#dump doc

Macaque gets a letter.

Wukong’s not one to ask before opening mail - there’s no law against it and as King of the kingdom it arrived at, he has the right - so he does. And despite his struggles with reading, even Wukong can comprehend that the attempt is hilariously bad. So much so that he feels even less bad about opening the letter when he shows it to Macaque.

“Someone’s trying to kidnap you with a really bad lie.” Wukong grins, unscrolling it before Macaque’s eyes. Macaque’s eyes widen, face red where it shouldn’t be red as he swipes it from Wukong to get a better look at the embarrassing thing. “They think you’d fall for a dinner invite.”

“It is a dinner invite,” Macaque says. He’s stopped looking at Wukong. “I’ve been invited by them before.”

“Ohh, they’re setting you up, then. That’s underhanded,” Wukong slips to peek from behind Macaque’s shoulder - and is quickly shoved off. “Heyyy!”

“It’s not a set-up - well. Not for.. k-kidnapping.”

Ohhh, he knows that choked sound, the one where Macaque isn’t sure if Wukong will like what he’s saying. And he doesn’t, Macaque’s right, he’s back over his shoulder to examine how far Macaque is willing to lie to his king. 

Not very long.

“Not that kind of kidnapping either--” That kind? When did courting come into the mix? “It’s just - it’s just a fling.”

“Flinging what?” Wukong’s eyebrow raises, the other joining at Macaque's groan of his name. 

“Foir fun.”

“Everything fun is right here. I’m fun, don’t we fling?”

“We do not fling,” Macaque shrugs him off again, more forcefully and begins to walk off. Insulted, Wukong gives a light chase against Macaque’s unusually quick stride.  “Look, I’m going and I’ll be back the day after--”

“A day after?” Wukong’s duress is less perplexed this time. Macaque’s sigh isn’t reassuring.

“The morning after, noon the latest, okay?”

“What is it that you can’t tell me?”

“It’s private!” Macaque squeaks. 

Wukong’s mood drops - there’s hardly any secret-keeping in the troop and to be left out of one is a sore spot he didn’t know he had. 

Not that Macaque and he are the same as the rest of the troop - there are secrets that need to be kept, as royalty. But at the very least, they were always privy to each other. The hidden things were owned jointly by them alone.

Macaque’s sour face evens out, mellow under Wukong’s own hurt. “...Sorry,” He says. “I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just…”  He chews his cheek and doesn’t finish.

“...Back before noon,” Wukong folds his arms. With an overemphasis, he adds “and you’ll be considered pardoned~”

Macaque keys in, overperforms a sweeping bow, meant more for understanding than amusement. “How gracious, Your Majesty.” Macaque pockets the letter, switches conversation to something else Wukong has ‘decreed’ lately - namely, the army’s armor not matching what the dragon kings gave him; stronger metals are prettier and more durable and need to be pilfered - but a stiffness lingers for at least a few minutes longer than Wukong likes.

---------

There is an easy solution, of course - Macaque has yet to see all of Wukongs’ 72 transformations, so he wouldn’t suspect something as innocent and mobile as a sparrow to follow him in the night. Even if Macaque had been invited before, Wukong knows how tricksy demons can be - it’s a testament to their danger, not Macaque’s intelligence, that he feels the need to monitor at least part of this ‘dinner fling’.

He slips through the crack of an open window of the place - nicer than most demons have - just as (honestly, a rather overdressed) Macaque enters the home. 

“Don’t send for me like that again,” is the first thing Macaque says. “He’s nosy as shit - it took a year off my life convincing Wukong to let me come at all.”

His feathers rustle at that. He’s not some tyrant forbidding Macaque from going out. It’s hurtful to hear his worries for his best friend be turned into something so sour.

“And don’t,” Macaque twists, jabs a finger at his host, “make the joke we’re both thinking of.”

Well, Wukong’s not thinking of jokes. When does Macaque have inside jokes with other people? How long has Wukong been away that he’s not privy to Macaque’s other friends? 

Frankly and also - when and how did Macaque learn to make friends at all?

“And kill the mood?” Asks the host (what mood?), “Never.”

Macaque is suddenly bracketed by the larger body, pressed to the wall, with a mouth on his --

Uh. Face.

Macaque’s mouth has another mouth on it. His hands suddenly have hands around them and they are over his head. He has a leg between his -- 

Okay. This kind of fling. The flinging he and Macaque definitely do not do. Will never do. And he implied they do all the time and no wonder Macaque was so upset--

He lingers too long on watching Macaque letting himself get bit, and leaves once the biting starts getting lower than his neck.

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

“Welcome Back!” 

And immediately, Wukong and Macaque both hear how over-enthused Wukong sounded.

“You’re late!”

That one too, especially for a scolding.

“Yyyeah, hard time getting back.” Macaque scratches at the back of his neck--

Nnno. Wukong does not want to think about all of the fucking bruises under his scarf and fur.

--And not looking at Wukong. “Plus, breakfast went late.”

“Oh. Breakfast?” Wukong has also taken up Not Looking. “Sounds good.”

“It was.”

The silence is terrible. Damning, even. Evidence, apparantly, as Macaque’s awkward posture mellows out into something disappointed. “Y’followed me, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How much did you see?”

“Uh, I saw reason for me to be concerned about your safety,” Wukong scoffs, with a getsure to the neck. “A random invite sent with the idea that I wasn’t home--”

“You shouldn’t know that.”

Fuck. Cover your ass. “--and you coming back with a covered neck?”

“I always wear this scarf--.”

“This whole thing just smells bad,” Wukong shrugs. “I won’t apologize for wanting my best bud safe and sound.”

“Right, yeah, okay, so here’s what’s gunna happen--”

“Are you limping?” Wukong asks as Macque approaches and then stops and then doesn’t answer. Which is the very wrong move to make after one has confessed a legitimate concern for your safety.

Macaque’s Not Looking intensifies, turning his head down to the floor as he murmurs. “I said I had a hard time getting back.”

“They let you limp back?” Wukong’s properly mad.

“I - I just like the walk--” Wukong dips down, craning his head to stare Macaque in the eyes. Macaque’s shoulders hunch as he folds his arms. “They offered t’take me home,” Macaque’s quiet excuse does nothing for Wukong. “just--”

“--didn’t take it?” Wukong cuts him off.

Macaque’s jaw tightens. “I… didn’t feel like riding with them…. I was sore and they were suggesting--”

“So they took it back?”

“No, but at that point it was awkward because I turned it down--”

“So you limped back.” Wukong says, more seriously, “Because you felt awkward, even though they would’ve done it.” Macaque winces. “Y’know, that actually is stupid.” His friend doesn’t have an answer. “If you saw someone like King of Confusion limping home, what would you think to do?” 

“You’re not my dad--”

[So, I'm working on apiece taking place with Wukong in the broken scroll having to re-play his memories up to present day, but every deviation gets him sent back to Start, the curse not truly able to manifest in it's usual way. The ones with Macaque are the most difficult for him because of how differently he sees and feels about Macaque now.

Our Wukong is depicted by (Wukong) and any Wukong acting within the proper narrative is simply Wukong. The way that Tang and Pigsy and Sandy were stuck in their past lives - because Wukong has that self-knowledge to him, he's kind of able to weave between letting it happen while maintaining his awareness of himself, and being able to step in if he feels he needs to, or wants to re-establish control for himself.

This cut follows after a scene with a Drunk/Potentially-Not-Actually-Drunk Macaque at a Brotherhood banquet trying to elicit a kiss from a decidedly less drunk in-timeline Wukong, who is getting very uneasy vibes about it, despite the fondness for Mac's attention.

So, why are we cutting this?

A) I dislike how I wrote Wukong here - even for a younger self, I found this a little too hesitant and nervous. Even at his most uneasy, Wukong isn't one to stutter or lose his words, I was gunna imply maybe he was starting to feel the alcohol himself,but that just didn't pan out well.

B) I feel Macaque's a little too devious here, too unapologetic about manipulating Wukong at a point in his life where he is very much at beck-and-call. He's showing his hand a bit too fully as well, and I found it made for a distasteful character in a way I feel is out of character for /that period/ of Macaque and Wukong's relationship.

C) it didn't move. The end result we have here comes to a decided dead end and any attempts to move it passed this felt forced or unnatural and that is because this movement isn't the strongest I can make it. I have a better idea in mind to replace this sequence with, I'm not pressed.

Things I like, though?

I like the banter I got down for that intimate bit. I like how I wrote Azure, I think I nailed conveying disapproval without giving an implication that he feels anything for them - that being interpreted is different from my intention, after all - which does lend for this rather irksome Protector Syndrome that throws a wrench in things for these two, you get the idea that the mood is dead because Azure is this insistant and the inexperienced/manipulated Wukong is not weighing his situation well.

That being said - I do hope you enjoy]

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

Macaque blinks, his sadness turning sour. His tail drops off Wukong’s waist, not in an ordinary disappointment, but one Wukong can still rectify. He grabs Macaque's arm before he can stand to storm off (“I’ts only--”), which he promptly shakes off. 

Wukong can’t just watch him stumble off. He slips away from the feast and catches up to Macaque. “It’s only cuz you’re drunk.” He shakes the word in a show of seriousness, a show of care. 

Macaque’s eyes roll then screw shut to avoid Wukong’s gaze. “What a hero.” 

He jogs further in order to be in front, to speak to his face. “I just meant--”

“I know what you meant.” Macaque sounds almost entertained by how badly the night turned out, as if this should’ve been predictable. 

(Wukong knows now it was.)

“-- that was intense,” Wukong presses. “I mean, specifically asking me to--”

“I knooww,” Macaque’s tilting tone is that of an overlectured student.

“Just cuz you don’t think you’re that drunk, doesn’t mean you’re not that drunk.” Wukong slows his erratic pace when Macaque does. He looks at Wukong with surprise (the same surprise Wukong’s feeling for himself) “Don’t gimme that look - a sober Macaque wouldn’t have tried that even if we were alone.”

(I really caught that?)

“--Doesn’t mean we should… overdo anything we--” Wukong stutters, “--that we, uh.. Would.. Think is smart to do. Y’know, sober or not.”

Of all the times Wukong’s tongue goes lax - this would be the one.

“Y’know because - I mean, it’s not like I’m not gunna want to…” The words stick to his throat. “Not that I'm saying you’re not attractive or - or weak…  I like you -- beeeiiing forward. In general, I mean. Taking initiative, And the. ..banter was… it was, it was--”

He’s grabbed by his tunic knot. Macaque pulls Wukong close as he falls back against the solid stone of the mountain. To keep from toppling, Wukong brackets him with his arms. 

“...Oh,” Wukong is breathless, feverish at Macaque’s grip on his clothes, keeping him this close. “This is… this’s.. Ah…”

Really happening, His mind races. Finally happening.

Wukong looks at Macaque, his shadow, bathed in the light of a night sky too bright to compare him to, a failure in its own right. Stars that only shine worthily when glinting off his teeth, and if a hero and a warrior are the sun and the moon, then where is the second hero to account for Macaque’s second eye?

Sounds fall out of him - “Okay.” 

Wukong gets that prey feeling again when Macaque chuckles darkly. The corner of his mouth presses into a smile. “Just okay?” 

For a moment, Wukong’s nerves even out, the excitement can rush through without spinning him. 

 “...Better than okay.” Wukong leans in, something wry on his face as he gets close to Macaque, close enough to smell plum wine and a musk only furr can cultivate. Macaque pushes up.  “Much better than okay.”

He grips Macaque’s arm, between the elbow and shoulder, and gives a squeeze that’s permission and plea. Macaque’s move to his neck, gripping the hair and fur close enough to his fingers. 

Macaque leans.

Wukong pulls.

Someone coughs.

Both their heads whip soundward, and Azure Lion stands with a fist to his mouth.

“I - apologize for interrupting,” he says. “But Macaque seemed upset when you two left.” His brow raises. “Is everything okay?”

“...Yeah?” Wukong’s eyes shift to Macaque, “Yeah, we’re, ah--”, then back to Azure, “--we’re figuring it out.”

“I can see that,” Azure says. “But, it does look concerning.”

“You did say to take it inside,” Macaque helps (and it’s so blatantly smug, Wukong could choke on it).

“This isn’t inside,” Azure says (with a tone so stony, Wukong feels crushed for another five hundred years.)

(Talk about a rock and a hard place, and Wukong’s idiot baby-self caught between them doesn’t realize he can’t move).

“We’re not fighting,” Wukong interrupts. Azure’s posture doesn’t change. Through grit teeth, his friendly tone weakens, “we’re not. Fighting.”

Curb your Big Brother Complex, his friends lack of belief is like an arm's worth of pinched nerves. And take the hint. (You take the hint! Wukong wants to shake himself.)

Still, Azure looks the two of them over. Slowly, he smiles the tiniest fraction, relaxing. “Well, as long as that’s so. But we do need you both back at the table.”

“Do you?” He asks with a tinny strain. 

“It’s important.”

“Is it so crucial a strategy that you can’t come back later?!” (Wukong) blurts. Azure sputters, and Macaque’s grip is tighter and moves. “Just - for five minutes, I’m not asking for - I am so close to--” 

Wait. 

Nothing went sideways.

This was what happened.

(He didn’t kiss Macaque)

(He doesn’t need to kiss Macaque)

“--Damnit,” (Wukong) seethes, touching his head to the stone wall in frustration. “Damnit, damnit, just--”

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

“---yeah,” He groans, falling onto the pieces of stone shell. “Yeah, that’s-  Yeah. Sure. Fuck. Damnit.”

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

“--we do need you both back at the table.”

“Do you?” He asks with a tinny strain. 

“It’s important.”

“Is it?” Wukong’s voice stretches thinner -  he yelps when the hand in his hair fists, tightly.

“We need to know when to strike,” Azure, ever diligent, pushes this point.

Really, the only context y'all need is Wukong having deep-smooched a Memory Macaque while trapped in the split scroll aaaaand Macaque seeing that. Aaaand being notably pissed. And Wukong beiiiing notably thrown and off his feet for a lot of reasons.

The scenes are close enough to be lumped rtogether, but there is no connected tissue! A dotted line will indicate a scene break.

Why these scenes got nixed: Simply that there are better emotional directions to take it and I have taken them. I think a longer pause, maybe a few days, will do them more good rather than some awkward walking god knows where. It was a good scene to hold me over but it's use is finished.

Secondarily, "do you ever think about us" is very aware and very longing in a way that is not what I want for this fic or how I feel Wukong should be after what I'm putting him through. The dialogue here is too final, too definitive and too... clean? It's emotional for the sake of making y'all feel emotional, and I don't want that. That's not strong writing, and it creates weaker dialogue than I am capable of. I want it to be emotional because it makes me emotional, which will therefore bludgeon all of you, and - it doesn't do that for me.

What I like: I think there's a lot of charm! I do think there's some good emotions carried through here, and honestly? I like how I did Macaque here. Unlike last time, I think he's got a good balance of discomfort, hating himself for feeling something gushy, and an absolute newfound loathing for the sort of selfishness Wukong can have. Meanwhile, I like Wukong's push! I think I nailed this nice bit where, despite Macaque being uncomfortable, he's pushing that boundary and he's decidedly chasing down the answer he wants because he can get it. It's a little nod to how their relationship was somewhat unhealthy to begin with.

With that said - enjoy what is not going to be in the lasyt chapter of Almost and Enough

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

People walk all the time. The act of walking is both miraculous, burdensome, and mind-numbingly slow when compared to a flying cloud. Wukong is not the type to look gift legs in the mouth, but in the case of walking beside his sworn enemy who he was caught snogging the doppelganger of - 

He misses his cloud striding.

“Y’know, splitting up the team is usually a bad move, but - gotta say, glad you guys chose it this time.”

Macaque’s in front, walking with an unnaturally quick stride.

“And I’m not just saying that because more people could have, theoretically, walked in on me and yo--” Wukong stops, clears his throat, “Well, well not you you - or about you or you you, but -- honestly I’m not even talking about that so I don’t know why I’m talking about it.”

Mercifully, there are no comments on Wukongs blunder.

“I’ve just been alive a long time-- Not to say you haven’t lived as long!” Wukong quickly corrects. “Or that your life isn’t as- that’s a bad word choice. I mean like - it’s not as narratively engaging - man, absolutely no one is here to shut me up, huh?!”

“You can just stop talking!” A miserable Macaque finally speaks, sounding just as frantic as Wukong feels. “On your own!”

“I could! I should! But then everything’s quiet and then I have to think about it.” Wukong can’t remember the last time he’s felt so small.

“Well, the more you talk about it, the more I think about it, and I want that less than you do!”

“You weren’t in my place, you didn’t have to spend the past… uh, the past few--” Wukong stops himself, looking over the broken sky and ground. “How long have I been here?”

“Had to?! You had to k--” Macaque stammers, eyes searching for the courage to continue, a fruitless one. “To do that?!”

“I needed the reset! I needed to go back to the beginning, I needed--”

“Why is that how you did it?!”

“Because just once, I wanted to not kill you!”

“That had nothing to do with killing me!” 

“Look, if i doesn’t play through the way it happened, everything resets--”

“That,” Macaque seethes, “did not happen that day.” Something on Macaque’s face shifts, an angry twinge in which the brutal scar and four extra ears, marred and clipped, flash before Wukong’s eyes. “I would know!”

----------[SCENE BREAK]-----------

“...Do you ever think--”

“Mmm, sometimes.” Macaque interrupts with too much force and swagger. “Mostly to scheme and plot and all those fun, diabolical things.”

“About trying again?” Wukong speaks with all the wriggling feelings in his chest. “Us… again.”

He lets the thought hang. He’s thinking now, he wonders - hopes - Macaque is or already has.

‘Again’ is important. ‘Again’ is a promise of not making the same mistakes, to be the Wukong and Macaque they are now instead of trying to be who they were. Wukong doesn’t know this Macaque, and maybe Macaque doesn’t know Wukong anymore. Maybe being older and wiser makes them better for each other.

“I…” Macaque’s clench and he sucks air through his teeth. So, so softly, he says, “I do.” 

He says it like a confession, and so softly like a sharp breeze could break it. It’s a warning Wukong heeds, keeps quiet to keep himself from pouncing on like a child on his long lost favorite toy. 

“And it makes me sick to my stomach,” Macaque adds, voice barbed as if he’d done it with his bare hands. “Almost every time.”

Wukong ignores the venom that shoots through him, plastering over the wound with a quip from memory, rests it between them again, “...Just ‘almost’?” 

“ ‘Almost’ is enough.” Macaque says it like a scolding.

“Not for me.” Wukong twists, moves closer. “What times aren’t every time?”

Macaque stammers, wide eyed and confused, before the brow furrows and he pushes Wukong back. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter, when?”

“You haven’t thought about it until a few days ago!”

“And I haven’t stopped! And I’m not stopping at the end of today or tomorrow or who knows how long. So when?”

The most recent thing he remembers, if he really tries, is leaving home with Him. 

Those sharp nails rested against his wrist, guiding him through a door he didn’t recognize to somewhere he didn’t know. Only knew that He would be there. And that he would follow. 

He remembers hearing knocking, which was ridiculous because it was no one's home. He heard hinges creak and a slam which made no sense as the doorway was open already, he was halfway through it.

And just when he stepped through and left for good - he thinks he remembers hearing someone say his name.

-----

He enters the room with yawns and stretches. There is no need to wait for breakfast because they who serve Him have already brought it out. He eats simply - mostly bread and fruits, sometimes cheese. It’s the other plate, his plate, that’s graced with a full breakfast.

“Good morning, ‘Kura.”

He says this every morning and hasn't once forgotten to. He pets him gently every time, and before ‘Kura can complain about the treatment, He kisses him softly on the temple. And everything filters out but a twisted bliss at the attention, and the knowledge that this is all very, very wrong.

-----

He can’t forget the first bath he’d had here. The experience bled into weeks of scratching and howling and bleeding. 

“I don’t understand - your skin has layers too, doesn’t it?” He’d murmured while examining Bakura’s red, swollen skin. He pulled - ripped  - at what looked like a splinter but came out like a barb, as if it dug itself into his muscle, under the skin itself and latched itself to the underside. Bakura howled, tore himself away, swearing and yelling over a yelp and a flurry of ‘sorry, sorry, I’m sorry!’. Clutching his arm, feeling the blood between his fingers and the pain, the itch of all the others underneath. When he rubs or scratches it hurts. 

[Big Gap, never wrote connective tissue]

“I found out how to fix this!” He’d said triumphantly. “I did more reading about human sanitary practices and went out and got this!” With that, he’s handed a small box, and the fiendish Fey before him smiles. “It’s called ‘soap’.”

-----

 [timeskip and gap]

“You were perfectly content being fed and cuddled and played with,” He says. “You didn’t - you still haven’t even asked my name.”

Bakura stares from the bed.

Then He tells him. 

“It’s Ryou.”

------

His name is not ‘Kura. Ryou just calls him that - sometimes he’ll use the ‘Ba’ first, mostly when he - Ba-kura, making Bakura - is in trouble.

[Very large gap]

“I hadn’t eaten because of you,” Bakura growls hoarsely. When He looks away, shoulders hunching in shame, he finds a nugget of satisfaction. 

“I said I was sorry,” He murmurs. 

“Sorry?” Bakura scoffs. “That’s it? You’re sorry?”

“And it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, ya pinky-promise?”

His head tilts. “Pinky?”

[Another gap - told you I barely connected this]

Bakura wakes up to a platter of food. He must be delusional - it looks and smells like it’s actually cooked.

“You like your meat rare, right?” asks a familiar voice - He sits beside him and smiles. “I, ah, didn’t bother to do it myself this time… it was from that place we went to.” 

He just prettied it up with the platter and silverware. Whatever implication that has is tossed to the wayside in favor of eating.

It’s cooked, seasoned, and warm. Bakura could cry.

“But I also got- um,” Ryou’s fingers press together, sheepishly. “I got a book for cooking. So I can get better at it.”

Bakura slows down. He still chews, of course, but he’s trying to focus on Ryou now.

“You know, when I left you that day to come home and get your room ready, I’d - I’d felt so confident about this whole thing. I read all the books, and I got the enrichment and equipment and pet-safe furniture… but the second I couldn’t get back I was practically shedding with worry. I - hadn’t even considered what would happen if you would ever be away from me for too long.” He stops, taking a lingering look at Diabound. “And then,” a slow, fond smile crosses his face. “And then I remembered how much you knew about Diabound’s needs and I thought - ‘did ‘Kura know what to do when he was in this position’?”

“...” Bakura turns back to his food. “Snakes can go without food for up to two months - but they need water much more frequently.”

“And you were working on a time limit to get out of there,” Ryou’s voice is fond - too fond. “That’s why you did what you did.”

Bakura’s quiet.

“You’d do anything to make sure she was safe and happy and… and it took me until you were in pain to even recognize you couldn’t even clean yourself.” His hands fist in his lap. “...I’m… I’m so sorry for how I’ve been,” Ryou says softly. “I’ve been trying to make a home for you, but… knowing about Humans doesn’t mean I know enough about the differences between us.”

[Large Gap]

“But I’m a damn adult with a damn lease and a damn job to feed my damn snake,” Bakura snaps. “I did all of that on my own, and I’ll do it all a-damn-gain on my own once I’m out of your needy fffucking grip!”

He looks at him, wide eyed, mouth dropped into a small oval. Those eyes, infinite and bottomless, search him. Well, they can search all they like for whatever they like. There’s nothing pathetic about him.

“All on your own?” Ryou says, His voice slow, tinged with the soft timbre of pity as if Bakura ever needed that. “Was no one else there?” 

Bakura snarls at the hand coming to his cheek, “I”m an adult-,” but when it rests, his words stay locked behind his teeth, his breath held prisoner in his lungs. 

“Adults hunt in packs,” Ryou says. “They work and play and rear children together. What monsters let their cub suffer like that?”

Bakura doesn’t falter, won’t fall for this creatures’ act. It needs to be an act, if only for Himself. There’s only so much ignorance you can exhibit before it’s simply malice.  “I don’t need your pity-” 

He stops. His brow unfurrows at the rightmost wet streak on Ryou’s face, jaw loosening as he watches this wretched Fey tear up. 

“Did you hear yourself?” He asks. “Why do you talk about living like it’s a prize?”

“It was,” he says, through firm teeth. Nevermind his shaky memories of where he’d lived, who he’d known - he knew he had found his own path, got his own money, dug himself upwards and forwards. He didn’t succumb to the various options to fail like those around him. He’s allowed to be proud of that. “I earned it.”

The hand slides back, light nails dancing slow against his skin, resting against the flat of his neck. His thumb brushes softly beneath his ear. 

“You were always entitled to a good life. You still are.” Bakura’s doomed, the other hand comes too, cradles the opposite side and drags him forward till their foreheads touch. “And I want to give you a life you can live.”

“I can’t-” He’s breathless, searching for something, anything. A thought to cling to, a reason to disagree. “I can’t…” He drowns in the color of the earth, the smell of its dust after rain wafts from His skin. 

“Tell me everything you need,” Ryou says softly, almost too softly. Almost like He loves him. 

Bakura drops the knife. Ryou doesn’t look, as though it was never important to begin with.

“I’m hungry,” The words fall out. “I need meat. And eggs and starch and-”

“Make a list,” Ryou interrupts him. “You’ll have everything you ask for.”

“I need to-” His tongue runs dry. “I can’t clean myself-”

“Well, that’s an easy fix,” Ryou chuckles, “everything in this home is mine - everything is touched by myself, at all times. And since everything you need must remind you of me--”

No, he doesn’t understand, Bakura grips him by the shoulders, drags Him in, he needs to understand. “I can’t bathe.”

“...Ah.” Ryou realizes. “You can’t….”

And that…

“Is that… related to something else? Poor thing.” Ryou pulls him closer. Bakura follows His lead without much choice - Ryou tilts his head for him without much resistance. “You can always ask.” 

It’s a soft kiss, one that tastes like pomegranates and the smell of harvest. His hands move back across his jaw and cheek; a thumb grazes the bottom of his bottom lip. Bakura feels all of it, his focus divided between ten fingers, each individual fingertip drawing a unique path along his neck, down his chest, and he’s compelled - there no other word for it - to bring Him closer, kiss Him deeper, slip his own tongue across His lip and hear him gasp and sigh like a nymph.

“I had fun last time,” Ryou speaks softly, but not quiet. Hypnotic, it beckons him to trail his mouth down Ryou’s neck. “Did you?” Bakura nods. “You asked me then to be my only pet - do you remember?”

Bakura mumbles an excuse against His warm collarbone, “that was playful banter.”

“There was some truth to it,” Ryou’s hands slip into his hair. Soft strokes and little massages with his fingertips lull him closer, coax his hands to find His skin. “You said ‘if you treat them all like’ -” He’s cut off by His own little moan, muffled by tightly-pursed lips - He’s enjoying this, Bakura can feel that fact against his thigh. “I haven’t filled my end of that bargain.” 

The hand in his hair tightens. 

Bakura’s head is pulled back again, examined under His eye. “Do you want me to?” Bakura tries to nod - can’t, with the hand in his hair. Ryou ignores any silent pleas, His eyes boring into Bakura’s. “Say it.”

“Yes.” It falls from him, pulled by sheer presence. He feels weak. His hair is pulled again and his spine shakes.

“Did you like that?”

“Mm-hm.” No answer, no change - will He truly only accept words? “Yes?”

“Good pet.” A hum. A kiss to his chin. “You have a nasty habit of hiding what you mean - it makes things difficult sometimes.”

[For Sale. Large Gap. never connected.]

I want you to tell me what you need,” Ryou says. “Clearly. Without me needing to guess or push you.” When Bakura shakes his head, he’s taken firmly by Ryou’s hand and forced to stop - he’s surprised at the strength in Ryou’s grip. “Don’t disagree with me on this. You need to learn to ask me for what you need, I can only give you what you ask for. Stop making me force your hand.” Then, quieter, into his ear, “not everything you deserve needs to be won.”

There’s an ache in his chest - the spot where his heart would be, if he had one - alongside the ache in his dick, a swollen need from torment that can only be pleasure. Bakura growls at it, at the implications it brings.

“You’re just as strong when you ask for me,” Ryou smiles against his ear. “I think you’re stronger when you can be honest.”

Despite himself, Bakura’s breath turns ragged.

“And you’re very attractive when you want this badly,” His voice is thick, playful, “very sexy.”

And he tries, he really tries, not to lose himself in the tongue running along his ear, the long rubbing up and down his chest to sternum to belly and up and down and up again. But he can hear the cusp on which his wantonness stands. He’s sure Ryou can too.

“And if you told me, right now, that you want me to have control--”

And he does want it, wants it more and more He talks and offers, mouth dropping open when His palm presses down on his cock, once, then moves to the side to rub circles into his thigh.

“--I think it’d be cruel to call that weak. I think it’s brave.” He says with a kiss.

[Last Gap, I swear.]

The one thing He wouldn’t do is degrade. Bakura couldn’t explain the difference for various reasons.

“It just sounds like a nasty form of teasing.” And Bakura nods, frantically - yes, it’s teasing, yes it’s nasty, yes he wants- “I don’t want to talk to you like that,” Ryou said. “I want you to enjoy being good for me.” 

Bakura grits his teeth, against the derision at his wants and the cock sliding over, not in, his ass. Over and over, truly teased, no relief.

“I like that you couldn’t wait,” Ryou says again. His cock twitches and he grunts as His hand picks up again. “You’ve been so lonely, haven’t you?” He nods, rocking into His hand. All this from months untouched - he might go mad. “Tell me what you want,” Ryou speaks slowly. “Tell me what you want me to do for you.”

Confessions and fantasies spill from his mouth like drool, and he’s granted them in turn - cock gripped too tightly to cum, ass up and rutting against His hips for relief. More than he ever has from insult or shame, he cums from His praise for Bakura’s debauched and slutty -- no, from his eager, willing pleasure, words of worship for opening his chest, laying himself bare, showing everything and giving it all away.

“Good boy, ‘Kura,” Ryou purrs against his temple. With a kiss, ‘Kura’s consumed again by that ache, and instead of bracing himself against that salacious venom, he lets it spread across his nerves and limbs all the way to his head. “Good pet.” 

-----

Ryou hums while he reads. His fingers card through ‘Kura’s hair. Each gentle tug pulls it loose from behind his ear, or across the part, spilling the strands across His lap.

About the third time it falls out of place, ‘Kura grumbles, irritated at the feelings of ‘unright’ left in it’s place. Ryou chuckles softly, watching ‘Kura shake his hair back into place.

“Sorry,” Ryou smiles. “It’s just so soft now.”

‘Kura groans.

-----

His name is ‘Kura. Sometimes there’s a ‘Ba’ first, but only when he gets in trouble.

---

“I got one for ya,” Bakura says, appearing across from Ryou, at the floor of the coffee table. Smugly, he says, “a happy story.”

Ryou stops, looks up from his dessert. He hums his question, a tuft of satin frosting hanging at the corner of his mouth.

“So my sister had a sweet tooth, yeah?”

Ryou hastily rips the creampuff top from his teeth, chewing at fast as he could through the puff pastry.

“And she wanted these li’l sweet things, but--”

Ryou swallows hard - too large a bite scratches at his throat and his coughing snaps Bakura from the reverie. Determined, Ryou presses on and rasps “you had a sister?”

Bakura, with a heavy groan and an eyeroll, says, “for the purpose of the story, yes--” Bakura presses on, regardless “--he wanted--”

-And so does Ryou. “Purpose of the story?!”

“--these li’l - yes, for the -- these tiger nut treats, dunno if you have em nowadays, but my bro--”

“Why would you make up a sister?!”

“Exactly, tha’d be dumb, so shaddup and-- Hathors tit--,” Bakura groaned. “She tried to snatch it, near lost a finger over it, Ma faked paying for the damn thing, ha ha, great Mum, glad ya interrupted?!”

“That’s supposed to be better?!”

“You asked if I had happy stories!”

“Your fake sister nearly losing a finger’s a happy story?!”

“Well, it didn't happen!”

---

“Reminds me ‘a when I was more grown,” Bakura interjects another day, while Ryou folds laundry.

“The folding or the clothing?” Ryou says, taking a look at one old shirt in particular.

“Got a terrible bloodstain on me, that’s the last thing you want when you’ve got eyes on you everywhere,” Bakura prattles. “So, I need to get the damn thing clean - problem is, I’ve got those eyes on me and I’m sure you’re well aware how difficult it is to get blood out of white.”

Ryou, with a sigh, nods. 

“So, gotta make due and make quick, I head to a basin and jug I could use. New problem, how do I keep anyone from watching me wipe blood that ain’t mine off my clothes?” Bakura shrugs. “Gotta prop the door.”

“Door?” Ryou repeats quietly, as he tries to piece together where Bakura could have been.

“Which means I need one part of me free enough to keep it closed and another part to keep the water going enough to let it wash out.

Ryou blinks, pulled from the conversation by a tickling familiarity in the side of his mind. Somehow, he’s sure, it’s connected to why Spirit is suddenly talking like a basin would have running water.

“Now, I was grown enough to piss on my own, can’t say I was old enough to stomach blood just yet, so when I saw exactly how much had gotten on me, I get faint. Of all things.”

“Sounds like an awkward spot.” Ryou’s hand moves to his arm, his shoulder area. “Like you’d only looked down--”

“Exactly! Had no chance to see the rest, the first few spots threw me. I get woozy, see, and at that point someone noticed by frenzy to the door, so I stumble, shirtless and stupid, my hand comes off, the door opens and the knob gets me in the head--”

“And you passed out?” Ryou asks.

“And I-”

Bakura stops.

“Only to be found by… well,” Ryou drips, “I suppose they didn’t have janitors or primary schools in Ancient Egypt, did they?” He turns his head to look at the silent spirit. 

The smartest thing Bakura’s said all day - nothing.

“If I recall, I was sent home after I passed out, with a note to my father, telling him my heirloom necklace was a hazard and I shouldn’t bring it anymore,” Ryou stares as Bakura rubs at his jaw, “which is why I started hiding it under my shirt, did you think I wouldn’t remember my own--.”

“You’re prone to blackouts?”

Ryou scoffs, jaw hanging low, “the audacity in you sometimes - how was that going to be a happy story?”

“Well, I was gunna switch the ending up and say….” Bakura clicks his tongue. “Well, I’d remember if you hadn’t interrupted!”

“Like being married to a cat,” Ryou murmurs, setting a folded shirt to the side--

Realization comes like a record scratch.