Camp Faithful (Contay camp counselor au)

He Let Me (Violence. Sorry Taylor.)

The adrenaline was only now starting to subside as Taylor pushed open the wooden door of the dusty old cabin and threw himself inside. He had run here like somebody was chasing him because, in all honesty, it seemed like there might have been. Just as he left the shower room and said the words he would later regret, he turned to face Connor, to watch the anger and resentment spread across his face. By that expression alone, Taylor was sure that he would have chased him; but he didn't.

Taylor slammed the door shut, still almost believing he heard the forest echoing with wet footsteps that weren't his own—heavy, pounding steps that sounded the same as his heart as it rapped against his guilty chest. His nerves were screaming from overuse as he stood, waiting for something that seemed to be taking much longer than he expected. The loud running footsteps never seemed to come closer, the door never opened, and the silence never became broken like Taylor had begun to hope.

All he wanted was for Connor to bust through the door and yell, be angry and upset, for him to feel the same things Taylor was feeling now; but instead, the brown-haired boy was left standing at the edge of the bed, waiting, his mouth tasting like blood from running. It didn't seem right for him to be mad, but he was. Why did Connor just let him leave like that? No, why did he even let Taylor do this in the first place? He knew Taylor wasn't gay, but he still let him do something anyone else would consider was. He let Taylor run his fingers over his chest in the steamy bathroom shower, let him move beneath his gentle, soft fingertips that refused to ever do the work themselves, forced Taylor to do what he had done. That was the truth, or it was Taylor's truth a least.

The walls seemed to be closing in around him, the musty air thick with the scent of old wood and mildew that rushed into his lungs with each shallow gasp that escaped him, his chest heaving with each failed attempt to calm himself. He could feel the sweat appearing on his skin again, eyes still watching the door carefully. What the fuck was taking Connor so long? Did he even care at all?

Eventually, the door finally did come swinging open, though the slam was far from as angry as Taylor envisioned—just a slight swing that made the rusty hinges roar as Connor stepped inside quietly. He was teasing the wet, curly hair away from his face and swatting the bugs that were swarming around him. His face was completely blank; nothing more than an expression of boredom after spending the entire walk alone. He closed the door behind him and stood just in front of the doorway, finally pulling his gaze down to look at Taylor's angry face, his black eyes looking him up and down.

"I don't think you're supposed to be more tense after getting a hand job," Connor said with very little shame in his voice. The sound of the last word leaving Connor's chapped lips was finally enough to send Taylor over the edge.

"Shut up, Connor," Taylor said, taking a few steps forward.

Connor laughed, a deep, hollow laugh that made it more than obvious he didn't really find this humorous at all. It was a mocking sound more than anything, low as it echoed against the desolate wooden walls.

"Maybe you should make me," Connor replied, taking an equal number of steps toward Taylor.

Then he was hit with a heavy slap against his cheek, pale skin turning red the second after it passed. Connor traced his hand up his face, feeling the stinging, hand-shaped patch of flushed flesh beneath his fingertips.

"You even fight like a fag," Connor mumbled, digging his teeth into the side of his cheek, almost as if he was wishing the slap was far more painful than it actually was.

It didn't take much taunting for Taylor to grow angrier; everything inside him was so pent up that it didn't seem like Connor had to do anything at all to send him into a tizzy. Taylor was already fighting himself. Now, he was just taking out his anger, and if that was what he needed to do, so be it—Connor could get rough if he needed to. If it was what Taylor really wanted.

"No, I don't! You don't know anything about me!" Taylor's voice trembled, stepping forward again to the point his chest was pressed to the upper part of Connor's hollow stomach, only now making Taylor realize the truth of his physical disadvantage.

Connor pursed his chapped lips, sighing loudly. "I didn't say I did, but I still know I do," he lowered his head, finally bringing himself to Taylor's eye level. "The more you try to prove you're not a fag, the more it's making you look like one. You're terrified because you know I'm right; you liked it because if you didn't, you wouldn't have done it at all."

Taylor clenched his tongue tight between his teeth, his vision blurring as he attempted to find something to say, though his mind became a blank, leaving him with his body pressed into Connor's as he seethed, the taller boy leaning forward like an adult would talk to their bratty child.

"What are you so afraid of, Taytay? That you won't fit in anywhere when people find out? God won't love you anymore? Nobody will love you anymore?" Connor paused. "Or are you just scared of letting yourself be happy?"

When Taylor still couldn't find an answer, he just started thrashing, kicking at Connor's shins and throwing his arms around wildly—anything he could do to distract Connor and himself from the tears starting to spring from his own eyes. Connor was wrong, and that was all that mattered in Taylor's mind. He just had to prove he was wrong. Though it didn't seem like it helped much because Connor didn't seem to be affected by the punches, shoving Taylor to the floor and landing him with a few kicks, thumbing away the very small amount of blood that started to leak from his own nose.

"Is this getting it out of your system? You can't fight yourself, so you just make me do it?"

Taylor nodded slowly, gripping at the aching hollow pain at his side.

"Do you want me to keep going?"

Taylor nodded again.

Connor stared down at him, his eyes cold and calculating as he looked over at the boy, the way the gravity of the ground affected his body and the parts he obviously tried to hide because of it. Even when he was on the ground, his body in agony, Taylor still couldn't bring himself not to focus more on his appearance than anything else, a fact that almost made Connor spit out a chuckle—Taylor was so dense he didn't even realize his own beauty.

Connor crouched down, his face inches from Taylor's as he whispered, breath hot and heavy, "If this is what you wanted, why didn't you just ask?" He grabbed Taylor by the collar, lifting him up slightly before slamming his head back down onto the wooden floor beneath him. The impact of Taylor skull sent jolts of pain through his own body, punching out a large sob from his lungs.

Taylor's breathing was ragged, his body trembling in pain and overexertion, though his nerves still screamed, begging for the attention to continue. He looked up at Connor, his vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. "Please..."

Connor didn't need more of an answer than that. He pulled Taylor up, throwing him against the wall with enough force to rattle the cabin. Taylor didn't do much to fight it. Now he was the one asking for this, so it didn't seem fair to actively resist the thing he desperately needed. His collar tight around his neck as he struggled to breathe, gasping between inhales and wiping the blood away from both his nose and lips with each hit that landed on him, growing much less angry and restless with each punch. Not responding to any of the insults that came his way.

The cabin was filled with the sounds of their struggle—the thud of fists against flesh and the occasional cry of pain. Eventually, Taylor's strength began to wane. His eyes were heavy and any struggle he did put up became slower. Connor, still seemingly unfazed, grabbed him by the shoulders again, pushing him back against the wall. Taylor's head lolled to the side, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

"Had enough?" Connor asked, his voice almost soft in comparison to the loud shouting voice Taylor had started to grow used to.

Taylor nodded weakly, his eyes closing as he leaned against the wall for support. "Mhm..."

Connor stared for a moment, looking up and down the mess in front of him as his slender fingers were still tightly gripped onto the collar of Taylor's shirt. The boy was bruised and bloody, his face decorated with grime, sweat, tears, and pretty much any other disgusting fluid you could think of, highlighting the pure exhaustion on his face. If he seemed more alive, enough to actually remember this moment, Connor might have kissed him. Although he couldn't bring himself to, instead just losing his grip and letting Taylor slide down the wall and slump down onto the floor. Defeated but satisfied.