Pearls, Swine and Seeing Red for Matokilove!
Title: Pearls, Swine, and Seeing Red
Author: soltian
Recipient: matokilove
Rating: R
Warnings: Gore, sadism, masochism, dub-con, implied prostitution, and some abusive emotional manipulation to top it off.
Summary: Life as a band of medieval mercenaries is tough, even when you're the famously, internationally feared Rikkaidai. When Lord Sakaki offers the troupe an alternative to starvation for a particular fee, Yukimura accepts...but one of his subordinates is less than thrilled with the arrangement.
Notes (if required): Fantasy/Berserker/Demon AU. Yukimura/Kirihara with implied Sakaki/Yukimura, Troika, and Renji/Kirihara, because I'm damn greedy like that.
It was dismal in the cramped, foul-smelling tavern. Dismal with laughter, light, and song. Dismal with the happy voices of customers eating, drinking, and flirting. A company of eight men surrounded the table in the corner, ripped and stained everywhere but a bright yellow kerchief tied to their upper left arms, and each a different kind of morose.
“We need money,” Renji said as he passed around tankards of water before taking his seat at Yukimura’s left.
“We need food,” Bunta complained, still chewing on the stem of a mushroom he had picked earlier that day, despite first Niou and then Renji warning him that it could be poisonous.
“We need jobs,” growled Kirihara, ignoring his water with both fists on the table, since clenching them was the only thing keeping his fingers from twitching. “How can it have been two months since our last bounty?”
“There is other work,” Yagyuu countered, a gazette spread out over his portion of their crowded table, marked in several places by his quill. “We could simply expand our interests.”
Kirihara scrunched up his face and gagged. “To what, the coal market? Smashing boulders? We’re not common thugs, Yagyuu, we’re Rikkaidai. We have a reputation.”
Yagyuu stiffened, but before he could rebutt Yukimura cut in softly.
“Akaya’s right, Yagyuu. Mercenary work is for common mercenaries. We are nothing less than the herald of war.”
There was a silence mildly punctuated by Kirihara’s smug huffs of breath. Bunta’s stomach growled.
“The herald of war has no money, Seiichi.” Renji pronounced while keeping his eyes focused on the far wall. Yukimura turned to him coldly, but it was his luck that a messenger chose exactly that moment to appear. He was struggling through the larger frames crowding him, flustered and unfortunate looking, graced with a unibrow and a scratchy voice that broke with fear as he approached the leader of Rikkaidai.
“A...Am I addressing Yukimura Seiichi!” he shouted, unreasonably loud, before quickly adding, “Please don’t hurt me!”
Yukimura allowed his expression to slide from frigid to neutral, and crooked one finger towards the envelope in the terrified boy’s hand. He scuttled forward and dropped it into Yukimura’s palm, and was gone almost as quickly, leaving the eight members of Rikkai to lean in towards its contents. Much to their annoyance, Yukimura kept the letter close to his chest and read it silently, though Sanada and Renji were allowed more than a glimpse as he did. He glanced at Sanada, who nodded silently, and folded the letter into his breast pocket.
“Yes,” Renji added, his manner calm other than an annoyed knit to his brow, “That does seem worth investigating.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Yukimura responded lightly as he got to his feet. “Men, are we up for a bit of night walking?”
---
Midnight found Kirihara Akaya warm, fed, comfortable, and sleepless. Rikkaidai had made the trek from the heart of one of Hyotei’s outlying villages to an isolated manor in her countryside - a summer home, they were informed by the bland, serene servants that served them dinner and drew their baths, of the Duke, Sakaki. He’d heard the man’s name before - seen it looped elegantly at the bottom of a few wanted posters, or attached neatly to the boxes of coin they received for severed heads - but he couldn’t put a face to it. Even this evening, as they ate his food (with gusto, all too aware that this night of hospitality might be the only one of its kind) he hadn’t shown his face, sending his regrets to Yukimura in a little white card. Yukimura returned the card to the servant that had brought it to him, and, Kirihara noticed between bites of steak and spiced yams, he had not let even Sanada or Renji read it.
And now he was lying on a feather mattress, moonlight filtering into a room he had all to himself, nothing but the soft sound of the June breeze and owls hooting to disturb his sleep.
And sleep would not come.
It was the opposite of what he had wanted, Kirihara thought fiercely to himself. He wanted a good hard fight - blood under his fingernails, tendons between his teeth. He wanted a sack of gold that smelled like grease and to end up in a pile with his brothers at an inn somewhere, having drunken themselves silly until they were regaling each other with stories and secrets, a messily congealed mass of bodies becoming one person. He wanted it so badly it almost made his stomach hurt. He was all tension and couldn’t even feel the pillows clouding around him, could barely see the ornately carved and filigreed ceiling laid above him.
His rush of thought was finally interrupted by a tiny creak in the wooden floor, and he sat up, a quiet gasp in his throat, to look toward its source. There was another creak, quieter, and Kirihara leapt to his feet, rushed to his bedroom door to peek out into the hallway. A lantern was lit in one of the rooms at the end of the landing, and Yukimura’s silhouette was visible by the diffused light, about to descend the stairs. Kirihara’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to call to him, but Yukimura spotted him first, and smiled with a shake of his head. He held a finger to his lips, and waved once for Kirihara to return to his room. Then he turned towards the light of the lower story, and was gone.
Kirihara spent the next three sleepless hours pacing a circle in his room, nearly exploding with and then reeling in the impulse to smash the ornaments and furniture he had been provided with. By dawn he was finally asleep, curled up on the floor beneath his window, his pillows shredded into goosedown, blanketing the pretty little room like snow.
---
Their stay extended for days, and then past a week. Bunta took no time at all filling out, Jackal recovered from his hacking cough, Sanada spent fourteen hours each day in the peach orchard with his swords, free to train and meditate uninterrupted. Niou and Yagyuu delighted in the tricks and trinkets of the house; it was riddled with precious gems and secret passages, and it would have been difficult to determine which the pair found more interesting. Renji was suddenly seeing what seemed like half the bankers and contractors in Hyotei, taking meetings both in one of Sakaki’s quiet parlors as well as in Atobe city twice or three times a day.
Yukimura seemed to be doing absolutely nothing, other than to care for the plants in the garden and smile. Kirihara, as the days passed, began to do little other than watch him, and rage.
After all, it wasn’t as if he were doing something as distracting as sleep.
Dinner on the tenth night of their stay started out quietly. Seven of their company were seated around a meal of pork dumplings and the garden’s freshest vegetables. It would have been a perfectly pleasant evening, if Kirihara hadn’t chosen to drag himself into the dining room and ruin it.
While the rest of Rikkaidai were regularly taking advantage of Lord Sakaki’s bathing facilities and seemingly endless supply of fresh clothing, Kirihara had begun to pointedly turn these things down. He sat himself at the table bleary-eyed, half-wrapped in a sheet from his bed and little else. When he reached out to help himself to the food, he was met with the impassible barrier of Yukimura’s quiet refusal.
“You are not welcome to eat with us in this state, Akaya. You’re a disgrace.”
The rest of the table went silent. Kirihara locked his haggard, bloodshot green eyes with Yukimura’s icy blue ones, and growled.
“Disgrace? How can you say that to me with a straight face. Rikkaidai has a legacy - heroes, champions, brilliance. Not some faceless creep’s kept pets.”
“Akaya.”
“You’re disgusting. Less than a fortnight ago you had big words about war and glory and now every night-”
“Akaya. Return to your room.” Sanada had interrupted Kirihara and was standing, by all appearances calm, across the table from him - but his eyes were burning. Kirihara stared him down - Sanada, the Emperor of the battlefield, the man he had dragged himself across half a continent to even catch a glimpse of, was pridefully defending a pack of ragged freeloaders and a whore.
He didn’t mean to start laughing. He just couldn’t help himself. The sound reverberated disturbingly in the gorgeously sun-lit dining hall. Bunta, Jackal, Yagyuu, and even Niou winced, putting one or two hands to their ears to block out the sound. Yukimura and Renji sat still as statues, and Sanada put the point of his sword to Kirihara’s throat in one smooth motion, cutting his insane cackling to a sudden halt.
“I see I was unclear. Return to your room, Akaya, or I will relieve you of your windpipe.”
It was difficult to distinguish whether Kirihara’s expression still held any anger - it was beast-like, and barely focused. He tugged his chin free from the prick of Sanada’s blade, gathered up his ragged sheet, and slunk from the room without another word. After several minutes had passed, Renji folded his napkin neatly near his plate, and was about to get to his feet when Yukimura put a hand on his wrist, and shook his head.
“Not this time, Renji. Right now he needs his captain.”
---
For the past ten days, there had been a certain amount of restraint and decency that was keeping Kirihara from making wreckage of everything he could reach. That was gone now. There had been sweet little ceramic elephants in his room, a gold clock with a glass dome covering it, a bookshelf laden with richly leather-bound tomes.
I’m a berserker, he thought as he splintered one of the shelves in his bare hands, A force of nature. A super-human demon they should be grateful to lick the fucking boots of.
The world was getting hot behind his eyes, blurred by frustrated tears. The tiny wound on his throat had leaked out three fat droplets of blood. He didn’t hear Yukimura enter his open door as he savaged one of the toppled books, but he did hear the door click shut, and whirled on his icy-faced captain, dressed in a rich pervert’s borrowed robes and smelling like flowers. They stared at each other for a few moments, Yukimura unmoving, Kirihara shivering, until he suddenly began snarling in pain, dropping the innocent book on his feet to clutch his head with both hands instead.
His color began deepening - his normally pale skin filling up with crimson - his legs grew more muscular as their form distorted to a shape more goat-like than human, and his head split apart - the normally tiny horns easily hidden by his mop of tangled curls becoming hardened twists rooted from his temples, their sharp points matching the ones his ears had grown into.
“Hypocrite,” Kirihara growled, his voice gravelly but still distinctly his own, Yukimura’s shape in front of him distilled to nothing less than a target, “Traitor!”
He launched himself across the room and met steel near his face and a boot to his midsection, the double blow knocking him to the floor, stunned, before he could even piece together why there was blood splattered down his face. When he saw a knife in one of Yukimura’s hands and one of his own horns in the other, he screamed wordlessly, clutching the fresh wound, filled with more blind rage than pain. How dare he. Yukimura just smiled coldly, his voice conveying quiet concern as he set the items down gently on the bureau before advancing.
“I realize you’re less than human, Akaya, and I’ve made fair allowances because of it. But this behavior must end.” His hands - stronger than they had any right to be, on someone of such deceptively slight frame, gripped Kirihara firmly by the hair and the throat, dragging him through the mess he’d made to throw him unceremoniously on his rejected bed, which had remained untouched since their first night in the house.
“We are guests in this house,” Yukimura continued, as Kirihara choked and clawed at him wordlessly, the pain beginning to throb through his head making him enraged and dizzy in equally violent spurts, staining the pristine sheets with splatters of red. “It is your duty as my underling to respect the host that I respect, and most of all - “
Kirihara’s shaking body had been mostly unclothed to start with, so Yukimura made quick, rough work of forcing his beast-like legs apart, hitting him soundly when he kicked, and holding down his heatedly bobbing throat with vice-like fingers. He worked in silence as he overcame Kirihara’s fits of wordless growls and spitting, and finally brought him to shuddering stillness by yanking roughly on a fistful of his hair, his palm grinding cruelly into what was now the smoothly cut stump where his horn should have been.
“It is your duty to respect me.”
“Ghh…” Kirihara’s eyes were still wild, his cheeks streaked as much with blood as with fat, angry tears, his blood-red hands tight in Yukimura’s back where they had clawed ten damp slashes right through his robe. “I won’t…I won’t…”
“You will. You must.” Yukimura kept his grip calmly as his other hand slid almost methodically between their bodies, ignoring the simmering skin of Kirihara’s torso and cock to delve his fingers deep inside of him. He shook him roughly by the hair when he attempted to squirm, and whispered with calm totality into his ear.
“Ask me to take you, Akaya. Beg for it.”
Kirihara was panting now, animalistic growls and angry yelps punctuating the harsh, pained sound. He shook his head as much as Yukimura’s grip would allow, but his voice was strained by distress, not defiance.
“Yukimura...Yukimura…”
“You want my forgiveness, Akaya?”
A pause, broken panting. In contrast to the violence of his hands, Yukimura kissed Kirihara’s heated cheek, lapping blood from it in small, cat-like strokes. Kirihara shuddered, struggled, and then shuddered again, whimpering.
“Y-es. I want it. Stop hating me...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, captain - “
“Shh, Akaya. Stop blubbering...it’s very simple. You are mine. Your demon flesh is mine to control, and to discard. Nod if you understand.”
There was a pause, longer than before, but Kirihara nodded, his eyes wide with need for whatever Yukimura would give name to. Yukimura examined him coldly, but when his eyes closed and Kirihara felt his lips press against his own, he felt the unbearable contempt drain away like blood from his pores. He kissed back fiercely, held him tight with all his limbs, and bucked his hips up against his brutal touch. The vitriol and bloodlust he was still overflowing with had been re-channelled to sex at practically the snap of Yukimura’s fingers, and he panted, begged for it, half wordlessly, half in delirious huffs of captain, captain.
Having wrenched from him his disrespect, his defiance, and his pound of flesh, Yukimura generously obliged.
---
Several hours later, Kirihara was boy-shaped once more, drained of his crimson hue, and deeply asleep. Yukimura lay next to him, stroking his freshly dressed wound carefully, and felt a genuine serenity surround him for the first time since entering Sakaki’s grounds. He had been right about one thing, this little monster. This wasn’t the life for him - for any of them. Luckily, it wouldn’t last much longer. When they were done there would be no question exactly who slit Sakaki’s throat, and still he would walk away, wealthy and untouchable.
There was a soft knock on the door, which could only be Renji. Without waiting for his approval he entered, and Yukimura watched in the cracked mirror as Renji surveyed the room and its damage, then picked up the twisted red horn, sticky with congealed blood.
“Fascinating,” Renji said quietly, commenting on nothing else. “It’s warm, as if it’s still alive.”
“Put it somewhere safe, Renji,” Yukimura sighed, and allowed himself to rest, draped over Kirihara as a protective parent cradles their child. “I’ll be needing it for a while yet.”
Author: soltian
Recipient: matokilove
Rating: R
Warnings: Gore, sadism, masochism, dub-con, implied prostitution, and some abusive emotional manipulation to top it off.
Summary: Life as a band of medieval mercenaries is tough, even when you're the famously, internationally feared Rikkaidai. When Lord Sakaki offers the troupe an alternative to starvation for a particular fee, Yukimura accepts...but one of his subordinates is less than thrilled with the arrangement.
Notes (if required): Fantasy/Berserker/Demon AU. Yukimura/Kirihara with implied Sakaki/Yukimura, Troika, and Renji/Kirihara, because I'm damn greedy like that.
It was dismal in the cramped, foul-smelling tavern. Dismal with laughter, light, and song. Dismal with the happy voices of customers eating, drinking, and flirting. A company of eight men surrounded the table in the corner, ripped and stained everywhere but a bright yellow kerchief tied to their upper left arms, and each a different kind of morose.
“We need money,” Renji said as he passed around tankards of water before taking his seat at Yukimura’s left.
“We need food,” Bunta complained, still chewing on the stem of a mushroom he had picked earlier that day, despite first Niou and then Renji warning him that it could be poisonous.
“We need jobs,” growled Kirihara, ignoring his water with both fists on the table, since clenching them was the only thing keeping his fingers from twitching. “How can it have been two months since our last bounty?”
“There is other work,” Yagyuu countered, a gazette spread out over his portion of their crowded table, marked in several places by his quill. “We could simply expand our interests.”
Kirihara scrunched up his face and gagged. “To what, the coal market? Smashing boulders? We’re not common thugs, Yagyuu, we’re Rikkaidai. We have a reputation.”
Yagyuu stiffened, but before he could rebutt Yukimura cut in softly.
“Akaya’s right, Yagyuu. Mercenary work is for common mercenaries. We are nothing less than the herald of war.”
There was a silence mildly punctuated by Kirihara’s smug huffs of breath. Bunta’s stomach growled.
“The herald of war has no money, Seiichi.” Renji pronounced while keeping his eyes focused on the far wall. Yukimura turned to him coldly, but it was his luck that a messenger chose exactly that moment to appear. He was struggling through the larger frames crowding him, flustered and unfortunate looking, graced with a unibrow and a scratchy voice that broke with fear as he approached the leader of Rikkaidai.
“A...Am I addressing Yukimura Seiichi!” he shouted, unreasonably loud, before quickly adding, “Please don’t hurt me!”
Yukimura allowed his expression to slide from frigid to neutral, and crooked one finger towards the envelope in the terrified boy’s hand. He scuttled forward and dropped it into Yukimura’s palm, and was gone almost as quickly, leaving the eight members of Rikkai to lean in towards its contents. Much to their annoyance, Yukimura kept the letter close to his chest and read it silently, though Sanada and Renji were allowed more than a glimpse as he did. He glanced at Sanada, who nodded silently, and folded the letter into his breast pocket.
“Yes,” Renji added, his manner calm other than an annoyed knit to his brow, “That does seem worth investigating.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Yukimura responded lightly as he got to his feet. “Men, are we up for a bit of night walking?”
---
Midnight found Kirihara Akaya warm, fed, comfortable, and sleepless. Rikkaidai had made the trek from the heart of one of Hyotei’s outlying villages to an isolated manor in her countryside - a summer home, they were informed by the bland, serene servants that served them dinner and drew their baths, of the Duke, Sakaki. He’d heard the man’s name before - seen it looped elegantly at the bottom of a few wanted posters, or attached neatly to the boxes of coin they received for severed heads - but he couldn’t put a face to it. Even this evening, as they ate his food (with gusto, all too aware that this night of hospitality might be the only one of its kind) he hadn’t shown his face, sending his regrets to Yukimura in a little white card. Yukimura returned the card to the servant that had brought it to him, and, Kirihara noticed between bites of steak and spiced yams, he had not let even Sanada or Renji read it.
And now he was lying on a feather mattress, moonlight filtering into a room he had all to himself, nothing but the soft sound of the June breeze and owls hooting to disturb his sleep.
And sleep would not come.
It was the opposite of what he had wanted, Kirihara thought fiercely to himself. He wanted a good hard fight - blood under his fingernails, tendons between his teeth. He wanted a sack of gold that smelled like grease and to end up in a pile with his brothers at an inn somewhere, having drunken themselves silly until they were regaling each other with stories and secrets, a messily congealed mass of bodies becoming one person. He wanted it so badly it almost made his stomach hurt. He was all tension and couldn’t even feel the pillows clouding around him, could barely see the ornately carved and filigreed ceiling laid above him.
His rush of thought was finally interrupted by a tiny creak in the wooden floor, and he sat up, a quiet gasp in his throat, to look toward its source. There was another creak, quieter, and Kirihara leapt to his feet, rushed to his bedroom door to peek out into the hallway. A lantern was lit in one of the rooms at the end of the landing, and Yukimura’s silhouette was visible by the diffused light, about to descend the stairs. Kirihara’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to call to him, but Yukimura spotted him first, and smiled with a shake of his head. He held a finger to his lips, and waved once for Kirihara to return to his room. Then he turned towards the light of the lower story, and was gone.
Kirihara spent the next three sleepless hours pacing a circle in his room, nearly exploding with and then reeling in the impulse to smash the ornaments and furniture he had been provided with. By dawn he was finally asleep, curled up on the floor beneath his window, his pillows shredded into goosedown, blanketing the pretty little room like snow.
---
Their stay extended for days, and then past a week. Bunta took no time at all filling out, Jackal recovered from his hacking cough, Sanada spent fourteen hours each day in the peach orchard with his swords, free to train and meditate uninterrupted. Niou and Yagyuu delighted in the tricks and trinkets of the house; it was riddled with precious gems and secret passages, and it would have been difficult to determine which the pair found more interesting. Renji was suddenly seeing what seemed like half the bankers and contractors in Hyotei, taking meetings both in one of Sakaki’s quiet parlors as well as in Atobe city twice or three times a day.
Yukimura seemed to be doing absolutely nothing, other than to care for the plants in the garden and smile. Kirihara, as the days passed, began to do little other than watch him, and rage.
After all, it wasn’t as if he were doing something as distracting as sleep.
Dinner on the tenth night of their stay started out quietly. Seven of their company were seated around a meal of pork dumplings and the garden’s freshest vegetables. It would have been a perfectly pleasant evening, if Kirihara hadn’t chosen to drag himself into the dining room and ruin it.
While the rest of Rikkaidai were regularly taking advantage of Lord Sakaki’s bathing facilities and seemingly endless supply of fresh clothing, Kirihara had begun to pointedly turn these things down. He sat himself at the table bleary-eyed, half-wrapped in a sheet from his bed and little else. When he reached out to help himself to the food, he was met with the impassible barrier of Yukimura’s quiet refusal.
“You are not welcome to eat with us in this state, Akaya. You’re a disgrace.”
The rest of the table went silent. Kirihara locked his haggard, bloodshot green eyes with Yukimura’s icy blue ones, and growled.
“Disgrace? How can you say that to me with a straight face. Rikkaidai has a legacy - heroes, champions, brilliance. Not some faceless creep’s kept pets.”
“Akaya.”
“You’re disgusting. Less than a fortnight ago you had big words about war and glory and now every night-”
“Akaya. Return to your room.” Sanada had interrupted Kirihara and was standing, by all appearances calm, across the table from him - but his eyes were burning. Kirihara stared him down - Sanada, the Emperor of the battlefield, the man he had dragged himself across half a continent to even catch a glimpse of, was pridefully defending a pack of ragged freeloaders and a whore.
He didn’t mean to start laughing. He just couldn’t help himself. The sound reverberated disturbingly in the gorgeously sun-lit dining hall. Bunta, Jackal, Yagyuu, and even Niou winced, putting one or two hands to their ears to block out the sound. Yukimura and Renji sat still as statues, and Sanada put the point of his sword to Kirihara’s throat in one smooth motion, cutting his insane cackling to a sudden halt.
“I see I was unclear. Return to your room, Akaya, or I will relieve you of your windpipe.”
It was difficult to distinguish whether Kirihara’s expression still held any anger - it was beast-like, and barely focused. He tugged his chin free from the prick of Sanada’s blade, gathered up his ragged sheet, and slunk from the room without another word. After several minutes had passed, Renji folded his napkin neatly near his plate, and was about to get to his feet when Yukimura put a hand on his wrist, and shook his head.
“Not this time, Renji. Right now he needs his captain.”
---
For the past ten days, there had been a certain amount of restraint and decency that was keeping Kirihara from making wreckage of everything he could reach. That was gone now. There had been sweet little ceramic elephants in his room, a gold clock with a glass dome covering it, a bookshelf laden with richly leather-bound tomes.
I’m a berserker, he thought as he splintered one of the shelves in his bare hands, A force of nature. A super-human demon they should be grateful to lick the fucking boots of.
The world was getting hot behind his eyes, blurred by frustrated tears. The tiny wound on his throat had leaked out three fat droplets of blood. He didn’t hear Yukimura enter his open door as he savaged one of the toppled books, but he did hear the door click shut, and whirled on his icy-faced captain, dressed in a rich pervert’s borrowed robes and smelling like flowers. They stared at each other for a few moments, Yukimura unmoving, Kirihara shivering, until he suddenly began snarling in pain, dropping the innocent book on his feet to clutch his head with both hands instead.
His color began deepening - his normally pale skin filling up with crimson - his legs grew more muscular as their form distorted to a shape more goat-like than human, and his head split apart - the normally tiny horns easily hidden by his mop of tangled curls becoming hardened twists rooted from his temples, their sharp points matching the ones his ears had grown into.
“Hypocrite,” Kirihara growled, his voice gravelly but still distinctly his own, Yukimura’s shape in front of him distilled to nothing less than a target, “Traitor!”
He launched himself across the room and met steel near his face and a boot to his midsection, the double blow knocking him to the floor, stunned, before he could even piece together why there was blood splattered down his face. When he saw a knife in one of Yukimura’s hands and one of his own horns in the other, he screamed wordlessly, clutching the fresh wound, filled with more blind rage than pain. How dare he. Yukimura just smiled coldly, his voice conveying quiet concern as he set the items down gently on the bureau before advancing.
“I realize you’re less than human, Akaya, and I’ve made fair allowances because of it. But this behavior must end.” His hands - stronger than they had any right to be, on someone of such deceptively slight frame, gripped Kirihara firmly by the hair and the throat, dragging him through the mess he’d made to throw him unceremoniously on his rejected bed, which had remained untouched since their first night in the house.
“We are guests in this house,” Yukimura continued, as Kirihara choked and clawed at him wordlessly, the pain beginning to throb through his head making him enraged and dizzy in equally violent spurts, staining the pristine sheets with splatters of red. “It is your duty as my underling to respect the host that I respect, and most of all - “
Kirihara’s shaking body had been mostly unclothed to start with, so Yukimura made quick, rough work of forcing his beast-like legs apart, hitting him soundly when he kicked, and holding down his heatedly bobbing throat with vice-like fingers. He worked in silence as he overcame Kirihara’s fits of wordless growls and spitting, and finally brought him to shuddering stillness by yanking roughly on a fistful of his hair, his palm grinding cruelly into what was now the smoothly cut stump where his horn should have been.
“It is your duty to respect me.”
“Ghh…” Kirihara’s eyes were still wild, his cheeks streaked as much with blood as with fat, angry tears, his blood-red hands tight in Yukimura’s back where they had clawed ten damp slashes right through his robe. “I won’t…I won’t…”
“You will. You must.” Yukimura kept his grip calmly as his other hand slid almost methodically between their bodies, ignoring the simmering skin of Kirihara’s torso and cock to delve his fingers deep inside of him. He shook him roughly by the hair when he attempted to squirm, and whispered with calm totality into his ear.
“Ask me to take you, Akaya. Beg for it.”
Kirihara was panting now, animalistic growls and angry yelps punctuating the harsh, pained sound. He shook his head as much as Yukimura’s grip would allow, but his voice was strained by distress, not defiance.
“Yukimura...Yukimura…”
“You want my forgiveness, Akaya?”
A pause, broken panting. In contrast to the violence of his hands, Yukimura kissed Kirihara’s heated cheek, lapping blood from it in small, cat-like strokes. Kirihara shuddered, struggled, and then shuddered again, whimpering.
“Y-es. I want it. Stop hating me...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, captain - “
“Shh, Akaya. Stop blubbering...it’s very simple. You are mine. Your demon flesh is mine to control, and to discard. Nod if you understand.”
There was a pause, longer than before, but Kirihara nodded, his eyes wide with need for whatever Yukimura would give name to. Yukimura examined him coldly, but when his eyes closed and Kirihara felt his lips press against his own, he felt the unbearable contempt drain away like blood from his pores. He kissed back fiercely, held him tight with all his limbs, and bucked his hips up against his brutal touch. The vitriol and bloodlust he was still overflowing with had been re-channelled to sex at practically the snap of Yukimura’s fingers, and he panted, begged for it, half wordlessly, half in delirious huffs of captain, captain.
Having wrenched from him his disrespect, his defiance, and his pound of flesh, Yukimura generously obliged.
---
Several hours later, Kirihara was boy-shaped once more, drained of his crimson hue, and deeply asleep. Yukimura lay next to him, stroking his freshly dressed wound carefully, and felt a genuine serenity surround him for the first time since entering Sakaki’s grounds. He had been right about one thing, this little monster. This wasn’t the life for him - for any of them. Luckily, it wouldn’t last much longer. When they were done there would be no question exactly who slit Sakaki’s throat, and still he would walk away, wealthy and untouchable.
There was a soft knock on the door, which could only be Renji. Without waiting for his approval he entered, and Yukimura watched in the cracked mirror as Renji surveyed the room and its damage, then picked up the twisted red horn, sticky with congealed blood.
“Fascinating,” Renji said quietly, commenting on nothing else. “It’s warm, as if it’s still alive.”
“Put it somewhere safe, Renji,” Yukimura sighed, and allowed himself to rest, draped over Kirihara as a protective parent cradles their child. “I’ll be needing it for a while yet.”