[Author's Note]

After my last depressing, mildly angst-centered piece I really wanted to do something a little more fun. So, I listened to The Veronicas for a while and came up with this. It's wildly OOC, but I don't care too much. It was just fun.


He's doing this on purpose, that son of a bitch.

You'd think after thirty years of being a teenager, I would have learned a little bit of patience but no… let's just say it's never been a virtue of mine. I'm still the anxious, rebellious idiot that I was when I was actually sixteen. I wish I could say that I'd grown and developed beyond my "gift," but I'd be lying. That's something I still have going for me; I'm not a liar. I may be a lot of things, but I'm not that.

Fifteen years ago I could have said that I was living up to my potential. I wasn't running for my life or even fighting for it, really. I was just a nurse, but I felt like I was doing something. That didn't last long—too public, Dad told me—but it was fun while it did. He told me to, for once, lay low. Obviously Angela's untimely demise funded my cushy and utterly useless lifestyle, and here I am. Now I'm sprawled across the couch in my tenth-floor New York loft apartment, counting the threads in my sleeves. It's late August, and summer here—while not as hot as it was in Texas—is unbearably fragrant. I have every window closed to prevent the smell from seeping in, but it does anyway. That's why the fan is on.

Well, that and because I'm burning up.

The sensation I'm currently experiencing goes far beyond August heat. It goes past dry, barren desert heat. The flames licking at me now can only be described as complete and utter desperation that's burning a hell of a lot hotter than any fire I've ever been in and trust me, I've been in a few. It kills me to admit it—literally, I'd rather die than admit this—but the sick and twisted part of my brain actually misses the bastard. I've spent more than a few nights cursing at myself in the mirror and budgeting for all the extensive therapy I'm going to need, but it is what it is. Whether I like it or not, I'm a Petrelli. Morally grey is kind of our element, and I'm well within mine.

It all started five years ago.

I could probably rattle off a million reasons why that night happened the way it did. They would all be reasonable and—God forbid—understandable under the circumstances, but I'm not a bit fan of kidding myself. In the end, I was drunk and it was raining. July thunderstorms always spell trouble, and I really should have known better. Story of my life, let me tell you. I'd let him follow me home from a bar with a couple of my friends, ignoring him while I felt every single place his eyes found on my skin. Hell, I enjoyed it. He was in one of his nostalgic, we-have-forever moods, and I let him have his fix. Fantasies couldn't hurt, right? He was allowed to think whatever the hell he liked about me. I hadn't cared about him one way or the other in a long time.

Somehow, he'd managed to get into my apartment without me. He was soaking wet and unbearably sexy, smelling like rain and spice. I made a show of trying to get him out—even threw him down the stairs twice, not that it mattered—but in the end, I lost. I practically purred when he touched me with those calculating fingers of his, and then we both knew I was a goner. He won, and he knew it. I couldn't wipe the demented smile off his face no matter what I did. In the end, after showing me roughly eight million different forms of bliss, he took off and I let him. Oh, I shoved him out the door with a contented smile on my face.

Too bad he came back.

It took him a year, but he came back. It was another blistering July night, but this time I was sober. God help me, I opened the door. I have to wonder if I would have done the same thing if I'd known it started a tradition, but there's not much use in going over that kind of thing. Since I'm not Hiro Nakamura, I don't have the luxury of a do-over. Just as well. July's kind of my favorite time of the year these days.

Not this year, though. Oh, no. July came and went, without any word or—more importantly—any earth-shattering orgasms. I can't say I was ever worried, because he can't die. Whatever it is, he's doing this to me on purpose. He's doing it to see if I can admit to missing him, even a little, and I'm not going to. There's no way in hell those words are ever going to leave my mouth as long as I live, which looks like is going to be quite a long time. I should kill myself just to spite him. Let's see the control freak handle something like that.

Miss him?


Like hell.

"I've noticed something."

The voice makes all the hairs on my arms stand at attention, not to mention other tinier parts of my anatomy that are far more obvious to anyone who happens to be looking at my thin cotton shirt. While thoroughly intoxicating in the right place and time, his voice never fails to put me on edge and my body knows it as well as I do. I look over the back of it to find him leaning against the doorway to my kitchen. I've stopped trying to figure out how he gets in without me noticing; it's a debate that only gives me headaches, anyway.

"What?" I ask, repressing the urge to clear my throat under the weight of his stare. I keep trying to remind myself that I'm pissed at him, but it's not working. One look is all it takes, and it's useless for me to keep trying. I know the look in his eyes all too well. Normally it means really, really good things are about to happen to me. Tonight, though, I have no interest in pacifying his lust. Unfortunately, his lust has very much in common with mine.

"I'm not sure how I haven't managed to notice it before now, but you growl while you think," he says, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a show of amusement. "It's rather… endearing."

"Go to hell, Sylar," I order, narrowing my eyes at him, but I'm not overly confident that he'll take the suggestion.

"Is Claire-Bear upset at me?" he says mockingly and I roll my eyes at him before lying back down on the couch. Despite my initial thrill at seeing him, it's wearing off quickly. Sometimes my appetite for him can mask the fact that he's actually a perfect asshole.

He moves quickly, but he always does. When I open my eyes again he's standing above me, watching me with churning brown eyes that wind my stomach up in impossible knots.

"The creepy stalker bit is getting old," I deflect, "You should really go torment someone who hasn't seen all your little tricks."

"Oh, Claire," he purrs, his voice decadently low, "You haven't even begun to discover all my… tricks."

Oh, man.

He leans down, his long fingers brushing a flyaway strand of hair from my face, and I almost let my eyes drift closed. At the last instant, though, I grit my teeth and stare up at him. If he thinks this is an apology he's got another thing coming. Neither of us has ever said it, but our little tradition has been steadily growing. I wouldn't say we were exclusive, but I know haven't been steadily sleeping with anyone else. There's something about him—some unknowable variable behind those calculating brown eyes—that tells me he hasn't, either. God only knows what to make of that, because I sure don't.

"You are upset at me," he says, obviously pleased with his off-handed observation. The smug smile settles into place, thoroughly comfortable on his dark features, and the knot in my stomach settles a little lower this time. I shrug my shoulders, determined to let him draw his own damn conclusions. I'm not giving him a thing.

Admittedly, the stance is a new one. Over the last five years, there's not much I haven't given him.

"You're so tense, Claire," he tells me, running his fingers through my hair and sending shivers rampaging across my scalp. "You really should relax."

"Any recommendations?" I ask, my voice suddenly huskier than I remember.

He grins.

"I may have a few."

Suddenly I'm being flung up from the couch under no control of my own, and my mouth crashes into his. Our bodies are heatedly connected as they fall to the floor seemingly of their own volition, but I'm used to the telekinetic foreplay. He enjoys it and if I'm in a particularly dysfunctional frame of mind I do, too. The idea that he can toss me around without touching me is more than a little exciting, but tonight his hands-off method is going to get tired pretty damn quick. This time he lets me stay on top of him, and I'm sure he's perfectly content. I'm feeling particularly ravenous tonight, sinking my teeth into his deeply edible bottom lip. He growls and the vibrations hit me hard, stealing a breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

My hands are moving at a furious pace, trying to grasp every strip of flesh they can reach in the least amount of time. Our mouths are working overtime, swallowing every moan and cry before they can even escape our lips. I'm frantic, clinging to him and practically baring my teeth in an attempt to get his clothes off of him. The dress shirt goes first, thrown unceremoniously to the side. His body is a masterpiece, framed in dusky skin and sinew. It's a piece I've admired for quite some time now, and it's one that I can't wait to get my hands on. I do my best to ignore his self-satisfied grin as I reach for his belt, roughly unclasping it and ripping it from his pants. Before I can get to the only part of him that I love without condition, he grasps my wrists and pulls me down to face him.

"Not so fast, Claire," he tells me and I feel like screaming at him. His tone is impossibly even, but I know him well enough by now that the dilation of his pupils isn't just for show. For whatever reason, he wants me to believe he's still in control despite the fact that we both know better.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I sneer, "Was I supposed to be gentle?"

"I don't recall saying that."

"Then keep your thoughts to yourself," I grit out between clenched teeth. The order works; he bites into his bottom lip and throws his head back without further comment as I yank his fly apart and seek my prize.

He's longer than any man should be, even for his height. It's always exhilarating now, to caress the hot silk of his skin with my bare hands and watch as he shivers in response. Shimmying down the length of his body, I take the moist tip of his erection just inside my lips. He takes in a sharp breath and I can hear a few muttered curses, both of which giving me some clue as to the effect I'm having on him. I move his shaft a little further into my mouth, caressing him with slow strokes of my tongue, and his fists start pounding against the hard wood floor. When my hand joins the effort, pumping him upwards from the base, the muscles in his thighs begin to twitch and I smile around him. I increase the pressure on both fronts, dragging my teeth down his length and humming dispassionately while he writhes beneath me.

"Claire…" he murmurs, licking dry his dry lips. I don't answer; all I require is his continued participation. Apparently that's not enough, because he repeats my name in a ragged drawl. "Claire."


"Stop," he rasps as my hand speeds up to match my tongue. Of course I refuse. "Stop!"

"Why?" I ask in my best sex-kitten purr, momentarily pausing, "Doesn't that feel good, baby?"

"I want to touch you," he gasps, seeking my permission despite his psycho killer reputation. I pretend to consider the question and he insists, "Please."

"Well," I ponder playfully before releasing him and standing up. When my eyes find his, they're cold and defiant. "Maybe you should have thought of that in July."

I watch his confused expression for a moment before turning to walk away. I smile to myself, enjoying this brief and torturous interlude even as I realize that Sylar's not going to stand for it much longer. Of course I'm right. I'm in the middle of climbing a few carpeted steps when I hear him bellow from a few feet away. A couple of loud, hurried footsteps later and suddenly I'm being drug down. I'm more than willing to go, obviously, but Sylar's never enjoyed anything he came by easily. I struggle against the telekinetic hold, not that it matters. My body slides down to meet him at the bottom of the stairs and I don't think there's anything sexier than an aroused and furious Sylar.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, yanking me up by my shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean," I reply coyly and he just growls at me.

"You're such a child," he seethes, "A spoiled, petulant child."

I smirk. "Your point?"

Before I know what's going on, he's backing me roughly against the wall with enough force to shake a few pictures loose from their hangings. I have a grand total of two seconds to register the sound of glass breaking before I feel the button of my jeans being forced open. The zipper is next and then I feel a rush of warm air as the denim slides down my legs. Sylar's hands are everywhere at once, applying brutal pressure to every part of my body at dizzying speeds. He's rough when he lifts my right leg up to cradle it in the crook of his arm, effectively posing me as he shoves me back against the wall with the power of his thrust. The sensation of stretching around him blurs all my other senses and suddenly I'm gripping his shoulders like the world is going to end.

For once, Sylar shows no mercy. His fingers wind through my hair and pull viciously, the pain somehow blending with the hot flashes of ecstasy he's striking at my core. It feels a little like I'm being impaled, but his hips are skilled enough to mask the fact that our bodies are disproportionate to one another. I'm too small for him, but right now everything feels just right. He pulls my knee up higher and I open a little more, allowing more of him to enter me at the furious pace he's adopted.

My head is banging against the wall, but I don't care. His hot breath stings my ear and it's getting louder every second, pushing me closer to an edge I've been waiting over a year for. Before I can surrender myself completely, he stops and uses his other arm to drag both my legs to rest around his waist. He uses my momentary shock to his advantage, pushing inside me again with extraordinary force that tears a hoarse scream from my throat. His mouth finds mine in a desperate battle for control, and I'm more than willing to lose this time around.

All it takes is a few well-angled thrusts, a few raucous slams of my back against the wall, and the world breaks apart around me. The pressure builds at my toes and rips up my spine, setting every nerve it touches ablaze with sensation. My vision blurs and I scream for all I'm worth while my muscles clench and seize around the invader at my core. Every strike of his hips against mine scorches me in the best way possible, prolonging the orgasm that's making my entire body shake with its magnitude. My lover quickly follows behind me, jerking rapidly against my rigid body and releasing hot fluid deep inside that mixes with my own. Seconds slowly tick by, and then my body starts to relax. I can't breathe and my heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of my rib cage, but every muscle in my body is singing the hallelujah chorus.

Sylar slumps against me, panting, and the sound is better than any symphony.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he says, his voice almost penitent despite the self-satisfied smile. I feel his heart pounding under my palm and a stupid grin wrenches up the corners of my mouth.

"It was well worth the wait."