A.N. A mindless little one-shot featuring Yami no Malik and Yami no Bakura. They are, in truth, my favorite pairing, but I suck so bad at writing them that fics starring them are few and far between and often are like this one. Short and...weird. I hope you enjoy and I hope you review. Feedback is always nice.
Also, I'd like to mention that this story is written for Jisou, because we never can seem to find enough Psychoshipping.
In the Absence of Elpis
Their's was a shared madness. Sometimes it was hard to tell, when they were laughing, whose voice rose to that splintering pitch, that shuddered and trembled on the still night air, and spiced the evening with the seasoning of an old insanity.
Sometimes it was hard, when the lights were dim and tan and pale skin looked the same, to tell whose hand was creeping up a naked thigh, whose legs tangled in the long ones of the pair atop them, whose arching back beneath rolling hips, whose canted neck, bitten and kissed. Whose sigh, whose moan, whose "pleasepleaseplease," falling from a sweet pretty mouth so tainted. Whose pleasure, whose pain.
Sometimes it was hard to tell who is the hunter and who the prey. Sometimes they both stalked dark halls and cocked heads to the air like dogs listening for the secret whistle, to hear the "Oh God, no, please, God, save me," whispered desperate and drenched in fear. And they laughed and told each other how beautiful true fear was, how alive another's pain made them feel.
They only play prey to one another because they are Gods and only a God can hunt a God. Maybe you can see the irony when it is the real victims, the sheep and the sacrifices, who beg God for mercy and they laugh and croon, promising, promising it will be alright, little lambs, alright, alright, your Gods are with you now, before driving the blade in deep.
Sometimes they are Gods and other times Kings. Occasionally they play the parts of Trickster and Thief and other times still they play Lovers and lay in beds of silk pillows and Egyptian cotton for hours, enjoying the softness beneath them and the hardness above and between and inside.
Often they are the Devil of Madness and the Ghost of Spite. But most of the time, when the laughter had died a bit, fading away and drifting up and over forgotten clouds, sometimes then you can feel the hopelessness of their madness, these dead angels who carry the memory of blood and bone, of loyalty and betrayal, vengeance and murder.
Of a child who lost his family.
Of another who never had one.
They are lost, but at least they are lost together.