(no subject)
Fandom; Inception
Title; Blindsided
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Ariadne, Others
Pairings; The slightest hint of Cobb/Robert
Rating; NC-17 (violent noncon, you have been warned.)
Word count; 5925
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for inception kink meme. Prompt - Can I please get some violent non-con with Robert as the victim? The situation and the attacker is up to you, as is whether or not he gets an comfort afterward.
Ideas are powerful: once the seed of an idea has rooted, it will grow faster than the most resilient weed. They will spread, they will flourish, and they will change things.
Cobb stared at the newspaper in his lap, the headline screaming back at him, 'FISCHER HEIR THROWS AWAY INHERITANCE.' Underneath, in smaller print, ran: "Fischer Jr.'s decision to dissolve his father's massive empire leaves experts worldwide confused." A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him, causing him to flip his head around and send the newspaper flying off his lap.
It was Ariadne, with a cup of coffee in her hand as a peace offering. "Cobb," she said softly, "you've been staring at that for an hour now."
"I know," was the only response she got as he took the coffee from her hand.
"Why?" she asked, cautious, not wanting to set Cobb off and have him storm away. The past few months since the Fischer case had been hard on him. It had been fine, at first: he had freed himself from Mal and been reunited with his children. But Cobb was like her - he couldn't stay away. The team was reunited, taking cases, and stronger than ever.
That was, of course, until the results of their inception had reached the media. Something about it had changed Cobb, and he became obsessed with the young heir.
"You should know why," he grunted at Ariadne. "You should know damn well why." Ariadne did know why. She wanted to hear it from Cobb, though, so she continued pressing.
"Just tell me, Cobb," she pleaded. "We all saw what happened last time when you tried to deal with your ghosts on your own. So let me know what's going on in your head. I'm part of your team - communicate."
"It's the inception," Cobb said, finally. "I don't -" he paused. "I don't want to have screwed up Fischer as much as I did Mal," he said, much, much quieter, his voice only just loud enough for Ariadne to hear. "I don't want to have ruined him."
"But robbing him of a massive inheritance is fine?" Ariadne asked, one eyebrow raised.
"That's just money, Ariadne. I'm talking about - I'm talking about completely destroying a person," he snapped. "I need... I need to know I didn't."
"Then go see," Ariadne suggested with a shrug. "Go make sure he's not broken."
"What are you suggesting?" Cobb asked, slightly incredulous.
"Exactly what it sounds like."
---
Robert Fischer stared at himself in the mirror, locking his gaze on his own eyes staring back at him. He breathed in, deeply, allowing his lungs to fill with air before letting out a long sigh - steady and controlled. His hands raised, almost instinctually, to fidget with his tie, to smooth his hair back, to pull on his cuffs. His whole body was on edge, every fiber in his being taut and ready to spring into action. Fischer squeezed his eyes shut, once again breathing in deeply before releasing the air, allowing his body to relax and relieving the tension in his frame as he breathed out.
You've got this, he told his reflection. You're calm. You're cool. You're collected. You're going to march in there, stare them in the face, and not give a shit about anything they have to say. They're not going to rattle you. You're calm. You're cool. You're collected. You're calm - his mind began to race again.
It was only natural that he was struggling to regain his nerves. After all, he was about to stroll into a private dining room full of his father's company's most powerful stockholders. Or, what were the most powerful stockholders. With Fischer's decision to dissolve his father's empire, these men stood to lose a whole hell of a lot - many of them, even more than Fischer himself. What could he do? Make small talk about the weather, compliment the food, enquire into the health of their families as he laughed at jokes he'd heard them tell countless times before - all the while praying they would somehow, miraculously, forget that Fischer was robbing them of millions, if not billions of dollars?
It was a nice thought, but it was a fantasy. Fischer was left with no more time to prepare for the reality, however, as a young man emerged from behind the large, absurdly baroque doors that separated him from the lion's den. "Mr. Fischer, sir," the man said in an even voice, "Mr. Villefort and his guests will see you now." Too distracted to form a reply, Fischer dismissed the man with a mere nod of his head as he composed himself one last time, held his chin high, and walked into the dining room as his fight or flight reflexes kicked into overdrive.
The scene he was presented with clashed hideously with the scene he was expecting in his mind. Instead of the pack of cold, hard eyes piercing into him, a table full of stern men sitting erect with hands folded and expressions as stern as an executioner's that he saw in his mind's eye, he was instead confronted with a chorus of easy laughter, the sounds of easy conversation flowing from the table amongst men who were relaxed and comfortable in each others' presence and clearly having a good time. Fischer's eyes were immediately drawn to Villefort, who sat across from the single remaining empty chair. His face held a slight flush - they were, in fact, having quite the good time, Fischer remarked to himself sardonically.
This scene was shattered the moment Villefort's eyes met his own. The spark they once held immediately left as his stare grew harder, seeming to mask a maliciousness that lay directly below the surface. Fischer felt a shiver run up his spine. "Mr. Fischer!" Villefort called out to him, gesticulating grandly in his direction. "So glad you came. The boys and I were beginning to get worried you wouldn't show!" Whatever small, private conversations that had continued to persist, murmured in quiet tones, immediately halted as all eyes came to rest on Fischer. Standing silently in the doorway, observing the group of men that seemed so distant and inclusive, Fischer felt suddenly like a child who had been caught eavesdropping. Villefort must have picked up on his discomfort, because he gestured towards the empty chair and instructed, "Sit down, boy! Please, please, we are all eager to see you - this is, I'm sure you know, our first time meeting again since your father's death."
Reluctantly easing into the chair - a lavishly opulent piece of furniture that perfectly suited Villefort's absurd tastes, with intricately hand-carved detailing and the softest cushions - Fischer mentally flinched. So, the tone of the night was clearly set: Villefort knew he was rubbing salt into a wound that had not even begun to heal. "Also, of course," Fischer replied cooly, "the first time we have met since I dissolved the empire you had invested so much money in. I am sure," he said, starting to feel more confident as he observed the other men quickly look away at the mention, "this is a topic of conversation you gentlemen are all particularly interested in?" All illusions of the warm and friendly scene that Fischer had entered completely dissolved away. Fischer could feel the men's resentment flaring, and felt bizarrely assured. This, at least, was expected.
"Nonsense!" Villefort cried, and Fischer was taken aback by the sudden outburst. "I'll have no talk of business at my table tonight." Fischer could only blink dumbly at his words. What was he there for, then? He watched Villefort suspiciously as he gestured to a server standing against the wall behind Fischer. "You, boy, pour our friend here something to drink." He turned his gaze towards Fischer, a look that Fischer assumed was meant to be friendly. It had all the makings of a welcoming expression, but it sat oddly on his face - like a mask sitting atop a face that was different than the one it was molded for. "Please, young Fischer, drink up," he encouraged. "You have quite a ways to catch up with the rest of us!" he joked, raising his own glass to his lips.
Fischer stared at the glass, now full with wine - probably, Fischer mused, an antique vintage specially imported from some small but prestigious European winery. He wondered if Villefort would be able to afford it after Fischer destroyed his investments. With this thought as a sort of perverse comfort, and with full acknowledgement of the other men's faces flushed from several of their own glasses, Fischer drank deeply. As he did so, he couldn't help but feel a sort of release of tension in the room - the men sitting on either side of him reclined in their chairs, and Villefort ceased his close examinations of Fischer's every move.
Turning away from Fischer, Villefort struck up a conversation with the man to his left - an old and powerful ally of Fischer's father. Alexander Schmidt, his mind provided. Following Villefort, the whole table was soon again consumed by idle chatter. Previous conversations were resumed, and Fischer relaxed in his seat, his exclusion not unnoticed. Content, however, to listen in on the other men's conversations, Fischer found himself soon struggling to keep up with the words being exchanged. His mind drifted, focusing instead of the feel of the seat, soft cushions cradling his body, with the back just high enough for him to lean his head back -
A yawn escaped from Fischer's mouth. He bolted upright, aghast, ushering a quick apology: "I'm so, so terribly sorry - I really don't know what has... gotten into me..." Fischer rested his head in his hands, words suddenly becoming far too difficult to form than they should be. "I... must not have been...." he struggled to explain, but his surroundings were beginning to become fuzzy. His mind a haze, Fischer never noticed the entire table staring intently at him, waiting, expectant.
"I don't..." Fischer tried again, but his eyelids had become impossibly heavy. He could close them - just for a moment - just to clear his head a bit -
Slipping neatly out of consciousness, Fischer's body slumped forward onto the table.
---
When Fischer's mind starting to recover itself, the first thing he noticed was that he was not sitting in the same chair at all. This one was hard all over, stiff angles that forced his body into an uncomfortable position, pinning his arms behind him. The second thing it registered was that it wasn't the chair holding his arms back, but something strong and thick and itchy - rope, perhaps? - wound around wrists bound behind him. The third thing he came to realize upon regaining consciousness was alarmingly even more disturbing than the previous two epiphanies.
He could feel a pressure in the side of his neck - a cool, sleek object pushing into the soft flesh. The side of a blade.
Fischer's eyes flew open instantly, his body suddenly alert and his mind racing, instinctually pulling against the restraints on his wrists. His struggles were futile - the rope merely chaffed against tender flesh, and the blade held against his neck was flipped. Fischer gasped, wincing, as the blade cut into his skin, the pain acute and sharply registered by his waking mind.
"Good morning, darling," a voice said, mocking. "I was starting to wonder if I slipped just a bit too much into your drink. Glad to see I didn't and you're back with us." Fischer reeled at his words. His drink. He struggled to remember what had happened before he was here. Slowly, the scene filtered back into his memory: a dining party. He had drunk wine, he felt drowsy - and Villefort and the other stockholders had been staring at him. He hadn't noticed that at the time, but his mind registered it now. Villefort. Fischer identified the voice of the man holding the blade.
"What... the hell... are you doing, Villefort," Fischer said, as slowly as possible, desperately attempting not to betray how erratically his heart was beating within his chest.
"Don't you recognize where you are?" Villefort asked, teasing. Fischer looked around him, taking in his surroundings for the first time. Villefort's body blocked most of his vision, but he instantly recognized the windows that lay behind drawn blinds. He knew instinctually the door that was only partially revealed to his line of sight. They were in his office. Fuck, Fischer thought to himself, they took me back to my own fucking office. Villefort had seen the recognition in Fischer's eyes, and continued, "You must be a little confused right now. I don't blame you." Fischer, however, didn't hear much of what Villefort was saying - instead, he was focusing on the other bodies surrounding him, faces darkened and indiscernible in the little light that managed to leak through the blinds. How many men were there at the table? he asked himself desperately. Six, he recounted. There was - Villefort, and Schmidt was to his left, and Bronson was to his right and -
He was ripped from his train of thought by a fist slamming across his face, causing his head to reel back and to explode with pain. "Pay attention, you little fucker!" Villefort screamed at him, the fist that had just accosted Fischer still shaking. "You will fucking listen to what I goddamn have to say, do you understand?" The blade was against his neck again, digging deeper into the wound Villefort had made before. Fischer noticed with rising panic the warm trickle of blood against his skin.
"I'm listening," he gasped, shaking, not caring what the words leaving his mouth were as long as they meant Villefort would remove the blade from his neck, "I'm listening, I'm hanging on to every fucking word that comes out of your mouth, alright?" His voice rose, becoming embarrassingly high-pitched. "Just stop. Just stop, just let me go -"
Villefort dug the knife in even deeper, and a strangled cry escaped from Fischer. "Shut the fuck up, Fischer, you hear me? Just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut - " here, he removed the blade from Fischer's neck and let it rest against Fischer's lips, lingering there before returning to Villefort's side - "and listen to what I have to say. You can do that, right?" Fischer nodded. "Good," Villefort whispered, in a tone that made Fischer's insides turn.
"Now - I know you're wondering why we brought you here. But, you see," Villefort paused, letting himself enjoy the panic painted across Fischer's face, "you really, really fucked us all over with this little plan of yours. Dissolving your father's empire was the single dumbest mistake you ever made in your entire life," Villefort seethed, hissing his last few words. "Because - all of us?" Villefort said, gesturing towards the others looming over Fischer, "we're men. Real men. Something, I appreciate, you know very little about. And the thing about real men is that we don't just take getting royally fucked over laying down." Fischer laughed to himself as he listened to Villefort, laughed at how fucked up all this was and how the hell did Villefort even think this was going to accomplish anything?
"So, what? You're going to beat the shit out of me? Kill me, even?" Fischer asked, unable to control his biting words even though his mind screamed at himself to shut up. "That's going to help you out so much, good plan. You are real men, aren't you?" Fischer's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"You little shit," Villefort snapped, punching Fischer square in the jaw with a force Fischer never even knew he had in him, "I thought I told you to shut the fuck up." With the pain in his jaw still fresh and throbbing, Fischer only nodded his consent.
Villefort breathed deeply, composing himself again, before continuing his explanation. "You're close. We could have had you killed. It would have been easy, pathetically easy. But - " Villefort smiled at Fischer, all even white teeth that gleamed in the dark - "we decided to be fair. Democratic, if you will. An eye for an eye, that's fair, don't you think?" Villefort mused, his voice sounding distant as he traced Fischer's abused jawline with his blade.
His meaning wasn't lost on Fischer. His stomach dropped.
"So. This is the office where you made the decision that fucked all of us over - so this is the office where we'll do the same exact thing to you." As he said this, someone from behind kicked the chair out from beneath Fischer, forcing him to fall on the hard, unforgiving floor on his knees. No, no, no... Fischer thought to himself, eyes wide, mind fully set in disbelief, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. But it was happening, and it was starting to happen fast.
Villefort was unbuttoning his pants, pulling out his cock and giving it a few strokes, allowing the blood to rush towards it. Fischer looked away, stared at the ground, examined the shoes of the men who stood beside him. Anything but look Villefort, anything but acknowledge what was going on. "Now, now, Robert, dear boy..." Villefort mocked, roughly ripping Fischer's face upwards, his exposed cock, already hard, inches away from Fischer's face. "You seem to like using that pretty mouth of yours, don't you? But you waste it too much - you use it to talk too much shit - " Fischer didn't hear him, really didn't hear a goddamn thing he was saying, because the only thing he could hear was the sound of his heart beating wildly in his chest, pounding against his ribcage and threatening to explode, and the sounds in his mind, an endless, screaming monotony of This is not happening, I am not here, this is not happening, oh god, oh god, don't let this happen.
"Let's put it to good use," Villefort hissed, before yanking his jaw open and thrusting himself inside Fischer's mouth. Instinctively, Fischer gagged around Villefort's cock, eyes watering with his sore jaw screaming bloody murder. "Fuck, yessssss," Villefort sighed, throwing his head back, "this is what little shits like you get, isn't it? This is what you deserve..." Villefort buried his hands in Fischer's hair, shoving him forward as he thrust his cock into his mouth. Fischer continued to gag, unable to take Villefort's motions, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to hold back tears that were streaming down his face.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
The other men in the room were silent at first, merely shuffling their feet and shifting positions. But as they noticed the tears streaming down Fischer's cheeks, they laughed, sometimes throwing in a cheer, a "Yeah, Villefort, fuck his mouth hard," or "Look at him, I bet he fucking likes it, that fucking fag."
Fischer couldn't last any longer, couldn't take any more of this - his cheeks were flushed deep red, humiliation staining his cheeks. These were men who had respected his father. They had looked up to him, obeyed every fucking word he spoke. But where was his son? Having Villefort's cock shoved down his throat while the others fucking cheered him on.
Oh god, oh god, just kill me, just stop my heart, fuck, fuck, just let me fucking die.
Villefort sensed he was near release, letting out a moan as he shoved Fischer's mouth further down his cock, groaning out, "You're going to swallow it, Robert, I'm going to cum in your mouth and you're going to fucking swallow it because you're our bitch now. You're nothing more," he said, with one last thrust, "than our fucking bitch." His semen was warm and thick, and Fischer nearly choked trying to swallow it, disgusted, but when Villefort removed himself from Fischer he clamped his jaw shut, watching him, waiting to see when he swallowed.
When Fischer went to speak, his voice was raw, his throat burning, "You happy now Villefort? You fucking happy now?" He was fuming, every single brain cell fantasizing reaching out and ripping Villefort's heart out of his body and stuffing it down his throat, but Villefort just laughed at him - a genuine laugh, loud and long.
"How sweet! You think we're done now?" he gasped out between laughs. "Robert, Robert, Robert... we've only just begun! What kind of friend would I be, after all," Villefort drawled, staring into Fischer's eyes, watching with amusement as his cum began to trickle down the side of Fischer's mouth, "if I didn't share?"
Fischer's heart, that had just before been beating fast enough to bruise his insides, seemed to stop dead. He's not fucking serious, he can't be, this cannot fucking happen... Fischer reeled. But by now, he knew that wasn't true.
Schmidt, who Villefort had been talking to at the dinner table, took Villefort's place, slowly pulling his pants down just enough to expose his cock, already hard. Fischer felt nauseous, trying not to think about Schmidt - trying not to think of this man who was old enough to be his father, shoving himself far inside Fischer's mouth - trying not to think of anything at all.
Each man took their turn, each one thrusting themselves farther down Fischer's throat than he could handle, with tears caked on his face and his nose congested and his mouth full with their disgusting cocks and he couldn't even fucking breathe. Like the fucking icing on the cake, even with all of this, with all of his dignity thrown away and pissed on, he couldn't even be allowed the most basic of human functions. Fischer gasped loudly as the last one released his mouth, panting for air like he thought he was never going to get to take another breath. To be fair, he was starting to wonder. This man - who Fischer didn't even fucking know because he was too gone, too gone to even care who the fuck it was at this point - chose not to come in his mouth, instead releasing himself on Fischer's face, his cum sticking as it slid down his face and neck.
When he was finally let go, Fischer simply let himself crumple into a ball on the floor, curling in on himself - a wrecked shell of a man. Villefort walked over next to him, cocking his head as he stared down at the pitiful form. "Done so soon, Fischer?" he inquired as he pulled his leg back, giving Fischer a swift and powerful kick in the gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Villefort turned towards the others. "Get him up," he ordered, and before Fischer had regained his breath, several pairs of strong hands were pulling upwards, propping him on his feet.
"I hope you're excited Robert," Villefort said, the thrill clear in his voice, "because now the real fun begins." Villefort was holding the knife again, but Fischer never even saw him pick it up again - fuck, he didn't think he ever even saw him put it down. Slowly, he drew the blade down Fischer's body, slicing through cloth and flesh indiscriminately. Fischer thrashed within the other men's grasp, bucking against them in an effort to distance himself, not even trying to stifle the scream in his throat.
As he watched his shirt and tie meet his jacket in a ruined mess on the floor, Fischer could only think, It took me a whole fucking half hour to pick those out. He had been so nervous for the dinner, he had tried on countless combinations of shirts and ties, knowing full well it didn't matter but finding the distraction helpful to his nerves. If only I had known, Fischer thought ruefully, I wouldn't have chosen such a nice shirt.
He was torn away from his private musings by Villefort. He had reached behind him, slicing away the restraints that had held his arms. "Take off your shoes and socks," he barked, pointing downwards as if Fischer wouldn't have known where they were if he hadn't. Fischer complied, the laces already loose so his shoes were easy to step off.
The air was cold and stung his exposed skin, and Fischer relished what little clothing he had left, knowing he was soon about to be stripped of that, too. Villefort's hands were already on his belt, slowly undoing the buckle and lazily sliding it free from Fischer's slim waist. Fischer held his breath as the hands moved towards his zipper, but Villefort removed them, apparently reconsidering his actions. "Strip your pants off yourself, Robert," he commanded, relishing in the flush of Fischer's cheeks as he gave the order. "You heard me," he said as Fischer remained still. "Take your pants off." Fischer removed his arms from the men who had been holding him upright, stumbling to the side as he had to keep his own balance. His cheeks flushed as he unzipped his pants, but he mentally chided himself. You've got cum dried onto your goddamn face. All you're doing now is taking your pants off. It doesn't get any worse.
He let his pants fall to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and continued to look down, staring at them. "Your underpants, now, Robert. Hurry up, we haven't got all day..." Villefort ordered. It doesn't get any worse, it doesn't get any worse, Fischer repeated, focusing on the mantra in his head, but even still, his arms felt heavy as he slowly took hold of the elastic waist band. "Robert, I'm becoming impatient," Villefort growled. "We don't want this any harder than it is, and trust me... it can become much, much harder."
In one swift motion, Fischer slid down his last remaining article of clothing - the last of his defenses against the prying eyes and roaming hands of his aggressors. Feeling incredibly small beneath their gaze, Fischer simply stood there, head low, arms limp by his side. He knew what was coming. There wasn't much he could do.
Without Villefort even saying a word, the hands that had been keeping him upright flipped him around, slamming him chest-first on top of his desk. His desk. The strong hands pinned him down, and as he felt Villefort place one hand on his ass and the other between his thighs, he began to fight against his oppressors. I can't let them do this, I can't let them do this, not on top of my own fucking desk. Jesus fucking christ, not on top of my own fucking desk. It was no use - even if he were completely alert, he was no match for the men that held him. Still weakened by the drugs, Fischer's attempts were pitiful at best.
"Just stay still, boy, and this doesn't have to be so bad," Villefort murmured into Fischer's ear, his chest heavy against Fischer's back. Just as Fischer was contemplating whether or not he could spit in Villefort's eyes from his current position, Villefort reached around and grabbed Fischer's cock, giving it several strokes, feeling it harden in his hand. "You fucking whore," he gasped with mock surprise, "you're liking this, aren't you?" Fischer did spit at him then, completely missing and still infuriated - infuriated at Villefort and infuriated at his own body. He turned his face downwards, pressing his face into the smooth surface of the desk, wishing he could fuse with it and disappear. I'm being fucking raped on top of my own fucking desk, and now I've got a goddamn hard on, Fischer fumed silently. If there is a god, he is forever cruel in my mind for not fucking stopping my heart this second.
Without warning or preparation, Villefort pressed his cock into Fischer's ass, burying himself completely into his body, pressing past protesting muscles. Fischer's eyes widened as he opened his mouth to gasp, but nothing came, as white-hot pain flashed behind his eyeballs. "Dear god- dear god - " he panted, the intrusion far too large than what his body was prepared for. Villefort pulled out, slowly, before slamming himself back within Fischer, hitting a spot somewhere within him that caused pleasure that made Fischer want to fucking die, because nothing about this was supposed to feel good, nothing about this was right, nothing, nothing - and it was quickly erased again by the searing pain. "No, no, Villefort," Fischer cried, "please, I get it, you made your point, just fucking stop," but his pleas did nothing but make Villefort's thrusts come faster and harder. Realizing the effect his begging was having, Fischer turned his face towards his desk again, focusing on keeping his protests in his mind.
He wasn't here. He wasn't here. When Villefort climaxed, shuddering while still deep within Fischer, Fischer wasn't actually there, he was gone, his body left unoccupied. He pictured himself with his father, only a young child playing with a pinwheel - he pictured himself with the girl he lost his virginity to, all curves in the right places with large, perky breasts - he pictured himself, curled up in the arms of a blond man with strong, soothing hands stroking his hair, telling him it was going to be ok, he was going to protect him -
The last memory jarred Fischer, unexpected and unexplained, bringing him crashing back down into his own body as another man thrust themself into his ass, still burning from Villefort's abuse. Where the fuck had that last one come from? Fischer allowed himself to open his eyes, for just a moment, but the sensory overload was too much - the men's hands pinning him down, the throbbing pain in his face and jaw, the stinging in his ass as the other man greedily shoved his cock further inside Fischer, the cheering and jeers from the men who watched - Fischer shut his eyes again, and let himself wander.
He let himself return to the arms of the man he didn't even know, and didn't even care how fucking weird of an escape fantasy it was, because it wasn't here. It wasn't here.
When all the men had finished, Villefort had the men drag him roughly up off the desk, shoving his arms behind his back once more before retying the rope around his wrists. They had all fallen silent and worked quickly and efficiently to throw him back onto the chair he had woken up in - but this time, tying his ankles and chest to the chair as well.
Fischer could only stare at them, eyes blank, as the men cleaned themselves up and filed one by one out of the office. Out of his office. They're going to leave me here, Fischer realized. They're just going to fucking leave me here like this for someone to find me. Because they hadn't humiliated him enough yet.
Villefort was the last man remaining in the office, staring at the pathetic site that was Fischer: face bruised and swollen, tears and cum mixing and dried to his cheeks, with some cum still crusted onto the edges of his mouth. His neck and chest were scored with shallow cuts from his blade, his arms were bruised from being pinned to the desk. Villefort smiled. "I'm sure Browning will be the one to find you tomorrow morning, so be sure to send him my regards," he said, matter-of-fact, before turning to leave Fischer alone with his thoughts.
Just as Villefort grasped the door handle, however, he turned around to give Fischer one last goodbye: "You know, Robert. You can still change your mind. Save yourself from... further situations like this." Fischer was sure Villefort was expecting a retort, but he just stared at the man. Empty.
The door slammed behind Villefort, and he heard the click of the lock engaging. Waiting for his footsteps to merge with the silence, Fischer stared into nothingness, tormented by his own thoughts, before finally bursting into tears.
---
As Cobb neared Fischer's office, his insides churned. This wasn't a good idea. The chances of Fischer even being at his office were slim - everyone else in the building had already returned home for the evening. Trudging onwards based on nothing besides a vague feeling in his gut, Cobb noticed something else.
It was quiet, barely loud enough for him to hear at all, but it was there. A constant sound in the background, small and weak. Feeling for his gun, every nerve in Cobb's body was on full alert. Something was off. Taking extra precaution as he stalked down the empty hallway, constantly scanning his surroundings, Cobb focused on the sound. It grew louder as he advanced down the hallway, nearing Fischer's office.
It wasn't until Cobb was nearly there when he finally realized what it was. It was the sound of someone crying. Rushing towards Fischer's office, and assuring himself that the source of the crying was within it, Cobb attempted to open the door. Locked. Dammit, he cursed to himself. He banged on the door instead, and the crying immediately halted. Cobb's stomach was nearly inside out at this point, and he didn't even know why he was so nervous, so anxious to get in there - but he was.
"Who's in there?" he shouted against the door. No response. "If anyone is in there," Cobb tried again, "just give me a sign." He waited, his foot tapping against the floor at nearly impossible speeds, before finally, he heard a faint knocking sound from within the room. "Can you open the door?" Cobb asked.
Silence. Then, ever so softly, "No."
"Cannot or will not?"
Again, a pause. "Cannot."
That single answer settling his mind, Cobb pulled out his gun, shooting the lock of the door and barreling in the room. He didn't know what he expected, but fuck - this was not fucking it.
Fischer was tied, naked, to a chair; his wrists bound behind him and his chest and ankles secured to the chair. His hair was thoroughly tousled, his face swollen with bruises and - oh, fuck - what Cobb realized as semen staining his cheeks.
Other marks littered his body, but Cobb barely had time to take an inventory of them before he was at Fischer's side, working quickly to release the knots that kept him in place. "Are you alright, Fischer?" he asked, but considering the situation, calling him Fischer just seemed wrong. Distant. "Robert, are you seriously hurt?" Cobb asked again. Fischer shook his head no. "Good," Cobb breathed, letting out a sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding.
As soon as all the restraints were off, Cobb collected Fischer into his arms, letting the man fall into in against him, desperately fighting back tears. "I - I didn't know - I didn't want any of this -" Fischer stammered into Cobb's shoulder.
"Shhh, Robert," Cobb whispered, hushing him. "I know, I know, I know. It's going to be alright now. You're going to be OK." Cobb felt awkward, doing his best to comfort Fischer, but he had no clue what to say. So he just held him, as Fischer continue to mutter, "they were angry, angry at me - because - because the company - " and Cobb knew what this had been about.
He had been worried about breaking Fischer's mind with the act of the inception itself. He had never even thought of what came after.
Ideas are powerful: once the seed of an idea has rooted, it will grow faster than the most resilient weed. They will spread, they will flourish, and they will change things. But once an idea leaves the mind, its path is unpredictable, its destiny unknown. It will affect others, and at times it will be changed itself - warped and twisted within the minds of the masses.
Title; Blindsided
Characters; Robert Fischer, Dom Cobb, Ariadne, Others
Pairings; The slightest hint of Cobb/Robert
Rating; NC-17 (violent noncon, you have been warned.)
Word count; 5925
Chapter; Completed, one-shot.
NOTES; Written for inception kink meme. Prompt - Can I please get some violent non-con with Robert as the victim? The situation and the attacker is up to you, as is whether or not he gets an comfort afterward.
Ideas are powerful: once the seed of an idea has rooted, it will grow faster than the most resilient weed. They will spread, they will flourish, and they will change things.
Cobb stared at the newspaper in his lap, the headline screaming back at him, 'FISCHER HEIR THROWS AWAY INHERITANCE.' Underneath, in smaller print, ran: "Fischer Jr.'s decision to dissolve his father's massive empire leaves experts worldwide confused." A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him, causing him to flip his head around and send the newspaper flying off his lap.
It was Ariadne, with a cup of coffee in her hand as a peace offering. "Cobb," she said softly, "you've been staring at that for an hour now."
"I know," was the only response she got as he took the coffee from her hand.
"Why?" she asked, cautious, not wanting to set Cobb off and have him storm away. The past few months since the Fischer case had been hard on him. It had been fine, at first: he had freed himself from Mal and been reunited with his children. But Cobb was like her - he couldn't stay away. The team was reunited, taking cases, and stronger than ever.
That was, of course, until the results of their inception had reached the media. Something about it had changed Cobb, and he became obsessed with the young heir.
"You should know why," he grunted at Ariadne. "You should know damn well why." Ariadne did know why. She wanted to hear it from Cobb, though, so she continued pressing.
"Just tell me, Cobb," she pleaded. "We all saw what happened last time when you tried to deal with your ghosts on your own. So let me know what's going on in your head. I'm part of your team - communicate."
"It's the inception," Cobb said, finally. "I don't -" he paused. "I don't want to have screwed up Fischer as much as I did Mal," he said, much, much quieter, his voice only just loud enough for Ariadne to hear. "I don't want to have ruined him."
"But robbing him of a massive inheritance is fine?" Ariadne asked, one eyebrow raised.
"That's just money, Ariadne. I'm talking about - I'm talking about completely destroying a person," he snapped. "I need... I need to know I didn't."
"Then go see," Ariadne suggested with a shrug. "Go make sure he's not broken."
"What are you suggesting?" Cobb asked, slightly incredulous.
"Exactly what it sounds like."
---
Robert Fischer stared at himself in the mirror, locking his gaze on his own eyes staring back at him. He breathed in, deeply, allowing his lungs to fill with air before letting out a long sigh - steady and controlled. His hands raised, almost instinctually, to fidget with his tie, to smooth his hair back, to pull on his cuffs. His whole body was on edge, every fiber in his being taut and ready to spring into action. Fischer squeezed his eyes shut, once again breathing in deeply before releasing the air, allowing his body to relax and relieving the tension in his frame as he breathed out.
You've got this, he told his reflection. You're calm. You're cool. You're collected. You're going to march in there, stare them in the face, and not give a shit about anything they have to say. They're not going to rattle you. You're calm. You're cool. You're collected. You're calm - his mind began to race again.
It was only natural that he was struggling to regain his nerves. After all, he was about to stroll into a private dining room full of his father's company's most powerful stockholders. Or, what were the most powerful stockholders. With Fischer's decision to dissolve his father's empire, these men stood to lose a whole hell of a lot - many of them, even more than Fischer himself. What could he do? Make small talk about the weather, compliment the food, enquire into the health of their families as he laughed at jokes he'd heard them tell countless times before - all the while praying they would somehow, miraculously, forget that Fischer was robbing them of millions, if not billions of dollars?
It was a nice thought, but it was a fantasy. Fischer was left with no more time to prepare for the reality, however, as a young man emerged from behind the large, absurdly baroque doors that separated him from the lion's den. "Mr. Fischer, sir," the man said in an even voice, "Mr. Villefort and his guests will see you now." Too distracted to form a reply, Fischer dismissed the man with a mere nod of his head as he composed himself one last time, held his chin high, and walked into the dining room as his fight or flight reflexes kicked into overdrive.
The scene he was presented with clashed hideously with the scene he was expecting in his mind. Instead of the pack of cold, hard eyes piercing into him, a table full of stern men sitting erect with hands folded and expressions as stern as an executioner's that he saw in his mind's eye, he was instead confronted with a chorus of easy laughter, the sounds of easy conversation flowing from the table amongst men who were relaxed and comfortable in each others' presence and clearly having a good time. Fischer's eyes were immediately drawn to Villefort, who sat across from the single remaining empty chair. His face held a slight flush - they were, in fact, having quite the good time, Fischer remarked to himself sardonically.
This scene was shattered the moment Villefort's eyes met his own. The spark they once held immediately left as his stare grew harder, seeming to mask a maliciousness that lay directly below the surface. Fischer felt a shiver run up his spine. "Mr. Fischer!" Villefort called out to him, gesticulating grandly in his direction. "So glad you came. The boys and I were beginning to get worried you wouldn't show!" Whatever small, private conversations that had continued to persist, murmured in quiet tones, immediately halted as all eyes came to rest on Fischer. Standing silently in the doorway, observing the group of men that seemed so distant and inclusive, Fischer felt suddenly like a child who had been caught eavesdropping. Villefort must have picked up on his discomfort, because he gestured towards the empty chair and instructed, "Sit down, boy! Please, please, we are all eager to see you - this is, I'm sure you know, our first time meeting again since your father's death."
Reluctantly easing into the chair - a lavishly opulent piece of furniture that perfectly suited Villefort's absurd tastes, with intricately hand-carved detailing and the softest cushions - Fischer mentally flinched. So, the tone of the night was clearly set: Villefort knew he was rubbing salt into a wound that had not even begun to heal. "Also, of course," Fischer replied cooly, "the first time we have met since I dissolved the empire you had invested so much money in. I am sure," he said, starting to feel more confident as he observed the other men quickly look away at the mention, "this is a topic of conversation you gentlemen are all particularly interested in?" All illusions of the warm and friendly scene that Fischer had entered completely dissolved away. Fischer could feel the men's resentment flaring, and felt bizarrely assured. This, at least, was expected.
"Nonsense!" Villefort cried, and Fischer was taken aback by the sudden outburst. "I'll have no talk of business at my table tonight." Fischer could only blink dumbly at his words. What was he there for, then? He watched Villefort suspiciously as he gestured to a server standing against the wall behind Fischer. "You, boy, pour our friend here something to drink." He turned his gaze towards Fischer, a look that Fischer assumed was meant to be friendly. It had all the makings of a welcoming expression, but it sat oddly on his face - like a mask sitting atop a face that was different than the one it was molded for. "Please, young Fischer, drink up," he encouraged. "You have quite a ways to catch up with the rest of us!" he joked, raising his own glass to his lips.
Fischer stared at the glass, now full with wine - probably, Fischer mused, an antique vintage specially imported from some small but prestigious European winery. He wondered if Villefort would be able to afford it after Fischer destroyed his investments. With this thought as a sort of perverse comfort, and with full acknowledgement of the other men's faces flushed from several of their own glasses, Fischer drank deeply. As he did so, he couldn't help but feel a sort of release of tension in the room - the men sitting on either side of him reclined in their chairs, and Villefort ceased his close examinations of Fischer's every move.
Turning away from Fischer, Villefort struck up a conversation with the man to his left - an old and powerful ally of Fischer's father. Alexander Schmidt, his mind provided. Following Villefort, the whole table was soon again consumed by idle chatter. Previous conversations were resumed, and Fischer relaxed in his seat, his exclusion not unnoticed. Content, however, to listen in on the other men's conversations, Fischer found himself soon struggling to keep up with the words being exchanged. His mind drifted, focusing instead of the feel of the seat, soft cushions cradling his body, with the back just high enough for him to lean his head back -
A yawn escaped from Fischer's mouth. He bolted upright, aghast, ushering a quick apology: "I'm so, so terribly sorry - I really don't know what has... gotten into me..." Fischer rested his head in his hands, words suddenly becoming far too difficult to form than they should be. "I... must not have been...." he struggled to explain, but his surroundings were beginning to become fuzzy. His mind a haze, Fischer never noticed the entire table staring intently at him, waiting, expectant.
"I don't..." Fischer tried again, but his eyelids had become impossibly heavy. He could close them - just for a moment - just to clear his head a bit -
Slipping neatly out of consciousness, Fischer's body slumped forward onto the table.
---
When Fischer's mind starting to recover itself, the first thing he noticed was that he was not sitting in the same chair at all. This one was hard all over, stiff angles that forced his body into an uncomfortable position, pinning his arms behind him. The second thing it registered was that it wasn't the chair holding his arms back, but something strong and thick and itchy - rope, perhaps? - wound around wrists bound behind him. The third thing he came to realize upon regaining consciousness was alarmingly even more disturbing than the previous two epiphanies.
He could feel a pressure in the side of his neck - a cool, sleek object pushing into the soft flesh. The side of a blade.
Fischer's eyes flew open instantly, his body suddenly alert and his mind racing, instinctually pulling against the restraints on his wrists. His struggles were futile - the rope merely chaffed against tender flesh, and the blade held against his neck was flipped. Fischer gasped, wincing, as the blade cut into his skin, the pain acute and sharply registered by his waking mind.
"Good morning, darling," a voice said, mocking. "I was starting to wonder if I slipped just a bit too much into your drink. Glad to see I didn't and you're back with us." Fischer reeled at his words. His drink. He struggled to remember what had happened before he was here. Slowly, the scene filtered back into his memory: a dining party. He had drunk wine, he felt drowsy - and Villefort and the other stockholders had been staring at him. He hadn't noticed that at the time, but his mind registered it now. Villefort. Fischer identified the voice of the man holding the blade.
"What... the hell... are you doing, Villefort," Fischer said, as slowly as possible, desperately attempting not to betray how erratically his heart was beating within his chest.
"Don't you recognize where you are?" Villefort asked, teasing. Fischer looked around him, taking in his surroundings for the first time. Villefort's body blocked most of his vision, but he instantly recognized the windows that lay behind drawn blinds. He knew instinctually the door that was only partially revealed to his line of sight. They were in his office. Fuck, Fischer thought to himself, they took me back to my own fucking office. Villefort had seen the recognition in Fischer's eyes, and continued, "You must be a little confused right now. I don't blame you." Fischer, however, didn't hear much of what Villefort was saying - instead, he was focusing on the other bodies surrounding him, faces darkened and indiscernible in the little light that managed to leak through the blinds. How many men were there at the table? he asked himself desperately. Six, he recounted. There was - Villefort, and Schmidt was to his left, and Bronson was to his right and -
He was ripped from his train of thought by a fist slamming across his face, causing his head to reel back and to explode with pain. "Pay attention, you little fucker!" Villefort screamed at him, the fist that had just accosted Fischer still shaking. "You will fucking listen to what I goddamn have to say, do you understand?" The blade was against his neck again, digging deeper into the wound Villefort had made before. Fischer noticed with rising panic the warm trickle of blood against his skin.
"I'm listening," he gasped, shaking, not caring what the words leaving his mouth were as long as they meant Villefort would remove the blade from his neck, "I'm listening, I'm hanging on to every fucking word that comes out of your mouth, alright?" His voice rose, becoming embarrassingly high-pitched. "Just stop. Just stop, just let me go -"
Villefort dug the knife in even deeper, and a strangled cry escaped from Fischer. "Shut the fuck up, Fischer, you hear me? Just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut - " here, he removed the blade from Fischer's neck and let it rest against Fischer's lips, lingering there before returning to Villefort's side - "and listen to what I have to say. You can do that, right?" Fischer nodded. "Good," Villefort whispered, in a tone that made Fischer's insides turn.
"Now - I know you're wondering why we brought you here. But, you see," Villefort paused, letting himself enjoy the panic painted across Fischer's face, "you really, really fucked us all over with this little plan of yours. Dissolving your father's empire was the single dumbest mistake you ever made in your entire life," Villefort seethed, hissing his last few words. "Because - all of us?" Villefort said, gesturing towards the others looming over Fischer, "we're men. Real men. Something, I appreciate, you know very little about. And the thing about real men is that we don't just take getting royally fucked over laying down." Fischer laughed to himself as he listened to Villefort, laughed at how fucked up all this was and how the hell did Villefort even think this was going to accomplish anything?
"So, what? You're going to beat the shit out of me? Kill me, even?" Fischer asked, unable to control his biting words even though his mind screamed at himself to shut up. "That's going to help you out so much, good plan. You are real men, aren't you?" Fischer's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"You little shit," Villefort snapped, punching Fischer square in the jaw with a force Fischer never even knew he had in him, "I thought I told you to shut the fuck up." With the pain in his jaw still fresh and throbbing, Fischer only nodded his consent.
Villefort breathed deeply, composing himself again, before continuing his explanation. "You're close. We could have had you killed. It would have been easy, pathetically easy. But - " Villefort smiled at Fischer, all even white teeth that gleamed in the dark - "we decided to be fair. Democratic, if you will. An eye for an eye, that's fair, don't you think?" Villefort mused, his voice sounding distant as he traced Fischer's abused jawline with his blade.
His meaning wasn't lost on Fischer. His stomach dropped.
"So. This is the office where you made the decision that fucked all of us over - so this is the office where we'll do the same exact thing to you." As he said this, someone from behind kicked the chair out from beneath Fischer, forcing him to fall on the hard, unforgiving floor on his knees. No, no, no... Fischer thought to himself, eyes wide, mind fully set in disbelief, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. But it was happening, and it was starting to happen fast.
Villefort was unbuttoning his pants, pulling out his cock and giving it a few strokes, allowing the blood to rush towards it. Fischer looked away, stared at the ground, examined the shoes of the men who stood beside him. Anything but look Villefort, anything but acknowledge what was going on. "Now, now, Robert, dear boy..." Villefort mocked, roughly ripping Fischer's face upwards, his exposed cock, already hard, inches away from Fischer's face. "You seem to like using that pretty mouth of yours, don't you? But you waste it too much - you use it to talk too much shit - " Fischer didn't hear him, really didn't hear a goddamn thing he was saying, because the only thing he could hear was the sound of his heart beating wildly in his chest, pounding against his ribcage and threatening to explode, and the sounds in his mind, an endless, screaming monotony of This is not happening, I am not here, this is not happening, oh god, oh god, don't let this happen.
"Let's put it to good use," Villefort hissed, before yanking his jaw open and thrusting himself inside Fischer's mouth. Instinctively, Fischer gagged around Villefort's cock, eyes watering with his sore jaw screaming bloody murder. "Fuck, yessssss," Villefort sighed, throwing his head back, "this is what little shits like you get, isn't it? This is what you deserve..." Villefort buried his hands in Fischer's hair, shoving him forward as he thrust his cock into his mouth. Fischer continued to gag, unable to take Villefort's motions, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to hold back tears that were streaming down his face.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
The other men in the room were silent at first, merely shuffling their feet and shifting positions. But as they noticed the tears streaming down Fischer's cheeks, they laughed, sometimes throwing in a cheer, a "Yeah, Villefort, fuck his mouth hard," or "Look at him, I bet he fucking likes it, that fucking fag."
Fischer couldn't last any longer, couldn't take any more of this - his cheeks were flushed deep red, humiliation staining his cheeks. These were men who had respected his father. They had looked up to him, obeyed every fucking word he spoke. But where was his son? Having Villefort's cock shoved down his throat while the others fucking cheered him on.
Oh god, oh god, just kill me, just stop my heart, fuck, fuck, just let me fucking die.
Villefort sensed he was near release, letting out a moan as he shoved Fischer's mouth further down his cock, groaning out, "You're going to swallow it, Robert, I'm going to cum in your mouth and you're going to fucking swallow it because you're our bitch now. You're nothing more," he said, with one last thrust, "than our fucking bitch." His semen was warm and thick, and Fischer nearly choked trying to swallow it, disgusted, but when Villefort removed himself from Fischer he clamped his jaw shut, watching him, waiting to see when he swallowed.
When Fischer went to speak, his voice was raw, his throat burning, "You happy now Villefort? You fucking happy now?" He was fuming, every single brain cell fantasizing reaching out and ripping Villefort's heart out of his body and stuffing it down his throat, but Villefort just laughed at him - a genuine laugh, loud and long.
"How sweet! You think we're done now?" he gasped out between laughs. "Robert, Robert, Robert... we've only just begun! What kind of friend would I be, after all," Villefort drawled, staring into Fischer's eyes, watching with amusement as his cum began to trickle down the side of Fischer's mouth, "if I didn't share?"
Fischer's heart, that had just before been beating fast enough to bruise his insides, seemed to stop dead. He's not fucking serious, he can't be, this cannot fucking happen... Fischer reeled. But by now, he knew that wasn't true.
Schmidt, who Villefort had been talking to at the dinner table, took Villefort's place, slowly pulling his pants down just enough to expose his cock, already hard. Fischer felt nauseous, trying not to think about Schmidt - trying not to think of this man who was old enough to be his father, shoving himself far inside Fischer's mouth - trying not to think of anything at all.
Each man took their turn, each one thrusting themselves farther down Fischer's throat than he could handle, with tears caked on his face and his nose congested and his mouth full with their disgusting cocks and he couldn't even fucking breathe. Like the fucking icing on the cake, even with all of this, with all of his dignity thrown away and pissed on, he couldn't even be allowed the most basic of human functions. Fischer gasped loudly as the last one released his mouth, panting for air like he thought he was never going to get to take another breath. To be fair, he was starting to wonder. This man - who Fischer didn't even fucking know because he was too gone, too gone to even care who the fuck it was at this point - chose not to come in his mouth, instead releasing himself on Fischer's face, his cum sticking as it slid down his face and neck.
When he was finally let go, Fischer simply let himself crumple into a ball on the floor, curling in on himself - a wrecked shell of a man. Villefort walked over next to him, cocking his head as he stared down at the pitiful form. "Done so soon, Fischer?" he inquired as he pulled his leg back, giving Fischer a swift and powerful kick in the gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Villefort turned towards the others. "Get him up," he ordered, and before Fischer had regained his breath, several pairs of strong hands were pulling upwards, propping him on his feet.
"I hope you're excited Robert," Villefort said, the thrill clear in his voice, "because now the real fun begins." Villefort was holding the knife again, but Fischer never even saw him pick it up again - fuck, he didn't think he ever even saw him put it down. Slowly, he drew the blade down Fischer's body, slicing through cloth and flesh indiscriminately. Fischer thrashed within the other men's grasp, bucking against them in an effort to distance himself, not even trying to stifle the scream in his throat.
As he watched his shirt and tie meet his jacket in a ruined mess on the floor, Fischer could only think, It took me a whole fucking half hour to pick those out. He had been so nervous for the dinner, he had tried on countless combinations of shirts and ties, knowing full well it didn't matter but finding the distraction helpful to his nerves. If only I had known, Fischer thought ruefully, I wouldn't have chosen such a nice shirt.
He was torn away from his private musings by Villefort. He had reached behind him, slicing away the restraints that had held his arms. "Take off your shoes and socks," he barked, pointing downwards as if Fischer wouldn't have known where they were if he hadn't. Fischer complied, the laces already loose so his shoes were easy to step off.
The air was cold and stung his exposed skin, and Fischer relished what little clothing he had left, knowing he was soon about to be stripped of that, too. Villefort's hands were already on his belt, slowly undoing the buckle and lazily sliding it free from Fischer's slim waist. Fischer held his breath as the hands moved towards his zipper, but Villefort removed them, apparently reconsidering his actions. "Strip your pants off yourself, Robert," he commanded, relishing in the flush of Fischer's cheeks as he gave the order. "You heard me," he said as Fischer remained still. "Take your pants off." Fischer removed his arms from the men who had been holding him upright, stumbling to the side as he had to keep his own balance. His cheeks flushed as he unzipped his pants, but he mentally chided himself. You've got cum dried onto your goddamn face. All you're doing now is taking your pants off. It doesn't get any worse.
He let his pants fall to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and continued to look down, staring at them. "Your underpants, now, Robert. Hurry up, we haven't got all day..." Villefort ordered. It doesn't get any worse, it doesn't get any worse, Fischer repeated, focusing on the mantra in his head, but even still, his arms felt heavy as he slowly took hold of the elastic waist band. "Robert, I'm becoming impatient," Villefort growled. "We don't want this any harder than it is, and trust me... it can become much, much harder."
In one swift motion, Fischer slid down his last remaining article of clothing - the last of his defenses against the prying eyes and roaming hands of his aggressors. Feeling incredibly small beneath their gaze, Fischer simply stood there, head low, arms limp by his side. He knew what was coming. There wasn't much he could do.
Without Villefort even saying a word, the hands that had been keeping him upright flipped him around, slamming him chest-first on top of his desk. His desk. The strong hands pinned him down, and as he felt Villefort place one hand on his ass and the other between his thighs, he began to fight against his oppressors. I can't let them do this, I can't let them do this, not on top of my own fucking desk. Jesus fucking christ, not on top of my own fucking desk. It was no use - even if he were completely alert, he was no match for the men that held him. Still weakened by the drugs, Fischer's attempts were pitiful at best.
"Just stay still, boy, and this doesn't have to be so bad," Villefort murmured into Fischer's ear, his chest heavy against Fischer's back. Just as Fischer was contemplating whether or not he could spit in Villefort's eyes from his current position, Villefort reached around and grabbed Fischer's cock, giving it several strokes, feeling it harden in his hand. "You fucking whore," he gasped with mock surprise, "you're liking this, aren't you?" Fischer did spit at him then, completely missing and still infuriated - infuriated at Villefort and infuriated at his own body. He turned his face downwards, pressing his face into the smooth surface of the desk, wishing he could fuse with it and disappear. I'm being fucking raped on top of my own fucking desk, and now I've got a goddamn hard on, Fischer fumed silently. If there is a god, he is forever cruel in my mind for not fucking stopping my heart this second.
Without warning or preparation, Villefort pressed his cock into Fischer's ass, burying himself completely into his body, pressing past protesting muscles. Fischer's eyes widened as he opened his mouth to gasp, but nothing came, as white-hot pain flashed behind his eyeballs. "Dear god- dear god - " he panted, the intrusion far too large than what his body was prepared for. Villefort pulled out, slowly, before slamming himself back within Fischer, hitting a spot somewhere within him that caused pleasure that made Fischer want to fucking die, because nothing about this was supposed to feel good, nothing about this was right, nothing, nothing - and it was quickly erased again by the searing pain. "No, no, Villefort," Fischer cried, "please, I get it, you made your point, just fucking stop," but his pleas did nothing but make Villefort's thrusts come faster and harder. Realizing the effect his begging was having, Fischer turned his face towards his desk again, focusing on keeping his protests in his mind.
He wasn't here. He wasn't here. When Villefort climaxed, shuddering while still deep within Fischer, Fischer wasn't actually there, he was gone, his body left unoccupied. He pictured himself with his father, only a young child playing with a pinwheel - he pictured himself with the girl he lost his virginity to, all curves in the right places with large, perky breasts - he pictured himself, curled up in the arms of a blond man with strong, soothing hands stroking his hair, telling him it was going to be ok, he was going to protect him -
The last memory jarred Fischer, unexpected and unexplained, bringing him crashing back down into his own body as another man thrust themself into his ass, still burning from Villefort's abuse. Where the fuck had that last one come from? Fischer allowed himself to open his eyes, for just a moment, but the sensory overload was too much - the men's hands pinning him down, the throbbing pain in his face and jaw, the stinging in his ass as the other man greedily shoved his cock further inside Fischer, the cheering and jeers from the men who watched - Fischer shut his eyes again, and let himself wander.
He let himself return to the arms of the man he didn't even know, and didn't even care how fucking weird of an escape fantasy it was, because it wasn't here. It wasn't here.
When all the men had finished, Villefort had the men drag him roughly up off the desk, shoving his arms behind his back once more before retying the rope around his wrists. They had all fallen silent and worked quickly and efficiently to throw him back onto the chair he had woken up in - but this time, tying his ankles and chest to the chair as well.
Fischer could only stare at them, eyes blank, as the men cleaned themselves up and filed one by one out of the office. Out of his office. They're going to leave me here, Fischer realized. They're just going to fucking leave me here like this for someone to find me. Because they hadn't humiliated him enough yet.
Villefort was the last man remaining in the office, staring at the pathetic site that was Fischer: face bruised and swollen, tears and cum mixing and dried to his cheeks, with some cum still crusted onto the edges of his mouth. His neck and chest were scored with shallow cuts from his blade, his arms were bruised from being pinned to the desk. Villefort smiled. "I'm sure Browning will be the one to find you tomorrow morning, so be sure to send him my regards," he said, matter-of-fact, before turning to leave Fischer alone with his thoughts.
Just as Villefort grasped the door handle, however, he turned around to give Fischer one last goodbye: "You know, Robert. You can still change your mind. Save yourself from... further situations like this." Fischer was sure Villefort was expecting a retort, but he just stared at the man. Empty.
The door slammed behind Villefort, and he heard the click of the lock engaging. Waiting for his footsteps to merge with the silence, Fischer stared into nothingness, tormented by his own thoughts, before finally bursting into tears.
---
As Cobb neared Fischer's office, his insides churned. This wasn't a good idea. The chances of Fischer even being at his office were slim - everyone else in the building had already returned home for the evening. Trudging onwards based on nothing besides a vague feeling in his gut, Cobb noticed something else.
It was quiet, barely loud enough for him to hear at all, but it was there. A constant sound in the background, small and weak. Feeling for his gun, every nerve in Cobb's body was on full alert. Something was off. Taking extra precaution as he stalked down the empty hallway, constantly scanning his surroundings, Cobb focused on the sound. It grew louder as he advanced down the hallway, nearing Fischer's office.
It wasn't until Cobb was nearly there when he finally realized what it was. It was the sound of someone crying. Rushing towards Fischer's office, and assuring himself that the source of the crying was within it, Cobb attempted to open the door. Locked. Dammit, he cursed to himself. He banged on the door instead, and the crying immediately halted. Cobb's stomach was nearly inside out at this point, and he didn't even know why he was so nervous, so anxious to get in there - but he was.
"Who's in there?" he shouted against the door. No response. "If anyone is in there," Cobb tried again, "just give me a sign." He waited, his foot tapping against the floor at nearly impossible speeds, before finally, he heard a faint knocking sound from within the room. "Can you open the door?" Cobb asked.
Silence. Then, ever so softly, "No."
"Cannot or will not?"
Again, a pause. "Cannot."
That single answer settling his mind, Cobb pulled out his gun, shooting the lock of the door and barreling in the room. He didn't know what he expected, but fuck - this was not fucking it.
Fischer was tied, naked, to a chair; his wrists bound behind him and his chest and ankles secured to the chair. His hair was thoroughly tousled, his face swollen with bruises and - oh, fuck - what Cobb realized as semen staining his cheeks.
Other marks littered his body, but Cobb barely had time to take an inventory of them before he was at Fischer's side, working quickly to release the knots that kept him in place. "Are you alright, Fischer?" he asked, but considering the situation, calling him Fischer just seemed wrong. Distant. "Robert, are you seriously hurt?" Cobb asked again. Fischer shook his head no. "Good," Cobb breathed, letting out a sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding.
As soon as all the restraints were off, Cobb collected Fischer into his arms, letting the man fall into in against him, desperately fighting back tears. "I - I didn't know - I didn't want any of this -" Fischer stammered into Cobb's shoulder.
"Shhh, Robert," Cobb whispered, hushing him. "I know, I know, I know. It's going to be alright now. You're going to be OK." Cobb felt awkward, doing his best to comfort Fischer, but he had no clue what to say. So he just held him, as Fischer continue to mutter, "they were angry, angry at me - because - because the company - " and Cobb knew what this had been about.
He had been worried about breaking Fischer's mind with the act of the inception itself. He had never even thought of what came after.
Ideas are powerful: once the seed of an idea has rooted, it will grow faster than the most resilient weed. They will spread, they will flourish, and they will change things. But once an idea leaves the mind, its path is unpredictable, its destiny unknown. It will affect others, and at times it will be changed itself - warped and twisted within the minds of the masses.