Chapter Text
The dull drone of Kunikida’s voice cuts in and out of Dazai’s awareness, stabbing pins into his brain every time he’s reminded of the current situation. Thanks to Kunikida’s oh-so-valiant efforts, the briefing is nearing the one hour mark. Evidence of boredom and straining composure is synonymous across the table. Yosano and Ranpo took to passing notes about thirty minutes in, and it wasn’t long after that Atsushi’s eyes glazed over from a loss of concentration. Dazai can see traces of irritation etched onto Fukuzawa’s face, as well. In all honesty, he believes the only reason Fukuzawa hasn’t scolded Kunikida for talking as long as he has been is one very intimidating Nakahara Chuuya. What Fukuzawa doesn’t realise, it seems, is that Chuuya himself is a hair’s breadth away from throttling Kunikida all on his own. No one but Dazai can tell.
The subtle tensing of the muscles in Chuuya’s jaw have always been a sign that he’s on the verge of losing his composure, not to mention the way his fingers have been drumming against the table for the past ten minutes. At some point, his breathing slowed ever-so-slightly, but the timing in between each inhale is precise, every exhale lasting for the exact amount of time as the last. Dazai’s lips quirk up in a smirk. One of his legs moves forward, kicking out until he makes contact with his target. Chuuya’s gaze locks onto Dazai’s immediately, irritation sparking in his eyes. Dazai grins back.
The next kick comes a minute later, when Chuuya’s jaw becomes more tense, his fingers now rubbing random patterns into the table. When Dazai’s foot meets what he assumes is Chuuya’s shin for the second time, subtlety is thrown out the window.
“Will you cut that out?” Chuuya hisses.
The room’s focus shifts onto Chuuya, who is glaring holes into Dazai’s eyes.
Dazai pouts. “Cut what out?”
Kunikida sighs. “Dazai, if you’re going to get on a mafia executive’s nerves, will you at least do it after the briefing?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he whines, throwing his head back. After a dramatic beat, he lolls it back up, keeping it tiled to the side. “Right, Chuuya?”
To everyone else in the room, the question is meant to tease, to taunt. That isn’t wholly untrue. What no one else notices is the way Dazai’s voice deepens almost imperceptibly when he speaks Chuuya’s name, the way the smile that plays on his lips is intentionally ditzy.
Chuuya notices. His eyes widen, for a moment. Only a moment, then his features are stone cold once more, glare icy as it levels Dazai a warning.
“Let’s just get this briefing finished up,” Chuuya grunts out. Atsushi breathes a sigh of relief from his seat beside Dazai. Chuuya glances up at Kunikida. “And you can spare the details. I’ll do my fair share of research when I’m at work. I have my own resources, y’know?”
Kunikida stiffens. “Right. I’ll do that.”
Chuuya relaxes into his seat, arms crossing over his chest as Kunikida resumes his explanations. Unfortunately, it’s apparent that he quickly forgets Chuuya’s request, and the meeting soon breaks past the one hour mark. Dazai smirks when Chuuya’s eye twitches. He’s losing his composure, which, for Chuuya, only happens for one of three reasons. Dazai, likely due to his Kunikida-induced boredom, has a burning desire to figure out which one it is. Or, to confirm what he already knows, more like.
Dazai is sure that it’s not mental health-related; the past years of various traumas and such. If it were, Dazai would be able to see cakes of concealer under Chuuya’s eyes and a slump in his posture which is, at present, too confidently relaxed to be weighed down by the fatigue of sleepless nights and anxiety caused by voices in his head. Dazai is pretty sure it’s not because of him, either, although that conclusion isn’t as certain as the first. The mere fact of Dazai’s existence has been enough to source Chuuya’s loss of composure many times over the years. Then again, Chuuya went the entire briefing without acknowledging Dazai at all, until Dazai forced his hand. Perhaps there’s a reason for that.
Dazai connects his foot with Chuuya’s shin a third time, but makes a point to be softer than the previous two. It’s not to tease; it’s a request of acknowledgement. Chuuya catches on, glancing in Dazai’s direction. Dazai holds his gaze, allowing his vision to lock with that wary one of Chuuya’s. He tilts his head to the side, straining just enough that Chuuya, and only Chuuya, knows it’s intentional. A display.
Chuuya’s eyes flick to where the skin of Dazai’s neck is exposed above his bandages, and a thick swallow comes shortly after. The blaze in his eyes isn’t outright, but it’s there. Under layers of apathy and indifference, it’s there.
Chuuya drags his gaze back up to Dazai’s.
The warning is there again. It’s colder.
—
The familiar aroma of home wraps a blanket of comfort around Chuuya’s senses the moment he steps through the door. It’s been a long day, between the joint briefing in the morning, the paperwork at noon and the final, most physically taxing job at the end of it all. It’s nearing two in the morning, and Chuuya is more than ready to pop open a bottle of wine and stumble through a drunken haze into his bed. Maybe let off some steam, too.
Between back-to-back missions and stacks of paperwork over the past few months, Chuuya is more pent up than he’ll readily admit. So, wine, jerking off and a celebratory nap? Sounds like a plan.
The caveat in that plan, as regretful for him as it is (which Chuuya notes is typically the caveat in all his other plans, too) is splayed carelessly across his couch, arm thrown over his eyes and lips parted in a meticulously painted picture of sleep. Chuuya knows better.
“At least you took your fucking shoes off,” Chuuya grunts with a quick glance at Dazai’s dress shoes lined up neatly at the end of the genkan. A quiet, affirmative hum is all Chuuya is offered in response.
He scoffs, kicking off his own shoes before padding into his kitchen and practically tearing the fridge door off its hinges. Silence permeates the apartment as he pours himself a glass of wine — opting out of offering Dazai a beverage of his own — and makes his way over to the living room when he’s done. Dazai’s position hasn’t changed much, save for the arm that was once a makeshift eye mask now resting just above his head. His eyes are hooded, gazing up at where Chuuya is standing over him, evaluating.
The dim light of the apartment puts a strain on his eyes, but he can see now more than ever the familiar rosy pigment of Dazai’s lips, the raw umber of his hair. He hasn’t studied him like this in a long time. Up until now, both of them knew well enough to keep their distance.
Chuuya wonders what broke Dazai away from that unspoken rule.
Chuuya decides that he looks like bad news. He looks like regret and impulse. Love and hate. Dazai looks like too many things all at once, and before he knows it, Chuuya’s lips are pulled into a defensive snarl. “Get out.”
Dazai pouts. “That’s not a very nice way to greet a guest.”
“You’re not a guest,” Chuuya says. “Get out.”
“No.”
“I hate you.” Chuuya turns, starting away from the couch as Dazai chuckles in response. He takes a bitter drag of wine down his throat. “Why are you here?”
“Is it so bad for someone to want to check up on their old partner? Reminisce on the not-so-distant past?”
Chuuya duly ignores the “not-so-distant” part. Four years is distant enough. Imaginary pins prick on the back of his neck where he’s sure Dazai’s eyes are boring holes. “Not this partner. Not our past. If I have to tell you to get out a third time, I’ll do it myself.”
“But Chuuya!” Dazai whines, and Chuuya hears couch springs squeak, footsteps pattering as they approach him from behind. He doesn’t turn around. The next time Dazai speaks, his lips are barely a breath from his ear. “Don’t you wanna hear what I have to say?”
Chuuya bites the inside of his cheek, curiosity grappling its way through his anger, finding space between its seams. He wants Dazai gone. He wants to know why Dazai is here. He wants to punch Dazai’s stupid face. He wants to—
“Not particularly,” comes his answer. He steps away, taking another sip of his wine. Another after that. His wine is gone soon after, and Dazai is still standing in the living room, regarding Chuuya’s place by the kitchen sink.
“Fine. What.”
Chuuya can make out some semblance of a smirk through the shadows casting across Dazai’s face. He’s not drunk, but the wine is an undeniable cushion for his anger, if only a thin one. He runs his eyes over Dazai’s body, analyzing his full form for the first time in years. He’s gotten taller. Fuller, in some places, though he’s still skinnier than he should be. His shoulders are definitely broader.
“You’re pent up.”
Chuuya schools his features before his eyes have the chance to widen. It doesn’t stave off the sudden pulse in his veins, nor the sudden racing of his heart. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear me? I’ll repeat myself.” Dazai moves away from the living room, a lazy smirk dusted on his lips as he approaches the kitchen. With a pointed glare, Chuuya stops him from coming any closer. “You’re pent up.”
“Am I?” Chuuya crosses his arms. “In what way am I pent up, Dazai?”
Dazai shrugs, steps closer. He’s only a few feet away. “I’m sure you know.”
Chuuya’s jaw clenches as the thrumming in his chest becomes a brutal cacophony of war drums in his ears. Nothing good ever comes of this. Of Dazai. Definitely not of the look Dazai is giving him. Chuuya has seen that look more times than he can count, infinitely more times than he wishes to remember. “Spell it out for me.”
A few more steps, and it would be generous to say an inch is left between them, Dazai’s lips brushing against Chuuya’s ear, a hand ghosting near his waist; bold, but uncertain.
“How long has it been?”
“Fuck you,” Chuuya whispers, backing away. He steps around the man in front of him, making his way out of the kitchen. Hovering between the path to his bedroom and the couch, a sudden onslaught of emotions cloud his coordination. He doesn’t know where to go. He faces Dazai again. “Doing this shit now, of all times? We’re going on a mission in two fucking days, n’ what? You’re tryna get your dick wet?”
“It’s been a while, evidently.” Dazai’s eyes rake over his body, and it takes all of Chuuya’s willpower to stay composed. He’s still falling apart at the seams, and he knows Dazai can see it. It makes Chuuya want to curl into his skin. Claw his way out of it.
“Quit sticking your nose in my business. Your dick, more like.”
Dazai huffs, elbows coming up to support him as he leans over the counter. Chuuya thinks his breath hitches when Dazai tilts his head to the side, an undeniably intentional act of exposing his neck. The bandages are there, like they were at the Agency, but they’re loose enough that Chuuya catches soft glimpses of milky skin peeking through, as inviting as he imagines the forbidden fruit was the day sin was created.
“I’m not here to screw you over. I just happened to notice how restless you were during the briefing.”
“Screwing people over is all you do.” Dazai’s jaw clenches. “And I’m a fucking Port Mafia executive, dumbass. I’m always restless, and you know better.”
“I do. And so do you.”
Chuuya scowls, leveling Dazai with a glare he hopes is scathing enough. That ditzy smile Dazai gave him during the briefing was enough to fill Chuuya’s tolerance of his antics for the day, not to mention the nearly imperceptible question in his eyes. However much Chuuya has denied it since, the two communicated something in that meeting. Chuuya isn’t yet sure what it was. “So what if it’s been a while? I’m busy. It happens.”
“You’re not taking me up on my offer?” Dazai asks. “I doubt that.”
Chuuya barks an incredulous laugh. Tension rises in his body, hot and cold alike. He wants it to stop. He never wants it to end.
“Four fucking years of radio silence, and now you think you’re getting back into my pants just like that? You think everything’ll go back to the way it was just ‘cause you’re on my radar again?”
“I’m here now, aren’t I? Offering.”
Chuuya scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Give me a reason to care.”
Dazai swallows. “I’m good at you. You know I am.”
Chuuya’s lips pull back in anger. It’s defensive. “You stopped being ‘good at me’ the moment you left. I’m not some prostitute you can whore out whenever it’s convenient.”
“You know that’s not what I’m implying,” Dazai says. His tone is still calm, stance still relaxed, but there’s a layer of unease beneath it all. Chuuya hates that he can see it. He hates that, even after all their time spent apart, Dazai is as familiar as the last day Chuuya saw him.
“What are you implying, then?”
“I thought I’d extend a hand,” Dazai murmurs. “An olive branch, of sorts. Things could…resume, from where they left off.”
Chuuya’s gaze hardens. “That’s selfish.”
“I know.” A pause. “I am.”
“Out.” The word is cold, blades of ice that have formed over years of festering bitterness. Flesh that was slashed open by betrayal, stripped bare of any capability to heal itself shut. No means to render the pain numb. Chuuya knows Dazai can hear it.
Dazai knows not to push any further.
—
Thirty minutes later, Chuuya is glaring Dazai’s number in the face. This is a horrible idea. Everything about Dazai is a horrible idea. It was dumb to indulge him during the briefing, even dumber to hear him out when Chuuya found him sprawled shameless on his couch. It’s always been like this, though. Hasn’t it?
“What a pleasure,” Dazai’s voice drawls over the phone.
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Save it. Get over here.”
“Oh? Chuuya wants me to come back?”
“Chuuya’s patience is holding on by a dangerously thin thread. Be here in twenty or don’t bother showing up at all.”
The line goes silent as Chuuya hangs up, leaving him to the scrutinizing silence of his apartment, begging him to call it off before it’s too late. Before the spark catches fire just as it was beginning to ebb into nothing.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
When Dazai steps through the door five minutes later (Chuuya should’ve expected that he wouldn’t wander farther than a block) Chuuya has made himself comfortable on the couch, a new glass of wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Dazai shuffles in the genkan, sliding off his shoes, then his coat.
Chuuya takes a drag of the cigarette as he watches, welcoming the smoky burn as a distraction from what he both hopes and loathes might happen. What he knows will happen. He turns his head away. Dazai lingers by the kitchen counter when he’s done, Chuuya regarding him with a sidelong glance.
“So.” He finally breaks the silence between them, turning his head back to face Dazai after a beat. “About your offer.”
A shadow of a smile twitches onto Dazai’s lips. “About my offer?”
“Elaborate.”
Dazai shrugs, allowing his body to relax and lean forward on the counter. “Chuuya wants specifics? Or does he just get off on embarrassing me?”
Chuuya responds after a very necessary sip of wine. “Bit of both. Has anything changed for you?”
“My, my!” Dazai’s tone lilts as he regains the mischievous spark in his eye, illuminated dangerously by the warm kitchen lighting. “Is Chuuya trying to be a gentleman? How chivalrous!”
“That’s not an answer.”
Dazai sighs dramatically. “No, nothing’s changed. Chuuya can still do whatever he wants.”
Chuuya hums considerately, taking in his old partner. He’s never liked the failure to set hard limits that Dazai is so stubbornly consistent with, but it’s Dazai. Chuuya is good at Dazai. He’s always known what’s too much, what’s not enough. When to stop, when to persist. Their trust is implicit, as much as Chuuya hates to think of it that way.
He can make out the faintest blush spread across Dazai’s face and ears, and doesn’t miss the telling dent in his cheek where he’s no doubt caught in his nervous habit of gnawing at the flesh there.
“Any suggestions?”
Dazai’s response is immediate.
“I could suck you off. Chuuya can be as mean as he wants.” He smiles. “As rough as he wants.”
Chuuya’s breath hitches. Here Dazai stands, his rival of seven years — the feared Demon Prodigy for three of them — begging to get his face fucked. Begging by Dazai’s unconventional sense of the word, but begging nonetheless.
The blood that rushes through Chuuya’s body is loud and disruptive, full of excited resolve. It heats his cheeks and ears, blurring his vision in a dizzy haze. It rushes downwards, too, and the telling ache in his groin sparks a fuse of thoughts that dance violently across his mind. He’s always enjoyed the control Dazai loses because of him. He used to revel in it. Dazai is here, now, telling him the control was never lost.
Dazai is here, and he’s asking Chuuya to take it back.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The darker, heavier weight to Chuuya’s voice shocks him almost as much as it obviously shocks Dazai, who tenses the moment the words leave Chuuya’s mouth. Chuuya clocks the movement. “Yeah, you really would. Always have been a big slut for getting your throat stuffed, huh?”
Dazai’s lips part, twitching as if caught in a struggle to form words. They close.
Chuuya snorts. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re easy. Come here, if you’re as eager as you look.”
The ache in Chuuya’s groin grows more distracting by the second, and the subtly nervous pace that Dazai sets from the kitchen to the living room does nothing to help. Dazai and nervous are like oil and water. The only times they’re even remotely compatible are the times he’s deeply affected by a specific person, by a specific event. Chuuya knows he’s always been one of those people. He basks in the evidence of it.
The tighter spacing between Dazai’s feet when he walks, the speed that’s only just quick enough to indicate apprehension. Chuuya forgot how much he enjoys getting him like this. Dazai watches him, uncertainty flickering in and out of his eyes. Uncertainty that only Chuuya has ever been able to see.
“Well?” Chuuya asks impatiently. “You can’t suck my dick from all the way up there, can you? Get on your knees.”
He lets out an amused snort at how quickly Dazai obeys. From the new angle, Chuuya can almost see every detail of Dazai’s skin, can appreciate every wisp and curl of his dark hair more intimately than before. The lump that forms in his throat is what stops him.
It’s too close, the wound still too fresh. He keeps his eyes locked with Dazai’s instead. Dazai, who’s knelt patiently between Chuuya’s legs, offering himself up on a silver platter. The knowledge causes Chuuya to throb in his pants. Instead of acknowledging it, Chuuya takes another drag of his cigarette, this time leaning forward to blow the smoke in Dazai’s face. Dazai’s lips part, lashes fluttering as if they want to fall closed.
“Put this out on the ashtray,” Chuuya says, nodding to the center of the coffee table behind Dazai. He does so, and the same with Chuuya’s wine, placing the glass neatly beside the silver dish. When Dazai turns back around, Chuuya takes a steadying breath. Four years of trying to get over it, and here he is, once again.
He nods to his belt, prompting Dazai’s hands to fly from where they were folded in his lap to begin working on the metal buckle. When he gets Chuuya’s pants out of the way, Dazai makes a point of palming him through his boxers. The contact, as loath as Chuuya is to admit, is more heavenly than he expected. It forces his teeth to cage his bottom lip in a near-painful bite, keeping any sound from reaching Dazai’s undoubtedly eager ears.
“Did I tell you to fucking tease?”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know.” Chuuya’s right hand comes forward, burying itself into Dazai’s hair and pulling his head back with a tight grip. “Does it matter, Dazai?”
Dazai’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing scarlet in a painting that Chuuya knows is so, so rare. He would pay good money to frame it.
“Chuuya—”
“Hm? Got somethin’ to say?”
Dazai swallows thickly, eyes hooded, dark with lust. “No.”
“Good,” Chuuya says. “To answer your question, yes, it matters. If you wanna get what you came here for, it fucking matters. Got it?”
Dazai’s head strains back another inch when Chuuya tightens his grip. “Got it.”
“Open,” Chuuya orders, casting a pointed glance at Dazai’s lips. Dazai does as he says, mouth falling open instantaneously. Chuuya’s free hand is there a moment later, gloved fingers intruding their way into the back of Dazai’s mouth. He presses down on Dazai’s tongue to make him gag, only pulling his fingers out a few seconds later when his eyes water and brows furrow in protest. “You remember the signal?”
The chuckle Dazai lets out is shaky, and much more breathy than he must like. “Once again, Chuuya strives for chivalry.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Would you rather I ignore you altogether?”
A beat goes by. Dazai huffs. “Three taps on your ankle.”
Chuuya nods. “Open.”
Apparently, it’s Dazai’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Again? You really enjoy dragging things out, don’t you?”
Chuuya allows silence to settle between them, keeping Dazai’s hair balled tightly in his fist. It’s only when Dazai shifts uncomfortably that Chuuya leans forward and delivers a quick slap to his face. It’s hard enough to cause a reaction, light enough that it doesn’t cause significant pain. Dazai and pain have always been a tricky combination.
Dazai swallows, the red in his cheeks deepening instantly. A whisper of a noise flies from his lips, shock printing itself onto his face. He bites his lip.
“You’re here for me, remember?” Chuuya’s voice softens ever-so-slightly, smoothing his thumb over Dazai’s cheek. “If you’re not gonna be good, you can leave.”
Dazai opens his mouth. Chuuya spits, smiling when desire burns bright in Dazai’s eyes. “Swallow.”
He does so, and Chuuya catches the faint movement of where Dazai is palming himself through his pants. He has half a mind to call him a freak and kick him out a second time. Instead, he lets go of Dazai’s hair to retake his laid back position on the couch.
The distant yet achingly familiar buzz in his head at the sight of Dazai presented in such a perfect display of pliancy is enough for a curse to sound under Chuuya’s breath. With pupils that he’s sure are blown wide, Chuuya has infinitely less shame than he did half an hour ago. He knows how that mouth feels around him, knows how Dazai’s skin both burns and cools his own. Lust, mingled with something that Chuuya isn’t sure has a name, is becoming a haze in his head, his chest. It’s blurring any semblance of ration left in him. He nods to his boxers.
Dazai doesn’t tease this time, eagerly slipping his fingers past the waistband and dragging the fabric down. Evidence of Chuuya’s arousal is obvious, dick flushed and hard, leaking at the tip. Dazai hums contentedly, mouth falling open with his gaze holding Chuuya’s.
“Not yet.”
Dazai’s forehead creases, mouth closing and settling into a frown. “Remind me who the tease is?”
Chuuya ignores the comment, reaching forward to run his thumb across Dazai’s lips instead. “You don’t think you’ve convinced me that easily, do you? Go on.”
“Go…on?”
“Convince me.” Chuuya’s hand moves down to grasp Dazai’s chin, tilting his head up as he leans down once again. “Convince me to fuck your throat. We both know you’ll enjoy it more than I will.”
“Well, that’s different,” Dazai comments.
Chuuya hums a lilt in question.
“Chuuya’s never been so assertive. Dumb slug sure has gotten dominant over the years.” Dazai’s features grow frustrated, the furrow in his brow digging deeper. “Just let me suck you off already.”
“Convince me, or leave. You don’t touch me until I say so.” Chuuya pauses. Adds, “maybe try begging. You’re good at it when you need to be.”
There’s calculation in Dazai’s eyes, nervous consideration. Chuuya understands why. Neither of them are good at words, nor have they ever been. Everything good about their relationship — the trust, the want, the something that bordered on love — went unspoken. It was always unsaid, though never unknown. Maybe that’s why Dazai’s betrayal stung as much as it did. Still stings.
A relationship built on the language of actions, and Dazai left without a word.
“I…” Dazai starts, chin still trapped in Chuuya’s grasp. “Please, Chuuya. Let me make it up to you, I know—shit. I know. I’m…” Chuuya holds his breath. There’s something on the tip of Dazai’s tongue, something Chuuya can see he’s coaxing out of himself.
“I’m sorry.”
Chuuya’s heart clenches, lungs robbed of breath. Dazai Osamu doesn’t apologize; a constant. Chuuya has always been the exception to those constants, but still…sparks burst throughout Chuuya’s body, lighting steady, inviting flames across every plane of his being. He hasn’t felt those flames in a long time. Before tonight, he was close to accepting his permanent loss of them.
Dazai lowers his gaze. “You don’t have to forgive me, but…please. Let me make you feel good.”
Chuuya’s acceptance is wordless, but palpable. He lets go of Dazai’s chin, leans back.
When Dazai’s mouth closes around Chuuya’s tip, his reaction is instant. The tension in his groin eases and grows unbearable all at once, forcing his hips to jerk upwards, searching for more. One of his hands flies to Dazai’s head, stroking the soft strands as a means to ground himself.
Evidence of his untethering sanity threatens to fall from his lips as Dazai takes him deeper, licking at the vein that still drives him to madness, four years after their first, inexperienced entanglement. The sensation is both immediate heat and lingering nostalgia, and Chuuya’s remaining restraint snaps once one of Dazai’s hands begins working at his base.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the hand on Dazai’s head no longer gentle. It grips his hair again instead, stilling the repetitive bobs that threaten to shatter his sanity. “You said to do what I want, yeah?”
Dazai hums, prompting a sharp, involuntary breath to drag down Chuuya’s throat.
“Alright.” Chuuya smooths his thumb through Dazai’s hair. “I’ll do what I want.”
Warmth envelopes the rest of Chuuya’s length as he forces Dazai’s head down, breathing a shaky laugh when the soft, broken sound of choking indicates a breach of Dazai’s throat. He doesn’t try to pull off, though, instead letting his head go limp as he meets Chuuya’s gaze in silent approval. Chuuya knows that look.
Ruin me, it says.
And Chuuya does.
Starting to bob his head up and down, Chuuya makes sure to guide his entire length from Dazai’s mouth, only to bring his nose all the way down to his pelvis each time. His dick throbs when the faint glimmer of tears prick in Dazai’s eyes, throwing his head back in a kind of ecstasy that he’s only ever known from the man before him.
Every choke, every gag that meets his ears sends Chuuya closer to the edge, and he’s soon forced to pull Dazai off just long enough for the tightness in his gut to subside. Dazai takes the opportunity to breathe in long gasps of air, most of which get broken up by wet coughs forcing themselves from his chest. Once Chuuya is sure he won’t forsake his pride by cumming a minute in, he pushes Dazai back onto his dick.
He moves Dazai’s head faster this time, taking him a shorter way off his dick with the pleasure-seeking intention of keeping himself as deep in the heat of Dazai’s mouth as possible. Chuuya groans at the quicker stimulation, bringing his other hand to join the one buried in Dazai’s curls.
“Fuck, you’re good,” Chuuya hisses through a moan. He thinks Dazai tries to make a sound, but is only able to tighten his throat and choke when Chuuya keeps himself buried to the hilt. Again, Dazai gives no resistance. Not when his choking becomes weaker, not when his hands grip for purchase at Chuuya’s thighs. Only once his eyes begin to roll into the back of his head, lashes fluttering shut, then open, then shut again does Chuuya pull him off. A string of spit follows Dazai’s mouth as he drops his cheek against Chuuya’s knee.
“‘S good?” Dazai rasps, voice weak and shaky. He looks up at Chuuya for approval, a sight which causes heat to crawl up Chuuya’s neck and butterflies to jolt suddenly in his gut. All at once, he’s reminded of the euphoria Dazai is capable of offering him. He accepts the offer without a moment’s thought.
Both of them get what they need from it. Dazai, whose very being is subject to decay when left to himself, to his mind. Most of the time, Dazai, within the intimacy of situations like this one, rejects any fragment of control. Chuuya craves it.
“Chuuya?” Dazai pulls him from his thoughts. “It’s…good?”
Chuuya strokes a hand through Dazai’s hair. “Real good. Keep at it, hm?”
“Hm,” Dazai agrees, bringing his head back up to take Chuuya into his mouth again. He sucks at the tip, ripping a strangled groan from Chuuya’s throat and causing his fingers to twitch where they’re still buried in Dazai’s hair.
“‘M gonna fuck your face ‘til I cum now, ‘kay?”
Dazai hums softly, running a hand up and down the length of Chuuya’s thigh, inviting him to do as he pleases.
When Chuuya pushes Dazai down the next time, his hips meet the action halfway. A surprised and sudden gag has Dazai lurching, hands gripping Chuuya’s thighs hard enough to be painful, if not for the pleasure that overwhelms him at present. Chuuya keeps a pace like that, allowing his hips to give into the need he’s been denying them long enough. The fact of it has his thrusts snapping rougher than they usually do, clouds of exhilaration more intense than ever in his vision, his head, fuck, everywhere in his body.
They override any sense of better judgement he might still be clinging to, and Chuuya loses himself in all of it. Breaths coming in shorter puffs, moans growing more frantic, more whiny. He thinks Dazai’s tongue starts moving, sliding deliberately over the vein that runs along Chuuya’s length. He breaks not long after.
Keeping Dazai’s nose pressed as firmly to his pelvis as possible, Chuuya presses his hips up as he finishes down Dazai’s throat. A string of curses fall from his lips as it happens, hands impossibly tight in the strands of hair they’ve been gripping for so long. “Shit, shit— fuck!”
He prolongs his high as long as he can, grinding shallowly against Dazai’s lips as he bites his own, groaning.
“Swallow,” Chuuya rasps, not yet having felt the telling sensation of Dazai’s throat tightening. “I’ll— fuck —I’ll let you up when you do.”
A second later, Chuuya shudders as Dazai swallows. He elicits the last strings of cum from Chuuya’s dick, and drags in a long breath when Chuuya finally pulls him off. He pants, pupils blown well past the point of lust. Dazai’s face is pure, fucked out bliss, with a blush that hasn’t yet dulled, wet lips that glint temptingly in the dim apartment light. Chuuya is anything if not tempted.
One of his hands that has since removed itself from Dazai’s hair snaps forward, wrapping around his bolo tie. He drags him up, capturing his lips in a kiss. The kiss is hot, fervent. Angry. It’s full of too many things to name — maybe too many things that don’t have a name — and the intensity of it all has Chuuya biting down hard on Dazai’s bottom lip. Dazai whimpers into it, and Chuuya forces their mouths apart before he draws blood. Not that he thinks Dazai would mind.
Their faces remain close together, Chuuya’s grip on the tie never failing. Dazai’s breaths are shaky. There are a million words in his eyes; apologies, confessions, prayers. Chuuya wants to hear every single one almost as much as he hopes Dazai will lock them in a box and destroy the key. Warming or burning, sailing or drowning. He’s not sure which is which. Chuuya almost laughs at the contradictions. With the two of them, opposites have always been tantamount to each other. Contradiction may very well be the purest form of their relationship. The partnership of Double Black, the rivalry of Dazai and Chuuya. Chuuya, who is — thankfully — pulled from his thoughts when the weight of Dazai’s head drops onto his knee.
Chuuya clicks his tongue. “I assume you want me to get you off now?”
“I—” Dazai tenses.
“You?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “You what, Dazai?”
Dazai whines, burying his face in Chuuya’s thigh, refusing to meet his eye. A smirk grows on Chuuya’s face, when something is mumbled incoherently into his skin.
“What was that?”
Dazai’s voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again. Chuuya would think him timid, if he didn’t know any better. “I already came.”
Chuuya hums. “When?”
“When you—” Dazai cuts himself off with a tired groan. “When you said I was good.”
“When I said you were good,” Chuuya repeats musingly. “So, you’re still a whore for praise, I take it?”
“Evidently.”
Chuuya considers for a beat, taking in Dazai’s slumped posture, his refusal to raise his face from Chuuya’s thigh. “Show me.”
Dazai whines his dissent, squirming in embarrassment as he shakes his head.
“No?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Chuuya tilts his head, looking up at the ceiling as if in deep consideration. He furrows his brow. “I thought this was about me, though?”
Dazai huffs. “Chuuya’s mean.”
“Am I?” Chuuya leans down so that his lips brush against Dazai’s ear. “You said I could be as mean as I saw fit. Show me.”
“Fuck,” Dazai breathes, the hand that’s been resting on Chuuya’s other thigh now curling its fingers into the fabric there. He moves soon after, arms positioned behind him as he leans back, spreading his legs apart, gaze cast off to the side. Sure enough, in the middle of his pale slacks, is the telling wet spot that confirms Dazai’s confession. Chuuya thinks his dick twitches.
“God, you’re pathetic,” he laughs, leaning forward to smirk condescendingly at the patch. “So easy to please, hm?”
“Maybe Chuuya just knows how to please me.”
Chuuya snorts. “As if that wasn’t obvious. C’mere.”
Dazai’s forehead creases, a quizzical look in his eyes. Chuuya doesn’t elaborate, only patting the spot on the couch next to him, leaving no room for argument. Dazai listens after a few beats of silence, settling down with his back against his armrest, facing Chuuya. Chuuya nods to Dazai’s pants.
“Off. Boxers too.”
Dazai’s eyes widen. “But—”
“You’re not getting anywhere with that, n’ you know it. Walk out, if you’re so opposed. Safeword, at the very least.”
Dazai takes a moment, emotions, decisions and considered possibilities flickering in and out of his eyes. One of his hands fidgets with the button of his slacks, tracing around its edge repetitively. Eventually, that hand undoes the button, the zipper, and his boxers are on the floor not a moment later. Chuuya smirks at the sight. Dazai’s dick is flushed and more than half-hard, twitching at random increments as it continues to fill out.
Chuuya is wordless as he moves forward, settling down on Dazai’s thigh and keeping a hand planted on the armrest for support as he cages him in. He keeps his focus on Dazai’s dick, though, pointedly ignoring the minute shift in Dazai’s breathing, the shallow puffs of air against his ear. After he feels he’s built enough anticipation, Chuuya ghosts his fingertips over Dazai’s tip. It’s a light touch, maybe even less than that, but the reaction tells a different story. Dazai’s dick twitches again, now paired with a sharp inhale and a quiet whimper that follows.
Repeating the action, Chuuya’s smirk grows into a borderline feral grin as Dazai whimpers again, pitch higher and drawn out longer than before. He takes the head of Dazai’s dick in his hand, moving his thumb in circles over the side. Satisfaction glows in Chuuya’s chest as Dazai hardens fully, allowing a smug chuckle passage from his lips.
“Chuuya,” Dazai whines, writhing as his hands grip for purchase on the cushion. They’ve been doing that a lot, Chuuya notes. “Chuuya!”
The man in question hums, intensifying the stimulation as he begins to circle his palm around the top of the head. Dazai keens at the change in contact, legs jerking and back arching off the arm rest.
One thing to know about Dazai is that his refractory period is virtually nonexistent. His body is more sensitive than Chuuya would believe possible, if not for his first-hand experience.
He cums a second later, babbling incoherently in Chuuya’s ear. His hips twitch into the continued stimulation where Chuuya is guiding him through his climax, warm liquid slicking up his palm and filling the apartment with lewd, shamelessly vulgar noises.
As Dazai starts to pant and huff — telltale signs that he’s coming down from his high — Chuuya sneaks his other hand to the front of Dazai’s shirt, taking Dazai’s disorientation as an opportunity to undo just enough buttons to slip his hand into past the piece of clothing. When his fingers find Dazai’s nipple, free from the confines of the bandages on his chest, he brushes them over the hard nub. At the same time, he quickens the hand on Dazai’s tip, snapping the man out of his daze and ripping a high-pitched sob from his chest.
“Wait—shit, wait!”
Chuuya coos, ignoring Dazai’s pleas in favour of planting a trail of kisses under his jaw.
“No, no, I’m not gonna wait,” he murmurs against Dazai’s skin. “You’re gonna cum again, yeah?”
“N… hah.” Dazai’s hips move searchingly in spite of himself. The scale between pleasure and pain must already be tipping. “Fuck— fuck, can’t. Chuuya, can’t.”
Chuuya hums his disagreement, pinching the nipple he’s been rolling between his thumb and index finger. Dazai keens, throwing his head back. When his breaths start coming in fractured whines, Chuuya closes his hand around Dazai’s tip, stroking in quick, meticulous motions.
“Chuu—Chuuya chuuya!” Dazai is babbling again, body jerking as he writhes for more, for less. For ceasing and continuity. “‘S too…too much. Please!”
Chuuya attaches his mouth to a spot under Dazai’s ear, nipping at the skin. “Cum f’me.”
Dazai cums with a sob, tears spilling from his eyes and falling in wet, salty tracks down his face. There isn’t as much fluid this time, and the way Dazai’s body sags after a minute or so of shaking is indicative of the last of his energy draining away.
Chuuya sighs, pushing off the couch after a minute of soothing strokes over Dazai’s scalp, making his way into the bathroom for a pack of wet wipes. He places them on the coffee table when he returns, then steps away once more to get a glass of water from the kitchen.
All the while, Dazai remains sprawled on the couch, eyes closed and breath steadying by the second. Chuuya pretends the sight doesn’t ache at his heart as much as it does. He wonders, for a moment, as water rises in the glass, if the two of them really are fated, as Dazai used to put it. There was no sense in it, all reason flown when Dazai stepped into his apartment earlier this night, yet everything there is about Dazai is opposite; rational, calculating. He works in logic. Functions with it.
And Chuuya, god, Chuuya knows better. He’s stubborn, too, unwavering resolve the thing that makes it near impossible for anyone to manipulate him, impossible for him to hand out second chances. Yet, there he was, minutes earlier, cooing softly into the ear of the man who caused the most painful betrayal of Chuuya’s long list of them. Contradictions and more contradictions.
Only fate could explain such absurdity.