I made my fic title match rohanfox's because I love her. Happy belated birthday like woah even though this is BS.

(And holy God did I really just write thiefshipping? You can all die of joy now.)

My original idea for the was to take the sexy out of vampires and make them all gross, but I don't even know what it turned into. Also what are canon characterizations lol.

(Don't fret if this doesn't make a drop of sense to you, darlings. I'm a sick freak, after all. The POV switches between Malik and Bakura, so try to keep up~)

He's choking on excess bits of nails. Hairs catch in between his teeth. Regurgitates it a bit on the pavement. Red and bright and shiny like a liquefied Christmas present. This is the color of his ripe stinking bile.

A spring in his step and a graveyard at his feet, he lights a cigarette.

The sound of his lighter smacking against itself and burning away in a heavy fit of chemicals is hard and sharp. Crack like a whip of lightning. Or a bat to the base of the skull.

(But he could never kill in such an eloquent way. No, never. And he could certainly never do it with an air of neatness.)

He can smell the smoke and it curls up against him and rubs itself all over his whitewhite skin like a baby to its mother and Bakura laughs, because if he had a fucking kid he'd name it Cancer.

After ridding his body of the useless human proteins, he returns to his work. His masterpiece. Sucking in chemicals and trying to feel warmth but failing at it like he is wont to do, he shuffles about, trying to kill himself in every way possible yet always failing. Things you want are always hard to get to, even if you'd think a noose or some cyanide or a good slit to the throat would finish the job.

But no. Never.

And he's reminded of this as he coughs up hunks of decaying flesh. Exhales hot breaths of toxins and despair, only to inhale the musk of blood and death. After five fucking thousand years you think he'd remember what it feels like to be dead, but his body is still all lilies and softness and virginity so he can't help himself.

(This is how knives always find themselves to his throat. Twists and turns them into his skin like a whore arching and gasping and shaking and she wants more and he stabs deeper until nothing comes out. No red, no crimson, no blood. Just the hot stink of graveyard and rotting and death and a lack of existence.)

He flicks his cigarette to the ground, hoping it will cause his victim's hair to catch fire.

It doesn't. Just goes out against the damp pavement.

...

His glittery eyes split open, and his cracked fingers curl in my direction. This is how I know the little boy watches, and that he sees far too much.

In the back of the bar, I'm all cigarette smoke and death, nursing my drink to life. It sloshes around in its empty hole of a home, and I can't help but think of my insides as it slips down my throat and twists around my esophagus and it should burn at me but it doesn't. He fidgets. Squirms a bit, tightens his grip on his glass, and he's hoping I don't notice, but I do. With that dark skin and those bright eyes and he's so colorful and I am black and white and gray and spite and I take another sip.

I slide the empty shell of my alcoholic debauchery back towards the bartender before deciding to crawl out of this shithole and into a dark alley for a night's refuge.

(Because that's the sort of scum I am, the kind that sticks to sordid walls and dead rats and garbage and garbage and garbage. Bright Eyes and I make eye contact and he smiles and I know he doesn't know this, so I get the fuck up and leave.)

..

His body's stuffed with it.

Weaving in and out of his mummified veins, clogging his insides. He's full of shit, and we might as well mean that literally.

Black. Dark. Empty, whatever label you'd like to throw on it. Wicked and smooth and sharp in all of the wrong ways. He's hungry and he's evil. And when he bites it's nothing but heat and teeth and anger and the monstrous evil bits are spilling out of him. They tear at the seams and you can hear them calling out, let us go let us go, and he doesn't know why he isn't just setting them free.

He's got his fingers—claws, talons, demons—wound up in this corpse's hair and he pulls and twists and dances it around him, trying to lose his wicked nails in the mess. He must hate himself, and he can't show it, not too much, but he can still sit here with some woman's skin in his hands trying to drown himself in her blood or choke himself with her intestines.

(Be my noose, he whispers to Death, kill me. Be my end. My finality. Please let it end. And it won't end and he knows it. So he sinks his fangs into her shoulder.)

He's never learned how to do this, not the right way, so when he drinks he eats along with it like any good civilized human gentleman would. Steak with wine as he bites down on her cheek and sucks her blood. You don't forget things like this, he thinks, you will always remember how to eat and breathe and live. But you remember how to burn and destroy and bite twice as much, and so he does.

His teeth smack against bone and he knows he's gone too far.

So he rips in further.

..

And that boy came to see me today. He was stupid enough to waltz across the room and sit down next to me and say hello and offer me a cigarette, and he's just broken himself to pieces and I fucking love that.

He's got this something about him. It's in the eyes, I think. Wide and purple and watching and judging. Doesn't say much, but he thinks. I can just tell. That stereotypical writer-type that sits in the dark and doesn't talk to people but observes them. As he observes me, I snatch up the cigarette, and ask him, what the fuck do you even want?

Cracking his eyelids, he smiles like I'm playing his game. He thinks I'm doing what he wants, the fucker. Sitting like the cat with the cream he thinks he knows how these things work, like he's a manipulative little shit.

I want to hold him down and spit blood in his face and tell him how you don't grow to be a God in just twenty years and fuck him to death and make love to his insides, but instead I watch him watch me.

Nothing, says it all calm and cute like a Saint, you just seem lonely.

(I could break his nose, I could.)

Well I'm not, I say and I lick my teeth all predator-like because I pretend like an animal whenever I forget that I am one.

He just smiles all soft. Soft like white and my skin and my hair and he sips his drink. I suck in smoke and try to poison myself even though I know it won't work, but I blow the smoke into his face and smirk hoping it'll make him die all the more quickly.

(I could break his entire body, I could.)

...

He doesn't even realize how mesmerizing he is. Clawing at the alley walls like a caged animal. He squeezes into every the scene in a perfectly imperfect sort of way, and when he goes to cutcutcut himself up he doesn't bleed. Never bleeds.

He tries to curl himself up and fit himself somewhere neat and tidy, and he's painting a picture of belonging only he's using all the wrong colors.

He's got his clothes all torn up and they're dirty and messy like his hair and his everything. Kissing the pavement he whispers something about life or death or blood while his stomach rumbles. He'd be all hot all over if he weren't so cold and he sinks his claws to the dirt and tries to find some scrap of something to hold onto.

For the first night in a while, he is without a companion, and god damn does it feel lonely.

He tries to tell himself that it's all hunger and desperation, but he knows there's more. The blood and guts may make him feel all warm and sticky and he's blessed if he can feel that much anymore, but there's more. He needs to destroy to create. If his fingernails aren't laced in between skin or hair or innards then they're stuck drifting through nothing. Empty, he calls it, throwing a little piece of himself to the air around him. It catches onto his breathless (and that's very literal) word and goes for it like a dog, cutting him open and stuffing him with lonesome.

He might've even cried, if he had anything besides dust in that body of his.

...

I didn't even go to the bar that night. I purposefully avoided it, because that kid is always there. Day after day. And his eyes seem to get brighter and wider every time I see him and it would scare me if it could.

And he just sits there and looks at me. Always. Listens. I tell him shit sometimes, yeah, but nothing important. Nothing real, and I swear I can see him taking notes behind those big fat eyeballs of his. They're so shiny and round. This little boy stares too much and too hard.

(When he blinks, I want to kiss his eyelids and thank them for giving me a moment's peace.)

So I don't go there. I don't want to, don't need to. I sit in my alley and it is lonely but in a soft and reassuring sort of way. I don't like frequenting bars much, regardless. All of those beating hearts depress me.

So I catch my sighs to myself and let my body slump to a corner in a lifeless heap. The sun is so motherfucking bright and I'm so motherfucking hungry but I can't move for the life (hahahahaha) of me.

And he still found me, the bastard.

Running his fingers along the dirty walls, he smiles that smile and I hate it. What are you up to? He asks me, cigarette hanging from his lip, it's unlit and it looks awkward just sitting there doing nothing. Like an awkward white waste of matter, and I try not to look at my reflection in a sordid puddle and laugh.

For once, I decide to quiet myself. He doesn't need to know, and he's probably come up with some fucked up explanation to satisfy his needs. I stand, sticking to the shadows, as I try to escape his questions and his presence but always most of all that gaze.

Go, I mumble. It sounds weak to my own ears and my pride finds itself dying a bit.

But he does. Tosses the unlit cigarette at my feet and turns, like he thinks I'm going to smoke the fucking thing even though it's tainted by dirt and twice as much by his saliva. Walks away all slowly and dramatic-like.

And my fingers twitch like dying spiders, but I pick it up and I light it.

...

He fucks like a monster.

It's all bent and hurt and broken. Angles and sharp points and they stabstabstab. Fingernails and teeth might as well be the same things because they're so twisted and deep and he grabs for golden skin and pulls harder than he should, but nothing less can be expected of this.

(There's this quote. Hours before he fell, Lucifer sat beside God and thought him to be beautiful.)

He's the perfect villain, everything about him is flawless. When he grabs for the boy's hands he might as well be tying him to train tracks, and when he kisses up his neck he might as well be dissecting it. His skin is smooth and white and it looks gorgeous next to blood and bruises and colors like love just fade out and wash away against the pale background. Shoving his tongue to the little boy's mouth, he violates him and it's so wrong and the baby boy almost wishes he could drop dead right then and there just so he can give up his body to this madman and let Bakura eat him whole.

He whimpers and it sounds like a moan so the demon bites him and tells him to shut the fuck up.

And when he moves, the boy feels like he's being fucked be Hell itself. Hot and raw. And there's just too much. Too much. He's pulling and grabbing and biting and dancing and it's like they're trying to pull each other together into one single entity. The boy's neck snaps and cracks as he pulls it backwards and offers it up like a sacrificial lamb.

The animal is licking the skin and kissing it and biting it but never too hard or too much, and he wants to. Oh does he want to. Bite and bite and bite and sink himself into the tangled chords of throat and twisted muscle and eat up the kid's vocal chords so he never has to hear the fucker say you seem lonely ever again.

(That little fucking idiot? He and I are one in the same, but this isn't about that. This is about hot breath down my neck and this Monster Man and he dances like a witch and I need this I need this IneedthisIneed.)

They tumble into oblivion, like hot wicked sinners, and their lips meet and everything is white because it feels good and Bakura is all emptiness and puffy clouds and vanilla beans. Except for the fact that no, he isn't, and that's why it's all delicious.

Licking sweat off Malik's skin, the devil whispers, but the little boy doesn't remember what he says.

…

If it turns out that I'm in love with him, I'll kill myself.

My lips twist at the thought of Death, and I suck in more cigarette smoke.

He's sitting next to me. Fucking watching, and he knows I know but I'm pretending like I don't care. He laughs, just a bit, rubbing his neck and cracking his bones. He looks very appetizing, but I know it's stupid. Someone would notice, I think, even though this kid is asking for it. Every cell inside of him is crying out to me and they're all begging, fuck me eat me kill me, and I don't know why I'm not obliging them.

That was fun, he tells me like I haven't just broken him up into little pieces. I scoff, turning my head, and there's no blood to flush my cheeks even though there shouldn't be.

I tell him to fuck off, because that's the sort of thing that I do when I'm not destroying everything I touch, and he smiles just a bit. Grabs at the collar of my ripped up shirt and smashes his mouth to mine. It feels like nothingness, I know it does, so I push him away.

He waves condescendingly as he walks away, and I beat myself up about it.

If it turns out that I'm in love with him, I'll kill myself.

..

And the bruises on the little boy's arms tell him he's gone too far, but he still steps closer.

Bakura, he says, spreading his arms like he's going to embrace the beast, please. And the white-haired thing just crawls away like a caged animal because, no i will not eat you i will not kill you i will never ever love you.

(Neither of them know why this is.)

He's got blood rushing out of his golden skin and he's holding it out and he wants the monster to take it. Let me hurt for you, let me bleed for you, let me die because you can't. And Bakura isn't sure when the kid discovered his secret, because the kid isn't sure when he did either, but he won't take the crimson that's pouring out of him in rivers.

No, no, no. They're both fighting but it's all words and no fists and no guts and Bakura doesn't remember how this is done. He remembers eating and drinking and fucking because he's an animal and animal's don't forget these things, but people have emotions in the back of their pockets (where they can keep them close, but always forget that they're there and sit down on them) and demons don't remember any of this.

And Malik tells him, kiss me, and Bakura tells him no.

So the little boy sinks his fingers into himself and claws more and it smells like metal and the air around them tastes like everything. Dirt, spite, spit, guts.

And no,Bakura says again. No. No. No.

(How many people have to die before I get my turn, his eyes sparkle with the question.)

So I split my lips, and I answer for him. He doesn't know what I know so I speak clearly and softly.

Holy water splashes his skin.

He turns to ash.

The dirt at my feet, just like that.

(Never hears my answer.)