Azazel/Charles, Charles/Janos, Charles/Shaw, 4/6. NON-CON, abduction, violence, gang-bang
anonymous
November 8 2011, 04:30:54 UTC
"This is," Charles gasps, and he sounds reedy and choked and just as battered as he feels, but as long as he can speak he can resist, "against every -- nnh," as another set of hands curl around his hips and Shaw sits on the desk beside his shoulder -- "every civilized law -- ow --" as the man behind him nudges him, blunt and stinging -- "concerning prisoners, every decent practice, ow, god damn it, stop!"
The man behind Charles snickers as he tugs Charles's hips back despite his twisting struggles, and Shaw laughs outright. "What a grand speech," Shaw says, petting Charles between his shoulderblades. "You may proceed", is Charles's only warning to brace himself before the man behind him snaps his hips forward like a punch, slamming into him. At least Charles gets his teeth together before he screams.
But he does scream, echoing harsh and raw in his own ears. "Very nice," Shaw says; Charles gasps, aching anew around this fresh invasion, tastes brimstone on the sullied air and knows which one this is even before he hears Russian-accented laughter. As if to confirm his deduction something sleek curls loosely beneath him, round as a thin snake; he jerks up, which only makes him tense searingly around the prick inside him, only makes them both laugh again. "My dear little professor," Shaw lectures, as Azazel thrusts and Charles gasps, "What you fail to realize --" and the roar rising in Charles's ears can't drown out that smug hateful voice, "-- is that human society - " Azazel picks up the pace, hips smacking against Charles's pummeled arse, every stroke a hideous strain, but Shaw just raises his voice over the noise. " -- Humans have grown too weak and effete to remember the proper uses of the defeated." He pats Charles's nape. "Make him scream again, I liked that."
As the hands tighten on his hips and the tail coils tighter around his waist, Charles clenches his fingers together and swears to himself they will not.
Azazel shoves in even harder, harder than Shaw did, dragging Charles back into his thrusts, bruising ever deeper into him. It takes three strokes and then Azazel hits -- Charles knows exactly what Azazel hits, setting off an explosion inside him, sending fire crackling down all his nerves, tearing a ragged scream from his throat as he arches in sensate agony and his soaked blindfold drips on his aching cheeks. Sobbing, Charles collapses to the unyielding desk, trembling along the paths of his scalded nerves, shuddering as Azazel's growl reverberates between his ears and Shaw presses on his nape.
They all know what Azazel's found, grunting as he batters precisely at it and Charles chokes on the screams battered up his throat, the electric pain pulsing along his nerves again and again. Shaw chuckles and presses down between Charles's shoulders, restraining his writhing, compressing his lungs until he doesn't even have enough air to scream and lights flicker behind his tight-clamped eyelids. But still Charles can't pass out, he can't send his mind away, he can't do anything but be hideously present for every twinge, every ache, every crackle, every thrust.
Azazel's tail cinches even tighter around Charles's waist as he begins to tremble, his steady pace growing uneven and wild. Come on, Charles thinks, gasping under the battering, too far gone for shame. Come on, finish up, be done with me. His thoughts bounce around inside his skull, restrained by that infernal helmet, but as if he could reach out Azazel digs his fingers into Charles's hips, going still and shaking with his orgasm, and Charles thinks he can feel every spurt, unnaturally hot inside him.
Azazel comments in a winded voice, some sort of scornful praise, Shaw laughs and answers in Russian as well, and all Charles can do is suck air through his clenched teeth, his throat burning nearly as rawly as his arse, his temples throbbing with a headache from his useless crying. He clutches his own fingers until they tingle on the edge of numbness, struggling to control his breathing before he hyperventilates, to keep hold of himself. They've made him scream, they've made him cry, but he's still himself, and when Erik arrives, Charles swears to himself, he will be of use.
Azazel/Charles, Charles/Janos, Charles/Shaw, 5/6. NON-CON, abduction, violence, gang-bang
anonymous
November 8 2011, 04:33:27 UTC
Releasing his tail's constricting hold, Azazel withdraws on a sticky-sounding wet slurp. Thick fluid trickles down Charles's thighs, hot tears trickling from his eyes, and he grits his teeth till his jaw creaks. Without the Frost woman, Shaw reportedly has only these two henchmen; one more and this ordeal will be over, Charles reminds himself, but he still twitches when a long hand settles on his back, he still clenches painfully around nothing and gasps involuntarily.
"Go on," Shaw says warmly, and Charles heartily repents ever, ever debating Erik over the question of putting this madman down. "He's gotten a little messy, but there's plenty left for you."
Charles should say something defiant, should assert he's not broken, but his pounding head spins, pressed down to the desk, and the best he can do is to swallow the noise trying to push its way up his throat as the next man pushes into him, blunt and thick. Already bruised sore, Charles's body creaks around the invasion, and no matter how tightly he grits his teeth he can hear himself keening, high and wounded. Shaw snickers, patting Charles's nape, and his windworker sets an almost leisurely pace, his way slicked but no less painful for it. The man barely even breathes hard, otherwise utterly silent but for the wisps of cool wind curling over Charles's damp skin and the wet squelching thump again and again and again. Charles loses something then, some hold on linear time, as the world sinks under the oceanic crashing of his racing blood, the steady in-out-in-out and Shaw's implacable hand curled behind his neck.
When the windworker finally orgasms it almost feels like distant news. He lets go, Shaw lets go, and Charles's legs fold beneath him, he tips over onto the carpet and lies there for an unmeasurable time marked only by frenzied heartbeat and ragged breaths.
Eventually reality starts to filter back. Charles is chilled, hurt, and alone, or at least he hears nothing. He's still cuffed, his shoulders aching, still blindfolded and imprisoned in this helmet, still naked and befouled, and hot tears spring to the corners of his eyes. But he's also still conscious. Hoping the room's silence is true emptiness, he gets his knees beneath him. The desk must have a corner, and perhaps he can hook the helmet's rim on its edge and lever the damned thing off...
Knees digging into the springy carpet, shoulders creaking as he leans his weight on them, Charles painfully bumps and slides all the way to the side of the desk. Thinking every curse he knows, his heart quickening in hope rather than terror for the first time in what feels an eternity, he slides his cheek along jts edge until the helmet catches, pulls his knees up and prepares to shove himself back --
Hard hands grip his upper arms and hoist him up into the empty air. "Nicely done, my pretty professor," Shaw says, and Charles's heart jerks sideways like a flicked knife. "You should have seen yourself with that pert bottom up in the air, rubbing your cheek against my desk like a cat. Very inspiring."
Charles dangles from Shaw's hands, his toes barely beneath him. "Take this infernal contraption off me," he challenges in a scraped-out voice, "and I'll show you inspiration."
Shaw laughs, so close his breath brushes Charles's face like fingertips. "Oh, I like you." Another pair of arms winds around Charles from behind, another leg pushes between his as he's held too high to dig in his heels, as his gorge and his pulse both surge. "You're a fun one, my dear Charles." Who is suddenly pinned between two hard bodies, as the cloth around his arms is jerked away and the hand on his chest tweaks a nipple into aching.
Charles spits at Shaw's voice but doesn't hear any splatter. "I'm not your dear," he insists, trying to kick as Shaw's hands curl under his thighs, trying to fling himself side to side inside the cage of arms around him. "I'm not yours, you madman, you have no right --" Shaw leans in tight, shoving Charles's thighs up and apart, and as the arms tighten Charles feels a sliding nudge, feels it doubled, and his breath catches.
Azazel/Charles, Charles/Janos, Charles/Shaw, 6/6. NON-CON, abduction, violence, gang-bang
anonymous
November 8 2011, 04:34:45 UTC
"No, you can't --" Two hard presses, side by side against tender abused flesh, and Charles thrashes in the unbreakable double hold, his fingertips scrabbling across hot flat planes of muscle. "It won't work, it won't, no, stop, please--"
"Mmm, yes," Shaw murmurs, pressing his cheek to the helmet as he pushes up into Charles again, heavy and solid and edged with pain, as Charles arches, his head thrown back over a hard shoulder, a cry leaking from between his teeth. A long sleek cord winds around Charles's throat, Azazel's demonic tail, and Charles has a wild thought of flinging himself forwards, of strangling himself until all this horror fades away.
But Azazel pushes up to join Shaw, puffing against the other side of the helmet, and a sheet of fire blanks Charles's mind as his body stretches excruciatingly, impossibly, around the two cocks within him. They set a brutal alternating rhythm, bouncing Charles with their doubled thrusts, jostling his insides out of place, bludgeoning into him over and over. Charles's mind founders, swept away by the sensate flood; his cock fills tautly under Shaw's groping hand but what has been pleasurable before is just another agony now. Somewhere beyond the excruciating pound and wet slapping noise and the flame-edged haze over his mind, Charles knows he must be screaming by the burn in his coil-wound throat, hears distant deep voices full of lust and mockery, but he's too far gone to make sense of their words, of anything. The world is gone, sunk to heat and ache and the plunging doubled strain, and he shudders, crammed overfull of rending pain.
Shaw pumps his hips with vicious force, his sharp-voiced, "Magnificent," slicing through Charles's daze; Azazel's growl reverberates inside that helmet as he spurts again and Charles sobs breathlessly, hanging his head, throat and chest sagging into Azazel's hold. "Yes," Shaw hisses, mouthing Charles's shoulder, and bites him as he reaches his second orgasm and Charles crumples against his heaving chest. "Oh, yes, my dear Charles," Shaw murmurs into Charles's crawling skin as he tugs free; Azazel releases him too, tail slipping from his throat like a malevolent necktie, and Charles crashes to the floor in a shuddering heap, battered hollow and stickily besmeared. "Now wasn't that fun?" Charles hears above him, and can only press his face to the carpet, its weave prickling his sore cheeks and blotting the dripping blindfold as a bruised ache radiates through him from his battered arse and tingling cock.
Then in this nadir of aching mortification, Charles hears a distant, deep, promising boom, and lifts his head despite Shaw's laugh streaming ice down his spine. "That must be Erik!" Shaw says, and Charles hears cloth rustling again, zippers furling. "Now it's a party. Azazel, please go greet our guest of honor."
A/N: This story concludes with a fill for this prompt. Please take note of the prompt's content and warnings.
The man behind Charles snickers as he tugs Charles's hips back despite his twisting struggles, and Shaw laughs outright. "What a grand speech," Shaw says, petting Charles between his shoulderblades. "You may proceed", is Charles's only warning to brace himself before the man behind him snaps his hips forward like a punch, slamming into him. At least Charles gets his teeth together before he screams.
But he does scream, echoing harsh and raw in his own ears. "Very nice," Shaw says; Charles gasps, aching anew around this fresh invasion, tastes brimstone on the sullied air and knows which one this is even before he hears Russian-accented laughter. As if to confirm his deduction something sleek curls loosely beneath him, round as a thin snake; he jerks up, which only makes him tense searingly around the prick inside him, only makes them both laugh again. "My dear little professor," Shaw lectures, as Azazel thrusts and Charles gasps, "What you fail to realize --" and the roar rising in Charles's ears can't drown out that smug hateful voice, "-- is that human society - " Azazel picks up the pace, hips smacking against Charles's pummeled arse, every stroke a hideous strain, but Shaw just raises his voice over the noise. " -- Humans have grown too weak and effete to remember the proper uses of the defeated." He pats Charles's nape. "Make him scream again, I liked that."
As the hands tighten on his hips and the tail coils tighter around his waist, Charles clenches his fingers together and swears to himself they will not.
Azazel shoves in even harder, harder than Shaw did, dragging Charles back into his thrusts, bruising ever deeper into him. It takes three strokes and then Azazel hits -- Charles knows exactly what Azazel hits, setting off an explosion inside him, sending fire crackling down all his nerves, tearing a ragged scream from his throat as he arches in sensate agony and his soaked blindfold drips on his aching cheeks. Sobbing, Charles collapses to the unyielding desk, trembling along the paths of his scalded nerves, shuddering as Azazel's growl reverberates between his ears and Shaw presses on his nape.
They all know what Azazel's found, grunting as he batters precisely at it and Charles chokes on the screams battered up his throat, the electric pain pulsing along his nerves again and again. Shaw chuckles and presses down between Charles's shoulders, restraining his writhing, compressing his lungs until he doesn't even have enough air to scream and lights flicker behind his tight-clamped eyelids. But still Charles can't pass out, he can't send his mind away, he can't do anything but be hideously present for every twinge, every ache, every crackle, every thrust.
Azazel's tail cinches even tighter around Charles's waist as he begins to tremble, his steady pace growing uneven and wild. Come on, Charles thinks, gasping under the battering, too far gone for shame. Come on, finish up, be done with me. His thoughts bounce around inside his skull, restrained by that infernal helmet, but as if he could reach out Azazel digs his fingers into Charles's hips, going still and shaking with his orgasm, and Charles thinks he can feel every spurt, unnaturally hot inside him.
Azazel comments in a winded voice, some sort of scornful praise, Shaw laughs and answers in Russian as well, and all Charles can do is suck air through his clenched teeth, his throat burning nearly as rawly as his arse, his temples throbbing with a headache from his useless crying. He clutches his own fingers until they tingle on the edge of numbness, struggling to control his breathing before he hyperventilates, to keep hold of himself. They've made him scream, they've made him cry, but he's still himself, and when Erik arrives, Charles swears to himself, he will be of use.
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Releasing his tail's constricting hold, Azazel withdraws on a sticky-sounding wet slurp. Thick fluid trickles down Charles's thighs, hot tears trickling from his eyes, and he grits his teeth till his jaw creaks. Without the Frost woman, Shaw reportedly has only these two henchmen; one more and this ordeal will be over, Charles reminds himself, but he still twitches when a long hand settles on his back, he still clenches painfully around nothing and gasps involuntarily.
"Go on," Shaw says warmly, and Charles heartily repents ever, ever debating Erik over the question of putting this madman down. "He's gotten a little messy, but there's plenty left for you."
Charles should say something defiant, should assert he's not broken, but his pounding head spins, pressed down to the desk, and the best he can do is to swallow the noise trying to push its way up his throat as the next man pushes into him, blunt and thick. Already bruised sore, Charles's body creaks around the invasion, and no matter how tightly he grits his teeth he can hear himself keening, high and wounded. Shaw snickers, patting Charles's nape, and his windworker sets an almost leisurely pace, his way slicked but no less painful for it. The man barely even breathes hard, otherwise utterly silent but for the wisps of cool wind curling over Charles's damp skin and the wet squelching thump again and again and again. Charles loses something then, some hold on linear time, as the world sinks under the oceanic crashing of his racing blood, the steady in-out-in-out and Shaw's implacable hand curled behind his neck.
When the windworker finally orgasms it almost feels like distant news. He lets go, Shaw lets go, and Charles's legs fold beneath him, he tips over onto the carpet and lies there for an unmeasurable time marked only by frenzied heartbeat and ragged breaths.
Eventually reality starts to filter back. Charles is chilled, hurt, and alone, or at least he hears nothing. He's still cuffed, his shoulders aching, still blindfolded and imprisoned in this helmet, still naked and befouled, and hot tears spring to the corners of his eyes. But he's also still conscious. Hoping the room's silence is true emptiness, he gets his knees beneath him. The desk must have a corner, and perhaps he can hook the helmet's rim on its edge and lever the damned thing off...
Knees digging into the springy carpet, shoulders creaking as he leans his weight on them, Charles painfully bumps and slides all the way to the side of the desk. Thinking every curse he knows, his heart quickening in hope rather than terror for the first time in what feels an eternity, he slides his cheek along jts edge until the helmet catches, pulls his knees up and prepares to shove himself back --
Hard hands grip his upper arms and hoist him up into the empty air. "Nicely done, my pretty professor," Shaw says, and Charles's heart jerks sideways like a flicked knife. "You should have seen yourself with that pert bottom up in the air, rubbing your cheek against my desk like a cat. Very inspiring."
Charles dangles from Shaw's hands, his toes barely beneath him. "Take this infernal contraption off me," he challenges in a scraped-out voice, "and I'll show you inspiration."
Shaw laughs, so close his breath brushes Charles's face like fingertips. "Oh, I like you." Another pair of arms winds around Charles from behind, another leg pushes between his as he's held too high to dig in his heels, as his gorge and his pulse both surge. "You're a fun one, my dear Charles." Who is suddenly pinned between two hard bodies, as the cloth around his arms is jerked away and the hand on his chest tweaks a nipple into aching.
Charles spits at Shaw's voice but doesn't hear any splatter. "I'm not your dear," he insists, trying to kick as Shaw's hands curl under his thighs, trying to fling himself side to side inside the cage of arms around him. "I'm not yours, you madman, you have no right --" Shaw leans in tight, shoving Charles's thighs up and apart, and as the arms tighten Charles feels a sliding nudge, feels it doubled, and his breath catches.
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"Mmm, yes," Shaw murmurs, pressing his cheek to the helmet as he pushes up into Charles again, heavy and solid and edged with pain, as Charles arches, his head thrown back over a hard shoulder, a cry leaking from between his teeth. A long sleek cord winds around Charles's throat, Azazel's demonic tail, and Charles has a wild thought of flinging himself forwards, of strangling himself until all this horror fades away.
But Azazel pushes up to join Shaw, puffing against the other side of the helmet, and a sheet of fire blanks Charles's mind as his body stretches excruciatingly, impossibly, around the two cocks within him. They set a brutal alternating rhythm, bouncing Charles with their doubled thrusts, jostling his insides out of place, bludgeoning into him over and over. Charles's mind founders, swept away by the sensate flood; his cock fills tautly under Shaw's groping hand but what has been pleasurable before is just another agony now. Somewhere beyond the excruciating pound and wet slapping noise and the flame-edged haze over his mind, Charles knows he must be screaming by the burn in his coil-wound throat, hears distant deep voices full of lust and mockery, but he's too far gone to make sense of their words, of anything. The world is gone, sunk to heat and ache and the plunging doubled strain, and he shudders, crammed overfull of rending pain.
Shaw pumps his hips with vicious force, his sharp-voiced, "Magnificent," slicing through Charles's daze; Azazel's growl reverberates inside that helmet as he spurts again and Charles sobs breathlessly, hanging his head, throat and chest sagging into Azazel's hold. "Yes," Shaw hisses, mouthing Charles's shoulder, and bites him as he reaches his second orgasm and Charles crumples against his heaving chest. "Oh, yes, my dear Charles," Shaw murmurs into Charles's crawling skin as he tugs free; Azazel releases him too, tail slipping from his throat like a malevolent necktie, and Charles crashes to the floor in a shuddering heap, battered hollow and stickily besmeared. "Now wasn't that fun?" Charles hears above him, and can only press his face to the carpet, its weave prickling his sore cheeks and blotting the dripping blindfold as a bruised ache radiates through him from his battered arse and tingling cock.
Then in this nadir of aching mortification, Charles hears a distant, deep, promising boom, and lifts his head despite Shaw's laugh streaming ice down his spine. "That must be Erik!" Shaw says, and Charles hears cloth rustling again, zippers furling. "Now it's a party. Azazel, please go greet our guest of honor."
A/N: This story concludes with a fill for this prompt. Please take note of the prompt's content and warnings.
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any chance for a sequel :D:D?
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