The Rough Season
Title: The Rough Season
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: Not mine. Definitely not mine. “Heroes” belongs to Kring and “Rough Hands” (and it’s lyrics) belongs to alexisonfire.
Christmas/Holiday gift for raitheemohugger - prompt: "Rough Hands" (alexisonfire)
Strands of blonde hair slip through his fingers; he reminds himself that she’s not like Elle, that she’s not trying to change him, mold him into her perfect man, trying to make him hers.
Claire doesn’t lie to him, doesn’t tell him that she loves him, doesn’t whisper sweet promises with honeyed breath.
He wishes she would.
- - - - - - - - - -
She’s not expecting him, that much is obvious by the surprised look on her face, by the splattering of blood-red wine all over her wooden floors when she drops the expensive crystal flute. Candles are lit, her gown is sheer gauze, and it’s not for him. It never is. At least she’s alone, at least he can lock her door and they can pretend they’re not there when the boyfriend of the month knocks on her door.
She doesn’t speak a word, just opens her arms for him to fall into. He’s so tired, can’t keep his eyes open, and they just sleep that night.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar knows he’s too rough with her, but it’s what she wants. What she says she needs. He can almost see the metaphorical blood on his hands smeared on her thighs where he touches her, where the skin bruises so easily underneath his over-eager and callused fingers.
She never mentions it, ignores the blood on his clothes and hands and the new powers he utilizes; he hates the fact that he comes to her so unclean. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to kill, that he just likes the feeling of it, that’s it a bad habit and one that he can defeat. He’d stopped biting his fingernails as a teen; surely he can stop murdering. He tells himself it’s just his nicotine, that he doesn’t need it anymore since he has her now.
The next time he comes to her, he’s been clean for two months. Claire doesn’t even notice a difference.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Fuck, babydoll,” he groans as he collapses on top of her, spent and shaking from their exertions. “I lo…”
“Don’t.” She interrupts him before he can finish the sentence. “Just don’t. And don’t swear so much, it’s tacky.”
It’s the first time she’s ever asked for anything other than harder, more, please, but those don’t count. He counts it as a victory that he’s finally winning her over enough for her to want to change him.
- - - - - - - - - -
His Claire looks so fragile, sprawled across his couch, teddy bear hugged to her chest. “I’m so tired. They all want so much from me.”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to play with her hair, knowing it soothes her.
“Nathan wants a porcelain doll to display to the media. Angela wants me to marry a society boy she’s picked out. Peter wants me to save the world. You want me to… I don’t even know what you want.”
If he could, he’d ask her for everything. She’s not his first, his first girl, his first love, but he thinks there’s a strong possibility that she could be the last. He can’t imagine ever wanting another woman even though he’ll live for eternity. He bites his lip, knowing she’d just run at the thought that he wants her for anything more than sex.
Nevertheless, he tries to tell her through a softer touch than usual. He makes love to her that night, gentle kisses and slow movements.
She waits until he pretends to be asleep, and she sneaks out as quickly as possible. He watches her step over her abandoned clothes and flee. He knows better than to chase after her.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar waits as long as he possibly can, trying to fight off the addiction as best as he can, but it’s not even a year before he’s crawling back to her. The Christmas season alone is too much to bear, and he doesn’t care if he has to force her to love him, she’s going to be his.
Her apartment window opens without a sound, without disrupting the pair lying in her bed. He can’t tear his eyes off of her sprawled across another man’s chest, golden wedding band dully shining.
He leaves, knowing that she won’t care how he feels. After all, he’s not her man.
Author: cameroncrazed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: Not mine. Definitely not mine. “Heroes” belongs to Kring and “Rough Hands” (and it’s lyrics) belongs to alexisonfire.
Christmas/Holiday gift for raitheemohugger - prompt: "Rough Hands" (alexisonfire)
Strands of blonde hair slip through his fingers; he reminds himself that she’s not like Elle, that she’s not trying to change him, mold him into her perfect man, trying to make him hers.
Claire doesn’t lie to him, doesn’t tell him that she loves him, doesn’t whisper sweet promises with honeyed breath.
He wishes she would.
- - - - - - - - - -
She’s not expecting him, that much is obvious by the surprised look on her face, by the splattering of blood-red wine all over her wooden floors when she drops the expensive crystal flute. Candles are lit, her gown is sheer gauze, and it’s not for him. It never is. At least she’s alone, at least he can lock her door and they can pretend they’re not there when the boyfriend of the month knocks on her door.
She doesn’t speak a word, just opens her arms for him to fall into. He’s so tired, can’t keep his eyes open, and they just sleep that night.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar knows he’s too rough with her, but it’s what she wants. What she says she needs. He can almost see the metaphorical blood on his hands smeared on her thighs where he touches her, where the skin bruises so easily underneath his over-eager and callused fingers.
She never mentions it, ignores the blood on his clothes and hands and the new powers he utilizes; he hates the fact that he comes to her so unclean. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to kill, that he just likes the feeling of it, that’s it a bad habit and one that he can defeat. He’d stopped biting his fingernails as a teen; surely he can stop murdering. He tells himself it’s just his nicotine, that he doesn’t need it anymore since he has her now.
The next time he comes to her, he’s been clean for two months. Claire doesn’t even notice a difference.
- - - - - - - - - -
“Fuck, babydoll,” he groans as he collapses on top of her, spent and shaking from their exertions. “I lo…”
“Don’t.” She interrupts him before he can finish the sentence. “Just don’t. And don’t swear so much, it’s tacky.”
It’s the first time she’s ever asked for anything other than harder, more, please, but those don’t count. He counts it as a victory that he’s finally winning her over enough for her to want to change him.
- - - - - - - - - -
His Claire looks so fragile, sprawled across his couch, teddy bear hugged to her chest. “I’m so tired. They all want so much from me.”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to play with her hair, knowing it soothes her.
“Nathan wants a porcelain doll to display to the media. Angela wants me to marry a society boy she’s picked out. Peter wants me to save the world. You want me to… I don’t even know what you want.”
If he could, he’d ask her for everything. She’s not his first, his first girl, his first love, but he thinks there’s a strong possibility that she could be the last. He can’t imagine ever wanting another woman even though he’ll live for eternity. He bites his lip, knowing she’d just run at the thought that he wants her for anything more than sex.
Nevertheless, he tries to tell her through a softer touch than usual. He makes love to her that night, gentle kisses and slow movements.
She waits until he pretends to be asleep, and she sneaks out as quickly as possible. He watches her step over her abandoned clothes and flee. He knows better than to chase after her.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sylar waits as long as he possibly can, trying to fight off the addiction as best as he can, but it’s not even a year before he’s crawling back to her. The Christmas season alone is too much to bear, and he doesn’t care if he has to force her to love him, she’s going to be his.
Her apartment window opens without a sound, without disrupting the pair lying in her bed. He can’t tear his eyes off of her sprawled across another man’s chest, golden wedding band dully shining.
He leaves, knowing that she won’t care how he feels. After all, he’s not her man.