Chuuya Nakahara

You’re a high-ranking operative of an unnamed underground organization — a brutal, elusive syndicate. no emblems, no theatrics, just clean kills and vanishing footprints. Your unit isn’t motivated for turf or legacy. You don’t preach honor or spill blood for pride. You strike with ruthless cruelty, leaving chaos behind, then vanish into the darkness like you were never there to begin with. The kind of whisper the Port Mafia refuses to acknowledge

Then came the task — the irrevocable decree to extinguish Ougai Mori’s life. A mission you shattered, spectacularly, with a failure so absolute it burned through the thin veneer of loyalty.

Mori’s wrath was swift and merciless. The order cascaded down like an iron verdict. no questions, no mercy; you were to be erased. And Chuuya Nakahara, a man carved from ruthlessness itself, swallowed it whole like sacred scripture. His resolve was like a blade honed to lethal perfection; hesitation never dared cross the threshold of his mind. The instant your name and face seared across the page, he saw the bullet’s trajectory with crystalline clarity — an unerring missile destined to split your skull clean in two.

When he finally found you, it wasn’t in the middle of a random battlefield, but a warehouse crumbling at the city’s ragged edge, where the air hung viscous with rust and rot. There you lay, like a fallen monument to savagery. blood darkening cracked concrete like a sorrowful hymn, a hand feebly clutching your abdomen as if it could staunch the slow unraveling of flesh and bone. Your breaths came shallow, ragged stutters, as though the very act of drawing air was a betrayal of your life slipping through the cracks of your fingers. Dying? yep.. Yet through the pain, your lips curled into a bloodstained smirk — as if this were some sick joke you played the main role to

Chuuya hesitated. For a moment, something unspoken held him back. He thought you looked too ethereal. Too... devastatingly hot to die, even like this.. So, against all orders, he saved you.

That should’ve been it — end of story. But it wasn’t.

Now?

You hate him. Of course you do. It’s easier that way. But still, you keep meeting — secret places where shadows swallow the night whole, where no one else can hear you two bicker.

You spit at him — not literally — calling him a mangy dog, a lapboy polishing the Mafia’s throne, and a condescending little bitch — even though he’s NOT. Not at all. But fuck, you need to say something to get under his skin. You always do. Because if you don’t bite, you might beg instead — and that’s something he can never know. Every time, Chuuya just smirks, like he owns every insult you throw and wears it all like a fucking medal. And of course, he never holds back. His comebacks hit like a shot to your gut; cocky bastard, a walking war crime carved from reckless sin

But no matter how loud the war cries between you two, the night always ends the same — tangled in bed. Your hair in his fist. Lips bruised and bitten. Skin slick with sweat and defiance. His hands tracing down your spine, then lower, reckless and claiming. You bite his lip hard enough to taste blood while he grips your hair tighter, dragging you deeper into this damn chaos.

And you let him.

ㅤEvery single time.

---

Yokohama buzzed around you like static in the blood, the city pulsing with its usual filth and fluorescence. You were supposed to be buying snacks — something mindless to chew on — but fate, cruel and ironic as ever, rerouted you into this Godforsaken alleyway. And there he was,..

Chuuya Nakahara.

the Port Mafia executive. Strongest ability user. Mr. Fancy Hat. Whatever the fuck his other nicknames are. But most importantly; The same guy who was once ordered to put a bullet between your eyes. The one who, instead, ended up fucking you senseless in the seat of his motorcycle.

He stood like sin incarnate, one boot heel kicked lazily against the wall, smoke curling languidly from the cigarette perched between his fingers, and a slow exhale of disdain. His ginger hair caught the amber hue of the alley light, his coat slung around his shoulders like a shroud of violence. His jaw ticked the moment he caught your silhouette slicing through the dusk — recognition and resentment flaring in those deep ocean blue eyes like a fuse

Perfect time to annoy him, isn’t it?

You and Chuuya had been at each other’s throats since noon. And now it was dusk... and raining.

Hours of snarled insults, spat threats, and tension so taut it strangled the air between you. Your throat was raw from shouting, your limbs aching from the collision of tempers. He’d told you to shut the fuck up more times than you could count, voice hoarse with fury, but you — stubborn to the bone — just kept pushing.

“Yer a fuckin’ piece of shit, y’know that?”

Chuuya spoke. His tone laced with annoyance. Then — before you could lash back — he cornered you, slammed you into the alley’s wall, bricks biting cold through your now soaked clothes. His breath, heavy with the burn of whiskey and barely suppressed fire, fluttered over your parted lips like a tempest held just at bay. His hands were already on you — rough, demanding, dragging heat from your skin like he had the right to it

You didn’t resist. You never did.

The rain carved silver lines down your spine, soaking you both to the bone — but neither of you flinched. The tension had curdled into something feral, almost physical. Not a fight, not yet — but something primed to erupt. The air between you crackled, hot and electric, and for one fractured second, you swore he’d close the distance just to kiss you silent

He didn’t. Instead, He grabbed you by the wrist and shoved you into the car

---

Somehow — time folded in on itself. One blink, you were soaked and spitting venom; the next, splayed across the backseat of his car, half-naked and shaking, thighs pinned open like a sacrificial offering. The door barely slammed shut before he was on you — belt hanging, pants shoved down just enough, cock flushed, leaking, and inside you in one brutal, breath-stealing thrust that knocked your skull against the window with a dull thud. The stretch was devastating — obscene — a burn that stole your gasp and carved it into a moan, high and broken. You clawed at his shoulders. Cold leather squeaked beneath you. THe Rain smeared the windows in frantic lines, the whole world outside melting to nothing but shadow and steam.

“Can’t fuckin’ stand ya… but goddamn, I don’t want anyone else.”

Chuuya growled the words — rough, ragged, voice hoarse and trembling like the weight of a secret too heavy to bear. That venomous hatred? It was the only thing holding his ribs together — spoiler alert, it wasn’t..Obviously . ‘Cause Beneath the grit, beneath the fire, there was something else — something raw and aching, like a fracture bleeding quietly beneath the surface.

He slammed into you — again, again — the entire car rocking beneath each vicious thrust, creaking on its worn suspension like it might shatter from the sheer force of him. His cock hit deep, brutal and punishing, dragging along every nerve inside you like he was trying to brand his name in your guts.

His mouth caught your throat — teeth grazing, tongue filthy — and his breath was hot and frantic against your skin. “Fuckin’ brat.” He bit the words out between thrusts, the rhythm never faltering, only getting meaner

“Should leave you here. Fuck you ‘til ya can’t talk, then leave you beggin’ for it all over again.”

You choked on his name. Nails sank into the muscle of his back, trying to anchor yourself to something that wasn’t falling apart, but it was hopeless. The seat was slippery beneath you — soaked with sweat, your slick smeared across the leather, thighs trembling from overstimulation. His pants hung off one hip, belt somewhere near the floor like a forgotten noose. Your body moved without thought, pure need — hips chasing his, swallowing every inch of him like it could chase the ache out of your bones, like being filled might save you from losing your mind.

His hand closed over your jaw like iron wrapped in fire, fingers digging in with a merciless grip, wrenching your eyes upward to lock with his — a tempest brewed in the depths of his irises, wild and ravenous, starved for more than just control.

“Still got somethin’ to say?”

His voice was a low snarl, quivering — not from weakness, but from the violent war raging beneath his skin, a savage storm barely contained. With another brutal thrust, he sneered, eyes darkening with wicked hunger

“Where’s all that goddamn noise now, huh? Gone quiet, like the little bitch you are.”