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amazedforjjk · 5 years ago

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Escape 5- Ot7

The gif is not mine!

Characters: Lion!Namjoon, Jaguar!Jin, Black panther!Yoongi, Cheetah!Hoseok, Snow Leopard!Jimin, Tiger!Taehyung, cougar!Jungkook, Serval!Reader

Summary: In a world where Hybrid protection laws are gradually strengthening, many organisations are still advocating for the complete extermination of your species. What happens when you find yourself and 7 other predatory hybrids in a truck en route to a hybrid slaughter facility?

Genre: Angst, fluff

Warning: Mentions of sexual abuse, sexual assault, mentions of violence, mention of death. Also, tragic backstories™️

A.N: Here is chapter 5! There are some serious issues talked about in this chapter, but they are important. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write the next chapters, I’ll try to keep you updated. I hope you’ll like it!

Word count: 4.2K (the biggest yet hehe)

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It is not yet morning when you wake up in cold sweat. As soon as you fell asleep you were engulfed in a nightmare, one where you were unable to escape the torture of your captor. You pant as the image of his knife covering your body of deep bloody lines is still fresh in your mind. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your heart pounding in your chest. Next to you, Jin and Jimin are still peacefully slumbering, and you find yourself relaxing at the sound of the blond hybrid’s steady breathing.

Unable to go back to sleep just yet, you carefully rise to your feet, disentangling your tail from Jimin’s in the process. You smile to yourself when the grey bushy article wraps itself around Taehyung’s instead, the tiger hybrid currently sprawled onto the youngest hybrid. You only take a few steps from the sleeping men to find Yoongi seated on the ground, facing the direction of the abandoned farm. The tilt of his ears in your direction is the only indication that he has noticed your presence, and you take it as an invitation to sit next to him.

“Nightmare?”, he says simply, though his eyes convey the worry he feels. You hum in response, hands rubbing your eyes. You turn your head to meet his eyes.

“What about you?”

“I think someone should keep watch..”, he responds, and you can tell by the way he looks away from you that it’s not the complete truth. You stare quizzically at him, making him understand that you don’t fully believe his explanation. He sighs and a dry chuckle escapes his lips.

“Fine, I couldn’t sleep because I was scared”. Your eyebrows furrow at the unexpected revelation but you let him continue. “What if they come after us again? We didn’t kill most of them, of course, we just left them there. What’s going to happen when they wake up?”

If you were honest, you hardly believe that the men left would be in any shape to chase after you, given the pools of blood on the floor of the room, if they were ever to wake up. But at the worry in his tone, you take his hand in yours, squeezing ever so slightly. If he is surprised at the sudden contact, he doesn’t let it show and simply squeezes your hand in return.

“I’m scared too”, you say simply, looking in the distance. The moon is full and brightly illuminates the miles of fields surrounding you. You make a point not to look at the barn, the sight of it still too painful right now, especially in light of your recent nightmare. “I want to reach the center fast”

Even staying in the city too long is going to be painful, you think, and it’s as if the black panther hybrid next to you can smell your apprehension, because he glances at you, eyes filled with questions.

“Why were you taken?”, you ask suddenly before he can voice his concern, and confusion is plastered on his face.

“I- I escaped from my owner” he says, his tail swishing behind him fervently. Anxiety is radiating from him and you suddenly feel regretful for asking so thoughtlessly, and you are about to stop him when he resumes talking. “She would … She would rent me, for other humans..” he trails off and you are left confused, not quite able to grasp the meaning of his words.

“For other humans to use me” he says after a beat, and you feel your stomach drop. His eyes are dropped to the floor and he gently removes his hand from yours to wrap it around his knees. He rests his chin on his knees and he can’t seem to look at you, ears drooping and eyes sad, making him look so small. You are left speechless, emotions swirling inside you, hatred for the humans taking advantage of him, sorrow for what he had to endure, and you just take him in your arms. This time, he is taken aback by the affection and doesn’t move a finger. You think he is going to pull away from your grasp but he leans into it, burying his face in the crook of your neck, releasing his knees to wrap his arms around you instead.

You don’t know how long you stay there, enjoying each other’s comforting hold before he lets go after squeezing you one last time.

“Thank you”, he utters simply, and you smile at him, cheeks flushed.

“What about you?” he starts, and you tilt your head in confusion. He chuckles lightly at the confusion written on your face. “Why were you taken?”

Your smile falters as you remember why you brung up the subject.

“I was taken in the city we are traveling to”, you state abruptly, making his eyes widen. “My parents were used by humans to breed serval hybrids and sell them. They didn’t know each other, only met the nights when my mother was in heat. One day, they managed to escape together. She was pregnant with me and my siblings.” At their mention, you grimace, eyes falling to the ground. Yoongi must be aware of their fate because he simply grabs your hand, rubbing your knuckles without a word.

“We lived on the streets of the city we are headed to, begging for food and sometimes stealing. My mother was hit by a car when she was trying to run away from humans who were harassing her. My dad disappeared not long after that and we never heard from him again. And then fuckface over there,” you point your chin in the direction of the barn, “well he simply had to pick us up after that”, you finish, a snarl on your lips as you talk about the man.

“That’s why I want to reach the center as soon as possible” you conclude. “This town does not hold good memories for me”, you add with a small smile.

“Then we won’t stay long”, Yoongi replies, lifting his free hand and presenting his pinkie. “Promise”, he adds with a cute grin, and you chuckle as you intertwine your pinkie with his. He then props his arm on your shoulder, prompting you closer to lay your head on his shoulder. You comply without a word, a warm feeling filling your chest.

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The both of you stay like this wordlessly until the sun starts to rise, and it’s with the rays of the sun caressing your face that you turn to wake the other hybrids up. The sooner you reach the city the better, you answer a grumpy Jungkook when he asks you why so early, his ruffled black hair falling in front of his eyes. You don’t exactly know how long you’ll have to walk today given that your course has been disrupted, so you decide to study the map along with Yoongi, the others far too drowsy to be of any help.

Namjoon is the first to settle alongside you, gold eyes heavy in sleepiness, and he glances absently at the map while munching down on some leftover apple slices. One by one, the other men take place around the map, all more or less ready to listen to the rest of the journey left to accomplish.

“It looks like we’ll only have two hours of walking to do today tops, we’re not as far as we feared”, he announces, looking at Jin who nods at him while trying to tame his chestnut hair.

“Good”, replies Hoseok, yawning as he stretches his limbs. Once the announcement is finished, the meeting is dismissed and you start to pack your bag when Jimin makes his way toward you, backpack in hand. He eyes your side warily before talking.

“Are you feeling better? If it starts to hurt I’ll carry you”, he says, his light sincere eyes catching yours. You smile at him gratefully.

“Thank you Jimin”, you answer before the two of you meet the rest of the boys waiting in a circle.

This time, the walk to the city goes without a hitch. The eight of you follow the road from inside the fields, eager not to repeat the mistakes of the past. As you start to encounter more houses and pedestrians you move to walk on the sidewalk. The houses slowly get closer together and then start shifting in buildings. You walk by shops and restaurants, the smell of food waking the hunger inside you, the food Granny had provided not nearly enough for two days.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to reach the center of the city, and you find yourself now surrounded by tall buildings of steel and glass. The town is cold and grey in its center, swarmed with working people walking fast and holding steaming hot coffees.

Had you never lived in this overcrowded city, you would find yourself in over your head, completely taken aback by the surge of smells, noises and flashes of light ambushing your senses. It seems that some of the hybrids accompanying you are having difficulties handling the situation, and you step up, taking Jimin and Hoseok’s hands in yours and leading the rest of the group towards a map of downtown.

You take a while trying to figure out exactly where the bus station is located, and another to actually find the place, but you manage to lead the eight of you there safely. The place is crowded, buzzing with people waiting around for their busses. Between the acrid smell of cigarettes and the loud noise of people talking on the phone, you still succeed to spot the ticket booth.

You sigh in relief, and the tension in your shoulders start to lift off and you let go of the hands of the two hybrids. The snow panther whines at the loss of contact and you turn to look at him, confused. Jimin looks terrified, wide eyes scanning the crowd, ears pressed flat against his skull. He is breathing fast, and you can tell by the frantic swaying of his tail that he is not used to such places. You worriedly look at Hoseok and beckon him to take care of the shaking boy.

“The booth is here”, you shout at Jin, hoping he can hear over the noise of the crowd. He nods in response and the both of you walk towards it, leaving the other men to wait in the corner of the station. You can feel stares falling on you, and anxiety starts to rise within you. To be fair, your group of hybrids doesn't exactly blend in with the well-suited crowd, your clothes disheveled and your hair messed up. You can feel some people around you warily eyeing your ears and tail. Even if the city is more progressive in terms of hybrid acceptation, the region isn’t known for its love towards genetically engineered individuals.

The woman at the counter seems too interested in her magazine at first to notice Jin and you waiting patiently before her. You glance at each other, not quite sure what to do. It’s only after her manager clears his throat behind her that she scurries to help you. She comes to a halt when her eyes fall on Jin.

“We need eight tickets to the capital, please,” Jin asks, a polite smile tugging at his lips. No response.

The woman is still eyeing the hybrid next to you, mouth slightly ajar, and you have to conceal a chuckle at the sight before you.

“Eight tickets to the capital as soon as possible… Please?” Jin reiterates, bewildered. The woman only responds with an idiotic smile. He casts a glance your way, unsure and you only smirk at his distress. She finally notices your presence and her smile is long gone. She scowls at you and types on her computer grumpily. Beside you, Jin is all the more perplexed by the sudden change of behaviour, making you chuckle again, feeling very amused by the situation.

“40 dollars�� she announces with a deadpan look and Jin hands her the money. She prints the tickets and hands them to Jin, then casts you the darkest glare you’ve ever seen. You chuckle once more and wave her goodbye sweetly, rejoicing on the furious look you earn in return.

You then make your way back to the others, Jin trailing after you after having uttered a hesitant thank you to the cashier. He reads the tickets and then glances at the suspended clock in the middle of the room.

“The bus should leave in 35 minutes”, he announces, and he looks around the crowded room. No seat available in sight. “Maybe the bus is already boarding? We should go check”, he adds looking back at you. You hum in agreement, taking the time to scour the station. Hunger is gnawing at your stomach and you don’t think you’ll bear the bur ride on an empty stomach. You light up when you finally spot a snack machine. You grab Jin by the sleeve before he can walk away.

“I’m going to grab snacks for everybody, can you give me some money?”, you ask the jaguar. He looks at the snack machine and you can see his ears twitch in excitement at the prospect of food. He hands you the pouch in which is stashed the rest of the money and you make your way towards the machine, leaving the boys to go check on the bus.

The machine is filled with goodies and you feel your mouth water at the choices. You start to buy some chips and sugary snacks when you suddenly feel someone tugging on your tail. You immediately bring it back around you and you turn nervously. You can already tell the man who grabbed your tail is bad news by the smirk on his lips. He seems older, maybe mid-fifties and he is not wearing a suit like the other passengers around you, but rather a dirty grey raincoat. He looks you up and down and licks his lips and you can’t repress the grimace of disgust plastered on your face.

“Please leave me alone”, you tentatively say, hoping the man will stop at once, but that only seems to spur him on and he starts coming closer to you. You didn’t buy nearly enough food for all of you but this will have to do, you think as you hastily squat down to retrieve the snacks from the machine and stash them in your bag. You stand up quickly, eager to go back to your boys but he presses into you from behind and your whole body is shoved into the machine. You feel color drain from your face as something hard pokes at you. You suddenly feel nauseated, this is disgusting. You want to scream but it’s as if your voice has disappeared. You grit your teeth, hoping the people around will have noticed to help you, but no one moves. In fact, it’s as if no one wants to look at you. You try to push the man to get out of his reach but to no avail, and panic settles into your bones.

The pressure behind you is removed abruptly, and you turn around to find Namjoon staring down at the man who was assaulting you held onto the floor. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so angry, the veins of his neck prominent and his jaw is clenched as he maintains the man on the ground with his foot. If looks could kill, the man would have died ten times already, the gold eyes of the lion hybrid shining fiercely. His fists are clenched, his knuckles almost turning white. You finally shake the shock from your mind and look around you. The humans are staring, scared, at the predatory hybrid. You can tell that some are calling the police so you grab Namjoon’s arm, shifting his attention on you.

“Let him go, Namjoon��, you plead, panic in your eyes. “This is not the time to bring the police’s attention on us”, you add through gritted teeth, looking at the woman protecting her child. You want to scream, shout that she better protect her daughter from the man on the ground rather than from Namjoon, that she should be thankful that men like him still exist. But you can’t, you have to get him out of here, or the one in danger is going to be him, as unfair as it seems.

“But-” he starts, looking back at the man in anger.

“Namjoon, please!”

The lion hybrid looks at you one last time, then around him. He must feel the weight of the accusatory gazes on him because his ears fall. He lifts his leg and the man scurries away, like a worm under Namjoon’s harsh glare. You hastily buy the rest of the snacks you had planned to take and quickly lead the lion out by the hand. Before you can reach the other boys waiting by the bus, Namjoon stops dead in his tracks and you turn to him.

“That’s not fair”, he says, his intense gold eyes trained on you.

“No, it’s really not”, you reply sadly.

“I should have beaten him up for doing that to you”, he adds, and you look at the ground.

“It would only have ended badly for you”, you say, a resigned look on your face.

“No, I fought… Before.” You glance up to meet his gaze, confused before you grasp the meaning of his words and your eyes widen in realisation. He was in a hybrid fighting ring.

“The injuries on the first night- it’s because of that?”, you ask, stepping closer to him.

“That night, I lost my first fight”, he begins and you hold your breath, sorrow filling you. “They left me for dead on the streets. When I woke up, I tried to find shelter but then I got picked up anyway. I was too weak to fight back” he adds, turning his head from you, pausing. “But I could’ve beaten that man’s ass” he finishes, his gold eyes finally finding yours.

“I’m sorry Namjoon” is all you can say, and you wrap your arms around him. You pause to gather your thoughts before continuing. “I know you would’ve won, and easily, but they would have called the police on you. They would have you put down. And that would be worse than that man walking away unscathed”

He sighs before wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing his forehead to yours. He pulls back after a beat and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. You didn’t notice that you were crying, and you blush, embarrassed at your display of emotions.

“We should go”, he says after a little while and the both of you make your way towards the boys gathered next to the bus. They are waiting by the open door, the bus almost ready to leave. At the sight of your reddened cheeks, they exchange worried looks but you don’t leave them the time to ask questions before you hand each of them a snack.

“Come on, let's get our seats”, Namjoon says, placing his hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the doors.

Jimin and Jungkook are the first to board the bus, taking their seats at the back of the vehicule. Taehyung and Yoongi sit on the aisle opposite to them, Yoongi against the window, leaning his head, already in position to sleep. You settle next to Hoseok in front of them, leaving Namjoon to sit next to the eldest at your left.

When you sit, Hoseok is seemingly very excited about the departure, smiling broadly at you. His smile is contagious and you return his smile in earnest. He can barely contain his trepidation, his tail swishing from side to side at your feet and his ears flicking at every sound. You chuckle at his adorableness, making him blush, before getting your snacks and starting to munch on the chips. You notice the cheetah hybrid next to you eyeing your food so you hand him the bag. He smiles warmly in thanks and you happily share the salty treat.

Maybe five minutes after you boarded, the bus closes its doors and starts moving. You hear a quick screeching noise and the driver starts talking, his voice barely covering the sound of engines even with a microphone.

“Ladies and gents, welcome aboard this bus in direction to-”

“Y/n, do you have something else to eat?”, the tiger behind you asks, face close to your headrest. You nod and go through into your bag, handing Taehyung a bag of sweets. He squeals in delight when you give him the snack, pecking your cheek quickly before sitting back, sharing the snack with the blond haired boy across him.

“We should arrive in two hours and twenty-five minutes, please do not walk in the aisle when the bus is-”

You turn back to Hoseok, who is staring out the window, giddy, hands clutching the ledge. You take a moment to examine him before breaking the silence. From his coal colored hair falling delicately on his forehead to his caramel skin complimenting his warm eyes, he looks completely breathtaking. Your eyes trace his sharp features, following the angle of his jaw before falling on his pink lips turned up in a awestruck smile. You can feel the blush creeping on your cheeks as you continue to ogle the man next to you, and you take a deep breath to calm your beating heart before talking.

“You seem excited to take the bus, Hoseok”, you state simply and he beams at you.

“We are the closest we’ve ever been to have a home!” he replies, thrill clear in his voice. His gold eyes are gleaming, and you find yourself lost in them, smiling softly in return. “And this is the first time I take the bus! It’s so big!” he adds animatedly, eyes scouring the insides of the vehicule.

Outside the window, the city landscape slowly shifts to miles of fields, stretching to the horizon, and you can feel sleep starting to overcome you. Much like the already sleeping panther seated in the row behind you, you didn’t sleep much the night before, and the lack of rest is starting to take its toll on you. The voice of the cheetah hybrid next to you lulls you into sleep and a yawn escapes your lips.

Hoseok abruptly stops talking and his smile falls, eyes resembling those of a kicked puppy. Confused by the sudden change of behaviour, you open your mouth to ask him what’s wrong but he beats you to it.

“I’m sorry, I talk too much. You are tired of me, I should shut up”, he says dejectedly, his ears falling flat against his hair. Where is this coming from, you internally inquire, eyes wide in remorse that you pained him.

“What do you mean Hoseok, I love when you talk to me”, you add instantly, taking his hand in yours. His gaze meets yours, his ears slowly rising from where they were pressed against his head.

“Really?” he asks tentatively, hope swimming in his eyes.

“Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?”

“No one ever adopted me in the shelter because I talk too much and I am too excited. Shelters often kicked me out after a while. They would say that I am un-adoptable, that I’m a pain to look after”, he explains with a small smile. At each of his sentences you feel more and more angry and sorry for him, grasping his hand more tightly in yours. “Eventually I stopped going at shelters altogether, but then I got caught”

“They don’t deserve you Hoseok”, you declare, and at your words a small smile appears on his face. “Your very presence is soothing, you inspire me hope. Thank you for being you Hoseok”, you add, earnest. “I am feeling tired because I couldn’t sleep last night because of a nightmare, but your voice appeases me”

This time, he looks at a total loss of words, not accustomed to be praised. His eyes fill with emotion and he looks at your hand. He intertwines your fingers together, and looks at you again, gold eyes filled with tears.

“Please don’t leave me”, he utters so softly you have to strain your ears to hear it, his deep voice cracking under the weight of his heartache. You feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes but you keep them from falling. Instead, you lean your head on his shoulder and gently close your eyes.

“I won’t”, you murmur simply and you feel his muscles relax. He lays his head on top of yours, and he begins to speak again, softly this time, and you slowly slip out of consciousness, lulled to sleep by his sweet voice.

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Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! Tell me what you thought of this chapter!

💜

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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Washed in the Tide of Her Breathing 1/4 (Branjie)--athena2

A/N: Brooke is a lonely lighthouse keeper and Vanessa washes up on her shore. This started off as a tumblr post I sent to Writ, turned into a one-shot idea, and became this mini multi-chaptered fic. I have so enjoyed writing it so far, and I hope you all enjoy reading it! I appreciate any feedback you have! Thank you to Writ for brainstorming this with me, betaing, and for all your encouragement. Title from Cherry Wine by Hozier.

*I do want to add that there will be mentions of past death, anxiety, and depression throughout, so please be cautious.*

On the day Brooke Lynn Hytes was born, the skies opened up and rain screamed down with her. The rain pounded on the roof and rattled the windows as she was wrapped in a white hospital blanket. Wind tore branches from the trees as her legs kicked around. The streets rose with water as she slept in her mother’s arms.

From then on, it seemed significant events in her life always came with a storm.

She was six when her parents didn’t come pick her up from kindergarten. Brooke had stood on the steps, Little Mermaid lunch box in hand, craning her neck to find her parents in the crowd. She stood there as the swarm of kids and parents thinned out, leaving Brooke all alone on the steps. Breathless empty space stretched as vast as the sea in front of her, sun reflecting the bare pavement. She stood there so long one of the teachers took her inside, and Brooke sat in an empty classroom, trembling with fear, until a police officer came to the school and said there had been an accident.

An accident. It was all Brooke heard when anyone tried to talk to her. An accident. An accident was when another girl bumped into her at recess and Brooke scraped her knee. An accident was when she hit into her mother’s vase and the blue glass shards rippled on the floor.

How could her parents not being there anymore be an accident too?

The town flooded for a week after they died, raindrops falling in time with the tears of a confused young girl, struggling to understand why she had to live in a scary old lighthouse with her grandfather, why her mom and dad couldn’t take her to the park or the library anymore.

The day her grandfather picked her up in his green truck, lightning flashed and thunder tore the sky apart but no rain fell as Brooke sat in the backseat, fearfully clutching her stuffed turtle and not saying a word.

When her grandfather died and she inherited the lighthouse, soft raindrops drizzled to the pavement, trickling down windows like silken threads.

When the storm smashes into the windows as Brooke is wrapped in her quilts one night, waves swelling so fierce they’ll throw ships around like toy boats, ocean lapping up against the rocks like a hungry dog, Brooke wonders what’s awaiting her the next day.

—

The rain is still drizzling down when Brooke wakes, the sky a soft pink, like a paintbrush swept across the world, interrupted with streaks of red like broken blood vessels.

Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.

They’re her grandfather’s words, words that were passed down to Brooke. According to old sailor legends, a morning red sky means a bad storm is coming. A storm worse than the one last night, that howled and splattered outside her window?

Brooke isn’t sure she wants to meet a storm worse than that.

Brooke has a certain routine, and today is no exception. It’s Wednesday, which means breakfast at Nina and Shuga’s diner and therapy with Dr. Ganache. She lays out food and water for her cats, scratching Henry’s ears and rubbing Apollo’s back while they eat. She washes down her medications with ice water and pulls on jeans and a green wool sweater.

Her dark blue pickup truck makes the quick journey down the main street of Cape Charles, the smell of salt and ocean calming her, reminding her that it’s okay to be outside, that nothing bad will happen just because she left the house.

The diner stands beside the three-screen movie theatre, its plush velvet seats like home to Brooke. She’d been sitting in the dark and watching stories unfold on the big screen, salty popcorn stuck to her lips, since she was a kid who couldn’t even reach the counter to take her favorite Reese’s Pieces. The damp cobblestone sidewalk is solid beneath her. She used to run down these streets with her grandfather trailing behind her when her feet were much smaller. When everything was much smaller.

The diner door jingles happily. Shuga, in position behind the counter, greets Brooke with a smile and motions for her to take her usual booth in the back corner. Brooke breathes in the rich smell of sweet syrup and sizzling bacon, the safety of those scents and the warmth of the diner’s pale blue decor filling her.

“Sky sure is red this morning,” Nina comments as she pours Brooke’s coffee. “What’s that thing the sailors say? Red sky in morning–”

“Sailor’s warning.” Brooke’s answer is rough and scratches at her throat like gravel. It’s been a few days since she last talked, and her voice is hoarse from disuse as she speaks now, sipping carefully from her steaming coffee.

“Those sailors were so somber,” Nina says, pursing her lips. “Maybe the warning could be a good warning. Maybe something good is gonna happen.”

Brooke disagrees, but she won’t take that hope from Nina. Nina and Shuga are two of the only people in town who don’t whisper about Brooke being crazy, or share in the more outlandish theories that Brooke is a ghost haunting the lighthouse.

Though sometimes Brooke does feel like a ghost, like there’s not even enough of her to hold down a solid human form. Like she might look at herself in the mirror one day and find nothing there. No sign there ever had been something there.

“Maybe,” Brooke tries.

“You having your usual today?” Nina asks. Brooke always gets the same thing, but Nina likes to check with her just in case.

“Yeah.”

Nina smiles. “I’ll have it right out for you, hon.”

Brooke flicks through what their small town dares to call a newspaper, today’s news-worthy feature being seagulls stealing French fries on the beach. A few minutes later Nina sets the glorious stack of apple-cinnamon pancakes and crispy bacon in front of Brooke, with the extra homemade whipped cream Nina started bringing when she noticed how much Brooke liked it.

“Thanks, Nina,” Brooke says, a wave of affection hitting her.

“Of course.”

Brooke eats slowly, savoring each bite of fluffy pancake, each sip of rich coffee. It’s nice to be able to taste it all, to notice the soft patter of rain on the roof, to be comforted by the booth’s cushion. She focuses on each sensation, like Dr. Ganache encourages, and Brooke appreciates it, a far cry from her bad months when she couldn’t feel or notice anything, the world just a mass of gray around her.

Brooke goes to her therapy appointment and regains her voice with what is the most talking she’ll do all week. It had been uncomfortable to her at first, having to talk so much about herself, her parents, her grandfather. Now, it’s almost a relief to let the words spill out, to get all the thoughts out of her head, like releasing a dam bursting with poisoned water.

Brooke busies herself during her afternoon routine, making sure everything is set for tonight. Her mind calms as her hands come alive, wiping down the windows in the lighthouse tower, cleaning the lenses on the light, and checking the ship schedules. A lot of the ships have already canceled their routes. Sailors are a superstitious bunch, and they’d taken the red sky to heart. The light is scheduled to turn on at 4, but she turns it on now because the rain has grown too thick to see around.

Her grandfather said in the old days they would change the oil of the light and trim the wicks down, but it’s electric now. Brooke spent hours each day following him around, watching his rough, callused fingers tidy the tower and study weather reports, keeping logs of ships scheduled to pull in to Cape Charles that night. Everything she knows about keeping the lighthouse is from him, a former sailor.

He would speak in a soft voice about the sea, his time sailing, how it was important to keep the lighthouse because even with navigation services, that light would outshine everything. Each word was soaked with the salt and brine of the sea, waves roaring in Brooke’s ears as he spoke, and Brooke would just listen, her grandfather never making her talk if she didn’t want to. His voice still clings to the brick of the tower walls as ocean clings to sand. Sometimes Brooke can hear it loud and clear and sometimes it’s just a faint whisper, tinged with the fear of forgetting.

The rest of the day is quiet, just the way she likes it. She exchanges her jeans for soft leggings, heats up milk for hot chocolate, and curls up on the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese, the cats, and Jane Austen movies (she’ll fight anyone who says there’s a better adaptation than the 2005 Pride and Prejudice).The storm rains down in a heavenly wrath with no sign of stopping. The wind wails like a woman in fear of the booming thunder.

An alert comes in that the town streets have flooded and all roads are closed until further notice. The sea should be empty tonight, but Brooke leaves the light on anyway. She always does, just in case someone out there needs the light. Just in case someone needs to get home, wherever they are.

She curls up beneath a pile of blankets with the cats at her feet. It’s cozy and warm and yet sleep takes hours to come, the cats whining with each toss and turn. Brooke swears she can hear her name in the howl of the wind and patter of the rain, like the storm is calling to her, but she doesn’t know why.

—

Gray blots out the sun when Brooke wakes, a typical morning in Cape Charles. She takes her meds and is checking on the light when she sees it.

There’s something down by the water, flapping in the wind.

Breath halts in her throat. Just visible through the rain is a fishing net with something–no, someone–tangled in it.

Heart pounding, Brooke throws on her rain boots and coat and enters the cold rain, water bobbing at her ankles, tall frame shivering as the chill seeps through her clothes. The familiarity of the stone path calms her racing heart, laughter of the young Brooke that used to run down this path–another ghost–carried on the winds of memory.

The land beneath her lighthouse isn’t a beach, just a small piece of rocky sand jutting out at the ocean. She used to spend hours by the water, sand sticking to her legs as she built castles that in her mind were stone, not sand, searching for seashells that her grandfather always praised her for finding, and gazing out at the water and pretending to be a sailor like him, commanding her own ship and fighting off pirates.

Brooke lets the memory fight away her fears as she reaches a woman, net tangled around her like tendrils. Brown hair hangs in soaked curtains around her face, torn clothes black with the water weighing them down.

“Fuck,” Brooke mutters, a million questions running through her mind. How the hell did this woman get here? What happened to her?

Brooke scoops up the woman, net and all. She’s tiny nestled in Brooke’s arms, and something tugs in Brooke’s chest, some need to protect this woman, keep her safe. The feeling only grows as she cuts through the net and lays the woman on her couch before standing blankly, helplessly, in the living room.

What the hell is she supposed to do now? She can’t just leave an unconscious woman in her house. If it’s not outright illegal, it’s certainly wrong, but what choice does Brooke have? The roads are flooded and blocked off; no one can get in or out of the town. They’re both stuck here, stuck like a sinking ship.

Brooke’s breath is speeding into erratic hiccups over having someone here. No one has been inside except Brooke and the cats since her grandfather died seven years ago. When Brooke is inside, all the bad things that happen outside, like parents getting in car accidents and grandfathers having heart attacks, can’t happen. Nothing bad happens in the lighthouse. Nothing can hurt her.

It’s why Brooke never returned the voicemail a woman from the local historical society left years ago, asking if she wanted to open the lighthouse for tours a few days a week during summer tourist season. She told herself it was because she doesn’t need the money and because talking on the phone makes her want to throw up (both of which are true), but the real reason was that she didn’t want people in her lighthouse, didn’t want her safety at risk. She doesn’t want intruders, and it’s hard to think of this woman as anything but that, especially when Brooke’s hands start to tremble and sweat runs down her neck as her vision blurs.

Breathe. She practices the counted breathing from therapy, willing her lungs to accept air. In and out, in and out. She reaches for a piece of rope, one of hundreds all over the house, shaky hands rhythmically tying and untying knots until her mind clears and she focuses on what to do next.

There’s a thin cut on the woman’s forehead and bruises dotting her arms. It makes the woman seem oddly fragile, like a teacup, the bruises and cut like chips in her otherwise perfect appearance. Brooke’s stomach clenches as she looks at the injuries. She’s always been squeamish about blood and medical stuff (she still has to close her eyes when she gets a flu shot), but she finds herself not queasy but saddened as she absorbs the rips in the woman’s clothing. What happened to this woman? Are the marks from waves tossing her about, or are they from a human, a cruelty worse than the randomness of nature? Waves have no control, but a person does, and Brooke’s fists tense at the thought of someone deliberately hurting this woman.

She takes a breath. Whatever happened isn’t important now. She needs to help.

Brooke removes the woman’s soaked clothes and dresses her in flannel pajama pants, wool socks, and a soft gray sweatshirt, taking care in being gentle, in causing this woman as little pain as possible, even if she’s unconscious. Brooke can’t do much for the bruises, but she carefully dabs antiseptic on the cut and tapes a square of gauze over it. She breathes a sigh of relief that there’s no other injuries and piles blankets on top of the woman’s small form.

Only when she’s bandaged up, the clean white making things seem a little less scary, does Brooke realize how lucky this woman actually is. She’s been through who knows what, left on rocky sand in a downpour, and there’s barely a mark on her. There should be scrapes and a lot more bruises; a few broken bones would be expected. Hell, if she was carried by the sea, she’s lucky to be alive, and yet the slice on her forehead is little more than a papercut.

The squashy armchair hugs her like a friend, and Brooke is too tired to answer the questions swirling in her mind, too tired to change out of her cold, damp clothes. The woman’s breathing is steady, hypnotic, and sleep tugs Brooke under like a tide.

—

“Where the fuck am I?” a gruff voice shoots Brooke out of sleep.

The woman is sitting up on the couch, wrestling with the mountain of blankets and whipping her head around in confusion.

“Why is this so heavy?” The woman demands, sending Brooke’s weighted blanket to the floor. “And who the hell are you?”

Brooke’s stomach flip-flops, words speeding through her mind but not leaving her mouth. Things were easier when the woman was unconscious, when Brooke knew to bandage her and warm her up, when there was no talking involved. Now, Brooke has no idea what to do. There might be a first aid manual, but there isn’t one on talking to people, much less people who washed up on the shore in a fishing net.

“Um, I’m Brooke,” she says, inching toward the couch. Her fingers twitch for her rope but she resists. “I–I found you. On the shoreline. It’s okay,” she offers weakly, just because it seems like something she should say.

The woman’s dark brows wrinkle in confusion. “Where am I?” She asks, and some of the harshness leaves her voice, replaced with a fear that Brooke wants to soothe. This woman has obviously been through enough already, and Brooke’s heart aches for her. She remembers how scared she was moving in here the first time, how calm and kind her grandfather had been, and steadies her voice to comfort the woman.

“Cape Charles. It’s a tiny town by the ocean. This is my lighthouse. I found you in…in a net.”

The woman lowers her head. “Yeah. I was on a boat across the cape. I went overboard in the storm. I grabbed a life vest and followed the lighthouse. The net musta stuck to me.”

Brooke is silent. The net wasn’t stuck to her, she was trapped in it. There’s other glaring holes in the story–where’s the vest? Why was she sailing in a storm?–and from the way the woman keeps avoiding her eyes, Brooke is sure she knows it. Brooke decides to just let her be. She’s always shied away from confrontation.

“Uh, is there anyone you need to call?”

The woman just shakes her head and Brooke doesn’t want to pry.

“Right, um, the storm’s still going on, and the roads are closed, so–”

“I’m stuck here,” the woman interjects.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. B-but once the roads are okay, you can go back home.”

“What if I don’t want to go back?” she asks.

Brooke pauses. There’s a storm in the woman’s eyes at the question, brown flashing like lightning. She wonders what might have happened to account for the disgust in her eyes, but it’s not her business.

“Then I’ll help you get wherever you want to go.”

A small smile of approval runs across the woman’s face, her features glowing, like Brooke passed some sort of test. Brooke finds herself smiling in return as the woman speaks. “I guess if I’m gonna be in your house you should know my name. I’m Vanessa.”

“Brooke.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

Brooke’s face burns. “Right.”

Vanessa huffs a small laugh. “You think I could shower?”

“Oh, of course.” Brooke leads her down the hall, and it’s nice to have control again, to focus on a task, even one as simple as walking to the bathroom. She points out where to find towels and changes out of her still-cold clothes before getting some for Vanessa.

“Damn, you rob Lush or somethin’?” Vanessa asks when Brooke returns.

Brooke sheepishly looks at the rainbow mountain of bath bombs beside her towels. She buys one every week from A’keria’s boutique in town, partly because A’keria is always nice to her but mostly because Brooke likes sinking into the tub and watching the colors ripple around her.

“You-you can use one if you want,” she offers, setting the clothes by the sink. “There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink too. Here’s the clothes. Sorry, they’ll be a little big.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vanessa says reassuringly. “Thanks, Brooke.”

“Of course,” Brooke manages, mouth suddenly dry as Vanessa runs a hand through her flowy curls.

Brooke listens to the rain outside with a growing dread. What is she supposed to do with Vanessa in her house until the streets clear? She’s not used to people being there. Even when her grandfather was alive, Brooke would go for walks on the beach or to the movies alone. No one made her feel freer than she did herself.

But then her grandfather died, and Brooke hasn’t had anyone since. Now, it’s almost like her solitude is something she’s stuck in, rather than her choice, and she doesn’t know how to get out of it, doesn’t know how to let someone in. It’s been seven years since she started seeing Dr. Ganache, since she got herself out of that dark place and back into the light, but it still feels like Brooke hasn’t rediscovered her old self or fully formed her new self yet, her edges blurry as she flickers in and out of being.

Her eyes drift the the picture of her grandfather, smiling at her in his big navy coat. He had made her feel safe and comfortable when no one else could, and Brooke vows to try and follow his example with Vanessa.

“Shouldn’t the walls be round if we in a lighthouse?” Vanessa’s booming voice enters the kitchen.

Brooke sees immediately that ‘a little big’ was an understatement. The hem of Brooke’s gray wool sweater brushes Vanessa’s knees, and she’s rolled the sleeves back three or four times to free her hands. It makes her seem smaller, softer, and Brooke’s heart tugs as she’s hit with a sudden image of Vanessa curling into her side, wrapping her arms around Vanessa’s waist, as they cuddle and watch movies. She blinks the thought away.

“This is a cottage attached to the lighthouse,” Brooke explains. “The entrance to the tower is down the hall.”

Vanessa nods and seats herself at the kitchen table. Brooke follows, legs bouncing. She bites her lip, trying to think of absolutely anything to talk about and failing as the silence grows longer.

“I’m kinda hungry,” Vanessa says with a shy grin.

Right. Food. That’s something you offer guests in your house.

It’s almost noon; they might as well have lunch, even if Brooke never had breakfast. “Um, do you like grilled cheese?” It seems a safe enough option. It was what Brooke’s grandfather had made on her first night in the lighthouse, so crispy and gooey that Brooke ate the whole thing even though she hadn’t been hungry all week.

“Hell yeah!”

Brooke smiles as she gets to work, the sizzling of the sandwiches on the griddle filling the kitchen. There’s something about Vanessa, how she’s so unashamedly loud and excited, that puts Brooke at ease, stops her fears over having an intruder.

Vanessa’s grin almost overtakes her face as Brooke sets the plates down.

“So,” Vanessa begins eagerly, “is this place haunted? I thought all lighthouses were haunted.”

“I don’t think so,” Brooke says. “I’m pretty sure my great-great-grandfather died here though.”

Vanessa clicks her tongue in approval. “See? Haunted. He’s probably just waitin’ to pop out of a mirror.”

“It’s not haunted.”

“But it could be.” There’s a mischievous glint in Vanessa’s eyes as she eats her sandwich.

“Well, any place could be haunted,” Brooke argues.

“Yeah, but when you think of haunted, it’s an old house, an old hospital, or an old, scary-ass lighthouse.” Vanessa nods to herself, chin jutting out toward Brooke. Brooke has to admit her argument is pretty solid.

“Do you want this place to be haunted?” Brooke asks.

“Oh, hell no! I don’t want that spooky shit near me!”

Brooke laughs and Vanessa laughs too, and Brooke is wondering if maybe this won’t be so bad. If maybe they’ll be okay for a few days like this. But then the moment ends and Brooke studies the cheese dangling from her bread as the silence fills the kitchen once more, and she thinks she was wrong.

“How long do you think the roads will be closed?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke shrugs. “Depends on the storm. It’s supposed to stop Friday night. If it does, things should be clear by Monday or Tuesday.”

Four days, Brooke thinks. She has to get through at least four days of eating with someone, sharing her TV, having Vanessa wear her clothes. Four days of sharing her space, of someone being there. Four days of Vanessa breathing in the same salty air as her, looking out at the same deep blue water. Would she search the waves for answers, like Brooke did? What kind of questions did Vanessa want the swirling blue to answer?

Brooke is thinking too much. It’s just a few days. A few days, and her life goes back to normal. Vanessa is just some stranded stranger, nothing more.

“Sorry, what?” Brooke asks, heat spreading through her when she notices Vanessa’s lips moving.

Vanessa looks down at her empty plate. “I just–thanks for helping me. For letting me stay here and everything.”

Her words ring with sincerity, and Brooke finds herself trusting Vanessa despite the obvious lie about how she got here. “It’s no problem.”

“Well, thank you.” Vanessa whips her head up, eyes sparkling. “So, can I see the tower?”

—

“This is some real spooky shit.”

Brooke snorts as Vanessa looks up into the tower, old red brick mixed with black metal stairs circling the walls to the top. When Brooke was younger, she used to think looking up into the tower was like looking up from a giant’s mouth, rickety metal steps turning into the giant’s teeth, which she had to climb to get to the light and save the town.

“We can’t both fit on the stairs, so I’ll go first to lead you,” Brooke offers. She always went first with her grandfather, knowing that he was behind her if she fell or got scared. She wonders if she’ll ever have that same trust in someone.

They curve up the walls, steps narrowing as they get higher. Finally, they approach the opening that leads to the observation deck. Brooke pulls herself through, muscles rippling with familiarity. She turns and grabs Vanessa’s hands to help her up.

Brooke stands on the deck, calm at once, the floor-to-ceiling windows circling her and showing off the rainy landscape and deep sea. She turns to show Vanessa and finds her sticking her head through the opening to gaze down into the tower.

“Whoa,” Vanessa breathes. “It’s like one of those collider-scope things.”

“Kaleidoscope?” Brooke asks around a smile.

“Yeah! Come look!”

Brooke shakes her head. “I-I’m afraid of heights.”

“But you’re up here,” Vanessa says in confusion, pulling herself up.

“I can be up here, I can look at the water, but I can’t look down. When I look down, I feel like I’m falling,” Brooke explains.

“I guess that makes sense,” Vanessa agrees. Then she notices the windows and what lies beyond them, and Brooke’s face warms as she watches Vanessa’s eyes light up. “Holy shit, Brooke.”

It’s a view Brooke herself saw for the first time at age six and hasn’t tired of since. A view that makes her fears seem smaller. A view that calms her, makes her feel less alone without her parents by showing her the ocean and the world and all the life inside it. A view that made her cry the first time she came up after her grandfather died, and knew that the view was hers alone now, that she would never share it with him again.

Vanessa is here with her now, and Brooke can’t fight the burst of affection, the gratitude of having her here. Of knowing that she isn’t alone, that someone exists to see this ocean with her.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Vanessa declares, crossing to the windows and staring out at the water.

“Yeah, it is.” Brooke works through her routine as Vanessa stares out the rain-splattered windows, and she can’t help but notice that Vanessa’s face is just as radiant as the sea.

—

Vanessa almost trips over Henry and Apollo when she climbs down the stairs, the cats in their usual spot below the first step. Neither cared to climb the 97 steps to the light, but they waited every afternoon for Brooke to come back down and see them.

“You have cats!” Vanessa squeals, gripping Brooke’s arm to steady herself, her hand warm through the thick wool Brooke’s wearing.

“Yeah. Apollo is the gray and Henry is the brown,” Brooke explains as Vanessa crouches to pet them. “Don’t feel bad if they don’t like you at first. They’re kind of only used to me.”

Yet Apollo nestles his nose right up against Vanessa’s palm without hesitation, and it somehow seems fitting.

—-

Vanessa insists on helping Brooke with dinner, boiling the pasta and sneaking samples of the lemon-garlic sauce Brooke is making, eagerly mixing shrimp and linguine together with the biggest spoon she could find.

“So, um, where are you from?” Brooke asks Vanessa, almost losing her fork in her sweaty grasp. She wishes she had a piece of rope to calm her. Before dinner, Brooke had reviewed some of the topics Dr. Ganache had told her were good starting points for meeting new people, and she’s hoping they’ll be okay for this.

But the look that flits across Vanessa’s face is anything but okay.

“I live about an hour away, in the city. I used to live in Florida, though. Moved up about 10 years ago, after my parents died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Brooke says quietly. “You’re probably sick of hearing that, though,” she adds. Brooke remembers how it was all she heard for weeks after her parents died, all from somber-faced grown-ups she didn’t know.

“Yeah. After a while, you know it’s all people are gonna say, and you kinda stop hearing it.” Vanessa shrugs, then looks into Brooke’s eyes. “Thank you, though. It’s nice of you to say.” She scoops up a piece of shrimp. “How about you? You always live here?”

“In Cape Charles, yeah. Moved into the lighthouse with my grandfather when I was six. My…my parents died too.” Brooke wasn’t planning to tell Vanessa–she’s just here for a few days, and practically a stranger–but something about her has earned Brooke’s trust. Some sort of understanding that Vanessa knows how it feels and won’t pity her.

Vanessa’s face falls. “You’re probably sick of it too, but I am sorry.”

It’s sincere, just like everything Vanessa says, and Brooke doesn’t care what secret she’s hiding, why Vanessa shuts down and abruptly changes the subject when Brooke asks if she sails a lot, in an effort to find out why she was on a boat in a storm. Whatever got her here is clearly a sore subject and Brooke vows not to ask again.

“Do you like hot chocolate? I could make some,” Brooke offers after dinner. It’s another safe option, she’s hoping. Her grandfather’s weapon of choice whenever Brooke was upset. She knows he had been shaken to his core when he would put the mug on her bedside table only for it to go untouched, whipped cream melting into hot liquid before the whole thing went ice-cold, the effort of sitting up, grabbing the mug, and drinking it just too much for Brooke during her bad months.

“Of course I do! Is there a show or somethin’ we could watch, since we’re here for a few days?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke pauses to think. Vanessa seems like someone that likes action, something exciting. “Game of Thrones will take us a few days. I might punch my pillows when we hit the final season, though.”

“Why?”

Brooke grins wickedly. “You’ll see.”

—

It’s not until later that night, after putting fresh sheets on the spare bed (Vanessa throwing herself across the mattress to reach), when Vanessa is in Brooke’s plaid pajamas that she keeps tripping on, sleeves rolled back to her elbows, slurping hot chocolate from a lobster mug, that Brooke sees it. Or, rather, the lack of it.

All Brooke sees are Vanessa’s smooth, unblemished wrists, where there had been mottled blue and purple just this morning.

This can’t be right. Had she imagined the bruises? No, she knows she saw them, can still feel the anger pulsing under her skin at the thought of Vanessa being hurt. But how could they be gone already? Brooke glances at the fresh gauze Vanessa put on her forehead after showering. If Brooke takes it off, will she find perfect, unbroken skin there too?

Her grandfather told her there were all kinds of creatures in the ocean. Most people regarded them as legends, but sitting by the fire, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, Brooke had believed him.

Is it possible Vanessa is something…more? Not a mermaid; in the stories, they can only walk on earth for a short time. A siren? But sirens are nasty creatures in the legends, luring people to their island for the joy of watching them drown, and Vanessa has been nothing but kind. Maybe Brooke is just trying too hard to make something of nothing, to keep hold of her grandfather’s stories. Maybe she’s trying to find some reason, some excuse, for why she likes Vanessa, actually enjoyed the day with her.

It would be easier if Vanessa has some kind of magic, because at least that would explain why Brooke falls asleep with a smile on her face and Vanessa’s laugh looping in her mind.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #nina west #shuga cain #branjie #lesbian au #lighthouse au #angst #hurt/comfort #fluff #washed in the tide of her breathing #athena2 #concrit welcome #tw mentioned past death #submission

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shinsoukokuvalentine · 5 years ago

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Heavenbound (3)

(3 is here! For those curious, yes I will be including the alligator scene in this fic. Just... Likely not in the way you think. I can’t wait ^^

Read the first chapter on Ao3!)

237/365: Soon You’ll Come Home

“How exactly do your powers work?” Ryuu asks. He sits across his tea table from Atsushi, who wolfs down the food that Chuuya made for him as if he hasn’t eaten in days.

Knowing Fitzgerald, that might be accurate.

“Mostly moonlight,” Atsushi says, his mouth full of rice, “but I have a little control over it too.”

Chuuya passes Ryuu his own bowl, sitting beside him, lazily eating.

“Didn’t look like it back there,” he says. Ryuu shoots him a small glare, but Atsushi nods solemnly.

“Moonlight transforms me without my choice. But even when it is my choice, the more I transform, the more chance there is of the tiger completely taking over,’’ he murmurs.

Ryuu hasn’t touched his food. He only sits, watching Atsushi.

“You talk like you’re two separate people,” Chuuya says. “Well, relatively speaking.”

Atsushi picks his head up, giving a gentle but sad smile. “It seems like that sometimes,” he says.

Ryuu sighs, standing from the table. He’s heard enough for one night. “Well, whenever you’re done,” he says, “you can sleep on the couch. I’ve set a spare set of pajamas there for you.”

Atsushi whips around to him, eyes wide and practically sparkling. “Really?” He asks, and Ryuu nods, turning his back to enter the hallway. “I hate to inconvenience you…” Atsushi murmurs, causing Ryuu to shrug.

“You’re not,” he says plainly, but behind him, he hears Atsushi sigh a little.

“I’ve never met anyone as kind as you.”

Ryuu pauses in the hall’s entrance. Him? Kind? With all the bullets he’s fired, all the blood on his hands, all the bodies he’s left in his wake?

He says nothing. He closes the bathroom door behind him, turning the shower on, letting steam fill the room like a cloud.

Leaning over the counter, he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks no different than before; same gray eyes, same black hair, same gaunt face. He doesn’t feel as if he’s died in the past twenty-four hours. It could have all been a drunken dream.

But the gold watch hits against his chest as he straightens his back, the ticks of its second hand matching the exact pace of Ryuu’s heartbeat. It wasn’t a dream.

And the only thing keeping him alive hangs around his neck like an albatross.

Gingerly, as if he were handling an egg, Ryuu takes the watch off and sets at aside before stepping into the shower. The water practically burns his skin as it hits him and runs down his body, but it feels cleansing. It washes away Fitzgerald’s Ryuu, the one who blindly trusted, blindly followed orders.

And a new Ryuu is left behind, one that will carve his way straight through everything Fitzgerald holds dear.

Ryuu closes his eyes. The water burns, but he feels it. The dead don’t feel. He’s alive.

But another image cuts into his thoughts, one not unlike the vision he saw when he first met Atsushi. In this picture, the weretiger smiles again, despite the blood splashed across his face. He stands over a familiar, blond corpse before he moves to Ryuu’s side, taking his hands, moving to meet his lips.

Ryuu feels his heart pounding as he breaks from his fantasy. He sighs a little, leaning his head back, letting the hot water splash onto his face. Atsushi is purely for business, he scolds himself. He’s a weapon to be used to solve Ryuu’s Fitzgerald problem.

“But what if he could solve all my problems?” Ryuu finds himself asking out loud, eyes open to the ceiling, water beating hard against his steadily calming chest. Unanswered, his words hang in the bathroom with the rest of the steam.

Silk pajamas on, watch chain around his neck, Ryuu yawns as he steps out of the bathroom. Casting a glance towards the living room, he sees Atsushi sprawled out on the couch.

“He’s fast asleep,” Chuuya mutters as he leans against the opposite wall. Ryuu nods, watching as Atsushi’s chest rises and falls with breath, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“I don’t get what you’re doing,” says Chuuya, eyeing Ryuu from under the rim of his hat. “I thought we were going to kill it.”

Ryuu hums a little as he closes the bedroom door. Plans change. Desires change. But Chuuya would never understand, could never hope to understand the aching, empty hole in Ryuu’s chest, the one perfectly sized for Atsushi.

“What better revenge is there,” he says, picking his words carefully, turning to watch Chuuya with eyes like steel, “than using Fitzgerald’s own monster against him?”

Chuuya’s eyes widen. “You don’t mean-!”

“The weretiger is our weapon now,” Ryuu says as he walks to his own room. “And tomorrow, we use him to start assembling a criminal ring rivaling Fitzgerald’s.”

Chuuya stares at him for a moment. Then, slowly, his grin returns, as if the possibilities that Ryuu saw in the warehouse were suddenly revealed to him; a vision carved with bullet holes and tiger claw marks. He pushes himself off the wall, slipping on his shoes as he nears the door.

“I don’t see why we can’t do one better,” he says. He waits in the doorway, watching Ryuu with sparks flickering in his eyes. “We could be-!”

“A mafia,” Ryuu finishes. He allows himself a small smirk of his own, and he fixes his gaze on some far-off, intangible point.

“And it starts with my monster.”

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Fitzgerald smiles politely, as if they had a choice in the matter. “You see, there’s a small problem I’d like us all to focus our energy on addressing.”

John frowns. He knows each and every one of Fitzgerald’s glossy smiles, and this one never means anything good. This one nearly assures that someone in the room is in danger of death.

That smile remains on Fitzgerald’s lips as he presses a button on his desk, which pulls down a screen from the ceiling.

“But first, a short video clip,” Fitzgerald says. “Very short.”

The room’s tension nearly turns tangible as everyone Fitzgerald called to his office sees the image on the screen. The outside of his warehouse is instantly recognizable, and if something happened to anything in that building, they might as well all have guns pointed at their heads.

“As you can tell from the sunlight, this was taken during the day,” Fitzgerald explains. “Earlier today, in fact. Even more interesting,” he says, pointing at the steadily ticking timestamp in the screen’s corner, “it was filmed before we returned the tiger to his spot there. Now, pay attention; this part is important.”

The room collectively holds its breath as the screen’s image remains still. And nearly simultaneously, the group jumps as the warehouse footage turns to static.

Wordlessly, Fitzgerald pulls something from beneath his desk. John stares at it as his heartbeat accelerates in dawning realization and fear.

The bullet is still embedded in the camera, which now sits on Fitzgerald’s desk, lopsided.

“From this footage, and from visiting the warehouse not an hour ago, I’ve come to a few conclusions,” Fitzgerald says. His smile has gone. “First, someone shot my camera. Whoever did it was in the warehouse with us when we deposited the tiger there.” His voice drops dangerously low, and he watches the group from under a furrowed brow. “And no one noticed.”

Nervous eyes in the group dart to each other, knowing that whoever is responsible likely won’t see the sunrise in the morning.

“I know this much because they took something of mine,” Fitzgerald goes on to say. “According to that timestamp, the camera was shot right before we arrived. The thieves would’ve been in the warehouse when we got there, having taken nothing, for their quarry had yet to arrive.”

Behind his back, John’s sweaty hands grasp each other. The pure anger in Fitzgerald’s eyes is something he’s only seen a handful of times before, and the implications of his words seep into his skin like venom.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fitzgerald spits, an edge to his voice that slices through everyone in the room, “I want my tiger back.

“And I want it back now.”

Atsushi crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Ryuu.

“I’m not going in.”

Ryuu rolls his eyes. “You came all the way here,” he snaps, “only to refuse to work with us?”

Atsushi scowls, turning his face away, eyes narrow. Ryuu’s fists shake at his sides. Chuuya twirls his lockpick on his finger, rolling his eyes as they wait beside a seemingly inconspicuous inn in an underdeveloped part of town.

“You don’t have to do anything hard,” Ryuu practically growls, struggling to keep his tone even through his gritted teeth, pointing at the inn’s back door. “Just go in there, show them who you are, and stick around while Nakahara-san and I do the talking.”

Atsushi scoffs, and he takes a small moment of his time to cast his indignant gaze back on Ryuu.

“You sound just like Fitzgerald,” he spits before turning away again. From behind him, Chuuya frowns and reaches for his gun.

“Listen here, you little-!” He starts, but Ryuu shoots a silencing glare his way. They won’t get anywhere with threats - and he won’t have anyone even suggest laying a hand on Atsushi. If the weretiger’s going to work with them, to work with Ryuu, he’s going to have to trust them.

“Listen, Jinko,” Ryuu mutters. “Do you want to kill Fitzgerald?” He asks as calmly as he can, and Atsushi looks back at him again, saying nothing. Ryuu takes his minimal response as a silent yes. “Then we have to start here.”

Though he doesn’t look away again, Atsushi still huffs. “He’ll be powerless without me anyway,” he mumbles. “There’s no point.”

Frustration boils in the pit of Ryuu’s stomach, and he does his best to keep it from rising to his face. Atsushi is nothing but a puzzle he needs to solve. Threatening him won’t work; not if he wants to keep him. In that case, the solution would obviously be bribery, but the weretiger wouldn’t willingly use his powers in this way, even if he was paid to do so. Maybe he could be bribed with something else.

For a moment, Ryuu tries to put himself in Atsushi’s place, trying to discover what he might want, and he doesn’t have to search long to find something familiar.

Some of the harshness falls from Ryuu’s face. Before him stands Fitzgerald’s new toy, a man suddenly thrust into a world he was unprepared for, a man given promises of something better.

Before Ryuu stands himself, ten years ago.

His mind falls backwards, back to the day he first held his own in a gunfight. The bullet wounds hurt, and he screamed as if the sun itself burnt his skin, but two bodies had fallen still at his feet. The other gang members had ran like the cowards they were.

“Well done.”

Ryuu whipped around, still holding his gun out, shaking. At the end of the alley, a blond man clapped and smiled.

“Where’d you get that gun?” He asked. Ryuu gritted his teeth as he glared at him.

“It was my dad’s,” he grunted.

The man tilted his head. “Is your father around?” He wondered. Ryuu shook his head; he had taken the gun from his father’s bleeding corpse. Still, the man smiled. “Do you have a mother, then?” Ryuu shook his head again. “A place to stay?” No.

“Then I’d like to make you an offer,” he said, stepping forward. He crouched in front of Ryuu, right in front of his gun, holding out his hand. “If you come with me, and use your gun for me,” he smiled, “I’ll give you a place to stay.”

Ryuu brings himself back to the present. Not a second of time has passed, and Atsushi, the man so much like Ryuu from ten years ago, still glares at him. Ryuu takes a deep breath.

“Atsushi,” he says calmly, slowly, “if you do this for us, I promise-”

Atsushi’s glare falters. His eyes widen slightly; Ryuu has his attention.

“-We’ll find you a place to stay.”

Atsushi turns his head completely to Ryuu, then his whole body. His scowl falls, but he doesn’t smile yet, as if he’s afraid to be optimistic.

“... My own home?” He asks.

Ryuu nods, folding his hands behind his back as Atsushi’s own arms unwind. “With your own bed. You won’t be sleeping on my couch for long.” As best as he can, he offers what’s supposed to be a kind smile, but Chuuya visibly winces. Atsushi doesn’t seem to notice. His shoulders relax, and his own smile gently forms on his lips.

“You won’t regret this,” he promises, pushing past Ryuu. Now behind him, Ryuu’s lip twitches.

“I certainly hope not,” he mutters to himself. Even so, he finds himself watching Atsushi closely for a small while, perhaps hoping that he can see that innocent smile again.

As soon as Chuuya’s picked the lock, the door swings open, and the first guard glares them down.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He snaps. His short red hair sticks out in all directions, and a bandage is spread over the bridge of his nose. He glares daggers at the trio, reaching for what must be a gun, but Ryuu holds up one hand.

“We’re simply here to talk,” he says. “We have a business proposition.”

The man narrows his eyes. “Leave your weapons,” he growls.

Coughing slightly into his hand, Ryuu nods, giving over his gun with his other hand, and Chuuya does the same. They don’t need them anyway. Not with Atsushi.

The guard shoves them in front of him, begrudgingly walking with them down the staircase behind the door, taking them to another door at its base. Atsushi stays close to Ryuu, eyes instinctively darting around, searching for possible escape routes. The anxiety on his face deepens when he finds none, but Ryuu sighs.

“There’s no need to be worried,” Ryuu murmurs into his ear. He catches the guard watching them, but he doesn’t care. He’s allowed his secrets for now. “Remember what you can do.”

Atsushi looks up at him again, and every small glimmer of light on that dark staircase seems to reflect in his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then offers a meager smile, and Ryuu turns away before he allows that smile to distract him.

Unlike the wooden one at the stair’s top, the bottom door is solid metal.

“Hirotsu-san!” The readhead calls. “You have visitors!”

The door clicks. Again, the first face they see watches them with hostile, suspicious eyes. This one, their black hair pulled back, hides the lower part of their face behind a mask.

“I took their weapons, Gin,” mutters the redhead, holding up their two guns. Gin nods, opening the door wider, revealing the room to them.

Weapon racks line the walls, filled with everything from machine guns to katanas. Dozens of pairs of eyes whip around to stare at them, all except the eyes of the man at the room’s end, who watches them warily, yet calmly.

“And why have they come to visit me?” The older man says, sitting atop the crude throne of an overturned shipping crate. Ryuu steps forward.

“I’d like to propose a merger,” he says upfront. The older man smirks.

“I don’t merge with unknown delinquents,” he says. “I can offer you a position in the Black Lizards, but everyone starts at the bottom.”

Ryuu allows his expression to harden slightly. “You don’t recognize me, Hirotsu-san?” He asks, “Even after your men fell like flies at my feet the last time you challenged us?”

There’s a moment’s pause as Hirotsu narrows his eyes, watching Ryuu with scrutiny. Then he stiffens, eyes widening for just a second before they turn harsher than before.

“Akutagawa,” he spits. He snaps his fingers and instantly, it’s as if every gun in the room clicks. “What does Fitzgerald want with me this time?”

Every barrel points at Ryuu, Chuuya, and Atsushi, but Ryuu doesn’t take his eyes - now nonchalant again - off of Hirotsu, even when he feels Atsushi step close enough to him that their wrists brush.

“He wants nothing to do with you,” Ryuu says. “I do.”

Hirotsu scoffs. “And that is?”

“Just as I said,” Ryuu states again, eerily calm, “a merger. The Black Lizards will join Chuuya and I as we build a strong enough mafia to destroy everything Fitzgerald has.”

In spite of the room’s tense atmosphere, Hirotsu gives a small huff of a laugh.

“A mafia?” He repeats. “Even if you did manage to build one, no one can face off against Fitzgerald’s ring and live. Besides, when did you become intent on destroying Fitzgerald instead of kissing his boots? Jealous, young man?”

Ryuu’s lip twitches. Keeping his voice as steady as he can, he answers at nearly a growl, “Fitzgerald grew jealous of me and attempted to have me killed.” The watch chain weighs his neck down, and if he pays close attention, he can feel every tick of its second hand against his chest, a constant reminder of how successful Fitzgerald’s attempt had been. He has half a mind to run, the fear of dying again turning his blood cold.

But the thought of revenge brings that blood back to its boiling point, and he’s reminded where he stands, in front of one of Yokohama’s most dangerous gang leaders, and there’s no turning back now. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke is not a coward.

“Was that when he replaced you?” Hirotsu asks haughtily, causing a small scowl to form on Ryuu’s lips. “Word spread quickly about his new pet.”

From behind Ryuu, Atsushi gives a short, disgruntled growl.

“Maybe,” Ryuu grunts, “but he no longer has that weapon.”

Hirotsu raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And how can you be sure?”

Ryuu looks behind him at Atsushi, watching as the irritation fades from the tiger’s eyes, only to be replaced by a small hint of fear. It doesn’t make it to the rest of his face, but Ryuu sees it. Wordlessy, he nods, hoping Atsushi understands.

You can do this, he thinks, frowning. You HAVE to do this.

As if he heard him, Atsushi closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath before gritting his teeth, and suddenly, his arms begin to glow blue.

Members of the Black Lizard gasp. That annoying redhead jumps. Atsushi squeezes his eyes shut in pain as his arms shift, growing inhuman muscles, fur, and claws at the end of his fingers.

“I’m sure,” Ryuu finally answers Hirotsu, who stares at Atsushi with his mouth slightly open, “because I have that weapon.”

Atsushi gasps, struggling to keep his transformation minimal, but Ryuu pats his shoulder.

“That will be all,” he says quietly. With a small sigh, Atsushi shrinks his arms back to their original size.

“Think of it this way, Hirotsu-san,” Ryuu says, folding his hands behind his back once more. “If I have Fitzgerald’s tiger, imagine what I can do to Fitzgerald. And if I have Fitzgerald’s tiger,” he lets that thought hang in the air for a moment, icicles forming in his eyes and in his next words.

“Imagine what I can do to you.”

Silence freezes the room. The only sounds are cautious whispers and Atsushi’s tired pants.

Finally, Hirotsu clears his throat.

“If we join your Mafia,” he begins, voice cautious, “we’ll be… Financially compensated, correct?”

Ryuu nods. “As soon as you get the money to come in, you’ll get your share,” he assures them.

Hirotsu frowns. He looks at the floor, then at his gang. No one says a word.

Finally, and with a sigh, Hirotsu stands. He takes a few steps forward, until he’s directly in front of Ryuu, before he bows.

“To destroy Fitzgerald, and to take back Yokohama,” he says, folding a hand over his chest, “the Black Lizard is in your service.” He frowns as he stands, watching Ryuu with narrow eyes. “You’d best make good on your promises, boy.”

Ryuu looks behind him, watching Atsushi fearlessly face every member of the Black Lizard that dares approach him, only to have them scuttle back.

“As long as I have that beast,” he says, “you have nothing to worry about.”

Pain feels as if it’s erupting through Ryuu’s entire body.

You can never come back.

Hands so cold they burn his skin grasp at him, clinging to him, dragging him down into scorching hot mire.

You can never come back.

Darkness surrounds him; thick, gooey darkness that can be felt, only interrupted by the frequent columns of flames bursting from the charred ground. Screams and horrid laughter fill his ears.

You can never come back.

Every time the words repeat, they come across more distorted than before. Soon it sounds as if Kouyou’s voice itself is melting, burning along with Ryuu and everything around him, drowning out his cries of pain.

He struggles to keep his head above the surface of the boiling, oozy dark, but soon it flows into his mouth. It fills his lungs, his head, his entire body, until he can’t struggle anymore. All he can do is scream.

You can never come back.

Gasping for air, Ryuu jolts awake. He sits straight up in bed for a moment, shaking, before he throws off every sweaty blanket and grabs for his watch on the bedside table.

He pops it open. It still ticks, its time always accurate, even though Ryuu has never set it. He sighs a bit, holding it tight against his chest so he can feel every movement of its second hand. He still lives.

Tucking the watch beneath his shirt, Ryuu slides out of bed. The electric clock on his bedside table says it’s one a.m., but Ryuu’s fresh nightmare keeps him from wanting to go back to sleep immediately. Instead, he rubs his eyes and yawns a bit as he flips on a lamp and makes his way to his bedroom door.

As soon as he opens it, he hears something scuffle in the living room. Pieces of his dream flash in front of eyes eyes, of horrible creatures writing in the dark, and sudden panic grabs his body, causing him to stiffen. Immediately - too uncharacteristically terrified to rationally consider what might actually wait for him in the dark - he flips on the light next to the door.

Atsushi freezes. He stands like a rabbit caught in headlights, blinking with wide eyes at Ryuu, fully dressed and holding a bundle of Ryuu’s clothes in his arms as he stands between the living room and the door. Ryuu instantly scowls.

“What are you doing?”

Atsushi’s eyes dart away from Ryuu’s. “Uh…” he says slowly, shuffling a bit on his feet. Ryuu can feel his rising anger cause his features to tighten.

“You’re running out on me,” he growls. Though he keeps anger on his face, fear runs through his veins. To lose the weretiger would be to lose everything.

Atsushi frowns, bunching his shoulders up, watching the floor. Though he could easily still run, his shame spreads to his face and ties his feet together.

“... I can’t stay here,” Atsushi mumbles, and something within Ryuu reluctantly crumples when he sees how hurt Atsushi looks.

“And why not?” he says, keeping under wraps whatever weakness Atsushi’s instilled in him.

“... I don’t want to be used as a weapon,” Atsushi admits softly. He wraps his arms around himself, still not meeting Ryuu’s eyes, his own golden irises seemingly glowing in the dark room. Ryuu sighs.

“You won’t have to for much longer,” he assures him. “Word will get out, and by the time this whole city knows and fears you, you’ll be long gone, okay?”

The weretiger sighs, then he murmurs, his voice so soft and quiet that Ryuu can barely hear him.

“But I don’t want to be feared.”

Ryuu’s next words leave his mouth before he realizes they’ve gone.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Atsushi looks up at him suddenly. His slightly-open mouth closes, and they stare at each other there, the night’s darkness and the hall’s light wrapping around their bodies.

Ryuu pulls his lips tight. Unsure what prompted him to speak, he clears his throat.

“We’ll start looking for a home for you tomorrow, okay?” He says quickly, changing the subject. “I know someone. He fosters children, but maybe he knows someone that’ll take you in.” Besides, that man is on Ryuu’s list of potential allies. He wouldn’t be going too far out of his way to try to recruit him now.

Just a few moments ago, Atsushi refused to make eye contact with Ryuu. Now it seems as if he can’t look away, and he holds the clothes in his arms like a security blanket, pressed tight against his chest.

“... Okay,” he says after a moment. Ryuu holds back a sigh of relief.

“Good,” he says, nodding once. He turns around to return to his room, but as if he has eyes in the back of his head, he stops, an incomplete feeling buzzing in his chest.

Ryuu looks behind himself. Atsushi still stands there, looking away again, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Inwardly, Ryuu releases that sigh.

“Do you want to stay in my room?” He asks as if such a thing would be more inconvenient than stopping the sun, but Atsushi nods anyway, slowly, looking up at Ryuu with eyes like a begging stray dog’s.

Ryuu almost watches him with suspicion as he wordlessly opens his bedroom door, motioning with his head for Atsushi to come inside.

Under Fitzgerald’s leadership, Ryuu’s not unused to people with two faces. People will put on a show, smiling and saying sweet words until they can sneak a gun against your head, and then their mask falls. Ryuu knows he’s no exception, but he can typically tell when someone’s hiding their truths, as long as they’re not as experienced as someone like Fitzgerald or Steinbeck.

But Atsushi. Ryuu looks behind his shoulder at the weretiger, who watches him as he pulls his spare futon from the closet and sets it out. Atsushi seems to have two sides, but neither of them appear fake. The first is ferocious to the point of being feral, full of wrath and rage, with anger as sharp as his claws. The second is far more gentle and trusting, fragile and humble, as if he wouldn’t love to crush at least one man’s skull in his feline jaws. Both are genuine. Both are Atsushi.

Both draw Ryuu ever closer, ever deeper.

“Done,” Ryuu mutters, putting the final pillow and blanket on the futon. “You’ll be more comfortable here than on the couch, I’m sure.”

Atsushi nods. He utters a small “thank you” before settling in, his shoulders rising and falling with his relaxed sigh. Ryuu climbs back into his own bed, purposefully facing away from Atsushi after he turns off the lamp. The weretiger must not understand his body language.

“Hey, Akutagawa-san?”

Ryuu grunts once in response.

“Did you work for Fitzgerald?”

His question gives Ryuu pause, so he says nothing, brow furrowing.

“I thought you did,” Atsushi continues, his voice a sleepy murmur, “because of things you said. And things the Black Lizard leader said.”

It takes a minute, but Ryuu finally finds his voice. He clears his throat.

“Yes,” comes his simple answer. He feared that answer. He feared answering Atsushi, who might hate him, judging all the atrocities he’s done, pushing him away again.

Instead, Atsushi gives a small hum.

“Did he buy you, too?” He asks.

Ryuu’s worries quiet. He turns his head slightly so that he can see Atsushi’s face, but the weretiger stares at the ceiling, eyes still glowing.

“No,” Ryuu says slowly. “He… Practically took me in.”

Atsushi gives a sad smile and a humorless chuckle.

“If only,” he says. “He heard about me because gangs couldn’t keep their mouths shut, and he bought me. Before that I was a black market prize.”

Atsushi winces as if the memories themselves hurt. “I was a one-man freak show. They would keep me around until they grew tired of me, then they’d sell me to the highest bidder. Before I was bought the first time, the orphanage treated me like an animal, cage and everything.”

Ryuu turns back to staring at the wall, almost shaking a little. Emotions stir in his chest that he can only label as that ever-present loneliness, that fear of losing what he’s coveted for so long, so he channels them the only way he knows how.

“I’ll kill the next person who lays a hand on you like that,” he snaps. Atsushi sighs a little.

“A lot of them are probably already dead,” he murmurs. “They’re not worth it, either. Focus your energy on someone more important.”

The supernatural glow of Atsushi’s eyes intensifies as his eyebrows knit together.

“Like Fitzgerald.”

The pure hatred with which Atsushi says his name causes Ryuu to sit up in bed to look at him. Like a switch was flipped, every ounce of gentleness in Atsushi’s countenance has been erased, leaving nothing but malice and deep-rooted pain.

That passion ignites an entirely different shade of his beauty.

“I can’t stand what he does to innocent people,” Atsushi goes on to say, squeezing his eyes shut, dimming the room by taking away that small light. “He doesn’t care. He thinks their lives have no value at all, not even his subordinates’ lives. I hated doing what he told me.” He takes a shaky breath, in and out slowly.

“He’d make me kill those people for him, Akutagawa-san,” he murmurs, and just as quickly as it came, the rage is gone. The pain in his face overpowers it, and he crosses one arm over his eyes. “I’m a monster.”

The silence after his words almost feels heavier than the words themselves. Mouth dry, Ryuu’s thoughts jumble together until they’re tangled, thoughts of how Atsushi would hate him if he ever saw Ryuu’s body count, of exactly how little Ryuu cared for those “innocents” he would kill on a daily basis, of how twenty-four hours ago, Ryuu would’ve agreed with Atsushi: by definition, the weretiger is a monster.

But now. Now it’s different. Now he’s seen more jagged edges of Atsushi’s multi-faceted soul. Now he has begun to understand. Now he’s overwhelmed, overwhelmed by Atsushi and his beauty and his soul and the beauty of his soul, so says the first words he manages to form, nearly whispering into the dark room,

“No you’re not.”

He hears Atsushi make a soft noise in the back of his throat. The weretiger moves his arm from his face, and his eyes shine directly on Ryuu, who doesn’t move. A frown pulls his lips taught and forms worry lines around his eyes, but still, Atsushi smiles.

“You’re not afraid of me, and you don’t think I’m a monster,” Atsushi says, echoing Ryuu’s words from before. A hum on his lips, he then curls the blanket around his shoulders, yawning slightly. “You’re the first to say that, Akutagawa-san.”

Once again, Atsushi closes his eyes, leaving the room in darkness aside from the few remaining streetlights outside the window. Ryuu takes a deep breath, lying down as well.

“Oi, Jinko,” he mutters, trying to keep the edge to his voice as something within him softens. “You can call me Akutagawa.”

Atsushi gives a small huff of a laugh, as if he sees right through him, even in the dark with his eyes closed.

“Then goodnight, Akutagawa,” he says, sleep making his words slow and blurred together.

Stomach turning in knots, Ryuu grunts in response, closing his eyes and willing his nightmares to stay away. The only image he sees as he falls asleep is Atsushi.

#shin soukoku #sskk #atsuaku #akuatsu #heavenbound #don't worry; this alligator scene will actually have something to do with the plot and move it along #even though i love the original for how bonkers it is #also the italics aren't coming in right so if you want to read this in its original formatting please read it on ao3 #and leave a comment and kudos while you're at it #validate my lovechild

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mldrgrl · 7 years ago

Note

Are you taking prompts? If so, the handcuff conversation made me think. Mulder and Scully have both dealt with abductions and kidnappings where they were held against their will. I imagine that it took a while for them to feel comfortable with any type of bondage. I think it’d be interesting to explore how or when they became comfortable with that and if it felt really empowering the first time. I especially see Scully having reservations at first but maybe requesting it.

Anon, this is probably not anywhere close to what you want from this prompt, but it’s all I can do.

Possession:by: mldrgrlRated: PG (yeah, you heard me)

I’m fine, she tells herself. I’m fine, except for the nightmares. If not for the nightmares, everything would be fine. It’s easy to hide in the daylight, but not in the night. Not since she now shares a bed with Mulder most nights. She almost wishes for a case to take them away so their self-imposed rule of separate rooms during work hours would make things easier, but she fired her weapon a week ago; killed Donnie Pfaster in her living room a week ago, and she’s on mandatory desk duty for a month, which means, no going out of town and since her place is both a crime scene and a wreck, she’s been sleeping (or not sleeping) at Mulder’s for the last week.

He’s too attuned to her for it to go unnoticed. A fact she expected, but finds disconcerting nonetheless. It’s as though he has a sixth sense about her body that even she lacks. He knows she’s hungry before she does. He knows when she has a headache before she does. He knows when she’s going to cry before she does. She’s grateful for it and hates it at the same time.

So, he knows when she’s having a nightmare before she knows what’s real and what isn’t. She wakes several times a night in jolts and jerks, the heavy weight of fear on her chest, making it hard to breathe. He’s never been fully awake beside her, yet still he murmurs soothing sounds and his warmth absorbs her tremors.

The cuts and bruises marring her skin have prohibited him from touching her the way in which she knows he’d like, but they’re fading fast, and his hands, though gentle, become incrementally more unbearable to take. It’s not that she doesn’t want him to touch her, but when she’s fighting demons in her sleep, she’s unable to discern the difference between hands that hurt and hands that heal.

Otherwise, she’s fine. She’s fine when the paramedics tried to check her over. She’s fine when Mulder asks if she needs anything. She’s fine at work. She’s fine when Dr. Koseff asks how she’s doing. She’s fine at the meetings with Skinner. She’s fine with whatever takeout Mulder wants to order for dinner. She’s fine with watching whatever movie happens to be on HBO. She’s fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

She uses the shower as a small reprieve from the day, staying well after her hair has been washed and legs have been shaved, until the water runs cold. A cloud of steam lingers in the bathroom, fogging the mirror. It drips with heat, but she didn’t care to check her reflection anyway. She towel-dries her hair and slips into blue and green plaid flannel pajamas. The blue pinstriped pair - her favorite - was bagged as evidence a week ago and she knows she’ll never see them again.

“Your cheek looks better,” Mulder says. They pass by each other in the doorway of his room, she on her way out, he on his way in. His knuckles brush over the fading scrape on her face and she tries not to flinch as she pulls away.

They sit together on the couch for Shakespeare in Love, but Scully can’t keep her eyes open for the movie. She goes to bed alone knowing it won’t be long before Mulder joins her. She’s too tired though, and falls asleep almost immediately.

Her dreams are disjointed, but connected by an insidious thread of terror. She’s being chased through a forest by a winged demon with red eyes. She’s caught up and slashed by razor claws on her back and face. She’s in a tub of ice cold water, her head held down, eyes open, watching the bubbles burst up to the surface as she struggles to breathe and sucks in water. Her arms are wrenched behind her back and she can’t move.

She’s conscious of Mulder’s voice, telling her to wake up, but the more she strives to get out of the nightmare, the more paralyzed she feels. She can feel pressure on her wrists, but she’s unable to fight it off. She gives up, gives in, allows the paralysis to take her, and then she wakes with a sharp jerk of the shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Mulder whispers, his hand sliding up and down her arm. “You’re okay.”

Her breath comes in quiet, shallow gasps, doing nothing to fill her lungs the way she needs it to. She’s feverish and sweat-drenched. Her eyes that had been frantically darting back and forth under her closed lids finally come to rest on the dim silhouette of trees outside the window beyond Mulder’s bed. She’s about to tell him she’s fine, before he can even ask, but his hand moves further past her elbow and as soon as his fingers brush her wrist, her hand flies back and smacks him soundly in the face.

“Jesus,” Mulder says.

“I…” An apology sticks in her throat. She starts to kick the covers away, feeling overwhelmingly constricted in the moment.

“Stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Let me help.” He reaches over her struggling body and pulls the bedclothes down for her. Almost immediately, she starts to shiver from the cold. He covers her again, but only with the topsheet, careful not to touch her.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she says.

“That’s one wicked backhand you’ve got there, Scully.”

She’s still having difficulty breathing normally, but it’s getting better. Her heart rate has slowed somewhat and though she shivers with the cooling of her sweat, she’s not trembling. She’s awake and aware that she’s safe, her body just needs a little more time to realize it.

“When are you gonna tell me about it?” Mulder asks.

“You read the report.”

“I’m talking about this. The nightmares.”

Up until now, he hasn’t asked or pressed her for details. She’s been wondering when he’d finally break. She’s surprised it took a week.

“Just nightmares,” she says.

Mulder sighs. She feels him sit up behind her and then lean back against the headboard. She watches the silhouette of the tree and thinks it must be windy outside the way it quivers and wavers.

“I’m helpless,” she finally says, voice low and quiet, part of her hoping that maybe he can’t even hear her. “What more do you want to know?”

“Why are you helpless?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“I beg to differ. It’s your subconscious. You can be anything you want. Why are you helpless?”

She actually pauses to think about this. In the bits and pieces of the dreams that she can remember, it hasn’t been about the actual incident, but only about the palpable fear. The fear that comes from being vulnerable and defenseless.

Scully hears the snap of the bedside lamp turning on and she reflexively squints, even though the light is soft. She feels Mulder get out of bed and she turns her head to watch him over her shoulder. He stands at his dresser in nothing but a pair of boxers, his back to her. When he turns around, he’s got his handcuffs in one hand and the key in the other, which he shows to her. She sits up and scrambles backwards until her back is pressed to the headboard and digging painfully into her spine.

Her heart is pounding and already her wrists began to burn as though chafed. She mutely eyes the set of cuffs, her mouth suddenly too dry to protest. She can smell the fear oozing from her pores and she thinks it’s possible she might still be locked in a nightmare. But then, Mulder sets the key down on the nightstand and tosses the cuffs onto the bed next to her. Without a word, he turns around at the side of the bed and crosses his wrists behind his back.

“What’re you doing?” she asks.

“This is about control, isn’t it? Not having it, wanting it, needing it. Take it back. Start with me. If you need to control something, control me.”

“I can’t…I can’t do that.”

He looks at her over his shoulder, just for a moment. “I trust you,” he says, and she’s left staring at the back of his head.

It takes her some time to move. Mulder just stands silently the whole time, his hands resting at the small of his back. Something holds her back from picking up the handcuffs. She knows he wants to help, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have been pinned down, tied up, gagged, thrown into the trunk of a car, locked in his own closet, strapped to a chair, or pulled himself through shards of glass to escape. He’s had his own ordeals, to be fair, but nothing like Pfaster. Like Duane Barry. Like Gerry Schnauz.

With her index finger, she traces the inside loop of one of the cuffs. The metal is cool against her fingertip. She picks them up, the weight familiar, but foreign. She’s never considered them as more than an accessory of work, never stopped to contemplate what it means to subdue and restrain beyond the initial adrenaline-fueled moments of locking the bracelets on someone’s wrists. If she cuffs Mulder, he’ll be powerless. And what will she do with her power over him?

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she says.

“I trust you, Scully. You need to take control.”

She walks across the bed on her knees and then sits back on her heels behind him. He’s standing patiently and she doesn’t know how he could possibly be so calm. She isn’t going to hurt him though, and of course he knows that, which has to make a difference. Still, though, even knowing she would be safe, she doesn’t think she could do that.

She locks the cuffs on his wrists one at a time, keeping them loose. He tugs against the chain when she’s finished and twists his hands a little.

“Tighter, Scully,” he says.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t want them to slip off accidentally.”

Scully tightens the cuffs a few clicks and this time, when Mulder tugs at them, they don’t slip so much over his wrists. His arms go still and she watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. She looks for tension in his muscles, but there is none. He cocks his head towards his shoulder as though he’s listening for something.

“You could-”

“Shut up,” she snaps. He jumps slightly and so does she. They’re both startled by her harsh tone. She doesn’t even know where it came from. “I…”

Mulder straightens his head and lifts his chin up. He stands a little taller, but he’s still relaxed. She flattens a hand against his back in apology. His skin is warm and soft, like always. When she touches him, he pulls at the cuffs just a little and she realizes this may be more difficult for him than she thought.

Since the very first day she’s known him, Mulder can not help but touch. Even when he’s not guiding her out a door or plucking at her elbow to get her attention, he’s whispering case notes in her ear, or just invading her personal space in general. He’s always conveyed so much to her by touch or by eye contact. Giving that up now is like giving up his voice. He’s forcing her to talk to him, since he can’t talk to her.

“Get on your knees,” she says.

He bends, kneeling first on his left knee and then brings his right down as well. She has no idea why she asked him to do that, but once he’s lowered himself, she does as well, sitting on the side of the bed. Even though Mulder’s bed is low, her feet don’t quite touch the ground. She reaches out with her foot and runs her big toe along the back of his calf. He clenches and she stops.

“I have all the control?” she asks.

Mulder nods. Scully slips off the bed. She puts her hand in Mulder’s hair as she circles him and then kneels down in front of him. He looks down at her as she puts both hands on his shoulders. She only takes a glance up at him and then circles his waist and lays her head against his chest.

“Why do people have nightmares?” she asks.

“Insecurity,” he answers. “Anxiety. Repressed fear. Frustration. There are some that theorize nightmares are a way of punishing ourselves for aspects of our lives we find unacceptable. It’s also possible that the dream itself represents something we’re not willing to face in waking life, but are able to confront and identify in the subconscious realm of sleep, transforming that which we’re afraid of into something less horrifying.”

“Post traumatic stress?”

“That too.”

Scully moves her hands down Mulder’s back to his arms and down to where his wrists are joined in the cuffs. She holds on to the undersides of his forearms and pushes the tips of her fingers into the gaps between his palms and the metal bracelets. He drops his head down and nuzzles the hair above her ear.

“What do you think of me now?” she asks.

“In what sense?”

“What do you think about having a partner that can’t defend herself? That let’s a convicted killer take her off guard, throw her against a wall, hog-tie her, and who kills him where he stands when she could’ve arrested him.”

“You’re changing the narrative.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“My partner is the best agent I know. She was surprise attacked, in her own home where she’s supposed to be able to have her guard down. She was overpowered, beaten, and after freeing herself from the restraints he bound her in, used her weapon in self-defense. She did exactly what she was supposed to do.”

“What was I supposed to do, Mulder?”

“Survive. Sometimes it’s all you can do. And you did just that. You’re here, you’re fine, you’re-”

“But, I’m not fine,” she whispers. “I’m not fine, Mulder.”

“You will be.”

Scully’s eyes close against the pull of her brows. She can feel the crease of tension form above her nose. She wants the confidence that Mulder has. His faith in her is greater than what she has in herself. Deep down somewhere, she knows she’s stronger than this. She can’t let Pfaster break her. She won’t.

“Uncuff me?” Mulder asks.

“What if I like you like this?” She squeezes his wrists and turns her head to rub her face against his chest.

“Then I better get used to it.”

She tips her head back and Mulder bends his to press his lips to hers. She misses his hands in her hair, but it’s still a powerful kiss. His lips pull at hers as though he can also pull her doubt from her as well. He leans into her and she leans back until she has to slip her arms free and push him back.

She gets up off the floor even as Mulder leans back in to try to kiss her again. She swipes the key to the handcuffs from the nightstand and bends over him to unlock his wrists. He rolls his shoulders a little and rubs his wrists as she runs her fingers over the grooves that lock the bracelets into place. He stays kneeling on the floor and reaches up to hold her forearms.

“Your dreams are yours to control,” he says. “Just like I am.”

Scully arches her brow. Under different circumstances, he might mean that some other way. Under different circumstances, she might entertain it some other way. She looks at Mulder’s hands, cuffing her arms not so unlike the metal ones she holds. She feels no fear in how he holds her. Her thumbs trace the inner arc of the cuffs.

“Do you think you can sleep?” Mulder asks.

“I don’t know. Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Hold me. Don’t hold me down, just hold me.”

“I can do that.”

Mulder gets up from his knees and Scully keeps her grip on the handcuffs. She looks down at them with a bit of awakened curiosity.

“I’m not ready yet,” she says. “But, next time, I want you to put these on me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m not sure. But, I’ll tell you when I am. I trust you.”

Mulder nods and takes them from her hands, placing them gently on the nightstand. “Let’s go to bed.”

Scully nods as well. She’s tired.

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #msr #post-orison #Anonymous

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rawbiredbest · 7 years ago

Text

Winter Dawn

Hello, and welcome to the second installment of Amrita Memories, a collection of crossover vignettes between the Yakuza (Ryu ga Gotoku) series and the game Nioh, re-imagining your favorite professional criminals as 17th Century samurai, ninjas, and mages, with a dash of demonic invasion and protective spirits.

IN THIS EPISODE: Majima has long since turned over a new leaf, but old legends reemerging may convince him to walk dark paths once more.

WARNING: contains graphic, canon-typical depictions of violence.

Here is a link to the first chapter. It isn’t necessary to read to understand this portion.

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

Destruction is easy. Rebuilding is not.

“Boss, we’re out of tiles.”

Majima Goro sighs, cracking open his eye. From the bottom floor, nothing stops him from looking up into the blue. The townhouse is unfinished, and will continue to be as long as work isn’t flowing. Nishida, the dam in the stream, leans over the hole where a ceiling will be and calls down to him again. “Boss?”

Disgusting. As foreman of the project, Majima had the most important role. Crews of craftsmen didn’t govern themselves. Let he who is without stress rebuke him for napping. The tatami mats had to be tested for optimal comfort, in any case.

Goro sits up, scowling as vertebrae pop. “Then go get some from the masons,” he groans, “Initiative. A little goes a long way.”

Nishida disappears and Majima lies back down. The village won’t be complete for weeks yet. There is rice to plant and streets to lay, wells to dig and shrines to bless. When all is said and done, it will be a nice place to live. Future residents will be proud to call it home. Maji-machi, he’ll name it.

“Boss.”

It’s Minami. The apprentice is young and has yet to see every hammer out of left field the world will throw at him, but the awe in his voice surpasses simple surprise. Saws stop grinding. Tools freeze in midair. Majima rises again to find progress at a dead halt. Time has suffocated under a stunned silence.

A legend has walked into town.

William Adams is the culmination of all dusty roads less traveled, from the chips in his axe’s blade to the tattered sash around his waist. Each soft footstep carries years of adventure. The Irish samurai pays no heed to the shroud of quiet hanging over the unmade village. It’s only a path to his next destination.

Goro stands up. “Excuse me, good sir,” he says, sauntering into the road, “There is a toll to travel any farther. You’ll have to pay up.”

William looks him over and decides the war has treated him well. Losing an eye is an adequate trade for a slim yet muscular build and leadership of competent men. Not an ounce of fear on his face, though Adams stands taller and wears plate capable of stopping cannon rounds and the foreman is clad in only a mustard seed yellow yukata. He drops a pouch of silver pieces into his hand. “Let me pass.”

Majima weighs the bag and his options. “Though this is very generous of you, sir,” he says, “My crew have families to feed. Surely a warrior of your caliber has more to offer.”

Blue eyes make a quick circuit of the town. He’s surrounded, he realizes. Dozens of craftsmen are watching the encounter. Many of them carry what could easily become makeshift weapons. The average age marks them all as veterans; their hands and faces rough with combat, not toil.

More silver appears. A bigger bag this time. “I’m leaving,” William growls, “Whatever game you’re playing ends here.”

He feels for the town, he truly does. They line every road from Tohoku to Tokai. Residents nurture hope out of bloodstained soil and a bedrock of sorrow. Yet he can’t stay. War waits for no man. He must make it to Osaka.

Saoirse whispers in his ear. “Death comes for you.”

No sooner has she finished does something hard and metal whiz through the air his head had been.

William draws his axe, hunches low to brace himself, ready for a fight – and freezes with ice in his veins.

The spirit rising from Majima’s back bears a madwoman’s grin and a monster’s fangs, though the energy she radiates is positive and pure. It’s a mask, Adams realizes. Gripped in her hair are other masks, no two alike, from a tengu’s fierce frown to an old monk’s smile. Her fingernails are knives. The ends of the sash around her kimono are snake heads, and they live, flashing their pale throats and flicking their tongues. The spirit burns with a flame intense enough to rival the sun.

“Had to see if it was really you, Sir Anjin of Miura,” Majima chirps. The kusarigama weight twirls high over his head, its tooth-like sickle clutched in his other hand. “Now there’s a name gone unspoken. It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? Show me you’re more than a myth!”

William purses his lips and plants his feet. Goro grins and is upon him like a swarm of locusts.

Adams gives him credit. His axe has claimed hundreds of limbs, can cleave Majima in half with no effort, yet the foreman dances around its swings with reckless abandon. As he resigns himself to the weary, inevitable truth that Goro insists on death before surrender, William throws himself harder into the fray. Majima reaches into his yukata, flings a fan-shaped array of throwing stars. Adams darts out of their way, draws a short breath as the shuriken twinkle with sizzling fuses–

Their explosive payloads burst, spraying shards of shrapnel. William turns with the shock wave. Though his eyes are closed against the blasts, he knows if he rides the force, ignores the sting of the sickle blade nipping through his armor–

Majima squawks as he’s barreled over. The axe lifts high, swings down,–

–and crashes into the earth so close to his head he feels pebbles kiss his cheek. Adams cranes over him, blue eyes frigid.

“Oi,” Goro says when he can find his voice, “You missed.” One hand is pinned behind his back. Slowly, he inches toward his belt, and the little box hiding within.

“You’re a fool and a menace.” William extracts the axe and can’t help but feel a rush of victory as clumps of dirt fall from the blade onto the foreman’s face. He has seen legions of men perish, personally sent many to be judged in the afterlife. Not this man. Not today. Let him be a lesson to their audience, the crews who only want to move on. There is no future in violence.

Majima looks up into the blue and softly sighs. Something underneath him is glowing.

William spots it too late. The bomb threatens to tackle him clear off his feet. His soles leave furrows in the ground as he’s rocked backwards.

Majima stands unscathed, and his spirit looms behind him. She runs her arms along his own, becoming amorphous and sluicing onto his kusarigama. Weapon aflame with ethereal power, he howls with renewed vigor and leaps at William.

Underestimated, Adams thinks, and reaches his mind for Saoirse. She is never far away, and as she manifests – smiling calmly as Goro charges them both – she coats his axe in deep, cold water.

Blade and weight smash against one another time and time again. Crimson and purple sparks ignite with every impact. William is shocked to find he feels sick. No doubt Majima needs to die. He mourns the loss of the bond between man and spirit that pounds against his axe.

Majima is tiring. The flames evaporate to steam under the relentless assault. He gathers himself for one last attack, eye bright with rage, giving himself over to his spirit. William lifts his axe, oceanic droplets sailing into the light.

Split seconds away from final impact–

“That’s enough!”

Eggs. That’s what the things flying between them look like. Bluish gray eggs that hatch into clouds of blood red smoke as they break on the ground.

Coughing and wheezing, both men recoil away. Majima hasn’t felt more drained in his entire life. He searches his mind for his spirit and finds her as exhausted as he. Good, in a way. Pain equals life. His trachea closing as he inhaled the red smoke is the best news he’s received all day.

He licks his lips. Numb as well, and yet. Oddly familiar. He’s tasted it before. Hemlock and nightshade blended to incapacitate, not kill, in a powdered form…

The smoke clears. Behind it is a man dressed in black, his face obscured. There is no mistaking the spirit that follows him: a white, two-tailed cat.

The bottom of the world falls out from under Majima. “Masanari?”

Hanzo Hattori’s primary concern is William. The samurai wins wars and, more importantly, is his closest friend. Yet the sound of a name gone unspoken for decades drags his attention away from Adams. Pulling his face plate down, for surely he is hallucinating and needs more air – no way. Impossible. “Goro?”

William, aching and finished, groans, “You know each other?”

Nekomata chuckles, looking between Irishman and one-eyed warrior. “Anjin, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I’ve told you about cycles. When war springs from peace, it drags all manner of things from underground.”

- - -

The building will eventually become an inn, but for now acts as the work crews’ barracks. Majima secured the largest room for himself, and that is where the three men retire after wounds are dressed and drinks procured.

Majima’s spirit unnerves William. She kneels beside her host, hands folded in her lap. Her mask depicts a noblewoman, with blackened teeth and rosy cheeks. She is calm, yet Adams notes her throat twists behind her neck. Her head is turned completely around, the horns of her demon mask peeking through her hair. A two-faced spirit, regardless of her painted smile.

“Hey.” Majima tap-tap-taps his eye patch. “You’re supposed to look at this.”

William grunts and hides his embarrassment in his cup.

“I must admit, I don’t know how to feel,” Hanzo says, “It’s been over thirty years since I saw you last. I thought you were dead.”

Majima huffs a laugh. Withdrawing a pipe from his yukata grants William a glimpse of the tools strapped to his body. Scrolls, kunai, boxes and balls of explosives. “No, still alive and kicking,” he says, “For better or worse.”

“I’m rather lost here,” William interjects, “How do you know each other?” He looks at Goro. “How do you know me?”

The foreman grins, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’m in the business of keeping my ear to the ground. Been my best interest to do so. Ever since Nobunaga took my eye.”

Adams flinches, shooting Hanzo a worried glance. Majima cackles and slaps his knee. “You should see the look on your face! You’d think the Demon King lived again!”

“He did,” the samurai growls, “He returned from the dead through black magic.”

“You’re dumb as a sack of hammers. I know that. Ear. To. The. Ground. You sent him packin’. Kinda hate you for it too, that you got to kill him instead of me.”

“A long time ago,” Hanzo interrupts, “the Iga Province was its own republic. We were independent of any overlords, and the Iga ninjutsu school was born of the guerilla warfare employed to keep us that way. My father trained many in the style.”

William glares at Majima. “Let me guess.”

Goro deliberately shuts his eye in what can only be a wink. “Guilty as charged. Fourth generation Iga ninja, in the flesh.”

“And a right pain in the arse.”

“Ya flatter me, Anjin-chan!”

“So you were there,” Hanzo asks, “when Nobunaga attacked?”

Majima’s grin sours. Wind dashed from his sails, he takes a deep puff of his pipe while collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, I was. Tried to defend our home. Lost my family, my belongings, and my eye in return.”

Hanzo frowns, leaning forward. “We were little more than children.”

“No one was spared the fire. Men, women, infants – all were subject to Nobunaga’s wrath. I barely escaped with my life. What happened next was…complicated, to say the least.” He peers at his spirit. She returns his gaze. He blows a gray plume and continues, “That’s one thing the peace is good for. I’ve put all that behind me. Haven’t killed anyone in ten years, though if a blue-eyed dunderhead wanders into town–”

“I’m really not someone you want as an enemy,” William sneers.

The spirit puts a hand to her lips and laughs. It’s the sound of diamonds in a bonfire. Shivers travel down the samurai’s spine.

“Have a sense of humor, Anjin-chan,” Majima quips, “That was the best fight I’ve had in a long time. Ya ever wanna go again, just say the word.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

After a moment, the ninja blinks. “And?”

Adams gets to his feet. “I’m done here. The pleasure’s all yours.”

Goro waves him off. “I mean it about a rematch. Don’t make me ambush you, because you will not see it comin’.”

The sliding door slams shut. Majima quirks an eyebrow. “Ya sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

“He’s seen no end of conflict,” Hanzo says, “It weighs heavy on his mind, and you aren’t helping.”

“I’m testing if he’s still sharp. No point in carryin’ around an axe if he can’t use it.”

“We’ll see about that in Osaka. Toyotomi Hideyori has gathered an army in rebellion against Lord Tokugawa. I want you to come with us.”

The pipe freezes halfway to Goro’s incredulous lips. “Eh?”

“Osaka Castle has been fortified with a grand stronghold called Sanada Maru. It is said to be impregnable, with scores of archers and cannons defending the outer walls. A man of your skills will be an invaluable aid.”

Majima falls silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low and solemn. “I can’t. I’m done working for anyone.” He flicks the ashes out of his pipe. “Besides, I have this town to rebuild. People are waiting on me, Masanari. I can’t bring back Iga, but I can give them a new future.”

Hanzo bows his head. “I respect your decision. Your endeavor is noble, and I have no right to conscript you away from it.” Getting up, he pauses at the door. “I never had the chance to say I admired you, Goro. Father’s training was merciless. Your companionship kept me sane.”

“Yeah, well. Look who’s cozy with the shogun and who’s digging latrines.”

Hanzo cracks a sad smile. “May the gods keep you well, old friend.”

Eight million gods and I haven’t seen a single one, Majima thinks. He nods once. “Gods keep ya well.”

Hattori departs. The remaining ninja refills his pipe, holds it out for his spirit to light. Their eyes meet as she cups the bowl. Returning her hands to her lap, she arches her spine backwards, mask tilted upward. Her flames blaze larger and hotter, licking the ceiling until someone on the roof beyond yelps in pain.

Minami swings in through the window. Clad in the black apparel of a shinobi, he immediately prostrates himself, forehead on the floor. “Boss! How’d you know I was there?”

Majima sighs, eye narrowed. “You can be a shadow at midnight, but if ya have footsteps, you’re not foolin’ anyone.”

The apprentice swallows hard. Only dire consequences can come from this. “And – Hattori?”

“Knew you were there before I did. He’s not the leader of what’s left of Iga for nothing.”

Minami presses his head down harder. “I confess, boss! I heard everything! That you survived the Demon King’s invasion, that you want to fight Sir Anjin again, that you’re not going to Osa–”

“You make me sick.”

The words are expected, though they sting no less. “Forgive me, boss.”

“I look at you and see myself.”

Minami’s face snaps up. “What?”

His apprentice is painfully predictable. Majima rolls his eye. “None of my good qualities, of course. I see a stupid kid who’d sooner kill himself with what he’s learned than use it in any real capacity.” He breathes deep of his pipe, letting Minami squirm. “Life has yet to come at you hard and fast. Now’s your chance to practice your skills or die tryin’.”

Despite the spirit’s presence, Minami is frozen. “You don’t mean–”

Majima turns his gaze to the sky, where the beginnings of sunset pink the horizon. “I’m going to Osaka.”

“But…you said–”

“Anjin-chan is smarter than you. I said I don’t work for anyone. I’m goin’ on my own terms, and one of them is you. Wanna get your hands dirty?”

Minami bangs his head on the floor. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you, sir!”

Goro smirks. Years and years ago, he was a fearsome assassin, known in dark circles as the Flame in the Night. As he imagines holding Toyotomi’s severed head high above Osaka Castle, he feels the spark rekindled.

#rawbi's writes #fic: amrita memories #yakuza #ryu ga gotoku #nioh #majima goro #william adams #hanzo hattori #minami daisaku #spoopy ghosts

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lefouxgaston · 8 years ago

Text

Fights, Bites, & Primal Delights: The Untold Tale of Gaston & LeFou’s Forbidden Love

It's a late night at the village tavern. Gaston and LeFou are sharing two foaming steins of beer after a long day hunting in the forest.

"Cheers!" Gaston exclaims as he clinks steins with LeFou. The froth from their glasses spills into each other's. "What a rousing day of hunting."

"Yeah, the way you nailed that bison, Gaston!" LeFou licks the spilt white beer froth that's trickling down his stein.

"I can't wait to nail it again in my bedroom," Gaston smirks. "Against my wall, that is."

"Gosh, you have such a knack for interior design!"

"Why yes, I've gotten quite good at mounting." They laugh and drink. LeFou chugs his beer and studies Gaston.

"What a fine specimen," LeFou says, staring at Gaston with a twinkle in his eye. "And your bison is nice, too."

"Oh! LeFou you flatter me."

"No, no it isn't flattery. I'm serious, Gaston. You're just so incredible."

"Oh LeFou!" he laughs. "Go on..."

"Handsome and burly and gosh, you could kill with those teeth of yours -- what a smile."

"Alright LeFou, you know I could listen to this all night," Gaston says in a way that suggests that he has. "But I best get my pretty head to sleep now."

Gaston stands up and wobbles. LeFou catches his fall.

"Oops! Steady as she goes, Gaston. Let me help you back home." LeFou supports him as they make their way back to Gaston's cottage.

The walls are lined with stuffed elk, bison, deer -- Gaston's many victories. LeFou puts Gaston to rest in his chair by the fireplace as he starts the fire. He takes off Gaston's coat and then his own, enjoying the warmth of the flames on his skin through his loose white shirt. He props up Gaston's legs and takes off his boots, readying his feet for a massage.

"You know LeFou, you follow me around wherever I go." Gaston looks wistfully at the fire as LeFou begins tenderly rubbing Gaston's feet. LeFou relishes in the smell, the closeness. "You tell me if my hair looks good. Or if there's something in my teeth." LeFou smiles slightly. "You even helped me bury the little farm boy, when I missed the deer." LeFou grimaces a little. "And you, you rub my feet by the fire -- the fire that you've made for us." Gaston's wet eyes are glistening in the firelight. "I guess, well, what I'm trying to say is -- thank you."

LeFou looks up from Gaston's feet -- startled, touched. They share a long look. LeFou has pined for Gaston to stare at him this way…Gaston, with his big beautiful brown eyes, and his cleft chin begging to be caressed. The moment overwhelms him, and LeFou lunges forward and plants his yearning lips on Gaston’s. Gaston lets it happen for a few seconds, then throws LeFou onto the rug, disgusted. "ARE YOU MAD?!" Gaston screams. His chest is heaving with quick, deep breathes. His fists are clenched, and there's a madness in his eyes.

"Gaston! Please, I'm so sorry. Just let me leave you in peace." Gaston lurches for LeFou and picks him up by his shirt. "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Gaston booms. He violently tosses LeFou across the room and into the bedpost. LeFou crumples in pain as Gaston slowly moves towards him.

LeFou scurries onto the bed in fear. "Please, Gaston!" Gaston pounces on top of him from behind and holds him in a headlock. He then pushes LeFou onto his stomach, smashing his face down into the pillows. Gaston is crouched over him, encaging LeFou’s entire body in a brawny trap . He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me. LeFou struggles to breathe as Gaston's powerful body crushes him, pressed up against his backside.

Then LeFou feels something inconceivable. Could this be? "G-g-gaston!" LeFou gasps, as Gaston pushes his pelvis into LeFou harder and harder. LeFou feels a large, hot bulge pushing into his tailbone. Gaston flips LeFou around and they stare into each other's eyes. LeFou sees Gaston's expression -- it's like that of a frightened child. Now facing each other, Gaston's huge, swelling protrusion pushes against LeFou's own growing bulge.

Gaston's confusion and fright at his body's scorching desire turns to anger. "Oh God!" LeFou screams as Gaston's face morphs into a menacing glare. LeFou tries to scramble away as Gaston roars. He grabs LeFou by the shirt and it rips off LeFou's plump body. LeFou is halfway off the bed, his head and torso now dangling off. Gaston tries to get a grip on LeFou, grabbing his hair and ripping at his skin as their bodies writhe in the primal struggle. Gaston squeezes LeFou's arm as he tries to wriggle away off the bed, and plunges his teeth deep into LeFou's soft belly.

"Aaaaahhhhh!!!" LeFou screams. Gaston knocks him off the bed and steps on the floor, towering over him, the same madness in his eyes. "DISGUSTING! YOU'RE PATHETIC -- GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

"Gaston, wait. Listen to me."

Gaston picks up a stag's head from the wall and aims its sharp, probing tips towards LeFou. Gaston fumes, poised to impale... "Gaston!" Gaston swings it behind his head in a motion to launch it down into LeFou.

"I love you!" LeFou shouts. Gaston stops. "And I know you feel the same." LeFou's eyes flicker down to Gaston's still bulging pants. Gaston's eyes widen as he looks down at it himself. He breathes deeply. He drops the antlers and grabs LeFou, terrified and helpless, and pushes him against the wall where the stag head was mounted. Okay, this is when Gaston kills me. LeFou braces for a head-butt as Gaston lurches foward, but instead Gaston buries his tongue into LeFou's mouth -- a deep, passionate wet kiss. Oh my god! Oh my god!

LeFou strips off Gaston's shirt and marvels at his hairy swelling chest. They both look down at their crotches, pushing against each other. Gaston curls his mouth in a sly look. LeFou then gingerly, shyly reaches out his hands to release the beast from his cloth cage. First the belt, and then button by button, the bulge springs further towards its release. LeFou's eyes widen with amazement at Gaston's huge, swollen veinscape, throbbing and dripping with anticipation.

With a swift, rough move, Gaston flips LeFou around, then pulls down LeFou's pants to expose his plump, rosy red behind. With a quick thrust, he penetrates LeFou. LeFou's eyes close as his glistening mouth opens in ecstasy, breathless, the voice of angels singing in his ears.

Gaston pumps harder and deeper, groaning with unbridled lust. LeFou begins stroking his own sizable throbbing member as Gaston pushes inside him. The pumping grows faster and more erratic, Gaston's body straining with desire, his muscles rippling and dripping with sweat. He flips LeFou around again to face him and knocks him to his knees. With a fist around his slick, veiny dick, he explodes all over LeFou's face, the stream so thick and powerful that LeFou's head smashes back into the wall. Then LeFou, mouth open and tongue lapping up Gaston's steaming froth, strokes once more and cries out in ecstasy as he too erupts all over himself.

After a few deep breathes, LeFou slowly opens his eyes as his hazy head clears. He hears Gaston's soft weeping and sees him before him, curled in fetal position on the rug. LeFou crawls up to him and tenderly puts a hand on Gaston's shoulder. Gaston shivers under his touch and they curl up into each other into the night.

The next morning LeFou wakes up on the rug. Gaston is nowhere to be seen. LeFou is confused, but returns to his own cottage to get ready for the day. Images from the previous night flash through his mind, and he smiles to himself. I love Gaston and Gaston loves me! He tears at the thought. Then he remembers the smell of Gaston's froth all over him and bites his lip to steady himself.

LeFou makes his way into the market, the smell of fresh baguettes tickles his nose. He spies Gaston in a distant field with his rifle and fur cap. His heart pounds faster in his chest.

"It's such a beautiful day," LeFou happily sighs as he approaches Gaston.

"That it is. For hunting." Gaston then aims at the flock of birds in the sky and shoots one dead. The bird falls to the ground in the distance.

LeFou's smile and warm feeling vanishes. Gaston's tone is cold. "I have big news, LeFou."

Gaston is following the flock of birds with his rifle, eyes on the sky, on anything but LeFou. "I plan to woo and marry Belle."

"The inventor's daughter?"

"She's the one - the lucky girl I'm going to marry."

"But she's--"

"The most beautiful girl in town."

"I know, but--"

"And that makes her the best, and don't I deserve the best?"

"Of course you do, but last night was--"

"Last night ended at the tavern," Gaston says with finality.

"But I love you."

"I know."

"WHY ARE YOU RUNNING FROM THIS?!"

BAM! LeFou jumps. Gaston fires at another bird and it drops from the sky. Gaston turns the rifle at LeFou. "Picture this, LeFou: My rustic hunting lodge, my latest kill roasting on the fire, and my little wife massaging my feet."

LeFou's eyes well with tears. Gaston presses the rifle’s warm muzzle up against LeFou's belly. "The little ones will play on the floor with the dogs," Gaston's voice cracks a little. "We'll have six or seven." LeFou shivers.

Gaston gets inches away from LeFou's face, "I'm marrying Belle." And with that he turns away, retrieves his slain birds, and heads into town.

LeFou drops down to his knees, now alone in the field. He cries, gasping for air with every breath. Oh how sweet our love could have been. How divine my love for him still is. In that moment, LeFou accepts that Gaston is not ready for their love, and never will be. He wipes his tears on his sleeve and resumes his old position as Gaston's trusty side-kick. Though they trespassed into the beast's snares and been bitten, he'd treasure the marks forever.

LeFou watched as Gaston's pursuits wreaked havoc upon the village. He supported Gaston in the beginning, because he loved him so, but Gaston's denial of his true self twisted him into a monster. He villainized the gentle beast that stood between him and Belle, not realizing that he himself was the villain. Warped by his hatred of otherness, which was in fact self-hatred, he perished.

LeFou mourned his once friend, once lover. And even still, he will sometimes sing this song to himself in an empty field as the birds fly overhead, or at the tavern when the crowd has gone --

(In a slow, soft voice)

No one's slick as Gaston

Licks my wick like Gaston

No one's dick is as veiny and thick as Gaston's

For there's no man in town half as manly...

Nor one with mere half of his schlong...

He could stick it in my mouth or fanny

It’s no wonder whose team I prefer to play on...

No one drips like Gaston

Touches tips like Gaston

As a bottom nobody’s hole grips like Gaston’s!

He's especially good at ejaculating...

My what a guy, Gaston!

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