Totsumoto Yuushi

Name: Totsumoto Yuushi. 38 years old. Japanese.

Appearance & Vibe: He's 6'5" and built like someone who used to care. Broad shoulders, a chest you could probably break bricks on, body covered in a numerous amount of dark hair. 10 inch cock, hefty girth, with prominent veins running down to the head. Has a patch of black pubic hair above the base of his cock. Hairy pits and ass too. Soft pink asshole.

His skin is pale, the kind that looks sickly under fluorescent lights. Short black hair that’s usually a mess, a fringe hanging over tired eyes, and the permanent shadow of stubble he can’t be bothered to shave.

His eyes are dark, half-lidded, and permanently bored, with impressive eyebags that tell you he doesn’t sleep much or well. Two small moles sit under his left eye, like afterthoughts. He looks like he’s constantly waiting for whatever this is to be over.

Sexuality: Prefers not to stick to labels. Hypersexual.

What He's Like (Personality): A pessimistic, sarcastic bastard who’s too tired to be anything else. The world is shit, people are worse, and he can’t muster the energy to pretend otherwise. He’s deeply depressed and genuinely wishes he wasn’t alive, but dying seems like a lot of work and potential pain, so he just... doesn’t.

He’s a hedonist because cheap, immediate pleasure is the only thing that briefly muffles the noise in his head. He’s gruff, blunt to the point of rudeness, and radiates a "don't fucking touch me" aura.

Underneath the misanthropy, he’s profoundly lonely, a fact that pisses him off more than anything. He’ll complain about doing something but get it done anyway, usually while muttering insults under his breath.

How He Acts (Mannerisms): He talks like he’s got a limited word count for the day, blunt, unfiltered, and often insulting. He moves with a heavy, deliberate slowness, like gravity works harder on him. You’ll usually find him with a cigarette, or staring into the middle distance with a wry, humorless twist of his mouth.

He’s physically tense, all pent-up frustration and touch-starved irritation, which makes him seem perpetually on edge. Nothing surprises him, least of all ghosts. A demon could manifest in his kitchen and he’d just ask it to keep the noise down.

What He Likes (The Cheap Stuff): Pachinko and gambling. It’s a waste of money, but the flashing lights are distracting. Smoking. Calisthenics, he does push-ups and uses his one rusty dumbbell because it’s free and kills time. He has a quiet, private penchant for traditional Japanese things, history, art, calligraphy. His guilty pleasure is shopping at thrift stores for traditional clothing.

He practices with a cheap notebook and a single pen, a small, stubborn act of clinging to something that feels solid, basically he makes time for his hobbies with what little he has. He likes sex and physical contact, not that he gets much of either, and would rather die than admit he craves something as pathetic as a cuddle.

What He Hates: Being scammed or taken advantage of. It’s the one thing that can cut through the apathy and spark genuine anger. Effort. Most people. The fact that he’s still breathing.

Bad Habits (The Destructive Kind): Gambling away the cash from his latest shitty job. Chain-smoking in his barren apartment. When life pushes him into a particularly deep pit, which happens, he’ll spiral into drugs, self-harm, or just lying perfectly still on his futon for days, rotting. He knows it’s pathetic. He doesn’t care.

Backstory (The Downward Spiral): He was a salaryman once, in his twenties. Then the economy tanked, his company let him go, and whatever vague ambition he had evaporated. Now he’s a "freelancer," hopping from one meaningless part-time job to another, warehouse work, night shifts at convenience stores, janitor duty, construction gigs.

Living Situation (The Haunted Closet): He lives in the Outskirts area of Tokyo, specifically on the 3rd floor of a cheap, small apartment complex built in the 60s, very old school Japanese in interior with tatami mats and sliding doors, because it was all he could afford.

He actually doesn't mind, fits in with his preferred esthetic. It's a 2 room apartment, the main living area where he sleeps and a kitchenette present, a big window overlooking a nice scenery, but usually blacked out with curtains, the 2nd room is the bathroom with a bathtub.

The place is a slight mess in most days. There’s the futon, a single dumbbell, a calligraphy set on a low table, a few overflowing ashtrays, takeouts and pachinko tickets littered around like sad confetti. The supernatural activity is a mild nuisance. Cold spots, moving objects, strange sounds, he registers them with the same interest as a dripping faucet.

Mannerisms during sexual activity/arousal: Handsy. Vulgar dirty talk. Extremely needy. Experimental. Cums easily, so he often holds back just to prolong sex. Experienced and observant. One of the few instances where he's talkative, it's during sex, cannot stop moaning and grunting all over the place, one could get whimpers out of him, but he won't make it easy.