Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/942051.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      幽☆遊☆白書_|_YuYu_Hakusho:_Ghost_Files
  Relationship:
      Karasu/Kurama
  Character:
      Karasu_(YuYu_Hakusho), Kurama_|_Minamino_Shuuichi, Toguro-otouto_|
      Younger_Toguro, Toguro-ani_|_Elder_Toguro, Bui_(YuYu_Hakusho)
  Additional Tags:
      Everybody's_a_psychopath, Especially_Kurama, Serial_Killer_Kurama,
      Castration, you_read_that_right, Gore, Guro
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-25 Chapters: 3/? Words: 6208
****** Locks ******
by Sekah
Summary
     When the new prisoners were brought in, one stood out far more than
     the rest. His name was Kurama, a boy with a dark past and a darker
     future. With the threats of his new cellmate, Karasu, there's only so
     much a young serial killer can do.
Notes
     This is an AU, based very loosely on the American correctional system
     as opposed to the Japanese one. This is coming out of my own head, so
     forgive all the inaccuracies and misconceptions. Thank you!
***** A Nest of Enemies *****
The raucous clangs and shrieks blurred together into a wave of noise, a wrinkle
folding into the smooth peaks of Kurama's forehead. He examined the walls of
his cell, spoiled milk and egg whites, and leaned forward to feel their broad
planes, finding them rough to the touch, and devoid of sharp corners he could
use to smash a scull against or slice open his own wrist. Sitting primly on the
cot, blanket in hand, he contemplated what a shame that was. His fingers
strayed from the coarse fabric to search for and find the screws of the metal
bunk, feeling them shaved down and corner-less. Again, he thought caustically,
no luck.
The other prisoners' voices faded in and out like a radio being tuned, only the
most important details coming through. "The Gentleman? That little kid?" one
asked.
"Sixteen and already in a high security prison. He must be feeling lonely." The
lust couldn't be moved by Kurama's indifference. He could hear cloth scrape,
and realized with a flicker of disgust that the speaker was massaging himself
through his pants. The voice rose to a shout. "Are you feeling lonely, boy?
Daddy will take care of you."
Kurama blinked, annoyed, and thought calmly of killing him: of tying him down
with the bed sheets and twisting his balls until he'd castrated him with his
bare hands, and then letting him live in this prison for months afterwards
before he finally ended it.
Others were shouting too, now, crowding outside this little purgatory, beaten
back by a nameless guard and his baton. The skin above Kurama's lips tightened
into a sneer, goading the rabble into a frenzy, making them righteous, and
soon, though Kurama had never moved, the lone guard that stood between him and
the mob forming outside his door was whistling, and more officers came bounding
through the corridor and down the stairs to the first level of cement and steel
apartments.
Kurama knew how much they wanted him. It would be dangerous here, that was
already clear, but his will had been tested to its furthest limits long before
he came to this prison. He trusted himself, and his own desire to survive. He
was untouchable by trash like this.
===============================================================================
"You're lucky, pretty fish."
"Am I?" Kurama asked disdainfully, his attention on the food in front of him.
The sleazy conman slid a leg over the plastic bench and sat himself down next
to him without any provocation. Men had died for less, but Kurama needed
information more than he needed to deal with this irritation promptly.
"You are. Karasu's in lockdown right now, so you have your little cell all to
yourself. It won't remain so comfy for long, unfortunately." The prisoner
didn't bother adding sincerity to his voice. His gloating was starting to
distract Kurama from the unappetizing mound of beef and overcooked vegetables
that sat stewed together on his plate.
"Karasu?" The disdain, which lightened emerald eyes to a soft aquamarine, was
morphing, turned to something much more sinister and complete; but the thug
wrote it off easily in favor of sadism and lust. Greasy fingers slid along the
plastic edge of the table, and then dipped underneath it, resting tauntingly
near the slim curve of a hip.
"You didn't know?" the man crowed, delighted. "He has a taste for fine young
things like yourself—and they're hard to come by, around here." The man's hand
moved from a jaunty position by his waist, spread on the uncomfortable plastic
lattice of the bench, to the hard length of Kurama's thigh, worming its way
between tight muscles to caress the front of his stanchion-orange pants. He
turned his head to the side and smiled a skewed smile into the blank glass
eyes, feeling it flicker when Kurama looked straight ahead, his face inhumanly
impassive. He was about to say more, leaning in and pressing down coyly with
his fingers, when suddenly he was overtaken by an odd sensation.
He was falling back, hard, landing on his head with an audible crack and
letting out a cut, wet shriek that turned heads all over the dining area
towards them, curious necks craning. The conman looked up, far up, into
expressionless eyes, and felt the strain of Kurama's foot against his neck.
"If I were to apply pressure," Kurama said conversationally, "I could snap your
neck at this angle. You might survive it, and be paralyzed for life—you might
not." He smiled and leaned down, putting just a bit more weight on his foot,
long burgundy locks framing a sweet schoolboy face that jarred with the
prisoner's clothes. "Do you think I should?" he asked gently.
The man gibbered, his hands jerking, trying to collect himself well enough to
defend his suddenly feeble life through the fog surrounding him. Kurama smiled,
and lifted his foot, intending to bring it down with a correct application of
force, when a large set of hands hooked under his arms and lifted him up and
off, setting him down gently about a foot away. Kurama hissed, eyes wide and
flashing, and his graceful hand, which had been silently concealing a plastic
fork, flipped the utensil around and attempted to slam it into the restraining
arm.
The pain he had expected his opponent to feel was met with silence, and the
plastic prongs bent, as though he were slamming them into a stone, and not a
man. He looked down at a forearm built of pure muscle, and blinked, regaining
his cool easily.
"Is there something wrong here, Toguro?" a guard asked, striding anxiously over
to the site of the disturbance.
"Roto fell back on his head. You might want to take him to the infirmary,
officer," a voice rumbled from behind Kurama, making the massive chest he was
being held against vibrate pleasantly. Kurama watched as the order was barked
into the radio by the C.O.'s chin, and marveled at the deference the guard was
showing this man, coupled by the reverence he saw in the silent mass of other
prisoners as he glanced covertly around him.
"That was foolish, boy."
Kurama blinked at the rough lips and stolid chin that scraped against his
sensitive ear, refusing to shudder as hot, heavy breath eased against him and
sent shivers crawling down his body. "It was necessary," he replied.
"It was reactionary and stupid. When Karasu comes, I advise you not to be so
obvious—things will go very hard for you if you do."
"Who is this Karasu? And who are you?"
"Karasu is a nightmare for a boy like you. I'm no one important. Still,
remember this—if you need to quit this world, come to me. I won't be adverse to
helping you."
Cryptic, Kurama thought, and finally looked up at the towering man who stood
behind him, finding a pair of small, beetle-black eyes far above himself, set
into an angular body of pure, unadulterated muscle. "That won't be necessary,"
he said, and turned back to watch the stretcher carry the conman Roto away. He
swung his legs over the bench, and sat down to his food without another word,
using the fork he had tried to spear Toguro with to eat after only a moment of
hesitation, the soggy green beans tearing apart in his mouth.
Toguro chuckled, and when Kurama next turned to look at him, he was far down
the room, walking between cons that bent in homage as he passed, like Moses
parting the Red Sea.
===============================================================================
His cell, he discovered in the inordinate amount of time he was expected to
spend there, was too simple to provide much entertainment, which made the book
cart and the library a necessity. Both of those, however, had been picked
clean, and it didn't take him long to start requesting other books, from
Tolstoy's Anna Karenina to Stendhal's The Red and the Black. Within a few days
of coming, he had thwarted so many slights and rape attempts he had earned the
official title Dangerous. Betting pools were taken up over who would be the
first to have him and how they would manage it, so many desiring to initiate
Kurama into the world of a prison. The bloodlust was reaching a frenzy before
two weeks were out, the sight of him walking blankly down the hallways, pretty
as sin, nearly causing the tumultuous level of a riot.
Kurama was unfazed.
===============================================================================
The guards were looking the other way. That was what tipped Kurama off—they
should have had their eyes on the prisoners, but to a man they were watching
the walls. He braced himself, his hand slipping into his pocket, and seconds
later a salty palm smothered his mouth and he was being dragged out of line,
into a supply closet that opened and then shut behind him, cutting off light.
It was dim in there, the high barred windows giving everything a twilight glow,
and Kurama's eyes burned in the darkness, his skin glistening with sweat.
A big inmate strolled covertly out from behind the rows of metal shelving,
stocked almost exclusively with tomato paste. Large scars crisscrossed his body
and fat, slobbering lips smirked as he grunted, "I get first taste." Kurama
sneered, hissing as one of the men holding him dug his fingers into his arms
and shook him sharply. Kurama's head snapped back, but he didn't stop sneering.
"Aw Bakken!" another man, solid and blond, moaned, as a third laughed. Their
eyes appraised their selection, gazes resting on Kurama's skin, slick as motor
oil. Kurama said nothing, his lips tight and his eyes wide with hate.
"I get first taste," the man repeated, and grunted, walking forward and undoing
his pants, reaching inside with no warning to pull out his half-hard cock,
already turning an ugly purple as it stiffened. They forced Kurama to his
knees—he let them. "You bite, I beat. Capiche?"
Kurama frowned hatefully, and then suddenly smiled. His lips open and his eyes
looking deviously up, he darted out his tongue and curled it wetly around the
head of the cock, not reacting to the horrible musky smell. The two men
restraining him dropped his arms in shock.
"Holy shit!"
"Look at that slut!"
Bakken groaned hideously, letting out pathetic, keening whines that made the
skin around Kurama's nose tighten. He was so caught up in pleasure that he
didn't see Kurama's hands drift up until it was too late, and it took him a few
seconds to register the change.
"Ah—ah, ow—goddamn—what're you doing? Oh my god, what the fuck are
you doing?"he shrieked, and began to scream like a girl, his voice getting
higher and higher pitched as he tried to draw back.
As best he could, Kurama sank his teeth into the head of Bakken's penis with no
compunctions, hot blood beginning to spray into his mouth, and continued
methodically sawing his balls off with the knife he had stolen from another
inmate not an hour ago. Meaty hands went down to drag at Kurama's hair, and
Kurama opened his jaw and let them pull him back, his other hand grabbing
Bakken's manhood and twisting, Bakken doubled over and shouting in pain, too
far gone to knee him.
Kurama spat the blood from his mouth. "The damage I've done can still be
reversed. If you don't let me walk out of here now, I'll keep going until this
stallion is gelded."
"You're fucking crazy," the big blond one whispered, the supply room ringing
with Bakken's inarticulate cries of agony. Kurama smiled.
"Maybe. Am I free to go?" The two others hurried to get out of his way, and
Kurama led Bakken out by his dick. Bakken took a few steps under Kurama's
duress, and then collapsed on top of him, passing out from the pain. In an
instant Kurama had rolled him to the side and onto the ground, his now flaccid
dick red, fleshy carnage.
Still threatening it, he motioned for the men to get further out of the way.
They did, watching him with horror, hardened cons and rapists who none-the-less
quailed at the sight of something they could not understand—a sixteen year old
boy who had just castrated a man without blinking, his hands coated in crimson
and his eyes holding an absence that chilled them to the bone. The blond one
shook—the other one gaped. Neither of them turned when the door opened,
transfixed by the gory sight before them.
"What the hell is going on in here?" the guard in the doorway asked, his eyes
drawn to the bleeding, moaning mess on the floor.
"A thwarted rape attempt," Kurama said softly. "He pulled a knife on me."
The guard was barely listening, yelling high-pitched into the radio by his
neck, calling for a stretcher. Kurama tossed the knife to the side, listening
to it clatter, and looked into the two conmen's faces, one at a time.
They stuck to his story like clockwork, told the whole tale as if Kurama were
the defenseless hero, and before an hour was out the guards were utterly
convinced that Bakken was the one who had pulled a knife. The other prisoners
were much more careful after that, and the attempted assault rates dropped
exponentially. Kurama was no longer just Dangerous—he was fucking insane.
That was how things stood the day Karasu got out.
***** First *****
There was a line to be toed. When Karasu finished killing his victims, he
always had to be sure that he didn't earn himself too much time in solitary, a
dispensation to be sent to another jail, or get himself put on death row. Most
of the time he sweet-talked the guards or made sure someone else was implicated
in the killing, but there were still the occasional slip-ups. This month in
solitary had been one of those slip-ups. When he came walking out, a beard
growing on his face and his violet eyes crazy, he was immediately waylaid by
another Makaian and told of the danger of his new cellmate. Having been regaled
with stories, he could see for himself that the majority of the block quaked in
their boots nowadays at the mere mention of this boy's name. He came to a
decision quickly.
Dangerous and clever—with no girlish fear of cutting off a rapist's balls, and
a face that even the owner of the most piss-soaked pants on the lot called
gorgeous—that sounded like Karasu's dream boy, though he didn't say it.
Instead, he took a detour before returning to his cell to the head guard of
this section of the prison, a greasy little weasel called Tarukane who
conspired for the warden's spot, and who had, Karasu knew, a taste for viewing
young meat. Once that was settled, he went to find Toguro. The Makaians had to
be assuaged, and he needed a few things before he went back—a shave, for one.
—
Kurama was reading a book when they came. He stood up, demanding to know why
they were searching his cell, and was gingerly guided out by one of the guards,
who quailed under his vicious stare. Karasu had murmured to Tarukane the best,
cleverest hiding spots in the cell, and with Karasu's oblique guidance it
didn't take them long to find the four different knives Kurama'd put aside for
a rainy day, one on his own body.
These were removed, but Kurama was left in the cell. That piqued his interest.
No sooner had the guards left, having effectively disarmed him, than Kurama
heard slow footsteps on the concrete outside his cell.
Kurama's first impression of him was that he was tall. Towering, in fact, only
stopping short of Toguro by a few inches. The second thing he noticed, besides
his curtain of sable hair that was knotted into a lax ponytail behind his back,
were his eyes. Kurama knew what an expression free from inhibitions looked
like—he saw it every time he looked in the mirror—and this man's face,
handsome, narrow and peaked, made Kurama think of the evil stare of a crow,
flat and dull with cruelty. There was no restraint in his gaze, no mercy, just
a violet pit of remorselessness and malice that put Kurama on instant guard. It
didn't help Kurama's trepidation that the man's eyes disrobed Kurama as he
moved, starting at the feet and then dragging slowly up.
Kurama assessed him carefully, already sure he had a clear idea of who this man
was, and began to make plans on how best to neutralize the danger. Karasu
strode into the cell, an economy of movement giving him a graceful anima that
Kurama quietly admired. Karasu paused, hands slipping into his pumpkin-colored
pockets, and leaned against the wall, smiling at Kurama. He betrayed no emotion
when the claxon started howling, announcing the start of a cellblock lock down.
Kurama tensed, but didn't react any more strongly than that. Guards strolled
by, tapping railings with their batons, and when one of them passed by Karasu's
cell, he turned a key and, with an automatic hiss, the metal bars of the door
slammed shut and locked. No human effort could open them now.
Kurama glared, but Karasu still leaned against the off-white concrete wall, his
arms loose and that same sadistic smile pulling at his face. "Foxes," Karasu
declared suddenly, his voice smooth, "are strange creatures." Kurama said
nothing, eyes never leaving Karasu's face. "They're very clever, and incredibly
resourceful—I've hunted them before, and they'll use any means they can to
protect themselves. They're cunning, and quick—it's no wonder they were sport
for old-time aristos."
"Are we really going to sit and chat about ecology?" Kurama sniffed daintily,
eyes half-lidded but still watching Karasu, his mind screaming at him that
danger was approaching, and approaching fast.
Karasu began to move, sauntering around Kurama's seat on the cot, staying out
of reach of a punch, but not a kick. Kurama filed that away for future use.
"The trick with foxes is to outsmart them, and then overpower them. This is
usually easy to do. Especially—"
Kurama saw the sudden movement and kicked, but his leg was batted easily to the
side, grabbed and used to drag him off the bed, his ass connecting with the
concrete hard enough to bruise, the sheets coming with him. Kurama tried to
bite at Karasu's ankles, flailing, but Karasu kicked him hard enough to daze
him and start a flow of coppery blood down his chin. Utilizing Kurama's
bewildered senses, Karasu grabbed the thin industrial sheets and hefted the boy
himself around the middle, slamming the jackknifing body against the bars of
their cell and ignoring the bleary struggles as Kurama began to swim out of the
haze.
In moments he'd tied one of Kurama's wrists with the sheet, mercilessly tight,
and fed the other end through the bars. Kurama finally came back to himself,
spitting the blood from his mouth and through the bars, some of it dribbling
onto the white cotton cloth and staining it red. He was surprised at how
similar his own blood tasted to that of everyone else's. Kurama began to thrash
wildly as Karasu used his body weight to keep him in place, a firm hold with
his teeth on his neck taking away Kurama's ability to head butt him and his
knees forcing Kurama's legs into the bars, negating most of his kicks and
attempted stomps. The edge of the sheet was pulled back in, several bars down
from where it had been put out, and soon Kurama's arms were canted painfully
and tied together.
"Sh, little girl, this will be over soon. Shhh—" At Kurama's snarl and thrash,
Karasu drew back Kurama's head and slammed it into the bars, making Kurama's
eyes cross. "Sh sh sh, my little punk."
Kurama jerked, but made no sound as his pants were lowered, Karasu ignoring
Kurama's flaccid cock completely and freeing his own dripping length almost as
an afterthought. The violence excited him, the thrill of the blood and the
helpless rage spearing him with lust. He spread Kurama's flexible legs and
hooked them well off the ground, until they were positioned almost past what
Kurama could hold. With a show of strength on Karasu's part, they were past
what Kurama could hold, and kept in place with vicious pressure.
Realizing his attacker's meticulousness, realizing that he was helpless, Kurama
relaxed himself with the help of years of practice and thought of revenge. He
knew that Karasu had left his mouth unbound for a reason—and he knew he was
taunting him. Kurama could stop this brutality in its tracks by making a big
enough fuss and screaming for a guard, but that option was impossible.
He had to kill Karasu. If they were cellmates, Karasu would go to sleep
eventually, and even if Kurama were tied up, Karasu would not find himself
safe. He could go through the official methods of stopping the abuse Karasu
fully intended to become his new reality, but that would take bureaucracy,
time, and a loss of respect. Kurama was not an idiot—he knew what a loss of
respect would entail in prison.
"You're used to this, aren't you?" Kurama controlled his muscles, Karasu's
words making an ugly look creep onto his pretty face. "Distracting
yourself—repressing—unhealthy, unhealthy." Karasu cackled, voice patronizing.
"You're going to be amusing. Now, look outside. You see there, across from us?"
Karasu's hand fixed onto Kurama's cock, meanwhile. Kurama realized that Karasu
had hooked the leg his right hand had been holding up over the cross-section of
the bars, forcing his hips into a clumsy position. There was no way to free
himself or move his lower body without Karasu noticing. Reluctant to disobey
and earn more pain, he glanced over the wide concrete floor, and his body
stiffened, blood running cold with anger.
Every prisoner who could see them was staring, with grins plastered on their
faces Kurama knew from his years as a stripper and a whore. Right across from
him, a muscled bastard with tattoos coiling around his body was upright in his
cot, his head speculatively askew as he tugged his dick, carefully lined up
with Kurama's exposed ass. Kurama shivered in suppressed rage as Karasu's hand
left Kurama's cock, traitorously hard and needy as Karasu forced Kurama's hips
to tilt, revealing Kurama's clenched hole to the perverts across from them.
Kurama watched the voyeur hitch in a breath and pull harder, and the
humiliation and aggressive fury were almost enough to make him scream.
Kurama bared his teeth instead. "You will not find this fox so easy to corner!"
Karasu smiled, and Kurama cursed his miscalculation. He could not lull him into
a false sense of security if he was constantly reminding him of how dangerous
he was. Kurama tried to loll his head back, pretending he was doing it out of
pain, only to have it slammed into the bars once more.
"Trying to bite me, little fox?" Karasu hissed, and then worked Kurama's
sensitive earlobe harshly between his canines in response to Kurama's
frustrated groan. Swimming back to consciousness, Kurama was sick with shame
when he realized that a long, elegant finger was toying with his entrance,
running over the puckered muscle and teasing it cruelly, then drifting up to
caress his balls, fingers parted so Kurama couldn't thrust his hips and slam
the molesting hand into bars. The feeling of having someone a step ahead at all
times was driving Kurama wild with hate, and it was impeding his attempts to
come up with a way to stop, hurt, maim, endure, anything but play into Karasu's
hand.
The voyeur across from them focused in his mind, the other peeping toms' faces
just fading away. He tried to stop the slavering man with his glare, thinking
that even that would be some small victory to cling to in this shameful defeat,
but Karasu noticed, and took that moment to pierce him with his fingers. It
couldn't help but draw a reaction from him, and when his eyes re-opened, it was
to see the voyeur's eyes rolling and white spilling out from beneath his
fingers. Kurama thrashed once as Karasu once again took advantage of his
distraction and slammed him down, barely prepared and unlubricated, onto
Karasu's cock.
His breath stuttered and stopped as Karasu moaned in his ear, tearing at his
hair, his clothes, completely neglecting Kurama's cock in favor of his own
lust. Kurama was glad of that, glad that the scream that wanted to come out had
been shocked into staying within—he couldn't have stood it if he'd screamed.
Kurama's mind drifted across memories of men he'd killed, so many of them,
reaching into the unplumbed depths of his imagination for things to do to this
beast. Karasu would pay. Kurama knew with unwavering certainty that Karasu
would regret this, one day. For every jarring thrust and for the bruising grip
on his oddly manipulated hips and aching back, for the laughter in his ear and
the burning of Kurama's cock as Karasu cruelly angled himself to hit one spot
inside of him, he'd pay. Seeing flesh in front of him, he tried to bite, and
was slammed into the bars for the third time in minutes.
He could feel Karasu's grunts shivering inside of him, could feel his pace
speed up, the cock stiffening, and was horrified when hands closed around his
own shaft and began to tease Kurama mercilessly. He tried to force his usual
iron control down onto his muscles, but it was useless—Karasu expected it,
manipulated it, drawing his uncircumcised foreskin along the head, stroking the
glans, toying with him.
Kurama was humiliated when he realized his body, though twisted, turned, and
abused, was racing towards orgasm. His head lolled to the side as he relaxed,
allowing it to happen, even wanting it, knowing that when he came he would no
longer be focusing on his surroundings.
The length inside him swelled, and he prepared himself for the horrid feeling
of come in his ass, even as his own disloyal member tightened on its own. He
was there, almost there, almost—
The hand encircling his cock suddenly tightened brutally, and Kurama couldn't
help it. He squawked, he writhed, his muscles contracted, but the grip on his
penis was like iron, denying him, forcing the heat and frustration and pain to
build up behind his eyes. Then Karasu groaned, holding him even tighter,
performing the last vicious thrusts with no regard for the boy before him. When
he was done, he sighed, his hand going lax, his cock slipping out.
Kurama was ashamed to find himself sobbing in aggravation and resentment. He
was too frustrated, having been denied an orgasm on top of everything else, to
be enraged at that moment—that would come later. He barely registered as he was
unhooked and dragged to the bed, his feet lashed to the bedposts and arms tied
behind his back, a gag in his mouth, muffling his pained moans, and a blanket
over him to hide it all, giving the guards plausible deniability.
Karasu whistled, and moments later a callous young guard walked by, hiding a
smirk as he passed their cell, eyes skittering over the body on the bed that
heaved with breath. Not long after that, the gates opened, rumors flying about
what had happened in cell number 043, Karasu's makeshift home, even as the
official denials also flew, claiming a reliable tip that had come to nothing.
Kurama barely noticed the prisoners that paused outside to snicker and murmur
before moving on. He barely noticed his surroundings, his bindings, his body
that still hummed with the orgasm he'd been denied, the abuse, the pain. All
that was in his mind was revenge.
He waited for Karasu to come with single-minded hate, knowing that the man
would not get away with this for long.
"Prisoner Minamino," an oily voice sneered from behind him. Kurama tensed. "The
cell block has to be rearranged. I thought I would reassure you that Karasu
will be in a separate cell as of tonight. He'll come to get his things soon."
The guard walked away, and Kurama thought he would die. He wanted to. Karasu
had seen the danger of sleeping with him, and subverted it nicely.
He heard steps approach him, and then a hand slid under the blanket and gripped
his ass, still slick with semen he couldn't clean up. "Still sore?" Karasu's
voice asked, amused. "Have a lovely night." The blanket was put back in place,
and Karasu laughed softly and left.
Kurama stared into the darkened pillow, and couldn't think of anything but
fury.
***** Pro *****
Chapter Notes
     Without Artemic, this chapter may never have completed itself. She
     has my sincere thanks for her patience, and for her incredible plot
     ideas. If only she were writing this instead of me! Without
     Onlyinthislight, too, this story would have been hopelessly
     impossible in the first place. Thank you both!
 
To be in prison is to forget. Even resilient men disconnect from the ground
outside the walls and gun turrets, and start to believe only the baked earth of
the lot is real, and nothing extends beyond the high walls. To be in prison is
to imagine that the whole world is as desperate and miserable as you.
Spotlights were hunkered down in steel funnels on the block's ceiling, watchful
suns to the inmates. Their dirty light spewed into the cells, filling Toguro's
accommodations with a subdued glow.
Toguro tapped his meaty knuckles against the steel supports of the bed, leaning
against the sweating wall behind the dingy mattress. "You're dreaming again,"
he grunted. "Pay attention."
"Oh, leave him be," Aniki giggled. "He's just full of that redheaded
whore—aren't you, Karasu? I'll give you some nice things if you give me a taste
next time. We could exchange a cigarette while he watches, make him think you
value him at that level."
"He's mine," Karasu insisted sullenly. "Besides, he requires delicate handling.
It would be easier if we were out of the tombs," he mused. "Discretion is
dangerous."
"Karasu," Toguro growled, "you damn Chester, there are more important things to
focus on than that boy."
"I'm not after children," Karasu said, frowning.
"What have I been talking about for the last hour?"
"Jobs. Rivalries. Don't worry, Gourmet will catch his cold soon." Karasu's
frown rose into a luminous smile, his eyes relaxing at the idea of death.
"When?"
"You insult my honor as a professional," Karasu responded dryly. "It'll be done
tonight."
"It damn well better. You're lucky you didn't lose your spot, getting tossed
into solitary for a month. I don't know why the hell I put up with you," Toguro
grunted, adjusting his immense mass until he sat with his head resting on his
gigantic fist, his arm propped up against the wall. The Makaian stronghold, a
series of cells that housed most of the gang's higher-ups, was currently
hosting a meeting. Gokumonki was standing guard outside, his big frame leaning
solidly on the railings, affecting negligence and nonchalance in a vain attempt
to not alert guards and enemies.
Karasu leaned in farther, his violet eyes narrowing with studied impudence that
Toguro found tiring. "You could never replace me."
"I could replace you easily; there are dozens of new blood with the potential.
It wouldn't take anything more than some training," Toguro responded flatly.
Bui winced slightly, remembering his own training under Toguro. Tutelage for
the Makaian's upper level made getting kicked in look like a baby shower.
Karasu waved his hand gracefully, arrogantly sweeping away the statement and
all its implications on his worth. "My little one will be stirring soon," he
said, arching his eyebrows suggestively. "Let's wrap this meeting up."
His little one, in the meantime, had stirred some time ago. It hadn't taken
long once he'd mastered his anger to work his hands from their bonds—Karasu
tied good knots, but sheets are slippery things, and he'd managed to slide the
tail of the knot out with ten determined minutes of judicious twisting and
pulling—and the rest of the night (which was now, though it was hard to tell
inside the walls of the prison, sunk into morning) had been spent meditating,
scheming, and aching for the bars to open.
In the darkest part of the night, when Kurama sat crouched on the edge of the
bed, his eyes as regal and savage as a mountain lion jilted by a doe, he had
watched the voyeur snoring fitfully across from him, every inch of Kurama the
predator stalking his prey. He'd decided that he'd have to do Karasu and the
voyeur close together, the voyeur second (it would be better to leave him alive
awhile, even, so he'd know his fate). The death of Karasu would need more time
and machinations, but the death of the voyeur could awaken Karasu to how
vulnerable he truly was to Kurama. Having spent the night plotting, he allowed
himself to rest towards daybreak, saving up energy so he wouldn't be the
slightest bit blurred in the morning.
When his door had rolled back with a grinding clang Kurama had taken a spritely
leap from his cot, a flush of light bursting from the ceiling as the dimmed
bulbs flared up, signifying an artificial morning. Kurama went straight to the
showers, relieved to find them nearly empty so promptly in the morning, and
then went and ate some rubbery scrambled eggs and too-tough bacon. Snickers,
comments, and trailing eyes couldn't interrupt him, and luckily his reputation
hadn't taken enough of a blow for the riffraff to come sniffing, at least not
yet. Kurama felt exhausted at the thought, at the battle ahead of him, but
shook it off almost immediately. There were things he had to do today.
Karasu had seen him, so there would be no easy approach. Kurama cursed his
features—he couldn't blend in anywhere, least of all a contained place like a
prison. It was a miracle his trophies hadn't resulted in his imprisonment years
ago. He thought of his victims silently, his smile running bizarre.
Karasu will make a lovely trophy, he pondered, and his smile grew slick, the
thought full of possibilities.
For now, there was no way to get from here to there, though Kurama itched for
violence. Instead, he sauntered beyond him, in the opposite direction. Karasu's
pale body and gaunt face were animated, like a corpse brought to life, as he
regaled a crowd with the story of last night. The rousing cheers and laughter
weren't physically wounding, so Kurama could handle it—forgive it, even. Karasu
would pay for his arrogance soon enough, and the secret thrill of plotting a
murder kept Kurama relaxed.
An hour later, he was kneeling in the library on a ratty mauve carpet. The
guard he had chosen panted, leaning back against a steel bookshelf that was
kept unusually well stocked for this purpose. The man was gulping in air, one
hand clenched on a random shelf, rolling trim hips to force his cock further
down Kurama's willing throat. He was helpless to look away from the disdain in
the starry green eyes that somehow never wavered from his face. Kurama wasn't
seeing him, but the illusion of it was more than enough, too much for this
guard's meager sadism and stamina.
The gun the man was holding against his head was ignored, trivial. Kurama knew
the man wouldn't shoot, and was limitlessly careful that he never became too
aroused, so there was no danger of involuntary spasms. The barrel had been
wriggled through his hair. He could feel it scraping against his temple, cold.
Kurama hummed around the cock in his mouth, and then lifted himself off it
sloppily, making the guard's entire body shudder. He blew teasingly on the
head.
"Tell me what you know of the prisoner Karasu," Kurama said clearly, his voice
husky from current exertions.
"Or you'll do what, whore?" the guard sneered, and then moaned helplessly as
one of Kurama's hands, originally curled around the back of his knee, instead
reached up and squeezed the man's swollen sac.
"Stop blowing you, obviously," Kurama derided, looking up teasingly. He knew
how to play this part—he'd known it since he was twelve years old, and he'd
first begun stripping. Then, it'd been private gigs in people's
homes—obviously, he'd looked far too young to work legally in a club. Maybe
that was where he'd learned the disdain. Kurama wasn't sure. He couldn't
remember not feeling it, the faint distaste for living beings, the hatred of
people that came to him so naturally.
"What's there to tell?"
Kurama's eyes turned to iron. His hand impatiently swatted aside the gun, and
drew back awkwardly to stand.
The guard blinked, confused by the dismissal. "You fucking bitch—"
"Tell me what I want to know or I walk."
Convinced more by his aching cock than any argument Kurama could have mustered
in defense, the guard eagerly agreed. When Kurama's talents were once again
being put to good use, the guard began to speak, with frequent pauses to curse
or moan, Kurama interrupting him occasionally to probe for more information.
Kurama was a pro. The man couldn't cum, not until Kurama had drained him dry,
sucked him clean, swallowing every last drop.
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