Bakura was like a drug. An addiction. A violent and painful obsession, a harsh and desperate craving, a lustful primitive want that wouldn't go away until it was satisfied. And satisfaction wasn't something that came easy.

It had been such a long time that Bakura had been invading his room at night that he'd come to need it, want it and depend on it. It wasn't just the sex, though that was definitely a large part of it – it was that someone wanted him and needed him.

Bakura always came to him. Always. He never sought out the pale teenager. Never. To hunt him down was giving in, and he just didn't give in. He refused. He wouldn't.

Because if he did, he'd lose. It wasn't a game, but he'd lose anyhow.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. He knew he wasn't the type to look for the clichéd fairy-tale love, with the happy ending and the overly sweet joy that never really happened. He didn't care for the clingy, 'I-depend-on-you' concept – he was too independent to willingly be anchored by a ball and chain. And what was the point of the generic concept of love? The boring 'good morning', 'good evening', and 'I love you'? Energy could be better spent watching paint dry.

He hadn't known he'd come to enjoy this cruel, bruising, 'I loved you then so I love you now' version. This 'I'll hurt you because you made me wait' and 'I'm going to punish you because you're resisting'. This hurting.

Sometimes he was tempted – oh so tempted – to fight back, to be the one dealing the pain, just to see how Bakura would react. Maybe he'd be scared, and stop coming. Unlikely. Maybe he'd roll over and accept it. Hah. That was so ridiculous it was laughable. Maybe he'd scream.

Screaming was likely. Maybe once, just once, he'd scream, instead of the other way around. Maybe once, Bakura would be screaming his name. Seto. Seto!

What a delightful concept.