Page 35 of Stroke Rate

“Will you tell me?”

Chris rolled his eyes and buried his face against River’s skin, mumbling, “What do you want to know?”

"Everything." River wanted to know everything. He wanted to know all the things that had happened in his past—and why or what had made him so scared. He wanted to know what was still happening because watching Chris interact with Laura that day had made it clear that something was still happening. Chris was hiding something, and River couldn't handle not knowing.

“I don't even know where to begin,” Chris said, as he chewed on his bottom lip. “I guess I can start here.” He held his wrist above River’s eyes to examine. Initially, River saw only Chris's wrist, tanned, corded with blue veins and tendons. Upon closer inspection, he discovered many silver crescent-like scars across the length of his wrist and forearm. So many River couldn't count them, they were everywhere and so subtle, so easily hidden.

"Can I touch?" A sickening feeling rose in River’s throat as he watched Chris nod sharply, his body becoming tight as a bowstring as River’s touch soothed over the silver-pink marks. Most of the scars were flat and unable to be felt under River’s fingers, but a few were deeper and thicker, still a bit pink and raised. Newer, these are newer, and with that realization, he swallowed back the vomit that filled his mouth.

“What…Chris…” That was all River could say, his words lost as his mind conjured up horrible image after horrible image.

“It's not that bad,” Chris mumbled as he pulled his wrist away to link his fingers with River’s again.

“Please tell me,” he whispered, and with the plea, Chris began his story.

Chris shared how his parents had used their power and money over him to control him. They kept his competition winnings from him, giving him just enough for pocket money while covering all his expenses, making Chris too scared to leave. He could never get a job because he was far too busy with swimming, and he felt worthless because of it. River realized the beautiful house was a golden cage that held Chris captive. The realization made his eyes sting, filling his chest with rage.

Chris choked through the story of his physical abuse at the hands of his mother, the way she controlled him by grabbing his wrists and digging in her long, manicured nails. She had always grabbed him there purposely so the marks wouldn’t be visible if you weren’t looking for them. He showed him scar after scar on his arms and wrists. The small silver crescents that littered the inside of his forearm told the story of the bigger one on his inner bicep.

"This mark came from a pot," he explained, watching as River lovingly caressed the blemish, silently wishing for his touch to heal or erase the scar. "I had been making mac and cheese for Harrison and Flynn. I had accidentally knocked the pot over and it caught my arm. Mom had been so mad that I had made a mess and caused so much noise."

“Oh, baby,” was all River could say, for fear the tears he was holding back would start to fall.

He told River stories about his brothers and how close they once were, how Chris was their caretaker and protector. He described in great detail holding Flynn as a toddler against his chest and rocking him as the world seemed to explode outside their bedroom door. How Harrison and Chris would hold hands as they fell asleep and Chris ‌would ‌whisper stories to drown out their parents screaming and breaking glass throughout the house.

River couldn't wrap his head around the horrors that his poor boy had endured, but what got him was when Chris told him how he had lost his joy for swimming. His escape from his family started as fun but had turned into something dark and hopeless, becoming another method for his parents to control him. That I can fix.

Then he told River about his compulsion to “fix,” and that it was his way of being part of the family—to help everyone at his own expense. That it broke him more and more each time, but at least he felt wanted by the family he wanted to be loved by. In the end, he disclosed that being with River and yielding to him allowed him to feel cherished and whole, his submission pacifying his need to "fix." That with River he had felt seen and heard and safe for the first time in maybe forever. Chris said everything with a hideous smirk, the tilt to his lips all wrong, and River wanted to kiss it off his face. Chris was hiding behind a mask he had worn for too long, and all River wanted to see, was his smile, his real smile. Wanted to make that fucking dimple pop and his perfect teeth show. He wanted to feel the perfect curve of Chris' lips against his mouth and taste it on his tongue.

“Baby,” River whispered, sitting up to lean against the headboard. He didn't know what to do or what Chris needed at that moment—because when he gripped his face and looked into his deep blue eyes, all he could see was emptiness. It was as if telling his story had left Chris hollow and void of everything that made him‌. “What do you need?” River asked, and Chris leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was timid and soft, as if Chris was unsure, and River didn't like that at all. Pulling back, River asked again, “What do you need? I need you to tell me.”

“Kiss me,” Chris said and waited for River to make the first move. So he did—River leaned in and licked at the seam of Chris’ lips, felt him open for him, and sucked his tongue into his mouth. Sucking the muscle—like he would suck his cock—and Chris hummed his pleasure into River’s mouth, as he ran his fingers through the wild hair at the back of Chris’ skull to hold him and manipulate his head as he wished as he kissed him, again and again. He kissed his way across Chris' jaw, murmuring nonsensical words, until he got to his ear and pulled the lobe into his mouth.

“God, you are perfect,” River hissed in Chris’ ear as Chris rubbed his shaft along the flexed muscles of River’s abdomen—River grabbing an ass cheek in each palm—massaging and grinding him down on his thick length.

“Please,” Chris choked.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

Chris said nothing, just laid his forehead on River’s shoulder as tears fell.

“Please don't. I'm not…" Chris trailed off, his voice choked with emotion.

“You are, and I'm going to prove it to you. Do you want to stop?”

Chris shook his head hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. “No,” his words were wet and thick. “I…don't stop. More.”

“Baby, you're crying,” River said, kissing a tear from his cheek, and then kissing his dimple.

“Please don't stop, I need it. I need to get out of my head. Please.”

In that moment, River realized Chris was looking for kindness and understanding. He was looking for someone to see him and hear him, and River could do that—that was easy, because this beautiful, sweet boy deserved to be seen. Listened to. Worshiped. Chris was perfect, and River would spend every day for the rest of his life proving it to him if he had to.

“I'm going to give you what you need. Do we need a condom?” Chris gave River a firm shake of his head, and River took him at his word, trusting him that they were safe. “After, we will come up with a plan.”

Chris let out a soft “yes,” and River then took his cock in his palm, his thumb tracing the cool metal of the piercings.

“I love these. Beautiful,” River whispered as he ran a finger up and down his ladder, watching as Chris’ cock twitched. River grabbed the lube from the side table. “Are you sure?” he asked before reaching around, finding Chris' entrance.