Chapter Text
I’ll never be the same.
Chapter One:
It was the Autumn of 2015 when everything started going to shit for Ian. In hindsight, it had really been much earlier, but in the midst of those cold, stressful months, is when Ian first realised that everything around him was falling apart. The worst part about it though, was that he couldn’t do anything to stop it. Anthony and him had signed away their rights years ago, and now could only watch and pray as their livelihood was destroyed from the inside out.
Dave Dilford, the CEO of Defy Media, had called him in for a meeting on the 16th of November, fourteen days before Ian’s twenty-eighth birthday. It was strange – having a 1:1 rather than a group meeting, but Ian shrugged off the suspicions; it was just a meeting after all. Now however, he wished more than anything that he had queried it, for that one horrific meeting forever became a pivotal piece of his life story.
Ian hadn’t questioned it – he’d insisted that it was fine, because why on earth would it not be? Dave was his boss, and sure he might not be the most conventional of bosses (or conventional at all to be honest), but he was still in charge – he wasn’t going to schedule a meeting for no reason. The anxiety had most certainly taken hold, yet Ian tried to push the wavering feelings aside, like Moses parting the red sea, as he approached the office door. He’d knocked, his fingernails jammed into the palm of his hand.
Then he’d knocked again.
And then the door opened.
The first half of the meeting went by like a breeze, and Ian found himself laughing and joking with the older man. They were discussing sketch ideas – Dave had said that he was meeting with Ian and Anthony separately, although Ian no longer remembered the phony reasoning he’d given to do so. The environment was fine, the conversation was sparking, and Ian’s anxiety had all but dissipated. Perhaps that’s why the next thing to happen still stings in the back of his mind so much; he hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t been prepared to fight or flight. He’d been pliant, docile, and that’s exactly what he’d intended.
Ian remembers slowly glancing towards the clock on the wall, seeing the time 16:28. He’d been in there for almost half an hour. “Hey, Dave, is it alright if we wrap up soon?” He’d turned his head back around to face the other man, and that’s when everything changed.
Dave was standing now, his face now moulded into a grotesque smile through Ian’s warping perception. His eyes lowered quickly, focussing for a second too long on the man’s exposed genitalia. What? Why-
But there was no time to think about it. There never was.
Ian couldn’t remember the exacts of what happened after that. He could see flashes in his mind, see himself making a dash for the door, feeling the handle jam. It was locked. He could remember Dave’s warm hands on his, caressing so gently across his face. He’d wanted to scream, to shout, to punch and kick out, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d remained still, like he was a doll, with which Dave could enact his most base fantasies. He’d stood there and done nothing to stop Dave from undoing his fly, from touching him through his underwear, from standing so close, breathing in his ear, wispy facial hair rubbing against his cheek.
It was 16:36 when he next looked at the time, his head bent sideways on the desk, his eyes locked onto the gentle ticking of the analogue clock that juxtaposed so violently to the rough hands touching him in places he’d never even touched himself.
It was 16:38 when Dave first entered him. Barely ten minutes had passed, yet Ian’s whole life had been changed forever.
He could hear Dave’s quiet groans in his ears, the man clearly trying to make as little noise as possible. His front was flush with Ian’s back, his penis jackhammering into Ian from behind; the raw stinging sensation stabbing into him doing little to bring pleasure. It hurt so badly, he felt like he was being ripped open, torn in half, and yet he still couldn’t scream. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, mingling with the snot blubbering on his top lip, and yet he still couldn’t scream. It was like his spirit had been knocked out of him, like he was just an observer of his own trauma, not an active participant. He still couldn’t scream. He wanted to die.
16:39. The clock kept ticking.
16:40.
16:41.
16:42. Ian’s eyes were becoming too blurry to even read the clock properly at this point, yet the slow and meticulous counting of the seconds inside his own brain was the only thing grounding him in reality. Dave still hadn’t slown down, his hips pistoning into him with certain ferocity. His body was surely a myriad of blacks and blues now, his knuckles a guiding beacon of white as they strained against the edge of the desk.
It wasn’t too much later, that he felt it. The release of something inside him. He knew exactly what it was, but he tried his hardest not to dwell on it, as the warmth filled him up, Dave finally slowing his pace.
“You’re so beautiful.” Ian was on his back now, his sweat sticking him to the desk beneath him. He could feel the spend leaking from him, pouring down onto the table, and he swore that there must’ve been gallons of the stuff, for the sensation was unending. Dave was caressing him again, running a wet hand through Ian’s hair, his lips attaching like fangs to the side of his neck. The pain of the love bites had nothing on the pain of his backside. Dave took Ian's penis in hand. He couldn’t think straight. He could barely even breathe. “You’re all mine.”
The 16th of November 2015 was not a good day.
Ian barely remembers leaving the office, barely remembers staggering to his car and driving home, barely remembers stripping off his clothes and turning on the shower. He does remember the shower though – remembers standing for hours as he let the water wash over him, scrubbing at every inch of his body with the kitchen scourer, until his skin was red and raw and peeling off all over. He couldn’t clean deep enough to remove the dirt that really mattered, that was bone-deep now; he’d never be able to get rid of it.
He ignored his phone as he slid into bed that evening, not so much as glancing at the clock as he forced the curtains closed over the settling darkness. He curled into himself, holding his knees up to his chest, begging that he could be reborn tomorrow as anyone other than himself. As anyone other than that man from the office.
Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.