tarottsi

[tarottsi]

ughh, a woman so soft, pliant, and femininely gentle that naoya can’t help but worship the ground she walks on.

worship? that was wrong. just because he keeps tabs on you, appeals to all your needs, and make sure not a single bad thought goes into your head, doesn’t mean he’s smitten.

you see that? you dropped your handkerchief. of course he has to pick it up for you because you’re weak. then he’ll make sure it’s folded, pressed with a small hint of his cologne. the one you complimented before

just be careful next time, okay? he’s not around you 24/7… so he has armed guards around you instead.

[tarottsi]

you people need to send me sacrilegious abomination

i grew up within a catholic community and is surrounded by catholic guilt (not me though but the people around me.)

so uhhh, ogata confessing to a nun about his past. she listens while her kindness seeping into his cold heart. it was like an eureka moment for him. like how can a woman so impoverished in life, abused, and maltreated still managed to have a smile as warm as the sun, as bright as sunflowers, whose laugh as soft as chimes.

and through you he found his salvation. through you, he has witnessed God.

and from him you would indulge in temptation.

[tarottsi]

with a straight back and stiff arms, you hold yourself still as you prepare to receive him. let’s just say your first kiss with ogata doesn’t start well at all. for him, it’s like kissing a blow-up doll (not that he’d admit how he knows why). but it’s somewhat endearing to feel how inexperienced you are.

you clenched your hand. you’re breathing nice and slow, pushing down the anxiety blooming in your lungs. but it lacks movement, lacks life. and though he is tempted to push you down and pry your lips apart with his eager tongue, he’d take the role of a gentle lover, at least for now.

ogata leaned away, eyes scanning and comparing your form before and after the kiss. you were more tense now than when you started. he exhales proudly after seeing his effect on you.

you pick at your skin, “was i good?”

he pushed you down. the gentle lover within him disappears. “needs more practice,” he said.

you tasted chocolate on his tongue.

[tarottsi]

Heyyy ogata fan

Idk if you write for male or gn reader but imagine him with someone that's like usami but more calm and calculating? Ogata slowly realizing how much of a freak you are,,, and strangely liking it

I love the freak4freak trope!!

i will write for a gender neutral reader when i can, please accept my word drabble for now.

and honestly, ogata is a F R E A K. he isn’t strangely liking it. he will justify himself by saying some shitty mindset that “all people are as freaky as him. he’s better because he’s unashamed of it”

okay ogata. whatever you say 🙄 but meeting you, a person who’s outwardly calm but freaky, asserts his mindset. and of course that man loves proving himself to be all so right and all knowing. just be careful with him. he needs that external validation so bad.

but he has his limits too. so when you pull him back to the special room you had for special people like him. he realizes there is such a thing as too much.

just keep it inside the bedroom. outdoing him is his turn off.

[tarottsi]

crime and punishment? warnings: kidnapping. inspired from that liver leaf scene.

könig with a weird fetish to see you struggle and achieve. it starts small, from carrying more things in your bag, then plentiful boxes of pastries at work. slowly but surely he sees your improvement and his fondness for you grows as you improve and achieve despite all odds.

but you’re good. too good. in fact, nothing normal and mundane piques his interest anymore. so he settles to kidnap you instead. keep you in his far off lodge with different trials day by day. all your efforts to escape keep pilling as you add a new skill when he hunts. that is until…

your bloodied figure stares at him from the distance. you have bested him at his own game, but it still wasn’t enough to make him taste defeat. he takes out his camera—not phone— but an heavy duty camera. the one he used to take the pictures of your progress—at the cafe, at the gym, as you walk from work, as he drags you to his car, as he watches you gnaw at the ropes, desperate to escape. he wants it raw, every bit and pixel counted to forever etched your brilliance in physical manifestation.

when he raised his device, a new weapon came into view.

“is that my—“

if he could, he would blink the pain away. but blood pours on the clean white snow as he falls to his knees. this one strike of the arrow shouldn’t be enough, but this injury isn’t the only one. blow after blow, he’s sustained too much injuries to move. his body caves in from your attacks… from the fruit of your hard labor…

so he raised the camera again, ready to take your beauty once more even as iron fills his tongue. no matter how hard the till, admiration fills his soul as he takes his final 24 frames.

[tarottsi]

having depraved thoughts about ghost getting into a niche youtuber turned streamer. there’s just something so nice about having someone whose content is available for him to watch after deployment.

the videos are engaging. it’s homey and if he closed his eyes and succumbed to his touch-starved state, he can imagine your “prepare breakfast with me” videos are actually for him. and you’re at his kitchen, something good and not this ratty old leaking sink and cracked counter.

have you started asmr? you should do asmr. maybe get him into the mood to live and eat right instead of feeding from cans of beer and cup noodles. imagine. early mornings, listening to the crack of crispy bacon. then he’d buy the same tea you drink during streams.

it gets lonely when he’s on leave during his birthday. the loser man had used your birthday videos to celebrate his. isn’t that sad? he paid a good amount for a special birthday message too.

you say simon. it’s always simon. your hands shape into a heart when he donates a good amount per stream. he feels important when you ignore the comments from others, but when he hits send, you always reply to his. always address it to him.

♡ “i had a good day, simon,” ♡

♡ “thank you for the token, simon!” ♡

he’s delusional but it gets him through the day. and you get through your day when you receive gifts from fans—from him.

the purple earrings were from some far off country he was sent in last month. he saw the glimmer from a market stall, and he knows it goes well with the shade of your skin. you wore it on the following stream. the same stream he gave his largest donation yet.

and as always: “thank you simon♡!” makes his days all the brighter.

[tarottsi]

dear god. please grant me this prayer —Ogata H.

you can’t blame ogata for having these thoughts. he was a victim of circumstance beyond his understanding of simple kindness and love. you have to forgive him when his eyes scan your lips, over and over again. could it be as soft as the spring petals resting against his broken jaw? or does it scream in scarlet as it accepts desires from common men?

it wasn’t his fault. women are to blame as they flaunt around with a sickly sweet voice. it flushes down his throat like thick golden syrup, making it harder to breathe. yours was more toxic than anyone else’s. the vibrations uninvitedly crawls up his brain, prodding against the occipital lobe and makes a head-splitting shelter. it doesn’t enter his heart. not in the way poets could describe love, for this was horrid—rancid in every sense of being.

you were too much. heart no longer there, in his ribcage, as you took space in between his lungs— crushing him— making it harder to breathe in your presence.

his body turned cold when you so much as move an inch away from his side. on instinct he shadows just behind you, within arms reach, least he would be a cadaver, moving on stimuli rather than his soul. did he ever have a soul? it was as obscure as the almighty. but your existence, or rather, absence, was ample proof of that; for if you were gone, what else would he be but a corpse endlessly searching for a cause.

he was laying down that cold winter morning. a flu, a god damn flu managed to make the strongest of men fall from their knees and pray for respite. and you were his answered prayer: crafted in the mold of a woman, wiping away the excess heat from his body, changing his clothes, touching him here and there. you can touch him there, there, there all you’d like. just please never let go.

never let him live alone again. could you do that, mom?

[tarottsi]

☆ — "i care about you" (without actually saying it). by @ricesinspo, tag me if using!

— ☆ —

"close your eyes. maybe it might make things a little easier."

"i'm sorry i don't know how to help." they sit next to you. "i'm here if you need anything."

love languages!! learning which ones you enjoy receiving and using them

always going out of their way to make you feel loved / wanted.

to be loved is to be seen

sending random pictures of things that remind them of you. bonus if it doesn't make any sense

little greetings. daily. first thing in the morning.

periodically checking in, especially when you least expect it.

helping you do chores when you're too tired

— ☆ —

[tarottsi]

coming back from the backrooms and uhm… Ogata.

[tarottsi]

Free my man he did all of that but I need to fuck him nasty style

[tarottsi]

knights should let me touch their swords because I'm curious about the craftsmanship, and definitely not so I can flirt using thinly veiled sheath-themed euphemisms

[tarottsi]

[tearing at my hair] no love however brief is wasted no love however brief is wasted no love however brief is wasted

[tarottsi]

and then they cat napped together 🙂‍↕️

print(1) | print(2) ‪‪❤︎‬

[tarottsi]

"If It's Sex You're Looking For..." Designed by Judith Johnson for Hallmark, 1971. Archived from The Peculiar Manicule.

[tarottsi]

x / twitter

[tarottsi]

Theyre all just fucking gaslighting you at the Mactavish family reunion. What do you mean you've been kidnapped, Johnny's been telling us about you for years :) he's got pictures and everything.

[tarottsi]