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shake off last night, that disappointing end

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Jiro wakes up slowly, the world around him returning to focus. The room is one he'd never seen before, clinical but stiflingly hot. It’s nearly empty; there's a table with various items he can only partially make out from the floor: some glasses and bottles, and a couple of chairs. The walls around them are so bright they make him squint. Them… That's right, he suddenly realizes, he's not alone in here.

That weirdo cop from Mad Trigger Crew looms over him and Jiro doesn't bother holding back an irritated groan.

"Oh," Juto says, "He's awake."

"Good," replies an unseen woman's voice, tinny in the overhead speakers. Jiro looks blearily from the speakers to a set of cameras lining the walls.

"What the hell?" Jiro grumbles and moves to pull himself up to his feet - only to find his hands are shackled behind his back with a pair of handcuffs. Jiro tries to glare at the cop but has to blink away spots in his eyes, vision swimming from more than just the whiteness of the walls. A distant headache thunders through his temples. "How'd I get here?"

"How else?" The cop makes a big show of shrugging. Ugh, the guy's always so loud and dramatic. Jiro's head throbs. "You screwed up and got yourself arrested. I brought you here."

That's right... The last thing he remembers was being hauled into the police station, and now this: alone in a room with Yokohama's shittiest rapper, Iruma Juto, and some weird disembodied voice.

"You're in our state of the art testing facility," the woman's voice says, "I'm sure you feel the effects of the serum by now."

"'Effects?'" Jiro asks. The words taste strange, his mouth feels very dry. It really is hot in here, bad enough he starts shrugging out of his jacket only to get it caught in the handcuffs — fuck, he'd forgotten about that. Jiro strains against them, looking around until he spots the blurry outline of a couple vents near the ceiling. Can't they turn on the air conditioning or something?

"Effects from the water we gave you," Juto snaps, like providing even that very basic explanation was getting on his nerves. Jiro has to concentrate hard but…. Yeah, that's right. The cops had offered him water when he first arrived at the station. That'd been unusually generous for someone like Juto.

Still, that's messed up, right? Why's he having such a hard time remembering what happened? And why'd he pass out? And why is everything so fucking hot??

"I should've known," Jiro grumbles. "You're always up to something weird." He tries to spit at Juto's feet, but his mouth can't produce enough saliva. That's strange. Then again… What had that lady been saying? Effects of something? Jiro runs his tongue over his lips; they seem dry and chapped. There's a warmth rapidly creeping up under his clothes, burning like a sunburn.

Now that he thinks about it, the room still hasn't come into focus completely either. Everything is blurry at the edges. Jiro tries to concentrate, but it's not just the brightness of his surroundings; everything is really out of focus somehow. Except for Juto, a bizarre center point of his vision that's threatening to pinprick.

"Okay, this is messed up," Jiro mutters, attempting to climb to his feet again. The room wobbles around him, uncertain, his sense of balance swaying with each attempt to move. Worse, all that shifting around makes his chest chafe, weird and oversensitive under his clothes. Jiro angles his face away from Juto, hoping the blooming redness in his cheeks will just be attributed to the heat. Then again, that guy's in a fucking suit — how's he not even sweating??

The room sways and Jiro stumbles back to the floor. Everything is too warm, burning him from all directions, even the tiles of the floor feel hot under his knees. An intense heat radiates from the center of his chest, cascading down his limbs, like he's been running for hours. Every touch him seems weirdly invasive; from the metal of the handcuffs rubbing against his wrists to the heavy weight of his hat on his head. Even the denim of his jeans seems tight, especially around…

"Wait," Jiro says, and his voice sounds leaden, unfamiliar, "What's going on?"

"It's just a new concoction our top-notch scientists have devised," the lofty voice continues, "It's truly amazing, what women can accomplish when they're supported in the STEM fields."

Jiro would roll his eyes if he wasn't sure the motion would make him hurl. It's bad enough he's getting all riled up in this weird humid room, but the last thing he needs is to barf his lunch in front of this loser cop.

"Okay, but like. What's it do?" Jiro flexes his hands; he can't be sure if the tips of his fingers are going numb from how tight the handcuffs are or whatever drugs had been in that water.

"It's a new method of keeping men in line," she continues. "This serum will keep you going for a few hours, timed out with a few different partners." Jiro really, really doesn't like the way this lady says 'partners.' He struggles with the handcuffs again, hands slick with sweat from his palms. "Each one will have a requisite amount of time to spend with you, and we will study how you and your body fare." There's a pregnant pause, and the hair on the back of Jiro's neck stands up when she adds, "Under the strain."

"'Strain?'" Jiro echoes, "So, like… I'm gonna fight?" That actually doesn't sound too bad. This situation is so weird and shitty it might be nice to throw a few punches and let off some steam. Maybe the serum or whatever is making him super strong! That would be pretty cool. Although... He doesn't feel particularly strong at the moment; it doesn't seem likely he'll be able to hulk out of these cuffs anytime soon.

So maybe… Maybe the drugs are making him really good at rapping (not that he needs the help.) Yeah! That would be sick as hell. And it kinda tracks as something their lady overlords would do, after all the attention they've been getting from their rap battles.

Finally, Jiro thinks with a rush of pride that lances excitement through him. He'll be able to show everyone what killer beats and sick burns he can really lay down.

Jiro shifts his weight, attempting to get his hands free, to reach into his coat pocket. His Hypnosis Mic is a right there... if he can just get to it…

"Oh, please," the woman laughs and the obnoxious sound of it makes Jiro's insides churn. "Do you really think we brought you all this way for that? Something so barbaric?"

Jiro shoots the cameras a glare which only sends his vision spiraling. This sucks! What the fuck. Everything seems so hot and miserable. His clothing is way too tight, his shirt's rubbing his nipples fucking raw for some reason, even though he's barely moving. And the tightness of his jeans — what is up with that anyhow — is getting pretty obvious now. Jiro futilely tries to angle his body away from any prying eyes. He thought maybe the chub might've been related to getting pumped up about tossing out some great rhymes, but this is a little much, right? He's gotten all hopped up on adrenaline before, but this time it seems way different. There's a sort of frantic, desperate need emanating from the pit of his stomach. Jiro's vision shudders and his body moves along with it, aching for some kind of contact, desperate for friction.

"Wait, so," Jiro pants, "If it's not fighting, then it's—" he feels the flush over his cheeks burn brighter, his ears go red, "This is all so I can — uh— You know…"

Juto's laugh is more like a bark. "Now he gets it!" he sneers, leaning down to shove Jiro back to the floor when he finally starts to lurch to his feet. "Good luck, brat. This shit's gonna get you fucked eight ways from Sunday."

Sweat drips from the back of Jiro's neck down under his shirt. Hold on… what? Really?

"Tell me, boy," the woman's voice says and her voice pops on the last word, like its a curse, "Do you really think you can fight this?"

Jiro knows he can't, and worse, he's not even sure he wants to fight it. Being totally honest, Jiro's never actually... With somebody else… And yeah, it's terrifying that he has to get drugged up to finally lose his virginity, but that's sorta beside the point. The point being that he's currently tenting in his boxers and overcome with a gut-wrenching desire to have someone take care of this shit right now. Just the thought of a cute girl wrapping around him, all soft and warm, is almost enough to make Jiro moan. He seriously knows he should be more scared of this situation, more embarrassed by the way he's writhing, hips arching up desperately against a lack of contact, but...

I mean, this is pretty awesome, right? Get all hopped up on sex drugs to get the business from a bunch of ladies? There worse things that have happened to him. Honestly, he's had worst shit happen to him this week. This might actually be pretty great — provided that gross old cop doesn't leer at him the whole time.

Tch, whatever. He probably has a micro-dick or something.

"Great idea," Juto grins smugly to the camera. Ugh, this guy is such a suck up. Ooh, suck — "Kinda a waste to do it to a punk like him, though."

"I suppose," the voice hums and static from the microphone chases her words, "Although I'm sure you'll do your duty to make the first act moderately entertaining." Jiro groans; great, so the weirdo cop will be spying on him. Only that doesn't make the creep as happy as Jiro thought it would've.

Juto scowls, brow furrowed.

"Bullshit," he says after a pause. He turns between the Camera and Jiro so quick it's starting to make Jiro a little dizzy. Can't he just… fuck off already? What's he care if he has to watch Jiro have sex?

"I'm not doing that," Juto snaps, "Duty or not."

"Doing... what?" Jiro mutters, attempting to scratch an itch on his neck with his shoulder. His skin's so flushed every bit of contact is torturous, just scratching himself is becoming unbearable. Fuck, he needs to get off soon. He hopes he looks okay for the girls.

"Doing you, idiot," Juto says and lashes out with a kick. Jiro takes the blow to his side and grunts in pain.

"Ow! Fuck off— wait." He squints. "What do you mean, me?"

"Who do you think is your first partner?" the woman's voice asks. The camera on the wall adjusts its focus as if zooming in.

"Wait," Jiro says, realization slowly, finally dawning on him, "So, like… it's not gonna be like… a buncha girls?" The voice laughs harder than he really thinks is necessary.

"'Girls?'" she repeats, aghast. "Why would we possibly waste ourselves on you?" And a comment like that would most definitely hurt Jiro's feelings if he was at all capable of feeling anything besides lust right now.

"And you think it's going to be me," Juto says, expression ashen. Jiro feels like his mind is working in slow motion. Wait, is what gonna be who? "Fuck that," the cop snaps. It'd be halfway funny to see Juto shouting at a camera if the whole situation wasn't so surreal. And if the room would stop spinning for just a second. "Even I have my limits." Moving fast, Juto makes a beeline for the room's only door.

"I see," the voice replies, unkind as it is unseen. "I guess you are just a beat cop, not a detective. Very well." Jiro hears the sound of fingernails impatiently clicking against a tabletop. "Listen well."

There's silence… and then a low, invasive hiss from the vents overhead. Juto comes to a sudden stop as they watch a few steady streams of smoke waft into the air. It smells sweet, like perfume, and makes the corners of Jiro's eyes start to water. Juto coughs, holding a gloved hand to his mouth.

"Did you really think this idiot was our only piece in the experiment?" the voice asks. She barrels on without waiting for a reply, "Don't bother holding your breath. We've been pumping that gas into the room since the moment you stepped inside. It's laced with an aphrodisiac— " Jiro gasps loudly, the reality of the situation suddenly dawning on him. This is gonna be — With — Wait, no way! "Just a little something to make men a bit more… pliable to our advances."

Wait, wait wait, wait. This seriously isn't happening; they drugged him and put him here to get… That kinda junk done to him? By another dude? And it's this guy??

"You and the rest of those divisions will be adequate test subjects for this since you all insist on flaunting your masculinity through raw competition," she continues, "So I'm sure you'll all find it enjoyable." She pauses again; another hiss of gas from the vents cuts through the silence. "Eventually."

"Seriously?" Juto voice sounds more on edge than usual, working loose his tie. At least it seems like the heat of the room was finally starting to affect him too. "And you're just going to be watching? For purely scientific reasons?"

"Well yes. And other things," she replies with an easy laugh, "What self-respecting woman wouldn't want to see a bunch of men ruining one another?"

Jiro sighs, head dropping between his shoulders. Girls are so weird.

He chances a look upward, only to spot Juto's stare on him grow hungry, his pupils dilate into large spots behind his glasses...

Ugh. He is so fucked.

Chapter Text

Jiro's heart hammers wildly in his chest. This is super messed up. He's trapped in some weird experiment, he doesn't have his mic, and his dick is rock hard. There's no way this is going to end well. Jiro looks nervously at the cameras that surround them. Other people aren't actually gonna watch this happen, right? More importantly, this isn't really going to happen… right?

Juto paces the room like a trapped animal, hurling insults at the cameras and speakers. As he passes Jiro he shoots the teenager a condescending look down the bridge of his nose. In the past, Jiro's knocked out guys' teeth for looking at him like that, but right now he's not sure he could. He's pissed off, sure, and definitely a little scared, but there's a prevailing sensation, stronger than fear, that's drowning out everything else.

Jiro shifts his position minutely, hoping the friction from his jeans can offer him a little relief. It doesn't, if anything, the stiff fabric rubbing against his crotch is almost enough to make his eyes roll back into his head. His whole body aches for something – anything – that'll help him come.

Even Juto is starting to look affected. He's undone the top buttons of his shirt; he's wrenched his tie loose around his neck. He must have shrugged his jacket off at some point; it's flung over the back of a chair. Behind his glasses, Juto's eyes are dark pools, sluggishly scanning the room, as if he's hoping a new method of escape will present itself.

Jiro closes his eyes tightly and takes a couple deep, steadying breaths. Except — Wait, shit! Didn't that lady say the gas was making it worse? Aphro… whatever. Jiro holds his breath.

Juto spots this and laughs. "Don't bother," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair, "We drugged your drink, remember? You're not getting out of this that easy."

Ugh, that's right. Jiro gasps for air, feeling a hot rush of color flush back into his face.

Meanwhile, the temperature keeps ticking upwards. The sweltering heat makes the air thick with the smell of the gas and the lingering aroma of sweat, a mix of Jiro's and Juto's natural smells. Normally smelling some other dude would gross Jiro out, but for some reason, it's not so bad. Maybe it's not the worst thing that Juto's here with him. After all, they're both in this mess together. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he came a little bit closer. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Juto was maybe even touching him someplace —

Wait, what the hell? Jiro quickly tries to shake those thoughts out of his head. No way he's happy Juto's here, and yes, it's really gross he can smell his sweat. That's fucked up, he's not into dudes. And he doesn't need anybody, especially not another guy, touching him. It's just the drugs talking. They're doing something messed up to his head too, making him think for even a second that he actually wants this. No, fuck that. There's no way this is happening. There's nothing Juto can do to help him, even if he'd be willing to.

Then again...

Juto clearly isn't happy about this situation either. And the guy's a shitty rapper and a dirty cop, but he's probably not... you know. A pervert. Jiro considers the situation carefully, watching Juto from a safe distance. Juto works for the women after all; he's gotta know all the secret doors or legal loopholes or whatever. He might even be able to get them both out of this mess. At the very least, it's worth a shot.

Jiro's stomach drops as his eyes catch Juto's. With a huff of frustration, Juto stalks towards him, eyes narrowed, gaze uneven.

Jiro licks his lips nervously. If he wants Juto's help, he has to reason with the guy. He needs to choose his words carefully. "Look, I—" he's about to start his pitch when Juto's foot suddenly collides into his stomach. Jiro gasps and slides across the floor, landing awkwardly on his side. Until now his body had been screaming to be touched, but that kick was definitely not what he'd wanted.

"What the hell!" Jiro wheezes. He struggles to sit up, to try and get away from this dangerous situation, even when every nerve in his body is still alight with excitement. Juto is over him in an instant. Jiro braces himself for another kick, but instead, Juto slides the front of his shoe under Jiro's side and pushes. The movement forces Jiro to roll onto his back, arms pinned beneath him and pressing into the small of his back. Jiro stares at the ceiling. From this angle he can see the vents expel another round of gas over Juto's shoulder. And from this close there's no way Juto can't see it; the obvious hardness in Jiro's pants.

A tense silence hangs between them. Jiro's mouth feels very dry. "You—" his words die in his throat as Juto rests a shoe against the clothed outline of Jiro's cock. Jiro freezes, trying desperately not to arch up into that dangerous contact.

"Well," Juto says simply, like he's looking at some routine case file and not a horny teen collapsed on the ground. "Guess you already got started." Jiro opens his mouth to say something — but what is he supposed to say? He's definitely not going to apologize for this shit, Juto's the one who got them into this mess! — when Juto puts more of his weight down, pressing onto Jiro's crotch, hard enough it makes white spots dance behind his eyes.

"Ah...!" he cries, trying to twist away.

"Shut up," Juto mutters, "I don't want to hear anything from trash like you." He grinds his heel until Jiro is howling in pain. It hurts — This hurts, damnit! But even worse than the pain is another feeling, gut-deep and satisfying, growing with every twist of Juto's heel. It's like every sensation is amplified, from the pain to the growing tension below his waist. The kicking and stepping on him should piss him off or make him afraid. Instead it just adds fuel to this noxious fire that is raging inside him.

Finally, Juto lifts his foot and Jiro is able to breathe again. He's happy it stopped, so happy, but somehow his body misses it. Jiro moves without meaning to, weakly keening towards the absent pressure, desperate for something to rub against his battered dick.

"Shit," Juto laughs, leaning down, face hovering mockingly over him. "You're still hard? You little pervert." This close Jiro really hopes Juto can't hear him whimpering. "Fine then." Juto's hand snakes out, catching Jiro by his hair. "If you're going to be such a degenerate, we might as well have a little fun together." He yanks Jiro off the ground with some difficulty; Jiro's hands are still cuffed behind him, and his knees wobble unsteadily against the tiles. The room swims around him, unbearably warm and overly bright. Jiro cringes as the hand in his hair strokes down the side of his face. He doesn't want this bastard to touch him, he doesn't want to to do this, but… It would be so easy to just turn his head, to let Juto put his fingers in his mouth. His mouth fills with water imagining it.

The room is quiet except for the loud sound of Jiro's own breathing, hot and open-mouthed. He feels like a dog on a hot day, panting desperately, trying to regulate the heat burning him out from the inside. A heat that won't go away unless Juto keeps touching him, puts his hands on more of Jiro's body. His fingers in Jiro's mouth, maybe, or maybe under his clothes, wrapped around his —

"Fuck," Jiro hisses, wrenching free from Juto's grip. Immediately a gloved fist cracks him across the jaw. Jiro's head snaps to the side as Juto digs his fingers in his hair, hauling his face back to look up at him.

"How long do I need to beat on you before this wears off?" Juto asks and brings his fist down a second time. Jiro bites the inside of his mouth with the force of the strike and gasps, tasting blood. Another punch hits him, then another. Jiro loses count of how many; his thoughts are fuzzy from more than just blunt force trauma.

The speakers click back to life. "That's enough," the woman's voice says. Jiro can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears. "That's not what we brought you here to do."

"I don't know," Juto replies, voice teetering on crazy. "I think he looks kinda cute like this." He grabs Jiro by the chin, fingers digging into the budding bruises there. "What about you, huh? You want me to stop?" Jiro grimaces like every touch is electrified. This isn't how he wants to be touched. He wants those fingers in his mouth, wants those hands shoved down his pants. And even after being roughed up, somehow Jiro knows he'll explode if he doesn't get it.

Juto leans closer, his ugly sneer splitting his face. He could almost kiss Jiro from this angle.

"I want," Jiro says, voice eking out from between his clenched teeth. He wonders if the cameras can even pick up the sound. That's right, the cameras. A distant, urgent sense of panic trickles through him. He keeps forgetting they're being watched, being recorded. At this point would it even matter? He's so hard for it, he needs it so, so badly...

"Touch me," Jiro whispers. It feels like the sentence is being wrung from him. Shame barrels into him, horrible and numbing, while the words have an opposite effect on Juto. His eyes go wide behind his glasses and Juto pulls up straight, suddenly aware of himself and maybe — embarrassed? Jiro smiles, exhausted. It's actually kinda cute, he thinks, clearly delirious. The old weirdo might even be blushing.

"Like hell," Juto says, voice heated and conflicted. He runs his hand through his hair again, releasing Jiro with a rough shove. Jiro struggles to stay upright, watching as Juto's hands fumble towards his belt, wrenching the buckle open and undoing the front of his pants. Even though he'd asked for it, every muscle in Jiro's body screams for him to move, to crawl away, to turn his face. His fingers flex under the cuffs. He has to get free, he has to get away. He wants to be anywhere else but here right now, trapped and watching this psycho cop get undressed. But somehow, he also wants Juto's hands back on him, wants to move closer to him. He lays eyes on Juto's newly freed cock, released from his clothes, hanging hard and furious, and Jiro thinks, Oh, god, yes, finally.

Juto reaches forward, digging his nails into Jiro's hair a second time.

"Wait," Jiro says, panicking as his face is yanked towards Juto's crotch. He's not sure if it's desire or nausea that's making his mouth water. "Ah— wait." He desperately tries to angle his face away.

"Nah, I think we've gone past that," Juto says with a manic grin, other hand pumping at his cock, swollen and inching closer despite Jiro's struggling. "C'mon, you asked me to touch you, right?" Jiro moans reflexively. Yes, touch, that's what he needs. Even the words are enough to get a rise out of him. All Juto has to do is just touch him and he'll do anything, anything!

Anything… Jiro stares helplessly to Juto, pleading. If he does this, then he can get touched right? Then he'll feel better, he'll be able to think about anything else. Jiro stops fighting, allowing himself to be wrenched closer. If he stuck his tongue out he could lick Juto's cock from tip to base. The thought isn't as horrifying as Jiro wants it to be.

"That's better," Juto murmurs. He yanks Jiro's head back with one hand, the other, stroking himself frantically. His thighs clench under the tight fabric of his slacks, hips jerking in tandem with his own strokes. His cock bobs between his legs, hovering just over Jiro's face. "A little slut like you doesn't deserve — nngh!"

Juto comes faster than Jiro expected, hot fluid spurting into the air. With the way Jiro's head is wrenched back, most of the come lands on his face, and he cringes, trying to pull free. Juto's hand clamps down hard, holding him in place as he empties across Jiro's face, putrid mess coating his eyelashes, even more landing over Jiro's lips and tongue as he yells in protest. It's gross, this is fucked up. But it's over, it didn't take too long, and now he can finally —

"Hah," Juto breathes, straightening up. His fist unclenches from Jiro's hair, and Jiro slumps to the ground. Above him, Juto tucks himself back into his pants, eyes downcast in disgust. "You know, I think that look actually suits you." Pride stinging, Jiro spits some of the mess out of his mouth and is rewarded with another kick to the ribs. He wheezes, reeling back onto the floor. What the fuck! This isn't fair, he still needs to be touched!

"Say," Juto begins meanly, adjusting gloves that most certainly have jizz on them. "Want to go another round? I'm happy to beat the shit out of you all day—" he stops mid-sentence at the sound of a bolt sliding out of place. The unmistakable sound of a lock being opened.

Both men look quickly to the door. The mood in the room changes instantly when a method of escape presents itself. Jiro hurriedly struggles to get back to his feet. Touching would be great, but an escape is way better. The door's open, if he could just make a break for it —!

"Stay where you are," the woman's icy voice is as invisible as always, but Jiro knows the words are directed at him. "It's time for the next participant."

"Too bad," Juto says, glowing with a sense of smug satisfaction. "We were just getting started." Fetching his jacket, he pauses at the table and chairs. "Then again…" His hands glance over various objects on the table, too high up for Jiro to see from his position on the floor. "Looks like they've got lots of fun stuff planned for you, kid."

With an errant wave, Juto crosses the room in a few confident strides. The door opens — Jiro's heart leaps into his throat, wait, wait, please, take me with you — before it slams shut behind him.

Alone, Jiro slowly pushes himself back onto his knees. His whole body aches and he's not sure if it's from getting beat up or from going untouched. At this point it literally doesn't matter. Something wet drips from the bridge of his nose to his chin, heated from his unhappy blush.

Over his shoulder, he hears the sound of a camera zooming in, refocusing its shot. This is a fucking nightmare.

Chapter Text

The door opens and Jiro tenses up, alarmed by the prospect of Juto's return. Instead —

"Oh." Standing in the doorway, Samatoki's face curls in dislike. "It's you? Huh." He doesn't move, clearly doing a quick assessment of the situation. As Jiro twists uncomfortably under the stare, Samatoki's imposing expression seems to flicker. That's right, this guy used to be in a group with Ichiro. Maybe he might actually be cool about this, maybe he could help Jiro get out of this before things got too out of hand.

At least, as long as Samatoki stays over there. The mind-numbing drive to be touched, get wrecked, all that seems to cool down when the other person isn't close to him. Jiro feels like his heartbeat is finally starting to even out. Maybe if Samatoki keeps his distance and does some cool yakuza shit they'll be able to get out of this without being humiliated.

Jiro turns his reddened face into his jacket, quickly trying to wipe it off.

A crackle of reception and the speaker on the wall comes back to life. "Is there a problem?"

"Tch," Samatoki spits at the floor and Jiro's gut throbs."'Course there's a problem. I wasn't expecting…" He shakes his head, walking across the room purposefully. Jiro inches backwards, like he really has anywhere to go.

"Get up," Samatoki commands. Jiro doesn't move. He's not sure he could even if he wanted to. His hands are still cuffed behind him, and it feels like his feet have fallen asleep. There's a funny heat pulsing in the middle of his chest when he has to crane his neck to look up at Samatoki. The situation is already starting to feel familiar, and not in a good way.

When he doesn't move, Samatoki grabs a fistful of Jiro's shirt and hauls him to his unsteady feet. Even through the fabric, Jiro can feel blunt ends of Samatoki's nails raking across his skin, and he grimaces at the way his whole body lights up at this contact. He really hopes he doesn't look as awful as he feels.

"Look," Jiro whispers, hopefully quiet enough the cameras can't hear. He licks his lips and tastes come. It's not as revolting as it was the first time. "Look, we don't — You don't gotta do this, right? Maybe we could just…" he trails off. He's not sure what they could 'just' do at this point. Samatoki is so close, he's holding him so tight. This close, Jiro can see the Samatoki's muscles flexing as his fists clench around his jacket. He's not a big guy, but he's surprisingly muscular. Ichiro is tall and lean, but Samatoki's built like a brick shithouse up close. What Jiro wouldn't give to have those strong arms wrapped around him, those fists clenched around his naked thighs and prying his legs apart...

"Ah," Jiro's head drops between his shoulders, shuddering with the waves of heat crashing over him. They're too close, it's too close, he's having all these gross, weird thoughts and his pants are so tight they're cutting off his damn circulation at this point. Embarrassingly, Jiro tips forward, face buried against Samatoki's shoulder, legs too unsteady to hold him up. Up close Samatoki smells sweet like the gas from the vents. The smell of another guy's sweat isn't gross at all, really. He's not sure why he thought that in the first place. It smells nice actually. Intoxicating even.

"What the hell…" Samatoki mutters, and Jiro squeezes his eyes closed. He can't bear to look at Samatoki looking at him, watching him rut helplessly against his leg.

"Sorry," he mumbles, practically babbling, "Sorry, just — help me — please." Samatoki's response is to shove him backwards, slamming Jiro into the wall. Samatoki spins him around, crowding his chest close to his back. Jiro's brain is boiling now, boiling with crazy thoughts like this is good, this is finally what he needs. If Samatoki, someone, anyone can press against him, press inside him.

"Stay still," Samatoki hisses, mouth close to the shell of his ear. Jiro hears himself moaning before he can stop. The hands scrambling against his are awful and warm, prying at Jiro's arms, messing with the locks around his wrist before —

The cuffs clatter to the floor and Samatoki steps away. Jiro turns around shakily, newly freed hands bracing himself against the wall for support. He lifts his head to thank Samatoki, to ask about where he learned such a cool trick (he's yakuza right? They probably have to get away from police all the time) when another wave of heat passes over him. They're getting harder to fight now, especially when he had Samatoki practically on top of him a moment ago. It's too much. Samatoki has to do something stop him, has to start beating on him like Juto did, or get the fuck away now before Jiro does something insane. He has to find something to help him, to distract him from this need to get touched. There's no way he can get through this, he can't hold back, he can't fight his way out of this, he can't.

Jiro whimpers, snaking closer to Samatoki while the man scans the room for an exit. Jiro leans against him a second time, apologies tumbling out of his mouth as he cants his hips forward, angling to straddle Samatoki's thigh and rut against him. It's like a dream to finally, finally, have something rubbing against him. There are black spots in his vision, a rush of emotion through him like he's going to cry. He can practically feel Samatoki's thigh muscles through the fabric of his jeans. He's really strong. He probably has lots of muscles, and Jiro wants to feel them, wants his strong hands over him, touching him, inside him.

"What the fuck!" Samatoki snarls, hands digging into Jiro's shoulders as he shoves him away. Jiro stumbles back against the wall, neglected cock throbbing in his pants.

"I'm sorry," he hears the words falling out of his mouth, not even aware he was talking. His tongue seems swollen, mouth full of cotton and too empty. He needs something in it, Samatoki's tongue, his fingers, anything. Jiro steadies himself before lurching forward like a man possessed, clawing at Samatoki, "Sorry, I can't… Please — I gotta —"

"Holy shit," Samatoki says. But he doesn't push Jiro away this time. There's no way he's not strong enough to hold Jiro back, no way Samatoki wouldn't be able to stop him. A surge of victory swells in Jiro's chest as Samatoki lets him grind into his thigh. Jiro breathes hard against Samatoki's shoulder, fingers buried in the starch linen of his shirt. There's too much clothes between them, it would feel so much better with their clothes off.

"This is so screwed up," Samatoki mutters. Jiro tips his head back, peering plaintively to his face. A wash of complicated emotions cross over Samatoki's face. He breathes hard through his nose, his fists curling around Jiro's shoulders again. Yes, push me away, the rational part of Jiro screams. Get away from me and get us out of here. Save me, stop this, don't make me do something messed up.

There's a hiss of gas from the vents overhead and slowly the conflicted expression melts from Samatoki's face. Another happy thrill lances through Jiro, piercing through the fear.

In a rush of movement, Samatoki crashes into him, pushing Jiro backwards until he's pinned to the wall. Jiro writhes into the violence, against Samatoki's thigh, pressed insistently between his legs, and Samatoki's mouth collides with his. They're kissing — that's gross, he's another dude. But, dude or not, Jiro's never had a kiss like this before: all tongue and urgency, hands clawing under his shirt and dragging hot scratches against his skin. He never knew he wanted to be kissed like this, forced back into the wall and whimpering, the feeling of another guy's dick hard against his hip. It should be gross. Samatoki at the very least should be grossed out, Jiro probably still tastes like the cop's come, but.

But…

Jiro wraps his arms around Samatoki, pressing the other man into him, like if he does it hard enough they'll fuse together. He needs this; it doesn't matter if he's gross. He'll finally have some relief, and if he doesn't get it soon he'll absolutely fucking die.

Samatoki breaks free of the kiss first, a trail of saliva momentarily clinging to his lip. Jiro wants those lips again, wants to bite them, or get bitten. Have those lips close around his thighs —

"I," Samatoki opens his mouth and closes it, obviously wrestling with the same desire. Jiro's thoughts are muddled. His resistance is a million miles away, like he couldn't fight this even if he wanted to. If he wanted to… But he does want to fight it, right? This shit is still wrong, right? But it feels too good not to do all this. It hurts not to touch, they have to keep going.

Somehow Samatoki must disagree, because he turns and starts to walk away. Samatoki makes it to the table across the room before Jiro hears himself whining. He can't help it, it's just Samatoki went so far away and he needs this, wants someone to keep touching him. Someone has to, he can't be left all alone.

Then again… his hands are free now…

Jiro bites back a cry when he touches himself, biting hard on the inside of his mouth as he palms the outline of his cock. He's startled by the sound of a zipper being undone, and then Samatoki turns back towards him. Jiro can't bear to look up, to see the other man watching him as he shoves down his pants and strokes himself with reckless abandon. Every touch is agony and perfection. It's so much better than humping Samatoki's leg like a dog, but…

Not enough, not enough, it's not enough

"Please," Jiro says and hates the wimpy sound of his voice. "You gotta — Help me, I need, mm. I need it- ah…"

Samatoki growls and slams into Jiro. His hands rake over his body, electric and firm. He flips Jiro over, insistent hands at his ass pushing Jiro's pants further down his hips. Jiro's shout of surprise is buried under a deep, throaty groan. It feels like it's been a hundred, a thousand years since anybody touched him. Juto wouldn't do it — selfish bastard — and even if Samatoki had been manhandling him it hadn't been the kind of touching he wanted. Jiro buries his reddened face against the wall as his hips roll back into the fingers kneading at the cheeks of his ass.

Suddenly there's an unfamiliar sound; a capsule ripping open and the clatter of plastic on the floor. That's right, Samatoki went to the table for something. Had he grabbed something?

The answer hits Jiro in wet, sticky drops, cascading down his asscheeks, dripping onto the backs of his thighs. Jiro shudders with the sensation, and Samatoki's fingers follow it, his thumb pressing insistently in one particular spot. Jiro rocks against the fingers teasing his plush entrance. It feels so much more sensitive than ever before, more than any lonely night he'd tentatively dipped his own fingers inside — not for any gay reasons, just to try it out! Back then it had hurt too much to feel any good. He hadn't planned on doing it again. But now, all doped up with this weird sex serum, it's good, so good, touch more, put it inside, inside, please.

"Y'know," Samatoki says, voice little more than a snarl. "You got a fat ass, just like a girl." Jiro tries to shake his head, but Samatoki has him crowded too tight to the wall to move. "Bet it's tight like a girl's too." And before Jiro can argue, two slick fingers press through the pink rim of muscle, diving inside.

Jiro hisses in protest — it's tight, it burns — before another rush of warmth surges through him. It courses from his muscles like a rush of adrenaline and Jiro sinks into it with a dizzy, giddy happiness. Samatoki's fingers urge deeper, stretching him open as they scissor apart. Jiro knows he should be fighting, should be frightened, but it's everything he can do not to come all over the wall from how mind-blowingly good it feels to have something inside him. Jiro rolls his hips back wildly, fucking into Samatoki's palm.

"That good?" Samatoki says, teeth grazing against Jiro's neck. He's so close Jiro's sure he can hear the other man's heartbeat, or maybe just feel it through the pound of his pulse through his fingers. They scissor inside him again and Jiro lifts up onto his toes at the sensation.

"Yeah," Jiro says and shivers as the fingers rub mercilessly at a soft pad buried deep inside him. With each curl of Samatoki's fingers, Jiro hears his breath catch in his own throat. His fists open and close against the wall; his knees quake. "M-More…" Jiro gasps as the fingers suddenly pull free. "Ah-!"

"More, huh? You want my cock?" He doesn't wait for an answer, quickly unfastening his belt. Jiro's head is reeling, exhausted from wanting, wracked with need and drowning out any reasonable thought.

"Ah, I-I want it," Jiro says hopelessly, hoping, praying the words are too quiet to get caught by the cameras. That's right; the cameras. People are watching, he shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be begging like some dumb whore. But, "Mmn... I want your cock."

A pause, and then, "All right," Samatoki says, breathlessly, "Yeah, good." His hands scramble against Jiro's hips, hauling them back and positioning the boy into place. "And you're gonna give me what I want, too." Samatoki's cock lines up against him, head pressing against his swollen hole, still wet. He's so close to doing it, so close to giving Jiro everything he wants and he might pass out from anticipation. Finally, finally, finally. "I want you stuffed full."

Jiro gasps as Samatoki's dick sinks into his ass incrementally, painfully slow. Even this shallow, it's somehow worse than the fingers. The thickness makes the burn of a stretch all the worse and the pain making his stomach flip. But underneath the pain it feels good, amazing, it would all be so much better if it was more, faster and more. It needs to go deeper, plunge right into that sweet spot Jiro somehow knows is there. The touching isn't just enough, he needs it deeper. It's not enough, not enough, more, more —

"Ichiro."

Jiro's blood runs cold at the mention of his brother. Wait… What? What about Ichiro? Frantic, Jiro looks to the side, searching for his brother; but there's no one else in the room. So why had Samatoki said that?

Samatoki wraps his arm around Jiro's chest and pulls him closer, face buried against his shoulder. Jiro jumps at the feeling of Samatoki's dick dipping further inside as he mutters, "Ah, Ichiro…"

Oh — So he — He's thinking about...

Almost every sound Jiro's made tonight has been unintentional, but somehow, the short, hysterical laugh that erupts from his mouth at that moment surprises him the most. This guy's — he's really thinking about Big Bro??

Jiro only has a moment to adjust to that, to let his body acclimate to the pressure inside before Samatoki's grip tightens. The thighs behind him shudder, and suddenly Samatoki's coming before he's barely inside. Jiro groans in disappointment, feeling the rush of fluid ooze between his legs. It's over too fast, it was a lot more humiliating for Samatoki than actually satisfying.

"I'm not," Jiro swallows hard, tentatively arching his hips backwards. "Ah, wait. I'm not finis—" A hand in his hair forces Jiro's face back against the wall, the hard surface digging painfully into the bruises along his jaw.

"Shut the fuck up," Samatoki snaps. Jiro's disappointment and arousal rages on as Samaki quickly pulls up his pants with his other hand. When he lets Jiro go, Jiro's knees sag beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. It doesn't hurt as much as he expects — nothing tonight has. It might be an effect from the gas, or maybe it's just he's still too riled up to feel anything else.

"That's disappointing," the voice from above hums. The woman in the speaker talks over Samatoki's protests, "But it appears your time is up." The door opens audibly behind them.

Jiro's eyes flutter open and closed rebelliously, watching Samatoki stomp angrily from the room. He'd been so frantic to go for the door when it opened the first time; but now… now there's no urgency left in him. No need for an escape. All of that's been replaced by the all-consuming desire to be stuffed full like Samatoki had promised. Which is so screwed up! A second ago he was getting his ass virginity taken by some crazy gangster with a thing for his brother, and now he's whining that he didn't get fucked enough??

Jiro groans, pent up and miserable, his thighs starting to go sticky from the mess Samatoki left behind. Not being able to escape had been awful, and the prospect some pervs were going to record him fucking was sick. But horribly, Jiro thinks, hands weakly crawling over his own body, desperate for some relief, maybe it's worse to be stuck here with all these guys who don't let him come.