Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10681290.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Nightmare_Before_Christmas_(1993)
  Relationship:
      Lock/Oogie_Boogie, (implied)_Barrel/Oogie_Boogie, (implied)_Shock/Oogie
      Boogie
  Character:
      Lock_(Nightmare_Before_Christmas), Oogie_Boogie, Shock_(Nightmare_Before
      Christmas), Barrel_(Nightmare_Before_Christmas)
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced
      Torture, Oral_Sex, Anal_Sex, Angst, Underage_Sex, Implied/Referenced
      Underage_Sex, Dubiously_Consensual_Blow_Jobs, Angst_and_Porn
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-20 Words: 3157
****** Traitor ******
by ConnivingOphelia
Summary
     Everyone in Halloweentown shrinks in terror from Oogie Boogie - even
     his little henchmen. But with Lock, things get complicated.
 
                                        
The neon lights flicker around the room at different speeds – the reds hold
fairly steady, while the blue winks on and off like morse code. The green is
the most unsteady of all, burning still one moment, stuttering like a seizure
the next, then dimming like a failing heart before it surges back up to full
power again. This isn’t faulty wiring; this is His deliberate design. It is
meant to create confusion, vertigo, fear. A live and glowing metaphor for His
erratic whims, His dangerous power. It’s never had that effect on me, though;
it only makes me feel mildly nauseous.
I walk to the midpoint between the entrance and the table, and I stand there
alone, arms crossed, and wait. I am precisely on time. My brother would always
arrive too early in a show of craven, desperate submission, overeager to
please. My sister always shows up just late enough, breezing in with an
insolent swagger, as if she’s not terrified. But I never play these subtle and
pointless power games. I’ve never needed to.
I hear Him before I see Him; the neon lights’ buzzing becomes the harmony to a
sudden crescendo of a new buzzing, a more cacophonous sound than the thin drone
of voltage. A scuttling, clicking noise of movement and sinister life, of
thousands and thousands of tiny wings, legs, eyes, venomous stingers and fangs
– all muffled and contained within the rough burlap scraping across the
concrete with every lurching step. The sounds grow louder as He draws closer to
me from behind, until I can feel the reeking fetor of His breath pluming up hot
against my back. I hold still and wait.   Some flitting insect dives around the
edge of my peripheral vision and brushes its hard wings against my cheek. I
close my eyes.
The rumbling laughter starts low, then gets louder until it seems to vibrate
across all my nerve endings. I turn to Him, but only partway, looking up at His
looming form over my shoulder. He is smiling, His eyes narrowed but heavy-
lidded and burning with a heat that isn’t rage – but isn’t any less dangerous.
He leans down and reaches for my face, brushes a stray curl off my forehead. I
keep my eyes locked with His, unblinking, unfeeling.
“Good work tonight,” He murmurs.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds robotic, and at the sound of it He gives a low
chuckle. He sees through my mask of calm bravery every time.
“What a mess you are, though.” His eyes slither across my body. “Mud on your
ankles and knees. River water all over you. And what’s this, blood?” He runs
His hand up the splattered dark stain that spreads up my sleeve and across my
chest. He lingers over the hard little bump of my nipple beneath my shirt, and
He laughs when my eyelids flutter involuntarily at the contact. “Maybe you
should get out of these filthy clothes, young man.”
Impassive as I try to keep my expression, I can see in His face that He has
already dismantled my façade down to the dread and the shame and the reluctance
– and deeper than that, all the way down to where the undercurrent of visceral
desire flows through me. I know Barrel would respond with a panicked yes sir as
he hurriedly ripped his clothes off his body, rushing to comply, desperate to
please. I know Shock would give Him a saucy little toss of her hair and a rude
sneer, maybe even bite back with a shot of sarcasm, daring Him to do His worst
– which He invariably would. But I simply turn the rest of the way toward Him,
eyes on His face, hands at my sides.
His smile spreads, ravenous and predatory. He puts His hands on His hips and
cocks His head to the side as His gaze fondles me. I feel it on my skin like
grabbing hands as I lift my shirt over my head, slide my pants to the floor and
step out of them into the cold dungeon air. Like always, the vulnerable
sensation of being so small and so powerless engulfs me like the tide. As if He
can smell my swelling despair, He laughs.
“Up on the table, little boy.” When I turn, He gives me a smack on the ass. An
indelicate little grunt escapes my mouth as I stumble, catch myself, try to
walk again with some illusion of dignity. I can feel His leer on my backside as
I walk, and my tail gives a reflexive swish at the rush of shame. The walk
across the room seems miles long.
I climb up onto the roulette wheel and stare at the spike-ringed table before
me. The ropes and the chains lay there on top like sleeping snakes. He comes up
behind me and shoves the pile of restraints to the floor with a sweep of His
arm. Those are for other victims in His conference room – the poor souls with
their gambling debts; the wretches who’ve somehow insulted Him; my own hapless
siblings. Never for me.
Close behind me, He runs one hand down my spine, tracing the curve of my ass
like stroking a pet cat. “Up on the table with you,” He commands. I take hold
of two of the spikes and hoist myself up, and He grabs me around the hips to
give me a boost. His hands wander. I turn away from His touches and lie on my
back on the table. Arms above my head, eyes on the ceiling. Counting my
accelerating heartbeats until they speed too fast to keep track.
With the tip of one rough hand, He touches my cheek, then strokes a long line
from my jugular to my hipbone. My body arches into His touch all on its own,
against my will. I’m mildly surprised at the fury that rises in my chest at my
body’s betrayal – I should be well accustomed to this by now. I don’t know if
He can read the rage on my face or smell it in my bloodstream, but He laughs.
“Oh, my sweet little henchman,” He croons as He leans in toward my neck. His
snake tongue darts out to lick around my jawline, to ghost across the outer
shell of my ear. “So fiercely independent, so proud.” His hand traces back up
my belly, up to my chest, pinches my nipple. He twists; I gasp. “But still so
fully mine.” He sweeps His hand down my chest, leaving my skin in His wake
crawling with the sensation of insects – perhaps real, perhaps imagined, I
don’t take my eyes away from the shadowed ceiling to find out. The snake’s
fangs prick me around the navel, delivering a dull burn that rapidly fades.
Something small and slimy makes its oozing way across my thigh. I want to
dissociate, to pretend I am somewhere else, but my imagination fails me. I can
imagine nothing but this room where I’ll always return, this world that will
hold me forever.
He reaches between my legs and finds me hard. My traitorous cock pulses at His
touch, hardening further, leaking out a small dribble of desperate precome. I
close my eyes. It would be useless to try to will it away. It always is.
He strokes me slowly, letting the rough burlap scrape against my flesh, sending
my brain a confused rush of pain and pleasure intermingled to the point where I
can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. “You wanna know what I like?”
He asks. “I like how I can send you on those little errands and know you’ll get
the job done. I don’t have to worry none about following up behind you,
cleaning up loose ends. You take charge of the situation, you keep in control,
you always deliver.” His incongruous words, better suited to an office
performance review, are slightly hard to follow with His hand still stroking my
hardon. I furrow my brow and concentrate harder as He goes on. “You think on
your feet, you roll with the obstacles. And most importantly, you scare the
shit outta every one of those bastards out there.” He shifts Himself down to
brush His lips against my inner thigh. “My sweet little henchman,” He murmurs
into my skin. “Always doing Oogie proud.” He engulfs my cock into His huge
mouth.
My hands ball up into fists as all my muscles tense at once. I want to lie
still, to react with indifference, for once to not play right into His
manipulation. But my body rebels. My hips buck up to meet His mouth, my voice
lets out a moan that throws echoes off the walls and the silent slot machines.
He hums an answering moan that vibrates against my cock, yanks me closer to the
edge. I won’t last. I never can. He never allows it, and my traitorous anatomy
willingly complies.
I close my eyes and try to take my brain away again, to delay the irresistible
orgasm in this one weak act of useless rebellion. I think about the blood and
the body parts we three had to clean up after His last interview with a doomed
gambling debtor. I think of the fear on Shock’s face, behind her veneer of
aloof bravery, every time He touches her. I think of comforting a sobbing
Barrel after Oogie’s finished torturing him and left him alone, bleeding and
shaking, in his bed. I think of the pedestrians who cross the street as we walk
the sidewalks, the mothers who pull their children in close and disappear into
doorways until we’ve passed. None of this makes any difference. My hips keep
thrusting into His sucking mouth; the moans keep pouring from my throat higher
and breathier as He pulls me off the edge toward climax. The contractions
begin, and I swear I can feel the semen’s rushing path from my testicles all
the way up my shaft. I spill myself into His mouth, and the sighing noise that
escapes me sounds nothing like the usual anguish that fills this room. Here in
His torture chamber, lying on the very rack where countless victims have bled
and died, where my own siblings are regularly violated and punished, He makes
me come until I collapse back onto the hard cement in sated exhaustion. I open
my eyes and try to catch my breath. I feel nauseous.
He rises up to lean over me, so close I can smell myself on His foul breath.
“Oh, darlin’, so good. Always so good for me. I can send you out on impossible
errands, I can pull the cum on command straight out of your little cock, I can
make you go wherever I want you. And there you’ll be. My good little henchman.”
He caresses down to my ass, plays along the outer rim of my hole before pushing
the tip of His hand inside. “Oh, what’s this?” He exclaims. Genuine surprise
flickers across His face, followed by nasty delight. “You’re already all
stretched and wet and ready for me. Look at you, my filthy little cockslut. You
just couldn’t wait for your Oogie Boogieman to fuck your tight little ass. Is
that right?” He strokes in and out of my ass with one hand, jacks His huge cock
with the other.
“Yes, sir.” I sound completely sincere even to my own ears. Surely He’s not
stupid enough to believe that – surely He can tell I prepared myself for this
inevitability out of pure, selfish desire to make the process faster, easier,
filled with less agony. Surely He doesn’t believe I’d sit alone in my room
fingering myself open in horny anticipation.  Surely that could never be my
motive.   I feel more nauseous than before. “That’s right.”
“Tell me,” He growls.
“I need your cock,” I whisper.
He grabs me by the thighs and wrenches me closer to the edge of the table. “Let
me hear it.”
“I need you to fuck me.”
He rubs His dick up against my ass, barely teasing with just a bit of pressure.
“Say it again.”
My hips grind against Him on their own, and my voice begins to babble without
the direction of my brain. “I need it, I need to feel your huge cock slamming
into my ass, fucking me till I can’t walk, I need it all the time, I think of
it constantly, constantly, I think of you driving that giant cock into me and
plowing me senseless. I need you inside me, please I need it please – ”
With a snarl He shoves Himself in, and the rest of my words all die in a gasp
of air. It hurts so bad, I hate this, I hate that I have to do this, I hate the
noises whimpering from my lying mouth, I hate the blood rushing into my traitor
dick and swelling it back to full hardness. He moves with slow, smooth thrusts
in spite of my earlier begging for violence, a thin smile on His face as He
watches me writhe along with Him. Then, without warning, He grabs me and twists
us both around until He lies in the victims’ spot on the table, and I am
suddenly on top. I grab at His hips to keep my balance, and I stare down at Him
with what I know is a stupid expression.
His hands on my thighs pull me down even deeper onto Him, and He laughs at the
way my eyes roll back. “Well, go on then, little darlin’. Let me see you ride
that huge cock you need so constantly.”
I can’t read His expression, can’t tell if His tone is mocking or sincere or
mortally dangerous. I can’t comprehend anything but the feel of Him inside me
as I rock myself on top of Him, fucking myself at the perfect depth and speed
and oh that angle just like that. My hand finds its way to my dick, my hips
move without me like pistons on a machine. I am lost. Whoever I am, whatever
complex thought I once possessed, it all disintegrates into a mindless mess of
feral lust. His smile broadens as my cock twitches and erupts again, dribbling
streams of white over my fist and onto His belly. My ass is so full the muscles
can barely find purchase for the orgasmic contractions. I groan and close my
eyes and attempt to let myself fall over, but His huge hands grab me around the
waist and pin me where He wants me. The ache of my exhausted, abused insides is
almost delicious in its agony as He drives His hips up into me in a hammering
rhythm. The terrifying growl He makes as He comes is familiar as the ending of
a favorite bedtime story. The acidic burn of His toxic ejaculate flows in its
well-followed path within me. We both hold still. I can feel the agitated buzz
of a numberless swarm vibrating beneath me. I hold my breath and pull my face
into a neutral set, count my heartbeats as they begin to slow. He watches me,
and He smiles.
At last I feel the surface rolling beneath me as He rises, guides me off His
lap and onto the table as He stands and stretches. His body language is sleepy
and satisfied, but His face hasn’t lost its wicked light. He reaches for my
face, nudges my chin. “Oh, my little henchman. You’re showing such promise. Who
knows? Maybe someday you won’t have to be just a humble little henchman
anymore.”
I don’t answer as I ease myself off the table. The ache in my ass sings with
every movement. He talks like this sometimes, mysterious allusions to some
vague future He is grooming me for as – what, exactly? His partner? The heir
apparent to His vast gambling syndicate? The next boogieman terrorizing the
town, mauling debtors, murdering enemies? I don’t want to ask, I don’t want to
contemplate that grim, indistinct future. I walk gently across the room to
retrieve my clothes where they lay in a small red pile. I can feel Him watching
me the whole way; I can even feel His nasty smile.
“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” He calls after me as I walk, dressed again, to the
huge heavy doors. I don’t answer.
The elevator squeals on its pulleys as it bears me up to the top floor of the
treehouse. Even so, I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I sneak up the creaking
stairs and into the hallway. Barrel’s door cracks open as I start to pass, and
then swings open. He steps out, wide-eyed and rumple-haired, into the hall.
“Are you – are you okay?” Barrel whispers.
I jam my hands into my pockets, my eyes on the floor. Barrel never listens in
on the conference room encounters involving me or Shock. He holes up in his
bedroom until it’s all over. He must assume all our tortures are equally
horrible. I wonder what he’d think if he knew the truth. The sick feeling
climbs back up my throat as I look down at his worried face, picturing the
horror in his eyes if he knew how I betrayed him, left him to suffer
unspeakable horrors at His hands. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He shuffles his feet and gives me a sad, sheepish look. “I can’t sleep. Can I
come in your room?”
“Yeah.”
He follows behind me down the hall, then scoots around me to dart inside my
room first. He dives onto the bed and claims the side with the good pillow, and
he grins up at me.
I climb in behind him and settle on the other side. For all our fighting during
the day, the violence, the insults, on nights like this everything is different
between us. Like we’ve become allies, teammates, a unified front against a
shared darkness. I heave a sigh as I lower my head onto the inferior pillow and
pull the blanket up over us both. It’s so exhausting to hover in the grey areas
between allegiances this way – treasonous to Oogie, disloyal and cowardly to my
siblings. Just like my traitor body existing somewhere in the duality of
loathing and lust, picking both sides, picking neither side, betraying
everything I try to conceal. I want to sleep for years, then wake up in a life
with clear-cut boundaries and easy choices. I roll onto my side away from
Barrel, and he nestles up against my back, his arm thrown over my waist. Within
moments his breathing grows deep and even. I take his limp hand and thread my
fingers between his. The warm, trusting weight of his body against mine sends a
repetitive mantra coursing endlessly through my brain – traitor, traitor. I
stare through the darkened window and wait for dawn.
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