Title: Like a flood of pain
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC V
Characters: Yuuya Sakaki
Rating: NSFW, kinda
Wordcount: 822
Warnings: somehow gore? idk
Notes:
1. how am I supposed to classify this?
2. speculation about whatever Yuuya has inside
3. I call the thing "Zorc Necrophades", just saying
4.
memes jack Please don't enjoy
You wait, in your recess, deep in a maze of sombre secrets creeping along the meninges, a warm angle where you sit and don't open your eyes, listening to the sounds of blood rushing in the veins and arteries at the rhythm of life.
You laugh, when you realise your host hates that sound. You host often tries to sleep immediately, but ends up listening to his own heartbeat, realising how frail he really is, brooding over how inherently terrifying his own bodily functions are. Your host is now particularly scared, as he's forced to sit in a small room, lying to himself about his destiny, about his situation as a cornered prey. His thoughts are all about saving other people, when he should care about himself first, how to get out of the prison he was put in, but you do not blame his miserable intelligence - he has always deceived himself, unwittingly exposing his weaknesses, one by one, to you.
You grit your fangs, when his heartbeat falls to a calmer pace, chemicals injected with a needle piercing his skin reacting with his synapsises, forcing his conscience to drift away, but you feel the scalpel cutting under the lowest line of hair, surgical instruments messingly inserting a cold piece of metal into his brain, connecting his matter to its electrical circuits. You are aware why they're messing with his brain, he might not suspect it until he wakes up and feels the small cut on his neck, but you already know, you already fight, but you aren't powerful yet.
You need something that satisfies your hunger, lets you gain strength, so that you can control your host.
They cannot control your host, only you can, only you have to.
Your host is trembling, touching his fresh scar. You read his thoughts of fear, as his digits press the thin lumps of gore, the only trace that remains of their filthy procedures. They won't have him, you will have him instead.
They don't know yet, but they have just signed their loss. As soon as they activate their little machine, a flood of pain pours down your host's senses. His mind is fighting, as if it grew nails on its own, pushing against the stimuli the chip is sending, to let them control him like a puppet, and of course his will desires to be free.
Unfortunately for him, his nerves aren't strong, and he's quickly overwhelmed by pain.
Unfortunately for them, you feed on that pain and anger, you feast on his terror, on his anguished screams, the music that arouses your fury, you drink off his tears, like a nectar that cures your old wounds, fills your being with power, makes you grow larger.
Stronger.
You're free to move in his brain, seeking your pleasure in that stormy ocean of pain. You reach his core, with your sticky, gooey claws, you can almost smell his souls, and you yearn for the day you can devour them whole, become entire as you were in times lost in the sand, but that time hasn't come. You have to sit and wait for the right time, when you'll have all of them. But what you have right now is already perfect.
You scream out your joy, and it's the most wonderful feeling, as you realise your host is no more under their control, but under yours. You haven't felt the sensation of owning a body in an eternity. It's marvelous to sense all the nerves controlling every act of his body, the gurgle of his intestines, the creak of his bones, the murmurs of his lungs, and most of all, the steady percussion of his heart, the rush of his blood. It's not simply hearing it, you can feel it, as if it were your very own heart pumping. That is your heart, you own it, like you own his lungs, his legs, his spine and brain. And the pain, dear gods, it's excruciating, a thousand burning pins hammering to the marrow, so painful it's maddening, it paralyses you as if it's drowning with a flood of acid, and it make you feel alive! It's not the simple awareness of pain, there aren't any mediations between you and his pain; that is your pain now, in your shaking muscles and bones, blurring your sight with your hot tears.
You do not care about your host's original mind, it probably ran away in a corner, like the one you had to survive in. He's horrified, surely, somewhere lost, and that only dries your throat with wild laughter. You are ecstatic, you are in control, you want to enjoy every single moment, mark your power with every action. You want the crowd to scream, hear their cries with your ears, your eardrums vibrating.
It's your moment to rise and shine, to let them taste what despair feels like.
And it's your turn to draw.
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Link to AO3 )