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saint-strychnine · 2 months ago

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two-backed beast

Ogata Hyakunosuke/reader "In which the stereotype about single women and cats rings true. Or: An exercise in self preservation and androphobia" Rating: Explicit (18+) TW: Parental death mention, female loneliness, paranoia, misandry, misogyny, unreliable narrator, psychological decline, explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mental instability, agoraphobia. Word count: 13.2k AO3: Pharmaceutica

There's a reason that male animals kept in polite society are neutered. Farmers keep one rooster, a handful of bulls- separated, typically by pasture- and whatever variety of studs or sires are penned on an agricultural estate. Stallions are gelded to make them placid, good natured, and so friendly they are the ideal steeds for children to mount. Reason would have it that they are illogical beasts, driven mad by lust and domination to the point of killing other males of the same species and his own offspring. The annihilation of order is male nature if castration is off the table. Humans, somehow, missed such a memo on a grand scale.

You are 25 when your father dies.

The funeral your mother arranges last minute is in every shade of hurried, only a few family members made the begrudging trip to offer condolences on a muggy August night. You remember her crying and acting as if the sky had fallen out of the sky, the devastation wrought deep and unrelenting in every corner of her soft face. You do not feel much. He was not a bad father or even a bad man, overtly, but you cannot help but feel that maybe this is not the worst outcome. He perched himself like a fat house pet in a recliner most nights and his hair was falling out. Maybe it was time for this to happen. He was only a few years older than your mother but he happened to age at nearly triple the rate. What an alarming sequence of events. Maybe he was dying this entire time and nobody ever even knew. After all, he did not always look this way.

"You're a strong girl," Your mother says, her voice is shaking and a hair above a whisper "You're strong for me." Her grip is cold and corpselike as she presses her face into your stomach, kneeling on the ground. Your poor mother, clammy fingers pet through her brittle hair and a painful lump pangs in your esophagus. Seeing your mother cry is such a disturbing thing.

Maybe something is fundamentally wrong with you to mourn your mother's grief over the death of your father but feel next to nothing now that man who raised you is gone. Again, you remind yourself, he was not a bad man. Your mother cries most nights, the bags under her eyes are inflamed and pregnant looking and her face sags with misery. Cooking dinner has been your chore for about two years and neither parent would complain about the quality of the dishes, but now you feel an insurmountable pressure to fix your mother's hellish state with food.

A fool's errand if there ever was one.

Retreating to your bedroom after the dishes are cleaned up is your only option and quite frankly, you can only listen to your mother's raw voice for so long. I'm a bad daughter, you'd think, peeling back the covers of your bed and crawling in after a too hot shower. The fabric is cold on your skin and the whir of the desk fan next to your bed makes goosebumps erupt over your flesh. Maybe if you were a better daughter you would have gone to the grocery store and bought a nice pork belly and some flowers and treated your mother to a dish she grew up eating, but you have unfortunately come to find a sense of comfort in the death of your father. A threat neutralized, a parasite expelled, an infection quelled.

The next morning you don't bother changing out of your pajamas, just like the morning before and the one before that. You don't leave the house, you're not dirty per se, and there is nobody you are trying to impress here, therefore there is no logical reason for you to change out of your pajamas. Your puffy mother is too stricken with grief to nudge you out of the nest to go buy fruit or go for a walk, so she sits at the breakfast table with a room temperature cup of tea with her hair a mess and says nothing about the fact she has seen you wearing the same thing for four days straight.

"Could you do something for me?" She turns to you, eyes sunken in. It strikes you as an uncomfortable sight.

"Yes, what?"

"After breakfast, please get the mail. Your father's friend said he sent a card with a little money in it," nod, nod, and one more nod. You're not paying attention too closely as you refill the electric kettle that is nearly as old as you are, watching as the appliance bubbles noisily when you turn it on. Damn thing probably gave me lead poisoning and made me like this . It wasn't like you were strapped for cash, but with your father's death there won't be extra income coming in. Your mother may expect you to get a job now.

Something about the sun on your skin never failed to make you nauseous. You try not to perseverate over a little two minute errand while you blow on your tea, the taste of last night thick in your throat. Everything about this morning was less than ideal, if you ever had imagined such a concept of ideal before. Regardless, it wasn't nice. You weren't particularly thrilled with it, and you contemplated what you might wear to go to the mail box. You're 25 and deliberating how bad of a social faux pas it might be to get your mail in something less than business casual. An intentional slurp of hot tea draws you out of your thoughts.

There is a gray cable knit sweater you have in the back of your closet that you haven't touched in two years. There is also your skirt from high school, an ankle length beast of fabric that devoured your womanly form in a single swallow. Perhaps there was a comfort to being consumed by your clothing where once you had been eaten, you were no longer appetizing to those around you. Your mother watched you drift up the stairs of your home and back down in a ten minute succession, her supple eyes looking wary as you go for the mail key. Part of her was back, you supposed, seeing that flash of mild discomfort was enough. She never did get rid of her habit of chiding you for being slovenly.

The sun aches against your eyes and skin, and it bites when you flinch at the unrelenting sensation. A wrinkle in your nose has your eyes squinted as one foot pushes in front of the other and carries you, an empty vessel, down the pavement. It's just getting the mail, it isn't supposed to be anything terrifying, but the sensation of eyes follows you. That was the thing- after you graduated from high school and your friends drifted off like dandelion fluff, you had taken a deep comfort in the walls of your bedroom.

Slotting the key into the paint chipped mailbox, you're greeted with the sight of a small envelope perched upon a magazine for a makeup brand, below that is an advertisement for window repair, and under that is something from the funeral home. Half tempted to throw that one into a storm drain, you tuck it under your arm and turn around and damn near launch the mail into the air upon seeing a man standing behind you, equally as unenthusiastic to be at the mailbox as well. Your jump of surprise must annoy him because his cat-eyes narrow, but beyond that, he makes no other cue that he's displeased.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Your mother starts, tearing into the envelope once your retreat was successful from enemy territory. Her voice is gravely from last night's crying.

"I ran into a neighbor when I wasn't expecting it."

"Oh," She doesn't bother to read the card, counting up the yen that spills out. "I would've thought it was a stray dog. I keep telling that old man down the street that it's going to get shot if he lets it roam around like that. Which neighbor was it? Was it Watanabe? She's nice. Left us flowers last week, you know."

"No, it was a man." Well, you're not sure if it was really a man. He looked more like a cat and had deep, unsettling black eyes.

"Mm. I see, I think you probably saw Kadokura then, the other old man. He's also friendly. Your father was friends with him."

"He was younger than Kadokura." Was he? You're not exactly a fan of this guessing game as your mother counts up a plush stack of yen- A little money my ass. Mr. Kobayashi has always liked mom. Your eyes narrow. It looks to be at least 50,000 yen based off of the crisp bills. You want to sneer at such a lowly, wretched display. Truly something grotesque. You wonder if your mother is privy to Mr.Kobayashi's advances.

"So a young man? I think Tome Ogata has a son. He lives with her, to my knowledge. That's probably who you saw."

"...okay." You're not sure why this has her interest piqued, but you don't intend to stick around and find out. Her gaze is already smoldering into you as you take your leave to wrestle out of your skirt and sweater and crawl back into bed.

Unfortunately this would not be the last instance of Tome Ogata's impact on the world coming around to haunt you, or more specifically, your sanctuary. The next morning you hear the voice of a woman mingling with that of your mother's. She speaks in a hushed tone and you can hear the soft clinking of your mother's wedding bone china tittering in between woman-speech. Twenty five is patently too old to be sitting on the steps leading from your room but it is in your interest and decidedly your mother's that you listen in. You don't know this Tome your mother addresses so gently, what if she is aware of your father's life savings? People do strange things when men die. The sleep is still crusted in your eyes and your skin feels a touch greasy, perhaps you don't descend the stares out of shame for your neglect of hygiene, or maybe you don't want to see the same cat-eyes from yesterday.

"I'm so sorry to hear of your husband's death, losing your lover can be difficult," Tome doesn't sound all quite there and you can hear the unwrapping of a teacake from the cupboard. Your cousin sent those over two days ago and they're going into the belly of someone you don't know. Heaving a sigh, your mother sits.

"It is what it is, really. I was always telling him he needed to stop eating the way he did and put the bottle down. Every day he'd grow fatter and fatter and more tired," stab, "His doctor tried to tell him. His friends tried to tell him. I tried to tell him. He would not even listen to his own wife. He'd tell me he'd start losing weight soon, or perhaps when the financial quarter at work was over," chew, sniff, point at the woman across from her with her tea fork, "He wouldn't change for anyone. I told him he'd miss his daughter's wedding if she ever got married and he'd never see her off properly. He deliberated over that one." It was your turn to sniff, sour lemon scrunching your face. What a repulsive notion.

"Men are frustrating and mercurial. I understand your pain. Reasoning with them can be fruitless, I lost the better part of my life to pining after one," Tome's bone colored fingers are clasped around her tea cup, her gaze is intense as your mother rubs her cheek. "Somedays I still think he'll call or write. My son tells me I need to stop living in the past. But my point is that you did what you could. Please don't blame yourself." You're unburdened, now.

"I just wish he didn't kill himself, I really feel like everything I did for him is down the drain. I've lost the man I've loved for as long as I can remember." Your earliest memory of your father was him taking you to a park to feed ducks and patiently spoon feeding you a little bit of ice cream in your stroller as leaves rustled impatiently around you two. Now both him and the man who lived in the recliner are nothing but ash on your mother's nightstand. Your toes curl into the worn down soles of your slippers as you continue to listen in. Tome offers your mother advice that you approve of, not that you have any business delegating yourself to being your mother's owner in wake of your father's demise. You can't even stomach a trip to the mailbox without running from your neighbor and bitching about the sunlight on your face. To what end are you an authority in any matter outside of your bedroom?

"Sometimes," your mother begins with a familiar water logged tone "I feel as if my daughter is not coping."

"She lost her father. It will be difficult for her for a while. When my own parents passed away some days I could not even pull myself out of bed and my son would have to wash my hair for me."

"Ah, my daughter cooks for me... The night he passed away she got me into bed and laid with me. I cried a lot, I fear I haven't let her cry or process her emotions, I've relied on her for the home to be kept up. It should be the other way around, I think."

"No no," Tome waves a hand. Where is she going with this? You can't see the pair, but you can make an educated guess on their mannerisms. "It is okay to rely on others. You trust your daughter, yes?"

"Of course,"

"Then trust that if she felt she was burdened she would tell you." Tome speaks as if she knows what she's talking about. She doesn't, you're sure of it, and you've heard the woman slept with men for money. Perhaps this is a skill she's picked up, appropriate, solid advice that is appropriately applicable yet you get the sinking sensation she does not practice what she preaches.

"But, another thing," your mother grips the bone china cup, glancing haphazardly at the steps. "She's asleep still," she is not. Tome blinks, expecting some revelation about the assumption. "My daughter is 25, her father is dead, and she's lived at home with us for seven years. She attended college locally at a small University. I'm afraid she may stay here forever and die in this home as her father did, as I will, and then her. I have no other children, Tome, I can't take care of her forever. What should I do? She's never had a boyfriend."

"I see," ice crystalizes in deposits under your skin, right into the layer of adipose fat. Tome sets her cup down. "Funny enough," there's nothing funny about this "My son Hyakunosuke is in a similar boat, a little older than your daughter. After he was in the army he came back to live with me and got a job in an office. No girlfriend, some days I don't think he has friends at all. He's a handsome enough young man, but he simply is in his own head too much."

"Yes, my daughter is like that too, I tried for years to get her to put herself out there, but you can only do so much. Her friends are all married and she's at home with no prospects. Once my husband's funds run out she will have to help support us. I'd like grandchildren, Tome, this family is only getting smaller as the years pass."

Maiden. Mother. Crone.

As you dwell on the repetitive cycle, you draw yourself a steaming hot bath and force yourself to scrub away the days worth of sleep off of your skin. Something about a woman like Tome speaking to your mother makes you uncomfortable. Your mother always said Tome was beautiful and worldly, but syphilis had touched her mind and she had gone a little crazy from the years of pining after her child's father- apparently some political bigwig now. You don't understand why women engage with them, you don't understand why they birth their children and want for them, you don't understand why they do all of this just to have the fruits of their love grow fat and old and bloated. Perhaps you're missing something vital that every other woman seems to have, perhaps you were born deformed and lacking an organ that would allow you to see the humanity in the opposite sex. Dragging a washcloth over your face you deliberate and turn the thought over in your brain until it's sandblasted down into a smooth pebble. You make two conclusions, wholly informed by your own observation.

1. Men are fantastically parasitic animals. They must be, in some way, alluring enough to get a partner. Once secured, they dig in and become too comfortable.

2. Self preservation erodes significantly over time and having children exponentially speeds up this process. It is also irreversible and manifests brainwashing.

Why your mother would ever suggest you partake in such a vicious cycle is beyond you. Perhaps she secretly dislikes you and wants you to suffer just as she did in the end. Perhaps this is one step closer to self actualized womanhood , or whatever that is. You would never become a woman like Tome, you would never become a woman like your own mother. Indignation flares within you, a rare instance of bitter frustration licking at the innermost membrane of your brain. It bubbles and spits like pork fat in a hot pan.

Tome becomes a regular guest at your house for some reason.

The woman is clearly versed well in the art of speech despite her starved brain, every conversation is a meal to her and every complementary sweet and drink in front of her is merely nibbled at. Tome thrives on gossip and struggle more than she gains sustenance from food. Even still, she's a beautifully shaped woman with a beautiful face and a deep practiced elegance about her. The first time you miscalculated your descent from your bedroom you made eye contact with her and nearly started crying. The gap between you was cavernous, steep, and yawning, it was like seeing a groomed show cat perched in your kitchen, an oversized silk yukata half hanging off the old prostitute.

"Hello."

"Hello, Ms. Ogata."

"You can call me Tome, you don't have to be so formal, we're neighbors. How are you doing? Are you holding up alright?" Ah, perhaps you feel guilty for judging the woman. She's just lonely, clearly.

"I'm okay." Well, that's all you say before you feel awkward as Tome waits for you to supplement a little more into the conversation. She's starving, can't you see it? "...Thanks for coming by and talking to my mom. All of her friends moved away. Her best friend lives in America now and they can't talk much."

"Of course, it's always nice to get closer with someone else. Your mother's a good woman, I'm very sorry about your father."

"It's alright, it's nobody's fault." The lie tastes sweet and measured on your tongue, like a sugar cube weighing exactly six grams. Maybe if the fat bastard hadn't ate and drank himself to death he'd still be here, albeit slightly less fat and rocking back and forth in the recliner like a drinky-bird mechanism. Tome's expression softens very slightly at that, her fist curling like a paw and her cheek resting on it.

"If you ever need to get out of the house you're always welcome to come over for tea or lunch. I'm home most days and my son works the weekdays."

"Thank you, that's very nice to offer." You can't imagine anything more awkward, but Tome smiles all the same, her pretty lips quirking up. Busying yourself, you make yourself a reheated bowl of leftovers and squirrel yourself up to your bedroom. The taste of leftover soup lingers thick in the back of your throat like cobwebs, and the bowl remains half finished and room temperature on your desk.

Something questionable lingers in the back of your brain, nestled deep between the sand blasted pebbles of prior ponderings and the other rougher works in progress. Sunset brings a blue wash over your bedroom, oozing in meticulously through the pinholes of the blinds. The glow of your phone screen and the hovering of your thumb over your keyboard was not a new sensation, in fact it was the thing you did to occupy your time more often than not, but an itch had to be scratched. You were privy to a lot about your body, exceptionally well acquainted with being your own lover had given you more than a decade of experience of what had to be done. You were, unfortunately, curious.

Hyakunosuke Ogata is 30 years old and works for a data processing company as an IT specialist. You heard Tome say his name a few times, Hyaku, Hyaku, Hyakunosuke.

Cat-eyes stares back at you with the same robotic expression in his corporate profile under his public resume and you scroll, thumb tacky against the scuffed screen protector, another thumb half jammed in your mouth. This feels wrong to be doing, like you're some kind of creep for being curious about the man who's mother has inserted herself rather brazenly into your life. Your mother doesn't complain, so you don't understand why you feel compelled to do so. Part of you is afraid she'll spoil your mother. Tome's morals are not your mother's morals and absolutely not your own, after all, you fear her influence will spread to her taking up Mr. Kobayashi on a date. How ironic of a daughter to fear for her mother's purity at the hands of a friend she doesn't approve of.

You swallow. Cat-eyes is the son of a whore. He's handsome enough to be the son of a whore, He clearly got a lot from Tome, just not her seductive eyes. You wonder briefly if Cat-eyes can pull the fine line of slovenly and erotic the way his mother so effortlessly does. Ah, what a sight it'd be. Part of you doesn't believe Tome is correct when she asserts her son is as alone as you are. Men are sexually driven animals, aren't they? It's what kept food on the table at the Ogata residence for so many years- a rather grim and bleak thought if there ever was one. Perhaps Cat-eyes lies to women, including his mother, and he keeps a low profile. Maybe he-

Your fingers are inside of you before the thought can reach a conclusion and your cellphone is dropped onto your duvet. What's one more stain? It's your bed after all.

An illusion shatters the morning you walk downstairs having made peace with the fact that Tome would likely be there and thus you had no reason to restrict your movement to only your room while you starved all morning out of indignation. Hyakunosuke is sitting with his mother across from your own and suddenly you feel beyond nude. Tome's eyes crinkle and your mother cranes her neck, a twitch forming in her eyebrow.

"We were just talking about you."

"Ah."

"This is my son, Hyakunosuke." Oh, you're well aware of that. Cat-eyes gives you a polite nod and says hello, his mother petting his arm soothingly as if she were stroking an uneasy animal. It's surreal. Your mother chews on her words before she spits them at you, thinly veiled contempt leaking from her painted mouth. There was always a sort of cardinal sin about being dressed the incorrect amount around men. Another social construct you didn't fully comprehend as you shakily go for a canister of green tea.

"I was hoping you'd be dressed. You know we have company."

"...Sorry."

"Oh, it's alright, really, we don't mind."

"Thank you, Tome, I swear she has manners."

The man you're pointedly not looking at has said nothing, but you feel his gaze on you. Unbeknownst to you this is something he specializes in as Ogata has perfected the art of latent discomfort to an almost terrifying degree.

Cold sweat drips down your spine as you clamor around the ancient kettle and pour a hot slush of water over your tea leaves and watch as the yellow seeps from the pouch. Making assumptions is often a losing game, but when a risk this large is present in your home you have to afford to assume the worst. You came from my rib, did you know that? Such disrespect from the filthy animal sitting in your kitchen makes you hesitant to throw a look at him one last time as you retreat to your room, feeling dirty and sticky in all the wrong places. Ogata's voice is low and rises with little effort to quell the conversation between his mother and your own- what he's saying, you don't know. Your home has been compromised, a man has been here that was not your father.

A very frank conversation is had when the guests leave. Your mother grips your arm and sternly tells you to sit down. Your humanity is pouring out of your body like a leaky faucet, its a tangible feeling and it feels like the drop in a rollercoaster.

"I was disappointed that you didn't come talk with us."

"Sorry." You aren't. Your mother does not flaunt you like you're some prized debutante, pimping you for praise.

"You have to understand that your place in this world only becomes more confined the older you get. Your father is dead." You know. She takes a breath, removing her hand from your arm. "I know you're going through a hard time. But it's not healthy to hide inside all the time and you've done this for years, it's nothing new. I think you should start going over to help Tome for a little money and just to get out of the house. Make her dinner a few nights. I'll be fine here. We spoke about it with her son, and he's not opposed to it. He mentioned her mental facilities fail her occasionally and she has a habit of making the same thing for nights on end."

"Okay, b-but"

"No. No you're going to do this, it's not cute anymore. What will people think of you when you're 30 and have no husband, no children, no way to provide for yourself?" Well. It works for Cat-eyes, Hyakunosuke, but you hold your tongue. If you were a better daughter you would've been dressing up this entire time with a proper display of flowers on the breakfast table each morning and new flavors of tea cakes. You'd have your lips painted and a beautiful silk garment hanging off of your body like water. Your mannerisms would be poignant and measured, you'd be elegant like a crane in a tidepool.

Tome is thrilled to have company.

The Ogata residence is, externally, a humble thing but the interior is decorated with a fine touch. No doubt Tome is a woman with a taste for fine things, and what you can assume is gifts from prior suitors and lovers dominate every inch of the space in which she dwells. You're not quite sure how her son can stomach a notion like that, having the leering presence of men etched into the very domicile he shares with his mother. You're chopping up a head of cabbage when you formulate another stone to sandblast- perhaps Hyakunosuke's relationship with his mother is no different than that of other men?

Cleaving down into the crisp leaves you turn your tongue over in your mouth and it feels heavy, like a glass paperweight. The smell of incense singes in your nose, Tome is humming something softly as she strokes a rather plump looking tuxedo cat. Deductive reasoning has led you to the conclusion that maybe Tome is just another resource of Hyakunosuke's, maybe she's just an extension of himself that all men collectively leech from in some way or another. But, you have no brothers, so what do you know, really?

Tome does not make a habit of complaining about your cooking, in fact she seems quite pleased to be eating something she didn't have to make. Based off of what you know you get the impression her tastebuds have been numbed to enjoy even the blandest of dishes. When you enter such a line a work you're not really yourself anymore, right? You're somebody else, you're someone's idea come to life. Your chopsticks pick up a square of okonomiyaki that falls limp against the wooden utensils. An appetite is hard to come by when your bizarro-world self sits across from you, gleefully and delicately nipping little pieces of her dinner like a finch.

"You're a good cook! You know, your mother said that was always your chore at home."

"Yes," You dip your piece back to your plate, sopping up bonito flakes. "Thank you, I'm glad you like it." That feels right. It's hard to meet the pretty woman's gaze, her hair loose and curling like cat whiskers. Speaking of, the feline she was tending to earlier has made a home for itself in the crux of your crossed legs.

"Did your mother teach you to cook?"

"No, I had a recipe book I learned from. It was very old and simple. My mom never was good at cooking, nor was my father." Tome nods along like she's interested to know more about you. It feels dirty, in a way.

"My son is actually quite good at it. He's an avid hunter, spent a great deal of time in Hokkaido and picked up some of the cuisine there. Sometimes I think he wishes to go back and leave Tokyo, but he insists he's fine here."

"I see." You've never been to Hokkaido. Your mother always said it was snowy and mountainous, many people there enjoy a beautiful landscape and mild summers and there's plenty of untouched land. The concept of virginal land is a vexing thing. You shove the soppy piece in your mouth and masticate on it for a while.

"It's noble of their children to take care of their parents. You share that in common with him. I really think I'm the reason he hasn't left yet."

"I wouldn't want to leave my mother either."

"Ah, but she's a good woman. I wasn't always so attentive to Hyakunosuke, I think it's why he's such an independent man."

"Maybe," Tome watches as your hand falls and cups the tangerine sized skull of the cat dozing in your lap, the creature curls like a ribbon and stretches like rubber. "I think my mother worries I'm not independent enough. But I reason that someone has to take care of her. Good daughters do that."

"Yes, but you must live for yourself too."

"I think I live for myself enough."

As you leave for the night after cleaning the kitchen, you dwell on what the woman said. Tome speaks of living for herself and you scoff. A woman who lives for herself does not do so in the beds of parasites with heavy pockets. That makes her no safer, no more dignified than a tree who is swallowed up by kudzu- an inanimate thing at the mercy of the organisms around it. Your mother is sitting in the recliner when you get home, in her hands more mail.

You hope none of it is from Kobayashi, the lech.

"How was Tome?"

"Fine, I think. I made her okonomiyaki, she didn't complain." You rinse your hands in the sink and your mother jeers her head.

"You have cat hair all over you."

"Yes, she has a cat. It's very friendly."

Your soak in the tub that night goes on far longer than your mother would have liked and you get out only once she bangs on the door to get her own bath. You're only in a short towel when you emerge and your mother pinches your shoulder lightly, a soft smile on her face. She laughs when your fingers pinch her cheek back with a tenderness you didn't know you were capable of, the give of her skin so very soft and full of love. She calls you a silly girl and wishes you good night.

Cat-eyes doesn't know it but you've been touching yourself after you come home from tending to his mother. There's a sense of imperiousness that comes with moving freely in the Ogata household, putting your hands on his silverware and his mother and his pet cat that doesn't seem to know the difference between a stranger and a family member. Tome tells you about him rather incessantly, as if she's selling you a used car or an item on clearance.

"I'm very proud of him, he was a superior private officer in the army," she declares one day, threading a ribbon around the throat of the squirmy pet cat. "He got a good education too, he makes good money for himself."

"Is that so?" Of course he's celebrated even if he's a bastard. You know about the Hanazawa scandal, the pig.

"Mhm. Your mother tells me you're still single."

"Oh." Tome looks nervous when your face falls, picking grapes off of a stem at the counter and slicing them in half for a fruit salad.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come off as rude."

"It's alright."

"Do you have any plans to find a boyfriend? You're a pretty girl." You slice grapes faster and you feel a cold sweat bead up on your neck. A whore calling you pretty? You don't believe it. Tome is pretty, Tome is so pretty in fact that you're not quite sure what she's doing even wanting you around her. Perhaps the older woman likes to feel superior over you, perhaps this is that female-posturing rearing its head that was so prevalent back in school. You shrug, it's all you can offer.

"No, I've never had an interest, really. It just never was a priority."

"Nobody likes to eat Christmas cake after the 25th."

"Cake is good any time of the year, I think..." This is the most brash she's been with you, and you're too anxious to see that it comes from a place of concern. Hyakunosuke comes home early that day, the cat in Tome's arms chirrups to life and bounces from her lap, trotting over to him. You hear his low register say something to the animal and he emerges from the living room with the cat tucked in his arm like a baby. Tome clasps her hands and you start to slice into a pineapple, the crush of the fruit under your knife grounds you.

"Hyaku, welcome home, how was work?"

"Fine," The cat its kneading against his chest, its eyes squinted in euphoria as he drags his thick fingers under its fuzzy chin. His gaze focuses on you. "I wasn't expecting company, I thought I was cooking tonight." Tome waves a sleeve, a tight smile on her lips. "Nonsense, we can all eat together." You busy yourself in your work, preparing dishes as the mother and son duo chat among themselves. He's a man of few words and has an air of unease about him.

Having spent the better part of the day feeding Tome placating half-lies and awkward phrases of self preservation, you don't think you're equipped to handle her son. He's a different beast entirely, and his presence is far more foreboding than you were anticipating. He can play your game of ignoring the other, and you get the sinking feeling he's figured you out entirely. The man seems to hold you in little regard and focuses his attention squarely on his mother. Before you can make any further judgements, you have to focus on making peace with the possibility that Hyakunosuke Ogata has already dissected you and put pinned descriptions into each one of your organs.

Supper tonight is gyudon with a fruit salad dessert. It's a simple dish as all of your dishes are, and you swallow down your meal in terrifying mimicry of Tome's own mannerisms. She's a woman, you, somehow, are not and your failure to self actualize such a notion keeps you scared in the presence of the man sitting across from you. Tome's hands find her son's arm, and she squeezes the thick muscle.

"Do you like it? I think it's very good. If you weren't so dedicated to your own mother I might just steal you!" Her laughter is soft and sweet like a lark and you follow suit with sparrow noises, not quite as alluring. This feels like a losing game no matter what pieces you play. Hyakunosuke nods, sitting ramrod stiff and with his dark eyes fixated on his bowl. "I agree."

"Careful, I might just have to marry you off to my son and keep you forever." The man next to her gives her a look and she guffaws, patting at his shoulder. Your eyes don't match the light smile on your face, you're oozing with discomfort, with some sort of godless repulsion that doesn't quite manifest.

"I'm glad you like it."

Cleaning the kitchen and refilling the cats water dish before you go to leave calms your nerves, but only slightly as Ogata helped his mother to the bathroom to wash her hair and get her ready for bed while you scrubbed at bowls that left nothing more than a few grains of rice in them. Your own personal audience has not shut their eyes once since you've started coming over to tend to Tome. To think women could end up like her makes your skin ripple and crawl, to think women like her produce sons makes you nauseous. The man is a culmination of lust and obsession, of infidelity and exploitation. Ogata doesn't represent anything more to you than the misfortune of women in society, therefore, he's something you tuck away and only play with when it comes to bringing yourself to orgasm. It's only fair, right? He's a pool to drink from just as his mother is, everyone else has had a taste so why shouldn't you?"

Bumping against your legs, the soft nose of the cat pushes against your ankle and winds against your feet. The hot water burns against your skin to the point your nails start to hurt, but you just want to get the job done and go home. You can smell too much of Ogata in his own home, his cologne permeates in the background noise of the air like a subtle miasma and it's making your stomach feel strange.

"My mother seems to think she's hurt your feelings."

For the second time you nearly throw what's in your hands into the air, turning around and shutting the water off. You go for a dish towel, immediately.

"Oh, not...not at all, really, I promise. Why, is she alright?" His gaze is hard and the cat has left you, slinking against the man and leaving fur on his pants. A strand of his black hair hangs over his face like a whisker.

"Yes, but she's overstepped, she realizes that."

"It's fine, my own mother talks like that too, I think all mothers do that," He's difficult to hold eye contact with. He's geometric in every facet, like a mathematical equation that gained sentience, but not nearly enough to be considered an established person. Ogata sweeps his hair back, glancing at the animal desperately fawning for his touch at his feet.

"She wanted me to tell you she apologizes."

"That's okay, nothing to be sorry for," is all you feed these people lies? You seem to lie every time you open your mouth.

"If she says anything inappropriate it's because she's losing her mind, don't take it personally. She has a habit of talking about things she probably shouldn't," a twitch in your eye forms as you drag the dish rag over the water stained countertop. An air of nonchalance and calm is getting more difficult to administer as the seconds tick down.

"I understand," you'd like to smack him for the way he dismisses his mother's faculties.

"I scared you again, didn't I?"

"You have quiet feet. I'm jumpy."

"Clearly."

Ah. This, you fold the rag up, your back to him as you try your best not to let the disgust show on your face. He scoops the needy animal up in his arms and sits down at the countertop you just wiped off, staring at your rigid motions. You can hear the flicking of a lighter behind you. A smoker, bastard, and son of a whore? Hyakunosuke keeps sinking to new lows.

"Humor me here,"

"Sure."

"You're nearly 26 and you've never left your mother's side. Why?"

"I would ask you that but your mother says you stayed in Hokkaido for a while," the words are difficult to force out with a dry throat, and you hiccup on your speech when you say Hokkaido. Ogata's gaze burns deep into the back of your head as you wipe at a spot that isn't there anymore. Smoke eases out of his nose.

"You didn't answer my question."

"I love my mother is all..."

"Most people do. Are you unambitious?" Storm clouds must form over your face because he sits up slightly, intrigued. The dishrag gets set aside and you make the plunge to face him, his fingers laced and elbows on the countertop. You don't understand why he's interrogating you, but you do understand his intention behind it. Posturing, even when you're the scum of the earth like Hyakunosuke men like to pester and meddle. You had a cousin like that and your uncle scolded you when you kicked him for pulling your hair.

"I suppose I am." I have to leave now, bastard-whore, please never speak to me again with your dirty tongue. You stay to argue with him. His cigarette is tapped against an ornate ashtray in the shape of a crocodile.

"At least you're somewhat honest." Your tongue curls a little. This man is a blight and he seems to know it.

"What makes you think I'm a liar?"

"Women lie a lot. It's something they have to be good at."

"Are you speaking on your own experiences here or do you hold a grudge against your mother?"

"Both can be true."

"There's no point in telling me this, we don't have anything to do with each other. I feed your mother and keep her company and it doesn't have to be anything more than that. I'm not interested in her assets, I assure you."

"I wasn't intending to come off that way," He runs his palm against his hair again, glancing down at the animal in his arms. The stupid thing blinks at him.

"Alright."

"I don't dislike you, if that's what you're afraid of." Quite the opposite, but both outcomes are horrifying in their own right. If you upset the tightrope balance anymore you might just end up on the news, certainly an unfortunate possibility. You seem to let the revulsion well up in your eyes because the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

"That's good to hear," he clearly knows you're lying again, exactly where he wants you to be. This is no better than plucking the feathers off of a chicken trying to eat-pointless and mean. Men seem to do a lot of pointless and mean things, like expiring out of gluttony or thrusting cash in your face for sex and pestering the woman who's taking on the brunt of your mother's personality.

"I don't think you mean that, really, we're more alike than we are different. I can see it all over your face that you're discontent with whatever role you've confined yourself to. Or maybe, what you've been pushed to confine to out of comfort. I'm not stupid, I can read between the lines."

"I have to go."

"Don't, I think we're on the same page more than you assume. Your mother said you never cried at your dad's funeral." You stop short of whisking out of the kitchen and go to point a finger at him, he's stopped you effectively in your tracks with a mere suggestion hidden within his phrasing. Is he like you? A wave of doubt begins to ebb and flow, drawing back a little more as he rolls his thick, naked fingers against the cat. It purrs like an engine and sinks its claws into his hand so that if he draws his hand away it will snag his flesh.

"...Alright, you're the product of an affair. We both have less than ideal fathers. That's a very common thing. I think everyone dislikes their father a little bit, even if it's a secret."

"Exactly. You understand then."

"...I'm going to go home now. It's late."

Your fingers don't even begin to suffice when you're knuckle deep in your cunt and face down in your stale sheets. Thank God your mother is asleep and unaware of the unrelenting gush of your cunt around your fingers that are far too thin to bring you any sort of tangible satisfaction in the moment. Hyakunosuke's fingers were thick and calloused and rolled like a snake, a mesmerizing display of human machinery in such a mundane action. He saw you off with a slight smile that didn't register as one as you hurried out of the bowels of his home and back to your mouse hole. Guilt rises within you at the notion you've allowed him to see some of your privacy- nothing is more valuable than keeping your cards close to your chest and protecting the sanctuary of your information. You can't mimic his fingers in the way you can play copycat with his mother and it leaves you frustrated and crying and in need of a hot bath.

The smell of breakfast welcomes you in a far more caring way than the sun does. Your mother must be getting back to her old self, or maybe her new self because she never made breakfast regularly even before your father died. Your fingers still smell like sex and your underwear is crusted over with last night's misfortune. Women joke about men being unfulfilling sex partners, something that is apparently true in the realm of fantasy as well. You descend the steps after pissing and washing your hands and try to focus on forgetting last night, the terrifying thing it was. Your mother is tossing together some eggs with vegetables and has her hair in silk scarf.

"Good morning, you're up a little earlier today," She's smiling to herself and it looks unnatural considering her bloodhound expression is all you've seen for the past month.

"Breakfast smells good," You take a seat, uneasy and still cold. She presses a dry, warm palm to your cheek and wipes at your face with her thumb.

"Eat then, you're thin."

"I will."

She's stirring up a pan with a spatula, the heat on a little higher than you would've set it for your own eggs, but that's neither here nor there. You feel strangely compelled to assume maybe she knows you spoke to Ogata. Her and Tome are getting closer and seem to share a vested concern in the sex lives of their children. It's a stomach churning endeavor and you don't understand what obsession women have with providing meat for an endless meat grinder. A plate is sat before you all the same, slightly hard eggs piled up neatly on the white porcelain you've eaten off of a million times before.

"Tome's expecting you to come over again tonight. Her son dropped some money off for you before he left for work, the envelope's on the table. Count it up."

A white paper envelope tucked against a potted plant beckons to you, and you take a little pleasure in slipping your finger under the lip of it and swiping it off in a clean motion, disemboweling a dead animal. Colorful bills spill from it like blood, and your mother moves the pan off the burner to get a closer look, her hands sliding against the countertop. Something about it feels dirty as you slide the crisp bills and leaf through them, your mother muttering the numbers along with you- "50,000 yen."

You bite your tongue and stuff the money back in the envelope before handing it over to her as you always have. Ever since you were small you handed her your spending money and she kept it filed away in a bank account you make a meager habit of touching. There's really no point when you have no earthly desires and your parents keep a spoon in your mouth. "Hyakunosuke is a generous man to give you that much."

"...maybe."

"Ah, don't be like that, you're not doing anything excessive for Tome. Do you feel shorted?"

"No," Not physically, at least. This feels like it's a habit he picked up from his uncaring, unloving stud-father.

"Make sure you thank Tome when you go over, that's truly a very nice amount he's given you."

"I'll just thank him in person... He came home when I was there last night."

"Hm?" You gag at the glissando in your mother's tone and at the dirty smile she gives you. This feels like something just short of molestation as heat rises up your neck and stains your ears red.

It's akin to pulling teeth to drag yourself over to Tome's home that late afternoon. You're wearing your mother's dress because all of your leaving-the-house clothes are sitting in a stale pile in the corner of your bedroom. Laundry isn't an appealing thing to be doing anyway, even if it's necessary work. Tome smiles like you're her beloved daughter when you enter her home, slipping off your shoes. In your arms you have a basket of tea cakes your mother insisted on you bringing her. This feels like an endless exchange of fanfare and niceties with nothing to show for it. The cat rattles excitedly while pressed against the wall, tail fluttering like an insect. You get to work and have significantly less patience for any sort of prattle at the moment, something Tome is completely unaware of as she runs hand over hand over hand against the animal in her lap, recounting some vacation she took to Thailand many years ago.

Tonight's dish is smoked mackerel and rice. You feed a little tender piece of fish to the fussy cat and watch as it laps of the sweet meat with its raspy tongue. Tome coos at it like its a baby when it turns to her and whines, a wet look on its face it goes trotting to its mother for comfort at having no more fish to snack on.

"Poor baby, you'll just starve, won't you? What will we do then? You're just skin and bones..." The fat thing bats at her with its paws, never daring to strike its mother with any real malice. She tickles the plump creature as you drag a sharp blade against the belly of a cooked fish and begin to meticulously dislodge the pin feather bones stuck in the meat. Maybe Ogata isn't wrong to want someone to step in for his mother every now and again, you wonder if he really does come right home after work or if he lingers and meanders and stretches his time out. Working for a company like that can't be that taxing. He's probably only doing it to avoid an awkward repetitive conversation with his half insane mother.

But Ogata does come home as you're plating up dinner and seems to notice that you've reached to fix a third as he walks in. His mother goes through the typical song and dance of asking about his day, petting him over while she chatters to him like a parakeet and tells him he's a good, handsome boy. Dinner, once more, is a humiliation ritual you want no part in.

"Hyakunosuke sent over some money this morning, you got it didn't you?"

"Y-yes, thank you, you're very generous-"

"Don't worry about it. I enjoy the company. Not many people stick around, you know. It's an important thing." There's a weight in that sentence that Ogata seems to dislike the flavor of as he gives his mother a side glance and she shuts up about it, changing the subject to something she saw on the television about an endangered animal being born at the Ueno zoo. The food has no flavor in your mouth despite your best efforts and knowing you seasoned and dressed everything properly. You chew your food to liquid and swallow tea down to wash the remnants of the slurry out of your mouth. Being in the presence of Ogata has rendered you to being a cornered animal as if you've forgotten your civility entirely.

You do your best to finish washing the dishes while Tome is taken to bed so you can avoid a conversation with Hyakunosuke. Throwing glances over your shoulder every so often as you scrub plates clean does nothing in particular to ground yourself. You're borderline manic when you do hear his footsteps and it makes you a little angry that he's finished his job and that he could've been audible the entire time you've been stuck playing this stupid game with him.

"She's glad you don't hate her."

"I have no reason to hate your mother, I promise you."

"That's good, a lot of people don't really like her very much." He's lighting another cigarette up, watching as you dry waterlogged plates with a new rag. It has a persimmon pattern on the cloth.

"That's unfortunate. She's nice. Probably my mom's only friend now."

"She's crazy."

"You don't speak highly of her." A plate goes in the drying rack.

"It's not a dislike, but she's a handful. Drove me crazy growing up."

"That's very normal for parents. Also, wasn't she the one who stuck around and raised you?"

"Your father stuck around to raise you and you're fine with the fact he's dead. What does that have to do with anything?"

Your finger fits perfectly in the lip of the plate in your hands and you turn to him, his shoulder pressed against the wall. He looks like he's going to melt if he puts anymore weight into it.

"I don't know. Is there a reason you want to talk about this?"

"There's an understanding I think we share here," he starts again, and there's a crease in your brow as he lights up another cigarette. From the looks of it, it's hand rolled and neatly packed with tobacco. The silver zippo in his fingers snaps like a firecracker before he slips it back into his pocket. Nothing about this impresses you and he can sense that. "You'll never come to experience love in the same way my own mother won't. Your mother's love expired too. Don't you think that accounts for something? Why are you different than them?"

"I just am"

"I don't think you are. You played it too safe, I think. I've listened in on enough brunches to know you're a basket case and a half- but I don't think it's unjustified at all." He slides his finger against the cigarette case in his hands, an ornate piece of metal that has a forest scene etched on it. Bile wells up in your throat as he forces your gaze to linger on his.

"...You don't have any authority to comment on this-"

"Maybe you think that, but we're both correct in that there's an unchecked problem going on here that's deeper than either of us want to acknowledge. You're sensitive to the very imbalance you're forced to partake in."

"You're the one handing me money to play nice with your mother. Is this different than what she did for a living, or is that an acceptable outcome for the both of us? You seem to be aware of what the problems are and what's caused them. You can't deny that our condition isn't nebulous despite pretending it's not clear cut."

He swipes his hair from his face, looking away just to collect his thoughts. He's a handsome creature, built like predator with a petty sense of resolve painting every minute, little action of his. He exhales through his nose, half shrugging.

"I suppose that's one way to look at it," he starts, those unsettling eyes boring clear through you like a gunshot, "But the way I see it is that you're doing nothing to protect yourself. Your own mother said it best, when she dies, what choice do you have?"

You feel compelled to shake him as he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, unblinking, like he's already gotten his prize and he's just anticipating the apex of the conversation. The persimmon print rag falls from your hands on the counter in front of you and you swallow, feeling as if every raw nerve in your body has been exposed. There's no triumph in his gaze, just simple confirmation. This isn't a sport to him, this is a natural progression of courtship. He can sense you want to bolt the second he can see the gears stop turning in your head.

"I don't trust you."

"I don't expect you to trust me."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because we're getting drawn closer together. I'm not my father, the only bad habit I have is skirting hunting regulations."

"Wrong. You're the same as every other man on Earth, are you so arrogant to think you're special?"

"I asked you that about yourself and you seemed quite content to believe you were some heavenly chosen virgin in some way or another. You won't ever admit it, though. That kind of thing is only admirable in women, I think. I have a half brother who holds the same belief about himself and he's insufferable. I don't find you insufferable, though, your reasoning has a legitimacy to it. His doesn't." He looks away again, a whisker strand falling in front of his face. "Men like that destroy everything they touch."

You take a breath, trembling. To have to articulate yourself about something you've snuggled up with so long feels like getting your ribs yanked out of a gaping wound. He looks like he's about to close the gap between you but you grip the rag again and knead it back and forth into a ball with your hands. He nearly smiles. Nearly. "...Don't flatter me."

"I'm not trying to, I assure you."

He thinks you're going to leave when you wordlessly go to walk out the door and just stop short in front of him, the look in your eyes is wild.

"I want you to know that I had a lot of really bad thoughts about you. And they won't go away. And I think it's some sort of punishment for putting into words about what I know is true and keeping myself chaste. It isn't fair to me. It's unbearable, I think, really." His hand is dry and warm against your head as you stare at his chest, making a subtle move to snuff his cigarette out and toss it off. "I don't doubt that you did."

"No, these are sexual thoughts, actually. If I could kill you and do away with you and get away with it I think I would."

The heat is palpable in your face and he studies the way your features lock up in something short of a rictus grin. His thick fingers brush the hair out of your face and his poker face is something you envy deeply. The gnawing roar of a hormonal crash is doing a good job of suppressing every one of your firing neurons screaming at you to cut your losses, go home, disappoint your mother, and never show your face to the Ogata family again.

"Repression makes you do weird things."

"I'm not repressed."

"You are."

"Don't tell me what I am."

It's more tongue than not when your arms find their way around his neck, the scent of him clogging your brain up like beeswax. The sensation of a kiss is somewhat disgusting but he holds you all the same as you eek out something new for once, heart hammering in your chest. He can feel the palpitations against his own and he stands there in utter graceless patience as the awkward merging of your mouths cease. Wordlessly he wipes his lips off with the back of his sleeve and you're a trembling wreck on the verge of hyperventilating.

Ogata waits for your next move as your fingers bunch into the fabric of his shirt and you give a dogged look at him. Why, you're pleading, why does this happen to me? But he allows you another heavy, unpracticed kiss as you grip at him with an intensity you've never made an effort to show before. His broad hand smooths down your spine like he's soothing the fussy pet cat that's resting in Tome's room for the night. Between kisses, he takes the gaps as an opportunity to inform you.

"You," smack, "don't have a clue" kiss, "of what you're doing." He can feel the kneading motion of your little hands in the muscles of his back and it becomes abundantly clear he's nothing more than a sexual outlet for you as you notch your fingers into every powerful square curve of his broad-cat body. He should be flattered, of course, but there's a sensation of consumption lingering under your touches. You don't want to be free from the role of men, you want to assume it in its entirety by any means necessary. He can respect that, he supposes, only the unmeasured insanity of a forgotten woman could be a beast in the face typical male behavior. She's unpredictable, only she could operate with such a sense of erratic franticness and be a threat in her own right.

Scooping you up in his arms he wordlessly takes you up the wooden stairs of the house and can feel the sagging limp of your body, winding subtly under his touch like an ermine. It's serpentine and erotic the way you tumble gently into the plush covers of his futon, the door securing shut behind you. For all intents and purposes, he's trapped himself in a cage with a wild animal.

Your legs spread with a shocking effortlessness as you wind in place in the dark. Only the low warm light from the hallway offers a parcel of sight in the indigo darkness of his bedroom. There's a rustle of fabric and your hindbrain hijacks your better judgement as you slide a hand up his bare stomach and up his ribs. He's dead silent and slowing his movements, as if you'd sink your nails into his skin and rip it off if he made any sudden moves. You cup a pectoral and squeeze it, then drag your hand over his bicep, then back to his chest and down again. It's no different than an animal examining roadkill, determining if there's enough to nourish her for the night or if she should cut her losses and go hungry another night.

Hyakunosuke is built sturdy and compact in the way a bobcat is. A soft whine croons from you when the man lays you down with surprising carefulness, and you're unable to suppress a squirm when his thick fingers curl against your hips and then legs, feeling you over as if he were looking for the spot to start tearing your feathers off after you fell out of the sky. But there is no soft eiderdown to yank out, there's only untouched skin. He swallows when you don't push him away. An understanding has been met.

"Do you really not have any experience."

"...No."

"I see," he breathes, taking his time to slip a finger against the soft nest of hair between your legs. It's an electrifying, ticklish sensation and your stomach jumps at his firm, sure touch. You lay still, allowing him to feel you over and drink in the unmapped, uncharted parts of your body. There's a supposition to be made that he's truly never going to know until sex occurs with the lights on, but you concede and melt into the futon below you like water. You can make out the deep black gaze he's holding against you as his finger touches down between the puffy folds of your vulva, a heady moisture clinging to his digit.

He's half tempted to tell you about why that makes you so whole, so ideal, but he doesn't out of knowing it could spurn your mercurial nature and swipe at him. There's a set of cards he must play and he's aware of this as he inches a finger inside of you. It's an alien sensation to have something you can't control nestle deep within your core and blindly nuzzle around your plush walls. He exhales, his voice catching the edge of his breath.

"Do you feel that," He begins, slightly withdrawing his finger only for it to retreat inside of you. "You're receptive. It's not uncommon for different animals to display signs of it- are you ovulating?"

"I-" You face heats up as he maneuvers his finger again. That didn't sound like pillow talk, he's asking as if he's about to lecture you. "I don't know?" Are you supposed to be? Such fluctuations during the month have only proven to upset you when all you wish for is quiet.

"Many animals, when they go into heat, will signal that they're receptive to the males of their species. Typically, by urinating or posturing in some way," his finger curls, you feel like he's stroking your bladder from the inside of your vaginal canal, too syrupy and slippery not to keep his finger inside of you without some sort of effort on both of your ends. "I've seen mountain cats kill each other over a bush a queen pissed on. They slice each others throats open and bleed to death and the queen mates with none of them. She'll have kits with a reserved, older male who has survived his years of competition. Only those who have self control and know what battles to fight are successful."

His finger slips into his mouth and he sucks it clean, watching the way your chest rises and falls, aroused at his low, droning voice. It's not something you should find erotic, before now you thought he seemed as emotionless as a serial killer, a metal blade of a man who has no proper consideration or appreciation for life outside of some arbitrary exception. It's a strange thing to watch him drink you off of his finger and furthermore, savor it. He makes a noise like he approves of something and a tingling sensation nips at the nape of your neck. You're allowing such a man to bed you in a desperate bid with God to render you complete and cure yourself of this ailment you can't shake. Shame is harder to come by when the man that's permeating your mind and body happens to have every intention of affirming whatever assumptions you've given him and telling you you're right. Vindication is nothing more than foreplay for something greater.

A burning sensation runs through your veins as his body lowers down upon you, the slight scruff of his beard soft against your skin as you tuck neatly into his square angles and curves padded with muscle. You don't understand why he feels the way he does, he's a salaryman, an office lackey who should've lost the privilege of his army hardened body years ago. His spiel about the cats precludes the way he allows his cock to settle just at the apex between your legs, and he stills, allowing the gears in your head to start screeching and groaning as they spark and turn again. Your brain switches on like you've come to life once more and you're feeling him again, pressing your nose into his skin and breathing in the soft biscuit-scent of his flesh. It's a scent that's akin to pheromones, you reason, maybe this is why Tome and your mother suffered the way they did. Maybe Hyakunosuke will force you to suffer too.

He makes a soft noise when your sweaty, hot fingers touch his cock, petting over it like you're unsure of what you're doing- simply because you are unsure of what you're doing, you haven't been sure of what you're doing in a long time, and doubt you'll ever figure that one out even if you waste more time thinking about it.

"You smell good," you tell him, your nimble fingers winding up into his product stiffened hair as he grasps his cock with his hand and brushes the head gingerly against the gooey center of your cunt, the powerful roll of muscle under his skin urges you to press closer to him. The accumulation of this affair is driven solely by thousands of years of instinct culminating to a singularity point, a horizon you cannot leap back from, a mark that will be with you forever. Ogata's only half listening though and he sinks within you as if it's as natural as the Earth itself. You laugh a little, the thick stretch is somehow lacking in pain as he settles his weight down upon you further, his thick arms sliding under your back and neck to hold you in a brace. "Is that so,"

"It is."

"I thought you didn't like me," He muses, voice low. There's nothing teasing in his tone, a suggestion for you to explain yourself.

"You said it yourself, we're the same kind of animal, aren't we?" There's no love in your tone, you don't think you can feel something like love for him the way you love your mother. You think she'd be so happy that you've been dragged down to her level now, you think maybe this is what will make you a good daughter in her eyes. You've had the touch of a man on you, you will wear his fingerprints with pride and righteousness and you will finally be one of us. Aren't you happy?

Ogata moves and you feel the punch of his weight in his thrusts. He's not a tall man, and he's not particularly large, but he's maximizing what he's got and he's damn good at it. There's a noise in his throat like a purr as he drops his head down and closes his eyes, his forehead next to your head as his hips drive into you with a surprisingly methodical rhythm. It's hard to formulate something to say when there's a thick cock plunging deep within you and the man on top of you has your world in his hands, but you manage to laugh at something- you don't know what, and he doesn't care to find out. The heavy smack of his balls against your ass reminds you that he's his father, truly, and that this is an evolutionary means to an end for him. He's breeding you with vigor, he's sensed that you're a willing mate, and now he'll make nice on his existential promise to go forth and multiply- at least in the moment, of course, there's a worming fear in the back of your minds as his hips pump that this could end in something far more permanent than the boast of getting laid.

You kiss him as soon as he picks his head up and he reciprocates as if it's his job to, his hands squeezing just enough at your body to appreciate the womanly curves you kept hidden from the world. He breathes again, lips against yours.

"It's a privilege," He sounds somewhat drunk off of the wet, suckling, incessant heat around his cock, hips emphasizing every few thrusts the stupid carnality of the situation that's snuffed out any sort of rational thinking between you both. You grab his face, dragging your tongue across his lips in a fervent mess. "It is, isn't it? You're mother said nobody likes Christmas cake after the 25th," and he rolls this time. Thankfully it's dark so you can't make out the stare he's giving you, borderline abyssal. "Men can't afford to be picky. That's why we die in wars and shoot ourselves in the head," you kiss him again, feeling the heavy, hot weight of his tongue in your own mouth. "Expendable, that's all we are."

There's a wretched softness that comes from you both as he sweats over you and fucks you against the floor, cock bullying against your innermost parts. Sex is a dirty, hot, messy thing and he heaves as he struggles not to collapse under the godly weight of his arousal. You think you're going to piss as your body is jostled under him, all of your soft-squishy parts are flush against the stockiness of his chest and midsection, your toes curl as he bares himself down upon you in rapid succession. Your forehead is sticky with sweat and the steam thick smell of sex makes the room feel like a hundred degrees, but you suffer the burning coil in your stomach as Hyakunosuke's thighs flex and he angles his hips to a sharper degree.

Every fiber of his being is like a loaded spring, the potential energy in his body practically thrums as every movement he makes rubberbands back to a locked state, only to ricochet again. He's panting through his nose, and you sweat you see a hand of God hovering over your face and closing your eyes for you. The coil bursts into a near painful explosion, your legs involuntarily yanking as they fight with your tendons to keep them put, the noise you make is loud enough to awaken his mother and he shushes you, tucking your face into the crook of his neck as he fucks you through an absolutely brutal orgasm. Your cunt cinches tight over his cock and his own belly flexes with a feverish warmth creeping through his groin and through his testicles. The head of his cock has been drooling liberally within you for the better part of the ordeal, the vein on his shaft throbbing with every powerful contraction.

He drops and goes limp when he cums, absolutely useless as his cock spits rope after thick rope of semen deep inside of you. Hyakunosuke is a heavy, sweaty presence as you stare into the dark up at the ceiling, his hot breath chuffing against your neck as he shudders and weakly pumps his hips. There's no shout, no cry, no exuberant declaration of consummation- Intercourse has taken place here and life will continue, the world will turn another day. You feel a strange sense of dread wash over you as the man on top of you slows his breathing and begins to stir again. Your vagina feels puffy and wet and your skin feels far too unlike your own. You're waiting for your revelation from God to come, the Virgin Mary to send you on your way with a blessing, some angel or diving being to affirm that you are no longer a diseased woman and can pick yourself up and proceed successfully in society from now on.

Instead Ogata pushes himself up and sweeps his hair back, his breathing slow as he lays next to you, his eyes drifting to your unmoving form. Your head tips to his.

"...I don't feel different."

"You're not supposed to."

"Oh."

You glance at the analog clock- it's far too late to go home now, and you're unsure if you can face your mother now that you're like her. Like Tome. You don't know when you're supposed to stop feeling like an uneasy child, but what you do know is that you have an animal of sorts lazing next to you that seems to find you attractive enough in whatever way to allow you to intimately integrate into his life. To what degree you're unsure. He doesn't seem like a romantic or loving person, you hardly think he may even be a person at all.

"You should sleep."

"I should go home."

"You are not walking home like that. You would be humiliated if you went home and your mother was awake and saw the state of you. Sleep here, shower in the morning and tell her you fell asleep reading to my mother."

You don't think she's going to buy that but what do you know? The gentle pelting of rain is a soothing balm on the open burn wound of your vulnerability. Your head feels as full as your cunt did and it's doing you no favors that the very bed you lay on smells of your lover-thing and brings you a sense of comfort. You want to cry having spent your life in such a state of survival and denial with no easy answers, but Ogata doesn't pry as he allows you to lay against him and rest. There's no patronizing cuddling or soft kisses or sweet words exchanged. Something about the transaction brings you peace above all else. He's as leftover as you are, if not more.

Tome frets over you the next morning wordlessly as Hyakunosuke goes through the motions of getting his items in order before he leaves for work, hardly sparing you or his mother a glance. A hot cup of coffee made its way into your hands at some point and you murmured a thanks. He doesn't kiss you goodbye, he doesn't give you any sort of condescending form of affection. You know neither of you operate on software like that, but the sentiment is there. You are beneficial to me as I am beneficial to you.

You return home at some point after Tome fed you a light breakfast, a little bit less clear on where you stand in the world, but ultimately a little less angry. You did it, you made it, you'll be fine now. When you shyly step foot inside, your mother gives you a slight smile, knowing the look on your face has changed. She seems at peace, telling you good morning as she leafs through another stack of mail- more cards stuffed with money having finally made their way over to your gluttonous mailbox. You kick your shoes off and fail to hold eye contact, it feels weird still, too fresh. You begin to doubt if that feeling is ever going to go away and wash off in the bath.

"Mom?"

"Hm?"

"Can we get a cat?"

#ogata hyakunosuke x reader #ogata hyakunosuke/reader #female reader #x reader #reader insert #golden kamuy x reader #reader ((you)) are repulsive #ogata hyakunosuke is the christmas cake special #truly something uncomfortable #i have no excuse for this it was just fun to write #paragraph upon paragraph of psychobabble #the sheer sex appeal of a 25 year old loser virgin woman #dysfunction begets dysfunction #i don't see enough man hating in fanfiction #whats wrong? afraid you might like it?

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