Sick

Diagnosis

This was wrong.

This was very wrong and Oliver knew it. His face was smeared in sweat, tears and blood, all being forced into a pillow, staining it. Allen was furiously pounding into him, hands clumsily stroking and fingering his insides from the large slice on his stomach. It wasn't deep enough to actually expose his organs but the thick wall of abdominal fat and muscle allowed for close enough access. The red head was so thankful he'd thought to burn the edges of the wound, God forbid he bleed out and leave this precious boy alone. That was his main thought for the moment, this rough and wild American, furiously thrusting into him, pleading for encouragement and praise like a child.

Oh how he loved breaking Allen's mind. The man had been referred to him by a colleague, Oliver was known for taking on difficult cases and Allen's was by far a challenge. The man had come from a broken home, mother deceased after his birth, father abandoning him soon after, jumping from foster care to foster care, drugs, violence and the like. He was hard as nails and oh so vulnerable. But he was sweet when he felt safe, just a misunderstood kid in bad place really, and Oliver wholeheartedly wanted to help him. He'd just gone all wrong about it, he'd planted ideas and made suggestions and before he knew it; Allen was in his office howling with tears and blood, begging for help with the flesh of some lowly begger still between his teeth.

Oliver never meant to cause such grief, but he needed Allen to do something horrific, something he couldn't confide in anyone, something that made him give Oliver total control. Then his plans were really set in motion. Oliver hid bodies, offered comfort and even physical affection, always lacing in childish pet names and reminding Allen that 'it's ok, you're just a baby, you don't know any better.' Now the American mind was putty in his hands and he relished in that fact.

He moaned, tongue flopping out of his mouth as the grip on his hips tightened, black bruises would appear tomorrow. This was too much, he could feel that white hot coil in his stomach begin to snap.

"Allen-oh God-Allen I'm going to cum!" He screamed, biting down on his bottom lip, copper filling his mouth. Allen didn't respond to him properly, only grunting out 'Mommy' and forcing himself into that all too tight heat, tearing Oliver's inner walls just a bit. That searing pain threw the Brit off the edge, ripping an orgasm out of him but even when his knees slipped and his chest smacked into the matress, Allen didn't stop. He kept going and going till Oliver lost track of time and consciousness, coming to at least ten minutes later; Allen only just beginning to slow down. Collapsing completely, he let drool and tears run down his disheveled face, satisfied to a painful extent.

That's when he felt it.

Warm, calloused hands wrap around his throat delicately and then give a tight, choking squeeze.

"I'm not finished, Mommy."

This was wrong.

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A/N: I have no idea why I'm continuing this series. I hate the fandom personalities for these two and yet here we are. At least I slipped in my own additions. There will be more to this, I am that angry.