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By : Obsidian_Lullaby on A03
Wordcount : 767 words
Prompt N°1 : Dub-con/Non-con
Fandom : Thunderbolts
Characters : Bob Reynolds, The Void
Tags : Hurt No Comfort, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Men Crying, Crying During Sex, Painful Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
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No. Such a short word, so easy to say. Just three little letters, no more, no less. No. A word, a sentence all on its own. A refusal that is difficult, even impossible, to ignore. He never bothers to try. Lips slide down his neck, forcing him to turn his head to the side in a pitiful attempt to escape contact. The lips brush against his clenched jaw, then settle on his own lips, forcing their way into his mouth and stifling his protests. Here, No is just a word like so many others. Insignificant, devoid of any meaning. The kiss is gentle - He had managed to strip him of any desire to fight, to struggle, so that He had no need to brutalize him to get everything He wanted from him - but this simple contact makes him shiver from head to toe, makes him feel nauseous and want to scream at the top of his lungs.
— Open your eyes.
His lips leave his, and he catches his breath. Open your eyes. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to obey her, let alone open his eyes. He doesn't want to. But he obeys anyway, and opens his eyes to find himself staring into the bright white gaze of the Void. Bob hates that gaze. He hates it as much as he hates seeing the Void smile or start to laugh when he looks away, crushed with shame. The board games piled on top of each other, the slight musty smell floating in the air, the old grandmother clock with its broken mechanism near the window, the old worn carpet that scratches his back, because the Void always preferred to fuck him on the floor rather than on the old sofa less than two meters away... He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip with all his strength until he could taste blood in his mouth.
He tries so hard to focus on everything around him, on anything, but he can't. Despite all his efforts, he can't ignore the hands of the Void running over his body, spreading his thighs without him having the strength to resist. He tries so hard, but his body refuses to move, as heavy as a concrete slab. The young man blinks, and feels something wet rolling down his temples. He tries so hard, but even the blood pounding in his ears doesn't stop him from hearing. He cannot ignore the words of his alter ego, his taunts. He is weak. He is pathetic. If only the rest of the team could see him in this position, lying on the floor with his legs spread apart. If only the rest of the team could hear him moaning like a good whore. His cheeks are burning, his temples are wet. His lower abdomen feels like it's on fire, and he feels as if he's slowly being torn in two. His lip hurts, even though the pain seems almost insignificant - as insignificant as he feels in the face of the suffering radiating throughout his pelvis. The blood in his mouth makes him nauseous, but the dull, repetitive sound of skin slapping against his makes him want to vomit. To beg for it all to stop.
He is in hell. His chest rises and falls erratically as Bob hyperventilates, panicked and in pain. It hurts, it hurts so much. He just wants it to stop. He tries to speak, to beg, but the words get stuck in his tight throat. He chokes on his own tears and saliva, and the Void laughs. The Void's laughter fills his ears as it continues to beat him, clinging tightly to his hips. It hurts, it hurts so much. Then it all stops, the Void's nails digging briefly into his skin before his hands release his body.
— Good boy, Bob.
He wants to vomit. Hands are placed on his cheeks to wipe his temples, an unpleasant parody of tenderness that disgusts him deeply. He finds a little strength to struggle, but all he manages to do is make his dark side laugh. He wants to vomit, it hurts so much and he wants to be alone. A slap lands on his cheek, forcing him to open his eyes. Once again, he is confronted with the shining eyes of the Void, smiling with all its teeth. Without saying a word, but he doesn't need to say anything. Bob turns his head toward the wall, his gaze drawn to the red face of a half-finished Rubik's cube, broken in a fit of rage by his father. Broken, just like him.
