- warning -
ficlet. maybe OOC? More on that in ze notes! *dramatic* uhm, first person POV. oh! and angst -- who could forget?
- thoughts & rambling of the author(ess) -
I'm back from vacation: who missed me? ^^ It's funny; I had been home for 30 minutes, just finished helping unpack the car, and needed a shower after a 13-hour car ride... but first I sat down and typed this so I could have it up, lol. I've missed the wide world of writing. XD Moving on...
I was sitting in the car, and through a bizarre series of barely-connected thoughts, I came up with a line that suddenly gave birth to this - I like it! Believe me, by the time you get to the end of the story (if you don't run away before then), you'll be SO sick of the line "no strings attached," I assure you. ^^ But I felt it fit.
I'm actually a little insecure writing Malik -- he's an interesting character, but I'm really edgy in trying to write him, and I somehow suspect this might be a little OOC for him. So someone out there will have to let me know how I do. ^^;;
"No strings attached."
It seems that most people's greatest wish can be summed up in those three words: no strings attached. No ties, knots, bows or binds; no one to hold them down. So many people see friends, family, and lovers as an inconvenience, a string - they'd rather not be bothered with the loyalty and devotion those people demand.
I agreed… until him.
At first he was a delightful ally, just like the others - someone to use, abuse, and turn away empty-handed. Yet when he came to my bed, pinned me to my sheets, I didn't push him away, not hard enough. Maybe then those words pacified my protests.
"No strings attached."
He uttered them in my ear as he pinned my wrists, claimed my skin for his own even as he said it. Rather, he didn't claim me, but I gave myself willingly. When he was finished with me he lingered: his hair tickled my chest, his eyelashes fluttered momentarily against my shoulder.
It became a quick habit of his - steal in through the window (rarely a door; it must have been too simple for his tastes), take me quickly, and then stay for a moment before he dressed, always with those words as a parting.
"No strings attached."
I'm not sure how many times it happened before I realized that I resented those words, that oath. For once in my life, I wanted a string… an inconvenience. I wanted to tie Bakura down.
The first time I said that to myself I wondered if the urge was solely kinky or entirely depressing. I eventually settled on depressing - after all, it's hard to be very evil or calculating when I'm lovesick. Unrequited love even - not even a ghost of a chance.
It's happening all the same - Bakura at the foot of the bed, pulling jeans up over slender hips. He looks over at me, shoving pale hair impatiently away from his face - his grinning face, sated face. And me… I lie naked on the bed, chest heaving. I don't show the emotion outwardly, but my insides - my heart? - clench, and I hear the words even before he speaks them.
"No strings attached," he says, wiggling his fingers like a puppeteer. I nod, resting against my pillows, feigning sleepiness until he sneaks out the window… quietly as he entered.
Puppeteer.
I wonder: if a marionette doll could live, would it be so eager to remove its strings, throw away its bond with the puppeteer? I suppose I'm a bit like a marionette doll myself… with Bakura as a puppeteer. I'd be a lucky puppet - most aren't sure of their masters, even at the end. The funny thing about the marionette doll is that it's not alive - it's a tool, moving only at the will of its master. If the marionette's strings are cut, it will fall into a shapeless pile of wood, into nothing.
I've cut all my strings, done my damnedest to refuse all those who tried to control my movements.
I wonder when I'll crumple.