Title: Forbidden Temptation

Author: Lainx

Rating: Mature Audience, Explicit

Warnings: NSFW, alcohol

Summary: It is tough negotiating with the yakuzas,
Victor knows. What is even tougher, though, is negotiating with one in
particular, one he can’t help but desire, one he can’t help but fall for – even
though everything in their world advises him not to.

Link to A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556262

(

for clarification, Yuuri is a yakuza here, and for story purposes he uses another name, Tanaka Yuu, which is the one Victor knows him by)

The beat is mesmerizing. He can feel the
excitement, the smell of sweat, the deep-rumble of the music almost all the way
to his bones. After one flicker of his wrist, another drink appears on his
table. The woman serving him is scantily dressed and bites her lip while
staring at him. With a smirk, he slips another note into her back pocket, and
she goes back to the bar while swinging her hips.

On stage, several figures are moving sensually.
In accordance with his personal tastes, women and men mingle, passing, barely
touching each other, sending whiffs of delicious smells on the crowd gathered
around them. A low tingling of arousal sits lightly on his stomach – that is
his territory, his own little paradise on Earth. His favourite, shameful enjoyment
– seeing others lose themselves to the night.

“Make sure they are given access tonight, Murata.
If they do come.”

“Yes, boss Tanaka.”

He relaxes in his extra-comfy velvet seat and
contemplates his favourite dancers. A few months ago, he would have taken one
(or more) of them back to his turf. A few months ago, he would have enjoyed the
night without any care, drinking from their pliant bodies, snickering at their
urge to please him and taking, taking without thinking.

A flash of silver catches his eyes, and the
arousal that just has been fluttering about suddenly is thicker, headier. The
time seems to slow as three well-dressed men enter, drawing enough attention
that some raise their eyebrows at the foreign newcomers in interest. Others
seem to sense the danger and burrow into their drinks – low-classed yakuzas or
local footpads, not ready yet for an important brawl.

“So you’ve come. Courageous of you, Nikiforov.”

The silver-haired man who has walked to his
alcove smiles, flanked by two of his bodyguards. Yuuri is no fool; he knows
more of them linger around in the club, maybe even more than his own.

“Greetings, Tanaka-san.” said Nikiforov
answers. “I see you’re in no charming company tonight.”

Yuuri grins at that. Last time Nikiforov showed
up at his home turf, he had been rather…engrossed into living up to his
reputation of playboy. Or so it seemed. He likes to think this had maybe
displeased the other man.

“Do you wish to remedy the situation?” he
teases. “Want me to call one of my personal…performers?”

“And what if I said ‘go on’?” Nikiforov
challenges in his heavily-accented English, sitting next to him, his demure
guards remaining aloof and standing behind him.

“Don’t try to fool me, Nikiforov,” Yuuri
chuckles. “I don’t think there is a living soul in Russia – or in Fukuoka, for
that matter – who doesn’t know of your antipathy for women.”

“Touché.”

Yuuri takes a moment to settle further into his
situation. Nikiforov smells heavenly, as always. He inhales strongly, almost
tasting him on his tongue. His hands unconsciously clench in restrain. ‘No, you’re not allowed to,’ he thinks urgently.
‘Keep it professional.”

“So how is your evening going, Takana-san?”
Nikiforov asks, eyeing the number of empty glasses on the table warily. “Having
fun?”

Yuuri isn’t desperate enough to tell the truth –
that he has been waiting for the other man to come since the beginning of this
pathetic attempt of a private party. That he had thought of nothing more than
seeing his gorgeous blue eyes glinting at him under the psychotic lights of the
club.

“Always,” he croons instead, extending a hand
to stroke at the thighs of a passing server. “Even though I suspect you did not
come all this way only to ask me about my levels of fun-having. Come to the point,
Nikiforov – what brings you from your gilded tower?”

Victor straightens, and he swallows. Tanaka is
such an attractive man – even more so when he slips into his hardest persona. ‘Focus,” he tells himself. ‘Focus.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it already. The cargo
is set to pass next Friday – we just want to make sure there will be no problem
with your surveillance watchers.”

“Next Friday, uh,” Tanaka comments while
swirling his drink in his glass. “Seems like business is picking up. Wasn’t the
last pass less than a month ago?”

Victor does not answer, only sending him a
mysterious smile. He is pretty sure Tanaka knows the records as well as he
himself does. They are not here to discuss the well-going of the Bratva
informal commerce with China.

“All right,” Tanaka sighs, “I will make sure
nothing comes into your way. You know our prices, though.”

“We know them well”, Victor grits out.

“Now now, lighten up, Nikiforov. This could be
worse. At least you get to share a drink with me from time to time, and no man
suffers from it.”

Victor hates to admit it, but Tanaka is right.
Even if the Bratva is not happy with the generous commission the yakuzas always
end up taking on their exchanges, it still is
better than the first brawl they had over the transportation of the merchandise
in Japanese seas.

He knows he is supposed to use these meetings
with Tanaka to negotiate a better “custom fee” and that his guards watch him
closely, supposedly ensuring he does just that. Even before entering the club,
he had rehearsed it; how he would come in front of Tanaka, set his eyes on
anything but his gorgeous face, and demand negotiations – and win them.

But, of course, nothing of the sort had
happened. As soon as he had caught sight of Tanaka, the same swirl of desire
slash desperation had taken over his mind, and he finds himself gazing at the
man next to him, all words of duress forgotten. The dimmed lights of the club
create dangerous shadows on the other man’s face; his dark and pursed lips seem
inviting, almost welcoming.

“I’m sick of sitting there already,” Tanaka
suddenly announces. “You sure took your sweet time coming in tonight.”

“I…well…”

“I’d say you owe me a dance for my troubles”, the
yakuza suggests, a smirk on his lips while extending his hand to Victor.

He can feel the disapproving glare of his men
on his back, but his heart jumps in his throat when the cold fingers close around
his, and he lets himself be led to a secluded part of the dancefloor. Once
there, his partner sets his hands on his hips, and finally lets his body surrender
to the beat.

Tanaka is mesmerizing, as always. Victor has
seen him fighting, with his fists or his words. He has seen him clad in a suit,
his back as straight as a rod, during official meetings. He has seen him dishevelled;
his eyes screwed up in pleasure, a litany of swear words falling from his lips
as he allowed Victor to take advantage of his body during one of their
desperate and short encounters.

And yet, once again, the other man manages to
knock the air out of him, as they end up almost grinding against each other,
their breaths mingling, and their scents slowly but surely thickening the air
between them. The music is not even that good – a heavy beat with no meaning,
just enough of a rhythm to justify their moving. The atmosphere is rather
gaudy, no one apparently bothering with scent-blockers, and definitely dirty.

He finds himself wanting, wanting, wanting. His hands slide down, over the
ass of his partner, and he is not rebuffed in the least. If anything, Tanaka
shuffles even closer, gasping against his neck, his fingers clenching in Victor’s
hair.

It’s too much. Victor lets a moan out and
brings him flush against him. Against his better judgement, he starts nibbling
on his ear, dangerously close to his scent gland, and is rewarded with a low snarl.

“Come with me,” Tanaka orders, detaching
himself from Victor.

Helplessly, Victor follows him to a back-door
which opens on a private lodge. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t…

“You have your own room there?” he asks,
already removing his shirt.

“I own this place”, Tanaka answers carelessly, divesting
himself of his pants, underwear and shoes. “If I wanted to fuck on the
dancefloor, they’d just have to clear it for me.”

“Fuck,” Victor swears, a hot weight of arousal
in his stomach materializing at the mental image Tanaka induced in him. “Fuck,
fuck…”

Yuuri quickly loses his patience over the other’s
blundering words and moves on him, pushing his pants to his ankles and kneeling
before him. He is already hard, of course
he is. Foreigners really have no stamina.

Yuuri’s mind is cloudy with want as he rubs his
cheek against Nikiforov’s dick. He starts kissing him on his thighs, enjoying
the powerful musk there as the other man loses control of his scent. This sends
him into a frenzy and he gets up again, seizing the shoulders of his partner
and forcing him to face the wall of the lodge. With one hand he strips him of
his briefs and starts stroking his cock, while sinking his teeth into his nape.

Nikiforov answers with a loud moan and cants
his hips towards him, desperate for friction. What a sweet picture.

“I’m gonna fuck your thighs, Nikiforov. Stands
pretty for me,” Yuuri growls, sliding his knee between the other man’s legs,
which part obediently for him.

And to think Nikiforov is an Alpha. A
supposedly strong-headed, authoritative, malicious Bratva Alpha, second to no
one in the art of negotiation and threatening. An Alpha who turns into a submissive
lover between his hands, completely at his mercy. Yuuri feels powerful and strong,
exhilarated by the forbidden quality of their encounter. As always, they can’t
help it.

He licks his hand and sneaks it between
Nikiforov’s thighs, brushing against his balls and his sensitive scent-glands. The
other literally keens at this, thrusting into Yuuri’s fist even more insistently.
He can’t wait anymore, he needs to have him.

“Blyat,”
Nikiforov breathes heavily. “Please, please, just…”

Yuuri wishes they had more time. Yuuri wishes
he could love him better, maybe even take him for good, and leave him with his
scent on his skin for days after.

Instead, he slides between his thighs, and
starts fucking him in earnest, groaning between his pale blades, lavishing him
with kisses and nips. Nikiforov braces himself on the wall and takes it,
tightening his legs, encouraging him with high pitched mewls and meeting each
of his thrusts with one of his own.

“So good…so good for me, pretty boy, pretty
boy,” Yuuri hums in Japanese, feeling his control slips. “Will you come for me,
pretty boy?”

Nikiforov has obviously no idea of what he is
saying but his tone does not let much space for interpretation, and he responds
well to him, his breath quickening while he shudders, his cheek pressed against
the wall, his lips glistening as he moans.

“That’s it, that’s it, come on,” Yuuri urges,
thrusting even harder against him.

Nikiforov tenses and a strangled moan escapes
his lips as he messily comes all over Yuuri’s fist, his knuckles whitening as
he seeks support from the wall against the waves of pleasure undertaking him.
Yuuri swears and slams into him with abandon, using his hands to keep his
thighs closed tightly around him, as he seeks his own pleasure. The smell from
his partner is overwhelming, so mouth-watering, and he ends up coming while
burrowing his nose against the other man’s neck scent gland, whimpering in his sweaty
and delicious skin.

They stay like that for a moment, breathing
into each other, until Nikiforov sloppily comments:

“You don’t smell that much like an Alpha, huh?”

Yuuri can feel his blood slowly freeze in his
veins, and the post-coital haze in which he was indulging quickly dissolves. He
disengages himself from the Russian man, and picks up his clothes, getting
dressed without looking at him.

“In Japan, it is not appropriate to let your
scent all over the place,” he answers curtly.

Nikiforov chuckles in answer, recovering some
tissues from his pants and dabbing himself with them.

“That must be why everyone here tonight had
heavy scent-blockers, right?” he teases, feeling light and careless, as he
always does when he indulges into his attraction to the yakuza.

Said yakuza shrugs, already clad again in his
tasteful ensemble. The warmth between them is already dissolving, and Victor
feels his stomach churning. He knows what is coming.

“As always, Nikiforov. Not a word of this, to
anyone that matters. And tries keeping
the mouth of your mutts closed.”

Tanaka leaves him on these words, slipping back
to the loud main area of the club, and Victor is left alone with his beating
heart and his watery eyes.

‘If only’,
he thinks, finishing dressing himself sadly. ‘If only…’

Yuuri goes back to his seat, controlling the
dance floor and ordering another glass of sake, the last of the evening. His
chest hurts, and each breath fills him with the scent that lingers on his skin.

‘If only…’
he ruminates, torn and yearning for something that can’t be. ‘If only…’