{chapter seven}

Reven started up from the bed as the bile spewed from Inoue's mouth. Some of it spattered on to his stolen pants - hot, stinking evidence of the assassin's pain.


He couldn't do it - couldn't leave Inoue in his own filth like that! Even if he was going to die...

He was angry with himself - and scared for himself. And for Inoue, he supposed. He'd seen men die, filthy and curled up in corners and shaking for whatever drug they craved. He'd seen them kicked to death in alleys; he'd seen the horrible results of knife fights. But never quite like this. Never quite so personal. Roughly, he pushed at Inoue's body, tugging the soiled sheets out from underneath him. He took them to the bathroom and flung them in a ball into the tub. He went back into the bedroom and caught sight of the knife he'd used to cut his ropes, laying on the floor. Bending stiffly, he picked it up and felt the blade. Very sharp, still. Inoue had several of these. Inoue killed with these. He could remember the chill of it at his own neck.

He knew he was stupid not to slit the man's throat and run, but he let other instincts take over. He picked up all the evidence of Inoue's work tonight that he could find - other knives, wire, a slim wallet of strangely cut metal shapes - and he put them in a drawer on the other side of the room. Inoue didnít look like he was waking any time soon, but better to be safe than sorry. He kept the one knife that he'd used before. Then he rolled the poorly bandaged body back on to the mattress and lay down beside it. He held the knife on his far side, his hand on the hilt. Just to see if he lives through till morning, he told himself. Then I'm gone. He felt his eyes stinging with tiredness and the strain, and he fought to keep them open. Just for another hour or so...

"Nnngh... Master... I've failed..." Inoue moaned, cringing and twitching and trying not to weep. He could feel weight in the bed-- his hallucinating mind told him it was Master, lying there, watching Inoue in his weakness with a shamed expression on his face, debating killing the redheaded kid for being so weak and useless...

He reached out feebly and found Master's waist, trying with kitten-weak arms to pull him closer and earn his respect by showing that he could move, and act just like every other night together. "M-Mas...ter..." he stammered, running his hand bravely down Master's waist to his hips, and finally between his legs, fingers trembling. Would this be the night his hand was cut off for being too bold, too stupid? Would he die?

To die by Master's hand was honorable-- to die before Master from paltry injuries was shameful. If he could just muster enough strength to anger the man, he could perhaps die with some dignity, rather than bleed to death on this god-forsaken bed.

Reven watched with amazement as Inoue caressed him - plucked at his skin, asking for something or other from him. But not him of course. This other guy - this Master.

"Inoue?" he said, quietly, but the man didn't respond. Inoue's hand was deep between his thighs, cupping his cock under the thin sweat material, provoking him in an astonishing way. Reven bit his lip - despite the madness of tonight, the feeling was good! Inoue must be an amazing man, to be thinking of this Master's pleasure or approval, even when he was near death himself. Or was it approval he really sought?

"Inoue, you've been badly injured," he said, but still no response. He gripped at Inoue's hand and stopped its path into the waistband of his pants. "Stop that!"

It was a shock, to see how Inoue tensed beside him - how his lips twisted in a parody of a smile. Was that what he really wanted? To be scolded for it? Was that what he expected? Reven felt a frisson of fear again - and some thrill.

"Inoue!" he snapped, deliberately hardening and lowering his voice. "Pull yourself together. You're humiliating both me and yourself. You're pathetic. I should kill you now for your weakness. But your wounds are treated and you're safe for the moment. So if you bleed to death or die from the shock, it'll be your own fucking fault and I'll despise you for ever for it. If you don't want that, then quit your whining and save your strength." He didn't know what tone Master may have taken with him in the past, whether he could mimic it well enough. What the fuck do I care? he scorned himself. He looked down at Inoue, the shaking and whimpering now stopped and felt a strange ache inside him. Fuck knows if he'd last the night, anyway.

What the fuck do I care?

Master was talking... replying. He sounded mad, yet he hadn't broken any of Inoue's fingers for his insolence yet-- that usually meant that yes he was annoyed, but he was also going to let the redhead do as he wished. The assassin found himself wishing he could understand what Master was saying... his ears were still bloody and ringing from the explosions.

When the grip on his wrist ceased, he rolled to his side, gathering strength from his love of the man in the bed with him and pressing his face into the warm chest, moaning softly and repeating, "Master... Master!" over and over, though it was barely a rasped whisper. He felt the man's length hardening and warming through his sparring pants... if his body hadn't been so wounded and lacking so much blood, he would have been well on his way to hard as well, but all his cock managed was a half-limp state as he actually managed to push his fingers past the thin material at Master's waist and grab onto his length.

"Mmmmm--Master...." he rasped one last time before his raw throat gave out. So, instead, Inoue gathered will and strength and licked at the salty skin in the dip between his collar bones.


Reven felt his arousal, fast and hard against the pants. When Inoue's fingers closed round it, he groaned aloud. He'd never thought he might see the assassin in this state - taking this role! Dammit, the man had tried to kill him hours ago, now his hand was pumping him slowly, reverently, greedily...

But it's not me he's jerking off, he thought, a little scared again. Not in his mind.

Do you care? came the thought, hard on its heels. He should have pushed Inoue off again and run for the door - but the hand was so strong and sure, and the lips at his throat so damp and hot. The other man was pushing down the pants, and running his free hand under his balls, rolling them against his palm, kneading at the swelling flesh.
Reven gasped with the pleasure. Amazing how Inoue could awaken this in him even after all that had happened! Guess he could play the Master just that little bit longer...

He leaned against Inoue's tangled red hair and spoke directly into his ear. "Harder, Inoue! If you've got strength for this, it'd better be good. Don't expect me to moan for you - but maybe I will, if I feel like it." The hand tightened on him and he had to bite back the moan that did bleed from his lips. He wanted to grab back at the man, but resisted. He was afraid he'd come too soon, and he wanted to make the most of this. Something told him it wouldn't be on offer if and when Inoue regained his senses.

He wanted to please Master-- wanted to do as asked. But, his hands were weak, his body was failing... his cock was twitching and struggling to get all the way up. He wanted to rasp that he couldn't do it, but his voice had given out and all he could do was swallow blood.

Inoue's hands slowed down the longer he tried to keep up with pleasing Master and earning his pleasure; panic rose in him again when his hands fell weakly away from the heated loins, and his head fell into the pillow once more, his tongue hanging out from the corner of his mouth still as he panted. A quiet groan of pain and weakness and anger at himself for failing slithered out of him, and he shuddered.

What a worthless apprentice Inoue was, unable to fulfill such a simple command. Why did his body hurt so badly? He'd never been in a situation before where he couldn't move any single part of him whatsoever; even when he'd been tired beyond all reason he'd been able to keep himself from drowning in the tub or rolling off the bed. His fingers twitched around the hard flesh in his hand, trying to come to life and resume stroking the throbbing member, but it was of no use-- Inoue was of no use.

Reven groaned with the loss of friction. What the fuck was the man playing at? He ached all over - he needed this! He needed something from this fucking man who'd tried to kill him, and fucked up his life, and bled all over him -

He rolled himself up to his knees and leant over the prone figure of the assassin. Inoue's hand still pawed at him. Reven looked at the firm, panting mouth, watched the bubbles of moisture welling there. He put his own hand round his cock and stroked it firmly. Inoue's eyes shuddered under the lids as if he looked for him, the body that had suddenly moved away from him on the mattress.

Reven swung his leg over Inoue's torso and straddled him. He leant forward, resting his cast against the wall at the head board, so that his groin dipped over Inoue's neck and face. Then he nudged his cock forward so that it brushed at Inoue's lips; he saw the man shiver. "Want this?" he murmured. "I know you do. So make those whimpers round me - cry my name round my cock." Inoue's mouth opened wider, his tongue lapping under the shaft, as if to tease it in. It seemed to be all he could do. Reven didn't care - his legs had the strength to hold him for this. He grunted, and thrust his cock through Inoue's lips and past his teeth, sliding into the warmth and the wet, watching the lips tighten round him, watching the small dribble of saliva from the corner of Inoue's mouth, pink with the trail of previous blood.

He sucked by instinct more than will, his entire life preparing him for these moments when he couldn't do much but something was being asked of him. And this, Inoue knew how to do. Those years on the street, then serving Master... they trained him to suck someone off even in his sleep. He sealed his mouth tightly around the dick and slithered his pierced tongue around it, drawing it deep into the back of his throat. One with lesser experience might have gagged, but his reflex had been taken care of during his time with master, and Inoue could hide weapons and sealed documents down his esophagus now-- it had come in rather handy several times.

The pain was excruciating, but at very least the cock between his lips took his attention away from the agony in his body. If he couldn't allow himself the bliss of unconsciousness he could at least please Master... who didn't seem interested in killing him whatsoever. A shiver ran through him, and he groaned around the cock, more out of pain than anything.

Oh Goddd... Reven felt the skilled lips close round him and he nearly swooned with the fierce pressure. He was drawn in, so very deep, so very tightly -

Who'd have thought the assassin would be so fucking good at this? Good at bringing death - good at bringing ecstasy.

He pulled his hips back, straightening his arms, then plunged back in. The grip was perfectly timed - he sank to the back of Inoue's throat until his balls nudged at the man's chin. His head began to swim, an effect of the strain and the shock and his own blood loss over the last few hours. And an effect of the exotic, greedy grip of Inoue's mouth around his cock, milking it, sucking the life out of it, far into his body -

Reven gasped aloud with the oncoming climax. Fuck, he could usually go so longer, but the thrill was so good!

Inoue did nothing but groan, the sound muffled by Reven's shaft, thrusting in and out of him. "It's good, Inoue," he groaned. Oh God, so good... "Maybe you're not so pathetic after all, eh? Uhhnn..." He couldn't make out any words, but Inoue was struggling to work him well, to suck with more enthusiasm than Reven had known for a hell of a long time. He thought he heard a question in Inoue's voice. "Yeah, good, very good Ė Ahhnn..." The agony was coiling in the pit of his groin, the ripple of need was tugging all along the length of him. He watched himself plunge in and out, the red flesh shining with saliva as it slipped in and out of the firm, thick lips.

Fuck! he cried aloud. He couldn't make anything more coherent come from his lips. His climax burst out of him, he felt the seed flood into Inoue's mouth and his hips slam against the man's face.

Swallowing instinctively, Inoue drew out every last droplet with his lips and tongue without letting a single pearl escape. He suckled upon the flesh on his tongue idly, still moaning, feeling it soften in his mouth. Here, Master would usually get up and leave to shower or train while he left Inoue to sleep.

Sleep... unconsciousness. He'd be safe with Master watching over him, wouldn't he? He could relax.

The redhead let Master's dick slide out from between his lips and released a slow, shuddering breath, without inhaling anew for several long moments where it seemed like he'd given up on his life. His breathing became shallow and sporadic as he lay in Master's bed, comforted by the thought of Master being nearby. Unconsciousness called, but he denied it just yet-- in case Master had something more he wanted or needed.

He felt so horrid... the agony was cruel, and he couldn't even scream as he wanted to. The redhead held in his wails, only releasing the occasional groan that slipped past his lips, keeping himself tough. If he lived through this-- which, by Master's attitude he probably would-- then it should made him stronger. A better assassin. A higher level of pain tolerance.

One step further from humanity, some small, disappointed voice in his head said, confusing him.

Reven sat on the pile of discarded boxes in the alley and scowled. Where else could he go? There was some other guy in his apartment and some other guy in his job, and there didn't seem to be much he could do about it. Seems the little performance that Inoue had given in the alley when he abducted him had been pretty effective - word was, Reven was dead. And worse, the word was that Reven had been a stupid, careless kid who took off after a known assassin like some kind of groupie, and had been rewarded by being carved up in an alley, leaving pools of bodily fluids behind him as evidence for the rats.

His life was a pile of shit. He couldn't get at his money, he couldn't get at anyone he knew. He thought of going to Hellman to explain the mistake, but his source told him that Hellman was holed up in his mansion under 24-7 protection, and also under police investigation. There'd been a rush of killings a day or so ago, and one theory was that Hellman was scared he'd be the next victim. Another theory was that he'd organized the whole damned thing himself, and was in hiding from retribution. The whole City underworld was in turmoil. The leaders of several families had been hit - several prominent businessmen had been killed. Now was not the time for a former employee to turn up, especially after a known association with a prime suspect.

So he'd slept in a park, and stolen food, and begged favors off kids who were smaller and weaker than he was. His wounds were healing reasonably well, but he couldn't afford to have them opened again. He stole a long sleeved shirt and covered his cast underneath it, and kept himself well hidden. Yeah - things really were shit. He'd been making a nice living there, finding some status at last. And now he was back in an alley. He needed someone to blame.

He'd left Inoue two days ago - he wondered if the guy were dead by now. Well what was he, a babysitter? It had been his best chance of escape, to leave him half swooned, and get the hell out. Hadn't it? He looked at the bag of food at his feet and wondered why he kept thinking about the bastard who'd tried to kill him.

An hour later, he was outside Inoue's apartment block. An hour and ten minutes later, he'd slipped the lock and was inside. He had the bag of food with him, plus some other stuff he stole on the way. Bottled water, first aid kits - and of course he still had Inoue's knife with him, strapped to his skin under his (also stolen) vest. He was sort of surprised that it was so easy to get into Inoue's again. No blaring alarms, no laser stuff slicing his limbs, no poison gas puffed into his face..

Just leave the food, he told himself. If he's dead, make an anonymous call. If he's not, just leave the food and fuck off again. You don't get second chances with a guy like him. He teased open the lock of Inoue's apartment with a cursory look up and down the corridor, and then let himself into the dark lobby.

Over the span of two days Inoue had woken for a few minutes at a time and barely managed to open his smoke-stung eyes, noting that it was either light or dark out. He was awake now, narrowed eyes red and irritated, his body feeling like all bloody hell had run their spears through it, and his mind still half-dazed, though he had a better handle of himself than before.

Those hallucinations about Master had been fairly realistic... and as Inoue woke a little more in his weakened state, starved and slashed and burnt, he realized that his body was bound where it had been wounded. Who...? whoever it was they'd done a half-assed job. The bandages were too lose in some places, and if they'd planned on abandoning Inoue for two days they seemed to have forgotten that the body carried out its own waste elimination processes whether its mind was awake or not. After years with Master, Inoue had become so used to catheters that they were second nature when he was out of commission for a few days.

Noise in the apartment-- muffled and barely audible thanks to his damaged ears.

He would have been on instant alert... had he been able to do more than twitch a few fingers and blink. Perhaps the one that had done this shit job for upkeep of the redhead had returned? He might just find out who had imitated his Master.

The blurred sight of black hair and pale skin would have made Inoue groan if he'd been able to. What was this, some sort of fucking Christmas Special, where the abducted kid became the hero? Were they going to get together now, and Inoue would fall in love with the child, and they'd get a puppy and live happily ever after sipping hot chocolate by the fire?

This was one major case of Stockholm syndrome, or, the kid really did have an obsession with assassins.