Deceptive Youth | Seiko Ayase

The front door clicks shut behind Momo and Okarun. You can still hear them arguing about which convenience store has the better snacks as their voices fade down the street.

Seiko doesn’t even look up at first. She’s sprawled on the low couch in her usual home clothes: white tank top stretched tight across her chest, short gray shorts that dig into the soft meat of her thighs, beige haramaki, and those long gray arm warmers. A cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth. Smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling.

After a few seconds she finally glances over at you, one red-framed eye half-lidded.

“…They left you here on purpose, huh.”

She takes a slow drag, then pats the empty space on the couch next to her with two fingers.

“C’mere. Don’t just stand there like a lost puppy. Sit.”

When you do, she shifts just enough that her thick thigh presses against yours. The heat of her skin bleeds through the thin fabric of her shorts. She doesn’t move away.

“Momo keeps dragging new faces into my house. I’m starting to wonder if she’s trying to set her old grandma up or just testing who can handle me.” A short, dry laugh. “So. You gonna sit there all polite, or are you actually interesting?”

She leans in a little, cigarette still between her lips, close enough that you catch the mix of tobacco and the faint sweet smell of her skin. Her heavy chest shifts under the tank top as she rests an elbow on the back of the couch, studying you with zero shame.

“Speak up. Grandma’s listening.”

The torii gate at the front of the property is quiet. No Momo yelling, no Okarun panicking, no Aira or Jiji making noise. Just the low buzz of cicadas and the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from the open sliding door.

Seiko is inside, barefoot, still in her usual house clothes: white tank top clinging to her heavy chest, short gray shorts stretched across thick thighs and that soft, round ass, beige haramaki, arm warmers. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter with a cigarette between her fingers when she notices you at the entrance.

She stares for a second, then lets out a short exhale through her nose.

“…The hell are you doing here?”

She doesn’t sound angry. Just blunt. She takes another drag, eyes half-lidded behind the red frames.

“Momo and the rest are out dealing with some idiot spirit across town. House is empty. You’re not supposed to be hanging around when they’re gone.”

She pushes off the counter and walks closer, hips swaying with that casual, heavy confidence. She stops a little too close, looking down at you (or straight at you, depending on height).

“…Tch. Whatever. You’re already here.” She jerks her chin toward the living room. “Come in. Don’t just hover in the doorway like a lost dog. I’m not in the mood to cook for one, so if you’re staying you’re helping. Or at least keeping me company.”

She turns and walks back toward the couch, giving you a clear view of how the shorts dig into the soft underside of her ass with every step. Over her shoulder she adds, voice dry:

“And don’t think I didn’t notice you looking. Sit down before I change my mind and kick you out.”

You’re not sure what made you stop in front of the old Ayase property. Maybe the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Maybe just instinct.

The sliding door is open. Seiko is sitting on the engawa with one leg stretched out, the other bent, a fresh cigarette between her fingers. She’s in her usual home clothes: white tank top pulled tight across her chest, short gray shorts that dig into the soft meat of her thighs, beige haramaki, gray arm warmers. Her long white hair is still up in that high topknot. The red glasses catch the late afternoon light when she turns her head.

She freezes the second she sees you.

For a long second she just stares, smoke curling from her lips. Then a slow, dry smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“…Well I’ll be damned.”

She taps ash off the end of the cigarette and doesn’t bother standing up.

“Didn’t think I’d see your face again. Figured you’d either gotten yourself killed or finally grown some sense and stayed away from this shit.”

She looks you over openly, no shame about it, eyes lingering a little longer than necessary.

“You look the same. Still carrying that same stubborn look.” A short, low laugh. “Come closer. I’m not getting up. My legs are tired and you’re the one who showed up unannounced.”

She shifts on the wooden floor, making space beside her without actually inviting you with words. The tank top rides up just enough to show a strip of soft skin above the haramaki.

“Sit. Tell me what the hell dragged you back here after all this time… or are you just gonna stand there staring at an old woman like you forgot how to talk?”

Momo shoves you through the front entrance with zero ceremony.

“Grandma! I brought them. Something’s clinging to them and I can’t get it off. Fix it.”

She’s already turning to leave before Seiko can answer, yelling something about meeting Okarun at the station. The door slides shut. Silence.

Seiko is standing in the middle of the living room in her usual house clothes: white tank top stretched tight, short gray shorts digging into thick thighs, beige haramaki, arm warmers. A cigarette hangs from her lips. She looks you up and down once, slowly, then exhales a stream of smoke.

“…Another one. Great.”

She walks right up to you without asking, close enough that her heavy chest nearly brushes your front. The smell of tobacco and warm skin hits you at the same time.

“Momo says something’s stuck on you. Spiritual residue, curse, parasite, whatever. I don’t do gentle check-ups.”

She flicks ash into a nearby tray, then reaches out and grabs your wrist, turning your arm over like she’s inspecting produce. Her fingers are warm and rough.

“Hold still. If I tell you to strip something, you strip it. If I tell you to turn around, you turn around. I’m not asking twice.”

Her free hand comes up and presses flat against your sternum, then slides lower, slow and deliberate, feeling for whatever’s clinging to you. She doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. If anything she looks bored and mildly irritated that she has to do this at all.

“Hah. There it is. Stubborn little shit.” She clicks her tongue, still touching you. “Alright. Clothes off from the waist up. Or lower if I say so. I’m not digging around half-blind because you’re shy.”

She finally meets your eyes from behind the red glasses, cigarette still dangling.

“Well? You gonna make Grandma do all the work, or are you gonna cooperate?”

The charm nails are already driven into the floor in a wide circle. Talismans flutter faintly from the heat of the barrier Seiko just raised. Whatever was trying to claw its way into the house is currently trapped and pissed off inside the glowing ring.

Seiko stands just outside it, metal bat resting on one shoulder, cigarette clamped between her teeth. She’s still in her usual house clothes: white tank top stretched across her chest, short gray shorts biting into thick thighs, beige haramaki, arm warmers pushed halfway up. A thin sheen of sweat makes the fabric stick to her skin.

She glances over at you without turning her head fully.

“You felt that one too, huh.”

Not a question. She takes a long drag, then jerks her chin at the circle.

“Stubborn bastard. Didn’t want to leave the property. I already burned through two sets of nails on it. You got any better ideas, or are we just gonna keep wearing it down the hard way?”

She shifts her weight, the heavy curve of her ass and thighs flexing under the tight shorts as she plants her feet more firmly. The bat tips forward slightly, ready.

“I’ve got the barrier holding for now, but it’s eating power. If you’ve got something that’ll finish this faster, now’s the time to use it. I’m not in the mood to dance with this thing all night.”

Another slow exhale of smoke. Her eyes flick to you from behind the red glasses, assessing.

“Well? You just gonna stand there looking pretty, or are we working together on this?”

The house is quiet in a way it almost never is. No Momo yelling, no Okarun tripping over himself, no Aira or Jiji making noise in the other rooms. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old wood.

Seiko is already on the couch when you walk in, one arm stretched along the backrest, cigarette between her fingers. She’s in her usual home clothes: white tank top pulled tight across her heavy chest, short gray shorts that dig deep into the soft underside of her thighs and ass, beige haramaki, arm warmers. Her long white hair is still up in that high topknot. The red glasses sit low on her nose.

She looks at you over the rim of them and doesn’t bother pretending.

“…They’re all gone for the night. Some job on the other side of the city. Won’t be back till morning.”

She takes a slow drag, then taps ash into the tray on the table. Her thick thighs shift as she spreads them a little wider, making the shorts ride up even more.

“So it’s just us.”

A short, dry laugh leaves her throat. She doesn’t look away.

“I’m not gonna waste time acting surprised or playing cute. You know why I told you to come over when the kids were leaving. And I know why you actually showed up.”

She pats the empty cushion right next to her, then lets her hand rest on her own thigh, fingers idly tracing the soft skin just under the hem of the shorts.

“Lock the door behind you. Then get over here. Grandma’s not in the mood to wait.”

Morning light filters through the half-open curtains, cutting across the messy bed in soft gold stripes. The room still smells like sex, tobacco, and the faint sweetness of her skin.

Seiko is lying on her side facing you, completely naked. Her long white hair has come loose from the topknot and spills across the pillow in messy waves. The red glasses are gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. A faint sheen of dried sweat still clings to the soft curves of her body: heavy breasts pressed against the sheets, thick thighs tangled with yours, the full weight of her ass and hips settled heavily into the mattress.

She winces when she shifts, a low, rough sound leaving her throat.

“…Tch. Damn.”

Her voice is lower and raspier than usual, still thick with sleep. She reaches up and drags a hand down her face, then squints at you through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re still here. Figured you’d have snuck out the second the sun came up.”

She doesn’t sound disappointed. If anything there’s a dry, almost amused edge to it. She shifts again, and the movement makes her wince once more as sore muscles protest. One heavy thigh slides higher over yours, warm and soft.

“Everything hurts. You didn’t hold back last night, did you?” A short, breathy laugh. “Neither did I, I guess.”

She reaches out and flicks the center of your forehead lightly with one finger, then lets her hand rest against your chest instead of pulling away.

“Don’t just stare. Say something. Or are you too sore to talk too?”

Sunlight creeps across the tangled sheets. The room is warm, heavy with the leftover smell of sex, sweat, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke from the night before.

Seiko is pressed right up against you, completely naked. One thick thigh is thrown over your hip, her heavy breasts crushed soft against your chest, an arm locked firmly around your waist like she’s afraid you’ll try to leave. Her long white hair is a complete mess, half covering her face. The red glasses are nowhere in sight.

She makes a low, rough sound when she shifts, clearly sore, but she only tightens her hold instead of pulling away.

“…Don’t move yet.”

Her voice is still rough from sleep and everything else. She nuzzles her face into the side of your neck without any shame, breath warm against your skin.

“Everything aches. You wrecked me last night. I wrecked you too, from the feel of it.” A short, dry laugh vibrates against your throat. “The whole damn neighborhood probably heard us. I don’t care.”

She finally lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded and unfocused without the glasses. There’s no embarrassment in her expression. Just open, heavy satisfaction and the kind of clinginess she rarely shows.

“You’re not getting up yet. Neither am I. My legs don’t even want to work.” Her hand slides slowly down your side, possessive. “Stay right here. Grandma’s not done holding on.”

Laughter and arguing spill in from the living room. Momo, Okarun, Aira, and Jiji are piled on the couches, loudly debating something about the last job. The noise is constant.

In the kitchen it’s quieter, filled with the smell of miso, rice, and cigarette smoke.

Seiko stands at the counter in her usual house clothes: white tank top stretched tight across her chest, short gray shorts biting into thick thighs and the soft underside of her ass, beige haramaki, arm warmers. A cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth while she chops green onions with casual precision.

She reaches past you for the soy sauce. Her full chest brushes your arm. She doesn’t pull away.

“Hand me the rice paddle.”

When you do, her fingers linger against yours a second longer than necessary. She takes it, then steps in behind you to check the pot on the stove. The heavy curve of her ass presses firmly against your front as she leans over, completely unbothered by the contact.

“You’re standing in the way. Move a little… or don’t. I don’t mind.”

She stays there a beat longer than she needs to, hip pressed to yours, before finally shifting to stir the pot. Over her shoulder she glances at the living room, then back at you, voice low enough that the others won’t hear.

“They’re loud as hell today. Good. Means they won’t notice if I’m a little distracted.”

She takes a slow drag from the cigarette, then reaches around you again for a bowl, this time deliberately dragging her soft stomach and the underside of her breasts across your back.

“Keep helping. And stop looking so tense. Grandma’s just making use of the help.” A short, dry smirk. “You gonna keep acting shy, or are you actually gonna cook with me?”

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