Babylon

Author's Note

This is an experiment in alternate continuity, inspired by the YuYu Hakusho kink meme on livejournal. Part one of three.

Summary

Kurama will go to any lengths to protect his family, even so far as making a bet with the Gambling Man. AU, Sakyo/Kurama Dubcon

He supposed 'whore' wasn't the right word to use. No, whores you generally had to pay, and no matter how clean they claimed to be, there was always the unpalatable stench of pleasure for hire. Or as much pleasure as one could get from a dispassionate, unimaginative streetwalker. No, Sakyo didn't think of this temporary embuggerance as a whore, but someone less precise might.

The boy had slept with almost all of his shareholders, for one. He could see the look that passed between all of them at meetings. 'You too?' Seemed to be written on every face, male and female alike. He remembered, upon tearing the facts out of one of them, feeling a sense of... jealousy, maybe? Maybe more like annoyance. Clearly the boy had indiscriminate tastes, but Sakyo wouldn't fuck half of his committee if they wore paper bags over their faces, and the other half were sad, spineless nitwits.

The only other shareholder that seemed immune to the boy had been Hatenaka. And when Sakyo found out the boy was Hatanaka's own stepson he'd nearly bitten his pen in half. For a moment he suspected Hatenaka of putting his kid up to it, but... well, honestly. The man could run a small business well enough for Sakyo to take notice and put a nice investment in for the future, but corporate espionage was so far out of the man's league that it was playing for a team on another planet.

No, for some reason, the pretty redhead with the nice ass was doing this all on his own, and Sakyo could not for the life of him imagine why.
He sighed, leaving the long office where he held his monthly shareholder meetings (last out, as always, because watching his little playthings walk away with shoulders slumped in defeat was the best part of these necessary annoyances) and stalked to the elevators to his penthouse. This company, his empire, was his life. It was only fitting that he made his bed here, too.

The elevator arrived in short order, and as he climbed in he unscrewed the fire detector that hung accusingly above the call buttons. Then, he lit a much-needed cigarette and let the smoke steal precious hours from him, sighing when nicotine and the sweet, psychological thrill of slow suicide melted the tension in his shoulders.

He'd almost forgotten about the Shareholder's Slut when the elevator rang it's solemn note of homecoming at him, and the doors slid open. He reached for another cigarette as he strode into the penthouse, and stopped, hands half poised to light the new from the ashes of the old, and stared in hopeless disbelief.

His desk - large, cherry wood that never held a shine but was smooth as satin from decades of use - had always been the first and last thing he saw when leaving his home. The bedroom hid away at the back of the penthouse, but the desk, the heart of his company and lifeblood of his every waking day, sat where most people put dining tables or couches. It was the center of the living room, and he lived in it.

And the slut was sitting on it. On it, not even having the decency to sit in the high leather chair. No, he'd put his marvelously sculpted ass right on the wood. Sakyo, who had never carried a gun in his life (there was such a thing as too much temptation) wished fervently that he did, and that he could splatter that pretty face all over the windows that overlooked his city.

Hatenaka's boy - Satoshi? No, too peasant. Shuuichi... yes. Shuuichi's back was to Sakyo, and a tilt of the head confirmed that he'd even had the audacity to go and read the documents that had been placed with exacting chaos on the desktop. One hand held his weight while the other held an open folder; his profile was a smooth curve of black suit and bright, scarlet hair. Then he turned his head, glanced at Sakyo, and smirked.

Sakyo, already contemplating several kinds of murder, contemplated several more. The remains of his first cigarette singed his knuckles and then extinguished. He had no idea what to say.

'Get the fuck out of my house' was a good choice, 'leave before I kill you was another.' Maybe just kill him first and toss the body out the window. He could almost see the headlines, tragic tale of gorgeous but troubled teenager driven to suicide. He could easily cover it up. But, he just had to know what the little bastard's game was. Nobody had this kind of audacity - nobody Sakyo didn't already forcibly employ, anyway - and upon reflection and with complete honesty he had to admit he was terribly curious. The piece of ass on his desk was very fine indeed. The not-so-subtle looks his minions had been giving each other hadn't exaggerated.

He repacked the second cigarette, took far too much time to adjust his tie, and strolled leisurely to the desk, being sure to cross around in front of young Hatenaka, getting an eyefull of him.

He was... strange. Enticingly so, but definitely Not Quite Right. He didn't have much experience with teenagers that weren't street hustlers or average, expendable thugs, so he couldn't compare Shuuichi to anyone else his age, but Sakyo was sure that no kids between the ages of twelve and twenty regularly went around wearing tailored three-piece suits. That was the least strange thing. His hair, obviously, was several shades brighter than acceptably weird, but it obviously wasn't dyed. Dyed hair didn't have that sheen, wasn't quite so thick, and nobody dyed their eyelashes that Sakyo knew of. And the eyes under those lashes were not colored with tinted contacts.

Sakyo sat in his chair as he continued to take mental catalog of Shuuichi, who was still smirking bemusedly at him, still poised like a model waiting for instruction. Can't be mixed, he mused, rescuing the abandoned cigarette from before and looking pointedly at a golden lighter that sat a few centimeters from Shuiichi's balance hand. The boy's smirk seemed to intensify as he shifted his weight to take it. Sakyo noted that he didn't sit up and turn the way anyone else would. Instead he dropped the file and crossed the now unoccupied hand over his body to take the lighter, the entire motion making him curve serpentlike until a little space and gravity were all that stood between propriety and being spread like a feast over the desk. The lighter was flicked on and Sakyo inhaled another few years of his life, then blew them away in a cloud of smoke that curled around Shuuichi and made him look... not as ethereal as a movie starlet, as the pose and setting would imply. No, Sakyo got the distinct image in his head of a demon come to barter for a soul. The thought made his dick twitch maddeningly.

But Hatenaka Shuuichi, naitre Minamino, if his information was correct (or soon to be, he hadn't checked if the marriage was finalized or not; he didn't much care if it was) couldn't possibly be a demon. There were birth certificates, and Sakyo had been taught very carefully and thoroughly all the signs of demonic possession. The younger Toguro had insisted he have the ability to tell, when and if trouble came home to dinner.

"I wonder what it is you are thinking," Shuuichi said. Sakyo found himself watching for fangs. He swore he saw a glint of sharpness, but was distracted by lips that by all rights should not have been his concern, and a voice as smooth and dark as tinted glass. It was a voice that fit the body: feminine but with masculinity to be dangerous. Husky. He liked that.

"A lot of people do," he evaded. There was already too much ash on his cigarette, and Shuuichi's long legs were blocking his ashtray. The dilemma of whether to exert himself (ad possibly be in direct danger of a knife to the throat) or drop the ashes on his beautiful floor battled across his mind long enough for Shuuichi to reach out, take the cigarette, and ash it for him. If it hadn't been for the blink-and-you-miss-it, 'I'm only doing this because I want something' look in the boy's eyes he would have sworn this little play was mutually enjoyable.

For a split second, though, he could see bitter self-loathing in those eyes. And all of the sudden, he wanted to fuck this boy raw.

"How old are you?" He asked, trailing a finger over one of Shuuichi's knuckles as the cigarette was passed back. He had standards, after all, but he could be convinced.

"Sixteen," was the cool, far too grown up for reality reply. Sakyo could tell it was a very near thing; he'd passed along too many hookers-to-be to miss that bare hint of an almost lie. But... he wasn't lying.

Sakyo did what he did best and took a stab in the dark. "You mean the body is sixteen."

It wasn't shock or approval in the eyes now, but a grudging, irritated affirmative. Sakyo indulged in a smirk of his own and took another drag, passing the cigarette over when it was finished. "Must be tough. How's puberty treating you?"

Ah, now anger. Not a lot of it, pretenses had to be kept up, of course. The demon in young flesh wanted something specific and most likely costly from him, and would get it whatever the difficulty. That he liked as well; the thought made his skin tingle. Bargaining with demons was such a sweeter risk than mere humans.

"I have a proposition for you," Shuuichi answered, evading just as Sakyo had, but with less finesse. Sakyo could see it in his posture, the way his legs twitched together a little; he didn't want to be here. He could probably smell Sakyo's 'special' employees, the brothers Toguro and their weird friends. The creepy one especially, Karasu, had been hanging out a lot lately.

"What's your name?" Sakyo pressed, leaning on his desk so his face was level with Shuuichi's tie, looped precisely around a slender neck that even the most pious and virginal of saints wouldn't be able to look away from. Whatever kind of demon Shuuichi was, he'd made a hell of a body for himself. Sakyo was happy to just look at it for a while, to see the very pretty shell that contained something sick and poisonous.

He almost burst out laughing at the 'Are you stupid?' look Shuuichi gave him for the question. It was so unmistakably the look of a sixteen year old boy that if his guess at demonic possession (or simple heritage) hadn't been confirmed he would've turned the kid out in a second flat.

"I mean your real name," he clarified, holding on to his composure with an iron grip. Shuuichi very nearly did the typical teenaged eye-roll, but seemed to catch himself just in time, glaring instead.

"Kurama Youko," was the reply. Sakyo… was not unimpressed. However, he was still deeply amused. He'd heard the name more than once, muttered among prisoners, stories whispered like bogeyman tales used to scare small children, if the children were full-grown, rather powerful adult demons. When a name and a reputation like that dropped into a conversation, a wise businessman takes notice.

"They say you died." It was a flat reply. Obviously it was a response Shuuichi - excuse, Kurama - hadn't expected. There was a tilt of the head, a general shuffling of position. Now he looked more like a boytoy on display.

"Exaggerations. You seem unconcerned." He said it like he couldn't fathom someone trembling at the sound of it. And, Sakyo knew, people had certainly trembled. A few had uttered soft, longing moans. Youko Kurama's reputation was, for all intents and purposes, justly deserved.

"I'm only concerned with what kind of proposition you have for me," Sakyo replied, deliberately not putting any licentious emphasis on his words. He didn't like being cliché.

Kurama sighed and swung his legs around so they dangled off the edge of the desk, readjusting his position so that pretty, slender neck was out of Sakyo's immediate grasp. He reached into his expensive jacket and pulled out a small, tightly folded sheaf of papers, offering it to Sakyo with an annoyed, but somehow also hopefully respectful air. Sakyo took them and rifled through politely. This was, after all, a business transaction, no matter how unorthodox. When he was about halfway through, his brow creased.

"You should know I don't operate this way. I don't give immunity to any of my shareholders without-"

"The others have already agreed," Kurama cut in, his voice just as plain and businesslike. He knew what he was doing. "I made sure to get all of their signatures, after the necessary arrangements." He bent, pulling the papers up until the last was visible, scrawled and stamped with almost thirty names. Not just the shareholders either, Sakyo noticed. Some of his closer business partners, and a subsidiary who ran the demon collecting racket. Strange the bedfellows one teenaged demon could acquire for something so relatively mundane. Sakyo glanced up at him, impressed.

"You really want this," he said. Kurama shrugged, flippantly.

"I don't expect to live very long, in this body or otherwise. It is prudent to have all of my earthly affairs taken care of before things get out of hand."

Sakyo thought about this longer. Granting the corporate equivalent of diplomatic immunity - allowing Hatenaka to not have to fear any kind of coup, buy-out, sabotage, or other related downfall - wasn't something he'd do lightly. Hell, it wasn't something he'd ever done. It didn't have the spice of danger. Hatenaka wasn't a competitor, not yet anyway, so there was no reason to take much notice of him. But now? Sakyo had to weigh his options.

He rifled through the papers again, looking at all of the clauses and sub-clauses thoroughly. Kurama had left nothing out: there were no loopholes, no small print, nothing that Sakyo could use against him later. There was no risk here, just basic business laced with the promise of some reportedly fantastic sex. Irritated, he grabbed another cigarette, this time lighting it himself.

When the flame hit the end of the paper he had an epiphany. The younger Toguro had been increasingly vocal about that kid, the one who had beaten him and ended Torukane's illustrious but also extremely irritating career. He'd begged (insofar as he was capable) for the Ankoku Buujutsukai to be reinstated. He'd even threatened to let Karasu off his leash once or twice, and while no one had gotten anything they wanted out of it, Sakyo had been left with ringing ears and a lot of very specific thoughts.

"One extra condition," he said, tugging a drawer open and retrieving a blank sheet of paper. He glanced at Kurama, who was staring at him expectantly. Unmighty Gods, Kurama would agree to anything for this. He hadn't even flinched. Sakyo smirked inwardly and scrawled hastily on the paper as Kurama watched him. He handed over the paper when he was finished and watched, the arousal and hunger coming back, as the demon-boy's face went from irritated to confused to positively gleeful.

"Another tournament," Kurama breathed. "I thought we'd seen the last. I haven't competed since I was a kit."

Sakyo was terribly intrigued by the admission, but didn't ask. It wouldn't do to be derailed. "So you agree?"

Kurama smiled at him and reached into a pocket, pulling out a small rectangular stamp. He uncapped it and pressed it to the paper, using his thigh for leverage instead of the desk. The whole display, Sakyo would remember later, was another very deliberate reminder of what their most important agreement would be: Sex for safety.

Kurama handed the paper back with a little businesslike smile. Sakyo took it, and put it away with his other completed transaction files. Then, with a little flourish of his own, he took the insignia stamp he kept on his desk, carefully inked it, and pressed his name - the last - to the sheet Kurama had given him before.

Together, as if choreographed, they said: "Agreed."

Kurama took back the papers with a smile, carefully folding them together and placing them back inside of his jacket pocket. Then, with the deliberate air of an artist, he rearranged himself on the desk again, back from teenage petulance to the near-fatal sexiness he'd displayed before. Sakyo wondered idly what he must have looked like when he was a demon to have such body language, what kind of body could have pulled off the posture that the human shape was only making a competent forgery of. He was an imaginative man, it didn't take long for his blood to start moving in the right direction. Still, there wasn't enough risk. Kurama was a deathless monster that Sakyo, despite his modest training and intelligence, couldn't destroy. But the human body was fragile, and he could take it and mold it to his own pleasure perfectly, though without the consequences that made other conquests all the more fulfilling. He was winning and losing at the same time, and while his body was more than willing to take what there was of a windfall, his brain was still not so sure.

Kurama seemed to notice this. He didn't reach out, as one would to an affectionate lover, but tilted his head, expectant; annoyed at being kept waiting.

"What do you want, Sakyo?"

Oh God, yes. There it was. Sakyo felt the sub-skin shiver of arousal crawl from his scalp all the way to his toes. His dick twitched again, reminding him that there was important, good work to do soon, and the half-bored, half-hopeful way Kurama stared at him made him grit his teeth in barely suppressed want. That was it: He wanted Kurama to say his name. He wanted a living legend to scream out his name in pain and ecstasy and come all over his favorite desk and he could see it happening the way he saw the best of his work.

He stood, placing his hands on the desk with Kurama situated snugly between them. Then he purred, softer than he'd thought to, "Say my name."

Too much silence followed, but Kurama leaned forward, resting one hand on Sakyo's shoulder, the other sliding hair away from his ear.

"Sakyo," Kurama whispered, and suddenly Sakyo knew where that amazing reputation came from. The demon-boy could put more perfect emphasis on a few syllables than all the great speakers in history could leave in an entire monologue. Somehow, beyond all reason, his own name had just become pure sex.

He loved that.

"Sakyo," that husky whisper again, this time edged with exactly the right amount of pleading. Sakyo's fists clenched on the arms of his chair, an unintentional, almost annoying reflex. Kurama was doing nothing, nothing to deserve this kind of reaction. That hearing his own name had suddenly become such a turn-on made Sakyo want to kick himself.

Then again, he hadn't fucked anyone who hadn't been begging him to stop in a very long time. This in mind, he peeled his hand away from the armrest and reached up to Kurama, drawing his fingers along the boy's exquisitely dressed (Italian silk, if touch did not falter) chest. Then, he reached his destination, the thicker, inky black fabric of the tie, and wrapped it around his hand, tugging it free from the severely buttoned suit.

"Sakyo," this time, barely a siken, needy hiss. Kurama's breath on his ear made his dick twitch again, filling and waiting as the rest of him wanted so badly to fuck Kurama to pieces that it nearly hurt. He yanked at the tie, pulling it taut around Kurama's neck, the soft hiss breaking off in a strangled gasp.

Kurama's head jerked back, hands clenching on Sakyo's shoulder, in his hair. Sakyo watched his throat work around the fabric, watching the flesh around its edges go white and then red at each, struggling breath. He knew full well that the display was for his benefit; after all, Kurama was a demon. It would take more than a little erotic asphyxia to give him much more than a bruise. But the body was human, or human enough, and reacted beautifully.

"Could I kill you?" He asked, slackening his grip enough for Kurama to speak. He could already see the beginning of a bruise ringing around the boy demon's throat.

"There is always that risk," Kurama replied, his voice only barely hoarse. Sakyo's heart went doubletime at the word risk. It was his favorite, it was so small yet cost so much. It made him want to try, to see how far he could go before Kurama would defend himself.

"There is no death clause," Sakyo pointed out, meaning their contract. Kurama's gaze did not flicker. Of course he knew it inside and out.

Sakyo let go of the tie and leaned back in his chair, the comfortable leather creaking and settling around him. One hand he rested on his thigh, ready for when he needed it, the other he used to prop his chin, staring at Kurama with a smirk he knew he was only getting away with just now, just for tonight.

"I want to see you strip," he said. Casual, as if ordering a drink.

Kurama responded first with a look, something on the verge of hell-fury hatred yet complete enjoyment. He wants me to see him, to see how gorgeous he is under all that clothing, Sakyo realized, the epiphany making his skin shiver. And he hates that I'm ordering him to do what he already wants. He almost slipped a hand closer to his crotch, but regained composure. Kurama's insane double standards were delicious, like whiskey with diamonds for ice. Sakyo couldn't remember ever being in the presence of someone so monumentally fucked-up that he or his colleagues hadn't gotten to first.

The look passed. Kurama straightened and pulled his hair over one shoulder. Sakyo watched with some surprise as the demon went not for the tie first, or even the shoes (they didn't shine; like everything else they were matte black and made the shadows around him moan in longing) but for the jacket, carefully undoing each button before slipping it from his shoulders and hanging it casually over the desk's single lamp. What light it gave was dampened to a blue-gray glow, bringing the shadows closer. Sakyo would have thought that white - something pristine to match the angelic face and wide, studiously unassuming eyes - would have suited Kurama better. But black, the noir of pure aesthetic, curled around him and settled comfortably on his skin, his clothes, his hair. Sakyo had never seen anything like it.

The waistcoat was next, four buttons undone with exacting, obsessive precision. It was shrugged off and tossed aside, landing in a crumpled heap of fabric that would cost a middle-class worker half his yearly salary. Then came the tie.

Kurama's fingers slid into the knot with only a moment of difficulty - Sakyo's powers of transforming neckties to nooses were formidable indeed - then pulled it loose. The fabric hissed as it passed over itself, parting from Kurama's skin, leaving behind only the bruise and, faintly, a texture relief. Sakyo barely suppressed a moan. Fragile and indomitable. Talk about the perfect lay.

Finally, the shirt. It was charcoal grey linen and the buttons must have been hand carved from some dark wood. Sakyo briefly and without even a hint of disbelief realized suddenly that this too was for his benefit. After all, what was a marvelous gift if it wasn't presented with the appropriate wrapping? He almost regretted not stripping the demon himself, but watching Kurama take care of that business, knowing how carefully he must have put it all together hours before.

The linen rustled, falling back over Kurama's shoulders, catching at his elbows. Sakyo took him in appreciatively. From the collarbone up Kurama was all sensitive lips and doe-like eyes, a walking trap for anyone with a working libido. He looked like the kind of youthful innocence that was begging, screaming to be violated, even when those eyes flashed with the cold darkness of black ice, Sakyo could still imagine fucking him into oblivion. The rest of him almost didn't fit; the softness of his face (despite how sharp and appropriately foxlike his features were) was only a passing reference on the line of his slim, strong shoulders. He had a smooth, toned chest that gave the slightest teasing hint of an androgynous curve, a flat stomach marred only by a paper-thin scar over his solar plexus. Sakyo ran his tongue over his teeth, wanting to bite into Kurama's flesh and see how much it gave, if it would be pliable or hard to his touch.

He caught Kurama's eyes. The expression was pure, confident arrogance: He knew Sakyo liked what he saw, and that was his pleasure. Sakyo couldn't imagine was going to be like, fucking someone so vain, other than knowing it would be well worth the wait. He lifted an eyebrow. Go on.

Kurama's lips quirked, satisfied, and he discarded the shirt, letting it slip from his arms and holding it out away from the desk, watching it flutter as it fell to the floor. Sakyo wondered if it was supposed to be a distraction, and if it was it had backfired. If he hadn't been able to take his eyes off Kurama before, it was impossible now.

He watched Kurama bend. The red hair... it had obviously never seen the loving ministrations of a barber, and grew out in that wild way all teenagers of a certain age get when they decide to be rebellious and go to bed with their hair still wet from the bath. It flowed over his shoulders and down his back like a bloody, shining veil. He ached to touch it, to grab onto it, to force Kurama's head back and watch his throat go taught and run his tongue over that sweetly textured bruise.

Kurama raised again, tossing one shoe away with a dull clatter. It tumbled away into the darker corners of Sakyo's office, followed by its twin, landing sole-down and skidding, softly, to settle by the elevator. Akyo watched this with a kind of anticipatory glee that was almost unsettling. What was Kurama, really? What kind of creature could be so obsessively, unequivocally dualistic? The way he stripped down, proper and quiet and almost timid while the clothes were being removed, then tossing them away like they were already scrabbling for each other and scattering across the penthouse. It boggled the mind, how he could be so still and so kinetic at the same time.

It's going to be like fucking a tesla coil, he thought, allowing himself to grin as Kurama leaned back on his hands to toe off his socks. He noted, with no small amount of humor, that they were striped. Black and grey instead of traditional black and white, but it was still cute enough for his grin to have just a touch of fondness. If Kurama had been a human, Sakyo probably could have loved him, a little bit, with touches like that.

Kurama paused once the socks were off, lifting an eyebrow, face calm but eyes sparkling with... lust? Mischief? Probably both, with hate and rage hiding in there somewhere because, with him, it seemed necessary. Sakyo watched as Kurama tilted his hips forward, a very conscious and deliberate invitation. Sure you don't want to give me a hand with this?

Sakyo's grin widened and he waved a hand. It's all you.

The look Kurama flashed him was something between your loss and you lazy motherfucker, an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes. Kurama shifted his weight to one hand and tossed his hair back over his shoulder. Sakyo followed the path of his fingers, eyes drawn with inescapable magnetism, as Kurama traced from neck to chest, over stomach and finally to the shining silver clasp of his buckle, the only thing on him that didn't swallow up the light.

Sakyo's mouth didn't go dry and his heart didn't race, nothing so cliché as that. But he moved his hand a little closer to his already hot, demanding crotch and watched, transfixed, as slim dexterous fingers worked the buckle free. Kurama even pulled the belt out, dropping it in a messy coil on the desk. Sakyo glanced up to his face; it was the only thing he hadn't tossed to the floor. The look in Kurama's eyes was unmistakable. For later, if you like. The thought of it was so delicious that Sakyo couldn't help stroking himself through the fabric of his pants. Even better was the momentary pause as Kurama watched him appreciatively before beginning the final process of removing his pants.

Sakyo realized he was watching the slow progression of the zipper on Kurama's slacks with more intensity than he had ever given a winning poker hand, or the spinning trajectory of a die that could very well mean his life, or at least a few limbs. He watched the teeth of the zipper part, tried not to let his breath hitch when the fabric is pulled away for the sake of fair flesh and fine, dark hair. He chokes back a groan when Kurama lifts one leg just enough to hide himself and still get the pant leg off, shifting his hips to remove the other. Then he lets go, the fabric sliding down his thighs, over his knees, down his calves to catch on one foot, the other dangling almost childishly over the edge of the desk.

Kurama's knee was positioned perfectly to just block the view Sakyo so desperately wanted of him and is too proud to crane his neck to see. A little is all it will take, but he wasn't willing to give Kurama that much power over him. He didn't want Kurama to know how wanted he is.
To say Sakyo maintained a perfect poker face was to say the Romans were kind of good at building things.

There were long moments of silence while Sakyo took in what he could see, drinking it in and putting every crease of flesh and dull shine on dark hair into his memory, locking it away for the inevitable nights when his companions for hire just aren't enough. Kurama stares back at him, that arrogant look in his eyes almost as sexual as the way he's positioned himself, just out of reach but right there for the taking.

Sakyo's chair was close enough to the desk that he merely had to reach out to touch Kurama, that sliding his hand along lean, perfectly formed muscles would be no trouble at all. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth as he realized this, how close they were. This wasn't some slut behind a glass wall at the casino, not some overused, over-publicized industry whore on any number of porn movies his business partners have playing on the large screens at their secluded 'rest houses.' This wasn't a trussed up and drugged slave like he was so used to and had, completely without noticing, gotten bored with.
This was… every disappointment ever being made up for in an absolutely gorgeous, perfectly arrogant, infuriatingly confident package of youthful, ready sex.

He let himself have the luxury of a little smile and reached out, stroking his fingers along the outside of Kurama's leg, bringing the boy's foot up to rest on the arm of his chair. He could see the curve of Kurama's erection, not completely hard but enough to let him know that he was more than ready, impatient even, for the attention they'd agreed on. For a moment Sakyo was wavering between what he wanted to start with. His mouth was beginning to water; he wanted to bite into Kurama's thighs and then suck him off until he was begging for rest. He wanted to go ahead and fuck the boy until the legs of his desk cracked. He took a second for inventory, and decided he could occupy his mouth elsewhere – his dick wasn't going to wait and there was no way he was going to ruin a 200,000 yen suit by coming in his pants.

He pushed up from his chair and managed not to let his knees give out when Kurama tilted his head up to look at him, wide green eyes catching the dimmed light and showing an innocent readiness he knew was a lie but wanted to defile anyway. Gods, he wished he'd been able to grab Kurama when the boy had been a virgin, to fuck him screaming into adulthood and leave him broken on the floor. He knew what he was getting in to with virgins. Kurama, however… he had no idea. And that made the spike of lust in his groin even hotter. His hands went to his belt and he couldn't get the fucking thing off fast enough.

Sakyo stood finally, sliding his dick out with one hand and giving it an almost apologetic stroke. The other he caressed along the underside of Kurama's calf, bringing the leg up to hang over his elbow, holding gorgeously toned thighs apart so he could see exactly what he'd purchased for such strange currency.

Of course he already knew that Kurama was beautiful. Naked as well as clothed, Kurama was - if not statuesque - at least model-level beautiful. Sakyo entertained goading the boy demon into some kind of celebrity, just to see how many photobooks of him would publish and sell. Just a picture of that look in his eyes, that 'I hate you and everything about you, but I'll fuck you if it gets me something I want' stare, would send legions of lesser humans into dizzying, uncontrollable lust.

Much like the dizzying, uncontrollable lust Sakyo was trying and failing to fight off right now. The pressure of his hand wasn't even nearly close to enough to ease the pounding pressure behind his eyes, the tension that locked all of his muscles. He wondered how many people would have heart attacks over just a glimpse of the pretty heat of the boy's erection, the way he almost tried to hide himself when his body language was screaming 'why aren't you fucking me yet?'

Which was a very good question. He surged forward, thumb guiding his dick to Kurama's ass, pressing against the boy demon's perineum, forefinger shoving into him dry - fuck lube, if Kurama was a demon he could damn well handle it - stretching just enough to press the head of his cock in, nails digging into the skin of Kurama's thigh while he pushed in.

The pressure was overwhelming, and he could tell Kurama wasn't trying so very hard to relax for him. A barely audible growl of pain reached his ears as the head of his cock scraped past the first ring of muscle; a louder groan when he continued to push, determined to get in right to the hilt before holding Kurama down and fucking him like the slut he was.

Slut? No. I was right before. He's a fucking whore and I'm going to fuck him like one.

He pushed in further. Kurama had given up his grip on the desk and had grabbed onto Sakyo's shoulders, nails almost like claws ripping into the fabric of the suit that was worth more than the lives of the people who made it. He was starting to sweat, too, a fine gloss high on his cheeks where the dark red hair was starting to stick to his skin. Sakyo continued to shove, went until he could feel wetness around his shaft that had to be blood, until his balls pressed against the back of Kurama's ass.

Oh god it was good. When virginity couldn't be found, resistance was just as sweet a fruit, and Kurama resisted him so beautifully, even for someone who had initiated their little game in the first place. When Sakyo cared to look he could see the boy demon's pupils were dilated, skin flushed, lips wet where he'd bitten down to keep quiet out of some semblance of control. Even that wasn't as delicious as the gritted teeth, the narrowed eyes, the look that promised, someday, a painful and terrible death.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, grinning at the thought. Kurama grunted out something that might have been a reply, might have just been an animal noise of pain. Either way, Sakyo wasn't complaining. Even if he wanted to move now it was nearly impossible with the way Kurama gripped him, whole body wire-tense.

He could see it in Kurama's eyes, how much he wanted to deny the pain. It was almost disappointing when he hissed, softly, "...Yes."

Almost, but not quite. Sakyo groaned and wrenched himself out, shoving back in again, the blood making his entrance only marginally easier this time.

"You're so tight, for such a whore," he growled, thinking that the pressure around his cock couldn't get any more intense. He was wrong; Kurama clenched around him even tighter, those nails digging so hard into his shoulders he could feel a trickle of blood escaping down his back.

"Don't you dare call me that," Kurama snarled at him.

Sakyo, who was willing to go only so far, snatched up the belt on his desk. Either Kurama had forgotten it was there or was too angry about the epithet to care. His practiced hands slipped the end through the buckle and had it around the boy demon's throat in seconds, pulling it so taut that he could hear the leather creak.

Kurama didn't have the leverage to gasp, this time; only choke silently and claw at his throat while Sakyo forced his cock a little harder into his ass.

"I'll call you whatever I please, whore," he whispered, slacking on the belt just enough for Kurama to drag in one, life-saving breath of air, "until I'm quite satisfied you know your place."

Kurama lay splayed over the desk, pretty face contorted into a mask of anger and pain, chest rising and falling as he dragged in one difficult breath after another, struggling around the belt still wrapped snugly around his throat. Sakyo watched him writhe, the fingers of one hand scraping at the desktop, the other clawing at the belt, trying futilely to drag just a little bit more slack.

Sakyo, watching this with the internal glee of a child seeing their first Christmas display and the very external and active lust he indulged anyway, wished he'd had the foresight to place the security cameras above the desk just a little higher and to the right. The tapes were only scant inches off, by his calculation, of a perfect view of the goings-on. The thought of being able to jack off while watching himself fuck this pretty, defiant little number was enough just on its own to fuel at least a thousand wet dreams.

He'd been too busy admiring the view (and the way Kurama's convulsions seemed so much more erotic and pleasing than even the quite good fuck they'd been having up to that point) to notice at first the flash of displaced metal off by the elevator, where the room was still pitch dark. The single lamp on his desk had been knocked askew, Kurama's jacket had fallen free and the cold, bright light reflected off leather, and skin, and metal.

Sakyo smirked to himself and braced one knee on the desk, using the other for leverage to rise up and thrust down into Kurama's tight little ass enough to make the boy demon risk screaming around his makeshift collar. The sound, a breathy, gasping moan that could have been an ear-shattering scream a few minutes ago, was almost musical.

Above the cold glint of silver metal, Sakyo met dark eyes that narrowed in what he would bet large sums of money on was appreciation.

So one of the freaks liked to watch. He couldn't tell if Karasu was masturbating over there or was just taking in the view; he was fine with either, provided his 'security' didn't attempt to join in without permission. For now, at least, he wanted Kurama to himself, maybe once or twice more, and then he could go play with the others.

Even so, Karasu's silent, still stare was encouraging more than it put him off, so he thrust harder, smirking in the back of his mind that he wasn't so bored that he couldn't give a good show, and grinning outright when Kurama still made a half-delirious effort to meet each thrust. Defiant to the last, Sakyo thought, rocking his hips until he could feel his joints creak. He yanked on the belt one more time, cutting Kurama off mid-moan. The sound was too much, too broken for him to keep himself in check any longer. Sakyo hissed though his teeth as he came, waiting until the last possible second to let the belt fall slack in his grasp. Kurama shuddered underneath him (in revulsion? It didn't seem as if he'd come) barely managing even a little sigh of relief when the leather left his neck.

Sakyo felt another twinge of lust when he realized that, quite soon, the bright red and white around Kurama's neck would blacken into the most spectacular bruise. And yet, when he glanced up at the silent figure of Karasu, still watching with that impenetrable gaze, Sakyo knew he wouldn't be enjoying that bruise nearly as much as the demon.

He realized he'd opened his mouth to say something (what, exactly?) when Karasu's eyes went from appreciative to disdainful, and the shadows in that corner of the room swallowed him up again. Sakyo stared into the darkness, intent on knowing whether the demon had gone, until Kurama pushed feebly at his chest. He looked down, eyebrow raised.

"Move," Kurama said, his voice hoarse and weak. Almost as pretty as it was regularly. "Something's been digging into my ass for the last twenty minutes."

Sakyo, who was still balls-deep in the selfsame ass said, "Oh indeed?"

Kurama scowled, that petulant teenager look returning full force. Sakyo pulled himself out and began to put himself back together, using an obscenely expensive handkerchief to wipe the blood and come from himself while Kurama shifted around on the desk. Sakyo watched him move around to find the offending item, then nearly zipped his dick in half when he saw it.

It must have been the hastily-concealed snort of laughter, because when Kurama turned back, the signature seal Sakyo had left on the desk clenched in one hand, the look in his green eyes went from curious to near fury.

There, perfectly stamped on Kurama's left asscheek, was Sakyo's name, in white and faded red ink relief, tiny but oh-so-visible. It was, Sakyo would reflect later, entirely fitting, and he'd replay in his mind Kurama's wounded, prideful stance as the boy demon gathered up his clothes - and the contract - to leave.

For now.

1/1/2011