Ahaha... Derp.
Title: List of Atrocities
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Author: airwaveeight
Rating: M
Pairing: Erm. D.Spade+Tsuna/Chrome, D.Space+Tsuna/??
Warnings: Rape, Mindfuckery, and D.Spade being a creepy motherfucker, cause that's what he does best.
Notes: I was talking to singultation about.. something and she said she'd write something for me, so I asked for her to fill my meme prompt... And then wound up getting bitten by my own plot bunny.
Inspired by Recoil - Want because it's such an awesomely creepy song.
The ghost's fingers are cruel on his shoulders, fingertips pressing biting into muscle and pinching nerves to ignite an agonizing pain that keeps Tsuna from fighting back.
"Relax, little Decimo." The voice, so like Mukuro's, whispers in his ear. Lips brush the pulse point behind it, chapped and dry like death. It's a struggle, but he manages to calm himself, only to cry out as teeth sink into the lobe and pull. There's blood dripping down his next, burning red hot, but the tongue that laps it up, and the mouth that sucks hungrily at the open wound is hotter still. It's all he can do to swallow back the nausea that threatens to choke him when those blood stained lips cover his, and a determined tongue pries his open.
"Keep your eyes open." The voice croons. There are hands on his thighs, fingers pulling at his belt. "It'll all be over soon, and I wouldn't want you to miss it." The digits that slip into his pants are smooth and cool; he jerks away as they wrap about him, but with the ghost behind him, viciously strong hands holding him stil, he has no room to escape.
He looks down, and immediately wishes he hadn't. She's looking at him, but her gaze is fixed on a point past him, and he knows that she sees the ghost, and only the ghost; that in her mind, her fingers are working the ghost to reluctant hardness, and not him, held down and pinned between them.
He can't help the tears that come when he realizes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that her attention is working and yes, this is really happening.
When he starts to sob, the ghost's lips are back, still slick with his blood and forcing entrance as they swallow the whimpers and hiccoughing sighs as he fights to keep himself from falling to pieces.
It's when he starts to moan, soft and quiet in the back of his throat, useless little noises that he just can't help, that the hands coaxing him still and fall away. He can feel her getting to her feet and thether of fabric sliding to the ground is terrifyingly loud. He squeaks when she moves to straddle him, but he can't see anything past the eyes that are burning into him, too, too close, but he can't move, held just so so the ghost can watch him when he finally breaks. Her hand is on him again firm and cool as it guides him and there's one last thought, her hands are so small, then he's surrounded by heat so intense he feels like he's being scalded.
"Fuck..." The word is foreign on his tongue-- some part of him, still sane and cut off from this nightmare, laughs that he's been spending too much time with the Storm-- and the ghost backs off, answering him with a lazy, triumphant grin. The spade in it's eye spins, and suddenly the nightmare changes, and it's not her, not soft, barely there curves, but a hard body and angry eyes and he chokes, because this is what he's never admitted he dreams of, not even to himself. The fingers dig in harder as the tempo changes, and the ghosts voice is in his ear again, coaxing and sibilant.
"I know what you want, what you crave, little Vongola." It's only been a few minutes, but he knows he can't last, he's just a boy and Oh God, it's too much, he can't help it, can't help the moans that rip out of his throat as he falls deeper into the ghost's trap.
He's shuddering and gasping for breath, feeling suddenly bereft, sick and violated in the aftermath as the ghost rubs soothing circles on his back, no longer needing or bothering to hold him down. He can feel a fresh round of sobs tearing at his throat, begging to be let out, and he swallows thickly against them; he's made it this far, he can't break down now, not yet. Behind him, the ghost pulls away, and he shivers, hating the fact that he misses the warmth against his back, and curls in on himself-- she left him when the ghost did-- and watches, feeling oddly detached as she dresses, trying to ignore the glimpse of fluid on the inside of one pale thigh.
A hand ruffles his hair, and he flinches back violently, stomach churning. "Thank you for entertaining my dear puppet, little Vongola." He can hear the laughter in the voice, and it makes the nausea worse. They're moving away now, and he can tell that she's limping without looking, and suddently he needs to, has to know why.
The ghost laughs, dark and mocking and vicious. "I'll be sure to send you pictures of your son, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Enjoy your life, little Decimo."
Fandom: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Author: airwaveeight
Rating: M
Pairing: Erm. D.Spade+Tsuna/Chrome, D.Space+Tsuna/??
Warnings: Rape, Mindfuckery, and D.Spade being a creepy motherfucker, cause that's what he does best.
Notes: I was talking to singultation about.. something and she said she'd write something for me, so I asked for her to fill my meme prompt... And then wound up getting bitten by my own plot bunny.
Inspired by Recoil - Want because it's such an awesomely creepy song.
The ghost's fingers are cruel on his shoulders, fingertips pressing biting into muscle and pinching nerves to ignite an agonizing pain that keeps Tsuna from fighting back.
"Relax, little Decimo." The voice, so like Mukuro's, whispers in his ear. Lips brush the pulse point behind it, chapped and dry like death. It's a struggle, but he manages to calm himself, only to cry out as teeth sink into the lobe and pull. There's blood dripping down his next, burning red hot, but the tongue that laps it up, and the mouth that sucks hungrily at the open wound is hotter still. It's all he can do to swallow back the nausea that threatens to choke him when those blood stained lips cover his, and a determined tongue pries his open.
"Keep your eyes open." The voice croons. There are hands on his thighs, fingers pulling at his belt. "It'll all be over soon, and I wouldn't want you to miss it." The digits that slip into his pants are smooth and cool; he jerks away as they wrap about him, but with the ghost behind him, viciously strong hands holding him stil, he has no room to escape.
He looks down, and immediately wishes he hadn't. She's looking at him, but her gaze is fixed on a point past him, and he knows that she sees the ghost, and only the ghost; that in her mind, her fingers are working the ghost to reluctant hardness, and not him, held down and pinned between them.
He can't help the tears that come when he realizes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that her attention is working and yes, this is really happening.
When he starts to sob, the ghost's lips are back, still slick with his blood and forcing entrance as they swallow the whimpers and hiccoughing sighs as he fights to keep himself from falling to pieces.
It's when he starts to moan, soft and quiet in the back of his throat, useless little noises that he just can't help, that the hands coaxing him still and fall away. He can feel her getting to her feet and thether of fabric sliding to the ground is terrifyingly loud. He squeaks when she moves to straddle him, but he can't see anything past the eyes that are burning into him, too, too close, but he can't move, held just so so the ghost can watch him when he finally breaks. Her hand is on him again firm and cool as it guides him and there's one last thought, her hands are so small, then he's surrounded by heat so intense he feels like he's being scalded.
"Fuck..." The word is foreign on his tongue-- some part of him, still sane and cut off from this nightmare, laughs that he's been spending too much time with the Storm-- and the ghost backs off, answering him with a lazy, triumphant grin. The spade in it's eye spins, and suddenly the nightmare changes, and it's not her, not soft, barely there curves, but a hard body and angry eyes and he chokes, because this is what he's never admitted he dreams of, not even to himself. The fingers dig in harder as the tempo changes, and the ghosts voice is in his ear again, coaxing and sibilant.
"I know what you want, what you crave, little Vongola." It's only been a few minutes, but he knows he can't last, he's just a boy and Oh God, it's too much, he can't help it, can't help the moans that rip out of his throat as he falls deeper into the ghost's trap.
He's shuddering and gasping for breath, feeling suddenly bereft, sick and violated in the aftermath as the ghost rubs soothing circles on his back, no longer needing or bothering to hold him down. He can feel a fresh round of sobs tearing at his throat, begging to be let out, and he swallows thickly against them; he's made it this far, he can't break down now, not yet. Behind him, the ghost pulls away, and he shivers, hating the fact that he misses the warmth against his back, and curls in on himself-- she left him when the ghost did-- and watches, feeling oddly detached as she dresses, trying to ignore the glimpse of fluid on the inside of one pale thigh.
A hand ruffles his hair, and he flinches back violently, stomach churning. "Thank you for entertaining my dear puppet, little Vongola." He can hear the laughter in the voice, and it makes the nausea worse. They're moving away now, and he can tell that she's limping without looking, and suddently he needs to, has to know why.
The ghost laughs, dark and mocking and vicious. "I'll be sure to send you pictures of your son, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Enjoy your life, little Decimo."