This is a repost of a fic that's been up already. There were several
grammatical errors and stuff that I wanted to change and for some damn
reason, FF.net wouldn't let me replace the chapter with new content. So,
I'm just reposting it.
Oh, I am also reposting the reviews, but if any of the previous reviewers has any sort of problem with that just tell me and I'll take them down. .
This story is AU. New York City, modern times. It may end up being a prequel to another story of mine . but can certainly stand as a one-shot. It's Brad x Schu, but if it does become the prequel there will be a *lot* of pairings between Weiss and Schwarz members.
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Schuldig glided through the restaurant as though he were water, a smooth, relentless, continuous element. Sliding, sauntering, shifting through the world as though he understood the spaces between molecules, and forced them to part farther with his presence.
He moved into the seat across his ... significant other. The man dressed in a deceivingly white suit. Brad Crawford. Gorgeous Brad Crawford. Rich Brad Crawford. Dangerous Brad Crawford.
"How long has it been, liebe?" Schuldig's tone slick, casual.
"Forty-three days," Crawford responded, not allowing Schuldig's presence to in the least bit disturb his fettuccine alla primavera meal. He didn't even look up.
Ah, Schuldig mused over whether he should be pleased to know that Crawford knew how long they had been apart since their little ... argument. An argument that left bruises on his arms ... but it was so, so worth it to see Crawford's features flustered ... the harsh look in his typically impassive golden-brown eyes, his jaw tight. That voice, peculiarly cultured for an American, became delightfully dark, bitter, severe. People died, when Crawford was that angry, but Schuldig survived.
Anyway, should he have be pleased, that Crawford knew how long it's been? No. No, Schuldig shouldn't. Crawford always knew things like that. Crawford was always aware of time. Never late, always on schedule, conscious of when what needed to be done. Schuldig shouldn't be flattered Crawford knew how long they've been apart in the same manner he knew exactly when his next business meeting was. But, still, he felt flattered. Maybe it was because he was as important as business.
"Ah. Forty-three days? Then, how many hours it's been, since we last fucked?" Schuldig inquired in a falsely sweet tone. A few people heard. A few eyes moved to them. The redhead suspected Crawford resented it when made scenes.
"Hn," was Crawford's nonchalant response. He did set down his fork, though. That almost seemed like some sort of pathetic victory.
"I was going to wait until you came crawling back, liebe ... but I'd rather fuck and make up now."
Crawford lifted a hand, waved it slightly. A man approached. A bodyguard. An obvious bodyguard, who had been standing in the corner, wearing a dark suit. But Schuldig knew there was a few inconspicuous bodyguards. A few men lurking about the room ... sitting, talking, eating ... who were hired by Crawford. Very clever, to appear sloppy, but not actually be. More clever than previous unscrupulous, questionable "businessmen" that Schuldig had encountered. The man was prepared for both his seen and unseen enemies.
Schuldig's eyes narrowed when the attendant handed Crawford a vanilla folder.
"What the hell, Crawford?"
The raven-haired man's white fingers opened it ... tugged out a photograph and tossed it across the table ... then set the opened folder down beside his meal.
"Know that man?" Crawford inquired slyly; the edge of his lip curled slightly, subtle amusement behind those glasses.
The photograph was that of an aged German man. A rich German businessman. A dead German businessman.
Schuldig glanced toward the open folder. There was a second photograph. That same rich man with a much younger, beautiful green-haired individual. Schuldig, before his hair was an unrealistic orange-red. Beneath that photo, documents and newspaper clippings ...
"Well, it didn't last. And you're a much better fuck," Schuldig smirked. Sarcasm was an appropriate defense. He flashed a smile to the bodyguard as he retreated . a 'you fucker' smile.
"It didn't last, Schuldig, because he was murdered. How coincidental, that his young lover vanished at exactly that time, along with most of his fortune," Crawford responded competently, about to return to his meal. Schuldig didn't let him, though. Schuldig grabbed his chair and shifted it directly beside Crawford's, moving his lips to Crawford's ear.
"Fear me, liebe?" Schuldig whispered. Provocative.
Crawford turned to face him. A hand moved to Schuldig's hair, giving it a familiar tug that forced Schuldig's neck to crane back.
"Wary of you." Crawford corrected, examining Schuldig's face, "Judging from your fortune, you've had more than one victim."
To Schuldig, it felt good, having Crawford's eyes on him like that. How dangerous Crawford can be is part of his allure. And Crawford's complete, economic attention was blissful, to the German.
"Shit, liebe. I got tired of wrinkled fucks. It became real lackluster after a while ... and I have enough money, now. So I found myself a rich, sexy bastard to settle-down with as I enjoy my retirement," he responded, trying to look like he wasn't enjoying the situation. The attention given to his past and what he was capable of.
Crawford's mouth was a fine line ... but his eyes reflected a rather perverse, subtly sadistic inner-amusement, in regards to the situation.
"Absolutely wicked. You truly are the devil, 'liebe,' " Crawford acknowledged. Then he leaned forward to gently nibble at the corner of Schuldig's exposed jaw ... it had been too promising, to ignore. The German smirked, neck still taut from Crawford's grip on his hair, but a hand slithered to squeeze at the American's inner thigh.
"Attractive quality, isn't it?" he murmured huskily, "you would have never given me access to your . undoubtedly, legitimate funds, anyway." A threat. Crawford was involved in illegal activities. Schuldig knew this. Stubborn, thinking he could use that against Crawford.
Now, the American smirked coolly. Schuldig was deliciously twisted.
"Considering your status in this country ... "
"I could drag you down with me, liebe."
"I could kill you," Crawford returned, moving his face closer to Schuldig's. The German's teeth clenched. What was he? Two inches away from the American's mouth? Those fingers cruelly clamped on his hair ... rendering him incapable of taking Crawford's lips. Schuldig tried to lean forward to take them anyway ... but Crawford restrained him.
"If you betray me ... " Crawford's voice thick with threat.
Schuldig's hand wandered in that region of Crawford's inner thigh.
"Won't. Wasn't planning on it," Schuldig's interest had never been the money. Crawford was ... a challenge. An ambition. Not wealth, Crawford. All of Crawford. Completely. Schuldig's hand still wandered.
"Not here," Crawford instructed, hand grabbing at his wrist.
"Why the fuck not? You own this restaurant." Maybe half of New York city too.
"Not here, Schuldig." Irritated.
"The back-seat of your BMW."
They were creating a scene. Some people were listening, a few were bold enough to watch. Crawford thrusted Schuldig back into his seat with an annoyed grunt and went back to his meal.
Without words, Crawford had agreed to fuck Schuldig in the back- seat of his BMW. But he would make Schuldig wait. Schuldig waited.
The American was annoyed. There was tension in the air. Schuldig smirked, wondering if that translated into rougher sex in Crawford's luxurious BMW. If so, good.
Very good.
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Pending on how many reviews I get, I might write that chapter about what happens in Crawford's BMW.
Oh, I am also reposting the reviews, but if any of the previous reviewers has any sort of problem with that just tell me and I'll take them down. .
This story is AU. New York City, modern times. It may end up being a prequel to another story of mine . but can certainly stand as a one-shot. It's Brad x Schu, but if it does become the prequel there will be a *lot* of pairings between Weiss and Schwarz members.
----------------------------------
Schuldig glided through the restaurant as though he were water, a smooth, relentless, continuous element. Sliding, sauntering, shifting through the world as though he understood the spaces between molecules, and forced them to part farther with his presence.
He moved into the seat across his ... significant other. The man dressed in a deceivingly white suit. Brad Crawford. Gorgeous Brad Crawford. Rich Brad Crawford. Dangerous Brad Crawford.
"How long has it been, liebe?" Schuldig's tone slick, casual.
"Forty-three days," Crawford responded, not allowing Schuldig's presence to in the least bit disturb his fettuccine alla primavera meal. He didn't even look up.
Ah, Schuldig mused over whether he should be pleased to know that Crawford knew how long they had been apart since their little ... argument. An argument that left bruises on his arms ... but it was so, so worth it to see Crawford's features flustered ... the harsh look in his typically impassive golden-brown eyes, his jaw tight. That voice, peculiarly cultured for an American, became delightfully dark, bitter, severe. People died, when Crawford was that angry, but Schuldig survived.
Anyway, should he have be pleased, that Crawford knew how long it's been? No. No, Schuldig shouldn't. Crawford always knew things like that. Crawford was always aware of time. Never late, always on schedule, conscious of when what needed to be done. Schuldig shouldn't be flattered Crawford knew how long they've been apart in the same manner he knew exactly when his next business meeting was. But, still, he felt flattered. Maybe it was because he was as important as business.
"Ah. Forty-three days? Then, how many hours it's been, since we last fucked?" Schuldig inquired in a falsely sweet tone. A few people heard. A few eyes moved to them. The redhead suspected Crawford resented it when made scenes.
"Hn," was Crawford's nonchalant response. He did set down his fork, though. That almost seemed like some sort of pathetic victory.
"I was going to wait until you came crawling back, liebe ... but I'd rather fuck and make up now."
Crawford lifted a hand, waved it slightly. A man approached. A bodyguard. An obvious bodyguard, who had been standing in the corner, wearing a dark suit. But Schuldig knew there was a few inconspicuous bodyguards. A few men lurking about the room ... sitting, talking, eating ... who were hired by Crawford. Very clever, to appear sloppy, but not actually be. More clever than previous unscrupulous, questionable "businessmen" that Schuldig had encountered. The man was prepared for both his seen and unseen enemies.
Schuldig's eyes narrowed when the attendant handed Crawford a vanilla folder.
"What the hell, Crawford?"
The raven-haired man's white fingers opened it ... tugged out a photograph and tossed it across the table ... then set the opened folder down beside his meal.
"Know that man?" Crawford inquired slyly; the edge of his lip curled slightly, subtle amusement behind those glasses.
The photograph was that of an aged German man. A rich German businessman. A dead German businessman.
Schuldig glanced toward the open folder. There was a second photograph. That same rich man with a much younger, beautiful green-haired individual. Schuldig, before his hair was an unrealistic orange-red. Beneath that photo, documents and newspaper clippings ...
"Well, it didn't last. And you're a much better fuck," Schuldig smirked. Sarcasm was an appropriate defense. He flashed a smile to the bodyguard as he retreated . a 'you fucker' smile.
"It didn't last, Schuldig, because he was murdered. How coincidental, that his young lover vanished at exactly that time, along with most of his fortune," Crawford responded competently, about to return to his meal. Schuldig didn't let him, though. Schuldig grabbed his chair and shifted it directly beside Crawford's, moving his lips to Crawford's ear.
"Fear me, liebe?" Schuldig whispered. Provocative.
Crawford turned to face him. A hand moved to Schuldig's hair, giving it a familiar tug that forced Schuldig's neck to crane back.
"Wary of you." Crawford corrected, examining Schuldig's face, "Judging from your fortune, you've had more than one victim."
To Schuldig, it felt good, having Crawford's eyes on him like that. How dangerous Crawford can be is part of his allure. And Crawford's complete, economic attention was blissful, to the German.
"Shit, liebe. I got tired of wrinkled fucks. It became real lackluster after a while ... and I have enough money, now. So I found myself a rich, sexy bastard to settle-down with as I enjoy my retirement," he responded, trying to look like he wasn't enjoying the situation. The attention given to his past and what he was capable of.
Crawford's mouth was a fine line ... but his eyes reflected a rather perverse, subtly sadistic inner-amusement, in regards to the situation.
"Absolutely wicked. You truly are the devil, 'liebe,' " Crawford acknowledged. Then he leaned forward to gently nibble at the corner of Schuldig's exposed jaw ... it had been too promising, to ignore. The German smirked, neck still taut from Crawford's grip on his hair, but a hand slithered to squeeze at the American's inner thigh.
"Attractive quality, isn't it?" he murmured huskily, "you would have never given me access to your . undoubtedly, legitimate funds, anyway." A threat. Crawford was involved in illegal activities. Schuldig knew this. Stubborn, thinking he could use that against Crawford.
Now, the American smirked coolly. Schuldig was deliciously twisted.
"Considering your status in this country ... "
"I could drag you down with me, liebe."
"I could kill you," Crawford returned, moving his face closer to Schuldig's. The German's teeth clenched. What was he? Two inches away from the American's mouth? Those fingers cruelly clamped on his hair ... rendering him incapable of taking Crawford's lips. Schuldig tried to lean forward to take them anyway ... but Crawford restrained him.
"If you betray me ... " Crawford's voice thick with threat.
Schuldig's hand wandered in that region of Crawford's inner thigh.
"Won't. Wasn't planning on it," Schuldig's interest had never been the money. Crawford was ... a challenge. An ambition. Not wealth, Crawford. All of Crawford. Completely. Schuldig's hand still wandered.
"Not here," Crawford instructed, hand grabbing at his wrist.
"Why the fuck not? You own this restaurant." Maybe half of New York city too.
"Not here, Schuldig." Irritated.
"The back-seat of your BMW."
They were creating a scene. Some people were listening, a few were bold enough to watch. Crawford thrusted Schuldig back into his seat with an annoyed grunt and went back to his meal.
Without words, Crawford had agreed to fuck Schuldig in the back- seat of his BMW. But he would make Schuldig wait. Schuldig waited.
The American was annoyed. There was tension in the air. Schuldig smirked, wondering if that translated into rougher sex in Crawford's luxurious BMW. If so, good.
Very good.
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Pending on how many reviews I get, I might write that chapter about what happens in Crawford's BMW.