Chapter Text
Mickey often had a lot of trouble sleeping. He doesn't really remember when it started, but he also doesn't recall ever really sleeping very well to begin with.
He had always been restless, even as a child, though the type of household he was forced to grow up in didn't help that much either. It was always loud, cold, and crowded, even into the wee hours of the night. Especially since his mother had died when he was just a toddler, and his little sister just an infant, there was no one to comfort him on these restless nights either.
Mickey had tried to find a way to cope with it over the years, that among so much else, but nothing ever seemed to work besides drinking and the ocassional blunt of some really good weed. But even now, as he lay in his very own bed, far away from that prison of a house he'd been trapped in as a child, and all the noise and abuse and torment that came with it, he still couldn't sleep. His mind just wouldn't stop, and often times there wasn't much he could seem to do about it.
He'd thought that maybe after he'd grown up and gotten out of that house, that he would be happier, more comfortable, calmer. Mickey was really excited that maybe finally he might get some rest since he'd found ways to rid himself of the constraints that had bound him down through his earlier years. He'd gone much more straight and narrow, having tried his best to cut all ties to his family's illegal business activities, and instead held a steady and dependable job as a dishwasher at a small diner not far away from his apartment. The pay wasn't much, but at least the money wasn't dirty. Even still, when Mickey would climb into bed most nights, his brain would race again, refusing to offer him any relief.
Instead he would simply lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling until his brain would finally succumb to exhaustion and turn off, only to be awakened a short while later by nightmares and subconscious terrors in his sleep.
Tonight was no different, as he finally drifted off, only to be forced into reliving a night that feels like so very long ago. The very first time it happened to him.
He was about five years old, almost six, and finally had a bedroom all to himself after being separated from the room he once shared with his sister, for reasons unbeknownst to him at the time. This night was like most any other, with the little boy curled up beneath three blankets, trying to stay warm in a house that had no heat, all the while trying to ignore the near deafening blare of music booming harshly from behind his bedroom door. He could also hear the drunken, slurring hollaring and laughter of his father and his buddies from the room just beyond the hallway, keeping him up and jolting him back awake every single time he began to fall asleep. But Mickey just tried his best to ignore it, the same way he always did, because if his father found out he was still awake, no matter the reason, he would probably be stuck trying to sleep with a bruised up ass. So he just laid there.
But then something unusual happened, something that never had before, and the knob of Mickey's bedroom door slowly turned and cracked open just the slightest bit. His eyes cracked as well at the invasion of light, but just for an instant, seeing the silhouette of a grown man standing within his doorway. He quickly closed his eyes once more, his mind confused as his chest tightened with just the slightest bit of fear, and he heard his door close again, the harsh, heavy sounds of the man's sour, stale breath still lingering in the air.
The little boy stayed frozen, his grip turning hard and white as his fingers curled more tightly around his blanket, and he chanced another small peek through only a single eye. Mickey recognized the man, whose name he knew was Peter, a long time friend of both his father and his uncles, even referred to by Mickey and his siblings as "Uncle" even though he was of no blood relation. He was about the same age as his father, with the very same beer gut type shape to his front, and a sweaty, stubbly face that bore deep, dark wrinkles around his eyes. He had thick, bushy eyebrows and round, meaty fingers, and he always smelled like a box of take-out that'd been left in a car on a hot, summer day. But he was still a familiar face nonetheless, so the boy's initial fear calmed just a bit.
Mickey watched him for a second, suddenly wondering why this man was standing in his bedroom though. But Mickey didn't want to be seen awake either, and just closed his eye again, staying quiet, and thinking maybe the man would just leave and let him try to sleep. He didn't though. Peter stayed.
The man sort of hovered there for a moment, his stance swaying slightly as he grumbled up a small burp and tried his best to scan the darkened room around him. He sniffed hard through his nose and smacked his lips as he looked, dropping a single hairy fist to grab and grope at the crotch of his pants. Peter took a few short stumbled steps toward the corner of the little boy's bedroom, beginning to fumble with his belt and zipper, causing Mickey to peek again and watch what he was doing.
Peter made his way fully into the corner, angled so that the silent little watcher in the bed nearby could see the profile of his form, then placed one hand against the wall as he tipped his head back and began to relieve himself onto the floor. He let out a long, heavy sigh as he did, and Mickey crinkled his nose in disgust as he suddenly couldn't look away. It repulsed him to know that he would probably be the one blamed for that and forced to clean it up tomorrow, and the thought just made him mad. But then the young boy's anger turned into confusion as Peter finished taking his piss, and began to give his cock a little more of a shake than what was typical when you're done.
After Peter had finished and gave himself two small shakes, he paused when moving to tuck himself back away. Instead he licked his lips again, glanced down at his flacid cock, and pulled a much longer, slower stroke, exhaling again as he did. Then almost immediately, Mickey saw the man's shaft begin to swell, and harden within his hand, watching as Peter let his back rest against the wall and he pleasured himself very openly, perhaps thinking that he was all alone.
Now Mickey was still pretty young, and hadn't really started masturbating himself yet. But he's walked in on his older brothers doing it, and once his father, which was instantly followed by a rather severe beating and being sternly scolded into knocking before he opened doors. He doesn't really understand it though, or the feeling it gives him watching Peter do it just a few feet away from him. He wasn't sure if the feeling was still disgust, or if it was something different, giving him a strange twisting feeling inside his guts that he just couldn't describe. But what Mickey knew for sure, is that he shouldn't be watching this, that it was private and wrong for him to peep at the man the way he was, even if he was just in his own room.
He tried to very slowly, roll his body a different way, shifting beneath his blankets to turn around and ignore Peter as best he could until he was gone. But the man against the wall suddenly tipped his head forward, noticing him move, and paused his own movements, as Mickey froze in reaction. His first instinct was to pretend to be asleep, so that's what he did. Closing his eyes, and letting an exhale pass through his nose, silently hoping that since Peter had noticed him, he may just leave right now. But again, Peter didn't.
Mickey laid there as still as he could, his nerves making the hairs on his neck stand on end, and he listened to Peter breathe, the sensation of the man's blurry, bloodshot eyes still on him. Then he heard the sound of heavy footsteps that were trying to be much lighter than they were, and Peter's breath got closer too. Mickey heard him pause beside his bed, only his breathing, and slight jingle of his still unfastened belt buckle dangling from his pants.
Then the same fleshy rubbing sound as before slowly began again, the same sound Mickey had heard when Peter had first begun pulling on his cock. That's when Mickey realized the man must be standing over him, doing this right next to him, and the fear suddenly came back with a force as he still tried his best not to appear conscious. Then suddenly there was a hand in his hair, gently grasping to turn his head around to face the sound, and he exhaled again as he tried not to tremble and kept his eyes closed.
He felt that same hand softly caress his scalp with it's thumb, then move down the side of his face to do the same with his cheek. All the while, Mickey could hear the other hand rubbing, grasping and gripping along Peter's cock, right next to his face, so closely he could almost feel the heat that radiated off the movement. Then Peter's thumb smoothed a little lower down the boy's cheek, rubbing the pad of it along his bottom lip, and pulled it down a bit. His thumb then pushed into the boy's mouth just the slightest bit, and Peter exhaled approvingly from above him.
Then the sensation that Mickey felt next, he wasn't quite sure what was causing it at first, but it didn't take long for him to realize. Suddenly there was a warm, smooth, feeling of skin moving over his cheek that didn't belong to a finger. That fleshy stroking sound was suddenly right up against the side of his face, and Peter began to rub the head of his cock along his cheek and lips, softly moaning as his hand stroked a little faster.
Mickey was petrified, and was at a complete loss of what to do, his brain not allowing him to do anything more than remain frozen, pretending to be sleeping and unaware of the grown man currently assaulting him. But was it assault, really? Mickey had heard that word before and even though he didn't exactly know what it meant, he was pretty sure it meant to hurt somebody. This didn't hurt though, this just felt strange, weird and uncomfortable, and it kinda gave him the urge to become sick. He didn't know how to stop it if he tried though, so in fear and discomfort, he just laid there, letting Peter do what he did and just waited for it to be over. It only got worse though.
Peter continued to caress one hand through Mickey's hair, as his other jerked his cock against his face, then pulled his lip down again to get a little saliva along the tip. The man's breath trembled at the sensation, and his movements slowed with hesitation, just before he did it again, rubbing the head of his cock along the inside of the boy's lower lip. Then Peter pushed a little further, carefully opening the boy's mouth wider, and his breath trembled again as he began to dip just the very head of his cock in and out from between Mickey's lips.
Peter's cock was fat, wide and salty, stretching his mouth out very uncomfortably, even with just the head. But Mickey was still too scared to move, too scared to open his eyes, and simply laid there helpless as the man above him began to use his mouth for his own selfish pleasure. And Peter clearly relished it immesnsely, moaning a little louder and pushing his cock a little deeper and quicker along the little boy's tongue, gliding his hand roughly along his shaft as he did. He kept one hand mostly on the length of his cock, and softly held Mickey's head in place with the other, just before he let go of his cock completely to grasp Mickey's head with both hands. He pushed in much more deeply, and suddenly thrust hard enough to trigger Mickey's gag reflex. And as hard as he tried to fight it off, he wasn't able to stop it completely, his eyes opening wide as he felt the head of the man's cock push against his throat.
When Peter noticed though, he didn't stop, or snap out of what he was doing, and he didn't let up either. He quietly shushed the boy, then grasped his head tighter as he continued to fuck his face, the man's large, hairy ballsack beginning to smack lightly against his cheek. Mickey pulled his hands out from under his blanket at that, and began to struggle and grasp at the man's hands and arms, but it didn't change a thing. Peter was too strong, and just simply ignored his attempts to stop the assault and continuing as he liked, even chuckling slightly as he peered down from over him.
Mickey's eyes watered, his head began to pound, and every single time Peter thrust too deep, he was sure he would've ended up puking all over him had he gotten any sort of dinner before bed. His hands struggled in vain as he scratched and grasped and pulled, feeling thin and weak against the big, bulky muscles of an adult the size of Peter. Then the man sped up even more, practically ramming the head of his cock against the little boy's tonsils, and Mickey felt two hot trails of tears begin burning into his cheeks.
He couldn't breathe at all, his coughs and gags muffled miserably around Peter's cock, and Mickey began to cry, sobbing where he lay because now it just hurt. He was terrified, choking and his vision began to go blurry when his head pounded harder. Peter moaned deeply, and pleasurably, cursing hotly down at the sight in front of him, and showing absolutely no mercy to the tight little mouth he was thrusting inside of.
Then Peter pushed the side of Mickey's head more deeply into his pillow, and grasped his other hand around his throat, squeezing tight as he pushed his cock as deeply as he could into the boy's mouth. Mickey squirmed helplessly as Peter pressed his weight into him and thrust shallowly, yet roughly, into the little boy's throat, refusing to pull any back out or give him any chance to breathe yet. Right when Mickey's vision began to spot and his brain felt like a balloon, the man above him groaned much more deeply, and the sensation of a hot, sticky burst of fluid suddenly poured quite forcibly down his throat. There was so much of it, and nothing he could do to get it back out of his mouth, the sour, salty flavor twisting his guts with repulsion and making his entire body shake with disgust.
Peter's thrusts slowed, and became a bit more gentle as he pulled his weight back and loosened his hands a bit, whispering small words of praise as his balls drained of their last spurts of cum. Then as Peter pulled his cock from Mickey's mouth and the little boy began coughing, sputtering and gasping for air, he soothingly combed the fingers of one hand through the little boy's black hair, as the other held his still softening cock. He licked his lips as he eyed the boy who was desperately trying to catch his breath, then leaned back forward just a bit. He made Mickey flinch when he slapped the soft, wet head of his cock against his face a few final times, smiling grossly as he did, and seemed to take quite a bit of pleasure in admiring the boy's puffy, red face and wet, swollen lips.
Mickey was still petrified, scared that if he moved or suddenly screamed for his father that things would only become worse for him, whether it be because of his father or Peter. Instead he just laid there trembling, staring up at the man he calls Uncle Peter, feeling embarrassed, humiliated, violated and confused, just wishing he would leave now and never come back. The man held his smile on Mickey as he very slowly began to tuck himself away inside his pants, his belt buckle jingling again as he pulled his zipper up. Then he paused once more and brought his index finger to his lips.
"Shh," Peter whispered, "This is our little secret. So don't ever tell anyone," he warned softly, then leaned forward to look more directly into the boy's eyes who still laid trembling from beneath his blanket, "You're old enough to know what happens to people who snitch, don't ya?" Peter asked.
But Mickey was still much too afraid to speak, so Peter just answered his own question instead.
"Bad things, Bud," Peter said, "Really bad things," he emphasized, "So you better do right to keep our little secret here, or I might think you're a snitch. You understand?"
The little boy trembled in fear, staring at the man and managed a single small nod, but otherwise didn't move, didn't blink, watching as he raised his finger back to his lips once more and quietly shushed him again as he nodded in approval.
"Good," Peter whispered with a grin, then reached down to ruffle his hair in the playful manner that he typically would, "Now go back to sleep," he said.
Then just the same as he had entered, Peter turned around, and stumbled back over to the boy's bedroom door and stepped out into the hall, pulling it closed behind him. When the man was gone Mickey had immediately started coughing and gagging all over again, hoping that he could make himself vomit, but nothing came up no matter how much he heaved. Then he curled back up under his blanket to cry again, and didn't get a single wink of sleep that night.
Much the same as now, whenever Mickey's brain forced him to recall his experience, it would immediately cause him to jolt out of bed and run for his bathroom. Whatever dinner he'd managed to have just a few hours earlier is now being flushed down the toilet, and his entire body trembled, shook and became slick with a chilly, sickly sweat. And it would become another night of absolutely no sleep, not even wanting to go back to his bed. Instead Mickey sat on the floor of his bathroom, pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, then dipped his head low, and just cried. Nope, he wouldn't be getting any more rest tonight, even if he tried.
This was something that Mickey struggled with, and felt overwhelming shame over ever since that very first time it happened to him. He'd always thought that maybe somehow it was his own fault, that he could have done something more to stop it or prevent it from happening altogether. Maybe not when it first began, being just a little kid at the time, but he definitely thought he could have done more as the years passed, and each experience just kept getting worse and worse. It made him feel weak, pathetic and emasculated, like he had been damaged beyond repair and there was nothing he could do about it.
He laid awake crying at night more often than not, afraid that if he does finally fall asleep, he'll only be awoken an hour later by some grueling, torturous nightmare, forced to endure such memories all over again, as that's what would usually happen. It was a part of him that Mickey never shared with anyone, no one, simply because he was told not to by Peter all those years ago. Not to mention how humiliating the whole thing is to even consider speaking about aloud. What good would it do him now anyway? The way Mickey figured, everyone had their shit, and this shit was his own to deal with, even if some nights he was barely keeping it together enough to deal with it at all.
It was like a curse, and he was just forced to endure, constantly wondering if he would ever find a chance at peace and rest from the torments that plagued him. But if Mickey was ever going to find that chance at all, he knew it better be soon. Because that tiny little glimmer of hope that kept him trudging onward through the darkness, that kept his head up when things felt much too hopeless, was dangerously close to being snuffed out for good.