04-Mar-2002

Series: Weiss Kreuz
Title: Ariel
Author: BonneJeanne and Nixers
Contact: bonnejeanne@yahoo.com and nixerchan@aol.com
Category: Humor (we think it is anway), One Shot
Pairings: KenxAya
Warnings: evil beyond mention, lemon, takes OOC to new and unplumbed depths
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Death threats will be chuckled over.

Credits:
If Looks Could Kill - Heart (J. Conrad B.Garrett)
Don't Walk Away - Toni Childs
Act of War - Elton John & Millie Jackson
Get Ur Freak On by Missy Elliot

Ariel

The bar was crowded - no, it was packed. Ken had been lucky to squeeze in the door. It was often this way on a Friday night, the customary party night, but even more so tonight. Rumors had spread that the show tonight would be something special. A legend was returning to the stage, a legend who had been rare with appearances lately. Word had traveled somehow and the whole community had converged on the place. It was a madhouse. It was a zoo.

Ken pushed his way through the hard press of bodies to the bar only by power of sheer stubbornness, strength and a lifetime of agility training. He felt sorry for those few on the floors trying to find enough space to dance to some song with more bass than substance.

Normally he wouldn't have even dared this haunt on such a crowded night, especially not on some event he hardly cared about. But the mission that night had gone a little too right and he had decided that he needed a couple hard drinks and a lot of anonymity.

The bartender, familiar with the dark haired boy on the quieter Wednesday nights when the week is long and the paychecks have run out, raised an eyebrow at the unusual appearance. Even more so when the kid tossed back a good portion of his usual before even attempting to look for a seat.

"Didn't think you swung!" the man called over the pulse of the beat and roar of conversation. Not quite sure what he'd heard, or even if it was correct, Ken just shook his head and laid down a 500 yen coin.

"Keep it!" the assassin shouted back, indifferent to the man's grin. Let Aya fume about finances. About to sign for a second to stave off a darker train of thought that followed that, he paused as the white noise of voices in the background dissolved, decibel by decibel and a sort of anticipation drew tight through the air.

"Ladies... *and* gentlemen," an announcer/dj's voice came over the house system, the emphasis on the words eliciting a trill of appreciative laughter. "It is my extreme pleasure tonight to tell you that we have a living legend in our midst. Yes, you heard correctly! But she will not come out until there is no danger of harm to the audience, so please find seats!"

There was a surge of excitement, then some disappointment as the message was delivered but the crowd began attempting to order themselves. Those that could took seats and the dancefloor became a makeshift floor seating area. Those familiar with the diva knew she was perfectly capable of refusing to come out if she felt she was not being obeyed.

As things settled down, there began a low chant from the front, nearest the stage and spreading slowly back. It was a name... something with three syllables, but Ken couldn't quite make out what it was supposed to be, although most of the people in the room seemed to know.

Having found a rare seat only moments before the announcement that caused a scramble for what was left, Ken shrugged off an impulse of contrariness. His attention focused on the stage, with some vague hope of this 'legend' being more than overblown word of mouth or good advertising from the bar.

Taking a second drink, his vision blurred a little as the houselights dimmed to nothing, leaving the only illumination to a few red hued lights above the stage and dance floor.

The chanting increased until it came close the shaking the walls. Then a crescendo of music drowned it out, and the announcer's voice returned in the hush. "Thank you for your cooperation, dear patrons! And now, it is my *extreme* honor and pleasure to present to you the Firebird, the Diva of Steel, the one, the only, the incomparable... ARIEL!"

At the last word, a figure stepped into the crimson lights which brightened until the tall form was bathed in blood. She moved with an elegance that was beyond reason as she swayed, stalking with the grace of a scarlet panther. Her slender frame clad in a strapless outfit that cinched her waist and pushed firm flesh into two rounded half-moons that dared the slashing V at the front of the bustier, layers of sheer gauze that fluttered and moved, their edges ragged like licking flames along those incredible legs... legs... legs... that went on forever... balanced perfectly on a pair of stiletto heels, the vision lifted her head and the audience exploded into a frenzy of cheers. The diva's red hair was cropped short, except for two daring side pieces. Her eyes were made up perfectly, the dark shadow slanting them mysteriously. Her mouth was as red as fresh blood and as ripe as a summer strawberry. The modelesque cheekbones and narrow, triangular jaw were set off by a dangling jade earring, just one, whose swing mesmerized more than one awestruck member of the audience.

The cheers peaked and then the vision held up her hand. The gesture was like a command from a queen. The hush was sudden and breathless. The she reached out for the microphone on the stand in front of her, opened her mouth and began to sing.

It's amazing what can be overlooked, in the adrenaline soaring effect of a crowd atmosphere, to hazy lights and air, to a few drinks settling warmly in the stomach, to the sheer aura of femininity and vaguely feline, predatory grace.

It could probably be excused why the assassin's pulse leapt at the sway of narrow hips, eyes lingered a bit too long on the perfect alabaster neck.. and lower. Why he stared with a dry mouth and drink forgotten in hand as she sashayed up to the microphone and long fingers curled around it.

And probably why he half fell out of his seat when the voice that came forth wasn't a soprano... wasn't even an alto.. by a long shot.

The voice was deep and had a sexual quality to it that made everyone in the room with any kind of hormones suddenly feel them down to their toes. The delivery was flawless, the tones amazing and the words....

The last line seemed to linger on the air and hold the atmosphere even after the sultry music slid into silence. It seems that the stillness held the audience as well, whether stunned into silent appreciation or still for fear that vocalizing it before the diva gave her permission would cause her to disappear.

Ken had remained frozen for the entire performance, as his mind tried to work itself around the totally surreal situation. It was almost enough in skill and intensity to put aside the hair and forelocks, the earring, the leg... no he was /not/ going to think like that.

No matter what, there was no way in hell he was going to stay bent in his seat like a high school boy. The stillness in the room clicking in a second too late, Ken got up with the firm intent in mind of being very, very sure that tonight was firmly blocked from memory.

The voice over the microphone cut across the still hushed crowd.

"Don't you dare walk away, honey...."

It was a command to halt and a threat of dire punishment. The crowd gasped as a follow spot found the transgressor and pinned him in the white.

The crowd ooohed and the people around him shook their heads and clicked their tongues as the music started in answer at a jungle tempo.

"Don't walk away
ripping out the root of love

Don't walk away
ripping out the root of love.

Tell me now: What is in my heart?
The kind of lies that have torn us apart.
You lay down in the road baring your bloody soul
Don't need no satisfaction guaranteed my main attraction.

Ripping love out by the roots though my ghost is still with you
It hurts to watch you turn away so I'm tearing out the truth.

Don't walk away
ripping out the root of love..."

The glittering eyes of the diva pinned him to the floor and there was no doubt in his mind that there was murder in them. Her finger pointed like a sword at his throat and then the finger curled as the last lines of the song emerged from her lips, beckoning.

Frozen in the lights, and feeling the weight of half the room's stare, Hidaka Ken was weighing his options.

/Takes a quarter twist of both sets of blades to divert his favorite attack... aw fuck.. no bugnuks.../ Then brighter, /Wait, no sword/... /He will when he gets home and he knows where I sleep.../

At the end of the twisting mental dialogue and the resigned mental decision, he found out that his body hadn't paid it the lightest bit of mind, and himself about halfway through the crowd who, on the dancefloor, reluctantly scooted aside momentarily to let the preoccupied boy pass.

Feeling the heat under the skin of his cheeks, and a pulse that HAD to be audible, he was certain that his panic was clear on his face. He just had to hope that was all that was. He opened his mouth to explain, to apologize... anything, and then quickly shut it when the look in the diva's eyes made it clear that 'she' wouldn't appreciate her name at the moment.

As he moved forward through the crowd, the last few words of the song, like the rest, seemed to be directed straight into Ken's eyes. So directly that it gave rise to speculation in certain quarters of the crowd that this stranger must be known to the diva... perhaps he was the current favorite? But from the sound of those lyrics, something must be terribly wrong...

"Time passes slowly
time passes on

Waiting for my man to call when there's no man at all.
Do I stand here waiting for the earth to turn to dust

Give up my passion
rendering my lust
or do I walk away?"

Ken found himself at the edge of the stage as "Ariel" moved close, microphone in hand to bite out the words. The eyes continued to pin him to the spot.

"Ooh, you better get on your knees and pray for forgiveness, boy!" a woman... or was it a man? - in the audience next to him called out with the fervor of a penitent testifying in church.

For a moment, there was indecision, a natural urge to follow, and jade eyes, half hidden under jagged bangs, flicked aside as color flushed again under tanned skin. The boy swayed for an instant, perhaps lending possibility to the boy following the onlooker's suggestion.

Fortified by a deep breath, when he looked back up to the firebird, the eyes were hard with resolution and perhaps a little fire of challenge. "Iie," the word was breathed and not meant to carry as far as it seemed to.

"Ariel's" eyes flashed and she simply snapped her fingers with a sound like a gunshot, reverberated through the mike. Then the finger pointed at Ken, and pointed to the opening to backstage left behind the diva. The order was clear. 'You - backstage and wait.' There was no option for disobedience in sight.

Without waiting for the impossible hesitation, the diva signaled for the music of her third and final number.

"This ain't no battle, honey
this ain't no fight
How come you take it so hard when I stay out all night?

If I take a drink
is that against the law?
And if I have a good time
do you call that an act of war?

Well, you better believe it boy
this house is your home
I didn't build it up for you to live here on my own.
And if you think it's easy to forget about me
you'd better think twice
you'd better believe it's an act of war.

We're living on the front line you and me
Fighting on this battleground of misery.
Oh go ahead bring on your artillery
and well make this an act of war.

Give it all you've got 'cause I'm all dug in
Keep the punches comin' I can take them on the chin.
Winner takes all - let the best man win
and we call it an act of war..."

How exactly he ended up backstage was rather a mystery for Ken. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the act of walking, just the sensation of waking up from the song, leaning against the wall beside the open doorway. The smirks and knowing looks that the stagehands and technicians sent him he couldn't quite tell if they were of congratulations or a warped condolence.

Cheers, shouts, whistles and pleas suddenly swelled up from the massive audience, signaling some release as the show outside ended. Within, a tiny woman in an artist's smock laden down with various heavy makeups waved Ken along, depositing him in the makeshift dressing room that the establishment had hurriedly provided for their rare guest.

In the tense moments alone, he didn't know if it should have helped to relieve him at all to see a long golden earring carefully laid out on the dressing room table, or to see a patch of horrible orange color in the discarded clothes that only could belong to one turtleneck sweater.

It didn't do it. If anything Ken shot more and more nervous glances towards the door as everything he thought he could expect unraveled at a frantic pace. Nor could he quite understand what else was becoming more and more of a steady undercurrent of the embarrassment and tension.

The cheers continued and after two brief encores the regular dance music started up, the driving bass vibrating the walls of the small closet/dressing room as if elephants were humping next door.

Ken never had a chance to hear footsteps approach through the din. One minute he was waiting, the next, the door slammed open and the vision in red stepped through, still with that swivel and that criminal stalk. "Ariel" entered, a small crowd of worshipers clamoring behind, and shut the door with another slam in their faces. Leaning back against the door, the creature's arms crossed as 'she' regarded Ken Hidaka down her incredibly lovely nose.

"Well?" the deep voice still seemed to have a throb of music under it somehow.

The assassin froze again, the single word scattering all the possible openers and explanations that he had been compiling in his wait. Through a mental barrage of obscenities, he finally heard himself ask/say, "Red's your color?"

His heartbeat ticked out the seconds as the silence lengthened... and then was suddenly broken by a sound Ken had never imagined the redheaded assassin was capable of... a sultry laugh.

Unleaning from the door, 'she' stalked closer to where he sat on the small stool. The stiletto heels added enough height to make the diva a veritable goddess is stature. Reaching out one gloved hand, 'she' tipped Ken's chin up. "Do you really think so? How sweet..."

Staring far up at the diva, every muscle in the athlete's neck was visible as he swallowed hard. Doubt despite the proof he'd just seen, that he /knew/, was being confounded by the vision in front of him. "A... Aya?"

The crimson lips curved slightly, mesmerizing him with their sweet promise.

Then the figure stood up and walked over to the small table, reaching up to remove the jade earring. "Yeah, Ken, who the fuck did you think it was, Santa Claus?"

Ken let out the breath he'd been holding in an explosion of air. His hands raked through his own hair, doing nothing to calm the normally messy locks, and his voice took a higher flustered pitch, "It'd be less surreal if it was."

Aya favored him with a look over one bare shoulder as the gold earring resumed its place. "Surreal, hm?" he murmured, and the illusion resumed/was broken/resumed over and over again. Turning to sit on the edge of the table, one incredible leg was raised and a finger hooked under the strap of a shoe. The stiletto dropped to the floor with a thud. "Fuck, those things are evil."

The powerful sensation of double vision settled in even deeper as the diva transformed, piece by piece. At the impossibly long view of white that just barely disappeared under red fabric at the borderlines of decency caused an irrational flush and Ken found himself shifting and awkwardly finding something interesting on the blank ceiling. Taking a few moments to shift his train of thought back on track, he asked, "Where'd you get 'Ariel'?" as if it was naturally the next question.

The second shoe dropped with an equal thud and Aya sighed, wiggling his toes in relief. The cool concrete of the floor seemed to offer some comfort. Noting Ken's stare at the ceiling, a wicked expression flickered across the normally impassive features, now enhanced with skilful cosmetics. Placing one foot on the athlete's thigh for balance, Aya reached under the layers of red gauze revealing the elastic strap of a garter belt. Unfastening the clasp and starting to roll the pale stocking down his leg, he said offhandedly, "Ariel was a puppy I had when I was seven."

At the comment, jade eyes flicked back down to Aya, a little incredulous, and caught an eyeful of the other assassin's activities just as the red haired assassin used him to steady himself. A wry comment about Aya and names died before it ever made it out. "I.. you.. if you need.. want.. er I can go if you need to change. Out..." /Before you kill me,/ he added mentally, flushing.

Shifting his weight to the bare leg and planting the other foot firmly on Ken's thigh, rolling down the other stocking, "I'm not letting you out of my sight," the diva growled, but the tone was pure Aya. Then he turned around, presenting his/(her?) back. "Help me with the laces. Thanks to you being here, I had to leave my dresser outside."

The bustier was laced tightly in the back, its boned construction cinching the waist and pushing Aya's well developed pectorals up into a frighteningly convincing bosom.

Ken gave a few false starts as it sunk in that without some contact, getting the knots and complicated lacework up the back was never going to happen. He stood and examined the ties quickly before giving the unlacing his best shot. While the other's back was turned, he was a little less self conscious about the pale skin revealed as the red fabric parted.

"Shit, how do you stand that thing?" he asked, laying one hand on Aya's shoulder and pulling a stubborn black lace with the other. He couldn't imagine anything but the loose clothes he worked and lived in. Even taking in Youji's taste in tight.. this was.. something else.. entirely.

Ken was protected from the odd smirk that crossed the diva's face as he wrestled with the bustier. "It's just... the tools for the job," Aya murmured. A quick look was darted over a shoulder, noting that the soccer man's tongue was stuck out in concentration - cute...

To help, Aya exhaled and sucked his stomach in as tight as possible. "Now, quick," he breathed.

In the club, the dj was playing another pounding dance number and the chanted lyrics seemed to grind into Ken's brain.

"Who's that bitch?

People you know.. Me & Timbalan' hott since 0 years ago
What the dilly yo, now what the drilly yo,
If you wanna battle me then "Peopleeahh"..Let me know
"Hollaahh"..Got the feelin son,
Let me throw you some "awty-muychi-koo"
People here I come, now sweat me when I'm done,
We got the radio shook like we gotta gun

Get your freak on, Get your freak on, Get your freak on,
Get your freak on, Get your freak on, Get your freak on,
Get'cha, get'cha, get'cha, get'cha, get'cha freak on "

The laces slid free of their bindings as if more by Aya's command than Ken's persistence. The whisper of fabric as it slid down smooth thighs muffled the soft whump of the harder material hidden in the ruby layers hitting the floor.

He vaguely knew he was staring, as his gaze swept up from the other's ankles, but something that moved in time with the hard and fast song outside didn't care. His hands curled into fists, to keep from touching. "You don't need them," he replied.

Aya was stretching, free of the confinement of the corset. The skirt had slipped off with the top, leaving the assassin naked save for a pair of tight red silk bikini panties and a garter belt, its dangling tabs now free of the absent stockings. He cast another look over his shoulder and even the cosmetics didn't hide the slight smirk. Tilting his head, he listened for a minute to the song coming through the walls and its repeated chorus with an odd smile.

"So what were you doing here tonight?" he asked.

This time Ken did turn to the side, fists uncurling long enough to rub the back of his neck. "I'm here every now and then." He cast a look at Aya, then flushed and seemed to think better of it. "After the bad ones, you know." The heavy music still wasn't quite enough to cover the sounds of movement beside him, out of line of immediate sight. "What are /you/ doing here? You don't.. I never," he sighed with frustration and started again, "Now I /know/ that this doesn't happen often here.. or at all that I knew of... You?"

"After the bad ones," Aya murmured, unhooking the garter and discarding it. He retrieved a pair of worn, well fitted jeans from the floor and stepped into them, zipping up. Then he picked up the sweater and discarded it, and came up with a black t-shirt, pulling it on without messing up the make up. This vision was somehow sexy in its own way, the young man's well-honed body now revealed with the diva's mask atop it.

"Yeah... that's usually when I do this," he said. He took and released a deep breath. "I don't care if you understand. It helps. She used to... dress up and sing with the radio," he said, his voice falling almost too low to be heard. He shrugged, dismissing it. "I do it. You know. You tell, and you die."

"Yeah," Ken said, daring a hesitant look over his shoulder, and was struck again at the mixture. Turning back to the wall, he offered in return, "It started after the bad games in the early days. When it comes right down to it, who wins and who loses really depends on who's in front of the net. Never really stopped even after..." He let out something like a laugh and threw a grin over his shoulder. "Careful, I might decide you'd be a classy way to die."

Aya listened to the athlete's words, head slightly cocked. Barefooted, he walked over to Ken and turned him around with a hand on his chin. A slight, diva-mystery smile curved his rouged lips. "I think you are flirting with me, Ken Hidaka," he said slowly.

The other visibly tensed, the relaxed slowly, a decision made and the acceptance of it obvious in his posture. "What?" he asked, "Turnabout's not fair play anymore?"

The slight smile remained. "Depends... on whether or not you mean it. What's your kink, Kenny?"

"Didn't think I had one," Ken answered, "But this might be it."

Aya studied the assassin as his tongue moved out briefly to moisten those mesmerizing lips. "In that case... I think I can show you a better way to ground after the hard ones... come on..." he said, and pushed his feet into a pair of slip on shoes. He threw the discarded clothes into a pile and opened the door.

The small woman with the makeup apron was not far away. "Yes, your diva-ness?"

Aya nodded at the pile of discarded costume. "Send it to the usual place. I'm outta here."

"Of course, oh Firebird," the girl answered cheerfully. Her glance at Ken contained a measure of surprised approval.

Ken followed in the other's wake, absorbing the deference and adoration in those Aya passed, approval, jealousy and appraising looks cast in his own direction now.

The cold night air hit both of them as the back door to the club was opened for them to the halflit ally beyond. As the music muted, trapped beyond the heavy and now locked door, it almost seemed like stepping back into reality. Or it would have, if the face of the assassin he was following didn't still bear the full regal mask of the diva, moving with fluidity over discarded cardboard boxes bearing common beer titles to the employee lot.

In the yellow light of streetlamps, Ken couldn't quite tell if the grace he'd always associated with Aya was from the sword or from the dance.

"I need to get my bike before last call," Ken said, pausing before Aya's car.

Aya paused next to the car and studied Ken yet a last time. Then he pulled a small card out of his pocket with an address hand written on it. He handed the card to the other young man. "Meet me here." He raised an eyebrow. "If you don't make it in ten minutes I'll assume you changed your mind - and pick up some alternate company."

With that he got in his car and turned over the motor, pulling away from the alley and into traffic.

Ken wasted no time looking after the car, save to note which direction it had turned. Preoccupied with the neat, almost technical mix of kanji and hiragana, the question of taking the out he was offered might have occurred earlier in the night, maybe when he had something more in the way of reservations.

He swung a leg over the seat and kickstarted the bike, and let it purr in idle for a moment while he pulled on his gloves. Kase did always say if you couldn't live it down, live it up.

The assassin's lips quirked as he clipped the strap on the helmet securely. There was a good deal of construction on Fourteenth. With his bike, he just might beat Aya there.

The address was to a small apartment block in a less affluent area, the kind of place where people rented for a week or a month or lived there all their lives. The card included a room number, on the top floor. Easy access to the roof.

Climbing the stairs - no elevator working that he could detect - he found himself in front of the right door. Lifting his hand to knock, a voice beyond the door called, "It's open," and the throaty depth of the tone left no question about the identity of the speaker.

A fleeting touch of competitive disappointment tangled with electric anticipation. The knob, as promised turned easily. The polite "Tadaima," was past his lips before he could curb the reflex, or his eyes had even adjusted to the change in lighting.

The windows along the street side were all open, blinds rolled to the top. A couple of red candles in dishes dotted the room making the only and unsteady illumination. A figure moved slowly within - silk robe draped loosely over shoulders, a long slow series of sword katas came to a close, the candlelight flickering off the familiar blade. Sheathing the katana, the tall figure turned to the one who entered. Makeup still in place, the silk robe hanging open like a decadent kimono, Aya extended a hand and once again beckoned to Ken to approach closer.

Ken slipped off his shoes and stepped into the room, padding at first carefully. He stopped, a little bit away, and leaned against a table, arms crossed. He gave the long, slightly curved edge of the blade a long sweep upwards, lips tugging into a smile. He was familiar with the practice, the precise turns, arcs and repetitions, the same to the centimeter in the hands of a master. "Don't let me stop you."

But the sword was already resting in its sheath and the sheath was being placed on a trunk. "Oh no," Aya purred, slipping in and out of the voice of the diva easily. "I can play with that toy anytime." The walk was the same somehow even without the stiletto heels. Perhaps even more graceful. Coming right up to Ken, Aya reached down and began untying the sweater tied around his waist. "So tell me, is it true what they say about you team sports types?"

Ken drew an almost silent breath at the simple action, swaying forward just enough to let the sweater fall to the ground. His hands slid up Aya's arms, taking some forming delight in the juxtaposition between the diva's question and the feel of whipcord muscles of the assassin. "Suppose it depends on the rumor," he replied, the quirk of his lips not disappearing.

"That you are all daisy-chaining it like mad in the locker rooms and showers," Aya murmured with only a slight smirk. He responded to the touch along his arms by settling his hands at Ken's waist. He was very familiar with his team mate's physical characteristics but was reassessing them in the evening's new context. And finding himself more than simply pleased.

Ken snorted, "Sounds like I got out of soccer too early then. Must be a second year thing." At the end of their journey, his hands found a grip on the other man's wide shoulders, using it as a leverage to close the space and the slight different in heights to try those painted lips.

The lips had a faintly exotic taste, perhaps from the rouge coating them. Aya felt himself relax even further as it became evident that Ken wasn't exactly holding himself back and therefore it could be assumed that he some idea of what they were about to get involved in. Yielding control of the kiss to the soccer player, Aya tugged the jacket off his shoulders where it joined the sweater on the floor. His smooth stomach and toned abs pressed against Ken's body, pliant yet dense like steel mesh.

Breaking the leisurely kiss to allow the jacket to fall, Ken backed off the few inches that he'd pushed forward. Unaware of the color that now stained his lips where they'd met with Aya's, Ken's hand hesitated on the hem of his own t-shirt. The ex-soccer player turned the falter around smoothly, instead divesting himself of gloves first.

Aya smiled at the slightly reddened lips of the young assassin. Sliding a long fingered hand along Ken's jaw, he placed a kiss under his chin and then at the hollow between his collarbones. Then he hooked his hand in the front of Ken's t-shirt and began pulling him along, towards a doorway to another room. Along the way, his free hand scooped up a couple of objects from a dish on a low side table.

The next room contained a bed. A large bed. That was about all. Giving Ken a little push towards it, Aya dropped the objects in his hand next to the soccer player. A tube of lubricant. A couple of condoms in foil.

"I'm willing to chance that you're clean - I am," Aya said, hooking fingers in the red silk bikinis and pulling them down. "But you don't have to risk it if you don't feel like it." Kicking the tiny garment away he looked up and smiled, then the smile faded and a more familiar look returned, albeit on enhanced features. "*Don't* be gentle."

Ken paused a moment, a different sort of hesitation staying him, before he glanced up at Aya, for one last confirmation. His fingers closing over the proffered tube marked the shedding of the boy's last reservation.

The textured denim of jeans against Aya's flesh added unintentional extra friction, as the other pushed himself against Aya with the desperation of someone trying to sink into the his skin. His hands skimmed lightly over Aya's back, but his lips were hard and hungry against what pale skin they found.

Head tilting back to offer the elegant line of a long neck to Ken's attentions, the red haired assassin/diva closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensations of hands, lips and the friction of cotton against his bare skin. The near-desperate energy coming off of Ken fed a pulsing need that Aya kept carefully concealed under all other circumstances. "Show" nights were different - his one allowed time to get truly crazy, to get away from the rigid discipline and personal bushido he held to so strictly that even his friends - or perhaps he could only call them "close associates" - sometimes saw him as less than human. It wasn't any of their business who and what he might be, but in bringing Ken to this place he'd allowed a crack in a door that he never expected to be opened. But tonight, like all such nights that began with the stage, was a night for getting wild.

Allowing Ken to touch and taste for a few minutes, he then suddenly pushed the athlete away, not with repelling force but just enough to slip and twist out of his grasp and move onto the bed. Crawling onto to its wide surface on his hands and knees, he tossed a look over one shoulder, the pose and the picture something from an erotic pin-up, before lounging on his side.

Ken stared for a moment, focusing on just breathing, just cooling off enough. While the diva was another side of Aya that he hadn't imagined, and if he had, probably would have asked Manx a few pointed questions about stress syndrome and psyche reviews, but even the diva had only hinted at /this/. His feet were quiet on the wooden floor as he paced a small distance of that perimeter, settling to sit on the bed beside Aya's back.

He swallowed hard for a moment, and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. "I won't be gentle if you don't want it," he said, a little surprised at how hoarse his voice was. "But I want to make this last a bit." That out, he seemed to give his belt and jeans more concentration than they seemed to warrant.

Aya turned, sitting up behind him and snaking deft, long-fingered hands around his waist to push his own away. Aya took over the unfastening of Ken's belt, and unsnapped the jeans, pulling down the zipper. The movements were unhurried, not frantic, and Ken could feel Aya pressed against his back. Lips pressed to his shoulder, opened for the swipe of a tongue and then the testing of teeth. "Make it whatever you want," the low voice murmured against his neck. "Just remember, when the time comes."

Seeking fingers delved into the open fly of Ken's jeans, capturing and releasing the firming flesh within.

Whatever the assassin made of that scattered to the four winds at the far too brief contact, then he would have agreed to just about anything as each move the other made layered upon each other. He shifted a little, bending one of his legs beneath him as he turned on the bed. Beyond a little smudge here and there, the makeup on his companion's face was still almost impossibly in place, given, perhaps a little more subtlety by the wavering half light shed by the candles.

The other had always been exotic, self possessed, confident beyond belief... He shook his head minutely, the pulse in his ears and gathering heat marked it as a thought for later. The diva had already given him permission, twice.

A slight twist upturned his lips as shifted his other leg up onto the bed, giving a little extra, if artificial advantage of height. This time he pressed his lips to Aya's from above, tongue seeking entrance between them as a hand curled up into impossibly red hair. Eyes lidded, he pushed all his emotion and energy into it, his other hand exploring seeking, a single purpose of driving out that self possession in the other, to push as far as he could, as much as this other side has hidden in it.

An invisible smile and a delicious tightening that ran through his body and settled low came as the soccer player leaned over and took the diva's mouth. *Yes* shivered almost undetectably through his system. A beat of music started in his mind. No easy surrender came, the kiss was almost a duel, but points were made through skill and energy rather than simple power and dominance. Even if he tried to think of this as just another assignation, the other wasn't going to let him. He felt Ken's personality, his fierce but honest soul reaching down into his own, forging fearlessly into the mystery and darkness Aya used to protect himself. The duel became a kiss. The kiss became a surrender, not unconditional, but given in recognition of the dark-haired assassin's right to take it.

Even as he surrendered his mouth, Aya's hands slid around Ken's waist, pushing the unfastened jeans down a little as he explored the toned contours of those well-trained hips.

The other welcomed what was offered, a distant part marveling as the swordsman gave without softening. Exploring the sweetness of the other's mouth, he broke off, breathing deep at the feel of the hands on him and the exotic aftertaste of the lip gloss. Sinking a little he trailed his attention down the line of Aya's neck, the touch of teeth giving the occasional sharper contracts to the warmth of lips. His fingertips found the other's chest, letting half minded patterns linger along more sensitive flesh, questing for reaction and memorizing sensitivity.

Reactions were forthcoming. Hurts inflicted in battle hardly drew a grimace from the swordsman, but the touch of strong and dexterous hands drew answers quickly. The diva might stalk like a panther, but 'she' could also purr like a cat. Exotic eyes closed in pleasure, accepting the softness of a kiss and the brief bite of teeth with equal indulgence. Nipples riding on smooth toned pectorals pushed into Ken's hands, instantly firmed. Eyes opened to track Ken's movement, a corner of rouged lips turning up at the crimson smears around the athlete's mouth. A sudden gasp answered a particularly well placed kiss and Aya's back arched like a dancer's.

Jade eyes almost closed, a contentment at the firm body pressed taut against him underlying a fierce pleasure. He exploited the spot for only a moment, seeking out more. His lips closed over one of Aya's nipples, his tongue flicked quickly at the hardened flesh. His hands had strayed lower, the slightest hesitation before he wrapped one around the flesh found there, his thumb brushing over the tip.

Another gasp and then a low moan followed, the tension in the red haired assassin's body shooting up instantly. One of Aya's hands buried in Ken's thick dark hair, the other moved behind Aya's body to support an even deeper arch. The firm flesh under Ken's touch wept a little clear fluid and almost seemed to quiver in his hand. He'd wanted to defeat the self-possession - it was being abandoned for the sake of pleasure.

Ken pushed himself away just a little, just enough. The sight caused him to tighten almost painfully, a soft, involuntary sound escaping the constriction in his throat. He kept his touch loose on Aya's erection, carefully not giving quite enough. He'd meant it when he said he wanted it to last, but if the other kept looking like this... his free hand sought and eventually found the tube he'd dropped sometime earlier.

The dark haired assassin's tongue peeked out to wet his lips, and a brief flush of red colored his cheeks as he tasted the rouge he was beginning to associate with Aya/Ariel there. Pushing the thought out of the way, he released Aya long enough to uncap the tube and spread a portion of the cool gel on his fingers.

Released, Aya leaned back slowly onto the wide bed's surface, eyes opening to watch the preparations. A little half-smile flickered as the diva considered giving the soccer player a bit more of a "game." Thought became action instantly with the reflexes of the swordsman behind the mind of the diva. A quick turn, a sudden capture and Ken found himself with a red-haired obstacle between his fingers and his flesh. Skilled hands took possession, presenting the organic lolly pop to a hot tongue and an equally skilled mouth.

The soccer player had nearly bit his own tongue at the sudden 'attack.' He let out a strangled sound, but the tensing of every muscle in the young man's body had nothing to do with pain. What he'd been holding felt from nerveless fingers with a soft *pat* to the bedspread and the boy himself seemed torn between a need for stillness to hang onto whatever shreds of self control he had, and the natural instinct to move, to do something, anything for more. He wasn't sure which name made it past his lips, but for the life of him, he couldn't see the difference at that moment.

The reaction satisfied the diva's complex ego nicely, and was rewarded with a throat-deep enclosure that retreated and repeated, sending Ken on a little trip to heaven or someplace unconnected from the earth. With experienced skill, Aya brought the dark-haired assassin right up to the edge and then backed off, slowly, leaving a last tongue swipe as a promise of satisfaction to come. Rising, he kissed Ken thoroughly and then eased back, head slightly tilted to see what the green-eyed assassin would do.

Which, for a long moment, was nothing. The other was half curled, drawing short fits of breath through slack and parted lips as the boy fought through a deepset haze. When he, did finally act, the eyes that met amethyst were dark with passion, electricity running hot behind them. Ken moved fast, his hand pushing at Aya's shoulder, tipping just enough off balance for the sweep of the swordsman's legs to send him back into the coverlets. Instantly, he had Ken's weight along him, restricting movement.

His eyes lost focus for the few seconds it took to attend to himself with a liberal coating, but they sharpened almost immediately, as if Aya was the only thing left worth focusing on. The same fingers skimmed up Aya's thigh, slick, warm and possibly a bit more hurried than Ken had intended.

The diva might be headstrong, might even tease, but when it came time to deliver, was anything but coy. Long legs parted, granting access to the dark-haired assassin's goal. Aya watched Ken with the assassin's characteristic intensity and the diva's feline hunger.

Ken wasted no more time, pushing in with one finger as quickly as he dared. Propping himself up with his other hand and a locked elbow, he sought out the prostate with the movement of one, then two fingers, moving in a mimicry of what the rest of him ached to do.

The body he thrust into moved against his hand, but lavender eyes, starting to cloud with heat, locked onto Ken's. They hadn't exchanged words since first entering the room, but Aya broke the tension-laden air with a low growl that was half order, but detectably half entreaty. "Come on..."

The other assassin obeyed almost immediately, withdrawing and pulling the diva's hips a little higher into the air. He pushed in all the way at once, too far gone to do anything else. The boy's jaw locked hard and his eyes squeezed shut, as he paused both to collect himself in the overwhelming feeling of tight heat around him, and to lean forward, putting an almost-steady hand on Aya's shoulder.

Ken was rewarded with a gasp and a pleased groan from the one beneath him. Long alabaster-skinned legs wrapped around his waist as an arm draped around his neck. The expression on the painted face beneath was bathed in a combination of pleasure and need. Lavender eyes locked to jade and demanded that the need be fulfilled.

Dark, jagged hair swept over Ken's face, obscuring half of it in shadows as his head ducked in assent. The hands on the diva shifted, just a little, and the soccer player withdrew and thrust back just as hard, as swiftly. He set a tempo that rose with his heartrate, but never seemed to take his eyes off of Aya, unwilling to miss a gasp, a movement, any moment of him like this.

The hand around his neck gripped firmly and the long legs tightened a little, but not enough to restrict his movement. The red-head's back arched and he threw his head back, an expression of fierce pleasure transforming the painted features even more extremely. The abandonment to pleasure, to being taken and the effect it had on his senses was total and unreserved. As disciplined and calculated as the swordsman was, the creature in his place was none of it. His free hand dug into the bed, and a low series of rhythmic moans gave the dark-haired assassin his dance music.

Suddenly the moans seemed to spiral and the flexing body Ken dove into began to tense and shudder.

Ken took the other through his climax, releasing the red diva's shoulder to wrap the hand around his erection, adding stimulus to sensation. He had grit his teeth, refusing with all his stubbornness to let himself go until then. He collapsed in levels as the white behind his eyes faded in pulses.

The touch on that flesh yielded an extra hard buck as Aya's essence covered Ken's hand, colliding with his own explosive release. The room became quiet save for a twin pair of gasping breaths, seeming satisfied in the aftermath of the music's crescendo. After a moment or two, something supple under and around Ken stretched a little, and a hand trailed across his cheek, caressing. Another moment or two, and a warm mouth found his, the kiss no longer urgent, but sweet and passionate. Another stretch and a sigh.

Ken's eyes closed slowly, willingly surrendering to this kiss. He felt the stretch and the soft whisper of the sigh against his skin, but didn't want to move just yet. A disconnected part of him wondered if this was what addiction was like. The only concession he made to that part, as he moved off and to the side of Aya reluctantly, was the arm still wrapped around his torso in a possessive hold. /He can break it first,/ Ken told himself, refusing to open his eyes again to see it happen.

A soft exhale of breath - a near silent laugh was the only reaction to that encircling arm. Long fingers spidered through Ken's dark hair idly. Aya's eyes were open, flickering down to watch the other young man's face, then wandering up to watch patterns of guttering candle light on the ceiling. The deep satisfaction and level of comfort he was feeling now were both extremely unusual. Leave it to you to mess things up, he thought, continuing to comb through thick, dark hair. The mental comment left a slight smile on his lips. He lay still as long as he could manage it, no more eager to break the contact in all honesty that the other. However, eventually the discomfort of physical necessity overcame the pleasant half-drowse and with a last stroke of fingertips, Aya shifted and rose from the wide bed, padding through another door into the bathroom. Water was turned on, soap and other cleansers employed, needs met. In a remarkably short time the light went off again and the long-limbed figure drifted back into the bedroom, skin and hair damp and face now devoid of all artifice. He looked down for a moment at Ken's curled figure, unknown thoughts spinning through without leaving much trace on fine features.

Already beginning to half drift into sleep, green eyes blinked lazily, roused from coasting simply out of instinct and the other's proximity. It was almost a revelation to see Aya without the makeup, without anything, and.... not honestly seeing much difference. There was something more in the way he was set, the attitude that was always there that was the diva. How he had missed it for so long was beyond him. This time, when his lids drifted shut, the expression was clearly contentment. "Would you consider more than one night?" he asked quietly.

The swordsman's expression was back, subtle variations, hybrids of persona flickering in and out of existence. Apparently unready to answer the calmly posed question, Aya climbed onto the bed, molding his body around Ken's without self-consciousness. A warm brush of lips against Ken's neck and earlobe was followed by a light nip. And a growled instruction. "Shut up and go to sleep." An arm snaked around Ken's body as the other settled. With both bodies together it was warm enough to sleep.

Ken's hand settled loosely around Aya's wrist, smile hidden from the source of warmth behind him. Aya could feel the tension drain out of the muscles against him as the other followed orders, or at least one of them. A half conscious, "Wakatta," just barely made it back to the swordsman's ears.

Morning arrived on schedule, the schedule certainly being too early for a certain former J-League player. Daylight almost banished the last specter of the night before, leaving a lot of questions and some interesting doubts and speculations.

The concessions were few. The swordsman brewed an extra cup and left it by the bed. A clean set of towels in the bathroom. A pile of discarded clothes dropped on a chair. The candles, even the remains were gone. No silk robe in sight. Certainly no makeup. Jeans and a clean t-shirt, a jacket from somewhere. Not even an explanation - Aya had first shift to open the shop and certainly saw no reason to remind Ken of something familiar to both. As the door opened and closed, leaving the dark-haired assassin alone in the apartment, only one thing remained to prove the whole night not a dream - the glint of an unopened, foil-covered package peeking from under the covers half under the bed on the floor.

Counting the various evils of sunlight, starting with mornings and working his way up to skin cancer, Ken managed to get himself at least sitting and aware enough to take in the changes of the passed night. Most thoughts that resulted were quiet, thoughtful, riding the edge of just being 'there' emotionally. He hadn't been sure what to expect, actually hadn't thought about it at all. With a slight, unconscious twitch of a smile, Ken amended that he really didn't /have/ time.

He stood and stretched, letting settled bones and muscles wake up a bit before picking up a clean towel. This morning, he decided was... Aya. Whatever that meant, he'd find out on the afternoon shift. Blanching at the mirror in the bathroom, he figured it might take all morning to get the look off his face anyway.

Ken made it in to work well before Youji-morning. The shifts were set up so that they could switch and have a free hand to prepare for the lunchtime rush before it actually hit. Ken was well used to opening his shift without a partner, not expecting the eldest assassin to find his way in until well after the sun was past its zenith.

Momo-san raised her head and smiled at him as he swept into the store, tossing her a cheerful grin, before discreetly glancing about the shop for another presence. "Still quiet?" he asked, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair, "Cram school has been killing off the daytime crowd."

The door to the back stairway opened and a familiar slender figure stepped in, apron lightly stained from a batch of morning orders. Lavender eyes met Ken's briefly, the expression almost seeming more forbidding than usual.

Ken gave an internal sigh that didn't match the easy grin and wave. That wasn't quite the hint he was hoping for. Ah well. It was still a good, no, strike that, mind-blowing in more than once sense, time. "Oh don't give me that," Ken complained. "I'm here on time to save you from the school girls. Couple of minutes won't hurt here and there."

Carrying an armload of asters to the work counter - coincidentally just past where Ken was standing, Aya managed to brush his shoulder as if implying he was in the way. A low comment was added. "They don't like either one of us, as you know quite well," Aya growled. "On time is on time." Just behind the dark-haired young man another comment was added at a pitch too low to be heard any farther, and even at that volume, it was suddenly evident what had put the swordsman in a mood. "Someone botched it last night. We're going to have to go back in and clean it up."

"We have a cat in the basement?" Ken asked.

A curt nod was the answer. At this proximity, the fury in the lavender eyes was scathing, though just as clearly not directed at Ken. "The blunder wasn't ours. Kritiker blew a follow up, now we get to fix it." As he spoke, his hands calmly trimmed the asters and put them in a vase to set in the refrigerated storage area.

Ken nodded in return, moving without comment to check over the addresses on the delivery sheet without really seeing it. Something that needed next day attention from the outside, it was almost a red flag for an all kill situation. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. Tonight was going to suck. At least he had all day to prepare for it. "Close up after Omi gets back?"

"Hai," was the expected response. One thing was rather obvious - if Aya ever found out the source of the blunder there might be an unauthorized kill coming up in the near future.

The day went more or less as expected. The night went more or less wrong all the way down the line. After the addition of an unexpected female hostage to the mix, which pulled Youji out of action for the time it took to get her out, a nasty, new surprise on the building security system tying Omi up, and about twice the estimated number of targets being left to the remaining half of the team. It was impossible to keep things from turning into an almost literal blood bath. The mental images alone from the end of the extraction would stick around for much longer than would be comfortable.

It left them all exhausted and splitting in four directions like the wind. Or so it appeared. After a shower which was a gut level necessity, Ken discovered there was someone opening what he had thought was the locked door to his room.

Instinct came before assumption. He tensed and hands curled into fists, perfectly able to kill without the ease of blades. He stilled, ignoring the wetness dripping into his face from still soaked hair, and waited out of sight, for an indication. After a night like that one it was too much to hope that Omi'd just gotten tired of trying to knock over the sounds of the shower. He'd hate to have to kill someone before he went out.

The door opened and a figure slightly taller than his own stepped in, looking around. Aya had a large duffle on his shoulder. He spotted Ken about where he'd looked for him. The face never moved but the eyes... smirked. Impossible but true. They also took an extra moment to rest on the damp soccer player and examine everything not covered by the towel.

Yet the features were impassive. He looked at Ken with almost a scowl and said, "Open mike, different bar. My dresser's working." He turned and shut the door. "Well? Are you coming?"

Ken was already picking up a shirt. "Are you wearing red?"

A shrug. "Someone recently told me it was my color," he answered calmly. Only a close scrutiny could have detected the slight curve at the corner of Aya's mouth.

An indeterminate number of days or weeks later....

"You know that Youji swore today that he was going to follow us," Ken said with amusement heavy in his tone. One hand of his held the two sides of the bustier together as the other tied the laces with now long practice. On the other side of Aya, the make up girl was finishing her last touches on the diva's face. "Said he couldn't stand to see the 'boring' ones find all these parties when the rest of the town was dead..."

~Owari~

Translations for gratuitous and unnecessary Japanese (^__^) -
Iie - No
Tadaima - a greeting traditionally said when entering a house.
Wakatta - Understood

Love & Gundams