Work Text:
Daigo waited until the door of his apartment was firmly closed before he sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose, an attempt in vain to stave off the perpetual headache that had plagued him since his release from the hospital. His chest still ached from the gunshot wound he'd only just recovered from, but the ache in his heart was due more to the clan in tatters he'd returned to than the bullet that had pierced his lung.
His officers were largely gone, the families in disarray, and everyone looked to him for a solution, for the guidance to return from their losses stronger, to rebuild the Tojo clan to glory. He'd die for his clan, but still the expectations weighed on him. Rarely left with a moment to himself, he'd had no time to process events, to think, to breathe. It had taken all but an act of divine intervention to free himself of his aides and hangers-on, and now that the door was shut between him and everyone else, all he wanted to do was take advantage of the solitude.
He was thirty-three years old, dammit—hardly a relic yet, even if some days he felt positively geriatric. It wasn't that long ago that he'd been barhopping, carousing with men he'd generously considered friends, enjoying his pick of beautiful people. There were times he missed that life, missed the freedom, but the Tojo clan was family—and you didn't abandon family, especially not when they needed you.
With another sigh, Daigo slid down slightly in the chair he occupied, yanked his tie askew, and freed the buttons of his collar. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and held it until his lungs burned and he was forced to exhale, the rush of breath overloud in the otherwise-silent room.
He wanted a drink, a cigarette, maybe something more. He wanted hands on him that weren't professionally impersonal, that poked and prodded him for something other than tests and examinations.
He brushed his fingers over the exposed base of his throat, then ran his palm up the column of his neck until his fingers curled under his jaw. His pulse throbbed under his thumb, a reassuring rhythm, and he lost himself in it for a long moment before his hand slid away to rest against his chest instead. His fingers absently flexed against his shirt, stroked the fine fabric, skin-warm, as his thoughts wandered.
He remembered what it was like to sit in a club, a drink in one hand, the other draped behind the girl of the night as she leaned in, surrounded by soft lights and the coarse laughter of the men who’d followed him with their ignorant calls of 'aniki'. The clubs might have had a no-touching rule, but it hadn't been hard to find opportunities; it wasn't only men that flocked to him.
Fuck, he missed... well, fucking.
His hand had slid lower during his inattention, and his fingers stroked small circles now over his belly, left slight trails of heat as they skipped over his navel. Lower still, his dick took an interest and twitched in his pants, chafed ever-so slightly within the confines of his boxer-briefs—and damned if that wasn't an interesting development.
Before he could think, before he could reconsider, Daigo ran his hand lower to press the heel of it against his dick and rub slowly. It was luxurious, downright exultant, and he exhaled heavily as he felt himself stiffen within the confines of his pants.
He should probably retire to his bedroom for what he was about to do, should probably strip off his ridiculously-expensive bespoke suit and hide himself in the dark, away from potential interruptions, but... fuck that—who was in a position to judge him, after all? He slouched lower still and unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled the tails of his shirt from his pants and ran a hand under them to slide over bare skin. His belly heaved as he sucked in a breath, as shivers coursed down his arms.
It took barely a moment to unbuckle his belt and free the tab of his pants, to work his hand into his underwear and grip his hardening dick. That was it—that perfect slide of skin on skin, the movement restricted by the fabric prison but still decadent. He squeezed, just this side of uncomfortable, and stroked slowly toward the tip, savoring the slip of his foreskin as the head of his cock emerged from it.
He released himself long enough to tug down the zipper and shimmy his pants off of his hips, hesitated a moment before pushing his boxer-briefs down as well. The leather of the chair was butter-soft against his bare ass, the air of the room slightly cool on his flushed skin, and he wondered absently why he’d not done this earlier.
His dick was heated in his hand as he grasped it again, squeezed roughly and stropped it from root to crown. He groaned as his thumb played over the tip, as his short nail caught the slit there and brought a hard throb against his fingers. He could feel the veins webbing his dick as they filled, hardened his flesh until the crown no longer peeked from within his foreskin but was proudly exposed. He flicked his nail with careful deliberation over the slit and groaned again as he struggled to spread his knees, stymied by the bonds of his pants.
He stopped only long enough to shove his pants lower to pool around his ankles, then brought his hand back to his cock, now fully erect as it rose insistently against his belly. He wrapped his fingers around the base and squeezed tightly as his knees were finally able to part, as his other hand sallied between his thighs to cup his balls and roll them in his palm.
Fuck but he’d needed this.
His head fell forward, chin dropped against his chest as he rolled his hips against the tight ring of his fingers, as the leather of the chair creaked with the clench of his ass, as his hand slid down from his balls to press fingertips against his taint. He couldn’t help the gasp that tore from his throat any more than he could the jerk of his hips as the hand around his cock loosened with distraction. With a harsh swallow, he grabbed his cock again, stroked inelegantly as he caressed the nerves of his taint with rough strokes. This time, when his thumb caught the crown, it came away wet, a string of precum that stretched between them as his thumb pulled away.
He tipped his head back as he brought his thumb to his mouth and smeared the lingering wetness over his lower lip. His tongue flicked out to catch the pad, then swiped over his dampened lip. Salt and musk teased him as he wrapped his hand around his dick again, nothing of subtlety left as he pumped furiously, his other hand occupied between his balls and his taint, no longer with a pretense of teasing.
His teeth ground as the sparks began at the base of his spine, tingled through his balls, and shot through his cock with the force of a bullet. A broken moan escaped his throat as his orgasm overcame him, as cum erupted from his cock and sprayed over the shirt still covering his belly and chest, dribbled over his fingers to be smeared over his throbbing dick. The leather of the chair creaked rhythmically as his hips spasmed, strained for the leverage to thrust into his grasping fingers as the last drops of his spend oozed from his slit, until the rasp of his fingers over his dick was enough, then too much.
He retrieved his handkerchief from his inner breast pocket as he gasped for breath, and mopped the splattered cum from his skin. His softening dick was sensitive now, but stirred weakly as he carefully wiped it clean, then swiped at his wet hand. For a moment, he simply sat, soiled handkerchief against his bare thigh, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet.
It was the work of moments to adjust his clothing, though with a grimace at the mess he'd made of his shirt, and as he tucked himself back into his boxer-briefs and adjusted his pants he pondered how fleeting pleasure really could be, how rarely he pursued it even when it stared him in the face. (For a moment his mind drifted to Mine’s pouty lower lip before he ruthlessly yanked it back; that ship had well and truly sailed.)
He made his way into the bathroom, stripped off his rumpled suit and tie, and dropped the handkerchief and shirt in the laundry for his service to worry about, then climbed into the shower to rinse away the lingering stickiness. As his fingers trailed over his belly, he decided that this would happen again soon, even if he had to put it on his calendar—let his aides try and figure out what private meeting he held every Thursday night at 22:30.
After all, despite the best efforts of some, he wasn’t dead yet, and what better way was there to feel alive?