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? )
--did I do something to piss you off?
Oh, no, of course not. Mello's expression collapsed into one of absolute contempt. Of course breaking his hand, tying him up with nylon rope, stabbing said broken hand and then sexually assaulting him wasn't going to piss Mello off. But both of them already knew the truth, knew he was just. Messing around. Spreading this thin, extending the torture. Whatever.
At the command, the blond's brow furrowed, even as his body acted against his will, hips rolling forward for more of that vile hand around him -- and he had to swallow his disgust. "...What?"
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But he had no choice, did he.
He had no fucking choice.
Eyes holding more rage in them than was probably okay for a twenty-one year old young man, Mello gathered the saliva in his mouth before obediently spitting it into his captor's hand. "How's that, fucker? Want me to suck on your fingers too?"
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The rest, the hand moved again, his other not ceasing it's motions, using the rest of that liquid. Between his thighs, underneath the tight sac of his testicles, he smoothed the spittle there, across that puckered and tightly held entrance.
Two digits, tapered and strong, flitted across that entrance again once that was done, circling the firm circle of muscle, intentions clear.
"Matt use this much, Mello-mello?" He doubled the name, like a child would, his fingers using the freshly arrived saliva to tease his foreskin, sliding a finger underneath the flap of skin and stroking the bare head underneath. And his pin-hole eyes looked down briefly, as if to inspect his movements. "And do you clean under here?"
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But he'd probably die tonight, so what did it matter?
At the treatment, even someone as steeled as Mello couldn't prevent the strangled whine from leaving his lips, nor the heavy pants that followed. Breathing was becoming more difficult, and he felt his skin flush with color when fingers traced at his vulnerable opening. The monster's intentions were very clear, of course, but as for his prodding, personal question...Mello wouldn't deign him the satisfaction of an answer. The truth was that they usually used lube or something else, so he wasn't as used to spit -- he wasn't even that used to being on the receiving end, either ( ... )
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Matt had sighed, tossed his phone back towards the couch and watched it bounce off it's age-stained cushions and onto the floor with unveiled disinterest and mild irritation. That Mello hadn't answered his call wasn't something the redhead had deemed alarming, but it was at least worth some annoyance (mostly at the fact that Matt was hungry, and while the fucker was out he might as well grab some on the way back or something) and the effort of calling back some minutes later.
His less than adequately clothed body now stretched across patchy carpeting, Matt reached back for the phone he'd discarded, calloused fingers finding their way across the miniature keypad with ease born from habit.
Ring. Ring.
"Pick up already, asshole."
Ring.
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"Matthew."
He was grinning, his hands stilling on Mello's body as he spoke to the person on the other line.
"We were just talking about you, actually." And he reaches his hand around the base of Mello's cock, squeezing tight and pulling it up smoothly, driving to elicit a sound from the blond under him. It must feel delicious, after all, even with everything else that was going on.
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But his thoughts stopped short when a rough hand grabbed him again, coaxing a ragged moan from his sore throat. No, he knew the game the bastard was playing, he knew what he was doing, why did this make him so angry, he wanted to kill someone he was so angry, so angry he was being torn apart with the force of it...
"What the fuck are you--ah--doing! Get the fu--" tormented voice interrupted by shallow breathing, heavy and painful and awful and oh my god. "Don't do that--no, Matt--" Worry thundered through him.
Why? Why why why why why?
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"Who the fuck--" Interrupted, the red head felt his blood run cold. Had that been him, just then? So alarmed, so painfully and obviously distressed on the other end of the line-- there was no doubt about it.
"Mello-"
Something was very, very wrong.
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"I'm here with Mello, just shooting the ah--" He laughs. "Breeze. I'm going to rip him open right now, could you hold on for a second?"
He lowers his jeans, looking at the man, shaking under him and grinned beneath the white, smooth surface of the mask. The strange part about it, is that the man isn't even that hard at that point. Phone still in his hand the other lifting from Mello's width lingering slowly.
The man then takes his fist, and clenching it tight, punches the blond man in the chest. The knuckles plunge into the edge of his ribcage, and to boot, while he was inhaling as the bones shifted up in expansion. The force of it is brutal, vicious and vindictive.
And Brian's cock hardens, lifting as if on command, stiffening with blood.
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He screamed again. Louder. He swore he could feel his throat tearing from the ceaseless abuse, vocal cords throbbing in agony at the treatment. He swore he tasted copper.
Twisting on top of the bed like a thing possessed, Mello tried desperately to crawl away from the monster above him, his heels sliding uselessly under him. There was no way he could escape; every movement he made brought blistering pain to the surface again and again, a new inferno hotter and hotter each time. If he tried to budge an inch, his broken ribs screeched in protest. The bleeding wound of his lame hand paled in comparison to this fresh terror.
"STOP, GET THE FUCK AWAY ( ... )
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Then? Then there's fear, devastating and completely alien in the way it tears through him like a hot knife through butter. Matt wants to cover his ears when the screams come, dig blunt nails into his scalp and tug at fistfuls of his own hair, as if the action alone would be enough to extract the sound from his memory. It's not right; people shouldn't sound like that. Mello shouldn't sound like that. Not when Mello's always on top of things, not when Mello's got everything but his own temper under control, not when Mello's supposed to be the one thing in all of Reggio Calabria Matt should never have to worry about ( ... )
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Thank god for that red head earlier.
He undoes the wrapper with his teeth as he speaks: "Can you hear me, Matthew?", then holding the semi-transparent film between two fingers. "I'm afraid I've done, and am going to do, a bit more than touch him." He is mocking the man on the other end of the line.
His voice is louder as he speaks into the mic, sliding the now opened condom onto the tip of his own length. He angles the camera down at the blond and begins snapping the photos, putting them a slideshow as his hand moves.
"I'm taking some pictures for you, Matthew. To remember him by, of course."
First, his battered and blood stained face. Beautiful.
Then, the ropes holding him and the shears through his broken hand. Gorgeous.Then, the ( ... )
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It's like he's being dissected alive, torn skin from muscle and muscle from bone. It hurts.
At this point, Mello's drunk on delirium, sick with pain and torment. His whole body has become a destroyed mess of screaming nerves and aching tissue. Every single inch of him.
When the camera flashes, blurred blue eyes widen considerably, glazed by tears he doesn't know if he can hold back much longer. It's disgusting that he's been broken down to this crawling, scratching, seething creature of a person. It's revolting that Mello, self-proclaimed number one, always ahead of the game and always in control, is on the brink of crying. Begging, maybe. How could this have happened ( ... )
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"I'm going to kill you," he chokes. It doesn't matter that he doesn't have a face or name to go by, Matt is going to kill him, pluck every one of the monster's nails from their respective fingers, make him scream until copper fills his mouth and then some. For driving such terrible noises from someone so tall and proud, so fucking untouchable-- it's the least, the very least they deserve.
The pictures are what finally do it, like one big car wreck he can't tear his crazed eyes from. Ropes biting into flesh, lacerations kissing Mello's limbs purple blue and black, gore pooling from his hand and caking his hardly recognizable face with heavy red. Disgust, contempt, outrage and raw, bestial ache tear their destructive path through him and Matt spills bile onto the floor. He swears he can hear Mello's voice over his gagging, and oh god, could this ( ... )
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He doesn't wait for a response. He continues to click through buttons, fingers adjusting the condom to it fits all the way up his own cock.
Then, smiling at finding it, he turns the video on, bringing it to Mello's face before angling it down and bringing his hand and the cell phone it holds to face between them, to Mello's thighs and what's between them.
It is like this, with his left hand holding the camera that he takes his right fist, curls it around the width of his own cock, and pushes himself, without any sort of notice, straight.
into.
him.
He doesn't allow himself a groan, feeling the other man's flesh stretch hard and fast, and settles his body directly against his, buried to the hilt inside him.
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