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Nishiki is, he thinks, a greedy individual.
Has been ever since he was young, scrapping with the other kids at Sunflower for the last helping of curry rice; ever since he was old enough to notice Kazama-san’s clothes and the daimon on his lapel and recognise what they meant.
Even then, when he and Kiryu had sworn their oaths and become yakuza, he’d noticed the disparity in their motives—where his kyodai sought to emulate Kazama’s strength and sense of honour, Nishiki had coveted his power, wealth, status. Hungered for it, and it was that hunger that had him climbing the ranks; running collection jobs and sweet-talking hostesses for scraps of family gossip, building his image and keeping his finger on the pulse. And while it might not have been sheer hunger alone that got him to where he is now—he’s only too well aware of the politics at play in granting him his own family—it’s hunger that keeps him there, instincts sharpened to a razor edge, keeping his subordinates in line.
Speaking of which.
He runs his fingers through the hair of the man currently fucking him (Ishida? Ikeda? He can’t remember), tugs at the sweat-damp strands. Arches his hips upward, grinds down on him to take more cock, his own laying flushed and hard against his stomach.
“Harder,” he growls, teeth bared. “Or do I have to do all the work?”
The excess of the eighties might have passed, fading after the bubble burst, but that vulgar, decadent consumerism never really left Nishiki—greed’s written over every inch of him, drips from every pampered pore. Especially now, his two hundred thousand yen suit discarded in a pile on the floor, the silk sheets he’s draped across already filthy with lube and spit and cum.
He’s a hedonist to his core. He’s voracious when it comes to the things he enjoys, and he’ll wring every last drop of pleasure and joy he can out of them. Eats and drinks with reckless abandon, occasionally so caught up in the consumption that he forgets to savour or even process the flavours and textures. Spends like his yen will burn a hole in his pocket—expensive suits, expensive car, expensive sound system on which he blares his favourite song over and over, loud enough to make his ears ring. Chases his orgasms with the desperation of a starved wolf, refusing to stop until he’s fucked out and incoherent. Drinks in every last drop of praise and attention and validation like a man dying of thirst.
The problem is that it’s never enough.
It’s an emptiness that aches, eats away at him like the persistent gnaw of hunger. Something hollow, where generosity ought to be—and it’s not that Nishiki’s not a generous person, but for all the complaining he used to do about Kiryu mooching off of him, he’s always felt like he’s done most of the taking. Clinging to him, whiskey-drunk, hands groping over every inch of his perfect body; kissing like he was trying to devour him, all tongue and teeth. Begging to the point of tears when Kiryu fucked him, harder and more and please, kyodai, arching into him like he’d fucking die if he didn’t get every last inch of his cock.
Even now, as Kiryu sits behind bars, serving the time Nishiki should be serving, all he can think about is how nobody else even comes close to fucking him the way he did.
It’s a repugnant thought, selfish in the extreme. A few years ago Nishiki might have felt ashamed.
There’s no room in him for shame, now. There’s only the vast expanse of want, and Nishiki does whatever he can to take the edge off that. He might not have Kiryu, but he’ll settle for the next best thing—his kobun with their undying loyalty and eager cocks, only too happy to rail him into the mattress and help him forget for a while.
The slap of flesh against flesh fills the room as Ishida complies with his request, fucking him with long, hard strokes, Nishiki’s hole still slick from the load he’d just taken. Ono had gone first, working him open with his hands and mouth before stretching him out with his thick cock. He hadn’t lasted long, but he’s got enough youth and stamina that he can usually go a few rounds, and Nishiki’s gratified to see him growing hard again already—idly stroking himself as he watches, tongue darting out to lick his kiss-swollen lips.
None of the men he lets fuck him resemble Kiryu, not really, but between them they have enough of his features to piece together a crude approximation. Ono has his physique—all golden, sunkissed skin and sculpted muscles and huge fucking tits; Ishida has the steely-eyed tough-guy stoicism—especially now, as he comes inside Nishiki, letting out these quiet little fucked-out grunts of exertion and gripping the bedsheets so hard his knuckles turn white—and then there’s Takeuchi, watching from his position next to Ono, cheeks flushed and pupils blown ink-black.
Takeuchi’s the closest thing he has to a favourite. Doesn’t hold a candle to Kiryu, obviously, but he has that easily flustered, deer-in-headlights innocence that Nishiki was always so fond of in his kyodai. All fluttering eyelashes and graceless, teenage reverence, blushing like a virgin regardless of how many times they’d fucked. Melting under the slightest hint of praise. Always so, so easy to push his buttons.
“Takeuchi-kun,” Nishiki purrs, syrupy-sweet like a soapland whore. “Enjoying the show?”
The flush covering Takeuchi’s face deepens, his eyes darting downward, but Nishiki doesn’t miss the way his cock throbs. “Y-yes, boss.”
Ono snorts. “Course he is,” he says, in that thick, nasally Kansai-ben of his. “Eyes practically bulge out of his head when he’s watchin’ ya take dick.”
“Don’t pretend like you’re any better,” Nishiki shoots back with barely-restrained venom. “Least he can last more than two minutes.”
It’s Takeuchi’s turn to laugh this time, a nervous chuckle that escapes him before he can stop it, and he wilts under the glare it earns from Ono. Brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, almost pouting—a look Nishiki recognises from another face, another time, and something like gratification burns through him, warm and heady like 30 year-old Hibiki.
Ishida pulls out, muttering his thanks (always so polite, so deferential) before reaching for a towel and collapsing on the couch, and Nishiki beckons Takeuchi over to take his place.
He gangles over, clumsy and shaky-legged like a newborn foal, and Nishiki can’t help but laugh when he reaches for the bottle of lube. He spreads his legs, presenting his messy, abused hole; puts on a show for sweet, shy little Takeuchi-kun. “Does it look like I need any more?”
The effect is immediate. Takeuchi’s throat bobs, along with his cock. His eyes focus with laser precision on Nishiki’s hole, seemingly unable to tear themselves away, widening as a wad of cum leaks its way out.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Takeuchi-kun.”
Takeuchi practically falls over himself with how eagerly he slots in between Nishiki’s legs, lines himself up and slides inside with all the grace of a first-timer, eyes locked on Nishiki’s like he can’t even believe he’s here. It’s pathetic, really, but Nishiki will take all the ego stroking he can get—it’s what he deserves, he’s at least worth that much. Perhaps not one billion yen, like Kiryu had once been, but valuable enough to have his kobun eating from the palm of his hand, eyes shining like he’s solid gold.
Kiryu had never looked at him like that. Kiryu had looked at him like he was priceless.
“Harder,” Nishiki demands.
Takeuchi complies, grabbing Nishiki’s thighs so he can fuck him with a brutal, breakneck pace, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Even when Takeuchi wraps his hand (still soft, not yet rough and calloused from constant collections and street brawls) around Nishiki’s aching cock, pumping it in smooth, practiced motions, it’s nowhere near close to what he needs.
He looks over at Ono. “Get over here, make yourself useful.” Leans up, pushes on Takeuchi’s chest and slides off his cock, ignoring the petulant little look that he gets in response. “Time you both learned some fucking teamwork,” Nishiki says, rolling Takeuchi onto his back and straddling him, sinking back down onto his cock. He grabs one plush cheek to pull himself open, presenting himself to Ono. “I’m sure you can both fit inside.”
If Ono has an issue with what Nishiki’s asking him, he knows better than to let it show. Simply hooks two of his thick fingers inside Nishiki’s hole, pulling at the rim, testing the give. There’s a look on his face that’s part disbelief, part disgust, like he’s only now seeing exactly how much of a desperate whore his oyabun is. Nishiki doesn’t care.
“Said you didn’t need lube, boss,” Ono says, cockier than he has any right to be. “Better find some other way to get my dick wet.”
Briefly, Nishiki considers choking him out for his insolence, but settles on spitting on his cock instead.
“There.” He grabs Ono’s shaft, smearing the spit across his length in slow, vicious strokes. “Fuck me properly and maybe I’ll suck you off next time.”
Ono sneers back at him, then positions himself behind Nishiki, rubbing the thick head of his cock up against his hole. Pushes in a little, then presumably decides he does need lube after all, because there’s a pause and then a much wetter cockhead presses its way in, stretching him out and fucking up into his guts and finally, finally giving him what he needs.
“Oi, Ishida,” Nishiki gasps out, “mouth’s still free.”
It sounds like an offer, but it isn’t—even if Ishida were tapped out, he knows better than to refuse his oyabun. For the most part, anyway.
Nishiki opens his mouth wide, licks his lips. “Spit in it,” he says, as soon as Ishida’s in front of him.
“What?”
Nishiki smirks. “Spit in my mouth, Ishida-kun.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, Ishida balking at the request—his need to obey warring with what he surely views as disrespect, but in the end obedience wins out, and he lets a long, slow strand of saliva fall into his oyabun’s mouth. Not quite what Nishiki had requested, but it’s a start.
He latches onto Ishida’s half-hard dick, sucking him off in long, slow pulls; really makes a show of it, all wide eyes and exaggerated moans, shiny and plastic like he should be cased in shrink wrap. It’s the closest thing he’s felt to satisfaction since they started—he consumes, and is consumed in turn, sucking off one kobun while the other two ream him out. They fuck him mindlessly, eyes glossed over, chasing their gratification like a gambler letting balls fall into a pachinko machine; use him like the commodity he is.
Ishida’s cock throbs, leaking precum across Nishiki’s tongue, and he savours it like top-shelf liquor. He’s acquired a taste for both—not just for how they actually taste, but what they represent. Material reward for a job well done. A reminder of his worth, what he deserves.
Maybe it’s a strange way to think of himself, but it feels remiss to ignore—it shows Nishiki he’s worth something, even if that something is a hole to fuck. Either way, his kobun are tending to him. Everyone's all too aware who calls the shots here, who this is really for. In the end, their pleasure is really just tribute to Nishiki, part of the pursuit of his own.
Kiryu would have thought it wrong to think of things in such a transactional manner, but he was always startlingly naive. Even when Tachibana had paid off his debt to the Dojima family, he still hadn’t grasped the concept; failed to understand how it was possible to put a price on someone, even after his boss had just dropped a cool one billion on him. But then, it was easy to lose sight of the worth of something when you weren’t in need of it.
His sister’s life had been worth thirty million yen. Unlike Tachibana, he’d been unable to afford it.
Whatever his own life is worth, it’s less than that. And that’s before factoring in the ten years Kiryu’s paying off for him.
Already, he’s racked up debts he could never hope to repay.
Nishiki pulls off Ishida’s cock with a pop. “Do you think I’m weak, Ishida-kun?”
“No, boss,” Ishida stammers, blinking.
“Then why are you fucking my face like you think I am?” Nishiki’s brow arches, his mouth curling into a sharp smile. “Are you afraid you’ll break me?” The question comes out more shrill than Nishiki intended, borderline hysterical. He sneers. “Or do you just not know how to do it properly?”
It’s a cheap jab, aimed exactly at the point at which Ishida’s obedience and tough-guy pride intersect, and it lands right on target. “No,” he replies, face hardening.
“Good. Then maybe you can do it like you mean it, this time.” He grips Ishida’s cock, slapping his own cheek with it, then turns around to level a glare at Ono. “The rest of you, too. If you’ve actually got it in you.”
Ono’s jaw tightens, and he slams into Nishiki, fucking him at a breakneck pace. So, so easy to bait. He lets go of Ishida’s cock and grabs his hand, guiding it into his hair.
“Finish on my face, this time,” he says, and then opens his mouth wide, moaning with satisfaction as Ishida forces his head all the way down onto his cock. There’s no care, now; Ishida’s hand tightens its grip, his dick breaching Nishiki’s throat with every brutal thrust, and every time Ono pounds into him it forces it deeper still, blunt and unrelenting. Tears brim in his eyes, spill down his cheeks; snot and spit trail messy over his face.
“Not my fault you’re such a slut, boss,” Ono says, like the cocky, stupid fuck he is, but he’s right—Nishiki’s always been like this, incorrigible, insatiable. “Givin’ ya two dicks and it’s still not enough, maybe we should just shove a champagne bottle in yer hole and be done with it, since yer so fuckin’ loose—”
Usually, that kind of talk would be enough to earn Ono a beating, but now it has Nishiki spilling across Takeuchi’s stomach, cock throbbing and blood pulsing and heart beating wild in his chest like a caged animal. He whines around Ishida’s cock, a pathetic, strangled sound, and then Ishida’s pulling out of his mouth and jacking himself off and coming over Nishiki’s face in hot, thick ropes, looking down at him with the void-black eyes of a man possessed.
“Should see yerself,” Ono says in a mocking lilt, wrapping his hand around Nishiki’s throat and pulling him up towards him. “Patriarch lettin’ yer own boys fuck ya, degrade ya, use ya like a fuckin’ cumdump,” he snarls in Nishiki’s ear, letting his fat fucking mouth run, the hand around his throat tightening as the other wraps around Nishiki’s cock. “Pathetic—”
Nishiki’s head swims. He’s so far gone, now—more object than human, only animal in the way in which his body responds to the stimulus it’s given, the oxygen it’s starved of. Like he’s underwater, floating, everything around him numb and muted. Takes, and takes, and takes, a deadweight in Ono’s grip, stuffed full and hollowed out.
He’s crying now, sobbing like a baby, everything crystallised through the sea of tears. Vaguely registers Ono talking, although language has long stopped making sense—all he can make out are cruel, curling syllables, and that’s all he needs, really; knows exactly what he’s conveying even if he can’t hear the exact words.
Ono’s grip loosens, and Nishiki falls forward; his cock worked hard and rough, no care or finesse, equal parts pain and pleasure burning under his skin. Nishiki moans, mouth lolling open like he’s in a fucking porno, and a line of drool drops down onto Takeuchi’s face. Shines on his cheek, wet and disgusting, and when Nishiki blinks away his tears Takeuchi-kun stares back at him: eyes wide like a trapped animal, his expression equal parts disgust and pity. It burns like bile in the back of Nishiki’s throat, lingers just a little too long, but then Takeuchi’s expression shifts—glassy-eyed, unfocused, and he opens his mouth to accept any more saliva that might fall from Nishiki’s mouth like a baby bird being fed by its mother.
It’s enough to make Nishiki come again, his orgasm resonating through his entire being, ripping him apart. He clenches around his kobun’s dicks, feels them fill him with their cum, pants his way through it, breathless and fucking aching.
It’s what he deserves.
Ono pulls out, Takeuchi’s cock sliding out after, and he rolls onto his side, catching his breath. Reaches for his wallet on the bedside table, and pulls out a wad of yen, tossing several notes in the direction of each of his kobun, because there’s no way he’s going to feel like the whore now.
“Buy yourselves something nice,” he says, dull and hoarse, before waving his hand to make clear his men are dismissed.
One by one, they file out, and he’s finally left alone. He reaches for a towel, cleans himself up as best he can; he’ll go wash up later, when he’s ready, in his walk-in shower that’s probably bigger than his kobun’s apartments. For now, he just clears the worst of the mess, then reaches for his pack of cigarettes.
He pulls out a smoke, lights it up with his gold Dupont. Briefly wonders if Kiryu had kept his old one, the one he’d bought back in ‘88, when dropping a hundred thousand yen on a shiny new lighter still had its appeal.
He smokes it down to the filter, then starts another one straight after, devoid of conscious thought. Pulls himself off his bed, walks like a zombie to pour himself a fresh glass of the Hibiki 30-year, ignoring the slow drip of semen out of his ass and down his thighs.
It’ll be a while until he comes back to himself. In the meantime, he sips his whiskey, watching the blinking lights of the Kamurocho skyline.