Casualty of the Darkness

When Peter awoke, the sound of rain was almost as loud as the sound of his beating heart and Mr. Stark’s even breathing mixing together. It was a strange combination to hear. His own heartbeat was a heavy internal drum. His mentor’s breathing was just as steady, but also unsettling in the sense that he was scared of the man waking up. The organic drips and plinks of rain added to the moment in a strange and foreboding manner. The boy frequently wondered if the world was somehow in sync with his emotions. Often, he felt like he saw the brightest rays of sunshine dancing across the sky on his happiest days. Rainbows peaked through cloudy skyscapes when he was most proud and storms shook the ground when he was at his lowest points. Right now was definitely one of those low moments, and the world appeared to be in sync with that knowledge.

Outside, storm clouds seemed to mingle with skyscrapers and rain poured down in heavy sheets by the bucket full. The liquid streamed down the large glass windows like huge chasms splitting the earth or giant, rocky waterfalls. Dark, gloomy shadows were cast over the boy’s room by the early evening light and everything had an ominous appearance to it. Stacks of textbooks looked tilted and larger than life. The figures on his posters seemed to have snarled smiles and his sheets looked twisted and mangled.

The man next to him shifted in his sleep. The tan skin around his facial hair pulled and puckered, as his grumbly voice murmured something nonsensical. Still shrouded with sleep, his head flipped to the other side of the bed. It landed with a soft plunk on the black and blue sheets, but he continued on sleeping as if nothing had happened.

At the sight of movement from the man, Peter held his breath in painfully, afraid of making a single noise. He snapped his eyes away from the sleeping figure and and stared at the wall next to his bed. He traced his eyes over the poster hanging inches away from his face. It was a poster of Iron Man standing heroically, with his gauntlet menacingly facing out. The poster made the man look otherworldly and dangerous. It was in stark contrast to the man laying next to him, who had drool stuck in his beard and sliding down his chin. He was only wearing a worn out t shirt and plaid boxers stained with the residue of burn cream. The man who had slept for hours on the floor next to his bed and who in this moment was acting like more of a hero than he ever did in a super suit.

He refused to look at the real life avenger sitting next to him and kept his eyes trained on the poster, because he was terrified of the man. Or rather, he was terrified of the vulnerability of this moment. He was terrified of the calm and gentle way the man touched him. He was terrified of the man figuring out that he truly didn’t deserve to be treated in a nice way.

The boy’s eyes burned. He tried to squint them closed, shut them so tight that no tears could escape from them. The prospect of crying in this moment, experiencing his pain in such an undeniably physical manner, made his heart churn. When he experienced pain physically, he wanted it to be in little semicircle indents from his nails on the inside of his palms. He wanted it to be in poking and prodding at the bruises on his skin, or gnawing at his lip until it bleed. He never wanted to cry, because crying didn't hurt and he was addicted to the release of pain. Crying meant that he was finally admitting that something was wrong, without punishing himself for it. Crying meant that he couldn’t trick himself into thinking he deserved the pain or the rough treatment that both Alex and himself gifted his body with.

A tear landed with a soft plink on his pants, so much like the raindrops falling steadily outside. The pink fabric of his pants darkened and a little patch of blood on the inside of his thigh re-wet itself. The substance weaved through the fabric like water rushing through a crack in sidewalk pavement. Peter prodded a single finger at the little pool of liquid. He watched the blood stain his pale skin with baited breath and teary eyes. He was mesmerized by the thick red liquid dancing through the arch and whorls of his fingerprint. It looked like watercolors, yet the substance was thicker than paint and it was more disturbing than artistic.

The boy shifted his legs, pushing them to be splayed further out on the bed. He lifted his still throbbing ass up and off of the rumpled blue and black sheets. Using his rapidly healing hands, he tried to wiggle out of his favorite pair of pink Hello Kitty pajama pants. However, it was easier said than done and the boy was easily thwarted with the seemingly simple task. When the fabric he was pulling back reached his skinny thighs, it tore and burned painfully. He wanted to vomit when he saw the little clumps of hair, dried semen and blood stuck to the inside of his favorite pink, cartoon pair of fuzzy pajama  pants. It looked so out of place on such juvenile clothing. It was a stark contrast between the painting of an abstract crime, crudely portrayed in a mess of dried bodily fluids and torn hair, and the innocence of childhood naivety present in the pants. It made him feel younger. Like a child whose image of joy and laughter was being ripped away from him. It made him feel vulnerable in a way that made his skin crawl, his head pound and his heart race.

Peter kicked the pants the rest of the way off and his ass slammed back onto the bed. The contact sent pins and needles throughout his entire body. He arched his back in pain, like a cat arches its back when stretching. The shadows on the ceiling looked like ghosts and he tried to focus on the shifting lights dancing across the room, on the weight of his lip under his teeth, and the little pockets of blood that pooled around his teeth.

He chided himself for finding relief in the tingling taste of his own blood and the painful stretch of the cuts on his mouth when his lips shifted. But, the pain was strangely addictive and at least he could control it himself.  

When Peter had first been trying to figure out his sexauilty, like every other confused and horny gay boy in the world, he had watched a lot of porn. He had started out with watching threesomes; looming under the covers in his childhood bedroom at 3 in the morning, hoping his Aunt didn’t hear his reactions. He had then moved on to the strictly gay category when he eventually realized he had no interest in the female members of the videos. Ultimately, and with careful research, the boy had landed in the harder categories of the porn world.

Watching kinky porn had been like a light switch for Peter. As someone who had had quite the fucked up childhood, he was captivated by the idea of controlling your own pain in a sensual way. Redirecting his trauma to pleasure was therapeutic and being in control of losing control was so appealing it hurt. Not to mention that he had been fascinated beyond belief with the way gay men looked when only wearing leather harnesses, or handcuffed to bed posts with blue and purple bite marks marking their skin. He loved the thought of trusting someone enough to hurt you in a loving way; he had been hurt far too many times when there was no love involved.  He had never experienced sensuality through pain, rather he had only experienced pain through pain. Nothing about his relationship with Alex was sensual, it was only painful.

Alex hurt him regularly. Slamming his head against the wall until it bled and forcing his thighs to stay open with a bruising grip. He kicked and punched and spit to his heart's content, and then fucked him roughly and painfully. Grabbing and pushing and fucking and pulling until Peter was truly and utterly broken.

The boy stared down at his naked thighs, almost screaming at the sight. The black and blues painfully painting his skin stared up at him like little thumb shaped bullet wounds or black holes in the fabric of the universe. His bruises weren’t the sign of a trusting, loving relationship. No, his bruises were there with the sole intent of hurting him. They were there to keep him in his place and remind him the consequences of not listening to the one who gave them to him.

The boy shifted, rolling over onto his side and pulling his legs close to his torso. His bruises hit his chest painfully and the sheets of his bed shifted and rumpled under his body’s weight. He was trying to make himself feel smaller. Take up the least amount of space possible and protect himself from a phantom threat. He tipped his head back onto the soft pillow, trying to protect himself. But he felt blindsided by naivety and the tears dripping down the slope of his face felt too real, too familiar.

Peter’s knees burned with friction as he was jerked across the hardwood floor. A rough hand held his hair by the fistful. It ripped and burned as he was forcefully pulled forward. His bare legs caught on splinters and the hard, wooden bottoms of perfect yellow chairs at the kitchen table.

Alex’s other hand firmly grasped his chin. He could feel the skin pulling and protesting under the contact and the starts of bruises painting his skin.

The pad of Alex’s thumb slid into the boy’s closed mouth. Rough fingers pried open his jaw, and his mouth was forced into a large, gaping ‘O’ shape.  

Sunshine streamed beautifully through the large windows of the kitchen, reflecting off of the high quality stainless steel appliances and the curve of Peter’s teeth as the man looming over him thrust over and over and over again into his captive’s mouth.

Drool dripped down his chin, landing in soft pools on his bare thighs and the top of his knees where they bent. His head was tipped all the way back and everytime Alex thrust forward, he choked when hitting his gag reflex.

Eventually, a loud moan disturbed the air and a white substance was being spilled all over his tongue and down his chin. The substance mixed with his tears and the drool and the blood and he felt dirtier than he ever did before.

Peter shot off of the pillow, his entire body flailing like it had been electrocuted. His limbs convulsed and his screams were so loud they sounded like the thunder rumbling outside. The boy’s entire body was shaking like a leaf. He felt like he was simultaneously frozen and on fire and he snapped his neck from side to side in rigid, jerky movements. He desperately tried to chase the phantom weight off his tongue and the taste of semen from his lip.

“...Peter?” Mr. Starks quiet voice said next to him. But Peter ignored it, still trying to chase the taste of semen from his mouth and the weight from his tongue.

In a last ditch attempt, the boy’s fingers were shoved past his lips. He searched frantically in his mouth for a second, before his short fingers pressed his gag reflex and vomit spewed from his lips onto the black and blue bed sheets.

His mouth still tasted like semen and he reached to press at his gag reflex again, he needed the taste gone. gone. gone. But a calloused hand wrapped around his wrists, pulling them away and close the owner's chest.

“...Peter you’re scaring me love. I’m so sorry that I touched you without permission, because I know that must be scary sweetheart but you can’t make yourself throw up like that! You can scream and cry all you want. Hell, you can hate me for what it's worth. But you can never, never, NEVER hurt yourself. Nope. Nada. Not an option. You don’t get to hurt yourself or treat your body like that kid, it’s not an option. Not now, not ever.”

Peter was pulled close to the man. His wrists were being tightly held by the man and his arms were trapped between the two bodies. Mr. Stark was using his free hand to gently card through Peter’s hair. The boy leaned into the feeling of fingers running through his curls. He tried to focus on the positive sensation rather than his want to desperately pull his hand away from Tony and shove it back down his throat. Rid his mouth of the salty, repulsive taste and have it splash to the floor in front of him. But Mr. Stark kept him pinned to his body and wouldn’t let his hands go. He continued running his through the boy's curls, and whispering ‘I won’t let you hurt yourself’ over and over and over again in his ears.

The boy’s head was pressed right against his mentor's chest. His ear brushed against the soft fabric of the man’s t shirt and he nuzzled in closer, trying to fill his nose with the calming scent of the man. He tried to match his breathing to Tony’s steady, if not slightly erratic, heartbeat. The mixture of the steady thumping and the scent greatly helped him calm down. The boy still wanted to vomit, but slowly and steadily the taste of semen faded away from his tongue. He focused on the tangy taste of the drip of blood still on his lip, even the acidity of his own vomit. He focused on anything to could keep his mind off of the white substance he could swear was still in his mouth.

“Peter, sweetheart…” Mr. Stark’s voice sounded less foggy now, like he finally wasn’t listening from underwater. “ You’re doing so good kid, but I need you to focus on your breathing just a little bit more. I don’t want you to pass out from lack of air and I’m scared that might happen if we aren’t super careful right now”

Tony’s voice was sweet as honey. Peter could feel the vibrations rumbling through his entire body every time the man talked. Peter pressed his ear even closer, eager to feel the vibrations of the man’s voice.

“I’m going to take a bunch of deep breaths now kiddo. When I breath you’re gonna have to try and follow me. Does that sound like a plan?” Peter was desperate to be more in control of his breathing, so he quickly nodded in agreement. When his head moved up and down the fabric of the man’s t shirt rustled and he adjusted himself to be able to hear even better.

The inhale of Tony’s chest expanded, large and obtrusive next to his ear. He could hear the little rattle of the man’s lungs, loud and soft all at the same time; he felt like there was a clock inside of him, ticking away the exact measurements of his breathing and forcing him to breath in only a certain manner. After 10 precise counts, the man exhaled. Over eager to release his breath, little drops of blood and vomit speckled the older man’s shirt when Peter exhaled. He cringed at the sight, he tried to close his eyes to rid the picture from his sight, but it was burned into the back of his eyelids.

Seeming to sense his discomfort, the hand in his hair lowered. Mr. Stark rubbed the pads of his finger into the skin on his lower neck and back. The warm skin was soothing and he felt like dough being kneaded.

“Hey kid,” Tony’s voice sounded strange, the inflection prolonged and choppy due to his continued pattern of measured breathing, “you’re sounding so much better with the breathing Peter and I’m so proud of you for working on it. I want to grab you some water though, so we can get that nasty taste of vomit out of your mouth. It probably doesn’t taste very good and I promise you’ll feel better when it’s gone. Does that sound ok?”

Peter felt his breathing begin to labor once again at the question. He felt like he was orbiting out of control in a single second, unable to control what was happening. But luckily, Mr. Stark barely let it happen. The minute he started panicking, the man was already holding him closer to his body. He started breathing deeper as an example and rubbed, larger more soothing circles into the skin of his back.

Peter truly did want the water, in fact he wanted to drink 5 bottles of water. But the boy was terrified that the water wouldn’t actually fix the problem. Sure he wanted to get the taste of vomit out his mouth. Even more so, he wanted to feel cleaner and less like a gross mess. But he was scared that it wouldn’t actually work because, the problem wasn’t truly the vomit. The problem was the taste of semen still lingering on his tongue like a bad aftertaste he couldn’t shake. The problem was the weight of a penis he could still feel in his mouth. It was the ever present feeling of being used that he wanted to get rid of.  

The boy wasn’t quite sure how to vocalize this in a way that didn’t expose him as the dirty faggot that he was. But he needed to try, because if the water didn’t cut it, he had know idea how to explain the issue to his mentor.

When he spoke, Peter’s voice was garbled and gravelly like he had eaten a handful of sand. He had a hard time pressing the words out, but he pushed and pushed and pushed hoping the man would understand. “I-i-i-t-ts no-no-not the vomit. No. no. no. ma-ma- ma-ake i-i-i-it g-g-g-go away. Pl-pl-please make it leave. Ple-ase Mr. Stark, please….”

His voice trailed off at the end, but it was clear that the man understood when he pulled slightly away from Peter. He kept the boy’s wrists firmly locked in place, but otherwise held the boy out at arms distance. “I don’t understand kid, what is the problem then?” His mentor’s voice was low and quizzical.

Peter’s heart was beating out of his chest. He wasn’t quite sure of how to answer the question. Words were refusing to work for him right now and he couldn’t use his body to explain the situation. If his hands had been free, the boy might’ve attempted to signal abstractly at his crotch and then back up to his throat. But his hands were securely pinned down and he had no way of expressing his problem except through his words.

So the boy opened his mouth, trying to form any sort of coherent sentence that would help the man understand his problem. But in the end he could only out three words that made his blood chill, “Cu-cu-m, i-i-it tastes li-like cum.”

Peter’s hands were quickly dropped from the firm hold. His limbs dangled near his naked legs dumbly and his eyes were trained on his bare feet. He didn’t dare look up, make eye contact with the fuming man standing in front of him. He could feel Tony’s anger like a volcano that was about to erupt. The room felt heavier than before and his mentor’s labored breathing was louder than the storm outside.

“Peter,” His voice sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “You need a rape kit right fucking now kid.”

Peter backed away at the words, shaking his head profusely. He did NOT need a rape kit. Rape kits weren’t for boys and especially not boys like him. Little faggots who couldn’t handle a little rough sex. No, he did not need a rape kid because his boyfriend went a little hard on him in the bedroom.

Tony stepped closer to the retreating boy, gently laying a hand on his upper arm and trying to lead him out of the room. “Yes Peter. You are getting a rape kit right fucking now. This game of ours has gone on for too long. I tried to let you calm down, talk to me on your own, but I thought you just got your ass kicked or something.” His eyes trail down to Peter’s naked lower half and the boy quickly scrambled to cover the bruises, dried semen and blood covering his crotch and thigh area. “For god's sake Peter, you have blood and cum all over your legs, you’re covered in bruises, your ass hurts when it’s touched and you’re having panic attacks tasting semen. Not to mention the whole trying to make yourself vomit thing and your self busted lip. Sweetheart, I know this terrifying, but you were clearly raped and you need a rape kit right fucking now to catch this scum bag. We won’t know who he is if we don’t do this. We need to know who he is Peter.”

Peter’s heart stopped.The boy wanted to scream and shout until his throat bleed. Tony thought a stranger did this. He wanted the boy to get a rape kit because he thought someone unknown man cornered him and raped him. What was he going to say when he found out the not only did Peter know the person who did this, but he was dating the person. What would his mentor say when he discovered his protege was in a homosexual relationship with the person who did this.

The boy had to reason with Tony. He wasn’t getting a rape kit. No. No. No. No. No rape kit. He wouldn’t incriminate Alex in a crime he didn’t commit. They were a relationship, so this couldn’t be rape because he consented by virtue of dating Alex. He deserved what he got anyways because he was a fucking freak.

Unbeknownst to him, his pleading had been vocalized and Tony quickly shut it down, “Yes Peter. You are getting a rape kit no matter what you say, you don’t have a choice in the matter sweetheart. We are going to go downstairs right fucking now, I’m going to call someone I trust to perform the exam and we are going to discover the scumbag that did this.”

Peter saw red at that moment, screaming the first thing that could come to his mind. “He didn’t rape me Mr. Stark, he loves me and I don’t fucking care what he does to me!”

Tony’s expression was shocked, his body shaking in little tremors as his eyes turned murderous. “Are you seriously telling me,” His voice was low and terrifying, “that you are fucking dating the man who did this to you?”

It was phrased as a question, but the minute Tony saw Peter’s guilty expression, his entire body deflated like a balloon. “Oh sweetheart,” The man pulled him into a hug, “how could this happen to you? How could I have failed you this hard? How did this fucking happen?”

Tears soaked into Peter’s skin faster than the rain outside. The man was holding him so tight, like he was scared the boy would melt away if he let go. “He doesn’t love you Peter. I promise he doesn’t love you sweetheart.” The pads of the man’s fingers gently ghosted across the bruises and dried substances on his thighs. “Love doesn't hurt Peter. Please, sweetheart you have to believe me. This is not love. He doesn’t love you Peter, I promise that he doesn't love you sweetheart.”

Peter’s tears dripped down his chin, landing with soft thuds next to his mentor’s. His hands wrapped around around Tony’s and he pried them away from his thighs, “You don’t understand Mr. Stark, Alex loves me..he’s just...he’s just mean sometimes… and I deserve it anyways... ” The infliction of his voice turned down at the end and his sentence trailed off.

Mr. Stark pulled completely away from the boy, the only point of contact left was a single finger catching tears from his eyes. “I know you probably won’t understand this for a long time, but I promise you this boy does not love you. He is an abusive, manipulative, piece of shit who preys on those weaker than himself. No one, and I mean NO one who loves you would ever hurt you in this way. If anyone ever tries to convince you that they hurt you out of love, if any one ever dares manipulate you into thinking the bruises they give you are beautiful, or the words they hurt you with are loving; if anyone ever fucking forces you to have sex with them, even when you don’t want it, I need you to run the fuck away. I never want to hear the words ‘I deserve it’ ever come out of your mouth again.”

“But- but I really do deserve it Mr. Stark. Don’t you hate me for being gay? For being a faggot? Don’t you want me to punished for being a freak?” He pleaded, not being able to wrap his head around the kindness the man was showing him.

At the words, Mr. Stark looked like he was going to faint. He looked like a tree swaying before it came crashing down to the earth. Goosebumps ran across the man’s tan flesh and tears fell from his eyes like waves crashing during high tide. In that moment, it felt like time stopped. The expression on Tony’s face was frozen in permanent shock. The only movement was in the movement of rain drops causing shadows to flicker across the floor and dance on the ceiling. But eventually, he softly asked Peter “Can I please have your hand sweetheart?” The boy eagerly compiled, willing to do anything for the man in this moment. He would do anything to make time feel like it was moving once again.

Tony took the boy’s small hands in his larger ones and closed them in his palms. He had the boy rub his own fingers over the blistering flesh of his palms. His skin felt rough and broken, like a mountain range or course sand. Peter shivered at the contact, unsure of his opinion on the texture of his own wounded skin. Tony then guided the boy’s hands up to his lip. The man’s rough fingers guided him to prod at his split lip and the tiny cracks and cuts in the skin. Blood soaked into the tips of his fingers and he winced when he pressed at the tender flesh. Peter’s hands were then dragged down to his thighs. Tony had him run them over the stickiness of drying cum and blood, which added to the blood already on her finger. He was directed to push lightly on his bruises and truly feel the pain they caused him and he dragged his nails against the little cuts close to his knees caps. Finally, the man brought Peter’s hand to his chest. He directed the boy to hold it flat against his chest in order to feel every pump of his heart and every breath he took.

The air in the room was tense. Everything looked a little off, disturbed in some strange fundamental way. The black and blue sheets on the bed were stained with smears of blood and little puddles of rancid smelling vomit. Textbooks lay strewn across the rooms, the stacks having been knocked over in his panic. His favorite pair of pinky Hello Kitty pants were bloodied and lay on the floor across the room from where they had originally been. It looked like a wild animal had been set loose, with the sole intent of ruining everything. It made him sad to see. This room was usually a safe haven and escape from the rest of the world, but now it seemed tainted.

Outside, the sun was setting and Tony was shrouded in hues of blues and purples mixing with the stormy sky. He looked chaotic yet serene as he spoke in a soft tone, “I want you to listen to me Peter and I want you to try and understand what I’m saying. This is your body sweetheart. This is your very own body and it is the only one you will ever get. If you mess it up you don’t get another body. No, this is your very own body for now and forever more. That means that your body needs to be something you cherish. No one, not even yourself, gets to hurt or cause harm to your body.” A hand lightly brushed across Peter’s head. “Your mind counts as your body Peter,” The hand was now brushing across his chest. “And so is your heart. No one gets to hurt you there either. And that includes you kid. I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself a freak or a faggot again. I would love you if you had seven arms, nevertheless if you loved the same gender. And even if I didn’t, I don’t get to hurt you. No one gets to hurt you.” The man stopped to draw in a deep breath of air and the continued, “I know you think you know what’s best, but as soon as this conversation is done, we’re going downstairs and you’re going to get a rape kit. I love you too much to take any risks. Even if we don’t use his DNA or anything, what happens if you have an STD? Or god forbid, what if you have HIV? We need to know these things kiddo and I promise to call someone I trust and know and I’ll be there every step of the way. But, we truly do need to do this before we can do anything else.”

Peter sighed, angry at the man for being so logical. He wanted to keep his head held high and refuse to get the testing. But, he knew that Mr. Stark was correct. Regardless of how embarrassing this was, he needed to stay physically, mentally and sexually safe. And even if Peter kept on trying to convince himself that this wasn't rape, or that he deserved it, the boy still didn’t want to get an STD. He had never been tested before, so he liked to think he was clean. But, there was a large chance he wasn’t. Alex had been penetrating him without protection for months- which was quite terrifying in all honesty. When their relationship had first started, and Peter still felt like he had a say, he used to beg Alex to use a condom. He would constantly try to remind his boyfriend that unprotected sex, especially unprotected gay sex, just wasn’t safe. He didn’t want to die an early death because his first teenage boyfriend wouldn't use a condom.

But Alex never listened to him when the boy begged him to use protection. In fact, his begging had frequently resorted in harsh punishments. Socks or ties were often stuffed in his mouth to make the boy ‘shut the fuck up.’ Sometimes, Alex would cruelly make him swallow his semen just to scare the boy even more. Every time he complained, it became worse and worse, Alex’s patience pulling thin like a rubber band about to snap. It was a rough cycle and Peter learned quickly to stop complaining. By keeping his mouth shut, he could protect himself in a small sort of way.

Peter’s skin crawled at the realization that he very easily could have some sort of STD. He didn’t want a rape kit because he wasn’t raped… but maybe, just maybe this could be a good thing. Peter probably would never know it if he had some sort of STD if he didn’t take advantage of this moment. Wanting to stay safe wasn’t a bad thing, right? Maybe he could even get the person to not collect the DNA evidence. He could explain the predicament, that he wasn’t actually raped and that his boyfriend was just a little rough. Then he could get the test results without any other mention of the word ‘rape.’ That was ok right? He would just be getting the test for his own safety, nothing else.

With that knowledge in  mind, the boy knew what he had to do and whispered,  “Alright…I’ll do the test.” His voice cracked at the end and his eyes threatened to spill over with tears. He knew that it had to be done for his own safety, but it still felt mortifying to say aloud.

A hand landed in a soft pat on his upper arm. Peter started up at the man through his teary  eyes and tried to give a small smile. “Good boy Peter, I promise everything is going to be alright.”

Peter wasn’t sure he believed the man quite yet. But as they headed towards the elevator and Tony flipped open his cell phone to call someone he trusted, Peter can’t help but feel safe for the first time in a very long time. He was terrified of the results of this test, mortified for needing it in the first place, but he would keep his head held tall. He would put his well being first and trust himself and Mr. Stark to know what was best for him.