watchmakersylar: (Not Fluffy)
Character: Sylar and Satan
Genre: Crack
Author: [personal profile] sylar
Fandom: Heroes w/a little Bedazzled
Word count: 550 ish
Rating: PG
Prompts: Meme #12 Seven Wishes for One Little Soul for [community profile] a_muse_meme
Notes: This is pure crack, set way the hell in the future.

I watched a trio of dust devil twist and twine around each other outside of the city shields from the balcony of my office. The heat and biting wind didn’t reach inside where we were safe. I’d created the shields myself, and the people were grateful for them. The world had gone to hell after the wars, and the cities that could afford to buy my shield generators thrived while the rest got swallowed by the weather and the lingering fallout. I was their savior, and the most powerful man in the world. And that wasn’t counting in the dozens of abilities that I had at my disposal. I had it all power, wealth, influence and notoriety. I loved my life. Who wouldn’t?

“You’re one hell of a smug bastard, Sylar.” I turned to see Noah leaning on my desk. He was smirking and idly playing with the antique clock that I kept there. I’d tell him to put it down, but he was doing it to bother me. That’s what the devil does.

“As I should be,” I said as I poured myself a drink, a nice glass of clean, pure, iced water that only the very rich could afford. Of course I had a power that would purify all that I wanted, but this came out of a bottle. I enjoyed being decadent. I walked over to my desk, snatching the clock out of Lucifer’s hands and sat down, then put my feet up on the desk to sip my water. “I’d offer you some, but I’d hate to wash the bad taste out of your mouth.”

“We had a deal, and I think that I’ve waited more than long enough. It’s been three hundred years!” Lucifer snapped at me, his eyes flaring crimson behind his horn rimmed glasses. Wearing Noah’s face was his favorite way to remind me of my demons. It used to give me the creeps, but after a couple of hundred years it wasn’t much better than a bad Halloween costume.

“It’s been two hundred and ninety-eight years, 7 months and fourteen days,” I pointed out. I’ve always had an affinity for time. “I made my wishes. I’m rich. I’m powerful. I’m loved, I’m immortal, and I’m feared. I’ve got everything I could ever possibly want.”

“But you aren’t playing the game right, Sylar.” He dropped into the chair across from me, and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward me that I deflected with a bit of power right back into his face. “You’re supposed to die at some point, so I can collect your soul.”

“Sucks to be you. You did your best, trying to keep me away from the Cheerleader, but once I had that power, you lost any chance you had at getting my soul.” I dropped my legs down, and turned in my chair to face him. “Besides, I’ve never used my last wish. That’s another little loophole that I intend to exploit for all it’s worth.”

“Fine.” He ground his cigarette out into the top of my desk. The burn mark was quickly absorbed and the finish restored. Making Lucifer’s frown tip down yet another notch, the Morning Star was less than thrilled with modern technology. “Then what’s the last thing you want, Sylar. Tell me.”

I knew that I was I safe to say it. Unless I used the words ‘I wish’, there was nothing that he could do about it. I licked my lips and leaned forward, lowering my voice as I told the Prince of Darkness my last wish. “I’d like your job.”
watchmakersylar: (Death Stare)
Character: Sylar/Peter
Genre: slash
Author: [ profile] sylar
Fandom: Heroes
Word count: 520
Rating: PG
Prompts: Meme #10 It hurts when I do that for [ profile] a_muse_meme
Notes: Can't seem to get away from the Wall.

“If you don’t stop doing that, Peter, I’m going to kill you.” My head was throbbing, and my stomach was trying to tell me that I was a starfish. It wanted to be outside of my body, and as much as I’d already thrown up I was surprised that it wasn’t floating in the toilet at the apartment.

Peter didn’t hear me. How could he through the fall of that fucking sledge hammer? He raised it over his shoulder and took yet another mighty swing, and the clang of bricks and steel echoed through the alley and between the buildings. The pain in my head spiked, and I seriously considered taking one of the spare hammers and using it on his fucking head. The problem with that was that I’d a – be alone and b – it’d be too noisy.

“Peter! Stop!” I trudged closer. Each clang and bang making me grit my teeth as I latched onto his shoulder to stop him. “Please.”

“Sylar? What the hell?” He turned, letting the hammer fall to the pavement that was as unmarked or damaged as the god forsaken Wall. “You look like shit.”

“Shit’s lucky then.” I let go of him and turned to lean against the bricks, fighting the urge to throw up all over him. Although that would be a great way to get him to stop this colossal waste of time for a few hours of blessed quiet. “I feel like it too.”

His concern melted away to be replaced by a big smile, and he let out a snort of a laugh. “You’re hungover! Oh shit! I didn’t think. I mean we sort of have regen here, and you didn’t drink as much as I did. But seriously? You’re hungover? What did you have two beers?”

“Two beers and half a bottle of tequila.” What the hell was I thinking? Peter wasn’t a drunk, but he had more experience, as usual, and tolerance than I did. “Did you forget the tequila discussion?”

“Oh no, I remember that.” He nodded, and I could swear there was an evil glint in his eyes. “I remember me daring you to swallow the worm. You know, I think it’s funny that someone who gets off on digging through someone’s warm brain would be grossed out about eating a little worm that’s been pickled in tequila forever. It’s germ free, you know.”

That did it. I rushed from the wall and grabbed onto the dumpster as I threw up. It hurt. I hated puking, and I hated Peter for making me do it. He’d been the one who brought the fucking tequila home, and he was the one pounding on the Wall, making my head hurt worse.

“I’m sorry, Sylar.” I stiffened when I felt his hand rubbing between my shoulder blades, and then he pressed one of his bottles of water into my hand. “Come on. Let’s get you home. I promise no more noise for the rest of the day.”

“Good,” I said. I finished rinsing my mouth, spitting that onto the pavement with the vomit. “Because if you did, I’d have to reconsider this entire friendship/roommate thing.”


watchmakersylar: (Default)
Sylar - Gabriel Gray

July 2012

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