‘yeah a boyfriend sounds nice but a supreme enemy you can make out with sometimes in secret sounds a lot more hardcore’ x
One of the worst things about college is starting a new class. Aside from reading lists and expectations required, a staple of such is the dreaded ‘tell everyone a bit about yourself.’ Share a secret no one knows. Name one interesting fact. Describe yourself in one word.
She’s a lot of things, really. Preppy, determined, loyal, family-orientated (does it count as one word if you add a hyphen?). But stubborn, that’s the one that stands out to her most as she checks her watch and taps her foot in impatience.
She likes to stand her ground. Maybe it’s a height thing, that she has to challenge opinions constantly. Or maybe it’s just a blonde thing, that she has to prove that she doesn’t fit the ridiculous stereotype.
Or maybe it’s because, in circumstances like these, it’s easier to stand by her beliefs than admit that she’s wrong.
She hates being wrong, especially when the repercussions mean she’s constantly looking forward to her next make out session.
The new fix you just posted about Claire dying and then Sylar helping get her back, have you posted it on a site like Archive of Our Own? If you haven't would you mind posting it so I can find it more easily? Thanks!!!!!! Loved it!!!!!
Edit: You can find it here for future reference, and there’s a link in the navigation bar too. Thank you for your kind words!
You said somewhere you used to write fanfiction? What was the name of any you wrote - you still have it?
Oh man, yeah, my first attempts were during the time season four aired in the UK. Let it Bleed was shown, and then I think there was a hiatus or something, and I kind of went crazy waiting to know what happened.
Thus began my perilous mission of writing crappy fanfics to keep me going.
I wrote a couple of one shots, but my ‘main’ fic was around thirty chapters long before I pulled the plug. It was called Compromises, and to this day, it haunts me, aha. I have it saved on my computer somewhere, so if you’re ever in need of a laugh, let me know.
Death was something Sylar had been introduced to when he was just a boy, which meant that when he began his ongoing mission to obtain as many abilities as possible, he was able to shake the Reaper’s hand and greet him like a best friend he hadn’t seen in years.
Everything died (almost). Plants, animals, humans who weren’t given the ability to live forever, humans who weren’t given the ability to steal a chance at immortality; they all died.
It had once hurt, seeing his family disappear, watching people inflict pain on his relatives. When he was the one inflicting the same upon others, he was numb to it.
Blink, and it was gone.
There was a loud thud against his bedroom door at 6:37am, a number destined to be etched into his brain for the rest of eternity. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another twenty three minutes, and Peter’s even later than that.
He considered ignoring it, a last ditch attempt at getting a brief nap before he needed to be up, but as always, his curiosity got the better of him.
It killed the cat, apparently, but he had more than a measly nine lives.
He looked at the pants hanging on his wardrobe. Did he need to be dressed smartly to see what was going on? If it was an intruder, no; no point getting blood on his favourite shirt.
He tilted his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. No blood. That was the old him, the one that was fascinated by blood, pain, death, clockwork.
He examined his pyjama bottoms and his white vest shirt. Peter had seen in him worse (he’d once worn a Spice Girls tank top to prove he could win a bet, after all).
Running a hand over his unruly bed hair, he opened the door to find Peter Petrelli sprawled across the floor in shock, his face raw with emotion, his hands clutching at his phone.
Sylar froze, ice filling his veins, pounding in his ears.
Peter couldn’t even look at him as he choked out the word that Sylar seemed to anticipate in his gut, holding up a photo of something he didn’t want to see.
Twenty three thousand, eight hundred and twenty seconds into the day, and Claire Bennet was dead.
I do indeed, though it may be a few days before I finish them. I’m still in Heroes rewatch mode so that I can choose the best bits to work with (I have tons of Hayden content to make use of, but the hard bit is getting something Sylar related to match), so it depends how quickly I can put something together. Until then, I think I’ll work on random prompts (send me them here if you’re feeling extra lovely) for a bit to keep the creative juices flowing, shall we say.
Imagine your OTP fighting over who is using too much of the blanket.
For the third time in two minutes, the girl beside him huffed loud enough to wake the dead. Sylar, however, wasn’t taking the bait. He knew that she was waiting for him to ask what was wrong, and that would open a whole can of worms that he didn’t really need.
At least, not when he was trying to sleep.
A fourth huff made him growl under his breath, which seemed to be all the invitation Claire needed to prod him sharply between the ribs.
"Quit it," he hissed, turning his back on her as he burrowed his head further into the pillow.
"You’re doing it again," came her haughty reply, and she prodded him again for good measure.
God, girls. This is why he avoided girls.
Yawning, he scrunched his eyes closed in a childish attempt to block out her incessant whining. “And what is ‘it’, exactly?”
Despite weather forecasters insisting that it was going to be a very warm winter, overnight, snowflakes had fallen from the heavens to coat the ground in an unfamiliar white blanket.
Claire had been the first to go outside as the sun rose, half afraid it would melt before she had time to relish in it. Of all the things she’d imagined her immortal life to be, she had never considered the fact that global warming might rob her of some of the things she’d always known. Like snow, for instance, a rare delight that had all but disappeared in most states of the US.
Woolly hat and gloves on (which she hadn’t had cause to wear in a long time), Claire stepped out into her yard and shivered with delight at the sound of the snow crunching beneath her boots. She closed her eyes, remembering with a smile the winter vacations the Bennets would go on to escape the heat of their Texas home. Lyle was always the first to throw a snowball (usually at the back of Claire’s head), while her mom would tut and hug Mr Muggles close to her chest (though she always smiled to herself as she watched). Her dad usually had paperwork to do, but he’d still manage to find time to help build a snowman before they retired in front of a fire, hot chocolates at the ready.
She’s been warring with her emotions for way longer than necessary, she’s fully aware of that, but it’s on a lazy Sunday afternoon that Claire Bennet realises just how much she’s in love with Sylar. It dawns on her as she’s running a scrubbing brush over her dishes, chipping away at the dirt, that there’s really no reason to deny her feelings anymore. She’s in a good place, emotionally, finally, and she’s ready to take that jump, a completely different, but just as daunting leap as her infamous ferris wheel anecdote that feels like a lifetime ago.
Brushing her hair from her eyes, she sends a simple text to the man she once feared, offering him coffee and cookies in a cafe they like to frequent.
In a heartbeat, he sends a short reply, a confirmation that he’s happy to serve her caffeine cravings, and she smiles wistfully as she hurries to ready herself for him.
"Come on, you chicken."
He grits his teeth and shakes his head as Claire grins at him, knowing full well that once she uses the poultry card, he inevitably has to give in to whatever she’s demanding (and she’s taken to demanding a lot of things this past year). He takes a sip of the vile cocktail she forced upon him and shudders. Her tongue is pressed against the inside of her cheek as she rocks back and forth in her seat, that twinkle in her eye that comes and goes.
The death of Noah Bennet hit her hard. An accident at work resulted in an early demise for a guy Sylar had frequently loved to hate, and Claire had all but gone off the deep end. Even Super Peter hadn’t been able to stop her from spiralling into a dangerous depression.
Enter Mr (Reformed) Bad Guy. It started out as a way for Claire to vent her anger, name calling and sharp object throwing, and then somehow, Sylar found himself at the cinema with the preppy blonde, watching another Spiderman remake as she pushed kernel after kernel of popcorn into her mouth (any time he tried to look at her instead of the screen, he’d get one in the eye).
There’d be months with no contact until she’d invite herself round for an impromptu sleepover, force him to go to the zoo, take him to a musical playing at the theatre, and hell, he just couldn’t say no (though the thought never even crossed his mind).
“You’re staring again.” She crosses her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised. She sounds mad, looks mad, but he recongises that twitch of her lips, that double blink of her eyes, and doesn’t bother to feel ashamed.
“So you can get out of it?” She shakes her head. “Chicken.”
Sylar huffs to himself, grabs the glass in front of him, and downs the fruity cocktail in one. It has no bearing on his state of mind, but it’s become their ‘thing’, of sorts. It’s almost close to normal, forgetting who (and what) they are.
He leans forward, mouth against her ear, and pretends not to hear the way her heart races at their proximity. “You owe me one, cheerleader.”
He steps back and takes a deep breath. Focus; he’s not going to let her win. He walks towards the bar, his body tense and eyebrows set in a frown, and taps the shoulder of an overly muscled man.
“Excuse me, but would you be interested in a threesome with me and my sister? She’s the blonde dwarf sitting over there.” He winks, and runs a tongue over his lips. “You can choose which one of us to fuck first.”
The two of them leave shortly after that, Sylar sporting a freshly healed nose. Her dares are often stupid (and always seem to end in his misery, nonetheless), but he’s somewhat of a sucker these days, and he’d do anything to try and keep a smile on her troubled little face.
I used to write a lot of Sylaire fanfiction, so to get back into the swing of things, I’d really appreciate a prompt or two. A word, a sentence, a song; anything would be appreciated. Just drop it in my ask, and I’ll try to give them a go! Thanks in advance!
sylaire; Claire cutting Sylar's hair (idk samson and delilah style)
omg so I’m not very familiar with Samson and Delilah, I remember very little, so this is… improved. Very improved. Yay?
It’s decades of time that passes before she sees him again, now, in this half-advanced and half-desolated society of the future and his hair makes her think of the Jesus appearance her childhood cemented into her mind, a thought that makes her recoil because he was not a son of god — if he was anything religious, then he was the demon of man, and he was a demon she had vowed to forever attempt to kill.
For better or worse, she invites him into her home, her life, under the pretense of keeping an eye on him and giving him the company he desires after so long as he casts himself in the light of the lonely god in need of a goddess — how absurd, she thinks as she continues to attempt working 9 to 5 jobs and blending into society, these 300 years after her birth — and he accepts this offer, trusts her, all up until the point of her brandishing one innocent pair of scissors.
“Just let me at it”, she asks, over and over, and time after time he flings them across the room without even touching them, sending her that glare she is so familiar with; at the twentieth or so time, she approaches him with soft fingers through his hair and lulls him into security before he sighs, acquiesces; she cuts his whole head into perfect, almost proud at herself for such a simple task, before he asks “I thought you were going to try killing me forever”, startling her back into the reality of the situation; the scissors he finds in his throat a second later are most assuredly his fault.