Fandom: Yami no Matsuei
Pairing: Muraki/Hisoka; minor Muraki/Tsuzuki, Hisoka/Tsuzuki.
Warnings: Yaoi, minor bondage, mindfuckage, non-con stuff, some blood and biting and the like.
Spoilers: Possibly a few for the anime.
Soundtrack: Precious Pain, Melissa Etheridge
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Archiving: Free Your Soul, Love Thine Enemy, Fanfiction.net
Notes: Based mostly on the anime, 'cuz that's just easier to go back and review. Rated NC-17, for the yummy love/hate graphic-ness. For those that read the work-in-progress...there've been a few changes. Muraki doesn't speak Spanish anymore. @_@; Ningyou = Doll. Hisoka seems more than a little OOC...but it's a history 'fic, so I'm allowed to do that. Anyway. On with the angst!
Empty and cold
But it keeps me alive
I gave it my soul
So that I could survive
Keeping me safe in these chains
~Precious Pain, Melissa Etheridge
//Do you remember the first time you saw me?//
Hisoka shuddered against the voice in his mind, pale, scar-covered arms holding his knees as close to his chest as possible. He could not block the sound out, so sweet, so comforting, yet filling him with a sense of impending doom, of hatred.
//Of course you don't. You won't remember for a while yet.//
The voice mocked him, playing its nightly game. His eyes snapped open, glaring into the dark. The asylum staff called it a room, even though the silver bars could scarcely call up any image other than a cage.
"Leave me alone," the boy whispered to the silent dark. A soft chuckle came from the deeper recesses of his mind, and the voice again mocked him.
//Silly boy. Don't you want to know the truth?//
"I said leave me alone!" he screamed, scrambling against the wall. His eyes were wide, wild, the emerald irises shimmering in the light of a blood-red moon.
//It was nighttime, under a full moon so beautifully red as tonight...//
Hisoka whimpered softly, pressing his hands to his ears desperately.
"I don't want to remember..." he pleaded, and began to rock slowly.
//Of course you do, ningyou. It's all that's plagued your mind for the past three years.//
He stopped, his hands faling to his sides slowly.
"Why must you torment me?" he whispered, his voice tiny, entire body wracked with shivers. The voice laughed, a melodious sound, with gorgeously demonic undertones, a sound meant to tempt, to seduce.
//Oh, ningyou. It is your naievity that I do so adore.//
Hisoka stared into the night, his fists clenching at his sides. He stood, and moved from the wall, almost as if possessed.
It was in that instant that strong arms encircled him. Soft hands caressed his midrift, the hands of a surgeon, of an artist. A scream caught in his throat, and warm, wet lips were against his ear.
"And it is what makes me want to kill you."
The lips turned into a smile, the voice causing the boy to shudder uncontrollably. Sharp nails raked down his stomach, a thin trail of red blood following them. Hisoka gasped softly, his cheeks flushing.
"You always have liked the pain," the man whispered softly, one finger moving back to smear the blood. The boy bit his lip lightly, eyes fluttering shut.
"I hate you," he hissed out, his elbow shooting backwards into the figure behind him. Whirling around, Hisoka saw his tormenter.
He was as gorgeous as an angel. Dressed in a white suit, with soft grey trimmings, his silver hair fell over one eye, barely brushing his shoulders. The moonlight illuminated his form further, and the single silver eye shone, enticing.
"You always stare in shock, ningyou," the man said, approaching his prey. The boy backed up, his hands behind him to shield himself from the impact of the wall.
"I ca--can't help it," the boy stammered, his body shivering again. "You look like an angel..."
The man laughed once more, continously advancing upon the child. Hisoka stopped his backwards movements, staring in fascination as he pressed his body against the sixteen year old form, holding him close. His lips decended, administering a crushing kiss, tongue flicking out to taste and claim the boy. It was a familiar feeling, and one he didn't wish to know. The thin hands reached up, pushing at the chest of his captor.
A strange darkness, cold and sharp, began to seep into his heart, and he cried out in pain, jerking away from the man.
"What are you?!" he cried out, collapsing against the wall, clutching his chest as if that would stop the advance of the tendrils of pure evil that wrapped about him.
"Your abilities are beginning to weaken, Hisoka," the man murmured, studying him intently. "Your time must be comming."
The boy looked up from his position, shivering still.
"How do you know my name?" he whispered, softly, and the man simply smiled.
"I am a doctor. It's my job to know my patient's names."
The boy blinked, his eyes wide and almost trusting.
"But...Yamamoutou-sensei is my doctor..."
The man laughed again, a darker sound than before, and knelt down to look the boy in the eyes.
"Did I say patient? Gomen nasai. I meant victim."
A wind began in the room, a cold, eerie sensation. It crawled along the boy's arms, and as it blew back the silver strands of hair, revealing a false eye there, he screamed.
The scream fell upon deaf ears, for in the instant that the wind had begun, they had been swept away.
This room was gloriously lit by white candles, lining every wall, their glow warming the room as well as lighting it. Each candle seemed to glow with its own inner light, in addition to the flames that danced upon their wicks. There was no door, just endless white walls. The carpet was lily-white, and the white walls had a silver pattern of slow swirls, twirling and dancing in their own little patterns. There were sitting pieces littering the room, white upholstry, some printed with soft pink sakura petals.
The centerpiece of the room, however, was the bed. It was a huge four-poster canopy thing, the frame made from dark-stained oak, hand-carven with patterns of fruits and flowers. The canopy and heavy drapes were black, heavy velvet, and the drapes were drawn back for now. A pair of silver handcuffs gleamed from the headboard, contrasting against the black silk of the bedsheets. Black cords were wrapped securely around the footboard, intended purely to hold someone down to the bed. On the bedside stand, there lay a simple dagger, silver, its hilt encrusted with onyx and black opals, in the pattern of an inverted pentacle.
The man smile sweetly to his captured doll, reaching out to touch his cheek.
"I made this room for you, ningyou."
The boy shrank back against the wall, crying softly now.
"Iie...I don't want this..." he mumbled, between sobs.
All he earned for his troubles was a sharp slap to his cheek.
"Ungrateful brat!" the man roared, yanking his precious toy up by the wrist. He slung him onto the bed, and a sickening crack sounded through the room, and the boy's dislocated arm lay limply on the black satin sheets. "I go through the trouble of making you such a gorgeous sanctuary, and you have the audacity to refuse it without so much as a thank you!"
The boy's tears were streaming freely, both from the sting of the slap and the ache in his shoulder.
"G..Gomen..." he said, slowly, and closed his eyes tightly. The next thing he felt were the handcuffs clapping against his wrists, and the dislocated shoulder being slammed back into place. He cried out in pain, shuddering.
"I cannot stay angry at you long, ningyou," the man whispered softly, and leant down to place a flurry of passionate kisses against the boy's face, his neck, his shoulders, being especially tender about the one he had taken from its socket. The boy whimpered again, his eyes still shut tightly.
Tender fingers flexed his legs, a kiss placed to the kneecaps, and the surpisingly soft cords were tied securely about his ankles.
"Please..." the boy said, opening one scared emerald eye slowly. "It...It's generous of you to do this for me..."
His please were silenced by lips upon his, and the man knelt between his legs.
With that, he reached over to the bedside table, grabbing the dagger. The boy's eyes widened, and the man smirked, his tongue trailing over the blade sensually.
He rested the tip of the blade at the boy's throat, and the tears began to flow again.
The knife slid through the remains of a tattered shirt quickly, and he blinked.
"You...You're not going to hurt me?" he whispered softly, his eyes hopeful.
The man just laughed, and slided the boy's pants off, then placed the dagger back on the table.
"Of course I'm going to hurt you. It's what I do."
Hisoka's screaming and pleading fell upon ears that could, but refused, to hear him. With deft fingers, the man had stripped himself, and his clothes lay with the tattered rags of his doll.
He leaned down, and his teeth scraped the tender flesh of the boy's neck, gentle, soothing nibbles at first...And then, he bit down. Hard. Blood trickled from the wound, and Hisoka screamed in pain. His tormenter looked up, the rich crimson liquid tinting his lips the same rogue colour as a harlot's.
"You never have looked more beautiful than when in pain, ningyou," he hissed, and leant down to lick the blood away gently. Hisoka was trembling again, but his eyes would not shut, morbidly fascinated by the near-luminescence of the man's skin.
The nails clawed down his chest, opening scars he hadn't noticed until just then, and more of the sweet red vital fluid of life dripped down his sides, slowly, cold in the warmth of the candle-lit room.
"I won't beg you," the boy said, quietly, his dark jade eyes showing signs of resignition.
"Perhaps not...but your soul will fight me," the man hissed softly, and bent to claim the boy's mouth again. Hisoka bit down sharply on his tongue, and, with his own blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, Muraki sat up, smirking. "See? No matter what your body tells me...you hate me within the very depths of your soul. And it's no fun unless you struggle."
With a swift move, and no regard for the boy's comfort, he pushed himself inside. The muscles of his anus clamped around the intruder, and the man tossed his head back in ecstacy, the silver locks falling down around him as if a dream, a vision.
"You see?" he gasped out, thrusting in, and the boy could not hold in the scream. "It doesn't matter what you say." He thrust again, and the trembling below him heightened the pleasure, heightened the pain. "You'll resist me."
Muraki leant down, and pressed his lips roughly to Hisoka's. The boy screamed, even as his captor's blood ran over his tongue. The tangy, metallic taste allured him, tempted him, and for a moment, he wanted to abandon himself to the primal lust that burnt inside, the feeling of wanting something this horrible to happen to him.
He told himself the feelings were only a side effect of the man's darkness filling him, blaming his empathetic abilities as he always had.
But he knew that, no matter how much he hated this man, he would lust for him.
And even as he realized this, the thrusting stopped, and a climax was reached, with that final thrust.
And then, he blacked out.
"He came to me night after night, much in the same way...Some nights, he was gentle and tender, and I almost wished I would never go to sleep, would never forget...Other nights, we was more ruthless, nearly killing me before he was done."
It was years later than the incident in the asylum, years after he had become a Shinigami. Hisoka sat across from his partner, absently stirring his warm tea. They had taken breakfast in Nagasaki that morning, Tsuzuki gorging himself on pastries and danishes and muffins, Hisoka opting for a bagel and a hot cup of tea. But the mood had turned serious only moments before, sparked by a question from an innocent Tsuzuki-inu.
"Na~, Hisoka...Why do you stay a Shinigami?"
Hisoka had recounted the tale of how Muraki killed him, slowly, and drove him insane.
And he had dodged the question perfectly.
"I wanted to know who killed me. What happened. Why I went for three years without remembering what happened from day to day..."
"You still haven't answered my question, though..." Tsuzuki said, his violet eyes shining with sympathy. He reached across the table, fingers clasping the hand that continued the rhythmic stirring.
A sensation of warmness flooded over Hisoka, of safety, and all that stopped him from drowning in the care that his partner offered was his assuredness that he would be hurt.
"I want revenge," he stated simply. Tsuzuki's other hand lifted, touching the boy's cheek softly.
"But he's dead, Hisoka..." he whispered softly, biting his lip. Hisoka just shook his head.
"He's not...And I want to protect you from him. He's more infatuated with you than he ever was with me...And he'll do anything to get you..."
Tsuzuki sighed, standing up. He crossed over the table, leant down, and pressed a soft kiss to the child's forehead.
"I can take care of myself. It's you I worry about."
With that, the elder Shinigami paid the outrageous bill, with some dismay, and slunk out of the cafe, probally to mull over an excuse for spending so much.
And Hisoka wondered if he'd ever be able to admit how he felt. If he could ever ignore the scars that crissed and crossed over his body...if he would ever not feel used, spoiled.
...I have strange tastes. o.O;;;