A.N: Another Sylaire fic from me : ) This time inspired by La Roux songs, particularly the one called 'Quicksand' which the lyrics in this fic are taken from. I don't own the lyrics, nor do I own the title, which is from a song by the Virgins, nor do I own Heroes, sadly.

This fic takes place after the finale of Vol 4, but Nathan HASN'T died and Sylar hasn't been put inside his body. Enjoy! :)


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"I'm the obsessor holding your hand."

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He whispers words like eternity and forever, voice like a lover professing his feelings for the first time. She might not understand right now, but soon she will, Sylar knows, soon she'll come to him.

He brushes her hair back from her face, can't resist the skin of her cheek as his fingers caress it. He can feel her shudder; feel the fear in her heart and the hatred in her eyes, and Sylar chuckles.

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"Alone in the darkness, my bed's a different land.

Your touch intensifies, and I'm in the quicksand."

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She dreams of him when she's not meant to, when she doesn't want to. He's like some sort of poison that's infiltrated her system. Claire senses him everywhere, feels him around her when she's alone. She dreads the night, because that's when her senses heighten even further.

That's when she pretends her hands are his, pulls the covers over her head and prays to God the Petrellis can't hear her, that Peter can't read her thoughts when she replays her dreams over and over in her mind at breakfast.

She wakes up nearly every morning entangled in the linen, sweat dripping down her face. The dreams are so real, so intense she almost believes she's there. Shudders as she remembers how good it all felt, coupled with the disgust she feels at her body's reaction.

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"You're the upsetter stroking my hand."

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Her mind always goes back to that day, the day where things changed and he polluted her with all these new feelings she abhors. She thinks it must have been the way his hand touched hers in the slightest of ways, as if he was careful not to step over some invisible line and force her to be his.

He thinks if he gives her time, she'll surrender. A part of her is touched that he is willing to wait, and then berates that part for even thinking that way about the man that has killed so many dear to her.

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"Am I your possession? Am I in demand?"

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He watches her from her bedroom window, something that reminds him of guardian angels and his namesake. He grins in the dark.

She's burning for him, he sees it every night, can hear it in the way she calls out his name. She's the fly caught in his web, and he's the spider, waiting, every so patiently, for the right time to strike.

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"You moved into my mind again... I could let you stay"

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In the blink of an eye, it seems, the dreams are suddenly, scarily real. One night he is there, watching her and she hastily scrambles up the bed, adjusts the covers and hides her flushed face.

Sylar chuckles, walking towards the door and making sure it's locked.

Her eyes follow his dim, hazy form, heart thumping loudly. She can feel the blood pumping around her veins; it pulsates with longing, and she realises she can't fight this any longer.

She's fallen into the quicksand with no-one to pull her out, but she has no desire to be saved anymore.