Author's Note: Another pornographic kink meme fill. This might just be the kinkiest thing I've ever written, and I've written some pretty sordid stuff.
Warnings: NON-CON or FICTIONAL RAPE, DADDY KINK, PWP, ANAL SEX, FINGERING, SPANKING, WHIPPING, and OH SO MUCH MORE. This is not safe for work in the extreme, let me tell you something.
Pairing: Toguro/Kurama. This is one long lemon. One very long, very pornographic lemon.
Toguro carried Kurama into the bedroom by a gruff hold on the scruff of the boy's neck, shaking him brusquely like an abused pup until Kurama felt so disoriented he thought for a moment his brains were rattling along with his painfully clacking teeth. If Toguro's intention had been to impede Kurama's struggles, it did no good. Kurama writhed like a snake gripped just below the fangs and dug clever nails into the phalanxes between Toguro's fingers, to no avail.
"Let me go," Kurama shouted, kicking at the back of Toguro's knees and clawing at the massive bearish paw that encompassed the back of Kurama's throat, Kurama's hair bunched up above Toguro's fist, clumped with sweat but still soft, curled, enticing. Toguro smirked grimly, looking around his personal quarters in one of Sakyo's nearby mansions, finally reached by helicopter a mere five or ten minutes ago.
His huge king-sized bed along the same wall containing the door Kurama was being carried through, with its plain but expensive gray sheets; his nightstand, built of teak and polished to a dull shine that caught the light from the fixtures in the ceiling; his carpeted floor whose softness he couldn't feel through the callouses in the soles of his feet; the sliding door to the closet in front of him and the two portals to the Western toilet and the second bathing room along the right hand wall, all met his eye as he and Kurama entered.
Toguro walked around the bed, Kurama, still in his blood-stiffened yellow tunic, getting more and more desperate as they neared it.
Toguro hefted the boy and then threw him painfully against the side of the mattress. Kurama, despite his breath leaving his body in a whoosh, rolled and tried to duck to the side of the massive, threatening man. His wrist and hair were caught in two separate, equally merciless grips, the same hands that had remained on him and restraining him throughout the copter ride digging into flesh again. Kurama was yanked back like an unwilling dog on a leash, hollering at the sharp aching sting of it, and the burn of his only partially healed wounds reopening and oozing blood.
Toguro put his foot up on the mattress box to one side of Kurama. The hand that wasn't holding him place with a fistful of scarlet curls reaching to undo his trousers, his coat and shirt and so much else having been destroyed in the battle with Yusuke, Kurama ripping out quite a few strands from his tresses trying to jerk away.
The endorphins and pheromones and the remaining demonic urges from his 100% power were fuzzing his mind, driving him to this act of cruelty. He was aware, but he wanted this fox even as he calmed down, becoming more focused in his brutality, more mean than frantic.
His denim pants, after the fight, were more like ragged, threadbare shorts than anything else. He ripped them apart as he freed himself, watching Kurama freeze in terror, deer in the headlights, at the sight of the massive shaft, frighteningly long and thick, and the heavy dangling balls.
Toguro chortled darkly to himself, knowing that the roundness of Kurama's eyes were for the sheer size of him. Toguro never fit anyone comfortably, but to be taken with violence by a weapon that size would be agony, bringing Kurama to pathetic weeping. Kurama knew it. Toguro could feel his heartbeat, set to a rabbit's pace as he held his arms in front of him in a competent block.
"Yuu...suke—" Kurama whispered behind his shivering hands.
"Well, fox," the monster rumbled, "what say we play a game?"
Kurama glared up at him fearfully, panting, but saying nothing, fingers a spider web barrier between him and the man's looming face.
Toguro thought for a moment, running eyes speculatively over the thin, beautiful redhead before him, and then grinned, jerking Kurama's head painfully to the side by his hair, forcing a cry from between tempting lips.
His voice lowered to a domineering purr. "Call me daddy."
"What?" Kurama yelped, stunned.
Toguro smirked, his black eyes pinning Kurama to the bed. "Call me daddy," he growled, satisfied with his idea. The muscles in the massive thigh to the side of Kurama flexed as Toguro used his free hand to masturbate himself, the other shaking Kurama back and forth, wrenching another yelp from between heart lips.
"You are depraved," Kurama hissed with a Youko's wounded pride, glaring poisonously at Toguro. "I would never say such a thing."
"Do I have to threaten you? I can force you into this, you know. There is nothing you can use to stop me," Toguro reminded, thinking how much more delicious this was becoming. Torture really wasn't fun if they didn't fight back.
"I can take your abuse," Kurama snarled, baring his teeth, his eyes flashing. "You won't intimidate me!"
"Do you think you're the one I'd be threatening? You're strong, I can see that. You'd take death or torment before dishonor. It's a good trait. However, you've also got a martyr complex, I've seen: a habit of throwing yourself to the wolves for others."
Kurama tried to stand straight and meet this threat with dignity, but the hand in his hair bent him down idly, perfectly content to humiliate him. Kurama's pretty face was in a constant wince from the pain, an ugly grimace of disdain and hatred.
"You wouldn't," the fox snapped. "You've proved that you're not completely honorless."
"Will you gamble the lives of those you have left on it? You have a very pretty mother, Kurama," he added, leaning forward to whisper in Kurama's ear, bent upward for his lips. The sensation made Kurama shiver. He wondered who was whimpering for only a moment before he realized the low, pathetic sound was his own, and cut it off with a choked growl.
Kurama's eyes narrowed. Frantic, he acted out of desperation, bringing his knee up sharply, with all his remaining spirit energy and strength, into Toguro's balls. The giant grunted and loosened his hold for a moment. It was all Kurama needed. In that split second Kurama ripped his hair from the bastard's grasp, leaving long vermillion strands curling into springs around Toguro's thick fingers, colored a lying brown by the harsh ceiling lights. The fox twisted away from Toguro and ran, pell-mell, towards the door. He was giddy once he reached it, fingers fixing on the ornate knob, polished brass, before he pulled.
The door creaked a bit wider, Kurama throwing himself into ripping the damn thing open, when suddenly, the door wrenched out of Kurama's hands with a crunching slam. Looking up, Kurama stared in shock at the massive hand that had smashed the door closed so hard the entire palm and each individual finger had sunk two inches or more into the plaster and wood, cracks webbing out around in every direction for a full yard. When Toguro pulled back his paw, in the seconds before Toguro ripped Kurama back and flung him to the floor next to the bed, Kurama realized he could see through the thick, soundproofed wall and into the carpeted hallway.
Kurama rolled over and tried to run, towards the Western bathroom this time, but Toguro used his hair as a leash again, kicked his knees out and dragged him back, the thick tresses like rope, towards the closet. Toguro snapped back the simple folding door, cracking the wooden shades that could be adjusted to show or hide everything inside whenever necessary, and rummaged around for a second in its doorway. He came out with something that set Kurama's uneasy mind into hysterics.
"You can't be serious!" Kurama shouted, and twisted his own hair to get away, dragging a moan from between his lips.
Toguro uncoiled the belt he'd just pulled from a pile of them in his walk-in closet grimly, swinging the buckle up so he held the leather monstrosity doubled up in his hand.
"You will play this game with me, Kurama, or I'll pick one of your ex-team's women to play it with. Do you understand?"
Kurama said nothing, curling his back, hands going up abjectly to wait for the first strike. Toguro shook him like an animal and then cracked the belt against Kurama's cheek, leaving a raw red mark.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," the fox hissed, blood from his soft gums, which had cut against his teeth, filling his mouth and trickling down the side of his lips and chin, staining them. Toguro cocked an eyebrow. Kurama saw it, but clung to pride for a few more moments. Thinking of Keiko or Shizuru in this sad position, however, he relented. "Yes, daddy." The word was venom on Kurama's lips.
Toguro grinned wolfishly. "Perfect," he crooned. "Good boy. But you still need to be disciplined."
Kurama scowled at that, though it quickly degenerated to a look of pain as he was frog marched by his hair back to the bed, never allowed to stand and walk outside of a painful tiptoe, which sometimes devolved into his legs doing a midair jig trying to reach the ground. The bed itself was a true king, as enormous and outsized as the man who used it. Kurama felt ludicrously small and weak in comparison, like Jack after climbing the beanstalk into the giant's lair.
Toguro sat down with the cut squeak of mattress springs, bending Kurama brusquely over his knee. Kurama braced his crossed arms on Toguro's muscular thigh, pressing his forehead onto his biceps and giving himself his own skin as a gag.
Toguro worked his thick fingers under the waistline of Kurama's pants, ripping at the sash holding them up, Kurama whimpering pathetically when it finally tore enough for Toguro to work pants and white ningen briefs off, revealing a pretty, dangling cock and a round shapely ass, tender and pale, that flexed as Kurama began to shiver with humiliation.
Toguro caressed the smooth skin, completely enraptured by its baby-softness and how clean it was, sans a single bruise, despite the long, violent fight with Karasu. Toguro used his prodigious strength to part Kurama's legs, so he could fondle the boy's limp cock from behind, petting it, feeling it stiffen a bit. Kurama shifted away uneasily, denying the arousal and trying to close his legs, and for the moment Toguro drew back his hand and let him.
"Now, son," Toguro growled, deep voice condescending, "a boy must be obedient to his elders, don't you agree?"
Kurama said nothing, refusing to play this sick game with a hated enemy who had just dragged him from the wreckage of the stadium where his friends' corpses had been left to rot. Toguro's chin tightened, and the belt went up, Kurama hearing the whistle and Toguro's grunt before the sharp, excruciating pain, drawing a choking cry from Kurama's throat as he jerked over Toguro's lap, Toguro's muscles scraping harshly against Kurama's supple flesh. Toguro was manipulating his strength flawlessly: it was too much pain for Kurama to take silently, not enough force to scar.
Toguro's cock thickened, practically painful, at the sight of the raw new welt, scarlet as the boy's hair, marring the delicate canvass of this adolescent ass, each cheek of which looked like it could fit into the palm of Toguro's hand. Eager, he wasted no time in doing it again.
"Do…" crack "…you…" crack "agree?"
Thwack!
Each hit was on a new part of Kurama's ass, making the kitsune squirm in pain, biting his arm until there was blood in his mouth, blood dripping down his skin, blood welling from the pale flesh and dribbling over Toguro's tanned thigh. It took him a moment to register the hits had stopped. He looked up into Toguro's faux-aloof face, hating him with all his heart.
"Well?" Toguro asked, tapping the belt against Kurama's thigh. Kurama's eyes shut tight, letting the tears that had been gathering there spill over.
"Yes," he muttered finally, the usually graceful fox sullen and miserable, ashamed of his position.
The belt came down whistling again despite his acquiescence, and Kurama knew why.
He would not, he could not—
But he thought of the girls, of his mother, and he knew he had to.
"Yes," he snarled, teeth gritted, "daddy."
"Good boy," Toguro grunted, and then, to give Kurama a break, he brought the belt down on the back of his thighs instead.
The hits carried on, Kurama crying out louder and louder into his arm from the pain, feeling how his struggles made the cock standing stiff against his stomach thicken yet more, Toguro enchanted by his wriggling and twisting. One particular smack from the belt, Kurama's ass now striped with welts, made Kurama twist in a way that pulled Toguro's foreskin over the head of his penis, and then vibrated it with Kurama's trembling. Toguro cursed and put his hands down on Kurama's back and sore ass, pushing down so he could thrust against his stomach, the belt that had cut Kurama until there was blood laying stiffly against Kurama's neck.
Toguro couldn't wait anymore.
"Up, boy," he snapped. "Undress."
Kurama immediately rolled off of Toguro's lap and stumbled back, hissing in pain as his ass flexed but eager to put distance between him and Toguro. He kicked off the remains of his pants and briefs.
He clutched the tails of his tunic for a moment, then slowly, slowly, ever aware of the audience, pulled them off. The hem of his undershirt still covered him, and briefly Kurama thought to beg for mercy, for leniency, but pride would not let him. His chin quivered, but was still set in defiance as he reached up and began to undo the buttons of his battle-wrinkled undershirt, one by one, his eyes meeting Toguro's squarely. Kurama forced himself with all his might, all the force of his wounded dignity, to retain eye-contact. It seemed nigh impossible at moments, but he managed it, and even stayed dry-eyed.
He couldn't stop his trembling, though, as he slipped the now-unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, and let it fall. His hands twitched to cover his essentials, but then remained at his side, fisted so tightly his nails nipped his own skin and blood, only a few drops, dripped down.
Kurama's carriage was a fighting stance, his eyes hateful. Toguro, reclining on his bed with one foot hooked over his knee and his hands behind him, supporting the casual lean of his body, had to admire the beauty of the flesh Youko had forged and molded for himself. The wisdom of his eyes and the youth of his body complemented each other, sinful dualism in a pretty package. And the stance, competent and defensive, brought out Toguro's love of a battle, of a fight, this time not for survival but for innocence and dignity.
And there was little that roused Toguro as much as a good fight.
Toguro stood, towering above the petite human body, and watched Kurama lean back subtly, his feet planted firmly but his body compromising his balance with the need to just get away, to put something, anything, even air, between him and his rapist. And Gods, Toguro reflected, the fact that he's still tilting his head and looking me straight in the eyes is the most delicious thing of all, better than the smooth, revealed expanse of bandaged skin.
Toguro needed barely a moment to step close enough to put his hands on Kurama's skin. He unwrapped the bandages the medics had wound so competently while both teams waited for Hiei and Bui to fight. Feeling the boy tremble was exhilarating. Toguro smiled at Kurama, and Kurama finally looked away, offended and scared of losing this, the last of his covering. He did nothing as the gauze on one wound that was cemented to the skin by dried blood and gore was ripped away, though a quick grunt and bitten-off groan of pain rewarded Toguro's efforts.
Toguro knelt, amused eyes on his captive's flaccid cock, which seemed to shrink from the scrutiny, and undid the last bandages, around the boy's legs, caring nothing for his pain as the bandages were ripped off, taking skin with them, leaving the open healing wounds to dribble blood again. Kurama turned his head away, silently, his eyes squeezing shut.
"Bend over the bed," Toguro instructed as he straightened, fascinated.
Kurama stared at the mattress with a wary expression, outright fear drowning out most of the other emotions churning inside of him. He found he couldn't. He couldn't make himself.
Toguro tired of waiting before Kurama mustered the courage, and he flung him at the bed, pinning him down by his neck. Kurama made no protest, though his body began to shake like a leaf when he felt the floor shudder as Toguro dropped to his knees and nudged Kurama's thighs apart.
Kurama felt small to Toguro, fragile in his hands as he shivered and buried his face in the covers, which smelt now only faintly of Toguro, though soon sex and blood and musk would wash that scent into a waterfall, a monsoon, telling any demon who entered what had transpired here for weeks to come.
Kurama contemplated letting himself cry, but would not. Weakness would be exploited; strength, only beaten down. It was an easy enough choice.
"Relax boy. I'll prepare you."
"I – you must – please, I need lubricant," Kurama said shamefacedly. "Please."
Toguro sat back on his haunches. "I have none."
"I have plants – a plant – please, allow me to grow it."
Toguro hummed to himself. And then his thick finger was pushing into Kurama, dry.
Kurama yelped wretchedly. "Please, daddy, a little lubricant. Please."
"That's better," Toguro grunted approvingly, slapping Kurama's thigh and ignoring the flinch. He grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck, though, and brought him up to his mouth. "If you've tricked me, or you grow a weapon instead, boy, I'll fist you. I won't let you die, though. Not until you've watched me slaughter your mother." He released him, watching Kurama cringe into the bed, and smiled grimly.