[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Walking on Hell
Scribblemoose

Never forget:
We walk on hell
Gazing at flowers

Issa

Interlude - Counterpoint 2

She looked like Asuka.

Of course she did. They all looked like Asuka. But this one was different. There was something else in there, something cold and dark, a siren song to Yohji's soul. She was temptation and heartbreak, strong and dangerous, and Yohji was helpless. Paralysed by the treachery he already knew was inside of her, greedy and ready to consume him.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Vodka martini, no ice." She recrossed long legs, slender and graceful.

"My name's Yohji. Kudoh Yohji. You staying here at the hotel?"

"On business. My name's Fiona. You're Japanese?"

"Mostly."

"And you're here-"

"On business, too."

"I find it hard to believe that a man as attractive as you has business in this seedy little town."

"It's true." He caught her gaze and held it. "I never lie to women."

Every detail was intact: the rich purr of her voice, the mole just under one eye, the dark fall of hair. So familiar that Yohji wasn't even surprised any more.

She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her, barely trembling when she cupped her hand over his to shield the flame from the non-existent breeze.

"Are you lonely?" she said. "I'm at a loose end until tomorrow. We could spend some time together."

Direct and to the point.

"You don't even know me," said Yohji. "I could be some kind of psychopath."

A half-smile crawled across her face.

"Maybe I'm looking for a psychopath."

He returned her smile with one no less insincere, and held out his hand.

He felt some kind of perverse need to impress, once they got to bed. Pulled out all the tricks in his extensive repertoire, had her writhing and squealing in pleasure. Licked and kissed and touched, even tried to lose himself.

He let her come before he fastened his fingers around her throat.

He waited for her to struggle, to writhe, to gasp and choke and beg. But she didn't.

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming, and dared him to kill her.

He clenched his fingers tight around her neck. Not with the pain and desperation that he'd felt before. Looking down at her, unable to take his eyes off the tiny mole, high on her cheekbone, his grief and anger froze and hardened in his chest to a steady, ache, pulsing with his heartbeat.

If this was what he had become, so be it.

He'd lost Asuka. He'd lost Aya. He deserved the living hell his life had become, endlessly tortured by his own failure.

If he was meant to kill, so be it.

Warm satisfaction spread through him as the courage turned to panic in her eyes. Not so keen to die after all. Still enough of a spark under whatever bitterness her soul was coated with to want to remain in this shit hole of a world and torture him.

If this nightmare was his reality, so be it.

She snapped her body up with remarkable strength, slender arms cracking against his to knock him away. Breaking his litany, ensuring his failure. The guilt and horror flooded in on him, wrenching a sob from his gut as he fell back on the bed. If she was that strong, perhaps she could kill him.

He dared to hope.

"You're dangerous, Kudoh."

He flung an arm across his eyes, to hide his tears.

"We could have a future together, you and I."

He could barely hear her through the roaring in his ears, let alone make sense of her words. He felt the bed shift; she straddled him, wet warmth spreading over his thighs. She pried his arm away from his face, leaned down and kissed him.

"Fiona?"

"That's not my real name. It's Michelle."

He didn't question why she'd given him a false name. What did it matter to him? There was only one name in his mind when he looked at her.

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

"No, you're not. But we can work on that. I guess you have a few issues. That wasn't for fun, was it?"

"I got carried away is all."

He wanted her to stop talking, to stop sitting on him, to go away and leave him alone with a bottle and the hope of the mission Kritiker had promised him and Ken here in Europe.

"Next time, it'll be different, you'll see."

He snorted. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Go home. You don't want to get mixed up with a guy like me."

"I can help." She rained butterfly kisses across his chest and neck, down to his belly. "This helps, doesn't it, Kudoh? Helps you forget? Helps make it better?"

His body instinctively rose to meet her caress, despite the revulsion he felt inside at his own fickle senses.

"No," he lied. "Go home."

She ignored him, and fastened her lips around his hardening cock, and started to suck.

"I said..."

But what was the point, in the end? It felt good, the hot-wet and grip, the slide and the press and the ache. It did make it better, it did make him forget, and if it would all come back, twice as hard and twice as painful in the morning, didn't he deserve it?

If he was to fall into the trap again, if he was to be betrayed and punished...

So be it.