Monochromatic Whispers
Disclaimers: What I would give…
Author: Avium
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Crawford x Ken
Fic length: 1/5
Timeline: Indefinite
Author's note: I said that I would stop writing fanfics for a bit so that I can spend some time reading up on styles and grammar usage. However, it appears that I'm not true to my word. So here you have it – the pairing that I'm currently obsessing over.
Written in 2nd person POV as part of my style experimentation. First off is Crawford's, and the next chapter is Ken's 2nd person POV and so on.
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Routine is something that you don't ever question; routine is something that you are comfortable with. There is nothing more disruptive to your plans than an unforeseen event, so you prize routine above all else. Yet routine can be strangely unpredictable at times as well. It is especially the case when another rather than yourself determines the frequencies of the encounters.
But you do not mind. Not in the least. Because while the boy's desires waxes and wanes, he never leaves you waiting for too long. Predictability so.
Besides, he's waiting for you now. At the usual place, in his usual clothes and sitting in his usual spot. It is best that you hurry over while he is still hesitant about walking away.
But you don't hurry – you never do. That's one of the perks associated with being a clairvoyant: you can see the future. And his future… is to be spent with you for today.
What colour is the sky right now?
A tilted head, followed by the customary snort of disapproval before you lower your gaze to meet the pushing crowds. You never care for looking skywards - a silly waste of time and an accident waiting to happen in the crowded Tokyo streets should you decide to so much as pause. You always move with a destination in mind. Hands bury themselves deep in your pockets, with your right hand occasionally lifting itself out to push your glasses higher up the bridge of your nose. It appears that you aren't in the mood to take note of the wild blue yonder today.
So… what is the colour, Crawford?
Blue - just blue. Grey during the storms, but otherwise always blue.
Oh? Only blue? You never notice that the silk canvas is rippling with an assortment of tones, each shade dancing red and gold against the light of the setting sun? How about the bright ocean-blue kite dotting the sky?
There, a little more to your left - do you see it now? It's trailing a tail of long, whipping ribbons after it. It really seems to be enjoying the evening breeze…
No? You can't see it?
What a pity. It is so pretty.
But you have no use for such unserviceable beauty; do you, Crawford? Everything to you must possess a purpose; it must help you obtain a goal or meet your needs. And most importantly, they must never deny you. Once you've plundered all usefulness from someone or something, they can go to hell for all you care. Heck, you will even give them a hand down to that inferno, won't you? Just to get them out of your sight, lest they come a-begging when it's their rightful turn to solicit aid?
Oh, you have arrived at your destination.
The lady at the front desk doesn't even notice you anymore; she knows that you have the key to the room in question. She also knows that you won't so much as greet her, so she reserves her sweet smile for the other guests – those more likely to hand her a tip or two at any rate. What she doesn't know is that you gave away a duplicate key to another sometime ago. The passing of the room's other 'guest' won't have aroused her attention: he looks so naïve – like a guest's younger brother.
That other is in the room right now - waiting for you. For you and you alone. So ascend the staircase you do – steadily and almost noiselessly. Catlike and predatory.
Strange - you are knitting your eyebrows, as if angry or upset. Why should that be the case? You know who is in there; you know what he wants; and you know what you want. It's a simple, workable system that needs no further modifications as it functions so well for you. So why such an ugly expression?
No answers.
You reach out for the doorknob and twist it open deftly, no hesitance in your movements as you push the door open and step into the room. You already know where he is - he will always be sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with the hem of his shirt as if still doubtful of his decision. But you will tear him away from his solitude by marching right up to his side, take his toying hand away from his attire and pull him up against yourself.
He will look at you, mouth agape in surprise. No matter how many times the two of you have been through this he is still so easily startled - by your overwhelming presence, your towering frame and… your overbearing desire for him.
Another world. Silent except for his irregular breathing and your steady breathes.
This world… has no words. It has only the sound of flesh against flesh, hitched breathing and the occasional vocal betrayal of pleasure that you find with him.
He's so soft and so willing, isn't he? Turquoises looking up at you with such… oh wait, he doesn't seem too pleased, does he? If I don't know any better, I will say that he is ashamed of the response of his body to your expert ministering. Just look at how he is turning away, his lips pressed together thinly as if he is furious. He does that each time - it's almost boring for you to watch. And it grates on your nerves as well… Doesn't he understand how futile are his attempts at defying you?
So what do you do? A razor-thin smile, and your mouth finds its way to that sensitive spot on his neck. You know the movement – a quick flick of your tongue tip against the shivering flesh, followed by the clamping of teeth over the moist skin. There you have it - he is gasping now, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden onslaught of pleasure; and in the same moment you seize the junction of his jeans in a hurried clutch.
He shudders, then once trashing limbs weaken as teeth scrap roughly against the tender skin. He is no longer so intent on denying his own urges. Instead he reaches out to draw you closer, crushing your hips together in a dangerous, heated dance. In the tangle of appendages it is impossible to make out who is reduced to a state of complete undress first. But it doesn't matter the moment you shove him back down against the mattress; when his eyes look back at you to betray the fear and nervousness within him. Then all expressions, all the anger and hatred… it all dissolves when the union is achieved.
It is nothing more than a meeting of flesh with flesh, desires with desires – a fervent, almost angry motion that tips the scales over in both parties' favour. By this time the only thing that holds meaning for you is the seething need to achieve physical gratification. No words and no love – just sex.
When you strip the act of all its emotions, it's just sex.
Sex.
Simple, sensual and salacious.
It is over before you know it. You draw back and out from the heaving boy beneath you, trying to escaping from his vice-like grip as you ease out of him. He won't let go at first, but a reassuring press of your lips to his will usually cause him to pull back his fingernails from your shoulders. You scowl – you know that you will be marked for the next two days at least. But he likes it when you show that you care, or at least when you show that you *might* care; and he lets go of you because of that.
A gentle caress of your fingers against his cheek as you watch him drift off to sleep, then hands lift the slightly creased blanket over him as his gaze breaks away from yours through too-heavy eyelids.
You always wait for him to drift off into unawareness before you even consider leaving, leaning your back against the headboard as you watch sleep ensnare him - all these to create the illusion that you care. It's a deception that you are both deeply aware of, but still keep up despite its obviousness to both. Watchful ambers will peel away from the boy the moment his breathing settles into a steady lull, and you will climb off the bed slowly so as to avoid waking the brunette.
A quick shower to cleanse yourself of the incriminating evidence before getting dressed, followed by a glancing check - the boy is still sleeping peacefully. Clothing articles are retrieved from the end of the bed almost cautiously, and each piece meticulously replaced on your body before you make for the door to leave him to awake alone. As always.
Aren't you forgetting something, Crawford?
You stop a few steps away from the entrance and turn back to look at the room. On the small bedside table is an expensive-looking notepad with the hotel's name printed as the header. Leathered soles begin to make their way towards the table and you reach for the notepad. The Mont Blanc fountain pen leaves your breast pocket and is swiftly uncapped as you take it to the paper supported only by your palm. Your strokes are quick but graceful – a sharp contrast to your way of loving him.
A minute or so later, you leave the room for today. The note sits quietly on the pillow next to the sleeping boy.
"Thank you. It had been delightful, as usual."
~ End chapter 1
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Author's notes: It's becoming apparent that I have nothing much to write for the BradKen pairing except the sex itself. But I'll let you be the judge of it.