Work Text:
Bakura is a clumsy weight in his lap; a clumsy nip to his mouth; a scoff and a growl and a half-breathed complaint. Malik can feel bruises - skin heated and raised - on Bakura's knuckles. He has a pretty way of cussing, working the words through his teeth, and giving a raspy sneer when he bites Malik again.
"Fucking tourists-- can't carry more than thousand yen, but gonna twist my wrist for it," Bakura is a contradictory edge, angular creature, and when Malik absently palms the seat of his trousers, he's met more with bone than anything else. "Are you fucking listening to-"
"Nah," Malik kneads Bakura's ass dismissively, and Bakura's wrist shoves up under Malik's jaw until their eyes meet.
"Fuck you."
Bakura's eyes are ablaze, blood kindling in his gaze, and Malik has to kiss him, has to-- wants to lick all that fire and ash out of Bakura's throat eagerly. The hand shoves up between them, and Malik bites the heel of Bakura's palm, prompting a glorious sounding hiss.
Delicately, Malik turns Bakura's hand, twists it gently, and raises an eyebrow. "If you're done bitching about work-" he doesn't mention that Bakura's work is petty by both their standards, and also doesn't mention that Malik's clan is rich enough that he's practically Bakura's sugar daddy; Bakura has his pride- "-dinner is in the microwave, and ice is in the freezer."
Malik lines his fingertips up with the bruises, inspecting the way they meet, and Bakura laughs, angrily sure, but it's a genuine laugh all the same.