redsmarionette

[redsmarionette]

o god youre right. hold on bear with me here

[redsmarionette]

today marks fifteen days before the one year anniversary of this fic and i am only posting it because i got dared, so. please don’t laugh at my year-old writing

this was NOT INTENDED AS ROMANTIC, but peer reviews state it gives smut vibes

cws // power dynamics, whump, bsd whump, psychological whump, dazai is his own warning, poor chuuya, petplay (?), cage, not claustrophobia not a stress position but a secret third thing (the cage is a tiny bit too small), humiliation

“Chuuuuya,” Dazai hums. “Look at you, stuck in there just like a dog! Hmm, what shall I have you do, Chuuya?”

Chuuya, forced into a kneel in a dog cage several sizes too small for him. The door is padlocked. The only key, a small metal key painted with fine golden paint, is innocently twisting between Dazai’s fingers, as if it wasn’t Chuuya’s only hope for freedom.

Dazai, on the other hand. Dazai, perched calmly on a lush armchair beside a fireplace, his expression all but mesmerized as he keeps his eyes on the trapped Chuuya.

“Don’t just look at me, freak,” Chuuya grumbles back. He doesn’t raise his voice, though — Dazai’s playing with the key way too close to the fireplace for his comfort. There’s no real bite to his words as he says, “Get me out of here.”

“Tsk, tsk. Patience, Chuuya. Let’s see, ah — bark for me.”

Chuuya stares at him, shell-shocked. “What?”

“Bark for me! After all, Chuuya’s in a dog cage. So it’s only fitting that you ask to be let free through barking, no?”

Disbelief is the only word to describe what Chuuya’s feeling. This guy can’t be serious, right?

....Up until he locks gazes with the expectant sparkle in Dazai’s eyes, and a flush of mortification shivers its way down his spine like a snake on fire. His face must be redder than his hair right now, judging by that burn in his cheeks. Dazai, that disgusting traitorous freak.

Does he like seeing Chuuya humiliated?

Of course he does.

After all, if he didn’t get some kind of perverse pleasure out of seeing Chuuya undergo dignity-murdering ordeals, Chuuya wouldn’t even be stuck here right now.

“I’m not doing that,” he hisses past his teeth, trying to somehow hide the blush in his cheeks.

Dazai raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is that so?” He smirks. “Too bad, then.”

To Chuuya’s horror, Dazai dangles the key over the fire. “Wait, wait, WAIT! DAZAI!”

“Chuuya.”

This is terrible. This is terrible. Chuuya’s face is scarlet, now, probably, as he runs his hand across it and averts his eyes, building up the courage to flay his own ego alive. He takes a shallow breath, tries to ignore that amused way Dazai keeps staring at him, and gives his best impression of a dog’s bark.

It sucked. He was too nervous — his voice cracked, and it ended up sounding more like a pathetic yip rather than a bark. He hates this. He’d rather pour a vintage wine down the drain than do this. He wishes he were anywhere, anywhere else, than in this stupid cage with his legs folded below him and that shitty Dazai smirking at him like that.

He clears his throat. “There. I did it. Now unlock the door.”

Dazai tuts so condescendingly that Chuuya has to physically bite his own tongue to prevent from cursing him out. “Tsk, tsk, Chuuya. You can do better than that. Look at me.”

He hates me.

Chuuya forces himself to look up anyways, meeting Dazai’s amused brown eyes. The firelight turns them the most irritating shade of amber.

Once again, Dazai twists the key between his fingers, this time over the fire — a clear threat if ever there was one. Somehow, without ever taking his eyes off of Chuuya’s, he tilts it just so that the light from the flame reflects through the golden paint into Chuuya’s eyes.

“Well?” he asks, expectant still. “Aren’t you going to try again?”

....He does. Of course he does.

Dazai smiles, that headache-inducing grin that says he’s going somewhere between a laugh and a further taunt. Neither of which Chuuya would particularly prefer. “Good boy, Chuuya.”

It takes all of his patience and willpower not to throw up right then and there. Naturally, it’s also when Dazai’s smile shifts to reveal a cruel coldness that, now, seems blatant.

“But not good enough.”

The key falls from Dazai’s fingers into the fire, and with it goes all of Chuuya’s hopes to ever leave the cage.

“NO!” All instinct pushes Chuuya to his feet— but the cage is too small to allow much vertical motion and he simply hits his head on the cage’s ceiling, bouncing right back down to a kneel. Not like it would’ve changed anything, anyways; all he can do is uselessly sit there and scream, “OI, DAZAI— WH-WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! AFTER I HUMORED YOU AND EVERYTHING—”

Chuuya might be crying. He can certainly still feel a burn on his face, whether that means the splotchy embarrassed blush or eyes more teary than he’d like. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, this tiny cage that forces him into that pathetic crouch and the bars only just letting him poke a wrist through. It’s so small. It doesn’t give him enough space to breathe— breathe, breathe, Chuuya, breathe—

“Please, Chuuya, even I wouldn’t lock you in a dog cage forever,” Dazai suddenly pipes up, pulling Chuuya halfway out of his mental breakdown. He looks up and sees Dazai picking a hidden pin from his dark brown hair. “Have you forgotten? I can get into any lock I want to.”

Chuuya sniffles. (Damn it. He sounds so pitiful.) “S-so.... Get me out of here.”

“Hmm, no.”

Please!

“Of course not,” Chuuya scoffs instead, bitterness permeating his tongue. Why did he expect anything different from him in the first place? “Of course not, because Dazai Osamu would never put someone’s humanity over his own amusement.”

“I didn’t say I would never let you out. Just that I wouldn’t now.”

Slowly, Chuuya meets Dazai’s gaze again.

As always, he’s smiling. “Let’s make a deal, Chuuya-kun.”

Beyond words, he chooses to silently stare back.

“Do you remember that game we had? How old were we, fifteen?” Having thrown the key into the fireplace, Dazai turns the hairpin in his hands just like he did his previous lock-opening item. “I confess I’ve forgotten the details, but I remember the punishment for the loser was to follow the winner’s orders like an obedient dog.”

Chuuya stills. His mouth drops open out of pure shock. He remembers that deal, but no way Dazai would bring it into the picture again now.

Right?

Right?

(Wrong.)

“I—” Chuuya swallows. “Why?”

Dazai shrugs, a perfect picture of nonchalance. Perhaps to others — he can never hide the quiet eagerness in his eyes from his long-time partner. “I’m the only one around, and if you ever want to get out of there.... well, Chuuya will just have to convince me to pick the lock.” He closes a fist around the hairpin and leans forward. “You should be thankful I’m giving you a hint, Chuuya.”

The ever-familiar shame that Chuuya has come to affiliate with Dazai’s mischief creeps down his back once more. A part of him, the one that still has dignity, is writhing on the floor, repeating insults vulgar enough to make Dazai’s ears pop if ever he heard them. The rest of him is all too ready to get this over with. He closes his eyes as his cheeks start to burn anew. “Fine. I’ll— I’ll do as you say. For a limited period of time,” he quickly adds. “Maximum one week. Is that good enough for you?”

“Perfect, Chuuya. That’s more than enough.”

It’s not over yet. Chuuya can tell — that smirk promises trouble.

Dazai cheerfully claps his hands together, trapping the hairpin between them. “Then, shall I give you your orders now?” His grin widens, and Chuuya feels his stomach drop as though on cue. “It’s really rather simple, Chuuya. I don’t want much.”

I don’t believe you.

“Listen well!” He clears his throat. “For the next week, Nakahara Chuuya-chan will act as my personal pet dog.”

Chuuya stares at Dazai.

Dazai stares at Chuuya.

Oh. He’s being serious.

Chuuya’s eyes widen, dread mixing with humiliation and pooling at the base of his throat, so thickly it almost hurts to breathe. He shifts backwards on his knees, trying in vain to put more space between him and Dazai. He allows himself a sharp inhale. “Absolutely not.”

That is when Dazai laughs, a dark chuckle filled with anticipation at what comes next. It is that same sinister mirth that dances in his amber-dyed eyes and paints his voice when he speaks. “Chuuuuya,” he muses. “What made you think I was giving you a choice?”

Chuuya’s entire body reddens, his blood rushing so violently he can hear his own thundering heartbeats. “What the hell, Dazai?!” he spits out, hands shaking. “Is this funny to you? Treating me like a mutt? I won’t do it, you know. I’ve had enough of you looking down on m—”

Dazai does not bother to say anything before he tosses the hairpin into the fireplace. Faster than Chuuya can react, he pulls out an identical hairpin from his hair.

“I only brought one spare,” he warns before his partner in the cage can say anything. “Choose your answer wisely.” An amused smile plays on his lips. “That is, if you don’t want to pick the wrong choice.”

The way Chuuya looks at Dazai then is a mixture of dread, desperation, fury, and again that embarrassment that comes in the shape of a crimson glow in his cheeks.

But the alternative is staying in this cramped, padlocked dog cage with his knees pressing into the metal floor and his head barely three centimeters from the cage’s ceiling. And it’s been a while now, and holding this position hurts—

—so Chuuya lowers his eyes and quietly replies, “Yes, Dazai.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you.” There is no apology in his voice. “Louder.”

Chuuya wants nothing more than to melt into a puddle and sink through the metal to rest underground at least twenty kilometers away from that walking pile of bandages. “Yes, Dazai.”

He doesn’t hear anything then; no footsteps from Dazai, no clicking from the lock. All he knows is the cage door starts to creak open, and Chuuya can’t get out of there fast enough.

The room is carpeted, and his knees relish the relatively soft texture in comparison to the harsh metal of the dog cage. He braces his shaky legs, preparing to stand up and stretch after being all curled up in that tiny cage—

“Hmm? What are you doing, Chuuya?”

Chuuya glares up at Dazai past his mortified blush. “I’m trying to stand up, idiot.”

He knows he’s said something wrong when Dazai tilts his head, that typical mocking smile still on his face. “Have you forgotten our deal already?” Dazai shakes his head, a faux-disappointed expression on his face. “You’re a dog, Chuuya.”

Chuuya stills.

“Dogs don’t stand.” Dazai’s amber-dyed eyes pierce into Chuuya like an ill-favored knife. He flicks his eyes downward, back to the carpeted floor. “I’ll assume you know what to do. Chuuuuya.”

I hate you. I hate you.

It feels like liquid fire and cold sweat. Every centimeter of Chuuya’s body rejects the very motion; if his willpower was the slightest bit weaker, he would’ve locked up before his first knee was lowered. As things stand, however, he can brute force himself into the correct position—

Hands and knees on the carpeted floor.

“Good boy, Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice says calmly for the second time today. Chuuya refuses to look at him, electing to train his eyes on the carpet where he can’t see that accursed smirk. “Come here.”

Chuuya might as well be on fire, judging by how red he’s turning, how much he feels his skin burning up. The thought of it, of doing it, clogs his throat and curls in his chest like a sleeping dragon of dread. He’s trembling, both out of fury and of steadily growing self-hatred.

But he’s not gonna back off now. He made a deal. And he knows Dazai. He knows it’s entirely within his capabilities to, in the event that Chuuya does not fulfill the deal, make a penalty that’s at least twice as bad as the deal itself.

So Chuuya does it. On his hands and knees, he slowly, agonizingly crawls to where Dazai is sitting, and stops when he sees his dark brown heels come into view.

“My, my.” Dazai taunts from above him. A bandaged hand reaches out to tip his hat to the side, running its way down his hair. Chuuya didn’t think it was possible to flush even hotter, but he does. “Look at you.”

He runs a thumb down the side of Chuuya’s face — which Chuuya keeps firmly looking down — lower, lower, all the way to his neck. A shiver pushes through his shoulders. Then, making him gasp, Dazai hooks his finger on Chuuya’s choker and pulls.

And just like that, all his efforts to keep his head faced away from Dazai go to null.

Chuuya is pulled to his knees, hands scrambling to find purchase and landing curled in Dazai’s lap. Like a dog. Another demeaning act, another shiver. Chuuya feels Dazai’s finger looped around his already-tight choker necklace, pressing into the skin of his throat. What was already burning red burns crimson. And like this, his face is forced to tilt upwards until he makes eye contact with Dazai.

Eye contact. With Dazai.

He’s tall. Maybe it’s the chair, maybe it’s the way Chuuya’s on the floor. But he’s tall. Chuuya knows this; Dazai towers over him effortlessly even on the worst day. But right now, between Chuuya kneeling on the floor and Dazai pulling him up by the choker, it feels less like a common annoyance and more like an entirely new revelation that sends horror and heat rushing through his body.

Also: eye contact. With Dazai.

It’s not like Chuuya’s never made eye contact with him before. It’s just that, similarly with Dazai’s alarming height, the position he’s currently in completely recontextualizes what this eye contact means.

And it brings with it a whole new host of problems.

For one, there’s that light in his eyes again, that dark thrill bordering on ecstasy that makes them look an entirely different color — russet? red? — and turns Chuuya the exact shade of fresh blood splatters on his gloves after a particularly gorey fight. Of course, the look is accentuated by that smile of Dazai’s that looks so thoroughly entertained that Chuuya’s hands curl further into fists.

It sends his skin crawling, starting from all the parts where Dazai makes physical contact: Chuuya’s hands in his lap, his torso pressed up to his knees, Dazai’s finger directly touching Chuuya’s neck and tugging him by the choker like one would with a collar.

Dazai inhales, slowly. “You’re so cute, Chuuya,” he whispers, dragging Chuuya even closer. “And this little leather strap is perfect as a dog collar.”

Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut, fighting against the tears he feels smarting his eyes. Please, let this end. But it won’t until the week ends.

“Look at me, Chuuya. It’s no fun if you don’t open your eyes.”

Chuuya almost, almost whimpers.

“Chuuuuya.” As he drags out his name, he curls his finger further in, pressing it into Chuuya’s throat until his breath cuts away ever so slightly. “Obedient dog, remember? Look at me.”

I’ll kill you one day.

It’s a half-hearted promise, induced by the flush of red-hot blood that rushes throughout his body with every thud of his heart. Besides, Dazai would just end up liking that, the suicidal bastard.

He lets out a stuttering breath, all hatred and fury and that aching shame and a little bit of fear he doesn’t want to admit to himself.

But he opens his eyes all the same.

[redsmarionette]

tws // power dynamics, unhealthy workplace relationship, fantasy (?) whump, cold whump, whumper with superpowers, cracked bone, nudity

“Had a good trip, Whumpee?”

“Yes, sir,” they say, hands locked behind their back.

It was, indeed, a good trip. A three-day personal trip to a nice secluded house — of course owned by the organization — in the mountains. Whumpee had neither gone out of the base nor had some time alone for a while, so it was a welcome change.

Naturally, there was a catch: it was for cold training. “And you followed my instructions?”

Whumpee squeezes their hands tighter. “Of course I did, sir,” they say.

That was a lie, a voice in their head whispers. You just lied to Whumper. If they find out—

But Whumper only nods, smiling. “I wouldn’t expect anything less than my most trusted subordinate. Alright, you’re dismissed for now. You can get back to work after you’ve unpacked.”

“Yes, sir,” Whumpee says with a bow.

As they turn around, they try to shut down a relieved grin. They lied to Whumper! They lied to Whumper, and it worked!

The bathwater has to be at the coldest temperature. That was one of the rules Whumpee had been given before they left on their trip to the mountains. The mountains were cold, but not colder than Whumper on a bad day; Whumpee thought they’d be fine with those rules.

But then the night set in, and the water only got colder from then.

So they took precautions. They knew Whumper would send someone to check the house after Whumpee left. After showering, they let the water run cold for a couple of seconds until the metal lost its heat. And it seems like the plan worked.

Giddy with relief, Whumpee walks out of Whumper’s office.

“Wait. One more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know you turned on the water heater?”

Whumpee spins, eyes flung wide. Whumper is smiling, that cold and humourless smile that shows just how furious they are. Whumpee’s stomach drops.

“H... how did you know?”

“Oh, Whumpee,” Whumper laughs, shaking their head. They stand up from their table, calmly approaching their subordinate. That just means they’re angry enough to force a relaxed stance. “You didn’t think I’d let you go unmonitored, did you? I have a system set up to track any changes in every electronic device in that house. There’s records of the heater being turned up and then back down — you even tried to cover up your tracks.”

Whumpee swallows, heart hammering in their chest. Whumper is only getting closer. “I’m, I’m sorry—”

“Also, I bugged the house with hidden cameras. The whole house.” Whumper grins mirthlessly. “You were shivering in the shower even after you turned up the heat. Was it fear, Whumpee? Were you afraid I’d find out?”

Whumpee squeezes their eyes closed, fighting back against tears threatening to prick at their edges. “Please, I didn’t mean it, I wasn’t thinking—”

“On the contrary, I think you were.” They’re right in front of them now; Whumpee can feel the cold radiating off of the Whumper like a reverse campfire. “After all, that’s why you took such care trying not to disobey the other rules.”

Slap. Whumpee is flung to the floor just like that, one hand on their smarting cheek. The tears are freely running now. Whumper doesn’t resort to hitting them around unless they’ve truly lost their patience. And when their composure breaks, Whumpee is broken along with it.

“Useless subordinate,” Whumper says, voice dripping with disgust. Whumpee sobs. “After I arranged the trip for you, too. What a waste of resources. What’s the point if you’re not even good enough for a little bit of cold training?”

Something slams into their chest, throwing them back even more. Pain blooms all over their body as they slam into a wall — and with it, the sickening sound of something cracking. A rib? Their skull? Whumpee sobs even louder. Whumper only scoffs.

“Clothes off, all of them. Get on the table. And don’t let me see any of your limbs touch.”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir.”

This at least is familiar. This at least is a punishment they are used to.

They struggle out of their clothes and onto the table, spreading out on the freezing metal table. They’ll be fine with this. The cold is numbing. The cold is merciful. It means no more blunt trauma, no more cracking, no more breaking.

Whumper tugs off their gloves and touches the tips of their frostbiting fingers to Whumpee’s bare chest.

“Have fun.”

The cold is familiar. They can handle this.

And then the ice comes, and they realize they were wrong just as quickly.