Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/146625.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Heroes_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Elle_Bishop/Thompson
  Character:
      Elle_Bishop, Thompson
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Age_Play, Community:_kink_bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-12-31 Words: 2662
****** Not Quite Nabokov ******
by airspaniel
Summary
     Ten years of Elle Bishop's life. A certain common denominator.
Notes
     Originally written for Kink_Bingo. Prompt: age play.

1991
Elle Bishop has been nine years old for four whole days. It’s hard to tell,
though, since she’s had this needle in her arm the whole time and it makes her
feel funny. Slower, somehow. But her daddy told her it would help her feel
better, and she trusts him.
She doesn’t like it, though.
Every day a woman in white clothes comes in and brings her food, changes the
little bag attached to her needle. Her name is Justine, and Elle doesn’t like
her, either.
She doesn’t like anybody anymore.
Until one day a man comes into her room. He’s tall and he’s got a lot more hair
than her daddy does, thick and dark and kind of silvery. He smiles at her, and
she smiles back without even thinking about it.
“Hello, Elle,” he says, crossing over to her bed and sitting down right next to
her. He’s warm, she can feel it even through her clothes, through his clothes.
It feels nice.
“Hi,” she says back. “What’s your name?”
He smiles again, and puts his hand on her knee. “You can call me Mister
Thompson. I’m a friend of your father’s. We work together.” He leans in then,
like he’s telling her a secret. “And you are a very special little girl.”
Elle blushes, just a little bit. “That’s what Daddy says. But then sometimes he
gets really mad, because sometimes I do stuff that hurts people, and I can’t
help it, and that’s why I’m here.” She leans in, too, looks up at him and wow,
he really is tall.
“I don’t like it here.”
He cocks his head like he’s listening; like he’s concerned, almost. “What do
you like, Elle?”
She looks down at his hand, still on her leg. Looks at her hands, folded in her
lap, so small next to his. You, she wants to say, though she doesn’t know why.
She just met him.
“Unicorns,” she answers, after a long and considering pause. “And kittens, even
though Daddy said I can’t have any pets because I’ll hurt them.”
Thompson chuckles, and it makes her feel weirdly shy, but also kind of happy.
“Well, all right,” he says, patting her knee as he stands up to leave. He opens
the door again and the light in the hallway makes him all shadowy.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Elle. Be seeing you.”
-----
She doesn’t see him again, and things get a lot worse. Every day Justine takes
her out and people poke her with more needles and hook her up to machines and
make her try and zap things, and she just wants to go home, only she’s got no
home to go to. She doesn’t see her daddy, either, and she’s sad and angry and
so lonely she doesn’t know what to do.
But one day she comes back to her room, and there’s a toy unicorn on her bed
with a note right next to it.
His name is Franklin. Take good care of him. - T
And she does, until a year later when she zaps Justine and accidentally sets
him on fire.
 

1997
Elle barely remembers the unicorn, barely remembers anything except for how
good it makes her feel when her father says “good job” and “I’m proud of you.”
How good it makes her feel to let her power loose. To use it to make people do
what she wants.
She doesn’t care who she hurts, and doesn’t remember a time when she did.
But the moment he opens her door, she does remember that dark and silver hair,
that smile like he was the only one in on the joke, and maybe he’d share it
with her.
And oh, he’s still so tall and strong-looking. She wanted him to stay when she
was nine years old, but now… now she knows why.
“Hey, Mister Thompson,” she calls out, one hip cocked out to the side as she
leans against the wall, back arched just a little to show off her still new
breasts.
“Hello, Elle,” he chuckles, and it runs straight down her spine. “My, how
you’ve grown.”
“Since you last saw me,” she shoots back, trying for cool indifference. “What’s
kept you so long?”
Thompson’s lips twist up at the corner, something wry, something calculating in
the expression. “Been busy. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you; on your
progress.” He shakes his head, impressed. “You really are an extraordinary
talent.”
“Sure,” Elle agrees, shrugging casually. “I’ve got a few things I can do.” She
hates herself for it, but she can feel her face flushing.
“More than a few,” he says, stepping in closer to her. “You, Elle, are one of
the most powerful people I have ever met. And,” he adds, taking her hand and
lifting it to his lips. “One of the prettiest.”
Goddamn it, goddamn it. She’s bright red now and can’t help it. In the space of
a second she imagines all kinds of things, things she doesn’t really know about
and might never actually do, but that mostly involve his (soft, warm, oh
slightly parted) lips against her skin. He draws back, but keeps her hand in
his for just a moment longer; and the second he lets go is a physical ache.
“You…” she starts and has to try again, licking her lips against the sudden
dry-mouth she has, damnit. “You staying around this time? ‘Cause you could.
Stay, I mean.” Damnit.
He shakes his head just a little. “Sorry, darlin’, but duty calls. I just
wanted to look in on you and… see how you were getting along.” He looks into
her eyes, and she’s sure he can see everything from the way he smirks at her.
“You need anything?”
That sounded like an invitation, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She’s hearing
things.
“A ticket outside would be nice,” she says at length. “Maybe a job here with
you and my dad. I can help you, y’know.”
Thompson nods, and she knows that was the right answer. “I know you can. And
you will, soon enough.” Then he reaches out, puts two fingertips under her chin
and tips her face up, and Elle can feel her heart skip a beat. “Till then.”
 

1998
She’s not sure why she started this, not at all sure why he’s going along with
it, but when his hand slides over her waist, slips up under her shirt to press
hot against her spine, Elle just arches against him. His hands are so big, and
she’s never noticed before, not like this.
Thompson chuckles against her neck, and the soft vibration makes her gasp a
little, makes little sparks flicker and die on her fingertips.
“I could hurt you,” she says, gasps really, because she’s not used to feeling
like this.
He laughs in earnest then. “You could.”
“I’d, oh… I’d like to.” She digs her fingers into his broad shoulders, nips at
his earlobe because it seems like the thing to do. “I like hurting people. I
think it’s fun,” she whispers, and it’s the closest thing to a confession
anyone’s ever gotten from her in the seven years she's been in the Hartsdale
facility.
"So do I," Thompson says softly, breath ghosting hot over her cheek as he leans
in closer. "That's what makes us so good."
"Oh, god," she whispers and surges forward, kissing him like she wants to crawl
inside his skin; and Thompson just tightens his grip on her waist and takes it,
gives it back to her, sharpness and heat just like her lightning. Elle doesn't
know how much longer her legs are going to hold out.
"Do you want me to hurt you, Elle?" he asks, between kisses, and his voice…
It's low and sweet and dirty and vicious and yes, yes, she wants that. She
wants exactly that.
He smiles against her lips and his hands slide down to her ass, one hard
squeeze before he's got her thighs, half lifting her already; and she can feel
his fingers biting into her flesh, knows she'll have bruises in the shape of
them tomorrow.
"You have to be sure, Elle. You have to tell me."
She sucks in a breath, not at all sure that she can say it out loud. Instead,
she wraps her hand around one of his wrists, pulls his hand around under her
skirt. She's never felt this wet before, and she's not wearing panties, and
Thompson makes a soft, surprised noise.
"Is that…" Elle manages, somehow, panting every breath. "That a good enough
answer for you?"
Thompson growls and pins her to the wall, one leg wrapped around his waist
while the other hangs straight, tiptoe barely touching the floor, but oh… oh
fuck, Elle doesn't even notice, can't even care about that, as he shoves a
finger roughly inside her. He doesn't stop when she cries out, pleasure and
pain and embarrassment all rolled up together; and she can't do anything but
writhe against his hold.
He bends his finger, presses hard against something inside, and Elle's head
falls back hard against the wall. Then his mouth is on her neck, biting and
sucking at her pulse, and she feels like she might pass out from it, from the
sheer amount of wanting in her body.
His finger withdraws for a second, and he presses back in with two, and Elle
whimpers at the stretch of it. If this is… if this is just his fingers, what's
it going to be like when, when… god.
“Fuck me,” she says, only it barely comes out; just a scratch of a whine riding
her shaking breath. “Please, Mr. Thompson…”
He grins against her throat, slides the pad of his thumb over her clit as he
thrusts his fingers harder, and she’s kind of sobbing with it, choked up and
so, so close. “Is that what you want, Elle?” he asks her, voice dark and
gravel-rough rumbling over her pulse. “Do you even know what that means?”
“I… god, I know, I know, I promise,” she’s babbling, but her legs are shaking
and any second now she’s going to explode, she can feel it; can’t control it.
“Tell me, Elle,” he purrs, holding her up, pressed between his body and the
wall. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
Elle bites her lip, oh fuck, and she tastes blood but it only makes it better;
and she’s touched herself before, of course she has, but it’s never been like
this. She arches back, jerks her hips hard against his hand and he’s got her,
he’s right there and he’s not stopping, not even when she comes so hard she
thinks she might black out.
Maybe she does for a second, because the next thing she knows is she’s
shivering, Thompson’s laughter warm against her neck, and his fingers still
inside her.
“Oh god,” she sighs, her hands clutching at his shirt, his hair, his arms. And
again, “oh, god.” There’s a sharp smell of ozone and smoke in the room, and it
takes her a long time to realize where it’s coming from - the twin sets of
fingerprints singed into the shoulders of Thompson’s shirt.
He just laughs again, like he isn’t bothered at all. Like he likes it. He
brushes her hair back over one ear as he leans in again, kisses her cheekbone.
His fingers slip free of her, and she whimpers at the loss. Then he brings them
up to his lips, licks his fingertips thoughtfully, and they’re still slick and
shiny with… with her, and she can’t even help the noise she makes because it’s
the sexiest thing she’s ever seen.
And he notices, of course he does, and kind of half-smiles at her, then slides
his wet fingers over her lips. It’s weird, because she’s tasting herself now,
but mostly it’s really hot, and she opens her mouth, let him push his fingers
into her mouth and all she wants to do is suck on them, no matter what they
taste like.
“You didn’t tell me,” Thompson says, a little disapproving, and Elle wraps her
tongue around his fingers, sucks harder, wanting to make that tone go away. He
chuckles in response, but doesn’t let up. “You thought I’d forget?”
She shakes her head, looking up at him through her eyelashes, hoping it looks
as sexy as it feels. The way his eyes go just a shade darker, maybe it does.
“I want you to tell me, Elle. Tell me all the things you want me to do to you.
Not,” he adds quickly, curving his fingers deeper into her mouth to keep her
from pulling away. “Not right now, no. I want you to think about it. Late at
night when you’re alone in your bed, or when you’re frying some bastard who
wouldn’t listen to you; when you get so tangled up with power and wanting that
you have to touch yourself, have to fuck yourself on your fingers three at a
time, wishing they were mine.”
Elle shudders at that, hot and aching for him all over again, and she wants
that now. But he slides his fingers back over her tongue, past her teeth, past
her lips, and pulls away.
“I want you to think about it,” he repeats, easing her back down to the floor,
smoothing her skirt back down over her hips. “And when I come back next time? I
want you to tell me all about it.”
Then he’s gone, and her hand is up under her skirt, and she’s thinking about
it, oh, she’s thinking about it.
 

2001
Elle isn’t really surprised that he didn’t come back. But she’s out in the
field now, using her powers, and she knows her father would never have let her
do it on his own.
And she’s good. Not just good; she’s the best. She’s getting results like
Nakamura never dreamed of, and she loves every single second of it.
She still sleeps in the lockup, in her same little bed she’s had since her
ninth birthday. Whatever. She doesn’t fuck at home, and she doesn’t sleep with
the people she fucks anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
And now, she’s walking into the offices of Primatech paper. Her first away
game. She just has a little bit of unfinished business to attend to.
His office is easy to find, the electronic lock even easier to short circuit.
He’s not there, but that’s all right. Even better, in a way. She sits in his
desk chair with her feet propped up; stretches her arms up over her head and
hooks her wrists over the leather back.
She’s never been good at being patient, but she’s gotten pretty good at lying
in wait.
When he finally shows, he’s got his gun drawn. Clever boy noticed the broken
lock. He sweeps half the room, then shoulders the door open, and his hands stay
steady even though his face falters for just a second; surprise and maybe even
admiration tangled up in that lightning-fast look. He lowers the gun.
“Why, Mr. Thompson,” Elle sing-songs, smiling. “Is that a Strayer-Voight
Infinity you’re holding, or are you just happy to see me?”
He smirks at her, holstering his weapon. “Always happy to see you, Elle,” he
demurs. He’s casual, so casual, but he shuts the door, and her eyes track his
fingers as he flips the manual lock.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, nonchalant and nothing like innocent,
as he walks around the desk; looming a little into her space. She sits up, eye
level with his stomach, and has the sudden urge to wrap her hand around his tie
and pull him down to her level.
She’s never been good at resisting an impulse, either, so she does.
“I believe there was something you wanted me to tell you.”
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