Trammel

He left in the night like any good thief. It was one of the few things about this... arrangement... that Seto approved of. He would be contacted in different ways. The ring of the phone and low exhalation of his name. A slip of a note resting incongruously on his desk behind locked office doors. Or even something as mundane and bizarre as being approached directly in school.

The pale duelist was always hard to predict. No one had ever specifically mentioned the darkness of the white haired boy to him before. In a way he was like Yuugi when he dueled. The frantic confrontation between the two during the Battle City finals had left no doubt in Seto's mind that something dwelled behind those guileless brown eyes. When holding the cards, a regal determination draped about the king of games like a cloak. Bakura's cloak was of a darker cut, promising only shadows and a deep, animalistic cunning.

Seto wasn't quite certain how it started. It was an insignificant detail. Uncharacteristic of him, certainly, but it registered on that primitive level of his consciousness that only cared that it happened, not why. It was this primitive inside that grinned in feral amusement at the writhing form beneath him. He should have been appalled at his behavior. Instead, he reveled in this new found loss of control.

Bite and scratch and claw at the pallor of Bakura's skin. The other duelist was as pale as unmarked parchment. So fascinating to read the calligraphy of scars gracing his chest and upper arm, like raised lines of milky ink spilled across alabaster silk. Bakura never told Seto where the scars came from. Seto never bothered to ask. He didn't want to know. It was merely enough that the other came to him.

Like now, for instance. Bakura trapped beneath him, short fingernails digging into the skin of his shoulders, gouging the flesh. No gasp and cry of mutual pleasure, but growl and grunt of satisfied rutting. Slap of flesh against flesh. Jarring discord of unsynchronized movements and random jab of elbow and knees. Leather straps fettering the pale boy's wrists above his head.

Something else the self-proclaimed thief never bothered to explain. But Seto had his own ideas. Perhaps the boy, so quiet and unassuming, required this inner darkness to be held back when released, even if only symbolically.

Bakura always managed to unlock his constraints at the last moment. And Seto would find himself on his back, dominance ripped abruptly from him. Control lost to the raw act between them, and then even the freedom from control taken from him. Ancient rhythms would be forced into a stabbing, impaling beat.

But that was best for them. Both held control in such high esteem. One lived by an almost mechanistic standard of control. The other gloried in the loss of it. Reduced down to their base instincts and maybe they were not so very different at all.

Perhaps it was best that there was no connection between the two save for that mutual need to loose themselves in a mirror image. Never mind the rare times when Bakura could be moved to speak while they coupled frantically, growling into his ear an ancient name that resonated so closely to Seto's own.

It meant nothing, these trammels of destiny and time.