FIC: Contract (R) for [golden_bastet]
Author: andmydog
Recipient: golden_bastet
Title: Contract
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): Farfarello/Yohji
Summary: Kudoh's obsession with strangling women did not come about by accident.
Warnings: Sex
Word Count: 1500
Author's Notes: I hope this is somewhat close to what you wanted!
Go to Tokyo, Crawford had said. And Farfarello had grinned so broadly that the tender pink flesh beneath his jaw had twisted and torn, sending hesitant trails of blood down his throat to stain his collar. There was only one reason why Crawford would send him and only him back to Japan, back to Takatori's Tokyo.
Weiß.
Dreamily he traced the sticky red rivulets back up to the holes in his head, and lovingly unpacked his favorite knife. He wanted to thank the Siberian kitten properly for the gift he'd been given. Ken's claws had done what medications and mental shackles and physical shackles had failed to accomplish. There was a hole in his head, and it let the light in.
He could think clearly now. And oh, what gratitude would he bestow on the one who had parted the clouds. Ken was also ill, also on the path to becoming a berserker. He twisted the pommel of his rapier, and the long slim blade extended and collapsed again. Who would have thought the solution to be trepanation?
Go to Tokyo and find Balinese, Crawford had said. And Farfarello had nodded, very carefully not thinking of the criss-crossing scars that now patterned Schuldig's flesh. Never stable, the deaths of the Elders had pushed the mindbreaker even further into mania... and he'd always been vain. Farfarello thought the lines beautiful, but he used his new focus to keep his thoughts to himself.
He bid Nagi goodbye, trusting Crawford that the boy could hear them, and that when he awoke in two more months he would recall much of what had been said to him. "I'll bring ye a new game," he promised, standing over Nagi's too-frail form. "Unless ye don't awake in time, then I'm giving it to Schuldig."
Pulling them all from the depths had been too much for Nagi's body to endure. It was (a miracle) astounding that the boy had survived at all. Crawford never admitted it, but Farfarello suspected that the odds had been good for them all dying in the cold black sea. That was all right, though. Better to die on one's feet, and so on.
The boat ride was a long one, and cold, but Farfarello had a new appreciation for the ocean, and he spent much of the voyage on the deck. The dilapidated steamer's trip from Shanghai had been remarkably free of robberies, rapes, and murders, although a disturbing number of the crew vanished during the journey. He'd been warned to keep a low profile, but Farfarello couldn't help it. Japan stirred his blood.
On Friday the 26th at 10:18pm, he will walk through the door of a certain club, Crawford had said. The club had been easy enough to find, and even with Crawford's assurances Farfarello was still amazed at how readily he was ushered through the front door. A feral, fixed smile, arms bare to the Tokyo winter, and knives displayed prominently at his waist and forearm and boot, and the bouncer had waved him through like he was the Queen.
Ah, Tokyo.
Inside, the club was as dark as the sea. Bodies writhed together in the black like jetsam pounded by the waves. An American girl pleaded through eight foot speakers for her lover to hit her again, and everywhere was the stink of sweat and skin and sex. It was enough to raise the dead.
He positioned himself with his back to a wall and a clear line of sight to the door, and waited. Body after body crashed into him as he stood there, statue-still, hands and mouths hot and wet against his skin. He ignored them all, remaining motionless even when one man (in the dim light from the door his hair was bleached a stunning orange) knelt at his feet and swallowed Farfarello's cock like a starving man in a desert.
If only he'd known about this place before! Bodies swayed, locked together, moaning and gasping and crying out, or struggling, gagged and bound, beneath the touch of faceless men. How long would it take the crowd to realize that the cries were cries of pain, not pleasure? How long until the heady iron tang of blood overpowered the fog of sweat and come? Would they panic? There was only the one door, as far as Farfarello could tell. His hand knotted in the hair of the boy servicing him, and the young man gasped around his dick, sucking harder.
Not for the first time, he missed Schuldig.
Don't allow him to identify you, Crawford had warned. The halo of familiar blond hair appeared in the doorway and Farfarello pushed his new friend aside, striding easily across the nearly pitch-black room as though it were clear as day. He was wearing the loosest trousers Farfarello had even seen him in - the easier to remove, he realized - and a tiny tight top of some reflective material. Even in the dim cave of the club, Kudoh Yohji sparkled.
It made him very easy to find.
Slipping up behind him, Farfarello wrapped his arms around Kudoh, spreading his palms flat against Kudoh's chest. His bared erection rubbed insistently against Kudoh's ass, catching briefly in the soft cotton folds. Kudoh went immediately pliant in Farfarello's hands, allowing himself to be steered to the nearest wall, his hands to be placed against it, arching his back in silence when Farfarello pulled his too-big trousers smoothly down to puddle at his feet.
Did the rest of Weiß know, Farfarello wondered, as Kudoh gyrated his bony hips against Farfarello's cock. Did they know how desperately that their companion sought to lose himself? Farfarello's fingers pressed roughly between Kudoh's cheeks, and he grinned in delight at what he found there. Loose trousers and an arse wet and ready to use. Do they know how broken you are? he wanted to ask, and what do you think they would do if they found out? But he was not here for a fight, as much as one would be welcome. He was here for a different kind of interaction.
I would prefer to send Schuldig, but I've seen that you will be able to perform adequately, Crawford had said. He hadn't been wrong. The touches and caresses had done as little for him as a cool breeze, but the intoxicating stew of pheromones and blatant need had stirred Farfarello in ways he'd never known before. Schuldig had shared with him what desire, arousal, and physical readiness felt like, but this was his first time experiencing those feelings for himself.
He wasn't sure if he enjoyed them, but he certainly understood the appeal.
Kudoh's ass was slick and snug as he shoved inside. And from the sounds Kudoh was making, that was exactly how he wanted it. Farfarello's hips pistoned at a dizzying speed, hands leaving Kudoh's hips only when Kudoh reached for his neglected cock. Silently, Farfarello seized Kudoh's arm near the elbow, and laid it agaisnt the wall. His pleasure was Farfarello's alone to give, the gesture said, and Kudoh shuddered beneath him, head bowed in obedience.
Long minutes ticked by. The crowd around them parted and joined again, voices calling in the darkness, but Farfarello's pace never slowed. The physical pleasure of the act was a dim dull throb at the base of his spine, nowhere near enough to bring about orgasm. And Kudoh bucked and plead and cursed as thrust after thrust brought him nearer to the edge, but never near enough to fall over.
The proper term is 'erotic asphyxiation'", Crawford had explained. When he judged the time was right, Farfarello's hands left Kudoh's hips and fastened themselves in a vice around Kudoh's throat, cutting off both his air and the flow of blood to his brain. Kudoh struggled violently then, but his body was on the peak, and without air he couldn't muster the strength to turn and fight. His body convulsed in Farfarello's hands, and Farfarello counted the seconds as that thin pulse fluttered beneath in fingers. It wouldn't do to kill the man, after all.
At nine, Farfarello leaned forward, and whispered a single word in Kudoh's ear. At fourteen Kudoh tensed, every muscle locked tight as he came, clawing at Farfarello's hands. His knees buckled at seventeen when Farfarello released him like so much garbage and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, still trembling from his orgasm. And at twenty-two, Farfarello was through the door and making his way out into the cold Tokyo night. Tucking himself in and grinning ferociously at the bouncer, he walked away with a uncharacteristic spring in his step, like a man strolling through a meadow in May.
Or, perhaps, like a tiger on the prowl.
If you succeed, Balinese will become a strangler, Crawford had said. He will kill several women, and the resulting desperation will cause him to betray Weiß. There had been more, but Crawford had turned away with a glint of his glasses and a line of steel at the corner of his mouth. That was all right. Farfarello didn't need to know the details now. They were free, and soon they would wipe the remains of Esset from the face of the world.
Asuka.
And one little word was all it had taken.
Recipient: golden_bastet
Title: Contract
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): Farfarello/Yohji
Summary: Kudoh's obsession with strangling women did not come about by accident.
Warnings: Sex
Word Count: 1500
Author's Notes: I hope this is somewhat close to what you wanted!
Go to Tokyo, Crawford had said. And Farfarello had grinned so broadly that the tender pink flesh beneath his jaw had twisted and torn, sending hesitant trails of blood down his throat to stain his collar. There was only one reason why Crawford would send him and only him back to Japan, back to Takatori's Tokyo.
Weiß.
Dreamily he traced the sticky red rivulets back up to the holes in his head, and lovingly unpacked his favorite knife. He wanted to thank the Siberian kitten properly for the gift he'd been given. Ken's claws had done what medications and mental shackles and physical shackles had failed to accomplish. There was a hole in his head, and it let the light in.
He could think clearly now. And oh, what gratitude would he bestow on the one who had parted the clouds. Ken was also ill, also on the path to becoming a berserker. He twisted the pommel of his rapier, and the long slim blade extended and collapsed again. Who would have thought the solution to be trepanation?
Go to Tokyo and find Balinese, Crawford had said. And Farfarello had nodded, very carefully not thinking of the criss-crossing scars that now patterned Schuldig's flesh. Never stable, the deaths of the Elders had pushed the mindbreaker even further into mania... and he'd always been vain. Farfarello thought the lines beautiful, but he used his new focus to keep his thoughts to himself.
He bid Nagi goodbye, trusting Crawford that the boy could hear them, and that when he awoke in two more months he would recall much of what had been said to him. "I'll bring ye a new game," he promised, standing over Nagi's too-frail form. "Unless ye don't awake in time, then I'm giving it to Schuldig."
Pulling them all from the depths had been too much for Nagi's body to endure. It was (a miracle) astounding that the boy had survived at all. Crawford never admitted it, but Farfarello suspected that the odds had been good for them all dying in the cold black sea. That was all right, though. Better to die on one's feet, and so on.
The boat ride was a long one, and cold, but Farfarello had a new appreciation for the ocean, and he spent much of the voyage on the deck. The dilapidated steamer's trip from Shanghai had been remarkably free of robberies, rapes, and murders, although a disturbing number of the crew vanished during the journey. He'd been warned to keep a low profile, but Farfarello couldn't help it. Japan stirred his blood.
On Friday the 26th at 10:18pm, he will walk through the door of a certain club, Crawford had said. The club had been easy enough to find, and even with Crawford's assurances Farfarello was still amazed at how readily he was ushered through the front door. A feral, fixed smile, arms bare to the Tokyo winter, and knives displayed prominently at his waist and forearm and boot, and the bouncer had waved him through like he was the Queen.
Ah, Tokyo.
Inside, the club was as dark as the sea. Bodies writhed together in the black like jetsam pounded by the waves. An American girl pleaded through eight foot speakers for her lover to hit her again, and everywhere was the stink of sweat and skin and sex. It was enough to raise the dead.
He positioned himself with his back to a wall and a clear line of sight to the door, and waited. Body after body crashed into him as he stood there, statue-still, hands and mouths hot and wet against his skin. He ignored them all, remaining motionless even when one man (in the dim light from the door his hair was bleached a stunning orange) knelt at his feet and swallowed Farfarello's cock like a starving man in a desert.
If only he'd known about this place before! Bodies swayed, locked together, moaning and gasping and crying out, or struggling, gagged and bound, beneath the touch of faceless men. How long would it take the crowd to realize that the cries were cries of pain, not pleasure? How long until the heady iron tang of blood overpowered the fog of sweat and come? Would they panic? There was only the one door, as far as Farfarello could tell. His hand knotted in the hair of the boy servicing him, and the young man gasped around his dick, sucking harder.
Not for the first time, he missed Schuldig.
Don't allow him to identify you, Crawford had warned. The halo of familiar blond hair appeared in the doorway and Farfarello pushed his new friend aside, striding easily across the nearly pitch-black room as though it were clear as day. He was wearing the loosest trousers Farfarello had even seen him in - the easier to remove, he realized - and a tiny tight top of some reflective material. Even in the dim cave of the club, Kudoh Yohji sparkled.
It made him very easy to find.
Slipping up behind him, Farfarello wrapped his arms around Kudoh, spreading his palms flat against Kudoh's chest. His bared erection rubbed insistently against Kudoh's ass, catching briefly in the soft cotton folds. Kudoh went immediately pliant in Farfarello's hands, allowing himself to be steered to the nearest wall, his hands to be placed against it, arching his back in silence when Farfarello pulled his too-big trousers smoothly down to puddle at his feet.
Did the rest of Weiß know, Farfarello wondered, as Kudoh gyrated his bony hips against Farfarello's cock. Did they know how desperately that their companion sought to lose himself? Farfarello's fingers pressed roughly between Kudoh's cheeks, and he grinned in delight at what he found there. Loose trousers and an arse wet and ready to use. Do they know how broken you are? he wanted to ask, and what do you think they would do if they found out? But he was not here for a fight, as much as one would be welcome. He was here for a different kind of interaction.
I would prefer to send Schuldig, but I've seen that you will be able to perform adequately, Crawford had said. He hadn't been wrong. The touches and caresses had done as little for him as a cool breeze, but the intoxicating stew of pheromones and blatant need had stirred Farfarello in ways he'd never known before. Schuldig had shared with him what desire, arousal, and physical readiness felt like, but this was his first time experiencing those feelings for himself.
He wasn't sure if he enjoyed them, but he certainly understood the appeal.
Kudoh's ass was slick and snug as he shoved inside. And from the sounds Kudoh was making, that was exactly how he wanted it. Farfarello's hips pistoned at a dizzying speed, hands leaving Kudoh's hips only when Kudoh reached for his neglected cock. Silently, Farfarello seized Kudoh's arm near the elbow, and laid it agaisnt the wall. His pleasure was Farfarello's alone to give, the gesture said, and Kudoh shuddered beneath him, head bowed in obedience.
Long minutes ticked by. The crowd around them parted and joined again, voices calling in the darkness, but Farfarello's pace never slowed. The physical pleasure of the act was a dim dull throb at the base of his spine, nowhere near enough to bring about orgasm. And Kudoh bucked and plead and cursed as thrust after thrust brought him nearer to the edge, but never near enough to fall over.
The proper term is 'erotic asphyxiation'", Crawford had explained. When he judged the time was right, Farfarello's hands left Kudoh's hips and fastened themselves in a vice around Kudoh's throat, cutting off both his air and the flow of blood to his brain. Kudoh struggled violently then, but his body was on the peak, and without air he couldn't muster the strength to turn and fight. His body convulsed in Farfarello's hands, and Farfarello counted the seconds as that thin pulse fluttered beneath in fingers. It wouldn't do to kill the man, after all.
At nine, Farfarello leaned forward, and whispered a single word in Kudoh's ear. At fourteen Kudoh tensed, every muscle locked tight as he came, clawing at Farfarello's hands. His knees buckled at seventeen when Farfarello released him like so much garbage and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, still trembling from his orgasm. And at twenty-two, Farfarello was through the door and making his way out into the cold Tokyo night. Tucking himself in and grinning ferociously at the bouncer, he walked away with a uncharacteristic spring in his step, like a man strolling through a meadow in May.
Or, perhaps, like a tiger on the prowl.
If you succeed, Balinese will become a strangler, Crawford had said. He will kill several women, and the resulting desperation will cause him to betray Weiß. There had been more, but Crawford had turned away with a glint of his glasses and a line of steel at the corner of his mouth. That was all right. Farfarello didn't need to know the details now. They were free, and soon they would wipe the remains of Esset from the face of the world.
Asuka.
And one little word was all it had taken.