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The Craft of Erotic Abhorrence	By : Deena Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 4053 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The Craft of Erotic Abhorrence : Prologue
There is one such as you seek...
A crescent moon hung upon stilted webs in the blackest edge of the night. Something bitter spoiled in the cold air, splashing through the shadows and past flickering flames. Brittle leaves rustled on an emptnd, nd, coiling upon voices hushed. There was a stillness that smoothed its way into the vast garden, soaked with things portentous.
But I bid thee beware...

Footfalls spilled quickly upon one of the many winding pathway. The steps of movement were nearly inaudible in the thick silence. Two inky eyes raked against every hidden shade as strides lengthened. He was one well accustomed to the dark, though tonight was marked with an ominous air. Anxiety clung to his skin, festering like a handful of sins. Far beneath his chilled skin, blood ribboned in a rush of unease. Foresight whispered against his skull, that after these precious moments, his entire life would change.
...as he shall ask what you cannot give...
To ask was nothing more than a vulnerability. He would be indebted to one he didn’t know. It wasn’t something he would ever have chosen but choice had long since fled from him. He was bidden, stirring as though upon marionette strings. Pulled by one. Lead by another.
I will find you.
I will do whatever is asked...for this.
In the near distance, glittering lights spilled out from the enormous mansion windows. Angular silhouettes of elegant socialites darkened the panes. He wondered if the one he sought was inside, mingling with wealthy men and beautiful ladies. He wondered if his approach had already been foreseen. Birman could not be wrong, not about this. He was here, at her behest, with the sole intention of finding him. There was nothing more.
The intricacies of the lavish garden were so massive that he found himself still hurrying, colored flowers and skeletal trees lurching around his presence. There were voices every now and then, of those who had ventured from the gala into the night’s ice. He slipped from their notice, trained to walk unnoticed. Eventually a shrouded clearing filtered beyond the pebbled path he followed. Weeping willows and cherry trees concealed an ornate garden pond, resplendent with a lapping waterfall, hundreds of fish and closed white lotuses. He was drawn into the shadowy glade.
A low voice fractured the quiet, startling him.
"I’ve been waiting for you."
Hidaka Ken followed the words to a tall figure swathed in shadows. He stood at the water’s verge, beneath one of the longer willow trees, petals coiling at his feet. Ken stepped onto the grass, his heart scribbling. "Then it’s true." He raised his chin in determination. "You can see the future."
A breath of wind shoved around them, catching and curling. The water at their feet rippled. There was a silence. Ken could sense displeasure coming from the American man. He had learned enough about this Brad Crawford to know that the man detested anything he couldn’t foresee or control.
When Crawford finally did speak, it was with a harsh tone. "Who are you?"
"Shouldn’t you know...Brad Crawford?"
Another silence and more irritation. Crawford strode out from beneath the weeping willow, moonlight swirling onto his features. He was a dark-haired man with thin glasses and a severe countenance. "What I know is that you’ve come to me with the intent of begging for my favours."
Anger flooded throughout his body. It took every ounce of mental strength Ken possessed to hold back both his tongue and the violence he was capable of. Instead, as though the American’s biting arrogance hadn’t bothered him in the least, he asked, "What else did you see?"
"That you’re willing to do anything for my help. You need my gift that desperately."
Ken grit his teeth. Fury was a luxury he could not afford. Crawford was correct; he did need the man’s gift and he had to swallow his pride to ask for it. He hadn’t come all this way to be put off by a sour personality and his own fierce temper. "I do," he responded, inwardly scowling. His nails dug into the skin of his palms as he made the seemingly humble admission.
Crawford arched one black brow. "And?"
He glared at the tall man, fuming. "And I need your help," he spat, failing to keep his irritation in check. "I need your fucking gift, alright? Is that what you want to hear?"
"Actually it’s not." Crawford stepped into his personal space, openly intimidating him. "I should like to hear you beg."
Ken gaped, unable to believe what he was hearing. Who the hell did this asshole think he was? "Listen here you goddamn shitty-"
"I’ll do it."
Ken blinked, his rage abruptly vanishing. "What?"
Crawford smirked and it looked horribly malicious upon his serious features. "Begging will come later. That I promise you." He reached out and skimmed long fingers over the slope of Ken’s cheek, lingering over the curve of his bottom lip.
Ken wrenched away with more force then necessary, utterly unnerved. "What the fuck do you want?" he growled, hiding his confused fear behind ire.
"Your complete obedience to me."
...as he shall ask what you cannot give...
Birman’s words of warning rang clear inside his head. "Meaning?" he asked reluctantly.
"Meaning that as long as you require me to use what I see, you will be my property." Crawford pushed up his glasses. He was ominous at that moment. "You will obey my every request and complete whatever I wish. Any arguments or protests will result in the termination of this agreement."
Ken stared at the dark-haired man in disbelief. "You’ve gotta be shittin’ me," he blurted out. "Your property? What the hell does this look like, the Age of Imperialism?"
Crawford smiled derisively. "You’re in no position to negotiate with me. My terms will stand. Either accept them or leave."
There really was no choice was there? Ken couldn’t afford to refuse. They both knew that and everything else was just preliminaries. He could do nothing but seal his fate with this austere man. "I accept," he muttered bitterly, defeated.
"I thought so." His eyes glint in the gentle moonlight from behind his glasses. "Tell me your name."
"Ken."
Abruptly and just as unexpected, Crawford caught hold of Ken’s wrist and jerked. Ken lurched against the man’s hard chest, brown eyes expanding. "From this moment on Ken, you exist for me only."
And then there was nothing but the utter shock of Crawford’s lips roughly grating against his own.
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The Craft of Erotic Abhorrence