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                “I’m sorry.”

                Kashiwagi listens to the whimpers emanating from the man kneeling on the floor. He can almost feel the warm spot of the tears collecting on the grimy tiles. Kashiwagi’s lip curls in disgust around his cigarette. He wants to clean the floor, wants to sweep this pathetic failure of a “patriarch” from Nishiki’s own office. It’s barely more than a filing cabinet, the kind of HQ they give foot soldiers to let them feel like they have power. You always want to extend a treat, but nothing nutritional, nothing of substance. The empty calories and sweetness—the promise of power. But even this crappy little shithole of an office seems too good for Nishiki.

                “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

                “For heaven’s sake,” Kashiwagi says, surveying Nishiki’s pathetic frame. Despite his anger, despite the tingling in his knuckles from the punch he just delivered to that strong, straight nose, Kashiwagi can’t help but feel his rage dissipate. The true, genuine apology seems to sap his fury.

                This isn’t just fear—this is full-on regret, the trembling of his voice more disappointment in himself than anything else. Nishiki can take pain. He’s seen him take it, since he was just a twenty-something throwing his weight around with the now-incarcerated Dragon of Dojima.

                He wouldn’t back down to Kashiwagi’s discipline.

                “I’m glad I caught this before it got up the chain to Kazama-san. I’d hate to disappoint him with a pathetic incident like this. I’ll look past your mistake this time. But there won’t be a next time.”

                Nishiki’s head raises, and the awe in his eyes glistens like the tears collecting along his lower lids. The blood caking his nostril, his upper lip, is already turning dark, drying.

                “Thank you so much!” he says, lowering his head back to the floor, his shoulders bunching up tightly beneath his suit jacket. “Thank you so much!”

                A scoff.

                Kashiwagi brings the cigarette to his lips, the scar on his nose wrinkling as he steps in the direction of the door.

                “This never would have happened if it were Kiryu…”

                Nishiki’s heart sinks in his chest. His veins go ice water. The smell of cigarette smoke tickles his nose, makes the fresh wound of it itch. He feels the tears begin to spill. Though he can’t pinpoint what makes it hurt so bad. Is it the inferiority complex he’s newly experiencing? Jealousy? Longing for his best friend? Anger at him?

                “You better stay sharp from now on,” Kashiwagi says, gruffly, with finality. Nishiki stays lowered on the ground, his palms clammy, warm, slipping slightly on the ground as he bows.

                But as he hears Kashiwagi’s shoes click with sharp, businesslike purpose towards the door, his throat bobs, and he raises himself out of his bow. It’s a juvenile, infuriated show of disrespect, he supposes. He knows that he’s lucky to have his misdeeds pardoned—but taking this comparison to his kyodai doesn’t sit well with him.

                “Wait! Kashiwagi-san!”

                The words are out before he can process what he’s about to say, about to do. He scrambles to his feet, but holds himself in a slouch, his hands on his knees, a show of subservience despite the fact he’s standing up to his superior.

                He has no right to. He doesn’t deserve to.

                And he doesn’t even deserve Kashiwagi’s forgiveness, his mercy.

                The self-loathing sinks into his chest like ink into water, spreading blackly, guilt consuming him. It weighs heavy in his sternum. He can barely see through his tears, which now mingle with the blood on his nose. Salt and iron.

                “Please—forgive me.”

                Kashiwagi stares at him with that dark, unreadable gaze.

                “Please, Kashiwagi-san. I don’t deserve your kindness,” he ducks his head. Is this what it’s like? The typical Japanese guilt of the obedient salaryman? He’s never experienced it this thoroughly before. Killing Dojima was a show of instinct. But in doing so, he had singlehandedly sapped himself of his own years of confidence, arrogance, the kind of personality he was always known for. He doesn’t even recognize himself.

                “Why don’t you let things be?”

                “I can’t live with myself if you’re disgusted with me,” Nishiki sobs, knowing he’s doing very little to impress. He’s so pathetic. “Kashiwagi, please let me earn back your forgiveness. Please—don’t hate me.”

                “Prove yourself, Nishiki,” Kashiwagi says, tipping ash out on the ground, “Become a patriarch worth respecting. You are like a spoiled child. Taking what you’re given for granted, incapable of handling what you have. The yakuza aren’t supposed to function on nepotism, and yet you’re benefiting from it.”

                Nishiki’s brows knit.

                “I know that,” he sobs, “I’m—I’m going to do my best. I’m going to prove to you that I can do this. But I need your faith. And your forgiveness.”

                “I owe you nothing, Nishiki,” he hisses, grabbing Nishiki by the chin in his free hand.

                “I know. I owe—I owe you.”

                Kashiwagi stares at him, confused. The tears, the mucus, the blood. The pure apology. All of it is a picture of the defeated, but there’s something in those eyes. Not quite determination, but—

                Nishiki straightens up, Kashiwagi’s hand still holding his chin in place.

                He ducks his head, just enough, to catch his thumb between his lips. Kashiwagi’s face is one of shock—not quite horror, but he’s certainly stunned. Nishiki’s mouth is warm, his tongue is slippery. He looks nervous but sure of himself, nonetheless, knowing that his actions are worthy of apology. But not knowing how Kashiwagi will react to having his thumb nursed.

                “I’ll do anything,” Nishiki says, pulling off of his hand, a trail of spit connecting his lips to his thumb. Kashiwagi is frozen in place, eyes wide, his lips sealed tightly, pale. The cigarette burns in his motionless hand, the other spit slicked. “Just forgive me.”

                Kashiwagi watches without expression as Nishiki takes his tie in his hand and tugs him close. He’s brought along like a ragdoll, and whenever Nishiki’s lips press against his, he drops the cigarette. Nishiki steps on it to put it out, all while suckling lightly at his bottom lip, his teeth catching the skin, delicately biting down.

                Kashiwagi grabs him by the waist.

                Nishiki waits. Waits to be pushed away, to be thrown to the ground, to be kicked in the face, to be reported to Kazama and stripped of his power. To be a permanent ex-yakuza, the Tojo banishing him, to be listless and forever without hire. To never be able to repay Kiryu for what he’s done for him.

                Instead, he’s hauled closer. Kashiwagi’s lips part, and his tongue slips into his mouth, the sound as lewd and wet as the types of pornographic films the Tojo has been eager to export lately.

                He tastes strongly of the Wakaba cigarettes, and Nishiki whimpers as he exhales through his nose, the smoke left in his lungs collecting sweetly around his face. Almost as if it’s a caress.

                “Are you planning on fucking your way to the top, Nishiki?” Kashiwagi says against his lips. The words seem sharp—made sharper still by the way his teeth dig into his lips as he speaks.

                “No. I want your forgiveness. That’s all,” Nishiki insists. He doesn’t mind the deprecation. Supposes he deserves it. As he slings his arms around Kashiwagi’s neck, he licks at his mouth openly and then presses his crotch forward. The grunt of confusion, but the eager hand that goes to the dip of his back tells Nishiki that Kashiwagi—perpetually alone and unmarried—certainly is no stranger to the potential of homoeroticism. He wonders about him and Kazama, even. But to stretch that thought would probably sicken him a little.

                “Then earn it.”

                “I intend to,” Nishiki gasps, breaking away from the embrace to shuck off his suit jacket. It hits the floor, covering the tearstains, the little droplets of blood that scatter there, as dark as spilled ink.

*

                Somehow, Kashiwagi has found himself okay with this.

                Nishiki is on his knees, naked, sucking his dick. Kashiwagi has a freshly lit cigarette between two steady fingers and he strokes back his loose, dark hair as Nishiki nurses his erection. Kashiwagi is fully dressed, his slacks open, the power dynamic as obvious as it gets. He’s not the vulnerable one—Nishiki is.

                But inside, Nishiki knows that he’s not powerless. Despite having his mouth full of cock, despite the fact he’s moaning wantonly as he takes the length down his throat with expertise—thank Kiryu for that one—he sort of feels a strange surge of high. Like he’s manipulating Kashiwagi into this. It’s a taste of power, he supposes. It just so happens that the taste is mixed with precum that sputters out around his lips and slicks his tongue.

                Maybe he will fuck his way to the top.

                Nishiki turns up those glossy eyes at Kashiwagi as he licks lewdly around the underside of his head, before choking himself on the length. He gags, sputters, drools down his own chin. But there’s a flash of something defiant in those eyes, not all subservience like the tears implicate. Nishiki thinks about it, his hand resting on his thigh, pulling off his length, sticking his tongue out and dragging it up his cock before going back down to suck his balls.

                “Ah…”

                Nishiki takes one into his mouth and drools lavishly over the sac.

                These yakuza patriarchs with their respect and heterosexuality, pinned beneath his spread legs, Nishiki riding them, his hands around their necks, blackmail with every thrust of his hips, with every drop of cum he squeezes out of them.

                The idea isn’t all that bad.

                Nishiki has always liked the idea of honor, of course. That traditional yakuza heroism that Kiryu respects so deeply. It’s what led to Kiryu taking the sentence for Nishiki.

                But these days, it’s hard to achieve it. Everyone plays dirty. It isn’t the turn of the century, it isn’t even the sixties, whenever shit like that was easy in the yakuza hierarchy. Now you elbow your way into power, you manipulate and bribe and blackmail.

                Nishiki doesn’t have much money. But he does have a mouth that can suckle on your perineum and a nose that can inhale the sweet smell of cologne and the pungent smell of a leaky dick. He has the looks and the beauty and the practiced sexual prowess to get what he wants with his body.

                Kashiwagi’s forgiveness is paramount. But as he listens to those broken groans, as he feels the tender, soothing run of his fingers along his scalp, Nishiki begins feeling pampered. Like he deserves this. He deserves power, not punishment. He deserves to be adored.

                Nishiki pops off his dick with a sigh and crawls onto his lap. His lips are swollen and painful as he mashes them against Kashiwagi’s once more, the red of them seeming to bloom like a plum tree. Kashiwagi exhales the musky-sweet smoke of his cigarette directly into his mouth, which Nishiki hungrily inhales. He tastes like his cock.

                “You wanna play with my ass?”

                Kashiwagi scoffs against those sore lips and pulls back. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowing as he surveys him with skepticism. Nishiki pushes back his hair, thumbs lazily at the scar crisscrossing his nose. Like he’s petting an animal.

                “Don’t patronize me.”

                Nishiki smiles a little. The blood on his upper lip has dried, flecked away. Kashiwagi’s overcome with the urge to lick off the remainder of that drying blood but sates this strange, new oral fixation by taking another long drag of his cigarette. He once more exhales the smoke into his face.

                “No fun, Kashiwagi-san. Sex should be fun.”

                “Apologies shouldn’t be.”

                But Kashiwagi’s hands rest on his sides, strokes down the firm, white muscles there, traces the koi on his back. Feels how far down it does. Nishiki’s skin hasn’t fully healed from the tattoo like Kiryu’s has—it’s more raised than flat, and Kashiwagi can feel the outline as he blindly maps it out on his hands.

                It ends right above his thighs, apparently. Who knew Nishiki could take so much to his ass?

                Well. He’ll have to take more, he supposes. Kashiwagi squeezes the skin there, feels how firm and tight his ass is, thinks about how good it’d feel to sink into that heat.

                Nishiki leans down and takes the tender skin of his ear between his teeth, bites down softly, pushes back into his hands needily. His hole flexes in his grip, desperate to be pushed into. God, it’s really been a while since he’s fucked or been fucked.

                He’s probably tighter now.

                “I’ll make it up to you,” Nishiki insists into his ear, his breath as humid as sauna air.

                “Fuck, Nishiki,” he growls, slapping his cheek roughly.

                Nishiki jumps at the impact, at the sting that makes his skin go whitish, his teeth gritting into a rictus.

                “You have to prepare me, Kashiwagi-san,” Nishiki says, purposefully letting his voice go whiny, bitchy, in that demanding tear-strewn way he knows older guys like. The brattiness of it, and all. There’s something about it that people in power go crazy for.

                Nishiki can’t wait until he can get guys to put on this voice for him.

                Nishiki slips off his lap and crawls on the free space of the dingy, stained couch, setting his chin on the armrest, reaching back to tug apart his cheeks and show off his tight pucker. It’s pink, sensitive. At one point it was in a perpetual gape, back whenever Kiryu and him were horny twenty-somethings. The memory makes Nishiki’s mouth fill with spit, makes his hole clench. God, he wants a dick deep inside him.

                Kashiwagi stubs out the cigarette on the cheap folding table in front of them.

                He makes a mental note to replace it with some polished mahogany soon. A cunt like that deserves a bit better than a folding table.

                His hands fall on either cheek, over Nishiki’s own, and his thumbs tug open his hole a little. It’s—strangely enough—almost cute whenever Nishiki makes the softest little whimper. Kashiwagi leans forward and places a chaste kiss right on his tailbone, on the sunset orange ink of his koi fish, before peppering those kisses down between his cheeks, to place one on his hole.

                “Never thought you to be so tender in bed, Kashiwagi,” Nishiki says—almost sneers.

                “Consider it an apology, too.”

                “For what?”

                “For busting your fucking nose open.”

                Nishiki huffs and squirms back, pushing his ass into his face. Kashiwagi’s strong, almost-Grecian nose presses between his cheeks and his lips part, finally, to give him a long, wet lick. Like he’s a dog.

                “Ah!”

                “That good?” he asks, keeping his hole stretched with his thumbs, before he really goes in on it. Licking and sucking, pressing his lips to the rim, and pushing his tongue in as best he can. He can’t really penetrate him all that well, not with that tightness of the untouched, but he still feels the slightest resistance of his hot inner walls against his tongue.

                Kashiwagi can’t wait to feel him on his dick.

                As he listens to Nishiki’s cacophony of noises (whimpers and little broken half-sobs, sighs of pleasure, little whispers of “more”), Kashiwagi is only further encouraged to keep eating him out. His skin tastes of salt, the slight tinge of iron like blood. He kisses and kisses until Nishiki’s hole is soft and loosened, until it’s fluttering like an uncontrollable birdwing under his mouth. Until his own lips are as swollen as Nishiki’s own.

                Kashiwagi’s hard as fuck. His erection still loosely hangs from his unzipped pants, and he works it with a dry palm as his other hand focuses on touching that now-moistened rim.

                He circles it lazily, eyes so deeply focused on that inch of skin, his whole world centered on it. Someone could kick in the door right now and he doubt he’d be able to tear his eyes away from this newly discovered patch of Nishiki, saliva-wet and beautiful. He feels like he’s almost fucking worshiping. Like he’s prostrated himself to this sacred ground of crane-white skin made glossy with his own spit.

                Kashiwagi’s finger presses in, and he feels out the first knuckle of heat before he stops. Nishiki’s chattering endlessly into the armrest, drooling on it until the fabric is as damp as his own pussy. An endless stream of neediness. “Fuck me, Kashiwagi-san, fuck me, fill me up, put your cock in me. Put it in my tight fucking body, let me—let me take all you have to give. Let my sloppy hole take care of your big dick. Let me take care of you. It’s all I’m good for. I’m yours to use. Please. Please. I’m so pathetic, I need it—ah!”

                Kashiwagi’s forehead blooms with sweat as he slips a second finger in. Somewhere along the way, he’s pushed both down to his knuckles, fully sheathed inside of him, and he’s hit with the realization that he’s inside of another man. And not just another man, but this elegant looking yet terribly behaved man, who’s as desperate as a woman and almost as beautiful, too. He looks like a traditional bride on a honeymoon night, with that inky hair and that skin that seems only ever touched by the light of the moon.

                He has to grab his own cock at the base to keep the sudden burst of arousal at bay, but pre-cum trickles out messily despite the motion. He sits up on his knees, removes his fingers, relishes in the out-pull of his rim that seems to cling to his hand, as if he doesn’t want to be empty, and places the head of his dick at the fluttering muscle of his cunt.

                Nishiki’s words have become muffled, but there’s no need to translate any of the words when the shriek of delight he lets out as Kashiwagi’s cock breaches him does more than enough. He could push in all the way, fuck Nishiki doggy style, lean over him and breed him.

                But instead, Kashiwagi takes Nishiki by the hips, and pulls him against his cock, like he’s using a toy, and sits back on his ass with Nishiki on his lap. There’s no way Kashiwagi’s going to work for him.

                The movement has Nishiki’s whole weight dropping onto his cock, no levying to get him used to the girth, and Nishiki begins crying in earnest as he feels his entire hole get spearheaded through in one thorough motion. But then, he’s always crying, isn’t he?

                “That’s a good boy,” Kashiwagi purrs, patting his suit pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He thumbs one out without taking his eyes off the beautiful ass swallowing up his cock and places it between his lips.

                Lighting the end of it with trembling hands, he finds that the flame wavers because Nishiki is already bouncing himself on his dick, already working his hips back of his own volition. The absolute cockwhore that he is, just clenching up around him.

                “Take it,” Kashiwagi says, slapping his ass again, watching the scales of his fish work on the muscles of his back as he rides him. “Take that big cock. Get yourself full. Like you said, it’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? You stupid slut.”

                Nishiki nods frantically, lifting a hand to wipe the tears off the flesh of his cheek. He’s not saddened—he’s just overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with sensation, yes. The physicality is nice, of course. He has Kashiwagi’s wet cockhead kissing his prostate with every thrust, sending shocks up his spine, making his insides clench. But also overwhelmed with potential. He can’t believe he hadn’t thought of this before.

                This body of his, finetuned for years to be as physically excellent as possible, can get him what he wants. Where Kiryu fights his way to power, Nishiki will fuck his way to power. Humans are slaves to their touches and desires, anyway—there’s no amount of money or psychology or yakuza willpower that will keep a man’s dick at bay. Not in an industry like this.

                He wants to be more powerful than Kiryu. He wants to be more powerful than Kashiwagi.

                And he will be.

                “Yes,” Nishiki cries, grabbing his own cock and pumping it, the vein on it standing out firmly, so sensitive and leaky. He hadn’t realized he’d been neglecting it so much. But as he passes his thumb over the head, he hiccups out a moan and presses his hips back hard against Kashiwagi’s dick. God, he loves it. Loves being full of cock, being a cumslut like this, getting himself off for the favors of others, “I’m your cockslut. I’m your boy. I’m good for getting you off and nothing more.”

                “Shit yakuza patriarch, but you make a good fleshlight,” Kashiwagi growls, rather cruelly. And despite the anger Nishiki feels in the pit of his stomach at those words, his dick apparently likes the degradation, if his orgasm is anything to go by. Stripes of cum cover his hand as he pushes back on his dick, almost brutally, as if to hurt him.

                Nishiki hunches over and takes in an exasperated inhale, his insides clenching up so much around the intrusion it’s a wonder that Kashiwagi’s dick doesn’t hurt.

                “Forgive me, Kashiwagi-san,” he pants, “I’m not good enough for the Tojo Clan. I’m not good enough for you. I’m just—just a pussy.”

                Whether he’s talking about his body or his nature, Kashiwagi can’t tell. All he knows is that the apology does good for his ego, for his cock, and his balls tighten up as he thrusts up once more into that wet heat. They slap against his ass, and Nishiki’s body takes the cum he sputters into him like he’s made for it.

                Which he probably is.

                Kashiwagi leans back, his abdomen tight, his balls emptied, his dick barely softened inside that body.

                “Don’t worry, Kashiwagi-san,” Nishiki says, pulling off of him. His dick slips out of him with a lewd sound, some droplets of cum following. He turns around, “Kazama doesn’t have to know about this.”

                “As if you’d tell him.”

                Nishiki leans over and plucks the cigarette from his lips, putting it between his own, his long fingers framing them.

                “Try me.”