Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were, surprisingly, quite a few accomplishments in Dazai’s life — surprising, at least, for a poor orphan with a taste for catastrophe and an evident death wish. He often credited himself with being born a genius. Others might call it hubris, but hey, the results spoke for themselves.

First off, he was alive. That alone deserved a medal. Not because he tried particularly hard to stay that way — in fact, quite the opposite. He had a certain penchant for placing himself in extraordinarily dangerous situations. People called him lucky. Dazai preferred the term comically misfortunate . After all, luck implied some kind of divine favor. What he had was more like a cosmic joke with no punchline because somehow, he kept surviving.

Becoming the Yokahoma’s most important delatore was another one for the list. A prestigious position, technically, though more scandalous than noble, considering the amount of political blackmail, gossip trafficking, and confidential "he said–she said" he engaged in. The system he’d designed — well, co-designed, but it was mostly him — was flawless and efficient. His sluglike partner would whine about the details, but together they had an iron grip on the Yokahoma’s underbelly. Later on, they actually joined as members of the Port Clan, with Mori Ougai as its Head Daimyo(大名) , which granted more power and responsibilities to their young hands.

More than half the crime rate across the territory had plummeted under their watch. Their “names” were quietly whispered in interrogation cells and behind bloodied knuckles. Some rumors were true — yes, a few... personal acts of castration had taken place, strictly reserved for the worst offenders. Rapists. Predators. Dazai was not keen on justice because, and he quotes, “Who am I to determine justice among people? I can at least leave that to a human to decide”. But, he just had a particular disgust for these. Even himself - who was “disqualified as a human being” - could see this. Growing up in a low-class brothel, he saw this kind of monsters every day and eventually got disgusted enough.

Of course, being the primary outlet for his partner’s violence was also an accomplishment, if you asked him. Most people found it strange. He found it refreshing. There was just something so invigorating about being slammed into a wall by the epitome of calmness, elegance, a boy with enough strength to shatter a concrete wall with just a punch and the god of calamity resting inside him; his self-restraint thinner than a razor’s edge — at least where Dazai was concerned. He was the only one capable of dragging such pure fury out from him. And honestly? That made Dazai feel a little giddy.

Although — his greatest misfortune yet — came wrapped in silk words, blonde long braided hair and a foreign accent. 

Dazai never referred to himself as human. He felt detached, disqualified, fundamentally other. Sure, he looked like one, acted like one — give or take a few quirks — bled like one, and was widely perceived as one. But in his own mind, that label belonged to someone else. Someone like his partner.

Nakahara Chuuya, ironically, was the one people whispered about. For good reason — after all, he’d been made the vessel of Arahabaki, the so-called god of calamity, before he was even ten. It wasn’t public knowledge, but those in the know spoke about him like he was some sort of product, a supernatural entity stuffed into a human shape.

Fools.

Chuuya was human — so devastatingly human that it made Dazai, an aberration in his own right, feel something almost akin to it.

For starters, some peculiar information did not go didn’t go unnoticed by certain people. Paul Verlaine, the so-called “King of Assassins,” got his hands on just enough of the truth to assume Chuuya was like him — something not quite human. And thus, someone who might understand.

Dazai knew better.

He also knew Verlaine was gunning for anyone even remotely close to Chuuya — and some guy named “N,” who, frankly, could drop dead for all Dazai cared. So he did what a good partner does: He got to work.

First, he gathered information. He met with Verlaine. Talked to Chuuya’s friend, Piannoman. Staged an elaborate game: played the helpless little victim in front of a girl with violet eyes and led her straight to Chuuya’s nearly-dead friends. She used her ability to “revive them”, just as planned. Dazai arranged for their relocation to a secure Port Mafia safehouse, orchestrated a few controlled explosions for flair, and slipped off to rescue his partner from whatever torture chamber N had set up. As for psycho older brother fight #2? he went to his (again) tortured partner and trusted his predictions on Verlaine's rebellion on his own lines of code. 

And, for the record, Mori did end up recruiting Verlaine later. The man had his uses. Dazai even managed to dig up a few key documents from Chuuya’s pre-laboratory childhood. He hadn’t shared them yet — probably would in some time. But he had them.

The plan had worked. Mostly.

Except for the part where he learned, with crystal clarity, that in two years, Mori Ōgai was planning to push him out of the Clan.

That part was less of a surprise and more of an inevitability, he understood it. Dazai was many things, but loyal wasn’t one of them — not in a way that comforted someone like Mori. And the doctor? He cherished and was terrified of Dazai in equal measures.

Which was hilarious.

What wasn’t hilarious was the universe’s latest joke: after surviving Verlaine, stabilizing his partner, and making sure Yokahoma wasn’t blown off the map — he presented. As an omega. Of course.

He’d known it was coming, it had been obvious for a while. But still, the timing was… inconvenient. Not that he minded being an omega, exactly. He just wished it had happened under literally any other circumstances. Being a beta would’ve made everything easier.

Tough luck, he guessed. 

Well. At least his scent wasn’t terrible — a warm, sugary blend of vanilla, coconut, and brown sugar. He liked it.

Chapter Text

And now, one month after Verlaine’s apprehension, here he was — reluctantly tagging along with Chuuya and the Flags. Chuuya’s old team, the very men Dazai had gone out of his way to save.

He didn’t expect much when they met again. Maybe a few grudging nods, some mutual acknowledgment, and they'd be done with it. Instead, the moment the group gathered, something unexpected happened: they thanked him. All of them.

One by one.

Serious, sincere and dangerous men taking their turn to thank him for saving their lives. He could not even remember ever being acknowledged for saving lives rather than taking them. Dazai, of course, brushed it off with a lazy smile and a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Please,” he drawled, stretching like a cat in the sun, “I was bored and it felt like a fun little side quest.”

But his deflection didn’t work. Not on them.

Lippmann, who had always been a bit dramatic — and an actor, so it came with the job — stepped forward and patted Dazai’s shoulder like a proud uncle. “Don’t argue with me,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “I’ve just booked you three full spa days. Deep cleansing, skin therapy, hair treatment — all of it. I’m paying. You and I are becoming beauty partners.”

“Lippmann wha—?”

“No. As someone who lives under stage lights, I know exactly what you need. And besides—” he gave Dazai a once-over, “—you’ve been presenting for less than a month, haven’t you? You’re holding it together disgustingly well, but I know what it’s like. Let yourself be spoiled. If you have a problem accepting it, just think of this as an investment. Appearance can be wielded too.”

That set off a chain reaction. They all joined in.

Iceman bought expensive cologne — omega-safe , of course. Albatross gave him a handmade switchblade that was more ornamental than functional, but it had his initials carved on the handle and was really pretty. Piannoman offered to teach him how he handled the wires they used to save their lives and Doc even handed him a ridiculously soft silk robe.

It was almost embarrassing.

Almost.

Dazai let it happen. Why not? It wasn’t often he got treated like royalty instead of a rotting bandage waste. And truth be told, the attention felt… nice. Overwhelming, sure — his scent receptors were still recalibrating, and the blockers Mori provided weren’t strong enough for his glands — but nice. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to crawl back into the shadows immediately after a job was done.

Chuuya, however, stayed mostly quiet.

He lingered nearby, expression unreadable, arms crossed, sipping from a glass of cold water and barely saying a word. He wasn’t avoiding Dazai, exactly — but he wasn’t rushing to join the praise parade either. Every so often, his gaze would drift to Dazai, linger a moment, then pull away like it burned.

Dazai didn’t push this time and let him exist in his silence.  He knew his partner could be more than mad, though his silence, for once, didn’t feel heavy or cruel. It felt… thoughtful. 

The evening dragged on, the celebration stretching into the night. Drinks flowed more freely, jokes got louder, the music grew bolder. At some point, someone spilled vodka on the carpet and blamed the furniture. 

Dazai had curled up on one of the couches, legs folded, sipping something sweet and deceptively strong, hair loose and eyes a little glassy. The scent blockers had started to fade. His own scent — warm and sugar-sweet, just a little heady — hung faintly in the air. He was smiling more easily than usual. His body was relaxed.

Tipsy. Not drunk, his tolerance was way too high for that.

Albatross, in particular, had taken up a spot far too close to him — practically leaning in — clearly affected by Dazai’s scent. Presented individuals could pick up each other’s secondary characteristics, and since Albatross had presented as an alpha the year before, he definitely could.

The rest of the Flags were in similar states. 

Except Chuuya, who was nursing his second glass and watched the whole display before him. There was a flicker of something in his expression — too subtle to name.

When the night finally came to a close, Dazai stretched and tried to stand — only to sway, ever so slightly, with a soft “whoops.”

“Alright,” Chuuya said before Dazai could protest, setting down his empty glass with finality. “Let’s go.”

“Hm?” Dazai blinked. “I’ll be fine, I just need to—”

“You live in a fucking forest cabin ” Chuuya interrupted. “It’s almost 3AM, and you’re not scent-anchored. You’ll get jumped before you reach the train station.”

Dazai tilted his head with a sly grin. “Aw, worried about me, Chuuya?”

Chuuya didn’t respond. He just rolled his eyes and crouched down in front of him.

“Get on.”

“...Seriously?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

And so, with a dramatic sigh and a laugh, Dazai let himself be lifted.

Chuuya carried him without effort, bridal style — because of course he did — and despite the groans and teasing, Dazai didn’t squirm. He rested his cheek against Chuuya’s shoulder, lulled by the steady heartbeat and the scent of leather, smoke, and something faintly citrusy beneath it all.

As they walked, Dazai murmured, half-asleep, “If I did not know you, I would think you were actually concerned about my well being”.

Chuuya didn’t stop walking.

“Just sleep, I’ll wake you when we get home”

When they arrived at Chuuya’s apartment, he kicked the door open with his foot — gently, for once — and maneuvered Dazai inside with practiced ease. The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of a few hallway lights, casting long, calm shadows across the floor. Chuuya set Dazai down on the couch like a particularly obnoxious sack of velvet, then hesitated for a moment. He hated waking him up — Dazai didn’t sleep easily, not ever. When he did, it was always light, brittle, uncertain. Still, the smell of exhaustion and cheap booze was beginning to stick.

“Wake up, you asshole. You need a bath — you stink.”

The omega stirred, barely a wrinkle in the silence, before letting out a small, pitiful whimper.

“Do you not like my scent, Chuuya?” he mumbled, voice soft and sleepy, curling deeper into the cushions like some spoiled housecat.

“I can’t even smell it, smartass. But I swear to god, I’m throwing your ass into a cold bath if you don’t move.”

Dazai cracked one eye open lazily, gaze swimming with amusement. Then, with the kind of sudden thought that could only come from a drifting mind, he asked, “What do you think you’ll be?”

Chuuya’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“When you present.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another. The words landed with a strange heaviness between them — not like a joke, but like a question too close to the bone.

Chuuya’s face darkened, voice gritting between his teeth. “Don’t bullshit me, shitty Dazai. You know only humans can present.”

At that, Dazai just chuckled. A soft, low sound, almost kind. His eyes shimmered with something unreadable — mischief, melancholy, something else entirely — and Chuuya found himself watching him with rising frustration.

His partner — no, his friend? — was a bottomless well of unreadable expressions and maddening silences. And now, of all times, he was brushing off something that ran deep. Chuuya could feel it. That hollow little echo of doubt inside him — the one others had carved over time. An experiment, vessel for a god of calamity. Not a boy. Not a person.

He felt it again. That familiar ripple — the faintest trace of corruption brushing against his skin, like static beneath his nails. He could always sense it when he was about to lose control.

But then—

“How could you be anything but human, you awful slug?” Dazai said quietly, reaching up to touch Chuuya’s cheek with fingertips warm and reverent. “Someone as infuriating as you can’t be written by some lousy code.”

Chuuya froze. His heart gave a stutter. The hand on his cheek radiated something soft — fondness, unfiltered and raw. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a jab. It was… real.

“I’ve got a gift for you, birthday boy” Dazai added, voice barely above a whisper, smile curling at the corners like a secret. “It’s in my pocket.”

Chuuya blinked, lips parted slightly, brain scrambling to catch up. He reached into the coat Dazai still wore — same ridiculous bandages and all — and pulled out an envelope with a ridiculous drawing of a slug with a birthday hat. 

Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “What’s this? Some trash you managed to put in envelope.”

Dazai gave a tired snort. “Open it and find out.”

With a roll of his eyes and a muttered threat under his breath, Chuuya made his way across the apartment. He opened the envelope, looking confused at the three more envelopes laying inside. Until he noticed they were labeled in bright red font:

baby slug photos

kid slug photos

slug records

Chuuya stared at them. For a long moment, he didn’t move — didn’t open, didn’t breathe. Just stared.

Then he opened the last one: slug records.

His breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

There it was.

His birth certificate — Yokohama Municipal Registry, signed and dated. Weight, length, mother’s name, time of birth. A smudged hospital logo in the corner.

Another file: medical scans. Immunization records. Growth charts, the kind they used to pin to the fridge. Scribbled preschool enrollment forms, messy handwriting in the margins noting talks too loudly, eats lunch too fast, very strong for his size. Scans of cheap paper newsletters from a daycare long since shut down.

His eyes flicked down the list. It was all there.

And it hurt.

It hurt more than he expected it to.

Like someone had reached inside and opened a locked drawer he forgot he even had. All these years — he'd clung to scraps. Half-memories, distortions, rumors. Files blacked out or rewritten. An identity cut and recut by hands that only wanted a weapon. Not a boy.

But these… these weren’t falsified. He could feel it. They were human things. Clumsy, real, boring. His.

A strange sound pushed out of his throat. Something between a laugh and a breath too tight to be one. He ran a hand over his face — shaky, slow — and forced himself to open the next folder.

kid slug photos

The first image fell.

It was a blurry photo taken with a bad camera, timestamped in red numbers. A tiny version of him — messy red hair, flushed cheeks, missing one front tooth — sat in a sandbox, looking deeply pissed off as some adult off-screen tried to make him wave. A cheap bucket and a tiny green shovel rested by his feet.

Another.

A school photo. Chuuya, maybe five, wearing a uniform two sizes too big, shoulders square like a soldier, smile crooked and unsure. His name tag hung a little lopsided. Someone had pinned a bright yellow star to his chest. In the background, other kids blurred into noise.

Another.

He was blowing out candles. A paper crown on his head. One candle refused to die and he looked seconds away from kicking the cake off the table. In the corner, a woman — probably a teacher — was trying not to laugh.

Another.

Another.

Each one was a punch to the gut. They were ridiculous, humiliating, precious. Things no one had the right to have — not for someone like him. He was a weapon. A vessel. An anomaly.

He wasn’t supposed to have had this.

He was supposed to be made — not born.

And yet.

There he was.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges.

He clicked open the final folder: baby slug photos.

The first photo almost undid him.

It was him, newborn, swaddled in blue hospital linen, eyes scrunched shut, face red and wrinkled. A nurse held him like he was made of glass. His name was written on a card taped to the plastic bassinet beside him.

Nakahara, Chuuya.

Date: April 29.

Weight: 2.7 kg.

That was it. The beginning.

He hadn’t noticed his hands were shaking until the tremble hit the photo. His breath was shallow. His eyes burned. But no tears came. Chuuya didn’t cry — not for things like this. Not even now.

And still—

Behind him, Dazai hadn’t said a word.

Chuuya spoke without looking. Voice rough.

“Where the hell… did you get this.”

There was a rustle of movement from the couch. Then Dazai’s voice, quiet and light.

“Backdoors. Forgotten archives. Papers no one bothered to throw. Some of it came from a woman who used to be a nurse at the hospital. Said she always remembered the baby with the ridiculous hair.”

Chuuya let out a breath that shivered through his whole body.

“…You did this just to prove I was human?”

“No,” Dazai replied softly. “I did it so you’d believe it.”

A silence stretched between them. Not awkward — reverent.

The kind of silence that only came after you saw something sacred.

Chuuya leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands, then looked over his shoulder, eyes tired, voice low and a little hoarse.

“…Thanks,” he said. Barely more than a breath. But the word sat heavy in the room, unpolished and unguarded.

Dazai blinked.

Then he grinned.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, clutching his chest like he'd just witnessed a miracle. “Did you just say thank you? Did I hallucinate that? Hold on, I think my brain just short-circuited.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Chuuya didn’t even sound angry — just resigned, like he’d walked into it and already regretted opening his mouth.

“No, no, don’t take it back now,” Dazai said, sitting up on the couch with renewed energy, his eyes wide and positively glowing with mischief. “Say it again. Slower this time. Let your tiny brain work at it’s level properly.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, now that’s more like it.” Dazai leaned his chin on the back of the couch, watching Chuuya with the kind of shit-eating smile only he could manage. “You’re welcome, by the way. I went through hell for those files. Actual hell. Some papers had literal mold growing on it. And there were ugly bugs everywhere. I nearly died.”

“You die every other week, don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m always dramatic.”

“I wish I could just close your fucking mouth, if I’d know you would ruin this by chewing my ear off even at 4:00 fuckin’ AM, I would just gag you up ”

“And yet, here you are — letting me stink up your couch instead of tossing me into the garbage where I belong.”

Chuuya snorted. “Don’t tempt me. I’m still considering the garbage option.”

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, stretching out like a cat, bandages rustling. “You say that, but you plugged in a random folder I gave you without even testing it first, Nakahara.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “That’s me being too tired to deal with your cryptic bullshit.”

“Nah,” Dazai said, smug. “You love me.”

Chuuya threw a cushion at his head with laser accuracy. Dazai caught it one-handed, grinning like he’d just won something.

“You’re such a little shit,” Chuuya muttered, but the words lacked heat. His voice had gone softer again — not quite gentle, but almost. “You really didn’t have to do all that.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dazai replied, quiet and simple.

The words settled between them like something sacred, heavy in the silence. Neither of them needed to spell it out — what it meant to give each other this much access, this much power. Trust between them had always been sharp-edged, carved from blood and betrayal and too many near-deaths to count. But somehow, in all that chaos, they'd learned to believe each other.

It was stupid. It was dangerous.

“Still,” Chuuya said after a moment, voice a little rough. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

Dazai grinned with his eyes closed. “Say what you want, Chuuya. You’re still the one watching baby photos of yourself like a proud mom.”

“I will kill you.”

“I’ll wait.”

Chuuya gave a half-choked laugh despite himself, then finally closed the envelopes. The weight of everything Dazai had given him — all those files, all those answers — still pulsed in his chest like something too big to hold.

He looked over at the couch.

Dazai had dozed off again, this time properly. His breathing had evened out, slow and soft, the kind that only came when his body forgot it needed to be on guard. His limbs were sprawled without intention, bandaged arms draped over the side of the couch like tangled thread, mouth slightly parted.

He looked vulnerable, like he trusted his surroundings to keep him safe, trusted him to keep him safe. It was the kind of trust Chuuya knew only he was on the receiving end concerning Dazai.

He was just about to grab him and toss him to a bath.

“I think you’ll be an alpha, by the way.”

Chuuya blinked, frozen mid-reach. “…What?” Anything concerning his second gender always seemed to human, far away from him, so he had never thought about it.

“Mm. Just a hunch,” Dazai mumbled, eyes still closed, voice like honey left too long in the sun. “You’ll probably be the shortest alpha to ever live. Fun-sized and angry.”

Chuuya groaned. “I can’t tell if youre serious or just spewing shit”

There was a pause — not awkward, just… oddly tender, stretched across the quiet space like a blanket neither of them wanted to name.

“…I’ve never thought about it,” Chuuya admitted. “Presenting. Always felt too… human.”

His voice dropped on the last word. Not bitter, but worn.

“Mm,” Dazai hummed, as if filing that truth away gently in the back of his mind. “Well. I pictured your soulbond already. An angry little dog like you. Probably a chihuahua.”

Chuuya scoffed, lips twitching. “You can’t seriously shut up even for a moment, can you?”

“Yours will be yappy. And bite ankles.” Dazai said, clearly ignoring him.

“And yours is probably some soggy, stupid-looking fish. That’s why I haven’t seen it. It’s too embarrassed to show up.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dazai said, wagging a finger blindly in the air. “It’s probably something big and elegant, like a panther.

“Oh yeah?” Chuuya arched an eyebrow. “Where is it then, panther-boy?”

Dazai cracked one eye open, sleepy but thoughtful. “I… haven’t seen it either.”

“Honestly, I started to think I don’t have one. It would be fitting.” He said, the joking lilt in his tone never unwavering. 

The words hung in the air, quiet and unassuming. But Chuuya felt the weight of them. That quiet uncertainty he was too tired to hide.

Then — a sound.

Soft, almost imperceptible. A low, sleepy purr.

Both of them stilled.

In the far corner of the room, barely visible in the warm spill of hallway light, a small figure stirred. A kitten — pitch black, with white paws like boots and eyes still fogged from sleep — stretched languidly from a curled-up nap spot under the bookshelf. It yawned, tiny pink tongue curling, then padded forward on slow, careful paws.

Chuuya stared.

“No fucking way,” he whispered. 

The tiny ragdoll kitten blinked at him, then turned and made its way — with the sleepy determination of something born from dreams — toward the couch. Toward Dazai.

It jumped up with the wobbly grace of a creature still learning its legs and curled up right on top of the omega’s stomach. Dazai cracked both eyes open, brow furrowing slightly — but didn’t move. His hand automatically lifted, fingers finding the kitten’s spine like they already knew the shape of it.

The kitten purred louder, vibrating gently against him.

Dazai stared down at the small, warm bundle now nestled into his ribs.

“…That’s mine?” he asked, voice faint.

Chuuya, still frozen a few feet away, just stared.

“Guess it wasn’t a fish after all,” he said finally. Then, in a lower voice, “You really didn’t think you had one.”

“I didn’t,” Dazai murmured.

“Why not?”

He hesitated. “It felt too human.”

A pause. Chuuya took a slow step forward, hands in his pockets.

“Well,” he muttered, soft but firm, “that’s them saying you’re full of shit.”

And Dazai smiled — really smiled, small and genuine, like it came from somewhere deep beneath the wreckage. The kitten curled closer, and neither of them said anything more.

Just two parts of the same soul in a quiet room, finally recognized by something that didn’t need proof to believe in them.

The kitten let out a long, satisfied sigh as it nestled deeper into the crook of Dazai’s stomach, its purring now a steady rhythm — soft and alive, like a lullaby written just for him. Its fur shimmered faintly in the spill of hallway light, catching every delicate rise and fall of Dazai’s chest like it belonged there.

Chuuya stayed where he was, eyes still fixed on the little creature like it might disappear if he looked away. The kitten was absurdly small, its paws tucked under like polished stones, ears flicking gently at every sound. But there was something impossibly present about it — something real in a way even Dazai often wasn’t.

“Isn’t it weird I’m seeing it too?” Chuuya asked, voice quiet, like the room had thinned and he didn’t want to break it. “I thought only soulbonds could see themselves.”

He didn’t say what it meant. That this creature — this sign of a bond — wasn’t just visible to its owner, but to him. That it had chosen to appear here. With him.

Dazai, still half-lidded and drowsy beneath the weight of warm fur and quiet acceptance, let a smile curl lazily at the edges of his mouth.

“Ugly slugs shouldn’t talk in the presence of a cutie like them,” he murmured, scratching gently behind the kitten’s ears. It leaned into his touch like it had waited forever to be known.

Chuuya snorted, his voice dry as ever. “Shut up. I don’t even know how an annoying bastard like you got a soulbond this cute.”

“Well,” Dazai drawled, stretching slightly — the kitten shifted with a soft trill but didn’t move, “obviously because they’re like me.”

“You need to schedule an eye exam,” Chuuya muttered. “Immediately.”

Dazai yawned, slow and boneless, his free hand flopping over the side of the couch like an exhausted cat. “I’m sleepy.”

“Sounds like a you problem, shitty Dazai.”

“So rude,” Dazai whined, turning his head slightly to blink at him with mock hurt. “I’m your guest. You should be serving me, being a good dog.”

“Yeah? Absolutely not. Unless you count me cordially suggesting you fuck off.”

Another silence. But this one was different — playful now, fizzing softly with the kind of banter that could only exist between people who could read each other inside and out. A silence thick with tired affection, lingering warmth, and the weight of everything unspoken.

Chuuya met Dazai’s gaze from across the room. Two teenagers, bleary-eyed and bruised by the world, staring each other down like idiots in a standoff neither of them could win.

“Fine, slug,” Dazai muttered, breaking first with a put-upon sigh. “Go make me a bath.” Then, he grinned like a child who’d just won an argument he didn’t even need to try for. “And make it warm!”

“I’m doing this because I can’t tolerate your shitty odor,” Chuuya grumbled, already turning toward the hall. “I’m sure you’ve impregnated my house with it. I might have to burn the couch.”

Behind him, Dazai chuckled — low, content, maybe even a little fond.

Chapter Text

When Dazai finally returned to his duties, a mountain of work was waiting. There were a few rumours he would have to investigate alone, since his sluglike partner apparently decided to present the day after they had cuddled in his bed, not that he would ever admit it. Anyway, there were a couple of tasks he had to get done. A foreign human trafficking ring had started to infiltrate the territory, that much he’d known, but he did not quite know with whose help. He may be working for the silent, dangerous, not so legal world of the territory, but said territory had an exact law of no human trafficking. That was at the top. He had some suspects narrowed, sure, but he was not certain - and not when the suspects weren't even affiliated with the dark side. 

Figures .

There was also a missing person from a nearby land. Apparently, the Head had had 5 children, four alphas and one omega. He intended to marry his omega son for some exclusive mines and strategic territory some house possessed, but the omega had appeared one day, pregnant, claiming he couldn’t be sold off. The Head then intended to perform an abortion, so the prince ran away and no one has known his whereabouts, or if the Head’s grandchild was even alive. The bounty was definitely big, but his respect for blowing off an authority like that convinced him to leave that matter alone; he could focus on other matters.

Lately, he has been tested in other skills, it seems he has a knack on how to manage diplomatic affairs, on how to manage money-related losses, rerouting some commerce routes and torture. The torture part was more of his own twisted mind coming up with ideas to self-harm, but applying it to other humans sure felt different. He tried waterboarding once on a man whose fault he did not even remember, but the man died almost instantly. It felt odd; his body was certainly more resistant to pain. He downed random pills with alcohol every other night, just to see if he was going to wake up. 

Hell, with the excuse of knowing the limits of No Longer Human, he had done a series of experiments with some torture victims, using himself as a subject. His blood was one of the few body fluids that seemed to cancel out any other ability. Weirdly, if he drinks water and spits it out, that water could also nullify, although his spit was useless. Hair couldn't nullify, but his vomit could. He tested bile also, and it seemed to work. His ability didn't extend to his clothes, but his skin, even if not attached to him, worked. Along the matter, slick and semen did not carry No Longer Human; he did tested them.

The point being, they felt pain on other levels than a common human. Part of why he was so good at torture was that he had genuine curiosity, how much he could withstand compared to others. Three was the number of nails he could remove from a human body before they fainted; he could remain conscious for ten. Was it just him? He had a notebook with some annotations during his torture sessions, and as his pain tolerance grew, so did his rate of success. Pain was, apparently, a manifestation of humanity. Well, it was a signal in your nervous system that something may be wrong. It is an unpleasant feeling, such as a prick, tingle, sting, burn, or ache, but feeling pain meant he at least had that capacity. He did not like it, but he did like it; it was confusing.  

At the port, he felt the sunrays in his face, warm and light, and just pulled out his parasol. Warm felt odd. His skin was cold, he was told so by non-ability users, they all used to shudder when they touched him. With ability users, it was more acute. His ability itself was like a repellant for the majority, and him touching them felt awfully cold, like any warmth was sucked out for a few seconds, leaving them cold and sometimes, shivering. That was one of the reasons he started to use bandages, maybe then his own self would just stop being a natural people repellent. 

So far, from his subordinates' intel, he had managed to track an approximate area where he knew the people were arriving; he just needed to track the right port. Thankfully, his subordinates knew just what information he needed.

The wind was wet, heavy with salt, and it reminded him of the “torture of thirst” he once tried. Boats bobbed lazily against the tide, and the old man dressed in luxury bontan pants and a fine white button-up, sat at his usual bench, binoculars slung low against his chest. He didn’t look up when Dazai approached — just another stray on the docks, he must’ve thought. 

"Excuse me," Dazai said, voice soft and timid, “Is this seat taken?”

When the old man looked up, he saw a young man with soft features. He had pitch black curly hair which framed his face, a small forehead with a defined jaw, and his lips looked glossed and soft. But the most outstanding characteristic was his eyes, or eye, since a patch covered his right eye. The left one was the blackest black he had ever seen; it looked empty and shallow, it looked at you, but at the same time, it did not. He decided to sit over, signalling that the seat wasn’t taken. 

"You come often?"

"Every day." A pause. "Routine helps. I don’t sleep much."

"Me neither," Dazai whispered, almost like a secret. “Nightmares?”

"Old age."

"Hmm. I’m afraid mine will still be waiting if I get there.”

He let the line dangle, let the air grow just a little heavier.

“What is a young boy like you doing here?”

“I wanted to visit the last place I got to see my sister before she drifted away.” 

“My condolences.”

“Oh, I still do not know if she is dead. Many years have passed since our capture. I believe it was at that dock that it happened.” He signalled a dock. “I do not know, many things have changed after our departure on that awful cargo hold. Would you listen to my story, please? I do not have anyone whom I could speak to.”

“… O-Of course”

“You are so kind, sir. I wish all adults were as kind and thoughtful as you.” He smiled sweetly, but there was a deep melancholy in his eyes. “My sister and I were separated when we touched land. I couldn’t say goodbye to her, but I’m glad she was not taken for what I was.”

“They didn’t feed us much,” Dazai continued, his voice faint, as if conjuring distant memories he’d buried under a thousand bad dreams. “But they made sure we were clean and pretty. They’d bathe us with cold water and rough hands—like scrubbing stains off meat.”

The old man looked at him now, truly looked. But Dazai didn’t meet his eyes. He was watching the boats sway, absently picking at the edge of his sleeve.

“They kept us underground at first. A storage unit. It smelled like wet wood and bleach and fear. I remember the sound of metal grates closing. I used to think it was thunder when I was younger. But it was always locks.”

He paused.

“There were ten of us. Boys and girls. We had to wear white. Always white. The fabric was thin, like paper—it wasn’t for modesty. It was for display. They told us we were ornaments. That we’d learn to serve tea, clean shoes, and smile when spoken to.”

His voice was trembling, but it wasn’t weakness—it was theatre. Perfectly measured grief.

“They didn’t start touching us at first. No. At first, they made us touch each other.”

He shifted, crossing one leg carefully over the other.

“They called it training. They said clients liked affection. So we were told to kiss and touch each other in front of them. We were nine. Ten. Maybe eleven. They’d sit in chairs and drink wine while we were told to act like lovers. Or whores. We didn’t know what that meant yet.”

The old man’s hands were clenched on his knees.

“They laughed when we cried,” Dazai said. “Once, a girl vomited during a lesson. They punished her by making her clean it up naked. I asked if I could take the punishment for her, but they said boys had to learn to watch.”

He laughed, then—a choked little sound.

“I remember the first time they took me. My mouth bled because I bit down too hard, trying not to scream. They said next time I should thank them.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I became very polite after that.”

The silence that followed was thick, nauseating.

“I think I died that night,” he murmured. “Not my body. Just the part of me that wanted to live. The part that reminded me I was someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Escaping came with a price, and I lost my vision in my right eye after that.”

He turned to the old man again, his tone suddenly lighter, cruel in its tenderness.

“You know, I come here sometimes and wonder if anyone was watching the boats that day. Who saw us get off, who allowed those two children to suffer pain greater than whatever thing they could imagine? I won’t ever forgive them for taking me, my sister, my parents' lives, parents who could not stand the grief. I visited their graves yesterday and left flowers, a bouquet of Poppies, Forget-me-nots and Chrysanthemums.”

The man’s breathing was laboured now. His face had gone pale, and he was shaking, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Dazai could see his heart pumping rapidly at the surface of his jugular. 

“I hope that my body is incinerated, I do not want another man's touch and hands on my body. I wish to be as far away as I can from my parents, a broken and used person as myself would just corrupt and darken their memories.” 

Dazai turned his gaze towards him, light tears rolling past his cheeks, making sure he looked like an innocent and scarred victim. “Sir, please make sure my parents' graves are not without flowers.” He said as he took the man’s hands into his own, lifting them onto his cheeks and nuzzling into them. “You resemble my father so much, I know this is what he would’ve looked like if he ever got past 39.”

Dazai simply got up and walked away. The wind moved his clothes, the long, white robes he wore fluttering like a phantom’s shroud. They were not the rough suits of the underworld, nor the tailored coats of merchants — they were something softer, purer. Flowing hanfu robes of white, with the barest hint of pale blue along the cuffs and hems. The fabric whispered as he walked, a ghost among men, untouched by the filth that clung to the port. His sash cinched the robe neatly at his waist, and with each step, the hem brushed the ground as though blessing it. The old man watched him go, hollowed out by guilt, as if the boy’s purity had revealed his own rot.

His soul bond – Būtsu, as he named them– was weird. The kitten seemed to love being at his side whenever he was alone, purring like they were paid to. Like books described, animals who were the same species as your soul bond were always going to act friendly, like a predefined contract of friendship. Strangely, animals were weirdly fond of him, but it was true, as cats had a sort of infatuation with him. Hell, when Mori had gifted Chuuya and him their house, house where only Chuuya lived, his garden had been slowly taken over by cats. He currently had Būtsu in his lap, there were two cats lying beside his legs, and a new kitten had popped out of his head. 

He had been reading his new book about flowers when suddenly, one of his subordinates came with an envelope in hand. 

“Hello, Sir. I was informed that this letter was yours”, a boy with brown hair and green eyes said, his ability was called Fahrenheit 451 , which allowed him to burn whatever piece of media this world had, as long as it was written on paper.  

Dazai took the letter into his hands, a sinister expression on his face. 

 

To whom it may concern,

 

I am writing to report a matter of grave concern regarding activity at Dock 17 on the north part of the coast. For the past several weeks, I have observed the arrival of unregistered vessels docking during the late hours, between midnight and 3:00 a.m. These vessels appear to offload cargo under conditions I find highly suspect.

 

Specifically:

 

The ships bear no clear flag or registry.

 

Offloading is performed hastily, with no light, often under a heavy tarpaulin.

 

I have observed what appeared to be figures—small, thin, and moving irregularly—led off the ships and into covered wagons or carriages.

 

The individuals involved in the offloading are armed and seem to avoid any contact with the port staff. I urge the authorities to investigate Dock 17 without delay. I fear more innocents may be in peril if we fail to act swiftly.

 

Please consider this a formal request for intervention.

 

“Thank you, Ray, you can burn it.” he tossed the letter onto the child’s hand, watching it as it burned and its ashes disappeared. He proceeded to hand him a little purse with some gold coins. “This is for you, you may use it as you please. There is a little paper in there, it will lead you to a bakery known for its chocolate pastries, tell the lady my name when you get there, be sure to go there with your little brother. You may go now.”

The child took the patch, heavy in his hands. As soon as he looked into it, his eyes quivered and he started to tear up. 

“There, there, do not waste time and go to him.” he said, ruffling the boy’s brown hair.

The body he inhabited was no more than a simple tool, a simple experiment; at least that’s how it felt sometimes. Well, at least tools were not as fragile as his stupid, lanky body. That’s why, for now, Dazai stayed back, his black-clad form hidden in the shadows, watching as Mori’s men cleaned up the filth. The night air stank of gunpowder, salt, and something fouler.

“How’s the other matter?” Dazai asked, his voice low over the comm.

“They secured the old man. The assassin’s in custody.”

“Good. I’ll see to them myself.”

The gunfire quieted. Dazai slipped onto the ship, boots silent on rotting planks. Inside, the stench hit harder—shit, blood, rot, despair pressed into every crevice.

The first thing he saw was the dog—a ragged, frothing beast tearing at the small, limp body of a girl. Her face was unrecognizable. Dazai lifted his pistol and put a bullet between its eyes. The body slumped, as silent as the dead it had fed on. A pile of bodies scattered around with their hands trapped in cuffs.

And then he saw them.

In the far corner, two small figures: a boy and a girl, no older than eight. Black hair clung to their dirt-smeared faces, wide eyes glassy with shock. They clung to each other like a single creature trying to hold itself together.

Dazai stared and lowered his gun.

Chapter Text

As stated, Dazai was a man of many talents and considered himself good enough with kids. Plus, with his latest presentation, those instincts had risen. So he simply did whatever a person would do: take two heavily traumatized children to his house – not his home, as it was filled with blades, random pills and alcohol bottles. Not an option.

He was never ever more glad than to have a decent enough house with spare bedrooms and walls that kept smells to each room, after all, there was an alpha presenting in the other half of the house. Presentations normally lasted one week, but his had taken a whole two weeks, so he was not taking chances; he was not afraid of Chuuya at all, he trusted him with his life, but it was not the case for the kids. 

Their names were Ryūnosuke and Gin Akutagawa, and they were from the province known as Tokyo. They were 14 and 13 years old, respectively. He had not wanted to separate them, but he did offered the choice of sleeping in spare rooms. As expected, they declined, so he gave them the larger guestroom available, with their own bathroom, which he had filled with warm water previously. He also left unscented shampoo, lotion and cream and some fluffy towels. When they were in the bathroom, he announced his presence, left some other fluffy blankets and loose silk pyjamas on top of the bed and some Hoji Genmaicha tea, along with some bunny-shaped apples if they grew hungry. 

Then, he went to “his” room, took a bath, changed his bandages, covered his red and brown right eye with a clean gauze, changed into a pair of gray pyjamas and went to his “guests'” room, making sure to knock before entering.

“May I come in?” he asked, making sure to let his omega’s scent out. He was not surprised when the boy opened the door with caution, checking him before letting him in. 

“I came to say good night. If you get hungry, I’ve left some apples and Hoji Genmaicha tea.” He said, serving three cups of tea into the fine ceramic cups, taking one and taking a sip to show them it was not tampered with. “Is there anything you wish?”

“C-Can you let those cats in?” Said the girl, shy and hiding behind her brother. 

“Of course.” 

Dazai went out and got two tabby cats sleeping outside the room. He simply let them down on the bed and left the children to rest. 

In front of a locked door, there was an omega knocking, balancing a tray with tea – Hoji Genmaicha tea – and fruit in one hand, a bottle of lotion in the other, his scent unmasked, in full display. He’d abandoned the usual blockers, letting his natural fragrance be: soft vanilla, sweet and warm brown sugar. His robe hung loose over a long cotton shirt and shorts, the pale green silk catching what little light there was. He had tucked his side bangs with a jewelled pin and left his right eye exposed. 

For outsiders, this may be seen as an omega whom wanted to help an alpha with his first rut, but for him, this was just an excellent plan to annoy Chuuya. It had nothing to do with the fact that Kouyou had sent an omega earlier to ask his partner if any help was needed, of course.

When Chuuya finally opened the door, the heat hit him first, the heavy scent of wine-soaked wood, leather and oak forest after a rainy day. His partner’s skin glistened with sweat, his hair clinging to his temples, his body bare but for black shorts, scars visible beneath the dim light, leaving his scarred corruption scars open through all of his strong, muscled upper body. His gaze slowly ended up on his flexed, buff arms crossed in front of his chest; his gulp felt heavy this time. 

“You look awful, slug,” Dazai said, lips curling into a soft, almost fond smile.

“What the hell are you doing here, shitty Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice was rough, thick with the strain of fighting himself. “I said I didn’t need help.”

“Too bad.” Dazai breezed past him, setting the tray on the table and sitting on the couch. He glanced back at Chuuya. “I just wanted to see you, Chuuya. Is that so wrong?”

“Get out of here, you stinky bastard.” 

“Do I smell?” said Dazai, tilting his head a little, letting his robe fall off a little, exposing his bandaged neck.

Chuuya’s growl vibrated low in his throat. “You reek.” But his feet betrayed him, carrying him closer until they stood front to front.

He reached, slow and deliberate, taking Chuuya’s hand, guiding it to his cheek. His skin was cool beneath Chuuya’s calloused palm.

One of Dazai’s most misleading physical features was his big, round eye shape, which, paired with his long, curly, black and thick lashes, made his eyes a prominent characteristic. He had a brand of doe eyes that struck an innocent, pleading look that left people wobbling in their place. Another feature he liked to play with was his lips; he had big, chunky, pale pink lips that he played with when bored. Lips he usually bit and played with, giving them more volume and a reddish colour. 

So here he was, looking up at Chuuya with pleading, vulnerable eyes. His lips parted just enough to draw the gaze, pink and full, a hint of moisture making them shine; a soft pout lay there while nuzzling his hand. He smirked and felt satisfied when there was a subtle change in the alpha’s scent, marking an evident arousal. “I just wanted to show Chuuya my scent, is that so wrong?” he whispered, softly and slowly with a tint of longing decorating his voice. His own hand started to hover over his partner’s hand, using his thumb to rub the place where a particular scar lay on his wrist. 

Chuuya cursed under his breath. “Stop playing with me, you little shit.” He growled, like he wanted Dazai to rush out of his room. However, his left hand then accompanied his right as he placed it in the omega’s left cheek. The redhead started to handle the face in his hands, making it move towards every direction his hands felt like, blushing as he saw the way his partner’s eyes closed slowly, all while looking at him; the way he parted his lips and left a long, relaxed sigh escape them. Suddenly, he felt as if his fingers moved on their own, as his thumbs started to squeeze, pinch, stretch and press Daza’s lips in a way he had seen his partner doing a dozen times. And Dazai let him, eyes half-lidded, breath warm against Chuuya’s fingers, a soft, broken noise humming in his throat.

“Why are you here, Osamu?” murmured the alpha, fearing that if this got prolonged any more, his restraint was really going to break. Fuck everything, Dazai’s vanilla, coconut and brown sugar scent was the sweetest and warmest thing he had smelled in his life, him and his alpha loved it, loved the way it was slowly inviding his room. 

“What do you think I’m here for, Chuuya?” Dazai answered, seemingly unaffected by the use of his name. 

“To piss me off, what else.” the redhead said, purposefully pinching hard the lips he had between his fingers.

“Such a brute and tiny alpha, I came to help you. A good owner doesn’t let their dog die of starvation,” he chuckled, looking straight into Chuuya’s eyes with squinting eyes that could only be described as hypnotic. There was this smugness, boldness and seductive glint to them that made his alpha run laps inside his head. 

“M’not a fucking dog and you are not my fucking owner, asshole,” he said, tightening the grip he had on his partners jaw with the intention of leaving the outlay of his fingers printed. He had to admit he had a certain fascination with seeing his partner’s body filled with marks and bruises that he caused. “And how do you plan to help me, huh, you fucking brat?”

“I was told that alphas, when presenting, along with their sexual desires, liked to protect people close to them, especially if that person was an omega. I was also told that they liked to mark and scent these people, as if to leave a claim on them. Such rabid dogs they are, don’t you think, alpha?” 

Chuuya’s growl deepened, but his hands didn’t leave Dazai’s face. Instead, his thumbs pressed harder along his jawline, like he wanted to memorize the shape of him through his skin. His scent thickened in the air, wrapping the room in the stormy weight of his arousal and frustration.

“You’re a damn menace,” Chuuya said, voice rough, low, like the last warning before a storm breaks. His breath was hot against Dazai’s temple, his left hand nitpicking and playing with the edge of his neck bandages. “And how exactly are you planning to aid me?”

“Look at your poor tensed muscles, I suggest a calming and relaxing massage in bed would aid them just right.” Dazai said, standing and walking towards the lotion he had brought, opening it and smearing a little on his hands before letting them rest under Chuuya’s nose. 

“Vanilla, really Dazai?” 

“I would like you to remember whose hands will press on your back tonight, slug. I prepared some fruit with honey and calming tea for you also, eat while I wash my hands and get myself acquaintanced with your bed,” said the omega, taking his robe and laying it on the couch before entering the alpha’s bedroom. 

Chuuya stayed frozen for a moment, glaring at the spot where Dazai had stood. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as his alpha howled inside him, demanding to chase, to claim, to tear the smugness off Dazai’s face with teeth and touch and replace it with a needy, submissive expression.

Instead, he cursed under his breath and grabbed the cup of tea, downing it in one go, scowling at the mild burn. The honeyed fruit tasted sweet, just as he liked it, too bad the flavours barely registered past the pounding of his pulse.

“Fucking brat,” he muttered again, setting the empty cup down with a loud clink.

Inside the bedroom, Dazai moved with infuriating ease, as if he owned the place — as if he owned him. Chuuya followed, unable to stop himself, and paused at the threshold.

Dazai was already kneeling on the mattress, legs folded beneath him, his long shirt riding up to bare pale thighs. He was rolling up his sleeves, fingers slick with the lotion, rubbing his palms together leisurely, the faint scent of vanilla and warm sugar thickening the air between them.

“Take off your shorts, Chuuya. I need to get to your lower back properly.” His voice was soft, coaxing, but his eyes glittered with that dangerous spark that made Chuuya’s mouth go dry.

“Shitty Dazai,” Chuuya hissed, but his fingers betrayed him, hooking into the waistband and sliding the fabric down, tossing it aside. His back was tense, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring as he climbed onto the bed and lay down on his stomach, face buried in his folded arms. “If you try anything funny—”

“Please, Chuuya,” Dazai said, his tone dripping with innocence he absolutely didn’t mean. “I’m just here to help.”

The bed dipped under Dazai’s weight. Warm, slick hands smoothed over his shoulders first, slow and deliberate, testing the tension there. His thumbs pressed in small circles into the tight muscle near his neck, sliding down to his shoulder blades.

Chuuya’s breath hitched. Damn him, he was good at this.

Dazai worked in silence for a moment, palms gliding over the broad planes of Chuuya’s back, mapping the dips and ridges of muscle. His fingers kneaded along the knots at his spine, thumbs dragging downward, then sweeping outward toward his ribs. The scent of vanilla mingled with Chuuya’s, clinging to his skin, invading his senses.

When Dazai reached his lower back, he adjusted his position, straddling Chuuya’s thighs lightly, his own legs folded so he wasn’t putting full weight on him. His hands pressed firmer now, rubbing long, slow lines along the curve of Chuuya’s back, working out the stiffness with skillful, steady pressure.

“You’re trembling, alpha,” Dazai murmured, voice soft against the shell of Chuuya’s ear as he leaned down slightly, breath warm. “Is it the massage not to your liking?”

“It is, but–” Chuuya gritted out, half-growling, half-melting under the deliberate touch that made it harder and harder to think.

Dazai smiled against his skin, lips ghosting over his ear, his scent heavy and sweet as it blanketed Chuuya’s senses.

“Let me finish helping you, Chuuya,” he whispered. “Then you can decide if you want to throw me out or not.”

His hands slid lower, fingertips brushing the top of Chuuya’s ass before sweeping back up, massaging firmly along the base of his spine, drawing out tension with every pass, slow and maddening.

Dazai’s hands glided lower once more, working small, firm circles into the tight muscles at the small of Chuuya’s back. His touch was maddening — gentle where it should have been rough, patient where it should have been teasing. The lotion’s warmth mixed with the heat of his palms, seeping into Chuuya’s skin, loosening knots that had been wound tight for days.

This bastard… Chuuya thought, his face turned into the pillow now, breath slowing despite himself. 

Why the fuck is he good at this?

Every time Dazai’s thumbs dug just right into a stubborn knot, Chuuya felt his anger melt, bit by bit, leaving behind something rawer: the ache of tension unwinding, the quiet that came after. His alpha still snarled in his chest, furious at how easily Dazai could bring him to heel — and yet… it purred beneath that fury too, soothed by the omega’s scent, the softness of his weight resting across his thighs, the steady rhythm of touch.

Dazai didn’t speak again. He just kept going, kneading along the lines of his spine, his sides, his shoulders. At some point, Chuuya realized his hands weren’t clenched anymore. His breathing had gone slow, deep, and for the first time in days, his body felt... light.

When Dazai finally stopped, he didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned down, his breath warm against the back of Chuuya’s neck, and whispered, soft as silk:

“See? Not so bad, is it?”

Chuuya huffed a laugh, muffled in the pillow. “You’re still a pain in the ass”

Dazai chuckled, and Chuuya could feel the smile in it — that gentle, infuriating curl of his lips that always got under his skin.

Without another word, Dazai shifted, slipping off him and settling beside him. He tugged the blankets up over them both, his hand brushing over Chuuya’s hair as he did so. For a long moment, they lay there, breathing in sync, the tension in the room ebbing with each exhale.

Chuuya turned toward him, almost on instinct, seeking the warmth, the scent that had calmed him. His arm found its way around Dazai’s waist, his fingers splaying across the curve of his back, drawing him closer.

Dazai didn’t resist. His bandaged neck was right there, and Chuuya buried his face against it, inhaling deeply. Vanilla. Brown sugar. Coconut, sweet and maddening. His alpha purred in contentment at the scent filling his lungs.

“Dazai...” His voice was quieter now, softer, edged with the haze of exhaustion and the lingering pull of his rut. “Can I… take these off?” His thumb brushed at the gauze, and his nose nudged at the bandages covering Dazai’s scent glands.

Dazai was quiet for a breath. Then, softly: “ Sure.” His fingers, cool and long, brushed Chuuya’s hair back from his face, the gesture so gentle it made Chuuya’s throat ache.

Carefully, Chuuya peeled away the bandages, one by one, exposing the soft, sensitive skin of Dazai’s neck. His scent grew stronger — unmasked, warm, rich — and Chuuya pressed in closer, breathing him in like he couldn’t get enough, his arm tightening around him.

Their legs tangled beneath the blankets. Chuuya’s nose stayed tucked against the hollow of Dazai’s neck, his lips barely grazing the skin there, his breath slow and steady. Dazai let his head rest against Chuuya’s, eyes slipping closed, fingers brushing lazy patterns over his partner’s arm.

In the quiet that followed, Chuuya felt something settle deep in his chest, like coming home after a long, brutal storm.

“You’ll be here when I wake up, right?” he murmured, half-asleep already, the weight of Dazai in his arms anchoring him.

Dazai’s voice was low, fond, the barest whisper against his hair. “Where else would I be, Chuuya?”

And they drifted off, bodies close, hearts beating slow and steady in the dark.