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4:

Something had broken inside me and changed me into someone I didn’t know.

I was scared of myself—actually scared of myself.

For the things I thought and the things I wanted. Things I couldn’t speak out loud.

It had been weeks since I’d last seen him. Since the incident in the hall.

I had so many questions about what he knew and yet I hadn’t been thinking about most of them.

I hadn’t thought of them because some other inexplicable urge had begun to manifest itself in me.

I said a habit took 21 days to form. And that habit was Bakura.

When something becomes commonplace you don’t think about its existence. Or when something seems terrible you assume that it really is.

Being near him was like it. Was that.

Like some kind of terrible addiction forced on you that you hate and crave. It tears you apart but its very existence is what keeps you held together.

When I would do things to myself, I did them in the dark. I was embarrassed by my actions, like having them in the light would make them real. And if it was done in darkness, I could convince myself that it didn’t really happen—didn’t really count.

My skin itched for him; it became painful—like some unknown thing was crawling under my skin, burrowing itself into me. I wanted to rip it off; I wanted to cut into myself like he did to alleviate the agony. I’d lie there with the knife gripped so hard in my hand my knuckles were white, tip pressed into the skin but not enough to break. And I could never go farther.

I’d stare at that damn ring, that damned ring and pray, pray that he would come out and do it for me. I was disgusted with myself. Disgusted that I could enjoy his afflictions to the point they had become like some kind of drug. Addicted, needy, insane without it.

I needed it. I needed him.

Putting the ring around my neck, I’d lay in bed and pleasure myself dry until I was red. I hurt myself in pathetic ways because I was never brave enough to do something really painful. The small inflictions were enough but I could feel that need for something real growing with each day. And I tried desperately to ignore it.

I was free. I should be happy. I should be getting a life again.

And instead I was laying in the dark, wiping my cum over the ring, and shoving bottles up me in some wretched way to replace the man I hated—like some fucked up ritual to raise the dead.

It was when I had begun to lose hope of ever seeing him again that he came. Fear washed over me when I heard him speak again and all the feelings I’d been having over the past few weeks began to seem regrettable. Was this what I had wanted? Real pain? Real hurt?

I was embarrassed by the actions I’d taken in lieu of him. If he had known, he would have laughed I’m sure.

He sat down next to me on the couch, said nothing as we both just watched the TV. But I was staring blankly at it like I had been for the past few hours. My heart racing, nerves on edge, and my body getting warmer as I thought about things he could do to me.

“What have you been doing?” I asked, almost inaudibly.

“I’ve been here just not with you.” He didn’t even look at me when I spoke, just staring at the TV. And I had no idea what his comment meant. Been here? When I was sleeping?

“What do you mean?” He never liked when I asked a lot of questions, I was afraid he’d shut me out soon.

“The ring isn’t the only vessel I can be in. Why do you think you black out sometimes?”

The realization of what had been happening hit me hard and I didn’t feel scared or sickened, I felt crushed. He didn’t need me.

He glanced at me, chuckling, “You thought I wouldn’t be finding out why he’s here?”

“I don’t even know who ‘he’ is.”

He scoffed, “Why do you even care?”

“I just…just…I don’t know.” I sighed, I couldn’t say that I’ve missed him. Even admitting that to myself was impossible. And I didn’t know where we were. He was worse than I thought. If it wasn’t enough he hurt my body, he took over it too. And I had no idea what happened when he did.

“Whatever.”

That itching sensation, need was starting to get at me while I sat there. Not even the abuse he’d just admitted seemed to quench or turn it off. If I asked…no, I couldn’t ask. How could I let him know that I had started to enjoy it?

But my body was aching, screaming for it. I wanted, needed to touch myself. For him to touch me. To cut me and release this aching pressure that had been filling and suffocating me for weeks now. I couldn’t even sit still, I was embarrassed. I was disgusting. I was hating myself. But it didn’t matter. The ache wasn’t going to go away.

If I couldn’t get the words out I would show him through enough actions to make him understand. I licked my lips nervously, my fingers were shaking as I placed them at the hem of my pants. His eyes weren’t on me yet as I unzipped my pants and began pulling them down. And then I could feel them—his eyes were on me now, watching me as I began gently tugging them down to pool around my ankles. I tried to keep from shaking, kept my eyes downcast as my fingers went my underwear.

“What are you doing?” His words cut the silence.

“I—“ I shook my head, I couldn’t say it. I can’t admit it to him or to myself aloud. Then it becomes too real. I placed my hands on my bare thighs, my underwear were pulled down now and I was already half hard. The silence was deafening and all he was doing was staring at me.

I shifted around nervously, pulling my shirt off. I felt completely vulnerable being naked with him just sitting there, watching me. But it was still easier than saying it aloud—what I needed.

He started to laugh. To laugh like this was some kind of joke. My face turned red, I kept my face hidden by my hair, he’d grown tired of me and now this was all just some kind of joke to him.

“What the hell, Ryou. You wanna be fucked now?”

“Pl-please.” I whispered, trying to hide the humiliation and shame I was feeling.

I gasped as his hand wrapped around my neck, his sneering face close to mine as he pushed me back into the couch.

“This is what you want now? To be hurt and fucked? Used?”

I tried turning my face from him. Yes was the answer. Yes I wanted to be hurt—yes I wanted to be fucked—I wanted him to need me like he had made me need him. I wanted him to feel like his skin was crawling when he was away too long. I wanted someone else to feel this addiction he’d given me.

But most of all, I just wanted him to satiate it.

He kept his face close to mine, letting his weight fall on me as one hand went down to undo his pants, the other still tightly wrapped around my neck. The back of his hand brushed my groin, making me moan pathetically. It felt like it had been so long since I’d been touched. He was amused by my neediness, doing it again to hear my reaction.

I squirmed beneath him, already too hard for comfort. He let his cock lay against mine, its heated flesh making mine throb more needily. His tiny movements made them rub in a delicious friction. He watched me closely for my reactions as he rubbed against me. Grunting and squeezing my neck harder when I would cry out. I took quick, shallow breaths, my breathing constricted to anything but.

“Do you want me to cut you?” He hissed against my ear, his lips sending shivers through my body as they brushed against my skin. I nodded weakly. His weight pressed down on me again as he dug in his pocket for his switchblade, wrapping his fingers firmly around it. This was what I had been waiting for. What I could never do myself. What I’d been craving.

He dug the tip into my side, watching me. And the feeling, the feeling I can’t describe. When pain and pleasure seem one and the same, when the eruption of blood feels like your cumming hard, the blade digging in feels like its releasing you from everything—giving you the things that had been denied for so long. Making you feel…alive. Making you cry out in pleasure. Making you wonder how something that had once frightened you could now liberate you.

His knife traced up to my chest, crisscrossing bloody patterns followed by his eager, salty tongue. The pressure was uneven around my throat as he lapped up the blood and grinded against me. Much more and I would come before he was inside of me.

He was still clothed, only his cock pushed out of his pants but the cool fabric soothed my hot flesh. And something about the urgency made me more in need.

“Stupid slut.” He grunted as he pushed into me. I screamed out, the dryness of my entrance mixed with the wetness of his cock, slathered with our precum from rubbing together. He was biting and licking on the cuts he’d created that had started to congeal, grunting as he fucked me. He never went slow. He started with a fast, sloppy pace and ended with it. Never caring for my satisfaction. His hand was squeezing my throat tighter, my face was turning red, my lungs feeling heavy; torn between the need for breath and the need for release. I didn’t know if I would pass out or cum first and he didn’t care as he blindly fucked me—only caring for his own release. His fingernails were digging into my throat, drawing blood as he sped up, my head crushed into the arm of the couch with each thrust. I clawed at his back, squirming as I tried to breathe. His stomach was rubbing against my cock, just enough for the build-up to continue.

I tried crying out but any noise was silenced by his hold around my throat. He let out a guttural moan as he threw himself into me, breathe raggedly falling against my ear as his fingers squeezed harder. My vision was starting to go, my stomach tightening, my mind going hazy, the build-up coming. And then. The indescribable feeling as his hand let go and I came over myself and him. Air flooding into my lungs as my whole body shook with pleasure. The explosion of my whole body as it is released from everything. I screamed out, unable to do less as I sucked the air in—beginning to feel his cum seep into me, mingled with the blood of the torn muscles I hadn’t even noticed. I couldn’t stop my moaning as he continued to thrust into me, riding out his orgasm.

“Shut up.” He hissed raggedly, pulling out of me.

I lied there breathlessly as he sat back up, tucking himself in.

When I’d caught my breath, I tried getting up with shaky arms, feeling the dull ache of my cuts as I stretched and pulled at them.

I looked over at him, he was staring mindlessly at the TV. What happened now? Now that I’d given myself over to the devil. What do I say to him? Liberator and captor.

I stood up to go clean the blood stains off myself, heal my skin so that it could be broken again.

“Ryou.” He called after me.

“You’ll help me kill him.”

I stopped, turning to him. “Okay.”

I still didn’t know who ‘he’ was. But it didn’t matter. I knew then. At that very moment that I could no longer live without Bakura. That I would walk down that road that he would lead us. The path that would ask to me to betray friendships, feign allegiance and hurt others so that Bakura could get what he desired.

As I walked away I knew I would do anything for this devil that had claimed me. I would be his.

I would give him my body. My life. My very existence.

AN: I can't promise any updates until next week. I'm working on my graphics community pretty hardcore right now. If anyone has or uses livejournal, watch us! Just search 'cheese_tart' we do anime and manga graphics. No YGO yet, but I'm working on it!

Review Replies

rukia: seriously, you are too nice to me! lol. a poem??? for me??? XD *kisses* well, i promise i'll finish this. and its going to be on getting darker :)

codythomas: lol how far are you in writing yours? i just really love writing bakura like this. he's just too ideal for sadism to pass up!

mystralwind: that would be nice to only take ones related. i'm okay on taking classes for other things if they are at a good introductory level but sometimes, they treat it like its your major and its WAY too hard. i took fitness walking last semester and the lecture half was SO hard. and it was FITNESS WALKING. lol. well ancient art history sounds like it would be interesting. (probably cause my major is ancient history) lol.

potionspet: lmao. totally.