Sting lifted the glass to his lips and felt the alcohol kiss bittersweet promises in his mouth, over his tongue and down his throat. The booze tasted more bitter than usual, but Sting guessed that was more himself than the content of the bottle; his negative attitude and dire outlook on life turned everything sour.
No matter how hard he tried, Sting always felt like a stain in his own body. He was never present in his skin, and despite going through the motions of living he never truly felt alive. Not anymore. Sting couldn't even touch his own flesh without feeling sordid and wrong. Everything he did was a shadow of what had been done to him, and the fact that his body was no longer his own, left him feeling inapt. All that he had been through had left blemishes and smears on his soul that Sting wasn't sure even alcohol could remove. That didn't mean he wasn't about to try, of course.
He remembered the touch of the man, fingers jagged and rough, like pinpricks over his skin. Every time it happened the needles cut a little deeper, and Sting felt his happiness and optimism and hope bleed out as if it were blood. As if it were as real as the alcohol flowing through his veins and the feeling of calloused hands yanking his hair and touching his body in ways that made him physically sick.
This wasn't what he wanted, wasn't the life he chose when he joined Sabertooth, but it's what he got. It's been his reality- an unspeakable nightmare that happens exclusively when he's awake- for the best part of four years, and Sting had accepted It. He was weak, he could not fight Jiemma off. This would make him stronger.
He deserved it. He deserved it for killing his parent dragon, Weisslogia. He deserved it for not treating his teammates like they should be treated, for being too weak to fight back.
He was pathetic. That's what he told himself every time he caught a glance at the blotchy, distant person who he knew was himself, but was everything he feared to be, in the mirror. The eyes were glazed over and distraught. The lips were swollen from unwanted kisses, but red from teeth which bite harder than anxiety ever could. And Sting hears the words spoken to him in a seductively destructive whisper every time he's bent over and taken, with tears pooling in his eyes and a scream building in his throat. He did not make a sound, could not, would not, for the sake of his own pride. The first thing he learnt about battles was to never let the enemy know your weakness, to gather information on your fears. And Sting was definitely afraid. He felt the cowardice coil in his stomach and ball in his fists as he swallowed back whimper after whimper in every encounter.
The door of his bedroom creaked open, and the broad figure he had grown far too familiar with stood entirely encased in light, like an angel. The irony of it made Sting's stomach blanch. His throat tightened up and hands went slack where they were previously balled into fists. The tall stature stopped all the light from entering the room, and shadows were dancing on the wooden panels, their dark tendrils reaching out for Sting. When the door was softly closed, all of the light left the room, and the shadows on the floor proved far more fleeting than the ones which plagued Sting's soul.
Sting shut his eyes and let himself fall back on the bed. If he could just pretend it wasn't happening for long enough, eventually it would be over and he would be left alone with rumbled sheets and an aching body and nothing but a wish that he would never have to wake up again. That he would never again in his life have to face Jiemma in the guild and pretend he was okay.
That he would never have to live.
Strong, meaty hands wrapped themselves around his thighs and forced them apart, and Sting felt the bile rise in his mouth. If he shouted for help, he would be killed. If he struggled, his life would end immediately. Sometimes, it didn't feel like such a bad idea; he was already dead on the inside, anyway.