Chapter Eight

Bakura had just finished fidgeting with his pants when there was a knock on the door.

"Just a minute!" He called out from the bathroom, which was blissfully twice the size of the one they'd been shafted with back in Cum Town. It also didn't come with its very own family of stains. He leaned over the sink and jammed the cold tap with his wrist, giving his hands a hurried soaking. A few discarded paper towels later, and he was finally ready to answer the knock, his shoulder complaining weakly as he reached for the door handle and affected a gruff, angered tone. "What do you want?"

Marik stood in the corridor, looking like someone had shredded his prized yaoi collection. The creases in his typically flawless brow were matched only by the frustrated grimace that had stolen his usual enthusiastic expression. Elsewhere on the floor, Bakura could hear the familiar tumult of otakus and cosplayers screaming about mini-skirts and numbers that exceeded nine thousand. He ignored such trivia and gave Marik his full attention, admiring the handiwork he'd done on Marik's palm - he'd become quite adept at treating wounds, having seen many a bloody battle in his time as an evil spirit. Wrapping it with the sheets Melvin used to bind him to the chair had seemed grimly appropriate, and with Marik's status as an anime character, he was guaranteed to heal in no time, so long as nobody paid it much mind.

"I have never been so outraged!" Marik howled, brushing past Bakura and entering his hotel room.

"Hello Marik," Bakura said to the empty hallway, closing the door and turning to regard Marik's tirade. "Do come in. Make yourself at home."

They had arrived in Detroit around six hours ago, having flown in from Cairo Airport. To Marik's dismay, they'd had to abandon the Marikmobile in the airport parking lot, from where it would doubtlessly be towed within a matter of days. It had been strange for both of them to say farewell to the vehicle - Bakura had suggested they just set fire to it in the middle of the desert so nobody else could claim it, leaving behind an ugly pink carcass, but Marik insisted they just let it go wherever fate might carry. He would have protested further, but Bakura was too impressed by Marik's ability to simply let go of something so important to him to voice his disbelief.

From there, they had no difficulty boarding a flight - they had more than enough money for it, all of it taken from the trust fund Marik's father had set up many years ago for his son, Billy. Although in this case, a 'trust fund' described a big hole under his bed filled with millions of dollars that Hank Ishtar had acquired by pawning the pharaoh's lesser known priceless artifacts - an ancient relic here, a golden ornament there. Treasures nobody would miss if they didn't know to plunder for them. The flight took them straight to Detroit, whereupon they found themselves inconvenienced by the customs agent for looking suspiciously underweight.

At the hotel, they reconnected with the rest of the evil council, joined by newest members Dan Green, Luna, and Umbris. Or was it Lumis and Umbra? Bakura could never quite tell who was who, even when he did get their names right. Such was his apathy toward their third annual council meeting, that when it was over he immediately retreated to his room - booked several nights ago, and as such was separate to Marik's own designated hotel space. Too separate, in fact. Their rooms were about thirty floors apart. Which meant that Marik had traversed the crowded elevators and labyrinthine corridors just to complain to him about whatever it was that was on his mind. Bakura felt touched.

"Something bothering you?" Bakura asked dismissively, pouring himself a cup of tea from the complimentary service provided. He gave it a sip and savoured the familiar burn on his tonsils. "Not happy with how the meeting went?"

"That's the least of my problems right now!" Marik declared, flinging himself onto the bed. His legs kicked upwards and his arms spread outwards like a child making a snow angel. Bakura contemplated crawling over him, letting Marik taste the sweet tea flavour on his tongue. The thought dissolved pleasantly like the sugar in his drink. "Although I will say, it wasn't right how you didn't stick up for me back there. You know I'm not gay!"

Bakura swallowed too quickly, and half-coughed, half-spat the tea back into the cup. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, you know that I'm only gay for you!" Marik corrected himself, sitting up. "I'm very comfortable with my gayness where you're concerned. But as far as anyone else goes, totally hetero!"

"Of course," Bakura smiled, setting the cup down on the bedside table lest Marik go into any further details of his straightness. "You're right. I should have stuck up for you. I mean, if anybody should know how straight you are, it's me."

"Is that some kind of double on-tondur?" Marik asked, Bakura sitting beside him - close enough for their arms to brush up on one another. Marik's butchering of the French language gave Bakura the briefest of chuckles. "Because if it is, I don't get it."

"I'm perfectly serious, of course," Bakura replied, a playfully offended tone to his voice. "When you were going down on me, I had this sense that your heart wasn't really in it."

"What?" This riled Marik up more than Bakura expected. It was like pouring water onto a housecat, the way his back arched and his jaw stuck in the air like an angered ballet dancer. "I was totally into that! And so were you!"

"Oh, I loved it," Bakura admitted. "But I knew you weren't enjoying it. I mean, were you even hard the whole time? You looked a little flaccid from where I was standing."

"I was hard as a rock!" Marik screamed, arms flailing wildly as he attempted to describe his erect penis like some sort of lewd game of charades. "You obviously weren't paying attention!"

"Difficult," Bakura said, "when the person sucking you off is obviously thinking about naked girls the whole time."

"I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU!" Marik yelled, lightly stabbing a finger against Bakura's lips. "AND HOW MUCH I WANTED TO EFF YOU!"

"I'm sure the neighbours appreciate that little smidgeon of information," Bakura took Marik's arm and lowered it for him, staring into him with a serene compassion. Marik stared back, his eye giving a twitch that Bakura was all too familiar with. It was the same twitch he had suffered from when Marik had been driving him crazy with his unconscious gestures and body movements, when he had been unable to give license to his urges. The tables, it seemed, had turned. "It's all right, Marik. I'm teasing you. You really do give a good blowjob. The best blowjob any straight man could hope to give."

"Damn skippy!" Marik agreed.

"Now, what is it that's really bothering you?" Bakura asked, retrieving his tea and sipping away, while only half-listening to Marik as he rattled on.

"It's gone!" Marik began, getting to his feet so he could properly gesticulate without smacking Bakura in the back of the head. "I've looked everywhere for it, and I can't find it! I bet airport security thought it was a weapon of mass destruction or something! This country, Bakura! I'm telling you! Political correctness gone mad!"

"Start from the beginning," Bakura smiled at nothing in particular. "What's gone?"

"My thong!" Marik cried, pacing from one end of the room to the other in emotional disarray. "My tiny purple thong! I haven't seen it since Cum Town! I knew I should have never taken it off!"

"You think you left it back there?" asked Bakura, finishing the tea and smacking his lips. "Would you like me to fly all the way back to Egypt right now to check?"

"Would you?" Marik asked, only to be met with the thin, humourless line of Bakura's mouth. "No, you're right. We can't go back tonight. Not when there's a Vic Mignogna panel tomorrow morning. Can't miss that!"

"Indeed," Bakura blinked.

"I don't know where else it could be, though!" Marik whined, turning to inspect Bakura's bathroom. "Wait, you got a tub? No fair. My room doesn't have a…"

Marik's head span back around on his shoulders, while the rest of his body refused to follow suit. It was like some invisible fist had socked him in the jaw, and he didn't know quite how to respond. For unbeknownst to Marik, while he had been complaining, Bakura had busied himself with the process of bending over the side of the bed and allowing his pants to drop just enough so that Marik could get a good glimpse of purple. Bakura's face was a mess with glee as his grin spread from one cheek to the other, shaking his backside at the stunned boy. He tugged his waistband slightly, and revealed his crime. The thong, clad tight to his ass, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Marik stepped toward him, eyes wide with both desire and gratitude. "How long have you been wearing that?"

"Since Cum Town," Bakura confessed. He lowered his back and lifted his butt higher, Marik now standing within arm's reach. "Call it a souvenir, I suppose. I must say, I didn't see the appeal until I tried it on myself. Now I can see why you like it so much."

"It's like wearing underwear…" Marik began, fumbling for the rest of the sentence.

"… Only not," Bakura agreed, sensing Marik's hand reaching out for him. "I assume you want it back. Go on. Take it. It's yours." He dropped his head, and gave his voice a low, luxurious quality. "It's all yours."

With that, Bakura knew his plan had come to fruition. He hadn't expected Marik to come down to his room quite so early, but he'd given himself enough time to prepare - putting the kettle on while he stood naked in the bathroom and applied a good dose of lube to the inside of his asshole. He had been pulling up his trousers when he'd first heard the knock on the door, and he'd struggled the whole time to keep a straight face since Marik entered and proceeded to fall into his trap. He closed his eyes and waited.

He wasn't kept waiting long, as Marik reached out with both hands and slid the thong down from his waist and pulled it about his knees. Bakura could feel the tight, rubber grip pulling them together, as if they weren't already weak enough, and then Marik's hands were caressing his butt - ginger circles, followed by a few hard squeezes. Bakura growled impatiently, and bunched his hands into the bed sheets, preparing for whatever might come next.

As it turned out, what came next was Marik's voice. "Roll over."

"Mmm?" Bakura turned to look, and saw what he imagined was Marik's 'sexy' face. It was something Bakura had never before had the privilege of viewing, and it was both amusing and endearing. A focused, fervent smile and lidded eyes, tip of his tongue playing at his lips. If he were a woman, Bakura supposed he would look sultry. As it was, he looked very, very gay. "All right."

Bakura turned himself over, moving his bare legs so that he could rid himself of the constant reminder of the thong strapped to his knees. He spread himself wide, lifting up his shirt so that Marik could get a good eyeful of his cock, hard as it was. This seemed to satisfy Marik, and he began unbuckling his own pants and removed his effeminate shirt, the vestiges of his chest wounds now disappearing like old love bites. Marik was not wearing underwear, presumably due to the loss of his thong, and it pleased Bakura to once again look upon his impressive manhood. Everything about Marik was physically perfect. It was just a shame about the not-so physical stuff.

Marik leaned forward and slid his hands across Bakura's arms, until both their fingers touched and intertwined. Bakura gasped as he felt the tip of Marik's cock nudging the outside of his asshole, a sensation so unfamiliar yet so welcome. They kissed. Bakura allowed his legs to take on a life of their own, pawing at Marik's back with his toes and curling them around his waist. Every time they broke for air, he would mutter something that he immediately forgot, and every time his words grew shorter, quicker. Marik barely gave him time to speak, the kisses came so fast and so hard. And then he had reached under Bakura's thighs and hoisted his body further up onto the bed, stroking beneath his legs and squeezing at the parts of his body that had enough flesh to provide a handhold.

They held their breath together.

Marik entered him, and Bakura's muscles tensed, his chin meeting his chest as his mouth gaped into a long, drawn out moan. It was pain and pleasure, it was love and hate, it was want and need and everything that mattered, and it was theirs. Marik thrust into him once, and he laughed, despite himself, a loud and awesome feeling. Another thrust, and he felt a rush of pain in his shoulder but chose to ignore it because damn this felt good. To finally have Marik inside him, to have him and this moment for keeps. Forever. Then another, and another, and…

Something didn't seem quite right. Bakura opened his eyes and looked up at Marik, who was thrusting with everything he had. And it was then that he saw the problem.

"M-Marik, what are you doing?" Bakura asked, eyebrows curling into an unfamiliar display of sympathy.

Marik had been grinding at Bakura with his entire body, the way one might attempt pull-ups if unfamiliar with the basics of exercise. The motion was enough to cause penetration, but after a minute it had started to feel like Marik was attacking him with his body - had he been more overweight, the pressure would have been unbearable. It also, above all else, wasn't in the least bit sexy.

"This isn't sex?" Marik asked, slowing to a halt. "That's what we're doing, right? Sex? Because this is how they do it in those comic books I have."

"Yes," Bakura replied between breaths. "But you might want to use your hips a bit more, and not pull yourself up over me like a turtle dragging itself out onto the beach to lay its eggs."

"The turtle thing doesn't do it for you, huh?" Marik replied, and Bakura got the impression he was actually trying to be cute with that one. "All right, hang on, let me just adjust…"

Bakura opened his mouth to speak words of encouragement, but they proved redundant by Marik's sudden slamming of his hips into Bakura's buttocks, his still firm cock driving deeper into his ass. Bakura clawed at the bed sheets and moaned, thinking of all the ways he wanted to ride Marik, how he wanted to dominate him and then be dominated. Marik, meanwhile, had caught his hands under Bakura's thighs and was leaning into them, his dick finding new ground inside Bakura's asshole. They moved together, like the world's clumsiest dance partners, neither one matching the other's speed or intensity, and neither one doing exactly what the other wanted to do at any given point, but regardless it was beautiful and ugly and wrong and right all at once.

Curses flew from Bakura's mouth as he felt his ass grow tight around Marik's irrepressible shaft, the muscles in his legs growing weak as he attempted to maintain his pace and composure. He felt for all the world like a bloody virgin, and it was embarrassing. While it was true, his current body had never experienced the wonders of intercourse, as a spirit wandering from one vessel to the next, he had acquired a veritable Kama Sutra of experiences. Yet here he was, being fucked into oblivion by the guy of his dreams, and all he could do was lie back and pump his legs like he was riding a very sexy unicycle. He cried out in both frustration and ecstasy and slapped eagerly at Marik's ass, egging him on.

Marik, having finally gotten to grips with the whole hip-action part of the procedure, was now bearing down on him, his face smothering Bakura's neck with kisses and bites. Lots of bites. It seemed to be one of Marik's kinks. Bakura watched his head dart this way and that, leaving behind a necklace of passionate red welts. Then it was back to the thrusting, and Marik threw his entire body backwards, his hips pounding against Bakura's ever tightening ass, the exhilaration showing in every fibre of Marik's body. For a second, he looked for all the world like Melvin, muscles flexed impossibly, beads of sweat amassing on his chest and highlighting his gorgeous midriff. But it wasn't through anger or hate that he appeared this way, it was passion, unbridled and incomparable.

As he felt Marik finish inside him, Bakura reached forward to catch the boy, spent as he was. He hooked his legs around Marik's thighs and pulled him down onto the bed, his asshole still wrapped urgently about the thick, angry tip of his still hard cock as it pumped its load laboriously into him. There they lay, staring into one another's eyes, totally lost to the glow. After a while, Marik wet his lips and spoke first.

"You know, you don't look nearly as good in that thong as I do."

"I don't doubt it," Bakura whispered, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of Marik's breath against his sore neck. He smiled. "You're still hard."

"So are you," said Marik.

"Yes, but I didn't finish," Bakura argued. "Not yet anyway."