Dazai did not display his dominance or authenticity by firm words, but by blunt actions. He believed actions spoke louder than words. Especially now.

The meeting room was otherwise silent save from the slap of sweaty skin on sweaty skin and choked, muffled gasps and moans. All around there were eyes, blown wide on the faces of flustered onlookers seated around the large oval table — a group of lower level Port Mafia members who had the fortunate opportunity to be a witness to something like this.

They were nameless thugs. Dazai didn’t care to know what they were called. The only thing he know about this particular group was their stubborn, continuous advances for Chuuya. His Chuuya. Dazai’s dearest, beloved pet; his most loyal, protective right hand man. And they dared to wish they could have him? Like Dazai did?

The very idea made Dazai laugh.

Dazai lovingly strokes his hand through Chuuya’s messy, soft red hair while his other hand remained pressing firmly in the center of Chuuya’s lower back, keeping him pinned to the surface of the table. He was rocking his hips at a leisure pace, unhurried and relaxed… and far too slow for poor Chuuya, who was out of his mind with desperation. His whole body was shaking and his freckled skin was flushed, a pretty rosy pink that Dazai adored. There were marks, left behind by Dazai’s teeth and hungry sucking, sprinkled all over him. He looked like art. Art that cried and moaned and begged for more.

Dazai, indulging himself rather than heeding to Chuuya’s needs, speeds up.