Warnings (not so much for this chapter as the rest of the fic): NSFW, Rape/Non-con Elements, Childhood Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Dissociation, One-Sided Attraction, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

This fic is dedicated to my FP Jessica, and my sister Jaydee. Without the both of you, I never would've come this far.

I can't believe I'm finally posting this. This story is deeply personal; while fictionalized, some of the encounters I describe are based on ones I actually had. Likely because of that, writing this took much longer than I expected.

Just of quick note;

-I lean heavily on my headcanon that Jeremy has a stutter, and this is based on my own interpretations of the original cast version.

-The name of each part/chapter are lines from songs I used to help pace my outline.

-I'm choosing not to list all of the potentially triggering material here. Please proceed with caution.

-You can also find this fic as it was originally uploaded on Ao3

Carry Me, by Nick Cave

There wasn't any other feeling quite like a tongue down your throat.

Jeremy's steps backwards held the sway of someone who would've collapsed, were it not for a stranger's hands with a steady grip tight on his ass. Somewhere, far off, he registered the sound of the hotel door being kicked closed.

This was it. His first hookup.

… These jeans were way too tight for his (over)enthusiasm. He hoped his breath tasted alright. No one had ever talked about how to prepare for real kissing, besides the obvious. Was this toothpaste too sharp? He didn't have anything in his teeth, did he?

The tongue rubbing against his gums belonged to a Tinder match, some guy whose name Jeremy had already forgotten (really? That fast?). There was a strong taste of blueberry-flavored coffee on him, which Jeremy had never heard of before, yet he vowed to buy exactly five thousand cases of it when he got home. Oh, God, he was going to come home smelling like sex, wasn't he? Would his dad know? That'd be absolutely mortifying.

One of the hands on his ass moved, sliding along Jeremy's thighs to the curve of his hips. Chills ran across his skin, and he gripped a stiff collar to pull his Anonymous Hookup closer.

It's official: the fake ID was the best purchase he's ever made. Sure, it cost him and Michael 200 bucks, but getting off with anything other than his own hand totally justified that. Feeling attractive and wanted, if only for a single evening, was intoxicating .

And God, the eyes on him at the bar. What a rush! He avoided buying a drink (Michael's paranoid frets echoing around his mind), but got no end of offers. Long Island after Long Island, men old enough to lecture his father eyeing him top to bottom, this raw objectification that left him weak in the knees.

It was almost a pity he'd already made a date. He'd have to go back, alone, to enjoy the attention.

Smack. He sucked in a breath, his ass stinging. He hadn't been spanked since he was a child-what a lewd sensation for what had once been an innocuous punishment.

His back hit the wall as the tongue down his throat pulled away, a sparkle of saliva bridged between them for a second.

"You're such a slut."

That's true.

Or, well, it would be, if Jeremy's next date went this well.

Mouth on his neck, he could hear an echo of his high pitched whines and half moans, and face splotching both in arousal and embarrassment. He'd have to work on that. Maybe he could practice his vocals during the twice-daily masturbation sessions.

Twice. Oh please, it was thrice at least.

Teeth slid across his jugular, trailing towards his pronounced collarbone and finally sinking into skin. An electric feeling, sending shock waves radiating across before pooling in his cock. His hips rocked forward, begging for attention. The firm hands from before pushed him back, denying him bodily contact.

God, he was so hard. He worried he'd burst, fully clothed and untouched, underneath those delicious teeth.

Speaking of clothes. He almost ripped his cardigan tossing it aside. There was too much stimulus for him to keep covered anymore. Hands helped pull his shirt away, separation brief before teeth latched on to Jeremy's throat again-a sharper bite, right above his adams' apple, and then, sucking. A hickey! He'd always wanted one, a visual display, for the world to know that he, Jeremy Heere, did, in fact, get some .

Childish. But it still left him gasping for more.

… if only the Jeremy of five months ago-who'd accidentally stumbled upon one of Michael's (vintage) gay porno mags, full of confusion and alarm at his own physical response-could see him now. There'd been fear that he was gay at first, melting into comfort when confirming that images of women still enticed him, only for another wave of confusion when the attraction to men still didn't disappear.

Bisexual. The answer had been bisexuality. It wasn't something he was familiar with; for all of Michael's gushing on queer culture and the queer community, Jeremy had thought himself an outsider. Why spend time personally researching something that had no effect on you? Well, as it turns out...

He'd also been a bit worried he was just a desperate virgin. It was jarring, actually, to realize he had a lot of built-in misconceptions about sexuality. Michael called it 'heteronormativity' (complete with a sneer, the distaste undercut by the Slushie straw still in his mouth), and yeah, maybe it was.

The next couple of months were spent working up the courage to do… well, anything. Girls terrified Jeremy too much, mommy issues and the memory of unwanted perfume mixed with cheap alcohol at a party having landed them squarely in the "unapproachable" category, but boys weren't like that. Sure, he was still anxious, but it felt like less risk overall.

If you took the romantic aspect out and focused squarely on sex, anyway. Men just seemed a little less picky, and a little more approachable.

Suddenly, palms, against his crotch. Jeremy's eyes almost popped out of his skull. New, wonderful, exciting physical contact-oh, Christ, fuck, he really hoped he didn't cream right in his jeans. A weak, pathetic whine came, high pitched and needy, as he bucked into the touch. Fuck. Fuck, that felt so good .

But just as suddenly, the pressure was gone. Hands moved to his shoulders, and he found himself obeying a wordless command to his knees.

In that moment, he thought of childhood prayers. Of bowing beside his bed in a request for love and safety. His hands, which had once threaded together for God, now fumbled with the unfamiliar belt buckle of a stranger, mouth dry with the anticipation of an entirely different form of worship.