Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ HOUNDS ❯ Desperate Cash ( Chapter 1 )

Sweet notes: Ahh, so the dark-fic emerges. Well, not so much a dark storyline, but a damn dark universe. ^^ I was wondering when this would happen. It’s a pity I can’t post this story on the Seto/Jou sites, I reckon they’d enjoy it- but it has other pairings. Le sigh. Enjoy the werewolf-ness. I sort of took on a vaguely Anita Blake lycanthrope approach… with my own twists. What does HOUNDS stand for? Hunter and Ordained User of the Necessary Discipline with Shifter-criminals. I gave Yami a Japanese last name of his own, because he’s a fox and deserves it. ^^

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters.

Warnings: NC-17, lemons, Seto/Jou (predominately,) Yami/Jou, Yami/Yugi, AU, werewolves, drugs, angst, coarse language.


~

HOUNDS. Desperate cash.

~By Sweetdeily.


“A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent you from
rolling over and going back to sleep after you hit the snooze button.
-Unknown.”

~


The sweet musky aroma of hairy sweat and blood stained the air. The room swelled with noise and perspiration.

The loud banging of a hundred hands on the cage’s wire-mesh walls; the screaming of a hundred people placing their bets.

The grime; the grime from overripe tacos, coke cans, spilled dope bags and a thousand dirty feet tracking mud across metal and wooden surfaces alike.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead, a dazzling white that threatened to blind almost as much as the sweat that seeped into your eyes. The flickering bulb in the corner that never gets fixed.

The cloying, nauseating cigarette smoke that hovers in the air like a cloud of ghosts waiting to take their next victim to limbo.

The hexagon shaped arena that saves all the money you can save by being resizable. The creaking floorboards and the dirty ring. The white ring is really brown, and the stain in the corner isn’t some little kid’s tomato sauce. Blood, sweat and piss have stained this gladiators arena dirty.

Take all the people away and the room is still screaming with their echoing voices. Imprinted in this place is the memory and knowledge that /this/ is desperation. This is the drudges, the left-overs and the throw-aways of the world. Every little incident that has brought you to this room, in your life; it is all the crap on the bottom of the shoe. The cosmic shoe, size seven and a quarter.

He takes a deep breath of that rotting, putrid air, sucking it in like it might just be oxygen in someone’s opinion, somewhere. He takes that breath because he’s sweating and nervous. He’s sweating and nervous because he knows that he’ll probably lose all his money in this fight.

The boy in the ring is small and undeveloped. He’s never really done a martial arts. He’s never really lifted weights or gone jogging every Sunday. He’s a street punk with the hope of getting a little extra cash for his worthless roommate’s addiction. He’s a mongrel that’s spent all his life on the street, digging through the trash-cans some days for his next meal. He knows this place like it knows him. Old friends. And so what if he wants to be a HOUNDS when ‘he grows up’? Because the guy facing him probably wanted to be a taxidermist.

But he knows how to fight and he –is- desperate. He’s gone through a growth spurt this last month. A little taller, a little bolder, a little more reckless. One part of him is young; only nineteen, the other part of him is a jaded nineteen year old man. The jaded part of him is panicking; the youthful part of him is breathing in the scent of testosterone and smacking his fists against his chests, grunting his nickname to itself. “Ugh. Me Joey.”

The man across from him smells like vomit, blood, sweat and piss. He’s got short buzzed dark hair and a pair of bulging grey eyes. A few teeth are missing and his nails are dirty and ragged. His face is bright red, like a tomato- dyed that color from the lack of oxygen getting to his brain- a byproduct of smoking and doing dope. His muscles are all huge and thick, chorded and coiling around his body. Joey swears some of them are voting for their own rights as individual life-forms. The man is huge, nearly seven foot, and his tattered jeans swing ominously around his waist.

The crowd is silenced briefly by a sound that manages to make itself louder than the noise. The smashing of metal against metal- what passes for the chime of a bell in this hell.

The man runs at the little blonde Asian boy, roaring something out and frothing like a dog after a leg of ham. If he wins, he might very well buy himself a leg of ham, in honor of his victory over his scrawny opponent.

Joey is fast and he side-steps the man’s massive body-blow, fist curling and connecting with the muscled solar plexus of his opponent. His energy is only a heartbeat behind his blow and the three-time-champ is sent soaring back into the cage-wall. The crowd roars with mixed emotions, and the audience shoves the champ off of them. Soda cans have been crushed and popcorn spilled. But it’s just what they’re all here for.

The champ shakes his head and gets back to his feet. He howls and his muzzle takes his face with an ease that says he’s been doing this dance way too long. The champ pops his claws out, putrid nails becoming putrid claws, grey fur rolling up his arms. But he stops there. This is a man who can control his change. He’ll only go so far. And it would remind most people of a beast tearing just its mouth and hands out of the man’s body, if they weren’t used to it by now.

Joey takes his shirt off and holds up a hand. His growth spurt has given him some muscle to go with all that built up tension- he’s always been able to control his form, but now, he’s a little bit stronger, a little bit heavier. A month ago, he would have known that the game was up; he wasn’t strong enough in the other form. Now, slowly, like some sort of creature is ripping itself out of his hand; muscle reconfigures, bone cracks and bends, nails thicken and lengthen. Blonde fur, soft and unusually silky, runs up the back of his arm, sprouting out of his elbow like a beard- and stops. He doesn’t need a muzzle. He knows he’ll win like this or not at all.

The champ nods approvingly- these battles are psychological more than they are physical. How far can you go before you give in?

And then they rush each other. Joey gets the first blow in, his claws scraping skin and blood from the champ’s face, but then a muzzle latches onto his shoulder and bites into flesh and muscle.

A howl tears itself from Joey the Cat’s’ throat and he slices his good arm down the champ’s face. The champ whines and backs off, releasing the shoulder.

They circle each other slowly, dangerously, testing. A bark and a growl, a whine and a grunt. It is a battle until submission and normally Joey might back down now. But he’s got something to prove. Something to prove to himself.

And then the younger lycanthrope darts at the big man. Joey’s hair rushes behind him, long and blonde and beautiful. He shoves his claws into the champ’s stomach, and blood and organ meets his nail. There is a moment of fierce triumph in the blonde’s eyes, before the champ’s claws have missed the top of his head and sliced through the blonde’s pony-tail.

There is a winner.

Joey is suddenly supporting the champ’s weight as the man falls down toward the moldy, dirty floor. He pulls his claws from the man’s stomach and the champ falls to the ground alone. Defeated.

The roar of the crowd washes over the young blonde, even as he releases his claws, calling the Beast back inside his body and reaches behind his head with his good arm. Soft, uneven ends and strands of hair meet his questing fingers.

His pony tail lays deathly pale on the ground and he thinks, at least it wasn’t my head.

And then the referee is in the ring and Joey’s bloody hand is above his head and he’s a thousand dollars richer.

A thousand dollars will only keep him away so long. He’s been born in this hellish pit-world; he probably couldn’t live any other way.

But even though he is panting and grinning and dizzy with pride and joy- there is a tremendous explosion of rusted metal against stone.

The door’s hinges scream in agony and the room goes silent.

HOUNDS walk into the room. Four of them. Dark, elegant and powerful. Dressed in only black. Clean-washed, clean shaven creatures to draw contrast to the mangy, flea-bitten men and women gapping at them like fish out of water.

Pedigree; the very essence of it.

The mangy mutts in the room howl and scamper to hide their illegal weapons, their drugs, their stolen cash, their lifted clothing. The HOUNDS give the room a brief sweep, eyes slowly moving from one corner to another. There are four of them, and there are a hundred mutts and mongrels in the room. But four HOUNDS are still too many for a hundred gangsters to take. And the crowd flees through the exits like sheep.

The champ in the ring swallows and rushes to hide his prize money inside his shirt. He doesn’t bother putting it back on- he can do that once he’s outside. Because one of the HOUNDS is looking at him.

Joey the Cat’s finds a pair of sharp blue pedigree eyes on him. And although he’s terrified he’s about to lose all his prize money, he sucks it up. The HOUNDS that stares at him is taller and more dominant than the others- he is an alpha among alphas and part of Joey responds to that authority. Dark brown hair that is swept around his face like it was styled with an iron hand. He’s Asian, but perhaps not Japanese like Joey the Cat’s- the blue eyes are unusual. His face is thin and narrow and has the distinct set of a man who knows he is well bred. Tall and imposing, his shoulders are long and narrow. He’s a slim man, like Joey and there’s something that feels almost snake-like about the way the man’s head follows the street-punks movement.

They’re all dressed in the standard HOUNDS uniform. Black stretch long-sleeve shirts; a silver moon embroided onto the arm of their black suit-jackets. A gun at the waist of their black suit pants, a dagger on the other side- Joey knows that the dagger is silver plated- and personal weapons could be anywhere on their bodies. The utility belt that holds the gun and dagger is black leather and the buckle has been painted black- so it doesn’t shine at night.

And then the HOUNDS looks away, blue eyes searching out another target to examine. It’s like a spell has lifted and Joey takes another breath of stinking air- he didn’t even remember that he’d stopped breathing.

The blonde flees; prize money and jacket under one arm.

~

It’s a sad, sorry and depressing little apartment on a sad, sorry and depressing little floor of a sad, sorry and depressing apartment-complex. The building had been built back in the sixties, when gray was a sensible color and rough bricks were attractive. Now it’s just ugly and depressing. Most of the windows are boarded up, but there are a few stray occupants that had dared to hang their decaying frill and lace curtains in the way of the overcast weather. An old woman who’s husband took all her money and left her out on the street with four kids lives in the apartment on the first floor- bedraggled and sour-tempered she only had a smile for the golden Labrador that occasionally visited her with a few extra dollars in its collar. The second floor was home to a pimp and his wife- or girlfriend of the month, and despite the fact that he lived down the very end of the hallway, furthest from the stairs, the whole floor smelt like semen, beer and cocaine. The third floor was the Cat’s place. As in Joey belonged to the Cat. It was a sad nickname that had only started because of the Cat’s current profession- and at least it wasn’t his real name they used- but it was kind of true in a way. The Cat was a weretiger of considerable reputation- although Joey had never heard exactly what that was- when you dropped the Cat’s name somewhere you got in for free.

The climb to the apartment was on a set of metal steps, all of which creaked when you used them, and none of which were not rusted red. There was a small landing every ten steps that was privy to a night-light that often didn’t work and a small window that was too tiny to let in any air or light and too big to stop the bugs.

The Cat’s apartment was a two room affair; the carpet was grey and mostly threadbare with a stain all across the living room that Joey always prayed was from bike-leakage. The two rooms were the living room with its attached miniature kitchen and the bedroom which had a door between it and the bathroom- although the bathroom was pretty small, so Joey never classified it as its own room. The kitchen had a mostly clean benchtop, which was often covered in flowers or the Cat’s overwhelming collection of catnip. The fridge worked- mostly and was stocked with Pepsi and steaks and occasionally chocolate, although chocolate didn’t last too long in their place. The cupboards were mostly bare, full of catnip or containing a few cooking utensils that were rarely used. The two therianthropes didn’t eat much of their meat cooked. One cupboard was stuffed with medical supplies in the event of a fight and another had a whole twenty kilo bag of dog-food. The living room had a couch, a television and a DVD player. A few DVDs and fast-food wrappers everywhere. There was a bin somewhere. Then there was the bathroom, which had a rusted, vaguely working shower, a large collection of pet-shampoo and some human amenities like conditioner and a razor, some coconut body-butter and KY jelly. There was no bath and the toilet was covered in yellow mold.

The bedroom, however, was nice. The sheets were always clean- or as clean as two animals who have a tendency to scent-mark everything could stand- and the room was relatively tidy. There was no clothing on the floor, two sets of drawers at opposite ends of the room, giving way to the king-sized bed in the center. The bed was a masterpiece of a dozen pillows and cushions and squeak-toys mixed in with silk sheets and occasionally items of a more intimate nature.

Joey shoved a few hundred dollars into the cookie jar in the kitchen before placing the rest on the counter. He would have stopped by the pizza-place on his way home, but people had stared at him the whole trip while he was on the subway, and he didn’t want to risk getting attacked by the manager. With a wince he stripped off his shirt and threw it in the sink, turning the cold water on. Bending down, Joey had just a quick whiff of a warning before someone pressed up against his rear.

“Good evening, Jounouchi.” A thick voice purred, using Joey’s actual name.

The blonde yipped in surprise and his head shot straight up, banging against the underside of the cupboard he’d been looking in.

“Damnit Yami!” Jounouchi grumbled out, rubbing his head and standing properly this time.

It was impossible to place Yami Nagisawa’s age. He could have been two hundred or twenty one. He looked to be in his late twenties, a dark skinned Corbett weretiger who claimed to be Chinese despite his name. He was as short in human form as in cat form and he only ever reached Jounouchi’s shoulder, which put him at the five-foot-seven mark. His eyelashes were long, thick and dark and his eyes were thus shaded a deep scarlet color as though his night-vision were never off. He wore contacts when he went out in public most of the time. His hair, short and spiky, was gelled above his head like a mane and had been dyed an odd mixture between red, blonde and black. Jounouchi wasn’t sure which color it was naturally, although he’d joked about it being blonde. Yami usually wore a variation between chains and black around his body, although never quite enough of both to cover him decently for a bible party.

The weretiger grinned, showing teeth and leaned forward to rub his cheek against Jounouchi’s lower back. “You smell like dog.”

“Wolf.” Jounouchi corrected and went back to pulling the first-aid kit out of the cupboard with one hand.

“And you’re bleeding everywhere.”

“Sorry mum, I think the carpet’s already ruined.” Jounouchi grinned, finally getting the little box and popping it open. He dumped himself unceremoniously on the ground and rifled through the thing for some disinfectant.

“True. So, this kitty smells money.”

“It’s not for plants.” Jounouchi growled out, a piece of tape in his mouth.

Yami gave a little sound somewhere between a meow and a growl and sat down to help the blonde. “So you won?”

Jounouchi nodded and winced as the other therianthrope got the bottle of disinfectant and just poured it over the wound.

“Looks like he was in wolf form when he bit you.” Yami murmured.

“Just his mouth.”

“How did you win?”

“I gutted him.”

Yami winced. “Did he survive.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you ever want to achieve that dream of yours to become a HOUNDS. You can’t go around fighting like a- like a-” Yami stopped himself, trying not to finish the sentence.

“Like a dog?” Jounouchi growled out. The wound was old, but it never healed.

“Like an animal.” Yami finished hotly, unable to look in his flat-mate’s eyes.

“That’s not what you were going to say.”

Yami frowned at Jounouchi’s shoulder and slapped a compress over the wound. Luckily the bite hadn’t been right through Jounouchi’s shoulder. The blonde yelped in pain.

“It wouldn’t have mattered. You were going to take it wrong anyway.” And the weretiger stood in one hot movement.

Jounouchi caught Yami’s hand with his good one and pulled the other therianthrope back down into his lap.

Yami pouted and leaned forward to brush his nose against Jounouchi’s, a deep purr building at the back of his throat when Jounouchi stroked the back of the Cat’s neck.

“You’re easy to please.” Jounouchi chuckled.

“Speak for yourse- oh no.” Yami had a wave of water splash all over him as the sink overflowed.

The weretiger shivered and stood, leaning over the sink to turn the tap off. “Jounouchi!”

“Hey, you’re the adult!” The blonde said defensively, getting up with a wince- the disinfectant was starting to tell him it was doing its job- and leaning against the bench-top.

Yami frowned distastefully and pulled the shirt out of the drain; he chucked it at Jounouchi’s face with a grin and pranced off into the bedroom.

Jounouchi let the shirt hit the ground and ran after the weretiger. He couldn’t help it, someone runs, he chases. It was genetics.

The blonde caught the weretiger just as Yami was about to jump on the bed and they ended up doing a nose-dive for it.

There was a short, playful wrestle that ended up with them both naked and panting. And then there was a few quick movements where Yami rubbed his cheek thoroughly around Jounouchi’s body and the blonde returned to favor with his nose.

“Cats rule.” Yami whispered into Jounouchi’s ear, licking the shell playfully.

“Only because dogs let them.” Jounouchi grinned back, giving Yami a playful thrust in the lower areas.

Yami grinned and kissed his lover forcefully, all tongue and lips and heavy breathing.

They sank peacefully into the bed for a moment before Jounouchi broke the kiss. “You smell like lemons.”

“I had some lemon juice today.”

“Liar. You’ve been seeing clients again, haven’t you?”

Yami sighed and leaned back. “I can’t help it. Catnip makes me horny.”

“That’s why you should stop sniffing it. Something that addictive can’t be good for you, no matter what the herbalists say.”

Yami grinned and kissed the blonde again, one hand sliding between their bodies. “I don’t bark at you for your little habits, now do I?”

“That’s different. My habits don’t expose me to dangerous people who might just kill me for some sick pleasure- or leave me helpless.”

Yami raised an eyebrow and flicked a nail over Jounouchi’s wound. “Don’t they? Every time you go to those stupid little dog fights there’s a big chance I know you’re going to come home in a box. What about college? What about getting a job that earns money?”

Jounouchi growled and pulled Yami’s face closer. “Enough talk.”

The weretiger frowned but relented. It was impossible to tell who was in charge in this relationship. They left so much unspoken and undone. It was hard to really call it a relationship, Yami was the Cat, a famous face in the therianthropy underworld. No one said why, but it was just known. He was a whore, a man of few principals that just enjoyed screwing like a rabbit. It was to be expected- he was feline and he had a bad addiction to catnip. Jounouchi didn’t know where Yami came from, he said he was Chinese and that he was only living this lifestyle until he found what he was looking for. Whatever that was.

They were roommates and friends who tended to sleep in the same bed most nights. Even before they started screwing each other they’d slept in the same bed. Jounouchi was sociable and Yami was a cat. Their friendship was more profound than their sex life together, Yami made it clear that they were both free to sleep with other people or therianthropes and that this was by no means a relationship. Jounouchi had agreed and they’d left the rules at that. Sometimes the blonde felt like he was Yami’s pet project, and the nickname didn’t help.

What did Yami want to make out of him? Who knew- it was probably a catnip plant that grew on trees.

~ Tsuzuku…

Sweet notes: I was going to make this a lemon, but it sort of wondered off. I felt better to just define what’s going on with Yami and Jou and then go into the rest of the graphic smut later. Maybe this won’t have Yami/Jou lemons. I dunno yet- but you can bet there’s going to be Seto/Jou lemons. So, what do people think?

Yami: Honestly, cats ARE superior.

Jou: Whatever you want to think, kitty.

Seto: Dude, I am the shizzzz.

Jou: Will you sign my penis?

Seto: Sure puppy, what with?

Malik: I bet I can think of something.

Jou: No one asked you…

Malik: Didn’t they, you and I had some smut going earlier *slides closer*

Jou: True, but I’m a free man- er, wolfman- now and I dunno, you seem a bit shifty.

Seto: Sweets, I wanna know something…

Sweets: *narrows eyes* and what would that be?

Seto: About the original title, ‘two wolves a snake and a labrador’…

Sweets: No.

Seto: But I just want to ask one-

Sweets: No.

Reviews? -_-;;