Molly's Fics Cause she Refuses to Read Them on Ao3

a study in scarlet

Tw/Tags: Post-Canon, Car Sex, Lap Sex, Hand Jobs, Come as Lube, Barebacking, Blindfolds, Cock Warming, Bickering, Jealous Dazai Osamu
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There's a bounce to his step as he approaches his getaway car, his mood good enough to consider uncorking one of his vintages as soon as he gets home—that Le Pin on his top-shelf sounds perfect. His gaze is focused on his phone screen, reporting his mission's success and receiving an answering order for him to take the next two days off to recuperate.

Part of him wants to protest. The mission is annoying, but it's not as if he's had to exert himself physically, unless one counts the stiff smile that has been practically etched to his face for the entire duration. He still has a lot of energy, he can still do more work. He's keenly aware of the many things the mafia is busy with; rebuilding and patching up the holes exposed by the attack by Dostoevsky needs a lot of manpower and resources.

But an order is an order. One of the things that he's made peace with, upon voluntarily swearing loyalty upon the mafia, is that his main responsibility is to follow the leader's orders, because all of it are for the sake of the organization. As the mafia's strongest sword and shield, he knows that he has to ensure that he's always in top shape, and that includes taking time off to preserve his strength.

And so, he remains in a good mood—at least, until he opens the door to the backseat of his getaway car.

He looks at the trash on the backseat.

The bandaged mackerel sports a thunderous expression, as if he's the king of the world and that it's Chuuya's misstep to interrupt his dark brooding.

Thoughts of enjoying a glass of wine is wiped off his mind, leaving behind a sour aftertaste of someone surrounded by spoiled food.

Chuuya takes a deep breath, then slams the door.

Closes his eyes, takes another breath.

Pinches his wrist.

Looks at his phone's lockscreen proclaiming today's date and time.

Closes his eyes again.

Nope, he's still 23, a mafia Executive, five years free of having a fish as a partner.

"What the fuck are you doing here, shitty Dazai?" He asks this at the same time that he hears the car door swing open, and a mackerel stands in front of him. Full of sarcasm, "Did you somehow think to apply for a part-time job as my driver? Because I'm telling you now, there's no way in hell I'd agree to breathing in more of your fishiness under any circumstance."

Of course, it'd be a bit interesting to see Dazai being his subordinate. He does know that something like that could be considered as a devil's temptation—there's no way that Dazai would obediently listen to his orders without sabotaging him every step of the way. The beauty of ordering that bastard around would be greatly outweighed by the amount of painkillers he'd have to dry-swallow in order to deal with the migraines from the fishy nonsense.

"Oh, do you actually need a driver?" Dazai's arms are crossed over his chest, a furrow between his eyebrows and a severe aura radiating from him. "I didn't think that your job actually requires one."

It's an odd comment, but if there's one thing that he's learned from being partnered with this shithead for three years is this: calling Dazai 'odd' is a massive understatement, and trying to measure him using common sense is a measure in futility.

He picks through the statement and goes with, "Is Ishikawa still alive?"

"Who?" Dazai practically sparkles, showing off his white teeth that are like a bloodthirsty piranha's. "Are you perhaps referring to the man who has willingly stepped out of his post, and has voluntarily left me with the keys?" He shakes his head in mock pity. "It's quite sad, really. The man's ready to leave you behind, little fairy. You should thank me for staying behind in his stead."