The Port Mafia was a beast’s den, and Chuuya had long since accepted that he was one of its tamed monsters. But if there was one creature he could never quite leash, it was Dazai Osamu. The man sat atop the criminal empire like a king of ashes—smiling, composed, and cold enough to make even the cruelest men hesitate before breathing in his presence. Chuuya had seen him orchestrate chaos with a whisper, destroy lives with elegance, and still find the time to tease him between bloodstained meetings.

To the world, Dazai was the embodiment of power—unreachable, untouchable, untamable. But to Chuuya, behind closed doors, he was something else entirely. A man who sighed when the weight of command pressed too heavy on his shoulders. A man who would reach out in the quiet hours, fingers ghosting over Chuuya’s skin like he was afraid the world would take even this from him.

Chuuya had been Dazai’s right hand for years—his enforcer, his confidant, his shield. He was the one who cleaned up the mess when Dazai’s decisions drew blood, the one who silenced dissent with a glare or a gun. He was loyal not because of fear, but because somewhere in that heartless bastard, he’d found something that made him stay. Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was love. Maybe there was no difference anymore.

He remembered when he first joined under Dazai’s command—how the boss’s gaze had sliced through him like a blade, dissecting, analyzing, understanding. Dazai had always seen too much, always spoken in riddles that made people feel small. But Chuuya never backed down. He argued, shouted, even threw punches once or twice. And yet, every time, Dazai only smiled. That damn smile that said you’re exactly where I want you.

Now, years later, their bond was something no one dared question. They moved like two halves of one mind in battle—Dazai calculating every move, Chuuya executing it with precision. The Mafia saw efficiency. What they didn’t see was how, after the blood dried and the guns went quiet, Chuuya would pull Dazai close, grounding him in something real.

Sometimes, in the dim light of Dazai’s office, when the city hummed far below and the smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, Chuuya would catch the faintest trace of something fragile in Dazai’s eyes. A yearning he’d never voice. Chuuya never asked what haunted him—he just stayed. Because for all his arrogance and control, Dazai was still human enough to need someone, and Chuuya… was reckless enough to be that someone.

He didn’t know when it happened—when the lines blurred between duty and devotion. When the boss became Dazai, and orders turned into murmured requests spoken against his skin. It was dangerous, maybe even stupid, but in a world like theirs, love was always another form of war.

And if Dazai was the beast ruling from the throne, then Chuuya was the blade by his side—sharp, loyal, and just as damned.

Together, they kept the Mafia breathing. Together, they tore apart anyone who dared to threaten it. And when the night fell and the world finally went quiet, they found a strange kind of peace in the darkness—where no one could see the king and his beast, only the man and his lover.