Fic
The body under his writhed and twisted, strong muscles flexing with every movement his captive made. Red blood beaded at the wound upon the samurai’s forehead, trickled down the side of his cheeks and down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Kamui dipped his head down to press his cheek against the warm skin - almost like a lover - and flicked out his tongue to taste the thick liquid. It was almost sinfully sweet, the way everything about this man was - sinful and sweet, almost boiling with life and vigour. He closed his eyes in thrilled anticipation, picturing rivers of that sweet blood in those blue veins, pulsing under the fair skin.
This was the first time he had ever felt such lust. The desire welled up from the very core of his being, the product culminated as the final result of a long, satisfying battle. His captive had certainly fought hard and well, as was expected from the human who had defeated the ruler of the Yato. Perhaps, Kamui even allowed, perhaps if his opponent were not human and he were not a Yato in his prime, the samurai might have had some chance of success. Perhaps, he thought with some amusement, leaning his head against his defeated opponent’s chest, savouring the strong, steady heartbeat under that weak, fragile, human flesh. Man was a strange creature, he thought. So weak, yet strong enough to sustain the fury of the sun. No wonder Kagura found humans so fascinating.
Especially this one. His sister had good taste; of course she had, as one of their family. He bit down, his teeth tearing all too easily through the thin layer of flesh. Blood flooded his mouth as he sucked hungrily, and he could almost feel the life draining out of the samurai’s body into his own. Almost.
He knew that if he looked up, he would find his captive staring at him - trapped, broken, mouth gagged, helpless as a moth with its wings torn away, but as yet undefeated.
As yet. Kamui thought. He planned to take his pleasure slowly, taste this human fully before destroying him.
Red eyes, bold and defiant, silently dared him to.
The act of destruction is beautiful, Kamui thought, more so than destruction itself. The white cotton fabric, already in tatters from the battle, tore easily with the slightest tug from his fingers. He paused for a moment, admiring the contrast of the fitting black shirt against pale skin - he wondered again if the samurai should have been born a Yato - before peeling it away. The act was like that of tearing apart a cocoon to reveal the struggling moth within. The pale skin wasn’t smooth - far from it - the surface was marred with numerous scars, criss-crossing the fair expanse in an intricate pattern. The few places as yet unmarked were rough from years of toiling under the sun. Kamui found it intriguing that the sun failed to mark this human in colour but succeeded in every other sense.
This human belonged to the night, he realised. This was a creature who was able to scream defiance in the light of the day, but whose true element was darkness. Only the night can make him truly shine, Kamui thought, appreciating this minor but crucial point about this creature.
He pressed his hands - how small they looked against the muscled chest - down resolutely. There was a sharp intake of breath from the body beneath him - no more than that, and barely noticeable under the gag. He brought his fingers away to study the red prints left against the skin. This human did not mark easily, he noted clinically and with pleasure. Already the red prints were fading under his gaze. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, his mind repeated in a mantra. He loved beauty, craved beauty and strength as much as he craved violence and bloodshed, and this human delivered everything he desired.
The Yato did not crave sex as an act for itself. That was where Houzen, the depraved old fool, met his downfall. That was how the once proud ruler came to be brought down by a mere human. The Yato craved sex as a tribute to violence, as a crowning glory marking the final victory over a worthy opponent. The humans called the way they coupled animalistic, and perhaps they were, by human definitions, Kamui did not know or care what humans thought of the Yato, but this human, this man, this samurai, made him lust for sex in a way he lusted for battle. Perhaps he desired both, everything, anything from this man, and his mind was confusing the two.
The tight black pants tore with a resounding snap. The human probably knew what he intended to do by now, judging from the wild, enraged, furious look in those dark red eyes. He liked it very much that there was not the slightest hint of fear, despite the fact that this man lay under him, limbs already broken beforehand when Kamui had managed to finally quell him. He had taken a long, satisfying time in doing that - snap, snap, snap, starting with the feet, then with each finger, then the wrists. Even then this man still managed to fight, pushing up against him in an attempt to dislodge him even as soft, controlled gasps of pain escaped through the gag despite the samurai’s best efforts. It was almost miraculous for a human to remain conscious throughout it all, with not a flicker of the pain the human body experienced in those eyes.
The human’s flaccid sex rested perfectly in his hand when Kamui lightly took hold of it to study it. It hung heavily from the curly tuft of rough pubic hair, an organ that, Kamui decided critically, should be ugly and gruesome like the animal it is, but the samurai’s was well-shaped - long but not thick. He wondered what it would look like when the human was caught in the throes of passion, that weak, fleshly organ pumped full of blood and ready to release the human’s seed. He stroked it gently; the samurai’s breathing hitched just a little, and the cock remained limp in his hand. Kamui wondered how much longer the human could still fight.
He let go of his captive’s cock and reached up to cup the human’s face in his hands. The samurai stared back resolutely, silver hair matted with dry blood, a trail of red, still fresh, still flowing, streaking the side of one cheek. Red eyes, red blood, red against silver, red in the faint moonlight, red, Kamui thought, was a beautiful colour.
He bit down viciously into the flesh at the side of the samurai’s neck; the skin tore easily, and he tasted it at the tip of his tongue - the sharp, delicious taste of pain. He was almost tempted to pull away the gag, just so he could hear more beyond the very occasional soft gasps, but the amusement from seeing the human frustrated and thwarted with almost all use of his body torn away from him was too much to forego. And he could feel that anger, feel it in how the samurai drove his body up, despite the fact that it made Kamui’s teeth dig even deeper into the tender flesh as he raked his mouth down the samurai’s body. It was a pity, he thought, that such a strong demon be trapped in such a frail fleshly body.
The sight of the samurai - splayed out before him, bleeding and broken, his body made into a canvas for an abstract work of art, blood trails twisting their sick way down the hapless body - made Kamui’s own blood boil.
He leaned forward and hoisted the human’s legs over his shoulders. They hung helplessly on either side - broken appendages that were worse than useless now. The hard leather of the samurai’s boots scraped against his skin through the fabric of his tangfu, but it was nothing more than an annoyance, and he couldn’t be bothered with pulling off the boots from those hanging limbs.
He slid his fingers down under the human’s balls, right down to the crack in between the globes of the human’s ass. He twisted a single finger in - too tight, he thought, for him to fuck without any preparation, but he didn’t believe in preparation. Animals did not, he thought with a twist of his mouth.
A muffled moan came from above him when he shoved three fingers up the samurai’s ass, twisting and scissoring and spreading the hole as wide as he could. The human writhed all the while, a foolish manoeuvre, if anything, for it did nothing but aid Kamui in spreading open that tight hole and in intensifying the pain the samurai surely must have felt, despite the stubborn lack of expression.
His fingernails scraped up against the sides of the tight hole - he heard another satisfying gasp as he pulled out his fingers, slick and warm with fresh blood.
He did not bother with decencies - just the unzipping of his own pants was sufficient - and he leaned forward, his own cock, thick and erect, unlike the samurai’s, sliding across the back of the samurai’s thighs before he positioned himself at the samurai’s hole.
He dragged the samurai’s hips towards him, allowed his cock to rubbed against the abused anus, slicking the pre-come over the slit of his cock over the hole, before swiftly entering his captive in one, hard thrust.
It was tight - too tight for comfort, and not like any of the Yato women he had taken. His captive clenched up under him; and then he saw it, that delicate sheen of pain that glazed those red, unrelenting eyes. He gave the human no room for reprieve; even if he had wanted to, he could not have, for the taste of victory at finally having coaxed out the expression of pain, of some kind of defeat, from his captive had fuelled his desire to conquer this creature, the exact way a Yato did when he picked a female for mating.
The Yato were a dying race; the females very often did not survive childbirth, so violent were the children when they fought their way out of their mother’s womb. Those who did were all too likely to perish in one of the endless battles the Yato engaged in. As a result, the race had evolved into a strange fusion of an animalistic, passionless creature - a being that felt the desire for violence more strongly than any sexual longing, yet was able to be as wild as the most primitive beast when it came to mating. It was, after all, imperative that the female be impregnated for the race to carry on.
This was most probably what he felt now - as a young specimen of a violent race - as he drove mercilessly into the broken body, savouring the scent and taste of agony as the samurai twisted under him. The human’s movements were no longer an act of defiance, but of survival, as his captive tried any means available to relieve the pain of being taken with such force that might tear apart the frail human body.
Too late, Kamui realised, that the samurai might not survive this joining. There were incidences where even a Yato female did not. A faint tinge of regret accompanied that realisation, although he did not slow down his thrusts, rocking in and out of the human body as if the samurai were nothing but a broken doll for his use.
The samurai’s hole was slick and hot with human blood - almost like a woman - he thought. The blood might have crusted if given the opportunity, but there would never be one, Kamui thought, almost pitying the human, as he plunged into the tight ring of flesh. He let his eyes drift down from those red eyes - so beautiful in their pain and hatred - to where his cock split his captive body’s open. His own organ was coated with red - he certainly did not know that humans had so much to bleed. When he lifted down those helpless legs from his shoulders, pulled the broken body up and onto him so that the samurai was fully seated on his erection, the blood trickled down the sides of those fair thighs, leaving a bloodied trail of gore that finally slowly seeped through the fabric of Kamui’s own pants.
He took the samurai’s own limp cock in his hands and began to stroke it roughly in tandem with his own thrusts. The samurai winced slightly, his arms tightening against Kamui’s neck, as he shifted helplessly in Kamui’s lap, where Kamui single-handedly lifted and dropped him in rhythm with the thrusts of his hips.
He was only human, after all, Kamui thought, as the limp flesh swelled and filled up with his strokes and thrusts. It was amazing how this particular one reacted to the combination of sexual stimulation and pain -it seemed that his unyielding self-control had slipped, so that he could not control his reactions, and pleasure was a sensation that he was more defenceless against than pain.
Kamui smiled. This was a man who had experienced more of pain than pleasure.
The hole around his cock tightened; from the quickening of the samurai’s pulse and the heated puffs of breath against his neck, Kamui knew that the samurai was close. He did not begrudge the human this short moment of relief, coaxing out the samurai’s release with long tugs and pulls until the human’s body sagged against his, shuddering like a leaf in harsh winds while Kamui pushed down the body onto the ground and continued his thrusts.
His own climax was a rough, practical affair, a series of rapidly speeding-up thrusts that threatened to shatter the body he was callously using. The samurai shuddered as he released himself in the bloodied hole, and Kamui couldn’t help himself from grinning with unsuppressed pleasant surprise when he found the red eyes still wide open.
“I like you, nii-san,” he said softly. The samurai twitched slightly at the confession. Kamui doubted it was a welcome one, under the circumstances, but that was because the human was too ignorant and foolish to realise the gift he was getting.
Such strong hatred in those eyes. He chuckled when the samurai’s body stiffened in response to the renewed hardening of his cock within it.
Suddenly, on an impulse, he reached out and pulled away the gag before he realised his own actions.
“Really,” the voice was rasping, weak from pain, but the underlying caustic note was unmistakable.
This time it was Kamui who jerked in surprise when the arms still loosely hanging around his neck tightened slightly. He bowed his head out of curiosity, and was rewarded with the feel of a warm mouth against his lips, and an insistent tongue that pressed into his mouth and tangled itself with his own tongue.
Blood welled up in his mouth. His own blood, he realised too late, when the sharp sting of pain finally made itself known though the hazed disbelief that this human was voluntarily kissing him.
“I’ll kill you,” his captive said quietly. There was no heat in the words, just a firm resolution that struck the words into the very core of Kamui’s being.
“I’ll wait, samurai-san,” he answered with a smile as he wiped the blood off the sides of his mouth.
The samurai spread his legs - almost like the whores he had seen in Yoshiwara did - to accommodate his thrusts. Defiance no longer was an objective, for only with survival was there any chance of revenge, and his samurai wanted revenge. Burned for it.
He left nii-san alive, lying broken against the dark tiles, come and blood seeping out of his torn, gaping hole, naked but for the few tatters hanging on his bloodied frame and the leather boots on his feet. The samurai would have to survive the shame of being found in the morning - but that would not be a problem, not for his samurai, whose desire to live overrode any other feeble human concept such as honour.
“See you around, nii-san.”
Gintoki, his mind said reverently. Gintoki.
***
Sparked from days of MSN conversations with Gwen, because we are all so unoriginal in our fantasies.
