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Writer's Block

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Sometimes Dazai finds it hard not to think that the person responsible for making text cursors blink just had a sick sense of humor rather than any practical reasoning for the programming decision.

Those 'sometimes' generally happened anywhere between midnight and two in the morning when Dazai feels like all of his mental and creative energy is being slowly zapped by the damned cursor as it mocks him for his lack of progress.

On and off. On and off. The consistency perfect, the damned cursor more reliable than Dazai's writing ever will be.

Usually, he doesn't reach that point of rock bottom until he's been working for a solid three or four hours and should probably be getting some rest anyways. The fact that Dazai's resorted to scowling at the fucking cursor at nine in the evening on a damned Monday is a bad sign.

He needs to get something done.

Preferably, he needs to finish the paper due in ten hours that is still a solid ten pages short of the minimum requirement. Considering that he finished his undergraduate degree in two short years and is on the final stretch of his graduate program, Dazai really doesn't need to be called in by his thesis adviser for a 'heart-to-heart' about a sudden downturn in his marks.

However, Dazai would also settle for some motivation in the creative writing avenue since the last time he submitted a story for publishing was almost six months ago and he desperately needs to continue getting stories published to afford his school expenses. On another tab, the email address he uses for his pen name has over two dozen unread emails from his literary agent that could do with answering, but Dazai can't very well reply that he hasn't sent in new material because he's been fighting writer's block for half a damn year.

Is this what happens to child prodigies? They burn out at the ripe age of twenty-two in a slow and agonizing fashion?

Allowing himself a sigh, Dazai clicks out of one blank document and opens a different word processor under the (delusional) hope that the change in background might kick start something.

He's a certified genius, his brain never stops running no matter how much Dazai sometimes wishes he could have a break from the continual noise of his own thoughts. Even now, calculations and plans are running through his mind that are completely useless in his current circumstance and are doing nothing to battle the slow tide of hopeless panic that has been threatening to swallow him for months.

Another sigh, another switched word processor.

"If you keep sighing like that I'm going to get legitimately concerned." Across the table, Dazai can feel his roommate studying him curiously, looking up from where he's been making fantastic progress with his own work (judging by the constant click of keys that have been underlying Dazai's mortifying lack of progress).

This time, Dazai's sigh is dramatized purely to draw a laugh from his audience, and it does.

Shaking his head in amusement, a kind smile stretches across Oda's face. "You know, sometimes trying to force it just makes everything worse."

"I don't exactly have the luxury of time to wait for a spark of inspiration to hit me over the head," Dazai replies, leaning back in his seat in a much welcome break from staring at the taunting cursor. "My bills aren't exactly going to pay themselves and the university won't give me a degree if I stop turning in their assignments."

"Take a break, Dazai, you look like you need it."

"A break isn't going to get me out of this slump," Dazai counters.

Oda shrugs. "It's not a slump, I've seen you writing: you must have six or seven finished manuscripts around here that you just haven't sent for review. Send one of those."

"They're all shit." It's not meant to come out as vehement as it does, but Dazai doesn't try and cover up the slip of true emotion: Oda's been too good of a friend to try and fake him out like that.

There are actually ten finished manuscripts, all worse than the last. Of course, the grammar and syntax and punctuation—all the boring shit that anyone with a computer can google to learn about—are fine and dandy. It's the actual tone of the stories themselves that are unusable. Dazai's work has won awards and earned him a living because of his 'charming sense of nihilism' (according to one top critic). No one wants to read a book about someone expounding all the reasons why life and humanity are becoming increasingly unbearable without any sense of jesting to make the depressing shit sound less serious, and that's been a theme Dazai hasn't been able to work out of his current manuscripts.

"Take a break, Dazai," Oda repeats, voice firm. "The paper isn't getting written anyways and glaring at it won't make anything get done faster."

Dazai catches himself just as a sigh is about to leave his lips—he does not need to give Oda more ammunition in the conversation—and drops his gaze back to his laptop screen. He can feel Oda's gaze on him for a few seconds longer before Oda also returns to his work, the regular clicking of keys only picking up from one side of the table.

The cursor keeps blinking at him as if Dazai needs a reminder that he's not getting anything done.

He sticks it out for another twenty minutes before closing his laptop and stepping away from the table. Oda doesn't say a word as Dazai pockets his phone and his wallet, merely waves a hand in Dazai's direction as Dazai moves to the door.

At least he spares Dazai the 'I told you so', it reinforces why Oda is the one real friend Dazai has.

The rush of fresh air that surrounds Dazai as he leaves the flat is enough to make his shoulders relax slightly. It doesn't clear his head—because he hasn't found anything quite able to do that—but it lets Dazai push back the growing tide of frustration that's been threatening to overwhelm him for weeks.

Ignoring his problems has always been one of Dazai's greatest talents.

He finds his way to a bar not far from his apartment, bypassing a couple that are a bit too crowded for his taste before settling on this one. Dazai scans the room as he makes his way to the bar, cataloging and dismissing the other clientele in the time it takes to cross to the front and take a seat.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asks, straight to the point in a way that Dazai (and his foul mood) appreciates.

Ideally, Dazai would ask for five or six shots of hard liquor in a futile attempt to chase away his storm of incessant calculations. But, if he continues writing at his current rate it will be quite a while until his next solid paycheck, so Dazai orders the cheapest drink he can and gives the bartender a grateful smile when it's placed in front of him less than a minute later.

"I don't care why he didn't show, he didn't show. Tell them the deal is off." The comment is snapped just a few seats away from Dazai, and he shifts in his chair to take in the speaker. A man in a suit that probably costs as much as one month's rent for Dazai is swirling his wine as he speaks into his phone, staring absently at the bar back. "I'll handle that part, just halt all the shipments intended for the deal closure and double security."

Dazai's curiosity is piqued at the orders that flow from the man's lips with the sort of confidence of a person who knows without a shadow of a doubt that his orders will be obeyed. Sipping his drink, Dazai entertains himself by trying to guess the man's occupation.

The well-tailored and clearly bespoke suite indicate an extensive amount of money. Dazai chalks up the cool confidence to a person who had to work their way to their position rather than some sort of trust-fund baby. But there was an air around the man that Dazai can’t quite put his finger on: it has something to do with why the seats on either side of the man are empty as if all the other patrons are giving him space. It sounds fanciful, but Dazai almost wonders if the man is-

His guessing game comes to a screeching halt when the man tilts his head and makes eye-contact. Dazai swallows his drink much harder than necessary and fights back a wince at the burn of the large gulp sliding down his throat at the realization that this man, whatever the hell he did, is ridiculously attractive.

"I still have some loose ends to tie up, we'll talk some more tomorrow," the man says this all into his phone without dropping eye-contact.

Hanging up the phone and sliding it into his pocket, the man lifts his glass in a mock toast and takes a deliberate sip of his wine. And even though Dazai knows quite well what game the man is playing (because it's one he's played on others more than once), he can't help but drop his gaze to where the slightest flick of tongue lashes out to savor the taste on plump lips before a slow smirk curls onto the man's mouth.

Dazai had planned to give himself a breather with a drink or two before returning to his flat to pick up his work, but he finds himself rapidly crunching numbers, trying to decide if he has time to pick up a stranger in the bar and still finish his paper in time.

A tight deadline always has done wonders for his productivity.

Mind made up, Dazai matches the man's smirk with one of his own, drains his drink, and slides off his seat. The other is barely halfway down the bar and he watches Dazai approach, smirk widening slightly when Dazai takes the seat next to him.

Dazai opens his mouth to introduce himself but is preempted by the man commenting, "you know, eavesdropping on a stranger's conversation is considered quite rude."

"Who says I was eavesdropping?" Dazai replies without hesitation.

Amusement is clear all over the stranger's face as he tilts his head. "If you weren't eavesdropping, what were you doing?"

Dazai's a quick thinker and he could spout any number of lies about what he was ‘really’ doing that range from absurd to joking to seductive. But, up close, the man's bright blue eyes are incredibly sharp and Dazai gets the strong feeling that underestimating him will get Dazai in trouble.

He opts for honesty. "I was trying to guess your occupation."

That makes a wide grin spread across the man's face as if Dazai told a funny joke. "Oh? What did you guess?"

"Nothing, yet. I only crossed some things off the list."

Blue eyes rove Dazai's face thoughtfully as the man takes another sip of his wine before seemingly coming to a decision and asking, "can I buy you a drink?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. My name is Dazai, by the way."

"Chuuya." He waves over the bartender as he muses, "that whiskey soda you were drinking was obviously not your first choice."

The implication that Chuuya picked out Dazai first, and paid close enough attention to make such a (correct) inference, is a surprise. It also strengthens Dazai's impression that Chuuya is clever and he doesn't need to say so much as a word to confirm Chuuya's guess.

Glancing away from Dazai, Chuuya orders a drink for him, as if they know each other and Chuuya knows exactly what kind of drink Dazai truly prefers. A rocks glass is placed on the bar top in front of Dazai and he takes a sip, eyes widening at how smooth the liquor is when it goes down his throat.

"Why not wine?" He asks, motioning toward the glass Chuuya is half-finished with.

"You don't strike me as the wine drinking type," Chuuya replies with a shrug.

"Oh? What kind of type to I strike you as?"

It's a goading question, and Dazai welcomes the sharp gaze that rakes him from head-to-toe, Chuuya carefully taking in every inch of his appearance before making eye contact again. His voice is low and promising as he says, "the trouble-making type."

Grinning, Dazai raises a hand, palm out, in a placating gesture. "I'm a respectable citizen in almost every aspect."


Dazai's grin widens, but he doesn't elaborate, letting Chuuya fill in the blanks for himself. Chuuya laughs softly, leaning back in his seat and studying Dazai anew as if re-categorizing Dazai in his mind. It's a recognizable gesture as Dazai's doing the same, admitting to himself that this man—whoever he is and whatever he does—may just be enough to match him at his own game.

Finishing his wine, Chuuya says, "I'm staying in a hotel a few blocks away."

It's the opening Dazai was hoping for, but he pretends to mule over the unspoken offer as he takes another sip. After savoring the taste of the clearly expensive liquor, he asks, "is that an invitation?"

"Do you make a habit of asking questions you already know the answer to?"

It's Dazai's turn to laugh, and he finishes his drink. "Lead the way then."



“When you said you were staying in a hotel nearby…” Dazai trails off as Chuuya leads him into the lobby of a five-star hotel, coming to a halt just inside the lobby doors at the realization that standing here probably costs more than he has ever had in his dying bank account.

Glancing over his shoulder, Chuuya holds out his hand in a ‘come here’ motion and Dazai numbly closes the small distance between them. A hand is placed on the small of Dazai’s back and Chuuya only has to use the slightest bit of pressure to have Dazai moving forward again, eyes slightly wide as he’s ushered past a massive marble statue.

Chuuya glances sidelong at Dazai, raising an eyebrow. “This is a hotel.”

“Obviously, it’s just-” Dazai cuts off as soon as he notices the glint of amusement in blue eyes. Chuuya knows exactly what has Dazai so dumbstruck. Swallowing any visible indicators of amazement, Dazai gives a nonchalant shrug. “Doesn’t strike me as the type of hotel for what I had in mind.”

They reach the elevator and an attendant presses the call button for them (and now Dazai’s back to his previous game of ‘guess Chuuya’s occupation’ because this whole hotel reeks of exorbitant amounts of money).

Beside him, Chuuya lets his amusement show in the form of a secretive smile. “It’s the perfect hotel for what I had in mind, so I suppose you’ll just have to follow my lead.”

When the doors slide open, Chuuya holds up a hand to stall the attendant—who clearly was planning to get inside with them and…press the buttons some more. “We’ll be fine from here, thank you.”

And, of course, Chuuya pulls out a key card the moment they’re inside to swipe it against the access pad for the penthouse suite.

(Occupations are now getting thrown out as possibilities left and right.)

“Chuuya?” There’s a hum to indicate he’s listening, and Dazai decides to just outright ask, “what do you do for a living?”

Chuuya laughs. “Gave up on your guessing game?”

“I get the impression that you’re not something as predictable as a business executive.”

“That’s not far off,” Chuuya replies, the hand on the small of Dazai’s back shifting to rest on his hip, pulling Dazai so he’s pressed against Chuuya’s side. The shorter man looks up from underneath his eyelashes with a look so full of heat that Dazai’s positive it has to be either practiced or well-used (not that such knowledge prevents his body from reacting). “Let’s just say that I’m a high-ranking member of a lucrative organization and my paycheck is more than generous. Will that sate your curiosity?”

There’s so much missing in the response, each word carefully picked so that it doesn’t sound quite as misleading as Dazai assumes it to be. However curious Dazai is about this man’s profession, he’s much more captivated by the way Chuuya’s lips form each calculated word and how Chuuya’s self-assured manner might translate to the bedroom.

“For now,” he replies.

A soft ‘ding’ announces their arrival on the appropriate floor and Chuuya steps forward, pulling Dazai with him into the penthouse.

Judging by the appearance of the lobby, Dazai’s confident that the penthouse is every bit as luxurious and dazzlingly expensive as he would assume it to be. He’s only able to make note of the fact that they’re alone before Chuuya is swinging him around in a surprisingly strong grip and a hand is curling around the nape of his neck.

Chuuya’s kiss is electrifying. His lips move confidently, with the same self-assurance that he’ll be getting his way as Dazai had originally overheard on his phone call. When Chuuya’s teeth rake Dazai’s bottom lip, his fingers holding Dazai locked against his body without any give, his tongue is already ready to slip into the opening provided by Dazai’s slight gasp as if that reaction was exactly what he had ordered, and he had no doubt that the order would be followed.

It’s not normally Dazai’s style to let someone else have control, but Chuuya takes it without any hesitation, and as interesting as Dazai thinks it might be to try and flip the tables on Chuuya, he can’t find the desire to do so when Chuuya’s kiss is making his head swim and the hard line of Chuuya’s thigh is pressed firmly against the growing bulge of Dazai’s pants. Accepting the fact that he’s going to be at Chuuya’s mercy, for the time being, Dazai splays his hands against the decadent fabric of the vest underneath Chuuya’s blazer and eagerly kisses back.

When Chuuya pulls back from the kiss, Dazai’s not even able to chase after those clever lips because Chuuya’s grip is keeping him firmly in place. He swallows a noise of irritation over the fact that Chuuya is wearing these damned black gloves, depriving him of the sensation of nails raking against his scalp as Chuuya’s hand trails up to curl in Dazai’s hair and waits for whatever Chuuya deemed worth stopping an amazing kiss for.

Blue eyes rake his face and smug expression dances around Chuuya’s mouth, when he opens his mouth, Dazai is prepared for a teasing comment. Instead, Chuuya muses, “you’re pretty.”

It’s said as a statement, Chuuya making what sounds like an idle observation without any care for how it makes Dazai’s eyes widen. Dazai knows damn well that he’s attractive, but he’s not used to people commenting on it. Usually, if people are complimenting Dazai, they’re talking about his talent or his intelligence (both with a degree of jealousy that long ago reached past the point of exhausting). When people do comment on his looks ‘pretty’ isn’t the word they use. ‘Pretty’ is for someone who is softer, and kinder, and happier than he is. This kind of compliment is murmured and matter-of-fact and it leaves Dazai speechless.

Stunned by the statement, Dazai is unprepared for the next thing that leaves Chuuya’s lips. “I wonder how pretty you’ll look when I’m done with you. You seem like the type that wears ‘wrecked’ particularly well.”

Caught off-guard, Dazai isn’t able to catch the soft groan that leaves him at the mere idea. If the way Chuuya’s eyes darken and a dangerous smirks spreads across his lips is an award for the noise, Dazai immediately resolves to be as vocal as possible.

Chuuya is evidently on the same thought process because he shifts closer to Dazai, leg rising off the floor just far enough to press against Dazai’s erection, pushing a gasp out of Dazai. Bottom lip gets caught in Chuuya’s teeth as his leg pulls in the other direction in a slow drag of friction that would have Dazai’s eyes fluttering shut if he could bear looking away from the way Chuuya is visually devouring him.

And Chuuya looks like he might be content tormenting Dazai in the entryway of the penthouse for several hours. While the idea does have its own sort of appeal, if Dazai’s going to let Chuuya take the lead he expects to be fucked thoroughly and he wants it to happen as soon as possible.

Pitching his voice low so it’s a soft rasp, Dazai murmurs, “Chuuya.” It shouldn’t be possible, but somehow Chuuya’s eyes darken even further, pupils blown out as he focuses on Dazai’s words. “Please tell me that what you had in mind included fucking me.”

Grinning, Chuuya replies, “of course it did. Why? Getting impatient?”

Hands spreading out along Chuuya’s chest, Dazai lets his fingers run slowly down the line of the vest, brushing just lightly against the shirt underneath and mentally debating whether he’d prefer to see Chuuya naked or drink in the sight of the tailored suit.

Fingers wrapping around Chuuya’s tie, Dazai tugs just hard enough that Chuuya’s lips are back to hovering scant inches away from his as he says, “getting desperate and if you don’t get those damned gloves off and fuck me open soon I might have to do it myself.”

“Fuck.” Dazai all but swallows the curse as Chuuya’s lips are already pressed against him before the word is out in the space between them. This kiss is hungry, Chuuya’s earlier calculated control frayed at the edges, and Dazai groans at the fact that just a few well-placed words were enough to get him this reaction.

Chuuya is fucking intoxicating.

Sparing a thought of gratitude to Oda for urging Dazai to leave the apartment for a break—that Dazai isn’t sure will do any good for his writing problems but will definitely be worth every second lacking of productivity—Dazai trails his fingers lower, undoing the buttons of Chuuya’s vest and pushing the open flaps to the side so he can run his hands down the planes of Chuuya’s chest. And Dazai’s decided that Chuuya is deceptively slim because hard muscle greets him everywhere he touches and he wonders just how fit Chuuya is and how much better that will make the sex.

Carefully, Chuuya maneuvers them further into the penthouse, their steps halting as they put much more effort into the feeling of their tongues sliding together than navigating their journey. Since Dazai has no idea where the bedroom is (and would be perfectly fine fucking against the nearest wall, in all honesty), all of his focus is on running his hands over Chuuya’s body. He untucks Chuuya’s shirt and groans when his hands find the bare skin across Chuuya’s naval, fingers dipping into the waistline of Chuuya’s pants and sliding around until he can grab a handful of ass.

Chuuya laughs into the kiss as if amused by how determined Dazai is to finally get skin-on-skin contact.

When the hand around Dazai’s waist vanishes, along with the grip in his hair, Dazai feels oddly like he lost whatever anchor was keeping him grounded, keeping his head from spinning. Stumbling backward, he lets out an undignified gasp of surprise when his knees hit the bed and a gentle push on his chest has him falling into pure luxury.

How or when they finally got into the bedroom, Dazai doesn’t really care. He does care about the sight of Chuuya meticulously pulling off his gloves and tossing them to the side before crawling onto the bed.

Grinning mischievously, Dazai backs up the length of the bed, keeping eye-contact as Chuuya follows him until Dazai has no space left to retreat and is propped against the pillows. Chuuya hovers over him, a matching grin on his face as he leans down, bypassing Dazai’s mouth to drag his teeth along Dazai’s jaw before murmuring, “clothes off.”

“What about you?” Dazai asks, not giving a damn how breathless he sounds because no one in their right mind can blame him for being so affected by this man.

He feels Chuuya’s smirk as Chuuya’s lips dip lower to suckle on his pulse point. Dazai tips his head back further, giving Chuuya more access and fervently hoping for the increase in pressure that would have Chuuya leaving a mark.

“What about me?” Chuuya counters.

His silent question—does it matter if I undress?—is such a strong argument that Dazai doesn’t press the point further. Instead of worrying about such trivialities as Chuuya’s level of undress, Dazai reaches down to grab the hem of his shirt. Chuuya moves with him almost intuitively, shifting with each roll of Dazai’s body so the sliver of space between their bodies never decreases. When Dazai needs more room to pull his shirt the rest of the way off, Chuuya sits back, watching as the thin fabric gets tossed somewhere over the edge of the bed.

It’s much more difficult to wiggle out of his pants with Chuuya resuming his attention on the bare portion of Dazai’s skin just under his jaw, but Dazai does it with admirable speed. Stopping before he can pull off his boxers when Chuuya grabs his wrist to hold him still.

Chuuya pulls all the way back, sitting upright to study Dazai. This part of Dazai’s night always has the potential to be most interesting, and he less-than-patiently waits for Chuuya to take in the large expanse of bandages that wrap all the way down his chest to meet the waistband of his boxers before picking back up down his legs.

Laughter is not the reaction he tends to get, but Dazai figures he should just throw away any expectation of Chuuya being anything like his past lays. Chuuya reaches out, running his fingers up the lengths of bandages covering Dazai’s chest. “I wondered how far they went but I wasn’t expecting this. I guess it only makes sense that the most curious type of person is also curious himself.” His fingers slide across the breadth of Dazai’s shoulders to run back down the length of his right arm, pausing just inside Dazai’s wrist to toy with the end of the wrappings. “Do they come off?”

It’s not a question of fascination or curiosity, like Dazai usually yields (and deflects with considerable skill), it’s a question of permission. One that Dazai immediately nods in response to, reaching down to pull the bandages off himself.

“Ah.” Chuuya catches his hand, threading their fingers together and pushing Dazai’s arm so it’s pressed against the bed. “Let me.” At Dazai’s next nod, Chuuya cocks an eyebrow. “If I let go will you stay still or do you need assistance?”

Being assaulted with a dozen images of being tied to Chuuya’s bed is not doing Dazai’s neglected dick any favors, but Dazai swallows a moan and says, “I’ll behave this once.”

Chuckling, Chuuya lets go and begins unwrapping Dazai’s bandages. A process that is normally done as quickly as humanly possible feels agonizingly slow as Chuuya takes his time to re-roll the bandages as he unwraps them from Dazai’s body, the pads of his fingers dragging along Dazai’s skin with much more contact than is necessary, making Dazai realize quickly that he should have just taken the bandages off himself.

Realistically, Dazai knows it doesn’t take an eternity for Chuuya to finish, but it certainly feels like it. And when Chuuya sets aside the last roll of bandages on the bedside table, Dazai grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him into a kiss that’s nothing more than a filthy roll of tongues.

And now Chuuya’s hands are everywhere, touching each inch of skin that they already brushed past when handling Dazai’s bandages. Pressing just hard enough that Dazai can feel the phantom of their passage long after Chuuya’s moved onto a new patch of skin but not hard enough to leave bruises even though Dazai knows Chuuya is more than strong enough to do so. He can feel Chuuya holding back, but no matter how much Dazai arches into the touch, he’s not given the bruising grip his skin is craving.

Kissing his way own Dazai’s body, Chuuya murmurs, “there should be lube and condoms in that drawer.”

“You travel with them?” Dazai teases.

Chuuya nips the skin just above his pelvis and pulls down Dazai’s boxers, breath ghosting along the length of Dazai’s cock in a much more cruel tease than what Dazai just said before he speaks into the skin of Dazai’s thigh. “Hotel stocks them.”

“Fuck, I need to start staying in hotels like these,” Dazai says, reaching blindly into the bedside table and rummaging around.

“Going through that much lube?” Chuuya asks, amusement clear in his voice.

Fingers curling around what he’s looking for, Dazai nudges the lube and small packet of condoms against Chuuya’s hand. “That and this bed is heavenly.”

The huff of laughter is maddening on Dazai’s skin, and he squirms slightly before Chuuya’s grip on his hips forces him to stay still on the bed, teeth nipping in admonishment.

“You can leave marks,” Dazai says, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate even though his breath hitches partway through the sentence as Chuuya spreads his legs further.

“Pass me a pillow.” Chuuya makes no acknowledgment that he heard Dazai, and Dazai tries not to be disappointed as he does what Chuuya says.

The pillow is propped underneath his hips and Dazai picks up the ‘click’ of the lube being opened. The brush of Chuuya’s thumb over his entrance makes him tense up just slightly (it’s been a while since he let someone else top).

“Breathe,” Chuuya orders, voice soft but with an underlying note of the same type of commanding tone that caught Dazai’s attention in the bar.

Taking a deep breath in, Dazai forces his muscles to relax and lets his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of one lube-slicked finger ceaselessly pressing into his body. Chuuya’s lips press against the inside of Dazai’s thigh as if trying to keep him relaxed as the finger pulls back out and Dazai feels every ridge of Chuuya’s knuckles.

With the next press, Chuuya’s teeth sink into Dazai’s skin and he jolts, melting into the mattress as Chuuya sucks hard on the area in a way that Dazai knows will leave him with a mark that lasts for days. Chuuya’s teeth continue to work the area with each thrust of his fingers, sucking harder when he adds a second, and then third, finger into Dazai’s body until Dazai’s hips are canting down to meet every thrust and his breathing is labored.

Chuuya finishes the mark with another chaste kiss. Cracking an eye open, Dazai is struck with the intensity of Chuuya’s gaze as blue eyes watch every minuscule change in his expression hungrily.

“Just as I expected, wrecked looks particularly good on you.”

Running a hand through his hair to push it away from his face, Dazai says, “unless Chuuya plans on actually fucking me, I won’t be looking wrecked anytime soon.”

“Smart ass,” Chuuya replies, but there’s no real venom in his voice. He does press his fingers straight against the spot that has Dazai dropping his head back with a groan.

“One of my charms.”

With a bemused snort, Chuuya pulls his fingers from Dazai’s body. Listening carefully, Dazai tracks the sound of Chuuya’s pants being shoved down (but not off) and a foil packet being torn open. His fingers clench in the ridiculously high thread count sheets at the lewd wet sounds of Chuuya lubing his length.

The head of Chuuya’s cock presses against his entrance, holding maddeningly still until Dazai looks down to see what the hell is holding the other man back from fucking into his body. After how thoroughly Chuuya worked him open, Dazai’s ass feels achingly empty. Chuuya runs his hands up the length of Dazai’s legs to pause behind his knees.

“I want your hands here.”

“Bossy,” Dazai mumbles, but he lets go of the sheets to replace Chuuya’s hands, holding himself open in a way that should feel unnervingly vulnerable but somehow the vulnerability doesn’t bother him much.

(It probably has something to do with this throbbing cock.)

Grinning, Chuuya thrusts, bottoming out in a snap of his hips that has Dazai’s back arching off the bed with a gasp. Seated deep inside Dazai, Chuuya gives an experiential circle, grin widening at the second gasp it earns him.

“Is that a complaint, Dazai?”

As much fun as bantering with Chuuya is, Dazai shakes his head fervently. “Just move. Shit, Chuuya, just fuck me.”

And Chuuya does, pulling out and driving his hips back forward with the same precise snap as before, setting a steady rhythm as he fucks Dazai into the mattress. Dazai’s nails dig into the skin of his legs, grateful for something to hold onto as his breath is knocked out of him with each thrust, answering his earlier question of how incredible Chuuya’s obvious strength was going to make him feel.

There’s no escape from the continual onslaught of Chuuya’s thrusts, and Dazai has no desire to do anything other than writhe on the bed and take it. Noises drop from his lips without a filter, each one seeming to spur Chuuya on, driving Dazai closer and closer to the edge until he’s riding it in a torturous roll of pleasure.

Choking back a whine, Dazai slides one hand away from his knees, desperate for contact with his cock—just a few good jerks are all he needs.

A whine does actually leave him when Chuuya catches his hand and places it back behind Dazai’s knee, pushing Dazai’s leg open wider.

“F-fuck, Chuuya jus- AH!” Dazai cuts off with a moan as Chuuya’s cock drives against the bundle of nerves that has his toes curling. “Don’t stop! There!”

“Mmm, you’re close, aren’t you?” It’s almost unfair how composed Chuuya sounds, even though Dazai can feel clearly just how turned on the other man is, considering the fact that Chuuya’s cock is keeping him so full that Dazai thinks he’ll have to give up hope of ever being fucked this good again for the rest of his life.

He nods, tugging pointlessly with the hand covered by Chuuya’s, not able to slip away from the solid grip. “Just- shit! Just need- my cock, please.”

Chuuya curses under his breath. “The noises you make are amazing.”

Dazai eyes squeeze shut. The ceaseless build of pleasure is already too much to handle on its own, let alone in conjunction with Chuuya complimenting Dazai more in the time since they’ve met than Dazai’s heard in months. He can feel his nails leaving indents on his skin, and Dazai wishes it was Chuuya’s nails scratching him, wishes there would be more evidence of this fuck than the hickey hidden inside his thigh.

As if reading his mind, Chuuya’s hand trails down his leg to dig into the mark, and Dazai feels stars exploding behind his lids as he comes with a shout, without so much as a finger on his cock.

Pleasure crashes over him, shutting off any more thoughts as Dazai’s body shudders with his orgasm. It’s pure bliss, and he floats in it, distantly registering Chuuya’s own orgasm as the other man stills in his body with a drawn-out moan of his own.

When he finally blinks his eyes open, Dazai meets brilliant blue.

Vaguely, Dazai wonders if the look of utter self-satisfaction on Chuuya’s face is similar to the one he often wears. If it is, he can’t find it in himself to be as irritated with Chuuya as others are with him whenever he makes the same expression. Especially not when Chuuya asks, “feeling wrecked yet?”

Stretching his warm limbs, Dazai winks. “Considerably.”

“Then I was right,” Dazai frowns, confused as Chuuya pulls out of his body and climbs up the bed until he’s hovering over Dazai’s face to murmur, “you look gorgeous when you’re wrecked.”




Dazai manages to last exactly three days before admitting to himself that just one night of the best sex he’s ever had in his life won’t be quite enough to satisfy him.

Memories of Chuuya's touch, grip just strong enough to indicate that he was holding back—withholding the sort of bruising hold that Dazai hadn't been able to stop imagining since— have made it impossible for Dazai to make any significant headway on his writing. Staring at the mockingly blank background of his word processor turns into picturing the dangerous flash that crossed intoxicating blue eyes whenever Dazai got a little too cheeky. The only mark that Chuuya had left on Dazai—the only evidence that Dazai hadn't merely passed out at the bar and dreamed the whole encounter—was fading much too fast for Dazai's taste.

Dazai isn't a sexually inexperienced man, he's also not unused to one-night stands. In fact, the majority of his past sexual experiences were of the 'one and done' variety because commitments and attachments aren't exactly his forte. The idea that the stranger that Dazai tried to pick up at the bar, only to end up being the one who got picked up instead (and didn't that give his roommate a laugh when Dazai mentioned it), had so thoroughly fucked Dazai into the high-quality mattress of one of the nicest hotels in the city that Dazai hasn't been quite able to go a full day without getting lost in the memory is as infuriating as it had been sexually gratifying.

Letting out an annoyed groan, Dazai drops his head so it's resting on the edge of the kitchen table, giving up on making any more progress on his story for the time being until he can force Chuuya out of his thoughts.

"Still have writer's block?" The question is well-intentioned, but it makes Dazai groan louder and shake his head against the table (because he doesn't really want to admit to Oda that he's still too dazed from the sex four days later to make progress).

There's a thoughtful hum from the kitchen, and Dazai steels himself for the follow-up question, rapidly coming with a dozen different excuses to give his roommate. Sometimes he forgets how well Oda knows him, though, because Oda's next question has Dazai's head flying up from the table and while he leaves his jaw behind: mouth hanging open in shock.

"Still thinking about the guy from Monday?" Oda laughs at Dazai's reaction, and he raises an eyebrow. "We have known each other for years, Dazai, what kind of friend would I be if I couldn't guess that?"

"One of my normal friends," Dazai replies, trying not to sound too sullen.

Judging by the way that Oda laughs again, Dazai figures he missed his mark. Now that it's out in the open, there's not much point in him continuing to pretend anything else is distracting him.

Falling into full melodrama mode, Dazai slumps back down with an exaggerated sigh. "Do you know how hard it is to have good sex when you're me?"

Oda tilts his head, a bemused smile playing around his lips that Dazai recognizes as Oda's 'let me humor this' smile. "By all means, enlighten me."

"It's obstinately difficult," Dazai explains, waving his hand in the air in a vague gesture as if it does anything to get his point across. "When I'm constantly being the best fuck of someone else's life it means I'm doing all the work, Oda, it's horrible."

"Which means the...what was the phrase you used again? 'Worth-every-miserable-22-years-you've-spent-on-this-earth sex' is not exactly something you'll be moving past any time soon."


"Then why don't you just see him again?"

Dazai gives Oda a dry look. "Thank you, oh brilliant Sakunosuke-sensei, that one never crossed my mind."

"It's not like the guy would turn you down for another round."

"Of course he wouldn't," Dazai scoffs, "I'm irresistible."

"So why are you here pitying yourself?" Oda presses.

"I don't make it a point of practice to exchange phone numbers with one-night stands."

Rolling his eyes, Oda says, "Dazai, you're the most intelligent man I've ever met in my life. If you actually wanted to find this guy again, I'm sure you'd figure out a way." With that, Oda raises his cup in cheers and makes his way back to his room to continue his own work.

Dazai watches him go, considering what Oda said. It's fair enough to assume Dazai could probably find some way of getting in contact with Chuuya again. Even if all he has is the first name, the sheer cost of the hotel room Chuuya was staying at is enough to narrow down the field considerably. Asking the right questions to some of the higher-end contacts Dazai’s made by virtue of being a writing prodigy could make the search much simpler than it had any right to be, but Dazai gets the impression that Chuuya is also the sort of man who could buy the company of anyone he wanted for the night. Despite his confident answer to Oda's question, Dazai can't quite be as positive as he wants to be that Chuuya would have any interest in seeing him again.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dazai turns his attention to his computer screen. He has bigger priorities than tracking down a particularly good fuck, like making sure he can get out another story worth a big enough paycheck before his next semester of tuition is due.

Letting out a deliberate breath, Dazai rests his fingers on the keyboard and refocuses on the matter at hand.

He stares at his blank screen for another ten minutes before cursing and getting up from the table, slamming down the lid of his laptop and marching toward the door, grabbing his coat on the way out.

Dazai wants to say that it's pure coincidence he ends up in the same bar he did the other night. It's not like he made any conscious decision to retrace the same frustrated steps he took that evening, and it's not like there's any logical chance that he'll run into the object of his annoyance by doing so.

The bar is close, the bar is quiet, and the bar has cheap enough drinks for Dazai not to feel too guilty about whittling away at his bank account without any actual prospect of another paycheck in the near future.

When Dazai sits down at the bar, he's greeted by a different bartender than the one who poured his drinks during the last visit, but she gives him a searching look as if trying to place his face.

"You wouldn't happen to be Dazai, would you?" She asks without preamble.

The question has Dazai looking around the bar curiously. Given that it's barely six o'clock, it's not exactly packed. The few other patrons are keeping to themselves, no one is even paying Dazai any attention, and he doesn't recognize any of the other faces.

Looking back at the bartender, Dazai replies, "perhaps, it depends on where you heard my name."

She scans her eyes over his face: a measuring glance as if she's trying to decide something. With a shrug, she pulls out a glass and turns, pulling a bottle of expensive brandy from the back shelf, pouring a generous serving, and pushing it across the bar without a word.

Dazai flicks his eyes down to the drink before meeting her gaze again. "I didn't order anything."

"Obviously," she replies, "it was paid for already." With that, she puts the bottle back and vanishes into the backroom.

"Paid for already?" He repeats to himself, bewildered.

Dazai has had his share of weird encounters at bars, but most of them happened much later in the night and after he's already slightly inebriated. Picking up the glass, Dazai takes a sip and his eyes widen at the familiar taste. For all that he had been much less interested in the drink and much more interested in the person who had ordered it, Dazai's relationship with high-quality and expensive booze is nonexistent, so the smooth slide of the brandy is impossible to forget.

Putting down the glass, Dazai turns to study the bar again, wondering if he somehow missed Chuuya during his first scan despite knowing damn well that he would never pass by someone as attractive as that man without noticing. When he turns back to the bar, the bartender is stepping in front of him, holding a slim white box. Dazai's name is printed clearly on the top corner of the box and she places it on the bar next to his drink.

Dazai looks down at the box, then back up to meet her gaze, opening his mouth to voice one of a million questions tumbling through his head.

The bartender beats him to the chase with a shake of her head. "No use asking about it, I wasn't here when the payment was made, I'm just the messenger. Though, we have a pool about what's inside so I'd love to see."

It makes Dazai want to laugh.

While he's been trying his best to push himself past that night, Chuuya clearly has other plans. He may hardly know the other man at all, but Dazai's rapidly coming to the conclusion that undermining Dazai's plans may just be a specialty of Chuuya's.

Picking up the box, Dazai peels off the stickers keeping the top attached to the bottom and pulls off the lid.

The bartender lets out a low whistle.

He's inclined to agree.

Staring up from the box is a brand-new smartphone that's probably worth five times as much as Dazai's current phone. It's incredibly lightweight in his hands and so slim that Dazai has a brief vision of it somehow sliding through the grates of a sewage drain or something equally ridiculous.

"That's just been sitting on the break table," the bartender mutters, more to herself than to Dazai, but it's easy to sympathize with her disbelief.

It's one thing to pre-buy Dazai a drink, it's another to leave behind a phone for him. Turning the phone on, Dazai notices that it's not the first time the device has been activated. Rather than the streamlined blandness of a phone straight from the store, the useless pre-installed apps have already been replaced with higher brand alternatives along with a few new ones.

Widgets sit on the home screen, one of which is a calendar app with an event notification on it.

Opening the app, Dazai feels a grin spreading across his face.

Invitation: Lunch with Chuuya, Sun, 1:00 - 2:00 pm.
Reply: Yes | Maybe | No

There's no location, no further details, still not even a surname, and Dazai can't decide if he'd be more excited to receive those details in the sparse days between now and the lunch or to remain surprised until Sunday arrives.

Regardless, it's the simplest thing in the world to click the ‘maybe’ button (because if Chuuya's going to make this a game then Dazai can't help but have a little fun with it too).

Pocketing the phone, Dazai raises his glass in a toast to the bartender now staring at him like he's grown a second head and drains his free drink.



It turns out that Dazai receives more details Saturday evening in the form of another calendar invitation.

Invitation: Ride to lunch with Chuuya, Sun, 12:45 - 1:00 pm.
Reply: Yes | Maybe | No

Dazai hums thoughtfully as he clicks the ‘maybe’ button once again before shoving the phone back in his bag, mulling over the new information. He assumes that a ‘ride’ indicates Chuuya sending a car for him to wherever they’ll be having lunch, which means another expense Chuuya is throwing in Dazai’s direction with seeming little thought to the price tag.

He wouldn’t call himself a gold-digger, but Dazai’s been living paycheck to paycheck long enough for the extravagance of Chuuya’s lifestyle to be almost as attractive as Chuuya himself. So, he puts a little more thought into his appearance on Sunday than he normally does, picking an outfit that won’t look terribly plebeian next to whatever sharp suit he assumes Chuuya will be wearing.

He’s almost five minutes early to the bar and is surprised to find a sleek black town car already waiting outside, the driver standing next to the door. As soon as Dazai is within earshot, the driver opens the door with a dip of his head.

“Chuuya sent you?” Dazai asks, just to make sure (he does have enough sense not to simply slide into a stranger’s car).

“Yes, sir. I’ll be driving you to your reservation.”

Reservation? Dazai’s never been ‘wooed’ before, he’s not the type worth wooing, but he can definitely recognize that whatever is going on is Chuuya buttering him for something. He slides into the backseat of the car with a murmured word of thanks and pulls out the phone he’d received at the bar, turning it over in his hands as he tries to unravel the mystery before Chuuya gets the chance to surprise him anymore.

The ride is relatively short, fifteen minutes at most, and Dazai finds himself standing outside a high-rise on the outskirts of the downtown area. As the driver opens his door, the man says, “your reservations are on the top floor, sir.”

Of course they are, Chuuya seems to have an affinity for penthouses.

Dazai gives the driver a two-fingered salute and makes his way inside, finding the elevator and taking it up to the top floor. The doors open to a restaurant with a beautiful view of the city. Stepping up to the host, Dazai says, “I’m here to meet someone.”

“Your name?”


The host gives a nod of recognition. “Nakahara-san arrived just a few minutes ago, please follow me.”

She leads him through the restaurant and out to the balcony, where Chuuya is seated at one of the small handful of tables spread far enough apart to allow all occupants a certain level of privacy. Chuuya’s attention is down on his phone as they cross toward the table, but as soon as Dazai is within speaking distance, his eyes slowly scan Dazai—taking in every inch of his appearance—before meeting Dazai’s gaze with a charming smile.

Dazai takes the seat opposite Chuuya, waiting for the host to head back to the main part of the restaurant before asking, “do you treat all of your one-night stands like this, or am I special?”

Chuuya doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “You’re here precisely because I’m not interested in it being a one-night stand. Are you?”

“Do you make a habit of asking questions you already know the answer to?”

At the word-for-word repetition of the what Chuuya said the night they met, the other man lets out a laugh, leaning back in his seat to consider Dazai with an amused expression. Glasses of sparkling juice are set on the table, and the waiter walks away with a bow in Chuuya’s direction.

Dazai takes a sip of his juice before jumping straight to the point. “So, if we’re clearly both interested in another night, why are we having lunch?”

“We’re having lunch because I’d like to offer you the possibility of a standing arrangement.”

“Standing arrangement?” Dazai repeats.

Chuuya nods. “You’re clever and you’re interesting and a relatively safe option for me.” Dazai blinks at the last part of the statement, frowning as he tries to understand the meaning heavy underneath it. “It would be mutually beneficial, of course. I’m willing to handle your expenses and in exchange, you’d keep me company regularly.”

It clicks, but Dazai feels the need to ask just to make sure he’s come to the correct conclusion. “You want to be my sugar daddy.”

A shrug. “If that’s what you’d like to call me, sure.”

“But why? You don’t strike me as the type that would have any problems picking up someone in a bar any night of the week.”

It is after all, what he did to Dazai.

“I don’t make a habit of it, it can be dangerous.”

Another word choice that makes Dazai’s brain start whirring, running into overdrive as he tries to figure Chuuya out.

The other man reaches down, pulling a folder out of a messenger bag at his feet and passing it across the table. “I’m assuming this is new territory for you, but it’s common for such agreements to have a contract of some kind. This is my proposal.”

Accepting the folder, Dazai opens it and reads each sentence thoroughly, eyes flicking across the page even as his mind is split between the contract and puzzling through Chuuya’s word choice. It’s a relatively simple contract, for all that it was carefully designed. Chuuya offering to pay all of Dazai’s living expenses as well as a portion of his tuition each month (and how did Chuuya know he was a student?) in addition to a monthly allowance. In exchange, Dazai will accompany Chuuya to various social events and keep him company with at least 48 hours’ notice for each meeting. There are more legal details and other safety checks that Dazai shouldn’t be impressed to find in place because Chuuya is clearly the type of man who is thorough in his job.

Putting the file down, Dazai meets Chuuya’s gaze. “I just have one question.”

“Only one?” Chuuya repeats, a single eyebrow raising curiously, “what is it?”

“Who are you?”

Unlike the list time Dazai brought up what Chuuya does for a living, this question doesn’t pull any sign of amusement out of the other man. Instead, Chuuya looks thoughtful as he meets Dazai’s stare without blinking. “Does it matter?”

“This is a lot of money. I’m sure each round of sex will be as equally mind-blowing as the first,” Dazai replies, “but I’m not stupid. You kept using calendar invites so I wouldn’t have a contact number, you’re using words like ‘safe’ and ‘dangerous’ to describe interpersonal connections, and you clearly managed to do a thorough background check on me in less than a week. I’d like to know exactly what I’m getting into before agreeing to anything.”

Chuuya smiles.

It’s not any of the smiles Dazai has seen from him before. Instead of the sensual or teasing expressions Dazai witnessed during their last meeting, this one is cool and probably should be unsettling if anyone other than Dazai was on the receiving end.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit too clever?” Chuuya asks.

“All the time.”

Chuuya snorts, and the cool expression vanishes as if it was never there. Drumming his fingers against the side of his glass, he admits, “I’m a high-ranking yakuza executive, but you wouldn’t be getting involved in any of that. The events you’d accompany me to would all be for the more legitimate aspects of the organization and you’re getting involved with me, not my organization.”

With a nod, Dazai holds out an expectant hand.

Chuuya’s eyes flick down to Dazai’s hand before returning to his gaze. “Pardon?”

“Do you have a pen? I kind of need one in order to sign the contract.”

“Most people would walk out at the prospect of being anywhere near the yakuza,” Chuuya points out.

“Most people are boring,” Dazai counters, “I wanted to know the details, now I know them.” He goes to sign his name on the indicated line and pauses, a thought crossing his mind that makes him look back up at Chuuya. “Actually, another question. Will you stop treating me like I’m going to break and leave more than one bruise?”

This time, Chuuya’s smile is an entirely different type of dangerous and it’s thrilling in a way that makes Dazai force back the shudder that wants to run down his spine. Chuuya’s voice is a low purr as he says, “I prefer only to leave marks on things that are mine. You’ll have bruises for days, Dazai.”

Grinning, Dazai signs his name on the dotted line, passing contract and pen back to Chuuya. “Then I suppose I’m in your care, Chuuya.”



Explaining to his roommate that the simple break he was supposed to take somehow turned into having a yakuza executive for sugar daddy went over surprisingly well. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Oda’s known Dazai for years and has long since stopped being surprised by the sort of messes Dazai can get himself into.

Oda merely let out an exasperated sigh and told Dazai to ‘stay safe’, which resulted in half-a-dozen sex jokes that Oda tolerated with quiet dignity before waving Dazai out the door for his first ‘outing’ with his new sugar daddy.

The outing turned out to be getting fitted for a designer suit because, as Chuuya put in no lack of blunt words, Dazai needs something suitable to wear before Chuuya takes him to an event. Dazai rolls his eyes at the phrasing but stands still and turns in either direction when told and makes a point to boldly check out Chuuya every time the tailor steps away until Chuuya is passing his card to the assistant and snapping out materials and an order deadline while dragging Dazai out of the shop.

Not that Dazai doesn’t appreciate the bespoke suit that now hangs in his closet next to his four off-the-rack suits but riding Chuuya’s fingers in the front seat of a luxury sports car was definitely the high point of the suit fitting.

As a marginally responsible adult, Dazai knows that, realistically, the best part of the arrangement is the fact that he no longer has to keep a hawk’s eye on his expenses. Every month, rent is paid for (not just his half, but Oda’s as well). Every month, their facilities are paid for. Every month, Dazai’s tuition payment is handled before he can even think about looking at the bill. Every month, Dazai gets a deposit of several hundred thousand yen in his checking account to handle his groceries as well as for general spending money.

And, since Chuuya is obviously a man who values his clothing, Dazai regularly receives deliveries from brand-name clothing companies to accent his wardrobe so thoroughly that he doesn’t bother going shopping for clothes anymore.

Realistically, having all of his expenses handled so that all he has to worry about is doing his schoolwork well is the best part of his arrangement with Chuuya.

Honestly, the sex is better than it all.

Whether it’s in any number of the five-star hotels Dazai is now acquainted with or in the bathroom of a five-star restaurant in-between courses, Chuuya never disappoints and Dazai thinks he might be slightly, just a little bit, addicted to the feeling of Chuuya being sheathed fully inside of him.

He may be slightly, just a little bit, addicted to the way Chuuya’s voice rumbles low in his chest whenever he showers Dazai with any dozens of compliments that Dazai knows he doesn’t deserve but don’t stop making him feel so light that he might float off the bed if it weren’t for Chuuya’s grounding and often bruising grip.

Covering the mosaic of red and blue and purple marks that mottle Dazai’s skin constantly is an honest shame, but Dazai still wears his bandages. Still feels like he might melt into the bed whenever Chuuya slowly unwinds their lengths from his body or re-wraps them when it’s time for them to say goodbye.

It takes three dates for Chuuya to get undressed all the way, and Dazai gets thoroughly derailed by the maze of colors inked onto the man’s back: the first tangible confirmation that Chuuya is actually yakuza and not just an extremely overpaid business executive. After that, Dazai decides one of his new favorite things is to add sharp reds of his own onto the vibrant depiction of a tiger with his nails as they scramble for purchase along Chuuya’s back.

Chuuya is fucking intoxicating.

A month and a half into his arrangement with Chuuya, Dazai finally sends a new manuscript to his agent, and it’s not shit, and Dazai’s positive that he has Chuuya to thank for that. Seeing Chuuya once a week pulls his mind away from the dark spiral that had been plaguing him for a half-a-year and back into the ‘charming sense of nihilism’ that made his pen name famous and his writing popular.

His agent loves the story. Dazai’s bank account appreciates the royalty check, but no longer needs it.

Even Oda comments on the change, mentioning one afternoon of lazy schoolwork three months into the arrangement that Dazai seems happier.

“Happier?” Dazai comments, only absently paying attention to Oda as his mind focuses on the bulk of his paper.

“Yeah, I was starting to get worried about you for a bit there, but this yakuza executive of yours seems to be a surprisingly good influence.”

Glancing up from his laptop, Dazai waggles his eyebrows. “Chuuya is absolutely amazing in bed, Oda, the things he can do with his tongue leave me speechless.”

With a snort, Oda replies, “that’s not what I was talking about and you know it, Dazai.”

Dazai waves a hand in the air as if dismissing the subject. “If you say so.”

When Chuuya cancels their standing Thursday night outing for the first time (which generally consists of dinner and fucking), Dazai doesn’t think twice about it. It stands to reason that someone as high-ranking in whatever yakuza clan Chuuya is a member of might get called in last minute to handle a meeting or something else.

But when he doesn’t hear from Chuuya all weekend, he gets struck with a sudden spark of doubt. A ‘what if Chuuya is sick of me?’ spark of doubt that sits in the pit of his stomach. Insecurity isn’t a look Dazai wears well, or really wears at all seeing as his ego is particularly difficult to bruise. More than the doubt, what bothers Dazai is how much the thought of Chuuya tiring of him is upsetting.

So, he tries to shove back the wave of relief when Chuuya doesn’t cancel their next Thursday night outing. He keeps it in the corner of his mind when Chuuya leads him to a different hotel and up to a different penthouse suite. Dazai thinks he’ll be able to keep it to himself the whole night, but it comes slipping out when Chuuya collapses on the bed next to him, reaching for the phone that he put on the bedside table.

As he stretches, Dazai catches sight of a fresh scar on Chuuya’s back, and he’s reaching out to touch it before he realizes it, brushing his fingers along the line of it. Chuuya’s skin ripples underneath him, and Dazai glances up, looking a question at the other man.

Chuuya shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s why you canceled last week,” Dazai corrects him firmly.

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya mutters, “it’s nothing, Dazai.”

“I already know you’re yakuza, it’s not exactly going to scare me off.”

Meeting his gaze for a long moment, Chuuya shakes his head after realizing that Dazai is not going to let the subject go. Shifting on the pillows, he turns his phone over in his hand before admitting. “It was a sloppy assassination attempt.”

“Sloppy would be if they didn’t get a finger on you.”

“Sloppy is when you fail,” Chuuya counters, voice even as if they weren’t discussing an attempt on his life, “they failed, so it’s sloppy. Let it go, Dazai.”

Dropping his hand from the scar, Dazai trails his fingers down the expanse of colors that roll down Chuuya’s arm, covering his body much the same way the bandages usually cover Dazai’s. He’s tracing the outline of a cloud when he admits, “I assumed you were probably just getting tired of me.”


With the admission already out in the open, and Dazai’s usual filter still slowly recovering from the blissed-out state of his orgasm, he says, “I figure with all the things you’re doing day-to-day, I’m probably the most mundane aspect of your life, it just made sense you’d be getting tired of me after four months of this.”

Putting down his phone, Chuuya brushes a finger underneath Dazai’s chin, urging Dazai to look up and meet his gaze. “For a certified genius, you’re pretty stupid.”

“For a terrifying yakuza executive, you’re pretty child-sized,” Dazai retorts immediately.

Instead of snapping back with an insult of his own, Chuuya grins and drags his thumb along Dazai’s bottom lip. “That’s my point. No one in my day-to-day life would ever speak to me the way you do, and even if it gets grating, it’s still refreshing. How could I possibly get tired of you when you’re such a handful? Much less when you’re so unpredictable.”

Dazai swears one day he’ll be prepared for the way Chuuya throws praise at him so nonchalantly but he hasn’t quite reached that day yet because his eyes widen in surprise before he catches himself. Letting out a huff, Dazai says, “you’ve got to be the only person alive who says shit like that.”

“Maybe, but it’s always entertaining to see you lost for words, even if it’s just for a second.”

He doesn’t get the chance to reply because Chuuya pulls him into a kiss that’s slow and thorough, the intent behind it exceedingly clear. Doubts suitably scattered, Dazai tugs on Chuuya’s arm until the other man is settled on top of him, lazily grinding his body down against Dazai’s as they kiss.

Not for the first time, Dazai spares a moment to thank that awful bout of writer’s block for coming at a surprisingly opportune time.



It turns out that there is a downside to having a sugar daddy involved in the yakuza. The downside, funnily enough, is that being spotted in public enough times with Chuuya’s hand at the small of his back seems to have made Dazai a target for some kind of enemy group, judging by how tightly his hands and feet are bound together and the armed gunmen at the door.

He’s just glad they decided to grab him on his walk back to his apartment after his late-night class on Wednesday rather than breaking into his apartment and potentially harming Oda in the process.

He’s also glad they waited until Wednesday night instead of grabbing him on Tuesday or Monday where he likely would have ended up turning in a particularly important assignment (the one he handed in before walking back home in the dark to get kidnapped) late, and Dazai’s not sure if his professor’s ‘no late work’ policy extends to extenuating circumstances such as his current one or if getting kidnapped by the yakuza is up there with ‘my dog ate my homework’ in the line of unbelievable excuses.

Of course, Dazai’s operating under the assumption that he’ll be walking away from this situation alive. It’s hard to say whether he’s just extremely confident that either Chuuya will come get him (and isn’t that a laugh that somehow Dazai is a damsel in distress) or the group will give up when it becomes clear that Dazai isn’t worth enough to Chuuya for him to risk his head over, or if he’s just in extreme denial at his prospects of having his brains splattered on the wall behind him.

Sitting in silence with his thoughts running a mile a minute is unpleasant in the best circumstances, so Dazai considers the room, weighs the chance of him talking himself straight into his own death with the group around him, and opens his mouth. “So…can anyone just explain to me what’s going on?”

“Acting stupid isn’t going to get you out of here.” The comment is directed his way by a man seated at a table to Dazai’s right.

“I’m not acting stupid, just genuinely confused,” Dazai insists, “I mean, I’m assuming I’m here because you guys don’t like Chuuya for some yakuza-related business but that’s all the knowledge I’ve got.”

“That’s all you need.”

Shifting takes some effort tied to a heavy wood chair, but Dazai manages it enough to face the table the man is sitting at. “Clearly, we’re waiting for…something, which means I could be here awhile. Chuuya’s the first person I’ve ever met with yakuza ties so I’m a little green to this whole situation. Is this a blackmail hostage type of plan or a lure him to his death type of plan?”

There are three men sitting at the table, and all of them turn to stare at Dazai incredulously as he talks. Dazai wonders if it’s that rare for a kidnapping victim to fish for information with questions.

But, evidently, it’s what he said that caught their attention because a different man repeats, “’with yakuza ties’, did you hear that? He said ‘with yakuza ties’. Nakahara.

“Nakahara Chuuya,” the first man who replied to Dazai begins, “is waist-deep in the yakuza, boy.” Dazai resists the urge to roll his eyes at the form of address from someone five years his senior at most. “He’s a thoroughbred, whole family is yakuza going back for generations. That man doesn’t ‘have ties’ with the yakuza, he’s old blood.”

“How impressive,” Dazai hums, not willing to show his surprise at the information the men are giving him. He has, of course, googled Chuuya but his internet searches came up with little. Only brief mentions of Chuuya in relation to what he assumed at the time to be shell companies with not so much as a picture to be found. “So…blackmail hostage or lure to death?”

“Don’t worry about it, just keep your mouth shut and keep being bait.”

Dazai stifles a sigh and tries to get comfortable in his seat. Staring at the opposite wall, he lets his mind drift off, away from the danger of his current situation because dwelling on it could drive him insane, and instead mentally working on the next story he plans to send to his literary agent (if he’s still alive to actually write it, of course).

Hours pass without any kind of change in activity in the room around him, but Dazai can feel the energy of the room shifting as time goes by, the men getting more restless in a way that indicates they weren’t expecting whatever this is to take so long.

Somewhere after the six-hour mark, Dazai catches whispers across the room.

“I thought you said this was bound to work!”

“He’s the only actual connection anyone can make to Nakahara, and they’ve been pictured together going back almost six months now.”

“If Nakahara is enough of a cold-hearted bastard to leave him for dead, would any of us actually be surprised?”

“No, but we don’t have another plan, this needs to work!”

“If nothing else, we can dump the kid’s corpse somewhere for their people to find as a warning.”

A knock sounds on the door, cutting through the bone-chilling conversation. For the first time, Dazai acknowledges that he’s actually in a life or death situation, and he barely moves a muscle as the man at the door calls. “Who’s there?”

“I believe I’m in the right place.”

Dazai bites back a grin at the familiar voice floating through the door, but he’s evidently the only person in the room able to recognize Chuuya’s voice immediately because the guard frowns at the room.

“Just see who it is.” Someone orders from behind Dazai.

The guard steps in front of the door and leans forward, looking through the peephole. His entire body tenses and he whirls to give a warning just a second too late as the door flies off its hinges inward to send him crashing into the opposite wall. Chuuya strides into the room, scanning it quickly until his eyes fall on Dazai.

Dazai’s grown used to Chuuya’s habit of scanning him from head-to-toe, usually checking him out in a bold flirtatious gesture, this time he can tell Chuuya is taking stock, making sure Dazai isn’t hurt badly enough to need immediate attention. He gives Chuuya a wry grin and quirks his eyebrow in a challenge that has a matching grin spreading on Chuuya’s face.

Blue eyes flick back to the room at large and Chuuya tilts his head, schooling his face into something bored. “Well, you went through all that trouble to get my attention, what did you want?”

“You and your boss think you can make a mockery of our organization without retribution.” Dazai would pity the idiot who thought it wise to speak up in the face of Chuuya’s cold stare if they hadn’t kept him tied to a damn chair for the night. “This is your retribution.”

Gunfire sounds and Dazai flinches, wanting to cover his ears at how deafening the noise of several guns is in the small space.

Not a single bullet lands on Chuuya. They all slow to a halt, covered in red light, to hover a safe distance away from their target. With wide eyes, Dazai watches as Chuuya pulls a gloved hand from his pocket and rolls two fingers in a circle as if orchestrating the way the bullets turn on their backs to face the other direction.

The existence of people with special abilities isn’t any sort of secret, but Dazai has never met such a person himself. To think that he’s been fucking an ability user for half-a-year is more stunning than fucking a yakuza prodigy.

Chuuya flicks his fingers in the direction of the room, and the bullets fly back toward the people who fire them. Dazai doesn’t tear his eyes away from Chuuya as he hears a handful of heavy thuds, indicating that Chuuya’s own volley found their marks. Pulling his other hand from his pocket, Chuuya dials on his phone and gives an order to the person on the other end to come to their location for ‘clean up’ before returning the phone to his pocket and crossing the room to where Dazai sits.

Staring up at Chuuya, Dazai feels like he’s seeing him all over again for the first time. A ridiculously overpaid yakuza executive with a special ability and the stomach to kill without batting an eyelash. He doesn’t have time to consider how fucked up of a person he is that none of those facts so much as bother him. Instead of dwelling on that question, Dazai decides to just be glad that Chuuya did not, in fact, leave him for dead.

Dropping to a crouch, Chuuya pulls a knife from inside his blazer, “I’m going to undo your legs first, then your hands.”

“Took you long enough,” Dazai replies, “they were starting to talk about dumping my body.”

Chuuya slices through the bonds around Dazai’s ankles and straightens, stepping around the chair as he says, “they didn’t think everything through all the way but they did a fantastic job covering their tracks, and I obviously didn’t want to involve the whole clan and put you on more people’s radars.” The bonds around his wrists are sliced away, and Dazai hisses as his limbs protest his attempt to swing them back around the chair.

“I’ve been here all night, I have class tomorrow.”

“Skip it.” Chuuya bends over, and Dazai doesn’t realize what’s happening until Chuuya’s already lifted him from the chair. He makes a noise of protest, that gets silenced with a stern look. “You’ve been in that chair for at least four or five hours, it’ll take too long for you to walk out of here. Just be quiet for once.”

Accepting the point, Dazai lets Chuuya carry him out of the seedy motel room and to the car still running in the parking lot. They don’t speak again until the motel is long gone in the rearview mirror, and it is Chuuya who goes to speak first, clearing his throat pointedly.

Dazai beats him to it. “Don’t say something stupid like ‘maybe we should stop, this is just going to put you in danger’.”

There’s silence for a long moment before Chuuya laughs. “There is something not quite right with you.”

“I’m sure people say the same thing about you.”

“Fair point, you’re still strange.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

Chuuya flashes a bemused grin at him. “Yeah, it is.”

Glancing away to hide the flush of warmth on his cheeks, Dazai mumbles, “I expect an extravagant ‘sorry for getting you kidnapped’ apology, though.”

“So…a great round of sex.”

“We always have great rounds of sex.” Dazai counters, grinning out the window. “Besides, isn’t the sex supposed to be what I give you?”

Chuuya steers the car onto the highway and Dazai lets the rumble of the engine shake the last vestiges of fear out of his body as Chuuya hums thoughtfully, “I suppose I can think of something special.”

“You’d be a shitty sugar daddy if you didn’t.” Chuuya laughs again and they lapse into a comfortable silence.

Realistically, Dazai should probably be having a mini panic episode over the fact that he just witnessed his sugar daddy murder a handful of people in cold-blood after being no more than an hour away from becoming a murder victim himself, and he’s sure he’ll get there at some point. But, in all honesty, no amount of panicking will take away from how much fun having Chuuya in his life has been and Dazai has no desire to say goodbye just because there’s some degree of life-threatening risk to the arrangement.

Instead of panic, something else extremely important crosses Dazai’s mind and he turns back to look at the other man. He pauses to take in the silhouette of Chuuya, deceptively soft features seeming to shift underneath the flickering of the street lights they speed past.

Sensing his scrutiny, Chuuya’s eyes flick to Dazai’s before returning to the road. “Something on your mind?”

Knocked out of his reverie, Dazai nods earnestly. “Yeah, the red light back there, that was your ability, right?” Chuuya nods. “Has it ever occurred to you that it might have very practical uses in the bedroom?”

There’s a long pause, Chuuya’s eyebrows practically vanishing into his hairline as if he’s trying to comprehend the fact that, after everything that just happened, this is where Dazai’s mind immediately went to. Shaking his head in disbelief, Chuuya mutters, “you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Don’t try and distract me with compliments, Nakahara,” Dazai blusters through the compliment.

Chuuya sighs, then flashes a devious smirk in Dazai’s direction. “Yes, it does have practical uses in the bedroom, but I’ll need something particularly convincing to show you.”

At the challenge, Dazai slumps back in his seat, already running through a dozen plans as he murmurs, “that won’t be a problem.”