Reparations (Slave Verse 1, Chapter 4)
Peter had puked at some point. His ass had begun bleeding again and apparently not stopped for some time. He was pale and sweating and shivering slightly. His eyes were open but slightly glazed.
Sylar flopped back on the bed and rubbed his face wearily. That was so not a turn on. He rubbed at himself, but his erection was fading and now that he knew Peter was over in the corner dying or something, it was unlikely he’d be able to rub one out. Besides, he could smell the vomit now that he was awake. He huffed and got out of bed. He shape shifted out of pajamas and into his day clothes. Peter didn’t seem to notice.
Sylar crouched next to him. He was fevered. Touching his brow got a reaction. Peter’s vision cleared and he looked up at Sylar. “If I didn’t know better,” Sylar grumbled, “I’d think you did this on purpose. This is not what I wanted.” He started to get up, but Peter grabbed his arm at the elbow. His grip was strong, but trembling.
Sylar looked at him coolly. Peter brought his brows together and did his level best to look pitiful, which was pretty easy in his current condition, and begged, “Master, please.”
The plea ran through Sylar like someone had jolted him with an implant. It wasn’t pleasant. He pushed Peter’s hand off his arm and rose, getting away from him. “Shit,” he muttered. He felt… almost like he had an obligation or… a responsibility. “Shit,” he said again and stalked off to set things up.
He ended up using telekinesis to get Peter into the kitchen and lay on a plastic sheet, because any motion of his legs made him bleed more. Then he went back and cleaned up the vomit so he could get his bedroom aired out. He cleaned up the blood too. There was rather a lot of it, he realized as he scrubbed.
He went back in the kitchen, cleaned himself and poured Peter a full glass of orange juice. He handed it to him and went to scroll though the city database for doctors who would treat companion slaves and do house calls. It wasn’t a long list. He saved them all to his phone. He had a new task for the afternoon now, which wasn’t what he’d been planning to do. Irritated, he turned to say something cutting to Peter, only to see him sitting there exactly where he’d put him, still holding the full glass and looking slightly dazed.
Sylar took a deep breath. He let it out. “Drink the juice, Peter.” He twitched, realizing he’d given Peter the respect of calling him by his name. But the words were out of his mouth already. He couldn’t recall them. He slumped a little. It didn’t matter. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be back with a doctor. You probably just need… antibiotics or something.”
Sylar started to leave. Peter straightened a little and said, “Master?”
He stopped and looked at him, debating doing something about this habit Peter seemed to be getting into of talking out of turn. Instead he snapped, “What?”
“Can I have a pillow? If I’m to stay here on the tile... sir? Please?”
He looked at the tile. It was much colder to lie on than the rubber mat that was designed for the purpose and at least didn’t cool a body more than necessary. He shook his head, but stalked into the bedroom and brought out a pillow and the top blanket off his bed. It was a fluffy comforter, parts of it still warm from his own body heat. He threw them both over where Peter could get to them and left before his passive aggressive slave could trick him into some other display of beneficence.
He was back in a few hours and during that time Peter had apparently not strayed. He’d finished the juice and kept it down. He was wrapped up in the comforter, on the floor. “There,” Sylar directed, as if the doctor he’d brought couldn’t see Peter perfectly well.
He was checked over - temperature, heart rate, lung function and blood pressure. The doctor jumped a little to see that he was naked under the blanket. He glanced back at Sylar, who was leaning against the far counter watching impassively. “You said he was a companion slave?”
“He is a companion slave. Just bought. Yesterday.”
“Was he like this when you got him? You should file a complaint.” Sylar shook his head silently. The doctor turned to Peter. “My name is Mark. I’m told you’re having some rectal bleeding. I’ll need to get you up where I can examine you.”
Peter smiled, a faint but sincere curving of his lips and said, “My name’s Asshole. Because I am one.”
Sylar coughed suddenly and covered his mouth with his hand. Mark did a double-take to make sure Peter was joking. Peter smiled wider and laughed just a little, enough to cement it. Dr. Mark, who had been tense, relaxed. He glanced back at Sylar. “I can see why you don’t want to take him back.”
“His name’s Peter,” Sylar offered, noticing that with one joke, Peter had defused the tension in the room completely. Sylar had heard Peter’s charisma was legendary, but he’d always assumed that was overblown reputation. “Is the kitchen counter okay?”
Mark looked at the expansive bar and said, “Sure. Let me just double up the blanket so he’s not lying on the granite.” He arranged the spot and Sylar lifted Peter into position with telekinesis. The doctor’s eyes went wide at the display of ability. Specials were very rare and very, very illegal. He could lose his freedom just for knowing one existed and not turning him in at the first opportunity. He looked at Sylar, whose eyes bored into his challengingly. Mark turned and looked at Peter, swallowing. Peter just gazed serenely past him. Sylar wasn’t doing anything unusual. Peter had no real reference point for the law.
Sylar said, “Treat him and you’ll live, but I don’t guarantee you’ll remember doing it.”
Mark nodded numbly. He got out his equipment. A few minutes later, despite the death threat, he was quietly shaking with fury and hustled Sylar into the dining room next door.
“What did you do to him?” he said in a forced whisper that Peter heard easily in the silent house. “Do you even know how to have sex? What is that huge bruise over his kidney? Do you realize that could have killed him? It still could, if there’s a clot that breaks free!”
Sylar listened to the doctor rant while wearing an amused expression. After he’d listened to enough of it, he held up one finger and Mark fell silent. “Treat him… and you’ll live.” Sylar shook his head. “You’re not treating him right now.”
Mark paled and breathed heavily out his nose. He walked back to Peter. “Peter, I’m going to give you some Tylenol to bring your temperature down and inject a sedative to make you more comfortable. Then I’m going to apply a local anesthetic and stitch you up. It’s very important that you don’t tear this open. You’ve been ripped, top and bottom, by someone who didn’t care how bad they hurt you.” He ground his jaw for a moment.
“He cared,” Peter said placidly. “He wanted to hurt me. He told me he was going to.”
Mark opened his mouth and shut it.
Leaning against the doorframe, Sylar said, “I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” He looked pointedly between the doctor and Peter.
Mark swallowed and went back to his patient. He injected him and had him take two types of pills, then told him, “I’m going to give your owner the rest of the antibiotics for you. He should give them to you three times a day for ten days. Remind him if he doesn’t. I know what you were sold as. If you have to have sex, use your mouth or your hands for the next six weeks.”
“Six weeks?!” Sylar interjected.
Mark glared at him. “Yes. Six weeks, starting from the last time he bleeds more than spotting. If anything happens to him that causes him to bleed more than that, restart the six weeks, restart the antibiotics. You wanted me to treat him. This is the treatment he requires.” He squared off towards Sylar. “Unless you’re going to be done with him faster than that?”
Sylar exhaled slowly and looked away and up, like a spoiled child. “No.” He had no intention of being “done” with Peter so quickly. He’d expected to get more mileage out of him early on though. Perhaps if he just accelerated his plans to do something about Peter’s ability suppression… It would take no more than a minute of regeneration to fix this.
Mark continued, “Try to avoid running or doing anything very physical with your legs. Don’t stretch. You need to be on a liquid diet for the next week, until these scab over real good. After that the BRAT diet for two weeks.”
“The what?” Sylar asked.
Peter volunteered, “Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast.”
Sylar blinked at that, thinking about Peter’s background in the medical profession. He muttered, "I didn't know they had a diet named after you." Peter flashed him a radiant smile that lasted only a moment, but gave Sylar a strange feeling of warmth.
Mark nodded and smiled, calmed again by the humor. “Exactly. BRAT diet for two more weeks. Then you can eat what you want, but it needs to be high fiber.” He looked Peter over and then at Sylar. “He’s looking a little thin right now and dehydrated. I see that a lot with slaves fresh out of the market because they don’t want to feed them or clean the latrines too often for them. Get some food into him: broth, thin soup, juices, some puree if you don’t overdo it.”
Sylar rolled his eyes. He really didn’t want to know all the gross details of Peter’s treatment. He got them anyway, including a lesson on how to clean the stitches and check for infection and various other bits he’d rather not have known. He felt greatly put-upon, but he listened. Peter remained silent for the most part, obviously drowsy after the injection.
Mark was eventually ushered off with no more than a few commands to enforce his silence. Sylar had decided that if any of the wide range of gross complications arose, he’d be better off finding a doctor who had some history with the case rather than starting from scratch. He walked back from seeing him off and went into the kitchen, to find Peter still lying on his stomach on the counter top, naked, his arms folded under his head. His color had improved already; the fever had broken.
Giving in to a sudden, inexplicable urge, Sylar walked over and stroked his hair, kissed his shoulder and then bit him. “I haven’t broken you yet, have I, pet?”
Peter turned his head to look back at him and said, “Did you want to?”
Sylar put one finger to him and zapped him lightly with his own ability to generate electricity. Peter clenched his teeth, jaw working, and said nothing. Sylar reminded him, “Sir, or master.”
“Yes or no. I get it.” Peter turned back and put his head down, sulking and being deliberately provocative.
Sylar reached out his hand to really let him have it… then stopped. Peter was manipulating him. He wasn’t sure to what end, but Sylar did not like being manipulated. He put his hand down, looked heavenward and shook his head. He went over and started making some chicken soup.
By the time he was done heating up the soup, he’d decided he had to do something about the insubordination. It was a pattern he couldn’t let get started. Starting at Peter’s feet, he ran his hand up his body, lingering at the crack of his ass. It was a little swollen from being doctored. He ran his fingers back and forth over it, probing slightly. “You really can’t feel this?”
The local anesthetic was still in effect. So was the sedative. Peter looked back at him sleepily. “No, master.”
That was annoying - no opening to mistreat him. Now that Sylar wanted to find an excuse to punish him, he was on good behavior. He manipulated his ass harder and apparently Peter could at least feel the pressure, because he leaned up on his elbows and seemed to wake up. “Please master,” he said cautiously, looking back unsure. “Don’t.”
That was enough. Sylar stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair again, yanking his head back. “Why do you persist in being insubordinate, pet?”
Anger brimmed behind Peter’s eyes and his face was a mask. “Why do you persist in treating me like a child’s toy with a string to pull for ‘yes, master,’ ‘no, master’?” I’m not a blow up doll you can just patch if you poke a hole in it. I’m a human being!”
Sylar jerked Peter off the countertop by his hair, managing to pull some of it out in the process and lose his grip. But Peter didn’t run from him. He got his feet under him and stood tall, or as tall all he could next to someone who topped him by five inches. He didn’t look intimidated by the height difference, his status, his nakedness, his injury or anything else. His lip curled on one side.
“You’re not a human being,” Sylar snarled at him. “You’re my slave.”
“I’m both,” Peter said emphatically, hooked a hand behind Sylar’s neck and crushed their lips together, working his mouth fast and bruisingly hard.
Chapter 5: game-byrd.livejournal.com/1840.html
Sylar flopped back on the bed and rubbed his face wearily. That was so not a turn on. He rubbed at himself, but his erection was fading and now that he knew Peter was over in the corner dying or something, it was unlikely he’d be able to rub one out. Besides, he could smell the vomit now that he was awake. He huffed and got out of bed. He shape shifted out of pajamas and into his day clothes. Peter didn’t seem to notice.
Sylar crouched next to him. He was fevered. Touching his brow got a reaction. Peter’s vision cleared and he looked up at Sylar. “If I didn’t know better,” Sylar grumbled, “I’d think you did this on purpose. This is not what I wanted.” He started to get up, but Peter grabbed his arm at the elbow. His grip was strong, but trembling.
Sylar looked at him coolly. Peter brought his brows together and did his level best to look pitiful, which was pretty easy in his current condition, and begged, “Master, please.”
The plea ran through Sylar like someone had jolted him with an implant. It wasn’t pleasant. He pushed Peter’s hand off his arm and rose, getting away from him. “Shit,” he muttered. He felt… almost like he had an obligation or… a responsibility. “Shit,” he said again and stalked off to set things up.
He ended up using telekinesis to get Peter into the kitchen and lay on a plastic sheet, because any motion of his legs made him bleed more. Then he went back and cleaned up the vomit so he could get his bedroom aired out. He cleaned up the blood too. There was rather a lot of it, he realized as he scrubbed.
He went back in the kitchen, cleaned himself and poured Peter a full glass of orange juice. He handed it to him and went to scroll though the city database for doctors who would treat companion slaves and do house calls. It wasn’t a long list. He saved them all to his phone. He had a new task for the afternoon now, which wasn’t what he’d been planning to do. Irritated, he turned to say something cutting to Peter, only to see him sitting there exactly where he’d put him, still holding the full glass and looking slightly dazed.
Sylar took a deep breath. He let it out. “Drink the juice, Peter.” He twitched, realizing he’d given Peter the respect of calling him by his name. But the words were out of his mouth already. He couldn’t recall them. He slumped a little. It didn’t matter. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be back with a doctor. You probably just need… antibiotics or something.”
Sylar started to leave. Peter straightened a little and said, “Master?”
He stopped and looked at him, debating doing something about this habit Peter seemed to be getting into of talking out of turn. Instead he snapped, “What?”
“Can I have a pillow? If I’m to stay here on the tile... sir? Please?”
He looked at the tile. It was much colder to lie on than the rubber mat that was designed for the purpose and at least didn’t cool a body more than necessary. He shook his head, but stalked into the bedroom and brought out a pillow and the top blanket off his bed. It was a fluffy comforter, parts of it still warm from his own body heat. He threw them both over where Peter could get to them and left before his passive aggressive slave could trick him into some other display of beneficence.
He was back in a few hours and during that time Peter had apparently not strayed. He’d finished the juice and kept it down. He was wrapped up in the comforter, on the floor. “There,” Sylar directed, as if the doctor he’d brought couldn’t see Peter perfectly well.
He was checked over - temperature, heart rate, lung function and blood pressure. The doctor jumped a little to see that he was naked under the blanket. He glanced back at Sylar, who was leaning against the far counter watching impassively. “You said he was a companion slave?”
“He is a companion slave. Just bought. Yesterday.”
“Was he like this when you got him? You should file a complaint.” Sylar shook his head silently. The doctor turned to Peter. “My name is Mark. I’m told you’re having some rectal bleeding. I’ll need to get you up where I can examine you.”
Peter smiled, a faint but sincere curving of his lips and said, “My name’s Asshole. Because I am one.”
Sylar coughed suddenly and covered his mouth with his hand. Mark did a double-take to make sure Peter was joking. Peter smiled wider and laughed just a little, enough to cement it. Dr. Mark, who had been tense, relaxed. He glanced back at Sylar. “I can see why you don’t want to take him back.”
“His name’s Peter,” Sylar offered, noticing that with one joke, Peter had defused the tension in the room completely. Sylar had heard Peter’s charisma was legendary, but he’d always assumed that was overblown reputation. “Is the kitchen counter okay?”
Mark looked at the expansive bar and said, “Sure. Let me just double up the blanket so he’s not lying on the granite.” He arranged the spot and Sylar lifted Peter into position with telekinesis. The doctor’s eyes went wide at the display of ability. Specials were very rare and very, very illegal. He could lose his freedom just for knowing one existed and not turning him in at the first opportunity. He looked at Sylar, whose eyes bored into his challengingly. Mark turned and looked at Peter, swallowing. Peter just gazed serenely past him. Sylar wasn’t doing anything unusual. Peter had no real reference point for the law.
Sylar said, “Treat him and you’ll live, but I don’t guarantee you’ll remember doing it.”
Mark nodded numbly. He got out his equipment. A few minutes later, despite the death threat, he was quietly shaking with fury and hustled Sylar into the dining room next door.
“What did you do to him?” he said in a forced whisper that Peter heard easily in the silent house. “Do you even know how to have sex? What is that huge bruise over his kidney? Do you realize that could have killed him? It still could, if there’s a clot that breaks free!”
Sylar listened to the doctor rant while wearing an amused expression. After he’d listened to enough of it, he held up one finger and Mark fell silent. “Treat him… and you’ll live.” Sylar shook his head. “You’re not treating him right now.”
Mark paled and breathed heavily out his nose. He walked back to Peter. “Peter, I’m going to give you some Tylenol to bring your temperature down and inject a sedative to make you more comfortable. Then I’m going to apply a local anesthetic and stitch you up. It’s very important that you don’t tear this open. You’ve been ripped, top and bottom, by someone who didn’t care how bad they hurt you.” He ground his jaw for a moment.
“He cared,” Peter said placidly. “He wanted to hurt me. He told me he was going to.”
Mark opened his mouth and shut it.
Leaning against the doorframe, Sylar said, “I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” He looked pointedly between the doctor and Peter.
Mark swallowed and went back to his patient. He injected him and had him take two types of pills, then told him, “I’m going to give your owner the rest of the antibiotics for you. He should give them to you three times a day for ten days. Remind him if he doesn’t. I know what you were sold as. If you have to have sex, use your mouth or your hands for the next six weeks.”
“Six weeks?!” Sylar interjected.
Mark glared at him. “Yes. Six weeks, starting from the last time he bleeds more than spotting. If anything happens to him that causes him to bleed more than that, restart the six weeks, restart the antibiotics. You wanted me to treat him. This is the treatment he requires.” He squared off towards Sylar. “Unless you’re going to be done with him faster than that?”
Sylar exhaled slowly and looked away and up, like a spoiled child. “No.” He had no intention of being “done” with Peter so quickly. He’d expected to get more mileage out of him early on though. Perhaps if he just accelerated his plans to do something about Peter’s ability suppression… It would take no more than a minute of regeneration to fix this.
Mark continued, “Try to avoid running or doing anything very physical with your legs. Don’t stretch. You need to be on a liquid diet for the next week, until these scab over real good. After that the BRAT diet for two weeks.”
“The what?” Sylar asked.
Peter volunteered, “Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast.”
Sylar blinked at that, thinking about Peter’s background in the medical profession. He muttered, "I didn't know they had a diet named after you." Peter flashed him a radiant smile that lasted only a moment, but gave Sylar a strange feeling of warmth.
Mark nodded and smiled, calmed again by the humor. “Exactly. BRAT diet for two more weeks. Then you can eat what you want, but it needs to be high fiber.” He looked Peter over and then at Sylar. “He’s looking a little thin right now and dehydrated. I see that a lot with slaves fresh out of the market because they don’t want to feed them or clean the latrines too often for them. Get some food into him: broth, thin soup, juices, some puree if you don’t overdo it.”
Sylar rolled his eyes. He really didn’t want to know all the gross details of Peter’s treatment. He got them anyway, including a lesson on how to clean the stitches and check for infection and various other bits he’d rather not have known. He felt greatly put-upon, but he listened. Peter remained silent for the most part, obviously drowsy after the injection.
Mark was eventually ushered off with no more than a few commands to enforce his silence. Sylar had decided that if any of the wide range of gross complications arose, he’d be better off finding a doctor who had some history with the case rather than starting from scratch. He walked back from seeing him off and went into the kitchen, to find Peter still lying on his stomach on the counter top, naked, his arms folded under his head. His color had improved already; the fever had broken.
Giving in to a sudden, inexplicable urge, Sylar walked over and stroked his hair, kissed his shoulder and then bit him. “I haven’t broken you yet, have I, pet?”
Peter turned his head to look back at him and said, “Did you want to?”
Sylar put one finger to him and zapped him lightly with his own ability to generate electricity. Peter clenched his teeth, jaw working, and said nothing. Sylar reminded him, “Sir, or master.”
“Yes or no. I get it.” Peter turned back and put his head down, sulking and being deliberately provocative.
Sylar reached out his hand to really let him have it… then stopped. Peter was manipulating him. He wasn’t sure to what end, but Sylar did not like being manipulated. He put his hand down, looked heavenward and shook his head. He went over and started making some chicken soup.
By the time he was done heating up the soup, he’d decided he had to do something about the insubordination. It was a pattern he couldn’t let get started. Starting at Peter’s feet, he ran his hand up his body, lingering at the crack of his ass. It was a little swollen from being doctored. He ran his fingers back and forth over it, probing slightly. “You really can’t feel this?”
The local anesthetic was still in effect. So was the sedative. Peter looked back at him sleepily. “No, master.”
That was annoying - no opening to mistreat him. Now that Sylar wanted to find an excuse to punish him, he was on good behavior. He manipulated his ass harder and apparently Peter could at least feel the pressure, because he leaned up on his elbows and seemed to wake up. “Please master,” he said cautiously, looking back unsure. “Don’t.”
That was enough. Sylar stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair again, yanking his head back. “Why do you persist in being insubordinate, pet?”
Anger brimmed behind Peter’s eyes and his face was a mask. “Why do you persist in treating me like a child’s toy with a string to pull for ‘yes, master,’ ‘no, master’?” I’m not a blow up doll you can just patch if you poke a hole in it. I’m a human being!”
Sylar jerked Peter off the countertop by his hair, managing to pull some of it out in the process and lose his grip. But Peter didn’t run from him. He got his feet under him and stood tall, or as tall all he could next to someone who topped him by five inches. He didn’t look intimidated by the height difference, his status, his nakedness, his injury or anything else. His lip curled on one side.
“You’re not a human being,” Sylar snarled at him. “You’re my slave.”
“I’m both,” Peter said emphatically, hooked a hand behind Sylar’s neck and crushed their lips together, working his mouth fast and bruisingly hard.
Chapter 5: game-byrd.livejournal.com/1840.html