Weiss Kreuz (Crawford/Schuldig)
Jul. 17th, 2007 02:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sarsly.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
kinkfestTitle: Close Call
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mana_katana
Warnings: result of writers block combined with catching up on Charlaine Harris' 'Southern Vampire' series; no-dialogue, very vague mansex -- nothing to worry about, really, I just figured it would be fair to mention it
Word Count: 398
Summary: Sometimes, simply the act of living can be a rush.
Prompt: Crawford/Schuldig: Topping from the bottom, adrenaline - after a particularly close call in a mission
Authors Notes: Shortly after picking up prompts, I began summer classes. During this time I didn't even try to write, as I had a chapter of Texas Government to read every night, and I also came down with a severe case of writers block -- so severe that I couldn't even make journal entries of much more than questionnaires and "I'M GOING TO LVN SCHOOL!" for a month. I'm still not sure if I'm over it or not, but here's hoping. XD
He watches the German. They both know what could have happened -- what very nearly did happen. He says nothing, letting actions and thoughts take the place.
Schuldig frowns a little, shakes his head at Crawford's silent request. He doesn't think he can do it, doesn't trust himself. The look he gives the American says as much.
Their agrument goes on for a while, though neither words nor fists are thrown. At a moment, the rush of simply living catches up to them, and the fight is abandoned.
They make it to Crawford's room -- barely -- door locked, clothing strewn about as it is removed. Mouths find one another; they come the closest to spoken word as they will until morning.
Crawford thinks about what Schuldig must do; the German hesitates but acquiesces. He does not speak; no, words would cause this reality to shatter. Schuldig follows every direction given. He is awkward for this, having never been in such a position before tonight. He's not sure he wants to do it ever again: He would rather be fucked into oblivion.
He is becoming too hot, his pulse rising too quickly. He doesn't remember anything until the muffled cry of pain from Crawford. They are finished; the American is bleeding -- from shallow nail-marks and the nose and bottom lip -- his wounds inflicted by the German, in one way or another.
Schuldig touches his mouth lightly, starts to get up to fetch some ice and a rag to absorb the blood. A hand on his wrist stops him, pulls him back down. A kiss is placed, a bloody trail run down his neck.
He gasps softly when teeth sink into his shoulder. A struggle, in which he is demanded to take control now. The fight turns more brutal, and in almost no time the German is torn between begging for mercy and demanding more of this punishment.
With a loud cry he falls forward: finished, for a second time. His head crashes against the headboard.
He wakes up hours later, when the sunlight finally reaches his eyes. Crawford is sitting beside him, looking down at him. Something cold and wet is on his face. Is it blood? Am I dead? He reaches up to wipe it off, but his hand is stilled almost before it even moves. He looks up at Crawford, unsure what to make of this.
"Do not question my authority again. You may not live to regret it."
Author:
mana_katanaWarnings: result of writers block combined with catching up on Charlaine Harris' 'Southern Vampire' series; no-dialogue, very vague mansex -- nothing to worry about, really, I just figured it would be fair to mention it
Word Count: 398
Summary: Sometimes, simply the act of living can be a rush.
Prompt: Crawford/Schuldig: Topping from the bottom, adrenaline - after a particularly close call in a mission
Authors Notes: Shortly after picking up prompts, I began summer classes. During this time I didn't even try to write, as I had a chapter of Texas Government to read every night, and I also came down with a severe case of writers block -- so severe that I couldn't even make journal entries of much more than questionnaires and "I'M GOING TO LVN SCHOOL!" for a month. I'm still not sure if I'm over it or not, but here's hoping. XD
He watches the German. They both know what could have happened -- what very nearly did happen. He says nothing, letting actions and thoughts take the place.
Schuldig frowns a little, shakes his head at Crawford's silent request. He doesn't think he can do it, doesn't trust himself. The look he gives the American says as much.
Their agrument goes on for a while, though neither words nor fists are thrown. At a moment, the rush of simply living catches up to them, and the fight is abandoned.
They make it to Crawford's room -- barely -- door locked, clothing strewn about as it is removed. Mouths find one another; they come the closest to spoken word as they will until morning.
Crawford thinks about what Schuldig must do; the German hesitates but acquiesces. He does not speak; no, words would cause this reality to shatter. Schuldig follows every direction given. He is awkward for this, having never been in such a position before tonight. He's not sure he wants to do it ever again: He would rather be fucked into oblivion.
He is becoming too hot, his pulse rising too quickly. He doesn't remember anything until the muffled cry of pain from Crawford. They are finished; the American is bleeding -- from shallow nail-marks and the nose and bottom lip -- his wounds inflicted by the German, in one way or another.
Schuldig touches his mouth lightly, starts to get up to fetch some ice and a rag to absorb the blood. A hand on his wrist stops him, pulls him back down. A kiss is placed, a bloody trail run down his neck.
He gasps softly when teeth sink into his shoulder. A struggle, in which he is demanded to take control now. The fight turns more brutal, and in almost no time the German is torn between begging for mercy and demanding more of this punishment.
With a loud cry he falls forward: finished, for a second time. His head crashes against the headboard.
He wakes up hours later, when the sunlight finally reaches his eyes. Crawford is sitting beside him, looking down at him. Something cold and wet is on his face. Is it blood? Am I dead? He reaches up to wipe it off, but his hand is stilled almost before it even moves. He looks up at Crawford, unsure what to make of this.
"Do not question my authority again. You may not live to regret it."
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