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It’s been months.
Months of torture, months of wondering how this could be happening to him. Months of agony.
Atsushi is a foster kid. A few months ago, he’d been placed with the Dazai family, and he’d thought it was going to be great. The parents had been super nice, and their son, Osamu, seemed friendly enough.
It wasn’t long before “friendly enough” became too friendly. Before too friendly turned to touching, turned to kissing, turned to—
To his rape. To Osamu—Dazai, Atsushi never calls him Osamu, never wants to act that familiar—taking him, whenever he feels like it.
It’s been months. And now…
Atsushi cries out as Dazai presses into him from behind, burying his face in his pillow to muffle the sound. Not that it matters; whether Atsushi is quiet or not makes no difference. No one will help him. No one is coming to rescue him. No one cares.
No one has ever cared about Atsushi.
“Did you really think you could get away from me?” Dazai hums, hips stilling against Atsushi’s ass once he bottoms out. “Did you really think I’d let you go?”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Atsushi had tried to get away. Had asked his social worker to put him in another home, and somehow, some way, Dazai found out. Atsushi has no idea how, but that’s Dazai for you. He’s far too smart for Atsushi, too smart for Atsushi to ever pull one over on him.
Or maybe it’s just that he’s older — a grown adult to Atsushi’s first year of high school. Young enough to still live at home, but old enough to be too old for Atsushi. Too old to ever date him.
Maybe that’s why Dazai does what he does. He has no other choice.
Ha. Good one.
“I’m sorry,” Atsushi whimpers as Dazai starts rocking his hips, slow enough to be its own form of torture. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Dazai huffs a laugh. “No. But you will be.”
With that, Dazai pulls out until just the head is inside and slams forward, punching another cry out of Atsushi. He repeats the motion, slow and hard, over and over. A torturous pace that leaves Atsushi sobbing into the pillow, fingers white-knuckling the plush fabric.
“Please,” Atsushi begs.
“Please what?”
“Don’t…”
“Don’t what?” Dazai asks with another thrust forward, as if he truly has no idea what Atsushi is asking. As if he’s anything but the genius everyone knows he is. As if he simply doesn’t care enough to realize what Atsushi is asking for. “Don’t go so slow? Why, Atsushi, all you need do is ask.”
As promised, Dazai picks up the pace. Because if there’s one thing about Dazai, it’s that he always keeps his promises
It’s not what Atsushi wanted, but what does that matter? Not a single person has ever cared about what Atsushi wants. Certainly not Dazai.
Months of enduring rape, enduring the mental torture of dealing with Dazai every day, down the drain.
He’ll never escape. Dazai will never let him.
Dazai fists his fingers into Atsushi’s hair and tugs, lifting him up painfully until Atsushi’s back is flush with his front. Only then does he let go of Atsushi’s poor hair, replacing it with his neck, fingers wrapping lightly around his throat as his hips keep up their rough pace, in and out, never faltering for a moment.
If there’s one thing that can be said about Dazai, it’s that he’s good at sex. Atsushi hates everything about it, hates everything about Dazai, but it feels good. Which just makes it all the worse.
“Ah, ah, ah…” Sounds punch out of Atsushi as Dazai keeps up his pace, quick and shallow and lighting up every nerve in Atsushi’s body.
“There you go.” Dazai’s breath is hot in his ear, and Atsushi can hear how it catches every so often, like he feels just as good. He must, to keep doing it. Raping Atsushi must feel amazing. “You always moan so pretty for me, Atsushi.”
“I hate you,” Atsushi whimpers, and Dazai laughs.
“No, you don’t.”
He shoves Atsushi forward, forcing him to fall back onto the bed, face hitting the pillow as Dazai’s fingers bite into his hips, holding him in place as he picks up his pace. It’s downright brutal, and Atsushi can’t help but sob even as his dick leaks onto the mattress.
“You love this,” Dazai pants, and he must be getting close already to sound so wrecked. “You love having my cock inside you. Look at you. Little slut, hard and aching for me to touch you. I bet you’ll come just like this, won’t you? I won’t even have to pay a lick of attention to your dick for you to come.”
And, as if on cue, Atsushi cries out as Dazai makes a particularly pointed thrust, and he spills across his blanket like he’s been pent up for weeks.
(He has. Dazai hasn’t let him come in nearly a month, and what was Atsushi supposed to do but listen?)
“Fuck yes,” Dazai hissing, picking up his pace as he chases his own release. “I knew it, I fucking knew it, you slut, fuck.”
In moments, Atsushi can feel Dazai coming inside him, filling him up, and he sobs into his pillow as if it’ll do anything to stop it.
When he’s done, when Dazai’s had his fill, he pulls out, leaving Atsushi leaking and not bothering to clean him up. Atsushi’s hips fall to the bed now that they’re not being held by anything, and he curls into a ball as he keeps sobbing into his pillow.
“Now do you see, Atsushi?” Dazai says, stroking his hair, gentle as a lover. “You’ll always be mine. Nothing you can do will ever change that.”
Atsushi’s starting to believe him.
