Dash already knew what they wanted him to do, the voices did, too; how could he not when they eyed him with such a profound hunger and need that they practically undressed him right there.

"Sorry about this. This little shit still can't seem to do shit right, but I can compensate you a couple of hours if you want. Free of charge." The group seemed to think on this for the odd, tense moment before they accepted it, smirking haughtily at both Allen and Dash, though their gaze was directed mostly at the teen, their collective sights traveling the length of his body before stepping forward. The first of the men, a burly, rugged man who calloused hand grasped at the boy's face and pulled it to and fro, took note of each and every blemish or mark that slew his feature through the smudged makeup on his fingertips.

This was familiar to him, having the adults come here, to do what they wanted.

That was...normal.

Right, you know?

He couldn't really remember the first time after he turned eight, but Dad was always...

Never-mind.

...

...

Mom didn't mind so much, that is, when the older people came.

Men, women, everything in-between; this was how he was supposed to "earn his keep"; this was what he was meant to do.

It never stopped hurting, though.

That much...that much never changed.

Clicking his tongue, the man, Robert, Dash could remember, leaned forward, hardened brown eyes burning into Dash's own before setting his chapped, charred lips onto the teen's, the taste of tobacco, liquor, and harsh peppermint flooded his senses, sharp and smoky, yet he pushed the urge to vomit aside. Lord only knows what Dad would do if he threw up on a client.

Again.

'You know why they're here.'

'You like this, don't you? Disgusting.'

'Are you gonna puke? You should throw up on purpose on purpose so Dad can beat the shit out of you. Mom would like that; she would laugh.'

'That would be pretty funny, huh? I bet they would like that, but I don't want to make them mad.'

He couldn't listen to them. He was already in enough trouble as it was. There was no reason to deepen the wound, to make the older man be angrier at him because he messed up again.

He would make it up to them by doing really good today, by making them happy and making them feel good.

That's what he was good at...

That was all that he was good at.

- (Warning for molestation, non-consensual themes, and sexual assault; please skip if sensitive)-

A hand, harsh and rough, caressed his bottom, kneading them crudely as he brought their bodies together into a crushing embrace. It was Robert that had brought them together, the older man humming into his mouth as his tongue swished over the former's.

Long, desperate moments clung to the air the same way the older man did, thumbing along the crease of his pants, and with one last squeeze, Robert released him, licking his lips with a loud moan through stroking the visible print of his pants, gesturing to Allen with a glance though most of his focus was on Dash. Only on him as he stroked his engorged member through his pants.

Dash tried his best to restrain his urge to look away.

"Yeah, he'll do. You want the money now?" It was more of a statement than a question, but Allen happily obliged shoving past the younger boy to make his bounty, each man fishing through their wallets to accrue their fare; it wasn't long before a stack of twenties laid bare in his father's palm and were being stuffed into his own pockets. A lone hand pulled him along by his hair (he didn't notice someone had even grabbed it), and distantly, through the haze of the passing sound and fuzzy eyes, the sounds of the trailer door to the back room, as creaky and loud as he remembered it, swung open and he was pulled inside, the four men following suit.

He could only vaguely make out what his father was saying.

"You've got six hours, one for each of you plus a few more to compensate. Don't rough 'em up too much, that costs extra." Dash tried to listen in, but everything felt strange, disconnected, and the teen knew this feeling well, that fuzziness, that static that poured like rain his ears.

It was kind to him.

- (Explicit sexual assault scene imminent; skip as this may be triggering) -

He didn't feel it as much, his body no longer his, watching, even as Allen spoke, as their zippers came undone, clothes tossed and dropped carelessly to the ground in a heap as his own were removed as well, leaving bare his ; his own body, sprawled across that stringy, bear mattress as the sticky, humid air clung to his skin, the rough, sparse bedding scrapping across his backside, felt numb despite their hands, traveling hands, running the length of his body. All the same, his dull, blue eyes, wide and unblinking, tracked the whirl of the ceiling fan above his head, distracting him as he felt the first of them enter him.

In and out as they took their share, one by one.

But that fuzziness, that warmth that cradled his mind, was kind all the same.

The pain was softer, hell, he could go away as they forced themselves inside of him, how something warm filled his back end and mouth, a distant salty taste filling him, something warm trickling from his bottom and a coppery scent filled the air, but still, the static persisted.

Yet still, something didn't go away.

Someone was crying.

Someone was...screaming.

That always happened, right? That someone would be calling out but no one would answer, and distantly, the boy knew who it was.

It was...him.

He was crying.

Screaming.

In pain, in despair.

But that was okay.

It was always okay.

He just didn't have to think about it.

'That's funny,'The boy thought as his eyes tracked the crooked arms of the ceiling fan,'...I don't hear them anymore.'

- (End of explicit sexual assault scene.) -