Soft
By Lacey Parker
Disclaimer/warnings/notes: I’ve discovered through a long involved process that even if I own the episodes, I don’t own the rights to a series. This is really unfair, but I’ll admit it here. I don’t own the rights to Weiß Kreuz. I own CDs with all of the series on them, including the OVAs and Glühen, but the actual copyrights elude me. I don’t own it and no copyright infringement is meant. Remember, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Project Weiß should be glad that I wrote for their universe. I know I’m glad that it exists.
Weird fantasy piece for me. Farfarello/Schuldig.
Soft
By Lacey Parker
I think of your lips most often. Are they soft like they look? I dream of touching them, tracing that full lower lip with my thumb, holding your head gently to my chest, tilting it back and following my thumb’s path with my tongue. Your hair…is it soft, too? My fingers are wound through it, lightly rubbing your scalp in my fantasy. I know you can feel it- it’s not painful in the least, and you moan softly at the sensation, the release of unknown held tension. On a whim, I pull away from licking your lips, as tasty soft as they are, and sniff at your snowy hair. There’s no describing exactly what you smell like here…some mix of old blood, cinnamon, musk and sanitation- that nose stinging scent that accompanies hospitals. All I can tell you is that I can’t get enough of it, and I inhale again, burying my nose in your short locks. My thumb is back to tracing your lip, until you open your too sensuous mouth and it slips into the moist warm cavern. This brings my wavering focus directly to your tongue…your tongue, which I’ve seen so often but never felt. The way you lick your knives is positively sinful, and I envy the attention you lavish on them, the fact that they’re the only point to enter your body.
Your tongue…who would’ve thought you had that kind of skill? Well, me obviously. I don’t anticipate this ever happening outside my abused mind. Since this is still my fantasy, you’re doing everything to heighten my senses- applying just the right amount of pressure, suction and teeth. Your tongue is the only thing I’ve found not soft in my dreams. It’s actually rough, catlike. I don’t know. Your hands aren’t soft, really, but they aren’t rough like your tongue. Besides, the leather encasing them is very soft. I’ve thought about that extensively.
I glance down and grin, shifting my weight a bit. The look of utter concentration is plastered on your face. Your eye shut, but not squinting, like you’re asleep, your almost too fine eyebrows drawn together, a slight wrinkle forming between them. I look at this and laugh a little, my head coming up from your hair. Your eye opens and regards me almost questioningly. Smiling, I tell you that if you keep concentrating so hard, you’ll wind up looking like Crawford. Then I look at you again and I’m lost. Helpless. Your brows rise at the look on my face. I study you for a moment longer, wishing I had a camera. Your eyebrows are raised almost to your hairline, your eye open wide, innocent and questioning. Then there’s your mouth, still wrapped around my thumb, your lips puckered and glistening. Dare I utter the words? I know what your response is going to be:
"If I’m cute, it hurts God more."
Deciding not to let Him intrude on my fantasy, I shake my head and start to pull my thumb from the heaven of your mouth. If you knew of my thoughts, I’m sure I’d be dead, one of your knives sticking out from my throat or chest or any other of a thousand possibilities. Would you lick my blood off it, then? Could I enter you that way? You’d have already fulfilled my deepest, darkest fantasy- you inside me. Believe it or not, I consider your knives an extension of your body. The thought is almost too much to bear, so I put it out of mind, not wanting my fantasy to end yet.
My thumb slides free of your suction-swollen lips and glides across that tempting lower lip again, this time tracing down your scar to your jaw. All your scars fascinate me. What did you feel when you cut yourself, if not pain? Was it just the cold metal slipping into your flesh, the hot blood trickling from the wound? Or was it something closer to pleasure, something that kept you vandalizing the temple of your soul that He granted you? I’m most certain that He’s responsible for it, as He is so many of your actions. Tentatively, uncertainly, I lean forward and lick the one across the bridge of your nose. It’s like any other scar, on any other body, but then again…it’s not. It’s definitely yours. I move to know the one on your cheek, the taste of you clinging to my tongue. They’re slick, not wet-slick, but just slick, and just a bit less soft than the rest of your flesh. A slight hollow trough in the curve of your cheek. Growing bolder, I lick at the scar on your chin, leading up to your lips. Ending that path with a kiss, my hands decide to make themselves busy and begin unbuttoning your vest. Your vest? You started this dream in your straightjacket…perhaps this was the goal all along, to see if you’d hold me, too. And it would seem you have been- it’s only now I notice the hand at my elbow, the one across my back, holding me up and against you. I pull back slightly so my hands can continue their downward travel. Freeing the last button, I ease the vest over your shoulders and marvel at the pale planes of your chest. I thought, for some reason, that since your face was so scarred, the rest of you would be, too. It’s almost a relief that I was wrong. Your scarring is beautiful, but so is your porcelain soft skin.
I contemplate your chest for a few moments, amazed that it’s so muscular when it never seems as such. It really doesn’t either. I’m almost shocked by this sudden change, then decide to chalk it up to my fantasy. There’s no way you could look like that under your vest. Nobody could be that muscled and not show it. Unless you really are. In the process of taking your vest off, my hands slide down your arms, and you shiver. Are you cold, here in my realm, or is it anticipation? Either way, I’m so turned on right now, you could just touch me and I’d be a quivering mass of orgasm. And you don’t even know you have that power, do you? My hands stray from your arms and make it back to your chest, trailing lightly over the bandages on your ribs and snaking around to pull you into a hug. I imagine you stiffen, unused to gentleness or even human touch. Do you like it, then, when I run them across your back, nuzzling your shoulder and neck? I bite down, gently at first, just to see you reaction to the sudden aggressiveness. When you don’t complain, I bite harder and shake a bit, trying to draw blood, to taste more of you. Do I imagine your gasp of pleasure or do you really find it so? I finally break the skin in the curve between your shoulder and neck, and blood wells up into my mouth. I suck gently, drawing more of his sweet life into me. Did you lick your blades clean after marking yourself? Did you find the taste of your own life addictive, like I do?
Too soon, I pull away from the enticing hollow of your neck and the red filled teeth marks. Your fingers are tangled in my hair, and you tug slightly, angling my head up before I can go back to the warmth emanating from the wound I’ve inflicted on you. My blue eyes meet your single gold, and I swallow the last mouthful of blood I managed to glean from you. I silently question your intentions as you bring our lips together. Your tongue invades my mouth, hot and wanting, taking the last traces of my feeding off you from me. Do you like the taste of us together? Am I soft, too? I’m finding it a heady mixture, so much, in fact, that it’s only now I realize I’m topless as well. How this happened, I’m not exactly sure. I thought I was running the show. I guess not, though. It’s nice, not having to worry about anything but the feeling of it all. This is exactly what I wanted, too- someone else to take over, to be the one on top. People don’t realize it, though. Sure, I’m perfectly capable of topping anyone I want to, but I like it when my partner, preferably you, takes control.
Its times like this I notice the little things: the way your right hand is tangled still in my hair, near the roots, and if you let go now, you’d come away with a few strands of my now orange-red. The way your left hand has come up my side and caressed my ribs, your thumb across and rubbing circles over my nipple, your fingers squeezing a bit. That my pants have gone the same way as my shirt: without me noticing. Your tongue withdraws, heading lower, for more sensitive flesh and you find it. Your right hand tightens almost painfully in my hair and I wince. It’s such a fine line to walk. Your left has stopped torturing my now hardened nipple and wormed it’s way around behind me, supporting my frame. I love this. I hate it. You’re the only one who can give me the right kind of pleasure, and you don’t even know it. My hands have been far from idle, too. Have you even realized that your pants are hanging around your knees, caught by your belt? Probably. Now they’re occupied by the feel of your ass, that almost flat curve, usually covered by two (three?) layers of cloth. At the first squeeze, you buck forward, your erection sliding against my own. My hands return to your shoulders as I wantonly lift myself up and wrap my legs around you bare waist, pleading silently for more, for penetration. Your lips, still so soft are kissing my neck. I’m drowning in the feeling of it all. You’re such a contradiction: soft to touch but irrevocably harsh and abrasive, maniacal but decidedly sane.
Here, I’m already stretched and ready for you, and you know it. You slide into me in one motion, filling me with yourself. It’s indescribable, the way you feel inside me. There’s a slight burning, I wasn’t stretched anywhere near enough for you, but it’s a good burning, one I hope to feel in reality. It fades quickly as you reposition to hit my prostate with each thrust of your hips, fading rapidly into pleasure. Too soon, the white fills my vision and I clamp down around you. You thrust a few more times, bringing yourself to completion, and I cling to you, boneless in the soft afterglow of orgasm. You feel so good in me, I hate to wake up. I do it, anyway. I have to greet another day.
I sit, and gradually come back to myself. I stand, pull open my curtains to see the sunrise. It’s still early, and the first rays of dawn are just peeking over the horizon. I tear my eyes away from the soft lighting of morn to put on my uniform. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for school. My mind harkens back to my dream, and I think about it for a moment. Just once, I’d like to be greedy, and take what I want with no worry for anyone else’s feelings, least of all Schuldig’s. He doesn’t care for mine, really. And I can’t take what I want from Farfarello. I care too much for his feelings. I can’t take what someone else wants, even if it should belong to me.