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The Port Mafia had been thriving lately. Every deal signed without a hitch, every rival swallowed whole, every whisper of rebellion strangled before it reached a voice. The city breathed in rhythm with their footsteps, and the underground bent under their rule.
It was no mystery why.
The return of Osamu Dazai, the former executive-the man who turned schemes into certainty and blood into profit-had put the fear of God back into their enemies. A mastermind truly.
And at the head of it all, the new Boss. Nakahara Chuuya.
A name once spoken with awe for his strength, now carried weight as authority. He sat where Mori once did, in the same office-though the room was no longer Mori’s.
It was Chuuya’s now.
The polished shelves that once held medical texts were stacked with wine bottles lined like trophies, gleaming under dim light. Between them rested guns, knives, tokens of violence laid out with as much care as the vintages.
Chuuya sat behind the desk, coat draped across the back of the chair, one hand tangled absently in the waves of his hair. His other hand turned a pen in idle circles over a document he’d already read twice. His eyes, sharp blue beneath the faint smoke curling from a glass of bourbon, were fixed not on the page but on the man lounging across from him.
Dazai sprawled across the leather couch like he owned it, legs crossed, an arm draped along the backrest. His tie hung loose, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He had the look of a man perfectly comfortable in a wolf’s den, smiling faintly at nothing, eyes half-closed as if the weight of the world were simply a lullaby.
“Got news,” Chuuya finally said, voice low, steady, like gravel pressed under velvet.
“Mhm?” Dazai hummed without opening his eyes.
“There’s a visitor coming today.” Chuuya leaned back, swirling the bourbon. The ice clinked. “Name’s Taiko. Successful, the papers say. Rich bastard. Wants to work with us.”
At that, Dazai cracked one eye open, dark and glimmering with quiet amusement. “Work with us? Or buy us?”
“Protection,” Chuuya corrected, setting the glass down with a soft click. “That’s what he’s calling it. He wants to put money on the table for collaboration. Thinks the Mafia can make him untouchable.”
Dazai’s lips curved, a humorless smile. “Mm. They always think money can buy us. Buy safety. Buy people.” His gaze slid lazily toward Chuuya.
Chuuya scoffed, reaching for the papers stacked neatly at his desk. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
The silence after was heavy but not empty. The kind of silence filled with the hum of unspoken thoughts, the crackle of tension that had never really faded between them.
Dazai stretched, a long, feline motion. “So you wanted to inform me.” His tone was mocking, but there was interest there, too, a glint of something sharper beneath the drawl. “Or did you want my opinion, Boss?”
Chuuya’s eyes snapped to him, narrowed. The title wasn’t said with sarcasm this time. No, it was worse—it was said with amusement, like a man enjoying the sound of a gun cocking.
“You’re my executive. I don’t need your opinion, but I’ll hear it.”
Dazai chuckled softly, low in his throat, as if Chuuya had just played into some private joke. He tilted his head back against the couch and finally sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely. When he looked at Chuuya now, it wasn’t with the lazy dismissal he gave to the rest of the world. It was intent. Sharp.
“Let me bet men like Taiko,” Dazai murmured, “come in with money, thinking it makes them kings. But they always forget this is the Mafia, not Wall Street. His kind doesn’t understand blood.” A pause, then, almost gently: “Do you plan to teach him?”
Chuuya’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He tapped the pen against the desk, sharp clicks cutting through the room. “Depends on how stupid he is. If he knows his place, maybe he walks out. If not…” He shrugged, the motion casual, but his voice was not. “Then I’ll remind him whose in control”
For a long moment, Dazai said nothing. Then, softly, he laughed. Not the loud, obnoxious laugh he used to throw around like an irritant, but something quieter, darker, meant for Chuuya alone.
“You’re handling it well,” Dazai said, and though his tone was playful, there was something like respect buried beneath. “The Mafia suits you. It’s almost scary.”
Chuuya snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Scary’s the point.” He tilted his glass toward Dazai, the bourbon catching the dim light like liquid fire. “This city doesn’t need another Mori. It needs someone better than that bastard.”
Dazai tilted his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “And yet, here I am, still at your side. How cruel of you, Boss. To keep me in your cage.”
The words hung between them, thick with implication, and Chuuya looked at him, really looked, the way only someone who’d bled beside him could.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Chuuya muttered. “You’d never survive without me.”
“Mm. Perhaps”
Chuuya’s jaw tightened. He didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t need to. Instead, he turned his attention back to the papers, signing one with a sharp stroke of his pen. “Just remember what I said. Taiko’s coming tonight. I want you there.”
Dazai rose finally, smooth and unhurried, his shadow stretching long across the office. As he passed the desk, he paused just close enough for Chuuya to smell the faint trace of smoke and leather on him.
“I’ll be there,” Dazai said, voice soft, a whisper edged like a knife. “Wouldn’t miss the fun.”
And with that, he slipped out, leaving Chuuya in the wine-and-gun-filled office, the echo of his words still curling in the air like smoke.
“Fucking bastard,” Chuuya muttered under his breath as he shoved the stack of documents into order, a little too sharp, a little too restless.
The pen clattered against the desk, the bourbon glass nearly tipped, and he had to force his hands still. He exhaled, slow, pressing his palms flat to the wood, as though the desk itself might anchor him.
God. If only this deal would end quickly.
The thought of Taiko stepping into this office, with his arrogance wrapped in silk and money spilling from his hands, was enough to make Chuuya’s skin crawl.
Men like him all thought the same thing: that the Mafia was just another machine they could grease with cash. That the Mafia would kneel for paper promises and foreign accounts.
They never understood. The Mafia was built on blood, not balance sheets.
And then, as always, his mind twisted toward Mori.
Mori Ōgai. The old bastard. The name still soured his tongue, even now. He didn’t hate him—at least not the way he used to. Hate burned too hot, and Chuuya didn’t have the time for fire anymore. What he felt was worse. A heavy, festering knot. Gratitude tangled with resentment.
Because if not for Mori’s death, if not for the empty seat left behind, Dazai wouldn’t be here again. Dazai wouldn’t be sitting in that damned office, legs thrown across the couch like he owned the place, smiling that lazy, dangerous smile that said he could destroy everything and rebuild it twice as strong.
So Chuuya owed Mori for that. Owed him for bringing Dazai back into his orbit.
And yet-he could never forgive him.
Not for the way Mori molded the Mafia into his own sick image. Not for the way he left shadows in every corner, shadows Chuuya still had to scrub out with blood and fear.
Not for the way he’d twisted Dazai into something colder, sharper, more impossible to read.
Chuuya rubbed at his temple, jaw tightening. He hated thinking about it. Hated the way gratitude felt like swallowing glass. Hated the way his chest ached when Dazai’s laughter echoed across the room-so familiar it hurt, so changed it scared him.
He was the Boss now. The city looked to him, not Mori, not anyone else. He had the Mafia in his hands, the whole rotting empire balanced on his shoulders. And for all his bravado, sometimes he felt the weight digging deep, bone-deep.
Maybe that was why he thought too much. Why nights stretched long, and the taste of wine lingered bitter instead of sweet. Why he stared at Dazai longer than he should, watching, waiting, wondering if the man would ever be the same as before-or if he was staring at a stranger wrapped in the same skin.
Chuuya leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling where the smoke curled like ghosts.
God. Taiko. Mori. Dazai. The deal.
He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered again, softer this time, almost like a prayer, almost like a curse:
“Fuck it”
________
The silence of the office pressed heavy, thick with the faint clink of ice in a half-empty glass and the low hum of the city outside. Chuuya leaned over the desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His temples throbbed. Papers were spread neatly across the wood, every contract signed, every deal secured—and still, he felt no relief.
The Port Mafia was thriving. That should have been enough. But every victory stacked like stones on his back, and the weight of command never lifted.
“Chuuya.”
The voice was lazy, stretched thin like smoke. He didn’t bother lifting his head. He knew it too well.
“What.”
Dazai had shifted on the couch, no longer sprawling like a cat but leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin in his hand. His gaze, dark and sharp, fixed on Chuuya with infuriating amusement.
“You look like you’re about to snap the pen in half.”
Chuuya shot him a glare over the rim of the desk. “Don’t tempt me.”
Dazai tilted his head, smile curling faintly at his lips. “You know, I could massage you while we wait for this Taiko fellow.”
Chuuya froze for a heartbeat, then slammed the pen down hard enough that it rattled against the glass. “Do nothing,” he said flatly. “Just sit there and shut up.”
“Mm.” Dazai’s tone was sing-song, teasing. “Bossy as ever.” He leaned back against the couch, folding his arms behind his head. “Does Chuuya want a kiss then? Might work better than a massage.”
Chuuya’s jaw tightened, his fists curling against the desk. He didn’t look up. “Quit that.”
Dazai made a theatrical hum, tapping a finger against his lips. “Mehhhh,” he drawled, “wouldn’t kiss Chuuya even if he wanted me to.”
Finally, Chuuya raised his head, eyes blazing. “Go to hell, Dazai.”
That earned him a laugh. Not Mori’s sharp, cold instrument of control. Not the hollow echo he sometimes remembered from the battlefield. This laugh was soft, warm at the edges, and infuriatingly smug. The kind of laugh that only came when Dazai knew he’d gotten under Chuuya’s skin.
“Already been there,” Dazai said lightly, smirk widening. “Not as bad as they say. I think you’d like it.”
Chuuya let out a slow breath, forcing himself to turn away, shuffling the documents just to have something in his hands. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet here I am,” Dazai murmured, “still your executive.” He leaned forward again, gaze fixed and unrelenting now. “Still the one you trust to sit in this room with you before every deal.”
The words slipped under Chuuya’s skin, as they always did. It wasn’t wrong. As much as he hated to admit it, Dazai’s presence had stabilized the Mafia. Deals that would have been drawn-out wars now folded neatly into their hands. Rivals quivered at the mere rumor of his return. And Chuuya—Chuuya could rely on him in ways he could rely on no one else.
That didn’t make the teasing any easier to stomach.
“Trust doesn’t mean I like having you here,” Chuuya muttered.
Dazai smirked, eyes glittering. “Liar.”
Before Chuuya could snap back, a sharp knock broke the tension. Both men turned toward the door.
“Boss,” Higuchi’s voice came through, clipped and steady, though Chuuya could hear the faint strain of nerves beneath her professionalism. “The man is here. Taiko.”
For a moment, silence. Chuuya straightened slowly, pushing back his chair. His hand brushed the desk, steadying himself, though his posture gave nothing away.
“Send him in,” he said. His voice was calm, precise, but beneath it was steel.
Higuchi’s footsteps retreated, the door closing softly behind her.
Dazai glanced back at Chuuya, that sly, unreadable smile tugging at his lips again. “Shall we play nice, Boss?”
Chuuya adjusted the collar of his coat, smoothing the fabric with sharp, deliberate movements. His eyes flicked to Dazai—sharp blue, burning, dangerous.
“Just sit there,” Chuuya said again, voice low, cutting.
Dazai chuckled, leaning back into the couch once more, settling as if into a throne not meant for him. “No promises.”
The office door opened with a soft creak, and in stepped Taiko.
Chuuya’s first impression was simple: underwhelming. The man wasn’t grotesque by any means—no scars, no crooked limbs—but he was plain in a way that grated. Mid-forties, thinning hair slicked back with too much pomade, a pinstripe suit that looked expensive but sat poorly on his frame. He carried himself like he thought he was walking into a gala, not the den of wolves.
The faint cologne that followed him in was cheap for someone who had supposedly made billions. Sweet, cloying, like it was meant to mask sweat.
“Boss Nakahara!” Taiko greeted, spreading his arms as if they were old friends meeting for drinks. His grin was wide, too wide, full of teeth that caught the dim office light. “What an honor. What a true honor this is. I must say, I’ve heard of your reputation, but it doesn’t do you justice, no, not at all!”
Chuuya didn’t rise. He stayed seated behind the desk, a glass of bourbon at his elbow, eyes half-lidded, his posture composed but unwelcoming. He gave Taiko a single curt nod. “Taiko.”
Taiko crossed the room uninvited and sank into the chair opposite Chuuya’s desk. His weight creaked against the leather, and he leaned forward, palms spread across his knees as if trying to radiate eagerness.
“I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week!” he said, his words spilling too quickly, too rehearsed. “I can’t tell you how much respect I have for the Port Mafia. The discipline, the efficiency, the sheer reach of your organization—it’s extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary. It’s no surprise, of course, considering the leadership. You’ve stepped into big shoes, Boss Nakahara, but I must say, you wear them well. Better, even!”
Chuuya swirled his bourbon slowly in the glass, eyes fixed on the amber liquid. The ice clinked faintly. He took a sip, savoring the burn, and then leaned back in his chair.
“You’re flattering me.” His voice was dry, flat, unimpressed.
Taiko chuckled loudly, far too loudly for the space. “Not flattery, Boss. Truth. Pure truth! See, I’m a businessman. I know talent when I see it, and you, my friend, are talent incarnate.”
From the couch, Dazai stifled a yawn behind his hand. Chuuya ignored him.
“Let’s talk business, then,” Chuuya said, setting the glass down with a soft click. “What exactly is it you want from the Mafia?”
Taiko brightened instantly, like a child who’d been waiting for a cue. He reached into his briefcase, snapping it open with a flourish, and pulled out a neatly stacked bundle of documents, spreading them across the desk as if unveiling treasure.
“Collaboration,” he said, his tone slipping into practiced pitch. “Protection, primarily. My company has assets—significant assets. Shipping routes, investments, properties across Yokohama. Assets that would thrive under the shadow of your… formidable organization.”
Chuuya glanced over the documents without moving to touch them. “You want to buy protection.”
Taiko leaned forward, hands clasped. “Think of it as partnership. I bring wealth—steady wealth. You bring security. Mutually beneficial, no? You’d find me a loyal ally. In fact—” He laughed, shaking his head as though delighted with himself. “In fact, I dare say you’d find me indispensable.”
Chuuya’s lips twitched—not in amusement, but in irritation. He tipped his chin toward the papers. “And what makes you think the Mafia needs you?”
Taiko blinked, caught off guard for half a heartbeat before recovering with another too-bright smile. “Need? Oh, no, no, I wouldn’t presume. But imagine what you could do with another stream of income. Billions, Boss Nakahara. Billions. I’m not exaggerating.”
His voice droned on, listing percentages, projected profits, the kind of numbers that might dazzle shareholders but slid uselessly off Chuuya’s patience. The man gestured wildly, hands chopping through the air, each word punctuated by his own self-importance.
Chuuya leaned back in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting against his knuckles. His expression didn’t shift, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes. Behind the calm mask, his thoughts turned sharp, edged. The Mafia wasn’t some corporate pet project. It was an empire of knives and shadows, not a balance sheet.
But Taiko yammered on, oblivious.
“—and that’s why I firmly believe this partnership is not just beneficial but essential. With your men protecting my routes, I could double my returns within a year. Triple, even! Imagine it, Boss Nakahara—our names tied together in every paper, every whispered deal across the city. Untouchable. That’s what we’d be. Untouchable.”
Dazai finally spoke, voice soft, cutting through the air like a lazy blade. “You talk a lot.”
Taiko startled, as if noticing him for the first time. His eyes flicked toward the couch—and paused.
Taiko’s voice trailed off as his gaze slid away from the papers. For the first time, his eyes drifted toward the couch, toward the figure stretched lazily across the leather.
And then he stopped speaking altogether.
Chuuya didn’t even need to look. He felt it—the shift in the air, the sudden sticky silence of hunger that wasn’t meant for him.
Dazai, of course, noticed immediately. He always did. He tilted his head just slightly, lashes lowering as he caught the man’s stare. His lips curved faintly, a smile hovering somewhere between polite and mocking.
“And how much for that one?” Taiko asked, his tone gone soft, almost reverent.
Chuuya froze. Slowly, he turned in his chair, eyes narrowing. “…Huh?”
Taiko didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was fixed on Dazai like a starving dog eyeing meat. “That one,” he repeated, almost whispering, like he’d stumbled on treasure. “What would it cost?”
Dazai chuckled low under his breath, the sound amused but carrying a dangerous edge. He stretched languidly, letting his shirt shift open at the collar, letting the silence drag just a little too long. His eyes glittered when they flicked toward Chuuya.
Chuuya’s voice cut sharp and cold. “He’s not up for sale.”
Finally, Taiko tore his eyes from Dazai, blinking in feigned confusion. “So money can’t buy him?”
The words hung thick in the air.
Chuuya leaned forward, palms flat against the desk, his glare a blade pressed to the man’s throat. His voice was quiet, low, and venomous.
“He is worth far more than money. Your billions wouldn’t even make up for one strand of his hair. You’re pathetic.”
He picked up the documents with sharp, careless fingers, flipping through them as though Taiko’s entire presence had become irrelevant.
Dazai shifted against the couch, one hand rising to cover his mouth. Not to hide laughter, but to smother the smile tugging at him—something darker, sharper, edged with a heat he would never admit out loud. Chuuya’s words licked under his skin like fire.
“Ah,” Taiko said after a beat, his grin twitching back into place. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands loosely across his stomach. “Possessive, aren’t we, Nakahara?”
Dazai’s eyes flicked to Chuuya again, curiosity sparking in the lazy depths. He tilted his head, the faintest blush curling high at his cheekbones, barely visible in the dim light. Possessive. The word lingered in the room, clinging like smoke.
Chuuya didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and his voice dropped lower, colder.
“Let me ask you something, Taiko-kun.”
The man raised an eyebrow, smug, oblivious. “Hm?”
Chuuya’s lips curled—not in amusement, but in something crueler. “What would happen if you vanished from your organization?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. The kind of silence that prickled at the skin, that dragged gooseflesh up arms and made breathing suddenly feel like a risk.
Dazai laughed softly, low and amused, and the sound carried like the click of a gun being cocked. “Careful,” he murmured, his tone teasing but his eyes sharp. “Boss doesn’t make idle threats.”
Taiko’s grin faltered, just for a second. But then he leaned forward again, eyes dragging back toward Dazai, hunger written plain across his face. “You speak so highly of him, Executive. Yet you let him keep you caged here? Doesn’t it chafe?”
Dazai’s smile widened, though his lashes lowered to veil his expression. His voice was velvet, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. “Mm. You misunderstand.” He turned his gaze deliberately toward Chuuya, dark eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something hotter, heavier. “It isn’t a cage if I choose to stay.”
Chuuya’s pen cracked against the paper, a sharp sound that echoed like a warning shot.
Taiko’s grin wavered again, though his eyes remained fixed, devouring. “A shame,” he said, forcing cheer into his voice. “A man like you, wasted in a place like this. I could offer you everything—more than this organization ever could.”
“Enough.”
Chuuya’s voice sliced through the words, final and lethal.
The room stilled. Even the air seemed to go quiet, the faint hum of the city outside fading to nothing under the weight of Chuuya’s fury. He stood slowly, pushing back from the desk with deliberate calm.
“Do you think you can walk in here,” Chuuya said, every word low, deliberate, the cadence of someone counting down to violence, “wave your money around, and put a price tag on my executive?”
Taiko swallowed, his smirk finally slipping.
Chuuya leaned across the desk, blue eyes burning like fire beneath the shadow of his hat. “You insult me, Taiko. And worse—you insult him.”
For the first time, Taiko’s confidence faltered completely. His mouth opened, then shut again.
Dazai leaned back on the couch, smiling faintly, the flush still high on his cheeks. His eyes softened just for a moment, trained solely on Chuuya. “Chuuya,” he murmured, almost fond, almost wicked.
But Chuuya didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed locked on Taiko, sharp enough to bleed.
“Get him out of my sight,” Chuuya said finally, voice quiet, deadly.
The door opened almost instantly—Higuchi and two men in black coats stepped inside, their hands already at Taiko’s shoulders. He sputtered, tried to speak, but the words tangled uselessly in his throat.
As they dragged him out, the echo of his footsteps vanished into silence.
Chuuya stood behind his desk, breathing slow, steady, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
From the couch, Dazai finally rose, slow and languid, his smile softening into something unreadable. He stepped closer, his voice low enough for only Chuuya to hear.
“You spoil me,” he murmured, the heat of his words brushing close against Chuuya’s ear. “Truly, you do.”
Chuuya didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to. His jaw tightened, his chest heavy, but his voice came out steady, certain.
“Tch. Nobody lays a hand—or a price—on you. Not while I’m here.”
And Dazai’s laugh, quiet and fluttered, filled the room like smoke.
The door shut behind Taiko with a final, echoing click. Silence rushed in to fill the space, heavy, vibrating with everything unsaid.
Chuuya stood rigid behind the desk, fists clenched, his heartbeat still pulsing in his throat. The audacity of that man—thinking he could put a price tag on Dazai. Thinking he could even look at him like that.
He heard the faint shuffle of footsteps as Dazai drifted closer, the soft creak of leather as he leaned against the edge of the desk. “Chuuya,” he murmured, voice dipped in amusement, low and soft, curling like smoke around the Boss’s anger. “That was… entertaining.”
Chuuya snapped his gaze up. Dazai’s smirk was there, lazy, knowing, but beneath it Chuuya caught the faintest trace of something warmer, something fluttered. His lips parted to snap back—but instead, his hand shot out.
He caught Dazai by the waist and yanked him forward, pulling him off balance. Dazai let out a startled hum as he stumbled, bracing himself against the chair.
And then he was in Chuuya’s lap, sprawled across it like he belonged there.
“Chuuya?” Dazai said, his grin returning instantly, crooked and teasing, though his ears burned faintly red. “What are you—”
“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered, voice rough. His hand pressed against Dazai’s hip, holding him in place. “You don’t get to run your mouth right now.”
Dazai tilted his head, lashes lowering. “Oh? And here I thought you liked it when I talk.”
Chuuya’s lips curled into something sharp. “Not when it’s smug.”
And before Dazai could reply, Chuuya leaned in, closing the distance between them.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was fierce, hard, a clash of teeth and breath that stole the air from Dazai’s lungs. Dazai let out a low sound-half laugh, half gasp-his hands curling against Chuuya’s shoulders, gripping tight.
Chuuya’s fingers slid up his side, gripping the curve of his waist with possessive strength. He broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along the sharp line of Dazai’s jaw, to bite at the pale skin beneath his ear. Dazai flinched, a soft hiss slipping out, quickly swallowed by another laugh.
“Ah… Chuuya,” he whispered, the name coming out ragged, unsteady in a way that betrayed the flutter beneath his calm. “Careful. You’ll leave marks.”
“That’s the point,” Chuuya growled against his skin, teeth sinking lightly into his neck before soothing the sting with another bruising kiss. “I want every bastard in this city to know you’re mine.”
Dazai shivered—actually shivered—and his head tipped back, exposing more of his throat without even thinking. His smile softened, not gone, but tempered by the heat flooding his face.
Chuuya kissed him again, slower this time, deep and lingering. His lips moved with purpose, with a hunger that came not from impulse but from years of restraint snapping all at once. His hand at Dazai’s waist slid up, pressing him closer, locking him down as if daring him to try to slip away.
Dazai didn’t.
Instead, he let himself sink into it, his fingers tangling in Chuuya’s hair, tugging lightly, coaxing another growl from him. Their mouths broke apart just barely, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.
“Still unbearable,” Chuuya muttered, voice low, hoarse.
Dazai chuckled, lips brushing his. “And yet, here I am, right where you want me.”
Chuuya silenced him with another kiss, harder this time, pulling a faint gasp from Dazai as his teeth caught his lower lip, leaving a sharp sting behind. Dazai laughed against it, but the sound was thinner now, laced with heat.
By the time Chuuya finally pulled back, Dazai’s mouth was flushed, his neck littered with blooming red marks that stood stark against pale skin. Chuuya smirked, satisfied, brushing his thumb against one of the fresh bites.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Now, if anyone tries to buy you again—they’ll think twice before even looking.”
Dazai’s eyes fluttered half-closed, his smirk weaker but still alive. “Ahh, so possessive, Boss. What am I going to do with you?”
Chuuya’s grip tightened on his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. His lips brushed the shell of Dazai’s ear when he spoke, each word deliberate.
“Shut up. And stay.”
And oh Dazai would stay, stay until Chuuya dragged him past reason, until even his own name slipped from his lips and vanished.
-END