Depending on the speed at which Mello's hand hits your face, it can be a wonderful or horrible sensation.
Wonderful when it's a slow caress of your cheek with the backs of his satin fingers, as he sighs your name.
And horrible, too much so to comprehend, when it's a sharp slap of your cheek, with his open palm, as he screams your name. Your name, and a torrent of words drenched in hate, words so sharp even a blade to your heart would not rival them.
This touch hurts, maybe not as much as the words that go with it, but enough to stir a cry, enough for a tear to brew.
Verbally, he lays out my faults, my weaknesses, my wrongs. He lays them out and builds on them. There are so many; and he shows me them all. I won't fight such accusations. He is right; he is Mello.
But whether or not he is right, does not dull the pain. His hand still burns, his words still cut deep. Much, much too deep. Lacerations no amount of surgery could ever stitch up.
The degree of his violence is searing, and although he is right, it still bewilders me.
I am afraid.
Not only am I afraid of his bitter words, killing me a different way every time, or the way his palm strikes my face. I know well what will come in the aftermath of this vocal explosion. I have been there before. It is not a happy place.
Pain and suffering come in various tempos; the very worst of this, the final torture, is that it is not something I can, or will, resist. To feel his penetration was all I used to long for – all I still do long for.
To have one such as Mello, all to myself, and not lust for him would be an impossibility for even the most restrained of people. One needs only to look in his ice blue eyes the once to fall under an irrevocable spell. His angel's face is his most lethal trap.
After his initial anger, the beating, the insults that cut my heart to a bleeding pulp, he gives me an apology; he gives me what he knows I want.
But, my wishes' fulfilment does not come without a price.
There is no love for me in what he does; only for my agonized screams, my defenceless, writhing mass of flesh. His sadism feels enough to rip me in two.
I am afraid.
And yet, it is all I ever begged him for. His hands clutching our bodies together, his cries of ecstasy at what I could give him; our passion.
But his hands are too tight, and his nails break the skin; his cries only come with my vocalized anguish. Our passion is wrong.
And yet I'd rather die than let it go.