Author's Note, Disclaimer, and all other important pre-fic stuff: This fic was pretty much written because I misinterpreted a pairing someone suggested to me. And when they told me that that wasn't what they said, I felt rather silly. But oh well. At least I know to never, ever write another Peter/Sylar fic ever again. I absolutely can't stand writing for them anymore. They're so hard to write together. For me, anyway. At any rate, here's my attempt. I know the ending is a little rushed, but considering this had been sitting around for a week or more unfinished, I knew I had to conclude it somehow. I hope it's not too disappointing. Oh yeah, and the disclaimer. I don't own these characters in any way, shape, or form. And I'm not making any money off of this fic. And just a reminder, don't read this if you're too young. Just don't, okay? Behave, kids. Thanks for reading.
"Doctor Suresh?" Peter asked, knocking on the apartment door. He had to talk to him. He needed to find out.
He knocked on the door again, impatiently this time. Mohinder was in there, he knew it. He kept hearing noises behind the door.
On an impulse, he tried the doorknob. Thankfully, it turned and the door swung open. "Mohinder?" he asked to the seemingly-empty room. He walked into it and tried again, calling Mohinder's name a few more times.
Peter had made his way into the middle of the room, now frustrated. But then, he felt something drip on his head. Looking upwards, ha saw the source. Mohinder was literally on the ceiling of his apartment, a trickle of blood dripping from his mouth. Then he moved, and Mohinder said one word. The one word that scared him more than anything at that time. "Sylar."
At that precise moment, Peter heard a noise behind him, causing him to whirl around. "Well, if this isn't my lucky day," Sylar said, smirking at him.
Peter tried to run away, tried to escape. But that didn't last very long. With a wave of his hand, Sylar had Peter pinned to the wall. "And I thought I'd have to wait to get your brain," he said, his face contorting into an evil smile. "Let's see what you can do."
The color started to drain from Peter's fact at the prospect of what Sylar could do to him. Sure, he had powers—many, in fact. But so did Sylar . . .
A sudden, sharp pain in his forehead released a cry of agony from his throat. He felt hot blood running towards his eyes from the incision.
Sylar paused, as if waiting for something to happen. And it did; thanks to Claire's power, the cut closed cleanly in a matter of moments. "That's a neat trick, Peter," he said, smirking.
Vaguely, Peter heard Mohinder fall from the ceiling. But he was far more concerned about Sylar at the moment.
Sylar continued, "But that won't save you, Peter. No, it can't. I'm much too powerful. You will die at my hand, no matter your powers."
Peter swallowed hard, but tried to keep an angry face. "Not if I can help it."
Sylar began to advance on him, his fear rising every second. What if this really was the end for him? If he didn't survive, what would happen?
The distance between the two was easily closed and soon Sylar had his face next to Peter's. "You know what I'd rather do?" he asked. Without waiting for a response, he continued, "I'm going to have some fun with you before you die."
Sylar pushed his lips to Peter's and although he knew he couldn't do anything about it, Peter strained against his invisible bonds; that is, Sylar's telekinetic power.
Sylar, feeling Peter's strain, broke the kiss and smirked at him. "It won't work, Peter," he said calmly. "You're mine."
Peter felt his back moving away from the wall and once again he tried to leave Sylar's telekinetic grasp, but failed.
He floated through the room and the one joined to it, Sylar following close behind, with a smile on his face. Peter really regretted coming over now. He wished he was back at his apartment with Symone.
He was jolted out of his thoughts as he was roughly tossed to the bed. Although he was free for a moment, Sylar immediately took hold of him away—this time, with both his telekinesis and his hands, which ran down Peter's arms from Sylar's place on top of Peter.
Peter continued to struggle, which, it became apparent as soon as Sylar lifted his head, was exactly what got him going. The villain's erection prodded at his leg every time Peter shifted at all.
Sylar once again broke away from Peter, seemingly troubles. They, suddenly, as if enlightened, he returned to the bed and began running his fingers through Peter's hair, longingly.
Almost immediately Peter felt a sharp pain around his wrist and felt the warm blood trickling down his forearm. He flinched at the feeling, eliciting a smile from Sylar, just as sick and twisted as usual. Thankfully, Peter felt the cut close after only moments of appearing. Instantly he thought of Claire and wondered how she was. It couldn't be any worse than he was, he thought grimly, as he felt Sylar viciously slash various other body parts only to have them heal soon after.
"What's the matter, Peter? Aren't you having fun?" Sylar asked as he cut Peter again and again.
"Fuck you, Sylar," Peter spat, the other man's name leaving a foul taste in his mouth.
"That is the plan, yes," he said, immensely enjoying tormenting Peter.
At that he left Peter's side, instead choosing to undress him. As Sylar removed his clothing, Peter felt too exposed, almost like he wasn't going to be able to use his powers. But of course he was. His powers would stay with him, he knew that much. His mind flicked for a moment to Mohinder. Where was he, anyway? Had he just left Peter to die on his own?'
Peter's unresponsiveness troubled Sylar immensely. It was like raping a corpse; it just wouldn't be fun for him. In a last-ditch effort, he began to slice Peter's head again. Peter, of course, cried out in pain, and—Sylar hoped, anyway—fear. That's more like it, he thought, perking up slightly.
Sylar sure was taking his time, Peter thought as he was jolted back to the present. Personally, he would have rather died quickly than endured this torture. But that was just hor Sylar operated sometimes, he guessed. The sick fuck.
And then, out of nowhere, Sylar's evil smile disappeared and he slumped forward, falling facedown next to Peter on the bed. Something was sticking into his back, Peter noticed. But at least whatever it was had worked. Peter was able to move again. He jolted upright only to see Mohinder in the doorway, putting something rather gun-shaped into his pocket. Completely ignoring Peter's current state, he said to him, "Thank God you're still alive."
Peter looked around the room for his clothes—or his pants, at least. Finding them, he pulled them on. When he was done, he said, "Thanks, Mohinder. Is he . . . ?"
The doctor shook his head. "I need to get blood samples from him, to test. I'm amazed that even worked, to be honest."
Peter nodded, thinking of how close he had come to death just then. "Let me help you move him."
The two managed to get Sylar into a chair. Mohinder put an IV in his arm, "to nullify his powers".
Mohinder seemingly wrapped up in his new catch, Peter had a sudden urge to be with Symone. He let himself out quietly, not wanting to disturb Mohinder.
As he closed the door, he noticed his arm. It had tiny white marks where he had been cut. Maybe he hadn't been concentrating hard enough while Sylar mutilated him for them to heal completely. But as he looked at them again, he realized they spelled something.
"I'll be back," it said on his arm.
He concentrated and the marks disappeared.