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Bakura nuzzled against his lover’s abdomen, releasing a soft breathy laugh when the muscles flexed on reflex. Malik’s skin carried the overwhelming, intoxicating smell of fresh living blood and he liked to bury himself in the warmth of it.
“I love- your body.” He was drunk on proximity. Absolutely.
They were curled up in Malik’s big soft bed, heavy curtains drawn over the windows. Strings of soft white fairy lights were the compromise between glaring brightness and oppressive dark. Warmth and comfort and a person willing to share blood of his own accord were all very new feelings to Bakura, he was greedy for every moment of it.
Malik hummed dismissively, “I do put a lot of work into it, if you wreck it I’ll have to kill you.”
Bakura’s smile was broader and more genuine than he had let himself smile in a long time. Malik didn’t mind the teeth; sometimes it seemed as though Malik rather liked them.
He pushed himself up onto his hands, looming over Malik, framing him in curtains of white hair. “Did you eat today?”
“Yes. And I’ve been drinking plenty of water. Did you?”
Bakura shook his head no, giddy with his own answer.
At first Malik had been fine with Bakura coming and going, with being woken up for loud messy sex in the early morning hours by an overfed, overstimulated lover, pupils blown wide. It was, by Bakura’s understanding, because Malik understood killing to survive.
With more time together came more questions – questions about where Bakura went when he wasn’t with Malik, questions about how much blood Bakura needed to live comfortably. Malik was a reformed, ex-criminal, after all, and he had it in his mind that he could make Bakura domestic again.
They had worked their way up to this line in the sand: He could feed on Malik, or he could go hunting. Malik’s tap was closed any day Bakura slipped up and fed elsewhere. Certainly, Bakura was capable of lying and capable of overpowering his lover, but a part of him believed in Malik’s fantasy, so he stuck to the rules.
Malik wriggled into a more comfortable position propped up against some pillows and tilted his head back at an inviting angle, “You’re so good at this, Bakura.”
Bakura straddled him and let his weight settle back down against Malik. Fingers wove their way into his hair as he inhaled a few times over the column of Malik’s throat. That was a change too – with more trust between them Malik had stopped wearing his beautiful gold over his pulse points when they were intimate together.
The smell of blood was always sharpest in those places, right where the pulse beat against the skin. Bakura started gently, kneading against it with his lips. He always made sure to get the skin slick with spit before he began to lick. His tongue was a predator’s tongue now, a sandpapery irritant that made his work easier when he wasn’t concerned with the feelings of his prey.
The fingers in his hair tightened and pulled, and Malik’s breathing stuttered for a moment. Bakura smiled to himself and lapped at the spot playfully. Malik was getting far too good at sensing the moment he was ready. Bakura bit down and held for a long moment, waiting until the muscles in Malik’s neck relaxed again before he drew back. He had found that it was the easiest way to keep from tearing, which meant Malik would be healed sooner and all around happier in the meantime.
Blood pooled hot against his tongue, and Bakura sucked without shame. This was a free offering of Malik’s body and Bakura was nothing if not a willing recipient. Whenever the flow slowed too much he was always careful to knead at the skin with lips and tongue and avoid unnecessary scrapes of teeth. Malik stroked his fingers through Bakura’s hair, cooing appreciatively at the gentle treatment. Distantly, Bakura noted Malik’s erection poking at his inner thigh. Lately he had noticed that something about the intimacy of feeding would revive Malik for a second round.
Until Malik, Bakura hadn’t known how much better blood tasted at moments like these, when a human was still relaxed from orgasm and drenched in sweat and pheromones. A true predator was brutal and efficient, always satisfied with cooling corpse blood stinking of stress hormone, Bakura hadn’t even considered the luxury of a lover before.
Bakura’s limbs began to tingle in the way that told him he was reaching Malik’s limit, and only moments later the fingers in his hair tightened and pulled him away. One of Malik’s hands slid around and squeezed with just a hint of threat against Bakura’s windpipe. Bakura growled and held position, slamming his eyes shut against the bright red streaks staining Malik’s skin. No matter how many times they had done it, Bakura still struggled against the urge to keep going. He could live on less than a liter, but his instincts always screamed to bloat himself on more.
“Okay.” Malik released his grip, and Bakura sat back on his haunches. Head tilted back to lessen the smell of fresh wound, he listened as Malik rummaged through the bedside drawer for bandages and the acrid herbal poultice he had started using to help heal the puncture wounds more quickly.
“…you okay?”
Malik snorted in response, “You’ve done worse.”
A slap against Bakura’s thigh indicated that the mess was cleaned up. He opened his eyes and settled down against Malik’s side, pausing to take a full assessment to make sure Malik wasn’t bluffing. He was washed a little pale, but his expression was content and his breathing was regular.
Bakura gave him a quick peck on the cheek and sat up to root around in the sheets for their lube.
“It’s fine, Bakura, you don’t have t-”
Bakura wrapped a free hand around Malik’s dick to shut him up, and found the bottle under a stray pillow after a little more searching. Bakura was certain that if he slept there another thousand years he would still never complain about any of the problems that came with a bed so big and full of blankets and pillows.
He loosened his grip enough to squeeze a generous amount into his palm before returning to his position spooning against Malik’s side and beginning to stroke. “I want to.”
Their eyes met, and Bakura’s heart probably would have fluttered if it wasn’t already so incredibly dead. He was growing fond of these strange post-feeding hours when Malik was drowsy and soft and his own senses were sharp and fresh.
He tightened his grip and moved a bit faster when Malik’s breath grew heavy. “Hand or mouth?”
“Your mouth is- always so- hot- after you eat… Mouth, mouth.”
Bakura kissed him once as a reward for honesty, and then dropped his head to finish what he’d started. He had to be careful about his teeth and gentle with his tongue, but as always Malik rewarded him with a startled moan as he dropped lower. There was just a tinge of guilt for Bakura whenever he heard it – any human lover would have the natural heat to give him a warmer fist, a warmer ass. They had to be creative to get the same effect and it never lasted for long.
Malik finished with a quiet shudder, and Bakura drank his load with almost the same enthusiasm he showed for blood. He eased back and ran his hands up and down Malik’s thighs until he heard his breathing even out into sleep.
Silent as the grave, Bakura crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen.
While Malik dozed he poked through the refrigerator. Together they had figured out the best foods for a vegetarian making regular donations to a vampire, and after thousands of years without a kitchen Bakura thought he was getting pretty good at chopping broccoli and frying tofu.
Vegetables would never lose their stench, but he whistled to himself as he diced up squash and onion regardless. By the time he heard Malik begin to stir in the bedroom, he had dumped all of it onto a bed of Kale with some feta and a lovely dressing of oil.
Malik smiled blearily from the pillows when Bakura carried the salad to him. “Is it breakfast in bed if I don’t know what time it is?”
“Ten PM, we weren’t going that long, you hedonistic bastard.”
“Are you going out?” His gaze dropped to his salad as he picked at it with a fork.
Bakura still had a life, as restricted as it was, beyond sleeping and eating. He had been standoffish at first, insisting that he needed independence and privacy if he was going to spend any time at all with a human.
His old life had been dark: hibernating in abandoned tombs for long stretches, stealing and killing when he needed to. He was beginning to lose interest in his old contacts and his old hobbies, and maybe he didn’t mind so much that his world was shrinking a little to compensate for a lover who had to leave him during the days to get his fair share of sunlight.
“You don’t have work in the morning. I’ll stay through tomorrow.”