Stonathan ❤️

27

NOT MINE!!

all credits go to WordsAblaze on ao3

Steve pauses as he hears someone cry out in pain and glances into the alley he knows he should probably avoid because it looks so alike to the tunnels with the demodogs and he hasn't fully recovered from that yet, but he can't rid himself of the urge to help whoever is hurt.

"Is anyone there?" he asks, not even caring what a cliché move that is.

"Help... me..." someone croaks and Steve is moving forward in an instant, already thinking of how he can help them and who to call if they need to go to a hospital or something.

What he doesn't expect is for someone to jump out of the shadows and tackle him to the floor. He's in pain before he can cry out, his back slamming into the hard, unforgiving floor with a dull thud and his head throbbing as he fails to protect it from hitting the ground, a heavy ache thundering in his brain immediately.

"Who-?" Steve manages before there's a hand over his mouth and a fist on his chest.

He coughs, gasping, struggling, trying to get back on his feet, as more blows rain down on him like a plethora of unwanted gifts. It's not like he's never been in a fight before but he prefers using charm over actual physical violence, despite what most may believe. Even Billy's incessant taunts and interactions couldn't compare to the pain he was feeling now, worse than the injuries from fighting demodogs and the scars from fights with classmates, worse than heartbreak and hangovers, worse than anything he's ever felt before.

"Listen, I have money-"

"Shut it, brat. We don't need no money," someone barks, wrapping their hands around his neck with a force almost too strong to let him breathe, and, with a chilled sense of horror, Steve realises there's more than one person against him here. He'd thought there were too many punches and kicks for four limbs but it hadn't occurred to him that this was a set-up of some sort.

He whimpers as one of them knees his lower abdomen, making him curl into himself by instinct, while another holds his arms above his head, stroking his hair in a horribly affectionate manner. It only gets worse when one of them strokes his lower lip, pulling his mouth open with a cruel laugh.

There are hands where nobody else's hands should go but he can't stop them because they're inspecting his features as if he's a doll and he couldn't move even if he wanted to and anyway he can't bring himself to anger the people who'd just gleefully delivered to him a definite set of bruises.

He struggles as one of their faces ends up close enough for him to smell the alcohol, trying to wriggle his way out of their gang like a child trying to escape a nightmare. He's eighteen, he's an adult, he knows what they're probably trying to do but he's not ready, no-one's ever ready, he doesn't want to give in.

He's still struggling when someone's lips are on his and they're chuckling and there's an unwanted tongue in his mouth and they're biting down on his lip and ignoring his whines, and then there's someone else kissing him but it's more like an act of vengeance than one of love because they're invading instead of exploring and there are hands on his jaw, keeping him still in a hold that's sure to bruise, and he can't stay still, his eyes watering with hopelessness.

He has no choice but to go still when the end of a cigarette is pressed to his lip, the pain burning far worse than his panic. The others laugh and follow suit and soon enough, there's a burning on his stomach, two on the bottom of his feet, another on his wrist, and he's never ever hated the blasted cigarettes so much in his life. He slams his eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to block them out, trying to block everything out.