#dollyfic

The Red Force had dropped anchor near the little coastal island. As they approached the coast, a soft sense of familiarity settled over the crew, along with the promise of a moment of peace and plenty of booze. They had become something strangely close to regulars over the years.

And if anyone asked Lucky or even Benn, they'd swear there was only one reason they kept finding excuses to stop by this tiny island in the middle of nowhere.

You.

More specifically, your tavern.

The place sat just a few steps from the shore, warm light spilling from its windows every evening like an invitation to anyone seeking good food, strong drinks, and a place to forget the world outside for a few hours. You ran it with the kind of confidence that made even the roughest sailor sit back down after a single look.

The locals adored you too much. And the crew, well, the crew had practically adopted the place as a second home.

The first few visits had started innocently enough, nothing more than a casual stop, somewhere to fill their stomach for the night after a long day on the sea. Good drinks, good atmosphere.

Then one visit became two. Two became ten. Then suddenly the crew had somehow reached the point where Lucky walked into the kitchen like he owned it, Yasopp complained if his usual seat was taken, and Benn had his own corner table without anyone needing to ask.

And Shanks. 

Shanks had become a completely different story. Because somewhere between long conversations after closing hours, late nights spent sharing drinks, and waiting at the docks whenever the Red Force disappeared for months at sea...

He'd fallen quite hard for you. You'd quickly become the pretty owner Shanks couldn’t stop smiling at.

And now whenever Shanks announced they were making another stop here, nobody even questioned it anymore, because everyone knew their captain wasn't coming back for the tavern itself. He was coming back for you.

Tonight, the tavern is louder than usual. Music spills from the corner where Lucky has somehow convinced a few drunken sailors to sing along to a sea song completely off-key. Shanks usually loves this kind of atmosphere. He would be the one laughing the loudest, setting up foolish little bets with the locals.  He’d hook an arm around someone’s shoulder as he walked past, a lazy sway in his step, and drink like there was no tomorrow. 

But tonight, he hasn't heard a single word Benn has said for the last ten minutes because his eyes are entirely locked on you. More specifically, on the way you're smiling, on the way your head tilts back when you laugh, and on the way your fingers absentmindedly toy with the rim of your glass while listening to some visiting merchant ramble on beside you.

Shanks narrows his eyes. The man is handsome, he'll give him that. Clean clothes, expensive rings, the type who probably made a living charming people before selling them anything. And the bastard is good at it. Too good perhaps, because you're laughing. Not the polite kind way, but more like the real one. The one Shanks knows all too well. The one he waits for after long weeks at sea.

The guy leans a little closer, and some more until his hand settles on your shoulder, subtly caressing the little bit of skin that isn't covered by your top..

The wood beneath Shanks's fingers creaks.

"You're going to break the mug, Captain." Benn doesn't even bother looking up from his cards.

Shanks says nothing as his gaze never leaves you. Across the room, you still haven't noticed him watching. Still smiling and listening to this random guy. Still letting that man's hand linger where Shanks suddenly wishes it wasn't.

Something hot and ugly twists low in his chest and he hates the feeling immediately. A strange mix of anger and fear. Fear wrapped in jealousy, buried under irritation.

Because Shanks knows he doesn't own you. Knows you stay because you choose to, and  that if you ever wanted to walk away he couldn't stop you.

His jaw tightens. Then he drains the rest of his drink in one swallow and slams the mug down hard enough that nearby conversations briefly pause. The lazy grin he usually wears is gone.

Before the merchant can even finish whatever story he's telling, a heavy arm slides firmly around your waist, pulling you back against his familiar warmth. Flush against his side, almost claiming.

"Is this guy bothering you, sweetheart?" Shanks's voice was smooth.

The merchant freezes as he slowly looks up and pales instantly. Because suddenly he isn't in front of some random tavern guest anymore. He's standing face to face with an Yonko.

You blink in confusion, looking between the two men. "Hm? No?" You frown slightly. "We were just talking."

The merchant immediately nods a little too eagerly. "Y-Yes! We were talking about the different islands near the Grand Line."

"Oh!" Your face brightens as you turn toward Shanks, completely oblivious to the tension beginning to coil around you. "Actually, he was telling me one of his stories –" A small laugh escapes you. "You'll like this one. Apparently he accidentally sold an entire shipment to pirates once because he thought they were merchants and –" 

You look up at Shanks, expecting his usual grin or the amused spark in his eyes. But instead you find him staring straight at the man, his jaw tight.

"...Shanks?" You call his name softly. 

The merchant shifts awkwardly under the weight of his gaze. "I-It was actually pretty funny—"

"Great," Shanks cuts in smoothly, dark eyes never leaving the man's face. “Doll face, can you make me a new drink please?”

The merchant blinks, looking between the two of you, the sudden realization of who he’s dealing with making him take a polite step back. 

You roll your eyes at the ridiculous nickname, but you still head towards the other side of the bar. “I thought you had every right to help yourself as you pleased in this bar, Captain," you tease him. “And Benn is literally sitting right next to a full barrel," you counter with a small smile tugging at your lips. 

"Yeah, but Benn's drinks taste like gunpowder and misery," Shanks whines softly, his voice taking on that childish, exaggerated tone he only uses with you. "Please? I’ve been at sea for months. My throat is parched." 

With a sparkle in your eyes, you busied yourself preparing two brightly colored cocktails, one for Shanks and the other for the young merchant, who was slowly beginning to lose color the longer he stayed closer to him. 

You slide the first glass across the polished wood toward the merchant, giving him a warm, reassuring wink. "On the house," you hum smoothly. "For the trouble." 

“T-Thank you,” he looked at the beautiful little drink you just made, and then at your encouraging smile, and somehow found courage beside the terrifying aura of the Yonko. 

"Actually... since it’s on the house, would you do me the honor of sharing a toast with me, beautiful?"

He reaches out, his fingers boldly brushing against yours as he takes the glass.

Shanks’s eye doesn’t just twitch, his entire face tenses. Before you can even answer, he grabs his own brightly colored cocktail to lift it high in the air with a forced grin. "A toast! Yes, let's toast!" Shanks exclaims, his voice a little too loud, completely disrupting the tavern's vibe. He slams his glass against the merchant’s with enough force to make the liquid slosh over the rim. "To you leaving right after this drink! Cheers, pal!" 

You chuckle softly behind your counter, amused by Shanks' childish behavior.

The merchant stammers. "I—uh—" 

"You know," Shanks continues smoothly, completely ignoring the merchant. "If it's bright and colorful things you like, sweetheart, you should see the coral reefs in the New World. I fought a giant Sea King there once. Sunset was just like this drink.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying your absolute best not to burst out laughing. He is trying to charm you, like a lovesick teenager bragging on a playground. 

"Oh, really?" you tease, leaning your elbows on the bar and looking at him. "A Sea King? Wow, Shanks. That sounds much more interesting than a merchant who actually travels the world to sell beautiful silks."

Shanks gasps softly, looking deeply offended. He looks at you, then snaps his head toward the merchant, eyeing the man's expensive, shiny rings.

"Silks? You like silks?!" Shanks babbles. “I can get you silks! I'll wrap this entire tavern in silk by tomorrow morning!! Benn!" he yells across the room without looking. "How many silk ships can we find by sunrise?!" 

From his corner table, Benn doesn't even look up from his cards. "Zero, Captain. Leave the poor girl alone and drink your juice." 

Shanks chokes on his own breath, looking betrayed by his own first mate. He snaps his head back toward the merchant, who is currently looking a little smug now. 

"Oh, you think that's funny, huh?" Shanks grumbles. He turns to you, "Does he even know, your dear friend here, that I can make punks like him faint on the spot just with my Haki?" 

A genuine laugh escapes you at such childishness. "Shanks, stop it!" you laugh. You immediately turn to the young merchant, whose face has lost absolutely all its color. “Please don’t listen to him, he’s just kidding. He makes very bad jokes sometimes." 

"I-I see..." the merchant stammers, his hand shaking so badly his glass nearly slips from his fingers. 

“I think it’s your cue to go big boy,” Shanks said, downing the cocktail in one gulp. 

The poor man sets his cocktail on the counter and almost sprints toward the doors, disappearing into the night as if his life depended on it.

You let out a theatrical sight, even though your eyes were shining with amusement at Shanks’ behavior. He leans against your bar counter, his face against the cool wood, pouting a little bit. "What's wrong, Shanks? Don't tell me the great Yonko is throwing a tantrum because I was nice to a customer." 

"I am not throwing a tantrum!" Shanks fires back, his head snapping toward you. His cheeks are flushed a furious pink that has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol. “It’s just bad business practice to give free drinks to guys who wear too many rings. It's unprofessional."

"Right. Unprofessional," you mimic, your smirk widening. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that he was touching my shoulder?"

Shanks tries to hold his defensive glare for three more seconds, but under your teasing gaze, his pride completely crumbles. He lets out a long and dramatic whine, dropping again his forehead right onto the bar counter.

You reach out with your free hand, gently running your fingers through his red locks, scratching his scalp the way you know he loves. Almost immediately he leans into your touch, shifting closer until his cheek rests against your hand. 

“Don’t like it, he was too close to you.” He starts with his dramatic whiny voice. “And you were laughing at his stupid stories! I've been sleeping on a rocky ship for three months, dreaming about coming back here to see you, and the moment I arrive, you're smiling at some kid who probably doesn't even know how to tie a knot!" He pouts, reaching for you, his calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist. 

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you watch him. "Shanks, you are an absolute idiot." 

“It's his fault. He shouldn't have tried to steal my favorite girl." 

“Your favorite girl? Is that so?” You laugh, your fingers gently tugging at a stray red lock near his ear. 

Shanks tilts his head up, his chin in your palm now, with his dusting pink cheeks. "Yes, it is so," he grumbles, tightening his grip on your wrist just enough to draw your hand down to his lips, planting a soft kiss right against your knuckles, his dark eyes looking up at you like a needy puppy.

You find Shanks absolutely adorable like this — slightly vulnerable, quietly exposing his feelings in his own clumsy way. So you lean in and plant a quick kiss on his hair. Shanks blinks, his stubborn expression melting into a soft smile. 

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs. “Teasing a tired pirate like this.”

"If you're so tired, maybe you should go rest in the back room," you whisper, a wicked little glint returning to your eyes. "Unless you'd rather stay here and keep an eye out for more merchants?" 

Shanks scoffs. He stands up straight, his grip on your wrist tightening as he gently leads you along the bar to walk around it. He wraps an arm around your waist, and suddenly it feels like your feet aren’t even touching the ground. He entirely ignores the loud wolf-whistles that erupt from Lucky and Yasopp's table as he guides toward the quiet hallway. 

When the door of your private room clicks shut, he steep right into your space, wrapping his strong arm completely around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck with a contented groan. He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe, molding your body completely against his. “Finally,” he breathes against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone. “No more merchants, just you.”

"Are you done pouting?" you ask softly, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, holding him just as close. 

"No," he mutters playfully, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin right under your ear. He pulls back just enough to look down at you. "I still need to be properly compensated for all the stress you caused my heart out there."

"Compensated, huh?" You smirk, your hands sliding down his chest to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt. "And what exactly does the great Yonko require to feel better?"

"Everything," Shanks whispers.

He leans down, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that is incredibly slow, and sweet. There’s no rush, no anger. His tongue slides into your mouth with a lazy rhythm, tasting you thoroughly while his hand slides under your shirt, against your bare waist as he gently guides you backward toward the bed. 

While still tangled in the deep kiss, you slip your hands down to his broad shoulders.You use your movements to slowly turn him around, until he’s the one who ends up sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Shanks looks up at you with wide, slightly dazed eyes. His red hair is beautifully messy, his cheeks are still flushed, and he finds himself completely trapped as you stand tall right between his spread legs. 

A slow smirk spreads across your face. “There… exactly at eye level.”

Shanks lets out a soft chuckle, as his single arm comes around you, pulling you a fraction closer to him. "You really like taking advantage of a tired captain, don't you?" he grumbles playfully, tilting his head back to look up at you. 

"Someone has to keep you in check," you tease, your fingers reaching down to gently trace his jawline. 

“You right… Maybe a merchant’s gonna steal me away otherwise.” And just like that, Shanks is back, playful and mischievous, with that familiar grin creeping onto  his face. 

You let out a soft gasp. "Oh, is that so? Are you threatening to leave with the next ship that sells shiny rings, Captain?"

"Hey, a guy's got to feel appreciated," Shanks teases, tilting his head farther back to look up at you. "I'm just saying, if my favorite girl is too busy laughing at other people's jokes, I might have to find someone else to buy me drinks."

"You wouldn't dare," you whisper, leaning down slightly so your face is just inches from his. The proximity makes his breath hitch as his gaze drops instinctively to your lips. 

Your fingers caress the nape of his neck and play with the buttons of his shirt. He always has this habit of wearing his shirt very loose, leaving the first four buttons open, his chest on display for everyone to see. As you undo the very last button and help slide the fabric off his shoulders, he leans closer to try and kiss you. But you quickly push him back, and he lets himself fall heavily onto the bed. 

He groans, but his flirty smirk doesn’t fade. “Come on, baby, don’t play with me like that.”

You let out a soft, muffled laugh, crossing your arms over your chest as you look down at him. You take your time to admire him. His red hair is beautifully fanned out against the sheets, framing the face you missed so much, and your gaze slowly roams down his sculpted sun chest. New scars have appeared since the last time you saw him, but he still looks just as powerful.  "Who says I’m playing?" you tease him, tilting your head slightly. 

"Okay, fine," he whispers. He sits up slowly, his hand already magnetically drawn to your thigh. "I wouldn't dare. I'm completely helpless against you, and you know it."

"Good," you hum.. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Shanks lets out a soft and defeated laugh. His hand on your thigh slides upward, his thumb hooking into the waistband of your clothes to tug you forward until you’re forced to straddle his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. 

He immediately buries his face right into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He drinks in your scent – bar soap, sweet alcohol, and just you. 

“I missed you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, sounding a little pouty. “You have no idea, every single night on the sea just thinking about you, missing how you smell, how soft you are … and then this silly little boy all over you and touching you.”

He brings up the boy again and you let out a soft laugh, your fingers instantly tangling in his messy red hair to scratch his scalp. "Are you still thinking about the merchant, Shanks?" 

"Yes!" he groans, shifting his head to press his hot face into your chest. He sounds so ridiculous like this, sulking like a teenager. "It’s so stupid. I know it’s silly.” He tilts his head back up, looking at you with wide, almost hopeless eyes. "I don't want anyone else looking at you. Kiss me. Please." 

“Aww, my sweet lover boy.” You don’t make him wait this time. You lean down and press your lips to his. Shanks lets out a needy whimper against your lips, instantly deepening the kiss with such hunger. 

He is definitely taking what he’s been starving for over the last three months, tasting you thoroughly while his arm locks around your lower back, grinding your hips down against his hardening length. The friction makes a soft gasp catch in your throat, which Shanks drinks right away. 

His hand moves over your body, sliding under your shirt to map out every inch of you, your waist, your ribs, your belly. He needs to touch you everywhere, to reassure himself that you are actually here with him.

Breaking the kiss just an inch, his lips trail down your jawline to your throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin until he finds the sweet spot right where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites down gently, making you arch into him with a quiet whine. 

"You're mine," Shanks mutters darkly against your heated skin, his breath hitching as his hand slides down to the hem of your shirt. “You were so pretty tonight, so soft,” he impatiently pulled your shirt up and over your head to toss it blindly onto the floor. "Tell me you're mine."

You grin a little, your hips moving against him. God, he was being completely ridiculous, and possessive, and dramatic, acting like someone was about to steal you away from him. And yet, he sounded so good like this, so desperate for you. 

"I'm yours, Shanks," you breathe out, your hands sliding over his broad shoulders. “It’s okay, I am here now.”

The word drives him entirely over the edge. With a low, guttural growl, Shanks grips your hip and rolls you over in one smooth, powerful motion. The world tilts, and suddenly you are flat on your back against the mattress. 

He leans down, completely burying his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. His lips slide down to the junction of your jaw, pressing bruising kisses there, before his tongue licks over the spot he bit just moments before. A sharp, needy gasp escapes your lips as Shanks shifts his weight, sliding his knee between your thighs to force them open. He presses his hips firmly into yours, the friction through his pants sending a delicious wave of heat straight to your core. 

"I want you to be so loud the whole crew downstairs hears exactly who you belong to." 

You move your hands over his body as best you can, appreciating every curve of his strong, healthy frame. You feel goosebumps rise on his skin as your hands drift dangerously toward his pants. And while he loses himself in your scent, he feels your fingers moving between your bodies, your knuckles brushing against the soft hair of his happy trail.

“What are you up to?” he grumbles, reluctant to pull away from your hair to see where your hands have gone.

“I’m trying to take off my shorts,” you reply simply, accidentally rolling your hips against him  as you struggle out of the denim shorts.

He groans even louder, pressing his mouth against the swell of your breasts, still sitting perfectly high in your lacy bra. That stupid baby pink bra looked so good against your skin tone.

“Let me.” He helps you take off your denim shorts and your panties down your legs and kicks them off the edge of the bed. You barely have time to breathe before he slides down your body, his tongue tracing a burning path down your stomach. He wastes no time and buries his face directly between your thighs. 

It’s so overwhelming that you whine out loud. “Shanks – no please, I want you inside me,” you gasp, your fingers gripping his red hair. 

He groans against your wet skin.

He groans against your wet skin, a vibration that shivers right through your thighs. He doesn't pull away, instead, he grips your hips to pin you firmly to the mattress while his tongue does its work. 

"Just a taste, sweetheart," he mutters between your thighs. "Just let me have a little taste first. I've been starving for so long."

He parts your swollen folds with his thumb and dives back in with hunger. His tongue licks and sucks at your sensitive clit slowly, making your head toss back against the pillows. 

Every stroke of his tongue is messy, as if he were drinking your nectar like a dying man parched with thirst, consuming every single drop of your wetness. He plunges his nose deep between your folds to inhale your scent, completely losing himself in the comfort of your warmth.

You let out a loud, broken cry, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth as your fingers dig deep into his messy hair. You want him inside you so badly it aches, but his tongue drives you crazy too. "Shanks... ah! Please..." you whimper, your toes curling into the sheets as you try to pull him up.

He lets out a muffled groan, absolutely pleased by how loud you are for him. He gives one last wet lick right over your sweet spot, before he stops torturing you. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are glistening with your wetness.

When he drags himself back up on the mattress, his eyes are so dilated. Your own hand instinctively slips down between your legs, driven by the need  to feel something filling you. You slide two of your own fingers deep into your soaking wet entrance. 

Shanks freezes, completely captivated, completely hypnotized by the sight of your delicate fingers moving in and out of your swollen folds. When your fingers slide all the way out, he stares, fascinated by how heavily coated they are in your own wetness, glistening under the dim light of the room. 

An arrogant chuckle escapes his lips. He looks at your hand, then up at your flushed face. To him, your fingers look almost ridiculous trying to satisfy an ache that big. He knows your thin and delicate hand won't ever be enough to make you come, not when your body is practically begging for his cock. 

"Look at you," Shanks murmurs. "You're so beautiful like this, sweetheart. So desperate for me. But those pretty little fingers aren't going to fix this, are they?" 

"Please, Shanks," you whimper, tilting your hips up. "Do it. Use your fingers. Please."

"Keep them there," he commands softly. "Don't take your hand away." He slides his large hand down, his fingers crowding into the tight space right alongside yours. The contrast is intoxicating. Your small fingers working in tandem with his calloused hand, stretching you beautifully as he begins a deep, heavy stroking motion. The wet sound of your pussy fills the quiet bedroom, sending a sudden rush of heat to your cheeks.

“Yes, just like that,” Shanks mutters, biting his lip, completely captivated  and overwhelmed by the contrast between your two hands.  His large frame trembles slightly, intoxicated by the heat radiating from your skin. Looking down at you, he’s struck by the sight of you so flushed and pliant, allowing him to touch you so intimately after months apart. 

"God, I adore you," he finds himself saying. "You have no idea how much I missed you.” You let out a broken whine, your hips jerking helplessly against his large hand. "You're mine, doll face... everything about you is mine," he confesses rawly, his gaze dropping to the beautiful, heavy swell of your breasts. “Look at what you do to me. I'm so obsessed with you. I'd do absolutely anything for you." 

The double friction of your hands working together sends a violent electric wave of pleasure straight to your core. You can feel the orgasm building, threatening to shatter you right then and there. But you desperately want more, aching for something much bigger. “Shanks,” you sob out, your free hand clutching at his pants, your hips jerking helplessly against his large palm. “Please Shanks, I want you, put it inside me.” 

Hearing you beg for him, using your sweetest voice, shatters the last thread of Shanks's restraint. "God, you're going to be the death of me.”

He abruptly pulls his large hand away from your soaking warmth, and you let out a weak, needy whine at the sudden loss of friction. He clumsily gets his pants off as best as he can. When he settles back down between your spread legs, his hot skin pressing directly against your inner thighs makes your breath hitch. He is massive, his slick tip brushing hungrily against your aching entrance.

Your hands slide down, wrapping securely around the base of his throbbing cock. Shanks freezes instantly, as your fingers close around him. He feels incredibly heavy in your hands, pulsing between your fingers.

You begin to stroke him, your palm sliding slowly up his shaft, feeling the rigid veins beneath his smooth skin. You give a soft, playful tug, "I missed your dick so much, Shanks."

A loud, strangled groan escapes his lips, his head tossing back as his jaw clenches tight. "Fuck, sweetheart... don't say things like that when I'm already this close."

You just grin, your inner tease taking over. Instead of letting him slide inside, you pull his length up and begin to slide it deliberately against your own soaked core. You trail his thick shaft right over your clit, coating him in your wetness while a needy whimper escapes your own lips. Then, you press the head of his cock right against your opening, letting it nudge your swollen folds without actually letting him sink in.

Shanks completely loses his mind. His single arm slams down onto the mattress right beside your head, his fingers clawing into the sheets as his entire body shakes with the effort not to just sink into you.

"You're a menace," he pants, his dark eyes wide, dazed, and completely desperate as he stares down at where your bodies are rubbing together. "An absolute menace. Playtime is over, doll face."

Before you can tease him any further, Shanks grips your hip with a bruising force and slowly sinks his hips down. He buries his full length into your tight heat in one long, agonizingly deep push.

A loud, broken cry echoes through the quiet bedroom as your body stretches to accommodate him. You moan loudly as he fills you so well. It’s exactly what you were starving for. 

Shanks goes completely still, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles twitch, as your tight walls pulse frantically around him, welcoming him home. He buries his face back into your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he waits for you to adjust to his size.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he rasps, his single arm wrapping completely beneath your lower back to lift your hips higher, locking your pelvis flush against his. "Hold on to me, baby. Just like that."

The moment you wrap your legs tightly around his waist, anchoring him deep inside you, Shanks completely loses his mind. He begins to move, his hips pulling back until he is almost entirely out before plunging back in. The wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours fills the room, accompanied by your soft moans. Every thrust is deep, aimed directly at the sweet spot that makes your toes curl.

Your fingers are digging deep into his back as the pleasure starts to build up. He grumbles, his pace turning fast and punishing as he senses your climax nearing. He kisses you fiercely. "Forget everything else. Just feel me. Know it's me inside you."

The frantic, punishing speed of his hips sends you completely over the edge. Your vision is blurred by brilliant bursts of white light as your walls convulse around him, clamping down on his thick length. His name falls from your lips over and over in soft whispers, your thighs shaking violently where they are locked around his waist.

Shanks lets out a raw groan at the exquisite torture of your climax squeezing him. He doesn't slow down, instead, he drives into you even harder, chasing his own release through the tight, pulsing heat of your orgasm.

"That's it, cry for me," he pants heavily, his face buried deep in your hair as his chest heaves against yours. "Let it out, sweetheart. You're so fucking good around me."

With three more deep thrusts, Shanks stiffens completely. He bites your shoulder as he buries himself into you as far as he can. His heavy body pinned you flush against the bed as his hips shuddered violently, pouring his release deep inside you.

The room falls quiet, save for the sound of your mingled, ragged breathing. Shanks remains heavy on top of you for a long moment, completely spent, his forehead resting against your shoulder. Slowly, he shifts his weight to his elbow, looking down at you with a gaze that is soft, lazy, and utterly overflowing with adoration. His red hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and that familiar, doting smile creeps back onto his face.

He leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting the salt of your skin.

"See?" he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling purr as his thumb gently traces your cheek. "I told you those pretty little fingers couldn't fix it. You just needed your captain."

//

You let out a breathless laugh, your hands, still weakly tangled in his messy red hair, lazily smooth down the damp locks at the nape of his neck. "You're a menace, Captain" you murmur, your voice dropping into a tired, affectionate whisper that lacks any real bite.

"Only for you, doll face," he murmurs, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his handsome face. 

With a slow, heavy sigh, he reluctantly slides his length out of your body, making you let out a small, disappointed whine at the sudden loss of his heat. Shanks immediately shushes you with a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. 

With a soft sigh, he rolls onto his side, taking you with him as the thought of  letting you go simply isn't an option. One arm stays wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you tucked against his chest as your legs tangle together beneath the sheets. Then you feel his lips brush the crook of your neck, pressing a lazy trail of kisses along your skin before settling there with a content hum.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The room is quiet except for the sound of your slowing breaths. Exhaustion settles heavily over your limbs, your bodies still warm from one another as you remain tangled together beneath the sheets. Shanks's fingers trace absentminded patterns against your side, and for a while, that's enough. Then, eventually, he breaks the comfortable silence. 

"I mean it," he whispers, all traces of teasing gone from his voice. "I was miserable without you." You lift your head slightly, surprised by the raw honesty in his tone. "I kept thinking about you." His fingers tighten where they're resting against your side. "Wondering what you were doing. Who you were talking to." He pauses. "Whether some idiot was making you laugh more than me."

A soft laugh escapes you. "Shanks—"

"There were days I caught myself reaching for you before I remembered you weren't there." He lets out a small, self-conscious laugh. "Pathetic, huh?"

Your heart melts instantly. You wrap your arms around his neck and tuck your face against him. "Not pathetic," you murmur. "I missed you too."

For a moment, he says nothing. His arm only tightens around you, as though he can't quite hold you close enough. Then he buries his face in the crook of your neck with a content sigh. "Good," he whispers. “I don’t think I could go through that again.” 

A smile tugs at your lips. "You crossed half the Grand Line."

Okay, effectively, any long dashes is gunna indicate there's a gap/thats an entirely separate timeskip/part of the story from what came before it, so those two scenes would not be directly one after the other, and there's missing info.

What I'd wanted to do was this slow kind of descent into this kinda being their thing? I didn't want it to be sexual, I just wanted it to be this give-and-take of very intimate but personal control, it's one where Bakura would need to be very aware of Ryou (and then he softens up a bit and becomes more considerate of Ryou) and one where Ryou needs....ssssomething. I never personally got that far. Hence why this has been in WIP Limbo and is now being ejected into the ether of tumblr.

So you have this beginning of Bakura letting Ryou be conscious while doing the shopping, an eventual showing that BAkura's got a healthy money/stolen things stash to pay for it with, and how this relationship and his nerves around Yuugi, slowly supercede his healthy friendships with Yuugi-tachi. Leading up to a scene I didn't write, where Yuugi confronts Ryou about his odd behavior and the missing Ring out of worry (because why would he suspect Ryou of stealing it?). And Ryou's inability to answer in an assuring way makes him want to check the apartment out, where Ryou effectively lashes out at Yuugi, who... gets mad, but that quiet mad. Where he backs off and clearly isn't done with this topic but is not getting anywhere now. Mad because he's worried and hurt and Ryou can recognize this and he and Bakura fight (hence the 'be my doll' debacle down there).

And then from there, it's Ryou getting his bearings and his sense of independent self back together, after all of the very bad and unprofessional and unhealthy dom-ing Bakura has been doing - this is, after all a BDSM thing, with or without the sex or arousal or any of that, and that power was never properly calibrated between them, with Bakura being content to do his thing then pop off and then demand diorama work. Something Ryou realizes more and more isn't good for him in a lot of ways.

So - something in dollification, right, that comes into play sometimes is writing on the doll, usually with a marker, but other things work as well. This is a common thing in BDSM in general, but it comes up in dolly play as well. So we see Ryou give Bakura the marker - implying another scene I never wrote where Bakuras tried this and it was Ryou's last straw, I was torn between the marker thing and the Yuugi thing - and thus handing that control over, not just passively accepting what happens without consideration for himself or his own health. And when the play goes down, that subspace recedes because Bakura is actually here and that presence means more than either of them thought. And everything from there is pretty predictable, I think.

I never finished it. I might come back to some of these things some day, but for now - I've got projects I am currently valuing much more highly and I'm not an adept enough writer to write this kind of power-play yet.

So, if you want more DollyFic stuff - here it is. Take it from my hands.

------------------------------------------------------------

Is it better or worse that Ryou knows The Spirit’s controlling him this time?

It could go either way - he appreciates not losing consciousness for hours at a time with his financial situation (And legal standing) at the whims of fate. 

However, he’s not sure how to feel about the consciousness he has while The Spirit picks pockets with the ease of picking posies.

It just feels dirty.

Try to stop me, then. The Spirit hisses.

Ryou can feel his fingers slipping silently into the back pockets of jeans, slacks, the occasional skirt, if there happened to be one. He feels the crisp paper of bills hiding in his palm. And if he can feel all of that, he might be able to push for control - curl his hand into a fist, nice and tight to keep The Spirit’s sticky fingers at bay.

“You seemed surprised last time.” The Spirit said. “I thought this might help. Red or green? We have blue at home.”

Last Time.

Last Time implies a This Time. The Spirit wants a this time.

“Do you not?” The Spirit asks lazily - Ryou can’t exactly answer.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

“You like when I brush your hair.” The Spirit says softly - uncharacteristically so. He runs his hand up from Ryou’s cheek, his neck, through his ponytail. “I do too - I can do it again.” His neck grows warm under lingering fingertips, the strands caught between them. “I can dress you again, we have so much more to try on.” 

That stills Ryou’s emotions. The one or two clothes switches weren’t all - there was more. He can’t deny his interest.

“I can get more than that, too. Whatever you want.”

Ryou swallows, his eyes turning away from his reflection - it's too inviting, too thrilling, to see himself dressed such a way - to the floor, where they find the abandoned cufflinks.

Under the bathroom light, the stiff lines of a cameo can be seen - each black square of fake obsidian has a skull carefully carved in relief. 

His fingers twitch.

He doesn't need to look at the mirror to see something missing and it's those. The final touch. The final push into the deep end of this pool.

But more and more of this could mean less and less of Ryou as a person. The Spirit would have too much control of him, too much influence.

Then again, he already does. Proven by this alone - proven by how hard he fights against preening in the mirror.

“Do you want the cufflinks?” The Spirit asks softly. As though he were tempering a child on the back-slide of a tantrum.

For the first time, Ryou nods.

His knees bend, his hand stretches and picks the obsidian cufflinks off the floor.

“I’m glad.” The Spirit says with unfamiliar genuity. Ryou can almost hear a smile. “I quite like these.”  Ryou’s body doesn’t lift from the floor. The Spirit fastens the first one then and there.

The words weigh heavily on his mind, hit with the chronic longing for jewelry he’s never allowed himself.  Because Father would be displeased with how he spent Fathers money. Because people would gossip more than they do. He’d need to explain why he’s wearing bracelets and rings, because long hair - because jewelry for boys is...

“Ridiculous,” The Spirit spits at Ryou’s train of thought. “None of them have any weight in how I dress you.”

Cufflinks fastened, the body rises and backs up from the mirror. Ryou’s gaze is brought - forced - back to his reflection, to how the jacket sits, the glistening of the cufflinks and the gorgeous opal holding his scarf in place. The peeking through of the vest, the high-waisted pants, and the long, gorgeous leather riding boots

Worse, the ease of letting The Spirit go through the motions is tempting. The self-praise, enforced as it may be, is starting to get to him as his state of dress nurses a swell of... something in his gut. He feels confident in the mirror. He feels appealing. 

(He feels so…)

…. What is this?

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

The Spirit has his arms around Ryou’s torso like a child does around a doll.

This isn’t too far off. Though, Ryou’s clung to tighter - he is, after all, a favorite doll.

The Spirit’s breathing is deep, measured, and perfectly silent. Ryou can feel the occasional flutter of eyelashes against his neck, just above the hot air softly ghosting over his collarbone. They’re torso to hip, hip to leg, though The Spirit has one leg hooked around one of Ryou’s. 

He has no idea how long The Spirit’s been asleep.

In average circumstances, he would begin to feel sore or numb, but his body is still and posed and nothing seems to have changed. 

The Spirit’s fascination with dolls was one he attributed to accessibility - Ryou’s always had loved them himself.

Perhaps it’s purposeful - though it’s beyond him why The Spirit would cling so tightly yet pose him in such a way that he couldn’t reciprocate.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

The Spirit’s scrolling and scrolling and scrolling - searching for something. He’s gone pages and pages back, dull-eyed and unimpressed before stopping at the image of-

“Isn’t that excessive?” Ryou asks, regarding The Spirit’s current… research? Endeavor? “This wouldn’t even work - you need to be touching me in order to… even…”

He trails off, stops talking - The Spirit’s eyes are wide, fixed to the screen. 

-

Ryou tugs and tugs and tugs-

“You have this one already - in this color, no less.”

“No.” Ryou insists, admittedly childish, “that one’s burgundy, this is maroon.” 

The Spirit scoffs, setting the waistcoat down. “You take advantage of me, you know that?”

“Rich coming from you.” Ryou drips, though he does feel a flaring up of stubbornness as The Spirit begins to walk away from the display. “Didn’t you say you can’t find anything to match my boots?”

The Spirit stops. 

“The burgundy has too much white in it, that’s why.” Ryou adds off-hand color-theory. “The maroon will work much better.”

The Spirit looks back. Ryou knows him well enough to see the piece-matching in his mind. Even as a ghost, he’s fighting a smile when The Spirit doubles back to thumb the material again.

“Trust me.”

The Spirit’s fingers curl, gently, under the fabric.

Is this what it’s like to be The Spirit? Whispering sweet, selfish promises into the ear of someone you know could do what you want? As long as they want something just as badly?

He’ll admit - it’s... a little intoxicating.

Just a little.

-

It’s better this way. Yuugi and his friends were never really Ryou’s friends. Helping people, inviting them to play and be around, gifts, condolences, well-wishes, secrets told in confidence - people do that all the time for classmates and co-workers and even strangers. That doesn’t make them friends.

-

“You’re obsessed.” The performance on his cell-phone screen isn’t obscene - but it’s closeness to their own activities is uncomfortably so.

“All I can find is this stupid-” The Spirit grumbles. “It doesn’t even teach me how to set the rigging up.” 

-

“You’re expensive.” The Spirit says, bringing the new coat out from its’ box. It’s gorgeous, with gold buttoning. Hand-made, by request, will always be expensive, but it’s a perfect addition to their play-wardrobe. Ryou couldn’t resist. That means The Spirit couldn't either. “You’re expensive and you’re spoiled.”

“I’m your favorite doll.” Ryou replies. His blank face and voice can’t hide his true feelings on the matter.

The Spirit narrows his eyes at Ryou - but the crease to his brow crankles just so, and a lightheartedness shines through. “Smug’s a bad look on you.”

“I’m so handsome.”

-

It’s better this way. Yuugi wouldn’t know what to do if The Spirit ever started his tricks. He wouldn’t know how to speak to him, how to combat his lies and temptations. His phantom friend was actually a friend. 

Ryou’s is something else.

-

“I admire your creativity,” Ryou hikes the coils of rope over his shoulder - they’re going into the storage unit with the pulleys, “but I’m not risking my father’s security deposit on this.”

“I can figure it out.” The Spirit says, still staring at the ceiling with calculating eyes. “It’s not difficult... conceptually.”

“Well, conceptually, if your makeshift rig were to cave the ceiling in, you’d be the one figuring out what to tell the landlord.”

-

Latex leggings - they’re the color of porcelain skin, smooth like plastic. 

“I like those-” He starts to say.

The Spirit added them to the cart at ‘like’.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

The Spirit’s tied a soft, tight knot around their limp wrist, made of the rope pulled out of storage behind his back. The end of the rope is in the other hand.

He pulls - the rope runs through the pulley attached to the ceiling, the other end pulls their wrist upwards.

“Yes!” A cheering hiss. The Spirit grabs the step-ladder he used before.

“You can’t really expect the ceiling to support me, dead weight?” Ryou asks. 

“It won't be dead weight. Can’t not be touching you, remember,” The Spirit says, wrapping another band around his elbow, same arm. “You won’t be suspended mid-air.”

“You’re going to yank those ropes and pull parts of me however you please, I don’t doubt for a second you wouldn’t love to do just that.”

The Spirit stops mid-step. His eyes move to the pulley on the ceiling, then down to the knot around their wrist, eyes wide and darkening in-

“I knew it - no.”

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

“I’m almost 120 pounds.”

“You’re eating more, you’ve gained weight.”

“So you’ve noticed,” Ryou drips.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

It’s much better this way. Only Ryou knows, truly, how to handle The Spirit.

Only Ryou.

No one else.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

His teeth grit tight, disgusted with himself. Defensive from this interrogation.

“Because he’s mine!” 

It burst from him. Unintentional. Uncensored. The second it leaves, he’s scrambling for something to throw at the end. Something to erase the raw thing that left his mouth.

Yuugi’s not waiting for that. He’s ingesting, slowly, this thing from Ryou’s insides.

“...age...able,” He stumbles, quietly. “Manageable, he’s... manageable.” It’s all he has. “With. Me.”

The Spirit’s all he has.

He’s all The Spirit has.

Ryou’s legs are back, too shaky to work, and he falls to his knees. Egypt recedes like a tide, leaving only an ethereal fogginess in its place. No floor under his feet, just rolling fog and endless nothing and The Spi-

And… Bakura. So he’s called.

“Is that,” Ryou starts, “really your-”

“Get out.” Like a dog snapping teeth. 

Ryou flinches. He swallows and presses on. “You’ve just never called yourself-”

“I said leave,” Bakura snarls. “Before I make you leave.”

But he can’t bring himself to get up. He’s stuck in this plane of nothing, kneeling on nothing, before a soul with nothing to reflect.

“He doesn’t call you by it either, does He?” He says softly. There’s no floor for Bakura’s angry footfalls to stop on. “So you don’t use it.” He’s grabbed by the collar, yanked roughly to his feet by two hands.

“Watch your tongue, mortal.” Hot, seething breaths run over his nose. Bakura huffs and spittle flies at his face. “You’re not as safe here as you think you are.” 

“Because He takes things from you?” Ryou meets those angry eyes head-on. The knuckles around his shirt tighten, bleaching white. “You don’t get walls or a floor or a sky to look up to that doesn’t get taken away.” Thinking it is different from saying it. The idea of his own Soul Room being dismantled at someones will… a constant reminder that there is nothing else but their will? And, oh, Bakura’s face is twisted and tense and angry... 

He reaches up, cups at his Spirit’s cheek and chin. The next cruel seethe, “Landlord”, stops short. He remembers a scar on this cheek, and his thumb brushes where the scar ended. 

“He even took your face.” Ryou’s voice fades into a soft whisper. 

Bakura slams Ryou against the door. Briefly, the wind is knocked out of him. Bakura’s face is closer now, nose to nose.

“It’s not my face.” He growls. “It’s not my name and what you saw was nothing but the lingering shrapnel of cherry bomb who thought he was a nuke.”

“Then why did-”

He’s shoved again.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

Of course he’s being manipulated. Of course Bakura treated him well and dressed him and pampered him to control him, to make him complacent. To question nothing.

People can vanish. Things can be taken from you. 

And Ryou, to him, is both.

“The Ring’s not mine,” Ryou repeats from memory. “But it isn’t yours either, is it?”

The Spirit seems unconcerned with these. But Ryou loves dolls.

Is that why…?

He leans closer, nose to nose, almost. “Just be my doll.” The Spirit hisses, thumbing at Ryou’s cheek. “What’s so wrong about that? Don’t I take care of you?” The Spirit’s fingers curl tight against the back of Ryou’s neck. His thumb stutters through his vain attempt to stay gentle.

Is that serious? Between his chest and his hand and his arm- Is that a joke?

“I fixed those.” The Spirit’s other hand rubs at Ryou’s scarred arm, cloying and rough like sandpaper. “I cleaned them, bandaged them, stitched them - a dollmaker doesn’t throw out what’s theirs just because of a crack.”

Possessive and wrong, yes, but Ryou’s... never heard The Spirit sound so desperate.

“Just. Be. My. Doll.”

His forehead rests on Ryou’s. His eyes don’t move from Ryou’s slack face. He doesn’t know what answer The Spirit expects him to give like this.

“I’m…” Ryou starts - then remembers, he’s already lost one of his few verbal privileges.

‘I’m your favorite doll’, ‘Let’s play forever’, ‘I’m so handsome’ - all phrases that can only confirm The Spirit’s wants, and he’s lost one. No matter that Ryou hasn’t had a need to verbally deny anything so far, The Spirit purposefully didn’t give him- 

No. 

No, that’s not quite right. The Spirit’s been transparent about one thing so far - he has been very, very aware of Ryou’s condition throughout. Every piece, every accessory, every action has been done with either confirmation or lack of denial. There’s too much value to The Spirit in keeping his doll well-kept - in keeping Ryou happy.

“Dolls have one purpose - to be a doll. And their Owner has one purpose - to care for his doll.” 

“I’m s-,” ‘So’ presses at the back of his throat - not The Spirit but his own conditioning. Reflex, but an allowed one. Allowed on the lines of his set words, ‘so handsome’, pick the sounds from there, pick it so it flows, something he can’t touch….

“-o’a’d.”

There it is. 

“I’m,” Ryou pushes, “s...ad.”

The Spirit’s grip loosens. His furrowed brows go slack.

“I’m sad,” he repeats. It fits his tongue, his mouth slides naturally into shape. “I’m sad.”

The Spirit stares, mouth slightly parted, teeth grit. Creased eyes soften, confused and...

He lets go. He vanishes.

Ryou collapses to the floor.

-----------

Ryou wakes up in his own bed, exhausted. He pinches at his nose before rubbing the crust from his eyes. 

When he turns, the mirror and marionette riggings are gone.

Hope you didn’t break that, Ryou thinks more than sends. That’s bad luck. Either way, no response. A still coldness in his mind, like before all the doll nonsense. 

Pouting. Or plotting. The Spirit is capable of both.

He gets out of bed and performs hygiene on himself. He makes tea, rice, eggs, miso, and consumes all four. He dresses himself, brushes his own hair.

He looks at the array of Items, as though offerings on an altar. The Ring isn’t there. He isn’t wearing it either.

He goes to school.

-

He fills his schedule to empty his head. Honda and Anzu are going to the arcade, despite Jou off to visit his sister and Yuugi suspiciously busy.

(Suspicious to no one but him, anyway)

They don’t ask where he’s been past the first time, and they don’t press when he says it’s complicated.

He even goes to dinner with Anzu after Honda heads home. 

(He ignores The Spirit’s loose money in his pocket. He uses part of his rent.)

“If you ever need a break,” Anzu says as they wait for a waitress. “From anything. Then this is a pretty good place to do it,” She smiles. “I come here sometimes after practice, their ramen is really good. They’ve got a two for one, if you wanna?” 

-

He comes home and sets his leftover ramen in the fridge. 

He doesn’t put the Ring back on before he goes to sleep.

It demands nothing.

-

Jounochi actually agrees to play against his Occult deck - through some goading from the others, sure, but he’s still excited about it.

(Not from Yuugi, though - everyone is surprised but Ryou.)

“Here I thought I lucked outta facing this off,” Jou groans - but he snaps up right after, busts out the life point tracker and offers his deck for Ryou to cut.

Ryou asks Jou if he wants to stop somewhere, play more, if he needs help studying. Jou’s just as excited - Ryou isn’t the only one avoiding going home.

-

He comes home late again, sets his leftovers from Burger World in the fridge. He sees The Ring dangling dangerously, halfway off his dresser. How easy would things get if he just let it get lost back there forever? Like everything else.

(Like…)

He moves to pull it back to safety. When his fingers touch the gold

-he wakes up with the last of his night lost. He’s not even dressed for bed.

The Ring is back on the dresser, pressed to the crack between the wood and the wall. Some of the tines dangle over the edge. 

“I was being nice.” He grumbles. There is no answer.

-

Yuugi smiles at him every day, and says ‘good morning’ every time. They chat before class with their friends but not with each other.

Yuugi’s avoiding Ryou and that’s fine - Ryou’s avoiding him, too.

(Two hims, technically.)

-

When he touches the Ring, he goes to sleep. He wakes up and the Ring is always off his person.

Yuugi isn’t the only one avoiding him. Then again, Yuugi didn’t do anything wrong.

-

“Are you okay, Bakura?”

He really doesn’t want to talk to him.

It’s not Ryou’s reflexes that tighten up and clench his fists. It’s something older, something that’s ground into his nerves and muscles by a memory not his own. Even if he has no reason to be angry or hateful towards this person, he feels someone else's anger and hate deep, deep in his bones.

“That’s a complicated question.” Ryou answers, simply. “Can I answer another time?”

-

He should give the Rod back to Yuugi. 

Ryou stares from his desk, at the two items laid bit to bit. 

He should give the Eye to Yuugi.

Ryou’s eyes move to the Ring on his dresser.

He should definitely give The Ring to Yuugi -

Ryou hasn’t worn it in days. It hasn’t asked him to.

- But he won’t.

-

Yuugi - kind, thoughtful, devoted Yuugi - apologizes to him. 

“You were right to yell at me,” Yuugi says. “I went too far.”

He might just implode.

“You’re too kind.” He says without a smile. “But I… really do appreciate you saying that.”

And he feels disgusting for it.

-

“You do still need that diorama, right?” Ryou asks at the dresser. “Because if so, I need more supplies.”

Can the-

Can Bakura only respond when Ryou has the Ring?

“They're… expensive." He adds, stomach churning to even try to goad like this again. "Can I… put you back on? Would you get them for me?” 

When he wakes, there’s nothing new in the apartment, but his phone has one text message on it - his order is ready for pick-up. 

The Ring rests on his nightstand, atop a wad of bills.

-

The cynical part of him thinks, as he’s invited over to study, that maybe this isn’t genuine concern at all. Yuugi told them he has the Ring again, he must’ve. These looks are starting to feel pitying, and when Honda asks him if he needs a ride home - when he normally goes right to work - that sets off an alarm.

“I get it.” Honda says instead of anything else. “I don’t like talking about my stuff either.” Honda notes his stiffness, his surprise at the lack of platitude. “Whatever it is… You don’t need to say anything.”

He was an idiot, wasn’t he? Trying to convince himself that they don’t notice, that their smiles and sympathies were synthetic.

Honda holds out his spare helmet, waits for Ryou. Honda watches him, but doesn’t search. “Just let us know when you need us around, okay?”

Maybe he doesn’t talk to them as well, as deeply, as Yuugi - but they pay attention. They ask. And they want to catch him while he’s falling.

“I can do that.” Ryou says, donning the spare helmet before Honda sees his watery eyes.

Of course this is what friends do.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

Bakura appears, hand on his arm. Eyes certainly on his state of dress. Ryou guides his hand down, to his own, and turns so the marker rests against Bakura’s palm.

He looks at Ryou. 

“What?” Ryou asks. “This is what you wanted, right?” Bakura bristles. “That wasn’t a dig, I’m offering.”

He wraps his fingers around his hand. Bakura’s eyes stay trained on him, tense from the shift in something between the two of them. 

“Do it or don’t. It’s up to you.” 

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

Ryou’s leg comes up and he can see, vaguely, as Bakura scrawls across his leg. Feverish and focused, it moves down, down, down even further as Bakura hastily rips down the latex stocking. Ryou feels the force cause a run. It’s fine, they weren’t as comfortable as either of them had hoped, anyway. He’s just sorry he made Bakura spend money on them. 

“There’s a pair I like more,” Bakura waves Ryou’s apology off without breaking focus.

Don’t leave this time, he thinks. He can’t do anything else. Don’t leave this time.

Bakura’s eyebrow raises, eyes flicking up to Ryou from where he is. Ryou feels hot embarrassment coiling in his stomach, hot enough to match the droplets rolling down the sides of… his...

Oh.

It feels... nicer than he’d feared to tear up - to cry, just a little - while Bakura could see. Somewhere along the way of this…. thing they did together, a knot of stress had twisted tighter and tighter. He had not recognized the tension building up, and is now overwhelmed with the feelings of being stained and used and torn apart. 

It doesn’t hurt, not entirely. Mostly it’s a fog he can’t cut through. The reflex to cry is like a hand reaching out for his partner. And it may be greedy or desperate, but he needs it held.

Bakura takes it a step further, scooping Ryou up and holding him entirely. The rigidity recedes, just a bit, from Ryou’s body. He strokes his dolls’ hair, calm and slow and Ryou lets himself cry, just a little bit more, into Bakura’s shoulder. 

His hand stops at that, flinching as his grip around Ryou's body stiffens further. “The… clothes are fine?” He says haltingly. “I didn’t rip or write on them, or - except the stockings, but-” His hand peels off to fidget, moving mid-air -Ryou’s chilled, somewhat, by the loss. Bakura notices. “Ah! But - you were- you did… good-”

He was right the first time. To just hold him and stroke his hair and if Bakura had nothing to say, he was right to say nothing.

Bakura's stupid mouth snaps shut - he's silent immediately, hand almost clamping down on Ryou’s skull. It begins to move in slow, firm strokes. Better.

.

------------------------------------------------------------

.

He catches himself in the bathroom mirror.

‘Mine’. 

Over and over and over, ‘mine’, ‘mine’, ‘mine’. A claim that could be taken any time, but each second that ticks by is another spread of a selfish scribbling, an inky Midas touch.

But across his right cheek, is something different.

It’s written only once, spilling from cheekbone to chin and nowhere else. Foreign and unfamiliar. But even without understanding hieroglyphs, he has a good idea of what they might mean.

The water stops pouring. Bakura murmurs something, affirming and tired, before turning back to Ryou.

“I assume you want to take care of this part yourself,” Bakura says stiffly. He keeps his eyes on Ryou.

Ryou’s jaw relaxes. He can speak.

It’s a difficult read - but Ryou’s skin itches under Bakura’s scrawls of possessiveness. He doesn’t know if he could wipe it off, fully, by himself.

“It’ll wash fine, that marker is meant for skin.” Bakura doesn’t look away - but by the way his eyes twitched, it took effort. “There’s no school tomorrow anyway.”

He ran a bath, not a shower. He’s not dropping Ryou right in. He’s waiting for Ryou. He’s waiting for-

“The water’s going to get cold.”

Permission.

Ryou’s eyes move to Bakura’s free hand, fisted fingers writhing in a fashion Ryou would call nervously. Just as he thinks it, they stop and the hand tucks itself out of his sight.

“Let’s play.” Ryou says, purposefully cutting his phrase short. A clear signal, he hopes - ‘but not like before’.

Something in Bakura's posture perks up. He nudges Ryou’s crossed ankles apart to slip his underpants down, to remove the sagging leggings and shoes. Hooking their legs together, he frees his lifeline hand to remove the jacket, shoving it so it hangs lazily over the rack. With care, he moves Ryou off the toilet seat and into the bath. The water turns, near immediately, a vaguely black tint. The lettering struggles to hold firm.

Cloth in hand, Bakura wipes at Ryou’s face, his name melting off in a wet, black splotch.

-

Something smells nice and feels slimy.

“You needed a better heat protector,” Bakura says, running slicked fingers through Ryou’s locks. “The old one wasn’t effective.”

“I’m so handsome.”

“That does’t matter, your hair will thin over time if you dry it too hot without something to keep it-.”

“Let’s play for-ah!” He yelps at the impetuous puff of hot air into his face.

-

He should stay, Ryou thinks, when he’s laid back down to rest for the night. He’s been washed and dried and dressed in his nightwear but Bakura hasn’t left just yet, savoring every second. Ryou thinks he could savor more if he came to bed.

“I’ve got my own work to do," Bakura says. An obvious excuse- “It’s not an excuse. Your diorama isn't all we need.”

Ryou’s not capable of arguing.

After a pause, Bakura sighs through his nose. “Fine.” And he toes off his shoes and settles under the comforter. “Just until you’re asleep.”

Victorious Ryou is moved slightly, arms positioned upwards- 

No, not like this. “I’m sad.” 

Bakura freezes.

“I’m your favorite -”

He's cut off by a hand, not over his mouth, but tilting his chin. Bakura holds him steady, tight, with heavy eye contact.

“Don’t say that unless it’s serious.” He hisses. “I mean it.”

“Huh… that really bothers you,” Ryou notes.

“How much for the Sherlock Holmes doll?” Bakura sneers back.

“Give your doll more lines, then we'll talk.” Ryou says. “My arms get tired like this.” Bakura raises a brow. “I get tired of having my arms like this.”

“Picky.” Bakura shifts Ryou to the side, settling next to him. “What would you rather?”

Ryou doesn’t hesitate - he wraps himself around The Spirit and pulls him close and down.

Stiff, stunned Bakura doesn't fight it, simply lets his eyes widen and his doll hold him.

He's bony, Ryou notes, but not as much as Ryou himself. There's a node of tension, of sculptedness, under the clothes, that’s out of place, wrong for how thin they both are. He's cold to the touch.

"Dolls can't move,” Bakura finally says, doing nothing.

“Maybe I’m a magic doll.” Ryou replies. “Sometimes.”

Bakura’s quiet. 

“Just sometimes.” Ryou repeats, holding his Spirit closer still. His hair’s almost softer than it looks, with a comforting thickness, much like his own. Not rigid or hard as a whole, but the strands themselves are thicker than Ryou’s, with a slight stiffness to some of them. As if they’d committed to curling tightly but gave up a quarter of the way. “It’s your choice - I’m your doll.”

With that, Bakura’s fingers flex. He holds on tighter, turns his face towards and against Ryou’s chest and nightshirt. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly before the embrace turns clinging, burying into him.

“Dolls are meant to be comforting.” Ryou rationalizes, Bakura responding with a soft, placated noise. 

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