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Walking On Hell

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Aya closed long fingers around his erection with a sigh; his eyes fluttered closed.

Masturbation was like meditation to Aya. He smiled faintly at the thought… he could remember a time, long ago, when he was Ran, and he thought it might have felt like sin.

He hadn't known, then, what sin really was. This wasn't sin. Sin tasted completely different. Sin was black cruelty, gruesome hatred and betrayal, and nothing whatever to do with the simple pleasure of skin stroking silky skin.

Guilty pleasure?

No. There was guilt, and there was pleasure.

Guilt was blind justice, anonymous, delivered by sword.

He wasn't sure what pleasure was, anymore. But it was something like a kiss, a caress, an embrace. It was something like this.

He stroked slowly at first, brushing sensitive skin in time with his breathing, kept deliberately slow.

He thought of Yohji.

It hadn't always been Yohji, even for Aya; for Ran, it had never been Yohji at all. It had been different people, at different times. But now, it was Aya, and Yohji.

So he thought of Yohji: of dark blonde hair confined, curling at nape of neck; of emerald eyes hooded and dark in unguarded moments; of slender hips and long legs lounging; of hands that trembled from excess in the mornings; of hands always steady at night, quick and deadly, and hated.

He let the thoughts fall away, focused on his own body, pale and taut and willing. His breath wanted to come faster now, but he wouldn't let it. He sighed, arched his back to release some of the tension that was building in his body.

He brought his knees up a little, feet flat on the futon, making it easier to move his hips.

He thought of Yohji.

Definitely Yohji: Yohji with women, hiding his pain in soft, pliant bodies; Yohji with men, furtive, secret, self-punishing; Yohji with Yohji, male and hard and needy.

He let himself give in to the breath, spreading moisture from the weeping head of his erection down the length of it, raising one finger to his mouth to caress swollen lips, wrapping his tongue around it, wet and hot. He kept caressing his fingers with his mouth, and his mouth with his fingers, moving his other hand over hardness with increasing pace.

He thought of Yohji.

No-one but Yohji: Yohji's lips yielding to Aya's, soft and pliant; Yohji's body pushing against Aya's, hard and wanting; Yohji's cock, leaking and twitching in Aya's hand, sliding into Aya's mouth, filling him; Yohji's ass, hot and tight and wrapped round Aya's cock in an embrace so intense, so intimate, so final… and so good it had nothing to do with sin, or pain, or guilt.

Just Yohji.

Aya arched his back, lifting his hips from the bed as he came, completely unaware of how beautiful he looked: long slender body taut and pale, shadowed by candlelight; eyelashes fluttering against cheeks slightly stained with pink; hair tumbling from his face in streaks of red silk; ribbons of white flowing over his tight belly and chest.

His breathing slowed again, and he thought of how beautiful Yohji would look, if only his smile were real.