Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The return of the Thief King Bakura is not heralded by crying babes and cracks of thunder. No acid rain or skies torn open to reveal the vast, uncaring void of the abyss gazing back. Hell, it's not even nighttime when he unfurls back into reality.

Ryou Bakura pushes his suitcase into his room and shuts the door to lean against it, sighing with the relief of a long trip concluded. He has a moment, head tipped back and eyes closed and weary down to his marrow, to wonder if things will feel dull without the Spirit of the Ring.

And then he opens said eyes and looks at his bed, and all thoughts of getting back to normal fly right out the window.

Bakura is filthy. There's a fine coat of dust over every inch of him, caked in his thick gray hair, crusted around his (closed) eyes and embedded in every seam of his red coat. Of course he's on the bed, Ryou thinks wearily.

When he gives a tentative nudge, sand goes flying all over the place as Bakura snatches his wrist and snarls. Not dead, then– and not amnesiac, either. The moment his purple eyes land on Ryou (how pretty, that must be their natural color without Zorc), his grip loosens just enough to stop making his bones grind together.

And then he flops back down, face first, sending up another little plume of dust.

He also doesn't let go.

"Um… Spirit…" It feels weird to call him that, but Ryou never got to meet this man properly in Atem's memory world. He knows his name (the same name, too uncanny to be coincidence), but saying his own surname aloud is just as strange.

Bakura grunts and doesn't move.

"Spirit. You're kind of…" Filthy. Dusty. Alive. "…getting dirt all over the bed."

That gets a response; the Thief King lifts his head just enough to give Ryou a narrow-eyed look, puffs at a stray bit of hair to get it out of his mouth, and drawls, "That's what you're focused on?"

How uncanny to hear his voice with his own ears. To see the way he cocks an eyebrow (the unscarred one) like Ryou just declared that the sky is red. A beat passes and he realizes he should probably say something. "Well, er– yes. I'm pretty tired from the flight…"

Bakura rolls his eyes so hard it dislodges some of the dust caked under his lower eyelids, and sits up with much grumbling and effort– and without letting go. He opens his mouth to say something more– probably something about Ryou's priorities being severely misaligned– only to sway badly with an apparent headrush.

A headrush that doesn't stop.

Ryou abandons all ideas of getting to sleep and tries not to panic as Bakura presses his free hand to his head, making a choked-off sound of confused pain. A three thousand year old man just manifested in my bedroom after being puppeteered by an evil god, of course he's going to have a headache. "Okay, um, if you let go I can get some Tylenol…"

Bakura does not let go. "S'fine," he grits out, and Ryou grimaces to see that there's even sand in his teeth, "Just– just shut up."

Rude.

He counts to one hundred before speaking again. "Any better?"

A wordless grunt.

Ryou purses his lips and tries to think. "…Why don't we see about getting you into the tub? Can't be comfortable with all that dirt on you." And the bed, and the pillow, and the floor. He's going to be cleaning it up for months, he just knows it.

Bakura offers no response at first– Ryou's about to gently offer again, and perhaps try to get him to let go of his wrist so he can do something aside from just stand there, but then the other man shifts to the side to get his (bare) feet on the floor.

And then he lists forward, uncontrolled, the moment he stands up. Ryou rushes to catch him, and has the brief disorienting realization that he's taller than the Thief King, tucking himself against one shoulder in an effort to keep them both from toppling. "Okay, easy– Easy…"

"I'm not a horse," Bakura grumbles, swaying badly. But he's still got his legs under him, and he's not holding Ryou's wrist like a lifeline anymore, so that's progress.

They shuffle into the bathroom, trailing sand the entire way. The reality of Bakura being here, in the physical world with his own physical body instead of co-piloting Ryou's, starts to sink in as he gets the man situated on the lid of the toilet. He's a little winded from the ten feet they went to get from the bedroom to the bath, slumped over with his hair hanging in dirty clumps around his face.

Dehydrated? Hungry? Tired? What did one do about post-millennia-possession ailments?? First things first. Bath. He starts the water and plugs the drain decisively. "Spirit…?"

"Hnh?"

"Um, can you– That is, do I need to help you… wash up?"

Heavens, he can feel his face heating up. But Ryou steels himself and meets his gaze evenly when Bakura lifts his head to give him a flat look. "What do you think?"

At least he's got enough pep left to snark. That's a good sign, surely. Ryou nods awkwardly and turns around to take off his shirt– he'll probably be soaked by the end. Pants stay. He has to do laundry after this, anyway, from the trip and from Bakura's dirt-tornado.

Bakura snorts at his modesty and makes sure to get a good, long look despite his apparent exhaustion when Ryou turns back. "Skinny."

"Y– You've seen me before," he stutters defensively.

Bakura starts shrugging out of his red coat right there on the toilet, and the sound of sand cascading across the linoleum is genuinely cringe-worthy. He should have grabbed a laundry basket or something. Too late now. Ryou sighs, stepping closer to help when the other man's arms get caught in the sleeves.

He's tan all over, of course, and to Ryou's relief he's slightly less dirty under the clothes.The coat gets shucked with little fanfare, and then Ryou has to move down to his knees to unpick the old, crusted knot around his waist. "Just– cut it off," Bakura grumbles, breathy. He's most definitely suffering some sort of exhaustion.

"Hang on, I've almost– there." The sash falls away, and after an awkward shuffle, Bakura braces himself with a hand on Ryou's shoulder to get the skirt bit out from under himself.

And then there's a naked man in his bathroom, panting and trembling ever-so-slightly from the effort of getting undressed.

It's going to be a long, long day.

Between the two of them, Bakura manages to get into the tub without slipping and cracking his skull open. It'd be a pretty lackluster way for the Thief King's legacy to end. The water's a little less warm than Ryou hoped when he tests it, so he turns the warm knob a smidge.

When he looks back, Bakura's sinking down into the water with a look of utter bliss. "Oh, why didn't I indulge in this more when I was in you," he groans faintly, eyes fluttering shut as he leans against the back of the tub and really sinks down.

There's a brownish, discolored cloud of filth already starting to bloom around him. Ryou watches it slowly proliferate through the water, and then realizes where his eyes are and whips his head to the side to grab a random bottle. Shampoo– yes, good.

Bakura's looking at him with a smug, knowing glint.

"A-alright, I guess…we can start with your hair?"

The mischievous gleam dims a little. "…Very well," Bakura agrees, pushing himself back up with some effort.

He's not much help, but it's hardly his fault; between the two of them Ryou manages to get his hair wet and run the shampoo through it, though the white suds immediately turn brown and gritty. He rinses for what feels like ages, grimacing at the way Bakura's muscles tremble with the effort of keeping his head tipped back the longer he spends trying to get the water to run– well, clearer– before giving up.

Washing his body is a whole other issue. Ryou's only so lanky, and the apartment afforded to him by his late father's frankly lavish estate came with a big, deep garden-style tub that up until this moment Ryou was fairly fond of. It's a problem, now, because Bakura can only shuffle so close to the tub wall, and Ryou can only lean so far forward before he's at risk of toppling in.

"Give," the smaller man grunts tersely after a moment, grabbing at the shower puff. He snatches it from Ryou and promptly splashes them both, making a valiant effort at scrubbing himself and only mostly succeeding. He can't begrudge the man wanting to have some autonomy, so Ryou leaves him to it and considers the state of the bathwater instead. It's opaque with dirt by now; they'll have to fill the tub at least once more before Bakura can be called anything even approaching clean. With that in mind, Ryou pulls the plug and watches the water level slowly start to lower.

A shower would be more efficient. But– he steals a glance back, watching Bakura's uncoordinated, lackluster scrubbing at his chest– there's no way it's happening with him like this. He reminds Ryou of a newborn fawn, a comparison Bakura would probably strangle him for if he were still capable of hearing all his thoughts.

It strikes him then. Bakura can't see my mind anymore.

Naturally, this is the moment when Ryou's eyes betray him and he looks down.

And down.

And– sweet mother of mercy, he's hung.

"How's that saying go– 'take a picture, it'll last longer'?"

Ryou just about slams his knee against the tub wall from how badly he startles. Bakura leans back with an arm slung around the edge, lets his knees fall open– the water only coming up to his ankles by this point– and gives Ryou a smolder that really, really shouldn't be possible to give in his condition. "I-I-I wasn't–"

And then he tips his head back and laughs, that signature, cackling laugh, and Ryou realizes with all the surety of a man walking to the gallows that he's fucked.

"Turn around. I can get your back while we wait for the tub to fill up again," he deflects, picking up the scrubbie and the body wash so he has something to do with his hands. Bakura's chortling dies down (eventually) and he complies, though not with a last, smug flick of his eyes over Ryou's own skinny front. He shuffles slowly around and draws his knees up to sit sideways in the bath, and then– with the roar of the tap only just drowning out the pounding of his heart– Ryou dutifully starts scrubbing.

Bakura's shorter than him by an inch or two, but he's broader in frame by far, the sharp lines of his shoulder blades visible even through the layer of grime clinging to his skin. Ryou cups his hands to rinse it away, along with the grayish soap suds, and nearly falters when he notices the scars.

All up and down the length of his back, criss-crossing over and over, overlapping so thickly near the middle that they're almost white against his tan skin– whip scars.

Ryou swallows.

The tub's getting full. Belatedly he reaches over and turns the taps off, and the roar of silence that follows feels smothering in contrast. He picks up the puff and drizzles more soap onto it, tries not to falter as he runs it over Bakura's marred skin. He might not have an ear to all of Ryou's thoughts anymore, but he can certainly still read him– and if he realizes the other boy's staring, half-sick and half-fascinated by the deeply personal history being bared to him, he'll probably try to drown him in the tub.

Bakura gives no indication of imminent violence, shifting a little and leaning forward, as if trying to keep Ryou at arm's length even as he lets him help. Ryou finishes scrubbing and rinsing a second time without any more awkward pauses, even when the other man lowers his head to rest his chin on his knees and it makes his back muscles ripple in a very interesting way.

"Done?" he grunts.

"Mm-hmm," Ryou hums, not trusting his voice. He leans back on his heels and lets out a small breath as Bakura shuffles back around, the spell of mesmerizing back muscles broken. The water's still warm, but it's getting cloudy again. "One more rinse, I'd say," he decides out loud, shifting to stand. "Do you think you can get, uh, the rest?"

He might just combust if Bakura needs help with the rest– but Ryou hardly has more than a split second to hope he won't, because the moment he's on his feet, a hand whips out and hooks into the front of his jeans to yank him forward.

Ryou stumbles comically, banging a shin on the tub wall, windmilling his arms frantically, but there's nothing he can do against gravity and a slippery floor– and especially not against a Thief King bent on chaos.

He falls forward into the tub with a colossal splash.

When he rears up, sputtering and soaked, Bakura's cackling. "S– Spirit!"

"You look like a drowned rat," said Spirit guffaws, pointing. Ryou just about slips when he tries to push off of the slick wall, half-in and half-out of the bath. And half the water seems to have splashed out. Great. Just great.

He opens his mouth to yell, to protest or admonish or something, but the words die on his tongue. Bakura's grinning at him, genuinely grinning, eyes bright with amusement and the fatigue that'd been hanging over him like a veil seeming to lift for a moment.

It's impossible to stay mad. Or– super mad.

"Laugh it up," Ryou grouses, straightening and flicking sopping hair out of his face. Oh, gods, and the water he just fell into was filthy. He's filthy. The bathroom's soaked. And he still has to wash his sheets.

Bakura takes this all in stride as Ryou lists his grievances, smugly leaning away from his gesticulating and continuing to look like a right bastard. A handsome one, but still a bastard. "–and now I have to take a shower after all this," he finishes, almost moaning with how tired he is and how much he has to do before he can just go to bed. I thought being rid of the Ring would be a nice break.

That last bit makes Bakura cock his head. "A shower? What for?" Ryou levels a flat glare at him. "Yes, yes, I'm the bane of your existence, et cetera. Just get in with me."

Chapter Text

The tub's big enough for two people– probably three if they're Ryou-sized. That said, Bakura might be an inch or so shorter than him, but he's broader by far.

Ryou folds himself down into the tub after replacing the stopper and turning the taps on, tugging at the hem of his boxers self-consciously. He knows, knows Bakura's seen him before– Bakura lived in his body for years, he might honestly be more familiar with his anatomy than even Ryou is. It… it just makes him feel better, alright?

To his credit, Bakura doesn't immediately slide closer or start crowding into Ryou's space once he's sat. In fact, he's got his legs drawn up and arms draped loosely about them, watching him with half-lidded amusement. Ryou catches his eyes and looks away immediately.

Hang on. He glances back, trying to be discreet, and realizes with a small pang that the Thief King is shivering ever-so-slightly. And trying to pretend he isn't.

All at once, Ryou feels a little silly about his own flustered self-consciousness. Bakura may be a dick (to put it lightly), but… he's also completely alone. Vulnerable.

And Ryou's just about the only person he has.

He turns back to the tap to make sure they still have hot water left. "Are you, um. Hungry at all?"

"Mmh."

Ryou's brows knit. He turns back to the Thief King, who's holding himself a little less tightly now that the tub's begun to fill with fresh, warm water, and repeats himself.

Bakura just grunts again. "Not really. Tired," he adds after a pause.

Makes sense. One did not simply go through three thousand years of being possessed by a god, relive their own death, be vanquished alongside that god (or so they'd thought), and then somehow miraculously turn up thousands of miles away, in a Japanese teenager's bedroom, without some jetlag at the very least.

Speaking of which. He should probably call the others– Yugi, for sure, and maybe the Ishtars. Gosh, what time would it be in Egypt right now? …Would Yugi even pick up? He just got back, too, and he's got his own re-embodied ancient Egyptian on his hands.

Somehow, Ryou thinks he's having an easier time adjusting to Atem's physical presence. Call it gay intuition.

When the water's up to his navel, Ryou turns the taps off and shifts his attention back to the present. Right. He needs to wash up. Not his hair, because his hair is long and thick and takes absolutely forever to dry. And besides, he washed it before they left for the airport (in what was now a vain attempt to leave the sand in the desert). To that end, Ryou had piled his locks into a loose bun before getting in the bath.

Bakura takes the scrubbie before he can. "S'only fair," he shrugs when Ryou gives him a confused look. "You washed my back. I'll wash yours."

He hesitates a beat longer than he means to, but Ryou eventually nods and shuffles around to present his back. Bakura moves closer, water sloshing softly against the sides of the tub, steam curling into the air between them, and adds some soap to the puff.

He's… not rough with him. Ryou doesn't know what he was expecting, but this– the firm, subtle shakiness of Bakura dragging the scrubbie against his shoulders– apparently wasn't it. The tremor in his hands is faint, very faint, and if he weren't already very aware of just how tired Bakura is, Ryou might not have even noticed. Still, he soaps up his shoulders and works his way down Ryou's back, the smaller boy obligingly leaning forward.

It's… nice. And the fact that it's nice is strange.

There was a time, starting from after he realized he was being possessed and all the way up until perhaps a year ago, when Ryou had desperately wished to be free of the Ring. His whole life was thrown into chaos by it, like the golden eye of a storm; classmates hospitalized indefinitely, transferring schools over and over as any friends he made inevitably fell into comas… Not to mention the death of his father.

A malevolent spirit driving his body like a stolen car, bent on bloody, divine vengeance, did not a wholesome childhood make.

And no matter how many times he threw the Ring into a river, or left it behind on the train, or flat out sold it or gave it away… it always ended up around his neck again, like a sentient homing collar.

But then, perhaps in spite of his own intentions– his determination to treat Ryou as little more than a flesh-and-blood vessel for his spirit– Bakura had begun to… open up. Not in any dramatic turn or cliche moments of tenderness, of course. In his own terse, prickly way, immediately clamming back up the moment he realized it. But those little glimpses past the gruff exterior… they meant everything to Ryou.

Having spent so long feeling out the edges of Bakura's cruelty, seeking the smallest iota of anything from the one who'd been with him all through his lonely youth (nevermind being the cause of that loneliness), it made him nearly dizzy with joy to have his trust. To be the one Bakura confided in, even if just a little.

"You're quiet," Bakura wrings the scrubbie out against his back, rinsing the bubbles away. Ryou gives a non-committal hum of his own.

"Just… tired."

His movements slow a bit. "Tired?"

"Yeah." He clears his throat, lifts his head to speak a little more clearly. "From the flight and… everything." From you, he doesn't say. He doesn't want to poke at that sore spot just yet. Probably not ever. Bakura used to scold him for being a doormat– Ryou prefers to say he's a pacifist. "It's been a long day."

Bakura puts the puff away and cups his hands to pour warm water down his back. He can just imagine the former spirit giving him a narrow-eyed look, the way he'd look at a lock needing picked or a puzzle he'd not quite worked out yet.

"You're always tired," he says at length, low and gravelly and almost a growl.

Fair enough. Ryou doesn't argue, letting the comment hang in the thick, humid air. When it seems like Bakura's done washing his back, he (reluctantly) straightens up a little and falters as the other boy smooths broad, slick hands across his shoulders, tantalizingly warm.

Ryou's heart skips up into his throat. His first instinct is to flinch away from the contact, to ask what he's doing– but he doesn't. He's tired, and the water's so warm it's making him sleepy, and he just doesn't have the energy to keep up the awkward, stilted pretense between them anymore. Bakura's presence, as confusing and potentially dangerous as it is, is also something Ryou deeply wants, had missed terribly just in the few days between defeating Zorc and returning home.

"Now what?" he murmurs, cheek smushed against his forearm atop his knees. Bakura kneads his warm, warm hands into sore muscles, slippery but firm. He spends a moment or so like that, just easing away the tension, before following the curve of his shoulder blades down. Gradually his touch starts to shift, going from soothing to exploratory, fingers mapping Ryou's ribs. His thumbs press into the ridge of muscle on either side of his spine, making Ryou groan faintly as he digs in and works out a few more snarls.

He should tell him to stop. Bakura's clearly pushing the edges of his meager energy; the fine tremble in his movements can't be disguised, though he's clearly determined to try. More importantly, Ryou doesn't know what this means for them– Bakura being his own entity, separate from him for the first time in all their long, complicated history together. They should… they should talk about it…

"You're thinking too much, yadonushi," Bakura chides, breath hot against his ear. Ryou shivers pleasantly, muscles jumping and then going lax as his hands glide around, following Ryou's narrow waist around to his front. "Let me do the thinking."

He can't help but jest, "Mmm. Then we'll never get anywhere…"

Bakura chuckles, deep and rich and disconcertingly free of malice, and then Ryou finds himself being lifted. Thick arms hook under his own, water sloshing faintly as he's turned around and drawn up against a warm, solid chest.

Some of the thick hazy contentment lifts as Ryou belatedly processes where exactly he's landed: head tucked against two plush, pillowy pectorals, hands brushing along a steel washboard of abs, and two beefy slabs of leg bracketing him in on either side. Solid indeed.

The realization that they're just about flush– from neck to groin– has him abruptly going rigid.

Bakura drags his hands up Ryou's back in firm, languid strokes, as if to smooth away the sudden tension once more. He's wheezing slightly, barely audible, only really drawing Ryou's attention because he's quite literally laying across Bakura's chest. That show of strength was a little less effortless than it seemed.

But the motion of his hands is unhurried, unconcerned, meant to soothe and ground Ryou. And it does. Gods, it does. He feels the stiffness in his limbs start to melt away, dissolving into the water, a pleasurable shudder rippling through him under Bakura's deliberate touch. "Relax," he murmurs. Ryou can feel the vibrations of his gravelly voice through his (ridiculous, chiseled) chest.

He should pull away. He should– they should talk about this, what this is going to mean for them, at the very least. Diffuse this tension before it carries them both away on it like a current. Too late, Ryou thinks distantly. I'm already adrift.

"Look at me," Bakura hums. Not an order, not a demand– a suggestion. A hand being held out. His hands pause on Ryou's shoulders, and though his head feels strangely heavy, Ryou manages to tip his face up, eyes fluttering open obediently.

His breath stutters at what he sees. Bakura meets his gaze with equally half-lidded eyes, softened by weariness and something else– something he doesn't dare look too closely at for fear of it breaking, or being an illusion all along. The Thief King is watching him closely, without any of his sharp calculation or cunning. He feels like he could fall into his eyes.

Wait. That's because he's leaning in closer.

Slowly– slow enough that Ryou could turn away or protest at any moment– Bakura tips his head down, down, until their mouths brush gently, almost tentatively. Ryou feels a spark run straight through him from lips to spine, quickening nerves gone pliant and sleepy, and presses their mouths together a little more firmly.

It's all the affirmation Bakura needs. The hands on his shoulders twitch back into motion, heavy now not with gentle deliberation but with desire; tracing the shape of his shoulder blades greedily, scooping down and using both his hands and thighs to hoist Ryou up his front, hold him steady for a proper snog.

The heat, the slickness of the water between them, the sensational feeling of so much skin-on-skin– it's a potent mix. So much so that the languid heaviness settling into Ryou's bones evaporates almost completely. Even muffled against Bakura's mouth, Ryou's voice echoes off the tiles salaciously, but he doesn't get the chance to be embarrassed because Bakura answers in kind, groaning and wrapping his corded arms around his waist to keep him from slipping as he rocks up.

Holy hell. Nothing in the whole world could have prepared Ryou for the sheer eroticism of feeling another man's cock pressed against him. He squirms a little to get his arms free, smacking a palm against the tub wall behind Bakura. He might have just knocked a soap bottle in with them, but he doesn't care– the moment he gets his hands settled, gets a bit of purchase in the slippery water, Ryou grinds right back down onto Bakura and makes them both gasp.

The world narrows until there's nothing but the slick heat of their bodies, the slosh and splashing of the water as they move, Bakura's tongue gliding against the seam of his lips for entrance. And entrance he gets– Ryou moans into his mouth as their tongues slide together, as he's rocked by Bakura adjusting their position from under him such that they're rutting directly against one another. It's electric, the water muffling and yet amplifying the friction at the same time, sending shocks of heat up Ryou's core until he can hardly breathe. They break off to pant wetly, foreheads pressed together, and Bakura chuckles at the way Ryou's voice breaks on a moan. "Is that… good, yadonushi?"

He doesn't have words for just how good it feels. He was so sluggish, so bone-weary just a moment ago; now he's panting and digging the sides of his feet against the tub, seeking more of that tantalizing friction. Bakura catches his mouth again and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and Ryou quakes against him, locked in place by the arms around his waist like iron bars as he keens and crests.

The Thief King's not far behind– his embrace tightens reflexively and he grinds up into Ryou's clenching, spasming front, pushing himself over into orgasm a few seconds after.

It feels like it goes on forever, or maybe that's just the floaty, weightness sensation of being held half-submerged in a warm bath. Ryou's hands slip down the side of the tub, landing with a wet slap on Bakura's shoulders. They both groan as his feet lose their already tenuous purchase and he slips down a bit, sensitive flesh sliding together in the water, before Bakura 'catches' him and they slump together, a pool of loose limbs and heaving chests and gradually calming heartbeats.

He's slow to regroup; were it not for the fact he'd been drilled since youth to never fall asleep in the bath, Ryou very well may have nodded off.

Bakura seems perfectly content to do so. He grunts thickly as the smaller boy forces his head up. " 'Kura… We gotta get out."

Another grunt. Ryou taps a finger against the spirit's chest and feels a belated, thin shiver of heat at how firm and plush his pectoral muscles are. "Hey. Don't… don't sleep. 'S dangerous."

"I've lived through worse," is the slurred, rumbling retort. But Ryou sees a sliver of purple peeking through the Thief King's surprisingly thick lashes. The water's getting tepid now; he shivers from something other than interest as broad, calloused palms swipe up his back, the contrast of Bakura's natural body heat making him aware just how much cooler the bath has become.

That's enough to get him to move, and Ryou's nose wrinkles as he becomes more and more aware of the… soup they're marinating in. Soap and dirt and probably some sweat… and jizz. Eugh. "Can you manage long enough to rinse off?"

Bakura sighs, put-upon and exaggerated. But there's a wry quirk to his lips, even as clearly and painfully exhausted as he is. "Like I said. I've lived through worse."