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Power Play (Impossible)	By : Astrid Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1165 -:- 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
- 1-Power Play (Impossible)
- 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own any Weiß
Kreuz characters; I’m merely borrowing them. I’ll hand them back unharmed once
I’m done with them. Promised.

Power Play (Impossible)

Schuldig might not always
know his own mind, might not always be sure which thoughts are his and which
are those of other people, but he knows his own body. He knows it, and he likes
it. He is almost certain others regard his form with equal appraisal, but then
again, that impression could as well be the result of wishful thinking and
mental projection on his part.

Why does he like his
body anyway, you ask? All right, so he is a little on the scrawny side, but his
lean curves are well defined, and there is a strength beneath the smooth,
bronzed skin of his that one had better not underestimate. Not to mention his
agility; his flexibility. Often enough, one of these attributes has helped him
get out of harm’s way if—for some reason—he could not use his telepathy to do
the job.

Neither his telepathy
nor his purely physical powers are of much help under certain circumstances,
however. A breathless moan would fall from his lips, and he hates/loves the
sound. It puts his vulnerability on display, degrades him even further, but the
reaction it would elicit from his partner is usually reward enough to forget
about the shame for a second; forget about everything and simply be and feel.

It isn’t as if there
were much else he could do in that kind of situation to begin with. Nothing but
pant and moan some more and relish the sensation of hot skin on his; hotness
around him, around his pulsing flesh. And then the heat would be gone, in just
the wrong moment, and he would attempt to cry out his frustration to the world,
but his voice would betray him as any basic functions shut down in sync with
his bliss-blinded mind.

Then, without much
delay, strong hands would guide him, position him the way they want him, need
him—some of those hands more suggestive, some more forceful, some gentler, and yet
all of them strong in their own right. Not a moment of rest for him before he
would be taken to new levels of bliss, by then writhing helplessly. And he
would accept the weight of the other body atop him gratefully once the
delicious deed is done. Needs it as the anchor to keep him rooted to reality;
to prevent his crowded mind from sprouting wings and taking him away for good.

Schuldig has become
addicted to those moments, and he is well aware of the fact. Ever since he
initiated those very special encounters, he has tried to pull his head from
that sling of sweet self-degradation; has tried to get his fix elsewhere, but
nothing else would do any longer. Not the whore whom he may dominate to his
will and forget for a moment that he is the one being dominated by his
needs. Not the pretty boy from some club, young and not-so-innocent and wild,
the touch of whose tongue comes with a hint of cool metal (which turns out to
be far more enjoyable than Schuldig had initially thought). Not the gym-steeled
businessman in his pinstripe suit with his antiques-crammed city penthouse and
his wife gone for the weekend to visit the family in the countryside, who is in
desperate need of a good, hard fuck and doesn’t mind which way around they end
up if only he can let himself go completely for a change.

So many opportunities,
so many different tastes of lust and pleasure and fulfilment, and yet Schuldig
finds himself returning to them over and over again. To them, who
are so different from one another and yet have so much in common. All the three
of them.

A puff of smoke rises
towards the ceiling as Schuldig heaves a sigh. “Damn you,” he mumbles around
the butt of his cigarette. “Damn you all.” His brief monologue is followed by a
rueful chuckle.

Crawford had been the
first of said three that he had approached—somewhat naturally, he supposes.
Crawford is a fine specimen, powerful and easy on the eyes,
and . . . well . . . he happened to be around
when Schuldig had one of those moments where he felt restless, reckless, and horny.

Brad Crawford, team
leader extraordinaire and Schwarz’s resident precognitive, had seen Schuldig
make his move before it had even happened. Why, of course he had. Crawford had
seen it coming and had reacted the way he deemed best for the team: he had taken
the strings from Schuldig’s hands as soon as the younger man had poked his head
into the bathroom, still filled with steam from Crawford’s shower. The
precognitive had made a single, determined step in Schuldig’s direction, just
far enough to grab the redhead’s collar and pull him bodily into the room.

To this very day,
Schuldig vividly remembers the sight of himself in the foggy bathroom
mirror—the way his hair had immediately started to frizz in the dampness to
make him look like a clown, minus the make-up. However, there had been no time
to laugh or swear at the image as his superior’s lips had sealed his in a kiss
that was demanding and devoid of passion at the same time. Then that powerful
body had encircled him, and those commanding hands had made short work of his
clothing, leaving him just as naked as his team leader.

Schuldig had wasted no
time and had run his hands over the other’s torso and arms appreciatively,
eagerly, not willing to question motives but intent on getting as much out of
that impossible moment as he probably could. Crawford had mirrored his actions,
but only briefly. Then the larger man had kissed his way down Schuldig’s body,
sending him on sensory overload as he allowed the telepath a glimpse into his
mind; a taste of how the redhead’s skin felt underneath his lips, how wanton
the telepath looked as he stood with his head thrown back, one hand seeking
purchase on the sink in a white-knuckled grip.

Then Crawford’s lips had
reached their destination, and Schuldig would happily have died then and there.
The man’s mouth on him, his hands all the while kneading his buttocks—that had
been pure bliss. Strangely enough, the fact that Crawford had slammed his
mental shields back down to block the telepath out, had only helped to drive Schuldig
crazy with need. Automatically, he had reached down to tangle his fingers in
short, black hair, but Crawford’s hands had intercepted his and guided them to
the precognitive’s broad shoulders instead without much effort.

With a moan of
protest/gratitude, Schuldig’s fingers had dug into the firm strands of muscle
while the heavenly assault on his manhood continued. He couldn’t have spelled
his own name right then and there. Still, his mind had registered the sudden
loss of heat—of delicious pressure—just as he had tipped over the edge. Not
once had this happened to him before; no one had ever denied him this, but of
course, this was Crawford. And yes, that always seemed to be explanation
enough.

Or so he thought until
the day Ran stepped into the picture. Fujimiya Ran. Not his own team leader,
but “the enemy” and a control freak in his own right.

One night, Schuldig had
thought he had managed to take control from the Weiß leader. Ran had been on
his way home from the hospital where he had visited his comatose sister. His
thoughts had been scattered like autumn leaves in the wind, and rather than
driving straight home, the young man had stopped at a park. He had been sitting
on a bench in the twilight of the setting sun as Schuldig had walked past. A sheer
coincidence. Scout’s honour!

Schuldig had recognised
the Weiß leader immediately. The fiery hair of the man, which matched his
temper so well, had glistened like blood in the fading light, and the man’s
thoughts (usually so focussed in that single-minded manner of his) had
practically screamed at the telepath, now that they had apparently broken free
from any reigns.

It had all seemed
perfect. Schuldig’s pulse had sped up at the sight of “the enemy” so unguarded
and vulnerable before him. It had only taken him half a conscious effort to
reach out and into the other redhead’s mind and make him look up. The tears he
had found in the surprised face had almost made him think over his spontaneous
plan, but only almost. He was Schuldig, after all; he had a reputation to
maintain.

A wordless suggestion
later, Ran had followed him into some narrow alley. To be honest, Schuldig had
been astonished just how easily the Weiß’s mind could be manipulated once his
guards were down. He had never seen the man like that before, and he had
grinned gleefully as the lithe form had obeyed his silent command and peeled
off their trademark coats—one black, one green—while Schuldig had merely stood
and felt himself get aroused by the view of those stormy, violet eyes, up this
close.

In those swirling pools
of impossible colour, the telepath had seen the other’s will begin to fight
his; had sensed the other’s mind re-structure itself to some semblance of
order. Still, he had felt little resistance as he had pushed Ran to his knees
before him, providing the Weiß leader with detailed mental pictures of what was
demanded of him.

And Ran had obeyed.
Despite the inner struggle raging within himself, he had freed Schuldig’s
erection; had accepted the guiding hands that framed his head; had begun to
lick and suck and nibble, and the telepath had been surprised to find not a
trace of disgust in the other’s mind. Anger and frustration, yes, but no
disgust. That realisation alone had been enough to coax a soft sound from
Schuldig’s throat. He had silently cursed himself for how easily (and with how
little restraint) he reacted to such stimuli. But his dismay had not lasted for
long, for Ran had done something extremely wicked with his tongue right then,
and that had been Schuldig’s undoing.

His mind had dimly
registered how his hands got brushed aside just as his climax hit him.
Simultaneously, a growl had sounded in his left ear—the growl of one furious
Fujimiya Ran, who had dared break free of his mental (and physical) grip in the
most unfortunate of moments. Déjà vu. Fujimiya Ran, who had pressed
himself close to Schuldig, regardless of the mess this would make. And already,
the telepath had found himself turned around on the spot by clever hands, so
that his too-warm face had ended up pressed against the cool stone of the brick
wall. The similarly cool hands had crept underneath his shirt next, petting,
stroking. Then his pants had been discarded for good, and his memories of what
had happened next are fuzzy at best. It had been painful, it had been
mind-numbing. It had been strangely and utterly . . . perfect,
considering the circumstances.

Schuldig has oft
wondered what enables Ran to break free from his mental hold. Crawford he
cannot even read, to begin with. Ran is difficult to read, too, but not
impossible. His shields are near impenetrable when he is on a job, but they are
not as seamless as Crawford’s. Still, Schuldig’s attempts at getting from Ran
what Crawford wouldn’t give him have all been in vain so far. And what irks him
most is that he has yet to find the slightest clue for an explanation in Ran’s
conscious.

At least, Schuldig
guesses, he needn’t be ashamed that such control freaks as Crawford and Ran
have him at their beck and call. Kudou Yohji, on the other hand, is an entirely
different pair of shoes. Neither are the blond’s mental shields strong enough
to keep Schuldig out, nor is he physically stronger than the telepath. Come to
think of it, the two of them are probably equals as far as bodily strength is
concerned. Their build is quite similar, after all, and in order to wield that
deadly wire of his, Yohji must possess some strength and control over his own
body. Probably not quite like Crawford, who keeps in shape through boxing, or a
swordsman like Ran, but those aren’t activities Schuldig could imagine Yohji to
partake.

A grin spreads across
Schuldig’s face. He takes one last drag from his cigarette, savours the burning
sensation in his lungs, then reaches over to the nightstand to stub the cancer
stick out in the nondescript, white ashtray.

As if on cue, there is a
knock on the door. Schuldig rolls over to lie on his side, head propped up on
one hand, the other taking to drawing lazy circles on his shirt-clad belly.

“Come in. It’s open,” he
calls out sweetly, almost mockingly.

The door swings open to
reveal a smirking Yohji, sunglasses riding low on the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry for being late,” he apologises in a light tone as he steps in and closes
the door. “I’m glad to see you haven’t started without me.”

Schuldig laughs. “As if
I’d ever do such a thing.”

All Yohji offers for a
retort is a saucy grin, then he steps closer to the bed, taking in the rather
tasteful décor of the hotel room. “Not bad,” he admits with a nod. “So you do
have taste after all.”

Schuldig mock-huffs. “Come
here, and I’ll show you taste!” Deep inside, he’s relaxed and contented. It has
become the norm whenever he’s around Yohji. They had “clicked” when they had
bumped into each other at a bar on a night off, both of them pissed at their
respective team leaders and not in a mind to fight each other. That first
“private” encounter had resulted in a quick tumble in the backseat of
Schuldig’s car, and things had easily developed from there.

Yes, easily. Things are
easy with Yohji. Uncomplicated. Unconditional. Untainted.

“Penny for your
thoughts.”

Schuldig looks up to
find Yohji’s smiling face a mere inch from his. The sunglasses have
miraculously vanished, as has the blond’s shirt. His wavy hair glows golden in
the light that falls over from the window.

Before Schuldig can
think of a reply, the other man has risen from his crouch and climbs onto the
bed with him. Need is shining in Yohji’s eyes and thoughts, and Schuldig comes
to the vague conclusion that words can wait. Without preamble, he pulls the other
close, burying his face in the slender neck and kissing his way up across the
jaw to finally capture Yohji’s lips with his.

The kiss they share is
playful, their tongues dancing around another rather than fighting for
dominance. All the while, their hands have set out to explore and disrobe and
stroke, and soon they are rolling across the bed in a tangle of naked limbs. A moaning,
purring tangle of naked limbs. Yohji is quite vocal, and Schuldig loves
every single one of those impossible sounds the man makes in his throat; tries
to coax out new ones he hasn’t heard before.

For a moment, Schuldig
slips past Yohji’s mental shields to bask in their combined desire. Like so
often, it is almost too much, and he withdraws with a tinge of regret.

A mere second later, any
regret is forgotten as Yohji’s lips depart from his and take on a well-known
course towards the south. Nimble fingers clear the way, and Schuldig’s eyelids
flutter with the tingling sensation Yohji creates on his neck, his chest, his
abs, and finally his twitching member. A nagging feeling buds in Schuldig’s
foggy mind that he’s been meaning to ask Yohji something, but it’s too late
already—his orgasm sneaks up on him, and Yohji’s lips have returned to nibble
at his earlobe, and slender hands roll him over onto his belly, and
everything’s messy and sticky underneath and . . . wrong.

“St—stop it,” Schuldig
grinds out in between helpless sounds of pleasure/protest.

Yohji freezes instantly
and leans across his shoulders so that their cheeks touch. “What’s wrong?” he
asks, his voice husky but sincere.

Schuldig sighs, his eyes
squeezed shut. He needs a moment to find the right words and dimly registers
how the weight and warmth at his back vanish. When he opens his eyes again,
Yohji lies next to him, regarding him silently, patiently. Whenever you’re
ready, those green eyes seem to say, and Schuldig realises that that’s
exactly the kind of power Yohji has over him. Compassion. Patience. Very few
people manage to maintain those attributes around him for long, and he finds
that he yearns for it.

Still, one question has
remained unanswered.

“Why do you always do
that?” he asks, his bruised ego cursing the hesitation in his voice.

Yohji raises an
eyebrow—a gesture that looks dangerous on Ran but somewhat endearing on
Fujimiya’s blond team mate. “Why do I always do what?”

Schuldig cannot help but
roll his eyes. “Why, abandon me in just the wrong moment. And don’t you
try to tell me you’d ever do that to anyone else. I know you don’t.” The last
statement is accompanied by the touch of a finger to his temple. It’s an
unnecessary gesture, really, but it is a bit of a habit to remind people of the
nature of his powers.

A snort. “Abandon you?”
Yohji sounds . . . hurt. “You’re impossible, Schuldig, you know
that? Remind me why I ever agreed to any of this.” With those words, he makes
to turn his back on the German, but the telepath grabs his shoulder to stop the
movement.

Their eyes meet, and
confusion clashes with confusion.

Yohji is the first to
speak again. “Don’t tell me you’ve no idea?”

Since Schuldig has no
clue at all what’s the matter with the other man, he shakes his head.

With another snort, the
blond adjusts his position, head propped up on one hand, so that he glances
down on Schuldig. His forehead furrows in a frown. “You make me do it,
and you’ve no idea?”

“I make you do what?”
Schuldig snaps, irritated.

Yohji issues a growl
that sounds like a mix of frustration and anger. “You make me withdraw just
before you come, you moron!” he cries. “You just won’t let me end what I start.
Heaven knows I’ve tried often enough.”

Schuldig shakes his head
again in denial. “I certainly don’t make you stop.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“You do, and I’ve
been wondering . . . is that your sick and twisted version of
making me come back for more?”

For a second, Schuldig
is speechless. All he can do is stare up at Yohji in utter puzzlement. Then his
ability to speak returns; his ability to think clearly; and with it his customary
smugness. The accompanying smirk comes to his lips naturally. “So you’re
yearning for more, huh?”

Yohji’s eyes scream
bloody murder at the flippant comment, and Schuldig is fast to pacify the other
with a soothing mental (and physical) touch.

“Don’t get mad at me,
Yohji. I swear I wasn’t aware of doing anything.” It prides him a little
that he sounds as earnest as that statement is meant. “I didn’t think I could
mess with your mind in that state even if I tried.”

“But you did; you always
do.” Ah, hurt has gained the upper hand again.

“But without even
realising it!”

A brief pause, then:
“Convince me.”

“How do you suppose I do
that?”

“I suggest we have
another go and you behave yourself for a change.” Yohji worries his lower lip
as tapered fingers find their way between Schuldig’s legs. The instant reaction
of his body teases one of those loved/hated moans out of the redhead.

“I’ll try. I swear I’ll
try.”

Oh yes, the telepath
sets his mind on ending this madness; of turning this into something even more
perfect than before. With Yohji. With Ran. With Crawford. And deep inside
Schuldig knows that, should he fail, the victory will still be his, for he has
proved to be the one in charge after all.
- 1
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Power Play (Impossible)