blackwidow: (Default)
Add MemoryShare This Entry
posted by [personal profile] blackwidow at 05:17pm on 27/03/2010 under , , , , , , , ,
Title: Hair
Warnings: Shameless PWP, non-con, bloodplay, necrophilia, character death.
Pairing: Karasu/Kurama
Fandom: YYH
Rating: R
Summary: Karasu corners Kurama in the shower.
Notes: For the lovely [profile] sekahyyh. This fits nowhere in the YYH timeline at all, it’s in its own little time-space pocket.




Red-nailed fingers closed around the tap and water began to flow. It was cold on his skin, but he was already chilled to the bone from the other man standing so damnably close to him, trapping him.

When the water began to turn hot; he felt like he could fracture and crack under the pressure. He wanted to lash out, a cornered animal’s desperation, but he wouldn’t let Karasu see that.

“No,” he said.

Kurama narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was cornered—cornered, caged, trapped; how horrible those words seemed to him now, though in the past he had adored trapping his kills like this too. Kurama pushed himself further away, his back hitting the cold tile wall, wet hair pressed to his neck and clinging to his face. His nightmare only took a step closer, one hand reaching out to trace the rivets of his hair that slid down his neck to his collarbone, violet eyes empty and yet somehow amused. Like blood, Kurama’s hair looked so much live rivets of blood falling from his crown—and oh, how Karasu so loved blood coming from his pretty boys. Pity he didn’t take better care of that hair.

He placed his other hand on the wall beside Kurama’s shoulder.

Now Kurama was boxed in.

Already stripped bare before Karasu from their tussle in the bedroom, Kurama turned his head away from Karasu’s leering eyes and stared at the frosted glass beside him. Naked and bare before Karasu in the truest sense of the word, the scent of his fear rose with the moisture in the air, brushed along the walls like the steam off the hot water that pelted against Karasu’s back.

Karasu pressed up against him, naked against him, flesh to flesh. Karasu’s cock, dripping with something other than water, pressed against Kurama’s stomach. Kurama could have dealt with Karasu merely killing him or taunting him but this he could not deal with because it was there. It was real and pressed against him. Karasu inclined his head, curled in on him until his lips brushed along Kurama’s ear. “I’m just going to wash your hair Kurama, perhaps you need to be thought properly, is all.”

His words felt like iron pikes of solid dread being driven through Kurama’s chest, because the lilt to his words was husky and giddy and though Karasu said one thing, his body said the complete opposite. The cock pressed against his stomach twitched, and Kurama pressed himself against the wall, glaring at frosted glass and the blurred pale shape of Karasu’s arm.

True to his words, Kurama felt himself being pulled away from the coldness of the wall and towards the heat of the water. Then he was saturated. His head was tugged back—jerked, unkind and with a heated desire to bare his throat, just like Karasu had bared the rest of him—long fingers wound through his stingy crimson hair as he closed his eyes to keep the water from them just as much as he also wanted to block Karasu from his vision.

Kurama felt the sudden spark of youki about him, Karasu's bombs hovering in warning. Should he move, there would be more than just suds and grime from today's battles circling around the drain. He clenched his fists by his thighs and felt the sizzle against the skin of his left forearm. He couldn’t even shake, couldn’t sneer and jerk his head out of Karasu’s touch.

Karasu’s fingers ran through his hair, lathering it with shampoo. His lips were against Kurama’s cheek and Kurama could feel every small movement and quirk of his lips and mouth as he licked the water off Kurama’s skin, laughed silently at the sound Kurama made in the back of his throat in disgust.

"This stubborn silence is...annoying, Kurama." The lips travelled, grazed his cheekbone and then down again, to his jaw, blocking the warmth of the water that caressed his body in a way far gentler than Karasu could ever manage or be inclined to.

A hand slid between his legs and Kurama gasped—in fury, in surprise, in indignity—and Karasu silenced it all with his lips. They were cold despite the scalding hot water.

He jerked his head back, brought his hands up to press at Karasu’s shoulders, push him away in a sudden moment of blind panic—and screamed at the sudden heat and pain on the inside of his left wrist and right elbow. Green firelights all around them, like sparks flying from a raging fire, flickered in and out of existence as blood splattered along Karasu’s ivory skin and that damn frosted glass.

Suds had long since been washed from his hair and all that was left now was a stringy mess that Karasu fisted his hand in as he forced him against the wall again, a cry leapt from Kurama’s throat before he could stop it. Karasu only tightened his hand on Kurama’s cock until it hurt.

“You crave it,” Karasu purred, dark and foreboding. His body nearly hummed with excitement, buzzing along his nerves and blood rushing quickly through his veins like a skittering flock of startled birds. “You crave pain,” he said, hoarse and triumphant. “You want someone to crush you. It’s a base instinct, it’s what you are—game—you little masochist whore. You want finality, the very verge of the Earth in the hands that seek to take life from you—not to play with you and pull back when you say so, to keep going, to kill you, slaughter you, murder you.”

Kurama pressed his head back into the tiles and cried out, gave whimpers of pain and another startled, sharp yelp when Karasu squeezed tighter and twisted. “Stop! Stop, gods, stop—” Like a chant, flowing right past Karasu’s ears and their meaning absorbing no more than the tracks of blood that ran down the tiles in splintering rivers.

Kurama only realised how terrible his automatic choice of words had been when Karasu lessened the grip on his cock, and instead began to stroke him, his lips trailing along his skin, past his jaw down under to the tendon of his neck that burrowed under his skull behind his ear. He jerked, lifting his hands from the wall to press at Karasu’s shoulders again, to push him away--only Karasu anticipated the movement and slammed his hands back against the wall again, his lips on his neck curving into a slight smile.

That, at least forced him to remove his hands from his cock, but then Karasu moved close, pressing against him, locking Kurama between the now-heated wall and Karasu’s heated flesh. Their height difference was his saving grace, but Karasu only made a small sound and forced a knee between Kurama’s thighs, pressed his own thigh against Kurama’s cock as he ground into his hip.

“Does it get you hot? Refusing to acknowledge your desires? I would hazard you allowed this and more before you died the first time, hm?” Karasu taunted, long fingers curling around Kurama’s wrists and brining his hands up above his head so he could lick the blood from one wrist as it gushed from burnt and singed flesh, red and looking more like it had been flayed and irritated rather than blown up by internal little cherry bombs.

Karasu parted his lips. His tongue slid out, licked along the singed flesh, tasting; coal, blood, human and kitsune. He moaned and rocked his hips against Kurama, who gave a pained little moan—threaded through with confusion and desperation. Karasu shuddered, rocked again.

He tightened his hold on Kurama’s wrists, pulled him up into the air by them, pulling a started and pained yowl from the kitsune. When Kurama was eye level with him, Karasu pressed himself against him again, pressing him into the wall, and darted forward for a kiss. Forcing Kurama’s mouth open, he ground bone against bone in Kurama’s wrists until the boy panicked and tried to bite Karasu’s tongue.

Karasu’s hands only tightened, and the bones in his wrists cracked like brittle wood.

He moaned in pain, mouth yielding to Karasu, and Karasu took advantage of the slight lax in Kurama’s defence. He pulled back to bite at his lips, teeth catching the pretty flesh between them, tongue tasting human flesh and kitsune blood.

“Wrap your legs around me, Kurama.”

Kurama mewled, made a small, angry sound of protest.

“Now, Kurama.”

Again, the same sound, more adamant.

Growling, Karasu released Kurama’s arms and, holding the boy against the wall with his own body—chest to chest with young nubile skin and bones, oh how good he’d feel—hooked his fingers beneath his knees and lifted them back, manipulated them until they were wrapped around him. “They stay here,” he cautioned, let him feel the tingling heat of the bombs just beneath his skin, pinpricks of green light hovering an inch or so bellow his skin ready to blow his legs apart if he moved them too far.

The legs tightened around his waist, and Karasu purred, tracing his lips along Kurama’s cheek and then neck, feeling his reluctantly hard cock against his stomach. So small, this body, yet pretty and delectable beyond Karasu wildest dreams. Kurama was a rare catch.

Wraith-like hands slid up from Kurama’s knees to his thighs, sharp nails leaving trails of white behind that soon beaded red and then pink as the water washed the sweet smelling blood away. Kurama made a panicked sound and pushed against Karasu again, clawed at his cheeks and neck, but Karasu only sighed and let him scrape useless blunt human nails along his eyelids.

He was sure Kurama enjoyed the fight, the struggle, only to be overpowered anyway, and so Karasu let him have that ability.

He ducked his head, latched onto the long neck, when his fingers got annoying, began to press at pressure points in a moment of clarity through the haze of panic. He gripped at Kurama’s ass with one, long fingered hand and pressed against his entrance with two sharp nails of his other hand. Gnawing at the tendon captured in his mouth, he sucked hard and licked along the fragile human skin as capillaries burst and blood rushed up to grace his tongue.

Kurama gave a beautiful little cry of denial and fear, hands stilling at Karasu’s temples, fisting in his damp and stringy hair. “Just kill me and get it over will you sick fuck,” Kurama breathed, voice wavering like a leaf in the wind. Karasu could hear the tears in his voice and practically taste the fear and adrenaline in his blood. The heart that beat against his chest, a frantic and overly human pitter-patter like a procession of linked bombs, exploding in line.

Eventually there would be a cut off point when that line of beats would be cut short, and the pounding would cease. Karasu shuddered.

He released Kurama’s throat, gave one last long lick along the bruise he’d left, then pulled his head back to watch Kurama through blank eyes. “Making you come is parallel to death. If I make the journey half way with you, then the intimacy will be greater, don’t you think?” he asked levelly, blinking slowly in amusement as he watched comprehension dawn.

“No!” Kurama yelled, his voice rebounding off the tile walls and invading Karasu’s memory almost immediately. There was a cacophony of all the other ‘no’s he’d heard in the past in a resounding cry. Karasu only smirked, ignored the renewed efforts of Kurama’s struggles, pulling at his hair, scratching with his weak nails against skin that was too tough for him to break through.

Eyes falling half-lidded, Karasu forced two fingers into Kurama, slammed his head against the wall with his other hand around the boys neck. He could still breathe, but it was a struggle for him, and Kurama spent a moment trying to decide whether the hand at his throat or the fingers inside, cutting him up, were more important.

Blood seeped down Karasu’s fingers to his wrist, dripped from pale skin, at first. Then he began to move his fingers inside, searching, teasing and feeling, and the drip quickened to a constant drizzle, the blood pooling in his palm before tracing along his heart line and spilling down to the water spinning at their feet. He found what he’d been looking for, and his lips lifted into a sneer as he pressed, watching Kurama’s reaction.

The boy jolted, his eyes flying wide, and Karasu could feel his cock twitch against his stomach as his own gave a replying jump. A startled and mortified sound escape his throat, hoarse and reluctant , and Karasu gave an answering hum of sadistic pleasure, his eyes falling half-closed, a giddy feeling crawling up in his chest cavity and throat until he had to release it in the form of a delighted chuckle.

"S-stop!" Kurama begged and let out a pained yowl.

"It doesn't bring you pleasure, Kurama?"

"No! Stop."

"No. You're too tempting. Your mouth says no but everything else about you says 'yes'. Yes, take me, rape me, destroy me. And, You know what, Kurama?"

Kurama could do little more than whimper as Karasu shoved his fingers in as deep as they could go, curling them, tearing at fragile flesh to press against the gland that shot hot fire through Kurama's veins, and made his cock twitch reluctantly, despite the pain. Another reluctant moan of distressed pleasure.

Karasu leaned forward, dragged his lips against Kurama's flushed cheek, licked at stray tangles of red hair, until he eventually reached his ear. He nipped at an earlobe as he pulled his fingers from him, let the blood that had pooled in his palm coat his cock as he positioned himself.

"You know, Kurama, you're still hard. What then, does that make you?" he snarled, pulling Kurama down onto his cock and tipping his head back into the spray of the water with a moan. He drank in the loud, echoing sound of Kurama's howl of pain, the pleasure given to him from Kurama's tightness, the friction, his own satisfied sadism.

Nails clawed at his throat, his eyes again, and Karasu shifted his free hand to slam Kurama against the wall, his fingers curling around his neck like they had been made to fit, thumb and fingertip almost touching. "You were made for me," Karasu breathed, eyes widening a little.

"Made for me to kill." Kurama's mouth worked, but no sound came. His hands clawed at Karasu's wrist now, even as his body jolted and his head was rocked back against the wall with each of Karasu's thrusts, his hair sticking to the wet tiles, neck and face. "My pretty red fox," he sighed reverently, tipping his head forward again, his mouth falling open as the pleasure mounted, and he felt the blood inside Kurama flow past his cock down to his balls and pale thighs.

The legs around his waist tightened as Kurama began to thrash, making tiny little gasping sounds. His ass tightened around Karasu, and he moaned, rested his forehead against Kurama's chin, tightening his hand just that more until he felt the inner workings of his neck shift, vertebrae separating just that smallest bit and windpipe grinding, muscles shredding .

Kurama's youki flickered, straining as he tried to fight against Karasu. The blood that ran down his forehead and curved around the sockets of his eyes, however, fell from the symbol cut into the skin of his forehead. The symbol was the most effective ward Karasu had ever had the misfortune of experiencing himself, and so, he delighted in using it against Kurama.

He moaned, parting his lips against Kurama’s jaw and licking the blood-tinged water from Kurama’s skin, shuddered as invisible claws raked along his nerves along his insides and clenched in his balls. So pretty Kurama was, with his eyes rolled back until all Karasu could see was the whites of his eyes and drool sliding from the corner of his lips, mingling with the water that belted Karasu’s neck and back.

He bit at the flesh of Kurama’s cheek as he came, a long drawn out moan escaping him as he continued to move, and still Kurama continued to convulse around his cock in his death throes. He closed his eyes, let his head fall against Kurama’s shoulder, ignored the deep blond hair that slid from his shoulders to rest against Kurama’s chest and arm.

He felt the exact moment Kurama went limp, listened to his heart stutter and then finally fall still. Kurama slipped through his fingers and he was left with the remnant of his once fiery fox.

Delirious in his post-coitus bliss, Karasu collapsed, keeping the boy in his arms, staying inside him, even as the muscles around him loosened and the blood and his own come flowed freely from him. Kurama slumped backwards, his legs around Karasu’s waist slipping, stilling only when the tendons and bones couldn’t stretch any further.

Karasu released his neck, and watched Kurama’s head flop backwards at an odd angle, his hair skimming along the tiled flooring of the shower recess, the spray of the water leaving pebbles of water on his parted lips and what was visible of his teeth and lax tongue.

He wrapped his arms around him, pulled him close and cradled Kurama’s head to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he tried to drink in his soul and the presence that he knew had to be hovering nearby, utterly devastated over Karasu’s victory and his own weakness. Karasu tipped his head back again, arched his spine as he sighed into the water, gripping clumps of sodden crimson hair in fists and smiling.

Again came that giddy sensation, mixing with the lethargy of his orgasm and recent kill. The urge to laugh in joy was overwhelming, and, eventually, he couldn’t help himself.

He laughed until his ears rang and his lungs screamed in protest.

“Made for me, just for me. Mine to take and kill,” Karasu sighed, his words threaded through with laughter as his wide manic eyes took in the sight of his fingers sliding through red strands of hair, the water running down his cheeks somehow salty as his eyes ached and filled with secretions that he knew signalled high emotion and nothing more.

He took Kurama’s head in his hands and pulled his head up, amused in the way his head seemed to want to go a different way that his body, the two no longer connected by bone and spinal cord.

Green eyes stared, not having been covered with the white film of death just yet, and Karasu pried open Kurama’s eyelids to lick along his eyeball all the way up over his eyebrow to his forehead. He buried his face in the beautiful, uncared-for hair and shifted to lean against the shower wall, cradling Kurama’s corpse in his arms and kissing, smelling, laughing periodically, waiting for the brutal ache within to ease, the sadness he knew more by name than by personal experience.

And so this was loss, was it? Never being able to hear Kurama’s terrified screams or pleas again, but to console him in the fact that Kurama had enjoyed it up until his last breath.

Karasu licked his lips and ran his hands over Kurama’s corpse, smiling.
Mood:: 'cynical' cynical
There are no comments on this entry. (Reply.)



10 11 12