I don't know why he allows this. I shouldn't care of course, because he means nothing to me. He should mean nothing to me. He's just a pawn in my game; the most important pawn I admit, but a pawn nonetheless. I tilt my head and watch him from a small distance. I'm already done, so why should I bother paying attention to him? Yet it fascinates me, he fascinates me, it's intriguing and I can't get it out of my head.
He's on the bed, on his stomach, legs spread. His eyes are closed; I'm not sure if he's still reveling in the aftereffects of our... physical activities or if he's silently recovering from the pain. I'm not a very tender lover. I hate the word 'lover'. It implies the emotion of love, and I certainly don't feel any love towards the Pharaoh. I hate him, but not his body.
I'm not touching him at the moment. He shivers briefly as slender, tan fingers caress his legs, drawing out the touch until it drives him insane. I settle on the bed, content to watch, and to catch my breath. I like the intensity of sex. It's mind-blowing how intense and how wonderful it can be and what it does to your body; the race towards the climax and the release, deriving pleasure so great that you lose control. That moment of total surrender, those seconds of total euphoria - it's amazing what your body is capable of, and how good it feels.
I don't care that he's my enemy. I don't care what I call him, or what I should call him. He means nothing to me but pleasure, and he yet has to provide my greatest pleasure: when he's trapped in my ultimate dark RPG and I can watch him running around, not knowing what to do, totally lost. He's not aware of my plans and right now he's not aware of much else but the hands on his body.
Malik no yami no jinkaku simply joined us one day, he never asked or was invited. I have never touched him, he disgusts me; but I like to watch what he does to the Pharaoh. He likes to be second, the thought of the Pharaoh being 'used', turning him on. Dark Malik is far from gentle; he's violent and vicious and crude. The screams roll over me, slide past me, and I watch intently, not missing a second or a heated heartbeat.
There's always one inevitable moment. He'll turn his head and smile at me as he reaches for my hand. I accept his offer and hold his hand while Dark Malik continues to ravage him; it's amazing how his smaller body can take the abuse and how he seems to enjoy it. Why else would he be smiling at me?
I've always been told that the Pharaoh was a son of the Gods, powerful, wise and strong, but I don't think it's true. I'll acknowledge his skill as a duelist, but I don't see much greatness or power in him when he begs for more, writhing and squirming, taking what he can get from me or Dark Malik. Begging is a sign of weakness, not of strength. It doesn't matter much, though; he can beg anytime, for his release, for his life to end, and I'll gladly give it to him. I continue to watch, not specifically for physical pleasure, but for... entertainment purposes. To see someone reduced to a sobbing mess when the pain gets too much, yet doesn't tell the other to stop because the pleasure is too great. To see someone I hate get beaten and abused and still allowing it, taking it in stride, perhaps. It's his choice, no one has forced or manipulated him into doing this.
It's over. Dark Malik's done, and he passionately kisses the Pharaoh, which means he bites down his neck like a mother cat would drag her young. I hear the skin break, I see the blood well up and trickling down, creating a small stain on the bed sheets. It's exciting and disturbing at the same time. The Pharaoh heaves a long, drawn-out sigh. I'm still holding his hand, and his grip relaxes. Now comes the next part, which he enjoys far more, or so I think. I look into his eyes while Dark Malik moves away from him and leaves the bed. I'm not really sure what I'm seeing; there's no disdain, arrogance or loathing, nor is there any love, attention or care. I don't get it.
Dark Malik returns with a bowl of lukewarm water and a towel. He takes great pleasure in cleaning the Pharaoh up, dabbing with the plush cotton all over him, wiping away all the bodily fluids. I have to say, he's very careful when he does this; with the inevitable tongue out of his mouth, not because he's ecstatic, but because he's paying the utmost attention to 'his' Pharaoh. I don't understand him at all, let alone the whole Ishtar tribe, but he told me once he wanted to keep the Pharaoh in 'good condition' so he could use him again and again. I don't think it works that way. I don't think the Pharaoh works that way, but it's not like I can... just ask him. We don't have that kind of relationship. I hear him softly moan as Dark Malik rubs over a tender spot, yet his facial expression is one of delight. Isn't this attention much better than all the pain and the violence? I'm frustrated, as I want to understand... but something deep inside me tells me I won't get an answer. This is Darkness, and we're all Dark. Why should I even try to understand the Shadows? This man ruined my life, as I'm trying to ruin his. In the moment that Dark Malik has left again to get rid of the dirty water, I say the words I'd never thought would leave my lips.
"I'm sorry."
"I am not," he answers me.
He looks human. He bleeds. He coughs. He smiles. A son of the Gods, used and wiped clean, as if nothing has happened. I wonder why I can't let go. Where's his strength? His dignity? His standing? Did he drown it out in all his screaming and yelling? He offers me nothing but entertainment, he's mine to do as he pleases. A powerful Pharaoh, and I can reduce him to a begging heap just by looking at him. But like I said before, the Pharaoh doesn't work that way.
Dark Malik is the first to go. One day, I don't sense his presence in the Shadows anymore, and I can't find him. By then, I haven't seen the Pharaoh for a while either; he's not waiting for me, he's no longer available. It adds to my frustration, yet I realize it was inevitable; sooner or later, everything would've fallen apart anyway. I want him in my arms, I want his body, needy and hungry, I want to push his legs apart and take him, tug at his golden bangs and fuck him so hard that his cries etch themselves in my mind so that I can replay them over and over again.
It never happens. I'm reminded of my own thoughts about him when the Sun of God Dragon appears, its eyes as red as its wielder. 'Powerful' and 'strong' don't even come close to this kind of overkill as the God transform itself into a liquid golden Phoenix, rising from the ashes. Those fucking annoying Gods, and through the eyes of Zorc I can see his smile. Atemu's smile, the very same smile he'd show me after I was done, only this time his eyes don't smile along. Not long ago, I didn't know what I was seeing in those eyes. Now I know. Now I know why he's not sorry. Why should he? He holds the upper hand, he holds the ultimate trump card. His name. Atemu. He's going to burn me to death, tearing me apart and inside out until there's nothing left of me. I'm sorry, but mostly for myself. If I had seen it sooner, I would've been able to adjust my plans and not overlook what he was doing. He probably had a good laugh at my sort-of apology. His strength wasn't in his body, which he was willing to sacrifice to achieve his goal. His strength was in his mind, and he abused my one and only weakness: himself. With a bitter, awkward grimace I accept my defeat and my fate. I'm sorry for what I've lost. It's a small consolation that there'll always be darkness. And I am the darkness.