Their tongues met before their lips touched, which dismayed Schuldig, his body giving in before his mind could make sense of his position. And then, it no longer mattered much because he knew this script and there wasn’t anything light left about it.
There was no one – and Schuldig had examined and sampled every specimen he ran across – that could kiss him senseless like Crawford. He ground against Crawford’s hip until the only thing holding Schuldig up was Crawford’s knee wedged between his legs, and the hard wall.
Crawford’s fingers made short work of his shirt, tugged his belt free; his hands reached behind, slipped down against the wall, pushed Schuldig’s open pants down to his hips, where they caught and bit into his skin, legs spread too wide for gravity to do the rest, and gripped Schuldig’s ass to pull him closer.
Schuldig had just began to fumble with the buttons of Crawford’s shirt when everything stilled, Crawford’s hands on his ass, Crawford’s mouth on his mouth, the distant voices in the other rooms. The constant murmur and chatter died away, like the silence in the eye of the storm, an eerie calm. Schuldig muttered unintelligibly against Crawford’s lips, tried to push him away, but the silence opened up into a greater silence and Schuldig’s fingers loosened their hold on Crawford’s shirt, quit pushing and reached up to tangle in Crawford’s hair, held him in place and drank him down straight.
Schuldig had never known quiet, not like this. There had to be a period of his life before the voices started, but he had no conscious memories of what it had felt like. Schuldig’s walls were exceptional, the best, as noted in his files, the organization had seen few telepaths who constructed them so well, but this silence made Schuldig’s walls seem incomplete, like the half-wall separating the hallway from the restaurant down below, a wall of whispers and light, transparent but effective. Crawford’s wall, as Schuldig was eagerly discovering, were thick enough for them both.
He’d had tastes of Crawford’s mind, bitter spoonfuls offered seldom, resentfully, but those instances had been constructed for a specific purpose, for they bore no resemblance to unfettered access to the whole thing.
Schuldig moaned and tore at Crawford’s mouth as he reached deeper into the silence. He didn’t search for images or thoughts, though he could sense them, orderly and contained, within the vault. What he craved was the composition, the design of Crawford’s walls. The perfect hiding place.
Half in, half out, he drew back and searched Crawford’s face, reached to remove his glasses so he could see him, really see him. But Crawford beat him to it, moving away to place the glasses on the table and reclining on the bed, waiting to see what Schuldig would do next, say next, just waiting.
Schuldig found it difficult to move away from the wall, pinned against it, another specimen. “How do you do it?” he asked, because no one had figured out how to lock themselves up that tightly, no one that Schuldig knew and he had been given every resource to train himself how to be the perfect machine. But walls like Crawford’s were a liability, if the organization ever became aware of them.
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Date: 2009-08-12 03:46 am (UTC)Their tongues met before their lips touched, which dismayed Schuldig, his body giving in before his mind could make sense of his position. And then, it no longer mattered much because he knew this script and there wasn’t anything light left about it.
There was no one – and Schuldig had examined and sampled every specimen he ran across – that could kiss him senseless like Crawford. He ground against Crawford’s hip until the only thing holding Schuldig up was Crawford’s knee wedged between his legs, and the hard wall.
Crawford’s fingers made short work of his shirt, tugged his belt free; his hands reached behind, slipped down against the wall, pushed Schuldig’s open pants down to his hips, where they caught and bit into his skin, legs spread too wide for gravity to do the rest, and gripped Schuldig’s ass to pull him closer.
Schuldig had just began to fumble with the buttons of Crawford’s shirt when everything stilled, Crawford’s hands on his ass, Crawford’s mouth on his mouth, the distant voices in the other rooms. The constant murmur and chatter died away, like the silence in the eye of the storm, an eerie calm. Schuldig muttered unintelligibly against Crawford’s lips, tried to push him away, but the silence opened up into a greater silence and Schuldig’s fingers loosened their hold on Crawford’s shirt, quit pushing and reached up to tangle in Crawford’s hair, held him in place and drank him down straight.
Schuldig had never known quiet, not like this. There had to be a period of his life before the voices started, but he had no conscious memories of what it had felt like. Schuldig’s walls were exceptional, the best, as noted in his files, the organization had seen few telepaths who constructed them so well, but this silence made Schuldig’s walls seem incomplete, like the half-wall separating the hallway from the restaurant down below, a wall of whispers and light, transparent but effective. Crawford’s wall, as Schuldig was eagerly discovering, were thick enough for them both.
He’d had tastes of Crawford’s mind, bitter spoonfuls offered seldom, resentfully, but those instances had been constructed for a specific purpose, for they bore no resemblance to unfettered access to the whole thing.
Schuldig moaned and tore at Crawford’s mouth as he reached deeper into the silence. He didn’t search for images or thoughts, though he could sense them, orderly and contained, within the vault. What he craved was the composition, the design of Crawford’s walls. The perfect hiding place.
Half in, half out, he drew back and searched Crawford’s face, reached to remove his glasses so he could see him, really see him. But Crawford beat him to it, moving away to place the glasses on the table and reclining on the bed, waiting to see what Schuldig would do next, say next, just waiting.
Schuldig found it difficult to move away from the wall, pinned against it, another specimen. “How do you do it?” he asked, because no one had figured out how to lock themselves up that tightly, no one that Schuldig knew and he had been given every resource to train himself how to be the perfect machine. But walls like Crawford’s were a liability, if the organization ever became aware of them.