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Hot pink flash, blue, red, green. Blacklight. There must be blacklight because the white tips and laces of his shoes are glowing bright white even as the colours surge and change. Pac is looking down at his shoes, mesmerised, for way too long until someone’s elbow knocks into his arm, causing half of his drink to splatter onto the floor and his shoes. He looks up, but can’t quite tell who it was. The crowd of dark, sweaty bodies enclose him on all sides.
It doesn’t matter anyway, why should it? He finds himself smiling languidly. Everything is so… funny, right now, and beautiful at the same time. He feels kind of sexy. He wants someone’s touch, bruise, teeth in his neck. He takes a slow, long drink from the cup, filled with something he can’t remember ordering. The colours pulse and flash. He feels electric. He remembers, foggy through the haze of alcohol, that he’d come here with… someone. Didn’t he? He should have.
He turns to look over the mass of writhing bodies. His head swims. Sweat trickles down his ribs, a gross, uncomfortable feeling. It’s so hot in here. He’s starting to feel a little dizzy. The alcohol must be strong, Foolish has a heavy pour. He can feel it seeping into his bloodstream.
But…
Hot flash, white light. Black out. He sort of fades in and out. He’s stumbling through the crowd, vision dimming and pulsing. Flash. Flash. Flash. Nudging aside hot elbows, ribcages, bodies dancing, bodies electric in the dark. He’s knocking back the rest of the oversweet drink to cool himself down even a bit, but it does not help.
How many of these did he have…? He can’t remember. The room spins and swirls in hideous technicolour as he casts his eyes around, blinking excessively. He gets dizzier. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, and vaguely regrets wearing a turtleneck. He feels like he’s being choked. The crowd is closing in. Bathroom… maybe he’d feel better if he… bathroom… where…
When Pac stumbles into the bathroom foggy and lost he knows there was something in his drink.
He can’t stand right. His body wants to hit the ground. Instead he clutches at the porcelain sink and shakes. The room is fucking spinning like a merry-go-round. He breathes sharp breaths. In out. In out. In out. He doesn’t know where he is anymore or what room he’s in or where the room is. He pushes at the faucet knobs until cool water flows out. And cups it in his hands and presses his face into the little pool.
It does not help. And the bathroom door is creaking open.
He tries to turn quickly but everything feels like it’s happening through slow heavy water. There is someone here but their face is blurry like a dream. They shut the door behind them and twist the lock sharply. Click.
“What…” he mumbles. Something about this is familiar and it makes his skin crawl. They do not speak. He backs away until his back hits the wall. From there it happens dizzyingly fast. A hot hand on his chin. The hand shoves his cheek flat against the wall. Something inside him starts screaming play dead. He goes limp. And the body pins him to the wall, solid weight.
“Easy,” they mutter. It’s garbled through the noise. What noise? The muffled music from behind the closed door? The buzzing of the dim yellow lights? The light…
His body tries to whisper stop for him. Animal instinct. His mouth tries to form words uselessly but nothing comes out. And his eyes stare, unfocused, glassy, at the opposite tiled wall as hands unbutton his jeans.
Despondent. There is a terrible sick feeling that begins to bloom in his chest when he realises that something bad is happening, and at that, it’s happening again. A shuddery panic comes over him and his body struggles briefly.
“No…” he slurs, on instinct, “I didn’t tell anyone about the phone…”
None of it translates. His knees buckle, then, and he is unable to stop himself from collapsing to the ground. He’s not in control of his own limbs anymore. They half-catch him as he crumbles to the floor. His elbows hit the tile and pain shoots up his arm, and they mumble something he doesn’t catch. They settle him. Grab his jeans and boxers by the waistband and yank them down his thighs. Cool air hits his naked, sweaty skin.
He thought if it happened again it would feel different.
But it’s fear, numb and paralysing. He can’t tell if it feels the same at all, and the concept of anything that may or may not have happened before is quickly sliding out of his foggy mind. He can’t hold onto his thoughts; they’re losing form. There’s the cold press of the tiles against his bare ass. A muffled curse. Who’s voice is that? Why…
Why?
The rough fabric of his jeans being tugged down his calves, bunching around his ankles. He tries to move half-heartedly, and he barely manages to twitch. They’re untying his shoes, gently. He can feel the laces loosening, fingers pulling at the strings. They slip his shoes off his feet. Then, his jeans and underwear are taken off, tossed to the side. His entire bottom half is exposed, splayed out on the dirty club bathroom floor. His skin prickles under the attention, but their face is a black hole. Missing code. It won’t load in.
He went back and forth on it a lot, he remembers distantly. If it happened again, he would fight back. If it happened again, it wouldn’t really be happening, because he’d want it. Did he want it the first time? Does he want it now?
The sound of a belt buckle being undone in the mostly silent room makes his skin fucking crawl. Clink. The slow rustle of fabric sliding over skin. The floor is so cold. He might be melting into it. He can’t feel at least half his body. The other half tingles with old, familiar fear. It’s coursing through him. He’s afraid.
He thought he might want it more. It’s a laughable discovery. If he could move his face or his body, he’d probably be doubled over in laughter right now. It’s so disgustingly, horribly ironic, that for all the times he’s fantasised, imagined, jerked off to the thought, that now that it’s happening it…
What? He’s really fucking sick in the head. He thought he’d like being raped again?
He’s crying. His face is still slack, barely able to twitch, but he’s crying. Hot, fat tears well up and cascade from his lash line, streaming down his cheeks. He can’t move to wipe them away. He can feel them dripping off his jaw. They just run and run and run, like the river of salt water inside him is never-ending.
Pac is pretty sure he hears them laugh a little bit.
He feels thick fingers prodding at his entrance, where he’s dry as a bone. His legs are forced open, his hips tugged forward. They spit on him. Then use it to drag a finger down his slit, carefully, until that finger is pushing into him, slow, painful. He’s taken bigger. It still hurts. He gets cramps in his stomach; his body seizes up. It feels like he’s being split open and all he can do is lay there glassy eyed, crying pathetically, and take it.
He wishes he was dead.
He doesn’t know how long he lays there, tailbone digging painfully into the floor, head bent at an awkward angle, smushed up into the wall, getting fingered until it feels like his insides are raw and aching. Eventually, they pull their finger out. Pac blinks deliriously.
His hips are grabbed and maneuvered. Warm skin between them and someone in between his legs, pushing their hips up to his. Their shadow. Pac will never get out from underneath the shadow he made looming over him, splayed on the floor.
There was a promise in that shadow. The promise is still thrumming through him like a gong.
When he feels the head of their cock nudging against his entrance, he wants to cry harder. He manages a small, garbled noise in the back of his throat. They push in. He can feel every single inch by excruciating inch of their cock as it splits him open. It keeps going deeper and deeper. It hurts so bad. The hurt pushes out all other thoughts. Or maybe that’s whatever was in his drink. His world shrinks down to right here, now, the dirty floor, sickeningly real but at the same time, dreamlike. He feels like he’s going to vomit.
They drag their cock out a little and he feels every burning fucking inch of it, the stretch of his insides to accommodate. Then, without warning or sense, they slam back in. There is no room. They’re making room inside him to fit themselves in.
Their body is eclipsing him. They fuck him with perfect single-minded ferocity. Something starts building inside him. It’s a squirming, wiggling, bad feeling. Each time they sink their cock back into him it drags against his walls and it feels good. He can feel the slide getting easier as he gets wetter from the stimulation. It’s almost embarrassing.
They adjust his hips and suddenly their cock is pounding into him at the perfect fucking angle and he can’t help the noise of pleasure that slips out of him. Fuck, it’s hitting deep inside him, rubbing against all the right spots. He might actually cum. He can’t decide if he wants to or not.
It feels good for a while, a hazy, white-hot pleasure slowly building that he drifts in. Lost in the feeling of their cock dragging against his walls, he almost forgets how he got here. Almost. But the feeling wanes and it just kind of starts to hurt again.
He doesn’t know if he’s still crying. His face is numb. And the dim light on the ceiling is waning across it in a million different fractals, breathing slow, alive. He watches it for a long time. Or what feels like a long time. It feels like forever.
The person sort of shudders and jerks. They push up into him and grind, slow and deep as he feels their cum spilling inside of him. They hover there, panting. He can feel the sweat-sticky skin pressing against him.
Slowly, they start to pull out their softening dick. Pac is barely aware of his surroundings. He lays there, delirious, naked from the waist down, as he listens to the sound of fabric rustling, a belt being buckled. The tap runs.
There’s a pause, as if they’re looking at him. Pac squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through his mouth harshly.
The door opens and the din of the club outside is heard louder for a brief moment, the pounding music, people yelling and singing and laughing. Then the door clicks shut behind them, muffling the noise from outside again. And Pac is alone, lying limp on the cold floor.