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Trouble Maker

Chapter One

Rating: M/E

Hijirikawa straddled the chair, his back to the young man with the buzzing tattoo gun. Giving his back to any human was a rare and dangerous thing, something that Kurusu treated with a great deal of respect. Moving the sucker from one side of his mouth to the other, he opened his portable kit and laid everything out carefully even as he considered the canvas in front of him.

It was his task to handle the younger members of the Hijirikawa Syndicate, from the Heir on down. The craggy, wrinkled man who handled the elders didn't have the patience for the unorthodox things asked of him by the younger lot. So he'd covered almost all of them, and now the Heir Himself was seated in front of him, waiting for his second mark. Syo's master gave the blue crown on the inside of his wrist to him.

His client – his friend – requested something unlike the others in the Syndicate he'd covered in bright, decadent color. Syo hadn't expected anything less; the Hijirikawa heir wasn't like his other clients.

He rolled the lollipop in his mouth from one side to the other again before she spoke. "You sure your father sanctioned this?" he asked, leaning over the other man's shoulder. "I ain't in the mood to be sucking on a gun barrel any time soon."

Masato snorted lightly. "Would have thought you'd be used to such bitter things by now, Hiji-hori."

"Oi, fuck you," Syo grunted, ignoring the fact that Masato teased him by using his tattoo name, as he slid the design out of the manila envelope and placed it gently on the spot on Masato's back that was agreed upon. "Don't knock it until you try it." He used surgical tape to hold the template in place, at least until he could transfer the design to the skin.

He pushed the fedora back off his forehead while he considered the light marker drawing he'd made of the outline. Normally, he did things free hand, but there was no way that he would even risk messing this thing up. He checked his gun, made sure the needle was in place, that the ink pumped freely through the feather-light tubes.

His master, some random Hijirikawa cousin or another, always gave him the upturned lip whenever he pulled his gun out of autoclave, muttering "yobori" as if Syo were committing a filthy crime. Syo ignored him; what he did was still irezumi. No matter what anyone said, Syo stuck to his guns about that.

Masato turned his head slowly and gave his friend a greasy eyeball. "I may have to take you up on your offer someday," he whispered.

He was only half-joking.

"Any time you're ready." Syo gave him a crooked smile, only half-joking himself. He would have paid a small fortune to pop this guy's cherry for him, but he wasn't going to tell him that.

Not that he needed to say a word. "You know you're third on my list." Masato laughed before turning back and resting his chin on his arms. "Let's get this thing started."

Syo stared at his friend for a nanosecond, and then gave into his own laughter. The bastard. Third, my ass. He reached forward and put himself within striking distance of the pale expanse of back presented to him. He wondered if Masato could feel his breath against his skin as he got to work.


It usually started with being slammed up against a wall in a dark corner of the building. This he didn't mind; the kinetic forcethat followed always sent lashes of hot fire down his spine.

It ended with a heavy, panting promise of another time. For this, he pretended he could care less. The key word here was pretend. In the middle of it, all was paradise.

Ha. Kurusu thought he was a complete virgin.

He didn't mind so much being man handled by the taller one, but he sometimes wanted to work his own frustrations out, and sometimes Kira let him. They both understood. Kira had his own demon. He'd told Masato once about the burning urge to toss the younger of the Otori brothers on his bed and fuck him blind. Masa could sympathize. He had Haruka floating around him all the time, smelling like freshly cut flowers and being so gentle. He confessed in whispers to Kira about his wish to dominate the girl utterly and claim her. Kira chuckled at that and told him that he could practice on him.

Today, though, it was Kira's turn to dominate. The older man knew better than to leave marks above the collar, but that didn't stop him from lapping at the skin right under his collarbone, didn't stop him from sucking the sweat from his abdomen, from outright bruising his hips with a strong, steel grip.

Masato wrapped his legs around Kira's slim waist, allowing himself to surrender this one time to the passion burning under the surface of his skin. He hissed when Kira gathered the hem of his shirt and pushing it up past his nipples, and tried so hard not to whine when Sumeragi latched on to the left one – his favorite – leaving what Masato could only imagine to be the most vivid mark he'd gotten to date.

"What's taking you so long, Sumeragi?" he muttered into his lover's shoulder, spitting out the challenge he knew would spark Kira's contrary streak.

"I'll get to it when I get to it, Hijirikawa," Kira snarled. "Shut up and hold still."

"I don't have all day," Masato spat back.

"Then keep your mouth shut and hold still, damn you." Kira pulled at Masato's belt, tugging it from the loops and tossing it to the ground. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The warning, given, was acknowledged.

"Can I take it?" Kira muttered into the skin on Masato's neck, asking the time-honored question to which he knew the answer. He asked it anyway, every time.


"Damn you."



"Who in the hell are you saving it for, Hiji?"

"None of your damned business." Masato tightened his thigh muscles, locking Kira in a stainless steel grip. "Get moving."

"Son of a bitch."

"No, that's your mother. Mine is a goddess."

Kira grunted and ground his erection against Masato's, cutting off all wordplay. "Must run in the family," he said in a final verbal salvo before grinding in earnest.

Masato's mouth fell open on a low groan as he felt the other's hardness through the cloth that separated them. Fuck, he wanted to be filled up. In the dark recesses of his mind, he allowed himself all of the vulgar language he refused to speak aloud. He moved his hands, confident that Kira would be able to hold him up while he took care of necessities. It took him seconds to un-button and un-zip Kira's pants and shove them open. It took nanoseconds for him to wrap a hand around Kira's cock and squeeze, knowing exactly what torture he inflicted.

Kira bit down, keeping his teeth from bruising Masa's skin by pure willpower alone. Masato chuckled even ask he gasped at the threat of passionate violence. "Mark me and you're a dead man."

Kira, ever economical with his words, held his peace. Instead, he returned the favor, undid Masato's trousers, and took over, holding both of them in his large, warm, strong hand.

Masato wanted to sing. This was his favorite part, this nasty friction, this unbelievably nasty, vulgar friction. Kira was a master of it; his hand played them as if they were matching precious musical instruments. Their voices, trapped under a veil of secrecy, held onto one undercurrent note that harmonized as quietly as possible until it was no longer possible and first Masato then Kira exploded, gasping through their twinned orgasms, each feeling the other's heartbeat fluttering under the palms of their hands.

When they landed softly back to earth, Kira murmured something quietly into the crook of Masato's neck once again. "Who're you saving it for?"

"Never you mind," Masato whispered back. "You know you're second on my list."


The phone rang incessantly. Masato glared at it, hating the necessity of having to be accessible at all times. Though he was his father's successor, it still was deemed important for him to learn the inner workings of his family business. Therefore, he sat trapped in a stuffy office, bean counting and paper shuffling. If the Hijirikawa family name was affiliated to this organization, Masaomi decided, then each member would have a full working knowledge of every aspect, from the mail boy to the Obayun. Masato grimaced, staring at the spreadsheet on the screen in front of him. That extensive, complicated, boring education started with him, Kobun-sama.

The door opened and a tall blond entered. Masato looked up at one of his father's best field officers. Some of his mental guards immediately flew up, as they always did. Damnit, why couldn't he just take these men with a grain of salt?

Kamyu was one of the most loyal of the syndicate. His father went to this man first when it was time to send someone young out to take care of international prospects.

"Hijirikawa," the older man said, his deep voice rumbling, yet devoid of most emotion. This was why many didn't trust Cryzard; the man was utterly unreadable. No one ever knew if the man was 'on duty' or just irritated with the world. Masato liked that about him and occasionally tried to emulate the trait.

"Where are you headed today?" Masato asked

"Sydney," Kamyu answered simply. "There is a youngster from a collateral family that requires our help; order came down to go, investigate and bring him back if he is acceptable." The man handed over the case file, which contained the appropriate paperwork for him to receive funds for the trip.

Masato looked over the intricate handwriting of the financial officer in charge of the younger half of the Hijirikawa syndicate. His father was a smart man. He knew where the loyalties would lie when he handed the business over to his son, so he made sure that there were competent – though young – people placed in important roles throughout the business. There was a beautiful symmetry in Ryugazaki's writing that did not distract from the information therein.

"So, is he foreign born?" He looked up at Kamyu.

The older man shook his head. "No, he was born here. He went to Sydney to swim professionally."

"Ah, yes, I see here." Masato looked at the enclosed picture, winced at the artificially pointed teeth. It took all kinds. He sighed then reached into the bottom drawer of his desk for the portable safe tucked inside. "Black or platinum?" He always asked the field officer even though he knew what was on the paper. It was his way to testing them for integrity. He knew that it could make him look stupid on the face of things, but it was his own eccentricity. They would have to get used to it if they couldn't figure it out.

Had Kamyu figured it out? "Platinum," he said easily without a change of expression.

Masato gave him a bland look, waiting.

A smile cracked the smooth veneer of Kamyu's face. "Black of course," he said finally.

Masato gave in as well and smiled. "Father would never let you travel any other way." He pulled one of the organization's twelve Centurion cards from its holder, and then reached into the safe again, this time for one of the passports lying inside. He quickly looked to make sure he had the right one, and then slid them both across the desk.

"It pays to be good at what you do."

"Happy travels."

Kamyu gave him a smart bow.

"Wish I were going with you." The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

Kamyu halted just before touching the doorknob and turned. "And is there a reason you cannot?"

Masato blinked and stared at the older man. Was there any pressing reason he could not? His father wanted him to become familiar with all parts of the business. Who would be better – and safer – to teach him about acquisition than Cryzard? "When are you leaving?"

The blond shrugged elegantly. "I can go in the morning if you need to make preparations," he offered.

"How about later tomorrow afternoon?" Masato offered. "I have to close the books for the month."

"Perfect." Another bow and Cryzard left.

His father may complain, but would refuse him nothing. Soon, he would be away. Anywhere but this luxurious, but boring little office, staring at this impressive, yet ineffectual spreadsheet.