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The air in the Daitenku Temple had always been one of tranquility for Takeru Tenkuji. It smelled of old wood, cool stone, and the faint, sweet perfume of incense that clung to the shoji screens like a gentle memory. It was a place of connection—to his father’s spirit, to the Luminary Monks, to the very flow of life and death he had come to understand so intimately. Tonight, however, that tranquility was fractured. A new scent permeated the space, sharp and electric, like the air before a lightning strike. It was the scent of ozone, of raw power barely contained, and it emanated from one source: Alain.
Alain, the former prince of the Ganma World, now a resident of Earth and, most improbably, Takeru’s partner. He sat across the low table from Takeru, ostensibly examining a scroll Onari had unearthed, but his focus was non-existent. His back was ramrod straight, a posture of regal tension Takeru knew well. But this was different. It wasn’t the stiffness of pride or formal training; it was the rigidity of a predator coiled to spring. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, and Takeru could see the faint tremor running through his powerful forearms.
For the past few days, a subtle change had been creeping over Alain. He was quieter than usual, his responses clipped. His movements, normally so precise and economical, had become imbued with a restless energy. He would pace the temple grounds for hours, his long coat swirling around him, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the physical world. Takeru had tried to breach the wall of silence, offering tea, conversation, a comforting touch, but each attempt was met with a polite but firm withdrawal. It was as if Alain was wrestling with an invisible force, and losing.
Tonight, the battle seemed to be reaching its climax.
“Alain?” Takeru’s voice was soft, a gentle probe into the charged atmosphere. “Are you alright? You haven’t turned a page in an hour.”
Alain’s head snapped up. His eyes, usually a calm and piercing shade of blue, were now dark, dilated, and blazing with an intensity that made Takeru’s breath catch in his throat. It was not the look of Alain, the man he loved, the stoic hero who had found his heart. This was the gaze of something far older, far more primal.
“I am… fine,” Alain’s voice was a low growl, a rough, guttural sound that vibrated through the floorboards. The words were a lie, and they both knew it.
“You’re not,” Takeru stated, not as an accusation, but as a fact. He set his own teacup down, the quiet clink of porcelain on wood sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”
Alain’s jaw clenched, a muscle pulsing violently in his cheek. He pushed himself away from the table, the wood scraping harshly against the floor. He began to pace again, his movements no longer restless but predatory. He was a caged tiger, the confines of the temple room suddenly feeling far too small to contain him.
“You don’t understand, Takeru,” he rasped, his back to him. “This isn’t something you can ‘face.’ This is… physiological. A remnant of what I was.”
Takeru stood, his own concern overriding his caution. He approached Alain slowly, his hands held out in a placating gesture. “A remnant? What do you mean? From the Ganma World?”
Alain stopped his pacing and turned. The raw hunger in his eyes was staggering, and Takeru felt a jolt of primal fear, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since his earliest days fighting Ganma. But mixed with that fear was an unshakeable trust in the man beneath the storm.
“Ganma were not born of love or tenderness,” Alain explained, his voice strained, each word a struggle against a rising tide. “We were forged in a world of perpetual conflict. Strength was paramount. Propagation was not an act of union; it was an act of… assertion. A biological imperative. A claiming.” He gestured vaguely, his hand shaking. “There are cycles. Seasons. A time when the body’s chemistry shifts, when instinct overwhelms reason. A need to… secure a mate. To mark one’s territory.”
He looked at Takeru, and in that moment, Takeru understood. The scent in the air, the tension, the predatory gaze—it was a heat. A mating season. An echo of a soulless biology that still lived within Alain.
“Alain…” Takeru whispered, his fear melting away, replaced by a profound, aching empathy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
A dry, humourless laugh escaped Alain’s lips. “Tell you what? That for a few days a year, I revert to a primitive beast? That I am consumed by an urge so violent and possessive that it frightens me? I thought I could control it. Meditate through it. But this is the first time… the first time I have had someone…” His gaze fell upon Takeru, and it was like being branded. “…to direct it at.”
The last vestige of his control seemed to shatter with that confession, Alain stared at Takeru, full of concerns and trying to telling him to run, his eyes losing its spark afterwards. In a movement so fast it was a blur, Alain crossed the space between them. He didn’t reach for Takeru; he seized him. One hand clamped around Takeru’s waist, lifting him from his feet with effortless strength, while the other tangled brutally in his hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale column of his throat.
Takeru cried out, a sharp gasp of pain and surprise. This wasn’t the careful, almost reverent way Alain usually held him. This was unthinking possession. Alain’s face was buried in the crook of his neck, and Takeru could feel hot, ragged breaths against his skin, could hear the deep, rumbling growl in Alain’s chest. The scent of him was overwhelming now, a heady, intoxicating mix of ozone, musk, and pure, undiluted male aggression.
“Alain, wait—” Takeru’s plea was cut short as Alain’s lips crashed down on his.
The kiss was not a kiss. It was an invasion. It was bruising and desperate, teeth scraping against lips, a battle for dominance that Takeru had no hope of winning. There was no tenderness, no affection, just a savage claiming. Takeru’s hands came up to push against Alain’s chest, but it was like trying to move a mountain. The sheer, unyielding power radiating from Alain was terrifying and, in a strange, frightening way, exhilarating.
Alain broke the kiss only to drag him bodily from the room, down the familiar wooden corridor towards their shared sleeping quarters. Takeru stumbled, his feet struggling to find purchase. There was no time for preparation, no room for consent beyond the silent, screaming trust in his own heart. He knew, even in this frenzied state, that Alain would not permanently harm him. But he also knew that the man in control was not entirely the Alain he knew. This was the Ganma Prince, driven by an instinct millenniums old.
The shoji screen to their room was thrown aside with a splintering crash. Alain didn’t release him, instead kicking the screen shut behind them and pinning Takeru against the wall with the full weight of his body. The impact knocked the wind from Takeru’s lungs, his head thudding against the plaster. Stars danced in his vision, the world narrowing to the searing heat of Alain’s body pressed against his and the dark, consuming hunger in his eyes.
“Takeru,” Alain’s voice was a shredded whisper against his ear, thick with need. “Forgive me.”
It wasn’t a plea for permission. It was a statement of inevitability. And then the world dissolved into a maelstrom of sensation.
Clothes were not removed; they were torn. The sound of ripping fabric was loud in the sudden silence of the room. Cool air hit Takeru’s skin, immediately followed by the searing heat of Alain’s hands, which roamed his body with a rough, proprietary urgency. They mapped every curve, every dip, every plane of his form not with a lover’s caress, but with the assessment of an owner taking stock of his property. Bruises were already beginning to form under the relentless pressure of those fingers.
Takeru was thrown onto the futon, landing with a jarring thud. Before he could even process the change in position, Alain was on top of him, caging him as if he was the prey about to be eaten. There was no gentle preamble, no whispered words of love, no careful preparation to ease the way. There was only the raw, desperate urgency of Alain’s need.
The initial entry was a blinding shock of pain. Takeru arched his back, a choked scream tearing from his throat, his nails digging into the futon beneath him. It was raw, sharp and completely brutal. His body was not ready, and the friction was agonizing. Tears sprang to his eyes, blurring the sight of Alain’s face above him. He saw the flash of conflict in those dark eyes—a flicker of the gentle man he loved, horrified by the pain he was causing—but it was immediately swallowed by the primal wave of instinct.
Alain’s hips began to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm that drove the air from Takeru’s lungs in ragged gasps. Every thrust was a new shock to his system, a brutal claiming that sent waves of pain and an unwanted, shameful pleasure through him. His body was a battleground of conflicting signals. The pain screamed for it to stop, but a deeper, more treacherous part of him responded to the sheer, overwhelming force of Alain’s passion. He was being consumed, possessed, marked in the most fundamental way possible.
“Alain… please…” he sobbed, though he no longer knew what he was pleading for. For it to stop? For it to continue? For the pain to end? "Nngh- " Why does it feel so good?
Alain seemed to hear him, but his interpretation was not one of mercy. He leaned down, his lips brushing Takeru’s ear, his voice a low, hypnotic growl. “You are mine, Takeru. You feel it, don’t you? You belong to me.”
His words, the possessive claim, sent a shiver down Takeru’s spine that had nothing to do with fear. It was a key turning in a lock he never knew he had. His struggles began to lessen, his body, in an act of sheer self-preservation, starting to yield. The sharp, tearing pain began to dull, slowly, painstakingly transforming into a deep, throbbing ache that was almost bearable.
The rhythm of Alain’s thrusts never slowed. It was a force of nature, like the relentless crashing of waves against a cliffside, slowly eroding all resistance. Takeru’s senses were overloaded. The scent of their mingled sweat, the slick sound of their bodies moving together, the sight of Alain’s face taut with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the before, and the now.
He felt the familiar pressure building inside him, but it was different this time. It wasn’t the gentle, rising tide he was used to. It was a frantic, desperate climb towards a peak he wasn’t sure he could survive. He was close, so close, his hips starting to move in unconscious sync with Alain’s. But just as he was about to crest the wave, Alain changed his rhythm. He pulled back almost completely, then thrust back in with a brutal depth that shattered the gathering pleasure, sending a fresh wave of pain through him and making him cry out.
“Not yet. ” Alain grunted, his voice thick and strained.
He was delaying it. Denying him the release his body screamed for. It was a new kind of torture, a masterful, cruel control that pushed Takeru to the very edge of his sanity. He did it again, and again. Building Takeru up with a fast, punishing pace until he was on the verge of breaking, only to slow down or pull back, letting the pleasure recede just enough to make the renewed ache unbearable.
Takeru was weeping openly now, not just from pain, but from sheer frustration and overstimulation. His body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming. “Alain, I can’t… please, let me…”
The control in Alain’s eyes was absolute. He was a master puppeteer, and Takeru was his marionette, dancing on the strings of pleasure and pain. He moved Takeru’s legs, repositioning him to grant himself a deeper, more punishing access. The new angle was devastating, hitting a place deep inside Takeru that lit up his entire nervous system. A keening sound escaped his lips, and his back arched off the futon.
This time, when the pleasure built, Alain didn’t deny him. He matched Takeru’s rising panic, his own thrusts becoming faster, shorter, more frantic. The world went white. Takeru’s orgasm tore through him with the force of a lightning strike, so powerful it was convulsive. His body seized, his vision blacking out for a moment as pure, unadulterated sensation consumed him. It was shattering, wiping his mind clean of everything but the overwhelming release.
He was still trembling from the aftershocks when he realized Alain hadn’t stopped. The brief respite was over. The relentless rhythm continued, his own body, exquisitely sensitive and raw, being forced to endure more. It was too much. He was empty, spent, but Alain was a bottomless well of stamina.
He pushed him over, onto his stomach, forcing him into the futon. The position was humbling, exposing, and Takeru choked on a sob of protest. Alain’s hands gripped his hips, holding him in place as he entered him again. The second time was somehow worse, his abused body screaming in protest. But the Ganma Prince was implacable. The mating fever was a fire that had to burn itself out.
Takeru lost count of how many times he was brought to the edge, how many times he was allowed to fall over, and how many times he was denied. His mind detached, floating somewhere above his suffering body. He was dimly aware of the pain, the bruises forming, the raw ache between his legs. But he was also aware of the unbreakable connection, the silent vow he had made to himself. I trust you, Alain. I trust you. It became a mantra, a prayer in the heart of the storm.
Finally, with a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the temple, Alain found his own release. Takeru felt the hot flood of his climax deep inside him, a final, definitive branding. Alain’s body shuddered violently, and then, as if all the strings holding him up had been cut, he collapsed. His full weight pressed Takeru into the futon, a crushing, suffocating blanket of heat and muscle. Takeru could feel the frantic pounding of Alain’s heart against his back, gradually slowing, the storm inside him finally passing.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the wrecked room. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Takeru lay pinned, every muscle in his body screaming, his mind a hazy fog of exhaustion and lingering sensation. He didn’t have the strength to move, to speak, to even think. He simply existed, feeling the heavy, possessive weight of the man who had just taken him apart and claimed him so thoroughly. And then, mercifully, darkness took him.
When Takeru woke, it was to the gentle grey light of dawn filtering through the window, a gentle breeze blew the curtain in the air. His first sensation was a deep, profound soreness that seemed to inhabit every cell of his body. It was a painful inventory of the night’s events. His throat was hurt, very sore and his lips were swollen, and he could feel the tender, blooming patterns of bruises on his hips, his wrists, his back. He was aching, spent, and utterly exhausted.
His second sensation was warmth. He was cocooned in it. Alain’s arm was draped protectively over his waist, his body spooned against Takeru’s back. His breathing was slow and even, the steady rhythm a stark contrast to the frantic, ragged breaths of the night before. The predatory fire was gone, replaced by a familiar, peaceful stillness. The storm had passed.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, Takeru tried to shift. A sharp wince escaped his lips as a particularly acute pain shot through his lower back. The small sound was enough.
Behind him, Alain stirred. The arm around his waist tightened for a moment, a reflexive, possessive gesture, before it fell away as if burned. Takeru heard a sharp intake of breath. He felt the bed shift as Alain sat up. The silence that followed was heavy, laden with a dawning horror.
Takeru slowly, painfully, rolled onto his back. He looked up at Alain. The man who sat there was not the primal beast from the night before, nor was he the stoic prince. The man he saw now was utterly broken.
Alain was staring at him, his blue eyes wide with a self-loathing so profound it was painful to witness. His gaze traced the marks on Takeru’s body—the darkening bruises on his shoulders, the faint red marks on his neck, the swollen state of his lips. Alain’s own face was pale, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, trembling. He looked like a man who had just woken up at the scene of a crime to find he was the perpetrator.
“Takeru…” Alain’s voice was a choked whisper, raw with shame. “What have I… what have I done?”
He reached out a hand, as if to touch Takeru’s face, but then snatched it back, looking at his own fingers with disgust, as if they were weapons he could no longer trust.
Takeru saw the abyss of guilt opening up before Alain, threatening to swallow him whole. He knew he had to bridge it, and fast. Pushing through the pain, he propped himself up on his elbows.
“Alain,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Look at me.”
Alain couldn’t. He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the tangled sheets. “I hurt you. I… I forced you. I was an animal. There is no excuse.”
“There is an excuse,” Takeru insisted, his voice gaining strength. “You told me yourself. It was a remnant. An instinct. It wasn’t you.”
“It was me!” Alain snapped, his head jerking up, his eyes swimming with unshed tears of shame. “That beast, that… that thing is a part of me! A part I inflicted upon you. I didn’t prepare you. I didn’t ask. I heard you cry out in pain and I… I didn’t stop. I enjoyed it. That is the most despicable part. Some part of me reveled in it. In owning you, in hurting you.”
His confession hung in the air, brutal and honest. Takeru’s heart ached for him. He saw the self-flagellation, the deep-seated fear that this primal part of him made him unworthy of the love and peace he had fought so hard to find.
Takeru reached out, ignoring the protest of his sore muscles, and placed his hand on Alain’s clenched fist. Alain flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“Yes. You did hurt me,” Takeru said, his voice soft but unwavering. “And yes, it was… terrifying. But Alain, I was never truly afraid of you. Not for a second.”
Alain stared at him, incomprehension warring with his guilt. "W-why? "
“I trust you,” Takeru continued, his thumb gently stroking Alain’s knuckles. “Even when you weren’t in control, I trusted the man underneath. I knew you wouldn’t break me. I knew that deep down, you still there. It was a storm, and I just had to hold on until it passed.” He gave a small, weary smile. “It was… intense.”
And also sexy as fuck, no wonder Sento love having sex with his husband so much. Takeru don't know if he should admit that he liked it or not.
“Intense?” Alain scoffed, a bitter sound. “Takeru, I treated you like… like a conquest. Not a partner. Not the person I love more than my own life.”
“You are a prince. You are a warrior. You come from a world where that instinct was necessary for survival,” Takeru explained patiently. “You can’t just wish that part of you away. It’s like me wishing away my connection to the ghosts. It’s a part of who you are. The part that makes you so strong, so protective.” He paused, his gaze becoming serious. “But we have to be smarter about it. Next time… you have to tell me when you feel it coming on. We can prepare. We can set boundaries. We can find a way to navigate it together, so it’s not just… you, losing control.”
The concept of a “next time” seemed to stun Alain into silence. He looked from Takeru’s earnest, forgiving face to the evidence of his brutality scattered across Takeru’s skin.
“How?” Alain whispered, his voice cracking. “How can you look at what I did to you and talk about a ‘next time’? How can you still want me near you?”
“Because I love you,” Takeru said, the three words simple, clear, and absolute. “I love all of you. The stoic prince, the hero, the awkward man trying to figure out takoyaki… and yes, even the primal side of yours who needs to be reminded that he’s safe, and that he’s loved.”
He tugged gently on Alain’s hand, a silent invitation. Slowly, hesitantly, Alain unfolded his body and moved closer. He didn’t touch Takeru, but knelt beside the futon, his posture one of a penitent.
“I swear to you, Takeru.” he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. “I will never let that happen again. I will find a way to chain that beast down. I will go to the mountains, I will meditate for weeks… I will not subject you to that again.”
Takeru shook his head. “Don’t chain it, Alain. Understand it. And let me understand it with you. We’re connected, aren’t we? Our hearts, our souls. Let this be a part of that connection, too.”
With a great, shuddering sigh that seemed to release all the tension and guilt from his body, Alain finally sagged. He reached out, his touch now infinitely gentle, and brushed a stray lock of hair from Takeru’s forehead. His fingers were trembling.
“Let me take care of you. ” he whispered, his duty, his love, reasserting itself.
He rose and left the room, returning moments later with a basin of warm water, soft cloths, and a jar of soothing salve. He worked in silence, his touch now full of the reverence and care that had been so absent the night before. He gently cleaned Takeru’s body, his expression pained with every new bruise he uncovered. He applied the cool, healing balm to the angry marks on Takeru’s skin with the utmost tenderness, his apologies spoken not in words, but in the careful, devoted motion of his hands.
Takeru let him. He lay back, enduring the sting of the water on the skin, and watched the man he loved tend to the damage he himself had wrought. It was a strange, intimate penance. When Alain was finished, he helped Takeru into a soft, clean yukata, his movements careful and supportive.
Then, he gathered the torn clothes and the soiled sheets, his jaw tight with shame. He disposed of them, cleaning the room and doing it all in silent, focused efficiency. He was erasing the evidence of the storm, trying to restore the tranquility he had shattered.
When he was done, he returned to the futon. He didn’t try to initiate any more physical contact. He simply sat beside Takeru, a silent guardian.
Takeru reached out and took his hand. “Stay with me. Please, Alain? "
Alain looked at him, his eyes still shadowed with remorse, but now holding a flicker of profound gratitude. He nodded, and slipped under the clean covers, lying on his back beside Takeru, careful to keep a respectful distance.
Takeru shifted, wincing slightly, and closed the small gap between them, resting his head on Alain’s shoulder. He felt Alain’s body tense for a second, before relaxing and accepting the contact. An arm came around him, holding him loosely, carefully. It was not the possessive grip of a monster, but the protective embrace of a lover.
Here, in the calm after the storm, a new understanding had been forged. It was born of pain and violence, but it was tempered by trust and an unshakeable love. They had seen the most primal, dangerous part of each other, and they were still here. Still together. Takeru knew there would be scars, both physical and emotional. But he also knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that their connection was now stronger, deeper, and more unbreakable than ever before. He closed his eyes, the familiar scent of Alain—no longer ozone and aggression, but sandalwood and safety—lulling him into a true, healing sleep.