Thread by @H4NDKINK

bitter, musky, filling his entire mouth with the taste of himself.

He can /see/ Dazai move his tongue around in his mouth, collecting all the remaining cum into one pool. This one makes a wet noise when it falls into Chuuya’s mouth, making him grimace.

It feels /dirty/. Like

one of those things you see on cheap porn sites—not that he’s been on a lot— and not something that happens in /real/ life.

The taste isn’t something he likes, and the texture is thick but—

Dazai’s eyes burning down at him, all-encompassing and dark, and the way his hand

shifts to cover his mouth with his palm, sealing his mouth closed, is /hot/.

“You will be,” Dazai promises sweetly, his smile growing more wicked. “Swallow.”

Chuuya doesn’t, staring up at him with wide eyes. He’s seeing a whole new side of Dazai, one that revels in filth and

sin. One that seems like the devil himself, come to wrap his forked tail and silver tongue around Chuuya until he can’t remember who he was /before/ Dazai got his hands on him.

Dazai arches an eyebrow. “Don’t make me cover your nose until you do as you’re told. You have to

breathe sometime, baby. I can wait you out.”

Chuuya doesn’t know if he gulps out of fear, excitement or /obedience/.

“Good boy,” Dazai purrs, satisfaction dripping from his voice. He moves his hand and replaces it with his mouth.

The way their lips slide against eachother,

made slick by saliva and cum and the lube Dazai had accidentally smeared over his face with his hands—

It’s /filthy/.

“Come here,” Dazai murmurs into his mouth, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and /pulling/ until the stinging stretch makes Chuuya whimper.

/Where/,

Chuuya wants to ask but before he can—

The knot tying him to the headboard is undone with one sharp /yank/, and then Dazai’s fingers are hooking in the loops around his wrist.

He leans back, pulling him up at the same time until Chuuya is sitting up completely.

Then Dazai is

sliding off the bed and dragging him with. It's awkward to shuffle around with just his knees and little else to balance with, and he's /confused/ because he can see the tent in Dazai's jeans, and he doesn't know where they're /going/--

With a few quick movements, Dazai pushes

him onto his back, head dangling over the edge of the bed.

"What are you--" Chuuya asks,huffing a little when Dazai tugs him even farther forward by the wrists, until the edge of the bed is just below the base of his neck. "I thought you were going to fuck me?"

Upside down like

this, Dazai looks even taller and /more/ intimidating, looming over him with a confident smirk. The rest of the world is blocked out, overshadowed by dark, tousled hair, the flash of white teeth and--

The bulge in his jeans, which is just /slightly/ above eye level now.

"Did I say that?"

Well, not /exactly/, but he /implied/ it so Chuuya has /right/ to be disappointed if that's not happening anymore.

"But I /do/ remember saying that brats don't get my cock."

Chuuya's response is cut off by the way Dazai reaches up to his own mouth, sticking

his tongue out just slightly. The tongue jewelry-- a pill-shaped object that takes up a fair amount of his tongue and probably his mouth-- gets removed with a few twists of his hands. It gets discarded carelessly onto the nearby nightstand, to be taken care of later.

Dazai

scrapes his fingers over his tongue-- (the tongue ring is /so/ ticklish, Dazai can barely stand it and taking it off is always a relief)-- before lowering his hand to Chuuya's mouth.

"Here's what we're going to do, baby," he says, pressing his fingers to his lips and smearing

bitter saliva over them. “You’re going to open for me, and I’m going to fuck your pretty little face.”

Chuuya’s heart /leaps/ in his chest, heat flooding his face so quickly he feels dizzy with it. Oh god, okay.

Without conscious thought, his mouth opens. Dazai hooks his

thumb in his mouth, rubbing the pad over his bottom teeth indulgently. His skin tastes like a mix of bitter cum and thick artificial strawberry lube.

One-handed, Dazai unzips his jeans and pushes them a little farther down his hips. Chuuya gets an up-close view of the cut of

his hips and the happy trail radiating outwards into a neatly-trimmed bed of hair.

Then there’s a dick in his face, close enough that it’s /all/ he can see, radiating heat. Dazai slides closer, thighs on either side of his head and boxing him in.

Reaching down, Dazai slides

his thumb in between the loose wrappings around his wrist. Chuuya’s fingers wrap naturally around his forearm, thrilling at the hard muscle there.

“Remember what I told you the first time we did this?” Dazai asks, voice hypnotically dark. “Two taps if you need me to stop.”

He remembers, squeezing Dazai’s wrist to show he understands.

Dazai takes the fingers out of his mouth, trusting him to keep his jaw open wide as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock to guide himself in.

Despite himself, Chuuya tenses up a little bit when he feels

the head of his cock slide over his bottom lip. He’s only done this /once/, on his own terms, and while this is /exciting/, the complete lack of control is also a little frightening. What if he’s bad? What if Dazai doesn’t like it? What if he chokes again?

“Relax, baby,” Dazai

says, stroking the head over his tongue. “I won’t hurt you. All you have to do is lay there, and let me do all the work.”

Chuuya takes a deeper breath, willing his body to relax. The only point of tension he keeps is his fingers wrapped tightly around around Dazai’s wrist, a

grounding point. How firm and steady he is under his hand is reassuring.

“There you are,” Dazai croons at him, pushing a little deeper. “So perfect and pretty for me.”

Heat burns in Chuuya’s face. He closes his eyes, glad Dazai can’t see his expression anymore, and sinks into

the feeling.

Each time Dazai pushes in, he slides a little deeper. Slowly making his way into the back of his throat, pausing there and murmuring to him soothingly when Chuuya tenses up instinctively. His free hand comes to his throat, gentle fingertips swirling soothing

patterns over his skin.

Chuuya shivers, goes limp. Dazai is so hot, a furnace of warmth in front of his face and pulsing in his mouth, so effortlessly controlling that it just feels natural to give into him.

“You like my hands on your neck, don’t you?” Dazai asks. His voice

is like cotton-edged silk, wrapping Chuuya up in hazy softness. He feels like he’s spiraling, almost, falling deeper into a feeling that’s too thick to name. Dazai’s voice is the only thing that tethers him to reality.

His fingers twitch around his wrist, his only sign of

confirmation, curling a little tighter. It’s a little harder to breathe, not only because Dazai is rocking against the back of his tongue, but also because the air in the room feels soupy and thick.

(It takes a little work to get his fingers in the right places with how they’re

positioned, but Dazai manages it eventually. His fingers press over the pulse points on either side of his neck, applying pressure until he can feel the blood struggling to pump past the compression.)

Chuuya /does/ like his hands on his neck. It feels warm, feels /safe/, feels

like being caught and held, his entire being held securely in the palm of Dazai’s hand.

Feels like he doesn’t need to /think/ anymore, he just needs to do what Dazai says.

Impossibly, he relaxes even more, the last of the tension disappearing from his neck and spine. His head

sinks into the mattress further, hanging limp off the edge.

His head is beginning to spin pleasantly, stuffed full with cotton. Dazai pulls back regularly to let him breathe and his lungs feel full, but lightheadedness is beginning to swallow him whole.

“Yeah, I know you do,”

Dazai muses, pressing forward until the head of his cock is almost touching the back of his throat. His fingers lighten on his throat for a few moments before pressing down again. “Swallow for me, baby.”

Obeying is instinctive at this point, body reacting before Chuuya even

has a chance to think about it.

Dazai slides down his throat. Not that far, but enough that there’s pressure, and barely-there panic begins to swirl when his airway is cut off.

His gag reflex is there, but it feels very far away and is easily suppressed as Chuuya focused on

trying to draw breath in through his nose.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” Dazai says, husky voice adding to the spinning of his head. “Doing /so/ well for me, making me feel so good.”

Chuuya /likes/ that, likes that he’s being good, likes making him feel good. Pride

swirls in his belly, adds to the overload of sensations. Everything feels centered in his head, like the rest of his body is so far away, thick and fuzzy.

Just when his head feels like it’s about to explode, pressure building and building between the cock in his throat and the

hand around his throat, Dazai pulls back.

The rush of air back into his lungs feels like fire, spark to gasoline.

Steadily Dazai builds a rhythm. He rocks slowly into his mouth, pressing deeper and deeper as Chuuya shows no resistance. The fingers over his pulse are tight,

only letting up when his cock is deep in his throat.

Between the two sensations, Chuuya feels like he’s floating away. Everything feels so visceral and yet overwhelmingly close, filling his head until it’s almost spinning too fast to keep up with.

Mindlessly, he rubs his

fingertips over Dazai’s wrist, feeling soothed and grounded by the sensation of hard muscle under his fingers.

Above him, he can hear Dazai saying /something/ but his ears feel stuffed with cotton. There’s a rushing noise that drowns out everything, turns it all to mush and

white noise.

Even though he’s not directly getting any pleasure out of this, and /logically/ it should feel a little uncomfortable—

He feels high on it, lost in a sea of sensation with only Dazai as his grounding point in the storm.

Dazai’s hand tightens on his throat, palm

coming down to cover almost his entire neck. He’s not /choking/ him, he’s just massaging over the length of it, applying light pressure over the bulge of his cock in his throat.

Dazai’s belly is /almost/ touching his chin, nearly the entirety of his cock in his mouth and Chuuya

feels on top of the /world/. He’s the one getting used, but it feels /fantastic/ to be able to give Dazai what he needs, what he /wants/, to be good and to /feel/ good.

It feels good to be wanted. That’s all Chuuya’s ever wanted.

He swallows roughly, feeling Dazai twitch in

his throat. He feels impossibly hard, pulsing, so hot he feels searing on his tongue.

There’s a bunch of noise above him, something that might be a groan of Chuuya’s name, rough compliments, a /warning/—

Dazai buries himself deeper, so much that Chuuya, even so far from his

body, involuntarily tenses up. His throat clenches, instinctively fighting against the pressure—

Dazai comes directly down his throat. He can feel him twitching in waves, and Chuuya swallows as best he can, lungs beginning to ache for air. His entire body is tingling.

By the time Dazai is softening and beginning to slide out, Chuuya feels like he might pass out. His head feels so full, and sensation bombards him in pulses, turning sharp for a moment before fading away again, only to return a moment later.

Saliva pools in his mouth, drips

down his face slowly. The lube smeared over his cheeks from earlier is drying wet and cold. His head and neck feel warm, but the lower half of his body is beginning to cool down. His chest screams for air, and his heart is throbbing so hard it almost hurts.

When Dazai pulls

out, it’s a slow process. First his hips, moving back to give him breathing room. Then his hand, relaxing on his neck and turning back into the soothing strokes from earlier.

He lets Chuuya adjust slowly to the lack of pressure and sensation, instead of depriving him altogether.

When his softening cock slips out of his mouth completely, Chuuya almost feels /empty/. His jaw aches from being open so wide for so long, but without Dazai pressing down on him, into him, all heat and fire and hardness—

It makes him feel disconnected, /almost/ in a bad way. Not

quite, and he knows he’ll adjust in a few moments but—

Before, he felt like he was floating. Now it feels like the strings connecting him to earth are being slowly cut, and he might get lost in the wind.

A hand slides under the back of his head, lifting him up. His hands are

dropped onto his chest, and he’s completely pliant as Dazai pushes him into a sitting position.

He keeps his eyes shut, focusing on the way his body is slowly coming back into feeling.

“Chuuya?”

He tries to make a noise to show he’s heard, but his voice is rough and nearly

gone from his throat being fucked.

Gentle fingertips grab his chin, tilting his head up. His lashes flutter, feeling heavy and uncoordinated, but he /wants/ to look. Wants to see Dazai.

His vision is slightly blurry, but Dazai is right there, not even a meter away. The

expression on his face might’ve been concern, but it clears up when he sees the hazy, unfocused look in his eyes and the dazed expression on his face.

“Oh,” Dazai says, like something just occurred to him, “Alright. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Chuuya smiles at him, leaning

into his touch. He feels so good.

Dazai crawls onto the bed, sitting down next to him and pulling him into his lap. Chuuya doesn’t fight, but he doesn’t exactly help either, because his limbs feel like jello.

Like always, Dazai radiates warmth and Chuuya settles into it with a

content sigh. His nose ends up tucked into the crook of Dazai’s neck, feeling sheltered underneath the strong line of his chin. Feeling /safe/.

His wrists get untied slowly. Dazai takes the time to rub over the indented skin that’s revealed, encouraging the return of blood flow.

The tie was never very tight to begin with, but he was struggling quite a bit in the beginning, and at the end he wasn’t thinking about anything else other than the overwhelming fuzziness he felt.

When he’s done, Dazai tosses the rope to join the discarded toy at the end of the

bed. Interlacing their fingers, he brings his wrist to his mouth and starts to press soft kisses over the fragile bone. He’s heartbreakingly gentle, murmuring compliments into his skin as he inspects the marks left on him.

“Beautiful.”

“Such a good boy.”

“So perfect.”

Each murmured word is like a layer of warmth and comfort, wrapping around Chuuya until he feels swaddled in protection.

When Dazai presses a kiss to his palm, he curls his fingers to stroke them along his cheeks, quietly reverent. He can feel the responding smile, the way Dazai

nuzzles his cheek into his hand.

After how /intense/ the sex felt, this quiet moment of comfort, recovery and affection is the perfect way to come back down.

Chuuya makes a disgruntled noise when Dazai shifts him, clinging weakly. Smiling, Dazai kisses his temple and keeps

moving him until he’s straddling his lap and facing him, legs thrown over each side of his hips.

Chuuya /tries/ to snuggle back up but Dazai pushes him gently but firmly away, getting enough space between them so he can look at him properly. Irritable and needy, Chuuya glowers

at him weakly.

“Does your throat hurt?” Dazai asks softly, gentle fingertips tipping his chin up and to the side so he can inspect his neck.

The spots where his fingers were digging in are a little sore, and his throat does ache, but not in a /painful/, sharp way. More like

waking up in the morning with a sore throat from not drinking water all day yesterday. “Not really,” he croaks, wincing a little at his broken his voice sounds.

Dazai looks contemplative. “You’ll probably bruise a little, but I think you’ll be fine. Let me know if it starts to

hurt, or if you have trouble swallowing.”

Chuuya nods absently, distracted by how pleasing the idea of fingerprint bruises on his throat is.

“Time to clean you up,” Dazai announces, tipping him backwards until his back hits the mattress. He slides out from underneath him,

heading to the bathroom.

Rolling over, Chuuya pouts into the blanket. Stupid Dazai, always thinking about being clean when he /should/ be thinking about cuddling him until he falls asleep. He’s /cold/ and he wants to be held.

Clean up is quick and gentle, a warm washcloth

rubbed over him until all the sticky lube and fluids are wiped away. The toys are tossed into the bathroom sink to be cleaned later.

While Dazai strips out of his jeans, Chuuya crawls underneath the blankets and pats the spot next to him insistently. He uses his most convincing

pout to coax him into hurrying up.

Dazai just smiles at him.

By the time he’s turned off all the lights and got changed, Chuuya is almost grumpy, covering his frown with the blanket as he glares at Dazai.

That doesn’t stop him from sinking into Dazai’s arms when he slides

into bed, sighing pleasantly. Dazai’s chest is warm and comfortable underneath his head, and his legs part for him when Chuuya pushes his thigh between them, curling up as close as he can.

It’s been a long, eventful, exciting day, feom the aquarium visit to getting his world

rocked just a few minutes ago.

Sleep is too tempting to ignore, especially when Dazai presses a kiss to the top of his head and then tucks him under his chin.

Safe and warm and held, Chuuya is asleep within minutes.

——— +

There’s too much candy in the bag. Way too much.

When Ranpo ordered it, the girl manning the register gave him an unsubtle wink, and poured much more than he asked for into the bag.

She was probably trying to flirt with him—he realized that 10 minutes after he’d already left

the store— and he appreciates free candy but...

Now there’s too much and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He /always/orders a kilogram of Puchao gummy candies. It lasts him exactly a week, and he always buys more on Tuesdays.

But now there’s too much. This will last him

at least /nine/ days. Then he’ll either be out of one of his favorite candies for almost a week, or he’ll have to go on a /different/ day.

He hates that idea. Tuesday is candy day. That’s the day the shop is the least busy, and they just restocked the candy he buys. And if he

changes up the day, then he has to /keep/ going on that day.

He could buy more on Tuesday like regular, but that doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with all this extra candy.

She should’ve just given him the candy he ordered. He hates his routine and schedule being thrown

off.

“Why are you glaring at your candy?”

Ranpo sighs, pushing around one of the strawberry flavored pieces around on his desk. There’s a small pile of them, all the extras he was given. “The cashier girl gave me too much.”

Kunikida sounds exasperated. “Isn’t that a good

thing? Free candy. God knows you already spend most of your salary on it, maybe this will keep you out of the poor house.”

For someone who loathes having /his/ schedule thrown off, Kunikida is never very sympathetic when Ranpo’s gets derailed.

He glowers at him. “No.”

Lately,

Kunikida has been in such a foul mood that even Ranpo has noticed. He’s constantly glaring at things, using his office supplies with too much force, snapping at their coworkers.

Ranpo doesn’t know what his problem is and doesn’t much care, but he better not take his anger out

on him, or Ranpo will remind him just who the better martial artist is.

Stapling a few pieces of paper together by slamming his fist down on his stapler, Kunikida says, “Why don’t you throw away the extras then?”

Ranpo gathers his candy back into a pile, letting his silence

speak for him. What kind of imbecile throws away /candy/?

"Well," Kunikida grumbles, putting the stapled group of papers into a file, "when you've figured out your candy problem, I could use your opinion on something."

Lovely. Ranpo has lots of opinions on all sorts of things,

and he could use a distraction. "What do you need?"

The case gets put into Kunikida's extensive files, his alphabetized and chronologically ordered record of almost every case he's ever been on. Ranpo thinks it's excessive; why doesn't he just remember the details?

"The crime

rates have gone up in the last couple weeks. There's been more calls than ever-- but a lot of the victims involved aren't talking. It makes it such a pain to solve the crime itself. I was wondering what you thought of it."

Oh, well that's easy. Gang rivalry. No one wants to get

on the bad side of the local gangs, /especially/ when said gangs are fighting for dominance. Even calling the police, or a detective agency, can land you permanently on the shit list of the mafia, if not earn yourself more permanent consequenes.

In fact, most of this new spike

in crimes is either due to the gangs themselves,/or/ because they're too busy infighting that they aren't policing themselves anymore.

Ranpo pops a candy in his mouth, sucking on it contemplatively. Sometimes it's difficult to work with Kunikida. He's very much of the ideal that

all crimes are bad and therefore all criminals need to be punished.

Personally, Ranpo thinks of it in a more personal way. He lived on the streets for almost three years after his parents died, and he's seen firsthand how the justice system can utterly fail people. He's seen

kids go to the police for help, only to be arrested themselves or treated like liars. He's seen innocent people treated like criminals themselves, just for being down on their luck and in bad situations.

His time on the streets taught him a few things. The police might /claim/

that they uphold law and order, and it's because of /them/ that society doesn't collapse into lawless ruthlessness--

But the truth is, generally, it's the criminals that keep each other in check. It's the top mafia dogs that uphold a certain code of honor, that keep the smaller,

lesser known people in line.

/Some/ people are outright vicious, but a decent amount of criminals just happened to fall into the lifestyle.

"Have you tried talking to that hacker kid of yours?" Ranpo hedges, leaning back in his chair.

Kunikida makes a face. "Yes, but he's

been distracted lately,off his game.Rokuzou /said/ he'd look into it, but we all know that's code for he's not going to do it."

Yeah, that's fair. Even Ranpo's been feeling antsy with all the tension on the streets lately, and he's not even plugged into the information flow /or/

particularly affected by whatever fighting is on the streets. He knows it has something to do with the Russians, but that's about it.

For someone like Rokuzou, who's life and business relies on being valuable to /all/ sides of the war, it's probably hard to decide what

information is safe to give someone like Kunikida, who's job is to literally put people like him behind bars.

"Probably has something to do with that Dazai asshole," Kunikida mutters, slamming his desk drawer shut. "He's always causing trouble."

Ranpo snickers, kicking his feet

up. Kunikida's irritation with Dazai is hilarious to him. The man is /obsessed/ with putting Dazai behind bars, and somehow everything that happens in the underground world is always connected back to Dazai for him.

Ranpo isn't unaware of Dazai's sordid past-- the streets are

rampant with rumors about the Demon Prodigy-- but it's in the /past/, and all of those things happened when Dazai was little more than a child himself. Kids made to fight for their lives will spill blood without hesitation.

These days, Dazai is more...

The crow that follows the

wolf pack. A bad omen, and a bearer of bad news--

But rarely the source of the problem himself. And since Kunikida is so focused on the shadow cast by his wings, he often misses the true predator hunting underneath.

But it's not Ranpo's job to keep Kunikida on track. If he

wants to obsess over the guy, go ahead. He's the one missing out on all the other cases.

Ranpo couldn't care less, to be honest. He became a detective because it was /interesting/ and to make sure the people close to him weren't taken advantage of, not because he's sitting on

some moral high ground.

If he sees a case, or a particularly difficult one comes to the Agency, he'll solve it, but other than that, he doesn't care.

He'd much rather spend his days eating candy.

-------- +

Chuuya has come to the conclusion that he /hates/ Dazai.

It all started with a perfectly innocent conversation this morning when they woke up. A conversation he now /regrets/, knowing what he does now, but he was /innocent/ back then. He didn't know the /trap/ he was walking into.

He was sitting on the bathroom counter, carefully

applying some eyeliner and eyeshadow as Dazai washed his hair in the sink. Apparently, he's /very/ insistent about not taking a shower where Chuuya can see.

A little hurtful, but Chuuya is trying to be understanding about it.

"You know," Chuuya starts, closing one eye to make

sure his wing is perfect, "It's so unfair that you last longer in bed than I do. Makes me feel like there's something /wrong/ with me."

Dazai shuts off the faucet, leaning his elbows on the counter. He lifts his face to grin at Chuuya through the mirror, and /god/, the sight of

his dark, curly hair hanging over his eyes and dripping water down his face makes Chuuya's heart throb in his chest.

"Baby, that just comes from experience."

Chuuya makes a face in the mirror. He /knows/, but it's still embarrassing for him to be going off like a rocket after

being touched for like...ten minutes. He /knows/ he's still a virgin-- despite his best efforts-- but it still sucks being reminded of it, especially when Dazai is so 'experienced' in comparison.

"But," Dazai continues, grabbing a towel to roughly rub the excess moisture out of

his hair. He's yet to put on a shirt, and the sight of his biceps and chest flexing with each movement is criminally distracting. "I have a way to help you with that, if you want."

Chuuya squints at him, a little suspicious, but--

Dazai's never done anything he didn't /like/

before, and he's always made sure to give him an out if he /didn't/ like what Dazai was doing to him, so....

He decides to trust him. "Sure."

Dazai smiles at him secretively, and leaves the bathroom.

Chuuya watches him go in slight confusion, but chooses to finish doing his

makeup before following him.

Which is good, because as soon as he /leaves/, he's being snatched up, dumped on the bed and having the /life/ sucked out of his cock as Dazai fucks him with two fingers.

It's rougher than Dazai's been with him so far, quicker, and going from /no/

sensation to being overloaded makes him approach the edge far quicker than he'd like--

And for a moment, for a long, blissful moment, Chuuya thinks that Dazai's solution is just /more/ sex. More experience to solve his problem, he's just going to make him come over and over

again until he lasts longer.

But no.

/Just/ when Chuuya is shuddering underneath him, groaning out a mangled version of his name and /reaching/ for the edge--

Dazai pulls off completely and Chuuya nearly /cries/.

"Wait, please," he whines, "I wanna--"

"I /know/ you want to,

baby," Dazai tells him, reaching into the drawer of the nightstand to pull out something, "But you're not going to come until I say you can."

Heat pulses through Chuuya at the words,and he squirms, one hand sliding down his body to take himself in hand--

With one quick movement

his hand is pinned to his side and Chuuya is forced to wait as his body cools down without stimulation.

He glares at Dazai, but all he gets is a sweetly smug smile in return.

Fine, he can handle this. Pleasure is still pleasure anyways, and while it's /frustrating/ that he

doesn't get to orgasm, that's /fine/. He doesn't /need/ it.

(He does need it. He needs it so fucking bad.)

Giving him one last smile, Dazai flips him over onto his stomach. The friction of the blankets against his cock makes him groan, but a hard hand on his hip keeps him from

grinding forward.

Something slim and distinctly cool gets pressed him, and he squirms away from it instinctively. It doesn't feel /bad/, but it feels weird considering he's only had Dazai's fingers inside him, and /this/, whatever it is, is definitely not fingers.

It's only a

little thicker than his fingers, so it's not much of a stretch to take it. But it /is/ oddly shaped, thicker on the part that's buried inside him, and thinner near his entrance. There's also a little tab-feeling thing that presses against his perineum. It's /also/ pressed right

against his prostate--Dazai /kindly/ informed him the term for the spot that drives him wild-- with a constant, unrelenting pressure that makes him squirm.

Dazai lets him go with a mild smack on his ass. "Come on, get up. We're going to breakfast."

Chuuya fists the blankets in

his hands, pressing his forehead to the bed. "Now? Like this? With it inside me?"

Even just /saying/ that makes him blush.

Dazai smiles at him again, sharp and wicked, the devil come to take his dues. "Yep."

And that's how they ended up here, seated in the outdoor section of a

restaurant, with Chuuya swearing he's about to /die/ while Dazai innocently asks the waitress about the ingredients to a dish while he plays with the vibration settings for the toy with the app he has on his phone.

Chuuya is /trying/ to be nice, patient and /subtle/. He stares

blindly into traffic, jaw clenched around a moan as the vibrations amp /up/, sending white-hot slivers of pleasure splintering through him.

He's /trying/ to be, but eventually he can't take the frustration anymore. "It's fucking french toast, why do you need the ingredients?!

It's bread, syrup and strawberries??"

The pair grow silent. The poor waitress girl looks shocked, but /Dazai/ just looks like he hit the jackpot.

Right on cue, the toy inside him /spikes/, so strongly that Chuuya inadvertently lets out a choked gasp, gripping the edge of the

table so he doesn't fall over completely. It feels like a /firework/ is lodged against his most sensitive spots, filling him with fire and heat and ecstasy, so much that he's fast approaching his limit--

His neglected erection pressing against his zipper adds just enough pain

that the pleasure feels /better/ in comparison, and /fuck/, he's really about to full-on /moan/ in a restaurant or maybe worse, like /orgasm/--

The vibrations cut off completely, so suddenly Chuuya feels dizzy from it.

"I'm sorry," Dazai sighs, sounding like an exhausted parent

dealing with a kid throwing a temper tantrum. "We'll have two orders of pancakes, and a pot of coffee, please."

That /fucker/ spent five minutes discussing the pros and cons of different bread for french toast and he didn't even /order it/?!

In other circumstances, Chuuya might

be angry that Dazai ordered for him, but he's too busy trying not to be turned on by the casual dominance of it, and /trying/ to control his anger over the fact that he didn't even order the damn french toast.

The waitress nods, eyes only for Dazai, taking their orders back.

"You know," Dazai says, folding his hands on the table and resting his chin on them, flashing him a smug smile. "You should really behave if you don't want to get punished."

Chuuya glares at him from underneath his bangs, struggling to control his breathing. "I'm already being

punished, asshole."

What else would you call being /publicly/ tormented where everyone can see, getting pushed so close to the edge only to be dropped back down as /soon/ as it starts to feel fantastic?

Dazai's smile widens, and his eyes feel like they're piercing straight into

his /soul/, spearing through him. "Sweetheart," he says, voice dripping with something Chuuya can't name, all he knows is that it settles deep in his stomach, "/when/ I punish you, you'll know. I'll make you /count/."

Count /what/, Chuuya doesn't get to ask, because at that

moment the waitress comes back with their food.

And it's irrational-- for fucks sake, Chuuya's got a vibrator inside him that Dazai is playing with--but the sweet, innocent smile Dazai graces her with, /especially/ when he's being mean to him, makes irritation boil in his chest.

He doesn't want Dazai to smile for anyone else. He wants that smile for /him/ and he wants to be taken home and he wants to be /fucked/ and he wants to come. He's so frustrated he could cry and he has a sinking feeling that Dazai is not /nearly/ done with him.

He ends up being

/correct/ because Dazai just leans back in his chair and watches him try to eat his pancakes, hiding a smirk in his coffee cup.

Half the time when Chuuya brings a bite to his mouth, the vibration increases in intensity until he’s jerking in place and losing focus. It’s never a

set pattern or rhythm he can get used to or anticipate. Sometimes Dazai lets him get a few peaceful bites in with the toy still inside him.

Sometimes Dazai turns it onto a low but noticeable setting and /leaves/ it there until Chuuya is subtly squirming, torn between wanting it

to stop and /needing/ it to keep going, /faster/.

Sometimes Dazai will wait until his fork is almost to his mouth before ramping up the settings /hard/, and Chuuya has to quickly put the food down before he drops it all over himself or the table.

And while Chuuya is pretty

sure he looks a mess— flushed, subtly panting, shaking like a leaf even though he’s trying his /best/ to keep himself composed in public—, Dazai looks calm and collected, if a bit sadistic with that smug, possessive look in his eye.

Chuuya barely manages to eat half a pancake,

an accomplishment for him because he’s not hungry.

Not for food anyways.

“Are you done torturing me?” Chuuya hisses, fingers clenched on the edge of the table as the waitress clears their plates away.

Sipping his second cup of coffee, Dazai hums contemplatively. He’s barely

touched his own food, and Chuuya vaguely remembers him saying a while ago that he didn’t really like western breakfasts and especially not pancakes.

“I was considering it,” Dazai says, tone making Chuuya’s stomach drop in dread, “and then you had to call me an /asshole/.”

Wait, he didn’t mean it, he was just frustrated—

“And now I’m thinking that there’s quite a few places in Osaka that you haven’t seen yet, and it’s such a lovely day for sight-seeing, don’t you think?”

Chuuya nearly sobs with frustration. He hates him. He hates him /so/ much.

Dazai tortures him for the /entire/ day. He drags him along on train rides to all the tourist attractions, showing off all the greatest sights of the city.

Chuuya /wishes/ he could enjoy sight-seeing. There’s a point where he’s staring up at Osaka-jou, and wishing he could

actually admire the architecture of what was once the largest castle in all of Japan instead of having his vision so blurry he can barely see, entirely focused on the irregular pattern of the toy inside him.

His hard on is so persistent and obvious that he actually has to tie

his sweater around his waist so he doesn’t offend anyone.

He nearly has a mental breakdown on their third train trip of the day, after his fourth denied orgasm. That ends up with Dazai whisking them both into a secluded hallway and letting him smother his frustrated tears and

angry bites into his chest as his body cools down once again.

Brushing his thumb gently over his cheek to collect his tears, Dazai gently reminds him once again that he only has to say the word to get him to stop. Or, in this case, taken to the nearest private area so Chuuya can

have his orgasm as quickly as possible.

He won’t lie, the thought is /tempting/. He’s never been denied like this before and Dazai is /not/ going easy on him. The tension from all his almost-orgasms is building steadily, winding tightly around his spine until he might snap from

the overload. And he’s not sure if it’ll break in a /good/ way or in a bad one, this time, teetering between agonized frustration and sublime pleasure.

At the same time though, there’s something /depressing/ about the thought of giving in before Dazai’s done with him. Chuuya

/thrives/ on meeting expectations, on excelling. He’s not a quitter, and he hates the idea of giving up when he hasn’t yet hit his absolute physical limits yet.

He /wants/ to be good. He wants to be a good boy, even if it feels like he might be actually dying from it.

He

shakes his head mutely, shivering in Dazai’s arms. He can keep going, at least for a little longer.

(He doesn’t see the concerned look on Dazai’s face. Dazai’s been pushing him hard with the /intent/ of getting him to give in and submit to him, but they’ve clearly hit some sort

of limit for him and he’s not safe-wording out. He’s being /stubborn/.

At this point in time, Dazai does not know that Chuuya often treats his limits as /suggestions/, and he has to keep a more careful watch on him to ensure he’s not pushing himself too hard.)

The rest of the day Dazai takes it relatively easy on him, at least in comparison to earlier. He doesn’t /stop/ teasing him, but instead of relentlessly driving him to the brink and back, it’s more of a constant stream of pleasure that /can/ be ignored if he focuses enough.

Dazai is also a lot more touchy with him, always has a hand on his waist or an arm over his shoulder, or is pressed up against the length of his back. That helps, both as a grounding measure that Chuuya can lean on whenever his legs feel too wobbly, and also because he can grab

onto his wrist and /squeeze/ whenever he’s trying to choke back a moan.

There’s also a point where Dazai keeps the vibrations too high for too long and Chuuya brings his forearm to his mouth and /bites/ to keep himself from moaning loudly. That earns him a low hiss, and a sharp

spike in intensity that /almost/ ends it all, right here in line for the Tempozan Ferris Wheel, before it stops suddenly.

Forcibly pulling his arm away, Dazai grips his jaw with hard fingers and tips his head back painfully far so he can press a bruising kiss to his lips.

Part

of Chuuya wants to keep pushing Dazai until he /snaps/ and stops playing this game and /devours/ him.

The other part wants to just melt into a puddle and mindlessly beg until Dazai takes mercy on him and makes him come.

Which side is currently winning just depends on how close

he is at any given moment.

Dazai puts him through at least four different tourist attractions and hours of pleasurable torment before he /finally/ suggests going back to the hotel for a late lunch. The train ride back is filled with low-grade buzzing and sharp-edged

anticipation that makes every moment stretch out taffy-thick and heady.

As /soon/ as the door shuts behind them, Chuuya is jumping on Dazai with every ounce of desperation vibrating in his teased body.

"Please, please, please," he mutters nonsensically, pressing frantic kisses

to his jaw, the only place he can reach, like if he just /proves/ how desperate he is, Dazai will take mercy on him. "Please, I was good, I was a good boy, /please/, I wanna cum."

One of Dazai's hands finds his lower back, fingers spreading wide and palm supporting the natural

arch of his spine and pulling him even closer. Dazai leans down,giving him easier access to rain kisses all over his cheeks.

Dazai doesn't kiss him though,turning his face whenever Chuuya gets too close, and he's so frustrated he might /bite him/ or maybe just straight up /cry/.

"You were a good boy," Dazai rumbles, his voice filling the space between them until Chuuya feels encompassed in it entirely, drowning, "I'll make you a deal."

His other hand finds the back of Chuuya's thigh, encouraging him to lift and hop up until his legs are wrapped around

his waist and his back is being pressed against the wall.

Sighing pleasantly from the direct friction against his crotch, Chuuya buries his fingers in Dazai's hair. His hips rock subtly, an instinctive reaction.

"I can make you come now," Dazai offers, rolling his hips forward

in one powerful, smooth movement that makes his eyes roll back in his head and his ankles tighten around his lower back.

Yes, yes, /that's/ what he wants, he wants to come, it's been so and he's been /so good/--

"Or," Dazai continues, stilling completely and waiting until his

eyes refocus back on him, "You can wait a little longer and I'll make you come as many times as you want tonight."

Oh, that's not fucking /fair/. Chuuya's only orgasmed multiple times in a short span /once/, at Dazai's fingertips, and it felt /so/ good, so mind-bendingly

pleasurable that he wasn't sure he would even survive. It somehow deepened his capacity for pleasure.

/One/ is good, obviously, but is it /enough/, especially after being teased and built up for /hours/? Will he be satisfied by /one/, or will he be left to wallow in the hopeless

desire for /more/?

"...how mean are you going to be to me? Chuuya asks, tugging on Dazai's hair lightly.

Leaning forward, Dazai presses his lips to his cheek. The kiss and the smile Chuuya can feel against his skin have no right to feel as soft and sweet as they do. "Mm," Dazai

hums, contemplative. "I'll let you have a break during lunch, and then I'll be /kind/ of mean to you later tonight. You have to /earn/ your reward."

Lips twisting in an indignant snarl, Chuuya goes to tell him that's he's already /earned/ it, he's already been /good/--

"But

baby," Dazai continues, slowly making his way down his cheek and pressing his wicked smile against the corner of his mouth, "I'll make it /so/ good for you, I promise. You won't even remember your own name. All you'll know how to do is /beg/."

The idea of that probably shouldn't

be as hot as it is, considering Dazai almost always has him near to mindless every time he touches him, but the sheer /confidence/ in that statement is enough to have Chuuya shivering in reaction.

This really isn't fucking fair. Dazai is so /mean/ to him.

It takes him a long

moment to decide, moments where Dazai rains heart-achingly soft kisses all over his cheeks and jaw. They're not sexual--yet, and Chuuya is sure that can change in a /heartbeat/-- but the casual affection /does/ help a little. The deprivation feels like it's hollowed out a space

inside him, and the warmth of being pampered helps to fill it a little.

Probably not as much as an orgasm might,but /still/. He loves feeling treasured.

"Tonight then," Chuuya mutters, nuzzling his cheek into Dazai with a pleased sigh, "but you better be /so/ nice to me during

lunch."

The smile against his cheek makes Chuuya feel like he /won/.

Dazai moves downward, capturing his lips in a languid, soft kiss. One of his hands comes up, cupping his face and his thumb strokes gently over his cheekbone, silently reverent. "I will," he promises.

And he

is. They order room service again,and when the food arrives, Dazai pulls him into his lap.

They spend the entire lunch like that, Chuuya lounging in his lap as Dazai feeds him bites of fish and crab cakes, tilting his head back to have white wine poured carefully into his mouth.

He's so /affectionate/ too, murmuring quiet words to him or kissing over his cheeks or wiping a crumb delicately from the corner of his mouth, pampering him with touch and attention.

The toy is still inside him--getting used to the intrusion of it was a struggle at first, but by

now, the pressure of it inside him is easy to overlook-- but it's turned completely off, and the only stimulation he gets is when he moves in Dazai's lap and the toy shifts inside him.

For almost two hours, Dazai lets him soak up attention and affection like a needy kitten,

practically purring and melting in his lap, filled with happy-light warmth and satisfaction.

Eventually though, Dazai urges him up. "Go get ready" he tells him, voice amused and affectionate when Chuuya tries to cling onto him, "Wear something... sexy."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?"

He's wearing a nice pair of jeans, a cropped shirt and a loose sweater that's since been discarded over the back of a chair. It's comfortable, casual, but still cute.

"Nothing, sweetheart. It's just not appropriate for where we're

going."

"And where /are/ we going?"

Dazai smiles at him secretively, cleaning up their mess from lunch and stacking all the dirty plates. "You'll find out when we get there."

Chuuya narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. He still doesn't answer.

Fine then, Chuuya grumbles to

himself as he makes his way back to the bedroom, keep your secrets.

It's surprisingly hard to dress when you don't know where you're going /and/ when you have a vibrating toy still inside you. It limits his options greatly.

He ends up fixing his makeup first, cleaning up the

smudged parts of eyeliner and adding a darker, smokier eyeshadow just in case. He skips lip color, but sharpens his cheekbones.

Then there's nothing left to do except get dressed and--

Here's where Chuuya gets a little /petty/. Dazai has been too controlled for his tastes, and

/clearly/ isn't being tempted enough. Besides, he /did/ say dress sexy so--

Why not turn up the /heat/?

For his shirt, he chooses a crimson tank top that ties in the back and leaves most of his back exposed. His front is completely covered, but his shoulders and spine are

bare.

And his /skirt/ is the black one Dazai bought for him the first day they were in Osaka. The one that laces up on either side on the front, showing teasing hints of skin on his thighs and hips. He laces it tighter around his waist to keep it firmly in place, but /just/

loose enough around his hips that it can be pushed up or a hand can slide underneath.

And because of how the skirt is designed, it's /very/ obvious that he's not wearing any underwear beneath.

It's bold, braver than he /usually/ would go for, especially for something he's going

to be seen publicly in--assumingly, at least, because he still doesn't know where they're going-- and the mental image of his father fainting in sheer shock is /almost/ enough to get him to change into something else but--

Fuck it, right? He's needy, he's on edge, and he wants

Dazai to /regret/ denying him. If he's going to be suffering with unsatisfied lust, then he's /not/ going to be the only one.

Is he going to regret this decision as soon as strangers are looking at him? Possibly.

Is the look on Dazai's face when he prances out of the bedroom

making it worth every second of potential embarrassment? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Preening under the look, Chuuya does a spin for him, showing off the back of the outfit. He cocks his hip to the side, flashing a smug smirk as he rests a hand on his hip. "Too much?" He asks, even

though he /knows/, from the sight of Dazai's dilated pupils to the hunger growing steadily on his face, that he looks good.

"No," Dazai murmurs, eyes glinting, "you're perfect."

He doesn't look half-bad either. They've inadvertently matched, because Dazai's red silk shirt,

half-buttoned to reveal the toned planes of his chest, is almost the same red as Chuuya's shirt. He's wearing black slacks that hug his hips deliciously.

His hair is artfully tousled, with a few strands curling lightly over his forehead.

He looks fucking /delicious/ and Chuuya

would /much/ rather just stay here and mess up that careful hairstyle--

"Ready?" Dazai asks, picking up his phone and unlocking it.

Chuuya walks over, giving his own wallet to Dazai so he can carry it for him. He doesn't have pockets in this outfit. "Yeah."

As if in

acknowledgment to his answer, the toy inside him buzzes back to life. Dazai flashes him a grin when Chuuya swallows hard, mentally preparing himself.

And the game begins again.

This time, Dazai calls a taxi for him, which is both a blessing and a curse. It's terribly awkward to

sit with the toy inside him, and the driver makes way too much small talk for Chuuya's tastes, but at least it's not as horribly public and exposed as being on the train was.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to their destination, and the streets they take aren't any that

they've taken before, so they must be in a completely different part of the city.

It gets more crowded with people as they go along, the sidewalks filling up with people dressed in smart, chic clothing--

And Chuuya understands why as soon as they pull up to the building.

A /nightclub/, practically throbbing with music and packed full of people waiting.

Chuuya slides out of the car after Dazai, adjusting his skirt. He's glad he went daring with his outfit because he fits right in. "A club? I didn't know you were into clubbing."

Dazai shrugs,

ushering him towards the front of the line. It feels weird to skip in front of an entire crowd of people, but Chuuya supposes that’s part of the perks that come with being rich and attractive. “I’m not, usually. Typically I prefer my clubs to be more of a... refined taste.”

The way he says it makes Chuuya think that’s not /exactly/ what he means, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“But I’m going to go out on a limb and assume /you/ haven’t been to one,” Dazai says. When the bouncer sees the expensive Rolex on Dazai’s wrist, he waves them both in.

Chuuya

scowls lightly, stepping up beside him. He’s not /wrong/, exactly— he’s still underage and so legally he’s not allowed to enter a club, and the only time he got a group up to sneak into one, Lucy’s parents caught them before they could even leave the driveway— but it still

irritates him that Dazai can just /tell/ he hasn’t done it.

“And,”Dazai continues,hand finding his lower back and pushing him forward so he’s the first one to step into the club.He leans down,breath washing hot over his ear and teeth lightly scraping,”I /like/ being your first.”

Chuuya is saved from answering--and he's pretty sure his answer would be something around 'take me back to the hotel right the fuck now'--by the sounds of the club swallowing him whole.

It's loud, and even though the speakers are /vibrating/ with how loud the song that's playing

is, he can't actually make out any of the lyrics. It's overshadow by sheer /bass/, throbbing through the air and settling into Chuuya's body like a heartbeat too big for his skin.

The space near the entrance is relatively clear, but only a few meters away, Chuuya can see the

mass of bodies writhing on the dancefloor, highlighted by flashing colored lights.

It's a bit more crowded than he was expecting, literally so packed full that he has to fall into step behind Dazai and let him lead the way through the crowd to a set of stairs spiralling up to a

second floor.

There's a security guard at the top, guarding a rope that sections off the second floor, but Dazai only has to flash /something/ from his wallet and the guard is unhooking the rope and letting them pass.

"I thought you said you didn't go to clubs?" Chuuya asks,

having to nearly shout to be heard over the music.

Dazai shoots a smile at him over his shoulder, heading towards an empty table near the back corner. It's far less crowded up here, and half of the people here seem more interested in shouted conversations over drinks.

They're

all dressed in clothing that screams luxury and wealth, and Chuuya suddenly feels a bit awkward.

These are /Dazai's/ kind of people. /His/ kind of people are down there on the first floor, and the only reason he can get up here in the first place is because of Dazai.

"I never

said I /didn't/ come to clubs, just that it wasn't my usual scene. Wait here, I'll go get us drinks," Dazai says, pressing a quick kiss to the back of his hand before dropping it and walking away.

Chuuya stands by the empty table, feeling more and more awkward the longer he's

standing there by himself. Is he supposed to be doing something, like dancing or--

Feeling watched, Chuuya lifts his head and looks over the smaller crowd on the dancefloor up here. There's probably close to two dozen people dancing together in time with the thudding music.

In

the middle of the group is a medium-height man with light hair that gleams under the lights. He's staring straight at Chuuya, and when he notices him looking back, he flashes something that is /supposed/ to be an inviting grin and gestures him over.

Snorting to himself, Chuuya

shakes his head in answer and looks away. Sorry buddy, you might've been appealing /if/ Chuuya hadn't come with the hottest person he's ever seen, in person /or/ on TV.

Speaking of Dazai, he's heading back through the crowd, two glasses in his hand. A cup of whiskey for himself

and some clear liquid shot for Chuuya.

Raising an eyebrow, he asks, "Is that it? I was expecting more."

Letting the shot glass dangle from the tip of his fingers, Dazai offers it to him. "If you want more, I'll get you more-- but you should keep in mind that I'm not going to

do /anything/ to you if you're drunk."

Pouting, Chuuya takes the drink. "But what about our deal?"

"Our deal stands only if you're sober enough to consent to it."

Ugh, fine, whatever. It's not like Chuuya had plans to get wasted anyways, he just doesn't like /rules/.

Because Chuuya doesn't have a lot of experience drinking hard liquor-- he's stuck to mostly wine or the occasional stolen sip of vodka from his friend's parents' liquor cabinets-- he makes the mistake of sniffing at his glass first.

Wrinkling his nose at the burning smell, he

pulls the glass away as Dazai snickers at him.

"Don't get a /baby/, drink it."

Scowling, Chuuya takes a second to mentally prepare himself before plugging his nose and throwing the shot back in one quick movement. It burns like chemical hellfire on his tongue, a line of fire

sliding down his throat. It hits his stomach like a ball of warmth, spreading heat through his veins.

Suddenly he's very glad Dazai insisted on him eating a full meal before they came, because otherwise the alcohol might just knock him on his ass, as strong as it is. Premium

vodka, the kind Chuuya's only seen on /commercials/.

Dazai sits down on the booth seat, and the way his legs spread to take up more than he /needs/ is just too tempting for Chuuya to ignore.

He crawls into his lap, throwing one leg over him and then the other, straddling him.

His skirt rides up higher on his thighs, and Dazai capitalizes on the newly exposed skin, laying his hand high on his thigh. His thumb brushes rhythmically over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasingly light.

Dazai's eyes are dark enough that they reflect the flashing

lights, blues and purples and reds and greens, a personal show just for him.

"Hello," Chuuya says breathless, hands finding his shoulders.

"Hi," Dazai responds, smiling into his whiskey. He tips his head back to take a long sip, shadows collecting underneath his jaw and

shifting with the movement of his throat. Chuuya's eyes fall there naturally, and he can almost /taste/ his under his lips--

"Go dance," Dazai tells him, tapping his hand on his thigh lightly. When he hesitates, unwilling to go by /himself/, he smiles at him. "I'll join you in a

moment, I just want to finish my drink. I'll be watching."

Well... okay. Chuuya likes dancing anyways, he doesn't mind doing it by himself for a little if Dazai is watching him.

He should've realized it's a fucking trap, because as /soon/ as Chuuya starts sliding into a

rhythm, joining a little group of girls that fawn over his skirt, beginning to /dance/--

The vibrator springs back to violently pleasurable life.

Chuuya stumbles, nearly falling on his face in front of everyone. The girls, probably thinking he's drunk a little too much, grab

him by the arms and shoulders to keep him upright. He leans into them for a moment, getting his bearings because holy /shit/, Dazai really went from 0 to 100 real fucking quick.

Panting, he lifts his head to glare at him over the crowd. The light of his phone throws Dazai's

features into sharp relief, highlighting his devilish smirk.

Swirling his drink in hand, Dazai arches an eyebrow at him and /deliberately/ places his finger on the screen and drags it up, up, /up/.

Fucking hell. This is almost like the restaurant all over again, except /worse/,

because Dazai isn't /stopping/, and now Chuuya's wearing a fake-leather skirt that rubs mercilessly against his bare cock.

Knowing Dazai is doing this on /purpose/, he tries to dance as long as he can but he's pretty sure he only lasts about ten minutes before he's stumbling

back to the table on wobbly legs.

"Stop being so fucking mean to me," Chuuya /tries/ to snarl, but it comes out more as a breathless plea. His dick is so hard it /hurts/ and whatever peace his body got during the lunch break is quickly burning away.

Dazai smiles at him, too

cute to be as /sadistic/ as he is. "No."

"Then take me back to the hotel? Please?"

Dazai double-taps on his screen, changing the vibration settings from a constant buzzing to a rhythm of even high vibrations interspersed with lower ones. "Tempting, but also no. I /did/ say you

had to earn it."

Earn it by sporting a fucking hard on in front of /everyone/ in the club, clearly visible with his skirt, and /trying/ to hold it together and not fall apart into pieces.

God.

Chuuya closes his eyes, gripping the edge of the table. "I'm going to need another

drink."

Dazai hums, sliding out of the booth. His own glass is nearly empty. "Sure, baby. I'll be right back."

Thankfully, he lowers the settings since he won't be in sight of Chuuya, and while it's not /perfect/, it does allow him a moment to focus past the buzzing pleasure

and bring himself back under control.

Or well, it /would/--

If he weren't interrupted by a slightly nasal voice, inches away from his ear and making him flinch with surprise.

"Hey, baby, you look /great/-- come dance with me."

Okay, Chuuya might like being called baby by

/Dazai/, because when he calls him that it's backed by emotion and /affection/.

When /this/ asshole--the light-haired one from earlier-- calls him baby, it feels /demeaning/.

Chuuya turns his head, glaring slightly. He's not trying to be rude, but he's on the razor thin edge of

patience. "No, I'm with somebody else."

The guy grabs Chuuya's wrist, tugging on it insistently as he leers at him. "He shouldn't have left you alone then."

What is Chuuya, a damn dog that needs a leash and an owner? Something that needs to be /watched/, lest someone else take

advantage of him?

He yanks his arm out of his grip, scowling at him. "I said no."

The guy changes tactics, crowding into his space with a condescending sneer. While he isn't terribly tall, and not nearly as tall as Dazai is, he /is/ still bigger than Chuuya is and manages to

box him in against the edge of the table. "Come on, sweetheart, don't be such a /bitch/. It's just a dance."

And, well--

Chuuya has /never/ had a lot of patience, and his temper has always been easily tripped. He's had a /long/ fucking day, he's frustrated and his skin is

hypersensitive after all the teasing he's been through today, and this guy needs to be taught a /lesson/.

Smiling sweetly, Chuuya turns to face him more fully. He lifts his hands up, moving like he's come to his senses and he's going to join him for a dance, sliding over his

shoulders.

The guy smiles victoriously, leaning forward--

Only for Chuuya's hand to hook around the nape of his neck and /yank/ his head forward, slamming his face into the table with as much force as he can gather from this close.

His nose hits the metal with a sharp /crack/,

punctuated by a sharp yelp of pain.

Keeping him in place by knotting his fingers painfully in his hair and pressing his weight over his shoulders and neck, Chuuya leans in to snarl, "Do you /know/ what the word no means? It means leave me the /fuck/ alone, asshole. Do I need to

spell it out for you? I'll do it with the blood from your /broken nose/ the next time you fucking touch me without permission."

Chuuya pulls him up forcibly, shoving him backwards with enough strength that he goes stumbling a few steps.

The guy touches his face in disbelief,

and although his nose isn't broken yet, it /is/ bleeding. He looks at the red on his fingers, then looks up at Chuuya with a furious scowl.

"You fucking--"

Whatever insult he was about to say is cut off by a cool voice coming from the direction of the crowd. "I think," Dazai

says, and his voice is surprisingly /calm/ for how cutting it is, slicing easily through the music and leaving the air frozen in it's wake, "the man said no. I suggest you listen to the /first/ lesson he gave you, because if /I/ have to teach you one, especially so soon after the

first..."

Dazai steps forward, placing their drinks on the table, smoothly inserting himself between the two of them. His head turns to keep the asshole in view, eyes locked on target. "It won't be blood you'll be cleaning up."

A flash of teeth, unamused, a /threat/. "It will

be your /teeth/."

The guy, clearly reconsidering his options when he realizes how /tall/ and broad Dazai is, and how he's /clearly/ not kidding when he threatens to introduce his teeth to the floor, backpedals with a final snarl.

Chuuya watches him go with a sense of raw,

animal victory. Sure, maybe Dazai is more intimidating than he is, but /Chuuya/ is the reason he's bleeding and in pain.

Maybe he'll think twice about being an asshole now. One can only hope.

"You alright?" Dazai asks, reaching out to lightly grab the wrist the guy had been

tugging on. It doesn't hurt or anything. At most, it'll bruise for a day or so.

"Yeah," Chuuya huffs, "Told you I could take care of myself."

The smile Dazai gives him is fond, if slightly strained. "You sure did, baby."

He offers him the drink he brought him, and this time

Chuuya is so keyed up that he takes it in one easy swallow.

Dazai watches him with a strange look in his eye, like a predator watching a fledgling hunter make it's first kill. Something like interest and hunger and calculation.

Fighting has always done /wonders/ for Chuuya's

confidence, taking all that awkward insecurity that he /usually/ feels and turning it into the soaring feeling of /victory/. Maybe it's not healthy, but Chuuya feels his /best/ when he's fresh off of kicking someone's ass.

He grabs Dazai by the wrist, dragging him forward.

"Come on, let's dance," he says, not taking no for an answer.

Dazai swallows his glass of whiskey in one swallow before letting himself be led out onto the floor.

The crowd parts for them easily, and they find a spot near the middle.

Chuuya lets go, moving to turn around so he

can face Dazai--

Only to get dragged back with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him into the strong, firm body behind him. The hand slides forward, finding the base of his neck and wrapping lightly around his throat.

Dazai leans forward, and he's so /broad/, his body covers his

entirely, a solid wall of heat. His voice is a rumble in his ear. "/Where/ do you think you're going?"

Chuuya shivers. He wasn't planning on going /anywhere/, and especially isn't now. "Nowhere."

Lips brush over the shell of his ear, scorching hot. "That's right," he murmurs,

voice pleased, body rolling forward in a movement that matches the beat of the music, easy to follow, "You're not going /anywhere/."

He murmurs the next part so low he might not even be speaking to Chuuya at all, teeth finding the spot just below his ear. "/Mine./"

Chuuya shivers, arching against him in silent agreement, pushing back against him easily.

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised, but Dazai is an /excellent/ dancer. His body moves elegantly, smoothly. Always on the beat, strong hip rolls that make Chuuya's breath hitch, feet moving in

graceful patterns, subtly leading Chuuya.

It feels natural to fall into him, to follow his lead, and it barely even feels like they're dancing. It feels like /sex/, moving together instinctively, pressed up against each other as close as they can get while the music drives their

heartbeats.

Then the song changes, and Dazai lets out a huff of amusement. How he can recognize the song past the pounding bass, Chuuya doesn't know, but he easily matches their rhythm to the beat of the song.

Lips whispering over the exposed skin of his shoulder, Dazai

murmurs a lyric, /"Rhythm make you move slow."/

Dazai shifts, moving the hand that had found his waist and reaching behind him.When he brings his hand forward again, his phone is sitting on the palm of his hand.

A threat, and a promise.

/"Nothing ever good happens after 3am,"/

Dazai continues, unlocking his phone one-handed. Chuuya is too busy trying to rein in the spiking anticipation to pay attention to whatever his password is.

When the lock screen fades, the app connected to the toy still inside him is the first thing that comes up. It's cutely

colored in pinks and purples, with a few scattered flowers in the background.

Good marketing strategy, making your /torture device/ look cute.

/"Touching in the darkness, let the people watch us,"/ Dazai hums, clicking on a button on the top left. Each tap makes the toy buzz

inside him in a different way.

There's /one/ particular setting that makes Chuuya's knees nearly buckle.Two sharp, strong vibrations that are broken up by a tiny pause, then followed by a low buzz. A repeating pattern that is /just/ unpredictable enough that it feels impossible

to get used to.

"That one?" Dazai chuckles, scraping his teeth over the curve of his neck.

Chuuya gulps, feeling like he just exposed his weakness for him to sink his teeth into.

In what seems to be slow motion, Dazai moves his thumb to the middle of the screen and presses on

it. With him draped over his back, pressed together and breathing hot over his throat, Dazai moves his finger /up/.

The vibrations increase rapidly, relentlessly good, making Chuuya shudder. He grips Dazai's forearm, fighting for composure as the pleasure builds and builds. He's

helpless to resist, too strung out to /fight/, hanging limp in his grip as he pants and struggles to hang on.

Lips moving farther up, Dazai grips his throat and encourages his chin to tilt back further. His breath, hot and exciting, blows in his ear. "Moan for me."

Fuck.

“I—,” Chuuya starts, biting his lip harshly as Dazai rolls his hips forward sensually. The club is dark, and the music is loud, but there’s people literally only a few feet away.

They could hear him. They can probably already see that he’s turned on, even if the dark color of

his skirt adds /some/ protection.

Embarrassment and shame fills him, made even worse by the fact that a /large/ part of him likes being so exposed. Likes the thrill of it, the rush of danger and filth, the potential of being /caught/.

He’s torn between conflicting desires,

struggling on the knifes edge—

And Dazai tips the scales for him.

The hand on his throat encourages his head to tilt back further, until it meets his shoulder. “Don’t think about them,” he murmurs into his ear, finger spiking the toy controls, “just think about me. Only me.”

Chuuya’s lips part, eyes going half-lidded. They’re not so much dancing as grinding against eachother now. Dazai’s thigh has found it’s way between his legs, pressing forward in rhythmic waves that make the toy press harder against him, /deeper/.

“How good I make you feel,”

he whispers, finding the hinge of Chuuya’s jaw and sinking his teeth in. He’s hard against his back, growing harder with each roll of their hips together. His voice is all Chuuya can hear, dripping like sin and caramel over every one of his senses, slowly burning away the last

shreds of his self-restraint.

The lights throb above him, making his world spin.

“How good it will feel when you finally get to fall apart.” Dazai’s hand tightens on his throat. Not enough to choke him, or even cut off his air, but as a /reminder/ of what they did yesterday.

Chuuya takes a shuddering breath, his exhale escaping him on a low moan, just loud enough for Dazai to hear.

There’s a victorious smile against his jaw. “How good it will feel when I make you come for me, over and over again until you /can’t/ anymore.”

Dazai grinds forward at

the same time his thigh lifts upwards, making his skirt slide another inch higher and tightening around his erection—

The toy vibrates twice, criminally strong, followed by a low, constant buzz.

Chuuya can’t help the high-pitched keen, clawing at Dazai’s forearm as his body

jerks under the sensations.

It’s too /much/, too good, heightened by the people around them and the feeling of Dazai’s bulge pressed up against him, it’s not /stopping/, he’s going to—

Squeezing his eyes shut, Chuuya manages to get out a choked, “I’m gonna—“ in warning—

Everything /stops/. The vibrations, the grinding, the thigh between his legs, /everything/.

The sudden stop feels like being dunked in cold water in the worst way, being built up to the edge and throbbing with anticipation just for it all to fade away as /soon/ as it starts

to feel great and--

God, the deprivation actually /hurts/ this time, and he can't stop the tears from springing up in his eyes as he digs his nails into Dazai's arm to keep himself from doing something dramatic, like throwing himself to the floor to have a temper tantrum.

Of

course, Dazai is still being sweet to him even as he's /torturing/ him, murmuring quiet compliments and soothing words against his jawline, fingertips stroking gently along his skin.

The contrast is so hard to come to terms with, because /how/ can someone who is literally edging

him to an inch of his life also be so /nice/ to him, it just doesn't make /sense/.

When Chuuya gets his breath back,he swallows hard. He's sure that the other people around them are staring, but he doesn't care anymore. "I wanna go back to the hotel."

Another kiss on his cheek.

"Just a little longer--."

Chuuya cuts him off, voice thick with frustration and tears. "No, I wanna go back /now/."

(Normally, Dazai might deny his request on principle alone. He likes his subs to have /manners/ and he's pretty consistent on teaching brats to behave by

/ignoring/ them when they're being rude but--

Chuuya /isn't/ his sub. Yes,they might be edging into the kinkier aspects of play, but there has /yet/ to be a conversation on it. He doesn't have the right to tell him /no/ yet.

Besides, this is the /first/ time Chuuya has actually

called a limit. He didn't call it /correctly/, but this is the first time he's put his foot down and said /no/, he can't handle it.

And if Dazai ignored that, or worse /punished/ him for it, not only would he be a bad dominant, but he'd /also/ be a bad person.)

"Okay," Dazai

tells him, turning the toy to it's lowest, most easily-ignored setting. Chuuya is grateful because after /hours/ of stimulation, a complete lack of it now might just make him /break/. "I got you, baby. We're going back."

Dazai keeps his phone in clear view as he pulls up the

Uber app and requests a ride, showing him the ten minutes wait time estimation.

Chuuya nods, shivering. Now that the end is in sight, he's starting to feel a /bit/ better, but he still feels raw and oversensitive in a way that isn't strictly pleasant.

Dazai coaxes him off the

dancefloor to wait at their table, pulling him into his lap. Chuuya huddles up, fighting the urge to just grind against him until he orgasms. He's so /close/ and he did so good, he just needs to wait a tiny bit longer so they can have some privacy.

The drive back passes by in a

haze. If the driver talks to him, he doesn't hear it,too busy clinging onto Dazai like he might escape if he lets go.

He doesn't even walk into the hotel himself. Dazai guides him into wrapping his legs around his waist and carries him up, something that Chuuya didn't /need/ him

to do, but he appreciates it anyway because his legs are so wobbly.

It's only when the door shuts behind them, Dazai supporting him with one hand as he locks it, that Chuuya comes back to life.

Humming, he presses his cheek against Dazai's neck, mouthing at the material of

his shirt. He feels a little mindless, pure instinct wrapped in need and frustration and desperation,melting in Dazai's hands like candle wax. "Are you gonna...?"

He trails off there, because he finds an old scar on his skin, and he decides to taste it with his tongue and teeth,

sucking on it until he can feel Dazai's breath hitch against him.

He wants to find every scar on his body and lavish it with attention.

"Yes, chibi," Dazai says quietly, heading to the bedroom, "I'm gonna take care of you."

Maybe it's the drinks he had, or the way he's been

pushed to the edge so many times today, but his head is already starting to feel a little fuzzy. He can still think, and he's still lucid, he's just--

Knocked off his axis a little bit, spinning lopsidedly, the sensations of his body overtaking his thoughts.

His back hits the

mattress lightly, and he stretches with a soft sigh. Anticipation is thrumming through him again, because he /did/ it, he was good all day and now he's going to get his reward.

Dazai stands at the edge of the bed, with his legs still hooked around his hips, staring down at him

with a dark, heady look in his eye as he slowly rolls both of his sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms are bare again, and Chuuya /thinks/ he sees smudges of red and black patterns, but he's too busy thinking about the way the muscles flex and roll with every movement.

His own

fingers fumble at the ties of his skirt, clumsily trying to undo the knots. He doesn't want to ruin this skirt too, because he /likes/ this one. Plus, as the ties begin to come undone, the pressure against his erection is eased, letting him take a breath in relief.

Eventually,

Dazai gets impatient with his fumbling and knocks his hands out of the way so he can tug his skirt off himself.

The fresh air against his upper thighs is both cooling and incinerating, because now he's mostly naked underneath Dazai, vibrating with tension and anticipation. His

cock is hard, lying against his belly, practically throbbing underneath Dazai's dark gaze.

Reaching behind him, Dazai pulls his phone out of his pocket. The time it takes for him to unlock it is filled with suspense, Chuuya's thighs rubbing together unconciously.

With a devlish

smirk, Dazai brings the toy back to buzzing life.

Ecstasy bursts through Chuuya like fireworks, searing hot and so good it nearly hurts, driving back to the brink so quickly he feels dizzy with it.

Keening, he thrashes, instinctively trying to escape the white-hot pleasure, but

Dazai catches one his legs by the ankle and keeps him in place.

"Ah! Fuck, fuck, it's-- I'm-- /shit/," Chuuya groans, body bucking as the tension builds and builds and builds, flinging him into a sea of rapture without any way to return. He's almost /there/, and he's reaching

for it frantically, aching for the orgasm. The tension wraps around him, squeezing so tight he can barely breathe around the desire for /more/--

Sticking out his tongue slowly, Dazai licks the tip of his finger to get it wet. Then he reaches down, smearing saliva over the top of

his cock, pressing into the sensitive tip just slightly--

And that's all he needs.

With a shuddering, keening cry, the orgasm takes him. It's earth-shattering, life-changing, so hot and heavy and /good/ that all he can do is try to /survive/ as it rocks him all the way to his

/soul/.

It doesn't feel /good/, it feels like /life/, like heaven, like everything good and pleasurable is centered in his nerve endings and /drowning/ him in pleasure.

(Because Dazai knows what to look for and he knows to expect it now--

He sees the exact moment Chuuya drops

into his headspace.

The way his eyes widen and go unfocused,a haze creeping across them. His body tenses for a moment before going completely limp, sluggish and uncoordinated. Each one of his breaths is tinged with a moan, and if Dazai so much as runs his nails over his skin, he

shivers and arches into his touch, eager.

The toy is still buzzing inside him, ruthlessly driving him through his orgasm and /past/ it, making his legs twitch and tremble in response. He doesn't fight it though, keening softly from the overstimulation even as he relaxes into it.

Good. He'll need to be /very/ relaxed if Dazai is going to get him as many orgasms as he promised.

"There you are," he muses, brushing fingertips up his sensitive thigh. His belly is messy with cum, and he'll make use of that later, but for now he just appreciates the way his

muscles twitch and tremble underneath his touch. "Feels good?"

It takes him a moment to process, but Chuuya nods, arching up into him.

Personally, Dazai doesn't often enter anything close to dom space. Some of his friends at the club experience it more often than not when they

scene, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter, he's still in control of himself and the scene, he just doesn't usually experience the 'extra' that can sometimes come with it.

He probably shouldn't be surprised that they're compatible enough that Chuuya manages to pull it out of him.

The room fades away as his focus sharpens, zeroing in on the man spread out below him. The needs of his own body— the burning, relentless lust that had been slowly growing inside him all day— takes a backseat to the needs of Chuuya.

For Dazai, the only thing that exists right

now in this moment—

Is the little redhead shivering and squirming beneath him, staring up at him with beautifully dazed eyes, too gone to beg for more.

That’s okay. Dazai doesn’t need him to beg. He already knows.)

The vibrations don’t /stop/. Not for a single second. They

don’t climb either though, sticking to a constant, relentless buzz that drives him /insane/.

The pleasure is on the edge of things. Like sticking your hand under very hot water, and at first it feels /cold/, but then the heat registers and it /burns/—

It’s like that, except

the sensations straddle the line between pleasure and pain. So good it almost hurts, but also hurts in a way that feels /good/, and you would think that eventually it would fall one way or the other—

But it /doesn’t/, it just stays there as Chuuya melts into the bed, until he

feels like nothing except overwhelming pleasure-pain, his body so far away.

A hand grips his hip, the sensation shockingly firm compared to everything else. Chuuya relaxes into it, letting his hips be tilted up into a better angle.

A different hand swipes over the fun on his

stomach, collecting the mess on a few fingers. Every brush of skin against Chuuya’s cock— half-soft and fighting to rise again— makes sharp sensation rocket down his spine.

The fingers leave, only to come back a moment later, pressed against his lips.

“Baby,” Dazai tells him,

and if Chuuya didn’t /know/ it was him, he might not even recognize him with how controlling his tone has become, like he could command the very air itself, “you’re so /messy/. Clean it up.”

The words feel thick and heavy in his ears, a puzzle he /should/ know the meaning to

but he can’t figure it out. However, the fingers pressing against his lips are /easy/ to read, leading him to open his mouth.

The taste is bitter on his tongue, but Dazai’s fingers are so /satisfying/ to suck on. Thick and warm and /long/, pressing against the back of his

tongue, filling his mouth to the brim and taking away every last, empty space inside him.

He makes a content humming noise around his fingers, rubbing his tongue against the knuckles. He likes this, let’s him focus on /this/ while his body falls to pieces.

As if on cue,

Dazai's /other/ hand swipes through the wet remains on his stomach, smearing it all over his palm. Then his hand is closing around his cock in a tight grip, scorching hot with Chuuya's own cum, and /merciless/ as he begins to stroke him slowly but steadily.

It's too much, too

/much/, too good, yes, yes, right there, a little /more/--

If his first orgasm felt like /burning/, the second one feels like melting. His limbs are hazy, indistinct feelings, while he gasps and moans incoherently around the fingers still in his mouth.

He shudders through it,

the pleasure too big for his skin, feeling almost /crushed/ by it and forced to just ride it out as it hits him in electric-static waves. It lasts /forever/ or seems like it does, wave after wave after wave until he can barely get a breath in.

The end isn't marked by a slow come

down or a settling into an afterglow. No, it suddenly /swings/ into painful overstimulation, electrifying his nerve ending mercilessly.

One moment he's shivering and moaning, and the next he's frantically trying to squirm away, his cry muffled by Dazai's fingers. His legs

instinctively try to close, but they're blocked by a body coming to rest between them.

"Ah, ah," Dazai tsks,and though his /voice/ sounds disapproving, he's letting go of his cock and reaching down to turn the vibrations on the toy. "Don't try to escape me, baby."

Chuuya shakes

his head, because that's not what he was trying to /do/, it was just too /much/.

Dazai pushes him further onto the bed, following him up, kneeling between his legs. He leans over him, and hooks his fingers behind his bottom teeth to turn his head to the side. His breath is

searing hot in his ear,the tinge of a groan there /intoxicating/. "Because you're mine, now," he murmurs, scraping his teeth over the sensitive lob until Chuuya is shivering, "and you're not going anywhere, are you?"

Chuuya sucks on his fingers in response, making the tremendous

effort to wrap his legs tighter around his hips and pull him /in/.

The action makes the toy shift inside him, but it’s /good/, the subtle grind against his prostate sparking pleasure across his nerves, but not overwhelming.

“So good for me,” Dazai sighs, nuzzling into his

cheek. The hand not currently in Chuuya’s mouth makes its way between their bodies, pausing to shove his shirt up so he can pinch at his nipples until Chuuya’s squirming again, before finally finding his way to the buckle of his belt.

The clink of it coming undone makes heat

unfurl inside him, seemingly impossible because of how drained and carved out—in a good way— he already feels.

When the zipper slides down and his pants get pushed down just far enough, Dazai’s cock slips free, hot and hard and pulsing against his own.

Every little touch

against his own cock makes sharp slivers of pleasure-pain knife through him, collecting into a ball of warmth in his stomach.

Dazai leans back a little, keeping his fingers in his mouth to keep him occupied as his other hand finds the crook of his knee and lifts it over his

shoulder. His torso is long enough that it ends up being Chuuya’s calf resting on his shoulder as he guides the other leg into the same position.

Then he’s free to thrust into the tight space made by his thighs, impossibly slick with lube that Chuuya never noticed him get.

It’s /good/, almost too much because each thrust of his hips grinds the toy inside him deeper, and every slide of his burning hot erection against his own feels like molten lava and all Chuuya can do is—

Lie there and /take it/, like a good boy, hands clenched in the sheets.

Something about that— about being /used/ for someone else’s pleasure, after he’s gotten his own— makes the same thing happen as the other day. He floats away, kind of, becoming full of fuzz and light and warmth and giddiness.

Dazai wraps his forearm over the top of his thighs,

gripping his opposite leg to hold him firmly in place as he speeds up.

He’s saying something again and Chuuya /would/ try harder to comprehend it through the thick layer of cotton in his ears, but it’s in the same rough, broken, complimenting tone as before, so he figures it’s

probably just the same sort of words.

He doesn’t know how long Dazai keeps up like that. He /thinks/ he came again with a weak cry, but at this point, his entire body feels suffused with so much pleasure that it’s hard to tell orgasm from build-up from comedown.

There /is/ a

point where Dazai gets brusingly rough with him,sinking his teeth into his calf and keeping him pinned with a snarl. Chuuya’s breaths get knocked out of him with each slam of his hips and—

In the hazy contentment, Chuuya finds himself aching for a /little/ more. To be /actually/

fucked instead of his thighs but he can’t /articulate/ that right now, can’t only moan softly and shiver for more and hope that Dazai gets the message—

But when he stills with a long, drawn-out groan of his name, and néw warmth spills around his lower stomach, he can’t find it

in himself to be disappointed or upset.

Dazai leans over him, panting, pressing sloppy kisses over his face with fond affection. He lowers his legs back down slowly, massaging the parts of his thighs that Chuuya can already tell are going to bruise.

The toy is coaxed out of

him gently, and Chuuya shudders when it slides out of him completely. He feels /empty/ now, almost, but the suffusing feeling of warmth still draped over him makes it better.

Dazai makes a humming noise, pressing their cheeks together. Uncoordinated, Chuuya wraps his arms around

his neck and clings onto him with all the strength he has left.

Time passes, soupy and indistinct. Every moment feels like it lasts forever, heartbeat slow in his chest, but also pass by too quick. The hazy feeling fades but with the way Dazai is laying over top on him and

half-crushing him underneath his weight, it doesn’t leave entirely.

At least, until Dazai starts to stir. “Baby,” he mumbles in his ear, quiet but sweet, “you have to come back now.”

Chuuya doesn’t know where he ‘went’ to in the first place, but he tucks his nose into his neck

and grumbles in protest.

He can hear the smile in Dazai’s voice as he says, “Aww, poor thing. I’m so mean to you, aren’t I? How terrible I must be to want to get you clean and warm.”

Humming, he cuddles a little closer. “Mhm,” he agrees, voice hoarse, “terrible.”

Dazai’s

laugh is quiet and sweet, blending seamlessly into the atmosphere. The sound makes a bubble of happiness swell up in Chuuya’s chest, popping pleasantly and showering him with warmth.

“Come on,” he urges again, pulling away and resisting Chuuya’s attempts to pull him back in,

“You need to eat something, and drink something besides alcohol. We’re not going straight to bed this time, sleepy brat.”

Chuuya pouts. Pouts harder when he sees Dazai looking at him, like if he just looks pitiful enough he’ll let them cuddle to sleep.

It doesn’t work.

Sighing, Chuuya gives in. Now that he’s talking and moving more, the fuzz is fading away. He still feels warm and pleasantly limp, but not in an overwhelming way. He can think again, even if he’d rather just return to mindlessness.

Maybe if he’s good, Dazai will help him get

there again. He looks up at him with his softest puppy eyes, silently pleading. “Carry me?”

Dazai doesn’t even hesitate, swooping down to catch him in his arms with one smooth motion. He hauls him up, knees hooked around his hips and arms dangling over his shoulders.

Because

of how close they are, Chuuya’s chin propped up on his shoulder with his cheek pressed to his jaw, he hears his next words as a rumble.

“I’ve got you, Chuuya.”

—————— +

For all the times Osamu claims to be a changed man, he really is the same depressed boy she’s known since they were kids. Not even his /style/ has changed.

Really. Almost /all/ of his furniture is black. A bad choice, considering his... /mutts/ and if he /ever/ let any sun in

here (what is he, a vampire? What’s with the blackout curtains?) then everything would be bleached!

Sighing, Sasaki pulls her phone out and dials one of the first options on the contact list. It is technically early— a little after 6am, she’s a sucker for early morning flights

because she likes to see the sun rise in the clouds— but she also knows Osamu has nothing close to a sleeping schedule, so the typical etiquette doesn’t really matter.

Surprisingly though, it rings twice before being sent to voicemail.

Shocked, she pulls her phone away to

stare at the screen in disbelief.

Did he just /decline/ her call? What if she was having an emergency? What if Shuuji was /hurt/?

Granted, he doesn’t know—yet— that she came back with their son to Yokohama, but /still/.

She presses the call button again, tapping her foot on

the tiles impatiently. It rings twice, and she /almost/ thinks that it’s about to go to voicemail again when—

The line clicks and Osamu’s voice comes through, deliciously warm and raspy with sleep. “It is 6am, Sasaki, why are you calling?”

He sounds like he’s trying to be

/quiet/, on the verge of whispering.

(He’s trying not to wake up Chuuya, who’s buried face-first in his chest and snoring peacefully.)

“Good morning to you too,” Sasaki sniffs, a little irritated by how abrupt he sounds. But when he sounds like /that/, she can’t stay mad for

long. “I’m calling you to tell you that Shuuji and I made it back to Yokohama safely. If you cared, that is.”

“Great,” Osamu grumbles, “I’m glad you two didn’t die in a freak accident. Is that all?”

Far from it actually. She wishes she didn’t have to do this over the phone,

but it /cannot/ wait until he returns from whatever city he’d flounced off to. “No. You also have a few...pests at your house that we need to talk about.”

“Pests?” Osamu repeats, and he sounds more awake. The delightful rough edge to his voice is still there though, and she

wishes she could hear it in /person/, grating in her ear. “Do... you mean my /dogs/?”

Then, “are you /at my house?/“

(He’s still getting used to this whole sleeping deeply for hours thing, and his mind is struggling to catch up. He was having a /fantastic/ dream of him and

Chuuya on the beach somewhere. He was feeding him mangoes.)

“Yes, I’m at your house. I decided to move to Yokohama like you suggested—“ (he did /not/ suggest that actually) “— and I was dropping Shuuji off. I was also hoping you would let me stay for a few days while my new

house is getting ready.”

The contractor said it’d actually be a few /weeks/, but Osamu doesn’t need to know that right now.

“No. Get a hotel.”

She wrinkles her nose. Those rooms are always so ugly and /nasty/. She saw that one TV show, the one that went around to all the

hotels and revealed just how stained, and infested and /disgusting/ they were. She’s been traumatized ever since, really. “I checked all the hotels in the area,” she pouts, “they’re packed full.”

They’re not, but all the luxury rooms are taken, and she’d rather die than sleep

on mid-level sheets that are prolly so stained with fluids they can never come clean.

Osamu snorts softly, and /damn/, if that tiny little sound, so /different/ from how cold he’s been with her lately, makes her heart beat harder in her chest. “I’m sure I can arrange something.

Give me a few hours.”

/God/, the way he throws around his power and money like that, like rules don’t apply to him, is /sexy/, when when it’s being used against her.

“We can talk about,” she sighs, deciding not to push it. The trick with Osamu is to know when to stand your

ground, and when to shelve your argument to bring it up later, when he’s in a different mood. “But the /real/ problem is your... dogs. They’re so /aggressive/. I can’t believe you would let these wild /beasts/ near our son. What if they hurt him? What if they hurt /me/?”

(Dazai

doesn’t like the way she says /our son/. Like there’s /commitment/ there, like he promised her something, like there’s an emotional connection that he’s ignoring.)

“Really, I would feel much safer if you got rid of them. There’s a /wonderful/ shelter a few streets down.”

(The absurdity of that statement gives Dazai a pause, and he actually stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, wondering if he’s having some strange lucid dream.)

“Are you seriously suggesting I give my dogs up for adoption for doing their jobs?” Osamu asks, and he really

shouldnt sound as disbelieving as he does. He’s been the one raising these feral /beasts/, he should’ve known she wouldn’t stand for this. They nearly bit of Shuuji’s fingers when he was pushing them in their kennels!

Aggressive animals should be put down. Keeps the bloodline

pure.

“Are their jobs to hurt your /family/, Osamu?” She asks, appalled.

As if understanding her, the sandy-haired dog bares its teeth with a rumbling snarl. Daring her to open the cage again.

“When you’re in my house uninvited and I’m not there to tell them otherwise? Yes.”

She /does/ note that he doesn’t object to her calling him family. It’s progress to repairing their relationship, even if small. Baby steps, as it were. “Well,” she sighs, “I’m just worried. I mean, what if they get loose and go on a rampage? Yuki looks like she wants to eat me.”

“/Yoko/,” Osamu stresses, like she’s supposed to care about the name of a mean, flea-bitten mutt, “is incredibly well trained. Both of them are. They aren’t ‘going on a rampage’. They’re protecting my house, like they’re /supposed/ to.”

She makes a face at the bitch in question.

Yuki snaps at the cage.

(Dazai /has/ noticed that Yoko has gotten a lot more protective, ever since that... /incident/ happened while he was gone. She’s always been defensive, but now it’s almost on another level. Like instead of being given a target to defend, she’s /chosen/

a target for herself, and will now defend it with her life.

He can’t lie, the fact that Yoko loves Chuuya so unconditionally and is often his first protector makes him feel warm and fuzzy.)

“I just want you to be careful, because if i were anyone else, animal control would’ve

been called, and then who knows what would’ve happened? They’d probably be put down, since they’re so aggressive.”

“Let me be clear,” Osamu says, voice dropping into something hard and cutting, “those dogs won’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it— and if you so much as /touch/

them, I will show you the meaning of anger.”

Fine. Like she said, the trick is to know when you let your battles drop. They can talk about this again later.

She smiles pleasantly at Yuki. There’s only room for one woman in Osamu’s bed and that’s /her/. She’ll get her way.

“Fine, we can talk about it later.” (They will absolutely not be talking about it later,if Dazai has anything to say about it.) “But there’s another thing.”

“What /now/?”

“There’s a cat outside. Ugly thing, covered in dirt and grease. I tried to get it to go away but it won’t.”

(It’s the same stray cat Chuuya had seen on the car ride to their first date. As soon as the weather had started to cool off a little bit, the little gremlin had threatened to stop kissing Dazai and wouldn’t stop sending him sad faces until he agreed to start putting out food for

it.

Dazai isn’t a cat person, really. They’re too moody for him, and he prefers animals that can be trained.

But there is a lot to be said for how endearing it is to watch the distrustful look in those green eyes slowly start to fade away, and know that you’re earning the

love and trust of an animal that clearly doesn’t see a lot in humans.

Sure, the poor thing /is/ covered in dirt and grease. But he also has /vivid/ green eyes, and he likes the spot under his chin scratched, and Chuuya always gets so happy when Dazai sends him news or pictures.)

“I’ve been feeding him. Leave him alone, he won’t do anything,” Osamu sighs. He sounds so exasperated.

Sasaki wrinkles her nose again. Why is he defending some flea-bitten, half-starved cat? He’s going to get grease all over their stairs outside, and then she’ll have to clean it

up. And who knows what she’ll do if the thing brings /pests/ into their home. Don’t cats carry influenza or something?

“Well, he already hissed at me, first off. Secondly, this neighborhood is much too nice for something like him. He ruins the whole image. He needs to go.”

“He’s a stray cat Sasaki, I don’t think he cares about ‘image’. I feed him, so he sticks around.”

She opens her mouth—

“And I’m going to /keep/ feeding him, so don’t even try to tell me to stop. Just look at him, you know he needs some love and affection. Maybe he’ll let you

pet him, if you offer him some treats. There’s some in the storage room, since you’re already there.”

He sounds more resigned than anything, but at least he’s not getting angry or yelling at her to leave. She can work with resigned, she can work with tired.

“Okay, darling,”

she sighs, standing up to leave the room. The dogs in the kennel growl at her, but she ignores them. “When are you coming home?”

(The way she says that, like she’s really asking when he’s coming back to /her/, makes Dazai feel uncomfortable. But they’ve been on the phone for

ten minutes now, and although he’s tried to keep quiet, Chuuya is starting to stir on his chest. He doesn’t seem awake yet, but Dazai /really/ doesn’t want to bring up his ex he had a kid with when he was too young on their last full day of vacation.

Besides, he doesn’t want to

keep talking about his animals at six in the morning. He just wants to go back to bed.)

“I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

Good,that gives her enough time to make some plans about what to say. And gives her enough time for Shuuji to show her around the city. “We’ll talk then?”

“Yeah,” Osamu sighs, “we’ll talk then, I guess. I’m hanging up now.”

He does so without another word, and /usually/ the dial tone would have her upset, but today...

Today, it feels like victory, so she lets it settle as she leaves the kennel room.

She makes sure to lock the

door behind her, because you can really never be too safe, especially with rabid mutts in your home.

She’ll have Shuuji bring them water sometime later, if she remembers to tell him.

(Dazai, for his part, immediately shoves his phone underneath the pillow and wraps his arm

around his cuddly little chibi to adjust him into a more comfortable position.

He falls back asleep in only a few minutes, a record.

Chuuya, on the other hand, likes awake on his chest for hours, feeling vaguely sick at the idea of Dazai going home to someone else.)

—————— +

The restaurant is nice. Classy, atmospheric, with actual live music played by a trio of stringed musicians near the middle of the lobby. There’s candles everywhere, hanging chandeliers in orange and white, shivering daintily in the air.

This is probably one of the first times

that Chuuya feels like he /belongs/. His outfit is expensive, revealing but in a /classy/ way, matching the other people in the restaurant. His makeup is flawless,and he’s sipping red wine like a diva. He /fits/ finally, like a rock being polished until it’s finally pretty enough

to be shown alongside the other gems in the collection.

For his part, Dazai is wearing most of a suit, minus the jacket. He looks perfectly done up, straight off a fashion magazine, a wet dream come to life.

Chuuya wishes he could enjoy it. Any of it.

But whenever he /tries/

he remembers the end of the phone call Dazai had this morning—

/ I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. Yeah, we’ll talk then, I guess. /

Granted, he didn’t hear the conversation before, but it’s pretty clear Dazai was trying to hide it from him. As soon as Chuuya started to

wake up, he cut off the call.

He’s not saying he’s entitled to hear all of Dazai’s conversations, so he can’t /complain/, it’s just—

He thought he was /more/ than just a dirty little secret. Maybe he shouldn’t have, because they still haven’t had a real conversation about

their relationship but—

You know, he really thought this was an actual, /real/ vacation and not some runaway trip to hide from the person Dazai’s going home too.

Chuuya’s assuming it’s Shuuji’s mother, based on context and the feminine voice he vaguely heard, but again, he’s

not sure.

He’s not sure about anything anymore.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me, or should I start guessing?”

Chuuya starts a little, looking away from the patch of wall he was zoning out on, and glancing at Dazai.

He looks grim, almost, or maybe just tired,

and Chuuya hates that he’s adding to it in any way.

“What?”

Dazai sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, that sounded accusatory. What I meant was— you seem upset. You’ve barely talked to me all day, you’ve been zoning out, and you’ve hardly touched your food /or/

your wine. If there’s something bothering you, I’d like to know so that I can either help with whatever it is.”

That’s fair. It also makes Chuuya feel even /worse/ because he tried to be subtle about the way he was feeling, but he can’t even do that right.

He runs his finger

along the edge of his wineglass, circling it over and over, the same way he feels twisted up and knotted together on the inside. “I had a good time on vacation,” he starts, unsure of what exactly to say.

What does he start with? How does he take these feelings and untangle them

in a way that they can be understood by him or someone else?

“I did too,” Dazai says, though his reassuring smile falls flat. “It’s not over yet though. We still have all morning tomorrow.”

“It is over though, isn’t it? You’re going back home to Shuuji’s mother, and I’m

going back to college,” Chuuya mutters, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failing.

When he sees Dazai’s confused look, he elaborates, “I heard your phone call this morning.”

“Ah,” Dazai says, confusion clearing up and turning into something like bemusement

and regret, “How much of it, exactly, did you hear?”

Chuuya shrugs. “The last minute or so. Does it matter? I heard you say you were going home to her. Which is fine, by the way, I just—“

Dazai interrupts him. “It does matter. Do you know what we were arguing about before I

said that?”

Arguing about?

“She hated that cat of yours. The stray, the one you coerced me into feeding? Said he was ugly and needed to leave. Do you know what I said?”

They were arguing about the cat? She really said he was ugly? Why would that be an argument?

“I told her

to leave my cat alone. Not because he’s mine and I’m attached— because he’s /yours/. You wanted me to take of him, and I said I would.”

Oh. That’s so /sweet/, and Chuuya simultaneously feels /so/ relieved and also /stupid/ because—

He really heard a few sentences and just ran

with it, didn’t he? He didn’t even /ask/, he just /assumed/ that—

Assumed a lot of things, really.

“And before that, she wanted me to give the dogs up for adoption. And before /that/, she showed up at my house without my knowledge, and the first time I heard about it was with

a phone call at six in the morning. I was tired and you were asleep, and I didn’t want to talk about putting my animals to sleep anymore, so yes, I told her that I would be home tomorrow and we could talk then.”

On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t in a

relationship, because Chuuya just keeps fucking it up, doesn’t he? He always believes the things he /hears/ instead of believing Dazai, and he just makes it worse.

They could’ve had this whole day to be happy, but Chuuya ruined it by jumping to conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” he

mutters, looking away and burning with shame and embarrassment, “I just—“

“Don’t be sorry,” Dazai cuts him off again, and /why/ does he sound so sympathetic when it was Chuuya who messed up, once again, “I could’ve mentioned it earlier, but I didn’t. But baby, you have to /tell/

me these things. You have to talk to me if something upsets you.”

The idea of that is somewhat of a new concept to Chuuya. If he ever told his family about something that upset him, it usually ended up in over reactions or him getting a lecture because of something he did that

he shouldn’t have done.

In his family, it was just easier to solve his problems alone. Sharing them with someone to split the burden is harder than it seems, after years of handling it alone.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling so little and stupid and small. Like he’s

a kid again, in the worst way. “I just didn’t know how to say anything and I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me or anything.”

“Obligated?” Dazai repeats, sounding almost offended. His hand has tightened on his own wine glass, like he’s fighting the urge to be upset.

When Chuuya doesn’t continue, tongue-tied with the fear that he’s going to make things /worse/ again by saying the wrong thing, Dazai heaves a small sigh and stands up.

Wait, is he leaving? Not like this, please just—

He comes around the table, crouching down besides his

chair. Reaching out with one hand, he circles his wrist with his fingers and tugs his hand.

“Look at me, Chuuya.”

He does, for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, feeling too much embarrassment to look for long. When his gaze flits away, Dazai gives a small snort.

“If

you don’t look at me, I’m going to pretend I’m proposing and make a /scene/—“

That gets Chuuya’s attention because he does /not/ want everyone’s eyes on him right now. He feels raw and vulnerable enough even with just Dazai looking at him, he doesn’t need the /whole/ restaurant

to be fawning over him too.

His eyes snap down, meeting Dazai’s warm, bottomless gaze, and stay there.

“There you are,” Dazai murmurs, “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay?”

Chuuya nods, nervous.

“Baby, I /adore/ you.”

Chuuya’s eyes go wide. He /felt/ that way when he was with Dazai but—

/Hearing/ it, in such plain words that even the ugly little voices in the back of his head can’t tear it apart or distort the meaning—

It feels /so/ good.

Smiling softly at him, that lopsided dimple

coming back into play, Dazai continues, “And I know these things can seem scary and hard, but I promise you it’s not because I’m here with you. I’ve /got/ you, chibi, so just trust that and work with me.”

He raises the hand still in his grasp, flipping it over so he can press a

kiss to the center of his palm. Chuuya’s fingers curl naturally around his cheek, cupping his face.

It makes his heart clench in his chest when Dazai leans into it, nuzzling his cheek into his hand.

“I have a past with Sasaki, and it’s never going to go away. She’s never

going to go away, and I think you can understand that.”

He /does/, in a way, even if it fills him with a seething jealousy that someone /else/ knew Dazai so intimately and gave him something he could /never/ give him. Even if his relationship with Shuuji is complicated, that’s

still his son.

That’s still /part/ of him.

“But she’s my past, baby, and you? You could be my future, if you wanted. You could be my person, and you wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else, because I’d be yours too.”

Feeling dumbstruck, embarrassingly close to tears—good

ones this time— Chuuya uses the hand on his cheek to pull him up.

Dazai is big enough and tall enough that Chuuya wouldn’t be able to move him if he didn’t want to be moved. But he /always/ gives so easily underneath his fingertips, and there’s never been a time Chuuya has felt

overpowered or threatened by the size of him.

This kiss is initiated by Chuuya, no need to ask for consent, because it’s freely given by his hand on his cheek and the small smile on Dazai’s face.

It’s soft, slow, explorative. They’ve kissed dozens of times before, maybe even

hundreds, but now there’s a new /layer/ to it, a new level to it. Because now they’re starting to understand each other, coming together a bit more and fitting their rough edges together more securely.

“So is that a yes? To be mine?” Dazai eventually mumbles against his lips,

not pulling away even though he’s in an awkward, half-crouched position that must be starting to hurt.

And Chuuya—

This is his first time being asked, so he wants to /hear/ if, breathless with excitement. “Your what?”

“Boyfriend. Or partner, if you like that better,” Dazai

says, easily, like he’s not rocking Chuuya’s world. “Or I guess we could probably go for straight up sugar baby at this point—.”

Chuuya cuts him off with another kiss, because /god/,he can be so ridiculous sometimes and he doesn’t want the reverent moment to fade into silliness.

“Yes,” he mutters, follows it up with another kiss. “Yes,” chased by another kiss. A thousand tiny little yes’s, for this life and every other one, murmured into the quiet space between their lips, sealed with a thousand more kisses.

By the time they start to separate, they

/have/ made somewhat of a scene. The other guests in the restaurant are staring, whispering among themselves. Some of them look genuinely nice, unsure if they should be more loudly happy about whatever happened between them.

Others look cross, frowning because of the age

difference or maybe because they’re both men, or maybe just because they’ve interrupted the flow of dinner.

It doesn’t matter. He has Dazai, warm and solid and /good/ in his arms, staring up at him with eyes that practically glow, warm pools of honey that reflect light back at

him.

(He doesn’t know this yet, but Dazai has /rarely/ put himself or his feelings on the line like this for anyone, and it’s only Chuuya who gets to see him so soft and lovesick.

Chuuya is the only one he ever looks at like this.)

“If I let you go, are you actually going to

eat anything?”

Chuuya /could/ lie and say that he will, but truthfully, he’s so full of /emotion/, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get anything inside him. Doesn’t know how he’s suppose to have air in his lungs or food in his stomach, when his heart feels full to bursting.

Smiling, Chuuya shakes his head. He’s not hungry anymore, hasn’t been for most of the day.

Dazai sighs heavily, but his smile never wavers. “What am I going to do with you?”

He’s heard that question before, in a different context, and his answer is the same, if slightly more

censored because they’re in /public/ and everybody is staring at them too closely for comfort. “Take me back to the room.”

He can tell Dazai gets it by the way his eyes widen and his nostrils flare, expression sliding into that ever-growing /hunger/, the sense of power and

control crackling slightly in the air around him. “Get moving, then.”

It takes Chuuya only a few moments to down the rest of his wine— he might not be hungry, but he’d never let a good wine to waste— and then sneakily swallow most of /Dazai’s/ cup too while Dazai heads to the

front to pay. The man barely drinks wine anyways, Chuuya was just doing him a /favor/.

Once again, Dazai calls them an Uber instead of making them ride the train, which he’s thankful for, because if he had to spend another thirty minutes pressed up against his /boyfriend/ in

public with other people watching, he’s going to go insane.

/Boyfriend/. The title itself makes him feel giddy, and rolling the word around on his tongue until he feels drunk on it, saying it again and again in his head until every syllable feels paired with some part of Dazai,

his eyes, his lips, his shoulders, his /hands/, until the word doesn’t have /meaning/ unless it means Dazai.

The ride feels like forever, but too short at the same time.

And when they /finally/ get to their room, and Chuuya ends up pressed against the wall with his legs

wrapped around his waist and his hands in his hair—

It’s different. Not only because of the emotional attachment has been acknowledged and /reciprocated/ but also because there’s a sense of /permanence/ now.

Before, it was almost frantic, driven by the desperate need to feel

as much as possible, as quickly as possible, because neither of them knew when it would /end/. Didnt know if /that/ time would be the last time, or the one after that, didn’t know when they’d wake up and everything would be over.

But now they know they /are/ going to come back

to eachother, they are going to find eachother again and again—

It makes it easy to take their time.

Chuuya doesn’t know how long they spend in the entrance way, being kissed with long, heavy, drugging kisses that taste like happiness itself. It feels like there’s a seed

inside him, full of life and heat, and each kiss waters it, makes it grow. Roots twining around his ribs and down into his stomach, until he feels irrevocably changed by it, a flowering bloom cultivated and kept by Dazai.

He tugs on his hair, tilting his head a little to get a

better angle. Dazai’s tongue slides over his bottom lip, familiar.

With a pleased sigh, Chuuya opens up for him, inviting him inside. Their tongues tangle together, rub against eachother wetly. The roof of his mouth gets the metal ball of his piercing dragged over it again and

again until he’s gasping lightly at the sensation.

It’s not frantic but it’s /hot/, and Chuuya doesn’t realize how affected he was until Dazai slowly sucks his bottom lip into his mouth to nibble on it indulgently, and something /shifts/.

The other times? /Those/ were forest

fires. Hot and quick and burning everything in their path, wild and uncontrolled.

This? /This/ is tectonic plates, the shifting of the earth itself, miles of molten magma churning and changing the planet in it’s entirety, changing /Chuuya/, foundations melting beneath him.

He gasps when Dazai sinks his teeth in, arching into him. Each touch feels like it’s slowly peeling away at a layer of composure, making him mindless and needy.

“Bed,” he demands breathlessly, tightening his legs and rocking his hips to accentuate his request. When his erection,

not neglected but surprisingly hard, meets Dazai’s stomach, it sends shockwaves against him.

Dazai presses him harder against the wall in response, rolling his /own/ hips upward, the bulge in his pants sliding /teasingly/ over the swell of his ass, so hot Chuuya feels scorched

by it.

He wants it. Wants it so fucking bad, he’ll do anything to get it and /now/ it feels like he finally might /get it/, like Dazai might finally take mercy on him and /fuck him/.

Effortlessly, he lifts him away from the wall and heads to the bedroom, a casual show of

strength that is ridiculously attractive.

He never stops kissing him either, deeper and deeper, breathing hot in his mouth, pure liquid lust being poured down his throat with each slide of his tongue piercing.

Dazai lowers him down, bearing down after him and pressing him into

the mattress with his body. He takes up the entire world, and nothing else exists besides him over him, on top of him, settling between his thighs like he belongs there.

There's a second when he leans away to grab a bottle of lube from the drawer, and the sight of /that/ is so

exciting that Chuuya is grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back down into a hard, rough kiss.

Usually their sex life is led by Dazai, who initiates and orchestrates /most/ of what happens between them. Chuuya is usually too overwhelmed by pleasure and need

that he can only lie there and /take it/ and try to survive. Half the time Dazai barely even gets undressed himself.

But not this time. He's still lucid, still in control of himself, and he /needs/ more skin contact, more heat, more friction, and he's /not/ going to wait until

Dazai decides to do it himself.

He dips one hand underneath the collar of his shirt, raking his nails down his back until Dazai is growling against him in approval, surging forward to kiss him /harder/. His other hand comes between them, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

He's clumsy, and it's hard to do one-handed without looking /and/ having his soul kissed out of his body, but he manages to undo the top three buttons and /finally/ gets his hand on Dazai's chest.

His left shoulder and upper chest are swathed in bandages, adding a spot of rough

friction that Chuuya ignores.

One of Dazai's hands finds his hip, sliding /up/ over his stomach and making him shudder. His hand is so /big/, palm covering nearly the entirely of his stomach, and unlike Chuuya, he's completely confident and smooth as he shoves his shirt up.

"Cuffs," Dazai mutters, pushing his wrist under his hands so Chuuya can undo the buttons at his wrist. The other hand is next, and then Chuuya gets the /glorious/ vision of Dazai rising up on his knees, strong body effortlessly keeping it's balance as he reaches behind his head.

It's a dress shirt. It's not /supposed/ to be removed by yanking it over his head, but /fuck/,the sight of Dazai so impatient that he can't even wait to undo the last few buttons is /so/ hot/.

And because Chuuya is feeling /bold/, instead of removing his own shirt or starting on

his jeans--

He reaches out and runs his hand over his upper thigh and into the middle,rubbing the palm of his hand over his trapped erection.

Dazai stills, dark eyes growing hot and focused as he traces over the outline of it, mouth dry with want.

It's /big/, of course it is,

that's never going to be different--

But it's also /thick/, pulsing lightly in his grip, hot. It twitches when he rubs the heel of his palm over the head, twitches again when Dazai reaches down and wraps his fingers around his wrist to show him how he /likes/ to be touched, a

little firmer than he was doing, and focusing around the base.

Chuuya wants it in his mouth again. Wants the taste of him filling his senses, filling him up until nothing else matters. Just the smell of him, the taste of him, the slide of their skin together.

"Hurry up," Chuuya

demands breathlessly, shaking off Dazai’s hand so he can unzip his slacks and drag the waistband down.

With a gleam in his eye, Dazai lets him take his cock out, and as soon as ur springs free, he’s grabbing Chuuya’s wrists and pinning them one-handed over his head.

He leans

down, and his voice feels like it falls directly on his nerve endings as he rumbles, “No, I think I’ll take my time with you.”

Tugging on his wrists, Chuuya struggles lightly. Dazai’s grip is firm though, unrelenting, and although Chuuya knows he could get him to let go with

a word—

It’s /exciting/ to be pinned like this, held so effortlessly and securely. It makes his blood turn hot in his veins, thick with lust, more potent than any drug that exists.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’ll cry,” he threatens breathlessly.

The threat falls flat because

it just makes Dazai nuzzle into his cheek with a humming noise, casual and smug.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs and Chuuya can already tell he’s about to say something that’s going to set him on /fire/—

“You look so pretty when you cry.”

/Fucking/ hell, that’s not /fair/.

Chuuya hooks his knee higher, driving up with his hips to grind against him. He’s still trapped in his pants, but /Dazai/ isn’t, and the man hisses at the rough friction.

“Please,” he mumbles, clawing at his back, unashamed to be begging so early. Teeth sink into his neck,

making him cry out in shock. “Please, I want it.”

“I know you want it,” Dazai breathes into his skin, hot, meeting Chuuya’s next grind up with a sinful roll of his hips. “And I’m gonna give it to you. You just have to be /patient/.”

/Fuck/ being patient, he’s been patient for

/months/ and been denied for this /entire/ week, and if it happens /again/, he’s actually going to punch Dazai about it.

Before he can speak his mind, Dazai is sliding down and taking a nipple into his mouth. His tongue runs over the nub, flattening it and swirling his piercing

over it in maddening circles.

Each touch, each scrape of his teeth over him makes hunger tighten in his stomach, stringing him between the opposing points of /good/ and not enough. His hips rock insistently, and every time Dazai’s cock slides against the front of his jeans,

teasing him with friction, he just grows /harder/.

Eventually, when his nipple is throbbing and oversensitive and each gasping breath is tinged with a desperate moan—

Dazai switches to the other side to give /that/ one attention and leaves the other to cool wetly in the air.

The coldness of it is a sensation all on its own, a paradox to how /hot/ Dazai’s tongue feels on him.

Dazai’s free hand slides down his stomach, finding the button on his jeans and popping it open one-handed. Sighing in relief, Chuuya wiggles up, silently encouraging him to

pull down his zipper agonizingly slowly, and then tug his waistband down so he can slip his hand into his underwear—

The first touch of his hand is almost-rough without any lube, dry with friction, but he’s so desperate for /any/ contact that his hips are stuttering up into his

fist as he gives the head a few short, slow strokes.

Each one pulls a pleased sigh from him and even though there’s a sense of burning desperation—

He also knows he’s going to be taken care of.

After teasing him long that enough that his cock starts to leak pre-cum and gets

his palm slick, Dazai leans back a little farther. His pants get dragged off him quickly, and Chuuya kicks them off his ankles when they get to the end.

With his heels, he pushes at the waistband of Dazai's pants, pushing them down because his wrists are still pinned above his

head. He doesn't want to be free, he just wants to /keep going/.

Dazai has to let go of him to get his slacks off, shuffling on the bed a little awkwardly, which makes Chuuya smile. At least he's not /always/ elegant and dominating.

Sometimes, he's just a man too, and that

thought completely irradiates whatever nerves Chuuya might have been feeling.

Leaning up, he hooks his hands around his boyfriend's-- god, his /boyfriend/, they're /boyfriends/--neck, he pulls him down into another kiss, this one even more rough and needy than before.

When his

lips are tingling, he's the first one to break the kiss this time, marking a trail of sucking bites down Dazai's jawline up to the spot behind his ear. He can hear him breathing, how /heavy/ it is compared to how calm it usually is, and excitement pulses through him.

Taking a

page out of Dazai's book, he scrapes his teeth over his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth to nibble on it. When he can feel Dazai vibrating with tension, hips subtly grinding forward, naked body radiating warmth--

He presses a smirk to his ear. "Fuck me, Daddy," he whispers.

Dazai jolts against him,his hands--which have been sweeping over his body and finding every sensitive spot to tease and tickle until his whole body feels like one raw,electrified nerve--turning briefly bruising on his waist.

For a second, Chuuya feels /victory/, feels on /top/--

Naturally, that's when Dazai turns the tables on him, easily taking control of the situation.

His knee gets pushed up and pinned to the side, leaving him nice and exposed as Dazai leans back up. One-handed, he pops the cap on the lube, drizzling it over his cock and thighs,

uncaring that it's /cold/ and makes him hiss in protest.

He's always /enjoyed/ getting Chuuya as messy as possible, smearing cum and lube and saliva over him like he's marking his territory.

"I have to say," Dazai hums, tossing the bottle to the side. His newly free hand swipes

through the mess, collecting it up on his fingers. "That is the worst begging I've seen yet."

"I wasn't--" Chuuya starts, cutting himself off with a shocked hiss when his hand closes around his erection, giving him a few ruthless pumps. The pace is almost brutally fast, compared

to the slow teasing from earlier.

In no time, Chuuya is writhing underneath him, hands grabbing at his thighs, the only place on Dazai he can reach and--

While the vibrator from the other day /was/ absolute torture, he can't say it wasn't /effective/. Because getting jerked off

feels /good/, yes, has him panting and moaning--

But after being pushed to the very brink so many times, he finds he needs a little more sensation than this to orgasm anymore.

"I /know/, that's the problem," Dazai sighs, letting go of his cock without any warning and leaving

him bereft. His fingers trail wetly downwards, swirling teasing circles over his inner thighs.

Each time his fingers come /close/ to where Chuuya wants them, he holds his breath in anticipation. Fruitlessly, he tries to open his legs /wider/, until his tendons are straining

with the effort.

He wants it, he wants it /so/ fucking bad, is filled to the brim with a hunger that only Dazai can sate--

"Because I really think you /should/ be."

Dazai makes searing eye contact, gaze dark and burning as his fingers finally find Chuuya's entrance. He rubs

lube over him, just roughly enough that Chuuya's breath is catching.

He likes being treated roughly. Likes the /care/ too, but /fuck/, if the idea of Dazai losing control with him isn't something he /dreams/ about.

"Please," he whimpers, taking his cue again. If Dazai wants him

to beg, he'll beg, cry for him, /whatever/ he wants. He'll do it all, without complaint, as long as Dazai /fucks/ him.

For his reward, the first finger sinks inside him steadily, the slide made slick with lube. His mouth opens on a hitched sigh, head tilting back.

Each time

Dazai's inside him, it feels /brand/ new. His body adjusts quicker the longer they do this, so it feels better /faster/ and it only takes a few minutes for his finger to be pumping into him steadily.

Chuuya rocks his hips down as Dazai grinds in, increasing the force and pace.

(All the work Dazai has done over the past week, getting Chuuya used to something inside him, either something /big/ or for longer periods of time, is starting to pay off. His muscles melt around him easily, letting Dazai in deeper and deeper. When he does something he likes, his

insides pulse and ripple around him in waves that make Dazai's mouth water, envisioning it around his /cock/--

But he doesn't clench up anymore, doesn't fight it, and two fingers sink inside him like it's nothing.)

The second finger comes with that aching stretch that Chuuya

/loves/, and relaxing into it is the easiest thing he's ever done. The pleasure builds and builds, spiking sharply whenever his fingers slide over his prostate, and growing /deeper/ when Dazai presses as far inside him as he can, knuckles grinding against his rim.

Throwing his

free leg around his waist, Chuuya pulls him into the next thrust, and the next, until their hips are moving together in waves that match the movements of his hand. It's /good/, has him whimpering and Dazai breathing out heavily.

The tension builds, an inferno, fed by the

pleasure pumping through his veins, by the way Dazai's erection slides against his own.

Reaching up, he pulls him down again, far enough that he can scatter kisses and sucking bites over Dazai's neck and collarbone. "More," he mumbles, rocking his hips demandingly at the same

time that he bites down on his collarbone.

By the sharp growl and the /slam/ of his fingers inside him, he found a sensitive spot. He sucks on it, hard,wanting to leave his own marks on Dazai.

Wants /everyone/ to know that Dazai is /his/ and no one elses.

The third finger is a

little more of a challenge to take in, but he manages it. It never hurts, it's just /so/ much, pressure and fullness and heat and /pleasure/.

To distract himself and to return some of the mind-bending ecstasy that's currently being showered on him, he wiggles one hand between

them to wrap his fingers around Dazai's erection.

That's /almost/ a bad idea, because as soon as he has his /hand/ on it, he remembers how good it felt in his /mouth/, in his /throat/. It pulses in his grip, hot hard flesh, so tempting that Chuuya almost forgets the game plan

entirely and just jerks him off right then and there—

Of course, the way Dazai /immediately/ zeroes in on his prostate with searing intensity that makes tears of overstimulation prick the corners of his eyes, reminds him pretty quickly.

He focuses on the base, where Dazai

liked it, short pulls that bring out muffled grunts and groans, and harder thrusts inside him.

Dazai ups the ante by wiggling in the tip of his pinkie too, and /this/ is the farthest Chuuya’s ever been stretched open. His thighs tremble with the strain, and a long, keening moan

escapes his throat.

Pleasure pulses through him, orchestrated by Dazai’s clever fingers, growing hotter and higher with every moment, until Chuuya feels like he might be drowning in magma.

He’s mindless with it, rocking unconsciously onto his fingers in a desperate bid for

more. He’s more full than he’s ever been, but /still/, he’s starving for more, needs it in such a primal, instinctive way that he almost feels like a feral beast.

More often than not, his hand is still on Dazai— because every time he /starts/ to stroke him, he curls his fingers

inside him and attacks his prostate until he feels like he’s about to /cry/— but Dazai’s hips are still rocking subtly.

“More,” he demands again, but it comes out breathless and needy. Dazai might as well have his hand around his heart with how easily he makes his body sing.

“Please, please, more.”

(It’s not his best begging. Dazai /could/ make him do better but—

He’s impatient too, cock /aching/ with need, and Chuuya /is/ prepped.)

The fingers stretch out inside him one more time, prompting a choked cry at the pleasure-ache. Then they’re

sliding out, leaving him empty and unfulfilled—

But Dazai is reaching for the lube bottle again, opening it and pouring an obscene amount into his palm. He spreads it over his cock in three quick strokes, gently nudging Chuuya’s hand out of the way.

Then he’s shuffling /down/—

And he’s /there/, cock sliding against his entrance slickly.

Chuuya holds his breath, waiting for the first press /in/, waiting for it, needing it, dying for it—

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Dazai’s dry hand finds one of his and grabs him by the wrist. He pulls his hand up,

angling into a better position so his fingers can slide up, over his palm, and intertwine tightly with his own.

He squeezes his hand, guiding it to lay on the mattress near his hand. Bracing his weight with it, palms pressed tightly together, Dazai leans down one last time.

His lips brush over his, achingly gentle after all the rushed pleasure.

If there was a world outside of here and now, a large body pressing him into the mattress, dark eyes setting him on fire, a cock sliding over and over against Chuuya in the most /delicious/ teasing way—

He wouldn’t know it.

Dazai’s voice makes everything else fade away, dropping like a physical weight in the space between them.

“Ask me again, love.”

/Fuck/.

Chuuya’s heart trips so hard it /hurts/, squeezing in his chest, and for a moment, his only response is to lean his

head up and capture him in an all-encompassing kiss, pouring every emotion he’s feeling into it. It makes him breathless.

“Please,” he mumbles again, dropping his head back to the mattress when the /need/ starts to overpower his heart again. His eyes squeeze shut, his lungs

holding onto his air.

A moment passes. Another.

Dazai’s nose brushes over his cheek, a kiss whispered over his jawline. “Open your eyes. I want to see you,” he murmurs, the /significance/ of those words even greater now, because he’s heard them /before/—

When he first asked

if he could kiss him, so long ago.

The fact that they’ve come so far feels impossible then, but inevitable now, like they were always meant to end up /here/ twined together.

Like this was fate.

“I want you to watch, the first time I fuck you.”

His eyes crack open.

The first moment is all dark eyes and a mop of dark hair, tousled in a way that makes his heart clench with affection, with desire—

The second moment is /pressure/.

Not /painful/, but burning, aching, steady and relentless. His cock pushes inside him slowly, stretching his

body to what feels like it’s absolute limit, sliding inside him for the first time.

Chuuya’s eyes go half-lidded and he’s panting, every breath tinged with a moan and he’s fighting the urge to let his eyes close, because he said he’d look, Dazai wanted him to look, and he’s

still looking at /him/, brown eyes the only thing he can see—

The head pops through the first ring of muscle, making him shudder with a choked noise. He’s squeezing Dazai’s hand with all his might, it must be hurting, and his other hand is clawing at his shoulder, leaving red

marks in his wake.

Finally breaking eye contact, Dazai leans down to smear kisses all his forehead, his temples, anywhere he can reach. “Doing so well,” he murmurs, mixed with other soft encouragements that Chuuya can barely hear over the roaring in his ears.

He’s given a long

moment to adjust to that intrusion, and when his body starts to /relax/ around it, Dazai pulls back a centimeter and begins to push even deeper inside.

“God,” Chuuya chokes out, driving one heel against Dazai’s back. He’s not trying to fight him, but it’s so /much/ that his

body is struggling to adjust, twitching and trembling and thrashing.

With how much lube Dazai used, there’s no dry friction at all whatsoever. It’s just te burning, aching stretch as he splits him open in the /best/ way, slowly burying himself deeper one centimeter at a time.

Not for the first time, he’s grateful for Dazai’s self-control. He can hear the rough breathing above him, the low, rumbling groan in his chest, the way his cock practically throbbing with need inside him,and he /knows/ there’s probably nothing more he wants than to just /thrust/

inside—

But he remains achingly slow, rocking forward in tiny movements, waiting for his body to adjust before continuing the relentless press inward.

Shuddering, Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, there’s so much, it’s so /big/—

There’s a smile pressed against his forehead,

an amused huff. “I /know/ it’s big, sweetheart,” Dazai says, and too late, Chuuya realizes he must’ve said that out loud, “but you can do it. You can take it.”

There’s a moment where he doesn’t think he actually /can/, when his cock is maybe halfway inside him and his body is

clenching down around him in powerful waves, unsure if it wants to pull him /deeper/ or push him out—

“Relax, baby,” gets murmured against his cheek, Dazai bending even farther down to brush their lips together in an achingly soft kiss. “Just breathe. I got you.”

He does, he

/does/, he always does, and that thought lets him relax that much further, accepting what’s being given to him.

Eventually, Dazai’s hips come to meet his ass and he bottoms out inside him. He’s still holding his hand and breathing compliments into his skin between soft kisses.

Chuuya, meanwhile, is spinning somewhere between searing pressure and pleasure as Dazai throbs inside him—

And a soaring sense of /victory/.

Because he did it, he fucking /did it/, he took /all/ of Dazai and now he can practically feel his cock in his fucking /lungs/, but he

/did it/.

He’s the one that makes Dazai’s breath hitch whenever his body clenches up instinctively, fighting the overload of pleasure. /He’s/ the one making his erection twitch inside him, he’s his /boyfriend/.

And some day, maybe not today because he’s already struggling to

hold it together when the stretch is hitting /all/ his weak spots, the edge of pain, of /too much/, just making his erection throb harder against their stomachs, some day—

He’s gonna be the best sex Dazai has ever had, or he’s going to /die trying/.

Rocking his hips slightly,

he tests the glide and cries out softly at the way it shifts inside him, sliding out a few centimeters and coming back inside on a new, different angle that feels /so/ good, he likes that—

(Dazai has had small partners before. Prefers them, really, because he likes to press

down over them, likes to cover them entirely until their entire world is /him/. Only him.

But Chuuya is probably one of his /smallest/ ones, not only in height, but also in stature. Dazai can practically encircle his waist entirely with his hands, and /yes/, that is exciting,

but it’s also leading to one very persistent problem—

Dazai is going to lose his fucking mind.

Chuuya is like a /vice/ around him, squeezing him so tight that pleasure is raking down his thighs, and he’s not even /moving/. He’s searing hot too, wet, so fucking good that he

/must/ have been made perfectly for him.There’s no other option.

The animalistic part of his brain is /roaring/ at him,demanding he pull out and slam back in,chasing the pleasure with one-track mindlessness, until his entire being feels wreathed in flames he willingly burns in.

Logic says he needs to /wait/, because Chuuya is still relaxing around him, muscles pulsing in shorter and shorter waves as he adjusts, and although the little siren is starting to wiggle his hips testingly— making Dazai’s jaw clenched as he /fights/ for self-control— he’s not

/ready/.

Drawn thin by the opposing needs, Dazai rests his forehead on the bed near Chuuya’s head. He’s careful not to grip his hand too tightly, but his other hand is fisted in the sheets, nails digging in until he’s half-certain the fabric is being shredded under his grip.

His mind has gone blank, spinning wildly between /fuck him, fuck him, I have to fuck him, need to, feels /so/ good/ and—

/Don’t you dare fucking move. Not yet/.

It’s all made worse by the way Chuuya has started to bite and suck over his collarbone, finding every little

sensitive spot and marking it up while making content little hums, and thank /god/ that the distraction is letting him loosen up more, just enough for Dazai to—)

“Ready?” Dazai’s voice is a heady thing, dark and rumbling, and the hoarse edge of it goes /straight/ to Chuuya’s

cock.

He considers it for a moment, because he’s not actually /sure/— Dazai still feels /massive/ inside him, filling him all the way up to the brim and then some, but that might also just be normal, considering how big he is? Besides, while the ache is still there the burn has

faded away almost entirely. When he moves his own hips, it feels a little shocking, but not /bad/, so—

He can always tell Dazai no if he realizes he’s /not/ ready, and once again, that subtle reassurance that he could back out at any moment without any repercussions and Dazai

would listen to him, it makes him /bold/, makes him take the plunge off the edge and free fall, pushing his own limits.

“Yes,” he says, scraping his teeth over the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Dazai’s chest expands on a bigger breath—

The first thrust is /life-changing/.

Calling it a thrust might be overselling it a little, because Dazai’s hips just /roll/ forward, in a slow, shallow grind forward that somehow gets him even deeper inside—

But still, Chuuya experiences for the /first/ time, something hot and hard moving inside him, dragging along

every one of his nerve endings, hears the hitched, pleased breath Dazai gives at the friction, and—

/Oh/, it’s good. So good.

Nothing less than he expected, because Dazai has blown his mind every time he got his hands on him, but /expecting/ and /feeling/ it are two very

different things.

/Finally/, when Dazai’s hips are pressed against him as hard as they can, that sense of devouring hunger in the pit of Chuuya’s stomach feels /sated/.

His moan is more of a breathy exhale, eyes fluttering shut. Arching up, he meets the next grind forward,

increasing the force.

When Dazai straightens up, taking his weight off him, Chuuya makes a disgruntled noise in disappointment. He /liked/ being squished beneath him, liked being pinned with his body weight and feeling him move and breathe against him.

“Shush, baby,” Dazai

says, low, “I’m not going anywhere. I just want to see you.”

Fire bursts into Chuuya’s stomach, fueled by the idea of being /watched/. Of being /pretty/.

He nods, tightening his leg around his hip on the next rock in, throwing his head back as the head of his cock /grinds/

against his prostate unrelentingly. And really, he’s so big that having his prostate abused is /unavoidable/.

When he looks back down, eyes half-lidded, does have to admit that the /visual/ is almost as good as the physical sensations itself because—

Dazai’s hair, sticking up

wildly from the way he was running his fingers through it. Eyes intent, focused, half-lidded with pleasure and a smoldering gaze like a physical brand on Chuuya's skin. Face flushed, cheeks pink, lips bitten red and swollen. Abs working in rhythmic waves, glistening with sweat.

Yeah, the sight is /just/ as good as the sensations. It heightens everything, because not only can he /feel/ the way Dazai is moving against him, he can /see/ it, can see the affects of it.

Then he pulls out a little, farther than before and thrusts back in faster, /harder/.

It knocks the breath out of him on a choked moan, eyes widening as the pleasure suddenly spikes, swirling tightly through him. Oh /god/, he liked that, wants more of that.

"Good?" Dazai growls, eyes pools of darkness in the low lighting. He returns to the shallow grinding from

before. His free hand-- the one /not/ holding Chuuya's -- has found his hip and is tilting him upward for a better angle. It makes the head of his cock lodge against his prostate and /stay/ there, practically milking him as he grinds forward in small circles, until Chuuya is

seeing /stars/.

"Yeah," he moans in response, gripping onto Dazai's hand with all his strength.The small squeeze he gets in return is heart-warming, shouldn't be because he's currently getting fucked into oblivion but--

Here he is, torn between affection and /desire/.

"Again,"

he asks, breathlessly, hooking his leg higher around his waist because it furthers the stretch, lets Dazai get even /deeper/ inside him, until there's no part of him that doesn't feel /owned/ by him. "More, please-- I need it."

Eyes flashing, Dazai gives him a wicked grin.

"I know what you need," he purrs, pulling out farther than before, hovering at the end of his thrust until Chuuya opens his mouth to complain about feeling /empty/--

Which was his /plan/, apparently, because as soon as he starts to say anything, he drives back in with near-

ruthless intensity, hips slapping lightly against his ass. His words turn into loud, desperate moaning, shuddering at the pleasure.

It's not the /hardest/ Dazai can go-- Chuuya can feel the restraint in his body, the bruising grip on his hip a sign of his self-control-- but the

steady, deep pace he sets up easily is enough to drive him /insane/.

There's something much more viscerally satisfying about being /fucked/. Not only because it's so much better than anything else he's ever felt-- a ball of heat like the sun centering in his stomach and growing

bigger with every thrust inside him-- but also because he can /feel/ how affected Dazai is by it too. He's groaning deep in his chest, head tilting back like he's getting lost in Chuuya, cock throbbing and growing impossibly harder inside him.

He wants to see him lose it. Wants

to see him /wild/.

He starts rocking his hips down into his thrusts, eyes rolling back at the mind-bending pleasure. It's building like symphonies inside him, building to a crescendo, faster and harder and /louder/.

Thought dissolves, leaving him a mindless inferno of need,

writhing so desperately underneath him that Dazai has to pin him again with a noise that borders on a /snarl/.

He picks up speed, pulling out a little more just to /slam/ back in, earth-shattering thrusts that break Chuuya open, filling him to the brim with wild-fire ecstasy

that is /too/ much to bear but--

He /has/ to take it. Is pinned beneath Dazai as he pushes him higher, fucks him /harder/, driving him to the edge with a relentless, animalistic ferocity. He cries for it, head tilted back so far that it almost hurts, meeting his thrusts as best

he can with how spread open he is.

"God, you're /so/ fucking good," Dazai groans out, the hand on his hip sliding up to find one of his nipples and twisting it, a point of pleasure-pain that makes him shudder, mouth opening.

"Take it like you were /made/ for me," he continues,

and if the /pleasure/ weren't enough to having him losing his mind-- and it is, god, it is-- his /voice/ would do it, deep and rough and soaked with possession. "/Mine/ to fuck, mine to fill, mine, mine, /mine/."

Yes, yes, he's /right/, Chuuya is /his/, he belongs to him, wants

nothing more, yes, yes, /good/, /so/ fucking good--

The next thrust is nearly /brutal/, ramming so hard into his prostate that it makes him choke with shock. His leg squeezes his waist weakly,and when Dazai does it /again/, aiming for that spot with single-minded determination--

He's not going to last. It's too much, and even if Dazai hasn't touched his erection /once/ since the beginning, this is good enough on it's own. The intermittent brushes against their stomachs is more than enough, flinging him higher and higher until the air feels too thin to

breathe.

"I'm--" he starts, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, like that might help him gather any thoughts past the rapture roaring through his veins, "I'm gonna--"

He gets cut off by another choked moan as Dazai slams in and /stays/ there, forcing his body to accept all of him.

As always, his aim is criminally on point,and his prostate gets /abused/.

"You're /what/, Chuuya?"

/Fuck/, the pet names were bad enough, but his /name/, his fucking /name/, rolling off his tongue like sin and wine, sends a thrill flashing down his spine. So hot he doesn't even

think before opening his mouth again--

"Gonna come," he pants, squirming. Pleasure like this is /good/, in a deeper way, crawling into his very heart.

Dazai's smile is feral, pleased, full of sharp teeth and possession. "Yeah," he agrees, voice like warm silk, "You are. But

first, I want you to do something."

Hesitating is not something that even occurs to him, nodding and nodding. He'll do anything, he swears, anything for the jackhammer-pleasure being shoved into him just a /little/ longer.

Squeezing his hand, Dazai leans down, until his breath

washes hot over his ear.Chuuya arches up to meet him, shivering at the press of their skin together.The places where their bodies meet is messy with sweat and lube,but each slick slide feels /so/ good.

Pulling out slowly and hovering there, teasing, Dazai murmurs, "Say my name."

Without a second thought, a whispered “Dazai” is escaping his lips, voice made rough and hazy from his moaning. He squeezes his hand at the same time, an acknowledgment of their connection, and his heel is planted in Dazai’s back, /trying/ to get him to move.

He feels empty

without him buried to the hilt inside him, is starting to slowly cool down now that the march of relentless pleasure has paused. It’s frustrating, makes him needy, makes him want to /cry/—

“No,” Dazai mutters into his ear, hips flexing to give him an inch and then back out

again, a tease, a /temptation/. “That’s not what I want. My /name/, Chuuya. You know what it is.”

He /does/, he just hasn’t said it before and it’s surprisingly hard to gather the syllables in his mouth, tasting the weight and the /meaning/ of them in his mouth—

“I want to

hear you say it.”

It feels right to say it for the first time when they’re as close as they can get, when Chuuya is strung out on the emotional high and physical pleasure. Feels right when Dazai hasn’t let go of his hand this entire time.

“Osamu,” he whimpers, tightening his

leg around him, trying to drag him in—

He doesn’t need to, because as soon as Dazai registers the sound, as soon as he /understands/, breath hitching—

His hips are snapping forward again, filling him so quickly Chuuya can only go wide-eyed in shock. Pulling out just to slam

back in again, setting a pace that is fast and hard and /pointed/, dragging him out to sea to drown in ecstasy.

With their height difference, they can’t really kiss like this, especially for long, but Dazai sneaks one in. It’s quick, filled with desperation and the sound of

moans.

“Say it again.”

“Osamu.” Tilting his hips up to get that much better of an angle, crying out when the head of Dazai’s cock slams into his prostate on every thrust in, drags over it on the slide /out/, a constant stream of sensation that’s breaking him apart.

“Again.”

“Osamu—,” Building /up/, reaching the peak where everything blurs together into searing, white-hot ecstasy, melting him down into base need, a raw animal, strung thin and drawing tight under the tension, /so close/—

“Again.”

“/Osamu—!”

When the tension snaps, it’s like a

breaking of a dam. For a second, it’s just silence, everything going still—

And then comes the /flood/, pouring over him from head to toe. Drenching him in sparkling, liquid-fire pleasure until even his toes are tingling, so good he can barely /breathe/ around the weight of it.

All he can do is ride it out, jerking under Dazai with each wave, clinging onto him with what little strength he has as Dazai pushes him higher, hips moving without pause.

“Should I come inside you or /on/ you, mark you up until everyone knows you’re /mine/?”

It doesn’t

/sound/ like a question, growled into his ear, but it’s phrased like one, and Chuuya only has one answer—

Wrapping his leg tighter, squeezing his hand, raking the nails of his other hand over his back and shoulder as Dazai /speeds up/—

“Inside me, please— want it.”

The next thrust is /brutal/, making Chuuya cry out a strangled version of his name as pleasure turns into over-sensitivity, turns into burning, electric sensation.

Saying his name just makes him slam into him /harder/, and for the next minute, all Chuuya can do is hold on for

dear life with choked, high-pitched keens, nails digging into his shoulder as Dazai fucks him like he’s trying to /break/ him—

Teeth find his shoulder, sinking in near-painfully. “Chuuya,” gets smothered int his skin, a rough groan that makes his body clench in reaction—

With one last pump of his hips, he buries himself as deeply as he can get, staying there. There’s another groan, this one mangled and incomprehensible as Dazai’s orgasm hits him.

Making Dazai come in /any/ sense is satisfying, but this is Chuuya’s favorite way yet. He can feel

twitching, the wet burst of warmth as he spills inside him, hot and sticky. It’s much better than him cumming on his face or his ass like he did before, because this fills him with a raw, primal satisfaction, like he /won/.

He did it. He /did it/.

He also wants to do it

/again/. Like right now.

Maybe all /night/, even, their flight isn’t until early afternoon tomorrow, that’s at least twelve hours that they can get in as many orgasms as physically possible—

His world spins abruptly, Dazai quickly reversing their positions so that Chuuya is

sprawled over his chest instead of crushed under him. The movement makes his softening cock slip out of him, and the resulting spill of warm cum sliding down his inner thighs is /weird/ but also...

Kind of soothing? Satisfying, but now that his body is starting to cool down

entirely, the /ache/ is beginning to set in. Nothing too terrible yet, but his thighs feel overworked and weak from the strain. His ass is beginning to burn,and there's a deep-set ache building at the base of his spine and in his lower back.

On second thought-- if he's /already/

starting to get sore, only a handful of minutes after it ended-- nothing /else/ is happening tonight. He smothers a pout into Dazai's chest, stretching out until he finds the most comfortable position.

Fingers--from Dazai's clean hand, thankfully-- stroke through his hair,

pulling it out of his face. "How do you feel?"

Chuuya considers that for a moment. Nothing /bad/, nothing urgent or debilitating-- but now he's slightly worried about their flight in the morning because--

How is he supposed to /sit down/? Even laying down like this, just

/breathing/ makes quiet pangs of pain arch through him.

Suddenly, he's grateful that Dazai has been working him up to this for /weeks/, because if he had gone from a complete virgin to taking that /massive/ dick, he might not have /survived/.

Worth it, though.

"Good," he

murmurs,tucking his nose into Dazai's neck. It's true, he does feel good, the pleasant limpness that accompanies a /really/ good orgasm. "I'm gonna be sore as hell though."

(Dazai /really/ tries not to feel too smug about that, but--

He's just a /man/, you know, and he /likes/

seeing the after-effects of sex on his partners. Like bruises and bitemarks and /soreness/, especially when he wasn't even going that hard to begin with.

Makes some primal, instinctual part of him preen with satisfaction that Chuuya will feel him for /hours/.)

"I'm sorry," he

says, his other hand finding Chuuya's lower back. Slick fingers dig into his muscles, massaging away some of the growing aches with firm strokes.

Sighing, Chuuya relaxes into it. "You don't /sound/ sorry," he grumbles teasingly. Dazai sounded like he was trying to cover up

/pride/, like trying to hide a smile but not quite managing it.

"Well..." he draws out, snickering when Chuuya smacks at his ribs with a mock-offended growl.

They spend a few minutes like that, sprawled against each other and soaking up skin contact with lazy indulgence.

Eventually, the sweat and other fluid drying on their skin starts to get gross and uncomfortable. It makes their bodies stick together in odd places.

"We should shower," Dazai sighs again, digging his fingers into a spot just above Chuuya's tailbone that makes him melt into the

pressure.

"Okay," he agrees easily, sliding his hands over Dazai's shoulders. "Come in with me?"

It's a pointed question and /maybe/ he's playing dirty by using their newfound relationship and his muscle aches to his advantage--

But he's not sure he can /actually/ stand by

himself right now, and now that they're /boyfriends/, and had /sex/--

Maybe Dazai's whole 'you can't see me naked' thing doesn't count anymore. Technically, he's already naked, save for the bandages--which are loose now-- around his chest.

There's something incredibly tempting

about the thought of showering with his /boyfriend/, and he wants it, so bad.

He doesn't know what Dazai is so wary of because the man is /absurdly/ attractive, from the tip of his wild hair to his well-cut abs to his dick to his thick thighs. The only thing Chuuya can think of

that he'd be nervous over would be the scars on his wrist.

That's nothing to be /embarrassed/ over. It's sad, but that doesn't mean he has to /hide/.

Chuuya wishes he had the right words to say to reassure him that he doesn't have to keep himself covered up because Chuuya

won't judge him or make him feel bad, or anything.

But he's always been bad at words,so all he can do is keep asking, with that gentle, pleading tone in his voice and hope that /one day/, Dazai trusts him enough.

It's silent for long enough that Chuuya is beginning to silently

resign himself to a sponge bath. Even his fingers have stilled, tangled in his hair and spread out over his lower back.

"Okay," Dazai finally agrees,his voice oddly quiet and subdued. "But you can't ask questions."

Chuuya can do that. If that's what makes him comfortable, he'll

keep his mouth shut and not ask a single question about...

Whatever Dazai doesn't want him to see.

He can be quiet.

Nodding, he confirms without hesitating, hoping his quick response will help to put him at ease. "I won't."

Some part of Dazai, one he hadn't even realized

had begun to tense, relaxes. He turns his head, pressing a kiss onto the top of his head. Chuuya pushes into him with a small smile, accepting the affection easily.

Moving to the bathroom is a slow process. Dazai does end up carrying him, but the hard counter under Chuuya's ass

makes him hiss in discomfort, shifting awkwardly.

Dazai turns away to turn on the shower, but Chuuya can see the smug little smirk he has on his face.

(Is Dazai stalling by making sure the shower is turned to the exact right temperature, pointed in the right direction and that

all the soaps are within easy reach? Yes.

Would he ever admit to it? No.

But /fuck/, this is harder than he thought it would be, especially now that he's gotten /attached/. Maybe he should've told him earlier, or maybe they should be having an actual conversation instead of

a silent reveal of his years-old tattoos but--

How are you /supposed/ to have that conversation?

'Hey, I used to kill people as much job, and torture them for a sick thrill! Hope that's okay with you.'?

'When I was your age, I was already on Japan's most wanted list.'?

How?

And Chuuya /deserves/ to know, and Dazai /does/ want to tell him, some day,if their relationship is still going--

But for once in his life, his tongue is thick and his mouth, and his stomach is turning at the thought of the trusting, soft look in those baby blue eyes he /adores/

turning into hatred or disgust--

Or even worse, /fear/.

He would be right to feel that way,and Dazai wouldn't ever blame him for it,but that doesn't mean the thought doesn't make him feel vaguely sick.

He has to brace himself to start unwrapping the bandages around his chest.)

Watching Dazai undo the bandages around his chest is... an interesting thing.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, watching the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he unwinds the fabric is /attractive/, and it's made even better by the fact that his ass is /right/ there,

round and biteable.

But it also feels like a sacred moment,like something Chuuya isn't supposed to be watching? Something that's meant to be private, but he's intruding.

After a moment, he ends up looking away to give him some privacy, finger-combing through his hair to get rid

of the worst tangles. He should wash it,but he's getting tired and he'll have to shower after their flight tomorrow anyways, so he'll just do it then. Using the hair tie on his wrist, he secures it in a bun on the top of his head to keep it out of the water.

Steam is filling the

room, suffusing the space with warmth.

Assumingly the hotel doesn't have limited hot water, but he's /cold/, so he wants to get in as soon as possible. He moves to hop down, bracing himself to land--

Then Dazai is turning around and finally Chuuya sees why he wanted to hide.

Oh.

There,on the left side of his chest and following the curve of his shoulder up and down part of his arm are--

/Tattoos/.

Koi fish, most notably,swirling around each other and tangled up with strands of strands of cherry blossoms. The entire piece is done in reds and blues,

and it was probably once vivid and brilliant at one point--

It still looks /good/, but it's faded now, like he's had it for years.

The sight of it gives Chuuya a bit of a pause. Because while tattoos /are/ becoming more accepted in this day and age, especially with the influx

of tourism and globalism, but that's typically in /Chuuya's/ generation. Not Dazai's.

In /that/ generation, typically the only people who had tattoos were--

Yakuza.

Vaguely, he remembers that koi fish were typical symbols in Yakuza imagery. Same thing with cherry blossoms.

They meant preserving through hard times,and the fleetingness of life, or something like that. He remembers the blue koi fish meant something special,but he doesn't remember what.

Now he wishes he had spent more time paying attention during that history lesson because...

Is he?

There /are/ some parts of his life that don't add up, admittedly. The security company Chuuya /still/ doesn't know the name of,the fact that he hasn't actually /seen/ him do any work or any mention of it. The highly trained guard dogs.

But--

Why would a Yakuza member want to be

involved with /him/? He's just an ordinary college student. He's not even that smart, for fucks sake.

And /sure/, there are moments when Dazai is scary but anyone can be scary if they really want to be, especially when you're as tall as Dazai is.

Besides, would a ruthless

criminal spend /weeks/ building him up to sex? Would a criminal be so /nice/ to him? Make him feel safe and secure? Agree to be the boyfriend of an ordinary college student?

Why would he do any of that, if he was dangerous? It doesn't make sense. Chuuya's pretty sure that the

M.O of the Yakuza is to leave people worse off than when you found them.

And Chuuya can say, without a single doubt, that his life is /better/ with Dazai in it.

So... maybe there's a different explanation. He shouldn't just jump to conclusions-- because he's already /shown/ he

has a bad record of assuming things that turned out to be wrong-- and he should actually /ask/ Dazai about it before he starts freaking out or anything like that.

Not today though. He can see the way Dazai's chest is tense with worry, and he already agreed not to ask questions

today. Waiting a few extra days or even weeks,won't hurt, right?

(It will. It definitely will, but neither of them know that /yet/.)

So instead of letting the questions on the tip of his tongue escape, he just smiles at him and silently raises his arms so he can be brought into

the shower.

Dazai's slight smile, lopsided and with just a /hint/ of the dimple Chuuya adores, makes it worth the wait.

His knees are still weak, so he spends most of the shower leaning up against Dazai and soaking up the heat on his sore muscles. Dazai washes him from head to

toe with a quiet, dedicated care that makes Chuuya feel /cherished/. Makes his heart feel three sizes too big for his chest, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

And when he steals the washcloth from him and in turn, washes Dazai's forearms and chest, and the /other/ tattoos that

were previously hidden under a thick layer of foundation come into view...

He doesn't ask questions about those either. He brushes his fingers over the empty eyes of the red and black dragon, but he doesn't /ask/.

"They're beautiful," he says instead, quiet under the roar of

the shower. They /are/, they're elegant and graceful and ripple with the movements of his forearms--

But they also look /sad/ almost. Especially the dragon, which looks half-finished with it's empty eyes and only half-colored in.

(Dazai wishes that comment didn't mean so much

to him because--

They /aren't/ beautiful. They are marks of pain and blood and terror. Physical remnants of the worst years of Dazai's life, ones he cant scrub away or escape.

He doesn't deserve to escape them.

Part of him wants to peel away whatever thoughts Chuuya has come

to on them and show him what they /really/ mean, who Dazai /really/ is but--

He just wants to /savor/ this, for a little longer. He wants to feel beautiful and accepted, just for a little longer.)

When they're washed off and clean, Dazai drags him into his arms and presses him

against the shower wall and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until Chuuya's entire world is the water raining down on them and the taste of Dazai on his tongue.

------ +

Chuuya was right. He is /sore/ in the morning. Again, nothing deblitating and he /can/ walk, but

it's just pressing enough that there's a constant, slightly uncomfortable ache.

It eases once he's able to do some stretches and eases even more when he gets moving, but he's once again struck with gratefulness that Dazai worked him up to sex instead of just fucking him the

/first/ time he asked because he probably would've needed a damn /wheelchair/ after that.

As it is, he has a constant slight limp that makes him grumpy and irritable at all the people shooting him concerned looks over it. It /also/ makes him a little grumpy with /Dazai/ for

looking so damn smug about it--

So he makes him carry /all/ of his stuff in petty revenge. Not that Dazai ever complains or even blinks when Chuuya asks but--

He's limping because of him, it's only fair.

This time, they're one of the last ones on the plane, and Dazai barely

gets their bags in the overhead compartment before the steward is calling their attention to the front for a safety briefing.

"So," Dazai asks,sitting in the aisle seat. Even with the extra room, his long legs still look cramped. "Still interested in joining the mile high club?"

Chuuya blinks, a little startled. He'd nearly forgotten about that entirely. "Sure," he says, unsure of what to expect but not backing out.

Dazai's smile is secretive. "Alright. Then, when the seatbelt sign goes off, go into the bathroom and wait for me. I'll knock five times."

Why do they have to go into the bathroom? Aren't those gross? Why can't they just do it out here, whatever it is?

He shoots him a confused look, silently begging him to explain, but Dazai just opens up a magazine and browses it idly, ignoring him. Jerk.

Takeoff is less exciting

than the first time, and the added pressure on his body makes him wiggle uncomfortably in his seat.

Once they climb to cruising height, the seatbelt light is turning off with a silent /ding!/. Chuuya hesitates, wondering if he should wait for a moment before going but Dazai

waves him on with his magazine, moving his legs to give him space.

And well--

Chuuya is not a coward, so he goes.

The bathroom is at the front of the plane, near the little room the plane stewards get, and the cockpit with the pilots. He slides in, locking the door after him.

It's roomier than he expected, and it's spotlessly clean, so at least there's that. One of his friends from high school had told him horror stories about plane bathrooms, but it seems that doesn't apply to the first class section of the plane. Even the mirror is spotless.

It even smells like faint lemon cleaner--

Five knocks.

Heartrate spiking and excitement beginning to pulse through him-- because this feels /dangerous/, like they're doing something they're not supposed to-- he unlocks the door and pushes it open an inch.

He's not sure what

he's expecting, maybe for Dazai to pull him out or give him something to do but--

He's /not/ expecting Dazai to push open the door, slide inside and locking the door in one smooth movement and then--

And then he's /on/ him, hands cupping his face and dragging him /up/ into a

brutal, frenetic kiss, all tongue and teeth and lips sliding over his with a desperate,frantic sort of energy that Chuuya hasn't felt before.

All things considered, Dazai has always been rather careful with him, especially as they warm up together, so the feeling of being kissed

like they don't have /time/, like the only thing Dazai can think of is kissing him harder, /faster/, deeper as he turns them around to pin him up against the door--

It has him /breathless/, flinging his arms around his neck to hold onto him tightly, kissing him back as best he

can, trying to keep up--

It's only when Dazai's hands slide /down/, hooking in the waistband of his jeans and tugging on them as he pops the button, that Chuuya begins to understand.

"It's /sex/?" He hisses, unreasonably offended, "The mile high club is /sex in an airplane/?!"

"Yeah," Dazai says breathlessly against his lips, a smile in his voice. "You in?"

And--

If Dazai had told him even /minutes/ ago, before he had come in here or before he had kissed him--

The answer would have been a /firm/ no. No hesitation. Just no.

But now? After being

kissed like /that/, with Dazai's boyish, mischievous smile in his hand, with long fingers yanking his waistband down and brushing over his rapidly-hardening cock?

How is he supposed to tell /that/ face no? Especially know how /good/ it feels?

"Hurry up, baby," Dazai says,

reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, travel-sized bottle of lube and shaking it at him teasingly, "we're running on limited time here."

God, /okay/, this has got to be the craziest thing Chuuya has ever done, but--

"Hurry up then," he hisses, shoving his hand into

Dazai's pants to wrap about /his/ cock in a petty act of getting even. If /he's/ going to be driven crazy, then he's not going to be the only one.

Of course, the upper hand he has on the situation lasts about thirsty seconds.

Flashing him a cocky grin, Dazai spins him around.

His pants get yanked down, just far enough for Dazai to have access to his /ass/ and then lube-slick fingers are pressing against his entrance.

Hissing lightly at the friction, Chuuya leans his forehead against the door and focuses on his breathing. It doesn't hurt /too/ much,

and the pleasurable friction of his jeans against his erection /is/ helping, but he's not even sure if he can /do/ this--

Teeth find the curve of his shoulder, biting into one of his favorite spots at the /same/ time the top of Dazai's finger slips inside him and it's /good/.

The stretch burns more than it has ever before, but not /painful/. The ache is offset by the way Dazai is marking up his neck and shoulders over his shirt with single-minded ferocity, sinking his teeth in and sucking until he's shuddering in reaction. His other hand is sliding

around to his front, dipping into his waistband to find his erection.

The way his hand wraps around it, focusing on the end, makes it clear he's trying to get Chuuya to come as quickly at possible.

Then his fingers--two now-- find his prostate and /zero in/ on it, massaging

it until a choked moan is falling from his lips.

Dazai slides up, pressing his cheek against Chuuya's jaw. He's hot and heavy and hard behind him, covering him completely.

"Shh," he whispers into his ear, breath hot, "You have to be /quiet/, or everyone's going to know."

How the /hell/ is he supposed to be quiet when Dazai is jacking him off in short, messy strokes over the head /and/ his fingers are knuckle deep inside him and /milking/ his prostate until mind-numbing pleasure is overcoming the burning ache?

Blinking open his eyes--when did he

close them?-- he goes to tell him that he's /trying/--

But then his eyes snag on the sight of them in the mirror, and his mind spins away from him.

Dazai is enveloping him completely, /huge/ and dark behind him. He can see his wrist working and /feel/ the way his fingers are

pumping into him. In front of him, nearly covered by the baggy shirt Chuuya is wearing, he can catch glimpses of his fist working over him, pushing liquid pleasure into his veins.

From this angle, he can't see Dazai's face, but he can see his own and--

He looks /slutty/. Eyes

half-lidded, dark in his face. There's a rising blush on his cheeks, sliding down his face. His lips are bitten red and half-open with gasps, tiny moans pushed out of him with the sharp movements of Dazai's wrists.

Letting himself get fingered in an airplane bathroom, not even a

whole day after losing his virginity.

The burning pleasure-pain is overwhelming. Every time Dazai pushes his fingers deeper or stretches him farther it /hurts/, but the twin sensations of his prostate being /assaulted/ and his erection being ruthlessly stroked is overriding it,

mixing into this intoxicating feeling that fills him up completely, until he can't do /anything/ else except go limp against the door and /take it/.

They should stop. He knows that but the thing that comes out of his mouth is--

"/More/."

(Dazai had /reasonably/ decent

intentions, he swears.

Was it a bit of a mean trick /not/ to tell Chuuya what the mile high club was? Yeah, probably, but he never claimed to be a /nice/ man.

And he /intended/ to get Chuuya to come as quickly as possible with just his fingers and hands, because they only

have about twenty minutes max, and Dazai likes to spend at /least/ that amount of time on foreplay. They're both used to that, and it's probably the /main/ reason Chuuya can take him as well as he can--

Because he's half out of his mind with lust and need by the time Dazai even

pulls his cock out of his pants.

But how is he supposed to tell him /no/? How is he supposed to deny him when he's all pink-faced and hard for him, desperately rocking back onto his fingers and clenching up around him in deliciously tempting waves, when he's being /so/ pretty

and /good/ and quiet for him?

How is he supposed to tell /that/ face no?)

"Fuck," Dazai hisses into his ear, making him shudder. He sounds /undone/, even though he hasn't gotten any direct attention since Chuuya stuck his hands down his pants earlier.

Still, his crotch is

grinding against Chuuya's ass, and he can /feel/ how hard he is, practically throbbing even through the material of his jeans and he /wants/ it.

Might /die/ without it, actually, wants nothing more than to be impaled on Dazai's cock all the time, drenched in pleasure and

sin and decadence.

Really, now that Chuuya's been fucked /once/, he could totally see himself getting addicted to it. Sign him up for one of those sex addicts anonymous meetings.

"Okay, okay," Dazai mutters, taking the hand off his erection and sliding it between them instead.

Chuuya practically /purrs/ when he feels his belt buckle being undone, rocking back on the three fingers inside him with a sense of satisfying urgency.

How Dazai manages to do everything one-handed while still fingering him with near-expert accuracy until Chuuya feels strung

thin and /needy/.

When the head of Dazai's cock slides slickly over his ass, he shudders, arching back into him. Yes, yes, he /wants it/, needs it--

Dazai switches hands, using his lube-covered hand to guide himself into position. His mostly-clean one comes up, fingers finding

the line of his jaw.

His palm covers his mouth entirely, locking his jaw shut with strong fingers. His hand is big enough to cover nearly the entire lower half of his face, working well as a make-shift gag to keep him quiet as he begins the long, agonizingly slow push in.

Chuuya claws at his forearm, overstimulated tears welling up and spilling down his face because it's /so/ much. Big and /wide/, splitting him open in a way that borders between pain and pleasure.The anticipation is racking up, building like a storm in his chest because he /knows/

how good it feels to be /fucked/,hard and fast, and he wants it /so/ bad, and the edge of overworked pain just makes it easier to fall into the oncoming storm.

Dazai works himself inside with a series of short, shallow thrusting, pushing in centimeters at a time and then pulling

out before his body can protest too much. It gives him a /taste/ of what's to come, and lets the sore ache slowly fade into background noise.

Dazai hisses when his body clenches down on a particularly hard wave, fingers tightening on his face. "Take it," he mutters, low and

forceful, seeping into his bloodstream like a drug, "You can do it, sweetheart. You did it before."

He /can/ do it, the ache is fading away with every thrust, and as /soon/ as Dazai finds his prostate, he's grinding against it in quick, focused rocks of his hips, driving him up

the wall so quickly it's almost shocking.

Something about the /frantic/ pace of this, of the desperation and the knowledge that there's other people just a few meters away, unknowingly going about their day as they fuck, dangerous and fast, only behind a slim door away--

It

makes it /better/, makes it harder to resist as Dazai starts to set up a quick, shallow pace that focuses on his prostate. The door is lightly rattling from the force, and Chuuya's hands are clawing down it, desperate to hold on as he climbs higher and higher--

/Knock, knock!/

Dazai yanks him away from the door, pulling him back to lean against his chest instead of the door--

But the action makes his cock sink deeper inside him, glancing hard off his prostate and feeling /so/ deep he might as well be in his fucking /lungs/, and Chuuya can't help the

strangled whine that escapes him.

The hand on his face tightens, muffling his voice. Dazai uses his grip to tilt his head to the side, and hot breath washes over his ear and down his neck.

"Be quiet," Dazai tells him-- no, /orders/, the command in his voice all-encompassing

and impossible not to obey, infinitely exciting in how /easily/ he slips into dominance, like it's a second skin for him.

Teeth catch at his ear, scraping harshly, and he can feel the way his lips are curving into a sadistic smirk. "Unless you /want/ them to know you're being

fucked like a needy slut in here?"

Fuck, /fuck/--

Before Chuuya can even shake his head in denial, Dazai is raising his voice and answering the person on the other side. "It's occupied."

The way he can sound so /unaffected/, even when he's still rocking into him and his cock

is /throbbing/ inside him is so unfair--

And also ridiculously attractive.

"Are you alright, sir? You've been in there quite a while."

Chuuya's eyes widen. He /recognizes/ that voice; it's one of the plane stewardesses, one that gave Dazai a flirty smile when they boarded the

plane. And if she works for the airlines, that must mean--

She probably has a /key/ to unlock the bathroom. Oh god.

She could do it, open the door /right/ now and reveal them both. Dazai is hidden behind him, but /Chuuya/ is perfectly exposed, his pants trapped around his

thighs and his dick out.

(If he was thinking logically, he would realize that her opening the door with someone already admitting to being in here would cause more problems than it's worth but--

He's /not/ thinking logically. He's spinning between panic that they're about to

be caught and he's about to get a label on his permanent record as a /sex offender/--

And /shame/,because Dazai isn't stopping and it feels /so/ fucking good, and he's /still/ climbing to the peak of ecstasy with an innocent person literally a meter away.

Fuck, fuck, /fuck/--.)

"Oh, I'm perfect," Dazai sighs, sounding perfectly composed even as he's nudging Chuuya into propping up his foot against the sink to give him a better angle. "Flights are just so /hard/ for me, you know?" Literally, he's /rock fucking hard/ inside him-- "I just get so nervous. I

get nauseous."

There's a long silence on the other side of the door, one that Dazai takes advantage of by widening his stance so he can fuck /deeper/ inside him. Chuuya is franctically trying to control his breathing so he doesn't give them away, but it's so /hard/ when his

orgasm is creeping up on him, coiling tightly in his stomach.

This time, when she speaks, there's a /hint/ of cajoling underneath her professional tone. "Can I bring you anything to help? We have ginger ale for your stomach."

No, no, /please/ no--

"No, that's okay," Dazai says

leaning down until he's speaking next to his ear again. His next words are spoken loudly enough for the stewardess to hear, but they're /clearly/ meant for him:

"I have everything I need right here."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he starts rocking back against him, bettering the

angle until each thrust feels like it breathes fire into him.

He's close. Based on the way Dazai is twitching inside him, and his rhythm is starting to fall apart, he probably is too.

"Alright. If you change your mind, let me know. We'll start descending soon, so you'll get

some relief soon."

Dazai laughs, low and sweet and rumbling. "Yeah, I will."

The innuendo makes Chuuya's face burn,but he's /reaching/ for the edge, so close he can almost taste it.

Outside, there's the slight rustle and the quiet click of the stewardess moving away. Hopefully

she's going away, to the back of the plane and out of hearing range.

As soon as she seems to be out of range, Dazai is picking up speed, essentially bouncing him on his cock using the strength of his arms alone. Chuuya didn't think being manhandled was a turn on of his, but

the feeling of being moved up and down with one arm as he slams up into him is /hot/.

Or maybe that's just because he's getting dizzy with the lack of air. With the way Dazai is covering his mouth, it makes it hard to draw in enough air through his nose, and he's starting to

feel lightheaded. Not in a way that makes him feel like he needs to tell Dazai to /stop/ but--

One that makes his orgasm approach in leaps and bounds, overwhelming him with the growing tension.

"You should hurry up," Dazai tells him, placing a gentle kiss onto his cheek in

aching opposition to the way his hips are moving in short, hard bursts, "You're running out of time, and if you don't come before /I/ do-- you won't come at all."

His responding keen is muffled, and he's /trying/ to be pliant and limp for him, but his foot keeps kicking out,

trying in vain to brace himself as the tension nears the breaking point.

(It's an empty threat, Dazai wouldn't leave him hanging after a scene like this, but the way he gets so /desperate/, wiggling harder in his arms and arching himself to the best angle for the most pleasure--

It's /cute/.

Sometimes the best rules are imaginary ones.)

The plane jolts a little, dropping down a few feet more before levelling out. The added pressure makes Chuuya sink /that/ much farther onto Dazai's cock, and the swooping feeling in his stomach combined with the way his

neglected erection bobs in the air, brushing against his shirt--

It's enough.

With a muffled keen, he cums in short,messy spurts. It's quick and ruthless, ravaging him in powerful waves that leave him hanging limp in Dazai's arms as he tries to breathe through it.

It's not as

good as the orgasm last night, /but/ the dirtiness of it all, the way that they're committing a /crime/ right now, makes it almost as satisfying.

"Good boy," Dazai purrs against him, biting his shoulder again. He hasn't stopped moving, and every savage thrust he gives him makes

pricks of overstimulation spear through him near-painfully.

It's good, it's good, /why/ is he so fucking good, he's not going to /survive/--

By the time Dazai is muffling his own groan into his neck, Chuuya feels mindless. Part of him is hanging onto his logic and composure

as tightly as possible, because he knows that they're still in /public/ and they still need to be careful--

But another, much more tempting part of him is reveling in the feeling of Dazai jerking against him and the spill of warmth inside him. He's pleasantly limp from his

orgasm, his muscles tingling and overworked--

Oh fuck, he's about to be /so/ sore, holy shit.

...Worth it, though.

The way Dazai reaches over and rips off a dozen sheets of toilet paper to catch the spill of cum when he pulls out isn't /sexy/, but it is caring. He /always/

takes care of him.

Clean-up is quick and half-assed, considering where they are, but they manage to get most of the evidence wiped away. Their pants get righted, and their hands washed, and the stripes of cum over the sink (Chuuya's doing) get wiped up quickly.

All in all, the

entire encounter took /maybe/ twenty minutes. Their fastest sex yet.

With a hand on the nape of his neck, Dazai pulls him in for a kiss on his forehead. "Welcome to the mile high club," he murmurs, slightly smug but Chuuya can't complain too much, sated and sore as he is.

---+

***** THE NEXT SCENE MIGHT BE DIFFICULT FOR ANIMAL LOVERS TO HANDLE *****

No abuse happens, and all animals are okay, but it will be rather upsetting. I will tag the end with ** and add a summary. Feel free to skip if necessary. Be safe 💖💖 *****

In hindsight, Dazai should've realized that his streak of good things happening to him would've run dry eventually.

He knew he was running away. He knew the vacation in Osaka, on his part, was little more than avoiding his responsibilities. He knew that if he dropped everything

for a week, that there would be consequences.

The call with Fyodor. Sasaki and Shuuji in his home. The botched meeting with Kouyou, which he regrets now that he isn't angry and petty. Meetings with Rokuzou.

He knew he was coming back to a /mess/, which is probably why he hid so

effectively beneath the covers in Osaka. He just wanted--

A week. A week of peace, and calm,and /savoring/ his little chibi before he had to go back to being crushed under the strain of his work.

And he /was/ expecting quite a few things when he got home--

But not this.

When he finally gets home-- over an hour since they landed, because he had to take Chuuya back to the dorms and watching him limp away with all the pride and dignity in his tiny body was too funny /not/ to watch-- there's two vehicles outside his house.

TOKYO ANIMAL CONTROL.

What the /fuck/?

And if that had been it, that would've been /fine/. He's a professional, he knows how to talk to government employees, he knows how to diffuse a situation.

But when he slides into his parking spot and hops out before the car has even stopped running, he finds--

/Two/ men in government uniforms, holding a strong pole between them, pulling on it with all their strength as they--

/Drag/ Yoko out of the house by her fucking /neck/, the self-tightening noose at the end of the pole wrapped around her throat like a choke collar.

For a second, there's just shock and a disturbing sense of pride-- /that's/ my girl, needs two grown men to take her down-- and then that all clears away as soon as he hears her.

She's fighting it, of course she is, back legs braced against the concrete steps as she whips her

head back and forth as she tries in vain to get the noose off. Every step she's dragged forward is hard-fought, resisted with all her strength.

She's snarling too, snapping, sounds that /sound/ scary, and are probably just more reason for animal control to yank on her--

But

Dazai can hear the fear and confusion behind it, because she's /never/ been treated this way. She's never been so much as pulled around on a /leash/, so being dragged out of her own home by strangers with a painful, merciless collar--

God, she must be /terrified/.

Dazai rounds

the corner of his car with a enraged snarl. How /dare/ they treat his dog like that? Dragging her out of her /own/ home like she's some rabid mutt?

"What the /hell/ is going on here?" He snaps and--

Poor Yoko, as soon as she hears his voice, she's letting out a terrified yelp

and bolting in his direction, tail tucked between her legs. Luckily, there's still enough slack that she can dive between his legs and huddle there, making soft whimpering noises as she searches for protection underneath him.

His heart breaks for her.

But none of that guilt and

/regret/-- he should've been here, he /should've been here/-- come through in his voice when he turns his head to pin the two men with a fierce glare.

"Pull on my dog again," he warns them, flashing his teeth in a threatening smile, "and I'm going to get /angry/."

He doesn't

threaten him. He's not stupid enough for that, even as angry as he is right now.

"That's your dog?" One of them asks, lowering the dog pole. He seems to be the leader of the two, and he's the bigger one. The nametag on his uniform says Sato.

"Yes, she's /my/ dog. I /just/ got

back from vacation an hour ago. Why are you here?" Dazai already has a sinking, curdling feeling of /who/ called them and /why/, but he wants to hear it before he makes any rash decisions."

"Sorry sir, we didn't know who or if the dog belonged to anyone--"

Dazai scowls, because

she's shiny, healthy and has a /collar/ on,of /course/ she belongs to someone.

"--we just got a call about an aggressive dog in the house. She bit the lady who lives here,and the dog needed to be removed so she could go to the hospital for stitches."

The /lady who lives here/?

Dazai turns his head, seething, and /there/ she is.

Sasaki, standing in the doorway with makeup running down her face with tears. It looks like she actually /was/ bitten because there's a kitchen towel wrapped around her arm with red spots drenched in the fabric.

/Good dog/,

Dazai thinks to himself.

"She /bit/ me!" Sasaki wails, choking back a pained sob. "She bit me and she wouldn't let /go/ and she wouldn't /leave/ so I had to call! I have to go to the hospital, oh god, it's going to /scar/--"

She breaks down again, in such loud, agonized cries

that even Dazai would feel sympathy for her--

If his dog weren't trembling and still crying softly between his legs.

Clenching his jaw, he speaks through his teeth to Sato and his partner. "Did /that lady/ tell you that she doesn't actually /live here/? This is /my/ house, and

/my/ dog, and she's trespassing? Yoko is a guard dog, and that /lady/ was uninvited in my home. She was doing her /job/."

Based on the awkward shuffling and the silent stares at each other, Sato and his partner /didn't/ know that. Of course they didn't, because /then/ they might

not have come as quickly. Or might've laughed her off and told her that if she didn't want to be bitten, she shouldn't be trespassing. Or maybe just called the /police/-- which would've been a mess in itself for Dazai, but he would've preferred /that/.

"She told us she was

married to the guy who lives here," Sato mumbles, just loud enough for Dazai to hear. "Is that true?"

Sasaki said /what/ now? They haven't spoken in any regularity for over /five/ years, she comes into his house uninvited, gets his dog /arrested/ and claims to be his /wife/?

Admittedly, he hasn't been as firm with Sasaki as he could've been. Should've been, apparently. He let them drift apart and didn't exactly /deny/ her advances.

Didn't give into them either, but obviously he should've told her that there was no way in /hell/ they were getting

back together. He was willing to /work/ with her because she's the mother of his child,and he was willing to be civil and friendly with her--

But this is /out of line/.

"I haven't spoken to her in /five/ years," he hisses, uncaring that it's a /bit/ of a lie, "and she was /not/

invited into my home. Yoko was just doing was she was /trained/ to do."

Awkward, tense silence falls between the group. Sasaki is trying to muffle her tears, but she's still hanging around in the doorway waiting to see what happens.

Sato's partner-- Yamamoto, his name tag

reads-- shifts awkwardly in place. "Look," he starts, clearly trying to sound neutral, "there's obviously /other/ things happening in this situation that we were not aware of. We'd be happy to call the police for you, if that's what you'd like-- but the situation between you and

Sasaki is not our jurisdiction. We're here for the dog, because there's a process for aggressive animals, even if there was a reason behind the aggression."

It has not escaped Dazai's notice that neither of the animal control workers have said Yoko's name /once/, like refusing

to acknowledge that she's a well-trained and well-loved dog might make it easier on them to /drag/ her into the street.

"We do, unfortunately, still have to impound her. It's nothing personal, and I'm sure she's a good dog, but it is the policy with these things."

Dazai closes

his eyes. They're going to take her, and there's nothing he can do. He can't save her from this.

"What are you going to do with her?" He asks,hoping that knowing what's going to happen might make it easier to let her go.

It's Sato who speaks up this time. The dog-pole is still

hanging loosely from his fingers, and Dazai wants to break it over his /head/. "If this is her first offense, then we'll just hold her for 24 hours and take down all her information. Make sure she has her shots, and there's nothing wrong with her that a vet or a hospital would

need to know about."

That doesn't sound too bad--

"The first offense is easy. It's the third one you have to worry about."

Dazai almost doesn't want to know what /that/ means, but he /has/ to. "What happens at three?"

"... At three counts of aggression, animals are put down."

Well. That settles the matter, doesn't it? He's never letting Sasaki near his dogs ever again.

He clears his throat, fighting to keep his voice even. "And I can pick her up tomorrow afternoon, at this time?"

"Yeah, as long as nothing else changes between now and then."

Yoko

is completely updated on her shots, and she's a /good/ dog, so nothing should happen but--

God, Dazai is /so/ scared for her. He doesn't want to let her go or give her up, or make her spend a day in a tiny, cold cage feeling lost and confused.

But he has to. If he resists,

the police will be called, and he'll probably end up being arrested. Which is not /too/ terrible, considering he's buried his past as deeply as it can go and he has favors owed to him from people in powerful places but--

Yoko is not his /only/ dog. And if he gets arrested, he'll

be leaving Kozo alone with Sasaki and Shuuji. As much as it /hurts/--

He can't do that to Kozo either.

Taking a small step back, he crouches down in front of Yoko. She's immediately pushing into his arms, frantically licking at his face in tiny, wet apologies. Like she did

something wrong and she's trying to apologize so she doesn't get in trouble.

Normally Dazai doesn't let the dogs lick him much, and especially not his face, but this time he cups her face with his hands and lets her comfort herself. He rubs at her ears, below her jaw where she

likes it best.

"Good girl," he tells her lowly, feeling his heart sink a little further when her tail beats against the ground hesitantly. "You're such a good girl."

He slides one hand down, dipping his fingers underneath the noose-leash and loosening it enough that he can

slip it over her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sato frown and Yamomoto take a step forward, but he holds a hand up to stop them.

"You have to go with them, pretty girl," he tells her, wishing she could /understand/ him, so the confused, pleading look in her eyes

would go away. So that she would /know/, even if it's scary and confusing right now, it's not /forever/. He'll come back for her, he promises.

"I know you don't want to, but you have to so just-- be a good girl, okay? I'll see you tomorrow, I /promise/."

Gathering her up in his

arms to pick her up feels like betrayal. Feels like he's sending her away, even if he doesn't have a choice.

She doesn't understand that. All /she/ knows is that two scary men dragged her out of her home, and now her dad, the one person she trusts above all else, the one who is

supposed to /protect/ her and keep her safe--

Is pushing her gently into a cage on the side of the animal control vehicle.

And god, she's so trusting that she doesn't even fight him as he places her inside, and that just makes his heart break more. She trusts him /so/ much, and

he feels like he's /betraying/ her.

When he shuts the cage door on her, her ears drop and she looks so /sad/ that tears are automatically springing up in his eyes. His poor baby girl.

"Tomorrow," he promises again, sticking his fingers through the grate to give her nose one

last stroke before he steps away completely.

He's not normally an angry person, but he has to shove his fists into his pockets to let animal control drive away with his dog without making a scene.

He watches as long as he can, standing in the middle of the road, until the van

disappears from sight.

And he's left alone with Sasaki--who is /still/ crying to herself on the steps, not that Dazai cares right now-- Shuuji, and Kozo--

Where is Kozo? He hasn't seem him at /all/, and he's incredibly protective over Yoko so--

What did Sasaki do to him?

***** TAG WARNINGS OVER.

Summary: Yoko bit Sasaki, so she called animal control on her. Yoko was taken out of the house, and has been impounded in animal control for 24 hours.

*****

His first words to Sasaki aren't 'why' or 'what were you thinking' or 'stop crying, she wouldn't have bitten you without a /reason/', it's--

"Where is my dog?"

Sniffing, Sasaki looks up at him. She looks pitiful, drawn with pain and makeup running down her face in wet trails,

but Dazai cannot find an ounce of sympathy for her right now. Not when the image of Yoko, looking heartbroken behind a locked cage, is flashing behind his eyelids.

Sasaki looks confused and /hurt/, almost, like she's offended that he hasn't asked if she's okay yet.

"Where. Is.

My. Dog." he asks again, speaking through his /teeth/. He doesn't want to talk to her, he doesn't want to /see/ her, he just wants to make sure his other dog is okay.

If he can protect /one/ of his animals, maybe this feeling of guilt and anger boiling in his stomach will be

easier to handle. Maybe he'll stop feeling like a terrible dog owner, for just a second.

"In it's kennel," Sasaki sniffs, propping her arm up on her knees so she can adjust the towel wrapped around her wrist.

Normally the 'it' would piss him off, but he doesn't /care/. He's

bounding up the stairs in a single step, brushing past her without caring if he jostles her, and heading /straight/ for the room with the dogs kennel in it.

The room, when he throws open the door, reeks of dog piss. There's a discarded water bowl spilled on the floor, and their

food bowls are nowhere to be seen.

Kozo, when he sees him, hides his face under his blanket in embarrassment. It /smells/ like they've been locked in here for maybe the /whole fucking time/, and there's a wet spot near the back of his kennel.

The dogs know that they're supposed

to keep their kennels clean, and they'll hold in their urges for /hours/ if necessary, so for Kozo to pee in his own kennel--

Dazai's hands are shaking when he unlocks the kennel. "You're okay," he tells Kozo, trying to keep the /wrath/ out of his voice, "good boy. You're not in

in trouble. Go outside."

As soon as the door opens,Kozo is bolting outside,tail between his legs. Dazai follows him to the back door, opening it for him so he can go to the bathroom.

Poor thing barely makes it off the porch before he's crouching down.

It takes Dazai /several/

minutes to calm himself down so he doesn't start smashing the potted plants on the porch. He wouldn't even /mind/, really, he can always buy new plants, but Kozo is already nervous about being in trouble and he doesn't want to make it worse.

He makes a list of the immediate

things he needs to do.

1. Feed Kozo. He's sure he hasn't eaten, and he's too angry to ask. He'd rather him eat twice than not at all.

2: Give water to Kozo.

3. Kick Sasaki the /fuck/ out of his house before he breaks his years old rule and makes her disappear.

He heads inside, and if he adds twice as much of Kozo's favorite raw meat to his meal, then he deserves it. Seeing Yoko's bowl and not making /two/ bowls is physically painful.

His heart hurts. They better feed her.

Sasaki comes wandering in as he's mixing the eggs into the

bowl, which makes his jaw clench. He ignores her pointedly, making sure Kozo's food is made properly.

She unwraps the towel from around her arm, and--

/Needing stitches/ is a /bit/ of an exaggeration. He can see the cut where Yoko's teeth dug into her arm, and there is a decent

slice, but skin glue would be /just/ fine to close it up. It's much better than he expected,considering that Yoko is trained to take down men Dazai's size and /keep/ them down by tearing up their arm.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Sasaki says, voice thick with tears,

"I /told/ you they were aggressive. I didn't even /do/ anything and she nearly took a chunk out of my arm!"

It's a bad idea for her to approach him when he's like this. One of the /first/ and longest-lasting lessons of the Mafia is how to make a weapon out of anything.

Even a

wooden spatula he uses to stir dog food with.

"If you had just /listened/ to me--."

His fist slams into the counter without his permission, loud and sudden. It cuts her off mid-sentence, startles her and makes her blink at him in shock.

"How long were they in their kennels?"

Sasaki hesitates, long enough that Dazai's lips are peeling away from his teeth in an enraged snarl.

"Answer me."

He's not looking at her directly-- can't, he's on the /edge/ of his control, about to lose it-- but he sees the way she ducks her head in shame.

"Since yesterday."

All the utensils and knick-knacks on the island go clattering to the floor with one sharp, furious sweep of his arm. The sound makes her jump.

Good. She should be scared of him. Dazai has been /nothing/ but nice and understanding with her, ever since he was a kid. Offered to

help raise Shuuji, even though he never wanted children to begin with, and he was terrified of the prospect.

Gave her a /big/ allowance to work with every month, because if he wasn't going to be there physically, then the least he could do was support her.

Let her put a wedge

between him and his son, even when he started to express interest in getting to know him, because agreeing was better than arguing.

Let her coax him back into her bed, again and again, whenever she got bored of whatever man she was playing with and wanted attention.

Let her

use his money and connections to secure Shuuji a spot in Keio University, even though he didn't earn one.

Admittedly, it's not like Dazai /tried/ very hard to break the connection between them, but /fuck/. He shouldn't have to choose between being lonely, or having his dogs and

his self-respect /abused/.

And there is /one/ thing about Sasaki--

She has /yet/ to see him angry. Irritated, yes, but truly angry? When the hard-won self-control slips into the background,and the demon prodigy comes out to play?

No, she hasn't seen that. Because if she /had/

she would be afraid right now.

He sets down the spatula gently, rolling his shoulders. It's been so /long/, but it feels so easy, slipping into the mindset he needs for this.

Sasaki watches him warily as he stalks around the island towards her, but she doesn't move away.

He pins her against the counter with one arm on either side of her, locking her place as he looms over her, smiling pleasantly. "And what did you do," he murmurs quietly, smile widening when he sees the way her eyes dilate in response, "to get yourself bitten?"

She gulps, and

the feeling of her uninjured hand clinging onto his shirt is /unwelcome/, especially after having Chuuya all over him not even two full hours ago--

But he endures.

"I reached into her kennel to give her water, and she bit me." Her voice is breathy, and not in the way it should

be.

Does he believe her? Doesn't matter, he supposes, because something like that /would/ get her bitten, but either way--

The result is the same.

He leans down, until his breath is washing over her ear. She shivers against him, leaning up.

"You should know better than to

enter the home of something that /bites/." His teeth come together with a /click/ near her ear.

With the hand on his shirt, she tries to drag him closer. It's too easy to resist her.

"Why are you here?" He asks instead, because he's curious. Nothing much has changed since five

years ago, except for the fact that Shuuji has left /her/ home--

"I was lonely," she admits, "and I missed you. I missed Shuuji, I missed being a /parent/."

And something about that, the note of deep-set longing, something that's too /deep/ for missing her kid makes him pause.

The though nearly makes him laugh in her face, because it's just so /absurd/ but--

"Don't tell me you wanted me to give you /another/ kid?"

Her silence, awkward and ashamed, is answer enough.

It takes /everything/ in him not to burst out laughing because--

Who /does/ that?

In what self-centered, delusional world does wanting another child make the manipulation, the disrespect and the blatant crossing of boundaries /okay/? Did she really think that would /work/?

Well--

Come to think of it, if he /hadn't/ had met his fiery little redhead, it might

have just worked, actually. He was lonely enough back then that he might've just /fallen/ for the excuse, might've wound up with her in his bed again just to get rid of the crushing sense of isolation. Just to feel another warm, living body next to him, and damn the consequences.

He hadn't realized how bad it had gotten, but now that he knows what it's like to be bathed in Chuuya's warmth, his acceptance and just how /easy/ it is to be around him.

But now, with dark brown eyes, he's starting to realize...

He /much/ prefers blue.

With a sigh, he reaches

up and grips her wrist. He's not /gentle/, but he's not cruel either as he pries her hand off him and pins her arm to her side. "I'm going to make a prediction, and I want you to tell me if it's true."

She nods, a little hesitantly. Seems like she's finally starting to grasp the

situation she's in.

"You slept in my bed, didn't you?"

She looks away, swallowing hard as she nods slightly. He figured, but somehow the confirmation makes him feel...

Violated, in a way. Like his sacred, most private places have been torn open and scoured with dirty hands.

"Thank you, for answering," he says, watching her hopes start to rise, thinking she's about to get away with it all--

He smiles at her, benevolent. "Now get the fuck out of my house."

Sasaki isn't expecting that, so she stalls out a bit, blinking up at him in confusion. He

pushes away from her, clearing the path to the front door. Which is still hanging open, by the way, like she's not civilized enough to close the damn door.

There's a second where Sasaki just stares at him, waiting for him to take back what he said--

And when he doesn't, her

face melts into stubbornness. "And what if I /don't/?Are you going to call the cops on me?After your dog /mauled/ me? My son lives here, you can't just kick me out."

His smile grows. "No,I won't call the cops on you."

Victory fills her face--

"I'm going to call /Kozo/ on you."

The instant fear that fills her face is /satisfying/. There's only a handful of people that can claim kindness from him, and she's not one of them.

"I should warn you though; Kozo is a /bit/ harder to handle. Once he gets the taste of blood he just... goes /insane/. It'll be

quite a bit harder to drag /him/ off you. I'm not sure I'm feeling up to it."

Lies. Kozo is much more receptive to commands during attacks, and he has sensitive ears. If someone pulls on them hard enough, he'll let go.

But /she/ doesn't know that.

The staredown continues long

enough that he starts to open his mouth--

"Fine! Fine, I'll go.But I'm taking Shuuji with me, and you're going to regret being so harsh to me,"Sasaki snarls, stomping over to her purse that's been left on the couch.

Dazai highly doubts that.

As if sensing he was being called,

Shuuji comes trotting down the stairs. He looks wary,like he doesn't want to get in between their argument.

"Come on, darling, we're leaving," Sasaki orders, marching towards the door.

Shuuji hesitates, looking between them awkwardly. He finishes coming down slowly. "But mom--"

"No /buts/, Shuuji, get in the car /now/."

Dazai feels a little bad, watching Shuuji get dragged out of the house like a child being fought over in a divorce--

But it's nothing compared to the relief he feels when the door shuts behind them, and he's left alone in his house.

Alone, that is, with his dog and a mess to clean up.

Without the anger to spur him on, he feels so heavy. Heartsick, almost, weighed down by what happened until his feet feel stuck to the floor.

He wants his dog back.

He wants /Chuuya/, wants to collapse into him and just...

Just breathe, without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The sounds of Kozo snuffling outside jolt him into action. He still has to take care of him, even if he's starting to feel like /shit/ over Yoko.

He takes the bowl of food outside, watching as Kozo falls

on it with more enthusiasm than he's seen for a long time.

Kozo automatically keeps clear of the space beside him, respecting his sister's space even when she's not there. The sight makes his stomach turn.

And then...

"Mrow?"

Dazai gets a scruffy, irritable little visitor.

For a cat that's dusty brown and black with street dust and car oil, the little feline does step with such important air and self-satisfied grace as he approaches.

By now, Kozo and the stray have come to terms with each other and they may not /like/ each other just yet, but

they've come to this silent 'you ignore me and I ignore you' agreement.

"Hello there, little opportunist," Dazai murmurs, crouching down and offering his fingers for the stray to sniff. "Did you miss us while we were gone?"

The neighbor girl that Dazai pays to take care of the

dogs whenever he's gone is scared of cats,so he didn't ask her to do anything special for the stray.

It seems that the stray has taken that /personally/,because he's sniffing Dazai's fingers with a sense of disdain, alternating between glaring at him and glaring into the house.

"Don't worry," he tells the little cat, finding the spot under his chin that makes little rumbling purrs vibrate through his tiny body, "she's gone now."

He ends up feeding the stray some cat kibble he'd bought for him, and pieces of raw chicken to make up for the neglect over

the past week. It's only then that the little cat becomes /truly/ friendly,arching his back temptingly and staring up at Dazai with liquid green eyes as he silently begs for food.

After a while, he ends up taking a picture of the cat and Kozo, when Kozo comes over to investigate

why the cat is getting more chicken than he is.

He stares at the picture for a long while. It feels incomplete without Yoko in the background. Like there's an essential part missing.

Eventually, he sends it off to Chuuya with the caption of 'we miss you already'. It's probably

pathetic, the way he feels like he /needs/ Chuuya, barely even two hours after they spent a week together.

The thing with Yoko is...upsetting, understandably, but it's not /permanent/. He should be stronger than this but--

For a long time, the dogs felt like the only beings in

the world that /loved/ him, unconditionally. He watched them grow up, and they taught him that not all dogs are something too be feared.

[ BABY ]: awww I miss you guys too!! Give yoko a kiss for me <3

Fuck.

He slides down, back against the wall of the house, staring at the

contact picture he has for Chuuya. He changed it recently, to a candid shot taken of Chuuya laughing and twisting his face up and away as Yoko tries to lick at his cheeks.

"I wish I could, chibi," he mutters, brushing over the picture of his dog obviously happy and infatuated

with the little chibi.

The stray cat primly hops up on his thigh, settling there with his paws tucked underneath him and soaking up his warmth.

Dazai allows himself the next twenty minutes to just...

Pet his animals, and get what comfort he can out of them, even though there

is something missing. /Someone/ missing, because there's a chibi-shaped space in his lap and a Yoko-shaped space to his left.

After those twenty minutes are up, he gets cleaning.

Changing out the blankets in the dog kennels, picking up all the kitchen utensils off the floor,

stripping the blankets off his bed, turning the mattress over in sheer /pettiness/, taking the woman's underwear out of his clothes drawer (he's too exhausted to be angry at the audacity), packing up everything that isn't /his/ and setting it near the door for easy access later.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn't text Chuuya back.

He just cleans and...

Waits until he can bring Yoko back home again.

----- +

[ DADDY 🥰💕 ]: I need your help.

Chuuya frowns at his phone screen. Dazai has been surprisingly silent the whole day, ever since that text last night.

For a while, he'd been struggling between thinking he did something /wrong/ and arguing with himself that they just spent a /week/ together and they don't need to text all day again. He can wait.

[ CHUUYA ]: sure, what's up?

[ DADDY 🥰💕]: Are you busy tonight?

He /was/ but

something about how vague he's being makes Chuuya feel like this is important. The extra studying he was planning on getting in can wait.

[ CHUUYA ]: nope, i'm free all night and tomorrow morning.

The response doesn't come for another fifteen minutes, in which time he /almost/

texts Dazai again to ask what happened, or what he needs but then--

[ DADDY 🥰💕 ]: I'm outside.

He stares at his phone screen, confused and /concerned/ because--

Something about this seems /serious/? His gut is slowly sinking into dread, like he's about to get bad news.

He probably has put his shoes on and exited the dorms quicker a few times before but--

Today the entire journey passes by in an anxiety-driven blur. There's something /wrong/, he can tell, and he can't think of what Dazai needs help with.

Is it the dogs? The cat? Shuuji?

...Is he breaking up with him?

Dazai is waiting in his usual spot in the parking lot, and outwardly, nothing new has happened but his /stance/ is different.

He's slumped against the passenger side of the car, hands shoved into his pockets. He's staring blankly ahead, and when

he notices Chuuya coming, he greets him with a tiny, lopsided smile that looks incredibly hard for him to muster up.

As he gets closer, he notices that Dazai looks... rumpled, almost. Usually, unless they're slept together or for some other reason, Dazai is usually pretty well

put together. If any part of him looks /messy/, it's done in an artful, purposeful way.

Now though? Now his hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, and the black trench coat he's wearing just looks like he's trying to cover up his wrinkled outfit with it.

He doesn't look like he's slept at /all/.

Chuuya's stomach sinks. They were so /happy/ yesterday, and now Dazai looks like he's about to break under the strain. How could it go so wrong so quickly?

He stops right in front of him, staring up at him with the softest, most

sympathetic look he can wear, eyes flickering over the pale, drawn lines of Dazai's face. He looks so /tired/, in a soul-deep way that makes Chuuya's heart ache with sympathy.

"What happened?" He asks softly, unsure if he wants to know but--

Dazai said he /needed/ him. And if

he /needs/ him, then he'll do whatever he needs to.

For a second, he just stares down at him, lopsided smile growing more and more morose, and Chuuya is actually afraid he might start /crying/ and he doesn't know what to do--

A large hand reaches out, snags him by the lapel of

the jacket he's wearing,and drags him into a tight hug.

Because of their height difference,Chuuya often feels enveloped and smothered by Dazai. This hug is different, because now he feels like he's /supporting/ him,being the supporting beam as Dazai drapes himself on top of him.

He stands firm, letting Dazai lean his weight on him. His chin gets propped up on his head, and his arms are tight, /heavy/, bands around his shoulders.

They just like that for a while, with Chuuya's hands rubbing rhythmically over his back in an effort to comfort him. Dazai

is strangely tense, but also /limp/ in a way that speaks of exhaustion and stress.

With a sigh, Dazai pulls him closer and buries his nose in his hair.

Then, in a hoarse but forced-steady voice, like he's trying not to let it /bother/ him:

"It's Yoko."

No, no, /no/.

Panic and anxiety is /instantly/ welling up inside him, and he /almost/ jerks out of Dazai's hold to /demand/ he tell him what happened. It's a struggle to keep calm as he asks, "What about Yoko?"

"She..." Dazai starts, trailing off. He turns his head to press his cheek to the

top of his head. Normally, Chuuya might be annoyed by the subtle way he messes up his hair by rubbing his cheek against him, but not right now. "...She was impounded by animal control yesterday. She's home now, but..."

That doesn't make /sense/. Obviously, Yoko is a trained dog,

but she's /sweet/. She likes belly rubs, and her paws tickled, and she thinks the stray cat is her /best friend/. Why would anyone call animal control on her? Why would they /impound/ her?

"Why did they take her?"

"She bit Shuuji's mother, Sasaki. She called them."

Admittedly,

Chuuya has never met the lady, and he hasn't heard /that/ much about her, but--

If he didn't have a reason to hate her /before/, he sure as hell does now.

"Anyways, she's home now, but she won't come out from under the couch and-- I don't know what to /do/." Dazai's voice

cracks on the last word, and Chuuya finally gets a /hint/ of what emotional turmoil he must be in right now.

“Okay,” he says into his chest, squeezing him tighter. Trying to reassure him that he’s /here/, he’s going to help him, and they’re going to help her together. “Other

than that, she’s okay though?”

He’s heard some horror stories of /bad/ animal shelters and with the way Dazai is acting—

What if it’s /worse/ than that?

“Yeah, she’s physically fine.”

Alright. They can handle that. Chuuya can deal with anxiety, can help calm her down. But

his next concern is—

“Are /you/ okay?”

Dazai doesn’t let him pull away, crushing him to his chest until it almost hurts. It’s hard to judge what he’s feeling without looking at his face, but he just hugs him back as tightly as possible.

“She /adores/ you so I was hoping you

might be able to get her to come out without making it worse.”

He shifts, nudging his head against Dazai’s cheek. “That’s not what I asked, Osamu.”

Maybe it’s the /name/ or the insistence on asking twice, or being pressed so tightly together, but the next breath Dazai takes is

a long, shuddering one.

“I put her in the truck, Chuuya.”

Oh, /no/. He must be feeling so guilty.

“She was looking at me, and begging me not to let her go, and I let them take her. I let her go.”

He can /hear/ it, the sound of guilt and remorse in his voice. Can feel the

weight of it pressing along his frame, dragging him down.

“No you didn’t,” Chuuya tells him, forcibly leaning back. Dazai tries to follow him, but he pushes him upright so he can get a good look at his face and the sincerity shining there. “You didn’t let her go. She was /taken/

and you brought her home. She’s safe now, and she’s /home/, and you are doing the best you can, okay?”

He lets go of his waist with one hand, bringing it up to cup his face and brush his thumb along his cheekbone.

He can tell, by the way Dazai doesn’t answer and the way he

leans his cheek into his palm and closes his eyes, that he doesn’t really believe him.

That’s okay. He always knew Dazai was stubborn.He’ll just need some convincing, right now.

It’s going to be okay, he tries to tell him silently, with touch and affection.

Chuuya’s here now.

“Take me home,” he says, soft and quiet. The significance of his words won’t hit him until later, because right /now/, he has caramel-sweet eyes cracking open to look at him, and even though they are sad and melancholy—

They’re also one of the most beautiful things Chuuya has

ever seen.

The ride back is quiet, mostly filled with the background noise of the radio playing on low volume. Chuuya spends the entire ride holding one of Dazai’s hands. Interlacing their fingers, pressing it to his cheek, scattering a few kisses over his knuckles in silent

comfort.

It helps, a little.

And when they get to his house, entering in the front door quietly, one of the first things Chuuya sees is a furry dog butt sticking out halfway from underneath the couch, tail tucked tightly to her side.

She’s silent, but the sight makes his

heart ache. Poor Yoko.

“I’ll go make dinner,” Dazai mutters, moving to go into the kitchen—

Chuuya catches him by the wrist, tugs him back. “No, you’re going to order us something instead.”

There’s a moment where Dazai just looks at him, eyebrow arched. Then his expression

dissolves into amusement, and /finally/ he’s smiling for real. “Is that how it’s going to be now? You’re gonna boss me around?”

Chuuya sticks his tongue out at him. “You boss /me/ around, so it’s only fair.”

“Yes, but,” Dazai leans in, eyes crinkled with a smile, “you like it

when I boss you around.”

“Are you saying you /don’t/ like it when I boss you around?”

Dazai considers that, reaching out to brush part of his bangs out of his face. His fingers are achingly gentle. “I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs eventually, “it’s kind of cute.”

Embarrassingly enough, even though they’ve done /so/ much together, and Dazai has been so deep inside him he might as well have been in his /soul/—

That little comment, combined with the openly adoring look on Dazai’s face, is enough to have Chuuya blushing and looking away.

His /laugh/ is even worse, soft and fond, Chuuya’s favorite sound in the whole world.

“See?” Dazai teases gently, tugging on a strand of his hair, “Cute.”

Before Chuuya can do anything more than swallow hard, Dazai is spinning around and heading into the kitchen. There’s a

stack of takeout menu’s hidden in one of the drawers.

Some of them are new additions. Chuuya’s favorites.

“Order me—,” he starts.

Dazai waves him off, shuffling through the stack. “Yes, yes, I know what you like.”

He /does/, doesn’t he? Something about that, the sheer

domesticity of Dazai knowing what his favorite foods are from /several/ restaurants, knowing what to order him without having to ask, having his own place in the shoe rack—

If fills him with wonder and awe. Is this what relationships are like? Knowing something and being known

in return? Having a spot in Dazai’s home, in his life, in his /heart/, that’s specifically for Chuuya?

Knowing that, no matter what, he always has a home to come back to?

He watches Dazai for a moment, unsure of what to do with the strong emotion bubbling up in his chest

except just—

/Stare/, because he really did get lucky, didn’t he? He never would’ve thought his life would’ve wound up /here/, and if you had told him even a few months ago that he’d be /this/ happy?

He wouldn’t have believed you.

Sure, it’s unconventional and lots of

people his age might find it /weird/, or think that his time would be better off spent sleeping around or partying while he’s young but—

Home is /home/, and that won’t ever change.

Sometimes home is your boyfriend, the stray cat and...

His dogs.

His gaze breaks away from

Dazai and lands on Yoko. She hasn’t moved at all, not even her tail has twitched from its position tucked against her side.

He moves over quietly but smoothly, not trying to sneak up on her /or/ startle her with too much noise.

A few books have been shoved underneath one of

the legs of the couch, lifting it up enough so that Yoko isn’t being squished underneath the wooden frame.

“Yokooooo,” he croons invitingly, crouching down beside her.

Her tail thumps once against the ground, hesitantly. Despite everything, that pulls a smile from Chuuya.

“Yeah,you know me,pretty girl,” he says to her,reaching out to tug on the end of her tail in the way that usually has her rolling on her back and flashing her teeth playfully.”Are you going to come out and say hello?”

Another two thumps, and he can sense how interested she is.

But even though he can see her shifting underneath the couch, and her tail is starting up a slow, hesitant rhythm the more he pets her--

She doesn't move to come out. And sometimes, when someone you love can't come out themselves--

"You're just as stubborn as your dad," he

mutters, ignoring Dazai's soft 'Hey!' from the kitchen as he lays down on the floor and begins the process of wiggling under the couch with her.

-- sometimes, you have to go in after them.

It's surprisingly roomy down here, and mostly clean. There's a few piece of change

scattered over the floor, and some lint hanging from the couch fabric. There's what looks like an empty candy wrapper near Yoko's paw, but overall pretty clean and /much/ better than the couch back at Chuuya's family home.

"Cozy down here," he says conversationally, wiggling up

until he's lying on his back with his head level with Yoko's. She's staring resolutely ahead, like she's determined not to show that she's starting to cheer up, but her ears are pointed back towards him and her tail is picking up speed.

It /is/ cozy down here, though. Warm, but

not hot. The couch overhead creates this sense of safety and security, boxing them in and hiding them from view. There's enough room that he can lift his head a little bit.

It's like a den, almost. He can see why she dived under here and won't come out. No one can get them down

here.

"I heard you had a hard day," he says, turning his head to look at her. With the limited room, it's a bit difficult to get his hand on top of her head, but he manages it. He can only do short, awkward strokes between her ears, but she seems to appreciate it anyways.

"That must've been scary."

Dazai didn't really give him explicit details, but just knowing that she was dragged out and impounded for doing her job as a good guard dog is all he needs to feel sympathy for her. She's obviously still upset too, and anxious.

She whines, softly,

like she's agreeing. Her nose is wet when she pushes it into his palm.

"You know, when I was little, my dad and I got robbed once," he muses, unsure why he's telling her this story. It's not like she can understand it, but talking to her seems to help. "I was too little to

understand what was going on, really, but I do remember that there were scary men that yelled at my Dad and made him cry. I cried too, even though I tried to be brave."

Yoko shifts more onto her side, cuddling up into the curve of his body. Her head ends up being tucked

underneath his arm.

"And I remember being scared for a few days after, because what if they came back and made us cry again? I didn't want that to happen."

It's a vague memory by now, blurred by time and youth. Most of his recollection of it is in big, formless shapes, and the

stories he'd been told of it.

"Eventually, Dad sat me down and told me that it was okay to be afraid but I couldn't let that fear tell me what to do. I couldn't hide under my bed or under the couch. Life was outside, and there were good things and bad things in it."

He can hear

Dazai moving around in the kitchen, making small noises as he moves about. Chuuya didn't catch the phone call he made for food, but he can't hear him talking now.

"Anyways, I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's okay to be afraid, but you can't hide under the couch forever.

Your dad is worried about you, and he needs you. Your ball--" it's encouraging, that her ears perk up at the mention, "-- is outside, and so is Kozo. Your little cat friend probably misses you too. So you have to come out."

Footsteps approach, just loud enough for him to hear.

He lifts his head, just in time to see Dazai's black socks come into view and stop right in front of him.

Then, large hands are wrapping around his calves and pulling him out from under the couch, easily.

His view goes from the grey-white underside of the couch to honey-gold

eyes and a head full of dark hair, and a charmingly white smile.

"You guys are talking an awful lot down there," Dazai teases, crouching down to bridge the distance between them. One of his hands braces his weight near Chuuya's head. "What are you saying?"

"Secrets," Chuuya

tells him, smiling so big it hurts.

"It's not nice to keep secrets," he pouts, reaching out to brush his thumb gently over his freckled cheek, pausing to admire the rising heat there.

"Call her," Dazai continues before he can respond, voice lowering. "She'll come out for you."

He can't look away, his vision caught by the man hovering above him with a heart-melting smile. "Yoko," he calls, filling his voice with as much temptation as he possibly can.

There's a moment, when she doesn't immediately move, that he thinks she still won't come out. That she

still needs a little more time, but then--

With a sudden thrash, she's wiggling out from underneath the couch, butt-first. Her fur is standing on end and wild when her head pops out, and she sits up to look around.

She sees them, inches away, and her tail begins to slap against

the ground and her face melts into her signature doggy-smile, tongue lolling.

"There you are," Dazai breathes, relieved, reaching out with his other hand. She sniffs his fingers curiously, letting him get a few pets over her head before she gets distracted by some smell on the

ground and begins to follow it.

She's still nervous, going stiff whenever there's a noise she didn't expect, but now that's she exploring her home again, nose to the ground, Chuuya can safely say that she's going to be just fine.

"Told you she'd be okay," he says, gloating

just a /little/. He likes that Yoko cheered up so quickly for him, makes him feel /special/. She's Dazai's dog, obviously, but they have a special connection.

The corner of Dazai's mouth tips up, into something amused. "You did," he admits, and he's looking back down on him now,

leaning close, closer, /closest/--

"Thank you," gets murmured into the corner of his mouth, seconds before Dazai captures him in a deep, slow kiss that makes Chuuya's heart stutter in his chest before picking up double-time.

It's not fast, or frantic, or hard, or like any of

their kisses before. /This/ one feels full of affection and adoration, like Dazai swallowed the sun itself and is feeding it to him in small, kiss-shaped bites, ones that make his chest ache and his stomach feel like it's free-falling, and his head light as air.

It feels like

being /caught/, like being held with gentle-soft hands, like a door opening to let you inside, like all the things you dream of when you imagine the feeling of being loved.

Dazai's hair is soft. Always is, and his fingers tangle in the strands naturally, clinging close. He never

wants to let go.

He could do this forever. It'd be easy, the easiest thing he's ever done.

There's a short series of knocks on the door, startling them apart.

Dazai pulls away slowly, brushing a few lingering kisses over his bottom lip. Chuuya arches up into him, silently

hoping he'll just ignore it and go back to kissing him, /please/, he wants it, he /loves it/.

No dice.

With a muttered, "food's here," Dazai is pulling away entirely and forcing him to let go. He stands, arching his back to stretch out the strain caused by the weird angle.

From the floor, Chuuya pouts up at him. This is so unfair. Maybe he should've let Dazai cook.

At least then they wouldn't get /interrupted/.

When Chuuya leans up on his elbows, the first thing he sees is Yoko, stiff-necked and hackles raised as she glares at the door.

Considering the /last/ time there was a knock on the door she was then summarily dragged out and taken to the animal version of prison, it’s understandable for her to be wary.

Dazai opens the door, just wide enough for him to get his things, but keeping Chuuya and Yoko out of

sight.

There’s something about that, the casual defensiveness and protection about it that makes butterflies flutter in his stomach.

There’s a quiet exchange of food and money, and Chuuya is /pretty sure/ the delivery wasn’t worth that much cash but—

That’s none of his

business, is it?

When Dazai shuts the door again, plastic bags are hanging from his wrist.

Dinner is quiet and a casual thing. Usually they eat inside at the table, but today they eat on the porch to watch the sunset. It also lets them watch over Yoko as she reasserts her

dominance over Kozo by wrestling with him in the grass.

It’s hard to tell if she wins because she’s fiercer and more determined, or just because Kozo is too interested in his bone to keep fighting over nothing.

Halfway through, there’s a disgruntled meow from underneath the

porch and the stray cat comes trotting up like he’s irritated he didn’t get an invitation to dinner. Once he sees Chuuya though, he perks right up, tail waving fondly in the air as he rubs against his ankles with rumbling purrs.

Normally, he’s a bit more strict about animals

during dinner, because he doesn’t like little wet noses sniffing at his food, but today he lets it go.

They all had a hard day yesterday, and he can’t say that a little love and affection between them all is starting to soothe away the aches.

Besides, a purring cat on his lap

is doing wonders for the lingering ache in his thighs.

The soreness was at its /worst/ this morning, and when he first woke up, he was convinced he wasn’t going to be able to walk at all today. He had to lie miserably in his bed for an hour as his body slowly warmed up and the

aches began to fade away.

Once he was able to take a shower, it got better. He’s glad that summer break is still ongoing and the dorms are mostly empty for another week or so, otherwise someone might have seen him mournfully leaning against the wall underneath the weak water

pressure and reminiscing about having a /bath/ as he fumbled to clean himself.

It’s not a surprise to him that he actually /likes/ the ache. He likes the constant, subtle reminder of what Dazai did to him, and he /likes/ the pain. The bruises on his neck and thighs are

fading quickly too, which he’s silently mourning.

To him, bruises and soreness means he worked /hard/ at something, means he did well—

And to have the reminder of how /good/ was to him, to press on and massage until it’s aching—

Yeah, that’s good. He wants /more/ already,

is contemplating how to get himself underneath Dazai’s teeth again, now that the pain is fading pleasantly into the background.

Maybe not today though, he silently sighs to himself, because even though Dazai is /clearly/ on the upswing and he’s talking and smiling again—

He /did/ have a rather emotional day, and he’s soaking up whatever comfort Chuuya is giving him. His eyes are still guarded, looking haunted whenever they linger on Yoko for too long.

And it feels kind of...insensitive? To be like ‘hey you’re starting to feel better, let’s fuck

about it.’ It feels like he’s putting his physical needs over Dazai’s emotional ones and that’s not what he /wants/ to do, he’s just—

Needy, and quickly finding himself getting addicted to just how /good/ sex can be.

When you’re a virgin, you don’t /need/ sex. It’s tempting,

yes, but you don’t /need/ it. You think you can live without it, and not many things casually remind you of it.

/He/ used to think that he didn’t need sex. That it was overrated and overselled, and the pitying looks he got when he said he never had it before, were dramatic.

That all changed as soon as Dazai got his hands on him, and now Chuuya is watching the skilled, effortless way he handles his chopsticks, the way his hand settles casually on his thigh and nearly wraps around the entire width—

And he’s thinking to himself, /I need it, I need it

I need it so fucking bad, how did I go eighteen years without having it, I’m going to die without it./

Admittedly, he’s being dramatic but that doesn’t stop him from occasionally stabbing his crab-cakes too hard when Dazai’s fingers squeeze his thigh.

When they finish, Dazai

ends up cleaning up after both of them, because the cat is still in his lap and whenever Chuuya goes to move him, he digs his claws in with a low growl.

Spoiled thing, but fine. He can afford to pamper the stray with a little more attention. He’s probably been missing it.

He /does/ feel bad when he eventually has to go inside, because the cat blindly tries to follow him and--

He's not Dazai's cat, and this isn't Chuuya's home. (Yet.) He might've been able to coax Dazai into giving the cat some blankets in a little, warm nook outside and some food

to make sure he doesn't go hungry, but he can't just invite the cat in, no matter how pitifully the poor thing is looking at him. Dazai hasn't mentioned /adopting/ the cat, and as far as Chuuya knows, he doesn't even like cats.

He's still good to the animal, but that doesn't

mean he wants to /keep/ him. He didn't even think about feeding him until he practically blackmailed him into doing it.

But Chuuya wants to keep him. Wants to keep him /so/ bad. He's never had a cat before--his father is allergic-- and underneath all the dust, the cat is /so/

soft. Fluffy, too, and warm in such a /holdable/ way, like a soft, squishy, warm little pillow you can carry around with you and hold for hours.

"Soon," he promises the little kitty, shutting the sliding door slowly. Big green eyes stare at him from the other side, betrayed.

Inside, Dazai is cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and putting away the extra food for later. He looks so effortlessly at home, confident and sure in his own domain.

To keep himself from getting caught staring, Chuuya takes out the bag of dog treats from one of the cupboards

and spends some time making Yoko and Kozo do cute little tricks for them. If they both get more treats than they /usually/ do, well--

That's between him and them.

When Dazai is done, he comes over to drape himself over Chuuya's back again, chin propped up on his head and arms

heavy and tight around his shoulders. He rocks them both, back and forth, just a little bit.

"It's late," he sighs, turning his head to nuzzle his cheek into his hair. It's not late, barely past dinner time, but with how exhausted he looks, Chuuya is surprised he's lasted this

long. "And I'm tired. I can take you home now, or you can--."

He cuts himself off there, like he's not sure how to finish that sentence or he's not sure how to /ask/.

That's something he's noticed about Dazai, more and more these days. He has an almost creepy talent for

snuffing out what Chuuya needs--whether that be physically, or emotionally-- and giving it to him, most of the time before he can even /ask/ for it. And when he does ask for it, it's given to him quickly and easily.

But the man also /never/ asks for anything himself. He's shut

up tight, and it's so /hard/ to guess what he's feeling. If he needs something, he usually ends up /taking/ it, but that's usually /physical/ needs and sometimes--

Sometimes you need more than that. And it's hard to ask, Chuuya understands that, but he /also/ wants to be the

person Dazai feels safe and comfortable enough to come to when he needs something.

Tossing the dog treats onto the counter out of reach, Chuuya turns in his arms. Dazai lets him, giving him the room to wrap his arms around his waist and look up at him.

The bags under his eyes

makes sympathy pang through him. "I can what?" He asks gently, smiling encouragingly up at him.

He's pretty sure he knows what he's going to ask, but the act of asking is important in itself.

One of Dazai's hands slides up, finding the curve of his jaw and cupping it. His

thumb brushes over his lips. The very tips of his fingers tangle in his hair, rubbing over the wild strands, quietly reverent. Silent, steady, every day worship.

Chuuya leans his cheek into his hold,silently waiting for the question, unhurried.

"You could stay, if you wanted."

Chuuya smiles up at him. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He doesn’t want to go back to the too-hard twin bed in his dorm anyways. After a week of sleeping in a luxurious king that was the perfect amount of supportive and soft, going back to his dorm bed was like going to sleep on a

/rock/. His back popped like eight times when he woke up, it was horrible.

With a small, lopsided smile, Dazai leans down to give him a single, grateful kiss. It’s long, lingering, Dazai’s top lip slotting naturally between his.

The dogs watch as they go about making sure all

the doors are locked and the windows are closed and all the electronics are off. It’s a little pathetic, the way he feels like swooning when Dazai asks him to turn off the porch light but—

It’s /domestic/. It’s what he did when he was living at home, and to do it /here/, in his

/boyfriend’s/ house, makes their relationship feel real and /solid/.

It was easy to believe they were dating in Osaka. That felt like a dream, like something he would wake up from eventually. It’d be a good dream and he’d roll over and try to continue it but—

Just a dream.

But this? Borrowing one of Dazai’s button down shirts to sleep in and crawling into bed with him?

Real.

The way they settle in the middle, and Yoko comes leaping up to lay along the length of Chuuya’s back, warm and solid and heavy?

Real.

The way he’s the one drawing

Dazai in this time, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding /him/ instead of the other way around, the way it usually is?

Real.

The way long, strong arms are sliding around his waist to drag him closer, a heavy head on his chest with Dazai’s nose tucked into his

neck. Soft hair tickling his nose, the grounding weight of Dazai stretched out on top of him, stomach pressing down on his hips.

Real, real, /real/, and if this is a dream—

He doesn’t ever want to wake up. Let him sleep, forever if necessary, because his future is /here/.

With brown eyes, brown hair, and sugar-sharp smiles.

And if the devil came up and offered to buy his soul, Chuuya would say he already found heaven.

——— +

There’s a knock on the door. Late, by seven minutes. Nothing severe, but enough to set Fyodor’s teeth on edge. He hates

when people are late, especially his direct subordinates.

This /is/ still a business, even if it deals in blood and violence and substances. Fyodor would even go as far to say that underground organizations are a /purer/ form of businesses.

Aboveground, they deal in /money/.

Easily corruptible, easily taken advantage of, and despite everything, the same concept of what goes on far below the reach of the justice system.

Sell parts of your life to the people above you. Fight tooth and nail to survive. Complete projects you will never reap the benefits

of. Live and die by the command of others.

It’s just business.

“Come in,” he calls, taking a long drag of his cigar. It’s been a long day. Productive, but very long, and there’s a slight headache pulsing at his temples.

Alexei better have good news for him right now, or he

might just end up on the wrong side of his dagger, with the way he’s feeling now.

The door to his office and Alexei slides in. He’s a slim, short thing, unremarkable in voice or posture or build. He blends in perfectly to almost any situation he’s put into, with a skill that’s

been painstakingly trained into him.

People like Alexei are incredibly valuable to organizations like Fyodor’s.

Because you never notice people like him in a /crowd/.

“Boss,” the man says gruffly, accent slipping through slightly. “Got those pictures you wanted.”

Fyodor’s smile widens. The job was low-hanging fruit then, apparently, because Alexei had only been assigned two days ago. Usually it takes him a week or more, and Fyodor was /prepared/ to wait, as long as he needed to—

But sometimes, jobs are easy.

He holds his hand out for

the little envelope Alexei has in his hands. After a few quick steps, it’s being dropped into his palm.

It’s heavy, thick. Assumingly worth every penny Fyodor has paid Alexei for— the man /never/ under-delivers or disappoints, which is part of why he’s survived in this business

for so long.

The trick is to make yourself invaluable.

“Leave,” Fyodor tells him without looking at him, “I’ll speak to you later.”

Alexei ducks his head a little, retreating without another word. His black hair covers his eyes easily, and while his gaze is strong and

sure, it’s also deferential.

Fyodor likes him. He speaks only as much as necessary, and shows respect first and foremost.

It’s the old Russian blood. Priceless stuff, that, in these days.

Carefully, he rips open the top of the envelope and lets the stack of photos slide out.

And as /always/—

They’re good work.

Different still frames of a tiny redhead in different frames. Laughing at a cafe. Walking across the college campus. A few blurry ones through the window of his dorm. One of him disappearing into the men’s shower room.

Different angles of

his face and body, so he can be recognized from any angle in most lighting.

And the /prize/?

A tall, dark figure leaning against a car, draped over said tiny redhead with a pliancy that can only speak of /relief/. Large hands on a small face, tilting his head up for a kiss.

If it were plain fascination, Fyodor would understand. Hell, he might not even look at it too closely, if it were just that.

Nakahara Chuuya is appealing in a new, exotic sort of way. He’s Japanese—as far as he can find, at least— but the red hair and the blue eyes are

uncommon. The liberal spray of freckles over his cheeks are adorable.

Quite simply, Nakahara is someone you sleep with because it feels like an accomplishment to do so. He’s pretty, he’s young, he’s innocent, he’s naïve, he doesn’t look like a lot of ordinary people.

All

those added together would make it /tempting/ for a man like Dazai. Someone who revels in sexual deviation, in /dominance/, in finding sweet, unsuspecting men and women and dragging them with him in his constant search for pleasure.

Fyodor gets it. He’d fuck Nakahara too.

Might still, just to prove a point.

But this is /not/ fascination. This is affection. This is taking your lover on a week-long vacation to Osaka.

This is showing up, looking spent and exhausted, and taking /comfort/ in him.

This is love, sick and potent and corrupting.

He’s under no illusions—

Love can be a powerful thing. A bridge between two people, tying them together and forming new alliances. Marriage is a powerful took, when used in the right hands.

But love, between a washed-up ex-mafia brat and a college student? It’s laughable.

Pitiful, too, that just a pair of baby-blue eyes were enough to drag the demon back to earth.

And in this scenario, /love/ is a vulnerability.

Fyodor knows about Dazai’s son. Doesn’t know anything about him, because he’s been /irritatingly/ stringent on making sure the kid’s

entire record is so buried and sealed that not even he can find it.

But now he has something /better/, gift-wrapped to him directly.

He might not know much about Nakahara’s records— his hackers have yet to dig up anything interesting, which is interesting in itself— but he

doesn’t need to know those things now.

He doesn’t need to know who his family is, or where he went to school, or his potential criminal record. He has something /better/ than all of that combined.

He has a dorm room number, and a man on the inside. It’s practically fate.

He picks up one of the photos, one that showcases Dazai from the front. Nakahara is small enough that he doesn’t cover Dazai’s frame at all.

“You look tired, old friend,” Fyodor murmurs, brushing his thumb over the picture. The dark bags under his eyes have never been more

pronounced, and his face is pale and drawn. Exhaustion is an old enemy for both of them, but it seems that Dazai is finally beginning to crack under the strain. “I think it’s time for you to retire.”

Dazai from even a year ago was more observant and cautious than this. He

never would’ve been caught off guard in public, and especially not with someone he was attached to.

It seems that old dogs do forget old tricks, and Fyodor is happy to remind him.

Love makes you stupid, and sometimes it’s not /you/ who pays the price for your mistakes.

——-+

Chuuya wakes up /heavy/. The feeling of his body limp and unresponsive with sleep, grounded and warm. He can feel his limbs, somewhere, but mostly he just feels like swimming through warmth as he slowly comes back to the waking world.

Or maybe all that heavy warmth is coming

from the fact that Dazai is still draped over top of him, forehead nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. His arms are tight around him, hugging him close in his sleep like a teddy bear.

Yoko has found Chuuya’s right leg, the one that managed to escape Dazai’s

octopus hold, and has claimed it for herself. She’s using his foot as a headrest and the weight of her chest on his calf is making his foot go numb.

How is Chuuya the smallest person in this bed, and yet has become the community body pillow? Not that he /minds/, he likes the

grounding weight on top of him but—

His feet are numb. Dead numb.

And he’s the only one awake, because Yoko is making little doggy-dreaming sounds, and Dazai’s breaths are deep and rhythmic, washing over his collarbone in warm, steady waves.

He doesn’t know what time it is.

it doesn’t really matter anyways, because he doesn’t have anything to do until later this evening. Dazai didn’t mention anything either, so they’re free to sleep in.

Chuuya /would/ go back to sleep too, but there’s only one problem—

Dazai is /heavy/ on top of him, and he

didnt notice when he was falling asleep and obviously not when he was sleeping but—

It’s /work/ to breathe while being crushed underneath him. He can feel the muscles in his chest and ribs straining to lift the weight, and he can already tell that he’s going to be sore later.

In other news—

The ache that had taken up residence in his thighs, hips and lower back seems to have faded away almost completely. He can barely even feel a twinge when he raises his arms above his head and arches his back for a nice stretch.

Sensing his movement, Dazai

burrows in closer, lips moving over his skin in a sleepy mumble that’s too low to hear.

Before they started sleeping together—/actually/ sleeping together— he never would’ve thought that Dazai would be a grumpy morning person—

But he is, he /absolutely/ is, and that grumpy,

quiet grumble he always gives is /so/ endearing.

His hands wind up in Dazai’s hair, tugging on the strands lightly as he runs his fingers through it. It’s wild, and it’s starting to grow out again. The strands stick up for a moment when he brushes them out before falling under

their own weight. The undercut at the back is more of a fuzzy shave now, and could use a trim.

Or maybe he’s growing it out? Chuuya tries to imagine what that’d look like, Dazai’s face with his hair curving around his cheeks or brushing against his shoulders.

He wants to see

what that looks like. He likes the idea of being with Dazai long enough to watch his hair grow out.

It’s the simple changes that make his heart feel the warmest.

“Dazai,” he murmurs, tugging a little harder.

“No,” Dazai grumbles, nuzzling closer like he can avoid being

woken up if he just refuses to let go or move. He mumbles something else, too low to hear except for the last bit: “‘m sleepy.”

Smiling fondly, Chuuya tugs on his hair again, trying to get his nose away from his neck. “You don’t have to get up, you just have to get off me.”

“Comfy,” he whines in return.

“I /know/ you’re comfy, but you’re hurting me.”

It’s only a little bit of a lie. It’s more of an ache, and something Chuuya could deal with if he needed to.

Apparently that’s all he needed to say, because the next thing he knows, Dazai is rolling

over onto his back and dragging him with.

Yoko makes a startled noise, sitting up to look around in confusion as to why her pillow was stolen out from underneath her. The fur on one side of her face is flattened, while the other side is rumpled and sticking out in odd places.

She looks like she has bedhead, funnily enough, nearly a match to the look Dazai has on.

When she sees it’s just them, she yawns with a high-pitched sound of irritation. She stands up to stretch, first pressing her chest to the bed then her back legs one at a time.

She jumps

off the bed then, and trots out of the room. Chuuya can hear Kozo getting up to follow her— he’s strangely resistant to sleeping on the bed and prefers to sleep in front of the door— and a few moments later, the sound of their feet on the stairs echoes from outside the room.

Without the weight on his legs, feeling is quickly returning to his feet. He flexes his ankles absently, rubbing his toes against Dazai’s shins.

With his face turned into the pillow and once again breathing peacefully, Dazai doesn’t stir. He looks asleep again, not that Chuuya

can blame him. By the time they’d fallen into bed, the poor man looked like he passed out instead of going to sleep.

Of course, that means Chuuya is finally free to admire him without him interfering. When he’s awake he’s /annoyingly/ teasing, and if he sees Chuuya looking

at him, he /will/ tease him until he’s blushing and looking away.

Or tease him until he’s practically crying with the need to orgasm, but that’s almost as bad. Just more enjoyable.

Now that he’s /asleep/ though...

Chuuya can just drink him in.

Slowly, he pulls himself to

a sitting position with his legs tucked under him, balanced over Dazai's hips.

Dazai fell asleep without a shirt on, and with a little coaxing, Chuuya had managed to persuade him to take off the bandages, leaving him completely bare to his gaze.

His belly, strong and cut with

muscle, rises and falls with his every rhythmic breath. Above that, the gradual swell of pectoral muscles that lead nicely into mouth-wateringly defined shoulders and biceps.

On one side, the red and blue koi fish chase each other endlessly over the planes of his chest, sakura

petals falling like a river down the curve of his shoulder and arm. It's graceful, and with the slow, subtle movement of his body, it almost looks like a flowing river.

Now that he can take a moment to look closer without making Dazai edgy or nervous, he can find a few stretch

marks and places where the ink looks oddly thin. Like it was done when he was young, and he's grown into it.

"Taking advantage of me when I'm sleeping and unaware, are you?"

Startled, Chuuya flinches a little. His eyes dart up, catching on the small smirk curving Dazai's lips.

His eyes are still closed though, and the rest of his face is impassive. If Chuuya hadn't heard him speak, then he would've assumed he was still sleeping.

Scowling, he flicks at his stomach. "I'm just /looking/ at you, don't make it weird."

That earns him a huff of amusement.

His eyebrow arches, and his smirk widens but his eyes still don't open. "And do you /like/ what you see?"

/Yes/, in every aspect, from the well-cut build of his body to the snarky, charming personality hidden away in the teasing curl of his lips.

Licking his lips, Chuuya places

a hand on his stomach. He pushes up, letting his fingers follow every dip and bump of his body, tracing his way up. The way he tenses up slightly, abs flexing, makes satisfaction curl through his stomach.

"Yes," he admits, voice low. His hand slides over his ribs, following

the line of muscle over his side. It expands under his touch with another breath, intoxicating.

Finally, Dazai's head turns and his eyes crack open slightly, revealing those caramel-brown eyes Chuuya finds himself so fixated by. They're dark now, like coffee, drawing him in

closer so he can pick out the flecks of green and gold inside them.

"And what are you going to do about it, doll?"

Incensed by the teasing, inviting tone and the nickname he hasn't heard in /so/ long, Chuuya lurches forward to kiss him.

The first press of their lips together

is rough, hard enough that Chuuya's teeth press painfully into his lips--

But then he adjusts, planting a hand near Dazai's side to take his weight, and tips his head to better the angle.

The /next/ kiss is much better, and maybe it's because of the lingering emotional release

from the day before, or simply just how warm and heavy and indulgent everything feels right now, but this kiss isn't as rushed as it usually tends to be.

It's deep, yes, with Dazai's tongue sliding into his mouth to scrape the metal ball of his piercing along the insides of his

teeth. Chuuya takes his turn to pull Dazai's lower lip into his mouth until he can feel the rush of air escaping him in a breathy hush, tinged with the faintest of groans.

Underneath him, Dazai's hips press upward. Not a /thrust/, but a mindless, instinctive need to seek out

pressure on his growing erection. The heat of him pressed against the curve of his ass, separated only by the thin barriers of Dazai's sweats and Chuuya's underwear, is too tempting to ignore.

He slides to the slide, kissing the corner of his mouth and making his way down to his

sharp jaw. Dazai lets him, tipping his head back to give him better access to his neck.

There's a spot, just under the hinge of his jaw, that pulls out a low groan when Chuuya's teeth sink into it. The sound makes excitement thrill through him, so he sucks on that spot /hard/,

until he can feel his pulse throbbing underneath his tongue.

Hands find his knees, creeping upwards in a slow sweep of appreciation. Fingertips linger over the rising goosebumps, finding every sensitive spot and teasing it lightly with the barest brush of nails. Every inch

gained feels like it leaves flames behind, drawing his skin tight with sensitivity.

He moves down, biting marks over Dazai's Adam's apple and around the base of his neck. He finally understands /why/ Dazai has always spent so much time marking him up with his mouth, because the

satisfaction that wells up inside him when he pulls back to see the red, wet mark blooming on Dazai's skin--

It's /raw/, primal.Fills him with the hunger for /more/. More marks, more skin, more touch, more pleasure, more, more, /more/.

Dazai's hands coast over his hips, fingers

curling around the width of them and digging in. He drags him down, encouraging a slow, forceful rock of his hips that drags his ass along the length of the growing erection beneath him.

Chuuya's next breath is hitched, eyelids fluttering. The friction is good, but the /promise/

behind it is what really sets him off.

He knows what it feels like inside him, turning his brain to mush and overloading his system with pleasure, and he wants it /again/.

Just a little different this time, because--

Dazai is warm and solid beneath him, Chuuya is on fire with

need and anticipation, and he's /finally/ got the upper hand.

"Lube," he mutters into Dazai's collarbone, biting down hard until he gets a sharp hiss in return.

In retaliation, his hips buck underneath him, nearly unseating him. It also makes his own erection, trapped still by

his underwear, drag against Dazai's lower belly.

"Impatient," he hears from above him, which is directly contrasted by the way one of Dazai's hands lets go of his hip to dig through the small nightstand to his left.

At least he doesn't have to go searching through the drawers

underneath the bed, because Chuuya wouldn't give up his spot for the world. There's something satisfying about having someone so big and dominating underneath you, like turning the tables on them and taking control instead.

Naturally, he likes being /under/ Dazai too, but he's

enjoying the privilege of taking his /time/, and move at his own pace.

Usually, he's frantic with lust, vibrating with the need for Dazai to touch him /harder, faster, more/, and he rarely gets to /appreciate/ the beautiful stretch of skin underneath him like this, rarely gets

to mark him up with his teeth and tongue, rarely gets to grind against exactly how /he/ wants.

Maybe he's high on the power of it, because when Dazai's hand comes back with a lube bottle, he's snatching it out of his palm before he can even crack the top on it.

He's never done

this to himself /but/ he's had Dazai's fingers inside him enough times that he's confident he'll be able to figure it out.

"You really /are/ impatient," Dazai teases, hands pushing up the hem of his shirt. It's one of Dazai's, much too big on him.

Neither of them want to take

that particular piece of clothing off, but Chuuya's underwear /has/ to go.

"I just want to help," he croons temptingly, dipping his fingers into the waistband and starting to drag it down. "Don't you want me to do it?"

Chuuya /almost/ gives in, especially when his hands slide

over his ass and /squeeze/, long fingers nearly able to grab an entire cheek with each hand--

"No," he mutters crossly, biting his chest again because he /knows/ what Dazai is doing. Trying to distract him and take charge again. "I'm taking care of /you/ this time."

(That makes Dazai pause for a moment, a little confused because--

For a second he thinks he means he wants to fuck /him/, which, don't get him wrong, he's bottomed before and liked it, it's just not really his thing and he's not feeling up for teaching a virgin how to fuck him

this morning, especially when he's still so tired--

But then Chuuya squirts lube onto his fingers and brings them around to his own ass, and it starts to click.

He wants to be in /charge/. He wants to do the work himself, while Dazai just lays here and enjoys it.

Cute.

Surprisingly sweet too, because even though Dazai absolutely would not mind flipping them over and pressing him down into the mattress, there /is/ still a lingering exhaustion in his mind and his body, like a phantom ache.

He could ignore it if he wanted but--

The view /is/

nice though, as Chuuya sits back a little to work his fingers into himself so--

Why /not/ enjoy it?)

Chuuya is quickly realizing that being fingered is a /much/ different experience than doing it to himself.

First off, the angle is awkward enough that it puts strain on his

wrist and limits his movements. If he's not careful, he could give himself a cramp that would be /embarrassing/, because he thinks he's pulling off the whole smooth, suave, seductive thing very well right now, and he doesn't want to ruin that.

His fingers /are/ quite a bit

shorter and thinner than Dazai's, which creates frustration inside him because he's gotten used to the /stretch/ and the feeling of Dazai attacking his prostate until he's mindless from it, and he can't /do/ that to himself, his fingers just aren't long enough and he doesn't

know where that spot is.

It does, however, allow him to open himself much quicker than Dazai usually takes. Dazai likes to take his time and tease him until the next addition barely even causes a stretch, and Chuuya /likes/ that but--

Now he's on top, sitting on his bulge and

wanting it so bad he doesn't /want/ to wait. Doesn't want to draw out the process for as long as possible, he wants to be fucked and he wants it /now/.

It doesn't take long for him to work his way up from one finger to two to three. At that point, the most he can do is awkward

flexes of his wrist and fumblingly trying to spread his fingers inside him, because he /knows/ that if he doesn't open himself up properly and it looks like he might be hurting himself, then Dazai will put a stop to it.

Of course, Dazai /isn't/ helping him at all. His hands are

coasting over him in long sweeps, finding every sensitive spot and brushing lightly over it with /teasing/ fingers, building his anticipation up, up, /up/.

There's a point, too, when Dazai is unbuttoning his shirt-- not brushing it off, but just opening it so he can explore his

chest and play with his nipples until Chuuya is panting and arching into the tight pleasure-- that Dazai murmurs, "Come on, baby, you're going to need more than three to take /me/."

And that, the reminder of how /big/ he is, how completely he fills him up, how Chuuya feels like

he's overflowing and bursting with pleasure and heat and ecstasy whenever Dazai is with him,over him,/in/ him--

His body clenches down at the reminder, contracting hard.

Licking his lips again, he leans back farther, reaching back with his free hand to brace himself on Dazai's

thigh. That settles his weight deeper in his lap, and the heated outline of his erection presses against him hard. He rocks against it absently, twisting his wrist to add his pinkie finger.

It also gives Dazai access to his entire front, which he /eagerly/ takes advantage of.

One hand palms his chest, tweaking his nipple until it almost hurts, pleasure tight and coiling in his belly. The other drifts over his stomach, admiring the flexing muscles, as he works his way /down/--

His underwear is still trapped around his upper thighs, both of them too

impatient to properly pull them off before getting started.

That doesn't stop Dazai's hand from dipping inside and wrapping around his erection to pull it out. The friction is mostly dry, and the slow stroke Dazai gives him is /rough/, but the attention is /so/ good, finally

a taste of what he needs, and it just builds the desperation higher, hotter.

“I’m ready,” Chuuya pants, spreading his fingers inside himself one last time. His body is so eager for touch that his muscles melt into the pressure.

Pulling his fingers out, he shuffles to get his

his underwear off completely. He goes to shrug off the shirt, only to have Dazai’s fingers tighten around his hips.

“Leave it on,” he murmurs, tugging it back into place. It’s massive on him, the hem falling below mid-thigh, but it’s not restrictive or limits his movements, so—

He leaves it on. Partly because of the way he feels in it, cute and small and /sexy/. Partly because Dazai looks like he might devour him in it.

Dazai steals the lube back from him while he’s distracted, and pours a decent amount into his own palm. He slicks himself up with

quick motions, sighing pleasantly from the friction and the quick dose of pleasure.

Impatience rises quickly, and as soon as Chuuya sees that he’s wet enough, he’s knocking his hand out of the way and climbing back into place.

Dazai raises an eyebrow at his audacity, but

he doesn’t say anything.

(Not yet, at least. As always, Chuuya will pay for being a brat /later/, but he hasn’t internalized that lesson yet.

For now he’s just—.)

Impossibly, Dazai’s cock feels /bigger/ from this angle. The head slides wetly between his asscheeks, sliding

over his entrance but not pressing in.

Arching his back to reach under him to line Dazai up is /hard/, and he’s hoping Dazai will take some mercy on him and help but—

He doesn’t. He just watches, mouth curled into a smug look and clean hand tucked beneath his head in the

very picture of self-satisfaction. His expression says ‘you said you wanted to be the one to do it— so do it.’

After a few tries that end up with Dazai’s cock glancing off his hole and sliding between his ass, Chuuya /finally/ finds the right angle and begins to sink down.

And—

He made /miscalculations/.

For one, his fingers aren’t /nearly/ the same width or stretch as Dazai’s, so even though he used /four/, all the way to the knuckles, there’s still a burning, aching stretch that makes him have to fight for every inch he sinks down.

For

another, he can actually see Dazai's expression clearly from this angle, and /god/, it looks so good he wants to stare at it /forever/. Eyes dilating, going half-lidded, devilish pools of black tar that drink in the sight of him as he lowers himself agonizingly slowly.

Lips

parted on a soft groan, shiny and wet, the hint of teeth behind them.

A slight flush growing on his cheeks, dusting his cheekbones and nose with shades of pink, his nostrils flaring. Jaw clenched as he fights the urge to thrust /up/, letting Chuuya take his time to work himself

down in short strokes.

And /fuck/, he's so big. Big enough that it feels like it's carving out space in his insides,big enough that he swears he can /taste/ him in the back of his throat,big enough that /every/ sensitive spot gets pressed against mercilessly, driving him /wild/.

His head falls back on a moan, swallowing hard as he fights the urge to /chase/ that sensation recklessly, to drop down the rest of the way down in one quick slide, wondering deliriously--

Is it /always/ going to feel this big? Feel this /good/? Is he always going to feel like

his mind is melting under the pressure?

He swears he can feel every bump and ridge of his cock as he settles downward, feel it throbbing inside him.

By the time his ass comes to rest against Dazai's hips, taking a deep breath feels impossible. Oxygen is like fire to his blood,

molten lava in his veins and pumping through his pounding heart.

"God," he chokes out, shuddering when every shift of his body makes Dazai's cock move slightly inside him. Electricity crackles along his nerves, flaring higher with each tiny movement.

"Mm," Dazai hums, and

he can already /tell/ he's about to say something /stupid/--

"I prefer Daddy, but you can call me that if you want."

Yep, there it is.

He's glad his face is tipped towards the ceiling, because he can't help the small smile in response but he doesn't want Dazai to know he

found that even a /little/ bit funny.

Leaning back, he braces himself again on Dazai's thigh. His leg is strong and solid beneath him, packed with muscle, and providing an /excellent/ base for him to work off of. The angle tips his hips backwards, and now the ridge on the

underside of his cock is pressing /relentlessly/ against his prostate.

"Fuck you," Chuuya responds, not even a little bit ashamed of how breathy his voice is, or the tinge of amusement in it.

Dazai's hips flex, burying himself a centimeter deeper in a quick, sudden movement

that has his breath stalling out in his chest. "Baby, I think it's the other way around."

Well--

He has a point there.

Deciding he's had /quite/ enough of conversation, Chuuya rocks his hips, testing the slide. There's enough lube between them that everything is slick and wet,

satisfying a primal, animal part of him.

Dazai slides out an inch, presses back /in/ on the rock down, his cock hitting his every sensitive spot. Heat rockets through Chuuya, intoxicating and addicting, prompting him to rock his hips /again/.

Pleasure builds slowly, coiling

around the base of his spine and tightening with every rock of his hips. It satisfies his desire, only to relight a deeper, more irresistible desire for /more/.

It never feels like he's going to get enough. He could do this /forever/, and yet as soon as his hunger is sated,

it starts to grow again. He’ll never be satisfied, he’ll always need /more/. More of Dazai, more of him on him, over him, under him, /in/ him, needs with the fierce burning of a thousand suns.

Taking a deeper breath, he rises up on his knees, pulling up until Dazai’s about

halfway inside him—

Then he’s sinking down again, eyes rolling back at the sensation of being /filled/ again. With the angle, the head of his cock /drags/ over his prostate, such intense, merciless sensation that his thighs are beginning to tremble.

Coming back to rest against

his hips is like satisfaction itself, the width of his cock stretching his rim to its limits. He grinds there, trying to get him /deeper/, circling his hips slowly.

"Fuck," Dazai hisses, rough voice sending a pulse of excitement down Chuuya's spine. The arm folded behind his

head is tensing, bicep flexing. His other hand finds Chuuya's thigh, tracing the straining tendons and muscles in his thighs, leaving wet trails of lube behind.

Chuuya doesn't care about that, doesn't care about the /mess/, only cares about getting more touch, more pleasure,

more /everything/. He rocks his hips forward as he leans farther back, offering Dazai more access, /hoping/ he'll touch his cock again.

"Ride me, baby," Dazai murmurs, hand sliding up over his hip, thumb sweeping tempting close to where his erection is /aching/ for attention.

His eyes are like brands on Chuuya's skin, a physical burning weight that leaves him melting in its wake. "I want to /watch/."

Involuntarily, his body clenches up at the thought. There's something so intoxicating, so /addicting/, about the idea of being the center of Dazai's

attention. Like the rest of the world doesn't matter, the rest of his problems are melting away, all his insecurities and vulnerabilities fading away.

All there is is here and /now/, filled to the brim with pleasure and the need to /perform/.

The next time he drags his hips up

is a little faster than the last time, a little more confident. He circles his hips on the way back down, a moan escaping him at the different angles.

Dropping back down his relief on his thighs, but it's not as /hard/ as he wants it to be. Even with the weight of his body

behind it, it's not /nearly/ as hard as it was when Dazai was fucking up, and he's craving it.

"Beautiful," Dazai breathes, hot-wet hand coasting over his working abs. "Don't stop."

He won't, he won't, he won't /ever/ stop.

Building a rhythm is surprisingly easy. All he has

to do is follow the raging instincts of his body, the hunger in his stomach that is demanding more, and faster and /harder/.

Every bounce up is accented by the delicious drag of Dazai's cock against every one of his nerve endings. Every drop down feels like being remade again,

every empty spot inside him getting filled again, until he feels like he might /burst/ from the overload.

The tension is building, coiling in his belly and growing tighter with every slam down. Dazai feels /so/ big in this position, so big he can't escape it, all he can do is

hang on and /survive/.

His thighs are aching with the work, trembling with exertion. He's strung thin between the desire to stop and rest, and the /need/ to keep climbing up to the peak, chasing pleasure like a drug on his addicts tongue.

For the most part, Dazai is unmoving

underneath him. His hand is still wandering over his body, pausing to pinch and pull at his nipples until Chuuya is shuddering, sliding over his abs, thumb swirling over the pre-cum welling up at the tip of his cock.

With a wicked look in his eye, he brings his thumb to his

mouth. His tongue is wet and tempting, metal ball of his piercing flashing in the light of the room as he /slowly/ licks his thumb clean. Chuuya is caught by the sight, eyes intently following every talented curl and swipe of his tongue and vividly remembering what it felt like

on his /dick/, how wet and hot and /perfect/ his mouth felt, the second best thing he's ever experienced.

The first being, obviously, his cock /inside/ him, but it's a hard thing to choose between.

If he focuses enough, he can /almost/ imagine the sensation of it. There's lube

on his erection now, hot from the leftover warmth of Dazai's hand and if he /thinks/ hard enough, he can /just/ imagine what it feels like to be swallowed down again, hot-wet suction around him--

His hips stutter, his rhythm beginning to fall apart as the tension continues to

build, starting to reach a breaking point.

It's good, it's /so/ good, somehow even better with how hard he has to work for it. The aching need in the base of his erection is rivalled by the ache of exertion in his thighs.

Dazai's hips shift underneath him, bucking up once with

force that Chuuya is lurching forward to catch himself with a hand on his chest, nearly unsettled from his seat entirely.

"I didn't say you could stop," Dazai muses, hand coasting back up his chest, over his collarbones, to wrap loosely around his throat. "You can do better than

that, can't you? Don't tell me you're giving up already?"

He's not, he just needs a /break/. His thighs are burning and his abs are aching, and even though it's /so/ good, it's still somehow not enough, he needs /more/ and it's so /hard/--

He goes limp in Dazai's grip, hips

grinding forward absently to get more friction against his erection from Dazai's stomach.

"No," he gasps out, lungs burning, "I just--"

He cuts himself off with a low keen, unable to continue that sentence. Unable to even think of what he was going to say, mind melting and

thoughts blurring together.

"I /know/," Dazai croons, voice reverberating in the small space between them and dripping like wax down Chuuya's spine, "You're close, aren't you? Just need a little more?"

Maybe the intent is to be mocking, but all he can think about is how /good/

he sounds like that, how easy it is to slip into his control.

He nods, shifting his rhythm to small, short bounces on his cock. The angle means that his prostate is practically being /milked/, fiery waves of pleasure building and building and building.

"I can tell," he

continues, dragging him down to give him a sweet, lingering kiss. "I can feel it when you get close."

Finally, /finally/, his other hand is moving and he's touching him with /both/ hands. This one finds the curve of his hip, tightening around it ruthlessly and dragging him back

into every thrust, increasing the pressure.

Breaking the kiss, Dazai slides to the side to smear loud, wet kisses over his cheeks. His breathing is rough, the only thing Chuuya can hear besides the wet sounds of their bodies coming together.

"You get /tighter/, baby," he

says, and something about having his /own body/ described to him in that voice makes Chuuya spiral even higher. "Feels so good around me."

Yes, yes, he /likes/ that, likes that he makes Dazai feel good, likes that he's doing /good/.

"I should keep you here forever," gets

smeared into his cheek, like a thought Dazai hadn't /meant/ to voice but ended up revealing by accident. "Strung out and just waiting for me to give you what you need."

The last word is punctuated by the hand leaving his hip and moving inwards, /finally/ wrapping around his

erection. His thumb sliding over the pre-cum welling up and spreading the moisture around the head feels like beautiful hellfire.

"Maybe tomorrow," Dazai sighs, giving his cheek one last kiss before pushing him back a little. "Today I want to watch you cum."

This close, his

eyes are all encompassing, vast pools of brown that are so easy to fall into. Easier than falling, easier than coming home, easier than breathing.

Spurred on by the words, Chuuya manages to pick up the pace a little bit. Dazai matches his rhythm, but in opposite, hand sliding up

as Chuuys comes crashing down, rewarding him for another bounce up with another tight, wet stroke down to the base.

Pleasure is pulsing through him in hot waves, building and building, tidal pool into waves into /tsunamis/. He can feel it creeping up his spine, turning every

inch of his skin hypersensitive.

It builds momentum as it goes, growing faster, hotter, /better/ with each stroke of his cock. Every time his body clenches down, fighting for even /more/ pleasure, he's reminded of how unrelentingly hard Dazai is inside of him, throbbing with

heat.

He's a mess of moans and choked whines, eyes beginning to haze over with his impeding orgasm. He can't look away from Dazai though, partly because his gaze is searing hot and irresistible and /mostly/ because whenever his eyes begin to flutter shut, Dazai /stops/.

"Don't

stop, don't stop, /please/, I'm-- /I'm/--," Chuuya pants out, cutting himself off with /another/ cry as Dazai tightens his grip on his throat. It's not enough to choke him, but it's just tight enough that it's a slight struggle to breathe past, making him dizzy and lightheaded.

It just makes it that much easier for the pleasure to overwhelm him, sending him spiraling with no sense of return.

He's close, /so/ close, the edge is drawing near. He's hanging over the cliff, pushed closer with every stroke of Dazai's hand, with every bounce on his cock.

Dazai leans in, gaze unwavering and so close its the only thing Chuuya can see as he finds his bottom lip and slowly sucks it into his mouth. He sets his teeth into it and pulls back, stretching the sensitive flesh until it starts to /sting/--

On the upstroke, Dazai squeezes

the head of his erection /mercilessly/, thumb sliding up to dig his nail into the sensitive slit with almost enough pressure to hurt--

And he's gone.

The orgasm crashes over him like an ocean storm, huge and filled with electricity, and /drowning/ him in sensation. Rapture rips

through him from head to toe, with such intensity that it leaves his whole body shivering in the aftermath,filled with white-hot tingles.

Dazai's hand around his cock gets hotter and /wetter/, cum filling the spaces between his fingers and getting spread on the next stroke down.

He ekes out a few more bounces on his cock, overwhelmed by the sensation of his erection twitching in Dazai's grip, in the feeling of his prostate getting firm, relentless pressure applied, sending shards of white-hot pleasure down his thighs.

He can't get in enough air,

his lungs burning as the waves start to die down into weakening pulses--

Which is,of course,when Dazai stops having /mercy/ on him.

Vaguely, he can feel him shifting underneath him, legs drawing up and forcing Chuuya's thighs to open that much further as Dazai braces his feet--

The first slam of his hips /up/ startles a shocked cry from Chuuya, jolting in place. He doesn't have anywhere to /go/ though, his neck still caught with Dazai's fingers around it, and his thighs spread obscenely wide to fit his hips between.

The /second/ slam pulls out a

oversensitive /yelp/ because--

He's not exactly /aiming/ for his prostate, he's more just setting up a /brutal/ pace, but fuck, the ridge of his cock drags against on every pull out, slides against it /hard/ on the thrust in and--

Fuck, fuck, /fuck/!

Keening, Chuuya digs his

nails into his chest, clawing at him as he tries to /survive/ the fast pace Dazai starts.

The pain just makes Dazai hiss, just makes him fuck him /harder/, makes the hand around his throat tighten and--

And--

Chuuya is going to /cry/, holy shit.

He's been fucked through his

orgasms before but /that/ was with that strange, /wonderful/ hazy feeling he gets sometimes during sex. With that feeling filling up his head, it made it easy to relax into the oversensitivity, dulled the burning edge until it was easy to bear.

Now though?

Now he's /brutally/

awake, aware of every sensation coursing through him. It's /so/ much, confusing in it's intensity, and he doesn't know if it feels like ecstasy or /agony/, all he knows is that he has no chance but to hang in Dazai's grip and /take it/.

"Hhhngh," he chokes out, eyes rolling back

in his head. "Fuck, /Dazai/, it-- God, fucking /please/, it /hurts/--."

The laugh Dazai lets out against his mouth is sinister, /sadistic/. "Does it?" He asks, voice dripping with intent, with /temptation/, with power and domination "Or do you /like it/?"

That's the /problem/,

he doesn't /know/, it's so fucking much, and he's not even given a /second/ to breathe, he's just being fucked out of his /mind/, beyond reason, he can't /handle it/--

"I think you /do/," Dazai continues, his free hand finding Chuuya's hip and /yanking/ him down into the next

thrust, increasing the force. "Because, baby--" he slides to the side, scraping his teeth over his cheek, and the feeling of how /heavy/ his breath is is exciting on it's own, "-- you haven't told me to /stop/."

That's true, he hasn't, he doesn't know if he /does/ want him to

stop, and he knows he /could/ make him stop, the word 'red' is there on the back of his tongue but--

His body is struggling but his /mind/ doesn't want to stop. He wants to prove himself, wants to be /good/.

Eyes squeezing shut, he digs his nails into Dazai's chest, fighting

to ground himself as the sensations wildly spin between searing-hot pleasure and electrified pain, fighting to /hold on/--

"That's my baby," Dazai purrs, and the kisses he places on his cheek are achingly gentle compared to the savage rhythm of his hips. "So good for me, even

when it's hard."

The possession in his voice, the casual ownership of it, makes Chuuya shiver again, going limp in his grip. The fingers around his throat are tight, not because Dazai is choking him, but because he's supporting most of the weight of his upper body.

Chuuya

spreads his thighs a little more, uncaring that the stretch is a /too/ much now, giving Dazai more room to work with.

The pleased growl against his cheek, and the feeling of Dazai's body working /harder/ underneath him, makes pride and self-satisfaction surge in his chest.

"We

should get you a collar,someday. As much as I /love/ my hands on you, I could put a /leash/ on you, and you'll have to just /take/ whatever I give you,however I give it to you, like a good boy."

Yes, yes, whatever he /wants/, Chuuya will do anything, /be/ anything, /everything/.

(Is it unfair to be bringing up that topic for the first time while Chuuya is half out of his mind and Dazai is licking away his overstimulated tears? Probably.

Is Dazai in any state of mind to being thinking about /fairness/ and the /right thing/ right not?

Absolutely not.

Because he woke up with a little chibi sitting on his hips, watched him ride him like the only thing he wanted in the world was Dazai balls-deep inside him, and now--

Now he's tight and hot and /wet/, and even though he can feel his body instinctively trying to squirm away from

the overload, he can /also/ sense the way Chuuya is actively trying to relax into it and--

Fuck, he's such a /good boy/, how can Dazai ever resist him?)

"Yes, Dazai," Chuuya croaks, feeling a compulsion to /answer/ even if it was probably just a rhetorical question, "Yes."

Another slam of hips, more harsh breathing on his face. Dazai's rhythm is falling apart, jack-rabbit quick thrusts starting to slur into deep, frantic grinds. He's close.

Still, somehow his voice manages to stay /mostly/ composed as he scrapes his teeth over his cheek. "That's

not what you call me. That's not my /name/."

And, well--

Now that's he's gotten a little used to the sensation overload, he can think around it, just a little, enough that an /idea/ occurs to him, one that will either get him in /trouble/ or send Dazai over the /edge/--

"Yes," his lips curl, mischevious, "/Daddy/."

There's a second where he can feel the breath in Dazai's lungs still, where he can /feel/ him twitch and throb inside him, and his hips press up, burying himself as deep as he can go--

Then Chuuya's world is /spinning/ and he's

going from being on /top/ to being /pinned/ to the mattress with near-vicious intensity. Dazai is bearing down on top of him, one hand planting by Chuuya's side to hold his weight while the /other/ finds the bend of his knee and pushes it /up/, until it's pressed to his chest.

When Dazai /slams/ back in, it's with the force of his entire body behind it, burying himself as far as he can go in one savage thrust.

There's not even a second to adjust, because he's pulling back out just as quickly, pounding back in, setting up a rhythm that has Chuuya

choking on his own breath. He's arching beneath him, but there's nowhere to /go/, he's trapped, he's pinned, he's spread open wide for Dazai to fuck as hard and fast as he /wants/--

Somehow, Dazai manages to shuffle his knees to take more of his weight so he's balanced better.

Then his hand is coming up, grabbing Chuuya by the jaw. His fingers squish his cheeks, grinding the insides against his teeth until it stings.

"You," Dazai practically snarls into his mouth, dropping down to give him a searing kiss that steals what remaining breath he has.

Another slam of his hips, and Chuuya is hanging on with everything he has, but he swears he's not going to survive this for much longer--

"Are /so/," gets smothered into his mouth, like the words have more meaning if they're spoken directly onto his tongue.

His prostate gets

hammered on the next thrust, a direct blow that has Chuuya nearly /screaming/ in response, acid-burning shards of pleasure-pain melting through his spine.

Pushing his knee up higher, Dazai slams in and stares there, grinding wetly into him, as deep as he can go. His voice is

broken, cracked with rumbling groans, drenched in pleasure that it's making /Chuuya's/ breath catch in response. "Fucking /perfect/."

That-- the idea of being /perfect/ for him, being irresistable, being /exactly/ what Dazai needs and wants-- has Chuuya's body clenching down in

instinctive arousal, hips rocking against him as much as he can move with how hard he's being pinned.

One, two, three short, hard thrusts inside him that makes him feel like Dazai is trying to climb inside him /entirely/, so deep Chuuya will never get him out, will never be able

escape the feeling of him in his throat, in his lungs, in his /heart/--

Dazai goes still with a drawn out groan, hips twitching forward in intermittent thrusts as he orgasms. Chuuya's name is on his lips, muttered mindlessly and muffled into his mouth.

A new burst of warmth

floods through him. He can feel Dazai's erection twitching inside him in heavy waves that match the spurts of wet warmth beginning to fill him up. His hips are still rocking slightly, pulling out a little just to fuck back in, pushing his cum as far inside Chuuya as he can get.

Everything is hot and wet, satisfying some raw primal part of him. It's pleasant, and leaves Chuuya feeling buzzed and limp in the aftermath.

Even as the ache in his thighs begins to reassert itself, and his chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath under the constriction

of Dazai pinning his knee to his chest--

The only thing he can really focus on is the raw /satisfaction/ of feeling cum beginning to leak down his ass in sticky trails as Dazai starts to soften inside him. God, he's a /mess/, smeared with lube, his own release and now /Dazai's/.

He likes it. No, /loves/ it.

With a heaving breath of exertion, Dazai pushes himself up and off him, settling back onto his knees. The motion means he slides out completely, cum spilling out after him. Brown eyes follow the trail, dilating at the sight.

With a wince, Chuuya

lets his leg drop back to the mattress. His hip is aching and the muscle shakes are already beginning to set in. He points his toes to stretch his legs out, groaning lightly.

Dazai presses a hand to his thigh, frowning when he feels how badly he’s trembling. “Are you okay?”

Besides feeling like he pushed himself /way/ too hard at the gym and he might not be able to walk for a few hours, and the strangely empty feeling from lack of stimulation as his body starts to come down completely—

Yes, he’s fine.

Sighing, he relaxes into Dazai’s grip as

he begins a light massage, pressing into the muscles and soothing them. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He hisses when Dazai presses in with his thumb on the inside of his thigh. “Though I’m starting to wonder if you’re trying to kill me with sex.”

That earns him a smile and a huff of

amusement. His thumb presses in harder as he leans forward and presses a kiss to his stomach. “Baby,” he sighs,licking a broad stripe over the mess on his skin, “That was me going /easy/ on you.”

If that’s /going easy/, then Chuuya might not /survive/ Dazai being rough with him.

He /admits/ he’s not that educated about sex, but he’s learning quickly and he can’t /imagine/ more than what Dazai’s already done with him? He’s been tied up, publicly tormented, fucked until he’s crying from oversensitivity—

What /more/ is there? How many possible ways can

there be to /have/ sex? What else can Dazai do to him?

It’s half anticipation, half- almost-fear that fills him at the thought.

The feeling of Dazai’s tongue swirling over his skin, finding every smear of cum and strawberry-flavored lube and lapping it up. Chuuya doesn’t

know /why/ he finds the idea of Dazai licking him clean hot but—

Here he is, one hand buried in Dazai’s hair as he squirms at the sensations, breath quickening. Every breath he takes is tinged with soreness from his overworked abs.

His softened cock only gets one, long,

rough-wet swipe of his tongue before Chuuya is dragging him away by his hair with a pained hiss.

He’s almost expecting Dazai to /resist/, maybe to swallow him down in direct opposition, and Chuuya is bracing himself because it’s /too much/ after everything, but he also can’t

find it in himself to tell him /no/—

But Dazai moves with the pull this time, sliding up his body easily, until he’s hovering over his face. His free hand comes up, grabbing Chuuya by his jaw and pulling his mouth open so he can claim him in a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

His

tongue slides inside, rubbing the taste of himself over the roof of himself.

Last time, Chuuya thought this was gross. Now, it’s /bitter/, but actually pretty /hot/.

Now, his hands are in his hair, pulling him close. His legs are trembling too much to wrap them around his

waist, but he keeps him as close for as long as possible using just his hands.

Their kiss is broken when Chuuya’s phone beeps from somewhere further up the bed. He tries to hold on but—

Dazai breaks the kiss with a final peck, offering him a sweet smile. He pulls away

completely, rising up on his knees.

“You should answer that,” he says, shuffling off the bed, “I’ll get something to clean you up with.”

Chuuya pouts, but he can’t stop him from heading into the bathroom.

With a heavy sigh, he searches over the bed with his hand, looking for

his phone. It was under the pillow last night, but this morning finds it buried halfway beneath the blankets.

He pulls it out, unlocking it with easy movements.

He’s expecting a text from his dad, or his sisters, or maybe a social media tag—

Not expecting a text from Shuuji.

[ SHUUJI ]: can we talk? :(

Chuuya has... a lot of /complicated/ feelings regarding Shuuji. The beginning of their... /relationship/ was rocky, and he's only just now realizing how manipulative and messed up he was to Chuuya, now that he has Dazai to show him what a boyfriend

is /supposed/ to act like, and supposed to make him feel.

But he can't say that meeting Shuuji was a /bad/ thing, or that he'd ever change the way things turned out because...

His eyes wander over to the open bathroom door, where he can hear the sink being turned on and water

starting to rush.

If he hadn't met Shuuji, hadn't dealt with /everything/ Shuuji put him through, he wouldn't have met Dazai. Wouldn't have had a reason to spend so much time with him, wouldn't have had a reason for that first date, so long ago.

Shuuji might've tried his best

to destroy what little confidence Chuuya had at the time, but it didn't /work/, and now he has Dazai.

All things considered, he'd say he came out with the better end of the deal.

Chuuya hovers over the keyboard, wondering what to say. They haven't talked directly ever since

Shuuji blew him off to go to that party. They're still in a group chat together and they're civil (as civil as Shuuji can be, at least) to each other there, but neither of them have been willing to break the silence first.

Until now, that is.

Does he answer? What does he say?

The /wording/ of the text is suspicious too. 'Can we talk', no explanation, no warning.

It's anxiety inducing, especially as a thought occurs to Chuuya:

Does he /know/ about him and Dazai?

They haven't talked about telling anyone else yet, and Chuuya doesn't know how he

feels about /that/.

He's not ashamed of Dazai, it's just...

Having a negative reputation, especially one spread and collaborated by a young, rich businessman (Shuuji, in this case) can completely ruin his career before it begins. While the naïve, romantic side of him wants to

believe that he'll be with Dazai for a /long/ time and he'll be able to protect him from that,it's not a guarantee.

And based on that one text Shuuji sent in the group chat to Yuan about killing her for sleeping with his dad?He /won't/ be happy they're dating.

He has to answer.

If only to keep the peace.

[ Chuuya ]: Sure, what's up?

In the time it takes the answer to come in, Dazai returns back to the bedroom. There's a wet washcloth in his hands, which he uses to gently clean the mess of lube and cum lingering on his skin. He's achingly gentle, and

the towel is warm.

Such a simple, small detail that would've been easily overlooked--

But Dazai didn't overlook it. Somehow, he always manages to think of /everything/.

[ SHUUJI ]: I wanted to say im sorry

It feels strange to be hiding his phone from Dazai, carefully tipping

the screen away from him in a move that feels natural to keep him from seeing. It feels like he's /cheating/ on him, but he's /not/, he would never--

He just doesn't know how Dazai would feel about him talking to his son, considering their relationship is filled with animosity.

Besides, he's pretty sure the etiquette of sex says that texting with your boyfriend's son only a few minutes after getting your soul fucked out of you is bad manners.

He's not /hiding/, he's just...

Seeing what Shuuji wants and then waiting for the best time to tell Dazai

about whatever it is.

(The best time would've been now. After this, after the next conversation and the next and the next--

It snowballs.

Too bad you rarely see the snow for the snowstorm.)

[ CHUUYA ]: sorry for what?

Dazai flips him onto his stomach so he can get the spots

on the back of his thighs. The rhythm he's using is relaxing, almost meditative.

[ SHUUJI ]: i was a real dick to you after the whole dinner thing. i was just having a really bad time with my whole family situation and when u didn't seem upset it made me think u didn't care :\

He's... blaming him being an asshole for Chuuya not being /upset enough/ about being stood up? His head hurts trying to wrap around /that/.

[ SHUUJI ]: and my life kinda sucks rn so when u stopped talking to me, it felt really bad and i didn't want to talk to you either

/He/

stopped talking to /Chuuya/, actually.

[ SHUUJI ]: and now im realizing that u were a good friend to me and i want you back :(

The problem with that specific statement is that they weren't /friends/ in most senses of the word. Sure, they were in the same friend group, and still

are, but there was always an implicit understanding that there was something /more/ there, a romantic interest.

And 'I want you back'? What is this, a romance movie?

Chuuya can't find it in himself to be /too/ mad right now, considering that Dazai has procured a bottle of

massage oil from /somewhere/,and is now massaging away all the aches in his thighs and lower back. /God/, his hands are lovely,they're /magic/. He knew that already,but when they find a knot at the base of his spine and press it away? /Heaven/.

[ CHUUYA ]: thanks for apologizing

Kouyou taught him to accept apologies instead of saying something else like 'it's okay'. Because it's /not/ okay, and he doesn't have to forgive someone the moment they apologize.

[ SHUUJI ]: so can we be friends again? :( my parents are fighting rn and yuan and nikolai are

annoying rn. they don't understand what it's like to not have 2 parents :\

[ SHUUJI ]: well i have 2 parents and u don't but u know what i mean lol

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have told Shuuji that his mother died because--

Wow. Alright then.

[ CHUUYA ]: fine but we are

ONLY friends. no kissing, no dates, nothing like that. only friends.

[ SHUUJI ]: okay darling <3

Somehow, Chuuya doesn't think he gets the message, but he can beat it into his head another time.

Right now, he feels half-melted into the bed and Dazai is sliding up his body and

leading the way with a trail of soft, sweet kisses up his spine and over his shoulder.

"Anything important?" He asks, chest rumbling against Chuuya's back.

With a content sigh, Chuuya turns his phone screen off and pushes his phone to the side. It's not important, not /nearly/

as important as twisting around to draw Dazai into a kiss. "No," he murmurs, "just a friend."

(There will be a time, not too long from now, when he's staring down a barreling car, hands wrapped around his throat and fighting for his life--

That he wishes he said something now.)

------- +

Signing up for classes for his second semester of college is much easier than the first time. He knows his way around the website by now, knows some of the professors and has heard rumors of most of the others, knows /not/ to sign up for any more morning classes, and

knows which buildings contain which classes, so he doesn't end up scheduling himself for back-to-back classes in buildings that are on opposite sides of campus.

At the same time though, it has the similar feeling of /loss/ to it because returning to school means he's giving up

time with Dazai.

It's like moving away from home again, losing his family in small ways. He's still /there/, he's not /gone/, but Chuuya will soon be swamped in coursework and classes and he won't have time for boyfriend-things anymore.

No more time for trips to Osaka, no more

lazy days in bed, no more days at the park playing with the dogs.

No more /sex/.

Well, that last one Chuuya /will/ work around, because he'd rather die than go longer than a week without getting pounded into Dazai's bed, but now there's /restrictions/.

Because not only does

he have classes, the return of the semester means that Shuuji is home on a permanent basis.

/And/, by some stroke of luck that Chuuya is genuinely suspicious of, somehow he ends up in the same statistics class as Chuuya.

He didn't realize how /tiresome/ it was to work around

Shuuji until he's sitting there contemplating how to climb onto the balcony into Dazai's room without him noticing.

As for the conversation about whether or not they should tell Shuuji they're dating...

Chuuya keeps putting it off. Dazai starts to bring it up once, but he

quickly changes the subject because--

He hasn't decided how he feels about it. On one hand, he /wants/ to tell Shuuji just so they can stop sneaking around like new parents with an inquisitive toddler.

On the other hand, it /feels/ like there's a whole host of potential issues

that Chuuya is /not/ prepared for the fallout for. Second semester will probably be even harder than the first one in a lot of ways,and he doesn't need more on his plate.

On a different, slightly related look at the issue--

Dazai is his /first/ boyfriend. There's a part of him,

maybe young and naïve and /stupid/--

That wants to tell his /family/ first.

In his imagination, that's always who he's told first. Not his friends, but his sisters and his dad. They've always been his biggest supporters, even when it's been difficult.

He loves them, and he

wants to share this part of his life with them.

Wants to share /Dazai/ with them.

He's just not sure how to bring that up. By now, they've been dating for a little over two weeks, and it feels /way/ too soon to even bring up the possibility of bringing Dazai home, but he also

wants it. Really badly.

How is he supposed to bring that conversation up though?

'Hey, wanna meet my /real/ daddy'? 'How do you feel about bonding with your boyfriend's dad who is only a little older than you'?

Every casual slide into /that/ conversation seems even more

ridiculous than the last. Besides, he hasn't even /mentioned/ Dazai to his family yet beyond vague mentions of meeting someone, so he supposes it's still a moot point for now.

He can't help but thinking about it though, when he's drifting off to sleep or when Dazai is on a call

with him while he's taking a study break, when he receives yet /another/ order of food that Dazai sent to him without asking or telling him.

He thinks about it, over and over and over again.

/What if I brought him home? What if I kept him? What if he was mine forever?/

Those thoughts never go away. They lurk beneath the surface, growing roots, spiraling out endlessly into the unknown reaches, leading Chuuya naturally into hopes of /forever/.

Of /always/. Of home, no matter where he goes.

[ SHUUJI ]: hey wanna study tonight my house?

His immediate reaction is /no/ because he 'studied' with Shuuji once and that turned into being pinned against the wall and forcibly kissed until he was crawling with discomfort.

His second reaction, when he takes a few seconds to think about it, is /yes/ because--

Dazai is

home today. He mentioned that earlier, said he was glad to enjoy some down time with Yoko.

If he says /yes/, he gets to see Dazai. It's been almost 10 days since they last saw each other, and while that doesn't /sound/ like a lot, Chuuya is /dying/ to see him.

So..he says yes.

[ SHUUJI ]: ok cool I will pick u up in 1 hr

That gives Chuuya just enough time to change out of his lazy day sweats and into something /cute/. Possibly something that Dazai bought him in Osaka (his closet is practically overflowing now, and he actually can’t have all his

clothes clean at the same time because he doesn’t have enough /room/ for them all now. He’s resorted to shoving clothes under his bed to make room.)

[ CHUUYA ]: ok cool see you then.

He exits out of his message threads with Shuuji and opens up his conversation with Dazai.

Their last messages were about the stray cat. Chuuya’s been trying to convince him to give the poor thing a bath so he’s clean again, but Dazai is insistent on not getting himself “scratched to death.”

It’s a work in progress.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Should he tell

him that he’s coming over? Or should he leave it as a pleasant surprise?

He /wants/ to surprise him because Dazai’s surprised him with things he liked, and he wants it to be fair—

But it also feels wrong to show up with his son without even a warning, so he starts to type out

a message.

Halfway through, before he can send it, his phone starts to ring with an incoming call.

Kouyou.

It’s strange for her to call instead of text, so he immediately accepts the call and brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

For someone who hasn’t spoken to him beyond

texting and social media tags, Kouyou sounds /real/ exasperated as she says, “So did you plan on telling me what you did or was I supposed to just find out myself?”

Chuuya’s blood goes cold.If she’s angry enough to skip a greeting,and gets straight to the point then—

She knows.

But if Chuuya has learned anything from being a little sibling, it’s to never admit to your crimes unless you have no other option. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you don’t know? You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You think I wouldn’t notice. Don’t play stupid.”

Chuuya doesn’t have a response to that because the anxiety is /spiking/.

The silent tension builds for a long moment, with Kouyou clearly waiting for a guilty confession and Chuuya is /so/ close to admitting it, for ‘yes, yes, it’s true, I /am/ a dirty dad fucker’/ to come

spilling out of his mouth—

When Kouyou /bursts into laughter/.

“I really got you, didn’t I?” She cackles, sounding way too pleased with herself, “I bet you were really about to confess to something!”

Chuuya’s jaw /drops/. “You /asshole/! Did you call me just to /fuck/ with

me?!”

That just makes her laugh harder.

He hates having siblings. He should’ve been born an only child.

“No, no,” she wheezes, finally starting to calm down after laughing at his pain for nearly an entire minute. “I’m calling to tell you to stop ignoring Dad’s calls.

Every time you don’t answer him, he calls /me/ and if I have to spend one more of my lunches reassuring him that you’re /not/ dead in a ditch, you’re just being a little prick, then I am going to come down to Keio and embarrass you in front of all your friends by telling them you

ate the birthday candles on your cake every year until you were /fifteen/.”

“Because you /told/ me I was supposed to?!” Chuuya shoots back, outraged. “I was young and vulnerable and you took advantage of me!”

“Whatever you say, wax-eater.”

“I am /not/ A WAX EATER!”

From the other side, he can hear shuffling as she leans back in her chair with a satisfied hum. “I havé picture proof, baby brother. Either call Dad back or I start printing out the family photo albums.”

See, this is why Chuuya is gay. Women are evil, conniving little assholes.

He chooses to let it go though, because they’ve had this conversation /dozens/ of times before and they’ll just end up arguing circles with Kouyou being smug that she ‘introduced him to a new food group’ and ‘when you go grocery shopping, do you go to the supermarket or to Bed,

Bath and Beyond?’ and Chuuya getting increasingly mad at the fact that he /only/ ate birthday candles because she told him to for /years/.

Instead, he blows out a heaving sigh, turning his phone on speaker. Nikolai is in the room— he seems to be taking a more laidback approach

to this semester, and has been spending less time working and more time studying in their room. Chuuya’s glad about it, because he seems more rested and Chuuya missed him— but he has a big pair of headphones on as he scribbled on his notebook so he’s probably not listening.

He lays the phone on the floor, bending down to get a folded pair of jeans out from under his bed. “Âne-san, he calls me almost every day. I can’t talk to him /every day/, that’s ridiculous.”

“Sure you can,” Kouyou huffs, an audible eye roll in her voice, “Have him tell you a

bedtime story every night or something, I don’t care. Just talk to him; he’s lonely and he’s worried about you.”

“It’s not fair,” Chuuya mutters, knowing he sounds like a child but unable to help it, “he wasn’t like this when you or Kyouka went to college.”

By now, he’s gotten

comfortable enough with Nikolai that he doesn’t think twice about stripping his sweats off.

“Yes but Kyouka and I didn’t spend most of our childhoods in a hospital and flu season doesn’t kick our ass every year like it does to you.”

Ugh, it /always/ comes back to that. Yes,

he was born a couple weeks early and that caused a cascade of health issues that he struggled with as a child but he’s /outgrown/ that.

He’s fine now. Beyond some lingering mild symptoms— like needing much longer to recover from colds than most people his age and the continual

struggle to keep and hold weight— he’s /fine/.

Compared to how sick he used to get— like that time his regular cold turned into pneumonia that almost killed him— he’s practically the picture of health.

So what if he needs to take a little extra care during flu season? That’s

nothing compared to what used to happen.

“Besides,” Kouyou continues, “you’re the baby, so of course he’s more attached to you. We’ve been his whole life for so long, and now that you’ve left... he must be lonely.”

Well, /now/ he feels bad. He cares about his dad, obviously,

it’s just hard to feel like an independent adult when his dad is practically calling him to remind him to eat lunch every day.

“Fine,” he grumbles, yanking the jeans over his legs. They’re the same ripped pair he wore in Osaka, black with the hole in the thigh and opposite knee.

“I’ll call him tomorrow sometime. I’m busy tonight.”

The faint typing on the other end stops abruptly, and he can practically /sense/ the way her attention is caught.

“Oh? Got a hot date?” Her voice is coy, teasing for information.

‘Hot date’ isn’t exactly how he’d describe

this situation but he’s /not/ about to get into the whole mess, especially with Nikolai in the room. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So you /were/ hiding something from me,” she gloats, victorious from finally being proven right, “You met a /boy/.”

/Boy/ is not the right word

for Dazai, not even close. “Yeah,” he hedges, unwilling to lie and /wanting/ her to know, but knowing exactly what happens when she finds out he has a crush.

Right on cue: “So... what’s his name? Tell me everything.”

Chuuya yanks the shirt over his head. “I’m not telling you

his name. Remember what happened last time?”

There’s a small whining sound from the other side. Sometimes it’s just like the old days, before they grew up. Like they’re still kids, playing and messing with eachother. “Listen, it’s not /my/ fault your last crush was so stupid—.”

“We were /seventeen/ and you Facebook-stalked him and called him stupid until he cried and blocked the entire family.”

At the time he’d been /pissed/. Now it’s kind of funny, admittedly, but he’s learned his lesson. Never give his sister any information to work with.

“Well, he

was an asshole, anyways. Heard he dropped out of college ready,” she grumbles, blowing a breath into the receiver just to annoy him.

He pauses. “Are you /still/ Facebook stalking him?!”

“Anyways, tell me about your new boy toy. If you won’t tell me his name, then at least

tell me what he looks like. How tall is he? How old is he? Is he cute?”

He pulls on a long sleeve navy shirt, cute but comfortable for the cooling weather. His makeup bag— new, bought for him by Dazai— is sitting by the floor-length mirror in their dorm and he goes to sit on the

floor next to it.

He’s /pretty/ sure Nikolai is listening to music right now, and the other boy hasn’t even looked at him, but he’s sure to keep his details vague enough that they could describe Shuuji too. “He’s /very/ tall, very cute. Only a little bit older than me.”

‘Little bit’ meaning eighteen years, but /semantics/. It’s not like she can judge; Oda is nearly /eleven/ years older than her.

Rimbaud nearly had a heart attack when he first found out,but he’s come around by now. He likes Oda. They play golf together, sometimes.

“Is he rich?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, carefully applying a light line of bronzer over his cheeks. “What is this, Gossip Girls?”

When she doesn’t respond, waiting for an answer, he heaves a sigh, “Yes. He owns a business.”

The noise she makes is appropriately awed and interested. “I knew I

raised you right. Get yourself a rich businessman. I’m proud of you.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay,” he says, tapping on the screen to see what time it is. There’s less than half an hour until Shuuji gets here, and he still has to pack all his books for statistics. “I have to go

now, ane-san. I’ll talk to you later and I promise I’ll call Dad sometime tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, like she doesn’t want to end the conversation just yet. He /does/ feel kind of guilty, because he’s sort of dropped off the network ever since he met Dazai.

After he stopped

getting sick, they got really close for a while. Even when she went off to college first, or was spending most of her free time in extracurriculars after school—

There was always time for them to hang out together. /She/ always made time.

Now? Not so much.

Part of the

consequences about growing up is sometimes growing /apart/ and even though it’s normal, it’s still /sad/.

He makes a note to talk to his family more often.

“I should go too. I’ll talk to you later, Chuuya. Be good,” Kouyou says.

“Love you, ane-san,” he tells her, waiting for

her matching response before hanging up the phone.

A text had come in while he was on the phone, another one from Shuuji.

[ SHUUJI ]: can u bring the stats homework the teach assigned I wasn’t able to do it yesterday cuz of family shit :/

... What ‘family shit’?

He was talking to Dazai nearly all day yesterday and he never mentioned anything weird happening, and he didn’t /seem/ off, so...?

Maybe it has something to do with Sasaki, not that he’s heard much about her ever since the incident with Yoko.

Good. He’s never met her, but he

already /loathes/ her. Might even do something as reckless as /slap/ her if he saw her, for what she put Yoko and Dazai through.

Last he heard, she was still staying in a hotel, so maybe it has something to do with that.

Still, if Shuuji thinks he’s going to /copy/ off him,

he’s got another thing coming.

[ CHUUYA ]: I didn’t do it either lol but we can figure it out together.

A lie. He already completed and turned it in already, days before it was due. He’s an overachiever like that.

[ SHUUJI ]: oh ok

Closing his makeup bag, he gets up to

pack his bag quickly. Even if this is all just a sneaky way to see Dazai again, he should probably do /some/ studying while he's there. There's a quiz coming up next week sometime, and he needs to be prepared.

He'll study and /then/ he'll get play time with his boyfriend. The

reward system always works.

Reaching up, Nikolai tugs the headphones off his ears. They're pink, with light-up cat ears along the top. A little ridiculous in Chuuya's opinion, but they fit.

"Are you going somewhere?" Nikolai asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah, I'm going to study

with Shuuji. I’ll probably be back later tonight or maybe tomorrow morning.”

/Hopefully/ tomorrow morning, because Chuuya is already planning a midnight visit to Dazai’s bed. Which sounds even more exciting than usual because this time they’ll have to be /quiet/.

Nikolai

looks like he's going to say something else, but then Chuuya's phone beeps again, with another text from Shuuji saying that he's here.

Chuuya waves at Nikolai on his way out the door, leaving him to lock it behind him. His keys are buried deep in his backpack.

(Nikolai watches

him go with a strange, calculating look in his eye, before pulling out his own phone and shooting off a text.)

Shuuji's driving is, unfortunately, a lesson in the idea that you /can/ get used to anything with enough time, no matter how horrible it is. Chuuya barely even gets

carsick anymore, even when Shuuji goes fishtailing around a corner with enough speed that he swears he can feel two of the wheels lift off the ground.

They've barely seen each other since the party incident, so the atmosphere is a bit tense in the car. Chuuya tries to keep it

lighthearted by telling a few stories about his vacation over the break (carefully scrubbed of details, of course) but he's mostly focused on keeping him and his backpack in his seat, and fighting down a rising level of excitement.

/He's going to see Dazai soon. /

Luckily,

Shuuji seems to preoccupied by telling stories of /his/ own vacation-- in the Carribbean, of all places, which explains why he looks so pink and sunburned -- to really pick up on Chuuya's behavior.

By the time they arrive, Chuuya is practically vibrating in his seat. He barely

even waits for the car to turn off before he's getting out. Up here, it's even cooler, so he's glad he wore a long sleeve.

It's /also/ the long-sleeve he wore on his very /first/ date with Dazai, so he hopes he picks up on that. The 'D' necklace is around his neck, tucked into

the turtleneck for now to keep Shuuji from asking questions about it.

He likes it that way, actually. Likes the subtle reminder just for /him/ and no one else. Ever since the 'collar' comment Dazai made, he's been exploring the internet a little bit and--

He actually /likes/

the idea and look of those? Some of them, anyways. Some are way too outlandish and extreme for him, but the subtle ones? The ones that look like chokers, maybe with the little metal ring in the center or the ones that have a place for a tag to hang from them?

He likes those.

He can't even think about the 'leash' comment without getting flashes of star-fire heat, remembering how /deeply/ Dazai was fucking him then but--

He likes the collars. He wants one, and he thinks he's probably going to tell that to Dazai today.

Shuuji enters the house first,

with Chuuya right on his heels. The dogs are immediately there to greet them, Yoko in front. (She's better now. After some training and reassurance that she's /not/ going to be assaulted every time someone opens the door, she's gotten her confidence back.)

"I'll go get my stuff

from my room," Shuuji mutters, heading upstairs. He seems to be taking the 'friends' deal pretty easily, and beyond a few /darling/ comments, he's actually been rather respectful of Chuuya's new boundaries.

It feels strange, considering that he was fully prepared to tear him a

new one if he put his hand on his thigh like he usually does when he's driving--

But he didn't, which is a relief.

While Shuuji stomps about upstairs, Chuuya goes looking for Dazai. He wants to say hello at least, because after the call with his sister, he totally forgot to

warn him that he was coming. Hopefully he's not angry or anything.

Dazai is in the kitchen when he enters, frowning down at his phone and eating what looks like a piece of peanut butter toast. He doesn't see Chuuya right away.

"Hi," Chuuya says breathlessly, getting his

attention. He practically skips up to him, beaming, expecting a kiss hello--

Dazai stiffens, head shooting up. His eyes find Chuuya quickly.

The frown on his face does not fade.

He stares at him like he's not sure why he's here. "What are you doing here?"

Chuuya's smile dims.

The excitement in his stomach begins to sour. Dazai doesn’t look happy to see him at /all/.

Clutching the straps of his backpack, Chuuya looks away. He can’t stand to look at Dazai when he looks like /that/. “I came to study with Shuuji. He gave me a ride here. I wanted to see

you.”

His voice is small, quiet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dazai’s expression clear. Not in a /good/ way either. In a /bad/ way, like he’s forcing himself to not show any emotion, like he’s closing himself off, shutting down.

“You came to study with Shuuji,” he

repeats, making sure he heard Chuuya correctly.

Chuuya shrinks in on himself. “Yeah,” he mutters, feeling bad, /so/ bad, he fucked up, didn’t he, oh god, “We’re, uh— we’re friends now.”

He never really went into what happened with Shuuji. He’s sure Dazai knows some of what

their relationship was like, and he obviously knew Shuuji was interested in him, but they’ve avoided talking about it in depth.

/Mistake, mistake, he fucked up—/

Dazai’s eyebrow arches, slow and disbelieving. He shuts his phone off, giving Chuuya his full attention and

crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re friends with Shuuji.”

God,the way he’s just /repeating/ what Chuuya is saying makes him feel worse and worse, like what he’s saying is so /stupid/ Dazai can’t believe it. He nods, heart lurching in his chest sickeningly.

“Just friends?”

Chuuya’s stomach /drops/, mouth opening in surprise. “Yes, of /course/, I would never—.”

Dazai cuts him off, voice cold and cutting. “Does he know that?”

“Yes, I told him. You can even ask him if you want—.”

How did it all go wrong so quickly? He should’ve /said/ something—

“I’m not asking him; I’m asking /you/. If he knows that you two are just friends, then he knows about us, right? That we’re dating?” The tone in his voice is self-prophetic, like he’s just waiting for his suspicions to be proven right.

There are some points in your life, in the

aftermath of things, where you can look back and pinpoint the beginning of the fall. That /one/ decision that led you here, to this awful moment, and all you can think is—

How could I be so fucking stupid? Why didn’t I /think/?

Hunching his shoulders and wishing the ground

would swallow him whole, Chuuya mutters, “No.”

Dazai’s smile is /mean/, almost. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Finally, some spark of anger flares up in Chuuya’s stomach. /Yes,/ he made a mistake, he can see that now and he’ll apologize, but why is Dazai being so /mean/?

“Well how was I supposed to know you didn’t want me to be friends with him? If you don’t want me to, then /fine/, I won’t, but I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m cheating on you or something,” he snaps, throwing his hands in the air.

Dazai’s hand comes down onto the table,

cutting him off with a harsh /crack!/. “Stop. I didn’t accuse you of anything and I’m not going to, so stop with that. You want to be friends with him? Fine. You want to keep our relationship a secret? Fine. It’s not /those/ I have a problem with, it’s the fact that you are

/incapable/ of communicating about it. You are making these decisions without even /talking/ to me about it, and getting pissed when I’m upset about it!”

Chuuya’s mouth falls shut, clenching because—

He’s right. It hurts, but he’s right.

(For his part, Dazai /is/ trying to

keep it together, but he’s having a /bad fucking day/.

Rokuzou has been off the grid for almost an entire week now, Sasaki is /spamming/ him with calls, Shuuji is always complaining about the classes he signed up for—

And it’s the anniversary of his parents death in 3 days.

He always gets /moody/ around this time of year, and he fucking hates it because even sixteen years after he slit Mori’s throat in his own office, it still feels like he’s got his hands wrapped around his throat.

He can deal with it, he just gets angrier more quickly than usual.

And if he had a /choice/, he would’ve waited to see Chuuya for a few more days, because he doesn’t /want/ to be angry at him. He doesn’t want to yell.

But /fuck/, why can’t he just /talk/ to him? If he didn’t want to tell Shuuji, Dazai is /okay/ with that, he just didn’t want

the news to be sprung on him when Chuuya is /literally/ walking into his house for a study session.

He deserves a say in this relationship too.)

Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, but Dazai cuts him off again. All the anger has drained out of his voice, leaving just a frigid,

freezing chill that leaves him shivering in its wake.

“How many times do I have to ask you to talk to me? When will you realize that I have thoughts and feelings in this relationship too?”

Before Chuuya can even /begin/ to respond to that—

There’s a knock on the front door.

——— +
One of Dazai’s most underestimated talents is the ability to switch gears in seconds.

Because one moment, he’s filled with anger and struggling with the feeling that Chuuya isn’t in the relationship for /him/, he’s just in it for the sex, and /knowing/ that he shouldn’t

be feeling that way and it’s unfair to Chuuya but /fuck/—

And the next there’s a knock on the door, and suddenly he doesn’t have relationship problems at this exact moment anymore.

Now, he has a house with his boyfriend in it, and someone unexpected at the door.

Part of the

reason he chose this area to live in is that it’s /quiet/. Everyone minds their business, there’s no monthly meetings of the neighborhood, there’s not many kids under school age.

In the seven years he’s lived in this house, there’s only been a handful of visitors he wasn’t aware

of before they were coming.

He wasn’t expecting anyone today.

“Call Yoko,” he tells Chuuya, straightening. When he sees the confusion on his face and the argument beginning to form, he holds up a hand. “Please don’t argue. We can talk later, but I need you to call Yoko now.”

There’s a gun in a holster bolted to the underside of the dining table.He goes for it while Chuuya calls for Yoko, palming it and smoothly tucking it into the waistband of his jeans so Chuuya doesn’t see it.

When Yoko is sitting at Chuuya’s feet,he says, “Tell her to guard you.”

He issues the command that Dazai taught him in the backyard a few months ago, and Yoko instantly gets up and turns so her body is pressed against his calf. Chuuya looks up at Dazai, obviously confused and startled by the abrupt change from their argument. “What’s going on? Who’s

at the door?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, stalking out of the kitchen. “That’s the problem.”

Kozo, who had followed Yoko when she was called, joins him at his side when Dazai gestures for him, head hanging low and focused. His tail is completely still, stiff. He’s on guard.

With silent footsteps, Dazai approaches the door, one hand hovering near his gun as he leans in to look through the peephole—

And nearly groans out loud when he sees who is on his doorstep, rocking back and forth on their heels cheerfully.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,”

Dazai mutters to himself, resting his forehead against the door. He really cannot get a single break today, can he?

Being who he is, Dazai knows of or knows personally every single person of important in Yokohama, and most in Japan. He’s dealt with most criminals, most

government and business officials in some form or another, and a decent amount of the police force.

/This/ person he’s been avoiding for months now, and the feeling /was/ mutual between them—

Until now, apparently, when he shows up at Dazai’s door unannounced.

Today sucks.

“If you don’t let me in, I’m going to cause you a whole lot of problems,” comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled.

Yeah, Dazai knows. He’s just gathering up his will to live right now.

Painting on a fake smile and gesturing for Kozo to wait out of sight of the

door as he opens it, he greets him with a, “Hi, can I help you—.”

The smaller man pushes past him without letting him finish, green eyes looking around with interest. “Cut the crap Dazai, we both know that you know who I am.”

Sighing, Dazai folds his arms over his chest.

Through his teeth, he grits out, “Hi, Ranpo. Is there something you needed from me?”

Green eyes zero in on Chuuya, who is standing defensively in the kitchen still, lighting up with interest. “Who’s that?”

Stepping to the side so his body is blocking Ranpo’s view of him, Dazai

opens his mouth to tell him that it’s none of his business and to stay focused when—

With all the confidence and thoughtlessness of someone who was never taught not to share your name with anyone who asks for it, Chuuya cocks his hip to the side and says, snidely, “I’m

Nakahara Chuuya. Who are /you/?”

Dazai’s gaze wanders up to the ceiling. God help him from stupid little idiots, because if Chuuya wasn’t on the Agency’s radar he sure as fuck is /now/.

Ranpo looks between the two of them, squinting like he doesn’t believe it. To Dazai, he

says while pointing at Chuuya, “That’s Nakahara Chuuya?”

Expression unmoving,Dazai neither confirms or denies anything.

There’s a second where they just stare at each other,both of them waiting for the other to crack while Chuuya makes disgruntled noises in the back.

And then—

Ranpo /bursts/ into laughter. Stomach- holding, knee-slapping, wheezing laughter that goes on and on and /on/ until there are tears streaming from his eyes.

“Why is he laughing?” Chuuya asks, sounding /very/ peeved.

“Because he’s an asshole,” Dazai sighs, exhausted, “and

probably because he knows something we don’t know.”

That just makes Ranpo laugh /harder/, and at this point Dazai is sure he’s about to start rolling on the floor.

“You don’t know,” he cackles, holding his stomach, “oh, that’s so good. I can’t believe this. You don’t know.”

Dazai hates him. He’s the only one in the city who can consistently and continuely beat him at his own game. “I’d know if you told me.”

“Oh no, no, no, I’m not going to /tell/ you. This is too good to just /tell/ you. But I do hope I’m there when you meet her because—.” Ranpo

dissolves into laughter again, and the only thing Dazai can pick out in the mess of giggles and wheezing is—

A garbled ‘family reunion’.

Now he /would/ latch onto that tidbit and try to figure out what /that/ means but—

“Hey Dad, who’s this?”

Oh my /god/.

He’s

understandably distracted when Shuuji comes trotting down the stairs and makes the whole situation ten times /worse/.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the building headache, Dazai reasons with himself. Prison is actually pretty nice this time of year, he hears.

It’s election season and officials are up for re-election are trying to prove that they’re semi-decent people by loosening up strict rules for prisoners. If he gets arrested now, he might actually get a bonafide prison peanut butter and jelly sandwich /and/ a blanket before they

take it away again and drop him into a maximum security cell for solitary confinement.

He even has friends in prison. It’d be a vacation compared to this.

With a rustle of clothing, Ranpo straightens. His laughter has stopped, and is now replaced with a /salacious/ tone as he

introduces himself. “Edogawa Ranpo, the greatest detective. At your service.”

Anndddd.... now he’s /flirting/.

Yeah, that’s fine. That’s normal. That’s great. That’s /perfect/, actually.

With increasing hysteria, Dazai debates the pros and cons of turning himself in.

“My name is Shuuji, but you can call me anytime.”

Oh, /come on/.

Dazai’s eyes snap back open and he makes a /what the fuck/ gesture at Shuuji. If he’s going to flirt with Dazai’s technical arch-nemesis (Shuuji’s too, because he is technically the rightful heir to the Port

Mafia) then at /least/ flirt /well/. Use some original pick up lines or /something/, for gods sake, he’s making Dazai look bad.

Not that Ranpo seems to actually care, because he’s apparently that /looks/ are more important than speaking skills. If he checks Shuuji out any

harder, he might as well be undressing him.

This is a nightmare. Dazai hates it here. Well and truly hates it.

Without looking away from Shuuji, a seductive smirk curving his lips, Ranpo says, “I hope you’re not busy, Dazai.”

“By all means,” Dazai shoots back, throwing his

hands up, “take your time. I don’t have anything to do today, so go ahead. Flirt all you like.”

“Great,” Ranpo responds, taking a step closer to Shuuji. He’s a few inches shorter than him, but he doesn’t look intimidated in the least. He /also/ looks like he’s about to take

Dazai’s sarcasm at face-value and continue to flirt with his son /right/ in front of him.

Asshole.

“What do you want, Ranpo?” Dazai sighs, thoroughly exhausted already. They haven’t even gotten to whatever reason he’s /actually/ here for, and Dazai feels like hems going to

turn to /dust/.

“I’m here on business.”

Oh, good. Lovely. That’s /exactly/ what Dazai wanted to hear. That the business whose second-in-command is hellbent on putting Dazai behind bars, wants to do /business/ with him.

There’s a /reason/ Dazai doesn’t do business with the

ADA. Kunikida is /annoying/ and also pretty good at his job, enough that he’s almost caught Dazai twice now. Ranpo could catch him whenever he wanted, as evidenced by the way he showed up to his house that isn’t on any official records.

Also, crime tends to get a little /messy/

when you’re dealing with detectives and policemen. He’d rather not deal with it at all.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then,” Ranpo says, shooting him a grin over his shoulder, “I’m going to tell every one of your dirty little secrets to Kunikida. I’m sure he’d love to know.”

Checkmate.

He has no doubt that Ranpo knows a decent amount of his aliases, if not most or even all of them. If Kunikida gets his hands on /those/ names, he’ll be able to track Dazai anywhere.

Aliases,especially good ones,are a /pain/ to build. They require years of background information,

hacking into government records to plant records, people to collaborate your story, photos, /dozens/ of things that require money and time and effort.

Like he said, they’re a pain. He can’t afford to lose a good chunk of the ones he has in one go.

“Fine,” he gives in, “We can

talk in my office. Kids,” he looks at Shuuji and Chuuya, ignoring the way Chuuya’s expression falls into outraged offense, “get to your studying.”

He’s never spoken to Chuuya like that, highlighting how young and inexperienced he is mockingly, and he doesn’t even like doing so

now, but he’s /hoping/ that if he isn’t /obvious/ about how head-over-heels he is for Chuuya, Ranpo might overlook him a little bit.

Probably a false hope, but he’s also still angry and petty enough about their argument that it gives him spiteful pleasure to treat Chuuya like

one of Shuuji’s friends instead of his boyfriend.

/That’s what you wanted, right? You didn’t want anyone to know you were mine, right?/

He will feel bad about it, and he’ll apologize for it later—

But right now, he has /business/.

Ranpo gives Shuuji an appraising look

as he comes down the stairs fully, sizing up how tall he actually is. Shuuji did take after Dazai in that regard, and he’s taller than /most/ of the Japanese population, and quite a bit taller than Ranpo.

Apparently, /tall/ is his type, because Ranpo gives him an exaggerated

wink and a smirk full of sharp white teeth before he bounds up the stairs.

Dazai feels the weight of Chuuya’s (rightly) infuriated glare on his back the entire way up.

Because he intended to work from home today, his office has been left open. Ranpo has already found it and

is poking around inside. As usual, the man has no respect for privacy and opens whatever drawer or folder he finds interesting, taking down one of his knives to test the blade on it with his thumb.

“Sharp,” he notes, rubbing the resulting smear of blood between his thumb and

index finger. At least he’s respectful enough to clean the blade with a napkin he pulls out of one of his pockets before flipping the knife around in one quick, skilled motion before hanging it back on the wall.

“Of course,” Dazai grumbles, heading for the whiskey tumblers he

keeps in this room for these exact type of days, “I wouldn’t keep dull weapons around.”

The gun still tucked in his waistband gets taken out and placed gently onto the desk. He won’t need it, and even if he did, Ranpo could probably disarm him before he could even start to aim.

He pours himself a generous glass, throwing it back in one smooth swallow and savoring the burn of it. Warmth curls in his belly, comforting and familiar.

He pours himself another glass, one to sip on this time. Holding up the whiskey bottle, he silently asks if Ranpo wants a

glass for himself.

Dropping heavily into the chair next to his desk, Ranpo wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “Do you have peach-flavored vodka? Or Schnapps?”

Dazai stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to start laughing or take back the joke because—

Who just

drinks peach-flavored alcohol just /because/? Not as a mixer and not because it’s the only alcohol available, but because he actually /enjoys/ it?

“No.”

Sighing heavily, like Dazai /offended/ him by not having disgusting liquor in his house, Ranpo shakes his head. “Keep your

gross whiskey.”

Alright, fine, more for him. Ranpo is probably a pain to deal with when he’s drunk anyways.

“So,” Dazai starts, settling into his own chair and relaxing into it. He really wishes he had a cigar right now. “What can I do for the Agency?”

“You can get the city

back under control and get those rampaging gang members off my streets,” Ranpo says, his gaze turning abruptly cutting. He’s still relaxed, one foot kicked up on the desk disrespectfully, but his tone is pure business.

Dazai arches an eyebrow. Admittedly, he has been aware of

the escalating violence as tensions between the Mafia and Fyodor’s Bratva grew, but he’s not sure what that has to do with him. He’s not a part of either group, and he’s not encouraging any infighting. “I’m not sure why you think I can stop that. I’m not a part of the Mafia, and

I don’t have any power over them.”

There’s a pad of post it notes on his desk, and Ranpo reaches over to drag it closer. He rips off the top sheet and begins to fold it carefully. “We both know that the man with the information is the most powerful man in the room. You’re the

king of this city; act like it and get your people under control before they start pissing me off.”

“Do I look like a king to you, Ranpo-san?” Dazai snorts, taking another sip of his drink.

Another fold of the paper, precise and perfect. “Yes, you do. Everything that happens

in the city, you know about it. You answer to no one, not even tradition. You have the leaders of the clans under your control, /your/ influence. You decide what they know, how they act. You own them, because you have what they want, what they need."

The most infuriating thing

about that whole speech is that when he says it like /that/, it's true. When he makes information peddling into a /kings/ role instead of a duty given to the lower ranking members--

That would make Dazai the king.

He curls his lip at Ranpo, irritated. "I left the Mafia life

years ago, you know that."

Another couple of folds, and the shape of what Ranpo is making begins to reveal itself. A fortune teller, one of those mini ones that go on the tip of your fingers and you can write short notes on the inside flaps. "You know, I /might/ believe you,"

Ranpo says, not looking at him as he places the origami on his fingertips and begins to play with it, "except when you came back, you made sure that you had so much power and influence that you didn't have to answer to /anyone/, didn't you?"

It wasn't /like/ that. It wasn't out

of a desire for /power/ or position, it was about /survival/. If he wanted power, he could've gone back to the Mafia. He still could, technically.

He just wanted to /survive/.

"I didn't have a choice, Ranpo. This was the only thing I could go to keep me and my own safe."

Ranpo points the tips of the origami fortune teller at him. "That's where you're wrong. You could've gone to Fukuzawa for protection. He would've pardoned you, given you a job. We could've been coworkers."

Coworkers with /this/ menace. The city would probably not survive them.

"That wouldn't have worked for long," Dazai mutters, getting up to pour himself another drink. His stomach is warm now, but something in his chest feels empty.

"You don't know that. And if you had been with us, we would fight for you."

Back turned to Ranpo, Dazai pauses.

Loyalty is not something that is encouraged in the Mafia, not under Mori's reign. In the old boss's opinion, having loyalty to anything other than him or the Mafia as a whole was a /danger/. If he suspected that you loved someone, or you needed something, then he would

systematically destroy it and make you watch.

The only reason Yosano and Odasaku survived the Mafia for as long as they did with him, was because they were all too valuable to kill, and they were careful to act like rivals whenever someone from the mafia was watching.

Either

way, Mori made /certain/ that Dazai was isolated and trapped beneath his influence. His manipulations work best when his victim is alone and vulnerable.

Dazai hasn't had anyone fight for him. Even now, with Mori dead and gone, he can barely get Oda and Yosano to answer his calls

on a consistent, regular basis.

Feels pretty shitty that just Ranpo's words about it have a pang of loneliness and disbelief shooting through his chest.

"Anyways," he says after a bit, not wanting to talk about what could have been anymore, "I still don't know what you want me

to do about the fighting."

The glass he pours is a little bigger than the second one, but he feels like he deserves it after the absurd day he's had. It's not even near over yet, because now that he's not /angry/, he's starting to feel guilty about the way he treated the

situation with Chuuya. He could've handled it better.

"It's easy," Ranpo shrugs, stealing a pen from his desk and opening his origami to write something in the middle, "Pick one to side with, and starve the other out. Deprive them of information, of work, of everything that you

have at your disposal. Choose who your loyalty belongs to."

His /loyalty/ doesn't extend to anyone beyond a select group of people (one of which is still in this house), but he understands what he means. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. Now, tell me what's in it for you."

The

curl of Ranpo's lips is /pleased/, like Dazai is fufilling his expectations wonderfully. "Naturally, I can't be helping you for /free/. That's just bad business, you know how it is."

Considering Ranpo has done nothing but give him a headache today, and won't do anything in the

future about 'their' problem, Dazai /doesn't/ know how it is. But he also understands that Ranpo is a petty little thing, and he'll milk this excuse to get whatever he wants out of Dazai.

"So, in return for not telling Kunikida all of your dirty little secrets and letting him

know where you live so he can show up with handcuffs," Ranpo wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Dazai stares at him, deadpan, forcibly fighting back a smile. "You're going to give me whatever information I ask for, whenever I ask for it. It probably won't be often, because your

network is slow /and/ stupid most of the time, but who knows. I might need something some day."

Surprisingly, that's not a /terrible/ deal, nothing he wasn't expecting--

"And I also want your son."

Ah, he spoke too soon, apparently. There's the catch.

"Like as a hostage?"

"What? No, not as a hostage, you idiot," Ranpo replies, looking at him like he's lost his mind. "I just want to play with him."

Dazai is /pretty/ certain Ranpo 'plays' in the same clubs he does, so he can pick up what he means. "...Are you sure you don't want him as a hostage?"

"I'm not taking your son as a hostage, not even if you beg me."

Damn.

"I'm just saying it's an /option/--" Dazai says, cutting himself off under Ranpo's withering glare. "Fine, I guess, but he doesn't know anything about me or my work that you don't already know. He's useless

if you're looking to squeeze him for information."

Ranpo's eyes glint,expression dissolving into something like smug self-satisfaction. "No,I'm looking to squeeze him in other ways--."

"Nope,"Dazai interrupts,taking a large gulp of whiskey, "You're not finishing that sentence."

Ranpo sticks his tongue out at him, teasing.

He's sure he might regret this at /some/ point, because if Ranpo is going to be ...involved with his son, then they'll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, but fine. "Just don't do anything crazy with him, like get him

arrested or anything. It'd be a pain to bail him out, and I'm pretty sure he'd cry."

White teeth flash in a grin, and Ranpo's boot finally slides off his desk back to the floor. "He's safe in my hands, don't you worry."

Personally, that sounds like the /opposite/ idea of 'safe'

to Dazai, but hey. Shuuji's an adult. He can make his own decisions.

If he wants to put himself between Ranpo's teeth and expect to come out the same cocky, arrogant person he was before, then a lesson must be learned.

"So we have a deal? I will do my best to fix the problems

in the streets, you won't tell Kunikida about me. I give you information when you need it, you get to chase after my son to your hearts content."

Ranpo seems to think about it, clearly considering if he should add more terms to the roster. After a moment, he shrugs. "Yeah, we

have a deal. Pleasure doing business with you, as always."

They've never business before, but he appreciates the sentiment, he supposes. "Likewise."

Brushing off his sleeves, Ranpo stands up with a yawning stretch. His little origami fortune teller is left discarded on Dazai's

desk. "I'll be going now. The train I need leaves soon, I think."

"Sure," he responds, swirling his drink and feeling off-center because this is the /strangest/ deal he's ever participated in. "I'll talk to you later, I'm guessing."

Ranpo winks at him, shoving his hands into

pockets and strolling out.

Dazai is left there, drinking as he thinks--

God, what a crazy fucking day. He doesn't even know /how/ to feel about it, all he knows is that he's /confused/ and angry and hurt and on his way to tipsy and--

He needs a run to clear his head. Clear

his head so he can /think/ for a moment and not just /react/.

He changes into his workout clothes quickly, fueled by an increasing need to just /run/. Get away from it all. Head into the sunset and never look back, because it's /so/ hard being here, all the time, and the work

/never/ ends, there's always /more/.

(By the time he gets downstairs, Ranpo and Shuuji have already left. Chuuya is lingering awkwardly in the kitchen, looking uncertain and /sad/.

Dazai hates that, hates that he /caused/ that.

When he approaches, Chuuya doesn't even move,

big blue eyes staring up at him like he's expecting him to yell at him. Like he's expecting a fight that ends in tears and sadness.

Oh, poor baby, he really did scare him, didn't he?

Dazai takes a deep breath, rocking back on his heels a little bit. "I," he starts, "am very

upset right now, for a lot of reasons. If we talk right now, I'm going to get angry again, and I don't want to be angry with you. So I'm going to go for a run, and we can talk when I get back, okay?"

Chuuya searches his face, looking for a clue of what he's thinking. When he

speaks, his voice is quiet and heart-breakingly soft, like he's afraid to speak up too loudly. "Okay."

They stand there for a while, staring at each other and waiting for the other to make a move--

Dazai breaks first, because he can't /stand/ the look on his face right now.

Reaching out, he cups the back of Chuuya's neck and brings him in to give him a firm, lingering kiss on his forehead. The way Chuuya clings to him, fingers tight on his biceps, shows that he's clearly not the only one who needed a little reassurance.

"Ill be back," he mutters

against his forehead, filling his voice with reassurance. "Promise."

After another moment, he turns to leave and doesn't look back.)

(Chuuya is left there staring after him and--

Have you ever come back to a place that /used/ to be home and isn't anymore? Doesn't it feel cold

and lonely, and strange?

Like you're supposed to be there anymore?)

----- +

TEN MINUTES EARLIER

Shuuji has decided that Chuuya is fucking /shit/ at explaining statistics. Either he doesn't know what he's talking about, or he just can't explain it in a way that sticks.

Or maybe it's because Shuuji's mind is running circles around the green-eyed detective speaking with his dad upstairs, and he couldn't give a fuck about what Chuuya is saying right now.

He wouldn't say that he has a type. Usually, he just chases after whoever gets his attention

until he gets bored of them and finds someone new.

Chuuya was like that. He's not attractive /himself/, per se, but he's cute because he doesn't really look like anyone else Shuuji has met. The red hair is sexy, but Chuuya himself?

Too hard working, too /bland/. Boring. Not

even a challenge, either. All Shuuji has to do is send him some pleading eyes, and he gives him whatever he wants.

Which is fun, in the short term, but it doesn't keep his interest.

Case in point, he really wishes Chuuya would go home already, because he /really/ wants to get

to know that detective better. /He/ looked like a challenge, with those sharp, piercing grins eyes and the cocky grin.

He look like he might be /fun/ to play with.

"Are you even listening?" Chuuya asks, exasperated. He's been alternating between looking so livid he might catch

on fire, and screwing up his face like he's fighting off the urge to cry.

Shuuji might've cared earlier, but he's preoccupied now. "Not really."

Before Chuuya can respond to /that/-- it'd be a tirade, Shuuji can already sense it by the look of his face-- /Ranpo/ comes bouncing

down the stairs again.

He looks pleased with himself, like the ‘business’ deal went well—

And he’s also /staring/ at Shuuji, who is sitting leisurely on the floor, one elbow braced on the living room table.

Suddenly, homework doesn’t matter anymore. He’s only gotten through

one problem today, and the homework is due tomorrow morning—

But fuck that, he doesn’t care about /that/ anymore, the only thing he cares about is Ranpo staring him down as he casually skirts around the couch and comes closer.

He’s heard some of the girls gossiping about what

it felt like to have a crush. To have a heart-pounding, butterfly-inducing, adrenaline-filled obsession with someone, and how much better it felt if your infatuation was returned.

Personally, Shuuji thought they were just being dramatic or maybe emotional, because he’s /never/

felt that way, not for a significant amount of time.

Sure, finding someone he liked and was attracted to was exciting. Chasing them was fun, but as soon as he /got/ their attention and was holding it—

There must be something wrong with him, because as soon as he had them, all

those feelings went away.

And he /hated/ it, because /he/ wanted to feel special to someone, he wanted to feel loved and cherished, he wanted what all those other couples had.

Instead, all he had was a hollow ache of loneliness inside of him, and the increasingly desperate

desire to fill that hole with something, /anything/.

He went through guys and girls as quickly as he needed to, hoping that this one, that one, the /next/ one would /finally/ be able to make him feel something real and /solid/. Would prove to him that life wasn’t meant to be a

endless, wandering trail of starvation and pain.

And when it didn’t work— it never worked, it /never/ fucking worked— he got mad at his /partners/ about it. Getting angry with them and pushing them away was much easier than admitting the fault lay within himself.

Because if

he admitted there was something /wrong/ with him then—

Then he would be a freak, right? And if he was a /freak/ then...

Then it would make sense why his father never wanted him, and his mother barely even looked at him as he was growing up. Then it would be /reasonable/. Then

he couldn’t be mad about it, because that’s what he /deserved/.

And if that’s what he deserved, then—

// “Oh, stop crying, Shuji. Mommy’s /busy/, you don’t need to be such a dramatic little crybaby about it. //

Then his mother was right, and he /was/ just being dramatic. He

was just looking for /attention/, because nothing he had was ever /good enough/ for him.

And well, if his parents weren’t going to pay attention to him of their own volitions, and if people were going to hate him anyways because he was a /freak/ then—

Might as well give them

a /reason/ then, right? Might as well become the biggest asshole he could, because if they hated him because he was being a dick?

That was fine.

If they hated him simply because of who he was? He couldn’t handle that.

There’s always been a writhing ball of anger and pain and

hatred inside of him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it besides ignore it. Hope that it goes away some day.

It feels gone now, because right now he’s being /pinned/ by a pair of icy-sharp green eyes that cut through him like a knife and seem to see all the way through him.

And he’s expecting a frown, a snarl, something visceral to show displeasure because—

He /must/ know, right, he must see it, he must see that there’s something wrong with him, he /has/ to see it—

But instead, Ranpo smiles. Sharp and white and arrogant and /enthralling.

“I’m going home,” he says, placing his hands on his hips, and leaning in a little until Shuuji feels like his whole world is green and white and self-assurance. “You’re going to give me a ride.”

It’s not a question, but even if it /was/—

There’s only one answer. “Yeah,” he

breathes, feeling like all the air in the room has been sucked out.

His reward is a bigger smile and a conspiratorial wink.

“Sorry, Chuuya,” the detective says in a voice that doesn’t /sound/ very remorseful, “I’m taking your study date. I’m sure you can find something to do

in the meantime, though.”

(The innuendo in his voice is strong enough to have Chuuya flushing and ducking his head awkwardly and—

If Shuuji had been paying attention at /all/, he would’ve figured it out now.

This would’ve been a kinder fate.

But he’s not paying attention.

None of them are.

The clock is ticking and no one is listening.

Not even Ranpo could’ve predicted what comes ahead, for all of them.

But the lesson remains the same:

Ignore the countdown of a bomb long enough, and eventually the consequences will be fatal for everyone.)

Shuuji doesn’t even remember to say goodbye before pocketing his keys and following Ranpo outside to the car.

Anxiety isn’t really something he feels often, but he’s feeling it /now/.

He has to /impress/ Ranpo. He doesn’t know why he feels like he /needs/ to, like he won’t

/survive/ if Ranpo doesn’t think highly of him.

He’s /nervous/ and when he’s nervous—

“Your driving sucks,” Ranpo says, straight faced and calm as he leans hard in his seat.

Admittedly, Shuuji /did/ take that turn too quickly, but he feels like he’s all heartbeat right now,

pulse pounding in his fingertips and his toes and in his ears. How is he supposed to listen to speed limits right now??

“I’ve never been in an accident that was my fault,” Shuuji grumbles, slowing down a little to be /considerate/.

“Do you think that makes you a good driver?”

“Obviously? If I was a bad driver, then I’d have been in accidents. Logic,” Shuuji fires back. For some reason Ranpo’s comments feel like /teasing/.

“No, a bad driver would be going 20 over the speed limit, ignored a stop sign and ran a yellow light with a detective in the car.”

Oh, well. Maybe he has a point there.

Shuuji shrugs, stopping for a stop sign and waiting there for a deliberately obnoxious amount of time. How’s /that/ for ignoring stop signs? “What are you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Ranpo shrugs, a gleam in his eye. He has one

foot lifted up and braced against the dash. Normally Shuuji would be pissed off about shoes on his car,but from here he can see the hilt of a knife stuffed into his boot, and that is a /sight/, so he allows it. “I could, actually. Reckless endangerment. Slap you with a big fine.”

Fines mean nothing to him, not with how much Dazai makes. Fines are child’s play. “Wouldn’t you have to arrest me for that? I don’t see any cuffs on you.”

They’re nearing the address that Ranpo had plugged into Shuuji’s phone when they got into the car. It’s an apartment complex

in one of the poorer sides of town, where the buildings are run down and the streets are ruled by orphan kids.

Shuuji doesn’t know why Ranpo lives there or why he wants to be dropped off there, because he’s assuming detectives make decent salaries. At least enough for a better

apartment in a better part of town.

Ranpo’s outfit is made out of decent material, and from what Shuuji can see of his boot-knife, it looks custom made. It has a special seal on the hilt, one he’s never seen before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ranpo’s face tilt

towards him. His smile is amused this time. “You think I don’t have handcuffs on me?”

Ranpo’s belt, where cuffs are /usually/ hung, is empty. “I don’t see any.”

“Cute,” he snorts, “I /always/ have cuffs on me. You never know when you might need to restrain someone.”

The

curl of his lips dissolves into something /suggestive/. Shuuji’s glad he’s looking back at the road now, because the side of his face feels like it’s burning from the weight of his gaze, and if he stared at him for much longer, he might drive them into a wall.

“Where are they

then?”

“Keep acting up, maybe you’ll find out.”

Oh. /Oh/.

Hands tightening on the wheel, Shuuji stares straight ahead, eyes wide. Usually it’s /him/ chasing his partner, being aggressively flirty, and not the other way around.

Surprisingly, it feels a /lot/ different to be

on the other side of things. Embarrassingly, he can feel his cheeks start to heat up and he’s left scrambling for a response.

Before he can though, Ranpo is pointing at small cafe in the first floor of a rundown building. “Drop me off there.”

He doesn’t give any explanation

even though they are still technically five minutes away from the address he plugged in.

Superstitiously, Shuuji clicks the child lock button on his door. He’s not stupid enough to /actually/ lock Ranpo in, but he just needs a few seconds longer, and this trick always works.

There’s a little parking area half a block away from the building, and Shuuji maneuvers the car over there slowly. “So..” he starts, deciding to just go with the straightforward question, “Can I have your number?”

Ranpo barks out a laugh, his foot sliding down back to the floor.

“No. If you have an emergency, you can call 119.”

“Not for /emergencies/, but to talk to you,” Shuuji says, rolling his eyes. There’s another car in the parking spot, so he has to drive in slowly so he can give Ranpo enough room to get out without hitting the car or the wall.

“Oh, in /that/ case..,” Ranpo responds, pulling Shuuji’s phone off the car holder holds it to the dash. He opens up the contact app and starts punching in some numbers.

/Victory/. Hell yeah. Shuuji loves winning and getting what he wants.

When he’s done parking the car and it’s

idling, he holds out his hand for his phone. When Ranpo is finished, he puts it into his palm and stares at him with a big, self-satisfied smile.

Normally Shuuji reserves /this/ move for the more shy people he asks out, or the ones that look like liars. He wasn’t going to do it

to Ranpo but—

He looks like he’s hiding something, like he pulled the wool over Shuuji’s eyes.

“Let me call it, make sure you didn’t accidentally give me the wrong number.”

The smile widens, and Ranpo says absolutely nothing as he watches Shuuji click on his contact and

brings the phone to his ear.

It rings once, twice, three times.

Ranpo’s phone, if he has one on him, never rings.

Instead, after another ring, the line clicks and a recording starts to play:

“Hey! If someone gave you this number, it’s because you’re a fucking creep who

can’t take no for an answer! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

It’s obviously a pre-recording voicemail, but it’s /offensive/ and Shuuji opens his mouth to ask why the fuck Ranpo didn’t just tell him /no/ instead of embarrassing him like this, when—

With quick movements that

Shuuji can’t even follow, his left wrist gets handcuffed tightly to the steering wheel.

“What the /fuck/?” He hisses, yanking on the cuffs. They’re firm, locked right. Where did they even come from?

Ranpo leans in, close, closer—

His breath washes hotly over his ear, making

Shuuji stiffen in place.

“That’s for trying to lock me in,” he murmurs. Shuuji can feel his smile against his ear, self-satisfied and victorious.

God, /fuck/—

Then he reaches across his body and hits the child lock button again, unlocking the doors.

“See ya!” Ranpo says

cheerfully, not sounding at /all/ like the man who was just whispering sinfully into his ear as he slides out of the car.

Panic hits Shuuji abruptly, disorientating after the pulse of /excitement/ that he was just feeling. “Wait! You can’t just /leave/ me like this! How am I

supposed to drive like this?”

Ranpo spins around, looking back at him as he walks backwards. He shrugs at him. “Sounds like a you problem. I’m sure it won’t be much different than your regular, terrible driving.”

Shuuji yanks on the cuffs. They’re /real/ cuffs, not the play

ones that have a hinge for the restrained person to get out of them with. They need /keys/, keys that Shuuji doesn’t /have/.

“How am I supposed to get out of these?!” He shouts at Ranpo’s retreating figure.

Another shrug, a wave of Ranpo’s hand. “Ask your dad to teach you how

to break out of cuffs. It’s about time you learned.”

Then he’s /gone/, disappearing into the sunset and into his little cafe out of sight.

Shuuji is left there, staring after him, filled with opposing emotions because on /one/ hand—

/Fuck/ Ranpo. He can’t believe the little

shit actually handcuffed him to his own car and /left/ him. The /audacity/ of the little fucker, and he didn’t even seem like he felt bad about it! He was /smug/, even, about humiliating him!

And on the /other/ hand—

/Oh my god, I think I’m in love./

—————— +

Because Chuuya is glumly throwing the ball for the dogs outside and wondering if he should just call a cab and go home, he doesn’t actually hear when Dazai comes back.

The first thing he hears that’s out of the ordinary is /uproariously/ loud laughter coming from outside the

front door and when he goes to investigate—

He finds Dazai nearly on the /floor/ with laughter, tears gathering in his eyes as he laughs and laughs and laughs at Shuuji—

Who is handcuffed to his car and yelling at Dazai that it’s /not/ funny, looking nearly in tears himself.

And it /is/ pretty funny actually, and Chuuya ends up laughing too. Shuuji won’t say /why/ he’s cuffed, but considering he left with Ranpo, there’s only so many things that could’ve happened.

That leads to a very interesting lesson on how to pop the lock on a pair of handcuffs

with a bobby pin. It’s more of a “learn it yourself” lesson because Dazai just gives the basic explanations and then laughs at Shuuji as he struggles one-handedly to get the cuff off.

Chuuya spends half of the time snickering at Shuuji’s mutterings to himself and the other half

trying not to stare at Dazai.

There’s still awkward tension between them, and Dazai is careful not to touch him when he shows Chuuya— this time much more thorough— how to break the lock when Shuuji finally frees himself.

It doesn’t feel /malicious/, just...cautious?

Respectful, maybe, because Shuuji is still around and they haven’t talked yet.

He doesn’t know where they stand. Part of him was reassured by the kiss Dazai dropped on his forehead, but the other part...

Is worried that this fight is the end.

He can see where Dazai is

coming from, why he’s upset. He’s told Chuuya at least three times that he needs to get better at communicating, and every time he promises—

And then doesn’t follow through. He can see why that would be frustrating and insensitive—

Even worthy of breaking up with him.

He can see that, and that /scares/ him because he doesn’t know what to /expect/ right now.

Dazai doesn’t seem /mad/ right now, but he doesn’t seem happy with him either. He doesn’t seem like anything right now, just calm.

Teaching them how to break out of handcuffs turns into

ordering in dinner.

Dazai goes to take a shower while they wait for it to arrive, and the /talk/ is put off for longer.

Then when the food /does/ arrive, Shuuji wants to watch a movie while they eat, and Dazai says he has a call he has to make and retreats to his office.

Chuuya sits there, staring blankly at the TV screen, not watching the movie at all as a sick, curdling feeling in his stomach starts to grow. He can’t eat because of how bad he feels, stomach-turning fear and adrenaline making him nauseous.

It’s like being stuck in Purgatory,

waiting to be struck down in either way and /rotting/ with anticipation. Nervousness like festering ants in his veins, building up sick, agonizing homes in his stomach and chest.

Part of him wants to delay the conversation /forever/, even though this is the worst feeling ever,

because he doesn’t want to /know/ if it’s over.

If /they’re/ over.

He wants to go /back/, back to when things were happy and good and easy between them. Back to Osaka, back to this fucking morning so he could make better decisions that didn’t lead him /here/.

The other part

of him just wants to get it /over/ with, because—

At least it will be done, then. At least it’ll be over. At least the waiting will stop.

Eventually, Shuuji heads up to his bedroom. He doesn’t offer Chuuya a blanket or a pillow or a ride home, he just says goodnight and leaves.

The darkness, lit for a long moment by the TV before it eventually goes to sleep and turns itself off, makes it worse.

There’s no distractions, then. There’s only thinking and thinking and thinking, wobbling between what to say when he apologizes to Dazai and thinking up

arguments to use against him, and spinning himself into tiny, tangled up knots of anger and misery and pain.

Eventually, Chuuya gathers up his courage and his irritation and goes to find Dazai /himself/. He hasn’t come down from his office since he went up there for dinner, and

he’s half-convinced he’s avoiding the conversation.

Also half-convinced that the door will be /locked/ when he tries it—

But it’s not.The knob twists easily under his hand and the door swings open.

It’s dark inside, lit up only by the ever-present red lights from Dazai’s room.

He ventures in, holding his breath to be as quiet as possible. It’s hard to see, but he can’t make out Dazai’s figure anywhere in the office.

He goes further, pushing open the bedroom door farther open lightly, poking his head inside—

A hand wraps around his arm and /yanks/.

His first instinct is to /scream/ and he very nearly does—

But then there’s another hand under his chin, tilting his face up so a mouth can cover his own.

It takes him barely a second to recognize the feel of the body pressed against his own, the shape of the mouth moving

over his, tasting heavily of whiskey.

And—

They should talk. He knows that. Dazai /said/ they’d talk, and Chuuya wants to talk and they need to talk—

But giving in feels /so/ good, makes all the ugly butterflies made of rot and ruin disappear from his stomach. Makes the

anxiety go away and replaces it with /pleasure/. Makes the nausea and the fear fade away.

Maybe it’s not /healthy/,but being pressed up against the wall with his legs around Dazai’s waist and his hands in his hair while a different set of hands fumbles at the button of his jeans

feels /good/.

And after hours of feeling sick and twisted up inside, he just wants to feel good right now. Just wants to forget the ‘what if’s’ and live in the moment.

They can talk after, he promises himself, wiggling his hips to help get his jeans off. They’ll talk after.

It’s rushed, frantic, desperate. Chuuya only gets his jeans off and Dazai doesn’t even pull his pants off, he just unzips them and tugs them down just far enough.

It feels like Dazai dumps half an entire bottle of lube into his palm before pushing his fingers inside him,

muffling his shocked keen by drawing him into a deeper, harder kiss.

It’s the roughest Dazai has ever been with him, and Chuuya /loves/ it. He’s half-drunk on the taste of whiskey on his tongue, shuddering whenever Dazai pushes him a little too far too quickly.

He /needs/ it,

needs the reassurance of how /much/ Dazai wants him, so much he can barely wait, so much they don’t even make it to the bed before he’s pulling back his three fingers and replacing them with his cock.

It’s /deep/ like this, like Dazai is fucking his /soul/, and Chuuya can’t

tell if the tears on his face are from the emotional release, the pleasure, the need, the tinge of pain, or the overwhelming combination of it all.

He’s clinging to Dazai, as hard as he can, digging his nails into his back to scratch him up, to leave his mark on him, to leave

/something/ of himself on his body, a reminder.

/ Don’t leave, don’t leave me, don’t leave me behind, please, I’m /sorry/, I didn’t mean to, I need you—. /

He’s glad Dazai won’t stop kissing him, because it soothes the ache and because he’s not sure what he’d /say/ right now

if he could speak. Apologies or insults or gibberish nonsense as Dazai drives him towards the peak so quickly he feels dizzy with it.

It’s also the first time Dazai comes before him, and the satisfaction of feeling him twitch and spill inside him as he muffles groans against his

mouth is contrasted sharply by the rampaging need still inside him because he’s not /done/.

He rocks his hips frantically, grinding forward against Dazai’s stomach and back on his softening erection, desperate for just a /little/ more friction, a little longer, a little more,

/please/—

It’s easier once a hand closes around his cock and jerks him sloppily, rhythm nonexistent. Dazai’s hips are still rocking forward, fucking his cum back inside him.

The desperation of it all, the quick frantic rush and release, is enough to have him releasing a

muffled cry as he orgasms.

For a moment, all there is is white-hot pleasure and electricity. He revels in it, breathes in rapture like oxygen, always searching for more, to feel /better/.

It fades all too quickly, and the emptiness that comes after feels colder than usual.

Before he can come down too much, Dazai is taking his weight again and staggering over to the bed.

When they collapse onto it, it’s soft and warm and comforting. Dazai is heavy on top of him, forehead pressed to his shoulder and—

Chuuya could sleep. He could just fall asleep

right here, like this, without a problem.

He could just fall, and dream that nothing ever happened and that they’re okay, and everything is perfect and fine.

He could do it. It’s tempting, more tempting than a lot of things he’s felt recently.

He could sleep, like this.

But then Dazai shifts on top of him, stretching out a little more, and Chuuya realizes that he /can’t/ leave things like this between them. He has to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, burying his fingers in his hair and tugging to make sure he’s listening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t

know that not telling you would hurt you, but I should have known. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to talk about it because—,” he blows out a breath, trying to think.

This is harder than he thought it would be. He’s glad Dazai’s not looking at him, even though he can tell he’s

listening by the way his thumb is stroking over his ribs. It’s silently encouraging, enough that Chuuya forges on ahead.

“Because I wasn’t sure what Shuuji was going to do. I was afraid that if he told our professors that they would think bad of me and it would hurt my

scholarships. And...” he trails off here for a second, swallowing hard. The strokes of his fingers through Dazai’s hair are comforting, a grounding rhythm. “I wanted to tell my family first, but you’re right. I should’ve talked to you first, and I should’ve told him. I /will/

tell him.”

There’s silence for a long moment, long enough that he’s half-afraid Dazai fell asleep on him—

Then Dazai is rolling off him, settling on his side right beside him instead. He props up his head with one of his hands, elbow on the bed. His eyes are huge and dark,

fixed on his face with unwavering intensity.

“If you want to tell your family first, then you should absolutely tell them first. I meant what I said earlier; I don’t mind keeping us a secret if that’s what you think is better for you. I’m not /happy/ about it, but I want you to

be comfortable and happy more than anything else.”

His free hand comes up, skirting over the cooling mess on his stomach and curving over his side affectionately. He’s warm, familiar.

“And I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier. I was having a bad day and was upset for other

reasons that didn’t have anything to do with you. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you, and I should’ve been more reasonable when it happened.”

Chuuya’s smile feels wobbly, a little /wet/. This is hard, but it’s also /so/ easy. “You didn’t yell.”

It’s true, Dazai never

raised his voice. If anything, his voice had /dropped/, turned into something seething and low.

“I know,” Dazai murmurs, petting over his side, “but I hurt you, and I didn’t want to. I’m sorry for that.”

The knot in Chuuya’s chest finally loosens, and he can take an

unobstructed breath. He rolls over, turning into Dazai’s chest and wrapping his arms around his waist.

He clings on, pushing his leg between Dazai’s thighs to make sure they’re as intertwined as they could possibly be.

The hand on his side curves around to his back, large palm

pressing beneath his shoulder blades and pulling him closer.

“I’ll be better now, I promise,” he mutters into his chest, muffled, “At talking, I mean. I didn’t really understand before, but I do now, and I’m going to try my best.”

Dazai’s chest rumbles under his ear as he

speaks again. “I believe you, doll.”

He hasn’t heard /that/ one in a while, and his cheeks start to heat up at the nickname.

Now that all the anxiety is starting to fade and most of the emotions have been burnt out by sex, Chuuya is starting to feel exhausted. He’s warm and

comfortable.

There’s just one more thing.

“I’ll tell him, though. I’ll tell him, and then my family. We can go from there. But I want him to know because I don’t want to act like I’m not—“ his /first/ instinct is to say ‘not in /love/ with you’ and /that/ thought is so

startling that he almost loses his train of thought entirely because—

No, no, it’s too /soon/, he doesn’t /actually/ feel like that, he’s just pent up and relieved. It’s not true.

“Okay,” Dazai agrees, falling backwards onto his back and dragging Chuuya with him. They’re

still messy, but apparently this is the first time Dazai will allow it to stay that way.

Chuuya doesn’t /like/ the sticky mess, but the thought of getting up right now or letting go of Dazai is blasphemous.

“But we’re good now, right? Is there anything else we needed to talk

about or are we okay now?”

Dazai drags him a little higher, so his head is tucked under his chin comfortably. “Yes, we’re good now. Go to sleep, chibi, I know you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last of the tangled up emotions loosens up, leaving him exhausted

and pleasantly empty in their wake.

Reassured now, he cuddles closer and lets his eyelids fall shut.

He spends his last moments before sleeping planning out a good time to tell Shuuji. Monday, he thinks, maybe after class.

(He will never get the chance.)

He sleeps.

——— +

It’s not an alarm or the sun rising that wakes Chuuya up the next morning. It’s actually his stomach, growling and clenching painfully with emptiness, and it’s obscenely early. Dawn is /just/ beginning to turn the sky grey.

For a moment, he considers trying to go back to sleep.

He’s warm and comfortable, sprawled out over Dazai’s chest. There’s a steady heartbeat under his ear, and an arm thrown over his back, a firm thigh between his legs.

His stomach twists again. He’s so /hungry/, hasn’t eaten anything since early yesterday afternoon. He couldn’t

take more than a bite or two of his dinner last night, and the consequences of that are hitting him now.

Ugh. He grumbles to himself, slowly wiggling out of Dazai’s hold. He’ll just get a quick bowl of cereal or something so his stomach will stop trying to eat itself and then

he’ll come back and cuddle up again.

Dazai shifts when he’s /almost/ free, and Chuuya freezes, thinking he woke him up. It’s too early for him, and even though he wasn’t /drunk/ last night, he still needs more sleep to recover from what he did drink.

But Dazai just turns over,

sleepily searching with his hand until he finds a pillow and drags it closer. He curls around it, hugging it close to his chest with a sleepy, content noise.

Cute.

Chuuya leaves him to his pillow, creeping down the stairs as quietly as he can. Yoko and Kozo are sprawled out in

the hallway, snoring.

They startle awake as he passes, scrambling to their feet with small grunts. When they see it’s just him, they settle back down again and let out a couple of yawns.

Chuuya winces. It’s so quiet in here that they’re loud by comparison. “Come on,” he

mutters, ushering them down the stairs. “Time for you to go outside.”

Naturally, they /bound/ down the stairs with a ruckus. He freezes at the top, listening hard to see if he woke anybody up.

When nothing moves for a while, he continues his journey down the stairs.

The dogs

are waiting for him by the back door, prancing over themselves in their excitement. He lets them out as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind them to keep the noise down.

He pads over to the fridge, pulling it open and taking out one of the water bottles stashed inside.

Cracking it open, he chugs nearly the whole thing in one drink. He's so /thirsty/.

There's quite a few meals he could make from the food that's in the fridge, but that requires cooking and cleaning, and overall way too much effort. He just wants something easy, like a bowl of

cereal.

There's only /one/ problem.

The box of cereal is in the pantry, easily accessible. There's milk in the fridge, clean spoons in the drawer.

But the /bowls/...

Are stored on the /very top/ shelf of the cabinet, far out of reach.

Chuuya stares at them, /hating/ his

existence.

It's not like Dazai owns a step-stool either, because /he's/ tall and can reach the bowls. And it's not like Chuuya can just stick his hand into the cereal box and eat it by the handful because that would be unsanitary.

He has to climb up there to get them, but it's

so /early/ and the counters are already at hip-height.

God /fucking/ dammit, he grumbles to himself, hooking his fingers underneath the lip of the cabinet so he can start to pull himself /up/--

Only for a body to press up behind him, an arm reaching up and /effortlessly/

bringing down a bowl for him.

He scowls at the cabinet. That's so not fair. He practically has to become a goddamn spider monkey to get through life, but /Dazai/ just gets to reach up there without a problem.

"If you needed help, you could've just asked," Dazai rumbles, voice

tinged with amusement as he sets down the bowl in easy reach.

"Yeah, yeah," Chuuya snarks, unwilling to point out that he /didn't/ need help, he just needed to climb to do it himself, "whatever, daddy long legs."

There's a second where they /both/ process what he just said.

Chuuya with embarrassment, staring at the cabinet as his cheeks begin to burn. He didn't /plan/ on saying that, it just came out, fueled by lingering exhaustion and irritation. He wasn't even /thinking/.

With hands on his shoulders, Dazai spins him around and now he's looming

over him and his smile is big and blatantly amused, clearly fighting back the urge to /grin/. "What did you call me?"

More embarrassment floods through Chuuya, tinged with irritation.He turns his head, refusing to look at him directly. "I didn't call you anything."

Dazai snorts

and now Chuuya is struggling to suppress a smile because he sounds so damn amused and it's /contagious/.

Hands find his waist,lifting him up and backwards onto the counter. Chuuya hangs onto his shoulders, but doesn't fight him for even a second.

There was still this lingering

fear somewhere inside him. Even though they both agreed that they were good and the fight was over, he was still worried that things were going to be /awkward/ between them. That the fight would cause tension and uncertainty between them, and it'd take them a while to get back

into their old rhythm.

That's how it was with his sisters. Even when they made up after a fight, there was still this subtle, passive-aggressive anger and irritation towards each other that tainted all their interactions.

Eventually, it'd go away and they'd /actually/ be good

again, but it always took them a while after they made up to /actually/ be normal with each other.

He was half-expecting it to be like that now between them, but evidently he was wrong, based on the way Dazai is now pressing his smile against his cheek.

"No, you /definitely/

called me something. I heard it," he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I think you're hearing things," Chuuya sniffs, turning his nose up even higher. He's /acting/ bratty and irritable, but he can't fight the growing smile. With how close Dazai is, there's no way he can't

feel it, can’t /taste/ it. “But if I /did/ say something, it’d probably be about how I could’ve gotten the bowl myself and I didn’t /need/ help.”

“Aww,” Dazai croons, layering his cheek with more kisses. “Are you /mad/ at me?”

The way he says it makes it clear he finds that

idea /adorable/. Like there’s nothing cuter than Chuuya being irritable with him over a bowl.

“Yeah,” he confirms, even as he’s hooking his knees around Dazai’s hips and drawing him in closer, as close as he can, until their chests are pressed together. “Super mad.”

Their hips

connect,and Chuuya can feel interest stirring there, growing hotter with the weight of their bodies.

Chuuya’s still not wearing underwear from last night,and he had shrugged on one of Dazai’s discarded shirts. Dazai changed into sweatpants at some point, hanging low on his hips.

He’s sleep-warm, voice rough and his hair wild and /how/ is Chuuya ever supposed to resist him? How is he supposed to do anything besides give into him when they’re pressed this close together, and he feels /so/ good?

Dazai presses a sucking kiss over his cheekbone, scraping his

teeth over the sensitive flesh. When Chuuya’s breath hitches, he lets him go again, moving onto the next spot.

“Oh, you’re so /cute/,” he murmurs, like he didn’t even mean to say it, it just came out, an unexpected confession.

Heart skipping a beat, Chuuya turns his head to

catch him in a kiss.

Last night,that was frantic and hasty and rough. It wasn’t about enjoyment then, it was about the /need/, about proving to themselves that there was still something there between them, about forgetting the emotional turmoil by indulging in physical pleasure.

This...

This feels like reassurance, like affection, like coming /home/. Like savoring your favorite meal after not having it for a while, bite after bite after delicious anticipated bite, feeling how easily the hunger is sated. Like coming home from after a long time away,

and being greeted at the door.

Every time Dazai’s mouth moves over his, coaxing his lips open wider so he can kiss him deeper, one of his hands cupping the back of his neck and tipping his chin back, Chuuya feels like he’s /reeling/. Being drowned in the sensation of being

caught and /held/ and savored.

He’s tipped backwards slightly as Dazai presses into him. His legs are hitched around Dazai’s waist, and he’s on the very edge of the counter. If Dazai pressed either way, forwards or back, Chuuya would probably end up falling.

But there’s

safety in the hand around the back of his neck, effortlessly holding him upright. Reassurance in the way Dazai is solid and steady between his thighs, something for Chuuya to cling onto.

There’s /need/ in the way his free hand has found one of Chuuya’s leg and is drawing a

swirling pattern /up/, slowly inching his way up his thigh.

Honestly, Chuuya should have predicted this. He’s learned that Dazai has an /affinity/ for sex in unusual places, and mostly places that are /risky/.

The risk here is inherent; Shuuji could walk in on them at any time.

While it /is/ still early and dawn is just beginning to break, and Shuuji is self-admitted to not being a morning person—

He could walk in at any moment.

That would be an interesting way to discover they’re dating, Chuuya thinks to himself with amusement, gasping as Dazai nips

at his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth.

If they make too much noise, or take too long, or even just sheer bad luck—

They could get /caught/.

That doesn’t seem to bother Dazai though, because his thumb has found the crease of Chuuya’s hip and is rubbing over it in slow,

teasing-tempting circles. Dazai's shirt is huge on him, but it's been pushed up over his thighs to give Dazai room to work with.

Dazai Osamu is a bad influence. Before him, Chuuya had never even /considered/ doing risky things like this. He broke rules in other ways, but sex?

No.

He always thought he'd be on the /normal/ side of sex. That he'd like things predictable and easy. A bed, a few positions, and that was basically it. Whenever he /thought/ about people doing weird things during sex, he always found it strange and a turn-off.

But now he's

/rapidly/ discovering that the 'weird' stuff is actually pretty fucking hot, especially when he's doing it with someone like /Dazai/.

Case in point, he's already half-hard and getting harder fast, half-drunk on the idea of being caught at /all/. Dazai's hardly done anything

to him besides kiss him stupid and stroke fingertips over his thighs, and yet here he is, breathless and needy for more.

"More," he mumbles against Dazai's mouth, tightening his legs around his hips to grind his erection against the heat of his abs, gasping at the friction.

The smile that gets pressed against his mouth is teasing, self-satisfied. He's certain that Dazai is going to string him out until he's desperate, tease him with taste and touch and words until he can barely think but--

"I got you, baby," gets murmured back to him, soft and so

assured it feels as easy as breathing to fall into him.

Apparently either Dazai brought lube /with/ him-- arrogant bastard, but it works out in Chuuya's favor so he's not too angry-- or he keeps a spare bottle in the kitchen for these kinds of mornings. All Chuuya knows for sure

is that his hand leaves his hip for a few moments and then comes back wet, sliding between his thighs.

Chuuya has to scoot forward a little bit, rounding his back to give him better access. It leaves him hanging in his grip, supported by his legs and the hand behind his neck.

Prep is easy and quick, considering they fucked only a few hours before. It's not long before Dazai is pumping two fingers into him and then three, stretching him open steadily but not rushing it.

Still, every movement of his fingers and every accidental brush against his

prostate has him gasping out soft moans.

Usually Chuuya is /loud/--something that embarrasses him sometimes, but he can't /help/ it and he's certain Dazai tries to get him to moan as loud as possible as a /challenge/-- but something about this interaction feels /hushed/.

Feels

quiet and reverential, has him gasping out soft moans and hitched breaths that get swallowed by Dazai.

He hasn't stopped kissing him /once/, not even as he pulls his fingers out and slides inside him. Chuuya feels drugged by it, dizzy, brought to searing life and held there by

teeth and tongue and breath.

His body is still waking up from sleep, and that makes it so easy to feel overwhelmed by how /deep/ Dazai feels inside him, buried all the way inside and rocking in short, pointed slides against his prostate. Every touch feels like fire itself, every

breath feels like living and dying in the same moment.

It's slow too, his best spots being milked until he can hardly breathe through the pleasure as it grows and grows, heightening with every moment.

There's a point, when both of Dazai's hands are cupping his face and holding

him in place as he kisses him and kisses him and breathes little groans into his mouth and whispers his name, and all Chuuya can do is /hold on/, hands wrapped around his wrists and whimpering back to him as they spiral higher and higher.

His orgasm feels like it shakes him to

his very core, leaving him trembling and shivering as he rides out the heat-drenched pleasure.

Dazai isn't far after him, and the noise he makes as he buries himself as deeply as he can makes an exhausted ripple of arousal creep up Chuuya's spine.

For a while they just breathe

together, slowly recovering as their heartbeats slow down. Dazai's forehead, pressed to his, is damp with sweat. His sweats, pushed down /just/ far enough to pull out his cock, are rough against the back of his thighs.

It's peaceful, relaxing.

At least it is until--

Noise, upstairs.

Shuuji's waking up and coming downstairs, /fuck/!

Chuuya shoves Dazai away because he doesn't /actually/ want to tell Shuuji about them while's wearing /only/ his shirt and his cum is dripping out of him. He has /dignity/, and if he's going to be telling Shuuji

that he's in a relationship with his /father/, then he at least wants to be wearing underwear. Preferably pants too.

Preferably a whole rocking outfit, actually, as a confidence boost and also because he's /petty/ and he wants to look his best when he's telling Shuuji he'll

never get to touch /this/.

Dazai stumbles away, looking vaguely offended.

Chuuya hops down after him, wincing when he feels how wet the counter is behind him. "Please don't be mad," he hisses to Dazai, waving him away, "I want to wait to tell him until I'm at /least/ wearing

pants, /please/. Please understand that."

Dazai blows out a breath, and the irritation that was beginning to grow on his face slides away. He nods, pulling his sweats up and going to start a pot of coffee.

With shaky hands, feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Chuuya pours

himself a bowl of cereal. He totally forgot he was hungry and now he feels too on-edge to actually eat.

Shuuji comes bounding in, fully dressed and with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks too awake to have woken up anytime /recently/ and Chuuya is briefly paralyzed

by the thought that he /heard/ and he's come to confront them--

"Hey Dad, I'm busy today, can you give Chuuya a ride home?"

But apparently not.

Relieved, he takes a bite of cereal.

Dazai turns around, leaning back against the counter with a mug of freshly brewed black coffee

in his hands. There's a wet spot on his sweats from lube, and he's not even /trying/ to hide it, or the fact that he's sweaty.

God, this is a /nightmare/, but if Shuuji asks, Chuuya won't say no.

It's just /mortifying/ to bring up 'hey, I'm like technically your step-dad right

now and might actually be your legal step-dad some day so surprise! Hope you're not too mad! We'll invite you to the wedding if it happens' while there's /literally/ cum dripping down his thigh, hot and sticky.

Dazai smirks into his coffee. "Yeah, I'll give him a ride."

The

innuendo is /thick/, so blatant that Chuuya is shooting him a look. They're already in a sticky situation--literally--, he doesn't have to rub it in.

Shuuji doesn't notice, snagging a banana from the island counter and turning away again. "Okay, cool, thanks, bye!"

Then he's

racing out the door, apparently /very/ intent on whatever mission he has planned for today. What it /is/, considering it's a little past 6 in the morning, Chuuya has /no/ fucking idea, but he doesn't care.

"You /ass/," he hisses at Dazai, throwing a dry piece of cereal at him,

"You weren't subtle or helpful at /all/!"

Dazai downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp, grinning. He sets the mug down in the sink, stalking closer until Chuuya is once again pinned between him and the counter.

"What do you want me to say, baby? That you're /not/ dripping

my cum down those pretty legs of yours? That my cock /isn't/ still wet from being inside you?" His voice is lilting with smug pleasure, curling around his nerve endings enticingly.

Chuuya takes another bite to save himself from answering, but there's a /different/ hunger growing

in his stomach. It's a good thing he found Dazai, because the man is apparently just as insatiable as he is.

It'd be ridiculous if he wasn't so into it.

Dazai leans closer, until his cheek is sliding past his and his mouth is next to his ear. One of his hands finds the back of

his thigh, smearing over the sticky cum there without hesitation.

"Or I /could've/ said," he whispers, breath hot and audible in his ear, sending shivers down his spine, "that I want to do it /again/?"

Oh, /fuck/ eating right now.

The bowl of cereal gets placed on the counter,

forgotten, as he hops up into Dazai's arms with a grin.

Dazai supports him with hands on his thighs, tilting his head back for a kiss. "I have a grooming appointment for the dogs in four hours. Until then, you're /mine/."

Chuuya would argue that he's his /forever/, but he's too

busy kissing him to actually say anything.

(Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.)

--------- +

Yuan lives two separate lives. Sometimes she likes to think that she's her own doppelganger, both the evil and the good twin. It's more fun that way, to think of it as some party trick or a magic

show rather than the depressing reality that it is.

Because out /there/ she's the supposedly privileged, popular, pretty young college girl that gets whatever she wants. She's friends with most of the younger rich kids. She goes to all their parties, goes invited to a good

many of their vacations, gets gifts and handouts.

Because they think she's one of /them/. They think she's the estranged but still cared for daughter of a rich businessman, that she goes home to a big beautiful house in the suburbs and she's on the fast track to being rich and

successful.

When the truth is--

"Yuan, will you come help me with the vegetables, please?"

When the /truth/ is that she's the second daughter of a single mother, and the only 'privilege' she has is the one she's taken for herself with lying and manipulation.

Their apartment

is small, with only one bedroom. Her mother has given it up to her and her sister, making her 'bedroom' in a small corner of the living room by sectioning off a space with hanging curtains.

Yuan's sister, Elise, went off the live in the college dorms as soon as she could but...

Yuan couldn't leave their mom all /alone/. She gave /everything/ for them, worked two, sometimes three jobs in order to get them into good schools. Even now, after she's gotten a promotion as a secretary, she still works brutally long hours.

It makes Yuan sad, to think of her

mom working all day and half the night, only to come home to an empty and cold house.

She did have opportunities at the dorms at Keio but she's just fine with her tiny room with her mother.

"How was work today?" She asks her mother, joining her in the kitchen. It smells like

she's cooking ramen. They're in for a treat then, because Yuan /loves/ her ramen. Almost as good as some restaurants.

There's garlic and green onions and a few other vegetables waiting on the counter to be chopped. Yuan pulls out their cutting board and gets to work.

"It was

okay," her mother sighs, stirring the pot. "Ango is very tense lately, though. It makes my job hard to do when he is very grumpy."

Personally, Yuan thinks Ango is a prick even when he's being 'nice', always sending her mother out on unnecessary errands or calling her late at

night. There was a time where she thought he was /interested/ in her mother, but after a while, she's come to the conclusion that he's just a prick who doesn't think other people's lives matter as much as his does.

"Why is he so worried?" Yuan asks, slicing the green onion into

thin pieces.

Dropping noodles into a pot of boiling water, her mother shrugs, "He says that the crime rates are escalating very quickly, and making his job difficult. He says something needs to change soon, or people even more important than him will step in."

Yuan frowns,

gathering up the sliced pieces and dumping them into a bowl. That sounds pretty serious, actually.

What her mother's company-- the Special Divisions Unit, or something-- does has always been a bit of a mystery to Yuan, so she doesn't understand /why/ a higher crime rate would

affect them, but she hopes it stops soon. Her mother is much too overworked.

"Enough about me. How was class today, sweetie?"

Yuan hums, cleaning off her knife and board. She finished early, and it will probably still be another twenty minutes before the ramen is finished. "It

was boring, actually. We didn't learn much. But Shirase said he wanted to talk to me later, can I go see what he wants?"

Smiling, her mother shoos her off. "Go, then. Tell the boy I miss him, and he should visit sometimes."

She nods, leaving her mother to finish cooking as she

heads back to her room. She pulls out her phone, checking her recent texts.

There's an older text from Shuuji, two from Elise, some social media updates, and a newer text from Shirase.

Throwing herself back on her bed, she pulls up their conversations. Their last texts make her

snort in amusement.

[ DUMDUM ]: what's the different between a neko and a catgirl

[ YUAN ]: neko is a derogatory term coined by spanish invaders in the 1800's

[ DUMDUM ]: really?????

[ YUAN ]: god did you even go to school? no i was fucking with you

[ DUMDUM ]: i'm never

trusting you again

[ YUAN ]: 🥰

The most recent text, however, is the most concerning one.

[ DUMDUM ]: yo have you seen this???

He sent a recording of the public Snapchat hotspot for Keio. She doesn't usually look at it, because it's usually filled with boring videos, but

this time, it's something... interesting, to say the least.

It was posted about eleven this morning, nearly two hours ago. It's a shaky video of a dog grooming store, which would normally be something to skip past but--

It's Chuuya in the video, dressed up in clothes she's

never seen before and--

Kissing who is /obviously/ Dazai Osamu. Shuuji's /dad/.

And not like, awkward or accidental or any kind of kissing that might be able to be explained away. Full on, public, hands around Dazai's neck, smiling in the kiss, /almost/ a makeout session.

Her first thought is /fuck/, that is very not good.

Her second thought is, why does /he/ get to makeout with Dazai in public when she can barely get the man to say her name after trying to come onto him for /months/. Chuuya's been here like two weeks! He has to be cheating.

Her third thought, and this is the most pressing one--

Has Shuuji seen this yet?

She replays the video,hoping she was somehow mistaken--

But she's not, and this time she notices the damning information in the caption:

"YOOOO NAKAHARA STRUCK IT RICH HUH 👅👅"

Oh this is /not/

good. So not good.

Shuuji's going to be /livid/. Half the school has probably seen this already, and while Chuuya was never his official boyfriend, they were seen together often enough. People know.

Everybody's going to be laughing at him, and he's going to be /pissed/.

[ DUMDUM ]: what do we do?????? shuuji's gonna go off the deep end

Is there anything they /can/ do? It's a public snapchat spot, and she doesn't recognize the user of the person who posted it, so she can't ask them to take it down.

It's been up for almost two hours already. And

if Shirase already has a video saved of it, then there will be /other/ videos already saved.

Gossip spreads like the wind at Keio.

This is so not good. The situation is already spiraling out of control.

[ YUAN ]: fuck idk?? are you with shuuji today?? steal his phone so he

can't see it

[ DUMDUM ]: im not with him are you????

Fuck, so there's /no/ damage control then.

Okay, okay, she can figure out who posted it and then make them take it down before he sees it--

Another text, not from Shirase. This one is coming from the /group chat/.

Shuuji insisted on making a new group chat without Chuuya a few weeks before. She's been ignoring it, mostly, because she feels like that's mean to Chuuya--

But she can't ignore /this/ text.

[ SHUUJI ]: i'm going to kill that gold digging slut like he's a stupid fucking dog

/Shit/.

[ YUAN ]: woah woah let's not do anything too hasty

[ SHUUJI ]: shut the fuck up

[ YUAN ]: i get that ur mad but don't do anything crazy okay, just take a second and think about what will happen to you

Seconds turn into agonizingly slow minutes, panic beginning to

set in because--

If Shuuji gets angry enough, he /will/ follow through. He doesn't care about consequences or what happens because of his actions.

He'll do it. He'll fucking do it.

Shuuji doesn't respond again.

Her next course of option-- her /only/ course of option-- is

to call Chuuya and hopes he picks up so at least she can /warn/ him.

(Tick. Tock. Tick--

Oh, would you look at that?

Time's up.)

-------- +

[ SHUUJI ]: hey can we talk? :)

Chuuya shuffles his phone a little, contemplating. He was intending to wait until Monday to say

anything-- not for any particular reason, just because it gave him enough time to come up with a good speech-- but come to think of it, this seems like the perfect time.

It gets the conversation over with quickly, and then he can stop pretending he doesn't care about Dazai.

Besides, it's not like he has anything else to do right now. Dazai went to go pick up the dogs from their appointment, and when Chuuya offered to come with, he said he had an errand to run.

He already did his homework, and now he's just sitting on his phone playing games. So why

not just get it over with?

Just rip the band-aid off so they can all just move on.

[ CHUUYA ]: yeah I have something to tell you too

[ CHUUYA ]: im still at ur house btw we can talk here

Barely even a /second/ passes before gets a response.

[ SHUUJI ]: be there soon!

Shuuji is usually a pretty slow texter with him, so it’s pretty surprising that he answered so quickly. Maybe he has something important to tell him too.

Before he can ask—

His phone dies. He forgot to charge it the night before, and between getting fucked into Dazai’s bed like

the man was trying to snap his spine in half, and then going to drop off the dogs, and getting a quick lunch before coming home—

He hasn’t had the chance to charge it.

Ugh.

Luckily though, there’s a few spare chargers stashed in one of the kitchen drawers, so he gets up to

plug it in.

He hesitates there. It feels weird to be waiting for Shuuji in his own house to have The Talk. What is he supposed to do, watch TV? Sit by the door reading a magazine like one of those parents in movies?

Come to think of it, he actually doesn’t have the password to

the Netflix, so he can’t actually watch TV anyways.

So his options are to sit in awkward silence and stare at the wall until either Shuuji or Dazai gets back—

Or he can wait outside and soak up some sun while he waits. It’s been a while since he was able to just enjoy the

warmth and pleasure of the sun. He’s been locked up in classes or studying, or sprawled on his back in Dazai’s bed.

Plus, without his phone, he won’t be able to get any updates on when they’re coming back, so. He’ll be able to see them quicker if he’s waiting outside.

(Like

most bad ideas, it seems terribly reasonable when you first think of it.)

It’s a warmer day than the last week has been, but it’s still a bit chilly. The sidewalk, however, has soaked up all the sun and is warm against his ass as he sits near the drive way to wait.

(Inside,

on the counter:

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

1 MISSED CALL.

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

2 MISSED CALLS.

3 MISSED CALLS.

4 MISSED CA—.)

He sees Shuuji’s car first, speeding down the road to the house. He’s driving faster than normal.

***** The next scene will be difficult to handle for those sensitive to vehicular violence.

This is your warning. Do what you must.

There will be a summary at the end. Good luck. *****

(Have you ever been on a roller coaster?

You know that feeling when you get to the top, and you're hovering there, overlooking the drop and thinking--

I'm going to die. This will kill me. If I fall right now, I will die.

And you're reasoning with yourself: Rollercoasters have

safety precautions. They have seatbelts and rails and people who make sure that the tracks are clear and safe, and mechanics to make sure everything is running perfectly.

Rollercoasters are /safe/, predictable.

Well, what if the person securing your seatbelt was having a

/really/ bad day? What if there was an electrical fault somewhere down the line? A track broke? A branch was lying in /just/ the wrong place to send the rollercoaster flying off?

Have you ever thought--

What if the person driving the rollercoaster wanted to see you /dead/?)

Chuuya watches and watches and watches and--

Shuuji's always been a bad driver, but when is he going to slow /down/? Is he planning to just zoom past?

Closer, closer.

Why isn't he stopping?

Closer.

Oh, okay, he's starting to slow down now. Chuuya can see the brake lights

faintly now.

But wait, it's not enough, it's still too /fast/--

Heart pounding in his chest, his whole body feeling numb and tingly and frozen with fear, Chuuya realizes with startling calm:

He's going to hit me. I am going to get run over, right here in the driveway.

For a second, he just /stares/, waiting for the realization to connect with his body as Shuuji hurtles closer and /closer/ and /CLOSER/--

Then it's like all of his survival instincts roar to life at the same time, sending a shockjolt of adrenaline through him that sends him

scrambling to the side, heart in his throat.

/Move, move, move, I have to move, get out of the /way/--/

There's a screech as Shuuji slams on the brakes. The sudden friction of the tires locking causes the back end to fishtail in /Chuuya's/ direction, oh my /god/--

He rolls over onto the lawn, feeling a gut-wrenching sense of panic as he puts a little more distance between them. He rolls again, scrambling onto his hands and knees, craning his head to /look/--

There's a curb protecting him now, but with how /fast/ Shuuji was going, he ends

sliding over the driveway, tires screeching, and halfway onto the lawn before the car finally comes to a stop.

It's only a handful of meters away from him, right on track to crush him underneath the tires.

Chuuya stares at the front of the vehicle, eyes wide and pulse pounding

too fast for him to keep up with.

There's the smell of burnt rubber in his nose, filling up his senses.

Oh my /god/,that really just--

That really almost happened.

He almost got ran the fuck over.

Relief doesn't last long. As soon as the car is stopped completely, Shuuji is

slamming out of the car--

And that's when the /anger/ sets in.

"What the /FUCK/?" He shouts, rising up on his knees and throwing his hands up in the air. If he had something small nearby, he'd chuck it at Shuuji's head.

His entire body is shaking, but the fight isn't over yet.

***** SCENE end.

Summary: Shuuji tries to run Chuuya over with his car. It doesn't work.

*****

Stomach-turning adrenaline is still racing through him like liquid electricity, forcing his heart to speed up until it /hurts/. "What the /fuck/ is wrong with you, Shuuji?" He shouts again, fighting the urge to throw up.

He's off-center, still reeling from the close call. His

ghost feels like it's been flattened in the driveway, filling him with phantom aches of what /almost/ happened.

So when Shuuji stalks over and reaches down for him, grabbing his bicep in a painful grip and yanks him up with it, he's too startled to fight it.

He stumbles to his

feet, fighting to get his breath back for another shout. His chest feels too small for the lingering terror.

"What the fuck is wrong with /me/?" Shuuji hisses, fury laced through his voice as he shoves Chuuya forward,closer to the house. "What the fuck is wrong with /you/? What,

is my dick not wrinkly enough for you, you sick freak? Need some money to get turned on like a common fucking whore?"

And god, everything is happening /so/ fast that he's reeling, trying to keep up with what's happening and his first thought is--

Oh, he knows.

His second?

But he /doesn't/ have a wrinkly dick? It's pretty cute, actually.

That thought feels so absurd in this situation that he almost bursts out laughing,fueled by manic fear and adrenaline. God,what the fuck is happening.

He pulls on his arm, bracing his feet to get a better stance.

But he's made a fatal mistake:

Shuuji is taller than him, and he's just about as strong.With the way he's holding Chuuya's arm up as he drags him along,it's really to fight that pull /or/ get his arm back under control.

"Fuck you, asshole," Chuuya snarls, kicking at his ankle.

He can't think of anything smart to say right now, just mangled versions of insults.

Using the grip on his arm, Shuuji forcibly yanks him around. His foot catches on the step leading to the door, sending him stumbling with the momentum.

His back slams against the corner of the

door, the knob stabbing into his lower back harshly. The move knocks the breath out of him, making him arch away from the door with wide, pained eyes.

And just when he feels like his chest might expand again--

Hands encircle his throat tightly.

Chuuya's had hands around his neck often enough-- Dazai's hands, specifically-- that his first reaction isn't to panic or start struggling.

That's the only reason Shuuji manages to get both his hands around his throat and starts /squeezing/.

It's different than being choked by

Dazai. When Dazai chokes him, the pressure is mostly on the sides, and it's a steady, constant pressure that doesn't waver even if he struggles a bit.

/This/ is Shuuji putting direct force onto his windpipe, like he's trying to crush it, and it's sharp stinging painful. He can't

breathe past it.

"Fucking my dad wasn't enough for you, huh?Gotta embarrass me in front of the whole fucking school? Now everyone knows I was with a freak who had /daddy issues/!" Shuuji seethes,tightening his grip until it feels like his neck is going to be crushed.

And then--

Chuuya has had /enough/.

He's only ever been /nice/ and respectful to Shuuji, even when the fucker didn't deserve it. Sure, going behind his back to date his dad was kind of a dick move, but he doesn't deserve to be choked out and nearly fucking ran over because of it.

Then he

gets /mad/.

If Shuuji wants to fight, then fine, they'll fucking fight.

Thinking past the raw animal panic beginning to course through his veins, Chuuya brings his hands down and then up between Shuuji's arms. With all the strength he can muster he shoves his elbows outward,

breaking the leverage he has to keep him pinned.

It brings Shuuji's face closer, just close enough for him too--

Slamming his head forward to smash his forehead against Shuuji's nose is agony on his neck, but it manages to break the hold he has on him.

Yelping in pain, Shuuji

stumbles back a step, bringing a hand to his nose. It's not broken, but it is bleeding.

"You wanna fucking fight, asshole? Fine, let's fight," Chuuya snaps at him, reaching behind him to open the door. It's unlocked, and having his back against a wall without room to maneuver is

a bad idea. "Yeah, I fucked your dad, and he was a /lot/ better than you were. At least I was hard before he came, which is more than I can say for /you/."

He takes a step back, raising his hands in challenge and offering Shuuji his sharpest, most daring grin.

If he wants to

be embarrassed, he'll embarrass the /fuck/ out of him.

"It's so unfortunate that the genetics skipped you, because while most of /your/ dick is in your personality, Dazai's..." he says, smug, measuring out a length with his hands that's probably only a /little/ exaggerated.

He watches as Shuuji’s face turns satisfyingly red,mouth twisting into an ugly snarl.

Good.The angrier he is, the worse he’ll fight.

Keeping his distance warily,backing up in equal rhythm as Shuuji stalks forward,he watches as Shuuji reaches into his pocket—

And pulls a knife.

Okay, okay, that’s /fine/, Chuuya can handle that.He’s trained with knives before. Those were training knives, made of thick rubber, and far more forgiving, and it’s been a while—

But it’s fine. He just has to keep his distance unless he can disarm him.

At least it’s not a gun.

Planting a hand on the back of the couch, he vaults over it, landing on the other side with his knees bent. It creates more distance between them, puts an obstacle in Shuuji’s path.

“Are you afraid to fight me yourself, coward?” Chuuya asks, roiling with anger. “First your car,