A/N: This started as a writing exercise that I had been doing. Weekly prompts and all that. This one came out more personally and more dark than I would have liked, so I put it away and haven't looked at it in two months, and haven't written in almost as long. So I figured, to try and get back to writing something once in a while, I would edit this a little bit and post it up. Can't hurt, right? (Wrong.)
WARNINGS: Rape, non-con, trauma, genderbend
Letting out a quiet sob, she curled in on herself, brokenly. God, she was cold. She was cold, and hurt, and she never wanted to move again, but she couldn't stand the thought of staying where she was. Why? her mind screamed.
Laying in the filth of the act, her blouse was torn, pushed up over her stomach. Her pants, one leg still around her ankle with the shredded remains of her panties, felt like a shackle. He was still there, talking to her as he zipped his pants, stroked her shoulder lightly, and she cringed, curling away from his touch weakly. She still couldn't think right; her head was fuzzy, and nothing made sense to her right now except how much she hurt. "I hate you," she managed to breath when he dipped his head low, as though to whisper a sweet nothing or leave a soft kiss.
His reply was a soft chuckle and long fingers being run through her soft, silver hair with sickening softness. "That's good," he purred in a voice like poison and milk. "That's very good, girl." Those eft fingers gripping tight as he yanked her head up to look at him, he gave a feral grin. "Now what are you going to do about it?"