Work Text:
It is not often that the Rabbits must be contracted for a WARP train. Yi Sang prefers when they are – if simply because the work day goes a bit faster under the shared mentality of hyperactive warriors, shooting and kicking in bloody battles fit for a pack of rabid animals. The zoo of freakshows who grin in delight and adrenaline even as a mutilated corpse, kicking and screaming, slices them in half effortlessly. They truly have no will to live, thinks he, as the other half of a Rabbit is flung to the back of the line where he stands, splattering blood on his already soaked uniform.
Raw, brutal A.R.T. is painted on the train. The outside is void; Ryōshū clicks her teeth with a smile and lights her cigarette, something she has been advised by Outis to stop doing. “I'm checking out another car. D.F.M.”
Don't follow me. Yi Sang has no intention to. The art he wants to see is right here: artistry, rendered tenderly , by a mass of fighters and beasts in human skin and Rabbit armor.
There is lots of screaming, and lots of blood. Eventually Yi Sang sees he is not needed and takes an empty seat, one not coded to someone else, and watches with tired eyes as each side destroys each other with detached intimacy. The violence is wrenching; the smell is blood and putrid acid is disgusting. He tips his hat to one of the Rabbits who looks back at him as if remembering he even existed – that Rabbit smiles brightly and waves back, and then joins the fray once more, unloading a barrage of bullets on the flesh-gore creature.
It's a bit beautiful.
Life is confined to a train that docks at its station and releases the filth of humanity. Years upon years of torment, cleanly divided into portions of meat between the edge of his blade. A feast, to him, is none other than the blissful silence of his commute on the City's edge. Why, he questions, must the two trains that separate his life be so different in nature?
The Rabbits are losing. No, they are winning. No, it seems to be a tie; as the numbers of the pack fall, the beast-who-will-soon-be-human's will shatters lovingly. The Rabbits tear it apart animalistically, grabbing hunks of flesh serrated with the knife’s edge and tearing them off with the tenderness of a devoted butcher, the violence of a predator-animal. A lion rips through the tendons and devours the meat – the Rabbits group together like insects and destroy the lion for nothing but the elation of bloodshed. Yi Sang is tired, and does not understand it at all, but knows it is a beautiful sight when the beast falls to the ground, taken apart like a broken puzzle, and only one Rabbit stands among the numerous corpses of his pack.
“Hullo there,” the Rabbit says, facing him. Yi Sang instinctively shrinks back in his seat – it is the emotion a prey feels as the predator stalks them through the glass, when the Rabbit (covered in blood, bleeding from a head wound, licking the gore off his lips with something unstable in his eyes) approaches him with a red blade. “Who’re you?”
It's the same Rabbit that acknowledged him earlier. For this reason (and for the desire to stay living), Yi Sang answers. “I am Yi Sang,” he says, sitting politely and proper, legs straight and hands trembling on his lap, fingers gripped tightly around his dimensional blade: “that’s all.”
“What's with the coldness, mate!” the Rabbit laughs, and leans over the seat. His teeth are too sharp; his eyes quiver and search him all over, to the armor crusted with dried blood and Yi Sang's emotionless face. “I don't bite!”
Yi Sang takes a moment to look at the pile of bodies, not even dealt with respectfully, and then to the canines in the Rabbit's mouth. “I would assume not,” he lies, and the Rabbit laughs loudly while his heel thumps against the ground repeatedly.
“Heathcliff,” the Rabbit says, panting. “That's my name! Hey, how long've we got on this garden? I've already grazed, haven't I?”
Yi Sang takes a slow moment to check his pocket watch, attuned to the separate dimension by his employers if only so he could know the amount of time between working and sleeping. “About an hour,” Yi Sang replies, and Heathcliff's amused face turns into a panicked delight. He leans closer to Yi Sang; Yi Sang can smell his breath and the blood trickling down his chin and on to Yi Sang's armored legs.
“An hour!” Heathcliff whispers incredulously. From here, Yi Sang can clearly see his bloodied mouth. “I've nothing to do for an hour ! I've to find some more grass, no? Or something to do! Move around and whatnot, yeah?” the thumping of his foot grows louder and quicker. “Yi Sang, mate, what are we gonna do for an hour ,” he bemoans, as if Yi Sang is equally antsy – he is not.
“With the depth of a shallow pool, I see no answer befitting of your question,” Yi Sang murmurs, eyes fluttering shut even though it makes his pulse quicken with how close Heathcliff is to the vulnerable jugular of his neck, “so I return to you with nothing of substance.”
“Mate! I've come with it,” Heathcliff grins, big and deranged: “let's shag! You're no Ish or ‘Sault, but you'll do, won't you? You're right pretty for a man!”
Yi Sang's heart pounds. Blood rushes to his ears and then to the rest of his body again, just fast enough for his fingers to tighten on his blade. Then they relax, and he leans further against the seat – it is not formal. He thinks his face is still hot, but he supposes that Heathcliff is too impatient to wait for an answer, so Yi Sang nods anyway, for this is the most emotion he's experienced in recent times.
He no longer feels things such as anger, or elation, or anxiety. Everything is dulled with depression; he makes his commute with the thought of going home, and when he goes home he ponders on work, and in a meaningless cycle he allows the clacking of trains on useless tracks to guide his footsteps. His legs are no longer his own if he cannot drag them amongst an iron horse and watch the outside window as the world continues without him; in the City, he has decidedly become a black stain, with nothing joyous or pleasurable.
Heathcliff's hand comes to shove Yi Sang's armor off; he keeps his knife in his mouth and smiles around the tilt, drool running down his cheek. Yi Sang is swept away easily, and finds that the water is cooler on this side of the beach. Then it is hot when Heathcliff successfully throws his chestplate to the side and rips open the fabric of his shirt with his hands only. The water is ever changing. He thinks he enjoys the unpredictability.
Heathcliff is fast, and he grunts around the knife as he lowers Yi Sang against the hard train seaters and feels his chest while simultaneously ripping his pants off, and it is so unexpectedly fast that Yi Sang can only helplessly groan when Heathcliff experimentally flicks his nipple. Heathcliff takes his knife out of his mouth to slice his own pants away, and then he tosses it to the side: “oh! That was a good noise, yeah?”
“M-Mh,” Yi Sang responds. Heathcliff, as he does in many things, becomes hard quickly – or perhaps was in the first place, with the rush of adrenaline and dopamine from blood splatters – and Yi Sang can see the thick outline of his cock straining against his undergarments as he pushes his crotch against Yi Sang's, hoisting Yi Sang's legs up to get a better angle. He hums.
“We've no lubrication, lad, so we'd have t’ rub our cocks together with spit or somethin’ daft like that,” he snorts, and Yi Sang presses his hand against his mouth as Heathcliff thrusts his clothed cock against Yi Sang's vulva. Heathcliff makes a small interested noise, and his eyebrows raise in surprise: “or maybe not! You've got a cunt, don't you, lad? Good on you!”
Yi Sang has never been complimented for having a vagina before. Heathcliff breaks him as easily as the shifting tide breaks a sandcastle: with Yi Sang underprepared and surprised. “I-If I were given proper stimulation, then you may… c-continue with…” Language, which flows so easily from him, is stuttered and unsightly: Heathcliff smiles at Yi Sang's broken composure, flares his nostrils as he shifts Yi Sang's underwear over the legs – he tosses them somewhere to be forgotten.
“Right on! Cheerio. I've got you, lad,” he says, as if he is doing Yi Sang a favor , before he dips his head, kneels on the floor, and flattens his tongue against Yi Sang's cunt.
They are both covered in blood, Heathcliff more so, and the stuffy air of the train is not erotic or sexual in any way. Yi Sang, where there was previously monotone and gray streaks of color beneath his eyelids, sees the purple-orange intensity of Heathcliff's entirety like pop rocks fizzling away on the tongue. Yi Sang writhes; Yi Sang squirms; Yi Sang makes more noise than he does in the comfort of his own house, and he dearly wishes that Heathcliff and him could stay on this train forever.
Heathcliff works him like dough, stretches and kneads him thin. He laps at Yi Sang's cunt intensely, roughly, and teases Yi Sang's hole with the tip of his calloused fingers while sucking his clitoris and burying his nose in Yi Sang’s pubic hairs. He grins at Yi Sang when Yi Sang cannot stifle a hiccup-moan-whine, biting at the skin of his hand as Heathcliff pushes his thumb into him; Yi Sang flutters and whimpers in idle embarrassment when he feels how slick Heathcliff's thumb gets.
“That should be good!” Heathcliff says. “You're real pretty! If I could, I'd bend you over,” he continues, standing up, as if his position doesn't already nearly fold Yi Sang in half – “Cheers. Let's get our rocks off. How many?”
“H-How many,” Yi Sang says, blearily, watching Heathcliff's now revealed cock (dripping with pre, red and flustered – is the gruesome battle so arousing for a predator?), “how many… how many?”
“How many rounds, mate! An hour and some change, we could fit maybe three, maybe four?” Heathcliff lines his cock with Yi Sang's hole, teases him there and shallowly thrusts, which punches the air out of Yi Sang's lungs all the same. His head swims; how many? How many?
“Barely c-can I go – one –” Yi Sang hiccups, gasping, sinking his uneven nails into the train seat as Heathcliff sinks further inside of him. Heathcliff does not treat him gently; rather, he goes at his own pace, which Yi Sang ultimately decides he likes. “One… one…! I cannot imagine – I have n-never – hn .”
“‘S alright, mate,” Heathcliff groans, bottoming out and grabbing his hips with evil in his grin: “I'll show you your limits.”
“We have an mutualistic relationship, and the E.G.O. phenomenon is causing a disturbing uptick in the amount of contracted jobs we have with you,” says the presumed Captain, wiping her gauntlets stained with blood off. She spares a single glance towards the Rabbit holding her coworker on his back, legs hoisted around his arms. “So if he picks the right job, you might see him again. Do not count on it.”
“Right on,” the Rabbit pants, grinning. “Here you go. One Yi Sang,” and he deposits an unconscious, sleeping Yi Sang on the bench next to her, without even the decency to cover him up – Outis sighs. “Tell ‘im to call me!” he laughs, and then hops away, presumably on an order from his Captain.