"Your power is nothing compared to mine. Hollow, empty, pathetic."
"You are not the one to talk, Malik."
"Oh exalted Pharaoh, please share with me your infinite wisdom."
"You are not being funny."
"Why should I want to be? There's nothing funny about being a Tomb Keeper, you know."
"I know."
Malik hisses as cold, yet soft fingertips touch his back. Even though the ritual has taken place over six years ago, the scars feel like they have been made yesterday; still raw and fresh, painful and bloody.
"You know nothing."
The Pharaoh actually snorts. "Now that is the truth."
Malik bats his hand away. Not a few moments ago, the Pharaoh's long, slender fingers were touching him somewhere else, and he had enjoyed it, much more than he'd ever admit. Sure, his intention had been to kill him, obviously; darkness and destruction are the only things he, the real Malik Ishtar, knows.
"Quite convenient that you lost your memories." He mimics the Pharaoh and snorts as well. "Really fucking convenient. You don't know anything about our pain and our suffering."
"You speak the truth."
Malik shakes his head. "No no no, you're not getting away with it, not that easily. Do you like playing the martyr? Are you telling me that you are the victim in all of this?"
"Who knows? I do not recall anything from the past, from my past. I do not know what kind of ruler I have been. I do not know what I have done to make you..."
"You made us guard your fucking precious memories," Malik snarls. "You made us guard your fucking precious Items." He takes a deep breath and grins wolfishly. "You made me defile your divine body."
That eludes a similar grin from the Pharaoh, at ease in the purplish, cloudy mass that is the Shadow Realm. Malik realizes he has his hand on the Pharaoh's right leg again, stroking. All that anger and hatred, has it disappeared just because he was able to turn him on his back and take him? No, not able to. Allowed to. No matter what happened, the Pharaoh was in control all the time.
"You were talking about power."
Malik is distracted for a moment, as his fingers are kneading the Pharaoh's inner thigh. Almost repulsed, he wants to let go and push him away, but he can't.
"You have none," he answers. "It doesn't mean anything. Hollow, empty and pathetic. There's no one in this world who'll listen to you, except for your merry little gang of friends who follow you around. Do you really think there's going to be a nation waiting for you to command? You have no name. You have no voice. You have no memories. Pathetic."
"At least I am not the one screaming his head off about destroying the entire world and enveloping it in darkness." His last word gets cut off as Malik grabs him at the throat, while his other hand digs painfully in his flesh, nails tearing at the skin. It's oddly satisfying, seeing just that little flash of fear on his face before he calls upon his shadow magic; much stronger than Malik's, and he can throw him off in an instant.
"Don't mock me."
Those eyes. Those intense, reddish eyes with a purple hint, befitting the Shadow Realm. Framed with black long lashes, eyes to drown in, eyes to take complete control over you, eyes to die for...
Another gasp. He can't answer, he's too busy fighting for air. Malik feels how blood trickles down his other hand, his nails digging deep into the Pharaoh's skin. He moves his hand lower, tearing and shredding, and those reddish eyes close in pain. His lips part to pronounce that typical 'ah' sound he likes to make, half-moan, half-grunt, something unintelligible yet sexy, and Malik seizes the opportunity. He roughly presses his lips on the Pharaoh's, teeth biting down hard to create another source of pain. As he kisses him, the Pharaoh protest, his body bucking, squirming and spasming but he continues to ravage him, possessing him, dominating him. Malik's golden earrings scrape over his cheek, the tips not as sharp as the Rod, and he creates bruises and welts, yearning for pain, to inflict it, to feel it, to revel in it.
The Pharaoh presses his knee into his abdomen, twisted and contorted, but lacking the strength to push him off. Malik grins into the kiss, tugging at his bottom lip, growling and grunting. His fingers dig deep, his grip far too tight; anyone else, anyone human, would've already passed out. Yet, the Pharaoh still chooses to not use his shadow magic, and Malik knows exactly why. It's just as arousing for the Pharaoh as it is for the Tomb Keeper; a weird, or funny, coincidence perhaps? Malik had always thought that the other wanted nothing but peace and quietude, but it had been more than a surprise when the King had drawn first blood, to which Malik had responded by tearing all of his clothes off, that stupid silly school uniform he was always wearing.
"You need me," Malik breathes against his lips, still tugging, distorting his words. "You have no power on your own. The shadows sing of Bakura's name. He's up to something."
He doesn't receive an answer, not that he expects one. The knee against his chest presses into his ribs; uncomfortable, but not painful. Besides, the Pharaoh isn't in a position to put any pressure or strength behind his actions; Malik still had his hand on his other leg, pressing him down, and another hand on his throat. The Pharaoh's hands are on his shoulders, fingers on his skin, once again touching the scarred lines. It's just the slightest touch, but Malik involuntarily shudders and pulls away, releasing his grip on the Pharaoh's throat. He starts to cough, taking deep gulps of breath and coughs again.
"What is it you say," he sneers as he has gathered his bearings again. "That you have more power? The power to stand up to Bakura? You have nothing but a few scarred lines on your back, carved by a madman! Is this where you derive your power from?"
Malik backhands him casually, splitting his lip. A delicate drop of blood trickles over his chin, and he leans into the Pharaoh to lap it up, his tongue dragging over the cracked skin. "I told you not to mock me."
He turns his head, the Pharaoh who's much smaller and less physically strong than him, and his eyes focus on him as he gently smiles. Power. He's got it all backwards, hasn't he? It's not about Bakura. It's not about Darkness. All this talk about power, and Malik realizes that he's not the one with the most power. Not here. Not now. Maybe never. He moves his hand again, blood staining his fingertips, and this time his grip relaxes, kneading the flesh instead of bruising it. Power. It means nothing to him. After all, he's a being born out of pure hatred and anger, what does he know? He loves the shadows, he loves pain, he loves destruction and above all he loves the Pharaoh and to hurt him, knowing that the one he hates the most holds power over him, infinite power, and he's oddly fine with it, as long as he holds the power to hurt him.