Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Dragon Cycle	By : RubyRoh Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 6229 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own WeiÃŸ Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
The Orange and the Green - Part 1

Disclaimer: Of course the WK and Schwarz boys don't belong to me, we just have fun together. I write this stuff for pleasure not profit.

Author's Notes: Many thanks again to Iron Dog, my wonderful beta.

********
Farfarello considered himself a patient man. This might come as surprising news to some, he was sure, but when it suited his purposes, Farfarello could be the most patient man on earth. Currently that patience was being sorely tested.
He was trapped. Not trapped as in fallen-down-a-mineshaft-and-can’t-get-out trapped, but trapped all the same. Trapped in a well-appointed apartment with all mod-cons on tap, food in the fridge, a well-stocked bar and a bed when he needed it. Trapped with a whiny German who was sure his ankle was broken and wouldn’t shut the hell up about it.
Farfarello knew the ankle was an excuse. He’d worked with Schuldig long enough to know the German didn’t like pain, but neither did he make a fuss about it when it was visited upon him. He usually bore up, biting back on the pain and complaints – unless he was seriously pissed off. Then he would rant and snarl and behave like the thorough bastard he could be. It was clear that he was pissed off now.
Farfarello liked Schuldig – he probably liked him too much. But at the moment he was certain that if he heard the German whine once more about his ankle, he would end all doubt as to its condition by breaking it himself and taking immense pleasure in the act.
He’d helped Schuldig away from the scene of the night’s mission - the German hobbling and bitching the whole time. Thankfully, the apartment that was serving as their safe house had only been a short distance away.
Once inside, Farfarello had steered Schuldig to the couch and deposited him at one end of it. Now, he sat at the other end and closed his eye, letting himself rest. The car would be here shortly to take them home. He could go to his cell and let someone else worry about the German’s ‘broken’ ankle.
Things hadn’t gone exactly as planned but it hadn’t been a complete debacle either. The worst of it had been their separation from Crawford and Nagi, and having to make a run for the safe house rather than return home with their team mates.
But, apart from the injury to Schuldig, they’d survived the operation without mishap, which had seemed unlikely for a time. The movie producer they’d been sent to dispatch had more goons in attendance than had been estimated – more than necessary, given there was no filming taking place. In the end, it hadn’t mattered, and now the fool who’d had delusions of cornering the porn market in Japan was dead – along with his goons.
The memory of those kills caused Farfarello to smile to himself. He’d had so much fun. The bright red spray of blood as his knife penetrated their flesh. The wet-silk-ripping sound of slicing the blade across taut flesh. The way life shuddered out of the goons with a gurgle as they choked on their own blood. Farfarfello loved it when he got to paint the town red in his own special way.
“We’re staying here tonight.” Schuldig’s voice broke the pleasant silence. Farfarello opened his eye and looked askance at the German, who was far from happy. “Orders from Crawford.”
That’s why it had been quiet. Schuldig had been conversing with the precog. Probably trying to convince him that he was seriously injured and required immediate medical attention. Whiny German.
Farfarello continued to observe the sullen expression on Schuldig’s face, watching how he brooded over the fact that his leader had abandoned him – if only for one night.
Schuldig may have had a right to feel miffed, given Crawford’s personal interest in him. They thought they were clever enough to conceal their involvement from a kid and a madman, but they were wrong. Farfarello had noticed. He couldn’t speak for Nagi.
And now, Crawford had told his injured lover to stay put for the night; not to attempt a run for home. The fact that Schuldig seemed prepared to follow those orders spoke of how much pain he was in.
Normally he’d have taken Crawford’s order as a challenge and made for home – arriving safe and sound, just to spite their leader. A long, loud argument would have followed, with Crawford trying to assert his dominance as the team’s leader and Schuldig fighting back to affirm his autonomy. Then Schuldig would reach the end of his limited patience and storm out, disappearing into the night. Crawford would remain, cloistering himself in his study, angry and brooding over his inability to control the German.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Schuldig would return and, over the course of the following day, the two would settle their differences in their own way. Farfarello knew the steps of that particular dance all too well. His gaze still on Schuldig, he was pleased that pain was keeping the German off the dance floor tonight.
He wasn’t concerned that Schuldig might discern what he was thinking. In fact, the shame of it was that the telepath was currently too contained in his own world of pain to bother with him. Had he been able to focus on something other than his ankle and ventured into Farfarello’s mind, it would have saved a lot of time.
Now Schuldig let out a loud breath and, with it, some of that pain. He dropped his head back a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, taking quick breaths. Farfarello was intensely interested in how people dealt with pain, especially Schuldig who had a powerful aversion to it.
Pain could make people do almost anything. Pain could make people cry and beg and offer all kinds of promises. Enough pain for long enough could kill. People were afraid of pain and usually went out of their way to avoid it. Schuldig hated pain, but in his line of work it was a constant threat – one that often made good on itself.
“Fuck!” the telepath muttered, opening his eyes and leaning forward. He tried to remove his boot, spitting out curses the whole time.
Farfarello watched him struggle with his footwear. Frustrated at being unable to remove the boot without increasing his pain, Schuldig turned, hefting his foot onto the couch. He recommenced his battle with the boot.
Reaching inside his vest, Farfarello withdrew a knife. Fluid as mercury, he moved to Schuldig’s foot, startling the telepath, who drew back sharply before warily eyeing the knife the Irishman held.
“What’re you doing?” he asked harshly. Pain made Schuldig graceless.
“Helping,” Farfarello replied, slipping the knife into the top of the boot.
A vice-like grip encircled his wrist, halting him.
“The hell you are,” Schuldig growled. “Do you know how much these cost?”
Farfarello met the blue gaze levelly. “You can buy more.”
For the space of several heartbeats they sat still and quiet, gazes locked. Then Schuldig sighed and released his hold on the Irishman’s wrist, sitting back. It was all the go-ahead Farfarello needed. The fine leather parted like butter under a hot knife. Schuldig mourned the murder of his boot with a heartfelt groan.
Farfarello slipped the remains of the boot off easily, depositing it on the floor, and turned back to the sock. He pulled it away from Schuldig’s shin and slipped the knife between fabric and flesh. The sock split as easily as the boot had, and the abused ankle was revealed. It was severely swollen, and starting to purple. Farfarello removed the sock completely, dropping it on top of the mangled boot.
Schuldig leaned forward, examining the damaged joint. Farfarello sat, his attention caught by the German’s outrageous hair. He liked the way that even the muted lights in this place played on it, sparking off a variety of shades within the overall orangeness of it. He liked the silky look of it; he liked the length of it; he liked the way it moved when its owner did and the way the ends of it brushed against the fabric of the couch seat.
He reached out a hand, raking his fingers through that hair – startling Schuldig once more. The telepath jerked away, eyeing him suspiciously.
“What are you doing?” he asked again, clearly annoyed.
“Just wanted to know how it feels,” Farfarello explained, unfazed by the glare he was receiving.
Schuldig relaxed slightly, letting out a short breath. “Farfarello, I’m running on a short fuse right now, so don’t annoy me, huh?”
“Pain…”
Schuldig’s eyes closed even as his hand shot up in a warding gesture. “Don’t…just don’t,” he warned. He lowered his hand but kept his eyes shut as he relaxed back against the armrest of the couch.
Farfarello watched him for long, quiet moments; watched as he sprawled on the couch; eyes closed, frowning slightly. He liked the way pain leeched the color from Schuldig’s face. He’d noticed it on previous occasions when the German had been injured, and he’d always thought the pallor was attractive, especially with that flaming orange-red hair.
The Irishman toyed with the knife he still held. Just how much did the Schwarz telepath know about him? Oh sure, he knew his history; knew about his blood-soaked past, but how far back did that knowledge go? And what else did he know?
Did he know that even a madman entertained lustful thoughts? Would he be surprised – afraid – to know those thoughts had been increasingly directed his way? Or did he already know, choosing to ignore the knowledge in the hope the lunatic’s obsession would settle elsewhere? Schuldig’s eyes opened. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find Farfarello watching him. Had he been eavesdropping?
“You want a drink?” Schuldig asked with a pained sigh.
Apparently not.
“Alcohol?” Farfarello enquired, surprised.
“What else?” Schuldig grinned.
Oh so very confident, Farfarello thought, smiling slyly at the German.
Usually Crawford didn’t allow him to drink alcohol. Why that was remained a mystery to Farfarello. Alcohol certainly wasn’t going to spark a psychotic episode. But where Crawford preferred to err on the side of caution, Schuldig was far more reckless. He’d take his chances and count on himself to retain the upper hand no matter the consequences. Slipping the knife back inside his vest, Farfarello got to his feet and headed towards the bar that occupied a corner of the room.
“While you’re there, can you get me an ice pack and towel?” Schuldig asked.
It took only a few minutes to fulfill that request. Once the German had the towel draped over his swollen ankle and the icepack resting on it, Farfarello went to get the drinks.
Taking a glass from under the countertop, he turned and surveyed the myriad of alcoholic beverages neatly displayed on shelves at the back of the bar. Spying Schuldig’s favored brand, he grabbed the bottle and turned back. After pouring a generous amount of scotch into the glass, he recapped the bottle and went to the fridge at the end of the bar. Opening the door, he took a look inside. He snorted in amusement and turned, grasping something in his hand.
“Oi, Schu,” he said, holding up the brown-glass bottle.
The German glanced over then broke into a laugh. “Crawford would have a seizure if he knew they were laying in Guinness for you.”
Farfarello smiled without humor. “Too bad I don’t drink the stuff,” he said. He put the stout back in its place and took a beer instead.
Picking up the glass, he returned to his team mate and handed him the scotch. Then he sat down on the floor, his back against the couch. He twisted the cap off the beer bottle and tossed it onto the low, heavy coffee table. It skittered across the shiny top and fell onto the carpet. For a while, there was silence. It was pleasant. Not even outside noises intruded on the quietness in the room.
Farfarello drank from his bottle, enjoying the sharp taste of the beer; enjoying the peace; enjoying the thought that their mission, although not without mishap, had been accomplished. His hand moved, slipping inside his vest to withdraw one of the knives nestling there. He heard and felt it as Schuldig fell back against the arm of the couch, giving a low growl of frustration.
“Fuck Crawford,” the German said angrily, “Telling me my ankle’s not broken. How the hell would he know anyway? Did he ‘See’ it? And if he did see this happening, why didn’t he warn me about it? Prick.”
If Schuldig continued to complain, Farfarello couldn’t tell. He’d lost interest and the whining was annoying him again so he stopped listening. His focus now was the knife in his hand. He lifted it to eye level, examining it closely. It shone under the dim lighting and he amused himself by moving it so the blade caught the light and distorted reflections. So pretty; so sharp; so deadly beautiful.
Within seconds his thoughts had turned to cutting. He wanted to paint the blade red. His gaze flicked to Schuldig, who was once again leaning over his ankle, testing its range of movement. Would his blood match his hair or would his hair put even the glorious red of freshly spilled blood to shame?
Farfarello had seen the fall Schuldig had taken earlier - the way his foot had twisted under him so brutally; the heavy way he’d gone down, and the way he’d cracked his head against the bitumen. He’d been expecting to see blood when Schuldig had stumbled to his feet again, and had been disappointed when there was none. Not even the heels of his hands had been grazed enough to bleed.
“You want to get the first aid kit?”
Farfarello came back to himself to find the German looking at him. Since becoming part of Schwarz, Farfarello hadn’t failed to notice that Schuldig had nice eyes even if, on occasion, they held a look that wasn’t quite sane. That only made them, and their owner, more attractive. Sanity was highly over-rated anyhow.
“You know, you’ve got lovely eyes,” Farfarello stated.
Those eyes blinked rapidly - twice – before Schuldig recovered from the unexpected response to his request.
“And I’ve got an ankle that’s killing me,” he replied impatiently. “First aid kit, Farfarello?” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke.
Setting his bottle down and slipping his knife back in place once more, Farfarello rose to his feet. He’d been here before, safe refuge that it was, and he knew where the kit was kept.
He made his way to the bathroom and opened the cupboard under the hand basin. The kit was much larger than run-of-the-mill household first aid kits – in their line of work it had to be. He dragged it out, shut the cupboard door and headed back to the living room.
Schuldig was engrossed in examining his ankle again. Reaching the couch, Farfarello set the kit on the floor and knelt beside it. Opening it, he withdrew strapping bandage, tape and scissors.
“Out of the way,” he ordered.
Schuldig sat back and let Farfarello work.
There were very few people who knew Farfarello and would let him near them while he was in possession of sharp objects. In fact, he could probably count them on one hand – or less. Schuldig could have strapped his own ankle, but he let the Irishman do it. Trust or an over-abundance of confidence?
I’m not that trusting.
Farfarello looked up into Schuldig’s eyes a moment then returned to his task. Of course the German would be surveying his thoughts; scanning for the least hint that he had more than lending aid on his mind. His team mate had no cause for concern. Farfarello meant him no harm; this time. Once the ankle was securely strapped, Schuldig stretched his leg along the couch and sighed in relief.
“Thanks, Far,” he said. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a small metal container. Opening it, he took out two white tablets. Closing the pillbox, he put it back in his pocket. The pills went into his mouth and were swallowed down with the remainder of his scotch.
Farfarello stayed on the floor, sitting back on his heels as he examined the surgical scissors he’d been using. Thumb and forefinger through the loops, he opened and closed the blades a few times before looking at his other hand. He stretched his fingers, bringing the scissors to the webbing of his thumb. He snipped and blood flowed.
“You get any of that on the rug and you’re cleaning it up,” Schuldig warned.
Farfarello brought his hand to his mouth and sucked on the bleeding webbing. The metallic tang was better than any alcohol.
He held the scissors up, looking at them a moment, before taking his warm hand away from his mouth and replacing it with the cool steel of the scissor blades. He was allowed to entertain himself in this fashion until he moved the scissors to the webbing between fore- and middle-fingers. Then Schuldig decided enough was enough.
"Come here,” he said, “and bring the bandage with you.”
Farfarello did as instructed. Schuldig sat up straighter. He claimed the scissors and bandage and turned his attention to the wound.
As he worked, Farfarello watched him closely; taking in the fine texture of his skin, the length and thickness of his lashes, the blue of his eyes, the darkness of his brows, the fine line of his nose, and the temptation of his mouth.
Not too many people were keen on getting intimate with a personality like his. Farfarello knew this, and he understood their fear; savored it, in fact. But on the occasion when he did feel like some physical closeness, it was hard to find someone willing to accommodate him.
Even if they didn’t know him well, and he could feign the mundane normality that most people felt comfortable with, his appearance was off-putting. They couldn’t see beyond their own noses, really. Couldn’t see beyond his scars.
Maybe the telepath was different. There was no arguing that Schuldig was sure of himself, most would even go so far as to say he was a cocky bastard – and some had even been brave enough to say so on occasion. But was he confident enough that he’d let Farfarello close enough to touch and feel?
Farfarello decided it was time to put Schuldig to the test.
“I know that you know other people think you’re attractive, but did you know I think so, too?” Desire colored his words and, as he spoke, Farfarello reached up touching his fingers against the ever-present bandana.
Schuldig grew very still; one hand resting on Farfarello’s where he’d smoothed the bandaging down. Now his gaze rose to meet the Irishman’s and he went to speak. The feel of his bandana slipping from its customary place stopped him. He reached quickly, catching Farfarello’s wrist. His gaze hardened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered threateningly.
Farfarello was aware the telepath was in his mind now, searching for clues behind this behavior. Well, let him look. He’d only find the truth.
It seemed an eternity they sat and knelt there; Schuldig’s blue gaze boring into Farfarello as he silently sought answers. Farfarello didn’t mind in the least. It allowed him time to study those eyes; their shades and patterns.
Meanwhile, the German would be learning that Farfarello was more aware than he’d ever thought. Aware, not only of God’s seven deadly sins, in particular lust; but also aware of needs and desires that arose within a body without being consciously summoned. Aware that Schuldig was not averse to fucking another man and even enjoying it.
He would also learn that he was free to accept or refuse what was being offered. What was offered was nothing more than base need: the need to touch, to kiss, to hold and to fuck. There would be no force and no strings.
Farfarello knew that Schuldig, despite his belief in himself and his Talent, had to be made somewhat nervous by the proposition. No man in his right mind could fail to be. No man in his right mind would jump at the chance to have a murdering psychopath run his hands over his body, to embrace him, to have his teeth touch his flesh. Not even if that man possessed the power to fry said psychopath’s brain in his skull in an instant.
You’re right, you so much as think of hurting me and you will know pain, Schuldig warned, as his hold loosened on the Irishman’s wrist.
A smile crept across Farfarello’s lips. As he tried to move his trapped arm, Schuldig’s hold tightened again. Farfarello gave him a questioning look.
“Bed,” the telepath said.
Farfarello gave him another smile. “You want me to carry you?” he asked, slight mockery in his tone.
Schuldig finally released his vice-like grip on the madman’s wrist. “I can walk with some help,” he said.
Farfarello’s hand slid around the back of the German’s head and he pulled him close, planting a firm kiss on his mouth. Schuldig’s first reaction was to try to draw back but Farfarello held him in place. The telepath’s lips were soft, but not quite ready to yield completely. After long seconds, Farfarello drew away just enough to speak.
“My first taste of you,” he whispered, the lust swirling to life within him evident in his voice.
“And?” the telepath queried.
“I think,” Farfarello said, rising to his feet and reaching a hand out to the other man, “you’ll taste better in bed.”
********
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Dragon Cycle