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Survivor: Schwartz	By : sefiru Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1786 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
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Survivor: Schwartz

By Sefiru

Warnings: NC-17, M/M, oral, anal, D/s (as usual), evil.

Pairings: C/S, N/F

Disclaimer: Idon’t own Weiss Kreuz or the African savannah.

Summary: four psychic assassins on a desert island. Hijinks ensue.

Admiral ShadowWolf: I’ll try my
best to keep you hooked.

raya: oh, I have plenty more
to write on this one.

***

Chapter 2: A Beautiful Mind

***

      Schuldig slid
right through Crawford’s surface thoughts and landed in his mindscape with a
metaphorical thud. He shook it off and prepared to open his “eyes.” He always
started by looking at the mindscape floor; if he saw a carpet, that meant the
subject was basically optimistic; stone or tile, cynical; and wood, somewhere
in between. Anything else usually meant serious issues. The images came partly
from his subject, partly from his own mind, which was why it was always a room
or building of some kind. He steadied himself, focused and opened his eyes on …
grass. Grass? He’d never seen that one before.

      His power
supplied the meaning automatically: each green blade represented a fact that
Crawford knew, and the roots were the logical relationships between them. But
if that was the case … he looked up. And saw endless expanses of waving grass,
stretching to the horizon in all directions. He cursed, stumbled backward,
almost lost the connection. Unlike any mind he had ever entered, Crawford’s was
literally too great for him to perceive all at once. It was intoxicating. Like
stalking a man-eating tiger was intoxicating. Like riding a
barrel over a waterfall. He lifted his illusory chin and stepped
forward.

      Huge trees,
crystal spires, and abstract stone statues dotted the mindscape, representing
Crawford’s mental axioms. Schuldig laid his hand on one of the spires and
discovered that it was the theorems of calculus; just figured that math was a
major part of this mind. A tree showed him the finer points of marksmanship.
And then he looked up.

      Up was the
concept of future; most people had either a ceiling or a vague, misty mass.
Crawford’s future spread upward crisply and clearly, punctuated by glowing
spheres of his visions. They were falling, gradually, towards the present; as Schuldig
watched, mesmerized, one drifted down to touch the grass. He suddenly saw a
reflection of himself, at this moment, considering this situation. Then the
sphere was gone into the realm of memory.

       He shook off
his fascination. He was in here for a reason, to evaluate Crawford as a person
and leader. He had merely to will it, and he was at the representation of
Crawford’s self-image. By this point he was not surprised to discover that it
was a fountain topped by a bronze statue. To his amusement it had no glasses
on; it stood in dramatic pose, gazing into the far distance. The leader of
Schwartz fancied himself a visionary, that was old
news. Bronze for a hard worker – a strong leader, a loyal
friend. To who? The fountain water shimmered
with Crawford’s emotions; some pouring from six spigots, his senses, and some
bubbling up from his memories. The figure held an urn under one arm; a tiny
vision sphere floated up out of it, but it passed too fast for Schuldig to
perceive it.

     He stuck his hand
in the water. There was annoyance, of course, and satisfaction, a remarkable
amount of optimism. To his jaw-dropping astonishment, he discovered that most
of the time Crawford wasn’t feeling smug or superior; he just had a face that
naturally looked that way. He’d never have believed it if he wasn’t standing
here. Then the more elusive feelings: friendship –what was up with that? – nostalgia, something shimmery and
soft. It took him a moment to label it as peace. Most people only had a few
brief flashes of it within them, if any; Crawford had gallons of it. Damn you, Bradley, I want that! How dare
that not-so-smug bastard be at peace with his life when Schuldig put so much
energy into making him miserable? And Farf – and Nagi – and Takatori – Weiss – how
was it possible?

      “See something
you like?” Crawford’s voice brought him sharply back to the external world, and
to the fact that he was raging hard.

      “Don’t get the
wrong idea, Crawford.” Schuldig hunched over in an attempt to conceal it. Not
working; Crawford sat on the sand beside him and ran his hand down Schuldig’s back.

      “I could help
you with that.”

      Schuldig tried
to growl but it came out as a groan. Hell, why not? He wasn’t going to get laid
any other way as long as they were stuck here. But what ulterior motive did
Crawford have for offering? He knew better than anyone that Schuldig could not
be bribed – he’d just take the money and do what he wanted anyway. So why?

     He dipped into
Crawford’s mind again, this time looking for the images of people Crawford
knew. Given what he’d already seen, he was not terribly surprised to appear in
a sculpture garden; he was facing a marble statue of a pirate king or
something, lounging half-naked on a mound of treasure. He’d been looking for himself.
Was the hand in his pants throwing him off? Then he looked closer and saw that
it was himself; Crawford seemed to
believe he was some kind of dashing rogue. He thought he was someone reliable,
responsible – ha! – and capable of heroics. And he was
frustrated by Schuldig’s unwillingness to live up to
the potential he saw. Schuldig shook his virtual head. If only he knew. And – he thinks I’m hot? Since
when?

      Crawford
appeared by his side. “Not what you expected?”

      “What the fuck
are you doing here?”

      “I’d be a poor
psychic if I didn’t know my own mind.” Bastard had an answer for everything. He
stepped up on the plinth of Schuldig’s statue and
started kissing it. With a lot of tongue. Fuckwit. Schuldig didn’t know whether to be annoyed or
turned on.

      “Hello-o! I’m over here!” Crawford gave him his trademark
evil smile. Without a word he stalked over, grabbed hold of his hair, and
pressed their lips together. In the physical world, his mouth came down on
another part of Schuldig entirely.

     His startlement knocked him out of the mindscape and he opened
his eyes on the bizarre sight of Crawford sucking on his cock. Since when did
Herr Kapitan Crawford do anything sexual? And how had
he gotten so good at this? Had he Seen how to do it?
His tongue found the vein on the underside of the shaft and Schuldig lost his
train of thought. He clutched at the sand as Crawford worked him, growling
under his breath. Crawford squeezed his balls and he came with a grunt,
spraying his juice into Crawford’s mouth. The American sat up and licked the
last drops from his lips. “You have a good flavor.”

      “You’re
delusional, you know.” In lieu of a cigarette, Schuldig put a strand of hair
between his teeth and chewed on it. “It’s too bad I’m not really the man you
think I am.”

     “Evidently. But are you incapable of becoming that man?”
While Schuldig was still trying to think of a way to answer that, Crawford
stood up and brushed himself off. “In any case, we are still going
beachcombing. I’ll let you think about it.”

     “Gee, thanks.
What exactly are we looking for?”

     “Given our
current possessions, anything would be an improvement.”

     “And here I was
thinking you’d had a glorious vision of a shipwrecked beer tanker. Spoilsport.”

***

Yes, Crawford gets to be a Good Guy in this one. Relatively speaking.

Next chapter: every Survivor camp needs a shelter, a
campfire and an unlikely partnership. Nagi x Farf!
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Survivor: Schwartz