Chapter Text
The mission had been a mess from the start—bloody, loud, and far too close for comfort. But now, standing in the wreckage of some enemy hideout with the stench of gunpowder still thick in the air, Dazai had Chuuya slammed against a half-shattered wall, his breath hot and unsteady. Chuuya’s coat was already discarded, his omega scent sharp and maddening with adrenaline and heat. “You’re such a damn idiot,” Chuuya hissed, voice tight with frustration—but his fingers were tangled in Dazai’s shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Dazai only grinned, all sharp teeth and lazy lust, as he leaned in, the tension snapping taut between them. “Then stop letting me get this close,” he murmured, and when their mouths crashed together, it was all teeth and fury and something dangerously close to desperation. Chuuya’s growl was swallowed in the kiss, rough and bruising, like everything between them had always been—violent, unspoken, inevitable. His hips rolled forward on instinct, pressing into Dazai’s with shameless friction, and Dazai responded with a low groan against his lips.
There was no gentleness here, no time for it—not when the heat was still lingering in Chuuya’s scent, not when every nerve in Dazai’s body screamed to claim, to ruin, to leave something behind. His hands gripped Chuuya’s thighs, lifting him with practiced ease, and Chuuya locked his legs around Dazai’s waist, biting down on the alpha’s shoulder through the fabric of his uniform as Dazai pushed him harder into the wall. “You gonna whine about it or fuck me?” Chuuya snarled into his ear, breath ragged. Dazai laughed, dark and low, and it sent a shiver crawling up Chuuya’s spine. “Tch… so needy,” he muttered, but he was already working Chuuya’s belt open with one hand, the other tangled in fiery strands of hair. “I should’ve known you’d go into heat in the middle of a damn mission.” “Shut up and fuck me, Dazai.”
And he did. Right there, in the ruins of blood and fire, where no one would hear Chuuya cry out his name. Neither of them thought about the consequences. Not then. Dazai didn’t waste time teasing—not tonight. Not with the way Chuuya’s body was already trembling against his, heat rolling off his skin in waves, soaking through the ruined tatters of his shirt. The scent of omega in heat was potent, addictive, like something designed to drive him insane. Dazai pressed his mouth to the base of Chuuya’s throat, dragging his tongue up the flushed skin before sinking his teeth in—enough to sting, not enough to mark. Chuuya let out a sharp gasp, his nails digging into Dazai’s shoulders as he arched, grinding his hips forward again with a frantic kind of urgency. “You’re burning up,” Dazai murmured, voice rough with restraint he was quickly losing.
“You should’ve told me it was this bad.” Chuuya’s laugh was short and breathless. “Like I’d give you the satisfaction.” Their mouths collided again—open, desperate, wet—and Dazai used the distraction to shove Chuuya’s pants down just far enough. His fingers dipped lower, running through the slick already gathering there, hot and messy and eager. Chuuya flinched at the contact, hips jolting forward, a low, needy sound tearing from his throat. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Dazai growled, lips brushing Chuuya’s jaw. “You want me that bad?” “Don’t make me beg,” Chuuya snapped—but there was a tremor in his voice now, a faint shake in his thighs as he held himself up, still pinned between wall and alpha. “Just—do it already. Claim me. I don’t care.” That last part struck something deep. Dazai’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening on Chuuya’s waist as he lined himself up, the tip of his cock pushing against slick, yielding heat. There was no more talking after that. Chuuya gasped as Dazai sank into him in one smooth, brutal thrust, his entire body clenching as he was filled, stretched, taken. The burn made him curse under his breath, but he didn’t tell him to stop. He never did.
Dazai’s rhythm started fast and hard, the way Chuuya liked it—every thrust slamming deep, stealing the air from his lungs. Their skin slapped together in the silence of the crumbling building, echoing through the dark like a secret. Dazai kept his face buried in Chuuya’s neck, biting and kissing, hands gripping so tight there’d be bruises by morning. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t get deep enough. And neither of them noticed when it happened, when instinct overtook reason, when Dazai’s fangs sank in just a little too deep, when the knot started to swell. Chuuya’s heat took him then, completely. And Dazai, for once, didn’t think about what came after.
Dazai hissed through his teeth as he pushed in deeper, feeling Chuuya tighten around him like a vice, hot, slick, impossibly snug. The omega's head dropped back against the wall with a dull thud, his breath punching out in a half-moan, half-curse as Dazai bottomed out with a sharp grind of his hips. "Fuck, Dazai—!" "You're taking me so well," Dazai murmured, voice low and almost reverent, but thick with hunger. He pulled back slow, dragging his cock along fluttering walls before slamming back in with bruising force. Chuuya cried out, legs clenching tighter around his waist, spine bowing off the wall with every brutal thrust. The sound of it was obscene, wet, rhythmic, and fast. Chuuya was clinging to him now, fingers tangled in Dazai's hair, dragging him down into another open-mouthed kiss that was all tongue and teeth. He was panting into Dazai’s mouth, sweat beading at his temple, his body rocking with every thrust that hit just right.
“Faster,” Chuuya gasped. “Don’t you fucking hold back.” That was all Dazai needed. He adjusted his grip, hoisting Chuuya higher and slamming into him so hard the wall shuddered. Chuuya’s thighs shook, heels digging into Dazai’s back, moans spilling freely from parted lips now raw and helpless and loud. “You’re dripping,” Dazai groaned into his ear, thrusts turning erratic. “So damn wet. You were made for this. For me.” Chuuya was too far gone to argue, too caught in the edge of his heat, too wrecked by the stretch, the rhythm, the knot beginning to swell at the base of Dazai’s cock. He could feel it pressing against him, relentless and demanding, and it only made the pressure in his gut coil tighter. Dazai didn’t stop. Didn’t ask permission. He slammed forward again, hips grinding deep, and the knot caught, stretching him wider, locking them together in one final, merciless thrust. Chuuya choked on a cry as the heat in his belly snapped, his body spasming around Dazai as he came hard between them. Slick coated their stomachs, his legs trembling as Dazai bit down into the soft skin between his shoulder and neck, claiming him. Dazai’s release followed moments later, deep inside him, thick and hot and unrelenting. He groaned against Chuuya’s skin, still grinding, still buried to the hilt, his knot keeping them locked tight. For a long time, they remained like that: panting, shaking, bonded. Neither of them spoke. And neither of them knew this would be the last time.
Chuuya’s body ached. Not the kind of ache that came from battle, he was used to that, but something deeper, more intimate. His limbs felt heavy, worn out in that way only Dazai ever managed to leave him: utterly, maddeningly undone. The dim light filtering through the shattered windows of the hideout painted everything in bruised gray. Dust still hung in the air like smoke, and in the eerie stillness that followed the chaos, Chuuya was the first to move. He bent to retrieve his coat from the floor, ignoring how stiff his legs felt, how raw his throat was.
His fingers brushed the torn fabric of his gloves, slipping them on with practiced ease. His nose wrinkled. He still smelled like sex, like slick and sweat and something faintly metallic from where Dazai’s teeth had scraped too close to his neck. He didn’t remember exactly when Dazai had bitten him. The heat had made everything hazy near the end. Just teeth and pressure and a dizzying flood of instinct that made the rest of the world fall away. Behind him, Dazai moved. Silent, smooth, detached. He rolled his sleeves back down, tied the belt of his long coat with lazy fingers, and said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but Chuuya had known him long enough to see the shadows moving under his eyes. Whatever softness the night had stirred between them was already being hidden behind familiar masks.
“We should go,” Chuuya muttered, not looking at him. Dazai gave a quiet hum of agreement, stepping over a cracked piece of rubble without another word. They walked in silence. Not the hostile silence they were known for, but something more fragile. Uncertain. As if either of them spoke too loudly, the night before might catch up with them. It might become real. Chuuya didn’t ask why Dazai was still walking beside him. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just convenience. That Dazai didn’t have anywhere else to be. But deep down, it felt like something else entirely. And that made his chest ache worse than his bruises. By the time they reached Chuuya’s building, the early morning sun had started creeping up over Yokohama’s skyline. Everything was quiet—too quiet for a city like this. Chuuya unlocked the door to his apartment with stiff fingers. He stepped aside wordlessly, letting Dazai in first, because it was easier than addressing the fact that Dazai had followed him here at all. The moment the door shut behind them, the tension settled like dust. Dazai’s eyes wandered over the space—small, clean, lived-in. A few records were stacked by the player on the side table. A coat that didn’t belong to the mafia hung on a wall hook. The scent of Chuuya was everywhere. Warm. Spiced. Familiar. And yet… Something was different. Faint. Subtle. But neither of them noticed. Neither of them caught the shift in Chuuya’s scent, how the sharp notes of alpha release and slick had been overtaken by something softer, deeper, claimed. Something that clung just beneath the surface like a whisper waiting to be heard.
Chuuya collapsed onto the couch with a sigh, dragging a throw pillow into his lap. He stared straight ahead, pointedly avoiding Dazai’s gaze. “You staying, or just catching your breath?” Dazai leaned against the wall near the window, arms crossed, watching the city beyond the glass. “Do you want me to leave?” Chuuya didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, fingers tightening around the pillow. “I don’t care,” he lied. Neither of them moved. And the mark on Chuuya’s neck, still faintly red and tingling, pulsed quietly beneath the collar of his shirt. Neither of them knew. Not yet. But the bond had begun. And it was already too late to undo it.
The silence in Chuuya’s apartment wasn’t cold. It wasn’t comfortable either, but it was something in between. A kind of fragile middle ground that neither of them dared to disrupt. Chuuya leaned back into the couch cushions, his arms folded over his chest, eyes locked on a point on the far wall as if it had wronged him personally. Dazai didn’t sit. He never did, not right away. He hovered, hands in his coat pockets, eyes roaming lazily across the room—memorizing the placement of picture frames, the curve of an old armchair, the faint scent of tea that lingered under the stronger scent of heat. He could feel it. Not just the aftermath of sex, but something else. Something more permanent. But it slipped through his fingers every time he tried to name it.
“Why’d you come with me?” Chuuya asked suddenly, voice low. He didn’t look at Dazai when he said it. Dazai’s gaze drifted toward him, unreadable. “You told me to.” “That never stopped you from ignoring me before.” A beat. Then a soft exhale, barely a laugh. “You didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.” Chuuya stiffened. “I didn’t ask you to stay.” “I didn’t say I was staying.” But neither of them moved to change that. Chuuya’s eyes slid closed, his voice quieter now. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, you know.” Dazai tilted his head. “Define ‘this.’” Chuuya scowled. “You know damn well what I mean.” He did. Of course he did. But he also knew what it had felt like to lose himself in Chuuya’s body, to feel something desperate and electric snapping between them in the dark, something that didn’t feel like just sex.
It had been messy and reckless, yes—but there had been heat behind it that had nothing to do with biology. And maybe that scared him more than he wanted to admit. “You don’t need to worry,” Chuuya muttered after a pause. “I’m not gonna get clingy. You’ll be free to pretend it never happened once you walk out that door.” Dazai was quiet. Too quiet. Then he moved—slow, deliberate—stepping closer, until he stood in front of Chuuya, eyes downcast, expression unreadable. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t make a joke. Just… looked. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “About me pretending.” Chuuya looked up, startled. His breath caught in his throat. Dazai crouched in front of him, not touching, not forcing. Just being there. Too close. Too honest. “It’s not something I can forget,” Dazai said. “Even if I wanted to.” The words lodged somewhere deep in Chuuya’s chest, uncomfortably warm. He opened his mouth to respond, to brush it off, to say something sarcastic—but nothing came out. For a few heartbeats, all they could hear was the city outside—muffled cars, distant sirens, the hum of the world continuing like nothing had changed. But it had. Something had shifted between them. Not just in the wreckage of the night before, but now in the silence, in the things left unsaid. Something was beginning to take root. Slow. Unsteady. Real. And neither of them knew that it had already sunk its teeth in, buried deep in blood and instinct. That something irreversible had already passed between them. But they felt it. Even if they couldn’t name it yet.
The apartment was quiet again. Chuuya sat on the edge of the bed for a long time after Dazai crouched in front of him, the echo of his words still hanging in the air like mist. It’s not something I can forget. He didn’t know what to do with that. With him. Eventually, he stood, muttering something about needing to wash the blood and dust off before he started smelling like a damn battlefield. The bathroom lights flickered on with a soft buzz, yellow and warm. Chuuya peeled off his clothes one piece at a time, slower than usual. His body ached in all the places Dazai had touched. He tried not to think about it. Steam soon filled the space as hot water thundered down.
Chuuya stepped under it with a low exhale, tipping his head back, letting the heat hit his face, run down his neck, wash the scent of sweat and sex from his skin. But it didn’t wash him off. Even as he scrubbed shampoo in his hair, soap down his arms, he could feel Dazai’s presence like a phantom. Fingers that had clutched his hips. Teeth that had grazed his throat. The weight of his body. His heat. His scent. Chuuya leaned both hands against the cool tile wall, eyes shut tight, water coursing down his back in steady rivulets. The pressure in his chest wouldn’t ease. He wanted to forget it. He should want to forget it. But he didn’t. A soft creak reached his ears. The quiet pad of bare feet. Then the faintest shift of air behind him, barely audible through the sound of the shower. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Strong arms wrapped around his waist from behind—slow, gentle, certain. Dazai’s chin rested between his shoulder blades. Neither of them said a word. Chuuya froze at first, breath hitching. But Dazai didn’t do anything more. Didn’t press. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, holding him, bare chest pressed against Chuuya’s back as the water poured over them both.
The silence between them was different now. Not strained. Not defensive. Just quiet. Real. Chuuya’s fingers trembled against the tile, but he didn’t pull away. He let his head drop forward, water dripping from his bangs, letting Dazai hold him as if it meant something. As if he meant something. Time passed like that—measured in heartbeats and falling water. And for once, Dazai said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say.
They didn’t speak when they stepped out of the shower. Steam trailed behind them down the hall, clinging to their skin even as the apartment’s cooler air settled around their bare shoulders. Chuuya didn’t bother with the lights; he knew the layout by heart. The glow from the city was enough to paint long shadows on the walls, soft enough to hide the flush still lingering on his cheeks. He moved with purpose, heading into the bedroom and tugging open the bottom drawer of his dresser. His fingers brushed past folded sweatshirts and undershirts, pausing near the back. There it was. The black long-sleeve. Wrinkled from being ignored, half-buried under things he never wore anymore. Dazai’s shirt. Left behind years ago—maybe after one of their rare post-mission drinks, or one of those fights that turned into something breathless and desperate. He hadn’t washed it since. It had stopped smelling like Dazai long ago, but he swore sometimes, when he held it close enough, the memory of it came back.
He stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing the hem. Then he pulled it on. It was loose, softer than he remembered. The sleeves fell just past his wrists. Familiar. Heavy with everything he’d never said out loud. He grabbed a pair of black sweatpants and pulled them on, too, then ran a hand through his damp hair and stepped back out into the dim room. Dazai stood near the window, shirtless, half-dry towel draped around his shoulders, looking out like he might disappear if Chuuya blinked. Chuuya didn’t speak. Didn’t meet his gaze. He walked past him, climbed into bed, and turned toward the wall, tugging the blanket up to his shoulders. A long silence. Then: “That shirt…” “Yeah,” Chuuya muttered, voice quiet. “You left it. A long time ago.” He didn’t explain why he’d kept it. Why he’d worn it now. But the way his fingers curled in the fabric made the truth obvious. He wanted him to stay. Dazai’s posture changed just slightly. No teasing quip. No smug remark. Just quiet understanding. Wordlessly, he crossed the room, pulled back the blanket, and slipped into the bed beside him. He lay on his back for a moment, unmoving, unsure. The quiet stretched. Then Chuuya shifted—just a bit. Just enough that his back brushed Dazai’s arm. It was the smallest gesture. But it was enough. Dazai moved closer, slowly, until their bodies aligned beneath the blankets. His arm curled gently around Chuuya’s waist, drawing him back into the curve of his chest. Not rough. Not desperate. Just… there. Solid. Warm. Present. He pressed his forehead lightly against the back of Chuuya’s neck and didn’t say a word. Chuuya’s fingers clutched at the blanket, eyes shut, breath shaky. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t a promise. But it was the closest thing to comfort either of them had allowed in years. And still, he didn’t say stay. But Dazai did.