heroes; elle bishop/claire bennet
for international day of femslash
-- there's heat and ice and damn she wants to make this girl burn, wants to see the smoke rise from her skin as it crackles and flakes beneath, wants to see her scream and beg for her to--
The palm of her left hand sparks as she moves it down a scant few inches, a jagged line on Claire's arm of scorched flesh trailing up to pinkish healing skin, and Claire just hisses the slightest sound, lips tight and eyes still hard on hers. Elle almost smiles, but then Claire whips forward and grabs a handful of hair, jarring her head backwards and she yelps as she stumbles, her fingers digging into Claire's arm. Her hand itches.
They stay frozen, not moving to defend or attack or do anything to move away. Elle licks her lips and neither look away. The room is bright, too bright, and the silence surrounds them like shadows as Claire takes a small step forward and draws her hand back in, fist still clenched tight. Elle lets her fingers loosen, just a little, and the stark bruises on Claire's arm quickly vanish. They're too close (warm breath against her cheek, eyes wide and dark) and Claire suddenly drops everything and moves back.
"Oh," Elle pouts, as she steps away, "I wanted to see you snap." She grins, before kissing her.
Oh, now there's what she wanted, as Claire doesn't even hesitate before biting her bottom lip, hard. Elle doesn't stop, shoving her backwards until they hit a wall and there's something fierce between them, electricity dancing across her fingertips and across Claire's skin, kissing with something like desperation and anger and unable to stop.
"I'm impressed, pompom," she breathes against her mouth as Claire snarls, "I hate you," then a laugh and neither stop, pulling closer and pulling hair and there's blood and scars and smoke. It hurts. It's painful as fingernails and sparks dig into her hip, as a hand twists through her hair and brings teeth and lips crashing together. She isn't allowed normal and so both take this with a vicious glee, the thrill of something so similar and so achingly different that it's a kind of gloriously fucked-up comfort.
It's barely anything, really, just mouths and skin and heat, but it works and neither want to--