Archive of Our Own

Chuuya lit the first candle like he was about to commit a crime.

The apartment was already dim—winter light bleeding out early, the city outside going bruise-purple behind the glass—but the little flame changed the room’s temperature anyway. It made everything softer at the edges, warmer in the corners, theatrical in a way that had no business existing in the same world as bullet wounds and broken bones and the danger of Yokohama.

Dazai made a noise from where he was leaning over the bed, elbows braced, ass up, face turned away like he couldn’t bear to watch Chuuya do something so stupidly earnest.

“A candle,” he said, voice flat with disbelief. “Seriously?”

Chuuya didn’t look at him. He kept his face composed, his hands steady, his shoulders loose, like this was just another detail he controlled. Like Dazai didn’t get to see the satisfaction on his mouth.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Chuuya said, and struck a second match.

Dazai scoffed. “That’s not a real holiday.”

“It’s as real as you pretending you don’t like it.”

The second candle caught. Light flickered across the dresser, the sheets, the pale line of Dazai’s spine. It found the black mesh of the panties Chuuya had gifted him to wear—threaded through with irresistible little pink bows. Chuuya’s gaze snagged on them. Hard.

“Don’t stare,” Dazai muttered, as if he could feel it.

Letting out a quiet breath through his nose, Chuuya set the match down, smirking slightly. “I’ll stare if I want to.” He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, like he had all the time in the world. Like Dazai wasn’t already fidgeting, impatient, the muscles in his thighs flexing with the effort of holding still.

Stopping behind him, Chuuya placed a palm on his lower back—firm, anchoring pressure, and Dazai’s body reacted instantly, a little tremor that ran through his shoulders and down his arms, like touch was a switch.

“I like the bows,” Chuuya said, low.

Dazai’s laugh was small and sharp—insecure. “Is Chuuya going to last while I look like this?”

“Quiet,” Chuuya said, and slid his hand down, over the curve of Dazai’s ass, fingers spreading. “Just—shhh… Be good for me.”

Dazai’s breath hitched, but he tried to keep his tone lazy. “Mm. Threats already. Romantic.”

Chuuya leaned in until his mouth was close to Dazai’s ear without touching. He could smell him—soap and iron and the faint bite of whatever cologne he’d put on like it was nothing. Dazai always pretended he didn’t care about presentation. He lied with his whole body.

“You don’t get to call anything corny tonight,” Chuuya murmured. “You put on the lingerie I bought you.”

“It’s not lingerie,” Dazai said immediately, too fast. “It’s… underwear.”

Chuuya’s hand tightened on his ass in a slow squeeze, and Dazai’s voice broke on a pathetic sound that wasn’t a word.

“Yeah?” Chuuya said. “Mesh panties with bows.”

Dazai shifted, trying to press back, to make friction happen. Chuuya didn’t let him. He kept him exactly where he wanted him with a hand at the small of his back.

“Stay,” Chuuya said, calm as a blade.

Dazai went still in an instant. That was the thing about him—how quick he could obey when he wanted to, when he decided it was worth it. How all the flippancy fell away the moment Chuuya’s tone changed. Deliberately slow, Chuuya reached for the lube on the bedside table. He let the bottle click when he set it back down, wanting Dazai hearing everything. To anticipate it. To count seconds like they mattered.

When Chuuya’s fingers returned, cool and slick, Dazai made a strained sound and dropped his head, forehead nearly touching the sheets. Chuuya started at his cock—not even teasing the other place yet. He slid his hand under Dazai’s stomach, through the space between his thighs, wrapped his fingers around him from underneath.

Hot. Hardening steadily, straining the mesh. Sensitive already.

Dazai exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day.

“Chuuya,” he said, voice instantly softer, like he couldn’t help it.

Chuuya began to move—slow strokes, full length, the lube making the glide over mesh too easy, the kind of handjob that wasn’t about getting Dazai off fast. It was about making him feel every inch of it. Between the contrasting sensations of Chuuya’s slippery hand, the lube, the light scratch of mesh, Dazai’s hips jerked forward. Chuuya slapped his ass once—blunt, clean, just enough to remind. Dazai choked on a noise and shivered.

“Be still,” Chuuya said.

Dazai tried. He really did. His fingers clawed at the sheets; his shoulders tensed; his breath turned thin and ragged, catching on whimpers he failed to stifle. Chuuya watched him from behind like he owned the view; he let himself enjoy the shape of him—long, lithe limbs, the curve where Dazai arched, the way his slick cock flexed around the mesh and the little bows as his body fought itself.

He kept stroking. Slow, then slower, then pausing just long enough that Dazai made a desperate sound—

—and then starting again.

Dazai’s voice came out strained. “Chuuya is doing this on purpose.”

Chuuya hummed, noncommittal, and tightened his grip, thumb pressing at the mesh-covered head in a languid circle. Beads of precum welled up from the slit as he did, seeping through the holes in the mesh.

Dazai’s whole body jolted. “F—”

Chuuya stopped.

Complete stillness.

The silence landed heavy, broken only by Dazai’s ragged breathing, the small hitch in it like he couldn’t believe Chuuya had actually done that. He shifted, a panicked little movement. Chuuya’s hand stayed wrapped around him, unmoving. He leaned forward and put his mouth near Dazai’s ear again.

“You moan like that,” he said quietly, “and then you expect me not to make it worse?”

Dazai swallowed. His voice was hoarse. “Chuuya is always making it worse.”

Slower than before, Chuuya resumed, like he’d decided to be cruel about it. Dazai trembled, the head of his cock glistening with lube and precum, soaking the mesh panties, Chuuya’s grip just firm enough to make pleasure sharp at the edges. Dazai’s head turned slightly, as if he wanted to look back, as if he wanted to see Chuuya’s face—wanted proof that this was real, that Chuuya was here and focused and choosing him.

Chuuya’s hand slapped his ass again, harder this time.

Dazai gasped, then laughed weakly like he was trying to salvage dignity. “Ow.”

“Not ow,” Chuuya corrected, and squeezed the same spot immediately after, gentler, fingers kneading. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

The sound Dazai made was amall, helpless, and he didn’t answer. Chuuya’s thumb slid down, slicking the crease between Dazai’s cheeks, then, and Dazai’s flushed body went rigid, breath catching like he’d been braced for this. Chuuya didn’t rush; he kept stroking Dazai’s cock through the soaked mesh panties with one hand while the other moved lower, spreading lube carefully, testing how Dazai reacted.

Dazai always acted fearless. His body always told the truth, hips twitching when Chuuya’s fingertip pressed against him. He tried to push back, and immediately Chuuya tightened the hand on his cock and stopped him with the other—palm on his hip, holding him in place.

“Don’t,” Chuuya said. “Let me do it.”

Dazai’s laugh came out shaky. “I’m letting you.”

“Not like that.” Chuuya’s voice was steady. “You’re gonna take it how I give it.”

That was all it took to make Dazai go quiet, breath shuddering out. He didn’t argue. He just held himself there—ass up, arms tense, waiting like it mattered. Slow, deliberate, Chuuya pressed one finger in, and felt Dazai’s whole body tense around it like a reflex. He paused immediately, thumb stroking the head of Dazai’s cock in a soothing little circle.

“Breathe,” Chuuya instructed, low.

Dazai did. Barely.

Chuuya worked him open in maddening increments—curling his finger, pulling back, adding more lube, pressing in again. He took his time like it was sacred. Like he was intent on making it feel good, even if it killed Dazai to wait.

At one point he leaned in like he was going to say something in Dazai’s ear—like he was about to degrade him, praise him, like he was about to put him in his place with words—and then didn’t. He just pressed his mouth to the junction where Dazai’s neck met his throat, right where the bandages broke and skin showed through in a narrow, obscene strip. Dazai went rigid on a breath he couldn’t control.

Chuuya kissed it once, slow, and felt Dazai’s pulse jump under his lips.

“—Chuuya,” Dazai managed, already sounding less smug than he meant to.

Chuuya answered by closing his teeth gently on that exposed skin. Just enough pressure to make it sharp. Enough to make Dazai’s breath snag and turn into a noise that was too honest to be a joke. Then Chuuya released him and soothed it with his tongue like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Dazai’s voice went thin. “Chuuya—” His voice cracked on the syllables. “Come on…”

Chuuya added a second finger beside the first, and Dazai’s whole spine bowed, a choked moan ripping out of him before he could swallow it. His hands slid forward on the sheets, as if he needed more leverage to not collapse. Again Chuuya stopped, and Dazai made a broken sound of protest. Chuuya leaned in and bit—lightly, just teeth—at the top of Dazai’s shoulder, barely anything; made Dazai go still like he’d been struck.

“You’re loud,” Chuuya murmured, pumping his own cock as he gazed possessively at the sight spread out below him. “You want the neighbors to know what our Valentine’s plans are?”

Dazai laughed breathlessly. “I don’t care.”

“I do.” Chuuya withdrew his fingers slowly until Dazai whimpered, then slid them back in again, deeper. “I want you paying attention.”

Dazai’s hips jerked, and Chuuya’s hand on his cock tightened, a warning. Dazai froze, shaking.

“Chuuya is cruel,” he whispered, but it sounded like worship.

Traitorously, Chuuya’s throat tightened. He hated how much that did something to him. He hated how easy it was for Dazai to say the exact word that made Chuuya feel like he had a right to do this, like it was allowed. Like he owned this thing below him and could keep him, here, breathing, alive. He crooked his fingers inside Dazai, slow pressure, and Dazai made a sound that turned into a shaky laugh and then into something too raw to be funny.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said quietly. “Mine. Don’t care if you want out.”

Dazai’s voice broke. “Chuu—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. He didn’t say things straight. Not ever.

Moving his fingers again, Chuuya found that spot that made Dazai’s whole body jump, made his cock twitch hard in Chuuya’s grip as he swore under his breath. His ass clenched around Chuuya’s fingers, desperate. Chuuya withdrew his hand from Dazai’s cock and reached down to the waistband of the mesh panties, and instantly Dazai’s breath hitched; he went still like he didn’t trust what Chuuya was about to do.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, Chuuya tugged it down just enough to expose the curve of Dazai’s hip and the pale strip of skin just above it. The bows sat stupidly perfect against his skin like they were made to be ruined. Then Chuuya lowered his mouth and kissed him there, just above the waistband. A slow, firm kiss, lips pressed to warm skin, the kind of contact that wasn’t about sex so much as ownership. Like a mark without teeth.

Dazai’s whole body went rigid. The sound that came out of him was wrecked—half laugh, half gasp, like he couldn’t decide whether to mock it or melt into it. “Ah—hah,” Dazai said, voice hoarse. “Chuuya did not.”

Lingering, kissed the same spot again. Then again, slightly lower, mouth grazing the edge of the mesh.

Dazai’s hands fisted in the sheets. “Chuu—”

Chuuya pulled back just enough to speak against his skin. “Corny?”

“Shut up.” Dazai’s laugh was shaky.

Unrelenting, Chuuya bit lightly once more, right above the waistband, and Dazai made a sound like his brain shorted out. Chuuya’s hands went back to Dazai, one at his hip to keep him still, the other returning between his legs with lube-slick fingers. When he added a third finger, Dazai’s head dropped fully, face pressed into the sheets. His whole body shook with it.

“Too much?” Chuuya asked, voice low, careful despite everything.

Dazai turned his head just enough that his voice wasn’t muffled. “I— No.”

Chuuya waited anyway, holding still, letting Dazai breathe around it. Dazai’s breath came ragged. But he shifted, carefully, trying to take more. Chuuya rewarded him—moving slow, stretching him with patience that felt obscene. Dazai whined, the sound thin and needy.

Again Chuuya stopped.

Dazai made a strangled noise. “Why does the stupid slug keep—”

“Because you get dumb,” Chuuya said, and slapped his ass again, sharp and quick, then soothed it immediately with his palm. “And I want you aware tonight.”

Dazai’s laugh came out wrecked. “I’m aware.”

Slowly, Chuuya withdrew his fingers with deliberate care, until Dazai made a desperate sound like loss. Then Chuuya replaced them with his thumb and rubbed the head of Dazai’s cock through the mesh panties. Dazai’s breath caught like he was hit; he jerked forward instinctively, then froze as Chuuya’s hand tightened on his hip.

“Ah,” Chuuya said, voice smug without meaning to be. “There it is.”

Dazai sounded furious and embarrassed. “That’s not fair.”

Chuuya rubbed the tip again, slow circles, feeling how the mesh dragged just enough to make it sharper. The fabric darkened with more precum almost immediately, clinging to the shape.

Dazai’s hips shook. “Chuu—please.”

Chuuya leaned over him, chest pressed against Dazai’s back, his mouth at Dazai’s ear. “You’re gonna come like this,” Chuuya murmured. “You’re gonna make a mess in those stupid, slutty little panties, and then you’re gonna turn over for me like the good, obedient little thing you are. Mm?”

Dazai’s laugh broke apart into a whimper. “Chuuya’s methods are cruel and unusual.”

Chuuya’s thumb pressed firmer. “Tell me no.”

For a second, Dazai went very quiet, breath hitching. Then, like he hated himself for it, he whispered, “Don’t… don’t stop… Chuu....”

Chuuya’s whole body tightened. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t, or he would say something he couldn’t take back, something he didn’t think he was ready to say yet because it might crack his entire chest open and Dazai’s alike. He just kept his focus on pleasuring Dazai, kept moving—thumb over the head of his swollen, flushed cock, fingers sliding under the mesh to stroke the length through the fabric, the friction maddening.

Dazai’s moans were small at first, restrained like he was still trying to keep himself together. Then they turned needy. Then they turned helpless.

Chuuya stopped. Dazai made a raw sound of protest and tried to twist around, but Chuuya held him down with a hand between his shoulder blades, firm.

“Stay.”

Trembling, Dazai froze. “You’re—”

“Say it,” Chuuya said.

Dazai’s voice shook. “Mean.”

Chuuya’s mouth curled against Dazai’s ear. “Yeah.”

He resumed, faster now—not enough to give Dazai what he wanted, enough to make it build too quickly. Dazai made the mistake of letting it slip—one long, wrecked moan that sounded like his whole body had given up, and Chuuya stopped moving immediately, as though he had never started up again at all.

Dazai’s hips jerked in panic, chasing friction.

Chuuya’s hand held him still, iron. “Too loud,” he said, and it wasn’t even scolding—just a fact.

Thin, Dazai laughed, thin. “Oh my—fuck—”

Chuuya bit him again, right at the throat, in the gap between bandages—teeth sinking in with controlled pressure, a warning that didn’t pretend to be gentle. Dazai choked, the sound dying in his mouth, eyes going wide. Chuuya stayed there for a beat, jaw firm, claiming the quiet. Then he let go and licked the mark like an insult turned tender.

“There,” Chuuya murmured. “Better.”

Dazai’s body started to shake in earnest, thighs tensing; his cock twitched hard under Chuuya’s hand, still trapped by mesh.

“Chuuya,” he said, breathless and insistent and wrecked, “’m—”

Chuuya slid his thumb over the head one more time, slower, and Dazai broke. He came hard, the mesh catching it, soaking through, so obscene Chuuya groaned, pressing hard against his own cock. Dazai’s whole body convulsed, a choked moan torn out of him as he spilled into and through the fabric, hips jerking, trying to grind through the overstimulation.

Chuuya didn’t let him. He held him still, hand firm on his hip, controlling even that. Panting, Dazai collapsed forward, sweat damp at his hairline. Taking his time, Chuuya let Dazai catch his breath, let him feel the aftermath—sticky, sensitive, embarrassed. Then Chuuya hooked his fingers into the flimsy little waistband and tugged the soaked panties down fully. The mesh peeled away from Dazai’s cock with a wet sound, and Dazai shuddered, oversensitive, making a weak noise like a complaint he couldn’t finish.

Gaze catching darkly on the ruined bows and the dark, sticky mess on the fabric, Chuuya grunted, deep and aroused, a tell he couldn’t hide if he tried. “Happy Valentine’s,” Chuuya said, voice low.

Dazai let out a breathless laugh that sounded like defeat. “Chuuya is… a menace.” And then, with a pout in his voice, “He said the panties were just for foreplay.”

Chuuya kissed the same spot above Dazai’s hipbone again—just above where the waistband had been—slow and sure. “That was the foreplay.”

When he hauled Dazai over onto his back, Dazai blinked up at him like he’d been dragged out of a dream too fast—hair a disheveled mess, mouth parted and bitten-raw, eyes bright and unfocused. His pupils were blown dark and wide in that sickeningly endearing way that made Chuuya want to bury his head in Dazai’s chest and sink the earth into its own foundations.

He looked pretty. He looked wrecked. He looked like he’d hate anyone else seeing him like this.

Chuuya hovered for a second, looking down at him. There were too many warring emotions in his chest to make sense of any of them, but he knew what he wanted to do, so he did it—he leaned in and kissed the exposed gap at Dazai’s throat where the bandages had unraveled, so careful it almost didn’t make sense.

Dazai’s throat moved. He tried to smirk. Couldn’t quite get it to stick.

Chuuya opened his mouth and sunk his teeth into the vulnerable skin—gentle, but undeniably possessive. A claim placed right where Dazai’s pulse betrayed him.

You are alive. I won’t let you leave.

Dazai shuddered, breath stuttering. “Chuuya…”

Chuuya kissed the mark immediately after, like he didn’t want it to be only teeth. Like he wanted it to mean something more than just destruction.

When he couldn’t stand the storm of emotion in his chest anymore, Chuuya braced himself on his elbows and lowered himself slightly, caging Dazai in. Dazai blinked up at him, trying to find a smirk and failing.

“Missionary,” he said faintly, like it was a joke he could barely hold.

Chuuya brushed his thumb over Dazai’s lower lip. “Yeah. That bother you?”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Chuuya is doing the whole… candlelight… face-to-face… thing.”

Chuuya’s mouth tightened. He didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

As he stared at him, something softened under the usual sharpness in Dazai’s eyes. He swallowed; Chuuya watched his throat move and felt it like a punch. He hated it. He wanted more. He kissed Dazai—harder than the candlelight deserved. Dazai made a small sound and opened for him instantly, like he always did with Chuuya, like he didn’t even pretend here. Chuuya’s tongue slid into his mouth, slow and deep, and Dazai’s hands came up to fist in Chuuya’s shirt, pulling him down like he wanted to fuse.

“Greedy,” Chuuya muttered as Dazai chased him when he parted for an inch of air, continuing to kiss along Dazai’s jaw.

Dazai’s voice was soft and wrecked. “You made me wait.”

And it was the way he said it. You. Not Chuuya. Dazai only ever spoke that way he was wrecked down to nearly nothing.

Without further denial, Chuuya slid his hand down between them. He grabbed the lube again and slicked his fingers again, eyes on Dazai’s face as he did it. Dazai’s lashes fluttered; his mouth parted. Then, slow, Chuya pressed three fingers into him. Dazai’s head tipped back, a quiet sound slipping out of him, too honest. Chuuya held still and watched him take it, watched the tension in his throat, the slight tremble in his hands.

Glassy, Dazai’s eyes opened again. He tried to smile. “Chuuya is—nnh—staring.”

Leaning down, Chuuya kissed just under Dazai’s ear. “I like looking at you.”

For half a second Dazai went still, like the words landed wrong. Then he laughed breathlessly, brittle. “Liar.”

Chuuya slid a fourth finger in, slow, and Dazai’s laugh broke into a moan. “Not a liar,” Chuuya said, rubbing inside him with patience that bordered on cruelty, looking for the spot that made him submit without choice. “You’re just hard to say nice things to.”

Dazai’s hands tightened on Chuuya’s shoulders. “The slug is doing fine.”

Chuuya’s mouth twitched. “Shut up.”

Dazai’s eyes crinkled faintly, the closest thing to warmth he ever let show when he was this open. “Make me.”

The words made Chuuya’s blood go hot. He withdrew his fingers slowly, making Dazai whine at the loss of pressure and sudden emptiness. But before Dazai could protest much, Chuuya was lining himself up, and Dazai’s eyes widened slightly, breath catching in anticipation. Before he could take any time to process it or prepare, Chuuya pressed in, pace so slow it bordered on agonizing. Dazai’s whole body tensed around his cock, then loosened as he took it, inch by inch, hole fluttering around the intrusion, lips parting on a breath that sounded like surrender and was.

Chuuya stopped when he was fully seated, holding there, deep, trembling himself with the effort it took not to move. Dazai’s hands clutched at him immediately, his own fingers shaking with how much it was for them both.

“Move.” The word was a command, but Dazai’s voice was strained, aching.

Gentle, Chuuya kissed him. “No.”

The laugh Dazai let out was half-strangled. “Chuu—nghh.”

Chuuya rocked forward just a little—just enough to make Dazai gasp. Then he stilled again.

Dazai’s eyes flashed, irritated and desperate. “You’re— you’re doing that thing—”

Chuuya’s mouth brushed against Dazai’s. “What thing?”

“The— the control thing,” Dazai snapped, like it offended him to name it. Like it offended him to want it.

Hand sliding under Dazai’s thigh, Chuuya lifted it to hook around his waist, opening him up more. Dazai made a small, broken sound and yielded to it. He was being so well-behaved that Chuuya pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee—absurdly tender, like he had no shame.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said. “That thing.”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut. “I hate Chuuya.”

Chuuya started to move. Slow, measured thrusts, each one deliberate. He watched Dazai’s face react to each motion in the way it never did when he wasn’t vulnerable and stripped bare beneath Chuuya—how his brows knit, how his mouth fell open, how he tried to keep his composure and failed. His hands slid up to Chuuya’s shoulders, nails biting through fabric.

“Faster,” Dazai demanded, voice breaking.

Deep and steady, fighting to stay patient himself, Chuuya kissed his mouth. Dazai’s lips were slick and warm and he could barely kiss through the moans. “Not yet.”

A wrecked little laugh choked its way out of Dazai’s throat. “It’s— it’s not fair.”

Angling his hips, Chuuya pushed in deeper, catching that sweet spot at all. Dazai’s back arched off the bed as a loud, guttural moan tore out of him, all his restraint stripped down to nothing.

Chuuya stopped.

Dazai stared up at him in disbelief, mouth open, chest heaving. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

There it was. The real tell, Chuuya’s favorite tell—Dazai swearing.

Leaning down until their foreheads nearly touched, Chuuya said, smug, “You’re loud, pretty boy.”

Dazai’s eyes were bright. Furious. Needy. “I don’t care.”

Chuuya’s thumb brushed under Dazai’s eye, wiping at nothing, and Dazai flinched like the touch was too intimate. So Chuuya brought his voice down even quieter.

“I do.”

Dazai’s throat worked. For a moment, something flickered—something like being seen too clearly. Then he forced a smirk that didn’t quite land. “Since when does Chuuya care about the stupid neighbors?”

“Since you started sounding like that,” Chuuya muttered, feeling the sharp, possessive tug in his chest he always did when he thought of someone else seeing Dazai like this.

Dazai swallowed. His voice came out smaller. “Like what?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He thrust in again—slow—but didn’t stop this time, setting a pace that was maddening, controlled, building heat without relief. Dazai writhed under him, trying to chase it, trying to force speed, but it was futile; Chuuya kept him pinned with his weight, his hands on Dazai’s wrists, holding them above his head like it was nothing. And it was.

Dazai was strong, sure, could hold his own in a fight and could sure as hell hold his own against Chuuya—had since they were kids—but truthfully, they both knew Chuuya had enough strength over Dazai to throw him around like a ragdoll and render him immobile like nothing if he wanted to, and it was only because Dazai submitted to it so willingly that Chuuya did at all.

The thing was, Dazai liked it just a little too much when Chuuya threw him around like a ragdoll.

Well. Chuuya didn’t think it was too much.

Dazai went still instantly when Chuuya pinned his wrists, breath catching. His eyes locked on Chuuya’s, wide and bright. Chuuya felt his own control tremble. He didn’t want to admit how much Dazai’s obedience did something to him, and yet—

Dazai’s voice was a whisper. “You’re— Chuuya is so—”

Chuuya kissed him, cutting it off. “Don’t talk.”

Dazai laughed weakly into the kiss, then moaned when Chuuya’s pace stayed steady, relentless. The candles flickered. The room was warm. It felt unreal. Dazai’s body softened beneath him—still demanding, still needy, but the sharpness blurring into something more raw. He looked up at Chuuya like he was trying to memorize him.

Chuuya hated it. He wanted more of it.

“Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, and it wasn’t a complaint now. It was a plea, the raw, animal kind Dazai never gave unless it cost him.

Chuuya’s chest tightened. He leaned down and kissed Dazai’s naval where skin was exposed between layers of disheveled, half-unraveled bandages. The gesture was stupid. Tender. Intentional. Dazai’s breath hitched like he’d been struck again, eyes fluttering.'So Chuuya kissed there again, then dragged his mouth lower, teasing the line of Dazai’s hip.

Dazai shuddered. “Stop being—”

Chuuya didn’t even give him the chance.

He slid his mouth under Dazai’s jaw and sucked—slow, unhurried, deliberate. Like he was signing his name. Dazai’s words dissolved into a sharp inhale, hands clenching uselessly in the sheets. Eyes dark, Chuuya pulled back just enough to look at him, and then did it again—lower this time, closer to the jut of sensitive collarbone, right along the line Dazai couldn’t hide without wrapping himself up again.

Dazai’s voice came out wrecked. “You’re— the stupid slug is—ah—such an—nn—asshole.”

Chuuya’s lips brushed his skin, soft and damp. “Yeah.”

He nipped lightly again at the same spot, making Dazai moan, his hips lifting of their own volition, trying to push harder onto Chuuya’s cock. Chuuya gave him what he wanted, pushing back in, deeper, until Dazai went quiet on a strangled sound, eyes rolling for a second like his brain couldn’t keep up. Then, finally—finally—Chuuya’s thrusts sped up—controlled, fast, hard, driving into Dazai with new purpose.

Dazai’s hands strained against Chuuya’s grip. “More, Chuu, c’mon—ah—”

Leaning down, Chuuya kissed him with a near-violence, tugging his bottom lip until his teeth broke skin. “You’re getting it, ’samu,” he practically growled, voice low and rough.

Dazai’s voice was beyond wrecked. “Please—”

Chuuya’s throat tightened again. That word, from Dazai—who never begged for anything that mattered—hit like a goddamn hook.

Letting go of Dazai’s wrists, Chuuya slid a hand down, wrapping it around Dazai’s cock. It was already hard again—oversensitive but throbbing and needy. Chuuya stroked him in time with his thrusts, slow at first, then faster. Head tipping back, Dazai’s mouth opened on a moan that sounded too broken to be mocking. His hands clawed at the sheets, at Chuuya’s shoulders, at anything.

“Look at me,” Chuuya said, voice low.

Dazai’s eyes snapped open. He looked, instantly.

Chuuya was so gone for Dazai it was stipid. He held his gaze and kept thrusting, kept stroking him, passing his thumb over the slick head and rubbing at the underside with his knuckle the way that made Dazai fall apart, the rhythm building into something punishingly good.

Dazai’s eyes were bright. His lips parted on a shaky breath. Chuuya felt like he was being watched back just as hard. Like Dazai was taking him apart too, quiet and greedy.

“You’re so—” Dazai began, voice breaking.

With a swallow, Chuuya punctuated his next word with a particularly rough thrust that nailed directly against Dazai’s already-abused prostate. “Yeah?”

Dazai’s smile was faint and wrecked. “So stupid.”

Chuuya laughed once—short, disbelieving—and thrust even deeper, grinding there, making Dazai gasp and writhe. “You’re gonna come,” Chuuya said.

Dazai’s voice shook. “I—I already—”

Chuuya’s hand tightened. “Again.”

Dazai’s body went rigid, then started to shake, breath going ragged in tandem with the rest of him vibrating apart. The candlelight caught in his hair, in the sweat on his throat, the shadows guttering and making him look somewhere between demonic and divine.

It was what had made Chuuya fall for him in the first place.

Chuuya kissed him—tenderly, agonizingly slow this time—mouth soft and sweet against his, like he meant it.

He meant it.

Dazai made a small sound into the kiss, something helpless and honest. It was so sweet, so yearning, Chuuya couldn’t even acknowledge it. He kept going instead, hand stroking, hips driving, pace relentless. He watched Dazai collapse under him, watched him try to hold on and fail.

Then, like the string of a bow drawing so tight until it snapped—Dazai’s whole body clenched, and he came hard, spilling across Chuuya’s hand and his own stomach, making a broken sound that wasn’t a word or even anything human.

Chuuya’s thrusts continued, and Dazai cried out, overstimulated, trembling. “Chuu—please, nngh—too—”

Immediately Chuuya slowed, because he was weak for Dazai—still moving, but gentler, letting Dazai breathe through it. “Shhh. You’re okay, ’samu,” he soothed, voice low, rough, and he wouldn’t admit it was soothing with an anti-ability gun to his head. “I’ve got you. You’re mine.”

The words made Dazai’s eyes flutter, hands grabbing Chuuya’s shirt like it was the only stable thing. Still, Chuuya’s own control was fraying as the pressure built hot and sharp, his body demanding climax.

Half-lidded, wrecked, Dazai looked up at him, managing the faintest smile. “Now Chuu is gonna—”

Chuuya kissed him hard, silencing him. “Shut up. Be good for me.”

Laughing weakly into the kiss, Dazai said breathlessly, “Make me.”

He didn’t have to say it twice.

Chuuya’s hips snapped forward, deeper, his own breath breaking. A few more rough but careful thrusts as he chased it, and then Chuuya came hard with a low sound that was too close to a growl, thick ropes of cum filling Dazai’s pretty, used hole. He held himself still when it hit, forehead dropping to Dazai’s shoulder, breath shaking.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room smelled like wax and sweat and sex, the candles burning steady like they’d been there forever, the room’s shadows wobbling and warping in time with their shaky breaths and trembling limbs.

Dazai shook through the aftershocks, oversensitive and drained, trying to breathe like he hadn’t just come apart under someone else’s hands, under Chuuya’s hands, the only hands in the world that could reliably take him apart without destroying him entirely. Chuuya stayed deep, kept Dazai grounded with weight and warmth and that other thing neither of them liked to name even if they knew it was there.

Leaning in, Chuuya put his mouth to Dazai’s throat again, because he couldn’t seem to help it tonight. He sucked a slow, bruising kiss into the skin, one he knew the bandages would cover later—but there was something private and necessary about the way Dazai belonged to Chuuya when he allowed Chuuya to mark him like this.

Dazai made a weak, strangled sound. “Chuu—”

Eyes steady, Chuuya lifted his head. “So you remember,” he said, quiet.

Dazai swallowed. His gaze flicked away like it mattered too much. Chuuya kissed the mark once more—soft this time—like an apology he’d never say out loud.

At last—even though all he wanted to do was stay pressed close and make Dazai permanently, irrevocably his until time stopped allowing it—Chuuya pulled back slightly, careful, and looked down. Dazai’s eyes were half-closed, lashes long against his cheeks. His mouth was soft and pink, no smirk. Hair a mess. He looked too open.

Chuuya felt that same tightness in his chest again—irritating, dangerous, familiar.

Then, Dazai’s voice, barely a whisper: “Was that… Valentine’s enough for Chuu?”

There was a beat of silence between them, and then Chuuya huffed a laugh that was a little too affectionate, a little too fond. He brushed Dazai’s hair back from his forehead, the gesture too gentle to be casual. Dazai blinked at him, slow.

Chuuya leaned forward and kissed Dazai again—just a simple press of mouth to mouth. Dazai shivered like it mattered more than the sex had.

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, pulling back to meet his eyes. “It was.”

For a second Dazai stared at him, the usual sharpness trying and threatening to come back. Vying for it against the softness Chuuya had fucked and kissed into him, the softness that always had to fight tooth and nail to stay. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something smart.

Miraculously, instead, all Dazai did was exhale, sated and sleepy, letting his hands rest on Chuuya’s shoulders with loose fingers.

Quiet.

Chuuya felt a strange kind of triumph—like he’d won something that wasn’t a mission, wasn’t a fight. Like he’d gotten Dazai to stop performing for a second and just be. The bastard never did that, and it wasn’t even his fault. That was the part Chuuya hated most.

“Candles,” Dazai murmured, voice faintly disgusted even now.

Mouth curling, Chuuya said, “Oh, shut up. You saying you’re done getting babied like a spoiled little thing?”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered closed, and his smile—small, exhausted—looked almost real. Chuuya stayed over him, heavier than necessary, keeping him pinned in place like a promise. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

Yokohama never stopped moving. But the candlelight held.

And for once, whatever they had looked almost like love the way normal people must have understood it—slow, hot, heavy, and completely soul-possessing.

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