annie are you okay, are you okay? [closed & finished]
WHO: Mello (virucide) & Brian Moser (salvationdenied) -- open to Matt (lungrot) via phone, if he'd like!
WHAT: Revenge. (See this.)
WHERE: The center of town, and then an anonymous hotel room.
WHEN: Day 75, late at night.
WARNINGS: Very, very graphic violence. This is rape, so proceed at your own risk.
( will you tell us that you're okay? )
WHAT: Revenge. (See this.)
WHERE: The center of town, and then an anonymous hotel room.
WHEN: Day 75, late at night.
WARNINGS: Very, very graphic violence. This is rape, so proceed at your own risk.
( will you tell us that you're okay? )
There were so many things that Brian was in the moment he staggered from the bar. He was more than slightly inebriated from the drinks he had had and the line of cocaine he had done off of a pretty redhead's ass.
He was deep in his mind's workings over the movement of rank in the Vescovo house, over his relationship with Kristoph and the late Mazikeen, over Sam and Dean. He was thinking about his life and where he was, where it was going, who he was. All those strange existential things that cross your mind when you are still awake at four AM, or idling in the middle of the day with nothing to do, or, like Brian, blinded from your mind by chemicals.
There were so many things that Brian was in those minutes as he made his way to his car, just parked around the corner, but being sorry for himself was not one of them.
No, Brian was not thinking about the events that had gotten him to where he was at this point. He wasn't thinking about his mother (whose face he could no longer remember), or his ( ... )
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There was tactical movement behind his eyes, no flickering in his brain that urged him to try and hide behind anything. His gait was almost brazen as he moved towards him, his form lithe and feline, creeping up fast and hard in the dark.
He was reaching into his holster, strapped to the center of his back and under his shirt, reassuring himself that his knife, a large drop point, was in fact there. And he didn't stop once, not even to see if anyone was looking as he lunged and grabbed the blond from behind.
His foot lifted to kick the back of his legs, that soft fleshy part behind the knee, as his arms went around his neck and shoulders, muscles bunching as he gets him into the the strongest sleeper hold he'd ever gotten anyone into.
Grinning, mouth pressed to his ear, he spoke, "Hello there, 'fuckface'. Miss me?"
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Stunned by the blow, the blond recovered as quick as possible. And that was when the real struggle began.
Legs kicking out helplessly beneath him, Mello managed to hiss an agonized damnit under his breath, rasping the word. His hands fumbled for the gun in his jacket, but like this his body was rendered next to worthless, despite his resistance. He felt cold metal graze shaking fingertips, dislodging the pistol from its carrier before wrapping it in his grasp, and then the unthinkable happened. He dropped it.
He dropped itThe clang as it hit concrete sounded like death bearing down upon him. Mello realized how defenseless he was; and though he couldn't recognize who had a hold of him by ( ... )
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But whatever form that laughter took, he followed through on it; he laughed and spoke to him. The timbre of his voice was dark and looming, low in his throat, the words a growl, riding out across his teeth and tongue like sandpaper.
"Goodnight, sweetheart, I'll see you in a bit." The last word was bit out, a semi-grunt as he tightened his arms and sent the man spiraling into unconsciousness.
When his body was limp, it was then that Brian looked around at those who could have seen him, and grinning to himself, found that the only two souls around for miles were his and the man's now held in his arms ( ... )
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It didn't even come as a surprise when heavy blackness sucked him in at last, and unconsciousness couldn't have been sweeter. He would escape from this hellish reality for now, only to awaken later (hopefully) to something that would be much, much worse. If his attacker's final words were anything to go by, that was.
When the lid of the trunk slammed down on his gloved hand, an agonized grunt escaped Mello's thin lips, twisted into a vicious frown even in this state. But that was all that came from his deadweight body, abandoned at the bottom of some bastard's trunk; though later he was likely to wake up screaming from the pain.
It all depended.
His life depended on this, on what was going to happen to him now.
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Down the street. Turn left. Down another few blocks. Turn right. Down. Down. Down. Turn right. Turn left.
Stop the car. Leave it idling. Get out. Go inside. Pay for the room. Get back in the car. Drive around the back.
Stop the car. Put it in park. Get out. Have key in hand. Open the trunk. Get duffel bag. Set up inside.
Get the blond. Close the trunk. Get inside the room.
Go. Go. Go.
Brian moved easily, even with all of Mello's dead weight in his arms, and deposited him onto fresh plastic sheets, arranging his limbs. Spread eagle, on his back, facing the ceiling, each limb married to a leg on the bed, Brian barely had time to admire his handiwork before he realised the blond was stirring.
But it didn't stop him from turning off all the lights and pulling the blinds as he pulled the mask down and around his chin.
"Wakey, wakey.." The voice was a coo, floating in the room like an afterthought of smoke.
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Even in the darkness, he could make that out. It loomed above him, menacing in its stale normalcy, and with it came the gradual slur of consciousness. His senses sharpened -- but with it came blinding pain so great his mouth opened in a shout he forced himself to cut off with an audible click of teeth. Mello's widened eyes shot up to his bound hand, the one shooting waves of pain through his body like lightning flashes. It was probably broken, but from exactly what he couldn't decipher.
...But that didn't matter in the face of greater things; in the next moment the blond's attention swung to the monster above him. Fear unlike anything he'd experienced before chilled him to the bone, silenced him, put him in his place. This was bad, this was bad, oh my god this was so fucking bad--
"What--" Mello started, voice tight and full of holes, struggling even though all movement was pointless while he remained bound like this. "What the hell are you--no--"
--only an off-white mask leered back at him.
Oh my god, ( ... )
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"Heh." The noise was light, amused even, as Brian turned to reach into the large duffel bag placed on the seat of one of the hotel's chairs. He rummaged for a bit, before returning to the blond's side and half-kneeling against the edge of the mattress.
The phone was still ringing (Mindless Self Indulgence's "Two Hookers and an Eight Ball") as he moved a hand, large and steady and holding an enormous pair of shears, up the side of his pants, cutting as it went ( ... )
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He was probably going to die. Wasn't he?
It felt like it. It felt like it was only a matter of time before he was going to be cut up into tiny pieces and left in the bathroom for the police to find, whenever they bothered to check the scene out. The maid who cleaned the hotel rooms here would find his corpse first, swimming in a pool of blood. He wondered what she'd do. Scream? Black out? He wondered what the image would leave her with, what kind of thoughts she'd endure for the rest of her life.
I found a dead man sliced up in the bathroom. I found a dead person, I found him--He ( ... )
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"And when he comes, because you know he will," he is leaning close, voice pressed against Mello's cheek like a warm, wet cloth. "I'll slit his throat at the door."
A chuckle, deep and low resonated in Brian's chest.
Oh, he was enjoying this. He was loving the pain and the fear, a giant, dark shadow that normally lay dormant rising up, coasting into Mello's own, letting him know that he was in charge here. And there was no one else but he.
Brian pulled the fabric off his body, the tip of shears against Mello's sternum.
"Do you want to feel him bleed out all over you, blondie?"
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...and he had it nailed down by the neck.
"Shut the fuck up," the blond rasped, twisting in his restraints, glaring with daggers and rekindled anger at the monster looming above him. "Do whatever you want, just..." A haggard breath; it felt like inhaling knives. "...shut the fuck up." About him. Stop it. Stop it, it hurts, stop it. Don't you fucking dare.This probably wasn't the smartest thing to say, especially not when he was stripped naked with a dangerous weapon gracing bare, vulnerable skin, the metal a cold fingertip pressing down. There was little doubt in Mello's mind that this was about to get ( ... )
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Blondie here was going to pay for that show in the bar, wasn't he? A voice in the back of Brian's mind cooed, as if to shush and soothe any ruffling of feathers at the idea of the bound man having someone he... cared for.
Someone he might love.
Turn your mind to this, now, Brian, the voice said. Find the places that make him hurt.
So Brian did, and started by plunging the closed shears into Mello's broken hand.
"Now, where do we begin?"
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It was almost like one minute it wasn't there, and the next it was. His hand vaguely ached, sending shivers of discomfort through his body at intermittent moments. And the next, well...the next second, he was blinded by pure agony. It ripped through him like a vindictive spirit, erupting some tender thread of terror inside of him. He didn't know the extent of the damage done by the shears to his already wounded hand, but he didn't have to.
He screamed.
Throat raw and burning when the shout subsided into dry sobs, Mello damned himself. He damned himself, hated himself for giving this man the pleasure of his torture. Whatever quick-witted retorts he had evaporated on his tongue, and his spine curved concave.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt--
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Ah, well, he wouldn't be doing that again. He lifts his knees and moves onto the bed and pulling his drop point knife from its holster. Kneeling over the man, his hand smoothed up his thigh, callouses catching on his skin as it stops, just above his crotch.
"What's your name, blondie?"
His weight settled on the bed, letting the man know that he did top him by at least twenty pounds of muscle, and perhaps an inch in height. And his hands moved onto his shoulders, propping his weight up as he lowers his face near his blond head.
There was a soft rift of melody playing somewhere, someplace for Brian and he brought the knife down, flat of the blade against his skin, against his chest, flicking it over a nipple once, twice. Waiting for an answer.
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...If he even survived this.
Breath coming shallow, Mello's unfocused eyes dragged over the white mask hanging above him, by all appearances a ghost emerging from the darkness of the room. It was horrible.
At the question, he forced himself to swallow the bile built up in the back of his throat. His upper body was being held down on the mattress beneath him, the weight of the man keeping him there heavy enough to render his useless efforts to twist away absolutely impossible. He was trapped, in every sense of the word.
Why would he surrender the last of his dignity? His nameMello's lips twisted. His skin prickled at the touch of the shears, giving a whole body shudder, but he didn't relent ( ... )
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