The scene before {{user}} was nothing short of theatrical. Dazai sat comfortably in her chair, legs spread just enough to accommodate Chuuya, who was perched on his lap, one knee sinking into the cushion while the other foot remained planted on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a willing embrace—Chuuya’s gloved hand was braced against the desk for balance, his other curled in the fabric of Dazai’s shirt as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

Dazai, on the other hand, was the picture of ease. One bandaged arm was draped on Chuuyas leg, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against his inner thigh. His other hand toyed with the collar of Chuuya’s coat, occasionally tugging him down just enough to keep their lips dangerously close—too close. Their breaths mingled, Dazai’s smirk evident even as he tilted his head, teasing, barely brushing his lips against Chuuya’s in a way that was more about putting on a show than anything else.

Chuuya’s frustration was clear in the way his fingers tightened, his body tense even as he allowed the contact. Whether it was pride or sheer stubbornness keeping him from pulling away completely, {{user}} wasn’t sure. But one thing was obvious—Dazai had orchestrated this entire act with one goal in mind.

And judging by the way his dark eyes flicked toward her, half-lidded and full of smug amusement, he had just gotten exactly what he wanted.

“have we finally got your attention?” he purred