Work Text:
The idea of a good time can vary from person to person, experience to experience and time to time, This, however, was not a good time, not a good time at all.
The grip on his bare ankles hurt, the rope rubbing against his arms burned and each time he pulled it would tug on the material wrapped around his throat, keeping his hands tied up and his freedom to breath at a minimum.
He screamed, a high, scratchy sound which came out quieter than expected and was cut off shortly when he tried to wiggle his arms, the rope doing its job at stopping his airway. Maybe it wasn't a scream at all and was just forced air escaping him and the human (thing?) pushed on his chest and the 'scream' he thought he'd given was just in his head, his thoughts becoming unbearably loud as less and less oxygen made its way around the body.
Cecil froze when they stopped, letting them move away from his as he watched from below. His pants were stripped from his body during the scuffle they were having earlier and just a moment ago a hand was finding (clawing?) its way up his stomach. It felt surreal, him laying on the cold ground, not moving, as the man watched from above, an indescribable emotion (if it even was an emotion) showing on his face. So they stayed like that, staring at each other as if they were not in this situation.
He did not panic in those moments, because this wasn't real; this couldn't be real. He'd been in vulnerable situations before and they all ended after he fought back- or someone came to help him- and there was nobody who could do that now. Nobody who could see them or hear the sounds of the beatings Cecil was receiving. He did not cry, he did not shout, he did not understand the severity of the situation because to him he was still standing by a bus stop waiting for his boyfriend. This was all fake.
His pants were thrown somewhere early on in the scene and Cecil did not know where, he was focusing on clawing the man's arms with his nails he was biting before the attack, too short to do any damage, and trying to get away from the hand around his throat.
Now he was on the floor, the man had come back to touch him; to touch him. The one action that made Cecil freeze, no matter what the situation was. Large hands tickled his naked thighs, moving up to his ass which was protected by his boxers and onto the areas where the floor did not hide his back, his shirt rolled up to expose his chest, almost lovingly as well. Soft touches would linger when they left, and it all made Cecil dizzy. He was not used to people touching him, forced or not forced.
Each time when he and his boyfriend would make out or kiss and the trusted hand he would actually want would find its way round to his ass, he would always freeze. Was he really so touch starved to lean into something so wrong? What would his boyfriend say? What would- no, no he does not want to think about that; he doesn't want to think about anything!
A body knelt between his open legs, stopping them from clenching shut and ending this now, letting someone who was not his boyfriend touch him so delicately; and it all crashed upon Cecil when a blade ripped his boxes open, making himself be shown.
No, no, no, no! This was so dirty- so, so dirty- How could he do this to him? To the one person he trusted most out of all people, letting another person feel him, to tie him up and use him? This is his fault- he knew that he shouldn't have been in the darkened spot on the street, how could he do this to the people he knew? They're saying it themselves, repeating the phrase, and its true. Its all Cecil's fault.
They say it again as they rip the fabric off from Cecil's most private areas. "Your fault, this is all your fault, you're in the wrong here, go on and feel sorry for yourself!" and Cecil wants to reply, tell him he's right, scream "I know" until his throat is blistered and sore, but he's still trying to get away, the rope trapping his airway as he tries to move.
Hands shift him until he is in an etiquette pose for the man, Cecil letting himself be used as a rag doll for the moment. Why doesn't he run? Or move, or anything?
He can breathe easier now since his arms are no longer straight but are still trapped between the pressure his body is putting on the ground, and he does, taking in deep breaths of air while he still can. Meanwhile, hands explored the newly exposed skin, groping his ass when they were in the position to.
"You'll be quiet now, right?" They asked, moving one hand up to his throat and doing what the rope was doing earlier, but still letting Cecil get the oxygen that he needed, "I want you to feel everything"
"Hnnn," was his reply, unable to do (or feel) anything else. His arms were numb from the pressure of his weight stopping the blood flow, he couldn't feel his fingers move or feel below the elbows. Something touched his ass and he closed his eyes because this wasn't happening; it was just his awful mind creating awful dreams for an awful person- that was what was happening, he was to blame for this.
It was cold, so, so cold; it moved around his hole and forced its way inside, and as quick as it entered it left. Cecil looked down, as much as he could with the arm in his view and blocking more movement than without it, and he saw their dick, hard and slicked with lube, edging closer and closer to him.
"No..." He whispered, unsure if it was an in-volunteer action or if he actually wanted to say it.
The hand gave one last push into his throat and forced it into the ground before moving back down to where they were and moving his legs apart, no more fabric there to stop the bend of his legs to his body and out to the side. An arm kept the one leg pushed into him and their body stopped the other from moving back into a more comfortable position, rather than on the verge of becoming dislocated.
Then he pushed.
A barely audible scream ripped its way out from Cecil's throat, his arms thrashed and one of the hardest pressures Cecil had ever felt forced its way onto his throat, because fuck something this wasn't right, this shouldn't be happening, he should be with- no, no, no he doesn't want this to happen! He wants to go back, he should have fought, oh god why did he freeze when they kissed him and stayed still when they wrapped the rope like material around him? He's so fucking stupid.
He was strong, he was strong, he could have stopped this, and fuck it hurt. It hurt so much, he couldn't see, no matter how hard he tried his vision was blurred from the pain (or was it tears?) and the pain stung as it sent shivering waves up his body. Oh god why? He could have done so much better than to be this-
Each thrust made his body jolt in pain, only in pain until it began to feel good; and oh god it felt good. It felt so good as he pushed inside of him, and all Cecil did was cry and give silent wheezes of sobs, the atmosphere was full of so many emotions and he wanted to escape, why was he here? Why are there so many emotions? He just wants it to stop and- oh- oh god- Why did this feel so good? This should not feel good- it did not feel good but it did so much each time they fought their way deeper inside of him-
"Stop, stop, stop, please just stop!" Cecil screamed in his head, unable to will himself to actually say it out loud, more focused on the pain overlapping the pleasure. Everything was pain, really, all the pleasure from the stimulation was all pain, there was nothing good in this, Cecil knew he could have done so much better.
He stared off to the side, the shadowed alleyway blurred out by his tears, and at the end a light emitted from his phone, thrown there earlier when he was first attacked. Someone was calling him. They paid no attention to it and grabbed his neck again and forced him into the floor, a choked protest forcing its way out of Cecil's mouth.
He could feel someone who was not his boyfriend inside of him, moving, thrusting at such a hard and fast pace and it was all so wrong, he could feel his face become redder each time he tried to scream, and he could see the slow flickering of light from his phone. Someone was trying to get his attention.
Then- oh god- something other than their dick was in Cecil, all deep and slippery and seeping it's way out of his hole, the man still thrusted, forcing all of his semen deeper into the man shaking on the floor.
Eventually, after what seemed like an hour (but thanks to his boyfriend's random facts he knew that it was impossible for it to be that long), they stopped and pulled out. Cecil squirmed at the feeling of sperm seeping out of his ass then running down to his tailbone, and the previously claustrophobic atmosphere widened and he breathed deeply for the first time in ages; or the rope had finally given way and snapped or loosened from the rocking. He was pushed onto his side, facing further into the darkness.
The end of alley way was empty, nobody but Cecil in the small gap between the buildings, and there was no light but his phone. Oh, right, someone was calling him. He should probably do something. The opening of the area was out of his sight, and he was sure that they were still standing there with their awful smile and their awful eyes.
This question was confirmed when shots of pain landed on his back, severe aching in his sides and just dull, but hard, thuds of pressure at the top of his back. Fuck. No, not fuck, there was no need to be annoyed or even have any emotion to this. This wasn't real, but that light at the end was, and he wanted to reach for it but his arms were still tied up and were really edging on dislocating or something else that would hurt.
He didn't know how long he was laying like that, half naked and pain lingering all over his body, tied up and helpless, but the light had stopped after some time.
They had left, no reaction.
His face was tear stained and the new tears making their way down tickled, still no reaction.
He wasn't even in his body, he was somewhere else, somewhere happier. Where? Who knows, just somewhere better than this.
He could hear distant music from a nightclub, he could hear drunk people pass him, untethered by the man on the floor, possibly too far into the gap where light from the street couldn't reach.
More time passed and the pain was only a dull ache, his head hurt like a mother fucker, though, and he didn't realise how wet the ground really was until he eventually fell over onto his stomach. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.
Then there were sirens, which just made everything so much worse, he could hear them from far away and hear them when they came closer and could still hear them when they passed him. Just shut up, shut up, shut up!
His phone lit up, a quiet tune of 'Eye Of The Tigre' rang out into the quietness of the night. Then there were footsteps. Multiple, hurried footsteps.
A pair of hands on him.
"Hey-" Carlos- "-Cecil?"