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? )
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 wondered if she had anyone she would talk to about her discovery. A husband, best friend, mother...
The shears were cold against his bare skin under the layer of leather, and he jerked instinctively, whole body tense. He killed people for a living -- so why was he so shaken by his own impending murder? What was wrong with him?
Matt, oh my god, Matt, Matt, Matt--
"Who--" he rasped, flinching when dangerous metal lingered against his crotch. "Who the hell are you--" --but the question was cut off by a degrading whimper of pain as the shears dug down. He was helpless. He was so helpless, he was going to die, he was going to die...
His eyes flashed to the phone resting nearby. There was beast inside of him, black and foul, raging at the barriers of his mind. But it couldn't get out. It couldn't do a thing.
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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 very messy -- especially when he decided to badmouth his attacker like he just had. But the fire of rage and terror was eating him alive, and he figured -- if I'm going to die, I'll make it hell for both of us.
Mentally and physically, he braced himself.
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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 name?
Mello's lips twisted. His skin prickled at the touch of the shears, giving a whole body shudder, but he didn't relent. "What's yours?"
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"My name.." The drop point knife, still dull, moved over the blond's chest, down, Brian's hands going with. "Is 'Darling'."
The grin was audible in the word, as his left hand moved to touch him, there, hand cupping the underside of him. The right hand with the knife swept down, over his belly, towards its sister hand, even as its grip tightened, and Brian squeezed, ever-so-lightly.
"Want to call me by my name, blondie?"
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Barely processing the words said to him, the blond tried his best to recoil. And then something occurred to him.
...If this bastard didn't know his name, then who the hell could he be? It wasn't random, he'd proven that from the beginning. It wasn't a random attack.
Drawn back to the situation by the question, Mello scowled. He wouldn't call him a damn thing besides 'bastard' and 'fucker'; he knew he was just being messed with, at the mercy of this man's violent whims. He had to think fast.
"Mello," the blond growled at last, hating himself. Hating himself more than he ever had. It was this or give a fake name, which wouldn't work and didn't matter if he was going to die. "That's my name." You nasty motherfucker.
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"Mello. Mello." He lets the word roll around in his mouth as his hand releases the width of him and the tip of a digit, perhaps the same one that had been wagging at him before, circling the head of his cock, dipping under the frenulum. It slicked over the split, pushing foreskin down with its brother, the thumb, and moved back up again to tease the slit, the entrance into that narrow shaft.
"Mello. Do you know that I'm going to kill you, Mello?" He says it with a resonance that unbeknownst to him, will strike true for this trained killer underneath him. It is the sound of a man who does not bluff, does not joke. It is the way someone who means what he says speaks. No joke. No lie.
"I'm going to kill you and the only thing that will make it going any slower-- or faster-- is how good you beg." The last word is a snarl, victorious and triumphant, as he continues to work his hand over Mello's sex.
This part, this part had not been part of the plan. But it had started with those leather pants being cut off, and was progressing so nicely, why nip a good thing in the bud?
"That, and/or, how good you can make me feel before."
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But Mello had other problems to deal with, such as the one between his bound and spread legs. The attention being spared his swiftly hardening length sent a shudder of shame through him; he was getting an erection from someone who was probably going to rape and then kill him (or just kill him and skip the first part altogether), and he couldn't do a goddamn thing about it.
It was awful. It was degrading. It was everything he couldn't bear to stand, and when that fingertip brushed over the tip of his cock, his body bent against his will, the back of skull grinding down into the mattress and his spine curving. He choked on his own spit, forcing the whimper down. Even his knees folded, yanking forward, as if he could tear from his restraints through will alone. What a joke.
I know, Mello thought, the beast within him raging. I know you're going to kill me. You'll slice me up and dump me in the bathtub, and then the maid will find me, and she'll tell her husband, and they'll wonder who I was and what I did to deserve this--
But he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't try to make this easier for himself, no matter what. Why would he?
Leveling a glare, the look in his sharp blue eyes wild, chaotic and somewhat crazed, Mello growled. "Go fuck yourself."
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His hands stilled, and he cocked his head again, before continuing back up, his ministrations deepening.
"Why are you so angry? Was it something I said? Or did I do something to piss you off?" The voice was guileless, almost shocked at his anger, even as his left hand continued to stroke the man's dick.
He reached his right hand out, under the man's chin and spoke, harsh with authority, without a single wavering note: "Spit."
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