#yosukehasghosts

"Hooooooooooooo------ look who the cat dragged in. If you’re here for your nudes I don’t have ‘em!"

THE NSFW MEME LIST

♔ for my muse’s reaction to yours pushing mine up against the wall

It’d been a good night, supposedly. Beer all around, some good snacks, and even a few laughs coaxed out of Yosuke that Tomoya feels particularly proud of. It’s why, when they’re walking the alcohol off outside and their breaths are warm and stained with drink, he doesn’t quite expect the sudden shift in Yosuke’s demeanour; the aggressiveness, the way Tomoya’s back suddenly collides with the wall of some building in this district he couldn’t quite care for.

The light of the moon isn’t enough to illuminate his companion very well. Quite frankly Tomoya finds himself having to squint in a furious attempt to see the expression on Yosuke’s face. This doesn’t do him any good, however--he’s just as unreadable as Tomoya predicted he’d be, more so when he takes note of the fact that there’s a hand at the side of his head.

When did their bodies get as close as they are? They’re practically flush together, so much so that Tomoya’s cheeks are going warm completely out of instinct. Close proximities will kill him--that’s what he knows for sure. At the very least Yosuke’s breath isn’t panting with some uncontrollable urge. At the very least Tomoya doesn’t think there’s any real aggression in him.

Yosuke couldn’t exactly tell if his leg was being pulled, or if he was about to get the cold muzzle of a gun shoved past his lips– the former was a notably better option between the two.

So apparently hired killers were a real thing.  

It had all started with an innocuous ad in the classifieds. Not only was he brushing up on his hangul, but starting the tremulous journey back into employment. He had very few employable skills to show for himself, especially after three years working in the warehouse. But all that meant was that he wasn’t picky. At this rate he was perfectly willing to work just about anywhere. Though he drew a line at animals. He’d rather not involve himself with the furry shits. He circled opportunities that ran somewhere up his alley, like, secretary needed: must be sociable (at the right price he could be as sociable as they wanted), and looking for the experienced. lifting required (he had years experience carrying an array of women from the door to his bed). As tempting as those were, Yosuke was most intrigued by an ad seeking discreet service. Maybe he should’ve taken a second glance at the wording, turned suspicious that the ad was actually quite vague– but there was a number. Only mails would be reciprocated and assistance was immediately required.

Yosuke preferred the quick buck at this point. Left him free of commitments, especially now where he’d made no decision on the residency front. Texting was the easy part, getting a reply? A complete surprise. He was given an address and time, and saw no reason not to follow through. Of course now where he stood at the entranceway of a glaringly empty warehouse, staring down the barrel of what he hoped was a really misleading water gun– his life threatened to flash before his eyes. Instead of dwelling on memories he’d much rather not, he tried to explain.

“Oi, oi, I think we got ourselves a misunderstanding ‘ere… I came looking for a job.” He grappled with what was left of his charm, hands out as if to prove his idiocy. “Get this. If I’d known what was actually up, I wouldn’t have replied. Figured shit like this was a fuckin’ myth.”

Takeshi was reliable when it came to his job. He wasn’t the third most wanted person in the mafia for nothing, but at the same time, he wished he wasn’t. It did have its benefits, but not without consequences. People he didn’t want to know him knew who he was and that caused problems in his daily life. Most of the time people weren’t looking to expose who Takeshi really was, but a few of them had the audacity to threaten him in order for him to do their dirty work.

For once, he let it happen. But it was more for him than anything else. A few days ago, he’d been given a side mission per request from a certain silver-haired swordsman who thought he would be perfect for the job (of course, squalo had threatened with a “if you don’t do this job right, you better fuckin’ believe I’m going to cut you up”).  Now he had all the reason not to mess this up. The man he was currently working for was known under an underground name that was undisclosed to him because well, Takeshi didn’t really care all that much. He just needed to find a way to kill him and the core of his business without causing a scene for the Vongola.

It was only when someone unknown to him that something felt off. “Who is that?” Takeshi asked one of the henchmen while he stared at the male who raised his hands up in the air. He narrowed his eyes at this, listening in on the male’s words and figuring out that he’d just fallen into the boss’s trap. “Is that the guy I’m going to work with?”

“Yup. He was the only one to respond to the ad. Figured it would be good for him to work with someone like you. Y’know, all professional and shit. But if you mess up, it won’t matter to the boss.” So that was it. Everything he was suspicious about now made sense. A small mission that was probably to use the two of them to be the scapegoat for the boss’s organization. They’d been under fire for a while, running the risk of getting caught by the feds, so if they were able to put the blame on the unsuspecting male and Takeshi then everything would be all right again. Takeshi clenched his jaw before heading over to where the male with the gun cocked toward the male was standing. The male finally put the gun down. He placed a stern hand on his shoulder before smiling at the unknown man. 

“I do not have a story.”

How long had she been here? Four long hours at the store and Yumi had probably seen only a handful of customers. And as lazy and incompetent Yumi is at her job, the lack of action did nothing but leave her bored. So bored. She had actually spent the last half hour staring at the ceiling. In this half hour she had noticed two stains, a price tag sticker, and a few specks out of place in the texture. What a truly incredible way to spend an afternoon. Regardless, Yumi still made enough to get a cheeseburger after work guilt free and for doing almost no work. If you look on the bright side it’s not so bad.

Her boredom’s savior soon arrived, however, and Yumi was out of her seat in a matter of seconds. Considering her unprofessional lounging position in the store’s desk chair, it was better she stand up anyways. The last thing she needs is another mark for lack of professionalism. Yumi was pretty sure her boss just liked to pick on her, but that may or may not be all in her head.

“Hi! Can I help you with anything? What’s your story?” What’s your story? That’s an odd way to greet a customer. Either way, it was out there, and Yumi tried her hardest to avoid the cringe that came with her embarrassing question. She failed. When she got a negative answer, she decided to push the strange greeting by insisting, “You must have a story.” Still weird, but at least she stuck to her guns. His body language read loud and clear as “drop it,” so Yumi decided to take the hint. That’s a first.

“M'not sure I’m behind you on that deserving shit. What’s with the dicks gettin’ some then? Think it’s got more t'do with luck, man. Wantin’ shit just makes it worse. Fill up on all the beer you can.”

Horror stories were best shared under the influence.

All they had was bottled water, green tea that tasted more like piss, and shrimp crackers they apparently couldn’t eat until after everything was said and done. To be fair, Yosuke had just come along for the snacks. Although that wasn’t to say he had better things to do because he didn’t. If anyone asked, he was there to show his support. But the reality was that he’d been wrung and twisted into dragging his ass inside. Free beer was as good a motivator as he was ever going to get.

Apparently these meetings were popping up across the country. They called themselves STC.Sexually transmitted confessions. Yosuke still couldn’t wrap his head around the society’s name, it seemed to be more damage than advocacy– but who was he to argue? All he wanted was for the talking to end so he could grab a handful of the crackers and leave before anyone got to asking names. Short rows of fold up chairs filled the already tiny room. Shame permeated the walls, and it took great effort to keep his grin from parting around obnoxious bouts of snickering and laughs. Faces were stoic, tones serious as what looked to be a gathering of entirely men spoke about their random run ins with syphilis and gonorrhea. It seemed to him they were trying awfully hard to be alcoholics anonymous without the sympathy and sob stories. His friend never spoke, no, he just sat and nodded like he was a sage, while digging his elbow into Yosuke’s side intermittently.

“I was in love… until herpes.” Maybe it was the phrasing that caught Yosuke’s attention, or rather the scruffy features disguising what he could’ve swore was something like resemblance. They’d made a point of attending a tokyo session, so as to keep their identities in the clear, but the man hunched in his chair, clothes long where they covered the breadth of his shoulders– Yosuke felt the sensation that he’d seen the man before. The feeling didn’t last all that long as he was spontaneously called out by the facilitator, an older gentleman who clearly had a wealth of his own horror stories. Briefly stunned, he feigned nonchalance, and confessed.

“Chylamydia. 2008. Great ass.” That wasn’t a lie. In the throes of juvenile sexual experience, he cared little for real protection, and took advantage of his fast to grow facial hair. Even at eighteen he was often mistaken for older, and at the time, women in their twenties who could pull off leopard print were his weakness.

A long time ago Tomoya associated sex with love in the way young, loveless idiots tend to. Any person who touched him was remarkable just because they touched him--any mouth on his own was the same, any tongue tasting what he hid behind his teeth. It wasn’t that difficult to be deluded into such an idea with the tantalising nature of physical intimacy, most especially given the fact that he craved it when his girlfriend left him. Like a fool he roamed bars and nightclubs, and like a fool he dropped his pants for just about anyone who asked. Considering this’d been ten years ago or so, Tomoya’s made his peace about it and moved on. But it doesn’t stop him from staring in confusion when he sees the signboard reading ‘Sexually Transmitted Confessions’ on a door in some nondescript building.

His friend tugs on his sleeve and urges Tomoya to come with him in that buddy-buddy ‘no man goes alone on an adventure’ way of his. And Tomoya, his brows lifting because he’s starting to question having agreed to this at all, ends up allowing himself to be dragged in without much of a fuss.

They’re late, which is obvious in the way the door creaks open at the same time the words ‘great ass’ hover in the air. The facilitator lifts his head and glances at the new arrivals, and Tomoya finds himself grinning sheepishly despite himself and dipping his head in a small greeting. His friend, who’d been the one with intentions to come here in the first place, wastes no time in finding a seat for himself while Tomoya drifts to the snack table.

He can feel the eyes on him--as expected, given his idol status. All Tomoya can do is pray that confidentiality’ll win out in the end, but even then he’s not sure what it is he’s gotten himself into.

When he has to introduce himself and give his story, he’s not really sure what to say. He sits down with crackers in one hand and confusion in the other--his friend to his left and a wavy-haired man to his right (who looked no more enthusiastic than Tomoya did about being here).

Tomoya doesn’t think too hard about it. “I’m Tomoya,” he says casually, if not pleasantly. None of that idol falseness here. “Uh, I’ve seen a couple nasty dicks I nearly sucked, I guess. And I almost fingered this girl who had crabs. Does that count?” An awkward scratch to his nose follows Tomoya’s poorly-worded speech, but he laughs to dispel the uselessness of it.

RWBY RP PROMPTS. //—— status: accepting.