Archive of Our Own

Falling from heaven hurts.

When Dazai is stripped of his wings — the very things that grant him his freedom, his flight, wings which are woven together with his very soul — the pain is excruciating.

Every bone is shattered, until shards of merrowed white stick out between his coat of feathers, dark, crimson blood staining their shimmering pearly colour. Dazai howls in agony, broken sobs and pleas fleeing from his mouth as he screams for them to stop.

But the other angels — those who were once Dazai’s family — do not listen. They have no sympathy for him, for a betrayer, a sinner. To them, Dazai is impure now, tainted, an abomination even. They beat at his wings with no mercy, clawing and slashing, uncaring for Dazai’s screams as they begin to pull at the base of his wings, tearing them out from between his shoulder blades.

Dazai can feel the moment they are severed from his body, he can feel his tether to heaven breaking with them, the string that connects him to the holy empire snapped with the ease of a scissor cutting through yarn. The sounds that escape his mouth are unnatural, screams that sound completely foreign to his own ears, as if he can’t believe that they stem from his own vocal chords.

Warm blood runs down his back, seeping into the ridges of his muscles and dripping down the tattered fabric of the robe that still clings to his skin. On the ground before him lies one of his feathers, stained with blodges of red, its colour dulled to grey. Lifeless. Dazai grips it in his hand, damaging the delicate thing even further, unable to stop the violent shaking of his body.

Agony lodges itself into every inch of his being, a thousand blades pushing into him from every angle, twisting themselves deeper into his flesh. The now empty space between his shoulders burns horribly, as if lit on fire, blue flame licking at the charred remainder of his broken wings.

But the worst part is not the pain he feels in his limbs, it is the one he feels in his soul. It is undescribable, a torment so intense that there are no words for it — be it in human tongue or the language of the angels — Dazai will never be able to relay the feeling of it.

At this very moment, Dazai wishes for death. He wishes, begs, pleads in his mind for God to smite him down instead. To put a stop to his suffering. But he knows that, after his sins, it is not a mercy he will be granted with.

He will carry the burden of misery until the end of all days, until the universe will cease to exist. Only then will Dazai know peace. This is the punishment he must face.

Body and mind growing too weak from the torture, Dazai’s vision starts to fade, and he doesn’t register the hands that grip at his skin, hoisting him up and carrying him, until suddenly he is jolted back into consciousness by the cold wind against his back.

Dazai’s eyes fly open at the fear that courses through him upon the realisation.

He is falling.

The pain has rendered him immobile, and with no wings to save him from the harsh ground below, Dazai can do nothing but stare up at the clouds above as he gets further and further away from them, wind whistling past his ears, mocking him.

Unable to change his fate, Dazai lets his eyes fall shut, and waits for the impact.

The world around him is dark when Dazai awakes.

His limbs feel far too heavy, and as soon as he tries to move a sharp sting travels up to his head, worsening the throbbing he feels there. His throat, raw from the endless screams, aches as he swallows. The taste of iron lies heavy on his tongue, and the ugly scent of blood has long since invaded his nostrils.

He knows that many of his bones have broken from the fall, that there must be tears and scrapes marring his skin. Dazai will heal, of course, because even if he has been banned from the heavens, he is still a supernatural being, but it will take a long time. So he is forced to lie there, in the back of what seems to be some sort of alleyway, shattered body pillowed by the cold, hard cement of the street beneath him.

Dazai knows it to be a foolish idea to glance at his battered body, but he still dares to.

The sight he is met with is so gruesome it causes bile to rise in his throat, and despite how much every single one of his injuries hurt with the motion, Dazai turns to his side to spill out the contents of his gut, heaving out coughs through bloodied lungs.

His grip on reality falters after that, and he is once again overtaken by the dark.

“Fucking hell, Dazai, what did they do to you?”

Dazai hears the disembodied voice in his unconscious state. The voice is familiar to him, but his mind is too scattered from the agony to put a face to the deep rasp he knows so well.

A touch brushes against his cheek, so gentle when compared to the rough touch of his former sisters and brothers. Dazai finds himself trying to lean into it, wincing at the miniscule movement, pain echoing through every inch of his body. Warmth spreads on his cheek as the touch becomes more insistent

“Shh, stop” the voice urges him roughly, “Don’t try to move, idiot. You’ll only make it worse.”

Despite the harsh words, the words tremble ever so slightly with the undercurrent of worry. There’s something rare about it, a tone unfamiliar for a voice that Dazai feels he knows so deeply. Slowly, and with all the strength he has left, he blinks his eyes open. He has to— he needs to see.

His surroundings are still shrouded in darkness, his vision blurred at the edges, but he recognizes the face that slowly swims into focus before him. The horns on his head may be hidden with magic, cloaked as a human when venturing into the upper realm of Earth, but the reddish glow of his copper eyes still gives him away. A powerful creature.

A demon.

“Ch… uu…ya…?”

Dazai’s voice is a mere ghost of what it should be, hoarse from his ungodly cries. Another hand reaches out to settle on the other side of Dazai’s face, fingers slipping into hair caked by grime and blood to gently cradle him.

“Yeah, it’s me, here to save your ungrateful ass once again. Can you believe that?”

Dazai can tell from the way Chuuya’s lips twitch that it's meant as a playful jab, but the humour is strangely absent. Concern is etched into the sharp lines of his face, contorting the scowl he wears so well into something foreign.

Wanting to speak, Dazai parts his lips, but whatever words he was meant to say come out as a garbled mess of noise. His mouth tastes of blood and bile. He feels sick with it.

“Oi, quit it,” Chuuya reprimands, though his voice has grown softer. “Whatever you want to say, you can tell me later.” The hand at Dazai’s nape, the one tangled in his matted hair, tightens its hold.

“I gotta get you out of here first,” Chuuya speaks again, though quiet enough that it’s more to himself than Dazai. The image of him dissolves and realigns itself in Dazai’s vision as he moves, presumably looking at the mangled state of Dazai’s body.

When he stays still enough for Dazai’s eyes to refocus, there’s a sombre shadow on his face, perhaps something meant to resemble pity. Dazai doesn’t like the look of it, suddenly fearing whatever is about to happen next.

“This is going to hurt.”

Any hope of a scream dies in the back of Dazai’s throat as Chuuya picks him up and a tidal wave of pain sends him careening into the dark.

Dazai has no concept of the passage of time in his state, fading in and out of sleep to distorted images and hushed whispers, to the feeling of warm hands and wet cloths on his skin. The pain is still there, a dull throbbing throughout his body, and a searing ache in his soul, but it has subsided at least enough for him to rest properly.

He has no idea if it’s been hours or days or even weeks when his eyes finally flutter open for longer than just a mere few seconds, enough for his mind to finally take in his new surroundings.

The first thing he notes is that he’s lying on a bed now, impossibly wide and with rounded curves instead of edges. The mattress is soft against his back, and maroon-coloured satin sheets feel smooth on his skin, on the bandages that wrap around his chest and arms. The sting is bearable this time around when he tries to move his head, and his eyes wander around what he assumes to be somebody's bedroom.

The walls are a darker shade of red then the sheets, and the most of the furniture and decor is black, with a few silver details placed in between. A giant, imposing fireplace sits on the opposite wall, staring back at him like an open mouth with no teeth. To his side, a row of windows stretches from the ceiling down to a small brick wall, and beyond them Dazai sees a skyline of buildings standing out against a carmine firmament devoid of stars, with occasional flashes of lightning giving the city an ominous glow.

It doesn’t take long for Dazai to piece together his surroundings, even in his state of exhaustion. Even if he’s never been here in the flesh before, he’d been forced to read descriptions of it often enough in the sacred tomes that he knows exactly where he is.

Hell.

It’s fitting, Dazai supposes, for him to be here. What better place for an angel fallen from grace than the birthplace of all evil? The one place that no divine being should ever be made to set foot in?

Idly, he wonders whether his brethren are sneering down at him from above. Whether they’ve already forgotten about his existence altogether, written him off as a failure in the system.

Gingerly, Dazai turns so he’s resting on his side. He grits his teeth as the space between his shoulder blades burns and the pain there spikes, trying not to think of the twin wounds there that marr his skin. Breathing through the dull ache that begins to settle through his limbs, Dazai looks to the horizon painted in everlasting crimson. He can hear claps of thunder roaring in the distance, catches brief flashes of white, and yet there is no rain to pelter against the glass.

Footsteps echo gently through a hallway beyond the door to his room, growing steadily louder as they approach. Dazai doesn’t turn to face the sound even as the door swings open, footsteps now muffled by the carpeted floor as they draw near.

The presence halts at the opposite end of the bed Dazai lays on.

“You’re awake,” Chuuya says. He doesn’t need more than to see the pattern of Dazai’s breathing from the subtle movement of his shoulders to know it.

“How are you feeling?”

His voice sounds stiff, a little stilted. Dazai can’t blame them. The art of being tender is something neither of them are familiar with. Their words with each other have always been tinged with a subtle hint of venom, cleverly crafted to poke and prod at each other’s weaknesses. Well, either that, or they have been drawn out and hazy with pleasure.

“Empty,” Dazai answers. For once, completely in truth.

It’s as much an oddity as Chuuya’s softness. Being an Angel had never stopped Dazai from lying, unafraid to play with deceit as he weaved false truths to his benefit. The heavens had always turned a blind eye to his ways, as ultimately his gain had meant theirs as well.

This, however, they could not forgive.

This was an act of selfishness. And despite there being no cardinal sin bearing its name, selfishness was the greatest betrayal to the will of the Angels.

Dazai had known when his relationship with the prince of Hell turned carnal it would only be a matter of time before they’d find out. He knew of it when he offered his body willingly to the claws of a demon, when he’d basked in the lust-stricken promises pressed into his skin.

He doesn’t regret his decision. There’s no point in that now. A part of him has always felt out of place among the other holders of divinity, unable to see the purity in himself the way he could within them. Still, he can’t help but feel hollowed out.

There are scars on his back where two glorious ivory wings once stood proud, and the roots of them that were engraved into the fabric of his soul have been ripped out. He doesn’t feel any wrath or despair or sadness at the loss. He just feels the ache of their absence. And apart from that, he feels almost nothing at all.

Hollow. Empty.

“How did they find out?”

Dazai breathes a short, humourless bark of a laugh. “There is nothing the Angels’ all-seeing eyes will not find eventually. Even I can’t trick them forever.”

Quiet falls over the room. Dazai continues to look beyond the tall windows, at the thunderstorm that rages in the distance. Lightning strikes every few seconds, spreading across the crimson sky like the jagged roots of a tree.

“You knew.”

A great, brilliant bolt of lightning strikes the top of a blackened tower in the distance. It lights the entire room up with its force, sends a roll of thunder so loud Dazai can feel it rumble against the glass, muffled through the barrier. Dazai closes his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

He hears the steady pad of footsteps, can follow the sound as Chuuya moves across the room. He hears the subtle creak of something metallic, the flicker of a flame bursting to life, the steady crackle as it burns.

Over the tune of the flames, Dazai hears Chuuya step closer. “Are you cold?”

The question seems rather ridiculous. Heavenly beings don’t get cold, their bodies don’t function the way mortals do. Chuuya knows this. Still, Dazai can’t muster up the proper snark for a witty response. He just continues to lie there, near motionless.

His eyes crack open, gaze landing on a revealed patch of skin on his bandaged arm that is stretched out in front of him, the sleeves of a silk robe having ridden up to his elbow. The hair on its surface stands on end, small bumps marring the otherwise smooth skin. Goosebumps.

Belatedly, Dazai takes note of the odd way the muscles under his skin quiver. Not from strain or effort, it seems, but from. . . the chill in the room. He’s shivering.

He’s not a mortal now by any means, but it appears that with the stripping of his place in the heavenly realm, the Angels had taken away any shred of his power. Truly leaving him as nothing but a husk of his former glory.

Now, he remains as a broken relic. Not quite alive and not quite dead, an anomaly in the universe’s stream of creation.

He gets. . . cold, now.

Dazai realises he feels rather fragile like this.

The realisation is not a welcome one. In fact, it’s rather unpleasant, his lips twitching downwards. It is not a nice thing to be vulnerable, to quite veritably have his back exposed like this, no more wings to shield him from stray daggers.

When a clawed hand reaches out towards his face, Dazai actually flinches. They both freeze, equally stunned. Chuuya’s hand hovers uselessly in the space between them. Dazai trails his eyes up Chuuya’s arm, over the dark red, ring-like markings that decorate his skin.

He must have come straight from some form of official duties, dressed in his regal attire. The kimono he wears is the colour of freshly spilled blood, embroidered with intricate gold patterns that shimmer under the faint glow of the fireplace. It hangs loosely off his shoulders, drooping down to reveal black fabric that is skintight, painted onto the dips and curvatures of muscle. At his neck sits a piece of sleek leather, held together by a golden buckle to match the kimono and various heavy pieces of jewellery that adorn his figure.

An inverted crown sits on rust-coloured hair, carefully placed around the twin ram’s horns protruding from his head. A series of ancient demonic runes are inscribed on the spiralling surface, words in a language Dazai had never been allowed to gaze upon as an Angel. The runes had never even been visible to him, hidden by the veil of power that tied him to the heavenly realm.

But all those ties are broken now. Dazai is an Angel no longer.

When Dazai’s eyes finally settle on Chuuya’s own, the same wine red as the walls around them, Chuuya is already staring at him intently. The look on his face is wary, though it’s different from his usual level of mindful caution whenever dealing with Dazai’s antics. It’s different in a way that gets under Dazai’s skin.

Frustrated, he reaches for Chuuya’s still suspended hand and brings it to his face. The sudden movement causes pain to flare up through his arm. Dazai grits his teeth to hold back a grunt, stubbornly keeping Chuuya’s palm on his cheek, a claw resting just beneath his eye.

“I won’t break,” he mutters.

Chuuya gives him a look like he’s about to argue, perhaps bringing up the way Dazai had flinched at his mere movement just moments ago, but nothing comes. Instead, his thumb swipes idly over Dazai’s skin, his other fingers sliding back to scratch at Dazai’s scalp. It’s wretchedly tender, something the two of them have never been.

Dazai’s pride will keep him from admitting aloud how much he enjoys the gentleness, but he can admit to himself. Regrettably, the flutter of his eyelids may give him away anyways. Dazai will blame it on the delirium of pain later.

He tenses when Chuuya’s hand moves down his shoulder, slowly inching towards the space high on his back, where two mirrored wounds hide under the thin layers of bandages and a silk robe. A pained gasp parts his lips against his will as Chuuya brushes right over the empty space his wings have left behind.

“It must have been agony,” Chuuya comments, voice quiet, “To have them taken from you.”

Dazai can’t decipher the meaning behind his words, tone measured as he speaks. His eyes had closed again at the sudden discomfort, though they flutter open again as he feels Chuuya lean down closer. His gaze lands on Chuuya once more, his face mere inches from his own now. Chuuya tilts his head, one of his horns touching the bed sheets below.

“I can rid you of the pain, you know.” His hand travels back over Dazai’s to skim the delicate skin near his exposed collarbones. Surely, he can feel the way Dazai’s pulse quickens beneath the pads of his fingers.

Useless, Dazai thinks, this new body devoid of power is useless at concealing anything. It’s this thought that causes him to pull back slightly, ignoring the ache in his limbs as he mutters, “I don’t want your pity, Demon.”

Chuuya hums, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. The expression on his face shifts into something that borders on amusement at Dazai’s words. “And whose pity would you be willing to accept then?”
Dazai’s gaze hardens.

“Because, and don’t take offence to this sweetheart, you do appear quite pitiful right now,” Chuuya says. His face takes on a more serious quality as he continues, “Who will you go to if not me? Who will you trust now that you’re left with no defences, hm? There’s nowhere for you to run, Dazai. The only reason you’re here now as you are is because you chose to give yourself to me, so who are you trying to fool?”

Silence falls over the room, Chuuya’s words lingering with an air of finality.

Cowardly, Dazai refuses to meet the Demon’s eyes. He focuses instead on the curve of Chuuya’s shoulder, where the dark marks of his destructive power pulse in constant rhythm. His own body throbs in dull misery, a glaring reminder of his weakness. In truth, there is no way for him to refute any of Chuuya’s accusations.

For the first time in the aeons of Dazai’s existence he feels truly, utterly, helpless.

Voice quiet, he murmurs, “I’m only here because you brought me here.”

The argument falls incredibly flat, sounding overly petulant even to his own ears. Still, his pride refuses to let him give in easily.

A light scoff has Dazai’s eyes flitting back to Chuuya’s face. The Prince’s expression softens. It’s an almost imperceptible thing, but Dazai catches it, sees it in the way the small line between his brows smooths out, the way his eyes lighten in colour.

“And if I hadn’t brought you here, what would you have done? Can you tell me, honestly, that you wouldn’t have sought me out?”

Dazai should feel insulted at the ease at which Chuuya reads him, but instead he finds himself more resigned than anything. The carved out hollowness in his chest seems even greater now, echoing with the loss of his wings, his divinity, the strings of his soul. It’s involuntary the way his body curls in on itself, legs drawing up as his arms move to wrap around his middle.

A pathetic display, really.

“Hey,” Chuuya breathes out. “Don’t hide from me.”

And then, warm lips descend over his own.

Dazai’s mouth parts in his surprise at the sudden action, and Chuuya uses it as an opportunity to pry him open. There’s no way Dazai can hold back his moan of relief as Chuuya pushes the venom from his fangs onto Dazai’s tongue. He’s never felt its effects in full before, his divine powers always dulling its true intensity. Immediately, Dazai notes how the tension bleeds from his muscles, how pleasure spreads to soothe the strain of his injuries.

Chuuya shifts forward, forcing Dazai to bend and turn onto his back. The ambrosial venom Chuuya keeps feeding him makes the pain between his shoulder blades bearable enough to do so. The mattress beneath them sinks and swells with their weight as Chuuya pulls Dazai down to lie under him fully, pulling the covers away from Dazai’s frame while never once breaking the kiss.

When he does finally pull away, Chuuya grins, eyes lidded and fangs on display. “See?” He pecks Dazai’s lips, still parted in his daze. “Feels good when you don't resist it, doesn’t it?”

Dazai attempts a scowl, though he’s unsure whether he achieves it. Judging by Chuuya’s amused huff of air, he’s betting he doesn’t. The demon ducks down again to suck Dazai’s bottom lip between his teeth, fangs gently slicing into the delicate skin as he nibbles. The small sting is quickly followed by a rush of pure bliss that travels down Dazai’s spine, pooling into warmth in the base of his stomach. He’s dizzy with the speed at which he feels himself get hard.

A pleased hum vibrates against his neck as Chuuya moves down to nuzzle into the skin, leaving languid, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. His hands fiddle with the belt of Dazai’s kimono, slipping the garment open easily. It leaves Dazai exposed to the room in nothing more than short silken underwear that does practically nothing to cover his modesty.

Though he hardly spares that a thought as rough palms spread over his bandaged chest, roaming down to the naked planes of his abdomen. Chuuya’s touch is hot against his flesh, chasing away the cold chill in his bones better than the flames that crackle on in the background. He arches up on instinct, brows furrowing at the twinge in his back, the pain not yet fully subsided.

Chuuya lifts up, bracketing Dazai with one arm at either side of his head. He just stares down at him for a beat before he reaches down to tap two clawed fingers to Dazai’s thigh.

“Lay on your front,” he says. Commands, more like, but Dazai still follows.

He tenses up once more as warm lips begin to trail a path down from his nape, over the bandages that cover new, ugly scars. Though when Chuuya skims over them quickly to move to the dimples that sit above the slight curve of his ass, he relaxes.

Then, he hears the familiar sharp flick of Chuuya letting his full demon claws slide out in all their glory, and suddenly his tiny silk shorts are sliced clean off. Dazai muffles a groan into the pillow beneath him, stifling more moans as those same claws graze featherlight over the swell of his ass. Two firm hands dig into his flesh, pulling him apart, and Dazai can barely manage to suck in another breath before a wet, hot tongue swipes over his hole.

Dazai clenches his fists, creasing the fine silk bed sheets in his hold. He bites down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to draw blood. His dick is achingly hard, throbbing where it's lodged between his stomach and the mattress below. Dazai feels like crying. Chuuya has barely touched him and he already feels like he’s nearing his limit, pain pushed to the back of his mind.

Chuuya blows a puff of air over his hole, cooling the saliva there, and Dazai twitches. The muscles on his thighs quiver in anticipation. Instead of going back down however, Dazai feels Chuuya’s kisses stray upwards once more.

“You’re. . .” Chuuya pauses, “incredibly sensitive.” There’s an odd sense of awe in his words. “You were never like this before.”

Dazai bristles at the reminder, lifting up from the pillow to speak.“I wasn’t like any of this before,” he spits with perhaps more venom than he had meant to.

Instead of any of the expected snark, Chuuya crawls back up his body and gently nips the side of his jaw, fangs careful now as they graze his skin. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice a deep rumble, “I like you like this, you know?”

This time, Dazai yanks his face away from any more of Chuuya’s ministrations. He turns around, still caged between Chuuya’s arms. The ache in his back and arms makes itself known as he does so, but he pushes forward.

“Like what? Weak?” he sneers, his eyes darkening. Unfortunately, his cock does not flag in the slightest. It makes his display lose some of its intensity, he’s sure.

Chuuya’s face still does not contort in annoyance. Instead, another smile settles on his features. It’s a little disconcerting.

“Not weak,” Chuuya murmurs, leaning down to hover closer to Dazai’s face. “I’ve just never had you be so. . . Pliant.”

Slowly, he drags a hand down Dazai’s flank, sharp nails scratching lightly over the flesh and muscle there. Dazai’s breath hitches against his will when Chuuya’s hand settles in the crease between his thigh and hip. “Eager,” he muses, as his hand moves to cup Dazai’s dick. “Responsive.”

A thumb swipes over Dazai’s slit, and the brunet barely manages to bite back a whine as he bucks up, unable to stop himself. Chuuya grips him, pumps up slow and steady, his palm a searing heat against Dazai’s cock which starts leaking in spades from the simple touch alone.

“Fuck,” Dazai hisses, trying to turn his face so he can hide it in the pillow.

His body’s willingness is humiliating. Though the worst part of it is that it doesn’t surprise him. As an Angel, Dazai could always resist the intensity of Chuuya’s demonic power enough to tease and retaliate. Now, with his defences stripped, there’s no way for him to fight off the prince of Hell’s oppressive aura. It’s more than just the venom in his fangs, Dazai knows, a demon’s talent for seduction is a full-bodied thing and, as a prince, Chuuya’s is even more forceful than most.

Fingers grab at his jaw, making him look back up at Chuuya’s face. “Don’t hide,” he practically growls, “Don’t look away from me. I wanna see you.”

Dazai blinks furiously, opening his mouth to speak but choking on air as Chuuya begins to pump him in earnest. “Ah—!”

“You look so fucking gorgeous like this, fuck. It’s infuriating.” He’s grinning as he says it, twisting his hand whenever he reaches Dazai’s tip. It’s too fast, too much. Dazai feels himself hurtling toward the finish already, pleasure practically oozing from his pores. He tries to speak but nothing comes out except his breathy gasps.

“You know, I always thought half the fun in fucking you was that you were always a brat and a tease, always talking back and never letting me have my way with you.” Chuuya thumbs right under the head of Dazai’s cock and the brunet actually feels tears prickle at the corner of his eyes.

“But this? Fuck, Dazai, this is so much better. You’re an absolute vision right now. So obedient, so good, so perfect. I’ve fantasised about it sometimes, but you really do look your best when you’re crying for me—”

“Chuuya!” Dazai half-shouts, hands clamouring to try and pull him off. “Chuu— Hah! Wai— Wait, Wai— I’m—” But it’s too late.

Tears spill over his waterline as Dazai comes, body pulling taught as a bowstring before releasing. His vision whites out, shivering and twitching with the aftershocks, lungs spasming for air as his climax pulses through him.

He returns to the moment slowly, his eyes blinking lazily, trying to reorient himself. When he does, it’s just in time to see Chuuya suck his oversensitive cock into his mouth.

Dazai cries out at the feeling, heady pleasure washing over him once more. Fangs drawn back, Chuuya swirls his long, serpent tongue over the head, paying extra attention to the space just below the tip. Dazai’s hips buck, trying to fuck into the scorching heat and yet also to escape it, but Chuuya’s strong hands pin him down.

Noisy, hiccuping sobs are ripped from the depths of his throat, spilling into the air unbidden. Dazai has always been loud in bed with his suitors, including Chuuya, but that had always been purposeful. He’d pitch his moans higher with intent, drag out the vowels of a name with the knowledge that it would drive his lovers mad. This, right now, is different.

Dazai has no control over the sounds he makes, writhing and overcome with pleasure as Chuuya sinks down further on his cock. A loud thwack of something hitting the bed briefly straddles him, and he looks to the side to find Chuuya’s tail thrashing wildly about. It’s not a sight he’s witnessed often, Chuuya’s tail usually hidden behind cloaking spells. The tail only comes out when Chuuya lets his control over his power slip in the thralls of his own desire. It must mean Chuuya’s really enjoying himself right now.

Any thought he has regarding that gets wiped from his mind as Chuuya delves down to swallow him whole. His nose buries itself in the soft flesh under Dazai’s navel, tongue still working him over. Dazai’s next orgasm hits him harder than the first, and he wails, choking on sharp intakes of breath as he empties down the back of Chuuya’s throat.

He has no idea how long it takes for him to sink back into reality this time, still breathing heavily by the time he comes back down.
His vision is still blurred with tears as he looks between his legs, to where Chuuya sits nestled with Dazai’s thighs thrown over his shoulder. Chuuya’s pleasure amplifying power must still be hard at work, because despite the position there is no strain on the wounds that marr his back. Either that, or Dazai is too dazed from two orgasms to notice any.

“That’s it,” Chuuya mutters, lips brushing over the crease next to Dazai’s hip. “There you are.”

“You’re. . . enjoying this. . . far too much,” Dazai manages through long huffs of breath. His voice is shaky, hoarse and a little nasally from his crying. It sounds strangely foreign to his own ears.

Chuuya hums, lips curving up to split into a wide grin half-hidden behind Dazai’s cock. He looks obscene, staring up at Dazai with remnants of Dazai’s last release still on his chin. “I’m appreciative.”

In the back of his mind, Dazai wonders, did the oracles of the divine foresee this in their visions when Dazai was first moulded into existence?

“It’s fun to play with you like this,” Chuuya continues, nuzzling into him with something dangerously resembling affection. As if to highlight his point, his tail slashes around wildly behind him. “I like taking you apart,” he presses a chaste kiss to Dazai’s dick, which twitches valiantly in response. Dazai himself hisses at the touch. “Bit by bit.”

Dazai lets his head fall back against the pillow. He’s exhausted, wrung out in a manner much different then when he first awoke to the dull throb of his injuries.

“I’m glad the loss of my powers. . . brings you such. . . amusement,” he snarks, still struggling to regain his breath.

Sharp fangs dig into his inner thigh, causing Dazai to jerk back up at the pain. It’s quickly soothed by the ensuing venom, but Chuuya’s intense stare keeps him locked in place. The red of his irises has darkened considerably once more, though not as the result of dilated pupils.

“It’s not the loss of your powers that I like,” Chuuya states. His hands curl around the meat of Dazai’s thighs; curved, onyx claws stark against unblemished skin. “It’s you having your guard down around me. You being vulnerable like this forces you to let go of that mask you love to hide behind. That’s what I like.”

Dazai feels heat rise to his face, swallowing thickly under the weight of Chuuya’s eyes that don’t waiver from his own. Distantly, Dazai wonders how his eyes must look now. Wonders what they’ve been reduced to, now that they’re been stripped of their brilliant golden glow. Are they an empty black void? A vacant grey? A dull brown?

He doesn’t know why the thought comes to his mind only now. Perhaps, a part of him longs to see what Chuuya sees, when he looks at him.

“And. . .” Chuuya hovers his mouth closer to Dazai’s cock, lips brushing over it as he speaks. “I know now that you knew what the consequences would be when you first lay with me. Don’t think that I’m unaware of what that means.”

This time, Dazai averts his gaze. He can’t bear the weight of Chuuya’s gaze any longer. Not when his insides have been torn open, ribcage pried apart to expose all of him, to display the reality of his fragile heart.

A hot puff of air ghosts over his length as Chuuya huffs a low chuckle. Dazai’s never heard him sound so fond. It’s. . . a lot. It’s overwhelming. Neither of them were meant for this kind of softness.

“Let me make you feel good, Dazai,” Chuuya whispers, kisses trailing lower. Dazai feels goosebumps erupt on his skin all over again, though this time the cold isn’t the cause.

“Just give yourself over to me. . . Osamu.”

Dazai’s breath stalls in his lungs.

There is power in speaking the given name of any otherworldly being. Chuuya wears his own with pride, like a crown. Presenting it so freely gives him the power of dominance, of knowing that no matter how many people utter it, the fact that it is not a secret means it can never be used against him.

Dazai’s given name, however, has never been uttered by anyone except for his creator. Not even his brethren had ever addressed him as such. He doesn’t even know how Chuuya knows it, trying to cast his mind back to their moments lost in pleasure, whether he’d let it slip back then. He doesn’t know, but he finds that he doesn’t much care.

He may no longer wear the title of Angel, may no longer wield the heavenly forces to his own will, but there is still power in his name. Hearing it fall from Chuuya’s lips spreads molten warmth throughout his insides, the buzz of pleasure within his body renewed.

Half lost in a trance, he reaches down to tangle his fingers in Chuuya’s hand. His inverted crown has fallen away by now, leaving Dazai to run his hand freely through fiery waves. He brushes over the base of one horn, tugging at the ridged lines of its spiralling pattern. Chuuya lets out a groan in pleasure.

“Okay,” Dazai whispers. His legs spread open, falling gently from Chuuya’s shoulders. “Okay.”

It’s all the invitation the demon needs for him to plunge his tongue deep into Dazai’s warmth. The feeling of ecstasy strikes Dazai like a bolt of lightning, setting him aflame as it travels through him, extending to the tips of his fingers and toes. He keens high in his throat, moans tumbling out of him as he clenches around Chuuya’s tongue.

An expert in Dazai’s pleasure, Chuuya easily finds his sweet spot. He smooths his tongue over the gently raised flesh over and over. Dazai’s voice swells, the noises ripped from him never-ending. His hand tightens to a fist in Chuuya’s hair while the other braces itself against the headboard, nails scratching at the dark wood.

He can feel the way the venom that coats Chuuya’s tongue pries him further open, relaxes the rings of muscle, renders him pliant and malleable. It reads as a promise for what’s to follow, and that thought alone is what pushes Dazai over the edge for a third time.

His body is still trembling as he blinks the dark spots from his vision, arms splayed out to his side and too weak to prop himself up. Dazai lies there like a puppet cut from its strings, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

He can feel the thundering rhythm of his heartbeat, rabbit quick at his pulse point. The steady beat of his heart had never wavered as an Angel, more a result of his body being made to match that of humans than to serve any real purpose. Now, it serves as a stark reminder that he’s alive.

He’s alive.

Chuuya appears in his vision then, pupils blown wide and his eyes glowing crimson to match the markings on his skin. His clothes have vanished from his form, and Dazai allows himself to marvel at the sharp lines and smooth curves that make up his body. He’d reach out to touch, if he could bring his arm to move.

The demon prince smiles down at him, fangs on display and his lips glistening with Dazai’s spend, as if wearing it with pride. He leans close, hot breath fanning over Dazai’s mouth, and Dazai can feel Chuuya pushing up one of his own legs, bent at the knee.

“Ready?” he asks.

Dazai barely has enough strength of mind left to wonder what he means when Chuuya slams into him. His mouth drops open in a mute scream as Chuuya spears him on his cock, driving in as deep as he can in one go, until their hips are flush together.

Chuuya steadies his jaw with his free hand and then clashes their lips together. Dazai can do little more than keep his lips parted as Chuuya licks into him, breathing heavily through each of Chuuya’s powerful thrusts.

The familiar coil tightens in Dazai;s stomach once more, and this time Dazai makes no attempt to fight it. He simply lets himself float in the haze of lust, content to let pleasure build and crash over him in waves again and again and again.

He lets Chuuya fuck him hard and fast and slow and deep. Lets the demon take from him what he pleases, hands over every inch of his own body, mind and whatever remains are left of his soul for Chuuya to feast on. There is no pain to speak of anymore; the large cavern of loss in his chest filled by Chuuya’s searing heat, by his touch, his scent, his voice.

Just Chuuya.

Only Chuuya.

By the time the pleasured daze lifts from Dazai’s mind, the storm beyond the windows has ceased. It’s still dark, the clouds dyed a fearsome red colour, but he supposes that will never change. Dazai will have to get used to it.

He’s curled into Chuuya’s side, sharp claws grazing deceptively soft over the bare skin of his back where his bandages had come undone. They skirt around the edges of two twin scars, and Dazai finds he doesn’t mind the sensation. He inhales slowly, breathes in the scent of smoke and sandalwood. On his exhale, he sinks further into Chuuya’s body, quietly delighted at how well their edges and curves fit together.

A kiss is placed on his widow’s peak. “You’re awake?”

Chuuya’s voice is pleasant to listen to, even deeper now than his usual timbre. Dazai doesn’t reply, his voice raw from overuse. He feels exhausted in a good way, his bones weightless, mind tethered to the ground instead of aimlessly wandering. He knows he doesn’t need to speak for Chuuya to know, anyway.

The hand on his back slides to his shoulder and stills there, squeezing gently.

“Stay here, Dazai.” Chuuya whispers to him. “You won’t want for anything else, I promise. Just stay.”

Dazai closes his eyes, Chuuya’s chest warm beneath him and tail curling possessively around his waist.

He stays.