Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3218813.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yu-Gi-Oh!
  Relationship:
      Kaiba_Mokuba/Kaiba_Seto
  Character:
      Kaiba_Seto, Kaiba_Mokuba
  Additional Tags:
      Rape, Domestic_Violence, Sibling_Incest, Underage_Sex, Implied/Referenced
      Drug_Use, Explicit_Language
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-04-25 Words: 1484
****** Picture Perfect ******
by Osidiano
Summary
     Written in response to a challenge on Freedom of Speech to write a
     pairing specifically in a way that you do not ship.
     Boys are notoriously bad at communicating, these ones especially so.
Black hair, tangled and knotted from fitful sleep, fanned across the pillow’s
surface, leaving the sun-darkened shoulder of its owner bare and naked to the
cool night air. A blue-eyed gaze brushed over the prone form, creeping up the
small arm and passing the shoulder to slide down a smooth and imperfect back.
There were scratches in the skin, long red lines where nails had been pressed
in and drug through bloodlessly during the night. Halfway down, the sleeper’s
ribs could be seen, rising ridges like tiny landscapes. They did not protrude,
did not scream of malnourishment or underfeeding, simply a reminder of thin
genetics working in tandem with an active persona. With less exercise, the
sleeper would not have been so skinny.
Blue eyes stopped at the edge of the blanket, brought up over the sleeper’s
lower back. From there on, the body lost shape, becoming nondescript lumps on
the mattress in the dim lighting afforded by the night sky that snuck in
through the open bedroom window. The sleeper’s companion reached for a pack of
cigarettes on the nightstand, strong fingers curling around a lighter on the
way back. It had been a compromise brought on after two hours of screaming at
each other; the sleeper had been promised sex and a daily “I love you,” and the
companion was allowed a slow suicide.
Orange flame flickered up from the lighter, identifying the companion as male
and illuminating some of his features for a moment as he lit up. Slanted lapis
eyes in an angular face, a sharp, prominent nose over thin lips pressed tight
around his cigarette. His skin was pale, but the sleepless bruising under his
eyes was dark and the contrast could not go without notice. Likewise, attention
was drawn to the heavy lines around his mouth, formed by a decade of frowns and
black scowls. He was eighteen, but with his cold and embittered demeanor, his
jaded gaze, and the sickness sleeping deep within, he could have easily passed
for thirty-five.
Grey smoke wafted up to the ceiling as he exhaled slowly, watching it drift
towards the window and freedom as he fed his addiction, wallowing in self-
disgust as he committed himself to a disgraceful and cancerous demise. Still,
he supposed that it could be worse; after all, the most vulgar and despicable
deaths were all natural, coming in and stealing away the last shreds of one’s
dignity and self worth through Alzheimer’s and organ failure. If dying was
something that he had to do, he would rather choose how and a basic time frame.
He would be no one’s dog.
And really, that is what it all came down to: being someone’s dog. Whether he
was obliging the sleeper’s faux-innocent requests or following the dictation of
a metaphysical power such as fate, he felt sub-human, as if abiding by anyone
else’s desires was somehow degrading. It made him feel like a dog, like someone
had clamped a collar down around his neck, chained him to a desk and forced him
to do as he was told, leaning over his shoulder with a sneer and well-used
riding crop as they reviewed his work. Just thinking about it made his hands
twitch with the need to lash out at something . . . or someone.
Beside him, the sleeper shifted.
===============================================================================
Morning saw blood spattered on the sheets alongside dark blotches of sweat and
semen, the companion away at work and the sleeper hobbling towards the shower.
The long black hair was unkempt and obscured the face from view, but though the
sleeper was quite young, there was no mistaking the sex that hung between those
smooth legs: male.
The boy fumbled with the handle of the bathroom door, biting his lower lip as
he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to find a way to carry himself
that would be less painful. Blood and sweat had dried on his buttocks and the
back of his thighs, smeared and coated thinly where it had mixed with other
fluids and dripped down to his trembling knees. The door opened at last, and
the boy stumbled inside, catching himself on the edge of the sink just before
his legs gave way. He cried out, lowering himself slowly to the cold tiles,
resting carefully on the balls of his feet with legs bent beneath him.
It hurt.
Hands grabbed his shoulders roughly, startling him into consciousness. The grip
was painfully tight, and the boy tried to call out to his companion only to
find himself smothered. One of those strong, thin hands had found its way into
his hair, caught a fistful and forced his face into the pillow. The other hand
— right hand, his brain registered the detail numbly through a sense of rising
panic — crept beneath him, grabbing the jutting hip bone on the opposite side
as his companion pulled the boy’s lower body up at an angle.
The boy’s arms thrashed the mattress as he tried to push himself up, his own
small fingers clawing at the hand on the back of his head when he realized that
the effort was wasted, short nails tearing at the skin there. He could feel the
other man’s body heat on his back, could hear the ragged, angry breathing. For
the first time in his life, he was honestly afraid of his companion. The boy
managed to twist his head to the side, gasping as he attempted to speak:
“Big broth—“
“Is this what you wanted?” his companion, his brother, cut him off, spitting
the words out like acid. “Is this what you had in mind, Mokuba?”
This could not be happening this could not be happening this could —
Mokuba’s mindless mantra was interrupted by a sudden and violent penetration,
pain shooting up through his backside. There had been no warning, no prepping
or lubrication. Seto did not go in quickly or easily, but instead entered
haltingly, the skin sticking and pulling with each additional exertion. For a
moment, Mokuba was silent, eyes wide and terrified, breath held and mouth
moving soundlessly before a long wailing scream erupted from his throat as his
elder brother retreated. Seto yanked up on his hair then, lifting the boy’s
upper body briefly. In the next instant, he was smashing Mokuba’s face back
into the pillow to stifle that god-awful noise.
“Does it make you feel good, Mokuba?” he asked, his words almost lost in the
bedlam of his brother’s struggle. “Do you like to be used and taken advantage
of? Are you happy that I’m paying attention now, that I’m ‘showing my
affection?’ Well?"
“You whore!I hope it hurts like hell!”
Again and again, his brother slammed into him, sweat making their bodies slick
and grips slide. Something warm was running down the inside of his thigh, the
sheets absorbing the new fluid once it reached his knees. As Seto continued to
plunge his engorged erection into Mokuba, it began to get easier, the motions
faster and more fluid. Mokuba’s screams had died down to a faint whimper, lost
amidst the sound of skin slapping against skin, his strength fading fast with
the lack of oxygen. The section of his brain that still maintained rational
thought process was certain that he was bleeding, that the blood was making
each withdraw and strained entry more acquiescent. Perhaps it was his body’s
way of letting Seto know that he had admitted defeat.
There was a sharp jerking of his hair to one side as Seto lurched forward,
trying to keep his balance in the throws of an orgasm. He could feel his
brother steadily going limp, the liquid warm and discolored as the semen mixed
with his blood and seeped out. It stung and burned where the friction had made
him raw. Seto released him, and Mokuba willingly buried his face back in the
pillow, not wanting his brother to see him cry.
“Successful CEO caught in bed with an underagedboy,” his brother muttered the
words tiredly, sounding like he was reading the next big headline. The bed
creaked slightly as he stood, his voice growing dim as he walked out of the
room. “The tabloids would have had a field day with this. It would’ve been less
of a problem in July. . .”
Mokuba closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him.
It hurt a lot.
He sniffed loudly, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms, fighting
back the urge to cry. Boys did not cry, no matter how much it hurt. He had
learned that lesson back at the orphanage; the older kids had taught it to him
using harsh words and broken toys, short sticks and trampled dreams. Mokuba had
never forgotten those rough times, and so he blinked back his tears and forced
himself to his feet. He needed to take a shower, after all.
And big boys never cry.
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