The Fight wip
Jan. 9th, 2021 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uso_dayoIchiro Yamada threw the first punch. That shouldn’t have been surprising. Samatoki Aohitsugi was just so goddamn good at hitting his buttons. These days, they were more likely to turn to their mics, but Samatoki had gone too far. Ichiro just swung—a gut instinct, a knee-jerk reaction—his knuckles making sick contact with Samatoki’s jaw.
Samatoki’s head whipped to the side, his lit cigarette still clenched between his teeth. He cracked his neck and wiped the back of his fist across his sneering lips. “That all ya got, prissy punk? Ya got soft lookin’ after those shitty brothers o’ yours.”
There it was again: the only thing that would really make him throw a punch these days. Ichiro audibly grit his teeth. He snatched ahold of Samatoki’s collar and tugged him close. “Shut the fuck up ‘bout my bros!”
Bad move. Samatoki sent his right fist directly into Ichiro’s gut. Ichiro doubled over, gasping, his arms instinctively going to his stomach. Samatoki grabbed his head with both hands and brought it down into his knee. Ichiro stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose, but he did not fall. Rule number one in a fight: never go down. Go down, and it’s over. He remembered that from their last big fight. On that stage, Ichiro’s arms clinging to Samatoki’s leg, defeated yet still begging him to not hit the button.
The sick desperation twisting Ichiro’s gut as he had cried, Please! They’ll kill my li’l brothers!
Samatoki’s cold, cruel stare as he had said, You think I don’t know that?
That cruel, uncaring glare was burned into the back of Ichiro’s mind more thoroughly than Kuko screaming that he hated Ichiro. Kuko was a personal betrayal that still stung. Samatoki looking his friend in the face and saying I’m going to kill your brothers and I’m not sorry, then slamming that button—that was a conscious decision to take away Ichiro’s entire family. They were all he had left. They were why he even got up in the morning. Even if Samatoki didn’t hate his guts, Ichiro couldn’t let that slide. He could forgive a brother wanting to save his sister. He couldn’t forgive that stare.
“Ha! That all you got, brat?!” the present Samatoki laughed.
Ichiro sent a right hook flying for Samatoki’s face. Samatoki caught it in one hand and aimed a gut punch with his other. Ichiro blocked it with his left arm and pushed forward, kicking into Samatoki’s stance. Samatoki’s stone grip on Ichiro’s fist loosened as he lost his balance for a fraction of a second. Ichiro took that second and wrenched his fist out of Samatoki’s grip, sending his elbow crashing into Samatoki’s chin in the same swift movement.
Samatoki reeled back and spat a glob of blood onto the concrete. Now Ichiro was fighting more like the man he once knew. This was almost an outright street brawl. He scoffed, “You’re not gonna bring me down with that weakass shit. Ya couldn’t beat me back then, and ya can’t beat me now. Rap or a fistfight.”
“Come at me, then,” Ichiro bit.
Grinning, Samatoki obliged. He aimed a fist at Ichiro’s temple, intending to destroy his equilibrium and send him flying. Ichiro ducked and boxed a fist at Samatoki’s gut. Even a cold-hearted yakuza was human. He grunted, biting back a cough. Ichiro took the opportunity to straighten and lunge forward, slamming his right forearm against Samatoki’s chest and shoving him against the wall.
They glared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, Samatoki’s cigarette long lost, his red eyes and Ichiro’s mismatched ones glowing with vitriol. They were finally the same height. Hatred, the world’s great equalizer.
Well, maybe not. A wicked smirk snaked along Samatoki’s face. “Ya don’t got it in ya, do ya? Ya never did, ya fuckin’ hypocrite. You talked like a goddamn delinquent and ya used to throw one helluva punch, but you don’t got the stones.”
“I’ll show you stones,” Ichiro growled, pressing his arm against Samatoki’s throat. “Mention my brothers one more goddamn time.”
Samatoki choked, then laughed maniacally. His voice strained against Ichiro’s arm, he said, “The hell are you, a girl? Choking, really?”
“You got no goddamn right t’ even mention them after you tried to take their fucking lives,” Ichiro snarled, pressing harder and harder against Samatoki’s throat with every word.
Samatoki barked another sardonic, strangled laugh. “That’s rich...comin’ from you…” He twisted his fist in Ichiro’s hoodie and tugged him centimeters from his face, straining against Ichiro’s arm, choking himself even further. Despite that, his next words were crystal clear. “Why don’tcha tell me more about those useless fucking morals? You almost got your brothers killed. I was just doin’ right by my own. Same as you. Grow the fuck up.”
Ichiro slammed his arm into Samatoki’s throat, knocking his head into the brick wall. “Then why the fuck do you hate me so goddamn much?! What the hell did I do?!”
Samatoki swung a fist at Ichiro’s head. Ichiro caught it with his free hand without even bothering to turn to look. Mismatched eyes burned into Samatoki’s own eyes. That glare, those eyes… They were the same as the seventeen-year-old boy Samatoki once knew. He clicked his tongue. The guy he was once so close to and the bastard who took away Nemu were the same person. He hated seeing the ghost of his friend. He fucking despised him. He didn’t want to be reminded of what they had.
“You know what the fuck you did,” Samatoki said coolly. “You know what we were fightin’ for.”
“Yeah? You won, Samatoki. You fucking won. So where is she?”
Samatoki pressed the back of his head against the cool brick. He inhaled, then slammed his head into Ichiro’s. Ichiro stumbled back, disoriented, his hand going to his forehead. His fingers came away red.
“You LOST and you still got your brothers back,” Samatoki screamed, his voice shattering as it shot out of his abused throat. “What the hell does that say about you?!”
Ichiro threw out his arms aggressively, a shrug that said Hell if I know!
Standing there like he didn’t know, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Samatoki grit his teeth. Ichiro still had everything. Samatoki had nothing. Now he had his yakuza subordinates and Rio and Jyuto, but back then, right after they all split up? He had nothing but violence. Life isn’t fair. Ha.
With Ichiro standing there with his arms out, his guard down, he was just asking for it. Samatoki bowled forward and slammed bodily into Ichiro, knocking him down with an elbow to his gut. Ichiro went down easily, still disoriented by the headbutt. Samatoki landed on top of him with a knee on his stomach. His hands hit the ground on either side of Ichiro’s face.
Even with all that gel spiking Samatoki’s hair, his bangs still fell toward Ichiro, silver locks framing his face. Ichiro’s breath caught in his throat. Those red, glowering eyes were glowing embers, yet they weren’t enough to make Ichiro flinch. For a moment, all he could find himself able to do was stare.
That moment didn’t last long for Samatoki. His left fist twisted in Ichiro’s collar as he wrenched him up off the pavement. His hot breath hit Ichiro’s skin in furious puffs. His breath still smelled like cigarettes: familiar, burnt gray. Their lips were half a breath away.
Ichiro found his eyes drifting down to those lips. Even as Samatoki pulled back his right fist to deliver what might be the last punch of the night—then lights out—Ichiro didn’t flinch. Instead, his right hand fisted the hair at the back of Samatoki’s head, and he closed the gap. Soft lips touched Samatoki’s chapped ones, and Samatoki’s lips parted slightly, confused and thrown off-guard. Rather than use that as an opportunity to throw a punch or a kick, Ichiro tightened his grip on Samatoki’s hair, pulling it taut, as he desperately deepened the kiss. His hair was softer than he expected, the product gently shaping it rather than hardening it. He found he liked the feeling of it even as he tugged harder.
Samatoki grunted, grounded by the pain. His knee shifted from Ichiro’s stomach to the concrete between Ichiro’s legs, then he used the fist still clenching Ichiro’s hoodie to shove him back down into the ground. Ichiro gasped into the kiss, expecting Samatoki to break it. Instead, his mouth followed Ichiro’s down, continuing with fervor. The kiss grew heated as Samatoki’s teeth scraped against Ichiro’s lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.
Ichiro grunted, his stomach doing warm little flips that wove downward. He pulled away to lick his lips, tasting familiar copper. Familiar upon familiar. Samatoki’s eyes bore into him as they zoned in on those glistening lips. Snarling, his left hand dropped from Ichiro’s hoodie to instead leverage himself against the ground. His right hand, which was so ready to punch Ichiro square in the jaw earlier, held Ichiro’s left wrist down. Ichiro bit back a small sound in the back of his throat as Samatoki returned to his lips. Not willing to be outdone, he met Samatoki’s intensity, heat for heat, and they abused each other’s lips. Even this was a competition for them.
Ichiro tugged on Samatoki’s hair, dragging grunts and moans from his throat. He broke the kiss to follow them, clumsy kisses trailing along Samatoki’s jaw and neck. Samatoki’s knee shifted, pressing against Ichiro. He groaned.
“Ha. Already half hard?” Samatoki asked, grinning wickedly.
“Shut up,” Ichiro grumbled, flushing as red as his headphones. Embarrassment briefly washed over him, and for half a heartbeat, he wondered what the hell they were doing. Then Samatoki ground his knee into him again, and need drowned out everything else. Ichiro’s free hand grabbed the collar of Samatoki’s antique shirt and yanked him down for a rough kiss.
Samatoki pulled away with a snarl, “Hey, watch the merchandise.”
“Hah. I bet this shirt’s older’n me,” Ichiro sniped, smirking messily, his lips red and swollen from abuse. “I’m doin’ you a favor.”
“Shut up,” Samatoki grunted, emphasizing his words with another grind into Ichiro’s bound cock. “It’s vintage.”
Ichiro moaned, his hips rolling up of their own volition. “You’re vintage.”
To shut him up, Samatoki kissed Ichiro like he roughed up punks on the street: violent and with no room for argument. As a bonus, he wouldn’t be able to stare at Ichiro’s glistening lips like some kind of idiot. Win, win.
Ichiro’s hand drifted from Samatoki’s hair and roamed down his back, hiking up his shirt to slide blunt nails against his skin.
Samatoki hissed, “Fuck.” He grabbed Ichiro’s belt and tugged it violently, his knee pressing against Ichiro’s cock straining against his jeans. “Get this shit off.”
“Fuck you,” Ichiro spat, biting his cheek to keep from groaning. “Get off yourself.”
Samatoki clicked his tongue, his lip curling. He ripped Ichiro’s free hand out from under his shirt and pinned it to the ground to join the other, his strong fingers wrapping around both wrists. Sneering, he said, “One hand’s all I need, then.”
Ichiro kicked and squirmed under him as Samatoki worked Ichiro’s belt open with expert fingers. He ripped his fly down and slipped a rough hand past denim to cup Ichiro through scarlet boxer briefs. Ichiro moaned despite himself. Samatoki’s hand slipped out, and Ichiro’s hips rose to follow the precious contact. A whine rose in his throat.
“Ha. Desperate bitch, aren’tcha?”
Ichiro growled wordlessly, renewing his struggles to escape Samatoki’s hold. He kicked at him even as Samatoki yanked down Ichiro’s jeans.
“Shaddup,” Samatoki commanded, drawing out the vowels like any other street punk. But he wasn’t just any other street punk, was he? He shoved two fingers past Ichiro’s lips and grabbed his tongue.
Ichiro groaned around Samatoki’s fingers, which loosened their grip. His wet tongue slid between and around those slender fingers, sufficiently coating them. His tongue slipped over a cold, silver ring, and a pleasant shiver raced up his spine as he fondled it. Samatoki was transfixed, Ichiro’s tongue eliciting little sounds from the throat of a man usually so proud and dominant. Ichiro narrowed his eyes and scraped his teeth against Samatoki’s fingers before biting down just enough to leave a mark.
“Agh, shit!”
Ichiro released Samatoki’s fingers with a wet smirk. Growling, Samatoki yanked Ichiro’s pants down to his ankles, restricting his movements just as well as any restraints. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against Ichiro just to make a point. A strangled moan escaped Ichiro’s parted lips. Now Samatoki was the one who was smirking. Slowly, as though to prolong his suffering, Samatoki meticulously pulled Ichiro’s underwear down over his throbbing cock. The fabric was glossy with precum, and it peeled away from Ichiro agonizingly slowly. Samatoki watched it hungrily.
“Get the hell on with it already,” Ichiro grit out, voice strained.
A sadistic grin spread across Samatoki’s face. That was exactly what he was waiting to hear. He wasn’t a patient man, anyway. Samatoki slid Ichiro’s boxer briefs down to his ankles. “Gladly.” Calloused hands grabbed Ichiro’s hips and forced his ass up onto his lap. Slick fingers pressed against Ichiro’s opening for one brief moment. Ichiro had just enough time to suck in a shocked breath through his teeth before Samatoki pressed both fingers in to the second knuckle.
Ichiro clenched around his fingers and winced. “Shit—! W-wait, dammit!”
“Oh, now ya want me to wait?” Samatoki experimentally curled his fingers. “Make up your damn mind, hypocrite.”
“A-ah!” Electric shocks bolted up Ichiro’s spine as it straightened, and a not unpleasant warmth flickered deep in his groin like a match being lit, driving some of the pain away like darkness in an empty room. He hadn’t even noticed that Samatoki had let go of his wrists. He was immobilized by his senses firing away.
“There ya go. Relax, damn,” Samatoki muttered irritably, half to himself. Once again pinning Ichiro’s wrists one-handed, he pushed his fingers in to the final knuckle and began working Ichiro open with practiced ease.
That quiet side of Samatoki was one that Ichiro no longer got to see, and despite their current situation, it reminded Ichiro of back then, when they were close. Even with Ichiro’s ass in the air, his hands held down, Samatoki’s fingers inside him, there was a part of him that missed those days. It was the same part of him that felt a thrill at being held down and restrained by the same man so many years later.
Ichiro clicked his tongue. He wasn’t gonna just lay there and take it. He bet Samatoki was loving this, and that thought made his guts boil. He kicked off his shoes and jeans, underwear and all, then wrapped his legs around Samatoki’s middle.
“Wha—?” Samatoki started.
Pushing his restrained hands back against the pavement and lifting his lower back further into the air, Ichiro flipped them both over. Samatoki’s fingers slipped out of Ichiro, and Ichiro landed securely on Samatoki’s stomach, his bare knees scraping the dirt on either side. He grinned down at Samatoki, proud of himself. “I like this view better.”
“Fuck off,” Samatoki spat. The damn brat was cute like that, beaming like an idiot. Goddammit. He bucked his hips, trying to get Ichiro off of him. He reached for Ichiro’s hoodie.
“I don’t think so.” Ichiro rolled his weight back, his bare ass grinding into Samatoki.
Samatoki groaned, his hands falling to Ichiro’s hips. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ichiro’s cock dripping with precum. It looked so neglected.
“If we’re doing this,” Ichiro said breathlessly, undoing Samatoki’s belt with both hands, “We’re doin’ it my way.”
“Ha. Impatient brat,” Samatoki breathed.
Ichiro worked Samatoki’s pants open without much preamble. If sex was a song, they’d already had the warm-up and the lead-in. It was time to get to the meat of it. Samatoki’s half-hard cock rose into the night air, grateful to be freed. Samatoki, however, did not look grateful. He was watching Ichiro with a narrowed, cold gaze like a predator watching another toe the line of its territory. He wanted to see what Ichiro would do next.
A blush rose to Ichiro’s cheeks, but he was never one to get stage fright. This was just another performance, another competition, and he was going to win. Frowning resolutely, biting his lip with focus, Ichiro positioned himself over Samatoki’s cock, then lowered himself over it. Samatoki’s cock rubbed Ichiro’s opening, teasing it as the cock slid up his ass.
“Wh—! What the hell, you missed,” Samatoki bit, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “How the fuck can you miss, dumbass?”
“I didn’t miss,” Ichiro said bluntly, confident. He raised his ass again before lowering it, and Samatoki’s cock pressed up against Ichiro’s entrance before slipping up between his cheeks. The heat in Ichiro’s face rose, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment. Somehow, it was exciting to tease himself while simultaneously denying Samatoki exactly what he wanted. He smirked down at his rival.
Samatoki’s cock twitched as though he knew exactly what was running through Ichiro’s head. MTC communicated largely through actions, not words, and now that he and Ichiro weren’t shouting profanities at each other, they suddenly spoke the same language. He could feel Ichiro’s heat—his body, his need—like a verse in a rap. Watching Ichiro get off on teasing himself like that was almost too much. Samatoki wasn’t going to sit still for long. They were both impatient men.
Hands on Ichiro’s hips, Samatoki rocked him back and forth over his cock, setting the pace as he let him tease them both. Here and there, Samatoki thrust his hips up, throwing off Ichiro’s rhythm and eliciting a stuttering breath and a glare. Once Samatoki was completely hard, he wet his own fingers, then reached down and mercilessly spread Ichiro’s cheeks wide open. Ichiro gasped, stopping for just a moment from surprise alone. That gave Samatoki the chance to slip slick fingers inside him, once again right at home as he worked him open. Little grunts and moans rumbled deep in Ichiro’s chest; he was somehow both cute and manly, a juxtaposition Samatoki never thought would work so damn well together. Ichiro’s mouth hanging open, panting hotly as unfocused, mismatched eyes became half-lidded—it suited him. Outside of their spats, Ichiro was usually so cool-headed. Samatoki wanted to see him completely unhinged.
Ichiro’s hips rolled of their own accord as he fucked himself on Samatoki’s fingers. He leaned forward, giving Samatoki better access to his ass. He didn’t care what he looked like anymore. It felt too damn good. He wrapped a large, rough hand around both their cocks and began to stroke.
Two fingers curled inside Ichiro as Samatoki smacked his hand away. He glowered up at him. “Back off. You’ll make us come too fast, dumbass.”
Ichiro’s body shuddered around Samatoki’s experienced fingers as he struggled to throw back a retort.
Samatoki curled his fingers again, pressing down on that electric button inside every man. “The fuck did I just say? Shut up and listen to your elders.”
“F-fuck...you…” Ichiro grit out around a moan.
“Ha. I think ya got it the other way ‘round.” Not that Samatoki would mind it that way, too.
Ichiro clamped down on Samatoki’s fingers in anticipation. He was still a little too tight, but Samatoki liked it rough. He could go in raw. His fingers slipped out of Ichiro. A keening sound escaped Ichiro’s throat before he swallowed it. He didn’t have to feel hollow for long, though; Samatoki grabbed his hips, lined himself up, and slammed into him.
Ichiro cried out, pain and shock swirling with something else stirring inside of him. Stars danced in his vision. Samatoki held him down flush against him, his calloused fingers already leaving bruises. His firm grip left no room for argument: he would stay still until he was ready. Ichiro hardly had the presence of mind to argue, anyway.
After a couple moments, Samatoki guided Ichiro’s hips up, slowly, before pulling him back down hard. He continued that tantalizing, violent rhythm as one hand wrapped around Ichiro’s cock, his thumb brushing across the tip just so.
The stars returned to Ichiro’s sight, but this time it wasn’t just for the pain. Pleasure mixed with it in a confusing array of color, overwhelming his senses. It was too much. He’d never felt so completely before; senses were being born and dying as quickly as the stars in the sky millions of lightyears away, senses that hadn’t existed before this moment exploding into a supernova of sensations. Nothing else existed in the universe but those sensations. It was just him, Samatoki, and his cock. For this brilliant moment, nothing else mattered.
Ichiro strained against Samatoki’s rough hold, rocking on Samatoki’s cock as much as he could. His mouth hung open. His eyes were glassy and glazed. Samatoki’s fingers clenched Ichiro’s hips painfully, eliciting a mewling moan from Ichiro.
“Don’t go fucking yourself without my goddamn permission,” Samatoki grit out. “You do this my way.”
Ichiro hardly had the presence of mind to respond. His hips continued to buck under Samatoki’s hold as he gasped sweet sounds of bliss.
“Ha. You can’t even hear me, can you?”
Smirking, Samatoki led Ichiro’s ass until he nearly slipped out, then slammed him back down again. Ichiro screamed with pleasure. Samatoki dug his nails into Ichiro’s hips and growled, “Fuckin’ slut.”
Ichiro’s cock twitched. His hips stopped their relentless rutting, his thighs twitching.
“Hahh? Ya like that, huh?” Samatoki eased Ichiro up before shoving him back down, his pace quickening, the moments between him nearly slipping out before once again filling him becoming shorter and shorter. “Who knew someone so goddamn proud was such a slut?”
Ichiro resumed rocking against Samatoki’s cock, and this time, Samatoki let him. His hands settled on Ichiro’s hips, gently guiding him back down onto his cock with each buck of Ichiro’s hips. He no longer needed Samatoki to force him to impale himself over and over again. He never did. He wanted this, wanted this so bad for so goddamn long, and now that he had it he was never letting it go. Ichiro mindlessly fucked himself on Samatoki’s thick cock as he moaned and cried out loud enough for anyone beyond the alley to hear.
The thought of a passerby hearing them, seeing them like this, made Samatoki’s cock jolt inside Ichiro. Ichiro keened as his insides tightened around him. Growling, Samatoki grabbed Ichiro’s hips and rolled them over. Ichiro’s head slammed into the pavement as he fell, but Samatoki paid him no mind. Still ferociously gripping Ichiro’s hips, Samatoki frantically slammed into him. Dizzying stars blurring Ichiro’s vision, his cries grew louder as both their flames mounted within them, their earlier sparks becoming a raging bonfire. Ichiro’s shirt rode up, sharp hip bones and abs peeping out from beneath the fabric.
Samatoki’s hand slid under Ichiro’s shirt and hoodie of its own accord. His thumb brushed one of Ichiro’s nipples, causing a quivering whimper. The hand continued up his chest before stopping at his neck. Strong fingers wrapped around Ichiro’s throat and squeezed. Ichiro gagged, his pupils dilating madly.
“Oh~ You’re a kinky little slut, huh?” Samatoki panted, his breath hot between them.
Ichiro moaned, but Samatoki cut off the tail end by tightening his grip. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how to choke out a guy. He just wasn’t as precise as Rio. He’d never had to hold back before. He could easily make Ichiro pass out. Not that he would stop thrusting into him if he did, but he liked hearing Ichiro’s moans knowing he was the cause of them. He didn’t want to silence him. The minute he thought Ichiro was about to pass out, he let go.
Ichiro gulped in air hungrily, moaning on every exhale. His cock shook between them, dripping precum all over his bare stomach.
Samatoki licked his lips. He wanted to lick it off. Instead, he stilled his hips and forced Ichiro’s shirt and hoodie up and over his head before tying them up at his wrists.
“A-ah... Wha...” Ichiro stammered, chest heaving with every fast beat of his heart.
Samatoki pulled back and thrust hard, dragging a scream from Ichiro’s abused throat. “Shut up. I like this view better.”
Ichiro moaned as Samatoki resumed his merciless pace. He breathed, “Bastard...”
Samatoki leaned forward, crushing Ichiro’s cock between them as he kissed him forcefully. Samatoki’s vintage shirt rode up over Ichiro’s cock until it found bare skin. Ichiro whined as his cock slid against Samatoki’s abs. As Samatoki fucked him and Ichiro rolled his hips to meet him, his own cock slipped between their bare stomachs. He was fucking what little space was still between them.
Ichiro broke the kiss wetly, all thoughts of composure having long fled. “I-I’m gonna…”
“Me too,” Samatoki grunted. His lips brushed Ichiro’s ear as he growled lowly, “Come with me.”
A delicious shiver ran down Ichiro's spine and straight to his cock. Something snapped behind his eyes, and he came with more force than he ever had before. As Ichiro’s inner walls trembled and clamped down on Samatoki’s cock, he came with a grunt, filling Ichiro with his hot cum. Samatoki closed his eyes and pumped inside of Ichiro, riding out his orgasm. Ichiro stuttered moans, every movement making his over-sensitive body shudder. His legs twitched as his feet lifted into the air, toes curling. Long lashes fluttered as his hands strained against the fabric binding his wrists.
Finally, Samatoki stopped. He panted hot breaths against Ichiro’s neck, earning another keening moan. After a moment, he carefully pulled out and rolled over to sit on the dirty ground. Leaning back on one hand, he shoved rough fingers back through his hair as he tried to catch his breath.
Ichiro turned his head to watch Samatoki with hooded eyes. With his white hair pushed back like that, he looked just like he did back then. Ichiro let himself stare, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Warmth was still washing through his body in waves; he felt too good to feel angry. With all that fury stripped away, he only felt sad. Samatoki had only just pulled out, but his body was already yearning for him again. His heart, too.
Samatoki’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. Finally noticing Ichiro’s stare, he caught his eyes with a narrowed, inscrutable gaze of his own. Both of their lips were flushed from kissing like it was a street brawl. Their chests heaved in tandem. Samatoki’s cum leaked out of Ichiro’s ass.
Ichiro made a sound that was dangerously close to a whine. “You came inside…”
Samatoki’s hand lowered to reach over Ichiro. He ran one finger down Ichiro’s stomach, his cum gathering on his finger like frosting. Without breaking eye contact, his gaze intense, Samatoki brought his finger to his lips and licked Ichiro’s cum clean off.
Samatoki hummed thoughtfully. “Not sorry. Kinda bitter, though.”
Ichiro let go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Fuck you,” he said breathlessly.
It wasn’t bitter, though. It was sweet. Samatoki clicked his tongue softly and leaned over Ichiro, rough hands unworking the shirt tangled in Ichiro’s hands. His fingers accidentally brushed against Ichiro’s palms, and somehow, despite everything they had just done, that felt the most intimate. Ichiro shivered involuntarily as he watched Samatoki carefully free his bound hands.
Ichiro rubbed his wrist, but it didn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to dispel the feeling of Samatoki’s fingers or if he wanted him to pin him down again.
Samatoki pushed to his feet with a groan and tugged up his pants, zipping his fly. With some effort, Ichiro pushed himself up to a sitting position and immediately regretted it. The world tilted on its axis. A hand pressed to his forehead. “Shit,” he murmured. He found he was disappointed it was his own hand.
Samatoki watched Ichiro with cold eyes. He swore he didn’t care, but he had to ask, “You gonna make it?”
“Yeah,” Ichiro bit with less vitriol than he wanted. He reached down and slipped two fingers inside himself, only to be rewarded with a glob of cum oozing out. Somehow it felt good, fingering himself while he was still shivering from the aftershocks of orgasm, but dealing with cum dripping out of his ass on the floor of a dark alley with Samatoki watching so uncaringly, he felt shame color his face. “Think I’ll be fine. Thanks for the concern.”
Samatoki grunted an affirmative. He bent down, picked up Ichiro’s discarded hoodie, and tossed it to him. Ichiro caught it without meeting his eyes, his bangs obscuring his vision. Samatoki leaned back against the wall, fished out a cigarette, and lit up. He took a long drag as he stared down the lane. Half the cigarette burned up with that one inhale. He blew the smoke over Ichiro’s head. The nicotine did nothing to relieve the tension in his shoulders.
His head lowered, Ichiro tugged on his shirt and shrugged into his hoodie.
Pants. He needed pants. Cum was still leaking from his ass, his stomach was a mess, he felt dirty as hell, and he needed pants. He pushed to his feet and swayed a moment, the world tipping under him.
Samatoki caught him by the shoulders, his cigarette clenched in his teeth. His voice almost soft, he said, “Watch it, moron. What, ya swooning already?”
Ichiro batted his hand away, his head turned so Samatoki couldn’t see his face. “Don’t…” His hand hovered in the air, lost on what to do next. He wanted to say Don’t touch me. He wanted him to. He couldn’t bring himself to lie.
Samatoki slowly lowered his hands. He cocked his head to the side and regarded Ichiro with an unreadable expression. He knew he hit his head. Did he have a concussion? Maybe. Did he care? He wasn’t sure.
It took him a moment for Ichiro to find his pants, but once he did, he stumbled over to them. He tugged on his wet boxer briefs, then his jeans. He had to walk all the way to the station and ride the train like this. He hoped no one noticed he was covered in cum. His face flushed.
Samatoki only watched him. Not offering to help, not cruelly insulting him. No sympathy. Just that hard, thoughtful Samatoki stare. Ichiro felt so, so small. He shoved his feet into his shoes, then took another hesitant step. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he wavered. No. He couldn’t make it yet. He’d have to wait it out. He heavily dropped to the ground and rested his arms on his bent knees. His back was against the wall facing Samatoki, but he did not raise his head to look. He could already feel the man’s gaze boring into him. His guts twisted themselves into knots. The silence stretched on between them, and every second added another pound of lead to his stomach.
“...So that’s it then?” Ichiro asked, his voice hollow.
Samatoki snorted around his cigarette, an ugly, derisive sound. “Yeah. That’s all there is. The hell did you expect?”
“...Nothing.” It was Ichiro’s first time. He felt like such utter shit. Once upon a time, he had pictured his first time going a lot differently. The person was the same, but he never pictured it would be like this. He never wanted it to be like this. How could he have known back then that this was how they would wind up? How could he have known? He was seventeen crushing on a twenty-three year old. He was just a kid. Now he was nineteen, and he still didn’t know any better? God, he was so fucking stupid. He heaved a deep breath, his shoulders hunching, before he said, “Didn’t expect anything.”
That made Samatoki remove his cigarette from his lips. He tilted his head in that arrogant, punk way that used to suit Ichiro as well. Samatoki regarded him, his expression seemingly unfeeling. His lips worried at his cigarette as he thought, belying his actual feelings.
Ichiro couldn’t meet his eyes. He just stayed there, sitting on the cold ground, head ducked between his knees, dizzy and feeling like trash.
Finally, Samatoki said, “Ya never got over it, huh?” It was a testament to how low he was willing to go that he hadn’t said me.
Ichiro’s face burned with embarrassment and shame.
Samatoki scowled, his teeth grit. He jerked his head to the side, clicking his tongue, and pressed the side of his fist against the wall behind him. He hadn’t known it would be Ichiro’s first time, hadn’t known they were going to fuck in an alleyway. Neither of them had planned for this, but the way Ichiro was acting, it was all too clear. Ichiro had been a virgin. They fought, they fucked, and now he wasn’t. “I didn’t ask t’ have that kinda fuckin’ responsibility.”
Ichiro finally raised his head, his eyes burning with fury and unshed tears. “Yeah? Well I didn’t exactly plan for this, did I?!”
They both knew he didn’t mean the sex.
Rather than bite back, Samatoki just watched him. Coldly, thoughtfully.
Like he held all the cards. That only made Ichiro’s blood boil more. He would rather he shout or throw a punch than just look at him like that. Like he was seeing something Ichiro didn’t want him to. He rested his chin on his crossed arms and glowered up at him. “Shut up. Don’t look at me like that, asshole.”
Samatoki clicked his tongue and sneered, taking his cigarette from his lips with two fingers. Those same lips that had been kissing and biting Ichiro. Those same fingers that had been touching and choking him.
Why was everything so fucked up?
“I’d rather not be lookin’ at you at all. You still make me sick,” Samatoki gruffly said.
“And you still piss me off.”
“Good,” Samatoki grunted, but it didn’t feel good. He dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his boot. It would fit right in with the trash in the alleyway. “See you and your two shitty deadweight brothers at the next DRB.”
Arms crossed over his knees, Ichiro’s fists clenched. “Shut the fuck up about my brothers. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Tch. Whatever.” Samatoki turned and walked away.
Just like that. It was as easy as that.
Once Samatoki was clear of the alleyway entrance, he stopped and slammed the side of his fist into the brick wall. It burned. Good. Softly, he said, “Fuck.”
Alone, Ichiro leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the starless sky. Even though Samatoki’s eyes were no longer burning into him, he somehow felt even worse. Closeness brought them to blows, but distance hurt. He pulled his knees to his chest and dropped his head into his arms. “Goddamn it…” At least no one would see him cry.
Together, they thought the same truth, but with different words. In the end, they both came to the same meaning:
Despite everything, I still really like him. How messed up is that?
Samatoki’s head whipped to the side, his lit cigarette still clenched between his teeth. He cracked his neck and wiped the back of his fist across his sneering lips. “That all ya got, prissy punk? Ya got soft lookin’ after those shitty brothers o’ yours.”
There it was again: the only thing that would really make him throw a punch these days. Ichiro audibly grit his teeth. He snatched ahold of Samatoki’s collar and tugged him close. “Shut the fuck up ‘bout my bros!”
Bad move. Samatoki sent his right fist directly into Ichiro’s gut. Ichiro doubled over, gasping, his arms instinctively going to his stomach. Samatoki grabbed his head with both hands and brought it down into his knee. Ichiro stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose, but he did not fall. Rule number one in a fight: never go down. Go down, and it’s over. He remembered that from their last big fight. On that stage, Ichiro’s arms clinging to Samatoki’s leg, defeated yet still begging him to not hit the button.
The sick desperation twisting Ichiro’s gut as he had cried, Please! They’ll kill my li’l brothers!
Samatoki’s cold, cruel stare as he had said, You think I don’t know that?
That cruel, uncaring glare was burned into the back of Ichiro’s mind more thoroughly than Kuko screaming that he hated Ichiro. Kuko was a personal betrayal that still stung. Samatoki looking his friend in the face and saying I’m going to kill your brothers and I’m not sorry, then slamming that button—that was a conscious decision to take away Ichiro’s entire family. They were all he had left. They were why he even got up in the morning. Even if Samatoki didn’t hate his guts, Ichiro couldn’t let that slide. He could forgive a brother wanting to save his sister. He couldn’t forgive that stare.
“Ha! That all you got, brat?!” the present Samatoki laughed.
Ichiro sent a right hook flying for Samatoki’s face. Samatoki caught it in one hand and aimed a gut punch with his other. Ichiro blocked it with his left arm and pushed forward, kicking into Samatoki’s stance. Samatoki’s stone grip on Ichiro’s fist loosened as he lost his balance for a fraction of a second. Ichiro took that second and wrenched his fist out of Samatoki’s grip, sending his elbow crashing into Samatoki’s chin in the same swift movement.
Samatoki reeled back and spat a glob of blood onto the concrete. Now Ichiro was fighting more like the man he once knew. This was almost an outright street brawl. He scoffed, “You’re not gonna bring me down with that weakass shit. Ya couldn’t beat me back then, and ya can’t beat me now. Rap or a fistfight.”
“Come at me, then,” Ichiro bit.
Grinning, Samatoki obliged. He aimed a fist at Ichiro’s temple, intending to destroy his equilibrium and send him flying. Ichiro ducked and boxed a fist at Samatoki’s gut. Even a cold-hearted yakuza was human. He grunted, biting back a cough. Ichiro took the opportunity to straighten and lunge forward, slamming his right forearm against Samatoki’s chest and shoving him against the wall.
They glared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, Samatoki’s cigarette long lost, his red eyes and Ichiro’s mismatched ones glowing with vitriol. They were finally the same height. Hatred, the world’s great equalizer.
Well, maybe not. A wicked smirk snaked along Samatoki’s face. “Ya don’t got it in ya, do ya? Ya never did, ya fuckin’ hypocrite. You talked like a goddamn delinquent and ya used to throw one helluva punch, but you don’t got the stones.”
“I’ll show you stones,” Ichiro growled, pressing his arm against Samatoki’s throat. “Mention my brothers one more goddamn time.”
Samatoki choked, then laughed maniacally. His voice strained against Ichiro’s arm, he said, “The hell are you, a girl? Choking, really?”
“You got no goddamn right t’ even mention them after you tried to take their fucking lives,” Ichiro snarled, pressing harder and harder against Samatoki’s throat with every word.
Samatoki barked another sardonic, strangled laugh. “That’s rich...comin’ from you…” He twisted his fist in Ichiro’s hoodie and tugged him centimeters from his face, straining against Ichiro’s arm, choking himself even further. Despite that, his next words were crystal clear. “Why don’tcha tell me more about those useless fucking morals? You almost got your brothers killed. I was just doin’ right by my own. Same as you. Grow the fuck up.”
Ichiro slammed his arm into Samatoki’s throat, knocking his head into the brick wall. “Then why the fuck do you hate me so goddamn much?! What the hell did I do?!”
Samatoki swung a fist at Ichiro’s head. Ichiro caught it with his free hand without even bothering to turn to look. Mismatched eyes burned into Samatoki’s own eyes. That glare, those eyes… They were the same as the seventeen-year-old boy Samatoki once knew. He clicked his tongue. The guy he was once so close to and the bastard who took away Nemu were the same person. He hated seeing the ghost of his friend. He fucking despised him. He didn’t want to be reminded of what they had.
“You know what the fuck you did,” Samatoki said coolly. “You know what we were fightin’ for.”
“Yeah? You won, Samatoki. You fucking won. So where is she?”
Samatoki pressed the back of his head against the cool brick. He inhaled, then slammed his head into Ichiro’s. Ichiro stumbled back, disoriented, his hand going to his forehead. His fingers came away red.
“You LOST and you still got your brothers back,” Samatoki screamed, his voice shattering as it shot out of his abused throat. “What the hell does that say about you?!”
Ichiro threw out his arms aggressively, a shrug that said Hell if I know!
Standing there like he didn’t know, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Samatoki grit his teeth. Ichiro still had everything. Samatoki had nothing. Now he had his yakuza subordinates and Rio and Jyuto, but back then, right after they all split up? He had nothing but violence. Life isn’t fair. Ha.
With Ichiro standing there with his arms out, his guard down, he was just asking for it. Samatoki bowled forward and slammed bodily into Ichiro, knocking him down with an elbow to his gut. Ichiro went down easily, still disoriented by the headbutt. Samatoki landed on top of him with a knee on his stomach. His hands hit the ground on either side of Ichiro’s face.
Even with all that gel spiking Samatoki’s hair, his bangs still fell toward Ichiro, silver locks framing his face. Ichiro’s breath caught in his throat. Those red, glowering eyes were glowing embers, yet they weren’t enough to make Ichiro flinch. For a moment, all he could find himself able to do was stare.
That moment didn’t last long for Samatoki. His left fist twisted in Ichiro’s collar as he wrenched him up off the pavement. His hot breath hit Ichiro’s skin in furious puffs. His breath still smelled like cigarettes: familiar, burnt gray. Their lips were half a breath away.
Ichiro found his eyes drifting down to those lips. Even as Samatoki pulled back his right fist to deliver what might be the last punch of the night—then lights out—Ichiro didn’t flinch. Instead, his right hand fisted the hair at the back of Samatoki’s head, and he closed the gap. Soft lips touched Samatoki’s chapped ones, and Samatoki’s lips parted slightly, confused and thrown off-guard. Rather than use that as an opportunity to throw a punch or a kick, Ichiro tightened his grip on Samatoki’s hair, pulling it taut, as he desperately deepened the kiss. His hair was softer than he expected, the product gently shaping it rather than hardening it. He found he liked the feeling of it even as he tugged harder.
Samatoki grunted, grounded by the pain. His knee shifted from Ichiro’s stomach to the concrete between Ichiro’s legs, then he used the fist still clenching Ichiro’s hoodie to shove him back down into the ground. Ichiro gasped into the kiss, expecting Samatoki to break it. Instead, his mouth followed Ichiro’s down, continuing with fervor. The kiss grew heated as Samatoki’s teeth scraped against Ichiro’s lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.
Ichiro grunted, his stomach doing warm little flips that wove downward. He pulled away to lick his lips, tasting familiar copper. Familiar upon familiar. Samatoki’s eyes bore into him as they zoned in on those glistening lips. Snarling, his left hand dropped from Ichiro’s hoodie to instead leverage himself against the ground. His right hand, which was so ready to punch Ichiro square in the jaw earlier, held Ichiro’s left wrist down. Ichiro bit back a small sound in the back of his throat as Samatoki returned to his lips. Not willing to be outdone, he met Samatoki’s intensity, heat for heat, and they abused each other’s lips. Even this was a competition for them.
Ichiro tugged on Samatoki’s hair, dragging grunts and moans from his throat. He broke the kiss to follow them, clumsy kisses trailing along Samatoki’s jaw and neck. Samatoki’s knee shifted, pressing against Ichiro. He groaned.
“Ha. Already half hard?” Samatoki asked, grinning wickedly.
“Shut up,” Ichiro grumbled, flushing as red as his headphones. Embarrassment briefly washed over him, and for half a heartbeat, he wondered what the hell they were doing. Then Samatoki ground his knee into him again, and need drowned out everything else. Ichiro’s free hand grabbed the collar of Samatoki’s antique shirt and yanked him down for a rough kiss.
Samatoki pulled away with a snarl, “Hey, watch the merchandise.”
“Hah. I bet this shirt’s older’n me,” Ichiro sniped, smirking messily, his lips red and swollen from abuse. “I’m doin’ you a favor.”
“Shut up,” Samatoki grunted, emphasizing his words with another grind into Ichiro’s bound cock. “It’s vintage.”
Ichiro moaned, his hips rolling up of their own volition. “You’re vintage.”
To shut him up, Samatoki kissed Ichiro like he roughed up punks on the street: violent and with no room for argument. As a bonus, he wouldn’t be able to stare at Ichiro’s glistening lips like some kind of idiot. Win, win.
Ichiro’s hand drifted from Samatoki’s hair and roamed down his back, hiking up his shirt to slide blunt nails against his skin.
Samatoki hissed, “Fuck.” He grabbed Ichiro’s belt and tugged it violently, his knee pressing against Ichiro’s cock straining against his jeans. “Get this shit off.”
“Fuck you,” Ichiro spat, biting his cheek to keep from groaning. “Get off yourself.”
Samatoki clicked his tongue, his lip curling. He ripped Ichiro’s free hand out from under his shirt and pinned it to the ground to join the other, his strong fingers wrapping around both wrists. Sneering, he said, “One hand’s all I need, then.”
Ichiro kicked and squirmed under him as Samatoki worked Ichiro’s belt open with expert fingers. He ripped his fly down and slipped a rough hand past denim to cup Ichiro through scarlet boxer briefs. Ichiro moaned despite himself. Samatoki’s hand slipped out, and Ichiro’s hips rose to follow the precious contact. A whine rose in his throat.
“Ha. Desperate bitch, aren’tcha?”
Ichiro growled wordlessly, renewing his struggles to escape Samatoki’s hold. He kicked at him even as Samatoki yanked down Ichiro’s jeans.
“Shaddup,” Samatoki commanded, drawing out the vowels like any other street punk. But he wasn’t just any other street punk, was he? He shoved two fingers past Ichiro’s lips and grabbed his tongue.
Ichiro groaned around Samatoki’s fingers, which loosened their grip. His wet tongue slid between and around those slender fingers, sufficiently coating them. His tongue slipped over a cold, silver ring, and a pleasant shiver raced up his spine as he fondled it. Samatoki was transfixed, Ichiro’s tongue eliciting little sounds from the throat of a man usually so proud and dominant. Ichiro narrowed his eyes and scraped his teeth against Samatoki’s fingers before biting down just enough to leave a mark.
“Agh, shit!”
Ichiro released Samatoki’s fingers with a wet smirk. Growling, Samatoki yanked Ichiro’s pants down to his ankles, restricting his movements just as well as any restraints. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against Ichiro just to make a point. A strangled moan escaped Ichiro’s parted lips. Now Samatoki was the one who was smirking. Slowly, as though to prolong his suffering, Samatoki meticulously pulled Ichiro’s underwear down over his throbbing cock. The fabric was glossy with precum, and it peeled away from Ichiro agonizingly slowly. Samatoki watched it hungrily.
“Get the hell on with it already,” Ichiro grit out, voice strained.
A sadistic grin spread across Samatoki’s face. That was exactly what he was waiting to hear. He wasn’t a patient man, anyway. Samatoki slid Ichiro’s boxer briefs down to his ankles. “Gladly.” Calloused hands grabbed Ichiro’s hips and forced his ass up onto his lap. Slick fingers pressed against Ichiro’s opening for one brief moment. Ichiro had just enough time to suck in a shocked breath through his teeth before Samatoki pressed both fingers in to the second knuckle.
Ichiro clenched around his fingers and winced. “Shit—! W-wait, dammit!”
“Oh, now ya want me to wait?” Samatoki experimentally curled his fingers. “Make up your damn mind, hypocrite.”
“A-ah!” Electric shocks bolted up Ichiro’s spine as it straightened, and a not unpleasant warmth flickered deep in his groin like a match being lit, driving some of the pain away like darkness in an empty room. He hadn’t even noticed that Samatoki had let go of his wrists. He was immobilized by his senses firing away.
“There ya go. Relax, damn,” Samatoki muttered irritably, half to himself. Once again pinning Ichiro’s wrists one-handed, he pushed his fingers in to the final knuckle and began working Ichiro open with practiced ease.
That quiet side of Samatoki was one that Ichiro no longer got to see, and despite their current situation, it reminded Ichiro of back then, when they were close. Even with Ichiro’s ass in the air, his hands held down, Samatoki’s fingers inside him, there was a part of him that missed those days. It was the same part of him that felt a thrill at being held down and restrained by the same man so many years later.
Ichiro clicked his tongue. He wasn’t gonna just lay there and take it. He bet Samatoki was loving this, and that thought made his guts boil. He kicked off his shoes and jeans, underwear and all, then wrapped his legs around Samatoki’s middle.
“Wha—?” Samatoki started.
Pushing his restrained hands back against the pavement and lifting his lower back further into the air, Ichiro flipped them both over. Samatoki’s fingers slipped out of Ichiro, and Ichiro landed securely on Samatoki’s stomach, his bare knees scraping the dirt on either side. He grinned down at Samatoki, proud of himself. “I like this view better.”
“Fuck off,” Samatoki spat. The damn brat was cute like that, beaming like an idiot. Goddammit. He bucked his hips, trying to get Ichiro off of him. He reached for Ichiro’s hoodie.
“I don’t think so.” Ichiro rolled his weight back, his bare ass grinding into Samatoki.
Samatoki groaned, his hands falling to Ichiro’s hips. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ichiro’s cock dripping with precum. It looked so neglected.
“If we’re doing this,” Ichiro said breathlessly, undoing Samatoki’s belt with both hands, “We’re doin’ it my way.”
“Ha. Impatient brat,” Samatoki breathed.
Ichiro worked Samatoki’s pants open without much preamble. If sex was a song, they’d already had the warm-up and the lead-in. It was time to get to the meat of it. Samatoki’s half-hard cock rose into the night air, grateful to be freed. Samatoki, however, did not look grateful. He was watching Ichiro with a narrowed, cold gaze like a predator watching another toe the line of its territory. He wanted to see what Ichiro would do next.
A blush rose to Ichiro’s cheeks, but he was never one to get stage fright. This was just another performance, another competition, and he was going to win. Frowning resolutely, biting his lip with focus, Ichiro positioned himself over Samatoki’s cock, then lowered himself over it. Samatoki’s cock rubbed Ichiro’s opening, teasing it as the cock slid up his ass.
“Wh—! What the hell, you missed,” Samatoki bit, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “How the fuck can you miss, dumbass?”
“I didn’t miss,” Ichiro said bluntly, confident. He raised his ass again before lowering it, and Samatoki’s cock pressed up against Ichiro’s entrance before slipping up between his cheeks. The heat in Ichiro’s face rose, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment. Somehow, it was exciting to tease himself while simultaneously denying Samatoki exactly what he wanted. He smirked down at his rival.
Samatoki’s cock twitched as though he knew exactly what was running through Ichiro’s head. MTC communicated largely through actions, not words, and now that he and Ichiro weren’t shouting profanities at each other, they suddenly spoke the same language. He could feel Ichiro’s heat—his body, his need—like a verse in a rap. Watching Ichiro get off on teasing himself like that was almost too much. Samatoki wasn’t going to sit still for long. They were both impatient men.
Hands on Ichiro’s hips, Samatoki rocked him back and forth over his cock, setting the pace as he let him tease them both. Here and there, Samatoki thrust his hips up, throwing off Ichiro’s rhythm and eliciting a stuttering breath and a glare. Once Samatoki was completely hard, he wet his own fingers, then reached down and mercilessly spread Ichiro’s cheeks wide open. Ichiro gasped, stopping for just a moment from surprise alone. That gave Samatoki the chance to slip slick fingers inside him, once again right at home as he worked him open. Little grunts and moans rumbled deep in Ichiro’s chest; he was somehow both cute and manly, a juxtaposition Samatoki never thought would work so damn well together. Ichiro’s mouth hanging open, panting hotly as unfocused, mismatched eyes became half-lidded—it suited him. Outside of their spats, Ichiro was usually so cool-headed. Samatoki wanted to see him completely unhinged.
Ichiro’s hips rolled of their own accord as he fucked himself on Samatoki’s fingers. He leaned forward, giving Samatoki better access to his ass. He didn’t care what he looked like anymore. It felt too damn good. He wrapped a large, rough hand around both their cocks and began to stroke.
Two fingers curled inside Ichiro as Samatoki smacked his hand away. He glowered up at him. “Back off. You’ll make us come too fast, dumbass.”
Ichiro’s body shuddered around Samatoki’s experienced fingers as he struggled to throw back a retort.
Samatoki curled his fingers again, pressing down on that electric button inside every man. “The fuck did I just say? Shut up and listen to your elders.”
“F-fuck...you…” Ichiro grit out around a moan.
“Ha. I think ya got it the other way ‘round.” Not that Samatoki would mind it that way, too.
Ichiro clamped down on Samatoki’s fingers in anticipation. He was still a little too tight, but Samatoki liked it rough. He could go in raw. His fingers slipped out of Ichiro. A keening sound escaped Ichiro’s throat before he swallowed it. He didn’t have to feel hollow for long, though; Samatoki grabbed his hips, lined himself up, and slammed into him.
Ichiro cried out, pain and shock swirling with something else stirring inside of him. Stars danced in his vision. Samatoki held him down flush against him, his calloused fingers already leaving bruises. His firm grip left no room for argument: he would stay still until he was ready. Ichiro hardly had the presence of mind to argue, anyway.
After a couple moments, Samatoki guided Ichiro’s hips up, slowly, before pulling him back down hard. He continued that tantalizing, violent rhythm as one hand wrapped around Ichiro’s cock, his thumb brushing across the tip just so.
The stars returned to Ichiro’s sight, but this time it wasn’t just for the pain. Pleasure mixed with it in a confusing array of color, overwhelming his senses. It was too much. He’d never felt so completely before; senses were being born and dying as quickly as the stars in the sky millions of lightyears away, senses that hadn’t existed before this moment exploding into a supernova of sensations. Nothing else existed in the universe but those sensations. It was just him, Samatoki, and his cock. For this brilliant moment, nothing else mattered.
Ichiro strained against Samatoki’s rough hold, rocking on Samatoki’s cock as much as he could. His mouth hung open. His eyes were glassy and glazed. Samatoki’s fingers clenched Ichiro’s hips painfully, eliciting a mewling moan from Ichiro.
“Don’t go fucking yourself without my goddamn permission,” Samatoki grit out. “You do this my way.”
Ichiro hardly had the presence of mind to respond. His hips continued to buck under Samatoki’s hold as he gasped sweet sounds of bliss.
“Ha. You can’t even hear me, can you?”
Smirking, Samatoki led Ichiro’s ass until he nearly slipped out, then slammed him back down again. Ichiro screamed with pleasure. Samatoki dug his nails into Ichiro’s hips and growled, “Fuckin’ slut.”
Ichiro’s cock twitched. His hips stopped their relentless rutting, his thighs twitching.
“Hahh? Ya like that, huh?” Samatoki eased Ichiro up before shoving him back down, his pace quickening, the moments between him nearly slipping out before once again filling him becoming shorter and shorter. “Who knew someone so goddamn proud was such a slut?”
Ichiro resumed rocking against Samatoki’s cock, and this time, Samatoki let him. His hands settled on Ichiro’s hips, gently guiding him back down onto his cock with each buck of Ichiro’s hips. He no longer needed Samatoki to force him to impale himself over and over again. He never did. He wanted this, wanted this so bad for so goddamn long, and now that he had it he was never letting it go. Ichiro mindlessly fucked himself on Samatoki’s thick cock as he moaned and cried out loud enough for anyone beyond the alley to hear.
The thought of a passerby hearing them, seeing them like this, made Samatoki’s cock jolt inside Ichiro. Ichiro keened as his insides tightened around him. Growling, Samatoki grabbed Ichiro’s hips and rolled them over. Ichiro’s head slammed into the pavement as he fell, but Samatoki paid him no mind. Still ferociously gripping Ichiro’s hips, Samatoki frantically slammed into him. Dizzying stars blurring Ichiro’s vision, his cries grew louder as both their flames mounted within them, their earlier sparks becoming a raging bonfire. Ichiro’s shirt rode up, sharp hip bones and abs peeping out from beneath the fabric.
Samatoki’s hand slid under Ichiro’s shirt and hoodie of its own accord. His thumb brushed one of Ichiro’s nipples, causing a quivering whimper. The hand continued up his chest before stopping at his neck. Strong fingers wrapped around Ichiro’s throat and squeezed. Ichiro gagged, his pupils dilating madly.
“Oh~ You’re a kinky little slut, huh?” Samatoki panted, his breath hot between them.
Ichiro moaned, but Samatoki cut off the tail end by tightening his grip. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew how to choke out a guy. He just wasn’t as precise as Rio. He’d never had to hold back before. He could easily make Ichiro pass out. Not that he would stop thrusting into him if he did, but he liked hearing Ichiro’s moans knowing he was the cause of them. He didn’t want to silence him. The minute he thought Ichiro was about to pass out, he let go.
Ichiro gulped in air hungrily, moaning on every exhale. His cock shook between them, dripping precum all over his bare stomach.
Samatoki licked his lips. He wanted to lick it off. Instead, he stilled his hips and forced Ichiro’s shirt and hoodie up and over his head before tying them up at his wrists.
“A-ah... Wha...” Ichiro stammered, chest heaving with every fast beat of his heart.
Samatoki pulled back and thrust hard, dragging a scream from Ichiro’s abused throat. “Shut up. I like this view better.”
Ichiro moaned as Samatoki resumed his merciless pace. He breathed, “Bastard...”
Samatoki leaned forward, crushing Ichiro’s cock between them as he kissed him forcefully. Samatoki’s vintage shirt rode up over Ichiro’s cock until it found bare skin. Ichiro whined as his cock slid against Samatoki’s abs. As Samatoki fucked him and Ichiro rolled his hips to meet him, his own cock slipped between their bare stomachs. He was fucking what little space was still between them.
Ichiro broke the kiss wetly, all thoughts of composure having long fled. “I-I’m gonna…”
“Me too,” Samatoki grunted. His lips brushed Ichiro’s ear as he growled lowly, “Come with me.”
A delicious shiver ran down Ichiro's spine and straight to his cock. Something snapped behind his eyes, and he came with more force than he ever had before. As Ichiro’s inner walls trembled and clamped down on Samatoki’s cock, he came with a grunt, filling Ichiro with his hot cum. Samatoki closed his eyes and pumped inside of Ichiro, riding out his orgasm. Ichiro stuttered moans, every movement making his over-sensitive body shudder. His legs twitched as his feet lifted into the air, toes curling. Long lashes fluttered as his hands strained against the fabric binding his wrists.
Finally, Samatoki stopped. He panted hot breaths against Ichiro’s neck, earning another keening moan. After a moment, he carefully pulled out and rolled over to sit on the dirty ground. Leaning back on one hand, he shoved rough fingers back through his hair as he tried to catch his breath.
Ichiro turned his head to watch Samatoki with hooded eyes. With his white hair pushed back like that, he looked just like he did back then. Ichiro let himself stare, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Warmth was still washing through his body in waves; he felt too good to feel angry. With all that fury stripped away, he only felt sad. Samatoki had only just pulled out, but his body was already yearning for him again. His heart, too.
Samatoki’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. Finally noticing Ichiro’s stare, he caught his eyes with a narrowed, inscrutable gaze of his own. Both of their lips were flushed from kissing like it was a street brawl. Their chests heaved in tandem. Samatoki’s cum leaked out of Ichiro’s ass.
Ichiro made a sound that was dangerously close to a whine. “You came inside…”
Samatoki’s hand lowered to reach over Ichiro. He ran one finger down Ichiro’s stomach, his cum gathering on his finger like frosting. Without breaking eye contact, his gaze intense, Samatoki brought his finger to his lips and licked Ichiro’s cum clean off.
Samatoki hummed thoughtfully. “Not sorry. Kinda bitter, though.”
Ichiro let go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Fuck you,” he said breathlessly.
It wasn’t bitter, though. It was sweet. Samatoki clicked his tongue softly and leaned over Ichiro, rough hands unworking the shirt tangled in Ichiro’s hands. His fingers accidentally brushed against Ichiro’s palms, and somehow, despite everything they had just done, that felt the most intimate. Ichiro shivered involuntarily as he watched Samatoki carefully free his bound hands.
Ichiro rubbed his wrist, but it didn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to dispel the feeling of Samatoki’s fingers or if he wanted him to pin him down again.
Samatoki pushed to his feet with a groan and tugged up his pants, zipping his fly. With some effort, Ichiro pushed himself up to a sitting position and immediately regretted it. The world tilted on its axis. A hand pressed to his forehead. “Shit,” he murmured. He found he was disappointed it was his own hand.
Samatoki watched Ichiro with cold eyes. He swore he didn’t care, but he had to ask, “You gonna make it?”
“Yeah,” Ichiro bit with less vitriol than he wanted. He reached down and slipped two fingers inside himself, only to be rewarded with a glob of cum oozing out. Somehow it felt good, fingering himself while he was still shivering from the aftershocks of orgasm, but dealing with cum dripping out of his ass on the floor of a dark alley with Samatoki watching so uncaringly, he felt shame color his face. “Think I’ll be fine. Thanks for the concern.”
Samatoki grunted an affirmative. He bent down, picked up Ichiro’s discarded hoodie, and tossed it to him. Ichiro caught it without meeting his eyes, his bangs obscuring his vision. Samatoki leaned back against the wall, fished out a cigarette, and lit up. He took a long drag as he stared down the lane. Half the cigarette burned up with that one inhale. He blew the smoke over Ichiro’s head. The nicotine did nothing to relieve the tension in his shoulders.
His head lowered, Ichiro tugged on his shirt and shrugged into his hoodie.
Pants. He needed pants. Cum was still leaking from his ass, his stomach was a mess, he felt dirty as hell, and he needed pants. He pushed to his feet and swayed a moment, the world tipping under him.
Samatoki caught him by the shoulders, his cigarette clenched in his teeth. His voice almost soft, he said, “Watch it, moron. What, ya swooning already?”
Ichiro batted his hand away, his head turned so Samatoki couldn’t see his face. “Don’t…” His hand hovered in the air, lost on what to do next. He wanted to say Don’t touch me. He wanted him to. He couldn’t bring himself to lie.
Samatoki slowly lowered his hands. He cocked his head to the side and regarded Ichiro with an unreadable expression. He knew he hit his head. Did he have a concussion? Maybe. Did he care? He wasn’t sure.
It took him a moment for Ichiro to find his pants, but once he did, he stumbled over to them. He tugged on his wet boxer briefs, then his jeans. He had to walk all the way to the station and ride the train like this. He hoped no one noticed he was covered in cum. His face flushed.
Samatoki only watched him. Not offering to help, not cruelly insulting him. No sympathy. Just that hard, thoughtful Samatoki stare. Ichiro felt so, so small. He shoved his feet into his shoes, then took another hesitant step. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he wavered. No. He couldn’t make it yet. He’d have to wait it out. He heavily dropped to the ground and rested his arms on his bent knees. His back was against the wall facing Samatoki, but he did not raise his head to look. He could already feel the man’s gaze boring into him. His guts twisted themselves into knots. The silence stretched on between them, and every second added another pound of lead to his stomach.
“...So that’s it then?” Ichiro asked, his voice hollow.
Samatoki snorted around his cigarette, an ugly, derisive sound. “Yeah. That’s all there is. The hell did you expect?”
“...Nothing.” It was Ichiro’s first time. He felt like such utter shit. Once upon a time, he had pictured his first time going a lot differently. The person was the same, but he never pictured it would be like this. He never wanted it to be like this. How could he have known back then that this was how they would wind up? How could he have known? He was seventeen crushing on a twenty-three year old. He was just a kid. Now he was nineteen, and he still didn’t know any better? God, he was so fucking stupid. He heaved a deep breath, his shoulders hunching, before he said, “Didn’t expect anything.”
That made Samatoki remove his cigarette from his lips. He tilted his head in that arrogant, punk way that used to suit Ichiro as well. Samatoki regarded him, his expression seemingly unfeeling. His lips worried at his cigarette as he thought, belying his actual feelings.
Ichiro couldn’t meet his eyes. He just stayed there, sitting on the cold ground, head ducked between his knees, dizzy and feeling like trash.
Finally, Samatoki said, “Ya never got over it, huh?” It was a testament to how low he was willing to go that he hadn’t said me.
Ichiro’s face burned with embarrassment and shame.
Samatoki scowled, his teeth grit. He jerked his head to the side, clicking his tongue, and pressed the side of his fist against the wall behind him. He hadn’t known it would be Ichiro’s first time, hadn’t known they were going to fuck in an alleyway. Neither of them had planned for this, but the way Ichiro was acting, it was all too clear. Ichiro had been a virgin. They fought, they fucked, and now he wasn’t. “I didn’t ask t’ have that kinda fuckin’ responsibility.”
Ichiro finally raised his head, his eyes burning with fury and unshed tears. “Yeah? Well I didn’t exactly plan for this, did I?!”
They both knew he didn’t mean the sex.
Rather than bite back, Samatoki just watched him. Coldly, thoughtfully.
Like he held all the cards. That only made Ichiro’s blood boil more. He would rather he shout or throw a punch than just look at him like that. Like he was seeing something Ichiro didn’t want him to. He rested his chin on his crossed arms and glowered up at him. “Shut up. Don’t look at me like that, asshole.”
Samatoki clicked his tongue and sneered, taking his cigarette from his lips with two fingers. Those same lips that had been kissing and biting Ichiro. Those same fingers that had been touching and choking him.
Why was everything so fucked up?
“I’d rather not be lookin’ at you at all. You still make me sick,” Samatoki gruffly said.
“And you still piss me off.”
“Good,” Samatoki grunted, but it didn’t feel good. He dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his boot. It would fit right in with the trash in the alleyway. “See you and your two shitty deadweight brothers at the next DRB.”
Arms crossed over his knees, Ichiro’s fists clenched. “Shut the fuck up about my brothers. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Tch. Whatever.” Samatoki turned and walked away.
Just like that. It was as easy as that.
Once Samatoki was clear of the alleyway entrance, he stopped and slammed the side of his fist into the brick wall. It burned. Good. Softly, he said, “Fuck.”
Alone, Ichiro leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the starless sky. Even though Samatoki’s eyes were no longer burning into him, he somehow felt even worse. Closeness brought them to blows, but distance hurt. He pulled his knees to his chest and dropped his head into his arms. “Goddamn it…” At least no one would see him cry.
Together, they thought the same truth, but with different words. In the end, they both came to the same meaning:
Despite everything, I still really like him. How messed up is that?
