Disclaimer: You know it, I know it, Marik's ass knows it, I still don't own yugioh.
Pairing: Marik x Malik
Warnings: NC-17, BDSM, yaoi, implied rape, extreme violence
Splash. Splash. Splash. Merciless metal cutting through soft flesh until it hits something hard and resistant. I feel the bones breaking and tissue tearing around the device that is causing the irreparable damage; the floor stained with dark crimson. A silent scream passes dry lips as I watch the mangled little body, a contorted look of nauseating pleasure gracing his face as pure panic is painted on my own.
I snapped out of the dream like an exhausted swimmer reaching the ocean's surface, open-mouthed and gasping. The faint light seeping lazily beneath the thick curtains announced dawn and the long anticipated ending of another nerve-wracking night. My eyes could barely handle the soft light that hit them, anything other than darkness irritating and unaccustomed after such a long period of total blackness.
It took just seconds, and my mind wandered back to him.
It had been eight years since he'd woken to life, frighteningly overpowering and dominant with his very first breath. So many years have passed since he became a part of me, though every single day I'm once again amazed with what mother Hell had managed to hurl up.
Now he's torn himself away from me, discarding himself of that troublesome piece of worthless meat he was forced to endure and keep alive in order to survive. Now these days are a part of the past that I detested so much. I never thought that my new future would be so horribly unpleasant that I would find myself longing for those days. Unlike back in the better times, my body is of no longer importance to him, neither is my life. That thought surprisingly stings me. I'm a mere provider of sadistic pleasure. A pathetic puppet that's forced to dance to his demonic beat.
I sighed and stared blankly at the grey soiled walls that greeted me like they did every day, their dull colour contrasting with a few dark spots that stained them. I grimaced at the thought that several of my bodily fluids covered my surroundings, though I didn't bother to clean up the distasteful mess. I learned the hard way from earlier experiences—it would be a superfluous effort.
Everything here was dirty. The ground was slippery with a thin layer of substance that smelled terribly offensive, just as the filthy linens under my back. There was no heat, no water and no proper sanitary fittings, just rusty pipes and a mouldy blanket. The only light that illuminated my small room—my prison, rather—was the single tiny window that didn't even let the full sunlight beam trough it because of the filth that covered the glass.
The only way out of my personal hellhole was the thick door, which was currently securely locked to keep me safely in between these hateful walls. I even came to the point of where I desperately longed for my roach and rat-occupied apartment where I used to let Ryou sleep next to me in my bed—after he'd once again ran away from Bakura—for a crappy meal and a blowjob whenever I asked. I'd been disobedient and this was my reward.
The fresh and pleasant autumn air was replaced by the chilly winds of the season I used to love so much, but living in this freezing cage had quickly changed that, and the low temperatures had already made me cranky. My master had made no attempts to make this uncomfortable situation more bearable for me to handle, not even slightly. In fact, I think he's quite enjoying my misery. No, I know he is.
Marik is his name. Though I refuse to call him like that, or I'm not allowed to call him like that, rather. After eight years of mental abuse, I'm finally free, only to have him physically torturing me now that he's finally able to, treating me like the wild animal he likes to make me believe I am. But he can't completely break me. He can do nothing to my soul that is already festering in me like a tumour beneath my skin, all because of the guilt and self-disgust that has already ruined it. But he was getting there.
The owl that was quietly sitting on the ledge of the widow suddenly took flight with a slashing of brown wings, making me jerk my head to the right in alarm so quick that the muscles painfully pulled. That was another thing he'd made out of me—a miserable human being, scared of every little shit that came its way. I smelled bacon and eggs, but the smell of food didn't get my feet to the floor any faster. It would have, once. I very well knew this meal wasn't prepared for me, anyway. Slowly rising, I walked to the window.
The early sunlight glinted off the ice-covered limbs of the bare braches, the beams rising behind them, painting them in gold-limned white radiance. Mist was hanging over the land like a foreboding haze, the steam that rose from the melting ice adding to the eerie atmosphere. As a child this used to convince me that the trees had souls, but now I know better. The only soul I fear is my own. Melodramatic, but so true.
I heard the faint sound of footsteps in the hall. Maybe the food was meant for me after all. Sometimes I believed he insisted on feeding me every once in a while just to pretend he still knew me. He was really determined to let me know that he was seriously angry this time—I hadn't eaten in two days. Or was it three? I tend to lose count while I'm in here. I rarely bothered to eat though. I got used to living on a lack of food, I didn't need that much to stay alive, just a little to prevent that weak feeling in my knees. Not like him, he doesn't need to eat at all, ever. There are many things that will not kill him, and very few things that will. I stopped trying to figure out how to inflict just a little bit of damage on him; all the attempts I made so far resulted in me lying on the ground like a pathetic sack of bones and a limp for at least three days.
I was not like his other victims, no, I was his pet project. How long can you torture a man before he dies from insanity? If he kept it up the way he'd been doing for the past few days, he was bound to find out very soon. But he never abuses me long enough to end my life; he'll never reward me with such mercy. After the deep bruises and cuts had vanished, he'd start all over again, proving that my strength was nothing as I cried and begged for him to stop.
There was no question of fighting back or resisting against him. I had once, refusing to kill a girl he'd brought to see me work off my feelings towards him on someone else. When I spoiled his fun, he finished off the poor being himself. I believe some of the stains on the wall are hers, too. I still can't bring myself to use the metal bucket which I'm ought to use as my sink, after he used it to dump her innards in when he had finished with her. He had returned with a slim razor and showed me how it's like to stand on the boundary between life and death. I never disobeyed again. I hated it the most when he brought home those little boys. Their screams were the worst.
Did I have a choice? Certainly. The nature of sin is the intent, and I intended to save my own life by obeying him. Is it wrong to want to live, knowing that others must die for you? I truly didn't want to die, although the sweet solution of death seemed a wonderful option in my darkest hours. I hate myself for being such a coward, even more for my selfishness—killing people in order to survive, when my mind dwelled far too often on the though of finishing myself off.
I got used to it all, until he brought me Ryou.
"There's only one way you can fully break a man," he said, whispering into my ear with that terrifying fake, sweet voice of his; the soft tone in a sinful contrast with what he was doing. He stripped Ryou's lithe, undernourished body as it lay almost limply in his strong arms, his brain obviously under the influence of the syrupy haze of some drug, his eyes empty and the pupils unnaturally large, unaware of the ugly truth of his situation.
Though that state of drowsiness was soon disturbed as Marik nailed his small feet to the floor. He was screaming and shrieking hoarsely as rusty iron nails were pounded into his fair flesh, and into the floor that flooded with his blood. Then Marik roughly bent over the shocked body and ruthlessly slammed two more nails through the back of the albino boy's hands, who was now screaming so hard that I had the urge to cover my ears.
I was completely paralysed with fear, guilt and pain as I saw my dear friend in such a hysteric state, tears staining my face as I was unable to look away from the appalling scene in front of me, though I felt like my guts were corroding inside of me.
Marik turned to me with a look on his face that was so twisted that I instinctively took a step backwards.
With those words he handed me the razor and stepped back, shooting me a baleful look that warned me of what would happen in case I had the nerve to disobey him. He had broken me long ago. He owned me even before he divided his mind from mine and made me his completely by taking my body like he'd taken my soul.
Marik watched me with great interest while I did my job. As I worked, I had a thick dread in my gut that kept whispering to me that once I was done with Ryou, he would start on me. And he didn't need a razor to tear into me. His teeth and cock were more than enough.
A shudder wracked my body at the memory, and the door behind me opened. Marik entered and I nodded at him. It sounds so simple—that casual greeting—but in effort it was like trying to push a piano up a flight of stairs. You've never seen Marik: dirty blonde manes hanging everywhere around his face like a wild mess, his fair skin in that beautiful bronze colour, deep violet eyes so intense that it drains all the strength out of my body. His eyes, if he ever chooses to stare, are the doors to Heaven. Or the opposite. It depends on his mood. That basically means that they're usually the very gateways to Hell. Certainly you would never expect to find an angel this beautiful wielding a pitchfork so skilfully.
His beauty is so overwhelming that shudders rock my body whenever I lay my eyes on him. Every time for me is like the first, at the time when I could finally look at the embodiment of my torture instead of just visualising him. I've come to realise that the only way out of this trap of his perfection is to gouge my own eyes out, but there is more than one entrance to the senses, and Marik knows every single one of them. P
He noted the admiration immediately and I averted my gaze to the filthy ground before that damn temptation raised its horny little head. I'm such an idiot. I hate him with every fibre of my being, yet his beauty tampers with my weak mind. What was I but his prisoner?
Prisoner, toy, occasional whore. All those things, too. Ha, did I just compare him to an angel? He's a fallen one. I guess, in my pitiful state of drooling over the man I hate with an intensity that would put the fiery pits of Hell to shame, I forgot to mention that. He's got no morals to speak of, and his idea of ethics isn't what you call standard either. Compassion is a concept he's never heard of, and if he has, he probably spits on such a hapless mortal idea of caring for others. There is no room for mercy when he twists my arm behind my back to shove my face in the sheets on those rare nights when I sayno and really mean it.
My pain just turns him on even further, turning him into an even more brutal abuser than he already is as he listens to me scream and squirm, and beg. I must admit that I enjoy that a little. I've never been chaste to begin with. The difference between a slut and me is nil.
I can make that statement so easy now; unlike in the past, I'm very capable of saying such things without the slightest trace of doubt. You see, when you're imprisoned, you have way too much time to think about yourself. Too much time to compare the choices, and wonder if you made the right decisions in life. Sadly enough, I find myself answering 'no' quite a lot more times than 'yes'.
I know it's useless. What's been done has been done. But at least it's a way of entertaining yourself when you're alone for almost twenty-four hours a day. It's good to tell yourself that you've been one nasty son of a bitch, and that you basically sucked and most likely will always suck at life. It keeps you going. At least that's what I like to believe in.
I wish I could've been harsher on myself in the past. Then I would've never even created my darkness. Self-pity will lead to your own destruction. You have to be strong if you want to get out of the dump you got yourself in. Maybe yami was the one who made me this strong in the first place. But no matter how strongly I deny it, I'm the same person I used to be. I was filled with hatred long before Marik came into my life.
I wanted to slaughter my father. Marik just had to do it for me because I was being a coward. If you can't do it yourself, just create yourself some bizarre type of schizophrenia and have your insanity get the job done, so that your pure soul will stay intact and your conscience unstained. Pah, my soul is about as pure as the water I wash myself with and my conscience has got more stains on it than these damn walls have.
I finally snapped out of my thoughts, crossing the room and sitting on the bed that wasn't as uncomfortable as I often complained it was, quickly wrapping the filthy sheets around my bare waist as Marik placed the tray on the little table beside me.
I avoided my fingers from meeting his as he handed me a glass. I hate his touch, especially the sensation it causes. Those digits will one day rob me from the last bit of the sanity that I still possess. They can melt my bones, liquefy muscle into a molten mass, flare my skin to little fragments and send my brain into an ecstatic overdrive; the pleasure so intense that it feels like my spine is tearing out when I come.
But the first time it happened, it wasn't by choice. It was rape, and I hated him for it... still, when he took me, I begged for him not to stop. That's what it means to have your soul possessed by him; I'll sell it to not have it end, I'll kill or tie myself to the altar of his desire just to keep those hands on me, to savour the sensation of iniquitous ecstasy.
Addicts will do a lot for a pipe.
After that he discovered my affection for Ryou, and went to him, waiting for him in the shadows with a rope and a plastic bag. I thought I could do anything without flinching, since I thought I had been hollow after what he'd done to me. He showed me different.
When that long night was finally over, I vomited for hours, and I began to hate. From the beginning there was darkness within humans. We pass it down like genes. That's why I know I've always carried the hatred in my heart; my old man was a bloody sadist. Funny, how my father indirectly caused his own death. Such emotions are like killing seeds—once they begin to flourish, they're unstoppable. From that moment, I began to despise my yami with a bitter and intense dehumanised hatred.
Marik had come to me and stood gloating over me with a look of pure triumph painted on his face. "Now, have you finally taken his body?"
"'I've enjoyed his body before," I spat bitterly, heaving up again as soon as the words had passed through my lips.
"You never did." I knew I had struck a nerve. If it hadn't been for my head hanging in the bucket, Marik would've seen the smile on my face.
After that he didn't show up for a week and left me to hate him in solitude, knowing that it would be more burdensome to me than to him. He made me to what I am. He gave me power to my own existence, lifted me up from moral weakness when I was no more then a pathetic mess. The path he dragged me along was littered with broken glass, but I loved him for it. He was my hero and object of contempt at the same time. I took drastic turns loving him and hating him over all those years. It's hard when you're stuck between fire and ice.
I took a sip of the juice and grimaced at the taste, deciding it was too sweet for my liking and placed the glass back onto the table.
"Drink, it may be your supply for days," Marik said in a mocking manner.
He was in the best of moods, that meant he probably found something for me to kill of mutilate in whatever sick way he had in mind. The floor would be another layer thicker before the dusk arrived.
When I gathered the courage, I dared to steal a look at him. He smiled. I was terrified with that smile, but he pretended not to notice.
"I'm not hungry," I mumbled, licking my lips as I found they were feeling numb.
"But I am."
"For what?" This time I could barely muster the courage to look him in the eye, swallowing hard as I met his amethyst gaze.
He put his hands on my shoulders and drew me to my feet, the sheet slipping to the floor as he drew me against the wall. His hands rested on either side of my head, holding me captive like a small prey, smiling all the while.
"I want to see terror and pleasure in your eyes," he said, his seductive voice as smooth as velvet and his hot breath dancing on my exposed neck as he slowly closed the space in between us. "I want to put sharp metal in my mouth, taste the iron sensation of your blood as I kiss you. I want to speak words of horror that will silk into your ears. I want to wrap myself around your brain like a parasite, sink into your lungs like fog from a graveyard." His hand dug into my crotch, erupting a small whimper from me as I pressed my back further against the wall. "I want you to be ready for me. For me, Malik." He grinned lustfully. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Even now. I sometimes wonder if I'm the one who shaped your person. You were this way before you called on me."
I had to swallow the painful lump that threatened to suffocate me. I managed to do so just barely. This was his final stab at me, the denial of his part in my making. I moaned again, but instead of pressing my body against his like he'd expected, I twisted and reached for the dull little knife that lay on the breakfast tray, wrapping my shaking fingers around it as they felt the metal, stabbing the rounded point deep into his flesh, the utensil sinking inside the side of his neck, barely missing the trachea.
Blatant astonishment shimmered in his eyes as I let go of the knife. I watched his mouth twisting soundlessly as he instinctively reached to pull the blade out. He stumbled against the wall as I shoved his body off of mine, blood spurting from beneath his hand and onto the floor. I had been right—another layer of crimson before dusk.
"Don't look so surprised, Marik ," I spoke frightfully calm. My lips were dry again. "You knew I'd do it one day."
He only smiled as his body leaned heavily against the brick wall, white teeth flecked with crimson froth. "You know... you can't." He uttered with an unpleasant gargling sound through the blood that had filled his mouth.
I knew he was right. He was a spirit. A mere fragment of my twisted imagination poured into a gorgeous form of perfection. I couldn't kill him in such a simple mortal way; the gaping wound was already closing and the blood was clotting, covering up the exposed layers of ripped flesh. I shrugged and stared at the knife he'd tossed to the floor, finding the wet gleaming of red and silver for some reason strangely fascinating. I picked up the knife, examining it intently.
"We'll see about that. Sooner or later, Marik, sooner or later."
For the first time I saw fear in him. Not for himself, but for me. I realised I was dead set on trying again and again until I was freed by either his death or my own. He could already envision the day when he would be forced to kill me to continue his existence. His grip on me had slipped loose. The animal had come untamed.
I knew I had already said too much. "Then go and be damned to Hell!" he growled, and struggled to rise from the blood-spattered floor.
The door was left gaping open when he walked out.
Shock held me nailed on the spot for a few minutes. Victory. Of all the horrible things I'd expected, I'd gotten victory, which had not been on that list.
I walked out of the door, knowing that Marik had no plans to stop me now. I suddenly started to laugh, laugh like I hadn't done in years, highly amused with the fact that my maniacal yami was letting me go because he loved me too much. My laughter faded and I smiled, knowing that I would find a way. I'd finish him off just to see if I really could.
Naked, I paced through the corridors of the residence I had been held captive at, my mind wild with excitement at the thought of being fee at last. I froze.
Free? Or just an escape? How far would I have to go to escape from eight years of Marik? The earth wasn't even that wide! How can a man run from his own mind? No, if I was going to do something, I was going to do it now .
I found him in the small living room, lying sprawled in a large chair. "You're still here," he said, without any wonderment.
"I said you could go, what the Hell do you want more from me?"
Now Marik smiled, he knew what I meant. "Impossible."
"There's only one way you can fully break a man." I stepped closer as I echoed his often-repeated phrase, playing with the butter knife that I still held tightly clutched in the palm of my hand. "But how does a slave break the master?"
"You can not," he spoke in a bored manner. "But you can try to kill him. You are most welcome to do so."
No need to invite me twice. The knife had pierced his skin in a blink of an eye and I slid into his belly like I was cutting through air. Marik took a sharp intake of breath and then screamed out, his hand clutching around the wide hole in his abdomen. But he did not stop me. I laughed a little, enjoying seeing him so vulnerable for the very first time in my life. I squatted between his legs suggestively, smirking as I spread his knees apart, hammering the already drenched blade into his gut.
Spatters of his blood stuck to my cheek, seeming to burn as they came in contact with my flesh. I dragged him out of the chair, his head colliding with the floor with a hard thump. Marik's eyes were glazed over with lustful appreciation as he watched me, his violet gaze boring into my eyes. That made me hesitate.
"Where will you go, Malik? What do you think you'll find out in the world alone?" His arm slid gently up my forearm, stroking my flesh that was still submerged in his blood.
"You belong to me Malik Ishtar, you always have. You can't get back the freedom you never had."
He refused to let go of me as I tried to pull away, urging me even closer. His blood soaked my thighs and lap in a thick layer, glistening oily.
"Neither of us deserves their own freedom; we're bound together, we belong together." His tone was seducing me, the soothing sound of his unusual soft voice edged with suffering.
"We deserve each other."
My face was so close to his that he must have felt my breath stroking his skin. Our lips suddenly met and I shared his taste in a bloody kiss. Yes, I deserved this. We pulled at each other like gravity, grasping and tearing as he forced my body under his awaiting touch, two sinners bound together as one big sin that was so wrong, yet so perfect. We truly deserved each other.