[Closed] --your ability
Characters: Schuldig and Farfarello, for now.
Location: L9, Schwarz residence.
Time: Day 1, evening.
Summary: A night at the Schwarz hideout.
Notes: Nothing unusual, I suppose, just be warned of some possibly disturbing topics before clicking. Also... I will cut down the length of the tags. >.> I will!
Still sore, twitchy and easily bruised, Schuldig had not been exactly eager to leave the safe house for mindless chitchat, and the masters of saying one thing and meaning another. He had barely woken up from his restless, yet consuming sleep, which had gone on perpetually since that fated night the Esset elders had towered over them only to be trashed down like the blind statues of the wealth and power they had been: immobile, petrified. Drawing out the girl from her coma, sealing the beast, crashing through a level and if that had not been enough to knock him off his rocker there were those hundreds of people screaming their anguish, pain and fear through his battered mind. He had gone down screaming, babbling, clawing at his ears to get rid of the noises; if he had not lost his gun, he might have been carving a hollow between the bones of his jaw with the barrel of his gun. Dying again and again and again and again...
Eventually, he'd been unable to dodge the rubble coming down with a vengeance. What happened after he blacked out, Schuldig didn't know. The next thing he registered was coming out of it about twenty hours prior to now, rocking a headache worth a month of continuous drinking, shaky limbs and nausea that made him crawl to the bathroom on all four to empty his already empty stomach repeatedly for the next half an hour. Crawford, despite not having been certain if Schuldig would wake up at all, had probably felt him stirring, and while Schuldig would have been completely content curled up on the floor beside his bed for the next week or so, the man had felt it necessary to send him out to play a fucking radio receiver.
Crucial, sure.
No, fuck that. He didn't care to be honest.
Nerves snapped short, jumping at shadows, Schuldig had practically felt the saccharine poison seeping in from his nonexistent shields and slithering around himself, burning, sticky, fucking disgusting - honey and cyanide. The gentle chime of champagne flutes, demure laughter, soft glow of forbidden candles - forbidden for all but the rich and powerful - and he could think of nothing but how the next perfect-skinned model in a pinstripe suit and armored in makeup, reeking of both expensive leather, dry cleaned clothes and Chanel no. 20 would look like when decorated with gunshot wound in the stomach, the flesh of her face ripped open to the bone, opened up like a ripe genetically engineered plum under a gentle pressure of teeth, revealing the innermost core of a stone. The whole fucking evening, fighting urges to snap bones, to dig his fingers inside the hollow sockets of staring eyes and bang that unfeeling head against a concrete wall until he'd feel the sickeningly satisfying rattle of bone breaking...
And he had shuddered, he had moaned, he had quietly hated them all, and still he did nothing of what he wanted, and just listened. Just like Crawford had told him to do.
Why?
Because he knew better than to trust himself when the world flew in wild vertigo and air tasted like metal and ashes.
Five hours in a crowded stadium, five more in a fancy club, slipping through masses of people, unnoticed, like a ghost. Ten hours of sweet flattering, light chitchat, witty double-entendres, sophisticated scheming, delicate destruction of words and play, honey dripping on the floors, streaming down the seam of a crisply-ironed leg of an immaculate suit, pooling around a newly polished leather shoe. Sticky and sweet, it curved along a satin-clad back and hung heavy on the short hem of velvety dress. Nylon thighs, syrupy slick, the scent of nectarous pleasure heavy on the air, like sugar-coated carnality.
And after two hours, he'd been drowning, suffocating endlessly in the marshmallow nothing.
Which was exactly why pizza with gene manipulated fillings seemed like the best thing Schuldig had seen in the last couple of years. The boxes rested on the kitchen counter of the Schwarz residence at L9, owned by their uncannily oblivious business partners. The house was simple enough with four bedrooms, plus an office, a big, motorized kitchen and a large bathing section below the ground. Red couches in the living room, a wall TV, and an impressive collection of pre-war entertainment from movies to music. Schuldig had very little to complain about when it came to conveniences. Especially when Crawford had gone out of his way to actually order in food.
Flippy hair dripping water all over the floors and his tattered pair of faded blue jeans, he padded over the tiled floors to the living room, tossed his choice of boxed food on the couch and grabbed a remote control to flip through remastered versions of sci-fi movies, because doing something with his own hands, even if just pushing buttons felt fucking good.
Location: L9, Schwarz residence.
Time: Day 1, evening.
Summary: A night at the Schwarz hideout.
Notes: Nothing unusual, I suppose, just be warned of some possibly disturbing topics before clicking. Also... I will cut down the length of the tags. >.> I will!
Still sore, twitchy and easily bruised, Schuldig had not been exactly eager to leave the safe house for mindless chitchat, and the masters of saying one thing and meaning another. He had barely woken up from his restless, yet consuming sleep, which had gone on perpetually since that fated night the Esset elders had towered over them only to be trashed down like the blind statues of the wealth and power they had been: immobile, petrified. Drawing out the girl from her coma, sealing the beast, crashing through a level and if that had not been enough to knock him off his rocker there were those hundreds of people screaming their anguish, pain and fear through his battered mind. He had gone down screaming, babbling, clawing at his ears to get rid of the noises; if he had not lost his gun, he might have been carving a hollow between the bones of his jaw with the barrel of his gun. Dying again and again and again and again...
Eventually, he'd been unable to dodge the rubble coming down with a vengeance. What happened after he blacked out, Schuldig didn't know. The next thing he registered was coming out of it about twenty hours prior to now, rocking a headache worth a month of continuous drinking, shaky limbs and nausea that made him crawl to the bathroom on all four to empty his already empty stomach repeatedly for the next half an hour. Crawford, despite not having been certain if Schuldig would wake up at all, had probably felt him stirring, and while Schuldig would have been completely content curled up on the floor beside his bed for the next week or so, the man had felt it necessary to send him out to play a fucking radio receiver.
Crucial, sure.
No, fuck that. He didn't care to be honest.
Nerves snapped short, jumping at shadows, Schuldig had practically felt the saccharine poison seeping in from his nonexistent shields and slithering around himself, burning, sticky, fucking disgusting - honey and cyanide. The gentle chime of champagne flutes, demure laughter, soft glow of forbidden candles - forbidden for all but the rich and powerful - and he could think of nothing but how the next perfect-skinned model in a pinstripe suit and armored in makeup, reeking of both expensive leather, dry cleaned clothes and Chanel no. 20 would look like when decorated with gunshot wound in the stomach, the flesh of her face ripped open to the bone, opened up like a ripe genetically engineered plum under a gentle pressure of teeth, revealing the innermost core of a stone. The whole fucking evening, fighting urges to snap bones, to dig his fingers inside the hollow sockets of staring eyes and bang that unfeeling head against a concrete wall until he'd feel the sickeningly satisfying rattle of bone breaking...
And he had shuddered, he had moaned, he had quietly hated them all, and still he did nothing of what he wanted, and just listened. Just like Crawford had told him to do.
Why?
Because he knew better than to trust himself when the world flew in wild vertigo and air tasted like metal and ashes.
Five hours in a crowded stadium, five more in a fancy club, slipping through masses of people, unnoticed, like a ghost. Ten hours of sweet flattering, light chitchat, witty double-entendres, sophisticated scheming, delicate destruction of words and play, honey dripping on the floors, streaming down the seam of a crisply-ironed leg of an immaculate suit, pooling around a newly polished leather shoe. Sticky and sweet, it curved along a satin-clad back and hung heavy on the short hem of velvety dress. Nylon thighs, syrupy slick, the scent of nectarous pleasure heavy on the air, like sugar-coated carnality.
And after two hours, he'd been drowning, suffocating endlessly in the marshmallow nothing.
Which was exactly why pizza with gene manipulated fillings seemed like the best thing Schuldig had seen in the last couple of years. The boxes rested on the kitchen counter of the Schwarz residence at L9, owned by their uncannily oblivious business partners. The house was simple enough with four bedrooms, plus an office, a big, motorized kitchen and a large bathing section below the ground. Red couches in the living room, a wall TV, and an impressive collection of pre-war entertainment from movies to music. Schuldig had very little to complain about when it came to conveniences. Especially when Crawford had gone out of his way to actually order in food.
Flippy hair dripping water all over the floors and his tattered pair of faded blue jeans, he padded over the tiled floors to the living room, tossed his choice of boxed food on the couch and grabbed a remote control to flip through remastered versions of sci-fi movies, because doing something with his own hands, even if just pushing buttons felt fucking good.