Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/966691.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Character:
      The_Handmaid_(Homestuck), The_Felt_(Homestuck), Doc_Scratch
  Additional Tags:
      Gang_Rape, horrible, Horrible_stuff
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-14 Words: 2547
****** Stray sheep ******
by enigmaticme
You don't know what age you are when it happens for the first time. You're
young, with slim legs, and barely
budding breasts. He takes you by surprise, zaps you in the middle of the foyer
without any kind of warning. The
distortion sickness, you're used to. Having hungry eyes roam over your body,
you're not. Not all of the Felt are there,
of course. Some of them have dignity, self-respect. None of the ones accounted
for have anything reminiscent of that in
their eyes. Your hands are bound behind your back, before you realize what's
going on, hands tugging you into the proper
form harshly. They're soft, yet firm. You'd know those hands anywhere.
"You're not incorrect," he doesn't quite "say" it, so much as let horrid
vibrations loose inside of your head. If he
hadn't had a solid, white globe for a head, you'd be sure that he was smirking.
"This is not by my order, if it means
anything to you. I know it does not. I know everything, remember?" They
continue to watch, like starving dogs, the only
thing in their way the ever present leash that always had, and always will be
around their and your necks. Not him,
though. He doesn't have any kind of stare. It pisses you off the most. Those
quick, deft hands trace patterns over your
shoulders, your neck, your jaw. It's passive, by its own rights, but it's also
posessive. Not posessive in the sense that
he's claming anything. More like appraising something he already has. You hate
it. You hate it, you hate it, you hate it.
Your stomach churns with that liquid black hate, and he only chuckles,
presumably at some cosmic joke that only he
understands.
Before you can protest, not that you could've in the first place, he slips his
hands lower. Lets them cup your
small, teacup breasts in his hands, fingers pinching at the tips. You're not
stupid. You know what he's doing, know that
this is all a show for those disgusting bastards in the audience. And yet you
can't stop your treacherous body from
quaking, can't stop your knees from wanting to give out. They don't. You WILL
them to not. But his roaming over your body
leaves you with no illusions. He places his hands on your shoulders, and pushes
down, stronger than you can resist.
Stronger than anyone could resist. You're on your knees, and the fat fucker,
Sawbuck you think his name is? He strides
right up towards you, right on cue. Without even needing a command from
Scratch, he whips his cock out, presses it
against your cheek. You just about bite it right the fuck off. Scratch is too
omnipotent for that, though. He's got your
chin in his hands, turning you away just right, just so damn firmly. And then
he pulls down, makes your jaw ache open,
you're face fiercely contesting him. It doesn't matter. It never matters.
Something gets shoved in between your dull
teeth, and it tastes like metal and leather. You don't know what it is, but it
holds your mouth open in a perfect "O".
And you can see Sawbuck grinning, or at least not drooling like a fucking idiot
like normal.
Scratch's arms are no longer in the equation, but neither are your teeth or
hands or legs. There are two hands on
your horns, greedily grasping them, making you whine at the feeling of it. And
then he just stuffs his length in, doesn't
even give you time to breathe, forcing it right down your convulsing throat.
Translucent, burgandy tears bead at the
corners of your eyes, your first face-fucking leaving you without much to hold
on to. Your lungs are burning as he keeps
just fucking thrusting, but it's blessedly quick, impotence doing most of the
work for you. Not that he gives you
anything, anyways. He pulls out, and you sputter and choke, saliva trailing off
his cock and off your lips, and a
healthy dose of thick, white cum hits you square in the face. You're disgusted,
disgusted with him, disgusted with the
entire fucking situation. Disgusted because you're not strong enough to stop
this.
He totters off, a happier camper you could not find, and you wish more than
anything that you could shoot him
right through his torso. But it seems like you're not done yet, and it's
definitely apparent that Scratch never left in
the first place. You're lifted up, and while you're certain he could've just
teleported you, he wants you to know just
how little power you actually have. Your chest is pressed onto a flat surface,
momentarily knocking out the only wind
you've had in the last five minutes or so. You know what's coming next, can
feel it as he lifts up the back of your
skirt. Or is it him? You have no way of knowing. It could be anyone's hands
groping your plush, grey ass right now. They
don't even have the decency to pull your panties off, the fucking bastards.
They just get tugged out of the way, a finger
coming down to stroke your cunt. "Get a load a how wet she is, boys!" It wasn't
true. You were dry as a bone. But that
probably wasn't the point. And neither was it the point when, after you can
hear the shifting of some cloth, you can feel
something long and hot and blisteringly painful stuff inside of you. You'd cry,
you'd scream and shout and maybe even
beg, but you can't. That ring-gag, which is what you'll later learn what it is,
prevents that. So you just whine, and
gurgle incomprehensively, as that length just pumps in and out as it pleases.
It's fast, and painful, and you begin
sobbing, crying out when you feel your blood trickle down your thighs. It's not
just the pain. The pain you're used to.
You're used to being battered, and bruised, and even asphyxiated. The worst
part is the pleasure, the back-end of your
brain making you get off on this. Because despite everything, it's still some
kind of physical contact. Again, he's quick
to come, and you're not sure if it was more degrading than what you've already
been put through, when he slams his hips
against your ass and fills you up with that putrescence. That warm, disgusting,
depraving feeling filling your belly up.
You're panting, crotch burning with pain and the lingering feelings of
disappointment. While you don't want him back in
there, while you're still utterly fucking disgusted with him, you still need...
something. You hate it, hate it when they
pick you up again, and pass you around like some kind of cheap, plastic doll.
Everyone of their faces, you glare at. You
glare fucking death at them, for doing this to you. And one day, oh, one day
you'll have it.
One of them lays himself on the ground, gets all comfy. Die, you think his name
is. He looks like he's scared, like someone's blackmailing him to be here. It
doesn't matter to you. His cock is still hard, and that's enough to make you
want to eviscerate him. You get seated in his lap, just after they take away
your sullen panties, and he's got his hands on your hips with that pervertedly
cowed look on his face. He doesn't leer at you though, so you suppose if you
ever got the chance to kill him, you'd be mercifully quick. He's not, though.
You get the feeling that he at least knows how to fucking touch a woman, which
is a blessing in its own right. You're not really all that sure, to be honest.
On one hand, you're angry. You're furious, and want nothing more than to punch
holes into all of these bastards. On the other, you're ruefully aroused, all of
their interactions finding some part of your brain that you'll kill off later.
Later, but not now. Now you just want to fix that utter lackadaisical feeling
of pleasure right between your legs. It's the latter that he helps out with, at
the very least. He's got his thumb on your freshly split open cunt, rubbing at
the little bud you did not even know was there. You whimper, you whimper and
whine and even grind your hips against his hand. They all
laugh, excepting him, calling you a whore. You can't seem to begin to care. You
need this, damn it, after all the things
you've been put through. You've got the underside of his shaft slick, with more
fluids than you'd care to identify, and
you can feel him lifting you up. No, wait. There are two too many hands on you
right now. There's an extra pair on your
ass, and you can't turn your head enough to see anything more than just more of
that fucking green. He doesn't seem to be
doing much of anything, right now, and you could honestly afford to give more
fucks. Die puts the head of his cock right
past your labia, his thumb not leaving your clit, not for one second stopping
in that glorious rubbing. And yet...
someone else is doing some rubbing of their own. You wonder what it is that guy
is doing back there- Fuck! You scream
out, in that gurgled kind of way, as you feel him wiggle a slickened pair of
fingers into your asshole. What the hell did
he think he was doing?!
It's almost empathetic, when Die moves his fingers a bit more vigorously,
making you teeter in between the pleasure and pain. It doesn't stop you from
crying out, when the hands on your body push you right down onto his length. He
wasn't so well endowed, but your petite body couldn't quite take him in one
fell swoop. You grind on the solid pillar of flesh buried hilt deep inside of
you, starting to sob some more, getting so close to... to SOMETHING. Something
so blindingly hot and novel that you just need a little bit more. But your hips
are stilled, and you can almost FEEL them grinning at you. "Ah ah ah, you're
forgettin' about the rest of us, girlie." You're so pan addled that you can't
even recognize the voice. But you do recognize the prick pushed up towards your
face. Recognize that ache in your jaw, that you had tried to forget, when the
ring gag is taken out of your mouth. "Suck it, don't bite. Bite it and you'll
fuckin' regret it, you lil bitch." You so badly want to tear it off of his
crotch. So badly want to do something other than what you're legitmately
considering. But you just attribute it to something you can do some other day.
They all coo and hoot, as you close your eyes, and wrap those pouty lips along
the dick in your face, sucking on it like you actually have some experience
doing this kind of fucking thing. Which, you don't. But it's not like the guy
you're blowing can tell, considering the fact that he swears something
underneath is breath. There's no longer one finger stuffed up your ass, but
two, and it's slathering around some kind of horribly slick substance. You
don't want to know
what he's doing, don't want to know what he's ABOUT to be doing. You just have
two things on your mind, two objectives
you have to meet. They let you shift your hips against Die, let you get some
more of the lovely god damned friction
inside of you. And you, in turn, let that fucker with his cock in your mouth
feel the touch of your hot, little tongue,
instead of your teeth. There's an obscene sucking sound, coming from you, your
hair mussing in front of your face as you
shift against the people using you. The fingers inside leave, and you feel the
emptiness. But it's not long until you can
hear the shifting of zippers and cloth, not much longer until the tip of his
length pressing against what his fingers had
been working over. You pull your mouth off of the OTHER cock to protest, to
beg, to exclaim "No no no no no no no
nonoooo!!" But he doesn't listen, doesn't give you any kind of leeway, just
stuffs himself right inside. It's horrid,
blistering pain, and you start to scream. But between the other two pricks
you're supposed to satisfy, you're just not
doing your job. Because someone else grabs you by the horns again, shoves
himself right into your protien chute, all the
while laughing as you choke and sputter and continue to try and cry out. "Dude,
keep doin' that, holy hell. You should
feel this chick's throat when she's screamin', hot damn!" You're stuffed full
to the brim, and they just keep pumping in
more, keep thrusting themselves in and out of you, until you lose where you
are. Who you are. You're sobbing again, all
while they fuck you up and down like some kind of blow-up doll. You cum, right
then and there, the sensations too much
for you to even realize that you had, and Die's eyes close as he works against
the other two's force, to pump his cock
into you with a lot more roughness. The one in your ass reaches his climax
before him, however, and there's nothing great
about that. There's nothing great, because he moves you over a bit more, pounds
your poor backside, stuffs Die deeper and
deeper until you cum again, far too soon and far too intense, whining around
the thick length in your throat as you feel
two more rounds of white-hot spunk shooting off inside of you. No, count that
as three. It's salty, and gross, and it
makes your mouth feel like the rest of your body. And it's only after that,
that they let you down. Let you rest on the
floor, your chest heaving in exhaustion.
"Very good, Handmaiden." It's Doc Scratch again. You turn your half-lidded eyes
up towards him, the globe of his head haloing against the dim light behind him.
"You handled two more than I had previously expected." You know he's lying. You
know that he knows everything. You KNOW that he's still condescending to you,
even now. "I believe that will conclude today's lesson. I am sure all of you
will be looking forward... to next week." And you also know that, if he had a
mouth, he'd be grinning at you. "Fuck you," you rasp towards him, too tired to
even pick up your head.
"I think you've had enough of doing that for one setting, Handmaiden."
He zaps you off into your room, and you simply lay there, cum-slicked and
degraded beyond all belief. You curl up against your sheets, pull them onto
your body. He'll clean them. He always cleans them. You always make him clean
them, though you know he does it regardless on how you feel.
And then, and only then, do you actually cry. You cry quietly, endlessly, until
you fall asleep. And then you dream, of anger, and blood. And, for all intents,
it is one of the happiest dreams you've had.
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