|Fandom: Yami no
Warnings: This one's not a humor fic, and not meant for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.
He's stopped screaming, finally, worn out with the effort. The moon overhead is ominously red, and mingled with the scent of falling cherry blossoms is the sharp tang of fresh blood.
Such a lovely boy, far too lovely for a quick death. Those marvelous green eyes are glazed over with pain, pleading and desperate, and I feel a stirring of something akin to love for him, love for his desperate efforts to cling to life, love for his lost potential, cut off before he had the chance to become the man he was destined to be, love for the way his smooth chest rises and falls with each hitching breath, love for the soft, hoarse little sobs and the smell of him and the taste of him.
I lift one of his limp hands, and lick a bead of blood from one slender, trembling fingertip. Lovely. The love is even stronger than the envy, now. Smiling, I raise the knife again, and he cries out as I carve into the flesh of his left arm, gouging the knife in deep and watching in fascination as the rich blood flows. He's still worrying about his arm when I dig into his side with the twinkling blade, then dart over to slice into the back of one leg. He's hyperventilating, and I can almost see the pain flowing and gathering through his whole body, too fast for him to process it or even catch his breath enough to try to scream again.
"Everything hurts, doesn't it, my lovely boy?" I purr, and cut several lines into his back, snick-snick-snick. The pattern is almost finished now; just a few more cuts will complete the design carved into his flesh, binding the curse to his dying body, and yet... it's not enough. Not yet.
I turn him over and trace the blade down over his flat belly, not cutting him, just enjoying the moment, savoring the power I have over him. The red moon is reflected in his eyes as he looks at me, and his expression is so vacant in its horror that he almost looks like a doll.
A broken, beautiful doll.
I smile, and pull his legs open, and the blood is flowing freshly from the wounds on his thighs as he starts to struggle again, straining to move limbs that have been damaged beyond moving. I lower my jeans and let him see what I have for him, and he's screaming again even before I drive into him dry. It's painful, at first, but then he starts to bleed and that eases the way for me. He's crying, screaming for mercy as I reach for my knife again.
His penis is limp, and his body is trying to curl in on itself to protect that vulnerable piece of flesh, untouched until now. One slice, and it's nothing but a lump of flesh, a severed doll part in my hand, and I squeeze it hard, feeling the blood run down my arm, blood spurting up hot and salty over my stomach, and the bucking and clenching of his body drives me over the edge and I spill into him, groaning in release.
I think about using it to gag him, but decide that it's better to hear his sweet voice fading into helpless whimpers. I fastidiously wipe myself off and put my clothing in order before I return to him. He's still screaming, his mouth wide open in terror and fury and loss, for all that very little sound is coming out. I smile to him again.
"That was the best ever," I tell him, and he's still screaming, shuddering, trying to roll away from me as I reach to turn him back over again. I don't have much time left, now; I have to complete the pattern before he finishes bleeding out. "I wonder if it will be that good after you're dead?"
He doesn't answer, and I don't really expect him to. I raise the knife one last time, and as I finally finish the design, the curse goes into effect and makes the pattern glow even through the trails of blood and gore, bright and deadly against the backdrop of his shocky, white skin, and I breathe free at last.
It's finally finished.
I lie down beside him, our faces inches apart, breaths mingling. "It's nothing personal," I say. "Not really, although your interference with Tsuzuki was part of why I chose you. But mostly... I had to have a warm body to take the curse for me."
"Hisoka..." he whimpers, and his eyes go dim, fading to a flat, glassy green just like a doll's eyes, and his breathing slows and then stops.
"Sayonara, Minase Hijiri," I say, and I stand up and dust myself off, and leave his body sprawled out under the cherry tree, just as was done to me three years ago. The relief is dizzying; I've been struggling so hard under the curse for so long, and now that I'm free, I'm giddy with freedom and I can't help but laugh in pure glee.
In my hand I still hold that bloody bit of flesh I took from him; it's the perfect size for gripping... the perfect size for a trophy. His ghost will probably come looking for it, but the prospect of facing him again only makes me laugh harder. I tuck it into my pocket and walk away.
"Sayonara," I say again, wondering if fucking him really will feel as good now that he's dead, and realizing as I think it that Muraki owns me more than ever, now that his curse has finally turned me into a reflection of himself. I wonder how long Hijiri will hold out.
"We'll meet again."