Midnight Oil

by Talya Firedancer

The stars above Tokyo burned low like lamps guttering out one by one for lack of fuel, though the ebb and flow of light through the city streets was still hectic like a heart's pulse. Kudou Yohji's Super7 threaded through traffic, a slim metal needle piercing the lanes of the slower-moving. His long, slim fingers clenched the wheel.

A cloud of concentrated negativity glowered in the seat beside him. Sharp profile deliberately turned to the street, Fujimiya Ran known for now as Aya combed a black-gloved hand through his red hair as if to still the very wind that disordered his hair. He refused to look at Yohji.

"I never should have named you," Yohji said, but only in his mind. The words never left his tongue. When you name that which can hurt you the most, it gains power over you.

The mission hadn't been a total loss. Sure, Omi and Ken had done several hours of leg-work to do the set-up, and tonight had been a narrow window of opportunity, but thanks to Yohji they had learned some valuable information about the new local drug cartel, a black kingpin moved in from America who spoke flawless Japanese and broke kneecaps like eggshells. His people were loyal and his network was two grades more state of the art than even Omi had suspected.

Aya was pissed because as far as he was concerned, Yohji had blown the mission by failing to exploit a known loophole in the kingpin's security network. Yohji wanted to dispute that because in his point of view, if he couldn't exploit it, it was untouchable.

Of course, all the careful refutations and counter-arguments he loaded up in his mind were useless when Aya wouldn't even look at him, much less speak the accusations that sang through the air between them.

The car idled for a moment in the parking area behind the building Koneko no Sumi Ie rented out. The slam of a door made Yohji wince, his knuckles tightening on the wheel, and he stared blankly ahead for a moment at the wash of white that the 7's headlamps cast on the metal shutter of the garage.

"This is bullshit," he muttered to the purring car.

After stowing the Super7, Yohji trudged up to his room, all but ripping the trench coat from his broad shoulders. Another wasted night, another blown mission, another string of unspoken recriminations. He was sick of it. He wasn't drunk, but he sure as hell was ready to hit the bottle now.

Yohji rested his forehead against his door before unlocking it, and breathed heavily into his hand, checking the affluence for alcohol content as he had half a dozen times before the evening run. He was fine.

Just fucking fine.

The trench coat got balled into a lump with the creak of protesting leather, hurled into a corner before he'd taken three steps into the room. A bottle of Wild Turkey was swept off the kitchen counter with the eager clutch of a lover's fingers. Three more long strides crossed the tiny room and Yohji flung himself onto the bed, stripping his shirt off with a gusty sigh, taking another pull from the uncapped bottle and willing each individual muscle to relex.

After a moment when the long swallows of Wild Turkey began to work their magic, Yohji wriggled on the bed big enough for one, just barely for two very friendly bodies and unsnapped his jeans, plunging a hand down the opened 'V' with a sigh of satisfaction. Best to take care of that tension before he got into the second bottle and the swim of a really good buzz.

He was wrapped up in the thrall of his own hand enough that he never noticed the quiet "click" that signified a less-than-welcome entry. Breath sobbed between his teeth as he pushed up once, twice, emptied the contents of his throbbing dick all over his hand, flung the spatter of stars over the black field of sheets.

"Aya," he said, husky and wanting, catching his lip between his teeth as the last salvo ruined the front of his jeans. "A-ya!"

A deep voice pierced the semi-gloom of the apartment and the pleasant haze the commingling of come and Wild Turkey had created. "All you had to do was ask."

"Holy fuck!" Yohji exploded up from the bed, bottle spinning onto the night-stand spreading amber fluid over the grain. His pants around his hips, come soaking into the fabric, he was aware he must present a ridiculous sight as he snapped free a length of wire from the device on his wrist. His heart was trying to tear free of his chest. The sight of Aya, pale and icy-composed and still black-garbed in mission gear brought a slam of crimson to his cheeks.

"Really," Aya said, violet eyes hard on him. "If you wanted it that bad, you should have said so."

Yohji swallowed over a throat suddenly desert-barren. "I...I..."

"'Aya, I want you to tie me to the bed-post and fuck me blind and senseless,'" Aya supplied, folding his leather-clad arms. They creaked, bringing to mind the sound of restraints and friction. His red head tilted. "Is that about right?"

Yohji lowered the wire. "Y-Yes," he admitted, glad that Aya's primal stare kept him riveted. He couldn't drop his gaze.

Aya turned away, and Yohji's stomach bottomed out. When he had reached the door, the redhead slanted a cold look over his shoulder. "Well?"


"Let's go," Aya said, tapping a foot with impatience. "All the bondage gear is in my room. NOW."

Yohji scrambled to obey. He had the feeling Aya would keep them up all night...and he didn't want to waste another precious second of it. He'd jerked off for long enough.