Knightfox needs to be worshiped at this point.

Warnings: noncon, drug intoxication, gang-rape, and one of my first fics written back in the Spring.

Sorry Bailieboro! I know how much he hate it when I write this stuff! :(

Merlin POV

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"What a pretty boy." The voice rasps near your ear, behind the blindfold, hot breath caressing your skin. A foreboding tremor runs along your body at the sound, your stomach tightening in warning at the dark, lustful tone. You try to scream in protest but you forget the words, your mind in scattered pieces all over your psyche, a hazy mist enveloping your thoughts.

There's a reason you're here. A foreboding, dreadful purpose that makes your innards curl on themselves in shame. There's a purpose for which you have been laid down on a hard, wooden surface. Your legs are spread out wide; very, very wide. Your naked form shudders as it's being exposed to the cool air.

If only you could remember what the purpose was…

You feel large, gloved, chubby fingers trail along the coarse hair under your naval and a whole new set of hands run through your hair.

Or, are they the same set of hands?

You cannot be sure, your sluggish, hazy mind is having trouble focusing on one thought or object for too long. You're still picking up those pieces in your mind that fell like dominos down into the waters between waking reality and your unconscious dreams.

But those hands, those hands are back. Your body shivers and shakes, muscles retracting in delayed reaction as strange fingers travel all over your body. You think you feel them everywhere; those hands.

They run up and down your body in the most private of places. They touch you, caress you.

They rub along your belly and chest.

They crawl on your inner thighs.

They wander in places you haven't even touched yet.

Your body cannot keep itself calm as you feel those hands exploring you unabashedly. Your breath hitches and your insides threaten to heave up out of your throat. A disgusting bail swells in your esophagus.

However, your mind; your mind is another matter entirely.

Something tells you that you should be panicking about something as all those gloved hands continue to roam about your lanky form…

"I apologize, I was informed that the drug lasted several hours."

Uther?

You try to squirm out of reach of those hands. You don't want to be touched anymore. You don't know why, you simply don't. Something is warning you about the heavy, dark atmosphere or were they dark, heavy figures?

Either way you need to leave.

However, the commands you send to your limbs are too sluggish and uncoordinated, your control in broken pieces on the floor. Now you feel those million sets of fingers grasp your thin wrists and ankles in a mighty hold. They keep you from moving off the hard surface your back is sprawled out upon.

Your body cringes as your legs are spread wider, stretched to the point of pain.

You think you manage to scream when something small, thin and warm probes your hole.

The pieces; you scramble along the waters of the mist, your shaking hands combing the dark pools of liquid for the missing pieces of your mind.

Where are the pieces?

" That's fine, Uther." a voice says near your rear. Or was it beside you? You're not sure, as you are having difficulty catching and processing all the words of the conversation in your hazy, drugged mind.

" Can you manage another scream, boy?" a different, darker voice seethes. A scream emits from your lips you don't remember voicing as hands pull on your scalp.

Hard!

You try to scoot up the surface of the table, away from the long, narrow, unidentified object as it pushes further up your rectum.

What is it doing there? What is it doing there? What does it want?

Something dark, something sinister, something terrible, something broken…

"Tighter than a maiden." A voice bellows in laughter too deep to be pure.

Then the world goes silent as your mind begins to race along, too fast for you to keep up, as you feel something incredibly hotter, thicker, and much larger replacing the small unknown object in your crevice. Your voice is trapped but your mind screams as the object forces its way through.

You can't breathe.

You're suffocating, drowning on air.

" Stop screaming, boy! You're going to wake up the entire castle!" The laughter says.

How can you scream? You don't even remember breathing?

Large hands wrap around your mouth, blocking sounds you aren't aware you're voicing. Tears you don't remember shedding make the blindfold wet and your closed eyelids stick behind the material.

Meanwhile, the hard, hot, large object pushes further in. Those fingers bolting you down by your wrists and ankles keep you from moving too far out of place as you try in vein to dart away from the object tearing you asunder. The fists in your hair hinder you from turning your face away from the ceiling you cannot see.

Then there're those hands. Those awful, terrible millions of gloved hands continue to touch you, caress you sending signals your body does not want. You can feel yourself jumping under the touches. Those dark, sinister digits keep rubbing against your shaking skin. They are sending all the wrong signals to your nerves.

Suddenly, the large object begins to grind inside you, bouncing your body along the surface of the table, your neck becoming stiff and sore while the hands hold your head in place. Each thrust sends waves of pain you are glad you're too disconnected from reality to truly comprehend, your rear slapping against hot, sweaty skin at the end each rhythm.

Wet, rough kisses trail along your forehead from behind, finally settling on your throat and sucking there, biting there.

You barely realize that your fingers are being curled around something just as hot to the touch and just as large as the object inside of you. The large object is sliding along your hand's digits.

" You're not going to get much out of that, you know. He's still too far gone, unless you prefer to do all the work."

Arthur?