Work Text:
Naoya hates Alphas.
Not just any Alphas, but the kind that think they can stick their dicks into anyone just because they can—women, omegas, doesn’t matter, secondary nature be damned. The kind that walk around like they’re untouchable, like they’re the strongest just because of what they are, like being an alpha automatically puts them at the top of the food chain.
Well, fuck that.
If they’re so strong, why hasn’t any of them managed to pin him down yet? Oh wait—because every time someone tries, the last thing they see is his fist crashing into their face.
And no, he’s not exaggerating.
One time, some idiot tried flirting with him, all smug and confident like he’d get the same reaction he always gets from other omegas. Naoya didn’t even entertain it, just scoffed and told him to fuck off because he was ruining his peace. That should’ve been the end of it.
But no.
The bastard didn’t take no for an answer. Started talking, running his mouth with the same old prejudiced bullshit, the same assumptions, the same condescending tone Naoya’s heard his entire life.
So what did Naoya do?
He sent him straight to the hospital.
No hesitation. No restraint. Just pure, calculated violence, cursed energy laced into every hit, fast and precise like the Projection Sorcery he inherited—each movement locked into frames, each strike landing exactly where it needed to. The guy didn’t even get the chance to react properly before he was already on the ground.
Two days later, someone found him in an alleyway.
Word spread fast—severe internal damage, broken bones, cursed energy residue still lingering in his system like poison. They said he’d be in a coma for years, that recovery wasn’t even guaranteed.
Naoya heard it while buying ingredients.
He just scoffed.
Smirked a little.
Walked off like it meant nothing.
Serves him right.
He doesn’t believe in gods, never has, but if something out there was listening, then fine—he hopes the bastard never wakes up again.
And honestly? He doesn’t care if the higher-ups trace the cursed energy back to him. Sorcerers get away with worse all the time. He’s got the money, the status, and more than enough skill to walk out of whatever trouble comes his way.
Sorcerer or non-sorcerer, alpha or not—if they look down on him, he’ll end them.
Simple as that.
Back to the present.
Naoya’s never been interested in anyone.
Not even a little
.
No matter how much his family pushed him, no matter how many arranged meetings they set up with alphas from other clans, it always ended the same way—ten minutes in, he’s already gone, leaving them sitting there like idiots. His longest “date” barely lasted that long anyway, and even that was only because he was waiting for his food.
After that? Well it's to you to interpret.
Because he’s not interested. Not now, not ever.
At nineteen, he finally left that goddamn place he used to call home.
Honestly, he was surprised his parents were the ones who suggested it.
Guess they finally got tired of him staying locked up in that house, doing nothing but training, fighting, and existing like some pissed-off cat that refuses to be touched.
Fine by him.
Less noise. Less people. Less bullshit.
Just the way he likes it.
Few weeks since he moves from his home
Naoya didn’t expect freedom to feel… quiet.
Not peaceful. Not comforting. Just quiet. The kind that made his ears ring when he woke up in a cheap apartment that smelled faintly of dust and old wood. No servants. No clan members whispering behind his back. No expectations. Just him. And honestly? It pissed him off more than anything else.
“Tch.” He clicked his tongue, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared at the cracked ceiling. For nineteen years, his life had been nothing but noise—orders, traditions, arrogance wrapped in silk robes—and now that it was gone, he didn’t know what to do with the silence. So he filled it.
With work. With fights. With distance. A Life Built on Distance
Naoya found himself settling into a routine that matched his temperament perfectly and definitely did not match on his second gender.
Wake up. Train. Work. Ignore people. Repeat.
He picked up freelance exorcism jobs—not because he cared about saving people, but because cursed spirits didn’t talk back. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t assume things about him.
Didn’t look at him like he was something to own.
It was easier that way. Being an omega didn’t define him. It never did. And anyone who thought otherwise.
Well.
They learned the hard way.
The job was supposed to be simple. A low-grade curse lurking near an abandoned shrine on the outskirts of the city. Easy money. Easy kill.
Naoya didn’t expect to see anyone, the job was supposed to be simple, low-grade curse, abandoned shrine, easy money, easy kill, in and out with no talking and no people just how he likes it, then of course there’s someone already there, “Tch,” annoying, “You’re in my way,” straight to the point, no greeting, no patience, the way it should be.
The man doesn’t even react immediately, tall, broad, hair tied back like he’s got time for that shit, and his eyes—red, staring straight at Naoya like he’s not bothered at all, alpha, of course he is, Naoya’s lip twitches, “Did you not hear me? Move,” he snaps, and the guy actually tilts his head like he’s thinking about it, “No,” Naoya blinks, “What?” the audacity, “I was assigned to this mission, you can leave,” calm, too calm, no attitude, no smugness, just certainty, and somehow that’s worse.
“Assigned?” Naoya scoffs, stepping forward, “I don’t care who assigned you, I was here first,” the air shifts, heavy and tight like something’s about to snap, most alphas would’ve pushed by now, tried to dominate like they always do, but this one just stands there watching like some creep, “…You’re an omega,” he says, and Naoya smiles sharp, mean, “Say that again and I’ll break your jaw,” “It wasn’t an insult,” he says like that makes it better, “Everything sounds like one when it comes from people like you.”
Silence, then, “My name is Choso,” and that makes Naoya pause for half a second, not because he cares but because what kind of introduction is that, normal, too normal, weird, “…Did I ask?” “No,” “Then shut up,” “Alright,” what the hell, Naoya side-eyes him hard, that’s it? no ego? no speech about hierarchy and omega bullshit? any other alpha would be running their mouth right now with the same recycled, prejudiced garbage, but this guy just stands there like he doesn’t care about the argument at all, weird, annoying, suspicious.
“Tch,” whatever, Naoya turns back to the curse because that’s what he’s here for, that should’ve been the end of it but it wasn’t, the curse attacks fast, ugly, loud as hell, Naoya moves first obviously, no hesitation, technique snapping into place, he expects the alpha to get in his way but he doesn’t, Choso moves too and it’s clean, not flashy, not trying too hard, just efficient like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t need to prove it.
Naoya notices, of course he does, “Hah,” annoying, they don’t talk, don’t need to, everything just works too well and it’s irritating, by the time the curse is gone the air settles, quiet except for the faint smell of iron and something else, something instinctual, Naoya turns first, obviously, “Don’t follow me,” “I wasn’t planning to,” “Good,” pause, “You’re strong,” Naoya stops and sneers, “Don’t start,” “It’s not—” “I don’t need your approval.”
Choso goes quiet and Naoya walks off but he can still feel that stare on his back, and then of course he sees him again, and again, and again, different missions, different places, same guy, same face, same calm attitude, it’s starting to piss him off more than it should, “Are you stalking me?” Naoya snaps the fourth time, “No,” immediate, too immediate, “You’re lying,” “I’m not,” “Then why are you everywhere I go?”
Choso actually thinks about it like it’s a real question, “…Maybe we’re just taking similar jobs,” Naoya clicks his tongue, “Annoying,” “You’re always angry,” “Shut up,” “Alright,” it should’ve stayed like that, annoying, distant, whatever, but it didn’t.
Because the first crack happens on a bad mission, stronger curse, faster, smarter, and Naoya miscalculates just slightly but that’s all it takes, he hits the ground hard, breath knocked out of him, pain shooting through his ribs, “Tch—” and before he can move the curse lunges, and then—
Blood.
Not his.
Choso stood between him and the curse like it was nothing, arm extended, blood manipulation slicing clean through the air with brutal precision, controlled, effortless, like he’s done it a thousand times before, and the curse didn’t even stand a chance, it was over in seconds, too fast, too clean, and that alone already pisses Naoya off more than it should.
Naoya pushes himself up, irritation bubbling under his skin, sharp and immediate, “I had it handled,” he snaps, because of course he did, he always does, and Choso—of course—ruins it with, “No, you didn’t,” calm, flat, like he’s stating a fact, not even trying to argue, which somehow makes it worse, “…Excuse me?” Naoya’s eyes narrow, already ready to throw hands, “You misjudged its speed,” and there it is, just like that, no hesitation, no sugarcoating, “And you think you didn’t?” “I accounted for it.”
That tone again.
God, it makes Naoya want to punch him.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Naoya glances down, annoyed that he even has to check, “It’s nothing,” it is nothing, it’s always nothing, but then Choso steps closer and Naoya tenses immediately, muscles locking up before he even thinks about it, “Don’t.”
“I’m just checking—”
“I said don’t touch me.”
Silence.
Choso actually stops.
Hands raised slightly, not defensive, not scared, just acknowledging it like it’s a boundary and not a challenge, “Alright.”
That should’ve been enough.
That should’ve ended it right there.
But for some reason—
Naoya feels irritated.
Again.
And he hates that it’s not for the reason he’s used to.
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and somehow Choso doesn’t leave, doesn’t push, doesn’t flirt, doesn’t act like every other alpha Naoya’s ever met, no smug looks, no comments, no attempts to get under his skin in that usual way, and that—
That’s the problem.
Because now Naoya doesn’t know what to do with him.
“Why?” he finally asks one night, the question slipping out before he can stop it, and they’re on the rooftop of his apartment, not together, not really, just near each other like they always are now, close enough to acknowledge, far enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
“Why what?” Choso replies, like he genuinely doesn’t get it.
“Why are you still here?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“You’re an alpha,” Naoya says bluntly, like that alone should explain everything, “you’re supposed to get bored by now.”
“I don’t get bored.”
“With me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Choso doesn’t answer immediately, just looks at him like he’s actually thinking about it, like it matters, then—
“Because I like being around you.”
And that—
That makes Naoya’s brain stall for a second.
Just a second.
“That’s stupid.”
“…Probably.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
“You’re not even trying.”
“To do what?”
“To—” Naoya gestures vaguely, because he doesn’t even want to say it out loud, “be like the others.”
“I don’t want to be like the others.”
“Why?”
“Because you hate them.”
Naoya just stares at him.
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe.”
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
–Years later now with his husband and two childrens–
"Don’t spoil them.”
“I’m not.”
“They had dessert three times today."
“They asked.”
Naoya pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply like he’s this close to snapping, like one more word and he’s actually going to lose it, irritation written all over his face but there’s something else there too, something quieter, softer, buried so deep he refuses to even acknowledge it, because if he does then that means admitting he’s letting this happen, that he’s letting them get away with it.
“You’re useless.”
Choso doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look offended, doesn’t argue back, just watches him with that same calm expression, almost annoyingly patient, almost fond, like Naoya didn’t just insult him to his face, like he’s heard worse and decided this...this...is somehow acceptable. “You love me.”
Naoya scoffs immediately, sharp and automatic, like the words physically disgusted him, like they shouldn’t even exist in the same sentence as him, turning his head away so fast it almost looks like he’s avoiding eye contact. “I tolerate you.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that lingers just a little too long, and Choso just hums quietly, like he’s satisfied with that answer, like that’s enough for him, and that alone makes Naoya’s irritation spike again because why the hell is he so easy to please.
From the other room—
“Papa! Daddy said a bad word again!”
Naoya freezes mid-motion, shoulders going stiff as his eyes narrow slowly, dangerously, like he’s calculating something, like he’s deciding whether to walk in there and actually follow through on his threats this time, because they keep doing this, every single time, like they enjoy setting him up.
“I’m going to disown them.”
“You say that every day.”
“This time I mean it.” His voice is firm, sharper now, like he’s trying to convince not just Choso but himself, like maybe if he says it enough times it’ll actually stick, but there’s no real weight behind it, no real intention, just another empty threat added to the long list he’s been repeating for years.
From the other room, there’s a small laugh—quick, stifled, like they’re trying not to get caught, and Naoya’s eye twitches slightly.
“Did they just laugh?”
“They’re children,” Choso replies simply, like that explains everything, like that excuses everything, and honestly it does, but Naoya’s not about to admit that.
“They’re menaces,” Naoya mutters under his breath, folding his arms tightly across his chest, jaw set, brows furrowed, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t actually go in there, doesn’t follow through.
Choso hums softly again, clearly not taking any of this seriously, clearly far too used to this routine, “You won’t.”
Naoya clicks his tongue, annoyed, sharp, but he doesn’t argue again, doesn’t push it further, just looks away like he’s done with the conversation even though he started it, ears faintly warm, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it, and Choso always is.
There’s another small voice from the other room, quieter this time, almost cautious—
“Papa, are you really gonna disown us?” Kami Naori ask his youngest daughter his sweet sweet baby gir yes he will said it to the world that this child is his and is proud of it, but right now he's mad.
Naoya pauses.
Just for a second.
“If you don’t go to sleep in the next five minutes, yes.”
A gasp. Then hurried footsteps. Whispering.
Silence.
Naoya exhales through his nose, tension easing just slightly, shoulders dropping just a bit as the apartment settles again.
“See?” Choso says quietly.
“Don’t start.”
“You’re good at this.”
Naoya shoots him a glare immediately, sharp and defensive. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Naoya hesitates then answers “Because you’re wrong.”
Choso doesn’t argue. Doesn’t need to. He just watches him with that same quiet certainty, the same look that says he knows better, and Naoya hates it—hates how right it feels, hates how he doesn’t immediately snap back this time.
“Tch.”
He turns away again, but this time it’s slower, less sharp, like the edge isn’t quite as there anymore, like something’s softened without his permission.