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kazuha is an alpha who chases for the feeling of intimacy through physical closeness and sex, famous for sleeping around a lot. the funny thing is, he's also a hopeless romantic — always fucks the betas and omegas he sleep with missionary. for the illusion of intimacy. so he can pretend seeing their ecstatic faces as his hips ram into them mean something. so he can feel like there's a connection between him and the people he sleeps with, more than just physical things.
there isn't any.
he likes to cuddle after sex, but would always leave their apartments/homes/the hotel room they're in first. eventually grows a reputation to be a player — even though, really. its more complicated than that. he craves the intimacy. wants someone to be vulnerable with. but he also doesn’t know how to.. let people closer. everyone knows a lot about kazuha, but never enough. an arm's length away. not too far away to be strangers or appear cold, but never close enough kazuha actually feels perceived and seen. understood. accepted.
when he meets scaramouche, an omega, kazuha doesn't expect anything at first. they fuck. it's great. scaramouche feels perfect around him, gripping his cock like vice. he looks incredible sprawled out underneath kazuha, cheeks reddened like ripe cherries, flushing down to his pretty tits. kazuha bullies the hell out of his nipples through the whole night, driving his cock in and out of scaramouche's tight hole like a mad man addicted to pleasure. scaramouche's eyes leak tears when he cums and kazuha can't help but follow suit soon after — feeling like he's trusted to see something so vulnerable. something so precious.
their legs tangle and intertwine as they sleep on bed, fully spent and basking in afterglow. kazuha has an arm thrown carelessly around scaramouche's lithe waist and scaramouche presses impossibly closer against him.
and this time, unlike all the other times, kazuha wakes up not to a still warm bed, the other person sleeping soundly — no, he actually knocked out cold and only rouses at the scent of breakfast being cooked.
there are two bowls of rice on the table, two cups of green tea. two bowls of miso soup, two servings of grilled fish and boiled vegetables. two pairs of chopsticks — being laid down neatly on the table by none other than scaramouche.
"eat," he instructs. "before it gets cold."
kazuha isn't sure what to do, feels out of depth.
"do you not usually eat breakfast or something?"
"that's not it," he shakes his head. he's just unused to.. the talk afterwards. it's usually so awkward after the sex. mornings after are always tense and filled with 'will i ever see you again's, which kazuha would always have to reject politely. the other party doesn't always react so well. that's why he tends to leave before they wake up — that's why that's the standard. the habit. the modus operandi now.
he sighs and settles on the dining table. scaramouche puts away his black apron and takes a seat in front of him.
nothing else fills the atmosphere except the sounds of eating, for a while. kazuha wonders if scaramouche feels awkward. he can't help but think when the other shoe will drop. there probably has to be a catch, right? to the whole free breakfast situation.
scaramouche doesn't say anything though for the rest of the meal. even when both of their bowls are wiped clean and everything is safe in their stomachs, scaramouche wordlessly picks everything up and gets ready to wash the dishes.
kazuha stops him. "let me."
"its the least i can do. you've cooked, after all." a pause. and an afterthought, "i enjoyed it a lot, by the way. the way you grilled the fish was perfect and the miso soup was especially lovely. the seasoning was just right, it was enchanting to savor."
scaramouche stares at him.
he wordlessly lets kazuha pick up the dishes, though scaramouche trails kazuha behind as the stranger beelines towards his sink. he murmurs, still staring at the white-haired man in disbelief, "what kind of guy describes food like that..."
it's plenty clear that scaramouche isn't necessarily trying to keep that muttering inaudible though, and doesn't really care that kazuha hears.
the omega leans on the counter as he watches kazuha scrub every bowl and plate clean, dutifully putting them on a rack to dry.
and still, no conversation is exchanged. just kazuha, sorely aware of the omega's eyes watching his every motion and trying to ignore how increasingly flustered it makes him feel.
afterwards, they do end up parting ways — though, when kazuha is right before scaramouche's door, scaramouche surprises him by leaning in for a tentative kiss, a chaste peck onto his lips. the shortest, quietest, "bye."
and then he's out.
kazuha exits the door feeling like he just left a dream. not quite there yet. still floating somewhere and not even sure if what happened even truly went down. if he truly experienced it all. if it was real.
for a while, he questioned himself about this. the kazuha who usually brings various different people to bed with him is put on hold as the alpha is still all woozy. it feels like a fever dream, really. kazuha is willing to admit that scaramouche is pretty. it's not that the alpha hasn't ever had pretty people in his arms before — it's that scaramouche is just objectively ethereal. prettier than most. the dark hair contrasting his unblemished pale skin, the cocky smile and that melodious voice. it's hauntingly beautiful — and the thought of the man fails to leave kazuha alone for the coming weeks.
he doesn't try to bring other people to warm his bed for a while.
instinctively, kazuha knows whatever sex-induced high or contact-fueled illusion of intimacy would no longer be enough for him. he no longer just wants anyone to be in his embrace and to be holding him back.
he wants that man, the omega from that night. he wants scaramouche.
kazuha wants scaramouche in the black apron, carrying two bowls of miso soup and gently placing them, movement graceful, soundless. kazuha wants their knees knocking together under the small dining table. he wants the feeling of scaramouche's eyes on him as he helps out with tiny chores. he wants scaramouche moaning and whimpering against his ears as he pounds him full. kazuha wants to feel the shape of his dick bulging out scaramouche's tummy. he wants to grip scaramouche's thighs, feel them shake and tremble from how good kazuha is fucking him.
he wants, he wants.
kazuha wants things beyond him. wants scaramouche's head rested on his chest. wants to lean against scaramouche's chest as well, listen to his heartbeat and count his breathing. he wants lazy mornings, waking up to an armful of the beautiful man. wants to see him smile, as kazuha has yet to. wants to make him laugh. how would it sound like? would it ring like bells? would his eyes form crescents or crinkle and disappear?
kazuha thinks, belatedly.
it seems that he has fallen in love.
they meet again in a grocery store. of all places. in a grocery store.
kazuha hasn't been able to get scaramouche out of his head for a while now — the other side of his bed stays cold and his dick hasn't seen anything other than his right hand. way too many nights are spent like that, fisting his cock at the thought of scaramouche's lips curving into a lopsided smile, fantasizing scaramouche on his knees, mouth full of cock and deep-throating kazuha until he gags. reminiscing about the way scaramouche's back arches when kazuha's cock hits his sweet spot dead on — the gasp that follows through, the way his eyes roll back from pleasure.
kazuha has never felt this way before. not towards anyone, never.
nights are a little lonely and a crushing chill always hits him every time the high from orgasm eventually settles — kazuha would much rather have the pretty omega there. right besides him. not just as a bedwarmer, but as someone to cherish, perhaps. if scaramouche allows him to. he trudges through his life like this, like a man who finally found the way to fill up his empty heart only to lose it again soon after.
until now, that is.
"oh, it's you," scaramouche murmurs.
it's impossible for kazuha to mistake that voice as someone else.
despite only meeting scaramouche once before, his unnaturally keen ears have always served kazuha. and besides, he has replayed that sound over and over again in his head to the point it's deeply etched within his memories.
"hello," he greets back, unsure of what to say. "what are you buying?"
"soy sauce." scaramouche sweeps his eyes through the shelves in front of him, "and furikake. the usual necessities."
"is that so?" kazuha gets a hum as a reply back, scaramouche chucking an item into his basket. "me too, though. i suppose it's just a restocking time of the month for both of us then," he smiles amiably. kazuha lifts his own grocery basket, "i've just gotten soap and cleaning supplies myself. soy sauce was also on my list, coincidentally."
ruby eyes watch carefully as scaramouche stares at him, gaze as careful as kazuha's own. the omega tilts his head. and kazuha's mind torturously whispers — he's like a cat. like a street cat. cautious, but nonchalant in a way.
it's adorable.
the silence is not comfortable, but it isn't awkward either. after a few beats too long, scaramouche clears his throat.
"might as well make our rounds then. let's get this done and over with."
kazuha chuckles at the backhanded invitation, though he trails behind scaramouche obediently.
the rest of the grocery trip is uneventful. they trade words here and there, kazuha finds out scaramouche's favorite brand for seasonings and tells scaramouche an anecdote about his neighbor knocking at kazuha's door at three am, asking for some sugar. the conversation is quiet, not stilted. it feels personal — somehow. this scratches an itch in kazuha that he didn't even know he had. the whole time they walk around through isles and isles of different products, kazuha's lips stretch into a small grin, unable to help himself.
one last beep resounds at the cashier counter as kazuha pays for his own groceries, tucking his wallet back into his backpocket. he jogs slowly to catch up with scaramouche, the omega standing and waiting for him just right outside the door. a string tugged at his heart. something heavy and reluctant.
"i will.. see you around then?"
hopefully.
scaramouche shakes his head, tsking. there's a knowing grin on his lips, a dark glint on his hooded eyes — indigo irises glinting dangerously.
"come home with me. you didn't buy anything that needs to be frozen as soon as possible, right?"
with much embarrassment, kazuha will admit that his head blanks out like an automatic response. whether he actually has other schedules lined up or other agendas to do soon, they're all thrown away to the back of his mind as he accompanies scaramouche to his place — just a couple of minutes walk away, thankfully, from the grocery store.
throughout the whole way home, scaramouche keeps a good distance away between the two. kazuha feels like his nerves are on fire and sanity fraying and bursting at the seams, mind racing at the implication of that invite, the purring tone scaramouche spoke it in, the possibilities of what might happen next.
the short walk really, really feels torturously long.
the moment they reach scaramouche's home, their bags of groceries are dropped right behind the door. kazuha pins scaramouche against the door and presses his lips against scaramouche's, insistent and wanting. it feels like all of his desire for the past few weeks are exploding in their faces, the object of his fantasies now right in front of him. the omega is just the way kazuha remembers him — addicting, beautiful, everything wonderful and nice. his body is soft to touch and kazuha's hands wander, groping scaramouche's supple thighs, his shapely ass, everywhere reachable.
they fall into bad without grace, urgency fueling their movements. clothes are quickly discarded and there isnt much preamble before their hands are all over each other once again, touching, teasing, tugging. as if time spent not in contact with one another will burn and ache.
kazuha feels like he's in a haze, his vision clouded. scaramouche's scent is heady — overwhelmingly sweet that his mouth waters at the mere whiff of it. his senses feel heightened, eyes committing to memory how pink scaramouche's cheeks are, the way beads of sweat roll down his forehead, hair sticking all over unlike his usual put-together appearance. the way he chokes on a whine and cries when kazuha spreads him and licks him open, works his fingers into his hole until he hears more of scaramouche's pleas, the crack in his voice as he whimpers. the sensation of scaramouche clenching around his cock, tight and warm and wet and inviting. the way he writhes and pants, struggling like he can't decide between wanting to get away or wanting to chase the pleasure and meet kazuha's thrusts.
kazuha has scaramouche on all fours this time, exposing the smooth expanse of his back. his hands' grip on scaramouche's narrow waist is sure to leave a mark, strong enough to bruise and to last for days. and oddly enough, kazuha finds himself alright with this.
there's intimacy in the act of vulnerability scaramouche shows, unbitten nape all for kazuha to see. delectable and tempting. there's intimacy in the way scaramouche's arms wobble, body falling over to the mattress underneath, nothing but kazuha's arms holding him up. there's closeness in the way scaramouche cries out at a hard thrust, outright sobs when kazuha hits his sensitive spot, the way kazuha doesn't have to see his face to be able to imagine the sight of scaramouche's brows knitting together, the stimulation too intense for him to handle, scaramouche's eyes wet with tears from how good kazuha is fucking him.
he finds that he doesn't mind this at all, not one bit.
scaramouche's body is limp underneath him, willing and pliant, malleable to each and every one of kazuha's wishes — and yet, his hole sucks kazuha's cock in like scaramouche is intent to milk him dry and run him out. it's as if his omegan instincts beg for kazuha to cum in him, paint his insides white and breed him full of kids.
it's this thought that has him driving his cock even impossibly deeper, scaramouche's conscience all but disintegrating, nothing but babbled syllables and broken pleas slipping out of his lips — the only things in scaramouche's mind at the moment are how mind-numbingly good it feels to be full and to be loved like this and kazuha, kazuha, kazuha.
it would be so incredibly easy to reach over right now, graze his teeth against the scent glands on the side of scaramouche's neck and bite him.
take him.
make scaramouche his own.
just like what his instincts are telling kazuha.
he doesn't though — instead, kazuha sucks and bite a mark just below scaramouche's nape where it meets his back. the slightest pain tilts scaramouche over the edge, muscles spasming and toes curling as he cums, clenching tight around kazuha, wringing out an orgasm out of the alpha too.
later, after they're all cleaned up and kazuha settles next to scaramouche, pressing a kiss against his cheek and lying down forehead to forehead with him, scaramouche praises, "that was good."
quiet and honest and from the heart.
".. i haven't seeked out anyone else after you."
an admittance.
kazuha's heart squeezes and softens, thumping loudly against his rib cages, so loud that he fears scaramouche would hear.
"go on a date with me," he says instead. it's as much as a confession as scaramouche's little admittance is.
the omega laughs. kazuha was right — scaramouche's eyes disappear into crescents when he laughs and his chuckle sounds like the most melodious of bells.
"that's kinda backwards, don't you think?"
kazuha feels rather than sees scaramouche's hands taking his, fingers lacing together.