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Body leaned forward, nigh folded in half over the motorcycle so his bare thighs touch his equally bare chest, Dazai watches mutely as Chuuya ties his hands to the handlebars with excruciating care. The rope is a dark red, standing out against his skin and making pink scars look pinker in their contrast.
Behind his gag, he whines impatiently.
“Shut up,” Chuuya tells him, tugging the rope tighter just to spite him and grinning devilishly back at him when it makes him wince. “I’m almost done. You sat so pretty while I did your legs; you don’t want to go misbehaving now, do you?”
Dazai hmphs.
“Yeah, yeah. Two more minutes, then we can play.”
Two minutes turn into an eternity, and Dazai closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Chuuya’s strong fingers dancing between his skin and the rope. The footrests dig into his soles where they’re tied down, his tights tight against the sides of the machine, tied down so firmly the meagre fat there squeezes out between the strands. It’d been his choice to do this in the Port Mafia garage, just after everyone would be going home, knowing there’d probably be a few stragglers here and there. They were of course in Chuuya’s private portion of the garage, surrounded by his overly expensive, flashy cars, but the thrill of possibility still got to him.
The most embarrassing part is that he can already feel a puddle of slick forming on the leather seat beneath him, and Chuuya’d barely touched him. A hand ghosting over his tits, pinching his nipple and twisting before disappearing; a nip at his jaw and nails digging into his hip.
“There,” Chuuya says at last. Dazai peeks one eye open, trying to appear bored. Evidently, it doesn’t work, because Chuuya just leans forward and bites at his neck, humming, eyes heavy and lidded. Reflexively, Dazai’s wrists twitch, the urge to dig his hands into red hair and pull him closer almost instinctual by now. It makes Chuuya laugh, feeling it from where his hand’s still settled on top of Dazai’s own, and he pulls away to laugh more openly and meanly. “Aw, did you forget already?”
Resolving himself to silence, Dazai tossed his nose in the air, screwing his eyes shut haughtily, resolute in not playing the evil chibi’s games. All of that goes out the door as soon as the machine roars to life beneath him. The sound of the engine fills the garage in harmony with the choked, gagged, moan Dazai lets out. Between his thighs, the seat begins to vibrate with the engine, right against his wet folds.
Hips jerking instinctively, he stares, wet-eyed, at Chuuya, who’s got his hands on the handlebars, right beside Dazai’s own, working the motor. “What? This was your idea,” He says emphatically, clearly amused at Dazai’s distress. “Stronger than you thought it’d be, huh?”
Dazai makes a pathetic noise into the gag, drowned out by the sound of the engine and Chuuya’s laugh. He twists his hand, grinning devilishly down his nose at Dazai where he’s slumped forward, chest pressing uncomfortably to the area below the handles, arms bent at an odd angle to accommodate his limp body. His thighs quiver where the tops of them press against his chest, breasts squished between the leather and his own skin. Like this, he’s at the perfect angle, legs spread and tied, for his clit to brush just so against the leather, hot with his own body heat and the heat of the engine, slick with an outpouring of his own fluid. He hopes, vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind where rational thought lives and quickly dwindles, overshadowed by a pleasant haze washing over him, that the leather stains, so Chuuya will have to look at his mess every damn day.
He can barely keep his head up, and then Chuuya moves his hand again, and the vibrations amp up impossibly higher. A keen rips out of him as his head falls forward completely. Doubled over himself, legs tied to the sides of the machine, vibrations pressing right into his cunt and wracking up through his body, he convulses, arms thrashing and tensing and ultimately doing absolutely nothing.
“Did you just come? Sweetheart, that’s pathetic.” Chuuya’s still laughing, almost cooing, and there’s a hand in his hair. For a moment, he leans into it, thinking Chuuya will offer him some form of comfort, but then he’s pushing, and Dazai’s forehead is pressed painfully to the panel in front of him. “Don’t worry, though; we’re just getting started.” Another movement out of the corner of his eye, and then the vibrations are amping up even higher, ricocheting through Dazai and sending him into oversensitivity. Another high whine shudders out of him, barely muffled by the gag, and Chuuya pats his cheek. “You asked for this.”
The roar of the engine and Chuuya’s coos fill his ears. Still convulsing, Dazai nods helplessly, pleasure washing through him in waves. He can’t tell if he’s coming again already, or never stopped, but he just lets himself go limp, Chuuya’s hand sweeping over him as he revs the engine again.