Ehehehehehe...
What can I say? It's angsty, twisted, and (In my opinion) A fine one-shot. XD
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"Why do you drink?"
Ryou raises bleary eyes as Bakura asks the question. He makes a face, before looking back down into his glass. He takes a gulp of the strawberry vodka. The silence between them stretches, each second passing like a millennia.
"Why do you smoke?" Ryou whispers softly, his lip against the glass. He watches the glass fog for a moment, before taking another small sip of the thick liquid, tinted slight rose.
"I asked first." Bakura counters, raising the cigarette to his lips. He surveys Ryou underneath his spiky bangs for a moment, observing, as he always did, the fine, high-boned contours of his face. He stares at the whitenette's soft lips, sweet and pink from the alcohol.
"To escape." Ryou finally whispers. Bakura makes no movement at Ryou's words, still staring at his plump, perfect lips. "To create my own reality." Tears glisten in glazed grown eyes. "I hate the world…"
"So you drown your problems in alcohol." Bakura sighs, exhaling a cloud of thick blueish smoke. He still stares at Ryou, watching the way he lowers his head in shame, chewing on his lower lip.
"Why do you smoke?" The whitenette repeats, lifting his head. Wide, dull brown eyes stare into orbs of crimson unflinchingly. Bakura snarls slightly as his light challenges him, and takes another drag of the smoke.
"What can I say?" He exhales another cloud of smoke. "I'm addicted." Ryou sighs as he drains his glass, and Bakura watches as he shakily stands up. He wavers on his feet, holding a hand to his forehead.
"I need another drink." Ryou mutters, his cheeks flushed. Bakura narrows his eyes even further, the grip on his half-smoked cigarette tightening. He watches as Ryou staggers into the kitchen, intoxicated.
"No." Ryou blinks, and stops in his tracks at the sound of the yami's voice. He turns his head, lank white hair trailing around his shoulders as he does so. Bakura stands up, stubbing the cigarette out on the ashtray.
"What?" Ryou whispers, closing his eyes for a short moment. Bakura catches a mere glimpse of his closed eyes, a full view of his translucent eyelids and dark purple circles under his eyes, like smudges of ink.
"Sleep more." Bakura commands, eyeing Ryou's deteriorating condition. The whitenette ignores him, staggering into the kitchen. The empty glass dangles from his left hand as he pulls open the fridge door, leaning slightly against the appliance.
"Fuck you." Ryou mumbles weakly. "'S your fault." Bakura wrinkles his nose, and marches into the kitchen. Ryou gasps as the yami grabs a slim, bony wrist. He presses the bundle of tendons at the base of the teenagers' palm, digging in with a sharp, cruel nail, and Ryou hisses. His neck arches slightly as the glass tumbles to the floor, and shatters, tiny fragment of glass skidding across the fading tiles.
"Listen to me." Bakura hisses. He easily forces Ryou against the humming refrigerator, slamming the door, and stares down into those glazed, blank eyes. The strawberry-laced alcohol hangs in the air around the pair, making Bakura blink.
"Go 'way…" The words are fuzzy in Ryou's tongue, and his head droops. Bakura stares down in disgust at the drunk teen, and with a clawlike hand, forces Ryou's chin up.
"No." He seethes, his sharp nails digging into pristine, ivory-hued skin. Ryou whimpers, keep his eyes closed. Bakura isn't staring at Ryou's eyes anymore; he is staring once more at Ryou's lips. Those soft, full, rosebud lips that were parted slightly, the faint aroma of strawberry clinging to the pink skin…
Ryou's eyes snap open when Bakura kisses him. It is not a kiss of love, as Bakura grips his forearms, in a diluted mockery of an embrace. It is raw lust that drives him to force Ryou's mouth open with his tongue, thrusting past those soft, beautiful lips to delve into the frail teenager's hot sweet mouth. He groans at the taste of strawberries, almost overpowered by the sharp sting of alcohol. Ryou stands in shock, his mind fuzzy and confused from the vodka. He is vaguely aware of the taller, muscular frame pressed flush against him, and the stale, fuggy taste of cigarettes on Bakura's tongue as he continues to lustfully assault his mouth. He moans softly, although he inwardly hates himself for it. His hands, which are limp at his sides, slowly start to slide up the side of Bakura's thighs. The yami gasps, his breath hitching in mid-kiss. He digs his nails tighter into the delicate skin of Ryou's slender arms as the teenager's fingertips glide up the black denim. Ryou's cloudy eyes, half-lidded, close completely, and Bakura gets another glimpse of Ryou's translucent eyelids.
Slowly, Ryou's hands reach the waistband of Bakura's jeans. His fingertips brush the inch of skin between the yami's shirt and trousers, and Bakura shudders, trembling at the touch. Ryou almost desperately shoves his hands up the back of Bakura's charcoal tank top, running his hands over the skin. His fingers trace the outlines of muscles and bones, earning a long, low groan from Bakura. The taste of cigarettes in his mouth makes Ryou want to gag, but he forces the sensation down, choosing instead to focus on the sheer feeling of Bakura's tongue exploring his mouth.
"Fuck." Ryou gasps as Bakura swears, tearing his mouth away from the fragile whitenette. "You are drunk." Ryou whines slightly, dragging his hands further up Bakura's back so he can press himself up closer against the yami. He knows that what he's doing is wrong, and it's only going to end up creating a million more problems, but at that moment, it felt bloody good.
"Fuck me." Bakura's eyes are wide as Ryou yanks him down, whispering the words in his ear, a desperate, keening gasp. He opens his eyes to look up at Bakura, who is staring down him in vague confusion. The yami's mouth falls open; those were the last words he expected to tumble from those perfect, finely cut lips. Ryou whimpers again as he digs his nails in Bakura's back, as though he wanted to crawl inside his skin. "Please." Bakura's cool exterior had flown out the window as he looked down at the drunk teenager, who looked up at him, lips parted, and eyes half-lidded, clouded with lust and alcohol. He stands stock still for at least a minute, gripping Ryou's arms and looking down at his light. Ryou's chest heaved as he gasped for air, his lips still parted. At that moment, Bakura couldn't have thought of a more arousing image if he tried.
"Fuck yes." Bakura gasps, before he crashes their lips together. Ryou's drags his nails across Bakura's back as Bakura assaults his mouth. This time, he returns the kiss with equal unbridled lust and passion, ignoring the stale tang of smoke. Bakura's hands slide up Ryou's arms, until he finds the collar of Ryou's shirt. The shirts opens up almost immediately, buttons flinging in all directions as Bakura tears the cloth in his hands easily. The shirt is dragged off Ryou's slim torso, and thrown impatiently to the floor, a puddle of cotton the shade of a robins' egg.
It isn't long before the rest of the clothing that dons the two boys is strewn hastily across the kitchen. Ryou cries out as Bakura vehemently shoves his naked, slim frame to the floor, fragments of glass dripping with vodka clinging and slicing into his pale, prefect skin. There are no more kisses as Bakura roughly takes the younger whitenette, relishing every moan, gasp, and scream that comes out of those bruised, swollen lips.
And Ryou loves every moment of it.
Bakura is silent as Ryou tips the vodka down the sink.
The teenager is pale and red-eyed, both hung-over and exhausted from the hours of 'love'making he had endured the night before. His tousled hair hides his face, and Bakura wipes the tangled locks out of his soft brown eyes, tucking them behind a perfectly shaped ear. The aroma fills the air, but Ryou pretends not to notice, tossing the now empty bottle to the floor. It clatters against the half-a-dozen others, and Bakura nods approvingly.
"That's all of them." Ryou whispers, staring down at the floor. He kicks one of the bottles, watching it skid across the tiles. He holds out his hand, the other resting on his hip. Bakura chews on his lower lip. "The smokes." The yami sighs, and extracts the red-and-white carton from the breast pocket of his shirt. Ryou coughs, staring at the yami with red-rimmed eyes. "Lighter."
"Here." Bakura mutters shortly, slapping the metallic lighter in Ryou's hand. Ryou turns, and carelessly dumps them down the trash chute. Bakura is silent, his crimson eyes fixated on the floor as Ryou walks towards him, and softly takes Bakura's hand.
"We don't need them." Ryou whispers, a small –very small- smile on his face. Bakura lifts his crimson gaze from the tiles, traveling up Ryou's slim frame. He locks eyes with the whitenette, reading the expression in Ryou's melted chocolate depths.
The kiss is mutual. Ryou grabs fistfuls of wild white hair, while Bakura slides his hands into the waistband of Ryou's jeans, his hands crushed against the silky skin of Ryou's flawless round rear. Ryou was right. After all…
Bakura had his addiction.
And Ryou had his escape.
Hehehe... finally, a place to store all of those crappy oneshots I come up with. XD
R&R!