The Prisoner's Dilemma

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Weiss Kreuz characters. Siren and Hacker, however, are all mine.


Orange-red hair slithered across a bare back, strands languidly moving from side to side as Schuldig ground his ass against Crawford's groin.

His hips surged forward as he drove his cock into the ring of his fist one last time, grabbing a wad of tissues to catch his release as he came. Body still loose from orgasm, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. As always, the fleeting pleasure faded quickly, barely taking the edge off the hunger his persistent visions stirred. Crawford quickly and efficiently cleaned himself up and tossed the soiled tissues away, adding to the sizable pile already occupying his office's wastebasket.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sat straighter in his chair, taking a deep breath to regain some focus. For weeks now, these visions were striking him daily-sometimes several times a day-leaving him hard and ready and completely distracted. When he'd tried to ignore them and go about his work, their frequency had increased to an almost debilitating level. Mechanically masturbating to a quick release was the most effective way of coping, usually leaving him at least a few uninterrupted hours in which to get some work done, but it also left him feeling hollow and disgusted with himself. Even in the hormone-flooded days of his adolescence before he'd gone to Rosenkreuz, where all drives were subsumed under the impetus to control his own destiny, he hadn't whacked-off this much.

He pulled himself back up to his computer, eyes scanning the blueprints Nagi had procured for him. Trying to decide whether his telekinetic would take out more guards going in through the front or the side entrance, Crawford found some peace in the routine of strategy. However, the latest vision kept trying to bleed into his consciousness, requiring him to dedicate precious mental resources to blocking the images. The masturbation was becoming a less and less successful coping mechanism.

/So why are you still fighting it, Brad?/

This was another growing distraction. Crawford had always had a tendency to carry on little dialogs with himself in his head, often staging internal debates in order to logically work through a problem. In the past, playing his own devil's advocate had sharpened his intellect, helped him to see a problem from several angles. But lately, he was talking to himself in Schuldig's voice, needling himself the way Schuldig undoubtedly would if Crawford weren't so good at shielding all of this nonsense from the telepath.

He didn't have time for this shit. Normally, when a series of visions plagued him this way, showing him an undesirable future, he'd take action to prevent the vision from coming to pass, rewriting the future and ending the distracting visions. In the current situation, his options for action were limited. He'd been avoiding Schuldig as much as possible without arousing too much suspicion amongst his team, but the visions kept assaulting him. He hated to admit it, even if it was just to himself, but short of sending the telepath away or putting a bullet in his brain-neither of which he was quite prepared to do after going to so much trouble to save Schuldig's ass-Crawford didn't know what to do.

/Your problem, Brad, is that you're fighting something you want./

Like many of the statements the real Schuldig made, there was some truth to it. It was becoming increasingly difficult to deny that he wanted Schuldig, badly. As the gears of his mind whirred through their analysis of the problem, he'd even contemplated following through on his desires with the hope that the act would purge both the visions and the need that distracted him. The idea held a definite appeal. During his tenure in Schwartz, Crawford had occasionally found the need to patronize an escort service when he got an itch he couldn't quite scratch on his own. It really wasn't any different than working out, sleeping six hours a night, or eating properly-just another bodily need that sometimes required taking care of. Having an in-house fuck could be cost-effective and convenient.

/Ooo, I like the sounds of that./

The problem was, an in-house fuck wouldn't take the money and be on his way. He didn't need tactical input from his whores or have to rely on them to watch his back during a mission. And even if he did manage to fuck Schuldig and maintain team dynamics-something that he was too pragmatic to really convince himself was possible-that still left the problem of the other class of Schuldig-visions troubling him.

Crawford quickly turned his thoughts away from those visions, denying their reality in almost the same instant they rose into his consciousness, and fished his cell phone out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. No one in Schwartz took the security risk of preprogramming numbers into their phones and it had been a while since Crawford had felt the need to use the number, but he dialed it from memory easily. The woman on the line swiftly accessed his information. Knowing his preferences, her questions were mostly limited to when and where. Crawford appreciated the no-nonsense professionalism. Within minutes, he'd made a date for the weekend. Having given his body the promise of a bit of recreation in the near future, he forcefully pushed ridiculous distractions aside and focused on his mission plans.

*****

/Prodigy, two secondaries approaching your position, 40 meters./

/Got em./

Schuldig cringed slightly as he felt Nagi snap the goons' necks like matchsticks, reminding himself that their pain and confusion was not his own. A frigid wind bit into the skin of his face and tried to batter its way past his thin coat. From his position crouched on the roof of the warehouse adjacent to their target's location, he monitored the minds on the ground. It wasn't really a tricky job-Crawford was mostly keeping him away from the wet work while his shields were healing-but to do the work right, he needed to open himself to the minds of dozens of people. Normally, it would be a trivial task, but tonight the din of their adrenaline-soaked thoughts as Schwartz attacked felt too close to a familiar madness. Schuldig absently wiped the line of sweat away from above his upper lip and checked on his teammates.

Having taken care of the chumps trying to flank him, Nagi was busying himself with the encryption on their target's computer. Schuldig thought he was going after some sort of information about an arms shipment, but he couldn't quite remember and didn't feel like straining himself digging through Prodigy's mind to find out. Crawford would be pissed he hadn't paid better attention during the mission briefing. Not that Schuldig really gave a fuck what Crawford thought.

Farfarello seemed to be enjoying himself, apparently attempting to literally wear a downed guard's guts for garters. Eww.

Moving swiftly away from that sick shit, he scanned for Crawford. Not surprisingly, he had a bit of difficulty pinning down the bastard's location. Crawford's shields were always top-notch, but lately he'd been keeping them tighter than a duck's ass. Even though he was already feeling strained, Schuldig couldn't resist giving the shields a less-than-subtle push. Of course, Crawford noticed.

/Problem, Mastermind?/

A knee-jerk tremor of fear ran through him at the thought of reprisal for fucking with his leader in the middle of a mission, but was quickly buried under a wave of bluster. Screw it-Crawford was supposed to work within the link, so it was really his fault anyway.

/Your shields are too damn tight, Oracle. I can't adequately monitor your position./

Schuldig still wasn't getting much from Crawford, but he read the guards approaching him just fine. /Secondaries approaching at ten, two, and four o'clock./

/Perhaps it's not my shields that are the problem, Mastermind,/ Crawford sent back as he ruthlessly executed the first guard, putting a bullet between the man's eyes without betraying the slightest variation in his mental timbre. /More likely,/ he continued, dropping the second guard by firing two rounds through his chest, /your downtime is still a liability in a mission scenario such as this./ The last guard went down gurgling, Crawford's bullet having ripped away his throat.

Schuldig suppressed a shiver of nearly sexual satisfaction at Crawford's cold precision in dispatching the targets, reminding himself that he was pissed at the crap Crawford spouted during that deadly display. /Fuck you, Brad. I'm not having any trouble reading Prodigy or Berserker./ He hated the way Crawford kept referring to the whole fever fiasco as Schuldig's "downtime" like it was a fucking vacation. As if losing all self-awareness, being made puppet to the whims of nearby minds, had been a refreshing break from the daily grind. Even if he was pretty confident he owed the arrogant prick, Schuldig still didn't have to play along with Crawford's insinuations that his illness had just been a little siesta.

It seemed like Crawford had chosen to let the last comment slide. Schuldig felt his shields loosen a miniscule amount. He fought the urge not to surge forward and tear into Crawford's mind, making himself content with the fact that he could feel his location and hear a few surface thoughts concerning the target. Bastard must've realized he was in the wrong, not that he'd ever admit it. Schuldig could just barely taste the cool tang of Crawford, the hint of flavor sparking a fuzzy memory of hidden complexities. Apparently, the bare minimum level of access during missions was the best Schuldig could expect.

Not for the first time, he cursed the fever that had fucked things up so badly. Schuldig hadn't realized he'd grown so accustomed to the crispness of Crawford's surface thoughts, but now that they were being blocked from him, he felt their absence. And now, frustratingly, he had a good idea of how Crawford tasted deeper down. He hadn't been at his sharpest during those few moments when he'd realized Crawford was rebooting his consciousness by filling it with an unshielded connection to his own thoughts and feelings about Schuldig. He couldn't parse much of the experience, but he knew that it had made him feel warm and good-cherished, a part of his mind helpfully tried to supply, but he rejected the word on principle, feeling more than a little uncomfortable with the concept-and that Crawford kept more secrets than Schuldig would have ever anticipated. Unfortunately, he hadn't been with it enough to ferret those secrets out, so now he was left with the remembered flavor of Crawford on the tip of his tongue and a frustrating need to burrow back under those nearly impenetrable shields.

Schuldig felt the flare of their primary target's panic as the man came across a large group of his fallen goons. Nagi had left their broken bodies in a disturbingly artistic sprawl of snapped limbs. Schuldig ignored his growing headache and pushed deeper into the target's mind so he could better appreciate the kid's work.

/Hey Berserker, if you're getting bored with those entrails, there's still some fresh meat nearby./ He sent a picture of the target's location to Farfarello, giving him a taste of the man's desperation as well. Farfarello was beyond thinking in rational language, his mind a swirl of colors and feelings, a cocktail of neurotransmitters science would never replicate, but Schuldig picked up his gratitude and excitement at the prospect of another kill.

Disengaging from the target's mind before Farfarello fell upon him, Schuldig scanned for remaining enemies and did a quick check on Nagi's progress with the data collection. He was glad the mission was wrapping up; his head was really starting to pound.

/Berserker's just finishing with the last target and Prodigy's about done on his end,/ he sent to Crawford. /Anything else to do here?/

/Make a few more sweeps while you're on your way to warm up the car, then call everybody in,/ Crawford replied, bringing his shields back up to full fuck-off intensity.

"Yes, Master," Schuldig muttered, standing up and stretching his legs before doing what he was told.

*****

The boy said his name was Kin. Not that he was really a boy-the agency would've charged extra to send out an underage partner and sex with minors wasn't Crawford's kink-but looking at the slight body stretched out on the hotel bedspread, taking a moment to admire wide brown eyes staring out of a smooth face, Crawford couldn't bring himself to think of this pretty creature as anything but a child. He'd never been with Kin before, but the boy seemed to tailor his behavior to Crawford's preferences. Just another reason why going through his preferred escort agency was worth the expense-it kept thorough files on clients' like and dislikes.

The encounter followed the script Crawford had developed years ago. He'd been comfortably seated in the room's plush chair when his date had let himself in. The young man had bowed and introduced himself, a fall of dark hair covering his eyes.

"Strip," Crawford had said, voice low and authoritative. The boy had, slowly, but without being coy, keeping his eyes cast respectfully down. When he'd told the boy to get on the bed, he'd done so with efficient, fluid motions. Now the boy was lying on his back, eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling as Crawford approached.

Standing beside the bed, he ran his hand down a smooth chest, contemplating the softness of the boy's body. There was little strength here-just as Crawford normally preferred-and the weakness simultaneously turned him on and filled him with contempt. The rise and fall of the boy's chest picked up as he stroked along arms and belly. The reaction made Crawford's cock stir in his pants.

"Touch me."

The boy complied, turning his head so that he faced his client. Keeping his gaze on Crawford's trousers, he pulled down the zipper, its soft purr filling the quiet room. Slim fingers with neat, trim nails reached into his fly and wriggled through the slit of his boxer shorts. The boy drew him out, cradling the half-hard flesh in his palm while circling the head with his thumb.

The boy was good. He conformed to Crawford's unspoken rules beautifully, never daring to meet Crawford's eyes, making few unessential movements and no unnecessary sounds. His touch was sweet and unassuming. Yet somehow, as the minutes passed and the boy continued to work him with his soft, un-calloused hands, Crawford found he wasn't relaxing into the routine as he usually would. He looked down at the boy's face and saw a hint of unease settling into the placid expression.

/Jesus Brad, the little twink's probably ready to piss himself because you're not all the way hard yet./

A slow burn of anger crackled behind his eyes. He was getting goddamned sick and tired of the Schuldig-voice. The sound of it in his head only reminded him of last night's mission.

He never should have tolerated such insolence from a subordinate while they were working. It had just become easier over the years to put up with Schuldig's attitude and treat his barbs for what they were-a pathetic attempt to garner attention. Punishing the telepath for every little infraction was just too time-consuming. It had been so easy to gradually slip into informality, first at home, then at work. But Crawford had let things slide too far if Schuldig felt bold enough to seriously challenge his judgment during a mission.

As ready as he'd been to break Schuldig into tiny pieces, he couldn't delude himself into believing the impudent little shit didn't have a point. It was unacceptable that his annoying fixation had become so encompassing as to require him to shield against Schuldig from even picking up his position during a mission. He hated that Schuldig had lashed out at him during a mission, but he hated that Schuldig's behavior was justified even more. If Crawford were to formally discipline Schuldig, his own part in the matter could be brought to light. As far as the eyes of Esset were concerned, Brad Crawford did not make mistakes.

The boy's grip tightened as Crawford's cock deflated slightly, more limp than hard now. Brown eyes betrayed a trace of dismay, but stayed fixed on his crotch.

/Ooo, he's starting to really freak now. I think the agency's gonna have to change your file, Brad./

The anger sizzled. Crawford clenched his jaw and fisted his hands at his sides. A red-orange blur danced behind his eyelids.

Suddenly, he was hard as a rock.

"Turn over."

The boy relinquished his hold on Crawford. His eyes briefly darted about, never quite reaching Crawford's face and oddly, that disappointed Crawford. As the boy settled on his flat belly, Crawford noted the black, flared base of the plug he wore. Breaking his own protocol, he reached down and pushed at the plastic with two fingers. He smiled humorlessly at the little "Ahh" that escaped from the boy.

/Fuck, Brad, you're killing me here. Take him already!/

He pumped himself a few times and grabbed a condom and little foil lube packet from his pants pocket. Carefully tearing the condom wrapper open, he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the mingled odors of latex and spermicidal lubricant.

/Why the fuck do you get the spermicidal kind anyway? Afraid you'll get one of your boys pregnant?/

Ignoring the voice, even though it was a valid question, he rolled the condom on and spread lube over its already slimy surface.

"Hands and knees."

The boy raised himself up to the requested position, the muscles of his ass flexing invitingly as he backed up to the edge of the bed. Crawford summarily pulled out the plug, which was a rather modest four-inch model. He was momentarily struck by the syncronicity of the image the boy presented with a recent vision of Schuldig bared before him on all fours. Shaking off the comparison, he thrust into the boy and finally settled into his usual routine, fucking the boy with metronome consistency until he soundlessly came. He barely thought of Schuldig at all.

Crawford discarded the used condom, tucked himself back in his pants, and zipped his fly. He smoothed his clothes, retrieved his suit jacket from its resting place on the back of the room's chair, and fished several large bills out of his wallet. "Thank you," he said as he set the money on the bedside table, next to where the boy still lay naked and motionless, facedown on the bed.

As he the left the room and the door shut behind him, the voice in Crawford's head spoke again, radiating smugness in its nasal tone.

/Still not enough, is it, Brad?/

No, it wasn't.