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spilltheirguts

Fic: Yu-Gi-Oh! {Bakura/Marik}

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Jul. 13th, 2010 | 09:38 am
posted by: rohanfox in spilltheirguts

written 14th january, 2010.

Title: 
Wrecked
Rating: T
Characters/Parings: Bakura/Marik
Warnings: mentions of non-con.
Prompt: #71; Broken @ fanfic100 
Summary: "He wonders, sometimes, if he's anything close to human. He's spent too long around them not to be, Bakura thinks. But if Marik has learnt anything from Bakura, it's that spending too much time around something corrupt can turn you that way, too."

 
If it 'aint broke, don't fix it.
Bakura was broken. The smirk that paints the delicate features that don't belong him, the lopsided twist of his lips; a crooked picture frame. Bakura wasn't complete, no matter how arrogant he pretended to be - he's a soul without a body, and if that isn't broken, Ra knows what is.
He's like a clock without a tick. A radio without sound, the white noise buzzing and buzzing – but you miss it when it's gone. Bakura isn't normal, not like you should act. He wonders, sometimes, if he's anything close to human. He's spent too long around them not to be, Bakura thinks. But if Marik has learnt anything from Bakura, it's that spending too much time around something corrupt can turn you that way, too. No, Bakura is anything but the status quo.
Somebody unmarked, untainted – they wouldn't kiss you like that, hard and forceful. Uncaring if you're even responding. They wouldn't press against you like he does; find amusement from your reluctance. Their only sign of affection wouldn't be biting the lobe of your ear, his hands undressing you. Ignoring your cries, pleas, your fingers desperately trying to redo his work. They wouldn't use you.
No, somebody ordinary would know when to stop.
The problem is, 'ordinary' is the same as 'average'. As boring, as unspectacular. Unsatisfying.
Bakura wouldn't purr like that, if he was typical. If he was regular, those fingers on Marik's arm, his stomach, wouldn't be as cold – and neither would his eyes. That penetrating way he looks at him, sceptical and condescending, there's something eerie about it. Something is a little off. He wouldn't stand in that way, fragmented and patronising. So arrogant and self assured, shoulders jutted, making him seem even larger and taller than he already is. The difference between him and his host is startling, as if you're looking forward in time - through the looking glass - to the hollow shell that Ryou could become. He seems so much older just by the way holds his head up, chin out as looks down on you. A lot of the time, all it takes is a look for Marik to feel afraid of him.
When Bakura fucks him, it's not like what he imagined. It's cruel and selfish, but Marik can't help but enjoy himself, if only a little. Nobody can say Bakura doesn't know what he's doing, even if it's only for himself. Bakura is so aggressive, so dominating, that it's nice to see his trademark smirk paralleled on Marik's face when Bakura cries out. Oh, but there's something sinister in the way that Bakura can make him forget that it's not his body, not really, that he's making love with. Sitting in the glow of Bakura's post-coital cigarette reminds Marik that Bakura really isn't your usual, run of the mill guy. He isn't anything but Bakura. Yet the irony lies in the fact that Marik doesn't even know if that's his real name.
The edge of his knife is as sharp as his temper, the British accent curling around constant insults thrown at you. If they were friends – there's a fine line between them, between friends and fuck buddies – then Marik knows you speak words of kindness, of comfort and encouragement; not the brutal, vindictive language he laughs at you. He's too big for his boots yet the boots still fit: arrogance doesn't suit anybody who is a model for normalcy.
Ryou Bakura, the real Bakura, is as standard as you get. He seems too innocent: so pure, so soft around the edges. There's this sadness to him, the sinister underside, but Marik figures that it's Bakura, the spirit. The murderer. It makes his head hurt, really. Words like possession and control swirl around his mind and his jealously makes Marik wonder if he's a little bit broken, too. There's the everlasting stain of his father's blood on his hands, but Bakura presses his torso against the scars on his back and whispers that nobody can go through life without a few cracks here and there. A scratch, every once in a while, and he digs in nails in for emphasis.
The thing about Bakura is, he might be broken – but that doesn't mean he needs fixing.


 

If it 'aint broke, don't fix it.
Bakura was broken. The smirk that paints the delicate features that don't belong him, the lopsided twist of his lips; a crooked picture frame. Bakura wasn't complete, no matter how arrogant he pretended to be - he's a soul without a body, and if that isn't broken, Ra knows what is.
He's like a clock without a tick. A radio without sound, the white noise buzzing and buzzing – but you miss it when it's gone. Bakura isn't normal, not like you should act. He wonders, sometimes, if he's anything close to human. He's spent too long around them not to be, Bakura thinks. But if Marik has learnt anything from Bakura, it's that spending too much time around something corrupt can turn you that way, too. No, Bakura is anything but the status quo.
Somebody unmarked, untainted – they wouldn't kiss you like that, hard and forceful. Uncaring if you're even responding. They wouldn't press against you like he does; find amusement from your reluctance. Their only sign of affection wouldn't be biting the lobe of your ear, his hands undressing you. Ignoring your cries, pleas, your fingers desperately trying to redo his work. They wouldn't use you.
No, somebody ordinary would know when to stop.
The problem is, 'ordinary' is the same as 'average'. As boring, as unspectacular. Unsatisfying.
Bakura wouldn't purr like that, if he was typical. If he was regular, those fingers on Marik's arm, his stomach, wouldn't be as cold – and neither would his eyes. That penetrating way he looks at him, sceptical and condescending, there's something eerie about it. Something is a little off. He wouldn't stand in that way, fragmented and patronising. So arrogant and self assured, shoulders jutted, making him seem even larger and taller than he already is. The difference between him and his host is startling, as if you're looking forward in time - through the looking glass - to the hollow shell that Ryou could become. He seems so much older just by the way holds his head up, chin out as looks down on you. A lot of the time, all it takes is a look for Marik to feel afraid of him.
When Bakura fucks him, it's not like what he imagined. It's cruel and selfish, but Marik can't help but enjoy himself, if only a little. Nobody can say Bakura doesn't know what he's doing, even if it's only for himself. Bakura is so aggressive, so dominating, that it's nice to see his trademark smirk paralleled on Marik's face when Bakura cries out. Oh, but there's something sinister in the way that Bakura can make him forget that it's not his body, not really, that he's making love with. Sitting in the glow of Bakura's post-coital cigarette reminds Marik that Bakura really isn't your usual, run of the mill guy. He isn't anything but Bakura. Yet the irony lies in the fact that Marik doesn't even know if that's his real name.
The edge of his knife is as sharp as his temper, the British accent curling around constant insults thrown at you. If they were friends – there's a fine line between them, between friends and fuck buddies – then Marik knows you speak words of kindness, of comfort and encouragement; not the brutal, vindictive language he laughs at you. He's too big for his boots yet the boots still fit: arrogance doesn't suit anybody who is a model for normalcy.
Ryou Bakura, the real Bakura, is as standard as you get. He seems too innocent: so pure, so soft around the edges. There's this sadness to him, the sinister underside, but Marik figures that it's Bakura, the spirit. The murderer. It makes his head hurt, really. Words like possession and control swirl around his mind and his jealously makes Marik wonder if he's a little bit broken, too. There's the everlasting stain of his father's blood on his hands, but Bakura presses his torso against the scars on his back and whispers that nobody can go through life without a few cracks here and there. A scratch, every once in a while, and he digs in nails in for emphasis.
The thing about Bakura is, he might be broken – but that doesn't mean he needs fixing.




If it 'aint broke, don't fix it.

Bakura was broken. The smirk that paints the delicate features that don't belong him, the lopsided twist of his lips; a crooked picture frame. Bakura wasn't complete, no matter how arrogant he pretended to be - he's a soul without a body, and if that isn't broken, Ra knows what is.
He's like a clock without a tick. A radio without sound, the white noise buzzing and buzzing – but you miss it when it's gone. Bakura isn't normal, not like you should act. He wonders, sometimes, if he's anything close to human. He's spent too long around them not to be, Bakura thinks. But if Marik has learnt anything from Bakura, it's that spending too much time around something corrupt can turn you that way, too. No, Bakura is anything but the status quo.
Somebody unmarked, untainted – they wouldn't kiss you like that, hard and forceful. Uncaring if you're even responding. They wouldn't press against you like he does; find amusement from your reluctance. Their only sign of affection wouldn't be biting the lobe of your ear, his hands undressing you. Ignoring your cries, pleas, your fingers desperately trying to redo his work. They wouldn't use you.
No, somebody ordinary would know when to stop.
The problem is, 'ordinary' is the same as 'average'. As boring, as unspectacular. Unsatisfying.
Bakura wouldn't purr like that, if he was typical. If he was regular, those fingers on Marik's arm, his stomach, wouldn't be as cold – and neither would his eyes. That penetrating way he looks at him, sceptical and condescending, there's something eerie about it. Something is a little off. He wouldn't stand in that way, fragmented and patronising. So arrogant and self assured, shoulders jutted, making him seem even larger and taller than he already is. The difference between him and his host is startling, as if you're looking forward in time - through the looking glass - to the hollow shell that Ryou could become. He seems so much older just by the way holds his head up, chin out as looks down on you. A lot of the time, all it takes is a look for Marik to feel afraid of him.
When Bakura fucks him, it's not like what he imagined. It's cruel and selfish, but Marik can't help but enjoy himself, if only a little. Nobody can say Bakura doesn't know what he's doing, even if it's only for himself. Bakura is so aggressive, so dominating, that it's nice to see his trademark smirk paralleled on Marik's face when Bakura cries out. Oh, but there's something sinister in the way that Bakura can make him forget that it's not his body, not really, that he's making love with. Sitting in the glow of Bakura's post-coital cigarette reminds Marik that Bakura really isn't your usual, run of the mill guy. He isn't anything but Bakura. Yet the irony lies in the fact that Marik doesn't even know if that's his real name.
The edge of his knife is as sharp as his temper, the British accent curling around constant insults thrown at you. If they were friends – there's a fine line between them, between friends and fuck buddies – then Marik knows you speak words of kindness, of comfort and encouragement; not the brutal, vindictive language he laughs at you. He's too big for his boots yet the boots still fit: arrogance doesn't suit anybody who is a model for normalcy.
Ryou Bakura, the real Bakura, is as standard as you get. He seems too innocent: so pure, so soft around the edges. There's this sadness to him, the sinister underside, but Marik figures that it's Bakura, the spirit. The murderer. It makes his head hurt, really. Words like possession and control swirl around his mind and his jealously makes Marik wonder if he's a little bit broken, too. There's the everlasting stain of his father's blood on his hands, but Bakura presses his torso against the scars on his back and whispers that nobody can go through life without a few cracks here and there. A scratch, every once in a while, and he digs in nails in for emphasis.
The thing about Bakura is, he might be broken – but that doesn't mean he needs fixing.

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