Skin Deep
Bakura will often grab Marik roughly, wrapping his fingers tight around Marik's hipbones. He knows Marik doesn't like it; it's clear from the way he winces and bites his lip. It's not an expression of pleasure. But Bakura is stronger.
It almost becomes a game when Marik tries to wrestle his fingers away, wriggle his hips back in the opposite direction. His eyes are clenched shut and he's functioning purely on instinct. That's fine. Bakura's eyes are open. He just needs to dig his nails in a little further, enough to make Marik's fingers spasm a little on top of his. At the same time, Marik will almost try to curl in on himself. A gesture of self-protection. He will tuck his head in to his chest and arch his back outwards.
Bakura cannot understand why Marik feels the need to put them through this song and dance every time. It always ends the same way.
Sometimes, Bakura is capable of patience. He allows Marik, weak and inferior Marik, to struggle against his grip. And because Marik doesn't look at him, he chuckles under his breath. It's just so easy. Marik's skin has almost none of the signs of hardship that his own does. It is smooth and precious when he touches it, every time. Muscle without toughness. Bones just prominent enough for outlines, for handling.
Bakura takes great pride in being the one to mar this specimen.
Maybe he'll even let Marik believe he has succeeded in dislodging the grip. That he has freed himself enough to take just a tiny bit of control over the situation. And he'll watch as Marik takes a breath or two, recomposing himself; and he'll make sure that when Marik eventually looks up at him, he looks directly into his eyes and sees every sadistic intention in his soul. He'll grin widely and slowly, and though Marik's pupils will dilate, he will still try to run. Because he tries to run every time. How much he wants it doesn't seem to be relevant.
But Marik forgets (does he forget?) that Bakura can run too. And he forgets that Bakura can run faster, can reach the door before he can, even when he has that fractional head start.
This is Bakura's favourite part, because this is the time when things are allowed to become frantic. Sometimes he will grab Marik by the back of his collar to halt him in his tracks before yanking him backwards and slamming him into the wall. Other times he will reach out to trap Marik's wrist and then use it to throw him to the floor. Occasionally, he will simply force himself between Marik and the door before Marik can escape, his posture predatory and his teeth hungrily bared.
It's easy to allow his own instincts to take over. Wherever they are, whichever position they have ended up in, there always comes a critical point when patience must take a backseat. Bakura becomes primal and it's almost as if Marik ceases to be a human at all. Marik is Marik's skin, perfect for scratching, biting, marking. Marik is the sounds he makes when he can't help it, the grunts when it is just enough, the cries when it is too much. Marik is Bakura's playground and his instrument. Much later, when the scabs have formed and the bruises have developed, Marik is Bakura's work of art.
How different the sounds become when Bakura's fingers are buried to the knuckles, twisting and turning as deep as they'll go. Marik becomes indistinguishable. He whines, muffled against the floor, and it sounds so desperate that Bakura can't help but spit out a cruel laugh. Because there's nowhere Marik can go from here and nothing he can do. Bakura splits his fingers, touching himself almost idly as he observes the way Marik's whole body is responding to him.
When Marik tries to speak, the rules suddenly change. Bakura wants nothing more than to control what, or what doesn't, come out of Marik's mouth. He immediately begins a quick, stabbing rhythm with his fingers. He frees his other hand and uses it to slap and to pinch. He rakes his nails without consideration down Marik's back. He fists his hand in the back of Marik's hair and wrenches it back until Marik will not bend any further. He bends down and sinks his teeth into that canvas of skin with the intention of tearing with his canines.
It's a good way to manage Marik's mouth, because in this position Marik can barely breathe, never mind speak.
Who needs breathing anyway?
But there will come a point when Bakura has had enough, and he will throw Marik's head back to the floor. He will position himself and, with fast, rough strokes, he will come in a meaningless, stuttering splatter across Marik's back. Maybe, depending on how he's feeling, his face and hair too.
He will wipe his hands, both of them, on any part of Marik's skin that he hasn't already claimed. Then he will do the same with his dick.
Then, without ceremony, he will redress himself and leave the room.
He assumes that Marik tends to his own needs afterwards, but he doesn't know for sure. He has never stayed in the same room long enough to find out. He doesn't intend to, either; it's of very little interest to him.
What does matter is that a few weeks later, when Marik next shows up unannounced at his door, his skin is back to being the unblemished delight that Bakura knows it to be. Free to ruin one more time.