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He’s in the middle of a mission—thankfully not one where he has to see a certain mackerel’s mug—when his phone rings. His work phone only ever rings when it’s Boss or one of the other Executives who’s contacting him.

As such, he turns to the people circling him, muzzles pointed towards his forehead. “Can you pipe down for a moment,” is quite polite, all things considered. Since they’re impolite enough to continue firing at him when he has a call to answer, he pays back their rudeness by bouncing off the bullets back to the chambers they’ve been fired from.

“It’s me,” he says, not checking on the exact caller’s information.

Verlaine is the sort to send messages by strips of blood-soaked paper sent under his door for full dramatics. Ane-san knows that he has a mission tonight; plus, she’s in Kyoto. That leaves Boss, Gramps who’d coordinate things with Boss, or his shithead partner.

There’s panting on the other end. Wordless, but there’s no disguising the pitiful whine that underlies the sound. His grip over his phone tightens, and so does the muscles on his throat as he swallows hard. “I’ll be there soon,” he says.

The dismay about his day having a mackerel-flavoring when there should have been none otherwise—it fades away swifter than the lives and ambitions of the enemy group that he’s just crushed. He makes quick arrangements with the people under his squad, since only clean-up is necessary.

His bike gallops through the skyline in a blaze of deep pink, shortcutting through the traffic laws and designated roads. Within five minutes, he parks his bike at the rooftop of his apartment building, then swings down to the open window of his living room.

One more thing that sets him apart from others: he is neither an Alpha nor an Omega. Perhaps it’s because of Arahabaki’s influence over his body, the god refusing to be in a vessel that succumbs to things such as mating cycles and pheromone frenzy.

In this world where people are either Ability Users or without an Ability, and are either Alpha or Omega, he alone does not know what it means to smell someone’s pheromone. Neither does he fully know the extent of losing control over one’s body, falling under the thrall of a biological instinct to reproduce.

Even so, he still wrinkles his nose, because he could smell spilled wine, canned crab, an unidentified half-burnt something, and the scent that he’s associated with slick. Dazai’s slick, in particular. A little salty, a tad astringent, like it’s a stickier version of ocean water.

A part of him wants to scold the other man for trespassing and messing with his kitchen once again. But seeing Dazai on his couch, hair matted to his forehead and bandages unwound like a man-of-war’s winding tentacles, it transforms the words over his mouth to something else entirely.

“I’m here,” he says, and tries hard not to shudder when Dazai lets out a keening moan in response.

Perhaps it’s because they truly are fated partners. While he doesn’t have anything that would designate him throughout the Alpha-Omega spectrum, Dazai has nullified common sense in the other direction. He has characteristics of being both Alpha and Omega, and he also has both heats and ruts.

For someone who’s quite the control freak, this is rather a hellish situation. A very private person too, regardless of his bouts of relentless flirtation with various women who’d never see a single strip of bandage unwound.

“I’m here,” he repeats, and curves his now-gloveless palm over a sweaty forehead.

He doesn’t have any pheromones to release, none of the calming effect that an Alpha can impart to an Omega in heat fever. None of the nurturing effect that an Omega can provide to an Alpha in rut either.

But perhaps due to having known each other through life-and-death situations, Dazai visibly calms down at his presence. His eyes are slightly glassy, but he focuses on him a little bit. “Chibikko,” as if to prove his lucidity by calling him by this name, “mark me.”

He can’t do it in a way that would mix their pheromones, because he’s not an Alpha. He nods anyway, like all the previous times this has happened before.

Before Dazai can whine at the loss of contact, he pulls away then immediately carries the other man like a bride he wishes to steal away. A feverish forehead lolls against his collarbones, and wet puffs of breath heat his chest.

Thankfully, his apartment is rather sensible when it comes to spacing. It doesn’t take long until he’s bringing them to the bathroom. With one arm cradling Dazai against his torso, he prepares a warm bath to help make his partner be more comfortable.

For one wild moment, he considers installing voice controls all over his house, so he wouldn’t need to busy his hands while he’s handling the mackerel. He hasn’t experienced any heats, but he supposes that this is how it feels to have his mind cooked into a syrupy mess.

This is just supposed to be the logical extension of their partnership. Transmuting his own space into something for the sake of another person’s convenience is a giant step to an unknown direction.

Dazai moans against his neck. He shakes his head a bit to dispel the wayward thoughts.

He hasn’t experienced any heats, but he supposes that percolating in all that sweat and slick sticking to one’s skin can’t bring any comfort. Once the bath is half-filled, he sets Dazai there. He almost laughs when the mackerel makes complaining whines when he stands up, disrobes and throws his clothes to the hamper with perfect aim.

“You can smell me directly instead,” he points out, even though he knows that a part of Dazai’s consciousness is already subdued by the heat.

He doesn’t climb into the tub. He kneels by its side, and starts washing the fish who is keen to rub his head against his now-bare chest.

He’s not too used to gentleness, especially not when it comes to this partner of his. He doesn’t have the help of any pheromones, so he has to use other techniques in order to help Dazai. He knows that the logical solution would be to use a discreet service to provide an Alpha during this time.

His hands clench at the thought. He tries to soothe it away just as he rubs soothing circles all over the other’s wet back. He lets one hand dip low, rubbing the other’s rim. There’s stickiness there, something that can’t be washed fully away.

“Good job,” and the praise comes naturally to him this time. “If you’re this wet, it’d be easy for me to slide in later.”

The rim flutters against his thumb, just as Dazai’s eyelashes tremble with emotion. Something that he’s learned through experience: Dazai is the sort to practically melt into putty when he’s heaved upon with praise and gentle words.

Well, it’s something that’s only happened within the boundaries of his pheromone frenzy. Then again, it’s not as if Chuuya is keen to try praising Dazai when he’s sharp-eyed and not in the throes of a heat or a rut.

When Dazai isn’t looking at him with a gaze sharper than a scalpel, attempting to peel his skin off, it’s easy to also lessen the gruffness he uses to deal with him.

He continuously rubs the other’s opening, until Dazai is scrambling to hold his forearms, his chest. “Do it already,” is a line that the demon prodigy has uttered coldly in other, less-naked situations. This time, it’s in a drawn-out whine, sweetly teasing his eardrums.

“I want you to come like this first,” he says. “It’d be a perfect way to loosen you up.”

They’re now half-embracing each other, the cool tub between them useless in dampening the heated contact. With how Dazai is panting against his ear, back curved to nestle close to him, their height difference is rendered moot.

One arm supporting the other’s waist, one hand busy with teasing him with his fingers. He slowly fingers him open, only sinking until the first knuckle, before pulling out with slick clinging to his fingertips.

According to the articles that he’s read, most Omegas are penetrated almost-immediately during sexual affairs. There are various explanations as to how it’s the most efficient way to soothe an Omega’s needs during their heat: directly delivering an Alpha’s pheromone and seed to their insides.

But Dazai isn’t exactly an Omega, and he isn’t an Alpha at all.

“Chuuya,” sounds almost-desperate. Blunt fingernails scratch at his arms, as Dazai bites him over his choker. Deep, ragged breaths to fill his nose with his scent, even without pheromones. “Chuuya, do it already!”

“No,” is his succinct rejection. Firm and unyielding, because he’s helping out now on his own terms. “Come first like this, then you’ll feel better when I fuck you after.”

It’s hard to retain a clear head when there’s someone grinding a wet dick against him. Especially since it’s Dazai, his shithead partner who never displays any sort of weakness otherwise. The one who’s always smirking at him, like everything that happens is simply a part of his long-winded calculation.

That he’s the one acting as Dazai’s pillar now, that he’s the one who has the capability of dealing with him now—it’s not something he can smell as a pheromone, but it does boil his blood into a frenzy.

He inches his fingers deeper inside Dazai, the arm around the skinny waist moving them together like waves cresting together. Water splashes around them, especially since Dazai’s trembling hard against him, toes curling and feet kicking out underneath him.

He tightens his hold and curls his fingers against the other’s prostate. A mewl reaches his ears. Much like a fish flopping out of water, Dazai trembles harder. He sounds like he’s pained by the idea of receiving so much pleasure.

Knowing the other man for the past three years, he knows that this mackerel truly is the type who’d stupidly think that he isn’t deserving of receiving so much good emotions, or some such bullshit.

With a huff, he leaves butterfly kisses over the side of his head, through occasional mouthfuls of sweat-matted hair. “Don’t thrash around so much,” he lays down the gentle command. “You’re going to end up bruising your knees.”

Seeing Dazai injured isn’t anything new—life in the mafia isn’t free of danger, no matter how powerful one is. They’ve bannered the name ‘soukoku’ on the dangerous missions they’ve undertaken, after all. But the thought of the other’s skin being marked by other things when he’s right there…

His own fingers shake at the idea, and he ends up inadvertently pressing harder on Dazai’s prostate.

A strangled “you idiot chibi” spills out of Dazai’s mouth as he shudders against him.

A fresh wave of slick gushes all over his fingers. Stripes of white spill between their bodies, as Dazai rides his hand in one long orgasm. He guides the mackerel through it, letting him shake all over him.

After a few moments, sharp teeth wage a futile attempt to gnaw open his carotid. He rolls his eyes at this, then hefts Dazai up and helps him wrap long legs around his hips as he carries him to his bed.

“I keep telling you that you’d feel better after you come first,” he says, even though Dazai’s never been the type to listen to his scolding, heat or no heat.

As expected, the mackerel simply wriggles against him, then tries to fuck him using his ass, positioning his dripping opening right above the tip of his cock.

The wetness is heavenly, since the slick still retains the inner temperature of Dazai’s body. Oftentimes, he might act like an utterly cold bastard, with mafia in his blood. He sometimes makes grandiose speeches about how he’s considerably inhuman since he couldn’t feel himself fitting in this world. Then again, despite all those things, Dazai is completely, utterly human, and he has the warmth of a human, just like him.

He holds him tighter against him, to make sure that he doesn’t end up sliding all the way down to the floor with how slippery he’s making this trek to his bedroom.

Any other time and Chuuya is happy enough to let Dazai land on his ass, but this is a responsibility that he’s accepted. Someone undergoing a heat or a rut is so much more sensitive, and there’s no doubt that Dazai would howl in pain if he’s dropped to the ground.

Then again, he’s now letting out tiny growls at being denied a cock inside him, the Omega instinct of wanting to be filled dominating his actions.

“You’re so impatient.” It’s not the first time he’s realized this. Dazai likes to act cool and collected, devising plans that require a hundred steps and spanning several months. But he’s even more impatient than a spoiled child, already throwing a tantrum if Chuuya’s even just five minutes late to do his bidding.

“And you’re stalling.” A snippy mackerel scratches his upper back when he doesn’t immediately slip his dick inside him. Instead, he teases a path from the sticky rim to his balls to the underside of his cock. “You’re probably scared that you’d enjoy fucking me so much.”

Goading each other isn’t anything new between them. Presumably, over half of their conversations are really just about competing with each other as to who can irritate the other more.

“Don’t blame me if you end up crying from being fucked too hard, bastard.” Even if he knows it’s blatant manipulation, he still goes through with his actions.

He sits down abruptly on the edge of his bed, then lets Dazai sink over his cock in one smooth motion. With how wet the mackerel has become, there’s no resistance whatsoever, making him reach his deepest part easily.

Dazai sobs loudly, legs clamping around him. Wetness spurts against his stomach. He scoops up streaks of this come and spreads it evenly over his stomach, so it can act as additional—quite ineffectual—lubrication for when his partner’s oversensitive cock slides against his skin.

One arm is enough to bounce the fish over his lap in a hard rhythm that breaks Dazai’s words into unintelligible syllables. Body drawn tight, nails scratching him all over as he tries to anchor himself. Back curved in such a way that his nipples are presented right in front of his mouth, so Chuuya feasts upon them, nursing them to red pebbles.

At this onslaught of sensation, tears fall down from Dazai’s red-rimmed eyes. He knows that with the mackerel’s excellent control over his body, crying unprovoked is an easy feat.

But in this scenario, where they’re connected so tightly not even air can wedge itself between them, he can feel that it’s one hundred percent genuine.

That he isn’t an Alpha who can drive an Omega crazy using his pheromone—it means that this is solely due to his ministrations.

He isn’t an Alpha who gets a hormonal boost at the thought of possessing an Omega. His pleasure at this, and his way of taking care of his partner is completely all his initiative.

“That’s it, darling.” He raises his come-stained hand and curves it over a flushed cheek. “You look very beautiful like this.”

Panting open-mouthed, tongue peeking out and spit running down from the edge of his lips. Eyes glassy with pleasure, sweat matting his hair against his forehead. Mewling and sobbing slipping out of his throat, pale skin flushed pink with desire.

He’s presented in front of him like an unwrapped gift, a masterpiece worth a billion, certainly.

It’s not the first time that they’ve done this, but he’s always suckerpunched with this feeling each time. His plans of being gentler are altered a bit. He ends up driving hard into Dazai, hips jackknifing up in a too-fast pace that he pairs with bouncing the fish all over him.

His thighs and Dazai’s ass are bound to be really sore afterward with the constant impact. He’d have the mackerel complaining about it nonstop. But for now, he doesn’t bother with those considerations.

He may not be an Alpha who’s affected by an Omega’s pheromone, but his mind is eventually taken over by the singular desire to rut into Dazai and fill him with his seed. Dazai sinks against him, boneless and helpless against the pleasure that he has abandoned any semblance of control and has left him to do as he wishes.

Their foreheads pressed against each other, Chuuya licks Dazai’s parted lips. Like a pair of monsters soothing each other’s wounds, like a pair of humans desperate for a connection. A filthy kiss that has their tongues curling together, intertwining that way too to ensure that no part of them remains unconnected.

A part of him wants to tease the other man for being such a fishy bastard that he’s bringing a whole ocean of wetness with him. Teary eyes, spit-slick mouth, wet cock and dripping insides.

But, no matter how excellent his stamina and stubbornness is, he’s a human being after all. The other’s sticky warmth is divine against his cock, and he could feel Dazai’s insides milking him thoroughly.

Heats usually last anywhere from one to three days. There’s plenty of time for them to do more later, so he lets go and chases his orgasm too.

He fucks deep into Dazai, making sure that his come paints his insides thoroughly. He brackets his teeth against the other’s neck, where a person’s main pheromone gland is. He doesn’t have anything he can inject to him through his bite, aside from the burst of possessive desire to make sure that the other’s skin knows the exact imprints of his teeth.

Dazai lets out a pleased squeal at this, returning the favor by biting him on his neck too.

He’s pretty sure that he can’t register any pheromones, but he feels as if Dazai has injected him the most potent kind of venom with this bite—

One that makes him want to keep them like this, forever locked together.

As Port Mafia continues its expansion and its solidification over its influence over Yokohama and elsewhere, it means that Executives gain increasing amounts of work. There’s an increase in prestige and influence too, but it comes with a mountain of paperwork and an even bigger mountain of overtime.

It doesn’t help that a lot of other organizations seem to be wising up in recruiting more Ability Users in their midst.

Personally, he enjoys the more difficult exercise, as sweeping away guns from human hands tend to become rather stale.

However, the busier nature of his work does mean that he barely has time to spend on recreational things. His rare free time is mostly spent crashing in his apartment and sleeping with the determination of a dead’s eternal rest. He drives to the seaside using his bike to watch sunsets, but even that is becoming an infrequent luxury.

This means that he’s mostly elbowed Dazai away whenever he wishes to release stress using the most primal method. Sex with Dazai out of a heat or a rut has its perks—but they do take a toll in his energy reserves. Somehow, the mackerel is a lot more aggressive when he’s not governed by the mating cycles.

It’s as if the bastard is set on proving that he could be so much more annoying in every metric possible. When he’s in heat or in a rut, they could pretty much render any hotel suite unusable afterwards with how much damage they cause. That’s still a lot more restrained compared to when he’s not inside that mating cycle. Without pheromones clouding his senses, he’s very fond of using all sorts of props, sometimes even bringing out a goddamn notebook and several cameras to catalog each one of Chuuya’s actions and reactions.

By far though, the most annoying sex with Dazai is whenever he’s in a rut. No, not because Chuuya has any complaints about taking the other’s cock—a big dick has an even bigger dick, after all.

No, his annoyance about the ruts is because—

He yawns, rubbing the back of his neck that has started cramping from spending too much time working. One of his squad members has made quite the mistake in the inventory, which leads to him needing to renegotiate with one of their more irritating business partners.

He’d have preferred to just solve it using his fists, but there’s still several supplies they’d need from that group over the next few months. It’s now a moot point, because he’s uncovered their sinister plot to deliberately give them defective materials.

It’s a lot of investigations, a lot of disciplinary actions for those who made mistakes, and a lot of interrogations to go deeper into their plans.

It’s been two weeks since he’s last been able to get a shut-eye in his own bed for more than two hours. Before he can go home, he needs to finish a lot of reports, so he has to steel his nerves and return to his office first.

The moment he opens the door, his eyes narrow, instincts boiling his blood. He pivots on his heel, ready to deliver a roundhouse kick, but the intruder doesn’t even bother to dodge, and simply barrels into him and body-slams him against his office door.

A loud thud resounds in his ears. It’s immediately followed by an even louder cross between a whine, a sob, and a menacing growl.

…Well, the menacing aspect is pretty much non-existent.

His lips are brushed by a mouthful of sweaty hair as Dazai embraces him like how a boa constrictor traps its prey. Long limbs wind around his frame, squeezing him with the force of someone attempting to squeeze out his internal organs so he could stash himself inside him instead.

“Chuuya,” the mackerel probably says, but it’s all unintelligible syllables that have been sandpapered in the throat of a desperate Alpha immersed in a rut. He probably adds, “Chuuya, I need to fuck you now.”

“You sound like a dog,” he says with some level of fondness, because it really is a lot like garbled barking to his ears.

Dazai ruts against him in a frenzy, and it’s then that he notices that the bastard has rummaged through the change of clothes that he’s stashed away inside his office. His bandages are half-torn over his body, like he’s tried to remove them in a totally normal manner, but has been flooded with so much desperation to rub his skin all over Chuuya’s clothes that he’s just given up on propriety.

His new Burberry coat hangs over Dazai’s shoulders like a cape, splotched with dark stains that are probably a mix of come and spit.

He closes his eyes briefly in a bid for strength. Based on experience, Dazai’s rut-cycle has him producing copious amounts of thick come that’s near-impossible to remove from clothes.

Also, this serves as self-protection against the sight of Dazai using his white silk shirt as some sort of veil that’s partially fallen off his head, hanging precariously from his ears.

The mackerel wearing a white veil on any situation is a cause for alarm. Especially if coupled with the fact that he’s still hugging him tightly, like he’s trying to melt their bodies together. His hips keep on stuttering against his body, and then he’s coming against him with that unintelligible mess of words.

The most understandable part of his growling and whining is the almost-plea of, “Chuuyaaaaaaa, let me fuck you, come on, I need to be inside you forever.”

Alarmingly enough, this kind of debauchery makes him feel the littlest, tiniest bit… fond.


This is why he hates Dazai’s ruts the most.

He makes him feel all sorts of weird things when he’s like this, looking like he’s one second away from crying if he doesn’t get to stick his dick in him.

He isn’t an Omega. Therefore, he doesn’t naturally produce slick that can be used as lubrication. This means that Dazai can’t just shove his cock inside him and start fucking him with abandon. This also means that he can take his sweet time in stretching his hole, all while watching Dazai lose his mind with the desire to just fuck him already.

…It’s a really nice thought.

He hooks one arm around the other’s neck, while his other hand rubs the curve of the other’s spine. Dazai’s cock is trapped between their bodies, still steel-hard against him.

With a teasing tilt to his lips, “I still have work to do.”

From experience, he knows that it’s impossible for Dazai to let him go when he’s like this. An Alpha’s rut is governed by the desire to send one’s seed to an Omega, as well as a desire to possess that Omega entirely. Ruts spent with the Alpha being vulnerably insecure about being left by their Omega aren’t unheard of.

Dazai’s already childishly possessive on a normal day. It only becomes more exacerbated during his ruts.

As expected, a very wolfish howl erupts from his throat as he attempts to manhandle him into his office desk. It’s simply an attempt, because the additional strength that his adrenaline gives him is no match for how strong Chuuya is.

They end up like this instead: Chuuya walking towards the small inner room tucked at the back of his office, part of a perk of being a workaholic Executive.

It’s rather utilitarian in nature, simply a bed, a small cabinet, bedside tables with drawers filled with basic implements. There’s an ensuite bathroom too, with a standing shower over a small tub flush on the wall.

His walk is accompanied by a mackerel-shaped octopus who’s hanging off him while rutting against his stomach. One arm under Dazai’s ass to make sure that he doesn’t end up falling off and breaking his neck. His other hand is busy preparing things for the next stage of this process, as well as sending out a message to Gramps about how they’d both need to take an immediate time-off.

Their unusual situation is on a need-to-know basis for higher-level members. Gramps is a veteran of the mafia, and is the one who helps coordinate their disappearances to their squad members and the rest of the organization.

Plus, Gramps has the dubious honor of having a first-hand account to their first meeting, where Dazai has blatantly tried to sniff him after using No Longer Human on him. It’s at that moment that they’ve discovered that they’re two completely different beings who both happen to be outliers to what’s generally considered as a normal human being.

He doesn’t wait for a reply, chucking his phone somewhere on his nightstand.

In the meantime, Dazai performs his best impression of a dog gnawing at a bone, teeth gnashing against the spot where the rest of the population would have their main pheromone glands on. It’s on a patch of skin that cannot be completely covered by his choker, which would mean that he’d sport this bruise even days after this rut ends.

A needy possessiveness.

He’s never thought he’d find such a thing amusing, but here he is, indulging his mackerel partner in showing off a more wired version of an Alpha’s instincts.

He brings them to his bathroom, so he can clean up before stretching his hole. He nearly bangs his head against the tiles, because Dazai starts pumping his hips against his torso, swaying them harder than aa skyscraper suffering from a high-magnitude earthquake.

“Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya,” is the mackerel’s strangled chanting of his name, his cock a hot line soldering against his stomach. It’s as if they’re being melted together, with his increased temperature.

Wetness spills not only against his stomach, but also against his throat and his jaw. Come, sweat and tears. He keeps that one arm possessively wrapped around Dazai’s waist, while his other hand gently draws the other’s tear-stained face to him, so he can kiss all over the wet tracks.

“You’ll get to fuck me soon,” he promises.

The walk towards the tub and shower is a bit wobbly. He sets Dazai down, picks up the handheld showerhead and starts filling the tub. This means that he’s kneeling on the floor, and that’s apparently already too much of an invitation.

His hands brace on the porcelain, as Dazai removes his pants in a magical sleight-of-hand. In a few seconds, there’s moist breath over his ass, and then the mackerel dives between his cheeks, taking a deep sniff before licking him all over.

A low moan that vibrates around his rim. Dazai bites the curve of his ass, before returning to his hole, licking with a frenzied rhythm that has Chuuya’s breath stuttering from being surprised with each move. A long stripe of licking, then short bursts of that tongue wiggling inside him, followed by another round of biting on the nearest available skin.

Chuuya scrambles to use the handheld showerhead to spray Dazai’s face with water to get him off his ass so he can do a proper clean-up. “Wait for a bit, damn it,” he says, ready to kick the bastard in the jaw if he doesn’t let him lubricate himself properly.

Dazai in a rut is the worst, really, because without even trying, he can look like a pitiful puppy, wet lashes and bright eyes, lips jutting out in a pout. Like he can’t believe that Chuuya would try to withhold his ass from him for any reason.

He takes a moment to savor such a sight. A moment is all the slippery bastard needs, because he’s back to diving into his ass, feasting on him like he could never get enough.

Having both Alpha and Omega instincts warring inside his body must be extremely difficult.

It’s also difficult not to feel the slightest bit fond and affectionate when someone who’s very much a control freak is showing such a side to him. They hate each other immensely, but this is another level of trust.

There are so many things he can do to take advantage of this kind of vulnerability, but they both know that he wouldn’t do it.

He ends up dropping the nozzle and it sprays water all over them. Dazai is unbothered by this, as he proves to be a really fishy one, reveling in being surrounded by water and tearing off their remaining clothes with ease. He also revels in the fact that it makes Chuuya’s toes curl as he ushers in his first orgasm for the moment.

The sloppy technique of licking him all over with feverish fervor is more than enough to bring him over the edge.

His vision whites out for a moment, but he returns to consciousness when he feels Dazai dragging the head of his cock all over his rim. He realizes that he’s somehow switched on the tap for the tub, and it’s now overflowing against his face when Dazai bends him over the porcelain.

He extends his foot back and kicks a sharp jawline. “This isn’t very comfortable,” he complains, but Dazai whines at him and slides his dick between his thighs instead.

“I need to fuck you now,” is said in almost-sob. “Chuuya, I need to be inside you now.”

Fucking hell.

Dazai Osamu begging to fuck him.

Fuck, that’s so—

“Fine,” he says, and shifts so that he’s hooking one arm around a slim neck, and he’s sliding his ass against the other’s cock. “Fine, you big baby.”

He’d probably be fine. Dazai’s cock is already big on a normal day, but it becomes even girthier during his rut. A human Alpha’s knot isn’t as monstrously big as with other species that also have Alpha-Omega designation, but it’s still a larger-than-usual affair.

Omegas can handle it just fine because their bodies have evolved to welcome such a thing, but—

He grits his teeth and hisses when the thick shroom-like head breaches his hole.

“Chibikko,” Dazai sounds utterly broken in bliss, “you’re so warm.”

He sinks back further, and then Dazai is moaning again, flooding his insides with come. A part of him wants to tease the mackerel for premature ejaculation, but it really does feel quite nice. The warmth sloshes into him, and it does help make the slide easier.

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s great,” he groans as he feels come trickle out of him with each push inwards. “Come inside me again, shitty Dazai” and it’s not a request.

He grabs the hairs at the back of Dazai’s head as they trade filthy kisses. Dazai’s hands are excitedly running all over his body, establishing a rhythm of fucking him against the tub. Water continues to overflow as they rut together.

He may not have an Omega’s slick, but that doesn’t matter, as Dazai comes inside him again within the next five minutes. He’s full of sticky warmth, of bloated satiety.

For someone with Dazai’s outlook towards life in this world, being hit by a mess of instincts that culminate in him breeding someone or being bred by someone—it must be absolutely terrible. He can’t even summon to desire to stay alive and yet his body urges him to add another life to the mix.

It must be absolutely, absolutely terrible.

Chuuya shifts so that they can dislodge for a moment. While the bathroom is the best place to be for cleaning up excess fluids, it is uncomfortable for prolonged sex. Doing it in a bed is still better, he can always just have the mattress incinerated and replaced using Dazai’s salary if it ends up being too full of stains.

Just as he’s sliding away, Dazai grabs him fiercely. “You’re mine,” is a low growl on his throat, and then Dazai is fucking into him once again, trapping him against the cold, wet tiles.

His lack of a proper exercise and protein-heavy diet means that he could never be bulky enough to actually bodily pin Chuuya down with his weight. What he lacks for physical prowess, he makes up for using his rut’s instincts and enthusiasm, clinging to his back and steadily fucking him each time he tries to move away.

His choker has already been discarded earlier. Dazai draws him back using the longer tips of his hair, pulling at him, then pulling at him by biting his neck. It’s feral and desperate, and he snarls at the beanpole’s attempts in manhandling him.

He responds by trying to crawl away, using the slippery tiles as an excuse for his inefficient escape. He absolutely doesn’t moan in satisfaction when Dazai snarls too, and tries harder at pinning him down, nailing him to the floor using his cock.

Several hard thrusts and he could feel Dazai start to wheeze for breath, so he stops trying to move away.

As if sensing his ‘surrender’, a pleased hum thrums from the other’s chest. And then, he’s coming again, the base of his cock thickening to form his knot.

The bloated sensation intensifies. He feels so full, and he spends several moments just lying on the tiles, with Dazai draped over him like a giant blanket.

He feels so completely fucked that it’s taking some time for his senses to reboot. Dazai’s knot usually takes as much as a half-hour to fully subside, which means that they’re stuck like this for quite a while.

“…Oi, did you actually fall asleep,” he asks, voice hoarse.

They must have made quite the racket. He hasn’t even noticed his own screaming, but his dry throat is enough of a testament to how he must have reacted.

Thankfully, the soundproofing is excellent.

After all, said soundproofing is a result of the first time he’s helped Dazai during his rut. There are still rumors about how the headquarters is haunted, or how it’s hiding experiments done on beasts, with all the howling and screaming.

Dazai’s snuffling breath is his response.

He rolls his eyes at this. “Figures that you’re useless as always,” he grumbles, then tries to stand using shaky legs.

There’s a giant fish that has flopped against his back, body soft except for the part that’s still lodged inside him. With another eyeroll, Chuuya hefts his partner’s stupidly long legs up, so that he’s carrying him in a strange piggy-back, where Dazai’s chin rests on his shoulder and his cock rests cozily inside him.

He lays out several towels over the bed before setting them sideways over it. Several adjustments to the thermostat, then he plays games on his phone while waiting for the knot to soften and for Dazai to wake up and start rutting into him again.

He sends out a message of thanks to Gramps when he receives a note about food delivery being sent to his office’s doorstep at certain intervals. “It’s just like feeding a dog,” he says to the still-sleeping Dazai, who has started to sleepily chew on his hair and the back of his ear.

At this display of hunger even during slumber, Chuuya reaches back and whacks him slightly on the forehead. Dazai groans awake and vibrates against him, the bites turning into kisses that run from his earlobe to his forehead, then to his mouth.

In response, he squeezes the other’s cock using his ass, and relishes the hiss it elicits out of overstimulation.

“You’re mine,” Dazai tells him again, dark-eyed and resolute.

It really doesn’t deserve a response aside from, “Shut the fuck up and fuck me again.”

Like always, Dazai ends up biting him hard enough that his teeth have etched marks onto his skin. Like always, he returns the favor and bites Dazai too, over the gland on his neck.

They may not be like all other humans in this world. They may not be able to mark each other using the traditional way of an Alpha and an Omega. But that isn’t necessary. After all, they’ve already placed their mark on each other so long ago: the mark of being the person they trust with their life.


A little bit later, when Chuuya finally manages to stand up without having Dazai immediately latch unto him like a homing missile—he notices that his reports for his most recent headache have already been done.

He looks back on Dazai who’s snoring softly while surrounded by the remains of the mattress, broken springs and feathery fluff from the pillows. He leans back down and curves a hand against his cheek that’s still sporting a massive bitemark. A feather-soft kiss against his forehead, along with the high praise of, “You aren’t so useless, huh, darling?”

Of course, he soon discovers that all these helpfully-done reports have been signed as “Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai’s dog for life”, and so they end up fighting and bickering as always.


(once they reunite after four years, they both agree that in order to make up for all the missed heat/rut cycles during their separation, they have to fuck at least once a day for the rest of their lifetime ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)