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Kazama's boy leaves the slammer looking not much older than twenty-five. His face is set in the same stubborn frown, and Shimano rubs a coarse thumb over the picture of his sloping broad shoulders between prison bars. Not a bright one, this one, Kazama should’ve known a boy like that would be easy pickings in the yakuza. 

The knock on his doors has him tossing the picture aside with a flick of his hand. 

Kazuma Kiryu strides into the room as if waiting would break him, expression flattened into placidity. It’s a laughable attempt. His round eyes flick towards the picture, the ghost of something disdainful pulling at his dark brows. His hair is slicked back carefully, the same gaudy clothes. Crimson stark against his pale skin, smothered by his white suit.  

The way the boy dresses is shameful, walking around like that, begging for lusty eyes. Kazama loves the boy too much to rebuke him for it, or maybe, Shimano smiles with a flat row of yellowing teeth, stained with cigar smoke.  Loves him just enough.  

“Got a lotta people waiting on your return,” he begins in a low, scraping drawl, leaning back slowly against black leather cushions, “Eh, Kazuma?” 

Neither of them mention the expulsion. 

It’s a jibe, at his sparse welcome, one Shimano hopes will sting. Boxed into four walls, Kazuma doesn’t know, and during his time, no letters coming his way, no visitors, barred from his family. 

No one but Shimano. 

The first letter– Your reputation precedes you, Kiryu Kazuma.

Dim-witted as he is, the boy takes it at face value. How could he know what Shimano knows- that the Dojima family lieutenants have slippery tongues, and Kuze has laughed about the way they’d kept the boy in line. 

The last letter– Thank me properly.  

“Shimano-san.” Kazuma murmurs in greeting, and conflict runs across his face, still so wide open, so expressive, wondering if with his expulsion goes etiquette. He settles for a deep bow, keeping his hands at his sides. “Thank you for watching over me during my stay.” 

Shimano’s lip curls. He’s no Kazama, this one, but he knows that much, and regardless of what his daddy says, Shimano will always have this. 

“To think,” he begins, peering at the end of his cigarette. “The Chairman would order the hit, eh? You got no allies, Kazuma, not after what you did. The Omi Alliance didn’t have to pick you up,” his eyes, beady, flicker towards the boy. “But I did.” 

He takes a deep drag, casting his eyes towards the little metal ashtray sitting at the edge of the table. “Because I know you’re the kind of man I'd want in my corner.” 

“I’m grateful.” Kazuma says, not sounding very grateful. 

He clicks his tongue, gestures towards the crystalline glasses. “A drink, to celebrate your return?” his own half filled, the coloured bottle uncorked. There are water droplets sliding down its sides, the chill moving fast.  

“I’d rather not stay longer than the necessary.” Kazama’s boy says, monotone.  

His cheek twitches; he remembers this audacity, before he’d gone, gotten himself locked up. There are a few more lines around Kazuma’s eyes, his jaw darkened with something resembling a rough stubble, but he’d been frozen in there – in that cell. Not growing, not changing. Shimano’s protection had softened him, where his own family had not. 

He rolls his shoulders, settling back into his seat. “I said,” he spreads his legs. “Drink .” 

Kazuma stares at the glass, upper lip curled. 

Shimano watches him steel himself, before the boy strides towards the table, picks it up, and downs the smooth red liquor entirely in one go. 

He chuckles, the thud of the glass on wood, as Kazuma licks his lips.  

“All the better,” the trouble child says, sounding his age, finally, when he neither grimaces or flinches at the taste. “It’ll make this easier.” 

Wordlessly, impatiently, Shimano’s thighs shift. 

He has the pleasure of watching Kazuma’s expression tighten, his shoulders hunching minutely. He approaches Shimano's seat the same way he had entered the room, back straight, but under his eyes, forces his feet to move slowly, so that his gait is forceful, rigid. The boy goes to his knees with rusty grace. 

He flicks at the lapels of Kazuma's suit with the back of his fingers, “Let’s see you living up to your name, huh, boy?” 

The boy's red clothes stretch over his shoulders, moving to peel the jacket off, his head bowed. It falls to the side in an unruly heap of white. If nothing else, Shimano inhales victoriously, he's pretty. His breath warms the inside of his thighs, and his fingers unbuckle Shimano's belt quickly, with little finesse. He had been the same ten years ago, to want it over so soon, three, four Captains holding him down, the bastard Shibusawa could always make him squeal. 

Kazuma’s hands brace against the arms of the cushions, he leans forward in a single bend of his neck- 

And by god, can the boy suck cock like a twenty-year-old.  

His tongue wraps around the head, eyes lowered and cheeks stained, prideful as ever. 

The lean curve of his neck, the gape of his shirt revealing the hollow of his collarbone as he leans forward in one swift motion to take Shimano, nearly spitefully, fully in him. 

Under the florescent lights, the oil he uses on his hair gleams, and Shimano takes pleasure in fisting a large hand through it, pulling at it in a disarray. The boy tips his head, as if trying to shake his hand off, breathing in sharply as a flutter of dark eyes peer at him before looking away quickly. 

“Easier like this,” he asks, roughly, a deft tongue curling around the underside of his cock, “Whoring yourself for the Omi Alliance?” he bends, pulling the boy off him, drinking in the sight of him with his head pulled back. “Is it better than Dojima’s?” 

Wet slicks Kazuma’s wide mouth, his breath stuttering in his chest. His eyes are dark, narrowed into slits, but he stares back at Shimano beneath the furrow of his brow, mouth moving. Wanting to spit. 

Shimano knows he won’t. 

“I asked you a question, boy.” 

Kazuma glares balefully at him, and this time, watching him, there’s more to his flush than before. If he pressed the broad side of his palm against his neck, it would heat under him. It’ll take a little while more, Shimano thinks victoriously to himself; how the boy managed to survive so far is a miracle . Kazuma’s eyes flash, before he lurches forward, his hands pressing flat against Shimano’s broad thighs, to take him in his mouth again, pink tongue waiting. 

He barks out a laugh, jerking him back by his hair. It’s nearly as long as it had been before. “You’re eager .” he exclaims, delighted, pitches his voice low, “I’ve only ever heard stories. Kazama run a goddamn whorehouse?” 

The pinpricks of Kazuma’s eyes are icicles, and when his mouth snaps shut with a click of his teeth, it’s hard enough that an echo of nervousness slithers up Shimano’s spine. 

He wonders suddenly, if this had been how Kuze’d gone. 

“Impudent,” he murmurs, slow between his teeth. He slides his palm towards the boy’s chin, ponderingly, before flicking him away. “Lose the shirt.” 

Kazuma’s jaw clenches, nonetheless, his hands move. His fingers slip, and he blinks down at himself, irritated. 

“What-” 

“It was a small relaxant, Kazuma. You’ll be fine.” 

“There was no need for a relaxant,” Kazuma snarls his kitten’s snarl, scraping at the back of his throat. He tries to tug himself out of his clothes, goosebumps running down his arms. His tattoos peek around the edges of his neck; softness around his muscled chest. The shirt just barely hangs off his shoulders, and he’s already forgotten about it, half unbuttoned. “This is my last favour-”

“You’re a goddamn moron if you think this’ll be the last time you take a cock for the yakuza, boy. You think you get to refuse?” he leers, grabbing him by the back of his neck like an errant child, hurling him into his thighs. Kazuma grunts with the impact, his cheek smashed against the fat side of his cock, “Without taking a hit? Without this getting all over the streets?” 

“You were set a decade ago, boy,” he smiles cruelly, “When you decided to get on your knees for the Tojo clan.” 

There is a languid knock on the door, and he struggles to contain himself, this battling ground he's created. “We’d need an incentive eh?” 

You see, Shimano is no fool. He’d not gotten his own family by swinging his arms and hollering. There’s a brain behind that thick, wide skull, and a streak of maliciousness to go with it. 

There are two Kazama boys after all. 

“You had business,” a smooth voice calls, the knob of the door clicking in place as it swings open, dripping with curlish self-assuredness. Shimano peels his lips back in a wide, uncontained grin, bared towards the boy at his feet. It would put him back in his place. “Shimano-san?” 

For a split second, there’s something like recognition in Kazuma’s dark boundless eyes, the swell of his pupils eclipsing his irises. It runs as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a hapless face, made sweeter with his open mouth, frustrated and unable to understand why. He doesn’t know, forgotten, maybe, and Shimano could watch the lightning strike for days.

He paints Kazuma’s face white. 

 

 

Nishikiyama’s lips curl in disgust.

If he were a lesser man, if he were still the man he used to be, he would’ve marked that as the time to leave. By sheer force of will, he keeps himself in the room, but old habits die hard, and he jerks his eyes away from Shimano's state of undress. His fault, for not clarifying the purpose, and now he gets an eye full of-  

There is a curl of a tattoo, peering from the scarlet shirt clothing the bent back of the man Shimano is fucking. 

He breathes in sharply. 

“That's-" he cuts himself off, swallowing his words. 

It couldn’t be. 

The sheer ludicrousness of what Shimano is presenting, what he has done- is calling in Nishiki to observe. Standing blank at the door, casting his memory back to today’s date, today’s day.  

As if he’s not been waiting, dreading, watching. Distant, he finds himself extremely aware of his own distance, when finally Shimano has had enough of watching him with his smug, gleaming eyes, and says, “Kazuma's been Tojo property for a long time.” laughs uproariously, the dingy office backing his echoes, “You get a go now, one of the perks of being patriarch, eh?” 

The name bounces around in his head.

His hands unclench. 

Kiryu. 

Nishiki could trace the line where sweat dampens his palms, taking a single, definitive step forward to find his footing. The man doesn’t look at him; his head is bowed, dark hair dripping with white streaks, pulled from the immaculate combings Nishiki had always pictured when he remembered, thinking of.  

“Take a seat would ya?” Shimano waves a hand, but his eyes, shadowed under his brows, belies his affected casualness. It’s a bright, watchful look. “Think of this as a gift, one head to another.” 

Unable to keep his eyes off the man on the floor, he wonders if, when he finally looks him in the face, there will be much difference. He takes the seat adjacent to Shimano's with little thought, dry palms sliding down the arm of the couch. The cushions thump softly under him, his right shoe inches away from the white suit jacket. 

He breathes in sharply, a wave of something unidentifiable in his throat. The same jacket Kiryu had been wearing before, he remembers the day at the bar with pinprick clarity, seeing it for the first time and wanting to at once laugh and sigh. 

He hadn't wanted to say it then, blustering like a fool instead. How he had pawed at Kiryu, you look indecent,  hiding underneath his tongue. But knowing now what Kiryu had been doing, that had been his intention. 

If he’d been played. 

Kiryu, his once-friend and brother, when he lifts his head, moves with a weight hanging over him, shoulders sloping. His eyes are darkened, gaze unfocused even with his head tilted at Nishiki, his forehead creases with confusion, as if trying to find something he can’t place. His tongue curls, experimentally, pink and slow, to his upper lip, finding it bitter and sticky. Something thick and wet trailing down his face. 

Nishiki realises abruptly that he had never had a chance, these favours being traded behind his back. 

Shimano, buckling his trousers with a lazy, self-satisfied smile, stands, “Get up,” he whispers, his meaty fingers digging into the curve of his shoulders as he hauls Kiryu upwards. The younger man sways in his hold, and can’t seem to catch himself when he's thrown, quite literally, into Nishiki's lap. 

Nishiki looks up at Shimano quickly, accusing, his hands kept still beside him, Kiryu a heated weight on him, breathing short and staggered against his neck, a hand clumsily coming up to wipe Shimano's spend away. 

It only works a little. 

“He was a little tense walking in.” Shimano says, shoulders rolling in a shrug. “Gave him something to relax.” 

He trails a single finger down the line of Kiryu's back, invoking a full body shudder he seems to be unable to suppress. Shimano tips his head towards Nishiki, as if showing him the ropes, showing him how loose-limbed and sensitive his oath brother is. 

“Well don’t let me stop you.” He rounds the table, the girth of his body casting shadows upon the room. The rough opening of a drawer before he tosses a bottle towards Nishiki. It thumps against the cushions, and he realises its intention when he makes to pick it up. 

“I don’t got hold your hand through this do I?” 

“For a traitor?” he hears himself say, the word crawling out of dried lips. “No, you don’t.” 

Shimano laughs.

“I’ve warmed his mouth, but,” he claps a hand on Nishiki's shoulders, with the usual show of force, the sound echoing sharply, “I hear he likes it when you play with his ass." 

Do you, he wonders. 

Shimano’s gaze is a dead weight on him, an expectant expression framing his large face. Nishiki knows that face, that look.  Has spent his entire life seeing that look and not knowing what he was doing wrong

“Get your pants off.” he says quietly, frost-lined, unmoving. 

Kiryu’s head swivels upwards, but he’s close enough still to feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek, to smell the drying cum staining his face. He stares at Nishiki with a well of confusion, slender eyes widened. He watches the same way Shimano watches, searching for something Nishiki simply cannot afford to let them see. 

Until finally. 

His hands move. 

Nishiki doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until he begins to breathe again, eyes cast on careful fingers hesitating around opaque buttons.  

When he glances upwards, Shimano has made to leave, the door closing behind him.  

He returns his gaze. 

There is a clarity in Kiryu’s brown eyes, a light that hadn’t been there before. Something carves its way through the empty caverns of his chest, bitter paste at the back of his throat. Playing this facade of trust, and Nishiki simply does  not  want to see it, does not want to recognise it after all these years. 

Kiryu’s eyes flicker downwards, teeth peeking where he bites down gently on his bottom lip, taking his time- or rather, unable to help himself. His calloused hands keep slipping, shoulders loose and curled into himself. He trips trying to get them off his feet. 

He isn’t hard. 

Nishiki's jaw twitches. 

How Kiryu had trusted him before. How he takes him for a fool, washed out memories of their youthful escapades, daring him. He doesn’t believe Nishiki would do it, even here, confident in his own competence. 

Oh, how Nishiki hungers. 

A roiling, desperate pounding in his heart, echoing in his head, to press down on Kiryu with his own two hands until he shatters. 

He settles back onto the couch, a hand reaching out to curve around Kiryu’s jaw, thumb brushing against the line of his cheekbones. 

He’s warm.  

“Prepare yourself.” he says roughly. 

The words seem to brush over Kiryu’s head, confusion marring his face, but he searches Nishiki, and his face softens, he finally dips his head in a belated nod, his breath coming out of him in quiet gasps. 

Climbs atop him with a clumsy experience, and when he braces himself against Nishiki’s shoulders, broad hands heavy, tension in the lines of his powerful arms, Nishiki finds he only has himself to blame for the breath that’s suddenly hard to come by, for the tripping of his own heart, so taken aback by the proximity he can only lift his head to follow. 

There’s barely anything in the bottle, but Kiryu doesn’t hesitate to push two slick fingers into himself, discomfort flashing across his face. The clarity has gone, and he moves on practice his body remembers. 

When he looks at Nishiki, there’s nothing in his glazed eyes. 

 

 

Kiryu remembers walking into the room.  

He always remembers walking into the room; he had never been brought to heel, kneeling before ravenous monsters, he has always entered its den on his own. Kazama is untouchable, but his boys are not. He wonders sometimes, like this, if Nishiki has ever done the things he’s done, if they were laughing when they promised they would never touch him – there’s no one to trust in the Yakuza, just his father and his brother, some of the quiet boys who looked up to him. 

He shudders, hips moving, a hand braced gingerly on the man’s shoulders, another reaching beneath him to push that hard, waiting cock into him. It slips out of him, and he makes a noise of frustration. He just has to finish this, and he’ll be done. He tips his head, mouth opening wordlessly –  he'll be done.  

His body is on fire. 

He drank something, something to help him. There’s cloth in the way when he leans forward, head hazy and heavy. Hearing a moan drip out of his mouth, pressing drowsy kisses down the planes of a thin shoulder. 

His hips move in a lazy circle, and he raises his head for a clear breath. The cologne stifles him, seeps into his pores. He’s never had this man before, but he knows him. He blinks, frustrated as he grinds down into the thick, hard cock splitting him open, bullying into his warm, waiting hole, if he can just remember. 

The dark, watchful eyes. 

He should’ve protected Nishiki, he whined, he ran himself ragged trying to clear his own name, ran like a dog into a prison cell. 

“I let you down, didn’t I.” he pants, voice paper thin, strained, not really a question at all. His hand curves around his brother’s neck, thumb against the line of his jaw. Still clean-shaven, had he always been clean-shaven? 

“What did you say?” Nishiki says quietly, pulling his hand away from his mouth. 

But there’s nothing but the wet sounds of flesh and his own heavy breathing. 

He furrows his brows, gasping as he tries to remember. He means something this time, he shakes his head, this time he needs Nishiki to hear it, when he can  say  it, he can’t forget it- he exhales, mouth so, so dry, pushing his words out. “I left you alone...” He stares hard into his brother’s eyes, pressing his thumbs into the sides of Nishiki’s face, memorizing the warmth of his skin, the new lines and the old. “Kyoudai.” 

Nishiki’s face slackens, his eyes widening fractionally. 

Kiryu had two seconds to savour the expression, the relief and the realisation  that overwhelms him cutting a jagged strike through the haze, that he was wrong after all, that his friend, his brother, is here.  A hardness steals across Nishiki’s handsome face, his hands dug into the meat of his hip, hard enough to hurt

A throaty noise is punched from the open cave of his mouth, mind gone quiet again, as Nishiki thrusts his hips upwards in a quick snap.  

“Do not be so familiar with me.” Nishiki hisses. 

He gasps, saliva slides down his jaw, in the curves of his chest. His spine arches- there- Murmuring ecstasy and soundless, yes, yes-  bouncing on the man’s lap as he heaves for desperate air, his mouth burning with his cheeks. His cock, half-hearted, filling quickly. He feels sordid, fingers fisting his clothes.  

His thoughts are going, soon there won’t be much left to find. You know that voice, something tells him insistently.  

“I don’t need your help- you were always, always  holding me down. To think that this is who you are, ” the man snarls, his voice growing loud and all-encompassing, burying into the burrows of his brain, accentuating each word with lurching, forceful thrusts, “Being fucked and filled like a pig.”

Yes, he moans, chasing. 

His skin is flushed, sweat dripping down the lines of his back. Red took a hold of his whole body, turned his saliva into cherry wine, mouth open and gaping. 

The man is bruising in a way that has never been, demanding, but rather than the suffocating, wanting to drown on being smothered, his body thrills. Blazing fingers hard on his thighs. “You always know how to rile me up, Kiryu,” the man breathes, his nails pointed, digging crescents into his meat. There is a different kind of heat in his voice, low and dark. 

“You never did what I told you to do, but I guess I shouldn’t take it personally- you never listened to Kazama either.” 

Nothing sparks in his mind at the sound of that name, all that’s left in him is to fuck himself down harder. “Ah- ungh, ungh-”  the ghost of a name. 

The man grabs him by the jaw, drags his nails down his thighs in one quick slash.  

Dark, watchful eyes. 

He cums to the next snap of the man’s hips, choking on a gasp of a ragged, yes-  

The man- His man... his- his someone, but his. Not like the others, not like Shimano. Kiryu rolls his hips against the cushions uncontrollably, body spasming, spittle down his throat, his pupils barely visible behind flickering lids. 

He collapses. 

A harsh laugh goes distant beneath him, says so sweetly, "Oh, Kiryu,"  His patriarch rolls him onto his stomach. His cock slips out only briefly, the rotund edge of its head catching against his rim, tugging, drawing a slurred rumble from his throat, and he knows by rote memorisation to prop himself up by his elbows sluggishly, forehead pressed against the cushions. Pushing back, hips quivering, as his knees sink into the pillows. Take that cock back into him,  take it back- push into him until he feels it in his throat-

The man rips out of him, and he cries out, short and quick, the noise scraping against the top of his mouth.

“N-ishiki!”  

A hand slaps down on his ass cheek, barely an impact at first, and he pushes his hips upwards, clenching his eyes shut, only to have it slam down on him again, hard enough to quiet the ringing. 

Something large and unyielding presses into the crack of his ass, nudging, insistent enough that he presses back at first, mouth opening in a long, drawn moan, needing it, needing, to have it inside, because the man is right, he is only good for this- But then. But then he realises, it isn’t a cock, he isn’t going to be fucked by the man’s cock, peeling him open. 

 

 

“No-  no,”  Kiryu moans, word scattering, “It won’t- won’t fit- won't-” 

His mouth curves, unable, and unwilling to curb his smile. Kiryu came like a whore, quicker, faster than Nishiki had. He hadn’t expected it, Kiryu’s ass tightening around him, so tight he hisses when it amounts to nothing.  A tease, he breathes, should have known it after all. He smoothens a hand down the slope of Kiryu’s back, fingers digging into the coloured ink, the enveloping flames painted over the sinewy curve of his dragon’s back. 

And shoves his gun past the resisting rim. 

A wordless noise tears itself from Kiryu’s throat, raw and tripping, entire body stricken taut for a single, gorgeous moment, before he collapses, shivering under his hand, silent. 

Nishiki laments that Kiryu isn’t one to scream, wants it, wants to hear it ring in Shimano’s office. 

He hears only an animal, choking on words, as he presses the barrel of the gun fully into Kiryu. This isn’t a man at his feet, it’s a sloppy, wanton whore, twitching his hips to get his way. As he leans in closer, draping his body against his back, thin, warbled words become clearer. “Nish... Nishiki-  ah.... Nishiki-” 

He shoves the gun out roughly, in awe when Kiryu’s pitch increases. “Show me some respect, Kiryu,” he breathes, “It’s Aniki, now.” 

Leans in to murmur against Kiryu’s bared neck, invoking a shudder Kiryu doesn’t- can’t- seem to be aware of, thrusting his gun in, out, nice and slow, “You were given to me, after all.” 

It's a cruel thing, to tell Kiryu this way something he had no way of knowing. He had not been there when Kashiwagi had stared him down, disdain in the lines of his face. The grand plan Kazama had outlined for Kiryu, Nishiki as his stepping stone, scraping by with a family that had been supposed to be  his . “You come under my family, do you understand? After this, you come under me.” He circles Kiryu’s hole, pressing tauntingly against the rim. “Hah? I didn’t hear you,” 

Kiryu pants, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. His words are slurred, thick with saliva. His voice, deep and low, is thin and creaking, his rasp barely recognisable. “Yes...  Ahn - Aniki,” 

Fuck- ” 

He shoves Kiryu down, tossing the gun onto the ground, snarling. 

He thrusts himself into Kiryu in a smooth, quick snap, fucking into him as the body beneath him chokes, makes quiet punched-out noises. He goes faster, quicker, until Kiryu is still, his limbs unmoving, barely making a noise, as he lies there and takes it.  

That is enough there, that Nishiki clenches his fingers around Kiryu, releases in him in a long, drawn groan. 

Kiryu’s ass flutters around him, face pressed into the couch, his fingers twitching. 

He breathes deeply, finding himself unconcerned with leaving the mess in Shimano’s office. With the gift between them, he finds himself feeling favourable, but he understands the intention behind it, that he had been meant to come undone, a blubbering puddle. He lets himself, overcome, run fingers down Kiryu’s belly, pressing back and hoping that what he can touch is his come in his once-brother, that it will stay for days until Kiryu is made into something for him and him alone. 

He pulls out, and Kiryu’s cock jerks, dribbling thin and watery. 

There will be bruises, he notes the red imprints, and satisfaction uncoils in him. Let them bubble, turn dark and blue and yellow. This is his. Kiryu’s knees give out immediately, Nishiki knows then, that he’s too fucked out to know anything else, drugs or no. “What a mess you make.” he says quietly. 

He moves to clean himself, his expression schooling at the ruin of his clothes. His suit is stained, and he must reek, tongue running flat over the back rows of his teeth. 

The urge to ravish Kiryu’s mouth hits him hard, a curiosity that wells in him. It prickles under his skin, that he wonders it this is what he’d been waiting for, the reason he felt the rope tighten around his neck, waiting for the clock to count down. He fishes a comb from the inner pocket of his white suit jacket, pushing himself from the couch.

His lips spread, looking down at Kiryu's exhausted body, splayed, how finely he trembles.

Giving into the absent desire, he runs a finger down that broad, inked back, in a mockery of Shimano's taunt. A quiet, slurred noise reaches his ears.

Maybe next time.