Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Black Leather Roses ❯ Two: PVC Pansies ( Chapter 2 )

I don’t own any boys of Weiss, movies mentioned here, or brands of sex toys…please don’t sue the Miko, she has no moneys . . .



Notes, or, the Author Blushes (based on a true story):

Miko: *hunched over her fic notebook outlining story as the Evil Hentai Slug nods along gleefully*

Subaru-san (aka, the plot muse): *enters office and notices the new and questionable contents of the Miko’s desk–papers, pens, a few glossy magazines in suspicious plastic covers, detailed diagrams, three Super BBC manga with dubious translations in the margins, one anatomical model (posed suggestively and wearing a pink sticky note labeling it ‘Yotan’), something squishy, a leather crop, and a large basket of lemons*

Miko: *writes a line, pauses, blinks*

Subaru-san: Oh my god . . . are you, are you blushing?!

Miko: Ano…that is…

Subaru-san: That hasn’t happened since the days of het lemon! What the hell is in this fic? *looks over her shoulder, blanches, passes out*

Evil Hentai Slug: *scoops Subaru-san off the floor and tosses him into the oddly convenient chute labeled ‘seme food’*

Miko: Hey, wait! I needed that! There has to be some plot here, it can’t just be a random collection of senseless porn… can it? *look to readers expectantly* Well, then . . . *picks up the crop on puts Sorcerer Hunters into the VCR* Okay, let’s run that scenario again…



Chapter Warnings: toys, blatant suggestion of fetish, solo, imagined sexual situations which are yaoi

~*~

Black Leather Roses
Chapter Two: PVC Pansies

~*~

Yohji had been useless all afternoon. Though he showed up on time for his shift, he’d overwatered the begonias, broken two pots, and created at least five unsellable arrangements. He was becoming Ken.

It wasn’t really his fault, though, Yohji rationalized, if only to himself. He couldn’t work with Aya right there, not when the younger man had agreed to a shopping spree at Yohji’s favorite toy store. It hadn’t taken Yohji long to discover Aya was far from a prude, but accessing the redhead’s hidden passions had taken, and would take, patient exercises in earning trust.

The trip to Kabikicho was a huge victory, and Yohji couldn’t help imagining the fun they would have. It made him eager. So he spent all afternoon half hard, distracted, and watching the clock. Now, from his position of exile behind the register, he counted down the last half hour.

Aya appeared unaffected as he delicately plucked and prodded a large arrangement into an aesthetic showpiece of zephyr flowers* and red columbines**. Not once did Yohji see him examine the clock, and his earlier attempt at a conspiratorial reminder had fallen flat at Aya’s cold stare. Yohji prided himself on being able to read the other man, but, unfortunately, the blank inattention had two distinctly different possibilities. First, Aya might be excited and using the front to cover anticipation of their outing. Second, though, he might be nervous; officially, the redhead did not do nervous, not in the face of dark beasts nor standing naked in front of Yohji Kudou. This reputation came from his impressive ability to shield with frigidity.

Yohji had learned, much to his delight, that Aya’s nervousness expressed itself in other ways and was, upon coaxing, apt to turn to simple embarrassment which was likely to make Aya blush. The man fought valiantly against these blushes, but he was so pale that the least rise of blood to his cheeks was painfully obvious. It was also freaking adorable: Aya half-hiding under his long bangs, cheeks flaring bright red as Yohji sucked his cock.

Yohji bit back a moan and readjusted himself on the stool.

Twenty minutes to six.

He hoped he would have time to jerk off before they went; he wasn’t going to make it through this otherwise, at least not without a change of pants.

What would Aya buy? Or, what would he buy for Aya? Yohji rather favored the idea of making the purchases for their playtime. Aya might insist. Though by no means wasteful, Yohji found him much freer with money now. Aya-chan was, of course, the means of this transformation, awake and breaking teenage hearts in Paris. Once he had gotten a peek at the ridiculously large trust fund Aya had collected for her, Yohji instantly realized where the man’s money had gone, not just to bills, but to Aya-chan’s future, just in case. Then, though, it hadn’t been just-in-case for Aya; it had been when.

Sometimes Yohji physically ached with the guilt of untaken opportunities of kindness. They had all spent so much time in the dark concerning Aya, writing him off as hard and cold and forgetting to give a damn except when he was watching their own backs. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But Yohji knew that he had walked by Aya’s door more than once when he knew the man was in there hurting.

Aya had been hard to love then, hell, hard to like or even stay in the same room with. He still was, for most people. To all appearances, he was antisocial to the point of forgoing almost all common courtesies, did not hesitate to cut anyone down with cruel words, and was always ready to wound before wounded. But, to Yohji, he was a kitten disguised as a porcupine.

Really, there had been no sudden transformation from Aya back to Ran, no sudden breaking of the emotional dam to reveal the laughing, careless boy. Late one night, just before they became lovers, Aya had confessed to Yohji why he had never retaken his old name. Ran, he said, was dead, buried in the empty grave next to his mother and father. He had been a sacrifice, used, Aya told him in that soft, drunken voice, a sacrifice to summon Abyssinian. Ran was a boy Aya-chan talked of, an old acquaintance that Aya occasionally mourned, a kind person Yohji never got a chance to meet.

But that was okay. Ran would not have had Yohji. And Aya wasn’t Abyssinian; yes, he could be, and often was, rough and bitchy and even cruel, but he was also pretty damn funny when he let his sarcastic comments slip outside his head. He could be sweet on occasion, like when he learned to cook ‘that disgusting thing’ called meatloaf because Yohji liked it.

Aya had been through hell, and he appreciated small details because of it. It had also given him a wicked sense of reckless adventure, though he tried to suppress it. He had to. Yohji understood. Once you ran head first into death twenty or thirty times, strange acts could suddenly seem thrilling; Yohji had once seriously debated jumping off the roof to see if he could stick the landing from three stories up. He hadn’t jumped, but the thoughts scared the hell out of him. You had to occupy that part; he had done it before with booze and drugs and women, and now he did it with Aya.

And Aya did it with him.

Sex was an occupation and an expression of their, what? Caring, he thought was the word he wanted. There was another one, but it was born of long friendship and had yet to fully merge with what they did in bed. It would, Yohji thought, in time, fermenting their relationship into some state very close to perfection as long as–

“Kudou!”

Aya was strikingly close, suddenly touching Yohji’s arm and making the blonde jump. He tried to laugh it off.

“Don’t look so serious,” Aya chided, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms, “I’m not backing out on you.”

~*~

“Kudou, wait.”

Yohji paused but failed to release the hold he had on Aya’s wrist.

“It’s early.”

“So?”

“We’re not dressed.”

“I seem to be wearing pants,” he returned, preparing to tug Aya long, but the other resisted.

“Kudou. We can’t go to Kabikicho like this.”

Yohji sighed and wondered what the world was coming to when Aya was criticizing his fashion. Still, they might not get arrested for decency, but they would stick out like sore thumbs if they appeared in the red light district in loose jeans and matching aprons. Point taken, Yohji released Aya and resolved to wait a little longer, pacifying himself with a shower and change of clothes in the mean time.

~*~

He jerked off in the shower to the image of Aya in nipple clamps and a silver thong, coming hard as he dropped back against the wall and fought to keep his feet. That should have been enough to keep him grounded for the first few hours of their trip, but with Aya’s wardrobe change, he wasn’t sure he was going to get out the door.

Yohji thought the outfit was a gift for him, but with Aya you never knew for sure. To mention it would mean its retraction, and perhaps it wasn’t about him at all. The man was, as Yohji had noted before in jest, quite fond of straps and buckles. This was considerably more subdued than his mission wear, but it immediately stirred Yohji’s dick.

His jeans were black and fitted, secured just at the top of his hipbones with a wide, studded belt of black leather. It wasn’t much of a surprise that the top was black, too, it being Aya’s color of choice, but the fact that the fitted tee clung, just a little, to his thin frame as he moved was sexy without being blatant. And, small details that Yohji adored, spoke of at least momentary thought: the cuff on his right wrist which matched the belt, the silver hoop in his ear that matched the silver cross on his necklace. There wasn’t any religious meaning in the last; it was, as Yohji liked to say, just part of Aya channeling his inner goth.

Aya always went for the dark look, and, judging by the outfits like this that just happen to come from his closet, Yohji had a theory that his actual tastes ran along much more along the lines of punk and goth casual wear than orange sweaters and old tennis shoes, the latter being byproducts of period of genuine inattention to dressing. It made sense, really.

And Yohji liked it.

“You look nice,” he smiled.

Aya reflexively glared as he evaluated the tone; his expression relaxed into a bland stare when he decided he wasn’t being teased.

Yohji shook his head at his boyfriend’s insecurity. Only Aya could make him want to comfort him and fuck him in the same breath. He settled for the middle ground. Gently pushing Aya against the wall, Yohji slipped his hand up to rest on his soft cheek and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips touched once, lightly, then Yohji tilted his slightly, bringing them together again and pressing his tongue past the redhead’s unresisting lips as he shoved his hips against Aya’s. The kiss was long and deep, tongues sliding against one another as Yohji’s free hand rubbed Aya’s flank and the redhead’s arms fell languidly around the taller man’s neck.

It was with a slow reluctance that Yohji withdrew, wiping Aya’s chin with his thumb to clear away the wetness there; he wiped it on his own jeans as he stepped away and tried to remember where they were going.

~*~

This was the red light district at its finest, all neon signs and sexy bodies. The streets were busy, but not packed, at a little after ten, and most of the people they passed were young and hip, vibrant in their licentious fun. The flashing advertisements for independent theater productions and live nude girls made them all the more surreal, glinting off heavy jewelry, splashing over toned bodies, and highlighting the high sweep of the occasional Mohawk. They laughed at the small alfresco tables in front of tiny restaurants and handed over IDs at the doors of clubs and bars where they would drink for several hours perhaps before moving on to more questionable entertainment on the side streets.

The vibe of the place thrummed through Yohji, welcoming him to a thousand exciting experiences. The lights reflected off his shades, worn even in the dark of evening, and made his loose hair shine with unnatural colors. He was completely at home in his dark gray vest that laced over his tight jeans, stone washed and so low that any inauspicious shift might vindicate him as a natural blonde.

He guided them down the sidewalk at the easy pace of a Sunday stroll, Aya following beside him. Yohji had expected him to be tense, maybe even stiff with Abyssinian’s instinctual apprehension of unfamiliar locations. But Aya wasn’t examining the street for potential threats, nor was he glaring at the noisy passersby that continually cast approving looks in his direction. He was ignoring them, mostly, occasionally glancing at a particularly interesting sign or shop window or glaring at an exceptionally vocal admirer that thought to comment on his hair only to return his attention quickly to the path in front of him. Yohji wouldn’t say he was relaxed, but he wasn’t frustrated or scared or distant either.

Yohji almost loved him for it.

Reaching with casual, languid ease, he took Aya’s hand in his, entwining their fingers. Aya looked at the hands, then to Yohji.

“Can we do this here?” he asked quietly, not quite meeting the other’s eyes.

Yohji wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or cry; it was such a stupid concern, yet so fucking relevant. He felt it too, that nervousness in the back of his head about what people would think, would do if they saw two guys holding hands in public. He supposed it wasn’t prudent to remind Aya that they could kick the ass of anyone who said anything. Honestly, in that instant, Yohji had the irrational idea that he’d like to give society the finger.

Instead, he said, “I don’t think anyone will say anything.”

Aya nodded and didn’t attempt to pull away. Still, a distant expression had ghosted over the vague interest he had shown before.

Yohji gave in, “Plus, if they do, we’ll go all ‘shi-ne’ on their sorry asses.”

A smirk at that, and a little squeeze of his hand. Yohji smiled and suggested they get a drink before shopping.

~*~

A few shots of expensive whiskey left Aya with a warm glow; he couldn’t decide if the feeling was in his stomach or his head, but for once he liked the relaxed way it tugged at his muscles. Rarely did he drink without the intention of blocking out the world, and walking out into it with a pleasurable fuzz hanging about him made him reconsider the usefulness of alcohol in general.

He wasn’t drunk, not by far, but when a blush didn’t so much as threaten at the sight of a rather detailed advertisement for ‘The Singing Penis Boys,’ he realized that what the liquor had washed away were a few of the major ramparts of his sense of social and personal propriety. He debated, momentarily, if he lamented the loss, but Yohji’s palm was comfortable against his own and the blonde was wearing a smile that touched something pleasantly deep within him. Summoning the curiosity and adventurousness that naturally lurked somewhere beneath duty and organization and insecurity, Aya brought it forth to meet Yohji’s smile, letting the rest slip away into the night.

~*~

Only a small, unlit sign marked the stairs, a single, red arrow directing potential customers into a rather dim, concrete passage below street level. Yohji never hesitated, and Aya, obviously as unconcerned of thugs or robbers or other bad things that reportedly lurked in such shadowy walkways, remained right behind him as they approached the door. It was nondescript, with its brass knob and peeling paint, indicated only by a single Kanji: iku. ***

Offering Aya a little smile, Yohji turned the knob and let them in.

“Irasshaimase!”

It struck Yohji as both strange and comforting to hear the familiar greeting offered by a young girl wearing a black shop apron that proclaimed ‘Sex Sells’ and holding one of the twelve-inch dildos she was restocking. Her dark hair was chopped rather short, accenting her high cheekbones and large eyes that might have dominated her look if not for the shimmer of baby blue lipstick across her mouth.

“Welcome to Iku; feel free to look around by yourselves, but if you need any help don’t hesitate to ask!”

Having said her piece, she went immediately back to the task, quite literally, at hand. That was what Yohji loved about this place; the staff was friendly, helpful, and damn well educated in their merchandise, but they didn’t linger over your shoulder to offer advice or push the latest porn flick. And they were young. He was prejudiced maybe, but buying sex toys from women the age of his mother really put a damper on things. Now, the girl with the blue lipstick, that was a face he could deal with while he handed money over a pile of toys, a considerable pile if he had his way about it.

And Iku had more than a few to offer. It was larger than it looked from the outside, and though it glowed with almost harsh florescent lighting that flooded out all potentially dark corners, high shelves and strategically arranged displays (and, Yohji surmised, an expensive system of security cameras) provided a great deal more of the feeling of privacy than the warehouse-like, carefully-watched rooms that populated most backstreets. It was also considerably cleaner, but lacked the enforced sterile quality he found in many of the upscale shops; more than once he had wondered who had chosen the erotic artwork that hung in wide, black frames throughout the store. Many were prints, he knew, but a few looked like originals; he found almost all of them incredibly hot.

And speaking of incredibly hot, Yohji gave a brief nod to the girl, and turned for Aya who, for all his appearance of confidence moments before, was examining his boots like they were the next Rosetta stone.

This was puzzling, not entirely unexpected, but weird. It was part of a larger mystery which, while he enjoyed it, Yohji would just soon have solved and been done with. But for all his attempts at meaningful approaches to the subject, he had gained little to no information on the extent of Aya’s sex life pre-Yohji. He hadn’t come to Yohji’s bed a virgin; he knew that tab A went to slot B and was smart enough to demand Yohji wear a condom until they got the tests back. Then there were the blowjobs; talent like that wasn’t the result of natural predisposition or a man’s genes, no matter what the recipient boyfriends of such men would like to believe. The cuffs he had admitted to indicated exploration of at least some basic kink, and, with Aya’s ever practical nature, Yohji had no doubts that they had been bought when, and only when, they were to be immediately put to use.

But all of this was countered by subtle hints that Aya was not, despite his waffling efforts to convince Yohji otherwise, that familiar with fucking. While not a virgin, during their first time he had been tight and blushing and almost surprised when it was so good. He had clung to Yohji’s neck and thanked him afterwards; Yohji had had to ask him to stay. And the next morning, and every time after it, he had fought hard to hide his embarrassment at being naked in front of the blonde, covering well with frigid antagonism, caustic comments trying to overshadow the spread of pink on his cheeks, his lip repeatedly suffering the tug of sharp teeth.

Yohji couldn’t figure it out, and he was an expert on this kind of thing.

Aya needed a manual, a big one, with a huge chapter labeled “Physical Relations” which could explain things in simple, technical language: when approaching your new Aya 2.0, do so with caution as sudden moves may startle him, voiding the warranty. The parent company will not be held responsible for any bodily harm that results from improper sexual advances.

For the moment, trial and error would have to suffice.

“What’s first, kitten?” His inquiry brought Aya’s head up, probably because it was heavily laden with a pet name that had blossomed in Yohji’s mind after their car talk but had only just then escaped into the open air between them. Aya’s brows creased at it, but he didn’t comment beyond a little shrug, content to let Yohji lead the self-assigned mission.

“Okay,” the blonde debated, casting an appraising eye over the shop. Deciding to start on some very familiar grounds, he started off towards the pornography.

Near the front of the store, yet cut off by three high shelves and almost a room to itself, was Iku’s large selection, appropriately sorted by media type, parties involved, and, much to Yohji’s glee, fetish. He deposited himself in front of the first shelf, scanning titles for idea that he had perhaps missed on his brief but enlightening stint on Omi’s laptop.

Some of the DVDs looked promising, though rather expensive. Yohji found himself suddenly less willing to shell out 4500 yen for Busty Blondes Blow IV when he had Aya at home. He spent longer considering a few of the gay titles, wondering if Aya would like them. Instantly out were the cheesy, low-budget fuck-em films that were good only when watched with one hand on the fast forward button, but Yohji wasn’t sure the softcore girl-friendly versions that never got beyond heavy petting would do either of them much good.

Would Aya go for tranny sex? The moment didn’t seem right to ask. One couldn’t just blurt out these things.

A cursory glance at the redhead found him idly scanning the titles of erotic literature, occasionally pulling one from the shelf to glance at the back. It wasn’t too surprising, Yohji figured, since Aya was more apt to read than watch television, that his erotica of choice would be textual. In Yohji’s humble opinion, having to imagine sex scenes was just too much damn work.

Shifting his attention to the other shelf, Yohji examined the ‘specialty’ titles. A good deal of these were centered around physical characteristics of their stars, while others were based on acts and equipment. Some were interesting possibilities, while some struck Yohji as initially unappealing; however, most of the latter he shifted into the ‘if Aya wants to try it’ category. Still, he tried not to look at the cover image of a scrawny man in a suit getting sat on by his morbidly obese lover; that was the kind of thing that would keep a guy up at night. To each his own was a motto he lived by, but it didn’t seem quite fair to the woman.

Never mind, he told his brain forcefully, asking if it happened to remember that he was here with a hot redhead that might actually watch a video with him, preferably while being jacked off or returning the favor? It began to pay attention immediately, simultaneously sending a memo to his dick and zeroing in on the bondage videos. Pulling two that seemed to be on the attractive, more-sex-than-pain side of the spectrum, he turned to lift them in Aya’s direction.

“Which one?”

He received only a half-hearted shrug before Aya’s gazed dropped back to the book his was holding. Yohji might have been disappointed, but Aya showing interest in anything in Iku was right up there on his things to see before he died list. Dropping one of the the DVDs back to the shelf, he quietly circled the other man to peek over his shoulder. Aya’s eyes flicked towards him and he felt the shoulder under his chin tense, but the swordsman was resisting, barely, snapping the book closed and, perhaps, smacking Yohji over the head with it.

It was a yaoi manga, one of the rather detailed ones that the Yohji’s extensive fangirl-reference-index told him was a Super BBC–quite graphic. It was something he would never have expected Aya to go for, but looking at the picture of the tall, thin pretty boy with his dress shirt falling down over his shoulders and his hardon sticking out from under its edge to be held by his boyfriend who is, at that moment, trying to distract him as he pressed two, wet fingers into the pretty boy’s hole–it wasn’t bad. And there was, Yohji admitted, a good deal of similarity between the slender bodies of the manga and Aya’s own, a similitude that a number of live-action porn stars lacked. It was, he thought and not for the first time, a pity that muscle-bound jocks and balding wannabes dominated the gay porn industry.

The result of this insight was verbally produced as, “We should make a sex tape.”

The book snapped closed and was instantly back on the shelf. Aya, brows a little drawn, wandered off in his own direction. Apparently sex and its accessories were fine in isolation but when mixed with Aya personally elicited a negative reaction: simple translation, when Aya thought he might be made fun of, he left and his boyfriend did not get to have fun. Okay. Yohji was ready to follow, chastised and obedient, but not before he snagged the manga and handed it, along with his DVD, discretely to the clerk.

After a momentary detour through the costume section and the subsequent Yohji-to-clerk handoff of several items, he located Aya studying a small shelf of lubricants. He had in hand their usual red tube of Anal-Eze, but was tilting his head at the shelf as he tried to read the English writing across what looked, to Yohji, like a small tub of butter. Scooching close so they touched shoulder to shoulder, Yohji joined Aya in translating the words printed just above a familiar-looking butter churn, rendering it roughly as “You’ll never know it isn’t Boy Butter.”

Yohji wanted it, just for the novelty.

“Stupid,” Aya decided, thankfully before Yohji announced his appreciation of the pun. The redhead handed over the Anal-Eze like it was the next day’s flower orders.

“Ah. But we still need one for the greenhouse. Something different, maybe?”

“As long as it’s not Boy Butter.”

“It’s sexy when you say it.”

“Hn.”

Yohji winced mentally at the cold, uninflected ‘hn,’ a noncommittal response that spared its user actual replies. Drastic action was required to reel Aya back into the experience before he could detach completely. Betting on the liquor and good graces of the goddess of getting fucked, Yohji made a risky move by putting the other on the spot.

“You pick, then, ‘cause I’m getting that one if you let me choose.”

A raised eyebrow, but Yohji thought it verged on playful. When Yohji made fun of himself, it seemed, Aya knew that he didn’t have time (or brains, perhaps) to simultaneously pick on him. This further supported the theory that it was that vague possibility that Yohji would laugh at him, pick fun in a painful way that would actually hurt, that kept him at arm’s length much of the time. As much as Yohji wished he could succeed at dispelling this fear, he prayed just as hard that he wouldn’t inadvertently realize it.

Now, though, there was success. Stepping to the shelf, Aya paused, then, not without a tiny turn of one lip, handed Yohji a cylindrical bottle with a rounded top that was strikingly…red. Biting his tongue to keep from laughing out loud, Yohji read the label, instantly understanding why Aya could smile at that one; it was too funny to be embarrassing: “Fruity Booty: For a Sweet Ass.”

All he said was, “Strawberry?”

“Aa.”

And while most people would have placed this monosyllable close to the ‘hn’ that had rattled him moments before, it was miles away according to Yohji’s sensitive Aya-sensor. The brush, light and almost accidental, of Aya’s knuckles against his own sent Yohji into a delightful world of imaginings that began with his knuckles buried in Aya’s body and ended with embittered strawberry cream on his tongue.

He almost dropped the lube when Aya bumped his shoulder; apparently he had been staring a little hard. Or staring a little, hard. Either way, the Fruity Booty was coming home with them.

And, thinking it a nice introduction to the experimental side of his lover, Yohji took the plunge and wandered out of familiar territory. An array of butt plugs caught his attention, arresting him to stillness with a particularly vivid image: Aya bent over the edge of their bed, wearing nothing but socks, legs spread and hands gripping the sheets as Yohji pressed a large, purple plug against the pink skin of his entrance, stroking his cock as he pushed the lubricated plastic in, slowly, watching it disappear into his lover’s body.

This time his own shiver brought him back to the land of the living, and he offered Aya, now at his side, a smile that was rather on the guilty side. The other didn’t really notice; he was looking at the wall and its plastic-packed wares.

“Want one?”

Yohji was surprised that it had been Aya who asked.

“Sure. Why the hell not.”

It struck him directly after this statement that the satisfied gleam in Aya’s eyes might indicate an intention to introduce Yohji to the plugs in an intimate fashion he hadn’t counted on. Did he want one like that? Well, sure, why the hell not.

“You pick for me,” he said decisively, not quite able to maintain playboy nonchalance when he added, “just not too big.”

A nod, then Aya stepped towards the wall. He hesitated only an instant before selecting a slender, clear plug that didn’t look too scary.

“Okay?” he questioned, serious, as he held it up for his lover’s approval.

“Yeah. I can do that. Can I pick for you, then?”

Tucking the package under his arm like a library book, Aya nodded, less concerned apparently.

“Any special requests?” he offered.

“Not pink.”

He laughed, pleased at Aya’s new ease though he was quite sure it was born from his own embarrassment. Still, that might not be a bad thing. Perhaps they were on equal footing here, not experienced slut and innocent swordsman or vice versa. Yohji could live with that, though he would have to prove his own stunning adaptability in bed.

As for the choice of the toy; that was easy. It was purple, a little bigger than the one Aya had chosen for him, but nothing monstrous. A quick check with the redhead, another nod, and they moved along in a kind of surreal scavenger hunt for possibilities of pleasure, verging further from the known with each turn. It was exciting.

Now the dildos. Aya gave him a questioning look that he thought translated somewhere along the lines of ‘Don’t we have enough dicks to go around?’

Yohji smiled.

He wanted to put one of those inside Aya; he wanted to take Aya back out into the dark walkway, turn him into the concrete wall and yank his tight pants to his ankles, shielding him with his own warm body as he thrust the dildo into his hole; with such complete control, Yohji knew he could strike Aya’s spot every time, making him come right there on the wall as he begged Yohji to give him the real thing.

Hm, whatever they got would have to be smaller than his real one; he didn’t want to be jealous.

But Aya was looking at something a little bigger. He didn’t take it from its hook on the wall, just tilted the corner of the package to read the description. Ten inches long, one and a half around, the color of pale flesh still three shades darker than Aya’s ivory. Yohji was packing some serious heat, but even he wouldn’t match up to that guy.

“Don’t worry,” Aya said, dropping the package and turning to face him, “It’s not a threat to you.”

It was a reference, but damn if Yohji could grasp it when there was a smile fluttering around Aya’s lips. His instinct told him to close his eyes so he could think, but he didn’t dare miss a second of such a rare event. Though, hopefully, not so rare anymore. The answer came to him anyway.

“Since when are you in Fight Club?” he pulled off with an ease he didn’t feel. He wanted to kiss Aya’s smile, to hold the feel of it forever in his memory.

“Yohji,” the smile slipped into a serious expression, but lit in Aya’s eyes as he delivered in surprisingly adept English, “The first rule of fight club is that you don’t talk about fight club.”

And then he walked on, leaving Yohji slightly stunned, slightly aroused, and still slightly intimidated by the dildo.

~tbc~




* zephyr flowers: anticipation
** red columbines: anxious and trembling
*** Iku is technically a Japanese verb meaning “to go,” but while in Japan, I learned the important fact that in informal speech, it also a popular equivalent of “to come” in English, and used frequently to indicate ejaculation. Ah, such an education trip, ne?


Notes: Review and I’ll give you a prize…no, really. Let’s see, though the story will continue regardless, if I get five whole reviews, I’ll give you an embarrassed Aya next chapter instead of these end notes! Come on, hit the button, make Aya blush.