Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Insignificant ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: shiju333 
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 08.24.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 538 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 08.24.2009 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 538 | Status: Work In Progress
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh! In any way, shape, or form.
Insignificant
"The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain." - Karl Marx
XX
The night air whistled softly, drowning out his quiet exclamations of pain. Stark bleach-white hair contrasted painfully with his midnight black clothing. He gasped in pain,
A lone figure stared, watching the nightmarish scene unfold. This figure, with messy, wind-blown, multi-colored hair had not been prepared for this. Pharaoh's training aside, he was still a human, a human who felt immense fear. The pharaoh of many millennia ago raked a slim, dainty hand through his hand, fully ruining the elaborate hairstyle.
Embarrassing, yes, but he had in fact, spent copious hours in front of the bathroom mirror perfecting his precious hair. After methodically applying a liberal amount of mousse to the sleek mane, Yami, as friends of present referred to him, carefully parted his hair five individual times to ensure the shape of crown. A king, even of games, must have a crown, no?
Yami's musings were quickly forgotten as he watched his enemy, the white haired individual had caused the pharaoh nothing but heartache and misery throughout both of his lives. The almighty pharaoh stood, with trembling knees and a pained facial expression as he watched the other commit a most horrifying act. He's pale, paler than normal, noted Yami blandly.
The white haired boy, terrifying demon-thief of a distant past, had always been pale, regardless of the unmerciful Egyptian sun. His ghastly pallor had remained unchanged for over five million years.
"Bakura!" called Atemu to the thief king, but his words were caught in the now rough winds and carried away in an echo. He had no other option, but to witness Bakura's shameful deed.
Rough calloused hands held the metal object in a near death grip; the thief king stared at the blade with a cool even gaze. To another, he seemed as relaxed as a sleeping infant. He knitted his brows in concentration; his calm expression was quickly replaced with a look of thoughtfulness.
"No!" Sadly, Atemu's cry fell upon deaf ears. The pharaoh seemed to back away in a reluctant defeat. For the first time, since their days in Ancient Egypt, the thief had won; Bakura had been victorious. And so, the pretty, oh so gorgeous, blade completed the unsaid command. Pale flesh immediately gave way.
Bakura's nerves coursed in ecstasy as pain made itself known, focused pain to rise above emotional torment. He could deal. Without warning, although this happened each time, beautiful red beads bubbled to the surface of his skin. The color was of holly berries and freshly painted convertibles - an artist's dream.
But his euphoria quickly faded as more of this intoxicating red liquid came forth. The bright red coloring darkened to a bland, but still beautiful, mauve as the blood gathered. Gravity soon became a pressing factor. An unintentional flick of his wrist sent droplets flying.
"Fuck," the thief bemoaned, than stood, ignoring the rapidly drying bloodstains. His hair was a tangled mess; blood was catching a free ride off into the night, staining the balcony carpeting. He was angry; Bakura was downright pissed. Disgusting, bloody monster! He berated himself silently.
Yami's earlier known shock and repulsion was gone, only to be replaced with great confusion. He waited for his archenemy to notice his presence, but after a few minutes, he decided to wait it out. The thief king was bound to see him sooner or later.
Only once, had the blade touched the thief's arm, but once was enough to turn the great pharaoh's stomach.
Oh Ra... The situation only worsened as time progressed. Bakura bled red. Honestly, thought Yami in reminisce; he had thought a thief had only black, poisonous blood. A very rude smirk graced his lips, before fading as the reality of the situation hit him. The thief, his long time enemy, had serious issues.
His train of thought was put to rest, as this personal Hell continued to play. The worst image of the night had yet to come, but the pharaoh felt the climax approach quickly. Bakura's injury was no longer a bloody horizontal line, but a gaping wound with a small pool of the reddish-purple liquid surrounding.
A sharp scream pierced the odd silence ("Fuck!") as drops of blood fell to the floor. The wind had grown stronger within the last few minutes. Atemu's precious hair, along with Bakura's, was a knotted mess, but he did not notice. Bakura stood in a blazing fury, his hair uncontrolled in the harsh winds; blood was everywhere. It would be futile to yell in this weather, Yami knew, so he paused, watching a scene that was bound to haunt him for nights to come.
Bakura turned, still oblivious to his most hated enemy's presence, his features contorted in rage. While his white hair and his ghostly appearance were frightening on their own, Bakura's expertly Egyptian style made-up eyes had narrowed to dangerous extremes. His dark brown eyes turned a grotesque black in comparison to his pale features. His hair whipped at his face, like the wind nipped at Yami's bare arms.
And then, suddenly, a silence lingered. The wind halted with its relentless beating. Bakura quickly regained his wits, but a sharp voice cut through the momentary peace.
"Why?" Both boys were shocked by Yami's almost cruel remark. "Why, Bakura?" He repeated, much softer than the first.
"Ph-pharaoh..." remarked the thief in surprise. A slight anger flashed in his eyes. Lightning streaked the night sky as Yami smirked. This time, the Pharaoh would rein champion.
The silence stretched onward, its limit reached no bounds. Yami sighed softly, his face twisted into an expression of irritability. Righteous deep purple eyes conveyed their all-knowing persona as they narrowed in annoyance. He reserved this look for murder suspects back in the day of his rule.
“Bakura,” stated Yami, his aura reeking of authority, “What caused you to turn down the path of self destruction?” Dark brown eyes stared blankly at the former Pharaoh, as the thief of days long ago, tried, vaguely, to jolt his non-functional brain into working. What? thought Bakura dazedly, what Pharaoh?
“Bakura!”
“Mmm…” was Bakura’s response. Within seconds of this statement, Bakura managed to gather enough mental stimulation from Yami's not so gentle prodding to form a more coherent retort. With his trademark maniacal grin and haughty demeanor, the ancient thief king delivered a reaction worth his former reputation.
Unfortunately, Yami merely waved off Bakura’s inappropriate comments with a slight tilt of his head. Arms crossed and a patronizing scowl marred the Pharaoh’s stoic demeanor.
“I do not need your childish remarks,” Upon hearing these words, Bakura fell silent in anger. Blasted Pharaoh and his bloody holier-than-thou attitude! If anything could infuriate him into a rage of slice and dice, it was the damn Pharaoh.
Even in Egypt when his father had blasted his hometown to shreds. Even this life mocked him, damn Millenium Ring!
Yami continued in his patronizing manner, “You and I need to have a talk.”
Insignificant
"The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain." - Karl Marx
XX
The night air whistled softly, drowning out his quiet exclamations of pain. Stark bleach-white hair contrasted painfully with his midnight black clothing. He gasped in pain,
A lone figure stared, watching the nightmarish scene unfold. This figure, with messy, wind-blown, multi-colored hair had not been prepared for this. Pharaoh's training aside, he was still a human, a human who felt immense fear. The pharaoh of many millennia ago raked a slim, dainty hand through his hand, fully ruining the elaborate hairstyle.
Embarrassing, yes, but he had in fact, spent copious hours in front of the bathroom mirror perfecting his precious hair. After methodically applying a liberal amount of mousse to the sleek mane, Yami, as friends of present referred to him, carefully parted his hair five individual times to ensure the shape of crown. A king, even of games, must have a crown, no?
Yami's musings were quickly forgotten as he watched his enemy, the white haired individual had caused the pharaoh nothing but heartache and misery throughout both of his lives. The almighty pharaoh stood, with trembling knees and a pained facial expression as he watched the other commit a most horrifying act. He's pale, paler than normal, noted Yami blandly.
The white haired boy, terrifying demon-thief of a distant past, had always been pale, regardless of the unmerciful Egyptian sun. His ghastly pallor had remained unchanged for over five million years.
"Bakura!" called Atemu to the thief king, but his words were caught in the now rough winds and carried away in an echo. He had no other option, but to witness Bakura's shameful deed.
Rough calloused hands held the metal object in a near death grip; the thief king stared at the blade with a cool even gaze. To another, he seemed as relaxed as a sleeping infant. He knitted his brows in concentration; his calm expression was quickly replaced with a look of thoughtfulness.
"No!" Sadly, Atemu's cry fell upon deaf ears. The pharaoh seemed to back away in a reluctant defeat. For the first time, since their days in Ancient Egypt, the thief had won; Bakura had been victorious. And so, the pretty, oh so gorgeous, blade completed the unsaid command. Pale flesh immediately gave way.
Bakura's nerves coursed in ecstasy as pain made itself known, focused pain to rise above emotional torment. He could deal. Without warning, although this happened each time, beautiful red beads bubbled to the surface of his skin. The color was of holly berries and freshly painted convertibles - an artist's dream.
But his euphoria quickly faded as more of this intoxicating red liquid came forth. The bright red coloring darkened to a bland, but still beautiful, mauve as the blood gathered. Gravity soon became a pressing factor. An unintentional flick of his wrist sent droplets flying.
"Fuck," the thief bemoaned, than stood, ignoring the rapidly drying bloodstains. His hair was a tangled mess; blood was catching a free ride off into the night, staining the balcony carpeting. He was angry; Bakura was downright pissed. Disgusting, bloody monster! He berated himself silently.
Yami's earlier known shock and repulsion was gone, only to be replaced with great confusion. He waited for his archenemy to notice his presence, but after a few minutes, he decided to wait it out. The thief king was bound to see him sooner or later.
Only once, had the blade touched the thief's arm, but once was enough to turn the great pharaoh's stomach.
Oh Ra... The situation only worsened as time progressed. Bakura bled red. Honestly, thought Yami in reminisce; he had thought a thief had only black, poisonous blood. A very rude smirk graced his lips, before fading as the reality of the situation hit him. The thief, his long time enemy, had serious issues.
His train of thought was put to rest, as this personal Hell continued to play. The worst image of the night had yet to come, but the pharaoh felt the climax approach quickly. Bakura's injury was no longer a bloody horizontal line, but a gaping wound with a small pool of the reddish-purple liquid surrounding.
A sharp scream pierced the odd silence ("Fuck!") as drops of blood fell to the floor. The wind had grown stronger within the last few minutes. Atemu's precious hair, along with Bakura's, was a knotted mess, but he did not notice. Bakura stood in a blazing fury, his hair uncontrolled in the harsh winds; blood was everywhere. It would be futile to yell in this weather, Yami knew, so he paused, watching a scene that was bound to haunt him for nights to come.
Bakura turned, still oblivious to his most hated enemy's presence, his features contorted in rage. While his white hair and his ghostly appearance were frightening on their own, Bakura's expertly Egyptian style made-up eyes had narrowed to dangerous extremes. His dark brown eyes turned a grotesque black in comparison to his pale features. His hair whipped at his face, like the wind nipped at Yami's bare arms.
And then, suddenly, a silence lingered. The wind halted with its relentless beating. Bakura quickly regained his wits, but a sharp voice cut through the momentary peace.
"Why?" Both boys were shocked by Yami's almost cruel remark. "Why, Bakura?" He repeated, much softer than the first.
"Ph-pharaoh..." remarked the thief in surprise. A slight anger flashed in his eyes. Lightning streaked the night sky as Yami smirked. This time, the Pharaoh would rein champion.
The silence stretched onward, its limit reached no bounds. Yami sighed softly, his face twisted into an expression of irritability. Righteous deep purple eyes conveyed their all-knowing persona as they narrowed in annoyance. He reserved this look for murder suspects back in the day of his rule.
“Bakura,” stated Yami, his aura reeking of authority, “What caused you to turn down the path of self destruction?” Dark brown eyes stared blankly at the former Pharaoh, as the thief of days long ago, tried, vaguely, to jolt his non-functional brain into working. What? thought Bakura dazedly, what Pharaoh?
“Bakura!”
“Mmm…” was Bakura’s response. Within seconds of this statement, Bakura managed to gather enough mental stimulation from Yami's not so gentle prodding to form a more coherent retort. With his trademark maniacal grin and haughty demeanor, the ancient thief king delivered a reaction worth his former reputation.
Unfortunately, Yami merely waved off Bakura’s inappropriate comments with a slight tilt of his head. Arms crossed and a patronizing scowl marred the Pharaoh’s stoic demeanor.
“I do not need your childish remarks,” Upon hearing these words, Bakura fell silent in anger. Blasted Pharaoh and his bloody holier-than-thou attitude! If anything could infuriate him into a rage of slice and dice, it was the damn Pharaoh.
Even in Egypt when his father had blasted his hometown to shreds. Even this life mocked him, damn Millenium Ring!
Yami continued in his patronizing manner, “You and I need to have a talk.”