The Webcam
Oct. 29th, 2010 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Face/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I can't stop wanting this, for some reason, aaargh. I would give my firstborn to whoever can write me a whomp! and non-con from Face's POV as it's happening to him. And bonus if he's holding back from screaming and crying because they have a video camera on him while it's happening and he just knows Hannibal's watching, but after a certain point, he can't take it and just breaks. And Hannibal can come rescue him. <3
Face gets bent over a table in front of a webcam in a warehouse. Bad things happen.
(Face’s POV)
The light on the webcam is blinking. Green. Off. Green. Off. It’s letting me know it’s on. Letting me know it’s being used.
Is Hannibal watching?
The world’s narrowed down to that point of light, the smell of stale sweat around me, the dim garage that’s probably the perfect time and place for something like this. Like in a snuff film. But that’s not exactly a helpful thought, and I try to push myself back up. Don’t want to zone out. Don’t want to not know what’s going on.
Don’t want to be here.
They’re grinding the side of my face into the cold metal workbench. There’s an ache spreading down my ribs, and a sharp pain above my kidneys - I’ll be pissing blood for a week from that - and something hard pressing down against my neck. One of them’s got a gun.
The worst part about this is that damn webcam. I’ve got a knot in the pit of my stomach, that sick green feeling, and I doubt, seriously doubt, that they’re going to just string me up and go to work. I know, because that would be easier.
“So, you and your team think you can fuck us over?” one of them says, spit getting in my ear. “You think it’s so easy?”
I stay quiet. No point in giving this asshole any more satisfaction that what he’s already getting, and he’s not talking to me, anyway.
"Hurt him and you're all de..." comes Hannibal's voice, and then somebody unplugs the speakers.
The thug's holding me down now, face-down, legs useless. All that weight, and what I really feel in the bulge at his crotch and I shut my eyes, so I don’t see the computer they’re got set up. The screen’s blacked out, but Hannibal’s listening. Hannibal can see this.
“This is what we think of your coup attempt, Mr. Smith!”
“Coup? Some inner-city gang in Chicago? It’s real cute,” I tell them, loud enough so the boss can hear me. There are protests from the little assembly. How many? Six, seven? “Hannibal’s going to...”
“He won’t get here in time,” one taunts.
“And you’ll be dead,” the one on top of me hisses, and I hear a switchblade snick open. There’s no messing around with that. I get an arm loose. Swing out, connect with a nose, I’m free.
I know what I’m doing. These guys don’t, but there’s more of them, and at least three of them have guns. It’s not an even match, my balance is a little screwed up, but I still manage to break a couple bones before one of them gets wise and hits me with something.
Ribs snap. I collapse on the concrete, in the middle of the gang. Everybody’s swearing. I’m bleeding from some cut below my left eye. It stings. I can taste it. Twists in my stomach.
I’m hauled up to my knees, elbows forced behind my back, around that pipe they hit me with, and there’s that switchblade. At my throat. Coming down. It cuts down the front of my shirt. He tears the rest of the material away, and this is really where I’d normally make some kind of smart-ass remark, but I suddenly don’t trust myself. Hannibal’s watching. Oh god, Hannibal’s going to see this...
His cock’s in my face and his gun’s at my forehead. Yeah, about what I thought.
“Don’t you dare bite down,” he rasps, and pushes a thumb into that spot in my jaw, and then he’s in my mouth.
It’s not like I’ve never sucked cock before, but this isn’t a blowjob. This isn’t something freely given. This is him fucking my mouth, ramming himself mercilessly against the palate, against the back of the throat. Involuntary tears spring to my eyes at the sensation. My body wants to fight this, wants to scream. I try to choke the little reactions back, let them know that this is some goddamn Ranger they’re raping, not some college student from Northwestern.
Have to let Hannibal know that I’m okay.
I stare at the guy until he cocks the weapon.
His thrusts get a little more uneven, and then he pulls out. I close my eyes just in time, as ropes of sour cum hit me in the face. The minions holding me back let me go, and I barely catch myself before I hit the ground.
Please let Hannibal be on his way. He’s got the IP address, he’s got the location, he’s on his way, he’s not watching this.
“Get this army motherfucker back up,” the boss says coldly, not bothering to tuck his still half-hard dick back in his pants. He runs a rough hand down my cheek. I don’t move. “Anybody else want a turn?”
So it happens again. And again. Maybe three or four times. I’m not really counting. Everything hurts, my face itches and the bar feels like it’s burning my skin. My mouth goes raw, and then blissfully numb, my gums tingling. I struggle to keep my breath even, to not let it escape in pained gasps, like it wants to. If Hannibal’s still watching, I can’t let him see what this is doing to me.
I’m thrown up on the table again, rough against my chest, the force knocking the air out of me and the pipe twisting threateningly. A knee kicks my legs apart and that weight’s back, running the blade across my lower spine.
The point digs in a little. It’s involuntary. I grunt.
“Smile for your boss, Mr. Michaels,” and it takes me a minute to remember that name was on the ID I was using for this job. So many of them.
The blade tears down and out. I'm sure I'm going to bite my tongue off. It's worth it, if Hannibal doesn't have to see...
Jeans gone, shallow scratches stinging open, the room’s colder than it was a minute ago, and I’m shivering. The jeering’s loud and nasty, slang I don’t understand. The world’s sinking away from me, sinking, and wouldn’t it be nice to just descend into that emptiness and not be here?
But, no such luck. He pushes my cheeks apart and it brings me back with a roar of protest. One of his guys slams a pistol butt against the back of my head. “Stay still, bitch!”
I’m looking straight at that webcam as he pushes in. I realize I’m biting my lip only after I feel the skin break. He doesn’t even bother stretching or lubing up, just shoves right in, and this time, I really can’t stop the scream.
It’s loud, and for a second, everything stops. Hannibal’s going to be so ashamed. His lieutenant, letting himself get gang-raped in a garage.
There’s swelling along those broken ribs. It can feel them with every jerk and jab and pinch. Doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, men’ve crawled off battlefields with worse than this before. I’ve seen it. Seen Hannibal take worse abuse.
And then, there’s me. Weak. Useless.
Why can’t I stop him?
He’s rutting into me now, hard and fast, fingers digging bruises, snapping his hips like he really knows what he’s doing, and it hurts. A lot. My body’s not listening to me. The screams fade into pained, painful moans, the moans into choking, thick sobs. They’re laughing.
I can’t look up any longer. I shut my eyes and try to disappear, move away from where I’m bent over in some filthy place, unable to move, unable to will myself to move. I can’t reach for anything, no escape, can’t even think about Hannibal, Hannibal coming for me. There’s only the burning, tearing agony.
A shot rings out, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s me who’s been shot. Another. Another. Rapid now, semi-automatic bursts.
The guys on top of me flops over, and I’m able to push away enough to notice the bleeding hole between his eyes.
That barely registers before somebody’s shoving him out of me and there’s a familiar hand tugging the pipe away, turning me around.
“You okay, kid?”
I can’t talk. Words won’t work right now. Over his shoulder, BA's ripping into the men who are left. Murdock's aim seems uncommonly good today. They're here. But Hannibal saw it.
I feel naked, exposed, and not just because my clothes are tatters on the floor. Hannibal can see me.
He’s got this uncertain look in his eyes, those perfect blue eyes, and softly he presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m here, Face. I’m not going anywhere.”
And, unable to stop myself, I crumple into his arms and cry until there’s nothing left.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I can't stop wanting this, for some reason, aaargh. I would give my firstborn to whoever can write me a whomp! and non-con from Face's POV as it's happening to him. And bonus if he's holding back from screaming and crying because they have a video camera on him while it's happening and he just knows Hannibal's watching, but after a certain point, he can't take it and just breaks. And Hannibal can come rescue him. <3
Face gets bent over a table in front of a webcam in a warehouse. Bad things happen.
(Face’s POV)
The light on the webcam is blinking. Green. Off. Green. Off. It’s letting me know it’s on. Letting me know it’s being used.
Is Hannibal watching?
The world’s narrowed down to that point of light, the smell of stale sweat around me, the dim garage that’s probably the perfect time and place for something like this. Like in a snuff film. But that’s not exactly a helpful thought, and I try to push myself back up. Don’t want to zone out. Don’t want to not know what’s going on.
Don’t want to be here.
They’re grinding the side of my face into the cold metal workbench. There’s an ache spreading down my ribs, and a sharp pain above my kidneys - I’ll be pissing blood for a week from that - and something hard pressing down against my neck. One of them’s got a gun.
The worst part about this is that damn webcam. I’ve got a knot in the pit of my stomach, that sick green feeling, and I doubt, seriously doubt, that they’re going to just string me up and go to work. I know, because that would be easier.
“So, you and your team think you can fuck us over?” one of them says, spit getting in my ear. “You think it’s so easy?”
I stay quiet. No point in giving this asshole any more satisfaction that what he’s already getting, and he’s not talking to me, anyway.
"Hurt him and you're all de..." comes Hannibal's voice, and then somebody unplugs the speakers.
The thug's holding me down now, face-down, legs useless. All that weight, and what I really feel in the bulge at his crotch and I shut my eyes, so I don’t see the computer they’re got set up. The screen’s blacked out, but Hannibal’s listening. Hannibal can see this.
“This is what we think of your coup attempt, Mr. Smith!”
“Coup? Some inner-city gang in Chicago? It’s real cute,” I tell them, loud enough so the boss can hear me. There are protests from the little assembly. How many? Six, seven? “Hannibal’s going to...”
“He won’t get here in time,” one taunts.
“And you’ll be dead,” the one on top of me hisses, and I hear a switchblade snick open. There’s no messing around with that. I get an arm loose. Swing out, connect with a nose, I’m free.
I know what I’m doing. These guys don’t, but there’s more of them, and at least three of them have guns. It’s not an even match, my balance is a little screwed up, but I still manage to break a couple bones before one of them gets wise and hits me with something.
Ribs snap. I collapse on the concrete, in the middle of the gang. Everybody’s swearing. I’m bleeding from some cut below my left eye. It stings. I can taste it. Twists in my stomach.
I’m hauled up to my knees, elbows forced behind my back, around that pipe they hit me with, and there’s that switchblade. At my throat. Coming down. It cuts down the front of my shirt. He tears the rest of the material away, and this is really where I’d normally make some kind of smart-ass remark, but I suddenly don’t trust myself. Hannibal’s watching. Oh god, Hannibal’s going to see this...
His cock’s in my face and his gun’s at my forehead. Yeah, about what I thought.
“Don’t you dare bite down,” he rasps, and pushes a thumb into that spot in my jaw, and then he’s in my mouth.
It’s not like I’ve never sucked cock before, but this isn’t a blowjob. This isn’t something freely given. This is him fucking my mouth, ramming himself mercilessly against the palate, against the back of the throat. Involuntary tears spring to my eyes at the sensation. My body wants to fight this, wants to scream. I try to choke the little reactions back, let them know that this is some goddamn Ranger they’re raping, not some college student from Northwestern.
Have to let Hannibal know that I’m okay.
I stare at the guy until he cocks the weapon.
His thrusts get a little more uneven, and then he pulls out. I close my eyes just in time, as ropes of sour cum hit me in the face. The minions holding me back let me go, and I barely catch myself before I hit the ground.
Please let Hannibal be on his way. He’s got the IP address, he’s got the location, he’s on his way, he’s not watching this.
“Get this army motherfucker back up,” the boss says coldly, not bothering to tuck his still half-hard dick back in his pants. He runs a rough hand down my cheek. I don’t move. “Anybody else want a turn?”
So it happens again. And again. Maybe three or four times. I’m not really counting. Everything hurts, my face itches and the bar feels like it’s burning my skin. My mouth goes raw, and then blissfully numb, my gums tingling. I struggle to keep my breath even, to not let it escape in pained gasps, like it wants to. If Hannibal’s still watching, I can’t let him see what this is doing to me.
I’m thrown up on the table again, rough against my chest, the force knocking the air out of me and the pipe twisting threateningly. A knee kicks my legs apart and that weight’s back, running the blade across my lower spine.
The point digs in a little. It’s involuntary. I grunt.
“Smile for your boss, Mr. Michaels,” and it takes me a minute to remember that name was on the ID I was using for this job. So many of them.
The blade tears down and out. I'm sure I'm going to bite my tongue off. It's worth it, if Hannibal doesn't have to see...
Jeans gone, shallow scratches stinging open, the room’s colder than it was a minute ago, and I’m shivering. The jeering’s loud and nasty, slang I don’t understand. The world’s sinking away from me, sinking, and wouldn’t it be nice to just descend into that emptiness and not be here?
But, no such luck. He pushes my cheeks apart and it brings me back with a roar of protest. One of his guys slams a pistol butt against the back of my head. “Stay still, bitch!”
I’m looking straight at that webcam as he pushes in. I realize I’m biting my lip only after I feel the skin break. He doesn’t even bother stretching or lubing up, just shoves right in, and this time, I really can’t stop the scream.
It’s loud, and for a second, everything stops. Hannibal’s going to be so ashamed. His lieutenant, letting himself get gang-raped in a garage.
There’s swelling along those broken ribs. It can feel them with every jerk and jab and pinch. Doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, men’ve crawled off battlefields with worse than this before. I’ve seen it. Seen Hannibal take worse abuse.
And then, there’s me. Weak. Useless.
Why can’t I stop him?
He’s rutting into me now, hard and fast, fingers digging bruises, snapping his hips like he really knows what he’s doing, and it hurts. A lot. My body’s not listening to me. The screams fade into pained, painful moans, the moans into choking, thick sobs. They’re laughing.
I can’t look up any longer. I shut my eyes and try to disappear, move away from where I’m bent over in some filthy place, unable to move, unable to will myself to move. I can’t reach for anything, no escape, can’t even think about Hannibal, Hannibal coming for me. There’s only the burning, tearing agony.
A shot rings out, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s me who’s been shot. Another. Another. Rapid now, semi-automatic bursts.
The guys on top of me flops over, and I’m able to push away enough to notice the bleeding hole between his eyes.
That barely registers before somebody’s shoving him out of me and there’s a familiar hand tugging the pipe away, turning me around.
“You okay, kid?”
I can’t talk. Words won’t work right now. Over his shoulder, BA's ripping into the men who are left. Murdock's aim seems uncommonly good today. They're here. But Hannibal saw it.
I feel naked, exposed, and not just because my clothes are tatters on the floor. Hannibal can see me.
He’s got this uncertain look in his eyes, those perfect blue eyes, and softly he presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m here, Face. I’m not going anywhere.”
And, unable to stop myself, I crumple into his arms and cry until there’s nothing left.
