Here's a one-shot fix for everyone. Dedicated to Shukumeinamonai. (It's a mouthful, ain't it? One of these days, i'll ask her what it means. XD) This is for her because she informed me that she reads the damn author's notes, which made me very happy indeed.

Disclaimer: i dun own the song (Dangerous), the band (Depeche Mode), or the anime (this one should be obvious). Hell, the only thing i actually, genuinely like of the three is the anime... o.o But that's just me. And i'm damn fastidious.

Warnings:
1) Shounen ai.
2) Sadomasochism.
3) Sexual implications.
—Yes, Ted, only implications this time! According to your definition!

Author's notes: Of a long list of songs given to me, this one seemed most appropriate. i'm not quite happy about it, but i tried to do my best, 'cause—despite my quotidian disaffection for people as a whole—it makes me smile to know someone else has smiled because of me. (And, now, i feel incredibly saccharine. Shoot me dead. X.x)

Enjoy.

Dangerous

The things you do
Aren't good for my health

Blood drizzled delicately to the floor as the dagger tickled his back, tracing down his spine as if teasing him. This eyes were glazed over with the feeling of whatever drug had been laced into his meal, though it could have easily been the alcohol again. His captor would often tell him they would dine on a painstakingly prepared supper, and that it wouldn't go well with anything but a fine wine or hot sake. His constant delirium let the memory of that information float away with the tides of fleeting thoughts.

Fingering the delicate satin of the blanket he often dozed the daylight hours away on, he felt as his captor smeared the blood slithering from his wounds all over his milky skin. He felt pain, yes, but it was nothing that would cause him discomfort. In fact, he actually enjoyed it to a degree. He'd need to be bandaged as soon as his consciousness began to waver, lest he fall into delirium tremens again. His captor had been absolutely furious that his recovery had taken a week.

The moves you make
You make for yourself

Leaning in close, his captor let his warm tongue slide over one of the smears, lapping up the crimson nectar and allowing the flavor of weakness caress his senses. Oh, how strong this relenting one had been just a short while before! But he'd failed in a great effort and what did that afford him except death. However, when he'd descended into Hell to repent for sins he hadn't already amended, he found a familiar face staring at him with an almost horrifying degree of unsatiated lust. No malice, no indignation, no vitriol. Just desire. It caused any fear of this person that might have accumulated in the past to vanish completely.

The fact had been calming for a short while, as his host invited him into a single room with only a door leading to the rest of Hell—one his host cared to keep locked at all times—and gave him an abbreviated tour. With leisurely glances from time to time, his host waved a hand toward whatever object he was introducing: the bed, which they would share; the little kitchenette—open, he now realized, so his captor could always keep an eye on him—behind a counter; the grate that perpetually had an amethyst fire flickering within and never needed to be fed; a desk with a variety of knives with golden, jewel-encrusted hilts, delicate pairs of scissors, needles, all shining with pristine cleanliness and wrapped in cases of dark wood with plush, silk linings. When not in use, these cases were locked in the drawers of the desk, far from the reaches of the weakened one, along with brown paper bags of fabrics and threads.

Steel mesh served as a gate to keep him from attempting to crawl up the chimney and out, not that he'd be able to make it past the fire. The keys to the desk and the door were always chained to his host's neck, an elaborate silver necklace threaded through the keyring and always secured around that delicate throat. He didn't dare attempt to steal them. His host would be angry with him and, despite his apparent concern when tending to wounds he inflicted for his own pleasure, he truly didn't have one modicum of concern to loan to his guest.

The means you use
Aren't meant to confuse

Brushing his right cheek against his guest's spine, jolting a spasm from him, the captor felt blood dust over his face. He pressed tender kisses across the wound, feeling the other tremble underneath him from mingled wretched loathing for his own weakness and masochistic pleasure.

"Make no mistake," he'd said during their orientation, after indolently displaying their living quarters. "I don't care for you. I don't care about you. What I want, you will give. Simple as that. And I do not want affection." Simply pressing against him proved the point, as his thigh lifted to tuck itself between his guest's legs.

Although they do
They're the ones that I would choose

For all his clarity as he'd said it, his guest hadn't quite understood. It had seemed so bland, so insipid, without decorum or spice. Where was the fire that had been in his host when they'd met before?

'It has to be a trick,' he assumed immediately. 'A tease, a game, something to make me try harder.' It seemed like something he'd have used long, long ago to intrigue someone into playing his own games. Holding something over another's head and taunting them, proclaiming they'll never grasp it, would quickly pull someone into the tumble.

I wouldn't want it any other way
You wouldn't let me any way

It seemed appropriate, so he merely nodded with a benign grin as his host went on to explain the rules and punishments. He only half listened as his eyes studied his captor. Being the acquiescent one wasn't something he often allowed of himself, but he was the guest, obligated to abide by certain regulations while being treated in someone else's domain. So, for the time, he decided to play.

The weeks and months and years passed by, and with them passed all thoughts of rebellion and conquering. He was the weaker one now. And, although he hated himself and his captor for it, he wouldn't, couldn't, have it any other way. Not that his host would let him if he did.

Dangerous
The way you leave me wanting more

Eventually, this anguish would taint his thoughts and his mind, and the pleasure would stop, he knew. It would make him realize his wrongs and his sins and consume his thoughts in what was sound of mind, that the pain was not pleasurable. Because his tormentor didn't do this out of pleasure much anymore. He would get angry at him more and more, hurt him from anger instead of for his own pleasure. 'Please, punish me out of want, not from fury,' he would beg his host silently, knowing verbalizing his plea would only make his captor ireful again.

No matter that he knew it was dangerous, he continued to want more. His fear was nonexistent, but his sadness continued and was painful to him now. It lingered not for the fact that he had something to mourn, but to torment him. Lamentation didn't make him feel better anymore, like it normally would.

Dangerous
That's what I want you for

Although, that appeal, that he was a hazard and could cause harm, had always brought a certain something rising within his guest. That appeal had made him attractive, a treasure, something to keep, but only fleetingly. It was something that he coveted.

Dangerous
When I am in your arms

Trapped now in his host's falsely loving embrace, he felt his spine ooze thickly, blood bubbling out as his captor lapped at it and suckled the exposed vertebrae. The rough, wet tongue stroked his bones and made small spasms erupt across his lean muscles. He felt his body go slack as it decided struggle was useless and his host knew, now, he was ready to be played with.

Dangerous
Know I won't come to harm

After he was finished playing, his captor would use needle and thread to sew up the cuts, bandage them painstakingly well, clean the knives and needles, put everything away, and finally lie back down with him for the evening. It was only rarely that his host would allow himself to fall asleep while his guest continued to bleed. Or this was so while he wasn't furious. When angered, he had a fancy for forcing his guest to sleep on the floor, blood staining the rosewood panels beneath him.

When his host was content, harm would not come to him.

The lies you tell
Aren't meant to deceive

"Why do you admire me so?"

"Because I saw you.

"Because you...saw me?"

"Yes, because you were there, I saw you, and you gave me something to seek."

"...I think I understand."

They're not there
For me to believe

But he didn't understand, because he hadn't been the one there. He was a figment in Hell made to look familiar for the purpose of torturing this one, to make him repent for his sins before returning to life and, hopefully, leading one worthy of allowing his soul into Heaven. In all reality, he said what he said to keep himself in character, not to make his guest believe him.

I've heard
Your vicious words

"You do realize I'm lying to you, right? That you're leading yourself on?"

"You...what?"

"Never you mind. You'll never understand anyway. You're not allowed to. I'll never allow you to."

"I...what?"

You know by now
It takes a lot to see me hurt

Nothing ever really sank in. It was like someone had injected confusion into his brain. That was probably the alcohol, though. His host was aware of this and did his absolute best to break through the analgesia and confusion that was alcoholism to strike a bad cord, to hurt him as much as he could before his guest would leave. After a time, his guest would be whisked away, his memories lost until his next death, and a new soul would be brought in for him to cleanse with a new face and a new character to take on. And, each time, he would feed his guests confusion in a bottle and it would be more and more difficult to hurt them, but he continued for the sake of removing their sins as much as possible, so they would never have to return and suffer this again.

I couldn't take it any other way
But there's a price I have to pay

Frowning deeply as his memories slid away, his host hovering over him, this demon wondered what was going on. The visage of emeralds and rubies began to fade from sight as he was taken away, to a new life.

Sighing to think of how Kurama might react to know Karasu's repentance time was so quickly up, Koenma decided it best not to inform the fox. He arranged for a spirit guide to watch over the bomb-wielding demon. If he kept an eye on him, perhaps he could intervene in any way to keep him from becoming who he'd previously been. Unfortunately, there was no way to keep his memories barred from him after his second death.

Hmm...it came pretty well. Hope you like it, Ted.

Hark! This one-shot just begs for a multi-chapter sequel, doesn't it? (Why does this line make me laugh? XD) If anyone would like to take up the challenge of making a decent one, tell me. i'll help in any way possible, but i've got too much to write as it is to add this project to the pile. X.x

3:00 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time. U.S. Thursday, August 03, 2006.

Arisa.
Chiisai Mu.
"Little Nothing."