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                The woman weeping on his couch is really, really wasting Yagami’s time. But he’s too kind to say anything. God, does he deserve higher pay. It isn’t that he doesn’t have sympathy for her. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that your son is selling his ass for cash, but Yagami’s definitely been there before. The son, that is.

                He’s not a father. Miraculously, considering how often he rawdogs.

                It’s just that he’s been tailing the guy for a minimum of two hours before he got the incriminating shots of him feeling up the junk of an older man in an alleyway on Pink Street. He’d pissed beforehand, having learned a long time ago that he was prone to holding for a while on these tailing missions, but this case took a goddamn minute. And as soon as he had come back, with the full intention of draining his bladder and having a cup of instant noodles before calling his client, he’d found that she had been waiting at his door the entire time, impatient and wet-eyed, her weathered hands trembling.

                Before he could excuse himself, she’d burst into tears, an endless stream of her list of disappointments being aired out in the smoky room of his office. She had put on a pot of coffee for herself, uninvited—something Yagami found mildly obnoxious—and hadn’t stopped speaking for a second. She refused to look at the photos too long, for it would send her into another sobbing session. As soon as she calmed down, cheeks inflamed and lips dry, snot streaking down her upper lip, which made continuous rivers crack through her caked-on lipstick, she would glance back down at the photographs—developed as per usual, for the purpose of physical storage—and be thrown into another fit.

                Yagami tried to comfort her the best he could, patting her on her leopard print coat, offering her a cigarette which was denied in a huff, telling her to consult a professional, explaining that prostitution is often a form of desperation and not rebellion, that finding a job opportunity for him would put a stop to it, but none of it seemed to console her. Or usher her from his office. He kept trying to imply it was closing time, but as soon as she’d pick up her purse and dab at her eyes and stand up, she would put her face in her hand and let the tears come over her, before she’d collapse back onto the couch and start over.

                “…and who knows what he could have contracted? And who knows what these men have done to him?”

                Yagami’s abdomen aches. He tries to keep his posture loose, extended, giving his bladder some room. He sits with his legs out, reclined, knees spread. It gives him the look of an insolent teenager, but he’s honestly feeling like one. The lady’s pissing him off—he did his job, the guy isn’t underage, and he isn’t a cop or a psychologist or a parent. He isn’t being paid overtime to be a therapist. And he’s certainly not a snitch. Yagami’s always been aligned with the law, but he was a defense attorney for a reason. The law isn’t always right. Yagami sees no problem with prostitution, especially in a city like this, where it’s a livelihood.

                “I think it’d be best if you discussed this with him.”

                The woman seems shaken from her misery to dart a glare at him, cracked, apricot-painted lips pressed together tightly in disappointment. As if it’s his fault she raised a hoe.

                “He would never speak to me,” she hisses, “We haven’t spoken in two years.”

                Yagami’s jaw goes slack. His leg starts bouncing as his cock twitches in his pants in agony. He feels almost nauseous. “Why?”

                “Because he…”

                Her explanation may as well be underwater.

                Yagami darts his eyes to the window and stares longingly at the freedom of all those streets. He would piss in a gutter right now if he could. But as he gazes out longingly at the night that’s so wide and expansive and not currently occupied by this woman, he spots a young man in a silk blue shirt similar to the one in his pictures. It isn’t the same guy—too tall, and his pants are a different color, but from behind…

                “Oh, hey—” Yagami stands up, feigning surprise, as he goes to the window and presses his nose against the glass. His crotch burns with the effort. “Is that him?”

                The woman takes the bait, hook, line, sinker.

                She gathers up her purse for the final time and scurries out of the room without a single word. Yagami listens to the clomping of her heels descend as she takes the stairs, but he can’t dwell on the relief too long. He pushes himself up from where he’s pressed to the window and turns towards the bathroom.

                Too late, though.

Just the mental image of that shitty little bidet in the closet-sized space of his restroom, wedged between a showerhead and a poor excuse for a sink that barely sputters out hot water has him losing it. Too much liquid imagery all at once, he supposes.

                Yagami squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw like an anime character that just found out his father died. The thought makes him chuckle a little and that small gesticulation of his body is enough to have the first spurt of piss hit his thigh. He grasps his own crotch as he sucks air in through his teeth as tears spring to his eyes.

                Suppose her crying was infectious.

                He can’t stop the stream once it starts. There’s a small pause between that first heat that trickles down his leg and the resulting rush of urine that begins to flood his pants. A small show of willpower that is defeated for the split second that it seems to arrive. It’s such a shame his jeans are so tight, so constricting. He always thought they made his legs look good—and they do, if he does say so himself—but it isn’t like he can quickly pull down the cloth of them like sweats or joggers before they’re drenched. No, they cling to his body like paint, and his piss indeed paints them a darker shade of denim.

                Yagami squats down and feels genuine, honest-to-god tears on his cheeks. What the fuck?

                He watches as his own body betrays him, his control slipping, and the acidic smell of urine hits his nose. He’s shaking, his cock is twitching out a seemingly endless river of piss. It begins to soak through the fabric of his jeans, and it drips on the floor loudly, in a shallow, pale pool that reeks. He thanks whatever god there might be that he has hardwood, and he makes a mental note to drink more water. God, it does not smell pleasant.

                His body trembles as he continues to go, his eyes bleary with tears but vision still clear enough to watch the puddle grow and grow beneath him. He feels hot in the face, humiliated, and the feeling makes him remember other things that humiliated him in the past.

                And suddenly he doesn’t feel so shameful as he does turned on.

                Humiliation has a way of doing that to you whenever you’re accustomed to it.

                Call it a coping mechanism. Yagami bites his lip as his hips jerk of their own accord. Finally, the stream ends. His poor floor and jeans are covered in the stuff, and the fabric sticks uncomfortably to his skin. But his cock is nestled in the heat of his own pants, and he kind of feels slutty for it. Being a little pathetic once in a while does wonders for his dick.

                Yagami is a lover, really, and if he doesn’t love his own body and all it does, what is he?

                Wiping his tears from his cheeks with the back of his palms, he unbuttons his jeans quickly and toes off his shoes. Peeling them down his muscular legs is liking taking off a second skin, but he manages it.

                The cloth is heavy with liquid and he drops them in a pile atop the piss on the floor, to act as a washrag in lieu of proper cleaning supplies. Yagami’s never been the most organized or hygienic man on the planet, he’ll be the first to admit.

                He looks at his own crotch. His underwear is in just as bad of shape as the rest of his pants, and they’re pretty much transparent now, sitting over his dark cock. His pubes are slicked messily to his skin and he pulls down the front of his underwear to sit under his balls. It’s kind of pleasant, the warmth on his taint. His hole clenches a little as he feels the dampness against his hole.

                Never the type to psychoanalyze his own sexual proclivities, he kind of just takes a moment to bask in the fact that it’s gross, and that he doesn’t care that it’s gross, and therefore it is attractive to him.

                Besides, he looks good always. Looking good and wrecked is a nice mixture.

                Yagami’s cock is nicely soaked and heated and he wraps a hand around it, feeling his own body wet and humid, foreskin slick as he peels it back over the red head of his cock, which is pungent. He thumbs at his urethra, eliciting out little droplets of pre-jizz, clear and leaky. A few more spurts of piss come out as he presses down on his own abdomen. It splashes against his tight stomach.

                Biting down on his own lip, he works his wrist until his soft shaft hardens in his palm. He feels heat pool in his abdomen again, of a different kind, and he tilts his head back and inhales the smell. Vaguely, Yagami wants someone to come in. To fling the door open and see him, spread-legged on the floor, sitting in his own mess, jerking his cock with red cheeks like some sex-deprived and ill-controlled bitch. The thought makes him swallow hard, and he begins to fuck his own palm. The squelching sound that his piss-wet hand makes against his flesh is incredible. It almost sounds like pussy.

                What he wouldn’t give to piss inside some girl’s cunt right now.

                The thought is a wicked one, and he smirks a little as he plays with his cock. Pinning some stranger down as she spreads her legs, charmed by his handsomeness, expecting some form of normal sex. Maybe he’d wear a condom at first, and stealthily slip it off halfway through. Then he’d let off inside her to her shock, disgust, and ultimate approval. Pull out and watch his piss leak with the motion.

                In his fantasies, UTIs just don’t exist.

                Not like he’d ever be such a creep in actuality, but the concept is hot. God, he’s such a degenerate.

                He jerks himself off quicker, tilting his head back and relishing in it all—the smell of his own piss, the sound of his own cock, the fantasy of breeding someone with his urine. It’s too bad he hasn’t gotten into this sooner. It’s humiliating, for one, to sit in his own mess and touch himself. But there’s also something very stimulating about the concept of marking something. Maybe it’s something primordial in him.

                Yagami has never claimed to be sophisticated.

                “Ah… fuck…” he breathes, slowly working his hand, his hips pistoning into his fist as he reaches his apex. His wet balls tighten up and his free hand goes to grope them, to feel the heavy roundness of them. Too bad he doesn’t have someone’s mouth worshiping them right now. Yagami knows he’s a spectacle, knows he’s worth appreciating. Especially when he makes the effort to clean up. He’s just humble about it all.


                He cums as soon as he squeezes down on the base of his cock, and the semen splatters out over his fist. It adds to mess below him, and he feels his dick throb with the ache of his own emptiness. Letting go, he watches his shaft soften, jizz stringing between his fingers and his cock. The head of his dick dips lazily in the shallow puddle of piss beneath his spread thighs, which is rapidly cooling.

                Well, that won’t do.

                The coldness of it is combated immediately by some natural, caveman-brained need to warm his cock up. Best way to do that, he guesses, is to let go again.

                “Ah, I’m such a disgusting fuck.”

                He pisses out an impossibly stored-up stream once more, forcing out some bodily heat, adding to the puddle which spreads concerning close to his carpet. His back is slouched against the wall beneath his window and he realizes he had it open this whole time. Anyone inside of a building a level above him could look down and see.

                He hopes that whatever voyeuristic fantasy someone might have had was fulfilled today. He’ll have to jerk off with the blinds open more often.

                Once he’s done and his cock is resting in much warmer territory, twitching randomly with shocks of afterpleasure, he surveys the mess he’s left and winces. Yagami stands up with great effort and realizes his legs are shaking, knees wobbling like a fawn’s. His cheeks burn as he truly realizes what he’s done without the fog of horniness clouding his mind and judgment.

                Slipping off his shirt and jacket, he bundles his wetted pants and underwear into his palms and drops them in an overfilled laundry basket hidden in the bathroom he so desperately longed for like a man does a war-lost lover only a few minutes ago.

                Stepping under the showerhead, he cringes as the cold spray—forgot to pay his water bill—hits his body and washes away the evidence of his own naughty tendencies. Thinking of the piss in the office, he chubs up a little and presses his forehead to the tiled wall at the thought of cleaning it up.

                A cup of coffee and an hour later and the office is relatively spotless, Yagami’s damp hair slicked back on his head, his eyes heavy despite the caffeination and his cock neatly and cleanly tucked into a pair of sweatpants. He hopes the smell of the cigarette he’s nursing will overpower the acidic, sour smell of piss that might linger in the air.

                As Yagami settles back in his couch with the intention of falling asleep, he opens his phone and scrolls mindlessly though a hook-up app. He sucks on the end of his cigarette and ashes out lazily as he swipes right on anyone and anything that he finds even remotely attractive, man or woman. He matches with a few people and messages them all about how much he wants to piss inside of them.

                But like, in a romantic way.

                In the morning, he’ll forget it ever happened, probably. He won’t respond to any of the freaks that are so into his cute, tanned face and creased eyes and pouty lips. So into it that they’d be willing to let him mark their insides like a dog.

                As he drifts off with a half-chub and a head full of dreamy pastel thoughts of bunched-up, lavender-scented clouds, glowing stars, and using people like urinals, he’s awoken by a harsh knock to his office door.

                “Jesus fuck,” his eyes widen, and he startles out of his dream.

                A few possibilities come to mind.

                Kaito—probably in trouble.

                Someone who’s mad at him, who wants to kill him—understandably, he has a lot of enemies.

                The woman from earlier—which is a fate worse than the latter.

                He trudges sleepily to the door with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders like he’s five years old. Glances annoyedly at the digital alarm clock on his counter than reads that the hour is well past two in the morning.

                When he opens the door, his neighbor, a small, grey-haired man with a lopsided mouth and a glare, is standing there in his pajamas. He owns the office downstairs that functions in something loosely related to finance or some shit—he doesn’t really know.

                “Oh,” Yagami scratches at his crotch, “Hey, ojisan, what can I do ya for?”

                “What the fuck is wrong with you?”


                “Why is my ceiling leaking piss?”

                Yagami blinks.

                “That sounds like a you problem,” he says, and slams the door.