Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ You're Joking, Right? ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own Weiss Kreuz (Project Weiss does; also Kyoko Tsuchiya). If I did, it would make more sense. (I'm not boasting; the bar is low. I mean, I love it, but it really doesn't make very much sense.)

 

Also, this chapter contains rough sex, as will other chapters to follow -- wouldn't want anybody to get squicked out if that isn't their cup of fur.

 

**********

 

 

 

 

Ken jammed another flower into the arrangement he was constructing and looked at it appraisingly. It sucked.

 

This was not an entirely unexpected turn of events.

 

“Hey Yoji,” he said. The coworker in question was also looking at the arrangement, his expression pained. Ken was nonplussed; he'd been arranging flowers for years and was certain he'd done worse.

 

Yoji shook his head in disbelief. “Ken, that is… words fail me.”

 

“I'm an assassin, Jim, not a limp-wristed petunia patter.”

 

“Ken, that's hibiscus.”

 

“See? Anyway, forget about the flowers. What I was going to say was, have you noticed that Aya's been kind of twitchy and irritable lately?”

 

Yoji stared. “You're joking, right?”

 

Ken shrugged. “Well, you know, more than usual.”

 

Yoji shook his head. “I mean, how would you notice?”

 

“I don't know. He just seems -- I don't know. Really freaked out about something.” He paused, noticing that Yoji was still staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. “Well, you know, something else. Something new.”

 

“No, Ken, I hadn't noticed. What did he do?”

 

“Nothing, really. It's just… He's been avoiding us, you know? Stop looking at me like that. I know he's always kept to himself, but he'd at least say hello and talk a little bit if he was forced into it, like if he was trapped in the shop with you on a slow day. Now, forget it -- you never see him. except on a mission or if he absolutely has to help with customers at the front of the store. Otherwise he's always in his room or in the back working on arrangements or in the greenhouse or something.”

 

“Yeah, I had noticed that. I'd just assumed that since he's been here for a few months now, his hatred for us had taken on shape and meaning.”

 

“Well, this is obviously a possibility. That's just not how it reads to me, is all. “

 

“And how does it read to you, Ken?”

 

“I don't know. But whatever it is, I wish he'd get over it. I'm about ready to kill him, and Kritiker would be pissed.”

 

 

**********

 

 

Yoji wanted to wrap his wire around Aya's neck and pull until the bastard's head popped off and fell to the floor with a satisfying plop.

 

The redhead was usually wound up before their missions. It was to be expected, since he was an irritable little prick and also a homicidal maniac. But tonight was special. Tonight he was radiating tension, broadcasting it like one of those pirate radio stations that keeps drifting in with staticy R&B when you're just trying to get the God-damned weather report. And he wouldn't speak to anybody, not even to answer a direct question. But whenever you did something that bothered him -- look at him the wrong way, breathe -- he made that irritated little face. Yoji blew out a soothing lungful of smoke. There it was -- eyes narrowed, lips thinned, jaw cocked just so.

 

And for now, he was stuck with the guy. Ken was outside, watching for the car to approach, and Omi was already in position in the loft. They'd gotten there early and should have at least 45 minutes before the target arrived -- plenty of time for the smell of one cigarette to dissipate in the enormous, to say nothing of uncomfortably drafty, warehouse. Yoji did not need Aya to tell him how to do his job. Or, as the case may be, to stand there and twitch and glare whenever he did something Aya didn't like.

 

Yoji looked forward to getting this show on the road and getting the hell out of here. He was used to waiting in dark, dank warehouses to kill more or less interchangeable evil-doers, but stifling his growing desire to garotte his teammate was causing unwanted tension in his neck and upper back.

 

“Target's arriving,” Ken's voice finally whispered over the tiny com unit in Yoji's ear. Well hallelujah, Yoji thought, straightening his back slightly to help loosen his shoulders. He moved into position and heard a side door open. As small group of men entered the warehouse, Yoji waited for Aya's signal to advance.

 

It never came. Instead, several other things happened more or less simultaneously, none of them part of the mission plan. Four people who weren't supposed to be there entered the warehouse in a suspiciously professional manner. Aya left his position. One of said professionals took off after Aya. Both ran into a completely dark area on the other side of the building. And, finally, a bullet whizzed past Yoji's shoulder with very little clearance.

 

Dropping and rolling over behind a stack of crates, Yoji assessed the situation and decided it had gone completely to hell and they appeared to be fucked.

 

 

**********

 

 

Aya flipped off his com and slipped silently into the hiding spot he'd selected earlier in the day, when he'd been here doing his own reconnaissance -- just in case. He concentrated on quieting his breathing so the sound wouldn't give him away, then turned his attention to trying to find the other assassin. He knew the man had followed him in here, could feel his presence, but he could hear nothing.

 

That didn't surprise him -- Farfarello was good.

 

Aya was swiftly reviewing where the other man could have hidden, how he might attack, and what his best tactical positions would be. His heart was pounding with excitement.

 

He sensed the strike a moment before it landed, not quite enough time to really defend it, but just enough to shift away and avoid getting a knife buried between his ribs. Not missing a beat, Farfarello grabbed Aya's sword arm with his other hand, coming in closer to the katana's razor edge than a sane man would. In one sure motion, Farfarello cracked Aya's forearm against a the corner of a concrete post at the precise angle necessary to break it. There was an audible snap and the sword clattered to the floor.

 

Aya didn't make a sound but lost several seconds steadying himself, breathing deeply in an attempt to offset the sudden, nauseating surge of pain. He closed his eyes, willing himself to get past it.

 

When he could focus again, Aya realized Farfarello had grabbed his upper arms and was leaning over him, pinning him to the wall. Farfarello was the smaller of the two, but Aya was always surprised by how powerful he was.

 

“Couldn't wait to see me again, could you, Red?” Farfarello whispered into his ear. He spoke in English, his voice rough with violence and sex.

 

Aya shivered.

 

“I hear your masters call you Abyssinian now.” Farfarello dropped his arms and shifted against him, rubbing his erection against Aya's hip.

 

For a moment, Farfarello's balance was slightly off. Aya twisted and threw the other man away from him with all his strength. Then he *ran*, disappearing into the darkness.

 

Aya squatted behind the shelter of some boxes and considered whether he could get back to his sword, which he could use adequately with his left hand -- or at least find the knife. The answer was no. He wasn't going to be able to make it back through the door, either. Aya closed his eyes and listened but didn't hear a sound. He clutched his broken arm to his body and thought about how Farfarello had felt, buzzing with barely restrained energy. His muscles were hard and defined, shifting smoothly beneath skin that was marked everywhere with scars of varying severity. Farfarello was the real thing, a circling shark of an opponent. He'd smelled like... what? Something spicy, pepper and... persimmons? And sweat. And he'd been wearing that leather vest with no shirt under it; and the dog collar... that was so hot...

 

Aya shook his head; his brain was getting foggy from pain and... He had to focus. Reluctantly, he started prowling the stacks of crates, looking for something he could use as a weapon. Finding nothing.

 

He heard a faint sound on the other side of the crates. With a burst of speed, he scaled them and leaped onto the other assassin, knocking them both to the floor. He managed to wrench the knife from Farfarello's hand and was trying to get a solid grip on it when his opponent regained his balance and flipped them over, cracking Aya's skull into the cement floor and sending the knife skittering away behind a wall of crates. Doesn't matter, Aya thought; he's going to have about 10 more, anyway. And fuck, that hurt. The situation struck him as grimly amusing and he actually laughed -- causing an explosion of pain in his chest that almost made him lose consciousness, on top of the other injuries. Ahh, bruised ribs; always the perfect counterpoint to a concussion. Although perhaps it was a bit much with the broken bones...

 

Farfarello was on top of him, straddling his hips and holding down his arms, looking into his eyes -- back and forth, scanning. Aya registered all this dimly, feeling dizzy and just a toe over the threshold of violently ill.

 

“Turn your head if you're going to vomit,” Farfarello said, a small, tight smile on his face. Aya's eyes narrowed into his death glare, causing Farfarello to laugh out loud. “That's my baby -- always puts up a good fight.”

 

“Fucking psycho,” Aya muttered.

 

“I know you are, but what am I?”

 

Aya let himself look at the other man's face. The one tawny eye sparkled with amusement. The corners crinkled in a way that would have been friendly and appealing, in some other universe where Farfarello wasn't an insane killer. But Aya loved the way one corner of his mouth quirked up, while the other side barely moved. Maybe something to do with the massive damage over there, Aya theorized, looking up at the deep scars disappearing behind Farfarello's eye patch. Too bad about that; losing his depth perception and range of vision must have been a bitch to compensate for. Still -- and he felt a small surge of pride -- you couldn't say he hadn't managed.

 

Aya realized his mouth was open and he was panting.

 

So was Farfarello.

 

Aya tensed slightly, feeling the hold Farfarello had on him, feeling for any weakness. None. He took stock of his situation. He had abandoned his teammates in the middle of a mission and was now pinned flat on his back on the cold, dirty floor of a warehouse beneath the hard, unyielding body of a rival assassin who had the mother of all impulse control problems, not to mention the knife fetish, and he was pretty much out of the game as far as defending himself. None of his injuries was serious, but the pain had left him off balance and too foggy to think. Aya was all but helpless -- Farfarello had won.

 

Aya finally allowed himself to pay attention to the heat between his legs. Trembling, he let the barely restrained lust uncoil and lost himself in it for a moment. He heard Farfarello growl in excitement. All the pain blended together with the throbbing of his rock-hard cock, trapped by the inside of his opponent's thigh. It never felt so good with anybody else...

 

Aya bit his lip and tilted his head back slightly, exposing his throat in submission. He didn't know what else Farfarello was going to do to him, and he didn't exactly care. He wanted to come.

 

“Open your eyes.” Farfarello's voice was a tight whisper, which Aya obeyed instantly.

 

“I'm going to fuck you now.” The expression on his face betrayed heat and the promise of further violence. Aya felt his breath hitch, and he closed his eyes again. Fararello's lips brushed his throat, tongue probing over his jugular. “Mmm,” the other assassin whispered into Aya's skin. “So much blood...” He bit savagely into Aya's neck. And that was as much as Aya could stand. He screamed, orgasm ripping through him.

 

When his brain kicked in again, Farfarello was nuzzling and sucking at his neck, murmuring. “...Nice kitty... It's been such a long time, hasn't it? Tell me you missed me.”

 

Aya licked his lips and tried to remember how to speak. Nothing happened.

 

“What would your new team think if they knew I can make you come just by kissing you? Well, and beating the hell out of you first, that's understood...”

 

Farfarello unfastened Aya's leather coat and pushed the shoulders back; Aya shrugged out of it. The white-haired assassin slid a knife under Aya's shirt and cut it off, then made the knife disappear. He slid his hands down Aya's naked torso, moving heavily along the muscular stomach to quickly unfasten his belt. Farfarello shifted just enough to unzip Aya's leather pants and peel them back, tugging them down his hips. Then he ran his hands back up the smooth, sleekly muscled thighs, up to the sensitive skin just behind Aya's balls, which he squeezed and cupped in one hand, weighing them.

 

Aya closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on the sensations.

 

Farfarello gripped Aya's cock firmly, smearing the cooling semen up and down, up and down... Aya moaned softly.

 

“Tell me you want it,” Farfarello said clearly. He teased the head of Aya's cock with his thumb. “I want you to beg.”

 

Aya squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip until it bled.

 

“I won't fuck you until you beg.”

 

“Do it,” Aya said.

 

Farfarello smiled, still stroking Aya's cock with an almost painfully hard grip. With his other hand, he slowly fingered the gently puckered skin around Aya's asshole. Aya shifted restlessly, trying to get more.

 

“Try again.”

 

“Do it,” Aya repeated, with more emphasis. Farfarello didn't react. “Fuck me,” Aya said, getting desperate. Still nothing.

 

“Please,” he whispered. Farfarello pushed the tips of two fingers just inside -- just enough to make Aya crazy with need.

 

“Oh, fuck ... please ... please fuck me ...”

 

In one smooth motion, Farfarello shifted off Aya's hips and flipped him over onto his stomach, causing spasms of blinding pain. Farfarello was on top of him before he could regain his breath, inside him. There were a few moments of burning agony, but Aya wanted it. He was gasping from the pain, but it was perfect, claiming him, dominating him... Aya was close to the edge again when Farfarello leaned forward and bit the back of his neck firmly, holding the skin tight in his teeth as he thrust.

 

Aya moaned and came again.

 

Farfarello howled as he followed Aya into orgasm, then collapsed over Aya's back. His breath came in hot pants across Aya's cheek as he lay on top of him, stroking his hair.

 

Minutes later, Farfarello tensed and muttered, “Yeah, I'm on my way. Bossy telepath.” He got up; Aya heard clothes rustle, a zipper being drawn up.

 

“Time for us to leave. We got your target away from your candy-assed teammates ... too bad Kritiker can't pair you with anybody who doesn't suck. But then again, you might not need me as much if that happened.”

 

Aya just lay there, one side of his face pressed against the concrete.

 

Farfarello leaned down and licked his cheek. “Until next time,” he said, grinning. Aya heard footsteps, then silence.

 

He lay there for several minutes, the cold sinking into his aching body. Deciding he'd better try to get up before the afterglow completely burned out, Aya grabbed his coat and tried to rise slowly and cautiously, wary of the head injury, But he flinched when the bruised ribs pulled, making himself dizzy and sick. He froze and crouched there for several minutes, until he was no longer seeing double, then carefully leaned against a stack of crates and slowly pulled himself up. He had to rest again, taking deep breaths and exercising his considerable force of will to keep himself steady. He hadn't vomited, so that was something.

 

He looked around a bit -- hampered by trying to move his head as little as possible -- and, finding the rag that had been his shirt, used it to clean himself. Instinct told him to stuff the thing into his pocket and dispose of it later -- it wouldn't be professional to leave anything behind -- but then he remembered he'd already been about as unprofessional as possible, so he just tossed it into a corner. It wasn't like Manx had sewn a “Property of Weiss” tag inside the collar.

 

Carefully shrugging on his coat, Aya stopped to take a few more deep breaths before fastening it and taking some tentative steps forward. He still wasn't seeing double -- more like one and a half -- and he hadn't actually retched, so he counted himself in fine shape, all things considered. He retrieved his sword and slowly moved to the doorway, then back toward the front of the warehouse. He forced himself to move less gingerly as he approached his teammates, not wanting to give away the full extent of his misery if he didn't have to.

 

And speak of the devil.

 

“Aya!” Ken hissed, appearing out of nowhere. “What the *fuck* happened?”

 

Aya stared at him blankly. Ken was clearly furious, but Aya was no longer processing non-essential information.

 

“You deviated from the plan, ran off without telling anyone what you were doing, left us short-handed when there was a surprise visit from some fucking Gaigin ninjas or something, then you went dark for 25 minutes -- during which we lost the target, by the way -- and you, what, just don't feel like talking about it?”

 

Aya continued to stare. He already knew they'd lost the target, and he hadn't really been able to follow anything else Ken had said.

 

“Aya, you'd better fucking explain yourself,” Ken hissed, shoving Aya's shoulder...

 

Ah, son of a bitch.

 

Too dizzy to catch himself, Aya fell forward and vomited all over Ken's shoes. He heard Yoji's loud guffaw from a few feet away. Ken jumped back as if bitten by a snake, cursing like a longshoreman. A befouled longshoreman.

 

Omi appeared at Aya's shoulder, kneeling down over him. “Aya, what's wrong? Aya?”

 

Aya didn't actually catch his words either, just that it was Omi's voice and he sounded concerned. “Concussion,” he muttered to the ground beneath him.

 

Omi shoved his hand in front of Aya's face. “Aya, how many fingers am I holding up?”

 

Of all the lame-ass... “Fewer than 10, probably, but that's just a guess,” he growled.

 

“Yoji, get over here and help me pick him up. We need to take him home,” Omi said. “And *stop laughing*.”

 

Still chuckling, Yoji sidled over and leaned down over his fallen comrade. “Anything left to say to Ralph, Aya, or are you safe to touch?

 

“I may be at a slight competitive disadvantage at the moment, but I *will* kill you, Kudoh Yoji,” Aya said clearly, slowly rising up onto one knee and wiping his mouth on the handkerchief Omi handed him.

 

Yoji reached around Aya's back to help haul him up, thoroughly infringing on the bruised ribs and, with a skill born of years in the business, also banging into the broken arm.

 

Aya opened his mouth to do some explicit cursing but passed out before a sound left his throat.