everyday sane-psycho
yuugiou
ryuujitsu & co.
Disclaimer: We don't own Yuugiou. Or the Liz Phaire song. If I spelled that correctly. --;;
A/N: This song came on the radio one day, and the part about taking out the trash inspired something dark, dreadful, and Tendershippy! Take that, Fegs-bakayaro! :P I hope your body rots in that trash bag. . .
Oh. Um. This fic is five-eighths dedicated to Itooshi. Because I love her, and in celebration of a...what? Two month anniversary? Three months? Hm. I really don't know. [[grin]] Love you, Itooshi!
And three-eighths go to Melon, because she's a great friend, and because she's been incredibly supportive of almost everything I've been doing.
Except stalking. But I digress.
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Drabble-fic. Ryou's been doing a lot of crazy things lately. All for Bakura. All because he loves him. (shounen-ai, darkish)
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"You may not believe in me
but I believe in you, so
I still take the trash out—
Does that make me too normal for you?"
- Liz Phaire
He could still see the hand, lying there with the fingertips just beyond the edge of the trash bag. Older, fleshier hand, five fingertips ballooning like sausages, all five lying motionless, limp and white and dead. The plastic was damp. Ryou couldn't tell in the gloom, but it was warm enough to be blood. The man hadn't been dead long, after all.
Perfect knife thrust. Right up. Took the stomach and then the heart and it was all over. It wouldn't have hurt much. More like a sucker punch, really.
He could see it in his mind's eye; Bakura's arm uncoiling, snapping, knife blade turned to liquid silver. The man had grunted twice, once when Bakura slid the knife in, once when Bakura slid it out. Harsh, heavy sound, both times. Ryou pushed the trash bag away from the man with his toe. Balding man, peppery-brown hair, old enough to be his father. Glassy- rheumy eyes wide and surprised in the dim light. Wire-rimmed glasses, rounded lenses. The blood dripping from his mouth was drying on his stubble. Two chins. Rather unbecoming. Definitely quite unbecoming.
Ryou knelt and replaced the black plastic over the dead man's face without touching him, grimacing and shivering and smiling all at once.
That's what you get for crossing him it's what you get anyone who gets in his way ends up dead didn't you know that didn't you think that knife was beautiful wasn't he beautiful? He was beautiful he's mine you can't have him!
The arm was in plain sight, gold wristwatch cutting across the thick wrist, still ticking. Ryou leaned over it, squinted. On-thirty-two a.m. Then, quickly, deftly, he unsnapped the watch and slipped it into his back pocket and looked up.
Bakura was watching from the mouth of the alleyway. Eyes glowing, teeth shining sharp and white in the dark—silver and garnet and moonlight and sinfully, heart-wrenchingly beautiful.
He's mine mine mine forever all mine!
Ryou gritted his teeth and went to push the arm into the trash bag along with the rest of the body, couldn't do it, tried again, still couldn't make himself touch it. Finally he left the arm as it was and did up the yellow ties with it hanging out. He dusted his hands off on his jeans and then stood, fishing through his deck for a Morphing Jar. He'd been planning on hauling the body to the dumpster but a Morphing Jar would work just as well.
As the last of the body faded away and the Morphing Jar returned complacently to its card, he felt Bakura's shadow-spun fingers steal into the waistband of his jeans and brush against the lower part of his stomach, slowly dancing upwards, pulling up his T-shirt as they went. The night air was cold against his bared skin.
"You didn't put his arm in the bag," murmured Bakura, his breath tickling the hairs on the back of Ryou's neck.
Ryou spun around and reached for him and they kissed, hungrily. Heard nothing but heavy breathing for a moment. Pulled apart, noses and foreheads touching, Bakura's long hand now resting lightly on Ryou's left hip, other hand tangled in Ryou's hair, same hands that killed the man. Knife flashed, not much blood. Beautiful, all his. Ryou leaned against the alley wall, panting, eyes shining green, mouth parted, lips bruised, while Bakura muttered silly, sweet, lovely nonsense in his ears, a low, teasing rumble that made him gasp and moan and coo and laugh and grip at the brick behind him.
He took the dead man's watch from his pocket and pressed it into Bakura's hands. "For you," he said breathlessly, and smiled. There was blood down the front of his shirt, but he would wash it out later. "For you," he repeated, giggling as Bakura licked at his throat and tugged insistently at his jeans.
All for you.
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A/N: I liked this one a lot. It's kind of a revenge fic, actually...see? The dead guy in the trash bag made me very angry. Thus the homicidal Bakura, and Ryou, and the Morphing Jar. [[cough]] Ah, well. It wasn't much of a loss...
Oh, and I had fun with italics, in this one and especially in nodjmet. It was like: Oh my god! I can use italics now? Really? Eeeeeeeeeee! Aiiiyaaa! This is so cool! Italics! I can use italics for free!!! [[squeal]]
[[laugh]] Yesh. And I'm kind of mad at the QuickEdit thing because it cut out my usual star-icons for stage-directions, but, hey. I can deal.
:::review & i'll love you:::
ryuujitsu & co.