Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Life Is A Highway (Where's The Nearest Exit?) ❯ Introduction: Driving is Like Sex... Well Sort Of... ( Chapter 1 )

DISCLAIMER: this is a fan fiction. Self-explanatory enough, right?

 

 

The wind streamed along, ruffling the pale blue shirt, toying with escaped wisps of golden hair. One hand carelessly over the car door, holding a cigarette, the other languidly perched on the smooth steering wheel. Taking a long drag from the hitherto languishing cigarette, he did a smooth yet reckless gear shift (kids, don't try this at home!) leaving the steering wheel unattended. Before careening over to the other side of the road, however, he got hold of the steering wheel and guided the car back with nary a care. Yohji Kudou, His Most Holy Lord of Sex and Garrote par excellence, drove down the highway as if chased by all the legions of hell with a very satisfied smile on his face.

 

“Gods, this is it…”

 

The needle rose steady on, until it got to 140, and still Yohji didn't let up on the gas pedal. He lived for this moment. Driving his Seven was the only other thing better than sex, and he thought this one up with all the seriousness a garrote wielding assassin can muster. Okay, maybe not better… probably at par, or somewhere alongside of. At least he didn't get all that sweaty and have to deal with waking up to other people on his bed he didn't remember picking up the previous night. Driving was good clean fun, and good clean fun was something Yohji Kudou didn't get to do often. Mostly, he's all sin, cigarettes and liquor and sex, and it's all fine with him. Driving seven down an empty highway though, is such a pleasure that Yohji doubted if it's not good clean fun but a vice.

 

Flicking the cigarette to wherever it'll land, his hand automatically reaches for another one from his pocket, while the other rests on the quietly humming gear stick, actions so ingrained in him that if he stopped to think about it he'd forget how to do it properly. Best let the body take control, was what he'd say. Of course he had a lot of mottos. There's one he had tattooed, though he can't and won't exactly remember why right now in this moment of bliss, then there's “struggling victims only make it bloodier, and god damn it wasn't blood hard to wash off” which was self-explanatory and wasn't really one of his best. He liked the other one, which was “If it's red, angry and sexually frustrated then it's probably Aya”, which didn't really mean anything other than what it said, but which he enjoyed making up. Another was “it ain't love”, which again doesn't mean anything, or could mean everything, depends on who's hearing it.

 

He was nearing 160 now, so he let up on the gas pedal, if only for his hair. His heart, he's sure, is beating faster. It's all so fucking orgasmic that he's surprised no one has made driving at 140 with a top down vintage sports car on an empty highway illegal yet. He'd be slowing down eventually, so he can look at the view at least without it going past him in eye-watering speed. Alone and fulfilled, and he didn't even have to jack off. He smiled.

 

Of course when he got back to the Koneko, there'd be someone red and angry and sexually frustrated waiting to just make him spontaneously combust with a well-directed glare. And if it's red, angry and sexually frustrated, then it's probably Aya. Sure, he shirked on his early morning shift with the redhead, but things had been getting suffocating lately and he wanted, no, needed to get out of the building.

 

Out of the blue, Yohji made a comment about women in a very sexually oriented line of work and the nature of their illegitimate offsprings.

 

He forgot about Aya having a very sharp sword when he sneaked the Seven out of the garage. Suddenly his mood for driving was spoiled. Eyeing the nearest exit he gave the steering wheel an uncharacteristic yank and headed back to the general direction of “home”.