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The room was quiet when the Port Mafia arrived.
The kind of quiet that settled under the skin—too poised to be natural. Kouyou was the first to sit, her movements noiseless. Higuchi followed after her, eyes flicking across the table in clinical sweeps. Akutagawa sat beside her. Hirotsu, folded his gloved hands together and didn’t look at anyone.
And at the end of the line, Chuuya took his place.
He said nothing when he entered. His coat was already off. One glance at the conference table told him what he needed to know: the Armed Detective Agency had been waiting.
Kunikida’s knuckles were tight around his pen. Atsushi sat beside him, silent, looking down at the notes he wasn’t reading. Ranpo hadn’t bothered to remove his feet off the chair, but he did at least lift his eyes when Chuuya stepped into view. Fukuzawa, seated at the head of the table, gave a polite nod— not friendly. Expected.
One chair on their side of the table remained empty.
Chuuya didn’t look at it.
He crossed one leg over the other, gloved fingers steepled in his lap, and watched the room like it wasn’t worth taking seriously. When Kouyou handed him a folded document, he didn’t open it. He already knew what it said.
The peace terms. An expansion of the current ceasefire. Land. Surveillance boundaries. New restrictions. Nothing he hadn’t read before.
He waited.
And, predictably, a minute later—
the door opened.
There was no rush to Dazai’s entrance. No apology, no hurry in his step. His coat trailed behind him like an afterthought. The faint sound of his shoes on tile was the only thing that echoed in the room.
Kunikida didn’t even glance up. “You’re late.”
“Fashionably,” Dazai replied, settling into the empty seat without hesitation. “You’re welcome.”
Chuuya didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. But his eyes followed the movement of Dazai’s coat as it slid from his shoulders and caught on the armrest.
His shirt was too open at the collar. There was no bolotie.
He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or had, but with something occupying his night.
Kunikida let out a breath through his nose and returned to the agenda, voice clipped. “We were about to begin.”
But Dazai didn’t seem to hear him. His elbow slid onto the table, head tilted, mouth half-curved in that lazy, familiar grin.
“Nakahara,” he said softly.
Chuuya’s gaze didn’t shift.
“Don’t you look tense,” Dazai murmured. “Is it the suit? Or are you just unhappy to see me?”
There was a long pause. Chuuya didn’t speak. He didn’t look at him.
Fukuzawa cleared his throat. “We’ll begin with surveillance allowances—”
“Strange,” Dazai said, more thoughtful now, “you always used to smile when I walked in a room.”
That made Akutagawa glance up. Kouyou didn’t move, but the edge of her fan tapped once on the table.
Chuuya breathed in once, slow. And then—
—he turned his head. Just enough.
His eyes were unreadable.
Dazai smiled wider.
Kunikida, already irritated, muttered something under his breath and shifted away from Dazai’s chair. Dazai, of course, had other plans.
“Don’t be shy, Kunikida-kun,” he whispered. “I missed you.”
Kunikida’s jaw twitched. “You’re disgusting.”
He leaned over toward Kunikida, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Did you miss me?” he whispered, lips curled in amusement.
Kunikidas mouth twisted into a sneer. “Shut up.”
Dazai sighed and turned slightly in his chair, like he couldn’t find a comfortable position. His thigh brushed against Kunikida’s under the table. Then again. He shifted, just slightly, so it wouldn’t stop.
Chuuya’s jaw twitched.
Dazai leaned closer to Kunikida again, his voice just loud enough now.
“You always smell so nice, Kunikida-kun,” he said with a little smile.
Kunikida shoved his chair half a foot away from Dazai without a word.
Chuuya’s voice, when it came, was quiet.
“I’m surprised,” he said.
Chuuya’s voice came again before Dazai could reply.
“You shouldn’t whore yourself in front of the Port Mafia,” he said, evenly. “It’s disgraceful, Dazai.”
The room fell quiet again.
No one looked at Chuuya, not directly. Not right away. Fukuzawa turned a page in the folder in front of him. Kouyou said nothing. Atsushi’s posture straightened, uncertain. Akutagawa’s shoulders stiffened, but not in surprise.
Dazai went still.
Then, slowly, he looked over.
And smiled.
“Isn’t that none of your business?” he said. “My body, my choice—isn’t that the saying?”
Chuuya didn’t blink. His eyes narrowed.
The silence pressed in again—quiet, heavier now.
Then Fukuzawa’s voice cut clean through it.
“Let’s continue.”
And the meeting resumed like nothing had happened.
But Dazai didn’t shift back in his seat.
And Chuuya didn’t stop watching him.
The meeting ended with paper shuffling, quiet murmurs, and nothing truly resolved. Which meant, by negotiation standards, it had gone well.
Fukuzawa stood first, offering the customary bow toward Kouyou, who returned it with a quiet nod. Hirotsu lingered beside the table to shake hands with the ADA members—formality, not friendliness. Akutagawa vanished through the glass doors without a word. Higuchi followed, file hugged to her chest, her posture stiff and eyes flicking to Dazai only once. Barely.
But Chuuya didn’t move.
He waited, gloves already on, coat thrown neatly over one arm. The others passed behind him like smoke, barely brushing his presence. And then, when Dazai finally stood, stretching with exaggerated ease, Chuuya turned.
He flashed a smile.
Too white. Too clean. All teeth, all gloss.
Dazai caught it like it had been thrown.
He grinned back, slow and unbothered. Then winked.
Chuuya’s expression didn’t flicker. He turned on his heel and walked out without waiting for a reply.
Dazai exhaled softly through his nose.
The click of the elevator doors closing behind Chuuya echoed down the corridor.
The ride back to the Agency was mostly quiet.
Atsushi kept glancing between Dazai and Kunikida, visibly uncomfortable. Ranpo was already halfway into a nap, his hat tilted over one eye. Fukuzawa was on a call. No one spoke.
Until they stepped into the office.
And Kunikida snapped.
He didn’t yell right away. He shut the door with a little too much force, dropped his files onto his desk, then turned.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said.
Dazai blinked. “Good unbelievable?”
“You flirted with me in the middle of a Port Mafia negotiation, Dazai.”
“That wasn’t flirting,” Dazai said lightly. “That was tactical pressure.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Dazai replied, pulling off his coat and tossing it onto the nearest chair. “Not by anyone I respected, but still.”
Kunikida’s fists clenched at his sides. “You could’ve gotten us killed.”
“Could I have?” Dazai said, voice softening with mock thoughtfulness. “Because the Port Mafia boss looked pretty distracted. I’d say my methods were effective.”
“That wasn’t strategy, it was—you were provoking him.”
Dazai tilted his head, slow, lips parting in a crooked smile.
“Is that what you think I was doing?”
“ Yes! ” Kunikida snapped. “You were humiliating yourself. Do you know how that looked?”
Dazai shrugged. “I don’t really care how I look.”
“God, I know ,” Kunikida hissed. “I know that. But do you care how we look?”
A pause.
Then—
Atsushi stepped in, hesitant.
“I mean… he wasn’t hurting anyone,” he said.
Kunikida turned. “Atsushi.”
“No—I’m serious. Chuuya said something way worse, and none of them flinched. If anything, I think Dazai was—” He hesitated. “—keeping him focused.”
Dazai made a small, pleased sound and slinked across the room, wrapping an arm around Atsushi’s shoulders. “See? This is why Atsushi-kun’s my favourite,” he said, ruffling his hair. “Such a good boy. You understand me.”
Atsushi flushed and tried to wiggle away, but Dazai held fast.
“Let go,” he muttered, ears turning pink.
“Never.”
Kunikida made a sound between a groan and a sigh. “You’re both impossible.”
“That’s the goal,” Dazai said, releasing Atsushi just enough to press his cheek against his hair. “Team morale.”
Atsushi shoved him gently away and started retreating toward the hallway, mumbling something about checking paperwork.
Dazai let him go. His hand drifted into his pocket out of habit—fingertips brushing the usual mix of lint, string, and—
—something new.
His fingers froze.
It was paper. Folded, smooth. Not his usual crumpled receipts or scavenged notes. It was stiff. Heavy. Quality stock. And the ink that kissed its edges felt faintly warm.
He slid it out and opened it slowly.
The handwriting was neat. Careful. Sharp.
The first line wasn’t a greeting.
‘You’re pathetic when you beg for attention.’
Dazai’s smile slipped up one side of his mouth.
The rest of the note was simple. A time. A place. No threat. No request.
Chuuya’s penthouse.
Dazai recognized the address instantly. He’d followed Chuuya there once—weeks ago, maybe months. He didn’t remember the date. Just the bitter wind and the half-dissolved pills on his tongue and the way the windows of the building glowed like they were daring someone to break in.
Back then, Chuuya had just been made boss.
Dazai had watched the place from across the street for an hour. Maybe longer. Drifting thoughts. Faint nausea. He’d thought about throwing a rock at one of the windows just to see if anyone inside would flinch.
Now, the invitation came without him having to stalk. Just a note in his pocket and a place he already knew by heart.
The time was tonight.
In tiny, perfect script beneath the address, Chuuya had added:
‘Try not to come in your pants before I get there.’
Dazai stared at the ink.
He blinked. Smirked.
Then folded the note once, and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look at Kunikida. Didn’t go after Atsushi. Just wandered slowly toward his desk and collapsed into the chair with a sigh.
Outside, the sky was beginning to dim—soft blue settling into dusk, too warm for winter but not gentle enough to be spring.
He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
Chuuya always did have excellent timing.
He walked.
The city was loud in the way it always was after 9 PM—horns bleeding into tires on wet pavement, distant sirens. It smelled like oil, heat caught in sidewalk cracks and held there too long.
Dazai walked with his hands in his coat pockets and his coat drawn tight around his ribs. He didn’t need to be out. He didn’t need to do anything. But his feet moved forward on instinct.
He’d walked this street once before.
Not the same night. Not the same shoes. But the same motion.
He remembered—vaguely, dreamlike—the first time he found out where Chuuya had been moved, where the new penthouse was. It had been soon after Chuuya got pushed up into the boss’s chair, before the nameplate had even been nailed into the door. Dazai had been high out of his mind that night. Too many pills, maybe not enough. He’d stood across the street, chewing the inside of his cheek raw, staring up at one of the dark-glassed towers until the back of his neck ached from the angle.
He’d watched the ginger-haired silhouette—Chuuya, even from a distance, always unmistakable—step out of a black car, a coat around his shoulders. The building had lit up behind him as he walked inside, one floor after another flashing gold. Dazai remembered following the lights with his eyes. Until they stopped at the top.
The curtains had drawn a few minutes later. Black blackouts.
He hadn’t stayed long after that. There were too many guards on the corners, and he’d started seeing double anyway.
Now he was walking back, this time sober.
He laughed softly to himself under his breath, the sound a little too sharp. He kicked a crumpled can out of his path and kept going.
The tower rose out of the sidewalk like a monument—full of people who didn’t need to know who he was. He knew the building’s bones now. He’d looked it up after that night. Security. Elevator systems. Entry points.
But tonight, he didn’t need the fire escape or a forged keycard.
He had an invitation.
The doorman looked up when Dazai stepped into the lobby. A bright, sterile lighting reflected off polished marble, and the whole place smelled like some kind of synthetic wood-scented cleaner that cost more than Dazai’s entire weekly budget.
“Name?” the man asked, not unfriendly. Just cautious. Like he knew better than to assume.
Dazai tilted his head slightly, smile already curling at the corner of his mouth.
“Nakahara’s expecting me.”
There was a beat. A blink. Then, as if trying to not look surprised, the doorman reached for the tablet beside him.
“Your name, please.”
“Osamu Dazai.”
The man frowned slightly, tapped something, and paused. Then, quietly: “Security phrase?”
Dazai arched his brows. “You’re kidding.”
The man didn’t flinch.
Dazai sighed. “Of course he gave you a fucking security phrase.”
There was silence.
Then, flatly: “Carmine.”
The man blinked.
Dazai smiled wider. “His favorite color. And his temper.”
The doorman pressed a button. A tone buzzed, faintly.
After a pause, the screen lit up. A line of green text.
CLEARANCE GRANTED. TOP FLOOR ELEVATOR UNLOCKED.
The doorman still looked faintly skeptical, but he stepped aside.
“Penthouse is the last stop. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“I always do,” Dazai murmured, and stepped past him.
The elevator was enormous—unnecessary space, black mirrored walls, no buttons besides the key lock and a glowing ‘P’. His reflection stared back at him as the doors slid shut. Pale. Eyes rimmed in something darker than sleep.
He adjusted his coat.
The floor display ticked up: 38… 39… 40…
Each number heavier than the last.
He remembered—again—those curtains falling shut. The way they’d severed him from whatever Chuuya was doing behind them. It had been a final motion. A dismissal.
And now he was here. With permission.
When the doors opened, the air changed.
The hallway was carpeted. Everything was quiet.
Dazai stepped forward.
He reached the door. Lifted his hand. And knocked.
Once. Twice.
Then waited.
He didn’t shift. Didn’t fidget. Just let the silence stretch.
Behind the door, he could feel it—pressure. The weight of attention. Like something was already standing there, watching him through the peephole. Deciding.
He stood still.
His hand still tingled faintly from the knock.
He wondered if Chuuya would open it himself.
And if he’d still be smiling.
The door opened without a sound.
Dazai didn’t blink.
Chuuya stood in the doorway. His coat was off, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other resting on the doorframe like he was still deciding whether it was worth letting Dazai inside.
He wasn’t smiling.
Not even pretending to.
His eyes swept over Dazai once, slow and cold, from collarbone to shoe.
Dazai said nothing.
Chuuya took a long sip from the glass. His jaw flexed once. When he lowered it again, his voice came flat.
“Get in.”
Dazai stepped through the doorway.
The door shut behind him with a click. The door locked automatically. The kind you couldn’t open from the inside without permission.
The penthouse was everything Dazai imagined it being—vast, high-ceilinged. Deep reds and sharp blacks. Marble and velvet. It smelled like tobacco, clean linen, and something sharper underneath—gunmetal, maybe. Leather.
It was too quiet.
Chuuya didn’t offer him anything. Not a seat, not a drink, not a touch.
He walked past him instead, toward the living room, slow and unhurried, and Dazai followed without being told. Of course he did.
Chuuya sat in the armchair beside the fire that wasn’t lit. He crossed one leg over the other, his glass glinting in the low light, and stared straight ahead at nothing.
Dazai stayed standing.
He felt like he was back in some Port Mafia interrogation room. Not the ones he used to run. The worse kind.
He still hadn’t looked at Dazai.
When he spoke, his voice was still quiet.
“You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Dazai tilted his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
That got him a glance. Brief.
Chuuya sipped his whiskey again. The ring of the glass against his teeth was delicate. His hands didn’t shake.
Dazai watched his throat move as he swallowed.
Chuuya set the glass down. Finally.
Then looked up.
His eyes weren’t cold. They were burning .
Dazai smiled.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice,” Chuuya said, voice sharp now, every syllable cut into place. “You thought you could show up at a negotiation in front of half my command staff, put your filthy fucking hands on that stuck up fucking pole, and I’d sit there and take it.”
Dazai didn’t speak. His heart beat louder than his breathing.
Chuuya stood.
He walked toward him slowly, deliberate steps across marble.
Dazai didn’t move. He didn’t lower his eyes.
He wanted this.
Chuuya stopped a breath away.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asked softly.
Dazai answered too fast. “No.”
“You think I didn’t see what you were doing?”
“I wanted you to see,” Dazai said.
There it was. The real truth.
Chuuya’s mouth twitched—something between rage and something darker. His fingers lifted, caught the lapel of Dazai’s coat. Just a single finger, sliding against the fabric.
Dazai’s breath caught.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Chuuya murmured.
And then he pushed him.
Hard.
Dazai stumbled back against the wall with a thud, shoulder cracking against plaster. His head hit the frame with a dull knock, but he didn’t cry out.
He laughed .
Chuuya was already on him. One hand around his throat—not tight, not yet, just placed—and the other braced beside his head.
“You like humiliating me?” Chuuya hissed.
Dazai smiled up at him, blood warm behind his teeth.
“I like making you look.”
Chuuya slammed him back again.
Not enough to knock him out. Just enough to rattle something loose.
Dazai groaned softly, head tilted, eyes flickering half-lidded.
God, he missed this. He missed him .
Chuuya was shaking now. Not visibly. Just the tension in his arm. The way his fingers gripped harder than they needed to. The way his thumb pressed in just enough to make Dazai’s breath stagger.
“You wanted this,” Chuuya said, low. “All that shit in front of everyone—this is what you wanted it to get you.”
Dazai’s lips parted.
“I always want you.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Chuuya dragged his hand down, thumb scraping over Dazai’s pulse.
Then he stepped back.
Dazai blinked, unsteady, swaying forward before he caught himself.
Chuuya didn’t speak again. He turned on his heel and walked down the hall.
Dazai stood there for a long second, ears ringing.
Then followed.
The bedroom smelled like cedarwood, sex, and the faintest trace of gun oil — but most of all, it smelled like Chuuya.
The door clicked shut behind Dazai, and the lock turned without Chuuya glancing back.
His glass was still in hand—half-full, the ice nearly melted—and he didn’t offer a single greeting as he walked deeper into the room, the light catching the edge of his collarbone where it peeked through his half-unbuttoned shirt.
Dazai didn’t speak either. He just followed—coat still on, hands shoved into his pockets like it was all a joke.
The silence stretched. The kind of silence that cracked.
“You don’t look like someone ashamed,” Chuuya finally muttered, pausing by the minibar. He poured more whiskey. His hand was steady.
Dazai tilted his head. “Would it help if I pretended to be?”
Chuuya turned around slow. His smile was cold— sweet in the way sugar burns on the stove. “You’re not going to like how this ends.”
Dazai’s breath hitched before it turned into a grin. He didn’t answer. Not aloud.
“Coat,” Chuuya said.
There was no space for misinterpretation.
Dazai unbuttoned it slow. It slid off his shoulders with a whisper and was caught before it hit the floor. Chuuya tossed it across the arm of the couch like it was nothing.
“Jumper.”
Dazai’s hands hesitated just a second longer before he pulled the wool over his head. His hair stuck up in static, face flushed from the warmth underneath. He looked younger like this. Less smug, more open.
He watched Chuuya carefully. Waiting.
“Lift your shirt,” Chuuya said next, already stepping forward.
Dazai swallowed.
Chuuya didn’t wait for obedience this time. He stepped up, glass in one hand, and hooked two fingers in the front of Dazai’s shirt. He yanked it up—not far, just enough to expose the smooth line of Dazai’s stomach, pink nipples, the sharp ribs and skin beneath.
Then, without a word, he tipped the glass.
The whiskey fell in a slow, cold stream.
Dazai bit back a gasp.
It hit like ice, like acid. It rolled down the slope of his stomach, cutting a path along his skin, soaking the waistband of his pants. He shuddered, knees tightening as his body reacted all too quickly.
“You came here for punishment,” Chuuya said softly. “So stand still.”
The next pour landed across Dazai’s collarbone.
He flinched again. This time it wasn’t cold—it was sharp. His skin stung from the alcohol, where it caught old scrapes and faint bruises. The sting traveled straight to his spine, short-circuiting something in his chest.
Chuuya stepped closer.
“Open your mouth.”
Dazai obeyed without hesitation this time.
Chuuya brought the glass to Dazai’s lips—tilted it slowly.
The whiskey hit Dazai’s tongue, and it overflowed his mouth too fast. It spilled from the corners, trickling down his chin, throat, neck. He swallowed, coughed once, his throat visibly working.
“Struggle to drink, but never to speak,” Chuuya muttered, almost to himself. He dragged his hand up to Dazai’s mouth, used his thumb to wipe the spill off his lip—slow, rough. Then he pressed that thumb into Dazai’s mouth like he owned it. “Suck.”
Dazai didn’t resist. He closed his lips around it, eyes slipping half-shut as he tasted whiskey and skin and humiliation all at once.
Chuuya pulled his thumb away with a soft pop. He grabbed Dazai’s face in one hand and tilted his head up.
“You made a fool of yourself,” he said. “Flirting with him like a damn whore in front of the whole room.”
“Kunikida didn’t even want me,” Dazai mumbled, voice hoarse. “No one did. Except you.”
Chuuya slapped him.
It wasn’t hard, not enough to bruise, but it stung. Dazai’s head jerked to the side, and his smile wobbled.
He whispered, “I love you.”
Silence.
Chuuya’s breath caught—and then something harder settled in his face. His eyes darkened. He stepped back, paced once like he might throw the glass—but didn’t.
“Don’t say that.”
Dazai blinked. A drop of whiskey dripped from his jaw to his shirt.
“I mean it,” he whispered, and it wasn’t smug anymore. It was empty. It was hungry. “You know I do.”
Chuuya stared at him. And then—
He stepped forward again.
Pressed Dazai back into the wall, forearm against his chest, and dragged the rim of the glass slowly across his stomach—just enough pressure to leave a mark.
“You want me to believe you? You think just saying it makes it true?” His voice was low. Bitter. Dangerous.
He raised the glass again, tilted the last of it into Dazai’s mouth—rougher now. It spilled fast. Down Dazai’s neck. Into his shirt. Over his chest. Dazai choked on it, swallowed it like a sin.
“ You don’t get to want love and humiliation in the same breath, ” Chuuya hissed.
Dazai didn’t answer. His body trembled just slightly. He didn’t wipe his mouth.
Chuuya dropped the empty glass on the table with a clink. Stepped back.
“You’ll stay clothed until I say otherwise,” he said. “And I’ll keep punishing you until I forget what you said.”
Chuuya didn’t speak for a moment after the glass hit the table. He just stared down at Dazai—clothes half-wet with whiskey, hair stuck to his forehead, shirt still hiked up over his ribs, breath caught behind his teeth like he was waiting to be struck again.
Then Chuuya laughed. Short, sharp.
“You looked pathetic,” he muttered, stepping forward. “Leaning over the damn table like you were begging Kunikida to bend you over it.”
Dazai opened his mouth, but the slap came first.
“You think I didn’t notice the way you smiled at him?” Chuuya growled. “The way you touched his fucking sleeve like some lovesick teenager?”
Dazai’s head turned with the force of it—cheek flushed red, lips parted. His breath trembled, but the rest of him stayed still. He didn’t fight it.
Chuuya’s hands fisted in the front of Dazai’s shirt. He yanked it higher, then over his head entirely. He threw it somewhere behind him and shoved Dazai—hard—until the backs of his knees hit the bed.
Dazai collapsed onto it with a gulp of air, hair fanned out messily, stomach trembling as Chuuya’s weight came down next.
“Tell me,” Chuuya spat, grabbing his jaw. “How many times have you jerked off thinking about him, huh?”
Dazai blinked. Swallowed. Didn’t look away.
Chuuya shook his head and shoved him down flat, straddling his thighs. He dragged a hand down Dazai’s chest, slow enough to tease, rough enough to sting. He traced the wet trail of whiskey still slicking his skin and hissed under his breath.
“Did you moan his name when you came?” he went on. “Did you picture him calling you good boy like you’re desperate to hear it?”
“No,” Dazai breathed. “Never.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t,” Dazai said, and his voice cracked around it. “You’re the only one I—”
Chuuya hit him again—open palm against his chest this time. It echoed.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” Chuuya snapped. “You’ll say anything with my hand down your pants.”
“I didn’t—” Dazai gasped, cut off as Chuuya yanked his belt open and started dragging down his trousers. “I didn’t want him, Chuuya—he’s nothing—”
“Then what the fuck was that performance for?” Chuuya hissed. “You touched him more in one hour than you’ve let me touch you in weeks.”
Dazai shivered under him. “That’s not true.”
“No?”
Chuuya’s fingers closed around his cock—through the fabric, tight, bruising.
Dazai arched with a cut off breath. His hips twitched up, but Chuuya shoved them down again, holding him flat.
“Did he even look at you?” Chuuya murmured, low, right near his ear. “You were so eager. I almost felt sorry for you.”
He leaned back just enough to tug Dazai’s underwear down to his thighs. Dazai was hard—already flushed and leaking, twitching against the cool air.
“Your stupid,” Chuuya whispered.
Dazai’s voice was barely audible. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You wanted to get a rise out of me,” Chuuya snapped. “Congratulations. You fucking did.”
Then he stood, fingers working fast now—undoing his belt, sliding it through the loops, dropping it on the floor.
His shirt followed next. He unbuttoned it slow, his movements too precise to be casual. The fabric slipped from his shoulders and down his arms like water, revealing tight muscle, pale skin, the sharp bite of his collarbones in the low light.
Dazai stared up at him—eyes wide, lips bitten raw.
Chuuya tossed the shirt aside.
“You think you can fuck with me like that in public and come here like some obedient animal?” he hissed. “You’re lucky I let you in at all.”
“You wanted me to come,” Dazai whispered.
Chuuya’s gaze darkened. “You think you know what I want?”
Dazai nodded.
Wrong answer.
Chuuya leaned over him again—his hands grabbed Dazai’s wrists, pinned them to the mattress. He pressed his thigh between Dazai’s legs, dragging a quiet moan from his throat.
“I don’t want pretty words,” Chuuya whispered. “I want you fucked.”
Dazai shivered.
“I want you begging me not to stop,” Chuuya muttered, voice low, biting at Dazai’s throat now, his teeth just shy of breaking skin. “I want you so fucked out you forget how to lie.”
“I’m not lying—” Dazai protested.
“I don’t believe a single word that comes out of your mouth.”
Chuuya let go of his wrists. Just for a moment.
And he reached for the belt again.
Chuuya straddled him again like it was second nature—knees on either side of Dazai’s hips, belt dangling from one hand, shirtless and flushed with anger that hadn’t softened in the least.
Dazai barely had time to suck in a breath before Chuuya leaned down and bit .
Teeth on the line of his jaw—sharp, unrelenting. Then his mouth dragged down to Dazai’s throat, biting again, harder this time, until Dazai hissed through his teeth and arched helplessly beneath him.
“You’re breathing like you’ve already come,” Chuuya muttered, voice low and warm against his neck, lips brushing the skin he’d just bruised. “Is that all it takes now?”
Dazai let out something between a breath and a laugh—soft, shaky. “Just missed you, that’s all.”
Chuuya didn’t even bother responding. He just kissed him—hard.
No warmth. No gentleness. Just teeth and tongue.
Dazai gasped into it when Chuuya bit his lip, then moaned softly as his hands were yanked above his head and pinned again.
“Keep them there,” Chuuya muttered against his mouth.
Dazai nodded. He didn’t dare move.
The belt slid against his skin next—cold leather, then pressure, then the soft click of the buckle being drawn tight around his wrists, binding them to the bed frame.
Chuuya pulled back just enough to look at his work. His expression didn’t shift—not satisfaction, not amusement. Just that lingering irritation that hadn’t left his eyes since the moment Dazai flirted with Kunikida across that damn meeting table.
“Now,” Chuuya murmured, fingers sliding down Dazai’s ribs. “What do you really deserve?”
Dazai opened his mouth—Chuuya kissed him again.
Messier. Whiskey still clung to Dazai’s skin and Chuuya could taste it now—sharp on his tongue, warm between their mouths. He bit Dazai’s bottom lip until he tasted blood and didn’t stop kissing him.
Dazai was panting by the time he broke away, his chest heaving, wrists pulling slightly at the belt tied above him. His shirt was still off, pants half-pushed down, thighs trembling with nothing.
Chuuya leaned close, so close his breath fanned across Dazai’s face when he spoke.
“Maybe I should leave you like this,” he whispered. “Let anyone come see what kind of whore you really are. Bring people up.”
Dazai shivered so hard his hands jerked against the restraints.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Dazai didn’t answer, and Chuuya laughed under his breath.
“Of course you would.”
His mouth returned to Dazai’s neck, to the hollow of his collarbone. He kissed there once—then bit again. Not enough to draw blood, but close.
“Every mark,” Chuuya muttered. “Every bruise I leave—people are going to see it. And they’re gonna know exactly what you are.”
Dazai moaned softly, hips rising helplessly beneath him.
Chuuya licked the bite. Bit again.
His hands wandered lower, slow and punishing, stroking Dazai just enough to make him twitch, then pulling away when he whimpered.
No rhythm. No mercy.
Dazai’s voice broke open somewhere between a gasp and a breathy plea. “Chuuya—”
“Don’t talk,” Chuuya hummed. “You’ve already said too much.”
He kissed him again to shut him up.
And this time, he didn’t stop. Not when Dazai whimpered into it. Not when his hands twitched uselessly above his head. Not when his body arched with every graze of teeth and palm and voice—Chuuya’s voice—cruel and so close it felt like possession.
Chuuya didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.
Not when Dazai was already wrecked beneath him—breathing like he’d run a mile, tied down with his wrists trembling against the headboard, thighs tense, chest flushed. His shirt was still bunched beneath his shoulder blades, pants yanked low enough to bare everything, but not removed. Chuuya liked him like that: ruined halfway, restrained, waiting .
His jealousy still sat thick and bitter at the back of his throat.
He didn’t speak it. Didn’t name it. But it sat in every graze of his palm and every glance he gave Dazai’s face when his breath caught.
Chuuya’s hand wrapped around him first. No preamble.
Just heat and pressure, sliding slowly over Dazai’s cock until his spine arched off the bed and he gasped, voice cracking like something already broken.
“Fuck—” Dazai whispered, head tipping back, mouth open. “Please, Chuuya—”
A warning look. Nothing more.
And Dazai knew better than to speak again.
Chuuya stroked him slowly. No rhythm, no comfort—just enough to make him ache. His palm was warm, calloused, cruel in how he held back when Dazai twitched in his grip. Every time Dazai got close— right there , about to come—Chuuya would stop. Would grip him tighter, thumb grazing the head with just enough pressure to burn , not soothe.
Dazai whined low in his throat, face flushed, jaw clenched. He was trying not to move—trying not to beg . But his hips kept rising, soft and involuntary.
Chuuya watched him for a moment. Then leaned down.
“Open your legs,” he ordered quietly, voice like words soaked in scorn.
Dazai obeyed instantly. Spreading for him like muscle memory, breath shuddering as Chuuya sank between his thighs and stared up at him.
Licking a stripe up the underside of his cock—slow, deliberate—before taking him in.
Dazai choked on air.
“Fuck—Chuuya—”
Chuuya didn’t respond. Just sucked harder.
Not deep—never fully. His mouth only took in what he wanted. His hand took care of the rest, wrapped tight around the base, stroking in tandem. And Dazai was losing it . He could barely breathe. His hips were twitching, thighs shaking, wrists yanking at the belt. He moaned without restraint now, shameless, his face a masterpiece of longing and frustration.
And Chuuya kept going—slow, then fast, then slow again. Never enough. Always close.
Dazai’s eyes rolled back when Chuuya’s tongue dragged over the head, teasing, then pulled off with a filthy little pop.
“Please,” Dazai panted, “please, let me—”
A sharp squeeze around the base of his cock made him cry out.
Not from pain. From denial .
He was so close. So close .
But Chuuya’s grip didn’t ease.
He stared up at him—expression unreadable, mouth wet, jaw tight.
“You don’t get to come yet,” he said, voice low, rough. “You don’t deserve it.”
Then he moved again—tongue flicking the tip, hand stroking again, slow and relentless, mouth returning only in brief, messy licks. Teasing him right to the edge and dragging him back.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Dazai was sobbing now. Soft, broken gasps, eyes wet with the sheer overwhelming need to come. His thighs shook violently. His cock throbbed in Chuuya’s palm.
“I—I can’t—please—Chuuya—”
“Then don’t come,” Chuuya hissed, and he sucked him back down, sharp and cruel, stroking him with brutal efficiency until Dazai almost —
Then stopped.
Again.
Dazai’s head hit the pillow with a strangled sob.
He was leaking. Panting. So hard it hurt. And Chuuya licked his lips and whispered:
“Maybe I’ll edge you all night.”
Dazai was barely coherent anymore.
His thighs shook where they hung open, twitching with every pulse of his cock. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, skin flushed to his collarbone, and the belt digging into his wrists had already left welts. His hair stuck to his temples, his mouth hung open, and his eyes were glassy—wet from strain, from denial, from everything Chuuya had taken and refused to give back.
It had been so long .
So many times. So many almosts . Chuuya’s mouth, his hands, his voice—every part of him devoted to dragging Dazai closer and closer and closer, only to yank him back again.
Now—now, it was unbearable.
Dazai’s voice had gone hoarse from pleading. From cursing. From moaning. His hips moved without thought, trying to fuck into Chuuya’s grip, weak and sloppy. He was barely conscious of what he was saying anymore. Just:
“Please—please—please—Chuuya—I can’t—”
Chuuya tilted his head. His red hair was a mess. His lips were wet. His expression was infuriatingly calm for someone who had his hand wrapped around another man’s cock.
“You can’t ?” he echoed, voice low, almost thoughtful.
Dazai whimpered.
Chuuya’s hand moved faster.
Dazai’s back arched . His head hit the mattress hard, his mouth falling open in a cry.
And then Chuuya stopped.
Not just stopped.
He tightened his grip, harsh, unforgiving, and dragged it down , past the point where it should’ve been pleasure. And just like that—
Gone.
The orgasm slipped from Dazai’s body like it had never been there at all.
His whole frame seized up with the effort of it, and then—
“ Ah—fuck —” Dazai screamed , not from pain—something worse. Frustration. Overstimulation. Humiliation.
He hadn’t come . Again.
And this time, it was so much worse.
He collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving. His thighs shook violently. His cock throbbed in Chuuya’s grip, a cruel shade of flushed red. He wasn’t crying, and he wouldn’t admit it was anything close to it either.
Chuuya didn’t say anything at first. Just let go of him, slow, watching him twitch through the aftershocks.
Then—softly, with a smirk—he laughed .
And Dazai flinched at the sound.
“Stupid,” Chuuya muttered, voice thick with mockery. “You really thought I was gonna let you come?”
Dazai tried to speak. Nothing came out.
“Look at you,” Chuuya continued, hand dragging over Dazai’s trembling thigh. “You were so fuckin’ desperate, weren’t you?”
Dazai made a broken sound.
“Tell me,” Chuuya said, leaning closer now, voice dipping into something low and filthy , “do you even remember what you were begging for, or did you just wanna be touched?”
Dazai blinked. His lips parted, breath hitched.
“I asked you a question,” Chuuya snapped—and he gripped Dazai’s jaw hard, forcing him to look at him.
“I—wanted to come,” Dazai rasped. “Chuuya, I—”
Another laugh. This time quieter. Meaner.
“You think this gets you that?” Chuuya scoffed. “You’re not a person right now. You’re just a— thing . A dog I get to wind up. That’s all you are.”
Dazai shuddered .
Chuuya stared down at him.
Then, slowly, leaned in close—close enough that their lips brushed, close enough that Dazai’s breath caught like he thought he might be kissed.
Chuuya didn’t kiss him.
Instead, he whispered :
“Gonna be a good boy for me now?”
Dazai’s breath hitched.
“You gonna lie down and take whatever I give you like the pretty little mutt you are?” Chuuya drawled. “No barking. No begging. Just that sweet little mouth open and those legs spread, yeah?”
Dazai whimpered.
“I asked you,” Chuuya said, voice a low growl, “are you gonna be a good boy?”
Dazai moaned. Nodded fast.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, yes, Chuuya—anything—please—”
Chuuya smirked.
Then he reached out, curled his fingers in Dazai’s damp hair, and yanked his head back.
Dazai gasped.
“That’s what I thought.”
And then—without even touching his cock again—Chuuya pushed Dazai flat into the sheets .
Because it wasn’t.
Not even close.
The silence that settled after Dazai’s ruined orgasm was thick. His breathing was still shallow, mouth open, lips wet. The red welts on his thighs matched the marks on his throat, where Chuuya had kissed too hard, bitten too deep.
Chuuya sat back on his heels between Dazai’s legs, shirt discarded, belt open, pale skin dusted with a sheen of sweat. His cock stood hard against his stomach, but his expression wasn’t desperate—not like Dazai. His smirk was low, cruel, knowing. The kind of expression Dazai would’ve hated if it didn’t make his cock twitch helplessly where it lay, sticky and leaking against his stomach.
Then Chuuya spoke, casual, like he was commenting on the weather.
“You can come now, y’know.”
Dazai blinked. He didn’t move.
His heart skipped a beat.
Chuuya didn’t clarify. Just looked at him, amused. His thighs tensed where he knelt, and he reached down to stroke himself slowly, eyes dragging down Dazai’s body as he did. He was deliberately nonchalant—dangerously so. Not rushing. Just watching.
Dazai wet his lips.
“…Really?” he breathed.
Chuuya’s gaze snapped back to him. And that was worse than anything.
He raised one brow, just slightly.
“You think I’d lie?” he asked, low.
Dazai didn’t answer.
Chuuya leaned forward just a little, his voice suddenly soft— sweet , even.
“…You wanna wait longer?”
Dazai’s whole body flinched.
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “No— I’m sorry —I—”
Chuuya grinned.
It was sharp and wolfish and full of teeth.
“Good.”
And without another word, he reached down and wrapped a hand around Dazai’s cock.
Dazai gasped— not because it hurt this time, but because it didn’t. Chuuya’s touch was firm, slick from the come that had already been forced out of him, and still so careless . This wasn’t about Dazai’s pleasure. He was just using him to get himself off.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t give warning.
He just spat in his palm—thick, slow, and deliberate—and used that to slick himself up too.
Dazai whimpered.
His eyes fluttered closed for a second, overwhelmed by the sound, the heat, the stretch. He was still so sensitive. Still aching from the denial. Still hard and leaking and red and needy , and Chuuya didn’t care. He lined himself up and pushed in—slow, but not gentle.
Dazai gasped again, louder, and his legs twitched around Chuuya’s waist.
“Fuck—”
“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t ease him in halfway and let him adjust—just sank in deep , slow and deliberate, until his hips were flush against Dazai’s ass.
Dazai was shaking .
His eyes opened slowly, dazed. His mouth was wet. His body was flushed and wrecked and his wrists pulled against the belt like he wanted to reach, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Chuuya leaned forward, one hand braced by Dazai’s head, the other still sticky from spit and come.
“You better not fucking come before I do,” he muttered, low.
Dazai nodded helplessly, breath caught in his throat.
“Say it,” Chuuya hissed, voice dark.
“I—I won’t,” Dazai stammered. “I swear, Chuuya—just—fuck, please —”
Chuuya moved.
Just a slow drag of his hips at first. Just enough to feel the way Dazai clung to him.
And Dazai moaned . Loud.
Chuuya smiled.
Then he pulled back, slow again, and thrust forward—harder this time.
Dazai cried out .
“Oh— fuck—”
“You like that?” Chuuya asked, voice sharp.
Dazai nodded, moaning.
“You like getting fucked like a bitch in heat? That what you wanted?”
“Yes,” Dazai whispered, breathless. “Yes, yes—”
Chuuya kept going. His rhythm was brutal— not fast , but deep . Each thrust dragged a moan out of Dazai’s throat, soft and wrecked. His head tipped back, mouth open. The belt held his wrists in place while his body moved helplessly beneath Chuuya’s.
Chuuya fucked him like he was nothing. Like he was his .
Like he was still angry.
And Dazai didn’t want it any other way.
He didn’t even know what time it was. He didn’t know how long Chuuya had been fucking him like that — deep, cruel, and deliberately slow. Long enough that his thighs ached from how wide they’d been forced apart. Long enough that his skin was burning from where Chuuya’s fingers had dug in and left marks like ownership.
He’d stopped begging.
He’d stopped thinking .
Now he was just breathing in ragged gasps, a wet trail of spit down his chin, wrists still bound above him, mouth red and bruised from kisses that weren’t really kisses at all. His chest was flushed exposing the mess Chuuya had made earlier — drying whiskey, red bite marks, fading welts.
Chuuya wasn’t talking anymore. His eyes were narrowed, sharp, locked on Dazai’s face. Every time Dazai whimpered, every time his hips jolted up helplessly, Chuuya’s mouth curled just slightly — cruel, satisfied, possessive .
“Fuck,” Chuuya muttered, voice rough and low. His hair was a mess, sticking to his temple. His hips didn’t falter. “You’re so fucking tight like this.”
Dazai sobbed.
It wasn’t even a word — just noise. He couldn’t take it, not when Chuuya was still holding him back, still drawing it out like punishment.
“You want to come?” Chuuya breathed, voice low in his ear. “You want me to let you?”
Dazai nodded, frantic, tears clinging to his lashes.
“Say it,” Chuuya hissed.
“Please, Chuuya—fuck, please, I—I can’t—I want to—please—”
Chuuya didn’t answer. Just pulled out slow until the head of his cock nearly slipped free, then slammed back in so deep that Dazai screamed .
Chuuya groaned.
“Fucking pathetic,” he spat. “Look at you. Wrecked over my cock like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel anything. Maybe it is.”
Dazai was gone . Gone somewhere floaty and desperate and overstimulated and raw. His lips moved around a broken “yes,” his eyes unfocused, thighs twitching every time Chuuya shifted.
“You wanna come?” Chuuya repeated.
Dazai nodded .
Chuuya leaned down, breath hot against Dazai’s jaw.
“Then earn it .”
And then he bit.
Right beneath Dazai’s jaw, sharp enough to draw a yelp, not quite blood — and thrust .
Harder now. The rhythm snapped into place, and Dazai choked on it, tears spilling freely now, eyes squeezed shut. Every thrust knocked a cry from his mouth, and Chuuya didn’t stop. His grip tightened, nails biting deep, teeth dragging rough against skin he’d already marked a dozen times over.
“You’re mine,” Chuuya muttered. “You know that, right?”
“Yes—yes, fuck, Chuuya, please—”
“No one else gets to see you like this,” Chuuya snarled. “Not Kunikida. Not anyone. No one gets to fuck you.”
“I know,” Dazai whimpered. “You always— you —”
Chuuya fucked into him harder. His breath was ragged now too, heat coiling sharp in his gut.
He didn’t even know if Chuuya had given him permission. He didn’t care. He came , hard, body arching, toes curling, a choked cry breaking in his throat like surrender. His cock throbbed against his stomach, spilling over both of them. He saw white .
And Chuuya didn’t stop.
He kept moving, low curses under his breath, until the slick mess between them made it too easy, too wet, too hot, and then he came — deep, biting into Dazai’s shoulder with a groan that was all teeth and breath and jealousy. His fingers locked on Dazai’s hips like he wanted to carve the shape of him into his palms.
Silence after was sudden. Heavy. Breathless.
Chuuya didn’t move for a moment. He stayed there, still buried deep, forehead pressed to Dazai’s shoulder, trying to get his breath back.
Dazai’s arms were trembling in the restraints. Red, raw, and ruined in the best way — fucked out, eyes fluttering, lips parted in a dazed, stupid little smile.
“…That a thank-you smile?” Chuuya muttered against his skin, voice hoarse.
Dazai made a sound between a laugh and a moan.
“Mm,” he whispered. “Think it’s love.”
Chuuya snorted. Pulled back slowly.
“Shut up. You’re disgusting.”
Dazai just smiled wider.
“You’re welcome.”
Dazai lay sprawled across the sheets, panting and still spent, body twitching at every slow pulse as it adjusted back from overdrive. The wet patch between his legs soaked his sheets, salt of release still hot. His wrists remained restrained—not by Chuuya’s design, but because he hadn’t bothered to move. He couldn’t yet.
In the silence, halfway between clarity and haze, Dazai laughed low—like you do when something’s too absurd not to.
“Chuuya,” he rasped, “Kunikida has such a big cock… that I’ve only ever gotten fucked by it.”
The words tumbled out with a half-smirk, half-weary haze. It wasn’t just fucking—never just fucking anymore.
Chuuya’s voice came from the bathroom door, muffled. Dry. Laughing faintly. “You wanna get fucked in the middle of the ADA office, now?”
Dazai closed his eyes, letting the swing of breath and heat wash through him. He didn’t answer right away.
And Chuuya laughed again. Sharp. Carried through the door.
Then—
The soft sound of the bathroom shutting echoed down the hall. Compared to what just happened, it sounded surprisingly small.
Moments later, Chuuya stepped into the room.
He was dressed.
Dark press-cut pants, crisp white shirt—sleeves rolled to the elbows, sleeves dry. His expression was calm, but n ot amused anymore.
He came to the bed without breaking gaze.
When he spoke, he said it seriously.
“Let me make myself absolutely clear,” he bit out. “If you ever—if you ever open your mouth like that again, I will fuck you right through the nerve center of your brain.”
Dazai’s eyes flicked open enough to meet his gaze, heartbeat soft in his ears.
Chuuya kept his face calm, breathing steady.
“…Kill you, then fuck you again,” he finished evenly.
Not as a threat. Not as bravado. As a fact. A contract. And then he let it linger, quiet as the click of that belt snapping into place on the nightstand.
Dazai swallowed, flesh still pulsing between his legs. He managed a slow nod—silent acceptance in the bleak aftermath.
Chuuya crossed the room and knelt by the bed.
He took the damp cloth and pressed it gently at Dazai’s collarbone. He wiped away the spittle and faint stains, cleaned the marks he’d left, polished until Dazai’s skin looked smoothed over that bruised heat.
No coy coiling, no soft lingering. Just care, because he wanted to disown it—wanting to make it cold so Dazai couldn’t say it was tenderness. But underneath the motion, there was something held in place by pressure and irritation and habitual obsession.
When he finished, he stood again. Cloth in hand, sweat-damp but held. Shirt immaculate. Pressing soft kisses to cleanup marks twisting it into something colder.
Dazai let the quiet stretch.
Chuuya said one last thing as he came to stand opposite the bed, a yard away where he shone in the low golden lamp.
“You look like a fucking mess. Go to sleep.”
Dazai was too damp-lipped to laugh.
He tilted his head. “You do love me though.”
Chuuya snorted, ready to say it was possible.
But he walked out. Turned off the light without looking back.
And the penthouse fell into silence.
Dazai lay back.
He tasted vanilla sheets. Whiskey. Pride crushed beneath bruised ribs. The faint sting of the cloth’s pressure still cooled.
He smiled.
Because beneath all that was control, there’d always been shame—and he loved Chuuya for not looking away.