Name: Roseclaw

Title: The Things I Do

Email: roseclaw@yahoo.com

Site: www.roseclaw.com

Category: Dark/Depressing, Taboo/Abuse, Gross/Graphic, Angst (enough, ne?)

Sub-category: Anime

Part: 1/1

Fandom: Yami no Matsuei

Arc or Series: n/a

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Sorry, but that would spoil it. *teary shojo eyes*

Warnings: POV (does that count?) Yaoi lemon, Rape... I don't think it *really* counts as necrophilia, but...Summary:

All rights and privileges to Yami no Mastuei are copyrighted trademarks and property of Matsushita Youko and all peoples associated. The characters of these fictions are used WITHOUT permission for the entertainment purposes only. This work of fiction is not meant for sale or profit. As if anyone would actually pay money for this thoughtless drivel. And even if they like it, it's right here and money is not required. So there! Bottom line: I don't own them I just like to play God with them. Like an ant walking back and forth across my feet for what seems like miles upon miles. Or a bug with a magnifying glass as it slowly burns into nothingness. *Ahem* Yes, I don't own them. Never have. Never will. *Sigh*

Spoilers: A bit with Muraki and dolls...and Watari's

experiments... *snigger*

Summary: Anything for friendship

Pre-Hisoka

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The Things I Do

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I'm here again. I still don't fully - or even remotely - understand why I always end up here. That's a lie. I *do* understand, but I can't - won't accept it. No one cares for me here or even appreciates me here; I have nothing here, no business, nothing . . . but I still end up here nevertheless.

I guess that is all because of friendship.

I guess a lot, don't I? But it kept me alive . . . so I'm not complaining . . . too much. However, when it did kill me, I didn't care much afterwards and I certainly don't now, but for that split second I hated myself.

I snort. Here I am outside musing about how I am dead and how I have kept myself alive. Am I the only one that sees the irony?

Oh well, no one has ever agreed with my sense of humor, if it could be considered that. Well, one person does, and that *is* why I'm here, to keep him from harm.

He should be waiting for me and it's best not to keep him waiting long. I've learned that from experience.

As always he is sitting on his balcony waiting. It's nearly dusk and the twilight paints his sliver hair a pale orange.

I frown. Just what I need. Will someone please revoke my poetic license?

"You're late," he tells me without turning around.

Oh just great, he knows that I'm standing here ogling him, but then he always knows.

I frown again. And when I know that he knows I just stand here gawking, one would think that I would have learned by now. Guess not.

Here I am guessing again, why can't I just answer?

"Mission." Go me; I got a word out.

"I know. I arranged it. Shall we go then?" He always asks the same question each night and the answer is still the same.

"Yes."

He leads me inside with a firm hand around my waist. He is so much taller than me that his arm barely has to bend to reach around me. His hand falls neatly between my ribcage and hipbone. How thoughtful.

I'm not going to say that his hand fits like it was meant to be there; that's only for romantic preteen girls. Not to mention that the space between those two bones is one-size-fits-all. Just like another spot, but that's later.

Like always, he leads me to the small kitchenette and offers me coffee, tea, or wine and like always I decline. There is no need to fill my bladder or get drunk. A full bladder would be rather . . . uncomfortable for what we will soon be doing and I am already insane for being here in the first place. Plus, the killings from tonight's mission are still singing in my bones. (Shinigami feel death.) I need this now.

"I thought not," he chuckles. He is the only one I know that can be amused and still sound evil. "You always want to get right to the fun."

Then why do you always ask? I wanted to ask, but then he would answer and we would get into a conversation and delay the 'fun'. I just want this over with so I settle for, "Just who is it fun for?"

He raises an eyebrow at me.

Damn, that was the wrong question to ask to the sadist that one 'willingly' goes to. Man, I'm fucked up. Willingly, my ass. Unfortunately that's true . . .

"Do you wish to have fun?"

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Have I mentioned shit?

His mouth is on mine. Hot. Carnal is the only word for it.

I think for one moment - the wrong one - and he attacks me. But that is what always happens when I come here. Why do I put myself through this? I believe I've already answered that: Friendship.

His mouth always descends that way; it always grinds into mine. He roughly grabs onto my waist and it's all I can do just to kiss back.

I want this. I want this.

Yeah, no matter how many times I tell myself that I still can't bring myself to believe it. And I just return his brutal kiss.

Should I say it again? I'm fucked up.

I giggle into his kiss before he drives his tongue in.

He pulls away and just kinda stares at me.

Hey, I couldn't help it; my thoughts are too funny. "What?" I ask instead.

"I'm glad that I'm not Hisoka," he shakes his head before attacking my mouth again. Tongue first this time.

Who is Hisoka?

Right now though I have to answer a more pressing question. Should I battle with his tongue or not?

Battling would mean challenging and challenging him is just as smart as keeping him waiting. Not battling, however, would mean that I have given up all fight.

He removes his mouth from mine before I could decide. That's one less decision to make. I have always been indecisive, except when it counts, that is.

Usually after he removes his mouth he goes straight for my belt, but this time he goes for my jacket. I did not remove it when I entered, but I think that he is going to deal with that problem for me. Not that it is really a problem, but . . . intimacy has never been his strong point. Nor mine.

He peels off my jacket and it does not want to come off smoothly, but eventually he jerks it all the way off. That is the only way to describe his movements: jerky.

His hands crawl up underneath my shirt. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that he was trying to tease me. But it doesn't fit him, ever. Period, done deal.

His calloused fingers brush lightly against my nipples and then after I moan, he does it again. Damn, he is teasing me. Not good, not good, not fucking good!

I can't do anything about it, though; I have given myself to him. I can't back out of this. Not now, not ever.

Fucked, fucked, fucked, in the most literal sense.

He brushes over my nipples a few more times, and then pinches them simultaneously and really damn hard.

I yelp; I can't help it.

He closes his mouth over mine again. Goddamn it, my big mouth got me into trouble again and this time there is no way out. Trapped.

I'm almost hyperventilating into his mouth, but I am dignified enough to at least control my own breathing. With him sex is always like a mission: painful and always better when it's over.

Fucked.

Maybe if I fucking think that word more, he'll fucking go away. Wishful thinking on my part. If my friends heard my thoughts I'm sure that they would die again from shock. Am I panicking? God, that can only lead to bad things . . . like death. I'm not too worried about death now, being dead and all, but I am worried about what he is going to do.

Calming. Calming. Not calm yet.

Oh, gods help me; he's devouring me, biting on my neck and sucking . . . and gods . . . Why had I not noticed the change before? Damn, panic equals bad. And the worst part is that I love it, the thrill of him hurting me. When did I turn into a masochist? I'd love to know that.

I hate that, but there is nothing to do about it. And even if I tried, it would not end well for me or the others. That I'm sure of, no guessing required.

God help me, he is moving his mouth, tongue and teeth all over my face, ears and neck. I hate myself. I really do. It seems that the only things I do are guess, panic, and hate. Oh, add exploding my lab to that. I hate myself because I'm hard, I can feel my body pulsing. I can tell and so can he. Have I mentioned that I hate myself because of that? And he hasn't done anything yet.

Yet.

Now that word just plain scares me. It scares me more than he does because of the uncertainty.

His hands are everywhere! He only has two, right? Only two. Then why does it feel like he has twenty?!

He knows what he's done and flaunts it by continuing.

There is something completely unfair about that fact. Oh well, life's not fair, wear a helmet. Oh, wait, doesn't that saying go 'get used to it'? Eh, my version is more accurate for my lifestyle. Namely, my lab exploding . . .

He continues to ravish me. Ravish? Where did that word come from? What he's doing is nothing close to ravishing; it's more like devouring.

Yum, yum! God, I'm - no, I won't mention it again.

Twisted is different and not as crude. Yeah, I'm twisted.

He drags his fingers, running them down my sides from my neck to my thighs.

How can he - ? I lower my head and see my clothes scattered all over the floor of his kitchenette.

How did he manage to remove all my clothing without me knowing? I mean, I'm standing up still.

I ask him and he leers at me.

We have never done this before without clothing. Ever. As strange as that sounds.

He is going to make me enjoy this, shit.

Well, fine, two can play at this game.

I look up into his eyes, the real one and the fake one.

"No," he says sternly enough to keep me from grabbing him. Good, because I really didn't *want* to touch him.

He pulls my hands behind my back while nibbling on my neck. I can feel my knees slowly giving out on me.

I don't understand this! Give me cruelty! I'm not good with intimacy. Gee, I've heard that somewhere before . . . but no matter how clichéd, it's still true.

"Stop."

It takes me forever to realize that I had said that and I still don't know why.

He does stop; I'll give him credit for that.

"Are you not having fun?"

"No."

"Why ever not?" He fists my hair, making me look into his eyes.

"You're smart, doctor, figure it out." I am angry now and he can tell, but I can't bring myself to care. I wonder if my friends even think that it's possible for me to become angry. Why the hell not?

He drops all pretenses and throws me to the floor. My glasses fall off my face and clatter against the linoleum.

I want this . . . Kami-sama, he is going to be normal - sadistic and brutal.

As soon as I gain enough composure to turn myself over, he straddles my waist.

"If you are not going to have fun, then I will have enough fun for the both of us." He makes it sound like an order.

He blinks at me, wiping my bangs out of my eyes so that I can see his eyes clearly. I glance away, not wanting to see that fake eye again. At least I can't see it clearly. Sometimes glasses are a handy invention.

"Just mouth." Now that was a routine order, one that I was used to. God.

He got off me to let me obey. I shudder, but inwardly so that he can't tell.

I crawl toward him, burying my face in his crotch. I grip the button of his dress pants in my teeth and tug it free quickly. Practice.

He moans. Good God.

Just as quickly, I tug the zipper down. He groans again and pops his straining erection free.

I hate myself for doing this.

"Continue." I wish that he would stop ordering me around. Besides, I know what he will ask for. He's too predictable, except for earlier.

I keep my face buried and do my best to jerk him off without having to touch him. Impossible.

I bend my head down and lick the drop of precum from the slit in his cock.

I don't think that there is anything in the world that tastes nastier than cum, except maybe asparagus.

I use my teeth, partly because he likes it when I hurt him that way, but mostly because I don't want to taste him.

I bite up and down, sinking my teeth into the main vein and gnawing the underside.

He's enjoying it, moaning and groaning. His breath becomes heavier and his grip on my hair makes itself known. And the worst part is that *I'm* hard, that *I'm* enjoying this.

The harder he pulls my hair, the closer he is to spilling in my mouth.

I nip particularly hard on the main vein and he ejaculates down my throat.

I cough most of it up, but some of it went down and I am still able to taste it. He had expected me to swallow and now I must pay for it.

"Clean it up." Stop ordering me around!

I glare up at him in a moment of foolishness and anger.

"Now." His voice is terse and I am about to be punished. "Now, or shall I get one of your friends to?"

No, don't! I'll do it, just leave them be. I don't want then to endure this!

I lick his flaccid cock clean, ultimately arousing him again. And arousing me further. If I hate this so, why does my body love it?

I guess I'll add that to my very-long-and-still-growing list of things that I will never know.

When his body is no longer covered in semen, he tells me to stop. I happily obey *that* order, yet fear what is to come.

He pushes me down onto my back then flips me onto my stomach.

I land with an arm underneath me and it's painful. I should loose some weight. I'm sure Tsuzuki wouldn't mind eating my dessert.

I stumble up on all fours without him telling me to. That should make up for my glare earlier. My arm, however, is not ready to carry my weight and folds under me, landing me face first on the linoleum. I get up again and this time it holds.

"A bit eager?" I don't respond. He is laughing at me. Ha, ha. Maybe I'll face dive again and bloody my nose for your entertainment . . . Just don't touch anyone else.

He grabs a fistful of my hair again and yanks my head back. I swallow my yelp. He won't get a sound out of me now. Not until I leave and then he won't hear it.

He grabs my waist and shoves himself up my ass. He doesn't even bother with his pants; I would have been able to hear the fabric move. It hurts. A lot. Like he shoved a red-hot poker in instead of himself. No, that's not the right metaphor; there aren't any that describe this much pain. He doesn't prepare me, or use any lubricant to make it easier for me.

Again, I swallow my voice, this time a scream. I bite the inside of my cheek to make sure that I focus that pain elsewhere. It will also prevent me from letting an unknown scream escape.

He doesn't let me adjust to his intrusion. At least I've done this so many times he fits inside me; he doesn't split anymore. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

He seems uncomfortable with my position and removes himself from my body. He flips me onto my back, brings one of my legs over his shoulder, and reenters. This time the entry smoother, lubricated with my blood.

He is content with his current position. I am not. Now I have to look into his face, his fake eye. And even worse, he can see my face, emotions and all.

This is the part where I try forcing my mind blank. That is as impossible as jerking him off without touching him.

Focus on something besides the pain, besides the blood, besides the degrading of my body, besides the violation that I allow him to commit.

Being in pain is much like dying, there is only one main focus allowed in the mind, the most painful, physically and mentally. He seems cocky to have discovered a way to do both at the same time.

He pounds into my bleeding body, over and over again. I can taste the blood flowing into my mouth from my efforts not to scream. I can't scream; I won't scream. I won't give him the pleasure.

If I were a female, at least it wouldn't hurt as much. I hope.

My back arches off of the floor and a new pain blossoms in my lower back and neck. This new pain is very much welcomed. It gives me a new focus to think about in place of the burning, the pain and the fact that it will all be over soon.

He is pounding; I can't even tell if he is pulling in and out of me. No, I won't think about him and what he is doing.

It's hard not to think about him. He is almost ready to come. I can feel him approaching the edge. I can't explain the feeling, but he is close to the brink.

Too many times . . .

I, on the other hand, am nowhere near release. I am still hard, though, but not needy.

He speeds up his pace, walking the edge and hurting me more. He then shudders and breathes out, "Tsuzuki!"

I can feel a new warmth inside me. It's almost over.

He collapses on top of me and removes himself from my body, where it didn't belong in the first place. His breath is still heavy.

I turn my face away and look into the glass eyes of a china doll. She had seen the whole ordeal and still watches my blood spew from my body and spread across the floor with pink-tinged semen creating patterns as it travels. How sick.

He crawls off of my body and walks out of the room. That is my cue to leave. I waste no time pulling on my shed clothing and pick up my glasses. One lens has a spider web crack. I'll have to get that fixed. I slip them on anyway.

That doll is still unsettling. I walk over to her and put my hand over her eyes pushing them closed. I want no one to know, including this doll.

With that taken care of, I leave the cursed house to return to Juuouchou.

003 greets me, fluttering around my head, distressed over my absence. She then settles down on my shoulder, clacking her beak at me, obviously angry.

"Gomen ne," I whisper into her down. "Gomen nasi, Zero-san. Gomen nasi, Tsuzuki-kun. Gomen nasi, Tatsumi-kun."

"Why are you sorry, Watari?"

I almost jump at the unexpected voice and suddenly wish I were invisible.

"Watari-kun, where have you been? Zero-san has been delirious with worry! And so have I! . . . Are you ok? You're bleeding . . . " It must have soaked through my clothing . . . Blood and other things less mentionable.

"Tsuzuki . . . " I can't think of anything else to say. I find myself choking down tears. "Tsuzuki, please leave me."

He nods in understanding. If only you really did understand, Tsuzuki, if only.

He stops in the doorway with a sad, distressed expression. "Watari, at least please answer one question . . . where have you been?"

I expect him to say more, if he says more, I would have more time to not answer, but what more is there to say.

"Keeping you and Tatsumi safe," I whisper around my unshed tears. I hope he doesn't hear me . . . or my tears.

"Can I at least help you with your wounds?" There is pity in his voice. I don't want pity; I do this for a reason.

"Please, Tsuzuki, please go." My voice doesn't sound attached to my body. Maybe it isn't.

He bows out of my room without saying anything more.

Go back to Tatsumi, Tsuzuki, because I don't know how much longer I can pass for you.

I shed my blood-soaked clothing into the trash - I will never be able to get the bloodstains out. Look at me, lying again; I just want to be rid of those. I remove my glasses, placing them on my nightstand. I say goodnight to 003, crawl into bed, and let my tears fall. My hard on went away on my way home. One less thing to worry about; I don't think that I would be able to be rid of it on my own without thinking of him.

There will be questions in the morning and I'll deal with them then. Maybe I'll answer them, maybe not. Probably the latter.

Tomorrow I'll also have to clean my sheets or throw them away. Blood is the hardest stain to remove. At least the bleeding has slowed.

The things I do for you two.

~Owari~

Sorry to those who are unfamiliar with this fandom, I tried. *sniffle*