The Night Shift / Thread

Thread / The Night Shift
by Eline

Request fic for kukai_jr(from over a year ago): Durer and Vallewida's first time. Oh dear.

Warning: This is obviously not for the squeamish and the under-aged crowd. Non-con, violence and brutality. The usual for Enzai.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The prisoner endured his journey to the prison in the stuffy silence of the heavy iron-bound wagon that had carted a great many unfortunates previously. The stale scent of former passengers had permeated the very planks around him.

He was unsure what his true crime was, only that it went a lot deeper than the charge of desertion. They shot deserters in the army, he was sure of that. They did not drag deserters before a kangaroo court and give them what amounted to a life sentence.

From what he had heard of this prison, however, was that it was no different from a living grave. Prisoners ended their sentences punctuated by a rasping death rattle behind the cold stone walls. Vallewida supposed that he would find out the veracity of those tales soon enough as the wagon halted with a great amount of creaking and jangling of harnesses.

“Prisoner! Step out!” the guard barked.

Blinking in the light that was glaring for a man who had been sitting in darkness for the past few hours, Vallewida clambered out of the wagon stiffly, the chains of his shackles jingling and clanking dissonantly against the planks. When he could see again, he was in a courtyard, ringed on all sides by high walls.

It was already late in the day and the guards were not keen on lingering. Vallewida glimpsed the setting sun for a moment before he was hurried through a dark passageway into the bowels of the prison.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Durer read the message again for the second time that day.

Our special guest will be arriving tomorrow. Take good care of him.

Your loving father

He adjusted the cuffs of his uniform and checked his reflection in his shaving mirror. It was time. The new prisoner--his father’s special guest--would be coming that evening. Durer had, with some quick maneuvering, managed to arrange it so that he would receive any new prisoners coming in after five o’clock that day.

It was not difficult to swap duties. Durer was quite possibly the only guard to request for overtime and extra hours. Despite the fact that most guards had living quarters in the prison, no-one wanted to stay a moment longer than their assigned shifts. The evening shifts were unpopular and Durer found it easy to get them assigned to him. It gave him a reputation for keenness and allowed him certain . . . liberties. Things that his superiors would not approve of and better kept in the shadows.

Durer adjusted his cap for the last time and stepped out of his quarters. Duty called.

His heels tapped sharply on the flagstone underfoot, warning others of his approach. So focused was he on his task that he did not notice how the prisoners melted from his path--a sight that normally pleased him--as he strode towards where the newest prisoners would be received.

Affecting his most bored expression, Durer waited for the guards to bring the inmate in. He received from them the already-searched sack of personal belongings that every prisoner came with and the man himself.

Pale grey eyes met his gaze for a moment before they stared at the floor. Durer felt a quiver of excitement as he penned in the prisoner’s name in the register. Broken but not quite shattered. Yet.

And the most surprising thing was the fact that he was good looking enough to be called beautiful. Durer had seen some truly hideous specimens during his stint at the prison, but this man was like the single spring bloom in a yard full of dog turds.

Durer had a thing for beauty. His mother, bless her long-departed soul, had been a beautiful woman by all accounts and her portrait had been the standard by which he had measured most people.

Vallewida was one of those people that actually came close to that image of fair perfection. He had unusually good skin for a soldier and unlike most of the other inmates, there were no unsightly lesions or tumours on his face. And what a fine-boned face it was too. Durer wanted to break that well-formed nose so much that his hands clenched involuntarily around the handle of his baton in anticipation.

Breathing shallowly through his nose, Durer had to force himself to go slow. Such a prize was to be savoured and not to be broken so early. His father might not present him with such nice toys if he did not take good care of the special cases for him.

The new prisoner was not just a pretty face. Durer hungrily took in the smooth column of his neck and the broad shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist and just a hint of hips. He almost drooled as he closed the door behind the prisoner and caught sight of his pert bottom.

He was perfect. Durer reminded himself to write a note to thank his father--it was almost like Christmas.

There was one thing that was wrong with the whole picture. Those grey eyes were utterly devoid of fear, but Durer knew how to fix that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first thing Vallewida remembered, even years later, about the prison was the smell. Plunged into the darkness of the stone-lined passage, his eyes had to work to adjust even as the rank air assailed his nostrils.

That particular smell--Vallewida recognised it from his time in the army--hung about even more thickly now that there were no windows around. The sour reek of fear mingled with unwashed bodies, poor hygiene and an even poorer diet. And death, like an old unwelcome friend, was sulking around the corners.

On the battlefield, the fear of death was always there. Here, in these dank stone hallways, death took a second place to the other unnamable things humans did to each other. Vallewida had read about the prison system--papers and books written by a minority that were vocal about prison reform. The majority preferred to imagine that this--the whole rotting edifice of corruption and human suffering--did not exist.

But this was his reality now. Anchored to the grimness by cold chains, he was marched down into the bowels of the prison "for processing".

Vallewida was conducted to a room where another guard made a theatrically meticulous recording of his entry into the prison books and the assigning of a number that he expected to hear more than his name in the days ahead. His former guardians were dismissed. They seemed glad to leave.

The guard that the other two addressed as "Durer" looked like he took a lot more time with his grooming than the others. His uniform was regulation issue but very sharply pressed and starched. The guard’s surprisingly well-fitting boots were shiny and polished.

Vallewida unconsciously tried to adjust his shirt. The way the guard looked at him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. It was an . . . appraising look, for the want of a better word.

"We'll be doing a search next. Your things have been seen to," Durer said, gesturing condescendingly at the pathetic pile of personal belongings that he had been allowed to keep. A rosary, a well-thumbed bible and some writing implements were all of his worldly possessions at the moment. “Up against the wall!”

Braced up against the wall on his forearms and hoping that this would be over soon, Vallewida tried to ignore his unease as the guard patted him down. The gloved hands lingered on his person, tracing up his arms and down his chest. Vallewida shifted uncomfortably as those hands slid lower, down past his waist and . . . groped him in no uncertain terms.

In this uncomfortably intimate position, Vallewida's instincts screamed. His brain might not be processing it, but his gut knew that this was something worse than a bully. A lot worse.

He could feel Durer's breath on the nape of his neck even as those gloved hands returned to his shoulders and arms. Vallewida knew about the going-ons in the army camps he had been assigned to and this was no casual feel-up.

The part of Vallewida's brain that had initially refused to recognise that look on Durer's face finally accepted what the rest of his body was urgently telling him around the same time he felt the bulge pressing against his buttocks.

His foot rammed down on the instep of the guard's shiny boots even as he twisted about, breaking the hold on his arms and stumbling away.

“That’ll do you no good here,” the guard said as he slowly straightened up and loomed over his prisoner.

Vallewida knew that there would be no aid coming no matter what noises came from this room. It was in the smirk that twisted Durer's thin lips. It was in the thickness of the closed door and the sturdy unmoving solidness of the table bolted to the floor.

Anticipating the pain only made it more painful. Durer did not pull his punches. Off balance, Vallewida fell and caught himself--barely--with his chained hands. There was no chance for him to regroup for one of those shiny boots caught him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs.

Vallewida tried to roll with the kicks, but the guard knew all the tricks, getting in solid strikes on his chest and stomach. Gasping in pain and desperately trying to avoid the guard’s boots, Vallewida curled up into a defensive ball by the wall. The brutality was not as shocking as the look of maniacal glee on the guard's face as he reached down for a handful of Vallewida’s hair.

Wincing as he was dragged up, Vallewida found himself closer to the guard’s face than he was comfortable with.

“You have to learn to be a bit more cooperative,” Durer leered and Vallewida could not quite believe it when the guard’s tongue snaked out and licked his rapidly bruising cheek. The guard probably could not quite believe it either when Vallewida’s knee connected solidly with his groin. Durer made a strangled hissing noise as he backed off, eyeballs bulging with rage. As a soldier, Vallewida had learned that there was nothing off-limits in a real fight.

However, Vallewida’s respite was short-lived. Half-bent over as he was, the guard still had the strength to grab him again by the hair and slam him forcefully against the side of the table.

“You . . . That was stupid,” Durer said through his teeth, watching Vallewida as he recovered from that low blow. “You won’t walk for a week once I’m through with you.”

Disorientated and hurting in a good many places, Vallewida could only watch in mounting disbelief as the guard straightened up again. The man was obviously driven by something other than lust. This was borne out shortly after when Durer seized him by the back of the neck and Vallewida blacked out briefly when he was reintroduced to the edge of the table.

When he came to again, the guard was pressing him against the table-top, fumbling at the manacles around his wrists. Vallewida automatically fought back, but Durer was taller and in a position to exploit his greater mass against a chained prisoner.

Vallewida’s face met the hard wooden surface of the table several times before Durer had the manacles refastened behind his back. Twisting and struggling against the guard’s hold on him, Vallewida fought down the rising tide of panic. Durer was not doing this just to intimidate a new prisoner--he wanted more than just to exercise his power.

It was like fighting the tide. Despite himself, Vallewida knew how this would end. But he was not willing to give in to it. Not so easily. Not yet. He might have resigned himself to his sentence, to a life behind these walls for a crime he was not entirely sure he was guilty of, but not this.

They were both going to bruised and winded before the end. Vallewida knew that he was going to come off worse now that Durer had him approximately where he wanted him.

Had he cried out for help? He did not remember. Would it have mattered in the end?

All his fears were nothing compared to what he felt when the guard reached around and roughly undid the fastenings of his trousers. Things became oddly . . . hazy after that.

There was a sudden pain in his head, not the dull throbbing of the beating he had just received, but a stabbing needle drilling into his skull. The dull rasp of the guard’s breath behind him echoed in his head with unwanted familiarity.

Buttons flew as Durer all but tore Vallewida's shirt from his shoulders. Somewhere in the fog that was rising in Vallewida’s mind, something gibbered and screamed as the walls closed in. There was no escape. No escape . . .

The only part of him that could flee did so.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It really was like Christmas. Durer liked it when they fought back. Then he could use “necessary force”. His instep still smarting, the guard advanced on his newest project.

He would remember how it felt, that moment when his knuckles smashed into that high cheekbone. Every whimper and gasp that he wrung from Vallewida was music to his ears. He could not resist--he had to have a taste now that he had softened his victim up. Tangling his fingers into that silky hair that fell just below Vallewida’s shoulders, he had hauled his newest prize up to admire the bruising on that pale skin and look for the fear in those clear grey eyes.

But he had let his guard down for one instant and his privates were smarting as a result. He had got complacent. The prisoners were hardly a challenge and he had forgotten that some new inmates needed a lesson or two before they learned to respect him.

Vallewida had been a soldier, so he was supposedly tougher than the average convict. Durer had let that pretty face lull him into a false sense of security. The urge to make the ex-soldier a lot less pretty overcame even the pain in his groin.

Along with the need for violence was the dark thrill that made him shudder inwardly. The prisoner was giving him a fight. A real fight. Durer had not felt this aroused in ages. Vallewida had actually come close to hurting him. Durer could hardly remember when any prisoner had managed to inflict pain on him.

Breathing hard through his nostrils, he looked into those desperate eyes and knew another surge of lust. This was . . . interesting. He was fully erect from just tussling with this prisoner who needed a lesson on just who was in charge here.

Durer took some care while beating his new toy into submission. While he liked to see bruises, he did not want to break anything so early on in the game. A quick spell of unconsciousness courtesy of the table edge bought him the time to undo the manacles.

Vallewida was stronger than he looked, but Durer was no lightweight. He wrestled the prisoner down and re-chained the manacles behind his back.

“There . . . let’s see you get out of that now,” Durer muttered, pleased to have free reign at last over that porcelain smooth flesh.

The actual fucking, when it did happen, was almost an afterthought. A very pleasurable one at that. Vallewida’s back, bent and quivering with tension beneath him. The sweat on that bruised skin and the wet heat clenching around him. All abstract details that he noticed in passing as he shuddered his way to an explosive climax.

A muffled gasp followed Durer’s shout. Those pretty buttocks were clamped around his member, squeezing and milking his cock. Surprised, Durer reached around Vallewida’s waist and found that the other man was as stiff as he had been. And the noises he was making . . .

Looking down with renewed interest for his newest toy, Durer started to pump the erect member in his hand. He had not come so hard in years and this reaction was more than just a little more than amusing. Most of his victims had not been so appreciative of his efforts. He could not wait until his loving father found out about this . . . But first, he would enjoy this without the old man’s interference and his grotesque rolls of fat.

“You want to come too, don’t you? Don't you?”

A whimpered affirmative spurred him on. “You enjoyed every bit of that! Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from . . .”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The darkness was almost comfortable. So comfortable that Vallewida had a difficult time getting out of it. His head hurt and he felt as though he had marched forty miles without rest. But someone was insisting that he wake up . . .

“Hey, you’re going to miss breakfast.” There was a man standing outside the small room--cell--this was a prison cell. “You came in yesterday, right?”

“Ah--yes.” Still befuddled, Vallewida looked around the dismal cell and saw that his few possessions had been dumped into a corner.

“I’m Evan,” the other inmate said. Later--much later--Vallewida might wonder about why a stranger would help another prisoner, but that was before he found out that Evan was nosy by nature.

“Vallewida.” He automatically fell back onto the manners of the outside world and got up to introduce himself properly.

And the shooting pain in his lower back made him gasp when he moved.

“You might want to move a bit more carefully,” Evan said. “Um . . . don’t mind me saying, but you look like shit.”

Thankfully, there were no mirrors for him to confirm Evan’s assessment of his appearance.

Vallewida did not think too hard about why he was missing all his buttons from his shirt. He was not thinking about the disturbing pain between his legs as he started to plan for repairs.

He would have to find a needle and a thread--

"Are you all right?"

"Huh?" Startled, Vallewida looked up at the concerned face hovering above him. "Oh, I just need to mend my shirt. I can sew on the buttons."

His voice sounded so normal to himself that Vallewida thought everything would be all right. That it had all been a bad dream. Like all the other nightmares.

It was easier to pretend that he did not notice the way Evan stared at him as he asked about where he could find buttons. He had to find enough, because he was also missing the ones on his trousers--

His train of thought almost derailed itself there and then. Vallewida might have stumbled if Evan had not been supporting him on one side. Evan was saying something about getting him to the infirmary. Vallewida tried to focus on his words. Yes, the infirmary might be a good idea . . . There might be something for the pain in his head and other places.

Far less easy to forget were the bruises, the approximate size and shape of a large man’s hands, imprinted on his hips. The other inmates saw the marks while they were in the showers and gave him wide berth. They knew that Durer did not like other people to touch his things.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Durer hummed to himself as he made his way down the corridor. He was on the night shift again--his favourite time of the day. It would surprise most casual acquaintances that Durer did his rounds faithfully and checked in every corner for prisoners who were not supposed to be in certain areas at this time of the night.

It only made sense when one considered how much Durer liked to mete out punishment for those who infringed upon the rules. And he did like the privacy of dark corners.

He always timed the end of his first patrol to coincide with the end of the prisoners’ allocated evening shower. Even the toughest, most scarred thugs picked up the pace and hurried out whenever they saw Durer standing outside the bathroom.

This night however, he had something else in mind as he stopped outside the showers.

Spotting his target, Durer stretched out an arm nonchalantly and barred Vallewida’s path. The other inmates, sensing trouble, almost ran out in their haste to get away.

Ignoring the rapidly retreating prisoners, Durer scrutinised his special charge carefully. There was no lasting damage from the beating. The bruises were fading to yellowish patches. And he had even mended his clothes. Thick, coarse thread held the mismatched buttons to the worn but clean fabric. Vallewida looked like someone who liked to keep clean.

Durer smirked--he recognised the thread from the workroom where shoes were made. "You've been busy . . . Where did you get all those buttons from?"

Vallewida did not answer and stared right back at Durer. He did not seem frightened and Durer knew that he had been right on the first day. This one would be tough to crack.

Durer grasped the collar of Vallewida's shirt. "Ah, defiance now?"

This was nothing new--Durer could see defiance in the way someone chewed their bread or the way they breathed. He knew how to deal with it--mainly be ensuring that they could not be able to chew much or breathe properly for the next few weeks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Evan stumbled across Vallewida’s body in the showers, the other man was already coming to. While his fellow inmate did not say much as he bent to help him up, Evan’s gaze plainly said you-look-like-shit.

There was blood drying in a long trickle down the side of his face, which felt puffy and bruised. The lapels of his shirt were torn and denuded of buttons.

“Infirmary? Yeah, I thought so.”

Vallewida made no mention of buttons or thread as Evan helped him up. On the way to the infirmary, he no longer clutched the fraying edges of his shirt closed. Evan wisely made no comment.

There were far worst things to lose than buttons here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sorry it took so long. -__-;;

In other news: I still haven’t finished all the routes for Enzai. Slow video-game ignoramus is slow.