Schuldig smirked, eying Farfarello. Nice thoughts. At first he'd figured that the reason he was upset was because of the nature of those thoughts, but now he was starting to realize that what really pissed him off was the fact that Farfarello somehow figured that he'd be seducing Schuldig, and not the other way around.
Schuldig was definitely not some little bitch who'd just swoon and get on her back because an attractive guy looked at her twice. Maybe Farfarello liked them that way, but that just wasn't Schuldig. He was older, taller, stronger (well...), considerably more experienced, and was certainly not going to be outdone by some fucking self-mutilating psychopath in bondage pants. Although those pants did look nice... more than nice, and they'd look a hell of a lot better on the floor.
Angry, provoked and, admittedly, a bit excited, Schuldig got up from the couch, took the one and a half step over to Farfarello, shoved his right knee between the Irishman's legs, placing his hands on the couch on either sides of Farfarello's head, pushing his chest against Farfarello's, pinning him to the couch, moving his face in, tilting his head, moving his tongue past those damn lips that seemed to open just as he got close enough, pressing his mouth against... but he didn't mean to kiss him. Really. He was just going to teach him a lesson. Really.
A lesson apparently not learned, as Farfarello didn't show the slightest bit of shock or surprise or any similar emotion that might have been appropriate in a situation like this. After all, it wasn't every day he had German redheads shoving their tongues down his throat. But he didn't mind. Not at all.
Schuldig temporarily forgot about the lesson part as Farfarello's arms made their way around his waist, hands running up his back, under his shirt, forcing him even closer, Farfarello's mouth moving against his, tongues entwining... but he didn't mean to close his eyes. Really. It was just a reflex. Really
And he was just reflexively moving his hands away from the couch and over Farfarello's shoulders, pushing him down on the couch, not breaking the kiss to breathe, because... well... that's why people have noses, right?
Now that Farfarello was on his back, and Schuldig was pretty much... lying on top of him, the redhead didn't see any reason why there should be so much clothing in the way... but he didn't mean to take Farfarello's shirt off. Really. Or... well... maybe he did...
Regardless of whether or not he'd originally meant to, Schuldig suddenly found himself busy unbuttoning Farfarello's shirt, which wasn't the easiest task in the world considering that he couldn't really see anything since his eyes were... well... closed, and he wasn't all that fond of the thought of letting go of Farfarello's mouth, since... well... kissing him felt so damn good, and Farfarello's hands were moving down, into Schuldig's pants, and that was kind of... distracting... and now he really meant to press his hips against Farfarello's, because Farfarello had the sexiest moan he'd ever heard, low and hoarse, and Schuldig would do absolutely anything to hear it again.
After a (at least it seemed so to Schuldig) considerable amount of fumbling, he finally got all of the buttons undone and pushed his hands in under Farfarello's shirt, over his chest, shoulders, down his arms, sliding his shirt off, cursing over all the bandages that got in the way, but not really caring all that much, because Farfarello must have removed those gloves he'd always wear, since the hands that were in his pants, on his ass, making him feel more than a little breath-taken, were warm and smooth and demanding and... well... not glove-clad.