
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5814.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Elle_Bishop/Sylar, Elle_Bishop/Luke_Campbell, Luke_Campbell/Sylar
  Character:
      Elle_Bishop, Luke_Campbell, Sylar
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, AU, Alternate_Universe_-_Stripper, Established_Relationship,
      Barebacking, Non-Graphic_Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-08-08 Words: 6464
****** Reclamation ******
by perdiccas
Summary
     Her daddy dead, and abandoned, half-killed on the beach, Elle turns
     to stripping to survive. But Sylar's back, with his new protégé in
     tow, and he wants to reclaim what's his.
Notes
     Luke is 17.
The thump of the music thrums through Sylar's veins. The club smells like piss
cheap beer, smoke and sex. Luke's jaw hangs open as he gawks; the kid had
popped a boner the second his eyes adjusted to the light.
"Luke," Sylar shouts over the din; "Luke!" again to get his attention.
He shoves a wad of money into Luke's sweaty hand and bellows directly into his
ear, "Go get her for me like a good boy, okay?"
Luke nods, licking his lips, his expression a mixture of fear and
determination. Sylar gives him an affectionate kiss then pushes him into the
crowd, sidles to the bar, watching Luke clutch his fake ID like a shield as he
makes his way towards the strippers on the stage.
"There's no way that kid's twenty-one," the barman rasps, uninvited.
Sylar's back stiffens and he frowns, but the bartender only laughs, sets a
scotch before him on the filthy bar.
"On the house," he says.
At Sylar's questioning, up-raised eyebrow, he leers, "We share the same taste
in boyfriends."
His glare has the barman scuttling away, and Sylar downs the burning alcohol to
quell the sickening churning in his stomach his words have stoked. Then, he
scans the crowd again, keeps a closer eye on Luke than he'd first intended,
never thinking Luke might be bait in a room full of half-nude women and
cheering men.
Luke's baby face attracts attention; the strippers walking 'round, letting men
buy them drinks and dancing on their tables, coo and flock towards him. Sylar
watches Luke study their faces as he slips them five dollar bills, always into
their g-strings because Luke's never been big on breasts. He doesn't try to
hide that erection that's straining against his fly.
But when they grab at his shoulders, keen eyes having spotted the wad of cash
he clutches in one sweaty fist, Luke wriggles away, shrugging them off. He
orders drinks he doesn't drink to catch the waitresses' eyes and sits down at
tables uninvited to check out the strippers undulating on the laps of the pervs
who come here for fun. Sylar's a heartbeat away from going to grab him by the
collar, before his indiscreet behaviour gets them both kicked out, when the
music changes and Luke's face whips towards the stage. His whole body goes
rigid like a pointer dog and Sylar looks up, to see her there, stalking towards
the pole, centre stage, in thigh high stiletto boots.
"Good boy," he murmurs under his breath, raises his glass in Luke's direction
and watches as Elle grasps the silver pole in her hands and swings herself
around.
She's changed, not just from dead to alive; her hair is longer now, longer than
really suits her, and the makeup she wears is too thick for her delicate
features. It takes Sylar a moment to understand her outfit: a toolbelt looped
loosely around her hips, a denim skirt she rips off to reveal a shiny gold g-
string below. It's the sparking lights above her head that tip him off; she
must be the club's only sexy electrician.
She swivels her hips, pushing out her ass and breasts, whipping off her bra
which such fierceness that her breasts bounce with the movement. The crowd is
going wild, packed up close against the stage and it isn't hard to tell that
Elle's the club's star attraction. He wonders how long she's been working this
joint and why. She has a beaming smile plastered across her face, so well
rehearsed that it's hard to tell it's fake. Sylar guesses that Company training
really does set you up for life.
Elle's down on her hands and knees now, eyes hard as she crawls towards the
leering men. They stuff tightly folded dollar bills in the strings of her
panties, groping wherever they can get away with. And Sylar's so busy staring
at her, his own cock throbbing between his legs, even while his hand is
clenched so tightly around his glass that it might crack with the strain at any
moment, that he doesn't realise he's lost sight of Luke until he spots him,
leaning his elbows on the stage, licking his lips as Elle sashays nearer.
She sees him there, or more likely, she sees the ridiculous wodge of cash he's
waving first, but when she really looks at his face, that innocent, little boy
smile he does so well, Sylar thinks he's a flicker of the old Elle in her grin.
She crouches next him, side on, so that he gets an eye-level view of her near
bare ass, her legs looking longer with the added height of her boots. Luke
holds up his money to her and she cocks her hip, lets him slide the folded
bills and his finger under the waistband of her g-string. But when she stands,
Luke doesn't take his hand away. His finger and the money moves with the
movement of her body, so that his knuckle glides down from her hip to the front
of pussy, the money against the gusset of her panties, his skin to hers.
Elle glares down at him, grips his wrist angrily, but before the bouncer can
make his way toward him, Luke's body convulses. Sylar watches him wince as he
yanks his finger from against her cunt, and with a half-grimace at the pain,
half-triumphant smile, Luke sucks his burnt finger, wet from her, into his
mouth as he holds Sylar's gaze. And as Luke is tilting his head subtly towards
the stage, Sylar has to press the heel of his hand against his dick as it aches
with what he's just seen.
"Little punk," Sylar growls to no one in particular, glaring at the bartender
when he sees he's touching himself too, beady eyes tracking Luke as he trots
back towards the bar.
Sylar pushes off his barstool, his gait heavy with his erection as he meets
Luke in the middle of the club floor. He kisses Luke softly on the lips, to
mark what's his, and guides him into a booth. As soon as they're in the
shadows, he grabs Luke roughly by the throat.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, pulling a stunt like that? Are you
trying to get yourself arrested?" Sylar's huffing angry breaths through his
nose, more mad at himself for this outburst of rage he can't seem to contain
than at Luke, for doing what he's been told.
"Check it out," Luke giggles proudly, voice rasping through Sylar's strangle
hold, utterly unconcerned by the black look on Sylar's giving him, as he holds
out his spit-wet finger for Sylar to see. Blisters are bubbling on his skin.
"Man, she fried me good. She's totally the one, right?"
Sylar drops him with an exasperated grunt.
"Yes," he snarls, trying to keep the small burst of pride he feels for Luke's
resourcefulness to himself. With Sylar's description of 'blonde, petite and
pretty,' any one of the strippers could have fit the bill, but he honed in on
Elle's power like a scent hound, flushed it out for a firm ID before reporting
back to Sylar. He thinks that for all Luke's an aggravation, he might not be
completely useless, yet.
He rakes his fingers through Luke's hair with grudging approval, his spine
stiffening as Luke immediately shifts closer, one hand rubbing up his inner
thigh under the table.
"Sylar," he begs, nuzzling against his neck, his hand pressing against Sylar's
dick, now, through his jeans, his body twisting awkwardly to try and hump his
own erection against Sylar's hip.
"Not here," Sylar hisses.
Luke whines, scrabbling at him, trying to break free from the hand that's now
fisting in his hair, keeping him at bay. "No one's gonna see. Everyone's doing
it."
But that isn't quite right. Sylar squints into the smoky, darkened room;
there're a few guys with a girls, a few guys alone but it's mostly guys in
groups with their hands down their own pants. He isn't in the mood to attract
the kind of attention Luke crawling all over him would generate.
"Keep it in your pants, or I'll cut it off."
Luke rolls his eyes at the threat, slumps back against the booth with a huff,
palming his cock out of spite, staring but not really seeing the new stripper
on the stage.
Sylar waves a hostess over as he slings a mollifying arm around Luke's
shoulders.
"I wanna buy my friend a lap dance. A private lap dance," he yells into the
music. Luke sits a little straighter, his hand pressing harder now at his fly
as he whimpers. "That blonde who was on earlier. The one with the sexy sparks?"
The hostess eyes Luke with disdain; he automatically holds up his fake ID but
she only snorts and shakes her head.
"We don't do tag teams," she says curtly.
"Hey!" Sylar says, leaning back, holding his hands up innocently as if he
doesn't know how they ever got to touching Luke. "S'not like that. I'm just
gonna watch."
He slides a hundred dollar bill onto her tray, can see her resolve start to
crack. He grabs Luke by the chin, twists his face up to her and, even without
the kick to his ankle that Sylar gives him under the table, he gives the
sweetest, butter-wouldn't-melt smile. "Don't you think he deserves something
special for his birthday?"
Another hundred on the tray and she's leading them both back behind the beaded
curtain to the private room.
Luke sits heavily on the stained couch; Sylar pays off the bouncer for a little
more privacy before sitting beside him. This time when Luke moves automatically
up against him, his left thigh pressed to Sylar's right, his head leaning back
against the arm Sylar's stretched over the back of the couch, Sylar only frowns
but doesn't make him move.
Elle strides into the room, her skirt and golden bra back on, those same thigh
high boots resounding as she stomps towards them "Hey there, boys. I hear it's
someone's birthday-"
She only falters for a second, eyes flickering with something like hate as she
glances at Sylar's face. Then, she's moving forward as if they've never met,
never mind fucked and watched each other die.
"It's your lucky day, cutie," she purrs at Luke, acrylic nails dragging gently
along his baby smooth chin.
"You ever had a woman in your lap before?"
Luke shakes his head wildly, dumbstruck in her presence and Sylar laughs,
mostly at Luke, a little at her for this charade of sexiness she doesn't feel,
and a little, sheepishly, at himself for getting off on it all the same. She
glares at him, holds up her hand in that way he remembers intimately, that way
that warns his skin's going to be seared from his body if doesn't watch his
tongue. But that's never worked on him, and maybe she knows it, because she
doesn't look surprised when he pushes that unspoken line, pulls out the last of
his cash and shoves it at her.
"You've already paid," she says, staring at the bills like she'd rather take a
fistful of shit from him than take his money.
Sylar shrugs, tucks the cash into the top of one of her boots, his fingers
gently brushing against the soft skin of her thigh.
"A bonus then," he says, inclining his head at Luke. "For when you make him
pop."
"Don't come too soon, now," he says to Luke, his arm settling possessively on
his shoulders, laughing into his ear as Luke swallows dryly. "I want to get my
money's worth."
She swings a leg over Luke's lap, straddling him, rotating her hips as she
settles down. Luke's hands fly instinctively to her waist but she grips his
wrists.
"No touching, kid," she says kindly but firmly, pressing Luke's hands back to
the sofa, her expression barely registering surprise as Luke immediately
reaches for Sylar's hips if he can't hold onto hers.
"Oh!" Luke gasps, his nails scratching at Sylar's inseam, his head lolling
desperately on Sylar's shoulder. "Oh man, she's right on my dick."
"Mmm hmm," Sylar agrees, kissing Luke's temple to ground him, letting him
squirm and writhe against his side as he watches Elle's skirt hike up her
thighs with the swivel and twist of her body. The outline of her pussy lips is
visible through the flimsy fabric of her g-string.
Then, she's leaning forward and her nipples are hard nubs under the gold lame
of her bra, from the attention or from the pinch of her own fingers before she
let herself be put on show, he doesn't know. He breasts sway alluringly in
front of their faces; Luke's eyes are glazed and wide as he whimpers and rolls
his hips up into hers. She's pushing her breasts right up against them and
Luke's biting his bottom lip, eyes scrunched shut in concentration, and for
someone who's never really been a breast man, Luke looks like he's close to
coming from the warm press of her against his cheeks.
With a lewd smirk, Sylar tugs at the back tie of her bra with his mind, his
dick pulsing harder at the memory of how wild she went when he used to strip
her with his powers. Now, though, her yelp isn't ecstasy, it's surprise mixed
with irritation. But she takes the dare, her eyes locking challengingly to his
as she unties the knot at the back of her neck and lets her bra fall into
Sylar's lap. Sylar licks his dry lips, looks deliberately at her chest, her
breasts still as small and firm as he remembers, at her nipples still as dusky
pink and pert as the memory he so often jerks off to.
It takes all his self control not to throw her against the wall and fuck her
like he wants to.
Then, there's a smug grin that's tugging at her lips and Sylar thinks that
maybe she knows full well how much she's ruffled his composure. She's leaning
forward, rubbing her bare breasts to Luke's face, letting her hard nipples
trace along his pouty bottom lip, but it's Sylar that she's looking in the eye,
all the while. Suddenly, he darts forward, his cheek so tight to Luke's that he
feels his own stubble scrape along Luke's baby soft jaw and with a firm tongue,
he licks a hot stripe over her nipple. She gasps, and her hips jerk against
Luke's, and when Sylar drags his teeth gently over that hardened point, she and
Luke both cry out as Luke comes, with a strangled grunt, in his pants.
Luke's panting and laughing as he's coming down, head bowed forward so that his
sweaty forward presses to the centre line of her chest. Sylar leans back
against the sofa, legs sprawling to relieve some of the ache in his cock, and
he watches as his saliva glistens on her delicate skin. After a moment to catch
her breath, she pushes Luke back against the pillows.
"That was amazing," he slurs.
"It always is," she says with a cocky flip of her too-long hair.
Before she can wriggle off him, he clutches lightly at her hips.
"Do him too," he begs in a fitful rush. Sylar's eyes narrow warningly but Luke
babbles on. "Here!"
He flicks up her skirt, tucks a fistful of bills into the waistband of her g-
string, pick pocketed fifties and hundreds, not the ones and fives that Sylar
had given to him. He hooks his thumb there too, to keep the money in place, and
his middle finger slides with aching slowness down the plain of gold lame
underneath his fingertips. They hold each other's eyes, neither flinching when
the pad of his finger reaches the apex of her pussy lips, and he crooks his
finger, rubbing her there through her underwear with a confidence and skill
Sylar would never have expected.
And now, instead of frying him or slapping him in the face, Elle looks at
Sylar, at the scowl on his face and she swivels her hips, circling her clit on
Luke's finger where the pressure of his touch has sunken her g-string between
her lower lips. Under the music, Sylar can hear their heavy breathing and the
slick slide of Elle's wetness against her skin; Elle hunches forward, captures
Luke's lips in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, still rubbing up against his hand
as her breasts press up against his chest.
Luke seems to have forgotten about the lap dance that was meant to be Sylar's
and about the burly bouncer who is going to notice in a minute or two that none
of what they're doing is legal. And most of all, most infuriating to Sylar, he
seems to forgotten their mission: locate, ID and retrieve; in a moment of
hormones and weakness. So Sylar shoves his hand between them, squeezes Luke's
groin roughly, the cooling semen in his boxers squelching as Sylar pinches his
oversensitive dick. Luke yelps, all but shoving Elle away in self defence.
"Dude!" he groans. "Not cool."
"It's my turn," Sylar growls, trying to ignore how petulant he sounds to his
own ears.
For a moment, Elle looks like she might say 'no,' then she shakes out her hair
and that Company-fake smile is back. She kisses Luke demurely on the cheek and
says, "It's been fun, kid," as she settles herself on Sylar's lap instead.
Even through his jeans, her cunt feels hot against him. She fishes her bra from
where she'd discarded it in his lap, fingering the line of his erection as she
balls the gold fabric in her fist. Then, she's right on his dick, swirling and
swivelling and humping him in time to the thump of the music that rattles his
teeth. And all it once, it feels like he's going to cream himself far quicker
than even Luke did. So, he hauls her up by the hips, ignoring her protesting
yelp, until she's sitting up on her knees and her pussy is level with his hips.
He darts forward, presses his mouth where Luke's finger has been, his tongue
strong, swiping firm enough to tease her g-string to the side.
Her fingers are twisting in his hair, pushing him further between her legs and
he's lapping and sucking and kissing her hard. Under the hot thrum of blood
echoing in his ears and his cock, Sylar can hear Luke panting like he's the one
getting eaten out.
Then, Elle's wrenched from his grip and the bouncer is roaring in anger. Before
Sylar can even wipe his mouth dry, Elle turns furiously on her heel, breasts
bobbing as she does, and she zaps the guy, hissing, "Get your hands off me,
meathead!"
He tumbles backwards falling through the beaded curtain, ass first, back onto
the main floor of the club and while the current was only enough to stun, now
more guys are rushing in. Luke nukes one with a manic laugh, all the way,
charbroiled, and the next one Elle hits gets fried like he's in an electric
chair. Then, in amongst the screaming and the wailing and the rush to get away,
Elle and Luke grin at each other, like kindred spirits; he yanks his sweatshirt
over his head, blushing a little when she pulls it on to cover her bare chest.
"Thanks, kid."
"No problem."
Then, with a growl of exasperation, Sylar adjusts the front of his pants,
following in their wake as they nuke and fry their way through the club. It's
bloodbath where all the blood has been boiled and charred; they take down every
guy they spot, leaving the strippers unscathed.
Sylar trots behind them, critically eyeing their technique. They have good aim
but they're too impulsive; together, they egg each other on. In the future,
they'll need ground rules, but for now, he feels a warm sense of satisfaction
to see the perverts who've tried to put their hands on her killed, and he
figures it's better she gets that murderous rage out on other people, than
directing it at him.
The bartender is the only one Sylar kills himself, his throat slit for the way
he'd leered at Luke.
A young stripper, her platinum blonde wig askew, crouches, weeping, just behind
the bar. Her chest is flat beneath her bra; she has barely any hips to speak
of. She's all acrylic nails, angles and sunken ribs. Sylar thinks she's Luke's
age at best and the now-dead barman's type at worst. In front of him, Luke
seems to hesitate when he sees her, takes one faltering step towards her.
"Luke!" Sylar snaps, as she presses her face to her up-drawn knees and wraps
her arms around her head in fear.
Luke looks at him, something in his eyes Sylar that can't quite place stops him
from yelling twice. He watches as Luke crouches down, not getting near enough
to scare her worse, and he digs in his jeans pocket, pulls out fistfuls of
dirty cash, slides the whole wad along the blood and come stained floor towards
her.
"Here!" he shouts, over the thumping music, the screams and sobs.
"Take it," he orders desperately. "Take it!" he snaps again, hovering there
until her hands dart out and she crumples the bills in tiny fists.
Luke turns away, and then, Elle is at his side. She links her fingers with his,
smiling back when he smiles shyly at her. With a snort of sudden irritation,
Sylar puts his hands to the smalls of their backs and shoves them bodily out
the door. "Come on, let's go!"
The night air is cool, and it clears his head. Luke has an arm around Elle's
waist; she has both arms slung around his neck. They giggle like drunken
teenagers as he helps her run in her stilettos. Sylar bites back a growl of
jealousy to see Luke's hand slide up under the hem of his hoody she's wearing,
his fingers curling around her hip. He scans the streets before them, stalks
toward a bright red, two-door convertible. Some jackass has parked it beside a
fire hydrant, left the car at 2 am with the top down, on this side of town;
Sylar grins to himself at the arrogance of wealth and murmurs under his breath,
"Asking for it."
He jumps into the drivers' seat, flips the ignition with his mind, leaning over
to unlock the passenger side door for them. Luke slides in and Elle perches on
his lap, her thighs framing his as she keeps her arms locked around him. They
speed away from the club, sunken in darkness with the headlights off, and in
the distance, Sylar can hear the far off wail of sirens.
Pressed tight to Luke, Elle's whispering fitful things in his ear. They laugh
together, eyes trained on each other's faces, not once glancing over at him.
Even as Sylar slams on the radio, stomping on the gas pedal to match the tempo
of the music, Elle does nothing but reach one hand blindly behind her to fiddle
with volume. And somehow, in Luke's oversized sweatshirt, excess fabric pooling
at her hips and shoulders, her thigh high boots hiked tall so that the only
flesh she's showing is a strip of fake tanned skin just below her ass, Sylar
finds she's sexier than when she was writhing on him, only a scrap of gold lame
between her legs.
Now, they're kissing, hungry, deep and desperate. Luke's fingers tangle in her
hair and hold her close. Her hips are swivelling, grinding down, and it's
nothing like it was in the club; Sylar's nostrils flare at the scent of sex
rolling off them, and he knows that as she rubs herself against Luke's renewed
erection, she's as wet as Luke is hard. Luke pants into her mouth, hips lifting
off the seat to press to hers and they make those pretty sounds together that
only Sylar is supposed to make them make. The blaze of jealousy deep in his
chest erupts out of him as rage.
"Stop it!" he snaps, ferociously enough that for once they actually listen.
Luke clears his throat, sheepishly looking down as he wipes his mouth with the
back of his hand; Elle brushes her hair back from her face, from where it's
caught at the corner of her lips, trapped in the gloss of her lipstick.
Together, they grin knowingly at him.
"What?" he growls.
"Nothing," Elle purrs, sharing a look with a Luke, a look that Sylar hates
because without even exchanging names, they've forged this natural connection
he doesn't share.
And as he fumes, thinking that maybe this has been a mistake, Sylar feels Luke
hook his forefinger in the belt loop of his jeans, curl it there and tug him
fractionally towards them. Elle's hand smoothes up his inner thigh, the tips of
her fake nails scratching lightly over the outline of his cock, teasing him
through thick denim. Almost unconsciously, Sylar lets his thighs splay wider,
hands white knuckled on the steering wheel as they grope him and grope each
other.
When Elle thumbs at the button of his fly, he floors it and pulls over at the
first motel they spot, the stench of burning rubber acrid on the back of his
tongue as the car screeches to a halt, slung diagonally over the white line
between two parking spots.
The tumble from the car, Elle and Luke still clinging to each other and with a
snarl, Sylar shepherds them towards a random room door. Elle grabs Luke by the
front of his t-shirt and shoves him roughly up against the door, giving Sylar a
smug look over her shoulder as she kisses him hungrily, her thigh pressing up
between Luke's legs. It takes two tries for Sylar to pick the lock with his
mind when they're a gasping, writhing distraction that's pissing him off and
turning him on all at once.
The door swings open on the dark, vacant room and Luke stumbles backwards,
pulling them all over the threshold. Sylar slams the door behind him and then
slams Luke with TK across the room. He's too busy grabbing Elle by the wrist
and shoving her as roughly to the wall as she'd shoved Luke to the door to
register where Luke lands or how. He must be mostly fine, though, because the
lights flick on and sickly yellow illuminates the room. From somewhere behind
him, he hears Luke mutter, "This place is a total dive," with something like
awe.
Sylar and Elle ignore him, mouths locked in a kiss that's more like a bite,
Sylar ripping Luke's thick, brown sweatshirt up over her head and tossing it
aside.
"I forgot how cute you are when you're jealous, Gabe," she whispers huskily,
and before Sylar can retort, her hands are at his fly, tearing open his jeans
and shoving them down his thighs. Sylar's hands seem to work on instinct,
pulling at the flimsy catch of her skirt, his breath stuttering in his chest as
it flutters easily to the floor, like a good stripper outfit should. The bra
she's been clutching in her fist has long been dropped and Sylar's cupping a
breast, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple, groaning as it hardens to
his touch. And then, he's spinning her around, all but ripping his t-shirt in
two to get it off, and he tosses her violently onto the bed, the mattress
bouncing as he lands heavily on top of her.
Elle's hands seem small on his hips, smaller than he remembers, smaller than
Luke's, but the charge she zaps through him is every bit as agonizing as it
used to be. "Not so rough," she growls.
He grunts his surprise, but doesn't really question it, not when her hands are
sliding over his bare ass, and dragging him tighter between her legs; the
sodden scrap of fabric that passes for her panties is all that's keeping them
apart. Sylar ducks his head, scrapes his teeth over her nipple, just as he did
at the club, smiling wolfishly into her skin when she tips her chin back and
groans. He reaches down, rubs his fingers over her cunt, hooking them in the
cheap, drenched fabric and pushing it aside. He splays his fingers over her
pussy, dragging one fingertip through her slit to feels how wet her folds are
and then teasing higher, mapping his way over her swollen, puffy flesh, his
thumb pressed to her clit to make her buck up against him.
And as he caresses her, an irrational wave of anger rips through him, anger at
the feel of smooth, waxed skin when he remembers soft, damp, blonde curls;
anger at the blood red lipstick that's too cheap for her, smeared over her
mouth, his and Luke's; anger at the realisation that her hair he thought too
long, is bulked out with tawdry, straw yellow extensions. He hates her for
having changed, for having changed for other men; he hates himself for being
the reason she's had to. And, he wants to fuck everything that's fake right out
of her, fuck her until she's screaming his name, her cunt clenching around him
as he comes too, and then, he thinks desperately, then, maybe she'll be the
Elle he left behind.
Beside their shoulders, the mattress dips. Sylar snarls at Luke, a wordless,
possessive warning to keep his distance, but the kid just breaths, "Dude,"
seemingly happy enough with his soiled jeans shoved around his thighs, fist
pumping his cock as he leans against the headboard and watches. Elle grabs
Sylar's dick, forces his attention back to her and rubs the head through her
pussy lips, against her throbbing clit until they're gasping into each other's
mouths, and her wetness has slicked him from crown to balls.
Sylar doesn't bother with a condom; they never have. He lets Elle line him up
and slams into her with one long, hard thrust, her bitten back whimper of pain
reminding him too late that she didn't want it rough.
But, maybe she doesn't know what she wants because she cries out too, drags
those acrylic nails down his back and wraps her legs around his waist. The
points of her stiletto heels, on those fuck me boots she's still wearing, dig
painfully into his upper thighs, but it only makes him thrust harder. His hips
are snapping back and forth, setting a gruelling pace, and he can hear Luke's
hand sliding quicker and quicker as he tries to keep up, his boyish groans
mixing with Sylar's and hers. In the back of his mind, Sylar's aware he's
fucking her harder than he's ever fucked Luke, no matter how mad he can make
him; she's back from the dead, seemingly invincible like him, in way that
breakable, broken Luke never could be, and Sylar doesn't know if it's Elle or
himself he's punishing for it.
Her hips arch up off the bed, and he can feel an electric crackle running
dancing through his pubic hair as blue sparks fizzle over Elle's clit and jolt
into him as she grinds herself against him. She doesn't scream his name when
she comes, but she screams. He braces both of his forearms beside her shoulders
and ploughs, hard, into her pliant body, hips jerking arrhythmically, once,
twice and again before he's coming deep inside her, a low, guttural bellow
marking his release.
He flips them over with the last of his strength, so that he can collapse
against the pillows, pulling Elle weakly to his sweat drenched chest. And when
Sylar looks over at Luke, glancing at him through heavy-lidded, fuck dazed
eyes, that's when Luke comes with a pretty mewl, semen spurting over his hand,
hot, white flecks splattering over Sylar's cheek, catching in a sticky mess on
his stubble. Elle laughs breathlessly, her chin resting on Sylar's shoulder and
Luke laughs too. He kicks off his come stained jeans, sprawls lazily up against
Sylar's side. Sylar watches with one eyebrow raised at Luke's as audacity he
licks each of his own fingers clean before dragging himself up on one elbow and
grinning down at him.
"Sorry," he breathes, hardly sounding sorry at all. He holds Sylar's jaw steady
with his spit-damp fingers and laps Sylar's skin clean, the grate of his tongue
over stubble a soothing rasp in amidst their post-coital sighs and panting.
"All better, now?" he asks, his fingers pointing to Sylar's cleansed skin but
his eyes glancing hopefully between him and Elle. Sylar cups him by the back of
the neck, kisses him sleepily on the lips and murmurs back, "All better."
Luke makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and with an almighty yawn,
slings one arm possessively around Sylar's middle. His hand snakes between Elle
and Sylar, a warm weight that keeps their bellies from pressing together fully
and he digs his fingers into Sylar's skin to mark his territory. Sylar has half
a mind to throw him away, to show the kid just who owns who, but Luke's
snuffling exhaustedly as he nuzzles against his chest hair and to Sylar's
surprise, Elle's stroking his arm tenderly, shushing him to sleep, so, with a
thought, he turns off the lights instead.
A smile tugs at the corner of Sylar's mouth when Luke's thumb moves
instinctively to his lips, sucking noisily, like he always does, no matter how
much he denies it when awake.
"He's adorable," Elle whispers. She runs her fingers through his hair, the
barest glimmer of blue sparks trailing in her wake. Luke gasps happily around
his thumb; his lips make wet, smacking sounds, sucking harder as he settles
deeper into sleep.
Sylar watches her watching Luke, taking in the way her expression softens in
the near pitch darkness of the room. He sees her smile a small, sad smile and
instead of being consumed with suffocating jealousy as before, his chest is
tight with something like contentment. He feels calm inside in a way that he
hasn't felt for far too long, and he thinks that maybe this is how all those
cogs and springs are meant to fit together to quiet that ticking in his mind.
He brushes his fingers over Luke's cheek, cranes his neck to press a fond kiss
to the soft hair at his temple. Affectionately, he murmurs, "He's a brat."
Elle's eyes narrow as she looks at him, and then looks away. "He deserves
better than you."
Her voice sounds more tired than angry, and as she moves to the edge of the
bed, wincing at the ache between her legs as she buttons her skirt around her
hips, Sylar grabs her gently by the wrist. "He could have you."
He pulls her hand towards him, kissing the delicate skin at her inner wrist.
Her pulse thrums beneath his lips, and the steady beat drowns out the
unfamiliar sound of longing in his own voice. She sighs at the tenderness of
the kiss, stretches out her fingers to caress the spit-damp stubble at his jaw.
But she shakes her head, too, snorts harshly when she says, "I'm no one's
mother."
And now her back is to him and she's tugging those tawdry boots up over her
knees from where they've slouched down to her calves as they fucked. The
metallic rumble of the zippers drawn up their sides echoes that bone deep
shudder of falsehood down his spine.
"Elle," he whispers hoarsely, but she ignores him, fishing her bra from where
it's been flung beneath the bed. She knots the ties behind her back and neck,
her too-long hair swept forward messily, over one shoulder. He struggles to
move off the bed, out from under Luke's sleep-heavy weight but Luke's fingers
cling to him, five points of desperate pressure latching to his ribs. He
whimpers pitifully as Sylar disturbs his sleep, catapulting him from dreams to
nightmares.
"Hush," Sylar murmurs without thinking, cupping Luke's jaw to soothe him.
Sylar's moving slower now, still urgent but more deliberate. He takes a pillow,
warm from where his head has been, and slides it into Luke's grasping embrace,
swaddling a blanket around him.
He turns to Elle, his heart pounding demandingly in his chest, the torrent of
questions pressing at his lips caught short by the wistful way she looks at him
and Luke. He swallows down the lump that's rising in his throat, steps into his
discarded jeans and yanks them up to stall for time, his attention torn between
the two as the delicate balance he thought they'd found seems shattered.
He steps towards her, touching the pads of his fingers tentatively to the skin
below her navel, biting at his bottom lip and caressing her stomach more firmly
when she seems to sag into his touch. He smoothes patterns on her skin, his
palm prickling at the certainty of a new life growing inside her. And now he
sees what he didn't see before: she's more rounded at the edges than when he
left her, her eyes more tired, the steps she takes more careful and considered.
Sylar brushes the bangs back from her forehead, fingers the line of a scar
that's no longer there and says, "I take better care of my things, now, Elle."
He wants to fold his arms around her, to draw her to his chest and say, "I'll
take better care of you, Elle," but it isn't in him to beg.
She lays her hand flat to his uncovered chest, splays his fingers over his
heart; in those spiked heels she wears, she barely needs to strain to kiss him
softly on the lips. "I stopped being yours when you left me behind."
As she pulls away, a spark crackles between their mouths. The burn is tart like
acid, that same penny-copper aftertaste as blood, and the familiarity of it is
worse than any slap across the face. She pulls Luke's sweatshirt over her head,
looking younger and more breakable as she's swamped within the folds of fabric.
She gathers her hair up off her shoulders, knots it quickly at the back of her
neck, practical now, efficient. One hand snakes into the pouch-like pocket that
spans her belly and she holds it there, protective and possessive.
Her jaw is set; she pulls the brown hood up to shield her head. And as she
turns away, the motel room door creaking as she draws it open, she looks over
her shoulder at him and says, "Tell the kid, 'thanks', from me."
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