Crawford's Usual Morning Crawford’s eggs were slightly burnt. However, this wasn’t very surprising, as it had been Nagi’s turn to cook breakfast. The telekinetic was very grouchy at the moment; Schuldich had kept him up most of the night, so he hadn’t gotten nearly as much sleep as he needed. Or, rather, Schuldich’s girl had. Nagi’s room was right next to the German’s, so it was no wonder that he hadn’t been able to sleep. Crawford, who had Nagi’s room as a buffer between his own and Schuldich’s, had still heard the overly vocal girl perfectly, although he was able to shut it out and get some rest with a convenient pillow over his head. Sometimes, he could swear that Schuldich had yet another extra sense—the uncanny ability to pick out the loudest girls with the most obnoxious screams in the entire city. However, when he wasn’t actually being forced to listen to shrill shrieks of “Oh! Oh, fuck me harder!” (during which time he quietly cursed “Schwarz’s version of Kudou Youji”), he had to admit that it wasn’t quite so bad, and that Schuldich didn’t really bring his pets home too often... Although he did tend to go “out” quite frequently without much more explanation than a wicked smirk. Needless to say, Schuldich’s breakfast was more than a little charred, as he was the main cause of Nagi’s current wrath. Crawford decided that he would rather just put up with singed eggs than deal with a fight that could easily escalate into actual bloodshed—especially since, aside from Nagi and Schuldich glaring at each other across onigiri and bacon, the morning was going very well. There was no business for Mr. Taketori scheduled for a while, not even bodyguard duty; he hadn’t foreseen any unwelcome events; Weiss had been thankfully quiescent for a while; and even Farfarello was acting more sane than usual. Said psychopath was actually eating breakfast with them this morning, (all knives had been removed from the table as a precaution) smiling happily and downing his breakfast without any complaint. His room was pretty much soundproofed by the padding on the walls, so he had probably enjoyed a good night’s sleep, unlike the rest of the team. In a sudden slight attack of paranoia, Crawford half expected him to suddenly say something like “Burnt eggs hurt God!” and then start trying to kill himself with a spoon—but then, that was only because things were going so incongruously well. Could it really be possible for him to enjoy a normal Sunday morning for once? He got up, picking up his now-empty plate and carrying it over to the counter, then filled the sink with soapy water and washed his dishes, the pan from the eggs and bacon, and the container that had contained the onigiri that Nagi was eating. He left the dishwater in the sink for the others to use when they finished, then wandered over to the coffee maker and made himself a cup of strong coffee, humming quietly under his breath in appreciation of the odd peace and domesticity that had descended over Schwarz. Fortified with coffee and an imported copy of the New York Times, he sat back down in his chair at the kitchen table and flipped through the main part, reading leisurely and holding the paper up so that he didn’t have to look at the death glares flying across the table from either side of him. Strange, that he and Farfarello seemed to be the most content; usually it was the other way around, with Schuldich having fun annoying him, Farfarello having to be locked up in his straightjacket, and Nagi either off at school or happily online. Setting the main page down, he sorted through the rest of the newspaper, looking for the next interesting section. He had just taken a large mouthful of coffee when the world blurred in that familiar way that meant an unsolicited vision was coming up. Most of the coffee flew out his nose a few seconds later, spraying over the Times, and sending his eyes wide open as he choked on the rest of the scalding liquid. He coughed violently, trying to breathe again, then stole Schuldich’s water glass and took a long drink out of it, as he had just washed his own. After he had regained the use of his lungs, he gasped for breath, wincing at the air on his burned throat. “Masaka!” He started coughing again, and promptly drained the rest of Schuldich’s water. “What...?” The telepath left off mourning his breakfast to try to figure out what the hell was wrong with Crawford; likewise, Nagi and Farfarello had stopped eating and were staring at him questioningly as well. Crawford stared into the space directly above the table, an uncharacteristically stunned look dominating his features. He remained focused, unmoving and unblinking, for nearly half a minute—to all appearances totally oblivious to both Schuldich’s question and the other two’s curious gaze. After said thirty seconds, Nagi bit his lip, fidgeting uncertainly, then spoke up. “...Brad...?” Crawford started at the sound of Nagi’s voice, snapping his head up to face the fastidiously white-painted wall opposite him. His eyes refocused themselves suddenly, and he sent a shocked, horror-filled glance at the Japanese boy, then at Farfarello. Stumbling blindly to his feet, he fled the kitchen, knocking his chair to the ground in his haste to get away. The three remaining members of Schwarz stared after him, confused into silence. Their cool, utterly self-controlled leader never acted like that. Something had to be severely wrong. Nagi turned his gaze from the door to look at Schuldich, then Farfarello, then back again. “...He must have seen something....” Something bad—although Nagi had stopped himself from saying it, the unspoken word rang through the kitchen as if he had shouted it. What could possibly be bad enough to make *Crawford* run terrified, if not quite screaming, from the room? “He looked at you two...” Schuldich noted. “What do you think it was?” Nagi asked at the same time. Farfarello smiled at the other two, baring more of his teeth than was probably strictly necessary. “It will probably be something that hurts God.” Nagi shot a very brief look at the Irishman, who didn’t require any telepathic abilities whatsoever to be able to read “Shut up!” in the fierce blue eyes. Schuldich picked up his currently empty glass, on its side by Crawford’s abandoned place, toying with it idly for a few seconds, then put it down again by his own place. He stood decisively, then walked out of the kitchen, pausing to deftly kick the toppled chair back upright. A few seconds later, his mental voice rang in Nagi and Farfarello’s minds. //I’m going to go find out just what that was all about. Don’t kill each other, hmm?// Crawford sat on a straight-backed chair in the security of his own room and shivered. Apparently it WAS impossible for him to have anything approaching a normal day. He should have known better than to tempt fate by wondering something like that. There were times when it really and truly sucked to be able to see the future, and this was one of them. He felt like he could have gone the rest of his life without ever knowing what he’d just seen...almost. The door to his room opened, and Schuldich slipped inside, curving his body sinuously around the wood and shutting it behind him. He shut his eyes and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “Go away, Schuldich...” he gritted through clenched teeth. Impossible, these thoughts—how could they be having this effect on him? He was stronger than that, right? But then why did such a simple thing as Schuldich coming into the room bring them up? ...And why was he enjoying them? For there was no doubt that that was exactly what his body, at least, was doing—even if his mind was less than thrilled. When Crawford looked up again, Schuldich was standing in front of him, mouth widened in the usual smirk that did not quite touch his brilliant green eyes—but he shouldn’t be thinking like that! He was a man, and so was Schuldich, and he wasn’t gay! ...Even as that ran through his mind, however, the part of him that he always kept safely hidden from prying eyes or minds spoke up—the part that doubted himself, kept his confidence and ego in check, allowed him to remain an effective leader. It was, coincidentally, the thing he found most annoying about himself. Its little, incredibly irritating voice hissed through his brain, pointing out that if he wasn’t gay, why was he thinking things about Schuldich that he really shouldn’t be—even if he were gay—considering the other man was right there...not to mention telepathic and possibly picking through his mind right now. “I don’t think so, *Braddy*....” The German’s voice was sultry and smooth, utterly suggestive. In the back of his mind Crawford knew that he was just utilizing one of his favorite and most effective tactics in the game of “Annoy-the-American”. However, the velvet purr combined with the vision that still lingered at the edge of his sight and his recent realization that Schuldich was indeed a mindreader to make the impossible happen... Brad Crawford blushed. Heat infused his cheeks, staining them bright red as Schuldich looked on incredulously. He turned his eyes to the ground, unable to meet the other’s gaze, furious at his embarrassment—but the anger only served to make the blood rise higher and make his blush deepen. He would have yelled at Schuldich to get out, to not call him that, but he didn’t trust his voice... the way things were going, it would crack and make him look like even more of an idiot. So instead he simply stared at the floor and fumed. Schuldich’s mental voice echoed in Crawford’s head. //What the hell is wrong with you today?// The Mastermind glared at his leader, looking angry about his lack of information. Crawford felt the familiar, barely noticeable pressure in his head, like a feather stroking lightly over his hair; but it was too late to try to get any sort of mental barrier up... And besides, he doubted it would be of any use; he’d never tried to defend against Schuldich when the other was *really* determined to get information. He’d seen what had happened to others that Schuldich went after when he was in a bad mood, had even seen the man kill with his mind alone. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the hardwood flooring and tried not to think. The vision, however, would not be so easily dismissed. It fought its way back into his thoughts, forcing him to look at it, to memorize each detail. He cursed himself silently for training his mind to do this for the purpose of keeping the vision fresh...sometimes, it just wasn’t worth it. “Butter?” said Schuldich, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “You ran away because of butter?” He peered at Crawford more carefully as he sent his mind probing further. “Farfie? What does he have to do with butter? Or Nagi....” Finally, Schuldich encountered the vision, the strange, iridescent bubble of power in Crawford’s mindscape that he had seen before, had ‘entered’ before to experience what the other man saw. Crawford knew he saw it, knew that it was no use to try and hide it anymore. It looked like the redhead would have the truth out of him whether he willed it or not; so he opened his mind completely, allowing the other to do what he wished. A section of the vision-bubble faded away in front of Schuldich, who looked at it, startled, then shrugged and mentally stepped into the vision. He resumed the strange vicarious feeling of seeing through someone else’s eyes who was looking out of a place that wasn’t there. He shivered and returned his attention to what would be going on that Crawford had gotten so scared about. Farfarello and Nagi were at the kitchen table, staring out the door as he righted Crawford’s chair and left, presumably to go see the other man. He saw Farfarello give Nagi a secretive smile; then the psycho pulled the boy across the corner of the table separating him, dragging him onto his lap. “Farfarello!” Nagi hissed, “What are you doing?! Schuldich or Crawford could come back any time, we can’t, not in the—“ He was cut off abruptly by Farfarello’s pale lips descending over his, swallowing the rest of his words. Nagi angrily broke away, pulling back from Farfarello’s mouth. “K’so...! Farf, I told you, NO! Not here, not now! What, did we spend all this time keeping us a secret from them just to have them walk in on us here?” The scarred man chuckled and leaned back towards Nagi. “Crawford already knows, Nagi-chan... he *saw* us, you know... And we do hurt God together, hmm...” A white hand masked in a leather glove stroked through Nagi’s smooth dark hair. “Shall we make his dream come true?” he laughed again, forcing his mouth back over Nagi’s, ignoring the boy’s squirms and protests. The last objection died on Nagi’s lips as Farfarello’s hand found its way into his pants, unbuttoning them, tugging them off his hips, stroking at his stiffening penis through his black boxers. “What the hell...” he muttered, helping to get his pants off. “Schuldich will probably find out from Crawford anyway. I’m surprised we managed to keep it from him for this long.” Nagi initiated the next kiss, his tongue playing with the older man’s in a way that his age defied. He pushed Farfarello’s vest down his arms, enduring the lack of that strong hand playing with him for the short time it took to toss the vest aside. Nagi’s shirt soon joined it on the floor, followed quickly by his underwear, dark silk shredded off of him in an abundance of enthusiasm, until he sat naked atop Farfarello’s black leather covered lap. Rubbing himself against the bulge in those tight pants, he pushed himself against the pale, scarred chest before him and reached his hands down to Farfarello’s pants, beginning to unzip them. It took a bit of doing to remove the nearly skin-tight bondage pants in the best of circumstances, which definitely did not include a highly aroused, naked boy slipping around on the equally aroused wearer’s lap. However, with a lot of wiggling and manipulation, substantial help from Nagi’s telekinetic powers, and probably more touching and kissing than were absolutely needed, the pants finally let go of Farfarello’s legs. The moment they touched the floor, Farfarello had Nagi flipped off of him; seconds later, Nagi was bent face down over the table, Farfarello behind him, his hard cock pressing tauntingly into the crack of Nagi’s buttocks. “So what will you do if Crawford or Schuldich walks in on us?” A teasing, unseen grin. “Farf...farfarello...shut up and fuck me, damn you...” Farfarello laughed, clucking his tongue mock-scoldingly at Nagi’s language, his eye skimming across the room for something suitable and near to hand. It settled finally on the fresh stick of butter near Nagi’s side that had been intended for Crawford’s toast. He picked it out of the dish—it was quite cold and hard, having only come out of the freezer just before breakfast. His gaze flicked down to Nagi’s slim form, then resettled on the butter in his hand. The grin grew wider on his face, yet not taking on the insane, psychotic quality that his victims were familiar with. He put the butter down for a second, peeled off his gloves and threw them aside, then took it up again and rolled one end of the stick between his hands, shaping and rounding it to a blunt, slightly melted point. Unaware of what was going above him, Nagi whined faintly and pushed his hips back, demanding his unresponsive lover’s attention. His complaints increased in volume as Farfarello pulled back away from him. They were cut off suddenly with a wide-eyed gasp that had more than a little trace of pain threading through it as the stick of butter impaled him without other preparations. He gripped the table, spreading his legs apart instinctively to give Farfarello better access. “C...cold!” he managed, panting. “What is...?” No useful response was forthcoming—only a slightly maniacal laugh and the slow withdrawal of the butter. When it was halfway out of Nagi’s body, Farfarello shoved it all the way back in at a carefully calculated angle, keeping out only as much as he needed to retain his hold on it. The sudden contact of the slick, cold hardness with his prostate made Nagi nearly leap off of the table, barely retaining the frame of mind to jam the side of his hand into his mouth to muffle his scream. His teeth dug hard into his own flesh, but the additional shock of pain only increased the enjoyment that he felt. While his lover might not feel pain, Nagi certainly did, and over his short but hard life, had learned to cope with and even enjoy it... and there were few better than Farfarello at inflicting all sorts of interesting kinds of agony. The butter slid out again, then returned repeatedly, melting quickly with the combination of the heat and tight friction of the young boy’s passage. When there was only a soft sliver left, Farfarello squashed the remnant between his hands, then rubbed it over his cock. He moved up to stand directly behind Nagi again, not quite touching him. After a few seconds of admiring the extremely fuckable jailbait bent over below him, he put one hand on either side of Nagi, gripping the table, then rammed himself deep into the slick constriction. An expression of joy flickered quickly across his face as he threw all other fancy techniques to the winds and simply started pounding Nagi, giving control of his body over to nature. Schuldich pulled himself out of Crawford’s mind as soon as the vision let go of its hold on his mind. “Butter...” he said again, shaking his head ruefully. “I’d like to know how they managed to keep something like that a secret....” He didn’t need to look down at himself to check if his arousal were visible; he could bet that he was nearly as hard as Farfarello or Nagi. Not like Crawford would notice anyway, he was too busy staring at the floor. Mainly out of curiosity, Schuldich glanced at Crawford, and his eyebrows shot up. Well...he never would have guessed. He sent a second quick probe at Crawford, and returned with the surprisingly affirmative answer; he had enjoyed that vision of his. A lot. On second thought, that was probably one of the reasons, besides shock, that he had left in such a hurry. But really, who would have imagined Crawford as gay? And liking to watch boys as young as Nagi, on top of that? The redhead grinned, his gaze appreciative. “Mmm, Braddy... I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing....” “I’m not!” “Really? Then what’s this?” Gliding forwards, Schuldich reached into Crawford’s lap and stroked his erection, squeezing it gently and drawing his hand back before the other had a chance to do anything potentially painful to him. He smirked widely, his almost arrogant stance daring Crawford to do something about it. Crawford’s stare snapped from the floor to Schuldich’s face, his flush still burning on his cheeks—but now from anger as well as embarrassment. “Don’t touch me!” Green eyes glittered wickedly. “Ah, but why should we have to take care of these alone? Perhaps we should follow Nagi and Farfarello’s example... although it might be a bit much to interrupt them to get some butter, ne?” The older man glanced downwards reflexively, flinched, then quickly returned his eyes to Schuldich’s face and stood up, glaring. “I am not gay, Schuldich. I suggest you leave.” Schuldich’s smirk grew even larger as he contemplated Crawford’s angry, flushed, beautiful face. “No,” he said mildly, “I don’t think I will....” With surprising speed, he took a step forwards and grabbed Crawford, his mouth descending and his tongue flickering between the other’s slightly parted lips. He leaned forward a bit more, letting their erections brush together, earning a startled gasp; he took the opportunity to let his tongue play as it would. Crawford pulled his head away abruptly, struggling briefly in the other’s strong hold. “Schuldich, what the hell are you doing?!” Though it had felt so good, better than anything had in a long time... He was so hard that it was nearly painful, and he truly wanted to just throw arguments and caution to the wind and let Schuldich do whatever it was that he wanted to do. //And if you weren’t gay, you really wouldn’t want to do that...// the irritating little voice smirked at him. It was right... as usual. Wonderful—just what he needed, to find out he was gay and firmly in denial at 27, just as he was about to be dragged out of the closet because a certain red-haired German had no sense of propriety or personal space. “I should think that would be obvious, Brad....” Schuldich curved his leg around Crawford’s, snagging the chair behind him with his foot and dragging it to the side. The area clear, he pushed forwards, pinning Crawford against the wall and smiling dangerously. “Farfarello and Nagi...” he paused, licking his lips, “will probably be busy for a good long time... so I think we should take care of this problem that we have at hand... look how suddenly it came up, it could happen again at any time.” He laughed at seeing Crawford’s eyes widen behind his glasses at the flood of double meanings that made themselves apparent to his mind. He slid his hand between their bodies, stroking them both at the same time. Crawford’s eyes closed, and he sighed softly in both resignation and appreciation of the light touch, then opened his eyes again to find Schuldich leaning down towards him again, eyes smoldering with want for him. He tilted his head slightly, letting the other man kiss him without protest, opening his mouth when Schuldich’s tongue lapped gently at his lips, going so far as to lick tentatively back at the invading tongue. It was again a disappointment when it was over; however, this time Schuldich was the one to draw back, looking at Crawford in pleasant surprise. “I’m so glad you see things my way.” He chuckled softly, re-engaging Crawford in another kiss as his busy hands began to unzip the other man’s slacks, which opened to reveal briefs straining tightly around a rather large bulge. The elastic stretched in the waistband as Schuldich tugged them off, freeing Crawford’s erection. Breaking the kiss again, he knelt suddenly in front of Crawford, knowing that it was much too late for the other to suddenly try to run off. He stroked the cock in front of him gently, extending his tongue and licking at it teasingly, drawing a moan from above him. As he moved his head to get a different angle, his soft hair brushed against the head of Crawford’s penis, and the other man whimpered. The sound was exquisite, and Schuldich set out to see if he could recreate it... He took a handful of his feathery hair and wrapping his hand in it, began to stroke Crawford’s shaft teasingly, his mouth busy on the head. It had the desired results, the soft noise driving Schuldich onwards. Schuldich took off his yellow headband with his empty hand, tossing it and his sunglasses at the pile of clothing. Freed of its confinement, his hair settled more closely about his face. He let go of the handful of hair that he held, letting it untwine itself from Crawford and settle about the sides of the man’s cock instead. Adjusting his angle a little, he slid his head down Crawford’s erection, engulfing him slowly, his hair tickling along the sensitized skin a couple seconds before his mouth followed. As he drew back for breath, he twisted his head gently, causing the silken strands to sway harder, each contact sending a little shock up Crawford’s spine. He remained still for a moment, suckling absently on the head that remained in his mouth, his tongue probing as if he were worrying at a lollypop, vaguely amused by the shifting of his fiery hair and the moans that it drew from Crawford. “Please...” Crawford hissed softly, his hips bucking of their own volition, driving him further into that tortuously hot, wet mouth. “Schuldich!” Schuldich drew back, letting Crawford slip entirely out of his mouth. He stood, spinning the other man to face the wall. His own clothing fell quickly to the floor, almost of its own volition. He spread Crawford’s legs apart, grinning as he noticed how much Crawford’s position resembled that of someone about to get a pat-down search. Schuldich held a small bottle in his hand, produced from who-knows-where, likely one of the pockets in the recently discarded pants. Opening it, he applied it liberally to his fingers, then threw it to the side as well. One questing finger found Crawford’s opening and pushed deep into him, crooking in a search for the spot that would make the other man scream his name again. Schuldich found it just as his second finger entered, quite effectively distracting Crawford from the new sensation of being stretched out. He scissored his fingers, twisting them around. He decided that two would just have to suffice, because his erection wasn’t going to wait any longer. The remainder of the oil on his hand was spread across his demanding cock with a couple quick swipes. He shifted his grip on Crawford, shoving him slightly onto his toes to make up for the height difference between them, and pushed up into him, striking directly against the other’s prostate. The vague pain of Schuldich’s fingers had been nothing compared to the pleasure Crawford had felt as they had encountered that magical spot inside him. Likewise, though it felt like Schuldich was splitting him in half at first, the moment he touched Crawford’s prostate the pain was blown away by the ecstasy. Crawford half-moaned, half-screamed, his hands grabbing at the wall for support as his cock rubbed against the smooth surface with an interestingly unique sensation. He was in no state to analyze the feeling of the wallpaper on his dick, though—he was much too busy concentrating on other things. “You like this...” murmured Schuldich into Crawford’s ear, swiping his tongue down the other man’s neck, biting into his shoulder. His mind mingled with his leader’s, divining all of his secrets, all his desires. //But you’d like it even harder, wouldn’t you?// He chuckled and complied with the unspoken pleas, thrusting into the welcoming body deeper and more forcefully. Their pleasure was shared in the mental link, driving them both to higher and higher heights, faster than Crawford would have believed possible. With the sensations of both feeling Schuldich’s cock moving inside him and feeling as if he thrust into his own virgin tightness combined, he barely had time to choke out Schuldich’s name as he came hard, his come smearing over the formerly pristine wall. The wave of Crawford’s orgasm rushed over Schuldich, triggering his own. He pulled Crawford hard down against himself as he released inside him, muffling his cry in the other’s abused shoulder. He pulled out, and gently turning Crawford around again, kissed him softly, brushing his lips across the bite marks half-apologetically, along the pale throat, and finally engaging Crawford in a deep kiss. Propped against the wall, they held each other up in the warmth of the afterglow. Somewhere across the house, three plates, a tablecloth, a handful of silverware, and two very happy, slightly greasy bodies crashed to the floor. //...at least if I can’t have a normal morning, they don’t all have to be full of blood and death...// //’Little deaths’, however...// //Get the hell out of my mind, Schuldich.// Laughter. //Whatever you say, Braddy-liebchen.// Back to Fanfiction Back to Main