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The card had been tucked in with his paperwork, falling out of the stack of papers when Chuuya picked them up to move them and fluttering to land on the dark oak of his desk. Raising an eyebrow, Chuuya had put the papers back down in favor of slipping the small thing (roughly the same size as the average business card) off the desk to study it.
There hadn’t been much that could be gleaned from the card. It was relatively thick cardstock, the kind that you paid a premium for, the letters on it were embossed in black using a typescript that prevented him from guessing who the sender was based on handwriting recognition. On the front of the card is a date, the current day’s date, and a time: 20:30. Turning the card over had revealed an address and nothing more.
A knock on the door had prevented Chuuya from studying it any closer (not that there was much to study, to begin with) and he had tucked it into his pocket with a mental note to keep track of the time and leave headquarters early enough for him to be prompt to the indicated address.
For most members of the Port Mafia, following a card with an anonymous sender and undisclosed purpose isn’t something to even be considered. In order to survive, there is a certain degree of caution to be exercised in such circumstances.
It goes without saying that Nakahara Chuuya doesn’t exactly fit into the same bracket as “most members” of the Port Mafia. Even if the card was a lure for an ambush, Chuuya wouldn’t have been particularly concerned, not when he can flatten any enemy group (regardless of size or skill) with a crook of his finger, in the space of a breath.
And, unless he is losing his touch (which Chuuya highly doubts), he knows precisely who sent the card, has a guess as to how it ended up with his papers, and even has a pretty good idea of what he would be walking into by following the ambiguous directions on the card.
Which is why, at precisely 8:30 PM, Chuuya strolls into the building whose address had been typed in clear black letters and is unsurprised to find himself inside an upscale fine dining restaurant.
It is packed to the brim, couples everywhere he looks. Some holding hands over the table, others clearly less comfortable around each other, blushes high on their cheeks as their eyes flick between the table and staring at their dinner partner.
Typical for Valentine’s Day, he supposes.
Walking up to the maître d’, Chuuya doesn’t even have to open his mouth, much less say his name. The man beams at him, “Nakahara-san, correct?” Suppressing a bemused smile, Chuuya nods. “He said you would be here at 8:30 on the dot, I’m impressed. Let me show you to your table.”
Instead of being led into the main dining room already full of eating couples, the maître d’ takes a left turn down a quiet corridor, past a velvet rope that cordoned off a staircase, and up to a private dining room on the second floor. There is a small, two-person table beside a railing that, judging by the noise that increases the closer Chuuya moves to it, opens up into the heart of the kitchen.
The maître d’ pulls out the empty seat (Chuuya notes with more bemusement that it is the one facing the stairway, its back to the wall, leaving the other man already seated reliant on Chuuya to watch his back) and slides it back into place as Chuuya settles down.
With a smile, the maître d’ says, “A waiter will be by promptly with your wine selection for the evening.”
Only when he is certain the maître d’ is out of earshot, does Chuuya turn his attention to his dinner partner, a wry smile on his lips, “You know, most people don’t send anonymous cards to invite someone to dinner.”
A familiar lazy smile curls onto Dazai’s mouth and he leans forward, resting an elbow on the edge of the table and propping his head up with his fist. “I assumed Chuuya would be offended if I treated him like ‘most people’.”
“I could’ve had a job tonight.”
Dazai snorts, “Give me some credit. You know I could’ve gotten it rescheduled.”
Rather than admitting how much influence the detective has on the Port Mafia for a deserter (and a traitor), Chuuya gives a thoughtful hum, taking in his surroundings.
Their table location is clever—not that he expected anything less from Dazai. Because they are sectioned away from the main dining room and had arrived separately there is a slim chance of anyone knowing they are here together. The only way to approach their table is from the staircase that Chuuya has a clear view of, meaning he’ll know whenever someone is coming and can steer the conversation accordingly. Even the noise of the kitchen—not overpowering but enough to fill any silence—is perfect, it will prevent attempts at eavesdropping quite handily.
Footsteps draw Chuuya’s gaze back to the staircase in time to see the promised waiter carrying a bottle of wine. The waiter stops beside their table with a shallow bow and uncorks the bottle with a smile, pouring in Chuuya’s glass first as they say, “The vintage 1889 Pétrus. An excellent choice.”
As the dark red booze filled his glass, Chuuya cocks an eyebrow at Dazai over the selection. Dazai’s smile grows just a touch as the waiter pours into his glass before leaving the wine on the table and vanishing back down the stairs.
Reaching out, Chuuya picks up his glass and takes a sip, savoring the familiar taste of the vintage before studying Dazai over top of its rim, searching for clues.
Dazai is dressed up, for once, a striking grey suit over a black shirt and a complimentary steel grey tie. Even if their current location required something nicer than his usual trench coat ensemble, it is obvious that Dazai put actual thought into his appearance, even going so far as to tuck a section of his hair behind his ear, making brown eyes more visible than normal. Most intriguing are the two spots of color sitting high on Dazai’s cheeks that Chuuya isn’t used to seeing in public.
“See something you like?” Dazai jokes, taking a sip of his own wine.
“You’re buttering me up for something.”
“I am?”
Rolling his eyes at the fact that Dazai is going to make him spell it all out, Chuuya waves his free hand to gesture at their surroundings. “A place like this doesn’t exactly fit an agency budget, even if you are still sitting on some of your old accounts. That suit, I’ve never seen before, and it looks tailored. And the wine…” Chuuya takes another sip, licking an errant droplet from his lips and stifling a smirk at the way Dazai’s gaze flicks down to the slide of his tongue before returning to meet Chuuya’s stare. “A little heavy handed than you would usually go in terms of subtlety.”
“As usual nothing escapes your keen powers of observation,” Dazai replies, tone taunting, “but that doesn’t mean I’m buttering you up for something. It is Valentine’s Day, after all, this kind of thing is normal.”
With a snort, Chuuya says, “Sure, it’s normal, for normal people, not for the two of us.”
He doesn’t have to add that this, whatever exactly this is between them, certainly isn’t anything like the other couples in the restaurant had. They have a history, they have sex, sometimes Chuuya will even entertain the idea that they have some kind of attachment between them. They don’t have a relationship, much less anything that makes Dazai pulling out so many stops for such a holiday anything other than unusual.
Studying Dazai again, Chuuya’s eyes linger on the faint blush on otherwise pale skin and suddenly the pieces fall into place.
Smirking, Chuuya asks, “So, what are you wearing underneath the suit that has you blushing? A butt plug? Cock ring, perhaps?”
It is almost impossible to make Dazai Osamu embarrassed, not that Chuuya doesn’t do his best to attempt it whenever he is given the opportunity. But this isn’t anything either of them feels a reason to be embarrassed about and a licentious smile tugs on Dazai’s mouth as he replies, “Both.”
Chuuya’s smirk widens, “And how many courses is dinner?”
“Six.”
That pulls a soft laugh from the mafia executive and he leans back in his seat, letting himself relax now that he knew exactly what Dazai is up to. “Testing your patience tonight?”
With a careless shrug, Dazai replies, “And yours.”
At the blatant challenge, Chuuya cocks an eyebrow, voice soft and just barely tinged with the undercurrent of command that he knows Dazai can’t bring himself to resist. He’s rewarded by brown eyes dilating slightly as he comments, “You should know by now that I’m endlessly patient when it comes to taking you apart.”
The waiter coughs softly, as if Chuuya hadn’t heard them the moment they started climbing the stairs and had known damn well that they were within earshot. Embarrassing Dazai is difficult but the way Dazai’s eyes flick to the waiter like he’d been surprised by their presence despite how astute the detective can be when it comes to his surroundings is just as worth savoring, in Chuuya’s opinion.
His smirk doesn’t falter as two plates of hor d’oeuvres are put on the table. Chuuya doesn’t even tear his gaze away from his dinner partner until the waiter is gone from sight.
Picking up an interesting looking bite-sized appetizer, Chuuya pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing before he asks, “I’m not going to get interrupted by one of your agency brats trying to haul you back to work, am I?”
Dazai’s lips twitch in a ghost of a smile, “As entertaining as Chuuya is when that happens-”
“It happened once.”
“-I made sure to be thoroughly caught up on my work before coming,” Dazai continues airily, as if Chuuya had never spoken. “I also informed Atsushi-kun that I will be unreachable for the rest of the night and, likely, the majority of tomorrow. No doubt, he’ll stutter through an explanation to Kunikida-kun much too loudly and Ranpo-san will enlighten the entire office why I am tied up.”
The taller man pauses, staring wistfully into the air over Chuuya’s shoulder, “I almost regret that I won’t be there to see their reactions. Maybe Ranpo-san will get pictures for me.”
There is a lot to pick apart from Dazai’s little speech, and Chuuya turns the words over in his head as he samples the other hors d'oeuvres. This...arrangement (for lack of a better term) the two of them have, that they had all but fallen into after four years of silence, isn’t necessarily a secret so much as discreet. Chuuya certainly hasn’t told his subordinates or fellow executives that he is semi-regularly fucking his ex-partner thoroughly out of his mind and he is quite confident that Dazai has been similarly vague about it with the Armed Detective Agency.
It isn’t as if Chuuya feels the need to keep it a secret so much as he simply doesn’t believe it is anyone else’s business. Mori and the other executives would try and make it into mafia work, would view Dazai willingly putting himself at Chuuya’s mercy as an opening Chuuya could use to coax the other back to the organization.
As if Chuuya is keen on the headache Dazai would be if they became partners once again.
As if he truly believes Dazai could be coaxed into coming back, even if he was willing to put in that work.
So, the two of them have never had a conversation about keeping this quiet, but they had, by some unspoken agreement, keep it separate from their work. For Dazai to imply he is fine with the agency knowing that he is sleeping with Chuuya—even more, that he is being ‘tied up’ by Chuuya in the most literal sense of the phrase—is new.
That’s the thing about dealing with a bastard so used to manipulating others into doing things his way: Dazai is all but incapable of asking for the things he wants, or even the things he needs.
Getting himself captured by Akutagawa and lingering in the mafia holding cell just long enough to wait for Chuuya’s arrival is the perfect example. Chuuya might not have even noticed the way brown eyes dilated at the touch of his dagger to bare skin if he hadn’t been looking for some hint of why Dazai was playing such a risky game.
Not that Chuuya was left with anything to complain about, not with how deliciously desperate Dazai had been when he tracked down the hotel room the bastard had rented the same night.
The memory of that night, the one that had opened the floodgates to this, makes Chuuya smirk and, rather than commenting on Dazai’s roundabout way of requesting bondage or the indication that the Agency would know about their arrangement by the end of the week, he comments, “Unlike you, I have work that I can’t just fob off to a subordinate in favor of fucking you all day.”
“I never knew chibi to back down from a challenge.”
“Were you issuing one? I didn’t notice,” Chuuya shoots back as the waiter returns to replace the empty plates with elegant bowls of miso soup.
Dazai leans forward, resting his forearms on the table as he drops his voice just soft enough that the retreating waiter can’t hear, “This is me, issuing Chuuya the challenge to keep me overnight and the better part of the day tomorrow.”
A rush of heat races down Chuuya’s spine at the challenge. “Dangerous game, Dazai. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Positive.” The word leaves Dazai’s mouth in a low purr that finally hits home to Chuuya how long a six-course dinner is. Judging by the impish glint in brown eyes, Dazai knows exactly what type of effect his words are having.
Shoving his desire to the wayside—unwilling to lose the game, because that’s what this dinner is, a game of foreplay for the real intent behind Dazai’s cryptic invitation—Chuuya shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’ll consider.”
Then, he changes the subject, “I heard your subordinate was making some kind of mess with Akutagawa last week. They’d work together better if you stopped meddling.”
Adjusting to the subject change seamlessly, Dazai’s lower lip protrudes in a mimic of a pout, “But that would take away all of my fun.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, “You’re a pain in the ass”
Instead of shooting one of a dozen obnoxious responses that no doubt came to Dazai’s head as soon as Chuuya’s reply was half out of his mouth, the detective merely raises his bowl of soup in a sardonic toast before sipping from the rim.
The soup course passes in companionable silence, Chuuya’s mind racing as he turns over idea after idea of what he wants to do to Dazai when they are finally alone. He eyes the bandages that covered the, no doubt, fading marks Chuuya had last left on pale skin and toys with remarking Dazai until the detective is writhing with need. He considers leaving Dazai splayed out on the bed, unable to move from Chuuya’s stare as Chuuya drives him to climax again and again until Dazai is begging for him to stop.
Begging.
Chuuya licks his lips at the concept. It is tricky to get Dazai to the point of begging but it isn’t impossible and once the idea flickers through his mind, he doesn’t want to let it go.
Bowls are replaced with plates of fish and Chuuya can’t bite back laughter when he recognizes the filet. Quirking an eyebrow at his dinner partner, Chuuya asks, “Was this actually on the menu?”
Dazai shrugs, not quite able to suppress the smug hint of self-satisfaction on his face, “I figured you’d find it amusing.”
With a snort, Chuuya slices off a piece of the seared mackerel and tastes it, humming low in his throat in appreciation. “I’ll never understand how you eat all that shitty food all the time when you know things like this exist.”
“It’s all food, it’s not my fault you prefer to spend a lot of money on yours.”
Chuuya pauses with his second bite hovering on its way to his mouth, eyes narrowed, “Am I paying for this?”
“Really? Would I invite you to a fancy dinner and make you pay for it?”
“Yes,” Chuuya replies without pause.
“So little faith in me.” Dazai doesn’t sound at all put out by the fact and Chuuya doesn’t stop glaring at Dazai until he relents and says, “No, you’re not paying for dinner.”
There isn’t anything deceitful in Dazai’s tone, so Chuuya accepts the answer as likely being mostly true and keeps eating his fish. Between the red vintage and the succulent food, Chuuya almost feels like he is on an actual date: one where he knows and can trust the motives of the person opposite the table, where there are more emotions between them than lingering resentment and trust rooted too deeply for either to ever truly be free of it.
A few months ago, the idea would have made Chuuya freeze and tense up. The concept that there is more at play than sex and tenuous companionship would have brought him to laughter.
But Chuuya can’t ignore the fact that Dazai repeatedly, and now almost regularly, puts himself and his trust wholly in Chuuya’s hands. It is something that would have never happened back when Dazai was in the Port Mafia. Neither of them was suited to such a dynamic in those days—Chuuya was too rash, would have skirted the line between safe and unsafe too flagrantly and Dazai would have goaded him ceaselessly toward the unsafe.
Now, he turns the idea over in his mind, prodding and poking to see if he is seeing things that aren’t there, to question if more is something he would even be interested in with Dazai.
He waits until the main course is on the table and they are alone once again before asking, “Is this a date?”
Dazai quirks an eyebrow, hand not wavering where it is refilling his own wine glass. For once, the bastard does Chuuya the courtesy of not feigning ignorance, “We’re obviously having a private dinner at a nice restaurant on a holiday typically reserved for dates. What question are you really asking me?”
And the fact that it is Valentine’s Day is the biggest indication that there is something markedly different about tonight than any other time Dazai had circuitously propositioned him in the past.
There are a handful of different questions Chuuya could pose. Ones that he knows Dazai would worm his way out of really answering and others that would probably put the detective on edge faster than a gun to his skull.
“What do you want from me?” he settles for asking.
Without looking up from his food, Dazai lets out a soft snort of bemusement, “You have a knack for asking the most annoying questions.”
(Dazai is all but incapable of asking for the things he wants, or even the things he needs.)
“Annoying to you,” Chuuya replies, “I know you just as well as you know me, don’t tell me you’re going to pretend otherwise now.”
There isn’t a response right away, which is an answer of its own. If Dazai was planning to obfuscate or deflect he would have done so immediately, with any number of the lies or excuses or changes of subject that tumble through that quicksilver mind at almost every waking hour. The only time Dazai hesitates so obviously in an answer to Chuuya is when he is searching for the best way to word the truth.
Because Dazai can lie until he is blue in the face and the sky turns green, but telling the truth seems to be akin to lopping off one of his fingers if it isn’t precisely on his own terms.
(Chuuya revels in every time he manages to wring the truth out of his ex-partner in a way that doesn’t align with Dazai’s carefully laid plans.)
They eat in silence for several minutes. The sounds of the kitchen off to Chuuya’s left-hand side filling the quiet of their private dining room. Dazai sits and stews in his own thoughts for almost the entirety of the main course, and Chuuya leaves him alone.
It is almost amusing how much easier it is for them to communicate these days. Now that Chuuya knows exactly how and when to push and when to give the detective space.
When Dazai breaks the silence, it is with a non-sequitur. “Chuuya remembers the dungeon.”
Cocking his head to one side, Chuuya replies, “Of course I do.”
“I... hadn’t originally planned to have this kind of arrangement with you. I thought we would fuck our frustrations out and move on and that would be it.”
Chuuya distinctly remembers fucking a lot of frustrations out that night but moving on? He resists the urge to laugh at how horrendously that part of Dazai’s plan failed.
Not many people get to see what happens when one of Dazai’s plans fail, many of them assume Dazai is simply infallible. Chuuya knows better.
“What messed up your plan?”
“The one thing that seems to have a knack for ruining my plans. You.” Dazai shrugs, there’s a slightly bitter note to his smile, as if he resents the fact that Chuuya has learned to be so good at that. “It was the first time in years that my mind was quiet and once I had that I started wanting it more often. I assumed I kept seeking you out for that reason.”
“That’s what I assumed too.”
“That was part of the reason,” comes the admission, Dazai once again staring into space, now frowning slightly, “but not all of it. So...as to what I want...” he trails off, frown deepening.
Part of Chuuya finds it funny how Dazai has no problem tricking people into giving him the things he wants but when it comes to being upfront: well, that is an area that is much more Chuuya’s expertise than the lanky bastard’s.
Eventually, Dazai shakes his head, “Still figuring that part out, chibi.”
Humming thoughtfully, Chuuya replies, “You know I’ll just ask you again later.”
“I’ll probably still be figuring it out later.”
“I’m sure with the right motivation you can figure out it faster,” Chuuya comments, not bothering to keep the vaguely salacious tone out of his voice, amused at the slight tinge of pink on the waiter’s ears and the way Dazai’s eyes flick between Chuuya and the waiter as if torn between wanting Chuuya to keep talking to embarrass the waiter further or to never use that particular tone of voice in public again.
Having fun, Chuuya decides to push just a little bit further, dragging his gaze over what parts of Dazai he can see in a heated onceover as he adds, “You know I can get fairly creative when it comes to that.”
A startled cough leaves the waiter that both men ignore. The waiter doesn’t waste any time in making their escape with the empty plates.
Dazai’s eyes narrow as he considers Chuuya before glancing at his plate, “In hindsight, six courses might have been a bit much.”
“You just don’t want to eat the salad,” Chuuya points out, taking a bite of his own.
Dazai’s nose wrinkles as he studies his plate, “It’s not as interesting as whatever ideas you have about properly motivating me.”
“If you don’t eat the salad I won’t let you come tonight.”
The threat is tossed out idly, Chuuya not even glancing up at Dazai as he says it, his voice light as if he is discussing something that almost bores him, as if he doesn’t particularly care one way or the other what decision Dazai makes.
“What do I get if I eat it?” Dazai asks, just as airy with only a slight undercurrent of calculation. Almost the exact same way he would sound during hostile negotiations, the ones where dozens of guns were pointed at his skull, back in their days together in the mafia.
Tossing an unimpressed look across the table, Chuuya says, “Fishing for rewards already, Dazai? I haven’t even gotten started with you.”
“All the more reason to start. Chuuya will be much harder to negotiate with later.”
One of the tricks in handling Dazai—in being able to thoroughly dominate the type of man who is used to being in complete control of even the most bizarre situations, the type of man who seems to have an instinctive need to fight for control even when he is the one who had sought Chuuya out for the express purpose of giving control to someone else—is knowing when to pick his battles. Knowing when to put his foot down and when to give in just enough.
“I already told you what you would get for eating it.”
“Ah, so it was a threat and a promise all at once. How elegant, Executive Nakahara.” Dazai’s words drip with sarcasm but he finally reaches for the salad and shoves a less than dignified heap in his mouth, nose wrinkling even more as if the sheer taste of the lettuce in his mouth is a personal affront.
Chuuya doesn’t bother to hide his smile of amusement as he finishes his plate, content to watch Dazai pick through the salad as he savors his second glass of wine, having paced himself with the intent of being completely lucid for the rest of the night’s activities.
He can all but feel the curiosity that Dazai is doing an admirable job keeping at bay. Brown eyes flick between Chuuya and the plate of greens, filled with a question Chuuya has grown fairly fond of over the last several months of their arrangement.
Dazai only ever voiced the question once, had murmured it into the air softly, unable to track Chuuya’s movements thanks to the combination of a well-fitted blindfold and Chuuya’s silent footsteps. There had been the slightest waver in his voice, a hint of anticipation as Dazai murmured, “What is Chuuya planning tonight?”
Chuuya’s response had been soft and self-assured, a gloved finger brushing down Dazai’s exposed side as he mused, “Why does it matter? You’re going to lie there and take it for me, aren’t you?”
A shudder had wracked through Dazai’s frame and his lips had pressed into a thin line, Dazai not gone quite far enough (yet) to agree with the statement even though they both knew it was the truth.
So, that had been the last time Dazai had actually asked the question out loud. Now, he conveys it non-verbally, through his gaze and, sometimes, when Chuuya is feeling particularly magnanimous, he even answers.
When he opens his mouth to answer tonight, however, it isn’t as an act of magnanimity. Glancing over the low barrier that separates their dining area from the kitchen down below, Chuuya says, “I’d hate to make you more of a liar than you already are and you did tell your subordinate that you were going to be tied up...”
“I did.”
“Coincidentally, I haven’t had the opportunity to play with my asanawa in some time.” He flicks his gaze back to Dazai, wanting to catch the reaction that suggestion elicits.
He isn’t disappointed. Dazai’s eyes widen marginally and his tongue darts out, wetting his lips as the sharpness of his stare silently asks Chuuya to go on, to lay out whatever plans had formulated in Chuuya’s head over the course of their meal.
“As much as I’d love to bind you so thoroughly that you wouldn’t be able to move anything but your head,” Chuuya continues, “I think neither of us will have the patience for something particularly intricate tonight. Perhaps I’ll save that for another time?”
Pupils dilated considerably, Dazai gives a slight nod, “Another time sounds good.”
With an idle shrug, Chuuya murmurs, dropping his voice just low enough that Dazai has to lean forward, lean toward him, to catch his words, “You’d look exquisite, though, completely helpless like that, completely at my mercy. Is that what you would want, Dazai? Mercy? Or would you want me to take you apart until you couldn’t remember your own name?”
“Both sound tempting.”
“But?” Chuuya prompts, knowing damn well that Dazai has a preference and having a suspicion which one it is.
“If I wanted someone to have mercy on me, I wouldn’t be coming to Chuuya.”
Chuuya’s grin is sharp, more a warning flash of teeth than anything warm or welcoming. His amusement just as cutting as his grin at how Dazai never passes the opportunity to point out the fact that Chuuya is dangerous.
Danger is addictive. Chuuya had learned that when he was a teenager and had seen that flash of a kind of kindred spirit in the other man when they had first met.
Dessert arrives in the form of a delicately fashioned cake for each man as their empty salad plates are whisked away. If the waiter moves quicker than in their previous entrances, neither man seated sees a reason to comment on it.
Dazai does, however, slip the waiter a black card with murmured instructions that Chuuya doesn’t bother trying to overhear.
“In a rush?’ he teases when the waiter vanishes down the stairs.
“I think my patience so far has been good enough,” Dazai retorts, “I doubt Chuuya forgot that I prepared myself, quite thoroughly.”
The dip in Dazai's voice on the word ‘thoroughly’ is laced with sensual promise and between one blink and the next, the restaurant fades from Chuuya's awareness as he pictures what Dazai left unsaid. He can all but see the taller man sprawled on his bed, legs spread wide as he works slender, clever, fingers in and out of his body. Chuuya can practically hear the cut off groans Dazai makes when he is trying to keep his moans from being too loud as he loosens himself just enough to work a plug into his ass.
Chuuya can see the flash of frustration, reflected now in Dazai's gaze, as the detective forced himself to slide off the bed and pull on the, frankly, delectable suit he had worn to the restaurant instead of bringing himself to completion. Can imagine the way the slide of fabric probably felt akin to a type of torture against his hard cock.
Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Chuuya tosses Dazai a heated look, “You're not going to get me to rush through my dessert.”
A soft sigh leaves Dazai at that, more resigned that anything else as he mutters, “I resent wherever you learned patience from between now and when we were teenagers.”
With a laugh, Chuuya replies, “You planned dinner, this is all on you.” Taking a bite of his cake, he lets out a low groan at how the flavors burst across his tongue.
Dazai's eyebrow twitches at the noise and he, quite visibly to Chuuya's searching gaze, tears his stare from the mafia executive to focus on his own dessert.
Now, the silence is tense, charged with the knowledge that, once this course was done, there is nothing left to prevent them from moving onto the next part of their evening. And even though Chuuya hadn't woken up that morning with the intent to sleep with Dazai tonight, he can feel anticipation racing through his veins, can feel the way his senses sharpen at the knowledge of what will come next.
He can only imagine how much worse it is for Dazai, who had put the plan into place. Who must have reserved this table at least a few weeks in advance even with his connections, probably longer since none of the restaurant staff seem nervous around either of them, as they would be if Dazai had used Chuuya's position in the Port Mafia as leverage.
Chuuya wonders just how long this particular dinner has been a part of Dazai's plans, just how long the anticipation has been building for the taller man.
Judging by the way Dazai is shifting in his seat slightly, finally unable to remain still and pretend like he isn't affected by his own arousal now that the end was in sight, Chuuya assumes the anticipatory period bordered on masochistic for him. Even so, Dazai doesn’t try to rush through the final course, aware that even if he finishes his dessert in record time, Chuuya will savor each second of making Dazai squirm.
By the time the waiter returns with a receipt for Dazai to sign and the credit card (that Chuuya isn't altogether certain is Dazai's), their plates are both picked clean.
Getting to his feet as the waiter vanishes from sight, Chuuya tosses his head toward the stairs, “Coming?”
Dazai smirks, sliding out of his seat, “I was under the impression that decision would be left up to you.”
Stepping around the table, Chuuya reaches out, grabbing Dazai's tie and pulling the taller man down to his height so he can press into a kiss that is slow and deliberate and thorough—a hint of what Chuuya has in mind for the rest of the night. When he breaks the kiss, Chuuya takes a step back, out of Dazai's personal space, not missing the way Dazai leans after him for a split-second before regaining control of himself and straightening to his full height.
Turning his back on the detective, Chuuya sets off towards the stairs, tossing his response over his shoulder, “It is. Sometimes I just like to make sure you remember that.”
At the start, they stuck to hotel rooms. Places impersonal and carefully sterile, perhaps a misguided (and in hindsight, futile) attempt to avoid getting attached. An unspoken agreement to keep their arrangement separate from every other aspect of their lives.
As if the hotel rooms changed the fact that there was a history between them. As if keeping their environment impersonal changed the fact that Chuuya knew the stories behind over half of Dazai’s scars, changed the fact that Chuuya had been there to see Dazai pick up the majority of them.
They had given up on that months ago, around the same time they had admitted the desire to make their infrequent meetings decidedly more frequent.
So, they go to Chuuya’s place. They usually go to Chuuya’s place: there is a smaller chance of any of the agency brats seeking out Dazai there and the small percentage of Chuuya’s subordinates who know where he lives also know better than to stop by unannounced.
It is getting almost familiar to see Dazai’s shoes tucked neatly next to Chuuya’s, just inside the door. Almost familiar to have Dazai in his space—a sprawling penthouse suite full of the kind of luxuries Dazai had always scoffed at.
Tonight, there isn’t any scoffing as Chuuya leads the way to his bedroom, turning to close the door behind them both before moving in the direction of his closet.
He doesn’t even spare Dazai a glance as he orders, “Clothes off.”
Chuuya steps into his walk-in without bothering to wait for a reply—because if Dazai plans to play his cards as carefully tonight as the date had implied, the only response would be one of affirmation that Chuuya doesn’t need to hear. He does make out the sound of fabric sliding across fabric (Dazai’s tie coming off, if Chuuya had to guess) before he tunes it out completely.
Walking past racks of clothing ranging from his usual suits to his workout gear, Chuuya stops in front of a cabinet near the back wall. Scanning his options, Chuuya grabs a length of anasawa, the rope dyed a pitch black. His fingers trail over various paddles and floggers thoughtfully before he dismisses them all for the night.
Even if he wouldn’t admit so anywhere Dazai might hear, dinner had worn with his own patience to the breaking point and while he has every intention of leaving Dazai thoroughly strung out before properly fucking him, Chuuya wants a more personal touch tonight. It feels like an appropriate reply to the effort Dazai had put into the date.
So, he settles for grabbing a vibrating dildo he is particularly fond of and closes the cabinet. By the time he is strolling back into the bedroom, Dazai is bare save for his expanses of bandages, kneeling on the ground beside Chuuya’s bed, hands resting on the tops of his thighs and not so much as twitching for his already erect dick.
Well-trained, Chuuya thinks, with no small degree of self-satisfaction. It is deserved, in his opinion, considering Dazai had pushed back every step of the way, testing boundaries so consistently that it seemed it was just instinctive for him.
A quick glance around the room finds Dazai’s clothes folded neatly on the chaise lounge. (It had taken Chuuya weeks to get that habit engrained.)
Some people, he knows, never would have tolerated Dazai’s need to test his instructions at every opportunity, but Chuuya only finds it an amusing challenge, merely relishes in moments like these where he can see his work paid off. It helps that he knows Dazai needs it, and he also knows that as much as Dazai needs someone else to have control for even an hour of a scene, the former executive has too many survival instincts too deeply ingrained for him to just give up control without a bit of a fight.
Chuuya places his two selections on the foot of the bed before stopping at Dazai’s back. He drops a gentle hand on top of Dazai’s hand, carding his fingers through brown hair. “I think, after you’re properly restrained, I’ll see how many times you can come before you’re begging me to stop. Thoughts?”
Dazai tilts his head just slightly, pressing into Chuuya’s touch as he considers the words carefully before replying: as this part now, before the scene properly starts, is Dazai’s chance to redefine the parameters of their scene if anything makes him uncomfortable. Not that such a thing has happened in a while, not since Chuuya had gotten a thorough read of what Dazai prefer and learned how to tell what Dazai wants in the detective’s indirect clues.
“If Chuuya thinks he can manage it,” Dazai’s head tilts further, craning his neck so he can lock gazes with Chuuya, making his consent clear, “do your worst.”
“What’s your safe word?”
Dazai rolls his eyes but replies, “Mimic.”
“Good,” Chuuya’s grip tightens considerably without warning and he tugs in a silent command that Dazai follows like a puppet on strings, getting to his feet.
The hand that had been tangled in brown locks falls naturally to the nape of Dazai’s neck and Chuuya easily finds the end of the bandages there. A gentle pull has the end coming undone and Chuuya unwraps the gauze, slowly revealing Dazai’s bare skin.
He knows the brush of his gloves is near electrifying against the patches of skin almost no one gets to see, let alone touch, and Chuuya is deliberate with where he lets his fingers come into contact with Dazai as he moves from neck to arms, from arms to legs, until five piles of bandages lay on the floor of his bedroom and Dazai is completely naked.
Chuuya stifles an appreciative sound at the sight of the plug stretching Dazai’s entrance and he tugs on it just enough to earn a shudder from the other man before letting go and biting his bottom lip at how the plug sinks back into Dazai’s greedy body.
He almost can’t wait to take the plug’s place, but there is a lot to be said about the pleasures of delayed gratification.
Chuuya forces himself to step away and shove his hands in his pockets. “Middle of the bed,” he orders quietly.
Dazai shoots a smirk at Chuuya, as if he can hear how much Chuuya had wanted to end the game before it had even begun. No one else would have noticed, not with how even Chuuya’s voice sounded, but more than half of the fun is trying to catch Dazai off-guard, regardless of how well his ex-partner knows him.
The detective follows the order without comment, long limbs graceful as he climbs onto the bed and settles at its center, once again on his knees, gaze focused on Chuuya with a single-minded intent that never fails to make Chuuya feel like Dazai is seeing straight into his soul.
He keeps his movements slow and controlled as he peels his gloves off before tossing them on the bedside table.
“Tell me, how did you picture this going when you spent all that work getting dinner reservations and crafting your melodramatic invitation?” Chuuya asks, conversationally, as he climbs onto the bed and reaches for the rope.
“Does it matter?” comes the off-handed reply, Dazai’s eyes tracking his movements.
“No, but I’m curious. Indulge me.”
There is a moment of silence as Dazai gathers his thoughts, much more focused on how Chuuya carefully unwinds the rope and situates himself at Dazai’s back. A touch to the base of his spine has Dazai straightening, sitting as tall as he can, no longer able to see Chuuya in the corner of his eye.
“When I was picking the restaurant, I thought maybe you would be impatient enough to drag me to the bathrooms and fuck me in one of the stalls, in-between courses.”
Chuuya reaches for one of Dazai’s arms, bringing it to rest behind Dazai’s back and only having to tap the other before Dazai positions it within reach. He begins at Dazai’s wrists, binding them together just tight enough to bite if Dazai struggles, fingers moving unerringly as he knots.
“You do make gorgeous noises when you’re trying to keep quiet. I did consider it, but I wanted to see how long you would be able to wait it out more.”
The rope begins trailing up Dazai’s arms, locking them in place and pulling his shoulder blades back to accommodate as the pattern grows out of rope and knots, climbing up the middle of Dazai’s spine to wrap around his front and get secured on either side of his captive limbs.
Finished, Chuuya sits back on his heels to study his handiwork. Trailing a finger down the intricate design of latticework on Dazai’s spine, the black a harsh contrast against pale skin, he murmurs, “Beautiful.”
A shaky exhale is his reply—and Chuuya knows he will never get tired of how responsive Dazai is in bed, particularly to praise.
“Is there sharp pain anywhere?” Chuuya asks.
Dazai tests the knots for just a moment, muscles straining against the strength of Chuuya’s pattern before he shakes his head.
“Perfect, come here.” Chuuya eases back, pulling Dazai with him until Chuuya is resting with the headboard at his back, Dazai settled between his legs.
He presses a kiss to dip where shoulder meets neck, running his fingers up the diamond patterns of the rope around Dazai’s arm, his touch featherlight and barely there. Letting his hands wander, Chuuya traces the few marks still left over from their last scene, pausing randomly to press hard against them, pulling hitched breath and hisses from Dazai in turn.
“It’s been almost two weeks,” Chuuya mumbles against Dazai’s skin, trailing the pads of his fingers down Dazai’s chest, feeling the almost non-existent tremors indicative of Dazai forcing himself to sit still rather than chase Chuuya’s touch. “Have you been good, Osamu?”
Dazai nods but doesn’t expand on his answer. Clicking his tongue, because one of Chuuya’s only standing rules is that he expects verbal answers whenever possible, Chuuya pinches Dazai’s nipples harshly, twisting them until Dazai gives in and says, “I’ve been good.”
Immediately, Chuuya lets go, gently rolling Dazai’s nipples under his fingers in a soothing motion. “I know you’re more eloquent than that. Spell it out for me, I want to hear it.”
Tilting his head even further to the side, Dazai just barely manages to catch Chuuya’s gaze, a small smirk dancing on his mouth as he speaks slowly, drawing each word out in its own kind of a tease, “I haven’t come without your permission.”
“But you’ve touched yourself,” Chuuya pushes, ignoring the smirk for now as his hands slide lower, toying with the hair on Dazai’s pelvis.
“Yes.”
“You like remembering how much control I have, even when I’m not there. How many times did you bring yourself right to the edge of orgasm and then stop?”
Dazai’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before he replies, voice slightly hoarse, “Almost every day.”
Chuuya muffles a curse against Dazai’s shoulder, able to imagine the whine of frustration Dazai makes when he’s denied an orgasm. It’s almost exactly the same one Dazai makes when...
Sliding one hand lower, Chuuya curls his fingers loosely around Dazai’s cock and gives a slow tug once, and then twice, before moving on to explore Dazai’s thighs, smirking when a high-pitched keen gets cut off abruptly in Dazai’s throat.
Yes, that one.
He could write an anthology about all the different subtleties of Dazai’s sex sounds, has them categorized and ranked in order of his favorites, has learned precisely what actions gets him which noises and Chuuya sometimes thinks he wants to record them, set them as Dazai’s message tone in his phone until he envisions having to explain that to Kouyou when his phone inevitably goes off in her presence.
He brushes his hands over the subtle muscles in Dazai’s thighs, tracing fingernails along slightly bony knees, waiting.
It doesn’t take long. Between twelve days of self-denial and almost two hours of dinner, Dazai’s normal stubbornness takes a backseat to his need and his hips roll forward just slightly, pressing into Chuuya’s touch.
Chuuya immediately pulls away, nipping at Dazai’s ear in a gentle warning and smirking at the almost inaudible sigh Dazai makes before he settles back against Chuuya’s chest, fingers clenching into the sheets underneath him.
“What do you want? You might get it if you ask nicely,” Chuuya murmurs into Dazai’s ear, swiping at the bead of pre-cum welling up from the head of Dazai’s cock.
Dazai’s jaw is tight, as if he’s clenching his teeth to keep the words from escaping. All he needs is a little push. Trailing a hand up Dazai’s chest, Chuuya presses his thumb against Dazai’s lips, humming in approval when Dazai opens his mouth and sucks the pre-cum from Chuuya’s finger.
“You were so good tonight, Osamu,” Chuuya says, “went through all that trouble to organize dinner and were patient through almost the whole meal. Do you really want to deny yourself any longer? I want to give you what you want.”
He feels rather than hears Dazai take a steadying breath before mumbling around his thumb, “Please.”
Removing his finger, Chuuya grips the base of Dazai’s cock and leaves his hand still, waiting for more.
A noise of frustration leaves Dazai and then the words rush out as if it had pained him to keep quiet, “Please, Chuuya, let me come. It’s been so long. I- fuck.”
Dazai cuts off with a groan as Chuuya starts jerking him off, hard and too dry and just on the painful side of rough, exactly how Dazai likes it. His other arm wraps around Dazai’s waist, easily keeping Dazai in place even as Dazai’s hips strain against his hold.
The beautiful thing about getting Dazai to beg is that once he starts he can’t stop, and a symphony of “please, Chuuya, oh fuck! Please, please, don’t stop, please don’t stop” fills the room. Chuuya’s eyes close, his forehead dropping to rest on Dazai’s shoulder as he drinks in the pleas and the slightly breathy moans as he ruthlessly drives Dazai to the edge, holding Dazai on the cusp of climax for several delicious moments before he gives the permission all of Dazai’s wanking sessions over the last two weeks didn’t have.
“Come now, pet.”
And Dazai does.
With a broken gasp of Chuuya’s name, he comes dry, hips straining against Chuuya’s arm as he tries to buck into Chuuya’s unrelenting fist, back arching as his arms pull uselessly against his bindings until he slumps into the curve of Chuuya’s chest, quivering with aftershocks.
Once he’s positive Dazai is mostly back with him, Chuuya stops moving his hand but doesn’t let go, asking, “Everything you were waiting for?”
A soft snort leaves Dazai and he lazily rolls his head to one side, resting it against Chuuya’s shoulder, “You know it wasn’t.”
Smirking, Chuuya resumes stroking Dazai’s still completely hard cock at an almost lazy pace, brushing against the stark coolness of Dazai’s cock ring, “True. Sometimes I just like to hear you say it. How many times do you think you’ll last before you start begging me to stop?”
“As many times as Chuuya wants.”
That startles a laugh out of Chuuya as he rolls Dazai’s balls between the fingers of his other hand, “Is that supposed to make me go easier on you, smart ass?”
“If it was that simple, I would’ve turned the tables on you weeks ago.”
Chuuya hums thoughtfully, “Perhaps, or perhaps you would have left it alone because you need this. You might have everyone else convinced, Osamu, but I know you better than them, I know how much you love being my pet. How much you need it.” Chuuya speeds up, twisting his wrist on each upstroke, hurtling Dazai straight past overstimulation and back to the edge. “All the work you went through to get me alone in the beginning, to get another taste of me ripping control away from you. Can you even make yourself come without my permission anymore?”
“Y-yes,” Dazai manages to force out around a groan. It’s a lie. They both know it’s a lie. Dazai can feel Chuuya’s huff of amusement against his skin but he doubles down. “I don’t need Chuuya for everything.”
“Not for everything, but certainly for this,” he replies, ignoring the way his own blood is pooling south, the way his own erection is straining against his trousers in favor of drowning in Dazai’s helplessness.
Chuuya thinks he might be addicted to this, addicted to the way Dazai still pushes against the ropes that he knows won’t give and the weight of Chuuya’s body that he knows he can’t move. There’s something more intoxicating than liquor about being able to reduce smug, arrogant, self-satisfied Dazai Osamu to this, to overwhelm that clever mind until all Dazai can focus on is Chuuya and the sensations Chuuya decides to give him. The Demonic Prodigy of the Port Mafia, the man capable of unnerving even Mori, beholden to Chuuya's whims.
“Ready to come again?” he asks. This question is rhetorical, nothing more than a setup. As soon as Dazai opens his mouth to reply, Chuuya cuts over him, tone harsh and commanding in the way he knows Dazai can't help but obey. “Come now, Osamu.”
Watching the way Dazai’s body tenses immediately pulls a groan from deep in Chuuya’s throat as Dazai comes dry again and entirely too soon, gasping for air as soon as he comes down and twitching feebly as he tries to pull away from Chuuya’s hands.
“‘S too much,” he gasps, “Chuuya, please.”
“Want me to stop already? I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”
A whine works its way into the air, high-pitched and desperate and perfect. “My cock,” Dazai clarifies, gone far enough that he doesn’t bother to argue that Chuuya knows exactly what he had meant, “too much, it’s t-too, shit, please.”
Patience finally at its breaking point, Chuuya pulls his hands off of Dazai and grabs scrawny shoulders, easing Dazai forward until his cheek is pressed against the bed, Dazai’s inability to move his arms and his remaining tremors from his second orgasm making him so lax that it almost feels like manipulating a doll.
Squeezing Dazai’s ass, Chuuya curses under his breath, “Fuck, you look so good like this. I almost want to keep you like this for days. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Just let me keep you like one of my toys, just another part of my collection.”
Dazai’s eyes are still shut, his bound hands clenching and unclenching sporadically as if needing to do something, “Yes, shit, yes, Chuuya...”
Pulling the plug out slowly, making sure Dazai can feel the stretch as the widest part of the toy presses against his rim, he says, “Tell me what you want, Osamu.”
“I...” he trails off again, turning his head away from Chuuya and more into the sheets, pushing against the hand rubbing soothing circles on his ass in an attempt at his usual wordless requests.
Chuuya stretches around him and picks up the vibrating dildo, digging blindly through his bedside drawer with his other hand until his fingers close on the lube. He coats the toy liberally, “I can out wait you all night, darling.”
The term of endearment rolls easily off his tongue despite Chuuya never having used it for Dazai before. He doesn’t even have time to feel a flash of concern about it because Dazai’s breath catches in his throat and what part of his face Chuuya can see flushes a pretty pink.
Grinning, Chuuya presses just the tip of the dildo into Dazai’s ass, “Do you like that, darling? Like how special it makes you feel?”
The flush deepens. Chuuya grins. Embarrassing Dazai is difficult, but it’s not impossible.
“Yes,” the reply is all but mumbled into the sheets, but it’s enough for Chuuya to take pity on Dazai and fuck the dildo completely into him.
A press at the base of the toy turns on the vibrations and Dazai swears, jolting, pulling away from the dildo as best he can before Chuuya grabs Dazai’s hip and holds him still, fingers digging into pale skin hard enough that Chuuya knows it’ll bruise.
Dazai sinks into Chuuya’s hold as his eyes squeeze shut even tighter and he whimpers, toes curling as Chuuya fucks him slow and deep and relentless.
“I can do this all night,” Chuuya says, casually flicking the vibrations so they’re stronger, raising his voice so Dazai can hear him over the increasingly loud moans that are dropping from Dazai’s lips without restraint. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“IwantChuuyatofuckme.” The words are jumbled together without pause, as if Dazai’s afraid he won’t be able to get them out fast enough.
Chuuya tsks, “That was the answer I was looking for five minutes ago, but this is a new question.” He flicks the vibrator up higher and says, “Come.”
Dazai chokes on a curse as his third orgasm crashes over him, his toes curling and his body shaking. The line between pain and pleasure thoroughly blurred as a few drops of cum leak from his cock but he still doesn’t ejaculate.
Switching the toy back down to the lowest vibrations, Chuuya asks again, “What do you want from me, Osamu?”
“I-” he cuts off abruptly, tremors still shooting through his body, before asking, “what do you mean?”
Making a soothing noise, Chuuya loosens his grip on Dazai’s hip, bending over so he can card his fingers through damp brown locks. “You’re the genius. Figure it out.”
The motion of Chuuya’s fingers is grounding to Dazai, he knows, and the tremors ease slightly, Dazai mostly falling silent as he tries to work through the problem, tries to figure out what Chuuya is really asking and what Chuuya wants to hear.
Under any other circumstance, Dazai would have known what Chuuya meant before Chuuya even asked the question, but now, strung out from three consecutive dry orgasms, not nearly as satisfying as a regular orgasm can be, and still being fucked through the aftershocks of the most recent one, it’s impressive Dazai is able to pull his thoughts together at all.
It’s obvious when Dazai figures it out. His body tenses and he shifts his weight so it rests more against his shoulder so he can turn his head, brown eyes fogged over with lust but shaper than they have any right to be.
“Still an annoying question,” Dazai rasps out.
Chuuya grins and turns off the vibrations completely, giving Dazai a few seconds to catch his breath, “Feeling properly motivated yet? Just tell me what you want from me, you must have some kind of idea.”
Eyes fluttering shut, Dazai’s brows furrow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he thinks the question over again before his eyes fly open and he answers with a single word, “You.”
The answer catches Chuuya completely off-guard and he freezes, eyes wide as he searches Dazai’s gaze, looks for any sign of deceit even though he can hear the unfiltered honesty in Dazai’s voice.
A flicker of mischief crosses Dazai’s face and he quirks an eyebrow, “Did I pass Chuuya’s test?”
Something hot and possessive curls in Chuuya’s gut and a groan more primal than he even knew he could make rips out of his throat. Grabbing at the rope around Dazai’s arms, Chuuya hauls him upright, pulling out the dildo and tossing it aside before undoing the clasp of his pants with his free hand.
“Answer one question and you get mouthy,” Chuuya hisses into Dazai’s ear.
The smirk on Dazai’s lips is all too familiar, “Isn’t that how you like me?”
Realistically, Chuuya knows it only takes him seconds to feel for the lube among the sheets and pour it onto his aching cock without a care for what drips onto the bed, but it feels like it takes years before he’s able to guide his cock to Dazai’s asshole and push forward, sliding inside Dazai in a single movement.
Dazai’s sigh is one of relief, his smirk vanishing as if wiped clean and Chuuya says, “I like you better like this, pet.”
Reaching around Dazai’s body, Chuuya grabs the taller man’s throat, grip just tight enough to keep Dazai upright as he starts thrusting, setting a bruising pace immediately, completely at the end of his rope and all but drowning in the tight heat of Dazai’s ass around him.
“You always feel so good for me,” he mumbles, adjusting the angles of his thrust, searching for the one that makes Dazai-
A yelp comes from Dazai and his hips grind back against Chuuya. “There! Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, right there, Chuuya, right-FUCK!”
The hand at Dazai’s throat climbs higher, Chuuya grabbing Dazai’s jaw and turning the detective’s head to an angle that can’t be comfortable but lets Chuuya see the tears that are welling in brown eyes.
“You’re perfect like this,” Chuuya says, scanning Dazai’s face, drinking in how open and vulnerable and utterly Chuuya’s he looks.
“Yes.”
Chuuya blinks, tugging himself from his thoughts, “What?”
“Yours,” Dazai breathes, making Chuuya realize that he must have said that out loud, “I’m yours.”
And that’s too much. Too much on top of the fucking date and the fancy suit and Dazai admitting that all he really wants is Chuuya.
Surging forward, Chuuya presses into a kiss, licking his way into Dazai’s mouth. It’s sloppy, Dazai barely able to keep up with the way Chuuya is pounding into him but he moans into it, slumping against Chuuya’s hold as he gives all of his focus to the kiss.
Letting go of the rope at Dazai’s back, Chuuya drags his fingers down Dazai’s chest and straight to his cock, finding the ring and slipping it off.
“One last time, Osamu,” Chuuya mumbles into the kiss, feeling his own orgasm coiling deep in his gut as he strokes Dazai, “come for me.”
With a broken sob, Dazai obeys, his entire body freezing as he comes, spilling onto Chuuya’s hand and the bed. His body clenches around Chuuya, ripping through that last thread of Chuuya’s self-control and pushing Chuuya over the edge. Chuuya pulls back from the kiss, dropping his forehead against Dazai’s shoulder as comes with a gasp of Dazai’s name, thrusting as deep into Dazai’s body as he can and spilling into his ass.
For a few minutes, all Chuuya can do is gasp for air, his mind a haze of pleasure. As he comes down from the high, Chuuya lets go of Dazai’s finally softening cock and eases his hips back, his own dick slipping out of Dazai’s ass so he can tuck it back into his trousers.
Pressing a kiss to Dazai’s neck, Chuuya lets go of his jaw to rub soothing circles over Dazai’s belly, unsurprised to feel his body still trembling with the aftershocks.
“With me?” he asks softly. Dazai gives a tired nod. “I’m going to sit us back against the headboard again so I can untie you.”
That gets another nod and Chuuya moves them together slowly, keeping their bodies in contact so Dazai has something to ground him as he’s eased off his knees and onto Chuuya’s lap.
Once they’re settled, Chuuya runs his fingers around the side of Dazai’s body to the end of his pattern. It’s quicker to undo than it was to put it in place, but Chuuya keeps to a steady pace, pausing regularly to rub at the skin underneath the knots to help stimulate the blood flow.
When he’s finished, the rope gets tossed aside and Chuuya drops a third kiss on Dazai’s back, “Bath?”
“Are you going to carry me there?” Dazai’s words are a little slow and they slur slightly as he floats somewhere in-between the scene and reality.
Chuuya chuckles, “Don’t I always? Yes, I’ll carry you.”
“Then a bath sounds fine.”
Rolling his eyes at the slightly petulant tone in Dazai’s voice, Chuuya shifts the detective on his lap until he can hook his arms under Dazai’s knees and around his back, picking Dazai up in a bridal carry and slipping off the bed.
He steps into the adjoining bathroom and lowers Dazai onto the padded stool that Chuuya has stopped pretending he doesn’t keep here just for these occasions.
Chuuya quickly starts the water, testing the temperature until he’s satisfied and grabbing a small glass bottle on the nearby shelf. Pulling off the stopper, Chuuya lets a few drops of bath oil fall into the water.
When he turns back to face Dazai, the taller man is staring at him, face back to its usual unreadable mask. Rather than try to guess what’s on Dazai’s mind, Chuuya just picks him up again and lowers him into the water.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, waiting for Dazai to nod in agreement before straightening.
Chuuya pauses in the bedroom long enough to strip the soiled sheets and carry them into the hall, dropping them outside the laundry room on his way to the kitchen. The juice boxes in his fridge stick out like a sore thumb among his other purchases, Chuuya grabs two and makes his way back into the bathroom.
Dazai’s head is resting against the rim of the tub, his eyes closed as Chuuya crosses toward him. Familiar with the routine, Dazai holds his hand out and Chuuya hands him a pouch, perching on the edge of the tug as he sips the second, trying not to focus on the things Dazai had said between his third and fourth orgasm.
“Chuuya,” his name is almost deafening in the silence of the bathroom and he glances over to meet brown eyes, “did you mean that?”
There are several different things Chuuya said that he thinks Dazai might be asking about, but his answer is the same for them all so he simply nods, “Yes.”
A smile breaks through Dazai’s mask, small and tired but completely genuine, “Good. I meant what I said too.”
Mirroring Dazai’s smile, Chuuya leans over and presses into a kiss, keeping it gentle and chaste. When he pulls back he only goes far enough that he can meet Dazai’s gaze. “Good.”
Dazai hums, “I want...Chuuya to join me in the bath.”
Smile growing at Dazai outright asking instead of trying to manipulate his way into it, Chuuya cocks an eyebrow, “Oh? You do?”
“Yes, and then I want you to do something about the fact that all of your marks are almost faded away.”
Pulling back a little bit more, Chuuya runs his gaze along Dazai’s body, mapping just how many of his marks are completely healed over. His tongue darts out to wet his lips in anticipation and Chuuya replies, “That second one might take a while, it’s probably a good thing you already let the Agency know you’ll be busy tomorrow.”
“When have my plans ever failed?”
Chuuya laughs, and keeps laughing even as Dazai rolls his eyes and yanks him into the bath, suit and all, water splashing up the sides and onto the floor.