I wanted to get in on this, but I couldnât draw a stick figure to save my life :( so âŠ
Marik walked through the door an hour earlier than usual. He kicked off his shoes, tossed the keys on a hook near the door, and stretched his neck, looking around for Bakura. He expected to see him in the living room playing video games or in the kitchen tearing into a half-cooked steak like it was still attached to the cow and needed to be torn away manually. When he couldnât find Bakura in either the living room or the kitchen, however, Marik decided to check the bedroom to see if Bakura was taking a nap.
Marik kept his steps soft and quiet, not wanting to interrupt if Bakura was sleeping. On any other day, Marik would have enjoyed seeing a cranky, just-woken, bed-tousled Bakura and starting one of their standard arguments, but at the moment, Marik was thinking perhaps lunch first and infuriating Bakura later- closer to bedtime when he could push Bakura to that perfect edge of fury and passion that always ended with the two of them against the wall, or on the floor, or slung across whatever piece of furniture they happened to be standing by at the time.
But Bakura wasnât sleeping. He was standing in front of a full length mirror that Marik kept in their room and examining his reflection while adjusting the bodice of a sexy French Maid outfit Marik had purchased for him as a mean-spirited joke.
And damn if he didnât look spectacular in it.
The way the apron cinched in his lean waistline, the way the skirt flared out around his ass, almost showing it off but just long enough not to show anything except inconceivably white thighs rising from white-lace and black-ribboned garters attached to knee-high black stockings, the way Bakura had pinned his hair up to hold the ruffled hat that came with the costume in place- the sardonic costume happened to fit Bakura as if tailored for him. Marik knew he should bark laughter at Bakura, and tease him, but he could only stand there and stare, and admire the contrast of white and black.
Bakura stepped back, still examining himself, and thatâs when his eyes caught Marikâs reflection standing in the doorway. He pivoted on black heels, as dexterous and agile as his long-ago thief days when he wore a different body. Bright crimson stained his cheeks. The color was shocking compared to the white and black of his skin, hair, and clothes. His mouth dropped open, but no sound escaped.
Marik had a similar problem; he couldnât seem to find words. His mouth felt drier than the summer air in Luxor, and his pants were uncomfortable and tight. Itâd been a joke, buying the outfit, itâd just been a joke, something to get Bakura riled up and screaming, and it had worked, theyâd had an amazing argument when Bakura had opened the box, but now ⊠now âŠ
âIf you say anything. I will kill you,â Bakura whispered, his voice harsh, and grainy, and perfect.
âWell, at least it looks like youâre ready to clean up the body afterwards.â
Bakuraâs hands balled into fists, but dressed as he was, and flushed as he was, it only added to the appeal. âI wasnât- I meant I was just- I was cleaning out the closet and saw it, and it pissed me off!â
âSo you tried it on?â
âJust to prove that it wouldnât fit and that you were an idiot for ordering it!â
âBut Bakura.â Marik stepped forward, step by slow yet eager step. âIt fits perfectly.â
Bakura started laughing, staring down at himself. âYeah, it does. You must have guessed lucky, youâre still an idiot.â He looked back up at Marik. âI guess I should take this ridiculous thing off now and burn it.â Â
âOh, but Bakura,â Marik said, still advancing, âshouldnât you leave it on until you at least make the bed?â
Bakura frowned and looked at the bed. âWhat the hell, Marik? The bedâs already made.â
Before Bakura could look away from the bed, Marik tackled him, nestling himself between Bakuraâs spread legs and pinning Bakuraâs arms up over his head. âIt wonât be for long.â
