What's Yours Is Mine
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“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Bakura snapped, jolting awake with a start. He was lucky that there were no onlookers, that he was given some much needed privacy during such late hours. However, this privacy was nothing more than an illusion. Bakura was offered very little room to himself within the four corners of his mind.
He’d been caught once or twice talking to himself in passing, but this time was much different. His hands, hands that felt unfamiliar and no longer like his own, were snaking down into his boxers, grazing against his own delicate flesh.
He shared the space in his mind with not just his own alter but another, a foreign entity who had his own body to call home. Unlike Bakura—the real Bakura—who was meek and submissive, easily susceptible and effortless to swallow down, this other, a certain Marik Ishtar, was a struggle to deal with at all. This new consciousness lurked within Bakura, spurring him to act in ways he had no interest in, making Bakura’s body his own whenever Bakura’s defenses dropped just enough.
“What, don’t I get a say?” The voice echoed in Bakura’s mind while Bakura tried to force his own hands to obey their rightful master. “I couldn’t sleep. It’s my body too, you know.”
“It’s not.” Bakura growled. It hadn’t occurred to him what Marik would do once he’d agreed on their contract, but torture like this was far from something he had considered, a possibility not even on his radar.
Maybe Bakura should have had the sense to see it coming from the way that Marik watched him leading up to this moment, the way that tension lingered through each interaction they had shared. Perhaps it should have been obvious to a thief like himself that Marik had much more in mind when he proposed his idea to share Bakura’s body—in particular something he’d wanted to steal . However, revenge was a fickle thing, the very notion all-consuming, clouding Bakura’s judgment completely until it was too late. Marik simply had to offer the one thing that all of Bakura’s actions screamed he wanted, the revenge that he so desperately needed—and Bakura was all his.
Bakura’s arms shook from the tremendous effort it took to halt them in their determined path, to regain control of the neural pathways that had been overtaken while he’d slept. He groaned from exertion. Marik giggled from this demonstration of power, enjoying the sensations from within Bakura’s own mind as they washed around him, relishing the feeling of total control over someone built so high and mighty.
“If it was entirely yours,” Marik purred, overjoyed with every small victory he received, “then surely you’d be able to steal your hands away from me, wouldn’t you?”
Bakura didn’t appreciate the salt thrown into his wounds. His pride wouldn’t allow him to hesitate or give up. He wouldn’t acknowledge Marik with any of his words; he kept his mouth firmly shut, meditating on the memory of how his arms used to feel when they were his own.
“I can feel how badly we want this.” It felt as if Marik were whispering it into Bakura’s ear, as though his breath were hot against the nape of his neck. “I can’t deal with feeling like this. I’m not used to it. Why don’t you let me help us relax?”
Bakura shuddered, throwing his face away from where he felt Marik’s ghost—as if it could defend him from the way Marik penetrated his very mind. Bakura never indulged in this sort of carnal behavior, so he lacked the strength to resist. He was horribly weak when it came to defending himself against such precise attacks. After all, he did feel incredibly tense. Bakura’s body had betrayed him—or maybe it was entirely Marik’s influence. He’d never know. The lines between their psyches grew thinner and thinner the longer that Marik’s soul remained fluttering within him.
“I know you want it.” Marik was strong in his assertion, sending Bakura’s hands soaring into the fold of Bakura’s boxers in a single motion, as though it were effortless. He wasn’t surprised by what he found there. “What I have in our hands right now is the proof.”
Bakura bit back a groan but the residue of his feelings could be felt all over the confines of his mind—the things he could never admit or say aloud running freely. Truly, Bakura’s hands felt like they really were Marik’s now—they felt as soft as Marik’s hands despite how scarred and worn Bakura’s hands actually were. They held a heat, the same heat that Marik’s tanned flesh always held, unlike the cold that normally bit into Bakura. The very memory of Marik’s slender arms, his delicate fingers rolled through Bakura’s mind, brought to his attention from Marik’s memory itself.
Marik dragged his hands along the base of Bakura’s cock, frustratingly slow. Bakura felt his body freeze as it was overtaken and consumed by Marik, muscles going rigid as Marik found every crack inside his mind. The most aggravating part was that Bakura could feel every sensation in his cock; he could feel all the blood rushing down, heat coiling in his stomach as the pleasure he lacked any immunity to rose and rose, fanned by the flames of Marik’s undivided attention and ministrations.
“Stop it,” Bakura hissed, the sound coming out weak and strangled when Marik rolled the smooth palm of his hand against the head of Bakura’s pleading cock. He tried again, despising the pathetic way he’d sounded. “Stop this at once.”
Marik laughed, picking up the pace. “It’s almost over now. Just let me finish, then I promise I’ll go to sleep. There’s no way we can sleep like this…”
Bakura couldn’t even move his body anymore. He felt like a doll, forced to endure wave after wave of pleasure—mind-numbing, ego-shattering pleasure that unwound him and his pride like a red velvet bow.
Bakura moaned, his cock twitching, nearing the brink of something unfamiliar, unusual. The hands that were no longer his clenched around him, sucking him into their warmth, expertly seeking exactly where he’d craved sensation before Bakura could even realize he needed it.
“Marik…” Bakura protested—but it only added fuel to the fire. Marik enjoyed hearing his own name roll from Bakura’s lips, especially in a voice that sounded so small, so unusually pathetic. He was going to make Bakura cum.
“Good job,” Marik, pleased by Bakura’s well-earned submission. “That’s it.”
Bakura came all at once, thick and hot into the hands he and Marik shared. He visualized it pooling into Marik’s palms, rolling down his arms. His voice was heavy with aggression, anger that he released into Marik’s waiting fingers.
“See?” Marik smiled, happy with his stolen prize. “Don’t you feel so much better?”