Title: Whiter Shade Of Pale Author: Jo Series: Kink, part 2 Pairing: Karl Urban/Marton Csokas Rating: R Summary: He didn't need to see to know what the room looked like... Warnings: mild implications of kink Disclaimer: If you think this is real, then I'm fucking both men on a nightly basis...that's all I'm saying. Author's Notes: Written for the contrelamontre "white" challenge. Time limit of 45 minutes, finished in 26. His eyes were closed. Which meant he couldn't see the room. Not that he needed to. He didn't need to see to know what the room looked like. Besides, he wouldn't be able to see if he opened his eyes anyway. Well, he could. Sort of. All he'd see would be white. White light through the strip of white satin covering his eyes, blinding him. Nothing but white. But that was okay. Because he already knew how the room looked. Completely white. All of it. White carpet so thick that a person could lose their feet in it. White dresser, white bedside table, white iron bedrails. White drapes over white mini-blinds. White satin sheets covering the king-size bed. White. So very, very white. Like a snow storm had went through. And him in the middle of the bed. Nude. Honeyed cream skin a sharp contrast to the white sheets. Nice image that. Or it would be if he got off on the idea of himself nude. Well, okay, not completely nude. There were the white leather restraints wrapped around his wrists, holding him securely in place. White blindfold, white restraints, white satin on warm skin. His mind just couldn't quite wrap itself around the concept of white being used for this. White was...something. Pure. Innocent. Clean. Vanilla. Not this. Not restraints and blindfolds and God only knew what else. That seemed like it should be something darker, closer to black. Or dark red. Not white. Never white. The soft sound of the door opening, then closing, touched his ears. More white. White noise. So much white. He didn't have to see. He could almost feel the weight of the white in the room. Weightless, yet not. Another odd dichotomy setting his mind to spinning. "I see you haven't moved." Soft voice in his ear, making him jump. He shook his head, eyes opening automatically. Nothing to see still. Just white. Endless white. "No, Marton." His own voice was overly loud to his ears. He tried to soften it, make it lighter...whiter. Then he let out a tiny yelp as something warm and wet slid over his jaw. Marton's tongue. Wet and pink. Not white. No. Marton wasn't white. Marton was dark. The way the room should be in his head. But it wasn't; it was white. "Good," came the soft, sibilant hiss against his throat as something trailed across his stomach and chest. It felt...odd. Cobwebby. Then he knew what was causing the delicate caress. A white ostrich feather. He'd noticed it on the dresser when he first walked in. Along with the white candles. He knew what those were for, knew they'd come later. But for now, it was the feather, light and delicate and soft as it slid over his body. Odd that something so light, something so...white, could cause his body to tighten. White shouldn't feel like this. He didn't know why, but it shouldn't. Odd that he could now feel every single inch of his skin, feel it shiver as a silky soft feather dragged over it. Then...oh God... A hard jerk against the restraints, a yelp as his body arched off the bed. The candles. Marton had lit the white taper. And he could see it in his mind. Brilliant white flame licking at the end of the white candle, white wax dripping slowly - drop by hot drop - onto his skin. His brain was suffused in white; his vision was shuttered by white. There was nothing else. Only white. And more white. So much white it hurt to think about it. Warm, gentle lips moved over the white, waxy droplets adorning his chest like a string of pearls. White, lustrous pearls trailing over his skin. White, even teeth nipping at flesh that stung from the wax. A soft sound of pleasure filling the silent room. Was that him? It was. Soft, white sounds spilling from his lips. And...yes. Now. Gentle hands, encased in leather, turned him over, arranged his body. Again, he didn't need to see. White leather encasing strong, blunt fingers, white leather smoothing over rough palms. Shuddershivers raced up his spine at the touch. He couldn't help it. Once more his mind raced, tried to make sense of all the white around him, on him, in him. So much white. Too much to comprehend. OhGodohGodohGod.... Sharp, white-hot, burning sting, pleasure and pain warring, burning whiter than white as it sizzled straight to his groin. And he knew. God...yes...he knew. "So pretty like this, Karl," Marton murmured, voice dark in his ear. And Karl knew what he meant without asking. One perfect, red handprint on one firm, white cheek.... ~fin~