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I Don't Make the Rules

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So the point was their job was to save each other, and Chuuya absolutely one hundred percent hated it. He didn't much care how Dazai felt about it.

Dazai was dead, c'est la mort, flopped out backwards on the ground in a pool of his own blood and the other organization thought they'd gotten off with the Port Mafia's goods. Of course, Dazai was perfectly willing to play bait to perfection and probably hoped he'd stay dead long enough this wouldn't work.

Chuuya really, really hated Mori. And Dazai. And these incompetent jokers who ran off with the goods because he really, really hated fucking a dead, cold body. Which is why he never dealt with the other organization first. He preferred to do this bit when Dazai was still warm.

So he did the necessary, unbuckled his pants and Dazai's, and used lube because Dazai's morbid sense of humor the contrary, he had no intention to bathe in the blood of his enemies and fuck using Dazai's blood. He was a teenager, sure, but he had standards. (Unlike shitty Dazai.)

Dazai woke groggily, slowly, then somehow managed to get a flagging erection a moment after that, and his moan seemed more sex than pain.

"I hate you, fucker," Chuuya told him and pulled out before he'd even come.

Leaving Dazai limp as a dishrag. He was alive now anyway. Any benefit from Chuuya's ability would be nullified.

"You haven't even gotten our quarry yet," Dazai said maddeningly. "How disappointing."

Chuuya made a noise of disgust, hopped back on his motorcycle, and went to go get their quarry. He hated this part of things too. Not the smashing and destruction and rage filling his body, his world, every part of his field of vision, but coming down afterward wrapped around Dazai's dick with Dazai's hand on his face.

Dazai didn't stop until he'd come.