Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Challenge ❯ One-Shot

Challenge

A/N: beware, purple prose porn, of a sort. And more fluff than I ever meant to write, though not inordinate amounts. It just kind of got softer and softer as I went along. And then the porn bit got harder and harder. The angst just got swallowed up somewhere in amongst all the details.

Warnings: yaoi, Brad/Schu, fluff, lemon, unusual writing style (well, for me)

Disclaimers: Not mine, not making any money.

"Do you even keep track of how many now?"

"What, keep score?" Schuldig laughed. "I thought you knew me better."

The young man on the bed stared the man who had just stepped through the door, shaking his head uncomprehendingly. Crawford held the door open. The young man glanced at the redhead beside him for an explanation, but the man didn't even seem to register him any more. The strangers spoke German, both fully aware the third occupant of the room couldn't understand. Rude? Naturally.

"It's the need," Schuldig told him lazily. "I just go take a nap in their room and suddenly it's too perfect an opportunity for these confused youths to deny."

"You put them under a lot of pressure," Crawford said coolly.

"They put themselves under it," Schuldig shrugged. "The mind can only stand so much stress. It just quits on it, and then they're in a position to make a real decision, and it's yet to be `no'."

"I'll take your word for it." Crawford shot a pointed glance at the young man tangled in the bed sheets.

"Scram," Schuldig said, not unkindly, in English, "and don't forget me." The young man shook his head mutely and skittered out, tripping over his own trousers as he went. Crawford closed the door behind him and turned back to his team mate.

"I do keep count," he said. "And that was number one hundred."

"When did you start counting?" Schuldig asked, settling back on the sweat-stained sheets.

Crawford was a little nonplussed by this. "When did you start?"

Schuldig wrinkled his nose. "Maybe a decade ago," he admitted calmly.

"I've been counting since Silvia," Crawford told him. "I thought that that was when it started."

"What, because she insulted my sexual prowess? You ought to know me better," Schuldig smirked. "Those things only bother me if they're true."

"So what addiction is this a substitution for?" Crawford leant against the wall.

"Trying to determine which is worse for me?" Schuldig batted his eyelashes. "I didn't know you cared."

"I've noticed a pattern here," Crawford said coolly. Schuldig swallowed. Crawford was a one for noticing patterns. "Male, dark hair, blue eyes, inexperienced..." Inexperienced? "You are not to lay a finger on Prodigy, understand?"

Schuldig didn't swallow his reaction fast enough. That slight flicker of the eyelids was enough to tell Crawford he was wrong, but Schuldig couldn't believe he'd thought he was right in the first place. After all, there wasn't a single young man he'd screwed who wasn't Caucasian.

Schuldig tightened his jaw. "Why bother?" he asked softly. "Why bother pretend you don't know? It only makes me think less of you."

"Would you rather know I wasn't interested at all, or continue your games in the hope I might one day be?" Crawford asked coldly.

"I can do both at once. Are you trying to tell me your silence was to preserve my feelings?" Schuldig demanded.

Crawford didn't answer. Schuldig could feel his heart speed up. Thudding in his ear. Throbbing in his eyes.

Crawford opened the door, but Schuldig was in the doorway before he got further. Down the corridor of the small motel a women gasped and something shattered, but Schuldig had his bare back to all of that.

"Aren't you even going to try it before you decide you don't like it?" Schuldig asked.

Crawford was taken aback by this. It was the wrong way to phrase it, something in him insisted. That wasn't how you were meant to solicit someone for sex.

Schuldig placed a bold hand in the centre of Crawford's chest and pushed him back far enough to close the door again. He didn't push the boundaries though; as he removed the hand and let it slip limp and casual to his side.

"I bet you were one of those children who'd refuse to eat something they'd never seen before. You know, lived off the same meal every day."

"Don't you dare make presumption about my childhood," Crawford snarled.

"Don't you dare make presumptions about my motivations," Schuldig returned.

"Get out of my head," Crawford snapped, turned away and stalking across the room to peer out the dirt and dust encrusted window. "Why do you like them?" He asked after a pause, watching the young man dither on the pavement below. "There's another criteria for picking them. I can't put my finger on what it is."

"They'll never forget me," Schuldig said quietly. Crawford could tell from his voice that he'd moved. Probably back on the bed, though who knew how he'd managed it so silently. "Some of them are even virgins."

"Why is that important to you?" Crawford wondered aloud.

Schuldig didn't reply at first. "Have sex with me," he said eventually. "Just once."

"Why are you afraid of being forgotten?" Crawford insisted, his back still to the German.

"Everyone is," Schuldig said simply.

Well, that was true. Crawford turned around and looked Schuldig over properly this time. Too thin. Too scarred. Too casual. Hair that never matched, not just the obvious places, but even the hair on his chest was a different shade to that under his arms. He looked like an old doll, its maker talented but poor. Head and hands were tanned, arms to an extent, but the rest was that particular blue-white reserved for redheads who spent too much time indoors. A handful of freckles, one group in the shape of something that Schuldig had boasted about once or twice, but Crawford had never been able to see it. Couldn't see it now.

"Why are you afraid that I'll forget you?" Crawford asked, iron-voiced.

Schuldig returned the roaming gaze. Too stiff. Too well-built. Too formal. Hair that was the same length, always. He trimmed it every day, Schuldig had realised once, and he realised it again. Glasses that had little or no meaning, since he saw more with his eyes shut anyway. Suit too expensive to be designer, shoes too polished to be walked in, weapon too concealed to be retrieved. Cold eyes and hard cheek bones and thin lips. And a dimple that Schuldig had seen once, years ago, and wondered if he'd imagined it ever since. Couldn't see it now.

"What makes me memorable?" Schuldig asked. "I've taken up ten years of your life, and you've never even asked my real name."

"I'll ignore you. I'll hurt you. I'll command you. I'll fuck you. I'll kill you if I want to," Crawford said casually. "But I won't forget you."

Schuldig's mouth quirked in one corner. "I'll kill you too."

"And remember me."

"I think you better give me something to remember you by." Schuldig reclined on the bed and opened his legs, just slightly. A discrete invitation. Crawford had forgotten that he could do those. The smile was softer too, and the wandering hand delicate. "You're in charge," Schuldig murmured huskily. He knew that would work.

Crawford took off his jacket and hung it on the door, his shirt and tie in the wardrobe and his trousers over the back of the chair. Standing naked, he shot a look at the bed.

"Can we ask them to change the sheets first?" he asked.

Schuldig laughed. "Hey, it's fine. Take me."

"You can keep saying things like that," Crawford said as he walked over to the side of the bed, "but since I already know I'm the one with the power, it's not so much a turn on as an irritation."

"If you want me to shut up, order me to," Schuldig said, eyes glinting.

"You've been planning this," Crawford accused, brushing one hand across Schuldig's chest.

"I said it's been a decade," Schuldig pointed out.

"I don't think you know me as well as you would like to think," Crawford said smoothly. With one quick yank he pulled the soiled sheets from the bed, out from underneath Schuldig. The redhead tumbled sideways, but managed to stay on the mattress.

"Maybe you're right," Schuldig admitted. "I certainly hadn't pegged you as the type to go commando."

"So what's this about? Fulfilling some tawdry little fantasy you've cherished for years?"

Schuldig looked slightly apprehensive. "Perhaps we..." he began.

"You give the orders, Schuldig," Crawford told him, leaning over. "Tell me what to do."

"You're doing this on purpose," Schuldig pouted. "We both know how it's meant to go."

"I'm not going to do this so you can just wallow in self pity afterwards because I don't call."

"I know damn well you wouldn't call."

"I know damn well you'd wait for me to anyway."

"Whatever happens, I'm still going to feel sorry for myself afterwards."

"I refuse to be the villain here." Crawford stepped away sharply.

"It doesn't bother you most of the time," Schuldig pointed out curiously.

"Those people are dead," Crawford explained. "They're not going to whine about it."

"You think I'm going to bother you?"

"You already do."

Schuldig fell silent and lay softly on the awkward mattress. There was a water stain on the ceiling. Some young man had booked this place, and he'd slipped in. He wasn't sure which was more pitiful, sinking so low as to pay for a place like this, or paying for it and then sleeping somewhere else. Tomorrow he wouldn't remember the young man. He'd just be another tourist with a vague resemblance to a certain American, who was staring out of the window again.

"You told me to give the orders," Schuldig said eventually. "Well, I'm ordering you to come over here and have sex with me."

"I think I might take that back," Crawford said, but Schuldig recognise the dry humour in his voice.

"I'm not going to be any more specific," Schuldig declared. "Just sex."

"You don't want to see what it would be like to have me go down on you?" Crawford asked, turning back to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Never crossed my mind," Schuldig said candidly. "See, in my fantasy you don't like me. My superior seduction skills have won you over, or I'm just convenient, depending on what mood I'm in, and you take me very rough. Afterwards you leave without a word. We never speak of it again."

"So the fact I find you quite tolerable, enough so to have spent a decade of my life with you, has ruined this?" Crawford smiled superciliously. Schuldig hadn't imagined that dimple.

"Yes. Indeed." Schuldig nodded firmly.

"So should I act out this little fantasy of yours?" Crawford asked. "Or shall we try something a little less dysfunctional?"

"What do you have in mind?" Schuldig asked, sitting up.

Crawford smiled again. Schuldig could feel himself respond. He'd never thought Crawford's smile could turn him on. It wasn't related to his power, or his control, or his dominance. Those Schuldig responded to, those he understood. A smile? It was like something out of a girl's romance novel. Well, shoujo manga. Schuldig had never attempted an actual book. Still, Crawford was smiling and he was getting horny. It was all a bit odd for a man who prided himself on his sadism.

"Come here," Schuldig swallowed. Crawford did as asked. "Sit," Schuldig said, patting the bed. Crawford did as asked. "K-kiss me." Crawford did as asked.

One hand came up to hold Schuldig's head closer and the other held a bony shoulder to angle him just right. Schuldig let his head relax to one side and opened his mouth. Crawford kissed him patiently, tickling him with his tongue and taunting him slightly, but never pushing. Schuldig could feel the challenge. Take the initiative. Prove to me I want to do this. Pulling the older man into a tight wrap of arms and leaning in hard enough to force him back onto the mattress Schuldig kissed him thoroughly and impatiently. He breathed through Crawford, air in through his nose, out through Crawford's. Everything in tandem, everything matched. The harder he pushed the harder Crawford pushed back. To surrender was to give up and to give up was to be deemed not good enough. It was a logic that defied dreams.

To writhe on that bare mattress and to squirm against that hot body. Schuldig moved and bit down hard on a nipple, eliciting an angry moan and causing a hand to take his hair and pull him back up the torso. A hand griped his penis in retaliation, firm and too tight, but Schuldig had dreamt of that kind of thing and groaned into Crawford's mouth. The hand began to stroke and tease, and Schuldig knew his punishment. He was to be tortured tonight.

Tongue and lips sucked and bit. Schuldig bit back, taking chunks out of shoulder and neck before they moved so far down even his vaunted flexibility wasn't enough to keep contact. Instead he thrust impatiently against a black haired chest. This earned him a touch of tongue, and then it was gone, leaving one small cold place on his penis. To his shame he whimpered, but he was head against the headboard and he felt it went unnoticed.

Crawford moved out from under him, enjoying the cooler air. To squirm like that had left strange marks along his back from the bare mattress. Springs and buttons digging in. He listened to Schuldig's muted moan against the headboard and smiled. Now on top, he pulled Schuldig upright and almost into his lap, kissing the back of his neck and getting a mouthful of hair for his trouble. Schuldig pressed backwards and down, but Crawford kept him at arms length. So when the slippery German twisting in that grip he had more than sufficient leverage to pin Crawford onto the bed again. Crawford struggled against the aggressiveness and bit back a desperate growl as Schuldig engulfed him in one calm mouthful. Roving hands found Schuldig's penis and Crawford was gratified by the way that deep throat trembled around his own as it fought the urge to cry out.

And then Schuldig had pulled away and he was lying untouched on the bed. One hand went out blindly and missed Schuldig by an armful. He tried to sit up, but then Schuldig was back and holding him down, hair a dirty halo. Something on his penis then, not mouth or hand, and then that rubber glove feeling of not feeling, cold and liquid and yet not wet. Schuldig smirked and lowered his head for a heavy kiss, tossing empty condom packet and half empty tube of lube against a wall.

He was sweating heavily. Which `he' was debatable, but they were slick and hot against each other, oiled. That perfectly professional machine that Schwarz were proud to be. Each movement planned and calculate, each eventuality prepared for. So when Schuldig began to fuck himself with his fingers, smirking at Crawford and refusing to even lay a hand on his partner's cock, Crawford knew precisely what was meant to happen next. He pulled on Schuldig's hips and the younger man toppled forwards again. Maybe he couldn't take as much of Schuldig into his mouth as Schuldig had him, but it was enough to make him thrust at least once, helplessly.

And then Schuldig was pulling away and positioning himself, and Crawford was taking a deep breathe in preparation, and then they were thrusting together. Up on one elbow and pushing and toppling them over again, so Schuldig was forced to spread his legs wider and higher and Crawford could thrust down between them. And then Schuldig wrapped those powerful legs around his waist and thrusting with his arms instead of his hips to sit in Crawford's lap and fold himself in two to kiss the man inside him. Each thrust took them somewhere different, each fighting for dominance. Submission probably wouldn't have any ill-effects any more, but it would change things after they were done. Those were the rules. Winner takes all.

If it had been a race, Schuldig would have been the winner. He was somewhere with one leg hooked over Crawford's shoulder and the other against the headboard when he came, almost suspended above the mattress. His arm gave way and he toppled down, bringing Crawford to a place on his knees with his head arched back towards the ceiling, like a prophet mid-revelation. He saw himself coming with his eyes shut, felt the power of the vision as orgasmic as what followed.

It took them a while to disentangle themselves. Schuldig didn't seem much inclined, though Crawford was convinced he couldn't actually be comfortable. The sheer physical exertion of their bout left both winded and tired, but the mattress was now dirtier than the sheets and Crawford couldn't bring himself to actually lie down on it. So Schuldig found himself dragged off of the bed too, and commanded to dress, and as they stumbled out of the room neither had paid for he was still too exhausted to actually have followed that second, irrelevant command. That woman shrieked again, and something clattered, and Crawford had his dimple back again.