Warnings: Slash [M/M], language, rape [not very graphic but still very raw].

Disclaimer: I know the characteristics of my characters. They are mine.

Feedback: If it's just to tell me how sick I am, don't bother. I already know.

AN: This isn't a sweet vanilla flavored story; it's a spinach-flavored casserole, left in the refrigerator too long type of story and I don't know where it came from. I was working on another, happier story and this…thing…just bit me on the ass; I wrote it in about an hour. It's from the point of view of a very sick and twisted individual who believes he is doing the right thing. This is borderline NC-17. If anything of this nature creeps you out: don't read and don't say I didn't warn you.

And I mean it: this is rough.

that black

I need this.

You knew what he was asking, demanding, begging of you before he pressed his lips to yours in a rough kiss. You knew what he wanted. He wanted you, he needed you and who were you to deny him anything? You never could even when it meant denying yourself happiness or in this case, denying yourself your will. He had been holding on for way too long, caught up in a web of dark fantasies and lies, his own mind already predicting how this dirty tryst was going to play itself out. He knew it was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But you did it anyway, aiding him in the removal of clothing, buttons flying across the room and zippers flying down as fingers, palms, hands searched for flesh to caress. You should've stopped him before it got that far but you just weren't yourself that night.

When did you ever play yourself in this sick game?

You let him touch you, feel you, taste you even though you knew what would happen when the sun came up in the morning, you knew so much more about this moment then he did but you didn't care to voice your reluctance because then he was on his knees and your dick was in his mouth and all inhibitions went flying out the window. You let him get on his knees before you and you didn't care. At all. Something inside you twisted and changed and all you wanted to do was to get to that point in time where everything went black and time stood still and you wanted to get there fast and hard and rough. You didn't care if you hurt him in your attempt to reach that place, thrusting hard into his open mouth, moans and grunts filling the air between the two of you and you pushed and pushed and pushed and then you were there and everything was black and frozen and he was clawing at you madly in an attempt to breathe and you only pushed him away and pulled him up for a sloppy kiss that said you were glad for the release. Release from what?

You should have known.

He wanted, needed more but you denied him that release, your fist wrapping in his hair as you told him what you wanted, what you needed. It no longer became something he wanted; he now had no part in this sick twist of a game. Now you had the control and you wanted this night to end your way.

He didn't want to do that but oh, you made him. You fucking made him. You made him strip and you made him lie face down on the bed, naked as the day he was born: a smoothed skinned man trembling as if he was a boy all over again.

You didn't care.

One finger thrust into his unwilling body, adding another even as you ignored his screams and his tears as you forced in another and another. The only thought that made any sense in your jumbled head was the one that echoed the sentiment that at least you were preparing him properly. You thought that he must want it bad because he wasn't trying to get away; at least, he wasn't trying hard enough. Pulling your fingers out, you prepared yourself, once again ignoring the whimpers and the subtle dragging as he tried to slip away from you. You ignored it all, even the pleading scream that flew from his lips as you thrust fully into his unrelaxed, unwilling body.

That moment.

That was all that mattered to you and you had to reach that place and you had to reach it inside his tight, trembling body. You went hard and you went violent, thrusting with abandon as he clutched desperately at the bed sheets beneath him, begging you to stop, begging you to stop hurting him but you didn't. You didn't. You just focused on that moment of perfect black and frozen time and you strived to make it to that place. Fingers dug into skin and bone as you thrust harder and harder and harder as you tore him in two, cleaved him, killed any hope that he had left inside the broken heart he had so steadily repaired. You slaughtered anything that was still alive inside that shaking little body as you pushed and jerked and groaned and thrust until you were there and you swore you saw stars as your own blissful screams filled the room because you had reached that place and it felt so fucking good.

So good.

You sick bastard.

You should've stopped when you heard the first scream but you didn't. You kept going, pushing yourself in even as you pushed him away. He needed this. That is what you said to remind yourself: that this was his fault, he asked for it, begged for it. You didn't want hear his cries as you pull out of his body, your exertions opening old wounds and showing blood. A chaste out of place kiss on his forehead and a few minutes later you were gone, leaving behind a broken child where a man used to be, stretched out on bloody sheets, curled up tight in an attempt to hide how pathetic he believed you thought he really was.

He just wanted you to love him.

He just wanted you to love him and you did…in your own personal, rough, dirty way. You loved him like he wanted to be loved.

At least that's what you thought.

A nap and a shower later, you were far away from him, listening with a surprising sick satisfaction when someone found him, curled up in a corner whimpering and clawing out his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision of your disgusting face. You should have known that you would break him, kill him, destroy him. But you didn't care, you didn't care what you did and you didn't care that he was your best friend; the best friend who was hopelessly in love with you. At least, he was your best friend and now, you're not too sure about that love part.

Right now, you're not too sure of anything.

Except the fact that you wanted to do it again and again and again. You wanted to return to that well. You wanted to taste him again. If he'd let you but if he doesn't and he says no, you'll know he meant yes because he wanted it last night and he needed it last night and he begged for it last night even as he was screaming no. You knew what he meant when he squirmed while you stared at him, you knew he was asking for it again in his own silent sort of way. Even if he doesn't love you anymore, he still needs you, doesn't he?

Averted eyes give you the answer.

Yes, he needs you.

End.