Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Next Time ❯ Chapter 1

“Kudoh,” Aya warns with a growl, as Yohji takes advantage of his reaching up to the highest shelf in the storeroom to get his hands onto the resultant smooth strip of bared skin.

 

“Just checking to see if you need any help,” Yohji answers innocently, sliding his fingers along the grooves between toned abdominal muscles, dipping one fingertip into Aya's warm navel.

 

“You know I'd willingly help you with, or out of, anything at all,” Yohji purrs, brushing his fingers lightly along the waistband of Aya's jeans.

 

“Hmm,” Aya grunts, abandoning his search to rock back onto his heels. Now that Aya's stunning ass is in easy reach, Yohji immediately presses his groin against it, swiveling his hips a little to make absolutely sure Aya gets the message.

 

Skin flutters beneath Yohji's hands, and a slight catch in Aya's breathing betrays his lack of indifference. So Yohji can't help but moan in protest when Aya grips his wrist painfully tightly, and uses it to lever himself out of Yohji's grasp, spinning around to scowl at him forbiddingly.

 

“We're on the clock, Kudoh.”

 

“We're due for a break,” Yohji argues, taking heart from the way Aya allows himself to be yanked back into Yohji's embrace. Yohji nuzzles into Aya's hair, trying to retain enough concentration for the requisite persuasion.

 

“No,” Aya says firmly, even as his head tilts a little to the side under the onslaught of Yohji's lips on his earlobe.

 

“Why not?” Yohji breathes.

 

“Because I'm only just able to walk straight as it is!” Aya exclaims, breaking away again.

 

Damn. Tactical error. Yohji regroups quickly, leaning seductively back against the door, blocking Aya's escape and attempting to dazzle him by running a languorous hand over his own naked midriff. Aya tracks his movements automatically, his lips parting. Gotcha. Time for the kill.

 

“You know, Ayan,” Yohji drawls, “you wouldn't have to worry about that if we made this `next time'.”

 

Aya's mouth twitches, the barest hint of a curve there, until he wipes it away by dragging his tongue along his lower lip.

 

Yohji swallows hard and continues huskily; “I can promise you that walking straight is overrated.”

 

Aya stretches one arm forward and hooks his hand behind Yohji's neck. Yohji grins in triumph, then jumps at least a foot as the door vibrates against his back. When the explosion of knocking dies down, Omi calls chirpily, “Aya-kun? Ichiro-san is on the phone for you.”

 

`Again', Yohji thinks bitterly, ready to let Omi know exactly what message he can relay to that brainless roach.

 

“Mmph.” Yohji scowls at Aya, who has clapped one hand over his mouth, and has him pressed against the door in a quelling grip.

 

“I'll be right there Omi,” Aya calls calmly, never taking his eyes from Yohji's.

 

Yohji mutters resentfully until Aya decides it is safe to release him.

 

“Aya - ” Yohji begins, intending to give Aya a piece of his mind. This has gone beyond a joke. It's been two weeks. When is Aya going to go for his katana and permanently dissuade that leach from sliming around?

 

Aya silences him with warm lips that twist deftly against his own, until Yohji forgets his irritation and allows Aya's tongue to slide into his mouth, smoothing all thought away. He finally emerges from the kiss, dazed, and wonders why Aya has that look on his face. That look never bodes well. It is usually followed by… Damn, Aya has somehow managed to switch places with him. He has the storeroom door open and is slipping from Yohji's grasp.

 

“Aya!” Yohji whines piteously.

 

“Patience Kudoh,” Aya counsels smugly. “After all, aren't you the one who worked so hard to show me the value of persistence?”

 

Yohji spends a good five minutes cursing inventively. He has to do something to avoid going back to the shop. His betraying erection is long gone, but Omi and Ken would hardly fail to notice Yohji ripping the phone out of Aya's hands in order to fuck him senseless on the floor.

 

Damn he wishes he could go outside for a cigarette break.

 

It's his own stupid fault really. Aya isn't leading Ichiro on. Yohji has heard Aya's refusals of Ichiro's invitations. He's never ambiguous, and his politeness gets frostier with each call. It isn't Aya's fault Ichiro seems impervious to every variation of `curt'. If Yohji hadn't badmouthed Ichiro every chance he got, Aya wouldn't have felt compelled to be polite at all. Yohji groans. Point made Aya. Lesson learned. Just get rid of the parasite.

 

Of course, if Yohji hadn't thoughtfully intercepted most of Ichiro's messages and flowers, then Aya would have realised by now that Ichiro is deranged. Grade A stalker material.

 

Yohji's conscience prickles uncomfortably. No, it's not the same at all. This PR wanker is obviously sick. It's a good thing Aya's had a teammate to look out for him. That's all he's been doing.

 

Yohji winces. Somehow he can't convince himself that Aya's politeness would extend to him if certain facts were to become known. Best to behave for a while. Let Aya deal with Ichiro. Stop pushing for Aya to tell Ken and Omi about their relationship.

 

And it is a relationship. Damned if Yohji would be regularly begging to be fucked for anything less. Not that he ever expected to be begging for that under any circumstances. And begging is really too strong a word for it. It's just that Aya intrigued him that first night. Somehow, the threat of the unknown became a promise for `next time'. And the bastard's been reneging on that promise ever since.

 

Yohji snorts. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He can't remember the last time he had sex this often. He certainly can't recall it ever being this good - so damned hot he never seems to get enough.

 

Yohji always suspected that the passion that erupted whenever Aya had a Takatori in his sights would spill over into other pursuits as well. He sighs happily. To be spectacularly proven right is a wonderful thing.

 

Now if only Aya would stop holding out on him.

 

Yohji rolls his eyes. He's an idiot. Aya tells him so often enough. It must be true.

 

Yohji hauls himself out to the shop, ignoring Ken's accusing frown over the heads of jostling fangirls, and Omi's harried look with the ease of long practice.

 

“Ladies, ladies, relax. Kudoh Yohji's here and each and every one of you will leave with a flower befitting your beauty.”

 

Aya doesn't even twitch as he puts the finishing touches on an arrangement under the simpering gaze of a girl almost old enough to be dateable. Yohji smirks, secure in the knowledge that only he knows how to crack that blank façade. Something he plans on getting right back to, as soon as all these annoyances are taken care of.

 

~

 

Yohji stomps up the stairs in a foul mood. Aya is probably off practicing katas by now. Yohji knows better than to try to seduce him in the practice room. He winces at the memory of how easily Aya threw him to the mat the one time he tried. He didn't release his stranglehold until it was patently clear that Yohji understood he was not to get between Aya and his katana for the purposes of sex. Yohji can think of far more pleasant ways to get bruises. Ways that don't involve any damage to his ego.

 

Blast Omi and Ken. They stuck him with both the closing of the shop and the washing up after dinner, as punishment for his unscheduled `cigarette break'. Yohji protested vehemently; they both know he hasn't smoked for weeks. Omi raised one eyebrow and wondered whether they should take all the years Yohji did smoke into account - say five cigarette breaks a shift, at fifteen minutes per break?

 

Not even Aya is brave enough to stand in Omi's way when he's in that sort of mood. And Aya was shoveling food into his mouth with mission-like focus. No help there. Yohji tried to accept defeat gracefully.

 

But now Omi is nowhere in sight and Yohji will stamp around all he wants. No nicotine hit to make him feel better. Probably no sex either; judging from the way Aya barely glanced at him when he left the table.

 

Yohji flings the door to his room open, planning on listening to his most mournful blues CDs, and wallowing with a bottle of scotch for company.

 

“Close the door Kudoh”, Aya instructs lazily, lounging against Yohji's pillows, looking gorgeous in a dark blue silk shirt and tight, faded jeans. Stunned, Yohji obeys automatically, drawn to the bed, like a moth to a flame, until Aya jerks him down, breaking the trance.

 

“D'you get all dressed up for me, baby?” Yohji asks.

 

Aya frowns, but forgoes his usual endearment reprimand, instead pulling Yohji into a wet kiss, until they are both panting and Yohji is tugging at the hem of Aya's shirt.

 

“I was planning on going out,” Aya explains, stilling Yohji's fingers with his own.

 

“Mmm, I'd rather stay in,” Yohji husks.

 

“That can be arranged,” Aya replies, smiling. Yohji stops fighting Aya's grip in favour of appreciating that smile. Surprises him every time.

 

Aya takes advantage of his distraction to flip him onto his back.

 

“Do something for me?” Aya asks.

 

Yohji blinks in astonishment. Aya never asks for anything.

 

“Of course,” Yohji declares, “anything”.

 

Aya regards him for a long moment, lip caught between his teeth. Finally he shakes himself and reaches for Yohji's hands, pulling them upwards and curling Yohji's fingers around the headboard railings.

 

“Like this?” Yohji asks curiously, gripping tightly.

 

Aya nods, more sure of himself now. “Close your eyes,” he orders throatily. Yohji grins as he complies. He feels Aya shift above him and wriggles his hips a little, hoping to speed things along.

 

Click, clack.

 

“What the - ”

 

“Sorry Kudoh.”

 

Aya is staring down at Yohji, a look of genuine regret on his face. Yohji knows this is bad; feels the certainty leaden in his bones, even before a firm jerk of his upper body confirms that his arms are trapped.

 

Aya never apologises.

 

Yohji twists around to catch sight of the padded handcuffs attached to each wrist. The devious bastard; when did he raid Yohji's toy drawer? And why is Yohji so sure this isn't a wild fantasy about to come true?

 

“What are you doing, Aya?” Yohji asks as calmly as he can manage.

 

“There's something I have to take care of, and I don't want you following me.”

 

“What the fuck are you up to?” Yohji is panicked now - visions of Aya throwing himself at automatic gunfire in order to reach a target sear into his brain.

 

“Nothing dangerous,” Aya assures him, stroking a soothing hand along Yohji's chest.

 

“Why don't I feel reassured by that?” Yohji asks sourly. Aya's definition of `dangerous' is far narrower than any sane person's. “Let me go Aya, or I start screaming for Ken and Omi to come sit on you,” Yohji threatens.

 

“No!” Aya covers Yohji's mouth and starts talking fast. “They won't hear you. Omi's in the basement on the computer and Ken has his headphones on. But it really isn't dangerous. I'm meeting Miki. He won't accept it's over. I'm going to go and get it through his thick head once and for all.”

 

Aya cautiously lifts his hand from Yohji's mouth, and seems to relax at the stream of fervent invective Yohji spits at him. Perhaps he was expecting yelling. Perhaps Yohji should be yelling.

 

“Aya, that creep is insane. He's been stalking you!”

 

Aya raises an elegant brow. “You mean he's slinking around outside restaurants and perving on me in nightclubs?”

 

Yohji flinches.

 

“Or has he been destroying my phone messages and throwing out my flowers?”

 

“Aya - ” Yohji stops. He can't, for the life of him, think of any way to talk his way out of this one. He's not even sure why Aya is still letting him breathe.

 

“Yohji,” Aya explains patiently, “I don't give a shit about Miki. I just don't want to have to explain a body to Kritiker. He bragged too much to his co-workers about the hot florist he was banging - ” Aya frowns at Yohji's outraged expression. “He's a lying jerk. What else was I expecting? But Yohji, I don't need protection from Miki; he needs protection from you.”

 

“What?” Yohji splutters indignantly.

 

“Tell me you wouldn't have your wire around his throat in two seconds flat if you heard him boasting about what a good fuck I was.”

 

Yohji struggles for a believable denial.

 

“Possessive idiot,” Aya growls. It almost sounds affectionate.

 

“Oh, all right,” Yohji concedes grumpily. “But give me some credit, Aya. They'd never find the body.”

 

Aya rolls his eyes. “The police would still be here asking questions. And believe me, if that ever happens, I will take great pleasure in hanging you out to dry. And when they're done with you, Omi and Manx will be next in line.”

 

Yohji fumes. “So you've explained it all to me. I'll be a good boy. No need to handcuff me to the bed.”

 

“They're your cuffs, Kudoh,” Aya points out, sounding amused.

 

“Ha, ha. You know as soon as you leave I'll just find a way to get Ken or Omi in here to release me.”

 

“You won't do that,” Aya asserts confidently.

 

“Why not?” Yohji taunts. “I don't mind telling them how I happened to get like this. It's you who's all discreet.”

 

Aya shakes his head. “I don't want to confuse them. Particularly Omi. Miki still calls all the time. It would look bad.”

 

“Why would it look bad?” Yohji asks, offended. “Oh, I get it. Wouldn't want them to think you're a slut like me, hopping from one bed to another. Or are you ashamed of just being with a slut like me?”

 

“No!” Aya protests and then frowns uncertainly.

 

For once, Yohji feels like the rightful owner of the `you idiot' glare. He doesn't stint on its use.

 

Aya flushes and looks down at Yohji's stomach. He traces an idle pattern on the skin until Yohji twitches.

 

“Tickles,” Yohji complains.

 

“Sor - ” Aya's colour heightens. When he raises his eyes, he looks so discomfited that Yohji wishes his arms were free so he could pull Aya into a hug. If he'd let him, that is.

 

“Maybe you have a point,” Aya admits. “I'm new at this and I don't really know what I'm doing.”

 

“Don't sweat it Aya,” Yohji says wearily. Aya is just too damn good at giving himself a hard time. Joining in is redundant.

 

Aya frowns.

 

“Hey!” Yohji rocks his hips from side to side to give Aya a shake. “You're doing pretty good. Have you heard me complaining?”

 

“No.” Aya's frown lessens.

 

“Let me out of these cuffs, and I'll show you exactly how satisfied I am with how you're doing,” Yohji cajoles, suddenly very aware of Aya's weight pressing against his pelvis.

 

“Mmm,” Aya responds, leaning forwards to swipe his tongue along Yohji's neck. “I don't think so.” Yohji's annoyance is fleeting; Aya's lips prove very absorbing when they descend on his own. Besides, Yohji's very, very good at this. Aya will want him to have full use of his hands pretty soon.

 

Aya breaks off the kiss with a regretful sigh.

 

“I'm going to be late,” he announces, eyeing the alarm clock.

 

“Aya!” Yohji growls in frustration.

 

“Relax Yohji, I won't be gone long.” Aya punctuates his words with a full body stretch, rubbing himself against Yohji.

 

“Aya,” Yohji whines, “please don't - ”

 

“I'll make it worth your while,” Aya whispers hotly against his throat.

 

“How?” Yohji asks, falling short of the sceptical tone he was aiming for and landing somewhere in the vicinity of `hopeful'.

 

“Behave, and when I get back, I'll fuck you so hard, you'll forget how to breathe.”

 

Yohji groans. “You mean the long awaited `next time'?”

 

“Precisely,” Aya avers

 

Yohji hangs on to that thought, as the door to his room clicks closed.

 

~

 

By dint of much wriggling, Yohji has finally managed to get himself into a position that doesn't threaten the circulation to either arm. Lucky he has so many pillows for cushioning. Maybe he'd be better off facing the other way though. Staring at the clock, for want of any other form of activity, is driving him slowly mad.

 

Or is that quickly mad? Whatever. He's going to smash the damn thing first chance he gets, because there's no way less than fifteen minutes have passed since Aya left.

 

Yohji closes his eyes and tries to slide into a pleasant fantasy where Aya is the one cuffed at Yohji's mercy. Damned if Yohji would skip out the door.

 

Annoyed, Yohji abandons the attempt, feeling further dispirited when he realises the clock hasn't advanced even one minute. Usually he can daydream for hours. But it's too bright in here. Aya could have lit a few candles instead of leaving the harsh overhead light on. Or at least given Yohji his sunglasses. Or, even better, a post-orgasmic glow to keep him relaxed while waiting.

 

Mmm. That's more like it, imagination.

 

Yohji jolts, wrenching his left shoulder and wrist, as someone knocks loudly at his door. The Chibi from the sound of it. Yohji bites his lip to muffle the pained moan that wants to escape.

 

“Yohji?”

 

Yep, definitely Omi, sounding brisk and focused. In that sort of mood, Omi would have him out of these cuffs in thirty seconds flat…

 

Yohji thinks of all the sex he won't be having if Aya returns to find him freed and Omi brimming with assumptions.

 

“Yohji, I know you're in there. Answer me!” Omi sounds pissed now. Yohji gulps. The last thing he wants is for an angry Omi to burst in, ruin everything and for Yohji still not to be let loose. Omi would probably even call Ken in to gape at him as well.

 

“What is it Omi? I've got a bad headache, I'm sleeping.” Yohji hopes he achieved an appropriately weak and pained voice.

 

“With the light on?” Omi asks doubtfully.

 

“Can't it wait Omi? I feel awful.” Well, at least the last part is true.

 

Oh, fuck, the doorknob is turning. Why didn't Aya think about this possibility?

 

Yohji frantically tries to use his elbows to rearrange pillows into some sort of concealment.

 

Omi cracks the door open.

 

“It can't wait, Yohji. Manx is here. We have a mission.” His tousled head peeks cautiously into the room. Yohji is grateful that the dresser is blocking much of his view. If Yohji can just get him to back off…

 

“Sorry Chibi, I really can't come downstairs at the moment. You'll have to tell her I'm indisposed. You can fill me in tomorrow.”

 

Omi steps around the door. Damn.

 

“The mission is - Yohji? What on earth are you doing?” Huge eyes fix on Yohji's wrists in bewilderment.

 

“Umm. I was trying out a new toy,” Yohji babbles.

 

Omi stares suspiciously around the room. He looks as if he'd like to check the closet and under the bed.

 

“On your own?”

 

“Yeah. I wasn't thinking. Really dumb, I know.” Yohji says lamely.

 

Omi sighs.

 

“Where's the key?”

 

Good question. It was in the cuffs. There's a spare, but Yohji doesn't want Omi going anywhere near it. The poor boy would never be the same again.

 

“I lost it?” Yohji tries.

 

Omi glares at him.

 

“OK, you've sprung me. My bondage mistress is coming back when she decides I've learned my lesson, and if you want me out of these sooner than that, you'll have to pick the lock. I didn't want to tell you because I know it's a security breach. If you ask her nicely, I'm sure she'll punish me to your satisfaction.”

 

The sex had better be sensational, Aya.

 

Omi's lips twitch.

 

“Your bondage mistress?”

 

“Madame Scarlet. She's very discreet. I can give you her references if you'd like.” Yohji deadpans.

 

Omi flushes and glances away awkwardly. His gaze narrows, as he eyes the closed window.

 

“How does she get in, Yohji-kun?”

 

“She has her ways,” Yohji replies flatly. “Omi, isn't Manx waiting?”

 

Omi starts.

 

“My lock-picking set is in the third drawer of the dresser,” Yohji nods in the right direction.

 

Omi retrieves it quickly and sets to work, shooting several more questions Yohji's way. Yohji refuses to answer, on the grounds that it's ruining his concentration.

 

“I'm the one picking the lock!” Omi protests.

 

“But I'm the one who's good at it!” Yohji snaps back. “So follow my advice.”

 

Omi grumbles for several minutes until it becomes clear that he's not getting anywhere.

 

“Why didn't I buy the cheaper set?” Yohji berates himself. He's sure they would have been easier to disable.

 

Omi's eyes narrow dangerously.

 

“Where's the key, Yohji? This has gone on long enough.”

 

Yohji sighs in defeat. “Bottom drawer, bedside table, right up the back.” He closes his eyes resolutely. If he doesn't look, he can pretend he hasn't been responsible for besmirching Omi's innocence.

 

Interminable rummaging sounds, punctuated by the occasional `Eeep!', and thunk of something falling back into the drawer follow. Yohji's patience finally wears thin after an unusually long silence.

 

“Omi - ” Yohji barks, before the look of horrified fascination on Omi's face silences him.

 

Yohji'd forgotten he even had that. A present from an adventurous ex-flame. They'd never actually gotten around to using it before parting. Yohji still feels a bit guilty about that. It's just that Seika was so enthusiastic when she explained the accompanying harness. Though Yohji feels some regret when he recalls her fingers delicately pointing out all the life-like details…

 

Focus Yohji.

 

“Omi, the key?”

 

“Huh?” Omi answers, stupefied.

 

Of course, Ken chooses that exact moment to make his entrance.

 

“What are you guys doing? Manx is wearing a hole in the floor.”

 

Ken slides to a halt, mouth hanging open.

 

If Yohji screams loudly enough, maybe Manx will rescue him from the wrath Ken will unleash on him any moment now. The penalty for permanent perversion of Omi must be evisceration at the very least. Then again, if Manx were here…

 

Maybe Yohji can chew through his bonds while Ken is immobilised with shock?

 

“Where's Aya?” Ken mumbles. Yohji chokes at the apparent non sequitur.

 

“You worried he's missing the dildo party, Kenken?”

 

This must be a dream. Or maybe Aya drugged him. Any minute now, Aya's going to leap out of the closet, wearing nothing but a pink feather boa, and Yohji will know he's truly lost it.

 

“Ken? Omi?” One furious Manx, coming right up.

 

“I'll stall her,” Ken blurts, already heading for the door. “Omi?” he pleads anxiously, just before exiting.

 

“We'll be right there,” Omi reassures him, shoving the silicone monstrosity out of sight and miraculously producing the errant key.

 

~

 

Thirty minutes later Yohji has traffic to distract him from the memory of the most formally polite briefing he's ever lived through. Even Ken was calling him Kudoh-san. Manx was exasperated with the lot of them, but wasted no time investigating the stilted atmosphere and lack of eye contact between the three assassins.

 

There was no time to spare. Their target, the ruthless organiser of a prostitution slavery racket, had previously escaped Weiss' clutches by fleeing overseas. He'd returned only yesterday - his location coincidentally discovered via routine Kritiker surveillance of an associate. The resulting second window of opportunity was narrow; intelligence having confirmed the target was flying out again in the morning.

 

Yohji's grateful that Omi elected to ride with Ken. He needs the quiet to get his head back together. He has no idea what to tell Aya, who is meeting them on site. Maybe he can just pretend the whole thing never happened. Maybe the contents of his toy drawer will make enough of a bonfire to keep him warm until his pariah status expires.

 

Aya steps out from beneath the shadow of a tree as Yohji pulls in to the designated rendezvous.

 

Yohji tosses him his bundle of mission clothes and katana, ready to snap `don't ask' in response to even a raised eyebrow. He needn't have worried; Abyssinian is the one waiting to lead them. Nothing will disturb his focus until the target is dead and the team back at the Koneko. Yohji breathes a little more easily.

 

~

 

Yohji drags himself up the stairs. Half the night cramped into a tiny crevice, foliage trickling moisture down his collar, did nothing for his mood. Far too much time to think. For once, even Aya couldn't possibly fault the radio silence everyone had maintained. Nothing but terse, half-hourly check-ins to interrupt Yohji's brooding.

 

He didn't even get a warming rush of adrenaline for his troubles. When the target finally showed, Omi's darts took him out efficiently, and even Aya seemed to think Ken needed to work out some aggression, and left the few guards to him.

 

Yohji had deliberately dawdled on the drive back. Desperately trying to think of what to say, since he'd already methodically discarded the truth and every possible variation of it. Telling Aya everything is his fault isn't likely to improve Yohji's life expectancy. Or his sex life. It's probably out of his hands by now - Omi and Ken have had plenty of time to fill Aya in.

 

To his surprise, all is quiet when he reaches the hall. A quick check of the doorways tells the story: Ken and Omi in bed already - no light under their doors: Aya's is open, so he must be the one showering.

 

Yohji hesitates. Maybe some sleep will make sense of the tangle in his brain.

 

But sleep eludes Yohji, until the sounds of Omi scrambling to get ready for school and Aya getting up to open the shop reassure him that the world hasn't ended just yet.

 

~

 

Only minutes to go until closing. Yohji can make it without strangling the next customer who asks him what's wrong. The rush hasn't let up all day, and the schoolgirls have been especially rabid in response to the unusually strained atmosphere pervading the shop.

 

Yohji was the only one who theoretically had enough time to sleep before his shift, since he didn't start until midday. But damned if he's going to get stuck with cleaning up again. Not when Aya hasn't looked at him once, and Ken and Omi have stared at him whenever his back is turned.

 

Yohji glances in Aya's direction again. Only the slight smudges under Aya's eyes betray his likely exhaustion. His face is expressionless, remote, when he'd normally be at `buy something or leave' meltdown by now. Yohji was fooling himself to think he had the key to unlocking Aya's moods.

 

Time for Yohji to stick to what he knows best. As soon as the shutters are down, he's out of here. He's not coming back anything less than stinking drunk. If he's lucky, he might run into Ichiro while he's out and get to vent his frustrations on the true culprit. Maybe he'll steal the dickhead's cigarettes too - he sure could do with one right now.

 

Finally Ken starts pulling down the shutters, as Omi ushers out the last sniffling fangirl. Yohji is heading for the kitchen, when he hears something that makes him stop dead and whirl in disbelief. It can't be; Yohji wasn't serious. Some sick fuck up there has a really twisted sense of humour.

 

“Aya-kun, Ichiro-san is here to see you,” Omi calls.

 

Yohji stalks back to the front of the shop, hand automatically settling on his watch. He's not sure whom he wants to kill. It all depends on why that bastard's here.

 

One look at the thunderous expression on Aya's face and Yohji's ire dissipates. This ought to be good.

 

“I had it delivered two days ago,” Ichiro is saying petulantly. “If you hadn't run off so quickly last night, I could have asked you for it then.”

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Aya responds icily.

 

“That bracelet was expensive,” Ichiro snarls. “Stop dicking me around.”

 

“Hey!” Yohji protests, earning a blistering `stay out of this' glare from Aya. Ichiro stares at him too, rakes his eyes sneeringly along Yohji's body.

 

“You,” Ichiro declares. “You know about the last present I sent. The delivery girl said a blonde signed for it.”

 

“Garish purple box full of gardenias?” Yohji asks. “I threw them out, what of it?”

 

“You what?” Ichiro splutters.

 

“Ikebana that shoddy would make an artist like Aya queasy for a week. I did you a favour, believe me,” Yohji snorts.

 

“You kept the bracelet for yourself, didn't you?” Ichiro accuses. “Thought it would go with those slutty outfits you wear, no doubt.”

 

“Enough!” Aya roars.

 

Yohji bites back his retort, hoping that the quizzical eyebrow he cocks at Ichiro's blindingly white jeans and peasant shirt open to the navel is eloquent enough.

 

“I don't have any bracelet, Miki, and I think it's time for you to leave,” Aya grits out.

 

“I'm not going anywhere, until your friend returns my property,” Ichiro hisses back.

 

Omi materialises at Yohji's elbow. “Now, now Ichiro-san, I'm sure the jewellery was valuable. After all, you have a certain reputation to maintain in your line of work. But since it was a gift, it seems a little ungracious to demand its return. What would your friends and colleagues counsel?”

 

Ichiro stares at the slight teenager in disbelief, his mouth contorting with rage. “Listen, squirt,” he points a condemning finger at Yohji, “that son of a bitch stole something -”

 

Ken cuts him off by stepping forward from Yohji's other side, to loom menacingly, well inside Ichiro's personal space. Ichiro withdraws his finger and takes a hasty step back.

 

“I think you'd best accept the word of Yohji's friends, that he isn't a thief,” Ken snarls.

 

Yohji finds himself smiling for the first time that day. He suddenly feels in the mood to be generous - to a point.

 

“Relax, Ichiro-san, you can have your bracelet back.”

 

Yohji's teammates' heads whip around in unison. Aya's stony mask has cracked to reveal incredulity, but Yohji ignores him in favour of raising a hand to forestall Ichiro's whoop of triumph.

 

“You might want to change your outfit first. Those jeans must be a bitch to clean.”

 

“Huh?” echoes quadraphonically.

 

“The dumpster isn't due to be emptied till morning. That box should still be in there somewhere,” Yohji elaborates, grin widening.

 

Ichiro turns bright red and seems to stop breathing altogether. When he finally recovers, he turns back to Aya.

 

“Do something,” Ichiro spits venomously.

 

Aya looks impassively at Yohji. “Kudoh.”

 

Oh no. Yohji bristles. Aya can't possibly think for one second -

 

Aya shoots out a hand to grab Yohji by the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer. Yohji clenches his fists, and decides to let Aya say it before he flattens him.

 

“Kudoh,” Aya continues, tone deadly serious, “I order you, to learn from my mistake, and not waste a single minute playing around with garbage.”

 

Aya smirks. Actually smirks. Then reels an astonished Yohji into a liplock.

 

Yohji dimly hears Omi thanking Ichiro for stopping by, as Aya spins him around to bend him back against the counter, while devouring Yohji's mouth with his own.

 

“I'm glad that's finally sorted out,” Omi chirps.

 

“Me too Chibi. Want to go out for pizza?” Ken replies over the sound of the last shutter sliding into place.

 

Yohji scrambles back onto the countertop, and Aya follows, never letting Yohji's lips escape his own, as he climbs up and pushes Yohji down flat.

 

“Sounds great Ken. I'm sure we can trust Aya and Yohji to finish up here,” Omi replies.

 

“You want us to get you anything before we go?” Omi adds politely.

 

“Mmm,” Yohji mumbles around Aya's tongue.

 

“Some handcuffs maybe?” Ken asks helpfully.

 

Aya jerks his head up to stare at Ken.

 

“Or other supplies?” Omi enquires sweetly.

 

“What?” Aya asks suspiciously, eyes tracking back and forth between Ken and Omi.

 

Yohji threads both hands into Aya's hair and forces him to return his attention to more important things.

 

“Goodbye Omi,” Yohji says firmly.

 

“Don't forget to clean everything,” Omi warns, as he and Ken finally leave.

 

Yohji licks his lips, then sets about wiping the scowl from Aya's face.

 

Soon Aya seems to have forgotten anything other than the urgent need to get Yohji naked. He wrenches his mouth free from Yohji's, and sits up to pull Yohji's apron over his head. There's not enough slack in the material, so Yohji helpfully arches his back and reaches for the bow tied at his waist. After a couple of seconds of ineffectual groping, Aya snorts in frustration, and reaches for the string around Yohji's neck, snapping it determinedly and yanking the apron front down so he can attack Yohji's shirt buttons.

 

Yohji moans happily as Aya shoves him flat again, and gives his shirt the same rough treatment - buttons roll across the counter and skitter loudly in multiple directions across the floor. Yohji writhes his way free from his shirtsleeves while Aya detours from his mission to suck and bite each of Yohji's nipples until they ache fiercely.

 

“Aya,” Yohji moans and tugs helplessly at Aya's shoulders. “More. It hurts wanting you so badly.”

 

Aya's lifts his head; eyes glittering with satisfaction; face flushed with intent. He's so fucking gorgeous that Yohji surges forward to kiss him again. Yohji's fervent protest at Aya breaking away to hop off the bench, dies on his lips at the uncharacteristic sight of Aya flinging his own clothes off with careless abandon.

 

Aya rips Yohji's shoes from his feet and then grabs the waistband of Yohji's jeans, to haul his ass right to the edge of the bench. Yohji's head cracks back against the counter as he slides. He barely notices; he's already dizzy from panting. Aya flips Yohji's apron out of his way, the heavy material landing in Yohji's face. He doesn't bother moving it, he `s too busy bracing his feet so he can lift up and Aya can get his jeans over his hips. A tiny corner of Yohji's brain congratulates him on retaining enough optimism this morning to decide underwear might be inconvenient.

 

The same corner positively purrs at the sound of Aya retrieving condoms and lube from Yohji's jeans pocket. The last fortnight has reinforced the benefits of always being prepared.

 

There must be something Yohji can do to help at this point, so he sits up. At least he'll get rid of this apron, since Aya seems to have forgotten.

 

Breath jolts into Yohji's lungs as he catches sight of Aya. The look on his face as he stares at Yohji is so fierce, it's frightening.

 

“I'm going to fuck you now,” Aya growls.

 

Yohji's cock jumps, rubbing itself painfully against the harsh material bunched at his waist.

 

Aya stalks across the distance between them so rapidly, that Yohji only has time to think `predatory', before his feet hit the floor and he's whipped around. His hands skid across the bench as Aya propels him forward with a shove between Yohji's shoulders, and Yohji is grateful for what little padding the apron provides, as his hips slam into the edge of the counter.

 

“Fuck, Aya,” Yohji gasps when enough air makes it back into his lungs.

 

“That's the idea,” Aya answers, voice harsh as he pants against Yohji's back, their bodies pressed together.

 

Individual sensations gradually resolve from the miasma of lust blurring Yohji's thoughts. Fingernails digging sharply into his ribs as Aya's tongue traces along his spine. Coarse friction against the head of Yohji's cock, as it pulses against tangled material with each of his ragged breaths. The warmth of Aya's legs, splaying his own wide. And, oh, there; the ridge of Aya's erection, sliding heavily between Yohji's ass cheeks, as Aya begins to circle his hips.

 

A shiver of apprehension pierces Yohji's desire. He wants this. But he can't help wishing that he'd let Seika put her harness to the test after all; that he wasn't such a novice.

 

Aya pauses in his sucking and nipping and Yohji twitches as he hears the distinctive sound of foil ripping.

 

Not a novice exactly. After all, Seika left behind her toy, and Yohji's never shied from self-experimentation. It was fine. Didn't hurt at all.

 

Yohji shudders in a breath as Aya's slick fingers take the place of his cock.

 

“Relax, Kudoh,” Aya orders, his other hand soothing the muscles jumping in Yohji's back.

 

“'m trying,” Yohji grunts.

 

Really, it didn't hurt. Hardly at all. And only when Yohji tensed. He's sure it would have gotten easier…

 

Aya pulls Yohji further towards him and snakes a hand around his hip. Yohji holds his breath as Aya struggles with the folds of apron, and then sighs in relief as his cock is enfolded in a slippery grasp. Aya always finds a way. He can execute the most difficult mission plan.

 

“Damn,” Yohji moans, as his cock takes over, thrusting forcefully into Aya's grip. “Trust you with my life,” he groans helplessly; a final coherent burst of thought.

 

“I'm going to fuck you, not kill you,” Aya promises, voice low and rough, as he presses a slippery finger into Yohji's entrance. The sensation barely registers over the bliss of Aya's hand, twisting around Yohji's length; Aya's thumb rubbing across the head of Yohji's cock at the beginning of every stroke. Yohji's dimly aware of Aya stretching him, but it all seems academic - he's hurtling towards the brink of orgasm and everything feels wonderful.

 

Then Aya squeezes his hand firmly around Yohji's cock and holds, while Yohji whimpers in frustration, scrabbling for leverage to set things in motion again. Aya's fingers move deep inside him, and Yohji freezes. Fuck! Did he get his whole hand in there somehow?

 

“Aya!” Sparks scorch along Yohji's nerves, blanking his vision and arresting his breathing. Again! This time Yohji makes the connection.

 

“Holy fuck! That's what that feels like,” he yells.

 

Aya doesn't let up, occasionally adding a firm stroke of Yohji's cock to the mix, until Yohji feels ready to leap out of his skin.

 

“Now, Aya,” Yohji begs, “fuck me now.”

 

Aya grunts and pulls his fingers free before carefully easing his cock into Yohji. Yohji pants at the unfamiliar feeling, the sting that gives way to a maddening urge for something.

 

“Aya,” Yohji complains, straining backwards.

 

“Wait,” Aya orders.

 

“Why?” Yohji whines.

 

“Once I start, I'm not stopping for anything,” Aya answers, the tremor in his voice betraying the effort it is taking to stay still.

 

“So don't stop,” Yohji pleads.

 

“Hang on then,” Aya grunts, taking a firm hold of Yohji's hips.

 

Yohji grips the far side of the counter tightly, as Aya pulls back, then thrusts hard. Yohji slides on the smooth surface, his cock rubbing up against the tight wad of apron, wedged beneath his hips. Aya moans as he pulls back again, and this time the force of his thrust rocks Yohji up onto toes that want to curl at the thrill that shoots from his prostate.

 

“S'good, Aya, it's good,” Yohji encourages.

 

Aya emits a strangled noise, then unleashes a frenzied rhythm of pounding. Yohji's throat vibrates as he screams Aya's name over and over; the sound lost in the rush of blood in his ears, and the protesting shudders of the bench.

 

Yohji sobs as orgasm tears through him, obliterating sense, in an intense, bright flare.

 

“Yohji,” Aya rasps next to his ear, as Yohji finally becomes aware they are now on the floor. Aya's arms are tight around him, his breath a steadying warmth against Yohji's neck.

 

Yohji shifts his legs into a more comfortable position, flicks a button out from under his ass, and slides the apron around his waist so it can protect him from the grittiness of the floor. Dreamily he remembers that he'll probably have to sweep it later. Much, much later. Right now, Aya seems to have settled on a new mission. One that involves sucking an enormous bruise into the skin of Yohji's throat.

 

Yohji smiles lazily. Possessive idiots have a certain charm.