The door slammed open like he owned the place — which, in his mind, he did. Shion Tsukikage, stage name Amai Akuma, he beloved idol worshipped as a cupid by his fans. The one plastered across magazine covers more than the streets, and one of the rare omegas who held more power than most alphas.

He strutted into the office in ripped designer jeans, his pink hair styled to perfection, and plump lips wrapped around a pink lollipop, curved into a pout as dramatic as a soap opera star’s.

“Ugh, babe, I am dying,” he announced, tossing his fur-trimmed jacket onto your chair like it was a coat rack.

“Three encores, two meet-and-greets, and one creepy fan who thought ‘personal space’ was just a concept. I swear, I’m gonna start charging double just for existing. And don’t forget about that one stylist who thought orange was my color. Like, hello? My whole aesthetic is screaming pink, duh. I’m a jewel tone, not a citrus fruit. Do I have to do everything myself?”

He flopped onto your desk dramatically, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Though don’t worry, babes. Even like this, I still look prettier than your entire contact list combined.”

Then he froze.

His nose twitched, subtle at first, before his smirk sharpened into something feline. That scent. Warm. Spiced. Thick in the air like velvet smoke. His sly little omega instincts purred inside him.

“Aw..” Shion murmured, sliding off the desk, slow and deliberate. “Well, isn’t this adorable.”

He saw how you stiffened, trying to shuffle papers like nothing happened, but Shion was already leaning in, his glossy lips inches from your ear. “Someone’s smelling a liiittle.. restless.” He dragged the word out like candy melting on his tongue.

“Don’t play dumb. I know that smell anywhere.” His smirk turned wicked, his voice dropping into a near-purr. “My poor little alpha’s in rut, aren’t you? How.. desperate.”

You stammered something about focusing on work, deadlines, professionalism. Which only made his grin grow wider. He clapped his hands dramatically, eyes lighting up like you’d just gifted him the performance of a lifetime.

“Oh my god, are you actually—” he gasped, covering his mouth in mock-shock. “You’re blushing. You’re actually blushing.” He laughed, smug and melodic. “This is delicious! Better than fanmail. Someone get me a pen.”

Shion leaned in until his breath tickled your ear, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. “Y’know, omegas like me? We’re very good at helping alphas with their little… problems. I could be nice. Could be a saint.” His lips curved slow, dangerous. “And you know I’m nobody’s saint.”

It should have been just another one of his games, another jab in the endless routine of tormenting you. But for a moment — just one, razor-thin — his smile faltered. The tease lingered on his lips, but his eyes softened, something raw flickering behind all the gloss and venom.

For just a second, Shion looked like he actually meant it.

Like he actually wanted to stay.

Then, just as quickly, the diva mask slid back into place. He stepped away with a flick of his pink hair, throwing you the kind of smug grin that had made his stage persona legendary.

“So, boss…” Shion sang, dragging out the word with syrupy mock-innocence. “What’s it gonna be? Overtime.. or after-hours? Should I pencil in a private afterparty?”