Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Transient ❯ Transient ( Chapter 1 )

I hate this. I hate it, and yet…I love it at the same time. I hate knowing how wrong it is, being here like this, and yet I love the way he makes me feel as though none of that matters. Cecelia does not exist here, in this place, this time, with him. Nothing exists, only him. The sound of his breathing, his heart beating like thunder against my chest, our bodies pressed together, skin sliding over skin, wet with sweat.

I love how vulnerable it makes me feel, being completely at his mercy. My soul laid bare like this; I can hide nothing from him. He knows everything, every detail about me. Has wrung everything from me, every shameful secret, every sordid detail and memory. I know next to nothing about him. That is just the way it is. The way it should be.

I love the way he kisses me: forceful, brutal, and desperate. Like I'm all he has and all he needs to survive. Like kissing me will give him breath, keep him alive. He invades me, first with his tongue in his fiery, blurred kisses, and after that in any way he possibly can - not only physically put penetrating my mind as well; his cruel and beautiful face haunts even my dreams. I love the way he's rough with me, stripping my body and my soul, my dignity lying in the dust, my pride ripped from me just like the Eye that was torn from my head. I wear a patch now, to cover the scar; can still feel the pain, the thief's fingers clawing.

He makes me forget. It's what I need, to forget everything - all the pain, the grief, the loss. Her happy laughing voice, shining eyes the colour of the ocean that you see on photographs of tropical islands with virgin white beaches, hair like liquid sunlight, a soul so pure it would make angels weep. Forget that stumbled journey to a dank room under Egypt, and a beautiful boy with eyes like stone. Forget the pain, the tearing of tissue as my real eye was taken so carelessly, and the agony as the golden one was forced in. Forget the blood, the cold as I lay there on that stone floor weeping, my hands and face coated with red.

I love the way he pushes me down onto those now familiar sheets. His bed has become like a kind of twisted sanctuary to me; my sins are not forgiven, just accepted. Acknowledged. It's somehow comforting.

When I am with him I am lost, floating in a crimson euphoria, a world where only he and I exist. I love the way he runs his fingers through my hair; he seems fascinated by my hair sometimes. Love the way he kisses down my neck, trailing a line of kisses and bites all down my chest, skin shining with sweat and saliva. Sometimes his bites break the skin, and I watch, transfixed, as he carefully laps up every last drop of the blood. The way lays me down on my back, his hands on every part of me, no piece of skin left untouched by his skilled fingers and, following, his tongue as well. His skin is hot, his palms sweaty as he pushes my legs apart; I spread as wide as I can for him. Opening myself like this, it makes me realise just how helpless I am. Love the way he licks, kisses and suckles his way along the line of my hip and down, taking me fully into his mouth. I throw my head back and moan, knowing he loves that sound, loves the power he has over me.

His hands; quick, nimble fingers forcing their way inside, painful, my scream a breathy cry at the sudden pain he is inflicting on tender flesh; my breathing becomes ragged as he stretches me, four fingers inside now. It's almost too much to take, but still not quite enough.

It reminds me of the first time, the first time I let myself be taken by him. Back when I was still fooling myself that it was against my will. When I still had some faith left.

I am his victim. He is my saviour. He pulled me back from the edge, from the brink of the madness I had already begun to descend into, the grief and loneliness that had threatened to consume me completely. He has given me something real, and at the same time has made me realise that some things, however hollow you are left when they're gone, cannot be brought back.

"You just have to live with these things. People do," he had told me. It's easier when I forget.

I love how he pushes my legs back further; then moves his hands to grip my hips so hard he bruises the skin, his cock just nudging at sore, red skin. The way he suddenly forces his way inside, all the way. How he tears another scream from my throat, my voice an inhuman howl at this new pain, this intrusion. My eye screws shut, stinging red behind the lid, tears leaking from the corner, and I feel him begin to move. Instinctively I wrap my legs around his waist as if trying to pull him further in, for him to become a part of me entirely, and we move together.

When I'm here like this with him I feel as though the hollow space inside me, the black void she left me when she died, is somehow filled.

When I open my eye I see him. Love the expression on his face. His skin is flushed, hair plastered to his damp forehead, falling in front of his eyes.

I love how he manages to make me feel utterly defenceless; I am powerless here, with his hot, heavy body over me, his cock buried deep inside me. My own erection is crushed between us, the slippery sweat-coated surfaces of our stomachs causing delicious friction.

I am powerless, and yet, in a way, powerful. I can bring this expression to his face; can make his heart and his mind and his skin burn with this irrepressible desire. Can bring that look of hunger to those greedy blue eyes, eyes that would have been like hers if not for the cruelty and malice hidden within. Only me.

My hands clench the black satin sheets as his pace increases, fucking me into the bed, the exquisite pleasure building and tightening as I try to keep up. Eventually I surrender and simply allow myself to be taken, utterly, completely. I throw my head back as he drives me to climax, his name a barely coherent scream on my lips.

Kaiba. I have not yet been able to bring myself to call him by his first name. Very few people do. His brother is the only person I have ever heard call him that; I don't deserve that honour. It wouldn't seem right.

Love the way his pace becomes even faster, more desperate as he nears his own release, before he too is lost in blissful oblivion. That I have brought that look of pure ecstasy to his face as he groans my name, eyes fluttering shut; knowing that he is spilling his seed deep within me, that something of him will stay in me, at least for a while.

Then, and this is what I always love most about being with him, he will kiss me, deeply, slowly, almost lazily. Kiss me like this is something more than just sex - merely a release for him, and a form of escape for me. Like it means something. Like I mean something.

But then it's over, and he is getting dressed around me, or in the next room and the sound of falling water reaches my ears.

It is then that I lie there, on that bed with those black sheets, my hair tangled, my own seed spilled across my stomach, a throbbing pain where he fucked me so hard that I bled. I lie there and remember, and I hate myself.