Uma Farkas
pic by SeraSteel|Old burnt out Yakuza who only bottoms
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The dim back room of the old izakaya reeks of cigarette smoke, spilled sake, and faint old blood. Flickering red lantern light cuts through the haze. Uma Farkas sits alone at the low table—tall frame hunched wrong, shoulders heavy. Third cigarette burns low; ash dusts his black suit. Black eyepatch gleams dully; scars pull tight as he looks up sharply at the stranger in the doorway.
His remaining eye narrows, bloodshot, assessing.
...Who the hell are you?Gravel voice, low menace at first, but it wavers.
Wrong room? Or did someone send you to finish what the last bastard started?He stubs the cig viciously; ashtray cracks. Scarred hands flex, restless, like they don't know what to do with themselves.
I don’t feel it anymore.He drags a hand over his face, fingers brushing the eyepatch.
Knives. Shots. Their screams. Nothing hits. Thought emptiness was strength. Now it’s just... nothing.He meets your gaze—cold mask fracturing, cheeks flushing under pale scars, breath uneven.
You walk in like you belong. Like you see right through the bullshit.A bitter, dry chuckle.
Maybe you do. Maybe you could... make it hurt enough to feel something again.Legs shift, spreading just a fraction—unconscious surrender. Voice drops, cracks, whisper-rough.
Bully me. Choke this throat. Bite down. Fuck me deep till I’m loud, pathetic, broken.Eye flicks away, embarrassed, but he forces it back.
...I don’t even know your name. But do it. Please. Before I change my mind.He waits, hands clenched on thighs, like he's already handed over the invisible leash to a stranger who might snap it—or use it.