The Prisoner, Chapter 3: The Carrot
As expected, Sylar phased in near the end of 'night.' Peter struggled up to sitting. He didn't know how he was going to pretend to enjoy sex with his body torn up like it was. Sylar walked right up to him (and why shouldn't he? He obviously regenerated and Peter couldn't hurt him when he was healthy, much less now. Peter's attacks on him had merely been annoying and inconvenient.) Sylar looked him over and began touching the injuries, one at a time, making them fade off Peter's body and bringing surcease of pain. Peter wanted to flinch away. He wanted to say he didn't need it. He wanted to tell the man to go fuck himself again. Instead he sagged, his head hanging. Well, this would make the sex easier.
"Your choice?" Sylar asked curtly.
Head still down, Peter mumbled something.
"Louder."
Peter swallowed. "I said I'll let you fuck me."
"Good." Sylar ran his finger along Peter's jaw, brushing against several day's worth of scruffy growth and a little bit of matted blood.
Just that touch was too much. Peter choked, terror running through him suddenly as it hit home that he was going to allow a repeat of the assault he'd suffered a few days before. "Oh God," he barely got out, trying and failing to suppress his flinch from the man this time. All he could think about was how he would be too terrified to do it and he'd be tortured again, or raped forcibly again, and he didn't know which was worse.
"It's okay," Sylar said gently. "I'll make it as okay as I can for you." He put his arms around Peter, making Peter jerk back against the encircling limbs.
Peter began shaking again. "There's no 'okay' you can make of this."
"Yes, there is. Yes there is. Calm down." He tightened his embrace, pulling Peter to him. Peter was tense all over and trembling. He bit his lip. Sylar told him, "Shh. Shh. We'll just take a little bit to calm down before we do anything, okay?"
Peter bit his lip harder, trying to get back in control of himself. He couldn't push the man away because he'd be tortured, but if he didn't, he was going to be raped. Again. He felt like he was about to have a fit, or convulse, or become truly hysterical like he'd seen the occasional mentally deranged patient back when he'd been a paramedic. He was certain that any of those reactions would gain him another day of agony. He breathed roughly and kept trembling, despite his efforts.
"Stop it!" Sylar snapped. "Don't you dare cry again. I've had enough of that."
Peter nodded and tucked his head down. He pushed Sylar away from him, which, oddly, worked. The killer released him from his embrace and took a step back. Getting that tiny victory heartened Peter enormously. He'd accomplished something. He'd defended his space; he'd asserted his will regarding how his body was to be used and it had been respected. His shaking faded and the hitches in his breathing evened out.
"What can I do to help you?" Sylar asked, apparently oblivious that he already had.
"I just want you out of here," Peter whispered hoarsely. "Just fuck me and go. Please. Please, Sylar. I-"
"Shut up." Peter did instantly. Sylar waited a long beat before going on in an infuriatingly reasonable tone of voice, "There were rules, remember? You have to pretend to like it. That means you don't tell me you want me to leave."
Peter nodded rapidly. The only way he was getting through this intact was through appeasement, though he had no idea what was on the other side that might be worth it.
Sylar came closer, reaching out and touching his shoulder lightly. "I won't do it very long. I'll try to keep this brief for you."
Peter nodded again, not trusting himself to speak even if he knew what to say to that. His rapist was going to be considerate with him. Great. Sylar took a long, deep breath. "I'm going to go get a cloth and clean you up." He left. For several minutes, Peter had the room to himself. He dispelled his tremors and tried to focus on the goal - of getting Sylar off so he'd leave him alone.
The man returned with a wet cloth and a plastic bowl. Peter stared at it dumbly, trying to think of how this contributed to the goal. His concentration, of which he'd had a shred of while alone, was instantly shot; his half-formed plans forgotten immediately. Sylar took up the cloth and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, eliciting another flinch. He cocked his head, lifted his brows and lofted the rag. Peter looked from it to Sylar's face and then down. He didn't know what to say or do, so he did and said nothing.
Sylar lifted his chin and cleaned the blood, tears, vomit and snot off his face with steady, strong strokes. Peter realized he must have looked horrible - too horrible for even a torturing rapist psycho serial killer to want to fuck. It occurred to him that he could soil himself determinedly and Sylar probably wouldn't touch him. Given that he'd spent the last two days in misery from what he was pretty sure was actually very light physical torture, he suspected that would not lead to a better alternative than what was about to happen to him. He looked down at himself. His body was streaked with blood. He'd been killed many times and not looked so bad. Sylar handed him the cloth and said, "Clean your rear end and your privates."
Peter obeyed silently. When he was done, he folded that part inward and used the newly exposed portion to clean his chest and stomach, then his hands and wrists. It was starting to smear after that. Perversely, his appearance bothered him - it was one of the few things he had. He wouldn't try soiling himself. Not unless it got worse - a lot worse. Sylar put the rag in the bowl and pushed them out of the way.
Peter sat on the edge of the platform, not sure what to do next. Sylar stood next to him, his leg against Peter's knee, his hand on his shoulder. Peter felt warm where they were touching. He hadn't felt warmth for days and running a wet cloth over himself hadn't helped. He shivered, which had nothing to do with nerves at the moment. Sylar put his arm over Peter's shoulders and his other hand against his stomach. Peter tensed and asked roughly, "What are you doing?"
"First, I get you off."
"Me?" he said in anger and dismay. He wanted to say there was no way in hell he was even remotely turned on by anything going on here. He was scared out of his wits and beginning to feel stirrings of rage in his gut. But he couldn't figure out how to say that, that wouldn't be against the ridiculous 'rules.'
"Yes, you. First. It's a requirement."
He shook his head. "I… I can't," he said in a voice shaking with mixed emotions.
"Yes, you can. You're healthy. I've healed you. All you need to do is think the right thoughts." Sylar's hand stroked a slow, small circle on his belly. Peter tried recoil from that touch but he couldn't without actually moving away. He'd made his decision, earlier, that this was better than the physical torture. He set his teeth in determination. He could do this. Sylar told him, "Now, you don't have to think of me. Think of someone else, someone you liked, someone who turned you on. Think of how sexy they were and how much you wanted them. That's all you have to do."
It was peculiar advice for someone who wanted you to pretend you liked them. Sylar kept rubbing his stomach in slowly larger and larger circles. He wondered if honesty would get him anywhere here or if Sylar was too far around the crazy bend for that to work. "Sylar… I can't… men can't… not when they're… I'm…" He shook his head and started to shake again.
"Stop that," Sylar said in a warning tone, gripping his shoulder more firmly. All the pain of the previous two days flashed through Peter's head as motivation. There had to be a way. There had to be. Peter swallowed and tried to think.
He thought of Nathan, not because they'd ever had anything sexual - they hadn't; he wasn't a pervert - but because Nathan loved him. He wanted to protect him. He'd taken care of him. He'd held him - even a little like this, with his arm over his shoulders. It was just like this was Nathan here, telling him it was okay, that it was going to be okay.
Peter took a deep breath and let it out shakily. He thought of his mother holding him when he was little, hugging him warmly when he was older, how she had sat next to him and put her arm over his shoulders like this when he told her about how Jolee had broken up with him. He'd even cried then. He slowly leaned his head over against Sylar's chest, remembering how he'd sobbed his teenaged heart out and she'd listened as only a mother could.
Even his dad had put his arm over his shoulders like this. He remembered standing together with him at Nathan's graduation, with his father's arm over his shoulders and for a little while, he'd been able to forget his father's disappointment that Peter wasn't taking a similar path. They were a family, celebrating successes, and they were strong. All of these people had loved him. None of them would have ever allowed anything to happen to him like what had. They would have protected him. Just thinking about them calmed him and made things more bearable.
Peter took another deep breath. Sylar's hand had stopped circling and was now tracing idly up and down the top of his thighs. Peter reached down and guided it to him, because it was better if he had some illusion of control, rather than waiting until Sylar lost patience and did it himself.
Peter thought he could manage this. He shut his eyes and tuned out everything he could. Sylar's hand gripped him loosely at first, getting a feel for how he reacted, and stroking slowly. Peter thought about a couple girls he had nearly had a threesome with in college, until the asshole down the hall had come banging on the door and making a scene and one of the girls had bailed. He thought about what would have happened if they hadn't been interrupted. It would have been one of them stroking him.
He shifted a little, getting hard. The hand manipulating him (he didn't think of it as 'Sylar's' hand - just 'the' hand) moved with more confidence, pacing surprising well with what he needed. He thought about how the hand job would have progressed to at least one blow job. He remembered their faces, their hair - he filled in details on their outfits. He was trying to decide which one of them he would have had sex with first when Sylar changed his grip and began pumping him fast and hard, twisting at the end. The fantasy, and everything else, vanished. All he had left was the sensation and he let it drown him, afraid to think about anything else. He came a moment later.
He panted against the front of Sylar's shirt. He was exhausted and wrung out, more emotionally than physically. The mental effort his fantasy had taken had sapped his will. He knew what was coming next and he didn't want it. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hide. He knew he ought to be putting up a brave face and maybe even spitting in Sylar's face, but that wasn't the choice he'd made. And disgustingly, he was finding a visceral comfort in the body next to his that was warm, alive and not hurting him. He felt deeply unsettled.
It was torture one way or another, he realized. He'd merely picked psychological over physical, but it was still torture. Even thinking that, he was sure he didn't want to go back to the physical. He was too tired at the moment. His brain was getting numb from being on high alert too long.
"Come on, to the edge here," Sylar directed. Peter couldn't think, so he scooted over as directed. Sylar opened his pants and removed himself. Apparently getting Peter off had aroused him because he was fully hard. Either that, or he was just looking forward to this a lot. Maybe both.
In his head, Peter didn't feel anything. He was numb and calm. Everything was quiet. For some reason, his body was having a different reaction. It was panting again. It shuddered when Sylar got out the lube. Sylar hesitated at that and said, "Control yourself."
Peter stared at him blankly. He had no idea who was controlling his body. Things were happening - it was reacting. He felt disconnected from the process. He watched with too-wide eyes as Sylar slathered the lubricant over himself, then made a fist for a moment. Peter tried to speak, but all he did was make a terrified squeak. Surely he didn't have to take his fist…?
"Shh, shh, it's okay."
"What are you doing?" Peter's voice came out embarrassingly high.
Sylar looked down and then laughed a little. "It's okay, Peter. I'm just warming it for you. Here." He opened his hand and rubbed it on. It wasn't body temperature, but it wasn't the distressing coolness he'd had before.
"Okay, okay," Peter said, nodding as he understood.
Sylar began to massage his anus. Peter stared off into space, thinking nothing at all. Sylar kissed his cheek and his stomach knotted so hard he nearly doubled over. Sylar pulled him back up and looked at him, eyes narrowed. Peter was still breathing fast and shallow, eyes glazed. Sylar shook him a little and of all things, blew in his face. Peter jumped. He focused on the man. "Have you ever done this before?" Sylar asked conversationally.
Peter stared at him like he'd never seen Sylar before. Slick, wet fingers played steadily across him. He could feel a faint vibration to his muscles, like they were trying to build up to trembling again. On impulse, he put his hands around Sylar's neck, linking them behind him, hanging onto him. "You," he got out. "And… before, fingers. Just- just two. Girlfriend."
"Ever been with a man?"
"You. And … some blow jobs." Peter had been attracted to a few guys, but it never went anywhere. It wasn't allowed for a Petrelli, even for the younger, rebellious son. And so he'd dated women exclusively, though that didn't prevent the occasional emotionally void hookup when he was in college, or the unexpressed yearning he felt from time to time.
"Hm. Here's one finger." Sylar was using enough lube that it slid in fairly easily, even if Peter yelped and jumped, trying to get away. "Stop it!" he snapped and Peter froze up. "Now relax," Sylar commanded with a voice that was far from relaxing. Realizing this, he softened his tone. "It's okay. Just relax. It's just a finger."
"Why aren't you just f-fucking me? Is this fun?" Peter bit out angrily. He couldn't figure out what Sylar got out of this part. It was taking forever. Sylar had promised he'd make it quick. Peter just wanted it to be over already. Instead he had the unwanted, sexual sensation of something moving in and out of an orifice he was only familiar with things moving out of. It wasn't painful, really, but he didn't want it happening. What he wanted had so little to do with this scene.
"I'm prepping you, Peter. So it doesn't hurt as bad. Do you want it to hurt?" Peter shook his head fast. "Then let me do this. Second finger, coming in. You've had two before, you said." Peter nodded. It hardly mattered that he'd had two before - it had been years since then, and it had only been experimentation, not a regular thing. Sylar worked the other in as Peter stiffened and breathed out hard. He put his forehead against Sylar's shoulder and tried to check out mentally. It wasn't very hard, even if he wasn't allowed to stay that way very long. He just let his mind crash. As he did, he relaxed. Sylar worked him steadily, ringing him, pulling at his opening, being methodical. Peter ignored it. It would end when it would end and then it would be over. All he had to do was last until then.
"Third finger." This time Peter merely twitched. He tightened his grip around the other man's neck and told himself how much better this was than being burned or cut or beaten. Sylar worked him with a persistence that gave credence to his self-description of being a patient man. Peter didn't care. He was sore already.
"Okay," Sylar said, "Going to switch. Scoot just a little more here." He maneuvered Peter that last inch over and applied more lube. He lined himself up and pushed in immediately, supporting him somewhat with hands under Peter's thighs. Sylar must have picked up enhanced strength somewhere, because he carried most of Peter's weight with ease. That was hardly surprising - it was a common ability and Sylar had a slew of them.
Peter tensed and whimpered, unable to stay in a disconnected daze when something hot and long and bigger than fingers entered him. He had to admit it didn't feel anything like before. At least, not until Sylar started moving, then it burned and pulled and hurt some. It still wasn't nearly as bad. He curled his fingers into Sylar's back, letting them bite into the skin as he hung on. He wished he had claws to really hurt the man.
Sylar kissed the side of his head and Peter felt sick again. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to figure out what to do with his legs. Finally he wrapped them around the other man's hips. Peter was dead silent other than huffing and pained breaths. He clung to Sylar with white knuckles.
For his part, Sylar lasted less than fifty strokes. If the grunting and tight breathing was any indication, this time it was real. Peter wasn't sure whether to be disgusted - that Sylar had just spunked in his ass; or relieved - that Sylar clearly preferred his victims willing, or at least with the appearance of willingness. But either way, it was over.
Sylar pulled out and put himself away. Peter stared down, watching. The other man pulled the bowl over to him and used the cloth to wipe Peter's ass, making Peter's eyes go wide that he'd even bother. Or maybe he just wanted him clean for when he fucked him next time.
"You did great," Sylar whispered to him. "I'll leave you alone now." He turned and headed towards the door, taking the bowl with him. He looked back. "Do you want some clothes?"
"Yes," Peter said immediately, his mind still reeling from everything. Sylar nodded and walked out.
Peter sagged down onto his side, his brain empty and his butt tingling. It was sore and it felt weird, but it didn't hurt - not in the range of pain he'd experienced for the last few days, or really the last several years. He'd been killed many times and shot and stabbed and had debilitating injuries. Physically, this was nothing.
Emotionally, he didn't know what to make of everything. He just kept thinking he felt a hell of a lot better than he had this time the day before. Very shortly, the slot went up and a tray was put through. On it was the same plastic bowl, but now with a clean wet cloth in it, and a small stack of folded clothes. Peter hurried to it. He washed his body down, getting himself as clean as possible, before dutifully replacing the bowl and rag on the tray. Of the clothes, he found he now had a t-shirt and pajama pants - no underwear, no socks. He put on what he had been given, thinking about how he'd whored himself for a few clothes and the ability to keep down three meals. Well, that and freedom from pain for a day, which was pretty damn valuable. Was it worth it?
The slot opened while he was standing there trying to answer that question. The tray was taken away. Immediately it was replaced with another, bearing a bowl of oatmeal and a packet of water. It had been too long since he'd eaten. It tasted wonderful. Even the water was good, although it still tasted funny. As soon as he was done, he replaced the tray and lay down on the mat, falling asleep almost instantly. He woke for lunch - pea soup, and again oddly good - and then spent the rest of the day awake, pondering. He was free to ponder. He was able to ponder. He was conscious to ponder and not catatonic with fear or pain. He could eat, and drink, which were both necessary if he was going to survive. He wanted to survive, despite what had happened. He considered what he had gained for letting Sylar fuck him.
He'd have another "choice" tomorrow and he was certain he was going to pick sex. He thought about something he'd heard about advice for soldiers, if they were caught by terrorists, which was basically to comply completely with their demands. They were to withhold information for the first six to eight hours if they could, but after that, tell them anything, do anything. It made him feel a little better about himself, about choosing sex over pain, that there were rules for this sort of thing and by those rules, he hadn't done anything wrong. No one would blame him.
Fucking rapist. How long does he think he's going to keep me here? Or is he going to kill me when he's done? What the hell is going on with the kissing? Was that just to gross me out? What about the prepping? It was disgusting to have the other man's fingers in him in addition to the apparent necessity of his cock. He'd rather minimize the contact he had to make with the killer. Maybe I can prep myself. Do I have to let him jerk me off? Why does he have rules for this? Has he done this to other people?
Questions danced in Peter's head, now that he was clear-headed enough to think them. He had no answers though.