Disclaimer: I do not own Yu Gi Oh! or any of its' affiliates. Anything that you recognise is property of its respective owners. Any relations to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Base/s: Yu Gi Oh!

Title: Little China Princess

Summary: It irked her that none of them saw the truth. That even before he had revealed his darker side, he had been a villain. Dark. Manipulashipping.

Music used for inspiration: Clubbed to Death - Escala, Widow's Harbour - Nox Arcana

She watches as he sits, quietly, in a corner. He's half hidden in the shadows, out of the way, but just within her notice. She steals looks whenever she can, her eyes following the way he steps into the background and out of their minds with practiced, graceful ease.

He is unpredictable in the worst way, she knows. He doesn't show temper around her now, but she sees the steel in his smile when Joey taunts him or Tristan mutters something when he gets close enough. She also knows that he is more than silk and pretty eyes and smooth words that flow from a forked tongue; that behind it all there's something else. Something that makes him so very different from them all, and that carves out a great yawning chasm between them.

She sees him brush an errant strand of light, sandy blonde hair out of his eyes (she wonders if it's a soft as it looks) as he watches them and finds her attention drawn to his hands. She feels her stomach roll and she swallows. Those hands were covered in blood. It glistens on his bronze skin and is slick between his long fingers. She watches as he brings one hand to his lips and brushes a wayward something from his mouth, smearing his skin red as his eyes follow Yugi's movements.

She sees those hands gently curl in his lap as he sits, poised and yet sprawled against a wall. The others are loud but the sound filters through to her as though she's underwater.

(She ponders on how those deceptively gentle looking fingers would feel against her own pale skin)

She knows his story. Of how he had never seen the sky of felt the sun on his skin until he was eleven years old. Of how his own father had tortured him and his brother and of how he'd been consigned to an eternity of darkness and pain. She felt guilty when she realised she couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for him. Not anymore. After all, he'd killed his own father when he was barely twelve. He'd used his brother for his own ends and thrown away more human lives than she cared to know about for his experiments. She was sure he thought of the mind as just another toy to play with before discarding when it broke.

But her friends never seem to remember that. She would have expected that from Yugi, who can't hold a grudge to save his life (and she has the horrible feeling it just might) but she had a half hope Joey and Tristan might treat him differently. They do, but they treat him like they treat Kaiba, someone who they sometimes clash with, but whom they consider somewhat of a friend.

But Kaiba hasn't taken over their minds and made them duel to the death for her life. Kaiba hasn't lied in order to get closer to them. Kaiba isn't so cruel. Kaiba isn't a sociopath who covered himself in webs of pretty words to hide it from the world.

Kaiba's hands aren't slick and dripping with fresh, warm blood of those he's killed.

She drew in a sudden, harsh breath when she sees his eyes flicker to her and catch with her own. His expression is genial and he's giving her a tiny smile, but there's shadows in his violet eyes and she likes to think she can see through them.

He's tainted. Stained a filthy black that once might have been a lighter colour, but she can't see it now. And the smile that others might think of as amiable is tinged with madness and to her, is more like the baring of sharp teeth in a vague mockery of twisted humour. She feared his Yami when he'd been unleashed. That fear was sharp, cold and made her loose her breath. Made her stumble to get away. This fear is muted, soft, but still so very tangible, as though she is always on edge, waiting for something to occur. She thinks it's almost worse.

He cocks his head to the side, still smiling and she wants to tear her eyes away but she can't, so she surrenders to the look and hopes she'll surface unharmed.

And then, as quick as his look trapped her, he looks away and his scarlet smile widens at something someone has said. He doesn't say anything, but they know he's there, just on the fringes. Harmless.

And so she tries to ignore his presence that fills the room with a heavy air that only she can feel, and at the same time watch his movements out of the corner of her eye.

As she walks home in the twilight, she unconsciously pulls her coat tighter around her to ward of the chill and quickens her pace, her eyes fixed firmly on the gray pavement.

She can hear the muted sounds of the main road not so far away, and the rapping of her footsteps on the grubby, uniform sidewalk.

There's something, or rather somebody, standing casually behind a protruding tree, she can see their shadow. Thinking it merely someone sneaking out for a breath of air or a cigarette, she ignores them but clenches her fists inside her pocket and speeds up her pace.

As she passes them without incident, she begins to relax, only to bite back a scream when she realises they have fallen in step beside her and a streetlight illuminates their face.

There was no way he could possibly have been waiting for her. She had left early and he had still been half sprawled on the floor, lazily following the conversation when she'd left.

She feels herself swallow painfully around the lump in her throat.

"O-oh, hello Marik." She greets, trying to keep her voice steady. "I didn't know it was you."

He smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly at the motion. She bites her lip.

"I- um. Did you want something?" she asks, before wincing at her tone. To her relief and trepidation, he laughs softly.

"Many things, but only one of which I'll acquire tonight I think." He says amiably, as they keep walking.

"Oh." She mumbles and thinks herself silly for it. She continues, trying to keep him talking because if he's talking, he's not doing anything else. "W-what is it you want this evening then?"

"Just a talk is all." He says airily. "With you, in fact."

She makes a funny sound in the back of her throat and hopes it sounds like an invitation to continue.

He takes the opportunity and speaks again.

"You see, I've noticed something." He begins and she forces herself to raise her head and make a questioning noise. Inside, she's feeling her gut twist itself painfully as nerves build. "You seem a little... edgy, when I'm near. I don't want that, now do I?"

She wrings her hands together and makes her legs keep moving. He's keeping pace beside her, looking for all the world like he belongs there.

"S-sorry." She mutters, half choking on the lump in her throat. She's so distracted, she stumbles on a loose paving slab. In a flash, long fingers are wrapped around her upper limb and he's looking at her in concern. She fancies she can feel that hot, wet blood coat her arm and dribble down her skin, catching on the hairs there. She suddenly feels as light as a balloon and twice as fragile, despite the leaden weight in her stomach.

"Are you alright?" he asks and she applauds him for the sincerity present in his face.

"Yes, I'm fine." She says quickly, retaking her arm back and hurriedly continuing to walk. He catches up to her with easy, loping strides. She curses the road for being so damn long, and herself for leaving so late when she lived so far away.

"So," he says, looking ahead. "Why are you so nervous around me? He's long gone you know."

She clenches her teeth.

"I know." She says, and doesn't expand. He raises a single eyebrow.

"So...?"

She pauses in her walking and turns to him, eyes flashing. She hates him for making her feel so weak, like some little creature running scared.

"So, I know your game Marik." She spits, masking her anxiety with impotent fury.

His eyes glimmer in the darkening twilight as he cocks his head to the side, that tiny smile still playing about his mouth.

"Is that so?"

She bares her own teeth and narrows her eyes, balling her fists at her side.

"Yes, it is so." She mocks, her nails digging into her palms. "You're playing us."

He chuckles and she loathes that he's standing so casually.

"You overestimate me, little doll." He says airily and she bites back an indignant choke.

"What did you call me?" she demands, taking a subconscious step back when he takes one forward.

His smile widens and she catches a glimpse of white teeth, contrasting against the darkness of his skin and the crimson stain of his mouth.

(She shudders when she thinks of those lips pressing against her own so easily broken skin)

She almost expects those canines to be sharp enough to pierce her flesh.

"Just a pet name, little doll."

For some reason, the word 'pet' sends a thrill running through her body, accompanying the rush of loathing and repulsion.

"You disgust me." She bites out, a half sob catching in her throat.

He moves closer with a slow, measured step and she finds herself stumbling back, only to have her back hit the solid brick wall behind her. Her eyes darting to the side, she dashes away from him and into the mouth of an alley. She knows this place better than most and far better than he, she thinks, and hopes to lose him in the rabbit warren of passages that pervade this part of Domino City.

But she gets only a meter or so ahead before slender fingers that bely their strength wrap around her upper arm and pull her back. Her back connects with the scrubbed wall and he's suddenly very close. Her breath catches and she begins to feel lightheaded.

"Careful, little doll," he murmurs, "It isn't safe to be going down here alone."

(She forces down the churning in her stomach that has everything to do with fear and how close he is)

She presses herself as far away from him as she can, craning her neck to face away from him. He chuckles.

She can feel the hot blood seeping through her clothing and settling it's warmth on her skin and she whimpers.

The hand is still clasped around her arm like a vice and the other is flat against the wall, his body hemming her in.

Her eyes flicker from side to side and she catches a glimpse of flaming pink and orange that masquerades as the gilt evening sky. Darkness is encroaching on the spectacle, but the sky is holding on with desperate fingers to the last vestiges of sunlight that drenches the Domino skyline in molten gold.

She feels his lips press against her ear and she bites her lip so hard she tastes the metallic tang of blood.

"Now now my little doll," he says quietly, his breath tickling against her skin. "No need for that."

Hot, salty tears brim in her eyes and she blinks freely, trying to stem the flow.

He chuckles and she can feel the sound vibrate from his chest. The hand that was pressed against the wall moves languidly down to lazily caress her arm.

She jumps and slaps it away, cringing away from his touch. She can see the thick, red liquid coating his fingers, crimson froth under his fingernails.

He presses closer and she's frozen like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights, her eyes wide and frightened.

Despite the crisp evening air, she feels heated and she knows her face is flushed.

He moves and nuzzles her cheek and she can feel his grin.

"What's this?" he purrs and she squeezes her eyes shut in shame and panic.

She squirms in a half attempt to escape his false embrace.

(She thinks she can con herself into believing that the moan that rises in her throat is one of abhorrence and nothing else)

"My little doll is keeping secrets." He laughs softly, and his teeth graze the skin of her neck as though to bite at the apple of her vein.

She makes an unidentifiable noise and involuntarily, she lolls her head to the side, granting him more access to the fragile flesh of her throat. Her skin still crawls where he touches her and she feels the urge to fight free and run.

The hand drops to languorously trail his fingers along her ribs and down to her waist and she shivers. She wonders when he found the time to unzip her coat.

His gentle, unhurried touches are driving her insane and his eyes, half lidded and darkened with something she was reluctant to name makes her loose her breath.

"My little doll," he croons, his breath hot against her neck. "Delicate and beautiful and porcelain. So very fragile."

(She hopes he can't tell what her body desires and fears, but she knows it's foolish to wish on such an irrational thing)

She feels a light brush of his eyelashes against her cheek as he leaves bloody imprints of his lips along her jugular.

"Mine." He hisses the word into her ear and she draws in a sharp, involuntary breath before holding it in, afraid to even breathe.

He stills in his perusal of her flesh to look into her eyes. She can't help it, and she gives in to the look, just as she had before.

Her blue submits to his darkly glimmering violet and the corner of his mouth lifts in what she is almost hesitant to describe as a leer.

His face is so very close to hers, she can pick out every contour of it. The individual lashes that frame his eyes, that stubborn strand of blonde hair that falls across his brow, the muted shine of the beaten gold hanging from his ears and the dark, bold markings under his eyes.

She studies them for a second. She had thought they were mere lines penned with kohl, but she can see now that they are more than that. They are literally ingrained into his flesh, the ink standing out starkly even against his bronzed skin. She feels a shiver go down her spine. A tattoo in such a place must have been agony, especially to the child he would have been.

Almost in a trance, she lifts her unrestrained arm and delicately traces her fingers over the marks.

He is very still while she does this, the grin having slipped of his face and his eyes, wide, study her dazed expression.

Still caught within her stupor, she trails her fingertips along the angle of his jaw and she feels him lean ever so slightly into her touch. His gaze still follows hers and she mirrors the movements of her hands with her own eyes.

She brushes the lightest touch over the curve of his mouth and jumps, snapping out of her reverie when his hand closes around her wrist. The shadows from the fading twilight throw his face into sharp relief and she cries out when she realises what she's done.

The leer is back on his face and her muscles tense.

"Well now little doll," he mutters quietly, "You surprise me."

(She ruthlessly pushes down the feeling of delight that she gets from affecting him so)

She presses herself as far as she can against the wall.

He tuts.

"Come now, I haven't hurt you have I?"

When she doesn't reply, he presses closer.

"Have I, my little doll?"

She forces herself to relax her muscles that are beginning to hurt.

"No." She whispers.

His face twists into a satisfied grin.

"Good." He purrs and she can feel the vibration from his chest.

She is aware only of the rough, scrubbed wall behind her and the heat that rushes under the cover of her skin.

She's still terrified, desperately thinking of everything and nothing and having the most inane thoughts running through her head. She isn't herself.

"Remember," he utters, nipping at the skin of her neck, "You're mine."

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth and lingers for a moment before pulling away, his eyes half lidded and shadowed, amusement clearly painted on his features.

She's frozen in place by his action and she stares at him in shock and a hint of horror.

His grin widens.

"Adieu, my little china princess." He says, half mocking.

He cups her cheek for an infinite second before pulling back and taking his warmth with him.

In an instant, he's gone and she's left on her own. She doesn't move for the longest time, not until the last remnants of sunlight have been dragged below the horizon and the streetlights cast a sickly, sodium yellow glow over the pavements.

Slowly, her muscles unclench and her breathing returns to normal. Shakily, she begins to walk out of the alley and resumes her journey home on tottering, precarious feet.

She doesn't feel the want to refasten her coat, and shivers as the chill wind blows a hole in her, whipping at her brown hair.

It takes her an age, but she finally extracts the key from her pocket and fumblingly inserts it into the lock on her front door. Stumbling inside and leaning on the door to close it, she slides down the painted wood to sprawl on the floor, illuminated only by the faintest moonlight from a window.

The furniture throws deep shadows across the polished floor and she curls into a ball.

Biting her cheek and feeling the crawl of thick, hot liquid running down her skin she hisses as her lips burn.

She rests her arms on her knees and finally allows herself to feel the cold.

Heavy. A sense of shame pervades her stomach and twists it, making her sob.

Every leaping shadow looks like it could be his figure looming in the hallway, every shine of a mirror is flashing gold on wrists and neck and ears. Every breeze washes away the burning marks and blazing memories that she both revels in and hates.

This should not be real. She shouldn't be caught up in this. This is not how it's supposed to go. She has no control. She's dancing on another's strings.

(She hates how she can't sleep at night, and she both yearns for and loathes the memory of his touch)

She isn't herself anymore; she's just a fragile, porcelain doll sitting, waiting to be played with.

His little china princess.

Ta daa. Written –once again- while on holiday in some ass end of Britain with no internet. Yorkshire this time. Pretty, but boring. Especially when staying with dad and grandparents who only want to visit old houses, walled gardens and tell me about 'back in their day'. And tell me I'm being 'unsociable' when I dare to use my laptop or listen to my iPod in the two hour long car journeys to said old houses. :(

Anyway, I was in an odd mood when I wrote this. And it was written to alleviate some annoyance at a pet peeve of mine. When people write Marik stories, they seem to make him a slightly less shy version of Ryou Bakura. Even before Yami Marik came into play, Marik was undeniably a villain. A pretty good (i.e bad) one too. So at the very least, he's not going to be a paragon of purity and niceness once he's repented his sins. Hence, this story was born. An antihero, Marik most certainly is.