Chapter Text
Chuuya was spread out on the couch like a goddamn ad campaign for ruination.
T-shirt riding up on his hips. Sweatpants loose and slouched indecently low. One arm slung across the back cushions, the other holding a video game controller. Headset tilted at a cocky angle, mouth moving fast as he trash-talked some dumbass into a digital grave.
Dazai was humping his thigh.
“Get behind me, dumbass, I’m pushing mid—no, not you,” Chuuya said into the mic. He shifted forward a bit, tensing, jaw tightening like he was seconds from a kill. “Y’know what, fuck it, die. I’ll clean it up. You’re welcome, loser.”
His leg moved. Just slightly. But enough that Dazai let out a breathy little gasp against his hipbone and ground down harder, cock twitching through his boxers.
It was stupid. This was stupid. Dazai wasn’t even trying to make it look normal anymore—wasn’t bothering to pretend he was just lying there. His hips were moving in slow, helpless little thrusts, the kind that didn’t require any conscious decision-making at all. Just the friction. Just the pressure. Just the fact that Chuuya smelled like cedar shampoo and said things like “fucking amateur” with his teeth clenched and legs spread like that.
“Mid’s clear,” Chuuya said, glancing briefly down. “Can’t say the same for my dumbass boyfriend.”
Dazai blinked up at him, dazed. “Chuuya is talking about me?”
“Who else is humping my leg like a desperate little mutt?” Chuuya muttered, mostly for the headset. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
His hand flicked over the controller. He didn’t even look at Dazai again.
That made it worse.
—
It had started thirty minutes ago with a casual “Chuuyaaaa,” drawled from across the room, which Chuuya had ignored with full intent to continue doing so for the rest of the night. Dazai had pouted, flopped over him, complained about the heat, the cold, his abandonment, his deep emotional wound. Chuuya had muttered, “Then get off me,” and tilted his mic away.
Somewhere between the third ignored whine and the fifteenth minute of couch-limping, Dazai’s dick had decided this was enough foreplay to go all-in. Now he was hard—ridiculously hard, embarrassingly hard—and grinding against Chuuya’s solid, deliciously muscled thigh while Chuuya fragged his way through ranked matches like this wasn’t happening.
“Jesus Christ,” Chuuya said, muffled through the mic. “No, not you, dumbass—him. He’s—” He cut off, sighed through his nose. “Never mind. Just cover flank.”
Dazai’s forehead was pressed to Chuuya’s waist. He couldn’t help it anymore—his hips were rocking faster, little circles against the sweatpants-covered thigh. It didn’t even feel that good. It was like an instinct, like some buried perversion acting on his behalf. His boxers were damp. He’d been leaking for minutes.
Chuuya shifted again. The thigh flexed.
Dazai let out a choked little sound and bit his lip. “Chuuya…”
Nothing. Just the click of buttons, the muffled cursing of an enemy player, and Chuuya murmuring “eat shit, coward” under his breath.
Dazai whined. The kind of pathetic, high sound he hated making. His cock throbbed. He ground down again, fingers scrabbling against Chuuya’s hip for some kind of anchor. His face was flushed, hair damp against his forehead. He’d been rutting like this for god knows how long. He wasn’t even sure when he started.
Chuuya sighed again. Not even an annoyed one—just a tired, amused, disgusted exhale like he was watching someone fail a logic puzzle in real time. Then, after a pause, Chuuya finally said—not into the mic, but directly to Dazai:
“You’re gonna cum in your pants from humping my leg like a dog, huh.”
Dazai whimpered. “Maybe…”
“Jesus.”
He pushed the mic up with one hand and grabbed Dazai’s jaw with the other, like he was handling something delicate and vile.
Dazai looked up at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted, breath heaving. He was flushed, wet, shameless.
“You’re disgusting,” Chuuya said.
He kissed him.
—
Dazai came so hard he nearly blacked out.
It hit instantly. The second Chuuya’s lips pressed against his, something short-circuited. His cock throbbed once—twice—and then he was gasping into the kiss, hips stuttering, thighs trembling, cum spilling hot and helpless into his boxers in humiliating little pulses.
Chuuya pulled back.
Looked down at him.
“…Did you just—?”
“I—fuck—” Dazai collapsed forward. “I didn’t mean to—!”
Chuuya stared. “You came?”
Dazai buried his face in Chuuya’s lap. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You came. From a kiss.”
“I was already close!”
“You were already humping my leg like a pathetic dog in heat, you mean.”
Dazai moaned again, like even hearing that was too much. His thighs twitched. “I’ve had a really hard week—!”
“You’re unbelievable.” Chuuya shifted slightly, disgusted. “You just—you just came in your pants. On my couch. While I was playing ranked.”
“Chuuya kissed me!”
“It was barely a kiss!”
“Exactly!” Dazai wailed. “I wasn’t ready!”
Chuuya looked down at him with the disdain of someone staring at their wet sock after stepping on a puddle. His headset crackled faintly in the background. Some poor teammate was asking if he was still alive.
He picked up the mic.
Muted it.
Then leaned down, grabbed Dazai by the hair, and tilted his head back just enough to make eye contact.
“You’re such a goddamn nightmare,” Chuuya said. “But you know what?” He smirked.“You’re cleaning the couch.”
Dazai let out a shivery, hiccuping breath against Chuuya’s waistband. His hips gave a last involuntary twitch like his body hadn’t quite caught up with the embarrassment yet.
“I’ll just pay someone to clean it,” he mumbled weakly.
“Yeah. With my card, I bet.” Chuuya reached up and pulled the headset back down over his ears. A chorus of rowdy teammates were already yelling into the mic.
“Oi, you good?”
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Dude, your mic was off for like three minutes—”
Chuuya sighed. “Yeah, I’m good. I gotta go, though. Something came up.”
A soft noise escaped Dazai. He didn’t even mean to make it.
There was a beat of radio silence.
“…You good-good, or like, someone just came on your leg good?”
Chuuya rolled his eyes and muted the headset again. He tossed it onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, arms relaxed, legs spread wider. Dazai was still curled against his thigh, visibly dazed. His breathing was uneven, and the outline of his cock—spent, soaked, and twitchy—was shamefully obvious through the damp cling of his boxers.
“You’re still hard?” Chuuya asked, tilting his head like he’d found a strange bug in the kitchen.
“I never really… went down,” Dazai admitted, voice muffled. “It just—uh—reset a little.”
“Reset?” Chuuya echoed, with a laugh so mean it made Dazai’s stomach flip.
“Please don’t bully me,” Dazai whimpered.
“Aw, poor baby,” Chuuya said, brushing his fingers against the back of Dazai’s neck, deceptively soft. “You’re humping my leg while I’m trying to clutch and you think I’m gonna praise you?”
Dazai shivered. The post-orgasm buzz was fading into something worse: oversensitivity, vulnerability, and the horrible aching pressure of still wanting more. His cock gave a pathetic throb like it wanted to be touched again. It hurt. It felt amazing.
“You couldn’t even last through one kiss,” Chuuya murmured. “Didn’t even get your pants off. Just fucking leaked through them like a needy little pet in heat.”
Letting out a soft, wounded mewl, Dazai tried to twist away, but Chuuya caught him by the jaw and held him there. He was flushed to the ears, trembling, eyes wet and wide with overwhelmed need.
“Don’t go shy now,” Chuuya murmured. “You made this mess. You’re gonna sit in it.”
He trailed his hand slowly down Dazai’s side, then back up again, hovering just shy of the wet patch. Dazai flinched like he’d been slapped.
“Hurts?” Chuuya asked, with a tilt of his head.
Dazai nodded helplessly.
Chuuya smiled. “Good.”
He pressed the heel of his palm against the soaked fabric and ground down once, slow and firm, and Dazai keened.
Or—well, he would have, if he hadn’t bitten down on Chuuya’s shirt to muffle it. Instead, a high, cracked moan broke out from his throat, torn and half-strangled, as his hips jerked uncontrollably and his hands scrabbled at the couch cushions in panic.
“F-fuck—fuck, Chuuya—!”
“Still so goddamn sensitive,” Chuuya mused, not relenting. “Poor thing. Don’t even need to fuck you to break you apart.”
His hand moved again, slow and cruel, dragging the wet fabric up and down over Dazai’s cock with just enough pressure to be unbearable.
“I bet you’d come again if I kissed you now,” he murmured, tilting his head like he was genuinely considering it. “Wouldn’t even have to touch you here. Just a kiss. That’s all it takes.”
Dazai’s body shook. He was gasping, flushed, a total mess—pupils blown and leaking through his boxers again. His thighs trembled, his cock twitching under Chuuya’s hand—he looked so far gone it was hard to tell if he wanted to cry, beg, or say thank you.
Chuuya leaned down to whisper against his ear. “Maybe if you’re good,” he said, “I’ll let you grind on my thigh again while you fuck yourself on my fingers.”
The cracked-open noise that came out of Dazai was so pathetic, so completely beyond shame, that Chuuya just sat there and stared, caught somewhere between horror and heat.
“…You liked that, huh.”
Dazai nodded into his lap, humiliated.
“Damn freak,” Chuuya muttered.
He kissed him again.
This time Dazai didn’t come.