(no subject)
Title: BeastPeople and Sheen
Fandom: khr
Rating: PG -15
-Characters: Hibari/Yamamoto, Dino
-Warnings: au, gore, violence
Wordcount: 2.6k (2610) Beta - cruzle
Notes: for tryeling.
✵✵✵
The blade Yamamoto wielded was dirty, rusty with a year's worth of ill storage in the shed behind the victim's house. Yamamoto had never held a sword, had never touched a blade so slick even when covered in red. His father had collected katanas once, displayed them and let Yamamoto touch but never hold them. The tsuka was hot and heavy in his palm and he rolled the blade, watching the iron glint in the sunlight. Clouds were rushing in, dark and moody, threatening Yamamoto with thunder and lightning. It nearly took his breath away how the lightning curved with the katana blade.
He twirled the blade again, watching the tip dance then spiral into the dirt. Silently, the storm clouds moved in and hovered over the sun, replacing its glare with their darkness. Yamamoto looked at his palms. He watched as his blood dripped down from the burns and onto the grass below his feet. The grass curled and bent when the blood hit it. Both of his palms were bleeding, the lines where the katana had burnt into his flesh. The grass at his feet was dying as if his blood was acid. There was a howl as the wind raced past him. He looked up at the sky and mused out loud. "It's gotten so dark, I can't even see."
Only when the rain started to pour down on him and into the open shed did Yamamoto start to see again. His amber eyes were wide open and the backyard was still and dark as night. His suit was ruined. He'd have to get it dry cleaned and pressed which would mean he would have to go home before his lunch break was over. Yamamoto reached out, ignoring every patch of dead grass his blood had created, and picked the katana back up, holding it up and watching the rain caress the rusted metal and peel the red off. Rust shouldn't be removed that easily - years of practice and training told him so. The answer came as an epiphany and it winded Yamamoto -
"It's blood."
When Yamamoto looked up there was another man in a suit, only it didn't look like the rain was even touching him. The man's eyes were narrowed and sharp, either frustrated or angry, Yamamoto didn't know. But the man was advancing now and Yamamoto backed up, dropping the katana and knocking himself into the wall of the house. The man's dry hand wrapped around Yamamoto's wet neck and jerked him forward. Their lips ghosted casually over each other’s and Yamamoto felt his last breath breathe into the man's mouth. He was knocked back and Yamamoto slipped down into the mud, his eyes wide open and mouth ajar and thoroughly paralyzed.
He could only watch as the suited, dry man picked up the katana and held it tenderly, folding his fingers around the blade. It was almost magical and even Yamamoto slowed his breathing so he wouldn't disturb the sight. The moment was ruined when the man threw the sword into the ground with disgust. The rain slid down the back of Yamamoto's neck, over the bulges of his vertebrae, and Yamamoto could only let the suited man roll him onto his side. The strange man, so angry and wild like a rabid dog, picked the katana up again and slammed it back down into the ground, passing cleanly through Yamamoto's heart first.
Blood rolled up the blade, absorbing into the metal, tinting it a different metallic shade. None of Yamamoto's blood was getting onto the ground; all the grass was full and plump beneath him, cushioning him as the blood was drained out of him through the katana. His throat was becoming dry and his vision hazy, and the rain was the only wetness he felt in his whole body. It looked as if the katana was drinking up his blood, gulping it down, more like. He looked up at the animal of a man, watched as the rain slid past and dropped to the ground without even daring to hit the man. Power - he reeked of power just like the katana had of rust. "Who are you?" Yamamoto managed to ask, wincing and feeling his heart collapse within him.
Just before the world faded out, through a puddle of mud, Yamamoto heard the man answer - "No one of coincidence."
It was a cat that woke him, a mammoth feline cat laying on his chest right beside the katana. The cat was licking the blade, trying to get at the blood trapped inside the sheen. With one cough the thing had bolted back over the fence. The katana protruded from his chest grotesquely and was shaded exactly as his blood had been. It didn't even stink of blood, though, so why that cat had found it was beyond him. Yamamoto sat up, ripping the katana from the ground before yanking it out of his chest. There was no pain and no blood as the action was done. The hole in his chest was there, gaping and wide like a pair of lips, but it was just there, as if for no reason besides aesthetic.
The shirasaya was still in the shed somewhere, so Yamamoto stood, brushing the mud and dirt off his black suit. He had been right - the suit was ruined - but it was evening already; he figured skipping out on the last few minutes of his desk job would be better than showing up in the mess he was in. He flicked the katana back into the dirt and Yamamoto was amazed how it went inches deep into the hard ground. The smoothness of the blade, how cleanly it had gone through his muscle and bone - the thought left him as soon as he remembered it, leaving him dry and empty. He stood at the entrance of the shed, holding his wounded chest tightly and trying to remember the finer details of what had happened.
Something was eluding him but now was not the time to focus on that. The suit and the power, something was missing. Yamamoto shook his head and walked into the shed, shifting around bits and pieces of lawnmower, but the shirasaya was nowhere in sight. The windows were clean enough to let in light for Yamamoto to see what he was doing, but there was no sheath, no shirasaya anywhere.
He turned around, rubbing the bridge of his nose and feeling how his insides slid around the open wound. When he looked again, the feral beast was standing there, holding the katana at eyelevel with Yamamoto. "Looking for something?" The beast was talking in human tongue and Yamamoto swore he could see something leaking out of his breath. Yamamoto's mouth dropped and his lips dried. This time he was smart and didn't back up into anything. He let the monster advance on him and only took notice of the blade aimed at his throat, not how the monster was human.
"Looking for the… uh, shirasaya." Something about the beast was making him tell the truth, speak nothing but the truth. Yamamoto made a soft sound at the back of his throat when he took a deep breath in, fear permeating the room.
The monster didn't laugh nor smile, but tilted the tip of the katana down towards the floor. "Ever think the shirasaya is not an actual shirasaya?" the manbeast asked, flipping the katana around so Yamamoto could take the tsuka and wield the katana. Yamamoto reached out, tentatively, only to find the monster flipped it again once he was close enough. He was expecting the slice to come from groin up but the pain never came and the blood never fell.
Yamamoto opened his eyes only to see that the beast was gone as was the katana. His blankets felt warm and plush against his back and his suit adhered to his body with sweat and grim. Again, Yamamoto stood, fingering the wound in his chest and swallowing the morning spit that had built up in his mouth. He peeled off his jacket slowly and ripped off his already ruined white dress shirt. There was something terribly missing, but he couldn't remember those flashes of purple nor the wild adrenaline that pumped through him as his chest was pierced by something not quite human.
The bathroom mirror showed him what he expected it to show him - the well toned and scarred upper body that he had been looking at for years. Add on the massive through-and-through slice and Yamamoto had seen everything already. He looked and touched; the wound was inflamed, but when he dipped his finger into the wound and touched the smoothly slit innards there was no pain. It wasn't the guck inside clotting, but nothing was moving; the heart he was touching tenderly wasn't beating anymore.
The withdrawal of his fingers made Yamamoto twinge and jerk. It felt like iron was ripping up his veins even though touching his own heart hadn't hurt. Yamamoto closed his eyes and curled forward, blocking himself from the mirror. There was something in his hand and he pulled, instinctively ripping whatever the hell it was out of his chest.
It was exactly like he remembered, shaded in a red, solid sheen and thin. The katana nearly glowed even though his porcelain apartment bathroom was lit up. Nothing could have prepared him for this. The wound in his chest looked as if nothing had jarred it and the pain had vanished. Yamamoto looked at the katana as if he had never seen it before. The tsuka was weighted in his palm and felt dirty and impure.
Dropping it, Yamamoto took an innocent step back, hands raised in the air as he did so. The clattering hurt. Every time the metal of the katana blade hit the tile Yamamoto felt a part of him cringe, muscles tightening to a point of pain. Yamamoto was then on his knees, in front of the katana, and cradling it, gently fingering the folded metal and picking it up as if he were cooing to the object. The fact he held it like a priceless object so soon after dropping it made Yamamoto feel weird, but the katana needed him. The katana yearned for him - who was he to deny such a sentiment?
What he didn't expect was the metal melting into him, molding into his flesh and putting something into his blood. The hurt stung, but Yamamoto could still feel the katana waiting, eagerly and willingly inside of him, sated. Yamamoto rocked back on his heels, looking up at the ceiling as the feelings rolled up his spine and into him, soaking him thoroughly.
The crashing of his window drew him from euphoria, the feel of the katana fleeing him and leaving his limbs cold and heavy. Yamamoto moved forward, grasping onto the sink rim to pull himself up to his feet, a numbness holding his ankles gently. The only thing Yamamoto could do was silently push himself to step out of the washroom, touching the chest wound once again.
Beastman was there, the broken shards of glass having cut open the spotless black suit to reveal the white under it, the pale expanse of flesh - and no blood. A realization dawned - the beastman wasn't bleeding like him, their wounds both scabless and gaping. One thing was different from their last meetings - the beastman held a blond man, older, more graceful and gentlemanly, to the shards of glass protruding from the frame. Yamamoto swallowed thickly, watching as the two exchanged words that could only be shared between lovers.
It was brutal to watch how the beastman leaned down and ran the pad of his tongue up the blond man’s cheek, as if taking in the aura and stealing the power- Yamamoto felt nostalgia, the way the blond slumped as the beastman sucked his last breath. It was all Yamamoto could do to watch as the suit pushed the blond out the window, not caring how the glass shards punctured the gentleman over and over on his way down; there was no crunch, no screaming, so Yamamoto had to presume that the man didn't hit the ground.
Then the suit turned to look at him, buttoning up the ruined jacket before running his palm across the tears and fixing them. "You activated it." The statement was blunt and out there, only roughened by the beastman’s slight panting. Yamamoto looked at him, his face blank and wound still gapping at the beastman dumbly.
Yamamoto supposed he should've felt fear or something along those lines but he didn't. "The katana wants me,” he replied. "How could I not activate it?"
"The katana is cruel,” the beast said coolly, narrowing his eyes and reaching out to Yamamoto. He drew the boy closer to him until Yamamoto's fingers were curled around the beast's collar and their pectorals were pushing against each other’s. "The katana will leave you."
"Not right now," Yamamoto grit out, trying to pull away from the beastman but finding it impossible. It was as if he was adhered to this force, this thing with predator eyes. He couldn’t wince as the beast shoved his hand into the chest wound but when it was pulled out the pain was crippling. Only then was Yamamoto able to fall away from the beast and he did, collapsing onto his knees and gasping for breath. When he looked up the beast was holding the katana delicately, hoisting the red blade up for inspection. "Give me that back."
The beast dropped the katana, a spark jerking from its palm to the tsuka. There was a feral snarl and a screech, inhuman yet humane, as the man cradled his bleeding palm. Yamamoto instantly reached out and settled the katana before it could clatter around and hurt. He held it gently to his chest and let it melt back into him. Yamamoto breathed out something that could've been mistaken for ecstasy before getting to his feet and looking at the beastman - the thing that had killed him. "Let me see your palm." Yamamoto motioned for the wounded limb but the beastman refused, licking the burn tenderly. "Don't be stubborn - come on, let me see."
"No." The suited man looked at Yamamoto with a glare, purple eyes narrowed and pale skin seemingly glowing. Then the beastman's hand was back in his chest, pulling the katana out of Yamamoto forcefully, making him buckle and fall to the ground as the red blade was revealed once again. The beastman licked his lips and squeezed two of his fingers to the hilt of the katana, running his thumb along the blade and cleaning the blood off. Quietly, the blood dripped to the floor in front of Yamamoto's eyes and he watched as it curdled on the floor before leaping into his chest.
The pain of it was insurmountable, the stinging ridiculous, and the beastman was looking at him, making the scream he wanted to give back off with a whimper. As soon as all his blood returned the beastman leaned over Yamamoto, put a hand on his chest, and breathed out, "My name is Hibari. You will forget this, Yamamoto Takeshi; with no questions."
The last thing Yamamoto saw before drifting off was Hibari shoving the katana into his own thigh. If only Yamamoto could keep his eyes open for longer. The beastman - Hibari - looked at him, eyes promising death. Yamamoto felt a darkness settle over his eyelids.
It calmed him like the katana did, and Yamamoto moaned as he passed off.
Fandom: khr
Rating: PG -15
-Characters: Hibari/Yamamoto, Dino
-Warnings: au, gore, violence
Wordcount: 2.6k (2610) Beta - cruzle
Notes: for tryeling.
✵✵✵
The blade Yamamoto wielded was dirty, rusty with a year's worth of ill storage in the shed behind the victim's house. Yamamoto had never held a sword, had never touched a blade so slick even when covered in red. His father had collected katanas once, displayed them and let Yamamoto touch but never hold them. The tsuka was hot and heavy in his palm and he rolled the blade, watching the iron glint in the sunlight. Clouds were rushing in, dark and moody, threatening Yamamoto with thunder and lightning. It nearly took his breath away how the lightning curved with the katana blade.
He twirled the blade again, watching the tip dance then spiral into the dirt. Silently, the storm clouds moved in and hovered over the sun, replacing its glare with their darkness. Yamamoto looked at his palms. He watched as his blood dripped down from the burns and onto the grass below his feet. The grass curled and bent when the blood hit it. Both of his palms were bleeding, the lines where the katana had burnt into his flesh. The grass at his feet was dying as if his blood was acid. There was a howl as the wind raced past him. He looked up at the sky and mused out loud. "It's gotten so dark, I can't even see."
Only when the rain started to pour down on him and into the open shed did Yamamoto start to see again. His amber eyes were wide open and the backyard was still and dark as night. His suit was ruined. He'd have to get it dry cleaned and pressed which would mean he would have to go home before his lunch break was over. Yamamoto reached out, ignoring every patch of dead grass his blood had created, and picked the katana back up, holding it up and watching the rain caress the rusted metal and peel the red off. Rust shouldn't be removed that easily - years of practice and training told him so. The answer came as an epiphany and it winded Yamamoto -
"It's blood."
When Yamamoto looked up there was another man in a suit, only it didn't look like the rain was even touching him. The man's eyes were narrowed and sharp, either frustrated or angry, Yamamoto didn't know. But the man was advancing now and Yamamoto backed up, dropping the katana and knocking himself into the wall of the house. The man's dry hand wrapped around Yamamoto's wet neck and jerked him forward. Their lips ghosted casually over each other’s and Yamamoto felt his last breath breathe into the man's mouth. He was knocked back and Yamamoto slipped down into the mud, his eyes wide open and mouth ajar and thoroughly paralyzed.
He could only watch as the suited, dry man picked up the katana and held it tenderly, folding his fingers around the blade. It was almost magical and even Yamamoto slowed his breathing so he wouldn't disturb the sight. The moment was ruined when the man threw the sword into the ground with disgust. The rain slid down the back of Yamamoto's neck, over the bulges of his vertebrae, and Yamamoto could only let the suited man roll him onto his side. The strange man, so angry and wild like a rabid dog, picked the katana up again and slammed it back down into the ground, passing cleanly through Yamamoto's heart first.
Blood rolled up the blade, absorbing into the metal, tinting it a different metallic shade. None of Yamamoto's blood was getting onto the ground; all the grass was full and plump beneath him, cushioning him as the blood was drained out of him through the katana. His throat was becoming dry and his vision hazy, and the rain was the only wetness he felt in his whole body. It looked as if the katana was drinking up his blood, gulping it down, more like. He looked up at the animal of a man, watched as the rain slid past and dropped to the ground without even daring to hit the man. Power - he reeked of power just like the katana had of rust. "Who are you?" Yamamoto managed to ask, wincing and feeling his heart collapse within him.
Just before the world faded out, through a puddle of mud, Yamamoto heard the man answer - "No one of coincidence."
It was a cat that woke him, a mammoth feline cat laying on his chest right beside the katana. The cat was licking the blade, trying to get at the blood trapped inside the sheen. With one cough the thing had bolted back over the fence. The katana protruded from his chest grotesquely and was shaded exactly as his blood had been. It didn't even stink of blood, though, so why that cat had found it was beyond him. Yamamoto sat up, ripping the katana from the ground before yanking it out of his chest. There was no pain and no blood as the action was done. The hole in his chest was there, gaping and wide like a pair of lips, but it was just there, as if for no reason besides aesthetic.
The shirasaya was still in the shed somewhere, so Yamamoto stood, brushing the mud and dirt off his black suit. He had been right - the suit was ruined - but it was evening already; he figured skipping out on the last few minutes of his desk job would be better than showing up in the mess he was in. He flicked the katana back into the dirt and Yamamoto was amazed how it went inches deep into the hard ground. The smoothness of the blade, how cleanly it had gone through his muscle and bone - the thought left him as soon as he remembered it, leaving him dry and empty. He stood at the entrance of the shed, holding his wounded chest tightly and trying to remember the finer details of what had happened.
Something was eluding him but now was not the time to focus on that. The suit and the power, something was missing. Yamamoto shook his head and walked into the shed, shifting around bits and pieces of lawnmower, but the shirasaya was nowhere in sight. The windows were clean enough to let in light for Yamamoto to see what he was doing, but there was no sheath, no shirasaya anywhere.
He turned around, rubbing the bridge of his nose and feeling how his insides slid around the open wound. When he looked again, the feral beast was standing there, holding the katana at eyelevel with Yamamoto. "Looking for something?" The beast was talking in human tongue and Yamamoto swore he could see something leaking out of his breath. Yamamoto's mouth dropped and his lips dried. This time he was smart and didn't back up into anything. He let the monster advance on him and only took notice of the blade aimed at his throat, not how the monster was human.
"Looking for the… uh, shirasaya." Something about the beast was making him tell the truth, speak nothing but the truth. Yamamoto made a soft sound at the back of his throat when he took a deep breath in, fear permeating the room.
The monster didn't laugh nor smile, but tilted the tip of the katana down towards the floor. "Ever think the shirasaya is not an actual shirasaya?" the manbeast asked, flipping the katana around so Yamamoto could take the tsuka and wield the katana. Yamamoto reached out, tentatively, only to find the monster flipped it again once he was close enough. He was expecting the slice to come from groin up but the pain never came and the blood never fell.
Yamamoto opened his eyes only to see that the beast was gone as was the katana. His blankets felt warm and plush against his back and his suit adhered to his body with sweat and grim. Again, Yamamoto stood, fingering the wound in his chest and swallowing the morning spit that had built up in his mouth. He peeled off his jacket slowly and ripped off his already ruined white dress shirt. There was something terribly missing, but he couldn't remember those flashes of purple nor the wild adrenaline that pumped through him as his chest was pierced by something not quite human.
The bathroom mirror showed him what he expected it to show him - the well toned and scarred upper body that he had been looking at for years. Add on the massive through-and-through slice and Yamamoto had seen everything already. He looked and touched; the wound was inflamed, but when he dipped his finger into the wound and touched the smoothly slit innards there was no pain. It wasn't the guck inside clotting, but nothing was moving; the heart he was touching tenderly wasn't beating anymore.
The withdrawal of his fingers made Yamamoto twinge and jerk. It felt like iron was ripping up his veins even though touching his own heart hadn't hurt. Yamamoto closed his eyes and curled forward, blocking himself from the mirror. There was something in his hand and he pulled, instinctively ripping whatever the hell it was out of his chest.
It was exactly like he remembered, shaded in a red, solid sheen and thin. The katana nearly glowed even though his porcelain apartment bathroom was lit up. Nothing could have prepared him for this. The wound in his chest looked as if nothing had jarred it and the pain had vanished. Yamamoto looked at the katana as if he had never seen it before. The tsuka was weighted in his palm and felt dirty and impure.
Dropping it, Yamamoto took an innocent step back, hands raised in the air as he did so. The clattering hurt. Every time the metal of the katana blade hit the tile Yamamoto felt a part of him cringe, muscles tightening to a point of pain. Yamamoto was then on his knees, in front of the katana, and cradling it, gently fingering the folded metal and picking it up as if he were cooing to the object. The fact he held it like a priceless object so soon after dropping it made Yamamoto feel weird, but the katana needed him. The katana yearned for him - who was he to deny such a sentiment?
What he didn't expect was the metal melting into him, molding into his flesh and putting something into his blood. The hurt stung, but Yamamoto could still feel the katana waiting, eagerly and willingly inside of him, sated. Yamamoto rocked back on his heels, looking up at the ceiling as the feelings rolled up his spine and into him, soaking him thoroughly.
The crashing of his window drew him from euphoria, the feel of the katana fleeing him and leaving his limbs cold and heavy. Yamamoto moved forward, grasping onto the sink rim to pull himself up to his feet, a numbness holding his ankles gently. The only thing Yamamoto could do was silently push himself to step out of the washroom, touching the chest wound once again.
Beastman was there, the broken shards of glass having cut open the spotless black suit to reveal the white under it, the pale expanse of flesh - and no blood. A realization dawned - the beastman wasn't bleeding like him, their wounds both scabless and gaping. One thing was different from their last meetings - the beastman held a blond man, older, more graceful and gentlemanly, to the shards of glass protruding from the frame. Yamamoto swallowed thickly, watching as the two exchanged words that could only be shared between lovers.
It was brutal to watch how the beastman leaned down and ran the pad of his tongue up the blond man’s cheek, as if taking in the aura and stealing the power- Yamamoto felt nostalgia, the way the blond slumped as the beastman sucked his last breath. It was all Yamamoto could do to watch as the suit pushed the blond out the window, not caring how the glass shards punctured the gentleman over and over on his way down; there was no crunch, no screaming, so Yamamoto had to presume that the man didn't hit the ground.
Then the suit turned to look at him, buttoning up the ruined jacket before running his palm across the tears and fixing them. "You activated it." The statement was blunt and out there, only roughened by the beastman’s slight panting. Yamamoto looked at him, his face blank and wound still gapping at the beastman dumbly.
Yamamoto supposed he should've felt fear or something along those lines but he didn't. "The katana wants me,” he replied. "How could I not activate it?"
"The katana is cruel,” the beast said coolly, narrowing his eyes and reaching out to Yamamoto. He drew the boy closer to him until Yamamoto's fingers were curled around the beast's collar and their pectorals were pushing against each other’s. "The katana will leave you."
"Not right now," Yamamoto grit out, trying to pull away from the beastman but finding it impossible. It was as if he was adhered to this force, this thing with predator eyes. He couldn’t wince as the beast shoved his hand into the chest wound but when it was pulled out the pain was crippling. Only then was Yamamoto able to fall away from the beast and he did, collapsing onto his knees and gasping for breath. When he looked up the beast was holding the katana delicately, hoisting the red blade up for inspection. "Give me that back."
The beast dropped the katana, a spark jerking from its palm to the tsuka. There was a feral snarl and a screech, inhuman yet humane, as the man cradled his bleeding palm. Yamamoto instantly reached out and settled the katana before it could clatter around and hurt. He held it gently to his chest and let it melt back into him. Yamamoto breathed out something that could've been mistaken for ecstasy before getting to his feet and looking at the beastman - the thing that had killed him. "Let me see your palm." Yamamoto motioned for the wounded limb but the beastman refused, licking the burn tenderly. "Don't be stubborn - come on, let me see."
"No." The suited man looked at Yamamoto with a glare, purple eyes narrowed and pale skin seemingly glowing. Then the beastman's hand was back in his chest, pulling the katana out of Yamamoto forcefully, making him buckle and fall to the ground as the red blade was revealed once again. The beastman licked his lips and squeezed two of his fingers to the hilt of the katana, running his thumb along the blade and cleaning the blood off. Quietly, the blood dripped to the floor in front of Yamamoto's eyes and he watched as it curdled on the floor before leaping into his chest.
The pain of it was insurmountable, the stinging ridiculous, and the beastman was looking at him, making the scream he wanted to give back off with a whimper. As soon as all his blood returned the beastman leaned over Yamamoto, put a hand on his chest, and breathed out, "My name is Hibari. You will forget this, Yamamoto Takeshi; with no questions."
The last thing Yamamoto saw before drifting off was Hibari shoving the katana into his own thigh. If only Yamamoto could keep his eyes open for longer. The beastman - Hibari - looked at him, eyes promising death. Yamamoto felt a darkness settle over his eyelids.
It calmed him like the katana did, and Yamamoto moaned as he passed off.