Seventeen

4

Tw// rape/non-con

It's about halfway through and not too detailed if you want to skip it!

☆☆☆☆

Seventeen has a brush tipped marker clutched in one hand, knuckles white and fingers shaking, while she draws a star across the back of her other hand. It's uneven due to the tendons across her hand, and the lining is terrible, but it brings a smile to her lips. She wipes at her teary eyes and sets the marker down on the counter again.

Her feet slip into delicate flats, fingers trailing up her bare leg until they reach the hem of her skirt. She pulls it down a bit, feels the waistband pull across her waist, and glances in the mirror. She'd hung it on the studio wall without Michael or Twenty's permission, she'd hung it by herself, and she's proud of it. She's more proud of the crooked mirror than her last five paintings.

The light pink crop top fits her body shape perfectly, showing off her soft tummy and pierced navel, ending about two inches above the top of her black skirt. Her legs are freshly shaven and free of any bruises or nicks, for once. She smiles shakily at herself and wipes at her cheeks again. Luckily, her mascara is waterproof and doesn't run. Her hair is long, almost to the end of her shirt, and a soft shade of blue, secured tightly by bobby pins.

She looks beautiful, she thinks, perfect in a way she never really gets to be.

Michael comes back without her permission, stumbling back when he sees her. "No," he says immediately. "No, no, absolutely not. You're not going out. You're not- Seventeen, put on some clothes."

"I'm going out," she says confidently, voice softer, but stronger, than his. "I'm going out, and there's nothing you can do to stop me." Michael feels himself being shut out as Seventeen ignores him, carelessly turning her nose up and spinning on one of her toes.

She doesn't bother closing or locking the door on her way out.

☆☆☆☆

Michael's seventeen years old and his hands are balled into small fists, shaking, partially in rage, mostly in fear.

"Come on," the man in front of him is drunk, and Michael can't believe it.

"Mr. Williams-" he manages, before his forty year old English teacher stumbles forward, practically slamming himself bodily against the door frame of Michael's front door.

"Shh," he holds his finger to his own lips, then fumbles forward until his sticky, wet fingers drag like limp fish over Michael's lower face, trailing over his lips in a way that makes a shudder runs through Michael's body.

"Please-" Michael cuts himself off this time, when he stumbles back and nearly trips over his own feet when they get in his way.

Mr. Williams hisses and follows Michael drunkenly, swaying when he stands in front of the smaller boy. "Don't you ever fucking listen?" He asks harshly. Michael stumbles back again, but the teacher just follows him. "Fucking listen to me and answer my questions!" He yells, swinging a fist at Michael wildly.

It connects with his jaw and sends him falling back, head spinning to the side and jaw throbbing painfully. He gasps when he lands on his ass, uses one hand to help brace his fall, but ends up hurting the edge of his palm on the hard floor. He pulls both hands against the stinging bruise, shaking even more when he sees red leaking through his fingers. "N-no, please," he cries out when he notices his older teacher fumbling for his own belt.

"Shut the fuck up," Mr. Williams demands, delivering a harsh kick to Michael's thigh, hard enough that he cries out and falls forward to better protect himself.