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“Here you go,” Dazai says with a flourish, a self-satisfied grin occupying prime real estate on his face. As with most of the recent contributions to the city’s towering skyline, this expression practically oozes sliminess from within. “Looks nice, right?”
Chuuya looks in distaste at the outfit that he’s being annoyed into wearing, including the high heels. Just in case the bastard informant has forgotten, his mind busily occupied by so many sleazy deals, he kindly reminds him: “I only agreed to work for you so I could use your connections to fund my research on Arahabaki.”
His particular brand of kindness is a poison-tipped dagger. It slips past his left cuff, giving an illusion of a sharpened, lengthened middle finger that he shows off to his employer.
“Mm, I never lie in negotiations, Chuuya.” The slick drawl promises a bevy of lies underneath. “You should know that by now, right?”
“By now, I already know you’re a piece of shit.”
“Now, now, is that a way to talk to your boss?”
He pointedly looks at the leather pumps set on the floor. Heels at least three inches. Drags his gaze towards a sheer blouse that has a deep enough neckline it would be more surprising if he manages to keep his nipples from showing with each breath. Then at the pencil skirt that steeply narrows down towards the knees, seemingly only allowing actual movement because there’s a slit high enough that regular underwear would show.
Ends this look-over by glaring at this boss of his. “No other boss is this much of a piece of shit.”
“Oh, wow.” There’s a light flush on Dazai’s face, making him look flattered. It’s all fake though. If there’s one thing that this shady informant is good at, aside from managing to extract the deepest, darkest secrets, and igniting Chuuya’s blood pressure: it’s his ability to control his body, to the point that he can blush at will and even control his heartbeat to send out Morse Codes. A coquettish flutter of eyelashes. “Hearing you praise me is a very intoxicating feeling.”
“Which part of that is praise?!” Despite the raised intonation, he does flick his dagger towards the table, discarding it for the moment.
“But didn’t you call me unique just now?” Dazai starts caressing the clothes that have been laid over his table, taking up the space instead of paperwork. His fingertips idly trace the plunging neckline, already giving a preview of just how grabby he’d be once the clothes are worn. “In this world that’s filled with such common and boring things, that is such a wonderful compliment.”
A roll of eyes. “Sure. Don’t forget that you’re also the person I hate the most in this entire world.”
“That’s more than fine. As long as you do end up wearing this outfit I handpicked for you.” Breezy and unconcerned. And he’s not simply putting on airs: Chuuya’s nose can smell acrid fear, and while there’s a great many things that Chuuya can smell upon this informant, none of them are related to fear.
Everyone who’s seen him use even a mere iota of his power always carries with them the scent of dread and terror. He doesn’t blame them—Chuuya himself has enough self-awareness to know that the power sealed inside him is capable of causing terrible things. The best reactions he’s hoped for are indifference, or an inflamed fighting spirit.
But Dazai—
Ever since their first meeting—filled with this shitty informant’s unrepentantly dramatic monologues about this oxidizing world as well as how much he loves trying out new suicide methods—Dazai’s only ever looked at him with varying ranges of desire. A desire to dissect him. A desire to irritate him. A desire to make him into his lackey. A desire to see him explode.
And now, this.
It’s quite novel, despite it being so irritating.
And at the end of it all, Chuuya does value his words, so even if he has a feeling that the bet they’ve had beforehand has been thoroughly rigged, he does go along with this. With a sigh, he starts undressing right there in the middle of the office. “If I end up not being able to save your sorry ass because I couldn’t run fast enough in these heels, I’m not allowing you to deduct it from my salary.”
“Mm, you should be nicer to me, I'm giving you a chance to be tall,” Dazai says as he flops into his chair, all careless-but-meticulously-calculated sprawl. His eyes are dark as they watch Chuuya undress and fold his clothes systematically, not allowing them to fall to the floor.
Of course Chuuya wouldn’t allow his things to drop there. More than anyone else, he knows just how much blood and snot and tears and other such things have been spilled on the carpet. As the bodyguard-assistant-secretary, he does supervise the upkeep of this office to prevent it from turning into a veritable pigsty. But he also knows that there are some things that cannot be erased no matter how much bleach is poured.
Only once he’s only left in his socks and boxers does he turn to acknowledge Dazai. He rolls his eyes when the informant complains that his striptease is done very mechanically.
“Consider this, genius: I’m not doing a striptease at all.”
“And yet I find myself being teased to no abandon.”
“Sounds like a personal failing.”
With an attitude of ‘this is simply a job’, he then steps out of his boxers, without a care for the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one full wall. Not even counting the fact that they’re on the top floor and have no nearby neighbors, it’s also bulletproof and tinted—so like Dazai. The mackerel would observe the city and dig its secrets, but will not allow anyone else to breach into his hearth.
Their ‘relationship’ is primarily that of reciprocation. Dazai gives him headaches, Chuuya gives him kicks. Dazai gives him a chance to go wild and fight to his heart’s content, Chuuya gives him a chance to keep his hands whenever they flirt with his bared skin.
In that same vein, Dazai gives him an outlet to investigate the creature inside of him, a research so deadly that it’s hushed up by the government’s top brass. Nobody else would willingly accompany him on this quest. Nobody else would have enough black-trade money stashed away to help him with his research. And so, Chuuya gives him his services in return, beating up the long queue of people who want to make this demonic prodigy pay with a violent death.
“Mm, perhaps you should come closer and check on me.” Completely unconvincing, with the way he’s licking his lips and patting at his knees, legs spread just-so, as though to invite Chuuya to join him in his seat. “I think my heart has failed me just now.”
A critical look from the other’s bony knees, and then towards his blatant boner. “Your heart has failed you, huh?” And yet it’s managed to pump all his blood to his lower half, truly a gigantic liar, this mackerel.
Carefully, he dons the blouse, letting the other’s lust fill the air with its musk. As Chuuya’s adjusting the fit, Dazai languidly unzips to free his cock, but doesn’t do much aside from a couple of slow strokes.
With the same carefulness, Chuuya picks up the skirt and steps into it, before bending down a bit so he could remove his socks.
Dazai’s “nngh, chibi” is beyond obscene, and his pace at jerking himself off picks up.
“Dazai Osamu, demon prodigy of an informant,” Chuuya says with a shake of his head, a mix of bewildered, amused and aroused. “If only your enemies knew you were this easy.”
“Even if they know, they can’t do anything about it.” A quip that would be more cutting if he isn’t so furiously beating himself off, the head of his cock flushed deep red. “Nobody else has the same physical assets that you possess.”
Hearing genuine praise from the other man is quite rare, so he generously shifts so that the high slit is right on Dazai’s line of sight when he bends down for his second sock. “Oh?”
Roguishly, “Nobody has the same combination of red hair, blue eyes, tacky fashion sense, short temper and even shorter height.”
“Really can’t help yourself with the height jokes, huh?”
“It’s your petite frame that makes you so perfect to sit on my lap, after all.”
Chuuya looks at the other’s leaking cock, considers. “Will you actually do this week’s jobs without complaining?”
“Eh, but letting the Port Mafia and the Agency duke it out will be more interesting…” A childish pout, despite the fact that they’re discussing the current conflict plaguing Yokohama. Various organizations are being pulled in. Some just wanting to stir the chaos. Some with information bought from the top 3 informants in the city (all of which are Dazai’s aliases). Some with deeper motives. Some simply sensing the opportunity to take out the top two organizations and establish a new reign.
“Ane-san’s teahouse sells lovely teas.”
A simple statement, paired with the simple, straightforward way he picks up his dagger from where he’s discarded it. He slips into the heels and walks forward, no exaggerated sway to his hips. But Dazai watches him anyway like he’s been faced with life’s greatest temptation, hands nearly flying off his dick. It’s all the more hilarious when his jerking off stutters into a halt when Chuuya adds, “That weretiger kid from the Agency is also quite hilarious.”
“…Eh, does Chuuya find Atsushi-kun cute?”
He wrinkles his nose. Truly a skillful, this shitty Dazai. He can make the word ‘cute’ sound fitting for vermin. Still, he considers it, stopping short of bumping his knees against Dazai’s seat. He remembers the way the weretiger’s pretty much running all over the place in order to run from that ‘mad dog’ mafia member and then transforming to his tiger form when things get dicey. Quite funny to watch. “Yeah, that weretiger’s cute.”
“Cuter than me?” If nothing else, nobody pouts as much as this bastard at least. Nobody does petty jealousy better than him too.
Chuuya’s lips twitch, vexed and fond. “Even actual snakes are so much cuter than you,” he says earnestly, one hand reaching down to knock that sticky fist away from the other’s cock. His ‘physical assets’ give him excellent balance, but he allows himself to hobble slightly forward, until Dazai’s mouth can easily suck his nipple over the silky blouse, until he can tease Dazai’s neck with the tip of his blade. Not enough pressure to actually slice him open, just as he also doesn’t sink down fully on that jutting dick, simply letting the wet tip rub against his opening.
The angle is tricky, but he keeps his legs closed as much as possible, wedging most of Dazai’s length in his thighs. Even with the slit, the skirt he’s wearing is quite tight, and it doesn’t take long until his own cock is straining against his clothes. Wet with precum, Dazai’s hand then starts fondling his thighs, rucking up the skirt until it’s cinched around his waist. He bounces slightly over the other’s lap, mindful of how easily they could topple over from the chair should they be too unrestrained. Like last time. It really isn’t worth the literal headache.
Dazai starts trembling a bit, a sure sign of his impending orgasm. Chuuya drags the blade up to the other’s mouth, presses it flat against those ruddy lips, and kisses him with the blade between them. Chaste and dangerous, and Dazai comes with a drawn-out groan.
“You’re so easy,” Chuuya teases him, but he’s forced to let his dagger drop to the floor when Dazai then starts grabbing his ass and dragging him down and forwards with a quick rhythm. Providing friction for his cock, sandwiching him between their bodies. He lasts long enough that the other’s already back to half-hardness while rubbing their groins together. Chuuya sighs against the other’s mouth, repeating, “You really are so easy, idiot mackerel.”
“So much cuter too, right? The best boss ever?”
“Sure, the good kind of boss that actually does his job,” he reminds him, tucking his face into the other’s neck. “I’m going to take a nap, go do your job, shitty Dazai.”
And promptly starts snoring, letting the other do the clean-up, as well as do his job to mitigate the casualties that could arise from an all-out war between Yokohama’s organizations.
…Their partnership is based on reciprocation, after all.