Summary: Desire for something that has been in front of him his entire life finally becomes clear, but fighting with his conscience makes it even harder to forget... Limey one-shot. Read onward and guess the pairing. ^-^
Warnings: dark themes, strange musings, semi-explicit sex between two males, and lots of other stuff.
Author's Note: *nervously glances around* Someone's actually going to read this? WOW! *dances* ^_^ It makes me happy. Anyway, this fic is dedicated with a lot of love to my beta reader and one of my best friends, Pat San, because it's her birthday (though I'm posting it early, heh)! HURRAY! Everyone wish her a very happy birthday and enjoy this fic. She likes this pairing A LOT, I think :/ And, since there aren't many fics based around this pairing, I figured I'd add one to it. *prays that it isn't lame and that she doesn't get flamed for it* Any comments would be kindly appreciated! So, R&R!
Pat-chan, this is for you! Happy Birthday!!! *glomp*
Authoress's Warning: READ SLOWLY OR YOU WILL GET LOST (and there is no search party)!!
FEAR OF INFINITY
Once, you were an angel, but now you hide your face.
You live in a twisted world guised by delicate silks, wispy feathers, and invisible, yet shimmering, rays of the moon. Beneath the skin, you are an open sign of the world's sin. Life hurts, you know this well because you have sullied yours with lies, the lies you've woven as you keep striving forward with that ever-persistent smile. They burn your actions, rape your thoughts, and destroy your soul, grinding it into nothing. You are the dream-reaper, and it twists inside you like a knife, your guilt, adding misery to that hidden vault of perversity you deny.
Your exploits are disgusting.
Juvenile.
You sit behind that flawless wooden desk, flaunting illusionary power to frighten those you hate, and for you, hate is an equal inducer of pleasure, warping your mind. It feeds the flames of jealousy that have been lit in the pits of your own personal purgatory, and you can't escape it.
It's so easy to fall from grace, once you've sampled the forbidden fruits of hell.
You would already know about that, wouldn't you?
You are the epitome of defiance; your consuming will does not compromise with your own earth-bound rules.
Simple existence never was your goal, either; you've always had too many of them.
But, what was it that drove you?
What forced you to pretend and manipulate those around you?
What fueled your hunger for innocent lemon eyes and pretty blonde hair when you already belonged to another?
It wasn't kindness.
You were never that, though everyone thought so.
You would merely smile with pristine teeth flashing in contrast to the dark, abusive ideas touching your mind and urging you on. They would sway imaginary hips, tempt and blind you to reality, and they finally became your delusion, the sick fantasies of a lonely, unhappy man.
You love those quiet times.
The everlasting silence fills your heart with an ache, and it's a heart buried beneath so many pretenses that you have forgotten it had ever continued living within you. Those ghostly fingertips are seductive as lust, and they caress you, daring you to do wanton, unspeakable things, daring you to molest trusting fools who ignorantly pursue your impish and undeniably palpable objectives.
But you can't.
Your first transgression has become your last, and you want to be free of the burden weighing as heavily on your shoulders as it does your heart. You are lost to your make-believe world, its creation only for your escape into a paradise that will never exist, and although you are aware of the consequences, of the ugly, false promises that constantly eat you alive, you indulge in that self-induced phantom, a prisoner to the forbidden want consuming your mind.
It's what you want, though.
Isn't it?
You want to bask in the warmth of lewd thoughts, to bathe your unchaste wisdom with smutty exploits, and you know that no one can stop you.
You are a master of manipulation, and you are impervious to anyone's pain but your own. To do your bidding is to worship God, and like God, you smite the wicked and never reward the good. In fact, you think you are God. The omnipotent being residing within you sneers at simplicity, wary of it like a fatal disease threatening to consume you, but you persist with undying stamina, ready to defend the only thing you've ever desired, your only innovation among the imperfections of the world: blonde hair the color of flawless wheat to caress your face even as you sigh enough to stir those silken locks across his childish forehead; skin textured to the consistency of cream and softer than the smoothest gossamer to rub against yours in an eternally gentle caress; eyes carved the bottomless hue of seasoned lemon believing in you to keep him safe as they stare through the empty blue of your hollowed soul.
You should be put to death for your obscene obsessions, but you are too regal on your golden throne, beneath your jeweled crown, to submit to the darkness of damnation. You are the prince of passion's parole, and yet, you refuse to release your charge to the hand of cruelty despite your own hatred for them.
They are yours, forever and always, whether they know it or not.
Your twisted mind watches the lives of the mortals below with monotony, bored with their ever-pestilent arguments, but it is your smitten heart that keeps you anchored to the ground for eternity, wandering and restless in your castle.
The guillotine of guilt ascends upon your slender neck once your true ambitions are uncovered, but you are too sly to fall for such an amateur trick. You slip away unscathed from its jagged edges with the smile of a master who has played this repetitive game longer than time itself. You continue on, resistant to everything except the beauty of your unreasonable dreams.
Nightmares haunted you once.
From the deepest reaches of hell they would arise, grabbing your thoughts and probing your brain to clarify your membership as being what you claimed to be. You would scream out, terrified like the child you always were, but they would ignore your cries for mercy, shaping you into a vessel of restricted ideas and forbidden cravings of youth. It was the black fingers of chaotic thoughts that strapped your unwilling body to the barrier of restraint, happy to defile you, and when your harmonic voice had finally become raw from shouting in pain, in pleasure derived from your own demented sickness, you collapsed into the limbo of an indifferent reality, forever changed into something no one would recognize as what you had been.
You have become what you were always meant to be, though you deny it every waking moment.
Your skill at concealing what you feel is amazing, it proves you are what you say, and though it is never spoken, people fear you.
They hate you.
They despise the aura you pretend to hide, the talent of an artist you shrug off as nothing.
If they could, they would tear you apart, eat you alive, and leave you to rot in your predestined grave.
Your blood washes the stone alter like a waterfall, vacant of warmth, black and heavy. It is no longer red, the sign of a beating heart and a living, honorable body. Your life fluid is as ebony as sin, darker than the heavens on a gray-clouded night deprived of its lustrous, smiling moon, and it stains your fingers as you play with it, allowing the slick wetness to coat your cheeks, your neck, your bared chest in hopes to savor it. Your tongue laps at its bitterness, its deformed oddity, and the shimmering gleam of your sparkling teeth shine as brightly as your soul-less eyes in the void.
Frightening.
The flames of hell would be a safer haven than the embrace of your arms, but no one is brave enough to leave your protectively fanned wings, to whisper 'no' when they completely deny your advances.
He did, though.
The one with a voice like sweetly brushed chimes in a summer's night.
He broke your shield, shattering it into microscopic splinters that pierced your unsheltered mind deep enough to awaken the slumbering evil that always consumed you, and though he ran, disappearing into a colorless background with nothing but his life and his song, you ravaged his gullibility, stealing from him what had been stolen from the love of your punctured heart. His screams filled your mind with insight, giving you the idea to become a hunter of those far weaker than you, but the remainder of your sanity denied it, wanting to escape the barred cage crushing your spirit.
It didn't relent, and you pursued that evil ambition, determined to taste flesh beneath your mouth, raw and brutalized.
The petals of your silky soul have wilted in the dust of your travesty, dead and weightless in the abysmal pool of atonement, but you survive the chaotic world ribboned with sorrow. You are the mysterious vapor of the chilling, primordial night, and like the ghosts that glide from inert images of lifeless statues, you slip unnoticed into the dreams of your heart, gold and lime and buttermilk translucently shadowed in a mingle of breathtaking color. Your feminine fingers fondle his cheek, caress the downy softness of his pale eyelashes as he sleeps before you, and you stare at him with wonder and awe, unable to deny his beauty.
That had drawn you to him, first; your mouth ached with a fake smile when he grinned or blushed or refused to obey the orders of his superiors.
His naivety was pretty.
His innocence captivated you next, a silent reminder of what you had lost, what had been stolen from you.
His frailty and strength bound you faithfully to his child's demeanor. You could not let go. If anything, you held on tighter, followed wherever he led you. There was no cry of protest. You are happy to feel wanted in a delusion created by your own insanity.
Those eyes you love to probe, the ones you would graciously save in a little glass jar, slowly peel open, drawn to your gaze out of simple necessity as he grins slowly…maliciously.
He's been waiting for you.
You are entranced, too speechless to move as he rises from the liquid pool of shimmering sheets that slide gracefully over his already naked torso and runs effeminately masculine hands through his hair. Locks of gold intertwined with platinum streaks slip to one side of his angelic face, testing your endurance. He tempts you with every fatal glance, boils your blood with the fires of lust, and though you have resisted every time, taking the memory with you into that pivotal corner of ejaculatory ideas belonging only to yourself, you cannot compel yourself to do so now.
With a tilt of his blonde head, he's reaching out to you: a silent beckoning. You watch your own fingers extend out in acceptance, in surrender.
You are a slave to his bidding.
You see, he is a master, too. The very gods themselves obey his commands. His authority rules over them. His words deviate magic from within their callous but touching depths, striking fear and turmoil and love and life into the hearts of the rich, the poor, the lonely, the well-known, and he reigns supremely over them with no resistance. The atmosphere quakes above him, bowing down to worship his feet with its altering moods of hot and cold, and while you have your hand wrapped tightly around your own leash to rein in your manipulative nature, he has yours in his, tugging and choking with demands as quietly as the imaginary snow falls. His net is tangled tightly around your feet in a sticky grasp, lucid strands pouring from your mouth and ears and tongue to deceive your own beliefs with lies.
He is the weaver of your dreams, the world of your self-indulgence, and you deny him nothing despite his crushing of your stability, soundless in your agony.
He brings you the end of your salvation, only to hold it above your head and destroy it with his hands. He likes doing this to you, bringing you to your knees, where you belong, and the sickening, most disturbing part of it all is…
You like it, too.
Those tempting fingers finally touch your cheek as you fall into that bed. You cannot tell if this is real or a figment of your demented mind.
You don't care either way. You want to feel him all around you, on you, in you, even if he doesn't exist.
The cunning words he whispers spin a web of false securities around your intoxicated body. That self-invented man-boy takes you in his embrace. What an exquisite, hungry mouth, so desperate to find you in the dark. His kiss is sweet, just as you thought it would be, but there's also a dirty taint that enthralls your evil side and smothers your once-sensible morality. His tongue is a slick serpent prying between your lips, hot and daring as it plunges further in, and his hair blinds you to open eyes, making your lids slide shut; it hides the guilt drowning your senses. He's the bitter carnage you have wept for, an infinite nightmare refusing to vanish with the coming of the dawn, and he tastes delicious, too godly to be of heaven.
Your moan echoes against the emptiness sprawled around you, and you find yourself kissing back with fervor, too lost to care anymore.
This is the bittersweet symphony of your final wish, and you have to indulge before you remember that what you have always desired isn't yours to conquer.
Still, who is really doing the conquering?
Not you.
He has complete control as he lowers you down to your impending sin's cushion. You sink into it and tremble as he ascends upon your body, molding you into a pile of ready, naked flesh. You don't know where your clothes have gone, and it doesn't matter; you would have willingly stripped, with your own hands, to be with him. His face is impossibly close. His burning breath is on your throat, is on your jaw, now against your ear.
"Let me fuck you."
They are the only words said, the only words needed to make this erotic apparition real. You are before your savior, wings shackled to prevent fleeing from judgment, his touch. His scorching mouth is devouring you with another soul-robbing kiss.
Your frame is so slender, compared to his, and he can feel its weakness while you shiver. You would be the envy of every woman if a different chromosome had slithered inside your pre-born body. Instead, you have that accursed male affliction which makes what you are now. It gave unto you life, though it is a life ravaged by the immoral urges and unthinkable thoughts befitting a man of your stature. You've become the infecting sin as your hips gyrate against a weight that makes you into the compliant flesh of an overused prostitute.
You want to be used and dominated like a fallen soldier in battle who is trampled by the victor. You concede completely, without another hesitation, silently screaming to be abused and beaten for the bad thing you are.
His talented hands stroke your narrow hips while he assaults your lips with his bright teeth. His tongue dives deep and then shallow, a mix of intervals that leave you gasping for air, for more, and he immediately becomes your knight-in-shining-armor, the deliverer from physical famine, as those articulate digits encircle your dripping, straining arousal. You have forgotten that he knows the rules to this game. He has written more, more than even you knew existed. Now, it's your turn to make the next move, to capture the queen and checkmate the king, but he has you surrounded on all sides, fenced in by a barrier of flesh and bone, which cause you to jerk into the increasing pressure that blissfully tortures you. The hot friction is a force that pulls you closer yet drives you apart with each frenzied thrust you try to make despite the hand pressing you down, making you cry in frustration because you are devoid of the satisfying sensation of being filled as you explode into a cataclysm of orgasmic stars.
This isn't a romance novel anymore. It never was. He knows, too well, the penalty of this charade.
He wants to hurl himself deeply into you, so deeply that you become each other.
And…that's what he does.
His hand falls away from your weeping erection, and he rips your thighs apart. You are deprived of that saccharine climax you have wanted since the very beginning, and he's hoisted your hips up. You curve your back and flex strained muscles. Your objection, a sob, falls onto deaf ears. Blood pounds in your veins, the adrenalin caused by a surge of fear, as pain flares through to your brain. You can feel something cold and frigid defiling you, slender, yet stretching and tearing you, a mockery of preparation. Another cold penetrator is added. And another. Each hurts a thousand times more than the one before. It is then that you realize they are his fingers.
How kind of him.
He continues, wriggling deeper and further, like he's searching for that special something inside you've wanted him to touch, as if it could erase this forgery of love and trust and veiled yearnings, but he stops, viciously withdrawing, though you know you can take him beyond that. So, you daringly open your eyes and stare, in a mesmerized trance, at his bizarrely shadowed face. He's rubbing the tips together as he watches his hand, almost contemplating, and then he leers, light cascading around him, igniting golden flames in his hair as he shoves them into his mouth and sucks. You watch in silent horror, hypnotized by his tongue's movement as he laps and the slide of his Adam's apple as he swallows. It's an erotic dance of power that he flaunts before you like illicit candy. His gaze sears into yours as he wets them with spit, and there is a knowing look in the bottom of those demonic, yellow spears.
He wants to give you a taste.
You can't refuse him.
Your mouth is falling open as he squeezes your pelvis, creating the perfect orifice for his fingers when you let out a distressed cry. Why he is doing this? He presses past your lips and forces you to swallow them. You gag on the heavy flavor on your tongue. A laugh resonates, and tears burn your eyes even though you promised yourself that you would never cry because of him, that he couldn't bring you emotional pain as long as you remained stronger.
But you have failed.
There are salty tears on your cheeks. They bring another heart-breaking sneer from his twisted lips, and he prolongs the embarrassment of raping your mouth with his fingers. Still, this isn't the only horror he has in mind. His other hand is skimming over his cock, pressing that rock-hard thickness against your opening, and he doesn't slow as he tilts his hips forward and invades you without tenderness. His fingers choke off a scream.
You are torn, like the devotion you once held for him. Its essence evaporates into nothing, like you, and you believe all the violence and malice are deserved, that you are unworthy of anyone's love, much less *his*, this child of your coveted humanity.
You weep abrasively for it to end, hating the pounding twinge flooding your body as he thrusts into you with relentlessness, his cock brutally unforgiving as it rapes the channel of your virginal body, and the groans he submits do not excite you or please you or satisfy you.
A gluttonous, lusty animal has obliterated and replaced that untainted boy captured in your heart and memory.
Your faith is forever gone.
He is on the edge, now, and those fingers are still, all senses lost to anything but fulfilling his primitive drive for release. Your desire is dead, no longer sexual, but you close your eyes and cry out with him, anyway. Warmth gushes through you, fills you with sin, and he continues to thrust, to prolong the aftershocks of an air-depriving orgasm. When your chest cannot move, you realize that it is you who cannot breathe. Blackness is seeping into your consciousness, muddying the color of an already vanishing mirage, and your demons mock you as you slip into oblivion.
You fall back into reality, the dream a nightmare from your own buried secrets.
* * *
Chilling wetness rolled noiselessly down his pale cheeks, coating his skin with salty saturation as he returned from an imaginary place filled with immoral thoughts. He blinked, golden eyes adjusting to the dim study, and his laptop sat innocently on his desk, alive with too many truths to ever face. His hand was still inside his pants, clenched around his wilted cock and humiliation burned his cheeks. Lithe fingers withdrew from his mouth, more proof that his fidelity was adultery.
He had masturbated to his own writing, the cool stickiness of semen gluing flesh to flesh.
The musing of another he should never have though about had turned him on. It was admiration that bound him, but perhaps apprehension that forced him to keep his distance. People would laugh at the fact he was afraid, but he was only human, after all, and humans feared more than anything else.
The world around him had become this way, though: a vision of dead desire. Now, he can only weep for the one thing he has denied himself and thrown away.
Tohma…
Eiri deleted the words of his confession from the computer, as well as his memory, with the painful push of a button.
He was as lost and alone as he had always been.
I love you…
~Owari~
A/N: HURRAY! It's done! Is anyone shocked? O.O Are you drooling? Are you wanting to know what the hell is wrong with me? Do you feel sad? Angry? Depressed? Unfulfilled? Amused? Weirded out? REALLY confused?? Eh, okay, I think you get my point. If you at least liked it a little bit, please leave me something in the form of a review! I'd like to know what you thought! ^_^
Oh, and kudos of thanks to Liz for beta-ing for me! She completely toned down my freaky, whacked-out imagery that everyone says I'm famous for. LMAO. So, if anyone's interested in reading the first version, without *any* of her AWESOME revisions, then email me! I will send it to you, courtesy of us both ^_~ Actually, if you have any questions at all, please email me! I'd be happy to fill in, though if you are confused, I suppose I did a bad job writing, ne? -_-
Advertisement: (yes, I'm shameless) Please check out my other fic, The Opposite of Gravity. I think it's even more twisted than this, though not as explicitly. O.o ^_______^ Well, I think so anyway. I'm so insecure, LOL.
Please review, and Dai will love you!