Title: Undercover Mission: Uncovered
Author: Triskell (ferngully_at@yahoo.com)
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz (AxY; hints of OxK)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Property of Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss, and various others who aren’t me. No copyright infringement is intended; no bishounen were harmed in the writing of this fic.

Author’s Notes: I’m not all that familiar with WK, if I mess up, do tell me (though with this plotless baby I don’t think I’m really stepping on too many toes ;D). The fic didn’t turn out 100% as I had envisaged it at the start, mainly because the rough draft I’d had kept rewriting itself as I typed it from my head ;D. The story came into being when S. sent me a picture of the Weiss boys, naked, with a strategically placed band of fog around their midst. I jokingly said they were probably undercover at a steam bath. And then S. replied (with many *hints*) that she’d love to read “the whole story”.

Therefore, this is dedicated, with much love, to S.; hope you’ll like it.

“It’s a simple undercover investigation. I don’t see why Crashers can’t do it; the target’s neither dangerous, nor does he need to be eliminated.”

Manx suppressed a smile (and a sigh, but then that was nothing new). Abyssinian could be exasperating if he wanted to be – and he always wanted. She kept her voice level and mild, “They’re investigating another case and we don’t have anyone else available just now. See it as a chance of some paid down-time.”

It never hurt to remind Abyssinian of money. The bribe worked as surely as promising Balinese a room full of pretty girls, Bombay some new high-tech feature for his laptop, or tickets to a sold-out soccer game to Siberian. They all had their little weaknesses, were human, after all, “Do you accept this mission, guys?”

Abyssinian nodded, reluctantly, but still, though he looked sour enough. It was a shame he was screwing up his handsome face that way. However, that was of no consequence to her, and as long as Abyssinian accepted, Balinese would too, in a contest of manly ego, pride, and honour that was not really understandable to anyone but those two.

And, of course, Bombay could not leave the two to go alone; he nodded as well, blushing like the sweet thing he was. Siberian took the longest, though it was a given he would not turn down a mission the rest of the team had accepted. Manx just thought it was a pity she couldn’t accompany them – she’d be missing a delicious and rewarding opportunity to have her fill of her four bishounen after all.

***

Just another job. Yohji frowned, took a deep breath, and pushed his boxers down over his hips. He grabbed his towel and did *not* take note of the beefeater down the aisle who kept staring at him as if he were a succulent steak. The man kept glancing at his crotch and was practically salivating; women, sure, he wouldn’t have minded. Men, well, that was different. It wasn’t a “no-no” per se, beauty was in the eye of the beholder and if the guy in question was attractive… it didn’t hurt to look, after all.

Being appreciative of a well-defined chest and stomach, long legs, lithe body, handsome face – the same things he looked for in women he found enticing in men; some men. Only that he was far more picky and had only twice actually acted on an attraction. Well, once, really, the other time he’d been seduced.

But really, that guy down the aisle was merely a big bunch of muscles, with a short neck, small eyes and a beard (!). That last thing alone was enough to turn Yohji off. The beefeater’s attention was, for a moment, diverted from him, as Omi flitted past, blushing, towel tightly clenched around his hips. If the boy hadn’t been so young and so obviously uncomfortable he might have been tempted to whistle appreciatively. As it was, he tried his best to control the urge to throttle the bulk of man down the aisle, instead of finding the thought that Omi’s towel was probably cutting off the boy’s circulation in vital body parts amusing.

Moments later, Ken walked past, glaring menacingly at the beefeater, who turned away from undressing the boy with his eyes, shrugging and winking – winking, what a nerve that soon-to-be-dead guy had – at Yohji. Because there was no way in hell he’d escape loosing a limb or two if Ken caught him looking at Omi again; or Yohji himself for that matter, hell, even Aya would be protective of the boy in these circumstances. While they weren’t able to properly conceal weapons somewhere in the – admittedly fairly small – towels, they were still to be reckoned with; they weren’t trained assassins because of their handsome physique; which was something he just *had* to tell Manx, she was going to laugh heartily at it.

In their undercover mission at the local sauna, they were to find out more about the business contacts of a small-town gangster; the man was in all probability smuggling stolen VCRs and other electronic equipment from Hong Kong to the West, with a stopover in Japan. He wasn’t the type of guy who usually ended up on Weiss’ list – and it would’ve been Crashers’ job to infiltrate his favourite steam bath and discover his contacts. However, now it was up to them to run around naked – forget those tiny towels – and be stared at.

They’d split up; Ken and Omi were posing (and what a fitting word it was) as relatives, with Omi being the innocent youth from the country coming to visit his elder in town. It worked well with the boy’s blushing unease and of the two, Ken was the most likely to visit the kind of male-only steam baths the target frequented; he had the body and the looks to pass for a regular; Omi was too sweet-faced, too young, and by far too unspoiled.

Yohji firmly believed it would do the boy good to get a better glimpse of men in general and Ken in particular – there was something between those two, almost a “sparks flying” kind of thing – but it’d never develop unless Omi took the initiative. In this, Ken kept to Yohji’s motto of no-fooling-round-unless-of-age. Good thing too, or they might have been a team mate short if Aya’s protective instincts kicked in and he decided to guard Omi’s honour with the point of his katana.

Speaking of which, where was the man? Yohji was supposed to work with him, or, more precisely, run after him without being obvious; perhaps a bit of small talk like strangers would share at such an establishment, casual and easy. Only problem was that it wouldn’t work unless the redhead showed himself some time; sure, they had earpieces – nifty things that were small enough to fit into the ear, smaller even than hearing aids; but the downside was that they were meant only for a *very* short range.

Yohji did *not* consider his other, more private reason for wanting Aya to show up. He hadn’t seen any good-looking men around so far (bar Omi and Ken, and those two were strictly off-limits, mainly because he considered them family and incest wasn’t really his thing). If there were no women to be had, Aya was the next best alternative, in that he had all the qualities Yohji admired – in a body – the man was annoying and prickly at the best of times, but mostly scarily icy, with a stick up his ass. Again, not an image he was going to devote further thought to; it was his own way of tactfully avoiding questions and answers concerning themselves with the relationship he shared with the redhead.

Just then, the man he was thinking about, hissed an annoyed, “Move it, blondie, target’s just left the changing rooms!” into his ear, followed moments later by Aya’s lithe form sauntering – pardon, walking – past Yohji. The small towel might conceal some things, but it was certainly wrapped tightly enough to also enhance the curve of the man’s ass; the mission was looking up and Yohji’s mood improved. “Coming gorgeous,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his face to conceal the slight movement of his lips.

It was a greatly daring feat, given that Aya would probably have carved swearwords into his skin had he had his katana. As it was, the redhead’s motion only faltered for a millisecond, only perceptible if you knew him as well as Yohji did. And he was also the only one to notice the dark storm clouds gathering above his team mate’s face, the imperceptible darkening of the violet eyes. It was impressive and incomparable; if Aya had been a woman, Yohji would’ve worshipped at her feet.

***

As it turned out, the target and his cronies – namely the beefeater who’d stared with undisguised lust at poor Omi and brought down Yohji’s wrath on his head, as well as another similarly bulky and unattractive lump – had retired to a steam room. No one walked in after them, but that didn’t have to mean anything. Which was why, of course, Aya motioned for Yohji to follow. It wasn’t as difficult as he had thought, giving a charming smile as he settled down on the far wall, discreetly screening himself while making sure he had a good overview of the left side of the room. Aya would be joining them in a while, taking up the other side, so between them, they’d see everything that happened. Theory always was such a wonderful thing.

However, reality’s always different; when the redhead slipped through the door with a curt nod and settled himself opposite of Yohji, the target’s eyes were lazily following him. Not that this was, in general, something worthy of blame, given how attractive the man was, but still. If one was as solicitous as Yohji tended to be of his team mates – solicitous for their safety, not proprietary in any shape or form, he reminded himself – that leer was enough to rile one up.

And there was no chance in hell Aya hadn’t noticed. Still, there was the barest hint of a flinch as the target stood up, taking off his towel, flexing his shoulders (sure, they were muscled and, all things being equal, he wasn’t that bad-looking), before sitting down again. Moments later, with a suave grin, he drooled (drawled, Yohji, focus), “Come on boys, we’re all adults here, let’s not stand on etiquette.” Meaning ‘get naked and join me in all variety of positions, preferably those were I screw you silly’; the fact he was directing all of it at Aya made Yohji’s control over himself suddenly brittle.

Yes, he was jealous, but more than that, he was furious. The redhead was a private person and even in such an establishment it was *not* common to sit around naked and gape at each other. Sure, if you were after sex you did; and this was the crux of the problem. Aya was not supposed to be an object of lust (unless Yohji was the one lusting, which, of course, he didn’t do). At any other mission, a shining katana would currently be lodged somewhere in the man’s body; and the beefeaters would be tangled in wire to make sure their eyes bulged out for daring to make such insinuating grimaces in Yohji’s direction.

Talking of which, those ugly beefy meatballs were discarding their towels – wasn’t that a sight for nightmares – loads of muscle but little else to speak of, their significant others had to be starved for some *real* men…

Yohji didn’t move a muscle as he undid his towel, draping it on the wooden bench beside him before sitting down again. Having been subjected to leers for most of his life (the price for being irresistible, charming, handsome, and then some) he didn’t take more than superficial offence at the frank stares he received – sure, he was fuming inside, but he could handle it; he only wished there was a way he could evade looking at Aya, because he didn’t fancy being stabbed at the end of the mission.

However, the redhead was seemingly unconcerned as he copied Yohji’s nonchalant way of removing the towel – giving a full frontal view. Greek statues were nothing compared to the man and even though Yohji considered himself to be damn fine, he would have to extend the same compliment to Aya. The guy was everything that counted as attractive in a male and, well, he obviously wasn’t a natural redhead; not that Yohji could say anything, since he wasn’t a natural blonde himself to begin with. And there was no way in hell he was going to ask Aya to compare notes on hair colouring products with him (no matter how alluring his traitorous mind found the idea), because that was the surest way to find himself cut into tiny pieces and strewn across the Koneko.

Still, something had to be done to work against that shameless *drooling* leer on the target’s face. It was *not* acceptable the man’s eyes were still on Aya’s crotch, mission or no. Yohji was propriet… solicitous, and the redhead was nervous, as betrayed by minute twitches of his facial muscles that only someone who knew him *very* well could see. Therefore, a knight in shining armour was called for.

A lazy stretch, both beefeaters giving him their undivided attention, “Man, no steam here, not even close to humid enough; you don’t mind my pouring some water, do you?” Clever man that he was, he didn’t give the target time to consider the suggestion, stood up, sauntered over to the bowl, and poured a good amount of water (one ladle would have sufficed, two were for good measure; but he added a third to make sure) onto the hot stones. The resultant steam was magnificent. While it was a pity Yohji wouldn’t be able to have a good look at Aya for once, he wasn’t entirely unhappy to have promoted the target’s inability to do so.

He casually returned to his seat and sighed, settling more comfortably, legs splayed slightly apart. He heard the door open, some of the steam evaporating as another man joined them, heading straight for the target. Yohji caught a brief glimpse of Aya, pearls of condensed water on his pale skin, red hair slick against his cheek and chest, eyes half-lidded, as if he were dozing (which, of course, he wasn’t).

***

It would’ve been a great deal easier if Omi hadn’t been so uncomfortable. It wasn’t even the permanent blush on his features, rather the too ill-concealed flinching when one of the guys got to close. Ken would’ve sighed, instead he smiled, shrugged, laughed at some of the comments the other men in the bath made. They had to continue walking about, maybe talk to some patrons, get a few hints about the target. Aya and Yohji were taking care of the guy himself – not that Ken envied them. The briefing had revealed he liked male company and though it hadn’t been explicitly stated, it was unanimously assumed he was sexually interested in men. Never conclusively proven, but almost strikingly clear from the establishments he frequented and there being practically no women in his inner circles or his closer acquaintance.

“Don’t touch me!” the hiss and the accompanying slap brought his attention back to Omi behind him. The boy’s tone was dangerously low; if he’d had his needles, the man would’ve been dead. So, Ken turned to him, glowering, hands tightened into fists, muscles strained. Sure, the guy was probably twenty centimetres taller and much more strongly built, but he probably didn’t have the knowledge of all dirty tricks in hand-to-hand combat that Ken had; or maybe he did.

If Omi hadn’t pulled him back a step, the punch would’ve caught him. “Don’t you look at me like that, kid; the little one was asking for it. If you don’t want trouble, get his sweet ass outta here.”

Dirty or not, the limits had been stretched. Omi moved like lightening, hissing as he grabbed the man’s hair, pulling his head back harshly, a small dagger (probably hidden in the folds of the boy’s towel) glinting at the man’s throat, “Careful, I know how to use this,” an imperceptible flick of the thin fingers and the man winced, skin stretching some more, “you keep your hands off me, you keep your balls.”

Sure, the blush staining the boy’s cheeks was perhaps a little out of place with the words, but the dagger worked well enough. The man waved his hands in surrender, backing away quickly, almost slipping on the wet tiles as he ran. Ken didn’t even bother concealing his smile.

“I couldn’t go unarmed into Sodom and Gomorra, you know.”

Throwing an arm around Omi’s shoulders, he just laughed, keeping the boy close as he drew him away from the stares of a number of patrons. Right now, it might be better to keep a *very* low profile. It was just so damn difficult to forget one was an assassin, when every look and stare was molesting.

“Don’t blame you. Let’s keep this to ourselves, ne?” Omi smiled, nodding gratefully. Not that Yohji, hell even Aya, wouldn’t be understanding – it was just that those two were even more protective than him; and there was no need for all three of them to seek out the guy and cut off his hands later on.

***

The target was no longer staring at Aya’s crotch, certainly an improvement in Yohji’s books. That his attention was now concentrated on another man, whom they could suppose to be his contact, wasn’t bad; problem was that they were whispering, and that the steam – while protecting Aya’s modesty (and Yohji’s proprietary nerves) – was making it difficult to make out the guy properly. This, in itself, wasn’t that bad – if they could get Ken and Omi to pass by the door when he left, they could still get a picture (so to speak). However, it also wasn’t possible to get up and pour more water on the stones; the best way to get closer and catch a few words of the conversation. Unless…

Yohji stretched, sighing softly, making sure his – by now damp – towel was nudged to the edge of the bench and then down, falling, as he had hoped, onto the floor with a soft thud. “Man,” he mumbled, getting up and carefully edging off the bench – making sure the beefeaters were paying him their full attention and trying *not* to picture their faces – and crouched down, trying to grab his towel. As the steam was still quite thick, he could afford a few seconds, his ears pricking up.

“Wednesday, no later.”
“As you wish.”
“213, as usual.”
“I will transfer your payment.”

Yohji got up, towel grasped firmly, head cocked innocently to the side as he grinned, “I’m dead clumsy at times.” The target’s eyes narrowed, the beefeaters salivated, and the contact looked up, startled. The tension was broken by Aya’s smooth voice, “Sit on the towel, it won’t fall off the bench then.”

“Good thought,” the redhead got a few more salivating leers from the target, Yohji returned to his bench, making sure the beefeaters (and hopefully Aya) took a good look at his ass; the mission was saved. Sort of, since they still had to find a way to monitor the target.

“A shower would be really nice now.” Aya sounded dreamy; or, considering from certain people’s reaction, inviting and horny. Yohji was, of course, not reacting in any way; that he had draped his towel across his knees was only to ensure the beefeaters stopped staring at his crotch. Hopefully the others had picked up on the redhead’s statement of the contact’s impending leave.

On to it. The static was pretty strong, but Omi’s words were still to be heard. He was pretty sure the chibi had already estimated in which steam room they were. Mr Contact was getting up, saluting swiftly, towel still tightly wound about his hips; not fair at all – he looked like he might be one of those guys Yohji liked the look of. As he reached the door, he almost collided with Ken, who poked his head in, smiling, “Hey, sorry to disturb; my cousin left his baseball cap someplace, did you find one?”

“Didn’t see one.” Aya sounded too smooth for his own (or Yohji’s good). He didn’t think of the target, of course, because the man hadn’t been put on Weiss’ list – yet. He wondered idly if Manx would make an exception if he invited her to dinner. Aya was *his*, damn it. Ken grinned, “Thanks; sorry to bother you.”

The door closed, too much steam was gone, and the target had, once again, an uninhibited view of the redhead’s crotch. Yohji leant back, spreading his arms along the bench’s backrest, groaning inwardly. They’d have to endure another half an hour or so (or at least a bit longer than the target staid), to ensure they didn’t break their cover. In other words, Yohji would be tortured with jealousy, Aya would look hot (and act as if he wasn’t bothered by the blatant looks), and the target’s hand would rest on his own thigh, moving ever so slightly upwards towards his crotch. Subtlety obviously wasn’t his strong point; Yohji was livid.

***

Omi was halfway dressed when Ken joined him, looking decidedly ill.

“Got him, blond hair, my height, blue eyes, birthmark on left side of neck.”

“Meet you outside.” Slipping into his shirt and trainers, Omi grabbed his bag and quickly made his way out, while Ken tried to keep up the appearance of dressing unhurriedly, when he was, in fact, fighting for every second.

He didn’t take as long as he could have, however, and found Omi waiting for him, leaning against a building on the opposite side of the street casually; chatting with the contact who was eyeing the baseball cap the boy held out to him. Omi smiled as Ken approached, waving.

“Watson-san, this is my cousin; I believe you have met him before.”

“Yes, indeed; it seems Reiiji-kun has found his cap already. I was just asking him where he got it; my son loves baseball caps and I’m always hard pressed to find nice ones like this.”

Right, then Watson-san wasn’t going to get into trouble for molesting teenagers after all. Ken smiled, nodded, cast a glance at his watch, “Drat, almost four; we’ll be late if we don’t hurry, chibi.” To his credit, Omi didn’t flinch, though there probably would be hell to pay for the nickname later on; unless he could take the boy out to dinner to make up for the slip of tongue.

“Well, then I don’t want to keep you!”

“It was very nice talking to you, Watson-san. Please give my cap to your son with my best wishes. Have a nice day.”

“Very kind of you, Reiiji-kun, but I cannot accept…,” Omi smiled disarmingly, the man melted, “if you’re sure. Thank you very much indeed, Reiiji-kun. Have a good day yourself. Any you too, of course.” The last was directed at Ken, with a kind smile.

“Bye,” Ken waved, keeping a jovial grin plastered onto his features as the boy handed his baseball cap over. Omi was at his side a moment later as they walked down the street, turning the corner to where the bike was parked.

“Grab your helmet. Home or food?” A hopeful look; in other words ‘Please forgive me for calling you chibi, let me make up for it’.

“There’s a MacDo somewhere round here, let’s pop in there.” Apparently, he was going to be forgiven – and have an almost-but-not-quite-date with Omi, who chose the moment to comment on his slipping mask of cheerful insouciance, “You look a bit pale.”

“I saw more of a very naked redhead close up than I ever intended to.”

Omi coughed, trying to mask his amusement, “Not funny. Guess who’ll pay for looking later on.”

“That bad?”

Ken grunted non-committally. Truth be told, Aya didn’t look so bad, even though he wasn’t really Ken’s type. Still, it was embarrassing to see his team mate lounging on a wooden bench in a wanton sprawl. If it had been Yohji, no problem, if it had been Omi, Ken would’ve settled worshipfully at his feet; but Aya? The man was cold, aloof, and deadly. He just wasn’t supposed to be naked or look sexy; that was confusing and not a little scary. Omi’s arms went around his middle, the boy’s weight settling against his back as they climbed on the bike. Ken decided to focus his attention on this (maybe a little bit on the road too); perhaps he could ask Omi over dinner when he’d managed to put a tracer on the target, and where. His bet was on the baseball cap, of course.

***

If it took any longer, Yohji was sure he was going to fling himself at the man and strangle him. The target had managed not only to engage Aya in a conversation (‘You’re new here, I’ve never seen you’, ‘Have you been in town long?’, ‘How long will you stay?’, ‘Have you come on business?’); he had also been edging closer to the redhead on the bench. Now he was practically sitting at his side (‘Where are you staying?’) and Yohji was fuming. It wasn’t all that easy to concentrate on the intense *hatred* he felt for the target though, as he kept having to answer beefeater questions.

“Say, you have a watch? I’ve got a hot date at four thirty.”

“Ah, my friend, you’ll be late then,” the target was kind enough to take his attention from Aya long enough to inform him, “it’s four twenty-two.”

“Shit. I’ve gotta run then. Nice meeting you guys.” He kept his towel in front of his crotch, his ass was free for looking, at least he couldn’t see the drool that way, moving towards the door. It wasn’t easy leaving Aya alone, but they weren’t supposed to be ‘together’, and since the redhead hadn’t made a move to leave, he had had to. Call it patience run short.

Yohji quickly showered, towelling himself off briskly as he went back to the changing rooms. He heard a low buzz and a little of Aya’s voice in his ear all the time, taking it as a good sign. As long as the redhead didn’t scream for help, he wouldn’t offer any. It might not be easy, but he had no other option. The cover was as important for this mission as for any other. Having just pulled up his boxers, Yohji was faced with one of the beefeaters, again staring at him.

“Hey, you leaving as well?”

“Yeah; boss had a call from his wife – quite possessive the chick; not pretty, but rich. You know the kind, better not anger them.”

Yohji shared a laugh, nodding. More information, good – perhaps the lady in question would soon be free for a man who didn’t flirt with (male) redheads. He would most certainly make sure he did his best for her. It was a shame she had married such a freaking asshole. While Yohji didn’t consider promiscuity to be a bad thing, he also believed in monogamy in relationships; and, above all, he believe in treating his partners with respect, in bed or out.

Speaking of the devil brought the target in his range of vision, along with the second beefeater, all of them dressing quickly, with a few choice words about women thrown in for good measure. Yohji made a point of searching for his watch, willing the offensive idiots to leave. He’d already managed to place a tracer on the underside of beefeater number one’s bag before the man turned up; and, by the scent of the target’s cologne, picked out his as well. No wonder dressing took so long these days.

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” the target jovially offered, eyes glued to Yohji’s chest. If Aya didn’t want one, he most certainly wouldn’t be second-best.

“No, thanks. I’ll just call my date and tell her I’ll be late. I’ll make it up to her later,” he winked, grinning for all the world as if he was that kind of insufferable guy who made his dates wait and then expected them to forgive him. His team mates probably thought he was, of course, but they didn’t have to know everything.

“Fine, I guess I’ll see you round.”

“Sure thing!” Over your dead body; Yohji planned a few delightful tortures to inflict on the man, glaring daggers at his retreating back; he had a *very* vivid imagination.

“Gone?” Aya’s voice was heavily disrupted by static; he was probably still in the steam room.

“Hm.”

“Good, then get your ass back here.”

Now that was … strange. Not that Yohji was at all worried as he flung his clothes into the locker, wrapped a towel round his boxers and, in measured, yet hurried steps, came to the rescue. After all, there was no other reason for Aya to want him in the steam room. An after-mission briefing (in other words, being scolded for his mistakes) usually took place in the Koneko, in plain view of Ken and Omi to make sure Yohji was humbled (and humiliated) according to the graveness of his “failures”.

But right now, visions of a bloodied, bruised, and beaten redhead assaulted him and they weren’t pleasant; he cast a quick glance around himself before opening the door (just in case someone decided to join them – it wouldn’t be easy to explain how the man had gotten himself into whatever state he was).

The room was full of steam, humid, and dreadfully *hot*. The same also went for the sight of Aya, still sprawled on the bench, still naked, and not in the least bit roughened up. If it had been any other man, Yohji would have called the posture alluring, wanton even; he would also have considered himself lucky to be seduced by such a prize. As it was Aya, he considered possible escape routes and exit strategies.

“Give me that towel,” Aya’s voice was low, dangerous, husky, “and bar the door.” No refusal possible if the redhead used that tone; it sent shivers down Yohji’s spine. The man stood, holding out his hand; tall, brooding, in control as always, damn sexy in that cold, bastardly way of his, and, not to forget, still naked. Aroused too, unless the ample steam in the room was playing tricks on Yohji’s eyes. He dropped the towel.

“Your towel, Balinese,” a deep, dangerous hum. Yohji licked his lips, his boxers tightening just a little bit. He was easy when he saw someone he liked, after all, and Aya was definitely a guy of that sort. Only question was what he wanted…

“Come and get it. Or was it me you wanted?” Sometimes, he just loved playing with fire. The redhead’s eyes narrowed and Yohji had one second to consider whether it was better to draw back, make it all seem like a flirty joke, or own up to finding the man irresistible and be beaten up.

“Drop your boxers and I’ll consider.”

Yohji did, along with his jaw. It was only understandable, after all. He stepped forward, into the denser steam, feeling it shift around him, caressing, hot, and wet. Aya growled, fluidly closing the distance between them, bodies almost touching as they faced each other; just a moment, then the redhead moved again, tiger on the prowl, eyes fixed on Yohji’s. Damn hot; he broadened his stance slightly, standing more firmly on the ground, awaiting the pounce.

Still, he flinched when a damp hand dropped to his shoulder, a growl of “Stay,” rendering him immobile. So Aya wanted to lead? He would have considered the notion, if the redhead’s other hand hadn’t come to rest on his hip, the length of the other man’s sweat-damp body moulding itself to his back. His libido was stronger than his mind and there was no way in hell he would fight if he had a chance of getting Aya; any way at all. The naked-panting-beneath-Yohji part would just have to wait a little longer; he was flexible (and that included every sense of the word).

“You were watching me.”

“So was he.” If he had been with a woman, his rough, lust-filled voice would’ve gotten him laid for certain; with Aya, he couldn’t be entirely sure till it was over.

“True; so why flirt with the brainless ogres?” At least he wasn’t the only one who found beefeaters unattractive. The redhead’s cock was deliciously firm against his ass, not fully hard, but getting there. Yohji wriggled his hips just a little bit, smiling when he heard Aya’s gasp.

“Wanted to make you jealous.” Greatly daring now; it wasn’t as if he had any dignity left to lose. And there was also the (slight, but perhaps not inexistent) possibility that Aya would fall for it.

“Didn’t work. Did you like what you saw?” On you, Aya? Sure. How could he phrase that without totally degrading his pride?

“You’re hot.” Smart move, Kudouh.

“Hm. I take that as a compliment,” the deep, silky purr in his ear did wonders for his cock. Not that the hand currently encircling it and slowly stroking up and down was necessarily a bad thing. He didn’t exactly mind the attention, nor was he averse to the semi-public location they were in (even given that he hadn’t yet barred the door); it was just too much teasing and not enough action. He was young, damn it, and he had hormones to consider. Sweat-damp fingers rubbing his length to pulsing hardness wasn’t a bad start though.

“So what’re gonna do to me, sexy?” Kudouh Yohji was known for his purring; Aya wasn’t the only registered Kritiker kitty; the twitch in the cock currently teasing his ass with a slow circular motion was a welcome reaction. The growl and the bite to his shoulder were even nicer; so things were progressing, after all.

“Bend over.” Instead of being shoved forward, as he had half expected, the hand on his cock tightened and the pressure against his back intensified, pushing him forward bit by bit till he could put his hands on the bench, bracing his body, firmly setting his legs apart. If Aya wanted any more invitation, he’d have to go elsewhere. Yohji didn’t make a habit of giving the impression of a slut. A promiscuous playboy, yes, a slut, no; it was a fine line, but he knew where it was and that made all the difference. Right now, he was as close to whoring himself as he’d ever get.

Luckily, Aya took the hint; even better, there were no snide comments about how much he must want it – another thing he’d been almost prepared for. It was nice to delusion himself that the redhead actually respected him, and all – the awakening would be swift and painful, but such was life and he truly didn’t expect anything else. Aya was no saint, just a young man, like him, and they were charged from the atmosphere; one-night stands, even among team-mates, were neither unheard of, nor necessarily a bad thing.

Yohji purred some more as the redhead’s hand resumed a steady up and down motion on his cock, with exactly the right amount of squeezing in between, and a wicked twist of the wrist that had slender, wet fingers rub just so across the sensitive head; very sensitive. And there was a definite hot, heavy hardness pressing between his ass cheeks now and Aya’s hips were circling slowly, pressing closer. A slim finger pressed lightly against Yohji’s opening, the wet tongue trailing up his neck making him shiver even more than the redhead’s voice, deep and breathy, gusts of warm breath in his ear, “Yes or no.”

He had to ask? But then again, damn him, some sense returned to Yohji, not much, still it would have to do, “No condoms, no sex policy, sexy.”

“Yes, then.” A sharp tug on his earlobe, making him gasp and, well, yelp, “open!” The commanding voice echoed through him, rushing across his nerve endings, making it almost impossible to take hold of the foil-wrapped package thrust at his hand haphazardly. Aya spit in his hand, setting about circling Yohji’s opening, barely brushing inside, finally pushing a finger in quickly, another plunging in on the second pass. It hurt a bit, but it was hot as all hell. His hands shook a little as he fumbled with the condom and tried to keep standing, Aya’s hand departing from his cock to steady him, grabbing his hip securely. He registered how loud their ragged breathing seemed, how dense the steam was.

“Ready,” he held out the opened package, bending forward again, legs spread further apart, steadying himself on the bench when the redhead had relieved him of the condom. Aya spit again, hand stroking up Yohji’s cock, gathering the moisture there, using it to lube himself up probably.

Beyond caring, too hot, breathing difficult as white fog wafted around them, stifling and exotic; hiding them, the sweat on their skin, covering their traces. Yohji groaned, finally feeling Aya’s hands again, both on his hip, steadying him, and he just wanted it to happen, no questions asked, just *wanted*. He was on the verge of telling the man to fuck him in no uncertain terms, just as the redhead’s cock pushed against him, hard and thick, relentlessly stretching and so blessedly real in the steam-world around them.

Grounding Yohji, in more ways than one, filling him and making him distinctly aware of his eyelashes fluttering against his heated cheek, the moans echoed in each slap of damp flesh against flesh; he drew a long breath, gasping, cursing perhaps, he didn’t know anymore, totally focused on the hardness breaking him open, exposing every inch of him to the humid air, rendering him immobile.

His own cock, hard and aching, balls tight, swaying heavily – Aya’s voice in his ear, so low it was unintelligible, but it turned him on nevertheless, that knowledge that he had the man fucking *inside* him, owned him for a few sweet instants in the cradle of his body. And the hands on his hips were slippery with their sweat, still strong, pushing and pulling, moulding him to their will and he groaned, once as everything came together in a sudden clarity as he came with a shuddering moan.

Aya was still thrusting as he shook with his release, finding his prostrate finally, taking the ground from below his feet with the unexpected lightning flash of pleasure; he crumpled, bracing his fall forward on his arms, leaning on the bench, as the redhead came with a mumbled “Fuck”, leaning against his back.

The steam seemed even thicker than before, though Yohji wasn’t sure his eyes were working quite as well as usually in the post-orgasmic haze. And was haze ever an appropriate description for their current situation. But never mind that now, Aya was still gasping against his shoulder blade, obviously unable to move just yet and though Yohji wasn’t exactly protesting the closeness, his mind was clear enough to be practical again.

His voice wouldn’t be working with him anyway, so he settled for pushing himself up, and grunting, wriggling his ass till the boneless weight decided to get off him and Aya’s pulled his cock out. Yohji turned quickly, too quickly, coming nose to nose with the redhead. Flushed and sweaty wet, hair a dull red in the fog around them, lips swollen as if he had bitten them. Too damn fine for his own good; slender fingers took care of the condom, tying it securely although they shook just a little bit.

“You forgot the door,” it might have been an accusation, but Aya sounded too damn smug and he … *winked* at Yohji. “Get the towel, Balinese, we’ve got to clean up.” This time, he complied – it only made sense; they had to get out of the sauna, dress, meet the others, compare notes, and write their report. Mundane mission things – he idly wondered if they were just going to ignore the sex completely. Not an impossible feat, of course, but somehow Yohji felt it would cheapen the whole thing a bit, make it appear like a dirty secret. And for all he knew, this might just be what the redhead had in mind.

“Stop looking so damn forlorn!” As long as Aya kept snapping at him, there probably was no cause for fear. The redhead reached up and Yohji ducked instinctively, but not quickly enough – need to train my reflexes, he thought – warm, wet fingers fisted into the hair at the back of his neck, tugging his head down for a brief brush of lips. Had Aya just *kissed* him?

“Let’s go.”

“At your command, Abyssinian.” And he meant it this time – totally and utterly meant it. Aya looked at him briefly over his shoulder, towel already fastened round his hips; and the usually stoic and impassive face briefly lit up in a mischievous grin.

***

Manx allowed herself a small smile as she took the folder from Bombay. Weiss had, once again, done excellent work, tracing both the target and his contact. With the information from the conversation the two had held, Kritiker would be able to send Crashers to the meeting for further intelligence. Said team had completed its mission far more quickly than expected; which was a good thing, as Manx was sure the target had, with his unquestionable predilections for handsome men, alienated at least two members of Weiss.

She did *not* take note of how closely Balinese hovered near Abyssinian; she also did *not* notice the covert glances the two gave each other, the sparkle in their eyes. Kritiker wouldn’t be pleased if they found out, but for the moment, she didn’t consider a relationship (of whatever nature) to be endangering Weiss’ missions. And since she was their contact, the one who ‘knew them best’ so to speak, her word was the law. It was only a little happiness, yet it might make a great difference for the boys in the long run.

End.