Archive of Our Own ^beta

Yamato goes to a strip club for the first time for his 32nd birthday. He is not actually 32. It is also not his real birthday. 

“C’mon, kid,” Queen had said, giving him a hearty pat on the back when he saw him at lunch earlier today. “I paid the whole club out for you already, so if you don’t go then that’s comin’ straight outta’ your paycheck.”

“I’ve never been—”

Queen leveled him with an irritated look. “That’s the whole point. Maybe if you got laid for once in your life you’d stop being so annoying all the time.”

Yamato is extremely aware that he’s annoying to anyone not named Ace or Luffy, so he wilted a little at the comment. Then he simply went along with the rest of it like a reed in the wind, partly to appease his father’s left-hand, and partly because he was actually, sort of, kind of curious about the whole strip club experience.

That brings him here, clenching a beer tight in hand and staring up at the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire existence, twirling around a pole on stage. Her banner of jewel-toned hair streams elegantly behind her as she twirls. Her miniskirt flounces around her hips and is short enough to see up at her matching pink panties. She’s positively sparkling under the flickering lighting, some sort of iridescent sheen to her pale skin that makes her glimmer like a diamond. His dick grows hard enough in his pants that he can feel it press against his packer, and that’s not good at all. 

Yamato whips around immediately to go back to the bar and request something stronger, when Sasaki slings an arm around his neck and turns him around. Facing the pole-dancer again, this time as she hangs in midair using nothing more than her toned legs wrapped around that pole.

Fuck, does Yamato wish he was that pole right now.

“We call ‘er Oiran-hime,” Sasaki says, pointing her out amidst the other women dancing and shaking ass on stage. “You should put some money in her panties.”

“What?” Yamato squeaks out. His grip goes so tight on the glass beer mug it’s liable to break. 

Sasaki just laughs and shoves him forward.

Oiran-hime, as Yamato knocks into the raised platform and grips the wooden edge for balance, finally slinks to her feet again, heels clicking towards him while another woman takes her place at the pole. She smiles and winks when she catches his eye. Yamato’s heart leaps into his throat. Then she turns around sensually, giving him a full 360 degree view of her body undulating to the music as she slides that tiny miniskirt off her plump ass and down her long, shimmering legs. 

Yamato scrambles for his wallet so quickly he almost drops the beer, pulse pounding in his ears, nothing more than desperate need fueling him. He grabs a few random bills, three ¥10,000 ones, and when he snaps his gaze back at her she’s watching him, amused and waiting. 

Panties, he thinks, staring at her mesmerisingly pink underwear. Slip them into her panties. 

Then she crawls across the stage towards him on her hands and knees and sticks her chest out. 

Long strands of turquoise hair elegantly drape over her teeny tiny top, stick with sweat to the bare skin of her shoulders, collar bones, and massive fucking cleavage, and Yamato’s hand shakes as he goes in to tuck the bills into the halter strap of her top. When he pulls away quickly, his knuckles brush her breasts. They jiggle a little. He’s so turned on he’s going to pass out. 

Yamato somehow makes it back to the others in a daze, taking a seat on the unoccupied side of King’s loveseat. He swaps Yamato’s beer out for something else. 

“Alber— King,” Yamato amends, snapping back into sobriety at the warning look on his face. His father’s men are always so invested in their codenames. “Thanks. I…”

Yamato blanks. His head is empty. He’s so stupid right now that he can’t even finish the sentence.

Everyone breaks into laughter at his expense.

Yamato doesn’t know how much more time passes, but at some point he becomes blurry with intoxication and King moves off the loveseat. 

“Did someone order a lapdance?” a coy voice says in an all too knowing tone. 

When Yamato blinks through the alcohol haze he sees a familiar stream of turquoise. His group erupts into cheers. Someone says, “Birthday boy’s right ‘ere! Hey, Yamato, I got you that girl you’ve been lookin’ at all night.”

“I’m… so sorry about them,” Yamato mumbles, squinting to see better. Oiran-hime doesn’t respond. She just smiles at him again, the same way she did earlier, and turns around. Her banner of hair falls down her pale back, fluttering with her dance moves as her body rolls. Then she winks at him over her shoulder and backs up almost into his lap, shaking her ass so close that if he tipped forward, he could easily motorboat her butt. He does not do that, because he’s a normal human being who knows when not to touch, but god does he want to. She’s not quite twerking. It’s another movement. Her thighs are jiggling at him too, a puffball cloud of translucent shimmer catching the blue lights around them as her body glitter shakes off. 

She bends over to touch her toes before coming back up all slow and sensual, and faces him again, full hips swaying, long fingers reaching out to twist around his tie. She gives him a dark, narrow, predatory look. The tip of a pink tongue comes out to swipe across her painted upper lip. She’s going to eat him alive. Yamato has never wanted to submit to anyone like this before.

She wraps his tie around her knuckles once, twice, then jerks him forward. Yamato goes willingly. The long, sharp manicure on her other hand swipes through all the hair falling into his face with a sting. He needs to redo the bun gathering his hair together. He needs to redo his suit and tie, probably, and then trash them when he gets home, because there’s no way in hell any dry cleaner’s going to be able to get all that glitter off them. Oiran-hime is leaving traces of her touch everywhere she goes. Yamato hopes that glitter gets stamped into his soul.

And then she climbs on top of him.

Vaguely, faintly, he recognizes everyone around them hooting and hollering and cheering. None of that matters though, because his entire world has narrowed to the small points of contact between her naked thighs and his clothed ones. 

It’s all a blur from there. She dances on him. Grinds on him. Shakes her tits in his face for a while. He’s the happiest he’s ever been, probably, and also the most embarrassed. When his time is up and she goes to leave, he grabs her wrist without thinking.

When she turns back to look at him, he’s met with the most venomous glare he’s ever seen. She could melt diamonds with that thing. Out-poison a few snakes too. Yamato’s dick twitches in interest in his pants. 

He lets go of her wrist like he’s been burned.

“Wait, wait, let me—” he takes his wallet again and doesn’t even bother to rifle through it this time. Just grabs all the bills left in it and thrusts it at her, clumsy fingers trembling, and her eyes go wide. 

She looks down at the massive wad of cash he’s offering her, then back up at his eyes. Then her gaze narrows and she snatches the cash away like she’s scared he’ll take it back. He could never take it back.

“Thanks,” she says, stuffing the bills into her sweaty cleavage. Yamato’s mouth waters just watching. Then, before she leaves again, she presses four fingers of one hand to her mouth then tilts them away, lips pursed as she blows him a kiss.

Yamato thinks he could die happy now. 

He might have, in all honesty, considering that is the very last thing he remembers about that night.

The next day, he meets up with Zoro after work for dinner for the first time in… months, probably. It’s been a while since Zoro’s been back in Japan. He’s distracted the whole dinner though, in just the same way he was distracted during work, and it’s clocked immediately. Never one for mincing words or playing games, Zoro forces it out of him. 

“Strip club for your birthday's stupid as shit,” Zoro announces, pouring himself another cup of sake. “You sure it wasn’t hazing?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think it was? It doesn’t matter what it was anyway, I…”

“You what?”

Yamato buries his blushing face in his hands and whispers, “Kinda’ liked it?”

Zoro snorts, amused. “I think it’s okay to admit that, dumbass. It’s not that weird to like naked girls.” He slurps down some of his sake and licks his lips after, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Hey, at least you’re not the guy that falls in love with a stripper.”

He takes another sip of his drink, glancing up, and whatever he sees on Yamato’s face must be deeply incriminating because he proceeds to do a spit take and spray sake all over the table. 

“No fuckin’ way,” Zoro chokes, bug-eyed. “Holy shit. You’re the idiot that fell in love with a stripper!”

“I can’t stop thinking about her!” Yamato confesses, the words all leaving him in one breath. “Everytime I close my eyes I see her. Everytime I see turquoise on a spreadsheet— Gah!”

Zoro shakes his head sadly. “Oh man. This is pathetic. What would you do if Ace saw you like this?”

“Nothing, because he thinks I’m perfect as is,” Yamato announces confidently. 

“My bad for asking the question.” Zoro rolls his eyes. “You need to meet someone. I’m so serious. Find an actual girl to fuck and get over the stripper.”

“I don’t want to get over the stripper! She’s— she’s—” Stunning, beautiful, gorgeous, sharp, dangerous, intimidating, venomous. And the way she moves her body is obscene, on top of all that. 

He locked himself into the bathroom on lunch break today, trying to slip past the haze of horniness impeding his productivity into post-nut clarity by jacking off real quick, but he just couldn’t do it. He tried everything. He even went off the company wifi and disconnected his phone’s bluetooth to watch porn with some wired earbuds while he worked his t-dick, tugging up the shaft, pulling the foreskin back to thumb at his cockhead, but he just couldn’t do it. The women writhing together on screen were nothing compared to her. He doesn’t want any old pussy and tits and ass. He wants Oiran-hime to look at him like dirt under her heel again and let him dig his nails into her butt. He wants— that, that glint in her steel eyes when she snatched the cash out of his hands like something mean and vulnerable and grateful, even. He feels connected to her. He feels like they had a connection. He’s delusional, probably, but it’s hard to really believe that when there’s a live wire connecting them across time and space.

Anyway. He’s been sexually frustrated all day with no recourse. He wants so badly to see her again. Would it be weird if he went to the strip club again on his own? Maybe Zoro could go with him.

Yamato appraises him thoughtfully, but he really must be transparent, because Zoro catches the look in his eye and scoffs.

“Yeah, no. Whatever it is you’re thinking, I’m out.”

Yamato pouts. “You wouldn’t visit her with me?”

“What gave you the impression that’s my sorta’ scene?”

Yamato heaves a great big sigh. He folds his arms onto the table and buries his face in them, sulking. “Oiran-hime,” he warbles tearfully. “I miss you…”

They finish up there not too long after. Neither of them are particularly drunk, but Zoro’s shit with directions even when the street signs are sunlit and his phone GPS is at full battery, so Yamato walks him to the subway station and drops him off. Yamato should probably head home too, but the air’s crisp and cold today, just like he likes it, and he needs to clear his head. He decides to walk the half an hour back to the office instead, to grab his company car and drive himself home. Tomorrow’s a Saturday anyway. No need to be up early for work.

He’s gotten fifteen minutes into his meandering walk when he turns into an alleyway behind a line of stores, a shortcut that cuts through dumpsters and HVAC units to get to the other street, and sees someone else leaning up against a wall waiting. They’ve got a medical mask on and a baseball cap pulled low over their eyes. Look up only briefly when Yamato passes them. 

There’s a soft jangling sound behind him. One of the backdoors to these stores opening. The soft click of heels on a hard street. Yamato looks over his shoulder, gets a glimpse of that figure from before pushing off a wall to reach out and grab the woman, and acts on instinct.

The woman manages to let out no more than a strangled yelp before Yamato decks the stranger right in the face, baseball cap flying off, a low grunt echoing through the alley as they drop to their knees.

“Fuck,” the guy curses, cradelling his cheek, looking up at Yamato. “What’s wrong with you, you piece of shit?!”

“You— you were reaching for her!” Yamato stutters. “You were waiting here for her!”

“He was what?” The woman demands. 

“I wasn’t! You don’t know that!”

“I saw you!” Yamato insists. “Miss, listen, I saw—”

His words grind to a halt. He stares slack-jawed at the woman for a moment instead, taking in her appearance in all her glory, turquoise hair down to her back, an oversized hoodie cozy over her body. Her makeup is so fierce out in these streetlights. There’s glitter smudged onto her neck.

“I should take you to the police,” Oiran-hime hisses down at the man at their feet, clutching her arms around herself. “Stalking and harassment are crimes, you know!”

“I wasn’t doing shit,” the guy insists, getting to his feet. He eyes Yamato warily, sidestepping him and shuffling backwards, out of the alleyway entrance. “You don’t even have any evidence. Fuck you, bitch.” He turns and runs, spots of red high on his cheeks. 

“He reeked of alcohol,” Oiran-hime comments with distaste, holding one elegant hand under her nose. Her brows are scrunched up in a manner that makes her eyes look stunning. Yamato doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. His brain is mush in her presence. Then she looks back up at him and her expression softens into something neutral. “Oh. It’s you.”

“You remember me?” he asks breathily. 

“Of course I do. Thanks for the big tip the other day. That one made rent.”

“I— of course! No problem!”

“And thank you for being here now…” She trails off for a moment before she turns on him, bristling again. Cautious like a feral cat. “Why are you here again, out back? Don’t tell me you were waiting too?”

“What? No! No, I would never! I was just— well, this is a shortcut to get through to the office, that’a’way, see.” He jabs his thumb over his shoulder, at the other way out of the alley. “I was just coming back from dinner with a friend.”

“And going to your workplace instead of home?”

“Just. To get my car, you know, it’s… over there. Uh. Would you want a ride, by the way? In case that guy’s still out here?”

“What in the world makes you think I’d accept a ride home from a random man—”

The backdoor jingles open again. A tall blonde woman steps out, slipping a cigarette out from a carton. Stops for a second in surprise at the sight of both of them. 

“Maria,” Yamato greets. “Hi.”

Maria’s the owner of this establishment, along with a bunch of other places that she looks after for Yamato’s dad. Kaidou’s got his fingers in a bit of everything, and Maria happens to be the subordinate looking after the finger in the sex industry. Yamato’s known her for… maybe a decade now. She’s pretty nice for the most part. Definitely thinks he’s annoying though, just the same as the others.

“Hm. Yamato. Kozuki-san, what are you doing out here with him? I thought you left already.”

Kozuki. That’s a nice surname. The same as Kozuki Oden. Yamato can only take the coincidence to be a sign of providence. They were always meant to meet.

“Please do not give him my name,” Kozuki insists. “How do you even know this man?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Maria says, blowing a stream of smoke out between them. Her gaze is as condescending as ever. “He’s… well, let’s just say he's a high-profile client and leave it at that, shall we? It’d be easier on your brain.”

“I’ve never seen him around here before last night,” Kozuki says, glaring at him with suspicion. 

“I swear I’m not a stalker,” Yamato insists again, clasping his hands together before him. “Maria, there was a guy here earlier, waiting outside. I gave him a good punch and he ran away.”

“Did you now? Good boy.”

Yamato grins at the praise, even though it was probably sarcastic. “I thought it’d be safer if Oiran— I mean, if Kozuki-san were escorted home? I don’t think she trusts me, so if you could…”

“I could not,” Maria drawls. She turns an annoyed stare at Kozuki. “Let him give you a ride. He’s harmless anyway.”

Kozuki glares at her for a moment, gets an unimpressed look in return, and then finally gives up. She turns on her heel and marches out of the alleyway, holding a hand up for Yamato to follow. Like a well trained dog, his metaphorical tail perks up as he gives chase.

“Bye Maria!” he calls as he goes. “Good night!”

“You’re not getting me in your car,” Kozuki says once they turn the corner onto the main street. “But since Maria-san knows you, I will allow you to walk with me.”

“Thank you!”

Kozuki cuts a glare towards him. “You’re cheerful.”

Yamato just smiles. Of course he is, when he gets to walk alongside someone so beautiful like this. Just being in her presence makes his very atoms vibrate with happiness. 

It’s a quiet walk, and Kozuki doesn’t seem eager to start the conversation, so Yamato takes initiative. “You’ve got a cool name,” he compliments. “Like the actor from those older movies! Kozuki Oden, you know?”

“I know,” she grouses. “Bit past your generation to be a fan though, aren’t they? He stopped acting over 20 years ago.”

“He was amazing though. I don’t care if it was for a different generation, those movies changed my life! He’s my favorite actor in the whole world. Everyone thinks he was just this crazy natural talent, you know, but you can tell how much passion and work he put in when you dig into his past.”

“Yeah?”

Kozuki’s finally looking at him with something that’s not displeasure. Her face is open and curious. 

Yamato nods. “Yeah, he’s a real visionary. And I know some people think he sold out with those last few movies, but I—” He stops himself abruptly, coming back to himself. A few sentences is okay. Going on a giant rambling rant is very much not. He’s learned this. He should be better about it by now. “Sorry,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t fling them all over the place in excitement. “You get the picture by now. I don’t mean to bore you.”

“No,” Kozuki says slowly. “You didn’t.” She’s still watching him strangely while they walk. “I agree with your assessment.”

“You do?!” Yamato takes a deep breath to reel in his excitement back to normalcy. “That’s great. Are you a fan, too?”

“In a way. I’m his daughter, if you can believe me.”

Yamato stumbles over his own two feet and trips. He doesn’t actually fall, but it’s a near thing. “Wahuh?”

She looks a bit amused. “Big superfan like you, I would have thought you knew he had children.”

“I did! I did, I swear, I just… It’s sort of weird to look too hard into his family, when they probably just want to be left alone after he died, right?”

“Get real,” Hiyori says, laughing. “You really don’t want anything from me? Don’t want to know insider information?”

Yamato thinks on it hard. Closes his eyes in concentration and crosses his arms over his chest. When he sneaks a peek, Kozuki’s smiling at him. 

“My name’s Hiyori,” she finally says. “Kozuki Hiyori. My father was Kozuki Oden.”

“Hiyori,” Yamato repeats dreamily. “That’s really pretty.”

She startles a bit. “You’re blunt.”

“Oh. Sorry?”

Hiyori hums. She keeps a swift pace ahead of him, heels clicking, legs long and elegant under her jeans. Even in casual wear like this, no naked skin in sight, she’s magnetic. There’s a bit of a dance to the way she walks. It’s like she was made to be sensual. She’s so good at her job it’s unreal.

Yamato stops in his tracks again.

“Hey, wait,” he calls a bit nervously, and Hiyori stops too. She looks over her shoulder at him questioningly. Yamato gulps. “If— um. If your dad is Kozuki Oden, then… I mean, you shouldn’t have to work here, right? Or struggle to make rent, and stuff?”

“Maybe you’re too blunt,” Hiyori tells him. Yamato can’t tell if he’s displeased her or not. “Under normal circumstances I shouldn’t, but things are different right now.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why does a stranger want to know my business?” she mutters. She keeps walking, chin held high, forcing him to keep up with her, and for some incomprehensible reason she actually answers him. “My parents never planned on dying early, as you can imagine, so the trust fund is inaccessible until my younger brother turns 18, and the rest of the family’s wealth is under the stewardship of our legal counsel.”

“Oh.” Yamato frowns. “That sounds sexist.”

“Just a little,” she agrees bitterly. “Things are tough now, but my brother’s starting high school soon. Only a few more years until I can retire.”

“You think you can keep up with it?” Yamato asks, looking back over his shoulder. The guy he decked for trying to grab at her is gone somewhere in the distance, lost to the dark city. “There're scary people out here.”

“Not like I have any other choice. This is my stop,” she says once they reach the subway station. Yamato didn’t even notice they made it all the way back here.

“I can escort you the rest of the way home,” Yamato offers. 

“I don't think I want strange men following me home at all, no matter how handsome they are.”

Yamato feels his face rush with hot blood, embarrassed and pleased all at once. Hiyori thinks she’s handsome? Really? He thought she was annoyed by him. He’s vibrating with excitement. She’s just so goddamn pretty, too pretty to be telling him that. And she looks so sad too, standing there in the empty night, getting stalked just because of her job so she can pay rent to take care of her little brother. Yamato feels a pang in his chest. Maybe Zoro was right. Maybe he really did fall in love with the stripper. 

Head as empty as always, on nothing more than impulse and emotion, Yamato blurts out, “I can help! I can pay your rent!”

Hiyori blinks at him, wide eyed. “What? What do you—”

“I’m loaded,” he boasts, then corrects, “Er, well, my dad is loaded. But I'm doing pretty well too, I work at his place and I can totally take care of your rent for a while.”

“That’s unnecessary," she snaps back immediately. “You don’t know me well enough for charity, and I have nothing else to offer you.”

True, true, all true, but— uh— fuck. He says the first thing he thinks of: “I can be your sugar daddy! Just. I can. Pay for things. You know. Rent and groceries and you… can…” He trails off, face red, and he did not think this through at all holy shit. Hiyori stares back at him in shock.

“You could quit stripping…” Yamato whispers. “Or keep at it, if that’s what you want, I don't… I don't know. Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird—” 

There is something so severely wrong with him, holy shit—

He stumbles backwards, letting out a strangled high pitched laugh, feet stepping over themselves and tripping, until Hiyori lunges forward and grabs his hand. Her eyes have a cold and calculating shine to them. 

“Do you mean that?” she asks. “Rent, groceries, and an allowance, in exchange for sexual favors.” She sounds like she’s striking a business deal. Yamato is going to have a stroke. 

“Hhhrhrghhh. Uhhhh. Uh. Yes?”

“Give me two— no, three days to think about it,” she announces, finally pulling back. “Do you have a business card with your phone number?”

Yamato scrambles to get it out, handing it over all polite and proper with two hands held out neat and a slight bow. She's snapped him right into attention. 

“I'll call you in three days,” Hiyori repeats, turning around. Her heels click on the steps down the subway. She doesn’t even say goodbye. 

Yamato stares after her and wonders what he’s even gotten himself into. 

Exactly on time, three days later, Hiyori calls him in the morning in the middle of a meeting. Three hours after that, he takes her out to lunch in a private room at one of the nicer restaurants nearby. They have these gorgeous sushi boats that he really loves. It’s also not a yakuza hotspot, which he feels is pretty important, given this is the place they’re choosing to seal their deal.

“I can’t afford this,” Hiyori announces stiffly, glaring at her menu. Her back is ramrod straight. She’s wearing an oversized sweater and jeans again, but her makeup is done dramatic and sleek like she’s going into work after this. 

Yamato glances back at her after taking a sip of his sake. “Hm? That's fine. Get anything you want, I'm paying anyway.”

“You say that so easily,” she mutters.

By the time their food comes out, she barely looks any calmer. Everything about her posture is nervous. “Your offer still stands?”

“Yeah, ‘course it does,” Yamato says.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, and pulls something out of her handbag. Slides it across the table to him. A single sheet of paper.

“Ground rules,” she says. “I need it in writing. I understand that we can’t exactly keep this agreement on the record, legally, but—”

“I’ll sign,” he assures her. “You can sue me for harassment if I break it.”

“Would you just shut up and read it?”

Yamato does. It’s worded clumsily compared to contracts he normally works with, the tables crooked, the numbers skewed, but it seems fine otherwise. Nothing he really opposes. It’s kind of cute how messily it’s formatted. He whips his hanko out of his pocket and stamps his seal into the appropriate box, as though it’s a notarized document, and slides it back. “There ya’ go!”

Hiyori stares back at him. “That’s… it? No complaints? No adjustments you want to make?”

“Uh, not really. Why would I?”

Hiyori buries her face in her hands and groans. “I guess you wouldn’t. Okay.” She peeks back up at him through her fingers. “You did read it properly, didn’t you? You’ll follow along?”

“I did! I told you I did, that’s why I stamped it.”

“...Fine. To reiterate, just for my own peace of mind, though. This isn’t a relationship, just a transaction.”

“Yup,” Yamato nods.

“You can’t touch me without consent.”

“Of course.”

“And I reserve the right to say no to anything I don’t want to do, for any reason, and you can’t get violent about it.”

“I would never!” he tells her seriously. “Whatever you say, I’ll listen, promise.”

“…You’re a strangely obedient man,” Hiyori tells him, something dangerous in her eyes again. Almost predatory, like that night she grinded on his lap. “Would you even bark if I told you to?”

It was a joke, clearly, but Yamato is nothing more than a dog eating out of the palm of her hand, so he leans across the table towards her and goes, “Woof. Woof woof woof!”

She flushes and jerks away. “Stop that! Someone could hear you!”

“It’s a private room! And you asked.” He grins at her. She looks away sternly, still pink under her makeup, on her neck and her ears, and finally picks up her chopsticks. She’s got an elegant way about her in this, too. The way she holds them is graceful. She’s a real princess, the way she eats slow and careful while he packs away sashimi. Sometimes, in his dreams, he orders fish by the pound and it all slides down his gullet like butter. Last night, in his dreams, he saw Hiyori laid out before him like a buffet. Pink cheeks, pink lips, pink nipples. Those goddamn panties from that one night. He wonders if he’ll get the chance to see them again, with this arrangement.

Once they’ve eaten, they set up their bank accounts so he can wire her money. He throws a big sum her way immediately. Two months rent, with another half of that in there for miscellaneous expenses. Whatever she needs to be comfortable for a while. “So you don’t have to go to work today,” he says, putting his phone away. “I can tell Maria you’re quitting for you, if you want.”

Hiyori stares at him slack-jawed. 

A server knocks on the door and comes to clear their plates away. 

“Hi,” Yamato says, smiling at him. “Could you put an order in for me to pick up tonight? On the way back from work at… let’s say seven?”

After he leaves, Hiyori clears her throat and asks, faintly, “Are you planning on having me over tonight? Already?”

“What? O-Oh, for that stuff, uh, um, not really— Unless you wanted to, I guess, but—”

“Nothing,” she says. “Nevermind. You must be having guests.”

“Um, no? Wait, do you mean the takeout? I don’t have anyone coming over, I always grab food when I’m out. I can’t really cook.” He laughs, sheepish. “I’m the kinda’ guy that makes pots and pans explode if he steps foot into a kitchen, y’know? I just survive off takeout and leftovers.”

“I see. And… are you planning to go out for lunch tomorrow as well?”

“Usually I just order delivery and eat in my office. Why, did you want me to take you out again?” He brightens. Hiyori shakes her head no. He deflates. 

“Do you normally take a lunch break at this time?”

Yamato shrugs. “Depends. Tomorrow I’ve got a meeting ‘til two though, so it’s gonna’ be later.”

“I see.”

She doesn’t say anything beyond that, so Yamato lets it go. He walks her out of the restaurant and back to the subway station before he heads back into the office, more cheerful than he’s been in a while. Spending time with Hiyori’s so nice. She makes him feel like he just ran a marathon, or won a contest, or something. He’s so excited to see her again.

The next day at two o’clock on the dot, his secretary calls Yamato to inform him that he has a guest requesting to be let in. The meeting’s running a little late, so he tells her to hold them for a moment, and runs back out of the conference room as soon as he can. He’s folding his blue-light glasses to stick in the breastpocket of his suit jacket when he bumps into a familiar figure in the hall outside his office. Turquoise hair. Venomous eyes. A modest skirt and blouse.

He drops the glasses onto the floor.

Yamato curses under his breath and drops down to pick them up, only a few centimeters from the shining pastel plastic of her pink heels. Her feet are narrow and elegant in them. The jut of her ankle is delicate. He wants to put that in his mouth. 

He puts the glasses away and stands, face hot, fumbling with his laptop and notepad under one arm. “Hi,” he says. “Hey! Hello. What are you doing here?”

“You’re five minutes late,” Hiyori informs him, displeased. 

Yamato looks over her head to his secretary’s desk helplessly. She smiles politely and simply informs him she’s going to take her lunch break as well, stepping away from the desk.

This end of the building is an empty one. Yamato leads Hiyori into his office, the last one in the row, and one of the bigger ones to boot. Privilege of being the boss’s son, maybe. There’s a wall full of floor-to-ceiling windows up here, looking out over the city skyline from so far up. He takes a seat behind his desk and sets his stuff away, muting his laptop notifications so he can focus his attention entirely on the woman still standing before his desk, an unmarked tote in hand. 

“What’s up?” he asks her, trying not to sound too eager, flicking a pen nervously around his fingers in figure eights. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you again so soon. Did you change your mind?”

“What?” She looks a bit startled.

“Ah, you know, on me taking you out for lunch again? I asked yesterday and you said no, but if you want to hang out, I know this great place—”

“Shut up,” she says, rubbing a hand against her temple. Even this is elegant, the way her fingers are poised. “Let me speak for a moment, please. I’m here for the opposite, really.”

“Huh?”

Hiyori sets the tote on his desk, reaching inside to withdraw a bento box wrapped neatly in a handkerchief patterned with ducks. She places it carefully before him, and sets a thermos there as well. 

“It’s to ease my own conscience,” she says, watching him open up at the bento. It smells so good. He’s salivating, staring at the seasoned rice, meat cutlets and tamagoyaki. Veggies too, shredded cabbage and cherry tomatoes tucked aside neatly beside a little squeeze container of sauce. “You have, admittedly, done a lot for me recently. And you haven’t arranged any time to… cash in, lets say, on your side of this arrangement. So.”

“Sho?” Yamato repeats, mouth full. 

“I make lunch for my brother everyday already, so it was easy to make another for you. I know I’m not the best cook—”

“Thi’ ish amah-ing!” Yamato interrupts. This is amazing. 

A pleased blush blooms on her cheeks. “Yes, well, it’s all just practice. But it sounded like it’d been a while since you had a home cooked meal.”

Yamato nods in agreement, giving up on talking while he eats. The thermos turns out to be tea, and he gets through the whole container and his bento box while she just stands there and watches him.

“Did you already eat?” he only remembers to ask after he’s finished. “Sorry! I can order you something—”

“I’m fine,” she says. And then remains standing there stiffly, staring at him with expectation. Yamato stares back at her with confusion. 

After a long moment of silence, her brow twists up into frustration. “I quit my job yesterday.”

“Oh! Oh, okay. Nice. How did that go?”

“Fine. Maria-san found out about our arrangement, though. Not in explicit terms, but she asked enough questions that I had a difficult time answering, and put things together herself.”

“Ahhh. Okay, that’s… awkward. I can talk to her if you want me to clear it up,” he tells her. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

And they’re back to staring at each other again, Hiyori looking more and more frustrated as the silence goes on. Yamato’s used to this look. It’s someone gazing at him with the expectation he will do or say something that is obvious to them, but is completely lost on him. He hates this look. It’s always impossible to puzzle out whatever it is they want.

“I got myself tested, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Hiyori says, breaking the silence again. Her hands are twisted into tight fists at her sides. So is Yamato’s heart, hearing that.

“H-huh?”

“When would you like me to come to your place? I’d rather set a time beforehand so I can mentally prepare myself.”

“I—” Yamato squeaks. He clears his throat. “I, um, uh. Well. You don’t have to? I mean if you would like to, then… I guess…” He looks away, blood rising so hot into his face that he’s overheated. He might pass out, to be honest. He’s never had a woman talk to him like this. He’s never been in a position where a woman would even allude to sex with him at all, actually, this is all so new. What’s he supposed to do here? Give Hiyori his address? Try and have sex with her, without her figuring out his whole situation? Maybe she’d be okay with only him touching her, and never getting to see what’s in his pants. Maybe she’s not okay with any of this, and is only offering out of obligation. Fuck. That really puts a damper on things.

“You don’t have to,” he concludes, looking back up at her, a little more level than before. He stands too, gathering up the bento and chopsticks to put everything away—

She strides behind the desk and shoves him back into his chair, the wheels squeaking as it swings from the force of his fall onto it. “Give me a fucking break,” she mutters.

She pulls a hair tie off her wrist and gathers her hair into a ponytail, kneeling before his chair. Yamato yelps as soon as her hands land on his knees, pushing them apart so she can shuffle closer between them. Those elegant fingers reach for the zipper of his slacks. Yamato sits there frozen, heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears, and turned on beyond belief. He should stop her. He really should stop her. He's not even wearing his packer today, forgot to grab it in his rush this morning, but the only noise coming out of his mouth right now is a squeak, and he can’t move his hands where they’re clenching tightly onto the arms of his desk chair. 

Hiyori reaches into his underwear and frowns. 

“Where…?”

“That’s not— I'm not—” 

She pulls everything down his thighs until his junk is bare in the air for all to see. All white-teal curls of pubic hair and the pinkened tip of his t-dick poking out of the bush. 

“Oh.”

Yamato cringes. She must be disappointed. He didn’t even have to time to explain anything—

“Well, I've never done this before, so you’ll have to teach me,” Hiyori says, sliding a fingertip down his cock head. Yamato spasms in his chair like he’s been shot. She looks up at him with a teasing look in her eye. “Is that alright with you, Daddy?”

Yamato makes a garbled noise that probably doesn’t even qualify as Japanese. He doesn’t even know what he was trying to say. He only comes back to himself enough to go, “please don’t tell anyone,” before it breaks off into a whimper when she carefully lowers her head to lick his dick. From feral cat to kitten. He’s losing his mind.

It’s crazy, the way a switch has been flipped. Maybe Hiyori’s in work mode right now. Maybe this is the mindset she’s in when she’s stripping. Predatory. Teasing. Playing at him being in control, when she’s really the one holding his chain. 

She’s trying to bob her head up and down on his t-dick and it isn’t exactly working. He’s still half-hard, and her lips are loose around him, her tongue clumsy. She definitely hasn’t blown anyone like him before. But then she tries to suck on him, a little, and oh shit, that feels good. Yamato holds the back of her head pushes her down onto him, closer like she needs to in order to really get his dick in her mouth, and groans. “Do that again. Harder.” She does, hands sliding up his thighs for balance. “Hhn, yeah, that feels good.” Her hands flex. Her nails dig into the hard muscle of his thighs. 

Hiyori tries to pull off for a second and Yamato lets her, smoothing her hair down the back of her head. She’s breathing unsteady, cheeks pink and lips red. There’s drool shining down her chin. Lipstick is smeared messy at the corners of her mouth.

When Yamato glances down at himself, the residue is left bright in a ring around his cock, white hair smudged pink around it. The sight alone just makes him infinitely harder. 

“It got bigger,” she whispers, staring at it. Adjusting herself on the floor, the shadows of her thighs shifting against each other visible even through the fabric of her skirt. 

“Yeah,” Yamato chokes out, suddenly humiliated. “Is that a bad thing or…”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Hiyori tucks a loose strand of hair away from her face, shuffling forward again on her knees. Her hands find his knees again. They slide up slowly, squeezing as they go, almost like she’s feeling him up. “These pants leave a lot to the imagination,” she murmurs. Then she ducks her head again.

She’s downright spoiling him. Yamato could get used to this. He could wait here forever, feeling her mouth working on him, feeling her fingers grope his thighs and seeing the bright blush on the tips of her ears. He slips a hand down to help her, index and middle fingers spreading around his cock, parting his hair out of her way. His other hand goes to the back of her head again, because he really just wants to be touching her right now, cupping the base of her head under her ponytail, seeing those long strands slip over his knuckles. She’s such a quick learner. Hiyori feels incredible, sucking him down then swirling her tongue over the tip; her tongue pulsing against the underside of his cock when she attempts a swallow; pushing the head of his dick up into the soft pallet at the roof of her mouth—

There’s a knock at his door. 

Yamato stiffens, freezing in place, but Hiyori doesn’t even flinch. Just presses in closer, moving forward like she can hide herself between his legs, if she tries hard enough. And she’s not the most petite woman, tall and proud, but Yamato’s big enough that she fits so nice and neat into the circle of his legs, and the sight alone sends another wave of pleasure through his dick.

The knock rings out again. Fuck.

Yamato looks over his shoulder, back out at the door. “What is it?” he asks, strained. Did he sound normal? He hopes he sounded normal. Fuck fuck fuck!

“Sir, just a reminder that your four o’clock pushed up to three,” his secretary says, already back from her lunch, it seems.

“O-kay,” he says, strangled. “Thank you!”

Footsteps signal her leaving, finally, and Yamato checks his watch, only to find it’s far closer to the meeting time than he’s comfortable with—

Hiyori makes a soft sound against his body, dick shoved deep in her mouth, the sound vibrating through it. This pretty, pretty moan. And it’s the knowledge that he made her do that, that his dick made her do that, and the feedback of it melting right against it with little vibrations that completely does him in. Yamato grips the back of her head tight, fingers buried into her hair, and braces himself over her as he comes, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush. His thighs shake. His shoulders shake. He’s never cum like this before, in a girl’s mouth, nose buried in her hair, feeling her warmth pressed into him. She’s so soft. She smells so good. Her mouth is so talented where it keeps sucking at him, overstimulating and painful now. 

Yamato pushes her off gently, letting out an involuntary hiss, and a line of spit pulls away from the spot where her bottom lip last touched the head of his cock. The whole thing is swollen and red from attention, and also her lipstick. It shines so wet from her saliva. Her lips shine wetly too, plump and worked so thoroughly. She’s a mess. She’s gorgeous. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he pants above her, desperate and deranged, heart thundering hard in his chest. 

That venomous scowl returns, tempered this time her blush and dazed eyes. “You’re too blunt.”

Yamato meets up with her a few more times over the course of the next two weeks, though none are like that. He takes her out for lunch a few times, as promised, and nothing more goes on between them. Then, one day as he’s sliding a pair of earrings across the table towards her, pretty pink ones he saw in a store that made him think of her panties, she says, “You should invite me to your place.”

Yamato falters. “I. Um. You?”

“Yes, me,” she huffs, snapping open the lid of the earring box to appraise them. “Decent, I suppose.” Then she looks back at him. “I’ll wear them for you, if you take me home with you.”

“You don’t have to,” he tells her, feeling like a broken record at this point.

“Oh, for the love of— just let me in!” 

Yamato lets her in.

To his life or simply his place remains yet unseen, but it seems increasingly likely to be the former, as time keeps marching on.

That weekend, at the agreed upon time, Yamato’s doorbell rings. He fixes himself in the mirror once more, self conscious. Pushes a long strand of hair behind his ear and makes sure his sweatshirt falls neat over his jeans, even though they’re going to be taken off soon anyway. Then he opens the door.

Hiyori’s as gorgeous as ever. She’s in another long skirt, pale pink and elegant where it swishes around her ankles, and a button-up black blouse that displays her elegant collarbones. Her makeup is minimal. Her ears are red, and she’s staring up at him with wide eyes.

Softly, strangled, she manages to say, “I didn’t know you had all those.”

She’s referring to his piercings, probably. Yamato wears clear silicone inserts for work and never met Hiyori on a weekend before, so she didn’t know he had them. Today he’s got big rings through his lobes, and the jewelry through his double vertical labrets look like little, golden fangs jutting up from his bottom lip. 

“Sorry,” he says, thinking of all the times women have been put off by them before. “Are they scary?” 

Hiyori snaps out of her surprise. “The opposite, I'd say. Let me in.”

He closes the door behind her and lets her walk around, watching her a bit nervously. It’s a pretty nice place, a big penthouse apartment at the edge of the city with all sleek, modern lines. Most of it’s pretty sparse, the only bits of personalization afforded to the entertainment system. Maybe he should have taken these down before she got here. Maybe it’s creepy.

He’s got old merchandise from all of Oden’s movies here, iconic posters, limited edition lithographs from that one Rashoumon-inspired mystery with the dead artist, and even replicas of the twin swords Ame no Habakiri and Enma from the samurai movie. That’s Yamato’s favorite. The take on cultural whiplash in the wake of sakoku’s isolationism as the Edo period closed out is just so nuanced. Oden’s portrayal of struggling to survive as a samurai in a world that no longer had room for him was insane. It made Yamato feel seen for one of the first times in his life, as this trans kid who always felt like there was never any space for him in the world. Oden’s been his role model for as long as he can remember. His dad’s still half-convinced the man ‘turned Yamato trans’.

And then, there are the kabuki masks.

Oden did kabuki theatre before he got big in film. Most people don’t know that. Yamato knows that, because that was where he first saw him. 

When Yamato was eight years old he went with his dad to a charity show where Oden performed in a kabuki play. At that point he hadn’t been in any film in five years, and most people didn’t care to see him act here instead of on the silver screen. Yamato was moved, though. It’s Oden’s best performance in his humble opinion, even if his memories of the time are vague. 

“You like kabuki?” Hiyori asks, seeing the masks. 

“Yeah! Your dad totally inspired me. I was obsessed with it when I was younger, wanted to be in a theatre troupe when I grew up, the whole thing. Didn’t really pan out though, obviously. Dad’s got me working in the family business, but. Y’know. I still have my stuff.”

“If you’re so passionate about it, you should get back into it,” she says, looking over her shoulder at him. “You’ve got a certain energy about you. I know you’d do good.”

The words are restrained and spoken calmly, but Yamato’s heart still explodes. 

“O-oh,” he says. “Maybe I will?”

He’s so easily influenced. He’s not sure how this would even work out, considering his dad would flay him alive for ditching the business for theatre, after everything they worked out and all the agreements they came to, but all of a sudden he wants to try again, if it means pleasing Hiyori.

Hiyori frowns at him. “I just think that you should pursue the things you like,” she says. “Don’t just agree with me without properly considering it first.”

“...Right, sorry.”

She sighs. 

“Nevermind. I didn’t come here to stare at this shrine to your frankly concerning obsession with my dead father. Where’s your bedroom?”

Yamato almost trips over his own two feet getting there.

There’s nothing to look at here. Just a big bed he made up all tidy for her, manga and screenplays neatly shelved away, and a spotless desk with his computer. It’s normally not this clean. 

Hiyori sets her handbag on his desk, stands before his bed, and slips her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt. It slides down her butt and clings to her thighs for a moment before fluttering to the ground. Her panties are lacy and black.

“What?” she says, glaring back at him, spots of pink high on her cheeks. “I’m not stripping for you like at the club.”

“No,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. “That’s fine!”

Hiyori’s shirt goes next, falling to the floor atop her skirt. Her generous chest sits high and pretty in the matching bra, something delicate and feminine about the way those thin lines of thread scallop over the pale skin of her breasts. Yamato’s pants are tight. He’s so, so, painfully aware of his hard-on. 

“What are you just standing around for?” she snaps.

Yamato jolts into action, hurrying over to her side like a reprimanded pet. He’s so close her nose almost bumps his chest, his hands hovering over her hips without touching. She tilts her head back to meet his eyes. She looks so small like this. Yamato is reminded of that time when she sat between his legs, in his office. Then she surges upwards to kiss him.

He’s never done this before. How absurd is that? He got a girl’s mouth on his dick before ever kissing her, and now he’s fumbling, struggling to keep up with her clever lips. He’s clumsy against her, and his heart is pounding in not only nervousness but also excitement. His fingertips are tingling. His extremities are weightless. He is floating away up into the air, just at the feeling of her soft pink lips on his, and the rush of emotions through him must be romance. He is a schoolboy with a crush and a grown adult man both at once, gripping her hips tight in his hands, panting into her mouth, feeling her plush and lovely under him. She licks up into his mouth and their tongues brush, and electricity jumps through him. He chases that tongue with his own, presses against it, and she lets out a startled sound. 

When they part for air, her eyes are narrowed and her face is red. “Don’t drool on me!”

“Sorry,” Yamato says, chastised and humiliated. “I don’t— I haven’t done this before.”

“Yeah, I figured that part out a while ago,” she says, wiping spit away from her mouth. Then she reaches up to grab him by the shoulders, shoving him awkwardly onto the bed. Yamato sits on the edge of the mattress, staring up at her, still with a raging hard-on in his pants that’s only getting worse. Then she reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra.

Yamato watches as it seems to snap off and flutter down in slow motion, revealing the beautiful mounds of her breasts to him, peaked with rosy brown nipples standing at attention. Did he do that? Did kissing do that to her? 

“Well?” Hiyori asks, a certain amusement to her expression as she watches him.

Tentatively, Yamato reaches a hand out and cups a breast, his thumb sliding over the hard tip of her nipple, and she breathes in sharp. His other hand comes around the small of her waist, pulling her to him, while he squishes and watches the softness spill around his fingers. “Can I?” he breathes out, looking up at her pleadingly. Hiyori’s face flushes further red. Yamato leans in and draws his tongue up, from her sternum through the valley between her breasts, tasting the skin there. It’s a little salty from sweat. Her breasts are soft against his face, where he’s nestled between them. He flattens his tongue against the side of one, presses the soft flesh against his teeth, gentle enough not to leave imprints, sucking and kneading until Hiyori starts squirming and shoves his head away.

Her nails are sharp against his scalp, where she’s gripping his long hair tightly. “It’s unfair for you to keep your clothes on,” she tells him, voice wavering. She’s fully lost her imperious air.

Yamato pulls back and reaches behind himself, tugging his sweatshirt off and away, throwing it aside somewhere across the room. There’s electricity dancing under his skin. Hiyori looks at him with awe. 

“Your suits do you no justice,” she whispers, running her hands over his shoulders, pressing the pads of her fingers hard into them. She runs them down his arms, groping over the muscles. Something pleasant warms Yamato’s chest, at the idea that she actually likes something about him. That his body arouses her. His heart flutters, flying up into his throat. Then her fingers find the lines of his top surgery scarring, following them under his pecs. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” he answers. “Can’t really feel much of anything there, to be honest.”

“Even this?”

She tweaks a nipple between the side of her knuckle and the pad of her thumb, careful not to scratch him with her long manicure. Yamato’s face burns. This might be hazing, from that mischievous smile on her face, but he can’t help but find her cute. How embarrassing is it, to be a 30 year old virgin so desperate for touch that even this is something he’ll probably think back on fondly, when he jacks off to the memory later. 

“Nope,” he says, hoping she’ll leave it at that.

He’s not sure how she feels about his top surgery. She doesn’t seem as fascinated by his chest or torso in the same way she is with his shoulders and arms, hands returning to grope along them, and that’s probably for the best. Yamato’s not sure how he feels about his top surgery either. The testosterone’s all he ever wanted. 

The deal when he was younger was that his dad would let him live as a man if he gave up on kabuki. They let the public know Kaidou’s daughter died, spent a few years out of the public eye, and said he’d always had a firstborn son sent away to boarding school. One and a half years older than the dead child. Definitely assigned male at birth. Definitely flat chested. And definitely blessed with a dick and balls. The fear of getting found out for not being in possession of the latter was part of the reason no one’s ever been in his pants before, and why he hasn’t had a girlfriend his whole life. His dad runs a tight, unforgiving ship. If Yamato’s secret gets out, then who knows what his father would do. So he’s been on a waiting list to get the bottom surgery thing figured out for years now, after his chest. Surgery on top of surgery.

Yamato has so many feelings about surgery, good and bad both, and he’s never really been able to piece them all together before into a cohesive whole. On one hand, he never liked his chest anyway, always causing him back pain and making it uncomfortable to be active. On the other hand, the fact that the surgery was not just yet another thing for his father to organize for him but also a condition for his own agency in life, and being able to live as he pleased, has never sat right with him. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Yamato has always been a man, with or without Kaidou’s approval, but nowadays, that’s all his life hinges upon. He can't even tell anymore if he likes his body or not, when his father’s demands are written all over it. But the way Hiyori looks at him now, as though the flat slope of his built chest narrowing into his waist tantalizes her, makes him think he might start liking it too. 

Then she traces a nail over the edge of blue curling over his ribs.

Yamato shivers at the sensation.

Hiyori frowns. 

She comes in close and sets a hand at the nape of his neck, through his thick hair, and bends him over so his face is buried in her chest and she can see his back. He freezes in place. “You’re yakuza?” she whispers.

“You didn’t know?” Yamato asks her chest, nervous and a bit dismayed, in case she’s dismayed too. “Most of the people who came into your old strip club were yakuza too. Hell, it’s yakuza-operated. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“I— well, yes,” she stutters, “but… you’re…”

Yamato pulls back, frowning up at her. Hiyori meets his gaze, flustered.

“What am I?”

“Yamato,” she says, as though that explains it well enough. As though there’s something inherently un-yakuza about him. Inherent goodness, or something ridiculous like that.

“You’re okay with me?” he asks. “It’s okay if you’re not, we can stop—” 

“No, no, it’s… I mean, you’re Yamato,” she says again, and his heart skips a beat. “Family business, you said?”

He nods. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and rubs her temple. “I can’t bring myself to care about any of that right now. Just look at you.”

She runs her hands over his shoulders again, leaning closer, chest pressed closed to his face, and sweeps all his hair off his back. She must be staring upside down at the tattoo inked into his back, the strong lines of a snowy kitsune roaring over his muscles, all nine white tails curling over his shoulders and around his ribs in blue mist. She rubs a hand down the center of his spine, over the ink. 

“I can’t believe you managed to hide all of this under that giant, ugly suit,” she mutters, utterly mesmerized by the ink under her palm. Yamato shudders, utterly mesmerized by her touch in turn. “Shit. Maybe you really are a hot daddy.”

Yamato has never been so embarrassed and pleased at once. 

He backs away from her again and grabs her hips, pulling her onto his lap, the two of them falling backwards onto his bed. Her hair falls in a jewel-toned curtain around them and her breasts hang heavy, nipples brushing his chest. She presses her scantily clad ass into his crotch, freezing when she feels something hard. Then she shuffles back and yanks his sweatpants and underwear down, jaw dropping in surprise as she stares at his hard t-dick springing up.

“I thought— you didn’t— how?”

It’s no wonder she’s surprised, with how much longer and girthier it looks, flushed and hard with blood like this. Yamato shifts uncomfortably under her and says, fluttering with embarrassment, “I, uh, pumped before you got here. So it’d be bigger and maybe… we could… you know.” He trails off, voice small. He was literally sliding his underwear back on when she rang his doorbell, and he’d stuffed the pumping set into his nightstand drawer in a hurry before running to let her in. He feels a bit crazy and degenerate for this too, making assumptions and preparing himself like this. But Hiyori doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy. She’s just red-faced and slack-jawed, lips slick with saliva. 

“Oh my god, you beast, fuck me already,” she says, sliding off his lap and onto his giant bed, nestling among the pillows and shoving her panties off. She kicks them aside like she has no care left in this world but getting his t-dick inside her. 

It’s not that much bigger than it normally is, but his bottom growth’s pretty decently sized as a starting point, so flushed hard like this, he’s probably managed to pump it just big enough that it should be able to slip in. Hopefully. Yamato props himself up on his forearms above her, his hair falling around her face, mingling on the bedsheets with hers in a mess of turquoise and teal-ended white, and he sheathes into her. Wet warmth engulfs him whole. He’s inside her. He’s inside her! The feeling’s indescribable, and he lays there trembling for a moment at the sensation. Hiyori takes in a hard breath, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Move.”

Yamato moves, hips rolling clumsily against her pelvis, her own thighs spread wide and gripping onto him. Her legs wrap around him trying to press their pelvises as close together as possible, to get as much of him into her as he can, because he’s unpracticed with this motion and keeps accidentally rocking out of her. Her nails dig into his back, scoring sharp lines that make him wince with the sting. She lets out a frustrated growl.

“Get off,” she says, pushing him away, and Yamato rolls off her, ashamed of himself. But then she swings a leg over his hips again and straddles him, hands hard on his stomach, and lowers herself onto him. 

“Fuck,” he moans, hands flying to her hips, digging into the softness of her thighs, stomach, groping everywhere he can reach. She grinds down into him, far more skillful than he, small motions that grind her clit against his pelvis and move him shallow and hard inside her. “Mmnph, ah, you—”

“Play with me,” she tells him, voice a high-pitched keen. 

Her chest is pushed forward, bouncing between her arms. Yamato squeezes them, big fingers pressing into the soft of them, pinching her nipples until the peaks of her breasts redden. He’s never been so turned on in his life. His heart clenches in his chest, and her pussy clenches around him, and Yamato cries out as he climaxes, bucking up into her warmth impatiently. 

She rides him through it, chasing her own orgasm, guiding his rough fingers to her clit and rubbing them against it, over and over until he softens inside her and she can’t ride him any longer.

“Yamato,” she whimpers, falling onto his bedsheets and squirming against him, humping his thigh and leaving wet slick smeared along it, “we need to do this again. With a little practice—” she gasps, feeling him nose at her jaw, nip at the delicate skin there. “You’d be so good. You’d be so fucking hot. We’ll keep going until you get better, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, lapping at her neck, kissing his way down it. “I’ll do anything you want, anything—”

“You’re no better than a dog,” she whines, shoving his face away, fingers splayed wide over his cheek, palm against his mouth.

Yamato grins around her hand and says, “woof.”