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The sounds of footsteps hitting the cold metal echoed up the stairwell of the Port Mafia Tower. They grew louder as someone ascended the tall, winding steps, the beat steady and rhythmic, slow and regimented. Not excited, not reluctant. The legs reflecting the same neutral expression that was always worn on his face. And that neutrality in turn filled the person sitting atop the tower with an overflowing self-loathing.
“One of the third floor guards quit last week from the pressure. If he can’t take standin’ around and occasionally shooting, he ain’t suited for us at all.”
Osamu Dazai, boss of the Port Mafia, had his gloved hands steepled in front of his face. The man in front of him, a redhead, was sitting perched on his desk, long legs contrasted with his small frame, one expensive black derby dangling near Dazai’s knee. The man’s own gloved hands were clutching a stack of reports and he was reading them out, every important movement the Mafia was making that day. As the boss, it was important Dazai know all of this, but he wasn’t taking in a single word that his second was saying. Instead he was listening to the footsteps as they ascended. Sixteen. Seventeen. Forty-five to the top office.
“I kicked him to the curb and been lookin’ fer a replacement. Third division picked up some kids tryin’ to pick a fight with a street gang last night, we’re doin’ an assessment. One of ‘em might make do.”
It didn’t make any sense that he could hear the careful treads of the motorcycle boots, he shouldn’t have been able to hear the reverberation through the closed metal door of his office. But he knew they were happening all the same. He knew he was coming. He always did. He’d called for him. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
“Casualties and assassinations,” the other man started, finishing off the last part of the report. “Having the Kanazawa team lay low after some cops showed up They’re still around, but consider ‘em down for the count. Now for the actual deaths.”
Dazai shut his eyes gently, trying to draw his attention to the names and not the footsteps. The least he could do was hear who had died, whose lives had been taken in exchange for another’s.
He’d tried his best to find an alternative, but even in the vast, expansive multiverse, this was the only one in which Oda was still alive, in which he was still thriving, and writing. It was the only thing Oda ever wanted. And therefore it was the only thing Dazai wanted for him. But here, in this world, as the head of the Port Mafia, he was responsible for so many more deaths, so much more misery. And he had to keep doing this, had to believe it was worth it.
“Seishi Yokomizo. Koji Suzuki. Kanae Minato.”
He went on for nearly five minutes. The names should have hit like knives, but he had been at this so long they merely pelted him like snowballs against a closed window.
Who cares? People die in every universe; that’s not my fault. At least . . .
“That’s all.” The man put down the papers and turned his gaze instead to his boss. His blue eyes were hard, his lips drawn in a thin line. “I’ve one more threat assessment. This one is from me.”
At least Chuuya was doing alright here. Still stubborn, still commanding, still dressed in beautiful, expensive clothes. In this universe, Dazai could tailor him to his own taste, could do that much to assure himself he was the one in charge. That things like fate and destiny did not belong here, not when he had a careful plan.
Thirty. The steps continued to echo up the long staircase. Thirty-one.
“That . . . thing.” Chuuya stared Dazai down, hands sliding to the back of his chair. “That beast you’re always meeting with. Alone.”
Chuuya’s face was inches from his own, sensing his distraction, trying to keep his attention focused. Dazai wasn’t interested in reading between his obvious lines: I know what you’re doing with him. It frankly wasn’t any of Chuuya’s business to question it. Dazai’s eyes flickered to his second, bored.
“He isn’t to be trusted,” Chuuya continued. “You know he’s betrayed you before.”
Yes, that was true. But it was less a betrayal and more a knee-jerk reflex. A fear reaction. But he had come back. He always came back . . . he could hear him coming back up the stairs right now.
“He could easily kill you.” Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Almost here. “I won’t allow it. You should at least have a bodyguard present to—”
“Allow?” Dazai scoffed. He grabbed Chuuya’s face in his hand, his fingers laying along his jaw, and Chuuya stopped talking, his eyes wide. “It’s not up to you to say what I am allowed to do, Chuuya, with my resources or with my subordinates. I give the commands. I’m your boss. I tell you what to do.”
The door creaked open on its hinges. Dazai felt his heart hammering as his gaze traveled past Chuuya to the white-haired man in the doorway. He was here. His salvation. His light. Only . . .
In this world, Atsushi was shrouded in darkness, a huge buckled coat silhouetting his slight form, his gaze cold and still. The things he had done here still haunted him, but he had quickly learned to compartmentalize. A part of Dazai knew just how much he was disassociating, but chose not to indulge in those thoughts.
No. He came here for me, not just because I called him, he assured himself. He’s here because he wants to be.
Atsushi walked into the room in those heavy leather boots, tread unsure as he looked between the other two men. Dazai released Chuuya and the latter stood up, saving face. He straightened his suit, tugging on his blazer and frowning in Atsushi’s direction. Atsushi’s eyes widened momentarily, likely used to these silent threats from other Mafia members, but all three of them knew Atsushi was perfectly safe as long as Dazai was in charge. No one would dare risk his wrath should the boss’s precious little tiger be harmed.
“Watch it,” Chuuya said simply as he headed to the door, pushing past Atsushi. “I have an eye on you, don’t be doin’ anything stupid.”
Atsushi didn’t reply but stepped further into the room, watching him as he left.
“Sorry about him,” Dazai shrugged, his gaze following Chuuya’s receding shoulders. “Quite a bind he’s in: it’s his duty to protect me, but he really wants to kill me.”
No, that wasn’t it at all. These were Chuuya’s excuses, and he saw it plain as day in the shorter man’s eyes as the door shut behind him. That want, that ask. Chuuya was jealous. But it was better he not get wrapped up in this, and Dazai couldn’t let that bother him now.
And yet he let him get wrapped up in this instead.
I can protect him this way. And he . . .can be my humanity.
Dazai moved his chair away from the desk to face Atsushi, surveying him. He had been waiting for this all day, and now Atsushi stood in front of him, a mere foot away. His blood thrummed with excitement and he struggled to contain it, tampering it to retain his cool exterior.
“Did you lock the door?”
Atsushi nodded, the blank look on his face reflecting just how routine this was, wondering silently how Dazai could even ask such a rote question. Of course he did.
Dazai sat back silently, dark eyes traveling from the tips of Atsushi’s shoes to the bottom of his long coat, to the white bangs falling into his face.
“Go on, then.”
Atsushi quietly brought a hand to his coat collar and took the zipper between his fingers, tugging it down, down. It was so long the anticipation was grating, and Dazai waited as it hung open like curtains to reveal tight tailored pants and a knit sweater. And above them both, like a black stain on his porcelain skin, that horrible biting collar.
The choker circled his throat, the spikes sticking both without and within, stabbing into his skin and keeping him on edge constantly. A trickle of blood dripped down his neck as Dazai watched, but Atsushi had no reaction.
Is this really okay?
Yes. Yes, it had to be. Anyway, he looked beautiful, the flashy clothes and the neat haircut really suited him. And he was good at his work, he was feared and revered. The White Reaper, attack dog of the Mafia. The boss’s pet.
Atsushi shrugged out of the jacket, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He peeled off his gloves next, revealing his long fingers, often shape-shifted into claws; but in this office, his hands were soft, almost delicate. Those fingers tucked under his shirt and pulled it up over his head, the sweater joining the pile atop the coat.
Scars criss-crossed Atsushi’s torso and arms, some even peeking out from under his waistband. He had little control of his healing, his ability prioritizing only crippling wounds, and Dazai saw even more marks as Atsushi took off his shoes and unbuckled his belt, sliding his pants down his legs. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside as he stood before Dazai, presenting himself. His boxer briefs clung tight to his thighs, the sleek black emphasizing his ass and his crotch. Everyone else inside and out of the Mafia only saw Atsushi in his assassin’s garb, his substantial layers; but the Atsushi before him, laid bare and vulnerable, this was for him alone.
You only show yourself to me.
“Come here,” Dazai said, his voice a soft purr.
Atsushi stepped towards him, his back straight, his stride militaristic as he slid into Dazai’s embrace. Dazai perched him on his knee, sitting him close to his own body, and he removed his gloves to touch him.
Atsushi’s skin was cold. The dew-like sweat that beaded along his collar bones and shoulders from his heavy clothes gave way to goosebumps as Dazai traced naked fingers up his chest, along his neck, cupping his jaw and drawing his face up. Dazai could barely wait any longer and he pressed his lips eagerly against Atsushi’s. There was a sound like a swallow, and Atsushi’s mouth remained closed, his lips passive, eyes shut. Dazai bit at his bottom lip, sucking on it slow, soliciting a small noise before he pulled back.
“You must be tired,” Dazai said gently. “Open your mouth for me.”
His hand spidered over Atsushi’s lips and he stuck his fingers between them, forcing his mouth open before dipping in to kiss him again. This time Atsushi eased into his kiss, tongue meeting his, and Dazai lapped at it, running over it, tasting him. Atsushi moaned, grabbing his shoulder and Dazai nudged his fingers further in, prying his lips further apart, open wider, shoving his tongue in further, pulling his beautiful and delicious face closer, wanting to consume him. When he broke away, Atsushi was panting and flushed, his lips wet, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth where Dazai removed his hand. His eyes were pleading.
“Dazai-sama,” Atsushi started, choking.
His tone was different than usual; he wanted something. Dazai felt a stirring between his legs, and the thought of Atsushi’s begging, wanting face shot desire through him like a bullet.
“I don’t . . .” he struggled with the words, and shook his head. “Please.”
Dazai bit the inside of his lip. He brushed a thumb across Atsushi’s cheek, staring into his eyes. Atsushi was scared; he was almost always scared these days. It was unfortunately part of the deal of being in the Mafia, part of why Dazai had to keep him so close, why they had this routine, this ritual. But it was almost cute how coy he was at first, like a game where he was playing innocent. Once they got started, though, he would be into it, he would be rocking his hips against Dazai, he would be writhing, panting, moaning for more.
Dazai sighed; it was always on him to remind Atsushi this was for his own good. He drew a line from Atsushi’s cheek to his chin and neck, his long fingers coming to rest and drumming gently on the spiked collar.
“Do you want me to remove this?” Dazai said obviously.
Atsushi didn’t reply, looking aside, color rising in his cheeks.
“Do you?” he pressed.
“Yes,” Atsushi replied, nearly inaudible.
“Then we have to,” Dazai hummed. “Or you’ll be too dangerous.”
He wrapped his arms around Atsushi, clutching him close to his chest.
“Atsushi,” he whispered, breath hot in his ear. He could feel Atsushi shiver. “Don’t be afraid. This is going to feel good. You want to take my orders, don’t you?”
Atsushi didn’t reply immediately, only inhaling sharply.
“Yes,” he said finally, his voice muffled in Dazai’s neck.
When Dazai first took Atsushi into the Mafia, the Tiger was perilously unpredictable and drastic measures had to be taken. For months, Atsushi was locked up in the basement nightly in a cage they normally kept for prisoners. And so Dazai had poured a lot of time and money into the development of that collar. Without the Agency, it was the only way to let him keep any semblance of control of the animal, keep him from losing his memory and self to the mindless beast within him. Remembering how Atsushi was when they found him, Dazai was glad they had found any sort of solution at all.
Of course there was one other way to keep the tiger at bay.
“Let me hold you,” Dazai commanded quietly. “I’ll keep you under control. Only when I’m touching you can you truly be human.”
And only then can I be human, too. Only when he had Atsushi in his arms, when Dazai was against him, inside him, could he feel alive. Could he feel whole. Could he feel that connection to the other world where he was living out Oda’s dying wishes and Atsushi was his.
Dazai turned Atsushi around, sitting him forward in his lap. He slid a hand down his side, up his thigh, nestling his fingers in the dip of Atsushi’s hip to stabilize him and keep him human. With his other hand, he bent him gently forward, skimming his fingers up Atsushi’s fine spine, finally landing on the collar’s latch. With a quick flick of his thumb, he opened the clasp.
There was a vocal sound as the spikes pulled out of his flesh. Atsushi grunted, breathing in relief as Dazai carefully removed the collar and put it aside.
Left behind was a clean ring of vacant, puckered holes in his skin; and the sight was too much. Dazai at once snatched Atsushi back against him, burying his face in his neck and kissing along the wounds. Atsushi shuddered as he ran a tongue around the lacerations, licking up the last traces of the blood, his body somewhat rigid.
“My poor tiger,” Dazai muttered into his skin. The smell of him, sweat and blood, was making him ache with longing.
He pulled Atsushi in tighter, setting him between his legs, running a frenzied hand down his chest, his navel, finally dipping his fingers below his waistband to grasp his cock. Atsushi made a small, sweet sound and leaned back against him, his head resting in the crook of Dazai’s shoulder, his eyes shut tight. His hands were clenched, too, one clutching Dazai’s pant leg as Dazai ran his thumb up and down his length, around his head, fingers stroking him slow. He was soft but slowly starting to stiffen, his breath starting to catch.
“You’re so nervous,” Dazai teased, pressing at his base. Atsushi squirmed but Dazai didn’t relent, stroking him faster. “I know, I ask so much of you. I’m going to make you feel better, baby,” he whispered directly into his ear. “It’s alright. Everything is fine, this is fine. This feels good, right? You’re getting hard.”
Another noise escaped him and he nodded. It almost sounded like a whimper, but he was growing harder in his hand, firmer, and Dazai peeled off the remainder of Atsushi’s clothes. Dazai sank into his hair, flooding himself with that familiar scent. He smelled the same as he did in that universe, he knew it, he just knew. This Atsushi in his arms was the same as the Atsushi in the world where they were together, where they were safe and happy. Where Atsushi’s sunshine face shone at him every morning, smiling brightly. He could make this Atsushi smile, too, make his heart beat faster, make him cry out in pleasure.
He nipped at Atsushi’s neck, sucking on his shoulder, and continued to stroke him with one hand, kneading his cock with his thumb. He pulled him into his chest and wrapped his other arm tight around him, tracing circles around his nipples, gently rolling them between his fingers, tweaking that sensitive skin. Atsushi thrashed against him, a moan fleeing from his lips, and Dazai could feel his own blood pounding between his legs.
“You like this, don’t you?” Dazai said, words coming out breathily. Atsushi was so hard now, his leg muscles contracting as he tried to hold back. “Aren’t you grateful for the time we have together? How much pleasure I bring you. I take care of you. I make all the hard decisions for you, and all you have to do is obey me.”
Atsushi nodded weakly, and Dazai pressed harder.
“Say it,” he whispered.
“Tell — tell me what to do,” Atsushi gasped. “Dazai-sama. Please.”
Dazai let out a low growl and tugged at Atsushi’s ear with his teeth.
“Come for me,” he hissed.
Atsushi cried out and he felt that wet warmth spill in his hand. Atsushi collapsed back against him, most of the mess on his thigh. Dazai was careful not to let it get on his suit pants; he had another meeting after this. But he was aching to get these pants off anyway, his cock throbbing.
Dazai rose, picking up Atsushi with him, hands on his waist, and set him down on the desk. Atsushi lay back, his legs hanging off the edge, shifting his hips forward as Dazai spread his thighs, stepping between them. God, he was beautiful, and those scars, so many scars. Those scars hurt Dazai just as much as they hurt Atsushi, didn’t he know that?
“You ready for me, baby?” he asked. His hands went to his belt, removing it, not really waiting for an answer. Of course he was, he always was. Wasn’t he? Those pale thighs, that pliable ass, those golden eyes, smooth chest, just beckoning him, just laid out for him like a gourmet meal. And he was starving.
Dazai unbuttoned his shirt, wanting that skin against his, flushed and warm and soft. He pulled his pants down below his hips and took himself in his hand, his other hand seeking out Atsushi’s ass, sticking his fingers inside him, playing with him. Atsushi writhed on the desk, kicking out, and Dazai stroked himself for a moment, watching Atsushi’s eyes flicker and water, feeling that wetness around his fingers as he prodded and stretched him.
“Spread your legs wider,” he said sternly, pressing his fingers in further. Atsushi started to resist but took a shuddering breath, and Dazai felt his muscles unknot. “Don’t fight me. Remember what happened the last time you disobeyed my orders? You want to submit to me, don’t you?”
Atsushi nodded, his eyes on the ceiling.
“You’re a good little tiger, Atsushi,” he hummed. “So obedient and beautiful. Consider this a reward.”
You want me, Dazai thought, sighing. He aligned his hips and ran his cock around his entrance, teasing him, teasing himself, before plunging in. Atsushi gasped and cried out, his hands clenching, his face breaking out in a sweat. He was so warm and familiar, he felt like home, and Dazai just wanted to bury himself inside him, wanted to fuse together with him forever.
Dazai leaned over him, holding on to the edges of the desk, moving against him, into him, as Atsushi blushed under him, his mouth wet and panting. Atsushi’s cock was soft again, but Dazai shifted to rub against him, that friction making his blood run south. Dazai’s heart pounded at how well he knew Atsushi, at how easily he could make Atsushi’s body bend to him, and his eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy.
“I can feel you against me,” Dazai said breathlessly, that heady lightness starting to overcome him. “You’re getting hard again . . . you want me so much. Atsushi . . . you love me, don’t you?” Something broke in his voice as he rocked faster into him, pulsing deeper. “I gave you a home, I gave you a purpose, I — I make you feel good. I make you come.”
“I — yes,” Atsushi squeaked, his voice shaking. He blinked and a tear streaked down his cheek. “Yes, Dazai-sama.”
Dazai wrapped his arms around Atsushi and kissed his eyelids, thrusting into him as that warmth enveloped him, his nerves on fire, his heart beating out of his chest.
“Don’t let go of me,” Dazai panted, moving his hips faster and faster, clasping Atsushi’s thighs, his ass. “Don’t leave me. Never leave me. You’re mine, you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” Atsushi repeated, his sense gone. His hands clawed at Dazai’s back, dug into his hair, clinging to him, drawing him closer, wanting.
You want me, you want me.
Dazai’s voice caught, his breath hitched as he climaxed, and he went further over the edge as he felt Atsushi come against him.
Atsushi’s face was red, his head turned aside, cheeks wet. Dazai hastily brought a hand to his cheek and roughly rubbed the tears away with his thumb as though his fingers were terrycloth. As though he could clean this all away so easily.
Dazai kissed Atsushi’s swollen lips one last time before pulling out of him. He grabbed a towel from the cabinet under his desk and began to clean up, trying to be gentle and efficient. Atsushi leaned up and reached for the towel himself and Dazai lightly slapped his hand away; it wasn’t that Dazai didn’t trust him to do this right, it was that he wanted to keep touching him. Wanted to show him that this wasn’t just some fit of lust, that afterwards there was still affection. But when he leaned in to kiss his brow, Atsushi flinched away from him.
Dazai swallowed.
“You’re to follow up with that casino in Kannai,” he started, tone turning back to business as he fastened his shirt and belt. “Make it clean. I want you to be seen talking to the owner but not the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” Atsushi replied. He, too, had reverted easily back to his professional demeanor, as though he had not just had his boss’s dick inside him. Quietly, he stepped back to his pile of clothes and started to get dressed. “Take out just the traitor or his bodyguards, too?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.” Dazai smirked. “I trust you to make the right decision.”
Atsushi didn’t react to that confidence, pulling on his shirt, grimacing.
“I would . . . prefer if you tell me what you want,” he said quietly.
Dazai bit the inside of his cheek. Not ideal. They’d have to work on that.
“Just the traitor, then,” he replied. “Instill some fear. Come back here, baby.”
There was one more thing left to do.
Wordlessly, Dazai watched as Atsushi stepped over to him. Their eyes met directly, Atsushi’s gold and purple ones seemingly pleading with Dazai’s dark ones, or at least the one visible eye beneath his bandages. But it was pointless.
Dazai put a gentle hand on his shoulder and he sank to his knees. He cradled Atsushi’s face for a moment, one hand tucked under his chin, the other reaching for the collar. Atsushi shut his eyes as Dazai wrapped it around his neck, giving two beats before pressing it quickly into his flesh like a stapler. Blood dripped down as Dazai fastened it; a shame for that to defile his pure skin. He laced a finger through the collar ring and tugged on it to signal for Atsushi to stand. Dazai leaned down and opened his mouth, kissing the blood away, staining his lips crimson.
“Atsushi,” he said quietly, laying a hand on his cheek. “Everything I’ve done is for you. I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but this is all for the best.” Dazai closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Atsushi’s. “I love you. I love you.”
“I . . . love you, too, Dazai-sama.”
Dazai swiped a thumb across Atsushi’s lip.
“It’s Osamu for you,” he whispered, “when we’re together like this. I want to hear that name on your lips. Got it?”
Atsushi opened his mouth again, pausing, and for a moment it seemed like he was going to say something else. But then he shut his jaw tight, his eyes darkening and becoming blank, and he simply nodded.
“Yes, boss,” he said.
Dazai felt him stiffen as he kissed him once more, the still-wet blood on his mouth an unfortunate barrier between them. As he pulled away, Atsushi put on his gloves, his coat, and then knelt before his Mafia boss, head down in subjugation. Then he turned around and walked out.
Something welled in Dazai’s chest and he pushed it down. This was fine. Fine. There were other universes where Atsushi was still trapped in the orphanage. In the ADA while Dazai was in the Mafia. In a different city, a different country. Feral. Hurt. Dead.
It’s okay.
It’s okay if Atsushi doesn’t love me. Or he doesn’t yet.
We’re together, he thought. And that’s all that matters.
I’ll keep you for as long as I can. For as long as I’m still alive.
Dazai closed his eyes, a tear freeing itself from between his lashes, its wake smearing away Atsushi’s blood.
Not much longer now.