Liar 1/?

[oroburos69]

Title: Liar 1/?
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Summary:  “Hush, mister Jane,” he whispered. “Hush.”
Warnings: Non-con
Disclaimer: I’m not making money from this, and I certainly don’t own anything from the Mentalist.
A/N:This is a rewrite, and although I feel that this version is much improved, I have left the original version available here: http://oroburos69.livejournal.com/847.html#cutid1
The prompt is from the Mentalist Kink Meme on LiveJournal. “Red John/Jane. Possessiveness/jealousy. ^.^”

 

“Hush, mister Jane,” he whispered. “Hush.”

The room was too small. The walls were too close. The ceiling was too low.

“No need to talk now,” he murmured, cruel delight coloring his words. He traced Jane’s lips, pulled taut over the ball gag. “No need.” He brushed his hand through Jane’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp, hard enough to sting.

Red John’s voice is low and unaccented. Or rather, he has a mid-west American accent.

Jane couldn’t see his face. It was dark, he was wearing a mask, there wasn’t enough light, and Jane couldn’t see Red John’s goddamn face. His vision kept blurring, weaving, shifting. He blinked to clear his eyes, but it only worked for a moment.

Red John bit into Jane’s shoulder, a piercing pain that cleared the dizziness for a moment. Jane tried to pull away, his toes scrabbling uselessly on the mud coated floor.  He swayed on the thin chain, the metal handcuffs digging into his wrists.

The sharp squeal of metal on metal almost drowned the words Red John mumbled, his rotten breath drawing stabbing pains from the bleeding wound on his shoulder. “…mister Jane, I think I like you better when you’re quiet.”

It seems he carries a grudge.

Jane’s dizziness returned and his head lolled limply to the side, his muscle control weak. He stared blindly into the candle flames burning relentlessly in front of wet brick, warm light glinting off the cool moisture that dripped down the walls.

Strong hands gripped his hips, holding Jane still. Red John lapped at the holes in Jane’s neck, his swallowing obscenely loud.

Red John’s hands are rough. He either works with them for a living, or for his hobbies.

Jane shivered, trying to pull away from the invading tongue. Hands stopped him, pushing him hard against the wall, rough mortar grinding into his bare skin. Red John’s body followed, his jeans grinding against Jane’s legs, chest pressed across his hard enough that Jane could feel Red John’s heart beating.

“You look so vulnerable,” he sighed happily, licking up the welling blood. “and alone.”

His obsession with me is of a different bent than I originally believed.

Jane’s tongue pushed helplessly against the heavy black rubber of the gag. He tried to deny Red John, to say no, but the gag pressed against his teeth from the inside, heavy and muting.

Jane knows what words mean, how important they are. He needs to talk. To stop this. The rubber is flavored with vanilla and the taste is cloying. It squeaks quietly against his teeth.

Red John scraped his nails down Jane’s ribs, uneven and rough and catching on his skin.

His nails are unkempt, implying that his job is not one where appearances are paramount.

Jane felt his skin opening. It hurt far out of proportion with the size of the injury and he shuddered, his breath whistling through his nose.

Warm, fetid breath steamed over Jane’s collarbone. “Just look at you,” Red John whispered, tracing his tongue under Jane’s ear, leaving the skin dripping with saliva. Red John’s throat pressed hard against Jane’s, and his words vibrated into Jane’s bones. “I could just eat you right up.”

His teeth closed around Jane’s earlobe, biting down hard. Jane struggled weakly, a pained whine escaping around the gag. He hated himself for that small weakness, for the happy little hum it elicited from Red John.

He fought to open his eyes, to memorize, to analyze.

The scattered and aimless melodies Red John hums—they’re fragments of Beethoven. The scent on his breath is putrid and foul—coffee? He is tall enough that their heads are level.

Jane’s feet barely brushed the floor.

Red John leaned back, letting Jane swing freely from the handcuffs. He used the freedom to caress Jane in a twisted mockery of affection, lingering over his chest. Jane remembered the red cut that bisects Red John’s victims, the evisceration line. Red John outlined it on his skin.

Something flickered, changing Red John’s mind, and his hands dropped down, tracing the tender skin over Jane’s hips. It was intimate, and Jane shivered with revulsion.

Jane knew where it would end, where he would end. His breath whistled from his nostrils and he closed his eyes. How—he didn’t know. He had no idea how it would happen, or if he would live through it. Jane suspected that he wouldn’t.

Red John pressed his body against Jane, his weight driving his nails into delicate skin. Jane forced his eyes open. If he lives, this has to be worth it. It has to be.

Red John is a Caucasian male, unknown hair-color.

The pressure digging into his skin increased, and Jane knew that he was bleeding there, too. He mumbled softly into the gag, trying to back away from the pain, but he was pinned against the wet brickwork.

Jane’s head rolled limply over to rest on his shoulder, his forehead nestled in the crook of Red John’s shoulder in an obscene parody of affection. Jane’s cheek pressed into the smooth knit of a ski mask. He can’t see Red John’s face.

Red John smells of sawdust, smoke and rust. He uses Old Spice to an appalling degree, however, under that is something lighter, more expensive. He is clean shaven.

Jane swallowed around the weight of the gag. It felt like it was rolling down his throat, thick layers of cartilage and muscle ripping apart under its weight, spreading open under the unrelenting, unchanging pressure. He pushed it against his teeth, holding it there, away from his throat. His tongue hurt. Jane swallowed hard, suppressing nausea.

Red John nuzzled Jane, the gesture disconcertingly warm. “I want you dead or maybe just bleeding,” he breathed into Jane’s ear.  “I haven’t quite decided yet.”

He lapped at Jane’s shoulder, cleaning the blood from the bite. It’s begun to clot, and Jane felt the tacky outer layer peel away.

Red John may suffer from Rensfield syndrome.

Jane shivered, suddenly chilled as Red John knelt in front of him. He laid his hands over Jane’s hips, sliding his fingers under the elastic of his boxers. Jane closed his eyes, swallowing helplessly around the gag.

Red John is—Red John is neither old nor young. He is likely between the age of thirty and forty. He is not older than forty five, and he is not younger than thirty-five.

“I like them better when they’re breathing.” The words danced across Jane’s skin, heat followed by a chill as his breath condensed. “To take a woman to the very edge of her limits, then pull her over, fucking her as that last drop of life bleeds out of her.” Red John laughed softly, the sound hard-edged. “It’s exquisite.”

Red John is attempting to manipulate my perception of him. It’s working.

Red John stripped Jane of the last of his clothing, throwing it away carelessly. He chuckled mockingly. Jane squeezed his eyes shut. Tears welled up and tumbled free, sliding down his face. Jane suppressed them viciously, and opened his eyes.

Red John looked up, meeting Jane’s eyes. Contact made, he brushed his hand over Jane’s genitals in a deliberate caress. “Oh, pretty,” he murmured, his words echoing faintly in the dark.

Red John smiled at Jane as he held him in the palm of his hand.

Red John’s hands are clammy, cold. Circulation issues? He has a scar on his lips that only shows up when he smiles. His front teeth are crooked.  His eyes are brown.

Jane instinctively tried shifting away from Red John. His movement set him swaying, the handcuffs cutting deeper into his numb wrists. He thought they might be bleeding. A warm liquid trickled down his arms and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He couldn’t see it. 

Jane didn’t see anything, but Red John saw everything. Jane was losing.

Red John drew a knife from a leather bag set carefully on the rotten crates that held the candles. He held it lovingly, shifting the blade so it reflected candlelight in sharp lines that danced on the brick walls. Red John rested it over Jane’s groin, the edge cutting into his skin.  “You’re something different,” he mused thoughtfully. “This is… novel.”

Acid boiled threateningly in the back of Jane’s throat. He swallowed convulsively. His vision blurred wildly, strips of darkness and light patterning it.

Red John brought the blade up in a single, long line, splitting skin from Jane’s groin to his sternum. The slightest bit more pressure and Jane would have been gutted like his wife had been, like his daughter had been.

The disembowelment appears to have a sexual context for Red John.

Jane worked very hard not to think about that.

Red John cut abstract patterns into Jane’s skin, sharp stripes extending out from the central line like branches from a tree. Jane held himself deathly still. He could not die here.

“But in the end, you’re just like one of those fucking sluts,” Red John said, his lips pressed against Jane in obscene open mouthed kisses. Jane thought of octopuses, tentacles and suckers. His mind jittered from panic and pain.

Red John weights approximately 190 pounds. He is moderately muscular.

Jane blinked, watching the slow blurred dance of gleaming steel revealing the red blood inside. The pain grew remote and distant, coming seconds and hours after each cut, a delayed burn. The sensations crawled inside of him, clawing their way up his throat to join the gag.

 His vision grew patchy and dark and he swallowed painfully.

The knife trailed over his skin and the other hand touched him, invading more intimately than a knife ever could. Red John pushed on the skin surrounding the first and deepest cut, milking it of blood. He spread the blood over his fingers, and then used it to paint.

 Jane could feel Red John’s hand groping him, his touch perfunctory, almost uninterested. Red John squeezed too tightly, a sharp pain that cut through the haze and threatened to send Jane into unconsciousness.

“Faithless,” Red John accused, his voice chilling. “You aren’t anything but a faithless, worthless, spineless coward.” He lapped up the blood from Jane’s belly button. Jane swallowed hard to keep from vomiting.

“I’ve been watching you, with those people you insist on associating with,” Red John snarled, biting the edge of Jane’s hip. His teeth met through skin and Jane whimpered faintly, trembling from the strain of not fighting.

“You are mine, do you understand me? You breathe on my sufferance alone, you live because of my mercy, you eat, sleep, and shit only because I allow you to.”

Red John dragged his bloody hands down the insides of Jane’s thighs, the blade of the knife frighteningly close to the femoral artery. Jane looked away, doing his best to catalogue the room.

There are twelve candles. Twelve apostles—twelve months—twelve zodiacs—twelve names of Surya—twelve tribes—a duodecad of candles… The room appears abandoned. Red John has not used it before. There are no windows, and it is very damp. Probably underground. The bricks are crumbling, moldering.

The blade pressed against Jane’s stomach, digging into the hollow of his hip, forcing Jane into unnatural stillness. Trickles of blood slid from the cuts on his wrists, the wounds patterning his belly. It ached and stung, but Jane didn’t dare move.

“You aren’t paying attention,” Red John snarled.

Red John flattened his free hand under Jane’s buttocks, wiping tacky, drying blood over them. Jane felt suddenly dizzy, panting breaths through his nose not giving him anywhere near enough oxygen. Red John’s fingers invaded Jane and Jane couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Jane swallowed thickly, holding down vomit, the choking taste of vanilla tainted rubber filling his mouth, invading his lungs in a hot, humid rush.

Red John was inside of him. Jane’s blood coated the other man’s teeth, staining the enamel pink.

Crooked front teeth that push inwards, especially on the left.

Jane felt the press and prod of fingers working their way inside, the painful violation as they opened, twisting within him. He tensed instinctively, fighting the painful burn of being pulled apart, of being forced. 

“You’ve been chasing others, ignoring me. Working your fancy party tricks on a whole new field of rubes,” Red John said. The knife slipped, nicking Jane’s skin. “You swore that you would chase me to the ends of the earth.”

“I went to the ends of the earth and back.” His tone was mocking. “And you didn’t follow me, not even once.”

“Were you lying, mister Jane?” Red John asked. He slid the knife back an inch, scraping it on stretched skin. Jane thrashed involuntarily, jerking away, but Red John surged up, following him. The blade opened the skin, and the pressure of Red John’s relentless fingers ripped the tiny cuts wider.

“I thought I taught you last time.” Red John whispered, “that lying is wrong.”

Jane closed his eyes. His heart was beating too fast, he couldn’t breathe. The gag was blocking his air, he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to look, to catalogue the scene. His vision was blurred. Hot liquid leaked from the corners of his eyes, dripping onto the leather cord holding the gag in place.

His clothes—he’s wearing all black, which is rather trite. They’re expensive casual wear, but he’s wearing them with work boots that are crusted on the edges with mud.

Red John lifted Jane’s leg over his shoulder, the change in position forcing Jane’s head to roll back, shifting his gaze to the arched ceiling. The new pose allowed Jane more air, his whistling panting slowing to a gentle wheeze. Some of the pressure inside him left. Jane blinked at the ceiling.

Admittedly, the mud could be from down here. But the boots are old. The clothes are a dark black, unfaded. The jeans have a crisp line down the centre. Either he doesn’t wear them often, or they’re new. Or he irons his jeans.

“So mister Jane?” Red John persisted, hooking his fingers inside Jane. “Were you lying to me?” he demanded, sliding the knife in beside his fingers.

Jane’s back arched and twisted, trying to pull away from the knife. A muffled shriek escaped the gag.

“You said you wanted me dead. That you wouldn’t stop until I was dead.” Red John’s hand didn’t move, the knife slicing deeper from Jane’s thrashing. Jane choked on the gag, tongue desperately trying to push the intrusion out, body seizing into hacking coughs. He swung wildly on the chains, new cuts forming on his wrists.

“But it’s like you aren’t even trying anymore.” Red John waited for Jane to still before he yanked the knife out, slicing more skin as he did so. Blood leaked down Jane’s thigh in a frighteningly thick stream and Jane thought abruptly that he was going to die in this room. The thought is insidious.

“The magic is gone, mister Jane,” Red John said, rising to his feet. Jane’s leg pulled up with him, stretching torn flesh and skin. Jane’s pelvis pressed against Red John’s groin, leaving him with no possible doubt as to his captor’s enjoyment of the situation. 

Red John pushed Jane against the wall, relieving some of the pressure on his wrists. He dropped a gentle kiss on the bite over Jane’s shoulder, whispering, “Your oaths are worthless. You’re a liar.” He slipped his tongue between the gag and the tight skin of Jane’s lips, provoking a shudder.

Jane focused, searching for identifying marks on Red John’s face. There was nothing unique about it. Just a man’s face, covered by a ski mask.

Thin lips, strong jaw. Probably reasonably attractive under the mask.

Red John unbuttoned his jeans, freeing himself. He dropped the knife into the mud and pulled out a square packet from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth.

Brunette.

Jane closed his eyes, feeling the panic rising again, terrified enough to try and pretend that it wasn’t real. He panted harshly around the gag, mouth fuller than it had any right to be. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s a filthy lying coward,” Red John whispered in his ear, running a finger over Jane’s chin.

It hurts. It really, really hurts.

Jane screamed, the sharp noise echoing in the damp air. The pain was blindingly strong, racing down his spine in agonizing waves. Distantly he felt Red John lift his other leg and slide deeper inside, every movement ratcheting up the fiercely clawing pain. Red John laughed.

“I let you live. I gave you mercy. You chose to throw that gift back in my face. This is nothing more than you deserve.” An element of rage colored Red John’s voice. Jane memorized it, locked it into his memory.

“I did this to your wife,” Red John said, suddenly calm again. “And I made your daughter watch.”

No.

 Jane lost himself willingly, gratefully in the pain, the constant drip drop of water into the shallow puddles on the floor, the rough sway as he was rocked back and forth on the chains. He embraced the present, letting it ripen and bloom inside his mind until there was no room for thought of the past.

Red John’s hips jerked against his in short quick thrusts, each one another insult, another wound. Jane’s stomach rolled uncomfortably as he tried to focus on the pain, on the light, on memorizing every fucking detail of this.

He… He is a sadist. But he isn’t psychotic. He isn’t deluded, or crazy. He’s sexist, violent, and a rapist. But he isn’t crazy.

“She cried just like you,” Red John whispered like he was sharing a secret, his mouth curving into a smile as he pressed Jane against the wall, his body rigid, a fine tremor running through him. Jane’s mind ground to a stop, his eyes meeting Red John’s from inches away. Slowly, ever so slowly, a thin ridge slid down the dark iris of Red John’s eye. Behind it, a sliver of light color showed.

His eyes aren’t brown.

Red John pulled away abruptly, letting Jane swing on the handcuffs. It’s another sharp and twisted pain in an ocean of them, and Jane barely noticed when he hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

They’re blue.

Red John walked to the edges of the candles’ light, stripping off his blood stained clothes as he did so.

Tattoo of a snake—red, white, black. Mole on his hip, scars on his back, narrow build. Mole on the back of his neck. Scars across his belly.

 Jane watched. Red John changed into fresh clothes, and stuffed the old ones into the leather bag. He picked the knife up from the floor and tucked it away with the clothes.

“I’m afraid our time is short.” Red John lifted a bottle of bleach, a crooked grin twisting his lips.

Laundry grade. Diluted, not actually dangerous in most circumstances.

Jane’s head drifted forward, unable to hold itself up anymore. The anticipation of fresh new pain made his skin quiver, twitching as he waited for—

Cold liquid poured over Jane’s head, running down his body, trailing through the cuts and bruises. The initial coolness swiftly changed to a burning itch, acid-like in his wounds. A ragged sob was choked by the gag.

The pervasive stench of bleach permeated the underground chamber. Jane tried to lift his head, but failed. Red John snapped on rubber gloves, the elastic sound loud in the silence.

“Do you think they’ll find you in time?” he asked, “I’m willing to leave it up to fate.”

I will kill you, Jane promised futilely, his eyes sliding shut again.

I will hunt you down and split you open, tear you into your broken components.

I will  kill you.

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