Oh, yes...

I take it out slowly, lovingly, and feel it slide against and slip from its confines. Finally it's free... naked for me to caress, to touch, to savor.

I'm running my fingers up and down. It's smooth... smooth and cool. Hard beneath my fingers. I can't get enough of touching it, gripping it, sliding callused fingertips down its length.

It's always there when I need it... it never turns its back on me, or disappears, or refuses me. I never have to fight for it, fight with it... and it's always consoling... Cool, but warm against my ice. Sturdy, pliant, beneath my fingers.

I stroke it softly, careful not to close my fingers around it too tightly. Sweet, this object of my affection, my devotion, my lust. I run a finger over the tip, trying not to press too hard. I can't help it, I do... and bring my fingertip to my lips to lap away the moist droplets there. I can feel it linger on my lips, warm and salty.

Soon, it's warm from the friction, and I can't wait any longer. I close my fingers tightly over it, too tightly. I feel sweet pain for an instant, and warm liquid trickling between my fingers.

I sit back and close my eyes. It's over. The sticky liquid cools, and I sigh softly.

I get up, wipe the blood from the katana's blade, and slide it into its sheath, leaving it cold and lonely until next time.

It's almost painful to watch.

Watching those beautiful fingers caress something that can't appreciate it. Wishing those fingers would touch me instead. Watching the expressions of rapture on his face, without being able to let him know I'm there, to let him know I'm sharing it with him.

I want to tell him, to grab him afterward and kiss that salty sweet blood from his lips and revel in the taste of it; blood, sweat, lust, and aya.

Maybe he would let me touch him, finally. The way he touches that katana, in some strange, erotic fascination with the blade. He shares his lust, his blood, with that cold metal. And I am allowed to only watch... and only THAT because he doesn't realize I'm there.

When he cries out, it could be orgasm, it could be pain. When his fingertips are moist with shed fluid, it doesn't matter that it's red, and not clear. It's warm and salty and is the product of some mental union between flesh and blade that in his warped mind, is akin to sexual consummation.

If only I could show him how much better it could be... warm flesh instead of cold metal. Another heart beating in unison with his... someone to give him pleasure back.

He cherishes that blade like no other object or person on this earth. He handles it lovingly, almost reverently. It brings him life. It brings him blood. He feels alive when he kills, in a deadly dance with his thirsting blade.

I know, because he confided in me once. For a moment I felt like I knew him, that he was letting me look into a window that was closed for everyone else. Then that, too, snapped shut on me, and I was left feeling shut out again.

I started watching him after that.

The beautiful look on his face when he grips the blade is enough to make me want to step out of my hiding spot and kiss him senseless, touch him senseless, fuck him senseless. It's so... wanton, so ready, so pleading. Like he's just waiting for someone to come along and fill him with everything that a cold inanimate object can't give.

I'd never thought of him as a sexual being before. Aya was as asexual as the plants in the shop. But after watching those intimate moments with his weapon... as lovely as it was to watch, Aya needed someone to teach him a better way of doing things.

And of course, I wanted to be the one to teach him.

But I can't, yet. I'm not ready to tell him I've been watching.

It's my ritual. His ritual. OUR ritual, even though he doesn't know, yet.

He does it at the same time every day. In the same place each day. Like some religious duty, like some venerable task. His fingers trace the same patterns on the blade, he pricks the same finger. The same warm blood salts his lips. He sighs.
I'm watching him again. Right now.

This time, instead of sitting with the blade, he remains standing. He turns, and suddenly I can feel his eyes pierce me, as if he knows exactly where I am. I'm frozen under his glare, and he steps closer to the closet where I'm standing and watching.

He pushes the door open with the blade of the katana. Light floods in, and I blink.

The katana is pressed against my throat before I can open my eyes.

Heart racing, I look at him. He's cold, stoic, and solid. I have that beautiful blade pressed to my throat, the blade that has been graced by his caresses, graced by his blood. A shiver went down my spine as I realized that was probably the most erotic revelation of my life.

I swallow hard and the blade point presses into my throat, drawing the tiniest droplet of blood. His eyes flick to it, and then back up to my eyes.

"You've been watching."

He knows. So, why has he let me do this for so long?

"Why?" His question is blunt. Genuine curiosity in his eyes, a tilt of his head.

When the hell did *I* become one to be at a loss for words? My mouth is open, but no sound comes out. He lowers the blade, and I'm a bit calmer. A bit.

I regain my composure. Not as quickly as I'd like, but hell, I wasn't expecting this.

I smoothly lean forward and kiss him.

He tenses, and grips the hilt of his katana tighter. Finally, I'm kissing him, and only slightly disappointed that there is no blood on his lips for me to savor. I'm not gentle. I've wanted this much too long to be gentle.

It's like kissing a statue. He doesn't respond.

I step back. I know how to make him respond. I lean down and take his hand, that's still gripping the katana, sharp point stained with my blood. He lets me, and that's a big step on his end. He must want this too, in some respect, to have sought me out from my hiding place after all this time.

I run my fingers up the blade and kiss the flat edge, then brush the metal aside, and taste him again.

I can taste it on him...

My katana, on him. The flavor of cold metal on warm lips.

I know how long he's been watching me... Funny, how he thought he could do it for so long without me noticing. I've always known he was there.

Our small, erotic ritual. Now it's truly ours.

He shares this kiss with me, metallic and warm.

I don't know why I chose today to reveal my knowledge of him. Maybe it just wasn't enough any more, this solitary meeting with my blade. I wanted... another human being to share my bliss.

And he's not frightened away... not disgusted.

I let him into my mouth, grasping the hilt of the weapon for comfort, consolation. His hands are unoccupied, and slip around my waist. I let him. I could stop him any time with a flick of my wrist, with a flash of gleaming blade.

He's kissing me, but I'm in control.

"Yohji..."

He breathes softly against my lips, parting them enough so that I can hear the sound, but not have to stop kissing him.
He's still gripping the hilt of his blade. It's as much a part of him as his arms and legs. I break away from him and let my hand slide down to his, closing over his fingers, which are closed over his weapon.

I didn't expect him to let me, but he does. He lets me touch him, he lets me touch his treasured possession. I take the fingers of his free hand in my own, and hold it as I run his fingers along the flat edge of the katana's blade. I look at his eyes the whole time, not at the blade, not at his hand.

I leave our hands on the blade, but take away my other hand, wrapping it around his waist. With a flick of his wrist, the blade is between us, flat edge resting against his chest, across it. I press in to kiss him again, and the sharp, gleaming blade lies nestled between us. If I tip my chin the wrong way, the blade will slice it open.

He's controlling me with the blade... deciding what he will and will not let me do. How he will and will not let me move. Both my hands tighten at his waist. He's slim, very slim, but not as long-limbed as I am. Altogether more compact. Graceful.

A soft shudder of breath escapes his lips, a moan without the noise. His hand reaches up and he grips the sleek blade as I kiss him. He holds it lightly at first, but when I dip my tongue into his mouth, he holds tighter, drawing droplets of blood that run down the width of the blade and stain our clothing.

I lean back and take his hand in both of mine, kissing his fingertips, kissing the blood droplets glistening there. I resist the urge to lick my lips, knowing his blood is lingering there.

I look up at him again, and his eyes are focused on my lips.

My fingers tremble as he kisses them. Since when was he ever so gentle? Since when did him touching me ever feel so...

There is no word for it.

I didn't know it until I felt it, but once his lips touched my fingers...

My eyes are glued to his lips, ruby droplets of my own blood wavering there.

I lean forward.

I let the katana drop to the floor.

I take his face in both my hands. He can't move it without fighting me. He won't fight me. I can tell, from his eyes. I move in close, as if to kiss him, but I stop before my lips brush his.

My tongue flicks out, lapping softly at the blood on his lips. He closes his eyes and sighs, circling arms around my waist, fingers splaying out across my lower back. I run my tongue softly down his chin, catching a stray sliding droplet.
He clutches me tight and twists his chin, forcing out lips to meet again.

He crushes me up against the wall, which I enjoy far too much. His hands pin my shoulders, although I could break his grip if I wanted to. He's bruising my lips, driving fierce kisses into my mouth, sucking at my lower lip and pressing himself inside to brush my tongue with his. He kisses me roughly until my lips are sore and raw, but I don't make him stop.
And my katana lies on the floor, in the middle of the room, forgotten for the moment.

But only for a moment.

When he pulls back to breathe, and brings a palm up to caress my cheek, I throw him backward. He trips and stumbles over his own legs, and lands on his back on the floor, breathless. I stand over him, looking down into his dazed eyes, smiling a tight-lipped twisted smile.

He looks up at me and the katana is back in my hand.

He's seen me.

He knows me.

Does he know what I'll do next? Can he guess?

He lies on the floor, green eyes glazing as he looks up at me, and I look back at him. I have my katana in hand, my free hand caressing the blade.

He tries to sit up. Of course, he must not be used to being confronted with someone so aggressive. I'm not one of his girls. A half smirk splays across my lips and I focus my gaze on him. He wants this. He wants to take me. I want to let him. But I'll make him squirm, first. For making me be the one to confront him, for him thinking he'd kept it from me all this time. For making me wait so long.

Before he can sit up and right himself, I'm on the floor beside him. The tip of the katana slips its way under his shirt, sliding across a vast expanse of bare, flat belly before catching beneath thin fabric. He flinches at the coldness of the metal, which quickly warms at the contact with his skin.

I slide the blade up, forcing him to lie flat, to tip his head back, or have his neck bitten with cold steel. The tip presses the underside of his chin. My hands are on the hilt. With a quick flick of my wrist, the blade is naked and free again, cut fabric neatly falling around his shoulders. Leaning down, I softly kiss away the droplet of blood at the soft underside of his chin, from where katana point met tender flesh. He tenses at the kiss, and my blade is still lying flat across his body.

I run my fingers down along the blade, along the flesh around the blade. He sighs, expressively. Beautiful creature, beautiful object. One hot, one cold. One sighing beneath my fingertips, one permeating my senses with lust. The lines between them disintegrate. They merge in the throes of my touch, and become something else.

One and the same.

I slide the blade down, the metal scraping softly against him as I lift it away.

He sits up fast, and the katana skitters across the ground, but so softly that I'm not sure that either of us really pays attention. The blessings of carpeting.

He springs up from the ground, grabbing my head in both of his hands, fingers tangling in my hair tightly, crushing my mouth in a violent, vicious kiss. My fingers shake and tear my own shirt from my upper body, hating the feel of cloth right now. He bruises my lips, I moan at the sweet pain, and his fingers slide down my back, slipping into the waistband of my pants, which are too tight to allow him easy access. Frustrated fingers dig into my hips, unable to slide in farther.

He's not the only one that wears tight pants around here. I planned for this more than he could have ever expected.

He breaks the kiss, and my raw lips get a break as he works frantic fingers at the button and zipper of my tight jeans. I'm statue cold as he nudges the zipper halfway down. He presses me down, trying to get me on my back instead of my knees, so he can work the zipper the rest of the way down. I fight him a little, my fingers tracing patterns on the tattoo on his left shoulder.

"Impatient Kudou..." I whisper softly, more to myself than him.

"Tease!"

I still don't let him press me fully to the floor, smiling underneath my statuesque mask.

Reaching deftly into the pocket of my half-unzipped pants, I slip a tube out. He plucks it from my fingers and turns it over curiously. He's seen these things enough to know exactly what it is, but examines it anyway.

A bit of the tension ebbs as he reads the print on the tube, and grins idiotically.

"Since when do you keep stuff like this?" He twirls it over and his lips twist in a small grin. "Especially..." he looks closer.

"Strawberry?"

I give a soft laugh and he looks surprised. He's not used to seeing or hearing me laugh. Neither am I, truth be told. I lean in close and whisper softly in his ear, as smile that he can't see this way breaks through my mask and forms on my lips.

"Since I knew you were watching me..." His surprise fades as I nip his ear.

"But... ahh...." He sighs at the kisses, unscrewing the cap on the tube, holding it up underneath his nose. "Strawberry?"

I shrug. "Why not?"

I give him a LOOK. He gives me one right back.

"Shut up, Yohji."

That's all he needed. Before I can even blink, or breathe, the clothes are gone, torn off by eager fingers that take no heed of buttons or zippers.

I couldn't have ever prepared for it. A flurry of adrenaline splashing through my veins, a rush of heat, the unexplainable finally explained, of things I'd never imagined, never felt.

All of it became real when we were finally skin against skin.

Warmth. Sheer, unending warmth. Radiating from him, radiating from me, mingling between us as flesh brushed against flesh, desire brushed against desire, lusts collided like crashing waves.

It was never like this before. A moment of cold passion, one-sided lust, and it was over. I'd never expecting this to be anything more than that.

But...

I can't even think any more, I'm too full, too overloaded on new sensations that I don't know how to deal with, don't know how to categorize, don't know how to react to. His lips and his fingers burning at my neck, searing my chest, blazing over my stomach. I want him to stop, I want him to continue, I want to scream out in whatever emotion it is that's pounding in my head, crying to get out.

My eyes snap wide and then squeeze shut as his fingers close over the very thing they were so eager to find a few moments before, now with no clothes barring the way. He's torturously gentle, sadistically tender, but only for a moment. The intensity races, as does the pace of his stroking fingers, along with my gasping sighs. I clutch him tightly, fingers leaving marks on his back as I hold on, fingers painfully tightening in his hair.

I want this, I need this. I want more, I need more. It's not enough. I need him completely.

Even this now, it's incomplete. There's something missing and I need it badly filled. I'm so empty, aching for the chance to be whole for once. The heat has burned everything away and I need him to give it back. It's not the pleasure, I've felt pleasure before in my own bizarre fashion. But that never filled the void. I need to have him complete me.

Tears prick at my eyes as my body tightens up against him, hoarse breath catching in my throat. We're still sitting up, and he takes the tube that I gave him in his fingers, fingers that tremble as they try to twist off the cap.

I take it from him, my hands holding surprisingly steady, and open the tube. The gel is cool against my fingers, and I rub it between my hands to warm it before I reach for him.

I haven't touched him yet...

But I won't wait any more.

When I touch him, it's not tentative. I can't hold back, I can't second guess. I've gone too far and wanted this too much and waited far too long already. Slick fingers slide effortlessly along him, and it's so different from anything I've ever had before. Not cold, but warm. Solid, and soft at the same time, not unyielding. Pulsing with life beneath my fingertips, not a cold weapon of death. I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder as we share panting breaths, unable to hold myself up anymore, focusing all my effort into caressing him.

He places furious, hot kisses at the juncture of my neck and shoulder as I continue, fingers ghosting across my back in light touches. I stop when I feel his teeth sink into my shoulder, sitting back a little to look at him, warm, oiled fingers sliding up to his face to brush his cheek.

He kisses me, more gently this time, and I let him push me down. No more resisting, no more teasing, no more waiting.
From where my hand still lingers on his face, he turns his head, taking strawberry-flavored fingers into his mouth, sucking lightly, and then sharing with me a deep, strawberried kiss as his fingers reach for the tube again.

His mouth ravages mine as gelled fingers slide down my body. His fingers pause on their downward descent to pinch at sensitized nipples, pause to slide along hardened arousal, and I arch up against him, muscles tightening and twitching uncontrollably.

A slickly gelled finger pushes in uncomfortably, and then brushes up against something I never even knew existed, piercing a line of pleasure through me that chokes my breath and empties my brain of all other thoughts, so sharp it hurts.
It hurts so bad, hurts so good, I don't know which and I don't care. My eyes are wide, but I can't see anything, and I'm torn between begging him to stop and begging him to go. Before I can even think about which to choose, a second finger follows the first, and a gasping tremor rolls over me, unbidden and uncontrollable.

It was never like this, I never could have imagined, never could have asked for this, never could have even known that I wanted this until I had it. And after one taste I wanted it all.

As a third finger slipped past the line between pleasure and ecstasy, I gasped out loud, and felt a tear spill down one cheek. Just as sudden as the flashes of pleasure had come, the fingers were gone, and I felt empty again. Another tear. I wanted it back. I wanted it back terribly.

I felt soft lips on my cheek, and my eyes focused again. He whispered one soft word against my face.

"Aya."

Then he was gone away from me again.

My vision was nothing but sunbursts and sharp white as I felt him again. I was split in two, beyond speech, beyond sight, beyond anything else except him. Cut with a million knives, covered in a million kisses, consumed in a million flames.

And I was finally complete.

I'd never seen him cry before.

It was… unnerving in a way. And in another way, it made me feel closer to him. It made him more human. Suddenly, he wasn't some perfect thing sculpted out of ice that nothing could touch.

I kissed him, whispered his name softly to let him know I was there, looking into his wide-eyed, blind face.

We were at the bridge. There was only one step left to take.

Vaulting over the edge, I held him close.

I stopped to let him adjust. He wasn't used to this; that much was obvious from his face, even if I hadn't had previous suspicions about his lack of experience. I pressed in close, leaning down and kissing the tears away from his eyes.

I hadn't planned on being gentle with him. I mean, he didn't seem like that's what he had been looking for. He was hard, tough, aggressive. But as soon as everything else was stripped away, clothes, weapon, all his iceberg façade and cold armor… and only Aya was left there…

He was crying, and I'm not even sure if he was aware of it.

Now, it was my turn to take control, to teach, to show him. Free of all his confines, he was left with only himself, and me. I'd finally gotten what I wanted, and I wasn't going to let it be over that quickly.

I'm slow, at first. I don't want to hurt him. He must enjoy the pain to some degree, or else he would have never formed that attachment to his katana, but this is different. It doesn't have to hurt. It doesn't have to be one-sided and empty.

I think I was telling myself that more than I was trying to convince him.

How stupid was I not to see that? He's teaching me as much as I'm teaching him. When was the last time this actually had anything in it for me? Nameless faces, faceless bodies, meaningless sex. I'd numbed myself to it all.

I had to feel again, for him.

Why him? I don't know. It just happened. I hadn't planned, and neither had he, I don't think. Maybe that's why I feel like it might be genuine. It isn't forced. It's simply there.

I closed my eyes, not because I didn't want to look at him, but because I didn't want to see anything at all. I wanted to feel, and only feel. My fingers brushed his hair, and I could FEEL the crimson, without having to see it. I felt the scent of strawberry-tinged sweat and relaxed into it. I felt all his softness, all his hardness, and all his ice melt away.

I stroked him softly, every inch of him, almost as though I were peeling away an outer layer. Opening my eyes, I saw that his were closed, facial features pulled taut in concentration, tears drying on his cheeks. He was thinking too hard, or trying to, at least.

I press my fingers underneath his chin, tell him to look at me. He does. So different from before, he's totally in my hands now. I'm not totally sure I understand why he's trusting me so much. I could easily hurt him, now. But I won't… I won't throw this away.

"Don't think." The words are soft, but commanding. Violet ice eyes glimmer, soft lashes close over them for a moment, and when they pull back again, his eyes are clear and wide.

They're revering me.

Like his blade.

No, I don't want that. Not one-sided. I don't want complete control. I'm tired of taking and still feeling empty. Taking everything and feeling none of it.

I give him what he wants. What I want. I'm him, he's me, and we fuse the two sides of the coin.

I don't think. I do.

His mouth is open, but no sound comes out. He's beyond speech now, violet eyes holding me, telling me when to go and when to stop. I'm fighting to reach some unreachable spot within him, both physically and mentally, that no one has ever dared to come into contact with.

It's been hours. It's been seconds. Time holds no meaning.

Gentleness is finally stripped away, replaced by raw need. Need to be complete, need to be completed, need to find an end to all of this and finally release everything we've been holding in for so long.

He's fighting to keep still beneath me, but his body won't let him. His eyes are wavering, his lips trembling softly, his body fighting the tremors of release. I continue to stroke him, and I coax him to let go, that it's alright, that I won't disappear if he does. And that I'll let go, too.

I finally feel him convulse, the tightening in his abdomen, and I hold him tight enough to feel his heart beating wildly. His breath catches in his throat, almost as if he's choking on it, but then a rush of air escapes, and his eyes squeeze shut. His muscles snap taut, all his tension pouring forth in waves as he falls limp in my arms, without the energy to do anything more.

It's not one-sided now, and I can let go, as well, kissing him and clutching him, and finally falling limp as well.

I've been in this position more times than I can count, falling spent where I lay after sex. But now, instead of turning my back, I cradle him in my arms, almost like a child. I feel full, not empty, with some strange sweetness pricking inside my chest. I want to hold him, I want to protect him, now that I've given him everything I could. And he's broken himself down for me.

No one has ever done that for me before.

Why him? What makes me worth it to him?

I don't know, but I plan on staying around long enough to find out.