Pairing: Intentshipping (Mokuba x Yami Bakura); I would like to specifically note here that Mokuba is aged up a bit here, around 17 or so (the same age as the other characters at the beginning of the series).

Premise/Headcanon: Bakura isn't quite the villain he used to be. Literally. With Zorc defeated and the Pharaoh in the afterlife, the hollowed-out soul of TKB is given a second chance to do... something. He's not completely restored, not completely unchanged by his ordeal but he's there nonetheless. TL;DR: Bakura has a separate body from Ryou, and a culmination of memories from his time as TKB, shorter time being used by Zorc, and while fuzzy some recollection from the period of time Yami Bakura possessed Ryou.

Mokuba and Bakura are doing a thing; only the gods know what to call it, though.

Summary: [OOC, post-canon, Lemony] Mokuba needed to learn to keep his mouth shut and stop grasping for threads. Some of those things are sensitive, and if he tugged on the wrong one he would have to be punished for it.

Continuity: Some weird in between place, but it leans more towards the manga.

Notes: This is the missing lemon scene from "Cat-and-Mouse", the Intentshipping fanfic published right before this one. It would have stretched out the last chapter more than I wanted, so I'm just adding it as a sort-of standalone thing.

Warnings: M/M stuff, PWP, rough sex, hate sex, verbal humiliation.

He didn't like it when Mokuba was quiet. It meant that there was thinking happening, and the kid was dangerous when he started that. Bakura didn't need anyone else prying into him and putting pieces together; didn't need anyone knowing him. Ryou was more than enough, and he could barely tolerate that. The last couple days was proof of it. Dark eyes looked him up and down, and he knew it was too late. He couldn't tell what it was that Mokuba had figured out, but that same bright gaze from the other day made it clear that some question or other was lurking there.

Too bad, Bakura thought. He hadn't been in the mood for a heart-to-heart when Mokuba was a crying heap on the couch, and he wasn't just then.

Suddenly, the patience he'd rekindled was back down to zero, and he quipped, "Why are you still here?"

Mokuba moved forward – well, more like crawled - and Bakura resisted the urge to recoil as a hand gingerly rested on his leg.

It wasn't there for long, though, because Mokuba kept on until he was fully in Bakura's lap, straddling hips, and that was ...confusing. If that was all he wanted, why not just ask? The waiting and silence was weird and unwanted and when Bakura was fucking Mokuba's brains out he didn't want to have to worry about what questions or ideas lurked in it.

"Do I have your attention?" Mokuba asked. The voice was too calm, steady, ready; Bakura knew he could have screamed in response and it would've meant nothing.

So he wouldn't give Mokuba the satisfaction. "Never. I dunno what you think–"

He was cut off by a kiss, a peck, contact that was too short to be avoided or for him to respond to. What the hell was going on with this kid?

"I want you to hate me," Mokuba said.

Yes, that definitely had his attention. The prepared 'fuck off' died on his tongue and for once Bakura wasn't sure what to say. Too smart, he thought fleetingly, but not quite; it was more of a feeling – foreboding, spreading through his chest.

"Fuck off," he said, anyway.

"Hate me." This time when Mokuba leaned close Bakura braced.

But the lips alighted on his neck instead; teeth bit down until he hissed and skin was red and ready to be broken. He wasn't able to stop the tingle of a shiver across his body.

"Fuck." He pushed Mokuba back and away. "What the fuck?"

There was frumpy black hair all over the kid's face and it made him look absolutely livid. Definitely undeterred. "Do you want to talk or do you want to have sex?"

Neither. Both? Bakura didn't know what to do with – where had it even all come from? He hadn't asked for it. And hating and fucking weren't always the same thing. But the look on Mokuba's face gave him pause. This was a game, somehow. He could tell when he was being fucked with, though not literally, and this was definitely a trap of some sort.

"You are going to pay for that," Bakura spat, because if he started thinking he'd get lost in all of the layers; they would actually end up talking and he wouldn't get laid at all.

He was done with talking, so they fucked instead.

Mokuba got what he wanted. The frustrations of the week littered his body in scars.

Bakura was as careful as he could remember to be - which was not very. But he didn't need a tall jerk in a taller coat on Ryou's doorstep, asking questions, so nothing above the neck. That became another wound, in fact: just the possibility of it; having to be careful at all, to think about others instead of doing whatever he pleased.

Why did it have to be a Kaiba? He punished the kid with his fingers first, rough and unforgiving and leaving more to be desired. There was little fighting back, only fingers slipping and gripping to try to force him forward - inside - but Bakura brushed them away. Mokuba needed to suffer just for being who he was, for being the person underneath him instead of someone else. For being there. Of all the strays to end up with, it had to be this one.

'Hate me,' he had said, and Bakura did.

Hated that he could find pleasure in soft, supple skin; hated that he liked the contrast of inky black hair on white sheets; that, even when they weren't fucking each other silly he secretly admired Mokuba's tenacity. The two of them were constantly playing a game of chess - racing to mend the cracks where they seeped through, to keep their most intimate selves concealed while looking at the other's. Who could see the most, observe the most, manipulate the most and pretend they hadn't seen anything?

He hated that it was this body that was fucking Mokuba into the mattress. Hated this pasty, white, pretty sack of shit that looked more like Ryou than anything else, and that the kid knew it. Bakura hated himself but he liked Mokuba, and made sure the latter paid for both - for it all.

The kid was bleeding when he was through, skin covered in bites and bruises and deep, broken scratches and still begged for it. Still humped desperately against pale fingers as though that were all that would be given. He didn't know whether he was turned on or off by it. As a thief he'd always been drawn to things that were more valuable than they looked. It was why Ryou had been perfect for him.

Mokuba, too.

The only other person to unravel him from the inside was Ryou, and the thought of someone else grasping even a piece of his innermost thread was terrifying. But that was the nature of the game they played and how else would he know for sure that he was alive? The stakes had to be high or it was all worth nothing. Seeing and touching was unreliable because he'd spent thousands of years doing just that, touching his own fucking memories and that amounted to jack shit.

Bakura didn't like feeling fear, though, so that was another transgression - another wound on the kid's body, this time in the shape of his cock. Each stroke was like a stab. He held himself back for a second too long before making each one; made Mokuba wait and suffer the way he always had. But the body below consumed him greedily, took what it would get, thrust up for more and he had to push it back down.

"You're a fucking piece of shit," he said to Mokuba, and to himself. "A fucking pathetic waste of space."

Dark eyes brimmed with tears, but those pretty lips moaned and Mokuba arched to meet him again and Bakura couldn't take it. He pulled out and turned the kid over, fingers digging into tangled black locs, scraping hard against the scalp. Then he re-entered and pushed deep. Mokuba keened beneath him, hands clutching hard at the sheets, rutted against them when he wasn't moving fast enough.

He liked it better this way. Bakura wouldn't have been able to resist the urge to spit in that face, mar it with his hate until it was unrecognizable and thus could only be his. Red smeared below them and it sounded like Mokuba was sobbing. It was music to his ears. He loved it, and hated that he did; added claw marks to that back for his trouble before pausing to catch his breath.

The crying turned into something else: "Come on." Bakura could hear the thick emotion in it, knew that if he twisted that head back there would be streaks down to the jaw, and he shuddered.

Hips pressed back on his again, so the nails from both hands dragged and fought skin until Bakura was holding them, ribbons of red left in their wake. They both felt the next thrust because it jarred the whole bed, made them both shake. Then suddenly Mokuba was mewling and tightening and shivering, painting the sheets below them white on red on white.

Bakura didn't come this time - decided not to, not like this; grit his teeth and pulled out before the point of no return, because he wasn't playing the game right. The point was for them to give a little more of themselves each time, and pretend that they weren't; be surprised and offended when one of them was caught prying. But Bakura was really giving and he needed to stop before he let slip something important.

Mokuba looked back at him, wiped away tears from wet eyes. "We can keep going." The sigh that followed was a sound filled with mixed feelings, and Bakura didn't even try to parse them.

Either way that promise couldn't be trusted and Bakura didn't want to, so he didn't answer. Somehow, this... whatever this was between them, had spiraled out of his control and now he wasn't sure that he could take it back; didn't know if he could win the game. He never played games he couldn't win. Bakura rubbed out the rest of his orgasm on his own, some darker part of him satisfied when he came all over Mokuba's back and made sure there was as much of a mess on the back as the front.

"I don't hate you," he pushed out past clenched teeth, because he did.

Mokuba slept for almost two hours after that, while Bakura cleaned himself up and put a bit of distance between them. He wanted to convince himself that he hadn't enjoyed it, that he would have liked it better if the kid bent and broke in his hands. Breaking his toys was a sign of ownership - people knew they were his if they were in pieces, because no one else could have done it. But Mokuba hadn't broken like he'd thought and that led to ideas he didn't want to consider; paths he didn't want open. The kid would just be back for handouts like always, anyway.

At least when Mokuba left, he was wincing, and Bakura supposed that would have to be good enough.

{FIN}

Hmm. I'm not sure if I'm developing a headcanon or not with these two, but it was definitely good practice writing some semblance of Bakura, trying to find his voice and junk. If you have thoughts or anything, feel free to drop me a comment or review! Thanks for reading.