Disclaimer: Zoicite is a boy but I'm using the American names. Little girls who think Malachite is a fluffy bunny, please do not read this fic. NON-CONSENTUAL YAOI ANGST ahead.
Mementos
"Rrrargh!!!!!!" The almost animalistic roar of rage was accompanied by a crash of shattering earthenware, the sound echoing a thousand times in the labyrinthine caverns of the negaverse. Malachite's gloved fist came down hard enough on the stone table to send flecks of geologic material sparkling into the air.
"Bad day? hunh. I TOLD you it wouldn't work. "
Malachite did not turn at the insufferably arrogant voice, but the snarl on his lips curved into a sneer.
"Get out Darien, before I fling your lungs one direction and your head the other."
"Tsk Tsk. PRINCE Darien to you, and don't you forget it. And kill me-" He held up a chastising finger as Malachite whirled, energy coalescing around one hand, "and Beryl will be MOST displeased with you." Darien smirked.
"Even more so than she already is, in fact." Darien frowned at the chaos left by Malachite's temper. "If that's possible. I'm endlessly surprised that you aren't sharing an ice cube with the ill-fated Jedite." Darien strolled around the huge stone table, his boots crunching on the broken glass scattered on the floor. "You'd make a splendid decoration on her banquet table." He smiled pleasantly at Malachite's cold look, knowing it masked true fear of repeated failure.
Failure due mostly to Darien's insolent intrusions.
"Oh look, Malachite-" Darien bent and retrieved an object from the clutter that had been swept to the floor. "You almost broke your precious picture."
Malachite snatched the frame from Darien's palm, clutching it so tightly that the free-form edges dug into his gloved palm. "Fool. This can never break. It was designed so. Not like the flimsy mortal toys your kind values."
"Ha." Darien folded his arms, arrogant like a brat prince taunting his whipping boy. "You're more mortal than I am, Malachite. My heart belongs to my queen, as it should, as should that of all who serve Her. But you still cherish this long dead gelding that once shared your bed. How pathetic."
Darien gestured at the image of Malachite and Zoicite, Malachite's arm possessively around the slighter, more effeminate blond boy. "That you should love a FAILURE more than your Queen. It's a wonder you didn't keep his body around for-"
Malachite's arm shot out without warning, the elaborate curved edges of the picture frame slashing across Darien's face. Darien staggered back in wide-eyed shock, touching the long vertical slits on his cheek and staring at the blood glistening dark on his black gloves.
"You- hit me."
Malachite's smile was barbed. "How astute." The picture frame clattered, unscathed, to the table. Malachite's hand gripped the front of Darien's tunic, dragging the young man several inches across the floor and up to his toes so Beryl's former favorite could snarl in his face. "And it won't be the last time, impudent whelp."
Darien managed a glower, clasping both his hands on Malachite's wrist in a futile attempt to dislodge him. "You wouldn't DARE harm me. Beryl will hang your skin from her throne."
A slow, crescent moon of a smile crept on to Malachite's face, gleaming coldly.
Darien was suddenly very afraid.
"Oh... I'm not going to HARM you, my pretty little princeling. And nevermind M'queen- she knows how I discipline my underlings." Malachite tugged his right glove off with his teeth, letting it flutter to the floor as he reached out and caught a droplet of Darien's blood on the pad of his littlest finger. Darien watched with glassy, entranced eyes as Malachite regarded the red jewel, then locked gazes with Darien as he licked the trace of his essence off his fingertip. "No doubt she's observing now."
Malachite's hand twisted tighter in the fabric he grasped, holding the Prince a good couple of centimeters off the floor. Darien was really struggling now, breathing too hard and too fast, his heart pounding, eyes terrified. He had only the most panicked inkling as to what Malachite meant by "discipline", and he fervently hoped to keep it at that.
His hopes were in vain. Malachite jerked him closer, lowering him a bit so his boot toes scrabbled on the floor. Malachite's mouth clamped down over Darien's, forcing his tongue inside the other dark warrior's mouth. Shock froze Darien's body so that he forgot to struggle or even move as his mouth was claimed and plundered ruthlessly, Malachite tasting of his blood and the dark clear wine favored by Beryl's upper minions. Retaliation was beyond him. He'd never in his life been kissed like that; nothing could have prepared him for the sudden ache between his legs, turning into an insistent burn as Malachite's thigh forced itself against Darien's sex. The edge of the polished table dug hard into the backs of Darien's hips. He managed some vocal grunt of protest, even though his body was pressing eagerly back against Malachite's.
Malachite tore his mouth away, smirking at Darien's cold look. "Do you hate me?" he purred, almost coquettishly, pouting slightly as he ran his thumb under Darien's lower lip.
Darien's eyes narrowed to enraged slits. "I hate you."
Malachite removed his hand from Darien's face, sliding it between their bodies to grasp Darien tightly, handling him with a kind of rough appreciation. "Do you want me?" he whispered.
Darien's lip curled, forming the beginning of a 'no'.
Malachite squeezed him warningly, sending a sweet wave of heat straight up his spine. "Careful, pretty Prince. Your delicious little tongue can lie so well-" He fondled Darien through the loose silk of his pants. Darien was iron hard despite his rage, his hips helplessly moving himself deeper into Malachite's grasp. "But this cannot." Malachite turned the squeeze into a caress, pumping gently.
"Unnn! I--" Darien twisted, trying to escape the touch that was lighting his senses on fire. Never in all his most heated dreams had he known a burn like this- and to be given this by one he despised his nemesis and another MAN made his few remaining wits scatter.
"Say it," Malachite requested, tilting his head down to rake sharp teeth against Darien's neck, his tongue following the needle-sharpness with a soft velvet lick.
"I- I want you," Darien's very body was betraying him, even his voice. He grasped the table firmly behind him, both to support himself and to keep himself from sliding his hands inside the always undone front of Malachite's uniform. The pale luminous skin looked as sleek and polished as the marble table his fingertips rested on, and his hands traced over the mirror surface as though it was Malachite's chest. "Damn you," he added, weakly.
Malachite chuckled softly in Darien's ear, wetting his skin with warm open kisses, then whispering against the spots until the traces of his seduction vanished like wraiths. It made Darien grateful to be held up- otherwise his knees would have given way. "You're too late for damning me, Princeling." Malachite released Darien only to recapture him easily in his arms. The inescapable embrace was a steel mockery of tenderness.
Darien could feel Malachite against him now, hard and hot and insistent and subsequently demolishing all hope that he would simply be beaten senseless. He wriggled frantically at what he told himself was an attempt at escape, but Malachite's grin informed him he wasn't fooling anyone. He liked very much the way the Prince's hips bucked against his own. "Keep struggling," he purred, kissing Darien's lower lip. "I like it."
"Fuck you," Darien snarled, ignoring the echoing plea his body made, and wishing it were only rage that made his voice shake.
He HATED Malachite.
He wished to god he would touch him again.
"I think," Malachite's hand slid lovingly up Darien's arm. "That I shall do just that." his hand gripped the cloth and ripped it easily, the shirt falling to pieces. Gold buttons rang like bells as they bounced on the stone floor.
Darien shivered in the sudden chill- Malachite's chambers were always too cold for his liking. The shiver became a decided shake once he met Malachite's gaze, burning colder than the room like frozen fire. It almost made the plea leave his lips, the apology, the request to be released. But there was blood on Malachite's lips as he smiled, and Darien refused to ask for mercy that would not be given.
"My only regret," Malachite purred, "Is that Zoicite isn't here to see me fuck you like you deserve." He spun Darien around before the Prince could respond, slamming him down on the table so hard it knocked the breath from Darien's lungs. A spoken word of magic and invisible cords bound his ankles to legs of the table, leaving him bent at the waist and vulnerable. Darien couldn't see, his hair falling into his eyes as his wrists were pinned effortlessly to the small of his back by the considerable strength in Malachite's still- gloved left hand. The cold stone table pressed his burning sex against his stomach, making him hiss and lift his hips. Malachite smiled.
The weight of Darien's swordbelt left his waist a moment before the startled sound of it hitting the floor echoed in the room. Darien winced as the lightweight fabric of his pants was shredded like tissue, falling into tatters and streamers around the tops of his calf-high boots. Cold air stung his skin only long enough to make Malachite's warmth, pressed against his hips, become bitterly welcome. He sighed through his teeth in angry impatience.
"You'd make a wonderful little whore," Malachite observed conversationally, switching his grip so that a kidskinned-gloved hand slid between Darien's tense thighs, cupping the hot weight of Darien's balls. One finger rubbed the base of his sex tauntingly. "I think I might have preferred you naked and chained to Beryl's throne."
Darien made a choking sound, burying his flushed face against his shoulder. "You first," He gasped.
Malachite chuckled. "I have been. But I don't think that's where I want you. I like you right here." His noise of approval sounded like a smug panther. The prince had beauty, that he couldn't deny, and pinned and naked and spread in front of him, his wrath at himself only made his struggles more erotic. "You like this, too, for all your protests. I wonder if you cry prettily, hmm? Zoicite did."
"I'm not your little pet slut," Darien growled.
"No," Malachite said flatly. "You are not." He paused thoughtfully, then brought up one fingertip to push testingly at Darien's virgin opening.
The prince bucked violently, throwing his weight against the bonds holding him. The startled cry that escaped his lips was not one of anger or fear.
Malachite pressed a little harder, sleek glove aiding his invasion and Darien moaned, his sex throbbing from want of attention. The probing finger slid in repeatedly, further each time. The prince sobbed faintly without real tears. It wasn't FAIR. It was so humiliating but so good and it made him writhe, lifting his body helplessly as the finger buried inside him stroked a soft hidden place. "You WANT this," Malachite accused.
"Damn- Damn you," Darien panted weakly.
The invading finger retreated, making the prince gasp. There was a rustle of cloth and something warm and silken brushed against him. It was terrifying and perfect all at once.
"I loved him," Malachite said suddenly, sounding soft and almost vulnerable, although the unyielding hold belied that. He leaned over and placed a soft tender kiss between Darien's shoulderblades. Zoicite had always sighed when he did that, had so loved to be loved, was as sweet and submissive out of uniform as he was cold and ruthless in. Darien didn't move, listening. Something close to sympathy stirred in his breast-
Something familiar-
Something forgotten...
White strands of hair brushed Darien's skin and the kiss became a bite, the near recollection vanishing.
"Is it not enough," Malachite snarled, his voice livid with rage or desire or grief or some combination, "that I see him SCORNED, that I see you, pathetic little mortal PRINCELING in his place, that he is DEAD- who was a thousand times more worthy of immortality and power than YOU are, IS THAT NOT ENOUGH?!?!"
Darien was silent, cowed. He blinked. "I'm... I'm sorry."
Malachite swallowed harshly, his eyes cold as he looked down at Darien. "No. You are MINE." His hand fisted in Darien's dark hair, leaning over to hiss in Darien's ear. "And you will never, ever, speak ill of your better- of him... AGAIN."
Darien screamed. White pain ripped through him as his body was forced open and taken, Malachite plunging forward on the last syllable of his command. The warrior did not give him time to adjust, thrusting roughly into him hard and with all the force of his bereft anger behind it.
Pain blended into pleasure, the two melding and creating something different for Darien as his body was filled, rocking him steadily against the table. It HURT but Malachite was in him, undeniably claiming him but pleasuring him with such a condescending nature that Darien wanted to refuse his own release out of sheer spite.
Malachite smirked, the expression the closest to a grin he could manage. "You like this," he insisted.
"Never," Darien panted, lying.
The gloved hand closed on his sex again, pumping him.
"Lies do not become you, princeling." He thrust harder, giving an unwelcome gift.
Sweetness arced through Darien's nervous system, a terrible ecstasy pouring though his soul like the last dawn of the world.
Darien cried prettily.
He could not stop his body's response anymore than he could stop the tide, and Malachite was touching and pushing something within him that felt so good it hurt, pressure building beyond his ability to stop.
He could not force the defiant explicative past his lips as he came, angrily submissive, wet heat spurting on the cold stone table. It made a hot place against his belly and on Malachite's glove. Malachite closed his eyes.
My love... is it not lovely to be immortal? We will be young always. And I can give you pleasure like this forever?
Soft waves of gold hair spilled over Malachite's shoulder as the elder one twirled a polished sphere of onyx thoughtfully between his fingers.
It would please me very much, my love.
The globe was tapped thoughtfully. It's pretty. What is it for?
Nothing.
Nothing? Sprinkled laughter like gold bells. Why own something that is useless?
I did not say it was useless. I said it had no real purpose beyond being itself.
Long bare legs shifted impatiently between black sheets. But you keep it?
It is for you.
A present? But only mortals give gifts... the delight faded into sorrowful regret.
And only mortals love. A wry twist of lips.
You are always right, my lord. A soft breeze of a kiss. I am not mortal, and I love you, and my gift. It spun in his rapid fingers. I will love you always.
And I you...
Malachite fell over Darien with a faint noise, letting his body take over as stolen pleasure washed over him. He did not open his eyes. He would give anything to open them and see a slender panting boy beneath him, blond hair spilling over the marble table like sunlight on snow. There was no price too high to pay for the scent of wisteria and sex that had hung around his lover, or the sheen of power trembling in verdant eyes.
But Malachite had nothing to pay- even his soul had already been weighed, priced, and sold. And no power that he knew of could restore to him the one thing he ever really cared about.
"Let me go," Darien said coldly, but out of breath, and breaking into Malachite's thoughts.
Malachite's granite eyes opened, cold and bitter and flat as old ice. He pulled himself roughly from the embrace of Darien's body, and the prince failed to muffle the gasp of sensation. The restraints, both physical and enchanted, fell away and Darien folded to the floor, glaring in sated hatred at Malachite. "Beryl will hear of this." He pulled the tatters of his clothing about him.
Malachite poured two glasses of wine and laughed cheerfully. "I'm sure your tale will please her, but it will be nothing informative." He set one goblet on the floor, next to Darien's sword. "She watched every moment, I'm sure."
Darien went white, then crimson.
"You may have difficulty convincing her of how you were wronged, with those gasps of pleasure still ringing in her ears."
"I hate you."
"So you say, quite often. And I don't doubt it." Malachite downed his wine and leaned back against the table. "But I have had you, and nothing will ever change that." His smile grew cold.
"Every time you see me you will be reminded, As I am reminded each time I see you. And you will come back." Malachite was all but gloating. "It's a kind of addiction, you see, you won't be able to help it."
Darien got to his feet painfully, clutching his sword in one hand and the remains of his clothing held loosely to his body. Cold anger burned like the cuts on his cheek. "I should kill you."
"You aren't in the habit of giving mercy," Malachite's voice was emotionless, the truth taking Darien aback. "Now leave. I'll be awaiting your return."
Darien tossed his head as haughtily as he could manage, spinning on his heel to leave. Malachite's words echoed after him.
"You serve no other use to me besides this," he said, and Darien paused without turning. "And you will be good at it. But that is all you are to me. M'Queen's orders or no, I do not keep things that cease to serve their purpose. Remember that."
Darien nodded faintly, stalking out of the room as though he had merely stopped to give a message and receive a reply. He left his untouched wine and the telling traces of his pleasure behind him.
Malachite sighed, righting the picture frame that lay on the table, and waited.
~owari~
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