The Fruits of My Labour
Title: The Fruits of My Labour.
Warnings: Necrophilia! *jumps up and down* For those of you who don't know what that is it's fucking corpses!!
Pairing: KarasuxKurama
Notes: Lack of dialog disturbs me. This will go up on AFF too me thinks.
Summary: Inside and out, in life and death, this boy, this human masquerade, was his.
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The Fruits of My Labour
“Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
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He was dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
And that was the beauty of it.
Broken, like a shattered glass. Eyes open, unseeing. Limp before him.
And ah, how beautiful he was. Death chased away all those lines present in life, however, although his Kurama was perfect, he had nearly no imperfections at all, his past was considered a black mark to his record. Among that being his traitorous ways towards the demonic population.
But still, it did not concern him.
Things were simple.
Kurama was dead, and his body was his.
Whatever loyalties the shell had had in the past meant nothing to him then, and even now, still nothing. Toguro may have had a leash around his neck but, ah, it was a good thing in this case. Certainly it had been tolerable, if only for Kurama. He was free now. They both were.
Yes, yes, yes. He was all his now, at least until the body began to fade away, as it had begun to already.
Still warm, if not cooling rapidly.
The fight had been more than exciting, yes, yes. More than exciting.
The body seemed sturdier than a human’s, despite that being his true nature. It seemed slow to begin the rigor mortis, and other processes of decay. It was almost as if he were sleeping for now. His eyes had to yet gain the white film of death, and still existed, set in pale skin, and hidden behind rich crimson hair.
He pulled him from the pile of bodies in which the dead had been discarded, among them the bodies of the Urameshi team and their women. They’d been slaughtered, all of them. Although the others didn’t interest him, their death had only been worth a quirk of his lip. Oh, his time had come, his moment of greatness. He’d stood directly across the arena from the beautiful fox and taunted him, watched his facial expressions twist and morph in fear.
All the while wondering, fantasizing about what he would look like when truly immobilized. His body had trembled simply thinking about the blank expression that would stare back at him, and the pale and cold confines of death that would turn his beautiful body into something truly eternal, sensual.
There was the muck of death around his feet when he pulled Kurama from the mass of bodies, both fighters and spectators. They were left for the scavenger demons, the weak ones of their kind that would come to feast on the flesh of those which could not be killed by their own hands. For many, this dump was their only source of food. Tournaments where no more than an abattoir.
Karasu had to pause when he closed his fingers around Kurama’s pale wrist, and picked up his arm, giving a small tug. Kurama’s head had fallen to the side and that beautiful hair caked with so much blood, paned over his forehead as eyes peered out from beneath, staring past him.
He watched and watched and watched. Frozen.
Then he shivered and groaned, feeling his cock awaken, feeling the whimsical little spikes running through him, tormenting him. This was what he’d imagined when in the arena. This was the death that he had dreamed of.
A deep breath was needed, to calm his eager senses, to keep himself calm. Not yet, not yet.
Without much care for the corpses holding Kurama captive, he pushed them aside (rather than using his bombs, it would be messy, overkill even) and pulled Kurama’s arms up once again, sliding his arms underneath to lock his fingers together at his chest. He heaved his fox out from the rubble of death, and away from its stench. Later laying Kurama down on the grass once more before picking him up properly, an arm to support his shoulders, and another beneath his knees.
He’d taken him away. To a distant place on the island, host to a lake deep enough and clean enough to bathe in. They both needed it, see. Karasu and Kurama.
Kurama was disheveled and incapable of taking care of himself and Karasu was filthy and so, so lusty. They could help each other. Karasu could tend to Kurama’s needs and Kurama to Karasu’s. It worked well. Perfect.
Kurama could not use his sweet, sweet voice to refuse him. Of course, he never had refused Karasu. Not once. He’d gone to death wonderfully.
No vampire plant could ever take him down. Such a thing was stupid. To think that he thought he would just stand there and allow the horrible little mouths to suck away all of his lifeblood, without a single attempt of ridding himself from their incessant rape of his self. His nails were not for show. Kurama saw how they bit into the concrete stadium when he’d come down from above, he’d known their strength. He’d accepted it, his death.
He’d agreed to be Karasu’s, this way. And his team didn’t realize! Oh, a tragic death, a murder carried out before their very own eyes, oh. The look in their faces when he rose instead of his darling Kurama had been absolutely delectable. The look on Toguro’s face had been hard won. He’d gained his respect in that one single act. Perhaps that is why he was allowed to be here now, his wish granted. He was free. Free from Toguro and free to have Kurama as he truly wanted.
He waded into the water of the lake, quite far in, until he was waist deep and the very ends of Kurama’s tresses tumbled down and drifted like swirls of smoke. Around them the waters surface rippled, disturbed and running from their presence, seeking their death of shore. The grass, green as the emerald of the dead boy in his arms eyes, swept with the wind, carrying the whispers of the trees leaves and rodent animals with it. Pulling, tugging and toying with the strands of ebony hair. Sweeping before Karasu’s eyes, attempting to cover the wonderful sight of Kurama’s utterly dead face as he bent his knees and lowered them into the water slowly.
Kurama floated easily, staring up at the sky with the blank look that would drag on for eternity, and his pale lips parted slightly upon the gentle coaxing of a single finger running across their surface. Traveling up over a high cheekbone, a thumb tracing a delicate eyebrow, fingers sweeping back sodden hair, combing it free of tangles and blood.
Karasu was shaking despite himself, his heart overwhelmed. This was what he’d been waiting for, for so, so long. This was… this was perfect. Because everything had worked out, despite the anxious little voice in the forgotten corner of his mind that had told him, ‘This is your end, Karasu.’ He’d lived on. He’d gained his life back and it felt like the sweetest ambrosia.
Kurama was different to the others. Kurama was special.
Kurama was in a league that the others had never reached. Not in looks. Not in skills.
He had him and he was so fucking hard.
Careful of the gaping holes in Kurama’s flesh, his own handiwork, Karasu stripped Kurama down to nakedness, not caring if his clothes floated off into oblivion. Just as long as he could see more of the scarred and exposed flesh so pale and cold, colder than the water around them. He trailed his hands along the cold ivory, whipping the blood away, watching it disappear in clouds under the waters surface, running his fingers along the muscle and sinew of the gaping wounds on his beloved arms, legs and sides. It made him shiver.
Inside and out, in life and death, this boy, this human masquerade, was his.
He couldn’t keep his hands on the sweet and innocent path, of course he had to trail them over Kurama’s flaccid cock, lifeless and just as dead as the rest of him, impervious to his ministrations. He memorized him with his hands and his eyes, wide as he stared through the clear water, his own clothes soaked and blood stained. Keeping a hand supporting Kurama’s head, he slid his jacket of one shoulder, and with a bit of maneuvering pulled his arm from the sleeve, then switched his hands, to support Kurama’s head with one as the other pulled itself from the sleeve of his defiled jacket. Caked, tainted with his own blood. Filthy. He would never wear it again.
He swept the blood from his own self hastily, not able to take his eyes of the boy floating before him, eyes wide and staring up. Someone must have opened them to shame him, death should be peaceful (some thought) not horrid and permanently etched into the face of the deceased. Karasu disagreed with the irrational logic. What was wrong with them? Death was death. At the point of dying, that was how you were for eternity. The disgrace, the beauty, the nakedness of self, stayed forever.
Once clean, he picked Kurama up like a child, cradling his nakedness to his chest, his cheek pressed to the sodden mess of blood tinged hair clinging to their skin. Kurama was cold now, like stone, and his skin was so hard and his insides leaking slowly, the life draining from him. Slowly, slowly.
Karasu had known the feeling of dead skin under his fingers, time and time again. This was different, he knew it inside him, somewhere, that this was special. This would be the epitome of his accomplishments in life.
He didn’t make it too the shore. No, instead he dropped to his knees in the ankle deep water. Kurama fell like a broken doll below him, sending water scattering in all other directions but them. He fell on top of him, exhausted suddenly, a giddy little feeling rising slowly up his spine and in his stomach. He pulled his mask away so he could smell the clean stench of death clinging to his Kurama, his nose buried in the tender flesh of his demon's neck.
He felt indecent like this, slumped against Kurama’s naked form, a knee seeking purchase in the mud below murky water, between pale thighs. It tore a laugh from his throat, spilling from his mouth like the blood of a victim of a ruptured lung, drowning in it. He couldn’t stop it. The elation and need was coiling around him, squeezing the lightness into his heart and sending his mind elsewhere.
His hands scooped up the skull, fingers tangling in the beautiful sodden tresses as he angled Kurama to stare back at him. Instantly it was like Kurama was sending a message to him. From the moment his eyes connected with Kurama’s, and Kurama saw more than he ever would in that blank stare, Karasu felt the fire inside him. It was like a lightning bolt, right from the fiercest storm Makai had ever seen, right through his fucking eyes and lighting up every single nerve along its way until it reached his oh, so hard cock and made him convulse violently in a sudden shock of powerful need.
His stomach muscles clenched on their own, forcing him forward as he refused the moan to sneak past his lips, his forehead resting against Kurama’s own, their hair mixing, Karasu’s shallow breathing fractured and so, so loud to his own ears. Kurama unmoving, unseeing.
He had to… had to taste-
His tongue darted out, sweeping across Kurama’s own cool lips, clammy and tasting very faintly of death. Clean. He drew his tongue across, past the corner of his mouth, up over the hills of cheekbone to his temple.
Stretched as he was he couldn’t maneuver very well, so he reluctantly slid his knees from between Kurama’s own, to plant it beside his partly submerged, beautiful hip, so sculpted and pale. Ethereal. He arched himself up, and stared down at the form below him, trembling a little.
Perched above him, his knees either side of his hips, Karasu stroked down the cheek with a long ivory finger, marveling at the beauty. His breath caught again as temptation called, his eyes locked onto those pale lips once more and a thought prowled into his mind. Quickly he brought his index finger to his lips, slicing the skin fairly easy with one pass over the point of his teeth. He coated Kurama’s lips with the makeshift life, giving them the blushed and sensuous look, before he quivered under another torrent of furious need, and temptation won over once more.
Ignoring naught but his own needs for the moment, he stared into those blank emerald eyes for a moment, and then leant down, joined his lips with the slightly cold ones bellow. His hand slipped forward a little, and pried the jaw open while his tongue ran along the skin again, tasting his own blood on their surface, licking it clean.
He delved deeper, his body singing, begging to be closer to the boy, to be in him, inside and out, totally and completely. To own this shell, so hard won. He broke away and took a deep breath, enjoying the hum of the air around him just as much as the blatant absence of energy below him.
Fuck it. He didn’t have to mess around with petty coos of consolidation or love, no confessions or regrets existed here. He could fuck him when he wanted, why should he wait? Why should he act the caring lover? Why should he take his time? Had he not watched enough already? So long, for so long. He’d watched and watched and whished.
The pretty little thing was dead, murdered, and that had begun their perfect unification just like that. Intimacy at its highest form. Death. Oh, it was beautiful.
He didn’t want to wait any longer, he didn’t want to stop here. This was the only time he’d have with this shell. It’d rot and decay in its own time, withering away to nothingness. Returning to the earth once more, wouldn’t the youko in him be happy. Joined once again to his beloved earth, but not without Karasu’s last sentiments, not before he left his gift inside him. Not before Karasu took that which was so much better in death than in life.
He reached down with an urgent and shaking hand, undoing the fastening of his pants while he leant over his obsession, unmoving and willing. Hell, he didn’t even bother to pull the black material from him, he only pushed the rough material down far enough to free his aching cock and still allow him to move around comfortably. The surface of the shallow water below them, disturbed and murky, still allowed him to see the lines of Kurama’s hips, and the shape of his white thighs, the muscles underneath.
Delving into the water, under the coldness of skin and bones, he pulled the hips up a little as he bent down, ignoring the way his own hair blocked Kurama from his field of vision, having him look at his red-haired possession with black streaked frames. No matter, the feeling of heat and coldness combined, pleasure over riding all present sanity and taking over whatever control he might have still had.
He forced himself inside Kurama’s ass with a hiss and a grunt, the water around them sloshing slightly. He was tight for this stage of death, oh, it felt wonderful, so tight around his cock. He must be staring to harden already, turn to stone. Karasu felt the urge to laugh again rising, and ignored it in favour of leaning forward and bending his beloved shell a little, hovering over his chest, staring up at the luminescent so much like streams of blood and the nonchalant emerald eyes of emerald.
He had to grit his teeth and force himself to keep his head up, his eyes open, under the powerful torrent, crashing through him almost furiously. He moaned, breath shortening further, loving the way Kurama’s unresponsive body welcomed him each time he thrust his cock inside, the way Kurama’s eyelashes shaded his eyes slightly as he stared away. Karasu couldn’t take his eyes off him, wouldn’t dare. He didn’t want to close his eyes at all, didn’t want to block him out, to become a void of nothing while ecstasy overtook all.
It did eventually. The pleasure ricocheted throughout him like tiny little lights, all working together to pull his mind from his grasp, send him spiraling. He became desperate, the snaps of his hips and his grip on the body below tightening, nails becoming dangerous and sinking in, shredding the skin wherever they traveled.
Like a whirlwind of insanity things escaladed, higher and higher and higher. He was sure he screamed, but he wasn’t conscious of what he was doing at all, didn’t care one bit. He buried his head in the shell’s neck, mouth wide, body screaming almost as loud as he thought he was, the broken cry escaping without warning nor consent.
He came, long and hard. Panting, gulping in air like he were a beast starved of air, eyes wide in the aftershock once things became clearer. He swallowed thickly, and sighed, dropping his head. He didn’t want to pull out immediately, so he ran his hands over cold and clammy skin instead, memorizing the hard planes and flesh beneath.
This one was different. He’d go out different.
He deserved to go out in a great big fucking bang. Something that would make the very islands foundations shake, and leave the trees stupefied and demons bewildered. Once, twice, three times would Karasu have his way.
Kurama was his, no one would ever forget. His body would decay the way he wished, not the way others wished. In some anonymous fucking pile to be fed on by mere scavengers.
Kurama, his hard won freedom, the fruits of his labour. The first in a long line of many to come, would die the absolute and perfect death.
The End