Soft Thighs

BY : JeiSvenka
Category: Wei▀ Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 939
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kreuz or any of its characters, nor am I making any money from writing this.


Soft thighs weren't a common occurrence these days. Soft thighs were usually attached to short skirts and heels, not baggy cargos and rough, torn, blood-stained jeans. Then again, soft thighs usually meant that stubble was coming. Prickly thighs. There was nothing less attractive than a prickly leg. No, for now, he could be content with a natural direction. Men didn't shave their legs. Not his man, anyway.

Schuldig ran his hand down between them, listening for an intake of breath that never came. His partner was already fast asleep, dead to the world. Disappointment was overtaken by impish heathenism. A nightly ritual. The bed barely jittered an inch when he slipped the covers and sheets off, baring them both to the elements. Crawford, who was currently asleep a few rooms over, kept the central air at a point near freezing, unwilling to pay pesky heating bills. For a man who could have anything he wanted with the wave of his hand, he was awfully stingy. Goosebumps popped up across his naked flesh, but the body strewn awkwardly below him showed no signs of feeling any similar discomfort. Schuldig was unclear as to whether this phenomenon was caused by a lack of nerve endings in his skin or the man's rapid healing abilities... After all, who needed to feel pain when the source would be mending shortly? A cool breeze wafted across the bed, lifting the ballooning sheets into a bubble before they came to a rest at their feet.

He studied his partner, considering. Possibilities for harassment weren't endless with this one. He didn't feel embarrassment as easily as some others, so taking naked pictures of him or writing things on his living corpse wouldn't cause a satisfying emotional reaction. Schuldig pulled the sheets back around himself, shivering. Leaving him naked on the balcony would only cause momentary confusion. Again, unsatisfying.

When he began considering trashing the place, he finally admitted defeat. There simply wasn't an easy way to abuse his white-haired lover.

But perhaps that was the reason for this strange emotion he was wary to dub "affection." The man was an enigma. A challenge. Who cared if he didn't have silky smooth legs, or that he didn't wear far-too-revealing skirts. Who cared that his emotions were like a busted faucet... leaking droplets one moment and blasting the next. All of that seemed insignificant in moments like these, when he was brewing up new ideas to torment his partner. New ideas that never worked.

But someday. Someday, he'd find a way. A grand plan. A supreme manipulation. They didn't call him Mastermind for nothing.

Lying down, he pulled the covers back around them, disregarding the mental reminder that his lover wouldn't have noticed or cared. In the meantime, he'd have to settle for this sorry excuse for a life. This pretense of actual affection. His fingers ghosted across his lover's face, pausing at all the softest places. It was the challenge that drove him. And when Farfarello's lips parted beneath his fingers in a soft almost-syllable, the feeling in his chest was one of victory. Not of actual affection. After all, who had ever heard of a telepath, a supreme manipulator, being manipulated by his own emotions.

Sighing, he rested his cheek against the Irishman's warm shoulder and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to deprive him of his worries.



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