Archive of Our Own

Kunikida had managed to call Dazai exactly twenty times in the last seven minutes—a frequency that was, admittedly, not out of the ordinary. 

Dazai had expected it to be another blown cover, perhaps, or a lecture on his mounting pile of unfinished paperwork.

What Dazai hadn’t expected was that this particular “issue” would involve his own subordinate.

His very drunk, very underage subordinate.

According to Kunikida’s exasperated voice—clearly several drinks deep himself—Atsushi had managed to stir up a respectable amount of trouble in a short amount of time. 

Apparently, the boy had been dragged to the bar against his will by Ranpo, who had decided the office needed some “bonding time.” 

Dazai didn’t bother questioning why he hadn’t been invited. He knew the so-called bonding was likely just an excuse for Ranpo to secure an audience for his snack run.

And since the staff knew better than to question Ranpo—and were too terrified of his deductive tantrums to bother checking IDs—the tiger boy had been served a drink far too strong for a first-timer.

Poor Atsushi-kun, Dazai thought with a smirk that lacked any real pity. 

And so, here Dazai was, standing in front of a dimly lit bar with neon lights flickering overhead at two in the morning on a Saturday—late, even by weekend standards.

Not that Dazai had been sleeping. He rarely did, after all. But that didn’t mean he appreciated being summoned on his day off for a babysitting gig. 

Although, a drunk Atsushi was, if nothing else, interesting. And Dazai had always been constitutionally incapable of leaving anything interesting alone.

He sighed dramatically, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he pushed the door open.

The air inside was thick with the scent of hops and cheap gin, making his nose scrunch in distaste. 

It smelled exactly like the bars he used to haunt at fifteen—back when he got drunk on the cheapest bottom-shelf swill that tasted more like paint thinner than alcohol.

God, it reeked. Some things never changed.

He swept his eyes across the room, and it didn’t take long to find them. 

Kunikida was slumped in a corner booth, gripping a glass of water and looking like he’d aged ten years in a single night.

Ranpo was nowhere in sight—probably off charming the bartender for more sweets—but in the seat next to Kunikida was Atsushi.

The boy was a total mess.

His tie was loosened to the point of hanging off one shoulder, and his silver hair was ruffled in every direction as if he’d been running his hands through it in distress. He leaned heavily on the table, his face flushed a deep, messy pink.

Cute.

Dazai hummed a nonsensical tune as he drifted toward the booth, his footsteps silent against the sticky floor. 

“My, my,” he chimed, leaning over the table the two sat at. “I leave you alone for one evening, and this is how you behave, Atsushi-kun?”

Atsushi flinched at the sound of his name, his head swiveling slowly toward Dazai. His eyes were wide and unfocused, struggling to settle on anything at all.

When they finally landed on the older man, a slow, dizzying grin spread across his face.

“Dazai-san?” Atsushi whispered. He reached out with a trembling hand, blindly grasping at the sleeve of Dazai’s sand-colored coat as if to make sure he wasn’t a hallucination brought on by the gin.

“Thank god you’re here,” Kunikida groaned, rubbing his temples. “Please take him… before I actually lose my mind.”

Dazai chuckled, letting Atsushi’s fingers tighten on his sleeve. “Now, now, Kunikida-kun. No need for that, as his amazing mentor has come to save the day!”

He crouched down slightly to bring himself level with the boy. “Or save the night, perhaps? That would be more fitting for the hour, wouldn't it, Atsushi-kun?”

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi repeated, leaning closer until his forehead nearly bumped into Dazai’s shoulder. “You’re... you’re really here?”

Yes, unfortunately. Although seeing his subordinate’s cheeks flushed like this might just be enough to make up for it.

“Go. Just go,” Kunikida muttered, pushing himself up from the booth with a groan. “Take him home before he falls off the stool.”

Oh, Dazai would be taking the boy home, certainly.

Kunikida paused mid-rise, fixing Dazai with the wary look of someone who had known him for two years and had not, in that time, been given much reason for optimism.

“His home,” Kunikida said, each word deliberate.

Dazai didn’t so much as blink. “Naturally.”

“I mean it, Dazai.”

“You wound me.” Dazai placed a hand over his chest in mock offense, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “What kind of mentor do you think I am?”

Kunikida exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound thin with restraint. “I’m too tired to argue with you,” he admitted.

His gaze shifted, settling on Atsushi, whose head was currently lolling toward Dazai’s shoulder. “Just make sure he’s safe,” he said, more softly this time. “And asleep. Please.”

Kunikida rarely asked Dazai for anything. He rarely softened his sharp, staccato tone, and rarer still did he ever use the word please like that, without bite or impatience. 

He really did care about the boy.

How inconvenient for him, Dazai thought.

“Roger that,” he replied, bright and unbothered. “You can count on your favorite partner, Kunikida-kun!”

Kunikida held his gaze for a long, searching moment. Whatever he was looking for, he either found it or decided he was too exhausted to keep looking. 

He turned away at last, setting off in search of the missing detective and leaving Dazai alone in the dim light with the boy who was still currently using his arm as a lifeline.

“Come now, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai hummed, slipping an arm around the boy’s waist and pulling him upright.

Atsushi stumbled, his legs heavy as lead, and lurched straight into Dazai’s chest. He stayed there, his face buried in the crook of Dazai’s neck.

“Oops,” he said, giggling.

“Careful there,” Dazai murmured as he steadied the swaying boy. “I am not into hugging men, you know.”

Atsushi let out a soft, muffled sound that might have been a laugh or a groan. He pulled back just enough to look at Dazai, his silver eyes wide and heartbreakingly earnest.

“Thank you, Dazai-san,” he whispered.

The boy looked at him as if he were a savior, offering up his gratitude as if Dazai had reached into the depths of the ocean specifically to pull him back to the surface. 

Dazai was far from a savior. 

If anyone else in this city had caught the boy in such a vulnerable state, they would have exploited it without a second thought.

Dazai knew that—because he also knew he wasn’t much better than those people.

He looked down at the drunk angel who had fallen into his arms—with his uneven white hair, that singular black streak, and a face flushed pink against pale skin—and Dazai found he couldn't bring himself to play the part of the selfless mentor tonight.

Who was he to refuse a gift from the heavens, however misplaced it might be?

“You're far too trusting, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai murmured, adjusting his hold and sliding Atsushi’s arm over his shoulder to bear the boy’s weight more securely.

Atsushi let out a light, airy giggle, leaning his head against Dazai’s temple, his breath warm with the scent of alcohol. “But it’s Dazai-san… Why wouldn’t I trust you?”

Because I’m the last person you should ever trust. 

“You really shouldn’t say such dangerous things, Atsushi-kun.”

“Mmm... where are we, Dazai-san?” Atsushi mumbled.

“My apartment!” Dazai chirped, his tone bright and almost sing-song despite the late hour.

Kunikida would be furious, of course. 

But then again, Kunikida had said take him home—and Dazai had, in fact, taken him somewhere. 

That the somewhere in question happened to be Dazai’s own apartment rather than Atsushi's was, strictly speaking, a navigational choice. 

One he had made approximately thirty seconds after walking into that bar and finding Atsushi flushed and warm and looking at him like that.

He hadn't promised anything. Roger that was merely an acknowledgment of receipt, not a binding agreement to comply.

Semantics. Wonderfully useful things.

“Dazai-san’s apartment?” Atsushi echoed, his head lolling to the side as he looked around the unfamiliar space.

“Mhm,” Dazai hummed, nodding as he guided the boy toward the bed. One hand rested lightly on Atsushi’s shoulder to steady him before he carefully lowered him onto the mattress.

Atsushi sank into the mattress, his silver hair fanning out like a halo against the dark, charcoal sheets. 

The only things missing were the wings—wide, white, and heavy with a grace Dazai could never hope to touch.

If they had been there, Dazai imagined they’d be frayed at the edges, worn out from the boy always carrying the world on his narrow shoulders.

But there were no wings. 

There was only a tired, drunken boy sprawled across Dazai’s bed, completely unaware that he had placed his fragile, trusting heart in the hands of a dangerous man who had never learned how to hold one properly.

Dazai didn’t move away. Instead, he crawled over him, bracing his weight on his elbows as he hovered in the suffocatingly small space between them.

“Dazai-san?” Atsushi whispered, his eyes fluttering open to meet the dark, bottomless pits of Dazai’s own. He reached up with a slow hand, his fingers brushing the rough bandages around Dazai’s neck.

“You’re staying?”

“Of course, Atsushi-kun. I have a very troublesome subordinate to look after, don’t I? Just what am I going to do with you?” 

It wasn’t really a question.

“Stay,” Atsushi murmured, his fingers still tangled in the gauze at Dazai’s throat. “Please.”

Does he have any idea who he’s asking to stay?

Dazai lowered himself just a fraction more, until the tips of their noses brushed. His heart, usually a quiet, forgotten organ, gave a traitorous, heavy thrum against his ribs.

“Coming into a man’s room and saying things like that. If I were anyone else, you’d be in a lot of trouble.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was warning the boy or himself. 

Dazai was a sick man, a selfish one, and tonight he was proving it by bringing a drunk, vulnerable subordinate back to his apartment.

Atsushi should be running. He should be putting miles of distance between them, for his own good. He should recognize Dazai’s intent, be disgusted, slap him, hit him—do anything.

But the boy just lay there, smiling up at him. Dazai didn’t understand why.

“You won’t leave, will you?” Atsushi asked, voice small, almost childlike. 

He was drunk, which meant he probably wouldn’t remember a single word of this by morning—or understand why he’d woken up in his mentor’s apartment.

If he forgot, Dazai wouldn’t have to explain the way his heart was betraying him, or justify the possessive, disgusting thoughts clouding his mind.

“No,” Dazai whispered, the truth slipping out before he could dress it up in a lie. “I won’t leave.”

He shifted slightly, trying to ease the tension with a touch of his usual teasing. “Besides, I still don’t know what happened. How’d you even manage to stir up trouble at the bar?”

“Hmm...” Atsushi’s brow furrowed as he made an effort to remember. “I think the lights were too bright? My ability... it becomes harder to control when I drink?”

Dazai let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound muffled by the proximity of their faces. “Well, you’re in good hands then. I’m the only one who can keep that Tiger on a leash, aren't I?”

Atsushi hummed, a dazed, content sound. “Dazai-san is the best at everything.”

The best at everything. 

Dazai thought of the cold rooms in the Mafia’s basement, the screams he had ignored, and the careful ways he had destroyed lives.

He was the best at many things—but none of them were what Atsushi imagined.

“To think I’ve taught you so much, and you still haven’t learned how to spot a villain when he’s right in front of you,” Dazai whispered, his gaze softening with a rare, visible pain.

“You’re not a villain,” Atsushi murmured. “You saved me.”

Saved you, Dazai thought, something bitter curling low in his chest. Bringing you into my arms is hardly saving.

Still, he knew what the boy meant. But one choice didn’t undo everything that came before it, nor did it erase everything he was still capable of.

He wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take before Atsushi realized that. And when that moment came, he wondered whether the boy would still look at him the same way.

He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. After all, Dazai himself had long since lost the ability to look at himself, too.

“You’re only saying that because I bought you chazuke once,” Dazai said lightly.

Atsushi didn’t take the bait. He just let out a long, shaky sigh, his breath warm and steady against Dazai’s skin. “Dazai-san is so bad at compliments.” 

“I’m not giving you a compliment,” Dazai whispered.

“I know. I meant you’re bad at receiving them.” Atsushi’s fingers twitched against Dazai’s sleeve. “But it’s okay. I’ll just keep saying it until you believe me.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time, then.”

“I’m patient,” Atsushi replied, a faint, lopsided smile forming on his lips.

“Do I really look like the kind of person who would risk his life to save others?” Dazai asked.

Atsushi blinked at him quizzically because, to him, it was obvious. There was no doubting Dazai was a good person. He had no idea what Dazai even meant with his question. 

So Atsushi simply nodded and replied in earnest, “Well… yes.”

Dazai’s eyes bulged slightly. Before long, he smiled in amazement. His grin was bitter, yet sweet. “Whatever you say,” he muttered. 

Those sunset-colored eyes—violet bleeding into gold—held something so blindingly, bitterly sweet that it made Dazai’s stomach churn.

Atsushi looked at him the way people looked at things worth saving. As though Dazai’s soul weren't a rotting, stagnant thing but something still living—something human.

Atsushi looked at him like he was human. 

Stop it, Dazai thought, though he wasn’t entirely sure which of them he meant it for.

He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, jaw tight, willing the warmth spreading through his chest to settle, to behave, to be anything other than what it was.

It didn’t cooperate.

“Can I ask you something?” Atsushi’s voice cut cleanly through the spiral of his thoughts.

“It’s may,” Dazai replied, his tone lifting back into something light and practiced.

Atsushi rolled his eyes. “You’re so nitpicky.” 

“Hmm, I am your mentor after all,” Dazai countered, letting the corner of his mouth lift in a mock-authoritative smirk. “You don’t address elders with can—these are basic grammar rules! Where is the respect for your superior?”

“Did you even go to school, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked, sounding both curious and playful.

Dazai gasped—light, theatrical, perfectly feigned. “What an awful thing to accuse me of! I’m wounded, truly.” 

Atsushi squinted at him, unimpressed. “I think you just like hearing yourself talk.”

“Hmm.” Dazai tilted his head, studying him with a faintly amused look. “I really ought to get you drunk more often. You’re much bolder like this.”

Atsushi huffed, a small, knowing glint appearing in his eyes—far too sober for someone who had been slurring at the bar not so long ago. “I learned it from the best.”

Huh?

Dazai paused, his hand hovering mid-air as he leaned back just a fraction, his eyes narrowing in genuine calculation.

He searched Atsushi’s face for the tell-tale signs of intoxication—the dilated pupils, the slack jaw—but all he found was a steady, clear look staring right back at him.

“Wait—” Dazai’s voice dropped, the tease falling out of it entirely. “You’re not drunk.”

“Now you’re the one throwing accusations around, Dazai-san,” Atsushi echoed, using Dazai's own mocking lilt against him.

“But yeah,” he added, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “it’s hard to stay drunk for long when you have healing abilities. Even after that much, I was mostly sober by the time we got here.”

Dazai stared at him. For once, he had nothing to say.

He had been played.

He had been played by his own subordinate—the one who wore his heart so plainly it was almost painful to witness, who fidgeted under pressure, who had a talent for tripping over his own feet at the worst possible moments.

The same boy who blushed at the slightest praise, stammered when put on the spot, and often looked like he was two steps away from running away entirely.

And yet, against all odds, he had somehow managed to trick the Demon Prodigy.

Dazai couldn’t stop the smirk that spread across his face. What a smug little bastard.

“Oh,” he said softly, a small, genuine laugh escaping him before he could think to hold it back. “Now what should I do with you, you terrible liar?”

Atsushi didn't hesitate. He lifted his hand, letting it hover near Dazai’s cheek.

“Kiss me?”

Seems the angel decided to fall entirely on his own.

“As you wish,” Dazai said.

He moved slowly, his gaze fixed on Atsushi’s, giving the younger man every second to breathe, to think, to pull away if he wanted to.

Atsushi didn’t.

If anything, he leaned closer, meeting Dazai halfway until the space between them disappeared completely.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss—soft, almost chaste. Atsushi’s hands rose instinctively, tangling in Dazai’s hair, his fingers threading through the dark strands and undoing their careful, habitual mess.

When they parted, the air felt notably colder.

“That was my first kiss,” Atsushi said quietly, still a little breathless.

Dazai’s gaze flickered down to Atsushi’s mouth, his own still tingling from the kiss. 

He had taken firsts before. More than he could count—first kisses, first touches, first everything. This was nothing new for Dazai.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should feel a faint pull of guilt, perhaps, for being the one to end his subordinate’s innocence. 

Instead, he felt a sharp, pulsing jolt of arousal that he couldn’t quite suppress.

How troublesome.

“What an honor to have taken your first,” he murmured, reaching out to brush his thumb over Atsushi’s lower lip. “I’ll have to be careful. Such things are precious commodities, aren’t they?”

Atsushi leaned into the touch, a spark of that earlier boldness returning to his eyes. “Any other firsts you’re planning to take?”

God. His subordinate was genuinely going to kill him.

Dazai let out a low, shaky laugh, his thumb stilling against Atsushi’s lip. “You really have gotten bold, haven’t you? I’m starting to wonder where this came from, if not from the alcohol.”

Atsushi’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson at Dazai’s tease, but he didn't look away. “Didn’t I tell you? I learned it from the best.”

Dazai exhaled softly through his nose.

“You realize,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, “that if you keep looking at me like that, I might start believing you’re serious.”

“I am serious,” Atsushi said immediately. There was no stutter, no blink.

“So you know exactly what you’re doing to your poor, innocent mentor, don’t you? You’re cornering me, Atsushi-kun. It’s quite merciless.”

“You’ve never been innocent a day in your life,” Atsushi said, and his voice had taken on a slight rasp that did Dazai absolutely no favors.

“Ouch. A direct hit.” Dazai hooked a lazy finger under the strap of Atsushi’s suspenders. “You’re right. I’m such a terrible influence, taking advantage of my dear, impressionable subordinate like this.”

“You say that like I’m the one doing something wrong,” Atsushi muttered, his breath hitching as Dazai’s finger brushed against his shoulder.

Dazai gave the suspender strap another lazy tug, smile widening at the reaction. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” Atsushi shot back, his hands sliding from Dazai’s hair down to his chest. “You’re the one pulling my suspenders and calling yourself a terrible influence.”

“Ah, but you like it.” 

Atsushi didn’t deny it.

Instead, his fingers drifted up the bolo tie, tracing the cord until they closed around the turquoise stone, giving it a sudden, firm tug.

Dazai stumbled forward, his breath hitching as he was pulled down to Atsushi’s level, the smug look wiped clean from his face in an instant.

“I like it,” Atsushi said, his voice quieter now. He kept his fist tight around the cord, holding Dazai there. “You taking advantage.”

“Oh?” The word slipped out, barely a breath.

Dazai was not a man who lost control. If nothing else, that had always been his discipline—the one thread he never allowed to slip from his grasp. He was the one who held it, who pulled, who decided when it would snap.

And yet here he was, caught by a fist on his bolo tie, drawn forward by nothing more than gravity and want.

It was intoxicating in a way he hadn’t felt in years, in a way he wasn’t sure he still could.

All because of the grey-haired angel beneath him—the one who had stopped him from ending his life that day at the river.

How strange, how cruelly funny life could be.

“Don’t act so surprised, Dazai-san. You’re usually so good at reading people,” Atsushi said, tilting his head. “Or am I finally an exception to that?”

You’re an exception to everything, Atsushi, Dazai thought, the words caught in his throat.

“I suppose I am a bit slow on the uptake tonight,” he admitted instead, lifting a hand to lightly catch the front of Atsushi’s shirt between his fingers.

“Though you can hardly blame me,” he continued, gaze moving over him slowly, “with a sight like that beneath me.”

Atsushi didn’t flinch. He leaned closer, the metal clasp of the bolo tie pressing cool and solid between them, his eyes never leaving Dazai’s.

“Then make it up to me by continuing,” Atsushi murmured, his breath warm against Dazai's skin. “My dear mentor.”

Something about those two words, spoken in that voice, made restraint feel like a very distant concept. Oh well.

“If my subordinate insists,” Dazai said softly, “who am I to refuse?”

He closed the space between them, drawing Atsushi into another slow, deliberate kiss.

Atsushi exhaled softly, a sound escaping before he could stop it. His hands went to the lapels of Dazai’s waistcoat, fingers fumbling at the buttons, desperate to feel the heat of his mentor’s skin.

Dazai broke the kiss, letting his lips trail down the line of Atsushi’s throat, nipping and sucking at the soft skin while his hands made far shorter work of the boy’s shirt.

Experience told, as it tended to. 

The fabric slipped from Atsushi’s shoulders before he’d managed the second button of Dazai’s waistcoat.

Dazai stilled, his palms settling against Atsushi’s bare sides—warm skin beneath his touch.

For a long moment, he simply looked, taking in everything laid bare before him, as if memorizing a map he hadn’t expected to ever see.

And perhaps, that was true. 

Because if you had told Dazai Osamu, just hours prior, that he would be undressing his own subordinate and stealing a kiss for himself, he would have looked at you like you’d grown horns overnight.

And yet.

“You’re staring,” Atsushi said softly.

“I am,” Dazai agreed, without a trace of apology.

His thumbs traced slow arcs along Atsushi’s ribs, noting the way the boy’s breath caught at even the smallest touch. 

His gaze drifted lower, settling on the wide, silvered marks curving along his sides—jagged, pale, etched deep. They reminded him, distantly, of his own.

“What are these?” he asked, voice still low.

“Scars.”

Dazai’s brows lifted slightly at the obviousness of the answer. “Obviously.”

Atsushi let out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth twitching, unsure whether to be amused or embarrassed.

“Old ones. They don’t matter,” he murmured, shifting slightly beneath the careful weight of Dazai’s hands.

Dazai didn’t press. If Atsushi wasn’t ready to talk, there was no point in asking. He would simply find another way to acknowledge them.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the edge of the nearest scar—slow, deliberate. Atsushi went completely still, breath suspended, the rest of the room falling silent.

Dazai moved upward, tracing a patient path along pale skin—learning the landscape of him as carefully as his hands had.

Atsushi exhaled a shaky, broken breath. “You’re doing it again,” he managed, voice strained.

“Mm?” The sound was light against his skin, almost amused.

“That.” 

Teasing, Atsushi was referring to Dazai’s provocative touch. His fingers found the front of Dazai’s waistcoat and shirt, tugging—impatient, graceless.

“Take this off.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Dazai murmured, answering his subordinate’s request.

He straightened, letting the cool air brush his skin as he shrugged both pieces from his shoulders. They fell to the floor, forgotten.

Then he leaned back down, forearms bracketing either side of Atsushi’s head.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Much,” Atsushi breathed, hands rising to rest flat and warm against the bandages over Dazai’s chest.

Dazai didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. He leaned in, kissing him again—slower this time, deeper, with far less restraint than before. 

One hand slid into the silver of Atsushi’s hair. The other drifted downward—over his ribs, the flat of his stomach—coming to rest at his waistband with the patience of a man in absolutely no rush. 

Which was, by design, its own kind of cruelty.

He pulled back just enough to look at him properly—flushed and breathless, silver hair in complete disarray against the dark sheets. Dazai tipped his head slightly.

“You know,” he began, as if lost in thought, “I’ve always wondered…”

Atsushi eyed him flatly, still catching his breath. “If this is going to be weird, I’m leaving.”

“Atsushi-kun! You’re so mean,” Dazai complained lightly, before adding, far too casually, “I was just wondering whether the curtains match the drapes.”

Atsushi stared at him for a long moment, utterly unimpressed. “You are the least romantic person alive.”

“That wasn’t an answer to my question,” Dazai replied, perfectly innocent, his fingers slipping just beneath the waistband.

“Fuck.” 

“And you swear too,” Dazai remarked, with the mournful air of a man watching civilization crumble in real time. His hand did not stop. “They grow up so fast.”

“Don’t,” Atsushi said, breath already uneven, “talk about me growing up while your hand is inside my underwear.”

“Fair point,” Dazai conceded pleasantly.

He pushed the fabric aside with practiced ease, and Atsushi let out a soft, relieved sound as Dazai’s fingers finally found their way to his length.

“They match,” Dazai said, with the satisfied tone of a man whose curiosity had been personally vindicated.

“I know they match,” Atsushi said, exasperated. “They’re mine—”

“Mm.” Dazai’s grip tightened, just slightly, and his voice dropped to something considerably less conversational. “Yes. They are.”

That was enough to cut Atsushi off completely. He dropped his head back against the pillow, breath catching, and didn’t try to argue again.

As it turned out, Atsushi was responsive in a way that was almost unfair. 

Every small touch translated immediately and honestly into sound—soft, unguarded things that he clearly had no idea he was making.

He found that he wanted to catalogue every single one.

Dazai adjusted his hand slightly, and Atsushi let out a sharp sound, louder than the ones before, pulled cleanly from him. 

His hips stuttered upward, his body following the feeling before he could think to stop it.

His knee came up.

It caught Dazai at the inner thigh—a glancing, entirely accidental brush in a deeply inconvenient place—and it was Dazai’s turn to make a sound. 

A sound, low and involuntary, surprised out of him. His hand stilled.

“Did I—” Atsushi lifted his head, flushed from his cheeks to his chest, looking equal parts mortified and dazed. “Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize,” Dazai interrupted, voice fractionally rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. “Just… give me a moment.”

Atsushi stared at him. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“Did I actually—”

“Don’t,” Dazai warned, though the threat lacked any real bite.

Atsushi laughed—a sound that was breathless, soft, and entirely too triumphant. “You made a noise, Dazai-san.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did,” Atsushi insisted, shifting slightly to look Dazai in the eye. “It was right against my ear.”

“Atsushi-kun,” Dazai said, his tone sounding almost like a plea.

“I heard it. I didn’t know you could sound like that.”

Dazai looked down at him—ruffled, glowing, cheeks still flushed despite his pleased expression—and found himself, somewhat helplessly, at a loss for words.

Atsushi’s grin softened. “It was a pretty sound, if it helps,” he whispered, reaching up to brush a stray lock of dark hair from Dazai’s forehead.

Dazai felt the graze of his fingertips against his skin and said nothing for a moment. “You make pretty sounds too, you know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm. Several, in fact. I’ve been keeping count.”

Atsushi’s flush deepened, though he met Dazai’s eyes without breaking. 

“In that case,” he said, deliberately over-enunciating—a pointed callback to the lesson in manners Dazai had teased him with earlier, “may I return the favor?”

Dazai let out a short breath, half-laugh, his eyes dropping briefly to Atsushi’s mouth before returning to his eyes.

“You may.” 

Atsushi pressed gently on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He settled over him—knees bracketing his hips, silver hair falling just so, those impossible sunset eyes fixed on him.

Dazai looked back up.

He was, he realized, not accustomed to this particular vantage point.

“You look surprised,” Atsushi observed.

“I’m adjusting,” Dazai said, which came out slightly more breathless than intended.

Atsushi’s mouth curved, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “Is Dazai-san flustered?”

“Dazai-san is never flustered.”

He was, in fact, flustered. Seeing Atsushi above him like this—it was a sight he hadn’t known he wanted to cherish until this exact second.

“Dazai-san sounds flustered,” Atsushi persisted. He seemed to be growing bolder the more Dazai’s usual composure frayed.

“Dazai-san sounds exactly how he always sounds,” Dazai said, though even he could hear the faint, uncharacteristic strain in his vowels.

“Dazai-san is also referring to himself in the third person,” Atsushi added pleasantly, “which is new. And very telling.”

Dazai opened his mouth, searching for a retort, but found nothing particularly useful to say. He closed it again with a quiet click of his teeth, a rare occurrence that spoke louder than any words could.

Atsushi, satisfied, rested a hand against Dazai’s chest—over the bandages, briefly, without comment—then let it drift lower, tracing the flat of his stomach with deliberate, exploratory patience.

Terrible, Dazai thought, noting with some remove that it was a fairly accurate imitation of his own technique. He learns too quickly.

Atsushi’s fingers reached his waistband and paused, mirroring almost exactly what Dazai had done not long before. He looked up through his lashes.

“Fair is fair,” he said softly.

“It is,” Dazai agreed, impressed at how steady his own voice came out.

Atsushi fumbled with the fastening, his fingers less practiced, before finally undoing it. 

His hand wrapped around Dazai’s cock—longer than his own—drawing a silent, breathless cry from the other.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Meanwhile his lips traced a slow path downward, pressing against Dazai’s sternum, his ribs, the center of his stomach. 

Dazai’s hand found his hair almost without meaning to.

Atsushi paused just above his hip, fingers curling carefully around him, and he looked up, eyes finding Dazai’s directly. 

“Is this okay?”

Anything you do to me is okay, Atsushi-kun.

“Yes,” he said instead. “It’s okay.”

Atsushi held his gaze a heartbeat longer—certain, that small curve still at his mouth—then lowered his head onto his length.

The sound Dazai made was considerably less dignified than the one Atsushi had teased him about.

He was never going to hear the end of this.

Atsushi took him in with careful attention and honest effort, no pretense whatsoever—earnest in the way that was entirely, exclusively his. 

And it was only then, with some delay, that it occurred to Dazai that this was Atsushi’s first time.

Shit.

He had, he realized, been so occupied with his own agenda that he hadn’t thought to consider the pedagogical responsibility that came with it. 

He was a mentor. He owed the boy proper instruction. Purely professional, of course.

“Here,” he said, voice low. “Like this.” 

“Are you giving me notes right now?”

“I’m mentoring you.”

Atsushi looked up with an expression that conveyed, without words, exactly what he thought of that framing. “This is not what mentoring means,” he said.

“I disagree! I am helping you, all in the name of improving skills.” Dazai’s grip shifted in his hair, adjusting the angle gently. “Training, if you will.”

The term “training” implied preparing Atsushi to do this to someone else someday—an image that sparked a flash of possessiveness so sudden and visceral it caught him off guard.

Dazai found he disliked that thought with a swiftness and intensity that was entirely disproportionate, even for him. 

Better to let the thought die before it could take root.

“You’re unbelievable,” Atsushi muttered, though he complied with the adjustment of his mentor’s bandaged hand without protest.

“You’re welcome,” Dazai replied.

He guided him with light touches and quiet murmurs, precise and deliberate, showing the same patience he brought to teaching anything else. 

And Atsushi, as he always did, absorbed each correction with the unwavering focus he applied to training, to work, to everything that mattered.

The effect on Dazai’s ability to think in complete sentences was frankly unreasonable.

“That,” he managed, voice fraying, “is—yes. That.”

Atsushi’s hand shifted, following the guidance, and whatever else Dazai had planned to say dissolved entirely.

His head tipped back against the pillow. His fingers stayed loose in silver hair, no longer guiding—just resting there.

Atsushi really does learn too quickly. 

That had never surprised him in any other context, but here, with his breathing going ragged and his grip gone slack, it hit differently.

So much differently. Fuck. He bit his lip.

His free hand found the sheets, gripping instinctively as tension coiled inside him. Dazai tightened once more in Atsushi’s hair, a silent signal that he was close.

“Atsushi,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to—”

Atsushi didn’t move away. If anything, he settled closer, making it entirely clear he was staying by choice.

His subordinate was an idiot. 

But, God.

When he came, it was quiet—a low, fractured sound he couldn’t quite swallow, his head tipping back into the pillow, spine arching before going slack.

The tension unwound all at once, leaving nothing behind but warmth and the faint tremor still working through his hands.

He lay there afterward, chest racing, heat prickling beneath his skin, sweat at his temples and throat, until all that remained was the ragged rhythm of his breath and Atsushi between his knees.

Atsushi between his knees. If this wasn’t a wet dream, it was doing a convincing impression of one.

Atsushi lifted his head slowly. His lips were kiss-bitten, expression soft and curious, eyes finding Dazai’s immediately.

“Pretty sounds,” he said, and swallowed.

His subordinate was a cute idiot. He knew it, probably, which only made him more unbearable.

Dazai reached down, drawing him up by the hair—not roughly, but with firm control—until they were level. 

Atsushi came willingly, settling against him, and Dazai kissed him without preamble—tasting himself faintly on Atsushi’s lips.

He found he minded that far less than he expected.

Atsushi made a soft, surprised sound into the kiss—then gradually melted into it, hands finding Dazai’s chest, body loosening.

When they parted, he pulled back just enough to look at him. Cheeks still flushed, a small uncertainty lingering at the edges.

“Was it good?” he asked quietly.

The care in his voice made Dazai smile.

He was terribly whipped, Dazai realized, with the detached clarity of a man watching himself walk off a ledge.

There was no other word for the way his heart was currently betraying every cynical instinct he possessed.

“Yes,” he said. Then, giving Atsushi more than a single word, he added, “Very good. More than good, actually.”

Atsushi’s uncertain expression melted into a small, radiant smile that was far too bright for a dark bedroom.

Without entirely meaning to, Dazai let his hand drift along the curve of Atsushi’s back, his fingers tracing idle, unconscious patterns against his skin.

“I truly am a terrible influence on you,” he murmured.

Atsushi huffed. “You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

Dazai paused, letting the words hang, then deliberately lowered his gaze to the very obvious situation between Atsushi’s legs.

“Well,” he said. “Speaking of things that bear attention.”

Atsushi followed his gaze downward, and the color in his cheeks, which had been cooling, returned in a rush of crimson. 

His subordinate was still hard. Adorably so.

“Your turn,” Dazai said pleasantly.

Atsushi looked up, brows knitting. “I thought we were—”

“Did you think I’d forgotten about you?” Dazai’s hand slid slowly down the length of his spine, and Atsushi’s breath caught mid-sentence.

“I wouldn’t,” Dazai said simply, and meant it.

How could he ever forget someone like Atsushi? To forget him would be to forget the thing that kept him anchored to the world.

He pressed Atsushi back against the pillow and settled over him, letting his weight rest lightly, taking in the sight of his subordinate beneath him. 

A sight far more familiar than the reverse.

His hand continued its path—down the spine, over the hip, tracing the inner thigh—and Atsushi’s breath quickened before he’d done anything worth reacting to.

“Are you not tired?” Atsushi asked, though his voice carried little conviction. “I thought we were done.”

“I’m never tired,” Dazai said, with the easy confidence of a man who had never once considered the concept personally applicable.

“You’re ancient,” Atsushi bit out, a flicker of his usual feistiness returning as he tried to blink through the haze. “You should be exhausted.”

“Twenty-two,” Dazai said, pressing a hand to his own heart in mock offense, “is hardly ancient, Atsushi-kun.”

“It’s significantly older than me.”

“Most things in this city are older than you. Now, where were we?”

“I wasn’t finished talking,” Atsushi insisted, even as Dazai’s fingers brushed high against his leg.

“Yes, you were,” Dazai replied, letting his hand drift upward—not where Atsushi wanted, not yet, just resting on his hip with a grip that was warm, possessive, and entirely unhelpful.

Atsushi’s breath left him in a rush. His fingers curled into the sheets.

“Dazai—” The name was a strained, breathless warning, but Dazai only hummed in response.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Atsushi managed to grit out.

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean.” 

Atsushi made a frustrated sound and shifted his hips—small, involuntary, chasing—and Dazai’s hand stilled just short of where he wanted it. 

“Ask nicely,” Dazai said, voice dropping low.

Atsushi stared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve mentioned.” Dazai’s fingers drifted closer, barely grazing, and he watched Atsushi’s jaw tighten with the effort of holding still. “Go on.”

Atsushi pouted, a small, stubborn furrow appearing between his brows. 

Adorable.

Then the defiance drained out of him. His gaze dropped to somewhere beside Dazai’s shoulder, and he let out a long, shaky breath.

“Please,” he whispered, “Osamu.”

The use of his given name stopped Dazai entirely.

Osamu.

He blinked. When his eyes opened again Atsushi was watching him—expression steady, cheeks flushed, entirely aware of what he’d said.

Dazai felt the corner of his mouth lift. He was truly, terribly, and absolutely whipped. 

His hand finally moved—wrapping around his cock properly—and Atsushi’s breath left him in a rush, head tipping back, a soft broken sound escaping.

Such pretty sounds, really. Dazai thought he could spend a considerable amount of time cataloguing them and not grow tired of the project.

He worked him slowly, deliberately, stroking him with precision, testing again what drew the sounds out, which ones Atsushi tried to swallow, and which escaped anyway—the answer, as before, being most of them.

His thumb dragged over the head and Atsushi made a sharp, involuntary sound, his hips jerking forward.

“Osamu—” It came out uneven this time, barely a word.

Something about hearing it again, like that, in that voice, made Dazai press his lips to Atsushi’s temple almost without thinking.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

Atsushi turned his head, and Dazai met him with a kiss.

One hand continued to coax him, and Atsushi let out a sound against his lips—almost a sob—hips stuttering, grip on Dazai’s shoulders tightening.

Dazai felt the exact moment he started to lose it—the way his breath fractured against his lips, the involuntary arch of his spine, the desperate roll of his hips chasing every stroke.

“I’ve got you,” Dazai murmured against his lips. “Let go.”

And Atsushi did—coming with a sound that was quiet and wrecked, his whole body pulling taut before releasing all at once, forehead dropping to Dazai’s shoulder as he shuddered through it.

Dazai guided him patiently, not stopping until Atsushi’s breathing evened out and the tension left his body, replaced by something loose, warm, and heavy.

Atsushi was breathtaking. From this close, the moonlight didn’t just touch Atsushi—it seemed to originate from him.

Dazai found himself staring at the way Atsushi’s eyelashes cast long, delicate shadows against his flushed cheeks, the half-lidded haziness of his eyes, full of a trust Dazai still felt he hadn’t earned.

He looked like a creature shaped from sunlight and salt air, a startling contrast to the cold, sterile shadows Dazai usually inhabited.

When Atsushi met his gaze again—chest rising and falling, eyes dark and unfocused—his look was open, raw, and devastatingly wanting, and he made absolutely no effort to hide it.

“Can I have more of you?”

“Yes,” Atsushi said without hesitation, as if the answer had been waiting inside him long before the question was even asked.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed, a final, flickering instinct of the mentor trying to provide a way out. “You understand what I’m asking.”

“I’m not an idiot.” Atsushi held his gaze steadily, unwavering, refusing to step back.

“That wasn’t what I—” Dazai’s words faltered.

“Yes, Dazai.” Atsushi’s fingers curled into the skin of Dazai’s shoulders, his nails digging in as if to ground them both. 

“Yes, I want it.” His breath hitched, unsteady and trembling. “I want you, Osamu.”

Fuck. 

His name again, in that voice. I want you like it was obvious—like the idea of Atsushi Nakajima wanting Dazai Osamu was a natural law of the universe.

And perhaps, he hoped, it was. That in every universe, it would be.

His body responded with complete and humiliating honesty. He was already half-hard again, cock showing rather pointed interest, which was frankly inconvenient given that he’d finished not even ten minutes ago.

Dazai had taken people to bed more times than he could count. He was not, generally, a man who lost his composure over words.

Atsushi. The effect you have on me, and you don’t even realize it. And if you do, you are a cruel, cruel man, Atsushi.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said softly.

“I won’t.”

“Atsushi.”

“I won’t,” Atsushi repeated, firm and clear, his hands tightening on Dazai’s shoulders as if anchoring himself to reality.

“You kidnapped me from a bar and brought me to your apartment when Kunikida-san explicitly told you to take me home. Don’t look at me like you’re the responsible one here,” he added.

Dazai blinked, the accusation momentarily stalling his thoughts. Then, slowly, a genuine smile curved his lips. “That’s hardly kidnapping.”

“Admit it,” Atsushi challenged, his voice hitching slightly as Dazai shifted above him. “You don’t even know my apartment number.”

“I do. I have an excellent memory,” Dazai replied, eyes glinting with a teasing darkness.

“Then why didn’t you take me there?”

“Because,” Dazai said, leaning closer, voice low and deliberate, “I didn’t want to.”

Atsushi held his gaze. “Listen to me this time, since you clearly didn’t listen to Kunikida-san.”

His fingers tightened against Dazai’s skin, his voice dropping into something quieter, more deliberate. “I want this, okay? I’ve always wanted this.”

Always.

“Always is a strong word.” 

“I know what always means,” Atsushi countered, his expression firm.

Dazai exhaled slowly. “You’re eighteen, Atsushi. You haven’t had anyone else do this to you. You’re confusing your feelings.”

The excuse tasted hollow even as he’d made it. 

When Dazai was eighteen, he had already spent years in the Port Mafia—done things that couldn’t be undone, known things that couldn’t be unknown, and understood the difference between want, need, and manipulation with a clarity that came from surviving all three.

Eighteen was definitely not young, not in this city, especially not in this life. He knew that better than anyone.

And Atsushi, who had survived the orphanage, the streets, the Tiger, and everything that came after—Atsushi was not naive.

He had never been naive. He had simply chosen, despite it all, to remain open in a way Dazai had long since stopped being.

Had forgotten, even, was possible.

“I know the difference,” Atsushi said with a bluntness that was uniquely his. “I know the difference between gratitude and this.”

“Do you?”

He already knew the answer.

“Yes.” Atsushi’s thumb traced an absent, burning path against Dazai’s shoulder. “I know what I feel, and I know who I feel it for, and I’ve known for a while. I’m not a child.”

“I know you’re not,” Dazai murmured, the lightness gone from his voice.

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“I’m not treating you like a child,” Dazai said quietly, the carefully constructed mask finally slipping. “I don’t want to ruin you, Atsushi.”

Atsushi was precious to him. The living reincarnation, Dazai had come to think, of everything Odasaku had once wanted for him. 

Be on the side that saves people. He had carried those parting words for years like a smooth stone in his pocket, unsure how to act on them.

He had long believed that “the light” was meant for others, never for someone like him.

And then Atsushi had appeared.

Slowly, against his will, Dazai understood that this was what Odasaku had seen from wherever the dead could see.  

Atsushi was his light.

He was kind-hearted, resilient, and possessed a purity of spirit that Dazai found structurally impossible to emulate. 

He was everything Dazai wasn’t—and yet, he was still a wild card, a boy who managed to surprise the man who knew everything, always with a grace that left Dazai breathless.

Dazai had ruined things before. He had dismantled people, burnt places to the ground, and shattered versions of the world that might have been beautiful if he hadn’t touched them.

He knew exactly what his hands had done, what they were capable of, the invisible stains no scrubbing or fresh bandages could ever erase.

He did not want those hands anywhere near something this irreplaceable. He didn’t want the blood on his palms to smudge the white of the Tiger’s fur. 

He didn’t want to taint this, didn’t want to wake up and realize that by loving the light, he had snuffed it out.

“You won’t,” Atsushi said. It was a statement of fact, a certainty Dazai hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve, yet couldn’t ignore.

“You can’t know that.”

“I know you.” Atsushi’s fingers curled gently against Dazai’s jaw, tilting his face down until their foreheads nearly touched.

“You don’t, Atsushi. I am a bad man. A really, really bad man,” Dazai admitted, almost a whisper.

“I don’t care,” Atsushi said.

“You should.”

“Shouldn’t.” His thumb brushed once against Dazai’s jaw, small and deliberate. His eyes didn’t waver. “I choose.”

Dazai felt his breath hitch. For a man who lived his life ten steps ahead of everyone else, he found himself utterly trapped in the present. 

He had been treating the boy like a porcelain doll—undeservedly so. Atsushi wasn’t fragile. He had survived so much, his past as bloody and unforgiving as Dazai’s own.

He had stared into the abyss of his own nature and come out holding a mirror. If Atsushi could look at all of him—and still say yes—then Dazai’s so-called protection was nothing more than a selfish wall.

To refuse him wasn’t saving him. It was just another way of deciding for him. And Atsushi had asked, very clearly, to be done with that.

Dazai exhaled, something almost like a laugh caught in it. “You deserve better than what I’m capable of giving you.”

Atsushi held his gaze and said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

“But,” Dazai continued, quieter, “I find that I don’t care. Which is probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, and I have done a lot of selfish things. A lot.”

Atsushi huffed out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Proves why you brought me here.”

“Yeah,” Dazai said simply.

Atsushi tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. “You wanted me here,” he said, more gently now. “So ask me the question again.”

“Which—oh.” Dazai blinked, momentarily thrown off, before his gaze settled back on Atsushi’s. “Can I have more of you?”

Atsushi didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, breath catching just slightly. “Please yes.”

Dazai closed his eyes, lashes brushing Atsushi’s cheek. “Alright,” he murmured against his mouth. “Alright.”

He reached past him to the drawer, one hand sliding past Atsushi to the drawer beside them. 

He pulled it open, retrieving the lube, and felt Atsushi watch him with those calm, patient eyes.

“Still okay?” Dazai murmured, settling back over him.

“Still okay,” Atsushi said.

Dazai uncapped the lube with practiced ease, warming it between his fingers. “This might feel a little weird at first,” he said, meeting Atsushi’s eyes.

“Weird how?”

“Just unfamiliar.” He held his gaze. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Okay,” Atsushi said simply.

Dazai smiled at his verbal response. He pressed the first finger in slowly, watching Atsushi’s face rather than anything else, and felt him go very still.

“Breathe,” Dazai said quietly.

Atsushi exhaled—deliberate, controlled—and his grip on Dazai’s shoulder tightened fractionally. “That’s—” He paused, processing. “That’s strange.”

“Strange bad?”

“Strange strange.” Atsushi frowned slightly, the expression caught somewhere between concentration and mild affront. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t say I thought it would,” Atsushi shot back.

“Your face said otherwise,” Dazai countered, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“My face was processing,” Atsushi said, trying to maintain his dignity.

Dazai pressed a little deeper, slow and careful, and watched the dignity falter.

“Oh,” Atsushi whispered.

Dazai worked with a slow, agonizing patience, only adding a second finger once he felt the tension ease enough to allow it. His eyes stayed fixed on Atsushi’s face the entire time. 

Atsushi held still through it, brow slightly furrowed, one hand gripping Dazai’s shoulder for balance. He focused on his breathing, steadying himself through each new sensation.

Then Dazai adjusted the angle—slightly, precisely—and felt the exact moment he found it.

A sharp sound escaped Atsushi as his body jolted, his fingers tightening against Dazai’s shoulder with surprising strength.

Dazai stilled, watching as Atsushi’s pupils widened, nearly swallowing the gold of his irises.

After a moment, Atsushi exhaled. “That… was different.”

“Yes,” Dazai agreed.

“Do that again.”

“Please,” Dazai reminded him pleasantly.

Flushed with a mix of embarrassment and irritation, Atsushi turned his head to glare at him. “Are you seriously—”

Dazai did it again.

The indignation vanished at once, replaced by a sharp, unrestrained sound that Atsushi didn’t even try to hold back this time. His head pressed into the pillow, free hand twisting in the sheets.

“Fuck, please—” He drew in a shaky breath. “Osamu.”

“Please what?” Dazai asked, with the serene patience of a man who had all night and intended to use it.

He found the spot again—two fingers pressing directly against it—and felt Atsushi shudder beneath him, another wrecked sound tearing out of him that echoed off the walls of the apartment.

“Oh my god—” 

“Language,” Dazai said pleasantly.

“Don’t—” Atsushi started, then lost the thread entirely as Dazai added the third finger, slow and patient, stretching him carefully. 

Dazai watched him closely—the flush creeping down his throat, the way his head had tipped back, the quiet, involuntary sounds slipping past his control.

Beautiful, Dazai thought, entirely without meaning to. 

“Still okay?” he murmured.

“I—” Atsushi tried. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop please,” Dazai corrected.

“Osamu, I swear to—” Atsushi broke off with a sharp intake of breath as Dazai found the angle again.

“You’re doing well, Atsushi, taking it so well,” praises left his lips, because Atsushi truly was, Dazai wasn’t sure if that was from his ability or just another thing Atsushi surprised him with.

“Mm.” He pressed his lips briefly to Atsushi’s jaw. “You're doing beautifully.”

Atsushi made a sound that was definitely not a protest, his face turning into Dazai’s neck, the tips of his ears burning crimson all the way to the tips.

Oh.

Dazai’s mouth curved faintly, a slow, predatory spark of satisfaction lighting up his dark eyes. He likes that.

“Do you like it when I praise you?” he asked, with the tone of a man making a very interesting scientific discovery.

“Osamu—”

“Atsushi.”

“I will bite you,” Atsushi managed to grit out, a flash of the Tiger’s primal irritation flickering through the haze of his arousal.

“Not the threat you think it is,” Dazai said cheerfully, curling his fingers.

Atsushi shuddered against him—full body, helpless—the comeback dissolving into a soft, wrecked sound that he pressed into the crook of Dazai’s neck. 

His hips rolled forward without his apparent input, chasing the pressure, increasingly beyond caring about appearances.

It was around this point that Dazai became inconveniently, unavoidably aware that his own body had been paying extremely close attention to all of this.

His pants had grown considerably uncomfortable some time ago. He had been ignoring it with the focused discipline of a man with priorities, keeping his attention fixed where it needed to be.

But with Atsushi warm and pliant against him, making those sounds, saying his name like that, that discipline was finding it increasingly difficult to hold its ground.

Humiliating, like a virgin, he thought, without much conviction.

He pressed his lips to Atsushi’s temple, then his cheek, lingering briefly at the soft skin beneath his ear.

“Ready?” he murmured.

Atsushi pulled back just enough to look at him—thoroughly debauched, cheeks dark, lips swollen, eyes blown wide and entirely certain—and nodded.

Dazai withdrew his fingers slowly, and Atsushi exhaled at the loss—a small, involuntary sound of absence that did absolutely nothing to help the situation in Dazai’s pants.

He reached for the lube and slicked himself with practiced efficiency, trying to stay clinical—but it was far harder than usual with Atsushi there on the pillow.

Looking so impossibly beautiful.

Dazai leaned over him, settling his weight on his forearms, and reached down to line himself up—pressing the head of his cock against Atsushi’s entrance, feeling the heat of him even before pushing in, feeling him twitch at the contact.

He paused there.

Atsushi reached up and tucked a stray strand of Dazai’s hair behind his ear.

Dazai stared at him.

“What,” Atsushi said, with perfect composure for someone with Dazai’s cock pressed against his hole.

“Did I tell you you were pretty, Atsushi?”

Atsushi’s composure wavered—a flush creeping up the back of his neck, his face tilting slightly, doing nothing except giving Dazai a perfect view of exactly how the compliment had landed.

“You didn’t,” Atsushi said, to the pillow.

“Oversight on my part.” Dazai lowered his head, pressing his lips to the line of Atsushi’s jaw, tracing the curve of his cheek. “You’re very pretty, Atsushi.”

“You’re doing it on purpose now.”

“I’m sorry, Atsushi, I really can’t help myself,” he said, with very little actual apology in his tone.

He pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, before he shifted his hips and pushed in.

Atsushi’s breath left him all at once, a sharp, broken exhale that was more a gasp than a word. 

He was filled completely, his body taut and trembling as it stretched to accommodate the intrusion, taking Dazai in with a tight, perfect heat.

His hands found the broad expanse of Dazai’s back and gripped hard. His head tipped back against the pillow, the line of his throat straining as his lips parted around a sound that came out low and involuntary.

Dazai stilled, his own breath caught somewhere in his throat. His forehead dropped to Atsushi’s shoulder and he closed his eyes.

Atsushi was so fucking perfect, taking him so well, oh fuck.

“Atsushi,” he whispered, the name sounding like a prayer he hadn’t realized he knew.

“Move,” Atsushi said, quietly, into his hair.

“Bossy,” Dazai said, which came out considerably more breathless than intended.

“You like it.”

“I like everything about you,” Dazai said, less playfully than he’d aimed for, pressing his lips to Atsushi’s shoulder, his collarbone, the soft skin of his throat.

A remark both playful and, very, very true.

He pulled back and thrust forward—slow at first, finding a rhythm. His eyes stayed on Atsushi’s face, watching for every flicker and shift. 

Atsushi responded to each movement with the same devastating honesty—sounds escaping freely, body arching to meet him.

Then his hips lifted to meet him—impatient, unmistakable—pushing beyond the pace Dazai had set. The sound it drew from both of them was impossible to ignore, probably even audible from down the street.

“Atsushi—”

“More,” Atsushi interrupted, the word muffled but firm against Dazai’s shoulder, his arms tightening around him, pulling Dazai down as if he couldn’t get him close enough. 

His voice dropped lower, rough at the edges. “Harder, Osamu.”

Oh.

Dazai adjusted the angle and gave him exactly what he asked for.

Atsushi’s whole body arched sharply beneath him, a loud, broken moan tearing out of his throat, making Dazai’s grip tighten almost painfully on the sheets beside Atsushi’s head.

There.

He pulled back and drove forward again—same angle, same depth—just to hear it happen twice. Atsushi obliged with another wrecked sound, his hips rolling up instinctively to meet the thrust.

More. Harder.

Dazai gave him both.

The headboard knocked softly against the wall. Atsushi’s nails dragged down Dazai's back—not gently, leaving stinging trails behind—and Dazai felt it everywhere. 

“You’re—” Atsushi started, voice completely wrecked, then lost the sentence entirely as Dazai thrust into him again.

“Mm?” Dazai managed, which was about the extent of what he had available.

“Don’t stop,” Atsushi said instead, hands fisting in Dazai’s hair, pulling him down. “Don’t you dare stop.”

As if he could.

Dazai pressed his mouth to the salt-slicked skin of Atsushi’s throat, then his jaw, then the reddened corner of his lips.

His breathing was ragged, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that had grown urgent, with nothing to do with technique, fueled by Atsushi.

Atsushi Atsushi Atsushi Atsushi.

Beneath him, Atsushi’s legs were locked around his waist, his own name spilling from his lips between broken sounds like it was the only word he had left. “Osamu—”

“I know,” Dazai Dazai rasped against his mouth, the words catching on a sharp exhale. “I know.”

He drove into him again, harder this time, watching as Atsushi’s lips parted around a sound of surprise, his head pressing back into the pillow, neck exposed.

Dazai pressed close, feeling the vibration of the sound against him, and kept moving.

He reached between them and wrapped his hand around Atsushi’s cock—hard and leaking, flushed against his stomach—stroking him in firm pulls timed to each thrust.

The friction was more than Atsushi’s overstimulated senses could handle. He came apart almost immediately, his back arching off the mattress sharply.

He spilled hot between them, clenching impossibly tight around Dazai, a pulsing squeeze that broke the last of Dazai’s control.

Fuck.

Dazai followed seconds later—burying himself deep, a low, rough groan pressed into Atsushi’s neck as the tension snapped and unraveled all at once.

He stayed there for a moment, forehead against Atsushi’s shoulder, uneven breaths gradually slowing. 

Then, eventually, Dazai shifted his weight and rolled to the side, pulling Atsushi with him.

Atsushi went without resistance, curling against his chest with the loose, boneless ease of someone completely wrung out, with no objections left in him.

His face was flushed, hair a tangled catastrophe against the pillow, breathing still coming in slow unsteady pulls.

Still pretty. So fucking gorgeous. Dazai couldn’t look away.

“So pretty only for me,” he murmured aloud.

Atsushi made a sound—too tired to be a proper huff, but clearly an attempt. His fingers found Dazai’s wrist in the dark and curled loosely around it, holding on without a word.

Dazai’s hand slid into his hair, tilting his head up. Atsushi’s eyes were half-lidded; he closed them again, pressing a little closer into Dazai’s chest.

They’d clean up tomorrow morning. The sheets were a lost cause. Dazai found he couldn’t bring himself to care even slightly.

He rested his chin atop Atsushi’s head, breathing in the faint scent of salt and silver, and let himself smile. 

He was glad he’d accepted this particular babysitting gig at two in the morning on a Saturday night. 

It was, without a doubt, the best decision he had ever made.

Thank you, Kunikida!