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1988 was a beautiful year for a multitude of reasons.
Majima was fresh out the hole. Japan’s bubble era had been booming, booming, booming, and you could make money just as fast as you could lose it. Living in Sotenbori had felt inherently exciting, like gambling. Majima was leashed—and maybe he still is a little bit but if you ask him he just won’t tell you—and then Owner One got packed up and sent away and Majima was left with a considerably better Owner Two. Majima went from Sisyphusing a neverending cash-boulder up Sagawa’s stupid ass to just cruising under Tojo rule and occasionally eating shit from Shimano’s iron fist which, well, was an improvement. In 1988, Majima became a legend, and so did his favourite boy.
Precious, precious Kiryu.
In 1988, Kiryu was twenty to Majima’s twenty-four. Kiryu had been this beautiful wide-eyed baby boy with a dumb sporty haircut and a pinstriped suit over an offensively orange printed blouse that was gaudier than anything Majima had ever seen in his life, and Majima had seen him while he hadn’t seen Majima, so it was this special moment of observing someone that did not know it: just the kid with himself, sporting a cigarette between his clumsy fingers, puffing it like he was the hottest shit in town, leaned up on a corner with a foot propped against the wall behind him. He carried himself the exact way you’d expect a twenty-year-old gangster boy to carry himself. With a punchable amount of confidence. Big squared shoulders pulled back so you could see the width of his chest, so his popped collar would widen more and expose the glint of his little gold chain as if it wasn’t yet visible. He walked with the sort of attitude reserved for tacky crime movies. Hips jutting up and down and all. He thought it looked cool, not that it looked slutty like it actually did.
He was so cute.
Majima met Kiryu all the time, even if Kiryu didn’t know it. Majima made a priority out of visiting Kamurocho the fucking second he knew he had more than a day to kill.
Majima met him in Poppos for tuna onigiri.
Majima met him at video stores and listened to him jerk off.
Majima met him in alleys for cigarettes all the time. All the time. Him and his Seven Stars.
The first time Kiryu met Majima was after he cut his hair, put on the full-leather getup, crazed smile, tanto in his waistband. Kiryu didn’t know he was M-san but Majima knew he was K-san. Kiryu’s little face was drawn in in a pout, in a fuck-you pout, in a I’m-the-boss pout. Majima called him Kiryu-chan! and Kiryu’s pout got tighter, his brow furrowed more, he looked down at Majima through his pretty eyelashes but he didn’t do anything about it.
In 1989, Majima became his nii-san, and they became something.
Something, something, something.
Nii-san and Kiryu-chan.
The natural proximity between them was lightning to Majima’s body. They became colleagues. They became something. Something. Something. Something. Kiryu looked him in the eye and at first it would startle Majima, it would take him back to dumpster-squatting and watching Kiryu’s peachy mouth nursing a cigarette, and Majima would feel caught, Majima would feel naughty. Eye contact with Kiryu felt scandalous for a while. Kiryu talking to him in that respectful-disrespectful boyish way of his felt even more scandalous: his little silky voice was finally directed at Majima and that act of consent felt so erotic, Kiryu giving him his voice, Kiryu letting Majima listen—though letting or not letting was never really a variable to begin with. It’s just that sentiment of Kiryu letting, allowing.
Majima made sure to get handsy quickly. Get him used to it. It’s just nii-san. Clapped palms on firm shoulders, touchy hands on muscled lower back, grasps on the back of his stallion neck, condescending face-cups and cheek-pats. If Kiryu did something Majima liked, sometimes—and only sometimes—Majima made sure to get in a quick playful-not-playful slap on the ass like sporty boy-jocks do for the fun of it all.
Majima quickly found that Kiryu would take anything if he was the one doing it. Being seen as insane, unhinged, Shimano Mad Dog did wonders for establishing strange habits as normal nii-san habits.
Majima could beat him to a pulp and Kiryu would just fucking take it.
The first time he did was after he got married.
Getting married was a dud even though Majima had picked out the perfect one, this ambitious little idol girl with cropped hair like Makoto’s and quick wit like him and he warmed her up for one year before her eighteenth birthday, thinking that she would be the final puzzle piece to his Mad Dog thing beside a string of consistent side-women, but marrying her had somehow felt like leaving Kiryu behind even though he only went to see the girl once every few weeks to fuck her brains out, smoke, and ignore her. She wanted more of him, then less of him. Majima put a baby in her and she got rid of it and it made Majima fucking seethe just fucking seethe; not that he wanted a child and not that he wanted anything at all but that she came to him all teary-eyed and female and blubbering about how she needed to choose her career instead their spawn like it was Majima’s idea to have a baby when he really just liked to fuck raw, like she was anticipating his rage even though she’d never even seen it before, and that assumption had boiled him alive, like all his effort was for nothing, Majima saw her seeing a mean man so he became that mean man and crushed his mean man fist into her little dumb face over and fucking over, breaking a cheekbone, blacking her eyes. What, like she could fucking smell it on him?
Kiryu liked to smoke at one of three dumpsters so he was easy enough to find. Majima was still rolling on his fury like it was molly and he grabbed Kiryu by his burgundy collar and rammed him against the brick wall, spit-fling screaming, do I look fuckin’ crazy t’ya, do I look fuckin’ scary t’ya? and of course a question like that doesn’t have a real answer so Kiryu’s initial no, nii-san quickly became a yes, nii-san when Majima pulled him back and slammed him again, and when Majima saw he still had a clean grasp on his cigarette and it was still cherried bright and it hadn’t even bent from Kiryu pinching it too hard it just made him fucking angrier, like the cigarette was mocking him, like he couldn’t even ash it if Kiryu was the one holding it and so Majima plucked it out his thick fingers and smushed it against the side of his thick beating carotid and Kiryu wailed and froze up in shock and that shock had angered Majima even more—like what, you wouldn’t expect your Mad Dog nii-san to go this far, you think I’m a fucking joke don’t you and the smell of burnt skin filled Majima’s nostrils and he realized Kiryu’s skin and flesh cells had entered his body through his nasal pathways and something about that was like sex, it was sex, and then Majima was on top of him beating the fucking shit out of him crushing his leather fist into his cheek like he did Mirei’s but Kiryu didn’t cry like her he cried sexy, he cried like a boy, he cried like someone who wasn’t allowed to cry and it was fucking sexy and Majima’s rage fused with arousal and when he got hard and it was visible because his pants are leather and he went commando that day he just, stopped, sprung to his feet like his strings were pulled, turned on his heel and sprinted, sprinted, sprinted, ran the fuck away to the nearest brothel on Pink Street and wrecked the shit out of a busty long-haired working girl who looked nothing like Makoto or Mirei or Kiryu and it was easy to use her without thinking for the rest of the night.
The difference between Kiryu and everybody else was that Kiryu never feared him.
No matter what Majima did. Kiryu never feared him, even if he was scared of him. There was now a fleshy gooey circular stamp on the side of Kiryu’s throat, and all Kiryu did was pout at him, glare and pout, glare and pout, like he was thinking about all the things he’d do if Majima just wasn’t his superior. And something about that was both incredibly infuriating and simply, incredible.
Majima had known about Kiryu’s sacrificial tendencies for a while, from the way Kiryu never hesitated in offering himself as salvation at every turn: in 1988, Kiryu left the Tojo Clan to save his daddy’s reputation, and then he offered himself again in defeating the entire kingpin line of the Dojima family, and in 1995 he offered himself again but this time it was nothing Majima could jerk his cock about—this time was horrible because this time Kiryu ritual-lamb sacrificed himself at the altar of his sworn brother’s murder.
And Majima had to spend ten excruciating years without him.
And when he finally comes back, he’s different.
But not bad-different.
He looks at Majima with skittish eyes and actually cowers in this subtle c-shaped curve of spine and neck and drop of head. It’s not a big movement, but Majima’s never seen him do that, not ever, not even in front of Kazama. At least not that pathetically. Today's Kiryu struggles to make eye contact and he doesn’t like it when people are behind him. When there’s a wall in his line of sight, he paces towards it and plants his back firmly against its surface.
Today’s Kiryu doesn’t notice when someone’s behind him even though he’s so paranoid about it, or maybe Majima is lighter on his feet than whoever Kiryu’s bunkies were. The way he darts a glance over his shoulder is so useless, Majima manages to tail him halfway across town before he gets too restless waiting for his dragon to spin around and glare that accusatory glare at him, that I-caught-you glare, that you’re-not-slick glare.
Today’s Kiryu is like bait.
Majima comes right behind him and growls, hey, wait the hell up, and Kiryu has the nerve to be shocked when he turns around. All wide-eyed wonder. A head-to-toe scan of Majima, then a yelped huh?, then a nervous bow, and he calls him Majima-no-nii-san, and it’s so fucking sweet to hear again after ten whole entire years that Majima has to grind his heels into the ground, resist jumping him right fucking there, God he makes his fingers twitch.
But it just comes out of him like a schoolgirl confession. “Ready to throw down?”
Kiryu smiles at him. Smiles, like, smiles. Then giggles, one little heh, and gets all smarty-pants on Majima, saying “somehow I knew you’d say that. Sorry, nii-san, but I have no reason to fight you here. And I told you a long time ago, I won’t fight you unless there’s a reason.”
“No, no. I got a reason, man.”
“Yeah? What is it?” Playfully, humouring his nii-san.
Still smiling.
“I got a reason, man.”
The reason is that Majima wants to fuck him.
The reason is that Majima doesn’t like his smile like that, it’s so easy, like for what? Majima can count the amount of times Kiryu has smiled at him in the past seventeen years on one measly hand. So what is it? Prison made him flirty?
Prison made him flirty?
Actually, how was prison?
What happened in prison?
Majima takes a step closer and he can feel his heart pounding in his ears, tilts his chin up so he can look down at Kiryu. “If you were half what ya used to be, ya wouldn’t get caught from behind with yer pants down.”
And that little smile drops.
Majima steps closer.
“If I’d wanted to kill ya, you’d already be dead.”
Goosebumps now pebbling all up and down Kiryu’s throat and when he nervously turns his head to the side, Majima sees the faintest circular stamp on his lovely carotid.
And looking at it makes him throb so he looks at Kiryu’s parted mouth instead and the way his lower lip quivers and he bites it to make it stop.
“I appreciate the warning,” he mumbles, “but I don’t see how this gives us any reason to fight,” and he’s looking off into the distance, a kind of thousand-yard soldier stare.
And Majima cocks his head and follows Kiryu’s line of sight, blocks his view, forces those eyes to meet his and rumbles, “these days, Kamurocho is just that dangerous.”
Kiryu squirming away from him in these tiny backward one-two shuffles.
“A damn fool who’s gone soft can’t go bumblefuckin’ around anymore.”
Stalking him like prey in the middle of these streets. “That bein’ the case,” licking his salivating lips. “Kamurocho’s gonna be yer new provin’ ground, to see if yer even qualified to be here.”
Today’s Kiryu gets backed up into corners and all he does is stare at you as you do it.
Today’s Kiryu visibly trembles at the sight of hands.
Today’s Kiryu is bait that takes the bait: “You’re—calling me a, a fool who’s gone soft?”
Today’s Kiryu blushes.
Today’s Kiryu is warm-bodied and close.
Today’s Kiryu wants him.
Today’s Kiryu has horrible reaction time and the first punch Majima throws lands right on the square of his sexy jaw and slams his head into the brick wall. The sound he makes bouncing off it is this crunched wheezy gasp that is just so incredible. Getting slammed wakes Kiryu up, gets him out of that wide-eyed daze: he spreads his feet shoulder-width apart and rocks his weight between his heels like a boxer, furrowing his brows in that lovely way, narrowing in on Majima. He looks promising until his first punch is this huge roundhouse swing like the kind you see in cowboy movies and it misses miserably.
Today’s Kiryu is a far cry from yesterday’s Kiryu.
Kick to his plushy prison gut with the pointed tip of Majima’s boot and he hunches over, heaving.
He looks up so betrayed, so confused.
“Now we’re ready,” Majima says, “now were fuckin’ ready.”
Circles him, circles him round and round. His tight fucking body is right there and Majima hasn’t seen it in ten years. Kiryu’s eyes are watering and there’s the slightest peek of redness lining the inside of his lip like peach honey. Kiryu goes for another punch, a girl’s wide roundhouse, and it strikes Majima right under his ear over the thick cord of his neck—fuck was that?—and it feels disorienting to eat a fistful of Kiryu’s power right there but it doesn’t dizzy him like it used to, it just hurts, it’s stupid, poking this grizzly for what—Majima stomps the heel of his shoe into Kiryu’s stomach and he flies back on impact, gagging again, flailing his arms around like a doll. Majima chases him and looms above him for a moment and in that moment Kiryu lands a kick in Majima’s side but it doesn’t hit him in the liver and send him gagging to the ground like it used to, it’s just a cramp now, ow, like he’s been running, and Majima easily fucking sits on him like that, straddles his broad chest, Kiryu suddenly frantic whimpering wait, God, wait, coiling an arm over his face while his other arm gets pinned down and wrestled under Majima’s thigh. The way he blocks is barely protective. All cosmetic, like when you’re about to fuck a girl and she goes nooo, I don’t doooo stuff like thaaaat before cracking her legs open.
Kiryu doesn’t buck him off either, he just squirms. His eyes all teary and huge. His lips pillowy, reddened, shiny.
Pinning his blocking arm firmly to the ground and he chokes this tiny pathetic noise.
Holding him down like this. His pillowy red shiny lips inches away from Majima’s leather cock. Oh, it’s fucking sickening.
“Kiryu-chan,” he sighs. “Oh, y’know I love ya, sweetheart.” He sighs this between bashes, like punctuation. Majima only bashes him with one fist on one side. He does this carefully because today's Kiryu is a loaf of white bread. Majima has him in a gentle chokehold and each bash makes him slide in a little closer until his cock is pressed against Kiryu’s windpipe and his thighs are pressing against each of Kiryu’s ears and he bashes him with his knuckles, bashes him until his teeth break through his lips and Majima’s knuckles ache through his gloves and the rub of lined leather chafes his knuckles, and he pauses, for a moment, just wants to look at Kiryu like this, Kiryu squished between his thighs like this, breathless and whimpering, bleeding like miscarriage.
“What’d ya do for ten years, huh?” Majima murmurs.
Kiryu stiffens, paranoid delirium, half-sober. Like it was a weird question or something. “I just—” he croaks. “I didn’t fight.”
“How was prison?”
Kiryu cough-sprays blood all over Majima’s abdomen.
“Where’re ya gonna stay the nights now?”
“At,” Kiryu garbles, “at Se,” and his eyes clench shut, then blow scary wide. “I can’t breathe.”
Majima stares down at him blankly and watches the purple-bruise side of Kiryu’s face start to leak its purple to the unpunched side like a virus.
“Nii-san.”
Kiryu’s body instinctively bucks up this time. His trapped arms blast power up into Majima’s holds, primal monkey reawakening, life-or-death shit, and Majima waits one more second to see if he can still hold Kiryu tight despite the life-or-death monkey coming out of him, and he can, if he really slots himself into Kiryu’s throat and roots his shoed toes into the ground, he can, oh yeah, yeah he can. He flings himself off of Kiryu’s body like Kiryu did it and lands his curled spine onto the gritty Kamurocho pavement, groaning shit, that hurt.
Kiryu’s surprise always surprises Majima, because there really isn’t anything to be surprised about when it comes to Majima. Everything Majima has ever done has been spelled out in the world’s clearest letters a decent amount of time in advance. Everything Majima does, Kiryu knows about, even if he doesn’t. Majima tells him I’m gonna be on yer shit, and Kiryu gives a wishy-washy yes nii-san, of course nii-san type of answer because he still doesn’t get it, he doesn’t see it, he’s never really seen it.
Wherever Kiryu goes, Majima goes.
Ten years without his favourite boy and his favourite boy comes back in pieces like this. It’s no good.
Wherever Kiryu goes, if Majima doesn’t go, Nishida goes.
Majima’s fancy captain desk is full of plans, ideas, ideas, plans.
Majima’s fancy captain desk has all these roomy convenient drawers with built-in dividers, it’s like it was born for souvenir safekeeping.
Majima feels terrible wiping Kiryu off of him this way but he has to do it. He bought Q-tips and these tiny resealable plastic bags, the kind that jewelers or drug dealers use, just for this. Even if he looks so sexy like this, sprayed all over Majima’s happy trail, all over his abs. It actually makes Majima’s stomach flutter. He swabs just enough of Kiryu’s cough-blood off that it saturates both cottony ends, then grabs a tissue, folds it into a tiny square, and wipes off the rest. One little baggie each. Drop, drop. Seal, seal. They go straight into his drawer. He had to rush back to his office before Kiryu’s spray completely dried up on him, Majima wanted to at least watch the little cotton heads go from white to blistering red, like the eye of the sun, like his lips, his button-up. Then, tomorrow, Majima can open his drawer and look at how much they’ve darkened. Red to brown. Red like his shirt, brown like his eyes.
Serena opens at twelve in the afternoon and closes at two in the morning. This leaves Majima with ten hours of Kiryu potentially at Serena, and how many of those hours Kiryu actually spends at Serena versus sleeping versus awake but stagnant, Majima doesn’t know, yet.
In the eighties and nineties, Kiryu never had nightmares and he would always sleep eight full hours like a textbook boy. Majima wonders about nightmares now, with today's Kiryu, today’s wounded doe Kiryu who doesn’t like it when someone’s behind him, even more so than before. That kind of disdain for someone being behind you exceeds the disdain that a regular gangster has. Yesterday’s Kiryu didn’t care because he could always tell, and if he was ambushed, he was confident in his ability to crush whoever the hell it might’ve been. Today's Kiryu is both senseless and nervous. Majima wonders about prison again. Majima thinks about quality of sleep, rapid eye movement, Majima wonders if he actually falls asleep, or if he just rests his eyes and lays down in the dark for a few hours.
Prison habits become outside habits and home habits. This is normal for ex-convicts. For ten years, Kiryu was woken up at 6 a.m. sharp. At 6:20, Kiryu had breakfast. 6:50, his work duties, then at 7:20, another work session, then back to his cell. At noon, he had lunch. An hour later, work. 4:10, dinner. 4:50, roll call. 6 p.m. was free time for three hours before the clock struck 9 p.m. and lights went out. Generally speaking, this kind of regime—and ten years of it—is not easily broken, Majima has seen the biggest, burliest of Shimano’s buddies get all sleepy at nine sharp like little grandmas and leave to tuck away for the night even though they’ve been free for some years. Kiryu won’t be used to opening doors on his own, either; that used to be the C.O.’s job, and Majima sees him hesitating on every door that isn’t automatic. Majima follows him into an M-store and has to swallow a giggle when he sees him frozen in front of the bathroom door like it’s a pair of headlights.
He gets close enough to touch his steel toes to Kiryu’s heel. Then he nudges. Kiryu springs a foot in the air. Silent-gasping, clenching his fists, but not bringing them up.
“Y’know,” Majima says. “Doors like these need to be pushed.”
The left side of Kiryu’s face is this beautiful summer plum red and his lips are still punched-out, swollen, sexy. “Nii-san,” he sighs. “Oh, it’s just you.” Unclenches his fists. Drops his shoulders, relaxes his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a tiny little twinkle in his eye.
“Yeah, just me,” Majima says.
Pouty, beaten. Kiryu just stares at Majima, all wide-eyed wonder. There’s something about the way he can still look Majima in the eye that makes Majima’s nerves spark, spark, spark. Kiryu just stares at him and keeps staring. Majima reaches an arm over Kiryu’s shoulder and reaches until he meets the door then pushes it open and calls Kiryu his lady, tipping his invisible hat and snickering when Kiryu flushes pink from his forehead down to his neck and bows his head, scurrying into the washroom, embarrassed heat pouring off him in steamy falls.
Majima watches him leave the M-store from the inside of a dumpster.
There’s something incredible about ritualistically watching an unwatched Kiryu, a careless Kiryu, a natural Kiryu, even after gaining real access to Kiryu as his upholden nii-san figure. In the eighties, this was all he had, dumpsters and bins and sewers and civilian clothes and sunglasses and a Kanto accent if he ever had to, for whatever reason, speak within earshot of Kiryu. In the eighties, eye contact meant failure. In Majima’s head there are two sounds, two kuh sounds, one ki, one ka. Precious Kiryu Kazuma. Kiryu, Kiryu, Kiryu. Kiryu looks behind twice: once at the automatic entrance-exit, then once more about sixty meters away from the automatic entrance-exit.
There’s something incredible about all of this.
There’s something incredible about Kiryu respectfully bowing his beaten head to him in that way he bows. The way he bows. The way he does anything when it comes to Majima, his nii-san; it’s like respect to the point of disrespect on the grand respect-disrespect horseshoe. It all makes Majima agitated. Aroused. Two A’s.
It takes five days for Kiryu’s beaten head to visually recover which is when Majima jumps him again.
He gets Nishida to call Kiryu and bullshit some bullshit about needing him to come to this location at this time, for this and that, and please come quick, like really quick, because Majima-san needs you, and blah blah blah. For some reason, it works.
For whatever reason, today's Kiryu is piss-easy.
It’s infuriating in a way that Majima doesn’t quite understand yet. It makes him hot, horny hot and furious hot, the kind that sends all the blood in his body to his face and veins his forehead up and he’s an inch away from having that cartoon smoke puff out of his ears in those pillowy rings. And it makes him want to fuck him, fuck him the way he’s never been fucked before. Majima wants him crying on his cock and begging for mercy.
Oh, right.
How was prison?
Majima shows up in a standard-issue Japanese police officer’s uniform with his favourite bat slung over his shoulder. Kiryu is waiting for him like the sweetest lamb. The slaughterhouse is Millenium Tower. He’s such a sweet stupid boy he still can’t pick up on when Majima is behind him. Majima once saw Kiryu correctly catch a thug sneaking sticky fingers into his back pocket like a European pick-pocket but of every time Kiryu swung his head around like that, that had been the only time it actually worked.
It never works when it needs to. They say you should never trust a man with quiet footsteps.
Majima hollers. “Stop in the name of the law, Kiryu-chan!” It makes Kiryu freeze, straighten his spine, all trained attention, and then it’s like his brain starts to work and the lights are on and someone finally comes home and he moves his body huge, obvious, swivelling his head around. Majima darts out of that massive view and manages to get so close to Kiryu that his groin is an inch or so away from Kiryu’s suited ass and it’s the breath on his ear that finally alerts him.
Another swivel, shorter, and his big terrified eyes meet Majima’s, his sweet lips gaped in this silent scream.
“Nii-san!?”
Now his big terrified eyes scan Majima all up down and sideways, eyeing this new blue uniform, the grip Majima has on his bat, the shiny TOKYO PD medallion on his mister officer hat.
“Don’t tell me that fuckin’ worked on ya,” he says it like he hates it.
Gulp. Sheepish, so sheepish. Kiryu stammers. “Y-Yeah, it actually did.” Dry-mouthed suddenly, licking his lips. “What the hell are you doing?”
His chest rise-falling so fast. The way he has his thick throat twisted to stare at Majima exposes that beautiful, faded circular stamp from where it’d been tucked behind his burgundy collar.
“Well, we heard rumours about a guy rampagin’ through town with a bat and a dagger… so the Majima Family is on the case,” Majima says.
“So, I’m gonna have to pat ya down to see if yer carryin’ any dangerous items,” Majima says.
Nudge, nudge, wink wink.
Kiryu’s still standing tall and puffy like a frightened cat but he comes back a little, softening for Majima, almost leaning back into him. “You really have that kind of authority?”
He presses his lips to Kiryu’s pink ear. “Y’know I’m not lettin’ ya off the hook just ‘cause I know ya, sweetheart.” One hand on his bat, the other slinking close, close, close to Kiryu’s trim waist. “Ya gotta show me the goods.”
Kiryu prickles again.
“What—” picks his words carefully. “What do my, possessions, have to do with this.”
“Shut up and spread ‘em.”
“What?”
“Shut up and spread ‘em, I said.”
Kiryu backs off, curling his chest, big shoulders doming in protectively. Majima plants a firm gloved palm on one of those big domed shoulders and shoves him to watch the way he bounces. “What, ya got somethin’ yer tryin’ to hide? Got a smut video hidden inside yer jacket, huh?” and the way his face twists in this little offended twist and he straightens himself out again when his gaze runs back over Majima’s uniform cap and he thinks to himself, authority, is something so fuckable, so edible, so infuriating it makes Majima’s teeth grind.
“What, no, I don’t—what the hell, no,” he grumbles, scandalized. Then again, he sees Majima’s uniform cap and all his blue authority and begrudgingly mumbles, “fine. If I show you, you’ll be satisfied, right?”
How pornographic.
Majima vibrates.
Today’s Kiryu lets Majima pat him down in a police officer’s uniform. It’s like roleplay. Actually, it is roleplay. Nishida told Kiryu not to bring any weapon in advance because, God forbid, something something, bullshit bullshit, so there’s something amazing about inspection-circling him around and seeing a disobedient and fat eyeful of this slim, long bulge in the back of his pants, something distinctly sheathed dagger-shaped; and it makes Majima swell, swell, swell, dagger stuffed into the back of his pants like that, Majima knows who he learned that from, internal blushing, swell, swell, swelling.
Majima wedges the tip of his shoe between Kiryu’s feet and spreads him apart. Kiryu brings his arms up, hands behind his head, stands firm, rigid. Have at it. Like a challenge. Have at it, officer. There’s nothing wrong with my possessions. Cop a feel, cop. Majima does.
A one-handed pat-down. The other hand still wrapped around the grip of his baseball bat. Kiryu’s head is lowered, his locks gelled back in that perfect crunchy way it always was, the sharp, grape-y sting of his hair smelling like home. He brushes his gloved hand in these slow, aching brushes. Ghosting over his firm chest. Wind hits Kiryu’s blazer and delicately pushes it back so when Majima brushes over the sculpt of his pecs through his shirt, he can feel the nub of a little nipple and it sends violent shockwaves all throughout his nervous system, he actually has to dig his heels into the ground so he doesn’t lose his balance. Kiryu’s eyes aren’t looking at him. Kiryu is actually blushing.
This is foreplay.
He lets Majima linger by his groin, even though Majima can tell he locks his knees and tries not to squirm as he drags a long, patient palm from hip to hip.
Majima sweeps his backside with that same painstaking patience and being behind Kiryu like this is almost nauseating.
When he brushes over Kiryu’s ass, Kiryu stiffens again, rape patient.
When Majima “finds” the weapon, Kiryu softens like relief.
“What have we here?” Majima grins. “Naughty, naughty, Kiryu-chan,” tut tut tutting, grabbing it, sliding it out from under his waistband, watching the way it untucks the back of his shirt and Majima can see one, two, ten, twenty goosebumps pebbling all up his tan-skinned spine. “Y’got a weapon on ya!” springing up tall, jutting his chest out, all authority.
“... You found it,” Kiryu murmurs.
So defeated.
“Y’know what officers do to finicky little men like you who wander the streets wielding terrible shit like this?”
Then confusion twists his little face up.
“Wait, so this was just—”
Majima barks, “A set up!”
And he takes a huge, obvious batting stance. Feet far apart, both hands gripping the bat now, drawing it to his left ear and slightly, slightly leaning, putting all his weight into his back leg like he’s about to wind back and go for it. He does this so Kiryu can dodge. He does this so Kiryu can avoid getting knocked out cold in one massive, vicious swing. Kiryu’s eyes blow huge and he ducks to the side when it finally comes, Majima can see the oh-shit-oh-shit blooming in his face and he puts his fists up like a good boy. A big, handsome man with a popped collar and half-unbuttoned cool-guy shirt and mean face in Kamurocho is like irresistible bait to little throwaway soldiers who want to prove they can take the big handsome man down, so Majima knows he’s been fighting again, he’s watched the street brawls, one, two, three of them, he once watched Kiryu get followed home to Serena and he watched Kiryu get followed inside. It took thirty seconds for Kiryu to come back outside dragging the throwaway soldier by his collar like a mother pinching her kid’s ear, and Kiryu had beat him there, in front of all the pedestrians in the world, just him and this throwaway soldier and his trembling prison-fists.
Majima watched him kick that throwaway soldier in the gut one last time before he ran back inside, the same way you might instinctively kick a snarling dog as it approaches, a scared kick, a get-away-from-me kick, and he had kicked that scared last-ditch-effort prey way even though he’d already pounded the little throwaway half to ground-beef shit on the concrete.
With Majima, he’s huge, clunky, trying to focus. With throwaways, he’s this huge and petrified creature fighting for its life. Picture a grizzly bear with all ten claws frantically mauling a man from dead to deader, all horror-movie blood sprays and flinged intestines.
Majima lets him land a punch on his jaw, a kick in his ribs that makes the spit in his mouth triple. Majima keeps doing those big, obvious swings, training him on it, this is where you dodge, don’t let me hit you. Kiryu does well. Well enough that it gets boring. Majima turns his bat upside down and feeds it through his other hand like a tube, nailing the rounded butt of it into the upside of Kiryu’s chin in a brutal uppercut: Kiryu flies back and groans and blinks, blinks, blinks, grabs his chin, ow, fixes his stance and only puts his one other fist up.
Majima grits his teeth.
Punches the shit out of the unblocked side of his face, smashes into his right eye like a fuck-you. “Don’t get so fuckin’ comfortable, I’ll slam the shit outta’ ya, don’t fuckin’ play with me,” Kiryu’s lower lip quivering he gasps, flattens his hand and cradles the whole right side of his face, stumbling back. Majima swings his bat and smashes it into that pathetic right arm smashing into his firm elbow and this wonderfully agonized scream comes ripping out of Kiryu’s body like a knife.
“Don’t be fuckin’ boring,” Majima hisses. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare play me like a fuckin’ game this isn’t no fuckin’ child’s play, y’don’t know what the fuck yer doin’ here with me, y’don’t know shit,” those single-serving fucking nobodies get all of Kiryu’s wrath and power it’s this stupid way of trying to respect Majima that is actually disrespecting Majima Majima swings his bat high over his head and crushes both of Kiryu’s knees with one fell swoop and Kiryu crumbles to the ground screaming and this is when civillians start to get nervous and run away or circle them like a stadium, Majima straddles his hips thinking maybe he didn’t beat his ass clean enough last time, maybe he needed to slit rusty cuts into every inch of his skin leave him aching and fucking infected for weeks to put it into his fucking head how pathetic he’s gotten. “Look at this, look at this,” he says, “look at this, look what’s fuckin’ happening t’ya.”
He tosses his bat to the side and pins each of Kiryu’s wrists to either side of his head against the pavement. Then he leans back and stomps a foot into each hand.
“Look at this shit, Kiryu-chan,” he says. “Look at this fuckin’ shit. Look what I can do to you,” he says.
“One man can hold ya down, Kiryu-chan. One goddamn man,” he says.
“If one fuckin’ man can hold ya down, ya know what two can do?” he says.
He leans down, down, down, leans down so close he can smell the blood in Kiryu’s mouth and so close that if he sticks his tongue out he can lick it up.
“Two men,” he whispers, “can do fucking anything.”
Kiryu blushes hot.
He looks terrified again.
He gasps and his chest heaves once, twice. And then his eyes roll to the back of his head and he drops his head in an audible thunk and he goes ragdoll-limp just like that, just like that, like a fucking baby, he knocks out beneath Majima just like that.
Their stadium crowd is noising out in these studio-audience scandal-whispers, all gossipy and simpering. Majima hears a young throwaway yell something about how much he hates the police. Majima hears another young man jeer about how much he wishes these S&M freaks would keep that shit indoors as he dismounts Kiryu’s body and scoops him up bridal-style. He leaves his bat behind because Nishida is in the gossipy crowd writing down every single thing Kiryu said and did, and he’ll be a good little janitor and clean up the scene before any actual narcs get the drop on them.
Majima shattered his radius and ulna for sure. Kiryu’s arm is going to be in a cast for at least a week, depending on how freakishly fast he decides to heal this time. Both knees are fucked too, he’s not gonna be walking tomorrow. Kiryu’s stallion neck is lolled over Majima’s forearm and seeing his throat extended like that is making him itch. Tan supple skin for miles and miles down the unbuttoned half of his burgundy shirt.
Majima wonders how he goes out like this so shamelessly.
Majima wonders how he does anything at all.
Majima can’t fucking wait to see how Kiryu’s beaten face is going to bloom. It’s so red already, already purpling, already darkening for Majima. His right eye is going to be blue-black as a dog’s gums and it’s going to be fucking incredible.
There’s also something amazing about being seen with Kiryu half-gone in his arms this way. This little damsel. Oh, what happened to that poor man, look at that officer taking care of him, how upstanding, how upstanding.
One of these days, Majima wants Kiryu’s blood sprayed over his neck and jaw and lips, he just wants it there, he wants to see Kiryu splattered over him that way.
There’s something amazing about life and living.
It’s three in the afternoon and Serena is open, but empty. Mama won’t mind if he brings Kiryu back like this, surely not.
She comes running to his attention so worriedly. So concerned, what a good, hospitable mama. She’s got the kind of womanly charm that makes a guy feel mothered. What happened to him, Majima-san? Oh my goodness, thank you for bringing him back, I can close for the day, I can do anything, anything at all.
“He’s okay,” Majima says. “He just needs to rest, ‘s all. Trainin’. Y’know how we are.”
It takes her a bit to get her focus off of Kiryu but when she does and she takes in his officer getup, she sours. Like she can smell it on him. Like yeah, you did that to him didn’t you.
“Where should I put him?” Majima asks.
Over there is fine, over there is fine, there on that couch. Let me grab some pillows. Let me, let me.
Majima asks her for the bathroom and she leads him to one in the back, one in the back back, the one for employees.
Kiryu’s hair gel is on the sink.
Kiryu’s nail clipper is there.
Kiryu’s toothbrush.
Majima sifts through his garbage like a man possessed.
Majima tips his officer cap at her as he leaves and she gives him this disgusted, chagrined smile, like she knows his pockets are stuffed and his gloves are filthy. She just doesn’t know what love is or what love can do to a man.
Majima’s fancy captain desk is probably his favourite part of being a family captain.
Those beautiful built-in organizers. Used tissues go into this compartment. Fingernail clippings go into that compartment, beside the toenail clippings. Majima wanted to take Kiryu’s comb with him but he decided against it, just cleaned it, ripped the stray hairs that had gathered at the base of it and took them home here, baggied and compartmented beside his glorious disposable clear-plastic toothbrush.
Serena is a wonderful bar.
Kiryu doesn’t really sleep. If he does, he sleeps like a corpse, sleeps on his back with his hands crossed defensively over his chest. Majima had Nishida take photographs, stored in that compartment in the back, in these sleek photobooks like family pictures.
Kiryu sleeps on one of the couches that are tucked in the corner against the wall with two unimpressive paintings pinned to it. He sleeps in his outside clothes, sans blazer.
Tonight’s pictures have Kiryu’s arm in a cast, and even in its cast he still has it planted against his chest like a shield. His right knee is in a brace that bulges through his trousers, but miraculously, his left is not. His brows are furrowed, angry in his sleep. His feet flexed, toes pointed up towards the ceiling. If you were to take a picture from bird's eye view he would look like a man standing. All the pillows the bar mama fluffed around Kiryu and tucked under his knees for elevation and bloodflow and blahblahblah are scattered along the floor like mushrooms. Ex-convicts are used to hard surfaces, cold rooms, shitty brick pillows. In the close-up photograph, Kiryu’s beaten eye is already blossoming darker, splattered greens and purples in the shape of Majima’s fist.
Majima pays him a visit the next night. He just wants to see something.
He just wants to see something.
Nishida picks the lock to get in, so Majima does the same.
Kiryu-san mumbles in his sleep and fusses too, I think he has nightmares, oyaji.
Kiryu-san isn’t… always very sensitive to noise, I could walk around in my work shoes, some days. But on other days, he would start to stir the second I unlocked the door and stepped a foot in.
Be careful, oyaji. Please don’t be reckless.
Majima is anything but a careless man. He just wants to see something, he just wants to see something.
Majima picks the lock and gets in easy as fucking pie.
The lights are off. Surprisingly, the light switch is close enough, and it has a dimmer, for ambiance, or whatever. Nishida told him it’d be within arm’s reach and it is. He turns the dimmer switch all the way down then flicks the light on, that way the light that comes through is borderline not light at all. Majima doesn’t know how Kiryu reacts to light because Nishida was too much of a pussy to try turning the lights on point-blank. Nishida had whined, but oyaji, in prison, when it’s time to wake up, they turn all the lights on, just like that, I really think he’d wake up and see me, oyaji.
Which was a fair point, but it still got him his ass whooped. It’s not like Kiryu has anywhere else to go. Nishida, y’could’ve bullshitted, why the fuck else are you my right hand?
Majima is here now, though. Majima’s inside of Kiryu’s safe haven. Just like that. Kiryu was one lockpick away, and now he’s here. Majima is here.
They say you should never trust a man with quiet footsteps. Because they’re never just quiet.
They’re stealthy.
Majima turns the corner and sees him.
It’s like getting decked in the fucking stomach.
The photographs were good, not great. Even though he’s picturesque and looking just like the photograph. Flat on his back, broken arm rested against his barrel chest, good arm crossed over it like a shield, feet flexed, pouting and punched-out. His jacket shucked carelessly across the armrest along with his belt. His right knee still braced.
There’s a coffee table a foot or two away from Kiryu so Majima sits on the edge of it, rooting his feet into the floor. He has to focus on rooting himself. Grounding himself. One with nature and one with the moment. Aligning his chakras. Opening his third eye chakra. Sealing his throat chakra, his dick chakra, his fuck chakra. Majima has to focus here. Kiryu’s breaths are these steady and rabbity things moving his chest up down, up down. They’re so hurried, for what. Majima balls his hand and brings it close to Kiryu’s sleeping face. He hovers it right above his eye and marvels at how the shadow of his fist disappears into the blacking of his achy eye. Kiryu’s lips are swollen, plush, flushed. Majima ducks his head down to look at the underside of Kiryu’s chin and makes out another purple smattering there, this perfect circle hidden behind his goatee. Majima takes a glove off and puts two trembling fingers close to Kiryu’s nose just to feel him breathe on them, huff, huff, huff.
Majima just sits there, love in his eye, watching him.
He sits there for minutes.
Then hours.
He makes a habit of this—of coming to visit Kiryu. He tries to limit himself to once every few nights but he’s an addict and he comes every night.
By one in the morning, if Serena is still busy, and depending on if Kiryu wants to talk to anyone, he takes a walk around the area to kill time and then heads in by the time it’s been emptied out. At two in the morning, he’s in there like clockwork.
At four in the morning, Majima visits. Sometimes five. But mostly four.
Every four a.m. night, Majima lockpicks in and sits on the coffee table.
Every night, he tells himself he just wants to watch.
Every night, Kiryu is this beautiful sleeping angel, breathing deep, consistent breaths, and every night Majima breathes along with him, matching his inhales, his exhales.
Majima is light on his feet so Kiryu never stirs with him.
Sometimes Majima pours himself a stiff drink while he’s at it and sits on the couch beside Kiryu’s couch.
Sometimes Majima starts to itch.
How far can he go?
Tonight, he just wants to see something.
Kiryu is asleep in that guarded soldierly way of his and it makes Majima’s chest soar. He just wants to see something. He just wants to see himself on Kiryu, wants to see it, wants to fucking see it. It makes him quiver and shake, shake, shake, like a dog sees a bunny and starts trembling from how fucking bad it wants to put its fangs straight through its tender bunny belly.
Kiryu always has the top of his shirt unbuttoned like this. Majima counts them: one, two. The cast is just around his forearm so it doesn’t stop him from wearing his jacket properly, but Majima almost wishes it did, just thinks it’d be cute for Kiryu to resort to draping it over his shoulders like a princess.
He just wants to see him. He has to move those arms out of the way, though. Those prison-shield arms. Kiryu must’ve been completely exhausted today because he doesn’t stir or fuss when Majima delicately wraps fingers around his wrist and guides his good arm to his side. God, he must be so beat, so gone, all nii-san’s fault. When Majima moves his broken forearm, his little face twitches, but he doesn’t wake, either. He’s so good for him it’s sickening. Anything as long as nii-san is the one doing it. On his shirt, there are five buttons total. Only four are visible because the fifth one is tucked into his pants. He unbuttons three and four delicately, gently untucks number five then unbuttons it, too. Parting his burgundy shirt like a surgeon parts scalpeled skin. Miles and miles of this beautiful tanned canvas. He’s softer than he was ten years ago but he’s still quilted well enough with muscle, this genetic freak of a man, quilted well enough that his chest has this faint shine to it through the minute, girly peach fuzz. The testosterone in Kiryu’s body went to very choice places—peach fuzz, he’s thirty-seven. It makes Majima burn. It’s like he was born to be fucked. Born to be wanted, sought after, hunted, he’s such a trophy of a boy. His nipples are these little apricot drops pebbled hard at the cold air.
He looks so porny like this. Even his lips are parted.
Majima leans in closer to those plushy obliques and there are these big green bruise ponds scattered all over, the shape of Majima’s toebox.
Majima just wants to do something
Majima can touch. Majima can touch.
Majima can touch.
His hands are shaking, he’s never gone this far before. But he can touch. Today's Kiryu isn’t like yesterday’s Kiryu. Today's Kiryu wants him, needs him.
He hovers both his hands over each of Kiryu’s tits, biting his lip, bouncing his knee. He slowly brings them both down, his gloved hand and bare hand, he brings them down to Kiryu’s tits and bile shoots itself up his throat, he’s so fucking excited. Touching Kiryu’s skin for the first time, he’s always gloved. Touching Kiryu’s skin. His roughened palm skin on Kiryu’s supple, supple, prison skin. He’s so soft. He’s so soft, it’s disgusting, he’s so soft. And cold. Kiryu’s so cold, cold in this room, the air conditioning is blasting. Ex-cons are used to sleeping in the cold so this is normal for today's Kiryu. He’s so smooth he feels like a girl, it’s disgusting. Kiryu makes him boil. Kiryu makes him fucking livid. He’s so fuckable, he’s so perfect it’s disgusting. Kiryu’s fuckable perfect face twitches and his little gaspy lips quiver but he doesn’t stir more than that. Majima squeezes, gentle as he can, his eye is so dry he hasn’t blinked once since stepping foot into Serena. It’s the perfect squeeze of fat on muscle, firm, bouncy. Kiryu noises, but it’s nothing. It’s fine.
Majima just wants to.
Just wants to—just fucking wants to.
He wants to be gentle, Kiryu’s only sleeping, but it’s just, it’s so fucking hard, it’s so fucking difficult, it’s like nothing, nothing he’s ever experienced, nothing is like Kiryu nobody is like Kiryu and Kiryu is laid out like this like a spitted pig on a silver platter it’s making Majima’s chest beat, beat, beat, his cock throbbing hot and heavy in his leather. He has to plant his feet back into the floor and ground himself again. Focus, ground yourself, one in the moment, one in the fucking moment. One in the fucking. Moment. Kiryu’s tits rise and fall in his hands, rabbity breaths, huff, huff, huffing. He stands up. He looms over Kiryu, sliding his grip down to those kicked obliques, pressing, digging his thumbs in. Kiryu makes this pathetic stammery sound. Furrows his brows sad and frowny. His eyes are moving beneath his eyelids, dreaming, looking left right left right up down. Majima carefully, carefully straddles his hips, and Kiryu whimpers. Makes him so sick.
Makes him so fucking sick.
He keeps going back to that beautiful chest, that softness, that wicked womanly softness. He really wants to be gentle here. Majima actually wants to be gentle, for the first time in his life he wants to be gentle and he can’t because this is Kiryu and Kiryu does it to him like nobody else could. His hands grope rougher, he doesn’t mean it, he really doesn’t mean it. He just can’t. He can’t. He can’t. Kiryu’s beautiful throat is right there and he’s supposed to be gentle but he just can’t. Majima’s mouth is so spit-thick he almost drools, he slides his bare hand up to that beautiful throat and gently tilts his chin to the side Majima just wants to see it. He always thinks about it, that ten-year-old cigarette burn from the first time he really battered Kiryu. It’s like a promise ring. Majima drapes his tongue over his lower lip and drags it over that lovely beating carotid. He lines the burn with spit, poking the tip of his tongue into it, marvelling at the tiny, subtle dip. Kiryu whimpers again. Whimpers and twists, turning his head farther to the side, exposing more of that long stretch of jugular. Making these little sex noises as Majima swallows his skin salt down. Whimpering and twisting, whimpering and twisting. Then trying to buck up and getting stopped by Majima’s weight on top of him. Bucking like that just grinds their cocks together and Majima has to bite back a guttural fucking groan.
Now Kiryu starts to fuss.
Actually fuss.
Turning his head from side to side in these heavy lolls, lips parting wider, eyes moving faster, chest heaving faster. Majima puts his ear to that heaving chest to listen to the way his heart beats and it’s such a quick pulse, thumpthumpthump thumpthumpthumping frantically, getting chased in his dream, or getting touched in his dream, or getting fucked in his dream. Majima slides his hands over those thick shoulders and presses him into the cushion more. Extends his leg and plants his foot into the floor for stability, other leg flexing, rock-hard thigh pressing into Kiryu’s hip. Pinning him in place. Leaning up so he towers over him again, bathing him in shadow. Kiryu bucks one last time before gasping this shrieky drama-queen gasp and flinging his lids open like windowshades. Baby’s awake.
His eyes always get so big now, he’s such an easy scare. Majima’s ready for him to fuss and fight and kick and squirm but—and this is intoxicating—Kiryu freezes. Kiryu just freezes. Wide-eyed baby boy, he looks twenty again, younger even, seeing something horrible for the first time, it’s that kind of wide-eyed terror. But it’s only Majima. “It’s just me,” he murmurs. And Kiryu tears up instantly but doesn’t cry, even if his nose reddens.
“It’s just me, ‘iss nii-san,” he says.
Kiryu fusses, fusses, fusses.
“It’s me, baby—’iss me, sweetheart,” pressing him into the cushion more, pressing into his hardbody. “Yer such a scaredy-cat, baby, what’s got ya so cagey, huh?” Majima gropes down his delts to his biceps, squeezes them, slides his hands back to those tits and grabs two loving handfuls. Kiryu shaking his bratty head, biting his trembling lip, this-side of sobbing. Kiryu squeaking, blushing, writhing. Uttering his first words. “What, is this, what’s happening,” and they're doozy, sleep-slurred, sexy.
“Nothing’s happenin’,” Majima whispers. “I just wanted ‘ta see ya,” Majima coos.
“What is, what are you doing, what is this, what are you doing,”
“I just wanted ‘ta see ya.”
“What, nn, why are you, touching me—there—”
“‘Cause,” Majima rubbing the pads of his thumbs against each nipple, “I love ya.”
“Oh, my—oh—” biting off a keen, a burning tear leaking down the side of his sculpted little face. “Nii-san, this, what,” blabbering off nonsense, Majima hushes him, shh, “shh, shh, shh, I just wanna—see somethin’ I just wanted t’see ya, I just wanted ‘ta, do something here,” rocking his stiff cock into Kiryu’s soft groin, grinding his bulge against that zipper, biting his lip, fucking vibrating. “It’s just me, Kiryu-chan, it’s just me,” he murmurs. “It’s just me,” sliding his palms down that tender abdomen and pressing at his abdominals, the way Kiryu noises every time he’s touched, he’s so fucking sensitive God Majima would’ve never known. “I just wanted,” he keeps mumbling, “I just wanted t’see ya, I missed ya, I broke yer knee, yer arm, I missed ya.”
And Kiryu keeps rolling, rocking side to side, twisting around, inadvertently grinding up into Majima, and he keeps streaming these beautiful sounds, it’s ridiculous, he’s a dream, it’s stupid. Majima isn’t even really holding him down anymore and he just stays put like that. Stays put for Majima in this sickening ritual-lamb way.
“What couldn’t I do t’ya. What won’t ya let me do?”
His chest starts heaving up-down crazy again.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Majima hushes. “Just let me, let me, baby—let me, honey, let me,” nodding at Kiryu, nodding and nodding until Kiryu starts nodding, too, and he starts to give like putty, and his breaths even out because he listens, just like that easy as pie, it makes Majima fucking ache. “Anythin’ for yer nii-san, huh?”
“I’m just,” he babbles, “I, just,”
“Yer okay, ‘iss okay, hurtin’ yer head, ya don’t need to think no more.”
All the wide-eyed wonder in the world. Trembling beneath him. He’s so simple. He makes his slaughter so easy. “Okay,” he sniffles.
Like here I am, here’s my throat, here’s where you should slit it.
Just like that.
Just.
Like.
That.
“Anythin’ for me?”
Whining and looking away, tears leaking, leaking, leaking.
“Anythin’ at all, huh?”
His hands get friskier, rougher, this softness is intoxicating, it’s fucking maddening,
“How much d’ya wanna take, huh? What can ya take?”
rutting his erection against Kiryu’s halfie and feeling him twitch through his trousers and he mewls as he’s worked up
and Majima’s hands get rougher, and rougher, he presses up to those kicked obliques and digs again into the green bruising there and this time Kiryu wails, this beautiful ah!, and it’s like hearing his own voice come out that way surprises him and his eyelids flutter and he gets harder for Majima, hot for Majima, he wants Majima
and Majima wants him more than
fucking
anything
and this is it, this is Heaven
he swoops in like an eagle and fuses their mouths together.
Kiryu’s mouth is so warm on the inside, so hot, feverish and stinging. His mouth is so pliant. He gasps into Majima and Majima can feel his breath hit the roof of his mouth and he’s inside of him this way, inside of Kiryu’s body, drilling his tongue into those pink gums, into the tops and bottoms of those pristine teeth and he grabs Kiryu’s jaw and pries it wider and licks, licks, licks into his gape, feasts on his spit, noisily sucking it up, Kiryu keening, squirming, trembling and hardening. Majima loves the way he keeps his eyes closed, he has such a sexy facial expression, an orgasmic one, clenched shut with his brows knitted up his forehead, noising the way he does, like he has erogenous zones in every place Majima molests.
He’s just this docile little doll and it’s sickening.
He lets Majima lick up his chin, slobber all on his pretty weeping face, pouting when Majima licks his tears up. Moaning when Majima licks all down his throat to the crease of his chest, back up to his throat again, shining him in spit, just whining, rolling around, grinding up into Majima, arms long and straight by his sides clenched into these wonderful trembling fists. Whenever he opens his eyes and finds Majima’s lone wolf eye burning into him, he gets flustered and looks away.
The scent of his skin is ripe, lived-in, incredible. There’s this little tang of sweat that Majima cannot get enough of. And when he licks back up to his throat, up to that goatee, frantically nuzzling into that bobbing Adam’s apple, there’s this faint ambery kiss, whatever’s left of his cologne, and it’s just, fucking dizzying—Majima groans and parts his mouth and presses his teeth into the side of Kiryu’s throat, the other side, and he presses them, gentle, wants to be gentle, he does, but he fucking can’t again and he digs in deeper and deeper, hands roaming and squeezing all up and down Kiryu’s twisty midsection, and the deeper his teeth sink the louder Kiryu gets and his teeth keep pushing in and in and in and he wants to snap his jaw shut like a gator and take back a chunk of gushing flesh but he doesn’t somehow he stops when he can taste copper and there is something holy here, lapping up Kiryu’s blood, ingesting him, the process of digestion starts in the throat and when he swallows he pictures Kiryu’s blood cells fizzling into him and making them one and it’s, it’s just, it’s, he has to pull off, he has to pull off or he’s just going to fucking kill him this way and what a sexy way to go but it’s not Kiryu’s time yet even if Kiryu’s screaming sounding like a victim and coming to life beneath Majima, thrashing up into him, crying nii-san nii-san nii-san until nii-san pulls off and spares his jugular, leaving the rugged reddened indent of incisors and canines and molars, feeling the slickness on his own chin smushing his facial hair down, Kiryu’s blood and his spit, he shudders and rubs it into his goatee and shudders and swoops down again.
Sucks and nips all down Kiryu’s chest again, every inch of that beautiful chest, up the sides of his abdomen, those obliques, he bites a bruise and Kiryu wails his good leg springs up and coils itself around Majima’s waist to pry him off but Majima doesn’t move an inch. He pulls off when Kiryu really starts crying for him, these babyish sobs, shaking his head and trying to flail around with his broken body, shoulders jerking up and drop, drop, dropping. Majima drags his tongue in long, sloppy circles over a perky nipple and Kiryu goes back to moaning again, these shy, shuddery things, softening all over again. His other nipple is so spit-slick that Majima’s gloved hand doesn’t even chafe it. Loves his tits played with and they’re so sensitive like a girl’s is on her period. Grinding their clothed cocks together, sucking and laving over his little apricot drop, it gets Kiryu melting, and his moans get pitchier, needier, wilder, jaw-drop ah, ah, ah, mmm, ah, ah, nii-san, oh, my God, oh,
my God, nii-san, please—I’m, nnn, this is—nii-san is—”
Panting and whining through every word like it’s torture to speak, his sweet voice phlegm-thick from crying.
“N-no, I’m—no,” he squeaks. “I-I’m gonna—”
Vibrates, hips thrusting up, pressing Majima’s cock into his own, and then he makes this incredibly pathetic and strangled cry
and he’s cumming for Majima
from his fucking tits, oh my God.
Majima works him through it, sees it till the end, yeah, pressing his slobbery tongue hard into his areola, licks, sucks, finishes him off with a bite and the second Kiryu feels those teeth sink in he starts sobbing again and kicking and fighting again, whining no, no, no so nii-san listens, pulling off and messily kissing at his indents with this filthy smack of lips.
He’s in such a hurry to pull back so he can stare at Kiryu’s mess. At the long, firm line of his cock pressed to his hip and the cum that seeps through his slacks and darkens the grey fabric dark, the fabric shining, glooping to itself, and Kiryu looking so humiliated and tiny when Majima drags his gaze back up his body until their eyes meet and him immediately looking away, with his chest still heaving, his tits still shining, his face still rosy and sweat-glowing.
Majima darts his grabby hands to that waistband and Kiryu stiffens all up again and croaks this tiny, beaten gasp, but he lets Majima do it anyway, lets Majima unbutton his pants and tug them down his hips. He even lifts his hips to help Majima along even if he looks terrified again. He just fucking lets him. And he’s not wearing anything under his pants, he’s just bare there, Majima smells the musk of his cummy cock and feels the drool in his mouth fucking triple. He takes a quick lick—just fucking has to, he has to—slurps Kiryu’s shining pink head clean, groaning at the taste of Kiryu rolling all the way down his throat, making Kiryu nearly crymoan again, twisting back into the sofa cushions.
Majima dreamy-sighs. “God, just fuckin’ look at ya.” Tugs his pants all the way off his legs and throws them aside, spreading his thighs, sitting between them.
He wants to take his time with this, much as he can. He wants this to last.
He doesn’t know if Kiryu would ever let him do this again, even if he loves him, even if he does it for nii-san. Even if he takes it for nii-san.
He doesn’t know what’s going on in that little distant cloud of a head but he can see how Kiryu’s body reacts to him, wants him, needs him, beckons him close. Parting his legs like this, he can see the warmth of Kiryu’s hole, same colour as his nipples, this adorable apricot pucker. Kiryu’s bad knee won’t give him any trouble if Majima’s the one maneuvuring him, so he does, grabbing a firm ankle and gently moving it up, up, up, until he brings it to rest on his shoulder.
Kiryu’s face keeps blushing, so embarrassed. It’s so sexy. He’s so exposed like this and he knows it. Every hidden part of his body is now here before Majima, before his scrutiny, before his aching, aching teeth, and he knows he’s gonna get fucking eaten, that’s why he’s so cagey, so sensitive, so little like this. When Majima brings his bare fingers to Kiryu’s lips and pushes them past their hesitant part, Kiryu watches back at him with this nervous, nervous stare, and tongues at his fingers, he knows what to do. But he’s so scared about it. When Majima pulls them out of his sweet little suction and spits on them, too, then guides them down between his thighs, he actually tears up again—and God he’s tearing up so easily tonight it’s really making Majima itch—and despite those tears in his eyes, he lets Majima do it anyway.
Turning his cry-shiny face away into his shoulder when Majima nudges a finger into him. Biting his lip as Majima works him looser, fucking out his tight little asshole. The second finger makes his back arch and chest heave, and Majima noisily spits a fat frothy wad onto his clench so the noise his asshole makes gets wetter and sluttier, making him open-mouthed pant into his arm, clenching his eyes shut, biting back every single moan that wants to come up his throat. And even though he’s tight, Majima can tell it’s unfucked-tight, not uncomfy-tight—he’s played with his ass before, he’s had his ass played with before, and with every time Majima rocks his fingers into him and curls them up into his walls Kiryu’s chest rises and his thighs start quivering, and it gets harder for him to not be noisy, he’s fighting it for no reason, biting his tongue that way. “Can ya cum like this?” Majima coos and the strained, throaty rasp he fingerfucks out of Kiryu is answer enough. He nails that one little spot that keeps making him arch off the couch until he can’t shut up no more and he lets Majima hear him, starts blabbering so agonized, so weary, “ah, oh my—God, oh my God, oh my God no, no I’m t-too—no, you can’t, do this to me,” yelping and writhing like it hurts but it doesn’t, crybaby blue this-side of crying again, blabbering and blabbering “please you can’t—do this to me you can’t fucking do this to me, no,” and he gets all frantic squirmy again rolling and rolling and rolling, “no, not again—not again, I can’t, I can’t,” but he can and Majima just fucking knows he can so he keeps working him, nailing him there, groaning “do it, baby, fuck yeah, baby,” ramming his fingers like they’re his cock picturing his cock bathed in warmth nestled deep in that sweet ass, fingerfucking so hard that his knuckles bash the meat of his ass like punches.
Both of Kiryu’s hands balled, good arm pressing to the side of the couch, scrambling for something, anything, just fucking scrambling, he sobs “please,” one last time. And this time Majima knows he’s cumming and he’s so fucking ready for it he has his eye on Kiryu’s twitching dick and he watches the way it twitches once, twice, before he starts to spill and he fucking bursts for Majima, shoots his sticky ropes all over himself, gets it on his shirt, his abs, his chest, his collarbones, his thighs quivering, his calves, too, this beautiful full-body tremble and before Kiryu gets lucid and nervous again Majima keeps his fingers snug in his warmth, toying with his insides as he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons and unzips and springs his hefty dripping cock out and Kiryu mewls as he draws his fingers out and he lines himself up with that tiny puckered gape. One hand on his cock and the other gripping death-tight on Kiryu’s muscled thigh. His heartbeat thundering his fucking ears. He gets desperate suddenly—feels his entire body soak in scorching heat. He pushes himself into Kiryu’s asshole and Kiryu’s soft enough to take it he actually sucks him in. His sweet little ass isn’t stretched enough for Majima’s girth but
“Oh my fucking God,” he squeals
but he takes it, oh he fucking takes it.
”Fuck yeah,” he slurs, “oh fuck yeah,”
Hugging him in so deep and fucking sweet he’s inside of Kiryu’s body, he’s inside of Kiryu, he snaps his hips flush to Kiryu’s hips
“Ah!”
and pictures his dick in that stomach, infiltrating his guts, carving himself into Kiryu forever, claiming him from the inside fucking out oh he feels so fucking good and he’s grabbing onto Majima’s shoulders now digging all ten nails into his snakeskin shoulders glassy-eyed and miserable-looking and Majima fucks him—Majima fucks him, Majima fucks the shit out of him. Pulling back, pressing in, this violent ebb-flow-ebb-flow, leaning back so he can watch the way he disappears into Kiryu, every inch of his cock into that needy hole, and the way Kiryu clutches at him, God he’s incredible, twisting around and shuddering and moaning and he’s hurting but he takes it, he fusses but he takes it, trying to twist his bad leg around to coil around Majima’s neck from the back but he hurts himself and he’s hurt as Majima pulls out and pounds back in so the blisteringly raw hurt noise that comes out of him is almost like nothing Majima has ever heard him sound like before and it’s like hearing it drives Majima into this complete fucking frenzy he just wants to take and take and take from Kiryu until he’s nothing but bone, he wants to boil him for broth, he wants to shoot him into his veins, he wants to grind him to flour and fucking snort him he wants to he wants to he wants to
he wants
to
fucking
kill
him
but he can’t no no no no nononono he just fucks him he feels so good, clingy hole sucking him back in every time he pulls out even if Kiryu’s acting like it’s hell, it’s not hell, Kiryu wants him and he fucking knows it.
“Ya don’t know—what ya fuckin’ do to me, ya don’t know fuckin’ anything,” Majima hisses.
“Y’don’t know how much I fuckin’ love ya,” Majima hisses.
“Y’don’t know what I’ve fuckin’ done for ya, y’don’t know shit, y’don’t know fuckin’ anything,”
battering into him, balls crudely slapping against his ass, he pins Kiryu’s wriggling hip down and keeps pounding into his squelchy asshole making these slutty slutty noises
God the stench of sex is filling up Serena and Kiryu is this petrified wide-eyed thing again hiccuping on every moan, crying and fucking crying so much
and he keeps trying to run and writhe away from Majima’s brutal punishing cock but he can’t, not here, he’s not allowed to run anymore.
“Take it. Fucking take me, take it,” he says
Kiryu’s fingers drilling into his snakeskin shoulders travelling to the sides of his neck, Kiryu clings onto him just to cling onto something
clinging to his neck, clinging to his dick, sucking him in, such a warm and easy ass he’s so relaxed even as he’s this fighty and scared
soaking up this heat all this heat heat heat this searing searing warmth like God’s wrath
every thrust makes Kiryu’s tits and cock bounce, rocked like a baby, he’s so sexy
Majima’s body brims
so full of life and love and
hate and
molten rock cooling and hardening and melting and gooing in his veins over and over and over feels like he’s losing his fucking mind like moving with Kiryu like this is going to make him implode
Majima’s grab is so forceful it’s a slap he snatches Kiryu’s face between his fingers to grit “I love you,” through his teeth between thrusts, like
I
love
you
and he wants to crush him he presses their foreheads together and pulls out until the head of his cock catches on the last rim of Kiryu’s cunthole and hammers back in, again and again, again and fucking again and again and Kiryu’s voice sounds hoarse from how much he’s been whining and the way he babbles sounds just as desperate as Majima feels, him and his massive sacrifice eyes and his sad sad face peering up at Majima as he babbles “I can’t like this, I can’t like this,” and Majima asks him, “do you fucking love me?” and Kiryu breaks out into another fit of crybaby sobs, shoulders jerking up and drop, drop, dropping, his sobs bouncing with each fuck Majima slams into him and Majima asks again, spit frothing at the corners of lips, “do you fucking love me?” and this time Kiryu nods, sniffling, weeping, moaning long loud and pained, and Majima grabs a fistful of hair with his other hand and yanks his head back and asks one more boiling time, “do you fucking love me?” and this time Kiryu sobs “yes, yes, yes, I love you, nii-san, I love you, nii-san,” and Majima shudders and his eye rolls to the back of his head and he leans in that slight distance to close the gap between them and sucks on Kiryu’s tongue as he cums inside his little grippy ass.
“I ‘ove nii-san,” Kiryu blubbers into him. “I-I, ‘ove you,” crumbling to ash as he’s stuffed, here on this sofa, here in Serena, here in Safe Haven. Majima fills him, fills him fills him fills him.
And when Majima keeps himself inside, when Majima doesn’t pull out, doesn’t dare leave him alone, Kiryu just lets him. When Majima maneuvers him to his side, mumbling, mumbling, mumbling under his breath, curling his arms around his midsection and pressing him in so hard that his breaths leave him creaked and laboured, Kiryu just lets him. Kiryu’s smeared in his filth and Majima’s filth and his skin sticks to the couch leather but. He just lets him. Little lamb, he just lets him.
Like here I am. Here’s my throat.
Here’s where you should slit it.