The Games Boys Play

BY : draelynn
Category: Weiß Kreuz > General
Dragon prints: 3027
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Schuldig stormed down the hall and into his room, slamming his door hard enough to cause the door frame to creak in protest. It was rare he ever let himself get this angry... or let anyone get under his skin enough to make him this angry. Only one individual held that honor.

//Brad. Brad fucking Crawford.//

He paced circles around his room still rubbing at the bright red welts across his cheek. The perfect imprints of Brad’s long fingers still hot and stinging and fueling the full scale temper tantrum about to erupt.

He tried to sit on his bed but the adrenaline was still pumping fast and furious through his veins. He jumped back up to resume his pacing, the cursing switching to default German words... he was too angry to even format his tirade in Japanese anymore. He fumbled with the oversized buttons on his coat, adding a few choice curses at them as well, as he finally wrestled the damn thing open and stripped it from his arms. How dare it decide to mock him too. He balled the coat up and threw it at his door.

‘Fuck you, too!’ Schuldig yelled, intending the comment to be for his turncoat coat. But the act of throwing something in anger just compounded the problem. He wrestled with his shoes, hopping around and almost stumbling repeatedly as his rage ate away at his usual grace. Finally slipping one off, he smashed it against the door.

“FUCK. YOU.” He bellowed loudly and distinctly while wrestling the other shoe from his foot. It followed the other, this time hitting true and leaving a wide dent where the heel smashed against the thin wood.

“FUCKING ASSHOLE!” He screamed loudly through cupped hands.

A few more paced circles and the rest of his clothes followed the footwear until he was standing in his boxer briefs, panting and no less relieved.

Brad had slapped him.

No, Brad bitch slapped him. In front of Nagi and Farfarello. And he planned it, timed it perfectly, in order for it to have the most humiliating effect possible. They had their meeting and were about to leave, his mind already headed to a club for the evening, then out of the blue...

“Oh... and Schuldig...* SLAP* When I tell you to leave the Weiss alone, I expect you to listen.”

Sure, he almost cost them two months of surveillance and planning... but that wasn’t the point.

//He BITCH slapped me...// Schuldig let out a growl which quickly grew into a full scale roar of pure frustration. // And he ruined my night out...//


It would never have happened if only he could hear what the damn American was thinking. Just once. Was that too much to ask for? Just one tiny little peek to see what lie seething behind those hard, cold eyes of his.

Schuldig had convinced himself that would be all it took to figure him out completely, to be able to anticipate him, to know how he would react or if he even reacted to anything at all. Other than that creepy evil smirk when Brad was particularly amused, he wasn’t sure if or what the man felt for anything or anyone. Schuldig couldn’t even anticipate a bitch slap. After six years, it was getting annoying.

All the more reason to push Brad’s buttons. Or at least attempt to find his buttons. Another growl accompanied the thought... there was no way he was going to let Brad get to him like this. After pacing a few more agitated circles, an idea popped into his head. It wasn’t his most brilliant plan but at the moment, anything that had the potential to agitate Brad was brilliant enough. He turned towards his TV and started digging through his collection of DVD’s, flinging cases aside until he found what he was looking for. Porn. Really bad, loud, cheesy 1970's American porn. Porn where all the boobs were real and nobody shaved. The soundtrack alone should be enough to piss the hard ass off. He popped the disk into the player and cranked up the volume.

He backed into his bed and flopped down heavily with a dramatic sigh, arms flung wide, feet still perched on the floor. It was obvious from the first note of funkified music exactly what he had put into the machine. And not too long after, the loud slurping and groaning noises absolutely confirmed it. Schuldig vaguely heard what sounded like Nagi screaming - something - then the slam of a door. A smirk worked it’s way onto his face. Good. That alone should piss Brad off. A long few minutes passed and... nothing. He pushed to his elbows, intently listening through the forced moaning. Nothing. He growled as he sat up, staring blankly at the tv screen and some large, hairy-assed man pounding an obvious brunette beneath him. And with a quick scan he found that Nagi had quite the colorful vocabulary even if he never used it out loud. His eyes narrowed as he dropped back down in defeat, snagging a pillow from over his head and pulling it over his face.

So Brad slapped him. So what? Brad had beaten the living crap out of him on plenty of occasions. So why did this bother him so much?

It was the look on his face. That rare but unmistakable twinkle of sheer amusement in his eyes... and just as his hand connected ... a smile. An actual smile. //Fucking sadistic bastard.// He never smiled like that when he punished Farfarello but then again beating Farf was pointless so it never really came down to that. On the rare occasions when Nagi screwed up, Brad would slap the shit out of him but he always looked like he hated to do it. But of course neither of them intentionally pushed his buttons the way he did. It was the only way to make sure he was always on Brad’s radar... that never a day passed without Schuldig being the first and the last thought on his fearless leader’s mind, every morning and every night. Even if was only to annoy him.

But that smile... he actually... smiled. That thought curled the corners of his lips like a Cheshire cat. //Brad smiled because he got to put his hands on me...// He played the scene over in his head a few more times... why did Brad just have to drip with testosterone? Standing over him, smiling before slapping him...

//dammit...// Schuldig peeked out from under the pillow to confirm what he felt. Yep. He was getting hard. His boxer briefs straining to keep from being popped up like a tent. He growled into the pillow. Angry boners were the worst. It was difficult to stay mad when your dick was throbbing and it was near impossible to cum if you stayed angry. But angry sex was a whole other matter but there sure wasn’t any of that happening in the immediate future.

“Traitor!” he yelled at his penis. It just twitched hard in response.

// And when did I become a masochist?//

It was definitely the idea of Brad slapping him... as foreplay... that got him so worked up. At least in his head, it wasn’t such a bad thing. He was always of two minds about everything - at least two but usually more - but when they met head to head, the lower one usually won out. Spoiled thing. His eyes lulled closed as he reluctantly surrendered his anger to his overactive imagination.

Mmmmmm... Brad would slap him, then haul him to his feet by his collar, that evil smirk growing to a full feral grin as he bites his lower lip, drawing blood before roughly shoving his tongue in his mouth and half way down his throat.

Schuldig immediately started palming his cock along with his mental porn show. The moaning/slurping/grunting soundtrack blaring in the background was not-so-subliminally adding to the atmosphere.

Brad would roughly strip him out of his clothes, posing him, then circle him like a panther, eyeing him up and down like a piece of meat.

Schuldig’s hands slid into his boxer briefs and wiggled them down his hips to his knees. His cock bounced free with a low, exasperated moan. His left hand slid along his chest, stopping to tease at a nipple as the right curled around his balls, gently kneading them. Brad would never be this gentle.

Brad would slowly strip out of his suit... layer by layer, piece by piece. And he would stand there, watching, naked and hard, blatantly staring and panting, the metallic taste of his own blood pooling in his mouth and escaping down his chin. Angry and hard and bleeding...

Schuldig shimmied his way fully onto the bed and out of his underwear, splaying himself out granting better access for his wandering hands. Blood never really seemed to be Brad’s thing but it sure seemed right now. He licked at his lips like he could actually taste the blood. His hand slid over his abs to brush over the base of his cock as the other slid past his balls and perineum to circle his hole with the barest of pressure.

Brad would strip down to his boxers... they’re black and covered with little yellow smiley faces with bloody gunshot holes between their eyes.

A smirked crossed his lips...// Have a nice day...// he purred to himself.

Then Brad would be up against him, his shoulders and chest so much wider and harder than those damn suits of his ever let on. Brad would wrap those long, strong fingers in his hair and roughly yank his head back as he dove for his throat, nipping at his adams apple before lapping at the blood across his neck to bite hard at his jugular. Brad’s cheek would scrape along his jaw, rough and scratchy, his perfect white teeth always sharp against his skin.

Schuldig shivered as he threw his head back with the phantom bite, his hand finally wrapping around his cock, slowly stroking himself in time with his shallow breaths.

Brad’s hips would grind hard against his, the steel rod in his boxers pushing past his own aching hard on to dig into his abs. Brad always had a massive cock.... the kind porn stars wished for, the kind that would see a man pass out from blood loss before he was fully hard.

Schuldig licked his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out then retreating with a scrape along his teeth, teasing only himself.

Brad would chase after his tongue, kissing him hard. Once capturing it, Brad would suck his tongue out of his mouth to nip at the tip before swallowing it with a heavy grunt. The hand in his hair would be guiding his head, Brad’s other hand would be wandering down his back to grab at his ass, digging his fingers into the muscle with a hard squeeze.

Schuldig’s hand wrapped solidly around his cock, stroking harder, rounding over the head. His hips tensed as he started pumping into his own hand.

Brad’s lips would abandon him and the hand in his hair would force him down to his knees. His tongue would traced the sharply defined muscles of Brad’s chest and abs, teasing at his navel, toying with the soft black trail of hair that disappeared into his boxers. He would yank Brad’s boxers down almost being slapped in the face with his impressive erection. He would curl his tongue over the wide purple head then lap up and down it’s pulsing length like a lollipop before settling his lips around it with hard suction. The sting in his wounded lip could not deter him.

Schuldig’s free fingers found their way into his mouth. His tongue mimicked his imaginary motions though it was never fooled by the insubstantial substitute. He never even realized he was moaning around his own fingers... such a blessing and a curse his vivid imagination could be.

The door to his room cantered silently open. Crawford stood in the doorway, crossed his arms and planted his shoulder against the frame. It was obvious that Schuldig was so lost in himself he’d never even notice him standing there. The smirk worked its way back onto his face as he settled in to watch his favorite spectator sport only this time, it wouldn’t be just a random vision or chance encounter. Schuldig fell for the bait, hook, line and sinker and now was being considerate enough to reel himself in as well. The smirk grew to a wiry little grin.

Brad would stare at him hard and he would blatantly stare back as he opened his mouth wide to guide as much of Brad’s cock down his throat as he could manage. Brad would growl at the sight, his eyes growing glassy as he fisted his hands in his hair. He would wrap his arms around Brad’s hips, his fingers grasping at his solid ass, encouraging him to fuck his mouth. And Brad would oblige with a low groan, pumping his hips, and slamming his cock deep down his throat.

Schuldig’s hips pumped harder, his ass bouncing off the bed as he fucked his own fist. His fingers were well past his tonsils as he swallowed hard around them. He was writhing and moaning and lost in the fantasy but not enough to deny his need to cum.

Crawford quickly found out that the live show was much better than the pay-per-view in his head. He was having a difficult time keeping his breathing under control, lest he give himself away to the writhing, redheaded, incubus just a few feet away. He knew he would enjoy this - he’d already seen that much - but he never thought his reaction would be so immediate, so complete. His dick was already straining in his pants, each moan issuing from deep in Schuldig’s chest pulling at his erection like a siren’s call. He silently swallowed and forced his libido down as best he could. He wasn’t going to miss one second of this if he could help it.

Brad would yank his head back before he finished him off, and haul him to his feet by his hair. He would bend him over his desk, slamming his head down, pinning him by the neck. That huge purple head, slick and dripping with a coating of blood tinged saliva would push between his ass cheeks. Brad would rub it back and forth over his hole like a threat... no, Brad never threatened, he only promised. And his thighs quivered - he couldn’t wait for Brad to deliver.

Schuldig popped his fingers out of his mouth, saliva running freely down his hand. He half twisted his hips and reached behind himself, his hips never ceasing their rhythm in his own tight grip. He ran his fingers along the crack of his ass, slicking his entranceway, quick and impatient.

Brad’s grip on his neck would tighten as he shoved his way inside, that thick purple head stretching him wide. The stinging heat of the reluctant muscle would pull a hiss of pain from between his clenched teeth but it wouldn’t last long. Brad would rock into him, and in three strokes would be flat against his ass, his balls slapping against his own.

With a quick stab, Schuldig impaled himself on two fingers, his head craning back with a hiss that terminated in a deep groan of pure ecstacy. His hips began bucking as he fucked himself like a man possessed.

Crawford hadn’t let himself anticipate too much from this little exercise. And it was a good thing too because nothing in his imagination could have conjured the look of pure, ecstatic, wanton, abandon on Schuldig’s face. It was nothing short of a religious experience. Schuldig, god of fuck, worshiping himself as he desecrated his own temple. It was taking all of his control to keep his arms folded tight and out of his pants. His cock was harder than he could ever remember.

Brad would slam into him hard, grunting and mumbling random obscenities. The hand on his neck would relinquish it’s hold, instead fisting in his hair like a handle and pulling back hard with each brutal slap against his ass. His own cock would be trapped beneath him, the unforgiving wood of the desktop all he had to provide him friction. Brad’s hand would be digging into his hip, he could already feel the bruising. And he would be screaming, screaming his name over and over.

Schuldig abandoned himself to the fantasy, Brad’s name tumbling breathlessly out of his mouth like a mantra as he neared blissful release.

Crawford had never been so close to losing control, his balls tightening in his boxers threatening to
defy his iron will. If he was at all unsure what fed Schuldig’s fantasies, there was no question now. And that had him breathing hard, and starting to sweat and cursing his own damn curiosity. This was not going as planned but he’d be damned if he could possibly pull himself away.

Brad would call him all sorts of sordid names - cheap whore, fucking slut, worthless piece of mind fuck gutter trash - and the one that brought him to the brink - my fucking bitch. And with that he would be bought, paid for and delivered, coming hard splattering his belly and Brad’s desktop as he screamed ‘yes’ in agreement. And his muscles would clamp hard on Brad’s cock and he’d come undone, his hips twitching and bucking as he spent himself deep inside.

Schuldig’s lapis eyes lulled open, locking stares with Crawford as he stood perched in the doorway. Schuldig hissed ‘yes’, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head as he came with a strangled groan of perfect, ecstatic anguish. Pearly strands shot through his fist, striping his cheek and lip before coating his chest and the bed. He collapsed back into his bed, the massive wave of endorphins fogging his brain, obscuring everything in its path. His eyes lulled open, locking with Crawford’s again. He let his tongue roll lazily along his lips, licking at the splattering of semen that coated one corner. The Cheshire cat grin returned.

Crawford’s blood iced over in his veins even as his cock threatened to stage a coup. Schuldig was indeed the god of fuck and, with one scorchingly hot orgasm, just named him the Pope. The infuriatingly smug bastard now knew. But no matter how hard his cock was, no matter how jaw-droppingly erotic the site of Schuldig licking his own cum from his lips was, he could never give him the satisfaction of an admission. He was already a pain in the ass... now he’d be nearly impossible to live with.

Schuldig let his eyes wander down Brad’s heaving chest - good, he was trying to hide his panting - down to his perfectly pressed pants, now tented in most dramatic fashion. He was hung like a porn star. He tried to lock stares with his fearless leader once again but he had tilted his head, his time- perfected technique of using the glare from his glasses as a shield. No matter. Six years of cat and mouse just ended with the springing of two well timed traps. But how to decide the victor?

“You were awesome.” Schuldig purred as he stretched his arms over his head, arching his spine off the bed, displaying himself for Brad’s viewing pleasure.

“You’re loud.” Crawford couldn’t give an inch and he knew it.

“You loved it.” Schuldig trailed his fingers through the sticky trails on his belly.

“You’re dreaming.” Crawford had to escape. No, not an escape... Brad Crawford never runs away. But thanks to his mutinous hard on he would need to make a tactical retreat to regroup. He reached for the door and pulled it closed with never a twitch on his face betraying him unlike the traitor in his pants.

Crawford could hear Schuldig’s nasally whine of a laugh even over the bad porn. And it was the sound of certain doom.

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