Philia

P is for Play Rape

Cell relishes having Freeza underneath him.  Not just physically, but truly underneath him, all pretenses of control relinquished and put into his hands.  It’s a heady feeling, indeed, when the former ruler of the north quadrant is snarling at you with blood-flecked lips, yet helpless to do anything other than but.

He can hear Freeza tell him no, over and over again, a myriad of curses and threats pouring fourth from his lips in his native language that only a select few can understand as he brings the warlord to orgasm again, and again, and again.  There is a thin, sticky strand of saliva clinging to Freeza’s lower lip as Cell brings him to a fourth, and the alien shudders hard against him, his muscles convulsing around Cell’s fingers with a sound akin to a sob.

Freeza’s nails dig into the slippery mud underneath him (it’s all he can do, really, Cell thinks, what with his arms telekinetically pinned above him like that) as the android withdraws his hand, slick fingers resting on the warlord’s stomach, pushing himself up on an elbow to look his partner (victim) in the eye, a wry smirk twisting his features as Freeza refuses to meet his gaze.

“Come now, Freeza,” he chuckles, gripping the tyrant’s chin in a bruising grip between the palm of his hand as he jerks his neck towards him.  “Surely you wanted this.”

There is the briefest flash of anger in the other’s eyes before Freeza spits upon him, a thick, bright purple bloody spatter hitting Cell’s cheek.

“Screw you. I want nothing you can give me.”

It’s a crass response for Freeza, and it tells the android that the alien is quickly hitting his breaking point.  His voice is barely above a hoarse whisper, and dark lips are dry and cracked (and with the way Freeza keeps licking them, quite possibly dehydrated).  His whole body is shaking with the expense of the entire ordeal, and blood mars the hollow of one pale, white cheek.

And, oh, but Cell likes this!  The once perfectly spoiled prince now entirely at his mercy.

“Too bad.”

His smirk turns downright evil as he reaches down once more, his fingers sliding into that wet sheath, and—with some quick searching—delicately grasps the warlord’s internal length, pulling it out into the open air, his thumb flicking over the slit in the glans.

And Freeza howls, a loud, long, drawn out sound that threatens to breaks the cliffs of Hell until Cell shoves two fingers down his throat, effectively gagging already abused vocal cords.  (He thinks it a shame that he has to do so, as Freeza rarely lets himself go like that during sex, but Cell does not need an unwanted audience—not today.)

The pinpricks forming in the corner of the warlord’s eyes and the constant telepathic chant ripping through his head (No more, no more, no more!) tells Cell that Freeza probably cannot handle a fifth orgasm with such diminished physical reserves, but damned if he’s not going to rip this last one from Freeza’s body just because he can.

Poised above him, Freeza’s length firmly gripped in his hand, his tongue has just barely hit the tip of the head before there is a sharp crack, and Freeza’s tail strikes Cell across his midsection, flinging him into the nearest craggy outcropping.

Cell had wondered when the warlord would decide to break out of his telekinetic hold.

“Did I not tell you ‘no more?’”  Freeza looks absolutely livid, punctuating his question by stepping on Cell’s throat, toes curling around his neck.  “Did I not?”

Oh yes, Cell does like this.