Chapter Text
He can feel her hands on him.
She is warm, scorching against his wet skin.
She is a furnace, flush against him, molding herself to him.
She is burning, but all he feels is cold.
He can sense the chill of the concrete beneath him, digging into his skin as he lays there, barely breathing.
He is frozen, motionless, limp in her grasp.
Her fingers tangle into his suit, gently folding into the fabric, squeezing it tightly.
He barely notices when they begin to dance across his abdomen playfully, nails digging into his skin, dragging across it, slicing deeply into his gut.
They feel like knives cutting sharply into him, leaving him mangled, broken, bleeding.
He can't feel when she tugs the lower half of his costume down, when her touch moves, when it evolves.
She chuckles sensually, she whispers, she confides, she confesses.
Blood coats her hands and he can feel as it smears across his skin, hot against his flesh.
He stares up at the dark gray night sky and can't make himself recognize what she is saying.
Her murmurings, the sweet nothings echo distantly in his mind.
He is elsewhere now, elsewhen, unable to be here, be now, to be embedded in his own body.
Her touch moves lower, lower, lower, achingly slow.
He can feel himself cringe, panting some nonsense denial, but it’s far off, secluded, removed from him.
He doesn't know if he's really talking, can't feel the words leave his lips, can’t hear anything, can’t-
He isn't sure if he's even breathing as she wraps a hand around him, gripping him fully.
He knows he isn't breathing when she begins to move.
He is paralyzed, unable to act against her, unable to shift, unable to jerk away, unable to refuse.
He can feel the barest urge to squeeze his eyes shut tight, blocking out the image before him, but he can’t bring himself to give into it.
He can’t bring himself to do anything.
He chooses to look at the grey sky above, watching the rain fall against the white lenses of his domino.
He can't stop his eyes from closing when she prepares to straddle him, her shadow covering him fully against the dim light from the rooftop next to theirs.
'Theirs,' he questions, wondering if he meant that, wondering if this was what he wanted.
Did he want this?
Did he crave it?
Did he wish to be taken, to be numb, to be forced to feel as diminutive as an ant?
She is upon him, her skin touching his own, when he decides that it doesn't matter.
He feels nothing as she moans breathily, jolting eratically against him.
He knows nothing when she shudders, her motions slowing gradually before coming to a stop.
He is nothing when she abandons him on the rooftop, gifting him only the barest brush of lips against his mouth, fingertips trailing down the side of his face gently.
He is empty when she leaves.
She has stolen him, has ruined him, has corrupted him.
He is hollow, barren, devoid of anything but the rain and the sky and the concrete beneath him.
He curls into a tight ball, knees pushed against his chest.
He can feel his breath hitch and he can feel a lump in his throat, tears building in his eyes.
He is sobbing, lungs heaving as he cries, as he sobs, as he wails, as he whimpers.
He has been shattered, fractured, crumbled into a fine dust.
He thinks he is screaming, shouting, hoarsely yelling.
…but he can't hear anything over the downpour.