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“Dostoy–kun…” Dazai mused, tone hoarse from fading pain. His broken leg was extended at his side, the rest of his aching body propped up against a wall, leaning onto it for support. “And company.”
Before him were two figures—one substantially taller than the other. The one closest to him was Fyodor Dostoevsky, demeanor clean spare for the blood drying on his bandaged hand and shirt. Behind him, far enough back that Dazai could barely read his expression, was Chuuya Nakahara—crimson eyes studying his injured stature as if he were the one actively trying to dispose of him.
Dazai strained in an attempt to sit straighter up, broken leg prevented him from doing so. “Are you here to rub your win in my face? That’s not good sportsmanship, you know?”
“As fun as that would be, I’m afraid not.” Fyodor took a few steps further, stopping only when he was close enough to loom over the fallen man. Violet eyes were sharp, intentions concealed as they met amber. The stand-off was intense enough to cause shivers down Dazai’s spine, hair standing at the nape of his neck as if predicting something bad. Fyodor took his time, relishing in the other’s growing anxiety.
When he spoke, his tone had grown smooth; lower than before. “I’m here to collect my prize.”
The choice of words made Dazai’s heart skip a beat. On cue, almost as if he were aware, Fyodor smiled—the action thinly lipped and hollow—and for a moment, Dazai thought he had forgotten how to breathe: exhale heavy as it left him.
“Lucky me.”
At that, Fyodor’s smile grew a fraction wider; eyes twinkling with an emotion Dazai couldn’t quite make out.
“Chuuya–san?” He suddenly said aloud, hand extending blindly behind him.
Almost immediately, the gun at Chuuya’s hip was withdrawn in a robotic fashion. With a stiff extension of his arm, he placed it into the palm of Fyodor’s hand.
“Ah, I see,” Dazai mused, head tilting with an unamused glance. “You’ve come to give me a public execution, haven’t you?” His eyes lowered to the gun, squinting almost instinctively.
“As flattered as I could pretend to be, you really shouldn’t have. Your win should be celebrated with glasses of wine… expensive dinners! I doubt putting me out of my misery would bring you any satisfaction.”
Fyodor stepped closer; the action prompting Chuuya to step back. Extending the gun, he tucked the muzzle underneath Dazai’s chin, pressing it firmly against the underside of his jaw. The pressure was mild, nothing the brunet couldn’t withstand, as his head lifted to establish eye contact, expression distant.
Once staring into amber eyes, Fyodor’s free hand reached into his pants. It took a battle of wits for Dazai to keep his head still, ignoring the rustling of clothes as the other’s length was pulled free.
It was softer than melting snow on a sidewalk, held in his hand as if expecting Dazai to take it.
“Open,” he instructed, blunt and firm.
Dazai blinked, almost as if he couldn’t believe him. (In a way, his presumption hadn’t been entirely wrong.)
With no movement made, Dostoevsky clicked his tongue, forcing the gun further against his skin.
“Don’t let the presence of your colleague dissuade you,” he insisted, leaning closer. “There’s no need for a facade.”
“After all, this is nothing new to us. Is it, Dazai–san?”
Amber eyes hardened, glancing past Dostoevsky to flicker toward Chuuya, standing a distance away.
With a stern gaze, Dazai feigned a smile, head tilted aside. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
The gun’s pressure increased, forcing further against his skin. Fyodor’s finger hangs on the trigger, tapping it lightly.
“Of course.” He mused. Suddenly, the gun was forced upward: slamming it under Dazai’s chin hard enough to leave a mark. The pressure snapped his head upward, forcing it at a newly established angle. Dazai’s chin was now parallel to Fyodor’s pelvis, length held over the top of his face—a silent threat, disguised as encouragement.
“In that case, I’ll simply make a new one.” Finger tapped against the trigger once more—a taunt. “That way… your mouth won’t be needed.”
His brows furrowed, expression flickering with distaste. To play this game, in front of Chuuya of all people, was low, even for Dostoevsky.
Seeing no other way, Dazai reluctantly parted his lips. The space allowed just enough for Fyodor to slide his cock between.
Pleased, he pumped his cock before aligning the tip with Dazai’s open mouth. “How kind of you.”
In one thrust, Fyodor’s cock was sheathed entirely by wet heat. Holding Dazai’s head against his pelvis, he began to roll his hips. Each thrust rammed Fyodor’s cock into the back of his throat—the pressure underneath Dazai’s chin making it impossible for him to change the angle. Taking advantage of this, Fyodor increased the pace: pelvis colliding into Dazai’s chin as he forced his head to knock repeatedly against the wall behind him.
Beneath him, the brunet strained to establish eye contact; amber irises alit with irritation. This game, much like the others they played, was all about patience. Dazai knew that Fyodor wouldn’t be brought to the edge anytime soon, let alone by only his mouth. This game was about resistance, watching as Dostoevsky played with his food to see how long it could last. The exchange could take anywhere from minutes to hours, all while Dazai was incapable of doing anything but taking it.
Fyodor, as if knowing what was running through his mind, smiled. On his next thrust, he forced himself as deep as possible—the sound of stuttered breathing amplifying his pleasure. Dazai’s nose was forced against thin and dark pubes, Fyodor’s cock hung greedily in his airways. With a shift of his stance, the injured man was stuck, pinned between Fyodor and the wall behind him.
“You’re pathetic, Osamu.” His tone was smooth, a vast contrast to the sudden jerk of his hips. “Allowing yourself to be dominated in the presence of your colleague.” The pressure of the gun substantially increased—the muzzle surely leaving a mark as Dazai’s jaw began to tremble under strain. “Where is your pride?”
Dazai’s temple throbbed in agitation, teeth suddenly clamping around the cock in his mouth.
The smile on Fyodor’s lips faded. With his gaze downcast, he withdrew his gun.
Dazai’s brows furrowed, confusion plaguing his expression. Had the bastard finally found common sense?
Suddenly, the gun was brought down against Dazai’s face, muzzle striking him harshly across his cheekbone. The impact made him shudder, heat spreading underneath skin as his jaw ached: pain flowering throughout his face. Fyodor dragged his cock from Dazai’s mouth, taking it out to rest it on the left cheek—precum and saliva smeared onto pained facade.
“You’re as humorous as you are obedient.”
An amused exhale left Dazai’s chest, head throbbing with pain. “I beg to disagree.”
“You’ll be doing a lot more begging than that.”
Before he could retort, Fyodor pulled his head forward, forcing him off of the wall behind him. The sudden shift in balance forced Dazai to stagger forward, applying pressure to his broken leg with a sharp hiss. The sound was music to Fyodor’s ears, continuing to pull until the brunet had no choice but to submit—stature on his hands and knees.
“H… ha,” Dazai stuttered, amber eyes glaring upward in pain. “The least you could do… is take me for a drink, you know.”
Dostoevsky ignored the retort, the hand in hair twisting Dazai’s head and forcing his upper body to follow, turning him until he was tilted toward the ground.
“Your jokes aren’t any funnier than they’ve been thus far.” Dazai was shoved to the ground, hand releasing hold on curls. His foot slammed onto the brunet’s broken leg to prevent any attempt at resistance, ignoring the scream that followed suit. The pained shivers of Dazai’s body caused his stomach to churn; pride thundering in his chest to the beat of labored breaths.
“Present yourself, Osamu.”
Dazai heaved, eyes lifting to glare behind him. The sight of Chuuya’s stature, tense and unmoving behind Fyodor, was almost enough to shoot down the arousal swirling inside of his gut.
“No can do,” he grunted, shifting where he lay on his chest in an attempt to straighten out broken leg. “I’m not the biggest fan of being watched, and your lackey… has a staring problem.”
“What a shame.” He bent down to Dazai’s level, curling an arm underneath his hips to raise his rear, positioning him like a cat in heat—groans of pain ignored. “I wasn’t aware you cared.”
“It depends on the day.”
Fingers curled on the hem of Dazai’s sweatpants, pushing them down his legs. The action caused the brunet to shiver, cunt clenching as air hit him from the back. The drag of boxers followed suit, exposing damp crotch and the strings of lube that clung to his inner thighs. He could already hear the snide remark of his arousal, face pressing further against the ground.
Dazai’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a prod of the other’s tip against his hole—body tensing in surprise as his heartbeat increased.
“I didn’t know you were capable of doing more than sitting on your ass, Dostoy–kun.”
The pressure increased, tip forcing itself into tight walls as Dazai bit back the desire to moan.
“Is it cruel to want to make our final time together memorable?”
“Ha. ‘Course you would.”
Slender fingers grabbed Dazai’s waist tight enough to leave bruises, the dry penetration of Fyodor’s cock causing an ache in his gut. Dry sex was nothing new to the two—after all, their options were limited in the prison—but the change in angle made it far too much to bear. Each thrust was met with resistance; tense walls clinging to Dostoevsky as he tried to fuck deep inside of him. It was unbearable, yet it enamored Dazai all the same: cunt lubricating more as the painful pace increased.
“Your lack of resistance is pitiful,” Fyodor chides, cock ground against his walls—scratching the sweet spot deep inside of him. His thrusts were languid, each inch dragged with the intent of making Dazai feel it. The choice of pace was worse than anything fast or forceful, picked by the ravenet with the slow intent to pick him apart—piece by piece.
“If I knew a change of position could make you this pliable, I would have handled you like this from the beginning.”
Dazai’s stomach grew hot, face pressed further into the ground. “What a shame,” he muttered, fighting back the urge to groan. “To think… if your partner never poisoned us, there’d be more where th—” His voice abruptly cut off, body tensing as pressure was felt outside the tight ring of his ass.
“Don’t let me stop you,” Fyodor said, thrusts never ceasing.
“Dostoevsky...” he groaned, pressure increasing.
The muzzle of Fyodor’s gun was currently forcing itself into his ass; increased pressure causing pain to bloom in his lower back. The penetration was brutal—no ounce of lubrication capable of relieving it—while the pain was dull, gradually building over time. He knew it wouldn’t be long until he tore: the first inch of the gun already sunken past ring of tight muscle.
“How pathetic,” Fyodor mocked, squelching cunt echoing throughout the room. “If only Chuuya–san could see you now—so desperate you’re fucking yourself on a pistol.”
Dazai blinked slowly, shivering as his gut twisted.
He hadn’t realized the way he’d begun thrusting back onto Fyodor’s cock, simultaneously assisting in forcing the gun inside of him. He felt the presence of torn skin, each clench weaker than before.
His brain felt slow, his body heavy. He wondered if he could blame it on the poison in his veins, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t the case.
Deep down, he knew he enjoyed this. He knew how pleased he was to feel so full, and he wouldn’t put it past Fyodor to know that too.
A hand reached over his back, entangling deep into dark curls. Dazai’s head was forced back, body pulled into an arch as the speed of Fyodor’s thrusts began to increase—braced onto Dazai by no more than the gun in his ass. The increase in speed jerked his body harder, forcing broken leg to drag against the ground—pain heightening the rest of the stimuli brunet was facing.
A cry slipped past parted lips, the sound small, yet noticed. It prompted the gun to be withdrawn until only the tip was remaining before being forced back inside. Once it was down to the handle, the gun was pulled free—beginning the cycle over again.
Each rotation made Dazai weaker—his body relaxing in a failure to keep up with the torment it received. His vision harshly blurred, the combination of pain and pleasure becoming a cacophony inside of him. Stomach churned tightly, cunt clenching in a weak attempt of warning. It was obvious, the gravity of the situation crashing into him like a train as his mind grew heavy.
He was close. He was close, and he was positive Fyodor knew that too.
Like other aspects of their game, Fyodor had to be in control. During sex, there was nowhere Dazai could go, nothing he could do, without him controlling it. His body was Fyodor’s body, and if Dazai wanted to come, he could only hope that Fyodor would allow him.
“Dostoy–kun.”
“No,” he replied, thrusts increasing in speed.
“Please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
His thrusts didn’t stop, the gun continuously fucked into him, matched to the pace of the cock thrusting beside it. Soft groans billowed from Dazai’s mouth, sensitive from impending orgasm, as his body was ravaged—pulled apart at the seams by Fyodor’s hands. His tone trembled, soft begs weeping from lips, long since been ignored—nothing more than mindless noise. His cunt fluttered harshly, vision washing in white as groans escaped—trembling with curled toes.
Then, before Dazai could react, thrusts stopped: stimulation ceasing and orgasm receding as fast as it came.
His teeth bit through bottom lip, blood drawn as throbbing legs desperately shook. He knew it’d be useless to cry, face pressed solemnly into the ground.
After a few moments, the pace began again—thrusts fucking into him quick and harsh. It didn’t take long for Dazai to get close again, guard weakened from before.
His toes curled again, cunt desperately clenching once more—
Before nothing.
The cycle continued twice more—brutal edging weakening Dazai as Dostoevsky continued to fuck into him.
By now, his begging had become unintelligible: rationality long since gone. Chuuya’s presence no longer phased him, simply a figure tucked away in the corner, witnessing his decline, watching as he openly begged to come.
He couldn’t tell when he finally did—the number of “please”s melting into nothing. He wasn’t even sure how long they’d been doing this, the poison nearly done moving through their veins. The only thing Dazai could tell was the sensation of his orgasm hitting him, vision bleeding white as wails fled from throat. He could feel himself clenching as orgasm hit, a mess of piss and come spilling from his cunt and dripping onto the floor—the sound muffled only by his cries.
Dazai barely remembered the sensation of Fyodor’s orgasm—his not too far behind. He came little, but he made a show of doing it inside of Dazai’s sore pussy, with no care for the mess that dripped down his thighs. After pulling out, he attended to himself—tucking limp length away and checking for any stains on his attire.
The last thing he did was pull the gun from Dazai’s ass, ignoring the way the brunet cried and squeezed around it, as well as the way it was left open—fluttering around nothing.
Dostoevsky walked towards the looming vampire; his crimson gaze shadowed in the corner. He pressed the gun back into his hand, watching Chuuya’s expression for any fluctuation. When this was all over, he would remember to laugh and see to it that they’d both be there to witness it. “Do what you want with him. Then, dispose of him as previously instructed.”
With nothing more to be said, Fyodor turned on his heel, walking away from the two with hands in pockets. “It’s always a pleasure to play these games with you, Dazai.”
“Until we meet again.”