Upgrade time!
I set up this journal just for rp. Well, since there isn't really alot of that going on atm and it is already WK specific it seems the perfect place to start storing fic, etc.. Not that there is alot of it. So, first victim, my first WK story. Apologies to anyone who has had enough of this!
Title: The Games Boys Play
Characters: Brad/Schu, Nagi
Rating: NC17
Warnings: PWP - explicit content - with a bit of plot tossed in
Summary: The balance of power between Brad and Schuldig finally meets its breaking point. The race to determine who comes out on top is about to begin.
Author's Notes: 3 chapters - unfinished - hopefully, by posting it here, I can find new inspiration to finish this off once and for all. It was intended to be a PWP but I just couldn't leave well enough alone.
Schuldig stormed down the hall and into his room, slamming his door hard enough to cause the door frame to creak in protest. It was rare he ever let himself get this angry... or let anyone get under his skin enough to make him this angry. Only one individual held that honor.
//Brad. Brad fucking Crawford.//
He paced circles around his room still rubbing at the bright red welts across his cheek. The perfect imprints of Brad’s long fingers still hot and stinging and fueling the full scale temper tantrum about to erupt.
He tried to sit on his bed but the adrenaline was still pumping fast and furious through his veins. He jumped back up to resume his pacing, the cursing switching to default German words... he was too angry to even format his tirade in Japanese anymore. He fumbled with the oversized buttons on his coat, adding a few choice curses at them as well, as he finally wrestled the damn thing open and stripped it from his arms. How dare it decide to mock him too. He balled the coat up and threw it at his door.
‘Fuck you, too!’ Schuldig yelled, intending the comment to be for his turncoat coat. But the act of throwing something in anger just compounded the problem. He wrestled with his shoes, hopping around and almost stumbling repeatedly as his rage ate away at his usual grace. Finally slipping one off, he smashed it against the door.
“FUCK. YOU.” He bellowed loudly and distinctly while wrestling the other shoe from his foot. It followed the other, this time hitting true and leaving a wide dent where the heel smashed against the thin wood.
“FUCKING ASSHOLE!” He screamed loudly through cupped hands.
A few more paced circles and the rest of his clothes followed the footwear until he was standing in his boxer briefs, panting and no less relieved.
Brad had slapped him.
No, Brad bitch slapped him. In front of Nagi and Farfarello. And he planned it, timed it perfectly, in order for it to have the most humiliating effect possible. They had their meeting and were about to leave, his mind already headed to a club for the evening, then out of the blue...
“Oh... and Schuldig...* SLAP* When I tell you to leave the Weiss alone, I expect you to listen.”
Sure, he almost cost them two months of surveillance and planning... but that wasn’t the point.
//He BITCH slapped me...// Schuldig let out a growl which quickly grew into a full scale roar of pure frustration. // And he ruined my night out...//
“BIG FUCKING PRICK!”
It would never have happened if only he could hear what the damn American was thinking. Just once. Was that too much to ask? Just one tiny little peek to see what lie seething behind those hard, cold eyes of his.
Schuldig had convinced himself that would be all it took to figure him out completely, to be able to anticipate him, to know how he would react or if he even reacted to anything at all. Other than that creepy evil smirk when Brad was particularly amused, he wasn’t sure if or what the man felt for anything or anyone. Schuldig couldn’t even anticipate a bitch slap. After six years, it was getting annoying.
All the more reason to push Brad’s buttons. Or at least attempt to find his buttons. Another growl accompanied the thought... there was no way he was going to let Brad get to him like this. After pacing a few more agitated circles, an idea popped into his head. It wasn’t his most brilliant plan but at the moment, anything that had the potential to agitate Brad was brilliant enough. He turned towards his TV and started digging through his collection of DVD’s, flinging cases aside until he found what he was looking for. Porn. Really bad, loud, cheesy 1970's American porn. Porn where all the boobs were real and nobody shaved. The soundtrack alone should be enough to piss the hard ass off. He popped the disk into the player and cranked up the volume.
He backed into his bed and flopped down heavily with a dramatic sigh, arms flung wide, feet still perched on the floor. It was obvious from the first note of funkified music exactly what he had put into the machine. And not too long after, the loud slurping and groaning noises absolutely confirmed it. Schuldig vaguely heard what sounded like Nagi screaming - something - then the slam of a door. A smirk worked it’s way onto his face. Good. That alone should piss Brad off. A long few minutes passed and... nothing. He pushed to his elbows, intently listening through the forced moaning. Nothing. He growled as he sat up, staring blankly at the tv screen and some large, hairy-assed man pounding an obvious brunette beneath him. And with a quick scan he found that Nagi had quite the colorful vocabulary even if he never used it out loud. His eyes narrowed as he dropped back down in defeat, snagging a pillow from over his head and pulling it over his face.
So Brad slapped him. So what? Brad had beaten the living crap out of him on plenty of occasions. So why did this bother him so much?
It was the look on his face. That rare but unmistakable twinkle of sheer amusement in his eyes... and just as his hand connected ... a smile. An actual smile. //Fucking sadistic bastard.// He never smiled like that when he punished Farfarello but then again beating Farf was pointless so it never really came down to that. On the rare occasions when Nagi screwed up, Brad would slap the shit out of him but he always looked like he hated to do it. But, of course, neither of them intentionally pushed his buttons the way he did. It was the only way to make sure he was always on Brad’s radar... that never a day passed without Schuldig being the first and the last thought on his fearless leader’s mind, every morning and every night. Even if it was only to annoy him.
But that smile... he actually... smiled. That thought curled the corners of his lips like a Cheshire cat. //Brad smiled because he got to put his hands on me...// He played the scene over in his head a few more times... why did Brad just have to drip with testosterone? Standing over him, smiling before slapping him...
//dammit...// Schuldig peeked out from under the pillow to confirm what he felt. Yep. He was getting hard. His boxer briefs straining to keep from being popped up like a tent. He growled into the pillow. Angry boners were the worst. It was difficult to stay mad when your dick was throbbing and it was near impossible to cum if you stayed angry. But angry sex was a whole other matter but there sure wasn’t any of that happening in the immediate future.
“Traitor!” he yelled at his penis. It just twitched hard in response.
// And when did I become a masochist?//
It was definitely the idea of Brad slapping him... as foreplay... that got him so worked up. At least in his head, it wasn’t such a bad thing. He was always of two minds about everything - at least two but usually more - but when they met head to head, the lower one usually won out. Spoiled thing. His eyes lulled closed as he reluctantly surrendered his anger to his overactive imagination.
Mmmmmm... Brad would slap him, then haul him to his feet by his collar, that evil smirk growing to a full feral grin as he bites his lower lip, drawing blood before roughly shoving his tongue in his mouth and half way down his throat.
Schuldig immediately started palming his cock along with his mental porn show. The moaning/slurping/grunting soundtrack blaring in the background was not-so-subliminally adding to the atmosphere.
Brad would roughly strip him out of his clothes, posing him, then circle him like a panther, eyeing him up and down like a piece of meat.
Schuldig’s hands slid into his boxer briefs and wiggled them down his hips to his knees. His cock bounced free with a low, exasperated moan. His left hand slid along his chest, stopping to tease at a nipple as the right curled around his balls, gently kneading them. Brad would never be this gentle.
Brad would slowly strip out of his suit... layer by layer, piece by piece. And he would stand there, watching, naked and hard, blatantly staring and panting, the metallic taste of his own blood pooling in his mouth and escaping down his chin. Angry and hard and bleeding...
Schuldig shimmied his way fully onto the bed and out of his underwear, splaying himself out granting better access for his wandering hands. Blood never really seemed to be Brad’s thing but it sure seemed right now. He licked at his lips like he could actually taste the blood. His hand slid over his abs to brush over the base of his cock as the other slid past his balls and perineum to circle his hole with the barest of pressure.
Brad would strip down to his boxers... they’re black and covered with little yellow smiley faces with bloody gunshot holes between their eyes.
A smirk crossed his lips...// Have a nice day...// he purred to himself.
Then Brad would be up against him, his shoulders and chest so much wider and harder than those damn suits of his ever let on. Brad would wrap those long, strong fingers in his hair and roughly yank his head back as he dove for his throat, nipping at his adams apple before lapping at the blood across his neck to bite hard at his jugular. Brad’s cheek would scrape along his jaw, rough and scratchy, his perfect white teeth always sharp against his skin.
Schuldig shivered as he threw his head back with the phantom bite, his hand finally wrapping around his cock, slowly stroking himself in time with his shallow breaths.
Brad’s hips would grind hard against his, the steel rod in his boxers pushing past his own aching hard on to dig into his abs. Brad always had a massive cock.... the kind porn stars wished for, the kind that would see a man pass out from blood loss before he was fully hard.
Schuldig licked his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out then retreating with a scrape along his teeth, teasing only himself.
Brad would chase after his tongue, kissing him hard. Once capturing it, Brad would suck his tongue out of his mouth to nip at the tip before swallowing it with a heavy grunt. The hand in his hair would be guiding his head, Brad’s other hand would be wandering down his back to grab at his ass, digging his fingers into the muscle with a hard squeeze.
Schuldig’s hand wrapped solidly around his cock, stroking harder, rounding over the head. His hips tensed as he started pumping into his own hand.
Brad’s lips would abandon him and the hand in his hair would force him down to his knees. His tongue would traced the sharply defined muscles of Brad’s chest and abs, teasing at his navel, toying with the soft black trail of hair that disappeared into his boxers. He would yank Brad’s boxers down almost being slapped in the face with his impressive erection. He would curl his tongue over the wide purple head then lap up and down it’s pulsing length like a lollipop before settling his lips around it with hard suction. The sting in his wounded lip could not deter him.
Schuldig’s free fingers found their way into his mouth. His tongue mimicked his imaginary motions though it was never fooled by the insubstantial substitute. He never even realized he was moaning around his own fingers... such a blessing and a curse his vivid imagination could be.
The door to his room cantered silently open. Crawford stood in the doorway, crossed his arms and planted his shoulder against the frame. It was obvious that Schuldig was so lost in himself he’d never even notice him standing there. The smirk worked its way back onto his face as he settled in to watch his favorite spectator sport only this time, it wouldn’t be just a random vision or chance encounter. Schuldig fell for the bait, hook, line and sinker and now was being considerate enough to reel himself in as well. The smirk grew to a wiry little grin.
Brad would stare at him hard and he would blatantly stare back as he opened his mouth wide to guide as much of Brad’s cock down his throat as he could manage. Brad would growl at the sight, his eyes growing glassy as he fisted his hands in his hair. He would wrap his arms around Brad’s hips, his fingers grasping at his solid ass, encouraging him to fuck his mouth. And Brad would oblige with a low groan, pumping his hips, and slamming his cock deep down his throat.
Schuldig’s hips pumped harder, his ass bouncing off the bed as he fucked his own fist. His fingers were well past his tonsils as he swallowed hard around them. He was writhing and moaning and lost in the fantasy but not enough to deny his need to cum.
Crawford quickly found out that the live show was much better than the pay-per-view in his head. He was having a difficult time keeping his breathing under control, lest he give himself away to the writhing, redheaded, incubus just a few feet away. He knew he would enjoy this - he’d already seen that much - but he never thought his reaction would be so immediate, so complete. His dick was already straining in his pants, each moan issuing from deep in Schuldig’s chest pulling at his erection like a siren’s call. He silently swallowed and forced his libido down as best he could. He wasn’t going to miss one second of this if he could help it.
Brad would yank his head back before he finished him off, and haul him to his feet by his hair. He would bend him over his desk, slamming his head down, pinning him by the neck. That huge purple head, slick and dripping with a coating of blood tinged saliva would push between his ass cheeks. Brad would rub it back and forth over his hole like a threat... no, Brad never threatened, he only promised. And his thighs quivered - he couldn’t wait for Brad to deliver.
Schuldig popped his fingers out of his mouth, saliva running freely down his hand. He half twisted his hips and reached behind himself, his hips never ceasing their rhythm in his own tight grip. He ran his fingers along the crack of his ass, slicking his entranceway, quick and impatient.
Brad’s grip on his neck would tighten as he shoved his way inside, that thick purple head stretching him wide. The stinging heat of the reluctant muscle would pull a hiss of pain from between his clenched teeth but it wouldn’t last long. Brad would rock into him, and in three strokes would be flat against his ass, his balls slapping against his own.
With a quick stab, Schuldig impaled himself on two fingers, his head craning back with a hiss that terminated in a deep groan of pure ecstacy. His hips began bucking as he fucked himself like a man possessed.
Crawford hadn’t let himself anticipate too much from this little exercise. And it was a good thing too because nothing in his imagination could have conjured the look of pure, ecstatic, wanton, abandon on Schuldig’s face. It was nothing short of a religious experience. Schuldig, god of fuck, worshiping himself as he desecrated his own temple. It was taking all of his control to keep his arms folded tight and out of his pants. His cock was harder than he could ever remember.
Brad would slam into him hard, grunting and mumbling random obscenities. The hand on his neck would relinquish it’s hold, instead fisting in his hair like a handle and pulling back hard with each brutal slap against his ass. His own cock would be trapped beneath him, the unforgiving wood of the desktop all he had to provide him friction. Brad’s hand would be digging into his hip, he could already feel the bruising. And he would be screaming, screaming his name over and over.
Schuldig abandoned himself to the fantasy, Brad’s name tumbling breathlessly out of his mouth like a mantra as he neared blissful release.
Crawford had never been so close to losing control, his balls tightening in his boxers threatening to
defy his iron will. If he was at all unsure what fed Schuldig’s fantasies, there was no question now. And that had him breathing hard, and starting to sweat and cursing his own damn curiosity. This was not going as planned but he’d be damned if he could possibly pull himself away.
Brad would call him all sorts of sordid names - cheap whore, fucking slut, worthless piece of mind fuck gutter trash - and the one that brought him to the brink - my fucking bitch. And with that he would be bought, paid for and delivered, coming hard splattering his belly and Brad’s desktop as he screamed ‘yes’ in agreement. And his muscles would clamp hard on Brad’s cock and he’d come undone, his hips twitching and bucking as he spent himself deep inside.
Schuldig’s lapis eyes lulled open, locking stares with Crawford as he stood perched in the doorway. Schuldig hissed ‘yes’, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head as he came with a strangled groan of perfect, ecstatic anguish. Pearly strands shot through his fist, striping his cheek and lip before coating his chest and the bed. He collapsed back into his bed, the massive wave of endorphins fogging his brain, obscuring everything in its path. His eyes lulled open, locking with Crawford’s again. He let his tongue roll lazily along his lips, licking at the splattering of semen that coated one corner. The Cheshire cat grin returned.
Crawford’s blood iced over in his veins even as his cock threatened to stage a coup. Schuldig was indeed the god of fuck and, with one scorchingly hot orgasm, just named him the Pope. The infuriatingly smug bastard now knew. But no matter how hard his cock was, no matter how jaw-droppingly erotic the sight of Schuldig licking his own cum from his lips was, he could never give him the satisfaction of an admission. He was already a pain in the ass... now he’d be nearly impossible to live with.
Schuldig let his eyes wander down Brad’s heaving chest - good, he was trying to hide his panting - down to his perfectly pressed pants, now tented in most dramatic fashion. He was hung like a porn star. He tried to lock stares with his fearless leader once again but he had tilted his head, his time- perfected technique of using the glare from his glasses as a shield. No matter. Six years of cat and mouse just ended with the springing of two well timed traps. But how to decide the victor?
“You were awesome.” Schuldig purred as he stretched his arms over his head, arching his spine off the bed, displaying himself for Brad’s viewing pleasure.
“You’re loud.” Crawford couldn’t give an inch and he knew it.
“You loved it.” Schuldig trailed his fingers through the sticky trails on his belly.
“You’re dreaming.” Crawford had to escape. No, not an escape... Brad Crawford never runs away. But thanks to his mutinous hard on he would need to make a tactical retreat to regroup. He reached for the door and pulled it closed with never a twitch on his face betraying him unlike the traitor in his pants.
Crawford could hear Schuldig’s nasally whine of a laugh even over the bad porn. And it was the sound of certain doom.
___________________________________________________
Brad Crawford runs from nothing.
Brad retreated to his office. First order of business, belting back a scotch. And then another. He tried to distract his brain by revisiting his day’s working beside Takatori, the thought of the man usually had instant mollifying effects, but the steel rod in his pants just throbbed harder in defiance.
He made for his bedroom, the muffled blare of Schuldig’s TV still doing little to mask his laughter. He shut his door with a heavy sigh, banging his forehead against it in frustration. He couldn’t give in... masturbating was just as good as a confession. He was the one in control - not his libido, not the visions, and certainly not Schuldig. His persistent erection gave a heavy twitch from it’s increasingly uncomfortable confinement. //Damn.//
After six years, something had to give. There had always been this unspoken competition between them. Schuldig pushes, he pushes back. It was a ritualized game that they played with one another to help achieve and maintain what had turned out to be the perfect balance between them. They worked well together... so well in fact that they made the elders nervous. So what had possessed him to suddenly push this game into new territory? Territory he wasn’t even aware that he was willing to travel into.
Brad sat on the end of his bed, hands on his knees, eyes closed in concentration. Meditation might work... focusing inward, denying the physical. He sought out his mental retreat and upon arrival to this most personal of spaces all he could see was a nude Schuldig spread out on the grass, beckoning him with one hand while he stroked his cock with the other. He smiled that viciously seductive smile and whispered in that voice that was pure sex... “Make me your bitch, Brad. Fuck me hard, make me come for you.”
Brad’s eyes shot open, shocked to find his own hand rubbing over his cock. He jumped to his feet quickly assessing the condition of his carefully built and maintained mental shields. That thought had to have come from Schuldig... it just had to. The bastard must have somehow found a way to finally break through and fuck with his head. It was the only plausible answer. The other possibility wasn’t an option. But he found his shields as solid as ever.
This wasn’t happening.
Brad Crawford was straight. Even Schuldig knew that. They had gone out together on rare occasions and had parted ways when they each claimed a toy for the evening. Brad always took home the girl. Schuldig took home anything that caught his fancy. And that was just the way it had always been. Until the vision. The vision that led him to slapping Schuldig in challenge and led him to Schuldig’s doorway to bask in its effects. At what point did respect and competition between teammates turn into... this.
The vision stunned him when it appeared, initially repulsing him into blatant self denial. But the pictures haunted him, seeping into his thoughts unbidden at the most inopportune times. And then the dreams, so vivid and lucid he swore they were visions intruding on his unconscious mind. His visions of Schuldig had grow quite clear and detailed over the years, most likely because of the continually proximity to one another. But this was the first that included him with Schuldig in a... sexual... situation. The harder he tried to rid himself of the vision the more persistent it became...just like Schuldig would most likely have done himself.
Crawford considered himself an open minded assassin. He really could care less what people did with their lives so long as it didn’t interfere with his carefully laid plans. But this... this was interfering and it was his own brain causing the disruption. Such an obvious loss of self control. He had no sexual interest in men, he was certain. No interest other than Schuldig, that is.
Sure it was his curiosity that baited Schuldig in the first place. Somehow, he thought that baiting him then letting him know he’d been played would have a much different effect. It was supposed to be a lesson in dominance. His dominance. Schuldig wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. He wasn’t supposed to antagonize him with it. He wasn’t supposed to look edible while laying there taunting him. The damn telepath had turned it around on him way too easily. That would not do. It was time to turn this train wreck around and put it back on the right track.
But damn if he could think straight with his dick trying to make a desperate break for freedom. And he was already beyond the point of no return... if he didn’t take care of his incessantly nagging erection now he’d be in miserable throbbing pain tomorrow. Should he give Schuldig the implication of satisfaction now or the obvious satisfaction tomorrow when he’d be obviously uncomfortable. Of course, there was always a third option... he eyed his gun on his night stand. It wouldn’t be the first time he was tempted to put a bullet between those bright blue eyes.
Slowly, he got undressed, each motion feeling like a step on a death march on his way the gallows. He gave a tiny groan as he slid out of his pants, his erection reacting to the freedom with a wave of throbbing pressure that coiled low in his balls. At least, this wouldn’t take long.
He peeled back his black suede comforter before sliding on top of he sheets. He certainly wasn’t going to defile the one true comfort item he owned. He propped himself comfortably against the headboard, pillows positioned for maximum comfort. He tucked his left arm behind his head, intent on making this a quick and clinical release. He grabbed his balls with the right, rubbing at his tight sac lightly and he grunted at the sensation. No reason to tease, they were ready to go anyway. He ringed his fingers around the base of his angry cock, loosely sliding up its length. His breath hissed as he subdued the urge to moan out loud... he was determined to enjoy this as little as possible.
He keep his fist loose as he slowly stroked the traitor on, the coiled sensation deep in his balls building, spiraling slowly upward. Schuldig had been almost vicious with his own cock, his fist tight as he pumped into his own hand. Brad squeezed his eyes tight as his cock twitched hard with the thought.
//Cold and clinical// He chastised himself. //Just stroke... no thinking. Just get the job done.//
Long, languid strokes, not too much pressure... an almost casual touch. The soft glide of his fingers was plenty of encouragement. His breathing grew shallow, each breath a short pant. Suppressing the groan that was building in his chest was starting to take effort.
Schuldig writhed freely on his bed, emitting all sorts of wildly erotic sounds, completely uninhibited. How would he enjoy such a light touch? Brad sliding up behind him, nestling his cock along the crack of his ass, fingers teasing at his chest then sliding around his cock, stroking him slowly, with barely any pressure at all. Would the sounds the German made make him just as hard?
The groan broke free, escaping his throat, the sound his body’s plea for surrender. He swallowed heavily, forcing his body’s reaction down yet again. Brad Crawford never surrenders.
The solid flesh in his hand was hot and smooth against his fingers. The head of his cock was an angry purple, swollen and steadily leaking precum. He rounded his palm over it lightly. It caused a shiver that terminated in a breathy exhale. He was close. It wouldn’t take much more. He watched the head disappear into his loose fist over and over, the trail of precum glistening over its width, each pass over the ridge pulling a sharp breath in response.
How he would love to guide that glistening purple tip to Schuldigs lips, over that smart tongue of his and down his throat. If anyone could deep throat him, it would have to be Schuldig. Those blue eyes laughing at him as he sank his length down his throat, that shock of orange hair tickling at his tightened ball sac and across his thighs.
His hips took their cue, joining his fist, the throaty moan reasserting itself with a vengeance.
And he’d wrap his hand in his hair and slowly fuck his mouth, that wicked tongue doing all sorts of things he’d never felt before. Schuldig would take him down to the root then pull away to wiggle his tongue into his slit before sinking back down and burying his nose in his pubic hair.
The hand behind his head shot out to fist in the sheets as if it could keep him from falling. There was no preventing it now. His body had staged a full scale coup, his impending orgasm clouding his head, thick and heavy with promise. Brad was stubborn, not stupid... he could negotiate especially when the outcome was assured.
His hand tightened on his cock, his hips pumping heavily in rhythm with the motion.
He’d growl as Schuldig devoured him, fisting both hands on either side of his head. He’d hold the redhead stationary as he pumped his hips hard, fucking his mouth like it was made for that purpose. And Schuldig would swallow around the invader in his throat, milking him, forcing him to come. And with a roar he’d pump his load down his throat, the heavy spasms causing his hips to buck hard and twitch uncontrollably.
Brad tossed his head to the side, eyes screwed shut, unwilling to witness his own defeat. He came surprisingly hard, splattering his chest repeatedly, a breathless cry wrenching its way free. He just barely managed to reign it in in volume. His body went momentarily rigid then collapsed into a warm puddle against his cool, crisp sheets.
Schuldig would lick his cock clean, lapping at it like a cat, never missing a spot. Those blue eyes would mirror the shit eating grin on his face - that one he had as he fucked himself into oblivion. The redhead would crawl up his body, nuzzling at his stomach, nipping at his skin, settling his weight on top of him, entirely pleased with himself. And he would wrap his hands in that bright orange hair and pull him close, kissing him hard, tasting himself in his mouth. And it felt right.
Brad sighed heavily as he rubbed his face with his clean hand. This was happening. He did want the damn annoying, smug, self centered, egotistical, infuriating bastard. What a fucking mess. He resigned himself to the fact of the matter. Denial had never really been his thing anyway.
How on earth was he going to see this through... without giving Schuldig the satisfaction? Because if this was going to happen, it was going to be on his terms, his way. It would be all his plan or it wouldn’t happen at all. Schuldig was already going to start with the taunts, most likely over breakfast in the morning.
That was what Brad had over the German. If nothing else, at least his penchant for gloating was entirely predictable. And the only reason Schuldig did it was for the reaction. If Brad didn’t give him the reaction he was looking for, he’d try even harder, that whine working its way into his voice like a spoiled five year old, until he got what he wanted. But maybe the answer to Brad’s problem lie not in circumventing Schuldig’s verbal assault but rather, heading it off at the pass. If he could keep the telepath guessing, he might just be able to retain control of the situation. And guide in the direction of his choice. Not Schuldig’s.
A small smiled crept onto the precog’s face. Nothing was more reassuring than a plan.
__________________________________________
Crawford woke at his usual early hour despite an unsettled night’s sleep. Schuldig had insisted on keeping the porn on and the tv loud long into the night. Crawford foresaw Nagi’s course of action and only smirked as he heard the distinct brittle sound of glass imploding in on itself, Schuldig’s tv crushed like a soda can. The memory of it still had Crawford smirking as he groomed himself for the day ahead.
The coffeemaker was gurgling it’s last as he walked into the kitchen, paper in hand, same as any other morning. He poured his coffee and took his usual seat only this morning he wasn’t focused on the world news. A mischievous glint flashed behind his glasses a few seconds before the sound of an opening door. He returned his attention the paper in front of him, sipping silently at his coffee.
The groggy, disheveled mess that was Schuldig in the morning made his appearance at the kitchen doorway. With a massive yawn, and a hand shoved down the back of his boxer briefs, lazily scratching at a non existent itch, he shuffled into the kitchen. He crossed half way to the counter on auto pilot, lured solely by the aroma of fresh brewed coffee before he stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he looked up to focus on Crawford or, more precisely, to focus on the spot on the newspaper that Crawford was hiding behind. The corners of his lips curled into a vicious grin.
Brad was sorely mistaken if he thought he could just pretend that the events of last night could be ignored and thus forgotten. Oh hell no… there was a lifetime worth of amusement just begging to begin within this seemingly innocent silence.
“Good morning…” Schuldig paused in the middle of the room, trying desperately to keep the grin out of his voice but failing. “… Brad.” The slow sharp enunciation of each letter of his name was nothing but sheer antagonism. It was rare that Schuldig tempted fate quite so badly by addressing Crawford by his first name. It almost always ended badly - for Schuldig. Usually with spectacular bruises to show for his trouble. But this - this he was not physically capable of restraining.
The paper remained motionless, only the sound in response was Crawford’s coffee mug being returned to it’s spot on the table.
“Sleep well, mein commandant? I know I slept like a baby…” The redhead taunted further as he reached far over his head to stretch, being diligent about letting the small grunt of relief take on that edge of erotic satisfaction. But, again, the paper didn’t move. Schuldig’s smirk quirked down into a lopsided frown for the lack of response. Crawford was patient but he wasn’t entirely impermeable as he would like everyone to believe. Schuldig just needed to stroke the right nerve…
“That is because you are an inconsiderate ass.” The words were pure ice as Nagi rounded the corner, shoving past Schuldig as he headed straight for the coffee. A mug obediently floating down from the top shelf as Nagi rubbed the back of his hand over tired eyes. “Not that I expect you to care.”
Schuldig had definitely struck a nerve, but in the wrong teammate. Nagi only reserved that sort of venom for actual real emotion. Schuldig just shrugged in the teens general direction. “Upset I didn’t invite you to share?“
The taunt earned the redhead a glare worthy of Crawford. Nagi couldn’t fathom how Schuldig slept at all with his tv blaring half the night. It wasn’t until some squeaky voiced woman starting screaming ‘daddy’ between grunts and slaps that Nagi finally lost it. And Schuldig could go fuck himself if he thought Nagi was buying him a new tv. Oh, wait… that was exactly what the redheaded letch was doing in the first place.
“I would rather drink battery acid…”
“Oh please, they do have ones with girls, you know… in frilly dresses… and pigtails… I’m not sure they’re blue though…” Again the vicious smirk resumed its proper place.
Crawford slowly dropped his paper, face blank but eyes locked on Schuldig in warning. Schuldig paused midsentence, momentarily frozen by the warning stare, eyes slowly coursing back to Nagi - the moment of silence dragging on until…
“DON’T!” Nagi’s bellow was accompanied by the rattling of every dish, every cup and every piece of furniture in the suite.
Nagi had barely reined in the warning tremor, his fists balled tight at his side. Brad placed a single hand over his coffee mug as the coffee mug hovering just near Nagi’s head flew against the far wall and shattered into a thousand tiny shards.
With a small tilt of his head, but no lessening of the wide smirk on his face, Schuldig let the remainder of his taunt die on his lips. Nagi wasn’t the one he was set on annoying today - besides, he was too easy.
Nagi stormed out of the kitchen, and a moment later his door slammed hard at the other end of the suite.
“You’ve upset a hormonal fifteen year old… congratulations.”
“You did say we needed to desensitize him.”
“The iron fist works much better when it’s wrapped in a velvet glove.”
“Oooo, Brad. Keep talking like that and you’ll get me all worked up.” Schuldig slinked his way to the table hands gripping - caressing - at the back of a chair. “Again.” Schuldig locked a sultry stare on his impermeable team leader, biting lightly at his lower lip as he let his eyes wander down his chest.
“Save it for the club rats.” Brad flicked his newspaper back into position, simply glad Schuldig wasn’t an empath as well. The insidious stir of arousal at that heated stare would have been obvious otherwise.
“Now you know…” Schuldig turned away, heading to make himself a cup of coffee. “… I only save it for you, Herr Crawford. You just let me know when you’re ready to share again…” Smug. Superior. Most definitely gloating. A satisfied grin creased his face as he reached into the cabinet for a coffee mug.
But the redhead froze as he was suddenly pinned against the counter.
Schuldig hadn’t even heard Brad leave his seat but there he was. Merino wool and Egyptian cotton invading his space, caressing his skin, just as the solid wall of Brad’s chest molded to his back, thin hips rolling to a slow halt just short of grinding him into the counter. Solid and warm, a hint of expensive musk invading the air around him. His mind was suddenly racing, trying to riddle out what exactly might be coming in the next few seconds. Instinctively Schuldig reached out with a thought, seeking some evidence that would give him a sign. But there was none to be had - all evidence was locked tight behind Brad’s mental shields that the redhead had yet to breach. Without a hint, Schuldig braced for the impact he was sure would follow.
Schuldig could have kicked himself as he flinched. Not at a fist, or a slap but soft, careful fingers that traced his ribs, following the arc of his arm where it hovered, mid-reach, into the cabinet. Brad leaned into him just a bit more and the redhead tensed beneath him as his mind reeled. He knew Brad was playing at something but he still wasn’t exactly sure what. And in quarters this close it could be extremely painful to guess wrong.
A single warm exhale across his ear had Schuldig release the breath that he hadn’t even realized he had been holding in a quivering rush.
‘Let me help you with that.” Brad whispered, his voice so soft and so low that Schuldig had to strain to hear each word. And with them, Brad reached up and over his hand to retrieve a coffee mug from the top shelf, his hips nestling even tighter against Schuldig ass in a slow imitation of…
Holy fuck… Brad was coming on to him.
There should have been a smart ass taunt or viciously sarcastic goad in response but all that fell from Schuldig’s lips was a meek little exhale of a groan.
And just as fast as Brad had appeared, he deposited the mug on the counter and was gone again, this time, to the kitchen doorway.
“Meeting in half an hour.” Brad called over his shoulder and was gone, heading for his office without a single glance back.
Schuldig’s arm finally fell to his side. He stood there gripping the counter, staring into the sink for a good few minutes. His mind was racing through all the possibilities of what exactly Brad was up to but stronger than his need to know was his crumbling disbelief. No one could have taunted Brad harder, longer or more consistently than Schuldig. There was a years long expectation of flat out denial no matter what the scenario.
He suddenly closed his eyes. He could still feel the heat of Brad against him, the weight of him, the scent of his cologne still faintly clinging to the air around him. Schuldig had resigned himself to never seeing any of his fantasies through but here one was in flesh and blood and expensive designer slacks. And there was no way in hell that it was sincere. And there was also no way to confirm or deny any of his suspicions or assumptions. Brad’s mind was a hard, cold, blank slate just as his expression usually was. He had precious few tells in his body language to be read.
Schuldig suddenly let out his breath with a heavy exhale, shook his head and pounded his fists on the counter a single time rattling his coffee mug. Brad was not allowed to have the satisfaction of wrapping him up in knots in under sixty seconds. He poured himself a cup of coffee and resolved to ignore whatever this was. Brad wanted to have an effect and even if Schuldig was unsure which effect his team leader was going for the wisest course of action was - none.
He crossed to the table, snatching up Crawford’s paper, flipping through the sections until he found the Entertainment section. He sipped at his coffee and stared blankly at the same article for five minutes. He tossed the paper aside and put his mug down with a thud.
Damn him.
His eyes traveled down to catch site of the mug he’d been drinking from. They had a fairly large standing collection of rude coffee mugs thanks to Schuldig’s penchant for … well… anything that caught his fancy. But the coffee mugs had stuck. He picked them up everywhere. The one Brad had handed to him…
‘Chaos. Panic. Disorder. My job here is done.’
A snarl fixed on Schuldig’s face as he pushed away from the table with a disgusted grunt.
Fuck him.
Title: The Games Boys Play
Characters: Brad/Schu, Nagi
Rating: NC17
Warnings: PWP - explicit content - with a bit of plot tossed in
Summary: The balance of power between Brad and Schuldig finally meets its breaking point. The race to determine who comes out on top is about to begin.
Author's Notes: 3 chapters - unfinished - hopefully, by posting it here, I can find new inspiration to finish this off once and for all. It was intended to be a PWP but I just couldn't leave well enough alone.
Schuldig stormed down the hall and into his room, slamming his door hard enough to cause the door frame to creak in protest. It was rare he ever let himself get this angry... or let anyone get under his skin enough to make him this angry. Only one individual held that honor.
//Brad. Brad fucking Crawford.//
He paced circles around his room still rubbing at the bright red welts across his cheek. The perfect imprints of Brad’s long fingers still hot and stinging and fueling the full scale temper tantrum about to erupt.
He tried to sit on his bed but the adrenaline was still pumping fast and furious through his veins. He jumped back up to resume his pacing, the cursing switching to default German words... he was too angry to even format his tirade in Japanese anymore. He fumbled with the oversized buttons on his coat, adding a few choice curses at them as well, as he finally wrestled the damn thing open and stripped it from his arms. How dare it decide to mock him too. He balled the coat up and threw it at his door.
‘Fuck you, too!’ Schuldig yelled, intending the comment to be for his turncoat coat. But the act of throwing something in anger just compounded the problem. He wrestled with his shoes, hopping around and almost stumbling repeatedly as his rage ate away at his usual grace. Finally slipping one off, he smashed it against the door.
“FUCK. YOU.” He bellowed loudly and distinctly while wrestling the other shoe from his foot. It followed the other, this time hitting true and leaving a wide dent where the heel smashed against the thin wood.
“FUCKING ASSHOLE!” He screamed loudly through cupped hands.
A few more paced circles and the rest of his clothes followed the footwear until he was standing in his boxer briefs, panting and no less relieved.
Brad had slapped him.
No, Brad bitch slapped him. In front of Nagi and Farfarello. And he planned it, timed it perfectly, in order for it to have the most humiliating effect possible. They had their meeting and were about to leave, his mind already headed to a club for the evening, then out of the blue...
“Oh... and Schuldig...* SLAP* When I tell you to leave the Weiss alone, I expect you to listen.”
Sure, he almost cost them two months of surveillance and planning... but that wasn’t the point.
//He BITCH slapped me...// Schuldig let out a growl which quickly grew into a full scale roar of pure frustration. // And he ruined my night out...//
“BIG FUCKING PRICK!”
It would never have happened if only he could hear what the damn American was thinking. Just once. Was that too much to ask? Just one tiny little peek to see what lie seething behind those hard, cold eyes of his.
Schuldig had convinced himself that would be all it took to figure him out completely, to be able to anticipate him, to know how he would react or if he even reacted to anything at all. Other than that creepy evil smirk when Brad was particularly amused, he wasn’t sure if or what the man felt for anything or anyone. Schuldig couldn’t even anticipate a bitch slap. After six years, it was getting annoying.
All the more reason to push Brad’s buttons. Or at least attempt to find his buttons. Another growl accompanied the thought... there was no way he was going to let Brad get to him like this. After pacing a few more agitated circles, an idea popped into his head. It wasn’t his most brilliant plan but at the moment, anything that had the potential to agitate Brad was brilliant enough. He turned towards his TV and started digging through his collection of DVD’s, flinging cases aside until he found what he was looking for. Porn. Really bad, loud, cheesy 1970's American porn. Porn where all the boobs were real and nobody shaved. The soundtrack alone should be enough to piss the hard ass off. He popped the disk into the player and cranked up the volume.
He backed into his bed and flopped down heavily with a dramatic sigh, arms flung wide, feet still perched on the floor. It was obvious from the first note of funkified music exactly what he had put into the machine. And not too long after, the loud slurping and groaning noises absolutely confirmed it. Schuldig vaguely heard what sounded like Nagi screaming - something - then the slam of a door. A smirk worked it’s way onto his face. Good. That alone should piss Brad off. A long few minutes passed and... nothing. He pushed to his elbows, intently listening through the forced moaning. Nothing. He growled as he sat up, staring blankly at the tv screen and some large, hairy-assed man pounding an obvious brunette beneath him. And with a quick scan he found that Nagi had quite the colorful vocabulary even if he never used it out loud. His eyes narrowed as he dropped back down in defeat, snagging a pillow from over his head and pulling it over his face.
So Brad slapped him. So what? Brad had beaten the living crap out of him on plenty of occasions. So why did this bother him so much?
It was the look on his face. That rare but unmistakable twinkle of sheer amusement in his eyes... and just as his hand connected ... a smile. An actual smile. //Fucking sadistic bastard.// He never smiled like that when he punished Farfarello but then again beating Farf was pointless so it never really came down to that. On the rare occasions when Nagi screwed up, Brad would slap the shit out of him but he always looked like he hated to do it. But, of course, neither of them intentionally pushed his buttons the way he did. It was the only way to make sure he was always on Brad’s radar... that never a day passed without Schuldig being the first and the last thought on his fearless leader’s mind, every morning and every night. Even if it was only to annoy him.
But that smile... he actually... smiled. That thought curled the corners of his lips like a Cheshire cat. //Brad smiled because he got to put his hands on me...// He played the scene over in his head a few more times... why did Brad just have to drip with testosterone? Standing over him, smiling before slapping him...
//dammit...// Schuldig peeked out from under the pillow to confirm what he felt. Yep. He was getting hard. His boxer briefs straining to keep from being popped up like a tent. He growled into the pillow. Angry boners were the worst. It was difficult to stay mad when your dick was throbbing and it was near impossible to cum if you stayed angry. But angry sex was a whole other matter but there sure wasn’t any of that happening in the immediate future.
“Traitor!” he yelled at his penis. It just twitched hard in response.
// And when did I become a masochist?//
It was definitely the idea of Brad slapping him... as foreplay... that got him so worked up. At least in his head, it wasn’t such a bad thing. He was always of two minds about everything - at least two but usually more - but when they met head to head, the lower one usually won out. Spoiled thing. His eyes lulled closed as he reluctantly surrendered his anger to his overactive imagination.
Mmmmmm... Brad would slap him, then haul him to his feet by his collar, that evil smirk growing to a full feral grin as he bites his lower lip, drawing blood before roughly shoving his tongue in his mouth and half way down his throat.
Schuldig immediately started palming his cock along with his mental porn show. The moaning/slurping/grunting soundtrack blaring in the background was not-so-subliminally adding to the atmosphere.
Brad would roughly strip him out of his clothes, posing him, then circle him like a panther, eyeing him up and down like a piece of meat.
Schuldig’s hands slid into his boxer briefs and wiggled them down his hips to his knees. His cock bounced free with a low, exasperated moan. His left hand slid along his chest, stopping to tease at a nipple as the right curled around his balls, gently kneading them. Brad would never be this gentle.
Brad would slowly strip out of his suit... layer by layer, piece by piece. And he would stand there, watching, naked and hard, blatantly staring and panting, the metallic taste of his own blood pooling in his mouth and escaping down his chin. Angry and hard and bleeding...
Schuldig shimmied his way fully onto the bed and out of his underwear, splaying himself out granting better access for his wandering hands. Blood never really seemed to be Brad’s thing but it sure seemed right now. He licked at his lips like he could actually taste the blood. His hand slid over his abs to brush over the base of his cock as the other slid past his balls and perineum to circle his hole with the barest of pressure.
Brad would strip down to his boxers... they’re black and covered with little yellow smiley faces with bloody gunshot holes between their eyes.
A smirk crossed his lips...// Have a nice day...// he purred to himself.
Then Brad would be up against him, his shoulders and chest so much wider and harder than those damn suits of his ever let on. Brad would wrap those long, strong fingers in his hair and roughly yank his head back as he dove for his throat, nipping at his adams apple before lapping at the blood across his neck to bite hard at his jugular. Brad’s cheek would scrape along his jaw, rough and scratchy, his perfect white teeth always sharp against his skin.
Schuldig shivered as he threw his head back with the phantom bite, his hand finally wrapping around his cock, slowly stroking himself in time with his shallow breaths.
Brad’s hips would grind hard against his, the steel rod in his boxers pushing past his own aching hard on to dig into his abs. Brad always had a massive cock.... the kind porn stars wished for, the kind that would see a man pass out from blood loss before he was fully hard.
Schuldig licked his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out then retreating with a scrape along his teeth, teasing only himself.
Brad would chase after his tongue, kissing him hard. Once capturing it, Brad would suck his tongue out of his mouth to nip at the tip before swallowing it with a heavy grunt. The hand in his hair would be guiding his head, Brad’s other hand would be wandering down his back to grab at his ass, digging his fingers into the muscle with a hard squeeze.
Schuldig’s hand wrapped solidly around his cock, stroking harder, rounding over the head. His hips tensed as he started pumping into his own hand.
Brad’s lips would abandon him and the hand in his hair would force him down to his knees. His tongue would traced the sharply defined muscles of Brad’s chest and abs, teasing at his navel, toying with the soft black trail of hair that disappeared into his boxers. He would yank Brad’s boxers down almost being slapped in the face with his impressive erection. He would curl his tongue over the wide purple head then lap up and down it’s pulsing length like a lollipop before settling his lips around it with hard suction. The sting in his wounded lip could not deter him.
Schuldig’s free fingers found their way into his mouth. His tongue mimicked his imaginary motions though it was never fooled by the insubstantial substitute. He never even realized he was moaning around his own fingers... such a blessing and a curse his vivid imagination could be.
The door to his room cantered silently open. Crawford stood in the doorway, crossed his arms and planted his shoulder against the frame. It was obvious that Schuldig was so lost in himself he’d never even notice him standing there. The smirk worked its way back onto his face as he settled in to watch his favorite spectator sport only this time, it wouldn’t be just a random vision or chance encounter. Schuldig fell for the bait, hook, line and sinker and now was being considerate enough to reel himself in as well. The smirk grew to a wiry little grin.
Brad would stare at him hard and he would blatantly stare back as he opened his mouth wide to guide as much of Brad’s cock down his throat as he could manage. Brad would growl at the sight, his eyes growing glassy as he fisted his hands in his hair. He would wrap his arms around Brad’s hips, his fingers grasping at his solid ass, encouraging him to fuck his mouth. And Brad would oblige with a low groan, pumping his hips, and slamming his cock deep down his throat.
Schuldig’s hips pumped harder, his ass bouncing off the bed as he fucked his own fist. His fingers were well past his tonsils as he swallowed hard around them. He was writhing and moaning and lost in the fantasy but not enough to deny his need to cum.
Crawford quickly found out that the live show was much better than the pay-per-view in his head. He was having a difficult time keeping his breathing under control, lest he give himself away to the writhing, redheaded, incubus just a few feet away. He knew he would enjoy this - he’d already seen that much - but he never thought his reaction would be so immediate, so complete. His dick was already straining in his pants, each moan issuing from deep in Schuldig’s chest pulling at his erection like a siren’s call. He silently swallowed and forced his libido down as best he could. He wasn’t going to miss one second of this if he could help it.
Brad would yank his head back before he finished him off, and haul him to his feet by his hair. He would bend him over his desk, slamming his head down, pinning him by the neck. That huge purple head, slick and dripping with a coating of blood tinged saliva would push between his ass cheeks. Brad would rub it back and forth over his hole like a threat... no, Brad never threatened, he only promised. And his thighs quivered - he couldn’t wait for Brad to deliver.
Schuldig popped his fingers out of his mouth, saliva running freely down his hand. He half twisted his hips and reached behind himself, his hips never ceasing their rhythm in his own tight grip. He ran his fingers along the crack of his ass, slicking his entranceway, quick and impatient.
Brad’s grip on his neck would tighten as he shoved his way inside, that thick purple head stretching him wide. The stinging heat of the reluctant muscle would pull a hiss of pain from between his clenched teeth but it wouldn’t last long. Brad would rock into him, and in three strokes would be flat against his ass, his balls slapping against his own.
With a quick stab, Schuldig impaled himself on two fingers, his head craning back with a hiss that terminated in a deep groan of pure ecstacy. His hips began bucking as he fucked himself like a man possessed.
Crawford hadn’t let himself anticipate too much from this little exercise. And it was a good thing too because nothing in his imagination could have conjured the look of pure, ecstatic, wanton, abandon on Schuldig’s face. It was nothing short of a religious experience. Schuldig, god of fuck, worshiping himself as he desecrated his own temple. It was taking all of his control to keep his arms folded tight and out of his pants. His cock was harder than he could ever remember.
Brad would slam into him hard, grunting and mumbling random obscenities. The hand on his neck would relinquish it’s hold, instead fisting in his hair like a handle and pulling back hard with each brutal slap against his ass. His own cock would be trapped beneath him, the unforgiving wood of the desktop all he had to provide him friction. Brad’s hand would be digging into his hip, he could already feel the bruising. And he would be screaming, screaming his name over and over.
Schuldig abandoned himself to the fantasy, Brad’s name tumbling breathlessly out of his mouth like a mantra as he neared blissful release.
Crawford had never been so close to losing control, his balls tightening in his boxers threatening to
defy his iron will. If he was at all unsure what fed Schuldig’s fantasies, there was no question now. And that had him breathing hard, and starting to sweat and cursing his own damn curiosity. This was not going as planned but he’d be damned if he could possibly pull himself away.
Brad would call him all sorts of sordid names - cheap whore, fucking slut, worthless piece of mind fuck gutter trash - and the one that brought him to the brink - my fucking bitch. And with that he would be bought, paid for and delivered, coming hard splattering his belly and Brad’s desktop as he screamed ‘yes’ in agreement. And his muscles would clamp hard on Brad’s cock and he’d come undone, his hips twitching and bucking as he spent himself deep inside.
Schuldig’s lapis eyes lulled open, locking stares with Crawford as he stood perched in the doorway. Schuldig hissed ‘yes’, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head as he came with a strangled groan of perfect, ecstatic anguish. Pearly strands shot through his fist, striping his cheek and lip before coating his chest and the bed. He collapsed back into his bed, the massive wave of endorphins fogging his brain, obscuring everything in its path. His eyes lulled open, locking with Crawford’s again. He let his tongue roll lazily along his lips, licking at the splattering of semen that coated one corner. The Cheshire cat grin returned.
Crawford’s blood iced over in his veins even as his cock threatened to stage a coup. Schuldig was indeed the god of fuck and, with one scorchingly hot orgasm, just named him the Pope. The infuriatingly smug bastard now knew. But no matter how hard his cock was, no matter how jaw-droppingly erotic the sight of Schuldig licking his own cum from his lips was, he could never give him the satisfaction of an admission. He was already a pain in the ass... now he’d be nearly impossible to live with.
Schuldig let his eyes wander down Brad’s heaving chest - good, he was trying to hide his panting - down to his perfectly pressed pants, now tented in most dramatic fashion. He was hung like a porn star. He tried to lock stares with his fearless leader once again but he had tilted his head, his time- perfected technique of using the glare from his glasses as a shield. No matter. Six years of cat and mouse just ended with the springing of two well timed traps. But how to decide the victor?
“You were awesome.” Schuldig purred as he stretched his arms over his head, arching his spine off the bed, displaying himself for Brad’s viewing pleasure.
“You’re loud.” Crawford couldn’t give an inch and he knew it.
“You loved it.” Schuldig trailed his fingers through the sticky trails on his belly.
“You’re dreaming.” Crawford had to escape. No, not an escape... Brad Crawford never runs away. But thanks to his mutinous hard on he would need to make a tactical retreat to regroup. He reached for the door and pulled it closed with never a twitch on his face betraying him unlike the traitor in his pants.
Crawford could hear Schuldig’s nasally whine of a laugh even over the bad porn. And it was the sound of certain doom.
___________________________________________________
Brad Crawford runs from nothing.
Brad retreated to his office. First order of business, belting back a scotch. And then another. He tried to distract his brain by revisiting his day’s working beside Takatori, the thought of the man usually had instant mollifying effects, but the steel rod in his pants just throbbed harder in defiance.
He made for his bedroom, the muffled blare of Schuldig’s TV still doing little to mask his laughter. He shut his door with a heavy sigh, banging his forehead against it in frustration. He couldn’t give in... masturbating was just as good as a confession. He was the one in control - not his libido, not the visions, and certainly not Schuldig. His persistent erection gave a heavy twitch from it’s increasingly uncomfortable confinement. //Damn.//
After six years, something had to give. There had always been this unspoken competition between them. Schuldig pushes, he pushes back. It was a ritualized game that they played with one another to help achieve and maintain what had turned out to be the perfect balance between them. They worked well together... so well in fact that they made the elders nervous. So what had possessed him to suddenly push this game into new territory? Territory he wasn’t even aware that he was willing to travel into.
Brad sat on the end of his bed, hands on his knees, eyes closed in concentration. Meditation might work... focusing inward, denying the physical. He sought out his mental retreat and upon arrival to this most personal of spaces all he could see was a nude Schuldig spread out on the grass, beckoning him with one hand while he stroked his cock with the other. He smiled that viciously seductive smile and whispered in that voice that was pure sex... “Make me your bitch, Brad. Fuck me hard, make me come for you.”
Brad’s eyes shot open, shocked to find his own hand rubbing over his cock. He jumped to his feet quickly assessing the condition of his carefully built and maintained mental shields. That thought had to have come from Schuldig... it just had to. The bastard must have somehow found a way to finally break through and fuck with his head. It was the only plausible answer. The other possibility wasn’t an option. But he found his shields as solid as ever.
This wasn’t happening.
Brad Crawford was straight. Even Schuldig knew that. They had gone out together on rare occasions and had parted ways when they each claimed a toy for the evening. Brad always took home the girl. Schuldig took home anything that caught his fancy. And that was just the way it had always been. Until the vision. The vision that led him to slapping Schuldig in challenge and led him to Schuldig’s doorway to bask in its effects. At what point did respect and competition between teammates turn into... this.
The vision stunned him when it appeared, initially repulsing him into blatant self denial. But the pictures haunted him, seeping into his thoughts unbidden at the most inopportune times. And then the dreams, so vivid and lucid he swore they were visions intruding on his unconscious mind. His visions of Schuldig had grow quite clear and detailed over the years, most likely because of the continually proximity to one another. But this was the first that included him with Schuldig in a... sexual... situation. The harder he tried to rid himself of the vision the more persistent it became...just like Schuldig would most likely have done himself.
Crawford considered himself an open minded assassin. He really could care less what people did with their lives so long as it didn’t interfere with his carefully laid plans. But this... this was interfering and it was his own brain causing the disruption. Such an obvious loss of self control. He had no sexual interest in men, he was certain. No interest other than Schuldig, that is.
Sure it was his curiosity that baited Schuldig in the first place. Somehow, he thought that baiting him then letting him know he’d been played would have a much different effect. It was supposed to be a lesson in dominance. His dominance. Schuldig wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. He wasn’t supposed to antagonize him with it. He wasn’t supposed to look edible while laying there taunting him. The damn telepath had turned it around on him way too easily. That would not do. It was time to turn this train wreck around and put it back on the right track.
But damn if he could think straight with his dick trying to make a desperate break for freedom. And he was already beyond the point of no return... if he didn’t take care of his incessantly nagging erection now he’d be in miserable throbbing pain tomorrow. Should he give Schuldig the implication of satisfaction now or the obvious satisfaction tomorrow when he’d be obviously uncomfortable. Of course, there was always a third option... he eyed his gun on his night stand. It wouldn’t be the first time he was tempted to put a bullet between those bright blue eyes.
Slowly, he got undressed, each motion feeling like a step on a death march on his way the gallows. He gave a tiny groan as he slid out of his pants, his erection reacting to the freedom with a wave of throbbing pressure that coiled low in his balls. At least, this wouldn’t take long.
He peeled back his black suede comforter before sliding on top of he sheets. He certainly wasn’t going to defile the one true comfort item he owned. He propped himself comfortably against the headboard, pillows positioned for maximum comfort. He tucked his left arm behind his head, intent on making this a quick and clinical release. He grabbed his balls with the right, rubbing at his tight sac lightly and he grunted at the sensation. No reason to tease, they were ready to go anyway. He ringed his fingers around the base of his angry cock, loosely sliding up its length. His breath hissed as he subdued the urge to moan out loud... he was determined to enjoy this as little as possible.
He keep his fist loose as he slowly stroked the traitor on, the coiled sensation deep in his balls building, spiraling slowly upward. Schuldig had been almost vicious with his own cock, his fist tight as he pumped into his own hand. Brad squeezed his eyes tight as his cock twitched hard with the thought.
//Cold and clinical// He chastised himself. //Just stroke... no thinking. Just get the job done.//
Long, languid strokes, not too much pressure... an almost casual touch. The soft glide of his fingers was plenty of encouragement. His breathing grew shallow, each breath a short pant. Suppressing the groan that was building in his chest was starting to take effort.
Schuldig writhed freely on his bed, emitting all sorts of wildly erotic sounds, completely uninhibited. How would he enjoy such a light touch? Brad sliding up behind him, nestling his cock along the crack of his ass, fingers teasing at his chest then sliding around his cock, stroking him slowly, with barely any pressure at all. Would the sounds the German made make him just as hard?
The groan broke free, escaping his throat, the sound his body’s plea for surrender. He swallowed heavily, forcing his body’s reaction down yet again. Brad Crawford never surrenders.
The solid flesh in his hand was hot and smooth against his fingers. The head of his cock was an angry purple, swollen and steadily leaking precum. He rounded his palm over it lightly. It caused a shiver that terminated in a breathy exhale. He was close. It wouldn’t take much more. He watched the head disappear into his loose fist over and over, the trail of precum glistening over its width, each pass over the ridge pulling a sharp breath in response.
How he would love to guide that glistening purple tip to Schuldigs lips, over that smart tongue of his and down his throat. If anyone could deep throat him, it would have to be Schuldig. Those blue eyes laughing at him as he sank his length down his throat, that shock of orange hair tickling at his tightened ball sac and across his thighs.
His hips took their cue, joining his fist, the throaty moan reasserting itself with a vengeance.
And he’d wrap his hand in his hair and slowly fuck his mouth, that wicked tongue doing all sorts of things he’d never felt before. Schuldig would take him down to the root then pull away to wiggle his tongue into his slit before sinking back down and burying his nose in his pubic hair.
The hand behind his head shot out to fist in the sheets as if it could keep him from falling. There was no preventing it now. His body had staged a full scale coup, his impending orgasm clouding his head, thick and heavy with promise. Brad was stubborn, not stupid... he could negotiate especially when the outcome was assured.
His hand tightened on his cock, his hips pumping heavily in rhythm with the motion.
He’d growl as Schuldig devoured him, fisting both hands on either side of his head. He’d hold the redhead stationary as he pumped his hips hard, fucking his mouth like it was made for that purpose. And Schuldig would swallow around the invader in his throat, milking him, forcing him to come. And with a roar he’d pump his load down his throat, the heavy spasms causing his hips to buck hard and twitch uncontrollably.
Brad tossed his head to the side, eyes screwed shut, unwilling to witness his own defeat. He came surprisingly hard, splattering his chest repeatedly, a breathless cry wrenching its way free. He just barely managed to reign it in in volume. His body went momentarily rigid then collapsed into a warm puddle against his cool, crisp sheets.
Schuldig would lick his cock clean, lapping at it like a cat, never missing a spot. Those blue eyes would mirror the shit eating grin on his face - that one he had as he fucked himself into oblivion. The redhead would crawl up his body, nuzzling at his stomach, nipping at his skin, settling his weight on top of him, entirely pleased with himself. And he would wrap his hands in that bright orange hair and pull him close, kissing him hard, tasting himself in his mouth. And it felt right.
Brad sighed heavily as he rubbed his face with his clean hand. This was happening. He did want the damn annoying, smug, self centered, egotistical, infuriating bastard. What a fucking mess. He resigned himself to the fact of the matter. Denial had never really been his thing anyway.
How on earth was he going to see this through... without giving Schuldig the satisfaction? Because if this was going to happen, it was going to be on his terms, his way. It would be all his plan or it wouldn’t happen at all. Schuldig was already going to start with the taunts, most likely over breakfast in the morning.
That was what Brad had over the German. If nothing else, at least his penchant for gloating was entirely predictable. And the only reason Schuldig did it was for the reaction. If Brad didn’t give him the reaction he was looking for, he’d try even harder, that whine working its way into his voice like a spoiled five year old, until he got what he wanted. But maybe the answer to Brad’s problem lie not in circumventing Schuldig’s verbal assault but rather, heading it off at the pass. If he could keep the telepath guessing, he might just be able to retain control of the situation. And guide in the direction of his choice. Not Schuldig’s.
A small smiled crept onto the precog’s face. Nothing was more reassuring than a plan.
__________________________________________
Crawford woke at his usual early hour despite an unsettled night’s sleep. Schuldig had insisted on keeping the porn on and the tv loud long into the night. Crawford foresaw Nagi’s course of action and only smirked as he heard the distinct brittle sound of glass imploding in on itself, Schuldig’s tv crushed like a soda can. The memory of it still had Crawford smirking as he groomed himself for the day ahead.
The coffeemaker was gurgling it’s last as he walked into the kitchen, paper in hand, same as any other morning. He poured his coffee and took his usual seat only this morning he wasn’t focused on the world news. A mischievous glint flashed behind his glasses a few seconds before the sound of an opening door. He returned his attention the paper in front of him, sipping silently at his coffee.
The groggy, disheveled mess that was Schuldig in the morning made his appearance at the kitchen doorway. With a massive yawn, and a hand shoved down the back of his boxer briefs, lazily scratching at a non existent itch, he shuffled into the kitchen. He crossed half way to the counter on auto pilot, lured solely by the aroma of fresh brewed coffee before he stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he looked up to focus on Crawford or, more precisely, to focus on the spot on the newspaper that Crawford was hiding behind. The corners of his lips curled into a vicious grin.
Brad was sorely mistaken if he thought he could just pretend that the events of last night could be ignored and thus forgotten. Oh hell no… there was a lifetime worth of amusement just begging to begin within this seemingly innocent silence.
“Good morning…” Schuldig paused in the middle of the room, trying desperately to keep the grin out of his voice but failing. “… Brad.” The slow sharp enunciation of each letter of his name was nothing but sheer antagonism. It was rare that Schuldig tempted fate quite so badly by addressing Crawford by his first name. It almost always ended badly - for Schuldig. Usually with spectacular bruises to show for his trouble. But this - this he was not physically capable of restraining.
The paper remained motionless, only the sound in response was Crawford’s coffee mug being returned to it’s spot on the table.
“Sleep well, mein commandant? I know I slept like a baby…” The redhead taunted further as he reached far over his head to stretch, being diligent about letting the small grunt of relief take on that edge of erotic satisfaction. But, again, the paper didn’t move. Schuldig’s smirk quirked down into a lopsided frown for the lack of response. Crawford was patient but he wasn’t entirely impermeable as he would like everyone to believe. Schuldig just needed to stroke the right nerve…
“That is because you are an inconsiderate ass.” The words were pure ice as Nagi rounded the corner, shoving past Schuldig as he headed straight for the coffee. A mug obediently floating down from the top shelf as Nagi rubbed the back of his hand over tired eyes. “Not that I expect you to care.”
Schuldig had definitely struck a nerve, but in the wrong teammate. Nagi only reserved that sort of venom for actual real emotion. Schuldig just shrugged in the teens general direction. “Upset I didn’t invite you to share?“
The taunt earned the redhead a glare worthy of Crawford. Nagi couldn’t fathom how Schuldig slept at all with his tv blaring half the night. It wasn’t until some squeaky voiced woman starting screaming ‘daddy’ between grunts and slaps that Nagi finally lost it. And Schuldig could go fuck himself if he thought Nagi was buying him a new tv. Oh, wait… that was exactly what the redheaded letch was doing in the first place.
“I would rather drink battery acid…”
“Oh please, they do have ones with girls, you know… in frilly dresses… and pigtails… I’m not sure they’re blue though…” Again the vicious smirk resumed its proper place.
Crawford slowly dropped his paper, face blank but eyes locked on Schuldig in warning. Schuldig paused midsentence, momentarily frozen by the warning stare, eyes slowly coursing back to Nagi - the moment of silence dragging on until…
“DON’T!” Nagi’s bellow was accompanied by the rattling of every dish, every cup and every piece of furniture in the suite.
Nagi had barely reined in the warning tremor, his fists balled tight at his side. Brad placed a single hand over his coffee mug as the coffee mug hovering just near Nagi’s head flew against the far wall and shattered into a thousand tiny shards.
With a small tilt of his head, but no lessening of the wide smirk on his face, Schuldig let the remainder of his taunt die on his lips. Nagi wasn’t the one he was set on annoying today - besides, he was too easy.
Nagi stormed out of the kitchen, and a moment later his door slammed hard at the other end of the suite.
“You’ve upset a hormonal fifteen year old… congratulations.”
“You did say we needed to desensitize him.”
“The iron fist works much better when it’s wrapped in a velvet glove.”
“Oooo, Brad. Keep talking like that and you’ll get me all worked up.” Schuldig slinked his way to the table hands gripping - caressing - at the back of a chair. “Again.” Schuldig locked a sultry stare on his impermeable team leader, biting lightly at his lower lip as he let his eyes wander down his chest.
“Save it for the club rats.” Brad flicked his newspaper back into position, simply glad Schuldig wasn’t an empath as well. The insidious stir of arousal at that heated stare would have been obvious otherwise.
“Now you know…” Schuldig turned away, heading to make himself a cup of coffee. “… I only save it for you, Herr Crawford. You just let me know when you’re ready to share again…” Smug. Superior. Most definitely gloating. A satisfied grin creased his face as he reached into the cabinet for a coffee mug.
But the redhead froze as he was suddenly pinned against the counter.
Schuldig hadn’t even heard Brad leave his seat but there he was. Merino wool and Egyptian cotton invading his space, caressing his skin, just as the solid wall of Brad’s chest molded to his back, thin hips rolling to a slow halt just short of grinding him into the counter. Solid and warm, a hint of expensive musk invading the air around him. His mind was suddenly racing, trying to riddle out what exactly might be coming in the next few seconds. Instinctively Schuldig reached out with a thought, seeking some evidence that would give him a sign. But there was none to be had - all evidence was locked tight behind Brad’s mental shields that the redhead had yet to breach. Without a hint, Schuldig braced for the impact he was sure would follow.
Schuldig could have kicked himself as he flinched. Not at a fist, or a slap but soft, careful fingers that traced his ribs, following the arc of his arm where it hovered, mid-reach, into the cabinet. Brad leaned into him just a bit more and the redhead tensed beneath him as his mind reeled. He knew Brad was playing at something but he still wasn’t exactly sure what. And in quarters this close it could be extremely painful to guess wrong.
A single warm exhale across his ear had Schuldig release the breath that he hadn’t even realized he had been holding in a quivering rush.
‘Let me help you with that.” Brad whispered, his voice so soft and so low that Schuldig had to strain to hear each word. And with them, Brad reached up and over his hand to retrieve a coffee mug from the top shelf, his hips nestling even tighter against Schuldig ass in a slow imitation of…
Holy fuck… Brad was coming on to him.
There should have been a smart ass taunt or viciously sarcastic goad in response but all that fell from Schuldig’s lips was a meek little exhale of a groan.
And just as fast as Brad had appeared, he deposited the mug on the counter and was gone again, this time, to the kitchen doorway.
“Meeting in half an hour.” Brad called over his shoulder and was gone, heading for his office without a single glance back.
Schuldig’s arm finally fell to his side. He stood there gripping the counter, staring into the sink for a good few minutes. His mind was racing through all the possibilities of what exactly Brad was up to but stronger than his need to know was his crumbling disbelief. No one could have taunted Brad harder, longer or more consistently than Schuldig. There was a years long expectation of flat out denial no matter what the scenario.
He suddenly closed his eyes. He could still feel the heat of Brad against him, the weight of him, the scent of his cologne still faintly clinging to the air around him. Schuldig had resigned himself to never seeing any of his fantasies through but here one was in flesh and blood and expensive designer slacks. And there was no way in hell that it was sincere. And there was also no way to confirm or deny any of his suspicions or assumptions. Brad’s mind was a hard, cold, blank slate just as his expression usually was. He had precious few tells in his body language to be read.
Schuldig suddenly let out his breath with a heavy exhale, shook his head and pounded his fists on the counter a single time rattling his coffee mug. Brad was not allowed to have the satisfaction of wrapping him up in knots in under sixty seconds. He poured himself a cup of coffee and resolved to ignore whatever this was. Brad wanted to have an effect and even if Schuldig was unsure which effect his team leader was going for the wisest course of action was - none.
He crossed to the table, snatching up Crawford’s paper, flipping through the sections until he found the Entertainment section. He sipped at his coffee and stared blankly at the same article for five minutes. He tossed the paper aside and put his mug down with a thud.
Damn him.
His eyes traveled down to catch site of the mug he’d been drinking from. They had a fairly large standing collection of rude coffee mugs thanks to Schuldig’s penchant for … well… anything that caught his fancy. But the coffee mugs had stuck. He picked them up everywhere. The one Brad had handed to him…
‘Chaos. Panic. Disorder. My job here is done.’
A snarl fixed on Schuldig’s face as he pushed away from the table with a disgusted grunt.
Fuck him.