Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Hallowed Be Thy Name ❯ Hallowed Be Thy Name: Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

*Disclaimer: If you're reading this, you already know. I don't own Schwarz, or any other characters. ;_; Oh well. I 'borrowed' them and emotionally tortured and tormented them for my own cruel pleasure and your reading delight. ^^; It shifts in and out of Brad's POV; don't get lost, now, kids... And remember - don't feed the wild bears. But please *do* feed me, the author, with your comments, criticism, and even flames if you like. The fic is calling out to you: Review me! ^_^

(italics like this are thoughts, just to clarify for anyone who might not...realize that. ^^;)

Hallowed Be Thy Name: Chapter Two

Farfello tugged lightly on Brad Crawford's necktie, and then slid it away from the shirt and onto unclothed flesh, tightening the knot of the tie just enough to make the silk feel rough against bare skin and leave raw red marks, tight enough to make it painful and difficult to breathe. "Seventeen minutes, Bradley. We're going to have a little fun…"

The straight razor was discarded on the bedroom floor in favor of a small, sharp knife. The point pricked the skin on the side of Crawford's neck. He pulled the blade down toward the collar of the white shirt and watched blood well up from the shallow cut, rich and coppery and crimson. Crawford flinched involuntarily at the sensation of a velvety tongue

iron fist in a velvet glove

mopping up the blood. As the Irishman shifted and leaned forward to lick up the glorious crimson liquid, Crawford realized that his hands were free.

But what can I do, he thought glumly. I don't have a gun…and hitting Farfello would be pointless…because he wouldn't even feel it.

He felt rough hands grab his shoulders and push him down on the bed. A bony knee strategically placed itself in his crotch and ground his balls into painful mush. A sick feeling coursed through his entire body and settled heavily in his stomach, and he clenched his teeth. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, and finally escaped in a series of shallow, ragged gasps for air.

Tears of agonizing pain inevitably welled up in his eyes, which he closed as tightly as he possibly could, and they squeezed out from behind his eyelids and spilled down his face. That velvety tongue flicked against his cheek and tasted the salt and the enticing pain in those tears. Crawford hardly felt it through the sheer agony of the pressure on his testicles.

The knee wiggled, and a shrill whimper escaped him. A low whispery voice spoke to him. "You don't like that, do you?" The question, obviously rhetorical, was punctuated with a dry laugh. Crawford could smell alcohol, mingling with the coppery essence of blood, on Farfello's breath; he could feel those dry, bloodstained lips brushing against his ear, taste the metallic crimson flavor of the sick pleasure that Farfello derived from the torture.

The knee removed itself from Crawford's groin and he sucked in air rapidly, opening his eyes. They greeted a pallid, scarred face less than two inches away. Farfello cruelly lowered his lips to Crawford's nose in a mocking kiss, and he grinned. "Get up." His rich brown eyes met a single blurred golden eye, the perfect clear amber color of beer. "Get up, I said."

His lithe body arched backward, thin legs planting themselves firmly on the floor, and he tightly grabbed Crawford's arm, pulling him up and almost causing him to lose balance and fall back onto the mattress again. His grip on Crawford's arm tightened more, and the bony fingers dug into Crawford's arm, where bruises were beginning to form.

Without warning, the Irishman violently jerked Crawford's arm down and nudged the back of his knee not-so-gently with a foot, forcing him into a kneeling position near the foot of the bed. "You're going to pray."

"W-What?"

"PRAY," he snarled. "Like this." Crawford's eyes struggled to focus, and he noticed his vision had adjusted slightly without the glasses, and though it caused him some pain, he could see more clearly now. Farfello now knelt beside Crawford and lifted his eyes to the ceiling, folding his hands in a childlike, innocent way. The malevolent sparkle in that golden eye, the scars on that pallid face, the knife Crawford knew had been concealed somewhere, all made the seeming innocence look very, very wrong. He stood up again, retrieving his sharp knife, toying with it, licking the blade. Crawford's eyes searched frantically for the crimson readout of the clock. Thirteen minutes remained.

"Come on, Bradley, pray." Farfello had lay down, stretched out on his stomach, with his head placed at the foot of the bed. He lifted Crawford's chin, wielding a knife in the other. The exposed, vulnerable flesh of the clairvoyant's neck excited the psychopath. His rough finger stroked the protruding Adam's apple slightly. "Pray, damn you."

"What should I..."

"Come on, Bradley. It's not hard. You know what to do. Tell you what...I'll start you off. `Our Father, who art in heaven…'"

"Our Father, who art in heaven…" He followed the prayer meekly. "Hallowed be thy name…"

"Louder, Bradley, I can't hear you!"

"Hallowed be thy name…"

"LOUDER!"

"Hallowed be thy name.Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven…"

"Good boy, Bradley." The knife in Farfello's hand made a shallow slit along Brad's throat, just below his jawline. He admired his handiwork long enough to allow the dark, thick blood to well up and begin to trickle down Brad's neck. Farfello's velvety tongue eagerly darted out again, devouring the blood. Crawford locked his fingers together.

"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever."

"You forgot something, Bradley," the raspy voice teased. He felt Farfello's mouth lock to the incision in his neck, sucking the blood. He watched the muscles in the pale neck working ever so slightly as his blood trickled, smooth and thick and red, down that throat. The dry lips stopped working at the cut. Even in the dark, Brad Crawford could now see that they were slicked with fresh crimson gore. His own blood.

Farfello sat up and slid into the space between Brad's body and the foot of the bed. He knocked Crawford's arms down and restrained them with one arm, pulling Crawford closer to him by his necktie. His crimson bloodstained lips crushed forcefully against Brad's, his bloody tongue probing the struggling mouth. He lingered for a moment, then released the captive mouth.

"Taste that, Bradley? That's what your life tastes like. Bitter and coppery and brilliant and bright, thick and rich and delicious…and in ten minutes it won't be your life anymore. Your blood will be mine, inside me." Two fingers swiped an errant drop of blood welling up as the cut began to clot. He slid them inside Crawford's mouth. "I'm devouring your life, Brad Crawford." He removed his fingers and sucked at the blood and saliva left behind. "And you tasted good, you know that?"

Crawford's head spun weakly. He didn't know what to say or do, and it didn't much seem to matter anymore. "What did I forget?"

"You forgot to say amen."

A sadistic grin lit Farfello's face like a pinball machine.

To Be Continued...