hard times
You know when you're writing and it's fighting you and you just push on ahead anyways?
Yeah.
But hey, there's a piccie at the end! Yay for having an unreasonable amount of weapons in the house.
And omg...someone needs to take the PotC trailers away from me. They're not good for my health. I can feel dear Cap'n Sparrow staggering around up in the brain, patiently waiting for his turn again, somewhere behind Schwarz (Nagi leaning far away from the smell) and to the side of his fellow Disney slaves.
Want.movie.now.
Title: Half-Way Romance
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz Spawnverse
Rating: R-ish but not really
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Disclaimer: Still not mine yet.
AN: I made a love letter for spank_palace…then decided I couldn’t leave well-enough alone. So daddies get some time for Father’s Day.
Summary: “Good thing we’re not most people.”
The building was dark and abandoned, only a few flickering lights chasing shadows away. Just cheap shards of light from behind cracked plastic but it was enough to make it all seem like death was around the next corner, leaning against a wall with grin ready.
The setting was everything, Schuldig thought to himself as he side-stepped a patch of crushed glass. The right setting will throw you right off guard and to the dogs.
He paused, gun cocked and waiting, listening. Breathe in, breathe out, silent without a thought because after a while it became second nature.
And he had been doing this for a very long time.
Another hallway with more doors all in a line. Back in school, if you could call Rosenhell school, there had been a pitch-black maze that all senior students would have to venture into. Stealth was important, after all, especially on covert missions.
Schuldig had had a grudging respect for that maze. Anything that could scare the wits out of his then fellow classmates and cut down the number of people in the dorms was okay by him.
That respect had come in handy during exams, letting the redhead slink his way through while others trudged behind or fell completely. Monsters were hiding in those dark corners back then. Once Schuldig had managed to pass as a ghost, he had became one of those monsters, picking off any wandering lambs.
And he had enjoyed every minute of it.
Smirking at the memory, choked pained gasps and futures ended, Schuldig decided to switch this game around.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called out suddenly, drawling, breaking a hard-learned rule and reveling in it. Esset had tried to break him of that habit and look where it got them-twenty feet below sea level.
But that had been years ago too. Young and ambitious and ready to take on the world, take on gods and generals because they covered themselves in powerful arrogance.
--We’ll remake it, had been the promise, we’ll become even more.
Will you follow?
Will you kill for me, instead of them?--
Yes and yes had always been his answer. Devils could revolt against heaven, but there was that single one that had to lead the way out.
That devil of his was somewhere in this warehouse, blending in with the scenery despite that pristine white suit of his. The telepath briefly wondered if the bastard had camouflaged himself with tar and newspaper before tossing that notion aside.
Crawford was far too vain for that.
Chuckling quietly, Schuldig ran a hand through long hair. “This is going to be really boring if you don’t even try to taunt me, Braddles. Where’s the fun in playing by the old rule book?”
The hallway opened suddenly to a large open room, dirt-blackened windows lining the top and white pillars scattered to carry a burden. Soft spots of moonlight trickled in, flittering like will-o-wisps at the corner of his eyes.
Tricks and illusions, smoke and mirrors. All part of the mind the game, that ace card to give you the upper hand. Schuldig knew better, of course, king of mind-fucks that he was.
Open spaces meant trouble.
Something shuffled behind a crate and the German’s gun was up in a heartbeat, reflexes kicking in before the brain could.
--You’ll have to become one of the best, Schuldig. I won’t accept anything less.
Don’t rely on your powers alone. They are not without fault. To depend on them would be suicide on your part.
And I’ve already invested to much in your life.
Do it again and faster; kill the target before they can move…--
Fuck, twenty years gone by. It didn’t feel like it, felt longer and shorter and a lifetime ago. Before florists. Before temples. Before freedom and spawn and all that came with the two.
Funny how life turned out, huh?
Eyes narrowed, gleaming, Schuldig took two steps forward-towards the sound-then spun and ducked behind a pillar as two shots fired at him. Pressed again the cold concrete and exhilarated, the telepath let out a low whistle of appreciation and glanced at the perfect holes in the wall.
“Not pulling any punches, eh?”
“I never have,” came the clipped reply, from somewhere far on the other end. “And by now we are too…experienced for such things.”
From the left, a few yards away.
“Brett would say mother and father were fighting again, ya know.”
“I’m sure he’s become accustomed to this by now.”
The voice had shifted again, the acoustics changing. Schuldig almost used his telepathy to pinpoint the prey-or maybe hunter, at the moment-but stopped himself and let that constant tide of murmurs he lived with wash the idea away.
It was more fun this way.
Eying the immediate vicinity did little. You were supposed to be careful, keep up your guard and cover the angles. It was drilled into during training sessions, all to keep you from using the most important and independent trait you had.
Pure instinct had kept Schuldig alive longer than most people in his line of work. All cunning and sly tricks when force failed, rushing in but knowing when to duck. Making allies and enemies to use but holding those few, those precious few that counted, close enough that they could watch your back.
Firing a few careless shots in a vague direction, Schuldig wondered if the brats had picked up all those lessons along the way.
“That was pathetic, telepath.”
A thunder clap, ringing in his ears until it passed, that too-close buzz as the air was split.
It made his blood speed up in his veins, smirk growing even wider as the redhead danced on the balls of his feet, free hand pulling something out of his boot.
“But good enough,” Schuldig sneered.
--Never really solely on your gun. It can jam, it can run out of ammo, it can backfire in the worst of situations.
It makes you stand away, detached, and you haven’t earned that yet. You’re no good to me if you can’t handle close-hand combat.
Stop smiling and get on with it, Guilty. Unless you can’t--
A twist and a wrenching movement had the two men nose to nose, a gun to the chest and a knife to the throat; part-way exchanged like the dearest love tokens. Schuldig purred and shifted his hips closer, lips hovering just above Crawford’s strained scowl.
“You’re right though, Braddles. The brats are used to our idea of foreplay by now. Pity.”
“You brought it,” Crawford calmly observed, glasses glinting, one hand coming to rest on Schuldig’s wrist. This close, the telepath could see the grey peppering Crawford’s temples, could see the lines around his own eyes reflecting in ever clean glass. More reminders. “Feeling nostalgic?”
“Of course not,” Schuldig snorted. “Just didn’t want to let the old thing get rusty in a drawer somewhere. Weapon like this still needs a little action. It’s too good for that…”
--Blue eyes peered up through a mop of red, far too pleased looking for someone with a gash across his arm. “He screamed, even after I slit his throat,” the German rambled, excitemed, miming the action. “I could hear it. Pulled back just in time. Fuck, that was hot.”
“It was a sloppy job, telepath, and one of your targets escaped while you lingered,” Crawford told him sternly, arms crossed. “Your lack of control in some matters is appalling.”
“Aw, you say the sweetest things. Talk dirty to me some more.”--
“Nope, my knife is just fine. That gun of yours though,” Schuldig continued to drawl, “has definitely seen better days. A little worn-out if you ask me, and no real bang to it anymore.”
“You woo me with your words. Truly.”
Schuldig grinned. “Some charms don’t fade, Braddles. Remember the first present I ever gave you?”
“A corpse and a bloody love letter, which was a rather bad attempt at seducing me,” the American said. “The apartment smelled for weeks.”
“It’s the thought that counts, you bastard.”
Crawford raised an eyebrow. “It was less about thoughts and more about annoying me.”
“You were on a high horse. I just twisted its legs a bit, sugar.”
“It still would have been labeled as the work of a homicidal psychopath by most people.”
The telepath sniffed and tossed his hair with a wink. “Good thing we’re not most people, or you wouldn’t have lasted a month with me.”
--Coffee-brown eyes narrowed. “I expected more finesse. It was, after all, you’re chance to prove yourself. Perhaps you’re not capable of keeping your end of the deal.”
“So little faith, precious” the German purred. “And I left a present for you in your room and everything.”--
“Now,” that drawling voice suddenly deepened, “are we gonna stand here all night or what? Maybe that gun of yours needs some polishing first, Braddles.”
The oracle rolled his eyes and tilted forward, ignoring the sharp pain at his neck in favor of shutting his telepath up, taking what was given to him decades ago, time and time again.
But never without a fight.
Yeah.
But hey, there's a piccie at the end! Yay for having an unreasonable amount of weapons in the house.
And omg...someone needs to take the PotC trailers away from me. They're not good for my health. I can feel dear Cap'n Sparrow staggering around up in the brain, patiently waiting for his turn again, somewhere behind Schwarz (Nagi leaning far away from the smell) and to the side of his fellow Disney slaves.
Want.movie.now.
Title: Half-Way Romance
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz Spawnverse
Rating: R-ish but not really
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Disclaimer: Still not mine yet.
AN: I made a love letter for spank_palace…then decided I couldn’t leave well-enough alone. So daddies get some time for Father’s Day.
Summary: “Good thing we’re not most people.”
The building was dark and abandoned, only a few flickering lights chasing shadows away. Just cheap shards of light from behind cracked plastic but it was enough to make it all seem like death was around the next corner, leaning against a wall with grin ready.
The setting was everything, Schuldig thought to himself as he side-stepped a patch of crushed glass. The right setting will throw you right off guard and to the dogs.
He paused, gun cocked and waiting, listening. Breathe in, breathe out, silent without a thought because after a while it became second nature.
And he had been doing this for a very long time.
Another hallway with more doors all in a line. Back in school, if you could call Rosenhell school, there had been a pitch-black maze that all senior students would have to venture into. Stealth was important, after all, especially on covert missions.
Schuldig had had a grudging respect for that maze. Anything that could scare the wits out of his then fellow classmates and cut down the number of people in the dorms was okay by him.
That respect had come in handy during exams, letting the redhead slink his way through while others trudged behind or fell completely. Monsters were hiding in those dark corners back then. Once Schuldig had managed to pass as a ghost, he had became one of those monsters, picking off any wandering lambs.
And he had enjoyed every minute of it.
Smirking at the memory, choked pained gasps and futures ended, Schuldig decided to switch this game around.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called out suddenly, drawling, breaking a hard-learned rule and reveling in it. Esset had tried to break him of that habit and look where it got them-twenty feet below sea level.
But that had been years ago too. Young and ambitious and ready to take on the world, take on gods and generals because they covered themselves in powerful arrogance.
--We’ll remake it, had been the promise, we’ll become even more.
Will you follow?
Will you kill for me, instead of them?--
Yes and yes had always been his answer. Devils could revolt against heaven, but there was that single one that had to lead the way out.
That devil of his was somewhere in this warehouse, blending in with the scenery despite that pristine white suit of his. The telepath briefly wondered if the bastard had camouflaged himself with tar and newspaper before tossing that notion aside.
Crawford was far too vain for that.
Chuckling quietly, Schuldig ran a hand through long hair. “This is going to be really boring if you don’t even try to taunt me, Braddles. Where’s the fun in playing by the old rule book?”
The hallway opened suddenly to a large open room, dirt-blackened windows lining the top and white pillars scattered to carry a burden. Soft spots of moonlight trickled in, flittering like will-o-wisps at the corner of his eyes.
Tricks and illusions, smoke and mirrors. All part of the mind the game, that ace card to give you the upper hand. Schuldig knew better, of course, king of mind-fucks that he was.
Open spaces meant trouble.
Something shuffled behind a crate and the German’s gun was up in a heartbeat, reflexes kicking in before the brain could.
--You’ll have to become one of the best, Schuldig. I won’t accept anything less.
Don’t rely on your powers alone. They are not without fault. To depend on them would be suicide on your part.
And I’ve already invested to much in your life.
Do it again and faster; kill the target before they can move…--
Fuck, twenty years gone by. It didn’t feel like it, felt longer and shorter and a lifetime ago. Before florists. Before temples. Before freedom and spawn and all that came with the two.
Funny how life turned out, huh?
Eyes narrowed, gleaming, Schuldig took two steps forward-towards the sound-then spun and ducked behind a pillar as two shots fired at him. Pressed again the cold concrete and exhilarated, the telepath let out a low whistle of appreciation and glanced at the perfect holes in the wall.
“Not pulling any punches, eh?”
“I never have,” came the clipped reply, from somewhere far on the other end. “And by now we are too…experienced for such things.”
From the left, a few yards away.
“Brett would say mother and father were fighting again, ya know.”
“I’m sure he’s become accustomed to this by now.”
The voice had shifted again, the acoustics changing. Schuldig almost used his telepathy to pinpoint the prey-or maybe hunter, at the moment-but stopped himself and let that constant tide of murmurs he lived with wash the idea away.
It was more fun this way.
Eying the immediate vicinity did little. You were supposed to be careful, keep up your guard and cover the angles. It was drilled into during training sessions, all to keep you from using the most important and independent trait you had.
Pure instinct had kept Schuldig alive longer than most people in his line of work. All cunning and sly tricks when force failed, rushing in but knowing when to duck. Making allies and enemies to use but holding those few, those precious few that counted, close enough that they could watch your back.
Firing a few careless shots in a vague direction, Schuldig wondered if the brats had picked up all those lessons along the way.
“That was pathetic, telepath.”
A thunder clap, ringing in his ears until it passed, that too-close buzz as the air was split.
It made his blood speed up in his veins, smirk growing even wider as the redhead danced on the balls of his feet, free hand pulling something out of his boot.
“But good enough,” Schuldig sneered.
--Never really solely on your gun. It can jam, it can run out of ammo, it can backfire in the worst of situations.
It makes you stand away, detached, and you haven’t earned that yet. You’re no good to me if you can’t handle close-hand combat.
Stop smiling and get on with it, Guilty. Unless you can’t--
A twist and a wrenching movement had the two men nose to nose, a gun to the chest and a knife to the throat; part-way exchanged like the dearest love tokens. Schuldig purred and shifted his hips closer, lips hovering just above Crawford’s strained scowl.
“You’re right though, Braddles. The brats are used to our idea of foreplay by now. Pity.”
“You brought it,” Crawford calmly observed, glasses glinting, one hand coming to rest on Schuldig’s wrist. This close, the telepath could see the grey peppering Crawford’s temples, could see the lines around his own eyes reflecting in ever clean glass. More reminders. “Feeling nostalgic?”
“Of course not,” Schuldig snorted. “Just didn’t want to let the old thing get rusty in a drawer somewhere. Weapon like this still needs a little action. It’s too good for that…”
--Blue eyes peered up through a mop of red, far too pleased looking for someone with a gash across his arm. “He screamed, even after I slit his throat,” the German rambled, excitemed, miming the action. “I could hear it. Pulled back just in time. Fuck, that was hot.”
“It was a sloppy job, telepath, and one of your targets escaped while you lingered,” Crawford told him sternly, arms crossed. “Your lack of control in some matters is appalling.”
“Aw, you say the sweetest things. Talk dirty to me some more.”--
“Nope, my knife is just fine. That gun of yours though,” Schuldig continued to drawl, “has definitely seen better days. A little worn-out if you ask me, and no real bang to it anymore.”
“You woo me with your words. Truly.”
Schuldig grinned. “Some charms don’t fade, Braddles. Remember the first present I ever gave you?”
“A corpse and a bloody love letter, which was a rather bad attempt at seducing me,” the American said. “The apartment smelled for weeks.”
“It’s the thought that counts, you bastard.”
Crawford raised an eyebrow. “It was less about thoughts and more about annoying me.”
“You were on a high horse. I just twisted its legs a bit, sugar.”
“It still would have been labeled as the work of a homicidal psychopath by most people.”
The telepath sniffed and tossed his hair with a wink. “Good thing we’re not most people, or you wouldn’t have lasted a month with me.”
--Coffee-brown eyes narrowed. “I expected more finesse. It was, after all, you’re chance to prove yourself. Perhaps you’re not capable of keeping your end of the deal.”
“So little faith, precious” the German purred. “And I left a present for you in your room and everything.”--
“Now,” that drawling voice suddenly deepened, “are we gonna stand here all night or what? Maybe that gun of yours needs some polishing first, Braddles.”
The oracle rolled his eyes and tilted forward, ignoring the sharp pain at his neck in favor of shutting his telepath up, taking what was given to him decades ago, time and time again.
But never without a fight.