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? )
Comments 53
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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--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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What's he saying? What?
What?
Mello must be having a panic attack. That's what it feels like, this suffocating tightening in his gut and chest, this overload of overwhelming emotion he doesn't know what to do with. He doesn't know what to do anymore at all. He just wants to be killed, let this horror end, let everything seep into eternal pitch.
He wonders if he regrets anything in his life. His mother...she...
Will he regret keeping his mouth shut now, in the face of what would probably be the last words he would ever say to Matt? His best friend. His partner. His--
--soul mate? Even something like that is hard to comprehend. But he's ( ... )
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"No." Shaking his head, his fingers finally wrap around a ring of keys. "Fuck, Mello. Don't." It's all Matt can choke out, rage boiling inside him and unfurling in his gut, constricting his vocal chords. What now? Is he expected to let out some guttural cry, act like the fucking prey they've both been set up to be? It'd be fitting, at the very least.
Reassuring the other isn't something Matt thinks he can do much longer. He only half-believes it, anyway, and though he's 100% sure he'll find the monster responsible for this and make him pay in blood and tears, there's a part of him that's so no sure Mello will be around to see it happen. Matt's stomach churns at the thought.
'Matt, I'm sorry.'
"No, shut the fuck up, stop talking like you're about to--"
'I love y--
>click
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The now free left hand is palming the blond's cock, holding the top of it down like it might explode and rubbing into the head of his sex. He does it like he imagines Mello might do it, by himself, undisturbed, shifting his hand, damp with sweat (his and Mello's) over and over and over again.
"Once more, Mello-Mello." His voice is hot and tight, like a burning sting from a jellyfish, wrapping around the man's very existence and poisoning it. "Spit."
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...and god, only now does Mello realize how much he regrets. He regrets everything. How did it come to this?
At the command, it takes less time for the blond to comply. He's empty. There's nothing left in him anymore. He's not nearly at peace with himself or the rest of the world, but he knows he's going to die. So it doesn't matter. He has no choice, he has no fucking choice.
He's hard, and he's cresting the brink of an orgasm, and it's sick and twisted but it still feels good. His body feels good. Suiting, maybe, to feel good just before you feel so bad your heart stops beating. Mello gathers the spit in his mouth and obediently forfeits it over, body still, resolutely silent.
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This is what death is, and what death entails. There are no peaceful departures, no lengthy farewells to loved ones. No, this is death, this is murder. What he's been doing for half his life is finally coming back to claim its wayward angel, drag it kicking and screaming back under the molten surface.
He's never felt this much pain in his life.
Muscle tearing so easily, parting where it once held itself together by nerve and skin -- there's only one place for it to go.
Down to the bone.
Mello's roaring, screaming, and shaking. He's hurting, there are moist trails streaking down his cheeks, pooling in the hollow of his throat before he has any fucking clue what's going on--
oh my god oh my god oh my god
--this is death. This is murder.
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Brian's phone rings.
And it's not the normal ring. Its high, bright urgent tone lifts up over the whine of the saw (and Mello's screaming) forcing Brian to hear it and pay attention.
It's his Vescovo ring.
Brian lifts the saw off the bone and shuts it off.
He reaches into his pocket, lifting the phone to his masked face and clicking into the message he had been sent.
And all at once, Brian watches that white space he had been cradled in, burn yellow hot, replacing cool, clean white for blinding, blue-furious rage.
He wouldn't be able to finish.
"God--- DAMN IT!" The scream rips from his lungs, rattling against the walls as he clenches his fists and takes a deep heaving breath, and-- and ( ... )
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He doesn't know exactly what's happening to him. Gaps of time are sliding together and overlapping, sucking out whole minutes of his most immediate reality. He sees the bloodied bone saw one moment, and then he sees the white mask, and then he hears something ringing. At first, Mello's blood runs cold -- but no, that isn't Matt calling. This is something else. Someone else seeking someone else. Not him. No one seeking him.
Mello's suspicions are confirmed when he feels the restraints on his body loosen and fall away, though he's in no state to lash out and attack even if he wants to, even if he's thinking it. Something cold envelopes him, seals him in with his own generous pool of blood. The darkness terrifies him. He sees white in the corners of his eyes, a slit of a smirk, pin-hole eyes, a smooth voice.
Why is he alive?He can't move in here. He tries to struggle, but the slightest movement sends unbearable backlashes of pain through his body, through his bones -- which are all ( ... )
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