Flayed Heart
Title: Flayed Heart
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,913
Spoilers: Late S3
Warnings: Dub-con, incest, toys, forced orgasm, mind-fuck, needle-play, hot wax, general unpleasantness, implied whipping, angst like whoa.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
A/N: Thanks to redandglenda and brighteyed_jill for betaing! Written for crashgirl82 for heroes_exchange.
Summary: President Petrelli has a weekly appointment he wouldn’t miss for the world. Because it is his world.
“Mr. President, your nine p.m. appointment?”
President Petrelli looked up from the report he’d been absorbed in to see his personal aid, a redheaded man everyone knew as Alan, standing in the doorway of the Oval Office. His Chief of Staff sniffed in disapproval as Nathan quickly scanned the rest of the report, signed off on it, and shoved the rest of the papers aside.
“That’ll be all, Bruce. See you in the morning,” he said firmly. Bruce nodded precisely and turned on his heel to leave, lips pursed in irritation.
Nathan was already out the door with Alan, walking so quickly and with such purpose that the usual gaggle of staffers with their endless questions practically bounced off him. They all knew about his Wednesday evening appointments, not the details, but for his ironclad insistence that for one hour, once a week, the country could let the President have some time to himself. He had left strict instructions that unless someone was attacking the borders or the White House was literally on fire, nothing and no one was to disturb him. The last person who’d tried to talk to him during his private hour had been transferred to Alaska. No one else had tried since.
Not even the Secret Service was allowed in the private room, secured as it was by biometric locks and doors a bank vault would be hard-pressed to improve upon. But then again, what it contained was far more precious to the President than mere money.
Alan nodded as the last door closed behind him and the President, cutting them off from the world for the next hour. With a satisfied sigh, he let his disguise slip, and Sylar cracked his neck to relieve the stress of long-term shifting.
“Care to double-team?” Nathan asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s been a hard week.”
Sylar shook his head. “Next time. If I have to shift again, I’m going to forget what I look like.”
Nathan simply looked at him up and down, letting his eyes travel over Sylar like a pair of appreciative hands, knowing Sylar would feel the glance as almost palpable. He appreciated being appreciated for who he was, and for the help he was giving Nathan, Nathan would give him something he wanted. And, when the stresses of government became too much, Sylar could take the reins while Nathan took a breather. They both got what they wanted out of this partnership.
Wednesday nights, that was also something they both wanted. Peter.
Peter should have been at the front of the organized resistance. Should have, if realizing that Nathan and Sylar were working together hadn’t broken him. It was a tragedy, a damned tragedy, and Nathan might have broken himself, if Sylar hadn’t inadvertently found the solution. Nathan had nearly killed him when he discovered what Sylar had been doing with his brother, but when he’d seen the results…
Nathan already counted himself amongst the damned. He was working with Sylar, the devil’s own, running a country because he’d been elected on a platform of pure lies. He ruled the specials through a campaign of terror and murder, and had united divided factions with the help of his shape-shifting, lie-detecting counterpart, using that knowledge to apply pressure where he would. When he was being the President, he kept the small part of him that cared about morals and ethics and love in a tiny little box inside his heart. He leered at Sylar and rutted with him like an animal because it took the edge of madness off, for both of them.
And on Wednesday nights, Nathan let hope out of the box, to the music of screams and pain, for Peter’s sake. For what he needed, above and beyond what twisted pleasure came of it for them.
Sylar took in Nathan’s appreciative stare with confident arrogance, stretching and loosening his limbs like a horse before a race, or a tiger before a fight. Nathan primed the tiger with a nod, and opened the inner door.
Inside was a small room, table, chairs, and the racks of instruments and supplies. And in the middle, Peter, in a thin white shirt and pants, his long hair falling over his pale face.
Nathan’s heart almost stopped, he was so beautiful.
“Nathan?” Peter whispered, sounding confused. “It hurts. Please, it hurts so much…”
Sylar sprang forward, the sight of Peter’s pale skin and clothes almost driving him to mark them, to see blood mar the pure perfection. He had Peter’s head wrenched back, baring his neck, and Peter whimpered as the extreme angle caused him pain. But the whimper wasn’t one of distress.
Nathan stepped forward, feeling every sound Peter made traveling straight to his dick. It was always like this, sometimes even worse. He’d come in to find Peter already on the table, skin reddened from where he’d worked himself over with one of the tools, so desperate was he for the pain. Nathan was no psychiatrist; he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened to make Peter this way, but he definitely could tell the result.
Nathan took the opening Sylar had provided and lunged in to bite at Peter’s neck, thrusting a hand down Peter’s pants to squeeze cruelly at his balls, making Peter scream in a high and broken voice. His dick was rock-hard above Nathan’s hand, tapping against his arm at every excruciating change in pressure.
“Oh God, Nathan. God, it hurts, hurts so much!” Peter sobbed. Nathan let go before Peter could come all over his jacket sleeve, letting Sylar grab Peter’s arms and haul him over to the table. He all but threw him down on it on his back, and made Peter grab the table legs, tapping his hands to remind him to hold on tight. They didn’t need to tie Peter down; he’d endure anything they did to him. And had.
Peter was still sobbing Nathan’s name, his dick tenting his pants, and Sylar looked annoyed. Sylar was far more of an artist with pain than Nathan, but Peter never called out Sylar’s name unless it had been forced out of him. Sometimes Sylar wore Nathan’s face, making Peter writhe in an agony of confusion as intense as any suffering, just to see him squirm even more, and to hear Peter being unable to call out to either of them.
Nathan walked around to the head of the table, and Peter’s eyes tracked him, upside down. His eyes would be locked on Nathan unless Sylar commanded otherwise, but now Peter wouldn’t be able to see where the blows would land. Sylar had Peter’s body completely at his mercy, exposed and without Nathan to hide behind. Nathan swallowed as Peter’s eyes held his, knowing this would intensify the feeling if Peter couldn’t anticipate the pain. Maybe he’d be able to break sooner, let all the pain out faster, and just for a few moments, Nathan could have his brother back again.
Sylar moved to the racks, fingering one tool, and then another, drawing Nathan’s attention with a raised eyebrow. He never liked to repeat himself, but he enjoyed Nathan’s input upon occasion. Nathan shook his head at the whips and floggers, and again at the riding crop. Peter didn’t have regeneration at the moment; he’d absorbed Nathan’s flight at his first touch, as always, but the striking tools were usually better when they had Peter on his stomach, not his back.
Sylar pursed his lips and moved to some of the other toys. He touched one, and Nathan raised an eyebrow. Smirking, Sylar took it off the rack. Next to it he added needles, and finally, candles. Nathan nodded, impressed, and Peter groaned, his body starved for touch. Sylar obliged, cutting Peter’s clothing off with an artfully careless touch of his mind, making beads of blood well up on his chest and inner thighs as his clothes fell away in ribbons. Peter whimpered, his hands tightening on the table legs, his dick twitching fitfully.
“Pathetic, Petrelli,” Sylar growled softly. Peter whimpered again, eyes locked on Nathan, huge and liquid with the pain. “No self-respect at all.”
Peter wouldn’t budge his gaze, and Nathan nodded sharply to Sylar. Smiling, Sylar picked the heavy gauge needles up and leaned over Peter’s chest, deliberately touching him gently, soothing the telekinetic slice and smoothing the pain away. A sob ripped through Peter’s chest and Nathan could see tears run from Peter’s eyes and down his forehead. The sight nearly did him in, and Nathan clenched one fist hard, feeling the nails bite into his palm.
“Come on, get him going. We don’t have all night,” Nathan snapped.
Sylar didn’t even dignify that with a smirk, just bent to his task, running needles crosswise under Peter’s nipples, raising the hard little nubs up and making them swell. After a few minutes, any pressure on them would be excruciating, pain buttons to make Peter finally break. Those would, however, have to wait until the last step of tonight’s session.
Peter hissed, chest heaving as he tried to deal with the pain, eyes blurred with tears, still focused on his brother. Nathan could practically feel the heat in them, the desire to see everything made all right once again, the same worshipful look Peter had once granted him when they were still kids together. He’d once promised himself he’d do anything to see that again. Here and now, he prayed for the opposite, and knew God would never grant it.
Sylar tapped Peter’s knees, grinning in satisfaction when they parted and lifted with no further prompting. Peter didn’t call out for Sylar, but he was exquisitely responsive to everything that he did. Nathan held back a soft moan of his own seeing Peter making himself so vulnerable. That weakness brought the predator in Sylar back to the fore, and he snatched up the brutally large dildo from the side table, slicking it quickly and bringing it down to press insistently at Peter’s ass. Moaning at the invasion, face twisting in agony, Peter tried to relax around it and was losing the battle. His hands twisted on the table legs as he tried to keep himself in place against the force of Sylar’s arm.
Nathan dropped to his heels and put his hands through Peter’s hair, pulling him into a bruising kiss, yanking on his hair hard. The pain made Peter focus, and Sylar made a satisfied grunt as Peter’s body accepted the tool. Twisting and thrusting, every angle calculated to provide a new and interesting kind of discomfort, Sylar worked the heavy dildo in and out of Peter’s body, growling in a kind of primal display of dominance as Peter responded. Nathan knew Peter’s dick must be rock-hard and swaying with the force of Sylar’s thrusts, and clenched his hands hard in Peter’s scalp to provide a counterpart to the pain below.
Peter’s scream was captured in Nathan’s mouth, and Nathan could feel himself, hard and eager as his brother for release. Pressing hard, using his teeth as weapons, Nathan made the kiss a bloody exercise, and felt Peter get more and more frantic with every taste of iron in his mouth. Close, they were so close now…
A click above, followed by a faint hissing sound, and Nathan knew they were both ready to push things into their final stage. Pulling himself off Peter, Nathan saw Sylar had replaced the tool with his own cock, eyes half-closed in bliss at the clenching heat inside Peter’s body. In one hand was the source of the hissing, a lit candle that he was slowly moving over Peter’s chest, letting drops of molten-hot wax burn into the cuts he’d made earlier.
Peter’s whole body was tensing with every drop, pained moans increasing in volume as Sylar found new parts of Peter’s body to torment, nastily leaving the over-sensitized nipples alone. Nathan leaned down again to whisper in Peter’s ear, the whole of his face a mess of saliva, tears, and blood. It was his turn to add to the rising crescendo of pain.
“Every time we do this, you’re worse off. More wanton. Easier to break. I don’t do broken things, Pete. You know that. I haven’t let you touch me in three months,” Nathan whispered, letting every word cut as deeply as Sylar’s thorough and deep thrusts. “You know why. Because you’re pathetic, Peter. You’re a toy, a thing we use together on Wednesday nights for fun. You’re our entertainment. And one of these days, we’re going to get bored of you. Then we’ll just hand you over to whoever wants something like you, who’ll use you up and throw you away…”
Tears ran thickly down Peter’s face, and soft sobs wracked him, the pain of his brother’s rejection building on the increasing pain from Sylar’s torments. His body arched like a bow, and Nathan looked sharply up at Sylar and nodded. Sylar could keep going all night, if Nathan let him, but Nathan couldn’t keep his voice steady a second longer. Two more thrusts, so powerful the whole table moved, and Sylar froze, body riding out his orgasm. His hand moved once, turning the candle upside down and extinguishing it on Peter’s belly. Nathan reached up quickly and pressed his fingers on Peter’s painfully raised nipples, the combination of all the pain making Peter scream loudly enough to wake the dead.
Nathan’s ears were still ringing as Peter’s sobs trailed off into nothing. Sylar had dismounted and left for the moment to savor his afterglow in solitude, leaving Peter like a discarded rag, alone with Nathan.
“Nathan?” Peter said cautiously, prying his hands off the table.
Nathan looked up to see sense in his brother’s eyes, not the masochistic slut Peter had become after his breakdown, and shuddered in relief. He let hope out of its box and hugged Peter with a care to everything he’d suffered.
“You’re back,” Nathan whispered.
“Not for long, I know. I remember,” Peter said, wincing at the pain. “I-. Are you ok?”
“Yeah. World hadn’t blown up yet. We have a new treaty in the Middle East that’s actually holding, wonder of wonders. No new specials have shown up in trouble, so that’s working too-,” Nathan started.
“No, Nathan,” Peter interrupted. “I don’t want a damn state of the union address. Are you ok? Tell me.”
Nathan had dodged that question for years, mostly out of reflex, but tonight he felt tired. Tired and dirty and the worst kind of fool. What was the point of breaking through Peter’s madness if he were just going to treat him like any other person? He wanted his brother back, he wanted to be able to talk about things and confess them, to share their burdens and sins so they were no longer so onerous. Not like with Sylar, where there were no confessions, just a subtle egging on, “Is that the best you can do?” There were no sins, just a tally of vices kept between them, like a football score. There was no salvation, not for them.
“I’m done, Pete,” Nathan whispered. “I’m done. I can’t be myself around anyone but you, and you’re almost always lost. I lose another part of myself bringing you back to me, every time. One day, either you or me is just not going to come back.”
Tears filled Peter’s eyes again, genuine sorrow spilling over this time instead of pained torment. He leaned in, embracing Nathan and kissing him softly, torn and bloody lips nevertheless sending thrills through Nathan’s body.
“I’m so sorry. I just wish I could be better,” Peter whispered, slipping a hand into Nathan’s pants. It took almost nothing, just a few strokes of Peter’s gentle hand, and Nathan released in a sweet burst of pleasure, so pure and good he felt tears prick at his eyes. It had always been that with Peter, beyond the intrinsic wrongness of it, it was just so right they couldn’t stay away from each other for long.
“So good, Pete…”
“Nathan?” Peter asked, his voice starting to tremble. Nathan pulled back in horror, seeing the faint haze of masochistic lust begin to glaze Peter’s eyes, hiding his brother from him. No! It hadn’t been more than five minutes! It had to last longer than that, it had to!
“I love you,” Peter whispered, touching Nathan’s face gently. “I always will.”
Nathan nearly screamed in frustration as Peter’s eyes unfocused slightly, his body beginning to sway and writhe on the table in a siren song of impropriety.
“Nathan? Nathan it hurts, please. Please, help me, it hurts,” Peter chanted desperately, pushing out his cut, burned, and needled chest, begging to be punished.
Hope fled, sealing itself within an ever-smaller box, as Nathan blindly grabbed for the nearest thing on the rack. His hand fell on a light whip, and Nathan grasped that in one hand, using the other to pull Peter off the table and turn him around. Peter eagerly grabbed onto the table and held still, exposing himself.
The door opened at that moment and Sylar reappeared, raising an eyebrow.
“Round two already?” he asked. Nathan glared at him and tossed him the other whip.
“Yes. And make it better this time. He didn’t get enough,” Nathan growled.
Flashing a devil’s grin, Sylar raised his whip to strike. Nathan was right next to him, ready to flay Peter’s back into as many pieces as his own heart.
--END--
Prompt used:
2. Nathan/Peter/Sylar: Nathan and Sylar take turns giving masochistic puppy Peter what he loves most...pain. Toys/whips/chains/whatever. I want blood and angst and screaming.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Sylar/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,913
Spoilers: Late S3
Warnings: Dub-con, incest, toys, forced orgasm, mind-fuck, needle-play, hot wax, general unpleasantness, implied whipping, angst like whoa.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al
A/N: Thanks to redandglenda and brighteyed_jill for betaing! Written for crashgirl82 for heroes_exchange.
Summary: President Petrelli has a weekly appointment he wouldn’t miss for the world. Because it is his world.
“Mr. President, your nine p.m. appointment?”
President Petrelli looked up from the report he’d been absorbed in to see his personal aid, a redheaded man everyone knew as Alan, standing in the doorway of the Oval Office. His Chief of Staff sniffed in disapproval as Nathan quickly scanned the rest of the report, signed off on it, and shoved the rest of the papers aside.
“That’ll be all, Bruce. See you in the morning,” he said firmly. Bruce nodded precisely and turned on his heel to leave, lips pursed in irritation.
Nathan was already out the door with Alan, walking so quickly and with such purpose that the usual gaggle of staffers with their endless questions practically bounced off him. They all knew about his Wednesday evening appointments, not the details, but for his ironclad insistence that for one hour, once a week, the country could let the President have some time to himself. He had left strict instructions that unless someone was attacking the borders or the White House was literally on fire, nothing and no one was to disturb him. The last person who’d tried to talk to him during his private hour had been transferred to Alaska. No one else had tried since.
Not even the Secret Service was allowed in the private room, secured as it was by biometric locks and doors a bank vault would be hard-pressed to improve upon. But then again, what it contained was far more precious to the President than mere money.
Alan nodded as the last door closed behind him and the President, cutting them off from the world for the next hour. With a satisfied sigh, he let his disguise slip, and Sylar cracked his neck to relieve the stress of long-term shifting.
“Care to double-team?” Nathan asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s been a hard week.”
Sylar shook his head. “Next time. If I have to shift again, I’m going to forget what I look like.”
Nathan simply looked at him up and down, letting his eyes travel over Sylar like a pair of appreciative hands, knowing Sylar would feel the glance as almost palpable. He appreciated being appreciated for who he was, and for the help he was giving Nathan, Nathan would give him something he wanted. And, when the stresses of government became too much, Sylar could take the reins while Nathan took a breather. They both got what they wanted out of this partnership.
Wednesday nights, that was also something they both wanted. Peter.
Peter should have been at the front of the organized resistance. Should have, if realizing that Nathan and Sylar were working together hadn’t broken him. It was a tragedy, a damned tragedy, and Nathan might have broken himself, if Sylar hadn’t inadvertently found the solution. Nathan had nearly killed him when he discovered what Sylar had been doing with his brother, but when he’d seen the results…
Nathan already counted himself amongst the damned. He was working with Sylar, the devil’s own, running a country because he’d been elected on a platform of pure lies. He ruled the specials through a campaign of terror and murder, and had united divided factions with the help of his shape-shifting, lie-detecting counterpart, using that knowledge to apply pressure where he would. When he was being the President, he kept the small part of him that cared about morals and ethics and love in a tiny little box inside his heart. He leered at Sylar and rutted with him like an animal because it took the edge of madness off, for both of them.
And on Wednesday nights, Nathan let hope out of the box, to the music of screams and pain, for Peter’s sake. For what he needed, above and beyond what twisted pleasure came of it for them.
Sylar took in Nathan’s appreciative stare with confident arrogance, stretching and loosening his limbs like a horse before a race, or a tiger before a fight. Nathan primed the tiger with a nod, and opened the inner door.
Inside was a small room, table, chairs, and the racks of instruments and supplies. And in the middle, Peter, in a thin white shirt and pants, his long hair falling over his pale face.
Nathan’s heart almost stopped, he was so beautiful.
“Nathan?” Peter whispered, sounding confused. “It hurts. Please, it hurts so much…”
Sylar sprang forward, the sight of Peter’s pale skin and clothes almost driving him to mark them, to see blood mar the pure perfection. He had Peter’s head wrenched back, baring his neck, and Peter whimpered as the extreme angle caused him pain. But the whimper wasn’t one of distress.
Nathan stepped forward, feeling every sound Peter made traveling straight to his dick. It was always like this, sometimes even worse. He’d come in to find Peter already on the table, skin reddened from where he’d worked himself over with one of the tools, so desperate was he for the pain. Nathan was no psychiatrist; he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened to make Peter this way, but he definitely could tell the result.
Nathan took the opening Sylar had provided and lunged in to bite at Peter’s neck, thrusting a hand down Peter’s pants to squeeze cruelly at his balls, making Peter scream in a high and broken voice. His dick was rock-hard above Nathan’s hand, tapping against his arm at every excruciating change in pressure.
“Oh God, Nathan. God, it hurts, hurts so much!” Peter sobbed. Nathan let go before Peter could come all over his jacket sleeve, letting Sylar grab Peter’s arms and haul him over to the table. He all but threw him down on it on his back, and made Peter grab the table legs, tapping his hands to remind him to hold on tight. They didn’t need to tie Peter down; he’d endure anything they did to him. And had.
Peter was still sobbing Nathan’s name, his dick tenting his pants, and Sylar looked annoyed. Sylar was far more of an artist with pain than Nathan, but Peter never called out Sylar’s name unless it had been forced out of him. Sometimes Sylar wore Nathan’s face, making Peter writhe in an agony of confusion as intense as any suffering, just to see him squirm even more, and to hear Peter being unable to call out to either of them.
Nathan walked around to the head of the table, and Peter’s eyes tracked him, upside down. His eyes would be locked on Nathan unless Sylar commanded otherwise, but now Peter wouldn’t be able to see where the blows would land. Sylar had Peter’s body completely at his mercy, exposed and without Nathan to hide behind. Nathan swallowed as Peter’s eyes held his, knowing this would intensify the feeling if Peter couldn’t anticipate the pain. Maybe he’d be able to break sooner, let all the pain out faster, and just for a few moments, Nathan could have his brother back again.
Sylar moved to the racks, fingering one tool, and then another, drawing Nathan’s attention with a raised eyebrow. He never liked to repeat himself, but he enjoyed Nathan’s input upon occasion. Nathan shook his head at the whips and floggers, and again at the riding crop. Peter didn’t have regeneration at the moment; he’d absorbed Nathan’s flight at his first touch, as always, but the striking tools were usually better when they had Peter on his stomach, not his back.
Sylar pursed his lips and moved to some of the other toys. He touched one, and Nathan raised an eyebrow. Smirking, Sylar took it off the rack. Next to it he added needles, and finally, candles. Nathan nodded, impressed, and Peter groaned, his body starved for touch. Sylar obliged, cutting Peter’s clothing off with an artfully careless touch of his mind, making beads of blood well up on his chest and inner thighs as his clothes fell away in ribbons. Peter whimpered, his hands tightening on the table legs, his dick twitching fitfully.
“Pathetic, Petrelli,” Sylar growled softly. Peter whimpered again, eyes locked on Nathan, huge and liquid with the pain. “No self-respect at all.”
Peter wouldn’t budge his gaze, and Nathan nodded sharply to Sylar. Smiling, Sylar picked the heavy gauge needles up and leaned over Peter’s chest, deliberately touching him gently, soothing the telekinetic slice and smoothing the pain away. A sob ripped through Peter’s chest and Nathan could see tears run from Peter’s eyes and down his forehead. The sight nearly did him in, and Nathan clenched one fist hard, feeling the nails bite into his palm.
“Come on, get him going. We don’t have all night,” Nathan snapped.
Sylar didn’t even dignify that with a smirk, just bent to his task, running needles crosswise under Peter’s nipples, raising the hard little nubs up and making them swell. After a few minutes, any pressure on them would be excruciating, pain buttons to make Peter finally break. Those would, however, have to wait until the last step of tonight’s session.
Peter hissed, chest heaving as he tried to deal with the pain, eyes blurred with tears, still focused on his brother. Nathan could practically feel the heat in them, the desire to see everything made all right once again, the same worshipful look Peter had once granted him when they were still kids together. He’d once promised himself he’d do anything to see that again. Here and now, he prayed for the opposite, and knew God would never grant it.
Sylar tapped Peter’s knees, grinning in satisfaction when they parted and lifted with no further prompting. Peter didn’t call out for Sylar, but he was exquisitely responsive to everything that he did. Nathan held back a soft moan of his own seeing Peter making himself so vulnerable. That weakness brought the predator in Sylar back to the fore, and he snatched up the brutally large dildo from the side table, slicking it quickly and bringing it down to press insistently at Peter’s ass. Moaning at the invasion, face twisting in agony, Peter tried to relax around it and was losing the battle. His hands twisted on the table legs as he tried to keep himself in place against the force of Sylar’s arm.
Nathan dropped to his heels and put his hands through Peter’s hair, pulling him into a bruising kiss, yanking on his hair hard. The pain made Peter focus, and Sylar made a satisfied grunt as Peter’s body accepted the tool. Twisting and thrusting, every angle calculated to provide a new and interesting kind of discomfort, Sylar worked the heavy dildo in and out of Peter’s body, growling in a kind of primal display of dominance as Peter responded. Nathan knew Peter’s dick must be rock-hard and swaying with the force of Sylar’s thrusts, and clenched his hands hard in Peter’s scalp to provide a counterpart to the pain below.
Peter’s scream was captured in Nathan’s mouth, and Nathan could feel himself, hard and eager as his brother for release. Pressing hard, using his teeth as weapons, Nathan made the kiss a bloody exercise, and felt Peter get more and more frantic with every taste of iron in his mouth. Close, they were so close now…
A click above, followed by a faint hissing sound, and Nathan knew they were both ready to push things into their final stage. Pulling himself off Peter, Nathan saw Sylar had replaced the tool with his own cock, eyes half-closed in bliss at the clenching heat inside Peter’s body. In one hand was the source of the hissing, a lit candle that he was slowly moving over Peter’s chest, letting drops of molten-hot wax burn into the cuts he’d made earlier.
Peter’s whole body was tensing with every drop, pained moans increasing in volume as Sylar found new parts of Peter’s body to torment, nastily leaving the over-sensitized nipples alone. Nathan leaned down again to whisper in Peter’s ear, the whole of his face a mess of saliva, tears, and blood. It was his turn to add to the rising crescendo of pain.
“Every time we do this, you’re worse off. More wanton. Easier to break. I don’t do broken things, Pete. You know that. I haven’t let you touch me in three months,” Nathan whispered, letting every word cut as deeply as Sylar’s thorough and deep thrusts. “You know why. Because you’re pathetic, Peter. You’re a toy, a thing we use together on Wednesday nights for fun. You’re our entertainment. And one of these days, we’re going to get bored of you. Then we’ll just hand you over to whoever wants something like you, who’ll use you up and throw you away…”
Tears ran thickly down Peter’s face, and soft sobs wracked him, the pain of his brother’s rejection building on the increasing pain from Sylar’s torments. His body arched like a bow, and Nathan looked sharply up at Sylar and nodded. Sylar could keep going all night, if Nathan let him, but Nathan couldn’t keep his voice steady a second longer. Two more thrusts, so powerful the whole table moved, and Sylar froze, body riding out his orgasm. His hand moved once, turning the candle upside down and extinguishing it on Peter’s belly. Nathan reached up quickly and pressed his fingers on Peter’s painfully raised nipples, the combination of all the pain making Peter scream loudly enough to wake the dead.
Nathan’s ears were still ringing as Peter’s sobs trailed off into nothing. Sylar had dismounted and left for the moment to savor his afterglow in solitude, leaving Peter like a discarded rag, alone with Nathan.
“Nathan?” Peter said cautiously, prying his hands off the table.
Nathan looked up to see sense in his brother’s eyes, not the masochistic slut Peter had become after his breakdown, and shuddered in relief. He let hope out of its box and hugged Peter with a care to everything he’d suffered.
“You’re back,” Nathan whispered.
“Not for long, I know. I remember,” Peter said, wincing at the pain. “I-. Are you ok?”
“Yeah. World hadn’t blown up yet. We have a new treaty in the Middle East that’s actually holding, wonder of wonders. No new specials have shown up in trouble, so that’s working too-,” Nathan started.
“No, Nathan,” Peter interrupted. “I don’t want a damn state of the union address. Are you ok? Tell me.”
Nathan had dodged that question for years, mostly out of reflex, but tonight he felt tired. Tired and dirty and the worst kind of fool. What was the point of breaking through Peter’s madness if he were just going to treat him like any other person? He wanted his brother back, he wanted to be able to talk about things and confess them, to share their burdens and sins so they were no longer so onerous. Not like with Sylar, where there were no confessions, just a subtle egging on, “Is that the best you can do?” There were no sins, just a tally of vices kept between them, like a football score. There was no salvation, not for them.
“I’m done, Pete,” Nathan whispered. “I’m done. I can’t be myself around anyone but you, and you’re almost always lost. I lose another part of myself bringing you back to me, every time. One day, either you or me is just not going to come back.”
Tears filled Peter’s eyes again, genuine sorrow spilling over this time instead of pained torment. He leaned in, embracing Nathan and kissing him softly, torn and bloody lips nevertheless sending thrills through Nathan’s body.
“I’m so sorry. I just wish I could be better,” Peter whispered, slipping a hand into Nathan’s pants. It took almost nothing, just a few strokes of Peter’s gentle hand, and Nathan released in a sweet burst of pleasure, so pure and good he felt tears prick at his eyes. It had always been that with Peter, beyond the intrinsic wrongness of it, it was just so right they couldn’t stay away from each other for long.
“So good, Pete…”
“Nathan?” Peter asked, his voice starting to tremble. Nathan pulled back in horror, seeing the faint haze of masochistic lust begin to glaze Peter’s eyes, hiding his brother from him. No! It hadn’t been more than five minutes! It had to last longer than that, it had to!
“I love you,” Peter whispered, touching Nathan’s face gently. “I always will.”
Nathan nearly screamed in frustration as Peter’s eyes unfocused slightly, his body beginning to sway and writhe on the table in a siren song of impropriety.
“Nathan? Nathan it hurts, please. Please, help me, it hurts,” Peter chanted desperately, pushing out his cut, burned, and needled chest, begging to be punished.
Hope fled, sealing itself within an ever-smaller box, as Nathan blindly grabbed for the nearest thing on the rack. His hand fell on a light whip, and Nathan grasped that in one hand, using the other to pull Peter off the table and turn him around. Peter eagerly grabbed onto the table and held still, exposing himself.
The door opened at that moment and Sylar reappeared, raising an eyebrow.
“Round two already?” he asked. Nathan glared at him and tossed him the other whip.
“Yes. And make it better this time. He didn’t get enough,” Nathan growled.
Flashing a devil’s grin, Sylar raised his whip to strike. Nathan was right next to him, ready to flay Peter’s back into as many pieces as his own heart.
--END--
Prompt used:
2. Nathan/Peter/Sylar: Nathan and Sylar take turns giving masochistic puppy Peter what he loves most...pain. Toys/whips/chains/whatever. I want blood and angst and screaming.