Thread by @H4NDKINK

tonight?”

“No,” Chuuya hums, his foot sliding inwards all the way and /finally/ pressing the heel of his foot against Dazai’s crotch. Like always, he’s /intoxicatingly/ warm. “Tonight I was thinking of… something /else/.”

He accentuates his words by flexing his toes against

the slight bulge in Dazai’s pants, grinning at the stirring of interest he can feel there. He’s /winning/, and it feels /so/ good to be wanted /back/ so easily.

Dazai’s free hand drops down, long fingers encircling his ankle. He doesn’t pull him in or push him away, he just—

Holds him there, in place, thumb rubbing roughly over the slender bones of his ankle, tracing the outline of his tendons. He has a ring on his index finger that presses warmly against his skin.

“Oh? What /did/ you have in mind then?” Dazai asks, his voice incredibly calm and

collected for how much /heat/ is pouring off his body, for how the very tips of his fingers are tracing swirling patterns over his ankle, so light that Chuuya can't help the reflexive shiver.

And Chuuya--

He's had /enough/ of teasing and building up. Now that he /knows/, very

well, how /good/ Dazai can fuck him, he just wants to skip to the best parts after over a /month/ without it. He can enjoy the teasing on a different day, when he's not practically squirming just from fingers sliding slowly up his calf and the feeling of Dazai hardening against

the ball of his foot.

Playing is /fun/, but he spent the last /week/ fantasizing about sex, spent the /entire/ day thinking about what would happen /tonight/, got himself pretty and /dressed/ up, and he /knows/ what he wants.

And now, he is /not/ too shy to go after what he

wants. Not anymore, not /ever/ again.

He lifts his chin, giving Dazai his /sultriest/ look. "I was /thinking/ you finish eating and then take me upstairs, and I could show you what I'm wearing /underneath/ my clothes," he says, flashing him a smile. "I think you'll like it--

after all, you bought it for me."

Dazai's /always/ had a thing for buying him things, seeing him in them and /fucking/ him in them. It's gone unmentioned, but Chuuya picked up on how /eager/ he got whenever he was wearing something Dazai bought for him.

The memories of the

/last/ time Chuuya dressed up for him-- all white lingerie, that one lacier and /softer/, collar around his neck and leash at the base of his throat-- makes another flare of heat curl enticingly in his stomach.

Dazai's eyes go so dark they might as well be /black/, fixed on his

face with devilish intensity. His hand tightens on his ankle, inadvertently dragging him /in/, his foot pressing harder against the bulge in his pants.

Chuuya can actually /feel/ the responding throb of his erection, and he instinctively lips his lips, wanting it so bad it

almost /hurts/--

That seems to be the breaking point for Dazai.

In the next moment, his half-eaten bowl of food-- it's the /least/ Chuuya has ever seen him eat-- gets shoved away. His chair makes a screeching sound when he pushes away from the table, letting go of his ankle so

he can stand.

He's /deliciously/ tall as he rounds the table, and it's moments like these that remind Chuuya of it. He doesn't know if he wants to be /over/ Dazai or /under/ him, taken over by him--

He barely has enough time to bring his legs back to himself and twist in his

chair to face him before Dazai is bearing down on him and reaching down to pull him up into his arms.

Chuuya jumps to assist, wrapping his legs around Dazai's waist and squeezing him tight. Their hips press together briefly, the heat and firmness there prompting a shuddering

breath of desire from him before he's being hoisted higher into Dazai's arms.

He /almost/ protests, because he wants to /feel/ him, but then his mouth is being covered with a deep, hungry kiss.

Fingers sliding into dark hair, Chuuya makes a delighted noise in the back of his

throat.

Ever since their /mutual/ confessions, ever since they became /committed/ to each other, their kisses have had a certain /depth/ that they didn't have before. Before, it was mostly /lust/ backed by a burgeoning affection and fondness, both of them exploring just where

the boundaries of their relationship were.

Now that they /know/, it's deeper, somehow. More /loving/, more knowing, more /emotional/. Dazai knows /exactly/ how he likes to be kissed, has kissed him hundreds of times at any time of the day, knows every weakness of his and uses

them in his favor.

And just as much as Dazai knows him, Chuuya knows /Dazai/. Knows how he looks at obscene hours of the morning, eyes tired and hair crazy, knows how /hurt/ he once was and how much /better/ he's gotten, knows how /gently/ he's /always/ treated him even though

kindness has never been something that was taught to him.

Kindness is something that he had to /learn/, and the fact that he's been /consistently/ respectful of Chuuya and always made sure that he was /comfortable/ and felt /safe/--

It makes Chuuya's heart /soar/. Dazai isn't

perfect, they both know that, but he /tries/.

Chuuya can see that clearly now, and it makes every instance of /love/ and kindness that much sweeter. Makes every kiss a little /better/ than the last one, a harmonic growing between them that only grows more /meaningful/ as they

practice.

He barely even registers the fact that Dazai is carrying him upstairs now, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotion, too focused on kissing him with a desperation that feels like /reunion/.

He does notice when Dazai breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, just

long enough to mutter, "No, Yoko," to the dogs when they try to follow them into the room. Then he's back again,like he can't bear to be separated for even a moment.

The door to their bedroom gets kicked shut behind them, and Chuuya is too preoccupied to even /care/ about Yoko's

disgruntled whine when she realizes she's locked out.

His back meets the bed, and his tight grip around Dazai's waist ensures he follows him down, pressing him into the mattress.

His hands move from supporting Chuuya's weight under his thighs to braced near his head, holding

most of his weight up. His hips end up wedged between Chuuya's thighs, erection pressed against his ass.

He's /boiling/ hot and comfortingly heavy above him, exactly like he remembers, /exactly/ what Chuuya's been fantasizing about for the last few weeks. He can't help himself,

rolling his hips down against his clothed cock and tightening his legs.

The breath gets knocked out of him when Dazai meets him halfway, hips rocking /up/ to increase the force. Heat explodes through him like a firestorm, making him dizzy.

Dazai goes down on one elbow, the

length of his body pressed against his own, and he can /feel/ the effort in his body as Dazai rocks forward again, slowly starting up a /rhythm/--

There's just one tiny problem.

"Wait--" Chuuya gasps, pulling away. He doesn't have much room to /move/, but the way Dazai

immediately goes still on top of him is heartwarming.

"What?" Dazai murmurs into the meager space between them, his breath humid and exciting, and Chuuya is /this/ close to saying 'fuck it, just keep kissing me'--

"You gotta kick him out," Chuuya says, tilting his head to where

Baki is stretched out along the bed and glaring at them disgruntledly for interrupting his nap.

Dazai pauses, so close that Chuuya can feel the smile start to form on his face. "Seriously?"

"/Yeah/, seriously," he says, digging his knees into his side. "We can't /fuck/ while

he’s in here. I don’t want him to /watch/, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to watch /either/.”

There’s a moments pause, where Chuuya is /sure/ Dazai is holding back laughter—

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, fond, dropping one last kiss on his lips before pulling off of him.

Baki

watches him approach warily.

“Come on, little guy,” Dazai says cheerfully, sliding his hands underneath his body. “You heard your father— you’re getting evicted.”

Baki uses his main, most /powerful/ defense against him—

Which is going completely limp and yowling mournfully.

“Don’t cry about it. Take it up with management, I’m just following orders,” Dazai tells the cat—who sounds like he’s being /assaulted/, not gently carried out of the room like a baby— before opening the door.

Yoko’s snout pushes through the gap. Dazai drops Baki on her face,

therefore pushing her back, and quickly closes the door before any of the animals can push their way back in.

(Outside, Yoko and Baki stare at eachother for a /long/ time, both of them startled, before eventually Baki decides she makes a nice enough scritching post and rubs up

against her front legs with a quiet purr.)

“It’s like having kids,” Dazai mutters, locking the door behind him because Baki has this /habit/ of reaching up and pulling on the knobs until he somehow manages to open the door.

That pulls a laugh out of Chuuya, his chest warming

at the reminder at how much of a little /family/ they’ve built together.

(A family that is not /quite/ done growing yet, because there is still room for /one/ more person.)

When Dazai makes his way back over to the bed, the frantic energy of the mood has cooled a little.

It’s not /gone/, but it’s given Chuuya a moment to think and collect himself. It’s given him a moment to wiggle closer to the middle of the bed, so he’s not half-hanging off the end of it awkwardly.

Dazai pauses at the edge of the bed, heated gaze raking over his body. Taking

in the arch of his body, how rumpled his clothes are, the peak of the straps around his thighs showing from beneath his shorts.

Eager, Chuuya’s hand falls to his pants, reaching for the button to pop it open so he can wiggle out of them—

“No,” Dazai murmurs, reaching for his

ankle again and tugging his leg closer to him. “Let me?”

His voice is /filled/ with heat and temptation, a prelude to the things that will happen /soon/. Chuuya nods, an electric shiver trembling down his spine.

His skin feels hypersensitive, every slight brush of Dazai’s

fingers over his skin feeling like hot electricity, goosebumps rising up on his leg.

The first piece of clothing to go is Chuuya’s right sock. Dazai’s finger hooks in it so he can peel it off slowly, his other hand cupping his lower calf to keep his leg high in the air.

The

sock gets tossed to the floor, immediately forgotten in favor of Dazai leaning forward.

His lips find his ankle, tracing over the slender fragility of it, teeth scraping occasionally over the bone in a way that makes Chuuya twitch. It's not /painful/-- it's /worshipful/,

tasting everything that Chuuya has to offer, nibbling indulgently as he moves up, up, up.

Before, he never would have classified his lower legs as /sensitive/, but there's something so /electric/ about the way his mouth slides over his skin, taking his time to find every

interesting spot and lavishing it with attention.

There's a scar on his shin that Chuuya got from a bike when he was a kid, and Dazai pauses there for a long moment, sealing his mouth around it to /suck/, tongue sliding over his skin indulgently.

A freckle closer to his knee

gains Dazai's attention for a moment, and Chuuya feels like he's being built up, tension slowly winding him tight with every slow slide of Dazai's tongue, every flick of his piercing over his skin.

Then his mouth is coasting over his knee, teeth scraping over the joint like he's

debating on /eating/ him, only to settle on a spot a little higher up and slightly inwards, sucking on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh until it's pulsing in time.

Sex is /usually/ more fast-paced between them. Driven by frantic desperation and a frantic need for more,

/now/. Chuuya isn't ashamed to admit that /he's/ usually the one who pushes the pace because he's /addicted/ to the pleasure Dazai can give him--

But this is nice, he decides through a haze of heat, reaching down to slide one hand into Dazai's hair. It's not /rushed/, and he can

enjoy every second of Dazai's mouth slowly climbing upwards. There's no risk of being /caught/, there's nowhere they have to go, there's nothing /else/ they have to do.

He can just lay here, affectionately running his hands through his hair over and over and over again, and

enjoy the slowly building tension and /know/, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's going to be taken care of.

When Dazai reaches the top of his thigh, his hand slides up from his calf to hook under his knee and push his leg open wider. He moves forward, one knee sinking into

the bed with his free hand bracing his weight, just as his mouth finds the lowermost strap wrapped around his thigh. He seals his mouth over it, a fraction of an inch below his shorts, slipping his tongue underneath the strap to tease at the skin beneath.

The suction on his

inner thigh, so /close/ to where he wants it, so /close/ to where his erection is straining against the zipper of his shorts, makes Chuuya squirm, panting. His entire leg feels tingly, made hyper-sensitive by the worshipful devotion Dazai gave his skin, and he wants that mouth

/everywhere/. Wants it on his chest, on his /neck/, on his mouth sharing their breaths, on his /cock/.

He wants every inch of himself to be claimed by Dazai, wants to do the same in reverse, because they /belong/ to each other. Utterly and completely.

A tug on Dazai's hair

earns him a smirk pressed against his skin, a feeling that makes him shiver in response.

Letting go of his thigh with a wet pop, Dazai moves upward again, hot breath washing over the fabric of his shorts. His lips brush over the bulge of his erection trapped behind his zipper,

the pressure so light that it's a /tease/ that makes Chuuya shudder in reaction, hands tightening in his hair.

His teeth find the button of his shorts, somehow managing to tug on it in exactly the right way that it comes undone. Chuuya's shirt has ridden up, so he can feel his

breath on his lower stomach as Dazai noses the fabric aside so he can catch the zipper underneath with his teeth.

Chuuya holds his breath, insanely turned on at the casual display of /skill/ and the pressure against his trapped erection as Dazai /agonizingly/ slowly pulls down

his zipper.

By the time Dazai gets to the end, Chuuya is squirming unconsciously, his breath shuddering out every time he presses a little /harder/ against his erection, giving him a /taste/ of friction but with no relief. Building him up slowly, bit by bit, winding him tighter

around his clever fingers and even more skillful tongue.

He's half-hoping that Dazai will just lean up and yank the shorts off of him so he can get to the lacy lingerie underneath--

But instead, Dazai starts moving down again, this time worshipping attention on his other leg.

This one is even /more/ exciting, because his hands have reached up and hooked in the waistband of his shorts, and every time he moves farther down, he tugs his pants down a little further.

The same spot on his inner thigh gets a matching hickey to the other side, twin points of

throbbing sensuality that just adds to the gathering heat in his belly. Another small scar on his knee has the years-ago phantom pain sucked away, shorts tugged halfway down his thighs. A scraping path of teeth and tongue down his shin that ends up with another bite on his

ankle and his shorts around his shins.

Then Dazai is leaning back, sliding his pants off the rest of the way and taking his remaining sock off in one smooth motion. And then he just--

/Stays/ there, taking in the sight of him, gaze roaming over his body like a physical weight.

Touching on every piece of strap and lace on his body-- it's a two piece originally, but Chuuya skipped the upper half today, leaving just his lower body up to his waist and down to his thighs wrapped up prettily in crisscrossing straps, his erection covered by a thin panel of

lace.

Slightly impatient, Chuuya reaches down to tug his own shirt off. He wants /skin/ contact, wants every part of him touching every part of Dazai, and he's not patient enough to wait for him to slowly slide it off like he did his shorts.

He arches his back alluringly,

hooking one of his knees around Dazai's hip to tug him in, silently /begging/ him to come down here again, touch him, taste him, /love/ him, /please/--

"God," Dazai croaks, sounding /struck/. His palm presses against his thigh, fingers digging in just enough to let Chuuya know

that his restraint is /thinning/. "You are /so/ fucking beautiful."

Despite himself, Chuuya flushes a bit, somehow still unused to receiving genuine, unconscious compliments like /that/.

But Dazai still doesn't move, like he's /stuck/ admiring him, and Chuuya is /impatient/--

So he hooks his other leg around Dazai's waist, and with one powerful twist of his body, he manages to smoothly reverse their positions.

Dazai lands heavily on his back on the bed, eyes so wide with surprise that Chuuya preens with pride,smiling down at him victoriously from his

perch straddling his lap.

"My turn," Chuuya tells him breathlessly, immediately diving down to kiss him.

It's full of heat and need, the feeling of Dazai warm and solid and /hard/ beneath him driving Chuuya to deepen the kiss instantly. Dazai opens up for him with a single nip

on his bottom lip,and then Chuuya's tongue is pushing inside, tracing the outline of his teeth.

The metal ball of his tongue piercing drags against the bottom of his tongue when Dazai meets him halfway, making him shudder in response.All he can feel, all he can /taste/ is Dazai,

from the very tips of his toes to the very breath in his lungs.

Before he can get /too/ distracted-- because feeling Dazai's erection under his mostly-bare ass is already a distracting temptation enough-- he breaks the kiss in favor of sliding to the side, lavishing Dazai's

jawline with a series of kisses.

There's a spot, just under the bolt of his jaw, that Dazai /loves/, and Chuuya zeroes in on it, sucking until he's /sure/ there will be a mark left over, and sinking his teeth into sensitive skin until he can feel him twitching beneath him.

Then

he's steadily moving down his neck, peppering his skin with bites because Dazai /loves/ being bitten, even if he never outright admitted to it. He's not as slow as Dazai was, because he can feel his hips subtly rocking up to meet him and it's driving him /crazy/, but he does take

the time to find all his favorite spots and briefly lavish them with attention.

Dazai's shirt gets in the way eventually, and while Chuuya is skilled or confident enough to try unbuttoning it with his teeth, he does reach up and unbutton it slowly, pausing between each button

to lavish the revealed skin of his chest with attention, peppering sucking bites over his body until little marks appear in his wake.

He has to shift his position when he gets lower, rising up on his knees to scoot backwards. Dazai’s stomach, etched with muscle, flexes in

reaction, a temptation that Chuuya /can’t/ ignore.

He slides his tongue over the indents of his hips, steadily making his way inwards and down to the short trail of hair peaking out from the waist of Dazai’s pants. His hands come up, bracing his weight over his hips and dipping

into his waistband to tug on his pants.

And now, with the bulge of Dazai’s erection only an inch from his face, Chuuya decides to pay /back/ all the teasing Dazai had just done to him.

He looks up, thrilling when he sees that Dazai is already looking /down/ at him, eyes nearly

glowing with heat in the relative darkness of the room.

Letting his eyes fall into that half-lidded look he always gets when he’s got a mouthful of cock, Chuuya maintains searing eye contact as he rolls his tongue out and /slowly/ licks the length of Dazai’s clothed erection.

He can feel it /throb/ in reaction under his tongue, burning hot even through the barrier of cloth.

It’s a victory in itself to see how /easily/ he can affect Dazai, how easy it is to fall into the natural rhythm of give and take, how delicious pleasure tastes on his tongue.

It's /thrilling/, it makes sensual confidence bubble up inside him that makes it so /easy/ to hurriedly pop open the button of Dazai's jeans and carefully tug down the zipper.

For once, Dazai is /actually/ wearing underwear, which is partly a hinderance but also kind of /cute/.

Clearly he wasn't /expecting/ to be seduced, because if he /had/, he would've skipped wearing underwear.

Chuuya indulgently seals his mouth over the head of his cock over his underwear, roughly running over his tongue over the shape of him until the fabric is wet. At the same

he reaches up, hooking his fingers in the waistbands of his jeans and underwear and /slowly/ beginning to tug them down.

It's meant to be /payback/ for the way Dazai was teasingly stripping him earlier, but by the twitch of his erection and the pleasured hiss that comes from

above, his boyfriend is /enjoying/ it.

A hand comes down, fingers threading through his hair. Usually, when Chuuya is sucking him off, the hand on his head is a /guiding/ force, subtly pushing him to where Dazai wants him to go and encouraging him to do what he likes.

Today,

though, his hand is unfailingly gentle. He doesn't push him or encourage him to do something /else/, he just strokes his hands through his hair like he can't /not/ touch him. Like he's enjoying this in all it's aspects, from the rough pleasure he gets from the friction to the

feel of him under his hands.

The subtle dynamic change-- wherein Chuuya has /more/ power and control than he usually does-- only drives him higher. It fuels him to stop playing with him, sitting back up so he can yank his pants and underwear off in the same motion.

Dazai helps

him out by wiggling his hips, raising his legs to make it easier to pull the fabric off, and kicking his foot when his jeans snag around his ankle.

Then he's /naked/, his open shirt pooling around his sides on the bed, erection lying hard and deliciously flushed against his

stomach, so /enticing/ that Chuuya's mouth waters just from looking at, desperately wanting his hands on it, his /mouth/ on it, /inside/ him--

Before he can dive back down, hands are hooking under his arms and dragging him up again. He goes willingly, knees on either side of

Dazai's hips as he gets pulled into another searing kiss.

This one is /hotter/ than the ones before it, a desperate tension building that makes Dazai pull his bottom lip into his mouth and suck on it until it's throbbing, a need that drives Chuuya to press forward with all his

weight to deepen the kiss.

As he settles further down, Dazai's erection slides against his ass and the underside of his cock through the lace. The friction and the /feel/ of him-- god, he's /so/ big, radiating delicious heat, that it makes his head spin with a heady combination

of memories and /fantasy/, all the things Dazai /has/ done to him and all the things he /wants/ him to do swirling together intoxicatingly-- makes a shuddering breath escape him, one that Dazai drinks straight out of his mouth like wine.

Unable to help himself, he rocks his hips

down against him, shivering at the friction. He's throbbing in his own underwear, the lace adding a /hint/ of friction that just deepens the experience.

One of Dazai's hands slides down his body, tracing over the spots made previously sensitive. Thumbing at his nipples until

he's fighting the urge to squirm, brushing over his ribs with a care that he never had before, long fingers wrapping around one of his hips and encouraging him to pick up a longer, slower grinding rhythm.

He just /touches/ him, all over, filling his palms with the feel of his

skin, like he's rememorizing the shape of him. Like the new /connection/ between them gives so much more meaning to every touch and tremble, and Dazai is helpless to do anything but to /drown/ in it.

Chuuya doesn't know how long they spend there, endlessly kissing with their

hands roaming. The urgency for /more/ is there at the back of his mind, but every kiss tempers it a little more. Makes it seem like he could spend /forever/ here and never miss a thing.

At some point, both of Dazai's hands find his lower back, fingers slipping underneath the

straps of the lingerie to knead at his ass.

The reminder of what will happen /next/ breaks Chuuya from the spell he was under. He pushes back into Dazai's hands,arching his spine enticingly as he pulls back slightly from the kiss.

"Please," he murmurs, almost directly into his

mouth, one of the few things either of them have said during this entire scene.

It barely even feels like they /need/ words. They know each other so well that they don't /need/ to speak to satisfy each other completely.

From this close, Dazai's eyes look pitch black when they

open, a reflection of all of Chuuya's deepest desires. "I got you," he mutters back, using all those hard muscles to surge upwards and flip their positions again, dumping Chuuya on his back and bearing down over top of him.

Excitement crackles like lightning, and his thighs

spread wider automatically to fit his larger body in-between.He reaches for him, wanting another /kiss/--

Only for Dazai to evade him with a fondly smug smirk, straightening so he can reach into his bedside table. Through the course of their relationship, Dazai's /supplies/ have

somehow navigated from neatly organized drawers /under/ the bed to their favorite flavors and toys of the week being stored in his bedside table for easier access. Chuuya once pointed it out with a snicker, and Dazai just said it was because he couldn't /bear/ to be separated

for him that long, blowing raspberries against his skin until he laughed.

The /last/ toys they used were a succession of cherry flavored lubes and intimidatingly large plugs—Dazai said he wants to get his /hand/ inside him one day, which is an intimidating as it is /intriguing/—

but the lube he pulls out this time isn’t either of those.

It’s still in a /box/, and while it doesn’t take Dazai long to open it up and dump the bottle into his hand, it’s just long enough for Chuuya to catch the title of ‘stimulating lube’ on the box before it’s tossed away.

The sight of it makes Chuuya’s eyebrow quirk up, anticipation stirring hotly in his stomach. He didn’t even know ‘stimulating’ lube existed, and he wonders how it’s different than the warming one.

Somehow, Dazai always has something /new/ and exciting to show him, always

expanding his knowledge on sex, letting him explore and find new boundaries, new enjoyments, new /limits/. It's never /boring/, and just when Chuuya thinks he knows it all, Dazai brings up the idea of something /new/.

He's glad he didn't suggest a toy today though. Stimulating

lube adds just /enough/ variety, while letting the main focus be /them/. Chuuya likes the toys, but today he just wants to revel in their /connection/.

Tossing the bottle of lube onto the bed, Dazai takes a second to completely shrug off his shirt. When he crawls back onto the

bed, hovering over him, he's completely naked.

Thighs spreading eagerly to fit him between, Chuuya tugs him down into another kiss. There's a /need/ inside him that he can't deny, one that only feels satiated when he's as close to Dazai as he can be, skin on skin, breathing the

same air as him.

Dazai meets him eagerly, dropping down to one elbow so he can cup the back of Chuuya's skull in one hand, tilting his head to the perfect angle to give him a /searing/ kiss. Deep and perfect and /satisfying/.

Based on the movements of his shoulder, he can tell

that he's reaching out to find the lube bottle, dragging back to their sides. At the same time he pops the cap on it one-handed-- god, how /dexterous/ and strong his hands are is insanely sexy--, Dazai pulls back to breath something worshipful into his mouth:

"I love you."

Chuuya shudders in response, fingers sliding into Dazai's hair to pull him into /another/ kiss, trying to express the sheer amount of /emotion/ in his chest.

He's still not used to /hearing/ it. Dazai's said it tens of times now, and it never fails to make Chuuya feel full to

/bursting/. Each time it feels like he's saying it for the /second/ time-- not the first, because /that/ was a shit show, but the /second/ time was perfect-- and he keeps wondering about how many times Dazai will have to say it before it stops feeling so /monumental/. How long it

will take before it’s such an essential, consistent part of his life that it feels /normal/.

Dazai’s fingers, freshly wet with lube, brush over his pelvis, dragging wet fingertips over his hips, the neatly trimmed trail of hair leading /down/, over the shape of his erection

over the lace, down, down /down/, until he’s tugging the underwear out of the way so he can press lubed fingers to his hole.

Thankfully, he doesn’t /tease/ him like he usually might. Instead he just starts the slow press in, not drawing the foreplay out but also making sure

not to push his body too fast too soon.

It’s when Dazai’s index finger is buried to the first knuckle inside of him, wiggling enticingly, that Chuuya finally feels like he can /think/ past the soaring emotions that seem to have grown /wings/ in his chest, pulling back just far

enough to whimper back to him breathlessly, “I love you /too/.”

Dazai surges forward in instant response, like he’s trying to swallow the words directly from his mouth, like he’s trying to taste the syllables on his tongue. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the overload of

emotions /either/, all he knows what to do is /kiss/ him.

Over and over and over again, devouring him /whole/—heart, body, mind, soul— claiming every part of him. Taking everything that Chuuya offers up to him and making it /his/.

Lightheaded and dizzy from the combination of

oxygen deprivation and sensation, Chuuya barely recognizes as Dazai slowly buries his finger into him up to the last knuckle. Pleasure sparks when his finger crooks upward, but he’s too busy sucking on his tongue like his life /depends/ on it, drinking him in.

One finger quickly

becomes two, and this is when Chuuya starts to feel the /ache/ of the stretch.

Before, two fingers was no problem, but he hasn’t had anything inside him since the /last/ time they fucked, and his body has almost forgotten how /big/ Dazai’s fingers feel inside him. He can

breathe through the stretch and it’s not /painful/—

He’s just not /used/ to it anymore, and it’s almost like their first time again.

In a way, maybe it /is/ their first time again, because now there’s no secrets. There’s no pretenses, no more dark backstories, no conceived

loyalties to anyone else, no insecurity, /nothing/.

They know each other now. They know everything /about/ each other, and the feelings they have are stronger than they’ve ever been before.

When Dazai’s two fingers are halfway inside of him, flexing intermittently and rubbing

against his sensitive inner muscles indulgently, Dazai pulls back from the kiss again.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, sliding sideways to press his soft request into the heated skin of his cheek, punctuating his request with achingly soft and adoring kisses rained over his cheek.

And then he— a man who does /not/ beg, a man who is used to having frightful people on their knees and looking to him for direction, a man who was born and sculpted to /lead/—adds something else in a gently pleading voice that Chuuya can’t resist, even if he wanted to:

“Please?”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Chuuya rocks down into his hands. He tightens his legs around his waist and arches upward, increasing the context between them until they’re pressed together as closely as possible. Turning his head, he nudges his cheek into Dazai’s nose, and lets

his words fill the meager space between them. “I love you, Dazai.”

Attaching his /name/ pulls a sharper reaction from him, and in the next moment Dazai’s pressing a sucking kiss over his jawline at the same time he spreads his fingers inside him almost /ruthlessly/ far.

It

twinges slightly, a spark of aching pain lighting within him, but it’s nothing to relax into Dazai’s touch completely. It’s /nothing/ to take what he’s given and know without a /shred/ of doubt, that he will be cherished and taken care of.

And now that Chuuya knows what he

/wants/, what he /likes/, what affects him, it’s so /easy/ to chase after it.

“I love you.” A twist of his fingers that leaves him breathless, expertly finding all his sensitive places and lavishing attention on them.

“I love you.” Dazai’s mouth settling on a spot just

underneath his jaw, sucking and sucking until he can feel his pulse throbbing steadily in his mouth.

“I love you, Osamu.” His hand pulling back, two fingers replaced by /three/, and it’s /so/ easy to melt into them, internally thrilling at how /easily/ his body takes Dazai. At

how /well/ they fit together, even if it might seem like they might not work with their size difference, and how Chuuya only feels full fo /bursting/ when he’s got Dazai buried inside him.

Even though Dazai is clearly concentrated on gracing his neck with a choker of marks made

by his teeth and tongue, over and under and beneath his leather collar—which he has not taken off once he got it back except for when he’s showering— his clever hands don’t pause for a second on the important task of prepping him.

There’s no rush, but there /is/ a burning need

to be as close as physically possible. A desperation that both of them know won’t wane until Dazai is buried to the hilt inside him.

When his fingers— four now, because it /has/ been a while, and Dazai would rather die than risk hurting him right now— finally slide out of him,

Chuuya accepts the resulting emptiness with a shuddering sigh.

He’s not worried. The entire time, Dazai’s erection has been pressed to his lower thigh, subtly throbbing, twitching every so often when Chuuya makes a particularly delicious sound and smearing pre-cum over his skin.

He knows he’s going to be taken care of, because Dazai is just as needy as he is.

For once, there’s no power imbalance. Dazai isn’t calm and controlled while Chuuya is /desperate/, isn’t making plans and driving him crazy with them.

They need each other and when Dazai’s hips

slide between his thighs, it feels like coming home.

He hitches his knees higher, opening himself up more for Dazai to reach down and line himself up. His eyes go half-lidded at the feel of him, the slicked head of his cock sliding over his entrance.

With his other hand, the

dry one, he reaches up to peel Chuuya’s hand off from where it’s clenched on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the back of it, quietly worshipful, before he intertwines their fingers together and pins his hand to the mattress.

The first slow slide of him pushing inside is like

a slow breaking down of Chuuya’s entire world, the very foundation of him crumbling beneath the onslaught of sensational overload that Dazai brings to him. Stripping him of all his defenses, leaving him a raw bundle of nerves that sings under his clever hands.

He shudders when

the head pops through that first ring of muscle, slowly spreading him wider.

Dazai takes that moment to reposition himself, shuffling higher on his knees and moving his hand out of the way. It finds Chuuya’s other hand, and he doesn’t even /care/ that his hand is wet with lube

when their fingers slide together.

He ends up with both of his hands pinned to the bed, heavy palms pressed against his own, Dazai leaning forward to press their sweaty foreheads together.

“I love you too, you know,” he sighs into his face, his hips taking up a slow rocking

rhythm that pushes him deeper in slow, tiny increments. It’s the perfect reunion, just fast enough that Chuuya feels like he never gets /used/ to it, always given more as soon as he’s ready.

“How could I not?” Dazai continues, eyes fluttering shut on a pleased sigh, like he’s

too overwhelmed to keep his eyes open. There’s an expression on his face that Chuuya can’t /quite/ describe, his mind off-center and overwhelmed by the relentless march of pleasure being pressed into him, but it seems so much more /open/ and /vulnerable/ than it usually does.

“You’re so /perfect/,” Dazai sighs, sounding like he’s talking to /himself/, unconscious rambling of /praise/ as his hips finally meet Chuuya’s ass, as deep inside him as he can possibly go, so deep he might as well be housed in his soul. “Perfect just for /me/. So fucking

/pretty/— and /smart/ and /strong/.”

Chuuya clings to him, shuddering, feeling a previously empty hole inside him start to fill up, the ache of it sealed away by his mindless praise. He doesn’t get a lot of compliments on his /character/— he’s been called /too much/ by too many

people that it’s left an underlying pit of insecurity that he covers up with loud bravado.

He’s always been too /loud/, too /energetic/,too angry, too quick to fight, too restless. There’s always been so many parts of him that are too /much/ for people, and he’s spent a lifetime

oscillating between trying to stuff himself into smaller, neater, more /manageable/ boxes so that people will like him more and telling himself that he doesn’t /care/ if he’s too much for other people because that’s /their/ problem, not his.

So to hear that Dazai likes him—no,

/loves/ him— and all his pieces, all the parts of himself that Chuuya thought were /flaws/, knows him and accepts him and /loves/ him in his entirety—

It’s enough for him to let out a shuddering breath, fingers tightening around Dazai’s, filled with a renewed determination to

/never/ let this man go. His legs, wrapped loosely around his back, tighten to drag him in closer, wanting to feel as /close/ to him as physically possible.

He barely even knows where he ends and Dazai begins. Their hands tangled together and pressed to the mattress, a grounding

point Dazai used to brace his weight as he starts up a slow, /deep/ rhythm with his hips. Chuuya’s thighs spread wide to fit his hips in between, ankles crossed to press his heels against the small of his back. Their breaths intermingling as Dazai leans down, pressing their

foreheads together in a gesture that's so /intimate/ it takes Chuuya's breath away. Buried to the hilt inside him, claiming every part of him and offering himself up in turn, give and take, siren call to ocean symphony, a melding of two halves into one.

It's /good/. Sex is

usually more fast-paced with them, a race to drown themselves in as much pleasure as physically possible, a mutual unraveling. Chuuya hadn't realized how /good/ slow could feel, the relentless march of ecstasy singing in slow-motion across every one of his nerves.

Every slow

drag /out/ feels like it touches every pleasurable spot inside him, making him hyper-aware of every bump and ridge of Dazai's cock. Every push back /in/ feels like coming home, all that smoldering pleasure compressing into a ball under the pressure of his overwhelming presence.

A ball that wraps tightly around the base of his spine, steadily-tightening around every part of him, from his heart to his /soul/.

He can't even /think/ under the onslaught, mindlessly arching up to meet every rock of his hips, caught in a heady need to have Dazai /deeper/.

Lifting his chin to share a series of quick, wet, /desperate/ kisses, shuddering when Dazai lets out a whispered groan into his mouth. Tightening his fingers and legs, forcibly keeping them pressed tightly together as everything starts to /build/.

"God, /Chuuya/," Dazai mumbles,

sliding to the side to lay a sucking-kiss to his cheek, like he can't /not/ kiss him even though Chuuya is panting too hard to keep up a /real/ kiss. The sound of his voice sends a bolt of thrilling-heat through him, a drug straight to the brain.

"I love you," he says again,

like he /has/ to say it, has to /keep/ saying it, can't live without the weight of his words in his mouth.

Chuuya sighs in response, murmuring it back as he raises a knee to press it into Dazai's ribs, letting him get that much deeper.

Inside him, he can faintly feel his cock

twitch from hearing it repeated back to him, throbbing. His hips jerk forward, faster than they have this entire session, burying himself in to the hilt.

There's something so /right/ about being stuffed full with Dazai. Nothing else in the world matters, nothing else can touch

him. There's only here and now and /this/.

"Fuck," he hisses out on a particularly /good/ slide, body clenching down at the feel of the head of his cock grinding against his prostate. His own erection is still trapped in the lacy underwear, adding just a /hint/ of friction burn

that only deepens the pleasure in contrast.

Part of him is /aching/ to be touched, because he hasn't gotten any direct contact and rubbing up against Dazai's lower belly only makes him /more/ desperate.Without a hand on his cock,the pleasure only builds and builds and /builds/,

tension steadily winding tighter until he feels like he can barely hold all of the pressure inside of him.

The other part is /glad/ Dazai's not jerking him off to the finish line because he'd probably come /way/ too soon, and he wants to /savor/ this. He's exactly where he wants

to be, still mostly-dressed in lace and lingerie, spread out and pinned underneath Dazai like his favorite meal, his body in flames that are stoked with every mind-bendingly good thrust inside him.

He doesn't want it to /stop/. This doesn't feel like /sex/, this feels like

making /love/, taking all the emotions of the last few weeks and channeling them into motion and heat and /desire/.

"Osamu," he breathes, a prayer to an earth-struck god, his breath hitching when he feels him twitch hard inside him, impossibly growing /harder/ and hotter. "Fuck,

/Osamu/, you feel /so/ good. Don't stop, /never/ stop, love you /so/ much--"

With a strangled groan, Dazai comes.

Chuuya wasn't expecting it, his legs twitching with surprise at the burst of warmth and wet inside of him. Apparently, Dazai wasn't expecting it /either/ because

he drops down on one elbow and smothers a shocked gasp near his ear, his hips stuttering with every wave.

Chuuya isn't disappointed, because there's something so /viscerally/ satisfying about Dazai filling him up, even if he's not quite there yet himself--

But it doesn't

matter because even though Dazai's hips slow and his rhythm is faulty, he doesn't stop moving for even a /second/.

Then there's the excitement of feeling his cum spilling out in thick droplets, being fucked back inside him, hearing the oversensitive hitch in Dazai's breath as

he pushes through the searing-painful pleasure, refusing to stop, rocking into him again and again and /again/.

“I won’t,” he promises mindlessly, voice hoarse, his body dropping down the rest of the way to press him completely into the mattress. The feeling of his body working,

abs flexing rhythmically, his skin wet with sweat from exertion, his breath coming out in hissed gasps as he /keeps going/, keeps fucking him as his cock struggles to harden again, coaxed into another round. He hasn’t pulled out for even a second, hips continually rocking forward

even as he’s not as /hard/ as he was before.

And Chuuya—

He’s had multiple orgasms before, and he knows, from /experience/, how sensitive his cock gets after each orgasm. So sensitive that sometimes even the /air/ feels burning on his skin, and he has to work his way back up

into being /touched/ again.

Dazai’s never had more than /one/ orgasm in a row since they got together, and he can /feel/ the strain of it. Can feel the way his thighs are trembling against the back of Chuuya’s, the way his hands tighten on his own every so often, fighting to

ground himself in the waves of overwhelming sensation.

And he seems so /lost/ in it, all that careful, dominating precision stripped away, leaving him raw and vulnerable and /needy/.

“Won’t /ever/,” he says again, sliding over to give Chuuya a kiss, so uncontrolled and hard

that it’s /bruising/, causing a sting of pain that just adds to the swirling cacophony.

“Won’t /ever/ let you go,” he promises, and with the way he’s draped over him, Chuuya’s trapped erection gets a /searing/ amount of friction between their stomachs, making him pant. “Gonna

keep you /forever/, gonna make you /happy/, gonna make you mine, mine, /mine/.”

It’s just mindless repetition, Dazai /clearly/ more affected than he’s ever been, practically tearing up as he continues to push them both past the point of no return—

But Chuuya’s mind immediately

flashes to their /first/ time, when he was saying something along the same lines.

It was different then, and Chuuya didn’t know then what he knows now but—

It feels like they’ve come full circle. They’ve been through /so/ much, both together and individually, and somehow they

always manage to find their way back to each other. No matter /what/ happens, they only ever seem to grow /stronger/ together, the layers of their connection deepened by healed cracks.

The pleasure and the /emotions/ behind it have Chuuya clinging onto Dazai, arching up into his

every grind forward to increase the force, quickly climbing to the edge.

It’s not the most /intense/ sex they’ve had on a physical level, but it’s so much more /emotional/ than it’s ever been. Chuuya’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest, cradled in Dazai’s hands.

Every part of him carved out, offered up, showered in acceptance and want and /love/—

That, combined with the way Dazai’s teeth sink into his shoulder to stave off his second orgasm, his stomach pressing closer to give him even /more/ friction because they both refuse to let

go of the grip they have on each other’s hands, is enough to send Chuuya tripping into his orgasm.

It’s /earth-quaking/. Every pulse of pleasure feels like it lasts forever, each wave melting into the next into the next into the /next/. His entire body sings with it, feeling so

hot he might as well be on /fire/ from it.

And if that wasn’t good enough, he can feel Dazai succumb to the rush too, shuddering through his second orgasm. His cock twitches weakly inside him, adding another few spurts of cum to the already hot-wet mess. He can feel it starting

to drip out of him, firing up a raw, primal satisfaction in him.

By the time Dazai collapses onto him, breathing heavy and trembling, he's practically purring with contentment. All his muscles are limp with satisfaction, his body practically melted into the bed. He knows there

will be a vicious ache in his thighs later-- a result of the fact that Chuuya hasn't been active in the last few weeks, and he has to /stretch/ to fit Dazai in between-- and probably his back too, but for now, it's held back by an inescapable sense of satisfaction.

Dazai is

heavy on top of him, a treasured weight. He can feel him breathing, harsh as he starts to come down.

Somehow, their hands are /still/ entangled together, even through all of that. Chuuya squeezes his hand, tilting his head to the side to mouth affectionately at the skin of his

upper arm, tasting the salt of sweat.

For a while it's just them breathing, coming down from their highs, finding comfort and security in how closely tangled together even now.

Dazai still hasn't pulled out and Chuuya finds that oddly /pleasing/, content to just lay here and

enjoy being so intimately connected with him. He could cockwarm him for /hours/ and never get tired of it.

It's Dazai who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat and struggling up onto his elbows to take his weight off him. "Fuck," he rasps, inelegant and straight to the

point.

Chuuya /laughs/ quietly in response, the silent relaxation of the moment ripening into something /sweeter/.

After another moment, Dazai manages to roll them both over to lay on his back with Chuuya sprawled on top of him.

He misses his weight already, but it /does/ give

him the chance to stretch out his hips and thighs, arching his back until he feels something pop back into place.

Dazai pulls out with the motion, and he shivers at the feeling of cum dripping down his thighs, collecting messily over them both.

"You ruined my lingerie again,"

Chuuya pouts playfully, making a face at the way his underwear feels now, soaked all over. It's probably stained irreversibly now, from a combination of lube and cum.

It's a shame. He /liked/ this set too. He wanted to wear it again some day, probably with the top too.

"You

knew I would," Dazai says, his voice /achingly/ fond. His hands find Chuuya's hips, fingertips coasting over his skin in a mundane show of worship. Whenever he finds a spot that makes his breath hitch in soreness, he presses in and massages it away.

That's true. /Both/ times he

wore lingerie, they were ruined by the end of the night. Not /intentionally/, but its like Dazai can't even wait long enough to get him out of it. Or that he /likes/ seeing Chuuya get all messy in his pretty clothing, likes making a mess out of him when he dressed up /for/ him.

Still, just because he was half-expecting them to get ruined, that doesn't mean he's not /disappointed/.

"I'll buy you more," Dazai offers, like Chuuya doesn't already /know/ that he'll buy him whatever he wants whenever he wants. /Especially/ if he gets to see and fuck him in

it.

"We're never going to have enough if you keep ruining them as soon as I get them," he teases, leaning down. He braces his elbows on either side of Dazai's head, the perfect distance to run his fingers affectionately through his hair and watch his smile form right in front

of his eyes.

"I'll buy in bulk," Dazai murmurs back, lifting his chin to silently ask for a kiss, and who is Chuuya to deny him?

This kiss is just as sweet as the rest of the other ones today. Soothing and /adoring/, one that could easily be turned into something heated, but

both of them are content to just bask in the glow without needing anything more.

It stirs something wonderful inside of Chuuya, something /warm/ and soft and loving. Something that he's always wanted before, a storybook ending, a fairytale happiness--

And now he has it. A bit

unconventional, a bit unexpected, a bit /strange/ to other people--

But this is /exactly/ where Chuuya was always meant to be. This is always what he wanted. This is what he /needed/.

"I missed you," he murmurs, pulling back a fraction to whisper against his bottom lip. He

doesn't know how /else/ to relate the burgeoning emotions in his chest, doesn't know how /else/ to put it into words, just--

Kissing him, over and over and over again, pressed so close and never feeling like it's /enough/. Always needing more.

"I haven't gone anywhere," he

whispers back, lifting his head to deepen the kiss. His clean hand comes up, cradling the back of his head and holding him /close/.

Chuuya knows. It's just--

After /almost/ losing him, after almost losing /everything/, after losing what he /has/ lost by accident or design,

it's /hard/ to forget. It's hard to forget how easily this could all be taken away away from him even though he knows--

"I'm not going anywhere ever again." A promise sealed with another kiss, hands cradling him lovingly.

-- that Dazai is telling the /truth/.

---- +

Chuuya has always been the sort of person that thinks that time goes by too /slow/. Ever since he was a child, he's never had a lot of patience. He's always wanted things to happen /right now/, and the slower paced parts of life-- like growing up, school, finding his place in

life, finding his dream career-- have always made him /frustrated/. Ever since he can remember, he's always wanted to be at the /end/ of his journey, instead of still fumbling his way through.

It's ironic that now he wants to grab onto the timer of life and force it to /halt/.

Every day goes by too /quick/, slipping away from his fingers before he can properly savor it. A landslide of unforgotten days, gone as quickly as they come.

By now, Dazai and Chuuya have only been officially dating for a little over four months. It feels /longer/ than that, and

even though a lot of people would categorize them as moving too fast— even Yuan seemed shocked and a little surprised when he told her they were living together— it just feels so /natural/. So easy.

Waking up next to Dazai every morning is just /normal/. Eating breakfast with

him, watching movies with him, reading silently beside him, going out with him. Their entire lives tangled together intricately, every part of Chuuya’s routine sprinkled in with Dazai’s presence. It wasn’t fast, it was /right/.

He slowly starts to repair his relationship with

his sister too. It’s not always easy, and there’s some conversations that leave him /fuming/ with the desire to throw things at her—

But mostly, he understands. If he was in the Mafia, he would probably hide it from his siblings too. Maybe not as /long/, but if it kept them safe

then he would do whatever it took to /keep/ them safe.

Obviously Kouyou’s plan /didn’t/ work, and now there’s new tension on /top/ of their existing problems because she /hates/ Dazai for some reason, but in the end…

She’s his sister, and he loves her. He understands where

she was coming from and /why/ she did it, even though it was fucking /stupid/. And /because/ shes his sister, that means he might be the /first/ person in line to kick her ass, but they’ll always be there for each other.

They will fight and argue and hurt each other— but Chuuya

would never give her up for /anything/.

It’s surprisingly easy to luxuriate in the sense of peace beginning to settle over the city. Nika and the Bratva have been surprisingly silent, unwilling to disturb the silent truce, because the Mafia isn’t /alone/ anymore.

Now that

Dazai knows that Kouyou is Chuuya’s sister, he’s unofficially become the /Mafia’s/ informant. He doesn’t work as often these days, and some days it even seems like he’s looking to /retire/, but he’s firmly aligned with the Mafia. No more selling information to the Bratva or the

other smaller gangs in Yokohama.

(Add to that that /Ranpo/ now has loyalty to someone that is /close/ to Dazai, it makes quite the power group that the Russians don’t really want to fuck with.)

Honestly, it kind of confuses Chuuya, because he thought that all gangs were locked

in this eternal, bloody struggle for power that featured lots of gunfights, kidnappings, murder, the whole city locked in a silent war.

But when he asked, Dazai said it wasn’t really /like/ that. Yes, there would always be power struggles and fights if the situation called for

it or if the opportunity to make a move arose.

But, generally, there’s just this odd truce where everyone could get along as long as everyone respected the boundaries. No one /wanted/ to start a war because war cost /money/, it cost /blood/, it gained public and government

attention.

Overall, no one wanted to fight unless they had to or it was /worth/ it. With the Bratva operating on foreign soil, it would be a difficult task to take on the Mafia /and/ the Armed Detective Agency, and so they were /waiting/ for better times to make their move.

Never /gone/, but silent, for now.

Dazai /and/ Kouyou reassured him that they’re /prepared/ now, for anything that might happen. Part of him— the frightened part that will forever be stuck six feet underground in a grave with his name on it, the part that is /still/ too

afraid of water to take a /bath/-- finds that hard to believe but--

Life goes on, you know? He can't spend his life in terror. He wants to /enjoy/ living, enjoy what he has. Crawling under the blankets to hide from the monsters might be /appealing/ sometimes but--

Chuuya is no

coward. He will not live in fear. He will always go down /fighting/, to the bitter end.

Fighting fear, or fighting a person, it doesn't matter. It's all the same battleground to him.

And because his family-- god, it /still/ makes him giddy to think of Dazai as /family/-- is

prepared, that means he should be too.

With Gide's permission, he slowly returns to normal life. He doesn't need naps anymore, and now he can /exercise/ again, something he didn't realize he would /miss/ so much.

It starts with some early-morning jogs with the dogs. Dazai comes

with him the first dozen times, but then he gets /lazy/ and stops coming.

(He's lazy in the mornings now, slow to wake up and even more reluctant to let Chuuya /leave/. It's a far cry from when they /first/ met and Dazai barely slept at all.

It's cute.)

Then it's slowly

progressing into a /heavier/ routine, feeling so damn /proud/ of himself when he looks in the mirror and sees that he's starting to regain all the muscle and weight he lost over the past three months.

Then it's starting to spar with Oda, brushing up on his Judo skills and

adding a few more 'street' skills. He's still an /excellent/ Judo martial artist, but he hasn't gotten in /that/ many fights, let alone any with Yakuza members, so he still needs some improvements./Real/ fights don't have any rules, and Oda shows him /quickly/ that Yakuza are not

afraid to fight dirty and /mean/.

He's an /excellent/ student though, and it's not long before Oda and him are evenly matched, and he starts to /win/.

Dazai continually pouts that he's not sparring with /him/, but the /last/ time they sparred, Chuuya managed to flip him over

his hip before pinning him on his back. That /quickly/ devolved into a heated, desperate round of impromptu sex outside in the backyard because 'chibi looked so /good/ when he pinned me and looked like he was going to hurt me, how could I resist?', so--

No sparring rounds with

Dazai, no matter /how/ much he pouts, unless Chuuya is /looking/ to get fucked.

All in all, it's just...perfect. His life, unfolding /exactly/ the way it's supposed to, getting better with each day. Visible progress in the things he's working on, and a support system that loves

and encourages him.

It's not /exactly/ what he dreamed his life would be, but its everything he could've ever wanted and more.

There's only one, teensy, /small/ problem:

His birthday is soon--less than a week-- and his family has a /tradition/ of having a birthday dinner the

night before, so they can all celebrate properly without taking time out of Chuuya's actual birthday.

Now,this is the /first/ birthday that he's had where he wasn't living at home, which means he could /probably/ beg off or get away with offering a Facetime date instead.

But...

He /does/ want to go home. Not forever, of course, but he wants to see his dad again. It's been almost /eight/ months since he last saw him or Kyouka in person. He misses them.

Kouyou already cleared her schedule so she could come, and she's probably going to bring Oda as well.

None of that is the problem.

The /problem/ is that, when he brings up the idea of introducing him to his family, Dazai looks /terrified/. The most /frightened/ Chuuya has /ever/ seen him, which would be concerning if it wasn't so /funny/.

He literally saw this man face down a

Russian gang boss with a straight face, but the mere /mention/ of his father has him pale-faced and wide-eyed.

It's /hilarious/. Big, /bad/ Dazai, famed criminal mastermind, bloody and dangerous, petrified of a /tiny/ little man who likes wine too much for his own good.

"Do you

/not/ want to meet my family?" Chuuya asks, hands planted on his hips and fixing Dazai with a /look/.

Admittedly, he /is/ having a little too much fun tormenting Dazai.

"No! I mean, of /course/ I do," Dazai says empathetically, "It's just..."

Whatever he says next is mumbled

so low that Chuuya can't even hear it, Dazai's chin tucked close to his chest.

He arches an eyebrow, leaning closer. "What? I can't hear you."

Dazai looks briefly frustrated and then /embarrassed/ and then--

"What if he doesn't like me?"

Aw, he's /nervous/. That's adorable.

Chuuya /could/ reassure him that his father will /like/ him, that it's going to be /okay/ and he has nothing to be nervous about--

But he's having too much fun watching Dazai /sweat/.

"Oh, he's /definitely/ not going to like you," he says easily, raising a hand to count off his

reasoning on his fingers, "You are /far/ too old for me, you're a /criminal/, you don't have a /job/, you already have a kid, /and/ you stole me from someone else. That's /five/ strikes against you. It's not looking good."

Dazai's lip wobbles and he looks like he might /cry/.

"The age thing is /dirty/, you know," he sniffs, crossing his arms. "I still haven't gotten over you calling me a /grandpa/ when you heard about the Demon Prodigy. My ego will never recover."

"/Sweetheart," Chuuya says, reaching over to pat his cheek a /little/ patronizingly,

"That's not even the worst thing I said about you, old man."

Dazai /gasps/, giving him a look of such pure, abject /shock/ and horror that it makes Chuuya giggle.

"But really," he carries on, stepping closer to stare up at him, letting his touch fade into reassurance, "It

doesn't matter if he likes you or not, because I /love/ you, and that's what really matters, okay?"

Dazai leans his cheek into his palm, his skin soft and warm. His eyes, as he looks down, are bottomless pits of warm affection, practically glowing in the light of the kitchen.

There's a moment of just soft reassurance and warm affection--

"Take back the old man comment," Dazai says suddenly, uncrossing his arms to drape them over Chuuya's shoulders and bringing him even closer.

He blinks. "What?"

"Take it back or I'm not going."

Pinching his side,

Chuuya scoffs at him. "I'm not taking it back. You /have/ to go. It's my birthday."

"Not /yet/," Dazai points out, which is /very/ true, because there is still /six/ days until his birthday, "Which means you're not the boss of me /yet/."

/That's/ a lie and they both know it.

Dazai would give Chuuya /everything/ he ever wanted. He's got him wrapped around his little finger,and all he has to do is /pout/ to get his way.

Cute that he's trying to play it off though. Chuuya sticks his tongue out at him, playful. "Fine. I'll take it back. You're not old,"

he says and /just/ when Dazai is looking hopeful and preening with pride at having /won/ this playful argument--

"You just have /seasoning/."

Dazai gapes at him. "What does /that/ mean?"

Chuuya adopts a /mournful/ look. "The grey hair is starting to come in. I can see your

youth fading away as we speak. It won't be long before I have to start calling retirement homes."

Dazai /stares/ at him, expression disbelieving. "You're /lying/. I don't have gray hair."

He is absolutely lying. He just happened to catch Dazai checking out his hair a week ago

in the mirror, and filed the instance away for blackmail material. Not that he actually /minds/ if Dazai gets a few gray hairs-- he's starting to think the silver fox aesthetic is pretty /sexy/, actually-- but it's /funny/ to watch him panic over it.

"Of course not, mackerel,"

he says sweetly, smiling up at him.

Dazai doesn't look like he believes him for a /second/, one of his hands coming up to touch his temple self-consciously. If there was a mirror nearby,he'd probably be checking himself out in it. "Don't even /start/ on the retirement home idea.

I'm only /thirty-four/," he grumbles.

And for all that he sounds /grumpy/, he hasn't pushed Chuuya away by even a centimeter. In fact, he's probably shuffled closer, draping his weight over his shoulders.

"Practically middle-aged," Chuuya sighs, patting his cheek again. "You'll

be a mummy soon enough. You've already got the bandages."

Well--

/Used/ to have the bandages. He doesn't wear them at home anymore, all his scars and ink and stories on display. It's a display of /trust/ that Chuuya treasures.

He still wears the bandages whenever they go out,

but their /home/ is safe for him.

Dazai looks torn on what to say, his expression flickering, before eventually settling on a fondly sighed, "You're mean."

Chuuya beams up at him, slinging his arms around his neck. "/So/ mean," he agrees empathetically, tugging him down for a

kiss.

Dazai gives in easily, both of his hands finding his back and supporting his weight as he bends him backwards slightly, just enough to make him hover on the /edge/ of falling. His kiss is sweet, freely offered and overflowing with affection.

"What am I going to do with

you?" He murmurs into his mouth.

"You're going to meet my family," Chuuya declares with a final kiss, pulling back to smile in Dazai's eyes, and well--

Chuuya /always/ gets what he wants.

----- +

Dazai is...nervous. He won't /admit/ that to anyone, and /especially/ not to

the little /menace/ whom he lovingly calls his boyfriend--because he would /never/ let it go, just like he's /continually/ pointed out gray hairs he apparently found in Dazai's hair and then /refused/ to point them out-- but he is.

Just a little bit.

The thing is, he's never

/met/ someone's parents before. All of his mafia friends are various shades of runaway's, orphans and neglected, so it's not like he was having regular sleepovers as a teenager. He avoided Sasaki's parents for a /long/ while, because he wasn't her friend /or/ her boyfriend, and

he /absolutely/ was not interested in meeting his fuck-buddy's parents back then.

Of course, he did eventually have to meet them when Sasaki got pregnant with Shuuji, but that wasn't a /meeting/ so much as it was... a three-hour /lecture/.

Needless to say, he has a /bad/ track

record and he's /pretty sure/ that it's not going to get better this time because he /really/ doesn't think he's /family friendly/.

Which is nerve-wracking, because he /knows/ how much Chuuya loves his family, even with all the issues, and Dazai /has/ to make a good impression.

He /wants/ the chibi's family to like him-- because Chuuya is /his/ family now, which makes this /his/ family as well-- and it's putting a lot of /pressure/ on him.

Not to /mention/ that he's going to be locked in a house with Chuuya, his father, and /both/ of his sisters for

/two/ days /and/ a night. He's going to be eaten /alive/. They're gonna gang up on him and /hate/ him--

"Are you ready?"

No. "Yes."

Chuuya is the first one out of the car, looking so familiar with his surroundings and completely at ease that Dazai almost /envies/ him. He's

been to the more residential cities in Japan before, and he's /looked/ at all the houses and people that live here--

But he's never felt a part of it.

Chuuya's childhood home is a respectable building. Not as big as Dazai's house, but the smaller size of it lends it a /cozy/

feeling. Homey. There's no yard to speak of, and the houses on either side are stacked up /very/ closely, almost identical to each other. The only defining features are the decorations on the front doorstep, heavily featuring flowers and nature.

Chuuya waits for him to come

around the car, linking his arm through his. He smiles up at him, bumping his temple against his arm in a silent show of support and reassurance.

Dazai clutches the bottle of wine he brought-- Chuuya said it was his fathers favorite brands and that he'd love the gift -- and

hopes he doesn't /drop/ it with his clammy palms as they march up to the front door.

It feels like he's going to /war/.

Chuuya reaches out to knock on the door without hesitation. "Smile, Osamu. You look like you're going to faint."

Dazai forces a smile on his face, too big.

"Not like that, you look uncomfortable."

He /is/ uncomfortable. He dims the smile down.

"Now it just looks like you're /faking/--"

The door opens.

In the entrance is a man with long, dark hair pulled away from his face with an elegant braid. He has a big, welcoming smile on

his face, and he /seems/ like a homey, family man with his cashmere sweater with a little plaid design on it--

"Chuuya!" He says enthusiastically, his face softening. He looks /so/ happy to see him--

But it changes to /confusion/ when he takes in Dazai by his side, a familiar

pair of blue eyes taking him in from head to toe.

Dazai dressed /nicely/ for the occasion, slacks and a /sleek/ button down, as well as covering up his tattoos with a thick layer of foundation-- because he doesn't want to explain the bandages-- and even styled his /hair/. Still,

he can't help feeling /judged/.

He opens his mouth to introduce himself--

"Chuuya, who is this?" Rimbaud-- Dazai asked what his name was /before/ so he wouldn't look bad-- asks, looking back over at his son with a confused look.

Oh, they are /not/ off to a great start.

"My

boyfriend?" Chuuya says, giving him an /equally/ confused look look. "I told you he was coming? You said it was fine."

Rimbaud looks at him. Looks at Dazai. Back to Chuuya. "That is a /grown man/?"

What is with this family and making him feel /ancient/? It's not like he's

/decrepit/, but he's starting to fucking /feel like it/.

His smile stays in place out of sheer willpower.

Chuuya shoots his dad a /look/. "Obviously? What did you expect?Of course he's an adult?"

"No, no, I just expected someone..." Rimbaud /obviously thinks about it, and it's

/clear/ that he settles on something different to say because of how hard Chuuya is staring at him, "..Different."

Oh, just you /wait/, Dazai thinks to himself half-hysterically, he doesn't even /know/ half of it yet. Just wait until he hears about his /background/. Or about

his /son/.

"Hello," he butts in before they can start gossiping about how old he is or something like that, "I'm Dazai, it's nice to meet you."

He even offers up his /hand/ to shake, because Chuuya told him Rimbaud thinks western culture is /fascinating/, grimly keeping his

smile in place.

Rimbaud clears his expression, keeping his face and voice carefully neutral as he shakes his hand. "Hello, Dazai. I'm Rimbaud, Chuuya's /father/."-- he says that like Dazai is supposed to be /intimidated/ by him, which doesn't work in the way he /thinks/-- "Come

on in, you're the last ones to arrive."

Oh, /great/. Dazai's just getting thrown /straight/ into the fire, no waiting for the heat to build or /anything/.

Chuuya practically pulls him in by his arm, totally brushing by that /awkward/ introduction without a single care.

It's a

smaller house, so the living room already seems packed full with three people standing in it chatting.

Chuuya brightens when he sees them. "Kyouka!" He calls, an excited grin on his face as he rushes over.

Dazai's /happy/ for him, he is. He knows he hasn't seen his sister for

a few months and he knows he missed her--

But did he /really/ have to leave Dazai floundering awkwardly in the space between the hallway and the living room, wondering what he should /do/? He's not even going to /introduce/ them?

Rimbaud's disappeared off into what looks to be

the kitchen with a wave at his children.

Dazai is still clutching the bottle of wine in his hand, and he’s pretty sure it needs to breathe before they can drink it, so he should /probably/ go drop it off in the kitchen…

On the other hand, he can see Oda making small talk with

Kouyou in the living room, looking /so/ at ease and comfortable that Dazai almost wants to /hit/ him for daring to have a /good/ relationship with the family when /he/ feels like he’s on the ropes already.

But—

His eyes catch on Chuuya, who’s squeezing his dark-haired sister

in a /giant/ hug. She’s squealing in protest, kicking her feet in a fake attempt to escape and she’s /laughing/, and /he’s/ laughing.

Dazai has always been prone to cowardice. If he /can/ avoid something he doesn’t want to do, if he can outthink it and out-strategize it, then

he absolutely will. If he doesn’t /want/ to do something, he will go out of his way for /hours/ just to think up ways to avoid it.

But for /Chuuya/, he’ll be brave. At least a little bit. Even if his father really /isn’t/ the terrifying monster his nervous stomach wants to

/believe/ he is.

He’s just a /guy/. Just a suburban /dad/ with a /mini-van/.

Dazai has /fucked/ scarier people than that. This is /nothing/. He’s going to walk in there, make /smooth/ conversation, /impress him/—

When he walks into the kitchen, Rimbaud is viciously chopping

some vegetables for a salad— they’re having some sort of pasta, he thinks, french cuisine to go with the /four/ wine bottles lined up on the counter— which is at /odds/ with the sunflower apron covering his chest.

His eyes snap up to meet him and Dazai almost /drops/ the wine.

“Uh,” he starts with, /incredibly/ elegant, he’s not sure why Rimbaud isn’t /fawning/ over him, “I brought wine. For dinner. For you. To drink. And Chuuya— for his birthday, of course,” —/not/ because he’s encouraging underage drinking, no, not at all, he would /never/, “So—“

He holds up the wine bottle like he needs to /prove/ that he has it, like he would lie about something so stupid as /that/. His smile feels painfully thin.

Setting the knife down—Dazai noticed he’s not /that/ skilled with a knife, but he doesn’t need to be, he just needs to be

/passionate/ and have /motive/ to hurt Dazai, which he /does/— Rimbaud brushes off his fingers on his apron. He squints at the bottle, expression suspicion and ever-so-slightly judgemental. “I don’t have my glasses— bring it here. Let me see it.”

He needs /glasses/. Why is

he terrified of a man that needs to wear /glasses/?

(He refuses to admit that /he’s/ started to need reading glasses lately, because that has /nothing/ to do with his age.)

At least he doesn’t trip on his way over, offering the bottle up easily.

Rimbaud takes it in hand,

holding it up to the light and squinting at the label. His lips purse, his expression carefully neutral.

Dazai feels like his /entire/ opinion on him is hinging on how /much/ he likes the wine he brought. Nerves buzz through him as he waits for the verdict, because he doesn’t

/know/ anything about wine. Chuuya told him what to buy and he trusts him but—

What if Rimbaud’s tastes had changed in the last few months? What if he asks him /questions/? What if he wants to talk about wine and Dazai looks like an idiot even /more/?

Rimbaud /sighs/.

Oh no.

The pursed lips fade away and he actually offers Dazai a /smile/, lowering the wine and adding it to the line of bottles already on the counter. “This is lovely, thank you. It’s one of my favorite wines.”

Oh, /good/. He likes it. Everything is going /perfectly/.

Dazai’s knees

feel a little weak. “You’re welcome,” he says warmly, “Chuuya helped me pick it out. I wanted to bring a gift for you.”

Now that this conversation went /okay/, he’s /fully/ planning on ducking out and going to introduce himself to the rest of the family because at least he’ll

have /Oda/ there, and Chuuya, at least /some/ sort of support he can hide behind—

“Oh, so you /do/ have manners,” Rimbaud says, and even though his /words/ are biting, his tone is /friendly/, like it’s a joke.

But /is it/ a joke?

Dazai freezes in place, unsure what he’s

supposed to /say/ to that,unsure what he /means/.

“After all,” Rimbaud continues lightheartedly,pulling out a corkscrew and smoothly opening the bottle Dazai had brought. There’s a large empty glass vase-looking thing nearby that he pours the entire bottle in the let it breathe.

“A man would /introduce himself/ to the parents before moving in with their child. That’s the polite thing to do.”

Dazai is torn between wanting to /bite back/ that Chuuya is a grown man, and /neither/ of them need to get Rimbaud’s permission to do /anything/—

And just /really/

wanting him to like Dazai. This is his boyfriends /family/, this is someone /important/ to Chuuya.

It’s worth swallowing his pride, even if it tastes sour.

“Yes, well,” he mutters, dipping his head in silent apology. “We talked on the phone and it did not occur to me. The

relationship moved quickly.”

Rimbaud pounces on that /immediately/, smoothly transferring the salad he was making into a larger bowl. “Ah, yes. How long have you two been dating?”

“Officially, almost four months,” Dazai answers, doing some quick mental math. “We were seeing

each other for a few months before that though.”

Rimbaud’s mouth twists slightly. “That would be… right around when he started college, right?”

Technically about two months in but close enough that Dazai nods cautiously.

Honestly, he’s /expecting/ an argument about that.

Because, from an outside perspective and from a /parental/ perspective, he can understand why that looks bad. Why it’s /suspicious/ that a newly independent college kid almost instantly found a boyfriend that is obviously older than him.

He doesn’t blame Rimbaud for being

suspicious. Hell, if he had more parental instincts and /Shuuji/ brought home an older man only a few months into college, he’d probably throw a fit too.

He understands, but he doesn’t have to /like/ it.

Thankfully, Rimbaud doesn’t say anything to that specifically, choosing

to let that go with a thin smile. Instead, he starts in with a /different/ line of questioning. “Don’t you think you two are moving a bit /quickly/? Four months is not a long time, and I understand that his medical scare might have frightened you both,but living together already?

I mean, how /well/ do you really know each other? Living together is a big commitment."

Dazai has no idea what 'normal' relationships look like, but he does know this--

"It might seem fast to you, but it was a very natural progression of things. It felt right in the moment and

it feels right now. If something changes, then I'm happy to discuss and accommodate him, but for now, we're happy," Dazai responds, shrugging with one shoulder and lifting his chin to give Rimbaud a steady glance. "And you're right-- maybe I don't know him as well as I should,

but I will spend the rest of my life getting to know him, and I will enjoy every moment of it."

Evidently he said /something/ right, because instead of coming up with /another/ question or squinting at him suspiciously, Rimbaud's gaze actually /softens/. He looks at him for a

long moment, quietly assessing.

Like he's actually /looking/ at Dazai instead of through him. Trying to get to /know/ him instead of just finding pieces of him that can be viewed as wrong.

Before he can say anything else, there's a call from the living room. "Dazai!"

That's

Chuuya and Dazai /eagerly/ takes his cue to escape--

"Wait," Rimbaud stops him in his tracks, holding up a hand. "Take this with you."

In a series of smooth movements, Rimbaud procures a wine glass out of somewhere and fills it a quarter-full with the wine he poured into the

aerator. He offers it to Dazai with an expression that is just a little /warmer/ than the one before their conversation.

Dazai takes the wineglass, careful not to spill a drop as he turns on his heel and--

He's a man. He can admit it. He /flees/ into the living room.

Chuuya

looks over his shoulder at him, eyes practically /sparkling/ with happiness, and Dazai is drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

He comes up behind him, pressing his front to his back. He drapes one arm over his shoulder and brings the other hand around to the front to offer up

the wine. Chuuya takes it with a grateful hum, pressing back against him as he takes a sip.

Dazai leans down, nudging the side of Chuuya's head with his cheek. "I wanna go home," he complains quietly in his ear. "Your dad is mean to me."

Chuuya pats his arm patronizingly and

ignores him completely. "Dazai, this is Kyouka," he says instead, gesturing to his dark-haired sister.

Dazai offers her a welcoming smile, tipping his head in a greeting bow because he refuses to let Chuuya go.

She clearly takes after their father, with long black hair and a

slightly-darker pair of blue eyes. She's probably the most /interestingly/ dressed out of all of them. Her shirt is a black tee with a bunny face on the front, and she has striped black-and-white /suspenders/ that connect to her black skirt. She took her shoes off when she came

in, just like everyone else, but he's pretty sure the /giant/ knee-high platform boots adorned with buckles and zippers are probably hers.

She even has little pink bunny clips in her hair. It's /cute/, but eccentric, and she certainly doesn't look her twenty-two years.

"You

already know Kouyou, and Oda," Chuuya continues, nodding at his sister and her boyfriend-slash-bodyguard.

Kouyou is /impeccably/ dressed in a modest red dress that compliments the fall of her long red hair. She even has cutting red eyeliner on, and a big pair of dragon earrings

dangling from her ears.

She looks like a Mafia boss on vacation, sleek and elegant and sensual and /powerful/.

She offers him a strained smile over the rim of her wineglass, nodding at him. Their relationship has been /weird/ lately. They've always been rather /rude/ to each

other, and they /never/ got along.

They /still/ don't get along, and he's pretty sure that she's actively trying to convince Chuuya to leave him, but she's acting /cordial/ to his face now. Not /friendly/, per se, but /civil/.

Oda, on the other hand, is her counterpart in all

black. He looks as comfortable as can be, sipping idly on his own wine and not at /all/ looking nervous.

Which isn't /fair/, because not only is Oda only a /year/ younger than him,he's /actively/ in the Mafia, /and/ he has a polyamorous relationship with /two/ women--one of them

being Rimbaud's daughter--and he's /pretty sure/ they're /swingers/.

Really, Dazai is /normal/ in comparison, so why does /he/ have to feel like he's being targeted by Rimbaud? Why is /he/ the nervous one?

"How'd you get past the dad?" He mutters crossly, wishing he had his own

cup of whiskey to calm his nerves. "He's looking at me like I'm a walking /corpse/."

Oda flashes him a smile. "My youthful good looks and witty charm."

/Asshole./ He's /enjoying/ this.

Chuuya pats his arm again. "You're doing fine," he tells Dazai. "He hasn't threatened to sue

you yet. That's practically ringing endorsement."

"/Sue me/? For /what/?"

Kyouka shrugs. "Doesn't matter. It's just a threat. He's just...like that.Overprotective."

No offense, but that sounds /annoying/ and /ridiculous/?

"I've heard a lot about you," Kyouka continues, eyeing

him. "You're...shorter than I imagined."

Dazai blinks. He's never heard /that/ before. He's almost /absurdly/ tall, especially for Japan, and there have been /plenty/ of people who said he was /too/ tall.

He's never been called /short/. How does he even respond to that?

There's a twinkle in her eye that he catches onto too late, and now he's convinced that she said that on /purpose/ to damage his ego but--

"Dinner's ready," Rimbaud calls from the kitchen. "Someone help me bring the food out."

Oda is the first to move, setting his glass down on

the table as he disappears into the kitchen to help.

Sighing mournfully at the idea of having to let his chibi go, Dazai goes to help as well.

There's only a handful of dishes, so it's not long before they're all settling down at the table to eat. Rimbaud is at the head of the

table, with Chuuya on his left and Kyouka on his right. Dazai sitting next to Chuuya, Oda across from him and Kouyou at the end of the table.

Every one of them has a glass of wine. Even Dazai, who mournfully sniffs at his glass before taking a sip to be courteous. He wishes he

had something /stronger/, but apparently this family loves their grape juice.

Everything is /easy/ as people pile up their plates with their respective foods, casual conversation made as they pass dishes back and forth over the table. Dazai /almost/ relaxes, thinking that dinner

will be /easy/ and he'll have at least an hour of relaxation--

But he's wrong. Because if Rimbaud has learned /one/ thing while raising three children on his own, it's that if he wants to know something, then he has to /corner/ someone where they /can't leave/.

"So, Dazai," he

starts casually and Dazai's stomach /sinks/ into his pasta. "How did you and Chuuya meet?"

Oh /no/. That is /not/ a good question.

He hesitates, wondering what exactly he should /say/ because he doesn't want to /lie/ but the truth is... /awkward/. It's not like Chuuya and him

came up with a /story/ and he doesn't know exactly how much Chuuya told his father, and he doesn't want to lie if he already /knows/--

Thankfully,the love of his life,the apple of his eye, the /sweetest/ man Dazai has ever known,answers for him. "His son introduced us."

Oh boy.

Dazau does /not/ look at Chuuya, but he discretely pinches him under the table because what the /hell/. He wasn't ready to have /this/ conversation. He's already on /thin ice/.

Rimbaud pauses, a bite of pasta halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows lower in confusion, and he looks

from Dazai to Chuuya and then back again.

The rest of the table is silent, but he can /see/ Oda's shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

"You have a son?"

Dazai smiles, his cheeks feeling like they might crack under the tension. He nods.

Slowly putting down his pasta,

Rimbaud laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them. That /warm/ expression from earlier is completely gone. "Well," he draws out, "How old is the little tyke? Chuuya's always been good with kids, so I'm not that surprised."

Oda /snickers/. Kouyou takes a /loud/ drink.

Dazai is going to /fake his death/. He's going to choke on his wine until he suffocates and then he's going to leave the country forever. "Eighteen."

Rimbaud tilts his head. "Sorry, what was that? I thought you said /eighteen/."

Dazai wants to /die/. Chuuya /knows/ what he did.

He feed him to the /dogs/ and he's just sitting there, /smiling/ at him like he /loves/ him but he /hates/ him. He /hates/ Dazai, he has to.

He clears his throat, repeating himself louder. "He's eighteen. Shuuji is eighteen."

Rimbaud /stares/ at him, unblinking. Dazai is too

afraid to look, staring at the wall just behind him, waiting to /die/.

"My son is eighteen," Rimbaud says slowly, making Dazai wince.

"Nineteen tomorrow," he mutters, like /that/ makes a huge difference.

"How old are /you/?" Is his next question, and Dazai is /writhing/ in

embarrassment. The entire /table/ is staring at him expectantly, and Chuuya is /no/ help.

He's actually just put his hand on his thigh under the table as /moral support/ while he's /interrogated/.

"Thirty-four," he answers, voice wavering.

Silence. Horribly awkward silence.

He can feel everybody /staring/ at him, and there's just the slow scraping of a metal fork over a plate as Kyouka /slowly/ eats her pasta, eyes bright with /glee/.

How did he get trapped in a family of /tormentors/?

He shoots Chuuya a look like 'help me' and Chuuya opens his

mouth--

"/I'm/ fourty-seven," Rimbaud announces, /clearly/ highlighting the fact that Dazai is closer to /his/ age than he is to Chuuya's.

He's going to pass out, this isn't /fair/. Someone /help him/.

Chuuya lifts his wine glass. "It's fine, Dad," he says, /calmly/, like

he wasn’t watching Dazai /drown/. “Leave him alone. It’s not a big deal.”

Dazai wholeheartedly disagrees that /any/ of this is /fine/.

Rimbaud’s gaze cuts to Chuuya and he actually looks /angry/, his eyebrows lowered thunderously over his eyes. “Are you friends with his son—

Shuuji, is it?”

(And this one, Chuuya doesn’t /mean/ to throw Dazai under the bus—because he has enjoyed watching his boyfriend suffer in the name of harmless /revenge/ for keeping all those secrets— but can’t help it—)

Chuuya /cringes/. “God no. We made out a few times and

that’s it.”

Well, Dazai thinks to himself so hysterically that he’s swung back around to /calm/, at least no one has mentioned the time Shuuji tried to run Chuuya over yet. Some things are still sacred.

Rimbaud’s eyebrows shoot up so far they might as well be part of his

hair. “Let me get this straight. You ‘made out’ with his son. His son introduced you to Dazai. And then you started dating. The /father/. A man nearly /twice/ your age.”

/Finally/, Chuuya’s face starts to get red with embarrassment. “Yeah.”

“/Chuuya!/“ Rimbaud gasps, pressing

a hand to his chest. “I didn’t raise you to be such a— such a /hussy/.”

Now, Dazai would /normally/ be the first one to defend Chuuya if anyone /else/ ever even implied that he was a shameful whore.

But now he’s trying to bite back hysterical laughter at the word /hussy/ being

whispered over the table like it’s a /curse/ of the /highest/ order.

Plus, now /Chuuya/ is squirming with discomfort and Dazai is getting /vindictive/ pleasure out of that, out of not being the center of attention.

/Karma/, you little /hussy/, Dazai thinks to himself, finally

taking a bite out of his pasta—

Which is, naturally, when things go to /hell/.

“Don’t call me a /hussy/,” Chuuya says indignantly, and in very /youngest sibling/ behavior, he flings his hand out and points at Kouyou. “She’s the one dating /two/ people, call /her/ the hussy!”

Dazai swallows slowly, putting his fork back down. Across the table, Oda’s eyes are /wide/ and Kyouka looks like she’s /eating this up/.

“She’s /what/?!”

At the other end of the table, Kouyou throws her utensils down on her plate. “You traitorous /whore/?” She accuses Chuuya,

throwing her hands up. “This isn’t /about me/. Leave me out of this, /dad-fucker/.”

Dazai doesn’t know if he should /cry/, laugh or be /offended/ that she spit ‘dad-fucker’ like it was an insult.

Chuuya sticks his nose up. “If Im going down I’m taking you all /with me/.”

Oda leans over to Kyouka, whispering something lowly in her ear.

(They’re taking bets.)

Meanwhile, Rimbaud looks /stressed/. “Are you /cheating/ on Oda? He’s such a nice man!”

Oh, so /Oda/ is the nice man, but /Dazai/ is being treated like the /devil/, even though they are

almost /exactly/ the same.

“No!” Kouyou denies, and even Oda shakes his head in solidarity, “It’s just— we’re /both/ dating the same other person, it’s /fine/!”

Dazai wonders if it would be impossible to sneak away from the table without making a scene.

At least the attention

is off him now.

Kouyou looks like she’s about to /vault/ over the table at her little brother, and Dazai pushes his food back so it won’t drop into his lap if she does—

“/Enough!/“ Rimbaud snaps, slamming his hands down on the table.

The entire group goes silent, ears burning

with shame and embarrassment.

“I would like /one/ normal family dinner,” Rimbaud practically /hisses/, his fingers coming up to rub at his temples. “You’re /embarrassing/ me in front of our company.”

Personally, Dazai is just grateful he’s not being /questioned/ anymore but

he’ll go along with whatever Rimbaud says as long as this conversation /stops/.

“I haven’t seen all my kids in one place for /years/,” he continues, glaring at everyone individually. “So we are /all/ going to get along and be /civil/ with eachother, got it?”

Chuuya, Kouyou and

Kyouka all shrink in their seats, mumbling understanding too quietly to hear.

Oda is the only one who is /enthusiastically/ eating, eagerly reaching for seconds while everyone else is awkwardly picking at their plates.

Silent, strained, /awkward/ peace reigns for the next few

minutes and—

Dazai /really/ thinks it’s over. The worst has happened, there’s nothing left to talk about, they’ll move on soon—

“Daddy—“

Now, Dazai has been /coaching/ himself for the past two weeks, ever since he agreed to come to dinner. He /knew/ Chuuya unfortunately

referred to his father like that sometimes, and he /swore/ to himself that he would /not/ respond to that.

He also asked Chuuya /not/ to call him that, but—

Chuuya /forgot/ and he’s been calling Dazai that for /months/ around the house, so often he calls him ‘daddy’ more than

he says his /name/,so he automatically looks up—

Only to lock eyes with Rimbaud /and/ Kouyou/.

For the first time,Oda looks a little /nervous/,his hand hovering with a bite of pasta near his mouth as the blood drains out of his expression—

Kyouka mouths ‘oh my god’ to herself.

There’s just this awkward, horribly /invasive/ silence as Dazai looks at Rimbaud and Rimbaud looks at Kouyou and Kouyou looks at Dazai and Dazai looks at Kouyou and Rimbaud looks at Dazai—

Clearing his throat, Rimbaud raises his utensils and Kyouka is leaning forward like she’s

expecting a /fight/ to break out, and even Oda is leaning back in his chair—

“Do not tell me /anything/,” Rimbaud says, oddly calm considering the rest of the evening, as he steadily takes a bite of pasta. “Chuuya, what did you need?”

The redhead is shrunken in his chair,

visibly squirming with discomfort and so red he almost matches his /hair/. “The wine, please,” he mutters, sounding like he wants to be anywhere else.

Everyone’s eyes fall to the wine bottle and they all realize at the same time—

The glass is /much/ closer to Dazai than it is

to Rimbaud.

There’s /another/ moment of silence as Dazai struggles on what to do because he can’t /ignore/ Chuuya but if he reaches for it then that will be like /acknowledging/ the mishap and then everyone will just /know/—

“Well?” Rimbaud asks, his eyes boring a hole in the

side of Dazai’s face as he takes another bite. “You heard him. Hand it to the man.”

“Right,” Dazai mutters, clearing his throat awkwardly. He reaches over, picks up the bottle and places it in front of Chuuya.

Everyone pretends not to watch as Chuuya pours nearly an entire

/glass/ of wine, chugs the whole thing, and then pours another quarter glass, a socially acceptable amount.

Dazai takes another bite of salad. His appetite is /gone/, but he can’t be /rude/ on top of inadvertently causing world war 3 in the family.

This is only dinner, he

reminds himself, grimly resigning himself for whatever happens /after/. They have plans for a late-night movie showing after this.

Then they’ll come home for sleep—god, how is Dazai going to /sleep/ in the same house after all this— before waking up for brunch, a short day at a

local park, and lunch before everyone starts to head back to their respective homes.

Judging on the way Rimbaud is alternating between glaring at /Dazai/, looking at Kouyou and frowning at Oda—

Honestly, he’s not sure he’s going to /survive/. If Rimbaud doesn’t kill him, then

Kouyou probably will and if /they/ don’t—

Dazai might just do it his damn self.

Surprisingly, the rest of dinner is… mostly mundane. There’s still some lingering tension, and things get a little awkward when Chuuya drinks a little /too/ much and Dazai moves the bottle out of

reach, but mostly things are /way/ calmer than they were initially. Dazai actually manages to hold an entire conversation with Rimbaud that doesn’t end up with him embarrassing himself.

The movie after is okay too. It’s some action film that Dazai doesn’t catch the name of,

because he’s not a big movie person and he honestly doesn’t care that much. He’s only here and watching it because Chuuya wanted him to come.

There /is/ a bit of a tense moment in the middle of the movie when there’s a bucket of water dragged on screen, the metallic screech and

the slosh of water making Chuuya shudder and turn his face into Dazai’s chest.

He’s there in an instant, covering one of his ears and mumbling quiet reassurances into his air until it’s okay for him to look again.

Kouyou knows and Oda knows, so they both respectfully ignore

the show. The most Kouyou does is reach over and squeeze his shoulder in silent support.

But /Rimbaud/ doesn’t know, and even though Chuuya doesn’t make a /fuss/ and he’s back to watching the movie in a few minutes, he can /tell/ that something is different.

Dazai locks eyes

with him over Chuuya’s head when he’s comforting him, silent in the movie theater.

And Rimbaud watches for a moment, his expression questioning and thoughtful, before eventually looking away again.

Dazai tries to make the moment look /romantic/ so that Chuuya doesn’t have to

come up with a /lie/ to tell him,but he’s not sure if it works.

He just hopes Rimbaud can sense that even though his children all love him and cherish him—

They’re grown up now. And they have secrets, they might need other people more, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love him.

There is a point where Dazai slips away for a few moments while everyone is crowding into an ice cream shop for dessert. There’s a convenience store not even a block away, and he ducks in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

It’s been a /long/ time since he’s smoked regularly, but it’s

been a /stressful/ day, so he deserves a little stress relief.

Besides, he’s fairly certain Oda still smokes, and it’s a good excuse to catch up with him. They haven’t really talked since Dazai pointed a gun at him, and while he’s sure there won’t be any hard feelings— it’s far

from the /first/ time they’ve held a gun to each other’s heads— he’s sure Oda will be /less/ happy that he indirectly threatened Kouyou.

The man takes his job seriously. If Dazai were anyone else, his existence would’ve been wiped from the planet by now. Oda might not be /cruel/