FIC: Sex Collection
Title: Sex Collection (also published as Why Shishido?)
Author: SsssSSSssSSSss
Fandom: That One
People: gekidasadaze/sauntered
Notes: Written to give Shishido a better idea as to the why.
Warnings: Some might consider this entirely too hot. What can I say? I'm from Hell. That's how we do things.
Being a demon was, at the end of the day, rather boring. Temptation, sin, death - one could get the same sorts of things by upgrading to HBO. Crowley sighed into his nightly martini. Drinking was something he'd attempted to take up more seriously as a means of distraction, yet all that did was give him blasted buggering headaches that made it hard to focus, thereby causing unfortunate, embarrassing mistakes. He still wasn't quite sure what the fish in the pink hat had been about.
He needed something better - something not particularly challenging yet entertaining all the same. Something better than old reruns of Baywatch and old - but rather humourous - reruns of the Golden Girls.
*
Going to Japan was possibly one of the best ideas he'd had. He'd been hearing about tennis but he'd been successfully ignoring it. What was the point of getting excited about fuzzy green balls or wooden rackets (with the exception of the double entendre)?
Exactly nothing.
Well...exactly nothing until his car stalled, landing him in front of some place called Hyotei.
*
The stands were clean if a bit uncomfortably warm as he sat down, watching. Tennis balls bounded back and forth, people continually gasping as new shots were discovered. Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes.
A flash of blue caught his eye and he forgot himself momentarily, peering over the darkened sunglasses to get a closer, unshaded look. An angry young figure was running back and forth, the look on his face intense, sweat glistening down drawn lips. Crowley watched, subconsiously biting into his lower lip. A shout of "good work, Shishido!" filtered into his consciousness.
"Mmm," he said, standing. "Shishido."
*
His martini burned a little more as he drank it down.
"Shishido."
*
The next morning, brain foggy and less than pleasant, Crowley shuffled around, getting ready. Hyotei was only twenty minutes away from where he was staying, and from the notices on the boards, he'd gathered that practice was to be held in the later afternoon. He gathered enough clothing to be sharp and headed out.
The tennis courts were well-ordered. Crowley waited impatiently, wondering if maybe he shouldn't try a bit of sake before he saw the angry blue cap and tightly-drawn lips. He stayed in his seat, ignoring the sun as much as he could.
Shishido was a good runner, and fast besides. His movements were full of confidence, muscle and grit. Crowley found it difficult to keep his eyes off of the fine young specimen of tennis excellence (though why he would want to do such a thing is completely inconceivable).
The more he watched, the more he learned. Shishido was in a constant state of anger. His favourite word seemed to be "lame" and he wasn't quite the social type. As Crowley became more known to him, Shishido's stamina sunk into his thoughts: the boy could yell for hours, sending insults right and left (and then right again; and then left one more time, if he felt like it). Crowley wondered what the loud voice would sound like after strained hours of rather graphically intimate physical activity; he also wondered how flexible Shishido was, and how he felt about people licking things off of his skin - even when part of his appeal was that he would never answer such questions.
But oh how Crowley wondered.
Nightly.
Sometimes twice.
Quite messy business, that.
But so worth it.
FIN.
Author: SsssSSSssSSSss
Fandom: That One
People: gekidasadaze/sauntered
Notes: Written to give Shishido a better idea as to the why.
Warnings: Some might consider this entirely too hot. What can I say? I'm from Hell. That's how we do things.
Being a demon was, at the end of the day, rather boring. Temptation, sin, death - one could get the same sorts of things by upgrading to HBO. Crowley sighed into his nightly martini. Drinking was something he'd attempted to take up more seriously as a means of distraction, yet all that did was give him blasted buggering headaches that made it hard to focus, thereby causing unfortunate, embarrassing mistakes. He still wasn't quite sure what the fish in the pink hat had been about.
He needed something better - something not particularly challenging yet entertaining all the same. Something better than old reruns of Baywatch and old - but rather humourous - reruns of the Golden Girls.
*
Going to Japan was possibly one of the best ideas he'd had. He'd been hearing about tennis but he'd been successfully ignoring it. What was the point of getting excited about fuzzy green balls or wooden rackets (with the exception of the double entendre)?
Exactly nothing.
Well...exactly nothing until his car stalled, landing him in front of some place called Hyotei.
*
The stands were clean if a bit uncomfortably warm as he sat down, watching. Tennis balls bounded back and forth, people continually gasping as new shots were discovered. Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes.
A flash of blue caught his eye and he forgot himself momentarily, peering over the darkened sunglasses to get a closer, unshaded look. An angry young figure was running back and forth, the look on his face intense, sweat glistening down drawn lips. Crowley watched, subconsiously biting into his lower lip. A shout of "good work, Shishido!" filtered into his consciousness.
"Mmm," he said, standing. "Shishido."
*
His martini burned a little more as he drank it down.
"Shishido."
*
The next morning, brain foggy and less than pleasant, Crowley shuffled around, getting ready. Hyotei was only twenty minutes away from where he was staying, and from the notices on the boards, he'd gathered that practice was to be held in the later afternoon. He gathered enough clothing to be sharp and headed out.
The tennis courts were well-ordered. Crowley waited impatiently, wondering if maybe he shouldn't try a bit of sake before he saw the angry blue cap and tightly-drawn lips. He stayed in his seat, ignoring the sun as much as he could.
Shishido was a good runner, and fast besides. His movements were full of confidence, muscle and grit. Crowley found it difficult to keep his eyes off of the fine young specimen of tennis excellence (though why he would want to do such a thing is completely inconceivable).
The more he watched, the more he learned. Shishido was in a constant state of anger. His favourite word seemed to be "lame" and he wasn't quite the social type. As Crowley became more known to him, Shishido's stamina sunk into his thoughts: the boy could yell for hours, sending insults right and left (and then right again; and then left one more time, if he felt like it). Crowley wondered what the loud voice would sound like after strained hours of rather graphically intimate physical activity; he also wondered how flexible Shishido was, and how he felt about people licking things off of his skin - even when part of his appeal was that he would never answer such questions.
But oh how Crowley wondered.
Nightly.
Sometimes twice.
Quite messy business, that.
But so worth it.
FIN.