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There’s something about Goda Ryuji.
Kiryu has been in a lot of fights in his life. Innumerable justifications, innumerable enemies. From random goons on the street who seem to throw themselves at him for no reason, to people he’s had to set right —either because it’s his job, or because sometimes violence is the only way through a problem— to his closest and most beloved friends. Physical conflict is the lifeblood of Kiryu’s occupation. And he’s good in a fight. It’s left a lot of people gunning for him. A lot of people who seem to get a kick out of taking him on.
And sometimes, it feels good. Fighting. Winning. Whole world narrowed down to one man, focus only on the physical, on what bodies can do. Muscle and bone against muscle and bone, taste of blood in his mouth. It’s got to be chemical, this rush of victory, power lighting up every synapse and sinew until he’s flush with it, magma coursing through his blood, pyretic. (And he understands briefly, why Majima is the way he is, maybe, why he seems to get off on the violence, hard body and glinting tanto blade, glinting feral smile. Sometimes, in the panting aftermath, ears ringing, adrenaline pounding in his bloodstream, Kiryu gets it.)
But Kiryu doesn’t like fighting.
It’s his job, more often than not —you gotta throw a lot of punches to get anywhere as a yakuza. But he doesn’t seek it out. He doesn’t pick fights, and for the most part, he goes out of his way to avoid them. Sometimes fighting is the only path available to him: sometimes stupid punks won’t take no for an answer, and sometimes the only way to stop terrible things from happening is to beat the shit out of someone. Kiryu’s understands that, and squares off against his opponents, bone-calloused fists raised. His body is a weapon, but he fights because he needs to. Because there’s no other option. Not because he enjoys it. He’s not that kind of man.
It’s different with Ryuji.
Kiryu wants to fight him. He wants it maybe as much as Ryuji does, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, because that’s not how this works. It’s not how he works. He wants to throw himself against this wall of a man, revel in the glory of aggression. Violence for the pure animal joy of violence. Clash of indomitable wills.
Kiryu’s never cared about being the strongest, about what it means to be a dragon. It’s just a tattoo, just a nickname, just his job. He’s strong because he needs to be strong, because he has people to protect. But something about Ryuji makes him care. The way he sneers and struts, powerful, cocky dominance... Something about fighting Ryuji sets Kiryu’s blood on fire.
Every time so far has been cut short, abortive force of circumstance. One or the other of them handicapped, injured, exhausted. It’s so unsatisfying, unfinished; buzzing fight energy that has nowhere to go, and Kiryu wants more. Wants to get his hands around Ryuji’s throat, wants to hear the slick whoosh of air split by katana blade, feel violence slice past his skin as he dodges back, the bite of metal through flesh. He would bleed for this. He wants to bleed for this. Explosive release of the tension that’s been slowly building inside him since he first met this man. Pressure-cooker hunger he doesn’t understand, but cannot deny.
He doesn’t even care if he wins anymore, he just wants to fight him. That’s all that matters. The pain, and the exertion, the dull thud of knuckles on naked, battered skin.
(It feels almost like being a kid again. Like fighting Nishiki, scraped knees and bloody lips behind the sport shed at school. The thrill and excitement of power, of learning something new about themselves, about each other. But with Nishiki, it was always a game, and this is blindingly, deliciously real. Real fear as the blade stops centimetres from Kiryu’s face, real death behind those molten, hungry eyes.)
Something about Ryuji calls to the most primal parts of Kiryu, his basest urges, the hungry animal in the back of his brain, inhuman, and incorrigible. It curls along his spine, whispers in his ear, anger, and violence, and joy. And Kiryu’s body rises to its insistence, fast-twitch anxious readiness, muscles tense and blood high. He wants to hit, to hurt, fuck reasons, and fuck the consequences. Nothing matters as much as the tension crackling between them, competition, excitement, as he faces Ryuji down, as he meets that cruel scowl with his own tensed brow, and knows that this won’t be over until one of them goes down and doesn’t get up.
Kiryu doesn’t understand it, but he doesn’t need to. He’s never been one to question his instincts.
***
They’ve taken two bullets each, and Terada’s bomb is counting down. Five minutes left to live, and they should run (or limp), but the anger is surging in Kiryu, violence and need, and they can’t stop now. This isn’t over yet, it isn’t over. Chances are neither of them were going to survive this night anyway, so what’s the point of pulling punches now? They’re not the kind of men who run away.
Ryuji’s sword is gone, too heavy to heft in bloodslick hands, one last instrument of humanity abandoned on the killing floor between them. There’s nothing human in this. Animal territoriality, primal drive of conquest, draconic. (Or maybe it’s the most human they have ever been, maybe this is what they are made to be, their hungry natures, and all else is civilized make-believe.) Their bodies are both giving out, dizzying bullethole pain, bloodloss and concussion. But it doesn’t matter, their wills are stronger than flesh.
Breath rushes out of Kiryu as Ryuji’s fist collides with his solar plexus, pathetic cough of blood in the back of his throat, splatter across Ryuji’s growling face. They’re both panting, lead-heavy limbs, stumbling on feet that don’t want to move, muscles pushed past the point of exhaustion. Kiryu hauls back and slugs him in the face with everything he’s got, with every overwhelming feeling that’s been building in him since their first unsatisfying fight, rage, and frustration, and need; and Ryuji’s head snaps back, feral whites of his eyes, but it’s not enough, blow glancing against cheekbone, weak and ineffective. They’re both so spent. (But he wants, he wants, he wants.)
Ryuji crashes against him, body huge and slick with sweat and blood, bearing down with his full weight. And Kiryu strains in his gripping embrace, feels the grind of joints, bone on bone, pushing back with everything he’s got left, ears ringing, head spinning. He can’t catch his breath, shoulders shaking, muscles on the verge of giving out as they both refuse to give in. This isn’t over yet. It’s not over… Ryuji’s foot slips in a puddle of what could be either of their blood, and they both go down.
Kiryu lands on top of him, tries to pull away, get back to his feet, sit up enough to use his fists, but Ryuji’s powerful arms are tight around his back, pulling him close as his own pounding heartbeat, caught in inescapable embrace of sweat, and blood, oozing sticky between them. Kiryu’s abs scream as he twists, struggles, sickening pain of the bullet in his side —but there’s nowhere to go, nothing left but this man, huge and inevitable as death, overwhelming all of his senses.
His feet kick out, scrabbling for purchase, anything, but it’s useless, he’s too weak to get away, too tired. He needs to move, needs to fight, needs to... he needs...
Ryuji yields first, body going slack and heavy around him as consciousness wavers, cradling arms and shallow, rasping breath. And Kiryu’s brain is soaring triumph, he’s won, he’s finally won, but there’s still no satisfaction, no elation. He’s still not done. (It was never winning that mattered.)
He knows he should roll off Ryuji now, should pull away, knock him out, finish this, but he can hardly bring himself to move. Ryuji feels so warm beneath him, hot skin, and hot blood. And the emotion is surging in Kiryu, fight-hunger and victory crawling under his skin, electrifying through exhaustion, through pain, adrenaline pounding in his veins. He wants, he wants…
His body isn’t listening to his commands, too tired to move. It’s over, it should be over. Kiryu breathes into the rise and fall of Ryuji’s massive chest as the world tips and rocks around them, and still, something inside him is screaming. He feels broken, exposed, like Ryuji has reached inside him and drawn something even Kiryu didn’t know was there into the light. Something sleeping content inside him that will now never be satisfied. This vicious, shattering hunger, for blood, for skin, for everything.
It makes him want to rip Ryuji apart, to make him suffer for every inexplicable thing he’s making Kiryu feel. Thrilling, and intoxicating. It makes Kiryu want to dig his fingers into every inch of this man, his teeth, feel muscle, and flesh, and blood, elbow-deep in viscera and desire. He wants to taste Ryuji, take him apart in a new, and entirely different way. To destroy him the way this is destroying Kiryu. Make him feel what he is feeling. (And maybe, it’s not really so different at all.) Kiryu can’t get enough, feels like he’ll never be able to, like Ryuji has ripped open a staving void in his chest that can never be filled, blackhole-gravity, magnetic inescapable need.
Ryuji gunts beneath him, hazy eyes coming to meet Kiryu’s gaze. And he’s still so powerful, furious, looking at Kiryu like he wants to eat him alive. And there’s fifty-seven seconds left on the clock, and Kiryu has never wanted someone so badly in his entire life. It’s burning inside him, desperate, undeniable need. Uncontrollable. And they’re both about to die anyway, so fuck it. Fuck it. Kiryu’s hands are in Ryuji’s hair, dragging himself up huge, shuddering body, face to face, unbroken, indomitable gaze. And there’s no stopping this now, no getting away, collision of collapsing orbits. Kiryu is kissing him.
Blood in his mouth that isn’t his own, copper-rich past panting lips, pumped from surging, dying hearts. It’s as sloppy as their fight, uncoordinated clash of split lips and hungry tongues, but Ryuji is kissing him back, fingers tight against Kiryu’s skin, body moving messy and harsh beneath him. Glorious surge of fire. —And in the distance, Kiryu can hear the sounds of a helicopter rotor, the blare of sirens as his final seconds count down, but the world is spiralling away, and nothing matters but this. Nothing left but the two of them, swallowing each other’s hunger, finally fucking satisfied. —Almost. It’s almost enough.
Kiryu squeezes his eyes shut, breathing Ryuji’s panting breath, tasting the ebb of his blood, the surge of need and exhaustion warring between them that can only give way to inevitability. It’s over, it’s all finally over. They’re both going to die tonight. —And already he can feel his consciousness slipping, warm blackness creeping in at the edges of reality, washing over him; but there are worse ways to end. They’ll both go out blazing.
Ryuji’s hard body moving against him, warlike muscle gone soft and pliant, inviting. His mouth is so hot, taste of rivalry alive on Kiryu’s tongue, harsh groaning breath against his lips, wet slide of spit, and blood. Visceral. Primal. Burning him from the inside out, filling him with fire so hot and bright that there’s no space for fear, for endings. In this final moment, they are so caught up in each other that even death has ceased to hold any meaning.
The bomb beeps, and fails to detonate.
***
It takes two months for Kiryu to get out of the hospital (despite all his most fervent protests) and by the time he does, Ryuji is long gone. The rumour on the street is he’s dead, but Kiryu doesn’t believe it for a second. Guys like Ryuji don’t die that easy. Kiryu would know. He’s one of them. And it’s not like he’d have been invited to an Omi funeral, but he would’ve at least heard if there was one, Kiryu’s certain of that. He’s not gonna believe Ryuji’s dead until he sees it with his own two eyes.
The Florist is good, but his network only extends as far as Kamurocho. Kiryu has to call in too many favours, use all of his connections to track Ryuji down. And he doesn’t know why he’s doing this, he should just let it go, but somehow, he can’t. Something happened on that rooftop, something visceral, and important, and Kiryu doesn’t understand it, but it feels like it’s eating him alive.
He’s not like Majima. Fighting doesn’t set him off, doesn’t turn him on. Usually, nothing does. Kiryu’s relationship with his sexuality is tenuous, he’s never wanted the way other people seem to want, the way people want him. Men, women, he can appreciate the aesthetics of beauty, but it doesn’t make him want to do anything about it. He’s just never had that fire in him.
He’s had sex, of course (he’s a grown man and these things happen) but he’s never really sought it out, never understood it. He’d rather have a good meal, or go drinking with friends, rather play pocket circuit, or even fight Majima if he’s really feeling restless. Hostesses, soaplands, sex… it’s just not Kiryu’s thing. And he’s fine with that, he’s fine the way he is.
But he had wanted Ryuji, still wants…
(He’s not even attracted to Ryuji, is he? Is this what attraction feels like? This strange gut-hungry obsession?) He needs to fight Ryuji again. He needs to end this the same way it started, familiar violence, and fury, needs to bring it to some kind of conclusion. Because it should be over, he should be satisfied. But he isn’t. (It scares him that he feels like he never will be.)
So Kiryu is in Sotenbori, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing here, but he can’t seem to stop. He watches through dark sunglasses, smoking cigarette after cigarette over pushed down mask, as Ryuji closes up his takoyaki stall. It’s strange to see him in an apron, domestic almost, strange to picture him doing something so mundane as cooking, being happy with this life. It flies in the face of everything Kiryu knows about Ryuji, whose violent ambition can countenance any betrayal, whose selfish power-hunger has been the source of so much pain, so much turmoil for both their clans.
The Ryuji Kiryu knows is not a good man, Kiryu certainly doesn’t like him. —But he does believe in change, in redemption. It is his actions that define a man, not his past, not his nature. Ryuji had been cruel, and stupid, but he had done right in the end. And it’s not like Kiryu’s own hands are clean. He can’t bring himself to begrudge Ryuji this quiet life, his unheralded exit.
A nagging part of Kiryu almost envies him. He’s nearly ten years Ryuji’s senior, and the yakuza life feels inescapable. He’s never imagined the possibility of retirement, but he’s tired. The weight of his reputation seems heavier by the year, and he has a child to raise now, to protect. Nothing about his life is conducive to that. Seeing Ryuji serve takoyaki with dedication, the small kindnesses of service, seeing him laugh with his coworkers, and honestly seem like he’s trying to be a good man, lead a good life. It makes Kiryu wonder if he too could have this. If he too could disappear, take Haruka somewhere far away and raise her in safety, in quiet. It’s a strangely tempting, if impossible, thought.
Ryuji bows to the old man he’s been working with, a respectful goodbye that Kiryu also wouldn’t have expected from him only a few months before, and heads off. And Kiryu should just approach him, he’s come all this way, months of looking, and he’s not getting anywhere lurking like some hulking phantom, but instead, he just follows Ryuji at a distance, just like he did the day before. —And he’d never admit that he’s afraid; Kiryu doesn’t let fear stop him, but something about this feels so big, so fragile. And so every day he’s followed Ryuji to some bar or another, and then kicked himself for not going in, before heading back to the tiny room he’s renting and kicking himself there.
Maybe he needs to get drunk. Maybe that would make this easier. He doesn’t understand his own hesitance, but he doesn’t understand anything about himself as soon as Ryuji comes into the equation. Kiryu follows him at a safe distance, watching as he makes his way through the city. He still walks like he owns the place, like Sotenbori is his stomping ground and no one can touch him, but it doesn’t seem to make him a target. No one tries to jump him the way they’re always trying to jump Kiryu. Maybe this too is a perk of retirement. Once again, Kiryu finds himself strangely envious.
Tonight, Ryuji doesn’t go to a bar. He winds through backstreets and alleys to a nondescript building in a decidedly seedy part of town, frosted glass doors with nothing but opening hours posted to mark what kind of place this is. Kiryu waits from across the street —sheltering in the doorway of what is clearly a soapland, as occasional men enter and leave the mysterious venue.
He smokes, and paces, nerves chewing at him in a way they’ve got no right to. Questioning every decision he’s made in the last few weeks, that’s brought him here, buzzing with nicotine, and adrenaline, and something else, something nameless and discomfiting. He’s been putting this off for far too long already. He needs to get home, has important things to do, pieces of the clan to pick up. He shouldn’t even be here.
Kiryu swallows whatever this thing is he definitely shouldn’t be feeling, and heads inside.
Through the double doors is another set of doors, and a man to a booth in his left, dressed like a cabaret manager. And this at least Kiryu is familiar with. It’s a nightclub, or something of the like, though Kiryu’s never heard of a nightclub that doesn’t even have a sign, a name. He pays his cover to the man, and heads inside to find that this is definitely not a nightclub.
It’s quiet inside, cozy, and once he gets past the initial antechamber with its plush couches and a small bar, everyone is naked. There’s a hot tub, showers, a bank of lockers, low ambient music pumped through hidden speakers. A bathhouse then. This is a bathhouse. Just the strangest bathhouse Kiryu has ever seen.
Kiryu’s not shy about nakedness, he knows his body is nothing to be ashamed of, and he’s been to a bathhouse before, though it’s been a long time. Most of them don’t admit yakuza, but he’s not the only tattooed man he sees in the sparse crowd. He stows his clothes in a locker, wraps a towel around his waist, and winds his way through the strange steamy space, looking without really looking, because when he does look, he’s shocked by what he sees. This is certainly nothing like any bathhouse Kiryu has ever heard of. It’s a warren of passageways, small dark rooms, and doors with windows, or locks. (And the men here… The way they look at him…)
He finds Ryuji in a sauna, leaned back against wooden wall, towel draped across his lap, full glorious expanse of his body on display. His eyes are shut, soaking in steam. And Kiryu could retreat, he could still leave this place, turn tail for Kamurocho and pretend this never happened, but he feels frozen in place, heart pounding in his throat. There’s something about this man, something he can never seem to look away from.
Ryuji cracks an eye, and he should be surprised to see Kiryu here, of all people. But he isn’t. “Thought i felt someone on my tail,” his voice is a low rumble, warm as the steam breaking on Kiryu’s prickling skin. “Ya won, Kiryu-han, ya here to rub it in?”
“No… i…” Kiryu is scrambling. (Not like him, and why does Ryuji always invoke such confusion? Why does he feel so out-of-depth?) He had a plan for this, maybe, sort of, but it never involved them both being naked. “What even is this place?”
Ryuji gives him a long slow look, up and down, confusion in the knit of his brow. “It’s a sauna.”
“What kind of sauna doesn’t even have a sign on the door?” Kiryu demands. “What kind of sauna has private rooms, and men having sex in the hallways?” He can feel heat flushing his face in a way that has nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the room.
Ryuji’s still just looking at him, like he can’t imagine how anyone could be this slow, something teasing in the curl of his lip. “The kind that doesn’t kick ya out for having a bigass dragon tattooed on yer back.”
Kiryu deflates. “Fair enough.”
The silence stretches too long before either of them speaks again, and Kiryu feels so awkward, so off-balance. He can still feel the tension crackling in the air between them, but Ryuji is so calm, so placid. Kiryu doesn’t like it, doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t understand anything about this.
“Ya really got no idea, do ya?” Ryuji’s laugh is harsh, cruel. And this is more familiar ground, it makes Kiryu want to punch him, makes him want… “Christ, ya really are dense ain’t ya? This is a place men come to fuck.”
And just like that, Kiryu’s back to falling off the deep end.
“...Is that why you’re here?” That startles another laugh out of Ryuji, but this one’s genuine.
“Naw. Maybe? I like the ambiance.” He shifts, sits up to run a hand through sweat-damp hair. “Now what the hell are you doing here?”
It’s been almost light to this point, teasing, like they’re old friends, like this isn’t the strangest possible reunion. But the way Ryuji’s staring him down now, arms crossed, mouth set in that familiar snarl, he looks angry. But that’s alright, angry Kiryu can work with. “I want a rematch.”
“Fuck you,” Ruyji snarls. “Ya really did come to rub it in.”
“No, i…” The heat is surging in Kiryu, need and confusion. He never expected ‘no’ for an answer, doesn’t know what to do with ‘no’.
“I’m done,” Ryuji says. “Ya won fair and square. It’s over. I learned my fuckin’ lesson.”
But he’s lying, he has to be lying. Guys like Ryuji don’t just give up, don’t just accept loss and move on. It’s impossible. Kiryu can’t be the only one who’s still feeling this. He needs to push harder, uncover the undeniable. “I think you’re just afraid to lose again.”
“Fuck you,” Ryuji says again. “Go away. Ya don’t belong here.”
“No,” Kiryu insists, “you don’t understand, i need this. I need…”
That cruel smirk again, teasing at the scarred corner of Ryuji’s mouth, harsh, hard lips, burning eyes. “Need what, Kiryu-han? The fuck could ya possibly still want from me?”
Kiryu can’t breathe, can’t explain (can’t be anything but honest). “I need you to hit me.”
Ryuji stands up then, towel falling aside. And there’s raw power in every line of his huge, sculpted body, masculinity so intoxicating. Kiryu can’t help the way his fists tighten, the way every muscle seems to shudder in anticipation, violence radiating through him. Ryuji’s so big, so intimidating; and Kiryu’s not afraid of him, it makes no sense for him to be afraid, but it feels like fear, this boiling apprehension in his gut, cold fingers tracing a shivering path up his spine, gripping his lungs. He needs this. He doesn’t know why he needs this, but everything inside him is screaming.
He rushes Ryuji, full force of his body come to bear, slams into him shoulder to chest, and Ryuji doesn’t even move, he’s so sturdy. His huge arms wrapping around Kiryu’s back, thick heavy muscle, sweaty slide of skin on skin. Kiryu’s bare feet skid on the floor, jaw grinding as he pushes, hands scrambling against Ryuji’s broad back, wrestling him side to side, trying to break the hold. His body is singing with aggression, explosive tension in his chest, adrenaline and the endless hunger for dominance. Kiryu can’t get enough of this, he’s starving for it.
Ryuji is so fucking big against him, breathtakingly male, impossibly powerful. And Kiryu’s never felt small in someone’s arms before. Like he has to bring more than his own impressive physicality, more than his strength. He’s beat Ryuji before, can take him down with fists, and fury, but he’s caught in this hold like the jaws of a trap, like he’s caught in Ryuji’s irresistible orbit. It burns inside him as they struggle, power, and hunger, and fear, all wrapped up into a tight little ball of want, pulsing at the core of him. He wants this, wants more than this, wants to pin Ryuji back against the wall, wants to destroy him. Wants Ryuji to destroy him.
(He can’t give in. He can’t. He needs…. )
Kiryu’s hand slips downward, smaks hard against the straining muscle of Ryuji’s ass, fingertips sinking in, grinding bodies together. Ryuji’s deep voice is tight with effort, huff of laughter, shivering-close to Kiryu’s skin. “Ya don’t even know what yer askin’ for, do ya?”
Kiryu growls, strains against him, but there’s no give. His muscles are burning, his body on fire.
And then Ryuji is kissing him.
It hits Kiryu like a punch to the gut, more like a fistfight than a kiss, makes his heart race, makes his whole world reel with frustrated desperation. This isn’t what he came here for, this isn’t what he came here for… But it is. It’s exactly what he wanted, every urge in himself he’s been denying, shying away from. And he can’t hold out anymore. This feels right. Satisfying in a way that fighting Ryuji never did, and Kiryu doesn’t want it to stop.
Ryuji’s mouth is rough, and hot, and it’s lighting him up like a pyre. He can feel the scrape of bearded jaw, the intoxicating press of Ryuji’s huge body around him, caging him. Vicious kiss, all offense, mouth clashing feral and hard against Kiryu’s lips. It’s stealing his breath, stealing his sanity, making him weak with confusing desire. Kiryu forces his tongue into Ryuji’s mouth, grinding forward into him, hands wrapping around straining back. Ryuji hisses as Kiryu bites down on his lower lip, and then laughs into his mouth, cruel, and infuriating.
Exhilarating. Kiryu can’t get enough. He wants more, wants to feel everything Ryuji’s incredible body is capable of, all that power and violence turned on him, pulsing through him, burning him out. He surges forward, fingers tearing at Ryuji’s sweat-slick hair, tangling through it, trying and failing to maintain any semblance of control. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he can’t seem to stop. This isn’t a fight anymore, it’s a conflagration, dragging every desperate, confused part of Kiryu into the light.
He feels like he’s losing his mind.
Ryuji releases him, pulls back, panting, curl of a smirk on kiss-bruised lips. “C’mon, we ain’t doin’ this here.” He turns for the door, and Kiryu wants to protest, wants to demand answers, but there’s nothing he can think to say, nothing he can do but follow. He’s lost all control of this situation. Never had any to begin with.
Ryuji leads him, wordless, to a small dark room, locks the door behind them. Kiryu looks around, brow furrowed; there’s a bed against one wall and not much else, not like a love hotel, not homey, but it’s clear this space isn’t for sleeping.
“They got other rooms,” Ryuji says, rumble of amusement in that deep voice that makes Kiryu’s blood run hot. “Even one set up like an office, but i figure ya ain’t got a secretary kink.” Kiryu just glowers at him, and Ryuji laughs. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”
They stand, facing each other, chill of stale air on furnace-hot skin. An impossible stalemate. Kiryu’s heart is beating too fast, pounding against the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape, like it will burst if he doesn’t do something, now. He’s never felt like this before, this aching, desperate need, tension that calls not for violence, but for something else, something deeper. Nothing in his life has prepared him for this moment. This isn’t how it works. Isn’t how he works.
(But it is. It is. He’s felt this before, on the rooftop. Felt this with other men too, or something like it. Fight energy that builds and builds until he wants to explode. He’s repressed it so long, this hunger inside him, this strange vulnerability of want. He’s never been able to trust it. Still doesn’t trust it, doesn’t trust Ryuji…)
“Hey,” Ryuji says, “we doin’ this or what?” And Kiryu can’t pretend he doesn’t know what ‘this’ is anymore. He knows exactly what he wants. Knows exactly why they’re here, what he really came for.
He feels slow, almost drunk; but he's stepping right up into Ryuji's space, staring him down, hand finding the burning curve of one massive shoulder. Furious gaze and bruising grip. Kiryu's voice is a growl through clenched teeth. “Yes.”
And then all at once, Ryuji is on him. Behind him, spinning Kiryu around, pinning him against the wall, wrists caught in one huge hand. “Good. Was hopin’ ya’d say that.” The words are liquid heat, lips moving against Kiryu’s skin, breath on his neck, purred into his ear. Ryuji is so strong, so incredibly powerful, dominating. And Kiryu realizes he isn’t even struggling. He likes this. It’s pulsing under his skin. He likes being overpowered.
Ryuji’s lips are rough. And hot. So hot. They move slowly, exploring the spastic throbbing of Kiryu’s pulse, working soft and wet until they find a spot at the base of his neck that makes his breath hitch in his throat, makes his body tense in pleasure. Ryuji makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat, and starts in on the spot, drag of tongue and teeth that leaves Kiryu in shivers. He tries not to groan, tries not to melt against the bigger man, but it's a losing battle. There's no more hiding here.
Heat radiates outwards from Ryuji’s mouth, spreading through Kiryu’s veins like liquid fire. Ryuji is so big behind him, so overwhelming, filling all of Kiryu’s senses. He’s pinned, and… not helpless, but it feels like helplessness, this need inside him, so big it’s making him weak, so unbalancing, and yet, natural. It feels right, being held like this, being made to comply.
Ryuji’s fingertips dig into the boney jut of Kiryu’s hip, teeth grazing the abused skin of his neck, coaxing bruises and shuddering, gasping, need. And he’s glad Ryuji is taking the lead here, is pushing him, holding him down and taking, because Kiryu really has no idea what he’s doing. He’s done this before, sort of, but never like this. It’s never felt like this.
He can feel the hard press of Ryuji’s cock against the small of his back, his ass, burning between them, enticing promise. Kiryu grinds backwards into him, biting his lip on what can’t be a whimper. Ryuji laughs into his neck. Hot puff of breath, delicious shiver. “Ya really want it, don’tcha?” Teasing words over steal, impossible to deny.
And Kiryu can’t answer, won’t answer, but Ryuji’s hand is sliding inwards from his hip, grazing over the pulsing hardness of Kiryu’s cock, rough, calloused fingers, velvet skin on steel. Kiryu gasps, straining in his grip. He’s so hard he can’t think, all need, just instinct, groaning as Ryuji wraps fingers around him, begins to stroke.
It’s rough, tight, gorgeously, infuriatingly overwhelming, and Kiryu is on fire. His breath catching in quiet chirps as the heat spreads outwards through him, burning under his skin. Ecstatic pleasure of touch. Pushing backwards against Ryuji’s huge body, into him, and he is so overwhelmingly strong behind Kiryu, powerful and incredible, caging him in. Hard press of muscle meeting muscle, hot slide of skin on skin.
Kiryu’s thighs are trembling as Ryuji’s hand works faster, liquid fingers and rough palm, stroking, taking, dragging out every reluctant sound from his panting-open mouth. He feels like he’s going to come apart at the seams, lightning in his veins, shuddering desperation of need. Not enough. Not enough.
Kiryu is hardly conscious of working an arm free, bracing it against the wall, straining shoulder, shaking bicep. And then he’s turning in Ryuji’s arms, facing him, clinging to him. He doesn’t know how it happens, if he moved or Ryuji moved him. He’s strong enough to wrestle free, could control this, could take back and not just take, but his body feels heavy as the atmosphere. Bones turning liquid in Ryuji’s crushing embrace.
His fingers claw against Ryuji’s back, sinking into the delicious give of moving muscle as Ryuji gets a hand back between them, wraps around both of them, cock to cock, scorching hardness. He hisses into Kiryu’s skin, into his mouth, kissing him again, deep and hungry. And it’s only the wall against Kiryu’s back that keeps him standing, the solid power of Ryuji’s body in front of him, Kiryu’s arms wrapped over his shoulders, pulling him in. He can feel the thrust of Ryuji’s hips against him, slide of his cock against the underside of his own, dry grip and wet smear of precum, he doesn’t know whose. Gasping, shared pleasure.
Ryuji’s fingers don’t meet around the combined girth of them, they’re both so big, so hard. And Kiryu is burning against him, thrusting back into his grip, one leg locking around Ryuji’s straining calf, nearly knocking them both off balance. His arms are tight around Ryuji’s neck, mouth against his mouth, breathing his heavy breath, pleasure glowing and growing inside him. So big it fills the room, knocks every thought loose from Kiryu’s head as he goes desperate in surrender.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Kiryu cums.
It surges through him, ecstasy of orgasm, teeth finding Ryuji’s shoulder, dragging a furious growl from straining throat as Kiryu spasms and spills against him. Wet messy slide of palm and cock, and cum, every muscle in Kiryu’s body locked tight, clinging to Ryuji as his world comes apart in scintillating fractures. It feels like drowning, like dying in Ryuji’s powerful arms. It feels like being remade in the furnace of need.
Kiryu collapses when it’s over, every last vestige of sensation wrung out of him, panting against Ryuji’s heated skin. And Ryuji just holds him, solid and immovable as iron, forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s heavy breath. He lifts Kiryu as if he weighs nothing, carries him to the bed and lays him out as Kiryu shudders. Sticky hand wiped against bedsheets, an indifferent nod to cleaning up as Ryuji settles in beside him.
Kiryu looks at him then, this imposing mountain of a man, still so hard and hungry at his side. And he remembers, the horror of seeing Ryuji cut a man in half, the incredible violence he’s capable of. But there is no conflict left in Kiryu, no hesitance, eye to eye, meeting burning gaze.
Ryuji runs a hand down Kiryu’s body, oversensitive shiver, radiating pleasure of touch. “Ya ain’t done yet, are ya?”
And Kiryu realizes he isn’t. (It should scare him that) he’s not sure he ever will be.
“No.”
He rolls into Ryuji, wrapping around him, lips finding lips, sated softness meeting angry scar. And Kiryu can taste the need in him, hard lines of Ruyji’s body pressing against him, possessive grip of a hand at the base of his neck, rock of hungry hips. It sends another shudder through Kiryu, delicious receptive shiver, kissing Ryuji with everything he’s got left.
Ryuji’s hand traces down the broad expanse of Kiryu’s back, caressing dragon, slipping lower to cup the curve of his ass. Kiryu tenses against him, then goes slack. There’s no fight left him, nothing but this strange aching want, still pooling and spilling at his core. He wants to give in to this. Give in to Ryuji’s unstoppable dominance. Give himself over completely. His mouth finds Ryuji’s neck, his shoulder, point of his tongue tracing the marks of his own teeth, the pent-up violence in himself now spilled white-hot between them. He’s finished with fighting, he just wants to feel. Wants to feel everything.
Ryuji’s fingers slip inwards, tease at his entrance, staticky spark of possibility. And Kiryu is still so oversensitive, gasping into Ryuji’s skin, brow in the crook of his shoulder, nose to collarbone as his whole body curves inwards —not into the touch, but not away. Ryuji’s finger is gentle, but insistent, pad pressing against the pucker of Kiryu’s hole, testing the give of him.
And he must be able to feel the frantic hammer of Kiryu’s heartbeat, strange excitement building in his chest. He didn’t know his body was capable of this, that he could still be this turned on, even in the aftermath, that he could cum and want for more than just closeness and sleep.
He presses backward into the touch, curious, hole fluttering at the pressure of Ryuji’s fingers, too dry to do anything but tease. It feels good . Strange ache inside him, hungry in a way he didn’t know he could be, doesn’t understand. But doesn’t need to. It’s clear what happens next.
Ryuji pulls away, sits up to fumble at the nightstand beside them, and Kiryu feels oddly cold without him. He turns onto his back, watches Ryuji through hooded eyes as he finds a packet of lube, tears it open with his teeth to slick thick fingers.
Every line of him is desire, rippling muscle in half-light shadow, skin flushed and glowing power. Leonine beauty. The dragon on his back snarls at Kiryu, beautiful and wild, but its anger feels almost incongruous now, a part of Ryuji, but not all he is. They are both more than the names on their backs, men brought together by violence, but hungry for something else.
There is a softness in Ryuji that Kiryu could never have expected, vulnerability of similarity. Like he understands Kiryu, like he understands the things in both of them that Kiryu couldn’t. That the transaction of violence isn’t enough. It’s in his kiss as he leans back in, mouth against Kiryu’s mouth, brief and deep.
Kiryu reaches for him but Ryuji is already pulling away, positioning himself between lolling open knees.
He looks like a god, huge and golden, blond hair and furrowed brow, dark molten gaze. Kiryu almost wants to look away, embarrassment burning through him at the intensity of Ryuji’s hunger, but he can’t. He’s so transfixed by this man.
His eyes slide over Ryuji’s body, thick muscled, and so incredibly, intoxicatingly big . It makes Kiryu feel small, strangely safe (though he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn’t), like it’s alright to give in, to be soft, because for once in his life it’s not his job to be the biggest, strongest, most powerful. It feels good , to let go.
He’s been decidedly not looking at Ryuji’s cock so far, standing hard above powerful thighs. It hadn’t seemed appropriate when they were fighting (and he’s honestly not sure how much of the time he’s had his eyes open since). And it’s not like Kiryu has seen that many dicks in his life, but Ryuji is massive. Unbelievably big, just like the rest of him.
Ryuji follows his gaze, and smirks. “Don’t worry darlin’, i’ll work ya up to it.”
Kiryu doesn’t justify that with a response. Furrows his brow, brings one arm up to cover his face. It’s a stark reminder of all the ways Ryuji is not like him, rude, cocky, that this is not new to him. —But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe it’s better that one of them knows what they’re doing. (Kiryu is so out of his depth.)
Ryuji’s hand finds the curve of Kiryu’s inner thigh, slides downwards in a tingle of anticipation, strong fingers caressing as it moves towards its mark. His palm passes over the spent softness of Kiryu’s cock —which twitches with interest against the seam of his hip— before moving down to cup his balls, and then down still. Kiryu hisses through the clench of his teeth as the slick fingers of Ryuji’s other hand prod at his entrance, teasing against the shuddering give of him, unfamiliar nerve-endings crying out.
He groans as Ryuji pushes slowly inside.
It feels… strange, not good exactly, but not painful, not wrong. Too much, and not enough all at once, Ryuji’s thick finger working inside him, stretching him open.
And Kiryu can’t back down now.
He needs to feel this, take it as far as he can take it, past all his decimated barriers. It won’t be over until they’re both satisfied, and he isn’t. He isn’t. (There’s so much in his life that’s been left unfinished, so much he’s run from. He can’t run from this.)
On his back, arm thrown over his face, body shot through with tension. Ryuji strokes one huge hand down Kiryu’s chest, over rock solid, straining abs. “Ya gotta relax for me. Ain’t gonna work otherwise.”
Kiryu just grunts, brow knit in the crook of his elbow, jaw set. He doesn’t know how to relax, can hardly recognize his body as his own, unfamiliar, uncontainable feeling. And then Ryuji's questing finger finds something sweet, and hot inside him. And Kiryu can’t help the whimper that forces its way out of his throat.
It feels like there’s a wound at the core of him, soft and bleeding-vulnerable, and Ryuji’s touch is both soothing, and breaking him open. Curling against the centre of his need, sending shocks of pleasure through every atom of Kiryu’s body as the world goes soft and white around him. He didn’t know he could feel like this , didn’t know he could feel this much. It burns inside him, aching want, cock pulsing back to hardness against the shuddering plane of his abs. He wants more, wants Ryuji, wants everything.
Ryuji leans forward over him, lips against Kiryu’s heaving chest, speaking into his skin. “That’s it. Ain’t done this much before, have ya?”
Kiryu can hear the smirk in his voice, self-satisfied curl of scarred lip. And he wants to hate it, his infuriating smugness, unending, teasing superiority. But he can’t. Ryuji is right. Ryuji is inside him, dragging out all of Kiryu’s secrets, with his big intoxicating body, his magnetic, inescapable power.
Kiryu’s toes are curling, body burning, and he knows he couldn’t keep his voice even if he tried to speak, so he doesn’t try, just rocks on Ryuji’s finger, hands tangling in bedsheets. Pleasure melting through him until everything is liquid, muscles slack, lips parted as he loses himself to sensation. It's so much, so good. And Kiryu wants more. Always more. (It would terrify him, should terrify him, but he's too far gone to care.)
Ryuji pulls out, adds another finger, and another, working him open. Thicker knobs of his knuckles, catching on Kiryu’s rim. His other hand is on his own cock, working between them, flex of powerful shoulder against Kiryu’s ribs, snarl or teeth on his chest. And Kiryu is gasping, every outbreath a moan, eyes rolling back in his head, strong arms crushing Ryuji to him, lost in him.
There’s nothing left of him but want, sharp and bright as lightning, striking the same place over and over, pressure inside him building and building to breaking. Until something deep inside him shifts, gives. And he comes apart on Ryuji’s fingers.
It doesn’t feel like any orgasm Kiryu’s had in his life, cock untouched, jumping and twitching against his stomach as his head spins and the world rocks around him. Full-body implosion of want, forcing the pleasure out of him. It doesn’t feel satisfying, like an ending, just another intensification, a desperate cry somewhere between ‘too much!’ and ‘more!’
Ryuji pulls out of him and Kiryu’s whole body shakes with frustrated desire.
He feels so empty now, loose and desperate, and Ryuji is laughing, not cruel anymore, but delighted. “ Damn.. . Didn’t know ya had it in ya.”
Kiryu hadn’t known either, but he knows what he wants now, knows it isn’t enough, knows that something inside him is screaming, hazy vortex of lust. He pushes himself up on shaking arms, wraps them around Ryuji’s neck, pulling him down, on top of him, into him. And Ryuji is so heavy , crush of muscle, of mouth against mouth, tangled legs and tangled tongues. His hips cant against Kiryu, hard line of his cock, sliding between them, and Kiryu wants him, wants him. Needs to be full again. Tense whisper. “Please.”
A curse as hands fumble lube, condom, Kiryu’s knees pushed towards his chest, Ryuji’s hand between them, lining them up. And he is so hard, so big, and slick, pressing at Kiryu’s entrance, pushing, and pushing, and pushing against him.
Kiryu gasps, as Ryuji slides inside.
Stretching him open, smooth, and deep, filling him, so big, all-consuming. Kiryu is lost to it. Hips pressed flush against hips, slow, heavy rock of joined bodies, overwhelming. Kiryu clings to him, face crushed into the curve of Ryuji’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Ryuji growls, curses, moving faster. He is everywhere, everything, burning in Kiryu’s veins, sweaty slide of skin on skin, hunger, and power, inescapable.
“Fuck. So tight.” He’s been patient so far, gentle, but there is no gentleness left in him now, fucking into Kiryu, harder, rougher, taking him apart.
Kiryu’s legs lock around the backs of Ryuji’s thighs, pulling him deeper, grinding against him. His body is a pyre, burning, and burning, an inferno of need. Ryuji’s teeth against his throat, harsh pant of his breath, animal hunger. Kiryu can’t get enough, can’t think, nails clawing down Ryuji’s back, slipping in sweat, frantic desperation.
It doesn’t feel anything like fighting, all of Ryuji’s violence burning through him, battering Kiryu more thoroughly than fists, tidal wave onslaught of pleasure. It’s better than fighting. It’s everything Kiryu hadn’t known to want, everything fists could never give him, heart pounding in his throat, whole body convulsively attuned to Ryuji’s motion. Moving together, curl of abs and roll of hips. There’s no conflict between them now, nothing to win, joined in body and breath as they hurtle towards their end.
Kiryu is moaning, rocking back on Ryuji’s cock, hips moving in synchronicity, clinging tight as Ryuji takes him. Rough and deep, teeth on his neck, on his lips, fingers wrapped tight in Kiryu’s hair, fucking him, filing him. Winding them together until there is no space left between them, until Kiryu can feel him with every part of himself, feel him like an extension of his own body, his own mind. Like this is what it means to be whole.
A shift of position, knees hooked over Ryuji’s shoulders, Ryuji’s hand wrapping around his cock, almost too tight, rough and harsh around him, inside him. And the pleasure is crystalizing in Kiryu, prismatic focus, blackness exploding behind his eyes as Ryuji takes him, impossibly deeper, so big Kiryu can feel him to his bones, breaking him open. Kiryu shakes, and sobs, and shatters, cumming one final time on the gorgeous stretch of Ryuji’s cock.
It tears through him like a bullet, pleasure indistinguishable from pain, body convulsing, clenching around the overwhelming fullness inside him. Brighter than pain, unending feeling. Gasping, overwhelming ecstasy as he spills between tensed stomachs, into Ryuji’s powerful grip.
Ryuji growls, fucks him through it, sloppy now as he chases his own end. Hand in Kiryu’s hair, teeth against his throat, marking him, claiming him, huge body radiating power. He pulls out at the last second, leaves Kiryu gasping, empty, clenching on nothing as Ryuji strokes condom free, shoots white heat over Kiruy’s heaving chest, the shuddering tautness of his abs.
Collapsing down against him, mouth against mouth, sated sloppy kiss. Every part of Kiryu feels heavy, immovable, couldn’t push Ryuji off if he tried, (if he wanted to). He hurts , but it’s the good kind of hurt, ache of overexerted muscles, calves cramping, abs screaming as he stretches out, relaxes back into sweat-damp mattress, cum-sticky sheets. He can’t catch his breath, but breathing seems unimportant.
Ryuji rolls off him, settles at Kiryu’s side, soft now, loose heavy muscle, so warm and inviting. He traces fingers through the mess on Kiryu’s stomach, combination of both of them, slick, sticky release. Huffs a laugh. “Shame, would’a liked to see myself markin’ up that dragon on yer back.”
Kiryu just looks at him, furrowed brow, incredulous, words slow to his tongue. “I thought you said you were done trying to beat me.” His throat feels raw, strained by unfamiliar noises.
Ryuji’s hand splays across Kiryu’s chest, over the slowly calming beat of his heart, gentle pressure, almost tender. “Guess it’s just instinct, ain't it? Way ya rolled over so easy for me. Drives me fuckin’ wild.” Gathering Kiryu closer, huge thigh thrown over his legs, possessive squeeze.
Kiryu doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t understand what it means to have done what they’ve done. ...I liked it too. Such revealing honesty. He rolls into Ryuji speaking with action instead of words, holding him close, chest to chest, not ready to let go. Kissing him again, wet and slow, before pulling away. “What happens now?”
Ryuji looks at him then, long and serious, head propped up on one hand, harsh line of his jaw. “I disappear, is what. I already told ya, it’s over, I lost everything. Ain’t no comin’ back.”
He sounds as tired as Kiryu feels, almost apologetic. And Kiryu doesn’t want him to go —wants to stay like this, wrapped in him, lazy comfort of aftermath, closeness of sweat-cooling skin— but the words are final, inarguable, and Kiryu knows that they’re true.
Ryuji kisses him one more time, slow and languid before pulling away. Rumble of a laugh as he heads for the door, “fuck, need a shower after that.” Cast back over his shoulder: “See ya, Kiryu-han.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing into the warren of the bathhouse, out of Kiryu’s world. (Leaving him cold, and tired, and alone.)
—But one day, Kiryu too will disappear.
It won’t happen soon, endless years of hardship and pain, of fighting, and living, and small moments of joy. Until he too has lost everything. Has given up all that he has loved, his friends, and his family, sacrificed himself for the good of everyone; as he has always done, has always been ready to do. But one day, Kiryu will have his retirement. Unburdening of endless responsibility, his quiet life. He will be free.
And maybe then, he will find Ryuji again. Will hold him once more, strong bodies gone soft with time, and with comfort, their legends drawn to a close. And for the first time in uncountable years, Kiryu will not be alone. He will have someone who knows, who was there, who has lost what he has lost, and can feel his pain, his loneliness, can understand him so completely. The way no one else in his strange new life can.
Maybe, they will hold each other then. Finally finishing what was left unfinished, falling asleep in the unspoken sympathy of each other’s arms, held, seen, supported. Two dead dragons, with nothing left to lose. Nothing left, but each other.