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Anathema	By : Edmondia Category: Yu-Gi-Oh > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2438 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh!, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Anathema
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Anathema
by Edmondia Dantes
Disclaimer: Dun own them. Lemme 'lone.
AN: Puzzleshipping with run-on sentences from hell.
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Pit. Pat. Footsteps over stone, and he's here again, again, as he has been and he will be.
He knows it's wrong. He's always known it's wrong.
Maybe he's just gone mad?
When he falls asleep and wakes up somewhere different, all cozy and warm in his bed, surrounded by toys and dreams and such, scattered here and there and everywhere.
When his heart leaps into his throat because he's there again.
When he jumps out of his bed and scrambles into their hallway, and the huge door sweeps open and then warm ruby eyes glow in the darkness and slim hands reach for him and sweep him inside.
Inside is stone and shadow and the smell of spice, black fire glowing in braziers, incense burning lazily in golden dishes. He sprawls out on a pile of cushions next to a warm body and speaks of his day, of his dreams, of everything that he'll never admit in daylight. He asks questions, too, but the beautiful boy by his side cannot recall the daylight. He whispers reassurances in the silence and when the mood is lighter, he questions him with an insatiable curiosity and a quicksilver mind.
He's always dazzled, and he thinks that the way the boy looks at him might mean that he's being dazzled too.
He knows it's wrong when the soft hands start to stroke through his hair, knows it's wrong when they start to stroke down his skin, knows it's wrong when he starts to whimper and beg for more, knows it's wrong when he reaches and and pulls him down and catches his velvet mouth with his own. It's wrong when he moans and pushes, it's wrong when soft hands fist in his hair and that warm body grinds into him, it's wrong when he bucks and mewls and it's wrong when their kisses grow wet and rough and starving.
It's awful when they tug at each other, awful when soft skin is exposed to chill air, awful when sharp white teeth slide down his shoulder, awful when he can't keep his mouth away from golden flesh, awful when his mouth and thick sweetness surround him, awful when they're tangled together and crying from the heat and desire, awful when his legs slip around a trim waist and the beautiful boy slides deep inside his body and whimpers his name and soft words in a language old and lost that he can't understand but he knows so very well...
It's awful when he's arching and twisting and pleading beneath him, awful when the boy's eyes are on him and rapturous and starving, awful when he's sobbing with pleasure and kissing his sweet sweet mouth, awful when he's shuddering and crying for release, and most terrible of all when he's shrieking in the darkness and the boy pressed so desperately deeply inside him cries out and they collapse together in a tangled heap of arms and legs and breathless kisses.
When the air is heavy and wet and thick with the scent of their joining and he feels better than he ever has, he knows it's wrong. It's wrong to lay in his arms and kiss his thick black lashes and his soft bruised mouth, it's wrong to pet his sweat-soaked hair and curl against his slender body, it's wrong to need him like this.
It's wrong to cherish the choked "Stay with me," that always tumbles past those perfect lips.
It's wronger still to whisper it in return.
But he does it again and again, knows he'll do it over and over and over because he loves him, he loves him so much, the beautiful boy with the hungry eyes and hungry hands and missing memory. He loves him when he pets his hair and he loves him when he rests his chin on his fingers and smiles so sweet and slow like honey, he loves him in the midst of salt-stained kisses, he loves him when he frowns and taps a card against his lips, he loves him when he lies on the floor, mysteries pooled around him, there for the solving, he loves him when the silence is thick and cool and deep and his face is buried in thick dark hair, he loves him when he's tight-lipped and tense, he loves him when he sobs against his skin, he loves him when he's raging with fury and he loves him when he's broken someone for his sake, when his ruby eyes are bright and wild and darkness is swirling and churning around him, when passion and need and hunger and possession spark heat and want and desperation, and even though a soul's been shattered for eternity he still loves him too much to ever stop, even though he knows the hands sliding down his skin and through his hair so frantically have spun shadow magic blacker than a thousand midnights, and he knows he's chuckled when he's done it, but when his voice is soft and husky and pleading none of that matters, nothing matters because he is all tangled up in him and he feels so good when they make love, he does, and it's wonderful and sinful and completely insane.
He's frantic with the heat of him and everything is slick rough sweetness and salt is lingering under his tongue and sweat is clinging to his body and that soft soft voice is rough and pleading as the boy buries himself inside his body again and again and again, and every time he whimpers and coos and opens his legs and there's so much heat and fierce crying and it's so wet and he slams him down and pushes and pushes and pushes and takes and takes and takes hard hard hard harder and he feels so good when he does that, he does, when he's hurting and aching and they're both screaming and he bites his soft wet mouth and scrapes his fingernails into his smooth dark skin, and the boy tangled so deep inside him makes the prettiest sounds when he flips them over and pins back his hands and then he's arching up and not down and it feels so good to have that sweet warmth trapped beneath him, deep inside him, fierce and crying and oh so deliciously good and then he's writhing and pushing and it's driving him insane, it is, and soft sleek hands are petting him and stroking him and he's so close to perfection, he's so close that he's buckled over his body and rough lips are hot and sweet on his own and they're both whimpering and clutching so hard, so close, and he's pleading in those strange words he doesn't understand, and thick ebony ruby gold is sliding through his hands and it feels so good, so good, so good! And then he's screaming and crying and clinging to him and trembling and he's dying he's dying he's dead because he feels sososososososogood!
Heat and thick sweetness and ecstasy and kisses slow and deep like wine as they mewl and pant and cry and fumble and pet. Slow sated fire gleaming in blood-rubies and it's so so wrong...
He knows he's in love with him.
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"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession..."
"Go on, child."
"I... I've been having... strange thoughts..."
Long lashes fluttered shut, sealing away the world, and the Puzzle beneath his fingertips was shimmering like a silent promise or an invitation to despair.
He clenched his hands a bit harder, heedless of the sharp bite of the Puzzle's edges as they sliced into his flesh and sent warm crimson spilling down gleaming gold.
"I've been dreaming of evil things..."
Blood slid down the sides, caught in hairline crevices, and gathered, trembling, at the tip, then fell, sparkling rubies splattering on steel-tipped boots.
Pit. Pat.
...but I'm not sorry.
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Fin.

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AN: Comments?
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Anathema