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Satin and crocodile-skin suits ripple under the low gold and fuchsia lights in the club. This is one of many yakuza-favored spots in Sotenbori; doesn’t unsettle you, though. It might even be safer in here than outside, knowing the company you keep. It’s not easy riding with the boys, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world. Why live at all if not on the edge of a butterfly knife? It’s a philosophy that you share with every smug, wild-eyed bastard in this town.
Speaking of which, he’s late. Again. Classic-
Somebody slaps your ass. You’re about to start swinging when you swivel around and you’re face-to-face with Nishitani Homare in his jackass, raspberry pinstripe suit, whiskey-highball breath and all.
“Sorry, missy! Thought you were somebody else,” he clasps his hands together and pleads for forgiveness, batting his eyelashes. He can’t help the grin spreading ear to ear on his face as he blinks at you, waiting for that attention he ordered at the bar.
You break into a smile and slap his ass back as hard as you can, launching him into a fit of wheezing laughter.
“Atta girl! How ya been, baby? Sorry I’m running late,” he slides an arm around your shoulders. “Had to clean up a little mess on the way here- you already started drinkin’? Without me?” He gasps, as if you can’t tell he’s already tipsy. “Hurry up n’ gimme your tab! I got it, I got it.”
Hypocrite that he is, he ushers you into a cushy round booth. The red leather is cool against your skin where Nishitani’s hand is almost too hot, too inviting. The creases in his palms are lined with experience—scraps he’s gotten into, bats he’s swung, bottles of beer he’s held. Some of these you’ve been lucky enough to see. Others, unlucky enough to experience firsthand; running with the Kijin has its benefits, but certainly its drawbacks as well. Not that you ever had a choice to step in or out of that world.
“Two highballs, yeah?” Nishitani drawls, ordering smoothly for both of you and then shooing the waiter off. “Go bar boy, go!” The poor guy scurries off to relay the message, and you can’t help but snort. You’re both already tipsy, and that just makes everything funnier, makes the room glow brighter, the song in your step swing faster. After this, you’ll have to get some dancing in. Nishitani turns to you, resting an elbow on the table. “So! How’s it going, beautiful? Tell me more.”
It’s been a long time since you had the chance to catch up. The last time was a few months back in the damp underground, chatting through bars of steel. Nishitani is always in and out of trouble, but never anything too permanent (and nothing to keep you from crawling in with him for a little fun). While you and your friends hit the boardwalk and lead close-to-normal lives, the yakuza and the criminal underworld are always on the move. The everyday feels so empty next to the crooked alleys Nishitani leads you down; you’d rather he talk about himself, and he’s happy to oblige. By the candlelight he regales you about the noses he broke this week (they had it coming, he says, and he’s probably right). Watching him wave his hands and his face light up as if he were living it all over again is almost as fun as being there.
“Mikoto couldn’t make it tonight, huh? S’alright. Shame, though.” Nishitani sighs. “Wanted to catch up with her, too. Hope she’s holding up okay.”
She is, and maybe for the first time in years. Only thanks to Nishitani and his friends. You owe them your life, too; if not for what Nishitani did, you’re sure the boy who hurt Mikoto would do it again to anyone who tried reporting him. The law wouldn’t punish the bastard. Somebody had to. You aren’t sure what kind of person it makes you, that you’re glad Nishitani killed him. That you’re glad Mikoto’s dad kept him out of trouble for it, and that his connections keep the both of you safe. The flame of the candle flickers. “Hey,” you chance, smiling faintly. “If you went back in time—or if it happened today. Would you do it again?”
Your second round of drinks arrives. Nishitani leans in close. “Lemme tell ya… nothing gets me harder than the thought of knocking that motherfucker’s skull in one more time.” He clinks glasses with you, grinning. “Well. Almost nothing,” he teases. “Got a few exceptions.” His voice is hot against your ear; his tongue trails along the shell, slow and thorough. “I’ll tell ya when we get upstairs.”
It’s not an invitation; it’s an instruction. One you’re more than happy to follow.
—
Low amber lights, good liquor, and smooth bossa humming from the speakers of the VIP lounge—you couldn't ask for more. But you get more either way, much more. Nishitani's tongue slides up and down between your legs, his calloused palms tightening around your thighs and holding you in place as he goes to town. You're laying on your back against the cool, plush leather, gasping as he plays with your clit, lapping eagerly.
“Better than whiskey,” he chuckles, licking his lips and pulling back to let you catch your breath. “Though… oho. Lookie here." From the table next to the couch he grabs a honey-colored bottle and pops the cork off with his teeth. “Just a little,” he wiggles the bottle playfully. “Wanna try?”
Fortunately, you're not stupid—this could be a one-way ticket to the ER for alcohol poisoning, if you didn't know better. But you are tipsy, and tipsy you says that having top of the shelf, 3,000,000¥ Karuizawa* sucked off your clit sounds fucking incredible. Through heavy breaths you manage a nod. Just a little. Tilting your head back you don’t even have to look to see the grin on his face—there's a faint sting as he pours the cool, silky trail of liquor down your stomach until it reaches between your legs. A little burn never hurt anybody, though. In fact, a little hurt is just the flavor you need. You hiss as Nishitani's warm tongue slides down your stomach and reaches your labia, where he nips and bites and licks up the whiskey without pause. His nails dig into your thighs and scratch.
He knows you like it better that way.
On your back, the panorama of blue, pink, and gold ceiling lights shine brighter than before. Nishitani dives right back for your clit like a wild tiger on a steak, licking it up and down and side to side in slow, careful stripes that speed up until he’s flicking it hard and rough. You writhe in his grasp and let him suck the whiskey into his mouth. You know you’ll be seeing each other in hell, but who cares? You’ve already found heaven on earth.
“Mmhm,” he croons, sucking your clit harder. Back and forth he takes you into his mouth, tugging until you’re red and swollen and slick. “Good girl… lemme get in there.”
Holy shit — you throw your head back and gasp as Nishitani slides his tongue inside you. The club blurs as he slurps and plays up the noise; his lips close around your entire cunt as he digs in, never putting on the brakes. Even if you wanted to break free (and god, why would you), he squeezes the backs of your knees with gusto to hold you in place. It’s never just a naughty tryst with him. This is performance art, baby. It’s the finest luxury any yakuza worth his weight in gold can afford.
But why stop at gold when you can go platinum?
Your eyes roll back as his tongue presses up and down and harder against your g-spot. “Mm,” he teases with a low, wanting drawl. Full throttle, no hesitation — he licks that mouthful of you in vicious, quickening motions. It’s all you can do not to scream. You dig your nails hard into the plush, sweat-slick leather beneath you, and of course he notices, picking up the pace and pressing down hard right there, right there, oh god, fuck, right there-
Nishitani laughs through his nose as your body quivers in his grasp, twisting his tongue inside you as you come. He lets you ride it out, too. Like any high-class man should. The tickle of his warm breath makes your legs shake and your insides pulse, gripping his tongue in a wet, satisfied rhythm. He keeps going until the aftershocks slow down, easing you into a sweet, fucked-out daze. You sigh instinctively when he pulls away, making a show of the loud, wet pop as he lets go of your dripping cunt.
“Beautiful,” Nishitani hums, wiping your come off of his scruffy chin. “Been too long.” His hands squeeze around your thighs, kneading excitedly. “You’re not tired out yet, yeah?”
Not a chance. After so many late nights with him, your cunt may as well be made of well-lubricated steel. You flash him a cheeky smile as he pulls his thick cock out from his pants and starts sliding it up and down between your lips. The friction is searing — you’re still tender from the thorough mouthfuck he gave you. That’s the best part. He lifts you by the legs to get a better angle at your throbbing entrance. What a goddamn whore.
“Atta girl,” he growls, licking his lips.