'He looks somewhat dazed, but is grinning satisfied and slow.' PWP, CrawfordxSchuldig - psychic overload and an empty conference room.
Schuldig jerks his arm up instinctively, at the shoulder - Crawford feels the bones of Schuldig's forearm shift under his grasp as Schuldig tries to break the hold. Is he going to make a scene here? He'd normally have more sense that that, but with him in this mood, it's hard to tell. Crawford squeezes harder and twists Schuldig's arm around and down a bit, as a warning.
He stills; Crawford takes a breath, and is blinded for a few seconds as Schuldig perfunctorily drops all barriers and lets a wave of received mental static break over his head. As soon as the roaring dies down, he shoves Schuldig before him into the nearest empty room, feeling a little satisfaction at the gasp Schuldig makes as he trips and is pulled hard upright again.
He pauses to regain composure, but Schuldig, panicked and defensive and angry, is having none of it. 'You see now, huh?' he keeps saying. 'You see?' He's breathing heavily - they both are - his teeth are bared, his eyes are wide and manic and very blue. He tries to free his hands again, with a kind of frustrated whimper; then changes strategy, pushes forward into Crawford's space, and kisses him hard and open-mouthed.
Schuldig pulls away, and his breath ghosts over Crawford's cheek and jaw. His heart - Crawford feels it through the bony wrists - is going as fast as a bird's. Schuldig: he's selfish, he's irresponsible, his sanity is questionable at best ... he seems forever able to surprise Crawford. Always, he'll pull out something new.
Crawford kisses him, loosing one wrist but pushing him down firmly at the shoulder when he tries to put his tongue in. Underneath him, Schuldig seems to become less frantic. When they break off, he murmurs again, 'You see, huh,' laughs, then says, 'God damn am I horny right now.' He arches his body up towards Crawford supine, as pliant and strong as bamboo; hooks a leg about Crawford's right hip, the heel crooked against the inside of his leg, just above the knee. Crawford slips a hand under the one buttock and lifts Schuldig so the other foot is just brushing the floor. This close, he can feel Schuldig's telepathy as static prickling the hairs on his face; as a dam, metaphorically, strained and spilling over a little at the edges. To hold such power down, bare inches from his face - it's exhilarating. He rocks Schuldig back and forth impatiently, with his hips and with his shoulders. Runs his free hand up Schuldig's side in a mostly-rough caress, which is how Schuldig likes it.
'Nngh,' says Schuldig. He mumbles something, close at Crawford's ear - 'handkerchief', most probably, judging by the way he fumbles through Crawford's trouser pockets and the little noise of satisfaction he makes when he finds what he was looking for. He undoes Crawford's flies one-handed and slides his fingers in - they're wet, he must have spat on them to make them slick - and starts to stroke up and down, teasing by pulling Crawford's cotton handkerchief over so it brushes the tip.
No good. Schuldig doesn't get to control this; not after having made so much trouble in the first place. He tilts Schuldig's head back and bites the pale skin between his neck and the corner of his jaw, and is immediately rewarded with a wash of mental noise as Schuldig loses his grip on himself and moans at the sensation and the release of pressure. Crawford sees after-images of himself when he looks at Schuldig's face, feels in some way the clinging of Schuldig to his mental landscape as thoughts stream through him and out of him. Schuldig, warm and angular and not at all inclined to stop right now, bracing his shoulders against the wall to keep from falling as he pulls Crawford towards climax.
He shudders when Crawford comes, so much so that Crawford lets go of Schuldig where he's been holding him up under the leg. Schuldig is left hanging on by one arm and almost ends up pulling them both over. He must have still been in there - yes; Crawford feels the tendrils of Schuldig's mind disentangling themselves from him now. He looks somewhat dazed, but is grinning satisfied and slow. He even thinks to tidy Crawford's bits up with the clean part of the handkerchief and do his flies back up, unusually considerate.
Crawford keeps on watching him when they pull away from each other to rearrange their clothing. Silhouetted against the window, he pulls the creases out of the tight v-necked jumper he's wearing, finger combs his hair, rubs at the back of his neck in that way that means he has a headache coming on and will be bitching to Crawford about it for the rest of the day. Crawford tells him to go and wash his hands, for goodness' sakes; tells him they're expected to turn up in seven-and-a-half minutes and he'd better do something to hide that mark. Crawford squeezes Schuldig's shoulder and kisses him lightly on the temple before they leave the empty room.