Title: Potent
Summary: This wasn't some Beauty and the Beast fairytale. Mello didn't fall in love with the redhead, and the redhead wasn't trying to warm the blonde's heart. In fact, the blonde never even learned the redhead's name, but... he was special.
Disclaimer: I don't own DN.
Author's Note: Just wanted to write something different.
…
For the blonde, it was addictive: the high that came with power. As he leaned against the big brick bulwark behind him, face flushed, chest heaving, he didn't even mind the chill that wafted along the nightly breeze. No, that was of little importance compared to the wet heat engulfing his enraged manhood. That heat, all throat and tongue and careful teeth and pliable lips, all for his pleasure... and his alone. His clawed and spindly fingers meshed themselves into silken locks of fiery red in an encouraging gesture for the younger male to continue to service him. "Good boy, my pet," he said, voice rolling with a smooth seduction too real for any porno. "Such a good boy." Those fingers tightened their hold, yanking the redhead by the hair and forcing him off the gloriously chunk of hardening man-flesh.
The redhead breathed in shallow panting breaths, eyes closed not for his own sake but because he'd been told not to peek. "Y-You didn't cum," he said between gulps and gasps, only to feel the shock of warmth on his cheek as the blonde man's hand was placed there on a gentle caress.
"I know I usually let you taste me," he said, voice soft and genuine with something foreign to both males, "but I have something different in mind this time."
The redhead shivered but remained still otherwise, eyes still closed and mouth still open to intake gluttonous amounts of air. "What might that be, master?"
"I'm not going to sugar-coat this, my pet; it is going to hurt. But I'm going to take you."
"That's okay, master. Just do it." And with those words, the redhead smiled so brightly, so trustful of this strange blonde man who towered over him.
Then, no other conversation was exchanged. The master removed his pet's shirt, starting at the hem and pulling it up over his head, folding it and then setting it atop a dusty old crate. Serum-blue eyes roamed over the newly exposed expansion before him: from the taut flat skin between his hips that disappeared at the curious line of denim, to the small cute puckering navel, to the boyish stomach too underdeveloped for abs and pecs that were very much the same, and the little button-sized dark spots that encased the pert nipples. It was all so delicious, as was the deep-set clavicle, thin bony shoulders, pale column of throat, and preciously freckled face.
This pet was the second definition temptation, beautiful and trusting and non-judgmental. The blonde had other pets, none quite as favorable as this one, though their time together was always brief and heated; there was never any time for real endearments. Just touching and oral and remarks passed between them that meant much less than the life-sustaining juice that could be produced through sexual acts.
Because, as narcissistic as that might sound, the blonde was not human. He had the face of an angel trapped beneath a halo of blonde that housed a set of small goat horns; his body was that of a Grecian warrior, coated in a sinful second skin of leather; and strangely enough, at the end of each dark-veined wrist was a strong clawed hand capable of surprisingly destructive force when the blonde was addled. But above all, the most unique thing about this young adult who'd long stopped aging, was his semen.
As white as milk and as sweet as white chocolate, it had the ability to sustain life. A single mouthful could give a dying old man ridden with disease the will to live for another 5-7 days.
This creature -some called him a demon while others revered him as an angel or miracle- he called himself Mello.
Mello was not something that hid in the shadows and preyed on the weak. Young, attractive and wealthy, people all over the globe would seek him out in hopes of seducing him... but those people only wanted him because they wanted something to make them stronger, healthier. They wouldn't listen when he'd explained that just because it could preserve their bodies and sustain their life for a few days, didn't mean it was a cure.
It wasn't a cure.
It was a treatment, an addictive one at that. A drug.
But that didn't bother the blonde; he was an addict too. He was addicted to power. People would beg and plead for him to help. These people were dying; their very lives depended on him, and he could get anything from them, do anything to them, and they'd thank him, worship him like God.
He'd learned early on that people only wanted him for his fuck-juice, his cum, his semen, his essence. And they were willing to do just about anything for it, which was good because Mello's price was steep.
To the pregnant woman with nine kids and a cheating husband: Get a divorce, then self-abort your bastardic child.
To the obese man who worked at a butcher shop in Arkansas: Cut yourself -no, you can cut deeper; I want you bleeding like a cut pig!
To the droopy-faced hooker who'd been in the game too long: State your amount of worthlessness, and mean it.
Sometimes it was a small spirit-breaking act that wouldn't affect them right away; no, it would only haunt them at an hour when they were at their lowest, but such a feat would hurt them deeper than they could fathom prior. Other times, it was direct and sickening to the point of the desperate fools nearly turning away- but they never did.
To the lawyer with tuberculosis: Throw the upcoming case; money isn't everything.
To the recovering bulimic with AIDS and a bad scalp infection and melanoma: Make yourself vomit, and then eat it.
To the old lady on her last leg with pneumonia: Fuck yourself on a wooden broom handle; then call up you grandson and let him hear you.
It was never fair, what he demanded of them. But he was above these mortal people with their sins and diseases. And it was common knowledge that he not only demanded respect and full obedience, but he also preferred to be called Master.
He helped, fucked, slept with, and humiliated so many people on a regular basis that he long forgot that they had names. Too uncaring to remember them, he called them all Pets.
Because that's what they were. Unable to take care of themselves without his aid, they needed him. He'd sate them and send them off with a pat on the head, tears in their eyes and prayers falling from their lips with his name in place of God's.
And yet, like eating your favorite food over and over, anything can eventually become tiresome.
Life had become mundane, and Mello was near breaking point, going as far as to plot a homicide when one tiny thing changed. Changed his mind, changed his life, changed him.
He met the redhead.
This wasn't some Beauty and the Beast fairytale. Mello didn't fall in love with the redhead, and the redhead wasn't trying to warm the blonde's heart. In fact, the blonde never even learned the redhead's name, but... he was special.
Their meeting, strange as it was, happened at a funeral. Mello had attended because he honestly liked funerals; they were a reminder that people did die, even if they didn't die around him. Somehow, that small knowledge always comforted him. The redhead had attended because his mother had passed on- or, rather, committed accidental suicide -if there ever was such a thing.
They met there, the redhead's eyes glued to the small screen of a handheld gaming console and the blonde standing nearby.
Without thinking or even looking up to see the blonde, the redhead whispered "you smell like chocolate."
"I know," the blonde said, looking around and glaring at a few mortals who'd caught sight of him, probably wanting him for his 'gift,' though he was in no mood to offer.
Turning his game off and slipping it into his pocket, the redhead said "Well, I'm going," and then he turned to walk away, eyes downcast, never once looking up.
Mello wasn't sure what it was about the redhead, but he followed. Maybe it was the scent of innocence, something that was rare to find in this generation. Maybe it was the fact that he was curious as to where an obviously orphaned little boy was going to go. Or, maybe there really was something strange akin to Fate. But he followed the redhead to a narrow back alley and asked "What are you doing?"
The boy sighed but said nothing; he just leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Waiting."
"For what?" Looking at the strange child in over-sized clothes, it was hard not to be curious.
"For a good reason to go home."
"Where's home for you?"
The redhead didn't answer. He simply lowered his head more so that his chin touched his chest, and he began to hum softly.
"Fine, don't answer me. But don't come crying to me when you're old and dying like everyone else does!" Mello spat, exasperated. And he turned to leave, but after only a few steps, the redhead spoke to him.
"They hurt me, y'know. My dad did, and then my mom. They said things, loudly. Yelling, lots of yelling. And they threw things, and they hit me. So, I'm not mad that daddy's in jail and mommy's dead. I think... death is a very merciful thing."
And that last line, coming from such a young child who couldn't be more than nine or ten, it tugged at something inside the blonde, and he said "Yeah, that's right. It can be very merciful... but most people don't understand that. Most people think they're invincible, and when they find out they're not, they do everything they can to live forever."
The redhead sighed. "I'm not like that. I'm going to die one day. And I'm okay with that."
But Mello wasn't. Hearing such an innocent child say something that even most adults couldn't say, it made Mello's stomach churn, and somewhere in the deepest recesses of his heart and head, he vowed to keep this child alive and happy for as long as he could... for his own sake and the child's.
Mello had left the redhead in the alley with his final words being "I'll see you around," and he'd managed to leave before the redhead had even really looked at him. But he didn't leave, not far anyways. He kept his distance so that his 'chocolate' scent couldn't be detected, and he kept a watchful eye on the boy.
Watched him make it home, where he now had to live with his aunt and uncle.
Watched him day to day go to school and come home.
Watched him live.
On one occasion, the redhead was getting made fun of and bullied for wearing clothes that didn't quite fit, too large for his small frame. Mello waited for the redhead to run off before approaching the young bullies and giving them a scare, telling them quite sternly that he'd eat their parents if they bothered the kid again.
Of course, this was a lie, but Mello was fierce and children were gullible.
Similar events happened several times over the course of the years, but it wasn't until the rather lanky redhead was fifteen and being harassed by a jock outside of school that Mello intervened so directly.
The jock had his pants unzipped and, holding the redhead tightly by the hair, he was brushing his erected member against the teen's cheek, daring him to take it into his mouth, but the redhead refused and stubbornly tried to get away.
This is when Mello stepped in to play hero. Shadows cloaking him like something sinister, he emerged from nothingness, artificial street lights framing his silhouette as he closed in, shark-like teeth bared and claws extended. He lunged and his body contacted the jock, knocking him away from the redhead and crashing with him to the ground. "People like you are lower than dirt," he spat. "I should kill you. But then again, death is too merciful."
"F-Fuck, man! What are you going to do?!"
"I'll tell you what I'm not going to do. Your mom, she's sick, right? In the hospital. Cancer. I'm not going to help her anymore. And it's all. Your. Fault."
"M-Mom's sick?!" the kid screeched, confused and panicked and trying like hell to get this impossibly strong stranger off him.
"She didn't tell you? She's been sick for two years. And if I don't help her, she'll die in a few months. Why don't you go home and spend your last bit of time together? Make it precious." With that, Mello roughly grabbed the teen by the back of the head and slammed him face-first into the ground, just hard enough to break his nose and cause mass discomfort. Then he got up and turned to the redhead who was in an upright position, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head bowed low so that his chin touched his chest.
By now, the blonde was aware of the boy's defensive stance; somehow, this position brought comfort to the redhead, as he got like this when he was trying to will away stress.
Not knowing what to say or do, Mello just stood there, silent and motionless like an abstract artifact.
Then... "You still smell like chocolate." And the redhead smiled. "Th-Thank you. I-I know you've been there for me a lot. I don't know how long, but I can always smell you. I like that smell. I-I just... How can I thank you?"
Mello was speechless. In all the years that he'd been prolonging lives, he couldn't recall a single bit of gratitude so genuine as this. "Just... don't look me in the eye, okay?"
And for Mello, that was important. To him, it seemed, the moment someone made eye contact with him, they knew his gift... and they wanted it. The last thing he wanted was for this perfect boy to want him like everyone else did.
"Oh, I can do that," the redhead said. "I don't see very well anyways. By the way, I'm M-"
"I don't want your name."
"But, you helped me. And you obviously like me since you're around me so much. At least tell me what I can call you."
"Master."
"That's... erm, okay? Master. I'll call you master, but shouldn't you call me something?"
"I'll give you a name when I see fit. Your earth-bound name means little to me anyways."
"Oh, okay. I should go... But thank you, master."
... And it was that simple.
But on the boy's 16th birthday, he took a bike ride across town to pick up some sugar for a cake he and his aunt were making to celebrate the occasion while his uncle was away on a business trip. He had his headphones on and was going about his day like any other carefree teen would. He didn't hear or see the truck coming... until it was too late.
Mello had seen the incident from afar, but he did not possess super speed; he was not a superhero; and he could not save the precious redhead from getting slammed into.
The bike was totaled but the boy riding it was in a much worse state, beyond repair in such a gristly way, limbs twisted grotesquely, face half gone -rubbed raw on the pavement- and body limp and lifeless.
If Mello had a heart, he was sure it was broken at least a little. But as horrible as he felt, it was nothing compared to the anger that emerged when he saw the driver of the truck peek out the window at the damage and then just drive off as if nothing had happened.
Mello inwardly swore he'd make that man pay, but for now, the redhead was a priority. He scooped up the fragmented teen and held the bloody mass against his chest as he ran on foot to the nearest hotel where he phoned a private doctor -it wasn't necessarily his doctor, but it was a doctor he knew well enough; this doctor had requested his help many times before when a practice went wrong and a life was in danger.
This doctor, a sniveling rat-faced man named Snydar, was at the hotel with a medpack in just minutes. "I can patch him up, but the odds are: he won't live," he said, voice grave and expression even more grim.
"He'll live, dammit, just do something!"
...