And Infallible Reason {0}
An Infallible Reason
~*~
When Arthur hired Merlin as his assistant two years ago, he didn't expect them to become friends. When he sent Merlin home that night, he didn't expect things to change so much. But they did.
~*~
{0}: perpetual motion
Merlin cranks up the volume on his iPod as far as it will go. He can still faintly hear the men shouting behind him over the guitar riffs, but at least now he can't make out what they're saying. In the two years that he's worked for Camelot, he's gotten used to walking through this park and coming across... interesting people. The whole block is packed full of night clubs (Merlin visits them himself sometimes, when he's not too tired), so most of them are drunk or well on their way there by the time Merlin treks through the trees. It doesn't really excuse their behaviour, but Merlin can't quite blame them for being loud and obnoxious when he can smell the alcohol in the air around them; it's not like he doesn't get a bit out of control when he drinks.
Besides, for all the noise they make, the people who gather here are not usually violent. Mostly they just talk amongst themselves and laugh. And sure, sometimes they share their opinions of the passers-by in a not-entirely-polite way, but that's all. The worst that's ever happened to Merlin was being called fag a few times, but that happens even when people are not inebriated, so he just ignored it and carried on. After all, he's had more than a decade to get used to being called names for choosing not to hide who he is.
The voices behind him have faded away by the time he reaches the most secluded part of the park. It's a relief not to hear the whistles and the how about you get on your knees for me from the two newest additions to Merlin's least favourite group of park-dwellers (they're really the only ones he's ever had even the slightest problems with, and tonight they seem to be particularly vicious); at the same time, though, he wishes there was somebody else in this section - while he likes to think that he doesn't scare quite that easily (years of living in similar neighbourhoods have taught him as much), this area is still unsettling after two years of walking through it. The dense trees warrant near-preternatural dark, and although Merlin has never encountered anyone here personally, by the used condoms he finds in the morning, he knows this is the chosen place of many for a quick fuck, something he'd rather not witness tonight.
It's this part of his shortcut home that often has him wondering if it wouldn't be better to take the longer way down larger, but more roundabout streets, or maybe even pay the ridiculously high price of a monthly Tube ticket. The bodyguards Camelot rents out have offered to walk him home often enough (and teased Arthur over having such a problematic block not twenty minutes away from his main building), but he's always said no, because he knows they're exhausted and he doesn't want to feel like he's using his friends. Still, this route saves him a fair amount of time and, having lived in the area for years, he's rather used to the kind of people who go out here. After all, it wasn't that long ago that his friends and him also spent their Friday nights on the park benches with beers in their hands.
He brings the volume down now that there's no need for him to blast away his eardrums in order to avoid the crude comments, and speeds up, wanting to get out of the park as soon as possible. He's tired, and it's nearing midnight, and he just wants to get home and sleep. It's been a long day, with one of their alarm systems malfunctioning and one of their bodyguards injured on duty, so Arthur (and, by default, Merlin too) spent the whole day buried in papers and complaints and letters and bills and statements; when Merlin left, Arthur only waved at him without looking up from the papers he was still studying carefully even though it was way past their working hours on a Friday night. Merlin smiles at the memory - for all that Arthur is an arrogant, spoiled prat who teases every single one of his employees relentlessly, and tortures them with the long hours and too many tasks, he works just as hard (even harder) than all of them, and it's something Merlin respects.
As a song he doesn't feel like listening to right now starts, he takes his iPod out and starts going through the tracks on his playlist. As it usually happens, he has to forward through another sixteen songs before he finds something he wants to hear. A few branches crack somewhere behind him and whispered conversation reaches his ears over the temporarily silent earphones, but he resolutely pays it no mind, determined to avoid any awkward confrontations with people not wearing enough clothes for public. He finally settles on one song and places his iPod back in his pocket. He shoves his hands into his pockets too, fingers curling possessively around the blue plastic of his Shuffle's mask, and speeds up further. For some reason, the park is creeping him out even more than it usually does and he feels some kind of prickling on the back of his neck; he doesn't believe in having a bad feeling about something or sensing that someone's walking behind you, but he doesn't quite have a better explanation of what it is that has him almost running right now.
He barely contains a sigh of relief as he sees the street lights through the trees - he's going to seriously reconsider the Tube after this. He's about to skip the last few steps (dignity be damned), when a sweaty hand grabs his wrist and tugs him backwards. He stumbles, trips over his own feet and falls to the ground with a loud thud. His earphones are pulled out of his ears painfully by the impact, his iPod rolls out of his pocket and lands not far away, continuing to play loudly enough for Merlin to still hear the beat. Nonplussed, Merlin moves to get up when a fist lands on his cheekbone, causing sharp pain to shoot behind his eyes; he curses but doesn't manage to do much more when he's cut off by somebody yanking his head back by the hair. He hisses in pain and flails his arms so as not to fall down. The ground he is sitting on is soft and damp from the rain yesterday, more mud than dirt, and he can feel his jeans getting wet. He tries to twist around and away from the fingers gripping his hair, still completely confused as to what's happening.
“None of that now, sugar,” somebody says directly into his ear and with a shock, Merlin remembers the voice as belonging to one of the men who teased him as he entered the park. He feels the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. His insides twist unpleasantly as the man's friend steps out from the shadows.
“Oh, look at you, being all brave,” he coos with a smirk. There's something in his hand and Merlin barely manages to wonder what it is before the guy squeezes it with his fingers just so and a blade pops out. Merlin suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe. He tries to stand up, twist away, fight back, anything, but in his current position, sitting on the ground, his head held back, throat exposed, there's little he can do but sit and wait or try something and risk falling flat on his back, thus putting himself at an even greater disadvantage. He swallows audibly giving the guy in front of him a once over. He's maybe a few years older than Merlin, a bit shorter, but of a stronger build, definitely muscular, undoubtedly capable of overpowering Merlin if need be. Merlin swallows again, his throat dry and panic tying his guts in knots, frantically thinking of words to talk his way out of this.
“Scared, princess?” the man behind him asks, voice saccharine sweet, words just slightly slurred. Merlin shivers. “Don't worry, we're not gonna hurt you. We're just gonna give you what you want.”
Merlin can hardly hear the words over the white noise in his ears and his brain is way too far into the fight-or-flight response to analyze the words; he tries to break free again, but the hand in his hair tightens and pulls him back sharply, almost catching him off-balance and sending him tumbling backwards. Merlin yelps in pain and shuts his eyes tightly, keeping the tears at the sudden stinging in his scalp from spilling over. He refuses to cry in front of these savages.
The tsking from the man in front of him is far too close for comfort. Merlin's eyes snap open and he comes face to face with one of his attackers, going slightly cross-eyed to even see him. “Now, now, don't fight us. That won't be fun,” the man sneers lifting the blade so that Merlin can see it. His other hand comes up and grips Merlin's jaw tightly, holding it completely still. Merlin loses sight of the blade, but feels the cold metal on the side of his neck quickly enough. He tries to swallow, but finds that his throat burns when he does. “Wouldn't want to cut that pretty neck of yours,” the man continues, sounding almost pensive, running the tip of the blade from Merlin's ear down to his shoulder. Merlin feels the thin stripe of fire the knife leaves in its wake, signalling the skin's been broken. He sucks in a breath.
“What do you want from me?” he asks, voice breaking pathetically, and Merlin would be embarrassed (his mother has told him countless times, never to show weakness to a bully) but there's a knife pressed to his throat and two men looking hungry for his blood holding him down. His fingers are twitching and his skin is burning with the need to get away, even though he knows he can't - even if he manages to break free from the man holding him down, the other one would easily stop him from going anywhere.
The man behind Merlin chuckles, an entirely unpleasant sound, and releases Merlin's hair. Merlin can't help the whimper that leaves his throat when he's shoved forward into the other man's arms. The guy in front of him steps to the side and Merlin scrambles to kneel. Both men laugh as he finally finds balance on all fours. His cheeks heat and he quickly starts to stand up, but one of the men puts a foot on his lower back and pushes him down.
“No, no, don't stand up. That's just how we want you,” he says.
Merlin's eyes go wide and he feels his stomach drops all the way to the centre of the Earth as realization dawns on him and wipes everything but sheer, utter panic out of his mind. “No, please. Please let me go,” he pleads desperately, so beyond caring for pride and dignity and advice, for anything but getting out of there. He tries to stand up again, but the foot on his back presses him down painfully and it's all he can do to stay upright.
“Told you he'd beg,” one of his attackers says through a laugh. “You owe me five quid.”
“Whatever,” the other answers. Merlin tries to scramble away from them, but he's not fast enough so one of them grabs his arms and twists them behind his back. Merlin grunts as his face hits the muddy ground. “What did we say about fighting us?” the man chides softly. Merlin feels like throwing up at the sound - kind and warm, affectionate even. Disgusting. He continues to squirm. One of the men sighs and then there's a blade at Merlin's throat. Merlin freezes immediately.
“If you don't stop trying to get away, I'll kill you,” the guy says, words clear and intentional. Merlin barely dares breathe. The eyes that stare into his are hardly hazy at all, the man's breath contains barely any trace of alcohol, but he has a manic expression, a glint in his gaze that makes Merlin believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that he means business. He stands up and steps away; Merlin barely has enough time to take a breath before his upper body is hauled up by his wrists (still held together behind his back, squeezed tightly in a large hand). This time, Merlin goes willingly, letting his arms go limp and fitting his body to the position the men direct him into; all the while, he can hear Will's sing-song voice in his ear, telling him just relax as much as you can, it won't hurt so much then, and don't fight back, they'll find it less interesting if you don't after that one time Merlin ended up with a split lip and black eye, and Will walked him home, promising to protect him from the bullies every time he can - it was how they became friends and it's still one of Merlin's favourite childhood memories.
Thinking about Will has contradictory effects on Merlin: on the one hand, he wants to laugh (and he knows that's just the utter panic in him working him to the point of hysteria), on the other, he really feels like crying (because Will's on a holiday in France, and there's nobody here to help him now, and hell, he doesn't even know if he'll ever see Will again). Before he can pick the appropriate reaction, however, his arms are released and one of his attackers growls into his ear, “Hands and knees, beauty.” Merlin's body assumes the required position, while his brain is oddly detached from it, possibly still too lost in the memories and thoughts to be an active part of the here and now (he pretends he doesn't notice the traitorous thought coping mechanism).
As the man in front of him brings the knife to his face again, Merlin doesn't flinch. It's almost as if this is all happening to someone else, and he's just a helpless witness to it. As if his consciousness is broken to pieces, each focused on one thing, none of them whole enough to keep him aware of his surroundings and thoughts at the same time, he feels the flat of the blade pressed menacingly to his cheek, the hands of the other man as they slide down his sides to his hips, snaking under his shirt and locating the belt of his jeans, but the fear's lost its sharp edge now, has been all but replaced with an odd sense of resignation; it seems to Merlin as if he's watching a disturbing video of something that he can't change. In many ways, this is worse than the panic that consumed him when he was first pushed to the ground.
A slap to the face doesn't bring him out of his haze, nor does the touch of chilly air to his naked skin when the man behind him yanks his jeans down roughly. In a strange moment of complete disconnect, he goes through all the statistics on home invasions that he needs to know for Arthur's meeting tomorrow, barely even registering as a rough hand slides appreciatively over his ass and the knife twists on his face, just barely nicking him under his left cheekbone. The distant part of his brain that is usually busy nagging at him is now screaming for him to do something, but it's not strong enough to overpower the shock of this can't be happening.
In his current state of mind, it's almost a surprise to hear two sets of belts and zippers being undone, and for a split second he thinks that this is the moment he finally wakes up from this nightmare. But it's not, and that sobers Merlin somewhat. The part of his brain that is not paralyzed by fear or simply refusing to accept that this is real takes over more firmly when he feels blunt fingernails digging into the sensitive skin of his cleft as his arsecheeks are spread; he jerks away from uninvited, probing fingers and, in a panic-induced insanity, tries to get up and run away. The man in front of him backhands him, the knife he's holding catching on Merlin's lips, just barely breaking them in the corners, just enough to burn with every curve of his mouth.
“What did we say about running?” the man hisses, gripping Merlin's jaw and tilting his face up. “Try that again, and you'll regret it. Got it?” Merlin shuts his eyes tightly as he nods, incapable of doing anything else and so very afraid of what might happen to him if he tries. But it's somehow more difficult when he can't see - it's too easy to feel the rough hands on the backs of his thighs, to smell cigarettes and sweat and a hint of alcohol, to hear the sound of traffic so close, and yet too far for him.
As he quickly opens his eyes, everything around him seems to slow down. It's like being in a movie played in slow-motion when a sudden gust of wind makes him shiver all over, the man behind him laughs and smacks his ass, the man in front of him slips a thumb over his lips and it hits Merlin, all the kept-at-bay panic spilling over him with that one thought - he's not getting out of this. He doesn't have time to finish freaking out, before the whole frame-by-frame feeling goes away to be replaced with burning pain that seems to spread out over every single cell in his body; his vision blacks out and he would scream, but a fist connects with his jaw, effectively shutting him up. For what feels like hours after that, he's not aware of anything but pain and darkness; it takes him a disturbing amount of time to figure out that he closed his eyes at some point. When he does, he considers opening them, but he's not sure he wants to face the world around him just yet.
He quickly loses track of time. It's difficult to focus on anything (including his own thoughts) other than the pulsing of rhythmical strokes in and out of him. Gradually, the agony starts ebbing away, and the sense of phantom pain all over his skin fades until all that's left is the burn of being stretched too much, being fucked roughly and without preparation. It's nothing he hasn't experienced before, and yet, when he opens his eyes, he finds them full of tears. It's difficult to form a cohesive thought when one part of his brain is busy panicking and the other is praying to wake up from a nightmare and yet another is still frantically, uselessly trying to figure a way out, but he does manage to conclude that pain is not the reason why he feels like he's suffocating, like his skin is on fire. No, it's not physical pain that has him panicking uncharacteristically while his normal smart-ass self who does what he thinks should be done and fights against what he thinks is wrong remains repressed somewhere deep under the blabbering, almost-crying idiot that he is currently; no, it's not pain, it's not even fear or disgust, it's the overwhelming sense of helplessness, the inability to do anything to change his current situation, to get away, the lack of any control, the complete and utter loss of control over everything happening to him.
He makes the mistake of looking up. The man in front of him is smirking down at him and the knife in his hand is still hovering disturbingly close to Merlin's throat. Merlin finds he's unable to look away, and he's not sure if it's fear or morbid fascination that has his eyes glued to the ugly grimace on the man's face.
“Ooh, don't cry, princess,” he coos, stroking a finger over Merlin's jawline. Merlin flinches and instinctively tries to get away before realizing that moving backwards will only push him further onto the other attacker's cock. He automatically leans forward, further into the hand on his face and the men laugh. “See, I told you he'd like it!” Merlin tries to disagree, but the guy runs a finger over his lower lip and says, “Now, now, there are better things you can do with your mouth.” In a moment of reckless spite and because what the hell else can he do, Merlin bites at the man's thumb as hard as he can and kicks out one of his legs, catching both of his attackers unawares, but it doesn't get him far; another blow to the face makes him yelp and almost black out, while a strong squeeze to his hips keeps him in place. The cold blade biting into the skin under his jaw is a sharp reminder of the reason why he hasn't tried to escape till now. He stops moving, forces himself to stop trembling (from fear and anger both), stops even breathing as the man in front of him hisses menacingly, “Try that again, and you're dead. Now open your mouth.”
Merlin looks up, making an effort to scowl and put all the anger and hatred that he can into his glare (while simultaneously hiding the fear), but the face that stares back at him remains unchanged, cold and entirely too sober, mouth curved in a smirk and eyes alight with a mad shine. It makes Merlin's stomach twist and he feels physically sick at the thought that the man is enjoying this. Merlin closes his eyes, suddenly needing at least that one small barrier to separate him from the world (it does little good - he can still see his attacker, as if painted on the inside of his eyelids). When a finger slides over his bottom lip, he knows what he's being asked to do, but he needs to force himself to open his mouth, because even with the imminent threat of a knife on his skin, every ounce of his being is fighting this action - it feels like the most difficult thing he's ever done, like defeat and surrender.
Time, Merlin quickly realizes, is oddly fluid when one has nothing for reference. As he kneels there, eyes closed, mouth full now, nothing in his ears but the occasional grunt and a rare, distant rumble of a car, the fact that he's not fighting feels distinctly like he's letting this happen. He's not, somewhere deep down, in the most rational part of his brain, he knows this. But it still disgusts him how he just stays in position, mouth open and legs spread, just counting passing seconds?, uncoordinated thrusts?, gusts of wind?, it hardly matters, he's losing count anyway. It feels as though years have passed since he entered the park, centuries since he last saw his friends. He's only distantly aware of the men's pace speeding up, too busy trying not to pass out or puke or just die, although that might actually be preferable to his current situation.
A cackle, like the silly, over-the-top fake ones from witches in cartoons, breaks the silence. Merlin considers opening his eyes, but decides against it, when he feels a hand in his hair, an oddly intimate, and even more sickening for it, gesture that makes him even more determined to keep himself as distant from all this as possible (as if that's still an option).
“What?” comes a growled response from above him, before the man shoves his hips forward and Merlin chokes. The hand in his hair gets a tighter grip, more painful and more violent and somehow that makes the whole ordeal at least that one tiny bit easier, more normal. “Don't just be a rag doll, boy,” the man tells him, his voice low and breathy and unbearably close, “suck a little.”
Merlin thinks he'd rather throw up, thank you, but considering that he has little choice, he tries to obey. He's not unfamiliar with the act, and it normally even gives him pleasure, but the man tastes foul, salty and overly bitter, the texture and weight of him in Merlin's mouth is just plain wrong.
A hand is sneaking under over his ribs and stomach and he tries to twist away somehow, but he can't. Suddenly, the hand drops lower and sweaty fingers wrap around his cock, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through him. Mortified, Merlin opens his eyes and jerks away, letting the other man slip from his mouth, and looks down his own body. To his utter and complete shock and horror, he finds that he is somehow, inexplicably - hard.
Of all the things that go through his head as possible reactions (being violently sick, passing out, falling flat on his stomach from shock all being viable options), he picks, characteristically, the most insane one - he laughs. Hysterically, in panic, from disbelief, he laughs. But it doesn't take long for his laughter to seamlessly turn into sobbing, uncontrollable and no less hysterical. Through his tears, he can foggily make out the man in front of him jerking off and he turns his face to the side, not sure if he's trying to hide, futilely, or not giving them the satisfaction of seeing him beaten down.
The hand on his cock starts moving and Merlin involuntarily lets out a whimper of pleasure against himself and then promptly gets sick when he realizes what he just did, finally foregoing self-control in favour of letting his body do what it's wanted almost from the start as he turns to the side and vomits his dinner half on the grass, half on his own hand. The men laugh at him, but Merlin doesn't have the mental capacity to be insulted or afraid or anything else anymore, he just wants it to be over. He feels exhausted to no end from being torn between alternatives he doesn't like, from being used and stripped of all basic decency, from giving up; he just wants it to be over.
And very soon it is, but to Merlin's embarrassment, it begins when he feels his breathing speed up, his hips stuttering forward, his cock twitching and he closes his eyes, turns his head away and bites on his bottom lip to stifle any sounds as he comes. When he's done, all he's left with is the bone-deep aversion to himself, a ringing in his ears and a blankness in his mind only tinted around the edges with guilt. He doesn't hear or see when his attackers finish, just feels the hot, sticky come when in fills him and lands on his cheek. He doesn't move, or look up, or turn away, he doesn't have it in him to do it anymore.
“That... was good,” one of the men says, and Merlin no longer bothers to keep track which one it is, just lets his arms fold in and falls to lie down on the ground. The men are still talking, there's a shuffle of clothes behind him, some more laughing; Merlin tries to ignore it as best as he can. He doesn't know how long it takes for them to leave, but after a while, he can't make out anything moving anywhere near him. He lets out a deep breath of relief. Then, suddenly, there's somebody else's warm breath on his face and a rough voice in his ear says, “Thanks for that, princess,” before a pair of wet lips brush over his temple. Merlin shivers in disgust.
He doesn't wait long before he starts to get up. Everything hurts, everything is sore, there's dried blood and semen on his face and a tenner is sticking out of his pocket. He picks it up with two fingers, and throws it to the ground, not even beginning to analyze why. Not far away, his iPod is still playing music loudly. He staggers to it, picks it up and looks at the clock. It's barely been twenty minutes. Slowly, gingerly, he cleans his face as much as he can and starts walking home. It's excruciating and embarrassing and it feels like he's going to an execution while everyone is staring (even though there's no one there), but he doesn't stop, doesn't take a break, because if he does, he knows he won't be able to continue.
0.5: the image won't focus (a blur is all that's seen)