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Mokusatsu

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                Inada had discarded everything for him. His parents, his past, his friends—they were all inferior. Precedence lied in Ryuji’s whims. He would kill a loved one for Ryuji if it was necessary. They had decided so, sitting parallel from each other, a plate of kanpachi between them. With the taste of salt and sake on his mouth, Inada had bowed, and agreed as Ryuji half-whispered in that growing, low voice of his.

                “From now on you have no other occupation until the day you die,” he had reached over, and tipped Inada’s chin up with his thumb and forefinger, willing their eyes to meet, “The oyabun is your only parent; follow him through the fire and flood.”

                And so, Inada became his kobun, one of many, and he drank from Ryuji’s cup, and Ryuji from his.

                And Ryuji became an obsession in his mind like a fever. The complete dedication controlled every decision he made. If he was to wear any gold jewelry, he would make it duller than Ryuji’s, setting it in his ashtray. He kneeled nightly over an ironing board like some housewife, making sure the Go-Ryu Clan would not be represented by wrinkled clothes and half-assed laziness, like some of the punks Ryuji reluctantly went around with. He imagined how Ryuji’s eyes would scroll over his suits, neat and form-fitting. Inada began going to the gym, which seemed comic. His tattoo reached to his knees and he felt a little strange, among these yoga moms and college gym rats, running on a treadmill in order to always get bigger, to prove his strength, but never with the intent to exceed Ryuji. He was always on the slim side, and he knew Ryuji admired power.

                He wanted Ryuji to admire him.

                But where Ryuji occupied the space of Inada’s thoughts, Kiryu was for Ryuji.

                Inada wasn’t jealous—he didn’t deserve to be. Ryuji belonged to no one, but Inada belonged to him. Ryuji protected him, with pure association—no one fucks with the Go-Ryu Clan—but he would not die for him. He would not long for him or think of him in every decision he made. Ryuji was autonomous. And yet, when Ryuji asked Inada to sit beside him in the backseat of the expensive European car Ryuji’s driver was granted, a thrill ran through him.

                It’d been a few days since Ryuji had met Kiryu at the Grand. Inada wasn’t there for it, but he’d been filled in on the details. Inada was jumpy, buzzing with the prospect of full-on war. Ryuji at the helm. Ryuji was near-manic. Not outwardly. Outwardly, he maintained a cool, unbreakable guise. But Inada saw it in the clench of his jaw, in the fire in his eyes, the strong, erratic movements when they played cards or drank, the way he strangle-held the neck of a whiskey bottle, the way he slapped down cards from a deck while barking, “Koi!”

                And he obsessively spoke of Kiryu.

                Mostly to himself. Under his breath, random murmurings, as he watched Inada polish his katana. As he inspected his own back in the mirror, the scales of the dragon reflecting the low light of the Omi HQ as if it was made of gold leaf. And also, when he was lecturing his kobun, as he often did.

                So, when Ryuji jerked Inada close to him, in the backseat of the car cutting through the night to some asinine location—maybe a casino, a club, maybe to some amphetamine stocks, who knew—and grabbed his wrist to place Inada’s hand in his lap, he knew he was thinking of Kiryu.

*

                It felt good to have some dedicated little shit under his arm, at his side. That warmth, tucked by his rib cage, his bony shoulder digging into Ryuji’s armpit; it was a welcome, solid physicality. Same reason he had hostesses snuggling either side of him at the Grand. But he didn’t want some delicate, fragrant woman right now, buttering him up with friendly pats and drinks. He wanted a madman. Ryuji didn’t play favorites with his kobun. They were all strictly toy soldiers. But he wasn’t going to be blind to Inada’s allegiance. The man wasn’t bad-looking. Kind of looked like a snot-nosed punk, as a lot of yakuza did, with those thick brows perpetually hitched and pouty lips permanently set in a scowl. But that was part of the appeal for what he intended tonight.

                And he was obsessed with him. He’d do anything for him. Well, they all would, if he so demanded it. But not like Inada, who would see this not as a chore but as a gift. Special treatment.

                Sotenbori rolled by. Ryuji wasn’t looking at Inada. He was peering out the window, watching abstract cubes of neon color ripple on the water. He closed his eyes and cracked the window open, inhaling city smells of salt and people and the sharpness of cold December air.

                Inada’s palm was warm on his crotch, pawing at his limp dick through his expensive slacks. His cheek pressed against the soft fur lining his coat, and the guy was practically preening with the attention. Ryuji tried to imagine it: tried to imagine Kiryu in his place, forced beside him for some reason, and worshiping the new, better dragon.

                How would he get him to that point?

                Ryuji’s cock stirred under the ministrations.

                How would Kiryu ever idolize him?

                An exchange of power, maybe.

                “Inada-kun,” Ryuji said, low voice rumbling with pleasure. Inada tilted his chin up, a habit he had maintained after Ryuji had grabbed his face the day of their initiation. “Give me a hand, would ya?”

                “Yes, Ryuji-san,” his voice had this note of reverence. It made his words lilt with a breathy, star-struck quality. Kiryu like that. Kiryu like that.

                How would he do that.

                Ryuji closed his eyes and began to think.

                After their final fight. Ryuji intended to kill him in the end, of course. Putting off any further delay from the all-consuming respect Ryuji knew he deserved. He felt that Kiryu was the thing keeping his reign from culminating. Keeping him as the Dragon of Kansai, and not simply the Dragon.

                But as he’d stand over that weak and defeated body, Kiryu’s famed-for power all but drained, he’d scroll his eyes over him. He’d note the heaving chest slicked with sweat, his skin dotted with new-forming bruises, still reddish, his own knuckles split. He’d see his hair tossed out of place, falling into his terrified, teary eyes. He’d look so small, crumpled below him, those crushed ribs struggling for breath. He’d have no will to look at Ryuji with defiance, only fear. There would be blood on his face, encrusting his nose, pooling over his parted, pale lips.

                Pale.

                And Ryuji wouldn’t kill him. Not with his sword, which was going to plunge through his heart, split him open from the back, which was, in and of itself a pleasant thought.

                Ryuji’s cock was giving repeated, interested twitches in Inada’s hand. Inada’s face was stained red and he looked up at Ryuji for permission, puppylike with that same head-tilt of his.

                “Yeah, go ahead,” Ryuji grinned, waving his hand toward his crotch. Inada undid the teeth of his fly and reached in the open gap of his trousers. Wresting his cock from his underwear, Inada’s eyes widened at the pure size of it. He didn’t know what he was expecting, given the rest of Ryuji’s massive stature. But his hand looked small against it. And he wasn’t even fully hard. He thumbed the silky, throbbing flesh carefully, right beneath the head. Nervous that he’d disappoint, his tense shoulders lowered when he probed at his cockhole gently and got a pleasurable half-chuckle, half-exhale in return. And the smell—he was musky, warm, practically exuding heat. Aromatic in that manly, samurai way. Inada’s eyes fluttered as he inhaled, and began working his hand.

                Ryuji’s eyes closed once more.

                Mokusatsu, thought Ryuji. A smile fleetingly quirked at his lips then.

                Death by silence. Kiryu was not going to die under his hand. No. He was going to die under his reputation. Kiryu would be usurped from the minds of the public, his fame dissipating as fast as it came. Ryuji would have it and more—he would be known for defeating Kiryu. Kiryu would be allowed to live, and no one would know. Yes—Kiryu would live, but as his trophy.

                The thought of it brought forth a stream of precum that dribbled over Inada’s dedicated hand, which was jerking Ryuji’s shaft with a slow, too-tight grasp. Ryuji shifted, sighed, opened his eyes and pressed his cheek to the top of Inada’s head. He lifted it when Inada’s hand stopped.

                “You’re killin’ me here, Inada-kun,” Ryuji purred, pushing a hand into his hair and grabbing the stiffly-gelled locks. He shook him playfully, then let his arm drape over his shoulders. “Give me some more passion. I know you’d do anythin’ for me.”

                “Yes, yes… I would,” Inada nodded, eyes focused with rapturous attention on the stark vein outlined on Ryuji’s cock. He pulled his hand back, spit in it, and returned it to Ryuji’s dick. The grip was slicker, easier going. Inada jerked him off, focusing on the wet sounds it produced, the precum of his now fully-hard dick shining in the headlights behind them. Everything about Ryuji seemed to be made of honey and gold and Inada’s chest went tight with further commitment. He didn’t understand how something could be so strong, so beautiful.

                A trophy. Ryuji pictured it; the Dragon of Dojima, kept for him, like a toy. He could see him, arms tied up and strong legs sprawled in Ryuji’s bed. Among crumpled yen bills, among beautifully red hanafuda cards, empty bottles of expensive whiskey. It was unrealistic to think that Kiryu would ever be so docile to stay like that forever, but Ryuji didn’t care. All he could think of was of Kiryu, naked and pale. Pale because he’d be away from the sun for so long, kept in Ryuji’s room—that skin would be paper-white and mottled with fresh bruises, over and over again. A private doll. He’d be littered with round bite marks, his thighs, his neck, his cheek. Constantly branded, over and over again, as if to ensure he stay as Ryuji’s property.

                He thrust his dick into Inada’s grip, using it like a fleshlight.

                Ryuji would come in every day, part Kiryu’s legs, and press two fingers inside his asshole. His ass would always be loose and hungry, because Ryuji would fuck him every morning. He’d feel out his own cum, which would still somehow be warm and wet, and he’d pull out his now-sodden fingers.

                “You’ve been a good cumdump, haven’t you?” he’d say. And Kiryu, broken and needy, would enthusiastically nod and part his lips, would take those fingers into his mouth. Would suck the taste off of him.

                It wasn’t like Ryuji didn’t respect the man. Doubting his power was purely fantasy on his part. Amusing potential acquiescence in Kiryu was just that—amusement. But you always want what you can’t have, what will never be, what is inconceivable. Ryuji knew that.

                Inada knew that.

                Inada knew that, as he played with Ryuji’s heavy, straining balls, as he jerked him off with devoted intensity. He knew that he occupied no space in Ryuji’s mind other than as an item. The thought made him shiver, with both debasement and a strange spike of pleasure.

                What a gross, lovely concept. He looked out the dark tinted windows and saw a group of businessmen pass. Normal civilians, but some corner of their life—a coffeeshop, a debt, a slot machine—was controlled by the Go-Ryu Clan. Ryuji’s power spread so wide.

                It was incredible.

                Inada didn’t even think about attending to his own erection.

                Ryuji would sit at his feet, pushing his legs up and feeling out his pink, stretched hole. It’d look so nice, that slight gape, drooling and needy for him. Just like a cunt. It’d clench longingly, the muscle twitching just at the sight of Ryuji, who Kiryu had come to revere, to need. They called it something. Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. Something.

                He’d spend a lot of time just stretching him out on his fingers, watching Kiryu moan and grimace and twitch, so obsessed, so adoring. He’d writhe on Ryuji’s hand, begging for more, because by then he’d be no dragon, he’d be the dragon’s pet, something to be fucked and used.

                “More,” he’d whimper.

                “Ah, ah, Kiryu…” Ryuji would lean over him. This was about power, after all. It always was. “You have no right to demand of me anything.”

                “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so hungry for you.”

                “That’s better,” he said, but he still slapped Kiryu across the face. It was okay. It was what needed to be done. Kiryu wanted it anyway. His body would be hot, sweat trickling down his skin. That perpetual frown would be replaced with a wide-eyed pout of adoration. Even with the mark on his cheek, he’d be waiting for more.

                “You’re a greedy slut, aren’t you, Kiryu-kun?” he laughed, and pressed another finger in Kiryu, feeling out the warm walls of his insides, pressing on his prostate. Kiryu jerked, his toes curling, and he let out a noise of pleasure. When Ryuji pulled his fingers out, Kiryu would let out that demanding noise, the debasement written across his face without an inch of shame. For a second, Ryuji entertained the idea of writing something disgusting on him. “Cum-slut,” or “whore,” but he thought the marks from his fists and teeth would speak for themselves. He was a sadist, pure and simple.

                Ryuji would untie him, then, and Kiryu would play an active role.

                In real time, in the backseat of a quickly-heating car, Ryuji pushed Inada’s hand off of him. Inada looked nervous, momentarily, as though he’d done something wrong. His fingers twitched, longing for that huge, impressive shaft back in his grip. Mentally chastised himself for being so demanding. As Ryuji unbuttoned his shirt a bit, shrugged off his coat, he relaxed.

                “Kiss me.”

                Inada blinked.

                He didn’t reckon Ryuji a valentine.

                He leaned up and pressed his lips softly to Ryuji’s, over his scar. Ryuji sneered and pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him off, “Not there, idiot. My body.”

                Right. Worship. Inada pressed his cool, soft lips over Ryuji’s chest, his neck, over and over again, his tongue peeking out between his lips to trace warm spots of saliva that quickly cooled in the December air that rushed in from the open window.

                Ryuji would lie down. Kiryu would know what to do. Crossing his arms behind his head, Ryuji would settle lazily on the bed, sprawled like some large, satisfied lion. Kiryu would strip Ryuji for him, in a show of matronly servitude, or something like that. Who fucking knew? Then he’d lean over him and kiss him, like Inada was, but he’d go further. He’d suckle hickeys over his chest, where no one could see. He’d lick long stripes up his body, tasting Ryuji. He’d bury his face in his armpit and between his legs and over his hipbones, and he’d slobber on him like a dog with his bone. Eventually his mouth would go to his cock, huge and straining. First, he would slobber and lick and sniff along the length of his erection, up and down like it was a goddamn popsicle, and then he’d open his jaw wide, and take it into his mouth.

                “Inada,” Ryuji started, but was surprised when Inada seemed to map out his interiority and immediately placed his lips to the head of Ryuji’s dick, bent over uncomfortably in the car. Ryuji grinned. Inada’s mouth was warm and soaked with saliva, and he was breathing heavily through his nose immediately, barely able to take it in his throat. It was an ego rush, and the little hiccupping jerks of Inada’s body only complemented the image he had of Kiryu too well.

                Kiryu’s face would be streaked with tears, stuffed with dick, lips swollen and red, drool mapping his chin. He’d suck him off as voraciously as he could, so weak and submissive, so eager to take Ryuji down to the hilt. He’d nurse his dick when he got it in his mouth all the way, needy and obsessive.

                Ryuji would hold his head, make him gag on it. He’d keep him down, and then reach for his throat, and trace the outline of his own dick bulging there. Kiryu, Kiryu… With his furrowed brows and unparalleled strength, with such unbeatable beauty, a forever-victor, somehow humble and proud at once. Made into his little bitch.

                “Fuck, yes,” Ryuji rocked his hips, and thrust into Inada’s mouth over and over. The poor guy was gagging, gasping noisily around it, drooling so much Ryuji’s pants that were still open around his thighs were being stained.

                Inada’s fists were clenched in them, and though he knew better than to twist and grip the fabric, he needed purchase on something. As his airways struggled and he took in desperate, choking inhales from his nose, he felt Ryuji’s large hand thread its way in his hair. He pet him like a dog. This comforting gesture made the kobun relax, and he readjusted himself, the cock still in his throat, and began blowing him once more. He liked how Ryuji tasted, secure, strong, salty. He rubbed the head of his dark cock with his tongue. He’d never been this close to anyone before. Inada knew his obsession with his oyabun would reach some insane levels of worship after this.

                Kiryu was penurious.

                He was a greedy little shit, pulling off to pant and lick at his cock, nose at his balls, lick at Ryuji’s asshole. Like he couldn’t get enough. And who could blame him? Ryuji was a walking specimen, a gorgeous canvas waiting to be mused over.

                Ryuji grabbed Kiryu by the sides and pinned him to the bed, always warm from Kiryu’s lasting body heat. God, it’d be filthy, just the way Ryuji liked it. Sheets stained with cum, rumpled, a gorgeous man in his bed all the fucking time. What a dream.

                Ryuji had no fantastical explanation as to why Kiryu would always be horny and needy. It just came with defeat. With pure submission. Unrecoverable.

                God, who cared?

                He’d push Kiryu’s hole open with his thumbs, watching him pant for it, and then he’d push his too-big dick into that tight space. Somewhere in the fantasy he must have lubed up, because he slid into Kiryu like sliding into a sex toy. Kiryu’s eyes rolled back as he was penetrated, that strong, stern dragon turned into a show of debauchery, his hands gripping the sheets, his legs spread like a cheap whore’s.

                “Too big,” Kiryu would say, that low voice of his trembling.

                “You love it.” Because, again, he would be an established whore for Ryuji. He would have taken this before.

                “Yes, Ryuji-han…”

                “Tell me.”

                “I love your big dick splitting me open.” Kiryu would clench around him, too tight, his stomach full of dick, his own dick curved against it, untouched and red and drooling, and Ryuji would fuck him hard. Thrust into him in brutal, punishing stabs, Kiryu’s hole milking his cock like a vice grip.

                Inada’s wet hot mouth on him, sucking, slurping.

                Kiryu’s hole clenching on him, down to his balls, thrashing on him because he would be so sensitive, so fucking horny for it all the time, needing that dick in him all the time, just being a cock warmer, a slut—

                Inada sputtered when Ryuji slammed his palm down on the back of his head and forced him to swallow his load, hips jerking up, plugging his mouth shut. He came and came, and Inada desperately swallowed around him, trying his best to take everything—absolutely everything—his oyabun had to give him.

                When he was done, he pulled off. Semen and spit trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

                Ryuji looked smug, sated. Inada’s head was light, and he blinked spots out of his eyes as he took in deep but quiet inhales of body-warm air. He watched Ryuji tuck himself in, in an almost dreamlike state.

                “Damn,” Ryuji laughed. Inada looked at the driver, who hadn’t said a word, and who seemed to have been circling Sotenbori for the bulk of the affair. The car stopped outside of a sushi bar, one of the many coverups for yakuza nightly activity that the Go-Ryu Clan owned. Ryuji put his coat back on, fixed his shirt. “Got quite a mouth on you. Might need you to start doin’ some personal jobs for me.”

                “Yes sir,” Inada said, his voice hoarse and worn. Ryuji got out of the car, opened the door for Inada, rather than the other way around. He stood up, dizzy on his feet, and Ryuji caught him, arm encasing him with a slight air of possession.

                Or maybe he was imagining it.

                “Have some kanpachi with me, little brother, and then we’ll see about doin’ somethin’ for that thing in your pants.”