Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/386124.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Heroes_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Petrelli/Other(s)
  Character:
      Peter_Petrelli
  Additional Tags:
      Gang_Rape, Forced_Feminization, Underage_Drinking, Boarding_School,
      Paddling, Humiliation, Voyeurism
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-18 Words: 2680
****** Paying the Toll ******
by BrighteyedJill
Summary
     Peter has a rough time at boarding school.
Peter only lasted at boarding school two weeks before calling Angela and
begging her to let him come home.
--
 
Silas pushed Peter back from the door that led from the boys’ lounge to the
dormitory corridor. “Where you think you’re going?”
 
“To bed,” Peter said wearily. He was tired of the hostile glances and sniggers
of the other boys as he sat trying to work in a corner. He should have known he
wouldn’t fit in here, despite how popular Nathan had been when he was a
student. Peter would never command the respect from his peers that Nathan did.
In fact, the boys here, especially the upperclassmen like Silas, seemed able to
sense his weakness, smell his fear. Peter glanced over his shoulder, and saw
that the dozen or so boys still in the lounge had looked up from their books or
conversations to watch the confrontation. “I’m tired,” he told Silas.
 
“Well, if you want to get into the dorm, you have to pay the toll,” Silas said
with a smirk.
 
Peter hefted his messenger bag uncertainly. He didn’t have any money on him, if
that’s what Silas wanted. “What kind of toll?”
 
“Well, that depends on how well you’ve studied, Petrelli. What year was
Oakhurst founded?”
 
“What?” Peter gaped at him. He had no idea what the answer was. He hadn’t
studied the history of the school, for God’s sake. He’d barely read the
brochure his mother had stuffed into his hands on the ride up here.
 
“What year?” Silas prompted. When Peter continued to stare at him, Silas made
an unpleasant buzzing sound. “Time’s up. 1892, Petrelli. Remember that.”
 
“I don’t--.”
 
“Shut up. You’ve lost your shoes.”
 
Now Peter was really confused. “What?”
 
“What?” Silas mocked. “What? Do you even say anything else? Christ. Get your
shoes off.” When Peter hesitated, Silas shouted, “Off!” and Peter rushed to
comply. He toed off his shoes, and at a dark look from his tormenter, handed
them to Silas, who tossed them to another boy. “Okay, next question. Who was
the first headmaster of Oakhurst?”
 
Peter shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know, okay? Just let me go to my
room.”
 
“Wrong! Edward Donavan. Shirt’s next.”
 
When Peter hesitated a second too long, Silas grabbed Peter’s bag off his
shoulder and threw it on the floor. “You listening to me? I said take your
shirt off.” He didn’t raise his voice this time, but the menace was clear.
 
Peter figured that the sooner he did what Silas said, the sooner he’d be done
with this nonsense. With a frustrated huff, he pulled his shirt off over his
head. Silas snatched it out of his hands and tossed it to another boy. Peter
crossed his arms over his bare chest, painfully aware of the eyes of his
classmates at his back.
 
“So far you’re not doing very well, Petrelli,” Silas said in mock-concern. “One
more question. I’ll give you an easy one, since you’re new here.” The others
snickered, and Peter shivered. “The motto of the school.” Silas tapped the
school’s logo sewn on his blazer, which included the logo emblazoned in Latin.
“What’s the English translation?”
 
“I…” Peter had no more hope of translating that than he did of spontaneously
speaking Hebrew. He squinted at the letters on Silas’ jacket: viriliter agite
estote fortes. He shook his head helplessly.
 
“No?” Silas chuckled: a low, mean sound. “The rough translation, Petrelli, is
‘be a man’. Something you obviously haven’t mastered yet. Guess this means you
have to pay the full toll. Take your pants off.”
 
Peter blinked stupidly at him. “What?”
 
“Again with the what. You got ears, Petrelli? Your pants. Take ‘em off.”
 
“No,” Peter said incredulously. He looked back to see if the others were as
horrified as he was. Some stared back at him coldly, others looked eager, and
some had a clear look of “better you than me.” All of them remained silent. He
turned back to Silas, who was no longer smiling.
 
“You gotta pay the toll,” Silas said.
 
“No,” Peter said again, more forcefully this time. He snatched up his bag from
the floor and tried to push past Silas. He was shoved back easily.
 
“Don’t say no to me, Petrelli. You say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank
you very much, sir,’ but you don’t say no.”
 
Peter stood there, heart in his throat, hoping that Silas would just leave him
alone if he stayed still long enough. No such luck. Another moment, and Silas
strode toward him, pulling back his fist.
 
“Okay,” Peter said quickly, cringing away. Silas stopped with his hands on his
hips, and waited.
 
Peter unbuttoned his uniform trousers with shaking hands, and slid them down,
leaving himself in only boxers and socks.
 
“That’s it.” Silas came up and ruffled his hand through Peter’s hair. He
grabbed the pants from the floor and tossed them across the room, where another
boy caught them. “Was that so hard?”
 
Peter’s cheeks burned in humiliation, and he stared at the floor.
 
“Hey.” Silas grabbed his chin, roughly. “What do you say when I ask you a
question?”
 
“Yes sir,” Peter said tersely.
 
Silas laughed and gave him a none-too-gently pat on the cheek. “Good boy,
Petrelli. Now you can go to bed.”
 
Peter took a deep breath, then started toward the boy who was holding his
pants. Silas stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t get those
back,” Silas said. “Those were part of the toll. Now get back to your room
before we decide to up the price.”
 
Hastily, Peter snatched up his bag and fled the room to the nasty sounds of the
boys’ laughter. The march down the hallway to his dorm room had never been
longer, and when he finally made it inside, he slid down to the floor by the
bed and let the tears flow.
--
 
By Friday, Peter had gotten much better at being wherever the older boys were
not. He hadn’t gone back to the lounge, and he only visited the library when he
knew Silas had class. In fact, he was starting to think he just might be able
to get by here, if he could keep laying low.
 
But sometime in the late hours, Peter was jolted awake by hands rousting him
out of bed. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped over his mouth. In the
moonlight streaming in through his narrow window, he recognized Silas. “Hey
Petrelli,” he said. “Miss me?”
 
Silas’s hand stayed locked over his mouth as a group of boys held him down on
the floor and stripped him naked.
--
 
Peter barely recognized himself when he finally caught a glimpse of himself in
the mirror. Half an hour of threatening and manhandling in the deserted
bathroom had been enough for them to transform Peter into… this. They’d forced
him into a short skirt that barely covered his ass and a clingy, v-neck top
that cut half-way down his hairless chest. One of the boys—a snub-nosed, blond
boy only a year older than Peter—had mouthed “sorry” when they started, and he
was the one who’d done Peter’s made up: foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow,
mascara, blush, and lipstick. Now, in the mirror, Peter knew he looked more
than just androgynous. He looked like a girl.
 
The blond boy led him away—teetering in high heels—up a staircase he’d never
seen before, to a tiny attic room with some dusty old couches and dim lights
where Silas and three more of his friends were waiting, passing a bottle of
vodka and a joint back and forth.
 
“Hey, Petrelli,” Silas said with a grin. “Come on, come sit on my lap.” He
slapped his knee. The others laughed.
 
Defiance, tamped down by earlier rough handling, swelled in Peter again. “Fuck
you, Silas,” he growled. The room went silent.
 
“What was that, honey?” Silas asked.
 
But before Peter could answer, two of the boys—tall, thick-bodied goons—rushed
forward and grabbed Peter’s arms. They pushed him over the arm of the nearest
couch. Silas crouched next to his head, and he had something in his hand. He
held it up so Peter could see: a wooden paddle. “See what happens when you use
that pretty mouth for smart-ass comments?”
 
Silas disappeared from Peter’s line of sight, but an instant later he feels his
skirt being shoved up to expose his bare ass, and he barely has time to get out
“No!” before the paddle smacked into him.
 
He tried to jerk away, grinding his soft cock painfully into the rough fabric
of the couch arm, but the goons held him tight.
 
Silas gave him twelve smacks in quick succession, until Peter was sobbing.
 
“That enough?” Silas asked.
 
Peter gasped for breath through his tears. He hadn’t been hit like this in
years: Arthur didn’t usually use the belt anymore, and he’d never used a
paddle.
 
Silas smacked him again. “I asked you a question, honey.”
 
“Please,” Peter moaned. “Please stop.”
 
“Please stop what?” Silas prompted.
 
Peter’s head spun for a minute until he came up with the answer. “Sir,” he said
quickly. “Please, sir.”
 
“Well, since you ask so nice. We’ll do something else.”
 
The goons let Peter up, and his tormentors all took their seats again. Silas
pulled Peter into his lap, and handed him the bottle of vodka. “Drink up,
sweetheart.”
 
Peter shook his head and tried to hand the bottle back, but Silas gave him a
dark look. Peter squirmed uncomfortably, wincing at the pain in his ass. “Drink
it,” Silas said firmly.
 
Peter tilted his head back to take a little sip, but Silas grabbed the bottle
and tipped it up, forcing Peter to swallow faster or choke. He squirmed as the
alcohol burned down his throat. Silas pulled the bottle back just before Peter
would have choked. He gave Peter a second to catch his breath, then pushed the
bottle up again. He completed the sequence once more, until Peter was weakly
pushing the bottle away and muttering, “Please, no.”
 
Silas just laughed again, and said, “Don’t cry, honey. You’ll ruin your
makeup.”
 
Silas held Peter on his lap, fondling his ass under his skirt while the boys
dealt a hand of cards. He might have even thought they’d forgotten about him,
if they hadn’t been shooting him eager looks every once in a while. If Silas’s
hand hadn’t occasionally brushed over the tight pucker of his hole, threatening
and promising. They played two hands of cards while Peter sat, squirming on
Silas’s lap and growing more nervous with every passing minute.
 
The alcohol was making Peter very fuzzy, and after they dealt the third hand of
poker, he slumped against Silas, unable to hold his head up. After that, things
got very blurry.
--
 
Peter was on the floor, on his back, and the blond boy’s hand was pushing up
his skirt, touching his cock. “Hey, it’s okay,” he was saying.
 
Then Peter was up on his knees, the blond boy was behind him, licking up the
crack of his ass. Then his tongue went further, inside Peter, and fuck no one
had ever done that before. His cock was definitely interested in that.
 
“Told you he was a faggot,” Silas said from somewhere above Peter.
 
There were fingers next, and it hurt, but at least there was spit, and Peter’d
had worse, so he didn’t cry. He said softly, “I don’t feel so good,” and “I
don’t wanna do this,” but one of the boys—Peter didn’t know who—stuck their
fingers in his mouth for him to suck, and that shut him up.
 
Peter thought it was probably Silas who fucked him first, since that seemed
like something Silas would want to do. He held Peter’s hips hard, and Peter
knew there’d be bruises there, handprints on his pale skin that he’d see in the
shower for days. Silas fucked him hard, driving into him in punishing thrusts
and saying things like, “So hot for me, honey,” and “Yeah, you like it.”
 
When he was finished, one of his buddies took his place, and Silas came to sit
in front of Peter. He fisted a hand in Peter’s hair and dragged his mouth onto
his cock. Peter knew the drill. He stuck out his tongue and licked Silas clean
without having to be asked. As the other boy fucked him, Silas said, “I know
you weren’t tight enough to be a virgin, honey. So tell me who.”
 
Peter ignored him and kept licking the softening dick in front of him. But
Silas wouldn’t shut up. “Guys at your other school, maybe? God knows you’ve got
the word ‘faggot’ written on your forehead clear as day. Or someone else.” He
giggled, and Peter thought he might be a little drunk, too. “Some friend of the
family? An uncle maybe? Hey, or what about that faggot brother of yours? He
ever get a piece of that ass?”
 
“Leave Nathan alone!” Peter lunged forward, awkwardly trying to punch Silas,
but the guy fucking him held him back easily.
 
Silas grabbed Peter’s hands and pinned them to the floor. “Feisty little mare,”
he said.
 
Peter put his head back down and closed his eyes. Silas kept talking to him,
telling him all about how pretty he looked in his make-up, and how hot his
little ass was, and how if Peter kept being a good boy, Silas was going to take
care of him.
 
Peter let himself drift as the other boys took turns. He wondered idly if he
was going to be able to walk in the morning, or if all the other boys would
know what a slut he was. He wondered if Silas would stop being so mean to him
if Peter would suck his cock every once in a while. That wouldn’t be so bad.
Peter could live with that.
 
Peter thought the last boy was taking his turn, because it hardly hurt at all
any more. There was plenty of come in him, slicking the way. Silas had let go
of his wrists—he’d stopped struggling long ago—and was now smoking again,
passing a joint to his friends who had already finished. When the last guy
came, Peter slumped onto the floor. He was so damn tired.
 
“Hey,” Silas said.
 
Peter knew he shouldn’t ignore him. He raised his head wearily. “One more
thing.” He pushed Peter over onto his back, and pointed between Peter’s legs,
where his cock was still stubbornly hard. “We wanna see you come.”
 
Peter shivered and shook his head. Silas roughly pulled him up to a sitting
position against the couch, then went to sit with his buddies on the couch
opposite, watching him. “Go on, honey,” he said.
 
Peter closed his eyes. His head was still swimming from the alcohol, but he was
undeniably hard. He could feel come leaking out of his well-used ass, and his
skin was hot and painful from the paddling he’d taken earlier. But still… He
let his hand drift down and wrap around his cock.
 
In his imagination, he let it be someone else’s hand. Someone he wanted to
touch him. Nathan. He didn’t think of the boys watching him. He imagined a
strong hand, larger than his, closing over his own, a rough voice purring in
his ear, “Yeah.”
 
His free hand crept up to his mouth, and he stuck two fingers past his lips,
sucking them in, imagining they were Nathan’s cock. Now that was something he
wanted to lick. God, if only Nathan would let him. Peter’s hand sped up,
bringing himself off with quick, firm thrusts, and when he spurted onto his
hand, he caught the name “Nathan” between his teeth and held it.
 
When his eyes drifted open, Silas and the other boys were staring at him with
mingled disgust and delight. “Fuck yeah,” Silas said at last. “This year’s
going to be great.”
--
 
The next morning, as soon as he got out of the shower, Peter called his mother.
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