Sylar understood how things worked. After all, it was his gift – the original one, the one sewn deep into his DNA. After endless years of going through life knowing exactly how it works, he'd begun to find it all...absolutely boring. (He'd learned the hard way that life is nothing without the occasional luxury of surprise). His expectations were almost always spot-on, and while he had gloated at first, with the passing ages had come regret. He hadn't found anything truly unexpected in a long, long time.
But Sylar…he'd never expected the single-minded hunger with which he systematically tracked down his archenemy. He'd never meant to do it again, after the first few times, but it had quickly become much too fun to make the little wide-eyed annoyance's life a living hell. One that the perfect little hero couldn't escape – not since he'd regained their shared ability to regenerate. (And, oh, he'd been so giddy to learn that little fact when it happened). He'd never expected to have his attention captured for so long on a single living body. Never expected to hurt and manipulate without the ultimate goal of the kill. Oh, he'd tried - to choke the man to the point of unconsciousness only to let the life come flooding back into those irresistible eyes (glance long enough at an empath's eyes, and it's impossible to find your way back again).
But above all, he'd never expected Peter to like it.
Because he'd broken him; he'd driven the man insane by killing everyone and anyone the Petrelli had ever made contact with. Going on killing spree after killing spree all the while randomly dropping in to taunt, and ultimately best his rival. (And he wouldn't lie and say that smacking the boy around hadn't been deliciously fun...because it had been). He'd tortured him psychologically by taking advantage of that slight hint of sexual tension that they'd had between them to his advantage. He'd built it up until he was popping in to grind sinfully against the helpless foe, whispering hot and heavy seduction in his ear, instead of beating his knuckles raw. (It also helped that all those stupid little ideals of his had been slowly stripped away, leaving nothing but the torn-up man behind). Subtle innuendo had been developed and carefully fed until they ended up fucking on the floor of Peter's apartment.
If he thought about it, he'd probably say that was Peter's final breaking point. Poor thing had been practically already been driven to the absolute raving-mad brink of insanity, really. Sylar knew the tipping point was coming, but he hadn't known it was going to be so damn beautiful. Peter's face as he was being fucked was a work of art already, but when he'd come – shakes running through his entire body while a single tear had fallen down the his face…(Damn, but that was the kind of sight that completed people). He'd screamed, raw and guttural. It was the sound of a man falling apart after being held together with nothing but old restraints worn thin, the sound of a man giving in. A sound that tore through even Sylar's gut.
That was right around the time the killer had finally killed Claire. Permanently. After all, he'd found a much better distraction.
It was all downhill for Peter after that. He'd fallen. They all do, eventually. Everyone he'd ever cared about was long since dead and cool in the ground, along with almost all of the rest of humanity. Apart from a few people who maybe had a similar ability (not that either one come across one – people lived in small isolated pockets now, and Adam had long since been...disposed of), Sylar was all Peter had left.
Sylar was the only thing that remained.
And so Petrelli had submitted and let himself become a plaything. He'd willingly dropped to his knees with his throat bared to display the worn leather collar Sylar had originally tossed him as a test. Really, he hadn't actually thought that Peter would do it, that he would be so serious or committed to the whole thing, but fuck the thing looked good on him. (Really, he should have known better. What that boy does, he does with his whole self, and falling was no different). And he'd done it night after night, day after day– sometimes even out in 'public'.
Not that Sylar was complaining. No, it was far too satisfying to be able to take, and take, and take from such a willing and delectable participant whenever he had the slightest fancy. Far too satisfying to yank the pet's head back fast enough to just almost break its neck by the longer floppier hair that he liked. To see a look of complete submission coated across a dark, twisted, broken little thing in those entrancing eyes. (Still, after so much time spent studying them, he could never find his way out). And much too satisfying to inflict whatever pain he wanted and still have it moan and whimper. Loud, like his own personal whore, until he stuck his cock down its throat, rough and sudden enough to make it choke and roll its eyes back. Though of course, he loved it all the more that he could bend his toy over some hard surface and fuck hard and fast, tearing up its delicate insides whenever he felt like it, before leave the superhuman lying senselessly in a puddle of its own spit, cum, and blood. Sometimes still alive, other times…(Damn, he really loved that ability).
Most of all, he loved the proof that he was the one that brought down the great Peter Petrelli.
That he was the one doing depraved and unspeakable things to that bastard Nathan Petrelli's baby brother. Using him until they were both utterly and bonelessly spent, then throwing the warm mess of shivering boy away from him by that collar. (Really, he'd always intended to walk away - it would be the final shattering touch to his masterpiece in destruction, but it was just too gratifying). Being the only one to make his boy bleed, and hurt, and scream, all the while laughing at the pathetic, broken mess of a human being he'd made. See how the mighty have fallen, he'd snicker to himself. Weak.
Peter deserved all this, really, just by being so stupidly weak and useless. He had never had any chance of being as strong as Sylar, and definitely wasn't now. He never would be, either.
Never.
Then why can't you walk away?
He suppressed the annoying voice in his head - the only remnant of his humanity, of Gabriel, and smiled maliciously over the body huddled in the center of the wreckage his fun had caused tonight. Watched with dark lust in his eyes as the neck snapped inhumanely back into place and yielded its first shuddering breath.
His boy was back. (And God, if that didn't sound so sweet).