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Confinement	By : Kainonis Category: Hellsing > General Views: 1521 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Confinement
- 1
Confinement

The room around him is cold, but Anderson
barely feels it. His limbs are numb, but the drugs pumping through his system
dull the sharp bite of the icy metal against his back. The tight restraints
constrict the blood from his fingers, his toes, to the point where all he can
feel is an disconcerting pressure and a mild headache
beneath his temples. He feels a mild anger trying to break free, anger at being
trapped against this table, the frustration and even fear � but he�s simply too
exhausted to let those feelings overwhelm him.

There are white lights above him, narrow beams that seem directed at his face.
It makes the world around him a confusing haze, and he cannot see those who
torment him, he can only feel their hands upon his flesh, the cold metal of
whatever medical supplies they're using. A restraint across his chest makes it
impossible to look down and see how grievous his injuries are.

Doctors, surgeons. It's impossible to remember why
he's here. Was he injured? Was he captured? In battle, it's just a haze of
adrenaline, a compilation of broken memories. The pain and the pleasure mingled
together; it was utterly impossible to draw a distinction between them, and he
can�t possibly determine whether he'd been so horrendously injured than he'd fallen,
or if this was something different.

Hushed voices in the darkness, and Anderson tries to turn his gaze to them.
There are movements, but the lights above him make it impossible to see
distinctive features.

They're speaking German.

A sickening sensation coils within him. The enemies, what he can remember of
them, were German. But why was it becoming so absolutely impossible to remember
the details? The battle itself is still there, bubbling to the surface of his
memories, but the reasons, the specific encounters in the cold battlefield are
impossibly hazy. The feelings remain, the desperation,
the urgency. Anderson
is but a young man, too frail for such battle, but the Nazis were slowly
tearing through the entirety of the world. He�d had no choice.

But
that isn�t right, he recalls. The Nazis, surely, were on the run. The war had
been over for months now. Why were they here?

Somehow
he finds his voice. �Who are you?� he hears himself asking, but his voice is
ragged, barely loud enough to reach his own ears through the sound of machines
humming around him.

Nonetheless,
the voices pause. They do not answer, however � at least, not with their
voices. He feels a pinch in his neck, a needle, quickly followed by a timeless
sleep.

When
Anderson
awakens again, the lights above him are off, and the room is utterly silent. It
takes time, but his exhausted gaze eventually focuses on his surroundings, a
dark lab, blood-smeared, utterly filthy. His mind takes longer to pull together
than his vision. Gradually, he tries to recall exactly what brought him to this
place, but no answers readily present themselves. As far as he�s concerned, he
had nothing to do with any war up
until a few days ago.

�You
were not an easy man to capture,� says a heavily accented voice, violently pulling
Anderson from
his bemused reverie.

There�s
a man with him; Anderson
cannot fathom how he did not detect him before. A short overweight soldier who
looks far too pleased with himself. Anderson
immediately forms an instinctual dislike for him.

�This
place isn�t usually such a mess,� continues the man, grinning widely. It�s
clear that this man vainly enjoys the very sound of his own voice. �We thought
you had you adequately drugged by the time we brought you here, but it�s clear
that�s not the case. You killed four of my men before they had a chance to
restrain you, priest.�

Anderson finds it
difficult to talk, and he only manages to ground out a gruff expletive. The
soldier laughs at him openly at his struggles, climbing to his feet to approach
Anderson. The
soldier�s eyes are filled with amusement, although Anderson cannot shake the feeling that those
eyes seem strangely distant, lost in a dream.

�However,
those losses were inconsequential,� says the soldier, utterly unperturbed that
the remains of his men were currently spread across the entirety of the lab. Anderson starts as a hand presses against his abdomen. It�s uncomfortable to
endure the man�s gaze upon his naked body. Anderson, being a strong man, had never truly
felt vulnerable or helpless beneath the will of another.

However,
restrained and still victim to the drugs within his veins, he feels his body
begin to betray his mind, unable to struggle against the vile touches of this
man. A feeling of nausea sweeps through his body when that hand begins to
descend to a place far more intimate. But despite this, the contact elicits a
pleasurable response.

The
soldier smiles, eyebrows arched into an expression of sick delight. �Surely you
have heard of monsters, priest,� he says, fingers lazily caressing him. Through
the disgusting pleasure, Anderson
barely understands the man�s words, barely comprehends � but he does indeed
know which monsters this man so blithely refers to.

�There
is one in particular that I strive to defeat,� murmurs the soldier, lips
pressing against the hallow of his throat. Anderson conjures just
enough energy to violently pull at his restraints, but the burst of energy is
short-lived and ultimately useless.

�A monster who�s said to be perfect.�

No
monster is perfect, Anderson
longs to reply. But his teeth are clenched tightly in a vain attempt to hold
back any sounds that threaten to escape him, his body unable to react to
anything other than the hand languidly manipulating him. It isn�t enough to
drive him to the edge, not even close, but it is maddening nonetheless.

�You
don�t like monsters, do you, priest?� asks the man needlessly, nimble fingers sliding
upwards to caress his abdomen, following the hard muscles of his stomach with a
look of detached fascination.

The
lack of contact upon his stiffening member made it easier to concentrate. Anderson managed to relax
his jaw, barely managing to growl a few sparse words. �You�re a��

The soldier chuckles. His voice is smooth, striking a note
that fills Anderson
with unease. The voice sounds void of true emotion, but held in the guise of
amusement. �I�m no monster, priest,� says the soldier, a finger tracing the
line of Anderson�s
jaw. Anderson
tries to bite at it, but the motion is halted when the soldier�s warm hand
grips his member. �

Anderson does try to
ignore the pleasure that slides through his body, the precise way the soldier�s
fingers caress his sensitive member with such casual ease. However, it quickly
becomes clear that it�s too much pleasure to simply deny, and his drug-muddled
mind has no definitive objection to the sensation. His body tingles as he
struggles to move, no longer to escape, but to thrust into the soldier�s hand.

The
man�s other hand finds his chest, the fingers pinching a nipple tightly between
sharp nails. Anderson
hears himself grunt in pleasure, hips trembling and legs parting. He hates it,
hates the way his body is so easily reacting to this, how frail his dignity is.
But those thoughts are distant. He finds himself more aroused than disgusted
when the soldier licks his throat, fingers moving to cup his face before slipping
past Anderson�s
lips. He bites down sharply, but it�s a weak attempt at best.

The
soldier only chuckles.

There�s
a harsh squeeze, and Anderson
bites down harder in surprise. His tongue wraps tightly around the soldier�s
finger � such a simple act brings him an inexplicable rush of pleasure, and he
feels that pleasure burst. Warm come streaks over his
abdomen, hot and wet. It�s humiliating, the way the soldier watches him,
the smirk on his face never quite disappearing. Unnaturally gold eyes seem to
scald him, the lustful gaze ripping away whatever dignity that still remained. �

Anderson is still caught
within the overwhelming pleasure, and doesn�t notice when the man draws his
hands away, the man�s hand disappearing beneath his jacket. Cold metal against
his neck awakens him from his daze, and he finds himself staring down at a gun.
The soldier smiles at him coldly, unredeemable, and Anderson looks at the iron cross upon his
neck.

He
does hear the gun when it goes off, but nothing else.

Anderson awakens again so
quickly it�s as if he never slept, still naked and cold. There�s blood on his
chest, in his hair, but he�s not on the table any longer. The ground beneath
him is wet with snow, the sky above him dark. This place is unfamiliar to him,
but he cannot see anything nearby. No buildings, no people, nothing but snow
and a vague outline of trees.

He
doesn�t know why he�s here, but he does know he dreamed. Perhaps it wasn�t a
dream, perhaps it�s a memory, but nothing comes easily to him. Only a sickening recollection of sinful pleasure and the salty
warmth of fingers against his tongue.
- 1
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Confinement