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Re: FILL 7/? Matt & Foggy are kidnapped. (non-con/torture)

[(Anonymous)]

[A/N: A little redundant, but non-con warning for this chapter.]

Matt's not sure he could respond even if he wanted to. The next sentence, at least, doesn't seem directed at him.

“This isn't 1980. We can look up pictures, you know. Of, say, a vacant lot and a hospice. If that's what we happen to find. In the place we should be looking for a safe house.”

“You wouldn't listen,” whispers Foggy. “I told you. We don't know.”

“Well, if you're still lying, I'm betting we'll find out soon. And if you're telling the truth... I think your pretty friend still owes my friend a favor.”

Foggy makes a hoarse, questioning noise in the back of his throat.

“Don't kill him,” the tired man says to neither of them. “Not right now.”

He's digging out a cigarette as he leaves the room. His heartbeat is just as smooth as when he walked in.

Matt feels the second man looming above him. He can't muster the will to move. He's too tired to manage more then a weak cry when he's pushed onto his stomach. Then, too late, he registers the man's heavy breathing and racing heart. And the fingers tugging at his suit jacket.

He struggles, but the man is straddling him now, like hot leather against his back. His jacket peels off, and the man plants a hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. And then, slowly, the metallic drag of a knife.

The man feels intentionally careless as he hooks the knife under Matt's collar. He drags it down his arm, splitting cloth, sometimes slipping and nicking skin. Matt feels the sweat-soaked fabric come away, and the knife moves to the other arm, down his sides. The man's breath hitches at every gasp of pain, until the shirt is only strips of cloth and Matt's skin is bare under his rough fingers. The fingers are almost worse than the knife, kneading at his wounds, stroking his neck. He tries to flinch from them, but the man is too strong – or maybe he's not strong, maybe Matt is just too weak.

Then the fingers reach for the top button of his pants, and he understands what's going to happen. He tries one last, frantic attempt to throw the man off, and he nearly succeeds this time – but his body is failing, and the man has all night. “Go ahead, fight me,” the man murmurs as he pulls him back into place, touching his tongue to Matt's ear. “Makes it better.”

Matt feels the rough weave of the man's jeans on his thighs as the last of his clothing comes off. The fingers have moved down his back, around his hips. He starts to cough as the man presses him against the cement, but his bruises turn it into something more like a scream. The man smells of cologne and secondhand smoke and sex, and it makes Matt want to throw up.

“Please,” he whispers, quietly enough that he hopes Foggy can't hear. “Please, don't do this.”

He yelps as the man's teeth mark his neck. There's a hand in his hair now, forcing his face to the floor, and he can barely breathe, from fear as much as anything else. It can't hurt as much as what they've done already, he tells himself. It will humiliate him, but it can't push his body any further.

Beyond the man's reach, he hears muffled breathing and knows that Foggy has put his head in his hands.

He's right. It doesn't hurt as much. But with all his injuries, he still screams when the man thrusts into him, and he wishes he had the old pain back instead. He smells of smoke and cologne too now, like he'll never get it out. Maybe I'll never get a chance to, he thinks, and suppresses it immediately. He suppresses the thought of snapping this man's neck. Nothing he thinks is any good here.

He's not good enough to meditate, with the man on top of him, moaning into his ear and twisting his hair. He manages to keep his mind blank enough. To keep from begging. But he can't stop the tears that are pooling under his eyes, soaking into the floor. They feel like a luxury – at least he has some way to express his pain that won't make Foggy feel worse.

The man wraps his hand around Matt's shoulder and slows his pace, digging his fingernails into his skin. One more set of bruises, that's all, Matt tells himself. That's all they can do to him in the end, rearrange his blood and skin and bones in unwelcome configurations. They can't force him to feel hopeless, or ashamed. It's just so hard to believe when he can't move or breathe or think beyond surviving the next few minutes.

He feels the man slam into him one last time and gasps breath as he's let free. He gathers all his strength and pulls his limbs under him, crawls towards the corner – he doesn't care what it does to him, he has to get as far away as possible. He's moved a few precious feet when a hand closes around his ankle.

“You didn't think we were done, did you?”