Chapter Text
Henry was with Bianca when Skalitz burned. He should have been with his Pa finishing Sir Radzig’s sword, or maybe with his Ma in the market. Maybe it would have been different then, but he wasn’t. He was in the tavern, flirting and drinking, thinking up ways to get beneath Bianca’s skirts. Then the screaming started.
Everything happened quickly after that. In the span of moments, Henry’s world was burned to cinders by masked men like demons from scripture.
He kept hold of Bianca’s arm as they ran toward the castle. Where were his parents? His Ma was at the market, its dirt road now covered in blood. His Pa would go after her, surely. Henry just needed to get to safety, to get Bianca to safety.
The building to the left of them was smoldering and smoke filled the air alongside the screams of people Henry had known all his life. He couldn’t breathe with its thickness, suffocating him like a fist around his throat. Where the fuck were his parents?
He didn’t see the man coming. He didn’t see the sword, but Bianca did. All Henry heard was her scream. He turned, tugging her closer, but it was already too late. They fell together into the muck, the wind knocked from Henry’s chest. His heart beat so hard he thought it might shatter his ribs. An inane thought given the situation, but his mind was filled with gossamer and wool, pulsing like it might burst beneath the pressure. Even the screaming sounded distant.
He tried to move, to pull Bianca along. He needed to find his parents.
“Bianca,” Henry rasped, his voice hoarse. He shook her shoulder. “Biance, come on, get up. We have to go.”
She didn’t move. Blood seeped through her simple dress, staining the fabric red. It would take hours to wash, and even then, it might never truly be clean again.
“Bianca,” he said again. His hands trembled as he reached for her face. They left red smears on her skin. She would have hated that, but there was no reaction. Not even a blink of her half-lidded eyes.
Henry gasped for breath, his chest heaving. He couldn’t breathe. All around him was still chaos.
He had to move, he had to-
“Henry!”
His head snapped up. His Pa had a sword in his hand and was pulling his mother with him. A man attacked them, but his Pa turned and blocked the blow, keeping Henry’s Ma behind him. Henry pushed himself upward, trying to raise and help, but a flare of pain in his leg brought him down again, gasping for breath.
He looked to see his hose covered in blood. Bianca’s, he thought, but no. There was a gash, deep and ugly. He didn’t even know when he was struck. It couldn’t have been when Bianca was, could it?
Again, Henry tried to rise, putting his weight on his other leg, but he was weak and dizzy. The attempt left him lying on the ground, his fingers curled in the dirt, staring helplessly as an armoured man rode up on a horse, his sword slashing through Pa’s back.
Henry cried out alongside his mother, the noise drowned out by the sounds of slaughter. His mother sobbed and turned, abandoning his father to try and reach him. She didn’t make it. At least the blades that pierced her chest made it quick, unlike him.
He lay there for a long time in the shadow of a burning building, staring at the bodies of his parents, feeling Bianca at his side. He should have been able to do something, anything to help them, but he couldn’t. The monsters who killed them didn’t even have the mercy to finish him off. Maybe they didn’t notice him; maybe they figured the blood loss would do it for them.
It rained that night. Henry didn’t know when darkness fell; it just did. He woke to the cold soaking his clothes and pain alight in his body like a fire that couldn’t keep him warm. The grief in his chest was worse, the agony of Bianca’s icy skin and his parents’ bodies too far away to reach. He could still smell the smoke through the rain.
Some deeply ingrained part of him that screamed live forced him to move what little he could, crawling a few feet until his back crowded against what used to be a house. It was a burned-out shell now; even the large tree next to it showed signs of damage, but there was enough left to protect him from the frigid wind, even if it couldn’t do much for the rain.
Was his leg still bleeding? He couldn’t tell in the darkness. Everything was wet, and his hands were too frozen to detect the warmth of blood. Besides, it didn’t matter either way. Even if his leg no longer bled, the cold would surely take him. A long, miserable death spread out over a night that passed in spurts of consciousness, closer to dreams than reality. Ghosts walked the red-stained streets, echoes of dying screams Henry had ignored. Somehow, he lived. It didn’t feel like a blessing.
He was roused by hands patting his clothes and Henry groaned lowly. Above him, somebody cursed.
Henry peeled his eyes open to a grey sky and a world that was floaty and distant. His clothes were still damp with rain and he shivered despite the heat beneath his skin. His head pounded like the strike of an anvil, and his throat felt like he’d worked too long at the forge.
Heavy footsteps approached, boots squelching in the mud.
“My, what have we here?” somebody said, and Henry turned his head, squinting against the daylight stabbing him through the clouds.
There was a group of men dressed in scavenged bits of mismatched armour. At their head stood the largest and most well-dressed among them, armoured in brigandine and carrying a brutal club.
Bandits, Henry’s slowed mind thought.
The leader approached and crouched next to him. Henry couldn’t help cringing away, the motion setting his leg alight with agony. He gasped.
A hand grasped his jaw, forcing Henry’s face upward.
“Henry, is it?” the man asked.
Henry stared at him. “… how-?”
The man let out a harsh, barking laugh. “A friend of yours told us.” He nodded behind him. Henry’s gaze followed to find Zybshek standing among them, the fucking traitor. The man continued before Henry could react to the rush of anger healing his blood. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” the man continued, turning his face this way and that. “I was hoping to find a wench, but I suppose you’ll do well enough.” He patted Henry’s cheek. “The boys call me Runt. Congratulations, Henry, you might yet live. If you survive the next hour.”
“What-?” Henry started to ask, trying to push himself up on trembling arms. His heart pounded, his breathing quick. He tasted blood in his throat.
“Bring him here, boys,” Runt called loudly, turning away from Henry. “And somebody deal with that leg unless we want our fun to end too soon.”
Men swarmed Henry. He cried out as hands grabbed him, pulling him away from the patch of blood-soaked grass he slept in. Pain burned so brightly he could barely think; all he could do was try to struggle free, to flee, somehow. He kicked with his good leg, but somebody caught it and wrenched it to the side, making Henry arch. More hands gripped beneath him, lifting him as he squirmed.
They dropped him onto the muddy street, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. His head pulsed in time with his rapid heartbeat. His blood rushed in his ears alongside a high pitched ring.
“Keep fucking still,” one of the men snapped, raising Henry’s head by his hair and slamming it back down. The mud softened the bow, but with the dizziness already flowing across his body, even that jolt was enough to stun him.
They reached for the hose of his bad leg while Henry tried to keep from vomiting. More hands held him down while a bandage was wound tightly around the wound. He screamed, his vision blacking out. It gave them long enough for them to get a good hold on him.
They turned him onto his stomach. He tried to struggle free, but his arms were weak and his movements sluggish. His vision narrowed, his mind skipping over thoughts like a stone across a lake as his fingers curled in the mud. He didn’t know what was happening; he didn’t understand. Then they reached for his braies.
Henry froze like a wild animal. “Wait,” he said, gasping, “wait, wait, wait-”
A hand caressed his bare buttock, smoothing over the skin like one might a frightened horse.
“You’re lucky, lad,” its owner said with a low chuckle. “We found some lard, or Runt’d be fucking you raw.”
Henry didn’t understand what they meant until the hand drifted lower, spreading Henry between the crack of his backside. He jolted and tried to move, but the hands on his arms kept him pinned in place as rough fingers circled his hole, pressing against it.
“Don’t be scared,” the man said, “I’ve done this before.”
Then, without warning, two fingers pushed inside.
Henry shouted as they breached him, their entrance slicked by lard that spread inside him. It burned, a deep, spearing pain that overpowered even his leg as he kicked and writhed, uncaring of the damage he caused himself. His attempts made no difference. Those fingers kept moving in and out of his body, pressing deep inside and scissoring, opening him up like he was nothing, not a person, just body to be fucked.
Tears burned his eyes. He let out a sob as a third finger quickly joined the first two. It was too much, he couldn’t take it, the agony burning him up from the inside out and travelling up his spine.
“Shut the fuck up,” one of the men holding him down hissed, pressing his face into the mud.
The fingers pulled free. Henry gasped, his cheek pressed against the ground. His vision was blurred by tears, but he could see his parents bodies lying nearby, a sight that caused him to let out a moan of overwhelming grief. Maybe he deserved this pain, recompense for his failures. He couldn’t save them, couldn’t even save Bianca, and she was in his hands.
There was movement between his legs and a new presence settled behind him. Fingers pressed inside again, thicker this time. Henry hissed at the burn that had never gone away.
“Tight, but good enough,” Runt said. He lifted Henry’s hips, holding Henry’s ass in the air with his face still held to the ground. “This’ll hurt,” he warned, before something hot and blunt pressed against Henry’s entrance.
It was too big. Henry screamed as Runt forced it inside. His struggles renewed despite their continued futility, sending ripples of pain through his body. There was no strength in him even before this began, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Eventually, bored of his sobbing and screams, they shoved his braies into his mouth to muffle him.
The slow force of Runt’s cock entering him lasted forever, impaling him inch by inch. It was going to kill him; it had to kill him. Henry couldn’t survive this. It would ruin him, tear him in half. He’d bleed to death.
With a sharp thrust, Runt’s hips met his. Henry could hardly breathe, his chest heaving, desperate for air he couldn’t get. His tears blinded him, cutting clean lines down his face.
“Fuck, he’s so tight,” Runt said, panting. “He’s almost as good as a cunt.”
Runt withdrew part of the way before pushing back in, forcing a noise from Henry’s throat at the motion. It was as close to a chance to adjust as Henry was given. The next thrust set a quick and brutal rhythm, rocking him back and forth in the mud. His body burned wherever Runt’s cock reached, and something hot and wet trickled down Henry’s thighs.
“Gimme his arms,” Runt growled. The men holding Henry backed off, and Runt gathered them behind Henry’s back to use as leverage. He was so massive it only took one hand to hold both Henry’s arms in place.
Each thrust smacked hard against Henry’s ass, Runt’s cock pushing as deeply as possible while Henry sobbed, his body being destroyed by the man behind him.
Suddenly Henry’s head was wrenched upward by his hair and the braies torn from his mouth. The man holding him used the fabric to clean the clinging mud from his face, and then pressed a hard cock against Henry’s lips. It smacked against Henry’s cheek when he tried to move away, but doing so only speared himself further onto Runt, who moaned behind him and tightened the painful hold on his arms.
In the brief moment of clarity following each blink, when the tears were temporarily clear, Henry saw Zbyshek. Unlike many of the men around him, Zbyshek wasn’t touching himself. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. Their eyes met, and Henry’s lips formed his name, a plea for help, for something as simple as camaraderie, to know he wasn’t alone.
Zbyshek looked away while the man holding Henry’s hair gripped his jaw and forced his mouth open. The cock pressed in before Henry could react. It was heavy on his tongue, sour and hot. The man moved slowly, pushing the cock deeper into Henry’s unwilling mouth. He gagged, and then choked when the man pushed deeper still, forcing his way to the back of Henry’s throat.
They kept him like that, trapped between them, rocked back-and-forth by their motions. The one using his mouth gripped his hair, forcing Henry’s along his length, heedless of his gurgles and keens. They were rough, like they wanted their cocks to meet in the middle and tear Henry apart. He couldn’t even struggle anymore. Every movement jolted his leg, sending a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. The cock lodging itself into his throat kept him just on the edge of suffocation and the world spun, dandelion seeds in Henry’s head. He floated, grey static appearing on the edge of his vision. His arms fell free, limp at his sides, his shoulders screaming, but he had no strength to lift them. It freed both of Runt’s hands to hold his hips, fucking him with sharp thrusts, each just as painful as the last.
Runt finished first with a drawn out groan. Henry hadn’t expected it, but he felt liquid heat flooding his body. He heaved against the cock inside his mouth, choking around it, and its owner’s moan hitched.
“Fuck,” the man said. “Fuck, do that again.” He pulled out and thrust back in, angling to the top of Henry’s throat before pushing inside. It made Henry gag again until he couldn’t take it anymore. The cock pulled out as Henry vomited. A moment later, a hot spray of cum hit his face. He flinched back, but a hand returning to his hair kept him in place.
“Open,” the man ordered. Crying, Henry did, catching the last bit of cum on his tongue.
It made him sick again, and while he was trembling on the mud, his face and ass covered in cum, two more fingers pressed inside him. Henry sobbed at the feeling of them, pushing and pulling against the rim of his ass and the flesh inside.
“He only tore a little,” another man said. “If he can take Runt, he can take any of us.”
Any of them? There must have been at least eight.
“No,” Henry rasped. “No, please.”
“Shut up,” one of the bandits snapped, kicking him. It struck Henry’s head, rattling him further. Bright specks of light danced across his vision.
“Who’s next?” somebody said, their voice muffled like Henry was under water.
They arranged him between them. Henry was pulled onto somebody’s lap, their cock buried deep inside him, while another man stood with Henry’s eyes level with their leaking cock. It pushed inside his mouth.
He lost count of how many of them he took, but he was sure some used him more than once. Sometimes the men watching would reach their peak by watching and splatter their cum all over him, letting it join the drying mud and quickly forming bruises.
Part of him faded away. He was lifeless, a doll, a toy for their desires. There was no fighting. So Henry let himself close his eyes and disappear.
It worked for a while, until his legs were lifted off the ground. He blinked, struggling to comprehend the change. There was a cock inside him from the man at his back, but there was another man before him, helping hold him in place. Then came the press of the second cock.
Henry scrambled in their grip, trying desperately to pull away.
“Please, no, you can’t, I’ll split in half. Please don’t do this, you don’t have to do this-”
“Shut up,” the man before him ordered, thrusting inside at the same time.
Henry shrieked. It hurt like being penetrated that first time, the impossible stretch that had to have torn flesh. His nails left deep scratches in the shoulders of the man before him as he fought to find purchase.
They allowed him that small mercy before they started moving, one out, the other in.
Henry slumped into their arms, unable to keep himself upright. He tried to breathe, to float away, but the pain dragged him back every time, and screams tore from his throat just as often. They rubbed against each other inside him, but to Henry’s horror, in this position, they rubbed against a part of him too. It made him flinch, an intense heat flaring inside him every time they pushed against it. It felt good, a growing pleasure.
No, nonono, no-
His cock slowly filled, hidden between their two bodies. There was no friction against it, it merely bobbed as it grew.
He panted in more than just pain, his skin taking on a ruddy hue as the men continued pumping in and out, the deep thrusts catching against that spot until Henry let out a quiet whine. Draped over the man in front of him as he was, there was no hiding the sounds.
“Huh-? Ha! Jeromy, look at this, the bitch is getting hard!”
“No fucking way,” the one behind him, Jeromy, said. “You like this, huh? You like being fucked by our cocks like the little whore you are? You like having men watching you get hard from taking us in your pretty little cunt?”
Henry shook his head desperately, the tears somehow falling even faster. He couldn’t make himself speak.
“I don’t believe you,” Jermony said just as the other man thrust inside at the perfect angle, hitting that spot dead on.
Henry moaned. He couldn’t help it.
Around him, men laughed. One slapped his ass hard enough to draw out another whine. Another man reached between them to play with his nipples, rubbing and flicking them before pinching and twisting, drawing out a high pitched scream.
Even the pain was starting to feel good, despite how their words cut into him as surely as a blade.
How could this be happening? How could he be getting hard like this, raped before the bodies of his lover and his parents.
He writhed on their cocks, begging for them to stop, unable to do anything but endure the pain and pleasure growing inside him.
The men finally came. They filled Henry with their seed in little pumps of their hips, and then they dropped him. He landed on his side with a jolt of agony that left him sobbing, and a foot pressed against his shoulder, turning him upwards. He couldn’t breathe on his back, his nose too congested and his throat aching from being fucked and screaming.
Runt stood above him. “Looks like we picked well,” he said, his gaze dark on Henry. “Do you want to cum, whore?”
Henry shook his head desperately, his legs trembling. “N-No,” he managed to rasp. All he wanted was for this to stop. “No, please-”
Runt grinned. “You’ll change your mind,” he said, and his boot pressed against Henry’s length, heavy and aching. It drew out a broken sound, and Runt pressed harder.
“Go on,” Runt said. “I’m waiting.”
Henry said nothing. Runt rolled his eyes and leaned down, flicking his vision between Henry’s splayed legs and his face. “Either you fuck yourself on my shoe like the bitch you are or I make you cum with it inside you. Your choice.”
There was no way Henry could take that. Runt’s boot was massive, larger than even two cocks.
With a sob, Henry rolled his hips. It was difficult and painful with his injured leg and the pressure of Runt’s boot, but there was enough pleasure to cling to, something to hold onto as he shifted up and down.
He spend up, biting his lip and digging his nail into his palms to try and ignore the pain. The bandage on his lef felt sloppy. It was probably soaked through with blood. Would he bleed out before this finished?
Henry was so enraptured by his efforts to breathe and ignore the sensations of his body that his climax caught him by surprise. He arched, his mouth forming a silent “O” as cum spurted from his hard cock, covering his stomach.
Runt pulled his foot away and spat on the cum covering Henry’s body. Henry didn’t move, not even when Runt nudged the foot of his boot against Henry’s hole, eliciting a desperate whine. He’d done what Runt said, he couldn’t-
“Boss, what do we do with him?” somebody asked, their voice far away or underwater. Maybe they were in the sky.
“Bring him with us, I’m sure we can put him to good use,” Runt said, finally stepping away.
They forced Henry up by his arms. He collapsed almost immediately, letting out a pained cry, his legs unable to hold his weight.
“Sakra,” one of them swore. “Come on, grab his other side. We’ll drag him if he won’t walk.”
He couldn’t walk. Henry was so weak by then he couldn’t even hold up his own head.
They did it anyway, Henry’s bare feet dragged over sticks and rocks. It was nothing compared to the pain of everything else, or even the sensation of their cum leaking from his torn hole. He didn’t know where they were going but the concept of being of use made dread curdle in Henry’s stomach.