Title: A Poetic Retelling of an Unfortunate Seduction
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Sylar/Claire
Rating: R
Prompt: Lipstick & Bruises for15songtitles
Word Count: 1331 words
Her blood races though him; his skin crackle with the power of it. She's in his blood now and he can't get her out. She's imprinted on every part of him, every fucking cell. He can't remember the last time he felt this alive.
None of his new kills are as important. He slices their heads and takes their powers, but the thrill of it all is dimmed by the feeling of her and the overwhelming sense that she belongs to him now. He bides his time, waiting, until the day some psychic begs him "not to touch the cheerleader".
You'll be forever stained with her blood and tears. Sylar sees nothing wrong with that.He just smirks as the old man continues to beg with his last breath.
She's like an addiction he can't let go of. He's never been good at giving things up. Not things that were destined to be his, anyways.
She'll always be his; it's destiny, or at least that is what he tells himself as he wakes up hard in the middle of the night, fisting himself to the image of blood mixing with all that lovely blond hair.
He tracks her down fairly easily. The silly girl hasn't moved since that article in the paper. Did she really think he wouldn't find out? Her false sense of security only excites him more.
Although he prides himself on patience (sometimes), he's never put this much work into one of his kills. Usually it's just an opportune moment; he's lucky like that. But she's different, special, and the wait is only going to make this that much more satisfying.
He watches her watching the night with a wistful grin on her face. She keeps looking towards the window, as if she's expecting someone to show up. But for all her staring, she doesn't notice him in the dark. It should embarrass them, how easily he slips through the cracks. A laugh bubbles out of him. They don't really think they can protect her from him, do they?
But the laughter is cut short by a boy flying up to her window and the rush of rage flows through him. She should know better. He's yet to touch her, to place his claim, but that didn't change the fact that she was his.
He'll punish both of them for it.
He pins her to the wall telekinetically; he can't touch her yet. She doesn't look at him like the others did. Not anymore. Her eyes are sad, but there is no fear in them. No hate. Just a broken acceptance and Gabriel is screaming at him to fix her.
But he wants the fear. He wants her to look at him the way all his other victims did. He wants that thrill back. He yanks her hands over her head, while his fingertips unconsciously trace the exposed skin of her stomach. This is going to work.
"More," she whispers. It throws him for a minute, enough that she can get her hands free of their invisible hold. But she's not pushing him away or trying to escape, and that throws him even more. They all try to escape. Her fingers clutch his arms. "More," she whispers again. She's trying to get closer, not farther away.
"Make me forget," she demands. She really was broken, wasn't she? He smirks at her again. What was the harm in playing with her a little.
His teeth break the skin of her lips, and the sweet cooper tastes even better than he imagined. Like sin. He breathes her in again, she smells like his now. Like she could be anything else.
And then, they're falling forwards, backwards. Their bodies both telling the same story. She gasps under him, always under him, and he thinks he can be special this way too. His name comes rasped from her lips. He pushes harder. It's not like she will break. She's in his blood, flowing through his veins, and now he is going to make her his. Like she could be anything else.
They're not just touching lips, but kissing souls, and it shakes him harder than anything before (even his first taste of death). In that moment, it is just her and him and every romantic notion the world seems to have applies to the two of them. Home. Right. Yes, and he needs more.
He hates the weakness in this. She shouldn't be making him feel anything. He drives in harder, faster. He needs to make her hurt, needs to punish her, but she just clutches at him, begging for more.
Oh, she'll get more. He's not letting her go again.
Not until he gets what he wants.
There is something ever so sinister about watching her writher beneath him in just baby pink socks, while being watched over by the bear-shaped relics of her childhood. He wonders what her father would think of her now?
His mouth glides over his skin, imprinting himself there. She'll never forget his touch. There was a wonderful power in watching her come apart beneath his hands. She whispers his name; it still feels like a scream and he wants her to more than anything. He wants her father to hear and to come bursting in to find her arching against him, begging him for release. He licks harder, applying more pressure. So she'll know, so she'll always know, who she belongs to.
She clings to him a little tighter, secure in the knowledge that he's not going to kill her, but not in the knowledge that he wouldn't leave.
"Lie to me," she whispers. She curls up into her pillow, and waits with sleepy eyes, "Lie to me." But he never says anything, just kissing her forehead. He wonders if the words she so desperately wants to hear would be a lie.
He had played a part in breaking her into pieces, pieces with rough edges that cuts his fingers as he tried to piece her back together. But apparently he didn't do a good enough job, because he can still see the cracks every time he plunges in and makes her cry out his name. Her broken eyes only see through him and he can barely recognize the innocent teenager in them.
Your fault. Only part of him is upset by this.
The other part, the bigger part, drives in again, harder this time. Grinning at the blood that stains her thighs and his cock, and will every single time. It's proof that she's special just like him.
They both knew it was only a matter of time. She made him weak, made him need something that wasn't more power.
She had fallen asleep on her side, with her arm stretched out, waiting for him to climb back into bed with her. But he could never give her what she needed.
Her blood is on his hands, mixing with her blond hair and soaking into the pretty sheets. But it's not a good feeling, not like it should be. There's no surge of power or thrill of winning. There's only this.
He almost wants to put her brain back in her head and fix her up, like she's his broken doll. But he doesn't, because that's weak.
Instead, he pulls a sheet over her body, hiding his crime from view. He almost wishes her mother didn't have to find her like this, headless, with blank eyes and his sperm dripping down her thighs. He almost wishes it wasn't true.
"You were everything to me," he whispers to her prone body. She deserves the words, even if they were said too late.
He'll sit in hotel room later, staring at the blood he can't wash off his hands. He'll try to fight back Gabriel's tears and will think that maybe everyone was right. He shouldn't be allowed special things; he taints everything he touches.
He wants that wonderfully alive feeling back.