Glass Triangle
They'd found the storage room in the lower decks of Kaiba's blimp to discuss strategy but, before either one made a conscious effort to advance, ended up with Bakura sandwiched between Marik and the wall, their hands clawing the fabric of their shirts and their lips twisting together. Marik nipped the side of Bakura's neck and Bakura tilted his head to give Marik a better angle. He bit down two more times before bending low and hooking his arms around Bakura's back thighs, lifting Bakura up against the wall, and pressing himself in between Bakura's legs until the friction forced Bakura to stifle a small grunt of want.
With each kiss, each grinding slide of Marik's hips into Bakura's pants, Bakura felt his ability to control himself slipping. Ryou's mind sifted up from their collective subconscious. Bakura prepared for the fight, prepared for Ryou to attempt to wrench control of his stolen body, prepared to push Marik aside and end the whirl of actions that didn't make sense. They were here to fight the Pharaoh, they were here for revenge. But Ryou didn't fight as Bakura expected. Instead, there was surprise, and assessment of the situation, and curiosity. Marik smiled through their still progressing kisses because he sensed Ryou's presence and emotions and the situation amused him.
Before Ryou could ask or Bakura could explain, a strange phenomenon occurred, their minds synchronized, smooth and seamless. Marik was back at Bakura's neck, teeth at collarbone, and Ryou sucked in a quick breath then Bakura exhaled the air out of their lungs. Bakura's fingers dug into Marik's shoulders and Ryou bucked his hips hard against Marik's body. It felt natural, both operating in their own turn, Ryou expanding, Bakura contracting, it felt familiar, like déjà vu, but the intimacy made Bakura jerk away from Marik's mouth and squirm out of their embrace until his legs were back on the ground.
Marik stood still, silent and watching. Bakura leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes darted to the corner of the room and his chest rose and fell with breath, Ryou still pulling air into the body, and he expelling it.
Marik put his hand on his hip, "scared?"
"We're wasting time," the spirit snapped.
"We have an hour," Marik grinned, "what were you going to do, stare at your cards that whole time?" Marik bridged the gap between them with a single step and licked the corner of Bakura's scowling mouth.
"It's not even my body," Bakura muttered the excuse.
Ryou's reply came with a mix of mental vocalization and subconscious understanding, provided by the mental link the three currently shared.
Everything hurts. (Referring to the present moment and his physical condition).
Everything always hurts. (Referring to his life in general, the pain of loss, the pain of loneliness).
I want to stop hurting for just one minute. Why should I care how? Please, don't stop. I can't bear it if you stop.
His motives so damned appropriate for each of them, more real than any thought, excuse, or explanation any of them had ever given to themselves, that for a moment, a brief, delirious, (but we'll never speak of this, no, not even to ourselves, no, not even to admit it to ourselves) moment, their bond clarified and became solid, no puppet strings, no manipulation by the malignant influences of the Millennium Items. During that moment the three of them understood each other beyond human right to understand another soul, and they realized they were all the same.
Then that clarity blurred out of focus and once again each was safe within his own emotional barriers, although Ryou and the spirit continued to share their body. As if to compensate for the instant of vulnerability, Marik tore his own and Bakura's shirts over their heads and pressed their chests together, kissing harder than before. Ryou caressed his hands against Marik's ribs, inching his way to his back. Marik slid them down to his hips, and held them in place until Bakura jerked his and Ryou's fingers free so he could grip Marik's ass and pull their bodies closer together.
Marik curled his fingers through strands of milk-white hair and yanked Bakura and Ryou away from the wall. He pushed them towards a stack of storage crates, filled with spare parts for engine repair, and they caught their balance by bracing against the boxes. An acute tongue of pain licked up Ryou's arm, but Bakura bit their lip and held their breath so Ryou couldn't whimper or cry out. Instead they stood there, legs spread, hands gripping the top edge of a box. Bakura glanced over his shoulder, brown eyes daring Marik as Marik reached around to unbutton Ryou's pants.
They stayed in that pose, Bakura leaning forward and Marik standing behind him. Marik preferred the position because he didn't have to worry about stray fingers brushing against his scars. Bakura preferred the position because it was less intimate. Ryou simply enjoyed the experience, as one only could when he didn't know when he'd be able to feel through his skin and nerves again. For him, each thrust felt like the taste of tobacco in the mouth of a man smoking his last cigarette while staring at an execution squad.
Marik traced his bronzed fingers over the porcelain skin on Ryou's back. Gentle at first, admiring, but something dark shadowed Marik's expression, his left eye twitched in anger, and as it did, Marik dug his nails deep into the soft, smooth flesh and raked his hand down until four coral lines marred the the pale canvass. Ryou purred an mmmmm of approval and arched his back upward as Marik's hand landed for a second time. Bakura grinned. Marik grinned as well, and, after Ryou's back transformed into an artwork of red, crisscrossing lines, settled for gripping the long hair and yanking just hard enough to pull a soft ahhh from Bakura's smirking mouth.
They kept quiet, having no desire to draw attention to the locked maintenance room, but as he climaxed, Ryou gave a loud moan that turned into a loud cry, Bakura too lost in the moment to censor him. The sound, the naked enjoyment of it, cleared the shadows from Marik's face and broke his aloof stance. Marik sighed and leaned closer to Bakura and Ryou, his left hand sliding across their stomach so he could hold them, and by the time he finished, he was squeezing them and pressing his face into their back to muffle his voice as he swore in Arabic.
Afterward, Marik pulled away and went to a small utility room with a sink to wash up. Bakura followed him, silent. They dressed and walked towards the exit, their expressions and mannerisms resembling two men who'd concluded a business meeting. They stopped and stared at each other for a moment before opening the door. Bakura's face softened, and Marik knew it was Ryou he looked at. Ryou reached out and ghosted his fingers down Marik's cheek, his touch as light as tear drops. A single, dry sob chocked from Ryou's lips and he pulled his hand away and pressed his fists into his own chest – because he wanted to help them but couldn't betray his friends, because he knew what had happened between the three of them wouldn't happen again. He retreated to his soul room, shattering the mental cohesion between himself and the spirit, and leaving Bakura to stand alone again, left hand rubbing his right temple to dull the stabbing pain caused by Ryou's withdrawal.
"Well," Bakura spoke with a causal tone, "I suppose it's time to go win that card game."
Marik smirked, "that confident you'll succeed?"
"Of course."
"Really?" Marik asked, "because I've fought the Pharaoh. It won't be an easy match."
"Just because you couldn't defeat him with your vessels, doesn't mean I'll fail."
"We'll see," Marik cooed, leaving the room.
Bakura stayed so no one could see them leaving together. He felt Marik's thoughts in his mind as he stood behind the storage room door, "and even if your plan fails," Marik explained, "I'm sure I could always salvage the situation for you."
Bakura smirked, "once I have everything in place it'll only take me five turns to win."