The sirens outside were screaming like a banshee, but inside the safe house, the sound of glass shattering was much closer. The front door groaned under the weight of a heavy kick from the Superintendent's boys. Kaede's laughter echoed from the street, a sharp, malicious sound that made Yasuo's skin crawl. This was it. The total major conflict. The moment where the teacher and the baker had to choose: run or become a legend.
Daisetsu didn't even flinch. He stood in the middle of the room, bare-chested and covered in the sweat of their previous encounter. He looked savage, his muscles rippling under the dim light like a caged beast finally released. He gripped a heavy iron pipe, his knuckles white. The dark purple mark he'd left on Yasuo's neck was a vivid promise in the gloom.
"Get behind the counter, Yasuo," Daisetsu commanded. His voice was a gravelly rasp, deeper and more possessive than ever. "I'm gonna show these losers why they call me the Iron-Fist."
But the physical tension wasn't just about the fight outside. It was about the primal bond that had just been forged in the middle of the disaster. As the first goon burst through the door, Daisetsu didn't just move to protect—it was an explosion of protective energy. He slammed the pipe into the lead attacker's gut, the force sending the man flying back into the hallway.
Suddenly, the room was a blur of violence and adrenaline. But in the middle of the chaos, Daisetsu's eyes kept snapping back to Yasuo. He was addicted to the sight of his Cutie Boy, safe and fierce behind the debris. The danger was highkey acting like an aphrodisiac, making the air feel electric and suffocatingly hot.
When the second wave of attackers faltered, Daisetsu didn't stop. He grabbed the heavy wooden door and slammed it shut, sliding a deadbolt home. He turned back to Yasuo, his chest heaving. The thrill of the fight had mixed with the lingering savage heat of their intimacy.
"Daisetsu, we have to go!" Yasuo cried out, clutching the tablet that held all the evidence.
Daisetsu didn't answer with words. He lunged forward, grabbing Yasuo by the waist and hoisting him onto the small kitchen table. The mixing bowl he'd saved from the fire clattered to the floor, but neither of them cared. This was extreme. This was the ultimate physical payoff for two souls who had just survived an execution attempt.
"I'm not leaving until I make sure you're marked so deep you can't forget," Daisetsu groaned. He crashed his lips onto Yasuo's, a desperate, passionate collision that tasted like copper and fire.
The teacher's hands were everywhere—bruising, mapping, and claiming every inch of Yasuo's skin. He ripped away what was left of Yasuo's clothes, his frantic movements showing his wounded soul's need for grounding. He wasn't just a teacher anymore; he was a fugitive in love, and his desire was a savage stand against the world.
Daisetsu entered Yasuo with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the table creak and the windows rattle. It was raw and unrefined, a primal rhythm that echoed the pounding on the door outside. Yasuo's legs were hiked up over those broad, scarred shoulders, his heels digging into Daisetsu's lower back. He was blushing fiercely, his moans loud and unashamed in the tiny room.
Every thrust from Daisetsu was like a statement of ownership. He was the stoic protector, but in this moment, he was just a man obsessed. He bit Yasuo's shoulder, leaving a fresh mark next to the old ones. The shared focus was so intense that the sirens outside felt a million miles away.
"Say my name while the world watches," Daisetsu panted, his savage thrusts reaching a fever pitch. "Tell me you're mine even if we burn."
"Daisetsu! You're mine! Always mine!" Yasuo screamed, his voice breaking as the climax hit him like a lightning strike.
The release was explosive, a tidal wave of emotion that left them both gasping for air as they collapsed against each other. They had claimed each other in the heart of the storm, a bond forged in iron and heat.
But the peace lasted only seconds. The door groaned again, a massive crack appearing in the wood. A flash-bang grenade rolled through the gap.
"MOVE!" Daisetsu roared.
He grabbed Yasuo, shielding him with his own body as the room exploded in white light and a deafening boom. When the smoke cleared, the men in black were pouring in, but Daisetsu was already on his feet, the iron pipe swinging with a heavy force that cracked bone.
Yasuo didn't just hide. He saw his chance. While Daisetsu was a whirlwind of rage, Yasuo ducked under a table and lunged for the back window. He smashed the glass with the mixing bowl and scrambled out into the alleyway, waving the tablet.
"HEY! I'VE ALREADY SENT THE FILES!" Yasuo screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the street. "THE POLICE ALREADY HAVE THE EVIDENCE ON THE SUPERINTENDENT! IT'S OVER!"
The attackers froze. Across the street, Kaede's face went pale. She scrambled into her car, but it was too late. The real police—the ones not on the Superintendent's payroll—were swarming the area, led by a very familiar face.
Tenshin stepped out of a patrol car, a smirk on his face and a badge in his hand. "Took you long enough to call for backup, Daisetsu."
Daisetsu stood in the broken doorway, blood dripping from his knuckles, his muscular chest glistening in the red and blue flashing lights. He looked at Yasuo, who was standing in the alley, messy and bruised but holding his head high.