A/N: One of the most randomly sadistic things I have ever written. And only Bakura if you look reeeeeeally close. So blame Liz, 'cause she made me post it on FF. XD

Bakura (C) Kazuki Takahashi

-o-

It couldn't have been more obvious that she hated him.

On the other hand, that was perfectly alright, because he hated her, too. It was the reason he had left her bleeding, broken—dying—in the sand.

He had to admit, though. There was something different about her. Something more alluring about the dancing rivers of crimson that stole her life from her.

So even as he walked away, he turned around and went back. He bandaged her wounds, wrapped her in blankets—all so he could kill her again.

He leaned close enough to her battered body that scarlet kissed the ends of his pale hair when she bled; but when she screamed, it was no louder than a whisper, a breath of agony, and his greatest desire in that moment was to hear it. To do that, he needed to be close.

Or that was his excuse.

After a while, he could no longer wash the blood out of his hair; after a while, he no longer tried. It stained his dark skin, too, in intricate tattoos that caused pain only to her, not him. He carried her lifesblood with him everywhere, and so carried her.

She asked him his name once, and a thrill ran through him; when, mockingly, he told her, she spat it back at him with a thousand curses and oaths of vengeance. He couldn't help it; laughing, taunting, he threw the words back in promises of blood and agony and death before she could do anything she desired.

And when he returned one night—from the water that could no longer take her from him ever—to find her half-standing, scarlet spreading across ivory bandages as she struggled not to fall, he was pleased. Pleased. A ridiculous emotion to feel in such a situation.

Clever, he told her, especially when he found the knife in her hand, though she was too weak to wield it. I never thought I'd have to tie you down.

She snarled wordlessly—almost soundlessly, too, and he moved closer, smirking, to catch the whispered hum of anger. He saw tears—and he knew they were tears of determination, not capitulation—glittering across her smudged and bloody face, and then her strength failed, and he caught her as she fell.

And he laughed, and loved it, and resented her defiance deep down inside. She was supposed to give in. She was supposed to submit.

He hated her.

But the cool warmth—contradictory, perhaps, but so true—of her blood on his rough skin… That he loved. That he wanted more of.

She wasn't immortal, though, and he knew it. Eventually, the carmine rivers would cease to flow, and he would be left alone again, but for the stains that marked his hands and hair.

So while she silently screamed, he leaned in close, twisting the blade in her flesh, he granted her a wish. And still she defied him. She didn't beg, Kill me.

She hissed for his death.