Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ One Memorable Night ❯ One Memorable Night ( Prologue )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Ann H 
Complete. A night out with Schuldig...
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 10.30.2002 | Pages: 3 | Words: 3.8K | Visits: 1.2K | Status: Completed
Complete. A night out with Schuldig...
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 10.30.2002 | Pages: 3 | Words: 3.8K | Visits: 1.2K | Status: Completed
Title: One Memorable Night
Author: Ann
Rating: R. Language, violence, character deaths and sexual activity by damn sexy anime men. This is yaoi, and anyone not comfortable with or too young to handle m/m sexual interaction should stay far, far away.
Pairings: SxY, BxS
Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz characters and all rights belong to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. This is fan fiction and no profit is made from this endeavor.
Notes: Numbered items are from "Affirmations for Personal Growth." Sadly, I do not know where these originated from; I would love to give credit to the imaginative person who came up with these. I will, however, give credit to the excellent writer Viridian 5, who used some of these in a story called "Affirmations," a wonderful X-Files fanfic. You can find Viridian 5's stories (multi-fandom; there's something there for everyone!) and the entire list of "Affirmations for Personal Growth," at http://www.mrks.org/~viridian/ What are you waiting for? Go there... oops, I mean go there after you finish reading my story!
In addition, # brackets thoughts, * for emphasis.
Spoilers: Pretty much the entire series.
Mood Music: "Stripped" by Rammstein, "The World in my Eyes" by the Cure. Both can be found on "Various Artists for the Masses," a tribute to Depeche Mode.
Feedback: Go for it! Ann89103@lvcm.com.
***
Schuldig is an avid reader.
Just about everyone who had ever encountered the man (and who were still alive) would never believe such a thing. Schuldig is unpredictable, wild, and has the attention span of a hummingbird on speed. Schuldig dances, drinks, fucks and kills. Schuldig uses his mind to confuse, terrorize, often destroy that of others.
Okay, all that is true, but that doesn't mean the man doesn't like to read. After all, reading is quite beneficial; stimulating brain activity, strengthening deductive and reasoning abilities, expanding the imagination.
So when the flowerboy assassins of Weiss, and even most of his teammates in Schwarz, think he's off indulging in torture, mayhem and the newest pharmaceutical fix, half the time they're right.
The other half, he is at the library, or one of those trendy Internet cafes. He reads just about everything: true crime novels, science fiction, histories, anything that catches his fancy. However, he leaves the current affairs and political books to Crawford, the computer manuals to Nagi, and the Bible to Farfarello.
The best nights are those that combine his habits: research on a target leading to the actual hunt and kill or random, violent acts committed only to read some local reporter's sensationalistic, usually wildly inaccurate story after the fact. Maybe tonight, he'd accomplish both: he'd gone on a reading binge lately with self-help books, both those written in earnest sincerity and blatant sarcasm.
Even murderers need to focus on their personal growth.
***
8 p.m.
23. A good scapegoat is almost as good as a solution
Stealing the Porsche was fun; racing the busy streets of Tokyo at 90 mph, leaving a dozen or so casualties in my wake was exhilarating; leading the police on a wild chase for almost an hour then jumping out of the car before it crashed into the Weiss flower shop was exquisite.
Twisting the memories of every witness, turning my untamed flaming hair and distinctive German features into the short, messy dark hair and warm chocolate eyes of one Ken Hideka was absolute brilliance. Poor dear, he was the only one home at the time, suffering from a fever. The alcohol level in his medication certainly wouldn't reach DUI levels, but it wouldn't help his case either. I watched, smirking as the cops dragged the seriously injured soccer boy out of the severely damaged building. The anger radiating from the officers as they hauled their perpetrator away was invigorating; the confusion and fear flowing in waves from Ken sheer heaven.
#Notagainnotagainnotagain! Kase! Stop haunting me! Somebody help me! Yohji, Omi, where are you? I didn't do it, didn't do it, why? Aya...#
Like shooting fish in a barrel. What a wuss. Hope the others are more of a challenge.
It was only after the last police car departed, the last siren lost faded in the usual cacophony of a Tokyo night, that I bothered to check my watch. Almost eight-thirty; I would have to work faster.
Keeping to a schedule is a must for any self-respecting manipulator.
***
9:15 p.m.
6. Having control over myself is almost as good as having control over others
It's a bit early for nightclubbing; when I go out for a night of strong drinks and weak playthings, I usually don't start until eleven or so. Then again, I'm not running away from my traumatic past; instead, I'm frequently forcing someone else to relive theirs.
Ah, there he is, slumped over in a dark corner: Yohji Kudou, private investigator, wire-wielding killer, slut, drunk... all the things I like in a toy. He's a pretty one, my angst-ridden kitten, all honey. Honey-colored hair, honey-sweet lips, a toned, lean body I've licked honey from more than once.
Some insignificant reveler brushes against my left side; I grab both beers and shove a thread of sheer panic into his mind. I love watching the frenzied run; they're almost as fast as I am.
Plastering on my usual grin, I take the chair next to boozing beauty. "Wake up, Kudou, I'm on a schedule."
Ah, I love watching the emotions play across his face as the corresponding thoughts clatter through his inebriated mind. Annoyance, confusion, fear that quickly changes to lust, and a deep, abiding shame for that lust. Yohji Kudou, closet case, and mine.
"So, you've got a palm pilot showing sex with Yohji, nine-fifteen to nine-thirty, slaughter innocent bystander, nine-thirty to ten?"
I love that he can still wisecrack at this stage in the game, that some small part of him still fights my control. I love forcing that spark of soul to fade.
"No, Kudou, you've got those backwards. I'm much faster at killing, and you of all people know how long I can fuck."
He's angry with my answer, mainly because it's true. I may torture him with pleasure and console him with pain, but I take *my* pleasure seriously, and take my time at it. I love my life.
"Time to go, kitten. You don't really want to stay here, losing yourself in booze, vomit and self-pity. It's so much better to lose yourself in sex!" I lean in, take his face in my hands. Such beautiful eyes, such a brilliant green, and slightly wet with unshed tears. I kiss each eyelid, gentle, soft, then plant a lingering kiss on those honey-lips, tender and sweet.
Forty-five minutes later, an abandoned warehouse, and we're locked together, my hands roving, grasping, bruising, my hips pushing, taking, claiming, and my lust and frenzy matched by his own. He moans, his hands scratching against the concrete floor, fingertips cut and bloodied, he *knows* he's not allowed to grab me, and I take one hand to my mouth, licking at the grit and blood and sweat as my other hand pumps his hardness, just not hard enough and just too slow.
He moans in frustration as I slow down further, and moans with delight as I kiss him again, delicate and tender. Breaking the kiss I pull back, just enough to look him full in the face, take in the need and longing and desperation. I smile, not a smirk, not a grin, but a real, honest smile.
"I love you, Yohji."
And he gives me the most heartwarming smile, so pure, so joyous, the prettiest I've ever seen, well, the prettiest I've seen since the *last* time I fucked him and, damn the rules, he pulls me back down, holding me close, fingers stroking and rubbing, my hair, my back, and his love, his surrender washes over me. It's beautiful, real and sacred; I resume my movements, pushing in deeper with my dick and my mind, taking it all.
Absolutely perfect.
Orgasm is spectacular, and post-coital recovery can be just as divine. No words, no thoughts, really, just muscles relaxing, blood flowing, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
Once that's faded, I normally re-enter Yohji's mind and start tormenting him by replaying images of Asuka, his lost love: her death, his anger, his pain, the descent into self-pity and darkness. He's twisted enough to enjoy the suffering, sees it as some form of penance. He loves me for it.
He's just as much a murderer as I am, a killer through and through. He just doesn't handle it as well as I do.
But my watch shows ten-thirty, I'm only halfway done tonight, and Brad will have my ass if I'm not done by one. Besides, between thoughts of God and knives and blood sprayed across a wall, I can actually make out the impatience in Farfarello's mind. So I get up, retrieve my clothing, and within scant moments I'm ready to go.
"What, got a Girl Scout Jamboree to crash?" Oh, that's my Yohji, fun to the last. I'm going to miss him.
Maybe. The bastard did get his bloodied hands all over me, and I'm definitely going to have to stop at home for a shower. The streaks of blood *definately* clash with my hair.
I blow Yohji a kiss, and turn towards the door. There's Farfarello, gleam in his eye and gleam off his knives, and the last time he looked this happy he was carving his mother like a Christmas goose. A killing Farfarello is a happy Farfarello.
"He's all yours, Farf. Just make sure there's nothing left to identify."
Farfarello stares up at me, the shining face of a boy given a most coveted gift. "That could take some time, done properly."
I run my hand through his short, spiked hair, ruffling it like I would on a pet. "You have all night, sweet. Have your fun, cover your tracks, and be home by six, or Crawford will kill you."
Farfarello laughs; the echo through the warehouse seems to multiply the effect. "That's supposed to worry me?"
I join in the laughter, because I already know the punchline. "No, but he's promised to give you a full Catholic burial, mass and all, and to line the casket with bibles. Said it would 'put the fear of God in you.'"
I really didn't think Farf could turn any whiter than he already is, but somehow, in the unlit warehouse, he did. He looks unearthly that way, like a vengeful angel. Gorgeous. Almost as good as when he's covered with blood, howling at deities. Which, by my calculations, should start in about three minutes.
Farf takes pride in his work.
I can't resist stopping at the door, taking one last look at my toy. Yohji is perfectly still, completely sober. Anyone seeing him would think him a man utterly betrayed, ripped apart body and soul. I am a telepath, however, and I know better. I nod, acknowledging his mental thanks, and silently depart. I may loved him, just a little, after all.
Farfarello gets a slow, sadistic kill, and Yohji gets a gradual, agonizing death. Both men get their greatest wish granted in one fell swoop. I may just be getting the hang of this multi-tasking business.
***
11:30 p.m.
17. Blessed are the flexible, for they can tie themselves into knots
One brief shower, re-dressed to kill and a short drive later, and I'm standing in a graveyard. I don't mind grime and blood when I'm killing, but I prefer to be clean while manipulating minds.
No, that doesn't make any sense, but I really don't care. It works for me.
Little Omi doesn't know what made him come here so late; he'd been wandering the city for hours, then just felt compelled to visit his ghosts.
I'm *so* good.
Omi's family could provide a year's worth of fodder for a Japanese version of the Jerry Springer Show. Well, if they were still alive, they could. Kidnapped as a child, only to have his father refuse to pay the ransom. Rescued and taken in by a man who kept his identity as Omi's uncle a secret, and who then raised the traumatized, amnesia-suffering boy to become a teenaged assassin. Pursued by an obnoxious, spoiled brat revealed to be his sister (*I* told him, of course. I'm so mischievous!)
Then it's disclosed that the sister is a cousin, the uncle is his father, the father is his uncle. No matter the exact relation, the relatives were in turn insipid, weak and asinine. And I will not even discuss the goddamn golf club!
Fact is, Omi's by far the most intelligent, dangerous member of his family. That's not much of a compliment, but I do like the kid. He's young; he's cute; and he's just sooo full of confusion and angst. Kind of like a blond Nagi without the constant scowl.
This is gonna be fun.
"Hi, brat."
Omi's fast, I'll give him that; in a split second he's turned, a handful of poisoned darts thrown my way. But I'm faster, dodging each projectile while breaking through his mental shields.
#We've got to stop these nighttime rendezvous, kid. Nagi's getting jealous.#
#He's too fast, can't get the drop on him! Get out of my head!#
#Why even try? We both know the result. Schuldig wins, Omi goes boo-hoo.#
#What do you want?#
#Question is, Takatori, what do *you* want?#
The kid's shocked into stillness, and I mirror his stance. "My name is Tsukiyono Omi. I am *not* a Takatori!"
Oh, please. Much as I enjoy a temper tantrum, enough is enough. "Of course you are. You hide your real identity like a Takatori; you smile, then kill like a Takatori; you even have the worst Takatori habit of all: you lie to yourself. Now answer my question: what do you want?"
Even I'm shocked at how readily, how honestly he answers. Guess I hit a nerve.
#I want to forget.#
"I want to forget."
Well, kid, tonight's your lucky night. With no shields up, it only takes me a few minutes to twist a little here, nudge a little there, erase a trauma or ten. A few errors of omission, and more than a few bald-faced lies, and say hello to the new, improved Omi. Sure, he's a work in progress, and sure I'll be performing more mental surgery later, but I think the operation was a success. Poor thing looks rather sweet, laying unconscious before his family's gravesite. He'll be all right; his new family will be there for him.
Schwarz takes care of their own. My not being able to (overtly) torture him in the future is more than offset by the happiness he will bring my favorite brooding adolescent.
I call out, "Hey, Nagi, think you can stop drooling, and actually get him home?"
Nagi emerges from the shadows, all dark hair and dark eyes; to me, he a mirror to the dead-to-the-world Omi. Same height and build, same keen intelligence honed to an edge during an equally damaging childhood. Nagi telekinetically lifts the blond teen, using his power as gently, as carefully as if holding him in his arms. They leave, but not before I see Nagi smile at me, hesitant, shy, but undeniably there. It's the first time I've seen him smile since Tot's demise.
Even assassins have their soft spots. I'll hunt down and kill mine later. I've still got one more flowerboy to torture, and time's running out.
***
12:25 a.m.
1. As I let go of my feelings of guilt, I am in touch with my inner sociopath
Lair sweet lair. Villains don't have homes, do they? Besides 'lair' sounds sexier. Brad gets really annoyed when I call it the Schwarz Cave. Says it's ridiculous and inaccurate to call a luxurious penthouse a cave. I like aggravating him, both physically and mentally; he gets all hot and bothered. Less work and foreplay makes Brad Crawford a sensational lay.
Anyway, everything's going as planned. Nagi and Omi are safely tucked away in their room. Farfarello's prison, err, room is ready for him when he returns, straightjacket, medication and all. Brad's nowhere in sight, and my bloodthirsty cat has just arrived.
"Hello, Ran. Welcome to the Schwarz Cave."
Does *no-one* have a sense of humor around here? All Ran's hostility and frustration are wrecking havoc on my self-esteem. I am a valuable and important person, dammit, and I'm worthy of the respect of others!
Ran is courteous enough to just stand there while I recover from my laughing fit. Nah, the fool's confused by my mirth. Isn't he supposed to be trying to kill me by now? How *did* Weiss manage to survive as long as they did? Amateurs.
"Shi-ne, Shuldig!"
Better late than never. He lunges at me, I side-step easily and down he goes, right into that coffee table I've been nagging Crawford to replace for years. I am on a roll.
I think Ran's insulted I haven't beat the crap out of him yet, because he's getting back up, attempting to take another shot at me. I'd be flattered at his persistence if I wasn't so annoyed by his stupidity. We didn't get in shi-ne boy's way when he gutted Reiji Takatori; hell, we didn't even kill the flowerboys when Estet went 'boom!' Where's the gratitude?
Well, poor Ran doesn't even get the chance to fall over more furniture, because badass Brad Crawford is holding him off the ground by the back of his neck; it would only take Brad a moment to snap Ran's delicate neck. Brad knows how to time an entrance; being able to see the near future has its benefits.
I was hoping the redhead would be more of a threat, but it turns out Ran's the proverbial one-trick pony; he's not even carrying a backup weapon. Looks like tonight's finale is a bust: it's not fun for Brad unless he has to work for it. I *always* make him work for it... in a different context, yes, but it's the same principle. Anyway, while Brad stands there looking bored, Ran's got that cornered animal vibe going, and I've got to admit all that raw sensation is rather yummy. I quickly link my mind to Brad's and share Ran's anger and desperation with him. That stirs my partner in crime's interest, and he re-examines his prisoner, shaking him back and forth.
The contrast between the two men before me is intoxicating. There's Ran, all vivid color and surface rage, dark red hair and flashing amethyst eyes, heated surface thoughts promising a quick, violent death while beneath lies the fear and despair; and then there's Brad, my restrained, deliberative Brad, the businessman of death: calculating brown eyes behind those meek wirerimmed glasses; powerful boxer's build hidden beneath an Armani suit, and more passion and savagery in his soul than Ran could ever hope to possess.
It's hard to tear my gaze from both men, but I do so, and find Ran's katana amid the destroyed coffee table. I take it with me across the room, out onto the balcony, and carelessly fling the blade out into the distance, jeering back at Ran, "Fetch!" Seconds later Brad's joined me, chuckling as he tosses a heavier load over the edge.
I'm a friendly scoundrel, so I wave farewell to Ran as he falls to the pavement. He lands a shattered arm's length from his beloved katana, a very nice touch; Brad must have seen that one coming.
"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword," is Brad's droll comment as he returns to the living room. I don't want to laugh, I don't, but Brad doesn't crack jokes often, and he's just too endearing when he isn't being an anal-retentive bastard. So I surrender to the urge, snickering softly as I join him on the couch. A little shifting and we're comfortably arranged in our usual fashion, with me covering him like a favorite blanket. I pull at his arm to get a good look at his watch; eight minutes to one, and my work is done.
I'm feeling pretty smug now, I must admit. "Four kittens skinned or declawed, Bradley, within a six-hour timespan. Remember that the next time you call me lazy and undisciplined."
Brad, as I expected, is unimpressed. "Perform like this everyday, not just on special occasions, and maybe I'll reconsider by opinion of you. And *don't* call me Bradley. That would be a marvelous present."
My smiles, cheerful to sardonic to sadistic, may be delicious, but I can pout seductively as well. I shift even closer, deepen my voice slightly, and purr, "And here I thought destroying Weiss was a marvelous present. Farfarello and Nagi absolutely *love* their gifts, though I admit Nagi's will last a lot longer. What better way to recognize the anniversary of forming Schwarz than mayhem and destruction? Far better than chocolates and flowers."
I let one hand slowly work down Brad's supine form, drifting from shoulder to chest, pausing to rub hardening nipples through silken fabric, taking in his almost-surpressed moan. "Didn't you take pleasure from the hatred, the hopelessness, the panic?"
My hand glides lower, over well-defined abdominal muscles, and I relish the hitches in Brad's breath. I continue, "Didn't you like having the man who ruined your last grand scheme at your mercy?"
His cool eyes are now blazing, the lust and savagery tangible between us: I reach my goal and squeeze his dick through his pants, just this side of painful and exactly the way he wants it. I taunt him, "Didn't you fucking *love* his last moments, being in complete control, his thoughts wholly focused on you, the struggle, the kill?"
With a strangled cry Brad's thrust us off the couch, and we land among the coffee table ruins. He kisses me silent as he tears at our clothes; demanding, consuming, that's the Brad I want, and I'm not disappointed. The first time is furious, brutal and over far too soon, but with murder for foreplay that's not unexpected.
Brad's built to last, though, and we'll go at it all night: more down and dirty and plenty of slow and sweet. It's good to be me.
All in all, I live an interesting, charmed life, thanks to my predilection for sex, violence and self-involvement. I only expect one problem in the future: what do I do for an encore?
8. I honor my personality flaws, for without them I would have no personality at all
***
End
Loved it? Hated it? Tell me! Ann89103@lvcm.com
Author: Ann
Rating: R. Language, violence, character deaths and sexual activity by damn sexy anime men. This is yaoi, and anyone not comfortable with or too young to handle m/m sexual interaction should stay far, far away.
Pairings: SxY, BxS
Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz characters and all rights belong to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. This is fan fiction and no profit is made from this endeavor.
Notes: Numbered items are from "Affirmations for Personal Growth." Sadly, I do not know where these originated from; I would love to give credit to the imaginative person who came up with these. I will, however, give credit to the excellent writer Viridian 5, who used some of these in a story called "Affirmations," a wonderful X-Files fanfic. You can find Viridian 5's stories (multi-fandom; there's something there for everyone!) and the entire list of "Affirmations for Personal Growth," at http://www.mrks.org/~viridian/ What are you waiting for? Go there... oops, I mean go there after you finish reading my story!
In addition, # brackets thoughts, * for emphasis.
Spoilers: Pretty much the entire series.
Mood Music: "Stripped" by Rammstein, "The World in my Eyes" by the Cure. Both can be found on "Various Artists for the Masses," a tribute to Depeche Mode.
Feedback: Go for it! Ann89103@lvcm.com.
***
Schuldig is an avid reader.
Just about everyone who had ever encountered the man (and who were still alive) would never believe such a thing. Schuldig is unpredictable, wild, and has the attention span of a hummingbird on speed. Schuldig dances, drinks, fucks and kills. Schuldig uses his mind to confuse, terrorize, often destroy that of others.
Okay, all that is true, but that doesn't mean the man doesn't like to read. After all, reading is quite beneficial; stimulating brain activity, strengthening deductive and reasoning abilities, expanding the imagination.
So when the flowerboy assassins of Weiss, and even most of his teammates in Schwarz, think he's off indulging in torture, mayhem and the newest pharmaceutical fix, half the time they're right.
The other half, he is at the library, or one of those trendy Internet cafes. He reads just about everything: true crime novels, science fiction, histories, anything that catches his fancy. However, he leaves the current affairs and political books to Crawford, the computer manuals to Nagi, and the Bible to Farfarello.
The best nights are those that combine his habits: research on a target leading to the actual hunt and kill or random, violent acts committed only to read some local reporter's sensationalistic, usually wildly inaccurate story after the fact. Maybe tonight, he'd accomplish both: he'd gone on a reading binge lately with self-help books, both those written in earnest sincerity and blatant sarcasm.
Even murderers need to focus on their personal growth.
***
8 p.m.
23. A good scapegoat is almost as good as a solution
Stealing the Porsche was fun; racing the busy streets of Tokyo at 90 mph, leaving a dozen or so casualties in my wake was exhilarating; leading the police on a wild chase for almost an hour then jumping out of the car before it crashed into the Weiss flower shop was exquisite.
Twisting the memories of every witness, turning my untamed flaming hair and distinctive German features into the short, messy dark hair and warm chocolate eyes of one Ken Hideka was absolute brilliance. Poor dear, he was the only one home at the time, suffering from a fever. The alcohol level in his medication certainly wouldn't reach DUI levels, but it wouldn't help his case either. I watched, smirking as the cops dragged the seriously injured soccer boy out of the severely damaged building. The anger radiating from the officers as they hauled their perpetrator away was invigorating; the confusion and fear flowing in waves from Ken sheer heaven.
#Notagainnotagainnotagain! Kase! Stop haunting me! Somebody help me! Yohji, Omi, where are you? I didn't do it, didn't do it, why? Aya...#
Like shooting fish in a barrel. What a wuss. Hope the others are more of a challenge.
It was only after the last police car departed, the last siren lost faded in the usual cacophony of a Tokyo night, that I bothered to check my watch. Almost eight-thirty; I would have to work faster.
Keeping to a schedule is a must for any self-respecting manipulator.
***
9:15 p.m.
6. Having control over myself is almost as good as having control over others
It's a bit early for nightclubbing; when I go out for a night of strong drinks and weak playthings, I usually don't start until eleven or so. Then again, I'm not running away from my traumatic past; instead, I'm frequently forcing someone else to relive theirs.
Ah, there he is, slumped over in a dark corner: Yohji Kudou, private investigator, wire-wielding killer, slut, drunk... all the things I like in a toy. He's a pretty one, my angst-ridden kitten, all honey. Honey-colored hair, honey-sweet lips, a toned, lean body I've licked honey from more than once.
Some insignificant reveler brushes against my left side; I grab both beers and shove a thread of sheer panic into his mind. I love watching the frenzied run; they're almost as fast as I am.
Plastering on my usual grin, I take the chair next to boozing beauty. "Wake up, Kudou, I'm on a schedule."
Ah, I love watching the emotions play across his face as the corresponding thoughts clatter through his inebriated mind. Annoyance, confusion, fear that quickly changes to lust, and a deep, abiding shame for that lust. Yohji Kudou, closet case, and mine.
"So, you've got a palm pilot showing sex with Yohji, nine-fifteen to nine-thirty, slaughter innocent bystander, nine-thirty to ten?"
I love that he can still wisecrack at this stage in the game, that some small part of him still fights my control. I love forcing that spark of soul to fade.
"No, Kudou, you've got those backwards. I'm much faster at killing, and you of all people know how long I can fuck."
He's angry with my answer, mainly because it's true. I may torture him with pleasure and console him with pain, but I take *my* pleasure seriously, and take my time at it. I love my life.
"Time to go, kitten. You don't really want to stay here, losing yourself in booze, vomit and self-pity. It's so much better to lose yourself in sex!" I lean in, take his face in my hands. Such beautiful eyes, such a brilliant green, and slightly wet with unshed tears. I kiss each eyelid, gentle, soft, then plant a lingering kiss on those honey-lips, tender and sweet.
Forty-five minutes later, an abandoned warehouse, and we're locked together, my hands roving, grasping, bruising, my hips pushing, taking, claiming, and my lust and frenzy matched by his own. He moans, his hands scratching against the concrete floor, fingertips cut and bloodied, he *knows* he's not allowed to grab me, and I take one hand to my mouth, licking at the grit and blood and sweat as my other hand pumps his hardness, just not hard enough and just too slow.
He moans in frustration as I slow down further, and moans with delight as I kiss him again, delicate and tender. Breaking the kiss I pull back, just enough to look him full in the face, take in the need and longing and desperation. I smile, not a smirk, not a grin, but a real, honest smile.
"I love you, Yohji."
And he gives me the most heartwarming smile, so pure, so joyous, the prettiest I've ever seen, well, the prettiest I've seen since the *last* time I fucked him and, damn the rules, he pulls me back down, holding me close, fingers stroking and rubbing, my hair, my back, and his love, his surrender washes over me. It's beautiful, real and sacred; I resume my movements, pushing in deeper with my dick and my mind, taking it all.
Absolutely perfect.
Orgasm is spectacular, and post-coital recovery can be just as divine. No words, no thoughts, really, just muscles relaxing, blood flowing, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
Once that's faded, I normally re-enter Yohji's mind and start tormenting him by replaying images of Asuka, his lost love: her death, his anger, his pain, the descent into self-pity and darkness. He's twisted enough to enjoy the suffering, sees it as some form of penance. He loves me for it.
He's just as much a murderer as I am, a killer through and through. He just doesn't handle it as well as I do.
But my watch shows ten-thirty, I'm only halfway done tonight, and Brad will have my ass if I'm not done by one. Besides, between thoughts of God and knives and blood sprayed across a wall, I can actually make out the impatience in Farfarello's mind. So I get up, retrieve my clothing, and within scant moments I'm ready to go.
"What, got a Girl Scout Jamboree to crash?" Oh, that's my Yohji, fun to the last. I'm going to miss him.
Maybe. The bastard did get his bloodied hands all over me, and I'm definitely going to have to stop at home for a shower. The streaks of blood *definately* clash with my hair.
I blow Yohji a kiss, and turn towards the door. There's Farfarello, gleam in his eye and gleam off his knives, and the last time he looked this happy he was carving his mother like a Christmas goose. A killing Farfarello is a happy Farfarello.
"He's all yours, Farf. Just make sure there's nothing left to identify."
Farfarello stares up at me, the shining face of a boy given a most coveted gift. "That could take some time, done properly."
I run my hand through his short, spiked hair, ruffling it like I would on a pet. "You have all night, sweet. Have your fun, cover your tracks, and be home by six, or Crawford will kill you."
Farfarello laughs; the echo through the warehouse seems to multiply the effect. "That's supposed to worry me?"
I join in the laughter, because I already know the punchline. "No, but he's promised to give you a full Catholic burial, mass and all, and to line the casket with bibles. Said it would 'put the fear of God in you.'"
I really didn't think Farf could turn any whiter than he already is, but somehow, in the unlit warehouse, he did. He looks unearthly that way, like a vengeful angel. Gorgeous. Almost as good as when he's covered with blood, howling at deities. Which, by my calculations, should start in about three minutes.
Farf takes pride in his work.
I can't resist stopping at the door, taking one last look at my toy. Yohji is perfectly still, completely sober. Anyone seeing him would think him a man utterly betrayed, ripped apart body and soul. I am a telepath, however, and I know better. I nod, acknowledging his mental thanks, and silently depart. I may loved him, just a little, after all.
Farfarello gets a slow, sadistic kill, and Yohji gets a gradual, agonizing death. Both men get their greatest wish granted in one fell swoop. I may just be getting the hang of this multi-tasking business.
***
11:30 p.m.
17. Blessed are the flexible, for they can tie themselves into knots
One brief shower, re-dressed to kill and a short drive later, and I'm standing in a graveyard. I don't mind grime and blood when I'm killing, but I prefer to be clean while manipulating minds.
No, that doesn't make any sense, but I really don't care. It works for me.
Little Omi doesn't know what made him come here so late; he'd been wandering the city for hours, then just felt compelled to visit his ghosts.
I'm *so* good.
Omi's family could provide a year's worth of fodder for a Japanese version of the Jerry Springer Show. Well, if they were still alive, they could. Kidnapped as a child, only to have his father refuse to pay the ransom. Rescued and taken in by a man who kept his identity as Omi's uncle a secret, and who then raised the traumatized, amnesia-suffering boy to become a teenaged assassin. Pursued by an obnoxious, spoiled brat revealed to be his sister (*I* told him, of course. I'm so mischievous!)
Then it's disclosed that the sister is a cousin, the uncle is his father, the father is his uncle. No matter the exact relation, the relatives were in turn insipid, weak and asinine. And I will not even discuss the goddamn golf club!
Fact is, Omi's by far the most intelligent, dangerous member of his family. That's not much of a compliment, but I do like the kid. He's young; he's cute; and he's just sooo full of confusion and angst. Kind of like a blond Nagi without the constant scowl.
This is gonna be fun.
"Hi, brat."
Omi's fast, I'll give him that; in a split second he's turned, a handful of poisoned darts thrown my way. But I'm faster, dodging each projectile while breaking through his mental shields.
#We've got to stop these nighttime rendezvous, kid. Nagi's getting jealous.#
#He's too fast, can't get the drop on him! Get out of my head!#
#Why even try? We both know the result. Schuldig wins, Omi goes boo-hoo.#
#What do you want?#
#Question is, Takatori, what do *you* want?#
The kid's shocked into stillness, and I mirror his stance. "My name is Tsukiyono Omi. I am *not* a Takatori!"
Oh, please. Much as I enjoy a temper tantrum, enough is enough. "Of course you are. You hide your real identity like a Takatori; you smile, then kill like a Takatori; you even have the worst Takatori habit of all: you lie to yourself. Now answer my question: what do you want?"
Even I'm shocked at how readily, how honestly he answers. Guess I hit a nerve.
#I want to forget.#
"I want to forget."
Well, kid, tonight's your lucky night. With no shields up, it only takes me a few minutes to twist a little here, nudge a little there, erase a trauma or ten. A few errors of omission, and more than a few bald-faced lies, and say hello to the new, improved Omi. Sure, he's a work in progress, and sure I'll be performing more mental surgery later, but I think the operation was a success. Poor thing looks rather sweet, laying unconscious before his family's gravesite. He'll be all right; his new family will be there for him.
Schwarz takes care of their own. My not being able to (overtly) torture him in the future is more than offset by the happiness he will bring my favorite brooding adolescent.
I call out, "Hey, Nagi, think you can stop drooling, and actually get him home?"
Nagi emerges from the shadows, all dark hair and dark eyes; to me, he a mirror to the dead-to-the-world Omi. Same height and build, same keen intelligence honed to an edge during an equally damaging childhood. Nagi telekinetically lifts the blond teen, using his power as gently, as carefully as if holding him in his arms. They leave, but not before I see Nagi smile at me, hesitant, shy, but undeniably there. It's the first time I've seen him smile since Tot's demise.
Even assassins have their soft spots. I'll hunt down and kill mine later. I've still got one more flowerboy to torture, and time's running out.
***
12:25 a.m.
1. As I let go of my feelings of guilt, I am in touch with my inner sociopath
Lair sweet lair. Villains don't have homes, do they? Besides 'lair' sounds sexier. Brad gets really annoyed when I call it the Schwarz Cave. Says it's ridiculous and inaccurate to call a luxurious penthouse a cave. I like aggravating him, both physically and mentally; he gets all hot and bothered. Less work and foreplay makes Brad Crawford a sensational lay.
Anyway, everything's going as planned. Nagi and Omi are safely tucked away in their room. Farfarello's prison, err, room is ready for him when he returns, straightjacket, medication and all. Brad's nowhere in sight, and my bloodthirsty cat has just arrived.
"Hello, Ran. Welcome to the Schwarz Cave."
Does *no-one* have a sense of humor around here? All Ran's hostility and frustration are wrecking havoc on my self-esteem. I am a valuable and important person, dammit, and I'm worthy of the respect of others!
Ran is courteous enough to just stand there while I recover from my laughing fit. Nah, the fool's confused by my mirth. Isn't he supposed to be trying to kill me by now? How *did* Weiss manage to survive as long as they did? Amateurs.
"Shi-ne, Shuldig!"
Better late than never. He lunges at me, I side-step easily and down he goes, right into that coffee table I've been nagging Crawford to replace for years. I am on a roll.
I think Ran's insulted I haven't beat the crap out of him yet, because he's getting back up, attempting to take another shot at me. I'd be flattered at his persistence if I wasn't so annoyed by his stupidity. We didn't get in shi-ne boy's way when he gutted Reiji Takatori; hell, we didn't even kill the flowerboys when Estet went 'boom!' Where's the gratitude?
Well, poor Ran doesn't even get the chance to fall over more furniture, because badass Brad Crawford is holding him off the ground by the back of his neck; it would only take Brad a moment to snap Ran's delicate neck. Brad knows how to time an entrance; being able to see the near future has its benefits.
I was hoping the redhead would be more of a threat, but it turns out Ran's the proverbial one-trick pony; he's not even carrying a backup weapon. Looks like tonight's finale is a bust: it's not fun for Brad unless he has to work for it. I *always* make him work for it... in a different context, yes, but it's the same principle. Anyway, while Brad stands there looking bored, Ran's got that cornered animal vibe going, and I've got to admit all that raw sensation is rather yummy. I quickly link my mind to Brad's and share Ran's anger and desperation with him. That stirs my partner in crime's interest, and he re-examines his prisoner, shaking him back and forth.
The contrast between the two men before me is intoxicating. There's Ran, all vivid color and surface rage, dark red hair and flashing amethyst eyes, heated surface thoughts promising a quick, violent death while beneath lies the fear and despair; and then there's Brad, my restrained, deliberative Brad, the businessman of death: calculating brown eyes behind those meek wirerimmed glasses; powerful boxer's build hidden beneath an Armani suit, and more passion and savagery in his soul than Ran could ever hope to possess.
It's hard to tear my gaze from both men, but I do so, and find Ran's katana amid the destroyed coffee table. I take it with me across the room, out onto the balcony, and carelessly fling the blade out into the distance, jeering back at Ran, "Fetch!" Seconds later Brad's joined me, chuckling as he tosses a heavier load over the edge.
I'm a friendly scoundrel, so I wave farewell to Ran as he falls to the pavement. He lands a shattered arm's length from his beloved katana, a very nice touch; Brad must have seen that one coming.
"He who lives by the sword dies by the sword," is Brad's droll comment as he returns to the living room. I don't want to laugh, I don't, but Brad doesn't crack jokes often, and he's just too endearing when he isn't being an anal-retentive bastard. So I surrender to the urge, snickering softly as I join him on the couch. A little shifting and we're comfortably arranged in our usual fashion, with me covering him like a favorite blanket. I pull at his arm to get a good look at his watch; eight minutes to one, and my work is done.
I'm feeling pretty smug now, I must admit. "Four kittens skinned or declawed, Bradley, within a six-hour timespan. Remember that the next time you call me lazy and undisciplined."
Brad, as I expected, is unimpressed. "Perform like this everyday, not just on special occasions, and maybe I'll reconsider by opinion of you. And *don't* call me Bradley. That would be a marvelous present."
My smiles, cheerful to sardonic to sadistic, may be delicious, but I can pout seductively as well. I shift even closer, deepen my voice slightly, and purr, "And here I thought destroying Weiss was a marvelous present. Farfarello and Nagi absolutely *love* their gifts, though I admit Nagi's will last a lot longer. What better way to recognize the anniversary of forming Schwarz than mayhem and destruction? Far better than chocolates and flowers."
I let one hand slowly work down Brad's supine form, drifting from shoulder to chest, pausing to rub hardening nipples through silken fabric, taking in his almost-surpressed moan. "Didn't you take pleasure from the hatred, the hopelessness, the panic?"
My hand glides lower, over well-defined abdominal muscles, and I relish the hitches in Brad's breath. I continue, "Didn't you like having the man who ruined your last grand scheme at your mercy?"
His cool eyes are now blazing, the lust and savagery tangible between us: I reach my goal and squeeze his dick through his pants, just this side of painful and exactly the way he wants it. I taunt him, "Didn't you fucking *love* his last moments, being in complete control, his thoughts wholly focused on you, the struggle, the kill?"
With a strangled cry Brad's thrust us off the couch, and we land among the coffee table ruins. He kisses me silent as he tears at our clothes; demanding, consuming, that's the Brad I want, and I'm not disappointed. The first time is furious, brutal and over far too soon, but with murder for foreplay that's not unexpected.
Brad's built to last, though, and we'll go at it all night: more down and dirty and plenty of slow and sweet. It's good to be me.
All in all, I live an interesting, charmed life, thanks to my predilection for sex, violence and self-involvement. I only expect one problem in the future: what do I do for an encore?
8. I honor my personality flaws, for without them I would have no personality at all
***
End
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