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Banana Milk

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                Majima wasn't sure what exactly had set him off on that wanton winter of degradation he endured, but it probably had something to do with seeing Kiryu in the Poppo at three in the morning while cum dripped out of his ass. It was 1990 and Kiryu's reputation had spread throughout the Tojo Clan like a fucking wildfire, the story becoming legendary, as if Goro Fujita had written it. Everyone had detailed the young man's split knuckles, the power but restraint Kiryu maintained on that boat in 1988. He was as strong as a tiger but as cool-headed as a chairman, everyone said. Majima was sure it was exaggeration. He usually scoffed at the underlings' awed descriptions, but he was certainly intrigued. Majima would lay on his belly while Nishida and pals would describe Kazama-san's son with florid detail. He'd sip sake and squint in pleasure at the imagery of some twenty-year-old fighting with the prowess of a wild animal. It all became very artistic and colorful in his mind as the drinks flowed. He’d scooted over to stare at the Polaroid someone had taken of the unfinished dragon on Kiryu's back. Rolled his eye when one of them assured Majima that Kiryu was undoubtedly the strongest man in the Clan. But Majima always liked those nationalistic tales of Japan’s raw power, always contained within one savior or man who would become an urban legend.

                Besides, he was pretty smug to be in the same organization as him. And people spoke highly of him, too—if with a bit of fear, given Majima’s newfound descent into disorganization. Insanity wasn’t quite the right word for it—the Mad Dog attitude certainly wasn’t staged, but it wasn’t as developed as it’d soon become, the older he would get.

                Majima had a reputation for more than his madness, anyway.

                After Sagawa died, the restriction on Majima’s life lifted in more ways than one. Kamurocho was Majima’s hunting ground, and to be out of Kansai and into Tokyo was a deliverance in itself. Majima was gone from the normalcy of fucking management. His reputation as a sweet but stern pacifist who owned a proper business didn’t stand here. Kamurocho was tougher. Less drunken tourists with a belly full of crabmeat and booze wanted to fight, and more Omi and Triads prowling around with real vitriol, real violence making their knuckles white and glares as sharp as the knives they brandished against his throat.

                Majima encouraged the carnal exchanges, and he bounced on his toes in the coliseum, throwing punks against electrified fences and getting slammed face-first into the rain-slick, stinking walls of back allies. He didn’t hold back, and he found himself limping to his apartment while digging his leather clad fingers into the bruises he left.

                But his tolerance grew, and so did his taste for endorphin-inducing action. Majima fucked with the same intensity that he fought, if not the same frequency. It didn’t matter who it was, if someone who was squeezing his throat until his vision went black felt out the boner Majima was sporting, and decided to drag him into the public toilets, Majima would encourage them to cum in him. No matter the alliance or the prettiness. It was all about strength, really.

                It had only happened three or four times that year—but then, it was only January.

                And it had so happened that a construction worker with a bad attitude had just finished rawing Majima behind a bikini bar after Majima had poked the tip of his dagger against his throat, that he decided he wanted a snack.

                It was sort of surreal, walking into the Poppo, limp and disheveled, but not self-conscious. He had just grabbed a bag of shrimp flavored chips and a pack of cigarettes when he looked up and saw Kiryu’s back, half-colored. The tattoos outline was unmistakable, and the colors preliminary. The coloring finished one-third of the way down, like a printer that had run out of ink. Majima blinked rapidly, realizing very quickly, that the Dragon of Dojima himself was waiting in line at three in the morning, in pajama pants, holding a carton of banana milk.

                He didn’t seem as young as he imagined, since he was so tall and broad, but the sight of the milk in his hand gave him a contradictory dichotomy. Majima had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

                “Ya—”

                Kiryu turned around at the sound of Majima’s humored squeal, and Majima swallowed. He was pretty.

                “Ya got out of bed at three in the morning to get banana milk?”

                Kiryu looked down at his hand, as if realizing that he had actually purchased it, and then nodded.

                “Why?” Majima snickered, sidling up close to him. He was suddenly aware of the wet, cool trickle down his thigh and felt very grateful for having on thick, black pants.

                Kiryu set it on the counter and dug in his pajama pants for a crumpled bill. Majima’s eye trailed down, looking at his waist, his cut muscular form, the way his worn, drawstring pants sat on his body lazily. He didn’t see an underwear band. Majima swallowed. He felt a little bad, immediately sexualizing a stranger, but it was all so absurd and strange, and Kiryu was beautiful. Besides, he’d just gotten fucked, and maybe some hormones were still racketing around in his brain.

                “I had a dream I was drinking banana milk,” he said, his lips ticking up in a small smile, but his brows stayed furrowed. His voice was low, and raspy with sleep. “I woke up and had to have it. I can’t tell you why. I guess I’m prey to my instincts.”

                Majima blinked, owlishly, and then let out a high-pitched cackle that made Kiryu’s eyes widen in concern. The old man at the register looked annoyed, his deep-set wrinkles seeming to embed themselves even more permanently into his sandy face. “Prey to yer instincts, huh! God, me fuckin’ too, man!”

                It seemed so innocent. Majima was out here fucking and fighting like some Roman warrior, and Kiryu referred to his instincts as wanting a non-alcoholic drink. Kiryu pulled off the straw, the plastic crinkling pleasantly, and leaned on the counter, waiting for Majima to finish checking out.

                Stabbing the carton, Kiryu sucked on the straw. The container looked comically small in his large hand.

                “Majima-san,” he bowed slightly, “It’s an honor to finally meet you. I’m sorry you have to see me dressed so… casual.” Typical yakuza, Majima thought, grateful he wasn’t wearing some overpriced suit. He was having quite the pleasant night, eyeing Kiryu’s body.

                Majima waved off the comment but felt an inward rush of warmth at the fact that Kiryu recognized him. He was more famous (or notorious) than he thought! “Ain’t no thing, Kiryu-chan, I ain’t one for formalities,” he gestured to his own open jacket, and walked outside with him. Kiryu shivered at the cold, and Majima tried very hard not to map with his eye the goosebumps tracing his chest, his hard nipples, his dark skin seeming to glow in the gold of passing headlights.

                “Should have brought a jacket,” Kiryu muttered. Majima ripped the plastic off of his cigarette carton and immediately offered Kiryu one. Everything about Kiryu appealed to Majima. His slightly disheveled hair, the faint smell of cologne and blood and bedsheet-cotton on his skin, the way his warm breath billowed in front of his mouth in the cold. But when Kiryu bent down and wrapped his lips around the filter of the offered cigarette, instead of taking it from Majima’s hand, Majima knew he was a goner.

                Kiryu rifled in his pocket for his lighter, and brought the flame first to Majima’s cigarette, and then his own, protecting it with his hand. “Yeah? Ya wanna warm up? I heard yer a good fighter, Kiryu-chan!”

                “Is that a request?”

                “It might be,” Majima grinned, catlike. “Might be a favor, too.”

                Kiryu seemed to mull it over, sucking in some smoke and letting the cigarette end burn cherry-red. He tipped off the ash with his finger and then said, softly, “I hate to disappoint a superior, but I’m very sleepy, Majima-san.” He extended a hand, which Majima immediately took in a shake. When Majima dropped his hand, Kiryu looked at his palm, the skin above his strong nose wrinkling slightly before he thought better of it and returned his expression to one of placidity.

                Majima didn’t feel much shame at the cum smear he might have left there.

                “Maybe another time. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

                Wondering if Kiryu knew about Majima’s violent predilections, Majima nodded, “That’s right. Wouldn’t want ya goin’ easy on me, now. But it ain’t fair to prepare, neither. Ya gotta be ready for a sneak attack.”

                Kiryu considered this and nodded, exhaling a stream of silvery smoke and crossing his arms as he shook a little in the wet, mid-winter cold, “I don’t mean to be rude, Majima-san, but you don’t seem prepared, either.”

                Majima’s eye widened. Could he smell the semen? Did he know he was walking differently? Surely, he couldn’t have immediately identified the stickiness on his hand. As he opened his mouth to ask, Kiryu reached out and wiped away a spot of blood on the corner of his lips, “Must’ve just gotten into a fight, too.”

                Majima gawked for a moment. Everyone had said Kiryu was shy, easily flustered, not forward at all.

                “Y—you… I didn’t lose, ya know!” he huffed, masking his nerves as indignation.

                Kiryu’s brows knitted and he shook his head, “No, Majima-san, I wouldn’t imagine you failing. Not after what everyone’s said about you.” He threw the stub of the cigarette to the side and then lifted a hand to hail a passing cab.

                Kiryu waved goodbye and made his way to the street. Majima staggered forward and yelped, “Kiryu-chan! Wait!”

                “Yeah?”

                “Yer—yer tattoo’s comin’ along real nice!”

                Kiryu nodded his thanks and closed the car door.

*

                When Majima got home, he tore his pants off like they were burning him and grabbed his so-hard-it-hurt dick with a cold palm, gritting his teeth. All thoughts of his previous fuck were stripped from his mind. He pressed his forehead to the bathroom doorframe and jerked himself off with his dry, clingy glove. It wasn’t pleasant, but he was like an animal, needing to rut against something, anything, just to get off.

                Kiryu Kazuma was goddamn perfect. Majima understood the obsession that the Tojo Clan harbored for that man now. That short interaction, despite his stoic expression and level voice, was one of the most charming things he’d ever witnessed.

                Majima kicked his pants away and sat back on the toilet, shrugging his jacket down his arms and squeezing his eye shut as he pulled on his aching cock, leaning back. Thought of Kiryu’s big hand in its place, thought of Kiryu leaning down and taking his dick in his mouth like he took the cigarette, the straw.

                Did he know what he was doing?

                Did he know he was hole-punching some heart-shaped wound into Majima?

                He had to. That squint in his eyes, the way he bent for his superior in a bow, the playfulness regarding his “casual wear.” As if he didn’t know how good he looked. Majima’s hips gave a short jerk and he hissed through his teeth at the dry friction.

                Stripping off his glove, he licked his palm, eye still closed. Kiryu would taste the salt and sweat and iron taste he was tasting now, he’d drool all over his hand, a total slut for it. Majima decided to spit for good measure, spread the saliva with his thumb and relished the wet noise with a little shiver.

                His hand went to his balls, tugging on them gently, because Kiryu would like to explore and tease him. He mapped his finger lightly over the vein standing stark against the dark flesh of his cock, and felt it twitch. When he fucked his hand, he imagined he was fucking Kiryu’s mouth, making him gag, the tears in his eyes spilling over those high cheekbones, down his strong jawline, mouth wide open and throat making soft little whimpers and chin slick and—

                Majima came in quick spurts. He stared at the glob of thick cum that stuck to his fingers, looking bluish in the dark of the unlit bathroom.

                He wanted to wipe it all over Kiryu’s handsome face.

*

                Leaning against the hood of Nishiki’s car, the back of his thighs warm and tingling from the rumbling engine, Kiryu exhaled some smoke from his nostrils like a dragon. Nishiki walked out of Beam with a yellow THANK YOU bag bulging with a variety of VHS tapes in his hand.

                “You wanna watch some?” Nishiki grinned, holding the bag in Kiryu’s face. Kiryu studied the distinct line of cleavage on the cover slightly-visible through the plastic, considered it, and then shook his head.

                “All yours, man.”

                “Be like that,” Nishiki snorted, sitting on the hood beside Kiryu, “Can I have a smoke?”

                Kiryu handed him one from the pocket of his suit jacket and lit the end of it. Nishiki’s hair hung perilously close to the flame and Kiryu pushed it back with a slight tsk. As Nishiki inhaled, letting the smoke sweetly billow in his lungs, his brows knit, and he exhaled with a cough.

                “What the hell is this?”

                “What?”

                “What brand is that?”

                “Camel.”

                Nishiki blinked and contemplated his cigarette, but shrugged and smoked it nonetheless, “Cheap taste, friend. What happened to Mild Seven?”

                “Some guy offered me his cigarettes about a week ago. I like these better.”

                “Who?”

                “Majima Goro.”

                Nishiki’s brows raised and he shook Kiryu’s shoulder, “Mad Dog of Shimano, Majima Goro?”

                Kiryu’s lips ticked up around his smoke, “That’s the one. Though he didn’t seem too crazy when I met him.” Kiryu described their meeting curtly, as if it was just some guy, some coworker.

                “Damn, that’s disappointing.”

                “No, no… He was nice. He wanted to fight, too, but I guess I looked pretty weak and stupid in my pajamas with some kiddie drink.”

                Nishiki nodded, brows raised, “Well—you always look weak and stupid to me.”

                Nishiki barked out a laugh, still tinged with that needling sarcasm, when Kiryu punched him lightly in the arm.

                “You know, I hear it’s not just the fights,” Nishiki’s voice went low and conspiratorial, and he leaned close to Kiryu’s ear, which made Kiryu’s nose wrinkle as the hot fan of breath tickled it. He pressed his shoulder to it. “I hear Majima fucks like crazy. Guys, girls, whatever—he’s an animal about it. He’ll feel people up in public. Bet half the Tojo Clan’s been with him.”

                Kiryu’s cheeks felt warm and he looked away, as if distracted by a passing group of salarymen. “Oh. I didn’t know that.” He couldn’t quite pinpoint why his insides felt all strange, why he was suddenly jittery, like when he had to talk with Kashiwagi or Kazama or—fuck—Dojima.

                “Well,” Nishiki hopped off his car, stubbing the cigarette out on a street sign, giving the reflective yellow a burnt blemish, “It’s only a rumor. I’ve never seen it before. Interesting that you met him, though.”

                Kiryu followed him into the car, hoping the dark made him look less red.

                “Given that you’re both legends, I bet you’ll get along. Now, I’m gonna drop you off. I need to spend some alone time with Aika here,” he rustled the bag, and Kiryu shook his head.

                “Drop me off at a club. I’m not done drinking yet.”

*

                It was one of those newer, sleeker clubs, a result of the oncoming Y2K look. It wasn’t as chintzy and it wasn’t filled with nauseating, moving neon lights like Kiryu’s usual joints. It was all chrome and low-lit and the music thudded with a reverberating intensity that guaranteed a hangover because you’ve got to be drunk just to dance to it, but Kiryu still sauntered in, hands deep in his pockets like he owned the place. Immediately sidling up at the bar, he barely said “Sopporo” before he heard a concerning, catlike wail cut through the music.

                “Kiryu-chan!”

                Kiryu jumped and turned around, brows hitched nervously.

                Majima was sitting on a curved, reddish couch, a couple of yakuza on either side of him. They weren’t any he recognized, so he supposed they weren’t big enough names to prowl the HQ. But then, he wasn’t particularly familiar with the Shimano family. They were classic, though, with gaudy suits and greased-back hair. But they looked hungry, smug, like wild cats with prey. They had shining eyes and curled smiles.

                Kiryu could deduce why.

                Majima was sprawled in the lap of the one with longish hair and a wine-red suit, and his pale skin was littered with bite marks. Nishiki’s rumor proved prophetic, Kiryu noted, when his eyes trailed down to the erection Majima was sporting, barely concealed despite the poor lighting of the club.

                “Hello, Majima-san,” he said, surprised that—in the span of about a week—he managed to meet Majima a second time.

                “Enough with the honoraries, Kiryu-chan!” he grinned, and gestured to the couch. There was hardly any room for him, so Kiryu only stood across their low table, which was wet with alcohol. Majima and crew were intoxicated as fuck. His hands were curled into fists in his pockets, but he couldn’t figure out why. “Join us for a couple’a drinks.”

                Kiryu opened his mouth, looking at them. The men around Majima hardly seemed to note Kiryu’s existence, one of them lazily petting Majima’s leg, another with his arm wrapped around Majima’s chest, hand dipped in his open jacket, playing with his nipples. The one whose lap he was in was kissing his neck.

                “You have quite the… loyal kobun.”

                Majima barked out a laugh, that wide grin Cheshire-ish in how far the corners upturned. He really gave off a feline impression. Kiryu felt sweat beginning to pool at the base of his spine.

                “They’re good boys, but they ain’t too smart. That’s alright, though—I don’t like ‘em too smart.”

                Kiryu, of course, was not smart enough to get the hint.

                “Oh.”

                Majima laughed again. Kiryu didn’t know why.

                “Y’know, Dragon of Dojima, I been thinkin’ about you a lot since we met.”

                Kiryu’s cheeks felt warm. This was stupid—schoolyard-valentine-crush shit his only experience with being flirted with. He didn’t know what to say, how to handle the affection. Maybe he should have practiced in telephone clubs more.

                “Yeah,” Majima stretched out, pressing his foot to the chest of one of his men, who immediately squeezed it, as if he could give him a massage through his shoe, “I can’t stop thinkin’ of beatin’ the shit out of ya. I keep picturin’ how pretty it’ll be… Like some old tale of two warriors. I want it to be legendary, the height of some conflict that culminates in ultraviolence.” He made a director’s frame with his hands, “It’ll be cinematic!”

                Kiryu relaxed. A threat was always easier to deal with than a profession of affection.

                “I have no ill feelings towards you, Majima-san. So, there’d be no conflict.”

                “That’s the problem,” he whined dramatically, pulling on the wine-red suited guy’s hair, “Watch the teeth. …I got too much admiration for ya to justify beatin’ the shit out of ya. Sit down, would you?”

                Kiryu tentatively took the corner of the couch. He did not want to touch Majima’s hungry underlings. They dripped with exploitative energy, and although Kiryu was a yakuza, he was an honorable one. Something about watching them fondle Majima—mentally unstable, violent, certainly-not-a-victim Majima—made Kiryu’s fingers twitch with misplaced overprotection. But he didn’t know why.

                “Maybe I’ll have to create some conflict.”

                Kiryu cocked an eyebrow. “That’d certainly be… creative. Why not just fight without justification?”

                Majima sat up, batting away his lovers, “Really?” he straddled the knee of the one he seemed to favor most, and rocked his hips as the man groped at his ass through his trousers, “Ah—hah… Sorry, handsy. Ya’d really just fight me?”

                “Yes,” Kiryu shrugged, eyes determinedly stuck on Majima’s wild, dark-rimmed one, ignoring everything that was happening. He could smell the undertones of salt and precum and alcohol emanating from the couch, and the strongest aroma of sex seemed to permeate from Majima himself. “But it wouldn’t be beautiful.”

                “It—it would!” Majima stopped rocking his hips, frowning, “It just wouldn’t be, uhh… Ya know… warrior-dreamy… Like samurai, or somethin’…”

                “Okay. Fine. It would be beautiful,” Kiryu stood up, and gave Majima a wink, “But only because I am beautiful.”

                As Kiryu walked to the bar, Majima kept his eye on him. “Smug motherfucker,” Majima huffed, relaxing against the man. As he watched Kiryu saunter to the dance floor, his pout spread into a nearly-feral grin. Those grey suit pants were tented.

                Majima grinded back against his men and said, “If ya beat me up, I’ll let ya cum on my face.”

                Majima would be lying if he didn’t say he felt a little hurt by Kiryu’s rejection. Internally he chastised himself for being so sensitive, like some girl—but after a year of being denied basic human treatment, Majima figured he could indulge, be a hedonist for the rest of his life. Get what he wanted.

                And he wanted Kiryu.

                But when he walked outside for a breath of fresh air, away from the sweaty, groping hands of the Shimano family, he leaned against the brick wall and watched Kiryu exit the club. Kiryu stood in front of him, hands still in his pockets, and said, “You okay?”

                Majima sputtered, confused by the very question, “What? There somethin’ on my face, Kiryu-chan?”

                “No, I mean—are they treating you alright? You want what they’re giving you?”

                Majima’s jaw dropped. Too perplexed by Kiryu’s parental concern to make a snarky comment, he said, simply, “Wh… Yeah, I guess.”

                Kiryu nodded. “Just checking. Take care of yourself, Mad Dog.” He put a firm palm on Majima’s shoulder and squeezed it. Majima’s skin prickled with the touch in a way that the touch of other men who’d been handling him like meat never did. He licked his dry lips and tried desperately to think of something to say. But Kiryu dropped his hand and waved down a taxi.

                Majima watched him leave with a strange, needy feeling settling in his gut like a swallowed ice cube.

                Majima crossed his arms, face burning, swaying with the effects of alcohol and strangeness Kiryu induced him. Ya really care about me, Kiryu-chan. Yer real concerned.

                I’ll make you nervous.

*

                Where it was once enough, it wasn’t anymore.

                The sleazy yakuza he settled for throughout January barely got his dick hard by February. Majima was in a shit mood, snapping at Nishida and attacking street punks and Omi with a vicious nastiness that left them nearly dead. Sexual frustration was a dangerous thing. Half the time, with some guy’s dick jammed up his ass, his hands squeezing Majima’s hips, Majima felt more irritated than anything.

                It was when, at the Coliseum, a fighter had pinned Majima down with strong, entrapping thighs on either side of his heaving stomach, punching him in the face over and over, each connection hurled with an insult, that Majima realized what he wanted. “Shithead,” he’d snarled, and Majima felt his nose crunch under his curled fist, “You’re fucking gagging to be touched. This the only way you can get a man’s hands on you?”

                Spitting up blood, Majima had enough time to mumble, “Yer gettin’ me real horny here, man…” He registered the flickering disgust on the man’s face; the staticky roar of the electrified fence caging them in; the smell of burnt flesh; the raucous audience shrieking like a faceless, ruined TV laugh track; the one drop of blood that rolled off his forehead like sweat, ticklish and hot and wet, and he watched his vision go black.

                A medical bay. A bandage. Cashing in his points in exchange for an energy drink.

                The intensely throbbing boner in his pants.

                After the fight, Majima waited like a cheerleader for her quarterback. The fighter—named Shono, he remembered, such an off-putting, normal name to be announced over loudspeakers—trudged out of the arena victorious, wearing only a t-shirt and athletic shorts. But he was fit, like Kiryu, with a body that was tense and dark with violence, a permanent scowl. Not as handsome, not even close, but Majima’s eye was on his wrapped fists, the way his cotton shirt clung to his chest.

                “Hiya!”

                The man gave him a side-eyed glance and kept walking. Majima was not deterred, however, half-skipping in step with him through purgatory, ignoring the purring beckoning of the prostitutes to their left and right. The man looked better in the red light, where the neon of the subway masked scars and marks and wrinkles. Or maybe it was the blood rushing away from his brain to his groin.

                “I really liked yer fightin’ style. Wanted to know if you could teach me a few tricks.”

                The guy kept walking.

                As soon as they were in West Park, Majima placed his chin on the man’s shoulder and grinned at him. “C’mon. Fuck me up.”

                Majima’s vision spotted with a white aura when he was slammed back against the brick of the subway entrance, and as he blinked the imagined bugs away, he was pushed to his knees. He barely registered what was happening before he heard a telltale rustle of cloth and smelled that intense, musky man-aroma he was quickly familiarizing himself with.

                The head of a hard dick was pushed against his lips, and Majima immediately opened his mouth. It slid in slowly, and Majima’s lips dragged along the hot flesh with a primal pleasure, his mouth speared. It pushed down his throat, and Majima shivered with the relished pleasure of being penetrated so deeply. Precum dribbled consistently through the man’s cockslit, and he licked it away the best he could, the satisfaction of getting face-fucked settling into him with a sick, slutty slide into his stomach. He produced a high-pitched, keening noise, mouthing around the throbbing shaft with submissive worship.

                The man didn’t speak, but that was fine with Majima. He could close his eye and imagine Kiryu in his place. Kiryu’s long dick poking into his esophagus, making him sputter and drool, making him cough up spit around a relentlessly thrusting cock. Majima’s tongue pillowed beneath it, and he gave the underside a long, sloppy lick. The wet noise of his throat being fucked was almost like pussy, and Majima’s own erection went diamonds at the thought. I’m just a pussy to be fucked into, use me.

                Majima moaned and the noise seemed to incite annoyance in the man, who pulled out, making Majima sputter out a glob of saliva, and slapped Majima in the face. Majima let out a croaking little whine and got another slap for his efforts. Each hit made the pain from the earlier punches bloom through his face, and the sensation went straight to his dick. The man pinched his nose shut and Majima opened his mouth on command, going down on him as far as his body allowed, gripping the base of his cock this-side of too-hard.

                Choking himself on this stranger’s massive dick, being intermittently hit, drool slicking his chin, thinking of himself as a fleshlight—it was enough to get Majima’s hips rocking, the friction of his pants against his crotch both painful and pleasurable, searing the sensitive flesh.

                When the man pulled his dick out of his mouth, he jerked himself off with one, two quick movements of his hand, and painted Majima’s face with thick streams of cum. He was breathing through his nose, heavy exhales of satisfaction, and laughed softly as he admired his work. Majima’s face was thoroughly debauched, tear tracks from his one functional eye mapping his face, cum splattered over the bridge of his nose, his cheek, over his upper lip, spit shimmering on his chin. Each fluid looked grotesquely viscous in the streetlamp’s exposing glow, and when Majima’s eye fluttered open, the man made a noise of disgust. Majima panted, sitting on the cold ground, tongue out, chest rising and falling with the sharp inhales of cold Valentines-day air he was swallowing.

                “Pathetic little faggot,” he insulted him, kicking him in the side lightly. Majima keened again, falling onto his elbow, “You nasty slut, I know you love this shit. Pitiful.”

                “Ain’t ya gonna give me hand?”

                The man barked out a laugh, “Fuck no. I ain’t into dick.”

                He left Majima there, on the stained concrete of West Park, half obscured by the subway’s entrance, covered in spit and cum and tears. Majima felt so used, so humiliated—that it took him only one pass of his hand over the bulge straining in his pants to cum.

*

                It didn’t matter, Majima told himself, he deserved to do as he pleased.

                Majima was out of Sagawa’s stranglehold, out of Shimano’s cage.

                It didn’t matter, when he was taking load after load into his mouth, when he was being forced to swallow jizz until he was half-choking on it, until the taste made him gag. Until he was near vindictive when brushing his teeth, suddenly hating every man he’d just blown, their taste embedded into the pink flesh inside his mouth, salty and invasive and human.

                It didn’t matter, when he was being pushed over a table and fondled by the curious and brutal hands of his drunken kobun, prodding at his hole and jerking off on his face, leaving him leaking and littered with bruises. When they left him there, skin glossy with sweat, heaving and used like a porn star. Knowing they respected him less and knowing that they would until he’d threaten each of them individually with the tip of his dagger, demanding their fear once again.

                It didn’t matter, when his nose was bleeding and he was laying on the floor of a family boss he was hardly familiar with, legs bruised and striped with red marks from the leather belt in his hands, tongue raw with a cigarette burn. Spitting up ash on his way out and furious because he didn’t get to cum.

                He deserved to do what he wanted. He’d been restrained so long.

                It didn’t matter, right in public, in the back alley of a Chinese restaurant, where he was stuffed with two dicks, smelling frying oil and mildew from the rain the night before. His hole stretched and used and dripping. Being slapped in the face and bit, being called names that were all too reminiscent of the Sotenbori days.

                It didn’t matter, passing by some long-haired pretty boy holding a brick phone up to his ear like some yuppie, who looked him up and down, definitely noticing the cum on his face. Pretty Boy would say, you’ll never guess who I just saw into the receiver, but the pin on his suit jacket wasn’t the pin on Majima’s, so it didn’t matter.

                It didn’t matter. Not one bit.

*

                Eventually he didn’t want it at all. He supposed that was always the way with indulgence. One morning, he’d sat in for some impromptu meeting among the family higher-ups, in which Shimano demanded Majima be there—just to sit there and hear him lecture about how they needed to prepare for some harassment of a stockholder. Just a typical sōkaiya deal that they all already knew how to perform. He’d been half-asleep, in a foul mood. When he was leaving the office, a newcomer so insignificant that Majima didn’t even know his name, had grabbed his ass. Majima promptly slammed his elbow into his nose and promised to remove his fingers himself if he didn’t keep his hands off.

                Slumped gloomily in a café, ignoring a quickly-cooling, tepid cup of coffee, Majima buried his face in his arms. He was bored and miserable with himself for being so excessive. Majima wasn’t one for born-again virginity, but he decided as he picked at a crusted piece of gum with his finger, that he wasn’t going to fuck around anymore.

                Yes. Majima would resign himself to a life of sobriety and honor, an excellent work ethic and a body of labor making him stand strong and tall and respected and—

                “Hey.”

                Majima looked up and saw the upper body of a young man in a worn-out business suit. He was narrow-shouldered and looked polite. Majima squinted at him and murmured, “What?”

                “You want to go to the bathroom with me?”

                Majima trudged to the bathroom and kissed the man roughly against the sink.

*

                It was a stupid action on his part.

                Despite being less than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, the guy turned out to be a goddamn psycho, trying to get Majima to suck off a loaded pistol he somehow managed to get from the Go-Ryu Clan, probably. Maybe it’d be sexy if Majima wasn’t keen on the thought of not dying in a public restroom. Majima ended up with his fingers in the guy’s eyes, sweeping his legs out from under him and kicking his gun beneath a stall. He crushed his nose with the bottom of his shoe, hearing the telltale crab-shell crack of it, and snarled, “Very funny.”

                As the man held his face, whimpering on the tiles, Majima retrieved the Glock and shoved it into his jacket for good measure.

                Frantic, Majima left with a pale, withdrawn look, and slapped down 500 yen for his untouched coffee, before walking into the street, head down. And then he connected with the back of Kiryu Kazuma. He stepped back, staggering a little.

                “Whoa,” Kiryu turned around, and steadied Majima with his hands on his shoulders. Majima almost sobbed; that firm, stabilizing grip orbited him in reality.

                “Jesus fuck—Jesus, man, I’m fuckin’ myself over,” Majima’s voice came out high-pitched and strangled, like steam escaping from a teapot. He didn’t know why he was confessing. Kiryu had some strange, fatherly aura about him, despite being older than him. And maybe he was sleep-deprived and fucked out and the sun was dizzying, and Kiryu was here, holding him—the object of his ultimate obsession, the man he kept picturing every time he was fucked, he was here, holding onto him. Majima swallowed as Kiryu surveyed his rice-paper colored skin, the feverish trembling of his hands, his bitten lips, the deep purplish bruise under his eye. His veins stood out starkly on the back of his hands, which were gloveless today, and clammy.

                And besides Kiryu seeing him in the club, being playfully fondled, he didn’t know how far he was going, and so maybe Kiryu had a shred of respect for him still, always calling him san, always…

                That hope filtered out of him when he saw Pretty Boy walk out of the convenience store—the Poppo, actually, the one he met Kiryu in. The one that was on the phone, oh god—was he on the phone with Kiryu?

                This type of humiliation wasn’t sexy.

                Nishiki walked up to them, and his curious expression melted into one of nervousness, “Holy shit, man, he doesn’t look so good.”

                Majima’s brows hitched, and he fish-mouthed for some insult to hurl, but then Nishiki was leaning over, looking him over with a sort of studious, genuine concern. And so was Kiryu.

                “Kiryu-san,” Nishiki mumbled, “Should we take him to a doctor?”

                “I need to call it off,” Majima said, and dimly realized he wasn’t making any sense.

                “No,” Kiryu mumbled, “He’s not a helpless child. I’ll take care of him.”

                “Kiryu-chan’s gonna take care of me!” Majima’s cackle was near delirious.

                “Okay. I’ll help you get him to your place.”

                Typical. Fuckin’ typical. Dojima gets the real yakuza, the real nice guys, the honorable warriors, the fuckin’ sweet samurai types, the brave Goro Fujita heroes, of course he gets ‘em. Then Majima was being maneuvered into a gaudy-expensive car, Kiryu leaning over and buckling him in, like a child.

                Majima realized he was very vulnerable right now. If it wasn’t Kiryu and Nishiki forcing him into the backseat of a car, then it’d be someone else with shittier intentions. I’m not in control. But you haven’t been in control all winter, haven’t ya, dumbass?

                “Ya know,” Majima mumbled to Kiryu, who was sitting close beside him, looking stern and protective, like someone would try and fuck Majima right then and there, on the passing highway, and Kiryu would make them swallow their teeth for it, “I ain’t usually so pathetic.”

                “You aren’t pathetic,” Kiryu assured him simply, “It’s a tough life to lead, Majima-san. No one expects you to act normally all the time.”

                “So ya know.”

                “Yes. I heard.”

                Majima arched up in his seat and tried to glare at Nishiki through the rearview mirror, but Nishiki’s eyes were firmly on the road. But then, didn’t Majima want Kiryu to know? Fuck—he intended on making him jealous, not having Kiryu pity him.

                Kiryu didn’t pursue the details until they were inside Kiryu’s small apartment, Nishiki driving off with a dismissive but genuine, “Tell me how it goes later.”

                Sitting Majima down on his unmade futon, Kiryu opened his small icebox which hummed with a mechanical wheeze, and he tossed him a carton of banana milk. Majima’s cheeks hurt with a grin as he pulled off the cap.

                “Livin’ pretty conservatively, huh?” Majima said, small talk preferable to actual discussion, as he surveyed his room. A little box of a television sat on the floor, across a low tea table, a futon, a couple of framed pictures of people Majima didn’t recognize, and one of Kazama-san and Nishiki-san and Kiryu, all of them younger. An electronic kiddie car placed beside a single plant on a dresser. A trashcan full of junk food wrappers and beer bottles. An overflowing ashtray. A box fan. Then, more fitting things of a yakuza: a couple of switchblades. A stack of pornographic VHS tapes. A baseball bat.

                “Nishiki-san hates it,” Kiryu nodded, “He thinks if I live the lifestyle, I should spend like I do, too.”

                “He your, uh…”

                “He’s my oath brother,” Kiryu explained, and Majima sagged with relief. Kiryu peeled off his suit jacket and shoes and sat beside Majima, cross-legged. “You were lying, that night. When I asked if it was okay.”

                “No, it was okay then. Harmless shit. Felt good. It just… got outta hand. I know everyone’s lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ whore.”

                “People say you were being fucked with bad in 1988,” Kiryu propped his chin in his hand, and looked at Majima with such kind, interested earnestness that Majima felt his chest throb.

                “I ain’t about to air all my dirty laundry to a stranger.”

                Kiryu nodded, “I see. Well, for what it’s worth, I think you could be doing a lot worse with coping mechanisms. I know how Shimano is.” A strange look of recognition seemed to flicker in Kiryu’s eyes but left as soon as it came.

                “Why’re you bein’ so nice to me?” Majima frowned.

                “I guess it’s in my nature to help people.”

                Majima stared at him, suspicious, and then relaxed. Kiryu wasn’t malicious or cunning enough to make this into a trap. He drank his banana milk, smiling around the straw.

                “Look at that. Color’s back in your face already.”

                “Oh, yeah. Completely healed. Nothin’ hurts anymore.”

                Kiryu punched his shoulder lightly. “Rest for a little. I’ll make sure no one comes in and tries to kill you.”

                “I ain’t helpless.” Majima didn’t like being considered fragile.

                “You’re sleepy, though.” Kiryu stood up from the futon and sat at the tea table, “Sleep. I’ve got no plans today.”

                Majima sunk down on the futon and stretched. The room was pleasantly smoke-scented, but clean still, with undertones of hydrangeas and cologne. And being in Kiryu’s sheets, white and rumpled and still smelling of sleep and their owner—he really did feel protected, in an odd way. Kiryu closed the blinds, and Majima pulled his jacket off, his pants. He realized, as he was settling into the bed in his underwear, that this was the first time he’d undressed around another man without immediate sexual intent. He pressed his cheek to the pillow and watched Kiryu watch TV, before he fell asleep.

*

                When he woke up the sky looked strange and fiery through the blinds, and Majima deduced it must be sundown. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling off his eyepatch with the motion, and tossed it to the side. He rolled onto his shoulder and jumped, startled, when he saw Kiryu lying beside him—eyes open and all.

                “What the fuck?!” he wheezed.

                “Sorry,” Kiryu’s lips turned up in a small, sheepish smile of amusement. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t have a couch, though.”

                Waving it off, Majima relaxed, muscles softening as he cushioned himself on the futon. Kiryu smelled better up close, he noted, and he leaned forward, as though testing the waters. Kiryu nodded minutely and Majima pressed his forehead to the bridge of his collarbones, resting there for a little.

                “You hungry?”

                “Yeah. How long was I asleep?”

                “It’s seven o’clock now. Been a minute.”

                Majima grunted, pressing his crooked nose to Kiryu’s shirt, nuzzling it. The shirt felt cheap.

                Kiryu put a hand on the back of his head and stroked a thumb over where it was close-shaven. The gesture was so soft, and kind, that Majima almost fucking teared up. Hiding his face deeper in Kiryu’s chest, he mumbled, “Get me Smile Burger or I’ll bite yer tits off.”

                “Jesus,” Kiryu huffed, sitting up. “I’ll be back.”

                As he left, Majima scrubbed his face with his hands and sat at the tea table, long arms stretched over the dark mahogany, a pleased, comfortable smile on his face. He felt like one did after a hot bath or a glass of expensive alcohol, warm and buzzing and relaxed for the first time in a while.

                When Kiryu returned, two brown bags darkened with grease in hand, he sat down beside him. Majima noted the closeness—it was deliberate, but respectful, intended to make him feel comfortable, he supposed.

                They ate in silence, watching television. The news was on, and a young journalist was being interviewed about her new endeavor into researching the yakuza. Kiryu seemed stone-faced, but Majima was amused.

                “These college kiddies love us, y’know?”

                Kiryu looked at him, “She’s probably older than us, Majima-san.”

                Majima blinked. “Oh, yeah. Damn. We got a lotta time to make names for ourselves, don’t we?”

                Kiryu shoved a fry into his mouth and nodded, “Anyway, we’re already both legendary.”

                Majima smiled. He was glad Kiryu recognized his honor still, despite everything. It’d only been two months—he could recover from it, right? “Ya know, I can probably still bury my promiscuity in how fuckin’ cool I am, in the crazy shit I can do, in how good I fight.”

                Kiryu sat back on his hands, “Majima, it’s the nineties. Stop feeling so ashamed about having sex. No one thinks of you as a slut, anyway. You’re known as the Mad Dog first and foremost.”

                Majima rolled his eye, “Yer so goddamn noble, Kiryu-chan.”

                “Do you want to fuck me?”

                Majima inhaled the bolus of meat and bun in his throat and coughed, dropping his burger on the table. Kiryu hit him in the back once, between his shoulder blades, and the grey lump fell out of his mouth and onto the table. “Wh—where the fuck did that come from?!”

                Kiryu stood up and grabbed a napkin, picking up the chewed meat with it and throwing it into his overflowing bin. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Majima-san, but I think you need a nexus of control.”

                You don’t even know what the word nexus means, Majima thought, still bewildered.

                “I think you’re letting too many people just use you as a toy, and then leave. I don’t think you’re even enjoying it anymore. Am I right?”

                Majima didn’t answer, but the heat on his face must have radiated his response.

                “Right. And—I’m sorry, Majima-san, but… You’re probably not a very good bottom.”

                “What the fuck.”

                “You’re trying to fuck from the bottom, I guess, but it isn’t enough, is it? I mean… There’s nothing wrong with it, but I’ve been watching a lot of porn to learn about you, and I think—I think you need to… use someone… like people have been using you. For control, you know. Sex is… about power…” Kiryu’s face was probably as red as his now, and his eyes were determinedly on the television screen, “I think being able to—”

                “I get it,” Majima huffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

                Kiryu’s eyes went downcast, and he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be like them. I just—I just wanted to offer my h—”

                “Shut up.”

                “I’m sorry—”

                “No, ya fuckin’ knucklehead. I been wantin’ you the whole goddamn time. This started cause I met you, goddammit.” He didn’t know if that would make Kiryu feel guilty, as if he was the one putting Majima through all this inadvertently, so he quickly tacked on, “Not that you could’a known that. Jesus, you wanna be topped? Fuck!” Majima squeezed his newly-interested dick through his boxers.

                Kiryu seemed calmer, but still shy, stiff shoulders bunched up around his cheeks which were light pink. Majima didn’t think he had seen anything cuter than the blush on his face, the girlish look he was giving Majima through the fan of his eyelashes. All this time he’d been picturing some tough goddamn beast in bed, but this was somehow better. His fingers twitched over his dick, “Shit. Yer—yer sure about this?”

                “Yes,” Kiryu nodded, “I’ve been wanting it as well.”

                “Well—fuck… Do I need a condom? I’m clean, since I been bottomin’, y’know, I just—”

                “No,” Kiryu said, and looked away again, at a yellowing water stain on the wall, “I’m a virgin.”

                Majima almost came then and there.

*

                Kiryu was as cute on his back as he was in the Poppo that first night. That was the word that first came to Majima—cute—despite the muscle and sinew tensed, statuesque, despite the stern face. On his back, his mouth parted, and brows hitched with determination as Majima slowly fingered him, Majima thought he was cute.

                Kiryu rested an ankle on his shoulder, held his other strong thigh with his hand, and Majima was bent below him, slowly opening up that tight-pink virginal hole with his skilled fingers, grinning every time Kiryu produced a soft whimper or a little, needy noise. He was slick with lube—which Majima had begun carrying around, since some of his “regulars” became less and less patient.

                Kiryu sat up on his elbows but immediately flopped back down with a high-pitched moan when Majima twisted two fingers in him, curling them slightly.

                “Oh—I—…”

                “It’s good, huh?” he grinned, and Kiryu nodded, putting the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle his noises, “Don’t do that, wanna hear ya. God, yer ass is real hungry for it.”

                Kiryu sighed softly, and put his own hands on his asscheeks, spreading for him. Majima sucked air in through his grit teeth at the sight. “Fuck, ya really want it, huh?”

                Yeah—Majima liked this. Liked being the one in control, maneuvering him. Liked Kiryu—liked him so goddamn much, that Kiryu could have told Majima that he was into Majima getting stabbed and Majima might pull his dagger on himself to please the guy.

                Nodding, Kiryu pressed a finger to himself, putting soft pressure down on his hole, his slutty ass tightening around Majima’s fingers as a result. Majima groaned and pulled his hand out, impatient already. Climbing over Kiryu, he pushed his legs back to his chest, and Kiryu immediately held his own thighs again obediently. He looked slightly nervous, so Majima leaned down and pressed a kiss to his upper lip.

                “I’ll be real gentle.”

                Kiryu didn’t reply, simply opened his mouth and let his tongue run against Majima’s smiling lips. “Cute,” he mumbled, patting his thigh.

                But Kiryu wrapped his arms around Majima’s neck, hauling him down. Majima grunted at the strength of it but settled against Kiryu’s chest and let him lick into his mouth. He wasn’t an incredible kisser or anything, but Majima appreciated the enthusiasm. It was sloppy and the smacking noises were turning him on almost as much as the sensation of being on top Kiryu himself.

                Majima clapped his hands on Kiryu’s ass and Kiryu yelped. Majima grinned and let go, his cock throbbing and neglected between his legs, straining and drooling a steady stream of precum. He pressed his finger to Kiryu’s hole again, giving a few lazy thrusts, the lube sticky and body-warm, easing the way for his penetration.

                “Yer little hole is so wet, it’s suckin’ my finger in like a cunt.”

                “Majima-san…”

                He grinned and put the head of his cock to his hole. It was a snug fit, and Kiryu threw his head back, teeth grit, as Majima pushed him onto his dick, “Fuck… Ya alright, Kiryu-chan?”

                Kiryu nodded, “I’ve had worse.”

                Barking a laugh, Majima closed his eye, relishing the heat surrounding his cock. Kiryu was fever-pitch hot inside like a furnace, and clenching with need, and adorable with the strained little huffs making their way past his lips. Then, the encouraging push of his hips back against Majima’s cock had him gasping. “Ah—you little fuckin’ slut, ya really like it, huh?”

                “It feels g—good to have… you in me…”

                “Work for it,” Majima panted, slapping Kiryu’s thigh. Kiryu clenched his eyes shut but did as he was told, pushing himself against Majima’s cock with his feet now planted on the futon for leverage. He looked so pretty—so fucking pretty—with the strained effort on his face, his body shiny with a fresh break of sweat, his cock full and hard and throbbing against his stomach. Majima wrapped his hand around it, and Kiryu’s mouth fell open in a desperate gasp.

                “Good boy,” Majima told him, leaning over and kissing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his neck, his chest, catching a nipple between his teeth and producing a noise of pleasure when Kiryu’s body tightened around him as a result. He sucked at his chest for a while, his hand working his cock, which was throbbing in his palm now.

                He let go and Kiryu let out a gasp of indignation. “No—let me cum…”

                “Not yet, Kiryu-chan!” Majima chastised with a breathless, wry laugh, rolling his hips into Kiryu’s warm, pliant body. He could fucking die here, between these open legs, Kiryu sweaty and sprawled beneath him, that face stained and open-mouthed, eyes shiny but firmly on Majima’s face.

                God—he adored this guy.

                When Kiryu wrapped his arms around his neck again, yanking him in for another kiss, Majima’s cock battered against his prostate at the new angle and Kiryu’s toes curled. He let out a gasp into his mouth, body jerking up, his full cock dragging against Majima’s stomach. The slick glide of precum mapping wetly and salty against his skin got Majima shivering.

                “Damn, yer fuckin’ sensitive. Kiryu—yer so adorable—”

                “Hah—ah… I’ve, uh, never been c-called that before.”

                Majima laughed against his mouth, and put both hands on his asscheeks, pulling back from Kiryu’s needy, wet mouth to sit up. Holding Kiryu’s thighs on either side of his hips, he rutted into him like he was trying to breed him, trying to get as deep as he could. Kiryu panted, the new angle ensuring that Majima pressed on that sensitive spot inside of him with the flushed head of his dick.

                Majima noticed how Kiryu didn’t touch his own erection, even though it looked painful with its stark color flush as a valentine, precum beading on the head like honeydew, waiting for release. He was so willing to give and give and give and let Majima take, for once, that Majima felt a throb of possession pulse somewhere behind his balls, and he clenched his thighs, holding Kiryu’s hips tight against his shaft as he came inside of him.

                “God, ya feel that? Feel me fillin’ ya up? You little slut, ya fuckin’ love it, don’t you? This cute virgin ass just takin’ it all, so goddamn needy. Bet you been waitin’ to be filled and used, bet you been so empty without this—big—fuckin’—dick in ya, fillin’ you up with my cum… God, take it, Kiryu…”

                Breathless and exhausted, feeling a sort of relief from his release that getting fucked hardly did for him, he stayed inside of Kiryu, his eye half-mast and lips parted. He relished his orgasm, felt Kiryu’s wet heat clench around his over-sensitive dick.

                Kiryu was still hard.

                Pulling out with much reluctance, Majima settled down onto his stomach and plied Kiryu’s hole open with his thumbs. Kiryu whimpered, and that sound awakened something primal in him. Growling, Majima leaned forward and lapped at his irritated entrance. Kiryu groaned loudly, bunching the sheet in his hands and arching his back.

                It wasn’t the most pleasant taste in the world, especially the slightly-chemical, oily taste of the lube, but hearing Kiryu whine and feeling his sweet boyhole tremble around his curious lips had Majima’s tongue prying as deep as it could into his now-softened, needy ass.

                “Majima-san, Majima—it feels good, it feels so good.”

                Majima lapped over him. He liked this. Liked taking care of Kiryu, whose hand finally went to his cock, willpower breaking. He let out a stream of desperation as he jerked himself, “Majima, you’re—you’re so good, you’re eating me… It feels so good…” His leg gave a little kick near Majima’s head. Majima chuckled and sucked against his hole. “I can feel your cum dripping out of me, it’s so hot… Fuck. Please. Inside me… ah—hah….”

                Cumming over his chest in thick spurts, a high whine falling from Kiryu’s lips, Kiryu’s heel dragged down Majima’s back, a strangely pleasurable sensation. His body twitched as spurt after spurt landed over his body, cock jerking in his palm. When he finished, his hand loosened to splay lazily over his balls. Majima sat up, mouth wet and red, and took in the sight of Kiryu with his heart pounding.

                Kiryu’s rising-and-falling chest was covered with cum and sweat, his face was dark, and his swollen lips were parted, tongue resting over his teeth as he took deep inhales of the air in the now-humid room. His eyes were tired and needy, the black of them shining like well water.

                Majima thought he was the prettiest thing in the world.

                “Ya ruined it.”

                Kiryu’s frown almost made Majima wince. “What?”

                “Ya ruined it!” Majima repeated, flopping down on top of him and burying his face in his sweaty neck, “I can’t fuck anyone else again. Ain’t gonna compare to you, Kiryu-chan. Now every time I have sex, it’ll pale. It’s gonna fuckin’ suck.”

                Kiryu’s body relaxed, though he was still heaving like he’d just run a marathon.

                He put a sweaty hand on Majima’s back and stroked it up and down. He took Majima’s ear between his teeth and worried it, mapping the shell of it with his tongue, sucking the lobe into his mouth.

                They stayed like that for a while, until the cum dripping out of Kiryu became unpleasant and he had to get up, pushing Majima off of him gently. The napkin from the burger joint crumpled in his hand as Kiryu gently cleaned himself. It was a strangely delicate, attractive ministration, and Majima watched tiredly. He looked at his soft cock, still heavy and dark, and wondered what it’d be like in his mouth.

                But he figured it was time to go.

                Majima stood up, moving to grab his pants. Kiryu stopped cleaning himself and gave him a glare.

                “What’s that look for?”

                “You don’t have to leave, you know.”

                Majima snickered and shrugged, flopping back down on the ruined sheets. “Well, well. A good fuck and ya let me stay, too? Yer a real catch, Kiryu-chan. Might make me fall for ya.”

                Kiryu kneeled in front of his fridge and opened it. The little electric light inside the ice box bathed his body in a fluorescent white glow, and Majima swallowed his spit. I just took that pretty motherfucker’s virginity. Majima’s ego was certainly restored.

                “You want a drink?” Kiryu asked.

                “Banana milk,” Majima immediately said, “That’s what I’ma start callin’ my cum.”