A/N: My first Peter/Sylar! This is for LanceSkoggle, who recruited me to this pairing. Thanks bb. XD


The nail was long, slender, and cold. It gleamed in the failing light, the last rays of sunset filtering through the vertical blinds.

Peter struggled with all his might, but he couldn't move. The last ability he'd taken had belonged to his brother—but the power of flight couldn't overcome the telekinetic bondage which held him to the cold hardwood floor.

He'd known Sylar would come for revenge. Peter had prepared himself for the inevitability, readied himself for a fight—but he hadn't counted on just how calculating and precise Sylar's vengeance would be.

"Are you ready for this?"

Fear ballooned inside Peter's stomach as he stared at the hammer in Sylar's fist. A retort hung on the edge of his tongue, but he decided not to give him the satisfaction; he simply matched the serial killer's silent stare, intent and menacing.

"No last words. Disappointing." Sylar cocked his head. "At least I'll get to hear you scream."

Peter shut his eyes and held his breath. An image of Nathan appeared in his mind's eye, entreating him to stay strong.

He felt a tiny pinprick of metal on his open palm.

Then, excruciating pain.

As Sylar drove the nail home, a sadistic gleam in his dark eyes, Peter heard Nathan's voice in his head. Don't give in, Pete. You're stronger than I ever was.

The pain sent him reeling, made him half-delirious. Nathan? Are you really there? But it didn't matter. His big brother was telling him to stay strong.

The head of the nail hit his palm.

He still hadn't made a sound.

Though he was displeased, Sylar would never show it. "New power?" he asked casually. "Impervious to pain?" Delicately, he picked up another nail. "I'd take it from you, but I find that I don't really mind pain. It makes me feel… more alive." Smirking, he pierced Peter's flesh with the tip of the nail. "How about you?" With his thumb, he pushed it in deeper.

Peter gasped; tears formed in his eyes, but he stared back at Sylar. "What? Do you feel inadequate because I can take the pain when you couldn't?" He narrowed his eyes. "The entire hospital probably heard you scream that day. You're the weak one."

"Are you sure about that?" He swung the hammer; with one stroke, he nailed Peter's other hand to the floor.

The only sound was the dull thud of metal on metal, and the quiet breaking of delicate bones.

They locked eyes, and Sylar nearly laughed out loud at Peter's triumphant gaze. He'd always been naïve, and it was his biggest downfall.

Sylar let the hammer fall from his long fingers, and sat down next to Peter. "You know," he began, "I've never been much of a religious man."

Peter raised an eyebrow. Where is he going with this?

"But I've always found the Crucifixion… beautiful in a way."

"You would," spat Peter.

Sylar smiled. "It also fascinates me that there are different types of crosses. They were torture devices, you know," he continued. "Right now, you look like you're hanging on the most recognizable sort. That grand old Christian symbol."

Of all the times to make an allegory…

"But," Sylar went on, "my personal favorite has always been the St. Andrew's Cross." With a flick of his fingers, Peter's legs spread apart.

For the first time, Peter's resolve faltered. "What are you doing?"

Sylar's lips curved into a sinister smile. "One way or another, I'm going to make you scream."

Peter's entire body shook. "You're not going to win."

"Is that a challenge?" Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Fun. I like a challenge."

Sylar's intentions didn't fully register in Peter's mind until he raised his deadly index finger and pointed it at his pelvis, rather than his forehead. With the precision of a surgeon, Sylar sliced away the thin fabric of his prisoner's black slacks, leaving them in shreds on the floor. Next came his shirt, cleanly cut down the middle, flung across the room without Sylar's hands even touching him. Then, his last defense. As his boxers hit the floor, his skin crawled. The pain he could take. But the humiliation of this would be unbearable.

His first instinct was to struggle, but Sylar's telekinesis—and the nails—held him firmly to the floor. As Sylar stripped his clothes off, Peter couldn't help but notice the predatory look in his eyes. It was unmistakable; he'd seen this face before. Sylar wanted something. And he was going to get it.

Deliberately, Sylar knelt over Peter, letting his eyes drink in the fear, the disgust, the embarrassed flush on his skin, the little pools of blood beneath his hands.

"You can't tell me you don't enjoy this," Sylar whispered. "I saw your face in the hospital. That was more than vengeance. You got off on it, Peter."

"You're sick."

Sylar nodded his head in concession. "Yeah. But that doesn't make me wrong."

Peter said nothing.

"You were on top of me. Just like I am now." Sylar tilted his hips and pressed himself against Peter. "I felt it. You were hard. You want this."

Peter strained to shut his mind off, but all the blood he hadn't lost was racing to his nether regions. He couldn't stop it. Soon, he stood erect, brushing against Sylar's thigh, unable to hide his arousal.

The touch sent a thrill through Sylar, and his knee-jerk response was to laugh. "Don't forget my original ability. The one that's truly mine. I know how things work."

Sylar leaned over and, for a brief moment, Peter thought he was going to kiss him; he felt Sylar's breath ghost across his shoulder, his cheek, his ear. He closed his eyes, then drew in a sharp breath as Sylar's tongue glided over his palm, tip circling the head of the nail. Peter's eyes fluttered open as Sylar leaned back, his lips slightly parted and tinged with blood. He'd never seen anything so terrifying, so wretched, so… sublime.

"I know what makes you tick."

The thought made him shiver.

Sylar traced Peter's shaft with an index finger. "This is the finger I used to cut Claire's head open," he purred, as Peter twitched beneath him. "The finger I used to slit your brother's throat."

"So why don't you just kill me, too? Get it over with?"

"I said I was going to make you scream." He spat on his hand, rubbed it over his own erection, then gripped Peter's thigh. "And I'm not going to stop until you do."

He slid into Peter like a heat-seeking missile, exact and furious, sleek and hard, thrusting at a breakneck pace. Peter nearly cried out. He'd expected it to hurt, but not this much. The pain in his hands fused with the pain of Sylar's invasion to create the worst kind of torture imaginable.

Sylar's scent hit Peter's nostrils, a cocktail of sweat and blood and spice, and he nearly retched. It would have been better just to die, thought Peter, as Sylar pumped in and out, in and out. It would—oh, God. Sylar hit a sensitive spot, and he was suddenly quite aware that he was still hard, throbbing, rubbing against Sylar's thigh—what the hell is wrong with me?

And that's Sylar's brilliant plan, he realized. His ability. He knows what this is doing to me. Even without the pain, the knowledge that some part of me actually likes this would worse than being crucified on my own floor. Involuntarily, he tensed up, which yielded a guttural moan from Sylar.

Sylar used Peter's wrists for leverage, destroying what was left of his hands, and Peter found himself savoring the exquisite pain. There was nothing left of him but this, his body, a vessel for Sylar's vengeance.

He sped up his pace, deepened his thrusts, broke Peter's fragile mask with a cold stare.

"Sylar!" It was a benediction, a curse, a plea. Peter was caught between rapture and hell, his mind pushing away, his body arching into Sylar's. And he had just given in. He'd screamed. Sylar had won.

Just before he lost consciousness, he saw the smirk on Sylar's face.

"You're the weak one, Peter."

And the world went black.