Of Feather Dusters and Fancies	Home - Previous- Next
"I absolutely cannot believe that I lost a bet to you." Aya lifted an eyebrow, expression beyond that impassive. "I did warn you, Crawford." The leader of Schwarz drew himself up to full height and readjusted his glasses. Light glinted off the glass, momentarily obscuring the mocha gaze from view. Aya absently curled an ear tail around a finger. "This is undignified." "This was also your idea. Or have you forgotten already? You were the one who wanted to get drunk. You were the one who complained about infiltration missions. You were the one who moaned about having to convince someone on your team to put on a dress and go in as a female. And you-." "That's very tiresome." "You were the one who came up with the bet in the first place." The Schwarz leader sagged down into a nearby chair. "The point is though I hadn't thought I'd lose." "You did. A little humility never hurt anyone, Brad. As a matter of fact you could do with a little humility. On that note the bedroom's through there." Aya gestured loosely to a door across the way. Crawford glared at the door. "It could be worse." "And how is that?" "Your team could know about us. And knowing about us would lead them to eventually knowing about this little lost bet of yours." "Little lost bet?" “It's just a bet, honestly." "You wouldn't be saying that if you'd lost." "You're right, because I wouldn't be saying anything. I would have honored the bet by now." Crawford scowled at him, pushed himself up woodenly from the chair and stalked across the room to the far door. He pulled it open, stalked through, and with obvious restraint didn't slam the door behind him. Aya allowed the little half smile that had been tugging at his lips since the moment he'd stepped inside the hotel to settle. From the other room he could hear faintly the movements of the other man, the occasional curse or thump, and when all had stilled and stayed quiet he pushed himself up and crossed the room silently, tried the door to the room. He was surprised to find it unlocked. Crawford glared at him when he stepped inside; though the effect was greatly diminished by the frilly French maid costume he was wearing. He didn't look feminine by any stretch of the imagination; he had neither the slim figure nor the features or grace. He looked precisely as he was, a rather irritated and embarrassed man shoved into a French maid costume complete with frilly cap and feather duster. Aya couldn't stop the full smile from settling onto his lips. "Don't look so smug, Weiss." "It seems I have the right." "See, I honored my bet, I put the damn thing on, now I'm going to take the damn thing off again and-." "No." "Oh?" "No," Aya repeated, slower this time, rolling the simple word around his tongue. "Oh. You can't-." "I can." "Oh." Previously pale features darkened with color. "That's a bit..." "Kinky? Yes it is." Aya's eyes strayed to the black-sheeted bed. "There's a feather duster." "I noticed that. I certainly hope you don't expect me to clean." "No, though it might be fun to watch." Aya smiled. “I want you to pick it up.” Crawford stared at him blankly for a moment then with the greatest amount of dignity he could manage he leaned over the bed and caught the white handle. Aya pressed himself against the other’s form, molding himself to the hard, lean body beneath him. Crawford tensed. It was a tension brimming with expectation. Aya slid his arm down Crawford’s, plucked the feather duster from his loose grasp, and feathered it across Crawford’s thighs. “Spread your legs.” It only took a moment for the other man to respond, legs sliding apart slowly. Aya slid the duster under the skirt, moved it slow and purposefully until a half sigh, half moan slid from half parted lips. “This isn’t so bad, now is it?” Aya whispered. “This is embarrassing.” Aya let the duster drop. His hand wrapped around Crawford’s arousal, rubbed a calloused thumb over the sensitive head. Crawford groaned, legs sliding apart farther, offering more, and Aya pulled back with a laugh. “You seem to get off on it though.” “Aya.” The name came out a low growl. The redhead brought a hand down to Crawford’s rear, a light smack, unexpected all the same. “I’m getting there. Show some of your patented patience for once.” His hand slid under the skirt, rubbed the unmarked skin. He smacked again lightly and Crawford gave a start. “On the bed, on your hands a knees.” He left Crawford there to retrieve the oil he’d left in the bathroom, and when he came back Crawford made a pretty picture, on the bed as asked though his arms were folded, face hidden in the crook of his elbow. “This bothers you, doesn’t it?” Aya whispered, getting on the bed on his knees. He flipped the edge of the skirt up, ran a hand down the exposed skin, squeezed. “You don’t like being this vulnerable, especially in front of me. I’ve been in this position before, surely you remember.” “You were never in a skirt,” Crawford pointed out, voice faltering and muffled. “The skirt doesn’t matter, its just fabric sewn into a design.” “I’d like you to keep that opinion in my position.” Aya leaned in, rocking his hips against Crawford, his breath ghosting hot over the bent neck. “Maybe you will.” “Maybe I- Ahh.” He eased back, tongue bathing the bite marked skin in apology. Aya rocked his hips forward again, this time skin meeting skin. Crawford arched up under him. “Aya.” “Yes, pet?” “Don’t- Ohh.” Crawford panted, rocking back against the redhead wantonly. “Don’t call you pet, hm?” Aya smirked, sliding his oil-slicked hands down Crawford’s thighs, parting them. “Only if you beg me to take you.” Crawford made a low whining noise. Aya leaned in, nipped at his throat again, and used the distraction and the movement to press against the other man. “Then I can call you pet.” “One evil for…” Crawford trailed off, panting. “You must really want this,” Aya whispered into a frilly shoulder. “Shut up and fuck me, Aya.” “What was that?” “I said fuck me.” Aya rocked into him, slowly, then with speed, sighing softly, moaning as the sweet friction, jolted pleasantly by the occasional slide of frill or lace against his skin. Crawford forgot everything but the movement, the oh so familiar dance of skin against skin, of friction and needing and wanting and submitting. Aya growled his name hoarsely, not Crawford but Brad, growled it and soon it became a chant, a litany, low and guttural and it melted the indifference, broke apart the illusions of self and station, until they were just two people trying to forget the world beyond the four walls for a precious moment or two. The redhead tensed, stilled, then dropped his weight on top of the other, spent and sated. His hands were slick with the evidence of Crawford’s release. Arms shaky Crawford lowered himself to the bed and Aya rolled off of him, sprawling without regard to state and undress. “Can I take this damn thing off now?” Crawford asked once he’d regained his breath. “I don’t care.” Crawford’s weight left the bed and Aya could hear the swish of fabric sliding against skin, Crawford’s soft sigh. He dropped down beside Aya again, stretched out. “Never again,” he promised. Aya rubbed his stomach, mixing sweat and semen. “Unless you lose another bet.” Crawford snorted, levered himself up on an elbow to look down at Aya, expression dark and predatory. “My turn?” “Give me a minute.” “While you’re doing that…” he lowered his mouth to Aya’s chest, lapped up the mix of their joining, then brought a mouth up to a nipple. A strip of cloth slid over Aya’s thighs, crawled upward trapped between fingers, and Crawford dangled the long heavy cloth in front of Aya’s eyes. Wordlessly Aya brought his wrists together. Revenge is sweet, Crawford thought.
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