Work Text:
Estranged.
The whole agency has far discernible expressions planted on their faces, save for the laid–back detective who is busy stuffing pastries in his mouth. The entrance door creaked open as it signaled the arrival of the usual latecomer among their group.
The hem of his sand-colored coat slightly flew in the air as he turned around to close the door. When he properly faced around the office, the bothered expressions of his coworkers welcomed him and the heavy atmosphere tainted the air around them.
Kunikida did not even bother to bombard him with yells and reprimands for being tardy.
Something is definitely wrong.
And the floating stench of blood did not help to ease up the dreaded tension.
Dazai paced forward until he arrived in front of his desk. All piles of paper works are a whole disorganized mess, but this sight is nothing new to him. What's new though, are the two items compacted right in the middle of his desk topped with a white card with bloody note on it.
Now he knows why it reeks.
He noticed that there is still a wet clump of blotch near the end of the letter. He brought his index finger forward to wipe up the blood and tasted it in his tongue.
Oh, it was from him.
Setting aside the note, he focused his gaze upon the two boxes. Both containers are plainly bounded with pale brownish cardboard — far too presentable to consider as gifts.
It was also straight up ironic as he thought he was the one who is supposed to present a gift — no, an offering — to a certain Demon.
He simultaneously opened both boxes.
It is only at that time when Dazai wore the same appalled expressions similar to the others. But it is not because of the blood-stained note. He was never bothered to anything bloody. In fact, he would have chosen to play with blood if opportunities would then be granted.
It is the same for the others (definitely not the bloodplay part). Blood became a part of their daily scenario. No, they would never have their intestines churned up over a pungent smell of blood. He knew there is something more than that that caused his coworkers to be uniformly sickened.
And these are the something:
Handcuffs.
Gag.
Blindfold.
Bindings.
A pill.
All in to one box to the right.
A defused time bomb is the sole content of the other.
It seemed that the whole agency rushed into Dazai's desk and had to witness what they had had to witness.
What pitiful, tainted souls.
Save for Kenji, though. In fact, he even praised Dazai for receiving such luxuries.
He is the first to speak up and greet Dazai with blatant cheery voice, “Good morning, Dazai–san! We managed to defuse the bomb inside the box before you came. You can dispose it after.” His eyes and actions are merely focused on his paper works but the pure smile does not fade as he converses with the still perplexed Dazai. “But those are nice accessories, don’t you think? Some looks weird but it would look good on you!”
That’s it.
Kenji halted amidst of his work and when he glanced upon his coworker's desk, Dazai slipped the blood–stained note in his inner pocket and haphazardly stacked and carried the two boxes. The other silent members of the agency also planted an unreadable gaze on him, obviously attempting to figure out his plans to the two wonderful presents he has received.
Dazai coaxed out the remaining ounce of blissful conceit to his voice, “I’ll take this out and commit suicide later. Don't expect me to come back. Bye!”
He pushed the door open and sprinted away from the office.
“His Japanese sucks,” Kyouka blurted out as soon as the man leaves the office, pertaining to whomever wrote the letter with his own blood.
“Can’t even spell the katakana of his name. If I were Dazai, I would break up with him,” Ranpo then chides but then rephrased his statement, “I meant, I would never hit on him to begin with.”
“But still, isn’t it surprising that there really is a thing between them? Does the Director have a word about this?” Tanizaki joined in, his tone marked with hesitance and worrisome.
Ranpo hummed, “Them dating is the most expected thing to happen. Would be more interesting if Pres would find out.”
Yosano tiredly groaned from her desk and stretched her arms in the air, “Mice will play when the cat is away, huh.”
“Literally.”
—
Bubbling.
The mixed emotions slowly work up to his core. He has the rights to feel downright embarrassed, but he can’t. He has the rights to express unquestionable disgust, but he is so overly appalled that his face remained blank. He remains to stand and stare at the bizarre assortments inside the box which is now laid out onto a familiar mattress, save for the fancy bindings which are gripped tightly into his hand.
The bomb was primly disposed before he went here.
Right, he could have bombed this place to cope up with his miserable state but for sure, that demonic rat has a particular set of strategies to counter his every move.
Happy birthday, asshole.
Dazai thinks he has given the best birthday gift ever. The straight–up humiliation he experienced in the office is perhaps the only priceless present he could offer to this hellish special day. Whatever is the outline of the schemes of that rat, he is sure he provided a clandestine surveillance to merely record his engrossing reaction and use it against him afterwards.
Stinky. Messy. Foul. Malevolent. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is the dirtiest player he has ever encountered in his whole life.
Bring it on then, Dazai mentally declared as he began to strip his clothes off. His trench coat is deftly strewn onto the cold floor of Dostoyevsky’s hideout. Next he unbuttoned his dark vest and swiftly threw it aside, then he removed his striped shirt. For some reason, he kept his bolo tie around his neck. Now only the bandages and the gleaming pendant attached to the tie remained as his final protection from half-nakedness. Maybe Dostoyevsky (and the denial Dazai) would like it — pulling the tie and restraining the brunette’s airway as they both ride along the peak of sensuality and pleasure.
For his final preparation, he eventually pulled down his pants and undergarments. The sudden touch of cold breeze around the room poked his skin to goosebumps in spite of the bandages covering majority of his whole body. He cannot help himself but to slightly shiver and rub across his arms as he settled on the mattress by the side.
He needs to wrap this up. He needs to wrap himself up before Dostoyevsky arrives. Dazai knows he is once again playing the game of the demon. He loathes the fact that the Russian got him wrapped around his pale, slender finger. But this game is too enjoyable. Insanely pleasurable. They have been playing this for couples of months now and neither of them showed signs of quitting. Nobody cheated and chose to plant a blade deep into one‘s chest either. Both of them are truthfully playing and enjoying themselves. Perhaps Dazai can slip this up for now? Considering that he prefers Dostoyevsky to take charge and—
“Shit, I tied it up too tight,” he muttered under his breath as he now worked over the bindings right above his brushed ankles. Upon a shallow thought, Dazai commended Dostoyevsky of providing the prerequisite materials in order to present and offer himself to him prettily. Otherwise, he would be fully odd-out why the celebrant would present a gift to others. He is the meant gift in the end. It is only up for Dostoyevsky on how he would tear the present open later.
Unceasing footsteps reverberated throughout the whole structure of the hideout.
Dazai landed a quick glance to the other ridiculous items on the bed beside him. He then decided to let Dostoyevsky set him up more securely later. He slightly squirmed against his restricted feet as he reached out for the pill. With one hurried move, he popped the pill open and swallowed.
Expecting the saccharine effect of the pill to work up his whole system up to his groin, he fully slumped onto the bed, his whole side brushing against the soft surface. He closed his eyes tightly to feel the erotic sensation to come through. . .
. . .but nothing happened. His body feels nothing but the absence of heat which is supposed to arouse him. There is no bubbled feeling tickling his abdomen either.
Rather, his eyes felt heavy every time he tried to blink.
The sound of knob being turned from outside of the bedroom’s door became audible enough for Dazai to hear but with his one last blink, his consciousness entirely succumbed to the void.
—
Dostoyevsky tormented him throughout the whole night.
Or so it seemed.
The raven-haired man, naked, is now nestled closely to the now awakened Dazai. Few sets of his hair strands collide with the bare (bandaged) chest of the other. His left arm is snaked over Dazai’s back and the right hand surrounds his neck, and with their legs tangled, technically he is embracing the brunette from this position.
The slightest muscle movement from Dazai immediately oriented Dostoyevsky that his lover is now awake an hour after taking the sleeping drug (or the fatally mistaken aphrodisiac). He felt him writhe under his touch so he slightly leaned backward to properly face him.
“My sleeping beauty is finally awake,” Dostoyevsky’s voice is tinged with unequivocal joy. Dazai can only respond with a blank stare, eyes full of havoc and the mind clueless of anything.
“I replaced your bandages while you were asleep. Nothing else,” Dostoyevsky spoke once again as he felt obliged to fill him up what he needs to know. “No matter how messy our own plays, we never neglected our consents, did we?”
He is right. As of now, his rim does not feel sore and Dazai cannot feel any ache from his loins which may hint that he might have been stimulated whilst in deep sleep.
Nothing. Dostoyevsky only literally slept with him, bare.
“Do you want me suck you dry as a sign of gratitude?” Dazai raised one of his bandaged arms to inspect the Russian’s work on the gauze. Good thing it is nothing different from how he dresses himself alone with the bandages. It is as if the other man knew the nook and cranny of his ‘bandaging techniques’.
Dazai despised how they became each other’s reflections and every single thing about them is bound to be seen through by the other.
Dostoyevsky snuggled against him once again and stiflingly snickered, “You see, I’ve been spent after this long day. I don’t think I can satisfy you for now, Osamu. But if you want so, then I guess you could settle by this at least. . .”
His head motioned slightly against his chest and only stopped moving when his lips is right on one of Dazai’s buds. He licked on it once, dragging his tongue forward with such condescending lap.
Such action earned a long hiss from Dazai and his right arm slightly clawed over Dostoyevsky’s skin above the shoulder blade. The Russian caught of the bandaged hand by his wounded one, all those wounds from self-inflicted bites manifested by his peculiar mannerism. He then clasped Dazai’s wrist using his other hand, taking it by closer look in front of his scintillated amethyst eyes.
His wounded thumb trailed over Dazai’s long fingers, seemingly allured by the masterpiece spotted by his sight. Dostoyevsky pulled his hand closer and kissed the back of it five times, each for every detailed knuckle. Thereafter, his chapped lips warmed by his breath finally made contact at the center of the back of Dazai’s hand, kissing it much longer than his previous pecks.
Warm.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky felt warmer than anything else existed around them. Something incessantly rang in Dazai’s ears and he felt a mellow bloom deep inside his heart. The cold heavens girdling the two of them seemed to be separated from their own world. He still stares and the other man still has his eyes closed, lips still in contact with his own skin.
When he let go, Dazai finds the other’s head curled up on his chest again, feeling him closer than ever before.
“Heart, too erratic. Can’t sleep,” Dostoyevsky’s muffled voice vibrated against him. Dazai is not sure if it is the right solution but the next thing he knew is that his hand (the same hand Dostoyevsky kissed moments ago) is caressing the Russian’s head, each finger tenderly brushing through the scalp repeatedly.
He feels sleepy yet again.
But before he dozed everything off to darkness, he heard the other’s voice soften for the last time.
“I love you. . .Osamu.”