shower me with praise!

It’s too easy. The beautiful man before him was bound at his mercy. Deep red rope dug into Dazai’s delicate wrists—- it was sure to leave purple welts behind as a reminder of what he allowed Fyodor to do.

Dazai’s back is pressed into a deep arch, ass stuck up in the air. His knees dig into the hard tile flooring beneath him to the point the blood had already started rising to the surface, forming small insignificant blemishes that in the morning would bloom into dark purples and blues. Fyodor’s freezing, bony hand cards through Dazai’s curly locks— pulling the knots apart cruelly.

He lets out a loud pained whine, jerking away from the Russian man’s touch. “Do not complain.” Fyodor’s hand tightens in his hair— tugging until his head is lifted off the floor, forcing Dazai to look up at him. His vertebrae feel like they're going to separate from each other and snap in half. “Or I will give you something to complain about.”

There's no doubt in Dazai’s scattered brain that he means it. Fyodor releases his hair, letting his face smack against the cold tile floor. Groaning, Dazai shifts— trying to sit up and soothe the heat spreading over his cheek. Before he can sit back, thin fingers ensnare themselves around his wrists. His shoulders are stretched back even more, an ache surges deep in his bones, and his chest is thrust forward.

“Do not move. It should not be that hard to follow instructions, dear.” Fyodor's voice is sickeningly sweet. Dazai’s esophagus is blocked up by the sugary syrup dripping off his tone— it mixes in with the seething acid in his stomach, churning and threatening to boil over. “Then don't let me fall flat on my face!” Dazai defends himself. The words struggle to claw their way up his throat, but he manages to push them past his lips.

Fyodor's hands let go of his wrists, and soft worn down leather strikes Dazai’s back— the boot crushes his spine and ribs, urging him back down onto the floor. “Shut up.” Fyodor spits out, and suddenly the blockage in Dazai’s throat expands. "Do not pretend this isn’t what you want," he punctuates his words by pushing his foot down harder, until the brunette under him lets out a small wheeze.

"Pathetic. You are sick. You know that, dearest?" Fyodor spits out. A shiver wracks through Dazai's muscles. His legs tremble with the effort of holding his own weight up, and salty tears spring up in his eyes. His entire being is throbbing in need. Even his gums are inflamed and tender— longing to sink his teeth in the meat of Fyodor’s shoulder. To take out all his frustrations on the skinny russian man looming over him. “What would the agency say if they saw you like this?” Fyodor goes on, “Or that precious ex-partner of yours… Chuuya.”

A seed of worry buries itself into the lining of his intestines. Bile swirls and rushes up to his esophagus. Dazai swallows as saliva surges into his mouth, trying to keep the nauseous feeling down. The thought of anyone else seeing him in this position— bent to the whims of a terrorist, willingly betraying his friends to kneel at the feet of the man who started a war on ability users. Submitting to a schizophrenic with religious psychosis.

Chuuya would kill him with his own bare hands for sure.

“Please don't…” the words tumble out of Dazai’s lips. He can't even recognize his own voice anymore. Fyodor just laughs in response, taking the foot off Dazai’s back. Air rushes back into Dazai’s lungs desperately— the fuzzy filter that had veiled his eyesight had finally cleared. “Stay there, don't move.” Fyodor commands, stepping back to observe the way Dazai’s face is pushed up against the floor. His  muscles flex and scramble to get into the correct position. The one Fyodor taught him.

With a satisfied hum, the Russian man walks away. His light footsteps echo through the room and Dazai tries to turn his head to see what the other man is doing— curiosity getting the best of him. He barely even glances at Fyodor when he's already being scolded. “You are so nosy. Did I not tell you to stay still, dear?” The man doesn't even turn around to glance at Dazai, just stopping in front of the tall storage cabinet. How did he even know?

“I am! I haven't moved at all,” the brunette doesn't let Fyodor’s reprimand deter him, “I'm just curious what you're planning.” Fyodor quietly opens the cabinet, rifling through the things inside. “Well since you cannot resist the temptation to watch, I will just take away your ability to see.” Fyodor forewarns, pulling out a deep red silk scarf and various other objects that do not seem like a reward at all.

“Just for looking?” Dazai bats his eyelashes, letting out a petulant gripe. “Besides, don't you want to see my pretty little eyes roll back into my head?” Fyodor grumbles quietly, “Pretty is not the word I would use.” He makes his way over to Dazai, setting everything down on the floor and kneeling behind the bound man, “More like… unsettling.”

Before Dazai can complain once again, the other man is leaning over him and pulling the satin blindfold over his eyes, tying it tightly behind his head. The darkness that cloaks his vision brings a sense of comfort over him. This is something he's used to. It's normal.

He's always been better suited for the shadows.

Honestly, is there really any way a port mafia executive could ever hope to lead a life of virtue? It certainly didn't seem possible for him.

Dazai’s ears pick up on the sound of rustling. He knows exactly what it is. They have the entire day together and Fyodor wants to ensure they enjoy it to the fullest. It's a disgusting fantasy of Fyodor’s. Cold plastic is pushed onto his right shoulder, stuck on with a strong adhesive. Fyodor's freezing fingers make sure the edges don't have any gaps.

He gets these specifically for Dazai— Nicotine patches, 21 mg. He found out a few months after they started seeing each other, after waking up one morning to the little circular sticker on his chest near his collarbone. It hurt like a bitch to remove, and he wondered how he didn’t realize before. There had certainly been signs. Like the pleasant tingling sensation rushing through his body when he was with Fyodor, and the harrowing restlessness when he was away. Not to mention, there were always suspicious red circles on his upper body whenever he would leave the other man's home.

Dazai wanted to hate him for it. It's gross. Unethical. But it had been a long time since then. Fyodor had realized that the brunette knew and it only made him bolder. Dazai never brought it up— he just let the other man keep doing this.

Maybe it's just the patches doing their job to build a reliance, but he can't help being drawn to the other man. Who else could break him down like Fyodor does? Just being tied up and at his mercy created a buzzing under his skin. “You know what comes next, yes?” Fyodor breaks the silence. Dazai nods quietly, bracing himself for what's to come. It's a kind of routine for them. Dazai complains and complains only for Fyodor to take him apart and put him back together. “Your attitude today has been completely unacceptable.”

White hot shame burns across Dazai’s face. It never gets less embarrassing to be scolded by him.

 A cold, dainty hand on the base of his spine is the only grounding touch he feels when Fyodor sharply strikes his ass with the heavy wooden paddle. It stuns Dazai, drawing a surprised gasp from his lips before he even processes what's happened. The dense smack reverberates within the room.

Another strike lands without mercy. The muscles beneath Dazai’s skin strain and flex, crying out again, wrists bent at a weird angle and weakly fiddling with the rope confining them together. “Oh stop being so dramatic. I'm going easy on you, dearest.” Fyodor chastises— pinching the tender, reddened skin of Dazai’s ass. His legs kick out instinctively, like an imprisoned animal, but all it does is dig the rope further into his skin painfully.

Fyodor keeps going— until there's scarlet and purple uneven swelling, until viscous sobs tear themselves from Dazai’s throat, until his cheeks are wet  and the blindfold is soaked and heavy with tears. “Beautiful,” Fyodor cooes softly, “Like a painting.” His fingers feign gentleness— dragging them over the sensitive skin, pressing down pleasantly to massage the abused flesh. Dazai is lured into a false sense of security, relaxing into his position like a spoiled cat.

Sharp, jagged nails stab into the meat of his backside, enjoying the howl coming from the man underneath him, “Shhh. The walls are thin, you scream as if I am killing you, dear.” Fyodor reprimands. He may as well be. Dazai feels like his tissue is being ripped apart and fire is racing through veins. Death would be a welcome escape from the barbarity of the man above him.

When the Russian man finally had some mercy, Dazai let out a lungful of air he didn't realize he was holding. Despite how icy Fyodor's hands are, a shiver shoots up the other man's spine once he pulls away— his skin pebbles at the loss of ‘warmth’. He laments and thumbs at the knot of rope, “You already got what you wanted, can’t you untie me? It hurts.” Dazai’s voice is frail and unsteady. His vocal cords rub and chafe together agonizingly.

Fyodor snickers, “Oh I'm far from done, Dazai.” Smoothing a hand over his injured ass, he continues, “You are not getting out of those any time soon. I made sure to take special precautions so even you are not able to escape.” His fingers trail down and press against his dry hole.

“But do not fret, I know just how to fix that restless spirit of yours, dear.” Dazai stiffens at the threat. The black haired man didn't bother to make the slide easier— slipping a bony finger past the ring of muscle with no lubrication, not even spit.

Howling, Dazai’s hips twitch away from the searing sting. “F-fuck!” Fyodor tuts and drags his hips closer, keeping a delicate wrist wrapped around his hip— keeping him in place. “Keep still, you know the rules.” The brunette tenses around his finger. “I would not want to ruin this pretty little bottom of yours.” He runs his other hand over Dazai’s tender, reddened skin. “You basically a-already have,” he groans out.

“Shhhh.” Fyodor squeezes a second finger past the ring of muscle carefully, slowly. As much as he wants to hurt Dazai, it's not like him to be negligent.

With how much the man below him shrieks and writhes, you'd think he was being tortured not fucked. “It will only sting for a few minutes,” he assures. Dazai knows it's a lie, but he chooses to let himself be fooled anyway. Tomorrow he'll be unable to walk properly and will relish in the way Fyodor takes care of him. For just a few hours, it makes him feel like the other man genuinely cares— like this isn't just some unusual way for him to use Dazai.

Fyodor's eyes are darkened, with a line between his brows, concentrating on where his fingers disappear inside of Dazai. “You're so slow. What are you, a grandpa?” He finally finds it in himself to speak up again. The Russian man does not appreciate it. He curls his fingers, roughly rubbing at his sensitive walls. “If I went any faster you would never stop whining about how much it hurts and how I need to ease up,” he speeds up little by little, poking and prodding—- searching for something. “No matter what I do, you find a reason to complain, so forgive me if I take things at my. own. pace.” Fyodor punctuates his words with sharp thrust into the small bump.

Desperate hips buck down involuntarily and a pitiful squeak abruptly yanks itself from his chest. He takes shallow deep breaths with his cheek leaning on the shiny, expensive tile in Fyodor's home. All too soon, the arduous, divine pleasure is ripped away. 

“Open your mouth,” Fyodor orders. “I thought you wanted me to shut up.” Dazais voice is shaky. He can't keep up the unbothered façade as easily with the other man. “This is the only time I would ever ask you to do that,” he runs a thumb over the brunette's chin, “I really should put a gag on you, then my ears would finally get a rest.”

Slender fingers push past his lips, squashing down his tongue. His esophagus constricts and sputters— caught off guard by the pressure nudging the back of his throat. Fyodor's fingers hook around his teeth, jaw forced open. Dull, cold silicone is shoved into his mouth. His cheeks and lips ache at the forced stretch. “Make sure you completely coat it dear, this is the only lubrication you will get.”

Dazai absentmindedly traces the knots binding him. Every limb is bent into an awkward, uncomfortable angle. The sweat on his skin is making it hard to keep his footing— his knees keep sliding against the floor, cord digging into the delicate flesh of his legs. Thankfully, the bandages somewhat protect his scars from being roughly scraped and reopened.

His jaw finally gets some relief when the toy is pulled out. Vicious spit coats the toy, connecting to his lips with a thick glob of drool. His lungs greedily wheeze and seek out fresh oxygen, laboriously expanding and filling with air after being compressed for so long.

“Now, stay relaxed for me dearest,” Fyodor croons faintly, pushing the toy against his hole but not quite breaching the tense ring of muscle— teasing. Dazai sighs breathlessly, wiggling his hips. Rolling his eyes, Fyodor lets the trinket sink further, until it has been greedily swallowed by the man beneath him without much more than a weak sob.

The toy presses against his prostate deliciously. Lovely thrills work down his spine, every joint in his figure contracted and curled. By the end of the night, the protective enamel cloaking Dazai’s teeth will feel almost completely faded— his jaw works itself into overuse, twisting and chafing. A soft click reaches his ears and the silicone vibrator buzzes to life.

Hands that were only half heartedly scratching at the knots before, now claw savagely. A tortured sound from his chest is stomped down and killed with a frantic spasm. “Do try to stay silent, my dear. We do not need more complaints about you,” Fyodor shushes him with a kind of gentleness that's rare for him. “You know how stressful it is for me to deal with all their negativity. Not to mention how embarrassing it has to be for you,” He continues, “There must be a reason you've never let anyone see this side of you, despite your… experience.”

Part of Dazai's clouded brain is distraught at the thought. Fyodor is supposed to be his enemy. This was never supposed to happen to begin with. And now he has power over him— not just physically, by binding him to his will— but also in the form of leverage. The other man definitely noticed the uneasy silence coming from Dazai because he lightly runs his hand over the back of his neck in an effort to soothe him.

“Do you trust me so much that you only allow me to take care of you like this, dear?” Fyodor's voice is uncharacteristically soft. 

No.

There's no one in the world Dazai is more wary of than Fyodor. He's unreadable and unpredictable. No matter how much dazai tries to fight back against his tactics, the Russian man always has something new up his sleeve.

Regardless, there is something about him that draws Dazai in. It could be the erratic haziness in his violet eyes, or the mysterious aura surrounding him. There's never been someone that Dazai couldn't figure out, until him.

Drunk on power, Fyodor watches eagerly while fat globs of salty teardrops splatter against the floor. The sound of Dazai’s humble pleas is like music to his ears. His ribs ache and poke through his skin— with the rope compressing his body, it's hard for his lungs to get their fill of cool air. “P-please… Fyodor…” Dazais voice is breathless, struggling to get a few words out.

“Yes, dear?” Fyodor rests a hand on his wrist, scraping his skin with a sharp nail. He can feel the pulse beneath him thrumming with life— speeding up as Fyodor's other hand tauntingly tugs on the vibrator, just to see his reaction. Dazai has made a conscious decision to let go today. He could easily control his own heart rate if he was truly worried about Fyodor. And God knows Fyodor would use that information against him. There's no more pretending.

“Untie m-me..” Dazai pleads. The pit of his stomach is on fire, spreading sparks of lighting out through his entire body and searing his numb fingertips. “I- mm,” His words are mangled, drowned out in a moan, “I want to feel you.” All the individual vertebrae, his knees, his elbows and ankles are spent— pushed beyond their limits inhumanely. But Fyodor is not known for his goodwill.

“No.”

No explanation or compromise was given. Dazai can barely make out the pure glee in his speech.

Pitchy wails claw themselves out of his chest. The vibrations are set to the highest level— frying Dazai’s nerve endings and inundating them with sensory overload. His sweaty bangs are sticking to his forehead, and he can tell the bandages are starting to rip from the friction, and he just… can't.

“Puh- lease!” He gasps out. His tongue has gone dry— there's nothing he thirst for more than Fyodor's simple touch.

Sighing, Fyodor sits on the floor. “Poor baby.” He sounds annoyed, like being around Dazai is an inconvenience and not something he willingly chooses to do. With an unusual amount of strength, he pulls Dazai's body closer, to straddle his lap. Dazai knees scrape painfully against the floor.

The coolness of Fyodor’s thighs is enough to fan the flames searing his skin. The hollow sobs finally calm and he pushes what little he can against Fyodor's smaller body. “You get this, but I will not untie you dear.” He warns.

Dazai is okay with that. Weirdly, the talons that felt like they were clawing at his jugular earlier are gone. His muscles go weak. His hips jerk forward, urgently seeking any form of friction and proximity. His brain is so far gone that he can't even control his own body anymore. It's been turned into a puppet for Dostoyevsky to do as he pleases.

Fyodor does not stop him like he usually would. Instead he watches silently, gently wiping the drool off his chin. Every vibration is felt deep in his bones and multiples throughout his body. The knot in Dazais tummy grows bigger and bigger until it bursts and liquid fire seems to pour through his veins. The russian man pays no mind to the mess now staining his clothing.

Murmuring tenderly, he eases Dazai through the aftershocks— but he does not make an attempt to stop the toy.  “Did that feel good?” he pushes their chests together, massaging his back. It does nothing to stop the twitch in the brunettes muscles.. “I bet it did, but I'm not done with you yet, dearest.” A whimper bubbles up from Dazai’s ribcage.