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Dazai was… off. Not in a way Chuuya could explain easily, though he’d tried before, usually with hand gestures and the word freak thrown in somewhere.
If he had to summarize, it was like owning a feral cat that had decided, inexplicably, that you were its person. Not out of affection, of course—God no—but because it liked biting you best. Cute, if you didn’t look too close. Skittish and weirdly violent. The kind of thing that might crawl into your bed just to stare at you while you sleep, then leave you with a scratch on the face as a parting gift.
And yet, somehow, they were dating. Probably. Chuuya wasn’t sure what else to call it. There was no official confession, no sweet little moment, no hearts and flowers—just Dazai showing up more often, staring at him like an invasive species, and not leaving. Sometimes he’d sit two inches too close. Sometimes he’d insult Chuuya’s hair and then fall asleep on his shoulder like a goddamn catnap was going to smooth that over.
The teasing hadn’t stopped. Neither had the arguing. Dazai still called him names, and Chuuya still threatened murder at least once a day. But now there was also a weird, clumsy sort of affection wedged between their usual chaos—hands brushing too long, Dazai getting sulky when Chuuya ignored him, Chuuya not hating it when Dazai touched him for no reason.
Which is why he wasn’t all that surprised when someone knocked on his door at ten PM.
Chuuya groaned and sat up in bed, stretching his arms over his head until his back cracked. He’d spent the day off indulging in a well-earned spiral of solitude—reading, training, not putting on real clothes. He padded across the room in just sweatpants, barefoot and scowling, muttering under his breath as he yanked the door open.
“Jesus, finally,” he grumbled. “What the hell do you—?”
It was Dazai.
Still in uniform. Still annoyingly expressionless, except for the way his eyes slid off to the side like he’d just been caught doing something stupid. Which, considering his track record, was probably true.
Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “You coming in or just planning to stand there looking like a kicked dog?”
Dazai frowned. “So cruel to me, and I do nothing but love you.”
“You do nothing , period.”
Dazai sighed dramatically and slumped forward without warning, falling directly into Chuuya’s chest like a sack of overcooked noodles.
“Hey—!” Chuuya staggered back a step, arms scrambling to catch him. “What the fuck—?”
But Dazai didn’t answer. He just made himself heavier, letting all his weight drop into Chuuya’s arms with a little hum of satisfaction. For a second Chuuya stood there, grumbling under his breath, but grudgingly holding him upright.
“Seriously. What is this. What do you want?”
“I’m dying,” Dazai mumbled into his collarbone. “You stink like gym socks.”
“I was working out, dumbass,” Chuuya snapped, dragging him inside by the elbow. He tried to shove Dazai onto the couch, but the idiot clung tighter, limbs wrapping around him like a parasite refusing to detach.
“Let go—!”
“Nope,” Dazai said, half a yawn and half a whine. “Warm.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m comfortable.”
Eventually, Chuuya gave up trying to peel him off and just let himself fall with him onto the couch. He landed half on top of Dazai, legs tangled, one hand braced awkwardly against Dazai’s chest. It should’ve been uncomfortable. Maybe it was. But Dazai just sighed again, pleased, like Chuuya was some sort of mattress-slash-heater combo made just for him.
“You’ve been weird lately,” Chuuya muttered, scowling as he shifted. “Weirder than usual.”
“That’s rude,” Dazai murmured, already wriggling lower, until his face was level with Chuuya’s ribs. “I’m being romantic.”
“Oh, is that what this is.”
“Mm.”
Then, without ceremony, he shoved his face directly into Chuuya’s armpit.
Chuuya froze.
“…What the fuck,” he said, voice flat.
“Mmh,” Dazai mumbled. “Smells good.”
“You just said I stank !”
“Good stink,” Dazai insisted, nuzzling further in. “Like salt and… testosterone.”
Chuuya flushed so hard he thought his face might melt off. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I dunno,” Dazai mumbled. “Something’s broken.”
“No kidding.”
But he didn’t move away. If anything, he relaxed a little, settling his weight more solidly on Dazai’s lanky body. It was warm. Weirdly comforting, in the same way sitting next to a space heater in winter was comforting—you’d feel stupid cuddling it, but you’d still do it.
“…So,” Chuuya said after a moment, voice low.
“So?”
“There’s nothing wrong? You just came here to breathe in my pit and be a menace?”
Dazai didn’t respond right away. He just inhaled again, audibly, like a creep. “Maybe.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“You smell nice,” Dazai added in a small voice, as if that made it better. “And you’re warm. And…” he trailed off.
Chuuya raised a brow. “And?”
Dazai wriggled again, but didn’t answer.
“…Dazai.”
“Hhh…”
“What did you do .”
“...Eh.”
Chuuya immediately started trying to peel himself off. Dazai tightened his grip with alarming strength for someone built like a haunted scarecrow.
“Fine! Fine!” Dazai said quickly, muffled against Chuuya’s skin. “Your stuff going missing might not’ve been… entirely accidental.”
Chuuya froze.
“...Such as?”
Dazai hesitated.
“Dazai.”
“…Your gym towels.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“And—maybe—some of your shirts. And one sock.”
Chuuya blinked. His face slowly twisted into an expression of incredulous horror.
“Wait— wait . Is that where all my—my— boxers —?”
“Also those,” Dazai admitted sheepishly, his voice very small.
Chuuya made a sound like he was being strangled.
“You little perverted— how many ?!”
“...Define many.”
“DAZAI.”
“I plead the fifth!” he shouted, as Chuuya finally exploded into a flailing, red-faced mess of limbs and outrage.
Chuuya made a noise of pure disbelief —somewhere between a yell and a strangled laugh—and shoved at Dazai’s shoulders. “You’ve got some kind of disease, I swear to god—get the fuck off me!”
“Nooo,” Dazai whined, clinging harder. “I’m cozy. You’re ruining the moment.”
“What moment , you freak?! The one where you confess to stealing my fucking underwear like some kind of creepy Victorian ghost?!”
“It wasn’t all at once,” Dazai argued, as if that made it better. “It was, like… a collection. Curation, even.”
“Oh my god —”
“I just like the way you smell,” Dazai insisted. “It’s not my fault you’ve got such a distinct… chemical profile.”
“You make it sound like I’m a goddamn bottle of cologne.”
“You kind of are,” he said thoughtfully. “Top notes of aggression, middle notes of sweat and strawberry shampoo. Base notes of rage.”
“You are so fucked in the head.”
“And yet here you are,” Dazai said with a smug little grin, rubbing his cheek against Chuuya’s ribs like a cat marking its territory.
Chuuya groaned into his hands. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Liar. You like it.”
Chuuya looked down at him, fuming. “You are literally face-first in my armpit and confessing to a panty raid on my laundry hamper. What part of that would I like?”
Dazai blinked up at him innocently. “The attention?”
“You absolute menace,” Chuuya snarled, but his fists stayed clenched in Dazai’s coat and he didn’t actually throw him off. “How the hell do you expect me to react to this?”
“With gratitude?”
“I should suffocate you with one of the towels you stole.”
Dazai grinned. “Kinky.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.”
Chuuya made a guttural noise and dropped his forehead to Dazai’s chest, thudding it there like he was trying to knock himself unconscious. “God, why is it me you decided to imprint on? Can’t you go bother Tachihara or something? He smells like pine cleaner, you’d probably love it.”
“I don’t want pine cleaner,” Dazai said, with mock hurt. “I want you . Eau de sweaty bastard. Accept no substitutes.”
Chuuya snorted in disbelief again, and then groaned as Dazai shifted beneath him to wedge his face deeper into the crook of Chuuya’s arm, exhaling like he’d just come home from war and found heaven in a damp t-shirt.
“You’re actually disgusting,” Chuuya muttered.
“I know,” Dazai said dreamily. “Isn’t it great?”
There was a long pause.
Chuuya muttered something under his breath, incomprehensible.
Dazai lifted his head slightly. “What was that?”
“I said,” Chuuya growled, louder this time, “if I find one more sock in your fucking drawer that’s not yours, I’m duct taping your nose shut while you sleep.”
Dazai didn’t even flinch. “I’ll just start licking you instead.”
“…You’re banned from my apartment.”
“Too late,” Dazai yawned, nuzzling back into place like a barnacle. “I live here now. I’m a part of the scentscape.”
“You are so lucky I’m too tired to kill you right now.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Chuuya stared at the ceiling in dead silence, weighing his options.
“I hope you choke on my body spray.”
“That’s the dream,” Dazai murmured, already half-asleep.
Chuuya lay there for a moment in silence, trying to count backward from ten and pretend there wasn’t a teenage freak buried in his armpit like it was his final resting place.
He got to four before Dazai sniffed . Audibly. Deep and satisfied. Like he was tasting the sweat with his nose.
Chuuya jerked, scandalized. “Did you just sniff me?!”
“Mmhmm,” came the blissful hum beneath him. “You’ve got layers tonight. Like… gym musk, floor dust, maybe a hint of that spice from the curry you made.”
“ You weren’t even here when I made that! ”
“I could smell it on your collar.”
Chuuya reeled. “That was yesterday! ”
“I told you you have a strong signature,” Dazai said with a dreamy sigh, like he was wine-tasting a rare vintage. “It’s evolving. Richer. Slightly nuttier than last week.”
“I will call security.”
“They won’t stop me. I’ll crawl through your vents.”
“You don’t even know where they are!”
“I’ve already mapped them.”
Chuuya stared down at him in dawning horror. “You’re actually stalking me.”
Dazai gave a beatific smile, eyes still half-lidded and glued to Chuuya’s sweat-slick underarm. “Is it stalking if I’m in love?”
“You are fifteen and deranged .”
“And in love. ”
Chuuya tried to sit up, but Dazai clung harder, legs locked around his waist now like a python with boundary issues. He tried to use leverage. Dazai just flopped with him, still latched on.
“You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore,” Chuuya growled, frustrated, cheeks red. “There are other ways to ask for attention than— than this ! I’m not a goddamn scratch-and-sniff sticker!”
“I don’t want attention,” Dazai muttered, breath hot against his skin. “I want olfactory intimacy .”
Chuuya’s brain short-circuited. “You what ?”
“It’s a bond,” Dazai continued with far too much sincerity. “Like how animals recognize their pack by scent. I’m just attuning myself to your pheromones. For safety. And loyalty. And, you know…” He lifted his head slightly, eyes wide and unblinking. “Possession.”
“ That is not romantic! ”
“It is in the animal kingdom.”
“We’re not in the fucking animal kingdom!”
“I am .”
“Jesus Christ , Dazai—!”
Chuuya finally managed to wriggle an arm free and jabbed an elbow into Dazai’s gut. It didn’t deter him. Dazai just wheezed, then used the momentum to shift down lower—curling his body around Chuuya’s thighs, cheek pressed to his waistband now like some unholy koala.
“Oh hell no,” Chuuya barked, trying to yank him off. “That’s not armpit territory anymore, that’s danger zone! I swear to god , if you sniff me there, I’m putting a hit out on you myself.”
“I won’t,” Dazai said peacefully, eyes closed again. “Not yet. I’m savoring the midsection first. Core musk.”
“You need jail. ”
“I need a full-body sweat imprint.”
Chuuya shoved a hand in his face. “Say that again and I will make you eat a bar of soap.”
Dazai opened his mouth and bit his palm.
“ OW— you little goblin! ”
“You taste like salt and violence,” Dazai said reverently, still clinging on like his life depended on it. “Everything I love.”
Chuuya looked skyward. “I am going to kill you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Don’t tell me what I will and won’t—!”
“If you kill me, I won’t be able to roll around in your dirty laundry when you’re gone.”
There was a silence.
“… You’ve done that already, haven’t you. ”
Dazai gave the smallest, guiltiest smile. “Your hamper smells like home.”
Chuuya let out a guttural, wordless sound of rage. “You know what?! Fine! Go ahead! Take the whole damn hamper, you freak! Wear my boxers as a hat! Bathe in my damn gym socks! Just get out of my armpit! ”
“I refuse,” Dazai mumbled happily, already settling in again. “I’ve imprinted.”
“You’re a parasite. ”
“I’m your parasite. ”
“Don’t you dare make that sound romantic.”
“It wasn’t. It was territorial.”
Chuuya groaned like he was physically dying. “ Someone kill me now. ”
“Not before I get a sample of your hair oil,” Dazai muttered, half-asleep and nuzzling the side of Chuuya’s ribs again like it was a pillow.
And Chuuya, somehow, against all logic and decency, let him stay.
Chuuya didn’t know when it had happened—when he’d lost the ability to maintain normal human boundaries. Probably around the third time Dazai licked his wrist to “calibrate his salt intake.” But this… this had to be a new low.
The kid was moving down again.
“ Dazai. ” Chuuya’s voice was low, warning. “You are exactly one inch from me dropkicking you off this couch.”
Dazai didn’t even flinch. His hands tightened slightly around Chuuya’s waist, and he shuffled down another few centimeters—until his nose was pressing into the line where Chuuya’s sweatpants sat low on his hips, soft cotton already damp with post-workout heat.
“Stop,” Chuuya growled. “I’m serious.”
“I’m being scientific,” Dazai mumbled against his pelvis, muffled but somehow still smug. “I’m collecting data. Gotta chart the gradient. There’s a different scent profile per region.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched. “You’re not mapping my body like it’s a goddamn sommelier’s tour !”
“I’ve never smelled this part before,” Dazai continued like Chuuya hadn’t spoken at all, eyes closed in blissful focus. “It’s… stronger here. Dense. Musky. Animalic, even.”
“ I will shove your head through drywall. ”
“You smell like you fight for a living,” Dazai said reverently, dragging his cheek along Chuuya’s hip like he was trying to absorb it by osmosis. “Brutal. Salty. Spicy. And—wait…”
He paused, face still buried in Chuuya’s lower abdomen, and took another deep inhale. Another one.
“…Is that…clove oil?”
Chuuya looked like he was about to combust. “ I use that on bruises, you goddamn freak! ”
Dazai sighed happily. “I knew you were holding out on me.”
“You are literally smelling my groin. ”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dazai replied without missing a beat. “I’m smelling around your groin. It’s a distinct sub-region. Different notes.”
“Get off.”
“No.”
“ Now. ”
“No.”
Chuuya tried to shift his hips to dislodge him. Dazai made a soft, offended noise and bit him. Right above the waistband.
“ OW— ” Chuuya jerked, grabbing a fistful of Dazai’s hair. “ What the fuck is wrong with you?! ”
“I’m just trying to experience you fully,” Dazai said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re a complex man, Chuuya. You deserve full sensory documentation.”
“I’m going to strangle you with your own intestines.”
“You’ll have to peel me off first.”
“I will. ”
“No, you won’t,” Dazai muttered, already wriggling down again, nosing at the waistband like he was searching for contraband. “C’mon, just a little below the navel—”
“ Touch anything inside these pants and I’m putting you in a medically induced coma. ”
Dazai froze, wide-eyed and still half-laughing, and then pulled back just enough to grin up at him from where he was draped like a human barnacle across Chuuya’s lower half.
“But then I wouldn’t get to see what your thigh sweat smells like.”
“I will punch you in the kidneys. ”
“You have punched me in the kidneys.”
“ And I’ll do it again. ”
“You still let me in.”
“ Not anymore. This is the last time. You’re officially on the blacklist. No more visits. No more hugs. No more sniffing privileges—”
“You’re bluffing,” Dazai said lazily, pressing his face right back into Chuuya’s stomach like he owned it. “You’d miss me.”
“I would not. ”
“Liar.”
“I am not a goddamn buffet, Dazai! You don’t get to just—sample me like you’re filling out a Yelp review!”
“I’d give you five stars,” Dazai murmured, lips against his hip now. “Intoxicating. Punchy. Aromatic. Would recommend. Would die here.”
“Would be buried here,” Chuuya snapped.
“Perfect.”
For a second, all Chuuya could do was glare at the ceiling and breathe through his teeth. His whole body was tense, flushed from the gym and now flushed for entirely different reasons , and there was a 15-year-old mafioso with a scent kink practically making out with his waistband like it was a fine wine pairing.
He considered pushing him off again. Telling him to fuck off for real this time. Filing an official report with Mori and demanding a restraining order.
And then Dazai exhaled—hot, slow, and weirdly content—and muttered, almost dreamily:
“Chuuya... your bellybutton smells like victory. ”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Chuuya let out the loudest sigh of his life—long, ragged, from the absolute bottom of his soul.
“...You’re so fucking weird, ” he muttered.
“Mm.” Dazai didn’t argue. Just kept his cheek pressed against the strip of skin below Chuuya’s navel, looking disturbingly content. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true. ”
“Mhm.”
Chuuya tilted his head back, stared at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention, or at the very least, a reason to not throw Dazai out the window.
And still… he didn’t move.
Not even when Dazai’s fingers—suspiciously light—started tracing under the waistband of his sweatpants. Not groping. Not quite indecent. Just barely ghosting over the dip of bone and tendon at his hips, like he was trying to feel the temperature of Chuuya’s skin.
“...You’re not gonna stop, are you?” Chuuya asked, voice flat.
“Nope.”
“Even if I kick you out.”
“I’d come back.”
Chuuya’s eye twitched. “Even if I file a harassment complaint.”
“They’d promote me.”
“Even if I broke your fucking nose.”
“I’d bleed with dignity.”
Chuuya groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes, cursing whatever eldritch god had decided to put this particular bastard in his life.
“Fine,” he growled, low and dangerous. “You’ve got five minutes.”
Dazai perked up instantly, eyes gleaming like a feral animal spotting raw meat. “Really?”
“Five. No licking. No teeth. No weird commentary.”
“Define ‘weird.’”
“Any word like ‘notes,’ ‘fermented,’ or ‘essence’. ”
Dazai was already halfway under the waistband.
“I swear to god , if you narrate this like a fucking cooking show, I’m breaking both your knees.”
“Noted.”
The fabric stretched as Dazai tugged it gently down, slow like he was unveiling a religious relic. Chuuya resisted the urge to flinch. He wasn’t exactly shy —he just wasn’t used to someone treating his sweaty lower abdomen like it was sacred ground.
Dazai didn’t go for anything explicitly vulgar. Not right away.
He just buried his face against the skin just below the waistband, right where the pelvis met thigh. Inhaled. Deeply.
And moaned.
“Oh my god ,” Chuuya hissed, fists clenching in the fabric of the couch. “You’re such a pervert—!”
“You smell like you’ve been in a fistfight,” Dazai whispered against his hip, voice reverent. “Like rage and salt and testosterone . Like violence in a bottle. Holy shit.”
Chuuya’s whole body twitched. “Don’t make this worse .”
Dazai didn’t stop. His nose skimmed lower, slow and greedy, tracing the natural lines of sweat and heat that had gathered during Chuuya’s workout. He was practically nuzzling the crease of Chuuya’s inner thigh now, just shy of indecent, and breathing like it was the best meal of his life.
“You don’t even know how strong it is here,” he muttered. “Like—like skin and heat and worn-in cotton. It’s primal.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll kill you.”
“It’s like...” Dazai paused, struggling to articulate it. “Like the distilled version of you. All the parts that make you you, turned up to eleven. Rough. Hot. Alive. ”
He licked his lips. Pressed his nose even deeper into the curve between thigh and groin, where Chuuya was flushed and overheated and cursing his life choices.
Chuuya squirmed, unable to suppress the small hiss of breath that escaped him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m in ecstasy, ” Dazai admitted shamelessly, rubbing his face there like a dog trying to imprint itself into someone’s jeans. “Do you know what it’s like to crave someone’s scent ? To want to memorize them through your nose ?”
“ No , because I’m a normal human being .”
“You’re the opposite of normal,” Dazai murmured. “You’re one of a kind. Your sweat should be bottled and sold on the black market. I’d pay anything.”
“You’d steal it.”
“Obviously.”
Dazai licked at his own wrist to recalibrate, then pressed his face right back into the curve of Chuuya’s thigh with a sigh that was almost devotional.
Chuuya covered his face again.
“I’ve lost control of my life.”
“You never had it,” Dazai mumbled, voice blissed out.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You love this.”
“I hate you.”
And still—he didn’t move. Didn’t shove him off. Didn’t even stop him when Dazai mouthed at the sweat-slick skin with alarming reverence, drunk off pheromones and borderline-faint from the overload.
Because someone had to be more fucked up than Chuuya.
And apparently, that someone was Dazai.
Chuuya had lived through gunfights, stabbings, an entire building collapse, and once a three-hour debrief with Mori while concussed.
None of that prepared him for the moment Dazai exhaled against the top of his inner thigh like he was praying to it.
And then— lower .
The waistband of his sweatpants shifted again, tugged not by force but by persistence—Dazai easing it just enough to dip his nose into the deepest crease where leg met groin. Not quite obscene. Not yet . But definitely, definitely not friendly.
Chuuya’s whole body went tense like a livewire.
“Fucking—” he choked out, breath catching. “You’re actually doing it, you little—”
But Dazai didn’t answer.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even look up.
His face was buried, mouth parted slightly against the damp heat of Chuuya’s skin, lips barely brushing. His breath came shallow, slow, shaky—like he was drunk , like this was some kind of holy fucking communion. And then he inhaled , slow and greedy, and let out a ragged sound that wasn’t a word, wasn’t a groan—just a pure, animal noise of satisfaction deep in his chest.
Chuuya made another strangled noise and grabbed a fistful of Dazai’s hair, meaning to pull him up, maybe, or at least break the trance—but Dazai only sank lower .
Now he was mouthing along the seam of Chuuya’s underwear, tongue not quite out but lips parted like he couldn’t breathe unless his face was right there . The sweat-soaked fabric clung to the heat of him, and Dazai nosed against it like he was trying to merge with the scent, slow and desperate.
His hands tightened on Chuuya’s hips—fingertips bruising, trembling just slightly. His mouth was pressed so firm now Chuuya could feel the shape of it, soft and hot through the damp cotton. It should’ve been funny. It should’ve been gross . It was gross.
But it was also—
“Goddammit,” Chuuya breathed, head falling back, a flush crawling viciously down his chest. “You’re not even human.”
Dazai gave no sign he’d heard.
His whole body was moving in small, subconscious motions, grinding faintly like he was physically starved for the scent, like he wanted to absorb it through every pore. His nose dragged downward, slow, through the center, and then—
A sharp inhale .
Like he’d hit the core of it. The heart of Chuuya’s scent.
He froze.
Then melted.
His whole body slackened, trembling slightly, like he’d been sated . Face buried against Chuuya’s cock, separated by nothing but a layer of sweaty cotton—and still not doing anything sexual. Not really . Just breathing. Pressed against the heat of it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
Chuuya could feel the breath ghosting through the fabric. Hot. Messy. Hungry.
His fingers clenched tighter in Dazai’s hair.
“Five minutes are up,” he said hoarsely.
Dazai didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t so much as flinch.
Chuuya looked down—and saw the way Dazai’s shoulders were shaking, not with laughter but with some private, breathless thrill, like he’d gone somewhere else entirely.
Like he was high on it.
“Oi,” Chuuya growled, lower now, but not as sharp. His grip in Dazai’s hair faltered. “You can’t just… fuckin’—get off to the smell of me and not say anything.”
Still nothing. Just another slow, shuddering breath as Dazai nuzzled deeper, his nose pushing up along the base now, following the outline like a goddamn bloodhound tracing the path of prey.
Chuuya hissed and let his head drop back again, chest heaving.
He wasn’t gonna stop him.
Couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Not when Dazai was like this —silent, reverent, nose-deep in Chuuya’s scent like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
It was fucked.
It was insane.
It was maybe the hottest thing Chuuya’d ever endured in his life.
And Dazai hadn’t even taken his pants off.
Chuuya didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there.
It could’ve been two minutes. Could’ve been twenty. All he knew was that Dazai’s face was still buried in his crotch like it was the last source of oxygen on earth.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just breathing .
Deeply .
And Chuuya could feel every exhale, slow and humid, pressed through the damp cotton like steam. The bastard wasn’t even touching him anymore—his hands had gone slack, draped over Chuuya’s thighs like discarded laundry—but his mouth stayed exactly where it was, lips parted against the heat of him like he was trying to taste the scent without opening his tongue.
It wasn’t sexual.
It was worse .
It was worship .
And that was what made it unbearable.
Chuuya’s hands, once clenched in Dazai’s hair to keep him still, had gone limp too—fingers curled loosely, uncertain if they were holding him there or preparing to finally push him away. His breathing was shallow, chest tight. The room felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago.
“Still going,” he muttered under his breath. “Unbelievable. Fuckin’ freak.”
Dazai shifted slightly—not to move away, but to press closer , nudging the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of his nose like a cat greeting something familiar.
Chuuya flinched. “Oi—!”
Still nothing.
Just another inhale.
Deep , this one. Slower than before. The kind of inhale you take when you’re filling your lungs with something needed —not wanted, not liked, but required .
Then he sighed. Soundless, reverent.
Like the air itself had pleased him.
And Chuuya could feel it all—could feel the humid press of that breath across the sensitive skin of his groin, the wet heat seeping through cotton, sticking fabric to flesh. He was painfully aware of how damp it was down there—sweat and body heat and maybe a little pre, caught in the folds of fabric, clinging to him. And Dazai? He wanted that. Was digging for it.
Not for what was underneath.
Not to touch.
Just to smell .
That was what made it unbearable. That Dazai didn’t want him like a pervert. He wanted to know him. Record him, catalog him, memorize every shift in scent like a creature trying to understand its god.
“Jesus,” Chuuya whispered, shaking his head like that’d clear it. “You’re really in it, huh?”
Dazai didn’t nod. Didn’t even react.
Just kept mouthing lightly at the dampest spot, where sweat had soaked the fabric darker. Where heat pooled. Where the scent was thickest.
His breath trembled again. Another soft, pitiful sigh. He wasn’t just drunk on it now—he was dependent . Like this was a fix . Like he needed it to function. To live.
Chuuya didn’t stop him.
He couldn’t. Not anymore.
Because somehow—somewhere in the past fifteen minutes—it had stopped feeling like a violation.
Now it felt like responsibility .
Because whatever the hell Dazai was getting out of this—it was real. Disturbing. Animalistic. Sacred , somehow. Chuuya couldn’t even mock it. Couldn’t laugh. Couldn’t threaten him into stopping.
Not when the kid was clinging to his scent like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
“…You’re not okay, are you,” Chuuya muttered, more to himself than anything.
Dazai didn’t respond.
But he shivered —barely perceptible, like something in his brain had cracked open and let something raw spill out. His mouth moved against Chuuya’s crotch again—not kissing, not sucking, just pressing , almost like a heartbeat syncing itself to another’s.
And then— finally —he made a sound.
Not a moan. Not a word.
Just a low, desperate whimper .
Chuuya’s hand curled in his hair again, tighter this time—not pulling, not pushing, just holding. The way you might hold a feral dog who came to rest its head in your lap for the first time. Unsure. Careful. Steady.
“…Yeah,” he said, almost quiet. “You’re fucking broken.”
He didn’t let go.
For a few long moments, there was only the sound of breathing.
Chuuya’s, shallow and tight.
Dazai’s, slower now—more controlled. Still close. Still too close. His face remained pressed against Chuuya’s junk like it was some sacred artifact, but his hands… they’d started to move again. Not rough or searching—just resting. One on Chuuya’s hipbone, thumb absently brushing back and forth like a metronome.
Another breath— deep . Right into the dip of Chuuya’s lower abdomen. His nose pressed hard, dragging slow across the waistband, down lower toward the curve of the pelvis where tension sat thickest.
“You’re holding it in,” Dazai muttered. “You’re clenched. I can smell it.”
Chuuya went absolutely still.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he whispered, stunned. “You’re sniffing for farts now?”
Dazai finally lifted his head, just enough to look at him. His eyes were glazed, dark, pupils blown wide.
“No,” he said again, softer. “I’m mapping you.”
“You’re mapping my intestinal distress .”
“It’s part of you,” Dazai said. “Your stress. Your gut. It reacts first. You’ve always been tight there, I just didn’t notice how strong the scent was before.” He leaned down again. Pressed his nose right to the curve where thigh met ass, near the deepest seam of the sweatpants. “It’s hot.”
Chuuya twitched. “You better not be about to shove your face in my ass.”
“I’d warn you first,” Dazai mumbled. “Probably.”
“Dazai—”
But then Dazai exhaled , right against the crack of his ass through the sweats, and Chuuya’s soul left his body .
“Stop— stop —this is insane, you can’t just—!”
But Dazai was already gone again, nose dragging slow and firm along the curve, mouth open slightly now. Not licking. Just scenting . Hunting. He sighed, long and breathless, then shoved his face further in—nuzzling right up between the cheeks like it was just another fold to explore, just another sacred, sweat-cloaked crease to document.
“Holy shit ,” Chuuya rasped, horrified. “You’re face-first in my ass . Through my pants.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Just rubbed his face there, slow and reverent, hands gripping Chuuya’s thighs now to hold himself steady. His voice, when it returned, was low. Almost reverent.
Chuuya was flushed everywhere now, face red, chest rising fast, legs twitching.
“I’m gonna throw up,” he muttered, half-hysterical. “I’m gonna hurl. You’re—this is not okay .”
But he wasn’t moving.
And Dazai knew it.
He stayed right there, mouth open slightly against the seam of Chuuya’s sweats, one slow drag of breath after another like he was meditating. His voice was barely audible.
“You don’t even know how good it is,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it’s like—being able to smell every part of someone. Every hidden piece. The things you don’t show. You think it’s gross, but I think it’s honest .”
Chuuya shut his eyes.
He was in hell.
Sweaty, twitching, over-sniffed hell.
But somehow—somehow—he didn’t stop it.
Couldn’t.
Because whatever fucked up ritual this was for Dazai… it had stopped being about getting off. It wasn’t about sex. It was about devotion . Dazai wanted to wear his scent like a brand. Wanted to know Chuuya, inside and out, down to the gas in his gut and the sweat in his ass crack.
And Chuuya—
God help him.
Chuuya let him.
By now, Chuuya wasn’t even fighting.
His hands were limp where they’d once clutched Dazai’s hair, his head leaned back against the couch cushions, eyes unfocused and staring at nothing. He was breathing hard—not aroused, not panicked, just overwhelmed . Like his body was trying to eject a virus that wasn’t physical.
And Dazai?
Still buried.
Still silent, save for the soft hitch of breath every time he inhaled through the damp fabric stretched across Chuuya’s ass.
It was humid down there. Unbearably so. Chuuya hadn’t showered after his workout. The sweat that had gathered between his thighs had only grown denser—faintly sour, soaked into cotton, clinging. It should’ve been disgusting . No—it was disgusting. He could smell it.
But Dazai didn’t flinch.
If anything, he pressed closer , dragging his nose along the deepest part of the crease, right where skin folded tight and the scent was thickest—salt, heat, and the faint, unmistakable bite of sweat-soaked ass.
And still—no groping. No perversion. Just the awful reverence of a dog with its nose in filth, and a kind of peace in his posture that made Chuuya’s skin crawl.
Dazai murmured something, too low to hear.
Then licked his lips.
Chuuya jerked. “You didn’t— you’re not licking that, right?”
“No,” Dazai answered, dazed. “I… thought about it.”
Chuuya groaned, slapping a palm over his eyes. “ You are so fucking vile. ”
“I wouldn’t do it without asking,” Dazai muttered, voice slightly slurred from whatever trance he’d pulled himself into. “But the scent’s the strongest here. It’s… intense..”
He exhaled again, and it shuddered through him.
“I can smell what you ate. I can tell how long you’ve been holding it in. You’re bloated. Your stomach’s fighting it. That’s part of you too.”
Chuuya looked at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.
“My teenage boyfriend is sniffing my swamp ass and telling me about my digestive health,” he muttered. “I hope the fucking gods are watching this. I hope they’re ashamed .”
Dazai nuzzled lower.
Now he was at the under-curve, right where Chuuya’s thigh met ass, the part no one ever touched—not even himself unless he was scrubbing in the shower. The fabric there was wet , clinging, maybe from sweat, maybe from—
“You’ve been sweating more lately,” Dazai mumbled, tongue darting over his own lip. “Is it stress? Or hormones? There’s—” he paused, snuffling deep like a pig hunting truffles. “There’s ammonia.”
“Stop analyzing it!”
“But it’s fascinating—”
“You’re pressing your face to the part of me that reeks the worst and giving me a chemical breakdown!”
“It’s how I know you,” Dazai said simply. “It’s real . Nobody else gets this part. Nobody else could even stand it.”
And that was the worst part.
Because he wasn’t wrong .
No one else would’ve stayed down there.
No one else would’ve found meaning in the stink of unwashed ass and sweat and gas buildup—but Dazai did . Not sexually. Not even for fun. Just because he wanted to be closer .
Like Chuuya’s body was a map and Dazai needed to explore every inch .
Even the bad ones.
Especially the bad ones.
And now he was inching lower , down to where the sweats hung looser around the bottom curve. His nose dragged to the seam between cheek and couch, where heat had been collecting for nearly an hour. Where it was probably the worst —dark and moist, reeking of fabric that had absorbed hours of body heat and zero airflow.
Dazai sighed like a man in love.
“I could sleep here,” he murmured. “You don’t even know. It’s like… mold. And brine. And heat. And you .”
“I should’ve drowned you in the river when I had the chance.”
“You say that,” Dazai said, shifting slightly so his cheek was pressed to the full swell of Chuuya’s ass, “but you haven’t made me stop.”
“I don’t know how to stop this. You broke my will to live ten minutes ago.”
Dazai chuckled—low and hoarse—and dragged his nose back up again, one long final sweep through the dampness, as if committing it to memory.
Then he stilled.
Breathing soft.
Quiet.
Like he’d found the core of it. The awful, disgusting, intimate center.
And rested there.
Nose-first in the most shameful part of Chuuya’s body. Just breathing. Just existing . Just being close.
Dazai had gone still again.
Face mashed into the seat of Chuuya’s sweats, eyes shut, just breathing—calm, quiet, like the stink had sedated him.
It was so absurd Chuuya couldn’t even summon outrage anymore. He just stared down at the bony little mess draped over his lap and thought, vaguely, I could end this any time I want.
But he didn’t want to.
Not exactly.
Because this wasn’t powerless. This wasn’t Dazai doing whatever he wanted while Chuuya froze. Somewhere along the way—maybe around the fifth time Dazai murmured “ammonia”—Chuuya had stopped being a victim of this nonsense.
He was letting it happen.
And that meant it could be on his terms.
“…Get up,” Chuuya said suddenly, voice flat.
Dazai blinked against him. “Mm?”
“I said get up. Back off.”
Dazai hesitated, then pulled back slowly, nose dragging along Chuuya’s ass as he lifted his head. His face was flushed— not turned-on flushed, but dazed, scent-drunk, skin clammy. His pupils were blown wide.
Chuuya shoved his shoulder. “Sit up.”
Dazai blinked at him like he was trying to process language.
“Now,” Chuuya snapped.
Dazai sat up, sluggish and confused. “Did I do something wrong…?”
Chuuya didn’t answer. Just stood, fast, peeling himself off the couch with a sticky sound and turning his back to Dazai. His sweats clung. His shirt had ridden up. He looked like shit. He felt worse.
And still—
“Come here,” he ordered, jerking his chin behind him.
Dazai blinked. “Wha—”
“Come. Here. Face in.”
Dazai blinked once more.
And then slowly, as if in a trance, crawled forward on his knees and pressed his face back into Chuuya’s backside.
But this time— Chuuya was the one holding him there.
One firm hand planted on the back of Dazai’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him in hard enough to leave no space. Dazai’s nose squashed right into the cleft of Chuuya’s ass through the sweat-damp fabric, and Chuuya leaned back into it deliberately, like this was payment. This was what he got for being a freak.
“You wanted it,” Chuuya muttered, staring over his shoulder. “So take it. No more slow nuzzling like you’re praying at an altar. I want you to breathe it in.”
Dazai groaned. Not a pleasured sound—more like pain. Like sensory overload. His shoulders trembled.
Chuuya shifted his weight slightly, grinding back just enough to smother him. “C’mon, sensor-boy. What’s the read? How’s the heat index back there?”
Dazai made a noise—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper—and obediently sniffed, deep , burying his whole face into the stench-soaked seam. His hands came up to brace on Chuuya’s hips like he needed to anchor himself.
“I know what you want,” Chuuya muttered, not letting up. “You want the part no one talks about. You wanna map that . So do it.”
Dazai was shaking . Whether it was from overstimulation or awe, Chuuya didn’t care. He kept him there, held him there, let the sheer wrongness of it sink in . Let him drown in the funk of unwashed sweat, heat, the soft acidic tang of days-old detergent being overwhelmed by pure body.
“You wanna be mine so bad?” Chuuya growled. “Then get used to the parts that stink. Don’t act like it’s holy. It’s fucking rank back there.”
But Dazai didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
If anything, he breathed deeper , the sounds he made raw now—guttural, helpless.
“You’re sick,” Chuuya muttered, half to himself. “But you’re my problem now.”
He dragged Dazai’s head a little to the side, forcing him against the dampest part of the seam—just under one cheek, where heat and pressure had baked it in thick.
“This spot’s gotta be awful,” Chuuya said, voice quieter now. “Sweat, heat, fabric. Probably a hint of gas.”
Dazai whined into it. A tiny, muffled sound.
“You smell that?” Chuuya asked. “Smells like shit, doesn’t it?”
Dazai didn’t speak.
He just nodded.
Chuuya exhaled through his nose and let his weight settle in harder—just enough to feel Dazai’s breath stutter beneath him.
“That’s it,” he muttered. “You wanted to be close. You wanted to know me . So breathe .”
And Dazai did.
Face pressed into the worst, most shameful part of him.
And Chuuya held him there.
Because if Dazai was gonna be disgusting—
Then he was gonna do it right .
Dazai was trembling under him now.
Not from fear, not from cold—just raw, chemical overstimulation. His fingers twitched where they gripped Chuuya’s hips, knuckles white. Every breath he took sounded like it hurt a little, like it burned going in. But still he inhaled, deeper, longer, needier.
Chuuya shifted back a little further, until he could feel the bridge of Dazai’s nose pressing flush into the darkest part of the seam.
“Still breathing?” he asked, voice flat.
Dazai gave a muffled hum against him. A whimper. Barely audible.
“Good,” Chuuya muttered. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
He let go of Dazai’s hair and reached behind himself, fingers finding the waistband of his sweats. Pulled it down a little— just enough to expose the top of his ass. Damp skin met the cool air of the room, clammy with sweat and body heat, the faint stick of fabric peeling off like tape.
Dazai froze .
His breath caught audibly.
“You wanted it raw,” Chuuya muttered, sliding the fabric down just enough to give him access. “You’re getting it raw. No more filter. Put your nose there.”
Slowly—almost reverently—Dazai leaned in again. His breath hitched when he got close. Then he pressed in.
Skin to skin.
Chuuya didn’t even flinch.
He watched .
Dazai’s whole body shuddered the moment his face made contact, like his nervous system couldn’t handle the direct hit. His mouth opened— not to kiss, not to taste, just to breathe , deeper and heavier than ever before.
“Oh, fuck ,” he whispered, barely audible. “It’s so strong…”
“You asked for it,” Chuuya said.
And then, slow and deliberate, he rolled his hips back just enough to smear that sweat-slick skin over Dazai’s face. Not a grind—there was no rhythm to it. Just a press , firm and deliberate. A shove of scent straight into his face.
Dazai groaned.
Loud.
Chuuya’s hand came down on the back of his head, steadying him. “What’s it smell like now?” he asked, low and sharp. “Tell me.”
Dazai gasped against his skin.
“I—fuck—it’s—” He trembled again, breath catching. “Sour. Heavy. Like... like saltwater and rust. Like something that shouldn’t be alive but is. ”
“Keep going.”
“It’s deep. Fermented. Animal. Like you’ve been fighting for hours. Like it’s soaked in rage. Like something died back here .”
Chuuya barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Christ. You’re disgusting.”
Dazai only whimpered again, pressing his face harder into the crack, until his cheek was wet with sweat that wasn’t his.
“I could stay here forever,” he muttered.
“No, you couldn’t ,” Chuuya snapped. “You’d pass out from the stench. Don’t act like you’re built for this.”
“I want to be,” Dazai rasped, mouth open now, not touching—just hovering. “I want to keep it on me. I want to stink like you.”
That did something to Chuuya—some low, tight twist in his gut, something hot , something wrong . Something like pride , dark and smug.
“You wanna stink like me?” he asked. “Then do more than sniff. Rub your fucking face in it.”
Dazai obeyed.
Without hesitation, he smeared his face along Chuuya’s ass cheek, slow and reverent like he was marking himself. His nose dragged across bare skin, collecting sweat, sebum, every foul trace Chuuya had left there. His lips parted against it, not to kiss, but to absorb —like scent through osmosis.
He was panting now. Out of breath from the sheer intensity of it.
And Chuuya just stood there, one hand on Dazai’s head, the other braced on his own thigh, watching the freak crawl deeper into whatever fucked-up trance he’d summoned.
“You’re really gonna leave here covered in my stink,” he muttered, half in awe. “You’re gonna walk through the city with your face smelling like my fucking ass. ”
Dazai whimpered in response. A soft, blissed-out noise.
“Better not wash it off,” Chuuya added. “Not even when it gets worse. Not even when it settles in. That’d ruin the point, right?”
Dazai nodded desperately, still pressed to him.
And Chuuya let him.
Because if this was devotion—
Then so be it.
Chuuya shifted his weight, leaning forward just enough so that Dazai’s nose pressed deeper into the slick fold of sweat-moistened skin. The scent hit harder, sharper—like salt and copper and the sour tang of something fermented too long. Dazai’s breath hitched again, a low, uneven sound vibrating through the fabric between them.
“Keep breathing,” Chuuya said flatly, his hand still tangled in Dazai’s hair, holding him steady. “Don’t stop. I want to see how long you last.”
Dazai whimpered softly but didn’t pull away. Instead, he inhaled deeper, dragging the smell into his lungs like it was pure oxygen.
“You’re insane,” Chuuya muttered, but there was no real heat behind it—more a tired kind of disbelief. “I don’t know how you’re still conscious.”
Dazai’s fingers dug into Chuuya’s thigh tighter, knuckles white with the effort. His face was flushed, eyes half-lidded, utterly lost in the haze of scent.
“I’m not leaving,” he said thickly, voice barely more than a breath. “Not until you say so.”
Chuuya smirked. “Good. Because I’m not moving either.”
He shifted again, grinding just a little more of that sweat-drenched skin against Dazai’s face. The kid’s whole body shuddered, a shaky moan slipping past his lips. He was completely gone in it—lost in the overwhelming mash of heat, sweat, salt, and something darker beneath it all.
“You really do smell like a mess,” Chuuya said, voice low, amused despite himself.
Dazai inhaled, then murmured, “It’s perfect.”
“Of course it is,” Chuuya said, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Only the best for you, huh?”
The minutes dragged on like hours. Dazai stayed glued to the worst, most shameful part of Chuuya’s body, soaking it all in, body trembling every time Chuuya moved just enough to smear more sweat into the crease. He made soft, reverent noises—breathless sighs, small whines, the occasional choked “fuck…”
Chuuya watched it all with a cold, calculating eye. He let his hand roam from Dazai’s hair to the nape of his neck, fingers curling possessively as if to say this freak belongs to me now .
“Don’t you want a break?” Chuuya asked, voice low.
Dazai shook his head, muffled against skin. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”
Chuuya laughed—dark, rough. “Jesus Christ.”
He slid one hand down, brushing against the damp fabric, fingers pressing lightly against the soft flesh beneath. Dazai’s breath hitched violently, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip on Chuuya’s thigh, as if the contact was the only thing keeping him tethered.
Chuuya leaned in, voice a harsh whisper. “You’re disgusting.”
Dazai’s response was a faint, blissed-out hum.
They stayed like that for what felt like forever—Chuuya grinding, Dazai breathing, the room filled with the wet, salty heat of two fucked-up teenage mafiosi tangled in a fucked-up, unspoken ritual of possession.
Chuuya pushed Dazai back just enough to look down at him.
“Get ready to be coated in this shit,” he said. “You’re not washing off tonight.”
Dazai’s eyes lit with something like awe. “Good.”
Chuuya smirked and dragged Dazai’s head back into the worst of it.
And just like that, the world shrank to scent and skin and sweat.
Eventually, Chuuya tugged Dazai roughly to his feet, still gripping that wild mess of hair like a leash. Without a word, he led him back to the couch—Dazai’s face never leaving the crease, as if it was some damn sanctuary.
Chuuya didn’t bother with ceremony. His fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants and slid them down with a lazy flick, exposing skin still slick with sweat and heat.
He turned without a glance, then dropped himself down— planted himself right back onto Dazai’s face like a king reclaiming his throne.
Dazai didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just stayed still, like this was exactly where he wanted to be—exactly where he belonged.
Chuuya’s arms folded across his chest as he settled in, eyes half-lidded, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
“This right here?” he murmured, voice low and amused. “This your new favorite spot or what?”
Dazai let out a muffled noise of agreement, his breath warm and uneven beneath him.
Chuuya rocked himself just a little, grinding sweat-slick skin into Dazai’s face. The scent was thick and salty and utterly his.
He let out a quiet, dark chuckle.
“Fucking disgusting,” he said, shaking his head.
But then, without warning, he shifted his weight just enough to press a little firmer, like staking his claim.
“Don’t move,” he warned. “I’m not done with you.”
Dazai whimpered softly, clutching at the couch beneath him but making no move to escape.
The two of them stayed there—Chuuya’s sweaty skin pressed tight against Dazai’s flushed, breathless face—locked in their fucked-up, wordless ritual.
And somehow, it felt normal .
Like this was exactly how it was supposed to be.
Time dragged.
Chuuya didn’t move.
Didn’t have to. He was comfortable. Perfectly settled in, bare skin pressed firm to Dazai’s face, heat bleeding from every inch. The air was thick—heavy with the smell of sweat, salt, and skin long past clean.
Beneath him, Dazai stayed still.
Buried.
His nose pressed deep between the curve of Chuuya’s ass, every breath slow and shaky. It was almost too much—the scent concentrated and warm, fermented by hours of pressure and no airflow. But he didn’t try to pull away. If anything, he leaned in further, pressing his face as deep as Chuuya would allow, like he could disappear into it completely.
Chuuya let out a slow breath and sank a little deeper into the cushions, his weight settling more firmly on Dazai’s face.
“You’re still breathing,” he muttered, amused. “Guess that means you want more.”
Dazai made a muffled noise—barely a hum—but Chuuya heard the edge of desperation in it.
He chuckled dryly and rocked forward, just slightly, just enough to shift pressure from one cheek to the other. The skin was slick, damp, clinging to Dazai’s face like a second skin.
“You smell that?” Chuuya asked, voice low. “That’s the part that’s been sweating under me all day. That’s the stuff you really want, right?”
He lifted himself just an inch, enough for air to hit the sweaty fold beneath—cool and sudden—before slowly lowering himself again, sealing Dazai back into the damp heat.
The sound Dazai made was pathetic. Helpless. Completely surrendered.
Chuuya smirked.
“Filthy little freak.”
He adjusted his weight again, deliberately grinding the full weight of his ass into Dazai’s face, rubbing it in—working the sweat, the stink, deeper. He didn’t even flinch at the noise Dazai made beneath him. Just held him there.
“Bet you’d sleep like this if I let you,” Chuuya muttered, rocking again, a lazy roll of his hips. “Suffocating under me. Covered in stink. Dreaming with your face full of my fucking ass.”
Dazai’s fingers twitched against the couch cushions, nails digging in slightly, but he didn’t try to move. Didn’t even try to speak.
Chuuya reached back casually, resting one hand on the back of Dazai’s head, fingers curled possessively in his hair.
“Breathe deep,” he said. “No more shallow whimpering. You wanted to be here—so take it in. All of it.”
He gave another slow grind for emphasis.
The air caught. The scent clung. Dazai trembled beneath him.
“Good,” Chuuya muttered. “That’s what I fucking thought.”
And he stayed like that.
Firm. Heavy. Rank.
Like a brand.
Like a sentence.
And Dazai?
Dazai breathed it in like it was holy.
Chuuya settled in like he was planning to stay there all night. Every shift of his hips smeared more sweat into Dazai’s face, every lazy sigh just another reminder of how utterly unbothered he was. The heat between them was suffocating now — humid, stale, overwhelming.
Dazai had lasted longer than Chuuya expected.
The kid had breathed through it, swallowed the stink without protest, even when it turned sharp and wet and unbearable. He’d buried himself in it like it was sacred, hands trembling but still obedient, face pressed deep between the rank, sweat-slicked curve of Chuuya’s ass like it was home. Chuuya decides to up it a little, and he relaxes his gut and lets something slip right into Dazai’s face–
Now, Dazai was twitching.
Not in awe. Not in pleasure.
In panic.
His fingers clenched at the couch, shoulders rising in shallow bursts. His breath came fast, wheezing now. Desperate.
Chuuya noticed it in the small shift — the way Dazai’s grip faltered, like his whole body was trying to retreat without actually pulling away.
“Tch,” Chuuya muttered. “You’re starting to crack.”
No response.
He rocked back a little, grinding the full weight down again — a final test, a challenge.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Thought you could handle all of it.”
Dazai whimpered — a strangled, broken sound. And then he shoved.
His hands planted on the couch, and with a frantic burst of movement, he finally jerked his face away, gasping like he’d surfaced from underwater.
“ I can’t— ” he choked, chest heaving, voice thin and ragged. “I can’t anymore—fuck—”
Chuuya blinked, startled by how hard Dazai scrambled off the couch, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt like he could scrub the stink out of his very pores . His whole body shook, knees unsteady, like the scent had gutted him from the inside out.
Chuuya didn’t move. Just raised an eyebrow and leaned back, bare thighs still damp and sticky in the space Dazai had fled.
“You done?” he asked coolly.
Dazai coughed, rubbing at his nose, eyes watery and flushed. “I—I wasn’t expecting that, ” he wheezed, collapsing into the farthest corner of the room like it could protect him.
Chuuya snorted. “You wanted everything. I gave it to you.”
“Yeah,” Dazai rasped. “And I regret it. ”
He flopped backward, one arm over his face, voice barely audible: “My brain’s leaking out my ears…”
Chuuya chuckled dryly and stretched his legs out across the couch, reclaiming the space like a throne once more.
“Next time,” he said, “don’t beg for shit you can’t handle.”
Dazai groaned from across the room, still curled up and twitching.
Chuuya smirked to himself.
Because deep down, he knew:
There would be a next time.
And Dazai would crawl right back.
Whether he wanted to or not.
Dazai was still draped over the far end of the room like a corpse, arm thrown over his face, chest rising in slow, shaky breaths. His hair was a damp mess, clinging to his forehead, and his shirt looked like it had soaked up half of Chuuya’s sweat just by proximity.
Chuuya lounged across the couch like a smug god, legs stretched out where Dazai’s face had just been. He arched an eyebrow and let out a low scoff.
“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with disgusted amusement. “Collapsed in a heap like I just fought you in a war. You smell like you got buried in my laundry and left there to rot.”
Dazai groaned but didn’t move. “You are exhausting,” he said, his voice hoarse and faintly raspy. “I think I saw God.”
“God didn’t want you,” Chuuya shot back. “Even Hell would turn its nose up at how bad you reek right now.”
Dazai snorted weakly. “I reek like you, shortstack.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “You saying that like it’s not a death sentence. ”
Dazai finally sat up—slowly, shakily, as if his bones had dissolved—propping himself against the wall. He looked wrecked. Red-faced, sweat-soaked, still twitching from sensory overload. But his smile?
Smug as hell.
“I stand by it,” he said. “Every inhale. Every rank, ungodly second. Worth it.”
Chuuya blinked at him, then barked out a laugh. “You’re actually serious. You enjoyed that.”
“Of course I did,” Dazai said simply, tilting his head like it was obvious. “I said I wanted to explore you. I didn’t say it’d all be pleasant, but I meant it.”
“‘Explore me’?” Chuuya repeated, sneering. “You mean ‘shove your face up my ass until you pass out’?”
Dazai gave a dreamy little nod. “Exactly. Enlightening.”
Chuuya threw a cushion at him, hitting him square in the chest. “You’re deranged.”
The pillow slid to the floor. Dazai made no effort to pick it up.
“Physically compromised,” he said, placing a hand over his chest with mock solemnity. “Spiritually fulfilled.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes and leaned back into the couch, stretching. “If I ever catch you sniffing around my stuff again, I’m gonna drown you in it.”
Dazai smiled faintly. “Promises, promises.”
“You smell like a dead raccoon.”
“I smell like Chuuya Nakahara. ” Dazai pointed to himself. “Your musk. Your signature.”
Chuuya pointed a finger at him like a knife. “You keep calling it ‘musk’ and I will throw you into the river.”
“Romantic.”
“Unhinged,” Chuuya corrected.
Dazai tilted his head, thoughtful. “Might be the same thing, in our case.”
Chuuya didn’t respond at first, just looked at him. This kid—barely fifteen, grinning like a demon, still covered in sweat and filth like it was a badge of honor.
He scoffed and looked away.
“Freak.”
“You let me do it,” Dazai sing-songed.
“Yeah, and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
“But you did. ”
Chuuya groaned. “I swear to god—”
And just like that, the ritual was over. No ceremony, no resolution. Just two tired, awful boys, basking in the after-stink of something neither of them would ever speak about in polite company.
And the worst part?
It probably wasn’t the last time.
The couch creaked as Chuuya leaned back into it, stretching his arms out behind him with a tired sigh. The cushion under him was damp — he made a face but didn’t get up. Not yet. Dazai was still across the room looking like someone had beat him over the head with a gym bag full of dirty socks.
“You look like you got steamrolled by a locker room,” Chuuya muttered, tilting his head to get a better look at the mess that was Dazai. “And smell worse.”
Dazai, lying flat on the floor like he’d chosen that position as his grave, didn’t even flinch. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’re welcome.”
“‘You’re welcome’?” Chuuya repeated with a scoff. “You didn’t do anything .”
“I offered myself up to your divine odor,” Dazai murmured, eyes closed. “Body and soul. You should be honored.”
“ You should be arrested .”
Dazai cracked one eye open. “You say that, but I know for a fact you sat back down. No one made you.”
Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Never,” Dazai said dreamily, still too dazed to sit up.
They sat in silence for a few moments. The fan hummed in the corner of the room, barely cutting through the stench of sweat and ego.
Then Chuuya muttered, “You better shower before you go back to your dorm.”
“No.”
“You reek.”
“Of you. ”
Chuuya shot him a glare. “Exactly.”
Dazai sat up slowly, arms limp at his sides. “You don’t understand. I’ve ascended. Showering now would be like… defacing a sacred monument.”
“You’re defacing my apartment, you stinkbomb. Get in the damn shower.”
Dazai blinked slowly. “Can I sleep in your laundry pile instead?”
Chuuya threw a throw pillow at him again. “You’re so lucky I don’t have access to acid.”
“Romantic.”
“I will hose you down in the alley like a stray. ”
“King behavior.”
Chuuya groaned and got to his feet, yanking his sweatpants back on with the practiced irritation of someone used to things going to hell. “Towels. Now.”
“But I want to be gross,” Dazai said, sprawled dramatically on the floor again. “It’s honest. It’s you. ”
“Stop making this poetic,” Chuuya barked, stomping off toward the hallway. “You smell like betrayal and armpits.”
Dazai called after him, “Your armpits!”
“Shut up! ”
Chuuya disappeared down the hall, muttering death threats and insults under his breath. Dazai stayed on the floor, smiling faintly, breathing in the lingering scent like a freak in love with a trash fire.
God, he was gonna do this again.
Probably soon.
The water started running down the hall. Chuuya had turned on the shower out of spite, not generosity, and stomped back into the living room with a towel in one hand and a bottle of body wash in the other like a threat.
He stopped short.
Dazai hadn’t moved.
Still face-up on the floor, limbs sprawled, looking like a martyr freshly canonized in sweat and grime. His shirt clung to him, stained in places. His hair was still damp with Chuuya , and he looked more proud than pitiful.
Chuuya scowled. “Shower’s on.”
No response.
“Towel. Soap. Hot water. Get your freaky ass in there.”
Dazai turned his head slowly, blinking at him like he was waking up from a vision. “...Why?”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“I like it like this,” Dazai said, gesturing to his own body like it was a masterpiece. “This is essence. This is real. ”
Chuuya let the towel slap him in the face. “You smell like a car crash in a sauna.”
“And yet here I lie, reborn,” Dazai sighed.
“Reeking.”
“Righteous.”
“ Rotting. ”
Chuuya took a few slow steps forward, looming over him. “You step into my bed smelling like that and I’ll lock you in the garbage chute.”
“Only if you’re in there with me.”
Chuuya didn’t dignify that with a reply. He crouched down, grabbed Dazai by the collar, and tried to drag him up.
Dazai went limp like a noodle. “Nooo…”
“Shut up and get up—”
“I want to bask,” Dazai whined, flopping backward. “You don’t understand. My pores have opened. My soul has merged with yours. You’ve literally imprinted on me, Chuuya—like a duckling.”
Chuuya froze. “You did not just say that.”
“I did. And I’m proud of it.”
Chuuya looked down at him—sweaty, smug, sprawled across his floor like a walking health hazard—and let out the slow, defeated exhale of a man who knew this wasn’t a fight he was going to win.
He dropped the towel onto Dazai’s stomach.
“Fine. You wanna smell like me? Go ahead. Marinate in it. See what happens.”
“I plan to.”
“But if anyone —and I mean anyone—mentions it to me tomorrow,” Chuuya growled, turning back toward the bathroom, “I’m duct-taping you inside a garbage bag and throwing you in the river.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” Dazai said with a grin.
“I’ll do it in your sleep, you little freak.”
Water still running, steam wafting faintly down the hallway, Chuuya disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
Dazai stared at the ceiling for a long, contented moment.
Then he brought the towel up to his face, took a deep breath, and smiled.