Rating: NC-17 It includes extreme, graphic m/m sexual violence. I'm not kidding, people. If this is likely to disturb you, you should delete now. Don't whine about it later.

Summary:  Joe saved him the first time, but who'll save him now? The following story takes place at the end of "Something Wicked."

I've always said I don't enjoy Richie slash -- and I still don't. This story is dark and disturbing, not for those who don't like the descent. I couldn't tell you precisely what sparked it, but it's quite a ride. Richie's erection appears courtesy of Luminosity, who also gave me excessively helpful feedback. Most importantly, this would not have been written without my evilmuse Rachael, who started to be co-author, but ran away to have a life, instead, and ended up as my most wicked inspiration. No muses were harmed in the composition of this piece. I have none as such.

All feedback is welcome: praise will be answered, flames will receive a gracious and effusive thank you!

Richie stumbled as he got off his bike, catching his foot on the curb and nearly sprawling flat on the sidewalk. Grabbing hold of the handlebars, he just managed to keep himself upright -- until the bike started to go. Between the alcohol in his system and the confusion of maintaining his balance, he almost missed the feel of the other Immortal.

He made a clumsy grab at the sword fastened to the bike, but only succeeded in nearly tumbling himself again, ending up in an awkward triangle with the bike and the sidewalk.


Those so-familiar, normally so-welcome tones made Richie's skin crawl, and his drunken thoughts went spinning in panic. He grabbed at his sword again and this time managed to wrest it free before he turned to face Mac.

"Stay away from me."

Mac pulled his hands from his pockets and spread his arms wide. "Listen, it's me. It's really me this time, Richie. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Richie backed up, feeling behind him for his bike. "You just stay the hell away from me, Mac."

"Richie, I-"

"You tried to kill me, man! There can be only one, and all that shit?" Richie fumbled for his keys. Coming back to his apartment hadn't been such a good idea, but...he couldn't think straight, hadn't been able to since he'd stumbled out of the dojo.

"I...I know, Richie. God, if Joe hadn't been there- But I swear Richie, I'm okay now. It just, I dunno. When I came back around after Joe shot me, I- I was okay again."

Richie looked at his teacher, hope and faith warring with suspicion and fear. "How can I believe you, Mac?"

"You have no reason to, Richie, I know that, but this is me. You know me. I'd never want to hurt you, you know that!" Mac took a few steps forward, reaching into his coat, stopping when Richie stumbled backwards into his bike, digging for his keys.

"Wait, I'm sorry, here, I'm just going to take out my sword- "

"Fuck that, Mac!" Richie's head began to pound as adrenaline started to overcome the alcohol in his system.

Mac backed up to the entrance to the alley. "No, here, I'm gonna lay it down here and move away from it, okay? You can pick it up, you'll have both swords, okay?" Suiting actions to words, Mac pulled out his katana and bent to lay it carefully on the ground, keeping his eyes on Richie, his face tense and sincere. Richie watched him, wanting to believe.

Mac moved away from his sword, careful to keep the distance between himself and Richie. "Listen, Richie, call Joe, he'll tell you, it's okay. I lost it, too much power, too many, but it just took time to settle. You know that, Richie; sometimes they take longer, but I'm okay now.

"Well..." Richie considered, wanting to believe, wanting to have his world turned rightside-up again. "What about Coltec? It didn't settle in him?!" He sidled towards Mac's sword, keeping his eyes on the other man the whole way. "Move back, over there further." He waited until he judged that Mac was too far to be able to rush him before hooking his foot under the hilt of the katana, trying to catch it with his free hand. Unfortunately, his coordination was shot, and the tip of the sword clanked against the concrete as he caught the handle. Looking at Mac, he saw a flicker of something cross his face and felt a jolt of fear in his belly, but Mac never moved.

Mac shook his head sadly. "I don't know, Richie. Maybe Jim never integrated all the Quickenings he took. Maybe he just ran out of room for them. I know there was a lot there -- not just Immortals, but other stuff, too. I...I don't know how to describe it."

"Fucking crazy is how I'd describe it!" Richie felt more secure with both swords.

"I know, it was. Are you gonna call Joe? I just want to talk, Richie, but if you want me to leave..." Mac waited a few moments as Richie debated, torn, then turned and started to walk away slowly, his hands in his pockets.

"Mac!" Mac stopped and turned to look at him. "I- Okay, why don't you come upstairs, we can talk."

"Are you sure, Richie? I don't want to scare you."

"Well, it's a bit late for that." But Mac sounded so serious, so...so Mac. And what he said made sense to Richie.

"You should call Joe, Richie. Just to be safe." Mac moved towards the entrance to the apartments, taking his hands out and holding them at his sides. "I'll go first."

Richie climbed the stairs behind him cautiously. When they reached his door, he tucked the katana under his arm so he could dig for his keys, putting himself between Mac and the stairs, just in case. He was still feeling very jumpy. "Here, you open it." He threw the keys to Mac who caught them one-handed and moved to open the door, turning his back to Richie. Pushing the door open, he moved inside. "Why don't you stay there while I take off my coat, okay?"

"Uh, okay, good idea." He watched as Mac slowly pulled off his coat, tossing it out of arm's reach before going inside and closing the door.

"What happened with Joe, Mac? I mean, he shot you!"

"Yeah, he did. It was the only thing he could do. Why don't you call, let him tell you, Richie? I'd feel better if you did."

Richie moved to put the katana in the corner of the kitchen, motioning Mac into the living area, keeping his own sword out.

"I will, in a bit, but I want to hear it from you, first."

"Okay. Mind if I sit down? I'm pretty worn out. This has been really rough."

"Sure, yeah."

Mac sat on the edge of the couch, knees apart, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. He sat like that for long moments, staring at the floor. Richie sat on the edge of the table, one leg swinging, until he couldn't take the silence anymore, couldn't suppress his own need to know.

"What happened, Mac? Why'd you try to kill me?"

Mac glanced up briefly, then looked away, as if embarrassed to meet Richie's eyes. Just that simple movement, so like Mac, reassured him.

Mac's voice was husky, filled with emotion. "I don't know, Richie. It wasn't me. There was so much rage, so much need, and you were there, and I wanted-" He broke off.

"Wanted what, Mac?"

"You. Your Quickening. It was like...like an obsession. And the fight was...it was like sex, Richie, but it was...ugly." He looked up, meeting Richie's eyes, his own bright and pained. "If Joe hadn't shown up, Richie, I would have...I would have wanted to die, myself. I was trying to fight it, but it was as if somebody else was in control." He looked back down at his hands, then at the wall. "I tried to tell Jim to fight it, but I didn't know what I was asking him to do. So much hate."

"God, Mac, I...I can't imagine." Richie stood up and moved closer. This was Mac, in every guilt-ridden tone, every tense movement of his body. "Mac, I...I'm just glad you're okay."

"Are you, Richie?" Mac looked up at him hopefully. "Can you forgive me? You mean so much to me. You're...since Tessa died, I--" He stopped. Richie could see him swallow hard and felt his own eyes tear up.

"Aw, Mac, I...I know." Putting down his sword, Richie moved toward the other man, who met him and pulled him into a tight embrace. Feeling Mac's arms come around him, Richie was overwhelmed with thankfulness. He tucked his head into Mac's shoulder to hide his tears, tired and embarrassed. "God, I'm so glad you're okay, Mac. When you came at me like that, I couldn't think, I thought I was dead--"

He froze as Mac slid his hands down his back, cupping his buttocks to pull him tight and rub against him. Then he heard that nightmarish parody of Mac's voice whispering in his ear:

"Hello, little boy."

Richie knew that voice; not every foster home was a happy one. He tried to pull away, but he was held tight, even as Mac pressed closer. "Mac?" He felt his panic return. God, how could he be so fucking stupid!

The only response was a deep, dirty chuckle. "Oh, you're so sweet, boy. So easy, so willing to fucking believe!"

Richie yelled as Mac let go and spun him. He tried to pull away, but he was too off-balance, and he slammed up against the wall. Stunned, he felt Mac behind him, his hand around the back of Richie's neck, holding him against the wall. He turned his head and saw Mac reaching for the cord plugged into the light socket. He tried to struggle, but Mac just grabbed him and shoved him back, snapping his head hard against the wall.

"Where do you think you're going, boy? You owe me, remember? Tessa died because of you." He braced his foot on the base of the lamp and wrapped the cord around his hand several times before ripping out of the lamp, which fell over, shattering its bulb. "We have a few old debts to settle."

"Mac, no, I-"

"Shut up." Mac shook him. "I'm not interested in your mouth for talking." Then he stepped back, but before Richie could clear his head enough to move, Mac had wrenched his arms roughly behind him and tied the lamp cord securely around his biceps, tight enough to cut into his circulation. "Time to pay the piper, little one." The words were whispered harshly in his ear.

"Mac, you don't want-"

"Oh, I think I do, Richie." Mac pulled him away from the wall and pushed him to his knees. "I really think I do."

Richie looked up at him, seeing the dark light in his eyes, the leer on the handsome face. "Mac, we can-" He fell back over his tied arms, sprawling, as Mac backhanded him.

"Oh, we will, trust me. We're going to do lots of things, child."

Richie shook his head, tasting blood. He looked back up to see Mac undoing his pants. Until that moment, he realized some small part of him didn't believe this was happening, but seeing Mac standing there, stroking his cock roughly, made it all too real.

"Come here, little boy. Daddy has something for you to play with."

Richie took a deep breath and slowly struggled to his knees. He kept his eyes averted, but he could hear Mac's harsh breathing. He moved slowly, more slowly than necessary, focusing, planning. When he had his feet under him, he charged, using his head as a battering ram.

Instead of Mac's stomach, he collided with a moving leg that came up into his own stomach, knocking him back and stealing his breath. Choking, he curled up on the ground.

"Wrong game, son. Here, let me teach you a new one." He roughly pulled Richie to his knees by his hair and pressed Richie's face into his groin. "Over the teeth, through the gums...speaking of teeth," he said in a conversational tone, "I wouldn't, if I were you. It'll hurt you worse than it will me."

Richie felt the cold slide of a knife along his throat.

"Open wide, boy."

When he hesitated, he felt the sharp sting of the knife slice into his throat.

"I take my games very seriously, son. You don't want to disappoint me." Mac's voice was lethal.

Closing his eyes, Richie obeyed, gagging as his mouth was filled before he had time to breathe. He could feel the tears run down his cheeks and the blood down his neck, and he focused on those, trying to ignore the taste and the smell. Mac grabbed his ears roughly and thrust, obscene noises issuing from that familiar throat. "Oh, yessss. That's a good boy. Such a good boy."

Richie felt callused thumbs stroking over his cheeks.

"Oh, yeah, like that, bitch. Do it. I bet you've done this before, haven't you? And I bet you liked it. Such a pretty boy like you." He groaned, thrusting again. Richie could barely breathe, his eyes and nose streaming, Mac's cock pounding in and out of his mouth, gagging him.

"Oh, yeah, nice and wet." Mac pulled Richie's head in to his groin, and Richie could feel him push deep into his throat. Trying to pant around the intruding flesh, he sucked in air, tightening around Mac, who groaned again, praising him as if he were a prized pupil in some demented school. "Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, bitch. Just like that. So good. So fucking good."

Richie had no idea how much time went by. He almost blacked out at least twice, praying that he would, even though he knew it wouldn't end anything. His arms were going numb, and he couldn't make any moves that Mac didn't allow. And hard as he tried, he couldn't block out the ugly, filthy litany of words, punctuated by thrusts of hard flesh.

"Oh, yeah, bitch, suck it deep, take it deeper. You can do better than that, whore. Show Daddy you love him. God, you're such a sweet little whore, Richie. Oh, and you do it like you mean it. Get it good and wet, slut, because it's the only lube we'll use."

When he was finally pushed away, Richie fell back on his arms, too numb to feel more pain, gasping, relief flooding him even at this partial freedom. He looked up at Mac, afraid to see him, but more afraid not to keep an eye on him.

"Oh, you're so sweet, child. If I'd only known how sweet, mmmm." Mac stood there with his head tilted up, eyes closed, tongue curled over his lip, as if savoring the feelings. He held his wet cock in a loose hand. Then he looked back down with dangerous, slitted eyes. "C'mon, let's play some more. Daddy has all kinds of games for you."

Then Mac was crouching down, and his hand was at Richie's belt. Richie tried to pull away, only to feel the knife stroking his cheek.

"The game calls for cooperation, cunt. Don't forget it." Mac yanked Richie's belt free, then stabbed the point of the knife into the floor. Richie darted a look at it, then up into Mac's face. He barely recognized the man, his face flushed and sweating, lust masking the Mac he'd known.

"Go ahead, kid. Try." Mac's laugh was vile. "Think you can beat me? Think you can beat me now, when I don't care?" His voice grew menacing. "You stupid little fuck. You couldn't take me when I was holding back, what makes you think you can stop me from doing anything I want now?" He grabbed Richie's T-shirt at the neck and ripped, hard, tearing a piece out of the front. "Open wide, honey." Richie was still trying to catch his breath as Mac stuffed the piece of cloth in his mouth. "Wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors, you know. That would be unfriendly."

Richie tried to pull away, crouching back on his ankles, trying to stand, but Mac was prepared, and faster, and the knife was in his hand and slicing deep into Richie's cheek. "Stupid cunt. I'm fucking serious!"

And then Mac was pushing him to the ground, ripping Richie's pants open and down his legs, pulling his ass up into the air. "Oh, look at that tight little hole, Richie. Are you a virgin? Has anyone else ever fucked that tight, hot little hole of yours?"

Richie screamed against his gag as he felt Mac's thumbs pushing into him, spreading him, uncaring of his pain. Then it got worse as Mac's pressed his slick cock in, shoving himself dry into Richie's ass, one hand pressing Richie down, driving his face into the carpet. He couldn't move, couldn't squirm, couldn't breathe. He felt as if he were being buried alive.

"Oh, sweetheart. You're Daddy's favorite little hot spot. So tight, so good." Mac groaned as he sank in full-length, until Richie felt as if he was going to split open. He couldn't feel his hands, and he thought he could feel blood running down his sides from where the lamp cord was cutting into him, keeping him from healing. His mind spun as he tried to suck enough air in through his stuffy nose. Then he felt a hand slide against his belly, reaching down to grasp his cock and balls.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself, cunt? And I was counting on you having fun. I want everyone to enjoy the party." Richie moaned as Mac started roughly jerking him off, his body responding through the pain, though weakly. "Oh, come on, now, slut, surely you can do better than that." As Mac's hand moved, Richie's cock responded, as much to the lessening of pain as the unwilling pleasure.

"You like it rough, bitch? Did Kristin know that? Did she take you? She liked them weak and stupid. Too bad you won't live to outgrow it."

Then Mac began to move, and it got worse, the pain so sharp, like he was being cut open from the inside. As Mac moved, Richie's face slid back and forth on the carpet, ripping his torn cheek open again, over and over, blood soaking the carpet. And it hurt, god it hurt, and he felt so full as he tried to push against the pain, get rid of the pain.

"Ah, fuckingcuntwhorebitch!" Mac's hand left Richie's groin as he sank his fingers into Richie's hips, holding him still, ripping him open with his thrusts. Mac's obscenities dwindled to guttural animal sounds as he fucked Richie raw for long moments before stopping again, sunk deep into Richie's body. In the sudden silence Richie could hear his own honking attempts to get air, Mac's shuddering gasps.

Then Richie felt his shirt ripping again as Mac grabbed hold of it and pulled, swearing as it simply tore off Richie's body. "Shit!" Richie didn't think it could get any worse, but then Mac grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, groaning at the change in pressure on his cock. Richie was too dazed to resist as something came down around his throat and was pulled snug.

"Time to say goodnight, Gracie." Mac pulled back hard, and the belt he'd slipped around Richie's throat pulled tighter. He started thrusting again, his legs holding Richie's knees apart, bracing him, while his other hand slipped down to crush Richie's cock. The edges of Richie's vision dimmed, and his focus narrowed down to the bird sitting on the telephone pole he could see through the window. And finally, that was gone.

Richie came to slowly, gasping for breath, relief surging through him as he gulped air through his open mouth. He jerked up -- or he tried. His arms were still bound, and he was lying on the floor in a sticky mess of his own blood and semen. He shuddered as remembered sensations flooded him, Immortal memory making them painfully vivid. At the edge of his shattered awareness he heard a fleshy, rhythmic thump.

"Welcome back, son." The voice slid along Richie's spine, jovial and obscene.

Richie reared up; Mac was seated on the couch, sprawled back, legs spread wide, flipping his bloody knife, his katana leaning against arm of the couch. Richie scrambled backwards as best he could with his jeans around his knees and no feeling in his arms, until he was pressing up against the wall, eliciting a wicked leer from Mac.

"Bet you thought you were dead? Me, too. I was going to kill you, but then I thought: that's so wasteful. I mean, such a tasty little whore, why get rid of a good thing?" He stood, and Richie began hyperventilating as Mac moved to tower over him. "Calm down, bitch. We don't have time for any more fun tonight. I've got a ship to catch. Places to go, people to see."

He crouched down, pushing his face in close. "You're going to be my bitch for eternity. A hundred years, two hundred, a thousand. Won't matter. When I want a piece of your ass, I'll find you and take it, and you won't be able to do a damn thing about it." He ducked his head and licked along Richie's throat. Then he pulled back and grinned.

"Your sweat. I can taste your fear in it." He licked his lips and grinned. "You'll never see me coming."

He grabbed Richie's shoulder and threw him on the floor; Richie had no strength to resist. He felt the cords around his arms pulled tight, and he gasped in pain. Then his arms flopped uselessly at his sides as Mac's knife cut through the cord. He lay there, breathing hard, bracing for the next blow.

Mac bent down and cupped a gentle hand under his cheek, lifting his face and kissing the top of his head, hard. "Good boy." Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Richie lay there for a long time, bruised and bloody, feeling nothing but the aches and pains of residual healing. He felt empty, mindless, his thoughts refusing to slow down long enough to get snagged by his memory. He jerked at every sound like an animal run to ground, panic stirring. But gradually he relaxed a bit, and the knot in his belly loosened, blind rage finally overcoming his fear and giving him back control of his battered body.

He staggered to his feet, tripping over his pants, kicking them off as he headed into the shower. He turned the water on as hot as he could stand, then stood under it, trying to burn the memories out. He scrubbed himself raw, until the only traces were on the inside, intangible reminders of his pain and humiliation. He continued standing under it as the water ran cold, wanting to curl up on the floor, making himself stand upright. When he started to shiver, he turned off the water and stepped out, avoiding the mirror. He roughly dried himself, then got out clean clothes, pulling out more than he could wear and stuffing them in his pack.

He was moving automatically, not really thinking, just taking one step at a time, preparing. He took his tattered, bloody clothes and stuffed them in a garbage sack, then cleared out the refrigerator and added it all to the sack. He dug under the sink, pulling out anything that looked like it would get blood out of carpet. He scrubbed mindlessly, doing the best he could. At one point he realized he was sobbing rhythmically, and he knelt back and simply let himself hurt. He'd lost the best friend he'd ever had, and he'd lost some part of his innocence along with him. When he'd cried himself out, he wiped his face on his sleeve and finished cleaning up, throwing a rug over what he couldn't get out.

When he was done, he put on his coat and sword, grabbed his bag, and looked around one last time at the site of his baptism by fire, his crucible.

He wasn't going to break. And he wasn't going to let this happen again. He'd have to prepare. He'd have to get strong, because the next time he was going to fucking kill Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He was going to hunt, to fight, to do whatever it took to be able to protect himself the next time...and he had no doubt there would be a next time.

And the next time, Mac would die.