berryzai

[berryzai]

MOVING BLOGS!! PLEASE FOLLOW @fleursdaydreams instead ♡

[berryzai]

MOVING BLOGS!! PLEASE FOLLOW @fleursdaydreams instead ♡

[berryzai]

⊹ DIGITAL BATH

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE MORE . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 4k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, gn!reader, switch!Dazai, mentions of scars, cock worship, finger sucking, spit, oral (m!receiving), anal fingering, nipple play (m!receiving), dirty talk, cum eating, itty bit of Dazai-typical mindgames, just feeding fruit to tired spoiled Osamu and then blowing him like he deserves

reid: i wanna fingerbang this mfker so good it makes him believe in love

“Such a long fuckin’ day.” 

Osamu’s grumbling, wrapping himself around you from behind. 

On any other evening, you’d be inclined to mock that it’s always a long day for him when he’s throwing balled-up paper at Kunikida's head, guilting Atsushi into doing his paperwork for him, and slipping out of the office under the guise of fetching snacks for Ranpo just to go lean against the railing of Bankoku Bridge and gaze longingly at the water—but frankly, there’s two factors at play keeping you from doing so. 

One: his regular dramatics are nowhere to be seen. You hadn’t even realized he was on his way in until the door shut behind him—he’s normally sing-songing your name before he even opens it, before he’s bouncing over to you to ask what’s for dinner while he complains about the long day he had in that all too-spry voice of his. This evening, he’s subdued. Quiet complaints, quiet shuffling, quiet breath on your ear as he latches onto you.  The second is that, when you turn around from the counter to face him, he looks like he’s had a long day.

His messy hair seems messier. His eyes aren’t so wide and sparkly, and he’s got a nasty bruise blossoming on the apple of his left cheek—you bite back, too, the instinctual urge to tease and ask if it’s Chuuya’s doing. 

“Baby,” you coo, bringing your hands up to cup his face (pointedly avoiding the bruise). “I didn’t even cook. Was just cutting up some fruit.” 

“That’s okay,” he sighs, seemingly content to be under your grasp. He really does look exhausted as he grins weakly and slumps into your hold, faltering down to brush a kiss against your lips. “Cut up some strawberries, too, please.” 

“Mhm.” You kiss him back, short and sweet—not entirely pleased with such a concise request, but happy to indulge it regardless. “Go get comfy, I’ll be there in a sec.” 

So he does. He wanders off; you dump your fruit into a bowl, fetch the (thankfully not moldy) strawberries from the fridge, and toss those in, too, also preparing a glass of ice water for him for good measure. No guarantee he’ll drink it, but at least it’ll be there. 

When you pad to your bed, he’s sitting, pulling a shirt over his bare torso—the local bandages lay at his feet. A rewrap for tomorrow, you think absently, hopping like a cat onto the opposite side and kicking the covers back; not that he’ll have any use for them—the beginnings of stirrings in your brain will come to fruition more beautifully, anyway, should he leave them be. 

His quietness always spooks you a little; you hope nothing too terrible happened today, because if he wanted to talk about it, he undoubtedly would’ve started by now. 

There are very few things a bowl of cut fruit and your gentle fingertips can’t begin to mend, though. 

You flick the light out, turn the television on, lean over to abandon the water on his side table; Osamu plucks a strawberry from the bowl you nestle in your lap and cuddles up to your side. Half a fat cherry gushes between your teeth; you peck the crown of his head. 

Even if he is uncharacteristically quiet, you do always find a bit of joy in fussing over him. You might not draw from him what exactly is on his mind, but you can hold him while it simmers, take care of him—it’s one of the things you do best, after all, and you’re well aware Osamu likes being taken care of. 

He’s painted soft, staticky colors from whatever sitcom plays. You curl the arm that’s fallen behind his head to twirl his hair between your fingers, toy with the shoulder of his shirt; you can feel the tension in him. But before you move, you let the fruit in the bowl dwindle. Better if he eats. 

When his eyes flutter shut and he nudges you, mouth open like some sort of sultan, you shake your head (chuckling) and place a few halved grapes on his tongue. 

You don’t know if he knows how proud you are of him; you tell him plenty, sure, but thinking back to the quip you’re relieved to have held back today, you wonder briefly why he only ever complains gratuitously about the easy days and never the ones that leave him like this. It fills you with a certain sorrow—one that shapeshifts swiftly into determination.

“Last one’s yours.” You pan back in, referring to the sole strawberry left. 

“Mm.” Again, wordlessly, he demands you feed it to him. You concede, of course, with a sleepy grin of your own. 

It’s when his tongue flicks out to lick the remnants of sweetness off your fingertips that you strike; only when you fiddle with his bottom lip do his owl eyes flicker open to peer up into yours. 

Juxtaposition is a fascinating thing. You don’t know what happened today. You don’t know what’s happened on most of the darker days he’s left trailing behind him—you might never know all of it, other than it’s been horrible, scarring, gutting both for him and those staring down the barrel of the gun that is Osamu Dazai—but he looks so innocent before he takes your finger, all the way to the second knuckle, into his mouth to swirl his tongue around. 

You can’t help biting the inside of your cheek. 

As his jaw flexes around you, you press your middle finger in, too. Those brown eyes never falter from yours, nor does the quiet smile in them; any remaining strawberry is long gone, swallowed down, but Osamu sucks on your fingers with fervor, nearly nodding like he’s drawing some other sort of elixir from you—one that will compel him to keep moving forth another day, perhaps, and as he does, his ankles knock against yours. 

“Needy boy, huh.” It’s a statement, not a question, which he needn’t deny or confirm; the attention you shower him with after the days that drag him to hell extends to all the vulnerabilities he doesn’t allow another soul to see—the ones that stem from a depth left neglected by any previous excuse for a caretaker he might’ve had. 

Whereas, you’d be damned if you casted aside a single inch of that void. 

So you poke a kiss to the corner of his mouth before you latch onto his neck—an I’ll be back here later—softly, with just lips first, then tongue, and finally teeth. You find his pulse point and bite, dragging spit-coated fingers down his chin, past his throat to his nipple. 

The exhale from his chest prompts your knee into his lap like the kickback of a gunshot. Rolling equally into you, Osamu tugs you by your arms on top of him, across his hips so you can hunch over him and kiss, bite, kiss, bite, worship from above in the little rhythm you have that's so familiar to his fatigued body. 

Fingers flitting, you creep up his shirt. 

You work his sleep shirt off, too slow for his liking. Something he loves about what you do, though, is how you never even mind the scars; you look at the exposed, marred flesh of his chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen like it’s empty and pristine only until you mark it up yourself. There are fading bite marks, ones from maybe a few days or a week ago, across the curves where his pectorals slope into his collarbones, and you take it upon yourself to retrace, refresh them as you caress up and down from his shoulders to his hips and back again, doting and unhurried. He sighs for you. 

The empty bowl’s lost somewhere outside the searing kiss you land to his panting mouth (one of you has likely tossed it, kicked it, or pushed it to the floor), and his hands wander, eager to offer fair exchange—but you’re quick to stop him, slow him, lick his bottom lip and pin one of his wrists to the headboard beside him before you mutter, “Let me take care of you, ‘kay?” 

In true Osamu fashion, he whines, not unlike a cat being denied a treat; after all, for him, half the fun of fucking is getting you off—but tonight, you smell insincerity in his protest, have sensed the smallness that silently begs yes, please, take care of me, and you find yourself grinning into his mouth. Osamu’s rarely straightforward; he gets what he wants anyway. 

So, in equally as true Osamu fashion, he’ll sit pretty and let you send him to the clouds. 

You creep with lips and fingertips back to his chest, to his nipples, where you both know he’s so sensitive; you could make Osamu cum just from your tongue on those pretty, pink buds of his—you have before—but you feel determined to work him up thoroughly, take your time with all of him, all of his distress, right now. 

“Want that pretty mouth on me, baby,” he confesses, quieter and meeker than usual. He keeps drilling home how tired he is—here he is, telling you what he wants so soon. 

You finish sucking a particularly harsh mark into his sternum. “It is on you.” 

“Mm—no, on me.” And then his hand, the one not held hostage by you, is pushing yours down to his cock, beginning to stiffen in his sweatpants.

“Be patient.” You rise back up to kiss him again, swatting him away just to toy with him over his pants; Osamu chases your breath with his own, hungrily, fingers flexing and relaxing in your grasp when you squeeze him, circle your thumb over his tip, nip at his mouth. “I'll make you feel good.”

It’s when you sit yourself down fully on his growing erection and begin to grind back and forth that he starts whining against your lips. 

You hold his face to yours, smile into him reflexively; it’s so easy to make him mewl. For as much composure as Osamu holds in every other corner of his life, your bed is the one place it tends to escape him, and you live to watch him crumble for you. You live to feel his jaw work into your kiss, to trace adoration into his skin, to hear the little whimpers he lets out rise in decibel the longer you drag him out. You love it most of all because he deserves it—to let go, retreat from himself into your touch. 

“Please,” he whispers into you, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. It might be nothing to make him whine, but it’s no small feat, reducing Osamu Dazai to begging. That you didn’t even have to try tells you he needs this—he needs you; no matter how much he might’ve lied if you asked or banked on you missing it, you know the outline of that word on his lips, and he knows you know it, too. So you grind, not faster but harder, slipping your tongue into his pliant mouth. 

After letting his wrist go, after he grabs your hip and presses you onto him feverishly with a few more of your undulations, you work your way down him again—stopping not at his chest this time but between his hips, waiting to peel the waistband of his sweatpants down and off until you've first circled his belly button and the gradual path of hair that disappears beneath the fabric with kisses growing more intense from one moment to the next. You seek out the little layer of fat stretching across his tummy and bite there, too; he grabs your hair and snickers, watching you through squinted eyes while he tells you hoarsely to stop, it tickles! And you relent with a giggle of your own only to kneel, shove his pants down, and settle on your stomach where you urge each of his knees over your shoulders. 

You look up and think, god, you wish you could photograph him right now. Gazing down at you, lips parted with breathlessness, Adam's apple bobbing as you tease him; he's a quiet image of ecstasy as he curls his hands around your face, only because he trusts you to let him be. When you pause and admire for a moment too long, his lithe fingers take root in your hair; he's wiggling, saying please with his low-lidded eyes and desperate hips only so he won't have to subject himself to verbalizing it again. 

You wrap an arm beneath his thigh to seek out his cock, finally, sweetly; you hold him up, lick a slow stripe from base to tip up the underside, and Osamu croons. 

“Uh—yeah, was wondering when you'd get to the whole making-me-feel-good part.”

Just when you thought you had him. 

With your free hand, you swat his leg—impatient and sassy, even while he's running on fumes. Roguish in every sense of the word, still, while you’re taking such good care of him. His spark wants to have you grinning; you try to hide the inevitable reaction by burying your face in him, lapping sweetly, diligently at the spot between his base and his balls that should shut him up. 

“You're so mean, you know?” 

You can tell from his tone he's smirking.

“Ngh—telling me to be patient wh—while I beg for you—”

Really, it should have shut him up. But he keeps going. 

“—Mhm—yeah,” he exhales, one heel digging into your back—telling you he's going to fall apart faster than he's letting on. “You always know just—uh—just where to... t’—”

In a rarer display of force you reach behind yourself for his shin, gripping it, bending it up close to him and freeing your other arm; with this, you reach up, stuff your pre-cum dabbled fingers back in his mouth—to which he can only respond with a muffled mph! and widening eyes. 

Your patience to have him drop the facade is thinning. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow to shove your fingers deeper and look up into his face. 

“How about you be quiet, Osamu?” you pose gently; your fingerpads on his tongue are anything but, and he's squirming at the loss of pleasure. “Get my fingers nice n’ wet while you’re at it.”

Osamu’s teeth are in your knuckles a little too harsh to be considered polite, but you thrust them toward the back of his tongue anyway; he holds your eyes, you shoo his legs open further so as not to have to work around them as you resume stroking him lazily, and you tilt your head, admiring again. He hums around you, sighs through his nose while he laps you up, so you pick up the talking. 

“So cute when you shut up.” 

You retract your fingers momentarily to squish his cheeks—the face as well as the sound he makes is nothing short of adorable, less in the contrived sense and more in the literal as his nose scrunches; you want to adore him by making him come, and you will, but not before thrusting your fingers back into his bratty mouth immediately. 

“When have I ever left you unsatisfied, huh?” You don’t wait for an answer. “When have I ever not given my good boy what he needs?” 

It’s rhythmic, how he echoes the cadence of good boy with his body—first in the way his hips buck into you, and next in the groan you don’t let pass his teeth. 

“That’s right. You're smart enough to know by now when I want you to shut up and take it.”

Pushing yourself up—leaving him squirming again—you leave hardly a second between replacing your fingers with your mouth, sloppy, all breath, nipping at the tip of his tongue; Osamu loves when you kiss him hard, like you need him. Loves feeling needed more than he needs. But you know—maybe better than he does.

You smear his spit down his chin, wasting it for what you're planning next; it's a good thing you know just how to work him into a pliable mess. There’s one more thing he’ll do for you, and you'll get him there; you’ll disarm this unshakably smug and prodigiously self-controlled man and turn him into your lover, like you do so often.

For what it's worth, this is the least he's made you work for it in a while.

Osamu chases you when you leave his kiss, but you pin him down, cradling his bottom lip with your two fingers like a spoon. 

“Aht—” You shove them back in, across his tongue, just the tips of them. Only until he settles, and then you hold them out for him again. “Spit.”

And he does.

“Good boy, Osamu.”

You love watching the power leave his body when you utter those two words in combination with his name. As if conditioned, his cock jumps; you notice this as you reach down, dollop of spit beginning to drip between your fingers before you circle them around his hole and oh, you're rewarded with the prettiest gasp that trails off into an even prettier whimper—yes, a whimper, because he breaks so pathetically beneath you.

You smile into Osamu’s mouth when his breath picks up, evermore unsteady as you tease the rim of his ass. Without having to ask, he pitches his hips up for you, knees bent and feet bracing when you traverse back down his jugular with your lips and teeth.

You’re fast now, eager yourself; your line's barely straight, but you meet your own hand again as you return.

“Please,” followed by your name, huffy, totally realized this time.

How can you do anything but oblige?

Curling your fingers back around his cock, collecting the leakiness at his weepy tip to stroke him fully, he throws his soft brown head back into the headboard, gripping the sheets. No free hand to use, you hum and hope silently for his legs over your shoulders once more, and like a mindreader, he obliges you now—good boy, you’d be saying, if your mouth wasn’t occupied with one of his balls, rewriting the meaning of triple homicide with the suction of your tongue.

When you’ve switched your mouth and your hand and you’re a knuckle deep in him, Osamu starts to get demanding. 

“Deeper,” he growls through his teeth, and you’re unclear whether he means he wants you deeper inside him or his cock deeper down your throat. “C’mon—I want it, baby.” 

No please—and definitely no thank you when you give into his whims both ways, thrusting your finger deeper to curl up and apply pressure to the exact spot you know will have him crooning and gripping onto your hair, and that he does—to shove your face further down on him nonetheless. 

And then he really starts talking. 

“Thought you’d be all nice n’ be in charge—n’ take care of me? Hah—” 

You still your head while Osamu holds either side of your jaw and humps upward, drawing wet, smothered heaves from the back of your throat as his throbbing tip hammers it. 

“That’s sweet, honey.” 

You really, truly do know why he doesn’t complain about easy days, and the bulb flickers only once you’re choking on him—only ever once he has you right where he wants you—that when you fuss over him, it always gives him a leg up to take that control he thirsts for so deeply with all the more force. 

He licks his lips as honey drips from it, cradling you with the same gentleness you talked to him with earlier and employing the same ruthlessness in contrast. Your eyes roll back in surrender to his brutal pace and the air he cuts off from you so cruelly—but god, if you had the faculty to, you wouldn’t even be able to deny that you love letting him use you, love letting him take what he wants from you, so you focus your swirling consciousness on pressing up, deeper into his ass, worming your ring finger next to your middle one to stretch him open, have him gasping, holding on loosely to control. 

It’s always a little push and pull between you; you always let Osamu have his fun, but he knows who he belongs to at the end of the day, because you always have him sounding like—

“God—fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

—while he leverages his heels in your back to fuck your throat meaner, harder. You gag, and you know it spurs him on—you know the ring of drool at his base and the sweet, nasty sounds you make involuntarily for him keep him chasing that pretty fulfillment you inspire in the pit of his stomach. 

“‘m not the only one who’s cute when I shut up,” he drawls on, pushing your hair away from your forehead to watch the way he possesses you when he’s in you like this; wheezing, whimpering in between, the dominator in him wants to laugh at you—but his taunting throttles almost violently back to strangled groans and cries of your name while tears bead on his lashes. For every take it, take it, take it, there’s an equal please, please, please. 

Osamu grunts in a certain vocal register higher than when he talks sultry but lower than his usual speaking voice, and each byte you draw from him by sitting and being his good little toy is reminding you how much you want to make him feel good, how much it gets you off, too—you grind against the mattress helplessly while he has you pinned in place and you squeeze his balls while you keep his hole full, keep him moaning and sobbing for you through his little semblance of authority because you know all of his tells. You know when he’s about to fall apart, you can always tell by the way he twitches fast, abrupt—when those grunts get higher than his speaking voice and he starts breathing almost panic-like, enough to make himself a little dizzy while he unloads in you but you don’t give him the satisfaction of that this time, because he beat you too easily—you have to take something back, and so when he’s cursing with his eyes screwed shut and tears slipping down his face you wrestle yourself off of him so he can shoot spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across your fluttering lashes, the bridge of your nose, your raw lips, your cheeks that shine with tears of your own, all while you milk it out from inside of him—he cums so fucking heavenly when your fingers are in him. 

And you accept it with a closed-eyed grin and hoarse, bubbly giggles at the way you cautiously keep one eye open to watch Osamu’s gorgeous face, jaw slack as it yawns the euphoria only you bring him just to recover into scrunched-nose, furrowed-brow satisfaction as he opens his eyes and sees you licking up your spit and his cum from around your own mouth. 

He's grinning toothily as he swipes the mess away from your eyes and draws you up with a soft come here—he’s not about to let you have it all for yourself, licking his spend off his thumb and pulling you in with great delight to flick his hot tongue across each splatter he’s left on your face. Your fingers slide out of him and he hums against you, cleaning you up diligently—because he never won’t reward you for taking care of him exactly how he wants to be taken care of. 

Osamu giggles, too—also hoarse, as if he’s the one who just got his throat fucked. 

“You’re so good to me.” That sharp tongue disappears behind a coy smile, and you collapse into him, a little delirious and fully in love—he’s a fucking dog. 

“Trust me,” you sigh back, pressing that promised kissed to the corner of his mouth again, wriggling on his thigh.

He’s going to tease you so bad for getting worked up by letting him use you, you know.

“I know I am.”

[berryzai]

@osamucide

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

[berryzai]

specifically about nikolais

Who else thinking about fat sweaty cock and balls

[berryzai]

Hangman

NSFW. Nikolai x Reader x Sigma. Oral (reader receiving) Anal (Nikolai receiving) Face-sitting. Reader has a pussy. I was possessed when I wrote this. Approx 1.3k words.

“Are you enjoying our date?” Nikolai asked, coyly tilting his head, his smile the picture of sweetness and innocence. 

He knew the answer before you even managed to choke it out. Hell, you were enjoying it so much you could barely breathe. Nikolai had pulled out all the stops on this one, reserving the best seats in the Sky Casino just for the two of you. 

And he’d arranged a little game for you to play; ‘a bonding exercise’ he’d called it. In his strange sort of way, it was. 

“The game is a simple one,” the jester had grinned with a flourish of his overcoat as he led you into the Sky Casino’s manager’s office. “Just a little game of hangman between true loves. You know the basic rules, of course.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sigma demanded to know, standing from his desk and storming across the spacious room toward you both. 

“And here we have the man we’ll leave hanging if you guess wrong enough times,” Nikolai chuckled, a menacing glint illuminating his eyes as he threw his arm over Sigma’s shoulders and pulled him against his hip. “Oh! It’s going to be fun!”

It wasn’t the first time you and Nikolai had included Sigma in your relationship, but every time before it had been pre-arranged.

The man looked absolutely furious at this unannounced interruption, his tone stern and his eyes filled with frustrated ire. “I specifically told you not to come here. This is my job! The Sky Casino is more important to me than you can ever understand.”

Poor Sigma. As if he wasn’t stressed enough. 

Regardless, he’d taken little convincing to join in the fun. After all, even managers needed a break now and then. And he was most certainly willing to be broken.

You and Sigma both had a tendency to allow Nikolai to drag you into these bizarre scenarios for his entertainment and pleasure. Which is how you found yourself riding Sigma’s face while Nikolai straddled his hips, with the two of you playing hangman on the helpless man’s stomach. 

“Weeelll?” Nikolai taunted you, his pen poised to fill in letters or put the top beam on the gallows. 

_ _ _ _   _ _ _   _i_ ma, _ _u  _an  _ _me  n_ _

“Fuck, this is hard,” you muttered as Sigma’s tongue circled your clit and his muffled moans reverberated through your core. “There’s really no T?”

Nikolai chuckled, bouncing playfully on Sigma’s dick, causing the man beneath you to whine. He’d been stuck beneath you both for half an hour already, edged and teased and tickled with the tip of the pen. 

The jester grinned, tapping the tip of the sharpie against his temple. “No T’s, I promise I’m not cheating.”

“Hmm…” You forced yourself to concentrate, but it was easier said than done with Sigma tonguing your pussy, desperately trying to earn himself a reprieve from the teasing. What little of his cock you could see buried between the plush of Nikolai’s ass was deep red and overstimulated. And Sigma was always so terribly sensitive.

Nikolai knew exactly what he was doing, grinding his hips ever so slowly between extended periods of stillness, prolonging poor Sigma’s misery. “Come on… just take a chance.”

“Fine… O.”

“DING DING DING!!” Nikolai bounced again, punching the air in victory. “Oh! Yes! Yes! Yes! Very good!”

Sigma practically sobbed as the clown leaned forward, slowly drawing O after O on his stomach with the tip of his sharpie. He twitched with every touch of the pen, attempting to suck in his belly to escape the ticklish sensation. 

“Heehee, there are a lot of them, right, Sigma?” 

“Mmmhghhhg…” Sigma groaned, his tongue dutifully returning to its purpose of sliding between your pussy lips as though he couldn’t get enough of your taste. 

_oo_   _o _   _i_ ma,  _ou  _an  _ome  no_

“Sooooo close! Okay, what next?” Nikolai chuckled, halting the movement of his hips and leaving Sigma once again hanging. “Is he lickin’ ya gooood?”

“Uh-huh…” You glanced at the ‘board,’ your cheeks blazing. “Um… F?”

Nikolai made a loud buzzer sound, drawing a long beam across the top of the gallows. “Wrong. Guess again.”

“H?”

“Ohhh… too bad,” he sighed, sketching the noose.

“R? There has to be an R.”

“Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong wrongwrongwrong. Oh-ho-ho you couldn’t be more wrong my little dove. Just one more mistake and we have to leave. Poor Sigma here will be left hanging for the rest of the day.”

A muffled sob sounded beneath you. A disembodied head hung from the gallows. You had to get it right. No more chances left.

 _ oo _   _ o _   _i_ ma, _ ou  _an  _ ome  no _

“Fuck… S?”

“My my! Look at you swooping in to save our dear friend from a horrible fate,” Nikolai grinned, rolling his hips as he filled in the blanks. “But it’s not over.”

_ oo _   _ o _   Si_ ma, _ ou  _an  _ ome  no _

Just one S… but…

You were getting close, your brain fogging with pleasure as pale and slender hands wound around your thighs and the voracious tongue beneath you devoured you with desperate fervor. And Nikolai watched on, his grin sickle sharp, his cock engorged and leaking at the sight of you teetering so close to the edge. 

“Go on,” Nikolai prompted. “You’d better be quick, he’s getting desperate…”

“G… the third word is Sigma.”

“Mhm,” Nikolai hummed proudly, drawing a swirling G around Sigma’s navel that made him squirm. But that wasn’t the only one…

Goo _   _ o _   Sigma, _ ou  _an  _ ome  no _

“Come ooon,” Nikolai taunted. “I already gave you a clue.”

“You did?”

“I did…” he chuckled, somehow managing to look menacing and adorable with a single smile, “Think about what’s at stake here.”

As Nikolai’s games went, the stakes in this one were uncharacteristically low, for you at least. For Sigma, who was blushing it seemed all the way down to his knees, they were dizzyingly high. And it was all about Sigma. Poor, sweet Sigma. 

And then it clicked. 

“Oh! Good boy Sigma, you can cum now!”

Nikolai’s smile stretched from ear to ear as he popped the cap back on the sharpie and let it fall to the floor beside him. “Bingo.”

Sigma cried out as Nikolai began to ride his dick, his pace hard and fast, gripping the man’s slender hips between his crimson clad hands. The clown’s fat cock slapped against his belly with every thrust, smearing precum on his pale skin and tempting you to reach out and begin stroking him with that same brutal pace he loved so dearly. 

“Holy fuck!” Nikolai cried, his back arching from the intensity, his cum shooting across Sigma’s belly, white and watery and accompanied by his breathless, boisterous laughter. 

You and Sigma weren’t far behind, your pussy clenching around Sigma’s tongue, his hips jerking violently and almost unseating Nikolai as the three of you gasped through your orgasms. 

Pleasure so overwhelming you were hardly aware of your surroundings when Nikolai’s gloved hands cupped your face, pulling you toward him, craving the sensation of your teeth sinking into his lower lip. 

Nikolai loved when you kissed him like you wanted to consume him, when the sting of your bite shaved the unbearable edge off the all-consuming pleasure coursing through his body. He smiled against your teeth, groaning with ecstasy, one hand cradling the back of your head with unexpected tenderness, the other occupied with tweaking Sigma’s nipples as the overstimulated man twitched and whimpered beneath you both. 

“You're my favorite person to play with,” Nikolai sighed when your kiss ended, his voice as soft and gentle as a dove. He smiled as he drew back and prodded Sigma's stomach, drawing one last groan from him. “And you're not half bad either.”

[berryzai]

just so you know i know this dynamic is toxic and i'm not romanticizing it :/ i'm actually sexualizing it

[berryzai]

check reblogs !!!! (nsfw :3)

[berryzai]

atsushiver + higushiver. he has no game

transcription below cut. as always

panel 3:

shiver: damn girl do you shit with that ass

arrow pointing at shiver: panicked at the sight of a pretty girl

panel 4:

shiver: Atsushi. i need to kill myself.

[berryzai]

when i first saw your blog i though "hm. i wanna be his friend :3"

when i first saw your tumblr i assumed you were a glorious freak of the same genre as me. i was correct. we are bro hams now

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

[berryzai]

@bunny-b1tch-acorn

I saw a reference on Pinterest the other day and KNEW I had to make it about skk.

[berryzai]

@trashlike

This trend with @junesfool

[berryzai]

*Dazai Osamu sent you a photo*

Hey, check your phone~ ❤️‍🩹

[berryzai]

which of your faves is jerking off to how pretty you look while you sleep

[berryzai]

badly craving for some Fyodor fics & your writing is good asf 😩 I would like to humbly request an arranged marriage au with Fyodor where the reader has a big fat crush on him but he finds their affection disgusting. After the wedding, they try to woo him and get him to fall for them but to no avail. Until one day he gets sooo sick of it and essentially yells at the reader to stop which causes them to lose all hope and start to secretly hate him because he's actually cruel. On the other hand, Fyodor notice how the reader is not the same affectionate spouse anymore and gets uncomfortable. He realizes how he has become fond of their tenderness of him. Basically, (yander-ish) Fyodor tries to win their love back after noticing how they're falling out of love with him.

(feel free to ignore this request, hope you have a wonderful day <33)

Bittersweet

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

The morning after your wedding should have been a dream. Instead, it was a cold, unfeeling reality.

You woke up early, your heart fluttering at the sight of your husband still asleep beside you. Fyodor Dostoevsky looked almost peaceful in his slumber, his dark lashes resting against pale skin, his lips slightly parted. You wanted to reach out, to brush a strand of his hair away from his face, but you refrained. He had barely tolerated your presence the day before; you doubted he would welcome your touch now.

Still, you couldn’t help but admire him, your heart aching with the depth of your affection. So, as the sun cast its first golden rays through the curtains, you slipped out of bed and set about preparing for the day. You instructed the servants to make his favorite tea (or at least what you had learned was his favorite), and you carefully arranged a breakfast tray, making sure everything was just right. You wanted this to be a good start.

When Fyodor finally emerged from the bedroom, his loose white shirt hanging carelessly off his frame, his eyes flicked toward you—and immediately away.

"Good morning, Fedya" you greeted with a hopeful smile, setting the tray down on the table. "I had breakfast prepared for you. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, but I made sure to—"

"Unnecessary" he interrupted flatly, walking past you without so much as a glance at your efforts.

"I just wanted to do something nice for you. We are married now, after all."

Fyodor turned to you then, "Yes, we are." He stepped closer, and for a brief, foolish moment, your heart leaped in anticipation. But then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he murmured, "Try not to make a nuisance of yourself, dear spouse."

And with that, he pulled away, seating himself at the table without touching a single thing you had prepared.

Your chest tightened, but you swallowed the disappointment down, forcing yourself to remain composed. It was only the first morning. There would be other chances.

The rest of the morning was much the same.

You tried. You truly did.

After breakfast, you attempted to engage Fyodor in conversation, asking about his work, his interests—anything that might spark even the smallest hint of warmth. Each attempt was met with silence or vague, uninterested responses. His gaze barely lingered on you, his words clipped and dismissive.

By midday, you were accompanying him through the estate’s grand halls, trying to match his slow, measured steps. He had business to attend to, you knew that, but you had hoped he might spare you a moment—just a fleeting second of genuine attention.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, exhaling a sigh of barely concealed irritation.

“Do you intend to follow me all day?”

“I only wished to spend time with you. We’re married now, aren’t we?”

Fyodor let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Ah. A dutiful spouse. How sweet.” He tilted his head, a mockery of affection glinting in his dark eyes. “You think that if you play the devoted partner, I will fall at your feet? That I will somehow return the affection you so desperately throw at me?”

Your heart sank. “That’s not—”

His presence, his words, his very existence—it was all razor-sharp, meant to cut you down.

“I find your affections revolting.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, and somehow, that made it worse. “A pitiful display of misplaced devotion. I agreed to this arrangement, but do not mistake compliance for desire.”

It was a knife to the chest.

He didn’t wait for a response. With a final, disinterested glance, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing there, hollow and trembling.

That night, you didn’t wait for him to return to bed. You didn’t linger by the door, hoping he would speak to you.

For the first time, doubt began to seep into the cracks of your foolish, hopeful heart.

Maybe love wasn’t something you could earn.

For a month, you tried.

You woke before him each morning, ensuring his tea was prepared exactly the way he liked it. He never drank it. You arranged quiet dinners, hoping to share a meal with him, but he rarely showed. On the rare nights he did, he barely acknowledged your presence.

You tried to touch him—just a brush of your fingers against his sleeve, a hesitant hand on his shoulder—but he recoiled each time, his eyes flashing with something between disgust and boredom.

Yet, you persisted.

Because you loved him.

Because you had convinced yourself that if you just showed him enough warmth, enough care, enough devotion, he would soften. That the walls around his heart would crack, even just a little, and he would see you.

But they never did.

And then, one evening, it all crumbled.

It had been a long day. Fyodor had returned home later than usual, his coat damp from the rain. Still, you greeted him at the door, reaching out instinctively to take his coat.

“Welcome home, Fedya” you murmured, offering him a small smile. “You must be tired.”

“And?”

“And… I thought perhaps we could spend some time together?”

“You never stop, do you?” he said, “This pitiful game of yours.”

“Game?”

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” He continued “A desperate, clumsy attempt to win my love. Do you think I don’t see it? Every lingering gaze, every pathetic offering of affection.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, but you forced yourself to stand your ground. “I just wanted us to be happy”

“You are a fool” he murmured, “Stop embarrassing yourself.”

It was then that something inside you shattered.

Something in your chest grew cold.

That night, for the first time, you did not wait for him to come to bed. You did not look for him in the halls or seek his company at breakfast. You no longer lingered in his presence, no longer tried to win a single scrap of his affection.

----

For the first time since the wedding, Fyodor felt… unburdened.

The mornings were quiet. He no longer had to brush off your eager greetings or ignore the tea you so carefully prepared. The nights were peaceful. You no longer waited for him, no longer tried to share hushed conversations as he undressed for bed.

Yes. This was better.

A week passed. Then another.

He still saw you, of course. You lived under the same roof. You still crossed paths in the grand halls of the estate, still shared the same dining table on occasion. But you no longer sought him out.

You were distant but polite, reserved but not cold. You still addressed him as "Fyodor" still fulfilled your duties as his spouse, but there was no warmth behind your words.

He had gotten what he wanted.

One evening, as he returned to the estate, he realized you no longer greeted him at the door. You used to wait for him, no matter how late, a soft smile on your lips. Now, you were nowhere to be seen.

The first time, he dismissed it. The second time, he noticed. The third time, he lingered in the entryway for a second too long, waiting for something—someone—that never came.

Then, it was the meals.

You used to insist on eating together, always trying to engage him in conversation. He had found it annoying, an intrusion into his silence. But now, you simply took your meals at a different time.

It was convenient, really. He no longer had to deal with your chatter.

And yet, when he sat alone at the grand dining table, his food untouched, he found himself staring at the empty seat across from him.

It was quiet.

He told himself he should be pleased. That this was what he had wanted all along.

But if that were true… why did he keep noticing your absence?

Fyodor didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time, the uncertainty unsettled him.

It happened over dinner.

For the first time in weeks, you and Fyodor sat at the same table. Not because you sought his company, but because it was simply convenient. A mere circumstance, nothing more.

You ate in silence, your gaze lowered, your movements graceful but detached. You did not speak unless necessary. You did not try to meet his eyes.

And Fyodor hated it. He hadn’t intended to say anything. He wasn’t sure why he cared. But as he watched you calmly cut your food, as if he were just another person sharing the space instead of your husband, the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“You no longer prepare meals for me.”

You didn’t pause, didn’t even flinch at his sudden remark. You simply finished chewing, set your fork down, and responded with quiet indifference.

“You never ate them.”

He hadn’t expected that response.

“You used to try regardless” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You no longer do.”

This time, you did pause, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words.

Then, you shrugged.

“I suppose I grew tired of wasting my efforts.”

“You’re different.”

“I learned my place.”

For some reason, that did not sit well with him.

For some reason, he found himself watching you more closely as you returned to your meal, eating in the same quiet, unshaken manner.

For some reason, he didn’t like this calm, distant version of you.

You set your utensils down with deliberate care, wiping your mouth with a napkin before speaking.

"You don’t have to worry, Fyodor." You met his gaze, but there was no desperation, no lingering hope in your eyes anymore. Just something steady. "I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"That my presence is of little consequence to you." You leaned back slightly, your posture relaxed, as if you had long made peace with this truth. "You have your work, your plans—things far more important than indulging a foolish spouse’s affections."

His grip on the glass tightened, but he said nothing.

"You can focus on those things" you continued, "I won’t get in the way. I won’t bother you with unnecessary affections or expectations anymore." You glanced down at your plate before pushing it aside. "I’ll be here. Silently."

This should have been a victory.

This was what he had wanted—what he had forced you into. You were finally the ideal spouse. Quiet, undemanding. A presence that did not intrude upon his world.

Yet, as you sat there, distant but composed, something gnawed at him, something he couldn’t place.

It was unsettling.

He no longer understood you.

And he didn’t like that at all.

Days passed, and it only grew worse.

He found himself noticing the spaces you had left behind.

The library, where you once sat curled up in the corner, reading quietly as he worked, was empty now. The garden, where you used to walk, humming softly to yourself, now held only the sound of the wind. Even at night, the room felt colder.

---

It was at a gathering—one he had little interest in attending, but one that required his presence nonetheless. You had accompanied him, as expected, standing by his side as poised and composed as ever. But unlike before, there was no subtle shift toward him, no gentle touches, no warmth in your eyes when you addressed him.

You spoke with others, smiled at their words, laughed at their stories. Not in a way that was inappropriate, not in a way that brought disgrace to him, but in a way that made something in his chest coil unbearably tight.

Because it was a smile he had not seen in weeks.

Because it was warmth you had stopped giving him.

You were fine.

You were content in this new distance, unaffected by the void that had begun to gnaw at him.

It unsettled him.

More than that, it infuriated him.

He had expected bitterness. He had expected resentment. Those, he could have understood—controlled. But instead, you had done something far worse.

You had let him go.

You had truly accepted the reality he had forced upon you, had adjusted, had thrived without the need for his affection.

He was the only one suffering now.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

----

Fyodor had never asked for your assistance before.

Not when he was drowning in paperwork, not when his workload was unbearable, never. He was a man who preferred solitude, who functioned best in his own world without distractions.

Yet, tonight, he had called for you.

And so, you sat beside him in his study, your presence unobtrusive, your role simple—double-checking documents, ensuring nothing was overlooked. It was quiet work, but for the first time in weeks, conversation flowed easily between you.

You spoke of your days, of the things that occupied your time now that you no longer wasted it on him.

New books you had taken an interest in. The musicians who played in the town square. People you had met—acquaintances, staff, fleeting faces in the estate.

And him.

"The garden’s been lovely lately" you mused, absently flipping through a page. "All thanks to Mikhail."

His pen halted mid-stroke. Mikhail?

"The new gardener" you continued, unaware of the shift in the air. "He’s been doing wonderful work. The roses have never looked better."

"You seem fond of him."

"I suppose I am. He’s good at what he does. Very passionate about it." A small chuckle. "He talks about flowers the way some poets talk about love."

"And you enjoy such conversations?"

You only shrugged. "It’s interesting to listen to. He has a way of making the simplest things sound beautiful."

How… irritating.

A man who spoke of flowers as if they were poetry.

A man whose name had no business being spoken so fondly from your lips.

A man who had stolen your attention that had once belonged to Fyodor alone.

His gaze dropped back to his papers, but the words blurred, his thoughts elsewhere.

You had moved on.

You had let go.

And now, for the first time, Fyodor realized—

He did not want you to.

Mikhail disappeared without a trace.

One day, he was there—trimming the hedges, tending to the roses, greeting you with his easy smile. And the next, he was simply gone.

At first, you assumed he had left for personal reasons. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or maybe he had found a better opportunity elsewhere. But no one seemed to know.

The other staff whispered about it. His belongings were left untouched in the small quarters he had been provided. There was no resignation letter, no farewell, nothing.

It was as if he had simply vanished.

You tried not to think too much about it. People left all the time, didn’t they? There was no reason to assume the worst.

And yet, a strange unease settled in your chest.

Still, life moved on. The estate remained, the garden still needed tending. And when no one stepped in to fill the role, you did what you could.

At first, it was manageable. Watering the plants, plucking weeds—simple things. But soon, it became overwhelming.

Some flowers began to wither.

The roses that Mikhail had so carefully cultivated lost their vibrancy. The once-thriving vines grew untamed, the flower beds dulled, lifeless.

You needed a new gardener.

You had to hire one.

You mentioned it one evening, seated once again in Fyodor’s study as you absently flipped through a household ledger.

“I need to find someone new for the garden” you mused. “It’s been difficult keeping up with it alone.”

Fyodor barely glanced up from his work. “Is that so?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Some of the flowers have already started wilting. It’s a shame. The estate looks so much livelier when it’s well-maintained.”

A quiet hum from him. Nothing more.

“It’s strange, though. How Mikhail just disappeared like that.”

This time, his quill paused—just for a second.

“I suppose some people are simply unreliable” he murmured, dipping the quill into ink.

An odd feeling stirred in the back of your mind.

It was silly, wasn’t it? The thought that Fyodor—

No.

You shook it off. Ridiculous.

There was no reason to think he had anything to do with it.

Yet, as the days passed, as the flowers continued to wither, as the space Mikhail had once occupied remained empty, you couldn’t quite shake the thought.

And worse—though you did not yet realize it—Fyodor knew you couldn’t.

And he was waiting.

Waiting for you to understand.

That no matter how far you tried to move from him—

He would never let you go.

It started with the flowers.

No matter what you did, they wouldn’t bloom.

Some parts of the garden thrived as they always had, but a particular patch—right where Mikhail had once worked the most—remained barren. The soil was wrong, dense and damp in ways it shouldn’t have been.

One day, curiosity got the better of you.

You knelt down, gloved fingers sinking into the earth as you began to dig.

A few inches deep, the soil darkened. The smell turned foul, pungent.

Your fingers grazed something.

Something not stone. Not wood. Something soft.

You swallowed, heart pounding, and dug further—until a shape began to take form beneath your hands.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A hand.

Pale, lifeless, limp. The fingers were stiff, the nails caked with dried blood.

You jerked away, scrambling back, your vision blurring with disbelief, with horror. And as you sat there, trembling, staring at the thing that should not have been there, your mind whispered the truth before you could stop it—

Mikhail.

You should have screamed. But before the panic could fully seize you, before you could even process the implication of what you had just unearthed—

The bells in town rang. Loud. Urgent.

And the news spread like wildfire.

Another body. Another victim.

The serial killer had struck again.

Suddenly, all thoughts of Mikhail’s shallow grave were drowned beneath something bigger, something that seized the town in terror.

The killer had been targeting people in the area. And now, they had claimed yet another life.

The estate became a sanctuary, a place of safety. Servants whispered in fear, locking their doors at night, avoiding the streets unless absolutely necessary.

And Fyodor—Fyodor had never looked calmer.

One evening, as the news spread and the fear settled into every home, he turned to you, “You should stay close to me.”

“What?”

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. “It’s dangerous out there.”

You hesitated. Of course it was. That much was obvious.

You nodded.

And Fyodor smiled.

Because you had no idea, did you?

No idea that the real monster was sitting right in front of you.

And now, you had walked right into his arms.

At first, Fyodor simply remained close—never overbearing, never forceful, just there.

You didn’t even question it.

After all, it made sense, didn’t it? The town was in fear, a murderer lurking in the shadows, and you lived in a secluded estate. Of course, you would stay near him. Of course, you wouldn’t wander too far.

And Fyodor?

He played his role perfectly.

One evening, as you read by candlelight, a cold breeze drifted through the room. Without a word, Fyodor draped a shawl over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin just briefly before pulling away.

When you thanked him, he only gave a quiet hum, as if it was nothing.

Then, the meals.

He had never cared about your routines before, had never paid attention to whether you ate or not. But now, he would casually remind you.

“You’ve hardly touched your plate” he’d murmur during dinner, tilting his head slightly. “You should eat more.”

And when you did, he looked pleased.

Then, conversation.

You had spoken freely before, of course—but now, Fyodor engaged.

He listened intently when you spoke of your interests, made thoughtful remarks, even encouraged you to continue.

And perhaps it was just because you were lonely, because the house felt emptier, because the world outside was dangerous—

But you found yourself enjoying his company.

He simply filled the spaces that had once been empty.

And soon, without realizing it, you began to trust him again.

You laughed a little more around him. You lingered in his presence longer. You sought his thoughts on things you never would have before.

And Fyodor?

He watched.

He waited.

Because it was working.

You didn’t even realize, did you?

That he had pulled you back in.

That, piece by piece, you were becoming his again.

It was gradual—so gradual that you didn’t even notice.

Little by little, you returned to how you once were.

At first, it was just habit. You had always been warm, always been affectionate. And now that Fyodor was allowing it, even reciprocating in his own quiet way, it felt natural to fall back into those patterns.

You started making tea for him again.

Not because you expected anything, but because it felt right. Because he drank it now, without a word of complaint.

You sought his company more.

Not in the desperate, longing way you once had, but comfortably. You’d sit in his study, flipping through a book while he worked, just as you used to.

And most importantly—

You trusted him.

You felt safe with him.

The world outside was dangerous, filled with unseen horrors, and Fyodor was steady. Reliable. A pillar of protection in the growing storm.

Of course, you didn’t realize that it was he who had created the storm in the first place.

And Fyodor?

He knew better than to be careless.

Yes, you had come back to him—had settled back into his grasp—but he wasn’t a fool.

Affection was fickle. Trust was fragile.

And he had no intention of letting you slip away again.

So, he tightened his hold.

"You should stay in today" he murmured one morning, glancing toward the window. "I have a bad feeling about the town."

You hesitated—but he was rarely wrong, was he?

So you listened.

Then, it was the staff.

Servants who used to chat with you now avoided meeting your gaze, as if afraid of something unseen. People you once trusted left without a word.

Slowly, the house became his entirely.

And then, it was you.

One evening, as you prepared to retire to bed, Fyodor’s voice stopped you at the doorway.

"Come here."

You turned, confused, but something in his tone left no room for argument.

So you stepped closer, and he reached out, his cold fingers brushing over your wrist.

"You forgot your necklace" he murmured, fastening it around your neck.

You blinked. "I… I don’t remember taking it off."

He only smiled. "Perhaps you shouldn’t take it off at all."

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

Didn’t notice how pleased he looked when you nodded, murmuring, "Alright."

You didn’t see it—

The slow, delicate strings that bound you to him.

By the time you realized, it would be too late.

Because now, he had you.

And he would never, ever let you go.

[berryzai]

Ars longa, vita brevis (Nikolai x reader)

Warnings: smut (gn reader, no mention of agab), knifeplay, stabbing, masturbation, open ended (reader passes out at the end)

Nikolai crowds you against the wall, an arm slipping easily around your waist as you try to lean away. There's a nervous smile on your face, arousal already beginning to stir in your stomach, your eyes darting all over the knowing smirk plastered on his face. The air opens up beside you and a large, gloved hand presses a dagger to your neck with a practiced flick.

"Not really."

"Ready?"

The knife strokes your cheek almost tenderly, its wickedly sharp edge just barely scraping the skin.

"Don't you love me?" Nikolai croons, leaning forward until he's practically dipped you, like a dance. He's massaging a handful of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh, his eye running over your body with naked hunger.

"Or are you scared?" He teases, lowering his lips to yours as if to kiss you but instead just letting the question hover. You are, but the fear and anticipation make your skin buzz in the best of ways, heat curling around your guts.

"Don't worry too much, pretty thing. I'll take care of you," he reassures, badly disguised excitement in his voice. He lets the knife slip just a little and you flinch, a shallow cut appearing on your cheek. The blade is so sharp it barely hurts. You gasp in surprise and laugh, putting a hand to your cheek to gather the blood already beginning to gather on your skin. Nikolai's tongue flicks out and licks up the smear on your fingers, laughing against your hand as his hair falls in his face. He lets another long, broad stroke of his tongue linger on your skin and cuts again, the blade tracing over the first cut, hurting more. You instinctively try to squirm away but he holds you fast, pushing you further against the wall and trapping you with his body.

"None of that, doll. This doesn't even hurt," he reassures. "Still with me?"

You nod at the question, shivering as the dagger drags slowly, carefully down your throat and the centre of your chest. Your face feels hot, eyes glued to the disembodied hand holding the blade, the shining metal cold as it sneaks under your shirt. Your stomach flexes involuntarily as Nikolai presses the flat of the blade against your skin, sliding the tip under your waistband with an almost playful wriggle.

The first shallow cut lands on your stomach and you flinch, trapped between the cold wall and his warm body. He's already beginning to rock his hips, rubbing against your hip, trying to relieve the ache in his cock. You're squirming against the pain, whimpering with every swipe of the knife, beginning to shake as the wounds get deeper and larger, tender strokes turning into puffy gashes that ache and drip with blood.

"Gonna put it in now, okay?"

His voice startles you, your head spinning already at the sight of so many cuts, so much blood. You manage a small whimper that Nikolai takes as assent, and something like a punch lands on your stomach.

He immediately draws the knife out, holds it up for you to take eagerly in your mouth like a gag. Blood, warm and metallic, drips onto your chest. Nikolai's fingers immediately fill the cut and you cry out in pain, nearly dropping the knife as he pushes into you until his palm grinds against your skin. He moans shamelessly, not even looking at you anymore, enraptured by by the way his fingers disappear inside you as he pumps them slowly, prodding and rubbing.

Soft, swollen guts greet him every time, parting easily around the intrusion as blood begins to drip down his palm to his wrist.

"You're so wet," he chuckles, curling his fingers to watch your eyes roll back, hips bucking against his thigh. "Aw dove, you're enjoying this almost more than I am. You're a mess."

You're in an agony of pain and delight, your soft tissues out in the open feeling so foreign, so wrong, your poor flesh tender and raw. You can barely think, panting harshly, your senses drowning in adrenaline and endorphins. Legs shaking you fall back against the wall, moaning around the handle of the knife as your sight goes blurry. Nikolai pushes an arm against you, across your chest, keeping you steady as he leans down to kiss the bleeding slit. His lips press tenderly over the entire length of it, licking up your blood as he moans, even dipping his tongue into you. You sob and pull at his braid, scratching his broad shoulders as his spit smears across your stomach and makes the cuts sting viciously.

"Shh doll, I need to make sure you're ready for me." Nikolai straightens back up and pulls one of your legs out from under you, resting it against his waist. You stumble and cling to him with a shout, a deep pain shooting through your torso as you curl against him and jostle your wounds.

Something new pokes against your hole, warm. Nikolai grips you harder and makes you lean back, rubbing the blunt tip of his shaft over your stomach, coating it in blood.

"Gosh dove, you're dripping," he laughs, sliding a little into you with a low moan. You yelp, flinching at the intrusion and only hurting yourself more as his dick rubs against the edge of the wound. Nikolai groans, your hot insides sloshing around him and hugging his length perfectly.

"So messy....you're lucky you're so cute," he manages through high pitched sighs and whines, "I might finish right here." You moan again, whether in pain or pleasure you don't know.

"You'd actually want that, wouldn't you?" Nikolai laughs, pressing a hand against your stomach and forcing more blood out of you in thick, dark rivulets. "Naughty dove, filthy dove, want my cum in your tummy."

You blink, hazy, your vision spotting. Punched out gasps and moans are ripped from your throat with every gentle rock of his hips, tears of pain spilling down your cheeks. He shifts you up higher up the wall and brushes your tears away, prompting a short scream as the movement jostles you. Nikolai fists his cock, pressing just the tip into you as he jacks off, your blood coating his fingers and slicking up his palm.

Legs shaking, you grab him by the elbows. You're swaying on the spot, your head lolling, tongue half hanging out of your slack mouth. Your vision is completely blacked out by now, soft pants sending twinges of pain through your entire body as your chest rises and falls. The wall, Nikolai's hand holding you up, the prodding against your wound, they're your entire world. You can't even hear him moaning and sighing, a sharp grin on his face as he watches your eyes unfocus and roll back.

"Let go dove, just let go." His voice is warm and doesn't reach you properly through your muddled brain, but it's not like you have much of a choice by now.

The last thing in your mind is how Nikolai catches you when you slump, grabbing your jaw to pull your slack mouth into a kiss and growling as the movement pushes him further inside you. One last throb of pain shoots through you, and the world goes dark.

[berryzai]

@suicideenthusiast

does anyone else think dazai wakes up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night to cringe about how he acted at 15