Den of Chaos Fiction
The Magnificent Seven

 

Empty Bottles
by Sig

 

Notes: This is not a fluffy, happy fic. Title comes from the lyrics of a Grateful Dead song,"It's like a practical joke played on us by our Maker...Empty bottles that can't be filled."

Disclaimer: Not mine. Used without permission. No money being made.


 

Oh, Mother. You were right.

The thought is thick and heavy, nothing but a dull presence in his mind. There is dirt digging into his flesh, tiny pebbles catching in the skin and leaving marks on his knees and palms. The discomfort is a welcome ease to the pain filling his soul.

Don't ever let anyone get too close. Emotions make you soft.

His mother's voice again and he has to bite his lip on the mocking laughter that threatens to scratch its way out of his dry throat. A grunt behind him and a weight pressed tightly against the back of his thighs and buttocks drive away all thoughts of his mother. His head falls forward, hanging limply downward at the now familiar feel of coarse hair scraping roughly against his skin. Eyes open, he stares fixedly at the ground watching as the dust soaks up the sweat dripping from his face. He wants nothing more than to scream, to cry, to hate. But he can't. Noise would make this end and he doesn't want it to. He doesn't hate, although some small part of him, almost dead now, says he should. Instead, he loves.

With all the dark, dank, sickness of his being, he loves the man behind him. The one thrusting his fingers inside, not with care but with hatred. The act nothing more than a mechanism for punishment, an attempt to debase him, to force him to know his place. And he does, he does know his place. It is right here, right now.

The pain of the dry entry, of being forced wide open, makes him moan. The sound is echoed with satisfaction from the man above him, in him. He waits, knowing what is to come, wanting the words almost more than the harsh feel of the man inside him. After an agony of forever it starts. Each sharp thrust tearing him open, making him bleed, the voice echoing the body.

thrust

"You are nothing"

thrust

"You can't be trusted"

thrust

"Useless"

thrust

"Cowardly"

thrust

"No good"

thrust

The body ceaselessly pounds in and out, hammering the words into him. He accepts them into his soul, feeling their rightness, just as his body opens and accepts the flesh mercilessly working its way even deeper inside him. It's getting closer to the end now, he can feel it, hear it. The rhythm breaking, becoming uneven. The voice cracking. And yes, please yes. The reason why he's here. Why he always lets this happen. Why he always provokes and pushes. The last thrust and his body tightens, clenching hard. Please, oh please.

"Never, ever run out on me again."

Words and seed filling him, the heat of both burning into him, branding him, marking him in a manner that he craves despite the loathing and disgust they carry with them. There is no pause before his partner in this sick and twisted encounter pulls out, fastens up and walks away. Leaving him aching and hard, forehead pressed into the ground, panting in dust and dirt. Both empty and full, he wishes again for the will to hate. Finding, as always, only the black, black desperate need. Yes, he knows his place. It is here. In the dirt and dust, on his knees, Chris Larabee's seed trickling wetly down his thighs. This is where he belongs.

Something broken and pitiful deep within him cries out but is ignored, the feeble noise quickly covered by the rushing sound of scenarios being chosen and discarded. His agile mind is already working on the next strategy, wondering how long it will take for the new plan to come to fruition. How long till once again he can be put in his place and know he belongs.


End.

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