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Tick. Tick. Tick.
A clock echoes distantly in what must be a large room.
Burlap rustles as Dazai yanks the sack off the traitor’s head. Terrified eyes widen, pupils shrink, staring up at the boss of the Port Mafia—nearly mythical Dazai Osamu.
Every muscle in the man’s body freezes under the unfeeling, bourbon gaze of the Boss. He knows it in his bones. Who else but the Demon Prodigy could strike such fear without uttering a single word? His heart thuds arrhythmically in his chest. He’s been found; he’s been caught; he’s going to die. Or perhaps he’s already dead, and the blood-freezing visage before him is a grim emissary of the end. Looking up at the single, inhuman eye that watches him, he could believe that this man is the Grim Reaper. Or, with that calculating stare, perhaps he is Anubis—weighing his fate with each tick of the clock.
“Can you guess why you’re here, Sugimoto-kun?” The Boss’s voice is so light, so relaxed, you would never know a person’s life hangs in the balance. “I’m sure you have at least one guess, maybe two,” the Boss smiles that wide, almost childlike smile, as he prompts, “Go on.”
Sugimoto is a religious young man, a good Catholic, raised in the Church and a regular attendee. He goes to Mass, he says his prayers with fervor, he goes to confession, he counts his rosaries dutifully. And now, Sugimoto sees he has been a fool.
He would cross himself if his hands were unbound. For he sees that there is no God in this world, no heaven, no justice. But there is a devil in this world, and it stands before him this very moment.
“Come on, just one? Surely you have at least one guess.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He has to get his mouth to work. He has to say something. Anything!
“You scared the shit out of him, Dazai.” A second voice, brash, but familiar.
A posh redhead steps out of the shadow, into the weak light from the one, overhead lamp. His swagger betrays his position. He’s high-ranking, clearly with the power to reinforce that authority. Sugimoto recognizes him, not only from dossiers, but from a couple of meetings in person. The man likes to keep a close eye on his subordinates—buying them drinks, sparring with them, casual conversations. Sugimoto has seen him from a distance a number of times: A5158, Nakahara Chuuya, Gravity Manipulator, and the other half of Soukoku.
The executive comes to a halt beside the boss, arms crossed, leaning more on one leg than the other. The boss slips an arm around Nakahara’s waist, pulling until their hips touch, and Nakahara goes without a hint of resistance. There are rumors, of course, that the two are paramours, but Sugimoto had never given them any credit until now.
If Dazai Osamu is God, then Nakahara Chuuya is like the Mother Mary. No one bothers to pray to God directly. He’s too busy punishing people for their sins, too uncaring of the self-sabotaging ants that crawl over his feet. No, when someone needs help, they pray to the Mother Mary, beg her to plead with God on their behalf.
There is only one person with sway over the Demon Prodigy, only one person who can change the Boss’s mind, his opinion. That person is Nakahara Chuuya. And Sugimoto must pray.
Earlier…
The office doors slammed open and shut behind Chuuya as he stormed across the distance to Dazai’s desk, each footstep thudding into the floor, the walls trembling with his impatience. Dazai repressed a smirk, watching Chuuya yank off his gloves and discard them carelessly.
There may have been an exchange of texts earlier, perhaps an innuendo or two. There may even have been an invitation, an offer of sorts; it’s irrelevant now. Whatever the case may be, Dazai drummed his fingers on the arm of his desk chair, awaiting the fruits of his latest enterprise.
Chuuya reached the desk, spun Dazai’s chair around and swiftly sank into Dazai’s lap, straddling him. His fingers coiled into that irresistibly poofy, tug-able, coffee-brown hair, and he took a grip and jerked Dazai’s head back, immediately attacking that filthy mouth that’s shattered a hundred souls with only words.
Dazai groaned into the crush of their mouths, hands snaking up Chuuya’s back, fingertips digging in to the soft material of Chuuya’s red jacket. Their bodies were synchronized, moving against each other like clockwork—the teeth of each gear following in the gap left by the others.
Chuuya’s free hand trailed down the side of Dazai’s face, his neck, hesitating over his throat like he might choke him, which might be a weakness of Dazai’s. Dazai shivered under the light pressure on his carotid. He felt the cackle rumble in Chuuya’s chest as much as he heard it. Chuuya continued his path down, snaking his fingers under the lapels of Dazai’s black, silk suit. He dug his nails into the dress shirt beneath and raked all the way down until his fingertips bumped into the black belt at Dazai’s hips. Unperturbed, he yanked Dazai’s shirt out of his pants and ran his hand under the hot, scarred skin of his stomach and chest. It elicited a throaty groan that had Chuuya shivering.
Dazai, heating up, wound his own hand into Chuuya’s loose curls and gripped until he felt Chuuya tense. He jerked Chuuya’s hair back. Chuuya gasped, and Dazai immediately bit into the corded muscle running up the side of Chuuya’s neck. Chuuya squirmed in Dazai’s lap as Dazai licked and sucked over the reddened bite mark. Chuuya’s hand tightened in Dazai’s hair, but otherwise remained pliant as Dazai chewed a vicious line down Chuuya’s neck to the joint of his shoulder, before backtracking over his work with rough kisses and sucks.
“Da-ahh! Dazai!” Chuuya tugged at Dazai’s hair, who deigned to pull back. He could almost feel his pupils expand at the sight of Chuuya, panting heavily, flushed, and hazy-eyed. Dazai had a feeling about what Chuuya wanted to say.
“Bed?” He offered.
“Bed,” Chuuya agreed with a shaky nod, but slid out of Dazai’s lap with steady legs and a toothy smirk. Then, without any warning, he jerked Dazai out of his seat and threw him over his shoulder.
“Oof! Chibi must be eager, manhandling me like this.”
“Shut up. You fucking love it and you know it,” he punctuated the sentence by giving Dazai an extra jostle. “Besides, how’s the view?”
“Hmm,” Dazai hummed like he was actually considering, rather than grinning lecherously at Chuuya’s ass. “Not bad,” he said, as Chuuya paused to push the bedroom door open. He took the opportunity to reach down with both hands and give Chuuya a thorough squeeze. Chuuya practically squeaked and chucked Dazai onto the bed. Luxe red velvet cushioned his fall, trimmed by their silky-smooth, black satin sheets.
“Ah, Chuuya, so disrespectful,” Dazai chided as Chuuya climbed on top of him, hovering like a tiger poised to kill. “Has my unruly subordinate forgotten the rules of the hierarchy?” Dazai watched Chuuya’s grin widen into something wild, truly feral. He went on, “Perhaps he needs to be punished? Put in his place?”
“Oh, and you think you’re strong enough to punish me?” Chuuya seized Dazai’s wrists and pinned them to the sheets on either side of his head. “I bet you aren’t strong enough to do anything more than hold on for dear life while I pound the shit out of you.”
Dazai wrapped his legs around Chuuya’s waist and flipped them over. “That’s dangerous talk for an executive,” he slipped his wrists out of Chuuya’s grip and slowly dragged them down the length of Chuuya’s arms, eyes following the subtle wrinkle in the tight, red fabric left in the wake of Dazai’s touch. “One might think you were…” his eyes flicked up to meet blistering-hot blue, “planning something.”
“Perceptive as always, Boss,” Chuuya threw his arms around Dazai’s neck and dragged him down for a filthy kiss, breathless, wet, and possessive. “I’m planning something truly vicious.”
Dazai shut his eyes and shuddered. Chuuya had a knack for the kinds of dirty talk Dazai didn’t even know he’d wanted. Then Chuuya took the opportunity to flip them over again, closer to the nightstand, and snatch the shamelessly accessible bottle of lube.
He shifted backward to crouch between Dazai’s legs. His eyes flicked down to Dazai’s crotch, then arrested Dazai with his gaze as he deliberately dragged his tongue over his lips.
Dazai couldn’t resist a moan, just a little one, barely more than a sigh. But his fingers twitched—antsy, wanting.
Chuuya made quick work of Dazai’s belt and zipper, but was interrupted when Dazai pounced on him, sending his hat flying and pinning him to the foot of the bed.
“The hell?!” Chuuya started, all further complaints cut off by Dazai’s mouth seizing his own. Chuuya tried to stay mad, but it was so very hard when Dazai was putting that skillful tongue to such good use. He squirmed and sighed under Dazai’s weight, his attentions.
One of those clever hands snuck down to his belt. The buckle clicked as it came undone, and warm fingers slipped inside Chuuya’s boxers, pulling his hard cock out of the confines of those sinfully tight jeans.
Chuuya groaned when Dazai gave him a few dry pumps, panted and pawed when the friction disappeared, and hissed when Dazai’s hand returned, slathered in cool lube. He would’ve objected to the temperature, and likely would’ve asked when and how in the hell Dazai had gotten and opened the lube, but the only thing more convincing than Dazai’s silver tongue is his clever fingers.
Slick fingertips danced lower. Chuuya sighed, part satisfaction and part irritation. Dazai can be bossy, demanding, bratty, pushy, all the things that annoy Chuuya as much as they turn him on, but he came there with a goddamn plan, and he was getting fucking impatient.
Then those fingers slipped a little too low and Chuuya jerked.
“Oy!”
“Hmm?” Dazai feigned innocence with that silly pout of his.
Chuuya snarled, “I bottomed the last three times!”
“So?”
“It’s your goddamn turn! Roll over!”
“Bad dog. I trained you better than this.”
“Hah?!”
Dazai’s face lit up with his toothy, sadistic grin. “Now lay down, puppy.”
Chuuya shoved his shoulder, “I’m not in the fucking mood for this.”
“Neither am I,” Dazai said, ice slipping over his features as the playful façade fell. He seized Chuuya by the chin, grip just a little higher than a choke. “Now lay down.”
Chuuya grabbed Dazai’s tie and yanked him down so their noses brushed. “Make me.”
Their wills crackled between them like lightning, electric sapphire glaring into frozen bourbon. Rage and pride coiled in the air, spinning faster and faster like particles in a collider—something had to give.
That something was Dazai’s phone, buzzing in his pocket.
Without breaking eye contact, Dazai pulled his phone out, flipped it open, and answered.
“Yes? …You’re sure it’s him? He confessed? …Good.” Dazai paused then, eyes still boring into Chuuya’s defiant glare. He covered the receiver with the palm of his hand. “Hey Chuuya,” he whispered, the hard edge in his gaze sharpening into something more…excited. “Do you want to play a game?”
Chuuya’s eyes shot open, followed by a few disoriented blinks, before sliding into that self-assured smirk that makes Dazai’s head spin. “Fuck yes.”
Dazai returned a controlled, but pleased little smile, before speaking into the phone again, “No. I don’t want him in the dungeons. Take him to, hmm,” he looked out the corner of his eye, taking in the bedroom pensively, before his gaze wandered back to Chuuya. He fixed him with a dangerous grin, and answered, “Warehouse five.”
Now…
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Na-Nakahara-san!” Sugimoto blubbers. “Please, sir! I can make amends!”
Chuuya nods, “Yes, you can and you will.”
“Sir, I, I’m so sorry! Please, I didn’t want to do it!”
“Heh,” Chuuya scoffs. “Didn’t want to be a spy? Or didn’t want to get caught?”
Sugimoto freezes, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The flagrant display of Chuuya’s tact has Dazai’s spine tingling. He licks his lips.
“I…I could be a double agent for you! I could lie to my superiors, give them useless info or, or feed them whatever lies you want! I can report back to you everything they tell me!”
“Oh?” Dazai starts. “Interesting. And what use would we have for a double agent who cracks under the slightest pressure?”
Chuuya grins wildly at his partner, “An excellent point.”
“P-please! I beg of you! I have parents who will wonder what happened to me. What if they file a missing person report?”
Chuuya snorts, making a half-assed attempt to hide his snicker by tilting his head farther into Dazai’s shoulder. Meanwhile Dazai barely raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do you really think you’ll be the first one whose parents filed a missing person report?”
“Nakahara-sama!” Sugimoto bows his head as best he can while bound to a chair. “I will dedicate my life to you and the mafia! I came here a spy, but the loyalty and brotherhood amongst the mafia has come to mean so much to me! I will faithfully serve you with all my strength! With my life!”
Chuuya hums thoughtfully. Dazai watches him out of the corner of his eye.
After a pause, Chuuya answers, “Alright.”
Sugimoto’s eyes light up with a foolish blend of disbelief and hope. “Really? Er, you won’t regret this, sir!”
“I’m sure I won’t.”
The little smile on Dazai’s lips should’ve been Sugimoto’s first clue.
Dazai tugs Chuuya just a bit closer—a playful jostle. “What are your plans, Nakahara-sama?” He flicks the word off his tongue, entirely too amused.
Chuuya bites down on a laugh. “He said he’d make amends, and serve the mafia with his life. I think there’s an obvious solution here, don’t you?”
Dazai’s eyes pop in innocent confusion, before shutting on such a sweet little giggle.
Chuuya shifts just enough to yank a dagger out of his coat. Sugimoto’s eyes bug out, breath quickening through his nose. The blade gleams in the low light. He squirms in his ropes as Chuuya slips out of Dazai’s loose embrace and stalks towards him.
“S-sir?”
Chuuya crouches in front of the chair, twirling the dagger in his fingers. He glares up at the traitorous bastard. “You’re responsible for the deaths of four of my subordinates. You think they didn’t have parents? Friends? Family? You think there’s no one left behind to mourn them?” His glare sharpens. “You thought wrong.”
Dazai looks on disinterestedly. “Your killing spree started with the woman unfortunate enough to call herself your significant other. When you failed your police academy exams for the third time, a diet member reached out to you with an offer to make you a real officer in exchange for a few…favors,” he leans his weight to the other leg, hands shifting in his pockets. A fly blinks against the yellow light overhead. “What you didn’t know, is that she was in the middle of investigating the very same diet member who had given you your facetious promotion. When she confronted you, begged you to extricate yourself before it was too late, you shot her. An ‘accident’, probably. But when you became the most likely suspect, your friend upstairs arranged to get you off the hook in exchange for doing the far more useful—although far more dangerous—work of being a mole in the mafia. And when one of our men caught you, you shot him, and pinned it on an equally innocent man. You used your influence over the police to get him arrested, and shot two more people to cover it up. Oh Sugimoto-kun,” Dazai bends to look at Sugimoto at eye-level. “Your blood runs darker than mafia-black. When you get to hell, tell Mori who sent you.”
Chuuya laughs mirthlessly and raises his dagger overhead, poised to swing down in a deadly arc. When he strikes, Sugimoto screams, eyes shut tight for the impact.
It never comes. Instead, the space fills with the fibrous sound of rope splitting. Sugimoto peeks open his eyes to find Chuuya cutting through the restraints at his ankles, then his chest. When he’s fully freed, Chuuya straightens to standing and steps back, leaning just slightly against Dazai’s shoulder.
When Sugimoto makes no move to get up, Chuuya smiles, but it’s fanged. He bites his lip as Dazai’s arm snakes back around his waist, and a single finger trails up his side. “Every exit is locked. Every window is inaccessible. There are no weapons, no tools, no help, and absolutely no one to hear you scream.”
Dazai leans into Chuuya, licking his lips again, eyes gleaming at his lover with some toxic cocktail of pride and lust.
“You have sixty seconds to hide, starting…” Chuuya glances at Dazai, who raises his wristwatch to let Chuuya press a button on its side, “Now.”
But Sugimoto doesn’t move. The fool is frozen in place, glued to the chair with fear.
Chuuya laughs through his nose, before stepping back towards the chair, crouching in front of it and gripping the armrests. He grins at Sugimoto and it’s as wide and feral as the Cheshire Cat, but with a wild gleam in his eyes deadlier than the Queen of Hearts. He whispers, “Run” and shoves the chair back to slam against the floor. The fool scrambles upright and makes a break for it, glancing over his shoulder.
Chuuya turns that feral grin on Dazai as he saunters towards him, and, oh. Dazai feels alive. He feels so goddamn alive.
Chuuya rests light fingers on Dazai’s shoulders. “You best believe I’m not here to lose, Dazai.”
Dazai encircles Chuuya with his arms and pulls him close, pressing their bodies together, their faces close. “I would accept nothing less,” he murmurs against Chuuya’s lips. The kiss starts slow, almost chaste, before adrenaline takes over and the slide of their mouths becomes hotter, faster, greedier.
Neither of them knows who started it—a soft rock, hips pressed to hips—that builds so quickly to a hungry grind. Chuuya all but humps Dazai’s thigh, and Dazai pushes his groin up against Chuuya’s sculpted hipbone. Dazai’s fingers wind into Chuuya’s hair and yank. Chuuya growls, but his throat is exposed now to Dazai’s teeth. Pain blooms behind his eyelids when Dazai takes a bite out of the skin over his jugular. His head spins, from the arousal more than the pain, especially as Dazai sucks the bruising skin.
Not one to be outdone, Chuuya brings his knee up between Dazai’s legs and rolls it in maddening waves. Dazai shudders with a groan, arms clenching around Chuuya like he’s afraid he’ll fall. His hips rut automatically along Chuuya’s tight thigh, so accustomed, so addicted to his little redhead that his body is drawn to Chuuya’s almost without his permission. Luckily, Dazai is all too happy to give that permission.
Chuuya pulls away and Dazai bites down a snarl so it comes out more like a hiss. Chuuya smirks and gives Dazai’s nose a kitten lick.
“Don’t get too carried away,” he whispers, grabbing Dazai’s wrist and pulling it up to look at his wristwatch. “Eighteen seconds,” he says, breath hot across Dazai’s palm, where he presses a kiss. He pushes Dazai’s sleeve up to leave a trail of kisses sandwiched between his lips and Dazai’s hot skin, pulse racing. Dazai bites his lip until it burns. He knew how many seconds were left, of course, but he’d been hoping to ride Chuuya’s hard thigh a little longer.
Chuuya glances up at Dazai’s wristwatch again, “Ten seconds.” His fingers dance over Dazai’s arm. His foot taps against the cement. His lips spread into something not quite a smile; more like the pant of a hyena, all primal hunter’s frenzy. His eyes crackle with static electricity, watching each tick, tick, tick of the watch.
Dazai gets even hotter under the collar taking in the sight of Chuuya, but it comes with a certain focus. Mine, he thinks. Chuuya, all raw energy and blinding power, has sharpened himself into the deadliest weapon in the world through sheer willpower. And he’s all mine.
Chuuya bounces back with bowstring-tight giddiness, and shouts into the warehouse, “Five! …Four! …Three! …Two! …One! Ready or not motherfucker!”
He spares Dazai a competitive smirk over his shoulder before sprinting off into the maze of crates and shipping containers, ranging from six to thirty feet high, and most well over ten. Dazai just laughs through his nose before following at a more leisurely pace.
He finds the nearest shipping container with rungs and climbs up top. No abilities, they’d agreed, but all other forms of cheating are still on the table.
There’s a wobbly gasp followed by Chuuya’s cackling. Dazai hops from the container to a slightly lower crate, then jumps up to grab the ledge of a high container. He pulls himself up, and the metal clunks under his shoes.
Sugimoto’s flailing figure emerges along one of the corridors of the warehouse maze. Chuuya is close behind, sprinting like a predator, but Dazai knows full well that Chuuya isn’t going at top speed. He’s savoring the chase, just like he’ll savor Dazai later.
Dazai whips out his pistol and fires lazy warning shots at Sugimoto’s feet. He has no intent to kill, after all, he has a promise to OdaSaku to keep.
Sugimoto squeaks and hikes up his legs like a puppet on strings to avoid the aim-blunted bullets. He darts down the next turn in the maze with Chuuya hot on his heels.
Dazai hops from one container to the next, following the action like a news chopper. Chuuya’s blood-crazed laughter sounds more like Corruption with each passing second, and it makes a shiver tease at the top of Dazai’s spine. The scuffle of rapid footsteps and heavy breathing bounce off the high walls of the warehouse. It composes a surprisingly pleasant cacophony, a brash thrum of bass through Dazai’s ears.
“Please! Please!” Sugimoto’s gasping screams cut through the rhythm. There’s a chink, and he shrieks. Ah, Chuuya must’ve thrown a knife.
Dazai follows the racket as Sugimoto loops back through the same corridor where Dazai shot at him before. His eyes track the traitor’s frantic path with the apathetic gaze of a scientist watching his mice in their cage. But his heart thumps a little faster when he spots Chuuya on their mouse’s tail.
Chuuya is all wiry, lean lines, each pace of his run clean and practiced and powerful—efficiency made flesh. Dazai’s chest tightens watching him. The blood buzzes between his legs. His fingers clench and uncurl around the handle of his pistol.
Sugimoto makes a series of desperate turns, careering around the edges of splintery crates. A lazy plan swirling in the back of Dazai’s head slithers to the forefront. He stretches his neck and starts a leisurely stroll to the nearest rungs, slipping down to a lower container. His footsteps clunk beneath him. He leaps across one of the corridors, and he can feel Chuuya’s gaze on the side of his face. It’s a familiar, hot weight, almost burning. He turns. Their eyes meet. It’s only a moment, but it’s long enough. Chuuya really is the only one who’s ever understood Dazai.
Dazai blazes a trail across the tops of the shipping containers until he’s in position. He can see Sugimoto just as he’s about to round the corner. That’s when Dazai drops down onto the cement. He hits the floor in a crouch, and slowly straightens as Sugimoto skids to a stop in front of him.
The poor fool’s chest is heaving with fear, dripping sweat. His head whips around, hoping he has time to turn back and escape down a different route before-
Ah, too late. The tiny terrorist slides into place at the other end of the corridor. With Dazai ahead, and Chuuya behind, Sugimoto is pinned in place like an insect mounted on a wall.
Chuuya swaggers forward with the slow confidence of an apex predator. At the same time, Dazai raises his gun. Sugimoto frantically looks from one to the other.
“It’s too bad, really,” Dazai muses. “If you had been this vigilant much sooner, it might not have come to this.”
“Please! Please, Boss, no!”
Dazai smiles, “Boss, yes!” and fires into the traitor’s leg.
Sugimoto howls, and Chuuya pounces on him. A vicious kick sends Sugimoto sprawling, and Chuuya straddles him, one hand bunching in his prey’s collar, the other hand bludgeoning his face bloody.
Each dull thud of fist meeting flesh is punctuated by a punched-out gasp. This part bores Dazai. The chase is thrilling of course; the capture as well. But death is just that—death. The end is the same. He won’t spoil his dog’s fun, but he’d be lying if he said patience was his forte.
Chuuya’s blood-spattered hand drops to the holster strapped around his thigh, twitchy fingers curling around the grip of the dagger held snug against his sleek black pants. In one smooth motion, too fast for eyes to track, Chuuya slips the knife out of its holster and plunges it into Sugimoto’s chest. Once. Twice. Again and again and again, stabbing down in an arc like chopping wood.
Sugimoto’s screams start out sharp and feverish, tapering off to labored and raw in between the wet sounds of lacerations. Eventually he falls silent, still beneath Chuuya. But the tension hasn’t left Chuuya’s body.
He draws himself upright, still hunched over his victim, shoulders heaving with hot, ragged breaths. Every limb is wired. His hands, his fingers, visibly vibrating. A nuclear reactor crammed into a tiny frame, primed to fly to pieces, held together through willpower alone.
Chuuya shifts toward Dazai in a slow turn. He shoves the back of his hand across his jaw to wipe sticky gore off his face, but only smears it around. He licks his dry lips, eyes gleaming with unsated bloodlust, locked on Dazai, assessing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Dazai’s heart thuds. Prey instinct shudders up his spine. Run. It radiates down his nerves, tingles out along his fingertips. Chuuya emanates danger, like the glow of fire crackling down the wick of dynamite. Chuuya can kill him, could kill him. Right now. Ah, what a death that would be—bloodied under the claws of his lover.
The irritatingly logical part of his brain remains calm. He knows this is Chuuya, that Chuuya wouldn’t kill him. But it’s that same, calm part of him that lets him submit to the fear, the adrenaline… Dazai loves fear—wouldn’t want Chuuya so, so much if he weren’t so damn dangerous.
His breath catches in his throat when Chuuya takes one step towards him, egging him on. Go ahead, run, just you fucking try. The excitement bubbles up in his chest as he manages a ragged breath. And then–
He breaks for it.
Dazai sprints between the two nearest crates, diving down the first left. He wildly carves a path through the maze of twists and turns. He can hear Chuuya behind him, dark laughs rumbling under his panting.
His dress shoes slam against the concrete underfoot. Not exactly Nikes, they slip and skid every few steps and make his heart constrict just that extra bit. He swings around a narrow turn, fingers gripping the cold metal edge of a container for momentum. When he spots the dead end, he grits his teeth and picks up speed. Another shipping container and a crate meet to cordon off his path, but the crate is lower than the container.
Lungs burning, air scraping the back of his throat raw, and feeling so goddamn alive, Dazai launches himself forward. His hands flail for the top of the crate. Splinters dig into his palms. His feet scrabble at the side of the crate as he pulls himself up. The moment he’s on top, he pulls the same trick again and climbs onto the shipping container.
Ah, perhaps he shouldn’t have. Two of four sides are a sheer, sixteen-foot drop to solid concrete. The third side is another steep climb. The fourth side, of course, is guarded by Chuuya, rapidly closing in on him.
He chances a look over his shoulder. Chuuya glows red, leaping off the ground onto the crate. In the same move, he kicks off the crate, and it shatters beneath him. Splinters fly everywhere like confetti. Chuuya lands gracefully at the other end of the shipping container.
Steep climb it is, then. At least there are rungs.
Dazai’s fingers feel sticky on the dusty rungs. Unhinged cackles fill his ears. His foot slips. He drags himself the rest of the way up with pure adrenaline.
From here, he can see the front of the warehouse, with the single lamp and wooden chair surrounded by rope. He drops off the far side, onto an adjacent crate eight feet below. His ankle crunches when he lands, but he keeps running, dropping again from the crate to the concrete. Chuuya’s footsteps thud on the container behind him, easy, confident.
Dazai makes for the door, but not to escape. No, Dazai is ready to be trapped, to be caught.
He catches his breath beside the chair, hand over his galloping heart as he drags in one lungful of air after another. He watches warily as Chuuya approaches.
Chuuya has slowed to an arrogant swagger, cheshire grin locked in place. His hands twitch at his sides.
Dazai staggers back. His eyes dart to the chair, telegraphing his thoughts. He seizes the chair and flings it at Chuuya, who lazily raises one hand to block. The chair shatters red upon contact, breaking around him like a wave, revealing his unaltered smirk.
Mine, Dazai thinks with a shiver. Heat pools between his legs. His spine tingles. Each one of Chuuya’s chalky footsteps gives Dazai’s heart a possessive squeeze. He stops a short distance away, feet in a fight-ready spread. Dazai can feel the hot breath in his lungs, each puff out of his sprint-slicked mouth and each drag down along his roughened throat.
He looks left. He looks right. Chuuya sucks in a hissing breath, anticipatory.
Dazai breaks left, dashing for the far edge of the warehouse. His head is light, almost wobbly, with adrenaline. He scrabbles around the corner of the nearest shipping container, barely under its shadow when all the air is knocked out of his lungs.
Chuuya tackles him to the ground, and Dazai hits the concrete hard.
“Thought you could run, huh?” Chuuya pants, hot breath fanning over Dazai’s face along with the tang of blood. His hands pin Dazai down tight. “Thought you could get away from me?”
Dazai whines in response, bucking under Chuuya. Chuuya’s fingers dig into Dazai’s dress shirt, before fully ripping it off. He cries out when Chuuya’s teeth sink into his neck, ripping a path of feral bites through his skin from his collarbone up to his jaw, where Chuuya whispers in his ear, “Fat fucking chance, Osamu.”
The intimacy of the name grips Dazai’s gut like a vice, much like the fingers clawing at his sides. He moans as Chuuya’s fingers squeeze up his rib cage, strong thumbs easing toward his exposed pecs. His hands grapple uselessly at the smooth fabric of Chuuya’s red coat. He can feel his skin breaking under Chuuya’s teeth. His hips buck automatically, and he moans through the cloying fog of too-much-not-enough.
Those thumbs find Dazai’s perked nipples and roll, hard. Dazai squirms, then chokes off a gasp when Chuuya slathers a broad lick up the stinging bites bedazzling Dazai’s neck. Chuuya leaves teasing pinches up the thin, sensitive skin alongside Dazai’s underarms, before sliding his hands down into the shoulders of the dress shirt to tug it fully off.
“Fuck,” Chuuya growls. “I’m gonna make you take it so fucking hard.” When Dazai stifles a groan, Chuuya barks a laugh. “I’m gonna make you take my cock and you’re gonna fucking love it, aren’t you? Can’t help yourself, can you?” He jerks Dazai’s zipper down, uncouples his belt. “I wonder how much time you spend at that desk actually working instead of thinking about sitting on my cock.” Dazai shivers, hard, the sensation vibrating all the way up his spine and back.
Without lifting his hips, Chuuya yanks Dazai’s pants and briefs off at once. The fabric scrapes over his ass, leaving a hot tingle in its wake. He gives Dazai no time to recover, flipping him over and manhandling him onto all fours. Nails rake down his bare back, and Chuuya hisses in his ear, “I’m gonna make you fucking scream.”
Dazai drops his head completely between his shoulders, panting madly while Chuuya jerks his knees apart. The only sign Chuuya’s still himself and not some violent rapist is that he takes off his coat and rolls it up, stuffing it under Dazai’s knees as he flips him onto all fours. Dazai knows he’ll be grateful for it in the morning, but at the moment it’s almost a buzzkill. Chuuya doesn’t let that feeling linger for long though, fingers winding into Dazai’s hair and yanking back.
“You think you can just fucking run from me and get away with it?”
Dazai cries out as Chuuya bites down on his exposed neck again, dragging his canines over pounding veins.
Cold, lubed fingers slip between his cheeks. He gasps and wriggles back, the concrete floor in front of him hazing over as his eyes unfocus. The fingers circle at his rim, teasing and flicking.
“Chuuya,” he shudders, but he’s quickly silenced by a hand wrapping around his neck.
“You shouldn’t have run, Dazai,” Chuuya growls. “Now, I’m gonna make you regret it.”
Dazai’s gasp cuts off into a strangled keen when two fingers push inside him.
“Fuck, Dazai,” Chuuya pauses to suck a deep, dark hickey at the joint of Dazai’s jaw. “You’re gonna be such a pretty mess. Face all dripping with tears and sweat, shaking like a leaf while I impale you on my cock, fill you to the brim with my cum.” His fingers rub maddening circles around Dazai’s prostate, coming so close, but never giving him the stimulation he needs. “You’d fucking love that, wouldn’t you? Milking a bucket of cum out of me to fill yourself up while I pound orgasms out of you? Being so damn pretty for me?”
“Yes,” Dazai chokes out, fingers scissoring inside him, quick and dirty the way he likes it.
“Fucking hell, I should keep you stuck on my cock all the time, like a trophy.”
Trophy.
The word reverberates down Dazai’s cock, brings him so fucking close he almost screams, strangling the sound in his throat. Meanwhile the sting in his rim makes his eyes water. He gasps when a third finger slides in.
“Chuuya!” He cries.
“Hmm?” Chuuya hums innocently, squeezing just a bit harder around Dazai’s throat. “Do you need my cock that badly?”
His fingertips curl into Dazai’s prostate, punching out a gusty “Yes.”
The stretch still hurts, only slightly. And Chuuya can surely tell from the resistance around his fingers. But he knows they both like it—need it—rough.
“Hah,” Chuuya growls in his ear. “You’re fucking needy today. So desperate. It looks so fucking good on you, I’m aching in my goddamn pants like I’m fifteen again.”
Dazai moans, low and decidedly needy. The hand around his neck slips away, and then he can hear Chuuya unzipping, his belt sliding, the fabric of those tight pants rustling. He feels Chuuya’s hot cockhead press against his rim, and he pants with something like relief, stomach twisting.
Chuuya presses in slowly, the languorous drag of skin making Dazai vibrate with want. The initial stretch stings deep, and Dazai braces through it, holding his breath. But when the head is fully seated, Chuuya picks up the pace. He pushes in with quick, shallow thrusts that have Dazai panting in time with each rock forward and back, too-too-too-much and too full and too hot and too fast and too slow.
He keens piteously, entirely without meaning to. Chuuya shushes him and brushes light fingers over his back.
“Fuck,” Dazai whispers, mostly to himself. Chuuya is the only person he can feel this way with; the only person who he can hand his autonomy to. With Chuuya, he can be utterly reckless, and still completely safe—indestructible.
Then Chuuya bottoms out, groaning indulgently, hips flush against Dazai’s feverish skin. Dazai shivers, fingers spasming on the cold ground. He clenches around Chuuya, who hisses in reply.
“Eager, huh?”
Dazai can hear the smirk in his voice, and worse, the challenge.
Chuuya slides back until his cockhead catches on Dazai’s rim, before slamming back in.
Dazai screams, vision blurring. He can’t catch his breath, not once Chuuya sets a brutal pace that has Dazai scrabbling just to keep from face-planting into the concrete. And because he is Chuuya’s, because Chuuya is his, Chuuya knows exactly where to find Dazai’s prostate. He nails it over and over with the same punishing precision he uses when throwing knives at a target or shooting at the gun range. It’s an endless onslaught of bullseyes that sets pleasure crackling up and down his spine and punching the air out of his lungs.
His body is awash in fire-hot, melty goo, and it sloshes with each savage thrust. Chuuya’s fingertips dig into his hips like claws. Dazai feels well and truly fucked, joints rattling in his frame, hot and bothered all the way through, Chuuya’s hips pistoning into his ass, cock splitting him wide open.
Dazai slurs, “Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya,” words of sweetest praise on his tongue for this fallen angel who can bring him to this sacred place where the noise stops; the pain fades, the void is silenced, the throbbing ache in his chest is replaced with a sensation he dares to hope might be warmth. Ah, “Chuuya,” he whines, partly in awe, partly at a loss for what else to call this person who he dragged into the mud with him, only for Chuuya to decide to stay and call it home, if only so Dazai wouldn’t be alone in the darkness any longer. Who else but Chuuya could he call his most prized, priceless possession? Who else could possibly possess Dazai himself? Who else could make Dazai let go?
Chuuya groans at the tenderness of his name on Dazai’s lips. “Fuck, Dazai. Fucking you is like getting a shot of ecstasy straight to the dick.”
Dazai whimpers. It’s all he can do with how little air he manages to keep in his lungs, the way Chuuya is pounding it all out of him.
“Ugh, it feels like your ass was made to take my cock. You’re so damn tight! Mnn, Dazai,” he groans again, the rest of his sentence lost to the throes of pleasure.
One hand slips from Dazai’s hips to wrap around his waist. The other slides up to clutch his throat again. Before he knows it, Chuuya’s yanked Dazai upright by the throat, his chest pressed up against Dazai’s back, still fucking up into Dazai’s heat. Dazai flails to find Chuuya’s waist, scrabbling backwards until he can sink his fingertips into Chuuya’s back.
That hand around his waist trails light fingers up his chest, and Dazai shivers as Chuuya purrs in his ear, “You’re bespoke to me, like a goddamn suit, inside and out.” He punctuates the last word with a vicious bite to the meat of Dazai’s trapezius muscle. He’d cry out if he had the strength, but it ends up as another airy whine.
He does his best to fuck himself back on Chuuya’s dick, pelvis instinctively drawn into the heat and the friction. He’s so close now, pressed against Chuuya and the delectable pressure on his throat.
“Chuu-” he manages, the last syllable devoured by another brutal thrust.
“I know,” Chuuya grits out, because of course he understands Dazai anyway.
Chuuya’s hand slips down to grip the base of Dazai’s weeping red cock, and Dazai screams. So oversensitive, and still not there yet. He wants to beg and plead. It’s all so much. Too much. He clamps his eyes shut and can feel heat drip down his cheeks.
Chuuya squeezes his way up Dazai’s cock, sliding up an inch, curling his fingers tighter, then uncurling and sliding up just a bit farther. When he reaches the tip, he sets his thumb atop the bead of precum oozing out of the slit and drooling down the shaft. Feeling all the fluid on his fingers makes him groan against Dazai’s shoulder. He smears the precum around, fingertips teasing the head with light, swirling touches.
Dazai cries out, the teasing becoming unbearable. His prostate is on fire with stimulation, ready to burst. His heart is thrashing in his ribcage, his stomach boiling with need, incandescent pleasure singeing his nerves, and Chuuya’s hand on Dazai’s throat has his head in the clouds.
Then, Chuuya digs his thumbnail into Dazai’s slit, fingertips dancing down his shaft, and Dazai shatters, engulfed in his own prism of pleasure so sharp he almost cuts himself on it. He screams as bliss fizzes down each vein, the sound echoing in the warehouse. Fireworks go off behind his eyelids. His dick spurts ropes of cum, and Chuuya strokes him straight through it, hot cock rubbing over his prostate and milking his balls for every last pulse of cum.
“Chuuya,” he gasps, his voice tapering into whines as the stimulation edges toward pain. Chuuya shushes him, hand slowing, instead cupping Dazai’s softening erection. It’s almost a protective gesture, and Dazai groans loud and deep, luxuriating in the golden, gooey after-glow.
Behind him, Chuuya buries a whimper in Dazai’s hair, thrusts becoming stiff and erratic.
“Dazai,” he gasps, then again, “Dazai!”
Even fucked within an inch of his life, Dazai knows exactly what Chuuya needs when he says his name like that. He contorts his arm behind him to brush Chuuya’s cheek.
“Chuuya,” he whispers—permission, plea, and confession all wrapped in one.
Chuuya smothers a whine by biting Dazai’s shoulder, teeth sinking into the same bruising, mutilated flesh he’d bitten before. Dazai shudders through it, and Chuuya fucks in a few more rapid, brutal thrusts before seizing, arms clenching Dazai in a bruising grip. Then, he cums with a snarled cry, gasping in time with his last few satiating thrusts. Dazai moans indulgently, body alight in a euphoric haze as Chuuya’s cock twitches and pulses against Dazai’s prostate, cum painting his insides like hot caresses.
Chuuya’s crushing embrace relaxes, and they hold each other, sweaty and panting, as the haze slowly settles around them like so much dust. After a time, Chuuya collapses back onto his heels and eases Dazai into his lap. He tilts Dazai’s head back to lean down for a mellow, tender kiss, lips rolling and ebbing, warm and soft and loyal against each other. Their lips part, and in the same moment they press their foreheads together, neither knowing exactly who moved first.
“Carry me,” Dazai whispers, and Chuuya smiles down at him, equal parts knowing and charmed. He presses one more kiss to Dazai’s lips, before arranging him in his lap like a princess. Dazai lazily flops an arm out to snag his rumpled coat, abandoning the torn shirt, as Chuuya swipes a thumb across Dazai’s lips, wiping away the spit that had dripped down his chin. Then Dazai interlaces his fingers comfortably behind Chuuya’s neck.
They have the briefest of eye contact, their wordless “All ready”, before Chuuya effortlessly stands as though he isn’t carrying a whole person, as though he hadn’t just been on his knees fucking Dazai’s brains out.
Secure in Chuuya’s arms, Dazai happily taps his toes in the air as Chuuya begins walking them back toward the front of the warehouse, away from a corpse stagnating in its own pool of cowardly blood. Dazai nuzzles into Chuuya’s bloodstained shirt, and Chuuya hugs him just a bit tighter to his chest.
Chuuya only reluctantly sets Dazai down when they reach the doors. His hands smooth down Dazai’s arms, scrutinizing his knees for telltale wobbles. Dazai watches the assessment with a private smile.
When Chuuya is assured of Dazai’s steadiness, he steps back. Dazai pulls on his coat, and they walk out the door side by side, but with professional distance between them.
“It’s done,” Dazai says to the lackey standing beside the limo. “Send in cleanup.”
“Yes sir,” the man replies, bowing as he opens the car door for them.
Dazai slips in first. Chuuya follows after him.
In the privacy of the vehicle, there’s hardly any space between them, sides pressed together with easy familiarity. Chuuya lays his head on Dazai’s shoulder, sunset tresses trickling down Dazai’s coat, eyes drifting closed.
The car starts. The wheels rumble pleasantly against the asphalt below. The towers loom dark in the distance against the night sky.
Dazai noses into Chuuya’s hair to smell the sweat, blood, and French milled lavender-spice shampoo. A deep inhale sates some needy creature in his stomach, and he exhales as his heart rate slows of its own volition.
Chuuya makes a thoughtful hum, and Dazai tilts his head encouragingly.
Sleepy, Chuuya mumbles, “He mentioned his parents…dya think he was supporting them?”
Dazai hums just as thoughtfully in reply, “If he was, we’ll see that whatever regular payments he made to them continue,” he nuzzles into Chuuya’s temple, still tacky with blood, feeling Chuuya’s smile against his neck. “Mmm, my sweet Chuuya, so considerate.”
He basks in the silence—their souls so connected, minds so in sync, that words rarely need to be spoken between them. He kisses Chuuya’s hair, and murmurs, “In blood and in liquor.”
Chuuya looks up, eyes glassy with a deadly cocktail of exhaustion and trust. “In life and in death.”
They trap the words between their lips with a kiss.