Fills Post

Jul. 22nd, 2020 10:07 am
theoldguardkinkmeme: (Joe and Nicky 2)
[personal profile] theoldguardkinkmeme

This Fills Post is now closed to new fills. New fills should go in Fills Post #2. For those of you who are in the process of posting multi-chapter WIPs, please post subsequent chapters in the new Fills Post but include a link to the previous chapters so that those who haven't been following the story from the beginning can easily find the first part(s). 

Remember:

Fills can but don't need to be anonymous. 

Start a new comment for each fill. Don't use threaded comments for new fills. Threaded comments are for fills that take up more than one comment field, or for feedback/squee/praise.

In your fill, please mention the prompt you are responding to, and provide a link to the prompt in the body of the text. 

Please use a header with your character(s)/pairing and a title and/or keyword or short phrase. (For example: "Just you and me: Andy/Quynh, Make-up sex" or "Between a Rock and A Hard Place: Nicky/Joe/Booker, first time DP"). 

Please also comment with a link to your fill in the prompt post, under the prompt you are responding to. Your comment header should include the word "Fill" or "Filled", so that those checking out the thread can find your fic/art more easily (For example: "FILL: Re: Any/Quynh, Make-up sex").

If you end up cleaning up your fill and posting it elsewhere (AO3, your personal journal), feel free to link the posted fic/art here as well.

Fills on Pinboard: For a list of filled prompts on Pinboard, go here.


From: (Anonymous)
It didn't even occur to him that the wine tasted...off. Bitter. Wrong in some hard-to-define way. It was strong wine, that much soon became clear; Booker quickly found himself flushed and giggling at all of John's jokes. He discovered, to his chagrin, that he had managed to become drunk. He also realized he didn't care in the slightest. It was remarkably easy, in this state, to become David, the ditzy, free-spirited art student and traveler who would be John's weekend companion. Just for a while, he could let go of Russia, of war, of his dying son cursing his name. Of exile. Of his own traitorous ways.

It wasn't until he stood up to pay the bill that he realized something was wrong. That sweet wine had gone sticky in his mouth, and light-hearted tipsiness had given way to heavy limbs and slurred speech. The room was slowly spinning as John pulled him close, walking him out to an old nondescript dark-colored sedan. He heard at a distance as his captor laughed to the waitress that, 'poor lad had too much wine on an empty stomach' and 'can't for the life of him hold his liquor, poor love', and other such blithe reassurances that this was not in fact a kidnapping. Booker's heart sped up as John wrangled his floppy, useless limbs into the back seat and shoved him down, tossing a blanket over him. In the dark, breathing damp flannel and at the mercy of what felt like a horribly winding road, Booker tried mightily to vomit up whatever he'd been drugged with. To no avail though; carsickness rolled inside him but the nausea never quite peaked. By the time the car stopped he was a sweating bundle of panic, even as he tried to remember that no matter what, he could come back to life afterwards. John came around to the back and scooped Booker up, blanket and all, his feet and one hand dangling free. He tried to headbutt John, hoping that he'd drop him and enable Booker to escape, but he was too dizzy and weak to manage more than smacking his cheek into the man's collarbone as he was carried.

John chuckled and stroked Booker's head.

"Now now, lovey, don't start fighting just yet. Plenty of time that, soon enough."

Booker had a vague impression of a rural cottage, and for some reason the blooming pink roses on the tablecloth as John brought him through the kitchen. He realized sinkingly that they must be headed to the bedroom, though until the door opened, Booker had no idea the truth. John deposited him on a bed with no covers apart from a sheet and what seemed like a sort of waterproof mat. A camera was aimed towards it, and a set of old-fashioned metal handcuffs were chained to the wrought-metal headboard. Hard by was a little rolling table spread with various implements that recalled Kozac's lab. This time he really did gag, head hanging as John shackled him in place and began methodically undressing him. Shoes and socks first, button down shirt, then his jeans, undershirt. At last he was only in his boxers, and suddenly his tormentor withdrew.

"Hello again friends," he addressed the camera, which was apparently now recording, "I'm very excited to introduce to you a new guest performer today. This is David, and we've gained the honor of his company for the next several days! As always, you, the viewer, decide his fate. Last time it was decided that you wanted our next guest to perform for us on camera, so once friend David has got his bearings a bit we'll get on with the show!"
From: (Anonymous)
This was really happening.

Booker's blood iced over as John reached for that little table and retrieved a small bottle. Lubricant of some kind, and instantly he flashed back to Russia and the first time he'd been raped. That might not even count though; he hadn't been alive to give or deny his consent. He'd just jolted back to life with another man pinning him to the frosted soil. The stranger had fled too quickly for Booker to even see his face, so he'd just vomited himself empty, waited for the injuries to heal, then got up and marched on homeward.

That was all this would take, really. Be a soldier again. Let it happen and wait for it to be over. He'd just about mentally detached from his body, when John abruptly shifted to lip at his neck.

"Ever had sex on camera, darling David?"

His shake of the head was more a queasy bobble, shutting his eyes as this horrible man parted him.

They planned this. Isolation wasn't penance enough; they had to see me degraded. I surrender, Joe! Boss, please, make him stop! Nicky...does your God smile upon this? Nile, sweet youngling Nile. I pray you never even know about this.

The pain of it, the fiery stretching, the sense of being filled and scraped open and jabbed into, he rocked with it, his wrists wrenched hard where they were cuffed. At some point John decided his cock was no longer enough, and instead turned to the array of toys at hand.

"What do we think, friends? Shall we start him on the buzzer? Or d'you reckon he could take the fire poker? Ahhhh, good point Masterman! Yes, I think we should bring out the sabres! Been too long since I've gotten to play with those! What? Oh, yes I agree RedRaptor, he's being a very good boy. Okay, so we'll try him on the swords and then maybe some needleplay to finish things out? Oh don't you worry, Big_Finish, your favorite part is coming soon!"

Addressing some unseen audience, apparently---was he livestreaming this? Booker groaned aloud at the idea of some faceless voyeurs watching and jerking off to his torment. Humiliation added fuel to his fervor to escape. If he could manage to dislocate a wrist and slip it free----but no; he couldn't get the right angle and in seconds John had returned.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, love. Had to polish these up juuuuust so. If I get it in there right we'll see the tip poking out right about here," he explained, using the point of the blade to trace little circles around Booker's navel.
From: (Anonymous)
Oh no. This one hurts so much. I mean, well done and ow.
From: (Anonymous)
He couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry around the gag. Those swords were cheap imitations of a Spanish cavalry sabre, the kind he'd seen carried during La Guerra Civil. He couldn't even have the dubious pride of being stabbed to death with the genuine article!

He could almost imagine How watching, a cruel little grin on his face. He'd nod, pointing it out to Nicky, critiquing John's grip on the blade or his form. Nicky watching, closely, glass-green eyes bright as the firey agony peaked. Booker moaned and closed his eyes as the blade breached his skin---sure enough, the tip poked out right above his navel. John seemed to be experimenting, twisting the handle back and forth. Steadily destroying Booker's entrails. He could feel the blood leaving him in a rush, all his warmth leeching out with it. Exsanguinaton. Interesting. He hadn't died that way yet.

The thing about bleeding out, he soon realized, was that it isn't fast. It takes minutes to go into shock, and from there slip away into the comforting blackness. He wondered vaguely what the audience thought of it all. It had been their idea. They must have paid fair money to watch a man die to their exact specifications.

Boss....I pray to everything you never see this tape...

By the time he resurfaced, a new burning replacing the pain as his injuries healed, Booker found himself wrapped in a bloody bedsheet , lying on something too hard and unyielding to be the mattress. John must have finished and cleaned up, then. He was no longer bound, nor drugged. A bit of frustrated wriggling and he freed himself from the erstwhile shroud. John was nowhere to be seen, but he could be heard in a room nearby clacking away at a keyboard. Uploading tonight's recording, no doubt. This was his chance. There was no time to search for his clothes; he just wrapped himself in that sheet and kicked the screen out of the window. As he lept out he glanced back over his shoulder and saw John staring at him like he'd just seen a ghost.

It proved to be a long walk in the dark back into town, and he was freezing and shaking like a leaf by the time he got back to his flat and broke in. But somehow it wasn't until he got into the shower, letting the water beat down as hot as he could stand, that the full horror of the night crashed over him. Just looking down at his own naked body brought John's hands creeping all over him, and with it a wave of revulsion so strong he retched dryly. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but those hands kept touching him, that foul voice whispering to him, calling him baby boy and slut and David. Drying off, he dressed in his softest sleep pants and an ancient t-shirt and made a nest on the floor with several bottles of whiskey and every blanket he could find. He would remain there all week.

On the other side of the world, James Copley was trawling the internet for scum in need of wiping out, when a video caught his eye. REAL RED ROOM, screamed the title, DEAD DAVID FUCKED WITH DAGGER. Mousing over the video displayed a few seconds of a preview. Copley froze. Then he reached for his phone.

"Andy, it's me. I know it's late and I'm sorry, but there's something you need to see."



From: (Anonymous)
This is so intense in all the best ways. Wow.
From: (Anonymous)
Well, that's certainly going to set things burning. I can't wait to see where you're going with this!
From: (Anonymous)
I wonder what the reunion will be under such dreary circumstances. Hope that maniac gets what he deserves from the hands of the old guard.
Like the story very much so far and check for updates every day. Can't wait for the next part. Thank you for filling the prompt!
From: (Anonymous)
I'm loving this story and I can't wait for everyone's reactions to the assault.

Profile

theoldguardkinkmeme: (Default)
theoldguardkinkmeme

July 2021

S M T W T F S
    123
45678910
11121314151617
181920 21 222324
25262728293031

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jun. 26th, 2025 08:45 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios