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The thing about going up against Dostoyevsky in a battle of wits is that it was two parts pre-planning and one part pretending that you planned for something when you were actually going with the flow and thinking on the fly. To the outside, it looked like an endless back and forth of 'if he knows that I know that he knows that I know', but for Dazai, it was more of a, 'I have these concrete measures and then a lot of vague plans to implement based entirely on vibes'.
A part of game theory, after all, was remaining adaptable to anything.
"Sigma," Dazai says, lightly, "that door should provide a decent barricade. Close it."
"That will leave you–" Sigma says, immediately, hovering by the door but not committing to shutting it.
"Oh, it's fine," Dazai says. "I have an idea of what this is about."
"What do you mean," Sigma hisses, but the guards are advancing on him and Dazai just flaps a hand. Sigma makes a despairing noise, but shoves the door closed, engaging the thick lock.
It won't protect him long-term, but Dazai is relatively sure the door won't need to stand up to much. Dazai doubts they're after Sigma in any real way.
The guards grab Dazai, and he relaxes his body to prevent the injuries that tensing up would give him. Dazai feels his ability try to activate: it stutters and fades away almost immediately, the vampirism a symptom and not the root of the problem, and Bram Stoker several thousand miles away.
"If you're anticipating that this will stop me–" Dazai begins, and Dostoyevsky cuts him off with an easy smile.
"I don't need to stop you. Merely delay you further," Dostoyevsky says, voice easy and sweet. "They'll stop you in whatever way they see fit, although I don't know that violence is their preferred method. Since they can't subdue you simply by turning you…"
Dazai's smile comes out more of a grimace, he's certain. "You're an even nastier fellow than you let on, you know."
"I'm merely letting those filthy human desires come to the surface," Dostoyevsky says, unconcerned. He drops a hand onto Chuuya's shoulder, leaning in close to his ear and still speaking loud enough for Dazai to hear him. "You watch, unless the rest of them get tired."
Chuuya doesn't react, eyes blank and teeth still faintly bared, fangs visible, body language that of a feral creature barely held back. Dostoyevsky pats Chuuya's shoulder as he leaves.
"Don't worry. If you manage to escape, I'll see it," Dostoyevsky says, gesturing at the surveillance cameras. Dazai, presently being forced onto his knees with his hands being restrained with something less like handcuffs and more like manacles, bares his teeth in a smile that properly exhibits his opinion on the situation.
Chuuya doesn't move, hackles raised. There are five guards – so far – but Dazai doesn't know if that's a number that will remain stationary. Dazai is unsurprised that there are guards alive and walking even after everything, despite his measures to the contrary.
For some definition of alive, he supposes.
One of them fists a hand into his hair to shove his head down, and one kicks his legs further apart, and Dazai pointedly looks up at the camera.
"Are you certain this isn't about your filthy human desires?" Dazai says. "It's awfully voyeuristic of you to–"
Dazai is cut off when three fingers are stuffed into his mouth. They're gloved, but it isn't like the fine-kept leather of Chuuya's gloves; they taste like rubber and plastic and the fabric instantly wicks away all the moisture in Dazai mouth. He fixes the guard in front of him with a very cross look. Predictably, the guard does not respond, given that he is currently under a vampiric thrall that has him acting on baser instincts.
Arguably, the guards are as much a victim as Dazai, in all this. Maybe more.
Dazai still does not think they're going to make it out of this room alive, when all is said and done, but then the fingers in his mouth are prying his jaw open wide enough that it sends a stripe of pain into his skull. His jaw is held open – rather needlessly, Dazai thinks, given he hasn't even made a token show of resistance – and the guard simply shoves his cock in alongside the fingers. It's still soft, but Dazai has to force his throat to relax regardless. He wasn't intending to bite to begin with, but he's blocked from it entirely like this.
Dazai offers a token show of obedience, his mouth still too dry to do much good when he runs his tongue over the surface of the man's cock. It doesn't seem to matter: it starts to fill out automatically, so Dazai supposes he doesn't exactly need to be as much of an active participant in this as he would otherwise.
There's a hand in his hair that forces him to take the man's cock even deeper into his throat, and Dazai's breathing is cut off for a second before the guard removes his cock and starts to push back in, the rhythm lazy enough that Dazai doesn't have any problems timing his own breathing to make sure he doesn't suffocate in the most undignified possible manner.
His pants are ripped down, and he spares a thought for the hope that they will, in fact, still be wearable after all of this, which is as far as he gets before several fingers are entering him dry and Dazai lets out a startled noise, trying to jerk away from it. He can hear Sigma hitting the door; he can't see through it but he could apparently hear that, so Dazai resolves to be markedly quieter.
Which is hard, when someone is simply spreading fingers in his asshole without the slightest bit of proper preparation. Dazai hisses, jerking; there's probably blood, but that is absolutely not a proper lubricant, it will make things worse--
The thing about blood, though, is that vampires have a vested interest in it. While they may not have had the intelligence required to use lube, they have the feral instincts to clean up the blood, which means that there is very suddenly a tongue at Dazai's asshole that he was markedly unprepared for, and he makes a noise around the cock in his mouth that sounds a little like a walrus being flattened by a semi-truck.
Not his best work, as far as staying quiet goes, but extraordinary circumstances and all that.
The upside is that even if the guards had any reservations about eating ass, that's apparently all fully vanished in the face of their vampirism. They have the sense not to bite, although Dazai does feel the fangs press hauntingly close to nicking his skin. He doesn't think they do, although it doesn't matter; he may not be able to cure their vampirism with his ability, but nor will it take root in him.
It would, however, hurt in a terribly undignified way.
More pressingly, the fact is that even if a vampire is the one non-consensually tonguing his asshole, it still feels good, particularly when compared to the previous sharp sensation of the fingers inside of him. Dazai weighs his options against the likelihood of Sigma hearing, and then, in an attempt to appeal to the vampire's feral sense of carnality, moans.
It drives the cock in his throat deeper for a long second, and Dazai is surprised when it's that easy for the man to come, hot down Dazai's throat. It's a little revolting, but it bypasses all of his tastebuds, so it's more the general knowledge than the specific occurrence that's the problem.
The fingers leave his mouth seconds before the cock, and then another one replaces it almost as quickly, jerking him forward. Dazai's knees scrape across the ground, and the vampire that had previously been lapping at his ass emits an annoyed growl, yanking Dazai's hips backwards and removing his knees fully from the ground. Dazai can't even use his arms to try to keep his balance, given they're bound behind him, so he's just held in the air by a hand in his hair, the cock down his throat, and the hands on his hips. This time, when a cock is shoved into his ass, it hurts markedly less, although Dazai wouldn't say it's still particularly enjoyable.
Dazai's eyes flicker up to the camera, sullenly. The room isn't large, so he's certain Dostoyevsky has a high-definition view of everything. Mentally, Dazai keeps track of the poison timer in his head; the vampires don't seem to have a very time-consuming amount of stamina, but he doesn't know their refractory period.
Granted, that's just the current situation; there's a few more things he's mentally adjusting for. Dostoyevsky won't have counted on this taking Dazai out for the entirety of the remaining time, and Dazai would hate to disappoint.
There's no more of Sigma beating on the door, which is a good enough sign that Dazai elects to offer a moan again. Intellectually, this is the least interesting sexual encounter of his life. Despite this, his body is still a little interested, so it doesn't feel as much like he's forcing the issue as it could otherwise.
Dazai feels a hand at his back and can't immediately place it on one of the two people already holding him, which is fine until there are fingers in his mouth again, alongside the cock. They're still covered by the gloves, but Dazai can't exactly taste them around the cock in his mouth. He still makes an annoyed sound, because it's that much harder for him to do anything with his tongue when he has so little room, and he is trying to make things easier on everyone.
Then the owner of the fingers starts shoving his cock in Dazai's mouth, too, and Dazai feels his jaw subluxate; he shifts it as much as he can to try and prevent a full dislocation, but it still makes an unsettling popping noise and the tell-tale pain. He grunts, stiffly; there's not much to do for it but hold through and hope the added friction gets them both off easier.
He could pick the manacles, but he doesn't see the point when they're still so focused on him, even if it's a rather burdensome kind of focus. There's more hands; it seems they're all starting to lose patience, which is convenient for Dazai's ever-depleting timer but less convenient for the limits of his body, because a second cock pressing into his ass is definitely more painful than pleasurable no matter how much pressure it puts on his prostate.
That should be all of them, at least, unless the one that came first decides he wants a second round, which Dazai hopes he doesn't. Dazai isn't exactly moaning with any intentionality, now, just sort of making pained groans whenever the thrusts at one end or the other line up in a way that causes particular discomfort.
Trying to breathe is harder, now; the tempo that they're keeping up isn't leaving much room at all for Dazai to try and get a breath in, so every time there's the smallest opportunity, he feels his chest heave with a gasp. Dazai can hold his breath for a long time, but when he's being fucked like this, he's using oxygen at a much higher rate than he'd like, and his vision keeps going a little dark at the edges.
"Gnn–" Dazai manages, and feels someone come in his ass but he can't tell which one. It's fine, because it means there'll only be one, soon, except instead he feels his entire back half being lifted further, fangs pressing to his hip–
The power shorts out, and in the same instant, both vampires at Dazai's back vanish. There's a series of sickening thuds; the emergency lights come on in time for Dazai to watch Chuuya simply grab both guards in the front and use them like bowling balls to knock over one of the others. He stomps on their skulls, and Dazai doesn't think it's hard enough to deliberately kill him, but he wouldn't exactly be surprised, either.
Dazai laughs, breathlessly, letting the manacles fall to the floor.
"That kid could have hit the power sooner," Chuuya snipes, immediately. "Fuck. How long do you still have?"
"Eight minutes or so," Dazai says, not moving from the ground, spending most of his energy trying to massage his jaw back into place. "You'll need to open the door for Sigma."
"With you like this?" Chuuya says, sounding disgusted as he flicks the contacts out of his eyes, one after the other. He reaches down and heaves Dazai up by the shoulders until his on his knees again, and Dazai reaches back, probing himself to see the extent of the damage. Nothing he can't recover from.
The upside, he supposes, is he's loose enough right now that he can just pry the come out of himself without much issue.
"I'm going to throw up," Dazai announces, cheerfully, and Chuuya rolls his eyes before he helps Dazai all the way up. Dazai steps towards the trash can; Chuuya, pointedly, grabs the back of Dazai's head and directs it to the currently incapacitated guards, and, well, Dazai isn't going to exactly turn down the chance at some petty, lukewarm revenge.
Once his stomach has been emptied well enough that he can pretend there's nothing foreign in his body, he starts to pull his pants back up properly. They're bloody in spots, but passable; the shirt is loose enough that he can pull it down over the back.
"Are you seriously hard?" Chuuya asks, and Dazai pauses.
"Well," Dazai says, "from a purely instinctual place, yes."
"I thought the pain would've overrode that," Chuuya says.
"We-e-ell," Dazai says, dragging the word out. "It's more that I protested the specific individuals rather than the whole theory."
Chuuya is about to reply when someone, very theatrically, clears their voice, and Dazai sighs.
"Yes?" Dazai says, turning to Gogol, who offers them both a blinding smile.
"I'll give you the antidote for free," Gogol says, "if you humor a humble request."
"I'm not going to like this," Chuuya says, looking like he has a headache coming on. Assuming there wasn't one already from the contacts he'd had in, anyway.
"You see, you're clearly going to escape," Gogol says, "and so is Dos-kun, although I imagine you both have plans to kill each other outside of my own nefarious deeds, correct?"
"I wonder," Dazai says, with a noncommittal shrug. (He does. Of course he does. He expects they each have a dozen or more, in fact.)
"Well, instead," Gogol says, cheerfully, "as I think it would disrupt Dos-kun's plans entirely, what if you were to do something even more time consuming?"
"What?" Chuuya says. "Are you telling us to make guards fuck him?"
"Oh, nothing so crass," Gogol says. "I want him to be the one experiencing it, of course, but you two would be far better… ah, Sigma could help, of course…"
"You're going to watch?" Dazai says, eyebrow raised.
Gogol beams at them. He does not answer one way or another.
"Wait," Chuuya says. "Wait, wait. You're proposing some kind of demented orgy--"
"Technically, if we are all fucking Dostoyevsky, it would be a gangbang."
"--in exchange for… what?" Chuuya says. "Just making his plans expire? There's no way it's that easy."
"Ah, you're right! How foolish!" Gogol says, with a little twirl of his cape. "Then, how's this: I'll transport all of you to where the rest of the action is happening? It would certainly put a dent in everyone's plans, no?"
Dazai's eyes sharpen. Chuuya looks at him and then makes a deeply aggrieved noise.
"You're really considering it," Chuuya says, sounding pained.
"Exclude Sigma," Dazai says, "and I'll agree."
Gogol looks delighted. "Wonderful! I have a variety of extra tools to make things more fun--"
-
The agreement doesn't not benefit Dostoyevsky, even if the smile he pastes on his face is incredibly strained when Gogol states all the terms.
"I didn't know you were so intrigued at the prospect," Dostoyevsky says.
"You weren't the only one watching on the camera," Gogol says, cheerfully. "And I thought, wow! Dazai-kun looks like he might cry!"
Dazai blinks, looking at Chuuya.
"You didn't," Chuuya says, dryly, as someone who has seen (made) Dazai cry before under similar contexts.
"If a performance of mine could make Dos-kun cry," Gogol says, bending down to trace his fingers lovingly across Dostoyevsky's cheekbone, which Dostoyevsky puts up with, "I think I would be very content regardless of the outcome of this big of pageantry."
"To clarify," Dostoyevsky says, "I'm meant to satisfy everyone in this room?"
"Ah, I'll take care of Chuuya," Dazai offers, raising a hand. "You can take care of Gogol-kun."
Gogol nods, several times, considering this. "You can use Dos-kun's mouth, then!"
Dazai suddenly understands the strained expression on Dostoyevsky's face, because he thinks he might be making the same one. "Pass."
"Ah, but first," Gogol says, and with a sweep of his arm drags his cloak across the table, various kinds of equipment spilling out. "I wasn't certain what it would take to make Dos-kun cry, so I thought that I would get a little of this, a little of that…"
Dostoyevsky murmurs something quiet and sharp in Russian that Dazai is fairly certain is a genuine expression of annoyance.
"This is your fault," Dazai says, flatly. "You're the one who had the guards delay me with their dicks. You gave him the idea."
"You truly think he didn't have a hand in that?" Dostoyevsky shoots back, and Dazai sticks his tongue out, because yeah, this entire thing has Gogol's particular brand of cruel insanity all over it, start to finish.
"I'll ask," Gogol says, cheerfully, his gaze sharp when it lands on Chuuya and Dazai, "you to demonstrate for me exactly how it's done."
"Oi," Chuuya says.
"Unless you'd prefer me to use him as practice…?" Gogol asks, innocently, and Chuuya growls at him, which is a little more intimidating when he still has the fake fangs in his mouth. "I thought not."
Dazai would actually quite prefer no one be inside of him in any capacity after the absolute train that was run on him earlier. He's still smarting, here and there, from it, but he trusts Chuuya enough to operate around it all.
"Oh, and don't try just making yourself cry to get out of it," Gogol warns. "I'll be able to tell."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Dazai says, even though he had definitely considered it (and discarded it -- Dostoyevsky would never let him get away with it, even if it might have benefitted him in the long run).
"I don't need most of this shit to make him cry," Chuuya says, frowning at the array of accessories Gogol has brought. "What do you want me to use?"
"Oh, you don't want to pick?" Gogol says, and the way he grins makes Dazai feel a little nervous.
"Top three," Chuuya says, instantly, and Gogol deflates.
"Top five?"
"Three," Chuuya repeats, looking deeply unimpressed.
"Hmm," Gogol says. He looks at Dostoyevsky, considering him for a long moment, clearly debating what he wants to do -- or wants an excuse to do -- to him. "In that case…"
Gogol slides over an over-the-top bondage harness set that would have Dazai's hands clipped to his neck and a gag in his mouth, considers his options for a moment longer, and then slides over a particularly large vibrator.
"The last one, I'll give you an option!" Gogol says. "You see, I'm interested in both, but they're rather specific in how they must be kept…"
He slides over a set of candles, followed by a cooler that has some exceedingly phallic-shaped ice.
"You're demented," Chuuya says, flatly. "Give me the ice."
Which is what Dazai would certainly prefer, at this point, even if either of the choices weren't terribly enthralling.
"Oh, I know! Isn't it wonderful? And to think, I get to use my boundless creativity for such an intriguing premise!" Gogol chirps, like being told he's insane is both an everyday occurrence (which it may be) and also a compliment (which he probably genuinely takes it as).
Dazai heaves a longsuffering sigh. The entire vampire guard situation had been annoying, inconvenient, and rather gross, but aside from a few outlier moments from which Dazai is still sore, hadn't been terribly horrendous, as far as such things go.
"Whatever. Dazai, get naked," Chuuya says. "You've got two of all this shit, right? You're not reusing it."
"I came very prepared," Gogol assures him.
Dazai sighs, dropping off his clothing without much pretense. He's not taking off the bandages, and he doesn't think anyone is going to try to make him, so it's fine.
Chuuya inspects the harness with an annoyed look, muttering something about impractical buckles before he directs Dazai lower with a vague gesture of his hand. Dazai goes down, and Dostoyevsky hums.
"My," Dostoyevsky. "How obedient."
"You'll do the same," Dazai says, with a smile he does not feel, "when he tells you to, won't you?"
Dostoyevsky's smile looks equally hollow as his eyes flick to Gogol and then back to Dazai.
Chuuya clips the harness on. The strap around Dazai's neck is uncomfortable in both tightness and thickness, and when his wrists are clipped in, the stretch is uncomfortable, wrists pressed to the back of his neck and elbows straight up at the ceiling in a strain on his shoulders. Chest straps; waist straps; straps around his ass. There's an attached cock ring, because of course there is. The straps on his ankles have a built-in spreader bar, and Chuuya snorts disparagingly at it.
"Like you need help keeping your legs apart," Chuuya says.
Dazai laughs, which is a fairly hollow sound, and the last one he's going to be able to make articulately, because there's nothing left but the gag that Chuuya fastens. Chuuya's hands are careful; it's a ring gag, and he positions it behind Dazai's teeth while letting his fingers press carefully into his jaw to keep it from locking up immediately. It probably won't help entirely -- not when it's going to be in for awhile, Dazai imagines -- but hopefully by the time it becomes an issue, Dazai will be in a state where he cares significantly less.
"How considerate," Dostoyevsky starts, and then Gogol grabs him by the wrist and spins him around before he can say anything else.
"Dos-kun," Gogol says, "that means it's your turn!"
Dostoyevsky's pleasant expression becomes strained again. "You wouldn't prefer to see more of their… demonstration?"
"Oh, it's more of a follow-the-leader," Gogol says, confidently. "After all, it's going to take quite a bit of work to make either of you cry."
Dostoyevsky's face has a much more sour expression on as he slowly reaches down to pull the hem off his shirt up and over his head. Gogol doesn't waste much time at all; he descends on him in a flurry of buckles and straps.
Dazai notes that unlike Chuuya, Gogol starts with the gag. That's fair. Dostoyevsky and Dazai are both considerably less annoying when they can't actually speak. Dostoyevsky's eyes lock with Dazai in a way that says he knows exactly what Dazai is thinking, and that he both resents and resembles it.
Paraphrased, of course.
"You don't have a bed in there, do you?" Chuuya says. "Or a couch or something?"
"Hmm," Gogol says, Dostoyevsky grimacing slightly as his own wrists are attached to his collar, "I have a nice stool or two I'd be willing to sacrifice."
"He's not gonna be able to stay upright once we start," Chuuya says.
Gogol, with a flourish, produces a stool that was definitely designed exactly for this purpose.
Dazai makes a particularly cross noise, because this feels like Gogol getting a free fourth option in what he was allowed to pick.
"Shut up, this will be easier for you," Chuuya says.
And worse for Dostoyevsky, at least, who seems to be considerably less pliant than Dazai. He should consider stretching more.
"You're not going to let me move his arms, are you," Chuuya says, flatly.
"That would be against the rules, wouldn't it?" Gogol chirps.
"Fine," Chuuya says. He pushes Dazai down over the stool; it's partially hollow in the center, so Dazai's cock doesn't get any pressure against it, which is becoming a considerably more annoying problem the longer this goes on. It does, however, leave Dazai better braced, and it's long enough that he can brace his arms and forehead on it to keep that part of him supported.
"You're not gonna see his face this way," Chuuya says.
"Oh, I imagine you'll move him eventually," Gogol says, with a smile that has too many teeth. He already has a hand around Dostoyevsky's cock, and Dostoyevsky is staring determinedly at the wall. Gogol hasn't bothered to let Dostoyevsky onto a stool, keeping Dostoyevsky simply on his knees, pressed awkwardly back against Gogol.
Chuuya rolls his eyes and grabs one of the ice dicks.
"Oh?" Gogol says. "Wouldn't it be better to use those afterwards? They'll make him less sensitive, won't they?"
"No," Chuuya says, shortly, and doesn't elaborate further.
Dazai tenses when he feels it press against his entrance. For a second, it feels good; it's soothing on him in a way that's almost a relief, after what he'd been through earlier. Then it very quickly crosses over into too cold, and that's with just the tip in.
"Ngh," Dazai offers, because he's fairly certain this is not the time to be stoic. Chuuya keeps pressing it in, and it's so cold it feels three times as large as it must actually be. "Hnn--"
"How interesting," Gogol chirps, and Dazai can feel his gaze. "Does he normally control himself better than this?"
"No," Chuuya repeats, equally as shortly, and switches hands, adjusting his grip so he can pull it back out partway. Dazai jerks his hips, automatically; ice against his prostate doesn't exactly feel good, but it's still more than he's getting anywhere else, given his cock is just hanging there. It's not like he's going to get any less aroused, especially with the cock ring there.
"My, he must trust you," Gogol says.
Chuuya grunts, but doesn’t say anything else. He lets go of the ice and Dazai's ass simply swallows it; there's a flared base, but that doesn't mean a whole lot when the entire thing is melting. Dazai could keep himself stock-still, but he doesn't want to when he knows the ultimate goal of this, so he lets himself squirm back against it.
Chuuya puts his hands on Dazai's hips, forcing them still, and Dazai whines. "Stay."
Dazai whines again, letting one shudder go through him before stilling. Gogol whistles. Chuuya's hands vanish for a moment, and then Chuuya's hand is tangling into Dazai's hair, jerking his head up and slipping one of the other pieces of ice inside the gag in his mouth. The flared base keeps it from being swallowed, which is good, because Dazai's throat convulses around it. It's deep enough that he can't dislodge it; he can barely use his tongue to try and push it up.
"Don't," Chuuya says, keeping it firmly in place with a finger.
Dazai groans, but settles again; he's shaking, faintly, because he feels cold from the inside. He can see Dostoyevsky staring at him, eyes wide, and it seems like Gogol's dedication to Dostoyevsky's cock -- or Dostoyevsky's own personal kinks -- are working, because Dostoyevsky is also hard, now, leaking around the cock ring.
Dazai somehow thinks Dostoyevsky has less experience in this kind of thing. He'd feel bad for him if he didn't hate him.
Chuuya takes his finger off the ice in the gag; it's slowly dripping down the gag to trail down Dazai's lips and chin, which doesn't feel anywhere near as bad as the one still melting inside his ass. They're thick, so even with his body heat, it's not exactly going quick.
"You wanted them to cry, right?" Chuuya says.
"Absolutely," Gogol responds, gleefully.
"Give me the candle," Chuuya says, and Dazai groans again, shifting as he tries to communicate that he absolutely does not want that right now. Chuuya puts his hand over Dazai's throat; closes his grip enough that Dazai's blood supply drops and the ice in his throat shifts slightly. "Shut up, Dazai."
A part of Dazai supposes, ruefully, that his desire for this to not happen is extra insurance that Chuuya will, in fact, get him to cry, but Dazai would really rather the entire thing not happen and especially for it to not happen in front of Dostoyevsky.
Instead, Gogol tosses Chuuya a candle, and Dazai hears the lighter click on.
"If you drop the ice in your mouth," Chuuya says, "we start over."
Dazai's stomach twists, and then he wraps his lips and tongue around the ice as best he can to keep it in place. It's messy and awkward, and makes it that much colder, but he doesn't drop it. If Dazai doesn't let his head dip down, he isn't at as much of a risk of dropping it, but holding his head up is straining his neck and his arms in a way that he's not sure he can maintain if things continue as they are.
Dazai reflects, idly, that Chuuya usually prefers to take a lot longer to get to this point. He is moving quicker.
Then Dazai stops doing anything idly because there's wax dripping down his ass, and it's searing hot against flesh that's already artificially chilled. It would feel like burning even if it was on his regular bare skin; on his skin that's been rendered cold and slick by the ice, it's intolerable. Dazai wants to scream; he doesn't, choking it down, swallowing hard around the ice in his mouth.
If it was just Chuuya, Dazai thinks he would already be tamping down on his thoughts and leaving nothing but the blank feeling of it. Dazai is purposefully not compartmentalizing the pain, hasn't been dissociating away from the pleasure since this began, and it means that he's too aware of all of it. He turns his head, straining his shoulder to press his face into his own arm. He can't keep anything in his mouth like this. He doesn't think he'd be able to even if he wasn't wearing an altogether entirely too impractical gag.
He whines, and it has the cadence of Chuuya's name. Chuuya doesn't respond, not verbally, but when wax drips down Dazai's ribcage, it's over an old scar, and Chuuya's other hand moves across the rise of Dazai's ass, almost imperceptibly, in a slow movement of comfort. Dazai remembers getting that scar – stray bullet in a fight with Chuuya; Chuuya'd bitched about how useless Dazai's bandages were the entire time he'd put pressure on it, the entire way to the infirmary.
Dazai hears a grunt from Dostoyevsky, but can't spare the energy required to look at him to see how he's faring. Dostoyevsky seems rather disinclined to make noise, and Dazai can only imagine he's still in the mindset that making noise would be losing. Dazai doesn't have that hang up. Well. Not anymore, at least; Chuuya was always rather ruthlessly efficient at getting Dazai to make noise whether or not he wanted to. At this point, Dazai feels early surrender is the smartest path.
Dazai's mind is creating too many thoughts to follow: he keeps trying to chase after one or the other and losing them partway. Every time the wax drips onto his skin, he flinches minutely, and every flinch makes him aware of the ice all over again, the cold and the heat both feeling like he's being scalded. Chuuya could have been dripping ice instead of wax and Dazai would scarcely have known the difference, at this point, the sensations too close to tell apart.
"You can drop it," Chuuya says, quietly, into Dazai's ear, and Dazai whines, because even with that he can't quite move. He doesn't move for a few seconds longer, until something presses at his entrance and forces the remnants of the ice fully inside him, flared base having melted enough that it's little more than a suggestive bump. It keeps going further inside of him, and Dazai realizes that as cold as he thought he was it isn't anything compared to this feeling.
Something else presses inside of him, and Dazai has the concentration required to recognize it as the tip of that large vibrator from earlier, and then very little other concentration. The second the tip is inside of him, Chuuya turns it on; the sound is horrifyingly loud in the room, and Dazai jerks, the sudden flood of sensation on his prostate enough to make his cock jump. Dazai flinches fully backwards, expecting Chuuya to stop him – the remaining ice in Dazai's mouth falls to the floor, and Dazai's movement only pushes the vibrator further into himself.
This time, when Dazai garbles out something resembling Chuuya's name (the latter syllable is the only one remotely intelligible, really), Chuuya hauls him upright by the collar, and Dazai can't breathe for the brief second that makes him feel like he's in free fall backwards. Chuuya doesn't let go entirely; keeps one finger looped underneath the collar in a way that restricts but doesn't entirely cut off Dazai's breathing. Dazai's eyes open, and he sees Dostoyevsky for a brief second, pinned in place by some physics-defying aspect of Gogol's ability and being casually fucked open by a copy of the same vibrator. Dostoyevsky's face is red, and while his eyes are glassy, it looks like he's more furious than anything else – which isn't fully convincing when his cock is as red as his face is.
"Don't look at him," Chuuya snaps, forcing Dazai's back to bow. Dazai whines again, and Chuuya presses the vibrator in until it's trapped inside of Dazai. Dazai's hips jerk when the setting kicks up higher – it hadn't occurred to him that it wasn't already on the highest setting, given how overwhelming it feels – and then Chuuya simply turns them around, dropping himself to sit on the edge of the stool and dropping Dazai into his lap. Dazai's legs are still artificially spread, so his balance feels precarious, and the movement forces the vibrator deeper inside of him.
"Ah, but I can't see now," Gogol chirps, tone pitched like he's playfully delivering a fact about birds and not a threat veiled as an innocuous statement.
"Let me take off the bar," Chuuya says, "and I'll make sure you can."
Ah, Dazai thinks, realizing that Chuuya had been cleverly gaining the leverage for the negotiation the entire time. Gogol seems to realize it, too, and he hums thoughtfully.
"If you must," Gogol says. "Ah, Dos-kun, aren't I magnanimous?"
Not to Dostoyevsky, apparently, because when Chuuya frees Dazai's legs and flips him back over, letting Dazai fall onto his knees, Dostoyevsky is still fully bound.
Everything is getting far away in the way that it does, when Dazai is feeling a complicated swell of emotion trapped behind the steadily increasing desire to chase his own orgasm and then float somewhere pleasant for awhile afterwards. He knows that the floating simply won't be happening, even if the orgasm does, but the orgasm is still far enough away that he just feels helplessly frustrated as the pleasure builds.
Dazai has cried at Chuuya's hands before, although it's usually under much different circumstances. Chuuya tends to favor dragging things out in a way that makes Dazai crazy without any of these extras. It's not like Dazai would be averse to any of them, but not like this --
"Come on," Chuuya says, quietly. He's sliding a finger inside of Dazai alongside the vibrator, purposefully pressing it hard against Dazai's prostate, and Dazai makes a choked off whine.
"Hngh--" Dazai offers, because it's too much, it's too much, it's too much; his orgasm is building and there's only so much he can do to hold it back. Chuuya's encouragement means Dazai is pretty sure he knows how this is going to go, and there's a thrum of arousal mixed with terrified anticipation at it, because normally he wouldn't complain but--
"Dazai," Chuuya says, quietly, patiently. "Come on."
More than anything, it's the encouragement that does it; Dazai comes harder than the situation warrants, given that this hardly counts as a lengthy session even if he includes the earlier waste of time that was the guards. The cock ring doesn't prevent the orgasm, just magnifies it, and Dazai knows, even as the pleasure makes his toes curl and his breathing stutter to a halt, that it's not going to stop there.
He's not crying yet. He probably could be, if he made himself; he doesn't want to count on Gogol -- or Dostoyevsky -- being fooled.
Dazai's afterglow is short lived, as expected: Chuuya turns the vibrator up further, and Dazai whines, deep in his throat.
"Oh? Is that a better way?" Gogol asks, his voice chipper. Dazai does not raise his head; he doesn't care what Gogol is doing to Dostoyevsky right now. He could not even begin to care right now, because there's not pleasure; the vibrator is just sending electric sparks of feeling, so strong they feel like pain and yet aren't.
"Yeah," Chuuya says, and nothing else. He has a hand on Dazai's hip, and Dazai tries to scrabble himself away from the feeling on instinct. Chuuya doesn't have to do much to hold him there. Dazai makes himself still.
Normally, it would take Dazai several orgasms to get to this point; right now, his desperation for pleasure and his desperation for everything to stop is mixing together into a series of feelings he rather hopes he never has to revisit.
"Hhhya," is all Dazai really manages, to convey this sentiment.
Chuuya makes a noise that sounds almost annoyed, and the vibrator switches off. Dazai pants through the gag for the few seconds of relief he has, barely catching his breath before Chuuya is turning it on again. Dazai wails against it, the feeling that much more intense for the momentary lack of it, and he can feel his cock filling out again.
Dazai is dimly aware of Gogol: of Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky is starting to make small noises, unwilling gasps with the hint of a vowel sound, and Dazai would feel spiteful triumph if he didn't feel so miserably overstimulated.
"You can do it again, can't you?" Chuuya says, and Dazai whines. He can't, not this quickly; not with everything that's been happening, not with the way this is happening-- "Shh. It's just me. You can do it again."
Dazai's entire body shakes. His hips buck, his hands flex, and he garbles out something adjacent to Chuuya's name. He can't yet. He can't.
Dazai's jaw is sore from the gag and from earlier, and in a moment of sheer desperation, he forces his jaw open further; flips the ring flat against his tongue. He still can't speak clearly, but when he manages Chuuya's name, it comes out much more clearly; the please after that is actually intelligible.
Chuuya's hand winds into his hair and jerks his head up. Dazai tries to focus on what's ahead of him but he can't, everything is blurry, everything is -- oh.
"That's what you wanted to see, right?" Chuuya snaps, and Dazai is aware that there are tears in his eyes even if he isn't consciously crying. Dazai would like to not be consciously doing anything, actually.
"How wonderful!" Gogol says, and his tone is a little off. Dazai blinks; it clears his vision enough that he can see that Gogol, for his part, is definitely having entirely too much fun with the combination of the vibrator and ice. Dostoyevsky already looks wrecked. Dazai doesn't even care.
"Then we're leaving," Chuuya says, and the vibrator turns off instantly.
"That seems like it would be rather frustrating," Gogol says, cheerfully.
"For you, maybe," Chuuya snaps.
"You know, technically, you--"
"I made him cry," Chuuya says. "That's what I agreed to do. Hold up your end."
Gogol heaves a sigh. Dazai tunes him out, because he's busy trying to gain some kind of control over his body and not going the greatest job even as Chuuya starts undoing all the straps keeping him restrained.
"Alright," Gogol says, and then he's dropping Dostoyevsky onto the ground, casually. Dostoyevsky makes a sound that Dazai has certainly never heard him make before, but knows is one he's made himself. Dostoyevsky still manages to make it sound indignant, though, which is a neat trick.
Chuuya is tossing Dazai's clothes at him and Dazai pulls on his shirt and not much else before Gogol is sweeping his cape over them and everything changes in a brief eclipse of darkness.
Then Gogol is gone, and Dostoyevsky is gone, and they're in an empty airport control center.
"Chuuya," Dazai says, "please tell me what you see down there."
"Uh," Chuuya says. "Verlaine, actually."
"Oh, wonderful," Dazai says. "Then with Dostoyevsky so waylaid, things should be fine."
"That's a word for it," Chuuya says, dryly. He steps back over to Dazai, his eyes still sharp as he takes in the whole of the damage. "How's your--"
"My jaw is still somewhat loose," Dazai says, cheerfully, "so all things considered, I think it would be an excellent time to finish things properly."
"They're fighting for their lives down there," Chuuya says, flatly, even as Dazai forces himself up onto his knees again and grabs Chuuya's belt.
"I'm fighting for my life here," Dazai says, cheerfully. "I've left you hanging too long."
Chuuya rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest further.
"Besides," Dazai says. "With Dostoyevsky occupied like that, we've got at least half an hour before we need to take care of things."
"There is no way you planned for this," Chuuya says, dryly.
"I'm planning as we speak," Dazai says, and then wraps his mouth around Chuuya's dick.
It takes significantly less than half an hour before they're ready to go take care of things; it takes significantly longer than that to try and actually fix any of those things. By the time everything is settled -- Hunting Dogs and vampires and abilities and the Agency still criminals -- Dazai's jaw is healed. He informs Chuuya of this triumphantly, as part of his justification for why he should be allowed to Hide Out Indefinitely At Chuuya's Apartment, which Dazai rather thinks is one of his most brilliant plans yet.
"I want to see what you'd do with wax," Dazai offers, "if you could take your time."
"I actually hate you," Chuuya says, and does not kick Dazai out.