Game

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Move on.

Warning(s): semi-explicit lime, present tense and bad writing?

A/N: It feels oddly nostalgic to be posting this - my first fic ever featured this pairing.

I thank Calamus for bet'ing this, in spite of her not knowing the fandom. Any remaining errors/goofs are mine. Concrit is loved.

...

Crash - Kamui lands against the wall with a bone-snapping sound that makes alarm bells ring in his head.

He'll break me. He'll fucking kill me, Kamui thinks, feeling panic rush through his body as he - with trembling legs - tries his best to remain on his feet. But as he attempts not to stagger, blood rushes to his head and Kamui nearly falls - until Fuuma catches him by the wrist, his grip so strong that he knows there will be marks left as a memento once all of this is over.

"Tired, aren't we?" Fuuma's tone sounds pleasant but Kamui knows it's all just a lie: the Fuuma he knew once doesn't exist anymore.

You're nothing but a ghost, a monster who has taken on the form of a person I loved a lot.

Kamui tries not to think of the past as he struggles against Fuuma, struggling to free himself from the grip that's not only forceful, but painful. But it doesn't work: he's too worn out, his body protesting against any more movement.

"Don't you ever tire of this, Fuuma?" Kamui asks, feeling the need to say something because it's the only thing he's got left. He might look like a porcelain doll, but he isn't. Even if he can't defend himself physically at the moment, he can still open his mouth and talk. "For months now, you've done nothing but slam me against walls and molest me."

Fuuma grins and shakes his head, evidently amused at something that shouldn't be funny, but - for some perverse reason - seems to particularly delight him. "What? Is the kitten bored? Perhaps, it's time to play something new."

"I'm not a kitten- don't call me like that or I'll-," Kamui starts, angry at not only at being called a kitten, but also not being taken seriously. But he never gets to finish saying what he wants to address so desperately because Fuuma's hand is on his hip, keeping him even more in place. Fuuma moves closer, close enough for him to feel Fuuma's breath against his cheek.

"Don't worry, Kamui - you'll enjoy this," Fuuma says as he licks Kamui's ear, making him moan involuntarily.

"Fuuma," Kamui says quietly - nearly a whisper - as he fights against the onslaught of emotions rising within him.

Then, Fuuma is tugging at his pants, smiling up at Kamui as he does so; his smile promises nothing savoury and Kamui feels chills running down his spine. "Don't worry, we'll play a game that definitely won't bore you."

Game?

Kamui feels like protesting, but he can't - his throat has gone dry. He can't move, not even when Fuuma wraps his hand around his penis, starting to pump. His movements are hasty - not gentle but also not cruel. And Kamui, in spite of himself, feels himself growing hard.

"What are you doing - " Kamui tries to ask, resolving - once again - not to become an object that one can toss around. But it's too late: Fuuma's mouth is already on his cock, sucking in a way that can only be called merciless.

Kamui should stop him, but he's too weak and confused; horror grabs hold of him as he realises what's going on, what Fuuma is planning to do and how - in his battered state - there's pretty much nothing he can do to stop it.

But that's not the biggest issue here: a part of Kamui doesn't want this to stop.

No, deep down, I want this so bad that I could die.

I hate being this weak, Kamui thinks as he tries his best not to cry out - he'll not give Fuuma that satisfaction yet. But more than being weak, he loathes that he can't hate Fuuma for this, that - in spite of everything - he still desperately wants to save him.

If he hated Fuuma things would have been easier. This would have been easier to deal with.

But his conflicting feelings aren't the worst thing about all of this.

The worst is that this feels good - so good that Kamui can't help but groan as he feels Fuuma's tongue on his tip, licking slowly and tortuously. Breathing quickly, Kamui closes his eyes and forgets everything around him but the maddening need that is building up inside of him.

Kamui doesn't know what this need is; he's known pain, despair and anger, but never this - never this feeling of want. It's growing so large that Kamui feels will consume him, pushing reason away.

So Kamui stops struggling as Fuuma deep-throats him, his mouth hot and wet around his cock: it's fast and violent, making Kamui's head hit the wall several times as he moans out.

Then, the need grows bigger and Kamui can't tell pleasure from pain anymore - he can only focus on the hunger that's expanding and threatening to burst.

...

"Why are you doing this?" Kamui asks, voice hoarse as he tries to recover from the orgasm he just experienced a few moments before. But he's not happy nor does he feel sated. Instead, he only feels sick inside.

Fuuma is no longer smiling, his face nearly sombre as he replies:"To have have your attention, of course. I don't want you to forget me."

Then, Fuuma smiles - not the sardonic smile Kamui's gotten so used to, but the nearly gentle smile he wore in the past. "I want you to think about me - every minute of the day. I want to brand myself into your memory, so deeply that you'll be haunted by me in your dreams."

Kamui laughs - a desperate laugh that nearly brings tears to his eyes. "You've already achieved all of that."

You've got me tied down.

...