Yagami Haru: Adventures in Solitude ~ Part 7/10
The Continuing Adventures of Yagami Haru, Part 7
Title: Siren of the Streets
Characters: Haru et al., Aizawa and Matsuda.
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3300
Warnings: Again. If you're following this, you know what's up.
Disclaimer: Haru = mine. Death Note canon = so not mine LOL.
~*~
“Have you heard about this new development in New York?” Aizawa asked Matsuda. “Apparently there’s been a huge number of sex offenders arrested since September.”
“That’s always a good thing,” Matsuda said. He hadn’t heard anything about it. This week he’d gotten back together with Sayu, and they’d been making up for lost time.
Aizawa continued. “The NYPD is keeping pretty quiet about it, but it’s pretty clearly a sting op. They’ve got some young jailbait out there on the streets luring creeps to their doom. Probably just one person, a young male.”
“Male?” Matsuda looked up, confused. “Why do you say that?”
“A disproportionate number of arrests have been those who prey on young men and boys.”
“Well, I guess that would explain the odd imbalance. Though…you’d think it wouldn’t be that hard to get a girl to do parallel work.”
Aizawa nodded. “Which makes it seem like this whole thing was the kid’s idea, and not the NYPD’s, don’t you think? There’s no reason, based on recent crime rates, why they would suddenly choose this issue to focus on. But someone with a personal stake and an idea in his head? He might.”
Matsuda had to agree with Aizawa’s conclusion. “Another young justice crusader?” He couldn’t help thinking of Kira just then.
“A damn good looking one, if the rumors are worth anything. Some say he’s Asian, some say Caucasian, some even say he seemed Indian or Hispanic. There are even reports that say he’s appeared in the guise of a young girl, to lure more, well, ordinary offenders. People are starting to question whether he has a supernatural power to make anyone fall in love with him.”
Matsuda shook his head. “Wow. Is he actually a cop?”
“Nobody knows who he is. They’ve been hush-hush about it, naturally, trying to nab as many perverts as they can before their ruse is up. Though it seems he started as a vigilante before cutting a deal with the police. Now he works in their service, under their protection.”
“Admirable.” He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to pose as bait for sick-minded men. Just pretending to be Misa’s manager in front of Yotsuba had been bad enough.
“It’s given the deviants of New York quite a scare. Sexual assault against all demographics has gone down citywide since the story broke. So has prostitution.”
“Young, androgynous, attractive, ambiguously ethnic…you don’t think it’s Haru, out there, do you?”
“It’s possible. Remember the Bakuro bust?”
“Yeah. It really could be him.” To be honest, it just sounded like something Haru would do, and the thought worried Matsuda. Haru was supposed to be focusing on his studies. He did need money, but what motivation could he have for taking on such a risky, potentially traumatizing job? Was the Bakuro sting so inspiring that he wanted to continue? Or could he possibly have some personal reasons to strike out at urban perverts?
He couldn’t help but wonder. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that Near might have done something to Haru. He saw the way Haru looked at Near, like some sort of idol. If Near had taken advantage of that…could that explain why Haru was so eager to leave the country? Matsuda and Haru had never talked about this kind of thing, but he suspected Haru had been sexually active in high school. But there never seemed to be any girlfriends in the picture. It was Sayu who first voiced a concern that Haru might be homosexual, and instantly Matsuda remembered that strange spark between L and Light, their dark twisted love affair that really, through Misa, created Haru. It disappointed him to think his nephew might be gay, but it bothered him more to think that he might have been involved with Near. It wasn’t just the age gap and the weird legacy-dynasty dynamic. Haru was an emotional time bomb, and Near was an emotional vacuum.
It disturbed him to think Haru was even pretending to sell himself, pretending to be assaulted, and that Near, who noticed everything and would surely know if it were Haru, was letting him do it. He pushed the thought from his mind. It didn’t have to be him. It could be anyone. New York was full of beautiful people.
~*~
Nobody knew better than Haru that things were not always what they seemed.
Columbia was an intellectual and cultural playground. Classes started up, and the party scene calmed down to a simmer as students buckled into their rigorous workloads. Though it was easier than ever for Haru to skip class, he found to his surprise that he didn’t want to. The core curriculum required a course on something called “literary humanities,” which was basically the western canon, and that was enjoyable enough. But he much preferred his elective courses: basic computer science, abnormal psychology, and introductory Chinese. None of his classes was especially hard, but unlike the high school curriculum, they were all somewhat interesting. It had been a joy scanning the online course catalogue and mapping out the next four years. What kind of college courses would L need? Languages, he imagined; Near spoke at least ten. Logic and stats, which he already had a pretty good grip on. Anything law-related. Even theater, especially considering the kind of work he was currently doing for the police. He practiced karate with an advanced class at the gym, which was a convenient cover for on-the-job bruises. He made As on all his first midterms. He made friends.
And then there was Tom. He’d slept with him with the full intention of a one-night stand. He couldn’t fall in love; he still loved Near. But Tom really liked Haru, and ultimately Haru didn’t have the heart, or the willpower, to abandon him. With Tom he had some of the best sex of his life, and he had fun. Haru made good on his offer to help Tom study Japanese, and he was impressed with how smart the sexy brunet really was. Granted, he wasn’t Near, but he was well worth talking to. He’d turned down Harvard to come to Columbia, and although he never beat Haru when they played strip chess, Haru still felt pleasantly challenged. Tom enlightened Haru on topics ranging from American politics to American football. He also indulged in coke from time to time, and they bounced high and wild through the Friday night party circuit, making out on dance floors, flaunting their crazy young beauty. Tom loved showing Haru off to everyone. This is my Hal-baby, he said proudly. Haru realized Tom was more of a boyfriend to him than Near had ever been. It was easy to be openly gay here, on a liberal Ivy League campus in New York. Unlike in Japan, where coming out was still problematic in a group-oriented culture, he didn’t feel like an outsider here. He was an individual, and a floater, and he wasn’t looked down on for that. He hung out with Tom and Jennifer and their little circle of party kids, but he also befriended the nerds in computers and engineering, who loved to match wits with him and found his edginess intimidating. He might have had a real home here, a truly rich social life like he’d never experienced, if he’d allowed himself to.
But there was an invisible wall between him and his friends, and that was X. That, not his sexuality, was his big secret. No one else on campus seemed to really take advantage of the fact that there were 168 full hours in a week. Fueled by sugar and stimulants and his own natural insomniac predisposition, X worked while Haru’s friends slept. He had a separate cell phone and a suite of gadgets worthy of James Bond. With the help of a friendly electrical engineering major, he’d learned how to rig a pyramid belt with a wire that sent a live audio feed straight to his NYPD backup. He implanted GPS units into the soles of his boots so they could track him and his prey. He fit a heavy choker with a tiny camera, and in his leather bondage gloves, which looked more like wrist guards than anything else, he added retractable blades.
Warnings began to circulate as soon as people noticed the surge in arrests: do not to respond to internet sex ads, do not talk to hookers on the street or in clubs no matter what they look like, and if you’re inclined to molest innocent teenagers, don’t even think about it. For the most part, X flew by night. One by one he lured the lecherous, the pedophilic, the wanton and depraved. The cops envied his success and welcomed his aid, but they never glimpsed his face. And none of the arrested men who had seen it could agree on the details, except for large dark eyes that swallowed you whole and made it impossible to walk away. X could be fifteen years old, or he could be twenty-five. He could even be female, though he never let those encounters get too far before he closed the trap. Because reports of his appearance and even gender differed, some thought there were actually two agents at work, X and Y. Bloggers speculated about his identity, but nobody demanded that X unmask himself. The public and the police both valued his work, and if his face became famous, then future stings were doomed.
Even Columbia kids were talking about the so-called Street Siren. One evening Haru and his crew all been gathered around Jennifer’s big TV when a report about X came on the news. A whole underground teen prostitution ring had been brought down in Queens, it said, with twelve arrested.
“That X character is something else,” said Tom. “Like a seductive ninja. If you look in his eyes you’ll fall in love with him, they’re saying now.”
“My psych prof says X was probably raped as a child,” said Jennifer.
“Whatever, Freud,” Tom rolled his eyes.
“No, seriously, I think it makes sense. Most child molesters were sexually abused when they were young. Same with sex addicts and prostitutes. It’s a vicious cycle. I bet X suffered some kind of trauma too, and this is his or her way of dealing with it.”
“Psych profs think everything boils down to childhood trauma,” their friend Leslie piped in. “Think about it. If I were raped, the last thing I’d want to do is put myself back in that situation again and again. You know?”
“This is a depressing conversation,” said Haru, chewing on his thumb. “Does anybody else want to help me make brownies?”
“Haru, you’re the cutest!” said Jennifer. “Tom, can I borrow your boyfriend?”
Haru was paranoid about his friends discovering his secret double life. When exploring the city with his friends, Haru took to wearing sunglasses, so that no one from his late night escapades would recognize his eyes. Masked by day, unmasked by moonlight. How ironic. He got to know the streets of the outer boroughs as well as the seedier downtown bars. And of course, there was the internet, the great red light district of the twenty-first century. Nearly every night, someone fell for a dark-eyed waif on a street corner, a barstool or a dance floor, the back of a theater or an empty high school parking lot. And every time, someone went away in chains. He owned New York. The city never slept, and he slept even less.
But there was a chink in X’s armor, and that was cocaine. He couldn’t let it go. He needed more and more of it to stay awake and pull three or four consecutive all-nighters working the streets and pounding through a full first-year Columbia course load. And coke wasn’t cheap. The commission he received from the NYPD would pay for the remainder of his college tuition, but not for his drug habit. Haru felt wrong spending the cops’ money like that anyhow. He needed another way to earn fast. The last thing he wanted to do now was go begging Near for funds. Near would see right through him, if he hadn’t already.
Near. The fair-haired man was always in his thoughts. Surely Near had guessed the truth about X immediately. And yet, he’d made no effort to contact Haru, to question, scold, or congratulate him. He wondered if Near even cared, if he was proud or envious, or if he was just glad to have his little shadow out of the way for awhile.
~*~
Arthur Whitten was 40 and, except for his prematurely gray hair, looked 30. In daylight he was often considered attractive. But under the hot colored light of the club, he looked like a wolf. And tonight, he was on the prowl. And so was X.
Haru leaned on the wall outside the club, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a simple black tank top and his favorite new pants. He loved these pants. They were tight black PVC, with open swaths running all the way up the backs of his smooth legs, held together with crisscrossing laces. Just a teasing bit of his butt showed, but most of it was covered, inducing mass frustration. There was a bright metal zipper running down from the top of his ass to the front of his pants. Instantly fuckable.
He knew who Whitten was. He’d been in the club a minute ago and saw the name on his credit card. He observed that Whitten was drunk, a smoker, and married. No doubt the gray-haired man would be coming outside for a smoke himself, momentarily. Haru waited. Soon enough, he emerged as predicted, pulling a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. With a rightward glance he caught Haru’s cool black gaze, and noticed his lean, supple body. Haru half-smiled. He loved that moment, the instant of being noticed, when he could practically see the man’s instant boner. Casually, he pressed a small button on the inside of his belt. Aaaaand action.
“Like what you see?” Haru asked, affecting a faint accent. It was a chilly night, and he noticed his hard nipples showing through his tight tank top. All the better.
“You bet I do,” Whitten licked his lips, looking Haru up and down. “That’s a nice ass you’ve got on you.”
Haru smirked. “I’ve been told that.”
“I bet you have. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of it.”
“That could be arranged.” Haru toyed with the lace-up straps behind his thighs, as if they were itching him. “Though not for nothing, of course.”
Whitten smiled. “Of course. How much’re you asking?”
“Two-fifty, or the equivalent in coke, and I’ll do anything you want.” He paused. “But for you…just two hundred. Seventy-five for a blow job.”
“What do I call you?”
“Call me Kai.”
Whitten grinned hungrily. “Let’s go.”
They went inside and made for the small back room of the club, the so-called “private lounge,” which was notorious for hookups of legal and illegal varieties. It wasn’t a coincidence the lounge was the size of a small hotel bedroom. Haru had busted a few guys here before. The owner had some kind of deal with the cops too. It happened to be open, and they locked the door behind them.
Whitten took two hundred dollars from his wallet and laid it on the table. Haru looked at it, giving the camera time to process it. Then he leaned in close to Whitten and fingered the triangle of exposed chest. Not a half-bad looking client, Haru thought, considering the usual lot. “What do you want me to do?” Haru asked, looking up imploringly into Whitten’s cold brown eyes. His lips were glossed slightly, barely parted, awaiting orders. He’d done this many times before. The cops knew where he was, and they had his audio feed of Whitten’s solicitation. He needed only to press a button, and in minutes, they’d arrive, and X would vanish into the night. He should have pressed the button already. The deal had been cut. At this rate the cops might come too late, and he’d have to stall. So why was he still hesitating, looking at the greenish crinkle of bills on the table?
Whitten’s hand was in his hair. “I’m gonna fuck your pretty little face. And then, I’m gonna fuck your pretty little asshole.”
Haru still hadn’t given the signal. He clicked a button. But it was the wrong one - instead of sending the alert, he’d switched off his wire. Realizing his error immediately, he could have turned it back on, and clicked the green light. But he didn’t. Why didn't he?
Whitten practically lifted Haru onto the couch by the waist. He stood facing him and unfastened his pants. Haru sat on the couch, on his knees, lips parted, before Whitten’s looming cock. He looked up at the older man with desperate eyes. Whitten urged Haru’s head forward to take his cock into his mouth. Haru sucked dutifully. He was skilled at this. Something inside him was dying as he did this, he knew. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that made it worse, for in his mind’s eye he saw Tom and Near. He banished them from his thoughts. That was that, and this was this. He had his reasons.
His hands were free. At any point, he could have called in the cops. But he didn’t. They must have been wondering if the transaction had fallen through altogether. Whitten tasted quite good, thrusting slowly over his tongue. Haru was getting horny himself, which disturbed him. It had happened before, when people made him offers. He got off on the attention, he supposed.
“Mmm, yeah. Turn over, you nasty little coke whore.” He flipped Haru and bent him over the couch. “Dirty fag slut.” He unzipped the back of Haru’s pants, all the way down and around the front. Haru felt the cool air hitting his ass, then his balls, and his half-hard cock.
“Look at that.” Whitten massaged his butt and the still laced-up backs of his thighs. “Kai, you are really one hot son of a bitch.” Laughing lowly with delight, Whitten rolled on a condom and lubed up his cock. Haru felt the two fingers push inside, stretching him. With his other hand Whitten gave Haru’s cock a few pumps, and Haru moaned appreciatively. Then the man entered him, wet and thick.
“Mmmm …” Whitten moaned. “That’s what I call a perfect fit. Christ, they don’t make sluts like you every day.” He pushed inside again. Haru rocked back against it. Then he rammed him harder, and Haru whimpered in pleasure.
“You sick little junkie,” Whitten said, building a rolling rhythm with his thrusts. “You love this. You love it.”
“Yes,” cried Haru. “Yes I do.” He did. He hated himself for it, but some sick part of him was enjoying this. His cock hardened and ached for the man’s touches. He’d forgotten all about the cops, who must have given up on him by now. After a few minutes Whitten flipped him over again, so they faced each other and his shoulders wedged into the couch. From this angle Haru could see the money on the table where Whitten had left it. That was his money now. He’d earned it.
“Oh god yeah, take it in your pretty little hole, slut.”
“Fuck me fuck me fuck me!” cried Haru.
“The hell do you think I’m doing?” Whitten grunted. But the boy’s cries really seemed to get him off. He slammed into Haru, pushing back against his airborne thighs so that the vinyl laces left little red marks against his skin. He came quickly, convulsing against Haru's writhing body. With a sigh he slipped out of Haru and disposed of the soggy condom.
Haru sat up dizzily. He refused to be left hanging. “Touch me, please!” he begged, stroking himself desperately. The man obliged, jacking him off with a rough hand until Haru squirted all over himself. It took less than a minute.
“Here’s your drug money, kid,” said Whitten. He grabbed the wad of cash from the table and stuffed it into Haru’s sticky, quivering hand. “Take good care of your pretty little body, now.” The gray-haired man winked as he zipped up and wiped his hands with a pre-packaged handiwipe. “See you around.”
Only as Haru lay on the couch, dripping cum and holding two hundred dollars, did he fully realize what he had just done.
What he had just become.
**
Next chapter...