New warnings for dissociation, PTSD flashbacks, temporary memory loss, some trauma-induced regression
A knee in the center of his back, atop sluggishly bleeding wounds.
No. No no no.
Everything speeds up. Slows down. Hurts. It hurts. Dawnfather, he knows what is about to happen and it hurts. Anticipating makes it hurt more. He remembers that much. He has to relax. He needs to relax.
“Funny man,” says the interrogator.
Caleb wants to say I’d like to think so, or perhaps Well, Zemnian humor is very dry, you know. But he can hear the sound of flesh against flesh and knows what is coming. His voice freezes up in a way it hasn’t before now and he feels shame, a vile, deep shame, at how he still has difficulty enduring this. Even after all his training so long ago, even after Vergesson, even after crossbow bolts in his stomach and demons playing in his brain, this is still the one thing he is incapable of handling with amusement or indifference.
Well —
burning flesh not his own, shadows against the curtains, banging at the door, smoke in the chimney like it’s normal, the cart’s blocking the door, they can’t get out they can’t get out they
— one of two things.
Caleb feels the warm wetness of spit against his ass and tries to relax. But it is so difficult, it is so difficult when his body is already both loose with exhaustion and tense with pain. So difficult when he has no energy to fight but no calm to allow himself to relax. He wants to imagine better times, wants to imagine other encounters, imagine men and women from the road or Eadwulf or even one of his friends, but he can’t, he can’t…
You must endure, Bren. Yes. He must endure it. He must not be so weak. This time you can fight it. And This time pretend you like it. And This time you can cry. And This time you must orgasm. And This…
But this time all he can do is whimper when he feels the drow’s finger push into him and hold him open. Twitch when it’s replaced by a cock. Have the wind knocked out of him and sob when the bastard shoves in with a foreign curse. He can’t even scream.
“Were you trained for this as well, then?” The interrogator is still circling.
Caleb is trying to breathe. He can’t… can’t breathe…
“I asked you a question, dog. Were you trained to take cock during your interrogations? You’re not very good at it.”
He almost coughs but can’t, can’t muster the breath needed to do so, can feel more wetness on his thighs, probably blood, gods he can’t breathe…
“Not even a decent fuck, eh Vadin?”
The bastard pumping into him, pounding, splitting him in half and making him bleed, has the nerve to laugh. Caleb shouldn’t be angry. He shouldn’t be crying. He knows this. But he’s crying anyway and he can’t make himself stop.
“Ah, at least he’s warm,” says the guard pulling out all the way for a moment before thrusting back in. This time he does manage to scream.
“Still hasn’t answered my question, though.” The interrogator completes the circle and approaches Caleb where he is lying, pressed to the floor, being raped. (He hates using that word. Hates thinking it. Hates it. Makes him feel weak and passive. He is not ‘being’ anything, he is enduring. That is what he is. He is enduring. He is a soldier of the Empire and he will serve his intended purpose. He is a soldier.)
The interrogator squats in front of him, smiling as one would at a child.
“I asked, dog,” the drow repeats, pulling Bren’s head up by his hair. “Were you taught to take cock while you were being trained to murder peasants and slaughter babies? How do you heathens fuck in the Empire? In a pool of innocent blood, perhaps? Were you trained to serve your betters on your back?”
In between his choked off gasps Bren finds himself shivering and drifting, back in that half-there state he used to get to during sessions. Floating, dazed, outside of his body but still tethered to it. Bren manages to speak through gritted teeth:
“W-why not tr… t-try my mouth and f-find out, crick.”
He wishes the insult came out with more bite, but he’s not exactly there right now. The man just laughs.
“Delightful. I wonder, was it your scourger friends who fucked you? Your handlers? Did your King pay you a visit to clean his cock? Or did they loan you out for favors and information? No wonder they brought you in so easily! My men captured an Empire whore instead of a proper scourger! Tell me, did you mean to steal state secrets from beastmen in the pubs of Asarius while you were on your knees for them, or was that just for fun?”
The guard is pressing down on his shoulders and he can feel the excruciating sting of still open wounds, the ache of bruises, all paired with the feeling of being torn open…
(Bren feels Eadwulf on top of him, guilty and reluctant but determined. He feels another student, enchanted, empty eyed, likely one of Master Ikithon’s next pupils, and he wonders if Trent had him do this last year when they visited for their interviews. He feels a rich man from Port Zoon he is told to seduce for information. He feels a noblewoman who he thought would be gentle, but she…)
No. He will endure. He is a soldier.
“Is that what you were for that crew of yours? Your little band? Did they take you all together or did you just belong to one of them, ah? Lift him, Vadin.”
Crew? Band?
Bren can hardly process what is being said before his head is pulled farther up, his back arching, his body protesting every movement. He’s lifted by his hips and hair and placed on his knees, held fast to the man still thrusting into him from behind. His dislocated arms still hang limply at his sides,
He’s crying. His vision is fuzzy. He’s so confused. He will endure. He is a soldier of the Empire.
“I wonder, was it the half-breed that took you first?”
Half-breed?
He feels a hand around his dick. He can barely move but somehow his weak attempts to squirm away push him further back towards the man destroying him from the inside. The guard behind him laughs. The interrogator moves his hand slowly, fondling Bren’s flaccid length, watching Bren’s face. He tries and fails to maintain an expression of disgust rather than despair.
How disappointing, Bren.
The guard behind him lifts him up bodily and drops him, and this time, Bren screams as something is slammed inside of him, causing his whole body to jerk and his cock to twitch in the interrogator's hand. He feels it sharp as pain, hot as pleasure, and it makes him want to die. No, no no no don’t feel that, don't feel that, don’t feel good, that’s how they do it, that’s how they—
“Hah!” The hand around his cock tightens and the guard’s next two thrusts hit that spot inside him again, pushing a desperate whine out of his throat. Caleb focuses on the pain even as the hand slaps his hardening cock from beneath, making his hips twitch with need. “So it was the half-orc! Were you spying on him, then, or did your Assembly give you to him as a pet? Did you warm his cock at night? Did he bring you around Asarius on a leash?”
Half-orc…
“Did he share you with others? The tiefling perhaps, or the angel-blooded—”
Bren doesn’t know who…
No…
They…
He…
Bren remembers his name and Caleb screams.
He can feel blood in his throat as he strains his dried vocal chords, can feel blood everywhere all over him, wants more than ever just to die, to die while he still knows who he is, while he still remembers his friends, he can’t lose them, he won’t lose them, he can’t, not Beau, Fjord, Jester, Nott…
A noise from the door, a bright light, it’s blinding, he can’t see, the men around him move suddenly, as though panicked, one of them grabbing his shoulder and pushing and it’s like a white hot lance of pain his arms his back he can’t he can’t—
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 5/?
Date: 2021-07-15 10:38 am (UTC)A knee in the center of his back, atop sluggishly bleeding wounds.
No. No no no.
Everything speeds up. Slows down. Hurts. It hurts. Dawnfather, he knows what is about to happen and it hurts. Anticipating makes it hurt more. He remembers that much. He has to relax. He needs to relax.
“Funny man,” says the interrogator.
Caleb wants to say I’d like to think so, or perhaps Well, Zemnian humor is very dry, you know. But he can hear the sound of flesh against flesh and knows what is coming. His voice freezes up in a way it hasn’t before now and he feels shame, a vile, deep shame, at how he still has difficulty enduring this. Even after all his training so long ago, even after Vergesson, even after crossbow bolts in his stomach and demons playing in his brain, this is still the one thing he is incapable of handling with amusement or indifference.
Well —
burning flesh not his own, shadows against the curtains, banging at the door, smoke in the chimney like it’s normal, the cart’s blocking the door, they can’t get out they can’t get out they
— one of two things.
Caleb feels the warm wetness of spit against his ass and tries to relax. But it is so difficult, it is so difficult when his body is already both loose with exhaustion and tense with pain. So difficult when he has no energy to fight but no calm to allow himself to relax. He wants to imagine better times, wants to imagine other encounters, imagine men and women from the road or Eadwulf or even one of his friends, but he can’t, he can’t…
You must endure, Bren. Yes. He must endure it. He must not be so weak. This time you can fight it. And This time pretend you like it. And This time you can cry. And This time you must orgasm. And This…
But this time all he can do is whimper when he feels the drow’s finger push into him and hold him open. Twitch when it’s replaced by a cock. Have the wind knocked out of him and sob when the bastard shoves in with a foreign curse. He can’t even scream.
“Were you trained for this as well, then?” The interrogator is still circling.
Caleb is trying to breathe. He can’t… can’t breathe…
“I asked you a question, dog. Were you trained to take cock during your interrogations? You’re not very good at it.”
He almost coughs but can’t, can’t muster the breath needed to do so, can feel more wetness on his thighs, probably blood, gods he can’t breathe…
“Not even a decent fuck, eh Vadin?”
The bastard pumping into him, pounding, splitting him in half and making him bleed, has the nerve to laugh. Caleb shouldn’t be angry. He shouldn’t be crying. He knows this. But he’s crying anyway and he can’t make himself stop.
“Ah, at least he’s warm,” says the guard pulling out all the way for a moment before thrusting back in. This time he does manage to scream.
“Still hasn’t answered my question, though.” The interrogator completes the circle and approaches Caleb where he is lying, pressed to the floor, being raped. (He hates using that word. Hates thinking it. Hates it. Makes him feel weak and passive. He is not ‘being’ anything, he is enduring. That is what he is. He is enduring. He is a soldier of the Empire and he will serve his intended purpose. He is a soldier.)
The interrogator squats in front of him, smiling as one would at a child.
“I asked, dog,” the drow repeats, pulling Bren’s head up by his hair. “Were you taught to take cock while you were being trained to murder peasants and slaughter babies? How do you heathens fuck in the Empire? In a pool of innocent blood, perhaps? Were you trained to serve your betters on your back?”
In between his choked off gasps Bren finds himself shivering and drifting, back in that half-there state he used to get to during sessions. Floating, dazed, outside of his body but still tethered to it. Bren manages to speak through gritted teeth:
“W-why not tr… t-try my mouth and f-find out, crick.”
He wishes the insult came out with more bite, but he’s not exactly there right now. The man just laughs.
“Delightful. I wonder, was it your scourger friends who fucked you? Your handlers? Did your King pay you a visit to clean his cock? Or did they loan you out for favors and information? No wonder they brought you in so easily! My men captured an Empire whore instead of a proper scourger! Tell me, did you mean to steal state secrets from beastmen in the pubs of Asarius while you were on your knees for them, or was that just for fun?”
The guard is pressing down on his shoulders and he can feel the excruciating sting of still open wounds, the ache of bruises, all paired with the feeling of being torn open…
(Bren feels Eadwulf on top of him, guilty and reluctant but determined. He feels another student, enchanted, empty eyed, likely one of Master Ikithon’s next pupils, and he wonders if Trent had him do this last year when they visited for their interviews. He feels a rich man from Port Zoon he is told to seduce for information. He feels a noblewoman who he thought would be gentle, but she…)
No. He will endure. He is a soldier.
“Is that what you were for that crew of yours? Your little band? Did they take you all together or did you just belong to one of them, ah? Lift him, Vadin.”
Crew? Band?
Bren can hardly process what is being said before his head is pulled farther up, his back arching, his body protesting every movement. He’s lifted by his hips and hair and placed on his knees, held fast to the man still thrusting into him from behind. His dislocated arms still hang limply at his sides,
He’s crying. His vision is fuzzy. He’s so confused. He will endure. He is a soldier of the Empire.
“I wonder, was it the half-breed that took you first?”
Half-breed?
He feels a hand around his dick. He can barely move but somehow his weak attempts to squirm away push him further back towards the man destroying him from the inside. The guard behind him laughs. The interrogator moves his hand slowly, fondling Bren’s flaccid length, watching Bren’s face. He tries and fails to maintain an expression of disgust rather than despair.
How disappointing, Bren.
The guard behind him lifts him up bodily and drops him, and this time, Bren screams as something is slammed inside of him, causing his whole body to jerk and his cock to twitch in the interrogator's hand. He feels it sharp as pain, hot as pleasure, and it makes him want to die. No, no no no don’t feel that, don't feel that, don’t feel good, that’s how they do it, that’s how they—
“Hah!” The hand around his cock tightens and the guard’s next two thrusts hit that spot inside him again, pushing a desperate whine out of his throat. Caleb focuses on the pain even as the hand slaps his hardening cock from beneath, making his hips twitch with need. “So it was the half-orc! Were you spying on him, then, or did your Assembly give you to him as a pet? Did you warm his cock at night? Did he bring you around Asarius on a leash?”
Half-orc…
“Did he share you with others? The tiefling perhaps, or the angel-blooded—”
Bren doesn’t know who…
No…
They…
He…
Bren remembers his name and Caleb screams.
He can feel blood in his throat as he strains his dried vocal chords, can feel blood everywhere all over him, wants more than ever just to die, to die while he still knows who he is, while he still remembers his friends, he can’t lose them, he won’t lose them, he can’t, not Beau, Fjord, Jester, Nott…
A noise from the door, a bright light, it’s blinding, he can’t see, the men around him move suddenly, as though panicked, one of them grabbing his shoulder and pushing and it’s like a white hot lance of pain his arms his back he can’t he can’t—
Caleb passes out.