WARNING: This chapter is as graphic as I get. This will likely not be easy to read. It certainly wasn't easy to write. I never felt like this the whole time I was writing "Back from the Dead," and that should have told me that I was doing something cataclysmically wrong the first time.
If any of you aren't sure whether you're comfortable reading this at any point, please. Skip ahead. I won't blame you. There will be a new chapter up tomorrow.
END OF WARNING.
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When Kaiba Mokuba opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Cecil Normack's feverish blue gaze staring down at him, above a mouth that was slanted into a hungry grin.
"What th—"
Cecil kissed him, full on the mouth. Forced his lips open, invading. He pulled back, and set the grin onto his face again. "Good morning, Beautiful," he purred into Mokuba's left ear. The young Kaiba, too stunned to speak, just stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. "It's okay," Cecil whispered religiously, and Mokuba felt a large hand press down onto his stomach. "You don't have to talk."
No preamble. No warning. No chance to breathe. Cecil kissed him again, but this time he pressed down harder; desperate, harsh, primal. The hand was searching, and found the hem of Mokuba's shirt. Instinctively, Mokuba kicked out feebly with one leg. Groaned, grunted, tried to skitter away. He didn't know . . . what—what should he . . . ?
Cecil pulled back up like a swimmer breaking the surface of the pool, shook his head. That grin. "Waking up, now, are you?" he asked. A deep, guttural chuckle followed. "Good. That's good. Up and at 'em, sweetness. Show me what you're made of."
This time, Cecil dipped down and nipped playfully at the boy's neck; he made little flicking licks along Mokuba's jawline. Mokuba felt a moan, low and sharp and terrified, rising up in his throat. Then Cecil's other hand, the one that wasn't spider-walking its way up and down his chest, snatched up and grabbed a fistful of black hair. That hand pulled. Hard. Mokuba yelped, his back arched, and he sent out another jerking, spasmodic kick.
"Let me—lemme go! Freak! Sick bastard! What are you do . . . doing?! You can't—you can't—!"
". . . You're quite wrong about that, little love." A hiss now, serpentine and twisted up like wire that was far too tight. "But please. Go ahead and think that. If it makes you feel better. It's so much better if you have spirit. If you feel. Bite. Scratch. Kick. Screem. Push."
The tears began to fall. A wet, uncomprehending sob wrenched its way out of Mokuba's open mouth.
Cecil chuckled again. Low, and long. He licked his lips; then he licked Mokuba's lips.
The young Kaiba's teeth clenched, grinding, and he shook his head.
No no no no no—he thought, except he wasn't thinking, he was crying out loud, closing his eyes, hiding in the dark. Cecil repeated it back to him: No, no, no, no, like a nursery rhyme, with laughter in his voice. No. No. No.
Mokuba felt his shirt being yanked off. He grunted, as the predator laid his full weight upon the victim's stomach, and those hands worked at the clasp of his jeans. "In the way," said Cecil. "Always in the way. Always in the way." Then he laughed again, lightly, almost friendly. "But then, what's Christmas without unwrapping the gifts? Hm?"
Mokuba's breathing hitched and trembled. Cecil tossed the boy's clothes over a shoulder, dismissively, and repositioned himself. Set a hand each on Mokuba's knees, and pulled with pitiful ease.
Mokuba managed to whimper: "N-Niisama . . ."
Cecil grinned. His eyes were wide. Manic.
Monstrous.
"Not quite."