Author's Note: This fic is very dark, very violent, and very explicit. Please heed the following list of warnings. If you don't like non-con, Kurasu (i.e. KarasuxKurama), ToguroxKurama, YusukexKurama, sadists, anal, oral, toys, torture, humiliation, rimming, slave, etc. (in short, graphic rape and violence), then don't read this fic. You could always read another one instead. Try Blueutopiah's recommended fanfiction list if you're having trouble finding the good ones. I did lift several of Kurama and Karasu's nicknames from other stories (most noticeably 'sweets' from Silent and Still/Sweet Tooth and 'monster' from Kurasu: To Get Along), so full credit goes to those authors for thinking them up.
The idea of Team Toguro winning the Dark Tournament is certainly not a new one, but it's my favorite of all the possible Karasu plots. Constructive criticism, criticism, flames, and just plain old feedback are very welcome. Thank you!
I'll be putting a new chapter up every week, two weeks or so, on Saturday. Hope you find merit in this fic!
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
The Sick Rose, by William Blake.
"What were you thinking, pet?"
Kurama was resolved. He was a fox, not a dog! Karasu could treat him like an inanimate object to his heart's desire, he would never give in. For Inari's sake, yes! He was not going to roll over and bare his belly to Karasu; he was not going to compromise his position, though it was tenuous, by revealing his emotions on his face; and he was absolutely not going to come willingly from his hole-up in the corner of the room.
Kurama couldn't stop his instinctual growling as Karasu's eyes raked his body, prying at the dignity he'd built up over the last few days. He was ashamed to realize he was falling back into his old spirit-fox warning sounds, as though he were a kit marking his first territory. He was only consoled by the fact that it was virtually impossible to fortify oneself to the point that Karasu's actions had any less impact than they were having. Kurama understood that the sight of Karasu was too unsettling for his current fragile state of mind.
His lower brain kicked in, and he found himself holding a mop he'd picked up on a whim from a room's supply closet between him and Karasu. It was a desperate attempt to hamper Karasu's further movements, and a security measure for Kurama. The panic Karasu inspired interrupted the normally smooth motion of his hands, and he gripped his ad hoc weapon so hard it let out an agonized creak.
"Pet, pet, really now. Put down the weapon. Or keep it, if you wish, though I do warn you..." Karasu trailed off gently, flawless in his threats. The sound of his voice cut through the sanctity of Kurama's mind and burst the dams that had been built in Karasu's absence. Kurama allowed himself to be flooded with rage, suppressing the other, more dominant emotions of fear and humiliation. He was afraid of his shame and ashamed of his fear; it was quite a conundrum, one he solved by careful repression. Rage, though, was identified as a healthy emotion, and Kurama filled himself with it, taking strength from his hatred of the anathema that was Karasu.
"Did something interrupt you? Not still fantasizing about Toguro, I hope," Kurama spat. Karasu's eyes curved up as he smiled graciously at his young captive from beneath his mask. He saw the needlings for what they were, the snarls of a caged and helpless animal that couldn't bring itself to appease its master. It would be allowed to pass, for now. There would be plenty of time later to show the fox the error of his ways.
Kurama realized that his tone was improper for the situation, and likely to bring him pain. He leaned the mop against the wall, firmly overriding his base instincts with his higher brain. A fight would do no good, he reasoned: it would only lead to torture. He felt a soft swathe of hopelessness deaden him as he realized that all roads led to torture.
"Well, dearest Kurama," Karasu began. He took his time, touching the walls and ornaments as he circumvented the bed to get to the alcove Kurama had fortified. "You know I dream only of you; for now, at least. But that is immaterial. Why did you break Sakyo's vase? For caltrops? Those would never work on my feet, lovely. You learn nothing from time. I may have to punish you for this," he said. Subtle intelligence laced every oblique threat, and that, and the ugly, corroding scent of silk and gunpowder, made Kurama's lips twitch in hatred and disgust.
Karasu bent down and pinched one of the caltrops, picking it up and admiring it. He felt a dull ache at the loss of the beauty the china represented. It brought a smile to his lips, and his lust increased exponentially as he imagined his toy as this vase, shattered and broken into something useful. He smiled wider, glad of these thoughts and glad that his new pet was being creative.
"Is this an attempt to keep me out?" Karasu asked, his voice light.
"No," Kurama replied, his voice equally light, "I can't keep you out. Those men of Toguro's, on the other hand, keep grabbing me in the halls and gesturing when I pass. I'm sick of the lewdness, and I have no desire to see any demon's tongue but my own." He chose his words carefully, keeping half their implications under fastidious wraps, but Kurama's fury hadn't died down. His rage betrayed itself in his refusal to turn and give Karasu the benefit of his attention. It was a feeble gesture, and he knew it, but he wouldn't give even an inch of himself over to the rapist.
Karasu's hideous voice came again. "Don't worry, sweets, I'll take care of them. I'm surprised it bothered you so much!" Kurama watched him out of the corner of his eye.
Karasu made his way through the piled furniture and caltrops, neatly sidestepping a hunting trap made of rich, red cords and a long handled brush. The threads were tied together and fastened to a chandelier by means of the bed, which had been stripped of its king-sized mattresses and put on its side. The bed's metal webbing and wooden beams had served as the first of Karasu's obstacles. The curtains, in the interest of privacy, hadn't been taken down, though their decorative rope was ripped from the red and gold velvet and used to make both the traps, and to rig buckets of ammonia to the ceiling. Karasu wondered how he was going to ferret out the maids Kurama had corrupted, then realized that he hadn't bribed anyone, but had merely stolen the requisite items.
Annoyance flared in Karasu's cold chest as his suspicions came to a head. A trap this intricate and obvious had no practical purpose, he thought. His pet was neither childish nor puerile; he would never be this—loud. If Kurama wanted to set traps they would be heavily concealed and ruthlessly efficient. In fact, this simplicity didn't suit Kurama at all. No, if that's true, Karasu thought, then the fox was lying his pretty little teeth out! This was all a way to alert him to Karasu's return and give Kurama time to prepare himself. More than that, it was a memorandum on how unsafe he was, and how much he despised his captor's more amorous attentions. Karasu's eyes narrowed as his thoughts came to a halt. I mean really, destroying the bed?
Karasu turned, almost at Kurama's alcove, and righted the bed frame in one smooth jump. Unperturbed by Kurama's guarded expression, Karasu motioned trace-eyes, created without explosive materials, to undo the traps and take down the ammonia buckets. An extra warning was sent through Kurama's mop. It exploded with a satisfying boom, lighter sounding than gunpowder, and splinters ricocheted in every direction. Karasu, an artisan to the last, orchestrated it perfectly. Not a scratch marred Kurama's beautiful face. Kurama twitched at the minute pains the splinters left, but held his tongue. His eyes took on a hooded look.
"That was an unpleasant display of misery. Don't repeat it. Now, pet, I'll sit here and watch as you put the room back in order. There's a good fox. Don't forget the mattress."
At first, Kurama wanted to resist, but that didn't last long. He saw the barely concealed lust in Karasu's eyes, and began to clean, reluctantly, with stiff dignity and a haughty expression. He made sure to bend from the knees to prevent Karasu from getting a good view of his ass. As he went, Kurama controlled himself from laughing at the vulgar curses he could hear echoing in the back of his mind as Youko flexed his long-dormant vocabulary, enraged that he was doing what Karasu said and not what he himself wanted. Kurama couldn't stop a single chuckle at Youko's admonition of what would happen to Karasu were he ever to meet his old friend Teinosuke, a rock demon. Kurama supposed it was Teinosuke—he was the only demon with an even seven-foot penis he could remember. His laughter died in his chest when he saw the cold fury on Karasu's face. For one second he froze in place, his instincts telling him to stop the predator from seeing him.
Kurama cut himself back, dulled his eyes, and tried to keep an angry scowl from his face. As he finished picking the last of the china caltrops off the floor and righting the furniture (his final wall of defense), he was confused. He didn't know what he should be showing. His Youko side demanded arrogance, that he do the work in a huff with his head held high. His good sense advised neutrality, but was afraid a bland look would give Karasu the impression that he'd won something useful.
In the end, both logic and pride were taken up, and Kurama put on a falsely listless half-expression. It was with this unconsciously wily look that he got the second mattress out from the front of his niche, and with it, made the bed (sans pillows and sheets). He dragged a chair, just as pompous and overstuffed as Karasu's, to the front of his captor's odd perch. Kurama sat down as primly as his human fluidity would allow. He vowed that he would not back down from this fight, no matter how heavily things were weighted in Karasu's favor.
"Dearest fox..." Karasu began.
"I'm not your dearest anything."
"Dearest fox—I think you've disobeyed me. I told you not to get in any trouble."
"Have I gotten into trouble, though? No one seems to think so. You yourself are more amused than anything." Damn you. "If you had left me something to do, I wouldn't have had to spend the week entertaining myself."
"Fox, fox, fox, really now. There are any number of things you might've done. They have quite an extensive library, I'm told," Karasu said, the sneer in his voice unmistakable.
"Yes, well, if I had weapons, or spirit energy, or any other means of protecting myself, I would've spent more time there. As it is, this hole-in-the-wall is crawling with demons, and I seem to be the pearl in their oysters. It's only a matter of time before an upstart with a grudge decides he'll risk your anger for a taste of me."
Kurama didn't add that this hadn't stopped him from arranging one or two things with the help, visiting the library, perfecting various escape plans, or mapping out the defenses of the mansion (in his mind, never on paper). Actually, rearranging the room like this was just a welcome home present (i.e. a thumbed nose) for Karasu. He'd assembled it in an hour after overhearing the gossip that Toguro and the higher-ups would be returning. He rather liked the feeling it gave him, actually, all this planning and counter-planning.
That never stopped him from missing his friends and family. Kurama tried to keep his mind on subterfuge and escape, but occasionally, as he ate, he would smell his mother's fresh inari-zushi or nikuman. When that happened, he could feel himself freezing and breaking apart in rapid succession, like an ice sculpture made imperfectly in a temperate winter; and he couldn't handle himself. Instead of mourning in Karasu's vaulted rooms, he'd hightail it to his new den, a closet at the other end of the mansion. That, in fact, was the original home of the pilfered ammonia, but nowhere near where he chatted up the maids.
Kurama had taken steps to keep this new hiding place from Karasu. He remembered the frenzy the psychotic demon had worked himself into when his original den, a nook under a back staircase, was found after two days' searching. That had been his first mildly successful attempt to rescue himself from Karasu's lascivious attacks. It hadn't ended well. He would never run from the deranged man again unless he had a solid hope of escaping.
Karasu interrupted him from his thoughts.
"Now you're arguing with me. I'm disappointed by your lack of wit, Kurama. Come here."
He would not.
He would not.
Karasu sighed theatrically. "Come here or I'll destroy that little closet you've taken up, pet, and treat you like I did when you tried to escape the first time. Those servants you've subverted may also die, and really, wouldn't that be tragic?" The glint in his eyes belied any guilt he claimed to feel. Kurama acquiesced.
"Good. Now, why are you wearing those clothes? I thought I explained how you were to dress in my presence."
He would not.
"No? Another game, lovely? You'd think you'd get tired of them. They do have such nasty ramifications, after all.
"Very well then. I suppose I'll have to..." His voice lowered to a pleasurable hum. "Take care of it myself."
Karasu rose fluidly and smirked under his mask as he saw the silken head fall well below his eyelevel. His smirk widened as he noticed Kurama's shoulders become taut, the lean muscles rigid with anger. Kurama refused to look into his captor's face and ignored the smooth chest peeking out of the jacket in front of him. Karasu's cruel smile lightened to a commiserating expression as he bent down to look his pet in the eye. He wasn't disturbed by the frosty scowl that marred the beautiful face, or the way those juniper eyes snapped and cursed quietly at his daring. Instead, he took a moment to massage the leather-clad shoulders of Kurama's magnificent form.
He'd already noticed that Kurama had taken to wearing a jerkin of some kind, almost certainly stolen from a demon's room. Underneath the jerkin was a mismatched pair of jeans and comfortable looking house slippers. All together they created a bland, peasantish sort of outfit, plebeian and kind. It didn't match the fire of Kurama's hair or the lightest brush of tan on Kurama's skin in the slightest, which made Karasu more than pleased to grasp the bottom of the loose-fitting jerkin and lift it up, ever so slowly, the pads of his fingers grazing the skin he found beneath.
Inari, Karasu was driving him to monosyllabic sentences. He was turning into Hiei! ...Hiei.
Karasu laughed and continued his slow removal of the shirt, lightly pressing his palms and fingers into Kurama's abdomen. Kurama twitched as he felt those teasing hands slide over his stomach muscles, appreciating them, and then pause on his pecs to ghost over his rosy nipples until they stood to hard points. His gentle hands became rough as they played with them, alternating between harsh tugs and soft, provoking strokes. Karasu breathed in deeply, reaching under the smell of aged leather and at the sweet, spicy herbal aroma of an ancient fox trapped in a youthful body. Karasu wanted to imprison this simulacrum boy in his arms, make him his forever; ignore Kurama's will in favor of his own lust. He was restraining himself with difficulty.
Kurama felt a thrum of involuntary pleasure that cracked his stolid exterior and caused him to panic slightly. He reached out to grab Karasu's hands, trying to force them down and away with only the strength of his will. Karasu pressed his own will into Kurama's instead, tweaking his nipples in a way that would have been playful, if it hadn't been so harsh. He heated the skin of his wrists with a series of minor explosions, intent on making Kurama regret grabbing them. Kurama winced as the uncomfortable heat stabbed his fingers, but didn't stop trying to lower the jerkin.
Karasu broke the silent struggle first. "This could all be avoided if you said please to me, fox."
"I'll never beg you for anything, no matter what. Now stop manipulating me and stop trying to take off my clothes, crow." Fear, which had stripped him of his voice, now carried it back, with a specialized edge of anger.
"Crow? May I remind you that the slave doesn't give nicknames to the master?"
"Slave? Slave implies that I've been broken to halter. I haven't. I'm your captive, nothing more. Now let go of me!"
"Slave, captive, you quibble over details. Now, say please or get off my wrists. Whichever seems more convenient."
"I'll do neither!"
"Then I'll have to take alternative steps," Karasu chuckled, his voice steely under the amusement. He sounded truly delighted by this turn of events.
Karasu rotated his hands and unsheathed his quest class nails, ripping through the leather like parchment to get at the soft arms of his ward. He grasped the available wrists, smiling adroitly as Kurama hissed in pain.
"Now..." Karasu stood to his full height, a head and a half above Kurama's smaller body. He pulled the hands up and away, noticing how Kurama fisted them, and then walked forwards, raising his hands to chest level and teasing the skin of his wrists with fiery nails. "You will apologize, on your knees, begging me for forgiveness. Then, you'll take off your clothes of your own accord and put on the ones I arranged for you. As a sign of my continued goodwill, you will proceed unmolested. Nothing more will be said of this until tonight. If you don't want to do this, I'll tear those charming garments off your back, throw you onto the bed, and rape you until you bleed; potentially with what's left of your sword over there. You'll then spend the rest of the week nude, with increasingly brutal reactions for every article of clothing you put on. As an added assurance, I might even sell you to those associates of Sakyo's. Do you think you'll enjoy that, lovely? Those old men? I've heard that ningen businessmen are especially lurid. Is that true? Do you understand what I'm saying, little fox?"
Kurama had never understood anything more clearly in his life, but Inari above if he was going to back down. His ire had risen past snapping point, and he was not going to trade his pride for an evening spent mildly humiliated and only slightly hurt. It could be because he'd gotten a weeklong break from this depravity, but he would not and could not betray himself to the monster.
"No? Well then."
Karasu's eyes flashed red as he flung down Kurama's hands, flipped him around by his shoulders, and thrust him, stumbling, a short distance before forcing him over the bare mattress. Kurama flailed and kicked, trying to fight his way out from under Karasu's hard body as his mind reeled and coiled with panic. His breath snarled between his teeth and soft growls ripped their way from the back of his throat. Karasu laughed, ignoring the resistance and oblivious to both Kurama's Youko side's longing for attack and his Shuuichi side's longing for help. He pushed Kurama's two hands into one of his own, yanking them into prisoner of war position, behind the head. The other hand re-extended a glowing claw to cut through the thick leather as easily as if it were flimsy silk.
Kurama gasped, snarling in animalistic rage as he was dragged upwards by his wrists, into Karasu's chest. His head shook from one side to another, the muscles in his arms twisting with pain. His hair tangled with Karasu's as he attempted to snap at the hand that held his arms painfully in place. He resisted ferociously, to the point that its futility was pathetic. Still, he struggled with all the pride his kitsune spirit allotted to him. His mind swung and heaved, the panic not abating as images of past torments raced through his mind.
The claw drew a bloody line of fire down his chest, bisecting him neatly in two as it stripped him of his shirt. He hissed and began to shiver as the jerkin, which had seemed so asexual and safe when he first laid eyes on it, was sliced from neck to pelvis. Kurama shuddered clumsily, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl. A close observer would have sworn there was a flash of gold in those juniper eyes.
Karasu let go of the crossed wrists and pressured the back of Kurama's neck, bending him awkwardly over the bed again. Kurama's frantic kicks and stomps, which would have been debilitating if backed with spirit energy, did nothing at all. Kurama tried to push himself up, but was met with limited success as he felt the back of his shirt being pulled by an eager hand. That, however, was not what terrified him.
It was the turgid cock he could feel pressed against his lower back that terrified him. It seemed to burn a hole through Karasu's pants and his own skin, and he imagined the grotesque thing as a weapon to be used against him. The cock, along with the long legs that straddled his own, created friction and fear that he didn't think he could stand.
Karasu pushed harder on his neck, and he shrieked into the featherbed, his fingers arched from gripping the bottom edge of the second mattress. He managed to push it over until it was no longer under him, and he splayed his arms on the first mattress, trying to keep himself from suffocating or being forced to bend at the waist. His eyes and hands were full of fat white indentations of cotton. He thought they were the ugliest thing he'd ever seen, and he reviled them, their maker, and most of all their user. He could hear Karasu chuckling from behind him, obviously enjoying every second of the fight. Kurama started to shiver uncontrollably. His whole body ached with dread and heat.
"Stop! Stop! I'll do as you ask, just stop this!"
Karasu laughed, loud and hard, and forced Kurama's chest to the first mattress, his arms strained to sharp angles. He reached beneath Kurama to grasp roughly at the flaccid shaft in his pants, ripping holes in the denim and arousing a pained groan from his captive. Karasu closed his eyes and shuddered with delight as he felt the flesh beneath him, cupped harshly in his hand. He pressed his pelvis into Kurama's backside, bending down and grinding it as a sign that he was ending this on his own terms. Kurama shivered harder as he felt the insistent need push into his cleft through both their clothes.
Then, while Kurama hissed into the bed, Karasu stood back, willing his now full-blown erection away. There would be time for that later, he reasoned. It was a challenge, though, with that delectable little morsel bent before him, sweaty and disarrayed like a whore. Kurama's shirt was open and his face was red; his delicate mouth succulently gasped in air. It was utterly tempting to Karasu to let go of all control, to forfeit his games of the mind and carnally torture the little kitsune. Epicurean thoughts ran through his head, filling him with sanguine lusts and twisted pleasures. The things he could do to that luscious half-human, half-vulpine boy!
Karasu reminded himself of the necessity of waiting, and merely focused on the lines of blood where his nails had ravaged. He returned to his seat, a little away from the bed, and resumed a brooding expression.
In truth, it was an act. He was wondering how long he would allow Kurama before picking him up and dragging the rest of his clothing off. He knew, however, that it would be a more solid victory to force him to do it all himself. Karasu smiled and neatly arched his eyebrows, thinking about subjugating the little bitch while he protested and fought. It would happen as soon as he put his clothes on: everything would be made more delicious if he was lulled into a false sense of security. Kurama would have shuddered to see Karasu like that, his erection standing tall, tenting his pants, and his face sculpted with licentious emotion.
Kurama, however, had his eyes squeezed shut. He wished he could steal another pair of fine earrings or a tote of rice for the shrine to Inari he had hidden down a secret passage on the fourth floor. It would be by Inari-sama's grace that he would escape this accursed mansion, this disgusting bed, and this depraved man. Now, as he thought of sitting, holding a mop like an infant holding a toy, thinking of how clever he was for finding a way of showing his hatred without showing his hatred, he reviled himself. He had thought his scheming would protect him. He had thought, somehow, that he would have escaped before Karasu's odious return. Instead, his plots had been brushed aside, and now he suffered a return to humiliation that would break down any man's resolve.
Youko spoke vitriolic words from the root of his soul, telling him to get his sweet ass out of such a docile position, apologize, change clothes, and be done with it. He could go to the library and lose himself in books after that. Actually, he still wasn't finished with The Brothers Karamazov. He'd first read his father's copy of Dostoevsky when he was ten, if his memory was accurate - or was it his mother's? He couldn't remember. He wondered whether his mother was still alive.
"Pet. You're avoiding." Karasu adjusted himself in the chair, his eyes filled with the submissive form and the lovely image it made - his toy, half on the bed, ankles splayed, face dead with misery. Yes, certainly delectable. Karasu re-extended a nail and dug it carelessly into the innards of the armchair, wishing it were his slave. Kurama didn't wait for him to become bored of sitting.
Kurama pushed himself up with careful dignity. He drew in a long breath and turned around, his fingers and thumb rubbing together the only sign of how out-of-control he felt. Karasu didn't miss it. Kurama walked over to the beast's fireside chair, keeping his head up and his eyes neutrally welcoming a friend. He tried to pretend that this was a game he was playing with Yuusuke. Yes, this was a consensual S&M game, and he would look up after the apology into laughing brown eyes, not ones of bitter, lustful wine. He kept this fantasy firmly in place as he knelt.
"I apologize. I was wrong. I beg forgiveness." It was amazing that Karasu's face didn't break from the force and depths of cold contained in those eight words.
Karasu chuckled, wrenching Kurama from his unconscious mind and into an open, vulnerable state. "All is forgiven, my little slave. Now put on the marks of your status." Kurama bristled at the insult, but thought better of saying anything. He stalked proudly to the newly righted armoire, glad to be so far away from Karasu.
Kurama took the tunic off as one would a button-down shirt, arms through the middle, while he leaned forwards and wished to various gods that he could change in a separate room. He could feel those rapacious eyes on his back and buttocks, and he tried futilely to ignore the value judgments they placed on his skin. The house slippers were flung to the side, obviously suffering vicariously for Karasu as they bounced from the wall. Kurama didn't care for a second that the fleur-de-lis wallpaper was dented. He partially rushed, wanting this to be over with, and partially tried to maintain a dignified front - and he was painfully aware that the two objectives didn't mesh well.
An unexpected bomb detonated by his neck, tossing his vision into disarray. Kurama jumped and growled, whipping around to face his antagonist. When he saw those wanton eyes linger on his pinkish-brown nipples, erected by the cold, he flushed bright crimson from shame and anger. Kurama glared Karasu down as one would an attacking bear. His lips remained closed.
"That angle is better, pet. Strip from there."
Karasu took off his mask and smiled benignly into the enraged face of his unwilling lover. Kurama made the decision to throw his shoulders back and keep his will steady as he undid the denim fixings. Karasu reached into his own tightening pants and toyed with his cock, gripping it, but blocking it from becoming too hard. He was enjoying the view of the blushing, resistant kitsune, and he enjoyed it all the more as his toy shucked clothes rapidly, his red-feathered sex finally appearing, shuddering and shrinking because of the movement and cold air.
Kurama turned around and walked the last two steps to the wardrobe, his ego deflating as he went. A drawer was opened and violently rummaged through for an outfit that wouldn't rape his self-respect along with his body. The underwear was easy to choose, though Karasu had basically stocked the drawer with sex toys and fetish panties. Kurama quickly settled on a pair of white women's underwear with blue flowers and lacy edges, which was pulled out, and, with a twist of disgust, put on.
The actual outfit was much harder to choose. After a while, though, the decision was made. Kurama found a delicate faux-kimono that was much too modern and a good foot too short, and pulled it out. It was revealed to be deep ebony in color, with delicate brown stems and leaves reminiscent of bamboo entwined skillfully around the front and back. At rare intervals, little gold and white flowers were embroidered carefully along the fabric. It wrapped tightly across Kurama's abdomen and fastened with gold hooks; but, despite its lavish exterior, there was something tawdry and cheap about the kimono. Kurama bit a hook and was almost surprised his teeth didn't sink through gold leaf to a brass interior.
Despite that, it looked stunning on Kurama, accentuating his eyes and skin and clinging to his supple curves; but it was also too light, freezing cold, and very revealing. The neck dipped down and the bottom rode up, and Kurama wished fervently for his warm school uniform: for any pants, in fact. It offended him to be so exposed, and offended him more that the clasps of the kimono fastened on the wrong side, a joke on Karasu's part to signify that he was a walking corpse.
Kurama winced and bowed his head at the chuckle that came from behind him, knowing he'd had an avid audience throughout his performance.
"Fox," Karasu murmured, his velvet voice seeming to caress the skin uncovered by the outfit. "I've gotten you a present I think you'll enjoy." His voice was false and overly bright, as if talking to a child or simpleton. A muscle in the corner of Kurama's mouth worked ceaselessly as he suppressed the need to destroy this dark youkai, to kill him, to rape him with knives, to TWIST that hateful body until there was nothing left. Karasu, still oblivious or uncaring, got up and strode across the room. He reached into a hidden pocket of his black coat and pulled out something that sent Kurama's mind into passionate alarm. Karasu's eyes twinkled with good will, but that only compounded the fear, causing Kurama to whip around and stagger in horror. He backed into the mahogany with a clatter and grasped the armoire's open drawer, knowing, above all else, that he would not submit to being collared like a dog.
Karasu toyed with the black leather as he came to rest in front of Kurama. "You don't... like it?" His eyes belied his amused expression by flashing red. "But pet, it would look so good on you..."
"Keep away from me," Kurama snarled into the handsome face, leaning forwards and keeping a firm grip on the handle of the open drawer. His sharp, edged voice interrupted Karasu's simpering and cracked through the room. For a moment, it was as though Kurama was himself again; vibrant and strong, with a whip in hand, ready to castrate his enemies with a single flick of the wrist.
It was only for a moment. The difference in their powers was still all encompassing, and the wards kept any chance Kurama had of fighting back deep inside. Dark, lascivious power welled up from Karasu as he took a menacing step towards his prey. Kurama lost his head completely at the sight of those shameless eyes and that cruel smile, now out for the world to see. Kurama, frightened, knew that power, knew that look, and knew what the next step in this dance routine would be.
Kurama darted to the side and flung the drawer clothes-first at his attacker, before ducking and running pell-mell towards the door. He listened with mounting terror to the thunk of the drawer being smashed away with a cat's swipe. The fear welled up as it always did: in hot, angry spurts, filling his mind and filling his body. He screamed the agony of a dying animal as he felt arms lock around him, and then choked on the hand that reached up to stifle him. Kurama knew he'd never escape that vice. He kicked and fought anyway, sinking his teeth into flesh and growling between bites, but reduced to shuddering and gasping as he was spun around and thrown to the floor by hard hands. He tried to roll over and crawl away, but only got a short distance before a knee sank into the hollow of his back, pinning him.
Kurama screamed again as a hand fisted in his hair. Without any real warning, the kimono he was wearing was yanked off him by brute force. Kurama gritted his teeth and allowed his forehead to be pressed into the floor as the gold clasps gave, some straightening, and some coming completely free from the decorative silk, hitting the wood with soft pings. He gasped at the cold flesh and the cold floor, then came closer to his senses as the irony of forcing him to put on the clothing only to rip it off a minute later hit him fully. He almost burst into hysterical laughter, but instead calmed himself and mustered his intelligence about him.
"This is just another rape," he thought, focusing on that fact. "You've done this before. He takes pleasure out of your fear. Don't give it to him." Youko's grumbled assurance that revenge would be sweetly extracted at a later date, sounding from a far corner of his mind, helped to a point. Now brought back to himself, Kurama closed his eyes and attempted to control his ragged breathing. He numbed himself to the hands plundering his body, and thought instead of The Makioka Sisters, After the Banquet, and the other books he'd finished in the last week. He pretended to himself that he was giving a lecture to his Literature class on the texts' worth. Kurama, like many rape victims before him, dissociated himself from his perilous surroundings and buried his soul and mind in a land of his own invention. Like, yet unlike many rape victims before him, his dissociation led to disaster.
"And the lotus flower symbolized..." Kurama whispered, his face tight with concentration.
"The what?" The hands stilled. The ravishing fingers paused. The nibbling mouth arose from its place at the juncture of his shoulder.
Karasu flipped him over with a single, violent toss of his arm. Kurama's hand flung up in retaliation, but it was grabbed and slammed back to the floor, more than hard enough to bruise. Kurama found himself staring into sanguinary eyes and flashing ivory teeth. The sable hair and lithe body filtered out the light that filled the room, throwing Kurama's face into partial shadow. It was only the frightened green of his eyes that shined, though his teeth were visible as he unconsciously bit his lip. Karasu leaned down and pillaged the vaguely defined mouth, running his tongue over the teeth and tasting blood as his harsh pressure caused Kurama to chew through his own lips.
"Your mind was wandering." He was practically smoking with temper. "Do I bore you, Kurama?"
"Of course." Kurama regretted the automatic insult as soon as it left his mouth. He trembled as he felt gentle hands grasp his upper arms, and yelped, more in fear than in surprise, as the quest class nails unsheathed and buried themselves in his skin. Kurama could feel the pain throughout his body as the acidic ends cauterized the wounds and burned his flesh. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as the fingers began to move and twist, slicing zig-zag rents into his biceps. When the nails of one hand receded from his arm, he let out another yelp. His newly righted eyes saw his own skin attached to the glistening purple. There was next to no blood; only the tips of the fingers, which had disturbed the cauterization, were dabbed with crimson. Kurama thought that Karasu looked like his fingers were newly dipped in raspberry jam, and wondered at that strange analogy before everything blanked to white.
Karasu grinned lecherously down at the gaping hole his bomb had just blown in Kurama's stomach, feeling his arousal increase in the wake of Kurama's shriek. Intestines gleamed wetly in the subdued light. Karasu wondered what would happen if he fucked this hole instead of the other, more usual one: but he decided against it. He was worried that his actions might kill his pet, or at least make him unusable for a few days. Of course, he planned to kill Kurama when all the strands of pain and suffering came together; but now was far too soon. The kitsune wasn't anywhere near being broken!
It had been a stroke of bad luck that Toguro had stopped him from taking the little fox on their trip. Really, it had all been officiating difficulties that needed thuggish intimidation to sort out. Sakyo was putting his plan into action with the usual amount of circuitousness and aplomb, but Karasu didn't mind. It was just a shame to miss time with the flawless creature that looked up at him now with such a terrified, wavering expression. Another two explosions rent the air, and finally, to Karasu's delight, a tormented scream echoed through the room.
"You've made me angry. Don't you realize that? You've given me no choice but to punish you."
Kurama shuddered at Karasu's psychosis, and shuddered harder as his underwear was torn off, burning him as it went. He glared up into his captor's face, daring him to do his worst, refusing to back down and refusing to blush as fanatic eyes and hands drank in his newly exposed skin.
He couldn't suppress those damnable shudders, though, as his legs were bent and parted to either side of Karasu's hardened form, then lifted bodily into the air. A swift, erotic kiss was placed on his still-flaccid shaft, but Kurama was immune to this as his ass was lowered to the ground again. Karasu was obviously working himself into a frenzy of adoration as two claws pressed against one of his nipples. He hissed in pain as the nub, erected still by the cold, was burnt and cut by the backs of the nails. Karasu grinned and pushed down harder, listening to the sounds spilling from Kurama's mouth as his flesh sizzled.
He controlled himself from slicing the nub clean off, deciding that it might get lost or become impossible to reattach. His other hand picked eagerly at the wounds on Kurama's stomach and thigh, pinching and poking the exposed flesh in an almost gentle fashion as Kurama's nerves caught on fire. Karasu's eyes glittered strangely as he noticed the pool of blood that was forming around the floor, reaching the oriental carpet, several feet away. His face relaxed into a frown, then tightened as he saw that the holes were already healing. Karasu grinned wolfishly to himself at the realization that Sakyo's exclusion of healing abilities from Kurama's warding were as he had said. He took a moment to feel the annoyance of not being able to ask for power equal to Toguro's. Bui had tried to wish for that most wondrous of prizes, but Sakyo blackballed him and Toguro forced him to ask for something else. Karasu couldn't find it in his deranged mind to be overly morose about this turn of events; this prize was just as good, and much more fulfilling in the moment.
Kurama ground his teeth together, trying to stop himself from crying out as he felt his body being tortured. Still, it wasn't until he felt clawed fingers at his opening that he stopped making a high keening sound, such as one normally hears from kicked dogs.
"No!" Kurama sat up suddenly and tried to move himself back, away from the fingers burning his hole. His face curled into a growl as he saw Karasu leer at him and mockingly coat his fingers in half-congealed blood, taunting him with the possibility of lubricant. It was a false assurance; the claws were still out and wickedly sharp, promising him nothing but pain. Karasu took one hand from the nipple it was tormenting and instead used it to grasp an arm, pulling Kurama sideways and back into position.
"What do you think, fox? Ask me nicely and I may shorten the nails. Say nothing, however, and I'll make them... longer." As he said that, the nails stretched farther out, looking as though they would rupture his bowels if they were forced inside. Kurama knew what he had to do.
I... I... Please..." He took a deep breath, focusing on his life, and with it, his hope. "Please make them shorter. Like that... they'll kill me. Please don't." Kurama remembered his boastful assurance about begging only a few short minutes ago, and thought he would die from the shame and hatred that filled his veins and overwhelmed him. He pushed himself back under control as he felt helpless tears of rage well up in the corner of his eyes, and fixed his eyes on the blood, his blood, that formed a deep, rusty pond by his side. He hoped his hair could hide the sheen.
Karasu noticed something glimmering in the green under the thick bangs, and reached out a hand to straighten his face and hold it, so he could review it at his leisure. A sadistic smile widened from one side to the other as Karasu saw how close he was to tears, and how those jade eyes swept closed from shame. A low-pitched laugh found its way out of Karasu's cold throat.
"Why, little fox, you shouldn't stop those tears, it's unhealthy! Let them out, all of them. Show them to me, sweets."
That garnered no reaction, so he leaned in to ravish Kurama's mouth, which grimaced perfectly and jerked with muscles working in anger and anguish. The lips didn't part for him, so, without any more preamble than that, he thrust his fingers all the way up into Kurama. The claws were at a slightly more reasonable length, as Karasu wanted to reinforce the idea of begging for mercy. A strangled cry tore itself from Kurama's maw, but it was muffled. The lips remained sealed. A few lone tears escaped unnoticed, mixing with the sweat that coated his body in an unnatural sheen. Karasu's face degenerated into a snarl as he scissored his fingers viciously, then hooked them, hoping to open the mouth. More strangled sounds came from the orifice; but the jaw was clenched, and the slight dignity that came from denying his mouth to the rapist was more important to Kurama than pain.
Karasu dipped his head to the burnt nipple, biting it ferociously between his teeth as his fingers continued to rape Kurama. He felt his insides being ripped and torn mercilessly, and he pressed his lips together at the explosive agony. There was no pleasure; his prostate was being harmed instead of stimulated. Kurama longed for an end to the pain, feeling all of himself, soul included, as a brutalized husk. He wanted to take this pain with dignity, but he could hear the tormentingly human wails coming from the back of his throat and out, pleasing Karasu and betraying Kurama.
An erotic idea popped into Karasu's head, a new twist to his psychosis, and a smile graced his lips as his eyes moved to the alcove where his toy had spent the day. He removed his hands from the blood-slicked entrance, frowning as he sheathed the nails and began to lick the dirty fingers clean. They were a deep vermillion shade of red, covered completely in blood that dripped down the palm and back of his hand and colored long ribbons onto the wrists. His smile curved again at the bitter taste of Kurama, and the sweet, floral aroma of his life.
Kurama shuddered weakly as he felt the heat and cold of Karasu's body retreat, and then collapsed to the ground. He'd been half-sitting, his legs and hips angled for the painful intrusions Karasu forced on him. His head rocked gently back and forth, and his eyes were pressed so tight that the tears he'd been repressing spilled onto his cheeks. He didn't want to feel anything anymore. He wondered dully what the sociopath would do to him next, what more he would be forced to endure. His mind, so frenetic during the torture, now focused on teasing the power he could feel clasped tightly in his chest. He nudged it to his injuries, trying to replenish blood before he lost more of it at Karasu's hands.
His eyes opened weakly at the sound of approaching footsteps, and he flopped his head to the side, intently focusing on what Karasu had planned for him. Kurama's eyes widened to twice their normal state when they saw the mop handle clasped in those bloodless hands.
"No. No! Get away from me!"
Kurama tried to crawl backwards, away from the sadist and his improvised instrument of torture. He tensed as Karasu disappeared from sight, and then cringed when he reappeared in front of him, faster than Kurama's eyes could follow.
Kurama's quick in-breath turned into a mindless howl as a backhanded slap reopened all his wounds and sent him rolling along the floor, dizzy and sick, smearing blood across the wood. He didn't roll far. A foot slammed into the small of his back, so hard that he thought his ribs must have been shattered, and his spine crushed into uselessness. He twitched his legs blearily and thanked Inari that his backbone was still in working order. His lower ribs, on the other hand, were a siphon of fire inside of him. He could feel their jagged edges cutting into his organs and causing what might become fatal internal bleeding.
He gritted his teeth as he felt a larger body smother his smaller naked one, feeling the Makaian silk heavy against his skin. Kurama reminded himself that he had had worse damage to his stomach than this. He wouldn't die. That fact did not please him.
Karasu grabbed the flaccid cock with one hand as the other, holding his impromptu dildo, angled Kurama's hips and forced him to his knees. Blood streamed down the formerly pristine legs, bruised here and there from being thrown about the room, with gaping holes where Karasu's bombs had struck. Karasu licked at one of the shredded rents, tasting the blood and feeling the texture of the muscles that were now bared to the open air.
The man pressed his tongue to the puckered hole he saw in front of him, tasting more of the blood and intimacy of his captive. It dropped down and curled along Kurama's balls, taking one backwards into his mouth and sucking harshly. Kurama, feeling an increased sensitivity, had begun growling as he felt his tormentor's mouth on him, and the growls grew louder and became interspersed with groans as arousal shot through his thin body. The shady pleasure flooded him, causing his cock to twitch and fill, bit by tormented bit. Kurama nearly cried out from the shame, fighting his physiological reactions with all the force in his body. His fingers dug into the wood flooring, drawing even more blood as he tried to control himself.
Karasu turned and lay beneath him, yet another devilish idea teasing his brain. He pulled Kurama's hips down and licked excitedly at the reddened, blushing shaft that was now situated above his head. His tongue pressured the delicate cock from base to tip, curling along the sides and swirling against flesh. He didn't take it into his mouth, but his tongue pleasured Kurama as the blood coming from above dried and was not replaced.
Karasu's right hand felt the hard, silken skin of his captive's thigh, massaging and cutting and gripping it with hunger. His other hand was splayed on Kurama's stomach, propping him up in the perfect position for Karasu to taste him. Karasu reveled in the drops of precum that fell onto his forehead and soaked into his hair. When he heard soft, confused hums of pleasure overtake the distressed growls completely, he smiled the smile of a predator and slipped out from under Kurama. Soon, he was above him once more, and he pulled Kurama back into a kneeling position.
Kurama felt the dire need to cut away all the places Karasu had touched, and despaired as he realized that there was no square inch of his body, though he had only suffered this for three weeks, that hadn't known Karasu's molestation. He thought of stripping his skin off, all of it, or scouring it away with iron wool. Kurama felt that he might vomit from the crushing abasement, and vindictively hoped that Karasu would force him to suck him off.
"Now, fox, I'm not going to fuck you with this. I'm going to put it in, and then you're going to pleasure me with your mouth as I twist it. Do you think you can handle that, sweets?"
Karasu was obviously mocking him. He saw the green tinge to his face and heard him swallowing frantically; he saw his ass clench at the idea of being violated with splintered wood; and he also saw that Kurama couldn't talk, and guessed jubilantly that he'd begun controlling the urge to vomit. Karasu's eyes shined demonically, his teeth flashing in the dreary light of the room as he spread Kurama's supple legs. They slipped in the liquid that had pooled and spattered over the hardwood floors and went wider than he intended. Karasu slapped the rounded ass in front of him and laughed when Kurama jerked in pain and humiliation.
Kurama felt his body as one constricting column of fire. His arousal burned between his legs, his insides twisted and groaned, and his outer skin was one throbbing mess. The only parts he could feel were the places where Karasu had cut him or burnt him or bruised him. An angry welt was growing on his face where Karasu had struck him, which was unusual. The bastard generally protected his face.
Kurama was falsely sure that he would soon pass out from the collective pain. He groaned, though, knowing that would bring no relief. The demon would simply pause in his play and reawaken him before continuing.
"Should I be cruel?" Karasu wondered aloud. "Should I shove it in? Should I force it in? Hmmmm."
Hearing that, Kurama let out an inordinate howl as he felt the thin, jagged wood poke into his hole. Karasu tried to push it in, but instead of opening, the points just penetrated the skin around his entrance, drawing blood. Karasu frowned, then smirked and wedged his five fingers into the hole (aided by their thinness). He spread it with demonic strength, impossibly far, almost past what the virginity charm would allow. Kurama yelled shrilly as the wood was fitted in. Then the fingers left, and Karasu thrust forward with wanton disregard for his captive's well-being.
The pain was monumental. Kurama couldn't think, he couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he couldn't do anything but feel his bowels rupturing and tearing around the invader. He began to seize and shake, twisting around from side to side as he sobbed so as to rake his whole body. The wood wasn't thick, but it was sharp, and the flayed edges sent splinters into his rectum, each of which burned with the force of a conflagration. His wounded ribs were jarred and shaken by the mop and his throes of agony. The sobs turned to screams, and then back to sobs, filling the air and filling his mind. Kurama's hands clutched at his face and hair, desperately using them to take his mind off the pain that lacerated his body. He was unaware of the man who walked slowly over to stand in front of him. He was unaware of the sick gratification on the man's face. He only became aware of his captor when he desperately reached back to remove the offending wood and was jerked upwards by his hair.
"How does it feel, Kurama? Tell me."
Kurama only huffed and spat at him as a final expression of defiance. Karasu chortled to himself at the spirited showing. The chortles quickly escalated to giggles, then cackles, getting progressively louder and more sanguineous as he reveled in Kurama's pain. In the end, he broke into maniacal peels of glee that filled the room more fully than the desperate screams of his victim ever could.
It was then that the door banged open.
To be continued.
End Note: The next chapter will be just as unreasonably horrible, but may have some humor as well. We'll see. I promise, there's a reason Kurama hasn't managed to escape yet, though I don't promise that he will escape.
There is a little problem with continuity that I'd like to clear up.
What Karasu realizes is that Kurama wouldn't waste what little he has in the way of bribes for what amounts to a dark practical joke; but he knows that it would make sense for Kurama to look for allies amongst the others who dwell in the mansion. He also knows that about the only things Kurama can use to gain helpers is sex or thievery, which is why he was so interested in finding them. Once he realized that no one had touched his fox, he lost all of that interest. They were demoted from the "find, torture, and kill" list to the "convenient blackmail material" list. Don't you just love Karasu's lists? Also, don't think that Kurama was being a Good Samaritan by doing what Karasu said. Think of it like this: if word got out that Karasu was killing anyone who talked to Kurama, how many favors would Kurama be able to dredge up?