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Under the soft afternoon sun, the shooting range buzzes with chatter and the sharp clink of metal. Mafuyu steps into the crowd of athletes, drawing all eyes not because of him but because of the person next to him.
The petite person with slightly tousled pink hair and a camera in hand walks quietly beside Mafuyu. Mizuki looks radiant with a gentle smile resting on their lips, but their steps are strangely unsteady.
"Your lover? Damn, they’re pretty and cute," one teammate laughs.
"They look perfect together. One’s strong, the other’s sweet."
Mafuyu simply smiles and then gives everyone there a polite nod. He casts a quick glance at Mizuki. His expression changes to commanding.
Don’t let anyone notice.
That is an order. And Mizuki understands it.
Though, their legs are still trembling, their entire lower half damp and aching from everything they have just done. They straighten up, lift the camera and act like nothing happened. Their smile stretches, beautiful enough to hide the high that still hadn’t faded.
Mafuyu says nothing more. He turns and joins the other athletes who are preparing for their turn. His voice is calm, still the Mafuyu everyone admires: stoic, precise, always on top of the pyramid.
"Mafuyu’s up next."
"Every time he shoots, it’s like the wind slicing right through your chest..."
And as everyone expects, Mafuyu doesn’t miss a single shot.
But...a few meters away, Mizuki holds their breath. Every shot makes them flinch. It’s not from fear, but from the pulsing ache between their legs. The way the sound of gunfire echoes through their body makes them shiver. Every time Mafuyu pulls the trigger, it sends a subtle jolt through them, like their body still remembers the rhythm, the pressure, and the pleasure.
They shift their legs slightly, feeling the wetness at their core, but they need to keep holding the camera to capture each moment of Mafuyu shooting as his staff like nothing is wrong.
You have to look normal. You have to look beautiful.
Beside all the praise and admiration, Mafuyu glances over at them now and then. Not with worry nor with affection but a cold gaze, the one that pins Mizuki in place and makes them endure, makes them smile, makes them stay the "perfect" staff, or lover in everyone’s eyes.
…So Mafuyu can stay focused.
Mafuyu lines up for his second round. His posture remains flawless, his eyes locked on the bullseye and his body taut like a drawn bow.
But behind him, Mizuki can’t stand any longer. The dull ache and soaked heat vibrating between their legs make their knees tremble uncontrollably, until they finally collapse onto the bench against the wall. Their hand grips the edge of the camera stand like it is the last thing tethering them to dignity. Their breath comes in shallow gasps, chest rising and falling. Their cheeks are flushed, whether from the sun or the shame of how their body betrays their mind, they can’t tell.
“Akiyama-san, are you alright?”
One of Mafuyu’s teammates - a young male athlete who has seen them falter - hurries over, crouching down in concern.
Mizuki tries to smile, shaking their head gently. But their trembling voice and unfocused eyes give them away.
Bang!
The bullet shoots out of the barrel, missing the center of the target. The whole range stirs with whispers. Mafuyu never misses, not when someone is watching.
Bang!
Another stray shot. Mafuyu straightens his posture. He is not upset, just a subtle furrow between his brows. His hand tightens around the gun again, but his gaze flicks sideways to the left of the range where Mizuki is sitting, struggling to hold their composure or even just to breathe.
Mafuyu exhales softly, he raises his voice just enough for the coach to hear.
"This one’s acting up. I’ll head in and switch it out."
No one questions him. Someone would make a joke that Mafuyu misses because of… Mizuki? But no one knows the truth.
He sets the gun on the table, peels off his gloves, and walks steadily toward his lover. Each step is firm, measured like it has been decided long before.
Mizuki feels the familiar shadow fall over them. They look up with the glassy eyes that slightly blur. Mafuyu says nothing. He just holds out a hand.
No questions. No pretenses. Just a silent command.
And Mizuki can only give a faint nod. They pick up a camera by one hand, another hand slips into Mafuyu’s waiting hand. They let him pull them away like something delicate, something melting.
The locker room door closes with a dry click.
Mizuki quietly falls apart…
All because the sound of gunfire is never meant just for sport.
It is a trigger meant to control them.
Mafuyu says nothing as he slowly peels off his gloves one finger at a time, his eyes never leaving Mizuki, who collapses in the middle of the room.
“You make it all the way through the session... that’s impressive,” Mafuyu speaks in an even voice, but his gaze is suffocating, pressing the air tight around Mizuki’s chest.
“I told you to stay calm... but I didn’t expect you to endure this....”
Mizuki presses their lips together and doesn't respond. Their cheeks flush a soft, silent red.
Mafuyu steps closer, quiet as a hunting cat. He doesn't touch Mizuki immediately. Instead, he stops just behind them, close enough for his breath to brush the nape of Mizuki’s neck.
“Can you stand?” Mafuyu asks, voice low and sharp like the tip of a needle.
Mizuki bites their lip and shakes their head.
He leans down, lifting the hem of Mizuki’s dress at the back just enough to glance down and see...everything is still in place, exactly where Mafuyu had left it before the session started. Silent. Obedient. Just like Mizuki.
The spare gun is still buried inside Mizuki’s dripping hole. It looks like it is trying to slip out, but Mizuki keeps it in tightly. They know, if it fell, the punishment would be severe.
Mizuki still says nothing, but a faint shiver runs down their spine, a reaction they can't suppress....until they start moaning.
“Good...” Mafuyu whispers near their ear, breath warm and slow. “...just keep being good-”
“Please... take it out,” Mizuki interrupts, their voice breaks. “I’m begging you... I can’t breathe…”
Their pleading cuts through Mafuyu’s words and he doesn't like that. In response, Mafuyu pushes the gun slightly, making it deeper inside.
“Shhh. Be good now…”
“Don’t…Stop… please…”
Mafuyu only stops once the gun is fully seated inside them again.
He gives Mizuki one final glance, then turns away. He walks over to where the camera is, picking it up with calm detachment and then snaps a few shots of the scenery.
“Ma…Ma...fuyu…”
Mizuki whimpers. The entire experience has drained them.
“Hm?”
“Take… it out…”
“No,” Mafuyu replies, “You need to push it out yourself.”
And so he stands there, his arms crossed, a cigarette between his fingers. He is watching the performance he has so carefully staged.
Mizuki writhes, soft moans escaping their lips, their body fighting against itself…and whether it was from the pressure or from the wetness flooding their insides, the gun finally slips out and clatters to the floor with a soft metallic thud. Mizuki gasps in relief.
“Good...”
Mafuyu is the first to step out of the locker room, his expression unreadable, holding the spare gun he has just retrieved. The cold metal is still damp…and coated in a glistening, translucent sheen that carries Mizuki’s scent. Mafuyu doesn't wipe it off. He doesn't need to.
Mizuki follows right behind him, their cheeks still pink. Their steps falter ever so slightly. Their dress is perfectly adjusted, but nothing can disguise the faint tremble in their stride.
One of the athletes watching from afar frowns slightly.
“What are you two doing in there for so long?”
Mizuki opens their mouth, but no sound comes out, their throat closes up. Mafuyu glances sideways, not even bothering to acknowledge the question properly.
“Technical issue,” he says curtly.
Mizuki looks down. Their hands clutch at the edge of their dress.
Mafuyu returns to the range without another word. He places the dripping wet gun on the table, loads it, and takes aim at the target.
No practice shot is needed.
BANG!
Ten.
BANG!
Ten.
BANG!
Another ten.
He twists his wrist slightly. The wet spare gun now resting easily in his grip. The way the steel catches the light from the range gives it a strangely beautiful sheen.
One of the teammates approaches, curious, pointing to the gun.
“Uh… that thing looks like you just pulled it out of a lake. Why is it so wet?”
Mafuyu glances sideways, not even turning his head fully. His voice remains even.
“It has a special ability.”
“What?”
“It knows when to get wet.”
The other girl frowns, as if trying to make sense of the answer, but the coldness in Mafuyu’s eyes shuts down the conversation instantly.
Not far away, Mizuki stands with their head bowed, face burning red. They don't dare look up or even look at that gun.
Because they know.