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For Voks

Title: The Observer Effect
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldig
Word Count: 2250
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, language
Disclaimer: I own neither Weiss Kreuz nor these characters and this fic is in no way intended to suggest I do.

Schuldig had never been one for making plans. In fact, he prided himself on destroying them, ferreting them out of people's minds and messing them up just because he could. Even with Crawford's plans for Schwarz, he often had to restrain himself, ignore his natural impulses to ruin things. He was a force of chaos, but a self-interested one.

Which was how he found himself making plans of his own. No matter how much the idea grated on him, he recognized the necessity when there was something he really wanted, and this definitely qualified. Sure, he had Crawford already, in a certain sense. They'd had a sort of businesslike sex on a few occasions and probably would again. But that wasn't nearly enough to satisfy Schuldig. He wanted more, wanted to see what the leader of Schwarz looked like when he lost control, when he forgot to be businesslike. He wanted to see what lay behind that imperturbable facade, behind the thoughts and emotions that leaked through tight mental shields.

Some might say that planning against a precognitive was doomed, but Schuldig thought it merely added extra challenge and made the whole thing more exciting. Crawford couldn't see everything. He'd worry more if Crawford had been another telepath instead.

Making Crawford lose control wouldn't be easy, of course. If it were, he wouldn't bother. No, it would take time, effort, and planning - all things Schuldig hated. But the reward when he won would be worth it and he was sure he would win. Who could resist him?

Schuldig started slowly, spending time in Crawford's office for no real reason, flipping hair he'd spent extra time on and smirking, dropping things and bending over slowly and obviously to pick them up. It wasn't subtle, but he wasn't trying to be, and he didn't consider it a defeat when Crawford lost his patience and threw him out. He'd been getting to him; he knew he had.

The next day, he went a little farther, sitting on Crawford's desk with his legs spread, leaning back and licking his lips in a silent invitation. Then, of course, Schuldig grinned, got up, and let himself out before he could accept. It was too soon for that.

The day after that, he went for touching: accidental brushes of hands, rubbing shoulders he knew were always tense (even though they tensed further at the uninvited touch). Again, Schuldig didn't bother to pretend he had a real reason to be there, nothing beyond the obvious (and the secondary pleasure of seeing Crawford annoyed, of course).

On the fourth day, things became more difficult. It was still too early; if he gave in now, he'd just get more of the same sort of sex they'd had before, with Crawford never losing control. He barely even seemed to see Schuldig during it; it might have been anyone he was fucking. It was intolerable. So for once, when he met him at the door and slammed him into the wall, Schuldig actually expended effort to escape rather than merely pretending, using all his speed and the few hints he got from that tightly shielded mind to duck and dodge away, running out the door and leaving the building altogether. He'd very nearly been distracted by the feel of the body against his, by the lust in intent brown eyes, even if it wasn't as strong or as focused as he wanted it to be, but to give in would be to lose and he didn't want that.

Under the circumstances, Schuldig felt he'd demonstrated admirable self-restraint, so he treated himself to a night out. The fact that this meant he only returned long after Crawford, with his schedules and routines, usually went to bed was merely a side effect.

The next morning, however, he realized he'd miscalculated. It wasn't such a surprise; he wasn't used to this kind of thing. Maybe it took practice. He didn't exactly mind waking up to Crawford in his bed, but afterwards, he realized he had to start over. Or maybe not; he wasn't the starting over type. Maybe it was time to turn things up a notch instead.

He never knew how much Crawford saw beforehand and let him do anyway. Had he known Schuldig would come to his room late that night, grinning in the dark, and stroke his hair in a parody of gentleness before letting himself out as silently as he could after a single, simple kiss: a mere meeting of lips and nothing more? Did he know Schuldig would keep coming back, night after night, going a little farther each time? He must have after the first night, but he allowed it. Schuldig wasn't sure why or if that meant he'd already lost; he couldn't read enough to know exactly why Crawford didn't stop him, didn't just take what he wanted like he usually did. He didn't stop, of course, and didn't push hard enough to read his motives more clearly. He probably could have, but that would piss Crawford off and make him have to wait longer. Besides, Schuldig never let not knowing exactly what he was doing stop him. It was more fun that way.

But all games have their end and this one was no exception. There was only one way this one could end and they were both waiting for it, watching nerves and patience unravel slowly in breathless anticipation for the sudden snap. Crawford was a stubborn asshole; there were times when Schuldig thought he'd break first. He almost did, once or twice, but he was stubborn, too, and too damn close to winning to quit now. Of course, it helped that he had other options. Schuldig wanted Crawford's attention, wanted him to really fucking notice him for once, but he wasn't about to be celibate for a month or more for it.

This time, though, he could feel the difference as soon as he opened the door. The room was dark, the faint glow of streetlights through the window the only illumination, but Crawford was wide awake and tensed, a predator waiting to pounce. He had a moment to decide; Schuldig could have turned back, retreated to his own room. But all that would have done was change the location, at least if Crawford had really had enough of his teasing, and he'd been waiting for this. He kept going, sauntering towards the bed as though he hadn't noticed, let him grab him and pull him onto the bed, pinning him with more force than was strictly necessary.

“It's about time you told me what you're trying to do.” Crawford's voice was calm and reasonable even as he shifted to settle himself more firmly on top of Schuldig. He might have been in a business meeting, not a darkened bedroom. Not at all what he was going for, so he started struggling. He wasn't trying to escape, not this time. Instead he was trying to excite him, get him past such things as logic and questioning. After all, Schuldig had reason to know that while he might not have been celibate all this time, the same couldn't be said for the leader of Schwarz.

“If it were just sex you wanted, you would have asked. This kind of game isn't like you.” Which it wasn't, if that had been his goal. Getting Crawford to fuck him wasn't this hard and if it were, he would have just found someone else. Schuldig wasn't desperate. Which raised the question of why he'd bothered in this case, but this was hardly the time to think about it, not when both of them were already starting to sweat, even if it were mostly from his meaningless struggles to free himself when he didn't intend to go anywhere other than right here.

“Stop thinking aloud. I can hear you just fine.” He said it with his voice rather than thoughts solely to feel the way Crawford's weight on him made it harder to take a deep breath before speaking, to feel the proof of his presence and enjoy the way it constricted him.

Answer the question.

Maybe he was serious about wanting an answer. The Oracle saw what he would do, not why. That only made Schuldig more stubborn. He smirked up at Crawford, staring directly into eyes for once unprotected by glasses. “No.”

The first blow was more of a slap, a backhand across one cheek. It wiped the smirk from Schuldig's face, but no more than that. He could probably have gotten free just then, when Crawford shifted to free his arm, but he had no intention of going anywhere. He'd hit him and he was annoyed, but at least he actually saw him. That was what he really wanted, what this whole long drawn-out game was about.

No. Thoughts rather than words this time, but no surrender in either, though he braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. This one was harder. Schuldig didn't care about that, but he didn't want to risk losing Crawford's attention yet again, this time to the simple rhythms of mindless violence. More distraction, keep pushing. “What will the others think, when they see the bruises?” It hurt to talk now, but that was why he did it.

Truthfully, the other members of Schwarz would probably figure Schuldig deserved it, but their employers might care. It was enough; he didn't hit him again. Instead, Crawford kissed him, warm lips pressing tight, tongue wet and demanding. A forceful kiss, but not a show of dominance; it was too certain, too arrogant for that. More a statement of possession. That was good, progress of sort, at least as far as Schuldig was concerned, but what came next was even better, if unexpected. Crawford started to think at him. Not willingly let him into his mind; this was projecting, pushing thoughts at him with just as much force as he'd swung his fist. Thoughts, images, memories – all used as weapons, one drop after another until he was drowning in them.

Schuldig gasped – for air, for space, for his own thoughts, but he was as relentlessly aggressive in this as he was in everything he did. It might not work with anyone else, but he'd never had the best mental shields and he couldn't shut him out, not when he was thinking so loudly and it was directed solely at him. He might have learned so much, all the things he'd never quite had the nerve to push inside and search for, if he'd just had a second to be able to sort through it all. But Crawford didn't give him that time, didn't let him think.

He responded the only way he could. His mind was overwhelmed, so he used his body. Fingernails down a bare back, hips lifted and rubbing. Gasps stifled against a neck rough with evening stubble, sucking and biting whenever he could pull himself together enough to do it. It didn't stop the torrent, but it slowed it, Crawford's current sensations becoming mixed in with the rest as he yanked Schuldig's boxers down without ceremony.

He tasted his own skin when Crawford bit him, felt the tightness of his own ass around a lubed finger (of course he'd been prepared; he'd planned this from the start, and he couldn't even feel angry about it, not now). The doubled sensations weren't unusual for Schuldig, but he'd never felt them this clearly, not with this man. Never felt the echoes, the hints of memories, the emotions that still pelted him like stones, if more slowly now that his distraction had been partially successful.

Hot breath against his cheek and hands beneath his ass now, lifting him. Schuldig wasn't sure when he'd closed his eyes, but he forced them open, watched as Crawford positioned himself and pushed inside. This part was familiar; he never had been much for foreplay. The mental assault slowed to a trickle, but he wasn't shut out, not this time. A gift, or maybe a mistake, but he wasn't about to waste it, making sure Crawford couldn't lose himself in mindless sex again, couldn't treat him as just a tool to satisfy a need.

You're too damn goal-oriented. You're fucking me, don't forget it. And for once Crawford didn't try to correct him with words or violence, merely opening his eyes and staring directly into Schuldig's.

I haven't forgotten. And he didn't look away; just kept watching him, brown eyes staring into blue as his hand wrapped itself around Schuldig's cock, stroking and twisting, as he thrust inside him with a rhythm that didn't falter, even as his breathing grew more ragged and they could both feel the orgasm building. He didn't look away and Schuldig would be damned if he did either, not when he'd finally gotten what he wanted. So what if it were uncomfortable; he lived for uncomfortable. Coming over Crawford's hand was all the surrender he was willing to give.

After, when he got up to go back to his own room, Schuldig stared down at Crawford, eyes finally closed and a satisfied smirk on his face. “You knew what I was doing all along, didn't you?”

Silence, but he could still read enough of his emotions to be sure he was right. “So why the hell did you let me go through with it?”

“It got it out of your system.” Crawford rolled over, turning his back. “Make sure to shut the door when you leave.”