A wild update appears. I kind of made Bakura a pansy (by my sick standards, at least.)

Enjoy the horrific finale of my one and only completed chaptered story.

I love the way that you laugh.

In the most unsentimental sense possible, of course. It isn't as though I have the human capabilities to actually feel things like love. Guilt. Remorse. Fondness. Anything, really, outside of hatred.

But when something goes wrong—ohso deliciously wrong—you laugh. Maybe it's a nervous habit. Maybe you can't cope with things normally. Maybe you just get this sick sadomasochistic thrill out of experiencing pain and death and failure. But you laugh. Always. Ahahahahahhhaha.

It's like music to my fucking ears, I swear to the Gods. Better than the crack of bones breaking and the slrrp of organs squishing around inside the rotting cage of a corpse. Better than the sweet, hot, noise of flesh on flesh and the harder faster more—oh.

It's a maniacal little sound, it is. It vibrates off the walls with such madness and repressed hatred and someone had Daddy issues, didn't they?

(I never knew my father very well. Only knew his cremated ashes that smeared on my tan skin as I ranranran away from my home sweet home.)

And I know that you were tortured, Malik. I know that you're a hurt little boy, and maybe I care about that more than I know. Maybe my golden coffin had kept me locked away for just a bit too long and now I've decayed too far. Maybe I'm even less mutated and mangled than I think I am. Maybe I can feel and love and hate and regret like a normal non-demonic human being.

Or maybe I'm just a sick, sick, sick fuck. And you were stupid enough to fall in love with me.

And don't even try to lie to me, Malik. With those big purple eyes and that sickly sweet smile and I can see right through you. I know when you're lying and you're hiding something and when I breathe loving lies into your ears and we both know I'm deceiving you, I know that you want me to be telling the truth.

"I love you," and sometimes I wonder why you haven't shoved the Millennium Rod into my host's skull yet.

(Sometimes I think that in between all the blood and the hatred and the sex that we've forgotten that this body isn't mine. So maybe you haven't killed me yet because you can't. I'm going to live forever, little Malik, and there's not a thing you can do to stop the heart that I don't even have from beating.)

I'd be fairly indifferent on the whole matter if you were to slaughter my host, actually.

That psychotic look in your eyes and the burning orange in your hand says that you just may do exactly that.

Bakura, you say to me. Knowing that it's me and not a pale, soft, innocent reflection of myself. I'm going to kill you now. And you laugh, and I almost lie down across the stained sheets and offer myself to you. Just so I can hear your sweet cackling lull me into my eternal sleep for another 3,000 years.

You want to kill me with fire, judging by the burning match in your hand and the psychotic grin that's painted itself across your countenance, and I can't help but find that poetic in some way. My host is the first thing that I've cared about in any sort of way since my village was killedburneddestroyed by a million dancing flames, so it's only fair that he goes down in the same fashion.

Pardon my hypocrisy, for it's not as though I give two shits about the well-being of Ryou Bakura, but he's the first living breathing thing that's been able to live with my evil tainting his mind. I thank him for this.

So I tell you calmly. Malik, no. You're not going to kill me. You can't. And the look on your prettypretty face is just so very indignant. You're offended. The look in your lavender eyes screams, I can kill whomever I damn well please.

But not me, Bakura, not me because I will fucking live forever.

You can destroy my host, but I won't die.

And the fire is eating the match so quickly that the wood is burned down to the bottom. It's scalding your bronze fingertips. You put it out.

You couldn't kill me even if I wanted you to.

After 3,000 years of vengeance and hatred, death couldn't be all that bad.