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“Dazai,” Mori says before he can slink out of the office after Chuuya. “Let’s see to that injury of yours.” Eyes predator-sharp, Dazai assumes Mori noticed the way he moved too gingerly, the one wince that caught him by surprise.
Chuuya shoots Dazai a sharp look over his shoulder at the words, anger in the tight set of his mouth. A reasonable reaction, seeing as Dazai hid this injury from him too, again, and Chuuya made his opinion on Dazai lying to him quite clear the last time this happened. Well, that problem belongs to future Dazai. Present Dazai needs to deal with Mori first.
The problem with getting injured is that Mori uses it as an excuse to get Dazai alone, under the guise of medical treatment. Sometimes he does attend to those needs, but not often, not only, not first. Today, unfortunately, he requires it. His back is stinging and raw from a fall—concrete tearing his clothing and shredding up his skin. He could ask Chuuya, would have too, if not for catching Mori’s attention.
Instead, he’ll have to take off his clothes.
With resignation, Dazai trails after Mori like a wraith. Follows his instructions as he locks the door behind them. Vulnerable and exposed in the sterile quiet of the Mafia’s clinic, Mori has him stand, shirtless, with hands planted on the low exam table. It isn’t high enough to prevent his back from bowing, awkwardly hunched over and tense with anxious apprehension. This time he does clean Dazai up first, disinfecting the wound and dutifully covering it with gauze. Silent and methodical, the picture of a professional, perfunctory with his touch.
Just when Dazai allows himself to consider the possibility of escaping unscathed, Mori’s hand drifts low. His palm deliberately skimming Dazai’s ass over his pants. Questing. Long fingers pressing inward to prod at his hole, even through the layers of fabric.
“Are we done here?” Dazai asks tightly.
Mori chuckles. “Don’t ask foolish questions, Dazai.” It takes every ounce of his control not to shudder as Mori strokes his hole in a slow penetrative rhythm. Like he means to finger him through his clothing.
“Let me rephrase, then. I’m done here,” Dazai protests, but remains stock-still. Doesn’t fight it as Mori reaches around to unbutton Dazai’s slacks one-handed. From experience he knows that Mori’s violence is always at the ready, deft-handed and scalpel-sharp. Knows that he’ll regret it more if he struggles. Fighting to get Dazai under his control always seems to stretch his patience dangerously thin. Makes him vindictive when he retaliates.
Fixing his gaze on the bare white wall in front of him, Dazai holds himself rigid, as difficult and unhelpful as possible while Mori pulls Dazai’s pants down just far enough to expose him. The pop of a cap. The loud splat of something sticky. Mori is still wearing his exam gloves—maybe even replaced them after the first aid out of sanitary habit—and his finger slides inside Dazai smoothly and without warning, aided by the ice-cold gel coating it. In and out, torturously slow, from fingertip to his third knuckle.
Every time Dazai tries to let his mind wander elsewhere, Mori brings him hurtling back into his body with some trick or another. A second finger, a third. A sharp change in rhythm or a jolt to his prostate. He’s distantly aware of Mori’s cock pressed hard against the back of his thigh, but Mori seems unconcerned by it. With the casual way that he occasionally ruts against Dazai, idle and lazy, it seems like an afterthought today.
After what feels like hours—Dazai’s breath shaky, cock hard against his will and slowly leaking—Mori commands, “Bend over.”
Before Dazai can comply, Mori’s hand is already heavy on the back of his neck, exerting enough pressure to be a threat. Dazai buckles at the elbows beneath Mori’s unexpected show of strength as he forces Dazai’s chest down to the table. He carelessly removes his fingers from Dazai all at once, and Dazai bites down hard on his tongue to keep from hissing at the discomfort.
Behind him he hears Mori rummaging around in some drawer or another. Hears a fresh squelch of lube and the slicking of something. He can’t see what it is, refuses to look back and give Mori the satisfaction of acknowledging any of this. When Mori steps back into his space, he slips a thigh between Dazai’s own to better mold himself to the curve of his body. Dazai’s breath comes up short on an inhale as Mori presses the thing, large and foreign, against his hole. Unrelenting. Too hard, too fast, too much, and Dazai makes an unwilling panicked sound.
“Now, now, none of that.”
Mori reaches around to push his fingers into Dazai’s mouth, holding down his tongue while Dazai squirms and bucks against Mori’s grip. He shakes his head trying to dislodge Mori’s fingers but only manages to get them pressed deeper—a third finger forced in, stretching his lips around them, uncomfortable and dangerously close to gagging—as the object breaches him. It’s as slick as Mori’s fingers were, but the smooth length of it is hard and unyielding inside him. He moans at the sharp burn as Mori lodges it inside him, despair more than pleasure, which Mori certainly must know.
Still, he says, “See now. That’s not so bad, is it? No need for such a fuss.”
As if to prove his point, Mori begins thrusting the thing inside him at a deliberate pace. It feels impossibly long—the thrusts short and shallow, but it still seems to reach deeper inside him with each stroke—leaves Dazai impossibly full as his body fights to accommodate the size of it. His throat clicks as he tries to swallow around Mori’s fingers, and he can’t tamp down the sounds spilling out of his open mouth as Mori fucks him relentlessly. Merciless. Every nerve feels like a livewire as the burn of the stretch resolves itself into involuntary pleasure with the endless glide of it.
Dazai had gone soft from the initial pain, but his cock grows hard again with the stimulation of the thing inside him. There is nothing he wants less than to come from this—he never wants to when Mori touches him—but Mori sees fit to force that on him too. He removes his fingers from Dazai’s mouth so he can grab Dazai’s wrist and drag his arm back. Down. Threads his fingers through Dazai’s and forces him to touch himself. Guides their tangled fingers to stroke his cock at a frenzied pace. He presses his forehead to the table and breathes in unsteady gasps.
It takes, at once, a lifetime and no time at all for Dazai’s orgasm to tear through him with a strangled cry. Mori only keeps their hands moving until Dazai stops coming, but continues to fuck into him at the same steady pace. Even as Dazai begins to shake. Even as he’s reduced to whimpering and a steady stream of, “enough, please, stop, stop, stop.” Still the thing moves inside him, an unfaltering tempo in and out of his hole, dragging over each and every nerve until they sing electric and sharp and Dazai’s knees buckle.
Mori’s quick arm around his waist keeps him from crashing to the floor, and finally, finally he slows his thrusting. Doesn’t stop, but the shallow grind of it is nearly a relief. His weight falls over Dazai’s back as he eases him flat against the tabletop.
“Had enough?”
“Plenty,” Dazai grits out between clenched teeth. He’s too wrung out to suppress the way he flinches each time Mori moves the object unexpectedly, and Mori hums appraisingly after the third time Dazai shudders against him. “Have you?” he asks, venomous.
“Why, yes. I suppose I have.” He says it warmly—with such fondness it makes Dazai want to climb out of his skin—as he eases the thing from Dazai’s body and steps away.
It takes effort, but Dazai scrambles to haul up his pants and escape the room. Mori makes no move to stop him as he busies himself with cleaning up in the little sink against the wall. Without the constant assault on his senses, Dazai falls away from himself and his body moves on instinct. Muscle memory to seek out safety.
Chuuya greets him with a sharp, “What the fuck, Dazai?” when he lets himself into his partner’s apartment uninvited.
“Ah, still angry?” he asks with a sheepish duck to his head that’s mostly genuine. His defenses remain in shambles, sluggish in his ability to plaster over all the things he wants to keep hidden.
“Damn right I am. You’re supposed to tell me when you’re hurt, dumbass!” He jabs an accusing finger in Dazai’s direction. He attempts to move around Chuuya to head toward the bathroom, to avoid the entire confrontation, but Chuuya grabs him by the forearm as he steps to the side. Dazai’s mind locks up, blank with white noise, and he forcefully recoils from Chuuya like a panicked thing before he even registers the motion. “Dazai?” Chuuya looks more concerned than he would prefer, hand still hovering in the air where Dazai’s arm had been.
Sometimes he can handle Chuuya’s touch, even after Mori uses him, because Dazai trusts Chuuya to only hurt him in the ways he wants to ache. Even when Chuuya is angry and mean, he at least acts like Dazai is a person. But days like this, when he feels like an object, a discarded thing, he can’t stand the feeling of even Chuuya’s hands. It makes bile rise in the back of his throat. Makes him weak and shaky and breathless. Defenseless and terrified in the only way he never manages to crush down inside himself.
Chuuya looks at him appraisingly, no doubt retracing details and crunching the numbers as he stares at Dazai. Inside Dazai wars with himself. Eventually, Chuuya is going to piece it together, if he hasn’t already; he’s not stupid, and Dazai is too shaken after incidents with Mori to properly hide everything. What a terrible way to find himself: divided cleanly between the desire to run from and to cling desperately to Chuuya.
“Are you okay?” Chuuya murmurs, breaking Dazai momentarily from his crisis.
No. He is not okay, and he can’t tell Chuuya that. All but physically incapable of admitting to anything voluntarily, no matter how much he wants for Chuuya to take this hurt from him. To dig out the rot and crush it with all the gravity in him. He would, without hesitation, if Dazai asked. The only consequence if he were to reveal it all to Chuuya, he knows, would be Chuuya’s incandescent fury on Dazai’s behalf. Always ready to share that easy devotion of his… If Dazai would ever truly let him.
The worst part is that Dazai doesn’t know why he won’t.
Instead he says, “I’m fine,” with a weak smile. “Chuuya worries too much.”
“Bullshit! You’re—”
“Can I stay here tonight?” Dazai interrupts before Chuuya can get properly riled up at him for blatantly lying to his face.
Normally he wouldn’t bother to ask, would simply make himself at home and refuse to be moved. Not that Chuuya ever makes much genuine effort toward that end. But he feels hollowed out tonight—desperate not to be alone with the emptiness—and it’s as close as he can bring himself to revealing the awful truth to Chuuya. An easy request; a revelation of need without giving anything meaningful away with his jaw locked shut around all that damage.
“Yeah, of course,” Chuuya says as Dazai watches the fight bleed out of him, leaving a bewildered sort of surprise in its wake. “You can always stay.”