Chapter 3: I'm Your Favorite Drug

A couple weeks had passed since Marik had awoken from a very unpleasant, nightmare-filled slumber. Despite it being so long ago, it still haunted the back of his mind; a constant, darkened presence.

Nightmares weren't unknown to him. He always had been plagued by darker thoughts, and so nightmares just came along with that. He had learned to deal with them long ago, and eventually they went away. However, this particular nightmare effected him far more than any other he had ever had. He recalled it starting off rather peculiar; he dreamed he had woken up to Bakura touching him. His slender fingers had been all over his body, touching his chest, abdomen and... lower areas. And then the man had rode him until orgasm. Marik was a young adult and didn't have many sex dreams (or at least not as many as he had as a teenager) and that in itself was strange.

After they had finished their act, he recalled slipping out of existence. His bedroom had been replaced with writhing, violet shadows. His bed had vanished, and he had been hoisted into the air by tentacles that had came whipping out from the curling, grotesque shadows that replaced his bedroom walls and furniture. His screams were muted, not that anybody would help; nobody ever came to help. It had gone on like this for a very long time. The shadows were always there, showing images and memories that played through his head, taunting him to tears.

Weeks later, he shuddered at the memory of his father's face reacquiring repeatedly in the nightmare. His cruel, old, twisted face, every wrinkle causing his complexion to appear even more terrifying. Images of the cruel boys in Egypt pinning him down and shouting moxannes and xawal, laughing when their spit spattering across his sun-kissed cheeks. It was as if the nightmare forced him to relive all of his life's worst moments, and when he finally had woken up from his terror, he felt cold.

That was the best word to describe it.

Cold.

"Ishtar? Ishtar!"

His mind finally resurfaced, and he found himself staring at a greasy truck engine. With a grunt, he pushed himself out from under the car, coughing at the dirt that coated his cheeks.

"You've been under there doing nothing for the last twenty minutes. We need to fix the transmission before noon."

He sat up, accepting the rag his co-worker was offering him. "I'm well aware, Miles. My mind was elsewhere." That had been happening often, it seemed. It had always been a thinker, and this resulted in him mulling over things for sometimes hours without realizing time going by.

Miles offered him a grin. His co-worker was a a laid-back ginger-haired boy. Despite his young age; seventeen; he was as skilled with a wrench as any veteran mechanic. He stared down at him with good humor twinkling in his blue eyes. "You've been doing that a lot more recently. Come on Marik, get your head in the game!"

His co-worker, being born and raised in America, was a bit looser on Japanese customs, so he often switched between first and last names and forgot honorifics unless dealing with customers. Meanwhile, back many years ago, rebellious teenager Marik refused Japanese customs all together. He ignored honorifics and didn't bother with politeness whatsoever. He called everybody by their first names, even his teachers, resulting in punishments and detention.

"Marik! You're spacing out again!" Miles waved a gloved hand in front of his face, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Shit. Sorry."

He grinned. "It's fine. Anyways, if you hurry and finish with that Ram's transmission, we can eat lunch."

His stomach growled at the thought of food and he agreed with a nod. He turned away, grabbed his tools and slid under the car again. Marik worked as a mechanic. The job was pretty simple for a bright man like him, but it was dirty and he dealt with a lot of people that made him want to blow their brains out. Still, he enjoyed what he did, especially when he got to work on motorcycles; they were his specialty and his passion.

There were a lot of motorcyclists in the area unfortunately, so when anybody brought one in, he'd spend quite a few minutes just appreciating it. He continued working until his task was done. He grabbed a rag and began blotting his arms and cheeks. He didn't mind how filthy the job was, because the scent of oil and rusty and metal was strangely calming. It reminded him of the days where he'd sit in the garage and work on his motorcycle to cool off after a stressful day at school.

"Alright Miles, I'm done here," he shouted in some direction. He wasn't sure where his co-worker went off to, since the garage was large (at least large enough to hold seven cars at a time).

"Cool, because the owner just arrived," was the answer. He continued wiping his hands as he approached the owner of the truck he had just fixed. He appeared to be a foreigner, so his ownership of an obscure truck suddenly made sense.

He gave Marik a scrutinizing glare as he asked in a rough, accented voice, "Fix my transmission?"

Marik felt his attitude flare at the tone he was being spoken to with. "That's what you paid us to do," he returned evenly, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly.

The man scoffed and Miles sighed, quickly guiding the man into the office. Marik was left in a foul mood. He should have grown used to it really, the way so many clients scoffed condescendingly. Whether it was because he looked foreign, flamboyant or both.

His pace erratic, he stormed off to the small locker room in the back of the shop. After cleaning his grimy face and arms the best he could, he checked his phone and felt the blood in his very veins freeze. There was a missed call from a blocked number, and he knew instantly who it was from. He grit his teeth and deleted the notification from his phone with shaking fingers. He then shoved the phone back into his locker, slammed the door for good measure and sunk into a chair.

I thought I heard the last of him, Marik thought desperately, his eyes squeezed shut in despair. I made it clear I didn't want anything to do with him anymore. But he shouldn't have been surprised, his ex-boyfriend had always been very stubborn, probably more-so than he. He shook his head as he held it between his palms. It had been weeks since he last saw his ex, so he assumed that any chance of communication was proved void.

Evidently, he was wrong.

"Marik? You okay?"

He raised his head to see his co-worker gazing at him worriedly.

"I'm fine," Marik lied, hoisting himself up. "Sorry Miles, I need to go for a walk and clear my head."

He frowned, but nodded. Marik pulled on his leather coat and left the shop. The air was biting, so he buried his hands in his pockets and swiftly walked down the street. He had no particular destination, he just walked. He walked until he was cold; his nose and ears numbed, but he managed to keep his body warm by keeping up a constant pace.

Blond brows were furrowed as he drifted through downtown Domino deep in thought. He was irritated and worried, and occasionally he found himself glancing around in a nervous manner, as if he were being watched. He knew he wasn't, it was just the biting anxiety that he so often felt. Misery was quite commonplace for him though. The foreboding feeling that welled up from his stomach and caused his limbs to quake and heart to race was just all part of the package.

He normally dealt with it in one of three ways: diving into his work, diving into a glass of alcohol, or going for a very long drive. Sometimes he'd drive all day, only stopping to top off his motorcycle. He would push through the city before heading out into the stretches of forest. Once he had drove to the opposite coast of Japan; stopping only for coffee when he felt himself grow tired. It had been right after his interview for the current shop he worked at; he had been sure he failed the interview. Obviously, he hadn't; on his way back, he had gotten invited for a second interview. All the anxiety had been for not.

He licked his lips, his view shifting to a blond haired man that passed him. The worried assumption that this man was a threat was ridiculous; it was simply some man talking loudly on his phone, presumably to his girlfriend by the shrill tone that left the device. The light blond head of semi-long hair had thrown him off, and he felt foolish for his cold sweats. Of course his ex wouldn't appear before him in public... or at least not on the open street. They both knew Marik would purposely make a scene with his haughty attitude and loud, biting voice. And they both knew Marik wouldn't risk a private encounter. He bit the inside of his mouth.

Feeling his stomach coil once more, he decided to check the time. His break had been over for three minutes. Cursing, he doubled back and hoped his supervisor wouldn't notice his late return. Miles will cover for me if not he reasoned. He hoped returning to work would help calm his racing heart and upset stomach; it normally did. The smell of oil and metal was strangely comforting, and keeping his hands and mind busy would be a good distraction.

o o o

I'm your favorite drug

Your favorite drug

Two weeks. Two weeks he had gone without bedding another man, and those two weeks had been the worst of his very long life.

It started with him feeling strangely giddy and full of energy. He went through the days with a slight bounce in his step and a constant smirk. Sure, he always smirked, but the smirk that graced his lips had been borderline jubilant. However, as the days passed, so did this uncharacteristic good mood. Eventually, his energy began to diminish, and a familiar itch had returned. And so, three nights after leaving Marik's window, he had gone out on the town.

Weekdays were always slower than weekends. Humans didn't want to have fun and get drunk on these days because they had mortal obligations. They had jobs, school, families... it made him sick. It took extra effort to bed a man during these days, since most of them were out at bars with their friends, enjoying a dinner and a couple beers. That is, if they even went out.

If Bakura was desperate, he would simply slip into the room of an attractive man, but that took the fun out of the game. He enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of a man gazing after him feverishly. It was absolutely enthralling. However, as the days slipped by, Bakura couldn't help but notice either his charm was dissipating, or his interest was. As he scoured the bars, he couldn't seem to find anybody worth engaging in. All the men looked plain and dull, all with the same hair and same eyes and same boring smile. And the closer Bakura looked, the more drab they became. They all blended together into a monochromatic glob of absolute dreariness, and he didn't want anything to do with them.

After a week was when Bakura got restless and desperate. It made him feel ridiculously weak, how desperate he was for a lay. He had gone out to the clubs again, and looked endlessly for an exotic face, but no man was appealing. None of them.

Bakura could have screamed out loud in frustration.

And so, after two weeks, he felt twitchy and itchy and absolutely annoyed. Another sexless week proved to be hard on both his body and his psyche. It was Friday night, and has he stared into the chipped mirror, he smirked at his own reflection.

"I'd do me," he praised cockily before he headed out to the clubs.

It was like he was on home turf. He knew this club better than he knew Hell itself. With a silky grin, he passed through the crowds. When he sensed eyes on him, he felt waves of satisfaction. His smirk growing wider, he let his hips gyrate to the music.

Minutes turned to hours, and Bakura had lost all patience. He had danced with several men that night, but none of them had been interesting enough to pursue. Whether it was their boring black or brown hair, their drab, lifeless eyes or the smirks that graced their lips that seemed to be more of a frown. It was all boring and unattractive and Bakura wanted nothing to do with them.

However, his eyes finally landed on somebody that could almost be entertaining enough. A tall man, perhaps a few inches taller than him, and he sported freakishly long hair of a tea green hue. He sauntered over, engaging the somewhat interesting man in a dance.

Less than ten minutes later, Bakura had him pinned by the hips against an alley wall. His teeth were roughly digging into his naval as his fingers fiddled with his tight pants. The man above him was quiet, only letting a few groans pass his lips as Bakura pulled out his developing hard-on. Not even looking at the man above him, he took the length into his mouth. It tasted disgusting in his mouth; not even musky or salty, just drab and spongy. He kept himself from curling his nose in disgust as he drew his tongue up the veined shaft, letting his saliva coat the hot, fleshy surface.

As he took the appendage down his throat, his mind drifted to a certain Egyptian. He exhaled softly as he imagined the erection pressing against his tongue was sun-kissed, and the soft groans above him were deep and husky, not meek and feminine. It was only when his imagination ran rampant that his pants begin to tighten.

His throat quivered as he pulled the erection from his mouth, keeping his tongue only on the head. For the first time, he looked up at the man, his crimson-laced eyes meeting dull blue, and at once he felt his stomach coil. He pulled away, disgusted, letting saliva and pre-cum to drip to the ground near his knees. Bakura suddenly stood, wiped his hand on his pants, swiftly turned on his heel and strode out of the dank alleyway, leaving the confused man that still leaned against the wall.

Just one hit is never enough

I'm your favorite drug

Your favorite drug

o o o

Despite his dirty form, he decided not to shower right away. As he entered his flat, he simply threw his leather jacket onto the entry table, along with his keys and his wallet. With a groan, he kicked off his boots and went into the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He despised the stuff but his panic and discomfort still lingered from earlier that day, and he was desperate for a buzz. He plopped onto the couch, cracking the bottle open and chugging several gulps of the disgusting liquid.

Marik turned on the T.V. and scrolled mindlessly through channels, halting on an animation station. He really wasn't a fan of T.V. so he wasn't particularly picky. He tossed the remote down and took another drink of his bitter beverage. He absently surveyed his fingernails, finding most of the paint had been chipped off. This was unsurprising, especially in his job. As he gazed at the remaining black polish, his mind began to wander. It wandered to earlier that day, to the missed calls. He hadn't received any more since then, but that did little to quell his nerves.

Perhaps it had been a mistake?

He laughed dryly at his own presumption. There was absolutely no way he would have dialed Marik's number by mistake; the call had been very deliberate. This brought Marik a combination of disgust, confusion and fear. He absolutely hated the feeling of fear bubbling in his gut. He was a proud, strong individual and he took pride in that; he took pride in the fact he had taken all of life's bullshit and threw it back ten-fold.

To be terrified, to be vulnerable, needless to say, wasn't something he enjoyed. Marik had felt enough fear in his life. He grumbled irritably and took another swig of his alcohol just as a knock filled the room. He glared in the direction of the door; who dare interrupt his evening of drunken angst?

Marik put his beer down and stormed to his door, unlocking it and swinging it open with enough velocity to knock a man out if he had been standing in the right spot. He opened his mouth to give a grouchy greeting but he halted upon seeing who was at the door.

"Bakura?"

o o o

"The one and only. The only one you know anyway." He replied haughtily, moving to invite himself in, only to be barred by the man's body.

Marik looked absolutely pissed, which amused Bakura endlessly. He took a small step back as the tanner man leaned against the door frame, surveying him with an annoyed gaze. The man looked as if he just returned from sort of laborious duty; from head to toe he was covered in splotches of grime that stunk of gas and diesel. He wore a black tank top, and his muscled arms glistened with sticky sweat. Bakura raised a brow to his condition.

"...I was just at work. I stayed late." Marik explained flatly, guessing Bakura's thoughts by his scrutinizing gaze. "Why are you here?"

"No reason," Bakura replied innocently, causing the other man's scowl to deepen.

"Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I shut the door in your face?" Marik offered, stepping back and preparing to do just that.

Bakura stopped it with a surprisingly strong arm. "That's no way to treat a guest," he tutted. "Let me in."

Marik looked at him like he was an idiot. His lavender eyes were narrowed, and his knuckles went white as he harshly gripped the wooden door. "I don't think so."

"Come on, we're friends aren't we?" He chanced, his tone dangerous, his eyes glittering.

"We slept together once."

"Several times, if I recall."

"We fucked for one night."

"And I think we bonded quite well."

Marik looked even more pissed, "Just piss off."

"Don't feel like it."

Marik threw his hands up in a dramatic manner. Bakura used this opportunity to begin moving into the other man's abode. This time, Marik let him, though dangerous eyes followed him. When Bakura was inside, he slammed the door shut and swarmed into the kitchen. He dug around in the fridge, pulling out another bottle of cheap beer.

"Aren't you going to offer me anything?" Bakura taunted, following Marik into the conjoined living area.

"Nope."

"You're not a good host."

"Nope."

Marik sat, glaring at Bakura as he followed suit. He looked absolutely awful, though not in an unattractive way he thought. He surveyed his host, noticing the bags that had developed under his eyes. Bakura felt a spot of pride and smirked internally, knowing it was likely due to a lack of sleep, thanks to his handiwork a couple weeks ago.

"What do you want?"

"I already told you. Nothing."

Marik looked suspicious as he took a drink. "I'm not in the mood for sex tonight, so if that's why you came, you can just leave."

"You wound me; why would I come here simply for sex?"

Marik's face grew livid, "Because that's the only reason we even slightly know each other! We had a one-night stand; you didn't even stay to sleep, you just left after I passed out. I haven't seen you for what? How long? Two weeks? Three? There's no other reason for you to be here."

Bakura scoffed. He was amused by his acquaintance's annoyance, it made his visit all the more interesting. In truth, he had a reason for being here, but he decided to fuck around with his host. He smirked a bit, "I have no alternative motives for being here."

"...You're fucking annoying," Marik resolved before taking another swig from his bottle and setting it on the coffee table.

Bakura leered at him before his gaze raked down the man's grimy body, "What's your work?"

"Mechanic. Why do you care?"

"Mechanics are hot," Bakura winked.

Marik's eyes blazed, and he opened his mouth but Bakura interrupted him, "Why a mechanic?"

He looked put off, as if he weren't expecting the question. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously before replying very slowly, "I'm good at fixing vehicles... I specialize in motorcycles."

"Do you have a motorcycle?"

Marik still looked uneasy, but he replied again, "Yes."

"You just keep growing hotter, Ishtar. An exotic stud like you on a motorcycle? Damn, I'm fanning myself over here."

He sputtered, "What the fuck – wait, how the hell do you know my last name?"

Bakura snickered and gestured to the stack of letters that lay haphazardly on the coffee table. "If you don't want people knowing your personal information, you shouldn't leave it sitting out."

"I shouldn't have to hide my information in my own home! Just tell me why the fuck you're here and leave. I've dealt with enough bullshit today."

"Hmm? What kind of bullshit?" Bakura asked slyly, leaning his side against the back of the couch and facing Marik, a position of complete comfort.

"None of your business."

"You can tell me."

Marik simply sneered back at him, "I have every ability to, but I refuse to."

Bakura smiled dangerously, causing Marik to visibly shift in discomfort.

"... I don't want to talk about it." Marik said finally, "It's better if I don't."

The paler man gazed at his host, his brow raised. He managed to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability the other man held. It was well camouflaged under layers of confidence and self-assurance. This was simply a cloak, and Bakura saw it. Though, strangely, he didn't feel the need to exploit it. Instead, he moved like water and leaned forward, his head coming to rest on Marik's lap. He looked up at the man coyly, who returned a startled gaze.

"What the hell are you doing now?" Marik grumbled, fidgeting in an attempt to dislodge Bakura.

"You're stressed," Bakura simply observed, beginning to fiddle with Marik's belt and zipper. He let seduction come over his gaze as he stared up at his host, his tongue drawing slowly over his lips. "I can fix it."

"I told you I'm not in the fucking mood – fuck –" he cut himself off as Bakura rutted a palm against the front of his pants. He swiftly changed positions, moving from the couch to his knees. He knelt shamelessly on the floor, his nimble fingers quickly undoing Marik's pants.

"Bakura," he grumbled weakly, making half-assed attempts to push pale hands away. Bakura was having none of that, though; he was already pulling out his tanned, flaccid cock. It was warm under his palm as he gave it a few pumps before taking it into his mouth.

The man above him hissed and all complaints ceased as Bakura's wet mouth made quick work of getting it hard. With a skilled tongue, he feverishly explored the veined surface, greedily taking in the various textures. Unlike the drab need of the mysterious green-haired man from the club, he felt himself becoming excited just having Marik's in his mouth.

It became hard under his skilled ministrations, he then took it into his throat with a few careful bobs of his head. Marik let out a noise that resembled a croak and Bakura internally smirked; he could take the man's large length down his gullet quite easily. He pulled in his cheeks and sucked on the appendage, coating it with sticky saliva that made bobbing his head all the easier.

As he slurped, Marik groaned. Tan digits found snowy locks and began pulling roughly. Bakura didn't mind; needless to say, pain was somewhat of a kink. In fact, it caused him to move quicker, drawing even more pleased moans from his host. Suddenly, during a particularly loud noise, Marik shoved Bakura's head back, startling the paler man. With his free hand, he gave a few rapid strokes and came onto Bakura's lips and face.

He smirked, drawing his tongue over the semen he could reach with his freakishly long tongue, keeping his gaze even with Marik's, who was in a blurry post-orgasmic state. Hands loosened from his hair and dropped away completely, and low grunts had been replaced with hefty panting.

"Feel better?" Bakura cooed mockingly.

Marik looked down at him with muted disgust, "Get on the couch."

Bakura shrugged and did as he was told. The other man was giving him a calculated look as he moved a hand over and undid Bakura's zipper. The paler man's smug look widened, causing Marik to bristle.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," Marik snarled, pulling Bakura's erection free.

"How can I, when such an exotic man is about to suck my dick?"

He sneered, "I never said I was sucking it." He began rubbing the length against his palm.

Bakura's breath hitched. He began thumbing the semen off his face, keeping his gaze locked with Marik's.

"You should return the favor," Bakura finally said as he sucked on his salty finger.

Marik scoffed and continued moving his palm along Bakura's length. "You should be happy I'm just doing this."

"I'm absolutely thrilled," Bakura returned, letting out an airy grunt. "However, your mouth on my cock would make me even happier."

"I'll be sure not to do that, then."

He thumbed the slit, then, despite his words, he dipped his head and drew his tongue almost greedily over the veined shaft. Bakura grunted, staring down at his companion feverishly as he began pleasuring him with a hot, wet mouth.

Bakura wasn't as noisy as Marik when it came to blow-jobs. He simply breathed, panted, and occasionally let out an airy sigh. He was sure this frustrated Marik, because as the blow-job continued, his determination grew. He obviously couldn't use his mouth the way Bakura could, but what he couldn't do with his throat, he did with his tongue and teeth. He flicked the wet appendage against the tip and over the veins before giving them determined nips.

The light bites were what made Bakura emit a noise; pain was quite the turn on in his case. And Marik was certainly exploiting that. He looked smug, the way he looked up to meet Bakura's eye. It ticked him off, but the irritation wouldn't last. As Marik ministrations grew quicker, Bakura's impending climax drew closer. With a smirk, he grabbed Marik by the hair and slammed his cock down his throat as he came, his semen being forced down his gullet.

Bakura let out a throaty moan as Marik choked around his length. He pulled back and sputtered, his eyes wide with choke as he coughed up a few flecks of white. Bakura grinned; most of his seed had made it down Marik's throat.

After his fit, he glared daggers, "What the fuck was that?!"

"A half-assed blow-job," Bakura taunted.

"You could have warned me," Marik mumbled, turning to drink the rest of his beer, scowling at the combination of salty musk and bitterness. "Your cum tastes disgusting."

Bakura rolled his eyes and fixed his pants before leaning lethargically against the back of the couch, making himself comfortable. Marik, who was busy looking revolted, finally turned his head to Bakura and furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Why aren't you leaving?"

"Don't feel like it."

"You got what you wanted."

"Never said I wanted a blow-job."

Marik scowled at him, "It was implied."

"Hardly. I was simply doing you a favor; you looked rather tense earlier." He smirked in victory, "But now you don't."

Marik crossed his arms. Bakura knew he had no reason to argue against what was true; the man did look far more relaxed than he had only fifteen minutes ago. He gave a few grumbles and begrudgingly leaned against the couch. "Fine. I feel a little better. But I still want to know what you want."

"Maybe to just hang out? Talk?... after sex snuggles?" He added slyly, snickering at the revolted face of is companion at the mere suggestion.

"...We can play video games?" He finally suggested offhandedly.

"Video games? What are you, twelve?"

Marik scoffed, "They aren't just for kids, dumbass. I'm not a huge fan of them though." He got up and grabbed a couple Wii U controllers, "This actually isn't even mine." He continued as he tossed one of the controllers to Bakura and turned the machine on.

"What? Didja steal it?" Bakura suggested slyly, causing the other to roll his eyes.

"No. My friend Ryou let me borrow it. He and his dumb bimbo of a girlfriend are going out of town for a long 'romantic weekend'." He scowled darkly and made a face of disdain.

"Oh, do I hear a hint of resentment?" Bakura taunted as Marik changed the input of the television and started the game.

"Maybe. But I'd rather not talk about it." Marik said flatly.

Bakura shrugged; he'd have other chances to mock and bother his host. He turned his attention to the start-up screen of whatever game Marik had put in.

"...'Super Smash Bros'?" Bakura quoted.

"It came out recently. Yugi and Ryou are hardcore gamers, so of course they got the game and made me play it with them..." he sighed, "They kicked my ass."

Bakura snickered. As he held the controller and selected his character (he hadn't a clue who any of the characters were; he went with the most badass looking one though) he mulled over what he was doing. No only had he went back to this man for a third time, but he was indulging in an activity that was meant for children. Why? Why was he so amused by this human? Never before had he lowered himself to the point of spending domestic time with somebody; he fucked them and left. He didn't need a companion, he didn't need a friend. His kind didn't need those.

Then the game started. Bakura had no idea what was happening; he didn't often indulge in modern games.

"Bakura, you're holding the controller wrong!" Marik snickered.

He scowled and used Marik's example to fix himself. As the night progressed, he found himself losing to Marik constantly, despite both of them being absolutely awful. They snickered at each others mistakes and bantered back and forth. It was exciting, but not in a sexual way; it was mentally stimulating. The game wasn't, but Marik was; the banter came so naturally.

This human was quite intelligent in his own right, Bakura realized. When the insults and taunts died, it became replaced with talking. Bakura listened. He wasn't really talking about anything important per say; he simply vented. He told Bakura about his various clients and customers; he spoke with great disrespect, and Bakura couldn't help but smirk. Marik also told him about his homophobic 'friends', to which Bakura scoffed; the concept of homophobia was lost on him.

They drank more. Or at least, Marik did. Several beers into the night caused his words to become slurred. He became more judgmental as he spoke of people and how he hated so many of them. Humanity made him angry, and Bakura agreed. He spoke with such hate, such brutality, it made him shiver in delight. Marik said he only really liked a small group of people; one of his co-workers, and a few of his friends from his school days. (Bakura heard a name for the third time that evening: Ryou. This was interesting, and Bakura stored the information in the back of his mind. He would quiz Marik in the future on this 'Ryou', but his tone seemed to change anytime he mentioned the friend).

It neared one in the morning. The screen had been on the start menu for nearly an hour as Marik held a bottle of beer by the neck and grumbled angrily about loud babies. Bakura had his arms crossed and had laid his legs luxuriously across Marik's lap (the gesture had meant to annoy the man, which it did, but he had grown used to it so he didn't bother moving his feet).

Marik trailed off, losing his train of thought, "Fuck. What time is it?"

Bakura reached over, took Marik's mobile from his pocket like the ass he was and gave the time. "It's five past one."

"...Shit. I was gonna go to bed early tonight." He grumbled, finally shoving Bakura's feet off of him. "You have to go."

He raised his brow, "Can I not sleep with you?" He joked, earning a buzzed glare. Marik got up and stretched, several bones cracking in the process. Bakura followed him to the door. As the tanner man opened it, Bakura strutted by.

"Wait," Marik stopped him by putting a hand on his lithe shoulder, "You can uh... stop by whenever you want you know." He grumbled. "I mean, not when I'm at work but... yeah. Anyway, goodnight."

Bakura simply winked, "I might take you up on that offer." Then he left. As he heard the door behind him close, he let out a long sigh.

You break this addiction, no

Your favorite drug [1]

[1] I'm Your Favorite Drug by Porcelain Black

I stuffed two fandom references in there. One is pretty obvious, but maybe not the other...

This story is just to indulge my need for demon!Bakura. But I promise there's some plot. ;)