a/n: This is the most original fic ever. And if no one catches the sheer sarcasm in the previous sentence...then dear Lord, leave now please. Yeah, angry MelloxNear, like you haven't seen that before. Anyways...this fic is completely inappropriate for anyone who is offended by slightly non-consensual acts, gay sex, asphyxiation, mental and physical abuse - yeah, you get the picture. And I have nothing to say about the pairing; I don't favor it, and I don't hate it. It's just what came out. And I didn't specify Near or Mello's ages because for some odd reason it always struck me as a distraction. It's okay to assume that they're fairly pubescent though.
Feel free to make suggestions and criticize this.
I don't own Death Note. -insert something witty concerning the disclaimer here- .
-:-
Evening was slipping into its respective niche. My senses realized this before my brain and wished to shy away. I hated the evening. Well, I suppose I must be fair. Nowadays I hate all times of the day. When I first came to Wammy's, I lived in fear. Cold, seething, blinding fear. The kind that clogged up my throat so it couldn't form even the simplest of words, albeit I would have never uttered a word upon my entrance anyways. Comfortable is not the word to describe this establishment – yet I carved out my place and could exist without my heart threatening to stop at every single abnormal sound, touch, or sight.
That was a thing in the past, like many things. But the loss of my security was something I was not happy about. Bound to secrecy like the lace I was so often forced to wear as of late, I didn't speak a word of this to anyone. They probably heard my screams, my cries. Even knew what it meant when I was following the leather-clad third in line for pursuing L's position down the winding hallways to whatever room he wished to hurt me in. They turned their heads because they didn't care, didn't want to care…
Or they were secretly happy that L's successor was getting some sort of comeuppance that he apparently deserved.
Like I said, I hated the evening. The sun's rays were yellow. Everything was tinted gold. And mixed with the opaque color of the sky, it reminded me of his corn shaded hair and ocean blue eyes.
The playroom had once been my haven. My place to which I fled to escape the rambunctious children; with their noise and disgusting horseplay. The room had four perfect walls, with four perfect computers that weren't used anymore because of their obsoleteness, and millions, billions of things for me to put together. To stack. To connect. To read. Peaceful.
It was peaceful. Was.
Now, I compare the feeling I have whenever I sit in this room to someone waiting to be executed. Dread, unfortunately not sharp and fleeting, filled every atom of my body, every blood cell. It coursed through my veins and kept me from breathing properly. In this way my mind was suffering, letting the fear run its route. The brain needed oxygen, and from the way I was breathing, I would not be able to think clear in a few moments time.
It was rising steadily, like a flooding room. It already took over my lungs and throat; I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't speak. The monster was coming for me. He was coming for me. I was afraid. Scared.
Clack, clack, clack.
But I kept on stacking. My hands worked expertly to stack the dice, too quickly, too fast. I wanted to get lost in the endless shimmering black dots painted onto their six small white surfaces, but the inevitable weighed heavily on my mind the same way fifty bricks would break the frail vertebrae of my spine.
"Near."
The dread stopped flowing. In fact, my vessels felt like arctic canals. His voice, echoing, deep, dripping in a tone that implied only what I would ever know. He must have heard me swallow and try to soothe my instantly dry throat, because I could've sworn I heard him smile. That misshapen smile that split his perfect face in two.
"Mello." I whispered. Our familiar cold shoulder greeting now meant certain death.
Oh sure, my body was still in tact. My heart still pounded against my chest and I could still see with utmost perception through my vacuum eyes. But part of me was dead, lying naked somewhere in the recesses of my abysmal psyche with a dagger through its belly, a bullet through its head, and the creamy evidence of forced copulation leaking out of every orifice.
That could be me in real life someday. Fear did that to me; made me imagine scenarios outside of any logistic barriers.
His sturdy hand gripped the scruff of my immaculate white shirt and pulled me easily to my feet. As much as I simply detested his touch, I didn't fight back. Not even the first time did I fight back. Futile actions screamed my hidden emotions for the world to see far more than words could ever do. My façade would last until he had me cornered, covered from other pairs of eyes but not pairs of ears, and then…only then could I allow my face to contort in the ways that he seemed to adore.
Mello gently pushed me out of the playroom and into the hallway. It's noisy. There's a sound ordinance that should be enforced, but they scream and laugh out loud anyways and there's not a single soul who would ask them to be quiet, much less me. They don't matter at the moment though. They're silent as far as I know; everything is behind several panes of sound proof glass. The only thing I can comprehend is Mello's deathly emotive voice, and his hand that stayed palmed in the dip between my two sharp shoulder blades.
"My room. Now."
It causes so much pain. But my prodigal discernment still can't help but be amazed at how possessive he was at everything he did.
I go to take a step, but he stops me. It's a paradox; he implies that I move, but for some reason I'm not allowed to. Not yet. I know why he does it. It keeps me guessing. Keeps me on my toes. I understand his tactic. But he knows this, and we both know that's not the point. The outcome is the mystery. The outcome.
"I forgot something."
Such a trivial statement. Everything he says is so simple and plain, but I know that he is anything but. And neither is anything he says. It's all lies. I never believe him. But I cannot do anything as he slips something thick and smooth around my neck. I can't see it, but a familiar smell reaches my nostrils, and it reminds me of how he rubs his clothed body against mine that's bare during the early hours of various torturous nights.
I deduced that it was leather.
And when I felt the metal buckle push gently against my skin, I realized it was a belt. He had roped me like cattle. I questioningly mused of how long it would be before he branded me too.
"Mello…they'll see."
The other children would see the belt around my neck. They'd know. They'd turn their heads. I didn't want to see them turn their heads. Because it would be proof that they actually liked knowing how the first in line was being treated by the tormented second, but they turned their heads with faux condolences. False comfort. Ample lack of concern, and trying to conceal it.
In response to what I said, he pulled it tighter and I stifled a gasp. It constricted my airway. I regretted saying anything. Now he'd make me walk up three flights of stairs until we reached his room. With the decreased intake of air, there was a good chance that I would pass out on the way. But before we even began walking, I promised myself that that wouldn't happen. It didn't make sense…but I'd much rather be awake for his ministrations than unconscious. Granted a motionless body would provide much less amusement…
I didn't know. Mello was a mystery to me.
I always thought he was just an unwise blend of emotions with logistics collecting dust. And I'm not saying he isn't. But ever since he started doing these…things to me, I realized I didn't understand him one bit.
Me…
I was a wide open book for him now. It didn't matter how impassive and dead in the face I looked. Whenever he ordered me to go with him to his room, it was like an autopsy. He cut me open, took out my insides, and knew exactly what I was made of.
He held the other end of the belt like a leash, and pushed me forward again. I walked in front of him, my eyes downward. I didn't want to see the looks on the passing children; their quirked eyebrows, their whispers and pointing, their snickers and chortles that signaled they really didn't know what to make of the situation. I wanted to look at my understudy, clad in black leather and a flawless face of repugnance and glare at him. A while ago I probably would have had the guts to do so.
However, I was stripped.
Clothed or unclothed, screaming or quiet, my layers had disappeared. I thought I was stronger than this. I really did. But it only took a boy two years my senior to make me realize just how weak I really am.
By the time we met the second flight, I thought I was going to be okay. My face was flushed from being denied blood, warm and numb, but I thought I was doing alright. I didn't slow down. He had never put me on a leash before, and I faintly wondered what gave him the idea. Then again, I'll never understand him.
I try to convince myself that he does this because he hates me. He's jealous of me. Of my intellect, of my skills, of my closeness to L Lawliet's position; the holy grail of Wammy's kids. He wanted me to suffer, to pay for besting him at everything. If he hated me, that'd be easier to deal with. I never harbored such feelings for him as he did for me. He often would look at me, and I would secretly be in awe of those sapphire crystal eyes smoldering, trying to drown me in their loathing. I was never quite sure what to feel about it. Actually, back then I didn't feel anything. He hated me. I could accept that. I never hated him. Ever. But he could hate me, and that was fine.
It was easier to cope with than the other possibility.
Mello was intricate. Not eloquent, but intricate. Perhaps he was hiding something else behind all of that abhorrence. Drastically covering it up by severe actions. I looked up in his face with fear that would go unnoticed by anyone but him, but I also saw beauty. It never failed to suck the breath out of my chest.
I didn't want to get into that. For once I didn't want to analyze something, imagine that. I honestly didn't want to know what other feelings Mello had for me. His hatred was too intense as it was.
Part of me wanted to acclaim him. The last string of thoughts wouldn't have even been possible a long time ago. Emotions were infantile to me. I wanted nothing to do with them. With the help of Mello's afflictions, I was able to see more than just the facts. Life was not always logical; that's what he taught me.
The third flight was more difficult. It took me a while to notice it, but my shallow breathing had turned into wheezing. My vision faded in and out and was a little bit blurry, but we were getting closer. It was stupid to have any hopes that he would take off the belt once we got to his room. But it was just getting so hard to breathe. I wouldn't die – it wasn't tight enough for that. My airway struggled. Something sick and desperate inside of me was actually happy to see the entrance of his dorm. No more walking, no more stairs.
Still holding the belt in an unrelenting grip, he closed the door behind him and discreetly turned the lock. I still heard the click. It was ironic that I was hyper aware in the moments that I least wanted to be. In a quick jerk he spun me around, holding the belt in one hand and the front of my shirt in the other.
Mello was smart. Perhaps his scores were never high as mine, but now I knew that I should give him credit where it was due. He knew when to be hard and fast, slow and agonizing, soft and passionate. He knew my buttons. He knew what made me moan, what made me sob, what made me shriek in pain so awful I wanted to die.
It wasn't always like that. I remember being very hard to deal with when I was thrown onto his bed and gripped by my hair for the first time. I would stare at him appraisingly, the only things I ever said being patronizing disguised as indifferent. He made sure that I never did those kinds of things again. By no means am I saying that I'm used to what he does to me, but the first night stays tucked into my mind like a decaying animal in a seemingly perfect wood. Its something that I…just can't think about. It still made me, the stoniest creature to ever pass through a womb tremble, have nightmares, and sweat until I thought I had no more fluids in my entire body.
I wanted so badly to wrap a strand of hair around my finger, but if I did I knew he would tie my hands behind my back. He didn't like it when I acted like myself; he wanted to rid me of my shield. No quirks, no habits, no blankness. Just raw screams and tears that never seemed to exist until now.
He was leaning in. His breath smelled like Milky Ways and I could practically taste the caramel chocolate mix on my own tongue. Tonight he was going to be tantalizing at first. So slow, so gradual…I nearly fainted as his lips slowly molded against mine. His poison combined with my ever still constricted airway was going to be the death of me.
Death…by Mello. I never ruled out the possibility.
But he could have fooled anyone by how tenderly he kissed me.
His skillful tongue pushed into my mouth and massaged my own with a mission. We both began salivating. The hand that had gripped my shirt with such violent intent now lay flat against my chest cavity, long fingers threatening to slip inside the top of the unbuttoned cotton. Each time this happened I was not fooled, but my mind is easier to keep out of the haze than my body. I shuddered against him. In the back of my throat there was a sound I was trying to suppress, but it slipped passed my lips before I could stop it. Mello pulled back, disconnecting a trail of saliva clinging to our lips like spider's silk, and glared at me with that loathing and lust combined that could make any self proclaimed warrior crumble. If that was the case, then who in the world was I to stare back at him so intently in return?
It came out as a cry. 'How utterly shameful' was what I would have thought had it been the first time. But he seemed to like the sounds I made. So I had considered making no effort to bite my tongue. He blinked softly as it registered. I wanted him to stop acting so gentle. If he was fast and aggressive it would be over sooner. It was unknown to me whether he'd act this way the entire evening, but like I said, it's idiotic to hold onto such hopes.
Reaching up with the hand previously on my chest, he took one notch out of the belt around my neck. My eyes rolled back as a rush of blood flew past my ears and into my cranial capillaries. Head pounding and dark eyes flickering, I stared back at my abuser. For once I was blank in my thoughts. I was disoriented. I couldn't tell what was about to happen.
With the strength of a bull he took the belt and yanked on it so hard I almost fell to my knees. While I was off balance he took the opportunity to throw me onto his king sized bed. Despite the softness of his mattress I yelped, turning to look at him who was walking slowly over to the edge of the bed.
Combining fast with slow…I never knew he had the patience.
I tried to rise but in a flash his hand was once again between my shoulder blades and holding me down. His body language told me that I could only rise if he let me. I stiffened when the hand traveled up my neck and into my snow white hair. He fisted my locks and pulled me off the bed with them. Hundreds of strands had probably been viciously plucked at the assault, but I bit my lip from making yet another sound to reveal my pain.
The warm moist muscle that was his tongue softly ran its course up the side of my neck. When it reached my ear, it retreated, but was replaced with two probing thin lips, kissing the tiny lobe of flesh.
Goose bumps, hair standing on end, crawling skin. I couldn't stand all of these sensations. They drove me insane, over the edge. I was no longer sure if I wanted to push him away and flee or stay to see if he would keep treating me this way. My knowledge of these sorts of things was limited. Everything sexual I learned from experience, thanks to my ungrateful standby. But I was fairly sure a person my age shouldn't participate in things like this.
He pulled me up so far that I sat against him. His exquisitely wiry and muscular body pressed into my back suggestively, and so did something a little further south. The realization hit me like a sack of rocks each time. He was going to fornicate…copulate…
Oh to hell with it. He was going to fuck me.
Just like all the other times.
And he wasn't going to be gentle like he wanted me to believe. There wouldn't be any soft touches or caresses. It would just be another shameless screw, with his scorching lips wetting my skin and his hands gripping my thighs so hard it left the muscles spongy and bruised. And if there was one thing I knew was a fact, it was that I would always, always be sore.
I don't think it would have mattered how many times we had sex. I would always feel sore afterwards. Broken. Stung. Like piano strings strung so tight they snap.
Pretending I haven't gone mad already is fun. It's a little shred of sanity. Sanity keeps me going. Blocks keep me going. Millions of blocks, creating tall impenetrable walls.
Of course, none of that matters when I'm in his clutches. He shreds them easier than cut out paper dolls.
I sat in his lap, once again trying to deal with my hindered breathing even though the belt around my neck was loosened. He was making me pant, making my moon white skin flush and tingeing it the color of sickeningly pink roses. His chin rested on my shoulder as he undid the rest of my buttons. But when he started just slightly rubbing his erection against my back, I could tell he was starting to get hasty. Giving a growl in frustration he abandoned his patience and ripped open my shirt, buttons and torn threads flying everywhere.
There was something about my torso that he found irresistible. He ran his hands up and down my stomach and chest constantly before marring it in some way. Maybe it was the way my minutely nourished belly would start heaving as my oxygen intake would increase yet again. Maybe it was in fascination that all of his bites and bruises never left a scar on my body, no matter how deep his teeth sank or how devastatingly hard he clasped my limbs. Maybe it was how my face fought to display disgust, but instead creased as he unleashed the primitive monster that was ecstasy upon me.
He hoisted me off of his lap and flipped me over on my back. I cursed that he was seeing the very betrayal of my body, growing prominently behind my white nylon pants. He eyed my erection with an unreadable expression at first. I had never reacted this way. If there was one thing I kept hidden from him it was any indication that I enjoyed what he did to me. It was gross and reprehensible to admit, but not all of my cries were emitted out of pain. The end of the belt lay to my side, forgotten for the time being. But it brought me no solace. After a few seconds of an uncharacteristic blank stare on Mello's part, he quickly recovered and yanked down my pants, his fingernails scratching me and leaving faint red spidery lines down my porcelain thighs.
My erection was more steeled than I ever remembered it being, and laid flat against my stomach, weeping for a very different reason than I wanted to. He took my pants between his thumb and index finger and dropped them tauntingly on the floor. Tanned hands reached down to the bottom of his pure black shirt and urbanely discarded it, revealing a torso so much unlike mine. Mine, thin and pale. His, faintly broad and bronze. A silver crucifix rested on his perfect sternum. If he was real, Christ was crying. Or laughing. It really depended on what his little soldier with the golden hair was truly meant to do.
His bottoms clung to his legs respectively, but he managed to make even the removal of them seem flawless. Paler than his upper body from an understandable less amount of sun, a sinewy form ready and evidently aroused greeted my gaze. My frightened, shivering gaze.
Mello crept between my legs, grabbed them by the ankles and spread them lewdly. All of the despondence in the world couldn't save me now. I stared up at him, knowing how much he must enjoy seeing me like this, unfolded and open for him to see, both my body and my face. My lips parted and my brow furrowed in dread as I felt the rounded tip of his member press against my entrance. They closed again, the bottom one tucking a portion of itself behind my top front row of teeth. He was going to take me dry. As a reward for my body finally being so honest with him.
I thought I would pass out from the amount of fear that I had, but unfortunately everything just became more vivid by the second. I didn't understand why it had to be this way every time. You'd think I'd become detached again, used to routine, after a while turning back into same old distant Near.
But no, nothing went my way anymore. I was no longer on my way to the throne like I was told. They always said I was the best after L, the successor. The one who rose above all. I was the best. The best. And each time this happened it was like our first time all over again.
There was pressure down there. An immense pressure. I could feel him slowly leaning into me, and I was already trying to make peace with the pain that would surely follow. Mello didn't blink once. As he pushed himself into me his gaze was a lethal combination of lust, malice, and satisfaction. How wonderful it probably was to see your rival underneath you, trying to fight becoming unhinged yet wishing it at the same time. It was possible he wished I would just let go, to let my portico drop and shatter, and not to fight it.
Well that was just fine. He could wish. But I wasn't yet completely willed to do exactly what he wanted.
With substantial lubrication, passing through the first ring of muscle actually isn't that bad. But I had never been taken dry, and this preconception certainly had no use in this situation. I clenched my eyes closed and tried to somehow push him out, but just to spite me he lurched forward, driving himself deeper. Fire licked my insides, and not like a mere soothing heat. It burned, and melted. A long brutal scream lodged itself in my throat, but if I let it out he would undoubtedly do something horrible to silence me. Tears pooled behind my eyelids, but they didn't fall. Something still feebly trying to hold up the barrier just wouldn't let them fall.
The invasion was more painful than I ever could have imagined. It was so bad my stomach churned and my heart jack hammered against my chest. Between my anal region being ablaze and my erection throbbing and drooling on my stomach, every single one of my nerve endings fired fervently.
Further, further, further. Would it ever reach the end? Mello was well endowed, sure, but it felt like he was a mile long inside of me. It was several minutes of teeth-gritting endurance until he was buried to the hilt at last. He was too big. He was always too big. And he was giving me dirty looks for squeezing him so tightly. Like I was trying to make him come early. I tried to relax, I really did. But he seared my insides better than a red hot poker. I could only bite my tongue, keep myself from whimpering too much, and pray that it either went away or that he would climax soon.
When he started to move, I reached up and chewed on my knuckles. God, the pain just wasn't going away. His thrusts were strangely merciful at first, but I suspect that my dryness wasn't only affecting me, and he needed more time to adjust. The deeper he went, the harder it got to keep quiet. My throat was trying to decide what kinds of sounds to make. Cries or moans, screams or yelps. I didn't know how on earth how my genitalia remained so hard. Nothing about this should have been arousing. Should it?
Involuntarily, I suddenly clenched my walls around him as he grated against something inherent within me. Something that made me gasp and spasm uncontrollably. Something that sent what felt like a thousand jagged volts straight to my penis. I jerked against him, interrupting his slow tempo and earning a fierce glare from him.
I always thought he liked it when I sank into a state of inhibition, but for some reason he wasn't appreciative tonight. My mind, for once focused on the likelihood that he might hit that delicious spot once more, had no time to react as he backhanded my cheek. The sound of my soft flesh being stricken echoed off the walls of his room and I could only look at him in surprise. It could've hurt a lot more, to be honest. I still wondered why he was so angry at me for doing what he loved, which was showing my emotions that he proudly managed to dig up through session after session of latent rape.
It vaguely clicked. I was feeling pleasure. As much as I despised admitting it, there was no mistaking the tremor that I felt when his length scraped against that grossly congenial spot. I was feeling pleasure, something that really wasn't his intent. That's what had to be making him irritated.
Then he stopped all together. Mello let go of my ankles and leaned into me, his face just inches away. He was not looking into my eyes, however. He was peering at something that was apparently near my mouth. So close. If I could have leaned away I would have. He still wasn't looking at me either. Those damned indigo eyes just kept staring in what looked like some sick dark rapture.
His tongue darted out and licked the corner of my mouth, and it stung. I had bled from his strike, ostensibly. I hope he enjoyed the copper taste, because I couldn't help myself from doing the same with my own tongue and tasting my own blood.
That lust was back now. As if putting his displeasure behind him and replacing it with his steadfast desire, he rose back up, and looked down at me like I was his toy. His little china dolly. In a weird feminine fashion, as if to mock me in some way, he tucked his blonde hair behind his ears. But I wasn't conned. Girls weren't supposed to be the ones thrusting during intercourse.
Taking my legs in his strong hands once again, he draped them against his shoulders. I squirmed underneath him, his member pulsating inside of me with pristine earnest. Suddenly, his hips pulled backward, scraping my insides on the way out, and slammed forward. My jaw tensed and I let my cry hit the back of my pearly teeth. He didn't stop. His smooth pelvis assaulted mine with its usual intemperate rhythm. This was my umpteenth time being taken by him, and I was always, always at loss of what to do; where my hands should go, what sorts of things I could say to him to make him stop, how normal was it for someone like me to have squeals resembling common barnyard fauna sputtering out of my mouth. One of my hands landed home, tangled in my tousled flaxen hair, the other on my chest, portentously inching closer to my fortified erection still flat on my stomach, neglected and slavering obscenely.
Every barrier that I had worked so hard to keep standing crumbled as his thrusts increased in speed and force. My passage was still so unbelievably dry, and yet the harsh burning had stopped and a dull modicum of heat had begun to warm my viscera. I turned my head to the side, watching Mello out of the corner of my eye and at last losing my will to fight him, whether it was with my body or my mind. His anger had fallen from his face, and in its stead was ecstasy. It is interesting how much orgasmic bliss looked like sadness, or how passion looked like anger. Emotions; they all looked the same, or similar at least, but they still had their differences and separate names. What should I call this particular version of Mello, I momentarily mused as I gripped his forearms and arched my back flexibly off of the bedspread, I had yet to decide. Was he really acting unlike he normally would, or was I once again insinuating likeness when there was none?
His own noises were so rough; at times I thought they would make my ears bleed. He would growl in my ear, take bits of my skin between his teeth and bite down, and yell unabashedly. We were so unlike each other. He was a jagged thunderstorm, fearless and impulsive. I cried out like the young child I was, not even trying anymore to pretend that I was anything else.
The thrusts were never ending, alternating between quick and deliberate. It felt like it had been hours since he pulled me into his bedroom that day; but it was possible that it had only been something meager like twenty minutes. Once again, I frowned inwardly at my lack of awareness about anything other than the boy pummeling himself into me. I needed to stop this; all of this speculation and wondering. Although it meant that I was holding onto the last piece that made me a civilized human being, it caused me so much more agony than necessary. So I decidedly shut down the critical thinking portion of my brain, grabbed hold of my excruciatingly hard cock, and stroked as hard as I possibly could. I didn't bother to screen my hollers, which increased by ten fold.
We moved together in sync after that, only when I abandoned my acumen that I never abased until I started being screwed. I was desperate for lubrication for so long it seemed, and it was finally being produced after being fucked dry for an undistinguished amount of time. Moments passed and I was finally becoming slick. I privately smiled. Because of this he would finish and come inside of me quicker. And leave. He would leave.
My hand gripped my cock in an air-tight grasp, and I squirmed from the pending orgasm I could feel coiling up in my nether regions, getting ready to strike my body into a series of horribly erotic spasms. I hated when I came; it was so natural and unreserved, two things I was certainly not known for. But I was happy it was creeping up on me. If Mello was going to fuck me like this, then I might as well get some sort of pleasure out of the despicably one-sided arrangement.
Just when I was about to burst, just when I was about to feel my essence warmly splash against my skin and possibly his too, his hand came out of nowhere and slapped mine away from my genitals, and stopped moving his hips. I was suddenly racked with an uncharacteristic surge of rage. He had to go and fucking stop….
"Fuck, Mello!" Came my shaky yell, along with a curse word that I never uttered, even with him. I couldn't help it. Hell, I didn't care if he hated that I spoke to him that way. My body was fractions away from a bliss that would take me away from this hell just for a few goddamn seconds, and he had to go and steal that away too. An abuser to the very core; it revolted me.
He looked at me coldly, even though he was panting like a dog in summertime and sweat was beading off the side of his face.
"You have everything." He whispered savagely. I blinked at him.
"And you know what, you can have all of it. It's all useless shit that you stack around yourself like one of your fucking puzzles, but this…" He said, tracing a quick hard line from my stomach to the tip of my penis, still dripping in expectancy. "This is mine."
I found myself being yanked up, not bothering to hide my grimace as the forgotten-until-now belt was tightened around my neck once more. Without pulling out of me even a bit, Mello turned me around and was soon behind me as the fibers of the bedspread dug into my palms and knees. His arm pulls the belt close to his chest, forcing my head and neck back.
"Such perfection…" Mello murmured. It never stops surprising me how low his voice can go. "You knew that, right Near? That you're perfect?"
All this talking in amidst the primordial actions…it catches me off guard. I simply listen; there's nothing else I can do.
"I hate how perfect you are."
I hear a soft clink of metal, and I don't identify it right away. I understand what it is when I feel a small chain tickle the perspiring skin of my back.
Mello's rosary.
I had never paid much attention to it. Now, all I could see in my mind was the sharp geometric points and edges of the crucifix. I knew what he was going to do immediately. But instead of fighting it, I just kept listening to him talk in that deadly soothing voice of his, and how it leaked everything he was feeling; every single fucking thing. Though it meant nothing to me, because no matter how hard I tried, I could never, ever, decipher something as foreign as emotions.
"They say our flaws are what make us beautiful, but…" The chain dangled to the side, and I felt the point gently press into me. "You have no flaws."
It pressed harder. I bit my lip. It was tender back there. No calluses. No shield against the intrusion.
He pulled the belt tighter, and I gasped for air. He bent down and muttered in my ear, "So I'll make some for you."
The cross cut into my skin ruthlessly, and I screamed. He never did anything like this. The bruises, the bites, the hickeys, those would heal up. But this thing went in so deep that I knew it would leave something behind. I sweated. I yelped. Warm blood seeped from the wounds, dropped onto the black blanket below and disappeared, being absorbed into the void color. I had no idea what he was carving into my back, but I didn't want to know. For the first time, I didn't want to know anything.
And when he stopped cutting me, the pain didn't go away. It seared, stayed fresh, and still trickled in dark red tributaries. That's when he started moving again, harder than before, faster, thrusting more brutally than ever. The belt was held tauter. I couldn't breathe again. This was so much worse than the stairs. I knew I wouldn't die then; I might have passed out, but that was all. When Mello leaned forward, reached around my torso and grabbed onto my cock and started to piston upward to scrape against that horrid luscious spot once more, I knew I was at death's fingertips. He would make me orgasm while deprived of oxygen, hitting my spot and violently stroking out my seed at the same time. I didn't know what would happen. I couldn't even picture it. I could do nothing as he stroked me and plunged into my depth, reaching down into the pit of my being for that depravedly powerful climax that could possibly mean my very end.
One more thrust…stroke…breathe…I needed to breathe…
White, black, the two colors that Mello and I personified flashed behind my eyes and nothing registered. I couldn't hear my girly cries, or Mello's animalistic growl. I couldn't even feel the stinging pain in my back anymore. All I know is the explosion in my groin as I come repeatedly, muscles grinding and pulsing from stimulation, and a flood of his boiling tincture that finally pacifies my aching backside.
The belt around my neck is let loose, but it doesn't matter anymore. I was destitute of air for far too long during the most intense orgasm of my derisory existence, and I felt myself blacking out once and for all. I question not if this is my very life leaving me, but I do wonder one last sequence of things, true to my character for perhaps one last time.
Did he do this because he hated me? Loved me? Was obsessed with me?
Or, for the lone times in our cultivated genius lives, were we finally in a natural setting? Were we feral?
I know nothing of refined human conduct, much less its primal side. With my air-deprived brain and lungs scurrying for nourishment, I passed out on Mello's bed stomach-first into my own secretions that were damp on the throw. He had made me lament what it is to be human, and at the same time let me realize that it was the one thing I never allowed myself to be.
I will never know what to think of this stripping of common humanoid poise, but the answer to that can stay hidden until the end of time for all I care. And I pray that no one has come as close as I have to finding it.