Title: The Prisoner
Characters: Future!Peter and Future!Sylar, of the Five Years Gone 'verse
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Fully resisted non-consensual sex, explicit sexual content, disturbing situations, moderate physical torture, a lot of later sex of a dubiously consensual nature
Word count: ~30,000 (very rough estimate - story not complete as of publishing first chapter)
Setting: Five Years Gone 'verse
Summary: Peter lost the fight with Sylar at the federal building. His allies assumed Sylar killed him, as he did all specials he came across in the messy war they were fighting. Sylar though, had something else in mind.
Author's Notes: This is a psycho-horror/drama. It's supposed to be dark.
Peter woke groggily. He was on a concrete slab with a thin mat on the top of it. He tried to lift his arms only to find them strapped down. His legs were similarly secured and there was a strap across his chest. He swallowed and looked around. He was in a fairly spacious cell, maybe twenty by thirty feet. It had a door, steel, set in a similar frame. It had an absurdly small toilet. There was nothing else in it, but this platform and himself. There was no window or viewing port. The lighting was recessed behind a heavy screen, but the ceiling was high enough there was no way he was going to get to it, even if he stood on the platform and jumped.
He hurt in a lot of places, which was fairly new. He'd had regeneration for years now, long enough that continuing pain was unfamiliar to him. He could feel the catheter in his vein where an IV line had been placed in him and the back of his throat was raw. He must have been intubated at some point. There was no IV bag though, nor any medical or monitoring equipment of any kind. It was eerily silent. He could see a speaker built into the ceiling and a couple small, shielded air vents too small for his head to fit through. He was draped with a sheet, but otherwise wearing nothing. It was cold in here - unpleasantly so. Every now and then he shivered as time passed. Nothing happened.
He'd taken to staring at the door because there was nothing else to look at, so when Sylar phased through it, Peter saw him immediately. And immediately, adrenalin flooded his system. He jerked at the restraints, his nose wrinkling in distaste and the beginnings of a snarl. He struggled briefly while Sylar stood near the door and watched him, smirking.
Peter couldn't remember how he'd lost the fight at the federal building. They'd closed with one another, each seeking to overpower the other with sheer damage. That continued until nearly simultaneously they'd broken from the hold, got distance and tried using more exotic abilities. Sometime after that they'd gone hand to hand again. Peter's memory was foggy beyond that - he'd been held down, there'd been more than just Sylar there, pain in the back of his head, pain all over, his chest hurt … and then he was here. His chest still hurt, now that he thought about it. If he didn't know better, he'd think he'd gotten CPR.
"Hello, Peter," Sylar said condescendingly.
"Go to hell!" None of his abilities were working, but that much Peter had figured out almost as soon as he woke.
"Hm. I'm sure I will someday. But in the meanwhile, I have so much time to play with you." He practically purred.
When Peter didn't answer, the sheet whipped off his body. It was even colder without its slight protection. He squirmed, looked after the sheet, then back at Sylar. He did not appreciate the way the other man was looking at his body. Peter's eyes widened slightly. "Stay the fuck away from me," he said in a hoarse whisper.
That only seemed to encourage the other man, who walked over next to the platform, raising a hand near his leg. "Oh? It would seem that you're in no position to be giving orders, Petrelli." He put his hand down deliberately on Peter's thigh, making Peter twitch and renew his attempt to get free. There was no way to do that, though. With only normal human strength, the bonds were easily a match for him. "You were clumsy," Sylar said. "You should guard your kill spot better."
Peter said nothing, breathing fast out his nose. He glared at Sylar, so Sylar looked up and down his body and began to rub his leg provocatively. His fingers teased around to the inside of Peter's thigh. Peter's head snapped to the side, looking away. He thought of things to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Fear of his helplessness warred with anger at Sylar for taking advantage of it.
Sylar sounded as pleased as possible. "Well, it would seem that you are entirely at my disposal, Peter. I can toy with you for as long as I want. What do you think of that?"
Peter was silent, thinking back over the fight and trying to ignore his tormentor. Maybe he'd go away. Maybe he'd get to the point. Maybe he'd just get bored and leave him alone again. A strong electric shock ran through Peter a moment later, making him convulse. It forced the air from him and made him bite the tip of his tongue. Pain filled him and he cried out.
"Don't ignore me," Sylar whispered when he was done. Peter looked at him, eyes blazing with defiance and impotent rage. Sylar loomed over him. "You're going to amuse me whether you want to or not, Peter. I've broken men before, but you're the first one I've ever cared about." Peter's face twisted in confusion. "Yes, Peter. You're special. You're different. You're just like me." He smiled. Peter looked revolted.
Sylar looked away, eyes unfocused. "It doesn't take much to break a person, Peter. Just a little bit to push them over the edge, to make them beg for forgiveness, to make them willing to kill to get what they want." Peter had the impression Sylar was talking about someone else, maybe himself. He looked back at the empath now. "You'll come around, I'm sure. We're made for each other. My advisors tell me I should leave you in the morgue next to your niece, with a stainless steel spike in your skull just like hers." He reached up and touched Peter's face, careful not to put his fingers anywhere they could be bitten. Peter jerked his head aside immediately. "But I have other plans."
Sylar settled for resting his hand on Peter's shoulder, where it couldn't be shrugged off so easily. Peter felt like his skin was going to crawl off on its own though. He wanted to tell the monster not to touch him, but he didn't give him the satisfaction. He glared at him briefly, then looked away pointedly. Let him shock him again. There was a limit to how badly he could hurt him. Eventually he'd pass out and that would be that. Peter just hoped it didn't take too long to get there.
Sylar's hand moved down his arm, pressing slightly against the swell of muscle and over the joint of his elbow. He came to the strap and, to Peter's shock, unfastened it. As soon as it was free Peter yanked his hand out, balling it into a fist. But he held his blow, not that he could make much of one from where he was lying. Sylar went to his feet and undid the bindings there too. Peter reached up and worked the one on his chest and was struggling uselessly at the one on his other wrist when Sylar came around and reached for that one too. Peter jerked his hand away, breathing hard and watching his enemy. The releases were set up to require two hands to work them. Peter could get it eventually like he had the one on his chest, but if Sylar was going to do it… he waited.
Sylar stood with his fingers on Peter's forearm and wrist, studying him for a long while. Peter was half sitting up, staring between the restraint and Sylar's face. He swallowed roughly. This was the last thing holding him in place. Sylar slowly, very slowly, released him. The second he was free, Peter leaped off the platform on the opposite side and backed to the door. There was no knob on this side, no handle or obvious way to open it. He pressed on it. There was no give.
Since Sylar was still on the other side of the platform, Peter turned and checked the door more thoroughly. He tried to hook his fingertips in the seam. He snatched the IV shunt out of his hand and threw it aside, ignoring the little bit of bleeding that resulted. He bent to examine the door's small opening near the floor - it seemed to be a slot for putting things into the room. There was a panel on the other side, so he couldn't see out. He pressed on it. It was locked down.
At a sound, he spun, still crouched on the floor, still naked. Sylar was unhooking the restraints, removing them from the platform. They were threaded through narrow holes in it, with rings that hooked them to each side. He pulled them out, gathering all three with one end in each hand, the three straps parallel with one another. He gave them slack, then pulled them taut, making them snap against one another. Peter's eyes widened. He got to his feet.
There was no way out. Sylar closed on him slowly, saying, "I'm going to have you, Peter. One way or another."
Peter drew himself into a fighting stance. When the other man got close enough, he surged forward and swung at him. Sylar dodged back, but Peter followed up immediately with his left, hitting Sylar on the forearm, distracting him. He'd always been better at hand-to-hand fighting than Sylar was. A moment later Peter hit him in the face with his right, knocking him back against the platform. Peter jumped at him, grabbing at the restraints and yanking one free from Sylar's grip. He whipped it around and swung it, the metal hook near the end giving it weight. It clocked Sylar across the face. It wasn't as hard as his fist, but it hurt nearly as much and there wasn't any chance of Peter breaking his hand this way.
Sylar threw out a hand and Peter was shoved back suddenly with unseen force. Sylar had always been better at using his powers, especially during times of stress. Peter shifted his grip to the end of the strap and swung it again, but this time Sylar caught the other end neatly, augmented by his abilities. He jerked it from Peter's grip. The other two straps were at the killer's feet. Peter fell back. He glanced around the room again, looking for something, anything, to give him an advantage. There was a sheet and a toilet. Sylar came towards him. He dodged to the side, ducked and grabbed at the sheet, thinking maybe he could get it over Sylar's head and blind him.
But as he'd bent to clutch at the sheet, Sylar came around at him. He got the strap under Peter's chin and pulled him off his feet, back against the killer's body. Disturbingly, he had an erection. Peter worked his fingers under the strap and tried to get leverage to kick behind him. His feet locked up, restrained by Sylar's thrice-damned power of telekinesis. He pulled futilely against the strap. Sylar bent forward, whispering in his ear, "We can fight, or we can fuck. You decide."
Peter shifted his grip and punched Sylar in the nose, feeling it crunch under his knuckles in a highly satisfying manner. Concentration broken, he found himself released. He snatched up the sheet and wheeled to face his adversary, who was straightening his nose and looking relatively unbothered. Peter paused to catch his breath. He rubbed his throat. He flinched when Sylar put out his hand, but it was only the other two straps near the platform that he called to himself. A moment later, the sheet too joined them, whipped out of Peter's grip faster than he could react.
He stood there naked and defenseless and very, very angry. Sylar sniffed, clearing his nose of the blood. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, then summoned the IV catheter to his hand, from the corner of the room. He put it in his pocket. "If that's how you want it, Petrelli." He walked to the door, gave him a final smirk, and phased through it.
Peter stood there for what seemed like many minutes before he decided Sylar wasn't coming back any time soon. The fight left his body and he trembled from the excitement. The room spun and he sunk to the floor. The bare concrete was uncomfortable as hell. He didn't stay there long, retreating to the platform. The mat on it was the only comfort in the room, meager though it was.
Time passed, Peter supposed, but he had little way of measuring it. The slot at the bottom of the door opened once to admit a flimsy fiberglass tray containing a shallow cardboardish bowl of something that looked like chili, and a flat plastic pouch of what seemed to be merely water. There were no utensils. There was, however, a note. It directed him to place all containers, dishes, trays and other items in front of the slot after he was done. It warned that failure to comply would result in denial of amenities.
Peter snorted and looked around the room. Amenities? He might be denied 'amenities'? He finally had to laugh at how ludicrous that was. He retreated to the platform with his tray and picked up the bowl carefully. The food was lukewarm, but it had at least been hot at one time. To Peter's surprise, it wasn't all that bad. He ate it all. He declined to lick the bowl, even though he was tempted. He wouldn't be reduced to being an animal. He tore open the pouch with his teeth and drank. It tasted metallic and odd, but it was water and he was glad to get it. He'd already found the toilet was dry during his brief exploration of the room. He hoped it didn't stay that way, but he hadn't had reason to find out yet. Since he'd eaten and drank, it was really only a matter of time.
Time. He seemed to have a lot of that. The lights remained on, never changing. He replaced his tray, bowl and empty pouch next to the slot and spent his time watching for the mentioned retrieval. He heard the faint, echoing footsteps of the attendant or whoever it was who came down to get it, a half hour or maybe several hours later. He couldn't tell. They released a lock on the outside, opened the slot, reached through with a hooked implement, snagged the tray and pulled it out. A moment later he was given a small roll of coreless toilet paper.
He jumped down from the platform and retrieved it. I have an amenity now! he thought. It was ridiculous what sort of things became valuable when you had nothing else. He didn't even have any clothes, and that was something that he became starkly aware of when Sylar entered the room hours later. Peter had been lying on his side on the platform, shivering and trying to sleep. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. He jumped, awake all at once, his body flushing with energy.
Sylar asked, "Are you still going to fight me, or are you feeling a bit more cooperative?"
"Go fuck yourself." Peter got off the platform on the opposite side, keeping it between them.
Sylar began walking calmly around it. Peter circled, keeping the concrete pedestal between them, eyes narrowed at his enemy. They made three circuits, with Sylar getting steadily closer. It was too broad for him to be able to reach across and grab him and one thing about having no clothes was that it made Peter distinctly difficult to grapple. He'd forgotten something though - Sylar could phase right through solid objects. He stopped opposite Peter and lunged, passing through the barrier.
Sylar grabbed at his hair, getting his shoulder, scratching him as Peter twisted away. Rather than retreat again, Peter swung at him, hitting him on the cheekbone. It was the same hand he'd hit him with the day before and it hurt. People's heads were not good things to slam one's hand against, even the more delicate bones of the face. Sylar swung upwards, punching Peter in the side of the gut. It didn't knock the air out of him, but it made him stagger sideways into the platform.
He tried to continue his motion to roll across it, but Sylar grabbed a foot and yanked him back. Peter tried to kick him, but Sylar was between his legs. He tried to roll onto his stomach, but an invisible band of pressure around his waist held him in place before he could accomplish it. Everything he tried to do was thwarted. For a moment he tried wriggling, tried to find something in the telekinesis to put his hands against and push on. There was nothing there. While he did that, Sylar did something far more frightening. There was a wet squelching sound from him and a plastic tube of something landed on the floor off to the side.
Peter stared at it, going still. A second later, wet and cold hit his ass, smeared liberally down his crack. He started yelling inarticulately and struggling for all he was worth, more hysterical than controlled now. He scrabbled with his feet, trying to get an angle to kick, to push his assailant away - anything. Sylar pressed against him.
"No! No! NO!" Peter fought harder, but there was absolutely no give. Sylar shoved into him and it hurt. It hurt bad and his yells took on a different tone - more desperate, but no less angry.
"Stop it, Peter. Stop it."
"Stop it? You stop! Stop! Stop!"
"Stop struggling, damn it." Sylar slipped out. He grabbed Peter's head by the hair and tried to slam it into the mat. First, the mat was padded, and second, Peter managed to catch himself and resist most of the blow. He whacked his head, but not very hard.
Peter had never had anal sex before. He'd experimented a little with fingers, but never went further than that. He paused for a breath, but Sylar was back at him before he could even draw air. He yelled again, because it still hurt.
Peter chanted loudly, because it seemed to be upsetting Sylar and it was the only weapon he could find, "I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this." He tried to tense his muscles and clench up. Maybe he could make it impossible.
Sylar bent over him and kissed his back, which was disgusting in the extreme. He felt nauseous suddenly. The pain in his anus got worse as Sylar forced his way further in.
"It hurts! It hurts! Stop! No, don't do this. Don't!"
"Would you shut up!" Sylar sounded frustrated and exasperated.
Peter's throat spasmed like invisible fingers were gripping it. He was rapidly reaching the end of his rope. He hadn't been in good condition when he'd woke up the day before, he'd eaten only once, been so cold he couldn't really sleep, and now the fight had gone on long enough that he was starting to shake and lose it. Having his airflow cut off was the final straw. For several moments, he lay there and grabbed uselessly at his throat, doing nothing other than trying to get a breath.
Sylar began pumping at him. It didn't matter though. Peter's world was growing dark and the pain receded. A moment later he could breathe again and once more, he could do nothing but lay helplessly while he gasped like a fish. When he finally had his wits again, he tried more slowly, despite the rapidly blossoming pain, to work his foot in front of Sylar's leg and shove him off. His offending feet were yanked aside with telekinesis. Sylar used his hands to spread Peter's cheeks a little more and went all the way inside.
"Agh! Would you… stop. Stop. You don't want to do this. I can tell you don't. You're raping me. I don't-"
Sylar grabbed his head and this time managed to slam it down without Peter being able to muffle the blow. His nose began to bleed and his head rang. For a moment all he saw was stars. "I told you to shut up!" In good news, Sylar seemed to have abruptly lost his erection. Peter could feel him stroking himself furiously, trying to get it back up. Sylar growled at him, "You're looser when you're unconscious. Keep your fucking mouth shut or I'll keep you that way."
Peter felt him line up to enter him again and he drew breath. Sylar was a little more proactive this time though. Peter's throat seized again and he didn't get to say anything at all. He was choked out twice more, with Sylar plowing him agonizingly the whole time, before he gave up fighting it. He hunched his shoulders, kept his head down, and said nothing. His breathing, which had been littered with coughs and gasps as he'd regained awareness this last time, had faded into choking sobs. He tried to tell himself he was just still having trouble breathing. That's what he told himself. After a while, even that flimsy excuse fell apart as he cried.
Sylar slammed into him harder a few times and groaned a little theatrically. He pulled out immediately, or rather, fell out. Peter had the oddest impression the orgasm had been fake. Sylar put his hand on the small of Peter's back and the telekinesis faded - all of it. Peter didn't move though. He waited until Sylar removed his hand before slowly pulling himself up on the top of the platform. He curled very tightly into a fetal ball. He panted, sniffled and watched Sylar like the other man was a wild animal that might attack him at any time, and he had no defense whatsoever.
Sylar summoned the lube to him and tucked himself away, breathing roughly himself. He looked upset. He started to say something. Peter flinched. "Rapist," the Italian said hoarsely.
Sylar hung his head, shook it, and walked out.
