Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Demon Angelic- rewrite ❯ Chapter 7

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don't own the men of Schwarz or Weiss and will make absolutely no profit off of the events that take place within the framework of this story. All recognizable characters belong to their creators and FunAnimation.

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC MALE/MALE MASTERBATION and various other implications of homosexual relationships. If that bothers you, read no further.

Chapter 7

Schuldig was waiting for him when he walked in the living room around ten that evening, stretched out across the leather couch in nothing but red-silk pajama pants. Control was key when dealing with their resident telepath; Crawford reminded himself as he walked past the reclined German without a second glance, dismissing the heat in the grayish green eyes he knew would track his every movement until he acknowledged them. From the look of the collection of beer bottles beside the head of the couch and the senseless dribble that was playing on the big screen, Schuldig was in a mood to argue.
He made his way to his room and set his briefcase in its usual spot beside the bureau, before reaching up to work the knot at his neck loose. As expected, Schuldig had followed a few seconds behind him.

The man had been following him around since the precognitive had acquired him for Eszet over eleven years ago, even though the telepath generally acted like he despised being in the same room with the American. He had let it slip once that Crawford's silence was appreciated—one less clamoring voice in his already crowded head. It would have been flattering if I actually cared, Crawford reflected, as he removed his white, linen jacket and reached into the closet beside his bed for a hanger. He already knew what the younger man wanted; he had seen it in a vision while riding in the back of Takatori's limo to a luncheon meeting. He had seen the whole day go by actually, it had been enlightening. Who would have thought the girl would encounter Weiss so early on in her association with Schwarz? Perhapsher naiveté could work to ouradvantage—a pretty pawn to keep the Weiss brats off kilter…

“What do you want?” He had his back to the German as he shrugged off his holster and hung it on a sturdy eyehook on the back of the closet door. Slipping the buttons of his white dress shirt, let the sleeves slide lazily down his shoulders to expose his muscular back. He could feel the somber eyes roving the length of his body appreciatively. It was no secret to the older man that what the sadistic telepath fantasized about was strapping him to a whipping bench and flaying the skin from Crawford's back. However, he had no worries about that ever happening; it would be a cold day in hell before the arrogant prick was bastard enough to top him.

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“The usual…sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll with a generous side of power and money,” the red-head smirked as he made himself comfortable on the foot of the queen sized bed. Do we always have to play games? Let's just cut to the fight so we can fuck and make nice again, Schuldig snarled to himself. Crawford was a creature of habit and the real play couldn't begin until ritual had been satisfied.

He watched through the fall of coppery bangs as the twenty-seven year old Oracle moved around the mattress to stand in directly in front of him. He was too close to watch without tilting his chin upward or rolling over onto his back to fully expose his ribs. A shot to the jaw would be easier to recover from than a cracked rib, he cradled the back of his skull in one hand, elbow ground into the black coverlet for support, chin tilted to keep his eyes on the other man. Crawford readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose before speaking in his calm, measured baritone, “I received a call from Nagi's teacher today.”

“The boy let his mouth run away with him, nothing major…” uh-oh… the dark-haired American was giving him an incredulous look. Apparently, the shapely Daizaka- sensei was not the teacher he was talking about. How many teachers could the kid possibly have with pressing enough business to warrant contacting Crawford at work?

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He had forgotten all about the call he had received from the sophomore's political science teacher. The woman was annoying and over zealous in her enforcement of even the most trivial of school policies, but there was no excuse for rudeness on Nagi's part. He would have to have a talk with him about his attitude on the way to school tomorrow. He had raised the boy to be more obedient than that. For the most part, the Japanese youth followed orders without question or complaint, but occasionally he developed a stubborn streak that had to be beaten out of him.

“I'll take that matter up with him later,” he promised the recumbent German, smirking acridly as the youth's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He added the offense to the long list of grievances the man was to answer for. “The call I'm concerned about came from Auimata Shindo, the art instructor at Ju-Dan. He informed me that my `son' was a talented artist… and that I had a very lovely `daughter'.”

Schuldig smirked coolly at him, he never denied anything. Over the years, the fiery red-head had proved himself to be many things: sadist, terrorist, anarchist and occasional victim, but rarely ever an out and out liar. Everything the telepath said or suggested to others was founded on a grain of truth, thing about truth is that it happens to be subjective. “Kind of him to notice,” the purring contralto sent a warm coil of lust down his gut to tighten around his groin.

“He's offering ten dollars an hour for her services as a model.” He waited for some reaction from the German, receiving none, he continued on stonily, “I have scheduled a meeting with him tomorrow morning; I'll be taking her with me.”

“What are you planning?” The tone was gravelly, loosing some of its heat.

“To give her the life she deserves…” He had to keep the sneer off his lips by sheer force of will. He had scanned all the possible futures and found each of them to suit his purpose equally well.

“What the hell does that mean?” That got the desired reaction. Schuldig's eyes widened in disbelief as he shot to a sitting position, long legs splayed wide at the knees along the surface of the bed to help him maintain balance.

A sinister smile rent the meaningless placidity to pieces, Crawford, on top of being deliberately cruel was also sexy as hell. Sultry tones met his ears as the older man continued undressing, “I intent to make an offer she cannot refuse.”

“So, you'll give her an inch,” the German smirked thoughtfully, anticipating the game already.

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“And wait for her to run with it.” The wolfish grin that curled the pale lips told him his partner was considering the possibilities; the girl would come in handy despite her refusal to openly aide Eszet. She would fall into line like they all did, even the fiery German and loose cannon Irish followed his lead with the right provocation. The girl didn't stand a chance.

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The rooms above Kitty in the House were dark, the occupants either a bed or out on the prowl. Ken had taken all the smug ribbing he could handle for one evening from the golden-haired playboy while mopping up the bathroom with Omi's help. The kid was always sympathetic, giving his friends time to lick their hurts in peace. Unlike some people, he hadn't said another word about Uo.

Ken had drifted off into troublesome dreams, mulling over Omi's assurance that fate might come through for him. But he had discovered, in his experience at least, that fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Fire raged around him, slavering over the innards of the warehouse. The retort of a gun was swallowed by the crackling groan of wood and steel alike being devoured by flame. Conditioned lungs struggled to suck down enough air to keep him conscious as he crawled for the partially open doors. His gut was aching from the icy fingers of numbness that were scuttling their way up his ribs. The bullet had gone through, ripping a hole in his lower intestines, spilling bile and waste into his body cavity. If the flames didn't kill him, toxemia would.

“Kase….” a ragged voice croaked, followed by frantic wheezing. Strong fingers clawed the unyielding concrete, scrabbling for purchase to drag his weakening body along, the passage made only slightly easier, greased with his own blood. “He…lp.”

Two pairs of dark-clad legs strolled in from the direction the bookies had fled after setting the place ablaze. He could care less if they came to finish the job… hoped they would. Better to be plugged than roast.

“Hidaka Ken,” a honey-smoothed voice rumbled from above him.

“…… Hnnn.” He tried to roll over, the movement just exhausted him.

“Welcome to the first day of your death, man.”

All Ken remembered after that was a pair of mischievous forest green eyes peering over the rim of dark sunglasses- Who thehell wore sunglasses at night?- and then darkness.

Yoji was right; the fire that should have ended his life, reforged him into one of the hollowed men… a member of the vigilante dead. Kritiker… Weiss. Florist, boy-next-door and kiddy league coach by day. murderer by night—yep, fate had a sick sense of irony.

Damnable thing about irony is, it's grounded in fact. Run as far and as fast as you can, but you never leave the truth behind.

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In my dreams, I always seem to be running, running without purpose. Fleeing phantoms that cannot hurt me any further, but still I run. All the while, the child inside me recedes farther and farther into the shadows away from the shining brilliance of the reflection pool that lends spectral substance to my most cherished memories. The flittering fins of past affections and irreconcilable wisdoms move me to tears even in my sanctuary.

This dream had started like all the others, hazy at first but rapidly distinguishing itself from the fog shrouded perimeter of the alpha plane. The landscape blazed into Technicolor glory as a rain of delicate Sakura petals danced to greet my approaching six-year-old self. The stray petals caught in a sea of dark waves as my elated giggle was swallowed by a strong gust of wind. My bare feet padded with a soft crunching over the proud blades of monkey grass that ringed the boarder of the rock-lined pond at the center of the undulating grove. The breeze was stronger than it had been the last time, the light less vivid as if something wicked were fast approaching. My spectral eyes roamed the shadows usurping the fringe of delicate trees, bleeding their voided essence along the ground, leeching vitality from the vision.

I had very little time left before the hunt began. I gathered the hem of the white, silk kimono to the backs of my small thighs and knelt before the pool; drawing the very tip of my right sleeve's cuff upward toward my heart as I dipped my tiny fingertips to send summoning ripples along the tension hardened surface of the crystalline water. Just below the surface of the pool, beneath the countless lily pads that shielded them from demonic gaze, fluttered the joyful apparitions of my sordid life. The niggling kiss of the brightly colored Koi carried with it a scene from my past, and I had no way of knowing what memory would choose to honor me. Sometimes I found it in me to laugh at the whimsy of fate's jest, but more oft than not, I fled the grove in tears with all the fury of my personal hell scrabbling at my heels.

Only a kiss would tell. My childish eyes darted from the teeming cloud of warm colors and polar images to survey the progress of the creeping shadows; they seemed to have stopped their crawling advance for the moment. The slick glide of scaled flesh drew my gaze back to the pool; a pristine parrot fish with a lacy flame orange cap stroked the pad of my forefinger and the water became endlessly clear—white, a blank canvas for memory to drench in her many hues of pleasured pain.
The grove of my dreamscape was reproduced down to the floating pink petals, but instead of a lone child, there were two.

A slightly older version of myself, perhaps nine or ten, and an angelic little being with poker-straight blonde hair and jade-eyes to match my own; Miaka couldn't have been any older than six—she had died at that age. In the vision, I held her side-saddle across my black-clad lap, her honey-blonde head pressed against my narrow chest, pale fingers curled in my hair to ensure that I wouldn't let her go. We were perched on the large, flat stone that papa had taken such great care to angle out over the water in order to provide the Koi shade. Our feet dangled over into the chilly liquid in hopes of numbing us. Tears streamed from both our eyes, sending streaks of pale light down our rounded cheeks and off into the silent waters of the pond our father had formed with his own hands. A place he would never again venture in life's realm. The Genboku had stolen him from us.

“Sissy?” Miaka's willowy voice whispered into the shroud of my hair.

“Hnnn?” My eyes were red rimmed from tears, my throat too raw to form words.

The slender body shifted in my grip, and I wrapped my arms around her more tightly, afraid she might fall. I leaned away from her so she could look up into my face in safety. The Caucasian countenance that looked back at me was a torrid of contradictions. The eyes were up-tilted at the corners, nose bridgeless, oval face timeless, all traits passed on from our father, but my half-sister would never be mistaken for Asian. Her coloring was too pale, her lips too finely shaped, and her tear-filled eyes were a jade so blue they appeared teal in direct light. She favored Calliou. “Was daddy a bad man?”

My expression must have evinced my outrage that she would even suggest such a thing, because she ducked her golden head and shoved it forcefully under my chin, clacking my teeth together with her burrowing. I wouldn't have her hiding from me, so I gripped her shoulders firmly and pushed her upright to stare full into her face. “Now you listen to me… our papa is a good man. He did what he had to so he could protect us. My momma was killed before I ever knew her because papa thought he couldn't do what he did and be a good man. He didn't want the same thing to happen to us.”

“Girls?” The word was spoken in English, for our understanding alone. The house was teeming with people there for the wake and I supposed the tall, blonde, American woman didn't want the conversation with her children to be overheard. “What are you doing?” She removed her house slippers on the wooden porch and stepped off into the grass to cut across the courtyard to her quarreling daughters.

“Miaka doesn't believe that papa was a good man…” My face was a webwork of angry lines. I had to be hurting the child in my grip because my knuckles were bloodless as they pinioned her shoulders in place.

“Mommy,” the little blonde wailed in English, as the twenty-seven year old American seated herself on the limited space left over on our sitting stone. Soft, but insistent hands pried my biting fingers from the gray-fabric of Miaka's kimono. Calliou lifted her away from me and cradled her to her own chest, shushing the sobbing child before fixing me with a sad smile.

“Kayia,” her voice was a gentle caress backing the flames of my anger away. “You should know better than to let your temper get the best of you. Your father would not thank you for such a cruel defense of him.”

I fell to weeping once more, ashamed that I had let him down, yet again.

“Mommy, stop being mean to sissy!” Miaka had come to my defense, watery eyes narrowed, cavernous creases splitting her golden brows, bottom lip jutting out in her defiance as she sniffed heartily and snaked one delicate hand up to wipe her dripping nose. My sister could be a fearsome thing when she wanted to.

Calliou's smile broadened into something almost joyful. “My girls, what ever will I do with the two of you?”

I felt relieved when a long, graceful arm encircled my trembling form and scooped me against the press of a feminine thigh. My father's live-in girlfriend had always loved me as her own, even after Miaka had come along. She made me feel safe. Her arms meant home just like my sister's mischievous smile and my papa's deep, gravelly voice did; the last was a comfort that I would never again hear while awake.

“Calliou?” I had never stopped to think about how other people might view my father. I knew she loved him and me, but my sister's doubt made me burn to know. I jumped when her elegant fingers came to light on my face, brushing away the tear stains with silken tips.

Her luminous aqua eyes were searching my face. She knew what I wanted; she always seemed to know as though she had found the key to my soul eons before I had the slightest inkling that I possessed one. “We have the ability to influence our fates, Kayia. Because we are human, we are capable of great evil, but also great goodness to even the scales. And as free beings, it is our right to choose which way the balance will be tipped.”

“But, mommy, which way did daddy choose?” the blonde angel was on her knees, straddling her mother's leg, defiance forgotten in her fascination with the explanation. I had no doubt in my mind that Calliou had looked the same when she was a young girl growing up in L.A.

“The scales never really tipped for your daddy. He was different, Miaka, trapped,” the sadness dulled the usually ringing timber of her voice. “The important thing to remember is that he loved you both very much and he left his hopes for you to guard. The scales of your lives are yours and yours alone to tip. That was his greatest wish for you.” She brushed warm, dry lips against my forehead, before angling to plant a butterfly kiss on the tip of Miaka's rounded nose.

Ripples raced across the image as the first of sorrow's gems plummeted onto the tenuous canvas. I was back in the sun-dappled grove centered on the alpha plane. Fresh tears glided on silent wings down my cheeks as the memory faded into a whirling fury of colors and bubbling water. My papa had been a killer and a good man; a loving father and a monster. That was the last great revelation Calliou had shared with my sister and me. Less than a week later, I had run away to avoid leaving my homeland and abandoned the two people I loved most. I had hoped they would run, flee to American like my adopted mother had planned, but she and Miaka had stayed to seek me out; to protect me from a repetition of my father's fate—a life of servitude to the Yakuza ideals I had come to despise— and they had paid the ultimate price.

The quickening of shadows sent a chill up my spine and my head reeling. My time had run out. I bolted from my knees and pitched myself headlong into the closest passage between the stately trunks. I had darted through the maze of Sakura bones for all the years since I had been set adrift in the conscious world. So far, it had given me the advantage over the thing that hunted me. I plunged from mottled light to darkness and back again, weaving an erratic path toward the corridors of my subconscious, slowing only to tug my hair or kimono free of a snaring branch. I could leave the alpha plane, but only by confronting images of my guilt. Until recently, they had always been indistinct, but someday soon, I knew vivid reminders might very well follow me into wakefulness.

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Schuldig climbed the stairs, trying to suppress the urge to limp. Crawford had been methodical in his savagery. From the throbbing burn he guessed that something had indeed been torn, he had forgotten how aggressive the older man really could be. By the time his tormentor had finally released his cock and balls from their scarlet binding, he had been on the verge of begging. He would have even agreed to scream for him if he had wanted it, anything for release. The older man rarely pushed him so hard or so far. Truthfully, it was the best sex the twenty-two year old had had in months.

When the exchange had been completed, the German-born assassin was released from his metallic bonds, tossed his pants and ordered to leave. That was always the worst part, knowing that when it was over, he would be dismissed; sucked under by the cacophony of images, voices and emotions that were suppressed only by the Oracle's proximity.

At the upper landing, he nearly turned around. The couch was pretty comfortable and he wouldn't have to waste all his reserved energy blocking out the leakage from her dreams. The images were disturbing, not the worst he had encountered, Farfarello held the title there, but the strobbing picture show detailing Hikari's discovery of the little blonde girl's body caused his pulse to throb in time with the blasts of illumination.

He had left her to struggle through the revelation for the past three weeks in hopes that she would move past it, deal with a different sin. Give him some variety at least, but her subconscious was fixated on the child's mutilated form. Whoever had gotten to her had enjoyed his work—a masterpiece, Schuldig theorized, that Farfarello would be tempted to mimic. It had been interesting in the beginning to catch glimpses of the chase and final exhibition, but now it was costing him valuable rest and the girl was starting to show signs of wear. The concealer she smeared beneath her eyes had even elicited a comment from Crawford after she had left the breakfast table to retrieve her bugnuks and her calf-length red trench for duty.

Damn it…brotherly talks were not his thing. He had done it on occasion when Nagi was smaller, but it always left him feeling hypocritical. Then again, what was a partial truth or two to a night of blissful slumber? He steeled himself for the rush of emotions and the oppressive atmosphere of resonating nightmares that he knew would smother him as soon as he cracked the door. Schuldig stopped inside the threshold to adjust to the black maws of self-loathing and anger that gnawed his skull just above his brow bone and convinced him that thumping the door shut in hopes of startling her was a wise idea. But, to no avail. She was in the clutches of the nightmare, and it was wont to relinquish its hold over her. He was going to have to touch her, not that the prospect didn't appeal to him under normal circumstances, but occupants of Schwarz house were dangerous upon waking. Schuldig was no exception. All the men except Crawford had been preyed upon at one time or another and any unsolicited contact, especially while under duress, could be hazardous to the offender's health.
After the meld with the girl early on in their acquaintance, a secret of which the details he had dutifully kept, he knew her past had been equally as turbulent. He wondered if he should find a way to ground himself, as he eased closer to the bed. The fall of moonlight from her window washed her scrunched features in silvered lapis. She was moaning softly in her sleep, mouthing the dead girl's name over and over again. The emerald green coverlet she had put on her bed to give the room some color was bunched below her hips, the shoulder of her nightshirt had slipped down to expose the swell of one breast, and the tail had ridden up past her naval to reveal thin, cotton, short-cut panties. Her hair was working itself loose from the braid she had apparently plaited before falling asleep. It was no wonder Nagi was taking a cold shower right now struggling to rid himself of the barrage of surprisingly innocent images that wouldn't let him be. Schuldig couldn't imagine a fifteen-year-old male trying to study for an exam with her around.

Thoughts of his sexually frustrated teammate left him when the girl curled in on herself, breath coming in ragged gasps. She was going to hyperventilate if he didn't do something. Thinking it best that she not be quite so accessible, be seized a handful of blanket and flung it over her lower half before plopping down forcefully beside her sleeping form.

She reacted exactly as he suspected she would. She jerked to a crouch, one fist lashing out before her eyes had even opened; he caught the blow before it landed, wrenching her wrist ceiling ward. He wasn't quick enough to avoid being slapped open-palmed across the flat of his cheekbone; the contact stung. It had been a while since he had been bitch slapped.

Trapping her other wrist, he used what was left of her momentum to flip her onto her back to lay prone at the foot of the bed. He hunched over her, trapping her thighs between his powerful legs, waiting for her eyes to focus, arching his body to avoid being bruised by her bucking hips. He was trying his best to be patience as she fought loose from the last bonds of sleep. The sadist in him enjoyed seeing the torrent of emotions chasing across her normally static features. “Bad dreams?” He asked when she finally quieted, muscles coiled, but immobile. His coppery bangs brushing against her face like a million fingers tickling her forehead and cheeks.

“Ja, Schuldig Traum…” Her breath was still coming in heady gasps as the East German dialect slurred out of her sleep constricted throat. She squirmed beneath him desperately trying to maneuver her twisted shirt more fully over her slender frame; it had ended up well past her hips when she had hit the bed writhing for purchase. The intimate posturing was obviously making her nervous; he smirked at the thought as the prickly feet of an army of electric ants marched across her bared flesh to his.

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The German man's face was so close to mine I could smell the bitter flavor of the imported beer he enjoyed and an underscore of musk on his breath. The forest of hair that surrounded our faces reeked of cigarette smoke; his skin emitted the salty tang of sex. “Guilty dreams?” His voice was a quiet husk, as he released my wrists and sat back on the bed, giving me the space I needed to yank my nightshirt down around me; a gesture that earned me a tolerant smirk.

“Schuldiger als Sunde.” I hadn't realized I'd awoken speaking the language my birth mother had preferred. My papa said she had always complained that Japanese sounded too much like door chimes for her taste; strange to think of silly things like that when waking from one nightmare into another. Nagi had warned me never to be alone with Schuldig, remembering the last one-on-one meeting I had with him forced bile to rise. Here the man was in my bedroom, smelling as though he had just crawled from between someone else's sheets. Probably Crawford's…

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He was glad to know his sexual habits were common knowledge in the grander scheme of the household; damn nosy brats, Nagi in particular. He really did hope Crawford took a few layers of skin off the next time he got around to punishing the kid.

“All sins are guilty,” he replied, rising from the bed and straightening the covers. He folded them down and stepped away, hands clearly visible. “I have no intention of harming you.” Over time her aura had changed, he had noticed. It was constantly charged with an invisible current that had not existed when she had first come to Schwarz; now it was simply a part of her.

“Wirklich? (Really?)” Her expression was guarded, jade-eyes still shadowed from her “guilty” dreams.

He wondered if she realized she was speaking in his native tongue, even as he continued his line of conversation in Japanese. “Would I lie?” He offered her his most impish grin and settled himself down beside her pillow. He patted the warm stripe of mattress she had been laying on when he barged into the room earlier.

“Ja…(Yes)”

Figures, he snorted resignedly. Still she made her way back up the length of the bed and slid under the linens that he held out of the way for her. He stood and crammed the blankets in around her, tucking her arms in tightly, well aware of what he would have to do next. “Now go to sleep and quit dreaming so loudly.”

“Nein, Ich bin angstlich (No, I am afraid).”

As he had expected, she was apprehensive about going to sleep. With images of her dead family to go back to he really couldn't blame her. However, he was not willing to play nursemaid either.
“Don't fear the shadows for you are one of us now.” She didn't look particularly comforted to hear that, her crinkled brow telegraphed her distress. “Schlafen (Sleep),” he breathed as he leaned over to press cool lips to clammy forehead.

::You Judas!:: She shot at him as the pinpoint lance of the suggestion pierced through her flimsy mental shields, forcing her consciousness toward the alpha plane that she had come to fear. “Virraten mit eniem kuss, Schuldig! (Betrayed by a kiss, Schuldig!)”

“Sleep without dreams then, bishojo,” he whispered softly, repeating the command mentally as her eyelids drooped closed. The two of them would have at least half a night's rest. He straightened to leave, ghosting feather light touches over her eyelids and down her high, sculpted cheeks. The skin was so soft; no wonder she bruised easily.

Crossing to the door, he took one last look back at her snuggled beneath the blackish-emerald of the blanket; young, guileless face cast an alien blue by the moon's kiss. She really was still a child, a little lost lamb trying to make her way in humanity's savage garden.

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He tried to never slip deeply enough into sleep that dreams could catch him unaware. The pills he took were marvelous things, but their influence held no sway in the limbo of his alpha plane where demons and ghosts could hunt without sound. A place where Jei mourned in a crumbling chapel for a God who had abandoned him, and a nun with desecrated hands knelt in a pool of blackened heart's blood, lamenting over the body of a decapitated child. It took considerable effort to remain outside the pull of the dreamscape's gravity.

The thumping sound across the hall had disturbed Farfarello's carefully maintained doze. He had fallen asleep remembering the fearful determination in her weird green eyes seconds before she had tried to devour his lips. He would have ripped her throat out had her response to the threat not been so interesting. She had accused him of being afraid… afraid to hope. Well, hope was a delusion, one tendered by ignorant fools. And it wasn't often he was accused of cowardice, and never before had the accuser lived to tell the tale. But this was becoming habit with her--one that needed to be broken. And Nagi, the meddlesome imp, was another factor that needed to be dealt with. He was becoming far too mouthy for his own good—a condition that tended to shorten one's life expectance drastically in Eszet.
Farfarello collected the throwing stave he had let fall to the carpet as he drifted off and pushed to his feet from his huddled position in the back corner of the room. He rarely ever slept in the bed, old aversions left over from his time in Paradise. Even though this bed was free of restraints, mattress thick and arrayed to suit his macabre tastes, it was still a false comfort. He considered dressing in something other than just his partially fastened jeans, but decided there was no point. It would be more intimidating to the girl if he was half-nude. The bloodied seraph was leery of men, despite her bravado in the woods. She tensed every time one of them touched her.

When he opened the door of his room and slipped into the dim light of the hall, he overheard the muffled tail end of a code-switching conversation, half-Japanese, half-German. A moment later, Schuldig slid from the room looking smugly pleased with himself, forehead leaned against the girl's door as if he were in the grip of fanatical contemplation.

“Wha' the hell are ya duin'?” Farfarello hissed, taking in the German's rumpled appearance. He reeked of masculine sex. He felt the muscles under his right eye begin to twitch when the older man didn't react. His appearance in the hallway apparently had been expected.

“Waiting for you, Far-fellow,” the charismatic sarcasm dripped from the red-head's lips as he turned very slowly to lean against the door, arms bracing against the frame to support his slouching upper body.

“Hmphf.” The Irish's hand lingered on the knob to his own door. Schuldig was a fop, but a dangerous one.

“She has nightmares you know.” The jerk of his head indicating the door sent his coppery mane swinging over his shoulder, “Disturbs my sleep.”

“And wha's that to meh?” Suspicion narrowed the white-haired youth's features slightly.

“A means to an end, I suspect,” the smile would unnerve strangers, but to his younger teammate it signaled that prey was afoot.

“Suspect wha'ever ya like. Ah've unfinished business with the bitch, German,” he replied tonelessly, hand dropping away from the knob to demonstrate his resolve.

Schuldig snorted softly, shrugging his naked shoulders with feline grace as he slunked from the doorway. Coming threateningly close to the shorter boy, admiring his pale, scarred chest, the nipple ring the younger man wore winked at him in the uncertain light of the corridor. “Suit yourself, Irish.” The last word blew the bitter scent of beer into the glaring face as the older man leaned in close enough to send fingerletts of orangish-red hair walking across his cheeks.

“Ah'll be having muh other stave back as well come mornin'.” He refused to be backed down by Schuldig's brazenness. Farfarello enjoyed working with his blades, but bare hands were better. If the German got too fresh, he would gladly test his theory as to whether or not God would weep for the consensually damned.

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Dissatisfaction crept across Schuldig's face when his teammate refused to budge; his euphoria delighted in the fear of others. So far he had yet to cultivate that emotion or any other true feeling in the psychopath. It was one of his life's challenges; one the girl unwittingly rose to every time she faced the deranged nineteen-year-old. “However, if you continue to play these games with her… you will lose.” He smiled when the first visible sign of uncertainty flickered in the depths of Farfarello's eye. He couldn't suppress the chuckle the unconscious reaction produced, “Guten Nacht, Far-fellow.”

The slackening of the other's lips when Schuldig began to back away was too tempting. He used his enhanced speed to trap the psychotic teen's wrists at his sides and pressed a bruising, close-lipped kiss on his mouth. His own lips curled into a grin as the bite-roughened flesh started to weep new blood under the pressure. Surprisingly, Farfarello offered no response whatsoever, just glared on laconically as the twenty-two year old telepath tried to read him. After a few moments, the game lost its appeal; the boy's emotions were locked up tight.

Breaking the contact, the sobering German smirked down into a fathomless amber pool; the only thing he saw reflected was unadulterated hatred. “Give her that for me.” A nerve under the leather eye patch twitched. Forest green spikes of rage perforated the younger assassin's mental shields. Jealousy was a becoming hue on him. Psychosis or no, the Berserker was an obsessive antagonist.

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Farfarello seethed silently as the coquettish bastard nanced off down the corridor and disappeared into his den of licentious amusements. He would have to remember to find that shotgun tomorrow and pay an anti-social call to the German's computer. He had just kissed his porn goodbye. It was a petty torment that wouldn't make a ripple in heaven, but would be satisfying none-the-less.

As would terrifying the bane of his existence, the girl was a threat to the capitulating balance of his emotional autonomy. Stoicism with an undercurrent of malicious defeatism had been the compromise, but the treatise was being rent to shreds by the tenacious angel that had fallen amidst a band of demons bound in human skin and inked in blood. She would regret her temerity in tempting their capricious nature.

The thought brought the apparition of a smile floating to the surface of his countenance as he gripped the knob and gave it a gradual twist, inching the door open. There was no worry about waking her. The telepath had put her under; Farfarello was sure of that. He hated it when the older man did that to him, never knew what the bastard would do afterwards and he always came to with a nagging throb behind his good eye. However, the occasional annoyance was now at work in his favor.

He approached the emerald draped bed on lithe feet, stave cradled loosely in his left hand. He would leave it behind as a reminder that she dwelt in the realm of the living by Ezset's sanction and his tolerant acquiescence. When his eye fell on her, he halted mid-stride. The silvered rays of the moon made her pale skin glow as though she truly were a celestial being swaddled in the darkened fabric of the mortal plane. Her braid was mostly undone, scattering strands of dully gleaming onyx to frame her sleeping face. No lines marred the porcelain-beige of her countenance eased by the peace of unconsciousness. The dark lashes that lay in stark relief against the pallid hue of her cheeks were at rest, bereft of dreams to set them aflutter. Her salmon pink lips were pressed loosely together, manifesting a nearly pensive aura as if even in limbo she couldn't escape the fundamental ideals that stained her waking soul.

With his right hand, he reached out and traced the air millimeters above that satirical mouth. So many secrets were held within, and so few released. So many masks, false faces to preserve the anguish of existence. He let his hand trail lower, over her chin to conform to the contours of her slender throat, molding itself to the vulnerable expanse of flesh. The steady cadence of her pulse hammering beneath his thumb sent blood rushing to his brain, the sensation made him lightheaded. The draw of breath reverberated against his palm as he began to compress her trachea. He watched enrapt fascination as her eyelids creased, head burrowed back into the downy depths of the pillow and finally those ireful lips twisted apart in a silent bid for air. The reflective expression had vanished to be replaced by something more desperate—truthful and grotesque. Satisfied, he relinquished his grip, watching as the tension eased from her eyes and lips. Her mouth was too pale; he had liked it better covered in the charlatan's crimson. He ran the tip of the stave across his lips, gathering the remnants of blood from his encounter with Schuldig, then crept onto the bed to straddle her chest. The droplets of rusting life he scrapped over her bottom lip—a benign lick of steel—shaded it more to his liking.

When she awoke in the morning, she would understand what it was to truly be at the mercy of another being. Could he be satisfied with that understanding alone? Would she accept the fact that control and safety were delusions without the consummation of the act? So far she had resisted the idea; it would be nothing to crush her larynx, to hear the rasping wheeze of her final breath should her denial persist. He leaned back, lapping all traces of blood from the blade as he contemplated his next move. He preferred his conquests to be aware, so following on the German's heels severely limited his options.

The lacquered luster of the Kodachi's sheath, nestled in its bed of polishing cloths, caught his eye as he shifted in the crouch to survey the Spartan surroundings. The ultimate insult to any samurai was to desecrate the sanctity of his weapon. Why should she be any different? He cast a gloating glance back over his shoulder as he slithered from the bed; the blade dancer was powerless to stop him.

A yowling hiss resonated in his ears as miniature penknives jabbed themselves into his right ankle. Startled, he dropped the stave, barely missing his own foot and lost track of it in the heat of the flogging assault. He had forgotten all about the kitten Nagi had given her. The damnable creature must have been waiting to ambush him. He reached into the darkness at his feet and plucked the ginger-colored abomination from his lacerated skin by the scruff of its scrawny neck. The beast let out a belly-rumbling roar and transformed into a whirling mass of fangs and claws, swiping the air hard enough to spin itself around in his pinching grasp. The villain favored his pint-sized nemesis with a sardonic grin before carting the ferocious familiar off to the bathroom, where he deposited the spitting hellcat into the toilet bowl and slammed the lid down. As an afterthought, he flushed, chuckling softly as the mewling yowls were overridden by the vortex of the blue- dyed maelstrom.

Now for the sword. He shut the bathroom door behind him as he left, leaving the incapacitated fiend to fend for herself. The girl was going to have all sorts of unpleasant surprises to deal with in the morning. He peered at the slumbering figure one last time before striding to the weapon's cradle and taking it up irreverently. Once in his hand, he took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the scabbard, the blackened cherry veneer was transcribed with indecipherable columns of silver etched kanji that ran the full length of the sheath. He thumbed the blade from the hugging grip of the sheath's mouth and drew it left-handed; the steel whispered its greeting into the stillness of the room, ringing out only when the tip bumped against the silver inlaid lip. The honed edge glimmered greedily in the low light, a shining avatar of death awaiting its next taste of life. He gave it a few experimental slashes; it was an entirely different feel from his knives or even the extendable lance of the poniard. The Kodachi was heavier, more unwieldy, blade too long to be a knife, too short to be a full sword.
Shame to sully such a fine thing, but the dogs of war were due their sacrifice. The lead-tongued incubus was also due his just rewards. He could hear the muted thumping of some techno-punk band permeating the double-thick drywall that separated the rooms. Re-sheathing the weapon, he strode to the threshold, slipped into the hall leaving the door ajar and moved with deliberation toward the sound. He knew what the boy would be doing before he stole inside his room, swaddling himself in the shadows at the far corner. The only time Nagi really listened to that shit was when he wanted everyone to stay away.

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The Japanese teen was stretched completely nude, still glistening from the shower, across his bed. He hadn't been able to let the images of her go. He had tried to drown her in the pelting rain of frigid water, but all he had accomplished was turning his normally dusky skin an interesting shade of gray. He had finally decided the quickest way to rid himself of the images and find sleep was to give into his body's persistent demands. Self-manipulation took the edge off, but no real satisfaction was to be had. It was a means to an end—an isolated union of a solitary body and spirit that left him empty. He rarely indulged in anything more fulfilling. No sense in wasting time pursuing something that was beyond him. But for her, he had been willing to make an exception.

He let the parade of memories set his pace, guide his stroking fingers over the length of his thin chest, downward to scratch white furrows across the tightly coiled muscles of his abs and delve lower. There were a thousand innocent, thoughtless enticements that stoked his lust: the way her body flaunted itself for all to see as she somersaulted through the air during training, muscles working in synchronized alacrity to keep pace with the tortuous movements of her acrobatic fighting style; the unconscious revelation of skin while at rest; furtive glances cast with heavily-lidded, fey eyes and that hesitant smile she had given him today. His member twitched eagerly as he thumbed the velvety head, wrapping long-boned fingers around the broad girth of the engorged shaft. Lengthy strokes, throttling tight along the base, rolled in tugging waves up the pinnacle of flesh, arching his shoulders off the mattress.

A vision of Farfarello and Hikari rendered itself washed in incandescent blue. The two were enrapt in a searing kiss, jaws canting in mutual passion, Farfarello's pale, angular face cradled between her delicate hands. She was on her knees in front of her lover, dressed only in a thin, silvery-linen shift that had settled low on the swelling of her breasts to bare her rounded shoulders and slender neck. The white-haired youth braced himself on hand and knees before her; the fingers of his free hand tangled in the silken strands at the nape of her neck to prevent her withdrawal. The pair was stealing willowy breaths as their passion slicked lips met, melded and parted in a heated caper. A savage gentility tempered their movements, until the fey-eyed nymph trailed her dauntless fingers down the contours of her partner's chest, raising pinkish welts in their passing. A steady push against his sternum and inching advancement of her body led the ravishing mortal male to place his supporting hand on her silvered thigh as he labored not to break the rapacious rhythm of the kiss. When he was genuflecting before her, both hands scaling the veiled expanse of ribs, she arrested the kneading trek of the probes with fettering grips and lunged forward, carrying both of them to the carpeted floor.

The kiss broke as Farfarello's back connected with the ground. He didn't struggle or wrench his wrists free of her secure clasp as she shifted to a straddle across his hips; her core pressing against his constrained erection. The fall of her raven waves obscured Nagi's view of the scene for a moment, as she leaned in to sketch the curvature of her captive's lips with an inquisitive tongue. Settling back on her haunches, she ground her sex into the wafting heat of the Irish's body, marveling at the contortion of musculature as he tensed below her. Coursing ripples through the taut skin raked her eyes over him. The story of her impending conquest's life trailed down his torso to disappear beneath the waistband of his black leather pants; his marred perfection assured that safe-words were aberrant luxuries in his world.

She cocked her head to one side, sending her hair cascading over her shoulder to pool beside Farfarello's ear as she loomed over him. He made no sound, just returned her appraising gaze with laconic indifference. His unruly, short hair jutted out at odd angles, leaving his austerely handsome face bare. The scars slashing across his face added to the severity of his tragic allure. Releasing his left hand, she brought supplicant fingers to hover above the marred alabaster. The man turned the defamed plane of his cheek away from her hesitant entreaty, presenting her with his unblemished profile. A brandy-wine eye slanted to meet her reproachful glower.

“Suit yourself,” she whispered with a saturnine smirk, surrendering her hold on the other wrist, prior to backing down the length of his body to work the fastening of his pants apart. The washboard abs flexed into motion as the momentary malaise was abandoned. Blunt-nailed fingers dug into the exposed left shoulder, as the other snagged the neckline of the gauze shift and sundered it from throat to hips to reveal his tormentors well-formed body. His furor had halted her questing hands at the waistband. Her eyes widened and lips parted in dismayed acknowledgement of the ambient capriciousness of power.

Their faces were inches apart, kept that way by the arm that was bracing him. His eye searched her startled face as the hand that had gripped her shoulder was busy scrapping jagged nails along the ridge of her collarbone. “Don't stop.” The maliciously sensual sneering of his lips failed to flavor the challenge with anything at all.

The oddity of it made Nagi pause mid-stroke.

“Don't stop,” Farfarello repeated as he encircled the base of the boy's swollen scrotum with vice-like fingers.

The distorted conflux of reality and fantasy made the fifteen-year-old's heart seize. Apparently, he had pissed Farfarello off more than he had realized. Normally, their altercations halted at the door and were either settled or forgotten, but he had crossed the line tonight. And Farfarello was not the forgiving kind. The yanking pinch of the impromptu cock ring kick-started his heart. “How long have you been lurking around?” He stretched his legs out, brushing against the length of Farf's denim-clad thigh, releasing the hold on his penis to push himself upright. Playing it cool would be best, he decided as he tried to remember how long it had been since the Irish's last pill.

“Ah told ya not to stop, brat.” The hiss of metal raking metal eased Nagi's shoulders back onto the pillow. The prick of the blade into the soft spot beneath his jaw pushed his gaze ceiling ward, and wrapped his hand back around his rigid cock.

It had only been a few hours since Farf's last dose, so he probably wouldn't do anything too violent. But, then again who knew when the demons would rear their spiteful heads. The brunette forced the blade's tip into his skin, locking eyes with his friend. “Remember your promise—“ Nagi reminded him quietly.

When the psychotic knife-wielder had joined Schwarz three years ago, he had vowed that neither of them would ever be violated again, and the Irish had kept his word. Tonight might very well have been the deal breaker though…

A single amber eye glittered dangerously in the darkness at his waist. Farfarello was perched on the end of the bed, one knee folded under him, opposite foot planted on the ground for support. “Ya gonna hold it all night or are ya gonna finish wha' ya started?”

“Didn't know you were into this sorta thing… figured it would be more up Schu's alley.” The grip on his sac tightened, forcing a yelp out of him.

Flash of teeth in the darkness, “Ya're gettin' ta be a mouthy brat.”

Time to shut up then, he decided starting a slow, rubbing gait that brushed against the top of his tormentor's relentless grasp. So much for giving vent to his imagination and relieving his frustrations; after this he would probably end up back in the shower. Midnight encounters with the white-haired gaijin had been a long standing fantasy that Farfarello would probably gut him for. He watched the play of impotent light along the length of the blade his jaw rested upon, mind disjointed from the sensations his hand was invoking. Was it Hikari's? For him tohave swiped the sword, she hasto be unconscious or dead, Nagi reasoned. “What are you doing with the Kodachi?” A jab of pain as the tip eased itself through a few more layers of epidermis. Farfarello obviously wasn't in the mood to be talkative. He hoped she was simply unconscious.

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“Tsk, tsk… Curiosity will kill ya, cheeky lil' bastard,” he rumbled, daring the boy to ask anymore questions. He had no intention of breaking the incubus; his continued existence was too much of a blight on God's grand design to destroy him for such a petty trespass. However, he needed to ensure that the mistake would never be repeated.

The look of carnal rapture that ravished the deceptively doll-like features was gone now that his hands were on the bishounen. Discomfort was evident in the tensed muscles, the sluggish strokes—Nagi was not enjoying this. He was most likely worried about Farfarello's sanity at the moment; one slip and he would be bleeding out over the gray sea of fabric. Underneath it all, the Japanese teen didn't trust him anymore than the others. Just as well, the inability to wholly trust would keep him alive in the end. “Ya like flappin' yer jaws.”

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Nagi eyed the shadowy figure wearily. There was no telling what he was getting at.

“What du ya see, when ya close yer eyes?”

A boiling flush seared his cheeks, as he squirmed under the weight of the observer's scrutiny. “Nothing in particular…”

“Start talkin',” the tone brooked no arguments. The mattress shifted as the speaker edged upward, drawing the blade in a feather light caress down his Adam's apple to rest in the hollow of his throat.

Note to self, never pry into Farf's personal life again, Nagi amended to his survivalist creed as the nip of the blade sent ripples of anticipation down his spine. Masochism appealed to him, but there were no safeties where the psychopathic assassin was concerned. Fucking with Farf was like playing Russian roulette— gamble long enough and your luck was guaranteed to run out. Personally, he wasn't much of a gambler. Pacification was the diplomat's policy when dealing with the habitually perturbed.

Before Schwarz, he had earned about two thousand two hundred yen for jerking off to the sound of his own voice while some avaricious bastard watched. Diplomacy, like prostitution, was ninety-eight percent showmanship anyway. The blue-eyed Nippon settled back into the comforter, forcing his muscles to relax as he picked up the pace. Narrowing his vision to slits, he drew in a sultry breath, exhaling a hushed moan, “She's on top, riding my dick. Her pussy is dripping it's so wet…. Ummmh.”

The vision of the girl and the vengeful fiend reformed itself as he consciously fabricated the script, posturing the two bodies to suit his needs. The jade-eyed bishojo had taken up her lover's challenge, discarded the mangled shift and impaled herself on his sex. She moved with calculated slothfulness, torturing his sensitized flesh. A beautific smirk was plastered across her kiss-plushed lips until powerful hands gripped her narrow hips with bruising strength to pump her svelte form in a maddening pace.

“Her release's scalding me,” the fantasy Farfarello smirked arrogantly as the girl gave a salacious groan, head thrown back, pulse exposed, shoulders writhing, “dripping over my balls.” Perspiration glisten at the swell of her heaving bosom, as the unruly headed boy licked a path from naval to the valley of breasts, blushing the trail with hard nips. A wolfish eye drank in her hammering pulse before laving along the throbbing artery. The Japanese girl surged upward, sinking razor edged talons into the Irish's shoulders, before plunging back into the cradle of his hips.

“Nails are raking my chest….. uhh… black hair is everywhere, hiding her face….. and licking over the wounds…. Uh- unnnh… sopping up the bloody tracks.” The pressure was building to a raging ache below the choking clasp of Farfarello's fingers. God, he needed to cum.

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His words were coming in gasping bouts punctuated by pained moans. The incubus's cock was redden by the urgency for release; thin veins roping the surface pulsated with frustration. His angelic face was beaded with sweat; cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, brow furrowed in concentration. He knew the boy was battling down the urge to beg for reprieve—and losing. The experience should prove humbling…

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The girl shrieked her release as Farfarello ground himself to the hilt in her core. The slicked entrance made a wet sucking “squelch” as the pummeling gait resumed, denying her the chance to recover. “She's screaming out over me, her body's gripping me-- eating me alive. Sooo, hot…”

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Time to see how imaginative he is, Farfarello grinned nastily as he increased the hold slightly, making sure the pressure would continue to build. He needed every last drop he could get to decorate the blade. Besides, tormenting the kid occasionally prevented him from getting too bold. This had apparently been long overdue.

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The bastard is going to make me beg, Nagi realized as he continued to fist himself long after he ran out of details to add to the ludicrously explicit climax. “Let go…” he finally growled, ignoring the lust-warmed threat of the sword as he arched his upper body off the bed to glare at the exultant goblin.

The expression told him that there was no way in hell he was going to get off that easily.

“Dammit, let go already!!!! I get it… I promise to mind my own business where Hikari is concerned.”

“Remember this, Naoe, if ya go back on yer word ya'll end up with parts missin'.”

The clamping pressure disappeared suddenly and the resulting explosion shattered him. White heat engulfed his frame as his cock jerked with the force of release, coating his belly with endless volleys of scorching fluid. The only thing that kept him from waking half the neighborhood was the ghostly hand that mangled his howling climax to a petulant whimper. He lay panting against his tormentor's palm, waiting for the pounding in his temples to recede.

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He had never realized Nagi was a screamer. The fifteen-year-old had taken a bullet in the thigh not so long ago with less than a yelp… ecstasy must be a different sort of pain. Not that he would ever know himself.

Finally, the incubus's cock ceased its death throes and lay flaccid against his lower belly, spewing forth the last pearls of squandered life. The ropes of fluid were splattered across the undulating abs and quivering chest. “Don't move,” the warning was hissed as the hand relented its crushing hold on the teen's jaws. He pushed up from the bed, fixing Nagi with an appraising glare, before dragging the blade down the length of the supine youth's stomach through the whitish trails.

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“What are you doing?” Hikari is going to be so upset when she sees that tomorrow, Nagi hated to imagine the look on her face when she discovered it.

“Hunting.”

The hardening of the man's expression made him wonder what had already transpired that night. Farfarello was taking this whole thing too far, but remaining intact was a greater priority at the moment. A few more dragging passes over his dirtied skin and the Kodachi was smeared from guard to point with his taint.

The gaijin raised the sword to glower at his work, before ramming it back into the ornate sheath. “Watch yer fuckin' mouth from now on.” With that he was gone, shifting, flowing into the shadows at the edge of the bed and beyond. Farfarello dissipated into darkness as if he were hew from the very fabric of nightmares.

The click of the latch catching seconds later assured him that the living phantom had indeed vacated the room. Off to rematerialize in the girl's room no doubt, wreaking his own patent brand of mayhem. Farfarello's hunt was variegated by the darker motivations of human nature: lust, jealousy, need for dominance and the warped posturings of enigmatic ardor. Could she survive the chase? Would she remain unbowed, despite the blooding rain of ceaseless blows? Only the morning would tell, he sighed to himself as he surveyed the sullied expanse of torso. He needed a shower…

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