A/N: Kinkmeme prompt inspired, pretty much what it says in the summary.
*Warnings/kinks: violence, non-con (this chapter), H/C, don't like, don't read.
Elude a Chateau's worth of guards, knock a few of them unconscious, resist arrest requiring the calling in of reinforcements in front of the boss and Hawke got the distinct impression as they slammed him into the doorframe on the way out that they weren't happy.
"Get a move on boys; we'd best start drawing lots for who's first at the knife-eared bitch!"
His attempts to lunge on the winding stairwell at whichever of them had said that earned him the back of somebody's mailed fist, feeling his lip split again, and snapping his head back against the wall leaving it ringing. Not that he didn't have plenty of reasons for wanting to strangle his elvish-Qunari-assassin-back-stabbing-partner-in-crime (and how did that bloody list even make sense?); but it was a general principle. And since he was ignorant of all those interesting tidbits Prosper seemed to know already he clearly had first claim on pissed-off betrayal and demanding answers.
"She's off limits!" The voice of whoever was supposedly in charge of this mob. "His Grace wants her in one piece for some reason or other, or he'll have your hide in strips for wyvern bait. The Champion," he went on over the growls of discontent "he only wants mostly in one piece. So maybe you'll get a chance to find out just what he's 'champion' of!"
If there were still mutterings, Hawke also caught a few darkly anticipatory chuckles. Not good; he knew that title would end up being more trouble than it was worth.
-o-o-
By the time they hit the dungeons Hawke had learnt just how many walls made up that route, as he'd been bounced off nearly all of them; frequently aided by a helping hand to the back of his head or kidneys. Somewhere along the way Tallis and some of their retinue had vanished, but that was rapidly being filed under 'not his problem' through the pounding in his skull as he was flung through an open doorway. Graceless staggering kept him on his feet, just; it also gave him enough time to notice some of the items in the room and consider in far too much detail what 'mostly one piece' could end up meaning.
A boot to the back of his knees sent him to the ground hard, interrupting his musings. Something slammed into the base of his spine and as he jerked like a gaffed fish the rope bindings fell away to be replaced by the bite of metal. Wide cuffs almost bracers, that wrenched his shoulders as they pulled his arms awkwardly towards the small of his back. By then they'd crowded in to surround him and it was all he could do to try and roll with some of the blows as he was dragged up, shoved into someone's fists, knocked down. The shackles' inner surface was burred and ridged, soon with every movement he could feel the blood trickling hot, stinging the mess of small cuts across his wrists and forearms.
The others were coming Hawke told himself, heaving for air around somebody's boot while his own were stripped off roughly; he just had to hold out for a little longer. A hand in his hair hauled him to his knees, trapping his head against a blow that sent pain shooting down his neck from the impact. And maybe if he was very lucky he'd get away with just a beating.
/Really? Now you're relying too much on that title of yours, Champion. Doesn't mean shit around here, they're a copper a dozen./
The blows lessened as the knot of hostile figures around him retreated; Hawke blinked, panting, trying to gauge the room without surrendering his defensive curl. He looked up as a shadow fell across him and unease clenched his gut as he met the eyes of a man he'd met over blades not long ago; Prosper's Harlequin. The man had nearly killed the two of them in the Chateau's hall, and Hawke had done his best to return the favour, might have managed it if not for the extras who'd poured through the door at his back.
The guards were standing back, wary of the man but also radiating a sense of eagerness and Hawke felt a chill go through him from more than the stone. There was a glint in the assassin's eyes, pale like dirty snow against the diamonds red and black patterning his face that told Hawke his luck had just run out and that this was going to go all kinds of bad.
-o-o-
He struggled to his knees under that gaze, maybe it just made him an easier target, but lousy options were better than none if he just lay there. A more delicate version of Fenris' gauntlets, almost decorative except that the claws were distinctly solid and sharp adorned one of the Harlequin's hands. And Hawke could smell the memorable, caustic aroma of the pale oily substance glistening on the tips dipped into the vial he held in the other; wyvern venom.
"If you kill me now, doesn't your Duke lose an opportunity to make a grand speech about this whole business? And he does seem to so love giving those." Forcing casual into his tone and expression.
/Any time you wanted to turn up folks…That window-breaking plan seemed solid./
/Except there aren't any windows down here, and wyvern venom takes days to kill remember? (Trying not to.) Plenty of time for speeches. For once you'd better hope you've annoyed someone enough for them to take a personal interest…/
A humourless smile tugged at one corner of the Harlequin's mouth. "Ah yes, the venom; deadly, simple, cruel. Characteristics to match the creature so well; and, perhaps my employer." Faint mockery in the words as the claws flexed, like a cat releasing its quarry just enough to allow the game to continue.
"This, I think you will find, is a creation with far more…subtlety." His hand lashed out and talons sliced through the remains of Hawke's shirt leaving bloody furrows across his chest and stomach. He yelled in surprise as much as pain, jerking away in an attempt to scramble to his feet and the claws dug a matching set across his thigh, sending him to his knees again as burning pain rippled out from the wounds. It spread until everything hurt, leaving him doubled over, shaking, helpless. His joints felt hinged by broken glass, every tremor felt as though his skin was trying to tear itself from his muscles. Sound and vision cooperated in flashes, it was too loud, too bright hammering the spikes of pain at his temples; rough hands reached for him, every strike a brilliant sunburst of pain and the world went fuzzy and hollow except for the stink of rotting grass and fear and death…
Ostagar; chaos, a rout. They have to run, have to keep running, the Darkspawn are everywhere and to stop and help those caught is to join them…figures surround him, dragging him up, snarling or laughing it is all the same on a monster…he lashed out around him…
…with feet, shoulders, head, his heart's frantic hammering echoing his desperation to escape; but his body felt slow, disconnected. Freedom flickered in a momentary gap until something shifted underfoot and a lightning bolt of agony shot from foot to groin as Hawke felt something crack in his ankle. The pain as he hit the floor whited his vision out for a moment, filling his ears with his own sobbing gasps and the laughter of… /Chateau…guards…not…/
Metal slid leisurely across his ribs, cold for a fraction of an instant as it hissed against sweat, and then fire chewed into his flesh as if it would eat its way clean through, the stench of charred skin- his skin- had him gagging on his a time everything was a mess of pain and confusion, stone's rasp against torn and raw skin too much to bear, he had to fight, to flee. Nausea made the room sway and melt around him as Hawke struggled to stand, even though there is nowhere to hide and every step only walked him into worse. A hand gripped his throat, fingers bruising at his jaw, bone against bone as…
the catacombs…the cavern no longer rock as things of bone once human and never human come sliding from around them, under them, above them…dry whispers rattling from the shadows…reforming even as they shatter them and he cannot breath for the dirt in his mouth as it rains down…
-o-o-
He coughed, tried to spit and a hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back until something popped in his neck. He blinked frantically to clear his vision, only to see the face of the…figure…the man standing in front of him, whose length was thrust between Hawke's lips; the greasy, unwashed reek of him worse than anything the...cave…cell had offered until then.
Hawke tried to wrench away, to bite, as the rattling became louder and sharper, resolving into whoops and catcalls. But the hands pinioning his head were like a vice and the man apparently liked to live dangerously, the coarse hair at his groin rasping against bruises as he increased the force and depth of his thrusts, trapping Hawke's tongue until it felt too big for his mouth, yet any movement to free it felt like acceptance. The head of the man's cock ground against the back of Hawke's throat, sliding on the blood trickling from the back of his nose until he gagged involuntarily at the foulness of the taste; his struggles now simply about air, tiny crackles of pain sparked across his chest as the blood pounded in his ears.
The flashes in his vision were starting to spiral into blackness when the guard cried out, his hips jerking as he shot his seed and Hawke felt it slide hot and thick and bitter, a shuddering growl of pleasure drawn from his tormentor as his throat convulsed in a desperate reflex to swallow rather than inhale.
"Drink of champions, boys!"
Only the knowledge that they would make it worse had him managing to keep the contents of his stomach down as he was released. Finally, finally he was able to suck in a little air, not enough, whistling through clenched teeth but he would not open them, despite the cramping muscles in his jaw. He made an exception for the flicker of triumph at the howl when his teeth sank into someone's hand almost to the bone. It was enough to deter a second attempt but he paid for it in pain, fire and agony licking across his feet, his arms as the iron ground beneath the shackles, running through every part of him as if his blood had caught alight.
-o-o-
There is a light shining a long way above…a beacon from the Maker Himself answering the prayers for reinforcement, for death to the crush of enemies surrounding them as if the darkness itself is alive. But long minutes pass and prayers are swallowed by that darkness…no-one comes except their enemies…the light turns cold and pitiless, illuminating and observing their slaughter until there will be no-one left to see because they did not come…
…wood bit into his chest…the light…the lantern…gone, familiar cold metal points scraped across his skin as his breeches were torn away. He froze as they ran lines up the back of one thigh, across his buttocks, just shy of breaking skin but every touch a warning. One dipped deeper between the cheeks of his ass, trailing across his entrance, pausing just behind his balls and Hawke only half managed to stifle a whimper of misery at his situation, and the fear that whatever he did would lead only to more pain. The touch lingered a long, shivering moment more and then he was spun around, his captor's arm hooking under his leg to force his knee towards his chest, a hand holding him down, driving his shoulders against the wood of the ta- not table, rack; he refused to go there.
The exposure, the wrongness hit him at the same time as the sharp ragged pain from the fingers, mercifully unclad, that forced into him without warning or prep. Desperately Hawke bucked his hips, trying to find some form of leverage; in response the Harlequin's fingers twisted inside him in vicious counterpoint to the boot grinding into his injured ankle, his expression one of mild curiosity over Hawke's choked howl as if waiting on the next move in a game.
/You're alone; you've already lost this. How much worse do you want it to get?/
It was true, he knew it, didn't want any more pain; it still took everything he had not to struggle…to die, if you surrender to them they will kill you…then…not here, the Chateau, now…this was not surrender, there would be a better time…he could make it through this.
He tried to hang onto that over the hands that dragged him into position for the cock that shoved into him roughly, over the knowledge that he was lying with his legs in the air being fucked like a fifty copper whore for the amusement of others. That hurt worse than his arms trapped underneath him as the shackles tore them up further, or the wracking spasms that shot through his back muscles on every thrust, sending pain shooting up his spine and tangling with the nausea in his gut.
-o-o-
The Harlequin's rhythm was smoother than his hands had been, but Hawke saw the pleasure in the pale eyes above him in the moments when the darkness behind his eyelids was worse than what surrounded him. He saw it play across the man's face at his every attempt not to flinch or react, to give them nothing, at every hiss and whimper that trickled from behind clenched teeth. Hawke hated giving him even that as he struggled to hold the anger in his own eyes, the promise that he would not break, would kill them for this. That resolve gradually falling in shreds as the diamonds across the Harlequin's face loomed like open mouths, echoing the laughter fading in and out around him to join the chorus of shame and desertion playing inside his head.
Eventually the Harlequin's thrusts became sharp and shallow, his eyes closing and his breath coming in rough gasps as hips shuddered to a finish against Hawke's ass, talons leaving shallow stinging lines against his breastbone. The weight on his legs eased slightly and on instinct Hawke kicked out, at that moment uncaring what it would get him as he felt it connect to a grunt and cursing. It also gave him just enough time to completely fail to get his feet under him as his attempts to sit up only succeeded in dumping him on the floor.
He didn't want to choose anymore, to resist, to endure he just wanted out even as the pain ignored him; batting him back and forth at its own whims but never letting him slip away entirely. A hand under his chin tilted his head up almost gently; his mouth was so parched his attempt to spit was little more than useless; the grip tightened, no longer gentle.
"And after everything we have shared Champion? Allow me to offer a more memorable token then," the words spoken with a hint of mocking reproach, before the Harlequin's voice whispered in his ear "until our next encounter." The mildness conveying more threat than if they had been spoken in anger.
Kisses, of all things, pressed once against each cheek before lips closed over Hawke's as hot metal seared into his chest just below his breastbone, obliterating everything into red sunbursts behind his eyes, that smell filling the air. The moment blurred into eternity as those lips lingered, pinning his head against the wood as he jerked in agony, drinking his screams.
A/N: There will be comfort coming to go with the hurt, and Righteous Smackdown being dealt out to those who deserve it courtesy of everyone's favourite dwarf. This was just what I had thus far from posting this elsewhere.
I should probably find a nice prompt to post to ff at some point; ah well...