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“I have to admit, I certainly am surprised to see this kind of torture chamber.”
One man is tied to a cool, metal chair by means of bandages. It’s not even nailed down to the floor, so it should be an easy escape for said man who has the power to manipulate gravity. ‘Should’ being the operative word. Somehow, despite the cheap metal and the even cheaper bandages, they’re able to hold him down, keeping him anchored to his seat.
Despite his precarious situation, not even a drop of sweat appears on the captive’s face. His arms are pulled back in an angle that’s considered severely uncomfortable at best, capable of cutting off blood circulation at its intended worst. Wrists locked together at the back of the chair, keeping his shoulders stiff and straight. His legs are wrapped from thighs down to ankles, intent on maximizing the amount of estate that’s covered in those bandages.
The only reason he’s been successfully captured is because he has somehow ingested the one poison that he hasn’t built resistance to—something that isn’t available in the market yet. Mixed with his favorite wine, delivered to him while he’s in his favorite bar.
Everything has been done to perfection. His habits have been studied inside-out. His routine has been staked out. It’s difficult not to feel flattered. He doesn’t have a shortage of wannabe-assassins, but nobody has tailored their attempt to this level. In fact, he’s even interested enough to… “How about it? Do you want to join Port Mafia instead?”
“Ah, is this your way of begging for your life?” A twist on the other’s lips. “That’s rather unsightly, Boss.”
He twists his lips as well. It’s been a very long time since someone has addressed him by that ‘job title’. One of the first things that he has established upon taking the helm is to have everyone call him by name. ‘Chuuya-san’ works best, ‘Nakahara-san’ will do in a pinch.
“It’s my way of acknowledging your hard work, Detective.”
Port Mafia rules the city’s underground network. There’s no such thing as scarcity of information. Then again, the figure in front of him is famous enough in his own right. There’s no self-respecting player in Yokohama’s underground who isn’t aware of this person’s identity.
The Detective with the highest solve rate, resting at a perfect hundred percent. The moment a case is assigned to him, victory is assumed to be at hand. Regardless if it’s an active case against a political behemoth, a business oligarch or even a cold case outside of the statute of limitations. He doesn’t shy away from the heavy weight of consequences of going against powerful forces.
Chuuya can appreciate that kind of tenacity. Even if it’s currently being aimed towards him and his organization. After all, he too possesses the same kind of stubbornness.
It’s just that…
“Really hard at work,” he says, unable to stop the drip of derision when the bulge on the other’s pants doesn’t subside at all. He’s had his suspicions before—there’s no single person in this world who is pure and untainted—that there must be a catch somewhere.
There’s no way in hell Dazai Osamu is as perfect as he sounds on paper.
“Not everyone can claim that they’ve managed to catch Port Mafia’s elusive Boss, no?” Dazai circles him from a distance that could almost be considered polite. It would even pass for a conversational afternoon tea—if not for the fact that he has bound Chuuya in bandages, if not for the fact that he’s maintained that very impolite erection from the get-go, if not for the fact that his eyes are sharper than the scalpel in his hands.
“I might be wrong given that I’m on the wrong side of the law…” He trails off for a moment, his neck itching when the other stands behind him and breathes a little too close. “But shouldn’t good little detectives be sending me to the police station?”
Of course, there’s no bail he cannot pay, there’s no lawyer he cannot hire, there’s no department he cannot bribe. But it’s the principle of the thing.
“Mm, and risk you slipping away from my grasp?” A short chuckle. It tickles the hairs on his nape. “After all my hard work?” At this point, Dazai completes the full circle of his dawdling, returning to the spot in front of him. The tent in his pants bigger, the storm in his eyes darker.
An unremarkable studio apartment. Places like this are aplenty in Yokohama. Small and cramped, mostly acting as a place for sleeping in a fast-paced city with a dazzling skyline.
There’s a ceiling fan whirring overhead, its blades a little wobbly with its age. A lumpy futon is wedged against the wall to his right, a sliding closet beside it. A wire-mesh screen covers the sole window, not wide enough to give him a good idea of which part of the city he’s being held in.
In front of him, there’s a tiny television set atop a drawer that’s stacked with old games. A small table, with a radio and a block of machinery that’s easily the most expensive thing inside this place. A laptop beside it, noise-cancelling headphones using its screen as a hanger.
The dining and kitchen area should be behind him, but he has a feeling that they serve as decoration rather than utility. All in all: a bachelor’s pad that one could see on a common man.
There’s nothing ‘common’ about the man in front of him. Not the copious amount of bandages, not the should-be-plain face that manages to be eye-catching. Certainly not the way that his eyes are darker than the most battle-hardened mafioso that he has dealt with over the years.
Today’s the first time he’s been face-to-face with this infamous detective and he wonders just how blind everyone else has been. This person reeks of shady fishiness, his eyes an oil spill of darkness over the make-believe veneer of politeness. Detective of the year? Outstanding Citizen Award? Honorable Yokohama Citizen Laureate? Are they fucking kidding him? How could they award those to someone who’s so obviously worse than a stinking mackerel demon?
“This city’s citizens really need to have their eyes checked.” He shakes his head despite the strain on his neck. “They actually trust someone like you?”
A shrug, as if it’s not his fault at all. “I’m not the kind of mafia boss who’d stop by a rain-drenched alley and save kittens, that’s for sure.”
Chuuya twitches and bites down on the urge to yell about the other’s stalking. “How worrying. A public servant is using the citizens’ hard-earned taxes to stalk someone like me.”
Dazai blinks at him. “Will you be this amiable for conversation once you’re aware of your actual situation?”
“I’m not afraid of you.” He’s been through too many things to feel a smidgen of fear towards this weirdo. Especially since his limbs are as thin as twigs. He’s not about to lose to a physical fight against anyone. This person must not have any power-related Ability, if the best he could do is to restrain Chuuya like this. An absorption or nullification Ability, most likely. That’s more than fine—he doesn’t need his gravity manipulation on most days anyway.
“Such bright eyes,” Dazai sighs, as he sinks to his knees in front of him. With his long limbs, he can easily reach out to cup his face. The coldness of the scalpel in his palm bridging their skins. “It really is better like this, instead of that tainted form of yours.”
It’s not exactly fear that he feels, but his blood does grow cold at these words. His gravity manipulation isn’t a secret—rather, it’s advertised freely, working its magic as a deterrent against anyone who’d like to bare their fangs against the mafia. On the other hand, his corrupted form is a tightly-guarded secret known only to a handful of people, most of them already resting six feet under.
“…You are more troublesome than expected.” Is he someone connected to the Arahabaki Experiments? Is that how he’s been able to enjoy substantial fame and influence, even though his smirk doesn’t even bother hiding his insidious hunger?
“It truly was coincidence that I saw you that day,” Dazai tells him with the air of a bedtime story—one that speaks of longing for eternal sleep. A languor that dreams of death. His syllables float in the air between them like snowflakes, unique in its entirety, even as it spreads a cold so searing that it inflames against his exposed skin. “You see, I wanted to try a cheerful suicide method by jumping off towards the sea, but you had interrupted my plans.”
It’s his turn to blink, parsing through the other’s bullshit to get to the meat of it. That day, he’s been cornered by his old gang in Suribachi Island, several organizations joining bloodstained hands in order to take down Port Mafia’s Boss. The seething darkness inside of him has clawed free of its confines, taking advantage of him being at his weakest point.
He doesn’t remember seeing Dazai then, but even with his sharpest instincts, he wouldn’t have noticed the other. He’s been too busy with his own affairs otherwise. Suribachi Island isn’t exactly teeming with high-rise buildings—and now it’s been hollowed-out, thanks to that day’s events—but it’s surrounded by waters on all corners.
He blinks again. “What a shame.” If this person has succeeded in such a strange thing as a ‘cheerful suicide’ back then, he wouldn’t have to deal with him now.
“That’s what I thought too.” An airy agreement. Dazai’s hands retreat from caressing his face, but it’s so he could press his advantage by dragging his scalpel over Chuuya’s chest, slicing past his shirt. “However, I did get to see something interesting, so I watched instead.”
Now that this fishy bastard has mentioned it—
“You’re the one who canceled it.” A nullification Ability then. That’s even better—he could escape here easier since this person doesn’t have the means to absorb his Ability.
The scalpel bypasses the buttons holding his shirt close. From his collarbone, down to his navel. The cut ends just-above the thick line of bandages that hugs his hips to the chair he’s seated on.
“You looked like you would die if it raged on longer.” As simple as that. A man who wanted to commit suicide preventing someone from dying under the uncontrolled weight of his power. “It would have been a shame if such an interesting thing died before I could have examined him under the microscope, hmm?”
“You’re calling me a thing right to my face? You’ve got balls, asshole.”
“I could call you a number of things,” Dazai offers, the heaviness in his gaze in sharp contrast to the feather-light caress of his blade against his abdomen. A cut that doesn’t feel like one—it’s as if he’s using his scalpel as a pen that could trace his desires onto him.
It’s itchy instead of painful. The scalpel teases opening his skin as it traces his abdominal muscles. He has excellent control of his body, but he can’t help but take a sharp breath at this treatment.
The first pass doesn’t draw any blood. As if he’s merely penciling in his lines over his canvas. Dazai settles against his bound legs more comfortably, wrapped around him like a gigantic leech. Anyone else who’d see them from afar might think that there’s a supplicant kneeling while worshipping and begging for god’s favor.
—but maybe it’s not too far from reality.
Dazai breathes in deeply, leaning closer so that he’s nosing against his crotch. It’s an odd posture that should be uncomfortable for the other, but his hands are steady as he deepens the lines that he has previously traced.
This time, the slices over his abs draw blood. There’s a pinch of pain, sure, but the reason why he lets out a groan is because Dazai pushes his face closer, and licks each droplet that wells out of his skin.
Chuuya’s arms tremble against their bind. He wants to—
And then Dazai moans against the wounds he has inflicted, and stops being coy with his kitten-licks. He presses his entire mouth against his skin, biting over the muscle definition, and sucks hard.
“Fuck you very much, you piece of shit,” Chuuya breathes out as he strains against the chair, weighed down by Dazai’s presence over him. The scent of iron fills the air. His vision is filled by the sight of Dazai’s red lips devouring him from the ground up.
“Maybe later,” is the other’s play at a noncommittal response. It doesn’t work, because his blissed-out look spills all over his face with the subtlety of an explosion that hollows out an entire island. He crawls upwards until he’s seated over his lap. It’s obvious that he has also spilled inside his pants, just by the sheer satisfaction of getting to taste his blood.
Dazai taps the flat side of the blade against his mouth, letting him feel the warmth that it has gained from being used on his skin. He raises his eyebrow, completely devoid of fear. “I’m on the wrong side of the law, so I might need a refresher.” A slow drawl. “This doesn’t seem like a standard interrogation process, Detective Dazai.”
“If everyone I’ve ever interrogated looked as beautiful and interesting as you…” A sigh, as he makes himself more comfortable in his perch. “Mm, you’re the only one who’s grown hard like this,” Dazai says as he grinds down against him.
His eyebrows rise higher. “You often sit on the laps of the people you’ve arrested?”
“Fufufu, there’s only you.” The blade still pressed against his mouth—no, this time, it’s sandwiched between their mouths, as Dazai leans ever so closer, until they could be considered as doing something as innocuous as kissing. If only one could ignore that scalpel between them.
It’s tempting to ignore it entirely, to simply bite the other’s mouth and plunge his tongue inside. Wrestle back the control away from the other, sink him deeper into this quagmire. The look of bliss from earlier, he wants something so much worse than that.
Thankfully for the safety of his tongue, Dazai reintroduces some physical distance between them. Leans back a bit, if only so he could better admire the view. The distance between their groins shrink, as Dazai uses his scalpel to slice off both their pants in quick, efficient strikes.
One hand curves against the left side of his neck, and the other brings the blade up to the right side. Grazes it against the column of skin, like he’s helping him shave the tiny hairs over it. It dawdles on its trail right over his carotid. One deep slice and his life is going to be a red firework of arterial spray.
He meets Dazai’s eyes and draws them back to their earlier conversation, “Amongst the many possibilities, what did you plan on calling me?”
“Mine and mine alone,” Dazai doesn’t disappoint his expectations, lips curved like a crescent moon leeching life and light from the sun. Sheer lunacy compared to the rest of everyday occurrences.
Perhaps it’s infectious, easily transmissible within such close distance. His mouth mimics the other’s smile. “Such a proposal… are you ready to bear it?”
The reason why he’s been driven to drink to excess in that bar—the survivors of the Suribachi Island explosion have started to treat him differently. They now all look at him like he’s a monster, like he’s a harbinger of calamity. Stacking that on top of his old gang’s betrayal, as well as the scattering of things that he’s learned during that debacle…
And yet, there is one person who has seen all that and instead wants more.
“I have lived with hollowness throughout my life.” There’s no inflection of sadness in his words. A mere statement of fact. His lower half is a lot more impolite, leaking his desires all over the place, wet and slippery in a way that isn’t linked to blood. “Now that I’ve found something to fill it up, do you think that I’d falter?”
Someone who has seen his darkest side and decides that he wants to devour it.
How could he resist?
“If you ever betray me, I will decimate you until not even dust remains,” he promises and means it completely.
Dazai shudders against him, tracing his name all over his neck with shaky fingers. The pain is secondary to the white-hot pleasure he feels when Dazai all but pants all over him like a thirsty traveler that has somehow managed to reach an oasis after a lifetime of searching. It will bruise so very badly, especially since the other’s teeth are practically gnawing at him, insistent on ingraining his presence upon him.
He bucks up against the other’s weight, their cocks sliding wetly against each other. He throws his head back from both the electricity of the other’s mouth and the desire to give him more real estate to work with.
“If you ever look at anyone else but me,” and here, Dazai hisses sharply at the hypothetical scenario that he has drawn up, as if he’s received a knife to the back by the sheer thought of it, “I will have no choice but to gouge your eyes.” One hand drifts high, thumb pressing against his faint eyebags from overwork.
Bright, bright eyes. “I’ll keep one and preserve it as my personal décor.” His thumb digs deeper, as his hips move faster against him. “And the other one… perhaps I’ll eat it, so it will be safe inside me forever.”
They smile at each other, both tinged with bloodlust.
“You think I’ll let you do all that, shitty Dazai?”
Even if the bandages used to bind him have somehow infused by the other’s nullification Ability, they’re still ultimately useless against raw power. They’ve never stood a chance in pinning him down for a long time.
“You’ve already indulged me by allowing yourself to be caught by my hands.” A claw over his face, as if he’s attempting to tear open his skin so he can peer directly at his insides. “Won’t you indulge me even more?”
Chuuya breaks free from the flimsy binds, then shoves the two of them into the floor. He relishes in the squeeze of Dazai’s breath against him, in the way that the blade digs a little deeper against his neck due to the commotion.
Dazai trembles, eyes wide as he processes this display of trust. Of course, his physical constitution is a lot tougher compared to others, but he isn’t some immortal being. The blade this close to snuffing out his life—
“You wouldn’t kill me,” he declares with heavy conviction. “You’d never be able to bring yourself to.”
“Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to possess you,” Dazai says, delirious with happiness. He thrusts up against him. Chuuya cooperates by shifting his hips so that Dazai can fuck him, even with just the tip, given that they haven’t done any preparation whatsoever.
The moment Dazai’s cock breaches him, his hips stutter forward and he comes, open-mouthed and white-knuckled as he digs his nails against the other’s chest.
By the time his mind stops feeling like it’s been boiled into putty, he feels the other’s come dripping out of him. Dazai’s blade dance all over his chest. An iteration of his name being written all over him. He slumps forward, and the scalpel moves to write loops of ‘Dazai’ all over his back instead.
“It’s my turn later,” he says, sleep pulling him deeper. A display of trust, knowing that the other is too enamored with his presence that he wouldn’t think of harming him.
Dazai’s chest rumbles with contentment. “I look forward to it, Chuuya.”
—A pair of invisible iron shackles that they’ve willingly accepted.
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end