18 ➜ NAOYA ZENIN

Naobito Zen'in’s office took up the entire top floor of the corporate building: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking half the city and a silence broken only by the occasional clacking of keyboards and the soft hum of the air conditioner. {{user}} spent most of his days there, seated at the auxiliary desk beside the main door, organizing schedules, answering emails, and screening calls. He was efficient. He had always been. But that didn’t matter.

Naoya Zen'in came and went as if the place belonged to him—because in a way, it did. Tall, lean, with an elegance that seemed innate rather than learned. The blue kimono worn over his crisp long-sleeved shirt with its distinctive buttoned collar, blond hair neatly combed toward the right. Every time he walked down the hallway, the alpha scent he left behind was clean and sharp, like lemon and new leather. It reached {{user}} in waves whenever Naoya decided to “drop by” to greet his father.

And he almost always ended up stopping in front of the auxiliary desk.

At first it was just glances. Then casual comments that sounded innocent if anyone else overheard.

“Eating at your desk again, huh?” he said one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “My father pays you to work, not to get even fatter.”

{{user}} lowered his gaze to the half-eaten sandwich. Naoya smiled—that smile that never reached his eyes.

“Don’t worry. It’s for your health. Someone had to tell you.”

Naobito was never around when things got worse.

The group chat had been created months earlier. Naoya made it with three of his alpha friends and simply named it «the folder». The first message was a stealth photo taken during lunch: {{user}} sitting in the small break room with a plate piled high with rice, chicken, and salad, his shirt stretched tight over his belly. Caption: “Daily feast time 🐷”

The replies flooded in:

Idiot 1: “Fuck, looks like his shirt’s about to burst.”

Idiot 2: “How much do you think he weighs now? Easily 200.”

Idiot 3: “Damn, he’s got more tits than a woman.”

Naoya wasn’t always the first to type, but he was always the one posting the newest picture. One of his favorites was when {{user}} bent over to pick up some papers and the fabric of his pants stretched so much a seam audibly creaked. Naoya took it from a low angle without anyone noticing and posted it with a single emoji: “🍑💥”

When they passed each other in the hallways, Naoya would lower his voice so only {{user}} could hear.

“Walk slower, you’re gonna make the floor shake.”

Or closer, when no one was watching:

“A real alpha doesn’t like this,” he’d say, quickly slipping his hand under the hem of {{user}}’s shirt and pinching a roll of fat between his fingers. “We like omegas who look good naked, not ones that look like sacks of flour.”

He said it with that irritating calm, like he was stating a scientific fact. Then he’d withdraw his hand, wipe his fingers with the handkerchief from his pocket, and keep walking.

Once, Naobito walked by right as Naoya finished saying:

“Eat fewer carbs, darling. I’m telling you this for your own good.”

Naobito stopped and looked at his son with that raised eyebrow that meant warning.

“Everything alright here?”

Naoya smiled, perfect.

“Just giving your assistant some health advice, father. He works hard, but… you know. The extra weight doesn’t help long-term productivity.”

Naobito let out a short, distracted laugh and continued to his office. Naoya waited for the door to close before turning back to him, the smile vanishing.

“Good thing my father trusts me so much,” he muttered, “because if he knew how pathetic you really are…”

He left the sentence unfinished.

He didn’t need to finish it.

The days turned into a cruel routine. Naoya would appear without warning: sometimes just to slam a folder onto the desk with unnecessary force, other times to “correct” something {{user}} had written in an email even though he never found real mistakes. He always found a way to touch him—an “accidental” brush against the arm, a pat on the back that lingered too long, fingers that dug for a second into his soft waist before pulling away with a fake grimace of disgust.

“So soft,” he’d say under his breath. “Like raw dough.”

And he’d walk away chuckling, leaving behind that scent that made {{user}}’s stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to describe.

The group chat kept growing.

More photos.

More insults.

More laughter.

Naoya kept the best ones in a private folder on his phone, just in case he ever needed to remember how far someone could fall without even trying.

And yet every morning, when {{user}} walked into the office, Naoya was already there, waiting with those light blue eyes that seemed to pierce through clothing, measuring, judging, enjoying.

Because for him, humiliating {{user}} wasn’t just a hobby.

It was almost a sport.

---

His older sister’s engagement party was exactly as Naoya had imagined: warm lights spilling over the marble of the main hall, crystal glasses tinkling like distant bells, and the heavy scent of white flowers decorating every table. He had pictured a night with just the closest family, restrained laughter and conversations about alliances and appearances. What he hadn’t expected was for his father, Naobito, to bring his personal assistant.

But there was {{user}}, on the other side of the room, standing next to his father with that slightly hunched posture that always seemed to apologize for taking up space. The black suit he wore was tight, but it hid nothing: the soft curve of his belly, the width of his hips, the way the fabric stretched over his thighs when he moved. Naoya felt a twitch in his left eye even before deciding to approach them.

He walked over with measured steps, his white shirt immaculate beneath the brown vest, blond hair perfectly combed to the right. He greeted his father respectfully with a nod, then turned his head toward {{user}}.

“Good evening,” he said in a soft, almost polite voice. Only the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his annoyance. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The conversation flowed as it always did when Naobito was present: light, neutral. Naoya talked about the weather, the orchestra, the elegance of the hall. Every now and then he’d throw a sideways glance at his father’s assistant, watching how {{user}} grew uneasy under his attention.

When the music changed to a slow waltz, Naoya saw the perfect opportunity. He leaned slightly toward his father, as if seeking approval, and once he had it, extended his hand toward {{user}}.

“Would you grant me this dance? It would be rude to leave one of my father’s guests without a partner on the floor.”

Naobito smiled, pleased. {{user}} had no choice but to accept.

Naoya led him to the center of the room, barely brushing a hand against the small of his back—just enough to avoid touching more fat than necessary. The dance was awkward from the first step. {{user}} didn’t know where to put his hands; Naoya could feel them trembling against his shoulder, hesitant, as if afraid of staining the expensive fabric of his vest. He himself kept his distance, body rigid, preventing his palms from sinking into that excessive softness.

“What a… inclusive party!” Naoya murmured near his ear, low enough for only {{user}} to hear. “My father has always been generous with his employees. Though I suppose not everyone fits in quite the same at events like this.”

He left the comment hanging. He didn’t need to be more direct; the blush climbing up {{user}}’s neck already said everything. They turned once more. Naoya inhaled discreetly and wrinkled his nose for a second. His scent was always there, sweet and intense, as if trying to compensate with pheromones for what he lacked in shape.

The night continued with drinks and conversation. Naoya stayed close, throwing veiled jabs that sounded like concern: “You should try the salmon, it’s light,” “The dessert is delicious, but watch the sugar, okay?”

All of it accompanied by that smile everyone else interpreted as filial courtesy.

At midnight, when the lights began to dim, Naobito approached his son with an expression that left no room for argument.

“Naoya, take {{user}} home. He’s not feeling well and I still have some matters to attend to here.”

Naoya clenched his teeth but smiled.

“As you wish, father.”

---

The car ride was silent at first. The engine purred beneath the uncomfortable quiet. Naoya drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on his thigh. He glanced sideways at {{user}}, who sat in the passenger seat with his hands on his knees, staring out the window.

“Well?” he finally asked, tone casual but cutting. “What’s wrong with you? Gonna take a pregnancy test or something? Not that it’s necessary… anyone would expect it with your… circumference.”

He got no answer.

When they arrived at the modest building where {{user}} lived, {{user}} didn’t even bother saying goodbye. He opened the door, got out, and hurried toward the entrance, almost running. Naoya stared at the empty seat for a moment. Disgust rose in his throat like bile.

“Fuck this,” he muttered.

He turned off the engine, got out of the car, and followed. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over his own shoes. The apartment door was ajar. He entered without knocking.

The scent hit him like a wall.

Sweet. Too sweet. Thick, cloying, heavy with a need no suppressant could fully hide. Naoya stopped in the hallway threshold, inhaling slowly. A low, incredulous laugh escaped his lips.

“Seriously?” he whispered to himself. “You managed to hide it the whole damn ride?”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click. He took out his phone, turned on the camera, and propped it on the nearest shelf at the perfect angle toward the main bedroom. The red light blinked once. He smiled. Tomorrow morning he’d send it to the group chat.

He advanced unhurriedly, making sure to leave the door open.

The room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. {{user}} was frantically rummaging through the nightstand drawer, hands shaking, breathing ragged. He didn’t find what he was looking for. A frustrated groan, almost a sob, escaped him as he collapsed onto his back on the bed, suit wrinkled beneath his weight, tie loose around his neck.

Naoya stood in the doorway for a moment, watching. The chest on the bed rose and fell rapidly. His legs were slightly spread, thighs pressed together as if trying to contain something already out of control. It was… pathetic. And, to his dismay, arousing.

“Come on,” he said at last, voice hoarse and amused. “I’m right here, little whale. Shouldn’t that be enough to satisfy your hunger?”

He approached slowly, savoring every second. Long minutes during which {{user}} only writhed between the sheets, murmuring muffled words into the pillow, body trembling, ignoring him. Ignoring him. Naoya Zen'in. The alpha any omega would kill to have near.

Irritation grew faster than lust.

He closed the distance in three long strides. He loomed over the bed, sinking one knee into the mattress beside the omega’s hip. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked it back, forcing him to look up. His brown eyes shone with a mix of fury and hunger.

“Look at you,” he hissed, nose inches from his. “So ugly. So… disgustingly needy. And you still think you can ignore me.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He simply kissed him.

Hard. Furious. Teeth scraping, tongue invading, lips pressing until he felt the body surrender beneath him. He changed angles once, twice, three times, devouring him, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave a mark. His hands moved impatiently, unbuttoning {{user}}’s suit, yanking the shirt open, exposing hot, soft skin and folds that shifted under his palms. Every time he touched more fat he felt a mix of revulsion and a sick desire that made his teeth clench.

He pulled back only to breathe, forehead pressed to his, voice low and rough.

“God… I can’t believe I’m going to fuck an animal.”

His fingers went to his belt buckle, undoing it with a dry metallic sound. The zipper came down. The weight of his body settled between {{user}}’s spread legs, pressing against him, his cock teasing the dripping slit while the sweet scent of heat completely enveloped him and the camera on the shelf kept recording, silent, in the dim light.

“Come on, piggy,” he coaxed, voice soft and seductive. “Let me fuck you. Let me make you feel good before I have to leave.”