Tattoo

A/N: This fic is for my adorable Katzchen, who makes my soul yearn to write, and asked for a drabble that turned into the delicious monster you see before you.

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Crawford's countenance was pulled into one of the most disgusting expressions the Schwarz household had ever seen, which was probably why Nagi had fled to his room and Farfarello had come forward for a better look, his eye wide and sparkling with amusement.

"Jeeze, what's the big deal?"

"It's unprofessional," Crawford snarled lowly, dragging his eyes away to stare at anything and everything else.

"So I'll cover it up," Schuldig snapped in annoyance, pulling his shirt back on. He hadn't expected warm acceptance from his leader, but this thick, patronizing disapproval was taking it a step too far. Brad seemed almost personally offended by the dark swirls of ink that now permanently graced his left shoulder blade. As if it weren't his body. His decision. "I'm not removing it," he said lowly, with conviction, and the frustrated dullness in Crawford's eyes showed that the other man already knew this.

It had taken him months to decide on the perfect tattoo. Custom design. No real form, just a crisscrossing of thick red and black vines that crept down his back, seeming to weave and pierce and tear at his skin. The few scars that graced his back from the darker times in his life wound into the pattern. It wasn't a huge design, but he felt completed, in a way.

And Crawford wasn't taking it away from him. All he had left was his body, and if he wanted to mar it, he damned well had the right.

"I like it," Farfarello purred, although his eyes weren't on Schuldig's now-covered back, but on Crawford. The madman liked that Brad was annoyed. Somehow, this didn't make Schuldig feel any better. Not that he needed their approval, because he certainly did -not-, but… for once… it would've been nice not to have to defend his actions.

"Fine," Crawford ground out. "Fine. You want it? You got it. But I never want to see that disgusting thing again, understood?"

Schuldig sneered, "Guess you're gonna have to buy yourself some blinders, then." Lounging around shirtless was one of his favorite pastimes.

"I mean it. Cover it up, or you're out," Crawford hissed lowly, still not making eye contact, and briskly strode from the room. Schuldig gaped after him, unable to comprehend the magnitude of Crawford's hatred towards his tattoo, and unable to reach past the older man's iron mental defenses. There was a peal of high-pitched laughter beside him, and Schuldig swung his glare over at Farfarello, who immediately settled into a silent, ear-to-ear grin instead.

"You're making him crazy," he said matter-of-factly, obviously overjoyed at the entire encounter.

"Tell me something I don't know," Schuldig spat, but there was a minute plea in his voice. Please tell me something I don't know. Don't understand. But the Irishman's mind was a whirl of chaos, as usual, and trying to pull anything from it, much less anything that made sense, gave him an immediate headache.

Sighing in defeat, he turned and stalked off to his room, going through a mental checklist of what in his closet would and wouldn't reveal pieces of his new decoration.

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Breakfast was tense.

Farfarello slept in. Nagi took his pancakes back to his room, mumbling something about rewiring his computer systems, even though he'd already revamped everything last week, but Schuldig was obstinate, and sat at the circular table with Crawford in silence, deliberately chewing his food even slower than usual as Brad sipped his coffee and read the paper. The silence, of course, was Schuldig's doing. Crawford hardly ever spoke at breakfast. But it didn't stop the uptight atmosphere from being Brad's fault.

The redhead had donned an unnecessarily long-sleeved pajama shirt that hot summer morning, the sleeves pooling dangerously at his wrists, ever so often drooping near the syrup that he'd dribbled around his plate. To make up temperature-wise for the ridiculous top he'd put on, only a thin layer of cotton covered his lower half, in the form of a loose-fitting pair of boxers, and the heel of one bare foot tapped the ground in subconscious annoyance.

His fork screeched as he lowered it for another bite, and he looked down at his empty plate, frustrated that he hadn't been aware enough to enjoy his meal. That was Crawford's fault, too, of course. With an audible huff, he pushed himself up, tossing his plate so hard into the sink that it shattered, a few pieces popping into the air and scampering across the counter and floor. Shit. He just couldn't win. Sweat was starting to pool on his back and arms beneath the thick fabric, adding to his rage, and he squatted down angrily to pick up the larger shards.

"Stop. You're going to cut yourself," Crawford murmured, and Schuldig could see his cold eyes peering at him from behind the funny papers. They looked darker than usual… he was probably still pissed. Good.

"I know what I'm doing, damn it," he snarled, ignoring the fact that Crawford could probably see him getting cut, and reaching for another piece.

"I said stop-" The paper disappeared, neatly folded on the table in an instant, and the older man was on his feet. In his rage, Schuldig didn't notice the piece of decorated porcelain next to his foot. At least, not until he shuffled away from his leader and felt it bite deep into his skin. He sank his teeth into his lip to keep from making a noise, but Crawford already knew. Had already known. Something cut into his arm, and he wondered briefly how he'd managed to get glass in that particular spot, before he noticed Crawford's hand.

"Let go," he growled dangerously, violently trying to wrench himself free, his long sleeves making it only slightly easier to move. Still, all he managed was to slip on his own blood, smearing it across the floor and landing with a thud with his butt against the cold tile floor.

"No. You'll get blood on the carpet," Crawford said calmly, confident of his strength, waiting for Schuldig to settle down and see logic.

But logic wasn't happening. Not this morning. Schuldig was sick of being told what to do. Sick of being told what he couldn't do. Sick of keeping things fresh and clean and spotless when deep down they just weren't. And he wanted nothing more right now than to bloody Crawford's perfect little world.

For once, Crawford didn't see it coming. Probably because Schuldig hadn't really planned it, so the future hadn't been decided. But there it was… a nice, smooth bloody imprint of his foot, squarely in the center of Crawford's white suit. When he pulled away, there was a momentary silence, both of them blinking down in surprise at what he'd just done.

Schuldig suddenly felt a masochistic thrill of excited fear. Nobody, nobody, touched Crawford's clothes. Expensive, custom, dry-cleaned, hand-ironed, pampered clothes.

The man in front of him grew very still, and Schuldig swallowed. If he were going to apologize, now was the time. Yup. Right now…. Aaany day now...

But his brain couldn't form the words, and a sneer itched at the corners of his mouth.

Crawford could see it. The German was suddenly flat on his back against the floor, his head cracking audibly against the tile, porcelain shards stabbing into his back. Whether it was surprise or the sudden nauseating dizziness that overwhelmed him, he found himself unable to move, only vaguely aware that Crawford had caught his other hand, and was now pinning them both above his head, his sleeves twisted uncomfortably in the other man's grasp.

When Schuldig finally met his leader's eyes, he forgot how to breathe. Somehow, Crawford's glasses had fallen off, and something seethed there, beneath those dark pools, that he couldn't comprehend. But Crawford's mental barrier was snapping, cracking under the weight of whatever smoldered in those dark eyes, and Schuldig's mind, even in its muddled state, soaked it up like a sponge. It was a hatred, of sorts. A rage. Not surprising, really, since it mirrored his own sentiments. But then… jealousy? And a trace of-

Almost as though Crawford were a telepath himself, his eyes widened with the realization of what he'd let slip, and Schuldig was shut out again. Brad sat back on his knees, pulling his glasses back on with one fluid motion, fully composed.

"Go clean yourself up," he said firmly, climbing steadily to his feet.

"You, too," Schuldig mocked, trying to sound snide, but his voice lacked conviction. Crawford didn’t appear to have heard him, his glasses barriers of white that hid his expression as he strode from the kitchen. It took a practiced eye to notice that he was rushing. Running away.

Farfarello brushed past Crawford on his way in, taking a seat at the table as though nothing strange had happened. As though blood weren't still gushing from Schuldig's foot and trickling from wounds on his back, thinly painting the floor crimson.

"Pancakes?" he asked happily, his face falling as he noticed the empty pan.

"Sorry, Farf. Should've been quicker," Schuldig laughed shakily, pulling himself to his feet, not wanting to concentrate right now on what had spilled from his teammate's mind, but not wanting to give in to the fainting feeling crawling across his senses. "Hey, can you grab me a band-aid or Tylenol or something?"

Farfarello snorted, his expression unreadable, "Sorry, should've been quicker."

"That… that doesn't make any sense," Schuldig grumbled, bracing himself against the counter.

"Make me more pancakes and I'll bandage you up," Farfarello said evenly, as if neither the pancakes nor his teammate's life really mattered that much, and it probably didn't to him.

"You've got a deal," Schuldig grinned. As insane as the white-haired creature was, he was damned good at bandaging people up. Loads of practice. The man vanished for a moment, but returned within an instant, and he'd already finished fixing up Schuldig's foot by the time the German fainted.

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The room was dark. Early-morning, no moon, no stars, no light in existence, and definitely no lamps dark. The kind of dark where you knew everyone else had already gone to sleep, and lay wondering why you were awake.

Schuldig, unable to return to blissful slumber, pulled himself into a sitting position, reaching for his alarm clock to check the time. But instead of his cheap plastic clock with its blinding numbers and horribly annoying alarm there sat a stylish metal clock with gently-glowing digits and a soothing light that simulated the rising sun to wake up its owner. He knew it had a soothing light simulation because this was Crawford's clock. And these were Crawford's nice satin sheets. And this was Crawford's room.

But that was as far as his mind got, because standing against the dark wall, directly in front of him, as though he'd been sculpted into the spot, was Crawford.

"You have a slight concussion," Brad said without a trace of guilt, his glasses somehow twin disks of light, even though there was no light to reflect.

"And concussions require…?" he couldn't finish, instead flicking his head to refer to their surroundings. Bad move. His vision blurred, or at least, he thought his vision blurred, as it was very difficult to tell in the near-pitch darkness, and he fell back on the pillow. There was a long silence from the other side of the room, and it made him nervous.

"In the kitchen," he began, and there was another long pause. Apparently, Crawford decided that, concussed or no, it needed to be discussed. Schuldig wished he wouldn't. He didn't want to think about it, especially not now. "What exactly did I… slip?"

So he didn't know exactly. That was good.

"Slip? I dunno what the hell you're talking about," Schuldig mumbled, lying easily. Even from his position, he could see Crawford's muscles tighten. Woops. Too much of a lie.

"Schuldig, I saw you catch… something. What was it?"

His mind scrambled for answers that weren't truthful, but not too far-fetched. It was difficult, as though he were swimming through molasses. Perhaps that's why Crawford chose to confront him now, while he was weak. The idea pissed him off, giving him enough strength to tell the truth.

"You fucking hate me. I caught that much. I piss you off," Schuldig ground out, feeling the rage swell within him. He saw Crawford relax, and that pissed him off even more.

"Oh?" there was relief in his voice that rubbed Schuldig the wrong way, so he pressed onward mercilessly.

"And you're jealous of me," he sneered, his mouth pulling at the corners predatorily, even though in his position, Crawford could easily destroy him. This finally got a reaction, and it thrilled him. His leader went rigid again, eyebrow twitching slightly.

"That's ridiculous," he murmured, half to himself, as though the idea hadn't even occurred to him.

"You're jealous-"

"That's enough," Crawford snapped, but Schuldig continued, ignoring him as he'd been ignored countless times before.

"-that you're stuck-"

"I said…"

"-inside this pretty little bubble you've created-"

"…that's…"

"-instead of enjoying the filth-"

"ENOUGH."

" -with me."

And that was it. That was everything. Everything he'd felt before, and the last bit… the last bit he hadn't let himself think about… Because, he told himself, he hadn't caught enough of it. Not enough to be sure. And the infinitesimal speck of terror in Crawford's eyes as he'd slammed his barriers back up… Schuldig hadn't wanted to deal with it.

"You want me," Schuldig said again, although the words sounded alien to his tongue, and his brain rolled at the effort of trying to understand. He felt nauseated.

The telepath could feel his leader's shield cracking again, and Brad's eyes were wide again in front of him, his glasses transparent, that same terror-filled look he'd seen before in the kitchen, only magnetized by the force of having his secret said out loud. Of being sure. Sure that Schuldig knew. Sure of what he wanted. Sure that he couldn't have it, and that it would slip… And all the years of trying to cling to his pristine existence, trying to understand why he wanted something so disgusting, trying to figure out why Schuldig couldn't just be clean, and not so damned attractive, maddeningly flaunting what should be inadequacies, taunting him…

…and that damned tattoo…

Schuldig bristled at the mental mention of his tattoo, but nearly lost consciousness at the force of feeling that swelled after it. …The mental image... What Crawford wanted to do… He shuddered violently, trying to fight his way out of his leader's mind, trying to separate his own emotions from the other man's, because he didn't want that. He didn't want Crawford's lips… his fingers… He moaned, bombarded with everything that Crawford wanted from him, his body already responding, despite the fleeting voice in the back of his head that was trying so desperately to keep him in check.

And there was something warm around his throat… Crawford's hand. Pinning him to the pillow, and suddenly Crawford's lips were pressed against his, ravenously working at him, unpracticed and wild, swallowing Schuldig's cry as his mind was repeatedly overwhelmed. Schuldig's hips defied him, searching for the contact above that danced chaotically out of reach, and the kiss was broken, leaving the German drowning in Crawford's passion, writhing in the sheets, and he could see what he looked like through the American's eyes, and feel the effect, but he couldn't stop himself. And he knew what Crawford wanted. He gasped feebly as he was flipped over, his long-sleeved shirt ripped from his back, and mewled as his leader kissed and bit at the still-sore skin that stretched across his shoulder blade, tracing the design down, following it with his lips and tongue and teeth and fingernails.

He could feel Crawford's need before it even touched him, pressing hard against the thin cotton, and there was no time to wonder how the older man had unzipped himself so quickly, because his boxers had been dragged down, and something pressed against his entrance. His mind radiated panic. He'd been entered dry before, and had taken weeks to fully recover. But the digit that entered was cold and slid in easily, and he was soon rocking along with it, his body a fit of angry and lusting shivers. The next fingers were pushed in too hastily, and he grimaced, trying to use the pain to separate himself from Crawford's mind, but it was in vain. The older man's breath came in heaves above him, and every moment he spent preparing Schuldig, he became more crazed, his lust radiating through the redhead like electricity. Finally, it was too much. Too early, he pulled his fingers away. Schuldig shivered at the cold emptiness, bracing himself for what was to come. He could see himself, pressed against the sheets, face flushed, hips raised invitingly, and it was all he could do to keep from coming at the sight. Or was it Crawford who couldn't? It didn't matter, he decided. Crawford leaned forward, and something warm pressed against his entrance. He ground his eyes shut against the oncoming pain, but he still wasn't quite prepared, crying out as he was entered in a rush, the older man's member working its way deep inside him. Crawford didn't even try to set a pace. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he slammed all of his pain and rage and need into the body in front of him, Schuldig making strangled pleasure noises that no human should be allowed to make, making him reach the end all too soon, chest heaving, the darkness exploding for both of them in a fit of white. Schuldig screamed, slamming back into his leader as his body convulsed, and Crawford sank his teeth into Schuldig's tattoo, unable to bite back the yell that forced its way from his lips as he mercilessly ground out the last bits of his rage.

The German's voice curled down into small raspy noises, and Crawford closed his eyes, body shaking despite the fact that his orgasm had already passed.

Crawford didn't want to deal with tomorrow. Or tonight. Or ever. But ever must be dealt with, and he was probably the only one who would deal.

"You can leave, if you want. I'll set you up with another group. Good references. Anyone would die to have a telepath of your caliber…" he trailed off, aware that they probably shouldn't be having this conversation in their current position. He steeled himself and pushed back, grimacing at the wet popping noise that signaled his departure. He flipped on his bedside lamp, in spite of his better judgment, the light making him feel more human and less monster.

Schuldig was breathing unsteadily, muscles still twitching ever so often, and didn't say anything.

"There's a group stationed in Canada. I've heard the leader is looking for new-"

"I'm not leaving, Crawford." They both looked slightly surprised at the steady conviction in his voice.

"Then I'll-"

"You're not leaving, either." His face matched his tone now. Resolute.

Crawford pressed his lips together, trying to find a way to make Schuldig see logic. "Logic dictates, you don't stick around after your leader… does that…"

"Yeah, you did rape me, bitch. But neither of us is leaving."

Crawford grimaced at the word he wouldn't even let himself think, but pressed on nonetheless. "Schuldig, you can't-"

"I can do whatever the hell I want, remember?" Schuldig sneered, pushing himself to his knees as he came to a decision. Crawford felt his chest tighten at the sight, but he restrained himself, as he was used to doing. "And we're gonna have to figure out something to do about… that repressing thing you do, because it's obviously not working."

Crawford knit his brows together in annoyance, sliding off the bed and zipping himself up, his shame lessening as his anger grew with the idea of Schuldig giving him tips.

"Where are you going?" Schuldig asked, eyes narrowed, and his leader turned to face him. "We're gonna figure something out, right?" Crawford blinked as the redhead grinned, turning around and flopping onto his back on the American's bed, giving his best come hither look. "So come on… let's get figuring."

"I thought… I… you… I raped you…" Crawford gaped incredulously, trying desperately to pull his mask back into place, which was quite difficult with the way the German was splayed out in front of him, boxers down around his thighs, stretching in such a way that made his muscles pull underneath his tight skin. His mind felt numb, but his body was already responding again, trying to make up for all the torture he'd put it through.

"Yeah, but in terms of rape, that's not the worst I've ever had. Not the best, but..." Schuldig purred sarcastically, ecstatic at the way his leader's eyes were already racing wildly across his form, lusty and disbelieving. He took his time wriggling out of his boxers, then spread his legs. The word 'whore' drifted over to him, but was surrounded by such need that he didn't take offense.

For all his grace, Crawford was a school boy in bed, and with the light on, he became self-conscious, crawling over fairly ungracefully, which Schuldig took great pleasure in, swatting his hand away when he reached for the lamp. Also fascinating was the way his mind seemed so easy to read now, even when he felt Crawford desperately trying to reformulate his barriers. But his desire outflanked all else, and his fingers were soon crawling over Schuldig again, followed by lips that were far more gentle this time around. Now that he didn't need to take what he wanted.

"You never answered my question," Schuldig murmured, pulling Crawford's face up for a kiss.

"Mm?" the man moaned into his mouth, his mind a haze of kinky ideas that a surprised and pleased Schuldig plucked out for later usage.

Schuldig pulled back after a moment. "I asked why you brought me here. …You didn't plan any of this, right?" he raised an eyebrow skeptically, and Crawford shook his head truthfully before bending down to plant kisses across his chest, murmuring in between his task.

"Nn, Farfarello… something about… not getting… pancakes… trashed your… room."

"Why that-!"

Crawford made an impatient noise, pulling him back down in mid-leap, quickly finding much more creative ways to occupy his body and mind.

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-fin-

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