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It's been four months with Saejima back.
Four fuckin’ months; each day better than any Majima’s had over the last two and a half decades. There's something to be said for regular fightin’ and fuckin’ and more or less livin’ with his favorite person in the whole world again. Makes him feel about as close to what might be normal as he's ever felt. Obviously none of it has come without its tragedies – they've been lighting a candle for Yasuko every evening – but they're doing it together.
Together.
A word Majima didn't expect to be using in conjunction with himself and Saejima twenty-five years after the worst thing he'd ever done, his own fault or not.
He's not sure which deity he oughta be thanking, if even any exist somewhere, so he's settled on his kyoudai instead, showin’ him how grateful he is every goddamn fuckin’ day – in his own sorta special way, starting with helping this new patriarch build a family full of other stupid meatheads he can trust.
(Well, to be fair – Majima’s “own sorta special way” actually starts with ball play, because Saejima at forty-eight still makes the same high breathy little sound he did at twenty-two when Majima puts one of ‘em between his thumb and forefinger and rolls upward while swallowing him down. But that ain't the point.)
Once the people are in place, though, there's still a fuckton more to do. The Saejima family’s here now, and the Saejima family’s gotta make money, too, somehow. And its patriarch is too damn proud to take total advantage of his obvious connection: the Tojo Clan’s biggest, loudest, and most obnoxious rainmaker, his own fuckin’ brother, hellooooo.
This ain't a handouts game, after all, yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. Much as he'd like to give Saejima everything he has and then some, Majima gets it.
What Saejima will use to his advantage, however, whether he likes it or not, is Majima’s keen business acumen. Majima’s connections to the nightlife scene are a fuckin’ gift and and a fuckin’ curse; he knows too much like the back of his leather-gloved hand but goddamn he's gonna make it useful! Here's a washed-up hostess club, bro, let’s turn this into a gold mine, let's get this fuckin’ bread, lemme do that much for ya and make some ‘a that Lord of the Night bullshit into somethin’ good for once.
And if Majima himself just so happens to be around said hostess club (Outshine, it's called – not his fuckin’ idea) nearly every day to make sure things are going well? Well, that's his own business. Puttin’ “meat packing supervisor” on his resume and lookin’ for work at the butcher shop, because he's keepin’ his eye on that beefcake –
– A beefcake who, today, looks more than a little bummed the fuck out as he nurses the dregs of a lager at Outshine’s empty bar, when Majima shows up just after lunchtime on a weekday.
“Kyoudai.” Like the snake he is, he slithers up next to Saejima, taking advantage of the big man sitting down and resting a snakeskin-clad elbow on his shoulder. “What’s gotcha down?”
“It's nothin’,” Saejima grunts, gruff and short, brushing him off with a nudge. “S’fine.”
Ya think I’m fuckin’ stupid? Majima doesn't say. Instead, he thrusts his tongue against the inside of his cheek and mimes a sloppy blowjob. “Nothin’ a little ‘a this can't fix – spread those big ol’ fuckin’ tree trunks, handsome, lemme atcha –”
But then there's a rough palm against his forehead and a defeated sigh from its owner. “...Feel like I ain't got the gene fer this hostess club shit.”
For once, Majima puts the vulgar gesture figuratively aside, hopping up on an adjacent stool like a weird little gargoyle (this is important. S’part of the image). “Whaddaya mean? Ain't rocket science, and the girls love ya.”
And they do, no lie. All of ‘em are fuckin’ enamored with Saejima; big dude with guns for days and the purring personality of a grumpy but utterly loyal fluffy cat. Why wouldn't they be? Guy looks like he'd squeeze the guts like a tube ‘a toothpaste outta anybody who looked at his girls the wrong way and then’s all gruff gentlemanly respect when any one of ‘em asks him for a single thing. He's everybody's dad – it's fuckin’ sweet as shit.
(Also, hot.)
It's not enough for Saejima, though. “I can refill their drinks or bring ‘em a fuckin’ towel. That don't mean shit.” He rests his elbows on the bar and his chin on a beefy fist. “Can't do it like you can, like yer in some dumbass synchronized dance number. Ya point at the ceiling and it explodes in confetti; ya do a fruity little spin and suddenly there's a champagne bottle in yer hands ready ta pour a tower.”
“Saejima Taiga.” Majima purrs, equal parts entertained and sympathetic. It’s true, though – few people can do this shit like he can. “Are you jealous of ol’ Majima Goro’s stage presence?”
Saejima scoffs. “I'm fuckin’ serious, dammit. An’ on top ‘a that, I got absolutely nothin’ ta offer my girls in the way ‘a guidance. Shiho-chan asked me for my opinion on her earrings with the dress she was wearin’ last night an’ ya know what I said?”
Majima waits with bated breath.
“‘They’re gold.’ That's what I said.”
The snort of laughter trying to bubble outta the Mad Dog’s throat is unbecoming of a best bro. He forces it down, schooling his sharp face into something gentler, brain whirling with activity, as Saejima continues dejectedly.
“Feels like I’m just here. Thought I’d be – I dunno – some kinda good influence, or somethin’, but I shoulda known that wasn’t realistic.”
Well. We can’t have that, can we?
Majima can't inject Lord of the Night-branded cabaret club manager panache into Saejima’s veins, but he – or somebody else – can provide a Learning Experience that might help.
“Awright, man. Got bad news for ya: I ain't the one y’oughta be reachin’ out to fer advice.”
That stoic face screws up in confusion for a moment – time for the reveal. It takes actual effort for Majima not to rub his hands together with glee.
“Yer gonna need an expert consultant’s know-how fer this, an’ boy, do I know just the gal.”
“An’ who might that be?” asks Saejima airily as his countenance relaxes, verging on hopeful, but Majima knows he's just fuckin’ around with his question. Only one option, and he knows her intimately well, if ya know what I mean.
“She’ll meet ya here tomorrow afternoon, three hours before the girls arrive to prep.” Majima jams his hands into his pockets and rolls his eyes, exhaling in a low whistle and toying with this silly facade of ambiguity. “I tell ya, bro, she's gonna give ya a crash course. Dontcha even worry.”
And – yep! That's almost a smile. Mission number one accomplished. Onto the next one!
–
It's 2:00pm on the dot when the aforementioned consultant shows up the next day. She arrives in sweats, no makeup, long blonde wig in a high ponytail secured by a scrunchie.
(Hates to appear without her face on, but these things take time and effort. Gotta work from the ground up if that man of hers is gonna learn, after all.)
Taiga’s waiting for her in that same spot on a stool at the empty bar, that soft smirking smile of his crinkling the corners of his eyes when he turns his big head to look at her.
“Aren’tcha supposed ta stand when a lady enters the room?”
He does. Soft-ass fuckin’ shit. Impossible to keep from pecking him lightly on the cheek when she reaches his side, craning her long neck just enough to get to him – but when his big mitt starts to slide around the curve of her waist, she pushes him away like she wasn't the one to initiate contact in the first place; pokes him in the chest with a long shimmery-gold acrylic nail. “Hey! ‘m here on business, mister.”
“‘Course,” he says good-naturedly, withdrawing his hand. “Ya ready?”
“Better question is if yer ready, Taiga-chan.”
His response verges on petulant, but he's still smiling fondly at her in that fuckin’ way of his that gets her all sentimental and shit. “Ain't got a choice, do I?”
“Nah. Yer in too deep, babe.” Goromi grins, waggling her eyebrows threateningly. “Lemme show you how Kamurocho’s number-one hostess got ta the top!”
–
The stage is set; the players are ready. They're in the dressing room facing one another on the cheap but plush rug in the center of the floor. S’fuckin’ showtime, baby. Let's talk about strategy.
Majima’s first order of business upon his inspection of the club had been to make sure the dressing room was well-lit. The Grand’s had been beautiful – warm and glowing, well-suited to match the lighting of the floor – but Sunshine’s was shit, nasty fluorescents that washed everybody out and gave Yuki-chan the wrong coloring for her makeup. An easy fix he'd repeated for Outshine: bring in some soft floor lamps, line the mirrors with LEDs, dim overhead lighting by about five thousand fuckin’ percent. It's this gentle floor lighting that Goromi steps into now like her version of a spotlight, striking a coy little pose, subtle, back arched, coquettish in faded pink sweatpants.
“Yer gonna wanna make sure yer girls are dressed to get attention, but in the right ways. It ain't all about tits an’ ass.” Goromi pulls her sweatshirt over her head, carefully navigating around her ponytail. “S’only a little bit about tits an’ ass.” Her torso is bared to Taiga, those loose blush-pink sweatpants slung low enough on lean hips to reveal a hint of brighter pink lace.
She watches his eyes move, tracing the subtle curve of her body.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nuh-uh. Liar. First lesson: learn what draws a customer’s eye.”
Appropriately sheepish, he folds his arms. “Seems simple enough.”
“Kinda.” She grins wickedly. “Easy ta do. Tough ta do well. Look at me.” She spreads her long arms wide. “I'm a pretty hostess. If yer my customer, where d’ya look first?”
“Uh.” Taiga looks her up and down warily, so familiar with her body but so unfamiliar with analyzing it critically. “Y’got nice long legs.”
Goromi lets out a hoot. Pumps her fist in the air, kinda fuckin’ the whole “seductive” thing right up. “Right y’are! That's a good one; we’ll start there.” She gestures to a nearby rack of dresses. “How d’ya think I oughta accentuate ‘em?”
Her bro’s eyes flit back and forth between various selections before he takes a step forward and hesitantly pulls at the hem of a purple bodycon minidress, eighties as all hell. “I’d suggest this one, but somethin’ about the way yer askin’ makes this feel like a trick question.”
“Smarter than ya look, ya big lug. Try again.”
The slide of plastic hangers on metal is the only sound in the room for the next few minutes as Taiga carefully considers each dress on the rack.
“Somethin’ long ta match, then?”
Goromi nods in approval. “Yer not wrong, but we wanna pull ‘em in an’ keep ‘em hooked.” She pulls a long emerald-green satin number from among Taiga’s rejects. “Ya passed on this one without takin’ a closer look at the skirt.”
Her point is made obvious when she shimmies out of her sweats and steps into the dress, pulling it up to waist level. “See? Long-ass slit up the right side.” She settles into a stance that utilizes said slit appropriately, cocking her hips to the left and stepping out with the right leg so that smooth skin is visible all the way up to a point high on her thigh.
“Ah.” Taiga grunts, folding his thick, meaty arms over his chest. “Yer a fuckin’ tease.”
This earns him a lazy grin, good eye half-lidded in a sultry flutter. “Exactly. An’ tell me why that’s a good thing.”
“S’just whatcha said earlier. Makes a customer keep lookin’.”
“And makes ‘em think about what they can’t see.”
He frowns. “Don’t want shitty customers pervin’ on my girls, though.”
Just like Taiga to think of the girls first – couldn’t ask for better. Part of the reason Majima’d recommended hostess club management in the first place was because any hostess working for his bro would be the safest employee in the fuckin’ country. “Always a risk in this business, but that’s why yer here to help. Somebody crosses a line, they get bum rushed. Customer’s king ‘til they can’t behave.”
A nod – he’s gettin’ it.
“Anyway, the trick’s strikin’ a reasonable balance between allure and modesty. A girl’s gotta dress ta bring out her best assets, but this is still a place ‘a work. That’s why I’m not all dolled up in that little purple thing ya pulled first.” Goromi chews on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Although…it’s cute as hell. Might borrow it fer next time we go out.”
Taiga, knowing her all too well, snorts. “Modesty ain’t never been yer strongest suit, after all.”
She blows him a kiss. “Sure doesn’t seem ta bother ya.”
He has the decency to blush.
“Let’s move on to the top ‘a the dress, shall we?”
Once the bodice is pulled all the way up, Goromi scoffs and cups her chest – it’s got a low-cut wrap neckline that hangs poorly on her broad, unendowed frame.
“See, this little number ain’t so great fer me up here, so we’ll pick a different one.” She raises a gold acrylic-tipped finger like an old-fashioned classroom teacher. “However: a tall busty gal’d kill in this shit. One hostess’s trash is another hostess’s treasure.”
Taiga nods, although Goromi’s nearly certain he only half understood that bit.
“Find me another. Take yer time an’ think about it.”
He considers her briefly with interest. “Can I put that one back on the rack for ya?”
Goromi cackles. “Yer just tryna get me undressed. Don't think I don't see what yer doin’.”
It's rare to see Taiga grin so unabashedly, and it's in a way he only does when Goromi’s around. Makes warmth pool in her belly to see him uninhibited.
(Not like either of them are ever really inhibited. They're almost fuckin' fifty years old. But there is something different about the way Taiga looks at his brother versus his best gal. Same depth, same laughter, same hunger.
But not quite the same appraisal. Not quite the same appreciation.
Even standing in front of him half-dressed – and not even really in a sexy way – the difference makes Goromi fuckin’ hot.)
She patiently waits while Taiga takes another trip through the rack of options, watching his brow furrow at a few. He’s learning. Good shit.
“What’m I lookin’ for up top?”
“Somethin’ not so form-fittin’, with a little slouch to the fabric. Somebody with a little extra meat on her bones might go fer a more fitted look that tucks in at the waist, but yers truly looks her most elegant in somethin’ drapey, huh?”
Her kyoudai’s gaze finally settles on a lightweight black crushed velvet. “How’s this?”
The skirt’s about the same as the green, slit high on the thigh – but the dress is backless up top with a high-neck tie halter. Goromi’s smile is wide and toothy and wolfish. “Bingo, babe! Give it here.”
It’s exactly what she had in mind, made for a slender willowy figure with plenty in the height department. More dramatic than something she’d pick out for herself. Classier. A little high-brow. There’s little structure to the top – it drapes prettily over the planes of her torso, leaving plenty of inked skin completely bare. Goromi turns away from the mirror and pulls the long thin velvet ropes of the halter ties into a tight bow at the nape of her neck, looking over her shoulder to judge the lay of it. The ends settle along her spine between golden eyes.
“Ooooohhhh, Taiga-chaaaaaan. Ya fuckin’ nailed it.”
Her one-eyed gaze travels up from the unblinking stare of the hannya to meet Taiga’s, equally piercing but far gentler.
“Looks good as hell.”
“Yeah.” Her tongue darts out to lick at the corner of her mouth, skates along the underside of a sharp canine. “I keep tellin’ ya, Goromi-chan’s a classy broad.”
“Uh huh.” He steps closer. She bites her lip, feeling suddenly lightheaded. A thick-fingered hand approaches her waist – she leans into it –
Taiga pulls an errant thread of lint fuzz from her skirt. “That’s better.”
Fuckin’ – alright. Goddammit.
Hips swing the other way, popping that leg out again. “So. Lotta stances ta emphasize the skirt slit, but you don’t gotta worry about that part. The girlies’ll figure that much out.”
He takes the bait, eyes falling to bared thigh. “Awright.”
“I’d say ‘eyes up here’, but we got more shit ta do.” She taps his muscly-ass chest with her index finger. “While yer attention’s down there, what kinda shoes d’ya think’ll go best with this whole getup?”
“T’be honest, kyoudai, I got no idea.”
“I'm gonna tell ya a secret. Lean in close.”
Strong brow arched in skepticism, Taiga obediently does so. Somehow his earlobe finds its way between her teeth, and he jumps. She smiles around it. Breathes out, hot on his neck; watches the baby hairs at his nape stand up stick-straight. Upper hand regained.
“Unless a gal’s got a real killer pair ‘a closed-toe heels that ya can't argue with, yer always gonna go open-toe.”
He grunts an affirmative. “Should I even be askin’ why?”
Her giggle is one part very mindful, very demure, and the rest all conspiratorial. It's fuckin' fun as hell to catch Taiga off-guard – the next part is a dramatic stage-whisper: “An intimate peek at a lady’s little piggies tends ta get a lotta men goin’ whether they like it or not.”
This makes him laugh abruptly, a surprised “ha!” that's warm and exasperated. Makes her feel fuzzy and domestic as shit. Stupid.
“Brought my own today,” she says breezily, too quickly, and rummages in her duffel bag for a pair of strappy gold stilettos that match the sheen on her fingernails. “No hostess club’s gonna have boats sizable enough ta fit this gal’s big ol’ stompers.”
The straps on these things are complicated enough that she’s gotta sit on the sofa to put ‘em on, not-so-casually arranging the slit of her dress so she’s showing a helluva lotta thigh, all too aware of Taiga’s eyes on her, delighting in the attention. Once she draws up to her full height again she’s just a little bit taller than he is with the addition of the heels’ few inches – in the full-length mirror, as she hits that asymmetrical stance again to evaluate the look, he comes up behind her with that secret little smirk just over her shoulder. Goromi catches his hands as they dart for her waist, warning ah-ah-ah unspoken; drops them after just a moment.
But then he does slide two fingers along the curve of her ass, and then she does press back into them briefly before spinning around and flashing him a grin. Oh, they love a game – s’gonna end with somebody blowin’ their load on one ‘a these mirrors, probably – god, she’s gotta get her head on fuckin’ straight –
“Ya ready fer what’s next?”
After twenty-five years of being apart he's so fuckin’ fond it makes her goddamn crazy, hard to do fuckin’ anything when he's lookin’ at her like she hung the dumbshit moon – and then all he says is –
“Yeah.”
Goddamn fuckin’ shithead, built like a fuckin’ truck.
Anyway, back to business:
“Some gals like ta do their hair first, but I always gotta decide on an outfit before I get ta the rest of it.” Goromi sits at the nearest dressing table and pulls the scrunchie from her ponytail carefully, running strong hands through her artificial blonde locks and repositioning them to hang artfully loose, freshly tousled. “Decision’s easy for me this time. Backless dress means hair up. Don’t want anything gettin’ in the way of all this skin ta look at, plus I did all this work to tie a pretty bow –” she pulls her curtain of hair aside and gestures to the back of her neck, “so everybody better appreciate this shit.”
This particular wig is an all-rounder, straight and pliant, hitting her at about mid-back length. It’s swept back up into an easy chignon. Only a couple of bobby pins required – but this is still enough to make Taiga nervous, still looming over her from behind like the goddamn grim reaper.
“Fuck me!” He clenches his beautiful fuckin’ jaw. “I can more’r’less figure out dress picks, but do I really gotta learn a buncha hairstylist shit too?”
“Naw, babe.” She slides the final pin into place and reaches behind her to pat that thick thigh reassuringly. “Ya should know whether to advise up ‘r down if somebody asks ya, but the girlies can do their own hair an’ each other’s.”
A quick glance up catches palpable relief on his face. “Okay. Good.”
“Easy rule is long hair up if there's somethin’ ta look at on the neck, shoulders, or back. There are exceptions, but you'll figure ‘em out. I’ll teach ya some easy shit over the next couple ‘a weeks, too. French braidin’. Simple teasin’ fer volume. Stuff ta lend a hand if yer short on time or staff.”
He doesn’t respond, distracted by the sight of her in the mirror, a beefy hand fisting at his side.
“What’s up?”
“Ya wear yer hair like that at home.”
Home. Majima’s apartment, where they spend most of their time. Taiga’s got his own, but she knows he's not talkin’ about his. Hard not to show her teeth when she grins, catlike and satisfied. “Damn right. When? Can ya picture it?”
Gorgeous brow, creasin’ again like that. God damn.
“After we’re done fuckin’.”
There it is.
“Yer gettin’ it, Taiga-chan.”
By virtue of it having so few pins, the style looks purposefully mussed, barely holding together – good for putting up while soaking in the tub, or an easy fix after a quickie in the bathroom. It’s fuckin’ sex hair, for lack of a better term.
(Just kiddin’! That's the perfect term.)
“Picture it: yer a customer and I sit down with ya, a little extra blush on my cheeks and hair lookin’ like this, smilin’ like I gotta secret. It’s sex appeal, baby.” Goromi tilts her head back, gazing straight up at Taiga’s stubbled chin as he looks straight ahead into the mirror at them both. “Yer wonderin’ where I’ve been. Where ya can get with me.”
He inclines his head to meet her eye proper. And his voice is lower when he responds, too, gravelly in a way it only gets for his kyoudai alone, fuckin’ bedroom-ass tone: “I know where I can get with ya.”
“Keep it in yer pants, stud. We got makeup still ta go.”
But she's not immune to that sound, that look; starting to stiffen beneath the lace of her tight little g-string, thank god she's sitting down, lap hidden from view under the dressing table as she leans forward to examine her face in the mirror.
“Dress an’ hair are on the high-class side, so ya might think we wanna go heavy on the eye.” She holds up a finger in warning. “Ain't gonna. Class is about knowin’ yer limits.”
Goromi’s gettin’ her wits about her again – gotta stop thinkin’ with her dick. An agreeable nod from Taiga permits her to continue.
“Don't stress too much about this either. Ya don't have ta do everybody’s face for ‘em, just gotta be able ta tell ‘em three things: more, less, or goddamn stop fuckin’ overlinin’ yer lips ta shit.”
“Huh?”
She waves her brow pencil exasperatedly. “You'll know it if ya see it.”
Majima’s brows are carefully shaped as a matter of principle. (The principle is that he's vain as fuck.) Works in Goromi’s favor – she doesn't have much to fill in with her pencil, moving quickly to dab a light bronze shadow over her exposed eyelid and going in with the mascara wand afterward.
“Remind yer girls ta add some setting powder at the end, lest Outshine become Club Shiny-Ass Forehead.” She applies some herself before finishing with a nude lip and juuuuuuuust a little highlighter in her Cupid's bow, underneath the line of her carefully-trimmed mustache.
“An’ that's that! Voila!”
Taiga steps back to let his woman up, and she makes a fuckin’ show of it, slinking out of her chair and past him to settle on the rug where the light does her the best.
“Now that I’m all gussied up, ya know ya gotta tell me how I look.”
The answer comes out near-immediately. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”
She looks over her shoulder at him, fluttering her eyelashes girlishly. “Damn right I do. But before ya give me the rest ‘a yer well-deserved compliments, let’s talk about the customer again an’ put it all together.”
The good humor is evident in Taiga’s pretty sigh as he leans back against the vanity. “Alright.”
“We’ve already been over what they like ta look at. Set me up showin’ skin in all the right places. But not every customer’s comin’ in askin’ fer the same kinda gal.” She pantomimes jerking off and then shrugs. “Different strokes fer different folks.”
Taiga stifles a snort of laughter. “Ain’t no way ta fix bad taste.”
“You got it, sugar pie. So, here’s the sitch: Three dudes come into the club at the same time. First one’s a regular visitor, an old fart who responds best ta the young, giggly ones. Real sugar daddy type. Then we’ve got a rich finance bro who’s all about image. Orders a pricey drink, dressed to the nines. Third guy’s pretty average-lookin’ and might be a little nervous about his first time in. Who do ya sit me with?”
“Well, prob’ly not the one lookin’ fer a pretty young thing, ‘cause yer no spring chicken.”
Goromi barks a laugh. “Fuck right off. But yer right. Go on.”
“Ya look classy as hell in this getup, so I’d probably say the second guy. Image an’ all that.”
“Now yer really gettin’ it,” she croons in delight. “Dead on, babe. In a more casual look I might suit that third guy, but with this kinda vibe goin’ on yer best served puttin’ me on the arm ‘a somebody with a stick up their ass.”
“Makes sense.”
“Let’s go back ta that first guy. The old fart. What happens if I’m yer only option? What would ya change about what I’m wearin’?”
That strong brow furrows in thought again. Goromi loves to see it. Wants to plant a big wet kiss right in the middle of it.
“Ya’d probably wanna wear somethin’ that looks…youthful, I guess? A shorter skirt?” Taiga rubs at his stubbled jaw. “Be a little fucked if I said pigtails, but –”
She cackles. “Yeah, but yer on the right track. Some more natural-lookin’ makeup – blush, a pink lip. Shorter dress, sure, but also prob’ly one with a less defined silhouette. Babydoll, maybe.”
He cocks his head in confusion.
“Cinched under th’ bust, loose skirt.”
“Ah.”
“Ya get the picture, though, right? S’not as complicated as ya think it might be – lot of it’s common sense once you've got the pieces in front ‘a ya.” Goromi takes him by the hand and pulls him to the sofa to sit beside her. “I can’t teach ya the innate glitter-throwin’ Majima Goro special. That ain’t you. But yer girls trust ya and respect ya, Taiga-chan, and ya did that much all by yerself. The rest is just details.”
A burly arm stretches out across the back of the sofa behind Goromi’s shoulders, and she leans into Taiga’s side with a pleased hum, content to sit in silence with him until he speaks.
“...Ya really do look fuckin’ good as hell.”
“Always do, baby.”
Thick fingers come up to caress her jaw gently, and he presses his smile to hers in a kiss, soft like he rarely is with Majima. “Thanks fer talkin’ me off the ledge.”
“Yeah. Shit makin’ sense?”
“Enough ta go off of, I think.”
“Well then.” Goromi’s hand finds its way onto a thick thigh, and squeezes. “We gotta little while still before report time, right?”
“Thought ya were showin’ me how a hostess oughta behave. Bets’re off, huh?” His touch skates along her exposed back. “Lettin’ me touch the merchandise?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s outside ‘a hours, an’ who gives a fuck when yer lookin’ at me like that. C’mere, mister manager, gimme some feedback, huh?” She slides that same hand between his legs; squeezes there too, and he’s notably not entirely soft. “I can take it.”
He snorts, but he’s already sliding off the couch, onto his knees in front of her. “Can ya?”
“Been waitin’ for ya the whole time. Thought ya were gonna pounce a couple’a times there.”
It’s his turn to place a hand on her naked thigh and squeeze, sliding upward to the place where the skirt of the dress splits. “Ain’t sayin’ I wasn’t thinkin’ about it. But –” and here he flushes a little pink – “wanna pay attention an’ do a good job fer my best gal.”
Goromi coos her delight. “Ohhh, Taiga-chaaaaaan.” She reaches out to run her long nails along his handsome jawline, up his cheek – “Don’t think there’s a single day when I ain’t been proud ‘a ya.”
Majima’s love for Saejima is messy and vicious, something something these violent delights – but Goromi’s for Taiga is something precious and adoring, meant to be cherished, wrapped in tissue paper prettily folded and tied with a ribbon –
Taiga sweeps the skirt’s drape aside to reveal that pink lace he’d gotten a brief eyeful of earlier, now straining to hold back the fuckin’ boner to end all boners.
– lovely in its care and excess, crinkling pleasantly as it’s unwrapped again carefully fold by fold to reveal the same love, free of the burden of history and regret.
She groans as he leans forward, between her hot thighs, to mouth at her cock through the sheer fabric. Wet and tender with his tongue, looking up at her with crinkled brow and brown eyes piercing and soft all at once, kyoudai, fuckin’ –
“Babe,” she says, and he pulls her out fully; presses hot open rough lips to her shaft and drags up as she clutches at the back of his head. Takes her into the warm cavern of his mouth where she feels so at home and opens his throat for her to fuck into shudderingly until she feels the stubble of his chin against her balls. “Babe.”
He’s never been particularly gentle when he gets his mouth around her, whoever she is at the time – he knows she loves his weight on her, feeling him there and whole, encompassing her and encompassing Majima with his big warmth and presence and familiarity. Always has, even when they were full of youth, close to kids. His thick-fingered hands come to rest in the dips of her waist, gripping it as if they’re dancing even when he’s got his head in her lap and her cock down his throat.
Right now she wants that weight, that blanket of him, beautiful man; wants to feel him overtop of her, wants to watch him cum with her, yer doin’ so good fer me, Taiga-chan.
“C’mere, baby, wantcha up here, c’mon,” and she’s pawing at him, scraping nails over his back, over the nape of his neck until he obliges and pulls his wet mouth away from her to rotate her hips and climb up onto the sofa between her legs. His big fuckin’ dick’s still hidden behind the zipper of those goddamn ugly-as-sin camo pants that she loves him in anyway, pressing insistently forward, lemme have it, baby, anything I want – she’s reaching down to do away with the barrier between them and then he’s in her hand, rigid and hot and known, sighing raggedly with her first dry stroke of him.
“Other benefit of the slit skirt,” Goromi breathes, dragging the pad of her thumb through the slick wetness leaking from Taiga’s tip. They way he’s scooched her hips around has rucked the velvet of her dress up past her waist. “Easy ta move around in when yer tryna fuck the beefcake manager –”
A strangled half-laugh, half-moan rises from Taiga’s throat – he holds his palm, already wet with his own saliva and Goromi’s precome, horizontally in front of his lady’s lipstick-smudged mouth. She sucks the moisture from her cheeks and spits roughly into his hand, locking her brown-eyed one-sided gaze with his until the feeling of his wetter digits around both of them at once makes that same eye roll back into her head as she falls back against the cheap throw pillows.
“Fuck, baby. Fuck. ”
“Yeah?” he pants, burying his face against her neck, opening his mouth again to bite at soft skin so at odds with the rest of her lean, hard body. “This where I can get with ya?”
Wrapping her arms tightly around Taiga’s muscled torso, Goromi clutches him closer. “You know it is. Always ha aaaaaaaahhhhhs – ahhh – ” she arches up into him in time with his liquid strokes around them, pressing kisses to every place on his skull she can reach with her mouth. “Taiga.”
His pace speeds up, fast and irregular, and she’s got his deep shuddering breaths against her neck hot and damp and so much. Nothing is better than this – him here with her, holding him like she’d never let go all those years ago, like they’d never left one another, like he hadn’t been away for twenty-five long years, like he’d been right there, part of her, part of Majima the whole time. It’s best like this, when they’re so desperate that just the contact is enough to make them sigh and thrash against one another, whether one of ‘em’s inside or not, who cares, fuck-in’ shiiiiiiit, gorgeous girl, he’s slurring all loose and unrestrained. She’s both in her own body and floating high above them, jerking off her own incorporeal form as she watches them edge closer and closer together to the end.
He manages to point them blessedly away from Goromi’s torso – cum is a fuckin’ bitch to get outta velvet, trust me – and less blessedly towards a pillow at the edge of the sofa when he makes her cum with a high-pitched little whine, pretty in tandem with his low groan as he quickly follows her. Lays his head immediately onto her chest, cheek sweaty and hot on the velvet of the dress’s bodice, and she presses her hand to his face, cradling him to her, both of them breathing as if fresh from a fight even though there’s no blood or bruises to be found this afternoon.
When Taiga finally speaks after several minutes, their pulses have slowed. Goromi’s grip on the back of his neck has loosened; his big fingers still graze her softened cock alongside his own with tenderness.
“Couldn’t do this bullshit without ya,” he says, and her heart clenches and she bites her tongue and then she kisses him.
–
Twenty minutes of hard work follow the rendezvous. It’s time well and necessarily spent.
“Saejima-san?” There’s a soft knock and a quiet, muffled voice at the closed dressing room door. “Are you in there?”
Taiga swears under his breath and swiftly moves towards the door, unlocking it so it can swing open. “Sorry, Shiho-chan. Tryin’ ta set things up nice in here for ya before everybody arrived.”
They did a pretty fuckin’ good job cleaning up after themselves. A couple of lit scented candles on the coffee table by the sofa, nothing out of place on the dressing vanity Goromi’d commandeered, jizz stain on the fabric of the throw pillow carefully and thoroughly wiped away before, probably for the best, the pillow discarded entirely in a dumpster out back. Just in time for the girls to start trickling in, each entrant to the room sending their manager a respectful and fond smile before they settle in at their respective tables.
Shiho looks Goromi up and down appreciatively. “Majima-san, you look incredible.”
Her lipsticked mouth opens to playfully correct the hostess, but then there's that big mitt on her waist, warm and possessive. “Goromi-chan sure does,” Taiga says all low and pleased, and she can feel the rumble of it in her chest – and it's her turn to blush before he speaks again with a hint of cautious confidence in his gruff tone.
“So, Shiho-chan – I got some opinions on yer earrings.”