A Good Lie
folder
Yu-Gi-Oh › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,884
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Yu-Gi-Oh › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,884
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own YuGiOh!, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Pt 3
Title: A Good Lie pt 3
Author: Satisfied_Frog
Fandom: Yu Gi Oh
Rating: R (Strong hints of Sex, and Graphic Violence)
Pairing(s): OC/Jou, OC/Mokuba, Seto/Jou,
Disclaimer: Not mine in a sock, not mine on a rock. Not mine under seas, not
mine under a breeze. Not mine now, not mine if I bow.
Summary: To lose someone is terrible. To lose them because of your carelessness
is even worse.
Warning: Take a character or characters, stick them in a psychological breaking
experience, play it through, and see where it goes. Not a Nice fic, though the
person who does the breaking is not the dominant side of the pairing. There is
no sex, but it's alluded to. There is violence alluded to and will be
graphically described. There will be the death of one or more central characters.
AN: This is a short, short installation. You'll see why. I think I've managed to creep myself out for once.
~.~.~.~
Drip.
Cold. He was so cold.
Drip. Something wet made it's way down his back. A tiny crack in the wall let in cold winter air. He shivered. A little bit of weak January light made it's way through the crack to illuminate the cell. A shallow pool of stagnate water lay still and quiet in one coroner; the floor slopped downwards to that pool of water. The thin, pale moon fought to illuminate the cell, but could only touch a tiny sliver of it - the pool rippled at every drop.
Drip. Everything was cold and wet. The floor, the walls, everything. There was thick, clammy green moss growinig on the wall behind him, soaking up the water coming down. In another few decades nature would reclaim the walls of stone, gently bringing them down with the thick moss in an unrelenting, grim fashion. There were pictures of the old jungle temples in South America where the Aztec, Mayan and others had sacrificed humans to their blood thirsty gods. The experts said at one time, the stone work had run heart's blood red with the sacrifices made. Over time, nature had reclaimed the temples, turning them into true monuments of the dead. A hysterical sound bubbled up through his throat. Is that what fate had in store for him? Would he be discovered centuries later, curled up in a cornor, moss growing through him, crushed by stones?
Drip. He'd never see it at least. It was so dark he wondered how the moss could grow in this tiny prison of his. Every so often he could see a small ripple across the pool, hinting at it's depths. Was it deep? Or shallow. He couldn't tell. The darkness made it look fathomless, as if he was trying to stare into the very bowels of the world. Did Captain Ahab feel the same as he watched the boiling seas during his hunts of the great White Whale? No mortal could understand the sacred secrets held in the blackest depths of the world, but staring at that little pool, he thought he could understand something of it. The black pool ate the sliver of moonlight and left nothing else to be seen.
Drip.
Drip.
How long had he been here? A day? An hour? A few moments? His sense of time was off. Hunger distantly echoed, but the pain in his legs and head throbbed too bright and sharp for him to care. One time, he remembered, sitting, waiting, for something, he'd asked Yami what being dead was like. If the Afterlife and Underworld were really like what the stories said they were. Yami had gone quiet, and still. "It was...everything and nothing," had come long after he'd thought he'd mortally offended Yugi's dark. The sound of Yami's voice, his whole body language was so dead, he'd never worked up the courage to ask what he meant - or any one else. Right now he wished he had asked.
Drip.
Hell, he remembered learning was different for everyone. The Inuit of North America thought Hell was a frozen wasteland. The people of the Middle East - a raging firey hell.
Drip.
He wondered what it said about him that Hell was turning out to be a cold, wet, dark prison cell.
Drip.
~.~.~.~.~
The police, Seto decided, were useless. He'd long since sent Mokuba home against the desires of the incomptent morons. The police kept verbally going in circles. They had to respect the rights of the sociopath, but they needed him to tell them where the mutt was. It'd been ten hours since Mokuba had stumbled into a bus station, covered in blood and dirt, shaking in terror. It had taken him an hour for them to take him seriously - an hour in which Seto hadn't been notified of his brother's plight. An hour in which Mokuba had to sit in a small room, still mud covered and with blood everywhere. Seto fully intended to have someone's life for that.
It'd been six hours since they'd found out that Jou had traded himself for Mokuba's freedom.
3 since the Police had found the man responsible for it all. He'd been more then happy to talk to a point, rambling on about how he only took those the cards told him to. How he'd confused Mokuba for Death, but it'd really been Jou. He sat there smiling gently at the officer questioning him like an old, gentle grandfather, calmly laying out his crimes as if talking about the weather.
Seto felt like there was a clock, hanging in front of him, ticking down to a conclusion - Jou is Dead Now. He couldn't hit pause, rewind, or stop it. The numbers were flashing, faster and faster, and he had no control. He hated not being in control. The clock was ticking faster and he could do nothing. This wasn't a game, it worse then a game, any game, even Pegasus's fucked up little mockery of a game.
He paced in the room, trench coat snapping behind him. Ten steps to the wall, sharp pivot, another 15 to the next pale green wall. Ten steps, 15 steps. The clock ticked. The sound of people working drifted through the open door, the sounds of searchs being coordinated, phones being answered. Someone jogged past the door. Seto heard the sound of a K-9 running along side the sharp steps. toenails clicking a static pattern against concrete. A dog to find the mutt. How appropriate. The overhead light buzzed and he made another sharp turn.
How dare he! How dare he touch what was Seto's. His anger boiled up, choking him and he turned to the wall and slammed his fist into it. A thin spider web of blood crinkled up on his hand and he didn't care for once in his pathetic life.
~.~.~.~.~
The muffled sound of a furious voice made it's way to his ears.
The man smiled to himself as he looked down at his cup. His prize was safe now. Safe from all who would see it's beauty and steal it for himself; no one would be able to touch it now. This one was better then the rest, he saw that now. The Other wasn't worthy of being his prize. Only this one was. How else could he explain the perfect circumstance?
Gold was better then Ebony. The light wins over the dark and life is better then death.
He looked into the single way window and smiled again. No one would ever find his prize.
Not even God himself.
Author: Satisfied_Frog
Fandom: Yu Gi Oh
Rating: R (Strong hints of Sex, and Graphic Violence)
Pairing(s): OC/Jou, OC/Mokuba, Seto/Jou,
Disclaimer: Not mine in a sock, not mine on a rock. Not mine under seas, not
mine under a breeze. Not mine now, not mine if I bow.
Summary: To lose someone is terrible. To lose them because of your carelessness
is even worse.
Warning: Take a character or characters, stick them in a psychological breaking
experience, play it through, and see where it goes. Not a Nice fic, though the
person who does the breaking is not the dominant side of the pairing. There is
no sex, but it's alluded to. There is violence alluded to and will be
graphically described. There will be the death of one or more central characters.
AN: This is a short, short installation. You'll see why. I think I've managed to creep myself out for once.
~.~.~.~
Drip.
Cold. He was so cold.
Drip. Something wet made it's way down his back. A tiny crack in the wall let in cold winter air. He shivered. A little bit of weak January light made it's way through the crack to illuminate the cell. A shallow pool of stagnate water lay still and quiet in one coroner; the floor slopped downwards to that pool of water. The thin, pale moon fought to illuminate the cell, but could only touch a tiny sliver of it - the pool rippled at every drop.
Drip. Everything was cold and wet. The floor, the walls, everything. There was thick, clammy green moss growinig on the wall behind him, soaking up the water coming down. In another few decades nature would reclaim the walls of stone, gently bringing them down with the thick moss in an unrelenting, grim fashion. There were pictures of the old jungle temples in South America where the Aztec, Mayan and others had sacrificed humans to their blood thirsty gods. The experts said at one time, the stone work had run heart's blood red with the sacrifices made. Over time, nature had reclaimed the temples, turning them into true monuments of the dead. A hysterical sound bubbled up through his throat. Is that what fate had in store for him? Would he be discovered centuries later, curled up in a cornor, moss growing through him, crushed by stones?
Drip. He'd never see it at least. It was so dark he wondered how the moss could grow in this tiny prison of his. Every so often he could see a small ripple across the pool, hinting at it's depths. Was it deep? Or shallow. He couldn't tell. The darkness made it look fathomless, as if he was trying to stare into the very bowels of the world. Did Captain Ahab feel the same as he watched the boiling seas during his hunts of the great White Whale? No mortal could understand the sacred secrets held in the blackest depths of the world, but staring at that little pool, he thought he could understand something of it. The black pool ate the sliver of moonlight and left nothing else to be seen.
Drip.
Drip.
How long had he been here? A day? An hour? A few moments? His sense of time was off. Hunger distantly echoed, but the pain in his legs and head throbbed too bright and sharp for him to care. One time, he remembered, sitting, waiting, for something, he'd asked Yami what being dead was like. If the Afterlife and Underworld were really like what the stories said they were. Yami had gone quiet, and still. "It was...everything and nothing," had come long after he'd thought he'd mortally offended Yugi's dark. The sound of Yami's voice, his whole body language was so dead, he'd never worked up the courage to ask what he meant - or any one else. Right now he wished he had asked.
Drip.
Hell, he remembered learning was different for everyone. The Inuit of North America thought Hell was a frozen wasteland. The people of the Middle East - a raging firey hell.
Drip.
He wondered what it said about him that Hell was turning out to be a cold, wet, dark prison cell.
Drip.
~.~.~.~.~
The police, Seto decided, were useless. He'd long since sent Mokuba home against the desires of the incomptent morons. The police kept verbally going in circles. They had to respect the rights of the sociopath, but they needed him to tell them where the mutt was. It'd been ten hours since Mokuba had stumbled into a bus station, covered in blood and dirt, shaking in terror. It had taken him an hour for them to take him seriously - an hour in which Seto hadn't been notified of his brother's plight. An hour in which Mokuba had to sit in a small room, still mud covered and with blood everywhere. Seto fully intended to have someone's life for that.
It'd been six hours since they'd found out that Jou had traded himself for Mokuba's freedom.
3 since the Police had found the man responsible for it all. He'd been more then happy to talk to a point, rambling on about how he only took those the cards told him to. How he'd confused Mokuba for Death, but it'd really been Jou. He sat there smiling gently at the officer questioning him like an old, gentle grandfather, calmly laying out his crimes as if talking about the weather.
Seto felt like there was a clock, hanging in front of him, ticking down to a conclusion - Jou is Dead Now. He couldn't hit pause, rewind, or stop it. The numbers were flashing, faster and faster, and he had no control. He hated not being in control. The clock was ticking faster and he could do nothing. This wasn't a game, it worse then a game, any game, even Pegasus's fucked up little mockery of a game.
He paced in the room, trench coat snapping behind him. Ten steps to the wall, sharp pivot, another 15 to the next pale green wall. Ten steps, 15 steps. The clock ticked. The sound of people working drifted through the open door, the sounds of searchs being coordinated, phones being answered. Someone jogged past the door. Seto heard the sound of a K-9 running along side the sharp steps. toenails clicking a static pattern against concrete. A dog to find the mutt. How appropriate. The overhead light buzzed and he made another sharp turn.
How dare he! How dare he touch what was Seto's. His anger boiled up, choking him and he turned to the wall and slammed his fist into it. A thin spider web of blood crinkled up on his hand and he didn't care for once in his pathetic life.
~.~.~.~.~
The muffled sound of a furious voice made it's way to his ears.
The man smiled to himself as he looked down at his cup. His prize was safe now. Safe from all who would see it's beauty and steal it for himself; no one would be able to touch it now. This one was better then the rest, he saw that now. The Other wasn't worthy of being his prize. Only this one was. How else could he explain the perfect circumstance?
Gold was better then Ebony. The light wins over the dark and life is better then death.
He looked into the single way window and smiled again. No one would ever find his prize.
Not even God himself.