Work Text:
Phone Sex
The light in the office was the kind that made everything look tired. Pale. As if the sun had given up halfway through setting and left the city in a warm haze.
The windows were cracked. The air was still.
Dazai sat in his chair—head lolled to the side, one hand limp over the armrest, the other picking absently at the bandages around his neck. His desk was a disaster: papers spread without structure, corners bent, half a coffee cup ring soaking into a case file from last week.
He hadn’t touched a pen in nearly an hour.
From across the room, Kunikida’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp but not surprised.
“You’ve done nothing today.”
Dazai didn’t look up. “That’s not true. I’ve suffered immensely.”
“Dazai.”
A pause. The longer one. The kind with weight in it.
“That file you were assigned this morning—the one from upstairs. It’s still untouched.”
No answer.
Kunikida kept going, flipping through his own stack. “You know which one I’m talking about. Top priority. Internal dispersal intel, clearance locked. It was flagged for emergency review. Fukuzawa handed it to you. ”
Dazai sighed, slow and put-upon. “Did he? I don’t remember.”
“Don’t play dumb. It’s the file with the blue marker tab. You moved it under a pile of requisitions like a child hiding vegetables.”
Dazai didn’t deny it.
He just rolled his head a little, squinting toward the desk like the motion might summon motivation. He found the tab easily. Bright blue, glaring through the clutter. So obvious it almost felt like a taunt.
“I was going to read it,” he said vaguely, like that meant anything. “Eventually.”
“It’s not just some routine logistics,” Kunikida muttered. “Yosano’s name is on it. So is Ranpo’s. Which means someone thought it was serious enough to need both of them…and you.”
“How dramatic.”
Kunikida slammed a folder shut. “It’s about internal access gaps in the Ports. Supply chain vulnerabilities. Not the kind of thing we usually pass around lightly.”
Dazai finally sat up.
Not straight. Just slightly less collapsed. His hand moved to the edge of the folder, brushed it.
He didn’t open it.
Kunikida kept going. “I think Yosano said there’s data in there even Fukuzawa hasn’t reviewed yet. It’s been sealed under a clause. That level of restriction doesn’t come often.”
Dazai’s fingers went still on the folder.
He said nothing. Just let the silence sit between them.
Kunikida studied him from over the rim of his glasses. “You could at least pretend to care.”
“I’m conserving energy,” Dazai murmured.
“For what? Dying?”
“For the mental exertion of existing around you.”
“You were sent that file for a reason.”
Dazai exhaled slowly, shifting to lean his cheek against one bandaged fist. He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. The room was too warm. His coat clung at the shoulders, too heavy in this hour.
Kunikida gave up with a sigh and turned back to his own work. “Fine. Just don’t whine when Fukuzawa asks why the hell his most ‘trusted’ senior agent can’t follow a basic review protocol.”
The word ‘trusted’ hung there, slightly bitter.
Somewhere behind them, Atsushi sneezed.
The office fell quiet again.
Dazai let his hand drift toward the phone on his desk. Not consciously. Just a faint pull.
He glanced down at the folder again.
His name was on the seal. Handwritten. Not typed.
He didn’t open it.
Not yet, at least.
It took thirty-two minutes and two full-body sighs before Dazai touched the folder again.
He didn’t look eager. Didn’t look even slightly interested. But he unfolded the seal without tearing it, as if avoiding the noise.
The pages inside were crisp. He skimmed the header, then the sub-classification. His brow furrowed slightly.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.
Lines of redacted routes. Temporary null zones. Ghost supply pickups rerouted three times in two months. The signatures of only four people on the last page—Yosano, Kunikida, Ranpo, and one unfamiliar scribble tagged “Emergency Eyes Only.”
Dazai let out a soft whistle under his breath.
“Well?” Kunikida asked from across the room, not looking up.
“Oh,” Dazai said lazily, “it’s nothing. Just that I’m clearly the only one they trust to spot an infiltration pattern. You understand. Big brains.”
Kunikida made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a scoff. “Is that so?”
“Yes, yes, don’t feel bad. I’m sure you’re still very good at… delegation.”
Kunikida glared.
Dazai stretched out like a cat and leaned back in his chair, flipping another page. “You were right, though. This thing’s got enough weight to sink a boat. No wonder they didn’t let Fukuzawa see it—if there’s a leak in supply tracking, someone in our network is either careless or compromised.”
Kunikida’s head snapped up.
“You think it’s that serious?”
“Oh, I know it is,” Dazai said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ranpo must’ve caught it, but Yosano signed off on field readiness. That means it’s real.”
Kunikida didn’t speak right away. Then, reluctantly: “Good catch.”
Dazai turned in his chair. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said, good catch.”
“Oh, so you can be kind when you try.”
“Don’t push it.”
Before Dazai could fire off another quip, Atsushi peeked up from the desk beside him. “What’s in the report?”
“Oh, nothing fun,” Dazai said. “Just the potential unraveling of the entire internal infrastructure of the Agency.”
Atsushi blinked. “That sounds… bad.”
“You’d think. But hey, we caught it first. We get to look smug about it.”
Kunikida muttered, “Some of us look competent, the rest just look smug.”
“Details,” Dazai hummed, dropping the file back onto the pile.
He reclined again, linking his fingers behind his head, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who hadn’t worked all morning.
Then the phone rang.
Not anyone’s desk phone. Not the Agency line.
Dazai’s personal phone.
It started as a quiet buzz. Then again. Then again.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
He didn’t move.
Everyone in the room turned toward the sound.
Buzz. Buzz.
Atsushi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Can you just pick it up already?”
Kunikida narrowed his eyes. “If that’s one of your girls, Dazai, take it outside. This is a government building, not a dating service.”
Dazai’s hand drifted to the edge of the desk. Hovered.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
His fingers tightened slightly.
He picked it up and answered without a word. Just silence.
Static. Then—
“Still picking up like a whore in hiding. Cute.”
Dazai froze.
His breath caught, just once. His throat constricted around it.
He didn’t say the name. Couldn’t.
Not with the room watching. Not with the ears tuned in, waiting for something to give them permission to start doubting him.
But he knew the voice.
Low. Like smoke and laughter with teeth.
Chuuya.
Port Mafia executive turned boss. His ex.
The one man Dazai couldn’t pretend away.
The one man who’d never bought lies.
He swallowed. Kept his voice low. Measured.
“You really have no sense of timing.”
“Oh, I do,” Chuuya said, voice lazy and sharp. “I just don’t care.”
“You shouldn’t be calling this number.”
“And yet here I am. Can’t help it. Your voice’s always been a weakness of mine.”
Dazai’s pulse kicked hard in his throat.
He could feel it—eyes on him. Kunikida’s suspicious glare. Atsushi, trying not to look like he was listening.
Chuuya went on, the line distorting just slightly with a breath. “You’re gonna give me what I want. And you’re gonna do it without being a brat about it.”
Dazai’s jaw tightened.
“I’m working,” he muttered, too quietly for the others to hear the words clearly. Just enough to signal disinterest.
“Oh, I know. That’s why I’m not asking twice. You have five seconds to find a room and put me on speaker.”
Dazai didn’t move.
“Four.”
He stood, slow.
“Three.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Two.”
He turned, casually, heading for the hallway.
“One.”
The door clicked softly behind him.
The hallway was narrow. It echoed sound easily if you weren’t careful. Dazai’s gaze drifted to a door.
It clicked with a creak. A tiny, forgotten storage closet—shoved between the briefing rooms, full of ancient office chairs and unopened supply crates. It smelled like dust and lemon cleaner.
Dazai leaned back against the door, locking it with a soft snap .
His phone was still pressed to his ear, breath caught behind his teeth.
“…Chuuya,” he muttered. So quiet it barely left his throat.
He didn’t say anything else.
There was a pause. A breath.
Then Chuuya’s voice—smirking, dragging. “Took you long enough.”
“I’m in a storage room.”
“Speaker. Now.”
Dazai hesitated. Only a second. Then:
Click.
“You’re on speaker,” he muttered, low.
The response came immediate. “Good boy.”
Dazai’s eyes shut. His breath hitched.
The room was dead quiet, like it had collapsed around him.
“I need that intel,” Chuuya said, voice almost flippant, as if this was just another errand. “The classified report. You’ve read it. I want it.”
“You want a lot of things,” Dazai said, dry. He was trying to sound bored. He wasn’t sure it was working.
Chuuya chuckled. Not warmly.
“Don’t play coy, you little whore. You were always too curious for your own good. What’s it say?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Dazai shifted, voice a bit more clipped now. “I said no. I’m not telling you what’s in it.”
“Oh?” Chuuya’s voice dripped mock-affection. “And why not?”
“Because it’s classified. Because it has nothing to do with the Port Mafia. And because I’m especially not giving it to you when you open by calling me a whore.”
Another laugh, sharper now. “You don’t like being called that anymore? Shame. Used to love it when I said it. Always made that sweet little noise—”
“Stop.”
“You used to beg.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Dazai’s fingers twitched where they gripped the phone. He didn’t answer.
The storage room was hot suddenly. Too small. The air felt thin, like it was pressing against him.
“I’m not telling you anything,” he muttered.
“Not yet, you mean.”
A pause.
“Because you will, ” Chuuya continued, all velvet malice, “once I’ve had my fun.”
Chuuya was quiet for a moment.
“I’ve got so many pictures of you,” Chuuya said, almost sighing the words, like it was tragic. “God, some of them—do you remember the ones in the white shirt?”
Dazai’s stomach turned. His breath hitched—so softly, but the mic caught it.
Silence on his end.
“You know, the see-through one?” Chuuya drawled. “Tucked in. Mouth open. You looked like something people pay for by the hour.”
“You’re bluffing,” Dazai muttered, his voice strained. Not confident enough.
“Sure,” Chuuya said. “Let’s pretend I am. Let’s pretend I don’t have dozens of photos of you whining into my hand. Let’s pretend you never begged me to keep the lights on so you could see yourself.”
Dazai looked at the wall. Stared at it. Didn’t blink.
“It’d be a shame,” Chuuya continued, “if someone saw. Or if they found out who you’re talking to right now. Bet the Agency would just love that.”
Dazai’s grip on the phone was white-knuckled now.
Still, he didn’t speak.
Didn’t give anything.
“…You’re such a filthy little thing,” Chuuya murmured suddenly. “Always were. Thought a clean desk job would change that?”
Dazai flinched.
The voice. That voice. It hadn’t changed. The parts of him that still liked being spoken to like that hadn’t changed.
He swallowed. Slow. Audible.
His legs shifted.
Chuuya caught it instantly—even over the line.
“…You’re hard already, aren’t you?”
Dazai exhaled through his nose.
Didn’t answer.
“Oh, you are. I can hear it. All that pretty breathing. Fuck, Dazai.”
“Shut up,” he said, quietly.
“You like it when I talk to you like this, huh? You little Agency bitch. Think they’d let you stay if they heard the way you moan when I call you a whore?”
Another breath. This one tighter .
Dazai didn’t touch himself.
But his thighs had tensed. There was a very slight— barely-there —grind of pressure where he shifted against the locked door.
And Chuuya? He heard it.
“You’re not gonna last,” he said lowly. “You’re already halfway there and I haven’t even told you to touch yourself yet.”
Still— no information.
But still Dazai held the line.
There was a pause—barely a heartbeat.
Then:
“God, you’re predictable.”
Chuuya’s voice rasped through the speaker; soaked in spite. “What is it with you, huh? You get one phone call and suddenly you’re panting in a some room?”
Dazai’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t spoken in over a minute.
That alone said everything.
“You make this too easy,” Chuuya went on. “What—did you think I wouldn’t notice? That tight little breath you took when I said ‘good boy’? You fucking twitched .”
Silence. Except for Dazai’s breathing—shaky now, like he’d been running. Or burning.
“Pathetic.”
Still, Dazai didn’t respond.
He couldn’t. His lips were parted slightly. The collar of his shirt had gone stiff with sweat. His legs were drawn a little closer together now—thighs flexed tight. Just sitting like this hurt.
“You must be hard as hell right now,” Chuuya drawled. “I bet it’s aching. Bet you’re pressing your thighs together like some bitch in heat.”
Dazai’s breathing stuttered—visibly. Audibly. A flush was crawling up his neck.
“You remember what you sound like when you’re desperate?” Chuuya whispered. “I do. It starts with your breath. Then your voice drops. Then you make that little noise in your throat, the one you hate.”
Dazai’s fingertips dug into the curve of his phone. White-knuckled.
“I could make you fall apart with nothing but a voice memo,” Chuuya said. “Don’t even need to see you. I know what you look like. Mouth half-open, blinking like you’re dizzy.”
“Stop it,” Dazai said hoarsely.
But it was barely anything. No bite.
Chuuya snorted.
“You used to love this. All I had to do was talk and you’d be leaking through your pants.” A short, cruel laugh. “God, you’re such a slut.”
Dazai flinched—physically.
His breath hitched again, sharper this time.
Still, he didn’t reach for himself. But his hips had shifted—just slightly—against the edge of the door, like a reflex he couldn’t control.
Chuuya heard it.
“I can’t believe you work in law enforcement now,” Chuuya continued, his tone condescending. “All that idealism. All that paper-pushing. And here you are, hard as a rock in a storage closet just because I opened my mouth.”
Dazai let out a breath—ragged, shallow.
“Is this how you work these days?” Chuuya sneered. “File a report, pop a boner, drag your filthy ass in here and hope no one notices?”
“You don’t know anything,” Dazai hissed—but it was breathless. Pink bloomed high across his cheeks. His chest was rising fast now, shirt faintly damp at the base of his throat.
“Oh, I know enough,” Chuuya shot back. “I know how many times you faked moral superiority just to hide the fact you’d beg to be stepped on if I asked.”
“Go to hell.”
“Too late. You’re already there. Now, read the damn file.”
“…No.”
“No?” Chuuya mocked. “Still pretending you’ve got boundaries? How fucking cute. ”
Silence.
“…Read it.”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“Shut up—”
“ Read it. ”
“I said—”
“Slut.”
The brunettes body staggered back like he’d been slapped.
Chuuya didn’t stop.
“Filthy, desperate little Agency slut,” he bit out, slow and deliberate. “Touch-starved piece of shit. You love this—you need this.”
Dazai’s breathing broke—full stop.
His hand twitched down near his hip. He didn’t move it further. But his knees locked.
“Just say it,” Chuuya pressed, softer now—deadly. “Say you’re hard. Say you’re getting off on this.”
Dazai’s head dropped forward against the door. His knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the phone. His body was fully flushed—feverish, tense, the barest sheen of sweat along the back of his neck.
And still— no information.
Yet.
His voice wasn’t as steady as he liked to admit.
“…I’m not telling you anything,” he whispered.
Chuuya laughed.
It was triumphant.
“Not yet ,” he said.
But now, the line had gone quiet again.
Dazai hadn’t said anything in a while. He couldn’t. His hand was pressing into the front of his slacks now, hesitant, like he was still trying to convince himself it meant nothing. Just adjusting, maybe. Just pressure. Just relief.
Then—without meaning to—he let out a noise.
Soft. Barely there. But a noise all the same.
And Chuuya, of course, caught it.
“Well, well,” Chuuya muttered, low and unimpressed. “Did you just fucking moan?”
Dazai didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Chuuya exhaled through his nose. It sounded like a laugh. “You did. You actually did.”
Dazai stared at the floor. His palm was still against his cock. His breath was already too fast.
“You didn’t even ask,” Chuuya said, flat and cutting. “Didn’t even pretend to have some restraint.”
There was a pause. Dazai could hear the faint scratch of a pen on paper—Chuuya was still writing. Still expecting something.
Still in control.
“You’re unbelievable,” Chuuya said, quieter now. “You try so hard to seem put-together these days. Coat all ironed, fake-ass smiles for your little coworkers. And the second I so much as raise my voice, you’re rubbing up against your own palm like a fucking teenager.”
Dazai bit his tongue, hard. His hips had moved again. Barely—just enough to push forward into his own hand. Like a twitch. A reflex.
“You don’t even want to stop,” Chuuya went on, voice dipping low again. “That’s the funniest part. You’re probably telling yourself you can. That if I pushed, you’d say no.”
Silence.
“You wouldn’t.”
Still, Dazai didn’t say anything.
His hand moved. Just slightly.
Enough to make himself feel it. Just that little bit more.
Chuuya hummed.
“Go on, then,” he said. “Keep going. You’ve already humiliated yourself. Might as well finish the job.”
Dazai’s breath stuttered.
“Oh, don’t get quiet now,” Chuuya said. “You already proved my point. Touching yourself without permission. Making those pathetic little noises. Not even trying to keep your voice down.”
Dazai opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out.
“You used to be better at this,” Chuuya said, almost disappointed. “Used to have some dignity. Now you can’t even keep your pants dry when I talk.”
Dazai choked on a breath.
Chuuya didn’t stop.
“I bet you’re leaking already. God.”
Another breath. Louder this time. Dazai was trying to be quiet—but it wasn’t working. His body wasn’t cooperating . He felt hot all over, his head cloudy. His fingers curled slightly where they were pressed into himself, like they wanted to move but knew they shouldn’t.
“You gonna thank me?” Chuuya asked, soft now. “Or are you just gonna keep acting like you’re not enjoying this?”
Still nothing.
“Useless.” Chuuya muttered.
That one landed.
Dazai twitched.
Chuuya heard it.
“You’re still touching, yeah?” Chuuya’s voice dragged slow over the speaker. “Didn’t tell you to stop.”
Dazai didn’t answer. His chest was rising fast, too fast, actually. His hand hovered, shame prickling at his knuckles.
“Slacks too tight, is that it?” Chuuya said, almost mockingly. “Then take them off.”
Dazai pressed the heel of his palm against his face. He was flushed, pulse kicking hard at his throat.
“You hear me?”
“…Yeah.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”
His fingers went to the waistband. Slacks undone. Zip slow, reluctant. He winced at the sound. The fabric slid down his thighs, pooling at his ankles.
“Boxers too.”
Dazai swallowed thickly. His hands moved.
He shivered as cool air hit hot skin. Already half-hard. Already humiliating.
“Atta boy,” Chuuya said, offhand. Like it was nothing. Like Dazai hadn’t just knelt in the dark of a storage room and peeled himself bare for the enemy.
His breath hitched again.
“Now touch yourself.”
Dazai hesitated.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
He exhaled, barely a whisper of sound, and his hand wrapped around his cock.
The moan that broke from him was thin—choked off too quick, like he was trying not to let it exist.
“…Fuck,” Chuuya muttered. “You’re that worked up already?”
Dazai didn’t say anything. His hand moved slow, trembling a little, head tipped back against the door.
“Pathetic,” Chuuya said. “You don’t even sound like someone who’s supposed to be hiding this. Your little coworkers must be deaf if they haven’t noticed.”
Dazai whined in his throat, dragging the sound down to nothing. His body was reacting faster than he could fight. All because of that voice, that tone, him.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Chuuya said. “Sat there the whole time acting like you weren’t going to give me a damn thing. Then I call, and suddenly you’re pulling your pants down and jerking off to the sound of my voice.”
Chuuya’s name slipped out of his mouth again—quieter, strangled. It made his grip falter.
“You’re not even trying to stop,” Chuuya said. “You’re enjoying this. You’re fucking hard because I’m degrading you, and you’re gonna come without me even touching you.”
Dazai groaned, broken and too soft. His hips twitched forward. His hand was slick now, moving too fast, not fast enough, he didn’t know why.
“You want me to tell you how much of a mess you are?” Chuuya muttered. “Beg for it.”
Silence. Shaking breath. Then—
“…Please.”
Chuuya exhaled through his nose. Cold. Disappointed. “Can’t even beg right.”
Dazai flinched. He didn’t stop.
“I should record this,” Chuuya said after a moment. “Keep it. Use it. Fuck, I could send it around. Let the rest of the Mafia hear what the Agency’s golden boy sounds like when he’s desperate.”
Dazai made a sound—barely. High. Embarrassed.
“I’m doing it,” Chuuya added. “I’m recording this now. All your little moans, the sound of you choking on my name.”
Dazai’s fingers stuttered. He pressed his forehead to his knee. Breath hitched.
“Say it again,” Chuuya ordered. “You’re already thinking it.”
“…Chuuya,” he whispered.
“Louder.”
“Chuuya,” he whined.
“You wanna come?” Chuuya said, casual, like it didn’t matter either way.
Dazai’s moan punched out of him before he could stop it—choked. His head knocked weakly against the wall.
“Please…”
There was a pause.
Then, colder: “Do you deserve it?”
Dazai’s hand faltered.
His breath hitched.
It took him several seconds to answer—his mouth opened once, then closed again. His body screamed yes , but his pride wasn’t even fighting anymore. It had already rolled over and given up.
“…No.”
A sound from the line—small, smug, pleased.
“Good boy.”
Dazai shuddered. The shame of it should have sobered him, but it only made his hips twitch against nothing—thighs trembling, teeth biting down on a moan he didn’t want Chuuya to hear.
But he already had.
“Slow. Just your fingertips. Barely there.”
His fingers moved automatically.
It wasn’t enough. Not even close. He was leaking, red, soaked in his own pre-come, but Chuuya’s voice kept him suspended in this humiliating limbo where he didn’t get to chase relief—only sink deeper into it.
“You stop the second your hips move.”
Dazai tensed. He moved his fingers carefully, delicately. It felt like being denied by inches.
“Faster. But not too much.”
He obeyed.
Every breath he took came out wrong. Sharp, shallow, like he was choking on them. His entire body was flushed now, neck and chest blotched pink.
“Stop.”
His hand froze.
“Don’t even make a sound.”
Dazai made a wounded noise in his throat. His head dropped between his knees. He was dizzy with need.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” Chuuya muttered.
His voice was calm. Not even angry—just cold amusement.
“Hard as a rock, flushed like some back-alley slut, and you still can’t admit you’re enjoying this.”
Dazai whimpered. He couldn’t answer. Every nerve was burning. His mouth hung open.
“You want it that bad, huh? Just a few words from me and you’re dripping all over yourself like some neglected prostitute.”
Another pause.
“Go again. Slow. Just your palm this time.”
He obeyed with a full-body tremble.
“And don’t you dare grind.”
The friction was unbearable—flat and dragging and not enough. His hips begged to move, but he kept them still.
“Faster.”
Dazai moaned, lips parting wide, sweat beading along his back.
“Slower.”
A gasp. Desperate.
“Stop.”
His fingers twitched, and then stilled.
“You’re getting good at this,” Chuuya muttered. “Guess being treated like a fucktoy is the only thing you ever wanted from me anyway.”
Dazai sobbed.
“Go on,” Chuuya muttered, voice deep and precise, “come for me.”
Dazai didn’t even try to hold back.
He broke with a breathless, high-pitched moan—sharp and strained like it had been punched out of him. His body locked up, shoulders hunching, one knee sliding out on the floor with how hard his thighs trembled.
Hot. Sudden. Too much .
He came in his hand, mess slicking his fingers and spilling against his stomach. A soft slap as his back hit the wall. His other hand clawed blindly at the floor like it could ground him, moans tumbling out in short, helpless gasps.
It wasn’t graceful.
It was humiliating.
His legs jerked again. His hips tried to grind against his own palm even as he came down from it. He didn’t even realize he was whining until Chuuya spoke again.
“Disgusting.”
Dazai flinched.
“You’re flushed pink like a goddamn schoolgirl and you still haven’t taken your hand off your dick.”
He forced his fingers to stop. Forced them to let go. He was breathing too fast, too loud, chest stuttering, the room spinning around the edges of his vision.
“You really couldn’t hold back, could you?” Chuuya went on, sharp and steady. “That’s what you are now. A needy, desperate slut who listens when I tell him what to do.”
Dazai was shaking. He tried to fix his posture, but everything felt boneless. Wrecked. His legs wouldn’t cooperate and his spine felt like it had melted.
His face was burning . He didn’t have to see it to know—his cheeks, his ears, even the tops of his shoulders were flushed. Humiliation stuck to his skin worse than the sweat.
Chuuya didn’t stop.
“Don’t even think about zipping up yet. Not until you give me what I called for.”
Dazai let out a shaky breath.
“Now,” Chuuya said, calm but sharp, “talk. Or I’ll make you hard again before you even recover.”
Dazai’s fingers twitched on the floor. He hesitated—just long enough.
Then gave up.
He licked his lips. Voice still breathless, shaking.
“They split the intel into four separate encrypted drives. Hard copies. Kunikida, Yosano, Ranpo and I all have one. They were moved two days ago, right after the leak report came in. Ranpo set the decoys.”
Chuuya was silent. Dazai could hear him writing.
“My quarter has the real civilian identities tied to the names on the project. Blacklist updates. Location traces. I know what’s in the file. Do you want me to…”
He trailed off. Then forced himself to continue.
“I’ll say the names.”
Chuuya didn’t thank him. Just: “Fucking finally.”
So Dazai recalled.
Quietly. Carefully. Moaning once when he shifted and accidentally brushed his still-sensitive cock. Pink-faced. Disgusted with himself.
He spoke like it didn’t hurt. Like he wasn’t still throbbing.
Dazai’s breath was still shallow. Sticky sweat clung to his spine. His pants were open, thighs trembling where they were spread, and the aftershocks were just barely beginning to fade from his body.
Chuuya didn’t say a word until Dazai finished the last name.
Dazai wanted silence. Just for a second. Something to close his eyes into.
But Chuuya’s voice returned, low and sharp as a scalpel.
“I’ll be doing this again,” he said. “Next time I need intel, I’ll call. And you’ll pick up.”
Dazai didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight and his hands too filthy.
“Maybe I’ll let you beg a little more next time. Maybe I won’t let you come at all. Depends how fast you talk.”
Still, nothing from Dazai.
A beat passed.
Then, quieter— smoother :
“…Thanks for the recording.”
Dazai’s body jerked, eyes wide.
“You think I wasn’t gonna keep this?” Chuuya drawled, smug and unhurried. “This was perfect , Dazai. Every whine, every filthy little noise—God, I could cut it into a highlight reel.”
Dazai’s face went scarlet again, a different kind of burn rising behind his eyes.
Chuuya kept going, cold and clinical:
“Might listen back to it later. Maybe put it on while I’m working. Or hand it over to one of my subordinates. Tell them this is how a former port mafia executive behaves under pressure.”
That made Dazai twitch.
“You think anyone’d be surprised? The Agency’s favorite whore, moaning my name in a storage closet just to get off.”
And then—
Silence.
Click.
Call ended.
Dazai sat there a long time, alone in the dark, his body still flushed, still wet, still throbbing—not from pleasure anymore, but from the shame.
And the fucking fear. Because next time, Chuuya would call again.
And Dazai already knew he’d answer.