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Being Irrational

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                While Yagami watches his own blood spread in the shallow puddle of rainwater that he has his chin in, he dizzily comes to the conclusion that the outside should probably be considered as pretty as the inside. Why should people cringe at the sight of spilled guts or open, gaping wounds, while looking at the soft skin of the exterior in approval? Shouldn’t all aspects of man be approved of if someone concludes that the skin—also an organ—is beautiful?

                This sudden and uncharacteristically gruesome train of thought is disrupted as the toe of a white, snakeskin shoe fits itself against his cheek. Yagami winces and rolls over onto his back, scraping up the leather of his jacket in the motion. His nose throbs, the pain shooting through his entire face, pricking behind his eyes, his upper lip tingling with the taste of iron and dirty water.

                As his bleary vision comes to, he sees the pale, round, familiar face of his favorite pudgy-cheeked yakuza. Yagami groans in annoyance. This motherfucker is so unpredictable. Fights him one day, protects him the next. Kisses him one day, spits at him the next. Smiles at him when they meet on public transport—then jumps him in the alleyway of the Champion District.

                “What’s the deal, Kengo?” his voice comes out thick, the blood-drool collecting around his bottom row of teeth making his tongue syrupy and slow.

                Kengo kicks him in the cheek. Yagami winces and rolls onto his side, his teeth feeling frighteningly loose for a moment. He’s glad he’s drunk enough that all potential pain is numb. He isn’t in the mood to fight, but if Kengo wants to, Yagami could easily knock that kid’s ass out. And Kengo knows it—he’s experienced it enough, after all.

                “You need to stay in your lane. You’re not a Matsugane-kai member. You’re not even a yakuza.”

                Yagami’s head throbs and he calmly sits up on his elbows.

                “What are you talking about, Kengo?” he calmly wipes his face with his palm. It’ll scab over and get ugly in the morning—but he doesn’t care.

                “Get up.”

                “I’m not fighting you,” Yagami says, and lays back down on the cold concrete, looking up at the kaleidoscope of lit windows from the apartment complexes above. He stares for a while at an open one with panties strung up to dry.

                “Why not? You scared?”

                Yagami snickers, and crosses his arms behind his head, pillowing them casually as he interlocks his fingers. “Come on. We both know you’re gonna end up bleeding and it’s gonna be my fault all over again.”

                Kengo’s fat bottom lip juts out in a pout and he crosses his arms, toeing at Yagami’s ribs with a high-pitched, cat-like whine. “You’re not fair. Now I’m just gonna look irrational.”

                “Wow. It’s almost like you are being irrational.”

                Kengo sits down beside him and wraps his arms around his knees, frowning at his shoes which are now speckled with dark blood. What a shame. They look expensive too.

                Even though he just threw him to the ground and got his face in the shallow rainwater that might be half-nicotine by now, Yagami feels a pang of empathy rush through him at the way that Kengo’s lips turn down, those small, pinprick eyes sitting shiny and inky in his face, focused on his shoes. His posture is the telltale shame of a kid who’s immediately done something he regrets.

                “Don’t be such a reactionary.”

                “I don’t even know what that means.”

                Yagami winces a little. A lot of yakuza have minimal education whenever they’re these green foot-soldiers doing all the physical work that the businessmen of the operation see themselves above doing. There’s really no yakuza who are there from any normal circumstances. Lots of high school drop-outs, rural boys desperate for money to survive. Kengo’s in his early twenties, but he seems to have the education level of a middle schooler. At least academically. Yagami’s got eight years of college under his belt, but even he feels a little stupid whenever speaking to these criminal masterminds. Speaking of—

                “Is this about Hamura?”

                Kengo props his chin on his knees, seething with jealousy. He often can’t differentiate feelings of envy and of passion—the throbbing of his heart and rushing of his blood that occurs in him from both are too readily conflated.


                “You’re mad because we fuck? Kengo, you know we have history.”

                “It isn’t fair. You’re not part of the Matsugane Family. And he treats you like—”

                “Exactly. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with your boss. Kengo, the thing between me and Hamura—it shouldn’t be going on, anyway. But it’s different than what you and Hamura have. It’s unrelated to work or gang relations or whatever the fuck. It’s just something we both have and would have regardless. This shit started fifteen years ago. We’re both people in the same circle, just like me and you are. You don’t have to act out like this.”

                “…But it isn’t even that.”

                Yagami gets to his feet, head swimming. God, he’s so generous. He could easily punish Kengo for all this, but instead, he extends a hand to help him get up. What a moral saint I am, he thinks, not without some bitterness. His vision dips and focuses on the muddied puddle of rainwater that no longer reflects the network of windows and stars above it, thanks to his blood.

                “What is it?”

                “It’s because he wants what you have, and I don’t.”

                “What, a pretty face?”

                Yagami supposes he deserves the gut punch he gets for that. He wheezes and staggers back, hunched over.

                “No, asshole. A dick.”

                Yagami cringes once again—he kind of forgot.

                “Well—” he coughs and straightens up. Least he could do is make up for inadvertently calling Kengo ugly to his face. Plus, he could go for some pussy right now—the same way someone craves pizza whenever they’re intoxicated. God, he’s such a whore. “I’ll—I’ll show him that he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”


                Kengo’s not unused to holding his phone whenever he’s got his legs spread, but it’s hard to keep his hands from slipping. The screen is greasy from his sweaty fingers. His legs ache at the tendon of his thighs from being spread around Yagami’s tight grip, and his back is sore from being propped up against the car door. Yagami keeps his balance with a knee in the footwell of the car as he sits between his legs, lazily licking him over his underwear that’s quickly dampening and becoming transparent from his spit soaking the cloth, as well as Kengo’s juices spreading through the fabric. His pussy throbs under the attention.

                He tries to stay uninterested looking, glaring at the screen of his phone that makes his face white and waif-like in the glow that cuts the dark, his car parked in a particularly lightless alley of the Champion District. It’s hard to give up so easily to the guy you’ve violently wanted to kick the shit out of, but Kengo’s swayed by that stupid fucking mop of hair and how the taller man hoists him up into his arms like he weighs nothing.

                It’s nice to be wanted. Even if Hamura prefers Yagami more, Kengo can kind of see why. The guy is charming as hell.

                And with a tongue like this, settled between his fat, dripping lips of his cunt, licking over the cloth that is becoming uncomfortably sticky, how can Kengo really say no?

                “Alright,” Kengo huffs, squirming his hips away from Yagami’s moist, damp face. The dried blood crusting his nostril isn’t particularly attractive, but it barely distracts from how cute and smug his creased eyes are as they peer over the V of his spread legs. “Let me get this shit off…”

                After peeling off his briefs, he fits his hands back in Yagami’s hair which feels tangled and messy—as if he’s spent recent time at the sea—and pulls him back into his crotch. His breaths are warm, making him twitch against Yagami’s wet lips that gently suckle at his clit. The stud of a piercing there makes him more sensitive, but he’s always scared some lunatic will get too feisty about it and hurt him. Kengo keeps his hands firm in Yagami’s hair, tugging at them until the roots ache at the skin of his scalp.

                “Stoppp,” Yagami whines, batting lightly at Kengo’s hands. Kid is aggressive today.

                “Careful with my clit,” he breathes, voice trembling with a combination of nervousness and pleasure. Yagami tucks his bottom lip between his teeth in thought.

                He’s had sex with Kengo plenty of times now, but he doesn’t think he’s ever made him squirt before. Hamura has whenever they’ve had the rare threesome, and Yagami—intent on one-upping the guy by eating out his boy toy better than he ever could—definitely could use some ego massaging right now.

                “Don’t worry,” he breathes, moving up his body to press their chests together. Kengo gives him a hateful look as Yagami pushes his phone away and kisses lazily along his jawline. Despite his furrowed brows and grit teeth, Kengo’s head falls back to reveal more of the white slope of his neck. “I’ll take good care of you, baby.”

                The pet name has Kengo shivering and he turns his head to let Yagami kiss at his lips instead.

                He tastes like his own cunt.

                “Fuck,” Kengo mumbles against his mouth at the thought, at how nasty the very idea is, and begrudgingly holds him around the neck with his bicep. “You’re a fucking whore, Yagami.”

                “Me? Look at you, letting me stick my tongue up your pussy right here. Disgusting fucking boy.”

                “You wouldn’t let me beat you up. So, this is it.”

                “Had to get rid of that innate primordial urge, one way or another, huh?”

                “…The what?”

                “Forget it,” Yagami laughs, and sucks at his tongue as it falls out of Kengo’s mouth, making sure to get it sloppy, slicking it with both their saliva, until it runs in rivulets down his chin. He gives special attention to the piercing there, too, as his hand travels to the lower one.

                Slipping two fingers between Kengo’s cuntlips, which are just as swollen and wet at his mouth’s, Yagami circles the pads of them against his clitoral piercing in slow motions, making Kengo squeak embarrassingly, his hips jerking slightly.


                “See? I always take care of my things,” he mumbles, the objectification of the statement causing Kengo to spit at him. The glob of saliva lands on his cheek and drips down to his jaw. Yagami wipes it on the back of his hand and rolls his eyes, bringing his free hand to his mouth to have Kengo lick it clean.

                Which he does—because Yagami is smooth voiced and good looking, and Kengo, above all things, will always be an obedient bootlicker to anyone he respects.

                It’s so fucking hot, watching Kengo lap up his own spit, as the smell of his cunt permeates the air humidly while Yagami works it between his fingers.

                “Hold—hold on, Yagami, slow down.”

                “Why? You look so cute like this,” he mumbles, continuing to press kisses against Yagami’s cheek, his ear, down his neck. His fluid strings stickily against his hand when he pulls it away momentarily to drop a long string of spit on his fingers. He returns it to Kengo’s cunt, relishing in the broken moan he produces, “Fucking squirming for me, all teary-eyed and wet. God, your cunt is just sucking me in, isn’t it? Knows how bad it wants me—”

                “Yagami, I’m gonna…”

                “Go ahead, baby. Cum for me. Squirt all over yourself.”

                “That’s, um—that’s not…”

                Yagami slaps his cunt once, and Kengo buries his face in the crook of his own arms, gritting his teeth. It’s enough to set him over the edge, and his hips jerk not with orgasm, and not even with the expected squirting that Yagami hoped to induce with the motions of his hand on his clit, but with a steady stream of messy, hot urine that spreads between them.

                Seems like Yagami can’t escape this, lately.

                “I told you. I told you,” Kengo says, voice shaking with both fury, and sobs of embarrassment.

                Yagami hushes him comfortingly, and continues to rub him through the mess, inhaling the pleasant, masculine scent of his acidic urine, feeling the sloppy warmth of it, listening to the nasty squelching sounds it produces, the hiss of it hitting the seats. It makes Yagami’s dick harder than hard in his trapped jeans. He can’t wait to stick it into Kengo, using the piss as lube.

                Too bad it’s so dark. He’d love to see Kengo’s mess spread out on his bare thighs, in the cloth of the car seats. That sticky, golden fluid that’s probably wrecking his pants—for how many times these past few months, he’s not sure. He’d love to watch it puddle up and grow between his legs as he moves his hips in humiliation.

                “Don’t worry,” he encourages, “I like it.”

                “Of fucking course, you do,” Kengo whines, “You’re such a pervert.”

                “Yeah,” Yagami snickers, slipping a finger inside of him. He feels the rush of piss from his urethra and thumbs at the stream, getting it messier, sloppier. “That’s kind of my brand. Cum for me, Kengo. And I’ll fuck you again and again.”

                Kengo throws his head back and dimly wonders about the state of his cellphone. Taking it to get repaired because he got it wet with his own piss isn’t a particularly badass move. He chuckles a little and clenches up around Yagami’s fingers, the knots in his abdomen coming undone as he orgasms around his hand.

                “You promise?”