Chimera Mimic

He's a lot more forward and a lot less shy than I thought he'd be. I don't even have to get him out of his clothes; he takes them off willingly, and I follow suit.

I don't want to be here under these lights; I really can't afford for all these people to see what I really want to do to him. This may be a performance, but the blood will be real. The screams will be in pain, not in coital bliss.

The little slut isn't going to make this easy for me, and I wonder if he has any idea that I'm powerless and just need him for his.

Chances are he'll be with me for the night. I'll take what I need later. For now, I'll give him what he wants. Without so much as a kiss or a touch, I turn him around unceremoniously push myself into his ass, feeling the delicate tissue inside him tear and heal around me repeatedly. He doesn't scream or cry, to my dismay. He just clenches down around me and groans, a spray of curses leaving that pretty mouth. He supports himself on the wall with one hand, jerking himself in the other, the heat of the lights over us causing beads of sweat to form on his back, on my chest.

I look around us, and I see countless men who are less willing to fuck in public with one hand on their drinks, the other on their dicks, watching me thrust myself in and out of my mortal enemy's body. I can see why he gets a thrill out of this. From what I know of him, he's always liked to do things to get attention.

I press my body up against his, still pounding into him. "Never knew you were such an exhibitionist, Petrelli," I groan into his neck, biting this time hard enough to draw blood. I feel his skin heal under my lips, and I lick away the salty tang of his blood and repeat the process. His groans become high-pitched moans. Maybe he likes the pain.

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I don't care who it is that fucks me, it's always Nathan in my mind. Nathan, no matter the size of the cock, the feel of the mouth, or the way I am touched. My brother is on my mind now up until Sylar starts to talk. He knows, somehow, exactly what I want. My fingers wrap around the light fixture over my head and I push myself up on my toes as he pounds me hard, the sound of his balls slapping my ass.

"Jesus, fuck that kid!"

"I get him next."

"You're tearing that ass up!"

There's more cat calls than I can actually keep up with, but they don't matter. Face against the wall, I do my best to look over my shoulder at him. His hair is long, in his face. He looks amazing, his body tight and his cock so thick that it splits me with each thrust, even if the blood from before is making excellent lubrication. "Harder--"

I'll beg him if he wants me too, but he obliges and I come, hard, hard enough to almost black out. He's got an arm around me and follows me into bliss. Still attached, we crumble to the floor. I expect him to pull out, to pull his pants up, to kill me. But he doesn't. Instead, he's growling almost animalistically at anyone that comes near.

I shiver, thinking about being claimed. "You're coming with me tonight," he says in my ear. I shake my head.

"I don't--"

"Wasn't a choice."

He dresses me, because I can hardly move, and nod at him. "Yeah, all right," I whisper, kissing his mouth with hungry, terribly hungry lips. This is the first time that I haven't thought of Nathan. All I'm thinking about is another ride on Sylar's cock.

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Getting Peter back into his ridiculous clothing is proving to be a chore, because he won't stop kissing me.

I hold my hand up and telekinetically stop his face from touching mine again. "For someone who wanted a nameless fuck, you're too damn clingy. Stop it, I'm warning you." He recoils as if I've hit him. He gives me a wounded stare as I finish pulling his shirt over his head, yank him to his feet and direct him back towards the beaded curtains.

Suddenly Peter shrieks, and I turn around to see a tall blond bodybuilder type attempt to drag my newfound possession back under the bright lights.

"What do you think you're doing?" I say very calmly, allowing a friendly, fake grin to spread across my face. This guy has no idea what he's dealing with, crossing me.

"You're not taking him anywhere, sweetheart. He's got a fucking waiting list, man."

Another voice chimes in. "Yeah, I got him next. Bring that pretty piece of ass back over here, Jake."

"Really, Jake." I say, deadly serious now. A flick of my wrist sends Jake the bodybuilder, all six foot four and two hundred fifty pounds of him across the room, his body hitting the wall with a satisfying thud. He crumples to the floor like a rag doll. I look around at the rest of the men who are on their feet, stunned at my use of my ability, the only one I have at this current time. They're clearly reconsidering their intentions to take my prize.

"Consider all his appointments canceled. Permanently. He's mine." I pull Peter back in towards me and seal my mouth over his, bite at his lips, his tongue, the taste of his blood making mine run hot all over again.

A brief image comes to my mind, Peter on his knees, polishing my cock with those soft lips. I make a mental note to have that done to me too before I finish with him, take him for everything he's worth.

I have to get us out of here now, get all of this attention off me. For particularly the reason I'm taking Peter with me tonight, I'm a wanted man. Not that any jail cell can hold me; I just don't need the hassle of a chase, the wasted time and energy it takes to wipe out a whole onslaught of cops and FBI agents. I'm in another state, turning a new leaf. Temporarily, that is.

I lead him out into the cold, clear night, and he looks up at me as if I'm his savior. How wrong you are, you pretty, foolish boy, taking candy from strangers.

"You got any special tricks up your sleeve that'll get us to where we're going? Got any of that Petrelli blood money on you?"

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Clinging to Sylar, high on the moment, on the fucking, on the exhibitionism, on the way he had claimed me for his own, I can hardly speak. I want to drop to my knees right now. I want to pull him into my mouth, to choke myself on his cock. Who I was doesn't matter anymore. Who he is...well, maybe I have a death wish. Maybe that's what all of this has been.

Nathan's not called me once after all. Not once. And trust me, I've been checking my phone daily. He's the man I want...and he's the only one it seems that I can't have.

Hell. I can even have Sylar. That's what a fucked up world this is.

I stand on my toes and wrapped me arms around the impossibly tall man's neck. One moment we're standing in the street, the throbbing sounds of dance music in our ears, the next we're in the tiny hotel room I've been using to sleep and shower. I do my fucking elsewhere. No one ever comes back here with me. It's nothing much. Everything's decorated in browns and shades of beige. Taking a step back, I pull off my shirt.

"What do you want to do?"

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I don't know how Peter ever made it past his teenage years without getting himself raped or killed; he's lucky he can't die now. He's as stupid as he is pretty. Asking me what I want to do? I have half a mind to tell him what I really want to do to him, but that would spoil the surprise, now wouldn't it?

I step a little closer to him. He is still somewhat afraid of me, but his overwhelming need for sex is infinitely stronger. I can only wonder at this point what happened to him; I'll find out soon enough. I'll know everything there is to know about Peter Petrelli by the time I finish with him tonight.

Maybe I don't want to kill him anymore. He's a lot more enjoyable alive. And so consumed by lust, it seems, that he's no longer dangerous. I push him down so that he's kneeling before me, and I brush the hair out of his face so I can watch him suck my cock.

I don't even have to tell him what I want. He already knows. I'm not surprised to see his eyes flash with desire, his tongue inadvertently running over his lips.

Enjoy it while you can, I think, petting his face and hair while his shaking fingers fumble at my belt.

Edited Date: 2009-12-22 12:31 am (UTC)

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Nathan's not crossed my mind in over an hour, not since we first met at the bar, not since we danced and he intoxicated me. It's almost a relief, a sad one at that. It takes an enemy to really make me feel better. Alive. Worthwhile and sexually appealing.

Wanted.

I worship Sylar, worship is cock as if it can sustain me. My eyes are fixed on his face. I learn quickly. Being an empath has it's advantages. I know when he feels good, or what he liked what my tongue did last time better. I let him grab my head, fuck my mouth, use me as little more than a warm, wet hole.

He's not cleaned himself since our time in the bar. I taste blood. My blood. But I don't care. I relish the feeling of his thickness bulging out my cheeks. I relish the feel of his balls against my chin. I have no gag reflex. I haven't since I was twelve years old.

Reaching between Sylar's legs as he holds his cock out straight, letting me concentrate my attention on the head of his shaft, I fondle his balls. I want to make him come again. I want to feel the power of his orgasm once more.

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This situation would be laughable, if he weren't so damn good at it. Peter Petrelli, on his knees, sucking my cock. No, scratch that. Devouring my dick like it's some delicacy he's tasting for the first time. Well, that's actually true...

With just a thought, I cut his tight pants off his body, and he groans around me.

"Touch yourself," I command. I stop his head from moving and push him off me; I'm too damn close, and I figure I'll play fair, give him a minute to catch up. Peter tries to get his mouth on me again, and I slap him hard across his face, his head snapping to the side.

Tears come to his eyes, but he still stares into my eyes defiantly.

"Patience," I correct him gently. He nods.

Once I'm sure he's close himself, I thread my fingers into his hair and shove my dick back into his mouth.

"Make yourself come for me, Petrelli. You better time it just right."

He obediently fists his own cock while he takes mine deep in his throat, his desperate eyes never leaving my face. He's virtually worshipping me, and it's really quite pathetic. Look what I've done to him. Already taken most of his dignity by making him submit to my will.

I want this done and overwith. He's just a pretty plaything that's outgrown its novelty, and soon, its usefulness as well.

Peter sucks me for all he's worth, my cock pulsing in release, this orgasm even more intense than the one in the bar. He swallows my come like a pro as his splatters against my bare legs.

I don't even let him finish before I seize his entire body with my telekinetic grasp. Now the real fun begins.

Edited Date: 2009-12-22 01:43 am (UTC)

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I'm hardly satisfied by masturbation anymore, even when I'm being watched, but it's safe to say that anyone who's seen me in the past week has realized that. I've just finished putting a few kisses to the area around Sylar's cock when he flings me back. I'm too stunned to fight back, and frankly, I hope that this is the next step to a good fucking.

I can't have been more wrong.

The pain of the man impaling me with anything not nailed to the floor is absolutely indescribable. I still have half of my pants on from where he tore them open, my shoes, a little too much eyeliner. And now, a dripping, dazzling splash of blood across my cheeks and down my chest.

He's not planning on anything that will please me. He's in it for himself. I can hear that dangerous, desperate growl as he rips into my skull and throws the top half away. I feel like a puppet on strings as he grasps my head and pulls it down towards him so that I am left dangling and bent over from the wall. I gurgle slightly, my regeneration working overtime.

"What are--"

I don't finish asking the question as he pokes one finger through the spongy matter of my brain. I can't, not when I'm moaning like that. "You are a sick fuck, Peter," he whispers and jabs me again. Twice more, and I'm not only hard, but dripping seed from the tip of my cock. The novelty of that, however, soon fades and that's left for him to do is take the powers he wants.

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Locating and taking a person's ability is usually a quick, painless process, and they only die from shock and blood loss. However, Peter has many powers, some he himself isn't even aware of. Teleportation. Invisibility. Telepathy. Rapid cell regeneration.

I work my way through his brain, claiming each and every one of them for myself. While I do this, I can't help but learn a little bit about my enemy's life. When he was a child, his family had a dog named Izzy. He fell out of a tree and broke his arm when he was five. His favorite color is blue, and he loves strawberries.

He's also been in love with his older brother his entire life.

Pathetic. I would pity him if I were capable of such a feeling.

As I continue my perusal of his brain, I come across a spot where Peter's memory is hazy, as if it were written over, smudged out. The process was imperfect, however, and there's enough of it there that I am able to clear the haze.

When I see what I've stumbled upon, I'm revolted, and I have to stop myself from flinging Peter away from me. It seems that his brother's hold on him is far stronger than I could have ever imagined.

Nathan had his way with him when Peter was fourteen years old. It wasn't rape, either. It was consensual.

I'm disgusted, and my stomach twists violently on itself as I force myself to continue taking his abilities, unwittingly uncovering more of their incestuous past. They've recently started up again, and it seems neither one of them is aware of their altered memory. I finally find out the reason Peter's been whoring himself out in the gay bars: His brother left him and went back to his wife. Peter's become addicted to sex, and he imagines these nameless men are Nathan, each and every time. The only man he wasn't able to do that with was me, it seems.

"You're a sick fuck, Peter," I whisper. He moans softly, though the brain itself feels no pain. He's quiet after that, until I finish collecting all his abilities, save for one. I do not take Nathan's flight. I don't want it. If I ever meet the man, I swear I'll kill him.

I would kill Peter too, but it just wouldn't take. Looks like Peter and I both will live forever.

I release Peter from my telekinetic hold, and he falls to his knees. He's shaking now, and crying, his face and chest streaked bright with his blood. I'm not surprised to find the sight of him like this no longer quite as appealing, after what I've seen inside his head. I pick up the discarded top of Peter's skull and toss it to him. "You'll probably be needing that back."

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I don't even stop to think if I'm putting my head on correctly. I can feel my scalp moving against the clean cut rim of my skull, knitting itself back together properly. It makes me feel sick to my stomach and as I hear the door close, I drag myself to the bathroom to deposit the liquor I've been drinking safely in the bowl. In less than an hour, it's going to be my birthday, my twenty-seventh. And how do I spend it?

On the floor of a cheap hotel room after having my mind brutally raped by a man I thought was dead. That's how Peter Petrelli spends his 27th.

There are not enough tears to cry for this, so I do nothing of the sort, curling up in mostly ruined clothing. This will be the first time in my entire life that I will not be with Nathan when the clock strikes midnight. He won't be the first to whisper happy birthday in my ear or give me a hug.

I am a sick fuck.

Sylar's right.

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When I get home from my night of drinking and losing myself in the body of some barely legal boy, Heidi and my sons are sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. More like staring at their breakfast. Simon and Monty both glare at me. Heidi's been crying again.

Heidi looks up from the pancakes she's barely touched, her blue eyes cold as ice. She spits, "Nathan, where the hell have you been? Why didn't you call?"

"Not in front of the kids, Heidi," I say, hanging my suit jacket on the back of my chair. I see her looking at my collar, looking for lipstick marks. Not this time, I think bitterly.

I put a couple of pancakes on my plate, and while I eat, my family just stares at me. After the silence becomes uncomfortable even to me, I ask, "Isn't anyone going to talk?"

Heidi begins rambling about the boys' latest marks in school, and the boys tell me about their football games coming up over the weekend. There's an elephant in the room, all right. Me. The only way to solve this problem is to remove it.

I can't do this anymore. Heidi and I, we're irreparably shattered. There's no way to fix this. I'm letting my boys down, and they know it. They're heartbroken. But I will do my best to see them when I can. She can keep the house, everything in it. I don't need it. I don't need anything but her and the kids, and they're too far gone.

The rest of the week passes in a blur, a little bit of Christmas shopping, dinner at my mother's again. Peter doesn't show. I make phone calls to my fraternity brother about the job he's lined up for me, to my mother telling her I'm planning on leaving Heidi, but I'm going to wait until after the holidays. I think of calling my brother, but he'll probably know it's because I've realized that Heidi and I are over and I just want him for a replacement. It's not that, of course, but that's the way he'll take it.

But I miss him. Terribly.

I realize, while lying in bed, my arms around my wife who doesn't love me or believe in me anymore, that it's Peter's birthday in little less than an hour. I get up and grab my phone, punch in his number. I've never not been there to wish him a happy birthday, never in his life. I would go to him, but he hasn't been in his apartment at all since the last time we were both there. I checked seven times in the last four days.

I listen to the line ring and hope he's not so pissed off at me that he won't answer.

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The phone is ringing and for a moment, I think I'm hearing things. I mean, that's got to be it, right? I don't just wish that Nathan would call me and then suddenly, he does. It's not a storybook like. Who'd ever want to write anything as twisted as what my life's become? My mouth is dry, but i pick my head up, ignoring the spray of blood that coats the room. It's such a mess in here. The people that own this cheap motel are going to be absolutely livid.

I don't blame them. Of course not. Of course I don't. I'm going to cost them more in clean up than my meager daily rent will possibly cover.

For the longest time, I simply stare at my phone. The name that's on the ID makes the tears come and I blink them back until the very last moment. The call nearly goes to my answering machine, but as I flip it open and hold it against my ear, I am relieved that I answered.

"Where are you?"

It's been a week. No more, no less. but it feels like years.

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I let out the breath I've been holding as I hear the call connect.

At first I don't know what to say, because my brain almost shorts out with the rush of all the things I need him to know. I want to tell him I'm sorry for sending him away. I'm sorry I'm not there with him right this minute to hold him and hug him and tell him for the twenty-seventh time in his life, "Happy birthday, Pete." I want to hold him close and touch him and make love with him and just be with him.

Before I'm even aware of it, I'm struggling to hold the phone between my neck and shoulder while I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I choose a heavier coat than usual because I know I'm going to be flying, and it's below freezing out there tonight. I hope he's in Hawaii or somewhere warm. The thought makes me smile.

"Going off to fuck another one of your whores, Nathan?" Heidi grumbles sleepily. I want to scream at her, but I don't want Peter to hear that. And I hope he didn't hear her. Peter is not my whore. He's my brother. He's my life.

We've been on the line together for almost two minutes now, just listening to each other breathe, when one of us finally speaks, and it's Peter. "Where are you?" he blurts. He sounds panicked.

After shutting my bedroom door behind me, I whisper into the mouthpiece, "Wherever you want me to be."

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I can't meet him here, but I can hardly move. I stll feel numb. I'm not sure if I can feel anything anymore except for an ache to see Nathan. My eyes scan the room. The reddish blood is becoming brown, seeping into the carpet and staining the awful wallpaper. I still am wearing shreaded clothing. I smell like a cheap whore and too much alcohol. Like blood and maybe even urine from leaning against the back room wall for hours every night.

Oh god... Oh Nathan...what have I become?

I put my hand to my face to stop myself from sobbing but it's too late. I tell Nathan exactly where I am. I tell him down to the room number. He'll hate me to see what I've been doing with myself. "Just... Just hurry." I don't really mean it though. I need to clean up.

I just can't do much more than put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt when there's a knock at the door. I think I've been trying for a full hour straight by that point.

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He opens the door and nearly collapses into my arms, sobbing and shaking.

He smells awful, like cheap cologne, liquor and sex, and there is dried blood all over his face, his hands, in his hair. He's wearing eyeliner for some damn reason, and it's streaking down along with the tears.

"Oh, my God, Peter, what happened? What is this?" I hold my brother close for a few minutes, until he quiets down a bit.

This is no place for my little brother to spend his birthday. This shitty little hotel room's walls are also splattered with blood, and I start shaking myself. It must be his. I know whatever wound he suffered has long since healed, but still, I fear for him. He's been through something terrible; it doesn't take any special empathic ability to know that.

I get him to his feet and walk him into the bathroom, and strip him down to nothing. There is blood all over his chest too.

He rests his head on the tiled wall of the shower, and hard sobs tear from his throat. He moans my name over and over, and my heart nearly breaks for him.

I should have never let you go, Peter.

"Peter, you're gonna be all right. I'm here now. I'm here." I take off my own clothes as well; he's not going to be able to wash himself, not in the state he's in right now.

I turn the water on and put him under the spray. He just stands there, still crying, looking lost and afraid, while I run my soapy hands all over him, washing away the blood, sweat, and the scent of sex from his trembling body.

I swear to God I'll kill whoever did this to him.

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I can't believe my brother is here. My eyes catch the clock as he drags me, half carries me really, into the bathroom. 12:01. It's my birthday and he's here. He's got his arms around me, holding me, not judging me for once. I'm not sure if I'll ever catch my breath, if I'll ever be warm, not until the water drops onto my head. He scrubs my hair until the puddle at my feet runs clear. My forehead presses against his chest, nose jabbing against his sterum.

"Nathan--" He hushes me. Kisses my neck and my ear. And when I finally can look him in the eye, he takes my mouth with his. I almost melt, the tears mixing with the water as I lean up into him.

Skin pink and raw, though healing quickly, I let my brother dress me like a doll in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, bundle me up in my coat, and fly me right out the window. We're going someplace nicer. Someplace without blood and memories painted on the walls.

I wait beside him in the lobby of the Four Seasons, shivering, clinging to him, and for once, he doesn't push me away. The girl at the desk has got to think that I'm some tweeked out twink Nathan's pulled from a club. He's so suave and perfect. I'm a shaking, sunken eyed mess.

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I slide my American Express across the counter to the clerk, and I tell her I want the nicest room in the hotel, and I'll have her job if they don't get room service up there in the next twenty minutes.

Peter is holding on to me for dear life, not crying anymore, but still trembling all over. The clerk busies herself running my credit card and assigning our room, and I surprise myself by pulling him even closer and pressing my lips to his forehead.

"You're gonna be okay," I promise him again. I haven't wished him a happy birthday yet, and I won't, not until he's totally calmed down, not until I have him warm and fed and taken care of.

We get into the elevator and I let us in the room. I shake the snow off our coats, and I lay Peter down in the large bed, wrapping the comforter around him. I pace in front of the door, and as promised, room service arrives within the next ten minutes. I order soup and sandwiches, bottled water, and a bottle of Scotch for myself. I promise myself I'll go very easy on it; I just need one really, just to take the fear and the chill out of my bones. I know alcohol doesn't really affect Peter anymore, but I have a feeling he'll want a drink himself.

I lay down next to my brother and slip my arms around him, turn him to face me. He's having a hard time looking into my eyes, as though he's ashamed of himself. "You don't have to feel bad," I assure him. "You found me a lot like that not too long ago, remember?"

Peter cracks a smile finally, but it's forced and more tears slip down his face. But it's all right. I don't care what he thinks he's done. I know someone hurt him, and it's not his fault.

"You want to tell me what happened, Pete?" I whisper, stroking his hair. "If you want me to help you, you have to talk to me, okay, buddy?"

I haven't called him that since he was ten years old, but I can't help it. He looks like a lost child, and all I want to do is make it right.

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It's not that I don't want my brother's help, it's just that he can't help me. I know I should not be getting too comfortable here. Nathan should not be here, he's suppose to be working things out with his wife and being a father to his children. But I am selfish. Oh God, I'm much too selfish. What Sylar saw in my thoughts, what he ripped open for me to observe, has left me mindless.

I can't do this without my brother.

"Can you just hold me?" I know it's asking for a lot. Nathan's he sort of guy that needs to know and usually, I don't mind telling him. He might not always be able to fix my problems, but he'll always listen to them. I am already sitting up when Nathan opens his mouth to retort. I'm not going t let him speak right now. Nothing he can say will get me to change my mind. I undress in front of him, slowly. This isn't to be sexy, but jus to strip down to nothing. When I lay in his arms again, it's as the young brother he use to use for anything and everything he wanted.

He taught me what to do. He taught me how to be.

"I just want you to love me." But for Nathan, that could be an issue. One person is not enough for him. "It doesn't matter if you need anyone else. You can have whomever you want. But you have to promise me that you'll love me."

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"Of course I love you. I'll always love you. No matter what, Peter," I say with a smile, covering his nakedness with the comforter. It's not that I don't want to look at him; I just know I shouldn't.

Something terrible has happened to him, aand since he doesn't want to tell me, I have a feeling it was sexual in nature. He was probably raped and almost murdered by some sick fuck from one of those goddamned clubs downtown. That's why he was wearing the eyeliner, and those ridiculous, shredded, blood-splattered clothes he hadn't quite hidden from my sight.

Thank God he can't die, or I would have blamed myself forever.

He's probably ashamed of what happened to him, and he thinks it's his fault. I decide not to press the issue any further. I'll let him tell me on his own, when he feels ready. If he ever does. He's strong enough to handle it. He's a grown man. He's just turned twenty-seven years old, in fact. I'll always be his older brother, but he's telling me he doesn't need me to hold his hand anymore. But I will, if he ever needs me to again. Peter doesn't deserve to hurt like this.

Room service knocks at the door, and I take in the cart and slip the server a handful of twenties for his trouble, probably more than he's made all night. Money isn't that important to me, and I have plenty.

I put a couple of sandwiches, two cups of soup on a tray, and I pour us both a bit of the Scotch over ice. I still don't feel like I should, but I say it anyway.

"Happy birthday, Peter." Then I give him a hug, just like I do every year.

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