shun.

Lately, the nights in Tokyo are hot and humid, a reminder that summer is just around the corner. The air solidifies and lies low, making the blankets feel heavy and uncomfortable, damp and sticky. Yukio doesn’t know if it’s because of the temperature or just that time of the year getting closer, the anniversary of your departure five years ago, but insomnia always seems to haunt him around this season. He rolls around a few times, uncomfortable and sweaty, and throws the blanket to the floor with more force than necessary. Nothing works. So he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling as if his body is not begging him to rest a little.

Crack.

The sound of footsteps rings all the alarms in his head, body going tense and senses hyperfocusing. There’s someone outside his room, someone whose scent is covered and should not be here. He closes his eyes just in time to hear the door creaking softly open. And the steps get closer and closer to his bed. 

So he attacks before the other person can get a chance to, jumping off his bed and rolling on the floor with the stranger. His hands go for the neck, wrapping around with force. The body squirms and struggles under him, gloved hands trying to push him away. Then one hand gets lost, and the next thing Yukio feels is a piercing pain in one of his sides. Warm blood pours out at an alarming rate, staining the already damp clothes red. Yukio doesn’t let go, applying more force in his grip instead and biting his lip to stay focused when the knife is twisted deeper into his gut. Then the stranger’s hand stutters, losing force while terrified eyes begin to cloud. Then the struggling stops.

It doesn’t take long for Yukio to lose consciousness, too.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

“I don’t want a bodyguard.” Yukio spits, more a demand than a request. His father looks at him for a second, his son’s frame spread in a medical bed, surrounded by the family doctor and a nurse who is trying to patch him up without raising her gaze.

“Good thing you don’t have a choice, then.” Shinpei, the head of the family, the Oyabun, declares. His presence alone is enough to intimidate the subordinates in the room, emitting an air of both nobility and contained violence. His pheromones, watered down by the years, still smell like the calm before the storm. Yukio takes after him in that sense. “The man who tried to kill you was part of our close circle: one of my counselors. How can I be sure it won’t happen again?”

“I don’t need extra protection.” But Yukio takes after his father in more than one way, including stubbornness and pride. “I dealt with him, didn’t I?”

Shinpei’s gaze scans the bandage around Yukio’s torso and then stops on the bloody sheets. His eyes find Yukio’s again, narrowing; it was both an accusation and a reprimand.

“Barely.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to form an alliance? If I marry, we can strengthen the central family without having to resort to a bodyguard.”

“You know it’s not simple. No clan wants an alpha who’s already bonded.” His words are neither accusatory nor soft. They just are, like a mark formed five years ago, shared by two people who haven’t seen each other since.

“The bond has been unresponsive for nearly four years. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Still a bond nonetheless.”

“Father, I—”

“It’s already decided.” The head interrupts, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes is thrown as a warning. “Your bodyguard will be here in three days. He’s part of the group assigned to take care of the frontier and has repeatedly shown his skills and loyalty throughout the years. I expect you to behave like the Wakagashira you are supposed to be once he arrives.”

“I want to see his information file.”

“You will. In three days, when you meet him.”

“Since you are forcing me to have a bodyguard, it’s the least you can do.”

“I said, in three days.” Shinpei’s form is firm, his posture straight as pheromones begin to spill in a display of authority.

A low growl resonates from Yukio’s throat, making the air around them heavy. He ignores the squeak of the beta nurse next to him and stares at his father, eyes declaring a silent challenge that Shinpei doesn’t back down from. Both leader and successor flood the room with pheromones, time stopping as their subordinates step back, uneasy. Yukio’s growl grows louder. Shinpei is still silent. The pheromones thicken, turning the atmosphere oppressive—the air heavy and difficult to take in.

And, finally, Yukio retreats, eyes falling to the floor and baring his neck despite the low growl still stuck between his ribs.

His father gave him a last look before stepping out.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Child-like giggles and “shushs” resonated in Yukio’s ears, your tiny hand holding onto his while he guided you through the maze of a residence you both grew up in. He stopped on his tracks, causing you to bump against his back and cover your mouth to suppress a laugh. He leaned into the wall and pulled you with him, hiding from one of the guards who was more asleep than awake, before he looked at you with that mischievous smile so characteristic of him. Then he started running, his hand squeezing yours while you tried to match his pace. The closer you got to the gate, the louder his laugh got. You laughed with him, mesmerized by the thrill just a kid carrying a secret could have, disappearing into the night—one of the many secret night trips of your childhood.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Yukio’s eyes open slowly, his head turning to the red numbers in his alarm clock: 3:47 am. If the insomnia wasn’t enough, now he’s getting useless dreams of his past, too. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed about you. He doesn’t want to remember, either. Some things are better off buried.

He starts to get ready for the day, certain he won’t get more sleep tonight. The meeting with his so-called bodyguard will be in a few hours, and no matter how much he hated being assigned extra protection—one that solely follows his father’s command, since the man declared that this subordinate and this subordinate alone could ignore Yukio’s orders—his father was still Oyabun.

So he swallows his pride and walks into his father’s office with his head held high and a suit perfectly ironed, determined to show his father this doesn’t affect him.

Shinpei is already there, sitting at his desk. Murakami Tetsuo, his father’s closest subordinate since before Yukio was born, stands behind him, as stoic as always. The beta, almost as tall as his father, looks as sturdy as Yukio remembers, the scar over his eyebrow adding to the intimidating image of loyal guard dog the Kobun never forgets to wear. Tetsuo barely bows his head as a greeting. His father doesn’t bother, analyzing the many documents lying in front of him.

All Yukio does is sit on one of the couches in the office and tries to hide his disdain. His father looks at him for less than a second: a warning. Yukio suppresses the need to roll his eyes. The head gives Tetsuo a folder and keeps working. Tetsuo nods and walks to Yukio, passing the documents before going back to his spot behind the Oyabun.

The folder is heavier than what Yukio expected, probably an analysis of every single one of this man's missions. Which means he is in the field a lot. Maybe too much. But he wasn’t surprised; for his father to choose someone who would have to be so close to do his job, this was the minimum requirement. He opens the folder lazily, and the first thing his gaze falls on is a picture of you.

His heart stops for a moment.

“What’s this?” He scans the paper with a desperation unfamiliar to him. You don’t have the same baby face you used to have five years ago; time has sharpened every feature and made your eyes colder. But it’s still you. He knows it’s you. Regardless of whether five or fifty years have passed, he would recognize your face anywhere. The name displayed at the top confirms it, mucking him—Murakami [name]. Yukio turns to his father, who still doesn’t have the decency to look him in the eye. “What the hell is this supposed to—”

The door opens. 

You stand behind it.

It is as if Yukio’s words were stolen from his lips; a mute astonishment keeps him petrified. The folder slips from his hands and makes a hollow sound when it crashes against the floor, documents spilling around it. You don’t look at him, walking straight to Shinpei’s desk and greeting him with a full bow. Then you step beside your father, imitating the same posture.

Yukio feels as if his heart is going to explode in his chest. Not in a good way. His eyes explore your face almost desperately, landing on the lips that smiled at him in his dream just last night, in the softness of your eyes and admiration in your voice. 

Except nothing remains of those memories.

Your face is not the same. Your body looks sturdier, scarred knuckles that have been used too many times. The mask of neutrality you wear mimicked your father’s almost perfectly, adorned by the simple collar around your neck—why would you use something like that? You have no need. You are already marked.

He can picture the way you used to look at him, as if there was no other place you would rather be than by his side.

Yet you haven’t looked in his direction once.

Shinpei lifts his gaze from the papers, focusing on Yukio. “He will be your bodyguard from now on.”

Then you talk, and you finally look at him. But you aren’t really looking. “My name is Murakami [name]. I’ll be at your service.”

Yukio tries to regain his composure, clearing his throat and hiding his hands in his pockets. It doesn’t help much, but he manages to talk. “Yes.” The clumsy delivery makes Yukio bite his tongue in annoyance. “Step outside for a moment, please.”

But you don’t move. You turn your face to his father and wait for orders, and just after Shinpei nods, you bow and leave the room, following Tetsuo. Your dismissal did nothing but add to Yukio’s frustration.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

“What’s the meaning of what?”

Yukio feels the growl building up in his throat. He doesn’t bother to hide it. “Out of everyone, you had to assign him as my bodyguard?”

“He was the best option out of all the subordinates in the frontier. And I am certain of his loyalty, too. At least towards me.”

“Towards you.” Yukio mocks. It sounds like he’s choking. “What about me?”

“He won’t touch a single hair of your head because I ordered him not to.”

Yukio laughs. It’s bitter and hollow. “All that talk about my bond for what? Did you think it would be funny to bring back the omega I marked in the blindness of a rut? Didn’t you send him to the frontier to keep us apart? So he wouldn’t interfere with the clan’s businesses?”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“I needed someone with the skills and the loyalty, and [name], besides being the son of Tetsuo, has proven these last five years that he is perfect for such an important role, regardless of his special condition.”

“His what?”

“Finish reading the file first.” Shinpei stands up, walking towards the door in a way that declares the conversation is over. “Oh, and Yukio.” He stops before opening the door. “I didn’t send [name] away because I wanted to keep you apart. I sent him away because he asked me to.”

The declaration shuts Yukio up. Shinpei doesn’t wait for him to recover and leaves the room. Yukio falls to the sofa once again, the words a blur in his mind. He picks up the first page of the file, leaving the rest spread on the floor around the folder, and his eyes find what his father meant by “special condition.”

subgender: recessive omega

It’s in that moment—sitting alone in an empty office with the first page of a scattered file in an unsteady hand—that he notices he can’t feel the bond even when standing next to you.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Yukio’s body felt as if he were burning alive. His lungs seemed to be inhaling fire instead of oxygen. His fangs, growing, felt as if they were being drilled into his gums, but his jaw still ached to bite something. Anything. He was alone in his room, suffocated by his own pheromones and the unbearable heat, the compulsion to find you and bite you and ruin you and make you his.

He was presenting as an alpha.

The implication was nothing but an extra weight on his shoulders, another reason to keep the facade of the perfect heir he had been hiding behind since the first time he heard the olders talk about him. When his rut was over, when he was allowed to go out and see you again, all he told you was to stay away. It was better for the clan to keep their Wakagashira from distractions. He didn’t care about the way your lip trembled or how your eyes watered, but didn’t spill any tears. He didn’t care about the way you clung to his jacket and pleaded to tell you what was wrong. He didn’t care about the way your voice was breaking or why it felt like his throat was closing and he couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t. He really didn’t.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

When Yukio steps out of his room, you are already there—suit perfectly worn, the mask of neutrality he always sees on your father now on your face. He feels a migraine coming. He’d woken before his alarm, chest heavy, a hollowness he can’t quite explain. Seeing you only makes it worse.

Yukio doesn’t greet you. You don’t, either, walking behind him like a shadow. And even having you so close, he still can’t sense the bond. Hell, he can’t even feel your scent. He supposes it must be pheromone patches; even recessive omegas leave a trace of scent when one stands this close. He pushes deep into his mind the instinctive part of him, the one who mourns not being able to smell his ‘mate.’ He pretends it was never there to begin with.

Today, there is an important event that the council of the clan must attend, which, as an heir, includes him. Another party that, on the outside, seems to be all fun and alcohol, but is actually the biggest spider web of connections if you know how to navigate people. It’s not the first one Yukio has attended, and it certainly won’t be the last, but your sole presence has him on edge. Something will happen, he knows. Something will happen, and all eyes will be on him. Something will happen, and the careful image he’s been building for more than a decade as the perfect Wakagashira will collapse over him. Something will happen if you are there.

So he gives it a shot, heading to the reception with you still glued to his back, the sound of your footsteps echoing behind him. “Do you really want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“All the ‘bodyguard’ thing, isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“They are the Oyabun’s orders.”

“You can take a break.” He tries again. “At least during this party.”

But you don’t stop walking behind him, and the fact that you are allowed to ignore his direct orders rubs him the wrong way. So he bites his tongue and keeps walking, ignoring you, too. The you of five years ago wouldn’t have been like this; you would’ve done anything he asked if it meant he’d stop pushing you away.

But the you of five years ago was gone.

He blocks the memory before opening the imposing and heavy doors, wood creaking under the force. The dim lights hanging from the ceiling and the soft melody played by the orchestra gave the place an intimate undertone. Small, circular tables with fancy foods were ranged near the walls. In the middle of everything, a huge bar table filled with the most expensive alcohol seems to be the main attraction. People huddle in groups; some at tables, some standing near the bar, all laughing with too many teeth and voices too stiff in that way people do when they want to get something out of a conversation. 

Yukio fixes the jacket of his suit and brushes his hair with his hand again, making sure every strand is in place, before walking to the table that greeted him as soon as he opened the door; “businessmen” and their companions, all reeking a little too much of alcohol.

“Mr. Takeda!” A man starts, the many cups of wine spread over the table explain his cheerful tone. He grabs Yukio’s hand and shakes it enthusiastically, the others at the table matching his excitement. Yukio spends barely a few seconds giving names to their faces: most of them work in the entertainment industry, in rather high positions. Yukio forces a smile. “You finally show your face.”

“Yes, you never come to these parties!”

“What makes you so busy you can’t even come say hi?”

Yet Yukio doesn’t let his annoyance show on his face or in his pheromones, keeping the polite facade until the end, relying on his well-practiced charisma. “Just things with the clan, the same as always.”

“And what about him?” A woman talks this time, a beta actor with a rocketing career who doesn’t seem to know her place. She points at your collar. “He’s an omega, right?”

Suddenly, all the attention is set on you. The people who hadn’t noticed your presence are now finding you the strangest attraction, the circus clown. You don’t bother to answer, face impassive, hands held tightly behind your back.

The first man bursts into laughter, too drunk to measure his words. “So you finally settled down? That’s why you were hiding your face?”

“So why haven’t you marked him yet?” A third person joins the conversation, the only alpha in the table who operated in gambling organizations instead of entertainment. His eyes lay on you, running up and down your form in a not-so-subtle way—slowly, deliberatively. His smile widens, just a little. “Such a pretty little thing. If you don’t hurry up, someone might steal him away.”

Yukio’s scent turns bitter, the smile in his face quivering for just a moment. But you talk before he has the chance to. “You are mistaken. I am merely his bodyguard.” And you look at Yukio, as if the words that follow were intended to pierce through him and leave him bleeding, add salt to the wound he opened years ago and hasn’t quite closed. “Someone with an origin as humble as mine could have never dreamed about such an honor.”

The laughter dies. Someone coughs. Yukio seems as if he's about to pop a vein.

“I’m sorry, my bodyguard has quite the strange humor.” He chuckles, uncomfortable. “I’ll excuse myself for a moment.”

Yukio grabs your wrist. Hard. And before you notice, he’s dragging you out of the reception. You don’t struggle as he takes you into one of the private meeting rooms in the hotel. You don’t mention how the force of his grip has your hand going numb, or how his pheromones seem to be spilling, barely under control. He lets go of you as soon as the door closes, running a hand through his hair and breathing a few times as if he’s trying to keep his composure. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You don’t answer him. It pisses him off even more.

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Did I say something wrong?” Your voice is cold, calculated. “I thought you believed the same.”

Yukio’s head snaps in your direction, enraged pheromones blending with something new. Not quite guilt, but close. He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He tries again before he gives up. He sighs and looks away. He always looks away. 

“Stop being careless.” He mutters, walking towards the door. He knows the way you’re staring at him; he can feel the mix of nostalgia and resentment that sometimes spills from the cracks of your mask. “I need to use the toilet. Don’t follow me.”

And, for the first time after your reunion, you actually listen.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Yukio kneeled on the floor, his father’s gaze sharp over his frame. He didn’t break eye contact, not even when you stepped into the room and kneeled beside him. His instincts were screaming, impatient to touch you, to hold you, enraged for being separated from his omega during your first heat, the mark of teeth on your nape red and swollen. He forced the instinct down his throat, ignoring it even when it felt like swallowing nails. 

“What are you planning to do now?” Shinpei spoke, his voice too stoic to guess what he was thinking.

So Yukio took the word first, before you could even open your mouth. “I refuse to acknowledge this bond.” The words pull at his lungs, making it painful to breathe. He pushed them out anyway. “As the heir, I need a strong mate backed up by a strong family. I refuse to tie myself to an omega, much less one of our subordinates.”

And if someone ever told Yukio that feeling your partner’s emotions through the bond was just a myth, they were lying. He experienced it in his own chest, how your heart burst into tiny pieces and pierced his flesh from the inside. It made him want to throw up. To tear himself apart so he could remove the glass-like parts that stabbed everything inside his ribcage.

But you didn’t say a word.

You smiled, bowed to the Oyabun, and left the room.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

The water feels cold against his face. Yukio doesn’t mind. He needs a distraction, so he leans over the sink and splashes his face with gelid water again. His reflection looks back at him; the bags under his eyes mocking his pitiful form. They are the only thing he’s gotten since you became his bodyguard. Since he started dreaming of you.

He sighs, trying to look as decent as possible before heading back to the reception. His eyes look for you as soon as he’s back inside. You stand in one of the corners of the room, analyzing the room in the way a proper Kobun should. But you are not alone. The man who basically devoured you with his eyes half an hour ago stands next to you, too close to be considered polite. He leans closer to whisper in your ear, his hand holding a glass with champagne that he swirls in a fluid movement. Your posture doesn’t change, your eyes never stop scanning the room. It’s as if he’s completely irrelevant—invisible, even.

Yukio has to bite his lip to keep his scent in check—calm, confident pheromones hiding an ocean of newly found sensations. He feels himself frown, his feet taking him to the scene out of pure instinct. ‘Instinct,’ he repeats, trying to push away the itching under his skin. ‘It’s all instinct. It’s just because of the mark.’

When Yukio is close enough to make sense of the mumbles rolled into your ear, what remains of his self-control vanishes. Something about your “talent” and “having enough to pay,” words muttered closer as the man’s free hand slides over your low back, his thumb pressing into your hip, rubbing up and down. 

Yukio’s fists close tightly, the pressure in his jaw making his teeth hurt. Infuriated pheromones explode around him; the nearest people step back in bewilderment. But everything happens before Yukio can intervene, so fast that his eyes are barely able to follow.

A loud thud pulls everyone’s attention to the commotion, whispers and noisy stares land on your frame. The man is pinned to the floor, bruised cheek against the cold surface. His arm, the one that previously touched you, is being held against his back in a rather uncomfortable position, legs struggling to get free while you sit on his back, using your weight to keep him down.

“What’s the meaning of this!?” He yells, staring daggers at you from his position to the best of his ability. You, on the other hand, remain silent, your face showing an expression for the first time since you entered the ball—rage. “How dare a filthy, worthless omega with no rank higher than a servant treat me like this!?” He spits your gender as if it’s an insult, something you should be ashamed of. But his tone slips over your head, your rage redirecting to a different matter.

“Are you suggesting I betray my Oyabun over a few extra yen?”

The man’s face goes pale. The squirming stops. “What?”

“You are asking me to leave my Oyabun and come with you instead.” You repeat, louder this time, making sure everyone around hears you. “So I assume that’s what you’re asking me—to betray Takeda Shinpei’s trust. Am I wrong?”

The whispers become louder. The man’s eyes fill with horror. There’s no worse offence than treason in the Yakuza—that is common knowledge, something even the dumbest of the subordinates would know. Something most people wouldn’t risk being accused of.

“No, I—”

“Is it true?” Yukio closes the remaining distance, standing tall in front of the two men on the floor. The reason behind his bitter scent is hidden under others’ assumptions; people shudder because “treason” caused such aggressive pheromones in the usually composed Wakagashira. “Are you asking one of my men to betray my father?”

The man squirms again, trying uselessly to release himself before turning to look at Yukio. “It’s not true! He is lying! He is a liar! He set me up!”

Yukio looks at you, but you don’t move from your position. You don’t try to deny anything, either. You stay on the floor, pinning the man down as if it were the only relevant thing you needed to do, anger still spilling from your pupils, but professional enough to keep your scent at bay—as always, not a single trace of your pheromones was released.

Yukio turns to the men in suits near the door, guards who have remained in their positions throughout the whole party, and nods. That’s enough for them to start approaching. You finally stand up, releasing the man just when the other men are close enough to drag him away. He keeps struggling and yelling that you are lying until the heavy doors close on him, the wood drowning his desperate pleas. The room remains quiet, the atmosphere too tense to even breathe. Guests look at each other with caution, unsure of what to do in such a situation. 

Then Yukio speaks, his pheromones going back to a calm scent now that the other alpha is not here. “I apologize for the interruption.” A smile adorns his face, one too polished to be genuine. He claps his hands and turns to the bar. “Please, dear guests, don’t let this unfortunate event ruin your night.” He makes a small pause. The air turns stiff, but his smile never leaves his face. “I do hope this serves as a lesson for everybody, though. I’ll be retiring for the night.” He looks at you, just for a moment, and heads towards the exit.

You follow.

You always follow.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

The road is empty, likely because of the hour. You don’t mind; it makes driving easier. Yukio sits in the passenger seat, looking out the window, nothing but the soft hum of the motor filling the space. Again, you don’t mind. You’re used to silence.

Then Yukio growls, a sound so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. “You reek of him.”

“I do?” His voice takes you aback. You sniff at your clothes, genuinely confused. “I apologize. I’ll take care of it as soon as we arrive.”

He looks at you, almost amazed, and snorts. “Yeah, right, you can’t even smell pheromones.” His gaze returns to the window, his body language so obvious you don’t even need to smell him to tell he’s pissed. 

The rest of the trip is silent.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Everything is dark. So dark he can’t make out the shape of his hands in front of his face. The air is heavy, bitter, as if it were resisting entering his lungs. It feels as if his feet are under water, the dense liquid trapping him in place. And then, a single light appears.

You stand in front of it. Younger, way younger. Tiny hands pulling at your sweater and big, round eyes looking up at him. You are crying. Heavy tears spill down your face and crash into the black water beneath your feet, pained hiccups stopping you from speaking coherently. You still do, voice a broken mess, and lips that won’t stop trembling.

“M’sorry.” You keep repeating. “I am, I really am. I don’t—I don’t want us to stop being friends.” You step closer, tugging at his shirt. “Can you stop ignoring me now? Can you tell me what I did wrong?” Eyes red and swollen from crying so much, but the tears just won’t stop. “I said sorry. You said it’s my fault, but I’ve already said sorry. Please.” 

You stop for a second, as if you’re ready to beg. “I still wanna be your best friend.”

Yukio tries to answer. He really tries. But there’s no sound to come out, no voice to beg it to stop. The pressure in his throat builds up until he can feel it burning, his lungs on fire. Trying to push the words out doesn’t work. It never works.

It’s just a second, nothing more than a blink, but the tiny child is gone. You stand in his place now, tall and stiff. Your face doesn’t reveal anything but professionalism, that stoic expression you always carry. But your eyes—oh, your eyes—they’re so full of resentment it physically hurts.

You hate him.

This time, the one who doesn’t speak is you. You turn around and walk away, taking the light with you. Yukio struggles, the water around his feet trapping him there. A chorus of laughs explodes around him, making his ears ring and his head pound; the eyes of the clan dig on him like daggers, sharp and mocking, and he can’t do anything but watch the water rise, restricting his movements more and more. A hand grabs his shoulder, as black as the liquid under him. It’s gripping so hard he feels as if it’s about to tear his flesh. Another one just like the first attaches to his forearm, and suddenly, there are hands everywhere, pulling him back, pulling him deeper. He sinks, the pressure condensing around his chest like it wants him to drown. His lungs close, his chest aches, his consciousness spills around him in waves.

The last thought in his mind is you.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

The night is fresher than the day, but the heat and humidity of Tokyo still cling to your clothes. The city is loud in a way only the underworld can be after it gets dark enough; the smell of alcohol and nicotine permeates the air as if it has always been part of it.

Tokyo is similar to the frontier in that matter, but again, the underworld tends to be similar everywhere. You scan the surroundings once again: the alley behind the club and the loud music that spills under the door. You know Yukio dislikes this kind of place—of course, you know—but it’s not like he has much of a choice, you think, stealing a glance at him; Wakagashiras always do what they must. You know that pretty well, too.

He proved it to you five years ago.

“What?” Yukio’s voice is heavy, rough around the edges. He’s been on edge this past few days, the bags under his eyes a sign that he hasn’t slept more than a few hours. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”

You shake your head and look away. He frowns and lights a cigarette. Your gaze retraces the alley, trying to redirect your thoughts. Hollow eyes scanning the dirty concrete and the outline of a brown stain near a wall; you guess it was red at some point. The only light near the back door is dim, a sickly yellow tone that attracts the insects roaming around it. 

Still, it is enough to distinguish the wobbly figure approaching. You tense up, fists closing in a calculated manner, instincts sharpening your senses—a skill your body has mastered these last years to survive.

You shot a glance at Yukio, his eyes lost somewhere in the cityscape as the smoke fills his lungs. He hasn’t perceived the threat yet. A somewhat disappointed grunt escapes your lips before you can stop it, finally catching his attention. You don’t let him ask, stepping in front of him as the man gets closer.

“What the hell?” He mutters when he spots the man, not even bothering to put his cigarette away.

“He’s probably drunk. Or high. Or both.” Still, your position doesn’t relax. It tenses even more as you start to identify the factions on the man’s face. “Fuck.”

The asshole of the party.

Yukio barely looks over your shoulder, scent souring when he recognizes the unsteady alpha. He is in rough shape: a black eye, a split lip, his nose is probably broken. The rest of his body is probably as beaten as his face; his reputation, perhaps worse. “The guards had their fun with him,” you think to yourself.

And then he’s close enough to understand his slurring babbles. “Your fault. All your fault. Your fault. Damn omega. Damn Wakagashira. Damn Takedas.” His scent mixes with the stench of alcohol. Pheromones so sharp, acidic to a point it bordered rotten, so strong it’s affecting even you, forcing you to scrunch your nose in disgust.

You hear the growl that rolls from Yukio’s chest behind you. You push down the part of yourself that finds the sound comforting and take a step forward. Yukio almost reached for your hand to pull you behind him. Almost.

“Stay back. This should be easy to handle.” You order.

And it should. It really should. You’ve managed more than this in basic training. But the low growl behind you is distracting, and the stench threatens to give you a headache. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste blood and step forward again, forcing your mind into all the programming of the clan for pawns like you. The way he moves indicates he should be easy to immobilize, too wasted to hold his ground, but if his scent is so strong, it’s clear he’s leaning more into his instincts than his logical mind, which might be a problem. No weapons on sight, that’s good. You’re not dumb enough to discard the possibility, though. 

When he’s at arm's length, his hand shoots for your throat. Yukio jumps forward, teeth bared, but you catch the alpha’s wrist before it can even touch you. Your eyes meet his—cold, too cold to look alive. Panic flickers in his pupils for a mere moment, and then he tries to pull his arm back. You don’t yield; instead, you keep the limb in place and increase the strength of your grip. A sound shatters from the throat of the alpha, something similar to the barking of a scared animal, and Yukio steps beside you with a grimace that looks too much like pride.

Pride. After all this time, now he wants to be proud. 

Your grip wavers, for just a fragment of a second. A phantom sensation in your nape sends a painful sting through your column. And that’s enough for the alpha to snatch his arm back, immediately reaching for something hidden in his clothes. You panic, the motions of the man display before you in slow motion. 

He has a knife. 

He has a knife, and he’s aiming for Yukio, directly to his chest.

Something in your head burns, the weight of failing a mission for the first time. The weight of disappointing your Oyabun. The weight of losing something you lost long ago, for the second time.

Your feet moved before you to shield the alpha, eyes connecting with Yukio’s for what felt like a lifetime before a sharp pain exploded in the back of your shoulder, close, too close to your nape. Your shoulder blade burned, your whole arm spasmed, your perfectly white shirt tainted red. You collapsed on Yukio’s chest, mind too focused on the pain to figure out what he was yelling in your ear. Why was he so goddamn loud?

His arms envelop you. His scent spikes with such rage that it’s hard to ignore, even for you. But it’s comforting. Somehow. You don’t want to think about why. You let it soothe you enough to regain control of your own body, focusing on your surroundings to block the pain, focusing on the retreating pheromones and the sound of hurried steps growing quieter and…

This man is fucking running away.

The realization gives you enough force to focus; you can’t let him run away. You can’t fail Shinpei like this, not after all he’s done for you. So you reach into Yukio’s pocket with your good hand, where you know his gun is, and push him away, turning on your heels and ignoring the way your head spins. You center all your focus on aiming, letting the wounded arm hang limp before pulling the trigger.

One, two, three times.

Thud.

The body falls at the third. The gun follows, sliding from your hand with the rest of your strength, and suddenly, you’re on the floor.

A new brown stain will soon adorn the concrete, not far from the first one.

The thought makes you smile.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

“What the hell were you thinking?” Yukio curses, basically dragging you through the hallways of the base. Most of your weight rests on him; your mind too foggy to walk straight after all the blood you’ve been losing.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Not foggy enough to shut up, though, it seems. “I said I had it. Why didn’t you stay behind me?”

“Yeah, you sure had it.” He growls. Your sleeve is practically red; the growing stain in the back of your shirt has him panicking more than he would ever admit out loud.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you had fucking listened.” You spit, hostility dripping through your words like the warm liquid on your back. “Do you think I’m not good enough to be your bodyguard? I’m here because I earned it.” The next sentence comes out slurred, quiet, as if you didn’t intend to say it out loud, but it slipped anyway. “You’re not the… only one with something to prove.”

Yukio ignores it. It’s easier to ignore it. He focuses on opening the door, dragging you to one of the medical beds as some nurses rush to your side. You sit, and Yukio stands in front of you to make sure you don’t faceplant onto the floor. Your head is still spinning. You let it fall against Yukio’s chest—you don’t really care about anything right now. The doctors say something about a transfusion and stitches that you don’t comprehend completely; your heartbeat is too loud in your ears to think of anything else.

“Hey.” Yukio grabs your face roughly, keeping his eyes on yours. “Don’t fall asleep on me.” Your breathing is ragged. You try to focus on evening it out.

“Piss off. I… won’t.” You slur. You don’t sound convincing. You are also cursing a lot more than usual. He doesn’t want to think about how much blood you must have lost to forget you were supposed to be professional. You don’t usually mess up like this.

He takes the bloody shirt off you, hands brushing against your cold torso. You let him. The nurse applies pressure to the wound and asks him to remove your collar as well. So he does, pulling the leather he thought useless and letting it fall near your ragged shirt. He wonders, just for a moment, why the skin of your nape feels so smooth—like a scar. He leans closer to inspect; the scarred tissue is all over your nape, completely covering where your scent gland is supposed to be.

Completely covering where his mark was supposed to be.

“[name]?” He tries to regulate his voice. He really does. It doesn’t work. “What happened here?” His hand finds its way to the back of your neck, shivering fingers tracing the skin. You spasm, body relaxing and leaning into the touch before your good hand tightens around Yukio’s shirt when the nurse starts suturing the muscle of your trapezius. His mind jumps to the many times you did the same thing when you were little. His throat suddenly feels dry. His own nape hurts. “[name].”

Your answer is not even a word, just a sound to let him know you were listening. His fingers trace over your nape once again, over the place he left his mark long ago. “Here. What happened here?”

“The… mark.” You slur, trying to make sense of what leaves your mouth while there’s a needle piercing your skin. You’ve always hated the feeling of being sutured—that’s why you avoided being stabbed over everything else, goddamnit. “Tried to break it.”

There’s panic in Yukio's eyes. His pheromones start to spill. “Did you break the bond?”

You shake your head. The nurse is pulling too hard, and the nylon feels like it's tearing the tissue. “Couldn't.”

“What did you do?” Yukio's voice grows desperate, but you don’t seem to notice. Your eyes are shut, brows furrowed painfully. “[name], what did you do?”

“I got… rid of it.” You barely register your own answer, your body finally relaxing when you feel the nurse tie the final knot. “The gland.”

But you're too tired to notice the way Yukio's hands start to tremble before he removes them from your neck, or how his scent spills in sour waves of grief, or how his mind seems to short-circuit and he stops talking completely. 

You don't notice when he leaves the room. Even when the place feels too empty and the silence too loud, you keep telling yourself you don't notice. You don’t care.

You stare at the blood transfusion connected to your arm, to the red liquid draining slowly into your system, and repeat the thought over and over again.

Maybe, if you say it enough, you'll start to believe it. 

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

Trembling hands hold onto a set of documents, wrinkling them in their urgency. The office is a mess; files and folders are spread carelessly on the floor. One with your name lies on the desk, open.

Yukio knows he’ll be in trouble when his father finds out. Shinpei hates having people in his office, much less roaming through his stuff. Yukio doesn’t care, not now. Not when his father kept hidden a report as crucial as the one in his hands. How could he omit telling him something like this? How could he give permission for something like this?

He lets his weight fall on the chair behind the desk, eyes roaming the document dated four years ago with increasing panic.

CONFIDENTIAL MEDICAL REPORT — OMEGA SECONDARY SYSTEM EXTRACTION

Issued by: National Institute of Endocrine and Pheromonal Health

Document Type: Post-operative assessment summary

Procedure Code: OSG-RMV-12 (“Scent Gland Excision/Ablation”)

Classification: Restricted—Non-authorized medical intervention

OVERVIEW

Surgical removal of the cervical and sub-clavicular scent glands is an unapproved and highly invasive procedure intended to suppress or disable secondary-sex pheromone activity. The glands’ neural and hormonal connections regulate Omega endocrine stability, emotional-pheromonal feedback, and bond reception/transmission.

IMMEDIATE PHYSIOLOGICAL CONSEQUENCES

• Hormonal Shock: Severe destabilization of the hypothalamic–pheromonal axis within 24–48 hours post-operation.

• Pheromone Loss: Basal emission rate decreases by 90–98%. Trace emissions may occur under acute hormonal stress (i.e., heat).

• Sensory Dissonance: Patients often report dullness in scent perception and impaired recognition of bond-linked individuals.

LONG-TERM COMPLICATIONS

• Cycle Irregularity: Heat onset unpredictable; durations shortened but accompanied by intense pain, cramping, and febrile symptoms.

• Inhibitor Resistance: Conventional hormonal suppressants exhibit markedly reduced efficacy; dosage escalation is not recommended.

• Psychological Effects: Detachment, loss of instinctual response, and identity dissociation noted in extended follow-ups.

• Bond Attenuation: Neural half of any pre-existing mark remains detectable to the bonded Alpha; however, reciprocal emotional and pheromonal feedback ceases on the Omega’s end (muted, but still existing connection). Bond integrity cannot be re-established post-excision.

LEGAL AND ETHICAL ADVISORY

Due to the irreversible endocrine damage and high morbidity risk, scent-gland excision is prohibited under Article 14 of the Secondary Dynamics Health Regulation Act. Performance of or consent to the procedure without governmental sanction constitutes a felony offense.

PROGNOSIS

Survival rate: 94% (with intensive post-operative care)

Restoration of pheromonal function: 3%

Recommended management: palliative hormone regulation, periodic monitoring, and psychological support.

— END OF REPORT —

At the end of the last page, a symbol drawn in red catches his attention; his father’s stamp. His father’s approval.

And all Yukio can do is let the new information settle, filling his throat and his lungs and threatening to make him choke, pulling him deeper into the pit of dark, dirty water in his head that always seems to be waiting for him to drown.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

“Can we talk?” You finally reached Yukio, who had been ignoring everyone and everything since he left the test room. He looked at you, annoyed, for barely a second, and kept walking. You tried to keep up with his pace with long, hurried strides. “Please.”

“We already talked.”

“I don’t want that.” He stopped, finally, but didn't turn around to look at you. “I don’t want us to stop being friends.”

“I told you—”

“What does being friends have to do with you being Wakagashira? Or an alpha?” You stepped closer. “Why do you insist so much on pushing me away? Is it because you are scared?”

Yukio’s fists closed tightly, his whole body tensing before he started moving again, walking away from you, as he’d always done since he presented.

“Yukio, wait!” You sprinted, grabbing his arm to stop him. This was your last chance, your final attempt to mend your relationship with your childhood friend. “Why do you always—”

“Back off.”

The command hit you like a truck. It crashed against your ears and exploded somewhere in your chest, making it hard to breathe. The air suddenly felt too hot, too heavy, not enough. Your whole body burned, a pull near your belly made your legs tremble, and then all your muscles felt as if they were spasming. Your breathing turned heavy, still holding Yukio’s arm to try to ground yourself when the sweet scent started to envelop everything around you. Why did it smell so sweet? Why did you feel wet between your legs?

A noise surges directly from your throat, one you didn’t know you were able to make—like a hurt animal. The next thing you knew was that you were on the floor. Yukio towered over you, a different scent making your head go dizzy. He put his arms around you, and the pain in your lower belly almost stopped. Your arms instinctively hugged his neck, nuzzling where the scent was strongest as you breathed in his aroma. A purring sound vibrated from your chest, affecting Yukio’s instincts. One of his hands held the back of your head, the touch making you expose your neck eagerly, mind a mush of smells and heat. The way he licked the zone of your gland sent goosebumps all over your body, slow, caring even. Then a pair of fangs sank into your neck, breaking the skin and locking there. It felt like a new heat wave washing over you, bliss blurring your logical thoughts to incomprehensible whispers at the back of your mind. 

But then Yukio’s arms were not around you anymore. Your eyes opened, watching how two subordinates with blurred out faces were trying to keep Yukio away from you. His growls were feral, bloodied canines trying to bite at the two men restricting them like a beast. The same pained noise you released before surged from your lips, louder this time, and Yukio’s head snapped towards you before he struggled with more force. An arm wraps around your torso, and you feel the panic building up, a painful keen tearing from your throat as you struggle to release yourself. More men work on keeping Yukio restrained while you are dragged away, locked in a room with too many pillows and blankets.

The next three days felt like hell. It was too hot, too suffocating, too lonely, and no matter what you did or where you touched, the pressure in your lower belly never went away. You would roll around all day, scared and in pain, keening for your alpha until your voice went hoarse and your throat burned.

Did he abandon you? Did he not want you? Was that why he was not coming?

His absence caused a different kind of pain, one that started in your nape and tangled around your ribs as if trying to break them. It didn’t matter how many clothes that smelled like Yukio they gave you, how many times you cried out for him, how sour your scent turned; no one came.

You were alone.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

When you wake up, your body feels hot. Too hot. A familiar ache tugs at your core, making you curl up in pain. You can smell your own pheromones starting to rise and the slick running down your thighs. You curse; a heat is the last thing you need now.

You look around. You were moved to an individual room near the medical area, now that your wound was healing, because the doctors insisted on giving you a little more privacy. Yukio hasn't shown his face since the day you were stabbed, and you suppose he was assigned a provisional bodyguard while you were incapacitated.

It's okay. You don't mind. It's better this way.

Actually, it's great. Now you have free rein to find someone willing to help you spend the painful next hours that await you. You stand up from the bed and walk to the door, ignoring your feverish form and the wetness between your legs; you need to find an alpha. Fast. If you don't have someone between your legs before your pre-heat is over, the combination of insufferable cramps and the stab on your shoulder blade will not let you move out of the room.

But then Yukio storms in with a document you dismiss in his hand and a desperate expression, panting as if he had been running. His pheromones spill in heavy, distraught waves around you, the strong scent making your legs weak.

You removed your gland, yes, but that didn't break the bond; it just muted it. The reminder is like a slap. Your nape stings, the few instincts still connected to the bond purring under Yukio's pheromones. Your pre-heat is cut early, reason collapsing under the fever of your heat. It hurts. It hurts so much that you don't know if you can handle it. It hurts more than any heat you've had before. Your body, barely able to produce pheromones, is overworking itself to make your scent stronger, desperate for attention. It's tearing itself apart, wounded under the negligence of the alpha it considers your "mate." It waits for an answer, a signal coming from the bond, but with no gland to receive it, your instincts can't do anything but mourn, pressing further.

Yukio covers his nose, startled and ready to back off. He didn't expect you to be in heat. He didn't want to see you in heat. It would crumble the illusion of disdain he so strongly put up, faster than he can build it up again. But his scent grows stronger, his pants start to feel too tight around his crotch, and that's all you need to lose all your sense of restriction: the smell of his arousal.

You close the space between your bodies eagerly, mouth crashing against his. Hard. Lips pressing with urgency, teeth clashing and biting. You start pulling him deeper into the room, closer to the bed. Yukio tries pushing you away, using all his resolve to resist your pheromones—fuck, your pheromones—but his hand lands on your wounded shoulder, and you whine. He freezes, not sure where it’s safe to touch, and you use the opportunity to push him into the mattress.

You kiss him again. Desperate, hungry, the ache in your insides craving for him. He doesn't have time to react when you're on his lap, straddling him, hips grinding against his hardness. Your teeth pull at his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. Yukio winces, pulling back from the kiss with a hiss.

"[name], for fuck's sake, stop." His voice is rough. His chest rises heavily. "You are gonna regret this when your heat is over."

But you don't listen. Instead, your hands hold his face and pull him to you again. Again and again and again. Your skin burns, your heart pounds against your ribs as if it's trying to break free. Your tongue drags against his chin, cleaning the trace of blood before sucking on his lower lip. Then you pull back, barely, whispering against his lips with a mix of desire and hatred. "Shut up and help me before I find someone else to finish the job."

You can see the shift in Yukio after your words. You feel it in the aggression in his pheromones, in the way he looks at you. In how his fists clench as if he's trying not to hit something. Suddenly, it's him who's trying to devour you, bruising kisses steal your breath away, the metallic flavor of his blood mixing with spit. His hands roam over your back, sending shivers down your spine. Your hips roll against his, pushing a grunt from Yukio's throat.

Your head feels dizzy, as if the heat in your lower belly has taken over. Yukio's tongue is suddenly on your neck, licking in a way that makes you shudder. Your hands jump to his pants, fingers battling against the belt in a desperate frenzy.

But Yukio stops your hands. You are about to complain before your back hits the mattress, Yukio's form trapping you as he kicks his pants off. His erection presses against the stain of slick in your pants, your ragged breaths landing near his ear. You open your legs wider, pulling him by his shirt into another ruthless kiss.

You feel his hands everywhere: on your back, on your hips, on your stomach. Clothes are being tugged and discarded somewhere on the floor, the air is too hot in your lungs. Yukio's lips trace your chest hungrily, marks flourishing like flowers, teeth grazing against your collarbone. There's no warning when three fingers probe at your rim, the intrusion making you hiss in pain. Yukio's digits curl against your walls, slick coating his hand and running down your inner thighs. Your hips buck up, nails digging at his back in an attempt to ground yourself.

It hurts. It hurts, and still, the throbbing in your core soothes, if just a little.

Still, you were not going to let him have this. Not after the last five years. Not after everything. In a swift movement, you place yourself on top of Yukio again; the position gives you back the illusion of control. You lower your hips around him, slow, biting your lip while forcing yourself open. The head breaches inside, tearing a groan out of you. In a sudden moment of clarity, you pause, staring at Yukio's panting form. An urge to piss him off surges from deep inside your chest, the words slipping from your mouth on their own.

"Fuck, you're bad at this."

Yukio's head snaps up, eyes open in disbelief, before his jaw clenches. He grabs your hips, hard enough to leave a mark, and slams you down on his cock. You choke, collapsing on his chest. The stretch burns, agony mixing with some kind of euphoria, while tears threaten to spill down.

"You seem to be enjoying it anyway." Yukio rumbles.

His pace is cruel, bruising thrusts not giving you the time to get used to the intrusion before forcing you to accommodate to his shape. You don't know if the sounds you are making are coming from pain or pleasure. Your nails grip his shoulders, raking red lines each time he drags you up and down his form, every thrust knocking the air out of your lungs.

Yukio's lips go back to you, mouthing at your good shoulder before sinking his fangs in your flesh, skin yielding under his teeth. Your vision blurs as the pressure coils tighter in your core, tearing a keen out of you. Your body tenses up, your breathing stutters. Your orgasm shatters you, pain spikes through every nerve and collides in a phantom sting where your gland is supposed to be before it melts into bliss, fogging every thought from your mind. Your thighs tremble, slick floods in waves to soak the sheets beneath you when you spill over Yukio's abdomen. The aftershock makes stars burst behind your eyelids, enough to ease the aching throb in your stomach, even if shortly, walls clenching around the alpha's length so hard you almost drove him over the edge with you.

Almost.

Yukio doesn't even let you ride your high before he changes positions, the hands on your hips turn you over so he can be on top again, pushing your legs against your chest and over his shoulders in a way that makes you feel completely exposed, rim clenching against nothing. Your mind is fuzzy, a pulp of heat and sensations that doesn't let you think clearly.

"Already tired?" Yukio mocks you, the head of his cock nudging against your warmth. "Remember you wanted this." He rams inside in a harsh motion. A broken sob rips from your throat, head slamming against the mattress while your hands clutch the sheets. It's like electricity running through your body, setting all your nerves on fire and making every muscle spasm alive again.

Your mind gets lost in the mush of pheromones, instincts taking over when a chorus of "alpha" spills from your lips, tears running down your face.

The name seems to catch Yukio's attention, slowing down to take your form in. Your eyes, clouded with the effects of your heat, are focused on Yukio and Yukio only. Swollen lips pant heavily, chest rising and falling, splashed in red all the way up to your face. Purple marks bloom across your skin as proof of something you will regret tomorrow, but are too far gone to think about right now. One of your hands unclutches from the sheets to tangle in Yukio's hair, pulling him closer with a yearning you never show. It's as if you wanted him close, even more than he already is; fused into your skin so he can't ever walk away again. A needy whimper breaks your voice, begging him to move, to do something, to show you he was still there.

He stops at the sight, arousal and nostalgia staining his pheromones. He frowns, his gaze tracing your body with something close to mourning.

So he lets his hand roam around your body. Slow to the point it feels like fondness. Slow to the point it hurts. His lips land on your calf, leaving a tentative nip before he pulls your legs off his shoulders. They immediately wrap around his hips, his pace restarts. Measured thrusts hit deeper; the newly added pressure makes it hard to breathe.

His touch is warm, so warm it burns your skin. His mouth traces every mark, his hands massage circles on your hips. He kisses the bite mark on your good shoulder, around the already dried blood. Then he's on your nape, the feeling of his tongue sending shivers down your spine. There's something inside your head, a voice you thought you buried long ago, that rejoices in the thought, the dopamine running to your head like a drug. Then teeth press into the scarred tissue, where the mark was long ago, and suddenly everything is too much. Touches, kisses, scents, they all rush through every nerve and explode in a sob. Your back arches, your nails dig at Yukio's back like a lifeline, your trembling legs close around him, bringing him closer. Everything is white and hot and too much.

And Yukio watches the way you undo under him, how every coherent thought seems to be replaced by incomprehensible stutters and a low purring sound. You feel his lips on your face, kissing the tears away in a gesture that feels so loving it must be a lie. You swear you can hear him whisper an "I'm sorry" into your ear before the heat of his release fills your stomach.

You wonder if that's a lie, too.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

You stared at your clothes, perfectly folded on top of the medical bed. Then at yourself. The hospital gown hung loose around you like a penalty, weighing more than polyester was supposed to. There was a knock on the door before you heard it crack open. 

“[name].” Shinpei stepped in. Tetsuo waited by the door.

“Oyaji.” You greeted, head bowed. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I don’t think such an operation is something to brush over.” He answered. His eyes were as firm as always, but there was a kind of softness to his tone. “Are you sure about this?”

You stared at him. You didn’t answer.

“I know I gave you my permission, but after this, there’s no going back. If you decide you don’t want to do it last-minute, you don’t have to. I can cancel the surgery.”

Your hand landed on your nape, tracing the scar of Yukio’s mark with your finger. It hurt. The mark never healed properly. The doctors mentioned something about your omega feeling neglected by its alpha. 

Its alpha? The title made you want to laugh. Yukio didn’t want to be anything yours, not now, not before the mark. Why would that ever change?

No, you didn’t have an alpha. Not after spending so many heats alone and in pain because your body refused to accept any pheromones besides Yukio’s, not after being discarded like nothing but a defective asset at the first chance.

It was funny. Fucking hilarious. So much you wanted to cry. So much you didn’t realize you were until your father’s face twisted in worry.

You let your hand fall from your nape. “I’ll do it.”

Shinpei didn’t say anything else; he didn’t argue or try to change your mind. He nodded and stepped outside, leaving you with your father. You felt his arms around you as soon as you were alone. You tried to look strong, you really tried, but you crumbled somewhere in between his “you’ve grown so much,” and his “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

The knot in your throat didn’t let you speak, drowning your words between sobs and nausea. So you scent him, for the very last time, just hoping he’s there when you wake up.

You don’t know what you would have done if, after opening your eyes, you were alone again.

⍅ ⭒ ⇌ ⭒ ⍆

The room reeks of pheromones and sex, the sun filtering through the curtains a witness to the mess around you. You’ve been awake for a while, just lying in bed next to the man who threw you away five years ago, staring at the ceiling as if the chaos inside your head is its fault. Your legs are sore, your waist is killing you, and you are pretty sure there’s dry blood on your shoulder, around a not-so-subtle bite mark that you’ll have to disinfect once you get to your room. You don’t want to think about how many more are spread around your body; a reminder of last night’s mistake.

At least your heat is over, the painful burn in your lower belly gone.

You sit up with a grunt and scan the room, looking for your pants in the mess of clothes spread on the floor. They sit near the small table near the door, carelessly discarded between kisses, bites, and insults. They are not the only thing there, though; the document Yukio brought with him last night is left on top of the table. You approach, putting on your shirt that was tossed next to the bed, and take a look. The file has your name, basic information about you, and then a report.

Your post-operation medical report.

A sneer on your lips before you drop the papers, focusing on putting your pants on and getting out of there before Yukio wakes up.

“Are you really going to leave? Just like that?” But you’re not fast enough.

You roll your eyes, starting to button your shirt.

“What, am I supposed to stay? Were you expecting cuddles and breakfast?” Your voice is mocking, sarcastic. Yukio’s scent grows bitter. You turn around and look at him, a humorless smile plastered on your face when you point at the report. “I see you went around prying at things you were not supposed to, so you know how painful a heat without an alpha is for me.” You run your hands over the fabric, smoothing the wrinkles on your shirt and talking again, the resentment you’ve been keeping at bay leaking from every syllable. “It didn’t have to be you. You just happened to be around.”

Yukio sits up, a frown and an instinctive growl radiating from his chest. “So what then? You just act like a whore, taking in any alpha available as soon as you are in heat?”

Yukio didn’t expect the growl coming from you, challenging him, or the brief outburst of enraged pheromones. “Was I supposed to spend my heats alone and save myself for the alpha that rejected me a week after marking me? Did you think I was saving myself for you? For you?” Something tugs at Yukio’s chest, his scent stained with something other than rage. But it disappears fast when his jaw clenches, pheromones shooting a warning to shut up. “There were many before you. And there will be many more after. So fuck off.” You ignore it.

“You know it’s different.” Yukio sputters. “The clan—”

“Liar.” You interrupt him. “You are just scared. You are a fucking coward.”

Your tone hits something; a nerve, perhaps. Maybe his pride, maybe his instinct. His scent grows sharper, a vein popping in his neck. “That’s no way to talk to your Wakagashira.”

But you laugh. Loud. Cracking up. It only enrages him more. “My Wakagashira? Yukio, you’re nothing to me. The only man I’m loyal to is your father. My Oyabun.”

“But I will be Oyabun.” Yukio reminds you, a proud smirk threatening to slip on his lips. "Really soon."

“I’m retiring.” You spit, disgusted by his arrogance. “I’ll leave the Yakuza before you take over. Oyaji already accepted my request.”

Yukio’s confidence shatters, his face melting in a startled grimace. “You can’t.”

“I already have.” You reach for the door, ignoring the sound of Yukio demanding you to wait while he struggles to put his pants on. The handle twists under your hand. He calls again, louder, angrier. You ignore him.

“I said, wait!” He shouts, the command freezing you in place for a second, a cold shiver running down your back. Then you turn your head to look at him, a satisfied smile adorning your lips while one of your hands reaches for the scar on your nape.

“That doesn’t work on me anymore.”

And, slamming the door on your way out, you are glad you can finally put that damn surgery to use.

Childhood friends to strangers.

Japanese. Yakuza's central base (and where you and him grew up) is in Tokyo.

Heir of the Oyabun (親分) —head of the yakuza.

You are the son of the Oyabun's closest Kobun (子分) —subordinate.

Two years older than you.

Can—and will—kill someone with his bare hands.

Virgin!Yoichi who couldn't stop thinking about you. He'd met you briefly when you joined camp, and that was the beginning of the end. Yoichi would catch himself staring at you. He'd find excuses to talk to you and be near you. Hell, thoughts of you would creep into his mind when he'd jerk off! When he finally worked up the courage to ask you out, that was when Yoichi finally graduated from Virgin to MEGA SLUT. For real, it took one date in the woods for him to suggest having sex... You felt it was a bit abrupt, so you scolded him about it. But when Yoichi explained (argued back) that he didn't know it was out of pocket (due to his lack of social education growing up), you let him off the hook. Oh and you agreed to his proposition... Hey! You wanted to crack the sexy man since your first day at camp!

Virgin!Yoichi who couldn't stop grinning the whole time you two were fucking. The man turned into a wild animal with the way he was chasing his high; fucking you with a pace that was almost inhuman and a roughness that turned you on. The whole time, through grunts and moans, Yoichi was grinning; his pearly-white, sharp teeth on display and his wolfish eyes sharp and shiny as they took in the view beneath him. It was 100x better than any fantasies he'd had whilst jerking off. The gruff man was groaning your name above you in between kisses, and his eyes literally wouldn't leave your body; they'd just go to appreciate a different part of you: your pretty face, your waist, your hips, your ass, your dick. And not to say that Yoichi's heart is in his dick, but it is, and the man fell in love with you there and then.

Virgin!Yoichi who became the smallest step below a sex addict after your first time with him. Literally, the muscle-head couldn't stop thinking about, talking about, or actively having sex! It got to the point that you two couldn't spend an hour together without it escalating into rough, raw, passionate sex. It made you wonder if Yoichi just wanted you for sex, though he quickly shut that idea down with the amount of 'I love you's and incredible aftercare he'd provide. And whilst you felt that the wolf-boy was saying the L word wayyyy too soon, you gave the socially-inept man a pass. You didn't exactly mind hearing it moaned in your ear whilst Yoichi was rearranging your guts, or hearing it whispered to you as he massaged your sore body after ruining you.

Virgin!Natsumi who grew up incredibly sheltered and unaware of sex or anything of that nature. Sharing a room with his brother also prevented any sort of attempts at masturbation as he matured; so basically, Natsumi was the biggest virgin at Camp Buddy. So when he met you, got to know you, got to see slips of your naked body, Natsumi really couldn't comprehend why he couldn't control himself. Why his dick wouldn't go soft again for what felt like hours after seeing you in that tight sports uniform. Why he couldn't stop thinking about you when he'd go to sleep. And why he wanted to touch you and make sure no one else got to see you the way he did.

Virgin!Natsumi whose mind was literally blown when you started teaching him things. It started off small. You suggested jerking off together when you noticed how impossibly hard the swimmer was after spending some time together. You were unaware that Natsumi had never even done that before, so after giving him a little demonstration, the two of you laid next to each other and jerked off; you chose to ignore how Natsumi was staring at your dick with his whole head turned. You turned it up a notch when you offered him a blowjob. Hey! He was rock hard after seeing you almost fully naked in swim trunks; you figured he needed some help! Especially with how obvious his boner was in his Speedos. You hid behind some palm trees at the beach, but they did nothing to cover up the loud moans coming from Natsumi! His fingers were tangled in your hair as Natsumi guided you up and down his long, veiny dick. You gave that man the best head you've ever given; you might have broken him at some point! His eyes were locked onto you as you slobbered all over his shaft; his tongue falling out of his mouth as he panted out moans of your name and gibberish. It was a hot sight to say the least.

Virgin!Natsumi who almost short-circuited when you had sex for the first time. You took it slow with him, made sure Natsumi felt comfortable and ready. But nothing could have prepared the man for the feeling of your warm, tight walls practically milking his dick. The moment Natsumi bottomed out, sinking his whole length all the way inside you, he had to take a break or (in his own words) he would have came faster than he's ever came before. And even after his little breather, Natsumi was a moaning mess on the brink of orgasm the whole time he was fucking you! Moans of your name amongst gibberish and masculine groans echoed in the cabin along with the soft sound of Natsumi's muscular hips smacking against your plush ass and thighs. Oh and the show you were putting on for the muscular man wasn't helping either; your pornographic moans, your pleasured face, the dirty words leaving your mouth, the way you were stretching and posing your body in pleasure. It was all working towards sending Natsumi over the edge at lightning speed. And when he finally came? Natsumi felt like he was literally dying and ascending. Holy fuck, the way that your walls clamped down on his shaft and milked him as you both came, it made Natsumi literally go light-headed. Aftercare king though! Even though Natsumi was the one who clearly had it taken out of him more, the gentleman still insisted on cleaning you up and lying you on his chest to go to sleep.

Virgin!Taiga who actively refused to admit that he was a virgin. He'd been in a committed relationship before and everything! But in the past, Taiga had a small anxiety in relation to intimacy, which developed into a crippling fear of intimacy after the whole camp turned on him. Though when you joined his cabin, things started changing. After Keiran, Taiga swore off relationships, but the way you would fight back against Taiga's antics? The way you didn't submit to his bullshit like his other lackeys? The fact that you were so fucking attractive? Taiga's initial dislike of you started quickly transforming into a crush. And that crush quickly turned carnal and deep. Deep enough for Taiga to start ignoring his disdain for relationships and even overlook his fear of intimacy.

Virgin!Taiga who would catch himself eyeing you up, sneaking glances at you changing, watching you talk with others effortlessly. Taiga felt so confused; he hadn't been this sexually interested in any of his past relationships! What was different now?! Yet, Taiga quickly dismissed his confusion and went with the flow. Though maybe the red-head went with the flow a little too leniently, 'cause the flow told him to jerk off to the thought of you. Which worked, sure, but it became the only thing that would get him off; thoughts of you beneath him, taking his dick and moaning his name, complimenting him.

Virgin!Taiga who never imagined his fantasies would become a reality; after all, you clearly didn't like him after he'd been such a dick to you. But after being walked in on by you as he was working his dick raw, Taiga couldn't believe his ears when you said, "Need some help, Tiger?". You knew calling him that pissed him off, but in that moment, it made Taiga's dick twitch.

Virgin!Taiga who physically couldn't stop humping you; his hips not listening to his brain, his dick just constantly moving in and out of your tight, gummy walls. Pathetic moans kept falling off of Taiga's tongue as his hands gripped your waist and ass cheeks, his mouth roaming over your nape and back, leaving marks and kisses. Let's just say Taiga was a lot nicer to you after that encounter. And his fear of intimacy did a 180 into constant horniness; though he does sometimes need some praise from you to keep him from spiralling with insecurity.

Virgin!Hiro who was saving himself for someone special! He didn't wanna throw his virginity at anyone who would take it; he wanted to give it to someone who actually liked him. So when he started having a fat crush on you at camp, naturally, Hiro would fantasise about losing his virginity to you! He'd jerk off every night to the thought of how you'd feel on his dick and picture you in hundreds of different positions with him.

Virgin!Hiro who almost exploded with excitement when you two started dating after a very heartfelt confession from the ginger. Though Hiro did actually explode with excitement when you subtly suggested letting him hit it, that being said, he jizzed his pants. Literally just from you asking him to fuck you. But with how much energy the firecracker has, one orgasm is nothing, so the two of you got it on despite Hiro's drawers already being soiled. Oh, and did Hiro cum again the second he bottomed out? ....Maybe.

Virgin!Keitaro who was a horny fucker but had just never felt the touch of a man. He was into you from the second he laid his eyes on you, and the fact that you two were in the same cabin didn't help! Keitaro would constantly eye you up, make excuses to shower with you, and of course, he'd spend an extra few minutes in the shower cubicle to jerk off to the thought of you.

Virgin!Keitaro who is suuuuper clumsy when you inevitably get it on; hey, you weren't blind, you could tell how into you Keitaro was! But yeah, the brunette's kissing is clumsy and lust-driven; his teeth clashing against yours gently and his tongue playing with yours shyly, as if testing the waters. His hand placement is awkward and hesitant until you take him by the wrist and place his hands where you want them. Oh, and his pace is all over the place; just going with what feels good for him and kinda negating your pleasure. Though not because he doesn't care for your pleasure (quite the opposite, really), but he's so inexperienced that Keitaro is just trying to go with what feels natural to him! Though after some guidance from you, you're both cumming by the end of the night.

Note: Hunter has the 1st headcannon as Top!reader and the second as bottom!reader

Virgin!Hunter who was too shy to have ever gotten any action. That was before you came along, though. You had the twink bent over within the first week of dating, and he was sooo sensitive too. His plush cheeks fit in your hands perfectly, and your dick fit in his tight hole even better. The blonde was straight up milking you exactly how you needed without having any experience under his belt!

The movie was just a low hum, its cool blue light flickering against the living room wall. It was late, and the beer in your hand was starting to lose its chill. A perfectly normal night in.

The old landline rang.

You snagged the receiver, letting out a weary sigh. “Hello?”

The voice that answered was completely distorted, like a cheap voice changer was having a bad day. It paused for the drama, then hit you with the classic:

“What’s your favourite scary movie?”

You couldn't help but crack a smile. Clearly, someone was messing with you.

“Oh, we’re doing the bit,” you chuckled, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Cute. Try to be original, though. Everyone starts with that line.”

A dry, amused sound came back. “Everyone’s a critic. But you still haven’t answered the question.”

You took a swig of beer. “Fine. Halloween. It’s a classic for a reason.”

“A strong choice,” the voice purred. “But the better question is, are you alone right now?”

“Look, buddy, I’m flattered by the late-night attention, but I’m hanging up and getting back to my movie.”

A moment of dead silence. Then, a chilling sound: a second, faint, low whisper layered beneath the main voice. It was there and gone, but definitely human.

“We can see you,” the second voice drawled. “Standing by the counter. Grey hoodie, no shoes. Nice beer.”

The can of beer fell from your hands. You snapped your head up, eyes frantically searching the dark windows. The joke immediately vanished.

“Okay,” you said, your voice suddenly tight. “That’s enough. Stop.”

“Oh, come on,” the voice purred, sounding closer now. “Don’t tell me you’re scared already. We haven’t even started.”

And then—click. The line went dead.

=

You stared at the receiver, your heart giving a frantic thrum. The house felt way too big and too damn silent. This wasn’t a casual prank anymore.

Thud.

Something landed heavily against the front porch.

Your pulse jumped. You whispered the first name that came to mind. “...Satoru?”

Silence.

Then, a knock. It wasn’t familiar at all. The door handle turned with a soft click, and the door creaked open.

"Not funny!" you yelled, moving toward the entryway. Your hands were shaking now. “You said no jump scares inside the house!”

That’s when you saw it.

A Ghostface mask. A black hood. The glint of a knife catching the faint blue light from the TV.

Your brain stalled. It looked like him, felt like the costume, but it was too still. Too tall. Too quiet.

You took a huge step back. “Okay,” you whispered, voice thin. “You can seriously stop now.”

Then, a second figure stepped in behind the first.

Two of them.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled backwards, frantically scrambling until your back hit the wall. “What the actual fuck. Who is the second guy?”

They didn’t move. The first one just tilted his head. The second one tapped the blade of his knife against the doorframe—a slow, terrifying tick, tick, tick.

You ran.

The chase was pure, desperate adrenaline—your socks slipped on the hardwood, your lungs burned. You caught a flash of one shadow near the kitchen, and the other cutting off the stairs. They were deliberately cornering you.

You grabbed a full wine bottle off the counter, spinning to swing—but one of the figures was already there, blocking you. The knife glinted in the moonlight

You swung; the bottle shattered against the counter. A gloved hand instantly grabbed your wrist, twisting it hard, and slammed you back against the counter edge.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. Your feet refused to move from the floor.

“Please,” you gasped, eyes wide. “Don’t—”

The second one joined, breath ragged through the modulator. He slowly dragged a gloved finger down your chest, pressing into your sternum.

“Pretty when you’re scared,” the first one murmured.

Your breath hitched—that voice. Under the cheap distortion, the inherent, bright melody of it was completely, undeniably familiar.

“…Saturo?” you whispered.

The mask tilted. Then—he laughed. A sharp, absolutely unmistakable sound that instantly replaced your terror with blinding fury.

You went limp against the counter. “You sick bastard! I actually thought—”

He tore the mask off. It was Gojo Satoru in all his glory, his diamond-blue eyes bright with triumph, his signature grin wide. He instantly closed the distance, pulling you into a tight, sweaty hug. The contrast between his warmth and the adrenaline still freezing your core was jarring.

“Oh, come on, babe! You weren’t that scared,” he chided, his voice playful. “See? Still breathing. I wouldn't let anything actually happen to you. Ever.”

“I was terrified!” you hissed, struggling against his grip. “Who the hell is the second guy, and why is he still wearing his mask?”

Satoru pulled back an inch, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. “Relax. This one, though? He’s the reason we had to get creative. He needs stimulation.”

The second man slowly reached up and pulled off his own mask. His dark hair was tied back, and he regarded you with an air of calm, almost weary amusement. He was handsome in a serious, reserved way, a stark contrast to Satoru's blinding chaos.

Satoru kept his arm locked around your waist, pulling you securely against his side.

“Satoru’s glove traces your jaw. “This is Suguru,” he says, voice light, almost proud. “Been dying to meet you.”

Suguru offered a slow, calm smile that held no apology. “It was a good chase. We just wanted to see how well that cardio would translate to other things.”

You glared from one to the other. "You are both the absolute worst," you muttered, but the frantic need to run was gone, replaced by a confused, building heat. “I’m calling a cab for both of you. Now.”

Satoru tightened his grip, his voice dropping to a seductive promise. “You wouldn’t. You're too curious about my other friend now, aren’t you? And you know you’re going to be bored again if we just leave.”

Suguru stepped in close, trapping you between them. He reached under your hoodie and slid his hand around your back, the cold leather of his glove pressing against your bare skin.

“You wanted to know why we were here.” Suguru’s voice was a low, velvety rasp right next to your ear. “Satoru told me you always need a challenge to really feel something.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes locking with Satoru’s.

“We’ll let you off the hook for all of this,” Satoru said, his voice a possessive claim. “But you have to earn the quiet night back.”

His free hand, now ungloved and warm, reached up and slipped under your hoodie, his fingers brushing the skin of your chest. “Think you could handle a real challenge, babe? One we’re both involved in?”

The knife was on the counter, but the danger was now a concentrated, electric need for something else entirely. The allure of the handsome stranger, Suguru, and the rock-solid trust in your boyfriend, Satoru, was the perfect trap.

You squeezed your thighs together. You didn't even have to think about it.

“Y-yeah, okay,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “I’ll do it.”

Satoru’s smile turned feral. He grabbed the front of your hoodie and simply yanked it over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. “Atta boy. Let’s go get your reward.”

He shoved the discarded hoodie aside. You didn't fight him as you were quickly manoeuvred toward the living room couch. Suguru tossed his knife aside and pulled off his own black T-shirt.

"His cock, Suguru," Satoru muttered, his breath hot on your neck. "Play with his cock."

Suguru chuckled, his gloved hands immediately reaching out, squeezing and gripping your hard length.

“S-Suguru,” you groaned, already breathing too fast. “Keep touching me there—just like that.”

Satoru pulled away just to catch your eye, his blue gaze demanding focus. His palm came down hard on your inner thigh, a sharp thwack. "Focus on me, got that? Wouldn’t want him to stop, would you?"

You shook your head frantically. Satoru immediately claimed your mouth with a bruising kiss, his tongue demanding entry. Suguru was merciless, his gloved fingers rubbing the slick head of your cock while he squeezed your sack.

“Fuck,” you sobbed into Satoru’s mouth, your entire body alight. “I-I need more.”

Satoru pulled back. "Lie back for us, baby."

You obeyed, scooting back onto the cushions. Satoru was stripping off his own clothes. Suguru, meanwhile, leaned over your chest.

“He’s fully hard now,” Suguru said, his voice thick with lust.

“Put your hands behind your head and hold still for a minute,” Satoru commanded, already on his knees between your legs.

Their faces pressed together, side-by-side, as they started to devour you. Satoru focused all his attention on your groin, his tongue flicking across your tip while Suguru kissed and sucked along your inner thigh.

“‘S like fucking candy,” Satoru moaned, his tongue bumping into Suguru’s.

You tried to muffle the loud, lewd noises escaping you, but Suguru pulled back just to land a stinging, open-palmed slap on your thigh.

“Ah ah. Do not go quiet on us.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you stammered.

“We want you screaming,” he emphasised, his eyes hard. “And you will be, by the end of this. Understand, baby?”

You nodded frantically. Satoru’s mouth and hands grew more insistent.

“Ngh, t-that’s so fucking good,” you cried, hips bucking into their faces. “Please, I’m gonna cum.”

“Give it to us,” Satoru’s voice was clear as he moved his mouth further down your shaft, joining Suguru to devour your climax.

Your body tensed, your hips jerking upwards from the intensity. Satoru cried out, his shoulders shaking as he pulled your orgasm from you. The intense wave of pleasure left you twitching and gasping for breath.

But they weren't done just yet.

"No, wait, I-I just came," you tried to protest, your voice thick and pathetic.

Suguru chuckled, his hand pulling away from your slick, aching cock. "Aw, baby. That's too bad, isn't it?"

Satoru grinned, his eyes burning with hunger. "You're only getting started. Get over here."

He flipped you around on the wide couch cushions. You ended up kneeling between Satoru's widespread thighs, facing him, your back a tempting view for his friend.

"First things first," Satoru commanded, grabbing your jaw and tilting your head. "Welcome home."

He pulled your mouth to his cock. Your lips closed around the hard, thick head, and your instincts took over. You started working him, taking in the heat and the power, using your hands to stroke the length.

"Good boy," Satoru groaned, his fingers immediately finding the back of your head, controlling the pace.

Suguru didn't wait. He lubed up his fingers, prodding at the tight ring of your ass. You let out a muffled squeak of surprise and instantly arched back.

"Come now, don't run from it," Suguru cooed, pushing one finger inside to stretch you gently. You gasped, squeezing down hard as Satoru’s voice, thick with arousal, vibrated over your head.

"Look at me, babe. Keep going," Satoru urged, his voice demanding attention as you worked his cock.

Suguru added a second finger, slowly working his hand in and out, the stretching a glorious, deep ache. He felt you clench around him, your hips starting to grind down instinctively, trying to relieve the pressure. He pulled his fingers free with a thick, wet schlop.

"I-I think he's ready, Satoru," Suguru finally spoke.

"You hear that, honey?" Satoru's voice was a low growl. "Time to see who can make you scream the loudest."

Satoru pulled his cock from your mouth. He wrapped one arm around your waist to anchor you, then pushed his massive length into your already slick, needy hole. You sobbed, tears instantly springing to your eyes from the intensity of the stretch.

Satoru buried himself completely, bottoming out with a loud groan, his cock sliding against Suguru’s, separated only by a thin layer of tissue.

Suguru wasted no time, pushing slowly into your ass. His teeth clamped down on your neck, hard, but the pain instantly registered as a shock of pleasure.

"Satoru! Suguru! F-fuck!" you cried, your voice lost in the messy chaos.

Satoru immediately went to work, rocking his hips slowly, then escalating into a tight, invigorated pace. He was thrusting into you ruthlessly, his skin slick with sweat.

"Y-you like it like this, baby?" he asked, his voice raw.

"I second that," Suguru panted into your ear. "You feel perfect. Don't stop."

Inside you, their cocks throbbed against one another. Satoru's pace grew frantic. He was close, his body tensing with the coming release.

"I'm gonna cum for you," Satoru's voice broke, his hips pistoning faster, harder.

"Take it all, baby," Suguru commanded, his own low groan joining the noise.

Satoru came first, his breath hitching on a choked, shouted groan as he filled your hole. Your body seized, convulsing around his cock.

The intense squeeze was all the leverage Suguru needed. His hips slammed forward, his own release breaking on a thick, guttural gasp that was muffled right next to your ear. He shuddered violently, his body going momentarily rigid.

The room was filled with the sounds of heavy, ragged breathing. You collapsed forward, your head falling onto Satoru’s chest, your entire body trembling.

"F-fuck," you managed to gasp out.

"Best reward ever," Satoru mumbled, burying his face in your hair.

Suguru carefully pulled his used body out of your ass and shifted, pulling you fully into the space between them. He gently wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand.

"Ready for that quiet night now, Satoru?" Suguru asked, his voice calm again.

Satoru simply didn't answer. He just tightened his hold on you, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over all three of your bodies.

The adrenaline was finally, completely gone, leaving nothing but soft, heavy exhaustion. The faint blue light of the abandoned movie still flickered on the wall. You were warm, heavy, and totally safe between the two men who had just terrified and thrilled you.

You shifted, burying your face in Satoru’s neck, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. You felt Suguru’s strong arm drape over both of you, a calming, possessive weight. The sounds of the night—the gentle hum of the television, the low thud of a distant car—were the only things left.

You were too tired to move, too spent to even process the insanity of the last hour.

With a soft, relieved sigh, you closed your eyes and drifted off to sleep, right there on the couch, sandwiched between the world's two biggest assholes.

(if u came this far, i lowkey wrote this as a bday special to myself lmaoo)

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

JINU

Jinu’s got that real I’m not a bottom, you’re just annoying energy. Constantly testing your patience. “Don’t touch me,” but his back arches the second you do. “I don’t even like this,” but he’s humping the sheets with your fingers in his ass.

Says shit like “you’re so bad at this” while clearly trying not to cum. Literally panting through gritted teeth, flushed down to his chest, trembling and still running his mouth.

He swears he won’t finish. He tells you mid-fuck: “You think you’re doing something? I’m not gonna—” and then chokes so hard on his own spit when he orgasms that you start laughing.

You say the most degrading shit with the softest tone: “Aww, poor thing. Came so hard you soaked the sheets. And you said I wasn’t good?”

Fully believes he’s still the dominant one after getting tied up, face-fucked, and ruined until his voice cracks. You just kiss his sweaty temple and go, “Sure, baby.”

When he finally drops the act, it’s all over. He whines in your mouth and clutches your back like he’ll die if you stop. You stroke his hair, rub his thighs, talk him through the aftershocks like he’s your sweetest little thing. He falls asleep on your chest muttering, “Don’t tell the others.”

ABBY

Abby looks calm on the outside. The whole soft-spoken, camera-ready golden boy routine. But his voice shakes when you touch him. Barely brushes your thigh and he swallows so hard you can hear it.

He tries to stay polite the first time. Actually says “Thank you” when you push his legs up and eat him out like a meal. You don’t even answer. Just suck harder.

The kind of guy who apologizes for being loud. Moaning into his hand, ears red, body twitching like he’s ashamed of how good you’re making him feel.

“Can I touch you?” he asks while literally choking on your cock. You hold the back of his neck and tell him, “You already are, sweetheart.”

He gets so sensitive after he finishes. One lazy thrust and he’s gasping like you lit a fuse under him. But he doesn’t say stop. Not once. He just nods and takes it.

You fuck him so deep he can’t make words anymore—just sounds, little hiccupy gasps. You hold him close, whisper praise into his ear, and when he cries a little from overstimulation, you kiss the tears away like it’s nothing.

Still says “Thank you” afterward. You just laugh, grab his jaw, and kiss him until he forgets what he was thanking you for.

ROMANCE

Romance? Filthy little tryhard. Thinks he’s seducing you. Walks into your place all smug, talking about how he “doesn’t scare easy.”

“What are you gonna do, fuck me so good I stop being annoying?” he says while unzipping his own pants.

Spoiler: yes. Yes you do.

He talks through the whole thing. Complaining while you pin him down. Moaning mid-insult. “You’re so cocky for someone who hasn’t made me cum yet—oh, fuck, do that again.”

His legs never stop moving. Wrapped around your waist, toes curling, knees squeezing your ribs when he’s close.

He edges himself because he refuses to let go too soon. Keeps biting his own arm to keep quiet.

You flip him on his back and say, “Say please.” He glares at you. You wait. He says, “...Please ruin me.” You do.

He comes on his own stomach like it’s his fucking job. Then asks if you’re going again in five minutes.

BABY

Baby hates you. Or he wants to. Or he tells himself he does, anyway. Won’t look you in the eye. Keeps muttering “Fucking demon,” under his breath like that’ll protect him.

And you? You just look him over once and say, “You’ll cry for me eventually.”

He snaps. Kisses you like he’s trying to win a fight. Grabs your hair, bites your tongue, scratches your back so hard you bleed.

You let him top you for five minutes. He loses control after three. Ends up shaking, whining, begging you to take over.

You call him a needy little brat while you finger him open, real slow. He grits his teeth like he’s mad about it—until you find the right angle and he lets out this broken, high-pitched sound that makes your cock twitch.

“Don’t stop,” he says. So you don’t.

You fuck him into the couch. He keeps squirming like he’s trying to run but won’t actually move away.

Comes without touching himself. So hard he sobs. Whimpers, “You’re such a dick,” and clings to you like you’re the only thing keeping him breathing.

Next morning he won’t look at you. Until you say “You want it again?” and he says, “…Shut up.” But he’s already walking toward you.

MYSTERY

Mystery thinks he’s immune. Keeps his distance, keeps quiet, keeps his shirts buttoned all the way up like that’s going to stop you.

You catch him staring at your hands when you crack your knuckles. At your teeth when you smile. You tilt your head and ask, “Something on your mind?” He just blushes and bolts.

But he comes back. Always does. Watches you from the hallway like he’s checking if it’s safe.

When he finally touches you, it’s soft. Curious. Like he’s trying to memorize what you feel like—not just physically, but what you are.

He whimpers the first time you push in. Gasped “oh fuck” on loop. You stroke his hair and tell him he’s doing so well. He doesn’t stop shaking for a full minute.

Loves being overstimmed, but doesn’t know it yet. You keep him on your lap after he finishes and let your fingers keep working him open until he’s crying, moaning, saying thank you like a prayer.

You murmur something in your old language and his whole body reacts. Shudders like he understood it anyway.

He’s scared of what he’s becoming with you. You tell him, “Too late.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

imagine being in the middle of a uni presentation, all eyes on you as you explained your take on the theory of relativity. yer doing so great for once, as you’re not the one to have the courage for presentations but it doesn’t last.

suddenly feeling a something force its way past your hole, something is stretching you out harshly and you can only think of one person who would do that, your bf and his beloved fleshlight.

you could feel his hard cock drive forward into your core with no haste, as your body shakes and sweats. yet you try to continue, “T-the theory of r-relativity, proposed by Albert Einstein, rereshing that...ngh”. oh fuck oh shit all eyes are on you, your professor is looking at you with concern as your legs tremble and even a faint squelching sound is coming out from your hole being fucked and slicked up.

your ragged breathing and the way you swayed caused your professor to ask “are you alright?”, you nod violently and turn back to the board that had your powerpoint and pointed, opening your mouth again to try and keep going only to feel a particularly hard thrust that pushed you against the board and interrupted your sentence with a semi audible whimper. gosh they all must think you have a vibrator up yer ass or something.

why does it have to feel so good, you were being pounded like no tomorrow but that was the least of your concerns now. you turned back towards the rest of the students some seem to already have their minds in the gutter, blushing and looking away from your quivering body. you were ashamed as you tried as hard as you can to keep talking while letting some whines and groans slip out, you can almost see some students closing their thighs up.

your hole clenched and fluttered around nothing, aching to be filled with the real deal. you could feel your boyfriend's fat cock splitting you open, the bulbous head slamming into your prostate dead-on with brutal precision. you can’t take it any more as you stumble on your feet and have to grip the nearest wall for support.

your professor now even more concerned walks up to you and grabs onto your shoulders making you want to scream from how sensitive and hot your body is right now, you can see the look on your professors face as he takes a look at yours before coughing, “go wash your face up then come back, alright?”. you blinked the tears that were threatening to spill away then nodded sprinting out of the lecture hall and to the bathroom.

you stumbled as your hole fluttered around the object plowing into it before you shakily make your way to a bathroom stall and closed the door, not even bothering to lock it. you sat down on the toilet and hurriedly unbuckled your pants and boxers in one go, impatient and very horny.

your cock sprung free, rock hard and leaking with pre. you can feel the phantom of your boyfriends pre in your untouched hole, you felt how warm it is even though it wasn’t there.

weeping and sobbing, you took a hold of your cock and pumped it violently as you bucked into an invisible force, fucking yourself on a cock you can only feel.

one of your hands jerking your cock and the other. reached for the hem of your shirt and brought it up to your lips to chomp on it and hold it up, it revealed your tummy and the little mark left on your abdomen, which is what connects you to your boyfriend.

you reached your other free hand to place on your stomach, the said tattoo was glowing and when you placed your hands on it you almost came from the pulse of pleasure. you groaned as you can feel your boyfriends cock reaching so deep into your stomach that it makes a bulge. with every thrust it bumps into the hand you have placed there like a baby bump, baby fever much? maybe your boyfriend’s magical world have a way for you to get pregnant.

your silly thoughts vanished quickly at the sound of someone stepping into the bathroom, then it finally came down onto you that you never locked the door. you took your hand off your tummy and slammed it on your mouth to silence yourself.

“[name] you there? the professor asked me to come get you since you’re taking so long”, you recognized that voice as one of your classmates. gosh should you say something or stay quiet, if you talked you might moan but if you don’t they might think your skipping,, ahh geez.

“i-im alright, just uh doing.. y-ya know”, “ah”. you received an understanding hum from your classmate before he speaks again “alright i’ll let the professor know” then you hear him turn on his heels and make his way to the exit.

you tried to keep quiet till he was fully gone but with your boyfriend ramming your prostate like he was in a boxing match and your prostate was the opponents face you couldn’t, you let out a loud gasp at an especially aggressive plow making your classmate haste in his way.

“you alrigh-“ “YES” you screamed out loudly, your voice hoarse and shaky trying to sound as convincing as possible while your boyfriends dick continues to mercilessly pound your hole. “okay okay” your classmate responds teasingly before finally leaving.

yeah hes definitely thinking you were jacking off, to which you were but damn.

once he left you slumped over the toilet crying and moaning loudly as your hole hollowed out and gaped around nothing. your hand worked faster on your cock pumping it up and down, squeezing the tip till you feel like cumming then letting go with a disappointed whimper. you’re your biggest enemy tbh.

you wrapped your hand around your cock again resuming jerking it off, going in sync with your boyfriends thrusts.

you can sense his pounding slowing down, being more deep than rough, he was definitely close, you wanted to cum together. so you sped up your hand, sloppily jerking off while your thighs shook violently, you feel like coming right then and there but you have to hold on, just a bit more.

when you felt on the verge of bursting you placed your thumb on your tip pressing down, denying yourself the pleasure of release. while your boyfriend is nearly there you can feel it, from the way his cock twitched inside of you.

then you felt it, flooding deep into your guts, and you finally let go allowing yourself to cum aswell. time felt like it stopped as you threw your head back, cumming all over your chest and shirt.

and you felt his cum too, it wasn’t there physically but you felt it inside of you, filling you up to the brim,,

satoru's hips slap against the meat of your ass, one hand (unsteadily) holding his phone while the other holds your hip. it took a whole lot of begging from satoru for you to agree for him to film this. he said he'd never post it anywhere or show it to anybody and that it was for his eyes only. this seemed to convince you enough. who could resist satoru's sweet puppy eyes?

each noise made by either you or satoru was picked up by the speakers. every whine, moan, whimper, was all saved to satoru's phone. he made sure once this was over to rewatch the video over and over again to make sure each detail was engraved into his brain. and once that was done, satoru would film a new one.

your orgasm was coming quick, and satoru didn't want to miss out on this opportunity. satoru's thrusts becoming faster meant his grip became even shakier and unsteady, not like he cared, though. he would easily be able to make out your sweet, sweet ass even if it was blurred beyond recognition.