bakerstreet | picture prompt meme.

[Things haven't been easy between them. They both knew they wouldn't be when they went on the run, of course. Two fuctioning physchopaths living together? Sometimes, on her own, Elle laughs at how absurd it sounds on paper. Her baggage is about as big and heavy as his - every day is a new wxperience and Elle finds that more often than not, she's happy. She's five steps away, she realizes, from moving on from liking Gabriel to loving him. She doubts she'll ever say it out loud. Not first, anyway.

She tip-toes down the corridor of his apartment, dressed in one his shirts and the prettiest lingerie she found while out shopping. The door to his study is ajar and when she knocks and peeks her head around.

It's weird, she thinks, the things you regret in hindsight. Of all the things she already regrets, she realizes she never got to see him fix her watch. She smiles, pressing her cheek to the cold, flat wood of the door. Half a second later, she tip-toes up behind him, arms snaking around his shoulder, her chin resting atop his crown. ]

Mr. Gray, I'm afraid it's very late.

[ Queens isn't by any means his favorite place to call home but he likes his space there. His shop, the apartment, it all comes neatly together and functions as it should, a retreat whether he attends to one or the other. The police don't seem to think he'll return to either, which gives it a nice change of pace when no one comes knocking. The shop is closed for the night and only the warm amber lamps in the back study give life to the surroundings, the soft ticking buried in the shadows a comfort that allows him to tune up his watch with delicate instruments, something he's been meaning to do for a while.

He doesn't hear Elle's bare-footed steps and twitches in mild surprise when she touches him, reclining a moment later as he hums around the instrument caught between his lips before plucking it out. ]

Mmhm, just a second ... Almost done. [ The quiet snick of the cover fixing back into place heralds a timely ticking that puts a satisfied smile on his face. He glances up, leaning to the side to buff a kiss on her cheek. ] Hi.

[ The hand that drops at his side to affectionately squeeze a knee comes up against skin, effectively diverting his attention so Sylar turns halfway around in his seat upon noticing a distinct lack of pants. Or a skirt. Anything but his own top and something ... frilly.

Oh.

With anyone else he would have made a smartass comment, but here in his personal sanctuary with Elle it hardly seems appropriate. ]

Can't sleep?

Something like that.

[ELle likes the privacy here. She doesn't feel safe anywhere, but it's close enough here. She kisses a temple, lingering close, eyes hooded and her fingers flexing against his chest. When she straightens, she lifts an arm and combs her fingers through his hair, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

She is, by her own admition, spoiled rotten. She's always been greedy for the approval of her father, and now for the atention of Gabriel Gray (Sylar is, tonight, a footnote in what has been a very long two years). She turns his chair and meets his eyes. He is, sometimes, too adorable for his own good. Bare knees against jean clad ones, she presses her free hand against his own and slowly drags it up about a centimetre higher.

Innocently:]

I've never seen you work before.

[She 'hmmms' softly, filling up the quiet of a brief pause. ]

Your focused face is very cute.

[ Humming quietly in the pit of his throat when her fingers score through his hair, he's lulled enough to let her turn the chair and guide his hand higher, a second parodying the caress under his shirt-tails to hike them up over his wrists, soft lingerie fluttering under spreading palms. ]

That wasn't work, that was for fun.

[ Smile deepening, he tugs forward on her thighs to get her to step closer, wanting all the fastenings and ribbons that much closer to an inspired gaze. How the pieces go ... If only his over-hanging shirt wasn't in the way. ]

I know I didn't have any of these upstairs. [ His eyes tick up as a thumb casually releases one of those suspenders to snap against the back of a thigh. ] Where did you get them from?

[She obliges him with a half step forwards, legs either side his thighs. She stands, for now, the position giving her a rush of false power she isn't quite ready to part with. Her cheeks puff out in a childish sort of pout; his hand is abandoned in favor of tapping finger against her chin thoughtfully. The pretense is too hard to keep up, especially when she's been waiting for an opportunity to surprise him with her new ensemble.

A sly smirk works it's way fluidly onto her face. Elle Bishop is a girl of mischief, after all. ]

You have your secrets, and I have mine. Do you like them?

[She obliges again, by hiking up the ends of the shirt, just barely enough to see where the suspenders begin. ]

[ Nodding his way in, his lips trail open-mouthed over the waistband of the intricate garment, tongue pressing wet and firm to the soft fabric in a mediated stripe that almost dips low enough to be more than a tease; almost being the critical word. Sylar's nose nudges the frills, the cool panes of his glasses trapped against the skin of a navel as he inhales the sweet musk rising off her body. ]

I do. [ He works his fingers under the suspenders splaying down her ass and drags her in the last remaining couple of inches so he can pluck at her underwear with mindful teeth. She's gorgeous like this, smart enough to keep him interested even after they fight like cat and dog. His nails dig in slightly, arousal pooling between spread legs. ] I really do, Elle, this is ... You look lovely.

[There's a pleased rise of colour in her cheeks and a noise of satisfaction that lingers and hums in her throat. She spreads her fingers through his hair, twisting and tugging gently (playfully) when he pauses to speak. Lovely is the way he showers her with attention. She smiles, the sly drifting out of her expression in favor of something more affectionate. There's a phantom surge of electricity wherever lace springs back against her skin, one that has arousal twisting up the butterflies in her stomach and pooling down between her thighs.

Gabriel is the kind of gentle that's tinged with subtle roughness; it is far less of a surprise than it should be. She catches her lower lip with her teeth, and preens just a little. The spoiled part of her is thrilled that he likes them.]

Flattery will get you everywhere.

[Everywhere is a subjective term. She plucks, idly, at the top few buttons of her shirt. There's a brief, teasing glimpse of cleavage and then her hand finds purchase on his shoulder. ]

[ A sigh bathes her stomach as he tilts his head up to see her, the rasp of stubble over Elle's skin a rough counterpoint to soft lips. He very much wants to drag her onto his lap but there's a teasing chord to the way she panders to his needs that almost feels like a challenge. ]

I hope so.

[ Reclining in his old chair, he runs his hands up the backs of lace-covered thighs and coaxes her in, brow resting against a pubic bone as Sylar licks at the warm mound of her sex through too-thin fabric, generous in every long rolling swipe that soaks her panties. His ass nearly hangs off the chair altogether but his feet are braced on the floor and keep him in position, allowing Elle to rise up however she wishes without too much straining.

Two can play at this game, she's got permission to ride his mouth however she sees fit. ]

Oh ...

[Her toes curl into the rug, her fingers scraping against his scalp as she tries to find purchase in soft, tussled brown strands. On her tip-toes, she grips and tugs, gasping out a surprised, breathless laugh. There's no tentative first movement of her hips; Elle rocks against his mouth, riding out a pace that's slow, but deliberately so. Elle craves control in everything and she takes it whenever she can get it. She doesn't mind, however, the teasing swipe of his tongue over her panties. Games like these keep things interesting.

She swallows down a choked noise, lips pressing together in a tight line. A pleasurable jolt spikes through her and eyelashes flutter, eyes clenched tight for a prolonged moment as she clutches onto her composure.

She exhales a soft mmm, eyes blinking open and a smirk tugging onto her lips. ]

[ He's fairly certain he loves being with her more than a great deal of other small victories procured in his life. Gaining abilities is one aspect of his hunger but so is making sure Elle is happy, getting her beautiful body to run as it should with every rub of a live tongue along her lingerie, soaking it in sticky hot heat that clings to skin and leaves a new dampness there, his own inflicted.

Brushing aside the scant, ruined material, Sylar finds a firm grip on canting hips to slow them down considerably and licks delicately at blushing folds, languidly parting her around a long lithe muscle. He doesn't her her sink down, not yet; there's so much to sensitize first. Stubble scrapes on the insides of Elle's thigh as he dips his chin, straining in his pants without relief in his dedication, spurred on by the grip in his hair.

There are several exaggerated sighs, solely so she doesn't forget it is his mouth she's riding. Late as it is, the windows in the other room provide glimpse into the workshop and if anyone were to walk by at such an hour ... ]

[The air in her lungs stops and stutters, lingering in her throat as it tries to escape. She makes a choked sound, her hands tugging at Gabriel's hair with unintentional roughness. She tries to keep herself aware. There's more at stake than just the accidental tugging of hair hair, after all. Her fingertips, while grasping and tugging at brown locks, are one false move away from a nasty shock. She can feel the electricity bubbling under her skin, desperate to be let loose. Her concentration is split between his mouth and keeping her power at bay.

(There is a part of her, however small, who knows he could handle a small shock. He could handle it far better than Peter ever could. )

He thigh tremble with the effort to stay standing. Elle is persistent, but she is, at her core, only made of the same stuff as everyone else. She can't help the loud, raw moan that escapes her mouth nor the way she bows her head, teeth catching her lower lip hard enough to sting. ]

[ He can almost feel the tingle of static in his hair, a warning growl vibrating along his tongue as he deigns to slide it inside tight wet heat, beginning to fuck her to his own rhythm. On his time, at his command, he'll make her come; not before. Until then, Elle's trembling thighs as rewarded by scraping nails and Sylar plays her like a a finely-tuned instrument to get more of those lovely cries ringing free. ]

[Someone told her, once, about Gabriel Gray. This was after poor Trevor was dead and gone and Elle had begun to move on with her life. Peter was shiny and new, and Sylar was a horror story hiding in the streets of New York. They said dissociation and Elle had thought don't make excuses. Gabriel Gray and Sylar are separate in the sense that she's always believed the later to be fictional. A coping mechanism. Something pretend for a man with a guilty conscience.

He is, to her mind, very present right now. This assertiveness, this firm grasp of control is distinctively Sylar. It's a farm less frightening realization than she expected it to be. She is, however, Elle - and, well: ]

Gabriel ...

[Elle has never played nice. She moans, her hands balling into fists against his shoulders. Her legs, she realizes dazedly, are not going to keep her upright for much longer. ]

picture prompt meme.

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