Bakura smiled despite himself at the soft snoring beside him. In the dimly lit room, he could still see the waning candlelight glistening on beads of sweat on Marik's back, resting on the uneven scar tissue. He caught one of them on the tip of his thumb, then quickly withdrew his hand, sighing darkly to himself. Bakura too was damp with sweat, the remainder of a night's passionate lovemaking.
No, he thought, don't call it that.
It was gratification. Holding the boy's grinding hips against him as he thrusted, grinning as his silly little moans echoed through the room, biting into his own lip to deny Marik the satisfaction of knowing how wonderful it felt to be inside him. And it was good, as far as gratification went. Marik was pretty, lithe, and his body just seemed to fit with Bakura's, so that no matter what position they tried, he could always get his orgasm. It was almost as if they were…
No, it was control. Marik was so easy to tease. All it took was a lick or nibble in the right place, and he'd be hard as a rock, twitching and begging for more, regardless of where they were. Bakura liked to amuse himself by teasing him in public just to see how long it would take before Marik pushed him up against a wall and filled his ears with desperate, whispered pleas while his hands wandered, playing with the hem of Bakura's t-shirt as he fought to contain his desire. Bakura loved nothing more than knowing that Marik was twisted around his finger – or, at the very least, his hormones were.
Yes, control was something Bakura was much more comfortable with. Control, gratification, even the more passionate side to his needs like desire and arousal, these were all things he could safely brush off with an air of detachment. As much as he loved fucking Marik, satisfying himself in a wild frenzy, then drawing out Marik's pleasure with almost cruel precision, loving to fuck someone was not the same as making love to them.
He sighed again to himself, and propped himself up on one elbow. He ran a light finger over Marik's soft skin, and he seemed to shiver in response, as though purring in his sleep. Bakura had to admit that he was beautiful, even asleep with his mouth half-open, snoring blissfully. If it had been anyone else, he might have called the snoring obnoxious, but it was an oddly comforting sound when its source was Marik.
Fucking, that was all it was. Five thousand years was a long time. Five thousand years trapped with the memories of his murdered loved ones, stewing in hatred and desire for revenge, hardened to any other emotion. Marik was the perfect release, a pressure-valve that allowed him to think more clearly as he prepared to put his plans into motion. He had grown fond of it, naturally, as anyone would; five thousand years was experience enough to know when sex was good, and what he shared with Marik was fucking exquisite.
He ran a finger through the boy's tangled hair as he remembered pulling on it earlier, while taking him roughly from behind. Marik had cried out, but it had made him grind his hips all the more; Bakura felt a twinge of arousal just thinking about it. But it was late, too late to wake him up, or else he'd be tired in the morning and pout at Bakura for keeping the two of them up all night. He was admittedly still beautiful when he pouted, even if it was annoying.
Bakura settled instead for watching his chest swell alongside his rhythmic snoring, idly playing with his soft, blonde hair. He wondered what exactly it was about this strangely innocent boy, dark side aside, that he found so compelling. Yes, it was gratification, control, pure animal fucking and release, but sometimes the disturbing thought presented itself that perhaps it was more as well. Why did Marik occupy his thoughts so often, if he was merely a toy, an object, a means to an end?
The candle that had been lighting the room finally burned down to the wick, and as the smoke from its end curled through the darkness, Bakura swore to himself, before flopping back down in bed.
"Damn it, Marik, I… I think I love you."
He wrapped an arm around Marik's waist and closed the space between them. Their bodies seemed to fit perfectly even when they weren't fucking, though this was the first time Bakura acknowledged the fact. He didn't usually cuddle up to him like that. He didn't think he had the inclination, and it had always seemed too intimate, too vulnerable, but when a sleeping Marik cosied up to him with a soft, satisfied sigh, he felt himself melt a little inside.
"Fuck." He planted his lips on Marik's shoulder, while a stray strand of blonde hair tickled his cheek. An unfamiliar warmth flushed through his entire body, and he held Marik as tightly to him as he possibly could. "I love you." Another kiss. "I love you, I love…"
Marik's snoring stopped, and Bakura froze. Part of him wanted to seize the boy, shake him awake and say those terrifying words to his face, preferably between hot, breathless kisses, but now was not the time. Perhaps it would wait, or perhaps there never would be a right time.
He heard a murmuring in front of him, mumbled words, and Marik wriggled against him.
"Marik? Did you…?" But the question died on Bakura's lips as the sweet snoring resumed. "Damn you, Marik," he whispered, and gave the boy one last kiss before curling around him and closing his eyes. His mouth formed "I love you" one last time before he too fell asleep.