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By the middle of his shift, Zanka’s hair is always curling at the ends. Permanently damp from coming in and out of the baths with clients. His skin smells so strongly of soap it gives him a headache. Trickling up through his clothes like a squeaky clean stain on his soul.
If someone told him a year ago that the feeling of shame would become so entangled with bathing… He never would have understood. Being ashamed, being humiliated. Being used and made dirty in such a comforting setting.
He was a virgin before this.
Now he’s been with so many men he can’t even begin to count them. The days turned into months. It’s winter outside now with snow on the ground. It was only springtime when his family stripped him of his last name.
The existence of prostitution and the establishments that sold people was a nebulous concept.
But his sister said he had to learn his place in this world. He could no longer be a Nijiku. He had to leave the top and go right down to the bottom of the barrel with the sex workers and drug dealers.
Right now he’s scraping by in a studio apartment with paper-thin walls. Getting bossed around by no-name fucking lowlifes. Barely any of them know who he really is.
Of course they don’t; he’s never played a big role in his family. He rarely participated in social events, and never political ones. He was a ghost. Someone who never proved himself enough to sit at the proverbial table.
Fucking up his first and only important moment was more humiliating than the punishment that followed. At least, that’s what Kyouka had said.
He goes back to the main room where half-clothed boys were serving drinks, and girls in open robes lay around waiting to be chosen. This was his lot in life now: livestock for gangsters to choose and fuck. To be seen and not heard. To be used.
He sits at a low table in loose-fitting pants and nothing under his haori. A boy his age smiles at him despite never having the sentiment returned. Zanka only gestures for Follo to pour him a cup of warm sake.
Zakna can do this job well if he’s a little drunk. He can find pleasure in the repulsive stimulation and orgasm a handful of times throughout the night. As long as he doesn’t think about it too much.
He can tolerate the humiliation of some random fuckhead thinking they managed to wring an orgasm out of him. Like that’s some kind of special feat. He’s always been easy to please. His body runs with whatever it's given.
If he closes his eyes and pictures something particularly hot—and if the cock is big enough—he can catch a feeling good enough to take him through the whole night. As of right now though, he hasn’t cum a single time.
His body is tingling after his second client, completely unsatisfied and on edge. He’d gotten close with that second one. If he really locks in, he’ll be able to do it on the third.
The shoji to the main room slams open, followed by the raucous sound of men talking. One of them is practically screaming. He’s probably drunk and stinks of alcohol. Zanka hates those types the most. He swallows his sake and taps the ceramic cup on the table twice, immediately asking for another.
He’ll meet these assholes where they’re at; he doesn’t care about being professional.
Follo doesn’t pour it right away, and the soft clamour of whispers tips him off as to why. Everyone is looking at who’s sitting down. A flash of brilliant yellow, blond hair, a wide set of shoulders, and tattoos running up a pale neck.
Enjin.
Of all people, Enjin of the Cleaners and his fucking goons are here. Prince of the fucking pit.
Zanka flushes so intensely he hides his face out of humiliation first, rather than fear he’ll be recognized. He’s met Enjin before; they’ve spoken before. It’s the first time someone who knew him came to this place.
It’s been months, and he’s finally gotten over that fear. This was in Nijiku territory. Why the fuck would the Cleaners be here?
When he looks up again, Enjin is looking directly at him. Watching him as another blond man leans over and whispers something in his ear.
Maybe they knew about this humiliation ritual. Maybe word got out about the Nijiku family throwing their scraps out for the dogs to pick at. Maybe they wanted a taste.
Disgust and self-loathing fill his stomach first, and then the pathetic pull of raw desire. Attraction has nothing to do with this line of work; none of his clients are attractive to him. He does as he’s told, and he does it without arguing or he’ll get his ass beat so hard he’ll never complain again.
There’s electricity in the air as Follo finally fills his cup. Enjin refuses to look away.
It’s like standing in an open field and seeing a set of eyes watching you from the treeline. Knowing there’s something in the darkness and understanding you have nowhere to hide.
The people at Enjin’s table are talking and pouring their own drinks. It seems like they’re getting settled in for a little while. They’ll shoot the shit together and then pick whoever they want once they’re plied with alcohol. It’s common for groups of men to hang out for a while before they move on to the private rooms.
Enjin picks up his drink the moment it’s served, and he leaves in the middle of someone talking to him. He crosses the room with every set of eyes on him. Saying he’s the most desirable man in this room would be an understatement. He’s one of the most powerful yakuza members of his generation, and he’s by far the best looking.
People would throw themselves at his feet just for the chance to be stepped on, and he’s coming over to Zanka like he’s the only person in this room.
Zanka’s hands are shaking. His mouth goes dry. He’s a deer in the fucking headlights.
Follo has enough sense to fix his posture and properly bow to Enjin, not looking up again until a hand is waved in his direction.
“Fuck off.”
Goosebumps break out on the back of his neck at that voice. At the casual way that Enjin puts his beer down, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter clattering down on the table to follow. He dumps himself down on the floor, a horrible smile spreading across his face as he leans in.
As close as he can get without climbing over the table.
“Zanka Nijiku…”
Well, there it is. Any pretense of confusion or misunderstanding is wiped right off the field. There’s always a level of power in Enjin’s words; he speaks with meaning and emphasis. Men follow him, they go to their deaths for him. He doesn’t mince his words.
I know who you are, and what I’m about to make you do. I understand the implications.
His face says everything, and his eyes openly fuck him. For all Enjin’s seemingly straight bravado, he doesn’t give any of the girls a glance now. He wants whatever fucked-up power play this was about to be.
One clan dominating another, infiltrating their territory, deflowing their bloodline. It doesn’t matter that Zanka has been disowned. It doesn’t matter one fucking bit; it’s all the same to Enjin.
Zanka blinks when he hears a lighter flick to life, finally swallowing his spit and coming back to his senses as smoke filters up from where Enjin is sitting. The cherry of his cigarette glows, and he ashes directly on the face of the table without looking for an ashtray.
“You’re going to tell your boss,” Enjin gestures his hand towards the front room. “You’re spoken for, for the rest of the night.”
Heat pierces through Zanka. It almost makes him sick how excited the words make him. His heart is beating in his throat. His palms are sweating.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. What is he supposed to say in this situation? He’s no longer a clan son. He’s not supposed to have a personality here. But it’s clear the only draw that Enjin sees is his personhood.
It’s the first time he’s heard his full name in what feels like forever. It’s the first time he’s been Zanka Nijiku in months.
“Right now,” Enjin says, dropping a wad of cash onto the table.
The need to defend himself—to save face—disappears at the command. He stands up on wobbly legs, collecting the money. Forgetting about his second cup of sake, forgetting about everything else in the room. If people are looking at him, he can’t feel it.
All he can feel is the silent promise that’s been made.
The entire night. Enjin wants him for the entire night.
What could they possibly get up to in six hours? How could Enjin be willing to pay that sort of money just to prove a point?
The girl at the front desk counts the cash—four hundred-thousand yen in crisp bills. When she’s done, she gives him two towels and blocks off the rest of his shift. There’s a labeled key in his nervous hands as he goes back to the main room.
He’s going to faint, or he’s going to wake up and find out this is all a dream. He’s watching himself from outside his body as he places the room key in front of Enjin.
Room Four
That’s where they’re going to have sex. That’s where he’s going to see Enjin take off his clothes, where he’s going to touch Zanka’s skin.
Enjin drains his glass in one swallow, taking the key up in his tattooed fingers. When he gets up, he’s a whole head taller than Zanka. He puts his cigarette between his lips and places his empty hand on the small of Zanka’s back, guiding him out.
The hallway is quiet in comparison to the main room. Sound barely reaches his ears at all, but the silence is almost deafening for the few seconds Enjin says nothing.
“Never thought I’d find you here.” The key jingles in Enjin’s hand as he reaches up to take his cigarette out of his mouth, pulling on it with a soft crackle before he takes it out. “Thought they might have killed you after the shit you pulled— This though…”
He laughs.
“Way better for me.”
“I wish they would have killed me,” Zanka says. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.
“You sure know how to get a guy in the mood, huh?”
The front desk girl had told him how much money Enjin spent. This wasn’t a small amount of money. Zanka has a job to do, and he has to do it to satisfaction, or he’ll be in trouble. As much as he wants to talk back, he can’t afford to make a scene with a client.
He bites the inside of his cheek instead, working his jaw as he watches Enjin unlock the door.
Everything inside is tiled warm pink, like a womb. Sound echoes, but the steam softens it all.
Zanka slides his haori off by muscle memory. Both his nipples are pierced now, rough guys love the look of something dirty on a dainty boy. They don’t look so out of place now that he’s been sullied a bit. He hated them at first.
Enjin looks at him like he’s eyeing a sports car, something fast and expensive. Something he could buy and use. Not a human at all.
“If you hate this place, why don’t you leave?”
The cigarette gets held near his mouth. For a second Zanka hesitates, he doesn’t want to get addicted to nicotine. He’s smoked a few times since he’s come here, but only when he’s too drunk to stand straight.
He takes it anyway; it doesn’t matter what happens to him at this point. He takes a small drag from it while Enjin starts removing his clothes. It’s such a perfect visual Zanka barely considers the stupid question.
Smoke fills his lungs, and his eyes roam over tattoos and muscles.
He immediately wants more. More of the heady rush of nicotine in his veins, more bare skin. Something horribly greedy crawls up from the darkest parts of himself. He stands perfectly still to keep himself from dropping to his knees.
“They’d find me right away,” he says. Although his tone speaks louder, are you fucking stupid?
Enjin laughs, and his belt buckle comes loose with a soft metallic sound.
“You spent how long in the business and you got nowhere to hide?”
Enjin returns his tone so effortlessly it makes him angry. He can’t hide the expression from his face, although it slips away the second Enjin takes his pants off.
Zanka expected him to be hung—it shouldn’t be a surprise—but seeing it with his own eyes feels different from the half-baked fantasies he used to have. It’s huge, even when it’s not hard, and it’s tattooed just the way his fingers are. A black and red band right at the base of it.
He’s never wanted something in his mouth so badly. Saliva pools under his tongue as he stares, missing the beat of their conversation, allowing himself to be humbled by his own hunger.
No, he doesn’t have anywhere to hide. No powerful friends.
Yes, he’s starving for this.
It must be obvious on his face because Enjin comes in real close the second he’s bare, pushing Zanka’s hand out of the way. A cigarette still smoking between his fingers, completely forgotten.
“You could beg for it,” Enjin whispers right against his jaw. His big body bows over him as he kisses his neck and then the junction of his shoulder.
There’s so many things Zanka could beg for right now, his mind doesn’t put two and two together at first.
“You’d still be a whore, but at least there’d only be one guy fucking you. They’d never find you at my place,” he pauses. “Even if they did, I’d fucking kill them.”
Zanka can’t tell if he’s relieved or insulted. An extreme feeling takes over him, a strong hand punching through his chest to grip at his heart. It’s hope and dread all at once. Belonging to someone as a personal toy—even Enjin—that’s not the life he wanted for himself.
But how is he doing better now?
He’s not in control of his life; he’s at the mercy of pimps and gangsters. If a client were to get violent with him, he’d be alone in a room like this until someone reacts to the security footage.
Enjin is a killer, and a formidable one. Zanka would be in Cleaner territory with the full force of a young-blooded gang behind his master. It’s as safe as he could possibly be, if Enjin was being serious about this.
The thought of getting his hopes up and begging a rival clan member is humiliating enough. But the very real possibility of this being a joke is far worse. His face twitches as his mind plays through the scenario, a vision of cruelty.
“Okay…” Zanka says, because there’s no good opinion. Silence is just as damning as refusal. All options lead to the same suffering if Enjin is joking.
But if he isn’t.
His knees go weak as acceptance washes over him. Undoing the invisible collar around his throat only to replace it with another prettier one right away.
Enjin lets out a soft little moan when Zanka lowers to the floor in one move. Reverently kissing the muscle of his pelvis. Zanka runs his hands up the sides of Enjin’s torso. When he looks up, he hopes Enjin sees something worth thousands of yen and a potential gang war.
“I’ll do anything you want.” He’s bad at dirty talk but desperate enough to try. “Take me— I don’t want to be here, please.”
A slow smile makes its way across Enjin’s face; whatever he sees, he likes it. His cock twitches to life against Zanka’s cheek. Entertained enough to touch his hair and fish for more.
“What would you do for me?” He almost purrs, toying with him. Looking to satisfy something sadistic that hungers for power.
“I—” Zanka breathes out, a flash of panic coming over him. The devil is in the details. He’s no prude at this point but taking control of the situation… Outlining what they might do. That’s never been on the menu.
He has to physically prepare himself every morning before work; he has to make sure his body is perfect for clients… It wouldn’t be any different living at Enjin’s house. His mind tries to arrange the words in an appealing way.
“I’m just— I’m a hole for you. I’ll always be ready, I promise. I’ll always be—”
“Show me,” Enjin says, and Zanka’s eyes light with confusion. “Your hole—show me what I’m buying.”
Embarrassment splatters red all over his face. He should be used to this by now; it’s not the first time he’s had to present his body for fucking. But he hesitates.
“By all means, take your time…”
Enjin laughs softly when Zanka scrambles to turn around, planting his hands on the ground for a second and then shifting so his chest comes right into contact with the warm tile. It can’t be enough, so he reaches back with both hands, spreading his ass so his puffy pink hole is on display.
His family would cleave Enjin’s head straight from his shoulders if they saw this. They’d hang him from an overpass so everyone knew who insulted the Nijiku family.
But there’s no one else here; it’s just the two of them. Zanka can’t keep his mind occupied for long. Enjin’s hand comes down to smooth over the arch of his back, letting out a low whistle at the sight.
“How many dicks have you taken today?”
Another piece of the humiliation ritual, Zanka’s eyes roll in annoyance before shutting to stop any attitude from sneaking out. He shifts on his knees to get more comfortable, widening his thighs so his posture looks more attractive.
“Two,” he answers honestly. “Neither were particularly—”
His body flinches when the distinct sound of Enjin spitting comes, followed by the wet feeling of saliva landing directly on his entrance. No one’s ever done that to him before; he almost recoils from it, but the squirming shifts halfway and becomes a slow grind of his hips instead.
“Guys who come here are losers.” Enjin’s hand leaves his skin for a second, only to return with fingertips running up the cleft of his ass. “This district is trash, your family picked the worst place to put you…”
Zanka’s muscles tense up in anticipation, and he has to hold his breath and breathe slowly to relax his body. He wants this too much; he’s too eager to get things started. Enjin’s fingers dip inside him, two thick digits that meet no resistance at all.
A low, pathetic sound rattles out of his lungs, and Zanka has to press his lips together to stop it. He doesn’t want to pander to Enjin, he already knows what type of guys hate too much of an act. Even if it feels good, he needs to make him work for it. Enjin won’t be satisfied until he knows he tore what he wanted out of Zanka himself.
As soon as he gets used to the intrusion it slips out of him, and a sharp slap lands on his tender skin. He yelps like a startled pup, curling in on himself on instinct.
He shouldn’t do that; he’s not supposed to hide any part of himself from a customer, even if it hurts. But he’s always had that sort of knee-jerk reaction, he’s always wanted to protect himself.
He resumes the same position the second he recovers from the strike, thighs even wider than before, arching his back deeper. A wordless apology.
When no new command comes, Zanka opens his eyes again, looking behind to see Enjin pulling something out of his abandoned jacket. His traditional tattoo is on full display, a symbol of commitment to his syndicate.
Zanka has never seen the colours and imagery used by the Cleaners, only what the Nijiku put on their men. Zanka shifts a little more, balancing his weight on one shoulder so he can get a better look.
Black and red clouds—there must be some meaning behind it. He can’t bring himself to ask. His cock feels heavy between his legs now, hardening with anticipation.
“I’m supposed to wash you first.” Zanka’s toes fidget on the tile, trying to get a better hold.
It’s a weak excuse for intimacy. He wants attention again. He wants a reason to put his hands all over Enjin’s body. Even if it’s just for a short little while, he wants to have some control; he wants just a second to be selfish.
“I don’t give a fuck about that…” Enjin laughs, tossing a little foil packet at Zanka’s ass.
It bounces off and falls onto the floor: a condom in gold wrapping. Magnum-sized. It demands action; he’s telling Zanka to take care of it for him, even if he’s dismissing his other request.
Both of Zanka’s knees are red when he turns around, picking up the condom so fast it might have been a bank note. His eyes look up to Enjin’s face and a smile twitches at his lips. Enjin is looking at him again. He feels like he’s glowing from the inside out all of a sudden.
His hands shake as he rips open the packet, tossing the wrapper so he can crawl close enough to use it.
Desire claws at him. Impulse running wild under his skin. He licks his lips, his eyes checking to be sure Enjin is watching. Maybe he’ll learn how lenient Enjin is; a demand was given, and he’s going to do what he wants regardless of that.
If he’s punished for it, well…
His hands brace on Enjin’s hips, closing his eyes as he leans in to kiss his cock. Not fully-hard yet. God, he wants it to be. He wants to be the reason why.
Something takes over him the moment he starts. There’s blood rushing in his ears. He’s got Enjin’s cock in the back of his throat and tears coming from his eyes by the time he comes back to his senses.
His knees hurt. He can’t fit the whole thing in his mouth no matter how deep he swallows it. He’s rubbing the tip right down his throat, humming away.
How long has he been doing this?
Enjin must be the patient type, because he hasn’t interrupted him at all. He’s got his hand in Zanka’s hair, not demanding anything now, just holding him by it.
Zanka’s gag reflex is long gone by now, the tempo he sets for them isn’t showing off by any means. It’s just what feels good. Warm skin sliding on his tongue, a comforting weight. He’s never sucked such a pretty cock before.
Enjin’s skin smells like expensive cologne and cigarettes. His eyes flutter at the feeling of fingers petting through his hair. A moment of gentleness before they grip iron tight, holding him still.
Zanka coughs the second Enjin snaps his hips forward; it’s so rough and so sudden that his throat clenches around him. A little whine of alarm echoing off the walls, along with the quick sound of his mouth being fucked.
It’s relentless. Snot leaks out of his nose within a few seconds, feeling the soft areas of his palate and throat bruising from the treatment. All he can do is take it, careful to not get his teeth in the way.
There’s a brief few seconds where he can’t breathe, and fear spikes inside him. If Enjin is testing his limits, he has to tolerate this. He has to show how capable he is, able to take anything that Enjin could possibly dole out. Worth the risk.
Enjin lets out a harsh breath, the kind of thing that comes right from the edge of pleasure. A knife's edge, and then pulls Zanka off his cock.
Breathing fills the room, Zanka’s ragged gasps for air and Enjin’s shuttering closeness. They meet eyes again after a moment, no composure left between them. Enjin’s face is flushed, and his eyes are bright with desire.
His tongue drags across sharp teeth.
“Put the condom on me,” he says.
Zanka moves fast. Enjin’s cock is so wet it goes on with no effort, and it slips a little when he starts jerking him off. All he wants is to feel it anywhere on his body; it doesn’t matter. Zanka lets a moan out at how hard it is now.
Enjin’s body shutters, sensitive from edging himself. He bats Zanka’s hand away immediately, shoving his shoulder so he falls backwards. Zanka’s so eager he lays out flat and pulls his knees up to his chest. A dog showing his belly to a dominant male, proving that he’ll be submissive for him.
A big hand wraps around his ankle, dragging him closer. The blunt weight of Enjin’s cock bumps into his inner thigh, and a tingle goes right through his body.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck you,” Zanka blurts, too gone to feel embarrassed about such a stupid admission. “Always, you’re so fucking hot—”
Enjin shoves inside him right to the hilt in one go. It’s such an incredible stretch it puts stars over his field of vision, pure white and sparkling. Effervescent right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He’s never been so full in his life.
“Yeah,” Enjin breathes out. Zanka can’t tell if he’s agreeing or just feeling it. For all the roughness of him, Enjin gets real close and curls around him the moment they’re pressed together. “I could tell… You can’t control your fucking face.”
Zanka’s mouth opens wide, replaying the public interactions they had with each other and who was present for them. Family members. How obvious had he been back then? Who had noticed?
“I was worried you wouldn’t be tight.” Enjin tucks his face into Zanka’s neck, nuzzling into it for a second. “You’re small for a guy.”
Enjin’s not moving at all, like he’s used to giving people a second. Both of Zanka’s hands go to Enjin’s back, touching him where he’s always wanted. On his clan tattoo, where it’s forbidden.
He wraps his legs around Enjin’s waist, wiggling his hips to show him he’s ready. He could take it.
“Clients got shrimp dicks,” Zanka slurs out.
A genuine laugh comes out of Enjin. When he sits back, he hitches one of Zanka’s legs onto his shoulder, pressing him open so the muscles of his inner thighs burn.
“I’ll try not to disappoint then…”
Later Zanka will find this moment funny, surely. Enjin is aware of his abilities; he sets into Zanka’s body like it’s divine retribution for all the bad sex he’s tolerated. This isn’t the sort of thing he needs to focus on to find pleasure in, hidden under the layers of repulsiveness.
Pleasure is a blunt object in Enjin’s hands, and he beats Zanka black and blue with it.
He’s going so fast the condom slips off inside him, both of them can feel the difference the second it happens. The filmy barrier gives way to something so wet and hot the two of them moan at the same time.
Zanka’s eyes roll back in his head, wracking up towards an orgasm violently.
“It’s okay,” he breathes. “I just got checked. No one else— Please don’t stop, please.”
That last word catches on him, and he’s begging it over and over again without thinking. It’s the only thing he can hold onto when Enjin starts pounding into him.
His whole body is off the ground, with only his shoulders bracing his weight now. Enjin has him almost folded in half, his teeth gritted while he fucks down into his body.
When he orgasms, his whole body shakes apart, and he comes on his own face. Inside his own mouth and on his eyelashes. Enjin laughs in such a delighted way, he almost sounds like a young boy all of a sudden. Immature and silly. Like when they were both still kids.
“God, I’m going to keep you—” he breathes. “All to myself, no one's ever going to see you again. You’re mine.”
A hand reaches down and grabs Zanka by the face. It’s so huge it covers the entire lower half of it, possessive and controlling.
“Say it, say you’re mine.”
Zanka’s body is over-sensitive, it’s a challenge to string together words. Even simple ones.
“Mine—” He starts, obeying wrong. “Yours, I’m— I’m yours.”
That seems to work for Enjin; his big fingers drag through the cum on his face, stuffing them inside his mouth. Giving him something to suck on.
Whatever he was doing before must have been for Zanka’s pleasure. The idea of Enjin being a thoughtful lover is laughable, but it’s everywhere around him now. He focused on making Zanka orgasm first, before doing whatever he wanted.
What follows is exactly what Zanka expected from the start. The brutal animal people saw during territory disputes, the loaded gun, and itching trigger finger. The change of gears punches a breath right through his nose, his body going limp in Enjin’s hold.
An erratic, punishing pace that’s not focused on pleasing. Only on taking. Deep enough to draw a sharp pain out from him every few thrusts. One of his knees finds the tile next to his shoulder, pinned by an unrelenting hand. His foot shaking and jostling with the tempo.
Zanka lets him do it. His body goes loose and his hands fall somewhere above his own head, overstimulated tears leaking out from his eyes. Of all the times he’s been used, this is the best. It feels like Enjin is trying to fuck right into his chest, right to where his heart is. It feels like he’s being crushed.
He’s drooling around Enjin’s finger, the taste of his own cum in the back of his raw throat. It’s too difficult to focus his vision, but from time to time he catches a glimpse of Enjin’s intense expression. Concentrated on the feeling, on looking at Zanka’s body.
Warmth settles over him, sickly satisfied down to his bone marrow. Enjin wasn’t joking about any of this, it’s obvious now. The feeling of being wanted is so foreign it overwhelms him, an all-encompassing weight smothering every other experience he’s had with another person.
Zanka moans, a thin little thing muffled out by fingers. Almost a sob. The attention and the sensation of being fucked so thoroughly is a pleasure in itself. The angle isn’t right, but it’s still Enjin holding him; it’s still Enjin inside him.
The sound of Enjin’s ragged, harsh breathing does the rest. He doesn’t pull out—he spills right inside Zanka’s body—and as his hips stutter, a second orgasm washes over him. Clear liquid dribbling out of his cock and down his own neck.
He isn’t in his body. Not really. He’s floating somewhere in the pink of the room, in cigarette smoke.
Enjin puts him down carefully, pulling out so Zanka can lay boneless on the floor. He hears Enjin get dressed, maybe it should worry him that after all this he’ll be left alone without any of the promises that were made. But he trusts Enjin somehow. He was careful with Zanka’s body; everyone knows what a monster he really is.
The sound of a lighter flicking to life comes, and Enjin returns to drape Zanka’s haori over his naked body. A moment later Enjin picks him up off the floor like a child needing to be brought to bed.
It’s so comforting that Zanka’s eyes sting. He nuzzles right into Enjin’s chest, forgetting his pride and self-preservation. It isn’t until they’re walking out into the main facility that any sense of danger comes back to him. His eyes shoot open in panic the moment he smells the tatami mats of the main room.
They can’t leave this way, not in the middle of a shift when people can see them. Not when it will be so obvious who took him and where he’d be.
There’s huge splinters of wood all over the room; half the tables are overturned or completely destroyed. He’s never seen this place empty before, not in all the months of him working here, no matter what the hour.
Blood spray stains the walls and the pale flooring.
“It was long overdue,” Enjin says. “I didn’t get much pushback when I told them what you did...”
Zanka’s eyebrows knit, and he twists in Enjin’s arms to look up at his face. No one outside of the Nijiku clan knew about that fuck-up. It was supposed to be a mistake; he told everyone it had been a mistake. But Enjin was smiling down at him knowingly.
“Take it as a thank you,” Enjin offers. “For having such bad aim.”
He’s never been able to control his face, even in the worst moments. He must be smiling like an idiot right now, just like he was three months ago when he shot his brother in the shoulder instead of hitting Enjin in the head like he was supposed to.
It was a humiliating moment, both for the Nijiku family and Zanka. Enjin had been dead to rights. But it was an honest mistake. Shooting into combat was difficult, even for the best marksman. Anyone could have missed and hit the wrong target, especially an amature like Zanka.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and closes his eyes again. Training his face into a placid expression.
He must fail miserably.
“Whatever you say…” Enjin laughs.
When they go outside, there are men screaming. There’s no civilians on the street, but Zanka can see a few recognizable members of the Nijiku clan getting dragged out from other red-light shops. The cleaners will execute them all once they find the leader of this particular district.
A hostile takeover like this hasn’t happened in a few years now. The clans have been at a standstill when it came to power, but the Cleaners are still young; they have a lot to prove to old families like Zanka’s.
Enjin brings him to a car parked down an alley, a yellow Lamborghini. He holds Zanka’s weight with one arm and puts him down in the front seat. There’s cum leaking out from his ass onto the expensive leather interior.
“This’ll just take a minute,” Enjin says, like he’s about to run into the grocery store.
He takes a gun out of the glovebox and checks the magazine. Zanka expects him to slip off without another word—business is business after all—but he takes Zanka’s chin between his rough fingers.
Enjin tastes like alcohol and smoke, but his kiss is gentle. A worshiping little thing full of promises. A vice of its own dragging Zanka under its control.
“Zodyl Typhon is working for my family,” he blurts out once it's done, tucking his chin rather than chasing after another kiss. “You’ll find some of his men— Boss Kimura and Squad Four work above a manju shop on the next block over.”
Enjin pauses, his pale brow raising as he looks down at Zanka. It’s the kind of expression a person wears while looking at a particularly good gift, startled by what they find under the wrapping paper. Zanka tries not to react to it, even if he feels like fireworks are under his skin.
Enjin thinks he’s valuable, he’s being helpful right now.
“Anything else?”
Zanka wracks his brain for any other information about this district; Squad Four isn’t known for their importance to the clan, and this area isn’t a hotbed for action.
“I want chicken katsu for dinner,” he says, eying Enjin again for some sign of yielding or favoritism. He wants to be special; he wants to know Enjin will fold for him.
A genuine burst of laughter comes as Enjin leans out of the car. Shaking his head while he checks the safety on his gun. They both look down the alley, two members of Ejin’s gang are lingering now. Waiting for their boss without intruding on him, looking away out of respect.
“Alright princess,” Enjin doesn’t miss a beat, tucking his gun into the back of his pants. When he looks back, there’s a level of pride there, ownership. Zanka watches the clear hesitation at leaving, a magnetic little pull tethering the two of them all of a sudden.
When the door finally closes, Enjin winks at him. Zanka lets himself feel it all: stupidly hopeful, wanted, and safe. It’s more than he’s ever allowed himself. For the first time in years, he’s excited. He curls up in the seat, tucking his embarrassment under his haori.
His body smells like Enjin now. Smiling as he waits for him to come back.