Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1837996.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      名探偵コナン_|_Detective_Conan_|_Case_Closed
  Relationship:
      Irish/Edogawa_Conan_|_Kudou_Shinichi
  Character:
      Irish_(Detective_Conan), Kudou_Shinichi_|_Edogawa_Conan
  Additional Tags:
      Kidnapping, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Psychological_Torture, Rape/
      Non-con_Elements, Power_Dynamics, Movie_Divergence, The_Raven_Chaser_
      (Movie_13)
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-24 Chapters: 1/3 Words: 6341
****** Luck of the Irish ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Irish has never considered himself a very fortunate man, but he
     returns to the Organization with the most valuable prize of them all
     -- Edogawa Conan. He'll take advantage of it any way he can. (Movie
     13. Diverges right after the fight between Ran and Irish.)
Notes
     Spoilers for Movie 13, The Raven Chaser.
     Some violence. Explicit rape/noncon. Please proceed with caution.
See the end of the work for more notes
He supposed he was never really the lucky type.
Even with the clothes on his back, the food he was given, and the high pay he
earned by simply working in the Black Organization, he never really found his
place. He wasn’t close with anyone (except for Pisco, but that whole situation
turned out swell, didn’t it?), none of the other named members understood him,
and he was just generally left to his own devices unless they needed to test
his skills.
Just like today, for example, as he currently found himself beating a
physically six year old child into submission. Orders were orders, after all.
“It would be a lot easier if you would just come along without making such a
fuss,” he called out loudly as he delivered another harsh kick to the child’s
abdomen, sending him flying across the hall. The child coughed and sputtered,
and he couldn’t stand up on his own two legs anymore, but he was still trying
to persevere by simply staying awake.
How cute.
“Gh…” the child croaked, his small arms wrapped tightly around himself and what
would surely be a deep purple bruise in the morning. “Fu… fuck off. You got
what you came here for.”
Irish tsked –technically he could leave now; he really did have what he was
ordered to collect – and cracked his knuckles, crossing the distance between
them in just a few quick strides. “You still think that you’re in a position to
be barking orders at me? Kudou Shinichi.”
“Sh-shut up,” the child shook his head and relied heavily on the pillar next to
him just to stand himself back up. His eyes weren’t focusing on the large man
now standing just a few feet away from him, instead staring directly at the
ground below. “I’ll beat you,” he muttered. “I’ll take you down; I’ve come this
far…”
“Not all stories end with happy endings.” Irish leaned down to gently slide a
large hand under the false child’s small chin, and he forced the bright blue
eyes to look up directly at him. “And unfortunately, Kudou Shinichi, this
current chapter of your story ends here.”
Edogawa Conan glared openly at him, and while the face was strong and defiant,
the voice that came out of that body was weak and tired. He was at his limit,
no matter how tough of a front he tried to display. “N-no,” he stuttered,
squeezing his eyes shut. “It doesn’t.”
A shaky hand reached down towards the dial on a deceiving red shoe, and whoops
if Irish accidentally backhanded the boy before it could reach its destination.
Conan cried out and fell in a heap on the floor, breathing heavily – it wasn’t
even a strong slap, but the boy was completely and utterly spent. His chest
rose up and down in quick, uneven breaths, and Irish felt a surge of… something
spark within him.
How exhilarating.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered as his hands wrapped tightly around the child’s
small neck. So small that just one hand could wrap around the entirety of it,
but he decided to use both just because he could.
He was addicted to that power.
Conan’s eyes snapped open and he kicked valiantly at Irish’s chest, but it had
no effect. It really was adorable that he still thought he could fight back. “I
already told you that I won’t kill you. I’m taking you back with me, and as for
what happens when we get there… well, we’ll see. You’re an interesting one,
Kudou Shinichi. Literally, a… one of a kind. I’d hate to lose someone like you
so quickly, just because you’re too stubborn to admit defeat.”
Conan opened his mouth to retort to that, but Irish increased his grip and
forced his throat closed. Instead, the child’s eyes filled with a sort of panic
as he was denied air, and his struggles increased tenfold before those blue
orbs started to roll up in his head. Then Irish let go, and Conan immediately
sucked in as much of that precious oxygen as he possibly could – and choked and
hacked.
Irish let him have his space, stepping back just a bit to show that he would
not harm the child more during his fit. He could be thoughtful.
Conan continued to splutter as his hands reached up towards his own throat, and
Irish could see – if just for a moment, but he was positive it was there – a
small glimmer of tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill. But the child
was able to keep them back, and he collapsed back on the floor as soon as his
fit was over.
Thoughts and scenarios flooded through Irish’s mind, all things he could do to
the boy while he was in this state. It was exciting, exhilarating, and he
almost wanted to enact on them right here. But he couldn’t, not when there were
still people in the building (unconscious, but no doubt they would comb through
the place the moment they were able to), and he really did need to report back
to Gin and the others first.
But he really wanted to see Edogawa Conan cry.
In all senses of the word – to cry tears of pain, sorrow, loss. To be forced to
cry out in every range of emotion he could muster in that small body of his.
It was time to go.
“I’d love to stay and chat, Kudou-kun,” Conan’s rapidly dulling eyes moved
slowly to glance at him, “But we’ve been here long enough. We’ll talk more when
you wake up, okay? That sounds like a good plan to me.”
Before Conan could muster up the energy to reply, Irish jabbed the cool metal
prongs of the tazer in his stomach and pressed the trigger. His small body
convulsed as electric volts shot through it, and he only barely had the voice
to muster a weak scream before he was finally greeted with the darkness that
had probably been lurking at the corners of his vision for the past fifteen
minutes – when the assault started.
He’d lasted longer than Irish thought he would. Resilient, but not invincible.
He was breakable.
Irish carefully picked the small body up and off the ground, marveling in just
how light he was. “To think that a healthy sixteen year old, almost a man,
could be physically reverted back into the state of a child while keeping his
mind and memories intact… fascinating.” It was going to be so much fun.
He stepped over the countless shards of glass littering the floor, relishing in
the crunch as they cracked and broke beneath his weight. Irish spared a quick
glance at the Mouri girl lying unconscious over by the counter – she put up a
good fight, but she’d never see her childhood friend and former possible love
interest ever again. And she didn’t even know.
It was almost poetic, in a melancholic sort of way.
Not that he really cared what happened to her.
“I hope you enjoyed your last day of freedom, Kudou Shinichi,” Irish muttered
into the child’s soft neck. Not that he could hear him, but he felt it needed
to be said. Edogawa Conan didn’t even stir. “It’ll be the last taste you ever
get, even if you do somehow manage to escape from the Organization.”
Because no one ever joined the Organization and left the same person. That was
impossible. You’re mine now.
He made his way to the cool night air outside, and waved down the helicopter
that was piloted by his superior. “Mission accomplished,” he called out in the
handheld transceiver that had previously been safely tucked away in his back
pocket. “I have the memory card.”
“Who the hell is that with you?” Gin’s voice, cracky and distorted over the
radio waves, came through.
Chianti piped in before Irish could answer. “Looks like a little kid. Since
when the hell did we become a babysitting service?”
“Can I shoot him?” It was barely hearable, but he could make out Korn’s voice
in the background.
“Special orders from Anokata,” Irish lied smoothly. “He’s been interested in
the boy for a while – you’ve seen him on the news, haven’t you? Edogawa Conan.
KID killer, young apprentice of the renowned great detective Mouri Kogoro.” Of
course he knew the truth behind that now, and had the evidence to back that up,
but he was fine with being the only knowledgeable person for now. It gave him
an edge, an advantage that he could use over Kudou when he woke up. “He’d make
a great member if we took him in now and raised him, right?”
There was silence on the other end before he could hear Vodka speak. “What do
you think, Aniki?”
“… Let them in. Can’t go against Anokata’s orders, after all.”
“Wait, but what about…?” Chianti’s voice trailed off, and Irish could see even
from the distance that there was a rifle pointing directly at his chest. Or
maybe he didn’t really seeit, but he could feelit. Of course they would try to
kill him for compromising the mission, for getting caught as the mole. But he’d
still accomplished it, and as far as they knew, accomplished something far
greater in the long run.
Another brief pause. “Put it away, Chianti. We’re taking them back.”
Chianti grumbled and the sound distorted again by whatever the spunky girl was
doing on the other end. “Good,” he just barely heard Korn say in the
background. “I wanted to shoot him.”
The helicopter drifted closer, and Irish was able to hop in the open door,
prize in tow. Chianti eyed the child and raised an eyebrow. “He looks kind of
familiar. Don’t you think so, Korn?”
Korn leaned past his sniping partner to glance at the boy. “… Don’t know him.”
“What about you, Gin?” Irish smiled, glancing at the back of his superior’s
head. He ran his fingers through Conan’s hair, playing with the soft locks as
they finally left Touto Tower and headed back to base. “Do you recognize him?”
“I don’t care,” was the immediate answer. The man then held out his arm
backwards, not even turning around to face his subordinate. “The memory card.”
“Right here.” The chip was fished out of his pocket and handed to the man
without complaint – Irish didn’t care one bit for it. No, he had what he wanted
in his lap, and he wasn’t going to let him run away.
Mission accomplished, indeed.
                                      ---
He was able to smuggle the child in the base without much of a hassle. If
anyone cared at all that big, scary-looking Irish was hoisting a little kid
around like a surrogate father, then they didn’t show it. After all, Irish was
a codenamed member. That automatically made him a higher rank than most of
them, and they wouldn’t dare speak up against a superior.
Sometimes life in the Organization was worth it.
Every codenamed member had their own room within the base – new recuits and
non-codenamed members usually had their own establishments and residences to
return to. But the privileged ones got their own rooms, and Irish felt more
than privileged at the moment.
Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be a permanent residence. All that was there
was a small bed and a desk for paperwork when they weren’t out doing field
missions. They didn’t even have their own bathrooms, but that was fine with
Irish – he preferred staying at hotels anyway.
But right now, what he needed wasn’t a hotel. He needed a place where Kudou
could be as loud as Irish could get him to be without any worried employees
knocking at his door.
And what better place than the one place Kudou wanted to be?
He dropped the child rather unceremoniously onto his bed. He fell in a heap and
still didn’t stir, but Irish could guess that he would be waking up soon.
Kudou’s hand had been twitching for the past ten minutes, and eventually he
would have enough energy in him to wake up. Or at least, Irish hoped so – he
didn’t really want to get so impatient as to start while he was still
unconscious.
He spent the extra time going through his drawers and adding certain items into
his pockets. Items he may or may not need for later.
But it only took a few minutes for Kudou to blearily blink open his eyes. Once,
twice, and then they shot wide open and the owner quickly sat up before
immediately wrapping his arms around his sore stomach. He would be feeling more
of that in the morning, Irish figured.
“Where… where the hell am I?” Conan’s eyes darted around, taking in the
scenery. There were no windows, and the only door was locked by a key that was
already safely tucked away in the desk drawer. Irish hadn’t been around base
for a while, so the light was flickering and it cast an eerie glow over the
room. Not that it really mattered.
“Welcome to your new home, Kudou-kun,” Irish called, and leaned over him in the
bed. Conan sucked in a breath and glanced at the door, as if he was trying to
decide whether it was worth it to make a run for it.
Still cute.
“Fuck off,” he said again, and weakly pushed at the man’s chest. Irish let out
a deep throated laugh – Kudou lost in public territory, and couldn’t escape
even with the distraction the Mouri girl had given him. He didn’t know what
made the child think that he could escape in his own, private territory.
Survival instincts, perhaps? Plausible. Good sense of survival, though it would
be put to waste.
He cupped the side of Conan’s face, and Conan’s expression turned to one of
disgust. “You’re really something else, Kudou-kun,” he whispered, and leaned
down to place his mouth at the child’s neck. If he didn’t know any better, he
would have sworn that Conan shivered at the contact. His cool lips against that
hot skin… exhilarating.“But we’ve already played your game, so now you’re going
to have to play mine.” Becauseyou’remine. Mine, mine, mine.
Conan groaned, trying to turn his head away but only succeeding in giving Irish
more access to the skin of his neck. “What the hell do you want from me?”
“Everything you have to offer.”
He bit down lightly on that soft skin, and Conan jumped, his breath hitching.
“W-wait,” he stammered, gears turning in his head. Maybe now he was finally
catching on. A calloused hand rubbed at his calf before dragging rough fingers
up to the expanse of a milky thigh, and Conan squirmed. “Stop!”
“We already played that game,” Irish murmured, and those fingers slipped under
the thin fabric of those shorts to play with the elastic bands at the bottom of
the child’s briefs. Conan shook his head, as much as he was able to with the
large blond still attached to his neck, and he scratched at the exposed skin of
Irish’s arms.
That actually kind of hurt, but Irish wasn’t about to make any vocal
indications of it.
He moved himself so that he was back to leaning over the child, and he used his
free hand to grab both of Conan’s wrists and pin them painfully above his head.
Conan hissed, and Irish took advantage of his distraction to quickly unzip the
shorts and slide them down to his ankles, taking those briefs with it.
Conan immediately tried to cover himself by squeezing his legs tightly
together, but Irish stopped that with a quick movement of his other hand, the
soft flesh pressing into either side of the appendage. “Play nice,” he said as
he nipped at a small collarbone. Conan growled.
“Fuck off,” he repeated himself a third time, and sent a pointed knee directly
between Irish’s legs. It didn’t do much; Conan was still exhausted from
earlier, and he had just given his attacker a great opportunity.
He cupped the small crotch with the entirety of his hand, and Conan
subconsciously gasped and lightly bucked into it. “Shit, shit,” he heard the
child mutter, but now that he wasn’t restricted, he started to struggle again.
Tiny feet dug almost painfully and annoyingly into the criminal’s sides, and
Irish growled.
“You’ve already had your chance, Kudou-kun. Now it’s my turn.” He easily pushed
Conan’s legs apart and drank in the sight of the child having literally nothing
left to counter with. The small chest rose rapidly up and down, and Irish
leaned his head over to bite at the collar of the fabric and rip it open with
his teeth. A few of the buttons popped off and fell off the bed, but he didn’t
pay them any mind.
And just above the child’s left hip was a small, circular, white patch of skin
that to anyone else would have been glossed over, but Irish knew exactly what
it was.
“You’ve been shot here before,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb softly against
that scar. Conan jumped and twisted his body to get away – Irish hardened his
grip. “Tell me; was that before or after the apotoxin?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Conan growled.
The thumb jabbed harshly in that area, making a deep impression on the flesh.
Conan yelped and his weak struggling began anew. “I would,” Irish agreed.
“A… after.”
“Ah.” It was honestly surprising that no other operative had been curious about
this child before him.
He moved away from the hip and moved up to press his cheek against that soft
chest and felt the beat of Conan’s heart thumping rapidly just beneath.
“What do you think,” he muttered, moving a knee in between Conan’s legs to keep
them separate as he leaned back to his pockets and removed a butterfly knife he
had placed there in those few minutes he spent waiting for his victim to wake
up. Conan’s breath hitched as he lightly dragged the knife up and lifted it,
pointing it down directly over his heart. “What if I felt like carving it out?
See the real you.”
“… Don’t,” was all Conan could muster to say.
Irish let out a soft laugh. “I won’t do that; you’re a precious person. But
that doesn’t mean I can’t decorate you a bit instead, does it?”
The sharp blade moved away from his heart to nick the soft inner flesh of
Conan’s left arm. The child flinched, feeling the thin stream warm blood run
down. He couldn’t see it, but the droplets that stained the bed red were
beautiful to Irish. He couldn’t dye the entire sheet, of course, but it was
still something to gaze fondly at.
A rough tongue lapped up the thick liquid trailing down the arm, and he ignored
the way Conan flinched as he moved closer. If Irish had to put a taste to it,
he would say something sappy like sweet. But then again, he could be as sappy
as he liked in the confines of his own room.
“Hm, what do you think I should do to you, Kudou-kun?”
“L-let me go.” He should have expected that, and while he put Conan in a
bargaining position, he should already know what the answer will be.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. If you don’t have any ideas, how about I choose
for you?”
He moved his clothed knee up to rub in between the child’s legs, and Conan
gasped at the harsh friction. “Ow, ow,” he winced, shaking his head. “Stop!”
Irish moved his knee just enough to see that the skin had already been rubbed
red and chafed by the rough texture of his pants, and he smiled. So sensitive.
“Here, I’ll fix that.”
A swift movement of his hand, and a moment later he was stroking the small
penis to life, deftly sliding his fingers up and down the shaft even as Conan’s
head shaking turned furious and a stream of “no”s and “stop”s tumbled out of
his mouth. But despite the protests, the penis hardened under the criminal’s
administrations and he could feel it start to get wet beneath his fingertips.
Conan bit his lips to prevent any sound from coming out. Irish leaned back into
his neck and whispered, “You can try all you want, but in the end it won’t do
you any good.” As the pre-cum continued to form at the tip of the faux-child’s
underdeveloped penis, Irish moved a large finger to smear it over as much of
the rest of the member as he could, making it easier to pump without much
chafing.
His cheeks were a furious shade of red, and Irish decided that he quite liked
that color – even if the brilliant blue eyes that he also preferred were
tightly squeezed shut.
Conan tried to squeeze his legs together but was prevented by Irish’s knee.
“Mmph,” he managed to bite out, his entire body quivering and his fingers
grasping at nothing but air; Irish still held his wrists together whilst
pinning them to the bed. He breathed heavily through his nose, and it was
obvious that he was already nearing his limit.
There was a kind of high-pitched keening that came from the child’s throat, and
just before he could release, Irish let go.
Conan’s eyes shot wide open and he gasped harshly, taking in deep breaths as
his legs unconsciously spread further. “What—what…?” He bucked at the sudden
loss of sensation.
Irish smirked, looking down at how red Conan’s lips had turned from just how
hard he had been biting down on them. “Enjoying that now?”
It took a moment for Conan to process what exactly just happened, and it was
obvious the moment he did by the sudden and extreme shameful expression that
adorned his face. He looked absolutely disgusted with himself, and Irish loved
it.
The butterfly knife lay nearly forgotten on the other side of the bed now, but
if Conan was going to continue to react like that to his administrations then
he may not even need it.
In his mind’s eye, he could just imagine how Conan would react when he finally
started to enter him. Start him off with deep and long yet gentle strokes at
first to make sure he didn’t completely break him (not yet, no – that would be
for later) before speeding up and ramming into him harshly, fucking him so hard
that Conan wouldn’t even remember his own name – either of them – by the time
the sun rises. Making him scream – to continue, to stop, to force him to beg
Irish for mercy –
He was almost bringing himself to the limit just by thinking about
it.           
“I… I…” Conan stammered, his chest heaving up and down and Irish wanted to put
his face there and kiss the soft skin between his nipples. So he did, and Conan
flinched beneath him. A rough tongue darted out and wet the skin there before
moving directly to the left to circle one of those tiny yet firm nubs to give
it an experimental lick, and Conan nearly melted.
Pleased and encouraged by that reaction (though even if he wasn’t encouraged,
he would still go on anyway), Irish continued his assault by nipping and biting
at the nipple and the pink skin around it, occasionally licking it better to
heal the superficial wounds. Conan writhed and squirmed beneath him, and he
couldn’t help the sounds that bubbled their way out of his body.
“A-ah! Hhn – st—no, agh…!” His body was still obviously aroused by the
unfinished handjob from earlier, and was hypersensitive to every touch and
motion to finally get that release. He continued to shake his head frantically
as if it would do anything to get him out of his situation, but Irish ignored
all of that and kept going with his administrations. “I-Irish…”
Though that did give Irish some pause, however. He hadn’t really thought of
giving Conan anything to call him by other than the one he knew – his given
codename – but he wasn’t sure if he still wanted the child to say that name in
any situation: in the throes of passion, while begging (for release or for
mercy, he didn’t care; he wasn’t picky)…
Oh well.
He moved his head away from Conan’s chest and took advantage of the brief pause
that the child had to connect their lips together. Conan’s eyes widened and his
struggled, but Irish was easily able to keep his head still.
The butterfly knife still lay at the foot of the bed, so he used his toes to
grab it and transferred it to his free hand, bringing it up to Conan’s neck and
threatening to cut if he didn’t comply.
Conan whimpered as Irish’s tongue delved into his mouth, but he didn’t dare
bite down nor do anything to retaliate.
Irish, on the other hand, was pleased with how things were going. Conan tasted
sweet – he couldn’t quite pin that flavor; perhaps it was something just unique
to him. Either way, he most certainly didn’t mind it. He ran his tongue over
every crevice of the child’s mouth, even as Conan used his much smaller and
weaker one to try and force him back out. He battled with that tongue for all
of two seconds before completely dominating it, and Conan made a noise beneath
him that even he wasn’t sure was a protest or a moan.
Doesn’t matter.
He moved the butterfly knife back to the side and pulled away for air. Beneath
him, Conan was gasping and panting like he had been denied oxygen for a very
long time and was just barely surviving as it was.
Irish kind of liked forcing him on the edge like that.
“I think it’s time to speed things up,” he breathed, savoring the way those
blue eyes widened in horror and barely-suppressed fear. He wanted more of that.
Lube somewhere in his other pocket. He fished that out and popped the cap off
with his teeth, and barely noticed as it clattered to the floor. The liquid
inside was smeared over three of the fingers on his left hand, his unoccupied
hand, and he tossed the remaining bottle aside.
“Stop, stop, please,” ah, there was the word Irish was waiting for, “You don’t…
you don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t,” Irish agreed, nodding. “But I want to.”
One finger traced circles around Conan’s entrance before slipping in, and the
child completely tensed up. Irish hadn’t bothered warming the lube before
putting it to use – that would waste too much time on something that would warm
up on its own anyway. Conan squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to break even
as the first large finger violated him.
As soon as he felt that was enough, the second one entered, and Conan bucked.
The lower half of his body was hanging above the bed, supported by his feet,
and Irish bent down to kiss Conan’s forehead just as his eyebrows furrowed
together in pain. The two digits pumped in and out, and it was tight. It was
almost making Irish want to just forgo the preparation and just fuck him there
and now.
And while he wanted to make Conan scream as loudly as possible, he didn’t feel
that was the best way to go about it. No, that was the easy way out, the
beginner’s way. He wanted to make Conan completely lose himself in the throes
of passion, not make him scream in agony and misery – he’d already beaten the
child into unconsciousness earlier.
No, this was different, and this was going to be special.
But it wasn’t as fun as it could be if he just gave everything to the child, so
forced the third finger inside even though he knew that Conan wasn’t ready for
it.
“G-gaah!” Conan whimpered and tensed so tightly that Irish could barely even
move his fingers. The child’s own fingers could barely reach the top of Irish’s
large hands, and his nails scratched deep, red marks into the skin there. He
kicked his legs and tried to pull himself off and away from the digits that
were violating him, but Irish merely forced them in deeper so that Conan was
forced to accept them.
“The harder you struggle, the harder I’ll be,” Irish warned, though it was a
moot point – no matter what Conan did, he was going to have his own way with
him. It was just the child’s luck that he wanted to fuck him into complete and
total submission.
But he had to give it to him – Conan was pretty adept at keeping his tears in.
Even when the child sniffled and he could already see the tears pooling up at
the bottom of his eyes and catching in his lashes, they never seemed to fall.
But that was okay, because Irish was going to force them out of him in just a
few moments.
It was just a matter of time.
He couldn’t really wait any longer, so he slid his fingers out and ignored the
way Conan sighed in relief. His now free hand was used to unbuckle his own belt
and slide his pants off, and Conan didn’t have much time to get his bearings
together before a much larger appendage than three combined fingers started
poking around his entrance, already lubed up with the excess from earlier.
“W-wait,” Conan stuttered, his eyes widening and his breath coming in short
gasps. “Isn’t there… there has to be something else. Something else that you
want, and I… I’ll do anything. Beat me up some more, use me as your punching
bag; I don’t care. Just… please. Don’t do this.”
Irish just smiled. “Why do I have to settle for a compromise when I can just
take anything and everything I want from you myself?”
And he pressed in.
Conan’s voice tittered off in a weak scream as it broke and Irish was still
pushing his way in, in, in. The bright blue eyes of the child stared unseeingly
at the ceiling, and his entire body was tense as he was violated in the worst
way possible.
But never minding all of that, Irish continued to force his way through his
walls until he was forced to bend Conan’s knees to accommodate more of his
girth and length. Conan’s mouth opened and closed as if he was trying to say
something, but his voice wouldn’t come out – Irish pressed his cool face
against the feverish skin of the child’s chest and continued forcing himself
inside.
And then he was in. Completely. The warmth and heat radiating from Conan’s
lower body, the skin pressed flush against his groin.
“There we are,” Irish managed to groan, and Conan didn’t respond. Instead he
seemed to be preoccupied with trying to pretend that he was anywhere except
there, and while that did irritate Irish a bit, that was alright.
Because he was going to drag him back down to Earth in just a few moments.
“Don’t black out on me, Kudou-kun,” he growled.
It was kind of hard to side out – Conan was so tight that he could barely even
move inside of him. But as he did move, he found that it was easier to slide in
and out, and in just a few short minutes he was already building up a steady
rhythm.
“No, no, no,” Conan finally managed to find his voice, and he repeated that one
word like a mantra. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what was
happening to him, and that was a bit amusing to Irish because he couldn’t
imagine the great detective Kudou Shinichi as someone inexperienced with
anything.
But there was a first time for everything, he supposed.
And he shouldn’t have been surprised when he felt a thick liquid – warmer than
the lubricant; it stood out – join in the fluids that was helping him move.
When he looked down, he saw a streak of red. So he hadn’t stretched Conan out
far enough that he was able to stop him from bleeding, but, well.
The child had survived worse than this – the gunshot wound was proof of that.
He let go of Conan’s hands, and Conan immediately moved them to grip the bed
sheets so tightly that Irish thought they were going to tear. The cut inflicted
by the butterfly knife had already stopped bleeding, and the criminal stared
fondly at the stain it made on the otherwise pristine white bed.
Irish wiped the sweat from his forehead and bent down to lean it on Conan’s,
forcing the child to look only at him. “Tell me, Kudou-kun,” he grunted with a
thrust. “Do you enjoy this?”
“N-n-no, you bastard,” Conan squeezed his eyes shut, and Irish growled. He made
sure the next thrust was harder than the previous ones, and when Conan’s eyes
snapped open, the criminal roughly grabbed his chin and tilted his head up.
“I’m going to ask that again. Do you,” another forceful thrust in, “enjoy,”
Conan yelped and whimpered, “this?”
The child opened his mouth and for a moment, Irish wondered if he had lost his
voice again. But then he heard a soft and weak, “y… y-yes,” and that was more
than enough for him.
A sickeningly sweet smile spread across his face, and he wanted to savor
Conan’s current expression for years to come. “Then I want you to scream. As
loud as you can, tell me how much you enjoy this, tell me how much you want me
to keep going. And maybe then I’ll have mercy on you.”
Conan’s face contorted in displeasure, and Irish relished in the tears that
threatened to spill from his eyes. It was only a matter of time.
So Irish fell backwards so that he was facing the ceiling, and he bodily
dragged Conan with him, practically impaling the child with the added help of
gravity.
And Conan screamed.
Irish couldn’t help it – the giddy glee that had been building up inside of him
in anticipation for this moment finally was released in a bark of laughter.
Because that was what he wanted, and it was worth it. But they still weren’t
done, because Conan still had more screaming and begging and actually crying to
do, and he was going to force each and every bit of it out of him.
He grabbed Conan’s hips and lifted him up only to slam him back down, and Conan
yelped. Not as satisfying as last time, but they had all night with no one that
would dare disturb them.
Conan’s hands splayed across Irish’s chest, trying to find something – anything
– to hold on to. Irish predicted and counted down in his head: five, four,
three, two, one, and the moment he hit zero was the moment that tears finally
started to fall down the child’s face, and he sobbed as Irish continued to fuck
him.
“Stop, stop,” he kept repeating, choosing to occupy his hands with covering his
face. He looked absolutely ashamed of himself for breaking down – in front of a
Black Organization member, no less – and Irish was loving every minute of it.
He supposed that maybe he should feel bad – he was taking complete advantage of
a sixteen year old boy trapped in a body ten years younger than that. But he’d
lost his sense of morality years ago.
Large hands reached up to pull Conan’s small arms away from his face, because
Irish still wanted to see him. Conan’s eyebrows were furrowed together and
upward in undisguised anguish, and he couldn’t help himself – he was being
raped and exploited for Irish’s sick pleasures. And Irish didn’t feel guilty
about it in the slightest.
So it was that his own orgasm came when he least expected it – he was so
enthralled at forcing Conan into having intercourse with him that he barely
even registered his own excitement. But he would be lying if he said that he
didn’t enjoy the way his own release leaked out of Conan’s abused entrance, so
much into the small body that it couldn’t possibly contain it all.
And Conan wasn’t even done yet, so Irish had the added pleasure of sliding him
off his dick and forcing his digits back into that hole to finger fuck him –
pressing against the slick walls where he now knew where to feel and exactly
where to touch, and enjoying the way the child’s walls constricted tightly
around him as Conan sobbed out his own orgasm.
“There, there,” Irish pulled the child into his arms, savoring the way Conan
shuddered as he was placed flush against the criminal’s bare skin. “That wasn’t
so bad, was it? You said you enjoyed it, after all.”
“F-fu… fuck,” Conan stammered, his voice weak and shaky as he sniffled to get
his tears under control. “Fuck you.”
“Maybe when you’re sixteen again,” Irish hummed. “But for now, I’m more than
content doing the fucking.”
Conan shook his head. “D-d… drop dead.”
Ah, there was that curse that Irish had heard a little bit about when doing
research about him. Anyone the little detective didn’t personally care for had
a high chance of being murdered or killed… in a case.
And it was unfortunate for him that they weren’t currently part of one.
“Someday,” Irish responded. “Maybe you’ll be the cause of it.”
Which he didn’t mind in the slightest – if he had to go, he would prefer it if
Kudou Shinichi was somehow related to the reason, if not the reason itself. He
was dedicated, after all.
Ah, luck of the Irish, in which the Irish people were not too terribly lucky
when their past of famine and discrimination was scrutinized and looked at – an
ironic phrase that was meant to be taken in stride.
But Irish certainly felt pretty lucky that night.
He wondered how long it would last.
End Notes
     I actually like Irish's character a lot, but... this was calling out
     to me
     (As for Chronophobia, that's next on my to-do update list. Though I
     may finish this story first since it's shorter...)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!