Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2003-09-03 07:33 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2003-09-03 07:33 pm
Ficcage!
First things first--called tech support on the laptop [shame, shame] and will be able to start fixing it as soon as they email me a new grub.conf file. Installed an antivirus scanner, found out that the little bugger I downloaded had infected every single executable in my KLite folder. Was not happy, but got it cleared up.
And in the real news: I finished an actual fic. And not only that, but as far as I know it's the first and only KMFDM slash fic ever to rear its ugly head--and I managed to keep it down to PG13 by cutting out a horribly written and unnecessarily smutty scene in the middle. If you care to read and aren't squicked by real-person slash, please leave feedback...
Title: Sturm & Drang
Rated: PG13
Fandom/Pairing: KMFDM - Sascha/Günter
Warnings: The usual RPS fare--slash, swearing, sex, and so on
Disclaimer: Never happened, don't own 'em, don't sue me.
General background on KMFDM, as it pertains to the story--as of 1999 the band was made up of Sascha Konietzko [frontman], plus Günter Schulz, En Esch, Raymond Watts, a few others, and various side artists who drifted in and out. In early 1999 the band broke up, reportedly due to a schism on what direction they wanted to take musically; Esch and Schulz went off to form Slick Idiot, and KMFDM itself was eventually resurrected by Konietzko, Watts, Lucia Cifarilli, Tim Skold, and a few more I can't be arsed to remember. [PS--Schneider remixed a Slick Idiot song called Xcess, if you care to look for it...]
Pictures that inspired this madness--
Sascha Konietzko http://www.msu.edu/~sebenic3/pics/sascha2.gif
Günter Schulz http://www.msu.edu/~sebenic3/pics/gun.gif
---
San Francisco. The City by the Bay. A cozy little café in the heart of the Castro District, where no one recognized him and he could have his coffee in peace with no fans or band members on his case. Cell phone turned off, no explanations given to anyone, just a vacation. Relaxation. Yes.
He was about to go into the studio for a new album, and he needed a little break before he returned to the endless routine of eat, work, sleep, work, eat, work. One of his favourite routines, actually, when work consisted of music, but it was just better to get out a bit before he committed himself, and so he'd gotten in the car and driven the couple hundred miles south on a whim. He liked San Francisco, even if he'd never live there. Nice city for vacations.
The waitress returned with another cup of coffee, and he sipped it absentmindedly as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Headlines, celebrities, world leaders and crises...he'd had his share of limelight, and he had long decided that he much preferred to be just another random schmuck in a café with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Fame was nice, but he knew better than anyone what a double-edged sword it was--especially after those dipshits in Colorado... but better not to think about that. Let dead things lie and all that.
Quite suddenly, a hand descended on his shoulder, and he twisted around to see who it was. Goddamn, and just when he thought he'd gotten away from... fucking hell. Oh God, not him, not now, not here.
"Isn't it a little late for coffee?" the newcomer asked.
"I keep my own sleep schedule. You of all people should know that, Schulz." The adrenaline jumped into his veins as if he were in a fight; he didn't let it show outwardly except for the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table.
He just laughed and slid into the seat across from him. "You haven't changed a bit."
They lapsed into awkward silence; the other man took the newspaper and pretended to be deeply absorbed in reading it. Reading it when it was upside down. Then he was just as nervous--good. God, how long had it been? Four years, maybe, not counting brief run-ins on coinciding tours. And they were trying to pretend nothing had changed at all.
"So, do you, um, want a drink or anything?"
"No, I'm fine... I just saw you through the window and figured, long time, no see, maybe we could catch up on things a bit."
"Things? Such as?"
Nonchalant shrug from the man he'd called Schulz. "I don't know. Bands, maybe? How's KMFDM going? I haven't heard much since we all split off."
"Bullshit. I know what you wanted to talk about," he teased. "You know that was a break-up in more ways than one."
"Damn it, Sascha, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, so it's Sascha now?" he asked mockingly. "Fine then. Günter. You never knew what to call me, did you? Konietzko--Sascha--Liebling..."
Günter Schulz flung the newspaper onto the table and stood up. "Listen, I thought we could talk. But if you're going to be a little bitch like you always were, I'm out of here." He made angrily for the exit, but Sascha grabbed his arm as he passed, rising to his own feet at the same time.
"I may be a bitch but at least I'm not in denial," he hissed, not teasing anymore. Their faces were uncomfortably close together, and Günter's hot breath blasted over him. "You never could come to terms with it, could you? Always running away. I'm only a bitch when I'm trying to make you see what's right in front of your fucking nose."
"And what is it that's right in front of my nose?" he challenged.
Sascha didn't know if he meant to or not, but the next thing he knew he'd jerked his head forward and caught the other's lips with his own. A split second later Günter's hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him backwards, away.
"That," Sascha spat. "That's what's right in front of your nose, and that's what you do every time I try to make you see it. Or did you think I didn't remember what happened?"
"I was drunk!"
"Yes, you were drunk the first time. But after that there's no excuse."
The other patrons of the café had been watching this exchange with interest, and a few whistles had greeted their unintentional kiss. Sascha threw some money down onto the table to pay for his coffee, then grabbed Günter's arm and dragged him outside.
"Konietzko you bastard--what the fuck--"
Sascha cut him off forcefully by shoving him up against the brick wall of the building and kissing him again. Hard. He tasted of cigarettes and beer, not cherry lips by a long shot but familiar. Way too familiar.
A pair of hands connected with his face, nearly shoving him off the sidewalk, and now Günter looked angry. "What
the hell are you playing at?"
Sascha consciously resisted the urge to sneer. "The same thing we played at for years before you ran away. Say it's over if you want, but don't try to pretend it never happened."
"What never happened? What was there ever between us but a little drunken fumbling?" But now Günter was staring hard at the sidewalk, at the building in front of him, anywhere but Sascha's face, and Sascha knew he was just
pretending, and he knew that Sascha knew. But he still wouldn't meet his eyes.
Sascha shook his head in resignation. "I should just kick you in the nuts and walk away, you stupid bastard." He turned around and started down the sidewalk. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Hotel. We need to talk."
---
They didn't talk. Once upstairs and inside the room Sascha pulled two beers out of the cheap hotel refrigerator and tossed one to Günter; they cracked them open and sat down drinking in silence.
A thousand things he could use to break the silence, and they all sounded utterly moronic. How have you been? Too cliché. What have you and Esch been doing with Slick Idiot? No, he already knew all that. What happened to us?
Too mushy. I didn't know you were here in the States again. What a coincidence that we ran into each other. Too bad you had to leave the band. You're still hot, let's fuck.
Fuck. Where did that come from?
"So," Günter began awkwardly, "what brings you to San Francisco?"
Shrug. "Vacation." At least he didn't have to get the ball rolling. "You?"
"Band business. And vacation."
"Fascinating."
Dead end.
He tried again. "Umm... why did you bring me here anyway?"
Another shrug. "I wanted to talk to you. Hang out with you. Been a while since we've been alone in a cheap hotel room, hasn't it?" Arched eyebrow, wicked smile. Try to get a response.
Günter flushed. "Yeah. Whatever." He suddenly looked like he wanted to leave.
"You remember the last time, don't you?" Sascha pressed, carefully keeping his voice blank enough that it was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. "Wasn't that the time you chained me to the bed? Or did I chain you?"
A glimmer of interest behind the embarrassment, a glimmer of recognition. "I don't know."
"Sure you do." Impatient now, he stood up and strode over to the other end of the table. Casually leaning an elbow on Günter's back, he leaned in closer and added in a drawl, "But my memory's gotten a bit blurry around the edges.
Maybe you could help me remember."
Günter whirled around and landed an angry punch on Sascha's shoulder. "Like fuck I will. Whatever it is, whatever it was, it's over, you understand me, it's over!"
"But what if I want to start it again?" Without giving him a chance to answer, Sascha grabbed Günter and kissed him fiercely, subduing all his efforts at struggle. It was fascinating to feel Günter slowly melt under his touch: squirming at first, then standing stiffly and obstinately refusing to respond, then--the hint of a sigh blown straight into Sascha's mouth, and suddenly he relaxed to the point of limpness, pliant, allowing Sascha to do what he wanted. Pull him tight against his body, slip his tongue between his lips, hook a leg behind his knee and sweep his legs out from under him, making him tumble back onto the bed.
"No," Günter croaked when Sascha came up for air.
"Yes," Sascha whispered, leaning in for another kiss.
Günter pulled away angrily. "I don't fucking love you, bastard, get that out of your head."
"Who ever said love had anything to do with it?" Sascha retorted, giving him a huge Cheshire cat grin.
Günter argued a bit more. He had a reputation to uphold, after all, and Sascha could tell he didn't want to look like he was backing down. But it was Günter who broke the glaring silence after the last shouted curses.
"Sascha?"
"Yeah?"
"...do you have a condom?"
---
Afterwards, when he'd untangled himself from the mess of limbs and sheets they always seemed to wind themselves
into, Sascha studied Günter through the haze of his own cigarette smoke. The other's face was still pressed sideways into the pillow, hard enough to leave fabric patterns on his cheek--the same position, as far as Sascha could tell, that he'd been in since he first laid down--but he could see through the gloom and the smoke the smudge of eyelashes on pale skin, the lips slightly parted, swollen and even redder than usual. Absentmindedly he began to toy with Günter's sweat-damp hair, and thought he saw those lips curl into a faint smile.
"Sascha," Günter whispered, his eyes fluttering open. His voice was thick with sleep.
"What is it?"
He opened his mouth to speak, took a deep breath, paused for a few seconds in apparent indecision, and closed it again. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide open and shining in the dark, a thousand possibilities flickering across his face. And before Sascha could read those possibilities his expression hardened again into a mask of annoyance--fabricated, he was sure--and he said simply, "Don't fucking smoke in bed. You're going to set the sheets on fire."
Sascha sighed, stubbed out his fag, and curled up to go to sleep in the warmth of Günter's body.
When he woke up, he was alone. The air conditioning was turned up too high, making him shiver as he emerged from the bed, and the room smelled of stale smoke and old sex. Cursing himself as an old fool, Sascha pulled his clothes on mechanically and set about brewing himself a cup of coffee; it wasn't until he went back to the bedside table for his cigarettes that he noticed the note tucked under the lamp.
'Had to catch an early flight,' it read, 'call me:' And then a telephone number. Sascha felt his lips curl into a smile.
And in the real news: I finished an actual fic. And not only that, but as far as I know it's the first and only KMFDM slash fic ever to rear its ugly head--and I managed to keep it down to PG13 by cutting out a horribly written and unnecessarily smutty scene in the middle. If you care to read and aren't squicked by real-person slash, please leave feedback...
Title: Sturm & Drang
Rated: PG13
Fandom/Pairing: KMFDM - Sascha/Günter
Warnings: The usual RPS fare--slash, swearing, sex, and so on
Disclaimer: Never happened, don't own 'em, don't sue me.
General background on KMFDM, as it pertains to the story--as of 1999 the band was made up of Sascha Konietzko [frontman], plus Günter Schulz, En Esch, Raymond Watts, a few others, and various side artists who drifted in and out. In early 1999 the band broke up, reportedly due to a schism on what direction they wanted to take musically; Esch and Schulz went off to form Slick Idiot, and KMFDM itself was eventually resurrected by Konietzko, Watts, Lucia Cifarilli, Tim Skold, and a few more I can't be arsed to remember. [PS--Schneider remixed a Slick Idiot song called Xcess, if you care to look for it...]
Pictures that inspired this madness--
Sascha Konietzko http://www.msu.edu/~sebenic3/pics/sascha2.gif
Günter Schulz http://www.msu.edu/~sebenic3/pics/gun.gif
---
San Francisco. The City by the Bay. A cozy little café in the heart of the Castro District, where no one recognized him and he could have his coffee in peace with no fans or band members on his case. Cell phone turned off, no explanations given to anyone, just a vacation. Relaxation. Yes.
He was about to go into the studio for a new album, and he needed a little break before he returned to the endless routine of eat, work, sleep, work, eat, work. One of his favourite routines, actually, when work consisted of music, but it was just better to get out a bit before he committed himself, and so he'd gotten in the car and driven the couple hundred miles south on a whim. He liked San Francisco, even if he'd never live there. Nice city for vacations.
The waitress returned with another cup of coffee, and he sipped it absentmindedly as he scanned the newspaper in front of him. Headlines, celebrities, world leaders and crises...he'd had his share of limelight, and he had long decided that he much preferred to be just another random schmuck in a café with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Fame was nice, but he knew better than anyone what a double-edged sword it was--especially after those dipshits in Colorado... but better not to think about that. Let dead things lie and all that.
Quite suddenly, a hand descended on his shoulder, and he twisted around to see who it was. Goddamn, and just when he thought he'd gotten away from... fucking hell. Oh God, not him, not now, not here.
"Isn't it a little late for coffee?" the newcomer asked.
"I keep my own sleep schedule. You of all people should know that, Schulz." The adrenaline jumped into his veins as if he were in a fight; he didn't let it show outwardly except for the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table.
He just laughed and slid into the seat across from him. "You haven't changed a bit."
They lapsed into awkward silence; the other man took the newspaper and pretended to be deeply absorbed in reading it. Reading it when it was upside down. Then he was just as nervous--good. God, how long had it been? Four years, maybe, not counting brief run-ins on coinciding tours. And they were trying to pretend nothing had changed at all.
"So, do you, um, want a drink or anything?"
"No, I'm fine... I just saw you through the window and figured, long time, no see, maybe we could catch up on things a bit."
"Things? Such as?"
Nonchalant shrug from the man he'd called Schulz. "I don't know. Bands, maybe? How's KMFDM going? I haven't heard much since we all split off."
"Bullshit. I know what you wanted to talk about," he teased. "You know that was a break-up in more ways than one."
"Damn it, Sascha, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, so it's Sascha now?" he asked mockingly. "Fine then. Günter. You never knew what to call me, did you? Konietzko--Sascha--Liebling..."
Günter Schulz flung the newspaper onto the table and stood up. "Listen, I thought we could talk. But if you're going to be a little bitch like you always were, I'm out of here." He made angrily for the exit, but Sascha grabbed his arm as he passed, rising to his own feet at the same time.
"I may be a bitch but at least I'm not in denial," he hissed, not teasing anymore. Their faces were uncomfortably close together, and Günter's hot breath blasted over him. "You never could come to terms with it, could you? Always running away. I'm only a bitch when I'm trying to make you see what's right in front of your fucking nose."
"And what is it that's right in front of my nose?" he challenged.
Sascha didn't know if he meant to or not, but the next thing he knew he'd jerked his head forward and caught the other's lips with his own. A split second later Günter's hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him backwards, away.
"That," Sascha spat. "That's what's right in front of your nose, and that's what you do every time I try to make you see it. Or did you think I didn't remember what happened?"
"I was drunk!"
"Yes, you were drunk the first time. But after that there's no excuse."
The other patrons of the café had been watching this exchange with interest, and a few whistles had greeted their unintentional kiss. Sascha threw some money down onto the table to pay for his coffee, then grabbed Günter's arm and dragged him outside.
"Konietzko you bastard--what the fuck--"
Sascha cut him off forcefully by shoving him up against the brick wall of the building and kissing him again. Hard. He tasted of cigarettes and beer, not cherry lips by a long shot but familiar. Way too familiar.
A pair of hands connected with his face, nearly shoving him off the sidewalk, and now Günter looked angry. "What
the hell are you playing at?"
Sascha consciously resisted the urge to sneer. "The same thing we played at for years before you ran away. Say it's over if you want, but don't try to pretend it never happened."
"What never happened? What was there ever between us but a little drunken fumbling?" But now Günter was staring hard at the sidewalk, at the building in front of him, anywhere but Sascha's face, and Sascha knew he was just
pretending, and he knew that Sascha knew. But he still wouldn't meet his eyes.
Sascha shook his head in resignation. "I should just kick you in the nuts and walk away, you stupid bastard." He turned around and started down the sidewalk. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Hotel. We need to talk."
---
They didn't talk. Once upstairs and inside the room Sascha pulled two beers out of the cheap hotel refrigerator and tossed one to Günter; they cracked them open and sat down drinking in silence.
A thousand things he could use to break the silence, and they all sounded utterly moronic. How have you been? Too cliché. What have you and Esch been doing with Slick Idiot? No, he already knew all that. What happened to us?
Too mushy. I didn't know you were here in the States again. What a coincidence that we ran into each other. Too bad you had to leave the band. You're still hot, let's fuck.
Fuck. Where did that come from?
"So," Günter began awkwardly, "what brings you to San Francisco?"
Shrug. "Vacation." At least he didn't have to get the ball rolling. "You?"
"Band business. And vacation."
"Fascinating."
Dead end.
He tried again. "Umm... why did you bring me here anyway?"
Another shrug. "I wanted to talk to you. Hang out with you. Been a while since we've been alone in a cheap hotel room, hasn't it?" Arched eyebrow, wicked smile. Try to get a response.
Günter flushed. "Yeah. Whatever." He suddenly looked like he wanted to leave.
"You remember the last time, don't you?" Sascha pressed, carefully keeping his voice blank enough that it was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. "Wasn't that the time you chained me to the bed? Or did I chain you?"
A glimmer of interest behind the embarrassment, a glimmer of recognition. "I don't know."
"Sure you do." Impatient now, he stood up and strode over to the other end of the table. Casually leaning an elbow on Günter's back, he leaned in closer and added in a drawl, "But my memory's gotten a bit blurry around the edges.
Maybe you could help me remember."
Günter whirled around and landed an angry punch on Sascha's shoulder. "Like fuck I will. Whatever it is, whatever it was, it's over, you understand me, it's over!"
"But what if I want to start it again?" Without giving him a chance to answer, Sascha grabbed Günter and kissed him fiercely, subduing all his efforts at struggle. It was fascinating to feel Günter slowly melt under his touch: squirming at first, then standing stiffly and obstinately refusing to respond, then--the hint of a sigh blown straight into Sascha's mouth, and suddenly he relaxed to the point of limpness, pliant, allowing Sascha to do what he wanted. Pull him tight against his body, slip his tongue between his lips, hook a leg behind his knee and sweep his legs out from under him, making him tumble back onto the bed.
"No," Günter croaked when Sascha came up for air.
"Yes," Sascha whispered, leaning in for another kiss.
Günter pulled away angrily. "I don't fucking love you, bastard, get that out of your head."
"Who ever said love had anything to do with it?" Sascha retorted, giving him a huge Cheshire cat grin.
Günter argued a bit more. He had a reputation to uphold, after all, and Sascha could tell he didn't want to look like he was backing down. But it was Günter who broke the glaring silence after the last shouted curses.
"Sascha?"
"Yeah?"
"...do you have a condom?"
---
Afterwards, when he'd untangled himself from the mess of limbs and sheets they always seemed to wind themselves
into, Sascha studied Günter through the haze of his own cigarette smoke. The other's face was still pressed sideways into the pillow, hard enough to leave fabric patterns on his cheek--the same position, as far as Sascha could tell, that he'd been in since he first laid down--but he could see through the gloom and the smoke the smudge of eyelashes on pale skin, the lips slightly parted, swollen and even redder than usual. Absentmindedly he began to toy with Günter's sweat-damp hair, and thought he saw those lips curl into a faint smile.
"Sascha," Günter whispered, his eyes fluttering open. His voice was thick with sleep.
"What is it?"
He opened his mouth to speak, took a deep breath, paused for a few seconds in apparent indecision, and closed it again. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide open and shining in the dark, a thousand possibilities flickering across his face. And before Sascha could read those possibilities his expression hardened again into a mask of annoyance--fabricated, he was sure--and he said simply, "Don't fucking smoke in bed. You're going to set the sheets on fire."
Sascha sighed, stubbed out his fag, and curled up to go to sleep in the warmth of Günter's body.
When he woke up, he was alone. The air conditioning was turned up too high, making him shiver as he emerged from the bed, and the room smelled of stale smoke and old sex. Cursing himself as an old fool, Sascha pulled his clothes on mechanically and set about brewing himself a cup of coffee; it wasn't until he went back to the bedside table for his cigarettes that he noticed the note tucked under the lamp.
'Had to catch an early flight,' it read, 'call me:' And then a telephone number. Sascha felt his lips curl into a smile.