dream (interactive!) † 002 † 03-27-10
This dream is so, so interactive.
Warnings/Notes: About a gallon of UST between Youji and Asuka, but nothing explicit. Everything is in black and white, because Youji is a dork like that. Also, Youji will be in his earlier design with the detective outfit, like he is in the icon I'm using here.
The woman he's talking to is the one in the icon, as well. Her name is Asuka, she's dead, Youji is (literally) crazy about her, and she will be tagging back as well. Whether or not you just laugh at how much of a loser he is (this is all-but pure fantasy) or actually bring them a case is left to your discretion. Have fun!]
The world has been bled of color, left with nothing but black and white, and all the intermittent shades of gray. The light filtering through the Venetian blinds is white; as is the cigarette smoke drifting silently up, laying itself against the black of Youji’s hat and coat.
The contrast would be pretty and thought provoking, were it not the same as it was yesterday, and the day before, and every day before that.
The heat of the room is heaving and tiring, seeming to sit overhead, over even the tobacco smoke, seeming to sink ever lower. It’s a quiet burden, but noticeable, and gaining with every exhale.
It is with a great sense of effort that Youji opens his eyes, shifts his sunglasses further down his nose, and crushes the end of his cigarette in the gray-ceramic ashtray. He glances at the clock on his desk, old, analog, and two minutes fast, and nods to himself, leaning further back into his chair. Even the anticipation is too much effort, but it’s there. It is a special anticipation for a special woman, one that hasn’t diminished in nearly ten years.
Out of respect for the expected lady, he removes his black fedora, standing up to put it on the hat stand by the door. His cowboy hat is already there, and he knocks it askew as he turns to leave. He straightens his tie and smoothes his hair in the reflecting glass of the window, having to twist a bit to see himself around the peeling paint that reads “Youji Kudou, Private Eye.”
It is with indecent haste that he hurries back to his desk chair when he hears the sharp clack of her heels on the ground outside. He’s settled back by the time she eases the door open, calm and cool as ever. Has even lighted another cigarette.
Her gaze washes across the room like a wave on golden sand, cool and all encompassing. It focuses on him, sharp and knowing, as she leans against the doorframe. Her eyes narrow as he offers her a bland smile in greeting, and she speaks.
“Haven’t you gotten tired of this dream yet?” she huffs. “I can’t run in this skirt, let alone these heels, and the black and white is just a bit too much.”
“But the chiaroscuro certainly flatters your complexion,” Youji answers brightly.
“Youji--or would you like ‘Detective?’”
Youji laughs a little. Strange because it was a happy laugh, not a sarcastic one.
“What you usually call me is fine,” he says grandly. “Unless you’d rather switch to ‘darling.’”
“How about ‘idiot?’”
“I did say you what you usually call me.”
“Idiot it is, then,” she declares, striding into the room, enjoying how Youji enjoys the way her hips sway as she approaches. She smirks at him, fully aware she has his complete attention, and fully aware of that anticipation he barely has the energy for.
Youji nods towards the two chairs placed in front of his desk. “Please take a seat, Asuka.”
It is with a sly smile that she takes him up on the offer, purposefully crossing the room as if she owned it-and, in real life, Youji thinks with a smile, she had. Even if he dreams that the office is his, the confidence will always be hers.
Her eyes slide over the chairs, sharp with disdain, and she bypasses them-ignores them. She strides right up to Youji’s side and hops up onto his desk, right in front of him, and neatly crosses her ankles, her shoes buckling around them. She leans back, as if to give him a better view, hands gripping the edge of the desk.
She levels a heavy look at him, heavy with years’ worth of repeating similar dreams, similar scenarios, and she overpowers everything else; she’s the only weight he can feel, the only strength he can draw from, the only source of warmth to make him sweat. The anticipation is well rewarded, well in proportion to the effort, and she knows it. She knows him better than he knows himself, even now.
Especially now.
“Well?” said Youji.
“Well?” said Asuka. She smiled.
“I’m surprised to see you,” he answered. “It’s been a while.”
“I wanted to wait until we could be alone,” she said.
“Alone,” Youji repeated. He beckoned her to lean forward. “I like the sound of that.”
She leaned forward, loosening her choker. The high-collared blouse was white against the rest of the gray, the purest, clearest white, and was form-fitting without being tight. Her other hand, the one not playing with her jewelry, gripped the desk tighter, either to keep her from falling or to keep her from touching his face. He could swear the same anticipation rolled off of her, the same joy that the wait was over, that she felt the same heaviness permeating the bleakness of the room.
But she shook her head.
“Then I’m sorry I got your hopes up,” she said. The choker was off now, and she dropped it on the ground.
“Hopes up?” he echoed. He was brilliant tonight, really.
She leaned closer, then, her nose just a fraction of a centimeter away from his, then not, just the briefest touch before she leaned back, back, back.
Asuka kissed the tip of her finger, and then tapped him on the nose.
“There’s someone at the door, Youji.”
Warnings/Notes: About a gallon of UST between Youji and Asuka, but nothing explicit. Everything is in black and white, because Youji is a dork like that. Also, Youji will be in his earlier design with the detective outfit, like he is in the icon I'm using here.
The woman he's talking to is the one in the icon, as well. Her name is Asuka, she's dead, Youji is (literally) crazy about her, and she will be tagging back as well. Whether or not you just laugh at how much of a loser he is (this is all-but pure fantasy) or actually bring them a case is left to your discretion. Have fun!]
The world has been bled of color, left with nothing but black and white, and all the intermittent shades of gray. The light filtering through the Venetian blinds is white; as is the cigarette smoke drifting silently up, laying itself against the black of Youji’s hat and coat.
The contrast would be pretty and thought provoking, were it not the same as it was yesterday, and the day before, and every day before that.
The heat of the room is heaving and tiring, seeming to sit overhead, over even the tobacco smoke, seeming to sink ever lower. It’s a quiet burden, but noticeable, and gaining with every exhale.
It is with a great sense of effort that Youji opens his eyes, shifts his sunglasses further down his nose, and crushes the end of his cigarette in the gray-ceramic ashtray. He glances at the clock on his desk, old, analog, and two minutes fast, and nods to himself, leaning further back into his chair. Even the anticipation is too much effort, but it’s there. It is a special anticipation for a special woman, one that hasn’t diminished in nearly ten years.
Out of respect for the expected lady, he removes his black fedora, standing up to put it on the hat stand by the door. His cowboy hat is already there, and he knocks it askew as he turns to leave. He straightens his tie and smoothes his hair in the reflecting glass of the window, having to twist a bit to see himself around the peeling paint that reads “Youji Kudou, Private Eye.”
It is with indecent haste that he hurries back to his desk chair when he hears the sharp clack of her heels on the ground outside. He’s settled back by the time she eases the door open, calm and cool as ever. Has even lighted another cigarette.
Her gaze washes across the room like a wave on golden sand, cool and all encompassing. It focuses on him, sharp and knowing, as she leans against the doorframe. Her eyes narrow as he offers her a bland smile in greeting, and she speaks.
“Haven’t you gotten tired of this dream yet?” she huffs. “I can’t run in this skirt, let alone these heels, and the black and white is just a bit too much.”
“But the chiaroscuro certainly flatters your complexion,” Youji answers brightly.
“Youji--or would you like ‘Detective?’”
Youji laughs a little. Strange because it was a happy laugh, not a sarcastic one.
“What you usually call me is fine,” he says grandly. “Unless you’d rather switch to ‘darling.’”
“How about ‘idiot?’”
“I did say you what you usually call me.”
“Idiot it is, then,” she declares, striding into the room, enjoying how Youji enjoys the way her hips sway as she approaches. She smirks at him, fully aware she has his complete attention, and fully aware of that anticipation he barely has the energy for.
Youji nods towards the two chairs placed in front of his desk. “Please take a seat, Asuka.”
It is with a sly smile that she takes him up on the offer, purposefully crossing the room as if she owned it-and, in real life, Youji thinks with a smile, she had. Even if he dreams that the office is his, the confidence will always be hers.
Her eyes slide over the chairs, sharp with disdain, and she bypasses them-ignores them. She strides right up to Youji’s side and hops up onto his desk, right in front of him, and neatly crosses her ankles, her shoes buckling around them. She leans back, as if to give him a better view, hands gripping the edge of the desk.
She levels a heavy look at him, heavy with years’ worth of repeating similar dreams, similar scenarios, and she overpowers everything else; she’s the only weight he can feel, the only strength he can draw from, the only source of warmth to make him sweat. The anticipation is well rewarded, well in proportion to the effort, and she knows it. She knows him better than he knows himself, even now.
Especially now.
“Well?” said Youji.
“Well?” said Asuka. She smiled.
“I’m surprised to see you,” he answered. “It’s been a while.”
“I wanted to wait until we could be alone,” she said.
“Alone,” Youji repeated. He beckoned her to lean forward. “I like the sound of that.”
She leaned forward, loosening her choker. The high-collared blouse was white against the rest of the gray, the purest, clearest white, and was form-fitting without being tight. Her other hand, the one not playing with her jewelry, gripped the desk tighter, either to keep her from falling or to keep her from touching his face. He could swear the same anticipation rolled off of her, the same joy that the wait was over, that she felt the same heaviness permeating the bleakness of the room.
But she shook her head.
“Then I’m sorry I got your hopes up,” she said. The choker was off now, and she dropped it on the ground.
“Hopes up?” he echoed. He was brilliant tonight, really.
She leaned closer, then, her nose just a fraction of a centimeter away from his, then not, just the briefest touch before she leaned back, back, back.
Asuka kissed the tip of her finger, and then tapped him on the nose.
“There’s someone at the door, Youji.”