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“How could this happen, Chuuya?”
“I thought I didn’t have any more time, Boss. I was doing what I had to for the mission to succeed.”
“Activating Corruption without my orders—”
“I didn’t!”
“You were heard!”
The loud sound of Dazai smashing his hand on the desk surface echoes in the room, silencing the discussion.
Chuuya gulps sourly, bowing his head in respect as he’s expected to. His Boss is mad, and he caused it – lying would do him no good. He did, in fact, start to recite Arahabaki’s chant, only to be stopped vehemently by Atsushi before he could reach the end.
“The Boss isn’t here! Are you crazy?!”
Right.
Because Dazai wasn’t there – it was a suicidal move.
But Chuuya has never been good at witnessing subordinates fall under the enemy’s hands, and he wanted to save them. He wanted to bring them home so bad he didn’t even think before acting.
“Defying me is an act of insubordination, Chuuya.”
“I apologize, Boss.”
“The mission was aborted, and we lost the cargo. “
“I said I’m sorry, Dazai!”
When the executive looks into the man’s eyes, he’s not afraid to step out of formalities.
He won’t fight his accusation, won’t create a commotion. Not this time, when panic and concern were painfully written in Dazai’s eyes as soon as Chuuya stepped into his office. Betrayal was darkening his amaranth irises, and Chuuya knew he had fucked up: he’s not supposed to let Dazai outlive him. A silent, mutual promise – a treacherous truth disguised as a rivalry.
Now, Dazai stares at him in silence.
Slowly, his expression morphs into the same mask he wears every day; his eyes don’t show emotions anymore.
He stands, giving a curt nod before sliding his hands into the pockets of his blazer.
“Are you injured?”
“No,” Chuuya answers quickly, shaking his head. “I’m okay, Osa—“
“Very well,” Dazai lifts a hand to silence him before glaring in his direction. “Lock the door. I want no one to interrupt your punishment.”
And it would be horrifying for anyone to hear such words from the Port Mafia Boss – but not for Chuuya. Although Dazai’s methods of choice to punish him might not be all that effective and frustrating, Chuuya never had to lose trust in the process.
So he obeys without answering: he walks to the door, locks it carefully, and lazily walks back to his Boss – his partner, his lover.
Chuuya walks closer, reaching the side of the desk behind which Dazai is still standing, and carefully observes him. The executive doesn’t need to be instructed to know the next steps.
“Boss,” he murmurs, staring deep into Dazai’s eyes. His knees bend, following a thread of actions he knows by heart and sinking them into the carpeted floor. His hands run to his neck, clicking open his usual choker from around his throat and spreading it on his palms before lifting them toward the man, keeping his head bent in respect. “I deserve your punishment, Boss.”
Dazai hums quietly, taking the small leather string from the executive’s hands. He places it on his desk and then walks the two steps separating him from the bookshelf behind them and fumbles with a small safe, an old-fashionable type.
Chuuya doesn’t need to look to know what he’s retrieving.
“Bare your chest for me,” the Port Mafia boss steps in front of him again. Chuuya was already fumbling with his clothes, discarding his jacket and upper layers, unbuckling the weapon harness to free his shirt and unbutton it.
The steady, deep breath of Dazai is the only sound in the room as the executive undresses his torso. He inhales sharply as the man’s hand titles his chin up with a steady grip, making their eyes meet.
When Dazai bends toward him, Chuuya’s eyelids flutter – fighting not to close – before his lips are pressed lightly against his parted mouth. The redhead hums, comforted by the tender contact but knowing very well that this is the first and last gentle touch he’ll receive from his lover – at least for a while.
The kiss is slow and wet, open-mouthed, and Dazai hums into his mouth with appreciation as spit rolls down the side of Chuuya’s mouth. The hand holding Chuuya’s chin slides lower, following the line of his neck and down his pecks. Dazai’s fingers are cold, but not as cold as the small chain that slides over the redhead’s skin a second later, before a sharp pain makes him choke on a wail.
Even if Chuuya was expecting it, it still gets him every time.
The nipple clasp is biting into his flesh, the rubber as smooth as it can be, it’s still a tight bite over his sensitive nubs, and when the second clasp is placed, Dazai straightens up again, admiring Chuuya’s fogged eyes and disheveled expression – the wet sparkle of spit coating his chin.
“Open your pants now,” Dazai says, lifting a collar off the desk. “And give me your neck.”
Chuuya breathes out slowly, trying to fight the arousal spreading like poison through his veins. He leans forward a little and stretches his neck for the other man as his hands work around the button and zip of his pants.
The collar Dazai likes to dress his neck with when punishing him is thick and rigid. It bites into Chuuya’s flesh when tightened, drawing marks that last for days. Dazai takes his sweet time putting it around his throat, ensuring it is tight enough to be felt but not debilitating. There’s a certain art in his gestures that Chuuya appreciates. Every single movement, every tap of his fingers, is tailored around the redhead’s very needs, and they both know it.
A ring sits at the back of the collar, and Dazai wastes no time before tying a leash to it. He tugs at it twice, tasting the tightness, staring at Chuuya’s face to ensure they’re still two in the game.
Once satisfied, the man slides handcuffs off his pockets, hanging them on an index in front of the executive’s face.
“Get up.”
Chuuya obliges, pants open around his hips, the small bulge of his cock tenting his boxers in plain view.
Without being told, he turns his back to Dazai and stretches his arms behind himself, offering his wrists.
“I see you know how to please me,” Dazai says lively, grabbing his hands. He cuffs Chuuya’s wrists quickly, not too tight or loose either: they need to reduce his movements, not cut into his flesh. “You can read each of my moves, huh?”
Chuuya grits his teeth not to answer. He knows Dazai is taunting him on purpose, but he won’t fall into his trap.
“But I’m sure I still know how to surprise you,” Dazai adds in a whisper, pressing closer to Chuuya’s back – mouth brushing along the executive’s ear as he speaks. It effectively draws Chuuya’s attention to his words and not to his hands, because when his bottom clothes get tugged down his legs harshly, he jerks, startled.
What surprises him for good, though, is how Dazai’s hands reach to his groin and grab his barely awake cock without many ceremonies, only to slide a cock ring around his balls and settle it at its base. The feeling makes Chuuya whine in frustration, and his hands clench into fists.
“D-Dazai, c’mon—“
“Ah-ha. No, no, no, Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice is pregnant with amusement. “You’re not to complain. You’re not to speak at all tonight. Am I clear?”
Chuuya bites on his lower lip so harshly it hurts. But Dazai grabs his face from behind, forcing him to release the bite and stop before drawing blood. He presses his nose against Chuuya’s cheek, brushing his lips against his flushed skin before opening them to speak – his moist breath makes the executive quiver effortlessly.
“Answer me, Chuuya.”
“Yes,” the executive snarls lowly, bending his head. Now, it’s a mix of shame, need, and anger.
“I didn’t hear.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Better,” Dazai hums, pleased, his hands resting on Chuuya’s hips for a minute longer – fingers pressing in the flesh, grasping hungrily at his body. Then, he subtly pushes one knee behind the redhead’s leg, and Chuuya loses balance.
Dazai doesn’t force him to hit the floor but more likely guides him until Chuuya is kneeling on the floor again. His pants and boxers are pooled at his ankles, his shoes still on, and that restrains his movements even more.
With a smirk, Dazai stares at him from above, taking a good hold of the leash connected to Chuuya’s collar before pushing him forward. “Crawl.”
The deaf sound of Chuuya swallowing dryly rings in the Port Mafia Boss’s ears. Hands cuffed behind his back and kneeling on the floor, Chuuya has no balance whatsoever, if not the pull of the collar around his neck and the strength of his abdominal muscles to trust, as he slowly starts to move.
The collar dips hard into his throat, making his breath short as he leans all his weight on it, but Dazai doesn’t seem to mind: the man walks behind him a step at a time as Chuuya aims at the couch.
When they reach it, Dazai lets him rest his head on the cushion for a moment.
“Kneel on the couch,” he orders, unbuckling his pants with one hand only, pulling at the leash to underline his words. And he has no mercy on the executive: Dazai laughs mockingly when Chuuya struggles to get up on the pillows, limbs restricted and feet tangled in his own pants. He literally worms his way up the couch, huffing in shame and whining softly when the collar bites harder in his neck every time he slips.
“My… my…” Dazai laughs when Chuuya finally manages to press his front to the couch’s back but releases a pitiful whimper, a half-choked-down moan, at the contact of his nipples against the surface. “Such a lame dog I have. No wonder you’re no good playing fetch, huh?”
“Fuck y—“
Chuuya gasps when his breath gets cut off harshly. A violent pull of the leash, his words dying in his throat – eyes stinging at the uncomfortable feeling of the collar choking him without warning.
“Another word,” Dazai’s voice thunders. “And I’ll fuck you dry, you hear me?”
Chuuya musters all his patience not to snap again. He has no doubt Dazai would comply with his words if given the opportunity. But, as much as Chuuya enjoys the aftermath of his partner’s punishments, they’re not always merciful.
This time, Chuuya doesn’t have much faith that Dazai will go gentle on him: he’s hurt, irate. Chuuya made him worry; he made Dazai feel powerless. So no doubt the man is taking everything from Chuuya. And even if the redhead might agree he deserves to be his frustration outlet, he’s no fan of having his ass bleed or burn for days.
“On second thought….” Dazai hums, brushing his knuckles on the hills of Chuuya’s buttocks. “You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”
Chuuya tenses under his touch, breath trapped as he processes the man’s words. If he answers now, it will be his doom.
Suppressing a low whimper, he hides his face in the couch’s fabric, letting Dazai make the ultimate decision. It’s a gamble, but Chuuya doesn’t have tricks to win.
He hears it before feeling it, the way Dazai spits on him. Warm spit rolls between his ass cheeks, two fingers gathering it and spreading the sticky liquid thoughtfully over his hole. Chuuya clenches his fists, mouth opening into a bite around the couch’s cushion.
Damn it.
When said fingers press into him, both of them, although slow and careful, his body quivers – his ass clenches around the intrusion.
“…please,” Chuuya whispers, lost between need and trepidation, even if knowing very well that his plea can bring both pain and pleasure just in the same way.
“Begging, huh?” Dazai mocks, pulling at the leash with his other hand, forcing the redhead to arch under him. “Good. Very good.”
The fingers leave him empty and wet, and the leash falls on his back as Dazai steps away from the couch, but Chuuya doesn’t dare to move. Each time his chest brushes against the sofa, the nipple clasps send electric shocks to his brain – pain and pleasure mix, keeping him on alert.
The next time Dazai touches him, it’s to spread his ass with a hand groping at the flesh. The Mafia Boss slides his cock against his hole, and Chuuya recognizes the texture of a condom wrapped around the shaft. It’s lubed, although not as much as it’d make it the most pleasant, but it’s still something.
Dazai presses against him, the head of his cock forcing his muscles to open under the pressure. Chuuya’s eyes widen, realizing just how fast his lover is going, so he forces himself to relax. It’s not as easy as said to focus on the feeling of Dazai’s cock opening him like that, but it’s not the first time either: foreplay and preparation aren’t always their companions.
Sometimes they fuck during missions, sometimes Dazai needs to let off steam through meetings, and Chuuya is used to fast, rough fucks in the weirdest contexts. But the small amount of lube coating the man’s erection is a huge factor.
Still, Dazai wasn’t that wrong earlier.
Chuuya likes to be fucked rough. He likes to feel overpowered, stripped of his control and limits. He likes to put all of himself into Dazai’s hands, and never before did his partner let him down. Yes, at times it hurt; other times Chuuya had a literal hard time walking for a few hours – or even a day – but there’s never been a precedent of Dazai hurting him just because.
He trusts his Boss to care for him even through rage – through disappointment and worry.
“O-Osamu—“
“Hush,” the man groans, pushing inside him without a halt. The friction and resistance from the executive’s body are also putting a toll on Dazai, but it’s not stopping him. “I don’t wanna hear anything else but moans from you, Chuuya.”
Biting on his lower lip, Chuuya squeezes his eyes, trying to force his body to let go of the tension – to accept the intrusion that is, after all, familiar and fulfilling.
“You’re so tense,” Dazai mutters a minute later, almost completely inside him but not moving anymore. He presses a butterfly kiss on Chuuya’s naked shoulder, breathing in his scent without hurry. Chuuya is quivering with the strain, head pulsing with how hard he’s gritting his teeth. There is no pain – just an ever-present burn and the fatigue from the sudden stretch – but it’s not an easy feeling.
Dazai fumbles with something behind him, and when Chuuya feels cold liquid slide on the heated, delicate skin of his ass, his heart misses a beat with relief.
“You’re behaving,” the Mafia Boss says lowly, spreading the lube with one hand around his shaft right where they meet. He pulls out a little, rocking his hips slowly to make it easier for the lube to coat Chuuya’s hole. He wanders between the executive’s thighs with his other hand, holding him around the hips. “Gonna make it easier for you, hm? Even if you don’t deserve my benevolence.”
“Thank you, Boss,” Chuuya whispers obediently, exhaling heavily when Dazai’s fingers wrap around his half-erect cock. The ring trapping his balls base is tight and pulls, but for now, it’s bearable. And yet, against his own words, Dazai is putting effort into building pleasure for Chuuya, letting him adjust to the stretch of his cock as he slowly moves inside him, jerking his erection with measured flicks of his wrist.
When the thrusts start to get easier, Dazai decides that it’s enough: that Chuuya is ready to be used as he planned.
The way he grabs the leach back is vehement. Chuuya’s neck strain when his collar tightens with a hard pull, and he cries out: it’s not just the leather biting into his flesh, but Dazai’s cock slides deep inside him, hard, and the pressure against his prostate is strong and without warning.
He shakes under Dazai’s touch, trashing against him as his arms fight to move. He wants to grab something – Chuuya is desperate for leverage, but he’s unable to move freely. His nipples press into the couch, and he cries out half a sob and half a moan, loving and hating those devilish devices torturing his sensible nipples.
But it’s not like Dazai cares.
The man’s thrusts start to get erratic quickly. His hips snap forward forcefully, skin against skin, balls slapping harshly against Chuuya’s. Each time Dazai’s cock moves, the redhead moans without effort. The angle Dazai is fucking him with doesn’t leave any way out: the pleasure builds quickly and sharply. Every time that cock presses into Chuuya’s prostate is overwhelming.
Soon enough, Chuuya realizes that this is exactly what Dazai wants: he’s fucking him almost mechanically, without sentiment whatsoever, only to bring Chuuya to the climax as fast as he can. And when Dazai wraps a hand around his cock, it gets evident.
“I’ll make you cry,” Dazai snarls at his ear, bent on his back and still rocking into him. He’s pulling the leach back, keeping Chuuya arched and still under his ministration, unable to move a single inch if he doesn’t want to choke himself out of consciousness, and the redhead knows he’s right. He’s gonna end this night crying, one way or another.
When the orgasm hits, it’s painful.
Chuuya comes dry and hard, his balls pulsing pitifully as he’s unable to release; his cock burns, but Dazai doesn’t stop fisting it.
Tears fill Chuuya’s eyes easily at that strenuous sensation, and he doesn’t fight it. He’s not gonna fight anything else at all.
It takes a minute longer, with pain and pleasure flowing into Chuuya as a single wave, until Dazai stops moving.
He doesn’t get out but keeps Chuuya stretched around his cock, deep buried in his ass, but at least he gives him a break.
Both the man’s hands run along the sides of the executive’s back, climbing his ribs and around his chest, reaching the abused nipples pinched so brutally by the clasps.
“Are you going to be a loyal dog after today, Chuuya?”
The executive wails when Dazai pulls at the small chain connecting the nipple’s clasps, making his whole body shake forcefully, a cry of pain leaving his lips as he tries to fight his instincts to flee: moving would only make it worse.
“Are you going to fucking listen to my orders, hah?”
Dazai’s voice is taunting as he still tugs at the connected clasps, playing with Chuuya’s sanity.
“Yes!”
“Hah?!”
“AAAH—!”
Chuuya jerks violently under Dazai when the man pulls at the chain on his chest with a strong enough hold that one clasp drags one nipple with a much more painful tug before freeing it from the painful pinch.
It’s overwhelming. For a second, Chuuya sees white and his brain empties, but he’s violently thrown back to Earth when Dazai takes a solid grip on his hair: Chuuya’s head gets bent back forcefully, the collar biting into his nape, and the feeling it’s too harsh for him to keep tears behind his eyelids.
“When I was told what you tried to do,” Dazai says at his ear, venom in his voice. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“I— I’m s-sorry—!”
Dazai breathes in deeply, nose sliding between his hair until he nudges at his wet cheek. Then, he licks along the path of Chuuya’s tears, cleaning them off his cheek before pressing a kiss to his temple.
“I know you are, Chibi.”
The contact is so incredibly gentle, the words so affectionate, that it feels like a punch in Chuuya’s guts – more tears roll down his cheeks.
“Don’t do it again,” Dazai orders him with a murmur, the grip on his hair releasing, the sharp angle he tugged Chuuya’s head back eases. “Ever, Chuuya. Ever again.”
Unable to find his voice, Chuuya nods. Once, twice… he keeps nodding as he’s allowed to rest his head against the couch again, trying to soothe the ache in his neck.
Dazai’s lips are warm and soft as they press kisses along his spine, their hips flushed together, only the sound of Chuuya’s labored breath filling the room. Until Dazai begins to move his hips again.
It’s like he never stopped.
The lube is drying, but Dazai doesn’t add any more. His hips push sharply into Chuuya, and the soft, oversensitive flesh of the executive is already quivering at each movement, but he doesn’t complain.
All Chuuya feels is aching bones, joints, neck, and the burn at the base of his cock. And yet, having Dazai move inside him is gratifying in ways he can’t name. There’s a subtle pleasure lingering all over and inside him – his thighs are trembling with the effort of sustaining his body in the same position – but the weight of Dazai against his lower back is grounding.
Just how much did Dazai worry? Was he scared?
Chuuya can’t even begin to comprehend how his lover’s brain processes fear. It must be exhausting, terrifying even.
Just thinking about that makes Chuuya’s anger bubble in his guts, directed at himself.
I can’t outlive you.
The words Dazai once whispered to him are a lucid reminder of just how desperate Dazai must have felt when he realized that Chuuya could have killed himself. Sacrificed himself. Those words are bitter yet warm in Chuuya’s mind – murmured at his ear in the depth of a night Dazai spent in between nightmares, holding on to him like his whole life depended on Chuuya’s.
It was the night Chuuya had started to consider him as something much more than just his Boss. More than a partner. More than… an occasional fuck. He felt important, and he felt necessary.
Distracted in his own mind, Chuuya falls under Dazai’s thrusts, eventually.
One of his knees gives in, and he slides to a side, yelping brokenly. The leash pulls in surprise, but Dazai doesn’t force him back up. Instead, the Mafia Boss pushes him down on the couch, one hand pressed between his shoulder blades as he slides out of him for what feels like the first time in hours.
Hooking their legs together, with a harsh tug, Dazai messily guides Chuuya on the couch so that his head is pressed down and his ass stays propped up in the air for him. He finds his way inside the executive’s body easily, and the pleasure grows and grows without giving Chuuya a break.
It’s painful again when the orgasm edges him and explodes in his guts under each slap of Dazai’s hips against his ass. It’s even stronger than before, and it makes Chuuya sob into the couch’s soft surface – his wrists burn with how he struggles into the handcuffs, and he hears himself wailing pitifully. If he had any rationality at all, Chuuya would be ashamed.
But this time, Dazai doesn’t seem willing to slow down at all. If anything, the man fucks into him even faster and harder. He grips the couch back to gain more strength in his thrusts and pulls at the leash so hard that Chuuya’s head snaps back, and the airflow is cut from the redhead’s lungs long enough to blur his vision.
The groans and low moans coming from Dazai’s throat are a fair warning that the man is chasing his own climax. Chuuya isn’t sure if he’s relishing the feeling when his lover finally comes, or if he’s dreading this end.
Sore and aching, with his balls pulsing painfully and his neck cracking back into a more natural position when the leash gets released, Chuuya collapses on the couch, trembling, soft sobs escaping his lips without his knowledge.
Chuuya needs a release. He needs to be able to move, to feel his hands again, to be held and comforted and—
“Don’t do that to me ever again….”
Dazai’s voice comes to him from afar. It’s soft and so hushed the executive wonders if he simply imagined it. But then his arms get freed with a soundly click. Warm hands massage his lower back, lips kiss gently the marks left on one of his wrists while Dazai guides him to lie on one side.
The unexpected gentle gestures do something to Chuuya’s brain, making him instinctively reach for Dazai, turning around to slide his arms around his neck and drag him closer— but Dazai stops him.
It’s a genuine whimper of distress that breaks past Chuuya’s throat at that, reading betrayal in his lover’s actions at first. But then Dazai pulls him closer, helping Chuuya up and around until he’s sitting between the man’s legs, leaning on his chest and wrapped between his arms in a tight hug. It’s silent and comforting, and Chuuya lets his head fall against Dazai’s shoulder, not minding the harshness of the collar: he seeks the man’s scent and taste.
Dazai nudges Chuuya’s cheek with his nose. The hug gets released, but only for the man to lower his hands between Chuuya’s thighs and free him from that hideous cock ring, earning a whine of relief and a shudder. At last, Dazai releases the last standing clasp from Chuuya’s nipple, taking away everything but the collar – that one always stays long. Chuuya isn’t surprised.
“Did I hurt you?”
Chuuya shakes his head a little, hiding his face in the Mafia Boss’s neck. If it did hurt, now it doesn’t matter.
This calm, this stillness of time and space, it’s worth every sort of unpleasant feeling. Bathing in Dazai’s warmth, in his peculiar scent tinted with gunpowder and blood seeping from his clothes, but sweaty and weirdly sweet, is something Chuuya wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.
Humming softly, Dazai gently cups his balls, pressing a kiss to his exposed cheek.
Chuuya shivers; his thighs part a little wider even as they quiver, and he lifts his head enough to look up at the other.
“I’m sorry….”
“I know,” Dazai brushes their mouths together, carefully squeezing his tight nuts in his palm while beginning to fist Chuuya’s still hard cock with his other hand.
Moaning loudly, the redhead squeezes his eyes to focus on the feeling. It’s painful, but there is also raw pleasure, and he can’t help but press harder into Dazai, needy and trembling against his chest. So Dazai takes his lips – finally, Chuuya thinks, melting in the kiss that he didn’t realize was craving – and Chuuya erases any other thought from his mind.
It’s just Dazai. His hands. His ownership over him.
Dazai, who has his pain and pleasure balanced in his hands, owning his body and mind altogether, even when No Longer Human is asleep. How could Chuuya forget all of this earlier that evening?
How could Chuuya risk losing all of this?
As pleasure coils through his insides, he empties in his lover’s hands, moaning into his mouth, around his tongue, melting against his body, and wishing for a wild moment for this feeling to never stop – to never be required to breathe again, to walk away from this man.
Dazai is his final sentence and his redemption.
And when, finally, the man unlaces the collar from around his neck, throwing it carelessly to the floor before holding him closer on his lap.
“Stay,” Dazai murmurs, placing apologetic kisses all over the bruised skin marking Chuuya’s delicate throat. The executive isn’t sure if that’s a request for now or for the future they might still share together. Still, he can’t help but wrap his arms around Dazai’s shoulders, holding himself a little tighter against him while still high and riding the emotional roller coaster that only this man is able to make him experience.
“As you wish, Boss.”