Chapter Text
Another day of blissful peace between the mountain’s valleys and streams. Rich and plentiful with hearty game and leafy greens; Sugimoto found himself now truly content with the life he led.
Greatly pleased with the buck they'd captured that day, he rubbed at the warm bloat of his sated stomach stuffed full by the gamey flesh packed safely inside.
Truly, by Asirpa's side Sugimoto had never gone hungry again, not in mind, body, or soul. These past seven months after the battle for the gold were like a hazy dream of recovery and rebirth.
Asirpa was growing rapidly by the day as girls her age did; and he felt like a proud father watching over her as she matured into the strong willed woman she was always meant to be. He'd be forever grateful to have helped her through her hardships. And now, he had the privilege of watching her spend her days hunting and running through the hills and forests of her people, protecting the land and spreading knowledge of her culture throughout Japan. She was the biggest achievement of his bruised and bloodied life; a bright spot in the suffocating darkness surrounding his soul.
As for Shiraishi, he'd left them about a month ago, striking out on his own to seek new horizons. Honestly, the poor sap’s probably neck deep in gambling halls and whore houses, but that seemed to suit him just fine. He'd broken off from the group right after they'd made the trip to Tokyo; right after Sugimoto had given the gold to Umeko…
Ume-chan, remarried with her shattered sight repaired long ago by another man—a stranger. She was just as beautiful and stalwart as he remembered, a truly admirable person; the woman he'd loved, never to be seen again. It was better that way, for both of them…
And so that was it. He'd come full circle, Sugimoto's long journey completed, a bloody trail blazed in the youth of his season already beginning to snow over as he settled down into his tranquil life among the Ainu.
Despite the occasional nightmare here and there—flash backs to the brutality of the war and the manic fervor of the gold rush. The loud bang of a rifle splattering blood and brains across the roof of a train. A lifeless corpse tumbling clumsily off the edge with a deafening thud like the dull thump of a blunt and broken blade.
That was the first time he'd ever seen it—a suicide.
…
Aside from that he was adjusting well.
The dark matter in his brain trying desperately to block out the, ‘Why, why, why?’
He kept the burning questions to himself; didn't delve too deep into the dark murky feelings at the bottom of the swamp. Best not to humanize him, drown him deep inside the recesses of his heart until that illusive sniper dissolved into a distant memory, nothing left but the shape of a wildcat in the snow, an imprint of prey long gone.
Sugimoto was fulfilled, sated, satisfied with his new life, no doubt about it he had nothing to complain about, really, honest.
Except for…
Except for hunger, the kind of hunger that can't be cured by the bloody flesh of an Ezo deer. No, what he craved was skin, soft, supple, tender meat he could stroke and rub up against his own; warm wet holes for him to lick and fuck and soil with his greedy tongue and drooling cock.
He'd been practically saintly, celibate for over a year now like a would-be monk in training. He was too focused on the gold, the blood and the pain of their journey to even consider temptations of the flesh.
Simply put, his libido was shot, and afterwards, after all was said and done, Sugimoto was experiencing what could only be compared to a second puberty.
After recovering from all his injuries and making the trip to see Ume-chan, the heavy burden bearing down on him for the past few years was lifted from his beaten body and battered mind; the releasing of which burst open the floodgates of his earthly desires like a raging tsunami.
Suffice to say, this last month in the kotan has been absolute torture. The second circle of hell had opened up right here in Otaru, sucking Sugimoto down into an infernal pit of lust. Day in and day out he was buffeted by violent howling storms of debaucherous daydreams and depraved desires, so twisted and divine it drove him near mad.
Every morning like clock work, he awoke to the aching pulse of his cock throbbing hard and flushed tight to the staunch seam of his pants. He'd groan in utter agony at the lewd sight of it, the fat tip of his dark red prick dribbling out a seemingly endless stream of obscenely sticky pre-cum until his crotch grew visibly damp and tacky to the touch.
‘How disgusting.’ He'd scold himself, gritting his teeth almost bloody as he tried desperately to resist the vile animal-like urge to roll and flex his hips. He'd clench his fingers, blunt nails digging deep into the straw mat beneath him, ripping through its tough fibers in a vain attempt to keep his hands from pumping and playing with his painfully swollen cock. He wanted to hug the plump sensitive glans tight around the snug circle of his thumb and forefinger, wanted to tug the sticky wet foreskin up and down—rub it nice and slow—really milk the heavy curdled cum pooling hot in his balls until that gooey string of cock drool came out thick and spurting from his throbbing piss slit, a hearty squirt for every pull of his cock, up down, up down till he made a mess.
But no.
No, he couldn't, not here, not in the kotan, not next to Huci and Asirpa sleeping so soundly beside him.
But it hurt, it hurt so bad, his eyebrows upturning, lips trembling to hold back a whimper as his face contorted in pure agony alongside the deep angry throb of his swollen balls. They'd grown so heavy and full, clotted with boiling hot cum, congested and turgid and so very tender to the touch.
His entire body was begging for release and yet he continued to stubbornly refuse it. The only reprieve to the madness was received under a malignant sabotage.
Indulgence came on rare occasions, on some mornings he'd awake to the sounds of birds, his body floating in a pleasant haze, heady as he pressed his belly snug against the floor, his hips frothing so sweet and steady back and forth all nice and slow, pressing his cock tight and snug between the sheets.
It felt so good, he couldn't stop, his face digging deep into the hard grains of his pillow, sharp canines biting bloody into his lips as he succumbed to instinct and humped the floor like a rabid dog, a horny mutt rutting and rubbing his cock against the straw matt underneath, relishing in the pressure and texture of his swampy damp fundoshi cradling his eager sloppy prick till he busted thick and sticky like glue inside his pants.
It was always so… Hot. Steamy and sticky, the feel of it churning his dick all slick and gooey, a thick slime encasing his cock and balls snuggled up tight inside the silky cradle of wet cloth like a makeshift pussy or a sloppy drooling mouth and it never failed to have him craving for a second round.
Unfortunately, this ‘occasional indulgence’ was quickly becoming a daily routine.
He tried his best to keep quiet and when it was all over he'd make the walk of shame over to the river, washing the evidence of his lewd behavior downstream, awash with a pitiful despair.
How truly pathetic he was.
A poor, miserable mutt named Sugimoto.
And one might suggest a myriad of solutions.
The first being: ‘Why not marry one of the Ainu at the Kotan?’
There were plenty of homely caring women who'd love to have him as their husband, a flock of them occasionally even followed him around the village when he'd help with repairs or participate in their customs, their comely smiles all but saying they'd treat him well and yet…
They were all in some way shape or form related to Asirpa, at least in Sugimoto's mind, and because of that he couldn't bear to taint them.
Despite his inner growth throughout this journey, ultimately Sugimoto still saw himself as an irrevocably flawed and damaged person. The blood on his hands has stained deep into a red ink, permanently embedded into his skin. Surely his touch would tarnish the pure souls of these peaceful loving people. Undoubtedly, he'd corrupt them, foul and diseased.
No, he just couldn't do it.
Which led him to plan B: Whores.
Otaru had a red light district teeming with them, prostitutes of all shapes and sizes seeping into the red shaded streets. Those dull unassuming houses with their windows blacker than coal burning bright crimson come nightfall, releasing their litter of captive kittens like a magic spell it's ladies of the night were let loose, finally free to roam the streets, meowing left and right at any man who'd happen to pass their way.
And that's where Sugimoto Saichi found himself tonight.
With a full belly and a thumping heart he'd snuck out of the kotan after dinner, leaving behind a sleepy Asirpa to indulge in desires not found in the golden slumber of those peaceful Ainu forests.
Now he stood between life and death, stuck at the wooden archway to hell itself. The thick beams were decorated enticingly with glowing red lanterns creating a clear divide between civilized society and the wicked temptations that lie beyond its crimson gates.
Sugimoto stood stone still, his face cast in beams of bloody light gazing into the void of depravity. He knew naught of this place.
This was more Shiraishi's speed and the thought of that—depressingly—made him hate himself just a little bit more. The fact that he could even compare himself to that shameful guy made him feel like an utterly hopeless loser, his head slumping down even further in defeat as his worn boots began to pivot, ready to turn right back around and trudge up the mountains—back to the kotan, back to Asirpa—where he could feel just a tad bit better about himself.
Heaving a deep sigh of relief—or regret—Sugimoto found himself casting a final glance into the abyss of carnal pleasures only to be met by the gaze of a skilled sniper.
On the other side of the world stood riding hood. He was staring him dead in the eyes, almost too close for comfort. How he'd snuck up on him Sugimoto had no idea—honestly, the uncontrollable surge of hormones was making him lose his edge.
Immediately, the lack of personal space made him want to balk and step back a few paces but he held his ground, meeting Vasily's gaze sharply out of a mutual respect as he endured a flood of violent gory memories, visions of dark eyes and white cloaks, pale skin and sanguine splatters.
Forget about him. He's gone, prey ripped away from his claws at its own volition. Ruined and unfulfilled forever and ever.
If anyone felt the same it had to be this man before him. What was he doing here, now that their mutual quarry—their obsession—was gone?
“Vasi-” He started to say his name hesitantly, only to be interrupted by the firm grab of his hand.
He was bigger than him and Sugimoto was unprepared for the physical contact. Momentarily stunned, he'd inadvertently let himself get dragged along by the silent Russian, plunged forcefully into the sinful world of fleshy delights he so heavily rejected just a moment ago.
And suddenly, he was swept up in a whirlwind of adrenalin, fueled by Vasily's own growing excitement as he ferried him through crowded streets filled to the brim with drunken men and loose women, laughing and groping at each other as they stumbled into those glowing red dens of sordid indecency.
He felt overwhelmed, hiding his flushed face with the brim of his cap, utterly flustered anytime a woman wrapped scantily clad in a sloppily tied kimono brushed tantalizingly up against his chest with a coy, pink lipped smile.
Attempting to maintain some modicum of decency, Sugimoto forced his attention on Vasily, latching on to the simmering pot of annoyance bubbling over inside him—the only way he could distract himself from the turmoil of his own mind.
“H-hey, where are we going?” He raised his voice, practically stumbling over his own feet as he tried to keep up with his captors stride.
He received no response, at least verbally. Instead Vasily tilted his head, those pale blue eyes framed strikingly around his mask and hood burning into his own with a look almost akin to desperation, the unstoppable charisma seeping out of his pores urging Sugimoto to continue following him, no questions asked.
Whatever it was, it seemed important. Sugimoto owed a lot to this man, their shared desire for wildcat blood and the tragic loss of their most coveted prey tying them together in a knot of twisted disappointment.
He was a fellow hunter.
Right then and there Sugimoto resolved to help him as best he could no matter the problem.
Their escapade felt short and so very long at the same time.
He'd been led through back alleys, caked filthy with grime of a sordid variety, the twists and turns almost dizzying Sugimoto into a swirl of disorientation only to be ceased at the stoop of a burning red pyre of a building.
It was quite the dump even for a whore house, peeling paint and growing ivy littering its outer shell, a sun bleached sign standing above its glowing red doors read: ‘Gold Star Soba.’
‘Gold Star my ass, no way this is legit.’ Sugimoto balked, internally scoffing at the ridiculous name and flimsy disguise.
The outer decay of the establishment was sloppily attempting to guise itself under a seductive ring of vermilion lanterns, casting its carcass in a lewd fog of steaming red light as if to beckon them inside. A heated, ‘Come.’ ebbing out from every seam of its core.
And came they went, Vasily stepping through the crimson cloth overhanging the entrance and past the sliding doors only to be met with the mistress of the house.
She was a short, chunky woman smoking a pipe. She was older, well past her prime and wrinkling with age, her fine pale skin littered with moles, a particularly big one finding its home nestled between the fold of her rather large nose and sagging powdered pink cheek.
She was leaning up against the wall behind the front desk, clad in a dark green kimono flipping through this morning's paper as she huffed and puffed away at her pipe like a blackened hearth.
Her dark brown eyes, circled by a halo of green eyeshadow flickered up at them in boredom. She seemed unfazed by their sudden entrance.
Her tone was brazenly familiar as she stood up from her stool with a heavy sigh, “I see your back again, foreigner, here to visit that thing you left behind at my doorstep again?”
‘Thing? What thing?’
Sugimoto looked between Vasily and the mistress, watching him shake his head as if he understood the woman completely.
‘How many times has he been here?’
The questions were overflowing like spring sturgeon swimming upstream. Sugimoto's curiosity was beginning to peak into cautious excitement.
‘What could it be? What could it be?’
Suddenly, he felt eyes raking him up and down, it was the mistress scanning him over like a piece of meat—judging him. Her gaze sent a murky slime sliding onto Sugimoto's skin as she lazily blew out a thick cloud of smoke.
“I see you've brought a friend this time. Poor thing, you're lucky I feel so sorry for it.” She purred, almost mockingly as she turned around to walk down the hall. “Come this way, same room as always.”
She led them down the hall all the way to the back of the house, her feet treading lightly in gentle thumps, a striking contrast to her abrasive and bold personality.
The walk felt like an eternity, almost dream-like. The smoke puffed continuously by the mistress stung his eyes, contributing to the hazy effect, his visibility lowering even further as the hallway clogged thick and heavy with the sweet mist of burning incense.
Sugimoto could feel the adrenalin rising inside him like a swollen river mid storm, rushing and rolling, until finally she stopped at the last door to the left.
The mistress held her hand up to them in a halting motion, freezing both men in place as she cracked the door open to peek her head inside. It was only for a few seconds, her aging voice muttering under her breath a barely audible, “Same spot as always.” before turning to us with that same bored expression; reaching out to take some coin from Vasily before bidding us a flat toned, “Enjoy.”
Watching her form fade down the low lit barren halls before disappearing completely, the deafening sound of Vasily opening the sliding door broke Sugimoto out of his stupor, sending his heart into overdrive from the anticipation.
‘What is it, what is it?’
His brain wouldn't shut up. The whole night was unfolding like a mystery novella you'd find in the weekly paper. He just had to know, had to see.
And when he stepped into the room, cast warm and stuffy with golden light and steamy incense he saw a cat, a bewitching, elusive, accursed cat curled up in the corner of the room, its slender, supple body leaned up against the dark fire-shadowed walls like a nightmarish apparition brought back from the dead. The fabled wildcat who'd stolen his soul had returned.
“Ogata…”
‘Ogata.’
‘Ogata's, here.’
‘Ogata.’
‘Ogata.’
‘Ogata.’
‘Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!”
A burst of bloodlust pulsed through his veins so virile he thought his nose would bleed from the overwhelming pressure. His fists were clenched so hard his blunt nails had begun to pierce through his flesh like the claws of a bear. His face had begun to morph, chapped bitten lips curling up into a rabid snarl, baring the sharp edges of his bloodied fangs like the muzzle of a raging wolf. His eyes lit ablaze, molten gold burning as brilliant as the lanterns littering this tarnished and twisted domain. All this upon Ogata's mere presence; his pure existence in this world drove men towards violence.
Sugimoto was beyond that though. No, he hardly felt himself a man at all. He was a beast, grinding and sharpening his fangs for the kill. His canines ached especially hard, pink gums tingling at the roots begging to bite down deep and feast upon the pale skin set before his blazing bright eyes—pupil’s full and slitted and hungry.
The hunt is back on, their eternal game, perpetually played forever and ever. As long as this cat continues to breathe and thrive and taunt him so brazenly Sugimoto could continue to indulge in this greedy, savage craving for slaughter.
‘I won't let you slip away again. You can't run, not from me, never again!’
The chemical reactions were bursting brilliantly inside his brain like sanguine fireworks. Adrenalin dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, happy hormones churning together into a toxic slush so potent it unknowingly brought a twisted grin of arousal to his peeling lips.
Suddenly he was so thirsty, his heart drumming so fast he could hear the brutal beat of it between his ears. He felt like he'd just gotten back from that suicide march up on hill 203, panting and frothing bloody phlegm at the mouth like a rabid dog, excited by the kill, his nasty cock so fucking hard and drooling inside his pants pressing up painfully against the bloodied soiled seam, eager for a taste of mangled flesh.
The twisted parade of shit, piss and entrails, the sheer cacophony of debauchery and debasement he wanted to inflict upon Ogata so utterly carnal and perverted was surely seeping off his skin—through the very pores of his being—like a noxious gas. There was nowhere near enough sweet and seductive incense to cover up the acrid cloud of Sugimoto's wrath, his bloodlust and unbounded insanity pooling in the room like a dense malevolent fog alongside the rancid smell of semen seeping inside the bowels of this tainted whore house.
If his head wound had never healed he'd undoubtedly be leaking, spurting out the chemical cocktail swirling inside his boiling brain like a venomous viper, infecting everyone around him commanding them all to kill and maim and torture his oh so coveted prey.
Thankfully, or perhaps unnervingly, that was not the case. Not everyone is like him—a decaying creature in human form.
Vasily seemed of sound mind, the bulk of his body pushing against Sugimoto, preventing him from dead sprinting towards Ogata like a wolf mid chase.
And like a hound hot on the trail of bloodied prey he found himself bearing his fangs, barking back at Vasily in a grizzly feral growl, “Let me go, I have to kill him!”
He was out of his mind, every cell howling inside his pulsing and famished for flesh, vibrating at a dreadfully agonizing falsetto, its siren song compelling him to the point of brandishing his bayonet against his would-be captor, a murder of passion about to occur if not for the grip of Vasily's hand around his chin forcing him to look deeper into those dark doll like eyes.
One, two, three minutes passed with no reaction from Ogata whatsoever.
Dull, lifeless… His working eye lacked the shine of a living person more akin to the fake beside it. His skin was even paler than usual, pallid and ashy like a corpse—bloodless. The weak rise and fall of his chest seemed the only indicator of his continued attachment to this world, a machine barely functioning, stuck in a suspended state of animation just waiting to break down and burn out like a dying flame.
Upon closer inspection he resembled a broken doll. Chipped and tarnished, he'd obtained a massive gash on his forehead strikingly similar to the one he'd bestowed upon Sugimoto. It was like a crack in a piece of porcelain, glued together jagged and misaligned, healed yet irreparable, never to be the same again. There was beauty in its karma, poetry in living flesh and Sugimoto wondered if Ogata understood the irony of his own actions, if he understood anything at all…?
Sugimoto felt a shiver strike up his spine, goosebumps breaking out across his damp and sweaty flesh as a wave of discomfort washed over him.
The longer he gazed upon Ogata's broken form the more uncanny he became and soon enough a noticeable feature among many became strikingly obvious, his stature. He looked… smaller, not in weight alone—although it was obvious he'd lost quite a bit of muscle mass since he'd last seen him—but in overall size. It was odd but it looked as if he was keeping his arms and legs tightly tucked against his body, almost as if to hide them… as if to make it look like he'd lost… his limbs…
Was he…? Did he lose his limbs? Surely not!
That was unthinkable! Unfathomable! Right? Right!
But he'd fallen off the train, after he'd shot himself. Who's to say they hadn't gone clean off under the rails? Or perhaps they were broken? His Bones poking out through the skin snapped in half like brittle sticks of ghostly ivory glowing crimson and hot like an iron poker through pallid clammy skin. Poor unfortunate Ogata, trampled and stepped upon like a forgotten toy left to rot and decay among the leftover carnage of battle.
There was a story here, one he had to hear before he dealt the final blow, it was only natural to learn how it all transpired, the miraculous resurrection of a wildcat recorded through art before its brutal slaughter. Truly a fable fit for an Ainu legend.
Sugimoto had recently spent a tremendous amount of time ignoring his urges but still, denying his ravenously bloodthirsty instincts at this very moment was the most challenging task he'd ever had take on.
With a deep exhale, he slowly untensed his muscles, his hackles dropping in submission as he settled into Vasily's arms.
‘Calm, calm, stay calm and relax.’
He had to repeat it, over and over until it became a reality; the wide set of his slitted pupils returning to normal as he cast Ogata from his line of sight. Instead he turned to face Vasily, patting his shoulder and nodding at him reassuringly as a sigh to release him.
Vasily seemed unsure, turning his gaze from Sugimoto to Ogata and back before finally loosening his iron grip.
A stalemate had thankfully formed and Sugimoto let himself be led to the kotatsu in the middle of the room.
They communicated through drawings like always. Vasily seemed to perpetually be carrying a pencil and paper around and his drawings were so well done it was easy to understand him.
A train.
Ogata on the ground, bleeding out.
His bones, broken, sticking out of the skin, irreparable—guess he was right on that one.
Vasily lifting him up.
A hospital.
A bone saw.
The rest, well… He got the gist from what the mistress had said. Ogata was living here, taken under the wing of the empathetic ladies of night through order of Vasily's coin.
And of course, a quick reveal of his pockets showed that he was running out and fast. He seemed haggard, depressed even. Perhaps he was home sick? Or perhaps, he felt defeated by the situation?
Ogata seemed… hollow… catatonic even; unaware of the world around him to the point of lifelessness. The wound on his forehead appeared healed albeit ugly but perhaps he'd struck something vital?
He was quiet, so quiet it could only be described as eerie, only the sounds of his soft breathing letting them know he was alive. But was he? No limbs, living only off the kindness and coin of others, unable to take care of himself in the slightest. Never again able to hold his gun, so precious to him.
And yet, Sugimoto still felt threatened, subconsciously convinced he was being tricked, just waiting for that sneaky cat to pounce at him from the corner with that signature mocking grin of his. His sick laughter would reverberate around the room as he called his name ‘Immortal Sugimoto’, their fervor for each other's flesh mixing together into a wild melody of gore and ecstasy as they feverishly clashed for the final time.
Yes, yes! They'd fight, Ogata would die ripped apart and bloodied raw between Sugimoto's teeth just as he should have been all those months ago aboard that train. It was their destiny, meant to be, that's why Ogata had lived, had come back to him. He had to make things right!
No.
…
No, arms.
No, legs.
No hint of sentience to be seen.
What battle was there to be fought?
The war was over, the gold rush had ended, and Ogata Hyakunosuke is dead.
This lifeless corpse before him was more an object than a person now, a sack of flesh and bones waiting to rot away in this filthy room admists the pits of hell.
He was disgusting. Unbearable to witness, so incredibly pitiful it bordered on crippling to the beholder.
Even Vasily seemed unable to withstand being in Ogata's presence any longer, the decay of his being poisoning the cold sniper's heart. His prey was dead, never again would he be able to battle him in their game of guns.
It must be painful, agonizing even, he'd felt that despair as well, when he'd thought Ogata had died, not once but twice now.
"Get better, get all better so I can kill you.’ He murmured it husky, dripping dark and deep with a lust for feline gore like an accursed prayer admist the snow.
He liked his meat fresh, in top condition for his teeth to pierce bloody and raw, his claws raking through virile flesh screaming and crying, punching him black and blue in its struggle to survive.
Vasily was a man of similar tastes.
But he was also an honorable man.
Saving his enemy, taking pity on him, caring for him for all these months, but every man has his limits. The spell had broken, with the arrival of Sugimoto he could finally go home, entrusting the rest to his fellow hunter. The dirty cleanup of the remains left behind for Sugimoto's rabid appitite.
Ogata's fate was now held in Sugimoto's hands, Vasily leaving him with a parting gift of two drawings, two options as he cast a final ardent glance at Ogata's lifeless form—so melancholic, defeated—before silently leaving the room.
Ogata did not look his way, staring blankly at the rotting walls in front of him, unaware of the choice laid out before his executioner.
Life or death.
Vasily was an honorable man.
Sugimoto was not.
At least, when it came to Ogata. He'd even eat his lifeless corpse, bones and all.
Yes, he'd said it before and he'd say it again. When it came to Ogata he was depraved. A beast trapped tight in human skin.