Fickle (fickle_goddess) wrote in sweet_n_tart,
Fickle
fickle_goddess
sweet_n_tart

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Dangershipping ficlets written for our lovely mod, nekocutecatchan



Existence.


A giggle floated lazily into the office, followed moments later by a smirking Yami no Malik and a mocking call of, “Why Se-to, working again? What a shame. I’d almost think you didn’t miss me.” The dark spirit was the only one who drawled Seto’s name in that particular manner, elongating the syllables to make it sound like a snake’s hiss followed by an axe chop.

“You’re not real.” Seto informed Yami no Malik, without looking up from his laptop. A moment later, the screen was pressed down with a deceptive gentleness, the cinnamon-golden fingers of the other boy wrapping over Seto’s slender, paler hands. The same infuriatingly relaxed laughter sounded again as Yami no Malik started to thoughtlessly bend Seto’s fingers backwards, now seated on his lap. “Silly Se-to. That is what you always say.”

“It’s just as true as the first time that I said it.” Seto coldly replied, not wincing at the feeling of his fingers being pushed to the breaking point. He refused to look at the Egyptian, instead staring at the dark wooden door from which his tormentor had entered. For that, he heard a finger snap, the sharp crack sounding even over the other’s laughter. “But Se-to, if I don’t exist, then how did that finger break?”

Changing tactics as that question was unanswerable, Seto instead reasoned flatly, “You are nothing but a part of Malik Ishtar’s mind. You cannot have a body of your own separate from him meaning you cannot be here. Hence, you do not exist.” For an answer, he received a taunting giggle and dark indigo eyes peered up at him teasingly, half-hidden by lowered eyelids. Tanned fingers deftly undoing buttons, Yami no Malik asked casually, “Does that mean I’m not undressing you?”

A silence, and the sound of heavy cloth hitting the ground with a muffled thud, the metal jingle of belts clashing against each other following. Then a stubborn, single-word reply. “Yes.”

“And that you’re not scared?” Fingers ghosting over the expanse of skin revealed, pressing against the hollow of Seto’s throat and feeling his heartbeat quicken in a way that would never be shown in his words. A curt answer, anger barely-repressed, “I don’t fear what doesn’t exist.”

Laughter sounded yet again, the golden false god sliding off the other’s lap to kneel between his legs and smirk up at him. The words that dripped off his teeth were poison-sweet, the quick flash of teeth ghostly white, seeming to almost glisten under the bright light of the office. “If I don’t exist, then obviously you won’t feel it when I do this…” A hand settled on each thigh, the gold of the bracers cold against Seto’s skin, and the psychopath bent his head after flashing the taller boy another eerie smirk.

Once more, silence fell, cold blue eyes staring steadily at the wooden door, lips pressed together in a thin line to stop any sound escaping them. Any sound at all. This wasn’t happening. There was nothing for him to feel. There was no reason for to react, because there was nothing happening for him to react to.

…and the sudden, shocked gasp that left his lips was due to him seeing a scratch on the door. Nothing to do with a clever tongue curling itself in such a manner that it tangled Seto’s very thoughts.

Again, laughter rang through the room, contaminating the very air as Yami no Malik rose to his feet, now looming over the other boy as he licked his lips, pink tongue seeming to taste the air in a snake-like manner. Wild spikes of dark golden hair covered his eyes, only the perfect cruelty of his smile showing as he guided Seto from the chair to lie over the desk instead, brown head bent to stare at the carpet. Passive. Submissive. All those things that Seto wasn’t. Which made sense. This wasn't happening, so this wasn’t Seto. Or so he told himself, with every shudder that ran through his body.

This wasn’t happening, so this wasn’t him.

Afterwards, instead of laughing, Yami no Malik half-purred as he held the other boy close to him, cradling his pretty doll within gold-laden arms. Trailing his fingers languidly over the cooling skin, he licked at the shell of the other’s ear before he spoke, “Se-to, do you still maintain that I don’t exist?”

Voice empty of all emotion, Seto answered mechanically, “You do not exist. Magic does not exist. Fairy-tales do not come true.”

Laughter. Harsh and wild and free from all constraints of sanity. All traces of playfulness disappeared from Yami no Malik’s eyes, the purple of them starting to burn like the ashes of a phoenix pyre as he tightened his grip on Seto, and cooed as a reply, “Fairy-tales don’t come true. But nightmares do.”

A hard kiss pressed upon bruised skin, “Nightmares live.”

A broken finger twisted sadistically, “Nightmares kill.”

A sudden, harsh bite at a soft shoulder, “Nightmares hate.”

A shockingly-soft whisper, cruel in its deception, “Nightmares love.”

A final, low, victorious laugh.“Nightmares exist. And I am your nightmare.”

~Fin~


The theme that I had been trying for was love btw, in case anyone is interested in how off-base I managed to get, and I wrote it over the course of three hours or so, since I kept getting distracting which might account for the different styles used. All critiques will be gladly accepted.


Infection


The shadows come calling, but he doesn't answer.

They curl around him, dark wisps of purple-blue smoke, and it feels as if they first dry his skin then seep through his cracks. His veins darken, the green-tinge changing to a violet taint, and Seto watches dispassionately as the color creeps through his body. Towards his lungs. His heart. When he breathes, the air around him clouds with each cold exhalation. Artic ice cannot even begin to compare the cold that slinks into his heart, carried on threads of indigo. Artic ice is paler than his eyes.

Ice is fragile and easy to break, yet people still make homes from it. People still make shells and defenses from it. This is not ice. This is different. It twists and writhes, shaping itself into what you fear most (what you hate most) and Seto knows that ice doesn't burn. It numbs. The shadow-infection of his body burns, slow and deep. Scarring him in a way that real ice never could.

He wonders if he cut his veins open at those moments, would he bleed blue-purple? An aristrocrat of the new kind. Money and no name, or worse yet, a name that is not truly his. A name he despises and takes a masochistic thrill in hearing. He wonders if he cut his veins open at those moments, would he find scars on them? He imagines that the veins would be ridged and rough to the touch, like cellophane laid over a not-quite-smooth rock. Or perhaps plastic wrap would be more accurate. He wonders most of all though, if bleeding the shadows from him would truly free him or whether next time, they wouldn't bother going through his body and just head straight for his heart inside. His mind. Seto does so hate not being in control of himself. Yami no Malik does so love the way that Seto hates it.

Sometimes, Seto traces over his own skin as the colors seep through him, dark lines of control against pale skin, and the smile on his lips is more bitter than any of the words that he ever speaks. That's usually when Yami no Malik kisses him, not to take the bitterness away, but to taste of it instead.

According to him, it tastes like the shadows.

Once, Seto asked if he even mattered to Yami no Malik or whether it was just the shadows that Yami no Malik loved. The chance to touch the shadows made flesh. Seto's flesh. If the answer had been no, it was the shadows Yami no Malik wanted (and that was the answer Seto had been expecting), then Seto would have demanded to know why Yami no Malik hadn't chosen someone else. Seto would have finally had something to fight with. Instead, the psychopath had laughed, and told Seto that it was the shadows that loved him and that Yami no Malik loved what the shadows loved. Seto had been silent after that, until Yami no Malik decided that it was time for him to start screaming.

Now, he doesn't bother with useless questions. He feels the darkness take him, knows he's being watched by indigo eyes of a hue to match the shadows that replace his blood, and speaks rarely, if at all, because he hates how his voice no longer sounds like his. There are many things that Seto hates. The touch of tanned fingers to his skin, the press of bloodied lips against his own, the laughter that sounds so similar to the soft hiss of the shadows. Like an endless supply of sand falling through a bottomless hourglass.

But Seto's only human. Only mortal. When the shadows leave him, he feels like he's less than before because even if he hates what they fill him with, at least he was not empty when they crawled through him. Yami no Malik purrs when he picks up on those thoughts and tells Seto that one day he'll beg to have the shadows inside him. Seto privately thinks that's as likely as him ever begging for the touch of the inhuman male that seems to take such a cruel delight in his company. Such a pity that the concept of 'privacy' is one that Yami no Malik takes a particular pride in destroying.

He doesn't destroy Seto though. Instead, he changes him. Azure eyes darken, corrupted into an indigo hue and the smirk on Seto's lips takes on a darker edge far beyond that of simple rivalry and hatred. No longer does Seto want to defeat Yugi. He wants to break him open, take his bones and carve into blades that he can slice the boy to shreds with, to pluck out his eyes and play marbles for the fate of worlds. Seto once craved victory, but now he craves destruction.

The shadows no longer come calling.

Seto calls them, and they listen.

~Fin~


Crossposted to my journal and ygo_yaoi.
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