel. You’re alive and all I’ve ever been is Gabriel Damn Gray.”
“Watch your language!” she snapped. She gazed at him primly, disapproving. “You’d think a brush with death might make you a little more sober as regards your eternal salvation.”
“It was all a dream.” Sylar - he was Sylar, damnit, he had to be - couldn’t accept that.
“No.” he growled.
“Excuse me, Gabriel?”
“No, It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t, it can’t be! Don’t tell me I’m Gabriel, I’m not, you said I wasn’t - never again. You can’t say this, you’re not here! You’re dead! I killed you! YOU HAVE TO BE DEAD!”
Virginia stumbled back from the bed and fell to the floor, hugging her knees.
“Gabriel, what are you saying? Why would you do that, why would you hurt me - me, your own mother?” She stared at him, trembling.
“I have no mother!” Sylar roared. “You threw me out, you’re not mine, I renounce you, now get out! You told me to get out, its my turn, I deny you, GET OUT!”
The room dissolved around them, the wallpaper shifting from generic hospital-animal themed to blank grey concrete, the image of his mother melting into a younger woman with strait, shoulder-length brown hair, a square face, and cruel eyes. She smiled.
“Thank you Gabriel. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The reversal broke over Sylar like a tidal wave; it had happened, he had power, he had killed. Pride and bile rose together, burning and incongruous.
“It’s SYLAR!” he shouted, filled with fury and victory; it was Sylar, he existed, and she needed to acknowledge that.
She stood and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“Actually, it’s whatever I want to be. Just like everything else.”
“What the fuck did you pull that for?” he shouted, just as she made to leave. Her smile turned icy.
“Well, I already knew why you killed my mother - so you freeze things,” she spat. “I just couldn’t quite understand what kind of monster would ever kill his own.”
She minced out of the room, leaving Sylar to realize that half the medical equipment remained present and hooked up to him, and his powers wouldn’t function.
His howls made the monitor shake, but brought no response.
*~*~*
When the woman came back, she sat in the chair beside his bed and crossed her legs, baring smooth, long legs only barely covered by her miniskirt, while the twitchy little man who followed her in began fiddling with the needles and tubes and monitors.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” she announced cheerily.
“It’s Sylar,” he snarled. The words held little rage; after screaming himself to exhaustion in fruitless solitude, he had no force left. His token resistance was petulant, and petty.
“I’m glad you’re so talkative, today. The company wants to know so much about you.”
“I won’t tell you anything,” he growled.
She laughed.
“Of course you will.”
The nervous little man finished his technical duties and scurried out.
The woman stood and strutted over to him, swinging one long leg over him and sitting on his thighs.
“Several of your victims were rather…low-profile. So low profile the company never brought them in. “Tell me, Sylar, what could Felipe Accera do?”
Without waiting for an answer, she rucked up the thin hospital gown and slid cold fingers inside his boxers.
“Nothing!” Sylar spat, trying to squirm away from her and earning himself a vicious, stabbing pain in his chest for his trouble.
Her fingers warmed, stroking and flitting along his penis. He shivered and tried not to react, but he hadn’t felt another human’s touch in gentleness since the night he’d killed his mother, not that the woman was particularly gentle. And he hadn’t had sex in a good deal longer than that.
She twisted her hand sharply and he groaned, half in pleasure, half in horror at his own vulnerability.
“You opened his skull, the brain was never recovered. What could he do?”
“Nothing!” Sylar hissed, arching into her hand as much as his chest wound would allow. She skated her nails along his erection, making him writhe and gasp in pain.
“Don’t lie to me!” she snarled. “You took a power from him. What. Was. It.” She pumped him, fast and hard, while her left hand slid back to caress his perineum.
Sylar couldn’t hold back a guttural moan. Suddenly, he felt the press of the very edge of her nail there, tantalizing in the moment, but threatening a world of intimate agony.
“Tell me.” She raised herself up a little and shifted forward, temporarily removing her hands. Her skirt still in place, she brushed herself, slick and dripping, against the head of his cock, making him strain towards her, whining high in his throat with want and resentment. Then she sank down onto him.
Slick, wet, searing heat ensconced him, and he shuddered, held captive by overwhelming sensation.
“Tell me,” she growled, rolling her hips. He grimaced in swell of desire and bucked into her. She screeched wordlessly and grabbed his arms, her nails digging deep red half-moons in the flesh of his forearms.
“Harder you bastard,” she ordered breathlessly. Sylar obligingly slammed into her, making her arch and shriek.
She released his left arm and reached her right down behind to grip his balls, and slowly squeezed.
“What. Could. He. Do.” she demanded, punctuated each word with a hot, heavy thrust of her hips. He mewled at the pain, the need, and the weight of denial. Her other hand let go and moved to the center of his chest, right above the bandages, and pressed down.
Sheer, undiluted agony shot through him, and she rode him harder, grinding down onto him as he surged into her.
“PHASING!” Sylar screamed. The hands let up, but she kept the pounding rhythm of her hips, jamming them together.
“You’ve never demonstrated -”
“I HATE IT!” Sylar hollered. She dug her nails into his shoulders, bracing her, as she moved faster and faster. Sylar whimpered.
“It makes me less real,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “I don’t like it.”
“But when we had you in that cell -”
“Drugs - concentration - Oh God -” Her hips sped up even further, and one handed rested lightly on his bandages in warning.
“James. Walker.” She ground out, panting heavily.
“Psychometry,” he gapsed desperately. “Fucking useless.”
She twisted above him, sending shock waves of pleasure through his body.
“Pam Green.”
“Talked to animals - dumbest thing - they don’t have - a lot - to say.”
A faint pressure on the wound, as a reminder, then release.
“David Thistle.”
“Wind. Telekinesis - has better - control.”
“Charlotte. Andrews.”
“Memory.”
She slammed down one more time and threw back her head, quaking on top of him. Her image flickered for moments, then stabilized. Sylar pushed into her, aching.
She smiled, lazy and sated and selfish. Sylar thrust again, furious at her nerve, smiling that way at him. Her smiled turned spitefully, delightedly wicked. She rose weakly, climbing off of him and out of the bed. She tugged her mini skirt back down, and sauntered out.
Sylar’s scream of fury and frustration, for all its added urgency, brought no more reply than it had before.
*~*~*
A few hours after Sylar had grudgingly, shamefully finished himself, the twitchy man came in again. He carefully removed the tape and withdrew the various tubes and needles attaching Sylar to the machines. Before he could make whatever modifications he had intended, Sylar grabbed the IV for the pain drip and stabbed it into the man’s arm, and then punched the button for the maximum dose.
Sylar took a moment to mourn the waste of good morphine as the man shuddered and sank to the floor, his eyes rolling in ecstasy.
Oh well.
He slid himself out of the bed, taking meticulous care not to disturb his torso. Once he could stand leaning against the bed, he reached up and unhooked the catheter bag from its rolling hat stand and dropped it on the floor. Then, he wrapped his arms around the pole for support and began to shuffle and wheel himself out the door and down the hall. He searched diligently for the exit, but when one door revealed the woman who had pretended to be his mother crying softly into her arms in what looked like a lab, he simply couldn’t resist.
Blessing thejanitor and well-oiled ball bearings, Sylar limp-wheeled silently into the lab, carefully picking up a thick, heavy glass beaker. He missed his telekinesis, no doubt, but there was something delightfully primal about killing someone with a blunt instrument, just like that first time.
Raising the beaker up to smash down on her head, he saw his shadow a split-second after she did, screaming and flailing in her haste to escape her chair. With stealth lost, Sylar hammered down with the beaker, trying to finish her. She kicked out blindly, and he had to clutch at his pole to keep from toppling over, granting her time to scramble backwards and grab something from a shelf at the other side of the lab. Sylar regained his balance and advanced on her, attempting to get close enough to pummel her with the beaker, but before he could, her hand darted out and sank a hypodermic needle into the flesh of his arm and depressed the plunger. Then she lashed out, one sharp blow catching him in the chest just as he grazed her temple with the beaker. She shook, but he crumpled, swallowed by pain and weakness and impending nausea.
*~*~*
“You injected him with what?”
“Strain 114, sir. He almost killed me, I panicked!”
“You were supposed to have him under control.”
“Battins is the one he got away from.”
“And what will be happening to him?”
“Nothing, sir. Sylar killed him. He died of an overdose of pain medication.”
“Hmph. Fine. This strain isn’t contagious, or at least, it isn’t supposed to be. You’ll take him to the old outpost in the Mexico and keep him in quarantine there until he dies. Watch the course of the disease, we might still learn something from all this.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll have the Haitian stop by before you go; he doesn’t need to know what’s happened.”
“No sir.”
“And this time, don’t let him get away. The man ought to be in an ICU, it shouldn’t be that difficult.”
“Of course, sir. He won’t escape again.”
Fin
A/N : I wanted to fill a couple of plot holes with this fic, like, what powers did Sylar pick up from the six victims Mohinder tells the FBI about, whom we never see? Why would the company kill Sylar in such a slow and unpredictable way? WTF is Candace doing with him in a shack in the Mexican jungle? Canon makes a bit more sense to me now, and I hope it does for you as well.
Author: Vibishan
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sylar/Candace, about the same level of Sylar/Virginia vibes as on the show
Summary: Candace finds out what she wants to know.
Warnings: hatesex, sex as a weapon, interrogation!sex, serious pain during sex
For: Drunken_hedghog
Prompts: Sylar’s S2! Entrance not being the first time he woke up, hatesex, and Candace winning.
…Beep…
“Shhh. Don’t worry baby, you’ll be alright.”
…Beep…
“…art thou among women, and Blessed is…”
…Beep…
“Mrs. Gray, I’m afraid we can’t wake him. He does seem to be dreaming, however; as long as he doesn’t slip into a coma…”
…Beep…
“Please Lord, bless this boy, please, heal my baby - In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti...”
…Beep…
“Oh, hush-a-by -”
…Beep beep beepbeepbeeeeeee-
Sylar jerked, about to sit up, when a deep, searing pain jolted through him. He thrashed and groaned, blinking open bleary eyes.
“Gabriel!” The shrill cry rang out, intimately familiar, glaringly impossible. But her face swam into focus, pinched and gasping with what looked like - relief? - and unmistakable.
“Mom?” Sylar muttered, still incredulous.
Her hands ran his arms and shoulders, grabbing and releasing handfuls of the thin white gown.
“Gabriel, you’re alright, oh thank the lord, oh my baby -”
He stared at her, not bothering to puzzle out the sterile room or the blinking equipment within it; he could only handle one break in reality at a time, and she took precedence.
He stared at her, unable to process her typical fussing beyond its perfectly-remembered effect on the escaped wisps of her hair and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
“But you died,” he objected stupidly.
“What? No! It was you -” Sylar jerked. “We almost thought we lost you.”
“How.” he demanded. She ran her fingers through his hair.
“There was a horrible accident. One of the vehicles flipped off the road and nearly crushed you. As it is, you were pierced through by a bit of chrome, broke almost a dozen bones and suffered a severe concussion. When the infection took…your fever only just broke, you’ve been raving in mad dreams for weeks.”
“Dreams.”
“Oh my, yes. It was a terrible fever, and maybe some of the drugs contributed, you’ve been spouting the craziest flights of fantasy I ever -”
“I’m Gabriel. You’re alive and all I’ve ever been is Gabriel Damn Gray.”
“Watch your language!” she snapped. She gazed at him primly, disapproving. “You’d think a brush with death might make you a little more sober as regards your eternal salvation.”
“It was all a dream.” Sylar - he was Sylar, damnit, he had to be - couldn’t accept that.
“No.” he growled.
“Excuse me, Gabriel?”
“No, It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t, it can’t be! Don’t tell me I’m Gabriel, I’m not, you said I wasn’t - never again. You can’t say this, you’re not here! You’re dead! I killed you! YOU HAVE TO BE DEAD!”
Virginia stumbled back from the bed and fell to the floor, hugging her knees.
“Gabriel, what are you saying? Why would you do that, why would you hurt me - me, your own mother?” She stared at him, trembling.
“I have no mother!” Sylar roared. “You threw me out, you’re not mine, I renounce you, now get out! You told me to get out, its my turn, I deny you, GET OUT!”
The room dissolved around them, the wallpaper shifting from generic hospital-animal themed to blank grey concrete, the image of his mother melting into a younger woman with strait, shoulder-length brown hair, a square face, and cruel eyes. She smiled.
“Thank you Gabriel. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The reversal broke over Sylar like a tidal wave; it had happened, he had power, he had killed. Pride and bile rose together, burning and incongruous.
“It’s SYLAR!” he shouted, filled with fury and victory; it was Sylar, he existed, and she needed to acknowledge that.
She stood and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“Actually, it’s whatever I want to be. Just like everything else.”
“What the fuck did you pull that for?” he shouted, just as she made to leave. Her smile turned icy.
“Well, I already knew why you killed my mother - so you freeze things,” she spat. “I just couldn’t quite understand what kind of monster would ever kill his own.”
She minced out of the room, leaving Sylar to realize that half the medical equipment remained present and hooked up to him, and his powers wouldn’t function.
His howls made the monitor shake, but brought no response.
*~*~*
When the woman came back, she sat in the chair beside his bed and crossed her legs, baring smooth, long legs only barely covered by her miniskirt, while the twitchy little man who followed her in began fiddling with the needles and tubes and monitors.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” she announced cheerily.
“It’s Sylar,” he snarled. The words held little rage; after screaming himself to exhaustion in fruitless solitude, he had no force left. His token resistance was petulant, and petty.
“I’m glad you’re so talkative, today. The company wants to know so much about you.”
“I won’t tell you anything,” he growled.
She laughed.
“Of course you will.”
The nervous little man finished his technical duties and scurried out.
The woman stood and strutted over to him, swinging one long leg over him and sitting on his thighs.
“Several of your victims were rather…low-profile. So low profile the company never brought them in. “Tell me, Sylar, what could Felipe Accera do?”
Without waiting for an answer, she rucked up the thin hospital gown and slid cold fingers inside his boxers.
“Nothing!” Sylar spat, trying to squirm away from her and earning himself a vicious, stabbing pain in his chest for his trouble.
Her fingers warmed, stroking and flitting along his penis. He shivered and tried not to react, but he hadn’t felt another human’s touch in gentleness since the night he’d killed his mother, not that the woman was particularly gentle. And he hadn’t had sex in a good deal longer than that.
She twisted her hand sharply and he groaned, half in pleasure, half in horror at his own vulnerability.
“You opened his skull, the brain was never recovered. What could he do?”
“Nothing!” Sylar hissed, arching into her hand as much as his chest wound would allow. She skated her nails along his erection, making him writhe and gasp in pain.
“Don’t lie to me!” she snarled. “You took a power from him. What. Was. It.” She pumped him, fast and hard, while her left hand slid back to caress his perineum.
Sylar couldn’t hold back a guttural moan. Suddenly, he felt the press of the very edge of her nail there, tantalizing in the moment, but threatening a world of intimate agony.
“Tell me.” She raised herself up a little and shifted forward, temporarily removing her hands. Her skirt still in place, she brushed herself, slick and dripping, against the head of his cock, making him strain towards her, whining high in his throat with want and resentment. Then she sank down onto him.
Slick, wet, searing heat ensconced him, and he shuddered, held captive by overwhelming sensation.
“Tell me,” she growled, rolling her hips. He grimaced in swell of desire and bucked into her. She screeched wordlessly and grabbed his arms, her nails digging deep red half-moons in the flesh of his forearms.
“Harder you bastard,” she ordered breathlessly. Sylar obligingly slammed into her, making her arch and shriek.
She released his left arm and reached her right down behind to grip his balls, and slowly squeezed.
“What. Could. He. Do.” she demanded, punctuated each word with a hot, heavy thrust of her hips. He mewled at the pain, the need, and the weight of denial. Her other hand let go and moved to the center of his chest, right above the bandages, and pressed down.
Sheer, undiluted agony shot through him, and she rode him harder, grinding down onto him as he surged into her.
“PHASING!” Sylar screamed. The hands let up, but she kept the pounding rhythm of her hips, jamming them together.
“You’ve never demonstrated -”
“I HATE IT!” Sylar hollered. She dug her nails into his shoulders, bracing her, as she moved faster and faster. Sylar whimpered.
“It makes me less real,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “I don’t like it.”
“But when we had you in that cell -”
“Drugs - concentration - Oh God -” Her hips sped up even further, and one handed rested lightly on his bandages in warning.
“James. Walker.” She ground out, panting heavily.
“Psychometry,” he gapsed desperately. “Fucking useless.”
She twisted above him, sending shock waves of pleasure through his body.
“Pam Green.”
“Talked to animals - dumbest thing - they don’t have - a lot - to say.”
A faint pressure on the wound, as a reminder, then release.
“David Thistle.”
“Wind. Telekinesis - has better - control.”
“Charlotte. Andrews.”
“Memory.”
She slammed down one more time and threw back her head, quaking on top of him. Her image flickered for moments, then stabilized. Sylar pushed into her, aching.
She smiled, lazy and sated and selfish. Sylar thrust again, furious at her nerve, smiling that way at him. Her smiled turned spitefully, delightedly wicked. She rose weakly, climbing off of him and out of the bed. She tugged her mini skirt back down, and sauntered out.
Sylar’s scream of fury and frustration, for all its added urgency, brought no more reply than it had before.
*~*~*
A few hours after Sylar had grudgingly, shamefully finished himself, the twitchy man came in again. He carefully removed the tape and withdrew the various tubes and needles attaching Sylar to the machines. Before he could make whatever modifications he had intended, Sylar grabbed the IV for the pain drip and stabbed it into the man’s arm, and then punched the button for the maximum dose.
Sylar took a moment to mourn the waste of good morphine as the man shuddered and sank to the floor, his eyes rolling in ecstasy.
Oh well.
He slid himself out of the bed, taking meticulous care not to disturb his torso. Once he could stand leaning against the bed, he reached up and unhooked the catheter bag from its rolling hat stand and dropped it on the floor. Then, he wrapped his arms around the pole for support and began to shuffle and wheel himself out the door and down the hall. He searched diligently for the exit, but when one door revealed the woman who had pretended to be his mother crying softly into her arms in what looked like a lab, he simply couldn’t resist.
Blessing thejanitor and well-oiled ball bearings, Sylar limp-wheeled silently into the lab, carefully picking up a thick, heavy glass beaker. He missed his telekinesis, no doubt, but there was something delightfully primal about killing someone with a blunt instrument, just like that first time.
Raising the beaker up to smash down on her head, he saw his shadow a split-second after she did, screaming and flailing in her haste to escape her chair. With stealth lost, Sylar hammered down with the beaker, trying to finish her. She kicked out blindly, and he had to clutch at his pole to keep from toppling over, granting her time to scramble backwards and grab something from a shelf at the other side of the lab. Sylar regained his balance and advanced on her, attempting to get close enough to pummel her with the beaker, but before he could, her hand darted out and sank a hypodermic needle into the flesh of his arm and depressed the plunger. Then she lashed out, one sharp blow catching him in the chest just as he grazed her temple with the beaker. She shook, but he crumpled, swallowed by pain and weakness and impending nausea.
*~*~*
“You injected him with what?”
“Strain 114, sir. He almost killed me, I panicked!”
“You were supposed to have him under control.”
“Battins is the one he got away from.”
“And what will be happening to him?”
“Nothing, sir. Sylar killed him. He died of an overdose of pain medication.”
“Hmph. Fine. This strain isn’t contagious, or at least, it isn’t supposed to be. You’ll take him to the old outpost in the Mexico and keep him in quarantine there until he dies. Watch the course of the disease, we might still learn something from all this.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll have the Haitian stop by before you go; he doesn’t need to know what’s happened.”
“No sir.”
“And this time, don’t let him get away. The man ought to be in an ICU, it shouldn’t be that difficult.”
“Of course, sir. He won’t escape again.”
Fin
A/N : I wanted to fill a couple of plot holes with this fic, like, what powers did Sylar pick up from the six victims Mohinder tells the FBI about, whom we never see? Why would the company kill Sylar in such a slow and unpredictable way? WTF is Candace doing with him in a shack in the Mexican jungle? Canon makes a bit more sense to me now, and I hope it does for you as well.