Warnings: Satire. Psychology. Ensetophilia. (I rather like that word.)

Disclaimer: I can only claim responsibility for this inconsequential, sense- and meaningless little fanfic travesty, not Weiss Kreuz itself.

Kudou Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs

by Sylvia


It was Tuesday, and as always on Tuesdays, Yohji was horny. His first thought was to find Omi, but the boy was nowhere to be found – not even in his usual hiding places beneath the stairs or under the sink. Maybe he was growing trickier with advancing age. Too bad, Yohji really liked him.

Ken was out playing soccer or doing soccer players. Probably. Yohji hadn't been paying attention when he'd rambled on about his plans for the day over breakfast, but he figured that, since Ken mostly always played soccer or did soccer players, it was a fairly safe assumption.

Aya was locked in his room, and apparantly he'd had a door with a steel core and frame installed when Yohji wasn't looking. Very painful. Also very frustrating, because – as Yohji found – even a severely bruised shoulder doesn't do much to cool your ardor when your name is Kudou Yohji, Sex God of the Suburbs (most clubs downtown had for some reason begun to close for the night at the most unreasonable hours. Quite unpredictable, too, because it seemed that no matter when he arrived, they would just be closing down admission).

Anyway. Yohji didn't really like sleeping with Aya all that much – he always wanted to dress up in his sister's school uniform, and Yohji had standards. Aya's legs were terribly hairy, and rather knobby around the knees – short pleated skirts were just wrong for him. And judging from the smell of chemicals escaping into the corridor from beneath the reinforced door, Aya was touching up his roots again, so he'd be all red-eyed and puffy from the fumes. So really, no loss there.

What to do, what to do?

After short consideration, Yohji looked up Schuldig's address in the phone book – good job there was only one "Schuldig, redh. Grm. telep. assassin, by prior appointment only" listed – and took a taxi. Bad luck, though – Schuldig wasn't home either, and it seemed like Yohji had only just missed him because there was still a cigarette burning in the ashtray on the sofa table, next to the mug of coffee and book.

Yohji helped himself to cigarette and coffee, but found the book much less interesting than tying Schuldig to the curtain rods would have been (apparently it was a psychology textbook – Schuldig had written scathing comments in the margins and drawn jeering faces next to some paragraphs with captions such as "like you'd know a borderline anankastic personality if it bit you in the ass, you dumb fucker"). He'd gotten new rods, too, Yohji noted. Well, he'd kind of had to. They looked much sturdier than the last set, but that one wouldn't have fit the wider windows in the new apartment, anyway. A shame the man himself wasn't there.

There was a banana skin lying on the sink in Schuldig's kitchen. Yohji eyed it for a minute or two before going into action like the decisive and flexible man about town that he was.

Improvisation and bold innovation were the key to success, after all.



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