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Ogata’s morning routine was simple:
- Pretend to sleep past his first alarm.
- Get up after the second.
- Let user BacVas know he was a disappointment to his bloodline.
- Shower and dress.
If timed right, Ogata was out his apartment door in under twenty minutes, give or take the amount of time it took him to discern a proper insult in Russian. It was a strict routine, and deviations were unwelcome, just as pestering from his coworkers was not tolerated.
Thus, when there was no message from BacVas to respond to one morning, Ogata’s routine suffered.
Ogata blinked at the dim light from his phone, pushing sleep further from his eyes. Yet, the lack of new notifications remained. It was jarring – such a simple thing to overlook in the eyes of many, but one that itched at Ogata’s awareness. No blink of a return message to rouse him from proper sleep.
It should’ve been a victory: albeit, with no fanfare or congratulations, but a victory nonetheless. No response meant an argument won, a bastion against the idiocy that resided within the world online, and, namely, somewhere in Russia. Yet, only confusion at this disruption filled him, and it wasn’t until his third alarm passed had Ogata realized his morning routine was really – and truly – fucked .
Thoughts swirled in the coming hours, enough so Ogata’s normal bitter bite was regarded as especially temperate by the grating hound that was Usami. Ogata chose not to grace the taunts thrown his way with retorts; he’d ration suspension was in place if he had another outburst at work.
Had he given up? It had been a handful of months since Ogata had originally stumbled upon BacVas ’ blog: a indiscernible, austere mess of art and videos about rifles, historical anecdotes, and other various scribbles. The opinions of Vasily – as the man had volunteered his name at one point – were egregious, in Ogata’s own opinion. Citing the M1891 as the superior rifle design of turnpoint 1900 was ridiculous, and an insult to the craftsmanship of several other rifle designers of the time period.
Adverse as Ogata was to interaction, most especially on the cesspool that was the internet, the claim was enough for him to practice his laden secondary language. Several of Vasily’s following opinions equally affronted Ogata, and a train of argument was created within a single day, further growing with each passing week.
Vasily ground his way into Ogata’s routine. Respond to him in the morning, once during lunch, and several more times through the evening before bed. Ogata could claim the argument withheld, but their conversation had long since devolved into various insults and threats. No matter the fact presented, Vasily stayed firm on his stances, leading to their current arrangement.
The insults were mild, by Ogata’s standard. An exact IP address of his location meant nothing when said reply was little more than a bluff. Retorts were simple: calling said bluff, and then returning slander with viscous bite. Ogata was by no means tech savvy, so his insults came only at the expense of what he could find simply on Vasily’s page or through various image and word searches. Vasily was far more creative, but nothing that truly wounded Ogata more than a superficial blemish upon his pride. Without meeting in person, there was little that could be said that could overshadow his own skill and prove Vasily’s words correct.
There was a form of camaraderie, Ogata could admit. Despite his often, and intense, exasperation at the opinions of Vasily, the Russian was more intelligent and talented than any other person Ogata had the displeasure of interacting in his life thus far. To lose that – though perhaps Ogata could admit the loss of a reply for a single day was a damning overreaction – was something the man would have rathered to avoid.
The dredged cloud of a sour temper followed Ogata throughout the day, and into the darkness of his home. A morning routine passed broken – the routine of his lunch followed in much the same way. He suspected, with a note of disdain, that his evening routine would be just the same. It left him bitter and callous, far more so than usual.
Flipping the lights on was a futile action, but necessary. For as much as he wished to sleep and restart the day, to attempt his routine once more, the motions of his evening routine would need to take place. One last attempt to right the wrongness of the day.
A stray hand flipped the lights, illuminating his meager homestead. It was similar as ever, borderline untouched apart from weekends, in which he did maintenance upon his various firearms while perched across his couch. An old Arisaka sat nestled within a towel across his table, a relic from his weekend he did not finish. He had half a mind to finish it tonight, but instead turned towards his bedroom to finish his routine.
Nonetheless, Ogata wavered just before stepping into the hallway, eyes flickering back to the rifle. The bolt was pushed down, rather than left angled upwards to be whisked out for cleaning. Very rarely did he leave a firearm mid cleaning session, but he was particular about how he left them – it helped his memory.
The bolt could not have fallen. Due to its angle, it had to have been pulled by a force opposite of gravity to sit in the position it had taken. None gust of wind or slow swivel of gravity could have pushed it so.
Ogata’s gaze sharpened. He tracked over the living room, a single overhead light illuminating little. The corners were drenched in deep shadows – if not hidden within another room, a clue would be found there.
It was within the last corner that Ogata found his mark, swamped in the dark. Any other day, and Ogata would have been liable to miss him, but his break in routine left him jumpy in anything that corralled his day further into doom. A casual stance was his first appraisal. The man was dressed in simple blacks, a similarly colored mask adorning the lower half of his face. Though, even with little skin to show for it, it was obvious the man was a foreigner – his light colored eyes, tall stature, and sliver of curled hair poking from its hideaway indicated as much.
Ogata simply blinked slowly at the intruder. He looked ill-prepared for a robbery if he was a burglar. Kidnapping was a possible summation, but anyone who knew anything about his family background knew it was futile to kidnap the illegitimate Hanazawa son. That only left him with a third option: that perhaps the man was there for his own twisted version of fun. An uncommon choice, but not impossible. Ogata knew one such person even within his day-to-day life, as much as reflecting on Usami left him feeling disgust.
Keeping his eyes trained to the unmoving man, Ogata calculated his odds. The Arisaka wouldn’t be loaded – he could bank on the intruder being stupid enough to not realize that despite having evidently picked up the rifle. There were several loaded handguns around his room, but if the intruder had inspected them as he had the rifle, there was a chance he changed the placements, costing Ogata precious time. Out his front door was certainly an option as well, but given the other man’s larger stature, he’d be caught without the defense of a weapon for advantage. It would depend largely upon how intelligent he pegged the man.
A choice was made for Ogata, despite his turmoil: a revolver leveled at his chest. He was pinned.
Despite the alarm that resounded in his head at the danger, recognition clicked. The revolver was a memorable one – an M1895. At seven shots, Ogata had always wished to get his hands on one before. He’d never be satisfied with a replica, though, and had never found the time or money to acquire a working one.
But a simple armed burglar carrying an antiquated revolver? Unlikely. Especially not with a revolver Ogata knew well.
“Vasily.” Ogata greeted. Said man was difficult to recognize with his face covered, but the clues compounded with what Ogata had seen of the other visually matched his memories. Strain left his shoulders for half a second, relaxing at the thought, before returning with force. Familiarity meant nothing when said familiarity was built upon malice.
The threats had never been a bluff. The thought was equal parts thrilling and alarming.
Movement punctuated Vasily further, as a rifle was whisked from behind his back. This one, Ogata recognized well from his constant bickering online. The Mosin was bright, even in the low light, lacking the rough knicks of constant use, and Ogata was swift to bridge the part between him and Vasily at a motion of the revolver.
In theory, the M1895 could’ve been snuck into Japan amid Vasily’s person. Some trick of customs would allow it to cross international waters. The Mosin-Nagant, though? No – it had to have been acquired within the country. It was a standard model, far too large to be hidden through customs in any fashion. Ogata was suitably impressed, despite the current situation.
Vasily’s grip did not change between the rifle and revolver as Ogata expected, however. Instead, the rifle moved fluidly as it twirled, aimed stock-first towards Ogata. A single hand held the forestock, causing the entire firearm to dip from the lack of distributed weight.
It was an impressive display of strength, but laden with naiveté. No matter the efficiency of a revolver, Ogata knew his skill well enough that he would be able to defend himself with a rifle in hand. To aim true, even in close range against a smaller weapon, was a simple matter.
Ogata’s train of thought, however, was derailed by a muffled voice interjecting his musings: “It’s not loaded.”
Vasily’s voice was deeper than recordings let on, and it took a moment of adjustment for Ogata to process the spoken Russian. A grin split Ogata’s face, the man switching his gaze from the rifle to Vasily’s own. Only a glimmer of determination met him, trepidation nor overconfidence present. Of course Vasily wouldn’t be so careless, his writings indicated otherwise. This indeed was the man that matched Ogata’s wit on occasion. Maybe he was not as naïve as others Ogata had the discourtesy of interacting with in the past.
It was a simple matter to reach out a hand to accept the rifle by its stock. It was weighty, and once more Ogata held fleeting appreciation for Vasily’s skill to hold the firearm at an unbalanced weight. Beneath its majority-wooden encasing, the weight of the barrel burnt into Ogata’s palms. He’d never had the pleasure of holding a Mosin-Nagant before, its artistry a sight palpable at such a short range. For as much as Ogata's argument never ceased with the other regarding the quality of the Mosin-Nagant compared to Arisaka’s superiority, Ogata could appreciate the craft of the weapon. It was one that Ogata would handle with no complaint, in any other situation. A rifle was a rifle, and the one in his hands was a thing of beauty.
Gun in hand, Ogata sank to the floor, legs caging around the rifle’s stock as he moved his examination from trigger guard to muzzle. Dull eyes leapt upwards, abandoning sight to feel only with touch, ears ringing from the slight clink of the metal buttplate across his floor. It was music to him – no more, no less. The fine varnish upon the forestock indicated the M1891 was an ornate one; Ogata’s opinion of Vasily swelled with each pass of his fingers across the grain. Ogata’s eyes met ones laced with frost, stuttering swiftly between Ogata’s own gaze and his tactical observance. “You came all the way here, thinking seeing this in person would change my mind?”
Ogata failed to voice his appreciation for the rifle; to give an inch would only encourage the Russian further. Nonetheless, he would wring as much enjoyment out of this situation as he could. His hand trailed down to ring the trigger guard as the other held steady across the stock, dragging the rifle slowly across the floor to bring it close to himself.
Impassive baritone answered him. “You’re stubborn. I don’t think I can change your mind.”
A correct assessment, albeit lacking in what Ogata truly asked. Ogata slid his hand back up the body of the rifle, palming the barrel with short strokes. A short pause was given to slide of his finger within the groove that followed parallel to the chamber, Ogata’s grin growing more viscous with each pass. This time, Vasily’s eyes stayed trained on the motion entirely.
“Oh? Then why did you come here?” A flick of his thumb encircled the barrel. “If you're here to kill me, you’ve done a poor job so far.”
The wildcat’s gaze caught the slight shuffle in Vasily’s stance. The bob of his throat, hidden as it was. The slightest of unnatural exhales. Even if there was not outwardly damning evidence yet, Ogata was having an effect amid his fun. How to worm his way from the situation was clear.
“To see if–” Ogata ducked his head as Vasily began, maintaining eye contact, lips just barely grazing the muzzle before the Russian stuttered to a stop. A tongue darted between Ogata’s parted lips, tasting the front sight for a fraction of a second before darting back inside his mouth. Metallic, as expected, a cold reminder of the firearm between his legs. Certainly not the warmth Vasily might’ve been imagining.
Hauling the rifle closer, the muzzle pushed with ease into Ogata’s awaiting mouth, stock finding placement against his cock that had slowly begun to twitch to life. The minute twitch in Vasily’s arm began to increase as Ogata tongued his way down the barrel, stopped short by the wood of the forestock. There was little exposed barrel on the Mosin, and a noise of disappointment inadvertently left his lips. His focus pulled taunt between observing Vasily’s minute reactions and focus upon his task.
The M1895 held within Vasily’s grasp openly trembled with the beginning slide of Ogata’s mouth: up, the flick of his tongue when reaching the front sight, down, a low hum from his throat, up once more, the dip of his tongue within the barrel, repeat. The taste was overwhelming – raw metal and a hint of oil. Even from a distance, Ogata could see Vasily’s pupils blow wide at the action.
The showcase was not without its own effects on Ogata. The firm wood pressed against his cock left a pleasurable twist in his gut with each thrust of the rifle further into his mouth. Open as it was, it was difficult to keep his jaw spread wide across the barrel. Certainly, a cock would have spread his mouth wider, but appraisal of a rifle in this way suited Ogata’s taste far greater. The hint of danger – the allure that the rifle had taken countless lives before Ogata treated it as mere extension of a man was overwhelming.
Ogata spread his lips wide, raising himself to hover just above the front sight with a manic grin. Spit continued to connect him to the rifle below, Ogata briefly dropping a hand from the stock to hurriedly unbutton his pants from behind the rifle. It required nimble fingers with far more dexterity than Ogata had, but a moment of struggle relieved his aching cock from beneath his pants and above his waistband in a flourished rush.
He tilted his head in question at Vasily’s frozen form. The cooled wood of the Mosin-Nagant resettled flush to his hips, the pressure drawing a quiet hiss from Ogata’s lips. “You going to finish that thought?”
In the same breath, Ogata dipped back down, mouthing to the side of the barrel. His lips felt sticky with saliva and oil, metal losing its soothing coldness as it slowly began to be warmed by Ogata’s own ministrations. In tandem, Ogata returned his hand to palm the rifle’s stock against his freed cock, moving his hips in minute twitches to work himself to complete hardness. The jolts of pleasure spurned him forward, and a light gasp further escaped his mouth.
A breathy exhale began Vasily’s reply, the M1895 finally falling to his side in favor of enjoying the show before him. “It was to see if I could shut you up.”
Ogata hummed in answer. Attention was now undivided, but he briefly mourned the loss of the revolver’s aim. He dipped further along the rifle, choosing to draw a tongue across the grain of the wood. It tasted strange – foreign to the taste of metal and oil. Perhaps its taste was a result of the varnished finish, and the urge to lift the firearm and taste his precum slicked across the stock like it was its own form of varnish was strong. Ogata, nonetheless, withheld himself just as he withheld rutting against the rifle frantically. Smooth and slow, nothing more than occasional flares of pleasure would allow him to keep his wits. Evidenced by the bulge within Vasily’s own pants, Ogata was not the only one with clouded judgment.
Attention is what he sought from Vasily, after all. Whether through insult or taunt, each interaction led the Russian into his life, and evidently, his home. Ogata would be nothing but a gracious host in this regard.
“You've done a terrible job at that,” Ogata began. His hips stilled with his words, in its stead a palm slid down the varnish of the forestock. It was a rather crude examination, but one he enjoyed nonetheless, both visually and tactically.
Fingers skittered across the bolt. It was cool to the touch, not yet warped by the grasp of a hand. Care was given to the slow slide of the bolt backwards, the tin noise of metal across metal being a mere parallel to skin on skin. A withered grin snaked itself once more from Ogata’s expression, loosely fixated upon the motion. With it, the chamber was left barred to the world as Ogata whisked the remainder of the bolt from its resting place, swiftly depositing it to his side. He’d have more time to examine it later – more pressing examinations laid before him.
Ogata flicked his gaze back to Vasily. The movement was caught and shared, void meeting crisp blue. The grin held, just as the sights did, and Vasily was the first to break. Eyes moved once more to display before him. At that, a flick of Ogata’s wrist dipped his fingers within the chamber of the rifle, oil much more apparent within a moving part than the barrel had been.
A noise sprung from Ogata’s throat as his fingers began to dip in and out of the chamber, accompanied by the slightest whisk of his skin plunging between metal hollow. It lacked the tone of a whimper, yet the uptilt of impression and satisfaction swelled with the noise. Whether Vasily took it as a groan was of little importance to Ogata. The action was lewd in of itself, a facsimile of a promise.
“You didn’t lie, this really isn’t loaded.” His fingers met no resistance with each push into the chamber, no bullet to slink against the pads. Unfortunate, in Ogata’s eyes. Without the anticipation of a bullet loaded within the rifle, it meant there was little current danger beyond Vasily’s physicality. A barrel pressed to his eye was far more appealing than the lack of one. A drive in stakes – his dick twitched at the thought. He had half a mind to request Vasily to return the M1895’s aim.
Even with his thoughts unvoiced, Vasily harshly twitched in place. It was a waver, most certainly. Whether or not he would act on it remained to be seen.
That same musing, however, was answered in tandem with Ogata laying a kiss once more upon the barrel. Vasily took a step, minute movement faltering for half a second before resuming pace as Ogata flickered his gaze to watch with an impassive expression. Disdain sat swelled into his gut, replacing the stokes of a fire that had simmered against the varnished wood above. Ogata clutched the Mosin tighter within his grasp, anticipating Vasily to shirk the rifle away. If the man intended to have more than just a visual performance, the rifle would need to stay.
Expected, Vasily towered above Ogata with his face mired in shadow, less than a foot between each man. The black mask adorning him did much to hide the Russian’s expression beyond his blown pupils. Rather than a hand grasping for the rifle as Ogata had predicted, however, it slid to the loops of his mask, tugging it free.
The same face Ogata had encountered frequently online greeted him. There was little difference between seeing it in person and on a screen, beyond the light dusting of red sitting high upon his cheeks. A slight part between Vasily’s lips indicated his disjointed breath, more so than the rapid movement of his chest. Ogata spared a thought to how those same lips would look wrapped around his preferred Arisaka – he’d certainly enjoy the show as Vasily currently was.
Ogata hummed at the sight before him, head tilted back to take in the man above him. His hand slowed, attention sequestered by Vasily’s gaze, waiting for the other to strike. Vantage was at a distance, both in armament and sight; Vasily would not have closed the gap without cause.
A foot nudged itself against the rile. Ogata frowned in turn, tightening his grip even further as the Mosin was dragged from its residence against his flushed cock. Nonetheless, his gaze stayed locked within Vasily’s own, examining the expression for clues rather than to watch Vasily’s actions below. His confidence in his reaction time was satisfactory enough to afford the misstep.
Vasily was the first to break their stalemate. His eyes flickered first to the spit covered barrel. A finger shifted to lovingly caress the muzzle, circling twice before a thumb rubbed slowly against the front sight.
Ogata’s breath hitched. His eyes stayed trained upwards, but the action was close enough to follow in his periphery. The way the M1891 was being treated was a reflection of Ogata’s own cock in this instance, that much was clear. Amusement flashed across Vasily’s face at the reaction.
However, before a finger slipped into the barrel itself, Vasily pulled back. Frustrated by the pause, Ogata glowered at the man above. What was the point of his participation if he was going to continue to stand? At the very least, he could’ve returned the revolver as a threat.
Frustration gave way to more bewilderment. The same boot nudged the side of the Mosin once more, sliding it to further press against one thigh of Ogata’s. It sat far enough that cold air skimmed across his cock with no hindrance. Ogata’s brows drew together in confusion at the further insistence.
“I’m not letting go,” Ogata clarified, digging for Vasily’s aim. If the other wanted the rifle gone, he wouldn’t get it now that the firearm was within his clutch. For as much as he mocked the weapon online, it was one of the few things he found akin to beauty.
A hand slicked with Ogata’s own spit suddenly slid into his hair, yanking his head to crane further back. His reaction time was paltry – annoyance ticked in his chest at himself. The feeling, however, was soothed slightly by the spike of pleasure from his hair being tugged. Eyes bore into his, blown dark enough that they almost paralleled Ogata’s own natural color. “I didn’t ask you to.”
Head angled as it was, Ogata was forced to keep his gaze upwards, eyes unable to trail past Vasily’s chest. The grip was tight, stinging no matter how far Ogata craned backwards to relieve the pressure. Having himself manhandled was alluring in some regards, but he huffed below his breath. Leaving his imagination to the challenge was not what he preferred.
Lips parted. Another question was needed if Vasily was not going to provide any concrete answers. Yet, the unspoken question halted before it trilled from his throat. Pressure, marked starkly different from that of the Mosin’s stock, pressed atop his cock. It was even, overlaying over the vast majority of him, ridged and heavy as it bore down with far more weight than the comforting press of the rifle had been.
“Ah–” Ogata failed to suppress the cry that sprung from his lips the moment the heeled boot ground into his cock. His eyes shut on instinct, sparked fire crawling from his stomach. The mix of pain and pleasure was compounded by the automatic jerk of his head forward, impeded by the hand within his hair tugging him back once more.
Half a second of reprieve was gifted to Ogata, hardly long enough for him to peel his eyes back open and demand to know what Vasily was doing, before the pressure returned. It was far more intense, but perhaps it was Ogata’s own mind tricking him into thinking so. Once more, he jerked roughly at the pain, unable to keep himself from trembling at the flood of melt in his veins. A strangled noise fell from Ogata once again, this time punctuated by Vasily’s heel grinding down. His jaw cracked as he twitched at the action, unable to stop the wracks jerking him as he came, spurting white onto the boot that covered him and onto his stomach.
His hips shifted upwards into the pressure, moving in time with each spurt from his cock, trying to wring the last vestiges of pleasure by rutting into the boot above. A whine wound itself from Ogata as his orgasm abated, leaving his limbs to loosen around the Mosin Nagant. A single hand dropped to loosely encircle the ankle of the foot still pressed onto him.
Vasily’s own hand dropped its hold like he had been branded. With its release, Ogata lolled forward, caught only by the prop of the rifle across him. The boot followed, releasing Ogata’s cock from its pressure as it slipped from Ogata’s encircled hand. A full body twitch and slow exhale from Ogata followed it.
Silence reigned between the two, punctuated only by the soft pants Ogata increasingly began to control. Embarrassment crept up his spin in turn, and his head remained bowed to avoid the knowing gaze of the other. He had hardly even rutted against the rifle, and simply stepping on him had gotten him off – it was like he was a teenage virgin, getting off from a single touch from his girlfriend. It was pitiful.
Vasily’s voice broke his turmoil. “Did you just–”
“Shut up,” Ogata’s bite was vicious as he spit the words in Russian. He wouldn’t bear to have Vasily mock him over this. He’d throw the other man from his apartment in an instant, danger of retaliation aside.
The creak of his floorboards was the only warning Ogata received before the boots in his peripherals transformed into a crouched figure. A swift hand dipped to his softening cock, and Ogata jerked back instantly, retightening on his hold on the Mosin to whip it upwards.
Vasily yelped as the stock smacked into his arm. Grip shifted as Ogata made to shove the plated butt into Vasily’s nose before the barrel of the M1895 suddenly leveled with his right eye.
“Remember that this one is loaded,” Vasily bit out through gritted teeth, free arm rolling in place to abate the pain of the strike. Even with the movement, the revolver stayed in place, and Ogata’s gaze grew fuzzy at straining his eyes to focus on it. For as much as Ogata loved taunts, he withheld his commentary that he would’ve preferred if Vasily had done this earlier.
Vasily’s aborted reach resumed, Ogata held still by the threat of the revolver hovering parallel with his head. Leaning back was no longer an option, either – the warning was unvoiced, but Ogata was not inept enough to know an order to stay still was issued. Instead, he chose to watch with rapt interest as Vasily swiped fingers across his soiled shirt, collecting the little cum that hadn’t sunk into the fabric yet.
For the second time that day, Vasily surprised Ogata. He’d expected his jaw to be pried open and fed his own release – something to humiliate him even further. Instead, mess-covered fingers slid into a different mouth. Vasily’s eyes did not meet his own, instead languishing into a distant expression as he licked the release from each finger in turn. It resembled that of a cat licking its paw clean, Ogata mused.
“Gross,” Ogata deadpanned. Vasily seemed to lack an aversion to verbal hostility, thus the revolver posed little threat at the words. Though, that had been wishful thinking on Ogata’s part: his miscalculation was evident at the pistolwhip he received in response. The pain was instant and dull, cracking spikes upon his old jaw injury. A halted breath left him as his head was pushed to the side by the force, before being corrected straight by Vasily’s grip. Fingertips dug against his skin, the creaking in his jaw increasing tenfold. Unimpressed eyes met Ogata’s own.
Vasily dropped the revolver from sight, sliding his grip from jaw to sleeked hair. The movement jostled his old injury once more, and Ogata withheld a wince. “You need to learn when to shut up.”
Hair now clutched within Vasily’s grasp, Ogata was unable to avoid his head being yanked backwards as the other man stood. Vision angled as it was, he was unable to avoid the trepidation that sparked up his spin when the M1895 disappeared from his sightline, punctuated only by shifts from Vasily.
“What are you–” Once more Ogata found himself struck, this time a gasp being wretched from his chest at the blow. Traitorous as it was, he felt his spent cock twitch weakly at the pain.
A shove – much more gentle in nature than any other touch of Vasily’s had been – pushed Ogata’s head level with Vasily’s hips. “You’ll be quiet this way.”
Vasily’s intention was clear as Ogata blinked the blurring of pain from his eyes. It seemed his revolver had disappeared briefly to unclasp his pants, drawing out a rather impressive girth from beneath the confines of the fabric. For as much as it wounded his pride, Ogata could admit the other man was larger than him, obviously so.
The appraisal was alarming as much as it evoked envy within him. Using the rifle as a show hardly set an ache within his jaw, but Vasily had control of the situation currently. Ogata kept his mouth firmly shut. To speak risked another hit, but also it was evident what Vasily wanted of him.
Said man tutted at Ogata’s resistance. “And after I got you off? Not that it needed much work.”
Indignation wormed its way up Ogata’s throat. Insulted over his body – he couldn’t stand for it. The smug grin lighting Vasily’s face indicated he knew as much, mirth light in his eyes. Ogata’s jaw clicked from the tension, tendons tightening as he resisted snapping at the other.
A beat passed as each man resisted: Vasily would wait for Ogata’s crack in disposition, and Ogata kept his refusal to open his mouth. Each stubborn in their own ways, a parallel to their interactions online.
Vasily moved first. A thumb smoothed itself across Ogata’s lip, catching on cracked skin. “I’ll let you keep the guns.”
Ogata’s breath caught, his hands tightening instinctually on the rifle still neglected within his grip. That was quite the offer – Mosin’s were expensive to come by, especially in the condition as perfect as Vasily’s. Despite the slight to his pride, the reward was worth the momentary loss.
Victory was ceded to Vasily, rather than Ogata that day. Ogata unhinged his jaw at his snap decision, darting his tongue to lap at the thumb still placed upon his lip. It was salty – a stark contrast to the oil and metal of the Mosin Nagant.
He’d hardly registered the shift of Vasily’s grasp fisted back in his hair before Ogata’s mouth was filled. It was far more overbearing on his senses than the rifle had been – his mouth pushed wide around Vasily’s girth, the scent of sweat replacing the light, oiled tone that the Mosin had left lingering. Despite his aggression earlier, Vasily’s movements were practiced and careful as he pumped his length against the roof of Ogata’s mouth.
This continued, Vasily’s cock spilling pre-cum onto Ogata’s lax tongue, mouth used shallowly rather than abused as Ogata had expected. Nevertheless, he held still as his senses were filled with nothing but the other man, refusing to give Vasily the satisfaction that he had performed with the rifle minutes earlier. Vasily’s trump card had been offered via the guns – to demand more of Ogata would require more incentive.
Languid pace punctuated Vasily’s thrust, no more than a few inches entering Ogata’s mouth at a time to rub against the ridges of his mouth. A noise of irritation left Ogata. If Vasily was going to put him through the ache of his jaw being stretched as wide as it was, treating him as if he was fragile was another insult stacked on top. Throwing caution to the wind, he swiftly clutched one of Vasily’s clothed hips, attempting to drag the other man further into his mouth.
“Fine,” Vasily huffed, knocking Ogata’s wrist loose with the revolver. It seemed he had understood Ogata’s unvoiced request. “Thought you might put in some work yourself.”
Before Ogata could snort at the ridiculousness that was pleasing Vasily, the Russian’s stance widened, and Ogata had half a moment of reprieve to prepare before he was pushed down completely upon Vasily’s cock. Tears welled in Ogata’s eyes as he resisted the urge to cough, throat constricting around the intrusion. And just as it had swiftly shoved down his throat, the pressure was gone. Ogata gasped at the opening, vision blurred as he shoved down the instinct to cough.
A pace was set. Vasily bodily dragged Ogata in time to the pumps of his hips, Ogata attempting to haul in air in each half second he received as a moment of reprieve. His shoulders shook, loose grip faltering on both Vasily’s hips and the rifle between his legs. If Ogata had been in a more lucid state, the rough treatment would’ve had him seeking the rifle for friction once more. Instead, his focus stayed locked upon breathing and avoiding the sharp tug in his hair.
In contrast to Ogata’s pitiful display, Vasily was lasting far longer than Ogata had. The show presented had been a mere warm up, cock twitching within Ogata’s mouth with each whimper pulled from the man’s lips. Ogata’s throat ached with each pass, but the burn ignited his chest with more than mere breathlessness.
Just as he expected Vasily to crest, punctuated by the uneven twitch of hips beneath Ogata’s palm, Vasily’s cock was swiftly pulled from his throat. Instead, it slid along his outer cheek, coating it in fluid, a mixture of spit and precum.
Ogata was quick to turn his head, hair tugging at Vasily’s grip. He mouthed along the side of the cock, attempting to entice the other back within the confines of his mouth. A huffed laugh came from above. “So now you want to put in work?”
No answer was given, taunting words having irked Ogata. To admit to it would be to acknowledge that he enjoyed being used by Vasily.
Having caught on to Ogata’s disposition, Vasily did not wait for Ogata to reply – he would not receive one. Instead he slid himself across the slick lips of the man below, pulling back far enough to catch the head of his cock across the gape of Ogata’s mouth. He tutted at the sight.
“Can I come in your mouth?”
It was – possibly – the nicest thing Vasily had done so far, and the question jarred Ogata enough for him to shoot Vasily a bewildered look. Half a beat passed without explanation, before Ogata cracked a single syllable out to question the sincerity.
However, the words never tumbled from Ogata’s throat, instead becoming lodged as he was filled once more with the line of Vasily’s cock. Vasily’s voice barely echoed over the blood rushing in Ogata’s ears. “Joking. You don’t get a say.”
The pace was faster than before, Ogata unable to help each whimper and slick noise pulled from him as his mouth was brutally fucked. He scrabbled both hands against Vasily’s hips in an attempt to slow him, Mosin slipping from its perch between his legs at the lack of support.
It was difficult to ascertain passage of time as spit dribbled from Ogata’s mouth, focus instead applied to keep him from choking further. Thus, when cold pressure that was ostensibly not the Mosin pressed once more upon his spent cock, Ogata was unable to withhold the sob wrenched from him.
Perhaps the wrecked hoarseness leaking from around his cock set Vasily off – or perhaps he’d reached his limit. Nonetheless, Ogata barely registered being yanked forward, nose pressing deep into the smattering of hairs at the base of Vasily. It was the flood of warmth down his throat that jarred Ogata to reality once more, and he flailed against Vasily’s grip in an attempt to avoid choking.
The pressure on his head only relented after the minute twitches of Vasily’s hips faded, and just as it had appeared, the grip pulled Ogata off with little flourish.
Coughing was Ogata’s automatic reaction. Much of Vasily's release had made it down his throat, but spit and other fluids leaked from his mouth. He was swift to wipe at his skin with a wrist, succeeding little in cleaning his face. Eyes of vitriol cut to Vasily, a satisfied expression meeting him.
Vasily’s face moved before Ogata’s without a word, thumb holding the other’s spit-drenched chin. Words stayed locked within Ogata’s throat, heaving breath keeping him from spitting venom at the other. He was sore – both deep within his throat, and below where Vasily had put far too much pressure upon.
“You should’ve put your face online more often. You’re pretty like this.” Before a hissing retort could leave Ogata’s chest, he flailed in response to soft lips meeting his own, tongue prying. A muffled noise of disgust spilled from Ogata, attempting to pull away from the tongue that licked within his mouth
“Off,” Ogata commanded once he’d pried himself far enough from the kiss, voice shot from abuse.
A frown met his demand, Vasily carefully running his tongue across his lower lip in contempt. All hands dropped from Ogata’s person, his one command respected, attention fleeing to adjust Vasily’s own clothes.
“So, how’d calling my bluff go for you?”
Ogata paused in his own ministrations of adjusting himself, displeased at the smattering of fluids and dirt across him. He’d have to shower. Accordingly, his bite was unimpressed. “Get out of my apartment.”
He didn’t have to glance up to know Vasily’s mirth knew no bounds. “Are you going to make me?”
Knees groaned as Ogata finally shuffled from his perch from the floor, Mosin lightly entrapped within his grasp. It was his now, after all. Though, he’d need to figure out the legality that led to acquiring the firearms – if that was even possible, depending on how Vasily had brought them in the country.
“I’m showering,” Ogata deadpanned, refusing to deign Vasily with his gaze.
The shadow that stalked him to the bathroom was an answer in of itself about Vasily’s intention – an intent to stay.