heroslayer | Entries tagged with misc: meme fic

"What did you do?"

Bela jumped, wheeling in her chair to face him, and he couldn't help but smile. It was no real surprise that he'd taken her by surprise -- those things, the Hellhounds if he believed what Ruby had said, would have been enough; the fact that this was the first time he'd made his presence known all day and no one else seemed to be around was just icing on the cake -- but it was still amusing, somehow. She didn't seem to appreciate the joke, however, and flashed him a look that was equal parts sour and guardedly frightened still. "Where the hell have you been?"

Moving to take up a seat in one of the office chairs they'd managed to track down, he gestured over his shoulder back the way he'd came. "There's a storage closet back there. I was poking around in it."

"Weren't your orders to keep an eye on me while the others went after the Colt?"

The amusement bled away from his face abruptly, and he steeled his jaw, trying to avoid the urge to make her pay for that remark on principle alone. He didn't take orders. Not anymore. After a moment and thankfully, however, he managed to rationalize that she didn't know that, and he managed to quell the urge with a shake of his head. Still, though, he pointed out, "I don't take orders. This is just me paying a debt."

( She looked away, studying the imperfections in the cement of the floor. "Fair enough, I suppose." )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1023
Note: Bela is

enjoythe_ride and is used at the mun's request. This is not biding on the verse unless the mun wants it to be and/or thinks that I didn't butcher her character.

The audience, he's sure, thinks he does the trick with smoke and mirrors. It's the only explanation beyond actual magic, after all, and even if they want to be fooled -- want the magic -- people are skeptical these days. Everything has a rational explanation, and the only one for how he hovers in mid-air when the bottom drops out of the stage and the rope around his neck doesn't go taut is some kind of trick. Not that it stops people from throwing themselves at him after every show, demanding time and touch or answers, however, and for that he's immensely grateful. He wouldn't be as successful as he is if not for all the power he's stolen from people ticking away in the audience.

He smiles as he cuts himself down without ever touching the rope, straddles the hole in the stage, and shrugs out of the straight jacket he stuck himself in. The crowd goes wild and for an instant, he can't remember why he got into doing stage magic in the first place -- was it because people like him seem drawn to this sort of thing (he noticed that on one of his hunting trips to Vegas), or was it because of the attention it earns him?

( He catches the eyes of a girl in the third row, her ability humming above the din of the crowd, and he remembers. The grin he's wearing grows. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 908
Note: Tommy Karras is

magic_fratboy and is referenced with love. ♥ Written for the Six Impossible Things meme with the prompt Sylar working as a magician in Vegas, using his various powers and getting volunteers -- to get more abilities.

(Baileigh is

deep_red_bells and is used at their request. This is not biding on the verse unless the mun wants it to be and/or thinks that I didn't butcher her character.)

He hasn't slept for more than a few hours at most in years, his thoughts too full to be bothered with something so mundane. He closes his eyes, tries to quiet his mind, and he gets no where, numbers and fact and memory etching smoky pictures on the insides of his eyelids, coming and going like the rise and fall of a phantom tide. It doesn't bother him much anymore--maybe it did in the beginning, shadows of all the things he understands but no one else ever will near enough to send him falling back into his own madness, but he learned to cope with it, so long ago.

Now, he doesn't mourn his in ability to sleep, he relishes it, revels in it. So long ago he learned how to shield his thoughts just enough to stop the ebb and flow of his mind from keeping Mohinder awake, when he's home to lay with him, and how to let his mind wander just enough to be mistaken for sleeping. He's king of the twilight between awake and the sleep he can't claim anymore, and it suits him. Some of his best ideas come from that place near meditation when he lets his thoughts go to the wind, past and present and future shifting around him like the sand so often used to represent it.

While the others don't understand it--he can't quite find the words to pin down what's become of his mind in five hundred years--they at least accept it. They let him be, afraid to talk to him or to get to close, like he won't be able to pull himself back together if they do. They treat him like he's made of glass, when he rests, and he can't say he blames them. It would be so easy to just let go; be a creature of thought rather than physical being; exist everywhere and no where at once. He stays for them.

And when he senses Baileigh lingering in the doorway of his and Mohinder's room, he gathers up the pieces he's let scatter and comes back to himself, his eyelids fluttering open so that he can consider her. She looks so tired, worn and beaten by time and the immortality she doesn't want anymore, but neither of them comment on it. She nods, unconsciously grateful, and he offers her a small smile before nodding her into the room.

"Julian said you were home," she says, moving to linger near the arm of his chair.

( He nods. "No more war, no more reason to be away." )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1488

(Melissa is

capturedworlds and is used at their request. Based on this picture.)

When they'd gotten to the hotel room, Melissa had muttered something about needing a shower, grabbed a few things her bag before dropping it in its usual place by their bed and made a beeline for the bathroom. He couldn't say it was a lie, the both of them covered in dirt from where they'd collapsed in the parking lot of the diner, and it hadn't tripped his ability to feel when someone was making things up, but he didn't quite buy her line, anyway. She wanted to escape for a bit--he couldn't blame her, as he did, too--and the shower was the only real out either of them had, anymore. So he'd let her go.

Sighing, he collapsed on the bed they wouldn't end up sharing, not really caring if he destroyed it with road grime, and toed off his boots before stretching out. He laid there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling numbly, too--too something--to be bothered with trying to count the tiles, and then he was turning his head into the pillow. His eyes falling closed, he bit down on his lower lip to stifle the urge to scream, then as it passed, he was sucking in a slow breath through his teeth, letting it out just as slowly. In and out, over and over again, as he tried to remember how to breathe like a sane person, rather than the short, shallow attempts at air that had been all he'd managed since they'd left the diner. Then, once he was sure he had mastery over something as simple as breathing again, he pulled his head out of the pillow to eye the ceiling uselessly, again.

To his credit, he managed to stave off feeling like peeling off his skin would resolve all his issues for all of thirty seconds.

Another sigh, this one frustrated, and he was up from the bed, moving around the room in idle circles, as if the pacing would help, somehow. It didn't, though it did end him near the bathroom door when he realized it would do nothing for the swirl of pain and rage he was trying to keep under wraps, and he could almost swear, above the sound of the water, he could hear someone sobbing. And that, thankfully, was enough to get his mind off his own issues for more than an instant or two.

Head tilted to one side, he stared at the closed door for a moment before pushing inside. He hesitated for a moment, back pressing against the door as it closed behind him silently, and then he was reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Seconds later it was off of him, forgotten on the floor along with her clothing, his pants and boxers following suit shortly thereafter. A hand raised to nudge the curtain of the shower aside almost delicately, and then he was stepping into the shower alongside her.

( She didn't turn to face him, didn't even register that he'd gotten into the shower with him. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1325

(The Master is

savagestime and is used at their request. Based on this picture--never mind the fact that it's a man and a woman, rather than a man and a man.)

( Cut for spoilers for 3x24 - I Am Sylar )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 2309

(Claire is

girl_ofsecrets and is used at their request.)

( Cut for spoilers/rumors/speculation for the remainder of Fugitives. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1069

(Based on this picture. Claire is

girl_ofsecrets and is used at their request. Two requests for the price of one!)

The first time he'd used Doyle's ability it had been a test, the man himself a cooling corpse at his feet, the burn in his head far too sharp and sweet to settle for anything less. He'd stood up slowly, considering her like the cat that had just discovered the mouse, and then he was raising a hand, fingers fisting around an invisible marionette crossbar. She'd gone ramrod straight then, his puppet, and while the look she'd cast him was furious, she hadn't so much as flinched at this abuse of her body. She'd seen it coming and she faced it unafraid, so he'd only made her walk circles around the body a handful of times before he'd let her go. She'd slapped him; he'd told her it was time to go. It was as simple as that.

The second time had been a threat, his handle on himself slipping, the last of his sanity slipping away to the dark like a candle long forgotten about. He'd pressed her up against the glass of the window of their hotel room, making her stare down into the courtyard, the promised fall long and hard, before making her turn to put her back to it. He'd told her that he could make sure she died in earnest if she wanted to--he could feel her ability like this, turn it off if he really felt like it--and he knew she did. He knew she wanted to die. She denied it vehemently, and for once he'd didn't know or didn't care whether or not she was telling the truth--she was afraid, and that was all that had mattered. It had been just what the doctor ordered, and he'd let her go a few minutes later, only to take a head dive into the courtyard himself. One of them had had to die for both their sakes and to get the ball rolling on their plan.

The third time--now--and they were in bed. He was leaning over her, the denimed leg between her bare thighs as much for his own support as it was to tease her. He hadn't let her get him out of his jeans just yet, despite the fact that she was down to her panties herself, and he kept her from even reaching for his waistband, his fingers mapping out the sensitive skin of her stomach, his mouth pressed to hers. She murmured something half-heartedly against his lips, the words dissolving into a whimper near the end as he kneaded at the space just above the rise of her hip, and she pressed up into him, wanting more.

( He didn't need his shiny new toy to have his way with her--wouldn't, since he'd gotten her to talk about why she'd been so upset the first night he'd made her stay--but it could certainly make things interesting. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1363

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has marked as possibly inappropriate for anyone under the age of 18. )

(Mohinder is

genetic_fate and is used at their request. Yes, I'm still working on these, and yes, yet again I copped out on actual smut. Shut up.)

and soon it will be all said and done
and we will all be back together as one
if we will continue at all

He's old now. So old that he's lost count of the turn of the years, each passing moment like grains of sand, slipping through fingers that don't even bother to try and catch them. There's no point to it, no reason to savor the moments, everything, even the near insatiable hunger of his youth, having long since shriveled and died. For as dark as that seems, however, there is no sadness, this loss of his not something to mourn. It just is, just like he is. Fact, forever.

He supposes it's easy to mistake, though; he hasn't spoken in nearing ten years.

It's not that he's so broken by his own timelessness that he's lost his mind. He still goes out in public, still lives and breathes and does, it's more that everything he could possibly say has already been said. Everything but three words, and since everything dies, there's no point to that, either. It's like that song from centuries ago that only he remembers the words to. It's dust in the wind. And while he knows that his silence earns him odd looks and pointed fingers, when he has his back turned, but he doesn't care.

( He's never cared much for the opinions of others, and people seem to be able to read his facial expressions and archaic gestures well enough. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 625 (without lyrics)

(Daniel Buzzetti is

buzz_me and appears at their request. Six fics done, six to go. Holy crap, I created a monster.)

You don't like it here; you never have, really. You're a city boy, always have and always will be, and while you understand the necessity of the move out here to Colorado, the whole place puts you on edge. It's too quiet--even in the dead streets of New York, you could hear the buzz of power and life. There are too many animals--the entire place reeks; you're glad you never picked up an enhanced sense of smell. And let's not even get started on your gracious host.

Daniel Buzzetti.

He's too calm. Too collected. Even you felt something when New York died around you, and you pride yourself on not letting little things like remorse get to you. But him? He seems to take the whole thing in stride--hell, he doesn't even flinch when you tell him you're a killer--and somehow it makes you feel more like a stranger in a strange land. Probably because the first time you meet, you write it off as simple country boy charm.

( On your second meeting, you're not so sure. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 760

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

( Cut for spoilers for S3 of Heroes )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1115

She sounds like clockwork. Not ticking, not like they sound, but like a hundred delicate gears turning in unison. Like warm summer days, spent late in his father's workshop when he was a boy, and cold winter nights, spent in silence in his own when he grew up. It fascinates him, and so he leaves the hustle and bustle of the ball behind him, and heads out onto the balcony where she's standing.

She starts when she catches him out of the corners of her eyes, but her composure is quick to return as she shifts to face him, silk and lace whispering as she moves. She watches him for a moment, the look familiar--analytical, like considering a bug under glass--and then she asks, "You are not enjoying the party?"

For not the first time tonight, he's glad he brushed up on his French before coming here. "I needed some fresh air." A pause and then, "You?"

"It is my birthday," she informs him, raising her chin slightly, "and the evening's festivities have left me worn. I am certain my guests can excuse my absence long enough for me to refresh myself."

( He's not sure if that's a coy attempt at a brush off, but he doesn't want to leave. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 991

( Cut for spoilers for 3x04 - I Am Become Death )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 531 (without lyrics)

To date, Elle has tried to kill him three times already.

The first time, he had still been a prisoner of the Company, leashed and led a few times a week for a walk around the proverbial park. He'd just gotten back from assignment, following obediently at Bennet's heels as they navigated the corridors, making a beeline for his cell on Level Five. All had seemed right in the world, except for maybe the fact that they'd come back empty-handed--mom wouldn't be happy--and then the doors behind them had exploded inwards.

Bennet spun, fingers fumbling for his gun, but him? He'd just turned casually as if this sort of thing happened every day. And really, it did. He'd been expecting this, for more than just the fact that he'd heard her heart hammering, murderous intent making her pulse sing in his ears for more than three blocks. She wanted revenge for what he'd done to her father; he couldn't say he blamed her.

Of course, anyone who knew him knew how well attempts at vengeance went with him, and this time was no different. The only thing that had stopped him from killing her--and maybe Bennet, too, as it would be so easy to get rid of the thorn in his side and claim friendly fire--had been Angela showing up with the Haitian.

( The second time, he'd reclaimed a little more of his freedom. )

Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 1179