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Heaven From Hell

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So, you think you can tell Heaven from Hell?

Roger always bites Syd when he fucks him. It was almost like a bad habit, a sadistic streak marring Roger's subconscious to the point of near obsession. It was something he'd always enjoyed doing, but until then he had never had the courage to go through with it. But Syd had always seemed to enjoy the little nips he gave him, the uncertain placement of bites on his skin, light as they were. And that was all they were, in the beginning; just little nips, soft scrapes, playful. But it got rougher. More intentionally cruel. He remembered sometime back, when he and Syd had been tossing in those tangled sheets, blood thundering in his head and between his legs, he'd hauled off and sank his teeth into Syd's shoulder, hard enough the pierce the skin. He could still remember the way Syd had yelped at the pain, the taste of coppery blood flowing into his mouth, the look of shock and unabashed fear in Syd's dark eyes when he'd pulled back, mouth dripping blood and saliva onto the sheets. He'd never forget that—the feeling had been like electricity flowing in his veins, as if fed through an IV into his system. He'd never fucked anybody so hard as he did that night, and even with his shoulder bloodied Syd had admitted he'd never had anyone please him like that. The next day, there was a purple bruise over Syd's shoulder, and a row of jagged puncture wounds. The sheets were stained, too.

When he saw that bright, accusing mark on Syd's pallid skin, Roger felt an immediate rush of guilt and shame—he was supposed to be Syd's friend, supposed to be his lover. He should take care of him and be gentle with him, not bite him and bloody him like an animal. He was supposed to love him.

And Roger did love him, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe he felt too comfortable with him, loved him a bit too much, and that was why he had to do these things. Because he didn't feel afraid with Syd. Because when it was happening, it felt like the right thing to do—it was only afterwards that he regretted it. And yet, there was something else underneath that, a dark and malevolent brooding, almost resentment for the spindly little fellow—'He deserves it,' it said, and something about that always managed to turn him on, the idea of hurting Syd, hurting him more than he ever imagined anybody could. He wasn't even angry at him. But he found more and more, even when he and Syd were simply in the same room together, that his mind was always drifting to that thought. The thought of being on top of him, tearing his pale skin with his teeth, bruising those fine bones with a rain of blows.

He tries to push the thoughts away, but they're always there, lurking in the dark corners of his mind. Every sexual excursion has gotten more and more violent, and maybe Syd hadn't noticed, but Roger had been acutely aware. Every bite was placed to cause pain—his teeth closing on Syd's nipples, clamping on his ear, scraping his cock, leaving bloody nips all down his smooth thighs. And he'd enjoyed every minute of it, relished the sound of Syd's barely-contained gasp when his teeth bit down a little too hard, every twitch of his little body as pain raced up his spinal cord from another of Roger's nips.

But afterwards it was always the same—that horrible, gut-deep shame, as he lay curled next to Syd's warmth as the other fellow slept, stared at the purple bruises and red bloodstains that painted Syd's body. He'd find himself looking at the dried blood that had run between Syd's thighs, and the palm-shaped bruises on his thin wrists, and they scream at him in accusation of his crimes. That's when he can feel the burning behind his eyes, threatening to spill over, but he holds back the tears ashamedly—he's not one to just go crying like some whiney little git, and the thought shames him even more than the bruises on Syd's tender skin, because he knows he can't find any excuse to justify it.

And in the morning, Syd smiles that sweet, innocent, childlike smile, kisses his mouth and holds back the whimper of pain that Roger knows he must want to release so badly, with those plum-coloured bruises dotting his skin and screaming agony in his mind. And Roger kisses him back, pushing down his own feelings of shame and guilt, because he knows Syd has no idea what he will do to him. He doesn't know that he'll hurt him more than anyone ever has.

And the worst part is, Roger finds he's glad.