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Survivor: Schwartz	By : sefiru Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1819 -:- 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
- 3
- 4
- 5
Survivor: Schwartz

By Sefiru

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

Pairings: C/S, N/F

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kreuz
or a cockatrice. I make no money, only lemonade.

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

Admiral ShadowWolf: you know me,
of course there’s smex.

NightWriter: We’ll hear from A
again … bet you can’t guess who it is!

In this chapter: Schuldig finally gets a Lemon … and a few
more island mysteries.

***

Chapter 4: Tired of Waiting

***

      The rum mocked
him. Over the next week the assassins settled into their camp; they improved
the shelter, found new food sources, and managed not to slaughter each other. Farf chipped out enough obsidian blades that the others
could borrow some for their own use. Schuldig used his to shave. And Crawford
still refused to go beyond first base, and the bottle of rum sat, unopened, on
the end of a log and laughed at him inanimately.

      He had had
enough. Liquor he couldn’t drink, a sexy bastard he couldn’t boink – he didn’t trust that bottle to be un-tampered-with,
but the other thing he could do something about. After feeding Farf his morning mystery leaves, he waved goodbye to Nagi and strode off into the jungle to look for Dr.
Livingstone – that is, Bradley Crawford.

      Fortunately for
his peace of mind, the invisible cats seemed to be nocturnal. Nothing else on
the island was as potentially dangerous; there was plenty of weirdness, though.
Such as a tree frog emblazoned with the Eszet logo
which none of them wanted to touch, vines that constricted to catch anything
that stepped in them, and some very nimble goat-antelope-deer things. The
latter at least answered the question of what the giant cats ate, other than
unwilling tourists.

       Crawford had
discovered all of these after turning from astronomy to biology. He had a
series of cage traps and snares set in the woods, and Schuldig found him at one
of them. “Ah, Schuldig. Just who I
wanted to see.” As if there were all that many people to see around
here. Crawford was holding a bird; it looked like a bright blue pheasant with a
green tail; it sounded like a car with bad brakes. “Can you read this? It’s
giving me a psychic push, but I can’t tell what it’s supposed to do.”

     Now it was
psychic birds? Distracted from his mission, Schuldig reached into the
pheasant’s mind. An animal’s mindscape was much simpler than a human’s, so he
quickly found what he wanted. “It’s a cockatrice,” he reported. “It’s a goddamn
cockatrice! If we weren’t shielded it would freeze us in place until we fell
asleep naturally.”

      “Ah, that makes
sense.”

      “Makes sense? How the fuck does a cockatrice on a desert
island make sense?”

      “Obviously Eszet uses this as a dumping ground for their cast-offs.”
Crawford let go of the bird, and it scuttled off into the shrubbery. “That
animal is a near-perfect nonlethal weapon, except for
the noise. But I don’t think you came out here to discuss the wildlife.”

      Damned non-smug precog bastard.
“I’m tired of you leading me on. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

      Crawford’s
glasses flashed, and he gave his all-knowing Oracle smirk. In the next moment
Schuldig was slammed against a tree trunk while Crawford nibbled at his lips.
By pure instinct Schuldig pushed back with his mind, and once again fell
headlong into Crawford’s mindscape. Crawford’s avatar was there to meet him,
pushed him down into the grass, banished his clothes
with a mere exercise of will. In the material world, one hand undid Schuldig’s shirt buttons while the other found the
sensitive hairline at the back of his neck. Schuldig gasped into Crawford’s
lips; Crawford took the opportunity to slide his tongue between his teeth. Schuldig’s hands shook as he tried to take off Crawford’s
shirt without tearing it – which the American would not appreciate, it being
the only one he had. He wasn’t getting very far; by the time he’d gotten three
buttons, Crawford had opened his shirt all the way and pulled off his pants and
shorts. They were getting tight anyway.

      In the mindscape
they were both already naked. Crawford held Schuldig pinned against the
“ground;” the grass came to life underneath him, stroking his back and
shoulders, buttocks and thighs. Crawford straddled his hips, not quite touching
his … In the jungle, Crawford pulled Schuldig’s shirt
off his arms and then held his wrists over his head. With his free hand Crawford
finished undressing himself … bastard. Schuldig wanted to put his fingers all
over that muscled chest and firm stomach. But Crawford captured his lips again,
and he was just a little distracted. Oracle’s shaft came into view; he was just
as hung in the real world as in his mind. That was rarely the case, but
Crawford was a realist – and oh so deliciously. Schuldig arched his back, their
lengths brushed together, and lightning crawled up Schuldig’s
spine to his brain.

     He had never been
this turned on before. Oh, he’d been horny, he’d gone out and picked someone
up, male or female; seduced them, or manipulated a particularly pretty one into
sleeping with him. He’d always taken what he wanted. But Crawford had played
him, and it was hot.

     Not to mention
the vast mindscape, larger than any he’d encountered even in Rozenkreuz, which was a turn on all by itself. He lay on
his back in the grass and stared at the dark vision-speckled “sky.” Crawford
bit and licked at his nipples – in the jungle, Crawford released his wrists and
ran fingers down his ribs – in the grass, a hand wrapped around his sac – in
the jungle, Crawford lifted him up to straddle his waist. Later Schuldig would
resent how thoroughly he had lost control of the situation; right now he was
enjoying himself too much to care.

     Crawford produced
a shell full of coconut cream from nowhere and started slicking up Schuldig’s hole. In the mindscape, his mouth engulfed Schuldig’s cock. Schuldig could no longer quite distinguish
which stimulus was physical and which was mental. He clutched at Crawford’s
shoulders/hair as he fingered/sucked him. He threw back his head and howled. In
the mindscape, Crawford straddled him again; in the jungle, his fingers
withdrew. He thrust in – he sank down – Schuldig screamed as Crawford rode him
hard, inside and out. His climax rolled over him like a typhoon; he felt
Crawford shudder within/around him. He panted for breath. Physical Crawford
lowered him to the ground; mindscape-Crawford leaned down and said, “Gotcha.”

      “Heh.”

      “And now that I
have you I’ll never let you go.”

      “You’re one of
those possessive types, aren’t you?”

      “Come on, like
you’ve ever had anyone better than me.”

      “Hmph.” Crawford was right, as
usual, but Schuldig wasn’t going to say that to his face. He lay in the jungle
dirt a while longer, until he noticed how many sticks were underneath him; he
got up and found his clothes. Crawford, of course, was already fully dressed.
“You went and made me hungry. I’m going to get some lunch.” He headed back
towards camp, ignoring Crawford who walked along silently behind him.

       As he got
closer, he could smell the distinctive smell of cooked seafood. Nagi must have got back from fishing already. He emerged
from the trees, though, to find that Nagi was nowhere in sight and that Farf
was the one stirring the campfire with a stick. The Irishman looked up at their
approach. “Morning, Schuldig, Crawford. Would you like some clambake?”

       Schuldig
blinked at this coherent, polite, grammatically correct sentence. “What the
bloody fuck?”

***

And the weirdness mounts! Cockatrices, sane Farf – what will the island throw at Schuldig next? At
least he finally got some.

Next chapter: What is up with Farf?
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Survivor: Schwartz