Reckless Harmony

Disassociating

The first time Ian was punished he just disassociated. His mind was elsewhere, somewhere far, far, far away in space, just floating around. By the time he woke up, he was exhausted. He couldn't move his limbs, he was sticky all over, his nose had been running and his eyes were stinging from crying.

After that, he'd learned to never fuck around.

There are a couple of other prostitutes living with him in a small apartment under the club. They don't talk much except for these two men who seem to be in love, their gazes lingering on each other with a tenderness Ian longs for.

Ian's days seem to blur together in monotony. Every day he navigates the suffocating confines of his captivity with a weary detachment, avoiding unnecessary drama and just focusing on getting by.

Yet, amidst the chaos, drugs, and endless meaningless sex, he's still got some kind of hope after the encounter with Mickey. He can't just leave Ian here and go back to Chicago, right? He's not that inhumane, right?

"Hey there. Fancy a private dance or are we jumpin' straight into the fun?" Ian purrs, striding up to the brawny biker with a swagger.

The biker lets out a heavy breath, his eyes lingering hungrily on Ian. "You're a sight for sore eyes, boy. How 'bout a little dance to start?"

"Sure thing," he replies with a forced grin, masking his disdain behind the practiced charm.

The biker's eyes never leave Ian as he dances and grinds on him to the music that's loud enough to hear from the main hall, his gaze hungry and predatory. Ian can practically feel the man's lustful intentions hanging in the air, suffocating him like a thick fog.

But Ian knows the game. He's been playing it long enough to know how to keep up appearances, how to make the johns feel like they're getting exactly what they paid for.

As the song ends, the biker grins lasciviously and reaches out to grab Ian's wrist. "That was somethin', boy. Now, how 'bout we make this a bit more interesting?"

Ian forces a smile, suppressing the urge to recoil from the man's touch. "Lead on," he says, his voice dripping with false enthusiasm.

The biker wastes no time in pushing Ian to the bed, his hands roaming greedily over Ian's body.

Ian feigns interest, playing along with the charade as the biker leans in close, his hot breath mingling with Ian's.

"You're a pretty little thing, ain't ya?" the biker grunts, his hands starting to wander to places Ian would rather they didn't.

Ian forces himself to keep up the act, plastering on a fake smile as he tries to subtly edge away from the man's grasp. "Thanks," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of seduction.

Ian is already disassociating at this point, his mind wanders off as the man strips Ian down and kisses him roughly.

By the time Ian reawakens to the present moment, he finds himself atop the grungy man, riding him. The room spins around him, the light casting eerie shadows on the walls as the biker grunts beneath him.

Ian's movements are mechanical, devoid of any real emotion as he surrenders himself to the primal rhythm of their coupling. His mind is foggy, disconnected from the sensations coursing through his body as he rides out the encounter with detached resignation.

With each thrust, each moan, Ian's sense of self fades further into the background, lost in the overwhelming tide of sensation and instinct. He is no longer Ian Gallagher, the spirited young man who once dreamed of a better life. He is merely a vessel, a hollow shell consumed by the relentless demands of survival in a world devoid of hope.