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The ice in Dazai’s glass of whiskey has long melted.
Joyful, chirping voices surround him; the clinking of glasses and pops of champagne bottles amplify their shared merriness. The super yacht — Mari, one of Mori’s most prized possessions — is gently bobbing on the calm waters of Yokohama Bay, making other vessels around it look like toys next to its gargantuan hull.
Everyone is celebrating. Mari is full of the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency’s members, two rival organisations sharing their joy. Just for tonight, they forget about their differences to mark the end of humanity’s shared struggle. Just for tonight, there is something worth embracing the enemy for.
Dostoevsky is dead. The world is saved. Yadda-yadda.
Dazai has no desire to join in.
He doesn’t really care about the world or anything else at this point.
He only has eyes for one person in the room.
Technically, two.
He grips the glass with a shaky hand. Port Mafia was in charge of catering, so the whiskey must be goddamn good. At least, it was good before the melted ice cubes watered it down.
He doesn’t feel like drinking it; the most use he could get out of the glass is sending it flying at the man currently chatting Chuuya up. Trying to steal the dog from its owner.
And the most infuriating part is that Chuuya is happily playing into this, like he is willing to share himself with the bastard.
Dazai doesn’t like sharing.
The pair sits in the corner. There are two wine glasses on the small round table in front of them. One is empty. The second one, in front of the young man, is almost full.
Fucking lightweight.
The glasses’ owners are too engrossed in an animated conversation to pay attention to anything around them. There are a few more empty chairs around the table. They are hastily pushed away. Whoever was sitting with them must have wanted to give space to the emerging couple. The man — the boy — Chuuya is talking to with such excitement, nods along, his eyes never leaving Chuuya’s face. He can probably see every freckle, every line, every small curve of his lips.
The young man is way too close — and it feels like the distance between the two gets smaller with each passing second.
Dazai never bothered to learn the guy’s name. An intern in the Agency, he had only joined them a couple of days ago, after the name of their organisation became famous. Now that he dared to try and steal what belongs to Dazai, he feels like his internship with them might end early, preferably with a field trip to study the vast variety of fish in the Yokohama Bay.
A sudden roar of a hydrofoil speeding past momentarily disturbs the happy cheer of the celebration. A wave comes on, and the yacht sways. It elicits a couple of whoas and giggles from the guests. Simultaneously, the intern and Chuuya reach for the full glass about to tip over and splash its contents on the table — and they both grab it before it does.
Dazai feels bile come up in his throat. What a fucking romcom he’s forced to watch.
“Good catch,” Dazai can read on Chuuya’s lips. Whatever the guy says in response makes Chuuya giggle and shake his head.
Their hands stay on the table. Confidently, Chuuya’s hand is resting on top of the intern’s now. This will probably become a huge gossip when enough people see them, but Dazai knows like no one else that Chuuya doesn't give a flying fuck about what people think.
The conversation continues. The already bitter flavour in Dazai’s mouth gets unbearable, and he swallows. He realises that his teeth are clenched, but stubbornly, his jaw refuses to relax. Now and then, Chuuya says hi to the passers-by, the kind of small talk Dazai knows Chuuya hates, and yet, is ridiculously good at. People approach him from here and there, but there is one place Chuuya doesn’t grace with as much as a glance — and that is where Dazai is sitting, alone, nursing his goddamn full glass of whiskey.
Chuuya leans toward the intern’s ear and says something. Immediately, they stand up and head to the door leading to the spacious open deck, and, in unison, they disappear into the cold Yokohama night.
Dazai slams his glass on the table. A couple of his coworkers who flock nearby give him an odd look. They must know better than to interfere — and so, they mind their own business.
Thank fuck.
Chuuya and the intern don't go too far. As if on purpose, they are perfectly framed by the glass door, where nothing obstructs Dazai’s line of sight. Chuuya shivers. He scoots closer to the guy, and Dazai can see the younger man’s arm twitch as he contemplates wrapping it around Chuuya’s shoulder.
Dazai holds his breath. His chest is constricted, and with each passing second, it squeezes more as if grabbed by a giant fist.
And… Dazai’s nightmare comes true. The intern finds confidence and boldly wraps his arm around Chuuya.
Chuuya is a good actor. He laughs and leans into the guy’s embrace, and it makes Dazai sick. This sweetness doesn’t suit him. The flirtiness, the coquettish looks he keeps shooting at the tall young man, are such a striking opposite to the real Chuuya, that Dazai has trouble understanding how the hell the doe-eyed youngster can possibly buy this faux fairytale. This clueless boy has no right to touch the man that only Dazai truly knows.
And then…
He finds the guts to tuck a strand of Chuuya’s hair behind his ear.
Dazai can feel the last of his dignity disappear in the dark waters of Yokohama Bay when he abruptly stands up, getting even more puzzled looks, and strides to the sliding door to put an end to this shitshow.
Before Dazai gets to make a couple of steps, a dark-clad figure appears in front of him, out of nowhere — another nail in the coffin of Dazai’s composure.
Mori.
The dazzling smile of the man makes Dazai wince. It adds to the coming migraine that he got by watching the endless lovey-dovey antics of Chuuya and his new toy.
He doesn’t really register what his ex-boss is saying to him. Congratulations. Mafia. Agency. Choice. Back. His brain rips some words out of the unintelligible stream of consciousness coming out of Mori’s mouth, but they do not make a coherent picture in his head. He nods along, humming something in response. He can’t see much from behind Mori’s back and his black coat that spreads almost like wings.
He doesn’t have to see.
He knows that behind the glass door, something is brewing.
And no matter what it is, this is not something Dazai will like.
What are they doing now?
What is he going to see when Mori finally stops yapping and leaves him the fuck alone? Will Dazai see that on the deck of the superyacht, dazzlingly bright in the pale moonlight, with the spectacular Minato Mirai view as the backdrop, so disgustingly romantic, Chuuya is locking his lips with that brat? Would he stand on his tiptoes to reach him? Tilt his head that special way that drives Dazai mad? Will he hold the guy’s chin with the tenderness Dazai never deserved?
He puts his hands in his pockets to hide his white fists. He feels the pointy corner of the packet of lube prick his hand. The sharp sensation is a mockery of Dazai’s failed plans, a bitter reminder of what he wanted and was unable to get.
The door opens with a swooshing sound before Mori shuts up. Momentarily, the cold air swirls around the room that smells like booze and joy, and both men come back in, their faces red from the October cold that’s still learning how to really bite.
The night sky of the city keeps their secrets. Their faces are lit up with smiles — Chuuya boasting one that he never had reserved for Dazai. It’s genuine; his acting forgotten. Chuuya's teeth are showing, the dimples on his cheeks come out that Dazai never knew were there, and the smile reaches his eyes, ridiculously bright despite the dim, intimate lighting of the yacht. The intern, with the equally stupid expression, bares his teeth in a grin, bobbling his head like a little dog figurine on the dashboard of a beat-up car, bulging his eyes at Chuuya as if they are about to pop out of their sockets. Like a puppy, he stares at Chuuya’s face with a look of pure awe. How old is he, even? Barely older than Atsushi, right?
Fucking Chuuya looking for boytoys.
They get back to their table. Despite the crowdedness, no one dared to claim it while they were out cooing like two lovebirds breathing in the salt-scented air. Chuuya says a couple more greetings, and again, his eyes don’t ever come close to Dazai.
Maybe he’s dead and this is his purgatory. Or hell already.
He shuffles back to his table, stopping Mori mid-sentence, and plops back down onto the leather couch.
The packet of lube feels heavy in his pocket. He rubs his hand where it prickled him. Dazai’s true itch, however, can’t really be scratched — not until the pesky intern gets out of the way.
It is so easy to get lost in one of the many hidden nooks of the superyacht. To drink Chuuya’s moans that he would choose over and over again over the best whiskey the Port Mafia can source. Feel his heat wrap tightly around his cock, until the celebration, the yacht and the whole world disappear with only the two of them left as one, as they were always meant to be.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dazai sees a small group of women in Port Mafia suits hanging out near the table he’s been occupying. They steal cross, impatient looks at him. Normally, Dazai would grace them with his most dazzling smile, say something funny to lighten the mood, and invite them to sit with him.
Instead, he silently gets up and moves to sit at the bar. The bartender comes up to him to take his order, but he shakes his head. From his new spot, he can see the pair even better. He's not sure why he keeps subjecting himself to this torture — and still, he can’t stop watching.
Dazai is sure that the aura surrounding him is the reason no one dares to stay next to the bar for longer than it takes to place the order. Although judging by the drunken voices getting louder around him and the laughing that almost sounds mocking, he is not that much of a killjoy.
No one really cares about him.
The celebration is way too long. It’s tedious and insincere, and there are way too many people, and the person who matters the most chose this diabolical way to ruin Dazai’s night.
He doesn’t know how many hours pass until it finally ends with Mori’s and Fukuzawa’s speeches and a round of applause from the hundreds of people.
Dazai doesn’t clap.
It doesn’t, frankly, bring him any relief when the yacht finally docks. He is the last to disembark. It’s late. The night has rightfully entered her realm, showing off her diamond necklace spread in the vast sky. The ramp is rickety. It feels like he is walking the plank rather than returning to the land where he belongs.
Does he, though?
Dazai sways when he finally steps on solid ground. He should have probably drunk his whiskey. And then another one. And another, until the warm buzz of intoxication turned into the comforting numbness that would have surely alleviated at least a fraction of his pain.
Someone timidly approaches him. It’s Atsushi. He says something, but Dazai doesn’t bother listening. Judging by the inflexion in his worried voice, it’s a question. Dazai just hums and shakes his head.
Atsushi lingers for a few more seconds and leaves.
The port is empty at this late hour. Dazai’s coworkers and Port Mafia members are long gone, and now, the car Atsushi got into leaves, too.
There are just three people left in the parking lot. Two of them, surely, feel like they are the only people in this vast world right now, seemingly unaware of the dark eyes watching their every move.
The intern takes his phone out. Chuuya laughs. He puts his hand on the young man’s waist and says something; immediately, a look of awe almost inflates the young idiot’s face like a balloon, and he shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Triumph in his eyes, Chuuya raises the gloved hand in the air. With an elegant move of his wrist, he snaps his fingers.
A few moments later, a Port Mafia cab appears next to them, and the screeching of tyres snaps Dazai out of his trance.
It’s getting too real.
He’s going to stay here, alone, watching the tail lights of the car disappear, until there’s nothing but darkness, isn't he?
The driver comes out. With a nod, he opens the passenger door at the back and gestures with his hand for the two esteemed guests to get in.
Chuuya yanks the younger guy closer and leans in.
The ground under Dazai spins. He can’t feel his legs, his throat tightens, and he can’t inhale — and not exhale either, turned to stone and forced to watch his heart shatter.
The intern’s eyes fall shut. He tilts his head in anticipation of a kiss he doesn’t deserve.
And…
There is none.
Chuuya’s lips move against the intern’s ear, and with each word he says, the young man’s face gets redder, the mortified expression replacing the previous bliss. He looks at the cab, then at Chuuya again. He opens his mouth, and… turns on his heel. The intern speed walks toward the exit from the passenger port, awkwardly stumbling on his trembling legs.
He doesn’t look back.
Chuuya ignores the driver patiently holding the door open for the top Port Mafia executive. He walks toward Dazai, and suddenly, he feels way too perceived after hours of Chuuya pretending he doesn’t exist.
“So…” Chuuya’s hands are in his pockets, and he looks so nonchalant that Dazai feels that if he comes an inch closer to him, the universe will collapse from the sheer polarity of their mindsets. “How did you like the party?” Chuuya is still quite far. His voice is effortlessly carried to Dazai by the tender whiffs of the fresh sea breeze. As if anything, even the biggest distance, could ever stop them from hearing each other’s voices, among any commotion, any noise, anything.
Step by step, Chuuya comes closer. And closer. And closer. A barely noticeable smirk on his face blooms into a grin, and finally, he stops with very little regard for Dazai’s personal space.
Personal space.
Funny.
It’s not like there is such a concept between the two of them.
Dazai closes his eyes.
The universe does not collapse. He feels Chuuya’s hot breath on his neck, and the ground spins faster under his feet. This feeling got way too familiar to him after the past few hours; except, now the lightness in his feet feels just a little bit less oppressive, as if he can fly.
“I think it was a lovely one, to be honest,” Chuuya continues, giving up on waiting for Dazai’s response. “It’s important to have a fun company, don’t you agree, Dazai?”
Dazai breathes out, and in the last attempt to stay upright, he grabs Chuuya's forearm.
The moment Dazai feels the familiar muscles under his clenched hand, he knows.
He knows this is the exact moment he lost.
Any other time, Dazai would think twice before dragging Chuuya by his arm and shoving him into the cab this unceremoniously.
He does not care.
Dazai does not care about the driver — the look he gave to him when they got in was enough to make him pretend he can neither see nor hear what is happening in the back seat.
Dazai does not care about the pain in his back as he leans down to attack Chuuya’s lips, the car seat uncomfortably tiny to fit them.
Dazai does not care that Chuuya’s expensive hat is now on the floor of the car and that he will probably make a fuss about it when he realises it.
Dazai does not care.
All that matters to him now is that underneath him, eagerly responding to his hungry kisses, gloved hands rummaging through his hair, is Chuuya — his Chuuya.
It’s his Chuuya — and he’s going home with him.
No one else.
Dazai can feel Chuuya’s rapid heartbeat in perfect unison with his own. Their hearts are separated from each other only by their ribcages and the thin fabric of their shirts, but he wants them to get even closer — closer than humanly possible. Pure euphoria pumps through his veins as they leave everything behind — the warm, watered-down whiskey, the godforsaken yacht, the port, the shady parking lot where the cab’s tyre marks and the smell of burned rubber linger as a reminder of everything that unfolded there. They leave behind the waves of Yokohama Bay that still remember the hushed whispers of the Armed Detective Agency intern and the Port Mafia executive. They remember Dazai’s silence, too. The Morse code his feet were tapping out on the polished wooden floor of the yacht as he watched their every move as they blew the colourful bubble that had no other future than to be burst.
None of this matters anymore.
The gossipy splashes of the bay’s vast waters can’t be heard anymore. Even if they were, the only sounds on Dazai’s mind are Chuuya’s quiet grunts as Dazai attacks his lips: in the cab running red lights, in the elevator as it swiftly brings them up, in Chuuya’s apartment’s hallway as they slam the door behind them.
Chuuya’s lips are raw. The hat is nowhere to be found on his dishevelled head. It must have stayed on the floor of the cab. Tomorrow, Chuuya will probably find it resting on his desk in his ridiculously fancy office.
Or not.
He is doing too much thinking. There are more urgent matters at hand: how heavily Chuuya is breathing into his neck, how hungrily his swollen lips leave wet trails on Dazai’s skin, teeth pulling the bandages down to reveal more of the skin still untouched, eager to fix it.
Dazai grabs Chuuya’s face and yanks him up. Calling it kissing would be an overstatement. Hungry and sloppy, it resembles a fight more than the unity of two lovers. Dazai never dared to call them so. He’s not sure they are. The word love is hardly applicable to what they have. He moans into the kiss — and then, it’s cut short.
Chuuya grabs Dazai’s hand and drags him toward the bedroom. His hand is hot, and Dazai can almost feel how wet it is under the leather glove. He ignores the persistent pull and, with a swift move, pins Chuuya against the wall instead. Immediately, his hand feels lonely without the smaller one squeezing it boldly.
A small gasp leaves Chuuya’s lips as his back hits the wall. A guttural moan is lost on Dazai's lips as he rubs his knee against Chuuya’s crotch. His legs spread ever so slightly — and Dazai’s movements get bolder, his own arousal fuelled by how eagerly Chuuya is willing to give himself to him. With each small push and rub, Dazai can feel the hardness in Chuuya’s pants grow and the defiant look on his face mellow. Soon, it will be painted with a dewy afterglow Dazai loves seeing on Chuuya’s face, after he fucks him just right.
Not too soon, hopefully.
“Where are your manners?” Chuuya asks breathlessly when they pull away from each other. His eyes don’t leave Dazai’s lips. He keeps diving forward, but Dazai doesn’t let him get the taste of what he craves. “Aren’t you a gentleman? Won’t you carry a man to the bedroom?”
Chuuya’s heart pounds in his chest under Dazai’s hand as he firmly presses on it to keep the distance. Distance seems like such a nonsensical concept right now. They are fire — started as two separate ones, they hungrily swallowed the whole world around them, still ravaging the ashes as one, impossible to recognise which was which in the first place.
“Scrap it, though. Of course you aren’t.” Chuuya adds feistily.
Dazai smiles.
Chuuya is a brat. But Dazai is a nuisance. They are worth each other.
Chuuya had been torturing him for hours. He can handle some payback until Dazai (very fucking soon, he feels) inevitably caves.
“Look who’s talking,” Dazai says, pushing his leg up and drinking the momentary change in Chuuya’s face. His hands yearn to roam the body of the man in front of him. To claim him as rightfully his.
It’s hard to say these words. The flame roars behind Dazai's eyes as he speaks, each syllable coming to him with a strain. “You were ready to suck that guy off right on that ugly leather couch.”
His legs feel the swaying of the yacht on the laughing waves again.
Chuuya scoffs. “Come on, Dazai.” Not breaking eye contact, he rubs himself against Dazai’s knee resting between his legs. “Ichiro has some self-respect. We would have gone to the janitor’s closet at least.”
Dazai fists the white dress shirt. He has long known he lost in their game of cat and mouse — back at that parking lot, hell, even earlier, on that fucking yacht, when he allowed Chuuya to get to him. To press the buttons that he knew would make Dazai insane.
He lost. He doesn’t care.
Games are for kids. They are not kids anymore.
Fuck this.
Ichiro, the name rings in his head. Said with the familiar sultry of Chuuya’s voice, it sounds wrong. Unnatural.
Dazai would do anything to make Chuuya forget this name. Override it with his, and his only — the only one Chuuya has the right to utter in such cadence.
Chuuya wears too many layers. By the time Dazai’s hands get to the pearl buttons of his shirt, his fingers are numb. As he fights with them, Chuuya, as the teasing motherfucker he is, doesn’t even consider helping Dazai get rid of the annoying clothes.
Although, in all honesty, Dazai is not sure Chuuya is capable of any productive actions at the moment. It’s hard to believe that the mess in front of Dazai is the same poised man dominating the celebration just a few hours ago, a confident heartthrob stealing young, gullible interns’ hearts. His eyes are hazy, mouth agape, and Dazai is not sure if Chuuya realises that he is rubbing against his leg like a bitch in heat.
The buttons finally cooperate. Slowly, gracing Chuuya’s torso with accidental strokes against his sensitive spots, Dazai’s hands run up — and he pushes the shirt off Chuuya’s shoulders. Mesmerised, he watches delicate silk flow against toned arms.
With the dewy muscles and the folds of his dress shirt draping off his elbows in the most regal way, the man in front of him is Apollo carved in marble. Dazai takes in the view of the splendour on the freckled skin he took part in creating, perfecting the masterpiece of Chuuya with his own hands.
Some faded, some still bright, dozens of shades of purple cover Chuuya’s torso. Dazai can remember every single one of them. He doubts it’s even possible to forget how Chuuya’s skin feels under his mouth when he leaves his marks for him to remember when they’re apart. Dazai can feel Chuuya’s breathing pattern get ragged as he gently traces each one of them with his lips. Each brush against the purple blossoms is a memory relieved, and as Dazai goes down, the more peppered the heaving body in front of him gets.
Finally, Dazai sinks to his knees. With Chuuya over him, Dazai feels like he is looking at his personal deity. Chuuya is leaning against the wall. He’s breathing heavily with his eyes closed, and when he finally opens them, Dazai is blessed by the intense shine of the blue haze.
He is blessed — and so, he worships.
When he unbuttons Chuuya’s pants, he can feel how the bulge stretching the fabric twitches. So deprived of the touch, Chuuya must feel every light brush of fingers more intensely than ever.
When Dazai pulls the zipper down, the formal black of Chuuya’s perfectly tailored pants is shattered by a sudden burst of pastel blue. Dazai’s hand freezes. His eyes, on the contrary, hungrily take in the intricate pattern of the lace weaving against the skin. It swirls and hypnotises him, and when he pulls Chuuya's pants down, he finally lets out the breath he’s been holding the whole time, unbeknownst to himself.
An overwhelming wave of heat rushes over Dazai. He pulls on the collar of his shirt, and his fingers struggle to open the top button.
Fuck.
Chuuya’s rock-hard cock stretches the lacy fabric of the light blue panties. There is a thick wet splotch where the tip of his cock is leaking under Dazai’s hungry gaze; his balls peek out from the strip of fabric too narrow to accommodate them.
Dazai slowly looks up. His throat is dry, and he heavily swallows, meeting blue eyes. Chuuya licks his lips. The gloved hand runs along his torso, down to the hip adorned with blue; his fingers, hidden behind the thick black leather, pinch the lacy waistband and snap it against the skin.
The sudden noise startles Dazai. He loudly exhales as he feels his cock strain against the fabric of his pants.
Chuuya’s smugness is phonier than the incessant flirtiness he was showing off to the intern, and Dazai closes his eyes. He doesn’t have it in him to expose Chuuya’s bravado.
There is something else he would much rather expose.
Slowly, Dazai puts his mouth on the lace. Chuuya is wet and hard, and Dazai hungrily takes in his responses to the lazy moves of his lips. Each quiet moan is a melody. Each small thrust is a confession. Dazai slowly goes up the thick shaft, and when he finally reaches the wet spot, his own cock twitches in his pants again, a reminder that it has been unfairly forgotten. He cups himself — and in his moan, is Chuuya’s name.
It is the only thing on Dazai’s mind.
It is the only thing that was always meant to roll off his tongue, despite the years of rivalry, separation and everything in between.
“So pretty for me,” Dazai murmurs into his cock, hungrily mouthing Chuuya through the panties. The texture of lace feels rough under his tongue. Chuuya is hot and wet; his whole body twitches, and Dazai can feel the veins on his length bulge, pulsing under his lips, the lace mocking him and not letting him feel its perfect smoothness under his lips.
Dazai looks up. Chuuya’s head is thrown back. His Adam’s apple is bobbing, chest rapidly going up and down, and Dazai knows that Chuuya won’t be able to last much longer.
Lazily, Dazai pulls on the hem of the panties, freeing the leaking tip of Chuuya’s cock from the confines of the pastel blue fabric. He circles his thumb on it — it easily slides across the small hole, making a mess with pre-cum as Chuuya’s body craves for more. The texture of the lace is imprinted on his red, wet skin, like a carving on marble; yet another way to perfect the piece of art Chuuya is.
He lets go. The band snaps Chuuya’s skin; the sweetest moan escapes his mouth at the sensation. Dazai moves his lips against the tip, pressing it against Chuuya’s stomach. Its warm wetness slides easily against Dazai’s mouth — and he would gladly get lost in the mess he is making.
Chuuya’s hips thrust forward. With a firm push of the hand on his hip, Dazai gently holds him back.
“Eager, are we?” Dazai chuckles. He’s not sure if he’s talking about Chuuya or himself. Giving the exposed tip of his cock one last peck, feeling the pre-cum cool down on his lips, he kisses his way down.
Chuuya’s round, smooth balls in lacy panties struggling to contain them in their daintiness is the prettiest sight.
It’s pleasant to look at — but even more so to taste.
He attacks Chuuya’s balls with his eager tongue; the alternating texture of bumpy, lacy fabric and soft skin peeking out makes him go absolutely mental. It is by no means comfortable to tilt his neck in such an awkward way — but when the prize for it is the music coming out of Chuuya’s mouth, he can surely tolerate this minor inconvenience. His tongue gets bolder, and the pressure in his pants is almost uncomfortably tight now. He pulls the panties aside. Chuuya’s balls are set free, springing out of the tight fabric, and Dazai’s wet, sloppy kisses intensify as he works them with his mouth. He is a hungry man — and Chuuya is his appetiser, main course and dessert. The wet, squelching sounds complement the whimpers Chuuya makes like a perfect symphony, and Dazai wants to get lost in this glorious music forever. His nose rubs against the base of Chuuya’s cock as he hungrily sucks on his balls. Dazai’s free hand fumbles with his own zipper, and he moans when his cock finally springs out.
He hates to let go of the perfectly smooth skin gracing his tongue.
“You taste so good.” As if enchanted, Dazai stares at the thin string of saliva between his mouth and Chuuya’s balls, slick with spit. It separates and falls on Dazai’s chin. He probably looks absolutely filthy like this — but he doesn’t care.
It’s him who gets to do it tonight. To make Chuuya unravel like this. To make him burn with desire.
It’s him.
No one else.
His eyes travel across the insides of Chuuya’s trembling thighs. Like the artwork on Chuuya’s chest and stomach, they, too, scream of the evidence of their nights together. Constellations of hickeys and bite marks leave barely any space of skin untouched. He puts his lips against a tiny patch of clear skin — and leaves another one, adding another small mark to the collection. It’s Dazai’s signature, and he left it everywhere he could — somewhere, where only two pairs of eyes can ever see it.
Dazai carefully tugs on the hem of the lacy panties. Blue and dainty, they don’t look out of place on the muscular body. On the contrary, they perfectly complement the heaving man leaning against the wall.
They are perfect — but they need to get out of the way.
The whole length of Chuuya’s cock springs out when the panties are finally pulled down. Dazai doesn’t bother taking them off all the way — they look like a treat tightly stretched on Chuuya’s thighs, the fabric trembling along with the hard muscles of his legs.
“So wet for me,” Dazai whispers into the tender skin of his lower abdomen. Chuuya is very particular about shaving, and it took Dazai some time before he realised why.
The canvas is ready for him. It is hard, but not impossible to find the perfect spot for a new mark. His lips linger on tender skin — his mouth is working hard to create the perfect shade he adores, and the longer he sucks, the wider Chuuya tries to spread his legs. The toned muscles tremble as the panties stop him from doing it — despite their delicate look, they hold up against the strain.
Dazai nips the skin between his teeth before finally pulling away. A purple mark blossoms on the smooth skin, and he takes a moment to appreciate the splendour he created. He knows Chuuya would spend countless lonely evenings touching himself, reliving these moments when Dazai is not here.
Knowing this fills Dazai with overwhelming euphoria. His lips trace the love bites; he follows their chaotic path until none of them are left without attention, and when he is done with all of them, the journey of his lips continues.
“You’re so hard for me,” he murmurs into Chuuya’s cock.
Chuuya’s small gasp at the words makes Dazai crave more than just gentle kisses on the shaft. He wants to show his deity that he is the best worshipper he will ever get.
As if Chuuya doesn’t already know it.
Dazai nuzzles his nose into Chuuya’s lower abdomen one last time as his cock brushes against his cheek, spreading pre-cum over it. He can feel its wet, twitching hotness on his face as he presses his lips against the tender skin by the base of his shaft. Slowly, Dazai holds Chuuya’s cock against his face and boldly rubs his cheek against the wet length. He deliberately didn’t shave today — and this little plan of his proves successful when, instead of a quiet gasp, Chuuya slaps a hand over his mouth trying to muffle the sound coming out.
It doesn’t help. Along with the moan resonating in the silent apartment, Chuuya’s body betrays him too when, to get more friction, he bucks his hips. And again. And again, until he is a babbling mess, fucking himself against the stubble on Dazai’s cheek, his usually calculated movements turned into a jagged mess as he desperately tries to find his release.
The face of the stupid intern flashes in front of Dazai’s eyes again.
Would that bastard ever be able to make Chuuya feel as good as Dazai does? Would Chuuya be unravelling in front of him the same way as he is now, losing himself in his pleasure in front of him?
“Look at me, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, rubbing his cheek against the dripping length. He looks up. He knows how messy he looks. He knows it will drive Chuuya mad. “Look at the mess you made. Is this how much you want me?”
Dazai slowly raises his hand and runs his fingers along the other side of Chuuya’s cock. It’s unfair, he thinks, how only one side of it gets the love it deserves. The feeling of light stubble rubbing against the tender skin must be absolutely euphoric, judging by how Chuuya’s body responds to it with small spasms and pre-cum never stopping leaking all over Dazai’s face.
He knows he could make Chuuya come just from this. His breath hitches when he imagines it — how tight his balls would get, the short, powerful contractions of his stomach, how Chuuya's come will paint Dazai’s face and hair, adding to the gorgeous picture of the beautiful mess he makes out of him.
Chuuya’s not getting it.
Not yet.
Chuuya lets out an almost disappointed grunt when Dazai sits back. He thrusts into the air, and, as he groans in frustration, a thousand expressions run through the freckled face.
“Somebody’s getting too excited,” Dazai says. “No coming for you, Chuuya.”
Dazai revels in the fact that Chuuya doesn’t know what’s to come. He probably doesn’t fully realise what Dazai is saying. If he does, he sure doesn’t take it seriously; the fire in the blue eyes only grows stronger.
Dazai rips open the packet of lube. He can’t believe it is the same one that was making his pocket heavy on the yacht, when he was positive that Chuuya was going to bed with someone else that night.
Now, he wonders — how on earth could he even consider that this was a possibility?
He slowly squeezes it out. The hole he made is way too small, and he revels in how loud Chuuya’s breathing gets as he watches the thin streak of lube slowly cover Dazai’s fingers in a slick cocoon. He rubs his fingers together. It makes a quiet squelching noise as he plays with the lube, watching the viscous liquid stretch between the digits.
It’s already warm from being in his pocket for hours, but he wants to make sure it’s the perfect temperature for when he finally grants his wish.
And… he finally does.
His fingers meet something foreign. Something hard. Chuuya’s rim is stretched around it, and a look of confusion on Dazai’s face is replaced by a growing smile when he finally realises what it is.
The metal butt plug is as warm as Chuuya’s body. Its hard material is an oddly perfect symbiosis with the soft skin around it. He circles its base — not a single sound leaves Chuuya’s mouth as if he’s trying to save his breath for when the most exciting part starts.
The only problem is… They definitely have different ideas of exciting right now.
Slowly touching Chuuya’s stretched hole, Dazai revels in the sensation of the strained ring of muscles under his slick fingers. So many times he worshipped this little hole. So many that he knows it by heart — every ridge and every crevice. The way it feels under his tongue. The way it warmly welcomes Dazai every time.
Chuuya is still silent — and Dazai wants to break his silence before finally giving his feisty redhead a sneak-peek of what he wants.
He pinches the base of the plug between his fingers and slowly pulls.
He wishes he could see how the gradually thickening plug stretches Chuuya’s rim. It’s exciting not to know how big it is, how thick it gets, how much Chuuya can take, how long it’ll take him to finally make a sound again.
At the same time, watching Chuuya’s face as he slowly takes the plug out is a reward he cherishes more than anything else.
He can tell when the stretch from the plug gets just a little bit too much — he must be at the thickest part now. Chuuya’s eyebrows scrunch most adorably, and his mouth hangs open as he stares at Dazai with half-lidded eyes, forgetting to blink.
“Something wrong?” Dazai asks as innocently as he can. He moves the plug around in a circle. He sinks it back and pulls out, playing with it as the silk shirt still hanging off Chuuya’s elbows trembles. “You look,” he pretends to look for a good word, even though there is nothing in his head other than Chuuya right now, “deep in thought.”
With that, he pushes the plug back in.
Finally, Chuuya grunts through clenched teeth. It is certainly not as loud as what Dazai was hoping for — but at least, in this quiet sound, Dazai can finally hear the hints of what he has been craving to spot.
Desperation.
Chuuya hides it pretty well.
“You look very full… of yourself.”
Dazai is not too proud of this half-assed pun, and before Chuuya calls him out for it, he pulls the plug out in one swift motion.
Chuuya cries out, and with a clank, the butt plug falls on the floor. Dazai whistles when he sees it — definitely not the most comfortable one to wear for too long.
Chuuya is a champ for having it inside him this whole time.
At the same time, a sharp prick of jealousy pangs Dazai. It turns into a scorching inferno as he thinks more about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. His fucking brain, still, helpfully provides him with the images from the party.
Chuuya felt it inside him when he was chatting that bastard up. Felt it press against the right spot as he was holding his hand. As he was sitting with his thigh against the intern’s as they were cooing and laughing together at their table.
Dazai clenches his teeth. He is just a man. He is not strong enough — and all he wants right now is to follow his instincts and claim Chuuya right here and now, reminding him once and for all who is the only person deserving of his attention.
The expression on Chuuya’s face is almost pained. Deprived of the pleasant fullness, his eyes glint with desperation. His jaw twitches ever so slightly, and Dazai is not sure if even Chuuya himself is aware of this movement.
Dazai is staring at the slick butt plug abandoned on the floor when he hears it.
“Dazai.”
His name is barely audible. Chuuya must not have even realised he said it, so stifled it sounds. He hears it again — no accident for sure anymore.
He looks up — and Chuuya says it again, louder this time, not a name but a plea.
Still, all Dazai can hear is another name. Not his. Ichiro’s.
Chuuya had no right to say it with such sultriness. No right to roll his signature R in such a nonchalant way.
Mine, Dazai thinks. He hopes he is not saying it out loud. He doesn’t want his mouth to betray him — he doesn’t want Chuuya to hear this, to get into his head, to know how much his little rendezvous on the yacht with that pathetic loser intern messed up with his mind.
“Mine.”
He grants Chuuya’s wish — and his, too.
Roughly, three fingers breach the tender hole. The plug weakened the resistance, and Chuuya’s body gladly greets Dazai’s slick skin as he pushes through. Chuuya’s back arches at the sensation; he feels so fucking tight that Dazai is not sure how much longer he is going to last.
Moans of pleasure interlace with grunts and whimpers. After so many years, Dazai learned Chuuya’s body. He knows the right amount of pain he can take, and how perfectly it mixes with pleasure in his mind, the concoction explosive.
“Dazai.”
Ichiro.
To shut his mind up, Dazai lunges forward and bites the still tender spot on Chuuya’s inner thigh where his mouth created a fresh bruise just a few minutes ago.
Chuuya lets out a pained scream — but instead of the gloved hand pushing him back, Dazai feels… A hand on his head.
It firmly pushes him against the rock-hard thigh, and Chuuya opens his legs a bit more, straining against the stretch of the panties, trying to give Dazai better access.
“Mine,” he roars into the fresh bite mark again. It’s seeping with tiny droplets of blood, and Dazai hungrily bites over an old hickey right next to it, his hand grabbing Chuuya's cock. Chuuya whimpers at that, his ass clenching around Dazai’s fingers.
“Fuck, Chuuya.” Dazai’s fingers ache as they furiously pound into him, and the way his body responds to it makes his head spin. “You’re mine.”
Chuuya releases a breath. Their eyes meet. Chuuya’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out. His lower lip is swollen and bruised; that shade of purple is complemented perfectly by the intricate pattern of bite marks on his inner thigh. These will probably take ages to heal.
Perfect.
“You’re so good for me, Chuuya,” Dazai whispers. The rim stretches around his slick fingers. They are wrinkled when he yanks them out.
Dazai gets up and unzips his pants. Leaning against the wall, Chuuya is lost in Dazai’s shadow. Lean and muscular, his exceptional physical power is contained in such a small body that it’s simply unbelievable. Every time Dazai looms over the shorter man, knowing well that Chuuya could easily overpower him, but he just won’t, he feels euphoric.
“Are you gonna fuck me or are we going to stand here all day?”
Dazai contemplates this question.
Dazai can see right through Chuuya. He knows it works the other way around, too — which means that Chuuya already knows the answer to this question.
Dazai raises his hand. Slick, wrinkled fingers rub his chin as he tries his best to look deep in thought.
Chuuya scoffs. “Come on, Dazai,” he hisses, wriggling his hips. “Be for fucking real.”
Dazai has to admit — it feels amazing being in charge of what Chuuya can and can’t do. It is comically easy to make the strongest man in Yokohama fully submit to him.
He just needs to wait a bit longer.
Chuuya’s face is red when he speaks again, giving up waiting for the response. “Fuck me. I ain’t gonna break.”
Instead of saying something, risking the tremble in his voice to come out, Dazai grabs Chuuya’s hips and swiftly turns him to face the wall. With an unceremonious yank, he pulls his ass up. Chuuya grips the wall in an attempt to stand upright, maybe even dizzy from the way Dazai turned him so boldly. He opens his legs wide — but not quite wide enough, the lacy panties stretched to the maximum, stopping him from spreading his legs further. The fabric dips into the muscular thighs, and Dazai just knows that there will be marks left.
Good.
One more thing for Chuuya to remember him by.
Dazai’s hand, almost automatically, reaches around Chuuya’s waist, but the low cry as he touches his leaking length is a slap on the cheek, a sobering reminder — no.
Chuuya doesn’t get to have it.
Not yet.
He aligns himself with Chuuya’s entrance. Dazai would be lying if he said he didn’t contemplate teasing Chuuya a bit more. Pushing his tip against the entrance ever so slightly. Slapping the hole with his cock, watching Chuuya’s body tense as he loses his patience waiting for Dazai to finally enter him.
At this point, however, if he did, he would be just punishing himself. He has something else saved for Chuuya, anyway.
Dazai knows there will be bruises where his hands are holding Chuuya’s hips. To make sure they bloom to the greatest extent of their beauty, he grips even tighter — partially to stop his hands from touching Chuuya.
The smaller body welcomes him. It’s hypnotising to watch how it swallows Dazai’s length and how reluctant it is to let go when Dazai pulls back. The small responses of Chuuya’s body are magical, too, with how eagerly he wriggles his ass to meet Dazai’s cock, the small moans he releases into his arm, trying and failing to muffle the obscene sounds. He revels in how pliant Chuuya is in his hands. Like a ragdoll, his body obediently takes what Dazai is doing to it.
Chuuya is his.
No one else’s.
Lost in his own pleasure, Dazai doesn’t notice at first how the cadence of Chuuya’s moans changes slightly. How his breath hitches, and how his thighs flex, adding to the overwhelmingly sweet squeeze of his ass on Dazai's cock.
It’s the tell-tale spasm of Chuuya’s legs that makes Dazai realise.
He is touching himself.
Dazai abruptly slaps Chuuya’s ass before grabbing his wrist. Ignoring the whining and the half-assed attempt to set his hand free, Dazai hisses into his ear.
“Didn’t I tell you?” his eyes are hypnotised by the glint of pre-cum on Chuuya’s cock. He must have been so close, and this is the reason Chuuya’s chest is heaving, legs trembling, and he can’t say a single word in his defence. “That you don’t get to come?”
Dazai can almost hear the grinding of Chuuya’s teeth.
“Fuck you,” he finally hisses. Chuuya frantically moves his hips, probably hoping for at least a bit of friction from the wall, but Dazai yanks him back before he gets to.
Dazai’s cock twitches inside Chuuya’s tightness. He looks utterly pathetic trying to get off. This primal want is all that occupies the sharp mind of the most notorious Port Mafia executive, and it turns Dazai on like nothing else.
He heavily swallows and lets go of Chuuya’s wrist. “Arms behind your back,” he says, his voice coarse.
Chuuya glares at him. In the striking blue eyes, he can still see a faint shadow of defiance.
Slowly, Dazai draws his hips back.
“You aren’t getting anything, then.”
The emptier Chuuya feels, the more desperate the look on his face is. He bites his lip, and the haze in the blue eyes washes away with a wet gleam. Still, he stubbornly clutches the wall. Small holes ruin the expensive wallpaper under Chuuya’s nails frantically scratching it.
“I said…” Dazai is almost out of Chuuya. The sneak peek of the devastating emptiness gets too real, and Dazai knows that if Chuuya doesn’t embrace his fate now, he never will. “Arms behind your back.”
The next moment lasts centuries.
“Now.”
Chuuya grits his teeth. In his eyes, Dazai can see a loud and clear fuck you and still… he obeys.
Chuuya’s wrists are crossed limply over the dimples on his lower back. His eyebrows scrunch — and Chuuya hangs his head, his face hidden behind the crown of messy red hair.
Dazai grabs Chuuya’s wrists. For someone this strong, Chuuya’s body is ridiculously petite, and Dazai would be lying if he said that seeing his hand encircle both of Chuuya’s wrists, leaving white marks where his fingers hold, doesn’t turn him on.
“Good boy,” he wheezes and thrusts.
Chuuya gasps. Being suddenly filled again makes him jolt, his arms bending in an unnatural direction, and a moan turns into a cry.
Dazai wraps his arm around Chuuya’s waist again. His hand travels down, the taps of his fingers playing a melody on the smaller body like on the most sophisticated musical instrument.
It won’t hurt to tease him a bit more. Chuuya deserves punishment.
“Remember,” Dazai says, “you don’t get to come.” Carefully, and just a bit too slowly, Dazai’s fingers collect pre-cum from the tip of Chuuya’s cock. Chuuya’s body tenses, and Dazai can see the pain in his face as he tries to hold himself back from reacting to the gentle strokes of fingers on his needy flesh.
Finally, Dazai is happy with how slick his fingers are.
“Again,” Chuuya whispers breathlessly. Desperately, he looks at Dazai and prays against his lips. “Please.”
“Look at you, asking so nicely,” Dazai murmurs. He smears Chuuya’s wetness over his own cock, the friction made weaker, and the heat in his stomach coils more when he hears a welcoming squelching sound as he pushes. He looks down. Chuuya’s cock looks properly neglected. He knows that if he lets Chuuya have it, it would take no more than a couple of strokes to make him come — and yet, this is not his intention.
Quite the opposite, actually.
“Dazai.”
“What? You know, you need to use your words.”
Dazai carefully rolls his hips. As he moves through the tight heat, he watches Chuuya’s expressions change until Dazai finally sees the sweet desperation take its perfect form on the dewy, freckled face, overriding any other emotion in Chuuya’s mind.
“You’re taking me so well.” It’s hard to look nonchalant when he can see how wet and hard Chuuya is. Chuuya’s cock touches his stomach when Dazai thrusts just right, and he revels in the realisation that this is not enough for him to get his release, but just right to make him feel that sweet deprivation of a ghost of the orgasm yet to come. “So beautiful for me.”
It’s hard to make out Chuuya’s words in the lewd symphony of squelching noises and Dazai’s low grunts.
“Let me come.” Chuuya’s face is red. His eyes are squeezed as he says — no, whispers — these three words, revealing the weakness, finally setting himself free from the grip of playing pretend. His light eyelashes tremble when he opens his eyes. He doesn’t look at Dazai; his eyes are fixed on one spot on the hardwood floor.
“Nope. You can’t.”
The desperation in Chuuya’s voice tries to come off as rage, failing in its act as his voice breaks. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can or- ah!”
“Don’t you think,” it’s hard to form coherent sentences as Dazai thrusts harder — focusing to keep Chuuya up by his wrists, and trying not to lose himself in the welcoming tightness, “that you’ve talked a lot today already?”
Frankly, Dazai thinks that at this point, it’s he who's yapping too much. Teaching Chuuya a lesson turns out to be a trial harder than he could imagine. The magical sounds Chuuya makes when he comes, losing himself in Dazai’s arms, is the biggest blessing Dazai can imagine. It was something he had been dreaming of hearing all day today, and now, he’s willingly depriving himself of it.
What kind of fool could do it?
“Only if you work for it,” he still says.
He has to admit that Chuuya has worked enough already. The look of lacy panties alone, tight around his bulging cock would be enough for Dazai to take him into his mouth and suck until Chuuya gets his release and Dazai tastes the extent of his thirst in his mouth.
Dazai has principles. His fucking principles.
“What? What, shitty Dazai?”
He stops. Slowly, he draws his cock out, watching Chuuya’s hole stretch over him, reluctant to let go.
He lets go of Chuuya’s wrists. His arms hang limply along his sides, but he doesn’t even try to touch himself now — a good dog, obedient to his master’s orders.
“Fuck yourself, baby,” Dazai finally says.
The fury in Chuuya’s eyes is inconsistent with how vigorously he starts moving his body before Dazai even finishes saying his command. It’s hard for him to stay motionless as he watches himself disappear inside Chuuya as he pushes and pulls, his ass perked up most deliciously as he grabs the wall to help himself make better, stronger moves.
Dazai drinks the sweet hint of hope on Chuuya’s face. The blue eyes stare into the depth of warm brown, as if trying to see if Dazai is pleased with the job Chuuya is doing; trying to read if it will make him finally let him get the high he has been craving. With each lewd slap of Chuuya’s ass against Dazai’s hips, he feels himself rapidly lose control. He is a shipwreck in the murky sea of blue — the storm throws Dazai against its raging waves, and if he were to drown in it, there would be no better fate he would more happily accept.
Chuuya’s moans turn into weak mewls as he searches for the right angle, and finally… he brushes the spot inside him against Dazai’s cock.
The roaring wave of the rough sea hits Dazai at the view of the hazy eyes rolled back and the puffy lips agape, hungrily gulping for air. His command forgotten, Dazai grabs Chuuya’s hips and yanks him close. With a low grunt, he makes a couple more jagged thrusts — and Chuuya’s sharp whimpers as Dazai keeps brushing against his prostate, tip him over the edge.
He craves to feel the entirety of Chuuya’s body against his skin. It is way too cold and lonely to be spilling inside Chuuya with just his hands on the narrow hips as the only point of contact. It is anticlimactic — and still, he can not help but float on the waves of pleasure as they hit him over and over again as he comes. Chuuya wriggles his hips as if trying to get Dazai even deeper, and through the ringing in his ears, Dazai can hear the low groan of frustration as Chuuya feels Dazai get his release before him.
The view of his come on his cock as he pounds it deep inside Chuuya is a view worth a million yen, and Dazai hates to pull out.
“Oh,” he says, letting go of Chuuya’s hips. It’s hard for him to keep his nonchalant persona now as his muscles are still contracting, and he watches thick white lumps come out of Chuuya’s hole, rolling down his thighs and making a mess on the lacy panties.
These will be completely ruined by the time he’s done with him.
“Well, that was lovely,” he wheezes. He slaps Chuuya’s ass, revelling in the needy whimper he lets out as he sticks his ass up in anticipation of more. “I will see you next time, I guess?”
Chuuya’s head snaps at him.
With an unbothered face, Dazai zips his pants up. He turns and takes a step toward the door.
“Dazai.”
Chuuya’s voice is different. It makes Dazai grin. Collecting his composure, he erases the smile from his face before he turns to Chuuya again.
“Dazai, please.”
The blue eyes are shiny under the dim hallway lights. Chuuya’s lip is trembling as he keeps calling Dazai’s name out, the plea turned into a prayer, trying to pull Dazai back to him with the sheer power of his desperation.
He is so pathetic.
It’s gorgeous.
“Let me come,” Chuuya whispers, and that is when tears finally escape his eyes. Rolling down his face uncontrollably, they glint, the shine on his cheeks perfectly complementing the dew of sweat on his forehead.
Dazai pretends to contemplate it for a second.
He leans in. The trembling lips under his taste like salt. They eagerly open under his tongue, and Dazai wants nothing more than to drink the moans that will escape from Chuuya’s mouth when he finally gets the release he craves.
When he pulls away, he carefully studies the red face, the scrunched eyebrows, the unusual, yet goddamn delicious expression on the face that has no trace of its usual feistiness.
Poor, poor Chuuya.
The pleading in his eyes almost makes Dazai change his mind.
Almost.
Dazai smiles.
“No.”
The agonised groan is cut short when Dazai picks Chuuya up. Bloodshot blue eyes are full of questions; disappointment washes over the tear-streaked, freckled face when Dazai ignores the bedroom door and carries him to the kitchen. He is heavy. Dazai’s legs feel like giving up — his stamina is not enough for this, especially considering the orgasm he’s still recovering from, and still, the power of pure spite keeps him going.
“What the—”
“Stop talking.”
Maybe it’s a bit rude how Dazai dumps Chuuya on the kitchen island. It would have been way easier to just pound him into the mattress in the bedroom, like god intended. But he knows this is what Chuuya wants — and this is exactly what's stopping Dazai from making this little dream of his come true.
“Bend over, love,” Dazai murmurs.
Chuuya growls. His fists clench, but Dazai is not intimidated by them. He knows that they will not bring any harm to him, not after he witnessed how easily Chuuya is willing to submit to him. He watches a bead of sweat run down the wet face. Chuuya stalls — and then obeys.
“Good boy.”
Chuuya is far from elegant when he slides off the countertop and turns around. It’s probably uncomfortable as hell. He has to pull himself up to get his ass in the air, and the fact that he tries so hard to give Dazai easy access just because he asked is making his heart pound.
Chuuya is his.
He’s doing it for him.
Diligently, Chuuya waits, looking at Dazai with a silent question in his eyes. Again, messy hair covers half of his face, and, to drink in the sweet, almost timid expression, Dazai tucks a strand of red hair behind Chuuya’s ear, revealing his face.
“Chuuya,” Dazai whispers, savouring the way his name rolls off his tongue. Judging by Chuuya briefly squeezing his eyes and sharply exhaling, he loves it too. “Doing this all for me. Just for me. So pretty. So obedient.”
Chuuya moans and hides his face in his elbow. His thighs contract, abandoned cock twitches, and Dazai has to step back to take in every inch of the naked man displayed on the marble countertop for Dazai to see. The cold stone made goosebumps appear on Chuuya’s skin. He stays quiet about this minor inconvenience. Dazai’s eyes travel to his ass; up in the air, shiny with sweat, lube and come, it’s calling for Dazai to claim it again. The panties around his thighs are still on, the stretched fabric stoically enduring everything happening in the dimly lit apartment. Finally, as if enjoying his dessert, Dazai’s eyes land on Chuuya’s feet. Hovering barely an inch away from the floor, he can see Chuuya struggle to reach it. Regardless, he tries, the muscles on his calves straining as his toes desperately struggle to touch the floor to give himself some extra support — and he just can’t.
Dazai thinks Chuuya might throw a tantrum, with how frantically his legs swing in the air, the traitorous bit of air between his toes and the floor laughing at his struggle.
Chuuya is so fucking petite. Dazai knows it will be the death of him one day.
“So gorgeous,” he whispers. Chuuya heavily breathes in response and wriggles his ass in the air. “And impatient.”
A slap on Chuuya’s ass resonates in the kitchen. Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of another one and holds his breath.
It doesn’t come.
Chuuya holds onto the edge of the kitchen island. It’s simply adorable how needily he wriggles his ass, the desperation so discordant with the glare he gives Dazai.
Silently, Chuuya waits. His muscles tremble ever so slightly, his muscular back is peppered with shiny beads of sweat, and dishevelled red hair sticks to it. Slowly, Dazai’s eyes travel down. He takes everything in — from Chuuya’s shoulder blades, then down, as his torso gets narrower until reaching its peak at his waist. His eyes linger on it for a few more moments, and finally, they grace the alluring roundness of his ass. A red mark blooms where Dazai slapped him, and the lewd view makes Dazai roll his hips forward, his dripping cock sliding between Chuuya’s cheeks.
The view is otherworldly.
Dazai knows how to make it even better.
Without warning, he slides inside Chuuya. Dazai’s eyes are finally blessed with being able to see how his girth stretches him, and the way his body hungrily takes every inch of Dazai’s thick cock, filling the room with the mixture of slapping and squelching noises as he pounds. Each of them goes straight into Dazai’s cock as he feels how his second orgasm is rapidly brewing. His come smears around his length, making small bubbles on Chuuya’s rim and leaking down his inner thighs, and he has to close his eyes to stop this pornographic view from tipping him over the edge so soon.
Chuuya diligently holds his ass up. His moans are in unison with each forceful thrust Dazai makes, his hands gripping the marble countertop for purchase.
Dazai has to admit — he doubts he will be able to hold back much longer. Heat coils in the pit of his stomach, and he knows that it’s finally the time for the last stage of his plan.
He reaches around. Dazai feels Chuuya’s asshole clench as he grips the hot wetness of his length, and that alone almost makes Dazai lose it. He bites his lip when Chuuya cries out and thrusts into his hand, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the counter.
“So hard for me, Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice is coarse. He can feel that each word he says goes straight into the pit of Chuuya’s stomach. His body tenses under Dazai’s, his moans get shorter and more demanding, until he goes silent, and—
Chuuya buries his face into the smooth surface of the kitchen island. The moans that resembled a prayer with their repetitiveness turn into a scream as his body tenses, and he finally lets go. Warm come covers Dazai’s hand in messy splashes as he keeps stroking, Chuuya’s body contracting at the relentless pumping.
He doesn’t stop pounding Chuuya through his orgasm — the way he knows Chuuya loves it, he hits the spot as his hand keeps working, adamant on making Chuuya an even bigger mess than he already is.
The moans subside. Dazai’s hand feels blessed with the evidence of Chuuya’s desire. Slowly, Chuuya turns his head. Tears are still rolling down his face, and a scrunch of his eyebrows left a line on his forehead. His body is twitching in its post-orgasm bliss, and he is probably expecting Dazai to slow down with the pumping of his overstimulated cock. It’s wet. His come makes Dazai’s hand slide even easily against the sensitive skin, and the sensation of wetness everywhere makes Dazai lose his mind. Contrary to what Chuuya is expecting, Dazai’s hand quickens its pace.
“Come for me, Chuuya.” He’s not sure if he hears it. “Again.”
“I can’t.” Chuuya’s voice nearly breaks. The frantic shake of his head, coupled with how quickly he answered, is almost comical.
“Shhhh.” Dazai bends down and pushes away stray strands of hair stuck to Chuuya’s face, so damp that the fiery red became a noble shade of rusty brown. Softly, he kisses his parted lips, drinking the moans Chuuya makes in response to each stroke of Dazai’s hand. “You can, Chuuya.” His thumb circles the sensitive head, so goddamn wet, and Chuuya bucks his hips again, his knuckles white as he holds onto the edge of the kitchen island.
“Dazai, I…”
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs against the trembling lips, “you can do it. You know you do. You know you want to.” The moves of his hand are steady as his lips travel to Chuuya’s earlobe, and he gently pulls on it with his teeth, biting on it maybe just a little bit too hard before travelling to his neck, where he can feel Chuuya’s blood pumping like crazy. “Just for me.” He smiles against the skin as he feels Chuuya get harder in his fist in response to each word that he pours into his ear. “You can come for me again, right, Chuuya?”
A silent plea is the only answer; through the messy red strands that stick to his face, blue eyes pierce the air of the kitchen, laden with the heavy smell of sex. Chuuya is stubborn. Always in control, being the owner of the situation no matter what he does, he stretches his legs trying to find his footing — and when he finally thinks he can, Dazai makes another thrust, which pushes Chuuya’s hips up, making his feet get further from the floor than ever.
“Isn’t this what you wanted, Chuuya? To come?”
Chuuya whines, frantically shaking his head. Dazai bites his lip. He can feel how close he is, and it doesn’t help how easy it is to slide inside Chuuya with his come still inside, mixing with lube in the most lewd manner.
“Didn’t you ask me? So nicely?”
“Dazai, please.”
Chuuya’s body acts on its own accord. His hips yank at another stroke of Dazai’s hand. His back arches, and he lets go of the counter’s edge. His hand hovers in the air, but he doesn’t dare remove Dazai’s hand from his cock. He cries out and wriggles to escape the painful overstimulation, but to no avail — Dazai bends over him, pushing him down with his body weight, with his cock buried deep inside him. His lips brush against Chuuya’s cheek. It’s wet, on par with the rest of Chuuya’s body, and Dazai licks the salty skin. A weak moan escaping the bitten lip is the only response.
If Dazai weren’t so close to his desperate mouth, he would have surely missed the broken whisper.
“I can’t—”
Dazai wants more of this beautiful mess under him.
Hell, he wants all of it.
“Let go, Chuuya. Come for me.” His voice gently brushes against Chuuya’s ear as he preaches, unable to stop the sweet stream of words coming out of his mouth. “Come. You’re such a pretty boy. My pretty boy,” he whispers, and again, Chuuya… Obeys.
Chuuya’s moan resembles an agonised scream. With his torso weighing Chuuya down, Dazai can feel each twitch of tight muscles as spurts of Chuuya’s come make a mess in his fist as he never stops pumping the throbbing length.
When Dazai pulls away, their skins stuck to each other, he marvels at Chuuya and at how beautiful he looks, unravelled like this. He is not sure he would ever be able to get used to this view. The thrill never seems to get any less new; the excitement he feels when he lays Chuuya open like this always sends him into a completely different realm. It never fades, neither after the first time, nor after the hundredth.
And he knows it never will.
He finally stops pumping Chuuya’s raw cock and lets go when the man on the kitchen island stops twitching, with only tears rolling out of his eyes as a reaction to the relentless stimulation. Dazai looks at his hand covered in iridescent white and licks his pinky finger, listening to Chuuya’s heavy breathing. The taste is so unmistakably Chuuya. Diligently, Dazai’s mouth works on his fingers, making sure that the man underneath him can hear the noises his mouth makes. Mesmerised, Dazai rolls his hips. Chuuya’s barely audible moan as he disappears inside him is music to his ears.
His body welcomes him home with its cherishing warmth.
His home.
Dazai squeezes his hands on Chuuya’s hips. The muscles are hard under his touch. They tremble, the familiar buzz of a fight forgotten, tamed by the softness of Dazai’s strokes. Slowly, he runs his hands up. Long fingers tickle his sides, purposeful in their accidentality, making another weak groan come out.
Dazai’s hands are perfect on Chuuya’s body. Firmly, yet with the tenderness that only Chuuya knows, Dazai’s hands circle his waist. He stops at the narrowest — the sweetest spot and takes it into his hands, marvelling at how his thumbs are touching as he holds Chuuya like his most prized possession.
He is.
Dazai leans down to the back of Chuuya’s neck. It is too pristine. Way too empty, way too inviting — and so, he bites his new canvas. The sharp sensation of teeth dipping into the skin is instantly soothed by the delicate movement of lips and tongue rolling over the emerging bruises.
When he looks at Chuuya’s face, his breath hitches. He looks simply gorgeous fucked into oblivion, that Dazai contemplates making him come again.
He decides against it.
He pulls out. Carefully, he spreads Chuuya’s cheeks to adore his creation. His hole is red and raw; there are marks left from the base of the butt plug he had been wearing, and out of the small black hole, Dazai's come slowly drips out. From this angle, he has the perfect view — and he would love to commit this image to his memory forever. He looks down, eyes running along Chuuya’s legs. Slowly, he takes in the splendour of Chuuya, who gave up on trying to reach the floor, accepting his fate with his legs hanging limply. The lacy panties that were probably so tidy when Chuuya just put them on are a complete — a perfect — mess now. Wet and shiny with come and lube, the fabrics did leave red marks on Chuuya’s thighs, just like Dazai predicted they would.
His cock twitches. Chuuya finally opens his eyes. They are puffy; his eyelashes are soaking wet, and his mouth rapidly puffs out the air.
“So good for me,” Dazai whispers, and Chuuya moans in response.
He walks around the kitchen island. Chuuya watches his every step. Dazai stops where Chuuya’s head is, and immediately, Chuuya’s eyes lock on the rapid moves of Dazai’s hand stroking himself.
It’s too goddamn easy to let go and get lost in his pleasure when Nakahara Chuuya, the most powerful man in Yokohama, is made so pliant just for him.
No one else.
He tilts his face toward Dazai. Blissed out after letting himself be fucked by the only man who knows how to do it right, Chuuya opens his mouth — and the look of his pink tongue timidly peeking out is the point of no return for Dazai. He has to lean on the counter when, with a sharp moan, he spills, thick streaks of white landing on Chuuya’s face as he hungrily gets baptised in Dazai.
He looks gorgeous.
The cheeks that are still shiny from tears are now graced with Dazai’s release. They are flushed, and a small smile lights up Chuuya’s features. It blooms — this genuine emotion is contagious, and Dazai catches himself smiling, too, as he watches Chuuya slowly collect the come off his face before savouring it. Chuuya’s smile gets wider when he gets the taste of him. Dazai’s come slowly rolls down his face and pools in the deep dimples on his cheeks.
Dazai’s heart flutters.
“Fuck,” he says and yanks Chuuya off the kitchen island. He’s exhausted, but it’s not a long way, thankfully.
Chuuya laughs in Dazai’s arms.
He is a gentleman.
And it’s only proper to carry a man to the bedroom.