***fyi, I'm almost done writing chapter 5 for this fic and I'm about 1/3 done with chapter 26 for the zombie fic. Also, supersteffy's Valentine fic is up on her page now. Nothing says St. Patrick's Day like ygotas-style "non-canon day" Thiefshipping, so go read it and show her some review love (seriously, her stories deserve more reviews than they get. )***
In Egypt, revenge filled his hours. He robbed, and honed his skills, and slept, and dreamt of the day he'd charge against the Pharaoh and avenge his family. The hate thrilled Bakura, always calling to him and sustaining him. 8:45 in the morning without vengeance, or hate, or even a tomb to rob for shits and giggles was a quiet, lonely, boring time. Marik left for work at 8:00 a.m., didn't come back until 2:00p.m., and that left Bakura six hours with no one but himself for company.
He didn't want to think about himself.
He'd spent the last three-thousand years with a demon whispering hatred and madness into his every thought, then he had Ryou's thoughts trying to unsay everything Zorc ever whispered. Bakura stood in the kitchen, near a small window. Light struck his face, orange juice chilled his tongue, and Bakura didn't know what to think. No vengeance, no hatred, no dark god, what did people think about in the morning when they weren't on a quest for murder and destruction?
Not Marik. Marik made his thoughts solid as tapioca pudding. Not his body. Bakura still felt weak and fragile in the tiny white shell, and he hated it, and when he thought about it, he felt like he'd float away and only thoughts of Marik could bring him back to a stable place.
Bakura swallowed the last gulp of orange juice. He still had money, and he decided he needed more juice. At least there was orange juice to think about. Bakura changed, looking in the mirror and frowning at what looked back at him. Then, too many thoughts swarmed in his mind. He thought of the kitchen, and he ran there; he thought of the knife wrack, and he pulled a blade from the wooden block on the counter; he thought of the mirror again, and he sprinted back to it. Bakura held the knife tip below his eye, thinking that if he had his scar back, the long slash on his cheek, then maybe he'd feel a little more like himself again. He stood there, arm tight, ready to drag the blade against his flesh, but his hand trembled, and then knife fell from his hand. The chef knife clattered in the sink and see-sawed from one side to the other until it lay still in the center.
Bakura dropped to his knees, punching the tiled floor with a clenched, white fist. His hits felt useless; his arms didn't have the strength he wanted to put behind each blow. He couldn't give himself the scar. Marik wouldn't understand why he'd scar himself – Marik with enough scars for the both of them, Marik who liked staring at Bakura's new, unadorned skin. Besides, scars shouldn't be given – they should be earned through life, through adventure. The life Bakura had in Egypt was over, and he hadn't earned a damn thing in his new life.
After a final punch to the floor, Bakura stood up and replaced the knife in the kitchen. Orange juice. He needed to buy orange juice. Outside, the sun stung his eyes. He blinked until the daylight no longer hurt his vision and walked towards the store.
On his way, he saw a bookstore and decided to go inside. He bought the first volume of three different graphic novels to see if any were worth collecting. He also bought half a dozen Hellboy, Deadpool, and Spawn comics. He hoped that reading something might give his mind a productive direction in which to wander. He also saw a music store, and spent an hour listening to several cd's before giving up and deciding he'd find music online instead.
Even then he passed the market in order to walk around the block a few times, manga and comics swinging in the bag hooked around his slender, pale wrist. Bakura observed the city, not as a chess board in his attempt to capture the white king, but as a city.
Marik said moving would help his soul settle into his body, but it made him dizzy. He preferred sex. On his final run around the block, he bought orange juice, pocky, and more steak before heading back to the apartment.
Bakura poured through the comics while his steaks cooked. After he ate and cleaned up, he found he still had three hours to kill before Marik came home. He paced around the apartment, and each time he'd end up back in the bedroom. Bakura sighed and sat down on Marik's half of the bed, running his hand along the comforter. In a fit, he stripped the sheets off of the bed and threw them in the wash. He returned and covered the mattress with new sheets from the linen closet, trying to remember how Ryou did it back when Bakura was only a Ring Spirit. He wasn't being nice. He simply wanted to be fucked on clean sheets. Later, when he vacuumed, he insisted to himself that he just wanted to see how the damn contraption worked.
The chores kept him warm, but his body ached, new muscles screaming. Again, he preferred sex; it didn't make him hurt or feel thirsty. Bakura drank a large glass of water and put the linen in the dryer before crashing onto the couch. He swaddled his blanket around his sore body and tried to focus on the issue of Vampire Hunter D he'd purchased.
He fell asleep before he reached the third page, the book dropping to the carpet as Bakura sank deep into the cushions.
In his dream – even asleep, Bakura knew it was a dream because it was too beautiful to be real – he saw Marik kneeling in the grass. The sun sat low on the horizon behind Marik, turning his golden hair into a flaming halo. He gestured for Bakura to sit, and Bakura obeyed without verbal response. They both wore kimonos. White silk draped over Marik's brown skin. Embroidered, lavender ume blossoms were scattered across the white silk, like the flowers that often bloomed at the end of winter when the snow still lingered on the ground. Bakura himself wore a red kimono.
Marik poured a cup of sake and offered it to Bakura. He lifted the cup to his lips, stopping just before he could taste the rice-wine. Marik had a sad look in his eyes, although he didn't speak. Bakura blinked at his cup for a moment and then set it down, picking up the bottle and pouring a glass for Marik so they could drink together. Marik smiled then, and they each sipped from their cups.
The wine left Bakura's head light and airy, but he didn't feel like he'd float away. In fact, he felt anchored and calm. He laughed, and he smelled the sunlight in his own hair as the wind blew the white streamers into his face. Marik reached forward to brush the strands behind Bakura's ears. Bakura stared at Marik's lips, their faces centimeters apart.
Bakura reached out, slipping his fingers into Marik's soft hair, and pulling the other male in for a kiss. As soon as their lips touched Bakura's physical body flinched, and he had the vague notion that the dream was too beautiful to be real, but the kiss was too beautiful not to be real.
His eyes fluttered open, waking to pressure and movement against his mouth. Marik hovered over him, one knee propped against the cushions for balance as he bent forward. Bakura ran his tongue over Marik's bottom lip, as if that somehow proved the moment was real and not another dream. Marik sighed into Bakura's mouth and pulled on Bakura's top lip for a moment before breaking the kiss.
"You kissed me," he said it with a slight defensive tone. "I was just checking on you and you pulled my face towards you."
"I was dreaming," Bakura muttered, wanting Marik's mouth back on his own.
"About me?"
Bakura paused a moment, feeling the weight of the baited question. "You were there."
"Kissing you?"
"We were drinking sake."
Marik blinked. "Would you like to?"
Bakura felt his cheeks heat up. "Kiss?"
A wicked expression lit up Marik's face. He traced his fingers down Bakura's burning cheek before pressing his mouth against Bakura's lips. They stayed locked against each other for a long, head-spinning moment, tongues swirling together, before Marik pulled away. "No, drink sake."
"Oh." Bakura didn't know what else to say. He felt rather dumb, but he wanted Marik's mouth badly, so he leaned forward again for another kiss without giving his mistake another thought.
Marik made a surprised noise when Bakura nipped at Marik's bottom lip. He'd kept the bite gentle, but the burning color of Marik's eyes encouraged Bakura to bite a second time and with a little more force. He bit Marik's bottom lip one last time, pulling back and then tracing Marik's mouth with his tongue.
Marik scooped Bakura into his arms and started carrying him down the hall. It wasn't until Bakura felt the familiar comfort of Marik's mattress that he pulled away and snorted. "You really need to stop carrying me around like an old rag-doll."
"Then brush your hair so you don't look like one," Marik snapped, shoving his tongue hard into Bakura's mouth, but if the act was meant to annoy Bakura, it failed in its goal.
Instead, Bakura wrapped his legs around Marik's waist and slipped his hand beneath Marik's shirt in order to smooth his palms against Marik's ribs and stomach. Marik dropped down to Bakura's throat.
"Mmmm, baby!" Bakura cried out as Marik sucked at his throat. He hiked his hips against Marik's body, his hands grabbing rather than caressing Marik's side.
"We can do it Friday," Marik said.
Bakura growled. "Marik, I'm half asleep. Be specific."
Marik chuckled as he stripped Bakura's shirt away. "You're not acting half asleep. I meant drink."
"Sure," Bakura murmured, tugging Marik's top as high as it would go in order to lick along Marik's abdominal muscles.
Marik shuddered and sighed as Bakura's tongue worked. He turned back the blanket so they could slip beneath it, and an odd expression contorted Marik's features. "Bakura . . . did you change the sheets?"
"Always be prepared, Ishtar. It's my bare ass that gets fucked on these sheets."
"Yeah, but still . . ." Marik smoothed his hand over the fresh bedding. "Thanks. I was going to do it before bed, but now I can relax instead."
Some odd, pleasant feeling tingled across Bakura's skin at the thought of Marik spending the night with him instead of doing chores. Bakura looked away so Marik couldn't read his expression. "Same goes with the carpet."
"The carpet?"
"Well, it wasn't your knees on the carpet last night – it was mine, so I figured I should vacuum."
Marik exhaled, nuzzling Bakura's exposed shoulder. "Does that mean I can expect more blow jobs on the couch?"
"If there's nothing good on TV."
"I'm starting to like this arrangement."
"I'm not your damn maid or anything." Bakura growled, looking at Marik. "I only do things when it suits me."
Marik tugged Bakura's pants down. "But if what suits you also benefits me, then so much the better, no? Isn't that how our partnership has always worked?"
Bakura opted out of answering in lieu of grabbing Marik and kissing him. He felt some of the tension in his sore muscles ease as the last of their clothes slipped off and Marik's bare, warm body rested on top of Bakura. He reached between them, grabbing their bare erections and moaning as their sensitive tips glided along the length of their shafts.
"This feels—"
"Incredible!" Bakura finished Marik's sentence.
"Ha!" Marik's voice came out as a breathy gasp. "I was going to say intimate."
It was true. They lay together naked, their breath and sweat mixing as their members slid together. It was intimate, and therefore incredible. "Marik."
"What?" Marik hissed the question, a soft teasing whisper in Bakura's ear.
"Take me. I want you."
"You're such a slut."
Bakura squeezed Marik's erection, giving his shaft a slow tug upward. "For your cock? How can I not be?" He tilted his face up, then, and gave Marik another soft bite on his bottom lip.
Marik swallowed a sigh, crawling on hands and knees across the mattress in order to reach the lube. "I swear, there's more power in your tongue that there ever was in a Shadow Game."
From Bakura's position on the mattress, he had a perfect view of Marik's cumin-colored ass. Bakura rolled off his back and onto his knees, smirking. "You think? Shall we test that claim?"
Without another word, Bakura grabbed Marik's ass, spreading his cheeks a touch apart. Before Marik could protest, Bakura ran his tongue up the length of Marik's crack.
"Bakura!" Marik near squeaked the name instead of shouting it. "W-what are you . . ."
Bakura purred against Marik's entrance, dabbing his tongue against the soft, hot, delicate skin and enjoying the way his machinations made Marik squirm and pant. Bakura pulled back, Marik's mutilated back stretched before him like the desert at sunrise. "I'm showing you precisely how magical my tongue can be."
He lowered his head again, circling his tongue and then poking it straight into Marik's body. Marik clenched his fists, one pulling at the fresh sheets and the other squeezing the bottle of lubricate. Marik's taut thighs, balled fists, and ecstatic moans drove Bakura wild. His licks grew broad and he flattened his tongue against Marik's flesh. He alternated between slow licks and quick circles.
Marik's panting grew high-pitched. "Bakura . . . Bakura."
Each time Marik groaned Bakura's name, Bakura would reward Marik with a stab of his tongue into Marik's asshole.
"Oh Bakura!" Marik arched his back, thrusting his ass in order for Bakura's tongue to press deeper. "Please . . . please . . . let me fuck you. Please, I can't take it anymore."
"Who's the slut now?"
"Bakura, please."
Bakura's cock twitched as Marik begged. He gave Marik one last, languid lick, and then spread himself back on the bed, wiping the saliva off of his chin. "Whatever you want, baby. Fuck me."
Marik drowned his erection in lube, ramming two fingers into Bakura's body and scissoring for a brief moment before moving his hand in order to slam hard into Bakura's body. He went at Bakura like a jackhammer.
Bakura held his breath. Marik felt spectacular inside of him, but the way Marik moved would make them finish far sooner than Bakura wanted to finish. He grabbed Marik's ass with both hands, allowing Marik to thrust deep one last time, but then preventing Marik from pulling out. Bakura squeezed his muscles around Marik thick shaft.
"Slow down, let's draw this out a bit."
Marik choked on a bell-sweet sigh, but then he turned his face away from Bakura. "Fucking's suppose to be hard, quick, and fast."
Bakura knew that; however, he didn't care. He guided Marik's hips back in a slow glide, and then pulled Marik closer. "We don't have to follow the rules."
"It's not a rule. It's a definition."
Another glide out, another glide in, Bakura licked Marik's chest before retorting. "Only because some asshole wrote it down that way. If my tongue has all the power you say, it should be able to redefine a mere word."
Marik's body shuddered and then relaxed, as if giving into Bakura's argument. The blonde Egyptian lowered himself down to his forearms and submitted himself to having Bakura set the pace of their lovemaking. He kept their movements slow and gentle until his balls ached for want of release. Only then did he speed up to a medium gait. With his new body only days old, Bakura knew he could make himself cum without being stroked, just as he had the last time he was in Marik's bed, so he kept his white hands on Marik's tanned ass and hiked his hips up so that his shaft rubbed against Marik's body. He quivered inside, panting hard and moving a touch faster.
The other night embarrassed him, cumming without meaning to, lost in the sensations Marik lavished on him, but with his hands controlling Marik's speed, and his hips grinding against Marik's belly, Bakura had no issues turning the trick to his advantage. His eyes rolled back, a moan rolled from his throat, and heat splattered onto his ivory stomach. Bakura felt himself sinking into the comfort of post orgasm, but he forced his hands to keep moving as if Marik couldn't thrust without the encouragement of his fingers.
Marik grabbed Bakura's shoulders, his pants high and sweet, He muttered three syllables that should have been Bakura's name, but weren't formed enough to be anything more comprehensible than blissful noise. The second Marik stopped, he jerked away and crashed his face into his own pillow.
Bakura grinned. He scooted closer to Marik's back, pressing his forehead into the carved wings and wrapping his arm over Marik's side. He didn't say anything. He knew why Marik hid in his pillow. Marik felt the way Bakura had the other night. The memory of Marik begging sent a strong, primal shiver straight through Bakura's guts. He sighed at the thought, but he knew Marik was most-likely raving at himself for letting all those pleases slip past his lips.
"Good idea," Bakura murmured, to show Marik that he wasn't going to boast. "I want to finish the nap I was taking before you got home."
He kissed Marik's shoulder blades, remembering how he'd enjoyed it when Marik did the same for him the other night. Then he pressed his forehead back into Marik's wings and fell asleep. Bakura woke an hour later, feral with hunger. He crawled around for his pants, and then stumbled for the kitchen. He ate an entire quart of strawberries while two t-bone steaks broiled in the oven. On the stove he sauteed asparagus and a filet of salmon, knowing Marik would bitch at him when he smelled the steaks grilling.
He wasn't wrong. Marik appeared just as Bakura set everything on the table. He scowled. Bakura had to turn away when he found himself wanting to kiss the wrinkles creasing Marik's brow.
"Bakura, I can't eat red meat every night. I don't really like it."
Bakura snorted. "Who said I was sharing my steaks with you?" He gestured to Marik's plate. "Eat fish like a fucking peasant for all I care. The steaks are mine."
Marik's eyes trailed to the salmon. He blinked as he sat down, as if expecting the dish to disappear. His lavender eyes looked up at Bakura. "Thank you."
Bakura filled his mouth with asparagus and dripping-rare steak to avoid answering. He shrugged, one hand wrapped around his fork, the other wrapped around a fresh carton of orange juice. After his steaks, Bakura sucked the last flavor off of the bones. Marik started laughing.
"Fuck you," Bakura muttered, not stopping although he felt stupid doing it.
"I always wanted a puppy."
"Fuck you, Marik."
Bakura's swearing only made Marik laugh a little harder. "Want to play cards?"
Bakura paused, wanting to suck the blood off of his fingers, but not wanting to hear Marik laugh about it. In the end, Bakura decided to go with it, savoring the last taste of his meal off of his own skin. Marik did laugh, but he wandered off to go find his cards.
Marik washed the dishes while Bakura searched through extra cards in order to scrape together a reasonable deck. "Are all these cards real?" Bakura gave Marik a side glance, still focused on his deck.
Marik smirked, drying his hands on a kitchen towel and sitting across from Bakura. "Yes, actually. I always kept the originals and made the Ghouls use the counterfeits."
They spent a good deal of the night playing, Marik winning two games, and Bakura barely managing to win the last one. The games went slowly because they bantered more than they played, but Bakura found himself enjoying the games. It was a refreshing change, to lose a game without being banished to the Shadows, to play against someone that didn't want you dead. Bakura wasn't sure how he'd managed to even win the last game. He kept staring at Marik over his cards the entire time.
Afterward they watched a movie, and then Marik watched the news. He lingered afterward, tracing the seam of his pants as commercials droned on the television. "I guess . . . I should go to sleep."
"Well, you're the one who has to actually get up and go to work in the morning."
"Yeah . . ." Marik's eyes darted up to Bakura and then back to his clothing.
"Marik, are you okay?" Bakura asked before he could censor himself.
"Yeah," he answered, but his tone was flat. "Too lazy to get up, I guess."
At that moment Marik looked up at Bakura, leaning in a little closer. Bakura swallowed, holding his breath and waiting to see what Marik would do. Deep down, Bakura wished Marik would scoop him up and carry him back to the bedroom – not for sex, but to go to sleep. The couch wasn't comfortable; Marik's arms were.
Marik leaned a touch closer. Bakura half closed his eyes, hoping for at least a slow, lingering kiss goodnight. Instead of going for Bakura's mouth, Marik leaned next to his ear. "Goodnight, asshole."
Close enough.
Bakura smiled. "Night, bitch."