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fellowshippers2006-05-13 12:12 am
geniusartist.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-05-13 12:12 am
Mea Culpa (EW/DM)
The Mea Culpa Series
by
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geniusartistPairing: EW/DM
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Dark, violent, sadistic. Portrays an abusive Dominic Monaghan. An answer to drabble challenges featuring Elijah Wood as Harry Potter in roleplay.
Mea Culpa: Blunt
He couldn’t say no to the blue-grey eyes that demanded that he substitute his with green-tinted lenses. When a hand shoved him against metal, his gasp of surprise wasn’t on cue, unpracticed, unlike the falsetto squeak he managed when Dominic first entered the locker room. The towel still hung about his hips, pinned as he was, his arms restrained by the t-shirt he’d barely slipped over his head.
Harrrrrry…
Dominic breathed against his ear, an unveiled threat as a hand slithered underneath terry cloth, up and in between his splayed thighs. Lashes fluttered, lids drooped. Bang! The back of his head stung with the impact, his eyes huge and round magnified by the ridiculous bottle frames. He willed his mouth remain shut. The hand between his legs maneuvered a strategic offense point and he resisted the urge to clamp down against the invasion even as his cock swelled at every rough pull and twist.
So responsive…
Followed by a low chuckle. His upper and lower molars ground against each other like mortal enemies, as though each emphatic grind would win a blunt edge for one. But he didn’t think the taste of rust was any indication of victory, nor the bruises forming around his throat from the tight grip that held him there. He screamed when he came, as Dominic taught him to. The rattling of the metal door beneath his hips echoed like an applause with the amplified acoustics of the cavernous den.
He was still shuddering when Dominic left him. The terry cloth lay in a rumpled heap at his feet, ivory white in surrender. Defeat. He picked it up with trembling hands and wiped at the streaks of spunk dripping down his legs.
The needle descended on vinyl. Static first, then the familiar melody hummed soothingly.
He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me…he loves me not…
Skip/scratch, a worn record…
...notnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnot…
***
Mea Culpa: Mirth
YOU COWARDLY – "
When the knuckles crashed into his jaw, the sound was a dull thump, but the clash of his teeth against each other, reaction to action, reminded him of the crunch of gravel beneath heavy tracking tires. It was expected, but he winced anyway at impact. He would’ve fallen to his knees if not for the hands grasping at his shirt collar. He wheezed, air thick in his lungs and struggled, pulled away as cloth twisted around his throat. When the give and release came it wasn't from his efforts. As always, laughter followed.
The feel of cool concrete under his flattened palms was as welcome as the oxygen that now sailed easily through his flared nostrils, his panting mouth. He knew his vision would right itself, the spots of black dancing beneath his lids would clear. But he blinked furiously as he always did, panic seizing him as it always did.
His initial reaction at the suggestion of the roleplay was reasonable: laughter. It earned him an immediate backhand to the chin. Absurdity in ruffled girl-boy underwear, it seemed, had only been a promise of his future. Dominic enjoyed him a mixed image of beauty spoilt, his bruises like mold against otherwise supple flesh. A plump, ripe strawberry, firm and slick red mottled with moss green.
Dominic commanded the defiance. Stiff and hesitant at first, the words sounded robotic, else forced, even timid. But the marks on his skin then overlapped and when the canvas of white seemed less backdrop, more a purposeful design, rage laced his words, arsenic in hoarse whispers.
Dominic fucked him harder.
Today he decided to be literal. He hissed…coward…a parseltongue lash, he imagined, satisfied with himself. Either way, the bruises were guaranteed.
He rocked back on his heels, forced himself not to cringe at the erection now poking him obtusely in the face. He licked at the pre-come, obedient, and swallowed the head and shaft whole, pretended to gag when it pressed against his tonsils. He ministered tongue, saliva, fingers, and a suctioning mouth, felt the cock inside him swell full in pride and demand.
Later, in retrospect, he could offer no forthcoming explanations, not even to himself.
He bit down hard, teeth sinking near the head, the base of the mushroom cap a solid edge against his gums. Dominic screamed and he flung backwards, a crumpled heap. The strike that time caused a gash at the corner of his mouth to reopen and blood flowed a bright red over his curious, meandering index finger. Dominic’s eyes were bulging, his face an unattractive ripe tomato shade. Beneath the exterior of compact fury, he spied a rare glimpse into wariness, a smidgeon of fear.
He laughed then. First, high-pitched giggles, and he clutched at the stitch in his sides. Then, boisterous and loud, his laughter wet as spit sputtered between his lips. He hiccoughed, threw his head back and whooped louder. Blood continued to drip carelessly to his chin, staining his t-shirt.
Dominic left wordlessly.
***
YOU COWARDLY – "
When the knuckles crashed into his jaw, the sound was a dull thump, but the clash of his teeth against each other, reaction to action, reminded him of the crunch of gravel beneath heavy tracking tires. It was expected, but he winced anyway at impact. He would’ve fallen to his knees if not for the hands grasping at his shirt collar. He wheezed, air thick in his lungs and struggled, pulled away as cloth twisted around his throat. When the give and release came it wasn't from his efforts. As always, laughter followed.
The feel of cool concrete under his flattened palms was as welcome as the oxygen that now sailed easily through his flared nostrils, his panting mouth. He knew his vision would right itself, the spots of black dancing beneath his lids would clear. But he blinked furiously as he always did, panic seizing him as it always did.
His initial reaction at the suggestion of the roleplay was reasonable: laughter. It earned him an immediate backhand to the chin. Absurdity in ruffled girl-boy underwear, it seemed, had only been a promise of his future. Dominic enjoyed him a mixed image of beauty spoilt, his bruises like mold against otherwise supple flesh. A plump, ripe strawberry, firm and slick red mottled with moss green.
Dominic commanded the defiance. Stiff and hesitant at first, the words sounded robotic, else forced, even timid. But the marks on his skin then overlapped and when the canvas of white seemed less backdrop, more a purposeful design, rage laced his words, arsenic in hoarse whispers.
Dominic fucked him harder.
Today he decided to be literal. He hissed…coward…a parseltongue lash, he imagined, satisfied with himself. Either way, the bruises were guaranteed.
He rocked back on his heels, forced himself not to cringe at the erection now poking him obtusely in the face. He licked at the pre-come, obedient, and swallowed the head and shaft whole, pretended to gag when it pressed against his tonsils. He ministered tongue, saliva, fingers, and a suctioning mouth, felt the cock inside him swell full in pride and demand.
Later, in retrospect, he could offer no forthcoming explanations, not even to himself.
He bit down hard, teeth sinking near the head, the base of the mushroom cap a solid edge against his gums. Dominic screamed and he flung backwards, a crumpled heap. The strike that time caused a gash at the corner of his mouth to reopen and blood flowed a bright red over his curious, meandering index finger. Dominic’s eyes were bulging, his face an unattractive ripe tomato shade. Beneath the exterior of compact fury, he spied a rare glimpse into wariness, a smidgeon of fear.
He laughed then. First, high-pitched giggles, and he clutched at the stitch in his sides. Then, boisterous and loud, his laughter wet as spit sputtered between his lips. He hiccoughed, threw his head back and whooped louder. Blood continued to drip carelessly to his chin, staining his t-shirt.
Dominic left wordlessly.
***
Mea Culpa: Steady
He dimmed the lights before disrobing. It left the room in hazy shades of grey, angles fuzzy in the shadows, the neatly folded throw at the corner of the bed a perfect picture of soft, soothing comfort. He hated looking gaudy and thought that he did under more garish lighting, his skin overpopulated with markings in a spectrum of yellows and purples. Overaccesorized. The difference in colors and shades were hardly distinguishable under muted light, like the layers of dust that covered their chest of drawers. Or so he thought. He blinked at his reflection in the full length mirror, large eyes framed by girlish lashes, emerald green. The contacts remained by choice.
He ducked suddenly at the flickering, a sliver of light like a crack from the door opening. When the sliver passed and continued to spread across the wall like a wide v-shaped chasm and then gradually shrunk again into itself, he breathed a sigh of relief inaudible over the sounds of a car speeding away. His hearth thumped, a wild percussion, in his chest. With shaking hands he drew the bathrobe around himself. It was still damp from his shower, with the faintest scent of jasmine. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand consoled him that he still had at least a half an hour of respite. But he would not risk it tonight, his body still tingling in places from the last time he lingered too long before his image, nude and pensive.
Practiced steps, over a thousand taken he was certain, back and forth from their bedroom to the bathroom. He collected his towel and proceeded to hang it a perfect fold in half. After shampoo and conditioner bottles were exactingly realigned, he returned to their bedroom and lay waiting in the bed as instructed.
***
He dimmed the lights before disrobing. It left the room in hazy shades of grey, angles fuzzy in the shadows, the neatly folded throw at the corner of the bed a perfect picture of soft, soothing comfort. He hated looking gaudy and thought that he did under more garish lighting, his skin overpopulated with markings in a spectrum of yellows and purples. Overaccesorized. The difference in colors and shades were hardly distinguishable under muted light, like the layers of dust that covered their chest of drawers. Or so he thought. He blinked at his reflection in the full length mirror, large eyes framed by girlish lashes, emerald green. The contacts remained by choice.
He ducked suddenly at the flickering, a sliver of light like a crack from the door opening. When the sliver passed and continued to spread across the wall like a wide v-shaped chasm and then gradually shrunk again into itself, he breathed a sigh of relief inaudible over the sounds of a car speeding away. His hearth thumped, a wild percussion, in his chest. With shaking hands he drew the bathrobe around himself. It was still damp from his shower, with the faintest scent of jasmine. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand consoled him that he still had at least a half an hour of respite. But he would not risk it tonight, his body still tingling in places from the last time he lingered too long before his image, nude and pensive.
Practiced steps, over a thousand taken he was certain, back and forth from their bedroom to the bathroom. He collected his towel and proceeded to hang it a perfect fold in half. After shampoo and conditioner bottles were exactingly realigned, he returned to their bedroom and lay waiting in the bed as instructed.
***
Mea Culpa: Light
He was certain that if he told people that the worst of it wasn’t in the black and blue welts that often lingered for weeks, he'd only be gifted with looks of disbelief or skepticism. He knows this because he did tell people once, if only so few, though enough to convince him of the uselessness in telling.
In fact the worst of it was "the words". They warred in his head and shorn fields of dignity in swift clippings. Once they burned acres with a fire so fierce that it swept into a crest and barreled over hope. Even stalwart stoicism was no match. The words drove him to madness and paranoia.
I’ll kill you if you leave me.
He dressed his wounds in iron gauze of necessity and tolerance. Most days these days it was all that he had. Faith demised long ago at the heels of hope, lanced and lynched, along with understanding. He made no excuses. Live and let live…or die. Many days these days he wondered why he didn’t just opt for the latter. Though the wondering made him weary and the path of least resistance rolled him a red carpet welcome each time.
His head rested against Dominic’s thigh. He was sitting crouched by Dominic’s feet, Dominic perched above him in an armchair, a king in his throne. Fingers raked soothingly through his hair. He was still panting from the exertion. The soda-bottle glasses hung precariously, crooked, at the tip of his nose; the tie around his neck partially unraveled. His white shirt was artfully untucked. The trousers still hugged his hips, though it gaped wide where the zipper was undone. His penis, now flaccid, lay exposed between the zipper’s teeth.
At Dominic’s nudging, he rose to his feet. He stood immobile as his glasses were removed, the loosened tie gently tugged over his head, and his shirt unbuttoned. Dominic sank to his knees and knelt before his exposed torso. Soft kisses trailed over streaks of red, evidence of fingernail carvings. A gentle peck at his limp cock, then boxers followed trousers to gather at his feet.
Short moments later he lay in a warm pool of rose-scented water. That’s when the murmurings began, delicate caresses over recent and older wounds.
I love you… Two fingers traced a bruise behind his right calf, the first apology for the night.
He thought…Necessity…Tolerance…
And…notnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnot…
These days he sheds tears only as a knee-jerk reaction to the sting of a slap. He has become stingy simply because his reserves are near exhausted. Dominic knows this: his displays of affection erratically scheduled so they are always unexpected. He knows this: that each tender touch is just another promise of delayed pain.
Trust was the first thing the words murdered and the beatings buried.
He cries tonight, tears of shame, as Dominic cradles him and he curls in and clings. At the routine kiss against his temple couched by soothing shushing sounds, he thinks again…Enough…
Enough.
He was certain that if he told people that the worst of it wasn’t in the black and blue welts that often lingered for weeks, he'd only be gifted with looks of disbelief or skepticism. He knows this because he did tell people once, if only so few, though enough to convince him of the uselessness in telling.
In fact the worst of it was "the words". They warred in his head and shorn fields of dignity in swift clippings. Once they burned acres with a fire so fierce that it swept into a crest and barreled over hope. Even stalwart stoicism was no match. The words drove him to madness and paranoia.
I’ll kill you if you leave me.
He dressed his wounds in iron gauze of necessity and tolerance. Most days these days it was all that he had. Faith demised long ago at the heels of hope, lanced and lynched, along with understanding. He made no excuses. Live and let live…or die. Many days these days he wondered why he didn’t just opt for the latter. Though the wondering made him weary and the path of least resistance rolled him a red carpet welcome each time.
His head rested against Dominic’s thigh. He was sitting crouched by Dominic’s feet, Dominic perched above him in an armchair, a king in his throne. Fingers raked soothingly through his hair. He was still panting from the exertion. The soda-bottle glasses hung precariously, crooked, at the tip of his nose; the tie around his neck partially unraveled. His white shirt was artfully untucked. The trousers still hugged his hips, though it gaped wide where the zipper was undone. His penis, now flaccid, lay exposed between the zipper’s teeth.
At Dominic’s nudging, he rose to his feet. He stood immobile as his glasses were removed, the loosened tie gently tugged over his head, and his shirt unbuttoned. Dominic sank to his knees and knelt before his exposed torso. Soft kisses trailed over streaks of red, evidence of fingernail carvings. A gentle peck at his limp cock, then boxers followed trousers to gather at his feet.
Short moments later he lay in a warm pool of rose-scented water. That’s when the murmurings began, delicate caresses over recent and older wounds.
I love you… Two fingers traced a bruise behind his right calf, the first apology for the night.
He thought…Necessity…Tolerance…
And…notnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnot…
These days he sheds tears only as a knee-jerk reaction to the sting of a slap. He has become stingy simply because his reserves are near exhausted. Dominic knows this: his displays of affection erratically scheduled so they are always unexpected. He knows this: that each tender touch is just another promise of delayed pain.
Trust was the first thing the words murdered and the beatings buried.
He cries tonight, tears of shame, as Dominic cradles him and he curls in and clings. At the routine kiss against his temple couched by soothing shushing sounds, he thinks again…Enough…
Enough.
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