annie are you okay, are you okay? [closed & finished]

[virucide]

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.

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[salvationdenied]

Brian finds the camera, after a few moments of deliberation upon clicking the speaker phone on, his hand throbbing from having punched the blond in the chest. He shakes it out, and brings the cell in front of his face as his other hand reaches into his pocket and pulls a condom from his back pocket.

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 sight of Brian's cock, wrapped in shining tight latex, hard and pressing against Mello's own cock. Perfect, perfect, keep going, darling.

"Mello's waiting for me to give it to him, Matthew, do you think I should give it to him? You should see how much he loved my hands before, jumping up so I could jack him off faster, harder."

He cups Mello's balls, squeezing too hard for pleasure.

"You haven't been doing a good job, Matthew," he chides the boy. "Our Mello-mello here wants to get laid. And badly. Have you been ignoring him?"

[virucide]

The whimpers bubbling from his throat are too helpless, too unlike someone so obsessed with pride and dignity and withholding his reputation. Someone obsessed with being on the top, with being the best, with standing high above everyone else. Someone who is so talented, so brilliant. He cannot become the victim, this is impossible, what the hell is happening to him...

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?

What went wrong?

"Stop, stop, don't, don't, don't, don't," he groans, pants, whispers and nearly pleads. And then suddenly, voice hushed by exhaustion and a faint trace of wallowing hysteria, the blond's whole body is ripping and tearing and twisting, working off bursts of adrenaline brought by horrific desperation. "HIS NAME IS MATT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER. LEAVE HIM THE FUCK OUT OF THIS--!"

And that he's still undeniably hard despite his pain is another low kick to the gut. His insides twist, and he dry-sobs again, willing for death or unconsciousness or anything. It needs to stop.

Why is he so weak?

"Just--just do it."

[lungrot]

Can he hear him? The bastard's voice is like nails on a chalkboard, second only to Mello's audible suffering in the way it makes his stomach churn, causes bile to burn it's way up his throat.

"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 feel any fucking worse?

"Don't." Please. Please please please please.

[salvationdenied]

Suddenly, he pulls the phone away and covers the mic with his hand, looking at Mello. "Where's the video feature?"

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.

[virucide]

He's been torn apart. There's no going back now, not with this solidity of muscle and tissue sealed by blood and agony.

The bastard's inside of him at last. It shouldn't hurt this much, but it does; Mello's not a virgin, but he certainly feels like one again. Tensing only makes it worse and yet he can't really stop himself from giving into instinct, and his body closes like a vice around the monster's hard cock, driving a helpless sound of pain from the blond's throat. He's been violated at last.

His mind, his body, his pride.

Everything.

He can feel the man's pulse deep within him, thundering against the raw and tender and secret crevices of his body like a war drum. It's too intimate, this level of contact, it's too horrible. His wrists yank against their forever unrelenting restraints, and in an accidental move, the handle of the shears hit the headboard, lodging them deeper.

Mello vaguely realizes that he's screaming again. His legs are shaking, trembling, toes curling. His body is torn and held open, ready for the taking. All this layered on top of itself, all of this combined...it's a hellish nightmare turned reality.

[salvationdenied]

Brian pants, but does not moan. He barely groans as he speaks into the phone, the video pointed at the chest of the man under him.

"He loves it, Matthew. Look at him. Look at how he's moving, and god, he's so tight-- he's so--" Brian laughs, the camera zooming in on Mello's face. "How small were you, Matthew, really? He's barely stretched." Laughter, high and tinny. "He is-- well, was... practically brand new."

He continues to press in, video on Mello's face.

"Mello-mello.." When the blond looks up, Brian pulls out and pushes in deep again. "Tell Matthew, tell your Matthew that you love him."

The words come out in a hiss, in a soft bubbling hiss that rises like vapor, vile and rotten, from his mouth.

"Tell Matt that you love him, Mello, and... say goodbye."