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After all is said and done — the Straw Hat Pirates have left Wano's shores, the new shogun has been crowned, and the celebrations have finally abated — the son of Kaido gathers his courage and requests an audience with the princess.
Her attendants greet him, and lead him to a quiet, empty room. They tell him the princess will be with him shortly, and then kneel off to the sides to wait with him.
He waits there for a long time, kneeling on a bamboo mat until his knees protest. He flexes his toes against the mat. His fingers worry at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. One of the attendants gives him the stink-eye, and he forces himself to sit still.
Finally, the door slides open, and in steps Komurasaki.
Yamato's heart stumbles in his chest. He'd thought he was prepared, or at least prepared enough, but clearly he was a fool. She's extravagantly dressed, not in the costly ostentation of an oiran, but in the comparatively understated elegance of a princess. Every centimetre of her is regal, from the hem of her kimono to the ornate, ornamented updo crowning her head. She's always been beautiful, but she seems more at home here than she used to be. He'd never noticed any discomfort before, but seeing her now, it's clear that this is the role that suits her best.
The attendants at her shoulders peel away to kneel beside their colleagues. At the head of the room, the princess pauses to turn her sorrowful eyes on her visitor. Yamato feels himself salivate, notes it with faint disgust and swallows it down. She's still beautiful, and he still wants her, but that's not important now.
"Ko—" He cuts himself off. That's not her name any more. "Lady Hiyori." He bows his head. "Please excuse me. Lady Hiyori."
"Yamato."
The sound of his name crackles like lightning down his spine. Yamato ducks his head further.
"What business brings you to seek me out, son of Kaido?"
Yamato flinches. He can't help it. His fingers curl against the flooring, nails too short to really dig in. His claws are safely stowed away under his skin. He's a man, after all, not a beast.
"I..." Despite how long he had to consider them, it takes him a moment to sort out his words. "Your father..." His habitual declaration is on the tip of his tongue, but he holds it back. Since meeting the remnants of the Kozuki clan, and helping the Straw Hats defeat Kaido, somehow it no longer fits quite right. His admiration for Oden hasn't faded, but beneath it, something has shifted. The more he thinks on it, the more he feels he might be unearthing something different — something new and uniquely Yamato's.
"Your father was a brave, brilliant, honourable man," he says instead.
"I know."
Her voice is like ice, frigid enough to sting even him. Yamato lowers his head further, until his forehead rests against the mat and the tips of his horns scrape the floor. "I read the journal of Kozuki Oden; I witnessed his execution," he says. "I cannot describe the way it changed me. Your father was an inspiration, and I have looked up to him nearly my entire life." His fingers curl once more against the mat. "I will never be half the man Oden was. But it is my duty, to myself and all the people of Wano, to try. And so I come to you today to offer my apology.
"I ask no forgiveness for the atrocities my late father committed. I only wish to express my regret."
Hiyori is quiet for a long moment. Yamato waits, forehead still pressed to the floor.
"I cannot accept your apology," she says at last, and Yamato's heart sinks. "For we are, neither of us, our fathers, and you have done me no wrong."
Yamato wets his dry lips. "And yet I cannot rescind it."
Hiyori watches him silently for another long moment. Yamato closes his eyes and breathes. What does she see, he wonders, kneeling before her? What has she ever seen? A man, seeking absolution from his father's sins? A woman, playing pretend, to be indulged but never really believed? A beast, waiting to strike? His body has never upset him much before, but now, Yamato is acutely aware of the weight of his breasts against his knees; the pressure of his horns against the floor; all the space he occupies, even kneeling with his face to the ground. Is it even Yamato she sees, when she looks at him? Or is it only Kaido's monstrous offspring?
"Leave us," Hiyori commands, so softly Yamato barely hears.
His eyes fly open, though there's nothing to see. He hears the quiet murmurs as Hiyori's attendants protest, and the rustle of fabric as they obey. The door slides open, then shut.
The rustle of silks announces Hiyori's approach, but her stockinged steps are all but silent. She stops just shy of Yamato's horns and sinks to the floor.
"Raise your head," she orders softly, and he obeys.
She's not kneeling. Hiyori is sitting on the floor, with her knees drawn up and her arms around them. Over them, her wide, sad eyes peer at Yamato, like a child peering at a stranger.
Instinct would have him avert his eyes, but something tells him to fight it. He holds the princess' gaze.
After a moment, Hiyori sighs and straightens her spine. The sadness of her eyes is lessened as the rest of her face emerges from behind her knees, but it never quite leaves. Her gaze slides away from Yamato, but he keeps his eyes on her. She's so beautiful it seems impossible not to.
"You were always good to me," Hiyori says quietly. "...Generous."
Yamato's mouth waters again, and again he swallows it down. He can feel his cheeks heating. It feels nearly blasphemous to recall the taste of her on his tongue, but recall it he does, try as he might to push it aside. No trace of Komurasaki remains in her voice — only the barest traces in her posture — but Hiyori speaks of her as herself. They have both been two people, both worn other names, but here, now, in this quiet room, there is no Komurasaki, and no Kozuki Oden. There is only Hiyori and Yamato, alone.
"I could never love a son of Kaido," says Hiyori, with snow-crisp conviction. But then her eyes return to Yamato's face, and her voice thaws. "At least, that was what I believed. But now..."
Yamato's heart thumps faster. His neck aches from his posture — still kneeling, still bowing, but with his head raised, as per Hiyori's request — but he holds it.
Hiyori looks away again. "Now, with Kaido gone, and peace returning to our country... I think, perhaps, I could start."
Yamato clears his throat. The sound is too harsh, after the softness of Hiyori's voice. "I will not ask you to, my lady."
"A great many people have been kind to Kozuki Hiyori," the princess replies. "Few were so kind to Komurasaki."
Yamato lowers his head. His neck aches in protest.
A hand slides under his chin, small and delicate. "Sit up," Hiyori says. "You've bowed to me enough."
Yamato sits up. He towers over her, like this; he leaves his spine bowed, rests his weight on his hands, but still he looms. Hiyori's hand still cradles his jaw, and Hiyori does not remove it.
"For all my freedoms as princess," she muses, "still there are things I can no longer have."
Yamato's first thought is for the family and friends she's lost, but Hiyori runs her thumb back and forth across Yamato's skin and continues: "For all that I despised the cage she lived in, still there are things I miss about being Komurasaki."
The insinuation makes Yamato's face burn against Hiyori's palm. "I see."
Hiyori's hand cups his chin, turns him to meet her eyes. "Would you give me that?" she asks. "If I asked, would you be good to me again?"
"I-I would not dare to presume you offered such a thing for free," Yamato stammers, "but I would be happy to pay—"
Hiyori's hand tightens on his jaw. "Komurasaki is dead," she snaps, and Yamato's speech dies in his throat. "Tell me. If Hiyori asked, what would you say?"
"Yes."
The word is far too quiet, for how much weight it carries. Yamato's eyes slide shut.
Hiyori caresses his skin. "I'm asking."
"Whatever you wish, my lady."
Painted nails dig into his jaw. "My name," the princess demands. "Answer me by name."
"Hiyori," Yamato breathes. "I will do as you ask."
"Open your eyes."
Hiyori's eyes are on his, cool and clear like glacial melt. For an endless moment, she simply watches him, and Yamato stares back at her.
After an eternity, Hiyori's hand falls away. Before Yamato can find the words to protest, Hiyori leans back on one hand and, with the other, reaches down to the hem of her ornate kimono and peels the heavy layers back. Yamato can only watch dazedly as Hiyori drags her skirts and petticoats above her knees. Beneath all that heavy silk and colourful linen, her legs are bare above her socks, her knees parted almost shyly. The plain white linen of her loincloth is dark with moisture. Yamato's mouth waters once more.
"I will not order you to pleasure me," Hiyori says, barely above a whisper. "But if you are willing—"
"I'm willing."
It's with shaky fingers that he reaches out to touch her. Her skin is warm and smooth, her thigh so slender in his hand; she lets him nudge it aside, parting her legs to his hungry gaze. Before he can second-guess himself, Yamato leans down and presses his mouth against her.
Hiyori gasps and topples backward, but she catches herself before Yamato can pull away. "That's it," she breathes, sweet as any praise. "Go on."
Even like this, contained by her clothing, the smell of her body is enticing. Yamato presses an open-mouthed kiss against the damp spot, tastes salt and musk against his tongue, and hears Hiyori take a hissing breath above him.
His hands are still so big next to her, but he's practiced, by now, at keeping his touch delicate, and when he reaches to remove her loincloth, his fingers are gentle. As he peels the cloth away, strands of wetness cling to it before breaking. The short, dark hair that covers her looks black in the shadows of her skirts, but Yamato knows its true colour all too well.
He leans in again and drags his tongue against her. Her folds part around his tongue, soft and slick; he licks again, swallows the taste of her like a mouthful of sake. The sound Hiyori breathes is quiet, but devastatingly sincere.
Yamato laps at her, selfish for a moment as he tastes her, swallowing as though he could drink from her. The savoury tang of her pleasure fills his nose and mouth, hot and slick against his lips; Hiyori's shaky breaths and the rustle of her skirts fill his ears. He's had women before, and wine, food and drink and pleasure to spare; for all the abuses he's suffered, Yamato has tasted plenty of excess, but this — this is true indulgence. The taste and scent and sounds of Hiyori's body, Hiyori's arousal, flood his senses. If asked, he'd have sworn he'd never taste it again, and yet here he is, kneeling on the palace floor with the princess on his tongue. If he had his way, he'd never have to leave.
Long before he can drink his fill, he follows the shifting of Hiyori's hips and diverts his attention upward, worries her clit with the flat of his tongue. Hiyori gasps — not the clear, theatrical gasp she would have breathed as Komurasaki, but a muffled, breathless little thing, sweet and involuntary. Yamato's fingers tighten around Hiyori's thigh, then deliberately loosen.
Hiyori's hand closes around Yamato's horn. The moan Yamato breathes in response is muffled, but Hiyori's thigh flexes in his grip. "Yamato—"
She's spoken his name before, but never like this, with his head between her legs and her voice gone breathless with the feeling. He's pleasured her before, but not with his name on her tongue. Yamato presses his lips against her skin and suckles gently at her clit, and Hiyori gasps again.
"Harder," she begs, barely above a whisper. "Yamato, please—"
He's already obeying before he even fully understands the words. Hiyori arches against him. He can feel the tension in her trembling thighs where he holds her open, in the fingers clenched tight around his horn. She's almost at the edge, now; Yamato works his tongue steadily, coaxing her closer.
When she comes, her voice cracks around a soft, desperate cry. Yamato works her through it — through the way her thighs spasm, the delicate arch of her back, the way her fingers dig into his horn. It feels too intimate, to hear her like this — to hear Hiyori like this. No one would mistake her for Komurasaki now; this is all Hiyori. Hiyori, Hiyori, Hiyori, Yamato prays. Thank you, Hiyori.
As Hiyori's orgasm subsides, so too does Yamato. Hiyori's fragile fingers tug at his horn, but with her hand so weak with pleasure, he can't tell whether she's pulling him closer or pushing him away. He shifts to release her — it seems like the more courteous option — but Hiyori protests, small and wordless but still clear. Yamato stops.
"Again?" he asks, and Hiyori's legs fall open.
"Yes."
He leans down again, and Hiyori drags him in with one trembling hand in his hair, the other still clinging to the curve of his horn. His mouth lands too hard against her; he feels his oversized canine teeth collide with her pubic bone, and winces at the impact, but Hiyori doesn't seem to care. Yamato pulls back far enough to run his tongue over the places where his fangs might have hurt her. His tongue drags over Hiyori's clit, and Hiyori gasps, legs kicking reflexively; Yamato guides them over his shoulders, moans as Hiyori's fingers tighten once more around his horn.
He trails one fingertip between her folds. She's so very wet. It's tempting to give her two, to feel the way she stretches around him, but he knows all too well how much broader his fingers are than her own. He runs his single finger through her folds again, rubs the pad of it against her entrance, feels the way it twitches at the touch.
"Yamato," she chokes, "don't tease."
He eases his finger into her. The way her flesh parts for him, hot and wet and so eager to receive him, is dizzying; the faint, breathless edge of a moan that slips from her throat, even more so. He trails his tongue down to trace around her entrance, tastes the salt of his own sweat under the richness of Hiyori's body as his tongue brushes his skin. Hiyori's hands tug him back upward, and he returns his attention to her clit, savouring the way she pulses around him as he works her over.
It doesn't take long to bring her to a second climax, but then, it never has. Her cries are louder than the first time, but still so shockingly intimate. Yamato works her through it just like before, until he's wrung all the pleasure he can from her. It's greedy of him, he knows, but he can't bear to restrain himself.
This time, when Hiyori's body falls slack, her hands drop from Yamato's horns. One lands against his forehead, and pushes him back.
"Enough."
Yamato backs away. His breathing is ragged, his own body throbbing with need, but none of that matters as long as Hiyori is satisfied. He fumbles for a handkerchief, to at least try to wipe Hiyori's fluids from his skin, but Hiyori finds one before he does, and presses it into his hand before he can protest. It's a costly thing, but Yamato uses it without thinking — wipes his face and fingers hurriedly, then looks up, just in time to see Hiyori's legs vanish back under her kimono. Her cheeks are visibly flushed beneath her makeup, her breathing heavy, but she looks composed. Yamato, for his part, feels utterly unmoored. He would rather die than overstep the boundary between him and Hiyori, but his task feels incomplete. There's something left to do, there must be, but he can't tell what, and he's unsure how to ask.
Hiyori looks up, and their eyes meet. The lost feeling must be clear on Yamato's face, but he freezes halfway to hiding it, suddenly uncertain. Seconds drip past.
Finally, Hiyori reaches out. "Hold me," she whispers, and Yamato obeys.
Her body feels so small in his arms. He cradles her close, as gently as he can, and she folds into his embrace. She turns to hide her face in his ample chest and curls her hands idly into the front of his shirt.
Gravity coaxes Yamato to the floor, and he takes Hiyori with him; he curls himself around her, and Hiyori breathes a quiet sigh, seemingly unperturbed by the shifting of her makeshift pillow. Her breath is hot against his skin, even through his shirt. He can feel the aftershocks still running through her body, the delicate shivering of her limbs.
"Thank you," Hiyori murmurs.
"It was my pleasure," is all Yamato can say.
They lie together for what feels like an eon. Eventually, when the tremors have subsided from Hiyori's body, she shifts to pull away.
Yamato lets her go without complaint, and watches as Hiyori rises to her feet and composes herself. Her skirts are rumpled; she smooths them down with her delicate hands. Her handkerchief is still balled up in Yamato's palm, but he's not sure whether to offer it back, and once she's satisfied with her appearance, Hiyori glides away without asking.
When she reaches the doorway, she pauses, and turns back. Yamato scrambles to his knees.
"Thank you for your visit," says Hiyori. "I hope I will see you again soon."
"I hope so, too," Yamato breathes. Then the door slides shut behind her, leaving only Yamato, alone.