Disturbing Mental Images

ÿþTitle: Disturbing Mental Images
Author: Saanrio
Pairing: Crawford/Schuldich
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating: Mature readers (18+) only!
Warning: Contains language, sexual situations of a homosexual nature.
Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz and all of its characters do not belong to me; they are the property of Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. No profit is made from this story.

Author s Note: This is the first time I've written this pairing, I hope you like it!


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We were always trying to one-up the other. For the longest time, he held the advantage by somehow being able to keep me out of his head. He had the ability to put up a block wall that I couldn't get through. It bothered me. He wasn't a telepath, just a precognitive; he shouldn't have been able to do that. So, I put more effort into breaking into his mind. I had a burning curiosity to know what it was that he considered important enough that he had to keep me out.

For months, I was just beating myself against a brick wall, mentally speaking. Nothing was making it come down. I tried liquor, but he would only sip at a glass of wine with dinner, and he figured it out when I tried spiking his coffee. So, I tried women. Surely that wall would break down in the midst of a good orgasm, was what I thought. I hadn't met a mind yet that would stand up to that, but then I hadn't really tried it on Crawford yet. He deftly steered all of the women I sent toward him to other men, apparently ahead of the game, and I realized his precognition must have been telling him what I would do.

Finally, I broke down and just asked him what the hell was so important. He turned to me and smiled a slow, creepy sort of smile that chilled me and told me I probably really shouldn't have asked.

"It has been bothering you for months, hasn't it, Schuldich, what it is that I've been keeping from you?"

"Obviously, since I asked about it," I replied to his question, impatient and irritated that I had to stoop to asking at all.

"It bothers you now that you had to ask."

I didn't bother answering that with words, just rolled my eyes and gave him my patented 'I'm waiting' look. Since he seemed to have all the answers, all the time, I thought there was no need to say anything. So, I just watched him. He sat behind his desk, elbows on the arms of his comfortable leather desk chair, hands folded together in front of him, his chin just touching the first knuckle. I sat in front of him, in a much less comfortable chair made to encourage guests to stay as short a time as possible while conveying an impression of elegance and wealth. I leaned back in the chair, letting him know that I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon as I brought one leg up and rested my ankle on the other knee, slouching back in the chair, my hands crossed on my chest, looking for all the world like I intended to take a nap right there any minute.

We sat and stared at each other for a while. A full ten minutes passed on the clock, the hard edge of a support piece in the back of the chair digging into my shoulder blades the entire time and cramping the muscle there as I refused to break first and move. Ten minutes later, I was just about ready to break anyway, and just let him have his little victory as the pain in my back was becoming nearly unbearable. Ever since Takatori took a golf club to me after the death of his precious little Ouka, my back hasn't been the same. I think he pushed something out of alignment, but I haven't been able to get to a chiropractor or a good masseuse, so I can't be sure, and I am absolutely not letting Nagi use his powers on my back. I like walking.

Crawford moved his hands to the desk, but kept them folded, and removed his glasses, staring directly into my eyes as he relaxed his control and let a piece of that brick wall in his mind down. I walked into the gap eagerly, searching around and then backing out hastily. I found myself standing in his office, staring at him, the pain in my back forgotten in the face of those very disturbing mental images. I didn't say anything, just turned around and walked out. I never did ask if making me truly speechless had pleased him or not.

I went and hid in my bedroom, though I quickly regretted it. All of the bedroom furniture in the apartment was the same as when we moved in, since we hadn't bothered to replace any of it. The designer had chosen a western style bed for each room, complete with slatted headboard in the Shaker style. All I could think of when I looked at it was the image of me tied to it with one of Crawford's ties while he left huge hickies from my throat all the way down my chest and stomach to my groin. I looked away, shaking my head and trying to clear my head of those images. I was straight, damn it. I liked women and until now I had never had a thought in my head of myself with another man. Occasionally, I had messed with some little faggot's mind, but I always erased those images as soon as I was done playing, and I had never, ever felt a stirring in my own pants during it. But, fuck, I was hard. I was hard from those images Bradley Crawford had shown me.

I threw on my jacket and went out to prove to myself that it was Brad that was the pervert. A night of fun with a woman or two would solve this problem and prove to Crawford that it was all an aberration. I didn't want him because of those images. I was just horny because I hadn't had a chance to have sex with a woman in a couple of weeks. We'd been too busy between doing the elders dirty work and our own, much more secretive, activities.

So, I found myself in a bar. After a few drinks I managed to find a couple of girls who were drunk enough that it was easy to convince them that a threesome was all their idea. One was pliable enough that she even paid for the room at the love hotel without much more than a slight mental nudge from me. Everything was going great. They were both pretty hot, and seeing them together was really something. Then they started adding me into the mix, but despite how hot they were, I couldn't get into it. Nothing was getting me hard and I mentally cursed Brad Crawford. That thought brought up more of those disturbing mental images. Mainly ones of me on my hands and knees, with Crawford behind me, plunging into me, riding my ass hard and squeezing my hips hard enough to bruise, my own erection bobbing in time to his thrusts and me with my head thrown back, yelling for him to give it to me harder.

I heard noises of approval from the girls I was with and realized I was finally hard, but I knew exactly why I was, and it had nothing to do with them. I got up and zipped up my pants, throwing my shirt back on without bothering to button it. It took less than a thought to wipe me from their minds and leave them devouring each other on the bed. I wiped the attendant's mind on the way out, and the cabby's when he dropped me off, handily avoiding paying the fare and leaving him wondering why he had the meter running without a fare. The elevator ride seemed to take forever, and I was quickly becoming mentally exhausted keeping our neighbors from noticing the raging hard on in my pants caused by the things Crawford wanted to do to me.

I walked into the apartment, glad to note that Nagi and Farfarello were both out, their mental signatures far from where I was. I took off my shoes at the door, stripped off my jacket and walked back to Crawford's room, not caring that my shirt was half hanging off of me, not caring that my erection was tenting my pants very obviously. I opened the door without knocking and found him sitting calmly in an armchair in front of the window, dressed only in a floor-length yukata, the front open just enough that I could see his a bit of bare chest. I stumbled in and closed the door behind me, then leaned against it, my breath a little ragged as I watched him get up and walk to me. He reached out and helped me take off my shirt, still not speaking. When he reached for the fastenings on my pants, I broke the silence between us.

"This is your fault, damn you, Brad. You and your disturbing mental images."

The smug bastard just smiled at me and gripped my erection through my pants. I gasped, then moaned as he moved his hand. I felt his body heat as he leaned closer, felt the warm breath ghost over my ear.

"Shut up and get your ass naked and on the bed."

I looked up, part of me still trying to fight, but I knew I was lost when he looked at me.

He still keeps me out, most of the time, and I still mostly sleep with women. But when he does let me in, those disturbing mental images of his have a way of grabbing hold and making me do things. He's the only man I sleep with, the only man who makes me hard, and the only time I am ever anything resembling submissive is with him, during sex. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he wasn't just a precog, but I've seen the file. Rosenkreuz is never wrong. Unless he was able to hide it or influence someone who changed it.

Damn Crawford. Damn him and his disturbing mental images.

~END