The cell is small, dirty, and damp, and Molossia’s shoulder is dislocated.
“Hold still,” Hutt River says in an irritated undertone. He doesn’t glance towards the bars that separate them from the other half of the room. Ladonia and Sealand do, but they’re the only ones. The rest of them are focused on the injury, distracting themselves from their captivity. Seborga knows the pattern.
At least they aren’t tied up. That would be worse. Tied up, they wouldn’t be able to touch each other and hold on.
Molossia hisses and pulls away from Hutt River’s hands. “That hurts!” He keeps his voice down, though, and Seborga resists the impulse to glance back over his shoulder to the group of scowling, rough-handed men who dragged them down here. He can hear them talking, and that’s enough.
“What the hell,” he hears one of them growl, “we grab the whole group and there’s only two girls?”
Sealand rests his hands against Molossia’s back as Hutt River gets another grip on his upper arm, and another one says, “And neither of them has tits yet, either.”
Something cold swirls and congeals in Seborga’s stomach.
Oh.
Oh, no.
His friends don’t seem to have noticed the exchange, or if they have they don’t realise what it means. Wy’s lips are pressed tightly together, blood dribbling down from where one of them backhanded her to make her shut up. Kugelmugel is staring at Sealand’s hands behind Molossia’s shoulder. He’s never seemed to care when people mistake him for a girl, unless they know him. Ladonia’s eyes flicker to the bars and away, and his mouth twists a little; he probably understands that they’re being talked about, but he doesn’t know what it means.
They’re all a lot younger than he is, and all of them except Sealand were born to peace. Seborga doesn’t think they know what can happen in sackings. This isn’t a sacking, exactly, but he knows that tone and he knows the way people who think like their captors do can act. He knows it all too well.
Molossia’s shoulder clicks back into its socket, and his yowl of pain blocks out the next few words. While Sealand prods the joint carefully and the others whisper reassurances, Seborga listens intently.
“A girl’s a girl. Doesn’t matter how old she is.”
No.
“Who cares if it’s a girl? A hole’s a hole.” They break into rough, crude laughter, and Seborga feels cold.
No. No, he can’t let this happen.
His friends twitch in surprise at the laughter and glance anxiously at the bars, and the varying levels of tension and fear in their faces tell Seborga clearly that they know they’re being talked about, and they know it can’t be good. Kugelmugel hunches over more, as though trying to shrink out of sight. Wy wipes the blood from her lip, and Sealand scoots around to put an arm over her shoulder, instinctively protective.
Footsteps ring out against the bare cement walls, and Seborga looks over his shoulder to see the group’s leader approaching the door to their cell. He’s a huge man, nearly as tall as Russia, bulky and dark-eyed and Seborga knows exactly how strong his hands are, and imagines how easily they could break bones. Any of Seborga’s friends would be tiny beside him. Underneath him.
Really awesome so far, anon. I like Seborga's thoughts--he's heroic, but not out of character, and that' a nice accomplishment. I'm looking forward to seeing more of this!
They open the door and he’s there instantly, barring the others away.
“Take me,” he says before anyone else can speak. “You can have me, I’ll do anything you want, but don’t hurt any of them, please.”
In the moment of frozen silence he barely dares to breathe, turns his head the barest fraction to glance back over his shoulder. The others are still with surprise, and he can tell that none of them understand yet. He knows that none of the others understand yet, because they are young -- so young -- and he is so, so much older than he looks.
He has lived through wars and sackings and famine. If any of them can handle this, it’s him.
It’s only sex. Seborga has to keep reminding himself of that. It’s just sex. He’s had sex before, he knows how it works (except that that was kisses and warmth and affection, and there’s none of that here, this is only fear and desperation, he doesn’t WANT this), it’s just bodies moving together. It’s sex. He can handle sex.
Kugelmugel is huddled over in his peripheral vision, his long braids trailing on the floor. He looks impossibly small. Seborga grabs onto that to steady himself.
“You?” the man in front says, his dark, deep-set eyes trailing over Seborga’s body like he’s weighing him up, assessing a beast at the market. Assessing a whore for his men. Seborga doesn’t dare think what will happen if he’s found wanting. He should – he tries to smile, to look like something they might want, but his muscles won’t cooperate, and the smile sinks and dies on his lips. It’s all he can do to stand still, and not flee as far back into the cell as he can.
He can almost feel the stares of the other men as they look him over, leers that might as well be filthy grease on his skin. He has to fight not to shudder. But. At least they’re looking at him. Not Wy, and that’s a good thing. Their eyes trail over his skin and his arms, his face. He keeps his gaze on the leader, even as his eyes want to drop to the floor, but he thinks he hears appreciation in the mutterings. It’s … it’s a good sign, even though it makes him want to cringe.
The leader’s eyes flicker past him, just barely.
Seborga wets his dry lips with his tongue. “Please,” he whispers.
The leader looks him up and down again. His face cracks into a leering smile and he nods.
Rough hands grab Seborga and yank him forwards. The door clangs shut behind him at the same time as he hears Wy yell out in alarm. He feels her fingers brush his sleeve as she reaches between the bars, but she’s too slow to catch him, and he should be glad for that, shouldn’t he? His foot catches on the floor and he stumbles, but he twists in his captors’ grasp and manages to look back at them for a single precious instant.
His friends’ faces are pale, in various stages of shock and confusion. That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that they’re all staring at him, what matters is that Sealand and Wy are pressed up against the bars and trying to pull him back even though their hands can’t reach him, what matters is that they’re confused, but they know he’s in danger and they’re trying to protect him, to drag him back to them. Still trying to help him, even though they’re scared, and Seborga finds a fleeting moment to be glad that they won’t see this.
If there’s a sacrifice to be made here then let him make it; let his friends stay children for just a little while longer.
Except that the hands on his shoulders suddenly let go, and Seborga stumbles forwards and barely manages not to collide with the man in front of him. The door is open, but nobody moves towards it; their captors circle around him instead, with hungry smiles on their faces. Aren’t … aren’t they even going to move?
Seborga swallows in sudden dread, and looks up at the leader. The man meets his eyes and smiles slowly.
“Strip,” he orders.
There are so many people in the room, so much breathing, so many moving feet and rustling clothes, that Seborga distantly thinks that it’s odd that he can hear Hutt River suck in a sudden breath.
He can see his friends from the corner of his eye.
His arms don’t want to move, but Seborga lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt.
...and all that fangirly stuff. There are so many lines and moments in this I absolutely love (the entire passage from "the door is open, but nobody moves towards it" to the end just had me clawing at my monitor, just as "assessing a beast at the market. Assessing a whore for his men" made me shudder) but hell, I can't quote them all... and the overall feeling of this is just so dreadful and matching, it's perfect. Keep up the good work!
OHHH MY GOD THIS IS ACTUALLY WONDERFUL, ANON. I was skeptical when I saw the prompt but you're doing this absolutely beautiful. I cant wait for the next part.
Seborga undresses silently, and doesn’t look at anyone. He can’t look at anyone. His fingers catch and slip on the buttons of his shirt, despite the thousands of times he’s performed such a simple action.
The air is cold.
Really cold.
He lets his shirt slip off his shoulders and fall to the ground. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, it’ll get dirty, but no, he has to focus.
Some of them laugh, and Seborga hunches his shoulders over more. He can feel them staring. He can’t look up.
He touches his belt and his hand twitches hard, jerking away from the leather. He drags it back and undoes the buckle as quickly as he can, forcing himself to get it over with. Opens the buttons on his trousers with trembling fingers and shoves the fabric down.
His trousers catch on his shoes. It gives him an excuse to crouch down, hiding some of himself from them, and Seborga can’t help but be glad for even such a tiny respite. Even knowing he’ll have to, to stand up again, and it’s only going to get worse, if it feels this scary and this vulnerable just to have them looking then what’s it going to be like when they –
He wrenches his shoes off, the right one first and then the left. The damp concrete digs into the soles of his feet like tiny, chilly teeth. Seborga tugs his trousers off, and starts to fold them automatically before an impatient cough reminds him that he can’t stall, and so he just drops them on the dirty floor and stands up straight in his underwear. He still can’t look at anyone.
The air is so cold. So damp. Goosebumps prickle down his arms and legs. It’s so quiet, when did his friends stop screaming?
“Get a move on!” somebody yells, and another mutters, “Thought he said he’d do anything?” and Seborga sucks a deep breath in and shoves the elastic down before he can balk. Cloth tangles around his feet, and he clumsily kicks it off, and that’s it, he’s naked. Naked like you have to be, for sex, oh please he can’t think it…
“Seborga…?” Wy whispers, and Seborga can’t help looking at her. Then he can’t help looking away, because her pale, terrified face is everything and it’s too much, and besides the leader steps forward then, huge and bulky, straight into his space so that Seborga would have to tip his head back if he wanted to see the man’s face, but he doesn’t, so he just stares at the heavy belt. The smell of old sweat, of dust and petrol, surrounds him like a fog, an inescapable presence, and Seborga is smothered in it too.
Seborga feels smaller than he can ever remember.
Slowly, reluctantly, he tips his head back and raises his eyes. Conquerors want you to look at them, he remembers as if in a fog. When the kneeling and subservience is done, they want to be looked at when they give their orders. Princes want the same. This…isn’t conquering, but it is, but he’s… He looks up at the man’s face.
He’s smiling, now. Not like he was earlier, when he was rapping out orders – “You two, hold that one, and if he does anything, then you break the girl’s arm” -- or when they were being dragged down here. He was all business then, not smiling. The cruelty in his face is the same, though.
It’s not… Seborga’s never before thought of cruelty and sex, not together. He doesn’t want to think of it.
I can do this.
He keeps his eyes on the leader’s face, tries to block out the whispering around him, and waits for his orders.
“Kneel,” the man tells him. The corner of his lip twists up a little more.
Oh, no, but he said he’d do anything, didn’t he, and he has to, he has to keep them away from the others, he has to, and this… And now this is actually happening.
Seborga kneels. His legs are shaking, and he goes down faster than he meant to, bumps his left knee too hard against the floor. It’s going to bruise, he can tell. It puts him at eye-level with the leader’s belt, as the man’s broad, rough fingers undo the buckle. There are lines of dirt under his cracked fingernails. Those hands dug into Seborga’s shoulders earlier, one of them clamped over his mouth to keep him from shouting in surprise during the ambush. Not that anyone came. Now he watches as they pull down the zip on the jeans, push the fabric open –
“Son of a bitch!” Molossia’s shout comes out of nowhere, and metal rings as something slams against the bars. “You son of a bitch, let him go!”
The leader looks to the side, toward the cage, and his hands lift away from his belt, starting to curl into fists –
Seborga lurches forward, his hands yanking the man’s trousers and underwear out of the way faster than he’d thought he could. He doesn’t even hesitate before he takes the half-hard cock in his mouth.
There’s a grunt of surprise, and one of those heavy hands lands on top of his head. Seborga takes in a deep breath through his nose – bad idea, it reeks of sweat and dirt and musk, and it’s all he can do to keep from coughing – and focuses on what he’s doing. He has enough presence of mind to keep his teeth well clear, and sucks tentatively while he tries to remember what it feels like when a girl does it to him.
“Leave him alone!” Sealand’s voice echoes off the walls. Seborga closes his eyes.
Please don’t watch. Please don’t watch. Please, I don’t want you to see this…
It’s not as bad as it could be. He tells himself again and again that it’s not as bad as it could be. It could be worse. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.
The smell is worse than the taste – mostly it just tastes of skin, with a bit of saltiness on his tongue at the back – but the presence of something hard and heavy invading his mouth is worse. He can’t get away from it, it’s inside and horribly intimate. Wiry hair scratches his nose, he almost wants to sneeze, but he mustn’t. And then that hand tightens in his hair and shoves him further down, and Seborga almost chokes.
It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. It’s horrible and he wants to vomit, but it doesn’t hurt.
Wy is screaming. Why is she screaming? They, they aren’t hurting her, oh please let them not be hurting her – oh, no. What if he’s not, not entertaining enough, what if they…
Seborga pulls himself together and concentrates. He tries to block out the cries echoing off the walls, the cries that sound oddly distant from where he is on his knees, and sucks with renewed desperation. The awful taste at the back of his throat gets worse, but he licks against the flesh in his mouth, uses his hand to stroke the base. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it properly, but he must be doing something right, because it twitches and gets harder – he can feel it swelling, forcing his mouth wider. Seborga tries nodding his head a little, but it’s hard against the hand in his hair.
Then that hand shoves him down even further, so that the end of it bumps against the back of Seborga’s throat, and while Seborga frantically tries not to gag, it yanks him back and off and then something warm and wet splashes against his face and nearly gets in his eyes and.
It takes him a shocked moment to work it out. His brain feels all frozen, moving through quicksand. He feels something slide, and.
And.
And Seborga’s kneeling naked on the floor with come on his face.
This is amazing and heartbreaking and harrowing to read but all I want is MORE. Serborga's voice throughout is really really heartbreaking and the other's reactions are so in character for them. Basically I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS
I can not express my adoration for this fic oh my gosh. Your writing is wonderful, your take on Seborga just as good and I'm just freaking out because wow this is actually amazing. Keep up the good work and I can say I seriously check this page each day to see if you've updated!
Seborga takes a quick, shuddering breath. He can breathe through his mouth again, at least, and it’s almost enough of a relief to outweigh the warm, slimy feeling on his face.
The leader steps back, buckling his belt again. Seborga only vaguely notices. His thoughts are moving slowly. He just –
He turns his head again, searching for his friends. He needs, he needs somebody now, he’s alone in a sea of people who want to hurt him, a-and that’s something he’s been through before, he’s survived it before, but it wasn’t this. He searches for his friends, and he finds them behind iron bars and rumpled denim trousers.
Sealand and Wy are holding onto the bars so hard that their knuckles have turned white. The skin over Sealand’s knuckles is split where he punched the bars. Both of their faces are stained with tears, and both of them are staring at him. All of his friends are staring at him.
No, not all of them. Kugelmugel isn’t, and neither is Hutt River, and even with his treacle-slow thoughts it takes less than a second for Seborga to realise that Hutt River’s sitting further back in the cell with Kugelmugel in his arms, hiding the smaller boy’s face in his chest so that Kugelmugel can’t see what’s going on. He’s protecting him, just like Seborga is protecting all of them.
Molossia’s face is even paler than Wy’s – oh, of course. He understands. The others don’t. Ladonia’s face is twisted in the same fear as everyone else, but he looks confused. Molossia isn’t, because the others know that Seborga’s being hurt, but Molossia understands how.
And then Molossia steps back and crouches down, and Ladonia flickers out of existence.
Seborga freezes. If any of them noticed that –
He snaps back into his body. His naked, dirty, shivering body.
His naked, dirty, nearly adult body – or close enough, anyway – and it doesn’t matter that there’s come on his face, it doesn’t, because his friends are watching him suffer but they aren’t going through it themselves. That’s what matters. He’s knelt before, and they haven’t, and he will do whatever he must to make sure they never will.
He looks up at the man next to the leader – a short, whip-thin man with an angular face. He was the one holding a knife to Kugelmugel’s ear, earlier, and Seborga wants to cringe away from him – but he’s here to put on a show.
So he does.
So he pulls up the corners of his mouth and tilts his head, and hopefully from that angle it looks like an alluring smile. He leans forward onto his palms, and he crawls forward – it’s not far, only a pace or two, but he hears an interested murmur from behind him. He knows what those sound like; anyone who spends time around soldiers can’t help but know. He sits back on his heels in front of the whip-cord man, and forces his eyes up to his face for a moment – and the man is looking intently at him, calculating and hard, but there’s a lot of lust in his eyes, and Seborga doesn’t need more than a second to see it. He keeps his head low, obedient, but he reaches out and slides his hands up the front of the man’s thighs. Too fast, probably, but he already undressed, and men like these don’t want slow, pretty teasing, they just want to get to the point, so he reaches up for the buckle.
His fingers fumble the buckle once, slipping on the metal, but on the second try he gets it, and then he gets the zipper down. This one isn’t wearing underwear – one less step – and his uncut cock is half-hard, enough that it comes out towards his face when he parts the denim and Seborga nearly flinches, but instead he takes it in his hand. It twitches.
Seborga takes a deep breath and leans in again.
He’s ready for it, this time, ready for the taste and the smell and the feeling of having someone else’s cock in his mouth, but it isn’t much easier than the first time. Maybe it’s worse, because the first time he didn’t have any idea what to expect, he was just trying not to choke and not really thinking about it, but now…
He block out the world around him, his focus narrowing down to this. No sound, not his friends’ voices, just the taste, the smell, the hand on the back of his neck and the flesh in his mouth. If he tries not to think about what he’s doing – but he can’t not think about what he’s doing, it’s never been his way. He’s kneeling here and sucking off a man who would gladly rape a child, and he’s doing it as well as he can manage. This man had a knife to Kugelmugel’s ear, and Seborga has to please him.
He bobs his head a little, tentatively. It seems to work. He sucks a bit harder, licks over a swollen vein that presses against his tongue. The man above him grunts softly, pleased.
A hand lands on his back, on the curve of his ribs just under his shoulder. It comes out of nowhere. Seborga jolts before he can help it, and swallows down cold fear with the taste of pre-come. There’s someone standing behind him, bending over him, and he didn’t even hear him approaching, but now he’s looming over Seborga and there’s no way out, no space around him, he’s crowded in between two men and both of them are touching him.
I can’t flinch. It wouldn’t do any good anyway.
But oh, he wants to. He wants to vanish into the floor. He wants to not be here.
He opens his mouth around the cock in it and sucks in a deep, quick breath before he goes back to sucking.
“’E’s got pretty skin.” The man behind him drags his hand roughly down Seborga’s back, to his hip. Seborga tries to keep his breathing steady, such as it is. He knew this was coming. “What’s his mouth like?”
The other one grunts. “He sucks like a virgin. Pick it up, boy!” Seborga winces, and lowers his head as far as he can, until the tip of the man’s cock is almost triggering his gag reflex. He doesn’t think he can take any more, not without throwing up – but if they think about going after one of the others, he’s going to have to try.
“His ass’ll be better, then.” Another hand suddenly lands on his side, making Seborga twitch as he tries to suck harder. “Probably never even had anything up here!”
Both of those broad, strong, sweat-sticky hands slide back, over his rear, pulling him open, exposing him. Seborga feels warmth in his face and knows that he’s blushing, glad nobody can see. He knew it was coming, but it’s an instinctive reaction – nobody should be touching him there, they shouldn’t. His eyes are stinging and he closes them, keeping the tears back so these men can’t see them, so his friends can’t see them. He closes his eyes, as if it won’t happen if he can’t see it.
But it will, of course it will. Closing his eyes doesn’t make the hands on him stop. They just – touch against him – and then one hand leaves and Seborga manages to breathe, getting another choking taste – and then that hand comes back and then it’s – and then there are fingers touching and then they’re inside him, they’re inside him, they’re, they’re in his body and, and they shouldn’t be, they’re huge and rough and Seborga thinks he can feel himself tearing as they move around. He tries to throw his head back, to take his mouth off the cock in front of him and beg “Please, wait,” but there’s a hand on the back of his neck and he can’t, and he can’t anyway, not without dooming his friends.
Deep breaths, Seborga.
Ohnoohnoohno - and the fingers pull out, and here it comes.
It hurts. Seborga can’t hold back a harsh cry of pain as it shoves into him, forcing him open, deep inside where it shouldn’t be. He has to take his hands away from the other man’s hips and brace them against the floor, leaning on them to keep himself up as the pain and the invasion steals the strength from his back. The concrete bites into his fingers and palms again, but he scarcely notices. The man behind him lets out a deep groan and starts moving, shoving his hips roughly against Seborga’s so that the open zipper scrapes his skin, and every thrust pushes Seborga forward.
It hurts. It hurts, and it’s worse than he expected. It’s strange and frightening to have something so deep inside him, especially when it’s somebody who wants to hurt him.
But he can do this. He has to do this.
It’s scary. It’s bad. But so are lots of other things, and he’s done those. He can handle this.
He starts sucking again, even though every movement of the man behind him makes him want to shriek in pain. He’s good at ignoring pain, when he has to. He can’t keep his lungs from trying to drag in pained gasps of air, but he manages to keep his mouth moving. He forces his tongue to press against the cock in his mouth. He forces himself to rock his head. He takes in as much as he can.
It’s the man behind him who comes first, though, and pulls away to leave Seborga exposed on the concrete floor, with cold air brushing over the trails of sticky blood down his thighs.
AN: Sorry that this update took such a long time. It was like pulling teeth. Also sorry for quality.
Seborga’s been alive a long time; he knows how pain can play tricks on the mind. He knows how it can speed time up or slow it down, how it can make the world seem disjointed, or bring certain facts or events into sharp focus while blurring out the rest of the world. He knows how to block it out, if he has to. It’s been a long time, and he’s never been very good at it, but he can do it.
He hopes.
He sucks the man in front of him until a hand forces him forward and a bitter taste fills the back of his mouth, forcing him to swallow most of it, and leaving the taste all the way down his throat. The hand stays tight for a moment before it lets go, all but throwing him away. Like a piece of rubbish…
Seborga sits back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs, and takes in deep, slow breaths through his nose. He doesn’t have long to get this done, and he’s not even sure it will work, not on this kind of pain, but he has to try. He takes another deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of sex, and packs his fear gently down, under his rational mind: Yes, I’m scared, but I’m not going to think about it. He shoves the pain and embarrassment down with it, under a rickety floorboard that won’t last long, not with all the trampling it’s going to take – but it doesn’t have to last long. Just long enough to get him through this.
In, and out again. Squeezing down the fear and dragging his mind together into something that can handle this.
“What’s he like?”
“Tight –” There’s a round of noise, rough laughter and approving sounds, a smatter of applause, a few jeers. Soldier’s sounds.
“My turn now, then!” someone else calls over the din, and footsteps come towards him from his left.
Seborga opens his eyes, wrapped up in a fragile kind of strength, and later, later maybe he’s going to hate himself for this, but right now he looks up, with come trickling from the corner of his mouth, and tilts his head back, and slides his right hand up his thigh. He doesn’t get a good look at the man’s face – enough to etch it into his memory, but right now it’s not important -- but he doesn’t need to, he heard. This one doesn’t want his mouth. That’s…good? It might hurt more, but he won’t have to do as much –
He bows his head, and puts his hands on the floor, exposing himself, and he doesn’t shy away, even with every fibre of him screaming for it. He digs his fingernails into the floor and lets himself be pulled open by heavy hands and then impaled on flesh. It hurts even worse than the first time, but he’s ignoring the pain, just about. His hair hangs around his face, hiding the room from him, so it’s okay to let his eyes screw up, because nobody will see. The thrusts make his arms shake, make the tears that he can’t hold back drip from his nose and onto the floor. He holds himself as still as he can.
The man finishes. Seborga doesn’t move. He stays where he is, kneeling on the floor, and the one’s barely stepped away before another takes his place.
“Little whore.” He has a nice voice, actually. Baritone. It would be a good voice for choir, and that thought means that Seborga won’t be able to go to choir for months. He digs his fingers against the floor again – the concrete’s already gouged at the skin, and maybe he’ll need bandages there, after this. He’ll be clumsy for ages, if he does.
“Little whore, so eager for sex –” That voice purrs in his ear and Seborga tries to hide away from it but he can’t, he can’t. “Standing up and asking for it in front of all your little friends.” Seborga squirms his head sideways, ducking away, but the man just leans close down over his back until his warm, damp breath is gusting over Seborga’s ear and tickling his hair.
“They’re watching you, you know.” No, no, no. “All five of ‘em, watching you get mounted like a prison bitch. What do you think they’ll think about you? Knowing you asked our whole group to give you a ride?”
“Shut up,” Seborga whispers, and sinks his teeth into his lip. He can’t ask for it to stop. He can’t try to resist at all, but this is so much worse. The pain is just pain, it’s horrible, but the man’s whispers sink into his mind like poison, and all the stronger because it’s something he was trying not to think anyway. He gave them his body, he didn’t offer this…
But the man must have heard him, despite how quietly he spoke, because his voice gains an edge of horrible triumph. “They’ll think the same as everyone does. Dirty slut, handing himself over. Wanting it. Do you think they’ll want anything to do with you, after this? You’ll never see them again.”
“No –” He’s lying, he’s lying…
“Wait and see, little slut. Think you’re the only one who’s ever tried it? Nobody’s grateful for that.”
And then he stops talking as his movements get rougher and rougher, battering against Seborga’s bleeding body, but the pain is welcome compared to the things he was saying.
Think you’re the only one who’s ever tried it? They’ve taken prisoners before, then, lots of them – well, obvious, Seborga scolds himself, or why would they have the cage? And if they have – there’s a lot that a mother will do for her daughter. Seborga’s even heard of it before, once or twice – he never had to see it happening, but he can’t remember if he heard what happened after. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to remember.
But his mind is treacherous, and those little insects the man whispered into his ear scuttle through his mind and break open a crack that murmurs, they shunned her, remember? Nobody ever looked at her again without frowning. Something he’d forgotten, just one more detail in the horrors of war, come crawling back to haunt him.
The whisperer comes inside him, and leaves Seborga half-frozen on the floor, staring down with unseeing eyes at the cracks in his fingernails that slowly, slowly start to bleed.
*
A/N: Today, on the torture-Seborga-in-multiple-ways circuit...
This is so beautifully painful! I loved how brutal the whole thing was, but the ending with the emotional pain was easily the most effective. I can't wait to see what will happen next!
Seborga sort of loses track of things, after that.
The rest of them hurt him. They take him on his knees, they flip him over onto his back so the concrete scrapes his shoulders raw, and one of them even demands to be ridden – which yanks Seborga’s mind horribly back to reality for a moment, long enough for him to panic while the whispers chant gleefully inside his head, before he picks himself up and does what he has to do. He can’t count how many there are, they all blur one into the other in his daze, their hands and mouths and cocks an endless interchangeable horror. His mouth is filled with bitter come, his body is forced open wider and wider, and with every touch the numbness inside him grows – and the whispers.
You’re nothing. You’re a whore. You’re dirty, disgusting, trading your body away like this. Weak. Pathetic. Nobody will ever look at you kindly again. Your family will shun you. Your friends will never come near you again, not after they’ve seen what you’ll do.
But despite the whispers, Seborga keeps going, mechanically.
Yes, maybe his friends will hate him, after this (oh, he hopes not). But that doesn’t matter. Even if they hate him, Seborga still loves them. He’ll still do this, for them.
If he’s the one worth hating, then he’s the one worth having this happen to. If he’s bad, and dirty – then it’s better that this happens to him, that he does this, than that it happens to quiet little Kugelmugel, or exuberant Sealand, or Wy. He’ll get dirty, and even if they never talk to him again, they’ll be clean. They won’t have to live with the shame.
Seborga thinks, in his daze, that he can live with that.
He’s cracking apart. He can feel himself going, under the stupor, he can feel where the pain and the whispering and the fear are starting to break him open. Soon, maybe, he’ll tear, and then everything he is will rush out of him, leave him empty. That…he thinks, distantly, that might be worth it. He can do this, and save them, and then he’ll just shatter and fade away so that nobody will be bothered by him any more.
(The little part of him that remembers the days of war says: You’re going into shock. It just doesn’t say it loud enough to be heard over the whispers. Seborga might not be able to hear even if it did.)
It goes on for a long time. Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell how long it’s been. It could have been an eternity. Feels like it. Feels almost like there’s nothing else he’s ever done but be here and suffer. Just like he can’t tell how many people have touched him, he can’t tell how long it’s been, when the hands leave his body and aren’t replaced.
There are feet, and there’s shouting that he’s losing the ability to understand, and then one of them, maybe the leader, grabs his arm and picks him up by it. Seborga’s feet trail across the floor before he remembers that he can support himself with them – except he can’t, really. He gets one foot under him and gets dragged off it, and then the man throws him forward – and he’s falling, he’s falling…
And somebody catches him.
He’s falling towards hard concrete, but he falls into warm arms that slow him down. Slow him down and wrap around him and hold him, tightly, like a child clutching a favourite toy.
Boots thud past him, and he looks up in time to see the leader step past him and drag Kugelmugel out of Hutt River’s arms with brutal strength. Kugelmugel whimpers. Hutt River shouts. The leader grabs one of Kugelmugel’s long plaits, yanking his head to the side with a little cry of pain.
The knife comes down in a bright arc.
“No!” Seborga gasps. Despite the pain, he twists around and tries to throw himself forward, out of the arms that hold him, heedless of his heavy, clumsy body. They promised, he –
But Kugelmugel staggers back, eyes wide, and there isn’t any blood on him. The shorn strands of his hair flutter around his ear and chin. The leader grunts and turns back, holding a silver-white rope in his massive fist, the trailing end of the braid already starting to unravel. The arms around Seborga’s shoulders squeeze tighter, as the leader steps over Seborga’s legs.
None of them can move until the cage door clangs shut and the room beyond begins to empty.
“Seborga?” someone whispers.
Seborga doesn’t say anything. He can hear them walking out, heavy boots on the concrete floor. If he pushed himself up and turned, he could probably see, but he … doesn’t really have the strength any more.
He tries to roll over, but his palm just slips across the floor.
“Here,” Wy says softly from behind him. A moment later he feels her hands on his shoulder, guiding him over. It’s hard to move, but with her and Sealand’s help he manages to make it onto his back – well, it’s Sealand who gets him there mostly, because Seborga’s arms and shoulders are shaking too much to do much with. Sealand has to lift him up, tucking his arms under Seborga’s and supporting his weight. Sealand’s shaking too, Seborga can feel the tremble, but he moves with the military precision he must have learned in the war. Seborga folds into the hold automatically.
Sealand settles him down on the floor, carefully. It makes the scrapes on his back sting even so. Seborga can’t hold back a little hiss.
“It’s okay,” Wy says quietly, and tugs his head into her lap. Sealand lowers him the rest of the way, fumbling a little but gentle all the same, and crouches down next to him, biting his lip. He keeps his hands on Seborga’s chest, though, like he’s reassuring himself that Seborga’s real.
“We’ve got you,” Wy says. She touches his face, and hesitates a moment before brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
“We won’t let them hurt you again,” Sealand says. His voice cracks and he swallows, scrunching his eyes shut. Another tear joins the dirty tracks down his cheeks, but when he opens them again his blue eyes are fierce and resolute. “Never. I promise.”
Seborga’s voice hurts. But he reaches up with one shaking hand and clasps Wy’s wrist, and rests the other over Sealand’s hand on his chest.
I love the aftermath of these sort of fics much more than the actual non-con portion. I'm more of an emotional angst fan, and these situations set up A LOT of that; not only for the victim, but all those that are close to that individual. This is beautiful, absolutely wonderful. Very heartwrenching having Sealand and Wy immediately go to Seborga and try to comfort him and assure him in whatever small way they are able.
Absolute in love with this. I really hope there's more of this aftermath <3
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This Gift I Offer (Prologue)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 11:51 am (UTC)(link)“Hold still,” Hutt River says in an irritated undertone. He doesn’t glance towards the bars that separate them from the other half of the room. Ladonia and Sealand do, but they’re the only ones. The rest of them are focused on the injury, distracting themselves from their captivity. Seborga knows the pattern.
At least they aren’t tied up. That would be worse. Tied up, they wouldn’t be able to touch each other and hold on.
Molossia hisses and pulls away from Hutt River’s hands. “That hurts!” He keeps his voice down, though, and Seborga resists the impulse to glance back over his shoulder to the group of scowling, rough-handed men who dragged them down here. He can hear them talking, and that’s enough.
“What the hell,” he hears one of them growl, “we grab the whole group and there’s only two girls?”
Sealand rests his hands against Molossia’s back as Hutt River gets another grip on his upper arm, and another one says, “And neither of them has tits yet, either.”
Something cold swirls and congeals in Seborga’s stomach.
Oh.
Oh, no.
His friends don’t seem to have noticed the exchange, or if they have they don’t realise what it means. Wy’s lips are pressed tightly together, blood dribbling down from where one of them backhanded her to make her shut up. Kugelmugel is staring at Sealand’s hands behind Molossia’s shoulder. He’s never seemed to care when people mistake him for a girl, unless they know him. Ladonia’s eyes flicker to the bars and away, and his mouth twists a little; he probably understands that they’re being talked about, but he doesn’t know what it means.
They’re all a lot younger than he is, and all of them except Sealand were born to peace. Seborga doesn’t think they know what can happen in sackings. This isn’t a sacking, exactly, but he knows that tone and he knows the way people who think like their captors do can act. He knows it all too well.
Molossia’s shoulder clicks back into its socket, and his yowl of pain blocks out the next few words. While Sealand prods the joint carefully and the others whisper reassurances, Seborga listens intently.
“A girl’s a girl. Doesn’t matter how old she is.”
No.
“Who cares if it’s a girl? A hole’s a hole.” They break into rough, crude laughter, and Seborga feels cold.
No. No, he can’t let this happen.
His friends twitch in surprise at the laughter and glance anxiously at the bars, and the varying levels of tension and fear in their faces tell Seborga clearly that they know they’re being talked about, and they know it can’t be good. Kugelmugel hunches over more, as though trying to shrink out of sight. Wy wipes the blood from her lip, and Sealand scoots around to put an arm over her shoulder, instinctively protective.
Footsteps ring out against the bare cement walls, and Seborga looks over his shoulder to see the group’s leader approaching the door to their cell. He’s a huge man, nearly as tall as Russia, bulky and dark-eyed and Seborga knows exactly how strong his hands are, and imagines how easily they could break bones. Any of Seborga’s friends would be tiny beside him. Underneath him.
He cannot let this happen.
Seborga rises to his feet.
Re: This Gift I Offer (Prologue)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-03 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (Prologue)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 02:51 am (UTC)(link)And Seborga, he's so brave... and I love how you've noted how much older he is than all of them. Cause he is, and it's sometimes forgotten.
Your descriptions are done well, not too much, not too little, and you capture the fear of the scene well.
Good job, A!Anon!
Re: This Gift I Offer (Prologue)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 02:53 am (UTC)(link)However, all my other comments still stand. This is an excellent start, and I can't wait to see where you go with this.
Re: This Gift I Offer (Prologue)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-05 04:50 am (UTC)(link)You're awesome, and I hope you update soon. ;)
This Gift I Offer (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-17 12:25 pm (UTC)(link)“Take me,” he says before anyone else can speak. “You can have me, I’ll do anything you want, but don’t hurt any of them, please.”
In the moment of frozen silence he barely dares to breathe, turns his head the barest fraction to glance back over his shoulder. The others are still with surprise, and he can tell that none of them understand yet. He knows that none of the others understand yet, because they are young -- so young -- and he is so, so much older than he looks.
He has lived through wars and sackings and famine. If any of them can handle this, it’s him.
It’s only sex. Seborga has to keep reminding himself of that. It’s just sex. He’s had sex before, he knows how it works (except that that was kisses and warmth and affection, and there’s none of that here, this is only fear and desperation, he doesn’t WANT this), it’s just bodies moving together. It’s sex. He can handle sex.
Kugelmugel is huddled over in his peripheral vision, his long braids trailing on the floor. He looks impossibly small. Seborga grabs onto that to steady himself.
“You?” the man in front says, his dark, deep-set eyes trailing over Seborga’s body like he’s weighing him up, assessing a beast at the market. Assessing a whore for his men. Seborga doesn’t dare think what will happen if he’s found wanting. He should – he tries to smile, to look like something they might want, but his muscles won’t cooperate, and the smile sinks and dies on his lips. It’s all he can do to stand still, and not flee as far back into the cell as he can.
He can almost feel the stares of the other men as they look him over, leers that might as well be filthy grease on his skin. He has to fight not to shudder. But. At least they’re looking at him. Not Wy, and that’s a good thing. Their eyes trail over his skin and his arms, his face. He keeps his gaze on the leader, even as his eyes want to drop to the floor, but he thinks he hears appreciation in the mutterings. It’s … it’s a good sign, even though it makes him want to cringe.
The leader’s eyes flicker past him, just barely.
Seborga wets his dry lips with his tongue. “Please,” he whispers.
The leader looks him up and down again. His face cracks into a leering smile and he nods.
Rough hands grab Seborga and yank him forwards. The door clangs shut behind him at the same time as he hears Wy yell out in alarm. He feels her fingers brush his sleeve as she reaches between the bars, but she’s too slow to catch him, and he should be glad for that, shouldn’t he? His foot catches on the floor and he stumbles, but he twists in his captors’ grasp and manages to look back at them for a single precious instant.
His friends’ faces are pale, in various stages of shock and confusion. That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that they’re all staring at him, what matters is that Sealand and Wy are pressed up against the bars and trying to pull him back even though their hands can’t reach him, what matters is that they’re confused, but they know he’s in danger and they’re trying to protect him, to drag him back to them. Still trying to help him, even though they’re scared, and Seborga finds a fleeting moment to be glad that they won’t see this.
If there’s a sacrifice to be made here then let him make it; let his friends stay children for just a little while longer.
Except that the hands on his shoulders suddenly let go, and Seborga stumbles forwards and barely manages not to collide with the man in front of him. The door is open, but nobody moves towards it; their captors circle around him instead, with hungry smiles on their faces. Aren’t … aren’t they even going to move?
Seborga swallows in sudden dread, and looks up at the leader. The man meets his eyes and smiles slowly.
“Strip,” he orders.
There are so many people in the room, so much breathing, so many moving feet and rustling clothes, that Seborga distantly thinks that it’s odd that he can hear Hutt River suck in a sudden breath.
He can see his friends from the corner of his eye.
His arms don’t want to move, but Seborga lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt.
Re: This Gift I Offer (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-20 02:32 am (UTC)(link)don't do this to me, don't leave it here
I need this to BREATHE
...and all that fangirly stuff. There are so many lines and moments in this I absolutely love (the entire passage from "the door is open, but nobody moves towards it" to the end just had me clawing at my monitor, just as "assessing a beast at the market. Assessing a whore for his men" made me shudder) but hell, I can't quote them all... and the overall feeling of this is just so dreadful and matching, it's perfect. Keep up the good work!
Re: This Gift I Offer (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-26 07:04 am (UTC)(link)This Gift I Offer (2a/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-31 04:53 pm (UTC)(link)The air is cold.
Really cold.
He lets his shirt slip off his shoulders and fall to the ground. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, it’ll get dirty, but no, he has to focus.
Some of them laugh, and Seborga hunches his shoulders over more. He can feel them staring. He can’t look up.
He touches his belt and his hand twitches hard, jerking away from the leather. He drags it back and undoes the buckle as quickly as he can, forcing himself to get it over with. Opens the buttons on his trousers with trembling fingers and shoves the fabric down.
His trousers catch on his shoes. It gives him an excuse to crouch down, hiding some of himself from them, and Seborga can’t help but be glad for even such a tiny respite. Even knowing he’ll have to, to stand up again, and it’s only going to get worse, if it feels this scary and this vulnerable just to have them looking then what’s it going to be like when they –
He wrenches his shoes off, the right one first and then the left. The damp concrete digs into the soles of his feet like tiny, chilly teeth. Seborga tugs his trousers off, and starts to fold them automatically before an impatient cough reminds him that he can’t stall, and so he just drops them on the dirty floor and stands up straight in his underwear. He still can’t look at anyone.
The air is so cold. So damp. Goosebumps prickle down his arms and legs. It’s so quiet, when did his friends stop screaming?
“Get a move on!” somebody yells, and another mutters, “Thought he said he’d do anything?” and Seborga sucks a deep breath in and shoves the elastic down before he can balk. Cloth tangles around his feet, and he clumsily kicks it off, and that’s it, he’s naked. Naked like you have to be, for sex, oh please he can’t think it…
“Seborga…?” Wy whispers, and Seborga can’t help looking at her. Then he can’t help looking away, because her pale, terrified face is everything and it’s too much, and besides the leader steps forward then, huge and bulky, straight into his space so that Seborga would have to tip his head back if he wanted to see the man’s face, but he doesn’t, so he just stares at the heavy belt. The smell of old sweat, of dust and petrol, surrounds him like a fog, an inescapable presence, and Seborga is smothered in it too.
Seborga feels smaller than he can ever remember.
Slowly, reluctantly, he tips his head back and raises his eyes. Conquerors want you to look at them, he remembers as if in a fog. When the kneeling and subservience is done, they want to be looked at when they give their orders. Princes want the same. This…isn’t conquering, but it is, but he’s… He looks up at the man’s face.
He’s smiling, now. Not like he was earlier, when he was rapping out orders – “You two, hold that one, and if he does anything, then you break the girl’s arm” -- or when they were being dragged down here. He was all business then, not smiling. The cruelty in his face is the same, though.
It’s not… Seborga’s never before thought of cruelty and sex, not together. He doesn’t want to think of it.
I can do this.
He keeps his eyes on the leader’s face, tries to block out the whispering around him, and waits for his orders.
“Kneel,” the man tells him. The corner of his lip twists up a little more.
This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-31 04:54 pm (UTC)(link)Oh, no, but he said he’d do anything, didn’t he, and he has to, he has to keep them away from the others, he has to, and this… And now this is actually happening.
Seborga kneels. His legs are shaking, and he goes down faster than he meant to, bumps his left knee too hard against the floor. It’s going to bruise, he can tell. It puts him at eye-level with the leader’s belt, as the man’s broad, rough fingers undo the buckle. There are lines of dirt under his cracked fingernails. Those hands dug into Seborga’s shoulders earlier, one of them clamped over his mouth to keep him from shouting in surprise during the ambush. Not that anyone came. Now he watches as they pull down the zip on the jeans, push the fabric open –
“Son of a bitch!” Molossia’s shout comes out of nowhere, and metal rings as something slams against the bars. “You son of a bitch, let him go!”
The leader looks to the side, toward the cage, and his hands lift away from his belt, starting to curl into fists –
Seborga lurches forward, his hands yanking the man’s trousers and underwear out of the way faster than he’d thought he could. He doesn’t even hesitate before he takes the half-hard cock in his mouth.
There’s a grunt of surprise, and one of those heavy hands lands on top of his head. Seborga takes in a deep breath through his nose – bad idea, it reeks of sweat and dirt and musk, and it’s all he can do to keep from coughing – and focuses on what he’s doing. He has enough presence of mind to keep his teeth well clear, and sucks tentatively while he tries to remember what it feels like when a girl does it to him.
“Leave him alone!” Sealand’s voice echoes off the walls. Seborga closes his eyes.
Please don’t watch. Please don’t watch. Please, I don’t want you to see this…
It’s not as bad as it could be. He tells himself again and again that it’s not as bad as it could be. It could be worse. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.
The smell is worse than the taste – mostly it just tastes of skin, with a bit of saltiness on his tongue at the back – but the presence of something hard and heavy invading his mouth is worse. He can’t get away from it, it’s inside and horribly intimate. Wiry hair scratches his nose, he almost wants to sneeze, but he mustn’t. And then that hand tightens in his hair and shoves him further down, and Seborga almost chokes.
It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt. It’s horrible and he wants to vomit, but it doesn’t hurt.
Wy is screaming. Why is she screaming? They, they aren’t hurting her, oh please let them not be hurting her – oh, no. What if he’s not, not entertaining enough, what if they…
Seborga pulls himself together and concentrates. He tries to block out the cries echoing off the walls, the cries that sound oddly distant from where he is on his knees, and sucks with renewed desperation. The awful taste at the back of his throat gets worse, but he licks against the flesh in his mouth, uses his hand to stroke the base. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it properly, but he must be doing something right, because it twitches and gets harder – he can feel it swelling, forcing his mouth wider. Seborga tries nodding his head a little, but it’s hard against the hand in his hair.
Then that hand shoves him down even further, so that the end of it bumps against the back of Seborga’s throat, and while Seborga frantically tries not to gag, it yanks him back and off and then something warm and wet splashes against his face and nearly gets in his eyes and.
It takes him a shocked moment to work it out. His brain feels all frozen, moving through quicksand. He feels something slide, and.
And.
And Seborga’s kneeling naked on the floor with come on his face.
He didn’t know how dirty it would make him feel.
Re: This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-03-31 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-01 05:57 am (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 07:42 am (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-20 07:32 pm (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (2b/?)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-22 02:10 (UTC) - ExpandThis Gift I Offer (3a/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-30 12:40 pm (UTC)(link)Seborga takes a quick, shuddering breath. He can breathe through his mouth again, at least, and it’s almost enough of a relief to outweigh the warm, slimy feeling on his face.
The leader steps back, buckling his belt again. Seborga only vaguely notices. His thoughts are moving slowly. He just –
He turns his head again, searching for his friends. He needs, he needs somebody now, he’s alone in a sea of people who want to hurt him, a-and that’s something he’s been through before, he’s survived it before, but it wasn’t this. He searches for his friends, and he finds them behind iron bars and rumpled denim trousers.
Sealand and Wy are holding onto the bars so hard that their knuckles have turned white. The skin over Sealand’s knuckles is split where he punched the bars. Both of their faces are stained with tears, and both of them are staring at him. All of his friends are staring at him.
No, not all of them. Kugelmugel isn’t, and neither is Hutt River, and even with his treacle-slow thoughts it takes less than a second for Seborga to realise that Hutt River’s sitting further back in the cell with Kugelmugel in his arms, hiding the smaller boy’s face in his chest so that Kugelmugel can’t see what’s going on. He’s protecting him, just like Seborga is protecting all of them.
Molossia’s face is even paler than Wy’s – oh, of course. He understands. The others don’t. Ladonia’s face is twisted in the same fear as everyone else, but he looks confused. Molossia isn’t, because the others know that Seborga’s being hurt, but Molossia understands how.
And then Molossia steps back and crouches down, and Ladonia flickers out of existence.
Seborga freezes. If any of them noticed that –
He snaps back into his body. His naked, dirty, shivering body.
His naked, dirty, nearly adult body – or close enough, anyway – and it doesn’t matter that there’s come on his face, it doesn’t, because his friends are watching him suffer but they aren’t going through it themselves. That’s what matters. He’s knelt before, and they haven’t, and he will do whatever he must to make sure they never will.
He looks up at the man next to the leader – a short, whip-thin man with an angular face. He was the one holding a knife to Kugelmugel’s ear, earlier, and Seborga wants to cringe away from him – but he’s here to put on a show.
So he does.
So he pulls up the corners of his mouth and tilts his head, and hopefully from that angle it looks like an alluring smile. He leans forward onto his palms, and he crawls forward – it’s not far, only a pace or two, but he hears an interested murmur from behind him. He knows what those sound like; anyone who spends time around soldiers can’t help but know. He sits back on his heels in front of the whip-cord man, and forces his eyes up to his face for a moment – and the man is looking intently at him, calculating and hard, but there’s a lot of lust in his eyes, and Seborga doesn’t need more than a second to see it. He keeps his head low, obedient, but he reaches out and slides his hands up the front of the man’s thighs. Too fast, probably, but he already undressed, and men like these don’t want slow, pretty teasing, they just want to get to the point, so he reaches up for the buckle.
This Gift I Offer (3b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-30 12:42 pm (UTC)(link)His fingers fumble the buckle once, slipping on the metal, but on the second try he gets it, and then he gets the zipper down. This one isn’t wearing underwear – one less step – and his uncut cock is half-hard, enough that it comes out towards his face when he parts the denim and Seborga nearly flinches, but instead he takes it in his hand. It twitches.
Seborga takes a deep breath and leans in again.
He’s ready for it, this time, ready for the taste and the smell and the feeling of having someone else’s cock in his mouth, but it isn’t much easier than the first time. Maybe it’s worse, because the first time he didn’t have any idea what to expect, he was just trying not to choke and not really thinking about it, but now…
He block out the world around him, his focus narrowing down to this. No sound, not his friends’ voices, just the taste, the smell, the hand on the back of his neck and the flesh in his mouth. If he tries not to think about what he’s doing – but he can’t not think about what he’s doing, it’s never been his way. He’s kneeling here and sucking off a man who would gladly rape a child, and he’s doing it as well as he can manage. This man had a knife to Kugelmugel’s ear, and Seborga has to please him.
He bobs his head a little, tentatively. It seems to work. He sucks a bit harder, licks over a swollen vein that presses against his tongue. The man above him grunts softly, pleased.
A hand lands on his back, on the curve of his ribs just under his shoulder. It comes out of nowhere. Seborga jolts before he can help it, and swallows down cold fear with the taste of pre-come. There’s someone standing behind him, bending over him, and he didn’t even hear him approaching, but now he’s looming over Seborga and there’s no way out, no space around him, he’s crowded in between two men and both of them are touching him.
I can’t flinch. It wouldn’t do any good anyway.
But oh, he wants to. He wants to vanish into the floor. He wants to not be here.
He opens his mouth around the cock in it and sucks in a deep, quick breath before he goes back to sucking.
“’E’s got pretty skin.” The man behind him drags his hand roughly down Seborga’s back, to his hip. Seborga tries to keep his breathing steady, such as it is. He knew this was coming. “What’s his mouth like?”
The other one grunts. “He sucks like a virgin. Pick it up, boy!” Seborga winces, and lowers his head as far as he can, until the tip of the man’s cock is almost triggering his gag reflex. He doesn’t think he can take any more, not without throwing up – but if they think about going after one of the others, he’s going to have to try.
“His ass’ll be better, then.” Another hand suddenly lands on his side, making Seborga twitch as he tries to suck harder. “Probably never even had anything up here!”
Oh no oh no oh no…
This Gift I Offer (3c/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-30 12:43 pm (UTC)(link)But it will, of course it will. Closing his eyes doesn’t make the hands on him stop. They just – touch against him – and then one hand leaves and Seborga manages to breathe, getting another choking taste – and then that hand comes back and then it’s – and then there are fingers touching and then they’re inside him, they’re inside him, they’re, they’re in his body and, and they shouldn’t be, they’re huge and rough and Seborga thinks he can feel himself tearing as they move around. He tries to throw his head back, to take his mouth off the cock in front of him and beg “Please, wait,” but there’s a hand on the back of his neck and he can’t, and he can’t anyway, not without dooming his friends.
Deep breaths, Seborga.
Ohnoohnoohno - and the fingers pull out, and here it comes.
It hurts. Seborga can’t hold back a harsh cry of pain as it shoves into him, forcing him open, deep inside where it shouldn’t be. He has to take his hands away from the other man’s hips and brace them against the floor, leaning on them to keep himself up as the pain and the invasion steals the strength from his back. The concrete bites into his fingers and palms again, but he scarcely notices. The man behind him lets out a deep groan and starts moving, shoving his hips roughly against Seborga’s so that the open zipper scrapes his skin, and every thrust pushes Seborga forward.
It hurts. It hurts, and it’s worse than he expected. It’s strange and frightening to have something so deep inside him, especially when it’s somebody who wants to hurt him.
But he can do this. He has to do this.
It’s scary. It’s bad. But so are lots of other things, and he’s done those. He can handle this.
He starts sucking again, even though every movement of the man behind him makes him want to shriek in pain. He’s good at ignoring pain, when he has to. He can’t keep his lungs from trying to drag in pained gasps of air, but he manages to keep his mouth moving. He forces his tongue to press against the cock in his mouth. He forces himself to rock his head. He takes in as much as he can.
It’s the man behind him who comes first, though, and pulls away to leave Seborga exposed on the concrete floor, with cold air brushing over the trails of sticky blood down his thighs.
AN: Sorry that this update took such a long time. It was like pulling teeth. Also sorry for quality.
Re: This Gift I Offer (3c/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-01 05:00 am (UTC)(link)This Gift I Offer (4a/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:35 pm (UTC)(link)He hopes.
He sucks the man in front of him until a hand forces him forward and a bitter taste fills the back of his mouth, forcing him to swallow most of it, and leaving the taste all the way down his throat. The hand stays tight for a moment before it lets go, all but throwing him away. Like a piece of rubbish…
Seborga sits back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs, and takes in deep, slow breaths through his nose. He doesn’t have long to get this done, and he’s not even sure it will work, not on this kind of pain, but he has to try. He takes another deep breath, trying to ignore the smell of sex, and packs his fear gently down, under his rational mind: Yes, I’m scared, but I’m not going to think about it. He shoves the pain and embarrassment down with it, under a rickety floorboard that won’t last long, not with all the trampling it’s going to take – but it doesn’t have to last long. Just long enough to get him through this.
In, and out again. Squeezing down the fear and dragging his mind together into something that can handle this.
“What’s he like?”
“Tight –” There’s a round of noise, rough laughter and approving sounds, a smatter of applause, a few jeers. Soldier’s sounds.
“My turn now, then!” someone else calls over the din, and footsteps come towards him from his left.
Seborga opens his eyes, wrapped up in a fragile kind of strength, and later, later maybe he’s going to hate himself for this, but right now he looks up, with come trickling from the corner of his mouth, and tilts his head back, and slides his right hand up his thigh. He doesn’t get a good look at the man’s face – enough to etch it into his memory, but right now it’s not important -- but he doesn’t need to, he heard. This one doesn’t want his mouth. That’s…good? It might hurt more, but he won’t have to do as much –
He bows his head, and puts his hands on the floor, exposing himself, and he doesn’t shy away, even with every fibre of him screaming for it. He digs his fingernails into the floor and lets himself be pulled open by heavy hands and then impaled on flesh. It hurts even worse than the first time, but he’s ignoring the pain, just about. His hair hangs around his face, hiding the room from him, so it’s okay to let his eyes screw up, because nobody will see. The thrusts make his arms shake, make the tears that he can’t hold back drip from his nose and onto the floor. He holds himself as still as he can.
The man finishes. Seborga doesn’t move. He stays where he is, kneeling on the floor, and the one’s barely stepped away before another takes his place.
And starts talking.
This Gift I Offer (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:36 pm (UTC)(link)“Little whore, so eager for sex –” That voice purrs in his ear and Seborga tries to hide away from it but he can’t, he can’t. “Standing up and asking for it in front of all your little friends.” Seborga squirms his head sideways, ducking away, but the man just leans close down over his back until his warm, damp breath is gusting over Seborga’s ear and tickling his hair.
“They’re watching you, you know.” No, no, no. “All five of ‘em, watching you get mounted like a prison bitch. What do you think they’ll think about you? Knowing you asked our whole group to give you a ride?”
“Shut up,” Seborga whispers, and sinks his teeth into his lip. He can’t ask for it to stop. He can’t try to resist at all, but this is so much worse. The pain is just pain, it’s horrible, but the man’s whispers sink into his mind like poison, and all the stronger because it’s something he was trying not to think anyway. He gave them his body, he didn’t offer this…
But the man must have heard him, despite how quietly he spoke, because his voice gains an edge of horrible triumph. “They’ll think the same as everyone does. Dirty slut, handing himself over. Wanting it. Do you think they’ll want anything to do with you, after this? You’ll never see them again.”
“No –” He’s lying, he’s lying…
“Wait and see, little slut. Think you’re the only one who’s ever tried it? Nobody’s grateful for that.”
And then he stops talking as his movements get rougher and rougher, battering against Seborga’s bleeding body, but the pain is welcome compared to the things he was saying.
Think you’re the only one who’s ever tried it? They’ve taken prisoners before, then, lots of them – well, obvious, Seborga scolds himself, or why would they have the cage? And if they have – there’s a lot that a mother will do for her daughter. Seborga’s even heard of it before, once or twice – he never had to see it happening, but he can’t remember if he heard what happened after. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to remember.
But his mind is treacherous, and those little insects the man whispered into his ear scuttle through his mind and break open a crack that murmurs, they shunned her, remember? Nobody ever looked at her again without frowning. Something he’d forgotten, just one more detail in the horrors of war, come crawling back to haunt him.
The whisperer comes inside him, and leaves Seborga half-frozen on the floor, staring down with unseeing eyes at the cracks in his fingernails that slowly, slowly start to bleed.
*
A/N: Today, on the torture-Seborga-in-multiple-ways circuit...
Re: This Gift I Offer (4b/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 06:32 pm (UTC)(link)This Gift I Offer (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-07-06 05:43 pm (UTC)(link)The rest of them hurt him. They take him on his knees, they flip him over onto his back so the concrete scrapes his shoulders raw, and one of them even demands to be ridden – which yanks Seborga’s mind horribly back to reality for a moment, long enough for him to panic while the whispers chant gleefully inside his head, before he picks himself up and does what he has to do. He can’t count how many there are, they all blur one into the other in his daze, their hands and mouths and cocks an endless interchangeable horror. His mouth is filled with bitter come, his body is forced open wider and wider, and with every touch the numbness inside him grows – and the whispers.
You’re nothing. You’re a whore. You’re dirty, disgusting, trading your body away like this. Weak. Pathetic. Nobody will ever look at you kindly again. Your family will shun you. Your friends will never come near you again, not after they’ve seen what you’ll do.
But despite the whispers, Seborga keeps going, mechanically.
Yes, maybe his friends will hate him, after this (oh, he hopes not). But that doesn’t matter. Even if they hate him, Seborga still loves them. He’ll still do this, for them.
If he’s the one worth hating, then he’s the one worth having this happen to. If he’s bad, and dirty – then it’s better that this happens to him, that he does this, than that it happens to quiet little Kugelmugel, or exuberant Sealand, or Wy. He’ll get dirty, and even if they never talk to him again, they’ll be clean. They won’t have to live with the shame.
Seborga thinks, in his daze, that he can live with that.
He’s cracking apart. He can feel himself going, under the stupor, he can feel where the pain and the whispering and the fear are starting to break him open. Soon, maybe, he’ll tear, and then everything he is will rush out of him, leave him empty. That…he thinks, distantly, that might be worth it. He can do this, and save them, and then he’ll just shatter and fade away so that nobody will be bothered by him any more.
(The little part of him that remembers the days of war says: You’re going into shock. It just doesn’t say it loud enough to be heard over the whispers. Seborga might not be able to hear even if it did.)
It goes on for a long time. Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell how long it’s been. It could have been an eternity. Feels like it. Feels almost like there’s nothing else he’s ever done but be here and suffer. Just like he can’t tell how many people have touched him, he can’t tell how long it’s been, when the hands leave his body and aren’t replaced.
There are feet, and there’s shouting that he’s losing the ability to understand, and then one of them, maybe the leader, grabs his arm and picks him up by it. Seborga’s feet trail across the floor before he remembers that he can support himself with them – except he can’t, really. He gets one foot under him and gets dragged off it, and then the man throws him forward – and he’s falling, he’s falling…
And somebody catches him.
He’s falling towards hard concrete, but he falls into warm arms that slow him down. Slow him down and wrap around him and hold him, tightly, like a child clutching a favourite toy.
Boots thud past him, and he looks up in time to see the leader step past him and drag Kugelmugel out of Hutt River’s arms with brutal strength. Kugelmugel whimpers. Hutt River shouts. The leader grabs one of Kugelmugel’s long plaits, yanking his head to the side with a little cry of pain.
The knife comes down in a bright arc.
“No!” Seborga gasps. Despite the pain, he twists around and tries to throw himself forward, out of the arms that hold him, heedless of his heavy, clumsy body. They promised, he –
But Kugelmugel staggers back, eyes wide, and there isn’t any blood on him. The shorn strands of his hair flutter around his ear and chin. The leader grunts and turns back, holding a silver-white rope in his massive fist, the trailing end of the braid already starting to unravel. The arms around Seborga’s shoulders squeeze tighter, as the leader steps over Seborga’s legs.
None of them can move until the cage door clangs shut and the room beyond begins to empty.
“Seborga?” someone whispers.
Seborga doesn’t say anything. He can hear them walking out, heavy boots on the concrete floor. If he pushed himself up and turned, he could probably see, but he … doesn’t really have the strength any more.
He tries to roll over, but his palm just slips across the floor.
“Here,” Wy says softly from behind him. A moment later he feels her hands on his shoulder, guiding him over. It’s hard to move, but with her and Sealand’s help he manages to make it onto his back – well, it’s Sealand who gets him there mostly, because Seborga’s arms and shoulders are shaking too much to do much with. Sealand has to lift him up, tucking his arms under Seborga’s and supporting his weight. Sealand’s shaking too, Seborga can feel the tremble, but he moves with the military precision he must have learned in the war. Seborga folds into the hold automatically.
Sealand settles him down on the floor, carefully. It makes the scrapes on his back sting even so. Seborga can’t hold back a little hiss.
“It’s okay,” Wy says quietly, and tugs his head into her lap. Sealand lowers him the rest of the way, fumbling a little but gentle all the same, and crouches down next to him, biting his lip. He keeps his hands on Seborga’s chest, though, like he’s reassuring himself that Seborga’s real.
“We’ve got you,” Wy says. She touches his face, and hesitates a moment before brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
“We won’t let them hurt you again,” Sealand says. His voice cracks and he swallows, scrunching his eyes shut. Another tear joins the dirty tracks down his cheeks, but when he opens them again his blue eyes are fierce and resolute. “Never. I promise.”
Seborga’s voice hurts. But he reaches up with one shaking hand and clasps Wy’s wrist, and rests the other over Sealand’s hand on his chest.
Re: This Gift I Offer (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-07-08 03:29 pm (UTC)(link)Re: This Gift I Offer (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-07-13 06:22 am (UTC)(link)Absolute in love with this. I really hope there's more of this aftermath <3
Re: This Gift I Offer (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-07-17 07:44 am (UTC)(link)