Aya found him in the
garage, playing with that fucking car, grease smeared across one cheek like a
goddamned pinup poster.
He took his mouth like he owned him, his thumb sliding through the grease,
smearing it in a gritty swipe as he pressed the taller, thinner man against the
side of the car.
Yohji wanted it, had a tube of petroleum jelly right there in the toolbox, had
his thighs open and his body bent right over the hood.
Aya was sweaty, skin chilled when he bent over Yohji, shirtless, sinking into
his body with a tight groan, his fingers covering the older man's mouth tightly
when Yohji threatened to wake the others with his constant stream of broken,
moaned pillow talk.
Quieted then, they fucked, the car's frame groaning, leather shoes squeaking
against the smooth concrete of the garage's floor, breath echoing between them,
a tight, grunting give and take.
Yohji bit Aya's fingers, and Aya held Yohji's hip too tight, and they fucked
like animals against Yohji's car, until all at once neither one of them could
stand anymore, and the two men collapsed together between the toolbox and the
mini-fridge and the Seven's tire.
Aya's hair still smelled like blood, and Yohji's hands were still bruised from
the wire, and this still wasn't entirely enough, so they panted together,
collapsed close tight for no more than support, just a way to keep from laying
flat on the hard concrete. Dicks going soft, bodies sorer than before. But
better than kata for hours or taking apart a car and putting it back together
twice.
Yohji offered him a cigarette, as always, meeting refusal, as always, and Aya
made some remark about setting that mess of a car on fire if he wasn't careful,
and like that, they dressed again, and nodded a strange, unspoken goodnight.
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