#golden kamuy x you

[dollwrites]

hiiiiiii would you be willing to write something with ogata and a shy lover?

— ⟡ dizzy drabbles disclaimer !!

all dizzy drabbles are written when i am extremely high and they don’t contain a trigger warnings list. minors dni, dark themes may be present. these pieces are never proof read so mistakes are probably present. < 3 enjoy your experience

“Don’t give me that look. You’re the one that needed my gloves,” Ogata chided, chastising you for the warm blush and the way that you shy away from his touch. your eyes flicker to the red gloves that are loose around your fingers, and hang further down on your wrists. you’d asked the wildcat sniper, in a timid little voice, if you could wear his gloves after losing yours on the mountainside, but you had no idea that you were meant to be his personal heater when he agreed.

his hands were ice cold— a testament to the brutal snowstorm you found yourself sheltering away from— and they made you let out a soft squeak when they found their way beneath your layers of warm clothes. “You want my hands to freeze?” he challenged, running one palm over your breast, the irreparable pad of his thumb pushing at the hardening bud in an almost teasing manner. the other hand was much more dastardly in its intentions. it curved over the shape of your supple belly, and dipped between your hips, finding that sweet, warm slick with his first two fingers. one eyebrow twitched at your reaction— a sharp inhale and squeak. you couldn’t watch him watch you, it was way too embarrassing. “If my fingers get frostbite, they’ll rot away,” he muttered. his voice, though taking on a macabre topic, was matter-of-fact instead of daunting. “I won’t be able to pull the trigger of my rifle anymore, and we will both starve if I can’t hunt.”

the way he fondled you was more than a little bit demeaning. he pinched and squeezed, rubbed with his fingertips or jabbed with his thumb, as if familiarizing himself with a new firearm, and not a delicate woman’s most intimate areas. you turn your head to the side, and feel the ghost of the snow shifting above the little trench Ogata’d buried the two of you in to keep warm flutter as it flutters against your cheek. the trench was barely big enough for him, and since he’d pinned you below his weight with one knee between your thighs, the other leg pressed close to yours, there was nowhere for you to be able to escape to.

“Sure, b—but… can’t we hold hands instead?” you ask, sheepishly squirming when he uses the tip of his forefinger to lightly scrape at your swelling button. “Or I can—-!”

Ogata is so silent. it unnerves you, how quiet he is sometimes. his eyes are deep and unreadable, abysmal whirlpools, but they’re hyper focused on the way your expression contorts and the sound of your little whimper when he slips his middle finger into you.

“O—Ogata…!” your hands flee towards his arm, grasping his bicep. you can barely feel his body warmth with the several layers between your hand and his arm, but you still cling to it. “Th—that’s—“

“Jesus, you’re warm. Tight…” he mutters, his eyes flitting the length of your body to rest on the movement of his hand beneath your layers. he pushes his finger deep, slowly straightening and then curling his finger. you writhe in response, your inner walls in a frenzy, and hide your face in both hands. Ogata notices your act of shame, and the corners of his mouth twitch, but the specter of a smirk never reaches fruition. “It’s annoying when you do that.” he grunts, his finger pumping in and out of you at a steady pace now. he was intrigued by the way your breath caught in your throat, the way your eyelids fluttered behind your fingers, interested in the way you looked when he played with your pussy, but here you were hiding. “You’re so shy you don’t even wanna look at me?” Ogata muses, giving your breast a hard squeeze. his teeth sank against the inside of his cheek upon the feeling of your flesh against his palm, between his fingers…

you shook your head, babbling behind your makeshift shield of red leather about how embarrassing it was. “Because you’re so wet.” he thought aloud, his brows threatening to furrow as he contemplates, before the hand on your chest escapes from your clothes, and instead pries one of your hands away with a tight grip on your wrist. you whine and squirm, but ultimately feel him anchor the back of your hand to the earth by your head. your free hand still hovers near your face, though it’s drifted moreso to your mouth so you can chew at the tips of your fingers, tasting the leather of Ogata’s glove. you want to close your eyes, but you can feel him pressing his forehead against yours, and when you look up, your eyes are locked in his stormy gaze. “You’re being dramatic. I already knew I made your pussy wet.” you cringed at how blunt he was: Ogata made everything sound ten times worse with that flat, lifeless baritone. sure, you had a crush on him and maybe you weren’t that good at hiding it, but did he have to say it like that?

your back arches when you feel his ring finger join the middle. they were long and thick, calloused and roughened by the elements, cold to the touch, but they felt good plundering you. “I—I’m already full…” you mewl before his forefinger can worm its way inside with the other two. it’s embarrassing to admit, but it leaves your lips, and your voice sounds almost in awe at the sensation. “Can’t take anymore…”

Ogata pauses his ministrations with his fingers still knuckle deep in your core, his breath warm against your cheeks, and he said this just to embarrass you further, “Gotta stretch you out a little bit before you’ll be ready to take a cock.” his mouth never once brushed against your skin, offering not a single ounce of comfort or romance in this moment. instead, he sighs, as if the task at hand was impossible. “We can’t have you screaming like a trapped bunny when I stick you.”

[iwashie]

𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑽𝑨𝑻𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑴 (18+)| GOLDEN KAMUY

ft. Ogata Hyakunosuke

∗  ˖࣪ ໒꒱  ˚₊· synopsis: you work in a lodging and end up attracting Ogata’s attention, who prefers to share a room with you.

･ﾟﾟ･｡　wc: 2.7k + warnings- mdni, nsfw content, f!reader, 20+ characters, petnames(dumb doll), face-fuck,ing vaginal sex, rough sex, squirting, breeding/creampie, one night stand, implied cnc. (also on ao3 )

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Karafuto, for lack of words, was a change of plans. So many things got out of hand, happened, and Ogata felt so many things, things that changed within him. Now he was back with Hijikata’s group, looking for the most beneficial place for him and this brought him back to Sapporo in the lodging where you worked.

The way he stared at you, his eye roaming every bit of your body, focusing on the volume of the kimono on your breasts and the bars raised, showing off your thighs; his only eye, on display, fixed on your figure, as if it could consume you right there. The grin he gave you shivered you and made you cover your body with your arms, but your insides warmed with the intensity of that stare.

After Karafuto, Ogata was a new man, with feelings exploding within him, and perhaps Ushiyama was right about pouring those feelings into the prostitutes. Perhaps, that was why Ogata- after spending much of the time he spent in the lodging, eating you with his eyes, smiling every time he noticed you looking away and face red-, was leaning against the wall, waiting for you to come back from the bath.

“That’s a beautiful sight...” You were startled to find the man who had been driving you crazy all day, leaning against your bedroom door. You wrapped the towel around your body, trying to hide your skin from that dark gaze.

“What do you want?” You stared at that man from top to bottom, your insides twisting every time you noticed how handsome he was, even carrying the gun and with that feline manner. “I’m sorry, but if it’s problems with the room, I can’t do anything. We’re full.”

Ogata leaned off the door and stopped in front of you, his tall stature shadowing you, making you swallow dry and lift your head to face him. That warm feeling in the middle of your legs with his presence so close, his breath hitting your face.

“Then I can only sleep in your room.” You cringed at his speech as he just smiled, the intense gaze descending your towel-covered body. “The customer’s need first, isn’t it?” He moved closer, his pectoral glued together with your arms holding the towel and a hand of his went towards your pinned hair, pulling you face to face with him.

“I can satisfy your needs, too.” You sighed faintly as you felt his nose close to your cheek, his raspy voice chilling you and the hand caught in your hair running down your back, making you bite your mouth to cover a moan. “Just say it.”

You squinted, resting your head on his shoulder, thoughts between pushing him away, demanding respect and pretending it never happened, especially the heat in the middle of your legs increasing with his caresses, or accepting that apparent soldier who stared at you like you were prey ready to be devoured and killing that thought of having him touch you with the same intensity he stared at you.

You couldn’t deny that from the moment the group walked into the lodging and you stared at each other, your body reacted like it hadn’t in a long time, an uncontrollable heat coursing through your body and the shivers that look gave you, turning those sensations into impure thoughts with that stranger, heat pooling in the middle of your legs. And now, there he was, offering to fuck you the way you wanted.

You lifted your face; the heat warming your cheeks, whether from embarrassment or horniness, by the way he slid his hand up close to your ass and up to your neck, the decision stamped on your face.

“Be quick, soldier.” You pushed him into your room as he let himself be guided, a tiny smile on his scarred face.

As soon as you closed the door, you were pressed against it, your back slamming hard and the man’s mouth drawing you out of air in a hungry, toothy, bitten kiss. You entwined your hands around his neck and pulled him closer, gluing your bodies together as you returned the urgency of kissing.

His hands tore off the towel, exposing your body to the icy air and calloused, rough hands that roamed every corner, squeezing and scratching, marking the soft flesh with his ferocity. You moaned against his mouth as he slapped your ass and squeezed the soft flesh. His mouth went down to your neck, sucking and biting every bit of skin he could, making you grumble in pain and clasp your hands on his clothes.

“K-kind, please.” You grumbled, feeling him scrape his teeth on your collarbone. He pulled his mouth away from your body, a hand coming up to your chin, forcing you to face him; the dark eye glowing with something more than a desire that made you shudder and squeeze your legs.

“I’m not kind, dumb doll.” He laughed softly and cupped one of your tits, sucking, biting, licking as he pleased, making you feel pain. But even with all his rudeness, the horniness spread through your body, wetting the middle of your legs.

He was being just as you thought, rude and feverish. The way you liked it.

You bit your mouth, suppressing the moans and the smile that formed with each rude way he touched you, turning you on more and more, pinning his face against your body.

He sucked your breasts like a madman; His tongue and teeth flicking your nipples as he sucked hard, making loud noises and hands squeezing your thighs, rising to your ass which was also treated with force.

You couldn’t help but push his head down towards your wet, blinking pussy in need, and entwine your legs around his body, sighing loudly at the heat of his mouth.

Ogata came down as your hands pushed his head down and his hands played with your thighs, fingers very close to your wet, aching pussy. You shuddered as you felt him huffed against your belly as his fingers got wet, sliding down your folds, shaking you and clinging to him.

“Open your legs.” He commanded, kneeling down, and you did, feeling his hands squeezing the inside of your legs, his head burying in you, drawing out a loud moan as soon as he licked a strip, his tongue covering your pussy.

You grabbed his hair and shoulders, your head against the door and your back arched as the man licking you sucked on your clit and stuck his tongue along two fingers inside your gummy, hot pussy, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

Ogata hummed against you, amused by the way you moaned loudly for more, fingers buried in the black strands and swayed your waist to his face, choking on a moan as he folded his fingers and nibbled on your bud.

His moves were so fast and rude, and it had you melting, moaning for the soldier kneeling between your legs.

“Close! Close!” You pinned his head against you, a trembling leg caught around his neck as he ate you willingly; licking patterns, circling and sucking on your bud, fingers buried and gulping all your juice.

He ate you like a starved man. And he really was. It had been a long time since he’d played like this with a woman and feeling your taste was driving him crazy.

Ogata pulled away from you, making you grumble about being close to cumming and missing the stimulus. You opened your eyes, staring at his wet face, the red mouth, the smirk. You pulled him back, controlling the kiss, hot breathing, saliva and your taste on his tongue.

You ran your fingers through his clothes, undoing any knots and buttons, hurriedly removing the thick clothes, moving down to his belt, sliding down his uniform pants and loincloth, all still kissing him willingly and his hands pinned to your waist, pinning you against the door.

Ogata smirked between kisses, rubbing his waist against yours, making you gasp and shudder as you felt his hard cock against your skin. You slid a hand down his muscular body, down to his cock and around it with the tip of your finger, making him shiver and hold you tighter, biting your mouth.

“Bed, now.” You pushed him onto the bed, eyes locked on him, walking on his back until he fell into the soft of the covers. You eyed his body, biting your mouth as you found the defined muscles scarred, his dark happy trail denoting the thick, enormous cock dripping pre-cum from the fat head.

You licked your lower lip and rested your hands on his knees, kneeling between his thick thighs on the edge of the bed. Your insides rolled in horniness. That man was entirely hot and thick; you didn’t know if you were going to handle that cock, but it turned you on even more.

“I don’t take orders, dumb doll.” He said, staring at you in the middle of his legs, kissing one thigh and caressing the other, climbing up to his cock, and a hand wrapped around your hair, pulling you close to his face, pain plastered on your face. “I command here.” You nodded, closing your eyes in pain and digging your nails into his thighs.

He pushed your head against his cock and released you, opening his legs wider for you to settle. You stared at his impassive face and moved down until you were face on his balls, slowly licking each one, sucking before moving up licking the length of his cock, your smooth tongue playing with the underside of the head and wiping the pre-cum with your tongue.

You went up and down licking the big, thick cock, having a hard time wetting the entire length.

He watched your every move, smiling as you couldn’t with the thickness of his cock, nor with the help of your hands could you do it all.

Your jaw ached, and only half of his cock was inside your mouth. You drooled on his cock, spreading the saliva with your hands and went down on him; your tongue skirting the pulsing vein and half the length of his cock as your hands covered the rest.

You stared at him through half-open eyes, your mouth sucking his cock willingly and masturbating the rest, alternating movements, drawing gasps from him staring at you. You were doing your best sucking on him, playing with the fat head on the roof of your mouth and licking the extension, saliva dripping down your chin.

You closed your eyes, pleasure sprouting through your body, knowing he was big enough to make you gag, wondering what it would be like when he fucked you, moaning on his cock.

Ogata grunted at the sensation, waist shaking and he brought a hand to the back of your head, forcing you to swallow his cock, the tip slamming into the end of your throat, making you gasp and grab his legs as he sighed heavily at the tight feel on his cock.

“Stand still.” His two hands holding your head as he shoved his cock down your throat, going deep and repeating until you choked on it, saliva dripping along with pre-cum and making you cry, hands stuck on his legs, forming marks of your nail.

Ogata fucked your face hard and fast, sighing heavily, watching you swallow his cock with difficulty and tears mingle along with the saliva on your red face.

You were running out of air and his hands were holding you in place, forcing his cock into your throat, making you let out strange noises and shudder, your pussy dripping in arouse.

Ogata stopped pushing his waist against your face and the hands still in your hair threw you onto the mattress, pulling you by the legs and forcing your ass into the air as you coughed and choked in the air.

You tried to get up, a hand extended to him and still coughing, tried to speak. “Huh, did you choke on my cock so well you can’t speak?” He let out a laugh, his hands strong on your body.

“Wait.” Your throat burned and coughed more. “Name... What’s your name?”

Ogata raised an eyebrow, soon understanding what you wanted. “Ogata. But don’t worry, because you’ll forget while I fuck you.” He slapped your ass and got you into position again, hands caressing your ass and thighs, slapping your wet pussy, making you jump and moan.

You widened your eyes and opened your mouth, a faint moan coming out as soon as his fat head came in, stretching you until you had him inside you, the thick, enormous cock making you close your eyes in pain and pleasure, squeezing him.

Ogata grunted loudly, feeling your warmth and the way you squeezed him, rubbing your ass against his waist, smiling openly and pressing his hands on your waist, going in and out deeply.

You grabbed the covers and moaned loudly, feeling his waist slam against your ass hard, the tip of his cock slamming into your womb, having you roll your eyes and moan loudly, squeezing and wetting his cock more and more.

“Squeezing so well...” Ogata said with gritted teeth, sinking inside you, making his cock disappear and shuddering you with each thrust.

You sank your head into the bed, muffling the loud moans, your hands white from the force holding the cover, pleasure spreading across your body from the way Ogata was fucking you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, the wetness of your pussy engulfing his cock, the bed creaking and slamming against the wall, your muffled screams and his heavy gasps.

You lifted your head as you felt him spit on your ass, a scream escaping as his thumb penetrated your ass, curving upwards, holding you in place.

Ogata fucked you hard and fast, one leg up on the bed, hands gripping your waist, forcing your upper body into the bed and your ass in the air, swaying with his cock sliding in and out of your tight, wet pussy.

You let out screams, his name forgotten in the back of your head, white fingers clinging to the cover, drool and tears wetting the thin fabric, your back aching from the way he held you, ass burning from the force his waist and balls clashed with your soft flesh and belly had a bulge from where the fat head of his cock slammed; The good feeling of being fucked rudely making you clench his cock and the knot in your stomach tighten.

“O-Ogata! Ngh... Close, Ogata!” You warned between screams and saliva, squinting at the sensation exploding inside you; a loud moan escaping your plump lips and the cum squirting on his cock and lower body, which continued to abuse your warm, gummy wall.

Your cum continued to squirt into him, driving you crazy, the sore muscles, the heavy breathing, head dizzy and hooded eyes grumbling for the man inside you.

Ogata grinned as he made you squirt, pussy receiving him so well that he felt that sensation on the tip of his cock, going deeper and faster, his thumb still stuck in your ass.

Ogata cummed hard inside you, hot, thick liquid painting your insides white as you squeezed him. He came out of you with a grunt, slapping your ass, seeing his cum running down your legs, and you sliding tiredly on the bed, feeling your eyes plume.

You grumbled as you felt Ogata’s hand on your neck, pulling you into a lip press and soon your heavy body fell onto the bed, eyes closing.

When you woke up, your face was swollen from crying, your voice was just a squeak, your body had marks all over the place, your legs were still shaking, and you could still feel Ogata’s cock inside you, drawing a faint smile from you.

Ogata seemed to glow in the middle of the group as a very tall man tapped his shoulder and laughed loudly. The eyes of the man who fucked you the night before following you everywhere, that smirk on his face. The other customers looked away from you and the owner of the lodging couldn’t look at you without turning red. 

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© iwashie 2023, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

[never-enough-golden-kamuy]

Warmth of the cold-blooded sniper

I barely finished second WEEK of this semester and I'm already and still getting owned by my uni. I had to write these stories or I will burn out at best.

Over 1,6k words, Vasilyxf!reader, fluff per usual

Enjoy!

The climate on Karafuto was usually cold. However, when Vasily lowered the binoculars and his eyes fixated on a distant point, the temperature seemed to drop an extra few degrees. 

[Y/N] watched as the man knelt on one knee while resting his rifle on his shoulder. It was one, coherent and smooth movement. Years of practice led to perfection and left no room for any slack. Blue eyes followed the victim's movement above the barrel, devoid of any emotion. His entire body seemed to be detached from the surrounding reality, concentrating on the shot like a well-aimed arrow. 

The sound of gunfire pierced the air, causing a minute of chaos. The frightened birds jumped into the air with a terrifying screech. Smaller animals fell through the undergrowth, leaving only torn leaves behind. Even the small cloud of her own breath froze in the air. 

Meanwhile, Vasily didn't even bat an eye. Only with a learned movement, as natural as his heartbeat, did he reload his weapon, ready to finish off the animal. The clicking of the sliding mechanism sent shivers down her spine as the man continued to stare at his prey, as if even a second's distraction would make it suddenly vanish into thin air. The young deer fell into the undergrowth, thrown about with the last jerks of its life. There was no need for a second shot. Sniper precision was flawless as usual. 

Vasily let out a satisfied hum and signaled her that they could now descend the hill. [Y/N] scrambled out of her spot among the bulging roots and followed him. The woman stepped over irregularities in the ground and ducked under low branches, carefully imitating the man walking in front of her. Her thoughts were already too far away for her to pay attention to her surroundings. 

Sometimes she forgot how deadly dangerous Vasily was. The memories of his laughter and affectionate gestures contrasted sharply with the chilling sight from a moment ago. She also never dared to ask how much of the war was still in him. For her, the war was something distant, it never really affected her. She had no father or brother to take part in the draft. News from the front rarely reached the village, and even if it did, it was hushed in the company of a young woman. 

Is now a good time to ask? Is it even a question possible to answer? 

She almost bumped into the man as he tried unsuccessfully to get her attention. He frowned for a moment at her thoughtfulness and pointed upwards. [Y/N] looked up at the quickly darkening sky. 

They won't make it back home before dark. 

* 

[Y/N] stared blankly at the glowing coals, inhaling the musty smell of the woven bunk she was lying on. Little more than 4 walls and a hearth, long ago deprived of its rightful owner, but still standing intact. For years this old cottage has served as a shelter from the night and bad weather for travelers, a proof of the diligent work of the old days. Its usually quiet and dusty interior was now filled with the pleasant warmth of the fire and Vasili's calm breathing. 

How did he managed to fall asleep so quickly? He didn't seem to care about the hard boards and thin blanket. Are these some secret techniques of the Russian military? She looked at the figure sleeping on the floor. Tucked in his own cloak, he frowned even in his sleep. 

The old bunk creaked softly as she reached towards him, ready to see if the two vertical wrinkles on his forehead were permanent or if there was any hope for him after all. She froze, however, when the glow of the fireplace was reflected in the barrel of the rifle lying within his reach. 

The warning flashed before her eyes. The cold of death bit her fingers and ran up her arm, making her shiver. Vasily never talked about his experiences at the front, and she never had the courage to ask what effect it had had on him. What was the chance that, startled from sleep, he would take up arms? She never saw him sleeping so deeply, will it differ from waking up from a nap? 

As a matter of fact, it was the first time they were sleeping in one room. Grandmas from her village would be outraged if they knew. Two unmarried youngsters sleeping in one room? ALONE? 

Suddenly aware of the whole situation, she blushed and withdrew her hand as if it had been burned. She stole a glance, unsure whether Vasily had magically heard her thoughts. Fortunately, he didn't and continued to sleep, unaware of her dilemma. On the other hand, Vasily didn't seem to be a person who cared about what others thought of him. Fixated on his own goals, he could make decisions completely contrary to the views of the village babushkas. Such as deserting, leaving everything and traveling through foreign territory without a yen to his soul just to get revenge. 

Sometimes it seemed so stupid, but at the same time it was what she admired about him. The ability to make his own decisions and even sticking to them. 

Torn, she bit her lip nervously. The sight of the ice-cold sniper clashed with the memories of the same man, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he tried to capture the smallest details in his drawings. Fear froze her in place, but the flame of hope and curiosity burned brighter. 

She could now put aside her worries about the gossips the next day. People will say whatever they like about her anyway. However, there was still the question of Vasily. Will she startle him? Will he be mad? 

[Y/N] rolled onto her back, her head full of shouting voices. The cautious part of her absolutely forbade any antics that would result in being shot or rejected by Vasily. The rational part of her rightly reminded her that Vasily had never miss fired before, and therefore the likelihood of him shooting her blindly was low. Meanwhile, touch-deprived part of her was laying on the debate table drooling at the mere thought of holding hands. 

And how can you make any decisions in such team? Sometimes it may be better not to think at all. 

The woman took a deep breath, seeking agreement between all parties, and rolled out of bed before anyone could change her mind. She landed softly on her feet and glanced quickly at the rifle. Certain that it wasn't pointed at her yet, she gathered her blanket and spread it on the floor, squeezing herself between the man and the fireplace. She watched what he was doing with one eye and the absolute lack of reaction from him with the other. 

Since he decided to stay in the village for a little longer, the inhabitants took advantage of his youthful strength and efficiency in all possible works. Despite their generous payments in the form of money, food and hospitality, the constant tasks must have exhausted him. 

She lay down on her makeshift bed, wrapping herself in her own cloak. She tried to get as comfortable as possible on the hard floor and closed her eyes, still seeing through her eyelashes the hand lying at the level of her face. Without thinking, she covered it with a piece of cloak, protecting it from the cold of the night. 

And suddenly everything went quiet. As the tension drained from her body, the sound of the blood in her ears diminished, replaced by the rhythm of their breathing. The crackling of the dying fire soothed her frayed nerves, slowly pushing her towards sleep. 

At least until Vasily removed his hand. 

[Y/N] blinked in surprise and looked up, meeting piercing blue eyes. The entire world froze, went deaf, and plunged into darkness, shrinking to the size of just the two of them. She had stared at him blankly for decades after someone had dropped a hand grenade into her brain, depriving of all thought. She wasn't sure if she was breathing at all. 

“The bunk wasn't comfortable” she muttered without even the slightest involvement of the brain in formulating this statement. Vasily raised an eyebrow skeptically, but even in the darkness she could see the slightest lift at the corner of his lips. 

He touched his ear and nodded. >>I could hear<< 

The world went up in flames, burning down all her hopes for a decent life. She was fully ready to sink into the ground and never emerge. 

“Sorry to wake you up,” she mumbled, closing her eyes with a sigh, unable to look at the circus show she just performed. She didn't even flinch when Vasily moved. He could go ahead and take the bunk, or walk away from her life forever. It didn't matter to her as she was about to die right where she lay. 

She flinched when she felt a hand on her back, and then, completely effortlessly, she was moved the few dozen centimeters that separated them. Vasily shifted in his seat and held her against his chest, shielding her from the world. And suddenly the wooden floor of this old cottage was the coziest place on earth. She exhaled softly, the tension leaving her body again and the arm around her keeping them from separating. She swung her arm over his side, feeling it rise in rhythm with his breathing. She pressed her forehead against his shirt and the dull beating of his heart allowed her to finally fall asleep. 

He was warm. The cold-blooded sniper was very very warm. 

[saint-strychnine]

two-backed beast

Ogata Hyakunosuke/reader "In which the stereotype about single women and cats rings true. Or: An exercise in self preservation and androphobia" Rating: Explicit (18+) TW: Parental death mention, female loneliness, paranoia, misandry, misogyny, unreliable narrator, psychological decline, explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mental instability, agoraphobia. Word count: 13.2k AO3: Pharmaceutica

There's a reason that male animals kept in polite society are neutered. Farmers keep one rooster, a handful of bulls- separated, typically by pasture- and whatever variety of studs or sires are penned on an agricultural estate. Stallions are gelded to make them placid, good natured, and so friendly they are the ideal steeds for children to mount. Reason would have it that they are illogical beasts, driven mad by lust and domination to the point of killing other males of the same species and his own offspring. The annihilation of order is male nature if castration is off the table. Humans, somehow, missed such a memo on a grand scale.

You are 25 when your father dies.

The funeral your mother arranges last minute is in every shade of hurried, only a few family members made the begrudging trip to offer condolences on a muggy August night. You remember her crying and acting as if the sky had fallen out of the sky, the devastation wrought deep and unrelenting in every corner of her soft face. You do not feel much. He was not a bad father or even a bad man, overtly, but you cannot help but feel that maybe this is not the worst outcome. He perched himself like a fat house pet in a recliner most nights and his hair was falling out. Maybe it was time for this to happen. He was only a few years older than your mother but he happened to age at nearly triple the rate. What an alarming sequence of events. Maybe he was dying this entire time and nobody ever even knew. After all, he did not always look this way.

"You're a strong girl," Your mother says, her voice is shaking and a hair above a whisper "You're strong for me." Her grip is cold and corpselike as she presses her face into your stomach, kneeling on the ground. Your poor mother, clammy fingers pet through her brittle hair and a painful lump pangs in your esophagus. Seeing your mother cry is such a disturbing thing.

Maybe something is fundamentally wrong with you to mourn your mother's grief over the death of your father but feel next to nothing now that man who raised you is gone. Again, you remind yourself, he was not a bad man. Your mother cries most nights, the bags under her eyes are inflamed and pregnant looking and her face sags with misery. Cooking dinner has been your chore for about two years and neither parent would complain about the quality of the dishes, but now you feel an insurmountable pressure to fix your mother's hellish state with food.

A fool's errand if there ever was one.

Retreating to your bedroom after the dishes are cleaned up is your only option and quite frankly, you can only listen to your mother's raw voice for so long. I'm a bad daughter, you'd think, peeling back the covers of your bed and crawling in after a too hot shower. The fabric is cold on your skin and the whir of the desk fan next to your bed makes goosebumps erupt over your flesh. Maybe if you were a better daughter you would have gone to the grocery store and bought a nice pork belly and some flowers and treated your mother to a dish she grew up eating, but you have unfortunately come to find a sense of comfort in the death of your father. A threat neutralized, a parasite expelled, an infection quelled.

The next morning you don't bother changing out of your pajamas, just like the morning before and the one before that. You don't leave the house, you're not dirty per se, and there is nobody you are trying to impress here, therefore there is no logical reason for you to change out of your pajamas. Your puffy mother is too stricken with grief to nudge you out of the nest to go buy fruit or go for a walk, so she sits at the breakfast table with a room temperature cup of tea with her hair a mess and says nothing about the fact she has seen you wearing the same thing for four days straight.

"Could you do something for me?" She turns to you, eyes sunken in. It strikes you as an uncomfortable sight.

"Yes, what?"

"After breakfast, please get the mail. Your father's friend said he sent a card with a little money in it," nod, nod, and one more nod. You're not paying attention too closely as you refill the electric kettle that is nearly as old as you are, watching as the appliance bubbles noisily when you turn it on. Damn thing probably gave me lead poisoning and made me like this . It wasn't like you were strapped for cash, but with your father's death there won't be extra income coming in. Your mother may expect you to get a job now.

Something about the sun on your skin never failed to make you nauseous. You try not to perseverate over a little two minute errand while you blow on your tea, the taste of last night thick in your throat. Everything about this morning was less than ideal, if you ever had imagined such a concept of ideal before. Regardless, it wasn't nice. You weren't particularly thrilled with it, and you contemplated what you might wear to go to the mail box. You're 25 and deliberating how bad of a social faux pas it might be to get your mail in something less than business casual. An intentional slurp of hot tea draws you out of your thoughts.

There is a gray cable knit sweater you have in the back of your closet that you haven't touched in two years. There is also your skirt from high school, an ankle length beast of fabric that devoured your womanly form in a single swallow. Perhaps there was a comfort to being consumed by your clothing where once you had been eaten, you were no longer appetizing to those around you. Your mother watched you drift up the stairs of your home and back down in a ten minute succession, her supple eyes looking wary as you go for the mail key. Part of her was back, you supposed, seeing that flash of mild discomfort was enough. She never did get rid of her habit of chiding you for being slovenly.

The sun aches against your eyes and skin, and it bites when you flinch at the unrelenting sensation. A wrinkle in your nose has your eyes squinted as one foot pushes in front of the other and carries you, an empty vessel, down the pavement. It's just getting the mail, it isn't supposed to be anything terrifying, but the sensation of eyes follows you. That was the thing- after you graduated from high school and your friends drifted off like dandelion fluff, you had taken a deep comfort in the walls of your bedroom.

Slotting the key into the paint chipped mailbox, you're greeted with the sight of a small envelope perched upon a magazine for a makeup brand, below that is an advertisement for window repair, and under that is something from the funeral home. Half tempted to throw that one into a storm drain, you tuck it under your arm and turn around and damn near launch the mail into the air upon seeing a man standing behind you, equally as unenthusiastic to be at the mailbox as well. Your jump of surprise must annoy him because his cat-eyes narrow, but beyond that, he makes no other cue that he's displeased.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Your mother starts, tearing into the envelope once your retreat was successful from enemy territory. Her voice is gravely from last night's crying.

"I ran into a neighbor when I wasn't expecting it."

"Oh," She doesn't bother to read the card, counting up the yen that spills out. "I would've thought it was a stray dog. I keep telling that old man down the street that it's going to get shot if he lets it roam around like that. Which neighbor was it? Was it Watanabe? She's nice. Left us flowers last week, you know."

"No, it was a man." Well, you're not sure if it was really a man. He looked more like a cat and had deep, unsettling black eyes.

"Mm. I see, I think you probably saw Kadokura then, the other old man. He's also friendly. Your father was friends with him."

"He was younger than Kadokura." Was he? You're not exactly a fan of this guessing game as your mother counts up a plush stack of yen- A little money my ass. Mr. Kobayashi has always liked mom. Your eyes narrow. It looks to be at least 50,000 yen based off of the crisp bills. You want to sneer at such a lowly, wretched display. Truly something grotesque. You wonder if your mother is privy to Mr.Kobayashi's advances.

"So a young man? I think Tome Ogata has a son. He lives with her, to my knowledge. That's probably who you saw."

"...okay." You're not sure why this has her interest piqued, but you don't intend to stick around and find out. Her gaze is already smoldering into you as you take your leave to wrestle out of your skirt and sweater and crawl back into bed.

Unfortunately this would not be the last instance of Tome Ogata's impact on the world coming around to haunt you, or more specifically, your sanctuary. The next morning you hear the voice of a woman mingling with that of your mother's. She speaks in a hushed tone and you can hear the soft clinking of your mother's wedding bone china tittering in between woman-speech. Twenty five is patently too old to be sitting on the steps leading from your room but it is in your interest and decidedly your mother's that you listen in. You don't know this Tome your mother addresses so gently, what if she is aware of your father's life savings? People do strange things when men die. The sleep is still crusted in your eyes and your skin feels a touch greasy, perhaps you don't descend the stares out of shame for your neglect of hygiene, or maybe you don't want to see the same cat-eyes from yesterday.

"I'm so sorry to hear of your husband's death, losing your lover can be difficult," Tome doesn't sound all quite there and you can hear the unwrapping of a teacake from the cupboard. Your cousin sent those over two days ago and they're going into the belly of someone you don't know. Heaving a sigh, your mother sits.

"It is what it is, really. I was always telling him he needed to stop eating the way he did and put the bottle down. Every day he'd grow fatter and fatter and more tired," stab, "His doctor tried to tell him. His friends tried to tell him. I tried to tell him. He would not even listen to his own wife. He'd tell me he'd start losing weight soon, or perhaps when the financial quarter at work was over," chew, sniff, point at the woman across from her with her tea fork, "He wouldn't change for anyone. I told him he'd miss his daughter's wedding if she ever got married and he'd never see her off properly. He deliberated over that one." It was your turn to sniff, sour lemon scrunching your face. What a repulsive notion.

"Men are frustrating and mercurial. I understand your pain. Reasoning with them can be fruitless, I lost the better part of my life to pining after one," Tome's bone colored fingers are clasped around her tea cup, her gaze is intense as your mother rubs her cheek. "Somedays I still think he'll call or write. My son tells me I need to stop living in the past. But my point is that you did what you could. Please don't blame yourself." You're unburdened, now.

"I just wish he didn't kill himself, I really feel like everything I did for him is down the drain. I've lost the man I've loved for as long as I can remember." Your earliest memory of your father was him taking you to a park to feed ducks and patiently spoon feeding you a little bit of ice cream in your stroller as leaves rustled impatiently around you two. Now both him and the man who lived in the recliner are nothing but ash on your mother's nightstand. Your toes curl into the worn down soles of your slippers as you continue to listen in. Tome offers your mother advice that you approve of, not that you have any business delegating yourself to being your mother's owner in wake of your father's demise. You can't even stomach a trip to the mailbox without running from your neighbor and bitching about the sunlight on your face. To what end are you an authority in any matter outside of your bedroom?

"Sometimes," your mother begins with a familiar water logged tone "I feel as if my daughter is not coping."

"She lost her father. It will be difficult for her for a while. When my own parents passed away some days I could not even pull myself out of bed and my son would have to wash my hair for me."

"Ah, my daughter cooks for me... The night he passed away she got me into bed and laid with me. I cried a lot, I fear I haven't let her cry or process her emotions, I've relied on her for the home to be kept up. It should be the other way around, I think."

"No no," Tome waves a hand. Where is she going with this? You can't see the pair, but you can make an educated guess on their mannerisms. "It is okay to rely on others. You trust your daughter, yes?"

"Of course,"

"Then trust that if she felt she was burdened she would tell you." Tome speaks as if she knows what she's talking about. She doesn't, you're sure of it, and you've heard the woman slept with men for money. Perhaps this is a skill she's picked up, appropriate, solid advice that is appropriately applicable yet you get the sinking sensation she does not practice what she preaches.

"But, another thing," your mother grips the bone china cup, glancing haphazardly at the steps. "She's asleep still," she is not. Tome blinks, expecting some revelation about the assumption. "My daughter is 25, her father is dead, and she's lived at home with us for seven years. She attended college locally at a small University. I'm afraid she may stay here forever and die in this home as her father did, as I will, and then her. I have no other children, Tome, I can't take care of her forever. What should I do? She's never had a boyfriend."

"I see," ice crystalizes in deposits under your skin, right into the layer of adipose fat. Tome sets her cup down. "Funny enough," there's nothing funny about this "My son Hyakunosuke is in a similar boat, a little older than your daughter. After he was in the army he came back to live with me and got a job in an office. No girlfriend, some days I don't think he has friends at all. He's a handsome enough young man, but he simply is in his own head too much."

"Yes, my daughter is like that too, I tried for years to get her to put herself out there, but you can only do so much. Her friends are all married and she's at home with no prospects. Once my husband's funds run out she will have to help support us. I'd like grandchildren, Tome, this family is only getting smaller as the years pass."

Maiden. Mother. Crone.

As you dwell on the repetitive cycle, you draw yourself a steaming hot bath and force yourself to scrub away the days worth of sleep off of your skin. Something about a woman like Tome speaking to your mother makes you uncomfortable. Your mother always said Tome was beautiful and worldly, but syphilis had touched her mind and she had gone a little crazy from the years of pining after her child's father- apparently some political bigwig now. You don't understand why women engage with them, you don't understand why they birth their children and want for them, you don't understand why they do all of this just to have the fruits of their love grow fat and old and bloated. Perhaps you're missing something vital that every other woman seems to have, perhaps you were born deformed and lacking an organ that would allow you to see the humanity in the opposite sex. Dragging a washcloth over your face you deliberate and turn the thought over in your brain until it's sandblasted down into a smooth pebble. You make two conclusions, wholly informed by your own observation.

1. Men are fantastically parasitic animals. They must be, in some way, alluring enough to get a partner. Once secured, they dig in and become too comfortable.

2. Self preservation erodes significantly over time and having children exponentially speeds up this process. It is also irreversible and manifests brainwashing.

Why your mother would ever suggest you partake in such a vicious cycle is beyond you. Perhaps she secretly dislikes you and wants you to suffer just as she did in the end. Perhaps this is one step closer to self actualized womanhood , or whatever that is. You would never become a woman like Tome, you would never become a woman like your own mother. Indignation flares within you, a rare instance of bitter frustration licking at the innermost membrane of your brain. It bubbles and spits like pork fat in a hot pan.

Tome becomes a regular guest at your house for some reason.

The woman is clearly versed well in the art of speech despite her starved brain, every conversation is a meal to her and every complementary sweet and drink in front of her is merely nibbled at. Tome thrives on gossip and struggle more than she gains sustenance from food. Even still, she's a beautifully shaped woman with a beautiful face and a deep practiced elegance about her. The first time you miscalculated your descent from your bedroom you made eye contact with her and nearly started crying. The gap between you was cavernous, steep, and yawning, it was like seeing a groomed show cat perched in your kitchen, an oversized silk yukata half hanging off the old prostitute.

"Hello."

"Hello, Ms. Ogata."

"You can call me Tome, you don't have to be so formal, we're neighbors. How are you doing? Are you holding up alright?" Ah, perhaps you feel guilty for judging the woman. She's just lonely, clearly.

"I'm okay." Well, that's all you say before you feel awkward as Tome waits for you to supplement a little more into the conversation. She's starving, can't you see it? "...Thanks for coming by and talking to my mom. All of her friends moved away. Her best friend lives in America now and they can't talk much."

"Of course, it's always nice to get closer with someone else. Your mother's a good woman, I'm very sorry about your father."

"It's alright, it's nobody's fault." The lie tastes sweet and measured on your tongue, like a sugar cube weighing exactly six grams. Maybe if the fat bastard hadn't ate and drank himself to death he'd still be here, albeit slightly less fat and rocking back and forth in the recliner like a drinky-bird mechanism. Tome's expression softens very slightly at that, her fist curling like a paw and her cheek resting on it.

"If you ever need to get out of the house you're always welcome to come over for tea or lunch. I'm home most days and my son works the weekdays."

"Thank you, that's very nice to offer." You can't imagine anything more awkward, but Tome smiles all the same, her pretty lips quirking up. Busying yourself, you make yourself a reheated bowl of leftovers and squirrel yourself up to your bedroom. The taste of leftover soup lingers thick in the back of your throat like cobwebs, and the bowl remains half finished and room temperature on your desk.

Something questionable lingers in the back of your brain, nestled deep between the sand blasted pebbles of prior ponderings and the other rougher works in progress. Sunset brings a blue wash over your bedroom, oozing in meticulously through the pinholes of the blinds. The glow of your phone screen and the hovering of your thumb over your keyboard was not a new sensation, in fact it was the thing you did to occupy your time more often than not, but an itch had to be scratched. You were privy to a lot about your body, exceptionally well acquainted with being your own lover had given you more than a decade of experience of what had to be done. You were, unfortunately, curious.

Hyakunosuke Ogata is 30 years old and works for a data processing company as an IT specialist. You heard Tome say his name a few times, Hyaku, Hyaku, Hyakunosuke.

Cat-eyes stares back at you with the same robotic expression in his corporate profile under his public resume and you scroll, thumb tacky against the scuffed screen protector, another thumb half jammed in your mouth. This feels wrong to be doing, like you're some kind of creep for being curious about the man who's mother has inserted herself rather brazenly into your life. Your mother doesn't complain, so you don't understand why you feel compelled to do so. Part of you is afraid she'll spoil your mother. Tome's morals are not your mother's morals and absolutely not your own, after all, you fear her influence will spread to her taking up Mr. Kobayashi on a date. How ironic of a daughter to fear for her mother's purity at the hands of a friend she doesn't approve of.

You swallow. Cat-eyes is the son of a whore. He's handsome enough to be the son of a whore, He clearly got a lot from Tome, just not her seductive eyes. You wonder briefly if Cat-eyes can pull the fine line of slovenly and erotic the way his mother so effortlessly does. Ah, what a sight it'd be. Part of you doesn't believe Tome is correct when she asserts her son is as alone as you are. Men are sexually driven animals, aren't they? It's what kept food on the table at the Ogata residence for so many years- a rather grim and bleak thought if there ever was one. Perhaps Cat-eyes lies to women, including his mother, and he keeps a low profile. Maybe he-

Your fingers are inside of you before the thought can reach a conclusion and your cellphone is dropped onto your duvet. What's one more stain? It's your bed after all.

An illusion shatters the morning you walk downstairs having made peace with the fact that Tome would likely be there and thus you had no reason to restrict your movement to only your room while you starved all morning out of indignation. Hyakunosuke is sitting with his mother across from your own and suddenly you feel beyond nude. Tome's eyes crinkle and your mother cranes her neck, a twitch forming in her eyebrow.

"We were just talking about you."

"Ah."

"This is my son, Hyakunosuke." Oh, you're well aware of that. Cat-eyes gives you a polite nod and says hello, his mother petting his arm soothingly as if she were stroking an uneasy animal. It's surreal. Your mother chews on her words before she spits them at you, thinly veiled contempt leaking from her painted mouth. There was always a sort of cardinal sin about being dressed the incorrect amount around men. Another social construct you didn't fully comprehend as you shakily go for a canister of green tea.

"I was hoping you'd be dressed. You know we have company."

"...Sorry."

"Oh, it's alright, really, we don't mind."

"Thank you, Tome, I swear she has manners."

The man you're pointedly not looking at has said nothing, but you feel his gaze on you. Unbeknownst to you this is something he specializes in as Ogata has perfected the art of latent discomfort to an almost terrifying degree.

Cold sweat drips down your spine as you clamor around the ancient kettle and pour a hot slush of water over your tea leaves and watch as the yellow seeps from the pouch. Making assumptions is often a losing game, but when a risk this large is present in your home you have to afford to assume the worst. You came from my rib, did you know that? Such disrespect from the filthy animal sitting in your kitchen makes you hesitant to throw a look at him one last time as you retreat to your room, feeling dirty and sticky in all the wrong places. Ogata's voice is low and rises with little effort to quell the conversation between his mother and your own- what he's saying, you don't know. Your home has been compromised, a man has been here that was not your father.

A very frank conversation is had when the guests leave. Your mother grips your arm and sternly tells you to sit down. Your humanity is pouring out of your body like a leaky faucet, its a tangible feeling and it feels like the drop in a rollercoaster.

"I was disappointed that you didn't come talk with us."

"Sorry." You aren't. Your mother does not flaunt you like you're some prized debutante, pimping you for praise.

"You have to understand that your place in this world only becomes more confined the older you get. Your father is dead." You know. She takes a breath, removing her hand from your arm. "I know you're going through a hard time. But it's not healthy to hide inside all the time and you've done this for years, it's nothing new. I think you should start going over to help Tome for a little money and just to get out of the house. Make her dinner a few nights. I'll be fine here. We spoke about it with her son, and he's not opposed to it. He mentioned her mental facilities fail her occasionally and she has a habit of making the same thing for nights on end."

"Okay, b-but"

"No. No you're going to do this, it's not cute anymore. What will people think of you when you're 30 and have no husband, no children, no way to provide for yourself?" Well. It works for Cat-eyes, Hyakunosuke, but you hold your tongue. If you were a better daughter you would've been dressing up this entire time with a proper display of flowers on the breakfast table each morning and new flavors of tea cakes. You'd have your lips painted and a beautiful silk garment hanging off of your body like water. Your mannerisms would be poignant and measured, you'd be elegant like a crane in a tidepool.

Tome is thrilled to have company.

The Ogata residence is, externally, a humble thing but the interior is decorated with a fine touch. No doubt Tome is a woman with a taste for fine things, and what you can assume is gifts from prior suitors and lovers dominate every inch of the space in which she dwells. You're not quite sure how her son can stomach a notion like that, having the leering presence of men etched into the very domicile he shares with his mother. You're chopping up a head of cabbage when you formulate another stone to sandblast- perhaps Hyakunosuke's relationship with his mother is no different than that of other men?

Cleaving down into the crisp leaves you turn your tongue over in your mouth and it feels heavy, like a glass paperweight. The smell of incense singes in your nose, Tome is humming something softly as she strokes a rather plump looking tuxedo cat. Deductive reasoning has led you to the conclusion that maybe Tome is just another resource of Hyakunosuke's, maybe she's just an extension of himself that all men collectively leech from in some way or another. But, you have no brothers, so what do you know, really?

Tome does not make a habit of complaining about your cooking, in fact she seems quite pleased to be eating something she didn't have to make. Based off of what you know you get the impression her tastebuds have been numbed to enjoy even the blandest of dishes. When you enter such a line a work you're not really yourself anymore, right? You're somebody else, you're someone's idea come to life. Your chopsticks pick up a square of okonomiyaki that falls limp against the wooden utensils. An appetite is hard to come by when your bizarro-world self sits across from you, gleefully and delicately nipping little pieces of her dinner like a finch.

"You're a good cook! You know, your mother said that was always your chore at home."

"Yes," You dip your piece back to your plate, sopping up bonito flakes. "Thank you, I'm glad you like it." That feels right. It's hard to meet the pretty woman's gaze, her hair loose and curling like cat whiskers. Speaking of, the feline she was tending to earlier has made a home for itself in the crux of your crossed legs.

"Did your mother teach you to cook?"

"No, I had a recipe book I learned from. It was very old and simple. My mom never was good at cooking, nor was my father." Tome nods along like she's interested to know more about you. It feels dirty, in a way.

"My son is actually quite good at it. He's an avid hunter, spent a great deal of time in Hokkaido and picked up some of the cuisine there. Sometimes I think he wishes to go back and leave Tokyo, but he insists he's fine here."

"I see." You've never been to Hokkaido. Your mother always said it was snowy and mountainous, many people there enjoy a beautiful landscape and mild summers and there's plenty of untouched land. The concept of virginal land is a vexing thing. You shove the soppy piece in your mouth and masticate on it for a while.

"It's noble of their children to take care of their parents. You share that in common with him. I really think I'm the reason he hasn't left yet."

"I wouldn't want to leave my mother either."

"Ah, but she's a good woman. I wasn't always so attentive to Hyakunosuke, I think it's why he's such an independent man."

"Maybe," Tome watches as your hand falls and cups the tangerine sized skull of the cat dozing in your lap, the creature curls like a ribbon and stretches like rubber. "I think my mother worries I'm not independent enough. But I reason that someone has to take care of her. Good daughters do that."

"Yes, but you must live for yourself too."

"I think I live for myself enough."

As you leave for the night after cleaning the kitchen, you dwell on what the woman said. Tome speaks of living for herself and you scoff. A woman who lives for herself does not do so in the beds of parasites with heavy pockets. That makes her no safer, no more dignified than a tree who is swallowed up by kudzu- an inanimate thing at the mercy of the organisms around it. Your mother is sitting in the recliner when you get home, in her hands more mail.

You hope none of it is from Kobayashi, the lech.

"How was Tome?"

"Fine, I think. I made her okonomiyaki, she didn't complain." You rinse your hands in the sink and your mother jeers her head.

"You have cat hair all over you."

"Yes, she has a cat. It's very friendly."

Your soak in the tub that night goes on far longer than your mother would have liked and you get out only once she bangs on the door to get her own bath. You're only in a short towel when you emerge and your mother pinches your shoulder lightly, a soft smile on her face. She laughs when your fingers pinch her cheek back with a tenderness you didn't know you were capable of, the give of her skin so very soft and full of love. She calls you a silly girl and wishes you good night.

Cat-eyes doesn't know it but you've been touching yourself after you come home from tending to his mother. There's a sense of imperiousness that comes with moving freely in the Ogata household, putting your hands on his silverware and his mother and his pet cat that doesn't seem to know the difference between a stranger and a family member. Tome tells you about him rather incessantly, as if she's selling you a used car or an item on clearance.

"I'm very proud of him, he was a superior private officer in the army," she declares one day, threading a ribbon around the throat of the squirmy pet cat. "He got a good education too, he makes good money for himself."

"Is that so?" Of course he's celebrated even if he's a bastard. You know about the Hanazawa scandal, the pig.

"Mhm. Your mother tells me you're still single."

"Oh." Tome looks nervous when your face falls, picking grapes off of a stem at the counter and slicing them in half for a fruit salad.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come off as rude."

"It's alright."

"Do you have any plans to find a boyfriend? You're a pretty girl." You slice grapes faster and you feel a cold sweat bead up on your neck. A whore calling you pretty? You don't believe it. Tome is pretty, Tome is so pretty in fact that you're not quite sure what she's doing even wanting you around her. Perhaps the older woman likes to feel superior over you, perhaps this is that female-posturing rearing its head that was so prevalent back in school. You shrug, it's all you can offer.

"No, I've never had an interest, really. It just never was a priority."

"Nobody likes to eat Christmas cake after the 25th."

"Cake is good any time of the year, I think..." This is the most brash she's been with you, and you're too anxious to see that it comes from a place of concern. Hyakunosuke comes home early that day, the cat in Tome's arms chirrups to life and bounces from her lap, trotting over to him. You hear his low register say something to the animal and he emerges from the living room with the cat tucked in his arm like a baby. Tome clasps her hands and you start to slice into a pineapple, the crush of the fruit under your knife grounds you.

"Hyaku, welcome home, how was work?"

"Fine," The cat its kneading against his chest, its eyes squinted in euphoria as he drags his thick fingers under its fuzzy chin. His gaze focuses on you. "I wasn't expecting company, I thought I was cooking tonight." Tome waves a sleeve, a tight smile on her lips. "Nonsense, we can all eat together." You busy yourself in your work, preparing dishes as the mother and son duo chat among themselves. He's a man of few words and has an air of unease about him.

Having spent the better part of the day feeding Tome placating half-lies and awkward phrases of self preservation, you don't think you're equipped to handle her son. He's a different beast entirely, and his presence is far more foreboding than you were anticipating. He can play your game of ignoring the other, and you get the sinking feeling he's figured you out entirely. The man seems to hold you in little regard and focuses his attention squarely on his mother. Before you can make any further judgements, you have to focus on making peace with the possibility that Hyakunosuke Ogata has already dissected you and put pinned descriptions into each one of your organs.

Supper tonight is gyudon with a fruit salad dessert. It's a simple dish as all of your dishes are, and you swallow down your meal in terrifying mimicry of Tome's own mannerisms. She's a woman, you, somehow, are not and your failure to self actualize such a notion keeps you scared in the presence of the man sitting across from you. Tome's hands find her son's arm, and she squeezes the thick muscle.

"Do you like it? I think it's very good. If you weren't so dedicated to your own mother I might just steal you!" Her laughter is soft and sweet like a lark and you follow suit with sparrow noises, not quite as alluring. This feels like a losing game no matter what pieces you play. Hyakunosuke nods, sitting ramrod stiff and with his dark eyes fixated on his bowl. "I agree."

"Careful, I might just have to marry you off to my son and keep you forever." The man next to her gives her a look and she guffaws, patting at his shoulder. Your eyes don't match the light smile on your face, you're oozing with discomfort, with some sort of godless repulsion that doesn't quite manifest.

"I'm glad you like it."

Cleaning the kitchen and refilling the cats water dish before you go to leave calms your nerves, but only slightly as Ogata helped his mother to the bathroom to wash her hair and get her ready for bed while you scrubbed at bowls that left nothing more than a few grains of rice in them. Your own personal audience has not shut their eyes once since you've started coming over to tend to Tome. To think women could end up like her makes your skin ripple and crawl, to think women like her produce sons makes you nauseous. The man is a culmination of lust and obsession, of infidelity and exploitation. Ogata doesn't represent anything more to you than the misfortune of women in society, therefore, he's something you tuck away and only play with when it comes to bringing yourself to orgasm. It's only fair, right? He's a pool to drink from just as his mother is, everyone else has had a taste so why shouldn't you?"

Bumping against your legs, the soft nose of the cat pushes against your ankle and winds against your feet. The hot water burns against your skin to the point your nails start to hurt, but you just want to get the job done and go home. You can smell too much of Ogata in his own home, his cologne permeates in the background noise of the air like a subtle miasma and it's making your stomach feel strange.

"My mother seems to think she's hurt your feelings."

For the second time you nearly throw what's in your hands into the air, turning around and shutting the water off. You go for a dish towel, immediately.

"Oh, not...not at all, really, I promise. Why, is she alright?" His gaze is hard and the cat has left you, slinking against the man and leaving fur on his pants. A strand of his black hair hangs over his face like a whisker.

"Yes, but she's overstepped, she realizes that."

"It's fine, my own mother talks like that too, I think all mothers do that," He's difficult to hold eye contact with. He's geometric in every facet, like a mathematical equation that gained sentience, but not nearly enough to be considered an established person. Ogata sweeps his hair back, glancing at the animal desperately fawning for his touch at his feet.

"She wanted me to tell you she apologizes."

"That's okay, nothing to be sorry for," is all you feed these people lies? You seem to lie every time you open your mouth.

"If she says anything inappropriate it's because she's losing her mind, don't take it personally. She has a habit of talking about things she probably shouldn't," a twitch in your eye forms as you drag the dish rag over the water stained countertop. An air of nonchalance and calm is getting more difficult to administer as the seconds tick down.

"I understand," you'd like to smack him for the way he dismisses his mother's faculties.

"I scared you again, didn't I?"

"You have quiet feet. I'm jumpy."

"Clearly."

Ah. This, you fold the rag up, your back to him as you try your best not to let the disgust show on your face. He scoops the needy animal up in his arms and sits down at the countertop you just wiped off, staring at your rigid motions. You can hear the flicking of a lighter behind you. A smoker, bastard, and son of a whore? Hyakunosuke keeps sinking to new lows.

"Humor me here,"

"Sure."

"You're nearly 26 and you've never left your mother's side. Why?"

"I would ask you that but your mother says you stayed in Hokkaido for a while," the words are difficult to force out with a dry throat, and you hiccup on your speech when you say Hokkaido. Ogata's gaze burns deep into the back of your head as you wipe at a spot that isn't there anymore. Smoke eases out of his nose.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I love my mother is all..."

"Most people do. Are you unambitious?" Storm clouds must form over your face because he sits up slightly, intrigued. The dishrag gets set aside and you make the plunge to face him, his fingers laced and elbows on the countertop. You don't understand why he's interrogating you, but you do understand his intention behind it. Posturing, even when you're the scum of the earth like Hyakunosuke men like to pester and meddle. You had a cousin like that and your uncle scolded you when you kicked him for pulling your hair.

"I suppose I am." I have to leave now, bastard-whore, please never speak to me again with your dirty tongue. You stay to argue with him. His cigarette is tapped against an ornate ashtray in the shape of a crocodile.

"At least you're somewhat honest." Your tongue curls a little. This man is a blight and he seems to know it.

"What makes you think I'm a liar?"

"Women lie a lot. It's something they have to be good at."

"Are you speaking on your own experiences here or do you hold a grudge against your mother?"

"Both can be true."

"There's no point in telling me this, we don't have anything to do with each other. I feed your mother and keep her company and it doesn't have to be anything more than that. I'm not interested in her assets, I assure you."

"I wasn't intending to come off that way," He runs his palm against his hair again, glancing down at the animal in his arms. The stupid thing blinks at him.

"Alright."

"I don't dislike you, if that's what you're afraid of." Quite the opposite, but both outcomes are horrifying in their own right. If you upset the tightrope balance anymore you might just end up on the news, certainly an unfortunate possibility. You seem to let the revulsion well up in your eyes because the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

"That's good to hear," he clearly knows you're lying again, exactly where he wants you to be. This is no better than plucking the feathers off of a chicken trying to eat-pointless and mean. Men seem to do a lot of pointless and mean things, like expiring out of gluttony or thrusting cash in your face for sex and pestering the woman who's taking on the brunt of your mother's personality.

"I don't think you mean that, really, we're more alike than we are different. I can see it all over your face that you're discontent with whatever role you've confined yourself to. Or maybe, what you've been pushed to confine to out of comfort. I'm not stupid, I can read between the lines."

"I have to go."

"Don't, I think we're on the same page more than you assume. Your mother said you never cried at your dad's funeral." You stop short of whisking out of the kitchen and go to point a finger at him, he's stopped you effectively in your tracks with a mere suggestion hidden within his phrasing. Is he like you? A wave of doubt begins to ebb and flow, drawing back a little more as he rolls his thick, naked fingers against the cat. It purrs like an engine and sinks its claws into his hand so that if he draws his hand away it will snag his flesh.

"...Alright, you're the product of an affair. We both have less than ideal fathers. That's a very common thing. I think everyone dislikes their father a little bit, even if it's a secret."

"Exactly. You understand then."

"...I'm going to go home now. It's late."

Your fingers don't even begin to suffice when you're knuckle deep in your cunt and face down in your stale sheets. Thank God your mother is asleep and unaware of the unrelenting gush of your cunt around your fingers that are far too thin to bring you any sort of tangible satisfaction in the moment. Hyakunosuke's fingers were thick and calloused and rolled like a snake, a mesmerizing display of human machinery in such a mundane action. He saw you off with a slight smile that didn't register as one as you hurried out of the bowels of his home and back to your mouse hole. Guilt rises within you at the notion you've allowed him to see some of your privacy- nothing is more valuable than keeping your cards close to your chest and protecting the sanctuary of your information. You can't mimic his fingers in the way you can play copycat with his mother and it leaves you frustrated and crying and in need of a hot bath.

The smell of breakfast welcomes you in a far more caring way than the sun does. Your mother must be getting back to her old self, or maybe her new self because she never made breakfast regularly even before your father died. Your fingers still smell like sex and your underwear is crusted over with last night's misfortune. Women joke about men being unfulfilling sex partners, something that is apparently true in the realm of fantasy as well. You descend the steps after pissing and washing your hands and try to focus on forgetting last night, the terrifying thing it was. Your mother is tossing together some eggs with vegetables and has her hair in silk scarf.

"Good morning, you're up a little earlier today," She's smiling to herself and it looks unnatural considering her bloodhound expression is all you've seen for the past month.

"Breakfast smells good," You take a seat, uneasy and still cold. She presses a dry, warm palm to your cheek and wipes at your face with her thumb.

"Eat then, you're thin."

"I will."

She's stirring up a pan with a spatula, the heat on a little higher than you would've set it for your own eggs, but that's neither here nor there. You feel strangely compelled to assume maybe she knows you spoke to Ogata. Her and Tome are getting closer and seem to share a vested concern in the sex lives of their children. It's a stomach churning endeavor and you don't understand what obsession women have with providing meat for an endless meat grinder. A plate is sat before you all the same, slightly hard eggs piled up neatly on the white porcelain you've eaten off of a million times before.

"Tome's expecting you to come over again tonight. Her son dropped some money off for you before he left for work, the envelope's on the table. Count it up."

A white paper envelope tucked against a potted plant beckons to you, and you take a little pleasure in slipping your finger under the lip of it and swiping it off in a clean motion, disemboweling a dead animal. Colorful bills spill from it like blood, and your mother moves the pan off the burner to get a closer look, her hands sliding against the countertop. Something about it feels dirty as you slide the crisp bills and leaf through them, your mother muttering the numbers along with you- "50,000 yen."

You bite your tongue and stuff the money back in the envelope before handing it over to her as you always have. Ever since you were small you handed her your spending money and she kept it filed away in a bank account you make a meager habit of touching. There's really no point when you have no earthly desires and your parents keep a spoon in your mouth. "Hyakunosuke is a generous man to give you that much."

"...maybe."

"Ah, don't be like that, you're not doing anything excessive for Tome. Do you feel shorted?"

"No," Not physically, at least. This feels like it's a habit he picked up from his uncaring, unloving stud-father.

"Make sure you thank Tome when you go over, that's truly a very nice amount he's given you."

"I'll just thank him in person... He came home when I was there last night."

"Hm?" You gag at the glissando in your mother's tone and at the dirty smile she gives you. This feels like something just short of molestation as heat rises up your neck and stains your ears red.

It's akin to pulling teeth to drag yourself over to Tome's home that late afternoon. You're wearing your mother's dress because all of your leaving-the-house clothes are sitting in a stale pile in the corner of your bedroom. Laundry isn't an appealing thing to be doing anyway, even if it's necessary work. Tome smiles like you're her beloved daughter when you enter her home, slipping off your shoes. In your arms you have a basket of tea cakes your mother insisted on you bringing her. This feels like an endless exchange of fanfare and niceties with nothing to show for it. The cat rattles excitedly while pressed against the wall, tail fluttering like an insect. You get to work and have significantly less patience for any sort of prattle at the moment, something Tome is completely unaware of as she runs hand over hand over hand against the animal in her lap, recounting some vacation she took to Thailand many years ago.

Tonight's dish is smoked mackerel and rice. You feed a little tender piece of fish to the fussy cat and watch as it laps of the sweet meat with its raspy tongue. Tome coos at it like its a baby when it turns to her and whines, a wet look on its face it goes trotting to its mother for comfort at having no more fish to snack on.

"Poor baby, you'll just starve, won't you? What will we do then? You're just skin and bones..." The fat thing bats at her with its paws, never daring to strike its mother with any real malice. She tickles the plump creature as you drag a sharp blade against the belly of a cooked fish and begin to meticulously dislodge the pin feather bones stuck in the meat. Maybe Ogata isn't wrong to want someone to step in for his mother every now and again, you wonder if he really does come right home after work or if he lingers and meanders and stretches his time out. Working for a company like that can't be that taxing. He's probably only doing it to avoid an awkward repetitive conversation with his half insane mother.

But Ogata does come home as you're plating up dinner and seems to notice that you've reached to fix a third as he walks in. His mother goes through the typical song and dance of asking about his day, petting him over while she chatters to him like a parakeet and tells him he's a good, handsome boy. Dinner, once more, is a humiliation ritual you want no part in.

"Hyakunosuke sent over some money this morning, you got it didn't you?"

"Y-yes, thank you, you're very generous-"

"Don't worry about it. I enjoy the company. Not many people stick around, you know. It's an important thing." There's a weight in that sentence that Ogata seems to dislike the flavor of as he gives his mother a side glance and she shuts up about it, changing the subject to something she saw on the television about an endangered animal being born at the Ueno zoo. The food has no flavor in your mouth despite your best efforts and knowing you seasoned and dressed everything properly. You chew your food to liquid and swallow tea down to wash the remnants of the slurry out of your mouth. Being in the presence of Ogata has rendered you to being a cornered animal as if you've forgotten your civility entirely.

You do your best to finish washing the dishes while Tome is taken to bed so you can avoid a conversation with Hyakunosuke. Throwing glances over your shoulder every so often as you scrub plates clean does nothing in particular to ground yourself. You're borderline manic when you do hear his footsteps and it makes you a little angry that he's finished his job and that he could've been audible the entire time you've been stuck playing this stupid game with him.

"She's glad you don't hate her."

"I have no reason to hate your mother, I promise you."

"That's good, a lot of people don't really like her very much." He's lighting another cigarette up, watching as you dry waterlogged plates with a new rag. It has a persimmon pattern on the cloth.

"That's unfortunate. She's nice. Probably my mom's only friend now."

"She's crazy."

"You don't speak highly of her." A plate goes in the drying rack.

"It's not a dislike, but she's a handful. Drove me crazy growing up."

"That's very normal for parents. Also, wasn't she the one who stuck around and raised you?"

"Your father stuck around to raise you and you're fine with the fact he's dead. What does that have to do with anything?"

Your finger fits perfectly in the lip of the plate in your hands and you turn to him, his shoulder pressed against the wall. He looks like he's going to melt if he puts anymore weight into it.

"I don't know. Is there a reason you want to talk about this?"

"There's an understanding I think we share here," he starts again, and there's a crease in your brow as he lights up another cigarette. From the looks of it, it's hand rolled and neatly packed with tobacco. The silver zippo in his fingers snaps like a firecracker before he slips it back into his pocket. Nothing about this impresses you and he can sense that. "You'll never come to experience love in the same way my own mother won't. Your mother's love expired too. Don't you think that accounts for something? Why are you different than them?"

"I just am"

"I don't think you are. You played it too safe, I think. I've listened in on enough brunches to know you're a basket case and a half- but I don't think it's unjustified at all." He slides his finger against the cigarette case in his hands, an ornate piece of metal that has a forest scene etched on it. Bile wells up in your throat as he forces your gaze to linger on his.

"...You don't have any authority to comment on this-"

"Maybe you think that, but we're both correct in that there's an unchecked problem going on here that's deeper than either of us want to acknowledge. You're sensitive to the very imbalance you're forced to partake in."

"You're the one handing me money to play nice with your mother. Is this different than what she did for a living, or is that an acceptable outcome for the both of us? You seem to be aware of what the problems are and what's caused them. You can't deny that our condition isn't nebulous despite pretending it's not clear cut."

He swipes his hair from his face, looking away just to collect his thoughts. He's a handsome creature, built like predator with a petty sense of resolve painting every minute, little action of his. He exhales through his nose, half shrugging.

"I suppose that's one way to look at it," he starts, those unsettling eyes boring clear through you like a gunshot, "But the way I see it is that you're doing nothing to protect yourself. Your own mother said it best, when she dies, what choice do you have?"

You feel compelled to shake him as he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, unblinking, like he's already gotten his prize and he's just anticipating the apex of the conversation. The persimmon print rag falls from your hands on the counter in front of you and you swallow, feeling as if every raw nerve in your body has been exposed. There's no triumph in his gaze, just simple confirmation. This isn't a sport to him, this is a natural progression of courtship. He can sense you want to bolt the second he can see the gears stop turning in your head.

"I don't trust you."

"I don't expect you to trust me."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because we're getting drawn closer together. I'm not my father, the only bad habit I have is skirting hunting regulations."

"Wrong. You're the same as every other man on Earth, are you so arrogant to think you're special?"

"I asked you that about yourself and you seemed quite content to believe you were some heavenly chosen virgin in some way or another. You won't ever admit it, though. That kind of thing is only admirable in women, I think. I have a half brother who holds the same belief about himself and he's insufferable. I don't find you insufferable, though, your reasoning has a legitimacy to it. His doesn't." He looks away again, a whisker strand falling in front of his face. "Men like that destroy everything they touch."

You take a breath, trembling. To have to articulate yourself about something you've snuggled up with so long feels like getting your ribs yanked out of a gaping wound. He looks like he's about to close the gap between you but you grip the rag again and knead it back and forth into a ball with your hands. He nearly smiles. Nearly. "...Don't flatter me."

"I'm not trying to, I assure you."

He thinks you're going to leave when you wordlessly go to walk out the door and just stop short in front of him, the look in your eyes is wild.

"I want you to know that I had a lot of really bad thoughts about you. And they won't go away. And I think it's some sort of punishment for putting into words about what I know is true and keeping myself chaste. It isn't fair to me. It's unbearable, I think, really." His hand is dry and warm against your head as you stare at his chest, making a subtle move to snuff his cigarette out and toss it off. "I don't doubt that you did."

"No, these are sexual thoughts, actually. If I could kill you and do away with you and get away with it I think I would."

The heat is palpable in your face and he studies the way your features lock up in something short of a rictus grin. His thick fingers brush the hair out of your face and his poker face is something you envy deeply. The gnawing roar of a hormonal crash is doing a good job of suppressing every one of your firing neurons screaming at you to cut your losses, go home, disappoint your mother, and never show your face to the Ogata family again.

"Repression makes you do weird things."

"I'm not repressed."

"You are."

"Don't tell me what I am."

It's more tongue than not when your arms find their way around his neck, the scent of him clogging your brain up like beeswax. The sensation of a kiss is somewhat disgusting but he holds you all the same as you eek out something new for once, heart hammering in your chest. He can feel the palpitations against his own and he stands there in utter graceless patience as the awkward merging of your mouths cease. Wordlessly he wipes his lips off with the back of his sleeve and you're a trembling wreck on the verge of hyperventilating.

Ogata waits for your next move as your fingers bunch into the fabric of his shirt and you give a dogged look at him. Why, you're pleading, why does this happen to me? But he allows you another heavy, unpracticed kiss as you grip at him with an intensity you've never made an effort to show before. His broad hand smooths down your spine like he's soothing the fussy pet cat that's resting in Tome's room for the night. Between kisses, he takes the gaps as an opportunity to inform you.

"You," smack, "don't have a clue" kiss, "of what you're doing." He can feel the kneading motion of your little hands in the muscles of his back and it becomes abundantly clear he's nothing more than a sexual outlet for you as you notch your fingers into every powerful square curve of his broad-cat body. He should be flattered, of course, but there's a sensation of consumption lingering under your touches. You don't want to be free from the role of men, you want to assume it in its entirety by any means necessary. He can respect that, he supposes, only the unmeasured insanity of a forgotten woman could be a beast in the face typical male behavior. She's unpredictable, only she could operate with such a sense of erratic franticness and be a threat in her own right.

Scooping you up in his arms he wordlessly takes you up the wooden stairs of the house and can feel the sagging limp of your body, winding subtly under his touch like an ermine. It's serpentine and erotic the way you tumble gently into the plush covers of his futon, the door securing shut behind you. For all intents and purposes, he's trapped himself in a cage with a wild animal.

Your legs spread with a shocking effortlessness as you wind in place in the dark. Only the low warm light from the hallway offers a parcel of sight in the indigo darkness of his bedroom. There's a rustle of fabric and your hindbrain hijacks your better judgement as you slide a hand up his bare stomach and up his ribs. He's dead silent and slowing his movements, as if you'd sink your nails into his skin and rip it off if he made any sudden moves. You cup a pectoral and squeeze it, then drag your hand over his bicep, then back to his chest and down again. It's no different than an animal examining roadkill, determining if there's enough to nourish her for the night or if she should cut her losses and go hungry another night.

Hyakunosuke is built sturdy and compact in the way a bobcat is. A soft whine croons from you when the man lays you down with surprising carefulness, and you're unable to suppress a squirm when his thick fingers curl against your hips and then legs, feeling you over as if he were looking for the spot to start tearing your feathers off after you fell out of the sky. But there is no soft eiderdown to yank out, there's only untouched skin. He swallows when you don't push him away. An understanding has been met.

"Do you really not have any experience."

"...No."

"I see," he breathes, taking his time to slip a finger against the soft nest of hair between your legs. It's an electrifying, ticklish sensation and your stomach jumps at his firm, sure touch. You lay still, allowing him to feel you over and drink in the unmapped, uncharted parts of your body. There's a supposition to be made that he's truly never going to know until sex occurs with the lights on, but you concede and melt into the futon below you like water. You can make out the deep black gaze he's holding against you as his finger touches down between the puffy folds of your vulva, a heady moisture clinging to his digit.

He's half tempted to tell you about why that makes you so whole, so ideal, but he doesn't out of knowing it could spurn your mercurial nature and swipe at him. There's a set of cards he must play and he's aware of this as he inches a finger inside of you. It's an alien sensation to have something you can't control nestle deep within your core and blindly nuzzle around your plush walls. He exhales, his voice catching the edge of his breath.

"Do you feel that," He begins, slightly withdrawing his finger only for it to retreat inside of you. "You're receptive. It's not uncommon for different animals to display signs of it- are you ovulating?"

"I-" You face heats up as he maneuvers his finger again. That didn't sound like pillow talk, he's asking as if he's about to lecture you. "I don't know?" Are you supposed to be? Such fluctuations during the month have only proven to upset you when all you wish for is quiet.

"Many animals, when they go into heat, will signal that they're receptive to the males of their species. Typically, by urinating or posturing in some way," his finger curls, you feel like he's stroking your bladder from the inside of your vaginal canal, too syrupy and slippery not to keep his finger inside of you without some sort of effort on both of your ends. "I've seen mountain cats kill each other over a bush a queen pissed on. They slice each others throats open and bleed to death and the queen mates with none of them. She'll have kits with a reserved, older male who has survived his years of competition. Only those who have self control and know what battles to fight are successful."

His finger slips into his mouth and he sucks it clean, watching the way your chest rises and falls, aroused at his low, droning voice. It's not something you should find erotic, before now you thought he seemed as emotionless as a serial killer, a metal blade of a man who has no proper consideration or appreciation for life outside of some arbitrary exception. It's a strange thing to watch him drink you off of his finger and furthermore, savor it. He makes a noise like he approves of something and a tingling sensation nips at the nape of your neck. You're allowing such a man to bed you in a desperate bid with God to render you complete and cure yourself of this ailment you can't shake. Shame is harder to come by when the man that's permeating your mind and body happens to have every intention of affirming whatever assumptions you've given him and telling you you're right. Vindication is nothing more than foreplay for something greater.

A burning sensation runs through your veins as his body lowers down upon you, the slight scruff of his beard soft against your skin as you tuck neatly into his square angles and curves padded with muscle. You don't understand why he feels the way he does, he's a salaryman, an office lackey who should've lost the privilege of his army hardened body years ago. His spiel about the cats precludes the way he allows his cock to settle just at the apex between your legs, and he stills, allowing the gears in your head to start screeching and groaning as they spark and turn again. Your brain switches on like you've come to life once more and you're feeling him again, pressing your nose into his skin and breathing in the soft biscuit-scent of his flesh. It's a scent that's akin to pheromones, you reason, maybe this is why Tome and your mother suffered the way they did. Maybe Hyakunosuke will force you to suffer too.

He makes a soft noise when your sweaty, hot fingers touch his cock, petting over it like you're unsure of what you're doing- simply because you are unsure of what you're doing, you haven't been sure of what you're doing in a long time, and doubt you'll ever figure that one out even if you waste more time thinking about it.

"You smell good," you tell him, your nimble fingers winding up into his product stiffened hair as he grasps his cock with his hand and brushes the head gingerly against the gooey center of your cunt, the powerful roll of muscle under his skin urges you to press closer to him. The accumulation of this affair is driven solely by thousands of years of instinct culminating to a singularity point, a horizon you cannot leap back from, a mark that will be with you forever. Ogata's only half listening though and he sinks within you as if it's as natural as the Earth itself. You laugh a little, the thick stretch is somehow lacking in pain as he settles his weight down upon you further, his thick arms sliding under your back and neck to hold you in a brace. "Is that so,"

"It is."

"I thought you didn't like me," He muses, voice low. There's nothing teasing in his tone, a suggestion for you to explain yourself.

"You said it yourself, we're the same kind of animal, aren't we?" There's no love in your tone, you don't think you can feel something like love for him the way you love your mother. You think she'd be so happy that you've been dragged down to her level now, you think maybe this is what will make you a good daughter in her eyes. You've had the touch of a man on you, you will wear his fingerprints with pride and righteousness and you will finally be one of us. Aren't you happy?

Ogata moves and you feel the punch of his weight in his thrusts. He's not a tall man, and he's not particularly large, but he's maximizing what he's got and he's damn good at it. There's a noise in his throat like a purr as he drops his head down and closes his eyes, his forehead next to your head as his hips drive into you with a surprisingly methodical rhythm. It's hard to formulate something to say when there's a thick cock plunging deep within you and the man on top of you has your world in his hands, but you manage to laugh at something- you don't know what, and he doesn't care to find out. The heavy smack of his balls against your ass reminds you that he's his father, truly, and that this is an evolutionary means to an end for him. He's breeding you with vigor, he's sensed that you're a willing mate, and now he'll make nice on his existential promise to go forth and multiply- at least in the moment, of course, there's a worming fear in the back of your minds as his hips pump that this could end in something far more permanent than the boast of getting laid.

You kiss him as soon as he picks his head up and he reciprocates as if it's his job to, his hands squeezing just enough at your body to appreciate the womanly curves you kept hidden from the world. He breathes again, lips against yours.

"It's a privilege," He sounds somewhat drunk off of the wet, suckling, incessant heat around his cock, hips emphasizing every few thrusts the stupid carnality of the situation that's snuffed out any sort of rational thinking between you both. You grab his face, dragging your tongue across his lips in a fervent mess. "It is, isn't it? You're mother said nobody likes Christmas cake after the 25th," and he rolls this time. Thankfully it's dark so you can't make out the stare he's giving you, borderline abyssal. "Men can't afford to be picky. That's why we die in wars and shoot ourselves in the head," you kiss him again, feeling the heavy, hot weight of his tongue in your own mouth. "Expendable, that's all we are."

There's a wretched softness that comes from you both as he sweats over you and fucks you against the floor, cock bullying against your innermost parts. Sex is a dirty, hot, messy thing and he heaves as he struggles not to collapse under the godly weight of his arousal. You think you're going to piss as your body is jostled under him, all of your soft-squishy parts are flush against the stockiness of his chest and midsection, your toes curl as he bares himself down upon you in rapid succession. Your forehead is sticky with sweat and the steam thick smell of sex makes the room feel like a hundred degrees, but you suffer the burning coil in your stomach as Hyakunosuke's thighs flex and he angles his hips to a sharper degree.

Every fiber of his being is like a loaded spring, the potential energy in his body practically thrums as every movement he makes rubberbands back to a locked state, only to ricochet again. He's panting through his nose, and you sweat you see a hand of God hovering over your face and closing your eyes for you. The coil bursts into a near painful explosion, your legs involuntarily yanking as they fight with your tendons to keep them put, the noise you make is loud enough to awaken his mother and he shushes you, tucking your face into the crook of his neck as he fucks you through an absolutely brutal orgasm. Your cunt cinches tight over his cock and his own belly flexes with a feverish warmth creeping through his groin and through his testicles. The head of his cock has been drooling liberally within you for the better part of the ordeal, the vein on his shaft throbbing with every powerful contraction.

He drops and goes limp when he cums, absolutely useless as his cock spits rope after thick rope of semen deep inside of you. Hyakunosuke is a heavy, sweaty presence as you stare into the dark up at the ceiling, his hot breath chuffing against your neck as he shudders and weakly pumps his hips. There's no shout, no cry, no exuberant declaration of consummation- Intercourse has taken place here and life will continue, the world will turn another day. You feel a strange sense of dread wash over you as the man on top of you slows his breathing and begins to stir again. Your vagina feels puffy and wet and your skin feels far too unlike your own. You're waiting for your revelation from God to come, the Virgin Mary to send you on your way with a blessing, some angel or diving being to affirm that you are no longer a diseased woman and can pick yourself up and proceed successfully in society from now on.

Instead Ogata pushes himself up and sweeps his hair back, his breathing slow as he lays next to you, his eyes drifting to your unmoving form. Your head tips to his.

"...I don't feel different."

"You're not supposed to."

"Oh."

You glance at the analog clock- it's far too late to go home now, and you're unsure if you can face your mother now that you're like her. Like Tome. You don't know when you're supposed to stop feeling like an uneasy child, but what you do know is that you have an animal of sorts lazing next to you that seems to find you attractive enough in whatever way to allow you to intimately integrate into his life. To what degree you're unsure. He doesn't seem like a romantic or loving person, you hardly think he may even be a person at all.

"You should sleep."

"I should go home."

"You are not walking home like that. You would be humiliated if you went home and your mother was awake and saw the state of you. Sleep here, shower in the morning and tell her you fell asleep reading to my mother."

You don't think she's going to buy that but what do you know? The gentle pelting of rain is a soothing balm on the open burn wound of your vulnerability. Your head feels as full as your cunt did and it's doing you no favors that the very bed you lay on smells of your lover-thing and brings you a sense of comfort. You want to cry having spent your life in such a state of survival and denial with no easy answers, but Ogata doesn't pry as he allows you to lay against him and rest. There's no patronizing cuddling or soft kisses or sweet words exchanged. Something about the transaction brings you peace above all else. He's as leftover as you are, if not more.

Tome frets over you the next morning wordlessly as Hyakunosuke goes through the motions of getting his items in order before he leaves for work, hardly sparing you or his mother a glance. A hot cup of coffee made its way into your hands at some point and you murmured a thanks. He doesn't kiss you goodbye, he doesn't give you any sort of condescending form of affection. You know neither of you operate on software like that, but the sentiment is there. You are beneficial to me as I am beneficial to you.

You return home at some point after Tome fed you a light breakfast, a little bit less clear on where you stand in the world, but ultimately a little less angry. You did it, you made it, you'll be fine now. When you shyly step foot inside, your mother gives you a slight smile, knowing the look on your face has changed. She seems at peace, telling you good morning as she leafs through another stack of mail- more cards stuffed with money having finally made their way over to your gluttonous mailbox. You kick your shoes off and fail to hold eye contact, it feels weird still, too fresh. You begin to doubt if that feeling is ever going to go away and wash off in the bath.

"Mom?"

"Hm?"

"Can we get a cat?"

[submarinefleet]

Imagine dating Usami in the modern day, and having Ogata as a mutual friend. Maybe you met them at the same time, or Usami introduced Ogata as his roommate in college. Maybe you even knew Ogata first, and Usami swept in after he introduced the two of you at a party.

(More under the cut. Open the post if you don't see a readmore.)

Whatever the case, Ogata has been secretly pining after you for a long-ass time. Usami picked up on it almost immediately, and has been lording his relationship with you over Ogata ever since, just to fuck with the guy (because of course he is). It doesn't help that Ogata's being kind of an incel about the whole thing, wondering how you could go for an asshole like Usami. Ignoring, of course, the fact that he himself is kind of a dick to you most of the time...

Ogata has it built up in his head that Usami is a terrible boyfriend, and it's only a matter of time until you break up and he can have his shot... but no, that's completely wishful thinking. Usami is an exemplary boyfriend, actually. Loving, attentive, always showing up for you, and spoiling you with fun dates and presents (and he remembers exactly what you like, too!). Doing the lion's share of the housework if you move in together, and making you breakfast every morning before he leaves for work because he wants to make sure you're eating properly. Not to mention the sex--if you have it--is phenomenal...

Ogata is left coming home to an empty, messy apartment every night, to eat a microwaved meal and watch gun historian videos on YouTube with the lights out. Wondering how an asshole like Usami has you so fooled. He knows what that guy's really like...

[smoughenthusias]

gulps

[dinneronvenus]

These two men fuck the same.

They put all of their secret emotions on display in the bedroom. Let me explain.

It’s always a varied ratio of romantic and rough. The way he kisses you for half an hour until you’re begging him to touch you. His tongue has mapped out your entire mouth before it moves to your neck. You’re cross eyed with lust for him. He can’t get you naked fast enough, and often he doesn’t remove too much of his own clothing because all his focus is on you and your beautiful body. He wants to see you, needs to see you. Warm rough hands roam every inch and caress every curve until you snap and tell him to put his fingers inside you. He lets a chuckle slip out as he obliges you, rough fingers stretching you out pleasantly. He finger fucks you for a while, enjoying the sounds you and your pussy make. He pulls his fingers out occasionally to taste you and tease himself because he’s addicted to your taste. He’d never admit it verbally but it’s clear as day. He finally snaps and starts eating you out, completely ignoring your pleas of it being too sensitive. He wants you to cum until you’re brainless and can only paw at him while muttering nonsense. To see you come undone is his idea of heaven. When he finally relieves you of your emptiness and gives you his dick, it’s a slow stroke that makes you hyper aware of how big he is, you can feel every single aspect of the stretch and the throbbing of his swollen cock inside you. He always grips your jaw and makes you focus, tells you to look at him or if you’re in a position to do so, tells you “watch me stretch out that pretty pussy” and notices how you hesitate before you do as you’re told. That split second of your good nature coming through drives him mad, because he knows he doesn’t deserve to touch something so pure and perfect but he is—you’re letting him feel every part of you and he is going to make sure you never forget it.

[ashpuriin]

first gk dump of the year..... but its all shirao lol

[dynamites-ao3]

By Design

Ogata Hyakunosuke x f! Reader

explicit ; 8k words ; canon-compliant pwp

In Karafuto on the brink of a snowstorm, you thoughtlessly run out of ammunition. Ever the opportunist, Ogata accompanies you for more.

Or, simply: Ogata gets you alone.

read here on ao3!

(a/n: forewarning for dubious consent.)

[dollwrites]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, noncon ( it borders on dubcon though ), mention of guns, anonymous sex, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗿𝗯𝘀 ∣ prompt # eighteen // sex in an onsen

you kept your head tilted back against slick stone— gaze fixed on the long barrel of a rifle leaned up against the jagged rock only an arm’s length away. he hadn’t exactly threatened you with it, but the very air around him seemed to be a warning in itself when he’d ordered you out of the water, so you’d obeyed ( albeit cursing him quietly ). you’d been staying at a nearby inn for the last week or so, and you couldn’t say that he looked familiar. he must not have been local, which made you all the more nervous about the fact that he’d managed to catch you alone in the onsen.

he was a man of few words, as soon as you stood up in the water, he had your body arched over it and your legs spread, taking only a moment to drop his garb and spit in his hand, slathering it over a hardening cock before he plunged into you.

the pressure forces a mewl from your lips, and when his thick, calloused hands settled on the flare of your wet hips, he jerks your body forward to meet a greedy pace. at first, your eyes glared up at him as you protested, but when you saw that such a thing wouldn’t work on him ( not even a twitch in his stoic expression ), they had fallen over the body of the stranger fucking you. lean, but deeply chiseled and rugged, with faded battle scars. he was a soldier, at least at one point, made obvious by the blue of his garments discarded, which would explain why he was so heavily armed. looking at his body, watching the muscles in his lower abdomen dance beneath his skin when he thrusts forward was putting you into a trance. your hands wanted to reach out, grab his forearms as he held on to you with an angry grip, and anchor yourself to your assailant. that wasn’t right, and you knew it, but you couldn’t deny it felt good. his pace was not an overly rough one, and even the way your walls fluttered around the girth he provided was not unpleasant—

“Fuck, you’re tight, don’t get fucked much, do ya?” he muttered under his breath and clenched his jaw; you could watch the healed scars on his face shudder. as if spurred to do so, your insides spasm, clamping down on him harder in response. good. you wanted to be so tight that he felt like he was being strangled— your little way of getting him back for the assault.

“Go— to hell—“

you squirm, groan, and try to sit up, but he scoffs, one of his hands planting itself on your naked breast, his fingers splaying out as he pressed his weight on your chest, “be still.” he’d demanded, pinning you tightly with your back against the stone, so you’d eventually dropped your head back, focusing instead of the rifle. your body slid against the rock, leaving your skin raw and feeling irritated, but you reach out with one hand towards the weapon, considering pointing it right in his face and demanding he let you go. the stranger huffed and snorted as he mounted you, fucking you with reckless abandon.

the rifle appeared almost as a witness— the steam curling up around it, enveloping it in a thick blanket. the man notices where you’re reaching, and a rough grunt escapes his lips, “Wanna shoot me, girlie?” his tone was low and taunting, as if he knew that even with the gun within your reach, you wouldn’t be able to.

you still nod, though. if you knew how to use that thing, you’d fill him full of holes.

“Get in line, sweetheart.”

suddenly, the sensation of rough skin— broken and calloused— on your face makes you start. his fingers have traversed up the side of your neck and grasped your chin, forcing your eyes back to him. “Look at me,” he demands. you don’t want to do as he says, and you know the reason why.

you didn’t want to enjoy what was happening to you.

but you, eventually, allow your gaze to lock on with his, and you feel your stomach sink at the lustful, greedy look in deep, abyssal eyes.

for several, agonizing moments, there was nothing but ragged breath and skin slapping as he stared into your eyes. his teeth clenched, snorting through his nose like a wild animal. and you, trying to kill every whimper that threatened to break the barrier of your pursed lips as the thick, throbbing tip of the stranger’s cock battered your sensitive, spongy interior nerves. he could see the struggle in your eyes, the conflict with yourself, your determination to pretend you hated it as much as you should. the spectre of amusement passes across his expression, before he pushes his fingers against your lips, smearing the scent of salt and sweat across them, pushing them open so he can worm his digits inside, making you taste him.

“Cute.”

[liparidae]

Yoke and Crown: Chapter 1

Read on ao3

Tags: Explicit, Ogata Hyakunosuke/Reader, Nonbinary Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, Manipulation, Codependency, Eventual Smut, Will add more tags as things move forward, Spoilers

Ogata Hyakunosuke is wounded and alone. With nearly every bridge to speak of burned, he scrambles for any advantage he can get– which includes having someone, anyone, firmly on his side by any means necessary. Ogata just so happens to find you: also alone, and itching for something new. – An episodic collection of the reader’s journey with Ogata.

[iwashie]

"𝙎𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙏𝙀𝘼…?" (18+)| GOLDEN KAMUY

ft. Hijikata Toshizou

∗  ˖࣪ ໒꒱  ˚₊· synopsis: You work in a teahouse, which sometimes markets the attendants. And when that old man walked into the store, you couldn't get him out of your head.

･ﾟﾟ･｡　wc: 2.3k + warnings- mdni, nsfw content, petnames, fingering, cunnilingus, f!reader, 18+ characters, age gap (not mentioned the age, but definitely younger than him), It's not exactly faithful to the manga/anime, but maybe it's halfway through the second season.

— ☆ A/N: I can't get this old man out of my head, so I needed to do something like the good old man appreciator that I am.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You rarely felt that way... That tingling all over your body, your stomach churning and the heat in the middle of your legs, making you rub your thighs and bite your lower lip hard, trying to control yourself. But when it happened, you knew you didn’t make mistakes.

And that older man made you feel it with just a glance.

The way he walked in, his head held high, gray hair shining, posture upright, the swords gracing his back and the way he side-looked at you, sending a shiver down your body. Even surrounded by others, you knew he was the leader. And even though he was old, you knew he was still alive.

You knew you needed that man. You couldn’t let him go without having him, even if it was for a short time.

Lucky for you, the one chosen to serve tea to their room was you, and that was the only time you would have to play your charm. As you poured tea to the group, you noticed the papers on the table- maps. This stated that soon he would leave town. You needed to play well or you wouldn’t get another chance. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed he followed your movements, eyes glued to you and a grin tugging on his face.

You couldn’t contain your smile, still pouring the tea, being courteous and throwing your charm at the old man. You left the room more nervous and desirous than before. That old man was messing with you.

Even if you didn’t have problems with the older citizens, you avoided at all costs the old men who frequented the teahouse, as they were married, they were always drunk, and according to the conversations of the other women, they were bad in bed, but they were still customers, they needed to be treated well.

But this old man now showed that he wasn’t like the other old men, displaying that he was still alive and that feeling burning inside you didn’t lie.

You didn’t know how long it took, but your charm game—the collar of the kimono falling over your shoulders, showing off some of your breasts, the shared looks and smiles, and touching his knee as you poured the tea—worked.

It only took that to have his soft lips on yours, his beard tickling your chin, the firm hands grabbing your neck and thigh, making room for him in the middle of your legs. The heated kiss making you dizzy and sigh against his mouth, hands grabbing the green coat, pulling him closer, locking him with your legs, rubbing against his bulge, making him growl.

“Calm down, sweetie... I’m not running away.” He said, pulling back a little to face you, a smile on his lips, one of his hands caressing your thigh and the other holding your chin, his thumb skirting your plump lips. 

You smiled roguishly, resting your head on your shoulder and moving a leg up and down the side of his body. “But we don’t have all the  time, old man.” He chuckled, hooded eyes hovering over you. You felt goosebumps at that look.

“Smart girl.” He rolled his shoulders, taking off his green coat and removed his black waistcoat, opening the first few buttons of the white button-up shirt, showing off his neck and collarbones with dark lines. “And what does this smart girl want?”

You kneeled in front of him, your hands moving up his thighs and stopping at his belt, eyes shining at him, you said slyly. “I want you.”

He smiled, bringing a hand to your hair tied in a bun and let go, caressing the strands and your cheekbone, dark eyes shining at you. The sight of you kneeling, eyes shining and plump mouth, the kimono untidy and open, showing half of your upper body and thighs together, made him grin wider and his cock tighten in his trousers.

“Good girl.” He pushed you lying on the futon, kneeling in the middle of your legs, and kissed you again. His soft mouth was rough on yours, hot breath against your face as one hand of his moved up the inside of the kimono, playing with your inner thigh, fingers wandering close to your aching, wet pussy. You felt him smile against your mouth, biting your bottom lip as calloused fingers pulled away the wet piece of clothing.  

“This wet…” He laughed, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading the liquid. You spread your legs a little and mewl in his ear, hands squeezing his shoulders. He slides two fingers between your lips and climbs up to the nerve, making circles, having you cling to him, head hanging back. 

He played for a little longer, fingers running up and down your lips, circling and squeezing the nerve and slipping a finger inside, lingering in and out, making you moan and shudder in his fingers. You whimpered as he removed his fingers, and seeing through half-open eyes, he took both fingers in his mouth, humming as he looked at you. 

You closed your eyes tightly, feeling your chest rise and fall heavily, legs trembling, and your throat dry. That old man was driving you crazy. You felt his hands around your legs, pulling you closer, fingers squeezing into your shin as he rested his face on your knee. 

“Maybe the smart girl wants more...” You propped yourself up on your elbows and nodded quickly, stunned by the dark eyes shining, his mouth red, expression so teasing.

He lifted your hips, firm hands grabbing your thighs and leaned in, dusting kisses down your belly, and giving an open-mouth kiss to your pussy, making you shudder. His flat tongue licking stripes from bottom to top, sucking your clit and going over again, gulping in your juice. 

Your fingers digging in the long, gray strands, rolling against his face, hanging your head back and moaning loudly, toes curling. His hands clamped tightly on your thighs, white marks on your skin in the place he held you. 

“Old man...” You breathed, body shuddering, feeling the coil in your stomach tightening as his tongue slid in and out of you, nose buried in your clit, sending shivers down your body while his beard tickled your legs and ass.

He stuck two fingers along his tongue, your gummy wall squeezing and soaking him as he hit that spot that had you arching your back. You shuddered, grabbing his hair, legs locking his head, a weak moan escaping your lips as you cum in his face. 

He let you calm down, letting go of his head and hair to give one last suck, making you squirm for sensitivity, and pulled away from your body, saying, “So sweet, smart girl.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, chest heavy and legs wobbly, staring at him — his foggy dark eyes, down his nose glowing, your liquid stuck in his beard. He took off his shirt, showing his body with defined muscles and the strong dark lines- you shivered to see that the lines covered his entire torso. It was scary. 

He smiled sheepishly, his fingers taking a while to undo his trousers, playing with you, watching him while biting your lip. When he slid down his trouser and loincloth, releasing his big, thick cock, a throbbing underside vein, and the tip leaking pre-cum, you were sure this old man would fuck you so well. 

“Lying down for me, smart girl.” You obeyed, making room for him as he hovered over you, arms around your head, your legs around his waist and his cock weighing on your belly. 

Just seeing his cock resting on your belly, your insides twisted in anticipation. That would be so good. 

He grabbed the base and rubbed his cock into your wet folds, lubricating his cock, slowly torturing you. You squeezed him with your legs, receiving a giggle as he aligned his cock with your entrance. You closed your eyes as he pushed the tip, the fat head of his cock splitting you in half.

“Too much?” You agreed, biting your mouth and hands on his shoulders. He chuckled softly and pushed it all in slowly, watching you gasp and wince. “It’s all in, sweetie.”

He started calmly, feeling your walls squeeze his cock with each thrust. The feeling of him moving in and out made you roll your eyes. His girth stretched you up so well that you wanted more and more of that old man. 

“M-More, old man.” You shuddered as he went deep, his waist slamming against yours. 

“Greedy, I see,” He growled and did as asked. He went deep and fast, his heavy balls slapping against your ass and making you moan loudly, swaying on the futon.

“So tight, sweetie.” His voice was quiet, close to your ear as your moans and the wet slick of him moving in and out of you filled the room. 

You clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer, moaning loudly in his ear, wincing with each thrust, making you squint. If you weren’t so dumb fucked by the way his cock stretched you, the tip kissing your cervix and that vein rubbing against your tight wall, you’d be teasing him until you got more, but that was already taking you to the edge.

He engulfed one breast, sucking and biting the nipple and the other squeezing the soft flesh, his cock going in and out fast making you see stars with his mouth open, muttering moans and fingers in between the gray strands.

Oh, that old man was much better than any younger person you’ve been with.

“Shit. If you squeeze me so hard, I’ll cum, sweetie...” He grunted against your breast, mouth wet with saliva and sweat on his forehead. 

You gasped as you felt his thumb circling your clit, still pushing into you. You felt that knot in your stomach tightening, your toes curling up as you pulled him down with your thighs. 

“Cl-close...” He smiled and sped up the movements on your bud and in seconds, your orgasm washed over you, gushing on his cock inside you. Your head falling into the pillow, hair sticking to your face, chest rising and dropping, and legs wobbly. 

“Good girl.” He kissed your sweaty forehead. You opened one eye, seeing him with a furrowed brow, biting his mouth to hold back the moans and his waist shaking. “Damn- I’m close.” 

You grumbled as he pulled out, the feeling of emptiness filling you instead of his big, thick cock. He rested one hand on the futon and the other masturbated his cock. You pulled him into a kiss, muffling his moan as the hot liquid poured your belly. 

His thick ropes are spilling into you for a time, his load so heavy and hot, forming lines on your sweaty skin. You sucked on his lower lip before he pulled away, the gray hair sticking to his forehead, his face in a relaxed expression and glistening with sweat. 

The old man was so good and hot that you felt your pussy aching, even though you had just cum for the second time. You chuckled, remembering that the feeling never misses. And here you were, lying underneath the prettiest old man you’ve ever seen, totally relaxed that he had made you cum twice.

“What’s so funny, smart girl?” He glanced at you, putting his clothes back on. You couldn’t help but feel sad. 

You sat on your heels, the kimono still open, showing off your body and the marks he painted on it, and helped him put on his waistcoat and fix his hair. “It’s just that I knew you differed from the other old men when you walked in.” 

He laughed. “And with that, you had me wrapped around your finger, playing dirty in the tearoom.” You laughed along with him, your arms around his neck, body glued to his back. 

“Sure. I knew you would fuck me really well.” You bit his ear and his hand landed on your thigh, giving it a slight squeeze. 

“A smart girl, indeed.” He said, untangling from your grip and fixed your kimono and hair before standing up. 

“Not a goodbye kiss?” You pouted, staring at him still on the floor. 

“If I kiss you again, I won’t be able to leave and I need to, smart girl.” You knew it would happen. Unlike the other customers who stuck after they finished, this old man was leaving.  

“I’ll see you, at least?” You asked, pinning your hair in a bun again and squeezing the kimono properly. 

“I never settle down, sweetie.” He held your chin as soon as you joined him at the door. 

“A name or not, mysterious sir?” You knew that evasion was a bad sign. It wasn’t uncommon to see men with guns walking around, but old swordsmen coming and going were something to worry about, and that old man had big plans. 

You went down together, entering the chaos of the teahouse again, finding the other old man and the pretty man with scars on his chin standing in the doorway, waiting for him. You watched him join the two of them, swords gracing his broad back and gray hair swaying as he walked, the upright posture of a leader. 

“Hijikata Toshizou, smart girl.”

You smiled, watching him walk away from the store. You knew you’d probably never see that man again, but you couldn’t help but wish a second time would happen.

___________________________________________

© iwashie 2023, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

[never-enough-golden-kamuy]

Are you mad?

Kinda nsfw, but now much I think? I believe there are fics better than this. Vasily x f!reader ~850 words Enjoy!

“Are you mad?” Her eye didn't even twitch as he irritably tossed his shoes into the corner of the genkan, confirming her suspicions. He crossed the distance between them with firm steps and pushed her against the chest of drawers leaning against the wall. His hot breath tickled her collarbone, deep, urgently slowed as he tried to control himself. Like a beast dazed with fury. 

 [Y/N] stole a glance at his hands, frozen millimeters from her body, as he didn't know what he wanted to do. She ran her fingertips over the exposed skin of his forearm, feeling it tremble under her touch. She closed her hand around his wrist and pressed it against the side of her thigh, feeling him instantly grab what was most dear to him. His lips pressed against hers with enough force to hurt. His kisses were fierce and hungry for something else, something much worse. She didn't resist, she let him pour out the fury raging in his body. 

Until his lips slowed, the possessive grip on her thigh eased, and their breathing calmed. 

[Y/N] looked at the beast nestled in her hair and stole a few more kisses. Small and fleeting, a reward for her sore lips. She felt his hand smoothing the wrinkled material of her skirt and drawing the first letters. By this stage she was very good at reading the words he was leaving on her skin. 

 >>I will kill him. << 

The woman stroked the jagged scar on his cheek with her thumb. The quintessence of how fierce her partner can be. She could have let him. She could have let him go and let that bastard never even come close to her again. However, all she could see were the consequences of his actions. This is not the wilderness of Hokkaido, where no one will give a second thought at a random corpse deep in the forest. 

“You can do it,” she murmured against his lips, the sniper's cold instantly biting her skin. Her hand tightened on his shirt before he could even move an inch away. “Or you can stay there.” She brushed her fingers against the buttons fastening the collar of his shirt. “With me.” She felt his muscles tense under her touch as she ran her hand down his torso to the edge of the fabric. “And i can give you things others can't even dream of.” She slipped her hand under the fabric, cutting off his breath. 

She didn't have to wait for him to make a decision. She was immediately placed on the top of the dresser, putting them on equal heigh. Pressed against his chest as if the millimeters that separated them through their clothes were too much distance, she could hear his heart pounding. Or was it her own? She didn't have time to think about it, too busy unbuttoning his shirt while hot kisses trailed down her neck, pushing down the neckline of her blouse. 

His hands roamed over her body, dispersing her thoughts. All she could think about was his touch, worshiping every part of her, even the parts she hated. His breathing, quickened and ragged by the kisses, matching the rhythm of her own. The hunger between them, a hunger for something more than they were allowed to. 

She finished the last button and watched as he took off his shirt, forging every single element of this moment into her memory. The first glimpse of his stomach, just above the line of his pants, the barely visible outline of his ribs, his chest muscles raised as he moved, the gentle curve of his biceps as he released his arm from the sleeve, his hair ruffled by the fabric, that she would soon personally make even messier, and his clear blue eyes focused on her as if nothing else existed in the world. 

They pressed against each other as if this moment of separation lasted forever. She traced the shape of his collarbones and the outline of every single muscle with her hands. At this point she might have known his body by heart, but she was too busy savoring the taste of his lips to remember anything. She only let go of him when the edge of her blouse began to rise, announcing its quick removal. 

She let him enjoy this forbidden sight and place kisses wherever only he could. Now she knew what goddesses worshiped by thousands felt like. But she only had one follower and that one was the only one she needed. She placed a series of blessings on her admirer's face, ending just behind his ear, where she left a small red mark. Usually hidden by hair, visible only to those who dare to touch him. A sign to each of them that he belongs to her. 

The man gave her a surprised look, touching the bite, and malice immediately flashed in his eyes, ready to return the favor. 

It's a pity that their intimate moment was interrupted by a knock on the door and replaced by a panicked search for their own clothes. 

[midnightbears]

Requests Open!!! <3

Hey everyone!

I've decided to start taking requests for characters x reader oneshots/headcanons in order to get my writing grove back. You can check the tags down below to see what characters/fandoms I write for <3

Please note that all my writings will include a woman as the reader/MC, as that's what I'm most comfortable writing. Additionally, you might notice that I often include chubby or mid-sized bodies in my work albeit not specifically stating it. This is a reflection of my own body type, which I find easier and more enjoyable to depict.

However, please note that I will NOT write the following:

Non-consensual scenarios or themes.

Underage x Adult relationships (I'm still a bit reluctant with age gaps between adults).

Graphic depictions of self-harm or suicide.

Extreme violence or gore.

Incestuous relationships.

No more than five characters, in case you're asking for headcanons.

I hope you understand and respect these limits! <3

[pleuvoire]

blog i follow who is generally into sports anime was upset that someone slandered yuri on ice by making an unfair comparison to blue lock (fair!) and then started posting about how yuri on ice is for people who like lithe emotional bishonens and blue lock is for masc4masc enjoyers who like sweaty emotionally stunted buff men. to which i can only say, have you SEEN blue lock fandom???? or even, like, the floods of official art of everyone in dateable softboy outfits???

[yaoiloverlordofmountyaoi]

welcome...

hallo everynyan welcome, i like lotr and the hobbit and fantasy stuff but also anime like hunterxhunter and golden kamuy and games like yakuza and ace attorney and animal crossing amongst some real useful intrests like drawing and embroidery and crafts and doing my NAILS which ill post HERE: