#revasku

[scratchface]

Fic Preview

Here’s the preview of the KHR AU I’ve been working on! You don’t need a ton of KHReborn knowledge, just know it involves the magical Mafia and the use a magic system called Flames, which come in different colors/types with different powers. It’s gonna be a multichaptered, plot-heavy fic, but I haven’t come up with a name yet. If y’all have any suggestions, I’m all ears.

Pairing: Datastormshipping/ Revsaku / RevYu

Warnings: Slash, violence, inappropriate flirting, sexual implications, shit-poor morals, and assault of all kinds.

It’s an ordinary day for Ryoken, up until it isn’t. Just a routine check on the progress of the men he had constricting the neighborhood. Typical grunt shit that he’s supposed to leave to the lesser capo, but it gives him an excuse to escape the Headquarters.

But the usual slog takes a turn for the interesting when his back meets the floor hard; the concrete almost as unforgiving as the cold steel nipping his neck. There’s the gleam of a switch knife in the bottom of his vision, but his eyes are caught the face of his assailant.

Green eyes blaze down on him, brilliant as untempered absinthe and just as intoxicating. A thrill of lust courses through his veins—a child’s fascination matured into unrelenting desire.

“Don’t move.” The man commands. He has a cold, firm voice that matches the uncomplicated ruthless manner with which he grips his knife. His fingers on the handle are steady, unshaken—and oh, he has such delicate hands, elegant even as one digs through Ryoken’s pockets for weapons.

He finds the pistol and the box weapons and he casts them to the side, well out of reach with a look of slight distaste. Ryoken mourns the loss of them, but has to appreciate the way the man’s brow furrows imperceptibly. With Ryoken apparently disarmed, the man gains confidence, and settles more firmly upon him—apparently not realizing he’s sitting right on Ryoken’s dick, but well, who’s complaining? It’s sadly not everyday he gets to be between a gorgeous man’s slender thighs.

Slowly, careful not to bring any attention to the movement, he twists his ring around so it faces the inside of his palm, hiding the infamous sigil from view. There’s little he can do about the tattoo on his hand, though.

The man is staring down at him balefully and speaks with a voice full of demanding disdain. “What is Hanoi doing here? What are you scum after?” Unbothered, Ryoken takes his opponent’s measure: jade eyes, green and black jacket, hood pulled over his hair, and a surgical mask obscuring his face. His assailant matches the description in the reports perfectly.

So, this is the infamous, dreaded Playmaker. Ryoken hadn’t thought he’d be so attractive.

“I feel like I should be asking that to you. This is our territory now.” Ryoken weighs his words carefully, but let's them flow casually. Playmaker’s eyes narrow, and he casts a brief glance around, obviously wary of the reminder of potential backup. Ryoken uses Playmaker’s distraction to shift his hand further, but he overestimates himself. In an instant, Playmaker's free hand seizes his own in a vice grip. His hand is warm and worn, fingers rough as he drags the tattoo into view.

“Spreading like rot.” Playmaker swipes his thumb over the triangle, and Ryoken feels a rush of heat going unfortunately south. The reports didn’t prepare him for this. “You’re important, then?” He’s never been so glad to be wearing the mask, which thankfully hides what must be a look of baffled arousal.

“Only if you want me to be.” Ryoken says, trying for disaffected. It comes out as breathy instead. The knife presses deeper, cutting into Ryoken’s skin, as Playmaker glares down at him. Ryoken forces himself to relax against the ground. He ignores the sharp pain by focusing on the warmth of the other’s hand on his own.

“Why is Hanoi here? What are you after?” He can feel blood sluggishly dripping down his neck. It’s such a small cut that it’s rather sexy. Ryoken’s heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. “Answer me or I’ll slit your throat.”

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re here to liberate the people here from Sol.” He searches for Sol’s insignia on Playmaker’s clothes, but there’s nothing. Spectre’s suspicions about a third party’s involvement were right. “I could liberate you too, if you’d like.” Ryoken layers his voice with implications. It’s hard to tell in the low light and under Playmaker’s disguise, but there’s red flushing the edges of Playmaker’s face.

Sadly, Playmaker refuses to play along, with his eyes set on Ryoken’s mask. His grip on the knife is steady, but his grip on Ryoken’s hand loosens. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You scum are nothing but thugs.” He’s flustered, probably only just recognizing the compromising position they’re in. And that means he’s distracted.

“Got a bit of a grudge, do we?” Under his mask, Ryoken smirks, and his ring bursts into clear orange flame that has Playmaker flinching back with a pained yelp. But Ryoken doesn’t let him go, seizing his wrist to drag him back down and knocking the knife from Playmaker’s other hand with a viper-fast strike. He flips them with a firm jolt that has Playmaker underneath him, wrists pinned to the ground.

Ryoken likes this position just as much. His assailant struggles against him, and he shifts his weight forward to contain him. And, well, the resulting friction is its own perk. “If you wanted my attention all you had to do was bat those pretty eyes of yours and ask for it.”

Playmaker’s green eyes are wide and flickering between Ryoken’s mask and his blazing ring. “Sky Flames? You’re Revolver?” Ryoken appreciates how pale Playmaker goes as he realizes he was trapped under the dreaded Underboss of Hanoi.

“I’m a little insulted you didn't recognize me.” Ryoken leans in to get a better look at the elusive assassin plaguing his organization. With Playmaker bucking against him, he has no hands free to pull off the mask that was in the way. If he wasn’t wearing a mask himself, he could’ve used his mouth.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker snarls, jerking up in a rough, attempted head butt. Ryoken forced him back down with some effort. “I’m going to make you bastards pay for what you did to us!”

It’s one of those days, clearly. Ryoken laughs, as Revolver should, watching the assassin’s expression tense further in the face of his mockery. “You’re going to need to be more specific.” Misguided avengers were a dime a dozen in the Mafia. It was a little disappointing to find out the rumored Playmaker was just another fool.

At least he looks fantastic, squirming under Ryoken like a leashed beast. “After what you did to me, you dare—”

“Did I fuck you? No, that can’t be it.” Playmaker goes completely rigid, and Ryoken is having too much fun. “I would certainly,” he let his eyes drag up and down the svelte form settled underneath him, “remember that.” Playmaker flushes fully red, eyes wide. It’s a good look on him. “Though I would love to personally do some things to you right now.” Ryoken pushes his leg in between Playmaker’s and  punctuates his words with a deliberate, slow roll of his hips.

It feels fantastic, which probably just goes to show that Ryoken needs to get laid, instead of you know, molesting his enemy in a back-alley. He knows he should be doing the responsible thing and finding a way to end Playmaker’s miserable life, but at the same time, it seems his usual self-control has packed its bags and taken a vacation. He can’t seem to stop himself.

The fault of those damn, brilliant eyes, no doubt.

His assassin jerks forward again with a furious snarl, and the hood is left behind, revealing a crown of fiery locks. His hair looks like dancing flames, all vibrant yellow, orange and pink, and Ryoken is almost disappointed. It’s a stunning look, but he would have preferred blue.

Though the autumn colors are nice too, the winter tones were so much more appealing.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker attempts to twist out of his grip, snapping Ryoken out of his hormonal spiral, and it’s a struggle to keep hold of him. He makes some odd movements with his hands, something glinting off his fingers, and suddenly there’s something slicing into Ryoken’s wrist. It’s wire, thin as fishing line, and it bites into his skin painfully. Reflexively, he jerks his hand away and tries to pull the wire off with the other, and Playmaker’s foot lands solidly in his chest, shoving him off with a rough kick. Instead of constricting, the wire lengthens as Ryoken stumbles to his feet a meter away, and there’s luminous purple light enveloping Playmaker’s hands.

Cloud Flames, with the property of propagation. Playmaker could use his flames to make the wire grow to any length he needed. An interesting choice of weapon.

Ryoken couldn’t help but smile, even as he hooked a finger under the wire and and used the strength of his own Flames to snap it like a twig. Clouds always are the feistiest, and Ryoken has always had a bit of a soft spot for that.

Not wasting any time, Ryoken sprints for his gun and sweeps it off the concrete. It fits back in his hand like puzzle piece clicking into place, and he raises it to his opponent with the taste of victory on his tongue. Wire versus bullets hardly seems fair, but Ryoken’s never been one for mercy.

Playmaker is back on his feet as well, his chest heaving with each harsh breath and his brow twisted with fury. His sleeve has ridden up, revealing an unusual bracelet bearing what looked like a spool of thread. The bracelet blazes with violet fire, bursting forth from a ring on Playmaker’s finger.

And the whole world freezes. A shudder rakes through Ryoken’s body, and instinctively he takes a step back, his aim wavering. He can’t tear his eyes away from the ring.

“That’s—?”

It’s a silver band identical to his own, bearing the intricate crest of Hanoi: an scalene triangle constructed from six smaller triangles. The only difference being that while his crest was entirely amber, Playmaker’s was silver except for one single amethyst triangle.

Ryoken knew that ring. And he knew the one he gave that ring to would never give it to anyone else.

But there it was, alight with blazing violet flames on Playmaker’s finger.

“S—Six?” He hears himself say, over the roaring in his ears. Playmaker—Six?—shifts backwards, with a familiar look of alarm in his eyes, and Ryoken stumbles forward, his gun forgotten at his side. Playmaker takes another step back, and his arm snaps to the side, a fishing line complete with hook dangling from his fingertips. With one fierce slash, the hook is streaking towards Ryoken’s face, and he throws up an arm in reflex.

The attack doesn’t connect, and when Ryoken opens his eyes, Playmaker—Six?—is gone.

But Ryoken’s mind is spinning in wild circles. Green eyes, three things, ten years, revenge—

I finally found you again.