Author's notes: Originally written for the "Obsessive" challenge at 30yyh on Livejournal. This is actually the last of the fanfics I wrote for my Yusuke/Koenma challenge entires for that community and I've sort of withdrawn from the fandom since. Still, I hope you enjoy this -- although in all honesty, it looks A LOT better with the HTML editing on my fiction site (the link to Paper Pieces, my archive, is on my profile just in case you were wondering). And in case you were wonder, yes, all of those line breaks, random bolded and italicized and broken-up words ARE supposed to be there. This is my take on transgressive prose, darling.

Mild sexuality. What is it with the media and sex? Meh.


Slide
By Jun-Ko

I have spent every moment before this moment trying to decide whether or not to do what I must do. Can you see the clandestine crave pass beneath my eyes or do you writhe only in ecstacy with the remembered touch of him? For once, be nothing to me -- not air nor water nor food nor shelter -- be nothing but sweet moulding flesh beneath my hands, a spirit made real only to die.

The room, it was, creme turn-of-the-century handprints, a mattress that smelled of France, carpet burned knees, mouth bleeding. The dried once-white paint that bares bloody streaks of fury as clothing was tossed off and the monsters entered in droves --

A slap.
Nothing.
Stop.
No stopping.

Why don't I see myself reflected, refracted, behind your eyes? Is it not me sitting here, as naked as you -- but your eyes are still seeing someone else. Fingers at your throat, my meaningless words. Beneath my fingers I open you like a flower and you are left vulnerable to the wind, all your powers stripped in the tide, on your loathesome back you offer yourself without really offering yourself and then pushing moaning screaming pulling dying trying, our senses burned and shared and severed. And then, when your eyes were on me, my fingers wound like wire around the neck that would put the most perfect mirrors to shame. Better now to do it while you were completely -- push -- and utterly -- push -- mine.

There were ripples and there is no

s t

o

p

p i n

g .

Burning they fell, the drops of sadness onto your chest. Breath hitched and ragged, still no stopping. The most horrid feeling. I could taste everything on my lips, the essence of myself buried already so deep within the dying case of your body and still, you wouldn't move, wouldn't look at me -- die now while you are mine. See only me. Color drained and powerless, hands clutching fabric, eyes bulging, disgusting. My grip tightens.

This isn't real.

This isn't me. This is the lover that has reared its ugly head, this is the jealous man in a year of red sky blood flowers -- I collect my lover's debt.

My grip tightens.

"Koenma," you gasped out, calmly, speaking through the razorwire that had wound itself around my eyes as well. A neon sign flashed on and off and red, like the fires of hell. I couldn't.

The mirror was red and ragged, the wire falling away to either side of your neck; I lost my strength and collapsed onto you, unable to kill you, unable to love you. Dressed in dawn, you pulled me down beside you and I wept, hip-attached, lovers and haters of one another -- "a proton and electron, attracted."

Outside the window the birds sang and your alarm clock beeped.

(Morning.)