ext_24867 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
ann89103.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kinkfest2007-04-11 04:39 am
ann89103.livejournal.com) wrote in kinkfest2007-04-11 04:39 am
Entry tags:
Weiss Kreuz (Schuldig/Yohji)
Title: Wednesdays
Author: ann89103
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: M/M sex, NCS (or pretty damn close), cursing, violence, abuse of italics and the parenthesis keys.
Word Count: 2,800+
Summary: Weiss Kreuz, Schuldig/Yohji, Tears - “Don’t think of pink elephants”
A/N: Set after Kapitel, disregarding Gluhen and everything else. Weiss still work for Kritiker, but Omi’s not Persia.
***
Yohji Kudou stares at the mirror, glancing at his clothes. The turquoise silk shirt, black pants and dress shoes would be unacceptable wear for their usual missions, but tonight he was on a different sort of hunt.
It is a Wednesday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes wrong (or right.) According to Kritiker (and yes, they’ve actually done studies confirming these things), the best days for assassinations are Mondays and Fridays. Kill the targets on Mondays, when they are still bleary-eyed and sluggish from the preceding weekend, or kill the targets on Fridays, when they are distracted by thoughts of alcohol and pretty girls and not-so pretty girls (but never pretty boys, oh no.)
Wednesdays are good days for information gathering. Okay, maybe not for Omi, who is surgically attached to his computer seven days a week, only taking breaks to work shifts in the flower shop, scream through some truly gruesome nightmares and to shoot arrows or throw poisoned darts into a Dark Beast every now and then. Or for Ken, who is too honest and too trusting and just too nice for this job - Yohji still doesn’t understand how the man manages to cheerfully murder people on a regular basis. And especially not for Ran, who is only qualified to wield a sword and yell at girls and mope all the time. But for Yohji, Wednesdays are perfect: he casually walks into small, darkened bars, armed with his charm and a few good jokes and a sharp mind that catalogues all the secrets and lies told in a drunken haze, knowing the difference between the two.
On Wednesdays he also saunters into fashionable discos, the pounding music and strobe-light shows making a good effort (but not good enough) at masking the loneliness and desperation (what kind of pathetic loser goes to discos in the middle of the week?) in the gaily dressed men and women that dance within, pretending they are fascinating and exquisite and having the time of their lives. Here Yohji flirts and teases and seduces information out of the targets: no-one else in Weiss (not young Omi, straightforward Ken, and certainly not inflexible, judgmental Ran) can do this - only Yohji can kiss and fondle and fuck and lie and enjoy it. And if his lover (target/victim/whatever) for the night ends up dead, an ugly corpse with bulging eyes and a mottled face and dark bruises around her (his?) neck, let’s be honest: nobody cares.
Yohji stares at his clothes, at his hair, so artfully disarrayed (tonight it’s a disco, not a bar, so he needs to be flashy, not subdued.) Manx says this shirt brings out the green in his eyes, but Yohji wouldn’t know: he doesn’t look at his own face anymore. Even Weiss now has trouble looking him in the eye.
Sometimes he’s insulted that his teammates think he’s a drunk and a slut; sometimes he just laughs, and agrees with them. And if he tucks a brightly-colored, patterned scarf in his pants pocket more often these days as he goes out (like tonight), no one says a word.
***
Schuldig (no last name, no first name, just Schuldig - deal with it) stares at the mirror, glancing at his clothes. The shirt is blue, the pants white, the boots black, the jacket his favorite olive green one. The clothes don’t match, but he doesn’t give a damn. He has his rose-colored glasses (hah!) pushed up into his hair, but the usual yellow bandanna is missing.
He doesn’t think he’ll need it tonight.
It is a Wednesday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes right (or wrong.) According to Crawford (who sees these things, which is part of his job, but then keeps track of them, making lists and graphs and pie charts for each teammate, which is just fucked up,) the best days for assassinations are Mondays and Fridays. Not that it matters: Schwarz takes care of business when it is in Schwarz’s best interests. Or when Farfarello gets especially excitable. Oops.
It’s doesn’t matter to Schuldig, as he’s not aiming for an assassination tonight, just a good old-fashioned mind fuck. He doesn’t have to schedule those.
Wednesdays are good days for work and for play. Okay, maybe not to Farfarello, who prefers Sundays (though he will make an exception for Ash Wednesday, or, even better, Good Friday) for obvious reasons. Nagi doesn’t have a preference, since Nagi doesn’t play, he only works; Nagi doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, which is Farfarello’s gig, but Farfarello doesn’t mind sharing that one, just leave his God Complex alone. Crawford doesn’t play either, though he secretly wishes he could. Schuldig knows this, even though he doesn’t peek into Crawford’s orderly (boring) mind. He doesn’t have to: Schuldig knows he and Crawford are yin and yang, matter and anti-matter, salt and pepper, or something else as painfully trite. So what? It’s true: Crawford wishes he could be the nasty, hedonistic bastard Schuldig is instead of the nasty, anal-retentive bastard Crawford is.
It’s good to be Schuldig. On Wednesdays (or any day of the week, thank you very much) he casually walks into small, darkened bars, armed with his arrogance and plenty of horrible jokes (everyone loves them. Really.) and a sharp mind that catalogues all the secrets and lies told in a drunken haze, knowing the difference between the two.
On Wednesdays (or any day of the week - didn’t we go over this already?) he also saunters into fashionable discos, ignoring the pounding music and strobe-light shows, but reveling in the loneliness and desperation (sweet - sweeter than honey, and more of a high) in the minds of the gaily dressed men and women that dance within, pretending they are fascinating and exquisite and having the time of their lives . Here Schuldig flirts and teases and mentally rapes information (such dirty little thoughts, love you!) out of the targets: no-one else in Schwarz (not young Nagi, straightforward Farfarello, and certainly not inflexible, judgmental Crawford) can do this - only Schuldig can kiss and fondle and fuck and lie and enjoy it. And if his lover (target/victim/whatever) for the night ends up dead, an ugly corpse with blank eyes and an empty face and blood seeping out of his (her?) ears, let’s be honest: nobody cares.
Schuldig stares at his clothes, at his hair, so artfully disarrayed (because he hasn’t brushed it, and it looks fucking hot.) Manx once said this shirt brings out the blue in his eyes, but she wouldn’t remember that now: Schuldig’s a professional. She doesn’t remember the wanton, depraved things she did (that took hours, very enjoyable), or how Schuldig stole every piece of Kritiker information from her mind (that took mere minutes, and felt fucking fantastic.) She only knows that she sometimes has trouble looking herself in the eye, and that it has nothing to do with the thousands of lives she’s ordered destroyed over the years.
Schuldig’s never insulted when his teammates say he’s a drunk and a slut (he rarely drinks, and doesn't care what they think, just wishes they wouldn't think it so loudly, dammit!); he just sneers, and agrees with them. And if he smiles at them with a grin that stretches a bit more widely than usual, showing more of those gleaming, sharp white teeth (like tonight), no one thinks a word.
***
Tonight he’s at another disco, one he’s never been to before. It’s new, so the line (even on a Wednesday) stretches down the street and around the corner. He’s not working tonight (or he is, but not for Kritiker, just for himself, and does it really matter? Yohji’s never working, according to Ran), so Yohji looks at the men and women waiting in line, disappointed that no-one catches his interest. Yohji bypasses the line, earning himself many glares and a few muttered curses, talks to the bouncer, and slips inside.
***
Tonight he’s at another disco, one he’s never been to before. It’s new, so the minds pressing against his are excited, anticipatory: they haven’t figured out that it’s simply another place to get drunk or get high, forget what they truly are (useless, tiresome little things), and that the louder music, brighter lighting and plush seating inside means absolutely nothing. He’s not working
tonight (or he is, but not for Schwarz, just for himself, and does it really matter? Schuldig’s always working, one way or another: there’s always a game to win, information to take, lives to ruin. Busy, busy, busy, just like the minds buzzing around his), but Schuldig doesn’t bother scanning the crowd: his target (lover/victim/whatever) is already inside. Schuldig bypasses the line, earning himself no glares and no curses, ignores the bouncer, and slips inside.
***
Yohji is drinking heavily tonight, oh, yes he is. He is surrounded by women (pretty, soft things, even the ugly ones) and men (he ignores them easily; not one has caught his eye. He is, after all, heterosexual. A ladies man. Straight to the core. Except when he’s not.)
***
Schuldig isn’t drinking at all. He is surrounded by women (pretty, noisy things, with the most vicious, tasty thoughts) and men (he ignores them easily; not one has caught his eye, except for Yohji, and he can wait. He is, after all, an equal-opportunity bastard. Except when he's not, which is never.)
***
Yohji loves women: he loves their curves, their delicate, tapered fingers, their sweet, floral perfumes. He loves their legs in high heels, their breasts pressed against his chest, their lips crushed beneath his own.
He loves their trust in him, as they open up beneath him. He loves their fingernails dragging against his back as they orgasm. He loves their fingernails breaking against his skin as they struggle to breathe.
He loves the cute brunette he’s dumped in a trash bin four blocks from the disco. She had the most delightfully breathy voice.
He hates himself so very, very much.
***
Schuldig loves women: he loves their curves, their delicate, tapered fingers, their sweet, floral perfumes. He loves their legs in high heels, their breasts pressed against his chest, their lips crushed beneath his own.
He loves their minds, as they open up beneath him. He loves their fingernails dragging against his back as they orgasm. He loves their fingernails breaking against his skin as he ravages their thoughts.
He loves the cute brunette he’s dumped in a trash bin four blocks from the disco. (Yes, the exact same trash bin; if Kudou already found a good hiding place for bodies, why not take advantage of it? Besides, imagine the look of surprise on Yohji’s face when he finds out there were two bodies - imagine the anguish when he thinks that he killed them both, and just doesn’t remember the other one. Delicious.) She had the most delightfully amoral thoughts.
He loves himself so very, very much.
***
It only takes twenty minutes for Schuldig to catch up with Yohji, this time at a small, darkened bar. Yohji’s still drinking heavily, and Schuldig’s still not drinking at all. Armed with charm and arrogance, a few good jokes and plenty of horrible ones, and sharp minds (okay, just one; the other’s a bit fuzzy at the moment) they talk, and talk some more. (Oh, and establish an alibi for the night, just in case - they’ve been here for hours, officer, everyone remembers them: they told the best jokes. Really.)
***
They stagger (Yohji staggers; Schuldig fakes it, it’s fun) to a nearby hotel. It’s a nice hotel, classy even: while Yohji might prefer a dive (he’s a sick, evil bastard, and not worth anything nice), Schuldig likes his comforts. Schuldig charms (manipulates) the desk clerk into giving them a room with small windows, one that’s a located at a distance from the other guests (My friend’s not feeling well, he needs a dark, quiet space, isn’t Schuldig so considerate?)
Upon entering the room, Yohji immediately collapses upon the bed. Schuldig hangs up his coat (no bloodstains, he’s a professional, but it is a bit wrinkled), but not before retrieving the condoms and lubricant from a pocket. He places them on a nightstand, and ponders the same dilemma he has every time they do this. No, not whether to use the condoms or not (Schuldig knows where he’s been, and that’s fine, but he also knows where Yohji’s been, and that’s not fine at all), but instead, lights on or off.
Off, he decides. Schuldig leaves one window with the curtains open: there’s just enough light to make maneuvering through the room manageable. He goes into the bathroom for a quick shower, then returns to the bed. Schuldig kicks at the mattress, waking a drowsing Yohji, and sends him off to the bathroom to clean up.
***
Yohji moves slowly, as if in a dream, but he knows this is all too real. After all, this isn't the first time (Yohji's never had a first time, even the first time - Yohji's never been that innocent) they've done this.
He also showers, removing sweat and grime (and a little blood, only under his fingernails, and the streaks down his back: should have brought the gloves, he’ll remember that next time), then quickly brushes his teeth. He gags slightly at the taste, but finishes the task.
It’s funny, how Schuldig won’t touch him until the stale taste of cigarettes and too much alcohol has been cleaned away.
Yohji wants a cigarette, badly. He looks at the redhead casually unbuttoning his shirt next to the bed, and wants him even more.
***
Yohji likes getting drunk. He blames his actions on the intoxication (yeah, right), not the mouth slowly sucking and biting it’s way down his chest, or the mind that curls gently around his own, tasting the memories, stealing his life away thought by thought.
Schuldig is gentle with him during sex (well, almost always gentle: that one time two years ago, after Yohji managed to wrap his wire around Schuldig’s neck during the demon summoning, that was painful, and so much fun.) He’s gentle, because Yohji hates it. Yohji wants to be fucked over, not fucked: he wants bruises and burning and to hear you deserve this, you nasty piece of shit. He doesn’t want caresses, fingers that stretch him open carefully, the slow thrusts that grow faster, harder, but never quite hard enough. He doesn’t want hands that thread softly though his hair, or open-mouthed kisses that aren’t empty gestures. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t deserve it, and it hurts so fucking much.
Yohji doesn’t notice he’s crying until Schuldig delicately licks the tears away.
***
Schuldig likes Yohji getting drunk, but not too drunk. “Don’t think of pink elephants, Yohji” he murmurs, his voice commanding and low. “No hallucinations, no nodding off to sleep. There’s no escaping me.”
He pushes himself further up the bed, rests his forehead against Yohji’s, long, jagged strands of red hair falling around their faces like a curtain. “Your pain is so sweet, Kudou; I could eat you all up in one bite.”
He then drags a finger across Yohji’s face, tracing lines where tears once stained his face, and laughs quietly, genuinely amused at the sudden hope he reads in Yohji’s green eyes.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
***
It is a Thursday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes wrong (or right.) Yohji works in the flower shop (or not works, according to Ran, like Yohji gives a damn) flirting with underage girls and Ken (not that Ken notices, but Ran does, and it pisses him off, so it’s all good) and trying not to think.
It turns out there is no mission tonight, so Yohji has lots of time to not-think. So he doesn’t think about classy hotel rooms, red hair, or the brightly-colored, patterned scarf that wasn’t in his pants pocket this morning.
Instead, he not-thinks about Wednesdays, and opens another bottle. He hates himself so very, very much.
***
It is a Thursday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes right (or wrong.) Schuldig annoys Crawford (that’s work, even if he’s not paid for it, like Schuldig gives a damn) with his good cheer and the even uglier brightly-colored, patterned scarf that’s replaced his usual yellow bandanna.
It turns out there is no mission tonight, so Schuldig has lots of time to be annoying. Crawford ignores him (and seethes inside), Nagi ignores him (and feels nothing) and Farfarello throws three knives at his head. One almost hits him, which is fun, so he decides to reward Farfarello by taking him out for the night.
Twelve bodies later (two of them his, so something did go right), Farfarello is in his straitjacket and Schuldig is in his room, trying to clean the blood (hey, he’s a professional, but he was with Farfarello, so clean kills were just not going to happen - deal with it) off his clothes, before deciding to simply burn them later, and goes to bed.
He doesn’t think (or not-think) about Wednesdays, and doesn’t open any bottles. He just drifts off into a peaceful sleep. He loves himself so very, very much.
It’s good to be Schuldig.
Author: ann89103
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: M/M sex, NCS (or pretty damn close), cursing, violence, abuse of italics and the parenthesis keys.
Word Count: 2,800+
Summary: Weiss Kreuz, Schuldig/Yohji, Tears - “Don’t think of pink elephants”
A/N: Set after Kapitel, disregarding Gluhen and everything else. Weiss still work for Kritiker, but Omi’s not Persia.
***
Yohji Kudou stares at the mirror, glancing at his clothes. The turquoise silk shirt, black pants and dress shoes would be unacceptable wear for their usual missions, but tonight he was on a different sort of hunt.
It is a Wednesday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes wrong (or right.) According to Kritiker (and yes, they’ve actually done studies confirming these things), the best days for assassinations are Mondays and Fridays. Kill the targets on Mondays, when they are still bleary-eyed and sluggish from the preceding weekend, or kill the targets on Fridays, when they are distracted by thoughts of alcohol and pretty girls and not-so pretty girls (but never pretty boys, oh no.)
Wednesdays are good days for information gathering. Okay, maybe not for Omi, who is surgically attached to his computer seven days a week, only taking breaks to work shifts in the flower shop, scream through some truly gruesome nightmares and to shoot arrows or throw poisoned darts into a Dark Beast every now and then. Or for Ken, who is too honest and too trusting and just too nice for this job - Yohji still doesn’t understand how the man manages to cheerfully murder people on a regular basis. And especially not for Ran, who is only qualified to wield a sword and yell at girls and mope all the time. But for Yohji, Wednesdays are perfect: he casually walks into small, darkened bars, armed with his charm and a few good jokes and a sharp mind that catalogues all the secrets and lies told in a drunken haze, knowing the difference between the two.
On Wednesdays he also saunters into fashionable discos, the pounding music and strobe-light shows making a good effort (but not good enough) at masking the loneliness and desperation (what kind of pathetic loser goes to discos in the middle of the week?) in the gaily dressed men and women that dance within, pretending they are fascinating and exquisite and having the time of their lives. Here Yohji flirts and teases and seduces information out of the targets: no-one else in Weiss (not young Omi, straightforward Ken, and certainly not inflexible, judgmental Ran) can do this - only Yohji can kiss and fondle and fuck and lie and enjoy it. And if his lover (target/victim/whatever) for the night ends up dead, an ugly corpse with bulging eyes and a mottled face and dark bruises around her (his?) neck, let’s be honest: nobody cares.
Yohji stares at his clothes, at his hair, so artfully disarrayed (tonight it’s a disco, not a bar, so he needs to be flashy, not subdued.) Manx says this shirt brings out the green in his eyes, but Yohji wouldn’t know: he doesn’t look at his own face anymore. Even Weiss now has trouble looking him in the eye.
Sometimes he’s insulted that his teammates think he’s a drunk and a slut; sometimes he just laughs, and agrees with them. And if he tucks a brightly-colored, patterned scarf in his pants pocket more often these days as he goes out (like tonight), no one says a word.
***
Schuldig (no last name, no first name, just Schuldig - deal with it) stares at the mirror, glancing at his clothes. The shirt is blue, the pants white, the boots black, the jacket his favorite olive green one. The clothes don’t match, but he doesn’t give a damn. He has his rose-colored glasses (hah!) pushed up into his hair, but the usual yellow bandanna is missing.
He doesn’t think he’ll need it tonight.
It is a Wednesday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes right (or wrong.) According to Crawford (who sees these things, which is part of his job, but then keeps track of them, making lists and graphs and pie charts for each teammate, which is just fucked up,) the best days for assassinations are Mondays and Fridays. Not that it matters: Schwarz takes care of business when it is in Schwarz’s best interests. Or when Farfarello gets especially excitable. Oops.
It’s doesn’t matter to Schuldig, as he’s not aiming for an assassination tonight, just a good old-fashioned mind fuck. He doesn’t have to schedule those.
Wednesdays are good days for work and for play. Okay, maybe not to Farfarello, who prefers Sundays (though he will make an exception for Ash Wednesday, or, even better, Good Friday) for obvious reasons. Nagi doesn’t have a preference, since Nagi doesn’t play, he only works; Nagi doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, which is Farfarello’s gig, but Farfarello doesn’t mind sharing that one, just leave his God Complex alone. Crawford doesn’t play either, though he secretly wishes he could. Schuldig knows this, even though he doesn’t peek into Crawford’s orderly (boring) mind. He doesn’t have to: Schuldig knows he and Crawford are yin and yang, matter and anti-matter, salt and pepper, or something else as painfully trite. So what? It’s true: Crawford wishes he could be the nasty, hedonistic bastard Schuldig is instead of the nasty, anal-retentive bastard Crawford is.
It’s good to be Schuldig. On Wednesdays (or any day of the week, thank you very much) he casually walks into small, darkened bars, armed with his arrogance and plenty of horrible jokes (everyone loves them. Really.) and a sharp mind that catalogues all the secrets and lies told in a drunken haze, knowing the difference between the two.
On Wednesdays (or any day of the week - didn’t we go over this already?) he also saunters into fashionable discos, ignoring the pounding music and strobe-light shows, but reveling in the loneliness and desperation (sweet - sweeter than honey, and more of a high) in the minds of the gaily dressed men and women that dance within, pretending they are fascinating and exquisite and having the time of their lives . Here Schuldig flirts and teases and mentally rapes information (such dirty little thoughts, love you!) out of the targets: no-one else in Schwarz (not young Nagi, straightforward Farfarello, and certainly not inflexible, judgmental Crawford) can do this - only Schuldig can kiss and fondle and fuck and lie and enjoy it. And if his lover (target/victim/whatever) for the night ends up dead, an ugly corpse with blank eyes and an empty face and blood seeping out of his (her?) ears, let’s be honest: nobody cares.
Schuldig stares at his clothes, at his hair, so artfully disarrayed (because he hasn’t brushed it, and it looks fucking hot.) Manx once said this shirt brings out the blue in his eyes, but she wouldn’t remember that now: Schuldig’s a professional. She doesn’t remember the wanton, depraved things she did (that took hours, very enjoyable), or how Schuldig stole every piece of Kritiker information from her mind (that took mere minutes, and felt fucking fantastic.) She only knows that she sometimes has trouble looking herself in the eye, and that it has nothing to do with the thousands of lives she’s ordered destroyed over the years.
Schuldig’s never insulted when his teammates say he’s a drunk and a slut (he rarely drinks, and doesn't care what they think, just wishes they wouldn't think it so loudly, dammit!); he just sneers, and agrees with them. And if he smiles at them with a grin that stretches a bit more widely than usual, showing more of those gleaming, sharp white teeth (like tonight), no one thinks a word.
***
Tonight he’s at another disco, one he’s never been to before. It’s new, so the line (even on a Wednesday) stretches down the street and around the corner. He’s not working tonight (or he is, but not for Kritiker, just for himself, and does it really matter? Yohji’s never working, according to Ran), so Yohji looks at the men and women waiting in line, disappointed that no-one catches his interest. Yohji bypasses the line, earning himself many glares and a few muttered curses, talks to the bouncer, and slips inside.
***
Tonight he’s at another disco, one he’s never been to before. It’s new, so the minds pressing against his are excited, anticipatory: they haven’t figured out that it’s simply another place to get drunk or get high, forget what they truly are (useless, tiresome little things), and that the louder music, brighter lighting and plush seating inside means absolutely nothing. He’s not working
tonight (or he is, but not for Schwarz, just for himself, and does it really matter? Schuldig’s always working, one way or another: there’s always a game to win, information to take, lives to ruin. Busy, busy, busy, just like the minds buzzing around his), but Schuldig doesn’t bother scanning the crowd: his target (lover/victim/whatever) is already inside. Schuldig bypasses the line, earning himself no glares and no curses, ignores the bouncer, and slips inside.
***
Yohji is drinking heavily tonight, oh, yes he is. He is surrounded by women (pretty, soft things, even the ugly ones) and men (he ignores them easily; not one has caught his eye. He is, after all, heterosexual. A ladies man. Straight to the core. Except when he’s not.)
***
Schuldig isn’t drinking at all. He is surrounded by women (pretty, noisy things, with the most vicious, tasty thoughts) and men (he ignores them easily; not one has caught his eye, except for Yohji, and he can wait. He is, after all, an equal-opportunity bastard. Except when he's not, which is never.)
***
Yohji loves women: he loves their curves, their delicate, tapered fingers, their sweet, floral perfumes. He loves their legs in high heels, their breasts pressed against his chest, their lips crushed beneath his own.
He loves their trust in him, as they open up beneath him. He loves their fingernails dragging against his back as they orgasm. He loves their fingernails breaking against his skin as they struggle to breathe.
He loves the cute brunette he’s dumped in a trash bin four blocks from the disco. She had the most delightfully breathy voice.
He hates himself so very, very much.
***
Schuldig loves women: he loves their curves, their delicate, tapered fingers, their sweet, floral perfumes. He loves their legs in high heels, their breasts pressed against his chest, their lips crushed beneath his own.
He loves their minds, as they open up beneath him. He loves their fingernails dragging against his back as they orgasm. He loves their fingernails breaking against his skin as he ravages their thoughts.
He loves the cute brunette he’s dumped in a trash bin four blocks from the disco. (Yes, the exact same trash bin; if Kudou already found a good hiding place for bodies, why not take advantage of it? Besides, imagine the look of surprise on Yohji’s face when he finds out there were two bodies - imagine the anguish when he thinks that he killed them both, and just doesn’t remember the other one. Delicious.) She had the most delightfully amoral thoughts.
He loves himself so very, very much.
***
It only takes twenty minutes for Schuldig to catch up with Yohji, this time at a small, darkened bar. Yohji’s still drinking heavily, and Schuldig’s still not drinking at all. Armed with charm and arrogance, a few good jokes and plenty of horrible ones, and sharp minds (okay, just one; the other’s a bit fuzzy at the moment) they talk, and talk some more. (Oh, and establish an alibi for the night, just in case - they’ve been here for hours, officer, everyone remembers them: they told the best jokes. Really.)
***
They stagger (Yohji staggers; Schuldig fakes it, it’s fun) to a nearby hotel. It’s a nice hotel, classy even: while Yohji might prefer a dive (he’s a sick, evil bastard, and not worth anything nice), Schuldig likes his comforts. Schuldig charms (manipulates) the desk clerk into giving them a room with small windows, one that’s a located at a distance from the other guests (My friend’s not feeling well, he needs a dark, quiet space, isn’t Schuldig so considerate?)
Upon entering the room, Yohji immediately collapses upon the bed. Schuldig hangs up his coat (no bloodstains, he’s a professional, but it is a bit wrinkled), but not before retrieving the condoms and lubricant from a pocket. He places them on a nightstand, and ponders the same dilemma he has every time they do this. No, not whether to use the condoms or not (Schuldig knows where he’s been, and that’s fine, but he also knows where Yohji’s been, and that’s not fine at all), but instead, lights on or off.
Off, he decides. Schuldig leaves one window with the curtains open: there’s just enough light to make maneuvering through the room manageable. He goes into the bathroom for a quick shower, then returns to the bed. Schuldig kicks at the mattress, waking a drowsing Yohji, and sends him off to the bathroom to clean up.
***
Yohji moves slowly, as if in a dream, but he knows this is all too real. After all, this isn't the first time (Yohji's never had a first time, even the first time - Yohji's never been that innocent) they've done this.
He also showers, removing sweat and grime (and a little blood, only under his fingernails, and the streaks down his back: should have brought the gloves, he’ll remember that next time), then quickly brushes his teeth. He gags slightly at the taste, but finishes the task.
It’s funny, how Schuldig won’t touch him until the stale taste of cigarettes and too much alcohol has been cleaned away.
Yohji wants a cigarette, badly. He looks at the redhead casually unbuttoning his shirt next to the bed, and wants him even more.
***
Yohji likes getting drunk. He blames his actions on the intoxication (yeah, right), not the mouth slowly sucking and biting it’s way down his chest, or the mind that curls gently around his own, tasting the memories, stealing his life away thought by thought.
Schuldig is gentle with him during sex (well, almost always gentle: that one time two years ago, after Yohji managed to wrap his wire around Schuldig’s neck during the demon summoning, that was painful, and so much fun.) He’s gentle, because Yohji hates it. Yohji wants to be fucked over, not fucked: he wants bruises and burning and to hear you deserve this, you nasty piece of shit. He doesn’t want caresses, fingers that stretch him open carefully, the slow thrusts that grow faster, harder, but never quite hard enough. He doesn’t want hands that thread softly though his hair, or open-mouthed kisses that aren’t empty gestures. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t deserve it, and it hurts so fucking much.
Yohji doesn’t notice he’s crying until Schuldig delicately licks the tears away.
***
Schuldig likes Yohji getting drunk, but not too drunk. “Don’t think of pink elephants, Yohji” he murmurs, his voice commanding and low. “No hallucinations, no nodding off to sleep. There’s no escaping me.”
He pushes himself further up the bed, rests his forehead against Yohji’s, long, jagged strands of red hair falling around their faces like a curtain. “Your pain is so sweet, Kudou; I could eat you all up in one bite.”
He then drags a finger across Yohji’s face, tracing lines where tears once stained his face, and laughs quietly, genuinely amused at the sudden hope he reads in Yohji’s green eyes.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
***
It is a Thursday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes wrong (or right.) Yohji works in the flower shop (or not works, according to Ran, like Yohji gives a damn) flirting with underage girls and Ken (not that Ken notices, but Ran does, and it pisses him off, so it’s all good) and trying not to think.
It turns out there is no mission tonight, so Yohji has lots of time to not-think. So he doesn’t think about classy hotel rooms, red hair, or the brightly-colored, patterned scarf that wasn’t in his pants pocket this morning.
Instead, he not-thinks about Wednesdays, and opens another bottle. He hates himself so very, very much.
***
It is a Thursday, so there should be no killing tonight, unless something goes right (or wrong.) Schuldig annoys Crawford (that’s work, even if he’s not paid for it, like Schuldig gives a damn) with his good cheer and the even uglier brightly-colored, patterned scarf that’s replaced his usual yellow bandanna.
It turns out there is no mission tonight, so Schuldig has lots of time to be annoying. Crawford ignores him (and seethes inside), Nagi ignores him (and feels nothing) and Farfarello throws three knives at his head. One almost hits him, which is fun, so he decides to reward Farfarello by taking him out for the night.
Twelve bodies later (two of them his, so something did go right), Farfarello is in his straitjacket and Schuldig is in his room, trying to clean the blood (hey, he’s a professional, but he was with Farfarello, so clean kills were just not going to happen - deal with it) off his clothes, before deciding to simply burn them later, and goes to bed.
He doesn’t think (or not-think) about Wednesdays, and doesn’t open any bottles. He just drifts off into a peaceful sleep. He loves himself so very, very much.
It’s good to be Schuldig.
no subject
A wonderful, wonderful read. I see far more fluffy!Schwarz fics but I like them villainous without actually wanting to read graphic torture etc. You acheived such nastiness about Schuldig without resorting to anything graphic. His delight in mind-fucking Yohji by leaving the second brunette in the same bin was shockingly unexpected and perfect.
The scarf stealing and the subtlety with which you made it clear what it represented was also painful anf perfect.
You worked in the tears and the pink elephants seamlessly. After I left the prompt I thought that line was probably a bad choice because it might be too jarring. It felt so organic in your fic though.
And Yohji. So terribly broken. I liked how you incorporated so many known elements - particularly his Gluhen strangling of women. The breaking fingernails detail was chilling. His despair and self loathing was palpable. I wanted to cry for him but couldn't - he felt too far gone and that's so vaer, very sad.
Thank you again. I could never have imagined this fic myself and I think it will haunt me in the best possible way - by giving me much food for thought.
Brava!
no subject
I also prefer implied nastiness to the graphic stuff; funny how the imagination just fills in all the blanks.
Thank you so much for your comments! I usually write drabbles, but I had a lot of fun (okay, that's a bit sick, but true) writing this one.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
came here by way of
no subject
no subject
One error in the HTML: "i>fun".
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
really good job with the mirroring. Favorite line:
According to Crawford (who sees these things, which is part of his job, but then keeps track of them, making lists and graphs and pie charts for each teammate, which is just fucked up,) the best days for assassinations are Mondays and Fridays.
no subject