Fic: New Sensation
Title: New Sensation
Fandom: The Who's Tommy
Pairing: Uncle Ernie/Tommy
Rating: R
Warnings: non-con, sexual abuse, sex with a minor, general trippiness
A/N: 450 words. Context is not necessary, but, if you like, Wikipedia has a song-by-song synopsis of Tommy. This corresponds to the song "Fiddle About".
The difference between waking and dreaming was almost academic. Both were filled with light and sound, perceived but not processed, sensations transmitted through vibration into the silence.
At first, he thought it was a dream, a rare nightmare, that the sudden cold and feel of hands creeping up his thighs were subconscious fragments that had somehow penetrated into the gold of his existence. But he recognized the specific change in air that meant person and felt the acrid scent of smoke and drink swim across his face.
Vibration: voice. Laughter?
A heavy weight shifted on the bed, and one hand was on his stomach, now, as the other lingered on the inside of his leg. He knew the sensation of skin, of hands, often longed for it, but he had no context for this, no category for the feel of fingers scrambling toward the recess of his sex.
Pressure suddenly lay across the length of his body. Vibration: voice. And a rancid wet warmth against his cheek. He could not breath, could not move, and choked on the bile flooding his throat.
He felt his legs being spread and, through the physical haze, wondered abstractly what was going on. A solid heat ground into him, pressing roughly into the flesh between he legs. Blunt, ragged fingernails dug into his hips, and he thought they might keep tearing straight into his core.
The little boy in his head, the one who saw and heard and spoke and had borne witness to every atrocity, screamed, a great and shattering sound that burned in his mouth though he could not give it voice. His mind drifted at a distance as his still body was batter and desecrated, and the little boy kicked and fought and shouted at him to do something.
The rough, wicked hands lifted his knees and raised his hips from the bed. He turned his mind away, but the little boy stayed, staring and screaming.
He’s hurting me!
The vibrations quickened.
Stop it! Stop him!
The pain grew sharper, and he felt his body tense.
Do you see? Do you know what’s happening?
Sensations coursed through him, and his consciousness hummed like a struck chord.
Why don’t you move?!
A last vicious push, and he could not stop his back from arching, his fingers gripping hard into the mattress. Vibration, vibration, evil and without meaning. The weight and dark heat moved away, leaving the spectre of stale odours and a sharp scent he didn’t know.
Without pulling up the bedclothes, he rolled onto his side, thighs damp and sticking, drawing his knees up close to his chest to lessen the peripheral vibrations, and listened to the little boy crying.
~Feedback keeps me writing.
:shadowen:
PS: the current music is totally an accident and has nothing to do with the fic...
Fandom: The Who's Tommy
Pairing: Uncle Ernie/Tommy
Rating: R
Warnings: non-con, sexual abuse, sex with a minor, general trippiness
A/N: 450 words. Context is not necessary, but, if you like, Wikipedia has a song-by-song synopsis of Tommy. This corresponds to the song "Fiddle About".
The difference between waking and dreaming was almost academic. Both were filled with light and sound, perceived but not processed, sensations transmitted through vibration into the silence.
At first, he thought it was a dream, a rare nightmare, that the sudden cold and feel of hands creeping up his thighs were subconscious fragments that had somehow penetrated into the gold of his existence. But he recognized the specific change in air that meant person and felt the acrid scent of smoke and drink swim across his face.
Vibration: voice. Laughter?
A heavy weight shifted on the bed, and one hand was on his stomach, now, as the other lingered on the inside of his leg. He knew the sensation of skin, of hands, often longed for it, but he had no context for this, no category for the feel of fingers scrambling toward the recess of his sex.
Pressure suddenly lay across the length of his body. Vibration: voice. And a rancid wet warmth against his cheek. He could not breath, could not move, and choked on the bile flooding his throat.
He felt his legs being spread and, through the physical haze, wondered abstractly what was going on. A solid heat ground into him, pressing roughly into the flesh between he legs. Blunt, ragged fingernails dug into his hips, and he thought they might keep tearing straight into his core.
The little boy in his head, the one who saw and heard and spoke and had borne witness to every atrocity, screamed, a great and shattering sound that burned in his mouth though he could not give it voice. His mind drifted at a distance as his still body was batter and desecrated, and the little boy kicked and fought and shouted at him to do something.
The rough, wicked hands lifted his knees and raised his hips from the bed. He turned his mind away, but the little boy stayed, staring and screaming.
He’s hurting me!
The vibrations quickened.
Stop it! Stop him!
The pain grew sharper, and he felt his body tense.
Do you see? Do you know what’s happening?
Sensations coursed through him, and his consciousness hummed like a struck chord.
Why don’t you move?!
A last vicious push, and he could not stop his back from arching, his fingers gripping hard into the mattress. Vibration, vibration, evil and without meaning. The weight and dark heat moved away, leaving the spectre of stale odours and a sharp scent he didn’t know.
Without pulling up the bedclothes, he rolled onto his side, thighs damp and sticking, drawing his knees up close to his chest to lessen the peripheral vibrations, and listened to the little boy crying.
~Feedback keeps me writing.
:shadowen:
PS: the current music is totally an accident and has nothing to do with the fic...