I blame this on a dream. A dream that I can't exactly remember, but onethat I know had something to do with Dark and Krad. Well, that or the Twisted Inner Yaoi Fangirl wants it to involve Dark and Krad...
Warnings! Dark torture (what else?), major points to non-consensual secks, and major hate/self-hate issues, and, of course, Krad/Dark Limy-Lemony Goodness! And language. Almost forgot that one...
He hates him. He hates him with all his heart.
He hates the way those feral, cat-like eyes look at him, watching him as his body betrays him with moans and cries of forbidden ecstasy.
He hates the feel of the long golden hair wrapping around his trembling fingers, and how soft and silky it is as the blonde strands brush over his chest teasingly.
He hates the slim fingers that drive him over the edge, he hates the slender, muscled body that hovers over him even now, threatening to either kill him or fuck him to within an inch of his life.
"I hate you," he gasps out as that slender fingered hand circles him, squeezing until it hurts before stroking him, taunting him with the promise of release, or maybe the promise of pain. "I hate you so fucking much..."
The hated golden eyes are clear of emotion, watching his treacherous body writhe and squirm to try and get that sick pleasure back. "I know," he whispers, soft, unhurried breaths stirring sweat soaked violet hair, "You hate me, but you can't help but love the things I do to you, can you?"
The answer he receives is a cry of pain, caused by sharpened nails digging into his shoulder, cutting into the scar left by the Toki No Kusabi and making it bleed.
He hates himself, because he let this go on for so long.
He hates the fact that his body proves to be a traitor, that all he has to do is look at him with hooded, aggressive eyes to make him beg to be ravaged like a whore.
He hates how much he craves that cruel touch, the way a single brush of skin on skin can make him scream out in agony or rapture.
He hates the moans that escape him as his body is taken again and again, regardless of how much it hurts him, how much he will bleed afterwards.
But he couldn't help loving him as will.
He can't help but have a twisted love for the golden eyes, the lean body, the strands of sun colored hair.
He can't help but love the cold way he is used, over and over, without end as a plaything.
He knows about the supposed line between love and hate. He knows that there is no such thing, not for them, for the one using him is but the other half of his soul.
After all, how can one hate oneself without also loving oneself, no matter how twisted that love?
FIN