Monochromatic Whispers

by Avium

[Crawford x Ken] When you strip the act of all its emotions, it's just sex. [COMPLETED]

4. 4th Note

Monochromatic Whispers ~ Salacious

Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.

Author: Avium

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Crawford x Ken

Fic length: 4/5

Timeline: Indefinite

Author's note: Written in Ken's 2nd person POV.

-@-@-@-@-

Rain.

It's wet, cold and generally unpleasant to be caught in; you have lost count of the number of stories that you have heard about people catching their death of flu from just one bout of natural shower. However, you always turn your nose up at such tales and immensely enjoy football games conducted during a downpour – one of those greater pleasures of life, you decided back then.

But it's funny, isn't it – walking alone in the rain? And you are using a deliberately slow pace at that. Against the rushing figures dotting the pavements your almost sluggish pace draws curious glances, before the onlookers decide that keeping themselves dry is of much higher priority than satisfying their wonderment towards a stranger's oddities.

The rain beats down harder, the water collecting inside the plastic grocery bags that you half-drag, half-carry in your hands. Reflexively your fingers wind around the handles tighter, sealing off a larger portion of the bags' wide openings and effectively slowing down the rate at which the rainwater fills the bags. You had clean forgotten about them when you woke up a quarter of an hour ago, your immediate thoughts having been occupied by another. When the receptionist called out to you and waved the bags from behind the counter, you were tempted to just ignore her and walk straight out of the motel. But you will need an alibi when you return to the Koneko – even a weak one as such would have to suffice.

Besides, you don't want her to make any comments to the owner of the room, which will no doubt be the case had you just walked away and left the items with her.

"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements."

That had come like a sound slap across bared cheeks when you found the note tucked inside your clenched fist as you stirred. The anger the followed burnt viciously inside of you, blurring your mind and heart with confusion before pure rage took over. You didn't notice the carefully arranged blanket over you, but given your state of mind at that point in time it was a natural oversight.

Note in hand you made for the washroom and stood under the running shower before you finally released the paper to the waters. You watched as ink seeped and snaked across the moist surface before the note was finally torn apart from the middle by the persistent pelting of the water. You refused to step away from under the water until the entire note dissolved into nothing, that being in spite of the fact that the water had been too hot for your comfort. One might have classified the water's temperature as scalding, seeing how red your skin was after you stepped out of the washroom. You didn't notice, though.

Because the anger had burnt more than the water ever could.

Yet right now the rain beats upon your skin with the same piercing bite of scalding water – only that it burns cold and replaces your normal body temperature with a coolness that grows inwards. But you are in no hurry to escape the torment, deriving from your present state a trance-like calm as you walk home under nature's waterworks. You do not notice yourself shivering involuntarily – your eyes remain fixed to the ground as you trace the path home. Water continues to soak into your clothes and hair, gradually weighing you down and slowing down your pace.

Body heat imprisoned under water-heavy fabrics, it creates the feeling of being cocooned by a loving embrace – something that you find foolish to hanker after when working in this line. Still, it remains a charming illusion to harbour.

It will be a very long walk home.

-@-@-@-@-

You push open the backdoor of the shop with your shoulder, not bothering to utter your usual greeting as you return. While you have not glanced at your watch on your way back, you know from the dying stream of headlights and weakening downpour that the hour is late. It works in your favour – you will be able to sneak in quietly and make it to your room without alerting the others; should your teammates beset questions upon you at least you will not have to face the music until the next day.

Quietly you lower the bags to the floor, the contents inside cluttering against each other with wet sloshes. Inwardly you cringe, knowing what a chore it will be to dry all the groceries sufficiently for storing away so your teammates will not stumble upon a store-like display on the kitchen table tomorrow.

You settle yourself onto the floor with a weary sigh, the wet denim pressing into you as it makes contact with the floorboard. For a moment you wonder if you have transformed into the equivalent of a human sponge, seeing how you drip and expel water with every tiny movement you make. Hands reach forward to grasp a shoe firmly before yanking it off, and then attention is turned to the next foot. All this while you are keenly aware of the fact that you are making a mess of the place, and it will take up a good part of the night just putting everything in order.

As if you do not already have enough on your plate.

A rustle from behind you, and instinctively you whip your head around to place a name to the source. It turns out to be unnecessary, for the 'source' has a name.

Fujimiya Aya, to be precise.

Gaping in shock is the first action that surfaces from you as turquoises meets calm amethysts. This is one person that you do not expect to run into at such an hour. If any such chance encounters were anticipated, you will be more inclined to believe that it will be Omi catching your return. But your eyes cannot deny the fact that it is not the lanky blonde standing before you; rather, the man who is taking the groceries to the kitchen is none other than your stoic redhead leader.

Strange, really – how he neither greets nor questions you, but simply carries your shopping away as if what he is seeing is nothing more than an everyday occurrence. To be frank it unnerves you, and your gaze never leaves him until he disappears into the kitchen. Blinking away the droplets that are draining from your locks and into your eyes, you return your attention to the remaining shoe. It refuses to budge, and mouthing a curse you begin to remove it the slow way by untying the shoelace. Your fingers fumble in their task with great frequency – perhaps it is due to the slippery surface of the lace as a result of the rain. Or else, it is the steadily approaching footsteps that have stolen your attention from the task. Ears practically prick up the moment the footfalls cease, and slowly you turn around, wary of what you may find awaiting you.

You nearly bump your nose against the offered hand, a gesture that you do not expect from your leader. Quickly you kick off the annoying shoe and place a wet hand into the extended one, cringing inwardly at the thought of Aya's almost-certain annoyance at you for daring to touch his clean limb with your dirty paw. But he is the instigator of this action, is he not?

He closes his fingers around you and pulls you to your feet. The warmth from his flesh feels awkward against your rain-chilled skin, but you can spare little vigilance towards such trivialities. As he leads you back to your room, you wonder to yourself about the pending interrogation that Aya must be running through his head right now. Your footsteps seem clownish compared to his steady, straight-walking ones as the both of you ascend the staircase to your room, and for a minute there you fear that you may end up tripping and pulling the man down with you.

Almost intuitively, his grasp tightens around your hand. The movement causes you to jolt slightly at the sudden onslaught of human heat before your body relaxes.

He leads you back to your room and releases your hand as he pushes you down to sit on bed; you miss the warmth of his touch almost immediately.

You look up, expecting him to have already left. Instead you find him approaching you, a towel from your dresser in hand. Carefully he drapes the towel around you, muttering in his usual no-nonsense tone, "Dry yourself now, or you'll catch a cold."

When he spoke, all illusions had shattered.

With a limp hand you take a corner of the towel to your face and wipe feebly at your skin – the well-worn towel soaks up the raindrops easily. The action invokes the welcomed return of heat from within you to return to warm your skin, and within seconds you bring both hands into the job of rubbing yourself dry.

He stands just two feet away, arms hanging by his sides as he continues to monitor your movements. When you finally end your ritual he takes the towel from your lax grasp before heading out of the room.

He stops at the doorway and turns around to face you- the dim orange glow of the corridor light bathing his features with a tender glow. One hand pressing against the doorframe and the other still holding your towel, he speaks in a softer (or will you say, more caring?) voice:

"If you need anything, Ken, we are here."

You lift your head and watch him as he peels his gaze away to continue his leave. You raise a hand jerkily the moment the tall figure disappears behind the walls, mouth hanging open as you flex your fingers apprehensively. Dare you call the retreating figure back?

Turquoises downcast, your arm drops to rest beside your thigh on the mattress. You dare not – not because you are afraid to face an outright refusal to your request. You are somehow certain that the man will stay the night as long as you make your request known. But you are worried that you may talk too much and reveal the damned truth – a fatal weakness of yours.

This is your burden; you will trouble no other with your fears. Neither will you give them the chance to see your fragility.

They will see a smiling Ken for as long as possible.

-@-@-@-@-

Sleep is fitful for you. Deriving complete rest after experiencing such logic-defying pleasures is a feat best left to Goliath to accomplish, you decide as you rub the images from your eyes.

… Is it really pleasure?

Or is it a sort of pain that you have confused for sweet delight?

Your hand ceases in its motions as you sit yourself upright. Back slightly hunched you tilt your head towards the door – it's been shut. It must have been Aya coming back to check on you after you fell asleep last night, although you are sure that you did not manage to find sleep until near dawn.

Why does he care, anyway?

Kicking off the tangled up blanket, you make for the washroom at the end of the corridor. The face that greets you in the mirror is not unexpected, but it causes you to jerk backwards before you recognise it as your own.

No bloodshot eyes or puffy lids – good. At least you know for now that you had not accidentally revealed anything to Aya last night.

But the darting eyes and messed up hair… well, they give away quite something else. Don't they, Ken?

Shoving the plug in place you let the sink fill until it threatens to overflow. You proceed to turn the tap off and with hands astride the basin you spend a minute or so just glaring at the face in the mirror. You then gather your fringe backwards in one sweeping movement and draw a deep breath – before you dunk your face right into the chilling water.

Against the first rush of cold you almost release your held breath into the water, forcing you to fight against your reflexes as you hold yourself down.

In this watery chasm, you lose track of time completely. Mentally counting the seconds that have since passed quickly falls out of rhythm. You only pull yourself out of the water after a dull stab signalling the need for fresh air registers in your chest cavity.

Droplets splash liberally across the length of the room as you throw your head back carelessly to shake the water from your eyes. You blink to clear away the last few droplets before turning to look at the figure in the mirror.

Better, you decide, as you regard the fresh-faced figure reflected back while you dry your fringe with your towel.

Now – time to go downstairs and tend to the shop.

A quick change of attire later you are bouncing your way down the flight of wooden steps – a habit of yours ever since you first came to work in the Koneko, though it has become nothing more than a conditioned façade in the recent months. Halfway down the steps you hear the lanky blonde calling out to you:

"Oi, Ken – did you remember to get the marmalade yesterday?"

Oh, crap.

Yes, you remember the little jar of orange jelly on the shopping list perfectly – you even recall planning today's breakfast ahead of time when you first dropped the marmalade into your basket. But you don't remember taking it out of the wet plastic bags to dry last night. Come to think of it, you did not do anything with the groceries last night at all, right?

Double crap.

Your mind goes blank the moment you try to come up with a somewhat believable excuse as to why you 'forgot' about the marmalade yesterday; it will give you sufficient time to dry out the groceries before presenting the marmalade to Yohji at a later time.

You are about to lay out for the man the intricate plot that led to the thieving of your groceries by a bunch of young hooligans when a deep, steady voice sounds from the kitchen, "It's here, Yohji."

Aya – again.

You inhale sharply – now you'll have to try to come up with something to pull over Aya as well. And you know from experience that Aya is not an easy one to hoodwink. It must be some sort of a conspiracy theory, you assume – the way that Aya just crashed right into your mental explanation to Yohji.

"Oh good – thanks, Aya… Hey, why is the label all wrinkled and peeling?"

You fight the urge to just bolt to your room, only because of your overwhelming urge to hear Aya's reply to the blonde's question. You worry – because you do not know whose side Aya is standing on in this matter…

"I dropped it into the sink, Kudou."

"Alright, Aya – ease up on the last names, okay? Sheesh – you made it sound as if I were trying to pick a fight with you or something!"

By now, you are half-slumped against the wall, eyes wide with disbelief. Did Aya just take the rap for you? And for no apparent reason at that?

Perhaps it is raining cheesecakes too.

You draw a few deep breaths to still the mental processes that went spinning out of control only a moment ago before you continue towards the kitchen for breakfast. Yohji pops out of the kitchen so suddenly that he nearly crashes into you. Smiling around the slice of toast in his mouth, he utters something to you before he makes his way to the dining room. Either he had said "morning" or "odd thing" – you are not too concerned.

You peek around the doorway and into the kitchen. Aya is standing in front of the stove with his back facing you, making it hard to see what he is doing. You decide to not risk asking him and instead make for the cabinet to retrieve some cereal.

You catch sight of something familiar out of a corner of your eye and you turn to look at it – a new tin of coffee powder. Didn't you buy that yesterday…?

A good, hard look around the room yields the fact that all the items purchased yesterday on your shopping trip have been placed in their respective spots already – each looking dry and spotlessly clean. The only giveaway sign that they are indeed the ones you bought are the peeling labels on several items.

Swallowing awkwardly, you step closer to the redhead and whisper quietly, "Thanks."

"You're welcomed." He doesn't even look back at you – maybe he's been hypnotised by the ticking egg timer next to the pot of boiling water. You press no further and instead take your leave, feeling grateful for the man's quiet nature for once.

Did he do it out of concern, you wonder? Or did he do it for some other reasons?

You need not wonder for long. Later that afternoon during the off-peak hours, you catch him carrying a bouquet of flowers and walking out of the backdoor quietly.

You recall the frequent afternoons when he disappears and does not reappear in the flower shop until two hours later – just as how Yohji sometimes take leave in the evenings (without a lady tucked under his arm, you note) and don't return until the next day, or Omi who spends strangely long hours alone in the mission room with the computer when there are no missions in sight.

They never explain their solitary activities to you; and neither do you to them.

You had puzzled over the possibility of it being out of a peculiar form of consideration that they never ask for a reason when you disappear for several hours. They may notice your downcast gaze as you return from those mysterious trips, but they never did bother you over it.

The doorbell chimes as the last customer clears out of the shop. You pause in your tidying of the shop to glance around the emptied room – no one is there, not even your teammates…

You finally realise: that it is not out of respect for your privacy that they do not question you. Rather, it's because they do not want to give you a chance to turn around and set the same questions upon them.

They have their own secrets after all. Be they big ones or small ones, they are still secrets to be kept away from prying eyes and nosy parkers. Besides, you're just Ken in their eyes. How dangerous can your secrets be?

Sometimes, you wonder exactly what holds the four of you together.

-@-@-@-@-

Keeping things in is a sure-fire way to earn a one-way ticket to the mental institute; talking about them ensures that the air is cleared before missiles actually start flying.

Then again, there are those who say that keeping things in ensures that peace is maintained; by harnessing the power of Zen you will be able to disregard these trifling problems, and in time you won't even have to air these issues.

You don't know which is your preferred philosophy. Actually, you don't give a damn either way. All you know is that you have questions that need to be answered, and keeping them in will not help the process at all.

Guess we know which philosophy you live by now, huh, Ken?

Your feet have taken you to a place where you might not have had the courage to venture to on any other day. You consider the possibly that you may be possessed by some evil spirit of sorts to actually have the guts to park your motorcycle in the parking lot of that particular building – to come in full view of the building's occupants. How big a risk are you taking exactly?

Madness, you decide as you remove your helmet with shaking hands. This must be sheer madness.

A small part of you starts to yell, throwing every argument possible against the actions that you are about to take. To present yourself unarmed at the enemy headquarters is suicide; to show up when your knowledge of his workplace should be a secret is plain stupid; to turn up where it is not your usual meeting place…

"Because I derive ample amusement from our arrangements."

… You decide – routine be damned.

After putting the helmet away carefully, you turn to face the entrance of the building. Will it be wise to take the most direct route to your destination? Where your appearance is likely to attract violent reactions?

You consider the risks that you are taking – if you continue to take to the front lobby you will no doubt run the risk of being recognised, but there is also an equal chance of you being passed off as a regular young man; perhaps as visiting brother or cousin, but you're likely to be overlooked as a form of threat. On the other hand, sneaking in by the backdoor or by any other less direct means will practically guarantee the guards swarming over you if you are found out.

But it doesn't really mean anything in view of the fact that the man is a clairvoyant, and he has probably anticipated your movements and is sending out instructions even as you wage a mental battle against yourself, no?

So you take the most direct approach by walking up the stone steps and passing through the automatic glass doors. One after another the stuffily suited men walk past you, occasionally throwing a curious glance at your casual attire. They seem larger and more imposing with their heavy suits on, and you can almost feel yourself shirking under their gaze. So it is with slightly hunched shoulders that you arrive at the large office billing near the reception counter.

Turquoises run over the rows of white words, your search being so intent that you effectively shut out the receptionists who are calling out to you asking if you need any assistance. It is, however, unlikely that you will turn over your questions to them even if you have heard them; you want your movements to remain discreet for as long as possible.

This is one of those fancy office buildings converted to a politician's headquarters – it is evident in the number of guards patrolling the place. The uniformed men take turns in making you uncomfortable through their glares, and it takes a while for you to realise that you have been skimming through the sea of block letters rather than actively reading them. Mentally berating yourself, you shift your weight to the other foot as you study the billing with a renewed look of concentration written across your features.

"Hidaka Ken?"

You spin around immediately, shocked to hear the utterance of your name. Inwardly you are yelling at yourself – if you had not turned around, you can still be passed off as a stranger in this place. As of now, you have acknowledged your identity in this building. The best thing that can happen to you right now is getting thrown out through the back. The worse thing… well, you don't really want to think about it.

You blink away the daze in your eyes and reply warily to the black-suited man standing a little too close to you – "That's me."

The man's expression is unreadable under his shades. He merely states for you to follow him before leading you to the elevator. You can hardly believe what is happening as you watch the elevator doors close, the tension in you evident through your restless fidgeting as you glance around the upwards-moving lift.

Those are some really nice lighting… And are those mahogany engravings around the buttons? You are about to reach over and rub the carvings when…

"We're here, Mr. Hidaka. The office is the last on your left," Mr. Black Suit gestures to you as he holds the lift doors open.

You lean out of the elevator to peek down the corridor – the door looks pretty far down…

An impatient cough from Mr. Black Suit – an obvious hint from the man that he is not used to serving improperly dressed young men/boys like you. You mutter a soft apology as you back out of the elevator. You don't look away until the lift door closes completely, just to make sure that he doesn't pull out a gun on you when your back is turned. All Mr. Black Suit does is to snort in distaste as he disappears behind the classy-looking lift doors, distinctly directing the action at you.

You just gotta love these self-important bodyguard types.

The soft 'ding' from the elevator on a lower floor signals your starting walk towards the office that was pointed out to you. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden door, ignoring all the others as you pass them. A slow burn begins to work its way down your throat and towards your chest – anger and confusion binding and stirring together as you envision the smug American standing before you; his pride of the moment will be his generous 'retrieval' of you from the lobby.

The gold-coloured door handle gives way easily under light pressure, and you swing the wooden door open to find… not him, but a female secretary typing away on her computer.

She looks up at you and smiles so sweetly that you question if you have been sent for by someone else – there is no way in hell anyone working for that bastard can smile so naturally. But before you can voice your concerns, she waves you towards a door hidden behind the one that you are now holding onto and speaks in a modest manner – "Mr. Crawford is waiting for you, Mr. Hidaka."

That bastard.

You nod in thanks to her before heading for the door. You hesitantly raise a hand as if to knock before entering, but the secretary moves ahead of you and knocks in your place.

"Come in."

You feel the first tingles running up your spine when that familiar voice sounds from behind the door.

She opens the door for you and offers up another kind smile before announcing your presence to the raven-haired man seated behind a large brown desk, "Mr. Hidaka is here, sir."

He waves a hand at her, effectively dismissing her from the room as she shuts you in together with him. As soon as you hear the door click shut you become overwhelmed by the same sense of foreboding that you feel whenever you are in *that* room with him.

You look straight ahead, but not at him. You know that you are actively avoiding his gaze, because you understand that he can control you through his eyes alone – and you will not be intimidated today. Yet out of a corner of your eye you can make out the man gesturing towards the large leather-encased swivel chair directly in front of his table. Inwardly you are cautious of his generosity, but outwardly you show no hesitance as you move forward to take the offered seat. You remember that reluctance does not sit well with Brad Crawford, and it was a lesson that you will always remember.

The seat feels rigid under your weight, and you bounce a little on it as if to test its potential softness. The wheels emit a droll squeak, and your movements still almost immediately.

At length you risk glancing upwards, expecting the man to be glaring at you or at the very least, pointing a gun at you. What you have not expected is to find him typing away on his silver laptop and looking all for the world as if you do not exist.

You open your mouth, ready to speak when he lifts his gaze up to meet yours. The message is unspoken but explicit:

No words.

You swallow the words as they appear on the tip of your tongue. What you will give to just shout at him, to simply verbalise your questions. But he denies you of that, and in spite of your natural hotheadedness you know better than to go ahead with saying whatever that's on your mind. Not so much due to your fear of angering him (you can deal with that, but how, you'll figure out when it happens).

But more because of the fear of what you may forever change when you do speak.

So you settle for the more subtle method of watching him with unblinking eyes as he performs his mundane task of working on his laptop – quite forgetting that human beings are born with eyelids for a good reason.

Soon enough, your eyeballs start to feel too dry, and then your vision gets blurry. Eventually, you give up, and instead start checking out the interior of his generously furnished office – an overly fancy cover for a bodyguard in your opinion. Does that bastard politician need to put on such a show to hide his links with Eszett in the first place?

A growl emits from your abdominal region – curse the digestive juices for trying to squeeze nutrients out of your stomach walls. Inwardly, you feel a little self-conscious – show Brad Crawford just how great you are at taking care of your basic needs, won't you?

You note movement from behind the table, and you look to him just in time to catch something small and brown sailing through the air with your hands. Opening your fist, your first reaction is to blink in surprise at the item tossed to you: a piece of wrapped up pastry. Confused by his gesture, you warily glance to him as if seeking to know his meaning behind this little gift. Ambers meet your gaze coolly before their owner nudges a box in your direction – more of that funny brown stuff. Yet he does not say a single word all this while.

The whole 'no words' rule is getting on your nerves.

You decide to risk interpreting his actions in your own manner and begin to unwrap the pastry; your movements still abruptly when you catch wind of something hovering in the office ever since you stepped into it.

… The man is wearing cologne. The scent has wrapped itself around the various articles in the room – nothing heavy or overpowering, really. It's just a light but musky fragrance that commands presence. Rather like Brad Crawford, you figure, to pull out all stops for his office-worker cover. You don't remember him wearing any of that stuff when he's with…

Never mind.

You bring the pastry to your lips slowly, not really tasting it as you instead focus on his movements. He is still tapping on the keyboard and looking extremely busy, occasionally pausing in his work to study various folders; probably because his employer wanting to make the best use of his henchmen by getting them to do some of the office work as well. It sort of makes you wonder why did he even bother to send Mr. Black Suit to bring you here in the first place.

He suddenly leans back, practically squeezing himself into the back of his seat as he starts massaging his temples. At this you squirm uneasily, not knowing what you are expected to do. Somehow, you have never considered 'Schwarz' and 'stress' in the same sentence previously, and the situation at hand seems to imply the unconventional meeting of two such words.

The disconcerting quiet continues to linger in the air as he bends over behind his desk. You hear a cabinet being unlocked before a bottle is plonked onto the table. The label is turned away from you, so you are not sure what exactly are the contents of the bottle. But from the shape of the bottle and the colour of the liquid within, you are almost certain that the drink is an alcoholic one. He confirms your suspicion when he sits back up with an empty glass in each hand.

He does not ask you for your preferences, but proceeds to uncork the bottle and fill both glasses. The only sounds audible in the room is the muted popping of the cork, followed by the sloshing of liquid as it hits empty wineglasses.

All this while you are wondering to yourself his intentions. He could have ignored the fact that you came looking for him, or he could have chosen to have security toss you right out – either way he would have successfully discouraged the queries you barely dare to bring forth. Instead, you find yourself being shown to his office while he is busy working. When you show signs of being uncomfortable he offers you something to eat; and now you are about to be offered a toast?

'Bizarre' does not even begin to describe the situation.

He sets the bottle back down and corks it before lifting a glass to his lips. You note that the other glass is placed slightly forward – as if inviting you to take it for yourself. So you take the glass and begin to drink from it while keeping both eyes firmly locked on the man across the table.

You wonder where is all this leading up to.

You need not wonder for long.

He rises from his seat with the lazy confidence of a prowling jungle cat, still armed with his quarter-filled glass as he strides over to your side of the table. 

You can feel the distinct sharp edges of the alcohol-laden wine as it slides down the back of your throat – a sensations similar to your tangled insides as invoked by the nearing man. Every movement he makes throws off a tantalising faded smell of musk, and you find yourself automatically taking deeper breathes as if to catch more of that faint scent.

All of a sudden, he is too close for comfort – his breath coming to wash over your left cheek in small waves. The knots on your insides tighten considerably, and you may have lost grip of the empty glass if he had not reached over to catch hold of it.

It's the musky-smelling cologne applied to his collarbone and on the underside of his wrists – it's driving you crazy.

A warmth against your cheek – parted lips and a slyly tasting tongue pressing against chilled skin. He works his way down your cheek to your neck, and then he stops to breathe heated puffs of air against the moist skin. You are vaguely aware of his free hand working on the buttons of your shirt, being too distracted by his closeness in the meantime to really care. You want to reach over to touch him, but a part of you advises against the action.

With the shirt undone he pushes it halfway off your shoulders before taking a step back – as if to admire his handiwork while he takes another sip from his glass.

You shiver for reasons unknown.

The butterflies in your stomach flutter even more erratically as he undoes his stuffy black tie before your widening eyes. It must be the relaxed, erotic manner in which he drags the article off his body – you have never seen him that way before. Most of the time, you are too busy trying to ignore his domineering form as he takes you selfishly for his own wants.

He closes in on you, and though his next movements are not unexpected, your body still persists in tensing up. You nearly gasp as he slips both arms around you to pull the tie over your eyes and tie a knot at the back of your head – effectively blindfolding you. What you really have to fight against, however, is the pooling heat and desire within you – the faint whiff of his cologne, his firm grasp, and dear God – the darkness that is now before you. Your instinct is to challenge the darkness before your eyes, to pull the tie off and snarl back at him; it's a human thing, you figure – the fear of not being able to see the most crucial moments.

Your lower body says otherwise – that this fear… is a deadly aphrodisiac.

With the temporary loss of vision, your body compensates for it almost immediately due to years of honed instincts. You can practically register every movement he now makes, your skin reading the air currents stirred by his actions. As he leans in close his breathing sounds harsher than before. Whether this is due to your new sensitivity to the environment or his lust, you are not certain.

The sound of metal, followed by the sliding of leather against fabric; you know what that is.

His belt.

Your first reaction is to jerk yourself off the chair and take off the blindfold, the direction in which matters are heading being one that you do not want to partake in. But he is prepared for that – damn his precognition.

He places on hand firmly on your bared chest and shoves you backwards the moment you start to rise from the seat. Your efforts thwarted, you grimace; you know that his only real advantage over you in this situation is the fact that you cannot see what he is doing.

But to pull that blindfold away to see him for what he really is… that isn't a very tempting thought, is it?

You swallow nervously, knowing full well that you are able to deceive yourself this once – with no sense of sight to guide you this time, you can believe what you want to believe. And you want to believe that just this once he actually *cares* for you.

But deception… well, it will be very tempting to repeat this act time and again, no? In the end, you will set yourself up for a fall so great that you may never stand again.

Logic and desires are not to be discussed at the same moment.

You become almost passive as he moves behind you, expecting to receive a good lashing from the sadistic man. Instead he surprises you by taking both your hands and pulling them backwards before binding them to the chair's spine with the belt.

There is this other part of you that is a little disappointed that he had not chosen to fulfil your misgivings of him. A few red welts under him, you figure, will no doubt add to your loathing and thereby make easier for you to kill him when the day comes.

Push and pull, push and pull, push and pull…

Some days, you don't even know what you want from him, or what you want of him.

You hear him making his way back in front of you, and you hunch yourself forward as if to hide from his scrutinising eyes. Tentatively you test your bounds – strong and tight. But belts are only so limited in their ability to secure a prisoner, especially to a chair. A few good twists and wriggles and you can probably break free of the belt's hold. But your curiosity gets the better of you and you are prepared to wait for him to reveal his purpose for doing so.

Perhaps the surging urges in you accounts for some part of it as well?

You hear him picking up his glass again before he moves to stand within your personal space. You can almost feel those molten ambers piercing into you, boring into your flesh with a fierce intensity as he remains statue-like for longer than you find comfortable.

He runs a hand down your cheek before leaning in capture your lips with his own, the sudden heat and closeness pushing on your already stretched limits. His movements are calculated and precise as always – fingers dragging across your sensitive spots while his mouth works against your with vivid familiarity, causing your skin to tingle and your throat to constrict with soft moans as you move towards him to meet his kisses.

He moves to slide the shirt completely off your shoulders, leaving it to hang around your lower arms instead before dragging his hand over your pants to work away the obstructing fasteners. Just as his hand makes contact with hard flesh, you feel a sudden trickle of liquid descending upon your neck and following a natural line down your body.

The scent is sharp and strong – he is spilling wine from his glass over you. The precise fall of the cool liquid over the same patch of skin can only mean that it is not an accident. You shamelessly groan into his eating mouth as the heat and the coolness striking at you from all points overpowers you completely.

So this is what it is like to surrender to desires.

It's not so bad, really.

He pulls back from your lips, and automatically you lean forward with a choked gasp, wanting that warmth but not daring to ask for it.

The stream of wine slows down and moments later, the glass is returned to the tabletop. The rustle of stiff fabric echoes in your ears as he shifts his posture to stoop over your neck. Teeth following lips closely to meet the wine-soaked skin with small nips. His tongue over your skin is warm, but as he follows the trail downwards he leaves behind the cold feel of emptiness.

You squirm openly when he reaches a particularly sensitive spot; he smiles against your flesh. You can feel heat rising in your cheeks, but whether it is due to your embarrassment or your heated wanting, you are unsure.

It all becomes clear the moment he closes his hand around your hardened flesh, his mouth never leaving your skin even as you arch and twist under his touches. The tingling feel of his skin on yours is intoxicating.

But even as he torments you with such erotic delights, another part of you wars with the base creature of lust within you.

Why is he doing all this?

Why do you want him to do this?

Why is he taking things so painfully slowly and sensually?

Why are you mewing like a kitten under his touch?

Why does he want to create the illusion that he cares about your needs?

Why do you want to believe that he is trying to trick you into thinking that he cares?

Why can't he seek physical gratifications from other willing, more attractive bodies?

Why do you go back to him, time after time, knowing that he will use you like a toy?

Why, indeed?

It is as if your mind has separated into two different fractions, both fighting against the same inclination without the benefit of knowledge to ground either case.

Because he knows that withholding knowledge gives him power, and to keep you guessing is but one of his ways of tying you to him.

Do you regret giving him this power over you?

No, you shamelessly groan into his mouth as his touches become more demanding; you regret nothing in this.

Except… perhaps you regret agreeing to the rule of silence.

The faint whiff of cologne whips past you as he moves behind you to undo your bonds. You hope that he will remove the blindfold as well, but a part of you knows that it is purely wishful thinking; your only hope to regaining your eyesight is to take off the tie yourself, but he moves in anticipation of your hands raising to do so – effectively catching one wrist with a hand still holding the belt.

Leather, metal, heat and musk.

You freeze in your movements, stopping to swallow the lump in your throat as his hold loosens. The belt hits the carpeted ground with a muted 'thunk'. He swoops in front of you, stooping to run a tongue down the trail that the wine once took and revelling in manipulating your body for his enjoyment.

You feel hands coming around your waist. Moments later, you feel the giddy lifting of your body from the chair as he moves you without any prior indications of where he may be taking you. The trip is a short one that ends as abruptly as it begins, with him dumping you onto a hard wooden surface. A quick testing of the object with your hands and skin determines it to be none other than his sparse tabletop.

You first make to sit up, only to feel his palm pressing firmly against your chest as he forces you to lie flat on the table. A warm metallic surface makes contact with your back muscles – his laptop on standby. You try to shift into a more comfortable position, but you find your senses and motions jerking to a halt and instead focusing on a certain man when you register the sound of him unfastening his pants.

You cannot tell if that sick feeling in your stomach is due to the wine, or his lewd efforts.

You know where this is headed, but you cannot fight against it. Not so much because you are physically unable to – your hands are no longer bound; you can easily shove him backwards even as he is shedding you of your jeans now.

Rather, it is more due to the fact that you don't want to.

… You just hope that he remembered to lock the door.

The first few thrusts always hurt even though you always keep a certain tube handy. Some attribute that pain to fear while others argue that it is a result of lack of 'preparations'. You know better: it is the result of your constant denial towards your emotional and physical involvement with the enemy clairvoyant – like a reminder stab of where the both of you stand in this world and in this twisted arrangement:

No words. Just sex.

Hurts like hell, doesn't it?

He pushes down against you just as you arch upwards – both meeting halfway in a vicious battle of teeth and tongue. You work your way down his throat, teeth scrapping against the exposed jugular almost carelessly. Against a certain spot on his skin you can taste the piercing bitterness of his musk-scented cologne, its pure artificialness a stark contrast to the human taste of sweat and desire.

So you bite down on him harder as if to test for a human reaction, marking him as he always marks you – letting him feel the pain that you feel ensnaring the lower half of your body. He arches a little closer to you, muscles squeezing together briefly as your teeth scrap his skin. You consider that to be a fair exchange.

One particularly well placed touch, combined lethally with a deep, delicious thrust.

And you betray your confusion in a forbidden cry:

"Brad…"

The moment the word leaves your mouth your rhythmic meeting against his movements stop, knowing for the first time what utter panic must feel like. You unwittingly tremble in his hold, your mind racing through the possible punishment that he may have for you for breaking the most fundamental rule of the agreement.

He does not fulfil your misgivings, though – and he had not lost his pace the entire time either. To make up for your lack of motions his fingers dig deeper into your hips as he shoves harder into you instead.

Maybe he didn't hear you; maybe you are just too sensitive…

But he heard you perfectly – it is evident in his mouth moving over yours to seize your lower lips in a harsh bite. The soft insides of your lips give way readily to his sharp canines, a small burst of coppery sweetness trailing along your taste buds as the seconds tick away. The combination of blood, pain and lust bind and interweave to entrap logic in a deadly web of pleasure – a feeling that can be amplified only if you shatter the barrier that you have placed between your heart and reason.

It breaks down all too easily, and you give yourself to him. Completely.

You can hear his breathes coming faster and hitting your cheek – he is almost as close as you are to the edge.

That final crushing hold, just as he sinks his teeth further into the soft sweetness of your mouth. The last few thrusts crush almost too painfully into you, forcing from you a gasp while it mingles with the agony of his still scrapping teeth.

You trash forcefully under him, your limits pushed and shoved into a perfect surrender. You barely have time to register the abrupt shifting of the laptop under you as your left shoulder connects with it. There is a dull thud as the laptop hits his chair before it bounces eagerly off and onto the floor instead with a loud crash.

You can hear it splintering into bits, just as clearly as you hear him snarling next to your ear.

He lets go of you in the same moment he withdraws from your tightly coiled body. The sudden loss of heat and support causes you to stumble, and you make a hurried grab for the sides of the table.

A sweeping brush of your hand that would have propelled a bottle towards the same fate as the laptop, had he not already foreseen your carelessness; he catches the falling object effortlessly as it smacks right into his palm, and then he reaches behind you to jerk the tie off your head.

White light comes rushing to flood your eyes so suddenly that you practically recoil from the brightness. He seizes you around the waist in time to stop you from joining the laptop, but he does not release you even when you show sign of being able to support yourself. You find yourself automatically pressing into his warm embrace, abandoning that screaming voice in your head for the first time.

What is he going to do about you breaking the rules, you wonder?

You feel his fingers twitch as he holds you – almost as if he knows what is going through your head at this moment.

… He may kill you. You are very aware of that possibility.

Because words can change too much; and if just one word is well chosen, it can be the very word that destroys everything.

You have a funny feeling that you won the first prize for the first time in your life, but somehow it is not an exhilarating experience…

You finally decide to risk glancing up at him – in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of affected ambers before they turn impassive once again. It is a sign that your time here is up. The question is will he… or won't he?

He lets go of you before firmly shoving you off his table. You oblige him and barely manage to find your feet when you first touch ground.

A quick peek – he is not even looking at you. Rather, he appears to be calculating how to best put his table back into its original state. He does not return your gaze until he seems to have come up with a way of putting things back in order.

He offers no words – just a hand pointed towards a door in a corner of the room.

You obey him, and open the door to a personal washroom. Lovely.

Well, since he did offer it to you…

You dip a hand under the running water, noting how chilled the liquid is compared to the temperature of your flesh. More importantly, how cold this soothing water feels next to another equally soothing but much hotter touch…

What is on your mind now?

Questions.

What sort of questions?

Why doesn't he find another person to fuck around with? Why did he specify for you on that fateful night? And why, of all the ridiculous things you could have done, did you *accept* his offer? Better yet – why did you go back to him afterwards again and again?

Why?

… Yes, there had been this strange look in his eyes that day. You thought of it as sorrow, or perhaps a sort of regret within him. And you had began to make excuses for him – that he is only human, and that he can be felled should he try to breach the terms of this relationship. Besides, you do not find his offer as unpleasant as you initially thought it to be like.

You lean forward to look closer at the face in the mirror, reaching up to tug down your lower lip to inspect the damage. Yep – that's going to turn into an ulcer and hurt like crap tomorrow.

You look down at the running water and make to clean yourself of inculpating evidence, but your thoughts do not turn away from him:

Will you question him verbally later to seek the answers you so desire? As to why he find so much pleasure in the matings with you? It is unnatural to feel such intense desires when fucking an enemy.

Of course we have a term for this too, Ken.

It's an idiom that goes 'pot calling the kettle black'.

You turn away from the scowling figure in the mirror, doing your best to appear unaffected when you brush past him as he makes his way to the washroom after you. You can feel his eyes boring into you as he marches past you in his usual superior manner, jacket and belt slung over his shoulder as he arranges his shirt while walking.

Uncontrollably, you steal a glance at his exposed neck.

A ghost of a smirk dances across your lips as you note your own marks laid upon him skin, and in the same moment you close the collar of your shirt to hide his possessive branding.

Beautiful, you note; simply beautiful when he wears them.

You run a hand along the top of his swivel chair while contemplating whether to take a seat or not – to basically wait for him to return so you can commence with your questions. But you hold back, knowing full well that he will not be so kind once he recovers from the heady post-coital experience. Water clears the head a little too well.

You look to his desk and chance upon a yellow post-it pad next to his beaten-looking laptop. Slightly apprehensive, you finger the small pad and test its weight on your palm, scowling to yourself as you realise that he may have left it there for you – deliberately.

So you take a nearby pen to hand and write in small, strong letters the question that is most pressing.

You leave before he comes out of the washroom, surprising the kindly secretary who barely has time to bid you a good day before you leave his office.

For good.

He will definitely not miss the note, though his reactions to it will be missed by your eyes.

"Why can't you just admit that you need me? I hate playing your games, Brad."

~ End chapter 4

-@-@-@-@-

Author's note: The story is dragging, and my interest in waning. At least the next chapter is the last in the series ^_^

As much as I prefer saying "Crawford" to "Brad", it seems annoyingly long for Ken to moan/groan/scream and write. So yeah.