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If someone had told Dazai when he woke up this morning that he’d be pouring coffee for the boss of Yokohama’s Port Mafia as said criminal overlord looks on from Dazai’s favorite armchair, he would have laughed himself sick.

Besides the obvious—no one who has ever interacted with Dazai in any fashion that would interest the mafia even knows where he lives—it is hard to picture the head of Yokohama’s largest criminal organization making house calls. 

Yet, here he sits, eyes watching Dazai’s every move as if Dazai is stupid enough to try and attack the man. Despite the fact that the mafia boss is several inches shorter than Dazai and quite thin in stature, despite the fact that he arrived alone at Dazai’s door with a polite knock and an equally polite greeting, there’s no denying that danger drapes along his shoulders as neatly as the ridiculous coat that he wears like it’s some sort of cape. 

Nakahara Chuuya accepts the offered cup of coffee with a murmured word of thanks, and Dazai slumps into the chair opposite, cradling a cup of his own. 

“Of all the people I imagined seeking me out, you weren’t one of them.” Dazai breaks the silence first with a sip of his drink, considering his unexpected guest over the rim of his cup.

Nakahara tilts his head to one side, quirking an eyebrow, “you know who I am?”

“Anyone who pays attention to the power balance in this city knows who you are,” Dazai replies, “the Port Mafia almost holds as much influence over Yokohama as the government itself. A sudden change in leadership is something to watch.”

“I doubt everyone pays as much attention as you do,” Nakahara replies, setting down his own cup without taking a sip. 

Dazai watches the action, intrigued. “I didn’t poison it. You were watching me the whole time.”

Nakahara dismisses the defense with a wave of the hand. “Call it a bad habit.”

He supposes Nakahara isn’t exactly the best person to start psychoanalyzing in the middle of a conversation, but Dazai can’t help the way his mind takes details and immediately starts connecting them. It’s one reason why he lives alone, in this warehouse bunker on the outskirts of Yokohama where the only human interaction he’s supposed to have is of his own choosing. By isolating himself, picking and choosing his interactions so they always happen on his own terms, he can attempt to quiet the ceaseless tumble of thoughts that plague him every waking moment.

“I take it your rise to power wasn’t as smooth as it appears from the outside looking in.”

Nakahara doesn’t flinch. 

(Dazai is reluctantly impressed, though he supposes it’s to be expected of a hardened criminal.)

Instead of reacting to the obvious prod for information, the mafia boss reaches into his blazer and pulls out a handful of newspaper clippings, dropping them on the table.

Dazai only has to glance at the first headline to know what’s going on:

Small Time Gang Makes Off With Over a Million Yen in a Single Heist.

“You don’t look surprised.” Nakahara comments. 

With a shrug, Dazai says, “I suppose my name has only been kept quiet for so long because the idiots didn’t want me getting my business elsewhere. Besides...” Dazai sighs, leaning back in his seat, “I should have anticipated that last hit on Port Mafia territory might draw some attention and the group didn’t seem like the type to hold up under mafia-grade questioning. Still, that was only yesterday, how did you find me so fast?”

Nakahara looks away from Dazai, studying the rest of the sprawling warehouse floor that Dazai all but transformed into a survivalist bunker. Several feet away from the small living room—characterized only by a rug on the floor and the comfortable furniture he and Nakahara occupy—is Dazai’s workspace, defined by a wall of high definition monitors linked to a computer system he built himself one day out of boredom. Still on the screens are blueprints of the next job Dazai was preparing for: a heist scheme for clients somewhere in Europe.

“Why do work with gangs in the city when you clearly have international clientele? These have to be messier.”

“A dangerous combination of boredom and curiosity. Call it my fatal flaw.” Unbandaged eye narrowing, Dazai studies Nakahara’s face before coming to the conclusion of the calculations he’s been running since first opening his door. “You’re not here to kill me.”

“If I wanted you dead I could send other people to handle it.”

“Fair point,” Dazai replies, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “So, you don’t want me dead and you’re also struggling to gain solid control over your subordinates.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “I must say, I wondered when I would get a job request from the Port Mafia.”

Something glints in Nakahara’s eyes. When he speaks, his voice is a low murmur that hints at a level of violence Dazai can only imagine the other man being all too familiar with. “This isn’t a job request, Dazai Osamu, this is an offer of exclusive employment.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It would be in your best interest to accept.”

For most criminal leaders, the unspoken threat would be accompanied with some kind of posturing (a gun pointed directly at his face or a knife twirled between hands). Nakahara Chuuya does nothing but speak, and it’s perhaps the most effective threat Dazai has ever been on the receiving end of. The self-assured presence of the man—the fact that he came alone, that he sounds absolutely confident that Dazai will accept, that he doesn’t feel the need to posture at all—sends a slight shiver down Dazai’s spine that can only partially be attributed to a sliver of fear.

And because he can’t help himself, Dazai lets his voice slide into a sing-song as he says. “But what exactly is the employment position? It’s bad practice to accept such an offer without knowing the expectations.”

Nakahara’s eyebrow twitches slightly, and the smug grin on Dazai’s face widens just as incrementally at the idea that, perhaps, he could get this mafioso to crack. “You would report to me, and only to me, regarding matters that impact the future leadership of the organization and our plans domestically and abroad.”

“That’s a lot of legal speak when you could just say I’m meant to be your bitch.”

It’s definitely not what Nakahara was expecting to hear. He blinks at Dazai once, then twice, and Dazai patiently waits for his words to sink in. 

When they do, it’s evident by the cool smile that curls onto Nakahara’s lips and the way his reply seems to temperature drop in the room around them. “I assume you’re still alive because you’re as much of a genius as the rumors make you out to be, but let me be clear: if I don’t find your plans to be all they’re cracked up to be, it’ll be my genuine pleasure to rip your tongue out.”

There’s something about Nakahara that’s unlike any of the other gang leaders or criminal bosses or anyone that Dazai’s done business with before that it startles a laugh out of him. His laughter clearly takes Nakahara aback, judging by the way his eyes widen comically before narrowing, and the reaction only adds to Dazai’s amusement, making him dissolve into another peel of giggles.

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” Nakahara snaps: his cool exterior finally showing cracks—Dazai wonders what he’d have to do to shatter it completely. 

Dazai waves a hand, dismissing Nakahara’s question, “no, you’re clearly serious.” Calming down, he dips his head in a display of deference and asks. “Where do I start?”

 


 

Chuuya reeks of smoke. 

Soot is stained on his clothing and he doesn’t need a mirror to know the grit is in his hair as well. His entire body aches from how much he’s been using his ability over the past week (much less the last twenty-four hours), and all he wants is to go soak in a bath with a glass of wine and relax.

The only problem is that he still has work to do. 

Since stepping into the position in the wake of the former boss’ death, Chuuya is not sure he has stopped working for longer than the four hours of sleep he’s been running off of a night (if he’s lucky). He can’t even remember the last time he had a day off to himself, much less an afternoon. 

Between malcontents within the organization fighting to have someone else take power and the enemy organization that had managed to kill Mori Ougai (of all people), Chuuya can’t afford to let any plan move forward without his full attention.

He’s fucking exhausted. 

Pulling the key to his office out of his pocket, Chuuya pushes it into the lock as he listens to Kouyou give a report over the phone. 

“The resistance group was exactly where he said it would be and they weren’t prepared for an attack. I have three in custody but they aren’t talking.” Kouyou says, sounding almost as bone-weary as Chuuya feels. 

Turning the key, Chuuya scowls when he hears the ‘click’ of the lock and he turns again, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Take them to the holding cells on the ports and I’ll see about getting them to talk in a few hours. Be careful with transport.”

She hesitates, before saying, “I can try them a bit longer, you should get some rest, Chuuya-kun.”

A sigh leaves Chuuya’s lips before he can stop it. “I will once we get this group handled. Anything else?”

“No. I’ll let you know when the hostages are secured.”

“Thank you,” Chuuya mumbles before ending the call and turning to stare ice at his unwelcome guest. “What do you want?”

From where he is sprawled on the couch pushed against the side wall, Dazai’s single eye doesn’t so much as flicker open “I assumed you wanted me, boss.”

The bastard has been in Chuuya’s employ for all of three weeks and all Chuuya really knows about him is that he’s a pain in the ass. Dazai’s unique combination of dizzying intelligence and insufferable smugness gets under Chuuya’s skin faster than anything has the right to. Even when speaking Chuuya’s title, it somehow comes out of Dazai’s mouth sounding more like a mockery.

If it weren’t for the fact that Dazai’s strategies are helping Chuuya get full control over the Port Mafia so quickly that it’s almost frightening, Chuuya would have killed the man two weeks ago. 

Striding past the couch, Chuuya steps around his desk and plops into his chair. There are stacks of reports on the sleek wood, but he doesn’t particularly care as he kicks his feet up. “The operation at that group’s hideout went off without a problem.”

“Of course it did. I planned it.”

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya ignores the comment. “We have hostages, but they’re not talking.”

“When are you going to question them?”

Chuuya glances at the clock on the wall, making rapid calculations as he works through all the other things that could possibly go wrong before the sun is up. “In two hours or so.”

“Bring me with you.”

For all that Dazai has proven extensive knowledge of how criminals think and how their organizations are run, he has never shown the slightest interest in being involved in their business beyond his strategic input. The request makes Chuuya pause, his head tilting as he considers the other man. 

“Why?”

Finally, Dazai deigns to blink his eye open, and he turns over on the couch so he can fix Chuuya with his stare. “Once their leader knows what happened, they’re going to move quickly to try and minimize damages. Having me on hand to strategize as we get information is how we end this as soon as tomorrow.”

The idea that Chuuya can be done dealing with this internal war within the next day sounds too good to be true. “How can you be so sure?”

Chuuya,” Dazai draws out his name, rolling each syllable in his mouth as an impish grin curls on his lips. “When have my predictions ever been wrong?”

Sure, the bastard has a flawless track record, but it’s not hard to do when there is only three weeks’ worth of work to evaluate.

Chuuya scowls, “we’re not on a first-name basis, Dazai. Keep disrespecting me and I’ll strangle you with your damn bandages.” The threat doesn’t even get so much as a blink from Dazai, no threat ever does. “Tell me why you really want to come and I might consider it.”

“I’m getting bored, and I’d like to see you in action.”

His phone starts ringing, and Chuuya glances at it before letting out a resigned sigh and pointing at the door in a clear order. “Be in the garage in two hours. If you’re so much as a second late, I’m leaving you behind.”

Dazai pushes himself off the couch, straightening to his full height and shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants—the ill-fitting suit almost as annoying as Dazai himself. “Thank you, boss.”

Instead of verbally tearing Dazai a new asshole (which is what Chuuya wants to do), he answers his phone with a clipped “Nakahara Chuuya” as Dazai traipses out of his office. 

 


 

When Chuuya strolls into an observation room of one of the Port Mafia’s most ill-reputed holding facilities, he’s already near the end of his rope. In the two hours between giving Kouyou the move order and actually heading out to the facility himself, he feels like he’s had to douse half a dozen fires, and what had meant to be a few minutes of relaxation as he was chauffeured from headquarters to the holding facility had been ruined by ceaseless chatter from the walking waste of bandages trailing behind him.

Kouyou gives Chuuya a nod when he enters, her eyes lighting up with the barest trace of a smile. “Boss.”

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya replies, “how many times do I have to tell you not to bother with the title, Ane-san?”

The corner of her lips twitch, but her voice is serene as she counters, “until you realize to better pick your battles.” She waves a hand to the glass separating the observation deck from the holding rooms. “As I reported to you earlier, one didn’t make the transit due to his injuries being too severe. These two are quite tight-lipped.”

Chuuya pulls level with Kouyou, running a critical gaze between the two rooms. “Who do you think will crack fastest?”

“The one on the right.”

Letting out a measured blow of air to keep hold of his temper, Chuuya says, “I wasn’t asking you, Dazai. Keep quiet and out of the way.” Without waiting to hear whatever response is on the tip of the bastard’s tongue, Chuuya glances at Kouyou. “Well?”

She looks entirely too amused for the entire situation. Dipping her head, Kouyou murmurs, “I’m afraid I agree with Dazai-kun’s analysis, boss.”

“I would call it a guess more than an analysis,” Chuuya says, but he gives Kouyou an appreciative nod, “you can head out, I’ll be busy here for a bit so if someone can’t get a hold of me they’ll need to reach you.”

“The guards?” She asks.

Before this, Chuuya would have told Kouyou to send them all home since he can more than handle himself in a fight. Now that he’s the boss of the organization, now that people who are familiar with his fighting skills and his ability also have hundreds of grunts at their command and are after his head, he’s reluctantly grown to be more cautious. Still...more guards mean more listening ears, and Chuuya isn’t naive enough to believe he’s rooted out all of the malcontents within those still following his orders. 

“One in here, a pair at the doors.”

“And a perimeter guard,” Kouyou says, voice brokering no tone for argument.

Grinning, Chuuya quirks an eyebrow at her, “why ask if you’ve already made up your mind?”

The older woman smirks, and sweeps through the room, snapping her fingers at the handful of other guards so they file out behind her only leaving one in place. She’s nearly out the door when she replies, “I’ve no idea what you mean, boss.”

Leave it to Kouyou to lighten Chuuya’s spirits even in the midst of messy business. Shaking his head at her subtle antics, Chuuya shrugs off his coat and blazer, folding them in half and setting them on a nearby stool. His hat gets placed on top of the items of clothing with care. 

Gathering his hair up in one hand, Chuuya turns to lock gazes with Dazai and almost forgets what he wanted to say. There’s heat in that single brown eye and, as Chuuya watches, it drags slowly down the length of his body before coming back up to make eye contact again.

Dazai’s lips curl into a smirk, and it jolts Chuuya back into action. 

Refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of...well, Chuuya’s not quite sure what game Dazai is playing at right now, of all places, but he refuses to play into Dazai’s hand. He ties his hair away from his face, making sure his voice is level and firm as he says. “Stay out here, and stay quiet.”

“But all the fun will be happening in the holding room,” Dazai protests. It’s almost alarming how easily the whine leaves his lips despite the cadence of his speech being completely at odds with the heat still flickering in his gaze.

Turning his back on Dazai, Chuuya strides to the door that leads to the holding cell on the right and catches the eye of the guard. “If he tries to go in, shoot him.”

“Yes, boss.”

Chuuya steps into the holding room and lets the door swing shut, cutting him off from the rest of the world. 

At the sound of his footsteps, the captive slowly rolls his head to the side so he can look at Chuuya. One of his eyes is badly bruised, swollen so it’s nearly shut and no doubt impossible to see out of. The other glints with steel and Chuuya can immediately see why the group was causing Kouyou trouble if this man is the ‘easiest broken’ of them.

“I wondered what all the bells and whistles were for. Never imagined the esteemed Port Mafia boss would pay me a visit.” The man’s voice is still smooth, indicating he hadn’t even screamed while being questioned by the mafia executive and her team. 

Grabbing the top of the empty chair, Chuuya drags it across the floor (ignoring the unheavenly screech of metal scraping metal) to set it down a few feet away from the man. He drops into the chair, crossing his legs as if taking a seat at a business meeting. 

“You look vaguely familiar...you were a Black Lizard, yes?”

“Still am, just not for you.”

Chuuya dips his head respectfully, “right, my mistake. So, Black Lizard-san, I’m sure you can appreciate that I’ve had a rather long day and would prefer you to answer my questions now, without any more bells and whistles.”

A sharp grin spreads across the man’s face. Chuuya wonders if Kouyou knocked out his missing teeth or if they were long gone before she got to him. “If you’re in a rush, just kill me.”

With a shrug, Chuuya pushes himself to his feet. “I’m not in a rush, per say. If you insist on making this difficult I suppose I can just let some of my frustrations out.” 

He lazily crosses the small space between them and steps around the man’s chair so he’s hovering out of sight—a position most likely to unnerve anyone with a fighting background. Unsheathing one of his daggers, Chuuya gently threads a gloved hand through the man’s hair and pulls his head further to the side so the side of his neck is completely exposed. 

“The black eye makes your face a little lopsided, I figured we could even it out.” He hums, as he twirls the dagger in his fingers before neatly slicing off the top of the man’s left ear.

There’s no scream, but his head jerks slightly (kept in place by Chuuya’s now iron grip). Reversing his hold on the dagger, Chuuya’s fingers flick down, peeling a precise slice of skin from the curve of the remaining ear.

“I trust that I have your attention, Black Lizard-san.” Chuuya hums, twirling the dagger in his hand again so the dull edge taps against the pulsing vein clear on the man’s throat. 

“Ask your questions, I won’t tell you shit.”

“We know your resistance group is planning an assault on mafia headquarters. I’d like details.”

“Sure. Our orders are to leave no one alive.”

Chuuya lets go of his hold on the man’s hair and drives his blade into the soft tissue behind the clavicle. It’s little more than a jarring wakeup call, meant to make sure Chuuya has the man’s complete attention. A grunt of pain and a muttered curse are exactly the reaction Chuuya is looking for, and he taps the hilt of the dagger, making it jiggle slightly.

It’s not an approach anyone else in the Port Mafia really uses. Chuuya’s borne witness to hundreds of torture sessions, each one a flurry of quick flashes of pain interspersed with long moments of concentrated agony. 

With Golden Demon, Kouyou is a master at knowing how to precisely injure her target without risk of death, is able to keep her target just on the brink of passing out from pain for hours. 

Chuuya always takes pause to get his target’s measure, testing them carefully as he comes up with a more concentrated point of attack, saving the use of his ability until he’s certain his target is close to breaking. 

Brushing sweat and blood damp hair from his captive’s forehead, Chuuya lets his fingers trail along the exposed curve of the man’s throat, feeling the slight tremors that are well hidden behind the man’s bravado.

A smirk curls on his lips: this may be finished quicker than he had hoped. 

Slowly, making sure the man feels every inch of steel, Chuuya pulls the dagger from his captive’s body, ready to get started.

The door opens, and Chuuya’s eyes flick to where the guard stationed outside precedes Dazai into the holding room. 

“I told you to wait outside.” He says, forcing his voice to remain as even and calm as it has been while dealing with the captive. 

Dazai shrugs, slinging an arm around the soldier of the guard (who flinches slightly). “I told Chuuya I would be bored.”

Turning his attention away from Dazai, Chuuya directs a cool look at the guard, “your only job was to keep him from interrupting me.”

The guard’s harsh swallow is audible across the room. “I-I’m sorry, Chuuya-sama. He-”

“-can be incredibly persuasive.” Dazai cuts in, grinning brightly as he squeezes his arm, tugging the guard back slightly so he stumbles into Dazai’s chest. “We’re running low on time to cut this off at its head, I thought you’d want some help.”

“Help torturing someone? From my strategist?” Chuuya repeats, bewildered, before realizing he doesn’t want to give Dazai the opportunity to go on a tirade. Pointing the blood-soaked dagger at the door, he speaks firmly. “Get out.”

Dazai lets out a long-suffering sigh and draws his arm back from around the guard’s soldiers, giving the man a gentle push forward so he’s right in front of Chuuya and the captive. Relief floods the guard’s face in a way that’s disproportionate to the situation, and Chuuya’s eyes narrow, his mind racing as he starts to piece together the odd behavior inherent in the interruption.

His annoyance at being disrupted works against him, and he comes to the realization just a second too late as he sees a glint of steel come up from where it had been aimed at the guard’s spine.

The gunshot is deafening in the small space, but Chuuya doesn’t flinch as he’s sprayed with the gory combination of blood and brains.

“Now that I have your attention,” Dazai hums, eyes fixed on the man tied to the chair, “won’t you answer the boss’ questions?”

The previously cocksure mafioso is completely pale as he looks up at Dazai. “You just fucking murdered one of your own men!”

“Not mine.” Dazai corrects, checking the gun chamber before cocking the gun again, pointing at the man’s foot and firing. He speaks over the loud stream of curses. “I have no interest in any member of the Port Mafia save for their boss.”

Another point, another click, another gunshot. 

Within the last minute, Chuuya has come to the conclusion that Dazai Osamu is absolutely crazy, but the glint in Dazai’s eye has him backing away from the chair holding the mafia traitor, stepping over the body of the ill-fated guard, and leaning against the two-way glass wall to watch what has clearly become Dazai’s torture session. 

“Do you mind repeating your question, boss? I’m not sure he’s smart enough to have remembered.” Dazai asks.

From here, Chuuya thinks the man looks terrified of Dazai, his one good eye pleading with Chuuya as if Chuuya is going to step in when Dazai is clearly making rapid progress. “Tell us all the details of your planned assault on headquarters.”

The man spits at Dazai’s feet. 

Tutting in mock disappointment, Dazai steps up to the small table set close by with an array of different tools. “Wrong answer.” He runs his fingers over the tools before glancing at Chuuya, “no nails?”

Shaking his head, Chuuya offers, “there are screws.”

Picking up a few of the named tools, Dazai muses, “but no hammer either. How unlucky.”

It becomes abundantly clear, as he watches Dazai hammer screws through various points of the man’s body with the butt of the gun, that Dazai never had any kind of training in torture techniques but rather has a sick affinity for the work to couple his uncanny ability to read and predict people’s reactions at lightning speed.

Chuuya wonders if it’s a side-effect of his profession that has his eyes glued to every move—to the way Dazai’s slender frame is more graceful here than Chuuya thinks it has ever been—or if there’s something inherently fascinating in seeing Dazai’s brilliant mind put to use in such a brutal manner.

The man cracks within minutes.

Details about the attack, one meant for less than a day from the current hour, stream from his lips. Chuuya commits the information to memory as it comes to light, despite being fully aware that Dazai is already pulling together plans that will tear apart the enemy organization with callous precision. 

When the captive has run out of information, has dropped off into a continual string of pleas, Dazai turns to face Chuuya, a grin of smug self-satisfaction on his face that would’ve made Chuuya want to punch him all but twenty minutes ago. Now, it’s almost exhilarating. Chuuya’s known Dazai for less than a month, but he’s never seen the other man look so pleased with himself—not when his traps work without fail, not when his wildest predictions are exactly on point.

It’s the first time that Chuuya thinks he can sense some small part of Dazai actively seeking Chuuya’s praise. He wonders if it’s because this is so much more Chuuya’s world than Dazai’s, if it’s because they both know in this arena Chuuya doesn’t need Dazai at all.

“I was right, this was fun.” Dazai comments, “Chuuya is impressive at his work.”

“If I’m so impressive, why interrupt me?” Chuuya asks. 

“He was prepared to handle mafia-grade torture techniques. He needed something a little less...refined, to get under his skin.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Chuuya counters. “He wouldn’t have broken for you at all if we had started the session with your ‘guns blazing’ tactic.”

The smile slips just for a second, plastered back into place within the blink of an eye as Dazai says, “well, you are the expert.”

Pushing himself off the wall, Chuuya starts closing the distance between them, watching Dazai’s face carefully. “You killed one of my men.”

A shrug. “I didn’t think you would care.”

“I don’t like losing people loyal to me.”

“One foot-soldier in exchange for getting rid of an entire enemy organization,” Dazai tilts his head, regarding Chuuya through a half-lidded eye, “I think it will balance out. “

Chuuya stops just on the fringe of Dazai’s personal space. He can almost hear the gears in Dazai’s brain whirling, trying to predict Chuuya’s next move. The way Dazai’s eye widens when Chuuya’s hand shoots out to grab the collar of his stained shirt indicates that this was certainly not what Dazai anticipated.

Smirking, Chuuya hauls Dazai down so their lips are barely a breath apart, his voice low in his throat as he says, “we haven’t gotten rid of them yet. I think I’ll reserve judgment on whether or not you’re worth the trouble until that’s handled. You’re on thin ice until then, Dazai. Have I made myself clear?”

“I thought Chuuya-” slick steel at Dazai’s throat makes him cut off with a hitched breath, and Chuuya lets out a huff of laughter.

“Try again. I can only allow so much subordination in one day before I start collecting fingers.”

“I thought you were impressed with my work. Not to mention all the strategies I have to combat the enemy group, boss.” Dazai amends.

“Surprised with your work would be more accurate, but it got results. Don’t kill my people ever again. Understood?”

“Yes, boss.”

Chuuya’s smirk widens and he presses closer, brushing his lips against Dazai’s in a teasing kiss. It’s electrifying, and what was meant to be a quick peck devolves as Chuuya nips Dazai’s bottom lip, reveling in how utterly still Dazai is in his grip (as if legitimately afraid of angering Chuuya for the first time since they met).

This power is unlike anything Chuuya’s ever felt and, considering that he’s the boss of the Port Mafia, it’s unsettling how heady this power is compared to any other circumstance he’s been in.

A strained groan of pain comes from beside them, and Chuuya rolls his eyes. His free hand trails down Dazai’s arm until he reaches harsh metal. It’s yielded without hesitation, and Chuuya doesn’t bother to pull back from Dazai’s lips as he turns off the safety and fires.

It’s only Chuuya’s phone ringing that has him breaking away from the embrace. Digging into his pocket, Chuuya takes in the utter want on Dazai’s face and hums. “What was that you said about being my bitch? You might be easier to handle that way.”

Without waiting for a response, Chuuya answers the phone with a firm declaration of his name, turning on his heel to stride past the two dead men. By the time he’s at the door, his mind is already on rearranging his combat teams to prepare for the attack, but Chuuya’s aware of the man trailing behind him.

When he went to pick up the reclusive genius causing him trouble, Chuuya was expecting to get a low-level strategist at best but Dazai Osamu...

Glancing over his shoulder, Chuuya is met with a wink as Dazai scoops up the clothing Chuuya left on the stool. His hands are splattered with blood and the crazed look still flickering in his eye. Dazai is so at home in the essence of the Port Mafia Chuuya wonders how he managed to live outside of it.

That, of course, won’t be a problem anymore.