Work Text:
His thighs sting from the insistent pounding. A pitiful attempt to recreate something he once felt before.
The man above him grunts—he smells like sweat, cigarettes and booze. It’s not the same. Not enough.
The world is spinning all around him. He can’t focus.
Memories of sharp nails, the taste of bile and an onslaught of nasty words directed at him cloud his mind. Cold, dark basements at night. Selfishly taking what he wanted. He can’t help but miss it.
His chest aches. The mattress is stiff and uncomfortable beneath him. It hurts. At least that part is similar.