What's more important - self preservation or forgiveness?
There is no detailed description but the content may still be disturbing for references to rape and consequences, ergo I suppose it should be a NC17.
It's hot, suffocating, white pain a radiance behind his lids, closed not to see, not to hear the voices, the chorus, a steel tipped boot marking its presence on the back of his right leg, and his throat is closed, breath passing through his nose, heavily, thick and fluid with every new spurts of blood, each and every scream hidden deep inside.
It's a party.
Everyone is having fun.
His jeans are on the floor, kicked in a corner, lacerated on one side, two buttons popped out, lost somewhere between the guys' feet. What is left of his shirt is tied up around his mouth, bleak cotton flavour of the month, rancid with spit and blood and mucus. Someone has donated a belt to wrap tight around his wrists, the blood pulsing erratically against it, the fingers gone numb, useless cold flesh, knees scraped and kicked apart, again.
His first time.
Something to remember.
There's no way to tell if it is the first guy again, or the second one. After the third, it all gets blurred, the sensation of moving while standing still, the tremors in his thighs, the way in which his shoulders hurt. There's another belt, somewhere, leather still the material of choice, a raucous cat calling and then a count-down - no, a count-up, on his skin, blossoming lines dark on white, and crawling away doesn't work, because there are always legs standing tall, trees in the forest where he can't go, can't hide, can't run.
It ends, for them.
It's just started, for him.
They all go home, and they are mostly quiet now. Some voices, though, loud, a door slamming, more voices and running steps, up the stairs, down the stairs. Everyone whispers and he keeps his eyes low. No point in getting his clothes back and he slips on the floor, come and blood and tears. Just an echo of laughter, outside. The garage door, no lights, a blanket. A silent fast drive, hands off him now, on the steering wheel, and mumbled sounds that should be words, apologies, worries, concerns. All he wants is to get home.
It is not self preservation nor forgiveness he carries with him.
It's a scream locked inside of him. Seething hunger. A craving for pain.
A way to let those screams out.
A way to believe again.
Of being whole.
Forgiveness, for himself or for others, can wait.
words:398
muse: Dean Winters
fandom: RPS
disclaimer: here