When Chuuya created the holes and caused the explosion in the area, he must have forgotten to do it /out/ of his own body.
Or perhaps this the toll that Arahabaki takes on him, the price for a God’s rage — for a God’s power.
This is the proof that Chuuya is Arahabaki.
He /must/ be Arahabaki.
Because if Chuuya is not Arahabaki, if Dazai is wrong, then he might be something altogether more dangerous.
But he’s also partially human, and Dazai /can/ help him.
He can let Chuuya be the one who drinks from him — just this once, just enough to heal.
Just enough to let him rest.
The moment Dazai tries to adjust him in his grip, Chuuya whines something that sounds like /no/, like /please/, gaping for air.
/Sometimes/ Dazai fears he’s way too gullible for his own good, and that maybe he’s weak and foolish
and undeserving of eternal life, but he can’t let Chuuya die.
Not when /this/ is a direct consequence of a god — and under Port Mafia jurisdiction.
Not when Chuuya belongs to him.
As he carefully bends over the redhead, Dazai tells himself this is the only pragmatic choice.
“It’s alright,” he whispers. “I’m going to heal you, then.”
“But I need you to be a good chibikko and drink, ok?”
Those brave, blue eyes don’t leave Dazai for an instant.
“Ugh.” He rolls back his head, breathing loudly into ruined lungs. “/Fine/.”
“Good Chibi,” Dazai murmurs — almost playfully.
For the first time, skimming his thumb over Chuuya’s cheek, he notices a faint mark there — a swirl of red, quickly fading away.
Dazai takes a mental note to ask Akiko about it, but the only thing that captures his attention is
the pool of suffering in Chuuya’s face — the barely held-back tears, the tiredness.
Trying to convince himself that he’s not doing this because he /wants/ to, he lets his lips linger over Chuuya’s face.
He’s being magnanimous.
He’s just taking away the pain.
This is the only way he can physically help the blood down Chuuya’s throat, if needs be; nothing more.
But whatever this is — if an act of kindness or undiluted egoism — it doesn’t change the result
Dazai bites the inside of his cheek, blood flowing free and warm on his tongue.
(Why does it feel like falling?)
He cups the boy’s cheek ever so tenderly, covering the fading Arahabaki mark.
(Why does it seem so /right/, if it’s just an act to protect what belongs to him?)
And, when he presses his blooded mouth to Chuuya’s lips, Dazai’s heart /stutters/.
He kissed a /lot/, during his long life.
Some were comforting. Some tasted like copper, like this one.
Most meant nothing.
But this kiss—
/This/ — with Chuuya’s lips parting like petals under his mouth — must be the only gentle kiss Dazai has ever granted anyone.
Chuuya yields under the contact, Dazai’s blood tasting like copper as he slides his tongue in the boy’s mouth.
It’s /slow/, and it’s deep.
Chuuya sighs into the kiss, whimpering out of tiredness and pain.
Dazai handles him with care, careful not to hurt him, sustaining the
boy’s sharp jaw with the heel of his hand.
As Dazai’s lashes close, fluttering, he basks in the /humanity/ that Chuuya radiates — sucking in all his pain with every roll of his tongue, with every sip of blood Chuuya takes.
He forces it down, sweetening the pungent iron with his
lips, with his hands, with his voice fighting to reach Chuuya’s mind to murmur soothing words into the redhead.
God help them all — he thinks, as he feels Chuuya go quiet and abandoned against his body — it’s true.
The vessel of Arahabaki is real, and it can control /gravity/.
“You’re safe,” Dazai murmurs one last time against Chuuya’s lips before pulling away.
He wants, /needs/ Chuuya to know it.
Chuuya’s falls against his chest, forehead pressed against Dazai’s collarbone, abandoned and silent.
Ever so carefully, Dazai slides a gentle hand under
the boy’s legs, securing the other around his middle to lift him up without the fear of hurting him.
He’s breathing faintly, but he’s /alive/.
And Dazai doesn’t know Chuuya that well, but he has a hunch the redhead wouldn’t appreciate being carried bridal style by an /old bat/.
The idea, despite everything, steals a hmpf out of Dazai.
He’s carrying Chuuya in his arms, with /every/ intention to plat Kunikida out of the redhead’s door to make sure he heals properly, when he stops.
He takes in the neighborhood, scanning the crowd for Odasaku’s attention.
/Are you alright here?/ he asks, squinting across the road.
There’s no need for words, between them.
The man nods.
His eyes land on the blood smeared on Dazai’s lips and then on Chuuya, dark blue flashing with surprise.
“Is he—“ Oda starts, the comment trailing off.
The vampire shakes his head, adjusting Chuuya in his arms.
He mulls over an answer as he /listens/ to Chuuya’s heartbeat — subtle, but steady.
What /is/ Chuuya, to him?
He belongs to me — his blood, his /life/.
He’s just a boy he kissed, a boy that has nowhere to
He’s a revolution.
“—Safe,” Dazai says, mirroring what he said to Chuuya, looking down to glance at the redhead. It’s the only thing that seems /honest/, the only promise he can keep. “He’s safe.”
After sleeping for several days, and /begrudgingly/ allowing Kunikida to
check on him every other day to make sure he didn’t die or turn into a vampire, Chuuya is left with /one/ job.
(Well, one job other than parkour his way past the Flags’ calls.
Lippmann is the only one Chuuya talked to. And he’s safe — he’s /safe/.)
Chuuya has done a
terrible job at surviving, already, and hopefully this one goes a little bit better.
However, the redhead is not sure what he likes the least: if staying home playing online with Sigma, weak and scared and lonely, or /this/.
Because /this/ task involves Dazai,
blood, dinner and slipping into a ridiculous outfit (sinfully tight leather trousers and a semi-sheer crop tee. /Seriously/.) that pervert of a vamp has picked for him.
And maybe he has to thank Dazai for saving his life — /maybe/.
Not necessarily in this order.
Chuuya’s eyes fall on the outfit, and on Dazai’s thick, elegant note: ‘You’ll look beautiful.’
Then the address of a fancy restaurant, and a time for that same night.
Scratch that: this is /way/ worse.
> DON’T ACT LIKE A SUGAR DADDY FFS
> I see you got my present.
> Do I /have/ to wear this??? And why did you book a full ass DINNER
> Do you know how much that fucking place costs
> are you insane
> I didn’t live on to become poor wtf
> Don’t be silly, Chibi. Can’t I spoil you?
‘/Especially/ after what happened’ goes unsaid, but not unheard.
With a groan, Chuuya refuses to reply. God. Stupid rhetoric question of a stupid old bat.
Only a moment later, his phone vibrates again.
> Tie your hair up. I have one last present for you.
He has no idea what to expect from Dazai’s /present/ and, quite frankly, he’s pretty sure he hates it already.
Because there is /nothing/ coming from Dazai Osamu that can make Chuuya’s life easier — not after saving him like that, after /kissing/ him like that.
A shiver rushes down Chuuya’s spine, liquid silver, unsettling and hard enough that he’s /forced/ to stop in the middle of the room and ponder over his misery.
What really sickens Chuuya is that Dazai is acting like he is /worried/ about him.
And what if Dazai /is/ worried?
What does it mean? What does Dazai want in exchange for caring?
Because he is pretty damn sure the Master of the City’s interest comes with a price.
Because no kiss is just given for /free/.
It’s never that simple.
Damn, he wasn’t mentally ready for any of this.
He’s a /Taurus/, he needs time to adjust to changes.
Kissing the Master of The City in the desolated scenery of an explosion he doesn’t even /remember/ is a pretty fucking big change.
And yet Chuuya has to admit, although reluctantly, that Dazai makes him feel safe. Important.
He quiets the Voice down.
And in all that, Dazai also awakens other feelings — human impulses, /chaotic/ ones — that scare the redhead into wanting to run for the hills and away from Yokohama.
Because no one should kiss like that.
No one should make him feel like /this/.
Chuuya shakes his head.
/No/, he tells himself, /It sure as fuck isn’t worth the risk, is it?/
Because that kiss—
Far from being a /pity/ kiss, it burrowed itself in Chuuya’s marrow, bloodied but gentle as Dazai’s tongue worked its way in between his parted lips.
It shushed down the pain, breathing hope into the redhead.
With Dazai’s hands on him, what hurt before didn’t anymore.
His soul still /ached/ from past wounds and all the old phantom scars, but there’s this carefulness in the way Dazai touches him that shattered his heart.
For once in so, /so/ damn long, Chuuya didn’t /mind/ letting go and trusting someone.
Even though he knew it was /dangerous/ to yield, he let Dazai kiss him like his life depended on it.
Chuuya doesn’t share with others.
He also doesn’t date vampires.
But, maybe, Dazai is—
“/Are you kidding me?!/”
—crazy. He must be crazy.
Chuuya’s voice echoes in the restaurant.
His hair, loose on his shoulders just to piss off Dazai, slaps his jaw as he turns to stare at the vamp.
He can’t even be mad about the lewd outfit that the shitty bat picked for him
anymore, not when a waiter is brining a full bottle of Petrus to their table.
Dazai smiles — a subtle curl of lips.
The man appears relaxed as he absently plays with his empty glass, dark hair tucked behind his ear to reveal the silver ear cuffs, but Chuuya can read amusement
into the nonchalant act. Dazai finds him /cute/.
“I took an educated guess. Do you like it?”
“Are you dumb?” He echoes. “And are you trying to buy my attention, old man? Because it’s /working/.”
“Is it, now?” Dazai hums, voice /languid/.
The way he stares sends
a shiver down Chuuya’s spine — /desire/ rushing in his veins like liquid gold. His beam withers a little, replaced by cautiousness.
“…Why are you being kind?”
Dazai’s low chuckles blankets him. “I asked you once, Chuuya: can’t I spoil you a little?”
“Nup. It’s sus.”
“I disagree. You deserve a treat after what happened,” Dazai explains with a small shrug.
“You were caught in a terrorist attack, pet,” Dazai reminds him — his voice a slow, seductive drawl. “This—“ he eyes the wine, “—is only the beginning.”
He knows he should be /enticed/, but—
/You were caught in a terrorist attack/.
At the mention Chuuya’s enthusiasm withers away, his scowl hardens.
His hands find the edge of his crop tee and he nervously crumples the fabric.
He /was/ caught in a terrorist attack, wasn’t he?
He can still smell gunpowder and sweat; the roars of the machine guns spitting bullets still thunder in the back of his head.
Damn, he even made the headlines in the local news.
(He ended up in the gossip column as the Master of the City’s new flirt, too.
/So/ not the point.)
At least Lippmann seemed fine, with Albatross calling daily and Pianoman taking days off to check on his boyfriend, but Chuuya is not /sure/ how casual the attack was.
Very few things in his life seem /truly/ casual.
The fact that he just happened to be safe in the middle of a
massacre just sounds a little too convenient to be true.
And the holes in the concrete— those craters, perfectly circular, dauntingly familiar and painted with crimson, haunt him.
Chuuya has seen those craters before.
// No. //
He /caused/ them before.
Smaller circular craters, like traces of invisible asteroids impacting the earth, open when he’s angry.
Cracks cut the walls around him when he’s scared.
His mother used to joke that, every time Chuuya cried, a tiny earthquake shook the valley.
He used to think nothing of it.
Hell, his parents used to say they found Kouyou in the forest, under an ancient sacred tree.
Just things parents /say/, right?
They were just stories.
And it hurts to think about his mother after everything she said, but—
/But what if they were more than stories, after all?/
“I—“ Chuuya starts, though his voice quickly dies in a sigh. “Yeah. I know.”
“Do you remember anything?”
The redhead shudders, the question sinking in him with all its /gravity/.
He remembers losing control, yes, then black.
Just pitch-black, bone-crushing /nothingness/.
And Dazai’s touch — an energy so /blue/ in the soundless chaos — bringing him back.
Dazai’s /mouth/ on his, warm and sweet and wet against his lips.
Suddenly, the kiss is the least strange thing that happened that day.
“No,” he says.
It’s not a lie, not /exactly/.
After all, Dazai never asked him to share his suspects — only his /memories/.
Memories he doesn’t have.
Memories that escape Chuuya’s grasp, he doesn’t know if to protect or torment him.
What he’s not saying is that it’s /scary/ to live with the Voice whispering all the time.
It’s scary when you crave to dig your nails in your stomach, tearing it open just to see if you’re /truly/ alone in your body — fearing that you’re not, fearing that the Voice also has a body, power, /free will/.
That it will take over, and —
(Grantors of Dark Disgrace)
—and humanity will slip away, a dream at dawn. He’ll be stuck in darkness, so —
(Do not wake me again.)
—so alone. /Again/.
(I will endure my solitude.)
“Chuuya?” Dazai calls, making him flinch. The man’s hand stretches over the table, closing over Chuuya’s. “Nothing at all?”
“I—“ The boy shivers, cold all of a sudden. “Can we not talk about it?”
Dazai recoils. It’s not physical, but there’s something apologetic in the way he squeezes Chuuya’s hand.
“Of course, Chibi.” So /gentle/. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”
/ How dare he make it sound honest?/
“I’m ok. Just shook, I guess.”
“I’m giving you an escort, pet. Tachihara-kun will be with you from tomorrow.”
Chuuya frowns. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
(Actually, people might need to be saved from /him/)
“Should I assign you /Sasaki/ ?” Dazai retorts immediately, merciless.
Chuuya pulls his hand away from the man’s grip, knowing the decision final.
Not that he likes it, but Chuuya is not dumb: he can’t /win/ when Dazai is so stupidly set on taking care of him.
The mention of Sasaki, although unsavory, /at least/ allows him to change the subject.
“Oh yes, because she’s going to love it so much,” he groans, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “We can braid our hair and read Omegaverse fanfictions.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you try to get along with her, pet?”
“You /have/ a pet already, and it’s not me.”
He realizes he said the wrong thing — and how jealous it sounded, how /petty/ — the moment he sees joy flash in Dazai’s amber eyes.
The emotion softens his gaze, almost, making it come alive.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Chuuya?”
“Me!? Hell no.”
“And don’t gloat, idiot!”
Even if Dazai had something to say, a waiter approaches the table with two plates before the man can speak.
The appetizers are set forth, and the conversation stagnates into five minutes of complete /silence/ as the waiter explains in detail how a scampi dish is supposed to
remind Chuuya of lemons and spring in Sapporo, where the chef is from — all like Chuuya gives a damn about spring and food when Dazai just implied he’s jealous.
He is not jealous.
Dazai implying that Chuuya might be dying to be his pet is /offending/.
“Look,” Dazai begins, eventually, once the waiter has left them with their taste-like-spring-scampi dish. Hunger grips Chuuya’s stomach, but all he can focus on are the jealousy insinuations and the suffocating sexual tension. “You can’t be my only source of blood, Chuuya. It’s
not safe and, believe it or not, I didn’t save your life to accidentally murder you.”
Chuuya drowns a tut in a sip of Petrus.
“That’s a very convenient excuse.”
“/But/ I can stop seeing my other partners,” Dazai adds, almost measuring his words. “In fact, I already did.”
“Ye, sur—“ Chuuya halts mid-sentence, eyes widening as he realizes what Dazai has just said.
He chokes on the wine.
// I already did. //
No. It must be a lie.
Dazai’s looks at him, ever so innocent.“You don’t share. I got rid of the problem.”
“I suspect you’re worth the trouble, flower.”
Chuuya’s brow furrows.
Like Chuuya believes it.
Part of him is flattered but, somehow, he /doubts/ he’s worth the trouble of someone like /Dazai/ getting rid of his current sex partners for him.
He’s not the kind of person that gets the Master of an entire city, the boss of the Port Mafia, to do starstruck romantic gestures — he’s nothing special, he’s only human.
Besides, again, the timing of it is funny.
There is a /limit/ to how stupid he can act because of a dick.
And yes, the promise of Dazai’s dick /can/ make Chuuya fairly dumb, but this is a little too much.
The himbofication of Nakahara Chuuya /won’t/ happen because of a shitty bat.
“Because of the Voice?”
“That too.” Dazai’s head tilts to the side. “But there are other reasons.”
“Curiosity,” Dazai says, relaxed, voice /loaded/.
He makes curiosity sound lewd, dragging a shiver down Chuuya’s body.
That /timbre/ again — like an ice cube being pressed along Chuuya’s spine, followed by the rough warmth of Dazai’s mouth.
Cold, then scorching.
“What—“ He has to breathe around a wad in his throat. “What do you want to know?”
“/Who/ are you, for starters.”
“You know who I am.”
Dazai stares at him as if he could /eat/ him raw. “Do I?”
It sounds more like a ‘do /you/ know who you are?’.
And maybe Chuuya is being influenced by the attack and the craters and the Voice — hissing in his head to not /listen/, to not /trust/ Dazai — but he’s not sure Dazai is talking about Chuuya’s mundane life.
He’s not even talking about /that/ thing that seems to be all over the
Internet even after months, or about Albatross, or about Lippmann and Sigma and Chuuya’s parents.
Anyway, he doesn’t answer and Dazai doesn’t press the matter.
The brunet’s plate remains untouched even when Chuuya has finished his own.
He can tell the vampire already fed,
and tries not to be /offended/ by it. After what Dazai said, though, he can’t but wonder if he said goodbye to each one of his lovers by visiting their beds.
The idea shouldn’t make his pulse hiccup, but it /does/.
It’s a matter of pride.
Because it’s not /normal/ how his
insides shrivel at the idea of someone else tasting Dazai’s lips, not after /he/ got a crumble of what his kisses taste like.
“Did I do something wrong?” Chuuya asks, point blank. The abrupt question causes Dazai to stiffen.
“You fed already. I thought that was my job.”
“No, Chuuya. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t call you because you’re still weak after what happened,” he says, quietly, raising his palm to interrupt the redhead. Heath crawls up Chuuya’s cheeks, making him feel like an idiot because /no/, he got it all wrong.
He’s /glad/ Dazai interrupted him before he could accuse him of not liking him enough. “It’s not because of anything you did and, yes, blood is still part of your job.” A pause, as Dazai reaches for something in his pocket. “Speaking of which, I have one last thing for you.”
Squinting, Chuuya leans forward to try and peek at what Dazai is looking for.
Yes, he’s curious, /sue him/.
“Still on spoiling duty?” he asks, somewhat ironic.
This time, Dazai flashes him a fanged grin.
“I told you, you deserve it.”
He says it as he places on the table a
small, black jewelry box.
Chuuya’s stomach drops when Dazai opens it to reveal a thin, black velvet choker.
The only point of silver is a tiny bell charm — something that might resemble a cat’s bell, a pet’s collar, and yet infinitely more exquisite.
“What’s /that/?” he asks.
In lieu of an answer, Dazai moves up from his seat.
He walks to Chuuya with the necklace in his right hand, the left one oh so casually hidden in his pocket, and a chuckle grazing his lips.
The sound tugs at Chuuya’s insides.
He’s so /handsome/, he finds himself thinking.
In a restaurant he cannot afford, with a bottle of wine that can only be auctioned and a man who might rip his throat open, he finds that Dazai steals his breath for all the wrong reasons
“Can’t you guess, pet?”
Chuuya purses his lips.
It suddenly means so much /more/.
The jewel’s design is minimal, but expensive. The silver bell captures the light, seemingly swallowing it.
For a reason he can’t place, mysterious to the point it might be /a spell/, Chuuya can’t refuse when Dazai walks behind him and gently drives the
curtain of auburn hair to the side, circling Chuuya’s neck with the heavy caress of the velvet.
The fabric kisses his skin, yet—
Yet, it’s Dazai’s fluttering touch that lingers.
“Do you like it?”
Hesitating, Chuuya lifts a finger to touch the fabric — soft, /real/.
The bell rests on the hollow of his jugular notch, weighing gently, pleasantly cold where Chuuya fears he might /combust/.
The air suddenly seems to stab the boy’s lungs with every movement of his chest, and he finds himself holding his breath for a long, /long/ moment.
He can’t even answer, raptured by how delicately Dazai’s fingers linger at the base of his neck after he fastened the choker.
When he talks, it’s weak.
“Putting me on a leash already?”
He can /sense/ Dazai’s smirk. “I’m claiming you, doll.”
“That’s the same fucking thing.”
“Relax,” Dazai says, his voice like a caress down Chuuya’s back. Instead of moving away, Chuuya doesn’t miss how the vampire /hovers/ behind him, hands on his shoulders. “You’re not special, this time. It’s to let others know that, if they harm you, they will respond to me.”
“And what will you do?”
/ What does the demon prodigy do to those foolish enough to defy him? /
“I will kill them.”
Chuuya tries to swallow — his mouth desert-dry, instincts sent into overdrive.
“Am I worth spilling somebody’s blood?”
Dazai hmms. “You are.”
Somehow, it sounds much more alluring than a simple leash — though, despite all his big talk, Chuuya wouldn’t truly mind being constrained.
Not if it’s Dazai.
Not with Dazai’s hands on him.
Still, inhaling deeply, he forces himself to think.
It’s politics, and Chuuya /knew/
Dazai was going to mark him for the other vampires to see.
(Why does he feel exposed?)
“It seems a little unprofessional,” he forces out.
Dazai bends over him. His lips ghost over Chuuya’s hair, dry and intimate — way more intimate than they should be. “And yet you like it.”
“It’s a nice present,” he grins, like a /liar/. “Thanks.”
“I wasn’t talking about the choker, doll.”
The redhead trembles. Thank god he doesn’t have to stand, because he’s not sure his knees wouldn’t betray him and turn into jelly.
“You thought a necklace would get you laid?”
Ah, he said it like Dazai /needs/ him to get laid — and he doesn’t.
Chuuya needs him, Chuuya wants him for himself, but the other way around is not necessarily /true/.
Dazai murmurs it with his mouth against Chuuya’s ear, nibbling at it.
Chuuya leans into the bites.
The only thing that crawls out of his mouth is a vaguely desperate growl.
He scrambles for a decent answer when all he can think of are Dazai’s hands at the base of his neck— his teeth, sharp and careful, playing with his ear.
“I’m not going to sleep you with, Dazai.”
/It sounds so pitifully untrue./
“You certainly said it, yes,” Dazai croons, all velvet-thick voice and warm breath making Chuuya’s senses glitch.
He suddenly doesn’t even /care/ of where they are, and who they are, and what Dazai might do.
“Go to any other of your lovers.”
“Have you not heard what I said before?”
Chuuya lets out a noise from the back of his throat. God, he did. He heard it, he’s just /pretending/ he didn’t.
Because Dazai’s hands are on his neck and, /God/, he wants them /everywhere/.
Because his last, paper-thin barrier fell.
“/Yes/,” he drawls. “I heard.”
Dazai’s lips brush his ear shell. “Then what’s stopping you now?”
“Let me rephrase, doll,” Dazai says, low and hoarse. “/Is/ there anything stopping you?”
// Nothing //.
“Let’s get out of here,” Chuuya replies — though it’s not a reply at /all/.
It’s an invitation.
It’s impulsive, and it might be the worst decision of his life — or the best one.
After all, from that very first night, they both knew it was going to end like this.
Because, when he moved, Chuuya never thought he would find himself speechless with want — yet there’s a voice rejoicing in the back of his head when Dazai flags down a waiter and quietly informs him they’ll be back shortly.
Not that Chuuya minds the ‘shortly’, since he is
starving. There’s just something else he wants more, now.
A man with /manners/, he muses, leaning into Dazai’s touch.
Even though that’s far from true.
Even though no Prince Charming would drag him in the restroom — but maybe he doesn’t mind having a dark knight instead.
Because there is no /chivalry/ in the way Dazai drags him away, their mouths crashing as soon as they step out of sight.
There’s no chivalry in how he devours Chuuya, too much teeth and tongue and /yearning/, trapping the boy between his slender arm and the bathroom’s door.
Emboldened by a crazy feeling of omnipotence, Chuuya fists a handful of fabric from Dazai’s shirt, dragging him closer.
/Closer/, even if there is no space between them to fill.
Dazai lets out a growl from the back of his throat, hungry.
His fingers sinking deep in Chuuya’s
hair, his heartbeat ever so /alive/, his soft moans as the redhead pushes the door open with his back.
Kisses searing, hands /bruising/.
They stumble inside the room, not bothering with the lock.
In that moment, Chuuya decides that they are /not/ going to be back shortly.
Soon, Chuuya finds himself lifted up on the marble counter, trapped in between a tall mirror and Dazai’s body.
It makes him feel /taller/, how the man man is comfortably accommodated in between his legs — Chuuya’s thighs pressing against the sides of Dazai’s narrow hips, hands
blindly messing with the buttons of the brunet’s shirt.
(His crotch brushing against the other’s body, Chuuya’s slacks suddenly /tight/)
Chuuya arcs his middle to press their bodies together, hips jolting up subtly — teasing, causing Dazai to bite at his lips in a mute request.
With a pleased, husky purr, the redhead tugs at Dazai’s curls, mouth skimming over the angles of Dazai’s jawbone.
He kisses all those sharp edges, savouring every inch of the man’s jaw before running his lips over the soft, full lines of Dazai’s mouth.
He breathes him in
and it feels /so/ heartbreaking, to be in his arms and still be craving for more.
(If only Dazai hadn’t fed yet. /If/)
Slowly, Dazai pulls away to kiss one strand of Chuuya’s hair — a peck before driving the strand away from the boy’s neck, replacing its caress with his mouth.
“So vibrant, just like a fox,” he murmurs, hushed and hoarse. His lips run through the strands. “/My/ little fox.”
Chuuya scoffs, strangled, telling himself he didn’t blush.
(He totally /did/.)
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, /little fox/?”
Stealing the answer away from
Chuuya’s mind, Dazai’s teeth sink into his skin — not enough to draw blood, but enough to coax a treacherous moan out of Chuuya’s lips.
It’s not about the taste, or the shivers trickling down the redhead’s spine — it’s the /feeling/, this all-consuming hunger.
It’s about how
Dazai seems to fervently worship every inch of him he can reach.
He’s murmuring Chuuya’s name, over and /over/. His touch is hot as his hands wander under the crop tee.
The man’s boiling lips press on Chuuya’s neck, his warm tongue fondling his skin.
“Hm?” the man finally replies, against Chuuya’s skin.
It’s adorably groggy even as he drags gentle lips up the column of the boy’s neck.
“They won’t hear a thing,“ Dazai says, instead, as if Chuuya is talking about the people outside.
Although hesitantly, Dazai’s hands halt under the redhead’s shirt. His body grows alert under Chuuya’s touch.
“…It’s everything alright, pet?”
“I’m /not/ going to fuck in a restaurant’s bathroom,” Chuuya mutters — halfway between a drawl and a sigh. “Not today. Not /ever/.”
He vocalizes it to convince himself, primarily, but he apparently manages to convince Dazai that fucking in a restaurant is /not/ classy, nor comfortable.
“We can go to my office.”
—Chuuya did say /they/ weren’t going to be back shortly.
/Someone’s gonna starve, tonight/
Someone’s going to be tormented.
And Chuuya wants this, he does, but Dazai needs to up his game and /earn/ it.
/He’s nobody’s pet./
“No.” It takes all the boy’s self control to press both hands on Dazai’s broad shoulders, pushing him away. “/I/ am going.” Chuuya grins. “Home.”
The vampire stiffens.
He didn’t expect the curve ball, and Chuuya’s brain /basks/ in the small victory.
It’s good to know that Dazai’s not the only one that can make him loose control.
He flashes the vampire a smirk. “It’s time I head back home, don’t you think?”
“No?!” he says, disgust plain in his voice.
The redhead catches himself thinking how it’s almost /cute/ how Dazai holds onto him tighter.
Even though his grip loosens, ever so subtle, Dazai falters.
He stares at Chuuya, searching for a hint of a joke — he
waits for two, three seconds, lips parted and glossy.
He seems young, for a moment, his earrings shining under the bathroom’s lights and his fangs brushing the soft cushion of his bottom lip.
They’re all details Chuuya shouldn’t notice, but he /does/.
It’s terribly easy to
learn Dazai’s traits; to find new, beautiful details in what seemed already perfect.
And Chuuya /bets/ that the vampire feels even more ravenous than before, but—
“So I should stay. That’s what you’re saying.”
—but what will be left of it once they’re done?
Dazai seems almost pained as he says, “Yes.”
“I head back with you and what? You get tired tomorrow?”
“You’re overthinking it, Chuuya.”
It’s not a question.
Pensively Chuuya drags an index down Dazai’s collarbone, hooking it around the shirt’s collar. Taunting. /Teasing/.
He doesn’t even remember /when/ he undid the first button of Dazai’s shirt.
“I’m speaking from experience.”
No, he’s not overthinking it.
Because he gets to this point and gets cold feet /all/ the fucking time.
Because what if /that thing/ happens again?
He’s not some sort of hero in a coming-of-age movie. He’s a mixed bag.
He doesn’t know how far he can go before changing his mind and chickening out.
He’s still wounded, and a mafia boss just put a collar on him.
He wants Dazai more than he can say, and it scares him /too/.
If he’s /really/ being honest, under the fake bravado and the ill-advised lust, he’s nobody’s pet because he /saw/ what good being a good boyfriend did to him.
If Dazai is as /curious/ to get to know him as he says, he can be patient.
And if a little gamble will keep the Master of the City’s curiosity alive… hell, Chuuya is /happy/ to take a risk.
“Are you really going to leave?”
Dazai says it like it’s not /possible/, but Chuuya flashes him a joyful beam. “Yep.”
“Why? That’s not what you want.”
“No, not at all,” he admits, one inch from Dazai’s lips, pulling away when he leans forward. Dazai’s touch lingers on his wrist, and he inhales. “Still, you’re a big vamp. I’m sure you can be patient.”
At that, amusement flashes in the depth of Dazai’s eyes — red, alive with a whirlwind of emotions.
Curiosity is definitely there; it’s in the way Dazai looks at him as if the boy is an oddity.
Chuuya is probably the only foolish enough to be a dick to the Demon Prodigy.
“Fine, then,” he purrs. And for a second, there, Chuuya supposes that waiting a day is /nothing/, for somebody as old as the man in front of him. “Good night, pet.”
In response, Chuuya leans forward for a last goodbye kiss. He’s not /heartless/.
Still, he pulls back the
moment Dazai’s teeth nibble at his bottom lip, tongue pressing to deepen/ the contact.
Chuuya tuts, tapping an index into Dazai’s shoulder to gently shove him away. “Ah. Nice try.”
“Hold that thought for the next time, will you?” Cheerfully, the redhead hops down
the countertop after Dazai sidestepped to let him free to go. A man with manners, indeed. “I look forward to my next job, Dazai.” He pauses on his tracks, looking at the vampire. “Ah. Do you prefer if I call you Osamu, instead?”
It’s the first time he asks what Dazai /wants/.
He didn’t think it would have been important, but it /seems/ important now — maybe he just feels guilty, who knows.
Something shifts in Dazai’s gaze, though.
Something vulnerable, intimate.
“Nobody has used it in a long time,” he admits, slowly. “It would be nice, /Chuuya/.”
In all fairness, Chuuya didn’t think Dazai would have really allowed him to walk away just like that, as if it’s /ok/ for him to Cinderella his way out of the dinner.
As if a mere human can just walk away with his head filled with Dazai, with the man’s body still imprinted
in the palms of his hands and the taste of his mouth — of his /name/ — lingering on his lips.
He was wrong.
Because Dazai /does/ let him go — ever so chivalrous again.
A bad man with good manners.
(The idea makes Chuuya’s stomach drop and bloom into frenzied butterflies.)
The act of a perfect gentleman covers the schemer, the boss, the /murderer/ so seamlessly that one can’t but wonder /who/ is the Demon Prodigy.
(Who is Dazai Osamu?)
But, as Chuuya starts to wonder what lurks behind Dazai’s many masks, the vampire allows him to /go/.
There’s a taxi waiting for him outside, so he doesn’t get to /see/ Dazai one last time, and he deserves it.
During the journey home, Chuuya’s heart is drumming, his pulse point fluttering like a caged bird.
But Dazai is not done threatening his sanity.
/Several/ of Chuuya’s blood vessels threaten to pop when he finds a package waiting for him in the lobby of his apartment building — a /food/ delivery.
The dinner they didn’t touch, he realizes.
That, /and/ the Petrus.
A note, attached:
// His next job. //
Now, Chuuya had no intention whatsoever of texting or calling Dazai first — that would /defeat/ the whole point of playing hard to get, wouldn’t it? Though he’s /craving/ to hear the man’s voice — but this is a /little/ too much to be ignored.
He’s not completely thankless.
>You’re fucking mental.
(Chuuya is starting to /like/ it.)
>Did Chibi really think I would let the food go to waste?
// It’s been nice//, he considers adding. He /doesn’t/.
>Sweet dreams, pet.
Chuuya almost /screams/ into the phone.
He plummets on the couch and kicks into the air, heart beating in his throat.
His fingers find the soft, smooth surface of Dazai’s velvet choker — its caress hugging Chuuya’s neck, not too loose and yet deliciously tight.
He wonders /why/ he’d like Dazai to choke him.
He wonders why Dazai is in his /head/ even though they’re so far away, his touch lingering on Chuuya’s skin even if they’re not in the restroom anymore.
Why do his pants get /tighter/ at the simple fantasy of Dazai’s hands on him?
Is it bad that Chuuya wants him so much, so soon? Is it part of the game Dazai orchestrated, or is it a sign they are going off script?
What is /sure/ is that it’s easy for Chuuya to travel back to the dinner over and time again.
(Sweet dreams. /Sure/.)
But he can’t help it.
At least, that’s what Chuuya tells himself under the shower, /still/ torturing himself with images of Dazai kissing him.
( /Hypocrite/. )
He needs to let off some steam.
Yet, no matter how hard he tries — how hard he /thinks/— Dazai is the only person he can think of.
Because — as Chuuya closes his eyes, head tilted up to let the boiling water kiss his skin — it’s Dazai that touches him.
Dazai’s mouth fondles his tender skin, not the drops and steam.
Dazai’s fangs bite his lips, not Chuuya’s own teeth.
Dazai’s /bite/ stirs his blood.
Dazai’s choker is circling his throat, not Chuuya’s own fingers.
(He /misses/ that string of fabric already and maybe— maybe, all part of him wants is to be choked to death by someone who owns him.)
In his mind, it’s not /Chuuya’s/ own hand the one stroking his hardened dick.
It’s Dazai jerking him off, in his mind. Dazai’s hand, Dazai’s /mouth/.
The ghost memory of Dazai’s fangs lingers on every inch of the redhead skin as he bites his lips until he draws blood.
(It tastes like /iron/, like lust, and it belongs to the Demon Prodigy.)
(// Osamu //)
His touches are rough because /Dazai/ would be rough.
Chuuya /wants/ him to be rough — merciless and alluring and /branding/ him and calling him /pet/.
The fantasy of bandages rubbing on bare skin and the pressure of his own hand circling his cock steal a sharp hiss from
Chuuya, hips snapping forward — just like he would do if that were Dazai’s hand.
He gapes around a sigh, some water getting into his mouth and being spat out.
(Ah. He /almost/ moaned Dazai’s name.)
Chuuya forces himself to take a shivering breath, swallowing the name back.
He clenches his jaw, head light and body suddenly heavy.
As he shuts his eyes harder, every cell of the redhead’s body focuses on the warmth soaring in his guts, stirring his stomach.
Quick thrusts stain his palm with precum, washed away by the water.
They make the redhead hiss through gritted teeth.
As the movements grow harder and faster, he tries to gather what would Dazai say /now/—
// ‘You’ve done so well, doll.’ //
A trembling sigh, a twitch of fingers as they graze down his shaft.
// ‘/My/ Chuuya.’ //
A moan, muffled by the water.
Chuuya’s breath, stuck in his throat as he feels Dazai’s name press against his lips.
// ‘Be good for me and let go.’ //
“Shit,” he sighs, almost in retaliation.
His hand thrusts faster, his stomach /dips/.
// ‘I want to hear you, pet.’ //
It’s so /realistic/, Chuuya fears Dazai might truly be in his head — whispering it to him, husky and /hidden/ and relishing how his absence makes Chuuya go /insane/.
Grinning at how Chuuya calls for him.
Gloating at how Chuuya is /still/ thinking about him after rejecting him.
Even if he doesn’t allow himself to moan the man’s first name, the redhead still lets ‘Dazai’ slip out of his lips — lewd, drowned by the gushing water yet ricocheting in his mind.
// ‘Don’t hold back, little fox. Let go for me.’ //
Chuuya wants him so /bad/.)
(He just hopes Dazai wants him too, wherever he is.
Whatever Dazai is /doing/, Chuuya hopes the memory of his mouth and the ghost of his absence are burning the vampire from the inside out.
Like holy water, like /sunlight/.)
It’s such a sweet form of torture, imagination.
Just like it’s torture to gasp around Dazai’s name one last time, cock twitching in his hand as stars explode behind Chuuya’s eyelids.
And in the heat of the orgasm, Dazai’s the one he sees.
It’s /freeing/, and scary.
It’s like reaching heaven and being pushed back on earth.
It’s /falling/, it’s /blinding/, and Chuuya’s knees turn to jelly the moment he groans and spills into his hand.
For a moment, his mind is silent.
No Dazai, no pride, no old pain, no Voice — nothing but a wrapping sense of /fullness/.
// ‘You’re beautiful, pet.’ //
Gaping for air, blinking, the redhead slumps against the shower’s wall.
This is fun and all, he thinks, but he could have had so much more.
And yet, Dazai let him go.
What if he /really/ means well?
(Everybody means well in your mind after you’ve jerked off to them, right?)
Dazai is imprinted everywhere, he kissed Chuuya like he could /devour/ every inch of him.
He bit him, claimed him, Chuuya has reached his high with the man’s name in his mouth, and Dazai /Let. Him. Go./
Even made dull by the afterglow, he realizes it’s all too nice to be true.
/Why/ is Dazai acting so suspiciously kind, and /why/ is it drawing Chuuya to him?
Dazai is letting him lead for now, but it feels suspiciously like a /concession/. Chuuya wonders for how long is it going to last.
How long before he throws himself at Dazai’s feet — no buts, no
Dazai put a leash on him already, after all, and Chuuya doubts it’s /metaphorical/.
How long, then?
How long before Dazai slips the wheel out of Chuuya’s grip, and the redhead doesn’t even /realize/ it?
“Did you have a nice rest of your evening, pet?”
Chuuya /suddenly/ regrets accepting the big glass of water and sugar Kunikida forced in his hand the moment he stepped in Dazai’s office, because the question causes him to /choke/ on it.
He can barely grasp how Dazai’s eyebrows jump up in a mute question before he’s forced to
squeeze his eyes and to cough the water out.
Gingerly, Dazai steps away from his executive desk as if to reach him, but Chuuya motions to him to stay /away/.
He’s doing a great job at suffocating on water without Dazai getting /closer/ and worsening the situation, thank you.
“Are you ok, Chuuya?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya gurgles between fits of cough. Maybe, if he dies, Dazai won’t make fun of him. “/Peachy/.”
“Do you need help? Some mouth to mouth cpr, perhaps?“
Chuuya almost chokes again.
God— he’s /teasing/!
“I’m /fine/,” he screeches.
Dazai hmms and tucks his hands in the pockets of his trousers, grinning brightly.
This situation /must/ be Chuuya’s karmic retribution for yesterday.
Maybe admitting he has spent a fun night with himself and Dazai’s memory isn’t the best way to kick off the job, is it?
“Why are you trying to kill me?” Chuuya grimaces, taking in a big mouthful of air.
“I merely asked about yesterday.”
/And can’t you *imagine*?!/
Dazai’s lips twitch up. “Why?”
“I—!” Chuuya sputters, heat crawling up his cheeks. “Whatever! It doesn’t
matter.” Why is he /stumbling/ over his words? “I think a better question is, are /you/ offended I cut the dinner short?”
/Good job, Chuuya. Act like you don’t give a damn.
Diverge the attention on something else./
“—It hurt my ego a little,” Dazai admits, tilting his head.
“Liar,” Chuuya says.
It’s clear in Dazai’s eyes that he doesn’t give a /fuck/ about what Chuuya thinks of him right now.
And why should he? Last night was proof enough.
Chuuya’s lie is so blatant and his need so obvious, Dazai unmasking him now would just be a mercy killing.
And the Demon Prodigy is no merciful man, apparently, because he quietly smirks and says nothing.
Chuuya doesn’t push him, either.
He might take his time to stare a little, though, because Dazai is /handsome/.
He’s nothing short of regal in his black clothes — grey shirt with
rolled-up sleeves, burgundy tie, and dark cloth trousers — and white bandages and crimson eyes and soft hair.
He’s wearing his sharpest smile, a blade of a grin.
// “Handsome? Charming? Smart?” //
Chuuya’s blood freezes in his veins, his heart stops.
What the /fuck/.
“W— are you trying to get into my head, bastard?!”
Dazai smiles, and— God, how can he look quite so /innocent/, while being the most cunning criminal in the Country?
“Of course not, doll.”
His lips curl up, a smile curling into a /vicious/ grin.
“I /am/ in your head.”
Chuuya steps back, jaw on the floor. “What?!”
“It’s not my fault you want me there,” Dazai replies, with the most elegant /yet/ unnerving shrug Chuuya has ever witnessed.
It’s infuriating, how this man manages to make Chuuya want to punch him with his fist and his /mouth/ at
the same time.
How he can bruise his feelings, and how desperately Chuuya wants Dazai to cram his fingers in his mouth.
He still finds it in himself to frown, in a way that would want to be confrontational but that, considering Dazai’s cunning smirk, might have fallen /flat/.
“I don’t want you anywhere.”
He’s lying and they both know it.
He wants Dazai in a /lot/ of places — and most of it suppose that Dazai /should/ be /in/ him.
// ‘You’re a Blood Offering, Chuuya. I can’t get into your head until you want me /in/ you. Whatever the cost’. //
A violent shudder shakes Chuuya, and he turn his head as if it could /yeet/ Dazai out of it.
The man’s voice sinks in, thick as velvet, soft as a caress.
It doesn’t sound like a /lie/, but he can’t quite forgive himself for unconsciously giving Dazai control over his head.
Over his /pain/.
Maybe he hopes it will feel a little less personal after Dazai threads his fingers through the fabric of his trauma.
Maybe he’s just tired to be alone.
But the real question is—
“Wait,” he says, trying to steady his voice. “/Did/ you get into my head before?”
So was last night truly Dazai?
The grin the man flashes him is wolfish, all fangs.
“Why?” he drawls.
The reaction turns Chuuya’s cheeks a bright, scorching red.
/Fuck, shit, fuck./
“What kind of privacy?” Dazai teases. “Is there anything you want to share?”
“/No/?” He wheezes out.
It /definitely/ sounds like a lie. But panic must be creeping through his words, because Dazai shakes his head — his grin watered down to a more sober, more /understanding/ smile.
“No, Chuuya. I can’t and have no interest to be in your head all the time
I /can/ be, if you are close enough and invite me in — much like any other private space.”
Absently, the redhead nods.
It comes across as a little dull, as if he’s not really /listening/, inwardly sighing in relief — /so/ much relief.
“Ok,” the redhead says, as colorless as he can. “Nice.”
“Why?” Dazai grins, a tease so obviously woven into his words that Chuuya’s entire body cringes. “Have you done something you don’t want me to know, /pet/?”
Damn. Dazai /knows/.
“Are you /sure/?”
He swallows dry as Dazai moves closer — no sound coming from him, his blinking and breathing a perfect pantomime of human necessities
// “You don’t have to hide your desires from me, doll.” //
The voice envelops him —fondant as chocolate, dripping over Chuuya’s raw, bare need.
Chuuya quivers in anticipation, mechanically stepping forward — longing for Dazai’s hands on him, for his fangs /in/ him.
For his mouth.
Just one step forward.
He regrets it immediately because Dazai stops, his grin oozing satisfaction as the man arches his eyebrows.
/Damn/, Chuuya thinks, realizing Dazai is making him pay.
The petty old bat is taking his revenge for yesterday.
“But, you see…” a dragged pause, a smile that makes Chuuya shiver. “I don’t need to be /in/ your head to guess what you did yesterday.”
“Look at you, little fox,” Dazai says, a pleased smile curling his inviting, rosy lips. “I barely stepped forward, yet you’re shivering. You /want/ this.” God, he does. Against every common sense, he does. “I don’t need your head, when you wear your emotions on your /sleeve/.”
Just to prove a point, Chuuya steps back. “Shut up.”
“You’re enjoying it a little too much, aren’t you, pet?”
“You told me to wait, when you’re so impatient.”
Chuuya inhales. “Shut /up/.”
“If you really want me to fuck you so bad, all you have to do is ask.”
I don’t /know/,” he wheezes out, fingers reaching for the thin velvet choker around his neck.
He touches it for reassurance, but also to remind himself that he /does/ belong to Dazai already.
It’s /how/ he belongs to Dazai that depends on him.
And the answer might sound /lame/, yet it’s the only honest answer Chuuya has given Dazai in the short time they’ve known each other.
“I’ve asked you once already,” Dazai says. “What’s stopping you? Is that experience you were talking about?”
This time, as he steps closer, Dazai sounds curious.
It’s poison and honey and velvet, Dazai’s voice.
Yet it’s /terrible/ how such a simple question makes Chuuya’s skin crawl — because there’s no easy answer.
It’s like loitering at the edge of a cliff, waiting for
the courage to jump.
Sometimes he moves a step forward.
Sometimes he takes three steps back.
Sometimes he thinks it’ll be alright, sometimes he remembers how much it hurt to collide with the ground when he jumped and there was nobody to catch him.
“…That too,” he allows.
“If you’re worried it will be /one/ time, don’t be.” Dazai’s voice is a blanket covering Chuuya, wrapping him in a warm hug. “I don’t dismiss my other humans for just anybody.”
“Who says I trust you on that?” the boy croaks — voice slightly broken this time, but harsher.
“Yesterday you seemed of a different opinion.”
Cornered, Chuuya pulls his lips in a tight line.
Annoyance simmers in him — a mixture of embarrassment, panic and true, honest irritation.
This feels like a bite /way/ bigger than what he can chew, and he’s annoyed at himself
for wanting it.
Dazai being in his head is no /joke/ — and it’s no sexual game, either.
It’s truly fucking terrifying.
And what is Chuuya, in all this game?
Where does he sit, in this chessboard of alphas and vampires and blood and undeads? Is he a saint? Is he /tainted/?
A human with nothing but his blood and the pain he apparently hides in plain sight.
The boy with the Voice in his brain, haunted by a weird sense of chaos.
He’s expendable, and only human.
“That was before I learned that a mafia monster can pry into my head.”
Chuuya expected a tease — something shameless, because so far /nothing/ in their bickering truly destabilised Dazai — but the man merely shrugs off the offense, hooking an index finger in the space between his tie and his collar.
His mask falls, and another follows.
From flirty to /annoyed/.
He pushed Dazai too far, Chuuya realizes.
He’s not sure what pissed Dazai off, if being called a /monster/ or the absolute disrespect of his words, but that doesn’t change the reaction.
“Very well,” the vampire says. “Then can you sit down, please?”
As Chuuya thinks the man’s voice rings colorless, he suddenly realizes that defining it as such would be an understatement.
A rich and fondant sound before before, it’s devoid of any crumble of interest now.
It’s /really/, absolutely flat.
A jab of shame stabs Chuuya.
He fucked up and— damn, he asked for it. He rocks on his heels, uncomfortable in his own skin.
“If you can sit down, Chuuya? I don’t have all night.”
Dazai says that with a gaze cold and shaded in crimson as he waits for Chuuya to find his way to the settee.
He only sits down because he doesn’t know what to do with himself otherwise.
As the teasing crumbles and the tension plummets, Chuuya can /sense/ the wall that Dazai put up between them, as if he remembered all of a sudden that they don’t /know/ each other.
They probably don’t even like each other, once removed the mad tension between them.
Strangers Dazai likes enough to make out in a restroom, but not enough to let Chuuya disrespect him one too many times.
“—I’m sorry,” Chuuya says, clearing his voice.
Dazai tilts his head to the side, eyes hollow.
Chuuya swallows around a lump in his throat that wasn’t /here/ before his eyes met Dazai’s — before he saw the damage.
“I didn’t mean to call you a monster. I’m sorry.”
He already knows that he won’t believe it. It /hurts/.
“You pointed out that I’m not human,” Dazai says, quietly, sitting next to him — a little too far away for Chuuya’s taste. “That’s hardly incorrect.”
Still that ice-cold voice, still that /disinterest/ that sends a spark of uneasiness down Chuuya’s spine.
No, he’s not human.
But he can bleed, he can /feel/, and Chuuya hurt him.
“Yes,” Chuuya agrees. “But so far you’ve been way more human than many people I know.”
Dazai licks his lips — he looks at Chuuya like he’s nothing but a /boring/ meal.
“Give me your wrist, please.”
But Chuuya doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything at /all/, leaning forward and cupping Dazai’s face with the same tenderness Dazai used with him after the attack.
When his lips cover Dazai’s mouth, feeling the vamp /hesitant/ and surprised under his touch, it feels /right/.
It opened a pandora box, that first kiss, because now Chuuya can’t /deny/ he wants to rush this relationship, collecting all the kisses and claiming every caress.
He wants Dazai’s fingers in his mouth, his dick so deep in him he won’t be able to breathe.
But most of all, he wants Dazai not angry at him.
// “Sorry.” // he thinks, licking Dazai’s bottom lip.
It gently invites him to part his lips, praying his voice will reach Dazai.
His hands travel up, sinking in soft curls.
// “You’ve been painfully human all this time.” //
He pushes closer against Dazai, angling his head to deepen the kiss.
// “I’m sorry, Osamu. Truly” //
Because it’s nice to play hard to get and enjoy the adrenaline of keeping one Dazai Osamu on his toes, but he has no /right/ to waltz in and call Dazai anything less than human.
Dazai doesn’t even answer him, but he /sighs/ softly against Chuuya’s mouth — and that’s all Chuuya needs, really, because the kissing is /too/ distracting for Dazai to reply and… frankly?
With a pleased sigh, Chuuya sucks onto Dazai’s bottom lip.
He bites on it, nibbling at it as his fingers rake through Dazai’s curls.
It’s harsh, but Dazai seems able to /deal/ with harsh now because he moans into the kiss and touches a hand to Chuuya’s chin, pushing closer until they are chest to chest — no space left between them.
The wall Dazai put up between them crumbles under the kiss.
The vampire’s tongue traces the soft edge of Chuuya’s bottom lip, fangs fondling against it before he pushes away.
His mouth still ghosts millimeters away from Chuuya, so the redhead is almost /talking/ into the kiss.
“I /do/ want you,” Chuuya murmurs, hoarse, lowering one hand to allow it to rest on the edge of Dazai’s trousers. “Can we forget I was an obnoxious dick and get on to the sex and the bite? Since you wanted me to be good and /ask/.”
Dazai shivers, lips twisting up ever so subtly.
“I like you. A lot. But I’m /afraid/? I’m afraid of—“ Chuuya hesitates. /You, of being a blood bag for a mafia boss who can get in my head. I’m afraid of my past mistakes, the Voice, the things in my head and of how much I fucking want you./ “—of stuff.”
“I,” he pauses, sneaking his hand under Dazai’s shirt. He feels gauze under his fingers. “I’m a mess.”
Dazai’s lips graze up and down Chuuya’s jaw, dry and warm and /gentle/ before he moves away again, this time enough to look into blue eyes. “I understand.”
“Shit happened. It was pretty fucking scary.”
“Yet I can peek into your head, and that’s something /you/ are trusting me to do,” Dazai murmurs, gently tugging a strand away from Chuuya’s face.
“I wonder why.”
“I hope it’s because you know you won’t be abandoned again, flower.”
As he says it, the vampire reaches for Chuuya’s right hand — lifting it to his lips first, gently kissing the heel of his hand and the knuckles.
The redhead sighs when Dazai’s lips part, welcoming his index fingers and sucking on it.
It’s brief, yet it looks obscene how Dazai’s eyelashes flicker, his warm tongue rolling on Chuuya’s skin and fangs pecking at it.
First on his index finger, then the others.
Absently, slowly; the ministrations make Chuuya shiver, building his impatience — making him /squirm/.
With his other hand, he claws at the bandages on the man’s hip.
“No matter what,” Dazai murmurs, after letting him go with a short, satisfied lick along Chuuya’s ring finger. “As long as you are part of the Port Mafia, I won’t abandon you.”
(But what happens when — if? — he wants to leave the mafia, and this contract?)
Chuuya swallows, his slacks growing tighter. He’s like clay under Dazai’s tongue. His defenses are /melting/.
Still, he tries to sound /ironic/ as he mutters: “You make it sound true, don’t you.”
“It /is/ true,” Dazai croons. He skims his lips over Chuuya’s knuckles, traveling up to the boy’s wrist
Dazai looks after his own people, he means, yet Chuuya catches himself thinking that he’s good at making it sound /personal/.
He feels safe, like it’s finally /fine/ to jump.
“Then I’m asking nicely,” Chuuya murmurs, sighing softly when Dazai’s cold breath fans over his wrist. “Stop teasing and fuck me.” A breathless pause. “/Please/.”
The vampire hmms.
How odd. The worst, cold-blooded criminal in the Country is telling him that he has nothing
to worry about, speaking to him like he’s loved and handling him like he’s /precious/.
“Just relax for me for now, Chuuya.”
“‘K,” the redhead agrees, voice barely above a whisper.
It’s not /necessary/ to give any green light — hell, he signed a full ass contract so Dazai
/can/ have damn baths in his blood if he wants too—, but Dazai still glances up to check on him before sinking razor-sharp fangs in Chuuya’s wrist.
The intrusion steals a moan out of him — wanton, loud.
His body twitches as Dazai’s fangs break the skin, and he’s /in/ Chuuya.
He can feel Dazai inside, more intimate than any sexual act. They’ll get to that too after the bite, no doubt, but for /now/ warmth pools in Chuuya’s stomach as he throws back his head to suck in some air.
“Shit,” he hisses through gritted teeth, but it’s veined with lust.
// “Just relax a little more for me.” // Dazai praises him, his whisper low and alluring in Chuuya’s head. // “That’s better. Don’t fight it.” //
“Osamu,” he murmurs, dazed. It sounds /thin/.
He can feel Dazai grin against his skin.
// “Don’t bother keeping quiet, pet.” //
And, no, Chuuya doesn’t hold back.
He is a beggar for love. He’s been searching for it all his life, often in the wrong places — in the wrong people.
Call it insecurity.
Call it /masochism/, Chuuya has heard worse.
Call him a slut, even; many have done it already.
Maybe he is a slut. Would that make a difference, anyway?
Would that change how he moans while Dazai drinks from him?
Would that change how the sucking sounds reverberate in Chuuya’s skulls?
Would that erase the purple bites starring his wrist, the sore but tender
skin that Dazai is torturing with kisses and nibbles in between sips?
Nothing assures him that Dazai will be a change in this string of mistakes, realistically.
Hell, the Demon Prodigy might be Chuuya’s biggest mistake so far.
But, for now, Chuuya is willing to take a chance
And, with every whimper and loud gulp of air, he’s asking Dazai but /one/ thing: take me.
Destroy me, if you want to. Break me.
“—More,” he begs.
But his stomach folds as Dazai pulls away instead — dragging one long, lavish lap along his wrist.
Chuuya sighs, leaning forward, his free hand reaching for the bandages covering Dazai’s side, sneaking in between the layers of gauze.
And he looks regal as he licks Chuuya’s wound clean, hunched over his wrist and worshipping every drop of blood he can reach.
Yet, a part of the redhead would want to see him get /messy/ with his blood.
He shivers under a dragged-out roll of Dazai’s tongue — rough and wet and /scorching/ — before Dazai’s fangs dip back into his skin.
That now-familiar, needle-like pain that explodes into pleasure.
“Fuck, I—“ A shudder makes Chuuya’s voice /die/, reducing his bones to dust. “/God/.”
The very first sip Dazai takes now shatters Chuuya’s defenses.
The second one makes his body arch, his heart stuttering as he closes his eyes.
If the first stroke of tongue was almost
shy, reverent and wet with spit, this new bite is all-silencing.
Chuuya can hear his own blood singing in his veins.
“Osamu?” he calls, after what feels like a /lifetime/ — even though it must have been just a few minutes. Dazai glances up, dark eyelashes framing ruby eyes.
“Osamu—“ Chuuya says again, “Bite somewhere else.”
/ This is not enough. /
He tilts his head up as he says it, revealing the pale column of his neck — the black of the velvet choker cuts it, stressing the elegant line of his jugular and the drumming invite of his pulse point.
He’s sure Dazai can work around the choker, though. He’s a big vamp, he can manage.
“Oh?” He purrs, /into/ the wound. Then, the vampire pulls away, licking the bite clean.
Chuuya’s breath falters, his body like clay under the ministrations.
“Just /do/ it.”
“Does it mean neck, chibi?”
“It means wherever the fuck you want,” he growls, lifting his free hand to fist Dazai’s dark curls, voice strained. “/Please/.”
When Dazai looks up at him, gaze /searing/, Chuuya finds himself inhaling.
Anticipation pools in
stomach, making goosebumps bloom up his arms.
Before Chuuya can realize what’s going on or talk, Dazai tugs him closer and pulls him on his lap.
He lets out a soft yelp, surprised, /made slightly oversensitive and dazed by the bites and blood loss.
His head is spinning.
All he knows is that he’s sitting /on/ Dazai’s lap, now, legs parted, straddling him.
The brunet shoots him such a /pleased/ grin, Chuuya can’t but smirk right back.
He allows Dazai to drive him in a scorching kiss that he returns eagerly, running his hands through soft curls.
Mouth on mouth, Chuuya sucks in a broken breath and grabs a fistful of hair and /pulls/ — prompting Dazai to toss his head back and slack his jaw, deepening the kiss.
Dazai’s tongue pushes past Chuuya’s teeth.
It /awakens/ Chuuya’s senses again as the iron-y tinge of blood hits
He melts like wax under the kiss.
Dazai’s hands frame his hips and Chuuya— God, Chuuya doesn’t know why but his heart /hurts/ when he lets Dazai go.
“Please,” he repeats, letting the vampire free to move to the neck.
It sounds more like a command, though.
“Bet that I can make Chuuya beg,” Dazai /croons/, lips skimming against his neck.
“Try,” Chuuya murmurs.
“You know, doll, I always win my bets.”
In retaliation, Chuuya pulls at Dazai’s hair and grinds against him— teasing, but in another obvious request.
Dazai wants bossy?
He’ll /have/ bossy. Chuuya can work with it. He’ll be the brattiest Offering Dazai ever fucked.
// “Tell me to stop *now*” // Dazai’s voice echoes in his head as the man bends over his neck.
But Chuuya doesn’t reply, only parting his lips to allow a cut-off gasp.
All he can focus on are Dazai’s lips sucking and nibbling and peppering kisses down his pulse point.
His mouth ghosts over the edge of the choker before he continues down, all the way to the base of Chuuya’s neck — right where it meets the delicate valley of his shoulder.
With every moment, Chuuya’s pants grow more constraining. His brain foggier, his erection throbbing as he grinds against Dazai — who’s now gripping his ass and pushing him /closer/.
// “Chuuya.” // Even Dazai’s /mind/ seems strangled, barely keeping himself in
check. // “Talk to me, if you want me to stop—“ //
“Don’t you /dare/,” he groans, harsh with impatience, pushing Dazai’s head against the crook of his neck.
Wrapping his thighs around Dazai’s middle /tighter/.
A moan rolls out of his throat the moment Dazai breaks the skin.
His brain shuts down, his senses sent into overdrive by the rush of adrenaline granted by Dazai’s /bite/.
The melody of the sucking and the sound of his own blood rushing in his head set the rhythm for Chuuya’s grinding. Lean fingers grope his ass, sinking so /hard/ in his
buttocks that Chuuya is sure he’ll leave bruises through the pants.
And yet he doesn’t mind it, not when his movements steal a low, trembling moan out of Dazai — a moan that resonates /within/ Chuuya.
Still straddling Dazai’s lap, the redhead’s lashes flutter. He cranes his
neck and pushes the man /deeper/ into his pulse point.
His trousers feel /tight/ and his head is light and his hips are rubbing against Dazai’s body in languid, wide rolls.
His hardened dick presses against Dazai’s stomach even through the cages of their clothes, coaxing soft
sighs out of the redhead. He can feel the other’s erection under him, sending jolts of liquid pleasure down his spine.
Dazai’s warm tongue rolls over the bite marks right before he sinks his fangs again into the open wounds.
Chuuya whimpers, writhing above the brunet.
“Osamu,” he warns.
// “Don’t cum yet,” // Dazai echoes in his mind, mouth busy with his neck.
Chuuya sighs, nuzzling into dark hair. /Christ/. He inhales the mix of cologne and the iron-y, pungent scent of blood, filling his lungs with it.
Then distract me, he thinks. Kiss me.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me — a broken record, stubborn and childish. He fixates on it knowing well that Dazai can hear each and every one of those thoughts.
For a moment more Dazai’s mouth lingers on his neck, caught in that precious second when Chuuya’s
blood fills his body and numbs his mind, before granting the boy’s wish and taking him away in a kiss that tastes like impatience.
Last night aside, there are /things/ lurking in Chuuya’s head— things he doesn’t /want/ Dazai to see.
Things he’s not yet comfortable sharing.
Things that he buried deep.
But, for now, Chuuya opens up.
And his mouth is on Dazai’s, his hand greedy as he’s unbuttoning the man’s dark shirt, and— until Dazai gently shoves him away.
Something in Chuuya /cries/ when Dazai pushes him off his lap.
“What?” he asks, choked-up.
“Strip down.” Dazai /croons/ it with a hooded smirk, unzipping his pants.
It seems too good to be true, yet he’s not sure he can /pinch/ himself to make sure he’s awake.
He’ll get rid of his clothes now, get fucked and worry later.
He’ll worry about the emotional backlash /never/.
For now, Chuuya caves in.
Slowly, he slips out of his shirt and pants and underwear. Each piece of clothing drops to the floor as Dazai gets rid of his shirt, too — revealing white, soft gauze covering his arms and torso.
Absently, the vampire plucks his phone from the front pocket of his trousers and tosses it on the settee.
And it would all be very nice, if cold didn’t immediately bite at Chuuya’s stomach.
“Shit,” he hisses, hugging his arms.
He guesses the dead don’t really have a use for
for central heating. He cusses again, Dazai’s enticing giggle washing over him. “Oi, don’t laugh.”
/ He’s enjoying a full show, the bat bastard. /
“Wear this,” Dazai offers, gently, handing Chuuya his grey shirt.
“You’re shivering, pet.”
Well— he /is/ cold.
And he doesn’t hate the idea of being fucked in Dazai’s clothes.
So that’s all the encouragement Chuuya needs to accept the man’s shirt, draping it over his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. “Lube? Do you even need it?” He frowns. “Shit. /I/ surely need it.”
Dazai’s chuckle rings ever so delicate — relaxed as he cocks his head to the side.
“Second drawer in my desk.”
Under any other circumstance, Chuuya would consider it a honor that the boss of the Port Mafia allows a mere human to snoop in his personal belongings.
Instead, he makes a beeline for the desk — wearing nothing but Dazai’s /shirt/ and his choker and a grin from ear to ear — and returns as quickly as he can.
Dazai’s gaze burns on his skin, following him, devouring him with his eyes.
There’s nothing new in any of this — nothing
new in how he pulls out the purple pack of lube and strolls back to Dazai with it, nothing new in how Dazai squirts a generous dose of it on his palm and smears it on his erection — and yet Chuuya is /mesmerized/.
It doesn’t feel /real/, none of it.
When he takes Dazai’s hand
and the man guides him back on his lap, he’s trembling. They /both/ are, although Dazai’s shuddering is subtle.
Dazai's voice is pure /silk/ when he taunts: "Do you have something to /say/, love?"
The redhead shivers. Every cell in his body urges him to utter only
one shuddering word: now.
If Dazai will even mention prepping him, he’ll /scream/. He’ll cry. He’ll take sudden, he’ll take pain, he’ll take /everything/.
“Don’t /tease/,” he murmurs, hoarse, a little shy of a sob.
Anticipation rushes through his veins.
And he’s the fresh blood must be intoxicating for the vampire, but the pressure of Dazai’s cock against his ass punches the air out of his guts.
Chuuya inhales when Dazai slides inside him.
How /perfectly/ his body opens to welcome him, to swallow him with the minimum effort.
It’s easy, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before. As if their bodies were meant to fit together.
Dazai stills for a moment, letting him free to set the pace with the first temptive rock of his hips.
He meows in response, moving around the vampire’s cock greedily in
slow, lush jerks of his middle.
“So tight,” Dazai purrs, squeezing his ass vigorously.
And Chuuya /thaws/ under the thick caress of his voice, under the man’s hands holding him down.
The lube is cold, but their bodies are /boiling/ as Chuuya adjusts around Dazai’s dick.
He pants for breath, throwing his head back.
Even though he entered him slowly, carefully, Dazai also leans forward — fangs bare, gums and lips red with fresh blood, and Chuuya’s heart /hiccups/.
He’s going to bite again, he realizes.
A third time.
/God/, Chuuya thinks, nails digging in Dazai’s back, /a third bite/.
And maybe he will pass out, but maybe he doesn’t give a shit.
He braces himself, tilting his hips up to better angle himself — to feel /more/ — as Dazai’s teeth scrape the battered column of his neck.
And Chuuya knows he’ll never be /prepared/ for this, but he tries anyway.
A wild rush of pleasure still crashes over him as Dazai’s fangs sink back in the tender skin at the base of his neck, tongue toying with Chuuya’s flesh as he fucks him nice and /slow/.
So damn /slow/.
Chuuya grunts, nails digging in clean bandages, caught between the bite and Dazai opening him up, making white stars explode behind his closed lids.
// “You’re so beautiful. My little human. My little fox,” // Dazai hmms.
That praise alone drives Chuuya crazy.
He sways his hips, letting Dazai’s voice /guide/ him. Letting it cover him.
Dazai is /everywhere/.
He’s more vocal than this normally, more articulated, but the name is the only thing left in his brain.
// “We have so much time, sugar.” //
Every thrust of Dazai inside him punches the strength out of Chuuya, filling him up with searing want.
With every moan and yank of his own hips, seeking friction, he feels Dazai quicken the pace.
With every thrust of Dazai inside him, his strained self-control tatters.
Soon, Chuuya is fucking himself on Dazai’s dick, body arched, hair a mess, lips parted in bliss.
Holding him close, Dazai is alternating quick bites on his neck to pecks — careful not to drink too much.
Careful not to /murder/ him.
What a glorious death it would be, though.
And Chuuya drags long scratches down the man’s shoulders and bends his back, pushing Dazai /deeper/ inside, moving above him faster. Chasing his own climax — almost, almost, /almost/.
A video call, trying to connect from Dazai’s phone.
Dazai, too, tches against his skin.
“What the f—“ Chuuya’s voice dies in a moan as the man nibbles at his neck before breaking away. Although his cuss was cut short, he is /sure/ Dazai is going to ignore the call.
“Should I answer that, love?” Dazai drawls.
…Or maybe not.
Chuuya’s heart beats in his throat.
// “What?” //
// “You just have to be very quiet, Chuuya.” // A yank of his hips pushes him deeper inside Chuuya. // “*If* you can stay still while I fuck you.” //
// “If?! Hah. That’s rich, shitty boss,” // he mentally purrs. // “But
you’re crazy.” //
He’s too fucking close to an orgasm to think clearly.
// “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” // Dazai assures.
Gnawing on his bottom lip, Chuuya stalls.
// “Bet’s on, old bat. Answer.” //
Victorious, Dazai thrusts in him — a
slow, luscious roll of his hips.
It steals a broken moan out of Chuuya, but the “/Yes/“ that rolls out of his lips is an encouragement for /both/ Dazai’s question and thrust.
// “That’s what I thought, pet.” //
Dazai is /flaunting/ him, and it makes Chuuya feel— thrilled.
Objectified should probably be the right word, but he’s never been one to talk semantics.
Especially not when Dazai hmms and stretches one hand to tap the phone’s screen.
He angles it away from them, so they can glance at the screen but the camera is pointed to the ceiling.
And the boy tells himself he shouldn’t probably like it /so/ much, but the click of the call connecting makes his heart trip over itself in anticipation.
He claws at Dazai’s shoulders, hidden under the man’s shirt as if a simple piece of fabric can protect him from the world.
“Yes?” Dazai purrs — that thick, sultry timbre that is all for Chuuya’s sake.
A tall man with piercing blue eyes and dark russet hair appears on the screen. He has the decency to look /apologetic/ about the call, at least, as a second person appears; a white-haired boy.
He can feel Dazai’s grip grow tighter around him, almost protective, and he has no doubt in his mind the man would close the connection if Chuuya gave out the tiniest sign of being uncomfortable.
If /other/ people are uncomfortable, though— that’s not really
Chuuya’s /problem/, is it? He’s past that stage.
“Dazai, are you alright? We can’t see you, is there an issue with your phone? Anyway, we need you to come downstairs. Are you— /oh/,” the man with the blue eyes stops, realising that Dazai is /not/ following the conversation.
Hearing the ragged /breaths/ despite Chuuya’s best effort to stay still. “Oh. You’re with someone.”
“Yes, I’m in a business meeting,” Dazai agrees, voice perfectly composed even though he’s thrusting in Chuuya so /hard/ that it makes the redhead jolt in a gasp.
/ The bastard. /
“That doesn’t sound like a business meeting. Are we interrupting?”
Impatiently, Chuuya squirms on Dazai’s lap — which is /not/ a great idea, considering that he almost /moans/. And it wouldn’t be the best introduction to whoever the hell these people are.
drawls. “Chuuya, meet my second in command and part of Yokohama’s triumvirate, Odasaku,” Dazai’s voice softens. “And the chief of security and head of the weretigers, Atsushi-kun.”
// “Cut the job description, old bat.” //
“Heya,” Chuuya still murmurs, only to distract himself
from his quickly fraying self-control. Definitely /not/ nice to greet people in this situation.
“Hello, Chuuya-kun,” The red-haired man says, followed by a sheepish ‘hey’ from the shorter boy wearing what Chuuya, in his dick-induced dizziness, can only define as
a Matrix coat. In the quick glance he throws at the phone Chuuya can see Odasaku’s lips twist into a tight line of discomfort. “Dazai, is this—“
“I suggest you talk quickly,” Dazai says, amiable.
It’s /clear/ he likes the man and it’s not a threat, but Chuuya still giggles
at the tone — sensing this will become an inner joke between him and Dazai.
(He’s not sure how he feels about that.)
“Are you an animal? You could have told us to wait.”
“Odasaku is mean~ out of you, me and Atsushi-kun, I’m the only non-animal in this conversation,” the man
whines, so boyishly that Chuuya just /has/ to tug at his hair and bite Dazai’s bottom lip to focus /his/ lover’s attention back on him.
Which was something Dazai planned, considering the satisfied sound rattling from the back of his throat and how he telepathically calls Chuuya
a /possessive kitten/. “Anyway, we’ll be busy for a while.” A pause. “What’s wrong? You never call.”
// “A while”, // Chuuya parrots him, rolling his hips, emboldened by the hoarse, muffled sigh that comes from Dazai. // “I’ll edge you until dawn, shitty bat. That’d be fun.” //
// “Hm. What if I make you cum right now, pet.” //
“I’d like to see you try,” he murmurs in Dazai’s ear, nibbling at his earlobe. He just hopes this call gets sorted out /quickly/.
// “Then bite your tongue for me, love.” //
Dazai’s order makes him still.
Nevertheless, he obeys — just in time, because the vampire picks up the pace
// “Don’t—“ Chuuya angles his head to sink his nose in Dazai’s hair, shaking with every hit on his prostate. “Don’t act like you’re in charge. I’m the one riding you.” //
// “We’ll see about that.” //
At that, Chuuya barely contains a shuddering sigh, his ass clenching as Dazai pushes harder inside him.
Dazai is ordering him around like he doesn’t like him at all, like they are /fighting/, even though the gentleness of his touch is enough to let him know it’s all a game.
Still, a soft whimper escapes his lips.
“You need to cut your meal short and go do your job. Now, and preferably dressed,” Oda says.
“What /job/,” Dazai echoes. He’s beating around the bush, buying time just to torture Chuuya.
The crescendo of Dazai’s thrusts guides them both
to the edge. Chuuya’s mind is filled with moans he doesn’t even distinguish anymore — his, Dazai’s — and that he can’t utter out loud.
He’s holding onto his lover, nails scratching his bandages while Dazai’s fingertips leave bruises and spread his ass cheeks.
Chuuya’s eyeslashes flickers as he claws the vampire’s back.
// “Osamu, I’m—“ //
“Dazai, I’m not hanging up until you say you’ll be out of your office in five,” Odasaku says — his stern voice reaching Chuuya’s ears as if coming from /far away/.
All he can feel is Dazai.
His hands on him. His bite still throbbing. His dick in him.
“Five /hours/?” Dazai grunts, voice strained. Out of focus.
A moan manages to find its way past Chuuya’s lips — not too loud, but /enough/.
The slight veil of /shame/ makes the wave of pleasure more intense, though,
cutting his breath.
// “Chuuya. /My/ Chuuya .” //
Chuuya gasps a second time as he cums, taken aback by the /longing/ in Dazai’s voice, and how the brunet stilled before thrusting more violently inside him.
/Christ/, he thinks.
Silenced by the orgasm, Chuuya stifles a cry
by biting onto the bandages wrapping Dazai’s shoulder.
The vampire angles his hips with one last hit on his prostate, breathing heavily and growing /tense/ for a moment before releasing one final, shivering breath.
It took but a few minutes, but it leaves Chuuya /empty/.
He falls limp against the man’s chest, satisfied, riding the feeling of being /full/ and empty at the very same time. Relishing Dazai’s lips on his hair, arms around Chuuya’s middle as he hugs and cradles him.
// “Can we go again?” // Chuuya asks, earning one last thrust that
shakes him to the bone. /Bastard/.
On the call, Odasaku lets out a scoff. “I don’t even want to know what’s going on. But this is an /emergency/ and, honest to God, if you don’t show up—“
“You or Sasaki can deal with it.” Dazai has to clear his voice, a slightly hoarse lilt
bleeding through the cracks of his shattered composure. “Or it’ll have to wait.”
// “I’m going to eat your ass after,” // he adds, only for Chuuya to hear
The idea makes him beam against Dazai’s shoulder as he curls on the vampire’s lap, enveloped by the scent of sweat and sex.
// “Hm,”// Chuuya thinks, lazily. // “Sounds like a plan.” //
“Dazai, this is serious. The werehyenas are in the lobby.”
“Tell Fitzgerald to come back tomorrow.”
“Ranpo-san too.” Atsushi interjects. “/And/ Dostoyevsky is on his way. Yosano-san is distracting Shibusawa, but—“
“But we are not /sure/ for how long Akiko can go on talking to him about plastic necklaces and how he can hoard them instead of actual jewels.” Odasaku adds. “He’s a dragon, not an idiot.”
The last bit has been clearly added for Chuuya’s benefit, though the boy snorts a chuckle.
In the lightheaded afterglow, a lot of things sound /hilarious/.
Or maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe he’ll pass out.
Not that he /cares/ about dragons and politics and vamps with Dazai still buried balls-deep in him, cum threatening to drip out the moment the brunet pulls out.
However, he can /see/ the flash of surprise on Dazai’s face.
He glances at the phone, and Chuuya realizes that his priorities suddenly shifted.
“/All of them/?” the vampire asks.
// “A whole lot of fuckers are camping in your lobby, old bat,” // Chuuya nudges, rubbing his nose
in the crook of Dazai’s neck as the man’s expression drops in a scowl.
“I’ve been /telling/ you. It’s because of the—“ Oda’s voice stretches into silence, and Chuuya can almost sense how he /grimaces/. “—GSS incident.”
“Oh.” Chuuya says.
Dazai stiffens under him, too.
They don’t need to talk to know that this changes everything.
“That was days ago.”
“Fitzgerald discovered something.”
“I see,” Dazai says — the playful timbre he used a moment before turning dry and leveled.
// “I’m sorry, sugar. I’m afraid I need to take a rain check.” //
// “Of course.” //
Relief washes over him knowing he won’t have to stay.
He doesn’t want to know.
He doesn’t want to explain what happened.
He realizes this probably involves him too, considering the Voice, but… quite frankly, he doesn’t /want/ to be involved.
“Chuuya,“ Dazai calls him, out loud this time.
He shouldn’t be the priority now, he realizes, but why does Dazai sound /worried/ for his well-being? It’s unfamiliar, to be cared for.
He shakes his head. “It’s really fine. Only, can I—“
He lets his voice trail off, looking
for a delicate way to articulate his request.
‘Can I /dismount/ your goddamn boss in peace and get cleaned up?’ Might sound a little too harsh with Dazai’s subordinates on the phone, he fears.
He’s never been a beacon of polite behaviour, but he’s not /that/ rude either.
And he’s not sure he can /move/ without making a mess. After the mood plummeted, his lower half started to hurt too.
“You two go ahead. I’ll take care of Chuuya’s bites and meet you outside,” Dazai says, gently, in the phone’s direction.
The call is closed hastily after that.
Immediately, Dazai’s attention focuses on Chuuya as his hands frame the redhead’s face — his thumbs grazing the jawbone, crimson eyes scanning his reactions.
“I’m sorry, little fox.”
“It’s really fine,” he says, forcing out a smut smile. “It kinda ruined the mood anyway.”
“I’ll get cleaned up and head out, but you can wash up in the bathroom after I’m gone. I’ll have some tea and iron supplements sent up for the blood loss. Are you dizzy?”
Gauging how bad he feels, he shakes his head. “No. I feel fine.”
“I’m /fine/, Osamu. Really.” He says it covering Dazai’s hands with his — slightly perplexed that someone gives a damn. “Go do your job, I can take care of myself.”
“Good.” Dazai leans forward, their foreheads touching. “I hate it. I /wish/ I could annoy Chuuya in the shower.”
Chuuya chuckles. Damn, he would want that too.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be wise.”
Dazai kisses him — /tenderly/, an open mouthed kiss that slows down Chuuya’s racing heartbeat. It’s a tenderness the boy didn’t know he would find in the /Demon/ Prodigy. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Can I keep your shirt?”
“It’s yours,” Dazai croons against his lips.
“Hm, nice. Say hello to your fanfiction alpha from me.”
He might be bruised and bitten and his night was cut short, but he’s a firm believer that sass is always the best way to counter the mishaps of life.
Slowly, Dazai touches his lips to Chuuya’s cheek.
“You’re hot when you’re gloating,” he murmurs.
Then he goes to bite his own lips, spilling fresh blood to close Chuuya’s wounds — but the redhead quietly presses both his hands on the man’s chest, gently moving him away.
He’s starting to get /very/ uncomfortable, and the cum covering his cock is /sticky/ and gross, and he /craves/ a shower, but he also doesn’t want to get rid of the marks.
“Wait. Let me keep the bites.”
Dazai blinks. “/What/?”
“I like them.”
“As you wish, Chibi,” Dazai says, with a quiet nod. He sounds /pleased/, though. “I’ll text you.”
“Getting attached, old bat?” he teases, pulling Dazai in for one last kiss that tastes like blood.
He wants a shower, and his limbs /hurt/ and his ass /burns/ and he’s regretting
all his recent choices, but he’s happy to suffer if Dazai is kissing the discomfort away.
Because Dazai certainly /feels/ human after today.
“I see Nikolai wasn’t kidding.”
A voice greets him in the lobby of the Port Mafia building, making Chuuya /flinch/ as he turns.
A voice that feels /ancient/; a timbre even older than Dazai’s, although it lacks Dazai’s richness.
This voice is a thin layer of ice over a quiet river.
It’s frost, a /labyrinth/, a forest covered in snow — ever-still, never-changing, glittering under the winter sunshine.
Enticing, but dangerous.
It’s enough to make Chuuya stop, meeting a pair of amethyst eyes and a polite smile.
After glancing around to realize that the man is indeed talking to /him/, Chuuya frowns slightly.
If some people are /easy/ to read, the stranger’s white suit seems
as unreadable as his voice — a riddle he can’t solve.
He’s not human, Chuuya realizes, though he can’t guess further than that.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
When the man tilts his head up, a strand of long raven hair slips in front of his eyes.
“We have friends in common,” he
says, amiable, tilting his head to the side. “You must be Nakahara Chuuya-kun.”
/Shit/, Chuuya thinks.
This must be one of the people he met once and completely removed from his memory. Maybe he was drunk.
(/Likely/ he was drunk.)
“I am.” /This is gonna be awkward/. “I’m
sorry, I don’t think I remember you…?”
“Fyodor Dostoyevsky.” The man bows lightly, an imperceptible smile dancing on his lips. “We never met, but Sigma and Nik talked about you.”
“Oh,” he exhales.
Sigma’s /Fedya/, right. He remembers.
Chuuya’s shoulders relax instantly.
At least he’s not terribly impolite, and didn’t forget someone’s name. “You’re Sigma’s friend.”
“One could say that. Sigma likes you.”
Chuuya’s not sure he likes the tone, as if Fyodor is trying to tempt him into asking /what/ Sigma said. As if he knows a secret Chuuya doesn’t.
“Well, thanks, I guess?”
“How are you feeling, after the GSS attack? Nikolai said you were caught in the crossfire.”
They both know it’s a lie, yet Fyodor is looking at him with a serene smile like he /expects/ Chuuya to call himself out. As if there’s a secret Chuuya is not
Aware of, that feeling Fyodor /knows/.
What did Sigma and Nikolai say, what does Fyodor know? Is that the Voice?
As Chuuya swallows, he /focuses/ on the choker around his neck. Dazai’s marks liger all over him.
He’s safe. He’s safe.
Before he can
find a decent way out of the situation, the click-clack of high heels interrupts him, introducing a woman in a white dress.
Her teal-blue eyes harden as she realizes the situation.
A woman Chuuya /knows/, that he’s seen before, and a voice he remembers all too well.
“Dostoyevsky-san? Welcome. We were waiting for y—“ Sasaki stops, eyes landing on Chuuya before narrowing. “Ah. It’s you.”
Her gaze lingers on his bites for a moment too long, and Chuuya swears she’s staring daggers at him.
Too bad the redhead could /hug/ her, right now.
Sasaki Nobuko is /competition/ for Dazai’s attention, and yet Chuuya would absolutely, happily glomp her.
Unlike Fyodor, he’s fairly sure she /can’t/ hurt him.
// Saved by the alpha. //
God, Chuuya thinks after a moment, ‘saved by the alpha’ sounds like a cell phone novel he’d
read on the tube. It sounds like that book with space velociraptors that Albatross forced Lippmann to read for a bet.
Only, this time, Chuuya was /really/ saved by an alpha and he is /genuinely/ happy for Sasaki’s presence
“Is there a problem?” she asks, looking at Fyodor.
In response, the man flashes her a fanged smirk. It looks unsettlingly similar to Dazai’s smile, and Chuuya /shudders/.
“Not at all, Nobuko-san.”
“We were just saying hello,” Chuuya hums. “Well, I’m out. Dazai should be downstairs already.”
Although Dazai’s name slipped past
his lips out of habit and not to challenge the alpha, Sasaki doesn’t flinch.
Her lips puckering in distaste is the only signal that she didn’t appreciate the /familiarity/ (and, well… Chuuya supposes it’s /late/ for that, because he and Dazai became /quite/ familiar), but
she doesn’t comment.
On the contrary, she /nods/.
“Thank you. Tachihara is waiting to take you home.” she says, before turning. “Dostoyevsky-san, shall we go?”
“Of course. It’s been a pleasure, Chuuya,” Fyodor says.
Somehow, Chuuya is not sure he fully believes it. And he’s
/sure/ it won’t be his last meeting with Fyodor.
Today is terrible. The absolute worst.
Dazai /just/ wanted to christen every corner of his office with Chuuya, instead he finds himself sitting through a boring meeting.
And he’s dealing with his least favorite
person ever, too — considering that /Dostoyevsky/ is sitting through the meeting, wearing a smirk that Dazai /loathes/.
It means problems, that smirk.
“I ran into our little Arahabaki in the lobby,” Dostoyevsky says, on cue.
Out of the nine people sitting
around the glass table, Dostoyevsky is the one no one can trust.
But it’s that /our/ that truly makes Dazai’s blood simmer as he silently dies to pin the other vampire to the wall.
“Chuuya is a person,” he still purrs, elegantly leaning his chin over the back of his interlaced
hands — a warning, and a silent threat. “As well as my Blood Offering.”
Next to him, Fitzgerald stiffens.
“I’ve noticed your choker, yes.”
“Then I’m sure Fyodor remembers what that means.”
/ Our? Oh, no.
Touch *my* Chuuya, and it’ll be the last thing you do./
Fyodor addresses him a smile — mirthless, thick as molasses.
“One might argue that the contract isn’t binding, when you are claiming a god. He /is/ fire and sea,” he says, amicable. On his lips, the old legends almost sound /alive/. “Quite fitting, I must say.”
“He’s exactly like the old legends say,” Akiko says, from her place next to Dazai.
“Interesting that he spontaneously came to me,” Dazai says.
(Interesting that they wanted to /bang/ from the very first minute, too.
That certainly wasn’t mentioned in the legends.)
“Interesting that /Nikolai/ was the first vampire to welcome him in the city.” Under the polite surface, Fyodor’s voice is all sharp edges. “Aren’t we cute? Civilized and working together.”
Dazai hisses — a subtle, threatening rattle that makes him sound like a /rattlesnake/.
“We are not working together. Chuuya is /Port Mafia/.”
Fyodor shrugs the comment away. “Because he’s your food, or because he’s your lover?”
// “/Lover/?” // Sasaki’s voice echoes in Dazai’s mind, /puzzled/. // I thought you said… //
The things he says.
Dazai said to the alpha he wasn’t going to see anybody at the moment, cutting ties with everybody to ‘take some time alone’.
Yeah, sure; /alone/.
Chuuya is a very nice company to be /alone/ with, he must say.
So, yes, he lied. He lied to let Sasaki down slowly and to not
endanger Yokohama’s triumvirate, sue him.
Sasaki must have heard about the rest of Dazai’s liaisons, too.
And he supposes it’s /bad/ to leave a lady and a /werewolf queen/ on read but—
“Our relationship is inconsequential,” he drawls, not peeling his gaze away from Fyodor.
—Sasaki is /not/ the priority. Dazai needs to secure Arahabaki to protect the city.
(To save /Chuuya/.)
Fyodor’s lips twitch.
“You like him.”
“You are being absurd, now.”
“/Do/ you like him?” Fitzgerald echoes, eyebrows jumping up.
// The Demon Prodigy showing weakness? //
“I like having Arahabaki as a trump card,” he says, with a shrug.
He prays it sounded believable.
(Ranpo snorts, toying with a blue bead in between Atsushi and Shibusawa.
Damn Faekin, Dazai thinks — almost /absently/.)
“If you say so. But you can smash the vessel in every
corner of the city, Dazai,” Fyodor says, amiable. “Nobody cares. But Arahabaki is /everybody’s/ business.”
“The boy unleashed the power of gravity in Tokyo,” Shibusawa purrs, almost to himself.
“I /know/,” Dazai hisses.
When he met Chuuya at the Guilty Pleasure, he had a plan.
He wanted to /win/ Chuuya’s trust through No Longer Human, then bond the human vessel to secure the god’s loyalty and longevity.
Bonded humans live extremely long lives connected to their vampire master.
It was a foolproof plan.
Nakahara Chuuya was going to be his dog.
// ‘I’m only looking out for myself.’ //
But the more time he spends with Chuuya, the more he finds himself wanting to bond him because it’s /Chuuya/.
The redhead keeps him on his toes. It’s /interesting/.
Flashes of Chuuya on his lap, moaning, pass in front of his eyes.
Chuuya, kissing him in a destroyed city and in a restroom.
Chuuya calling him Osamu and a monster in the same breath, not knowing how /true/ that statement used to be.
If he could dream, Dazai is quite sure it would be of the innocents he slaughtered in his darkest days.
Chuuya begging for more.
Chuuya, kissing him like their first time was also going to be the last.
/His/ Chuuya, smug and naked and handsome and human.
“Nakahara is the vessel of an ancient god,” Francis says, snapping his train of thoughts. “/Why/ didn’t you say so?”
“Because we are not sure yet” Dazai lies.
He’s very much sure of it, but he’ll be damned if he shares Arahabaki.
“Kunikida-san is looking into it,” Atsushi provides, quietly, but Fitzgerald shakes his head with a tut.
Despite the sudden movement, his blonde hair remains
perfectly in place. “I’m telling you all, /I/ am quite sure of it. We were looking into the shifts in energies and, after the GSS incident, my warlock—“
“Edgar is not your warlock,” Ranpo chimes in, absently, playing with the blue bead. It sounds disinterested, yet it /weights/
like a threat.
“Poe works for me.”
“Yet where is he now?” Ranpo echoes, an impish grin spreading on his face.
In Ranpo’s bed, Dazai supposes — an educated guess he has no intention nor desire to confirm.
Fitzgerald must know that too, because he grimaces.
“Anyway,” Fitzgerald says, pinching his nose. “/Poe/ confirmed it. Arahabaki returned.”
“That’s not even the point,” Ranpo drawls. “You all took /a long time/ to realize something painfully obvious.”
“And you’re forgetting that Arahabaki is the god of chaos,” Dazai chimes
in. “Good luck confining it against its will.”
“Are you saying you can’t control it, Dazai?” Shibusawa purrs, like he would gladly free the other of the duty of guarding a god.
/ Wouldn’t any dragon like to hoard such a unique treasure? /
“I’m saying Chuuya is /my/ business.”
/Stay away from him/ lingers in the air, a subtle threat and a clear subtext.
Odasaku and Sasaki stay weirdly quiet. Although Sasaki /tends/ to prefer actions over words — and /might/ be crossed with him — Odasaku has always been a rather diplomatic presence in these meetings.
His silence rings suspicious.
And the vampire /feels/ Odasaku’s gaze linger on him — dark blue eyes /studying/ the tiniest changes in his best friend — but he tries to ignore it.
He’ll deal with his own people and their doubts later.
Now they have to /stick together/ and—
“I agree with Dostoyevsky that Arahabaki is everybody’s business,” Akiko counters, softly.
The interjection makes Dazai flinch, the burning sensation of being /betrayed/ causing his blood to simmer.
Well, wow. /Wow/.
What the hell happened to sticking together?
“/But/, like Osamu said, we’ve got it under control. Chuuya is friends with Sigma anyway, and I’m in touch with Poe.” Akiko glances at Dazai as she carries on, winking at him. They still stick together, /always/. “And we all know only one person can nullify Arahabaki.”
“Fire, ocean and /chaos/.” Shibusawa hmms, almost to himself. A mirthless joy lingers in his timbre. “Exploding stars and rivers of blood. That’s what the legends say.”
Francis frowns. “Chaos is bad for business.”
“Capitalism is bad for everybody, yet here you are,” Ranpo adds.
Baring sharp fangs, Fitzgerald grimaces.
“The boy is going to kill us all.”
“The first one who /looks/ at Chuuya in the wrong way is at war with the entire Mafia,” Dazai adds, voice leveled, wearing his most /serene/ smile. “Just putting it out here so we’re clear.”
He just hopes the squinting look Odasaku threw him means he’s surprised Dazai ‘I’m taking a break and it’s going to last a fortnight’ Osamu is working so hard to secure them such a good /asset/.
The truth is that he might be thinking with his /dick/.
(Or with his heart?
If a Mafia monster can /still/ have one.)
“I tend to agree,” Fyodor chimes in. It makes Dazai’s skin crawl, to know that Fyodor agrees with him. Disgusting. “No one touches the vessel. We’d all rather keep Arahabaki alive.” He smiles at Dazai. “Isn’t that right, /brother/?”
Refusing to reply, Dazai scowls.
// Ew. I’m not your brother, // is the first thing he thinks.
But Mori /did/ turn both of them — creatures of the same sire, reborn from the same curse.
And, although it doesn’t mean anything to Dazai, Fyodor enjoys to make him uncomfortable
But the idea of allying with him — with a stinky Rat, of all people — to protect Chuuya leaves a sour taste in Dazai’s mouth.
He doesn’t want to share Chuuya. But, if push comes to shove, he might not have another choice.
He might have to compromise.
And everybody knows that
the Demon Prodigy /hates/ compromises.
The plan was easy: flaunt his new crop-tee (and makeup), drink (a lot) and dance (until morning).
A night without boy troubles.
/That/ was Chuuya’s idea when he joined Sigma and Nik at the Guilty Pleasure.
He didn’t expect to
be found in an ocean of bodies grinding together — dancing, jumping, lost in the music.
He didn’t expect to be hit by the caress of lips brushing the tip of his ear.
A boiling shiver jolts down his spine.
Then, a not-so-distant croon. Velvet-thick, /husky/.
If Chuuya could, he /would/ turn abruptly — to either kick the stranger to the moon or thaw in familiar arms.
Because the voice sounds /so/ much like Dazai, but he is drunk and foolish. It might be his brain playing tricks.
He might just be hearing the things he /wants/ to hear
It might be that Chuuya is just desperate for the touch he hasn’t savored in almost a week.
He can’t believe he hasn’t seen Dazai in a /week/ because, after seeing the amount of bites, Kunikida put him on iron supplements and forced rest.
His mother would complain that
Chuuya is being a problematic employee, always creating issues for the company, but the redhead doesn’t /care/.
His mother would also call him a whore for banging his /male/ boss.
Although what he did with Dazai could be a one-time thing, because he has no assurance the
vampire won’t throw him away now.
(Dazai had what he wanted, /why/ should he keep him?)
So Chuuya turns, slowly, tiptoeing along the line between ‘head pleasantly spinning’ and ‘throwing up on someone’.
What he sees makes him /grin/.
Crimson eyes, silver ear cuffs. Bandages.
Fangs, so /inviting/, and a mouth he’s been dying to kiss.
“—Dazai,” he says, under his breath — softer than the music, voice swallowed by his racing heartbeat.
Dazai flashes him a fanged smile, hands running along Chuuya’s figure to rest on his hips.
It takes everything in Chuuya not to throw himself at the other to kiss him, because he’s drunk and stupid and /thirsty/.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Chuuya drawls, instead, though he suspects his smile might be a /little/ crooked and not as charming as he wants it to be.
Maybe Akiko went overboard with the drinks — she refused to reveal her secret margarita recipe, but Chuuya doesn’t mind because they are /wicked/ good.
Maybe (likely) he didn’t have to down three shots with Nik.
/And/ two (or five? He can’t remember) with Sigma. For a mermaid,
Sigma holds his rum like a damn /pirate/.
Maybe he doesn’t care anymore, now that Dazai’s here.
Hooking one index in one of the belt loops of Chuuya’s pants, discreetly tugging the redhead closer, Dazai gives him a hooded smirk.
“Fancy seeing /Chuuya/ in /my/ club, you mean?”
Remembering that Dazai owns the District sends a jolt of pleasure down Chuuya’s spine, suddenly remembering they /can/ do whatever they want.
He has Dazai’s hands on him and Dazai’s choker and bites on his neck.
“I thought you were too busy to show up at your clubs.”
“I’m here for business,” Dazai allows, with a light scowl. “I was just about to go. But then I spotted a stray fox, and—“
Dazai’s voice trails off as he dips his head, touching teasing lips to Chuuya’s lobe.
Then, his mouth runs down the redhead’s neck, teeth grazing the skin
without breaking it — ever so delicate.
Chuuya sucks in a deep breath, heart tripping on itself.
His hands grip Dazai’s shirt — clinging to soft fabric, either grey or black under the strobe lights.
(Is he really falling for a man that shows up in clubs in /business attire/?)
“—And?” he nudges, voice strangled.
His body moves against Dazai’s.
They’re too close, grinding, almost still in the middle of a wild dance floor packed with strangers — dawdling on the verge of making out but not daring to break this spell made of almost-touches, almost-kisses.
The music drums in his chest, but his blood is singing for Dazai.
“/And/ I thought I should say hi,” Dazai whispers, rubbing his nose down the pale column of Chuuya’s neck.
His lips rest on the old bite, dry.
Dazai’s breath is ragged, heavy, as lean fingers explore under
Chuuya’s fishnet crop top.
“Interesting.” As he hmms, Chuuya’s hand smooths the creases on Dazai’s shirt — palming his pecs ever so /slowly/. He relishes the tension rising, how the crowd and noises fade into the background. “Did I distract you?”
“Chuuya’s very distracting.”
“Should I say sorry for distracting /the/ Demon Prodigy…” He leans forward, raising slightly on his tiptoes with a glint in his eyes, already feeling the other stiffening at the name. So he murmurs, only for them to hear: “…/Osamu/?”
As he expected, Dazai immediately relaxes.
“I’m glad you did. You’re beautiful.”
“I did make an effort tonight, yes.”
If Chuuya felt that Albatross’ suggestion of fishnet crop, leather pants and choker was a bit too much, at first, now he’s /terribly/ glad for the three hours spent on video call with his best friend.
(He can almost forgive Tross for saying: ‘inside you there are two wolves, Chuuya. One is a whore, and you should listen to him’ while wearing /sunglasses/ at night.
Tross doesn’t even /know/ about Dazai.
/Why/ is he not telling his best friend about his new job and hook-up?)
But Chuuya is /so/ glad he listened to ‘Tross and his dumb wolves, for once, because Dazai’s lips travel back to his mouth — a little shy of kissing, so close that Chuuya can summon the memory of how Dazai’s kisses /feel/ in his marrow.
His eyes are glistening, hunger dancing
in the depth of crimson irises.
Dazai’s lips twitch, curling in a grin that enhances even sharper cheekbones.
He looks like a king, Chuuya ponders, a hunter in the night; the personification of that moment when the sun dies, blood-red, and dark shadows stretch their bony hands.
The demon Chuuya has wrapped around his little finger as he tilts his head, as they breathe in each other’s mouth.
“I meant that you’re /always/ beautiful, little human,” Dazai whispers against his lips, and Chuuya’s heart /falters/. “But the clothes are nice too.”
“Like I said, I’ve made— /ah/.” A soft moan escapes his mouth as Dazai’s right leg slips in between his, allusive, pressing closer to Chuuya’s body as they at least /pretend/ to be dancing. “I—“
It’s not a very convincing act, though, and Chuuya is quite sure every non-human
Person in the club can smell his arousal.
Want and intoxication and the faintest, lingering trace of nicotine.
Lust is bubbling under the surface, and it’s suddenly /hard to breathe/ as he moves a little /too/ carelessly and his crotch brushes against Dazai’s leg.
Dazai is teasing him and it’s working.
Damn, it’s /working/.
Chuuya sucks in a shaky breath as the brunet leans forward and tilts his head to the side to brush his lips over his cheek — following his cheekbone, the side of his head, finding his ear.
“I’ve made an effort,” he finishes, breath curt and pants tight and heart /throbbing/.
But then Dazai /grins/, and it’s like being pushed off a tower.
Chuuya’s stomach folds, and the rug is pulled from under his feet and his mouth is /dry/.
“It certainly looks like it.”
“…What’s work exactly, old bat?” Chuuya asks to divert the subject, pushing away a little.
God knows what he’ll /do/ if they keep teasing like this and, tonight, he’s not entirely comfortable with being so /exposed/.
He just wants Dazai to get him out of here.
It’s a adventurous-but-not-enough kind of night, one where anxiety is perched on his shoulders — not heavy and paralyzing, but /there/.
“Tempting some virgins? Burning churches? Fresh blood?”
Dazai scoffs, indulgent, as he gently drives a strand away from Chuuya’s forehead.
“No need for that. I’ve got my hands full with one Chibi,” he explains — even though he could have said ‘it’s none of your business’.
Chuuya is not sure it’s a compliment, but smirks nonetheless.
“So I’ve been told. Why, then?”
Dazai scoffs. “I’m here with Sasaki.”
Instantly, Chuuya pouts — if his teasing was /playful/ before, he grows rigid under Dazai’s fingertips now.
His mood plummets, and suddenly he’s not sure he wants to go anywhere with Dazai.
And it suddenly makes /sense/ why Dazai hasn’t kissed him, yet: they don’t want to cross
the little alpha, right?
“Uh, yes, I thought I’d seen the a/b/o kinnie tag pop up in the sky” he murmurs under his breath, a scornful growl before he can stop himself.
Will Dazai leave the club and take her home?
Will he feed?
Wrist, neck? /Thigh/?
Will there be /more/?
Will she cure Dazai’s loneliness with those pretty eyes of hers? Will it be in her bed, in his? A love hotel?
// Chuuya, stop.’ //
When he flinches, startled by the voice in his head, Dazai noses his forehead reassuringly.
“/Who/ am I dancing with now, little lamb?”
“I told you, there’s no one else. You have no reason to be jealous.”
His voice makes Chuuya shiver — it’s honest, and he suspects honesty is not something many get from Dazai.
Is it the nullification? The Voice?
/What/ is the true price of a demon’s devotion?
“No, you’re right.” Chuuya grins, but it’s shaky. “Well. Where did you park her highness the Alpha?”
“She’s with Akiko, I’d guess.”
“Nice evening?” he presses on, only to prove his point that he is no jealous at /all/.
Dazai told him he got rid of his lovers, and maybe Chuuya
doesn’t /fully/ believe him but he also has no other choice now — he can’t play hard to get, that ship has kind of sailed.
“We had a dinner-turned-meeting with Fitzgerald and Poe, it was /terrible/.” Dazai grins at him. “Things got better when we stopped here, though.”
Despite his light scowl and the distress knowing Dazai is around with /Sasaki/, Chuuya allows the words to warm up his heart.
“I’ve seen you. Though for just a moment.”
“Oh. Are you going already?”
“I have work to do, pet,” the vampire says, almost /apologetic/.
He’s not telling when he wants to see Chuuya next, though, and the boy’s heart breaks a little.
He feels /parked/ like a used car since Dazai can’t drink from him.
And he’d beg for one more song, just to pretend to be dancing for a little while longer, but it feels /immature/.
“Then—“ he starts, before a well-known voice interrupts him.
“Aw. Stay for a drink~”
Chuuya yelps when Nikolai /literally/ materializes in the crowd next to them.
His grin shines — bright, ferocious, all fangs and cheerful madness.
“Dos-kun’s business. Sorry, Chuuya.”
Dazai squints. “Gogol.”
Chuuya pouts, ignoring the animosity in Dazai.
He likes Nik, but /now/? Not so much.
“Well, it’s not like I was having fun or anything.”
Nikolai laughs, rich and carefree.
“One drink on our mutual friend, Dazai.” He winks. “Your Alpha is at our table.”
And, although Chuuya is /happy/ to have a drink on Fyodor, he’s not sure he wants Sasaki anywhere near himself or Sigma.
This is /his/ squad. /His/ circle.
/ …*Your* Alpha. /
Chuuya almost has the time to be pissed off by the comment when Dazai’s fingers intertwine with his.
“Breathe,” Dazai whispers.
Surprisingly, it’s a gentle instruction.
And Chuuya hates it when people tell him what to do, how to /react/ when he feels threatened or ignored, but somehow it doesn’t sound paternalistic.
It sounds /sweet/.
Dazai’s thumb grazes over the back
of his hand, too, stroking softly.
Chuuya sighs. “Right.”
“Why the sarcasm, little fox?”
“I just can’t deal with a room full of vamps /and/ Alpha Karen sober.”
“I’ll make it up to you for ruining your night out,” Dazai murmurs, bending to brush his lips against Chuuya’s ear.
It’s not an answer, and definitely it’s not reassuring after the unsettling feeling meeting Fyodor left under his skin, but Chuuya will roll with it.
Damn, he has a feeling he will take anything at all from Dazai, right now.
Any sweet lie, any /kiss/ — even if it doesn’t mean
anything, even if it’s deceitful.
Every moment they spend with their hands intertwined pushes Chuuya deeper into the rabbit hole that is Dazai — the cold flame of No Longer Human, his sharp jaw, the way his eyes skim over the crowd as if he’s not seeing /people/, but tools.
How the man carries himself, as if humanity is a matter of perspective.
And Chuuya, who always /strived/ to be as human as possible… He’s drunk on Dazai.
He’s drunk on power and blood and /him/.
His hand curls around Dazai’s fingers as they make their way through the crowd.
“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s not like I had plans or anything.”
Dazai shoots him a grin. “Smug.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“I can’t chicken out now, right? Even if all I want to do is go home and eat Nutella straight from the jar.”
He barely has the time to finish
the sentence before Dazai tugs him closer and bends over him, pushing their lips together. His fang pierces Chuuya’s bottom lip, drawing a single drop of blood — but sending a shiver down his spine.
Dazai’s low drawl rings in his mind.
// “I have something else I could eat,” //
Chuuya is not sure what triggered Dazai: if it was the fact that he’s a fool that makes Nutella jokes in front of a perfectly possible war, that he’s careless enough to face a room full of monsters or the grinding from before.
He just knows that, whatever it was, it worked
spectacularly because Dazai is kissing him like the universe depends on it.
/Thirsty old bat,/ he thinks, grinning against Dazai’s lips — though it’s blanketed in fondness.
Dazai’s mouth claims his again, biting his bottom lip as his hand cradles Chuuya’s neck to angle his head
And in that moment, the longest and yet shortest moment of his life— Chuuya doesn’t care if a war rains on them.
Let the darkest cloud roll over this godforsaken town, he really doesn’t /mind/.
He doesn’t give a shit, because his heart beats madly in his chest and his hand
clings to his lover’s shirt.
Dazai is kissing him so very /deeply/, hands in Chuuya’s hair, tongue in his mouth, and it’s /deliberately/ possessive.
It’s a show for others, and a reassurance for Chuuya.
The redhead swears he hears someone wolf whistle.
He flips the stranger off, not even cracking an eye open as he clings to Dazai — fisting the collar of his shirt and tugging him /closer/.
When the brunet moves away Chuuya grins at him, light-headed and /ecstatic/.
“And that was because…?“ he breathes out.
“I wanted to.”
It’s so /simple/, yet so loaded, it makes Chuuya’s heart flutter.
Oh, sure, he thinks, the big bad mafia boss takes what he wants.
It’s not hot /at all/.
“Then kiss me again?”
It’s an understatement, but “hammer me against a wall and fuck me in a back alley until I cry” seems
a little /forward/ and rude when they have others waiting.
Dazai’s eyes glisten as he bends over Chuuya again, lambent with mirth and self-assurance and something /else/ that the redhead forbids himself to misread for blind, lets-leave-this-town, you-are-the-one /affection/.
But they can wait, Chuuya thinks.
Because Dazai is kissing the anxiety away, one hand steady on Chuuya’s hip and the other stroking his hair, music drumming in their ears as Chuuya leans against Dazai’s chest.
He can feel him through the thin fishnet of his crop top.
He can feel his /warmth/.
Because Dazai might be a mafia boss and a demon, but with him he’s tender and firm and /all-consuming/ at the same time.
Chuuya’s neck tingles where the skin meets the velvet of the choker, and the scars from his bites come alive and his blood /sings/.
He’ll take war, he’ll take blood, he’ll take /eternal night/, because this high is getting addictive.
He’ll accept everything, truth and lies and damnation, as long as it comes from Dazai.
(He should have known that trusting the Demon Prodigy was courting misery.)
CW // TAGS UPDATE
Future mentions to Chuuya as non-binary
I apologize for not tagging it from the start but I didn’t know since threads are a first draft and I discover the characters as I write!
It won’t be explored until Chuuya’s flashback with his parents but FYI.
They move to a separate vip room Chuuya never entered before.
The place stinks of disinfectant, but Chuuya can’t /tell/ if someone threw up or spilled blood in there.
Both are plausible, in the District.
Sasaki sits next to Dazai, /close/, her legs graciously crossed while
her high stiletto shoes scan the seconds on the black floor.
If Dazai is /darkness/ in his black suit, her snow-white tailleur contrasts with the shadows of the club.
From the opposite sofa, Nikolai is finishing a tall drink that looks /dangerously/ like undiluted blood.
Next to Sigma, high-key wanting to die, Chuuya waits in silence for the meeting to derail.
Call it lack of faith, call it nihilism, the redhead is quite sure it /will/ derail.
He /senses/ it in Dazai’s polite tone, in Sasaki’s fierce eyes.
In Nik’s grin and the way he’s
Finishing his cocktail before sitting it on the coffee table in front of him like the tension isn’t suffocating.
Chuuya has a feeling that, by picking this side of the sofa, he also picked a side, /period/.
(Is it Dostoyevsky’s side? Or Sigma’s side?
“Fitzgerald tells us there’s some unhappiness among the wolves,” Nik begins, nonchalant.
It causes Dazai to arch one eyebrow, though no emotions can be read on his face.
“We’re having an ongoing conversation,” Sasaki answers.
Immediately — too fast, with words too stiff.
Democracy doesn’t suit Sasaki well, Chuuya realizes.
For a moment, he considers that, just like Dazai said, an alpha must be more than ruts and being a popular pwp tag (and he /knows/).
She oozes a sharp sense of control; a pretty girl ruling over monsters with an iron fist.
To be fair, Sasaki doesn’t give him /possessive sex and dancing on tables/ vibes — she’s more than a sexy trope in a white tailleur.
Dancing on tables and possessive sex is more his speed, anyway.
(Damn, maybe he’s really an omega at heart.)
“Can’t keep your zoo in check, Demon Prodigy?” Nikolai asks, voice like velvet.
If there’s one thing Chuuya noticed, is that Nik doesn’t have a terribly high consideration of other people.
Well— his boyfriend aside.
Chuuya glances at Sigma. A single
strand of shimmery lilac hair brushes Sigma’s forehead as he leans forward.
His explanations are soothing, but also allow Chuuya to feel a little less lost — a little less out of place.
“Most vampires have animals that respond to them,” he explains. “Nik calls werehyenas, and
deals with Fitzgerald. The Demon Prodigy calls werewolves.”
“And wereleopards do whatever the hell they want, because no one commands Oda Sakunosuke,” Nikolai adds. “Where’s dear Oda, by the way? Are you two having a little date?”
Dazai goes rigid, glancing at /Chuuya/.
“No,” he says.
It sounds annoyed.
“We wouldn’t come /here/ for that,” Sasaki comments.
A jab at Nikolai, the redhead supposes, but—
He can’t help jealousy from simmering in his stomach, twisting it.
/Think good thoughts,/ Chuuya tells himself. /Think dirty thoughts./
They always help when he needs a distraction— and he’s not ashamed to fix on the memory of Dazai’s dick opening him nice and /deep/ whenever his brain tries to suggest that the man might have something going on with Sasaki.
// ‘Chibi, you’re being a little distracting here.” //
The voice is bodiless, but Chuuya doesn’t need to be next to Dazai to pick on the amusement and light frustration in it.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead he clings to Dazai’s voice, hoping it means something.
Nikolai throws back his head and giggles — his long, blonde braid dangling
on his back as he laughs.
“Ah~ Please, wolf, keep digging your boss’ grave by implying you two have some a secret affair going on.” He beams at Chuuya, winking. He’s /obviously/ having a blast in the chaos. “They don’t.”
“I /told/ him we don’t,” Dazai groans.
“Why did you want to talk, Gogol?” Sasaki asks — her lilt remains flawlessly polite, though it’s a façade.
It’s the little tells that give her away: the tensed jaw, the twitching eyebrow. How she flinches when Nik’s head drops to the side, movements boneless and /languid/.
“The meeting,” Nikolai starts. There’s no light in his golden eyes.
“What about it?”
“Dos-kun is unhappy with the current Arahabaki arrangement.”
Dazai rolls his eyes, throwing back his head.
“Oh no, how terrible~” he drawls, dismissive. “Talk to Kunikida-kun for complaints~”
“Dos-kun?” Chuuya echoes, eyebrows arching as he ignores Dazai’s bratty act. “Your Dostoyevsky?” Sigma nods. “I met him at the Mori Corp building.”
“He remembers,” Sigma says. He doesn’t seem happy about it, though.
It’s /odd/ how Sigma’s comment slithers down his spine, as
if he should be afraid of Dostoyevsky’s interest.
“I don’t see why we should care. As we said, the Port Mafia will take care of—“ Sasaki’s voice trails off, as she drifts closer to Dazai. Chuuya’s stomach churns, but he clings to the memory of the kiss. “—Of the situation.”
He has a feeling that wasn’t what she wanted to say, though; as if his /name/ has lingered on her lips before the alpha decided to spin her initial thought into something else
Nikolai nods. “Arahabaki will not be harmed.”
“/Of course/, I—“ Dazai starts, “/We/ won’t allow it.”
Nikolai hmms, amiable.
“But, you see, /I/ think it’s best if he knows, too.” He turns to Chuuya, a cold smile cutting from cheek to cheek. “So~ You’re the vessel of a god, Chuuya. Congrats! Sorry we don’t have a cake.”
And, just like that, his world goes silent.
‘It’s not possible’ is the only comment that echoes in his head, insistent — and he hates how easy the words are to digest, as if he always /knew/.
As if he finally handed him the key to decipher the voice in his head.
“I’m… not surprised.”
Sasaki’s eyes widen.
“What?” She echoes.
The room stares, searching for an /answer/ in the boy’s calmness, expecting him to break down. And he wants to scream ‘a god, hah?! As if!’, but he won’t.
“You’re not, little fox?”
He sighs, feeling the tension rise.
// ‘Chibi?” //
“Chuuya,” Sigma says, “did something happen?”
“…I’ve been bitten by a radioactive spider once.”
The tension /plummets/
Now, he’s sure someone will slap him for making Spider-Man references now — and that will probably be Sigma, because he turned /blue-ish/ with Chuuya’s joke.
Honestly, he’d deserve a smack, but it was worth it.
He needs to exorcise the feeling of not being surprised for real.
He needs to joke this situation away, because it’s obviously not true.
Nikolai’s smile drops. “Do you think a /spider/ can manipulate gravity like you do?”
“Well, I don’t fucking know, since you are not making any /fucking/ sense.”
It’s ridiculous. He’s not a god.
Nik is drunk, and Dazai will tell him that he’s being the whole circus.
“We had a plan, Gogol,” Dazai hisses. “What are /you/ doing?”
He’s not surprised.
Chuuya’s throat closes, the rug pulled from under his feet.
/Why/ is Dazai not surprised?
As if to answer his doubts, as if to confirm the painful way his stomach folded, Nik lets out a delighted giggle.
“Aw. Your new boyfriend is keeping you on a short leash, Chuuya.
Did you really think the Master of the City, whom nobody out of his triumvirate and mentees has seen in months, would get involved with the first human boy he meets?”
“Didn’t you realize something was off?”
“Wasn’t it a little too quick, a little too good?”
No, Chuuya /did/ know: he decided to ignore the red flags, all the things that seemed too nice, to satiate the need to feel special.
Now, he’s not sure he knows how to react.
“The old bat is not my boyfriend, fuck off,” he only manages to growl, out of sheer mechanic. /Stupid/.
Every other word shoots right through him as he blocks Dazai’s presence /out/.
Even if the vampire is /talking/, Chuuya is not listening.
He’s not lucid, when Dazai talks.
Sigma’s hand closes around his. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “But you deserve the truth.”
Chuuya knows Sigma enough to understand Nikolai blindsided him too with the revelation, so he squeezes right back
“I’m not a god. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes more sense than you’re admitting,” Nikolai says.
“There were accidents,” Sasaki offers, voice /sympathetic/.
“You hear a voice, Chuuya,” Sigma says, softly. “Downplay that all you want, but you /understand/ it’s not normal.”
“Daz— the /Port Mafia/ was supposed to help me through No Longer Human.”
Nikolai looks at him like it’s /cute/ that he let himself be used.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “That was never in the picture. Or your boyfriend here would have told you you’re the first vessel of Arahabaki in hundreds of years.”
Chuuya bites his lips, on the point of throwing up.
Because it all makes sense, doesn’t it?
How he was upset when the earthquake suddenly materialised in his hometown — something /weird/ even for Japan.
How the holes opened during the GSS attack.
How he feels out of control, as if he’s /levitating/, when he’s angry or scared.
“Please understand that telling you
wasn’t a priority, Chuuya-kun,” Sasaki says. “It won’t change the plans the Port Mafia has for you. I hope it means you will fulfill them willingly.”
When he speaks, there’s an echo in Sigma’s voice that sounds like waves turning into foam against the cliffs. “What plans?”
“Keeping the peace in this city,” Dazai says.
“If your organization has a problem with it, Gogol, they can bring it to the next meeting.”
“Chuuya deserves to know,” Nik sing songs.
“The decision wasn’t up to the DOA,” Sasaki says.
A shiver runs down Chuuya’s spine.
God, he’d clock a punch at Sasaki’s stupid deadpan face to shut that shitty judging mouth, if only his legs would let him.
“/You/ don’t get to decide that either,” he growls, staring at the werewolf. He loathes her for knowing Dazai better than he does
He’s jealous, and angry.
Sasaki holds his gaze, a pout puckering her lips.
“I have the town’s best interest in mind,” She straightens up. There’s a martial straightforwardness in her voice. “I was told you were a promising vessel. All I’ve seen, frankly, is a civilian racking up
requests way above his status.”
“He is a god,” Nikolai drawls. “Nothing is above his status.”
“He is a /subordinate/ who, alone, caused more damages than the GSS.”
Chuuya grimaces. “Sorry, is that an insult coming from a fanfiction trope?”
“Sasaki,” Dazai calls. He glares at
her, so cold it /burns/. His sharp jaw contracts. “You’re out of line.”
“I already told you once to not disrespect my Blood Offering, and that Chuuya /is/ above executive level. I thought you understood the order back then. Should we go through that again?”
Oh, Chuuya thinks, did they have that conversation?
He’s above executive level?
(Did Dazai just call him *his*?)
But the woman retracts as if Dazai has just threatened her, as if their last conversation wasn’t /pleasant/, her head lulling into a bow. “I apologize, Boss.”
“However—“ When he turns to Chuuya, Dazai’s voice softens — his face does, too. It /looks/ like love, for a moment. “Sasaki is right, Chuuya. You knowing about Arahabaki so soon wasn’t a part of the plan; it wasn’t necessary.”
Despite everything, those words stab him. They sink
deep, pulling at his heart. Chuuya can /feel/ the muscle trying to breathe around the wound opened by the comment.
“Yeah, no. I bet it wasn’t necessary,” he agrees. “I would have /wanted/ you to tell me, though.”
Dazai’s eyes are unreadable as he nods. “I understand.”
“You know, Chuuya, the Port Mafia isn’t your only option. /We/ don’t keep secrets from our people.” Nik smiles at him, ever so /graceful/ yet mockingly. “You can always break your contact with the Demon Prodigy to join Dos-kun.” He pauses. “Call us your Angels, if you like.”
Chuuya gnaws at his bottom lip. “Angels?”
He toys with the name, murmuring it under his breath.
“It’s just an option,” Sigma says. “You don’t have to decide now.”
Well…He needs an angel.
He’s a god.
/ Gods and angels and demons. This town is getting a little too crowded. /
And, suddenly, the choker around his neck is suffocating — it feels an awful lot like a collar.
“I wouldn’t join the Decay of Angels if I were you, little fox.”
Why, of course.
Of /course/ Dazai wouldn’t, because they fucked once and Chuuya fell for him like an idiot.
“Why?” he asks, before carrying on without waiting for a reply. “Can I break the contract with the Port Mafia, Sigma? Hypothetically speaking.”
“Well, it /is/ a possibility.”
“You don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Sasaki says, exasperated.
She speaks like Chuuya’s
questions are only proving her point — and that’s what breaks him.
It’s the assumption that she knows everything.
It’s the judgement.
The unspoken / We all know that Dazai deserves better. /
“Am I talking to you!?” Chuuya snaps, with his full lungs, turning to face the woman.
His voice rings with an anger he’s not quite sure how to /collocate/ — an anger that, if he’s being fair, Sasaki doesn’t deserve.
It’s tainted with jealousy, with hurt, but most of all with fear.
Irrational, bone-deep fear.
He’d lash out at anybody, chaos bubbling in him.
His hands twitch, as he sees red for a second. Blood and /black holes/.
A string fraying, a bomb ticking.
( /O expectations,/ a voice is whispering in his head, /stale and dismal airs—/)
Chuuya rubs a hand over his face. “I—“ He inhales. In. “Sorry.” Out. “I need a breather.”
“Chuuya,“ Sigma calls, ever so tender. For a moment, the redhead is sure he’ll be pulled into a hug. But Sigma trusts him — their friendship runs deep. And, because of that, he lets Chuuya /go/. “What can I do to help?”
(/—Leave this body of mine—/)
“Just— I’ll take a stroll outside.”
When he stands up, Dazai does the same. “I’m coming with you.”
He can’t even reply, mind too crowded with a voice that doesn’t belong to him.
(/—I want nothing anymore—/) it drawls, like the words of a song. A cage.
“Think it over, Chuuya~”
Sasaki huffs. “Well. This is /fantastic/.”
// “Chuuya.” //
“It /is/ fantastic,” Nik chirps.
// “Chibi. Talk to me.” //
“I said,” Chuuya’s voice swells. “I need a goddamn second.”
Arahabaki roars in the back of his holler. It sounds as if somebody is
blowing holes into the very core of the world, and the air feels light and heavy and /crushing/ at the same time.
The room shudders, and a earthquake rumbles in the distance.
The sudden thunder coming from the depths of the earth is enough to make everybody halt, taken aback.
Chuuya seizes the opportunity — a moment of chaos, how fitting — to hurry out, taking a big mouthful of oxygen that never reaches his lungs.
It just burns his throat, the smoke from the club oxidizing into iron-tasting saliva as he tries to make his way to the exit.
Dazai knew, the redhead finally allows himself to realize, clawing at the name. Dazai—
When Arahabaki is on the verge of taking over, Chuuy can still think of Dazai’s name.
He can cling to it, screaming it in his head while everything else turns into static noise.
And he doesn’t know what’s more ironic, if the fact that he’s been tripping over himself to get Dazai to /need/ him, or if the fact that Dazai needed him all along for all the wrong reasons.
But he knew it from the beginning: Dazai has his nice little chess game to play, Nikolai
needs entertainment and Chuuya needs air.
And Arahabaki needs…
// Grantors of dark disgrace— //
His skin is searing, a cage of flesh ripped open to set free crimson vines that spiral up his arms and neck.
They reach his face, burning, /tingling/.
His fingers twitch, and
the chant rings louder in his brain.
// Do not wake me again. //
He’s sure his feet are not anchored to the ground anymore, and he’s levitating a little, and—
“Stop it, Chuuya,” a voice murmurs against his ear, so gentle and /quiet/, as lanky arms envelop him from behind.
The zap of No Longer Human is like an ice cube being dropped down his back.
Chuuya goes rigid in Dazai’s embrace,— stiff for a second and boneless the after, as his feet touch the ground and he realizes that he spiraled out of control.
The red marks retreating under his
skin almost hurt /more/ then when they crawled out his flesh. Chuuya stifles back a cry, just glad to see them gone.
How familiar that name sounds.
For how long has the voice repeated it to him?
“You’re safe, love,” Dazai says, lips pressed against his temple,
applying pressure on his pulse point. It’s /soothing/.
Dazai sinks his nose deep in auburn locks. “I’m here.” Then, again, quietly: “You’re safe.”
“Oi, I said…” he tuts, hoarse yet trying to muster his most annoyed timbre. “I said I needed a minute, shitty bat.”
There’s no bite in his words, though, only exhausted gratefulness.
He sinks into Dazai’s arms, resting against his body. Finding comfort in how /warm/ he is, and how lovingly his arms are circling his shoulders, keeping him close.
He inhales, and all he can sense is /Dazai/.
Dazai’s lips ghostings over the crown of his head, featherlight.
His fingers on Chuuya’s skin.
And, as Dazai delicately kisses his hair, No Longer Human dissipates his anger — this destroying nature that belongs to /something/ lurking inside of the redhead.
“Good thing I don’t listen to shrimps.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Chuuya.”
In response, Chuuya shudders.
He’s sorry too, but it feels pointless when all he wants is to be kissed until he forgets the bristling touch of Arahabaki around his bare heart.
“Stay,” he pleads, instead.
/ Please, don’t leave me now./
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Trying to steady his drumming heart, Chuuya considers that he wants to believe it. Because he—
Well, damn. Maybe it’s not the best way to realize he might be in love with Dazai, is it?
It’s just the shock.
It must be.
It’s not an epiphany that crushed upon him when he thought he’d die, it’s /trauma/.
This is not love. No way.
“What just happened?”
He seems to scramble for an answer for a moment before his hold grows even more solid — protective, yes, but /frustrated/ too.
“I have no idea.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be a /genius/?! What /happened/?” Chuuya repeats, voice high-pitched, hoping in a different answer.
And the true question, the one he doesn’t dare utter out loud, is: /how do I stop it/?
Can No Longer Human keep Arahabaki at bay?
Can he even be saved, when he feels /corrupted/ to the bone?
“I don’t know yet,” Dazai repeats, a quiver breaking his voice as he holds Chuuya tighter. “It’s Arahabaki. But I’ll find out and you will control it, Chuuya, I promise. You’re /fine/.
I’m taking you home.”
After the survival comes the /realization/.
It sinks in Chuuya slowly, carried by the numbing sense of calmness granted by No Longer Human.
He /almost/ unleashed a god.
The Decay of Angels opened their doors to him.
Dazai bullshitted him.
He asked for nothing
but /truth/, and received a nice, old stab in the back.
/Nobody/ told him.
But he has a contract (that he might break) to abide and a vampire (he currently doesn’t trust) capable of nullifying said god.
If there’s one right answer, Chuuya is not sure he can find it now.
For the first time in months, curled in the back of a Port Mafia’s car, Chuuya looks at the road outside and wishes he never left the Flags’ side.
When Dazai says “I’ll take you home,” he means /Chuuya’s/ home.
He won’t yet expose the redhead
to the misery that is his own house — the empty furnitures, the old grand piano that has been in his family for generations, the relics left from Mori, the traces of spiced-up blood — but he’s staying with the redhead nonetheless.
He’ll park his ass next to Chuuya’s bed, as the Chibikko would say, if needs be.
// He has such a foul mouth, Chuuya. //
The idea makes Dazai smirk to himself, and the man’s familiarly loud voice echoes in his head.
It sets off a thousand tiny fires in his chest, that voice.
He can hear it even if Chuuya has not uttered a word, out loud or otherwise, ever since they left the Guilty Pleasure.
They’ve left together, climbing on the backseat of one of the Mafia-provided black cars, with Gogol renovating
his offer to Chuuya before the redhead turned to mutter his address to the driver.
Dazai mulls over it as his gaze wanders to the human.
(A human he /cares/ about, when he hasn’t cared in decades.)
Chuuya is looking out of the window of the car, with his nose practically
planted against the glass, russet hair softly resting on one shoulder and curled around his neck.
Dazai’s jacket covers his shoulders, hiding the sheer fishnet top.
His face, painted with the thousand flashing lights of the city, remains hidden — and yet Dazai can’t forget the
Crimson spirals, festering like poison ivy, that cut Chuuya’s cheeks as Arahabaki fought its way out of its cage.
God, how badly he miscalculated.
He almost jeopardized his own plan.
He could lose Chuuya to /Dostoyevsky/.
(But why, if he always hated miscalculations and
flawed plans above all else, they feel like a /detail/ whenever he remembers he hurt Chuuya?)
“I’ll stay with you,” Dazai clarifies. Chuuya doesn’t turn. “To avoid another accident.”
“I can send someone during the day, too. Akiko, if you’re comfortable.”
“Do you have light-blocking curtains at all?”
With a sigh, Dazai drops in a nod.
“You’re angry,” he says — a genuine question, almost a confirmation. Chuuya snorts.
“And you’re a shitty detective, huh.”
He can /empathize/ with Chuuya, even, though his
understanding of humanity is /dusty/.
He withheld information for a few days for a greater good. He sees no fault in it. No malice.
But he will still make amends, he tells himself. Even if he doesn’t understand, he /will/ take that step.
He /recognizes/ Chuuya’s anger
and will learn from it because, for some weird reason, he gives a /damn/.
He’s not sure it will be enough, but the wounded pride of admitting a mistake is nothing compared to the heavy, /asphyxiating/ tension.
“I understand why you’re angry,” the vamp starts. “And I understand
you might need your space, now. But I won’t endanger you just because you are pissed off.”
/Even/ if it means putting up with an abrasive tone and silent disapproval all night.
“Well, thanks,” Chuuya growls.
Maybe he should try a less roundabout approach.
“Look.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration numbing his mind. This is going to be /difficult/. “I’m sorry. I did what I thought was best.”
In response, the redhead lets out a scorned sound.
“Then maybe I should pick another side, one that gives a damn about people.”
The jab is not entirely hypothetical, and all Dazai can do is take it /gracefully/.
“That wouldn’t be smart. But, like I said once, it’s up to you.” He sighs. “You can walk out with the mafia’s protection, because you’re one of our people.”
“So you can’t stop me?”
“If you leave because that’s what you want, no. But if you leave because you think I won’t care if you stay or not— then /yes/, little fox, I would try to stop you.”
It’s seems fair, and he hopes Chuuya will see it too.
He’s not humouring the tantrums of a spoiled god, but
he will make an effort so the /human boy/ knows he /is/ wanted.
It must be enough, though, because finally the other turns to face him.
Dazai can hear the drumming of Chuuya’s rabbit-fast pulse — so human, so loud — under the soft vibrations of the car’s engine.
“Because you are free.”
“And, organization aside—“
“—I would like you to stay, Chuuya,” he admits. Low, /honest/. “If you want to.”
Because he has a hunch that, tonight, once he fucked up everything else honesty is the only weapon he has left.
Something in Chuuya’s eyes shift — something /human/ Dazai can’t decipher.
“Would you care if /I/ leave, or if Arahabaki leaves?”
/Great question, no good answer that won’t get him in trouble./
Dazai stalls, gnawing at his bottom lip.
The truth is, he doesn’t /know/.
He likes Chuuya, he likes his defiance and constant challenge, but it’s not /love/. Not yet. Maybe never.
Losing a god to the DOA would be a headache, but he existed centuries before the human called Nakahara Chuuya. He’s quite damn sure he’ll manage to exist /after/ him, too.
(At what price?
How do you find something so /shiny/ and let it go?)
“There’s really a difference? Both are parts of /Chuuya/.”
“Parts you didn’t share with /me/.” A sigh, before Chuuya turns again to face the road. “I hoped you weren’t going to use me. Fuck if I know why.”
“That was never my intention,” he says.
“And I’m not sure I believe you.”
/That/, Dazai could predict.
“The plan Sigma asked about…” he side-eyes Chuuya, unsure about how much to dump on the redhead in one night. But, after all that happened, Chuuya deserves the truth.
“It was to make you feel /sheltered/ and loyal to the Port Mafia.”
“So you’re saying that I’m a weapon.”
“You could be a Port Mafia executive, Chuuya, if you want the job. And you were never /just/ a Blood Offering,” he corrects. “But I apologize for not telling you sooner.”
Chuuya hmms. It’s non-interested, but Dazai didn’t /expect/ any other reaction — not now.
So he waits.
He doesn’t add anything else because he’s not sure that admitting he meant to understand how to exploit Arahabaki’s power /before/ telling Chuuya would sound any better.
And the intention was never to sleep with Chuuya and make it mean something, either.
/That/ was a mistake.
“For the record, I’m not asking you anything, Osamu,” Chuuya says, after a moment. Even his name sounds colorless.
“I don’t need a fucking love confession
and a kiss on the forehead, just for /basic/ respect.” He squints. “Or am I asking above my possibilities?”
Dazai’s lips close, the jab to Sasaki lodging under his skin.
They all deserve it, because Nikolai is right: Chuuya is a /god/.
Nothing is above his possibilities.
“About that, I apologize. I’ll have another chat with Sasaki.”
Chuuya scowls, eyes narrowing. “Did you had a… chat with her before?”
Dazai /really/ wishes he could say no. But they are mafia, and their blood is black. It’s thick, and it’s hungry. He /is/ the demon boss of
an organization based on blind loyalty and sacrifice.
Chuuya will understand.
Until then, he’s not answering that question.
“Let me deal with my people, little fox.”
“I can defend myself.”
“I’m not doing it out of chivalry, Chuuya. I’m doing it because it pissed me off.”
Despite the tension, the fact that Chuuya clicks his tongue makes Dazai relax.
“Well. I guess you guys can sort it out,” Chuuya says. Then, a pause — as if he’s /really/ understanding for the first time he’s dealing with the mafia, and he doesn’t have a say in how things are
dealt with. “You know what’s rich, though? I would have helped you willingly. Now? I’m pretty fucking tempted to flip you off just /because/.”
“I am sorry, Chuuya,” he says. He /means/ it. “I meant to tell you after Fitzgerald’s warlock confirmed it. But after tonight—“
Subtly, before he can finish, Chuuya’s hand closes the space between them, his fingers stretching over the leather seat between them before reaching Dazai.
It’s a shy brush of skin.
Dazai can’t even begin to guess if it’s a sign or forgiveness, or if Chuuya needs No Longer
Human to ground himself.
“Don’t. I don’t want to think about that,” Chuuya murmurs.
His timbre, as if speaking too loud might awake Arahabaki, squeezes Dazai’s chest.
Pity and surprise and /affection/tightly intertwine, a barbed wire of foreign feelings that seizes his heart.
“Fair enough.” He allows, his fingers searching for Chuuya’s touch. “What I mean to say is, I think now I have a hunch where to find more information about this… Corrupted mode of yours.” He swallows, hoping he can /reach out/ with an offer to win /Chuuya/ back.
Not Arahabaki. Just Chuuya. “Fitzgerald’s warlock works with a Fae — a detective. Someone who can deduct pretty much everything, no matter what. We can go see them together and find the answers you need.”
Chuuya flashes him a smirk.
“Ah. Is this your olive branch, old bat?”
“It’s a /I was insensitive and dumb/ branch. An apology.”
Because Dazai can’t change the past.
He can’t undo the fact that he was an idiot. He can’t even fake a better understanding of human emotions.
He /is/ no longer human.
What he can do, though, is build a /partnership/.
A way for him and Chuuya to work side by side, cards on the table: Arahabaki’s loud chaos and No Longer Human’s /silence/.
And maybe it’s hypocritical, and maybe Chuuya /will/ run to the DOA, and maybe this mistake /did/ just cost him the whole game— but he’d be much more of an
hypocrite if he didn’t try to win Chuuya’s trust back.
He /feels/ Chuuya hesitate. “No bullshit?”
“No bullshit. Though, I must warn you, Fitzgerald’s speakeasy is in a…/unconventional/ location.”
Dazai shakes his head. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“Do you own anything with leather? A harness will do. They have a dress code, I’m afraid.”
The redhead barks a laughter. “You damn bet I do.” A pause, while blue eyes side-glare at him. “You’re still sleeping on the couch, by the way.”
And he might be the boss of the mafia, and
Chuuya might just be a human with a tendency to never stick to his decisions, but something tells Dazai he /is/ most certainly sleeping on the couch.
(He was wrong.)
That night, Chuuya dreams of his parents.
He closes his eyes and he’s dragged back home, his mother sitting
sitting on the couch and his father throwing an arm around her shoulders.
Quite frankly, with what Sasaki said, it doesn’t /surprise/ Chuuya.
Maybe he /is/ asking above his possibilities. How foolish of him, to think he might be worth of love.
So he dreams of that day.
// He dreams of home. //
Of that day, Chuuya remembers his mother clearly.
She’s sitting on the couch, with her bob fresh out of the hairdresser and that yellow floral shirt they all gifted her for her birthday.
Chuuya picked it because his father couldn’t be bothered, and
Kouyou has been in Berlin for the last three months.
His life is a dumpster fire, and his sister is not even /with/ him.
“Piano says I should bring this to the police or something,” he hears himself saying.
It’s /harder/ to remember his father, even in a nightmare.
Chuuya recalls details of him, that day; the white polo, the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He remembers the way he /sighed/.
Unlike his wife, Nakahara Kansuke is /sturdy/.
Chuuya always defined him as a good, well-centered man.
Now, though, as he pats him on
the shoulder as if giving him a hug would taint both of them, Chuuya is not sure of that anymore.
“Let’s not be hasty. It was a heavy joke, but—“
“Woah,” Chuuya says, stepping away and lifting his hands. “A joke?”
Kansuke glares at him. “Well… What else would you call it?”
It’s such a /honest/ question, it breaks Chuuya’s heart.
But the second after, the idea that his father is /pleading/ him to confirm that nothing /major/ happened sinks in, and it’s infuriating.
/Why/ does he have to reassure them?
How is that /fair/?
He should be having a
breakdown. He should be /crying/. Why doesn’t he feel safe enough to cry in front of them?
“I don’t know, it’s a fucking crime?”
“Now—“ his mother starts. Her voice peaks into that tone of when she’s blaming something on the TV or a videogame.
“Revenge porn is a /crime/, mum.”
Discussion of revenge porn
“Chuuya,” his father interrupts him. “You are being unreasonable. Keep quiet and the neighbors will forget in a while. But with the police…”
His head is spinning.
“/Wait/. Wait. Someone uploads /my/ private pictures on a cloud and you are worried about the /neighbors/?”
His father waves the word away. If he could crumple it up like old paper and throw it away, he would. “Whatever you say.”
His father is dismissing his feelings as if Chuuya is being /difficult/, but then— why does it hurt so much?
He was supposed to stop being in love with someone who betrayed him.
It hurts so much that even in a nightmare, he can’t think about /his/ name.
“I was in /love/, dad.”
Maybe part of him still is, because nothing is black or white.
He didn’t stop loving /him/ in one day — he didn’t leave him because of that.
He left him because it hurt.
So what is this, then? Love or addiction?
His father’s expression turns blank.
“Chuuya— you don’t know what love means.”
“No,” he murmurs. “I’m sure I don’t.”
There’s someone, though, a name that escapes him.
Someone who calls himself a demon, yet quiets down the voice.
Someone Chuuya can’t remember but that he might love, one day.
He’d like to tell his parents about this person, because, again— Chuuya didn’t just /stop/ loving them.
If he only could, if /they/ could improve and change, he’d want them as part of his life.
No, it’s not all right or wrong.
It’s not hatred or forgiveness, good or bad.
He’s drowning in shades of grey.
And Chuuya can’t control his heart, though he wishes he could.
“It’s fine,” his mother begins, in her ‘where-did-we-go-wrong-your-sister-is-normal’ voice that is a little too high-pitched for Chuuya’s tensed nerves. “Let us handle this.”
Which means: let us pretend this never happened.
Let us bury the whole accident under the rug. Let us bury /you/, and those feelings that are too raw and uncomfortable to be addressed.
And the truth is, Chuuya is to too drained to fight more.
His father sighs. “Damn. I never thought, my own son—”
“—Why your son?”
A moment of stunned silence.
His mother’s eyes are wide when she searches for her husband’s gaze. “Chuuya…”
“Would you love me if I were, I don’t know, anything else?”
He’s been toying with the question
for a while, now — and he’s not sure it’s the right time to ask but it might be the last chance he has.
Because, at ten, Nakahara Chuuya was a brilliant child.
He won a local poetry contest, even.
His parents kept the certificate pinned to the fridge until /that/ argument.
At fifteen, he became a local thug.
At twenty, he grew up to be an /embarrassment/ for his conservative parents.
“What kind of question is that, now?” his father growls. His mustache quivers with irritation — anger, even — and his eyebrows almost touch at the root of his nose.
Chuuya holds his gaze.
He can’t — shouldn’t— explain. He shouldn’t fight for a right to be taken seriously.
Because he’s not always sure he feels like a son, or a boyfriend, or a brother.
Damn, he’s not even sure he cares, or that anybody should care. It’s /that/ easy.
It’s just that life has been suffocating him for so long, and he’s in search of a way to breathe in a body that sometimes feels more like a cage.
But all he wants now, when he’s scared and vulnerable, is to hear he will be loved regardless.
Because he /loves/ his parents.
He’d move mountains for them, he’d accept them. He’d /understand/.
But he needs the reassurance that this is not a one-way effort.
It’s not much, but it’s his lifeline.
Because, as the world turns on him, he’d like to know he still has his family in his corner.
“Just answer,” he murmurs. “/Do/ you?”
/Does he get a yes?/
“What a silly question.” But the devil’s in the details, and his mother’s voice is hollow and her gaze wanders away from him. “Of course.”
“Look at me.”
/Is that a no? At least it’s honest./
“Look,” his father says, voice ever so /soft/. It makes him think that he /will/ be accepted, if he’s good enough. “Chuuya. You have to respect us, and all the efforts we‘ve done for you. We did our best.”
“Didn’t we give you enough?”
—How is this right?
“This is hard enough already. So, please, don’t make it difficult.” His father squeezes his shoulder. “You can do that, right?”
He gets *nothing*./
“I’m just trying to be honest.”
“Take a few days to rest,” his father says. Tender. /Sweet/. “You’ll get better.”
// He’s just a kid aiming above his possibilities. //
“—Yeah. I’m sorry for causing so much trouble.”
“No, Chuuya. You’re just a ticking bomb who will almost kill his best friend,” his mother says — although she shouldn’t /know/.
Although it’s too soon. It stabs Chuuya anyway. He straightens up his head, searching for his mother’s face. “Come on. Get angry.”
“Set Arahabaki free.”
“Embrace the destruction you were meant to raise.”
“You’re a spoiled kid,” a voice whispers in his ear — and it sounds
a /lot/ like Sasaki.
“You’d be better off death.”
The dream morphs into something else as Chuuya gasps for air.
Memories, shadows, /truth/ — it all bleeds into a bone-deep sense of anxiety.
When Chuuya jolts awake, strands of hair glued
to his neck and sweatdrops peppering his forehead, the moon is still high and he’s in Yokohama.
Or, at least, /free/.
When Chuuya shows up, lingering on the threshold that separates the living room from the bedroom, he is torturing the edge of his oversized t-shirt.
His skin glows red.
His fear screams, though his voice is paper-thin.
Dazai barely has time to jump on his feet and open his arms that Chuuya tackles him, inhaling deeply and covered in cold sweat.
The moment his fingers close over Chuuya’s skin, the red zaps away
away — what remains, though, is the ghost of Arahabaki.
The phantom of a mess much bigger than Chuuya, much bigger than all of them.
And Chuuya is so strong, Dazai finds himself thinking, as he holds him close and pets his hair until his breath calms down.
“Talk to me, love.”
Chuuya doesn’t shy away from the pet name, this time. He inhales a wheezing breath. “A bad dream.” A pause. “And I’m glowing red.”
“Technically, not anymore.”
“I’m a fucking glow stick, Dazai.”
“You’re /ok/, Chuuya. What did you dream about?”
“It’s not— it was home. My best friend got in an accident. I was angry at my parents, I lashed out and there was this… sudden stupid earthquake.” He shudders. “‘Tross was driving to my house because I texted him for help. He crashed.”
Dazai’s lips fondle his hair.
“He’s fine now. But sometimes I /think/ he might have…” his voice trails off, in that way it does when humans aren’t ready to face the many faces of destiny. Some of those faces are ugly.
Humans struggle to accept them, at times. “I know I caused it.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“But it was /Arahabaki/,” Chuuya says. “Doesn’t that make it my fault?”
“No,” Dazai promises, sinking his nose in russet hair. It’s a lie, but Chuuya is not ready to hear that he and Arahabaki share powers and /faults/. “Your friend... Is he living in your hometown?”
He snuggles against Dazai’s chest.
In the embrace, Chuuya seems to gradually thaw — knots of tension melting away. The nightmare slips away with every proof that he’s awake.
“Why don’t you go see him? I can hold off the council until then.”
// I’ll wait for you. //
On his side, Chuuya considers the offer - the sweetness of Dazai’s words, the tender hug, and the bitter implications.
Is Dazai saying he would wait for him — /truly/ him — or for a precious Arahabaki vessel?
/Who/ is he hugging, now?
“I don’t know,” he says, entirely honest.
“Just for a few days, go see him.” For a moment Dazai seems to balance his words, tossing them in his head. “You can’t face Arahabaki fearing your own power. It’s dangerous.”
Chuuya hesitates, sucking in a breath.
Hell, of course he wants to see his best friend, but he can’t.
And it breaks his heart.
“If you want to take a breather and see your friend, that’s /understandable/. I will take care of everything here in the meantime.”
“I can’t go back.” It comes out as a groan, a strangled request to avoid the topic. “I don’t want to.”
/ His parents. /
Thankfully he doesn’t have to say it out loud, because Dazai understands immediately. He holds Chuuya closer, hands covering his body from above the t-shirt.
He’s /shielding/ Chuuya from something neither of them can see; something that already happened.
“Were they in your dream, little fox?”
“Did they hurt you?”
/Don’t make it difficult for us/.
Without a real answer, Chuuya locks himself beside a stubborn silence.
They did provide for him, didn’t they?
/Did/ they hurt him, or did he hurt them first?
“Don’t ask,” he whispers. “Please.”
Not after everything.
Not when he’s barely holding himself together.
“Alright.” Dazai sighs, talking against Chuuya’s hair, hands steady around his hips. “/Alright/. What if I arrange something to get your friend here instead?”
Taken aback, Chuuya’s heart stutters.
He pulls back just enough to search for Dazai’s eyes. Where he expects a joke or a trap, he only finds unguarded honesty.
“Are you shitting me?”
Dazai gifts him cocky grin.
God, Chuuya thinks.
He might fall in /love/ with that smile.
Too bad the person attached to said smile is a bastard.
“Sugar, I /am/ the boss of the Port Mafia.”
Faintly, Chuuya rolls his eyes.
“Ugh. Don’t act so pleased. You’re still a shitty rodent with fangs, you bat.”
Dazai’s grin widens. “I’m just saying it’s an easy fix.”
“Bullshit. You’re /gloating/, old perv.”
(But Chuuya is smiling, and it’s thanks to Dazai.
Gently, Dazai guides him back against his body — close enough that he can nose the side of Chuuya’s head in a gesture that is incredibly /intimate/, yet innocent.
“So, Chibi? Is that a yes?”
“I guess? It’s a, I’ll talk to ‘Tross and if he’s up for it.”
“You do that. I assume we want your friend to move in /willingly/.”
Even though Chuuya snorts at the joke, it doesn’t escape him how Dazai’s language has shifted to a /plural/.
It’s another effort that doesn’t go unnoticed.
/ We’ll find a way through it. Together. /
Or, if it’s a way of scamming him, Chuuya can at least admit Dazai is damn committed to it.
“/Why/ are you being so accommodating, anyway? Are you buttering Arahabaki up?”
Dazai hmms, tugging a strand of hair behind Chuuya’s ear.
“In the grand scheme of things I’ve done, little fox, I’d say this hardly counts as being accommodating.”
“To be transparent, isolating you would be best, for the plan.” His eyes narrow, shards of
endless crimson that seems to read past Chuuya’s defenses. “You having no one else to turn to is key, if we want you to be loyal to the mafia.”
“But I like things better when you’re happy.”
The confession makes Chuuya’s heart run rabbit-fast, drumming in his chest.
He doesn’t know how much of it is the truth, if Dazai is not scheming and planning.
Right now, Chuuya can only think about how Dazai is not even /trying/ to kiss him.
But it feels wrong to ask — no matter how much he wants it, he fears he’s not being /angry/ enough.
And then there’s Dazai, who is being ever so respectful of Chuuya’s boundaries.
/This/ is the man’s true olive branch: time, understanding.
And so Chuuya kisses him /first/.
It may not be the smart or the best coping mechanism, but it feels damn right.
It feels /true/.
Dazai doesn’t waste a second to kiss back, lean fingers cradling Chuuya’s neck
It’s light and trembling, though, as if Dazai is asking for /permission/.
Chuuya doesn’t rush him.
He relishes the gentleness of the kiss, the mellowness — a half-awake, Sunday-morning type of kiss.
And Chuuya is so very /tired/ after the night they both had, but the memory of the nightmare keeps him awake.
He is /alone/ and confused.
Yet, he melts like butter under the unexpected gentleness of Dazai’s touch; of his kiss.
Dazai cradles his neck, long fingers combing through Chuuya’s messy hair — pulling him closer.
It’s been a night, Chuuya supposes.
Clubbing, almost unleashing a /god/ and dreaming about his parents made a mess out of him, his skin sticky with cold sweat and his cheeks stained
with dried mascara, but Dazai doesn’t seem to mind.
He traces the edge of Chuuya’s choker with delicate touches — driving him closer, kissing him deeper.
Maybe, all humans are the same to him.
(Or maybe Dazai /can/ desire him at his worst, too.
Would that be so far-fetched?)
With a soft purr from the back of his throat, Chuuya’s hands slowly work their way down to play with the buttons of Dazai’s grey shirt.
He won’t get rid of that layer of clothes, he promises himself.
He will play it safe, because Dazai’s dick made him act stupid once—
(Well… he was stupid once and a hundred times more.
Dazai has /that/ kind of good dick, the one that makes you do bad stuff.)
—and he ended up burned.
He won’t let Dazai too close, Chuuya promises himself.
Tonight is for words and kisses that make him feel safe.
He won’t allow Dazai to get /too/ comfortable /too/ soon.
That is, despite the voice in his head repeating that his silly heart should be used enough to betrayal. He should stop minding it.
He should have thicker skin, by now.
He /deserves/ to be othered and abandoned.
But there’s not an ounce of /betrayal/ or judgement in the way Dazai is kissing him now, nipping at Chuuya’s bottom lip.
No lies, not /anymore/.
There’s no rush, no feverish need.
No past, no ghost, no hidden agenda and, for once, no /audience/ to interrupt them.
And the truth is that Chuuya has no strength to be mad at Dazai, tonight, and to fall asleep alone in an empty bed.
He doesn’t want to.
“Wait,” he hums, pulling away. “You said that isolating me — /Arahabaki/ — would have been the best plan for you. Why are you changing?”
Chuuya stops, then, gnawing at his bottom lip. His own words sound silly in his head. “Wait, no, that was dumb.
I meant, why are you fucking up a good plan for my sake? All this kindness is sus.”
Despite the semi-darkness, Dazai’s eyebrows disappear behind his fringe. “/Sus/.”
The old man is — drumroll — /old/.
“Suspicious,” Chuuya clarifies, lightly tracing the outline of Dazai’s nose with the tip of his finger — then his lips, his chin.
His skin is so cold, under Chuuya’s fingertip.
He would ask if Dazai fed properly, if
that didn’t mean forcing the man to leave and call another of his Blood Offerings to drink.
And Dazai will leave if he has to.
Of course, Dazai is not changing /for/ him.
Chuuya is not changing Dazai just because the Demon Prodigy is offering to reunite him and ‘Tross,
or is changing his plans, or leaving his lovers.
He /can’t/ be changing Dazai.
This is not in a sappy movie, and Chuuya is not— whatever idiotic Love InterestTM with low blood pressure and terrible sense of balance vampires fall in love with in said sappy movies.
Before he can further clarify that he did /not/ mean anything /embarrassing/, Dazai drives a strand away from his face.
“As I said, I much prefer it when Chibi is happy.”
Maybe Dazai /is/ sappy.
On occasion, and no doubt hiding a creepy second motive.
Unhappy, Chuuya scowls
“I got that, but /why/?”
“You’re different,” Dazai admits – voice leveled, as if it’s chipping away at his pride. As if he doesn’t normally /admit/ his emotions. “I deduced the best possible scheme, Chuuya. You ruined it.”
“Ugh, so it’s my fault now?”
“It is.” Dazai smirks. “Chuuya ruined my perfect plan.”
“Or maybe your plan sucked ass. /How/ did I ruin it?”
Dazai shrugs the question away,
“I got to know you,” he says, voice colorless, almost brushing off the confession. “And the rest just didn’t seem worth much anymore.”
In silence, Chuuya bites his bottom lip.
He smooths the crinkles of Dazai’s shirt under his hands, pondering over the comment.
All this time, he’s been an ass to the man – he called him a monster, and treated him as such.
Dazai is a /mafia boss/, he thought.
He can deal with the tantrums of a human guy with a stone in his chest and a mess in his heart.
And part of Chuuya thought that, having been hurt before by everyone he loved, he has earned himself a VIP pass to hurt others.
Dazai is no saint, he told himself. Dazai is a killer.
Dazai is a /villain/.
And, ultimately, Dazai proved him right and lied by omission. If it was done with no harm intended, a plan concocted to protect himself and the Mafia, that doesn’t change the result.
They /both/ hurt each other.
Something tells Chuuya they will
continue to do so.
“You said we can be partners.” Chuuya pauses. “I want to be in the loop. Especially when your shitty plan is /about/ me.”
Dazai’s eyes gleam with amusement.
“You know, Chibi, discussing politics in bed is /way/ more fun~”
“I’m serious, Osamu.”
“So am I,” the man says, still smirking. “So you’re considering my offer?”
“I am accepting it,” Chuuya clarifies. He sees Dazai’s shoulders straighten up, and immediately shows him his open palms. “Hold your horses, old bat. I am staying in the Port Mafia /under conditions/.”
Dazai’s eyes narrow.
Instantly, his mask of playfulness falls.
His boyish enthusiasm seems to die behind crimson irises, a light winking out because of Chuuya’s cautiousness.
“I want to be part of the Executives.”
“That seat is yours, if you want it.”
“No secrets. You trust me, and I trust /you/.”
“Fine. I’ll introduce you to Odasaku,” Dazai agrees. “Properly, I mean. And Atsushi-kun, too. And to the rest of the executives— a useless lot, most of them.” He hesitates. “You already know Sasaki and Kunikida, of course.”
Happily, Chuuya grins back at him.
It sounds like a start he can work with.
“Hm… you mean your alpha? The one that croons?”
Dazai frowns. “I have no idea where that information comes from, but it’s wrong.”
Chuuya grins. “Is it?”
He’s about to comment that Sasaki gets
political encounters and dates, too, so /he/ is going to make his Ao3 bookmarks everybody’s problem, when a yawn cuts his comment short.
“Ok, let’s get you to bed,” Dazai murmurs, lifting Chuuya’s hand to his mouth and brushing his lips against the other’s knuckles.
are so /featherlight/, patterns of infinite tenderness over his bones, that Chuuya’s skin blooms in goosebumps. “We can discuss the details of your new role tomorrow, but it’s been a long night and you need rest.”
“We’re not dropping the crooning conversation.”
Dazai kisses him again, stealing Chuuya’s jokes and protests with his lips.
And the smile Dazai shoots him after, with a hint of fangs but its edges softened by affection—
That smile. Those hands.
“Welcome to the Executive board of the Port Mafia, little fox.”
Chuuya lets out a soft, whiny sound the moment Dazai pulls away, displeased with the sudden distance and too tired to keep his reactions in check.
He might fall asleep kissing Dazai, and he’s sure no nightmare or demon or /god/ would dare disturb him.
Dazai snickers, though.
“/That/ was an interesting sound, Chuuya. Care to repeat it?”
// “I’ve got you.” //
“/Make me/,” Chuuya growls back, with a combativeness that doesn’t truly belong to him after such a long, tiresome night.
(//“Don’t lie again. Please.”//)
With Dazai by his side, he’ll fall asleep the moment they touch the mattress
But that answer is a request to make him feel safe, to make him feel /loved/ and understood when no one else did.
He didn’t fully forgive Dazai.
He’s not an idiot and doesn’t trust the man, right now,
but he can always hold his judgment for a night.
He wants Dazai’s mouth on his, his hands on /him/ — lulling Chuuya into a world of calm silence until he falls asleep.
His touch forces Arahabaki to retreat, to renounce its ancestral claim and let Chuuya rest.
He’s free, then.
As long as No Longer Human keeps him anchored to reality, Chuuya can drift into a dreamless sleep.
The morning after, when he wakes up, sunlight is bathing the bedroom and Chuuya is alone in his house.
The only remaining traces of Dazai’s existence are a take-away breakfast
from an expensive French bakery — a croissant and a coffee in what Chuuya supposes is another apology — and a business card sitting on the kitchen table.
The paper is heavy, with a a matte black finish that seems to engulf the light. It smooth surface is cut with words embossed
in ruby-red ink.
It’s so bright it might pass for fresh blood.
/ The Port Mafia Council is summoned /
‘Come out, come out,’ Chuuya can almost hear, a whisper in the silence, ‘Wherever you are’.
It sounds like a threat.
When he turns the card, frowning at the formal
summoning and wondering if somebody is going to /die/ for ignoring an order from the Demon Prodigy, Chuuya finds a note.
It’s scribbled in a crisp, elegant handwriting:
// A car will pick you up at 7pm, doll.
I’ll have your outfit and a new choker delivered to you. //
There is a man pacing in the hall of the Mori Corp’s main building
He’s talking at the phone, wearing purple.
Moonlight paints his short hair a hundred shades of silver, his skin almost translucent under the cold light.
Stopping in his tracks, Chuuya’s heart falters.
“The situation with the smuggled rubies, Karma-kun?” the man is asking, hushed, pacing up and down the marble of the hall. The low heels of his leather shoes click on the floor.
Again, again. Back, forth.
Then, he stops.
Crushed by the sudden silence, Chuuya considers running.
(Fuck, he /can’t/.)
Then, the man humms. “Yes, I’m /stuck/ right now, Boss orders. When the bastard calls— What did I say? Keep the business in check until I’m back. I don’t care how. A kingdom doesn’t rule itself.” Then, crimson eyes land on him — split pupils swelling the
moment the man clocks Chuuya. The man’s lips curl up. “I need to go. Remember what happens when you disappoint me, my sweet.” A pause, as the man’s smile cuts his face. Wide, joyless. “Hi, Chuuya. Long time no see.”
/ It can’t be. Not now.
As Chuuya’s eyes scan a familiar face, old memories flash behind his eyelids.
His hands prickle as he stretches his fingers, fighting the need to erase Ace’s smile with his fist.
Unfazed, the man takes advantage of the moment to put his phone away.
He grins, flashing fangs.
Sharp vampire fangs that weren’t there the last time Chuuya saw Ace, fighting him in an empty classroom of their old high school.
Before Ace allegedly moved to Osaka.
Before pictures of him got leaked. (What a coincidence, indeed.)
Back then, Ace was a terrible person and a
an interesting senpai and a charming lover.
Just another boy filling his mouth with pretty promises — and lies.
“So it’s true,” Ace drawls, mockingly sweet. He steps forward, and Chuuya wills himself to not budge.
“It’s been a while since I’d seen my favorite girl.”
The nickname — so degrading on the man’s lips — sends a cold shiver down Chuuya’s spine.
This must be a nightmare, he thinks, gritting his teeth.
This can’t be true.
He can’t believe his past demons just turned out to be immortal – in every sense of the word.
Chuuya opens his mouth, eyes fixed on Ace. He doesn’t need to /guess/ the man’s new age to know that he hasn’t been a vampire for more than six months.
(Less than a year ago he was spreading online pictures of Chuuya, after all.
That was /only/ the beginning.)
“You’re working for the Port Mafia,” Chuuya grinds out, clenching his fist in the effort to not swing it at Ace’s face.
Restraining himself takes so much effort, Chuuya fears his own spit will suffocate him.
The vampire grins. “So do you.”
“I thought you were in Osaka.”
“I am normally based in Osaka,” Ace replies, tilting his head to the side. He flips a strand of ashen-white hair away from his face, pleased. “Boss summoned us all. Fuck knows why.”
He says it without an ounce of respect, stretching the word with the smugness of a king.
An usurper. A glutton for power salivating at the idea of climbing, murdering and betraying his way to the top.
Ace is incapable of loyalty — that much is clear.
Ace is a bastard.
He is the scum of the earth, he /hurt/ him — and Dazai must /know/ that.
Chuuya has to tell him.
He has to call Dazai, ask where he is and why the /hell/ is he late.
He /promised/ to meet Chuuya in the hall. What the fuck. He doesn’t need shitty Bandages.
He doesn’t, but—
Then, a hand gently touches the small of Chuuya’s back.
“Is there a problem here, little fox?”