Author's note: the author does not condone rape or any other form of abuse or sexual assault depicted in their work, in much the same way mystery writers do not condone murder. If rape is a trigger or makes you otherwise uncomfortable, please look elsewhere; there are plenty of amazing works on this site that will meet your needs.
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She had been looking forward to this concert for months. Her favorite band, close enough for the gas not to add up to more than the tickets, and a cheap enough mosh pit that her friends wouldn't have to hesitate looking at their bank accounts to join her.
Not that that last part mattered. Her closest friends were working night shifts of late and couldn't get the time off, and the only others she would have chosen to come with were out of town on a vacation of their own.
She was disappointed, but not abjectly so. Concerned, too, about what getting home was going to look like for her, all alone on public transport to her cheap hotel at three in the morning.
But she didn't want to dwell on that. She wanted tonight to be everything she'd hoped, and as soon as the music started, she forced herself to forget everything else and dissolve in the thrum of the bass and the current of the mosh pit.
The kick of the drums resonated in her ribs, sending her heart aflutter. Sweaty bodies pressed in all around, the tang of alcohol sharp and ever-present in the air. The lights dimmed for the show on stage, and the crowd began to scream their hearts out along to the song that she'd listened to every day for years.
She lost herself in the lyrics, in the camaraderie, in the light and sound and vibrations.
She lost herself, belting along and dancing with the crowd.
She lost herself, until she felt a pair of hands on her bare ass under her skirt.
She stumbled. Fell against one of the people in front of her, breath catching.
By the time she turned around, the hands were gone, and she found herself facing a jumble of limbs and chests, not a single one of them facing her.
A mistake,
she thought.
An accident, and they'd rather disappear than apologize.
I would, too.
She fixed her skirt back in place and turned her attention back to the music. Dove back into the song like the moment had never happened. Started dancing, again, just a little more mindful of the people around her.
Just as she started to feel comfortable again, she felt another hand below her waist--this time, the fingers slip between her legs and squeeze her inner thigh before letting go, and she's shoved to one side by someone a bit too enthusiastic and a little less observant than they should be.
She found herself flushing, gawking, looking for anything familiar in the crowd around her, but she wasn't paying attention herself the first time. Was that shirt with the demonic print there before? Did she recognize that merch from a figure darting away after groping her, or from the staff hawking at the tables before the show?
Everything is uncertain, but it's only a second time. Perhaps whoever grabbed her mistook her for their girlfriend. That's all.
Right?
She tried to tell herself that, but it wasn't working. Now, every point on her body that pressed or jolted into someone else threatened to tear her attention away again, no matter how much she tried to return to the magic of the night. And as the lead up to her favorite part--the lines she got tattooed on her arm because they meant so much to her once upon a time--began to swell, she fought
