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bullet straight to your heart

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Dazai wins today’s bet handily, managing to kill one more person during their raid of an enemy headquarters.

“You definitely cheated,” Chuuya gripes. “I’m not yet sure how, but you definitely did!”

The Port Mafia hallways are dark and cavernous, high ceilings that give off the illusion of space when the walls are barely closing in on them, shadows encroaching from all sides. They’re also mostly soundproof and bulletproof – primarily because none of the Executives particularly enjoy their offices being polluted by Chuuya’s screeching whenever he yells about Dazai regarding some random things. And Chuuya yelling is never contained to simple words, no, Chuuya is bark and bite combined, and oh, he is very prone to biting.

“A loser chibi is a loser chibi,” Dazai says airily, his steps light and unaffected by the thick carpets that can feel like quicksand if one isn’t too careful to discard things such as morality. Their mission report is over and done with, and Mori sends them away from his office with a pleased smile and an instruction for them to stop fighting. Dazai lets Chuuya speak up an agreement for them both, but only because that means that should they fail to agree to that order, it’s going to be Chuuya’s neck on the line.

“I’m going to win the next one,” Chuuya snarls with the confidence of someone truly strong. Dazai can’t quite blame him. After all, Chuuya was on his way to win their bet today, but Dazai tinkered with some of the elevators and hey, what Chuuya doesn’t know will definitely bite him in the ass in very creative ways, Dazai will make sure of it.

Dazai shrugs his words off with a, “Whatever you say.” And then, he makes a sharp left to the corridor, and hears Chuuya breathe sharply behind him.

Not five minutes later, the two of them are slinking inside the barely-opened door to Chuuya’s quarters. Barely-opened, as though Chuuya doesn’t want anyone to see him welcoming Dazai to his abode. Dazai doesn’t bother telling him that everyone in the Port Mafia knows. Not because of the fact that his choker isn’t wide enough to hide the hickey that Dazai left him two weeks ago, not even because of the fact that he’s wearing a choker to begin with. In any case, Dazai made sure that every single one in the Port Mafia knows that Chuuya is his dog. It’d be terribly sad if he has to neuter his dog after all, in order to ward off possible… rivals.

No matter Chuuya’s attempts to shut the door on Dazai’s face, the two of them manage to successfully negotiate themselves inside the room. It’s the same size as Dazai’s, but it feels practically teeming with life, DIY IKEA shelves filled to bursting with random knickknacks, mostly from DAISO. There’s an increasing collection of souvenir items, bought from whichever city out of Yokohama Chuuya is sent to for a mission. It feels like an odd equivalent exchange: destruction and murder in exchange for Instagram posts about their scenic spots and patronage of the local tourist traps.

Chuuya cocks his hip against the back of his sofa parked in the living room area. In front of it is a low coffee table that has a plethora of game controllers; below it is a jungle floor crisscrossed with vine-like wires and smattering of game discs. Chuuya’s usually worse than an actual housewife when it comes to nagging about cleanliness and hygiene and whatever else he likes to bark about, but Dazai’s becoming successful in slowly showing him the advantages of simply letting his living room be overrun by multitudes of games.

Dazai tells him that it’s because that’s what’s normal for teenage boys. Dazai doesn’t tell him that there’s no way he is even in the same hemisphere as normality, even if he’s tiny like an elementary school boy. Dazai also doesn’t tell him that some of the newer recruits are thinking about finding excuses to invite Chuuya out to the arcade and even boldly trying to invite themselves to Chuuya’s room, all sighing and whispering about how Chuuya’s place would definitely be as ‘elegant’ and ‘well-maintained’ as the teen himself.

(Dazai thinks they’re stupid and the Port Mafia doesn’t need stupid people, so Dazai’s being a conscientious member by volunteering them to a particularly dangerous mission in Hokkaido.)

“So?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow at him in challenge, even though his arms are twitching by his sides. Knowing the chibikko, he’s itching to raise his arms too, cross them over his chest. But Chuuya’s an obedient study, and he’s listened to Dazai telling him about nonverbal cues, about how crossing arms over one’s chest is a sign of defensiveness. “What kind of thing are you gonna make me do today?”

“Curious?”

Chuuya huffs. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

The last time Dazai won, he made Chuuya wear nothing but a custom-made choker with Dazai’s name etched on the underside, while the two of them played video games for an hour. Of course, Dazai made sure to warm Chuuya’s body before he ended up catching a cold, because he’s a good partner. Of course, ‘warming’ means fucking Chuuya nice and slow over the couch, with one hand splayed out over his throat, over the choker, pressing the imprints of his name against Chuuya’s skin.

Of course, Chuuya made him pay for that dearly, because Chuuya won the bet shortly after that, and he made Dazai buy him a dozen tacky hats, using Dazai’s credit card. (Dazai is still waiting for a chance to file those back as Port Mafia expenses.)

“Have you met Motojirou?”

“Kajii?” Chuuya looks confused by the non-sequitor. “You’re not going to make me eat a goddamn lemon bomb, are you?”

“Pfft, no.” Dazai makes a mental note to make Chuuya eat something disgusting next time. Maybe a live slug? Mostly because… “Also, first name basis already, hmm?”

Chuuya grimaces as he preemptively says, “I would rather bathe in muriatic acid than call you ‘Osamu’.”

“Should I make the arrangements?” Dazai claps his hands together as he considers the logistics of that. “Though… I’d also rather drink muriatic acid than hear you call me by that name.”

Mercilessly, “You’d rather drink muriatic acid any time of the day.”

“Ah, point.”

A beat of silence.

“So? On with it, bastard.”

Chuuya is starting to look warier than usual, something that he hasn’t looked like since the first time they started satiating their curiosities towards each other.

“A gun.”

“Again?” Chuuya frowns. “I’m not letting you shoot me again, I have tea with Ane-san tomorrow.”

“A pity,” Dazai murmurs, though he doesn’t have shooting Chuuya point-blank (—and then having Chuuya jerk him off in time to him playing with the gaping hole in his skin) in his plans. Not today, at least. “But don’t worry, you won’t have to deal with a gunshot wound today.”

Chuuya’s frown transforms to one of frustration. “I’m not shooting you either!”

“Eh? What is this, chibikko is worried about hurting me?”

“You’d be insufferable,” Chuuya says with a pointed glare. “And I have tea with Ane-san tomorrow, I can’t play as your nurse!”

“A pity,” Dazai repeats, but he sidles in close before Chuuya can send himself to a tizzy. “I’d fuck you open using a bullet.”

Another beat of silence.

“…Oh.” Chuuya’s shoulders relax. It should be funny, in a morbid way, that the idea of having an actual bullet used as a dildo is something that makes Chuuya relax. But such is their unfortunate, inseparable relationship. Dazai is too curious about his godhood and Chuuya always indulges him, even if it’s always shrouded in yells and punches. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Dazai continues smirking, until realization dawns on Chuuya’s face.

It doesn’t take more than a minute.

“…You fucking didn’t.” Chuuya’s annoyance is very palpable. “Oh my fucking god, is that why Kajii was looking at me strangely earlier?! Did you fucking recruit an actual, goddamn terrorist so you could have someone make custom-made bombs as dildos?!”

“I recruited a terrorist because he’s useful for the Port Mafia,” Dazai says snottily.

“You commissioned him to make a dildo-bomb… Oh my fucking god, I cannot fucking believe you…”

“You think too highly of yourself,” Dazai says, but his hands are wrestling with the multitudes of shirt buttons on Chuuya’s person. “Quite odd, given how small you are, no?”

Chuuya bares his teeth at him and shuffles closer, biting him on his shoulder, the imprint of his teeth sharp even over his coat, his shirt and his bandages. Truly a feral beast, especially when it comes to these types of situations. Given how close the two of them are pressed against each other, it’s also very obvious, the way Chuuya’s body runs fever-hot in arousal.

It’s obvious in the way his breath quickens, in the way his fingers tremble as they pull at Dazai’s clothes, in the way that he ruts against Dazai, as though to seek salvation from the kind of dizzying pleasure that they can only achieve with each other.

Dazai hums as his fingers finally find purchase in Chuuya’s torso, lightly scratching at the other’s abs. “You like the idea?”

“Shut up and just fuck me already,” Chuuya snaps and nearly cracks both of their heads on the floor in his haste.

In a way, the two of them really deserve being paired together as soukoku.

Twin spots of darkness.

He’s much, much taller and more handsome and definitely smarter than Chuuya in every possible way, but inside the two of them are similar sorts of darkness that call out to each other. Chuuya tries so hard to be a normal human being but he knows, at the back of his head, that he can’t ever be normal. Chuuya tries so hard to find the limits of his humanity and Dazai doesn’t bother hiding his curiosity in being part of the methodology.

And so, in the same way that the best orgasm that Dazai’s ever had to date is when Chuuya’s fucking him with both of his tiny, tiny hands wrapped around his neck—Chuuya hardens near-instantaneously at the thought of Dazai going to such lengths just to get a unique way to destroy him.

The two of them quickly divest each other of clothes. As soon as the two of them are mostly naked—only the barest tendrils of bandages over Dazai’s eye and the choker on Chuuya—Dazai crawls over him and flips him over so he can be on his hands and knees over the carpet, his legs spread apart to accommodate Dazai’s form, his ass raised for easier access.

This type of wager between them has been going on for months so the embarrassment has long been erased in favor for eagerness and goading each other.

Chuuya presses his sweaty forehead against the carpet and sways forward, the tip of his cock dragging against the carpet. Dazai spits directly on his asshole, before spreading the saliva using broad swipes of his tongue. They’re here immediately after reporting about their mission, which they did right after the actual mission, and Dazai can still taste the musk and sweat from the day’s efforts. Briefly, Dazai thinks about using extra-strong mouthwash before placing his mouth against Chuuya’s reddened hole, but getting kicked for it doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest.

So Dazai instead moves with his initial plan, gets the special bullet he commissioned Motojirou to make. It isn’t coated with lemon juices, thankfully, though Dazai has an inkling that the restraint is more because of Motojirou’s fear that he’d cut off funding to his lemon-bomb research should he be disobedient this time. It has a slightly flared base shaped like a lemon spindle, but the body of the bullet is all smooth metal, a special alloy designed to not conduct temperature very well.

Chuuya gasps as soon as the bullet’s tip is inserted over his hole. “It’s damn cold!”

“It’s a bullet,” Dazai whispers the unnecessary reminder. Chuuya’s hole spasms at his words—half because he’s breathing the syllables over the rim, mostly because of the word itself. “What did you expect?”

“That this would explode inside me, because you’re a goddamn asshole.” Chuuya’s voice is positively wrecked and he wriggles his body as the bullet sinks inch by inch into him, Dazai wetting his entrance extensively using his tongue.

“Later,” Dazai promises, and marvels at the way Chuuya’s hole seems so greedy in the way it swallows up the bullet. Well, the two of them have been calling it a bullet but it’s thicker and longer than the largest bullet commercially-made. It’s not as heavy, given the special alloy Motojirou’s been commissioned to use, but one wouldn’t know it from the way Chuuya’s been slithering this way and that, like he’s being split open.

Dazai takes hold of the base, slides it out part-way, before changing the angle a bit and pressing the slightly-pointed tip against the spot near Chuuya’s prostate. Near enough that he’d feel his nerves tingle, but not directly enough that he can orgasm from it.

“I have—ahh—tea with—ungh—Ane-san tomorrow,” Chuuya pants, wriggles his ass as though to dare Dazai to fuck him harder. Dazai bites one of Chuuya’s asscheeks for it, spurning his partner more.

“I’ll make sure you’re in one whole piece,” Dazai murmurs wickedly, just as he pulls out the bullet entirely before plunging it back in with a speed that causes Chuuya to shudder and collapse on the floor.

Dazai chuckles in delight, and tries to lift Chuuya’s hips up for a second round. There’s a streak of white on Chuuya’s carpet and Dazai looks forward to Chuuya having a conniption when it comes to cleaning up the mess later.

For now, he manhandles the boneless, still-shuddering form of Chuuya and continues to fuck Chuuya’s spasming hole in quick motions, alternating the depth and speed of his actions in unpredictable matrices, leaving Chuuya helpless and scrambling futilely against the carpet, his elbows and knees reddening as though they’re being seared over open flame, his cockhead turning nearly purple from the way he’s being stimulated in the back by Dazai’s antics and by the fact that he’s being rubbed relentlessly over his own carpet.

Chuuya comes again not even half-an-hour later, despite Dazai’s efforts to torture him further by wrapping a hand tightly against the base of his cock.

In addition to the streaks of white, there are a number of sweat-stains over the carpet. Chuuya’s right cheek is partly swollen from getting dragged over the carpet, and his mouth is open, lips bitten red as well. His eyes are unfocused with an overload of sensation, and Dazai thinks that he likes Chuuya like this, thoughts and worries erased from his person, far from the god who carries with him the burdens of weak sheep looking to him for salvation.

—of course, the Chuuya that Dazai likes best is the one that comes after the unfocused haze.

Dazai congratulates himself for his incredible self-control, right before fucking Chuuya in earnest this time. Chuuya’s gaze sharpens as he gets fucked by Dazai’s cock instead, pants as he relishes in the burn of the intrusion. Something warmer and more possessive than an impersonal bullet, and even more likely to kill him.

Judging from the way Chuuya starts actively participating in the establishment of a stuttering-staccato rhythm between their bodies, Chuuya knows it too.

And likes it.

It doesn’t take long until Chuuya’s back to screaming—this time, solely broken iterations of Dazai’s name.

Dazai grins as he pulls out and aims for that bundle of nerves each time, theory and months’ worth of experience guiding their bodies together.

Chuuya reaches back and starts clawing at Dazai’s chest, dragging his fingernails over his skin in splotches of red, all while yelling, “Da—argh, shitthere—zai!”

Dazai makes good on his promise and explodes inside Chuuya, his cock twitching as it empties itself inside Chuuya’s warmth, the quivering warmth of those inner walls milking him for all he’s worth. He jacks Chuuya throughout his orgasm, until Chuuya’s trying to kick him and shove him away because he’s coming again and he’s mewling from the mix of pleasure and pain in his overstimulation.

Dazai lets himself crush Chuuya against the floor, tastes the sweat that has pooled on the back of Chuuya’s neck, scents the sweat and musk over the mix of air and nature that seems to be the hatrack’s natural perfume.

It feels like a dozen eternities until Dazai can feel his limbs again without the electricity that sparks them into a pleasurable numbness. He allows himself to grin against Chuuya’s nape, just before he captures the band of choker between his teeth, drags the leather tight against the sweaty neck. Chuuya groans in response and reaches backwards so he can smack him over his head.

“Since you’re so flexible…” In order to hide the way that his breath catches in his throat, Dazai keeps his voice to a low murmur. “Next time, I’ll fuck you while you’re hanging from a ceiling fan.”

“I’ll win next time,” Chuuya murmurs back, sounding sleepy and tired. “So shut the fuck up, shitty Dazai.”

“You didn’t disagree,” Dazai points out, but he’s only answered by Chuuya’s light snoring.

Dazai rolls his eyes. Chuuya may be the best martial artist of the Port Mafia, but he’s incredibly hopeless when it comes to falling asleep in dangerous situations.

With Chuuya now asleep, Dazai gingerly pulls out and barely resists the urge to reach for his phone so he can video the way his cum oozes out of the now-gaping hole. His phone is too far away. It’s his laziness that brings him to lifting Chuuya’s hips up as he kneels beside him, and sucks the release out of him. Chuuya’s breath stutters but he doesn’t wake up, not even when Dazai decides to play with his hole again, starts pushing back some of the remaining cum inside using the now-dirty bullet. He doesn’t wake up, not even when Dazai half-drags, half-carries him towards the shower, with the bullet remaining inside him so that he won’t end up spilling out the entire time.

It’s all very troublesome and against Dazai’s principles (#15: clean-up should be done by a chibikko).

But then—

Dazai looks down at his snoring partner, looking very comfortable even as Dazai intentionally bangs his lolling head against the bathroom door.

Perhaps he has to revise his assessment from earlier.

In the end, this is probably the Chuuya that he likes best.

With a satisfied smile, Dazai promises himself to win the next bet, no matter what, so he can make Chuuya this vulnerable again.