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Blood runs down his legs. He watches the heavy scarlet drops as they ooze, carving away at the image of pale limbs as they drop towards the floor. Over his thighs, past his knees.He feels sick.The world spins, hasn’t stopped spinning since he saw the bottle in his father’s hands. Such a cliche of abuse he suffered. It almost made him want to laugh, if he could dare to open his mouth without releasing a neverending scream.The blood kisses at his ankles, tickling the sensitive skin as it began to pool around his feet.The daze surrounding him starts to lift, then pauses, then settles once more with an insistent weight. Unrelenting. Warm. Too warm. Too unnaturally warm, the heat that left his father’s body to smother the air and choke the hope from the world.He feels sick…His own father had...... his memories mock him with the reminder as they replay. He had...Stumbled into the room, bitter whiskey on his breath.Lurched into his bed.Roused him out of sleep with a slap, a jostle.Shook him.Slurred something awful, cruel, something about his worth.“Good for nothing.Made me do this.”Ripped at him. Tore his clothes off.Flames licking away the fabric as he leaned forward and crushed his mouth with his own.
He felt sick.
Kissed him.Slid his tongue deep down his throat, muffling a scream as he-
He felt sick.
-grabbed his little wrists, ignoring the way his palms steamed, huge hands crushing tiny little limbs in their massive grip. He wrenched them away, power swelling in his chest as he watched the fight ebb and flow in him like a flame flickering under a billowing wind. His legs were pried apart just as easily, trembling uselessly as the giant mass of his body slotted between them.Something warm, something hot and hard jutted forward, against him, between his legs.His breath caught in his throat.He shoved inside and--His knees weaken at the memory. Nauseous, he stumbles forward, sideways, across the room, landing with a huge hand clutching the cool surface of a mirror. It takes a few horrid moments to gather the strength to lift his head, but when he does...He grimaces. The reflection in front of him, swimming with his daze, was not of the raped boy he’d once been. The man in front of him is old, fatigued with decades of stale ambition and ardent anger, doused with sweat and stinking of booze with blood running down his legs, dripping down his front. He could still hear his oldest son fighting tears in his room, breath hiccuping, smothered by his pillow.... How did it come to this?Enji feels anguish twist its way up his spine. Disgust. Remorse. Brand new and blazing, these emotions ate at him, roiling in his stomach, eating up the flickers of pleasure still dying away in his gut. His skin still hums with the sickening feeling of it all. Everything and nothing, he understands all at once.His father’s tongue in his mouth. His own in Touya’s.That violent splitting apart, on either side. The righteousness that followed. Because he was in the right. His own father had been wrong to do what he did, but he was in the goddamn right. Because it was deserved. It was the only way. The boy had pushed him, pushed him, pushed him, every conversation a revolt, every interaction a fight, voice daring to rise to a scream. Did he think he wanted to turn into this? No.God no.It just... felt so good to have him silent. To watch him, trembling, shaking like a frail leaf as cum leaked onto his belly and out onto the bed, face flushed and mouth hanging open in a stunned gasp, a scream choked into quiet.He’d just... wanted some peace and quiet....In the background. That awful cry, high and warbling like a gored dog. The way it pulls at him, begetting more. Begging for it. Breeding it. Loud, and getting louder.It’ll never end, he understands in a single instant, as he pushes away from the bathroom in a drunken stumble to return to the boy’s room and quiet him down once more.It never ends.