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Nothing could have prepared Marik for the strikingly familiar face that greets him tonight. Framed by the deep indigo haze of a desert night, cool air of Egyptian evenings this time of year swirling through gentle strands of snow white hair . . . Damn, he looks good. The pressed black trench coat and black heeled boots are a breath of fresh air against Bakura’s otherwise pastel appearance. Chillingly amused eyes stare back into Marik’s wide lavender ones.
The Spirit need not say a word - Marik quickly recovers from the initial shock and glances over his shoulder. Truly, any of the Ishtars could have answered the door. And yet, the spirit of the millennium ring shamelessly stands at their front door as if he has some right to be here.
Clearly, he hasn’t lost an ounce of that arrogant recklessness that used to frustrate Marik so deeply.
“Ishizu? I’m getting some air.” Marik slips into the boots he keeps by the door and pulls a slate gray vest over the black tank top he wears. Without waiting for so much as confirmation from his elder sister, he shuts the door tight and steps out into the haze.
An almost impish smile brightens Bakura’s porcelaine face, emphasizing high cheekbones and a cutting edge jawline. “Miss me, love?”
Marik gives an incredulous scoff in response, though an effortless smile betrays it. “You’d like that, huh?” He shakes his head as they walk, black manicured and gold ring adorned hands on his hips. The young tombkeeper’s fashion tastes have clearly become modest by his standards, though locals still stare and comment that he looks like one of those fancy tourists with their bleached hair and exposed skin. His responses to such remarks change each time, though some of his favorites are: “Western trends make me look young,” and, “Thanks, I do porn.”
This would always earn a sharp look from Ishizu.
The pair steps around the house to the shed in which Marik keeps his beloved motorcycle. “Let me treat you while we chat? I owe you a lot, after all.” Already rolling the bike out of the shed, he meets Bakura’s eyes with an inviting smile.
“HA!” Bakura’s characteristically chilling laughter fills the night air. Delighted, he purrs, “How sweet. I knew of your little Pharaoh-induced cleansing, but I hadn’t expected you to become so . . . Sentimental.”
“Oh?” Marik grunts, smile fading into a familiarly irritated eye roll. “Well, you haven’t changed a bit.” It is a lie. There is a certain . . . Charisma in the spirit that was not there during Battle City. A confidence in his plans, whatever they may be. Marik can’t help wanting to see more of this Bakura.
A brief ride through the streets of Cairo brings them from the ancient city’s quiet outskirts to the vibrant night life of tourist hot spots and jazz clubs. Most businesses have closed shop by now, taking dusk as their sign of a day’s work. As they enter Khan el-Khalili Market, however, the streets are lined with stunning, colored lamps as evening wanderers take their pick of handmade cushions and glass decor.
As a tomb keeper, things like tourism and spice shops were mere fantasies to him. Child Marik would dream of it all - the murmur of crowded walkways, aromatic spice stands, the lost expressions of tourists just trying to follow their strict itineraries in a city of its own pace.
Moving here was the perfect compromise between the Ishtars. Ishizu would have access to a more traditional way of life as she works as a museum curator, Marik would have easy access to the modernism of city life, and Rishid would finally be able to be part of his family without expectation or shame.
“A tourist trap?” Bakura muses as they step off the bike. Chuckling, he follows the other into one of the numerous tea shops still open. “Don’t tell me you’ve reduced yourself to this?”
Marik waves him off, impatient with the ancient being’s lack of appreciation. “Just be grateful. My family shouldn’t be so hospitable to you. Besides, it’s a lot less crowded this time of day.”
From the moment they claim their seats and orders of tea, there is a silent understanding that the rest of their conversation should be carried out in the dialect of the kings. Marik spoke this Arabic tongue growing up underground, as it was passed on through the tombkeeper traditions. Bakura, on the other hand, recalls it well from his prime life in ancient Egypt millennia ago. In fact, the spirit’s seamless transition from Japanese to this particular variant impresses Marik far more than he would like to admit.
“See, I’ve got some idea already as to why you came back.” Marik can’t help a subtle smirk playing at his lips as he stirs the Koshary he’s chosen. Black tea seems . . . Fitting on a night like this. Cool undertones to match those of his former partner in crime. His gaze lifts to take in the sharpness of said partner’s face.
“Yugi and his friends have boarded their flight, by now. The pharaoh will soon arrive at his birthplace to uncover his past. The prophecies will finally be fulfilled.” Oh, how he’s missed this. Mysterious talks of ancient magic, each of them trying to outwit the other, the inevitable realization of how much they have in common . . .
Legs crossed, Bakura rests an elbow on the table while taking the most casually gorgeous sip of tea. His is a rich, floral hibiscus tea with a hint of mint leaves - something he developed a taste for millennia ago. He takes his time with it, humming at the taste even as he feels Marik’s stare. It amuses him, really. What sort of thoughts might the younger man be indulging in? Fascinating.
“Tell me, Marik . . . Aren’t you hungry?”
“What?” Blond lashes flutter over flustered lavender eyes. “What are you —“
“Aren’t you STARVING, love?” Bakura’s smirk widens into a wickedly playful grin as he turns to face the other Egyptian. The hibiscus tea is set on the table as he leans forward, head tilting as he purrs, “Haven’t you had enough of the sidelines? Allowing things to unfold as they do? No longer taking action for yourself?” Dainty, porcelain fingernails dig into the etched wood table as if he is about to crawl across it to eat Marik alive. In different circumstances . . . He just might.
Marik’s heart skips. He can’t look away from those dark eyes taunting him so - even as other cafe patrons take notice of Bakura’s peculiar behaviors. They don’t know the half of it.
Softening from the initial shock, Marik laughs.
Folding his own arms on the table, he comfortably shortens the space between them and smiles back at Bakura. “I’ve worked my ass off to get here, you know. I’m enjoying my freedom to its fullest.” He enjoys the way this irritates the spirit across from him.
“Tsh,” Bakura lowers himself back into his seat, sulking in that adorably cat-like way of his. “Fine. I don’t need your help at all.”
“You want it, though.” Marik muses. Taking his turn in mischief, he reaches forward and gently lifts Bakura’s chin so their eyes meet. He fully expects to be shoved away, but the spirit makes no protest. He just glares as a not-so-subtle blush warms his paleness. “I’ll do it.”
Bakura scoffs.
“And,” Marik leans forward, bringing their faces dizzyingly close. “You’re pretty when you think you won’t get your way.” Is it bold, given their past and the public setting? Absolutely. And Marik intends to ride this thrill of their reunion as long as it lasts.
Bakura feels as though he cannot breathe. His chest is all tight, and the heat in his face spreads to his ears. Something must be wrong with his host again - the damned thing. Sharply, he turns away from Marik and his infuriating smirk. “Fuck off.”
“Haha!” Marik soaks in his triumph and rises to his feet. “Come on,” He jerks his head toward the market walkways. “I’ll show you Ishizu’s stash.”
Still recovering, Bakura cocks an eyebrow and stands. This ought to be good.
Marik leaves a generous payment on their table, along with a tip to accommodate the expectation of areas filled with tourists. With that, they return to Marik’s motorcycle for another ride through the city. More shops and jazz clubs welcome in the night crowd, and Marik cheerily yaps over traffic about how much he enjoys living here while Bakura silently takes it in. In moments like these, they can almost call each other friends.
The “stash” Marik mentioned proves to be quite the inventory. As Secretary General of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities, now museum curator, the eldest Ishtar has countless items of interest under lock and key. Protecting them not only stems from a personal appreciation of the ancient arts, but also her heritage of safeguarding such things to aid in the Pharaoh’s return.
From memory, Marik enters the code digits to disable security into a keypad beside the door. It slides open. “The millennium tablet hasn’t been moved since the Pharaoh’s reign,” He ushers Bakura inside before the door slides shut again, “But, I’m sure there’s something in here you’ll find useful. What are you looking for, anyway? Millennium items again?” He chuckles, shooting Bakura a knowing glance.
The storage room is filled from its shiny concrete floor to its dusty wood-beamed ceiling. Crates of all sizes are stacked left and right, while other artifacts are wrapped in white paper and left leaning against shelves or in piles of their own. Many antiquities must have been recently reviewed, however, polished and unprotected atop crates or in tempered glass cases of their own. This explains the aroma of fresh paint and a subtle bite of formaldehyde.
The spirit scoffs, already poking around. “The items have already been accounted for. I seek an incantation once used to medicinally return one’s memories. I’ll need to keep it from Yugi and his friends if I want to win.” He recognizes an anklet of gold he once wore and admires it between his fingers.
“Ah,” Marik nods. “I know that one.” He turns to a shelf stuffed with cases of papyrus and ancient scrolls. “Let’s get started.”
The two combine their efforts - one might say as messily as they did some years ago. Boxes and files are rummaged through, crates pulled from the highest shelves. Bakura blows a puff of air over one of these to clear away the dust while Marik sneezes and curses up at him for it. Now and again, Bakura groans and shoves Marik aside for humming to himself or getting in the way. All the while, they report to one another what they do find. Some ancient texts bring them together in fascination or in laughter. And, despite all their bickering, it’s good to be in each other’s company again. The company of someone so alike.
Even as they search, hours passing between snide remarks and some pointless arguments, Marik cannot help his gaze from taking in the details of the white-haired spirit. Has it already been two years since they last spoke? Images of that fateful night atop Seto Kaiba’s aircraft play in Marik’s thoughts, capturing his attention like the pages of a modern magazine he discovered as a child. Must be the new coat . . . Yeah. Bakura is so chillingly gorgeous in black. It’s a simple fact - no need to add meaning to it.
And yet . . . Marik’s heart rate picks up at the way Bakura’s jaw clenches in thought. The way his silver brows knit together as he studies the contents of a file he has pulled from the top shelves.
And Marik is not the only one stealing glances between pages of ancient papyrus. Bakura’s dark eyes flick over to the youngest Ishtar, eyelids heavy with a curious desire he has not quite allowed himself to indulge just yet. He cannot - he knows that. There are far more important matters at hand, and with Marik’s recent friendliness with the pharaoh . . . But, damn, how Marik’s sun-kissed skin glows in the light of dying fluorescent bulbs overhead. His lilac eyes dance across the various files and artifacts he sorts through. Occasionally, something unknown to Bakura will amuse him and turn up the corners of his plush, sculpted lips.
“Quit staring,” Marik abruptly orders without so much as looking up from the artifact in his hands. It is an ancient vase of sorts, engraved with barely legible phrases the tombkeeper has been trying to decipher.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Bakura averts his gaze with an impatient huff, ears burning red again. His heart rate picks up. All he can do is appear busy by shoving the documents he holds back into the shelf, shifting his feet slightly on the ladder.
Marik scowls at him for this, setting the vase down with a soft thud. “I am not that oblivious. I can feel your eyes.” He folds his arms, weight shifting to one hip as if he weren’t just staring at Bakura as well.
“You can . . . ‘Feel my eyes?’” Bakura lets the words dance around his tongue, playfully searching for meaning in them. It draws an impish smirk to his lips despite how flustered he remains. “Ha! Tell me, then, how do they feel?” He turns to face the other, tilting his head. “Perhaps, I felt yours too?”
Marik is left without an excuse. He just frowns back at the spirit from the base of the ladder, stubborn blush rising across his dark skin.
Finding this silence delightfully peculiar, Bakura climbs down. He hums, “You still like to be right . . .” The heels of his black boots clack against the cement floor of the storage room as he takes feline strides toward Marik, “Even when you’re not~” Slowly, he walks Marik back against a workbench, covered in another array of research journals, museum floor plans, and other tools of Ishizu’s trade.
Marik’s irritable expression eases with each step, lilac eyes widening in the dim fluorescent light and blush burning deeper. His hips press against the work bench, but he doesn’t dare break eye contact with Bakura. And, with his hands gripping the edge of the bench behind him, he exhales a shuddering breath as the spirit caresses his neck with a slender, porcelain hand.
“Oh, how I’ve missed seeing fear in your eyes~” Bakura purrs.
“You don’t scare me,” Marik frankly replies. A smirk of his own brightens his pretty face - mischief equal to Bakura’s despite the way his heart pounds in his ears.
“Mh,” Bakura studies each shift in the Ishtar’s expressions, “Maybe I ought to.” The dark sweetness of his touches to Marik’s skin tempt the idea of taking hold of that lovely neck. Without so much as Marik’s usual gold jewelry there, what’s stopping him?
Sensing Bakura’s fantasies, Marik’s smile softens. He exhales a light chuckle and takes gentle hold of Bakura’s hand, pulling him closer still. “What are we doing?”
The spirit’s white lashes flutter, eyes lifting from Marik’s neck to his face. His eyes, his lips, then back. He has once again lost control of things. The question is rhetorical, but what can he say to that tender look from Marik? Damned tombkeeper! He’s always looking at Bakura like he is the most beautiful being to bless his world. This is where he should pull back - curse Marik out and refuse this dance that always seems to ignite between them.
He doesn’t. Not this time. Doesn’t want to.
“Fuck you, Ishtar.” And with those words, snarled barely above a whisper, Bakura closes the gap between them. He feels Marik tug him in simultaneously, pressing their lips warmly together. The act is a bit clumsy at first - a lot of teeth from Bakura and anxious desperation from Marik. Soon, though, their breaths sync and their mouths fit together so perfectly that they wonder how this never happened before.
Marik’s other hand comes up from the bench to slip under Bakura’s shirt, memorizing each contour of his lithe body and each circular scar in his stomach where the millennium ring rests.
Grasping Marik’s hips, Bakura reluctantly breaks for air amidst the growing heat of their kisses. Noses rub together, both sets of eyes barely open. The spirit moves lower, tongue gliding up Marik’s neck while the tombkeeper turns his head to give him full access. Bakura takes the soft, sweetly perfumed skin between his teeth, exhilarated by hearing Marik’s breath hitch in pure bliss.
The exploration of Marik’s hands wanders upwards, pushing the black coat off Bakura’s shoulders. The spirit readily slips his arms out and lets it fall in a heap on the floor. In this short time of adjustment, Marik’s lips quirk up into another smirk as he hoists himself up onto the work bench. Thighs spread, he takes Bakura’s sharp jawline in one hand and leans back to rest his weight on the other. Eyes already glossing over with need, the spirit allows it. Lets himself get drawn in, lets his feet follow, as Marik draws his face dizzyingly close and lures the rest of him in.
“Hhm, look at you.” Marik’s smile brightens. He smooths the pad of his thumb over Bakura’s parted lips and tilts his head. “Five thousand years is a long time . . . You must be famished.”
Bakura scoffs, the most spite he can muster at a time like this - hands on Marik’s thighs and a fire coiling inside his belly. “Don’t speak down to me like some pet, Marik. After all . . .” He glides his tongue over his sharp, pearly canines and purrs up at the tombkeeper, “I can leave at any moment. You seem to think I can’t say no to you.”
“You haven’t so far.” And Marik laughs at the irritated look he gains: a beautiful, bright laugh that melts the ice around the ancient spirit’s heart. “I could pretend I believe it, though . . . Just for tonight. Just for you.” Marik pushes the white bangs from Bakura’s forehead and kisses him there. “But, I’m not fucking you in Ishizu’s storage room.”
“Oh?” Bakura lets out another darkly delighted chuckle. “Has someone gained standards since our last little agreement? Or, is it merely your first time, tombkeeper~?”
Marik hums, exhaling a breath that isn’t quite a laugh, but just as enticing. “No. Not my first time . . .” His hand drifts down, along strands of white hair to Bakura’s chest. His lavender eyes follow, smile fading in a way Bakura can’t quite place. “You don’t really need that incantation. Do you?”
It is spoken so softly that Bakura nearly thinks he imagines it - Marik connecting the dots. Jaw clenching, his dark eyes meet Marik’s. The haze of lust fades. He says nothing. Doesn’t need to. The icy dismay in his eyes says all.
Marik inhales deeply, nodding slowly in disappointment as he takes a glance around the room. “What I cannot understand, though . . . Is why you’ve wasted so much time searching with me?”
The spirit pulls away, leaving Marik atop the work bench with an incredulous grunt. “You should know me better than that, Marik. In fact, it is time itself that I seek.” And, before Marik can inquire further, he reaches into a cardboard box he set aside near the beginning of their search. Three hourglasses are pulled out, each placed on the work bench with a soft thud. Proudly, Bakura tosses white hair over his shoulder and caresses each of them with the utmost care. He grins up at Marik, eyes ignited with greed. “I assume, you know of them? The three Time Turners of Egypt? Ishizu has really outdone herself by restoring these.”
Marik stares in disbelief. “How did you . . ? I’ve been right beside you this entire time!”
“You forget Egypt’s King of Thieves~” Bakura sneers, gesturing arrogantly to himself. “You were a FOOL to expect that I would trust a pet of the Pharaoh! And now, you’ve been quite the help in getting me here,” his arms open to present Ishizu’s vast storage room, “The very place that held the last pieces to my game.”
Throughout this boasting, Marik’s brow furrows and he growls under his breath in growing anger. He grasps the edge of the workbench at his sides, knuckles turning white as his gold rings. “You can’t win. I won’t let you!” He snatches up an hourlgass and heaves it overhead into the air, already reaching for the next while it soars toward the cement floor.
Then everything is still.
The first hourglass, silver with etched hieroglyphs, mere inches from shattering . . .
The second, polished wood with gold rings, tightly grasped in Marik’s hand . . .
Frozen in time.
“I think not,” Bakura muses. His hand leaves the third hourglass, heavier and made of hexagonal stone. In an instant, he had turned it onto its side, sealing the moment in the present with only himself free from its spell. “Bold heroics, truly. Can’t say I am impressed.” He pries the wood hourglass from Marik’s hand and makes his way to the other, black boots clacking with each step in the eerily silent room. Not even the wind can escape this.
Panic rises in Marik’s chest as he uselessly attempts to move - to speak - anything! The entire experience sends a chill down his spine.
“I suppose,” The spirit lifts the silver time turner from its frozen descent and smirks, “I should thank you for giving me a chance to demonstrate my new powers. After all!” He spins on his heel to face the other man, almost giddy with vengeance. “You’ve so sweetly welcomed me in!”
Time to erase his errors and get what he wants.
Bakura lifts the stone hourglass to allow time to continue. Marik hardly has time to recover before the wooden hourglass is rotated, sending them both back to the moment things got out of hand. Marik’s position shifts atop the work bench. Bakura is thrown back into his cat-like lean between Marik’s thighs. The hourglasses return to their unsuspecting box.
It is not until his jaw falls flawlessly into Marik’s hand and the tombkeeper draws him in close that Bakura realizes . . . In his eagerness to test these precious time pieces, he neglected to comptenplate which moment to which they should be returned. He cannot resist the heat across his pale cheekbones and stirring within his belly. Eyelids heavy, his dark eyes remain lustfully glazed over, and the smallest of touches drives him further into Marik’s charms.
He never should have kissed him in the first place.
“Hhm, look at you.” Marik’s smile brightens. He smooths the pad of his thumb over Bakura’s parted lips and tilts his head. “Five thousand years is a long time . . . You must be famished.”
Bakura scoffs, the most spite he can muster at a time like this - nails digging into Marik’s thighs as he fights the fire coiling inside himself, preventing him from letting go. “You seem to think I can’t say no to you.”
“You haven’t so far.” And Marik laughs at the scowl he receives: a beautiful, bright laugh that somehow melts the ice around Bakura’s millennia old heart and only builds upon his frustrations.
“Why do I feel like we’ve done this before?” Marik’s curious playfulness only entices the spirit all over again. “You look surprised.”
Bakura snarls under his breath, eyes narrowing up at this gorgeous idiot. He jerks his head away, breaking the simmering intimacy before he repeats his mistake. “Don’t distract me.” He marches over to the boxes and shelves. The time turners will be exactly where he hid them before.
Marik scoffs, offended at being so suddenly discarded. “YOU kissed ME, you bastard!”
Bakura hardly pays him the courtesy of looking up from the box he plucks from a dusty corner of the room. “I never asked for your sweetness, Ishtar,” He muses, “Don’t be so surprised when I betray it.”
Marik watches the spirit quite speechlessly for a moment, jaw dropped, before leaping off the workbench after him. “And what is that??” He demands, authoritative as he pushes aside the lingering heartache. “To hell with that incantation - I know you came here for something else!” His eyes narrow on the box in the spirit’s hands. “I know better than to say it was just my good looks that brought you back,” the jest comes out more bitterly than Marik intends, but he isn’t the least bit sorry.
“Ha!” Bakura grins over his shoulder at him. “Always too clever for your own good, aren’t you?” He turns a cold shoulder to Marik and strides toward the heavy warehouse door. “Now then . . . be a good little helper and open the door~” He purrs the request, tongue gliding across his sharp canines. It won’t be much longer until the pharaoh arrives and they face each other in a game only the gods themselves could mediate.
Marik curses in Arabic under his breath, marching after him. He seizes Bakura’s shoulder, forcibly turning the spirit round to face him. “And what if you lose?” With both hands gripping Bakura’s shoulders, he searches those distant, manic eyes. They still have the same dark shadows beneath them, casting misty depths to Bakura’s pastel complexion and etched cheekbones. But, now is hardly the time to admire the other man’s beauty.
Bakura’s fervent pleasure quickly shifts to something more hostile. The question plucks at his own doubts, forcing them to the forefront of his mind where he would much rather be relishing the thought of Atem’s name and memories being erased once again. Permemently.
He snarls, “I’ll simply have to win. Good enough for you?” He tries to shrug Marik’s hands off. This proves quite difficult thanks to his secure hold on the delicate box of time magic.
“You CANNOT win against the pharaoh! It is clear in scripture - has been for millennia. You will lose yourself and everything you’ve accomplished! And if that happens . . .” Marik sets his jaw, biting back his words before something he might regret slips out. “I . . . Need you to understand this.”
A sharp, bitter laugh cuts through the space between them as Bakura finally breaks free from Marik’s grasp. “And what gives you the notion I am unaware of such risks?” He uses the box to shove the tombkeeper aside, recklessly allowing the precious antiques to clank and roll around. “You think that after five millennia of plotting - sneaking about through shadows - I would tuck my tail between my legs and run off? Because YOU asked it of me??” Glaring daggers at Marik and leans over the box between them to retort, “So . . . Do not speak to me about scripture. I have watched and waited far too long. And, unlike you and the pharaoh . . . I have nothing left to lose.”
Eyes narrow, Marik frowns and stands his ground as Bakura shoves the box against his chest. He allows the spirit to bite back - to growl and scoff all he likes. It won’t change anything. Meanwhile, the fragile clinking of glass and metals hardly goes unnoticed. Marik’s intent lavender eyes flick from Bakura’s rage, down to the box, then back.
“What if you did?”
“What?” The word is barked out like profanity.
Marik squares his shoulders, head held high and chest boldly pressed against the box. He rests his hands on his hips. “What if you had something to lose? What then? Would you not empathize with the rest of us? Think it over for once in your pathetic, hateful existence? Or would you keep running in with all that same arrogance that got us both killed in Battle City?”
“Hah!” Bakura’s eyes grow wide with disbelief. He shakes his head, simmering malice in his eyes. And yet, he is left without an answer. “Just stay out of my way.” He turns again toward the door.
Just as he does so, Marik is swift to plunge his hand into the cardboard box. While his memories of that moment before Bakura sent them spiraling back in time are still a haze, he distinctly recalls three hourglasses. One of them is responsible for this reversal. Ra, please let him pick the right one.
“Stop!” Bakura gasps, nearly dropping the whole box in an attempt to steal the time piece back. And, before he can think to identify which one Marik snatched, the youngest Ishtar turns it over.
Once again, by some miracle in Marik’s favor, they are dragged back to the workbench. The box spins and hurls itself out of Bakura’s arms to the unkempt corner he hid it in. Marik is lifted atop the workbench with the spirit’s chin in his ringed hand, Bakura’s hands on his thighs.
“Hhm, look at you.” Marik’s smile brightens. He smooths the pad of his thumb over Bakura’s parted lips and tilts his head. “Five thousand years is a long time . . . Not so fun when it’s done to you, is it?”
Bakura is at a loss, helplessly captivated again with the lingering buzz of their kisses. Marik’s touches send blissful shudders through his system. He scowls in spite of the heavy blush across his cheeks. “I hate you, Ishtar . . .”
“Mhm~” Marik hums, savoring his triumph and the need Bakura exudes. “Now, if I can beat you right here, what makes you think the pharaoh won’t find his own loopholes? He always does. Did it to me too.” He chuckles as if those memories of his own battles against the pharaoh are anything but excruciating.
Bakura refuses to believe for a single moment that Marik does not miss this. The smirk on his face is enough to express that much - the thrill of besting an opponent. Of facing a challenge head-on and coming out the victor. Marik is in his element, and he doesn’t even seem to know it.
“If I didn’t know better,” Bakura’s loathing expression eases into a curious fascination, “I would almost think you were attempting to help me.” He cocks a brow and leans forward into Marik’s touch under his chin, hands drifting up his thighs with newfound anticipation.
Marik invites him in, soaking up the attention and bringing their faces closer still. “And why would I do that . . ?” He speaks just above a whisper as their noses brush together.
“Perhaps . . .” Bakura’s lips quirk up into a characteristically unsettling grin, “You still like this more than you like the pharaoh, hm?” His eyes flick from the tombkeeper’s breathtaking eyes to his equally enticing lips.
Heart racing and throat suddenly dry, Marik swallows. Then, he groans an impatient, “Just kiss me already, dammit.” He rushes past those mere centimeters between them to smash their lips together, shuddering at the soft grunt that leaves Bakura. His hand falls to the spirit’s petite waist and pulls him closer, pressing their bodies together over the edge of the workbench.
And Bakura kisses him back - just as aggressively and not the least bit shy. Slender, porcelain hands squeeze Marik’s hips and his thumbs massage circles into his pretty pelvic bones. Once this draws a gasp from Marik’s lips, he laughs breathlessly in the spare moments between heated kisses.
The world begins to fade. Piles of papyrus and crates of ancient tablets disappear into the haze of physical - sexual need. Both pairs of hands explore, searching for the others’ most sensitive spots in this game of pleasure. Who knew the sharpness of Bakura’s canines against Marik’s tongue . . . Or the soft scar lines across Marik’s back under Bakura’s chilled fingertips . . . Could feel so divine? A dance with the devil himself, it would seem. And equally fun.
With one impassioned shove, Marik slides down from the work bench and hastily discards his vest on the floor beside the sleek black trenchcoat. Bakura laughs again, breathless and quickly cut off as their lips lock again. The spirit finds himself being guided backwards until Marik presses him into the nearest wall. He gives no complaint - only drapes his pale arms over the tombkeeper’s bronzed shoulders and tangles his delicate hands in sandy blond hair. “Mmh . . . Something I said must have really struck a chord, hm?” He muses, eyelids heavy as they reluctantly catch their breath.
Marik exhales a huff that would be a laugh if not for his racing heart. He smiles, shaking his head. “Don’t get so proud of yourself.” He meets the spirit’s eyes and swallows, softening. With his hands at Bakura’s waist and their chests impossibly close, he somehow finds courage. “It’s you that I like.”
“Awe~” Bakura purrs in mock pity.
“I am being honest,” Marik insists. “You fascinate me . . . Challenge my way of thinking.” He tenderly tucks stray white hair behind Bakura’s ear, breathing slightly more easily now despite the weight his words hold. “You have been on my mind since Battle City ended. Even more so, now that the pharaoh’s final moments are falling into place . . . So, I understand why coming to see me wasn’t what you expected to gain. But, I won’t apologize for trying not to lose you again.”
The ancient spirit is left at quite a loss. The masterful allurement he held just a moment ago is quickly overruled by a baffled frown and a defiant need to remain unaffected. The heavy blush across his face only burns hotter by the second. “Stop that . . . You’re just excited, that’s all.”
“You want me to stop?” Marik intently searches the other’s eyes then tilts his head at the conflict he sees. Another challenge. “Say you don’t feel the same, and I’ll leave it be. But . . .” He caresses Bakura’s cheek and affectionately rests their heads together. “If you do want me, I’m right here.”
All of Bakura’s inward resistance and yet . . . Being held so preciously - cherished in the softness of Marik’s gaze - it makes his knees rather weak. He takes in a shuddering breath that nearly betrays him. “Y-you’re being ridiculous.”
“I really am, aren’t I?” The sweetest of smiles warms Marik’s face, bringing out subtle dimples in his cheeks the ancient spirit had yet to notice.
He lightly rubs their noses together and allows their breaths to mix in the small space between them. “Maybe, we were born to be a little ridiculous.”
Bakura’s heart rate spirals out of control as he fights to find the right words - anything that can dodge the lingering question. Does he want this? Does he want Marik? How utterly idiotic that would be!
His hands fall to Marik’s chest, but he doesn’t push away. Doesn’t free himself from against the wall. Instead, his expression is clouded with a fearful longing. Oh, how agonizing it is to be vulnerable. “I am . . . No object of affection.” He shakes his head, unable to meet Marik’s eyes. “I’m not even human. So, not exactly the kind you bring home to meet the family.”
“Hm,” Marik listens with unwavering affection. “And what are you, then?”
The spirit hardly knows the answer himself. Even as the familiar, ancient noise of Zorc claws through his subconscious with that insatiable bloodlust . . . A long-since quieted thief pushes through with every ounce of being that remains. Begging for something fulfilling - something real - after millennia in darkness. A petty thief. A child who lost everything so long ago. Avenger of Kul Elna. “I am . . . Complicated. Exhausted, most of the time.” Bakura’s eyes fall to a close with the confession. “So very exhausted . . . I have been isolated in the darkest prison for so long that I hardly recall what living truly feels like. And still, I cannot seem to die.”
Where one might meet these words with pity, Marik’s sweet expression only evolves to accommodate the spirit’s pain. “I may not be sealed to an item like you . . . But, I do understand. Possibly better than anyone else.”
Bakura gives a small nod, white lashes fluttering open softly. Marik need not explain this - Bakura is well aware of the nocturnal, underground ways of the tombkeepers. The ritual inked into the youngest Ishtar’s back alone was enough to spark the creation of an alter in Marik’s mind as a child. A dissociative disorder is evidence enough of the horrors Marik experienced.
Which brings the spirit back to Marik’s question.
Lifting his dark eyes to meet Marik’s, he takes a moment to take in their love before he answers. “I want you . . .”
“You do?” Relief and the joy of it all lights up Marik’s face. He holds his hand over Bakura’s against his chest, gently stroking it with his gold-ringed thumb.
The spirit nods, and some of his characteristic irritability slips through. “But, I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” He grimaces at the thought, “I don’t care for ice cream dates or romantic gestures or pet names - Gods, I hate pet names.”
Marik laughs - bright as ever. He nods, “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of it.” Oh, he definitely plans to sneak in a pet name or two eventually.
“You’d better not.”
Marik shakes his head and lifts Bakura’s hand to his lips. “It’s nothing like that . . .” He kisses each pale knuckle. “We’re just two complicated beings enjoying what might be your last moments on earth. Because, even if you win,” He again smiles so lovingly at Bakura it makes the spirit inwardly tremble, “I want you to experience that relief of moving on to the afterlife yourself. Of being freed from the ring.”
Bakura swallows, the ache inside his chest worsening. And it’s somehow . . . Good to feel something again. He takes Marik’s cheek in his other hand and pulls him into a kiss. This one is far more intimate. More intentional.
Marik kisses him back with the same feeling, tears stinging the backs of his eyes. After a moment, he pulls back to whisper, “Don’t rewind us again. I don’t want to lose this moment.”
Bakura blinks, having all but forgotten the time pieces and his eagerness to leave. He slowly smiles, “No. I wasn’t going to.”
Marik nods, also returning to their surroundings. He glances at the room around them and chuckles a bit sheepishly. “We should get you to the Valley of the Kings soon, I suppose.”
Bakura nods, smirking to himself while he takes in the details of Marik’s face with new meaning. “We should,” He agrees casually. “Final game with the pharaoh and all that.”
“Right,” Marik laughs again. He steps back to release Bakura only to hesitate and tug the spirit in for another simmering kiss.
Bakura receives it gratefully, savoring it before they finally part and wrap things up. The black trenchcoat and vest are slipped back on, and the dusty box of ancient time turners is once again lifted from its corner.