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"Nice top," Bakura commented, eying the lavender hoodie curiously before his gaze traveled south to the lower back it left exposed. "You haven't worn that since Battle City."
Marik lifted his shoulders in a shrug, momentarily exposing more back as the shirt followed suit. "You were right when you said the black doesn't suit me. Where the black washes me out, the purple accentuates my bronze skin."
"Mm," Bakura grunted noncommittally, although he agreed whole-heartedly. Still watching Marik chop whatever was on the cutting board, Bakura shrugged out of his black trench coat before draping it over the back of a chair. "So, what are you up to?"
"Just preparing dinner. How was your walk?"
"Uneventful. Not a single blasted piece of useful information."
"You can't expect every attempt to be successful."
"No, I suppose not."
Both men were silent for a time. Bakura set out to place settings at the table while Marik continued to slice and dice. Once the table was set, Bakura walked over to peer over Marik's shoulder as he worked. "Making stew?"
Marik jolted and snapped his head around to glare at Bakura. "Do you mind?"
"Not in the least," he responded.
Marik growled before returning his attention to his work. It didn't remain there long as Bakura's hands came to rest on his hips, and he began breathing down Marik's neck, literally. "What are you doing?"
Bakura ignored the question, instead asking one of his own. "Why did you decide to wear this outfit today?"
"What? I already told you, the black doesn't look as good on me. I decided to mix it up. You're the one who suggested it!"
"Yes, and you always do what I suggest," he drawled. "So you wore it because I said it looked better than the black shirt?"
"Yeah, so?" Marik rejoined, feeling defensive for some reason.
"Hmm…interesting."
"How? I like to look good! Is that a crime?"
"No, but you weren't planning on going anywhere today, so what reason do you have to look good? Unless…" Bakura leaned in close to Marik's ear. "Unless you did it for my benefit," he breathed.
Marik stood motionless for a split second before remembering that he was supposed to be chopping vegetables. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, knife going back to work. "Why would I waste my time trying to impress you?"
"Well, regardless, you have my attention," Bakura whispered back, his lips and words brushing over Marik's neck around his necklace.
Marik decided to ignore him—that is, until two of Bakura's fingers dipped beneath the waist of his pants, stroking the sensitive skin an inch or so below his navel. He couldn't help the small sound of surprise that escaped him as a jolt of feeling made a beeline for his groin.
"W-what the—!"
"You know, you really shouldn't wear things that show this much skin," Bakura commented casually, stroking his fingers lower so that Marik had to fight back a mewl. "It might give people the wrong idea."
"And what if it gives them the right idea?" he rejoined before he could stop himself. Bakura chuckled darkly, his other hand running up the back of Marik's shirt to tease along his spine, sending even more shocks to join the ones his other hand was causing. Marik could feel himself growing warmer as the sensations Bakura's fingers were inducing built upon one another.
The vegetables were forgotten by the time Bakura's hand infiltrated Marik's pants entirely and wrapped around his budding erection, and when he slowly began to pump his fist along the length, Marik's grip left the knife in favor of the stable counter as his head fell back against Bakura's shoulder, all pretense of indifference vanished. "Ah! Mmm…"
"Feel good?" Bakura inquired unnecessarily. Marik nodded, his breathing hitching when Bakura's thumb circled the sensitive tip, spreading the little bit of pre-cum that had gathered there.
Minutes passed, and Bakura maintained the same sedate pace. All the while, Marik's impatience grew, his need for things to progress causing him to thrust into Bakura's hand. "Would you like more?"
"Ugh-huh." Marik's voice was thick with lust. He felt Bakura grin against his ear.
"What's the magic word?" Bakura squeezed tighter as his hand slipped down Marik's length once more in a firm stroke, and Marik shook against him.
"Mmmgh...please..." Marik moaned, and suddenly Bakura wanted more too.
Spinning Marik around to face him, Bakura crushed their lips together in a less-than graceful kiss. Not seeming to mind the rough treatment, Marik kissed back, his lips moving against Bakura's feverishly as his hands pulled Bakura flush against him.
Marik began a slow but thorough grind of their lower bodies as their tongues explored each other. Bakura let Marik take control of the kiss entirely when he grunted in frustration. The kiss grew slower and deeper to match the pace of their hips, and Bakura felt Marik's hand tunnel into his hair, gentle and firm. He wasn't really aware that they'd been backing up until his lower back made contact with the kitchen table.
"Shouldn't we...take this...into the bedroom?" he asked mildly between kisses.
"No," Marik murmured, his lips painting an invisible trail along Bakura's neck and collarbone. "I have to finish dinner."
"Doesn't seem like you're making much headway," Bakura observed wryly. Marik's hands slid up his abdomen and chest, raising his shirt in the process. Bakura obligingly lifted it over his head and tossed it aside.
Marik's hand fondled Bakura's partial erection through his jeans, eliciting a low moan from him. Marik's eyes gleamed as they met Bakura's. "Seems I'm making plenty of headway."
"Enough," Bakura growled, hoisting himself onto the table and pulling Marik flush against him in another rough kiss. The sound of dishes clattering and smashing onto the floor went all but unnoticed.
Regaining a measure of control over their situation, Bakura slipped his hand up the back of Marik's hoodie once again, reveling in the raised, yet surprisingly soft scar tissue. He felt Marik shudder against him and lean in closer, silently urging him on.
Bakura had long ago learned of Marik's fondness for having his back stroked and teased. Marik had told him once that no one had touched his back since the scars had healed fully, afraid to offend him or bring back horrifying memories. In a way, it seemed as intimate an act to touch Marik in this way as it was to make love to him. Perhaps more so, in some ways. Because the scars on Marik's back reflected those of his soul, and touching them was a sacred act that only Bakura was worthy of.
"Bakura," Marik gasped.
Bakura noticed now that Marik's fingers were digging into his hips, his nails most likely leaving notches in his skin, but Bakura didn't give it a second thought as he undid Marik's belt and button, sliding his pants to the floor.
Bakura smiled in triumph. "No undergarments?" he asked needlessly as Marik relieved him of his jeans as well.
"These pants are too tight for boxers. Suck," he ordered, presenting two fingers.
"You should wear them more often," Bakura replied before obeying.
He watched Marik's face carefully as he methodically suckled and licked Marik's fingers, teasing the sensitive pads with the tip of his tongue and nipping lightly at them.
Marik withdrew and tilted Bakura back as he teased the now-slick digits against Bakura's entrance.
"Are you waiting for a written invitation? Get on with it!"
"You'd think you would have learned a measure of patience after biding your time for three-thousand years."
"Marik..."
Without responding, Marik inched one finger into Bakura's entrance, soon followed by the other. Bakura grunted uncomfortably at the rushed pace as Marik stretched his passage, but the discomfort was short lived.
Marik retracted the fingers. He made to remove his last article of clothing, but Bakura stopped him. "I've always wanted to fuck you while you were wearing that," he answered quietly at Marik's confused look.
"Right," Marik smirked. "Hold on. Be right back."
"Where—?" Bakura began, but Marik had already disappeared into the living room. He raised his eyebrows in understanding as Marik came back with a familiar bottle in hand. "If you were going to use lube after all, then what was the point of me wetting your fingers?"
"You look hot when you suck on my fingers," Marik replied as he coated himself liberally. Bakura rolled his eyes, but made no reply as Marik tilted him farther back onto the table. The new angle forced him to steady himself with his hands as Marik lined himself up and teased his way inside Bakura.
"Gods," he whispered, pulling Marik closer with one arm while the other held him on the table. Marik's slow pace was agonizing, but Bakura enjoyed it as much as he hated it. Once he was completely seated inside Bakura, Marik's pace gradually picked up, and Bakura buried his face against Marik's neck, breathing in his musky scent as he pounded into him.
"Touch my scars again," Marik instructed, his own hands caressing Bakura's ass.
Bakura complied, his fingers slipping up and tracing the sigils etched across Marik's shoulders. His feather-light touches followed the path of the Once-Pharoah's memories, knowing instinctively where to go from the innumerable times he'd done this. He knew the Pharoah's memories better than the man himself ever had, but the irony of that meant less than the contented sighs falling against his neck and the warmth that filled his tainted soul.
He moved on to the final section of the memories, and he felt Marik's rhythm increase as he grew closer to his peak. A moment later a hand began stroking him, and Marik adjusted their angle until he hit Bakura's prostate, sending white fireworks into his unfocused vision.
"Ah! Marik, more!" Marik obliged, pounding into him with abandon and milking him with jerky, fast strokes. Gripping Marik's back like a lifeline, Bakura went rigid as he climaxed, the pleasure spurred on as Marik continued to slam into him and ride out his own orgasm.
Spent, they collapsed fully onto the table's surface, panting and reveling in their afterglow.
"I'm glad I wore the hoodie," Marik puffed breathlessly.
"So am I."
They laid like that for several minutes until their breathing had evened out, then Marik levered himself back onto the floor. A moment later the hoodie joined Bakura's shirt on the floor. "It's hotter than hell having sex in that thing," he complained.
Once they'd cleaned themselves up and redressed, Marik finished cooking dinner, which they silently carried into the living room, leaving the dining table and broken dishes to be dealt with at a later time.