heyy soooo you did buzzkill with ada!dazai, but what if you do with pm!dazai...?
reader is mori's daughter and a executive, she kinda have a relationship with dazai, she is close to chuuya and the flags (dazai is veryyy jealous about this!!!!) and dazai want punish her i guess??? idk just thinking that buzzkill will be freaky with pm!dazai
His Jealous Hands
Nsfw
I actually haven’t read storm bringer so I had to google the flags, so sorry if the dialogue/actions feels off with them.
Warnings: smut, public teasing, humiliation, jealous!dazai, vibe control, edging, restraint, mild degradation, punishment
Summary: Being Mori’s daughter already paints a target on your back in the Mafia, but being Dazai’s lover makes it worse. He doesn’t share well. And when he notices how close you’ve gotten with Chuuya and the Flags, jealousy curdles into something darker. Slipping a toy inside you before the morning briefing, Dazai spends the day toying with you under everyone’s nose.
𖤐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𖤐
You’d carved your own place in the Mafia long before anyone dared whisper about favoritism. Being Mori’s daughter might have bought you your first seat at the table, but it was your precision, your ruthlessness, and the way subordinates flinched under your gaze that cemented you as an executive. Respect came grudgingly at first, earned drop by drop in blood. Now it was second nature.
But bloodlines are chains, and your father’s shadow was long. Every word, every action, every relationship you fostered was weighed against the fact that you were his. Even your private life. Especially your private life. Which was what made Dazai Osamu a problem.
Somewhere between his schemes and his sardonic smiles, he’d wormed his way into your nights, your bed, your veins. He was poison wrapped in silk bandages, and you hated that he knew exactly how much you craved him anyway. But there was no pretending you belonged to each other in the light of day. Not when eyes were everywhere. Not when Mori himself sat at the head of every meeting, sharp enough to slice you open with a look.
And lately, Dazai had noticed something. The way you laughed more easily with Chuuya. The comfort with which you stood at the bar with the Flags, shoulders brushing, cups clinking. It wasn’t betrayal, not really. But to Dazai, it was intolerable. Possessiveness suited him far too well.
He didn’t need to say it aloud. You felt it in the way his gaze lingered too long across the conference table, in the way his hand tightened imperceptibly when you passed him in the hall, in the way his voice sharpened when Chuuya’s name left your lips. The storm was building. You just hadn’t realized yet how far he’d go to make sure you remembered who you belonged to.
It started before sunrise. Dazai never knocked — he let himself into your apartment with the spare key he wasn’t supposed to have, draped in bandages and shadows like always. You were still dressing when he appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that too-sweet smile that never reached his eyes. “Morning, pretty executive,” he drawled, eyes glinting. “Big day today, isn’t it? Meeting with all the higher-ups. Your father. Chuuya. The Flags. Everyone watching.”
You froze with your blouse half-buttoned. His tone wasn’t casual; it was calculated. You knew that cadence, knew what it meant, he was up to something. “What do you want, Dazai?” you asked flatly.
He closed the distance in a few lazy strides, fingers brushing over the crisp line of your collar before slipping lower, teasing down the buttons you’d just done. “What I always want. To remind you you’re mine.” His hand dipped into his pocket, and when it emerged, a small black device gleamed in his palm. The sight of it made your pulse stumble.
“No,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “Not today.”
“Yes, today,” he corrected smoothly, the word laced with quiet amusement. “Especially today. You’ve been awfully cozy with Chuuya and his merry little Flags. Don’t pout, bella. I’m just ensuring you remember who you belong to.”
He pressed the toy into your hand, the controller already clutched in his other like a weapon. The weight of it was damning. “Dazai…” Your voice cracked, just a little. “What if someone notices?”
“That’s the fun part,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’ll sit through breakfast with the Flags, walk the halls with Chuuya, and even endure Daddy’s meeting while this little secret hums inside you. And no one will know—except us.”
Your heart pounded. Logic told you to refuse, to shove it back at him and demand he leave. But you knew better. The longer you hesitated, the more insistent he became. And deep down, shamefully, dangerously, a part of you thrilled at the risk. When you finally nodded, slipping it into place with trembling fingers, his grin sharpened like a knife.
“Good girl,” he murmured, fastening the last button of your blouse for you, hiding the evidence beneath your professional facade. His hand lingered a moment too long on your stomach, a quiet threat and a promise all at once. By the time you stepped out of your apartment together, you weren’t just walking into headquarters. You were walking into his game.
The Flags were gathered in the lounge as usual — Lippmann sprawled across one couch with his boots on the table, Hirotsu reading the morning paper with delicate precision, and Gin polishing her blade in the corner. Chuuya had claimed the armchair nearest the window, a mug of coffee balanced on one knee. You fit easily among them; they were some of the few who treated you like more than the Boss’s daughter. With Chuuya, you’d found something dangerously close to normal — the kind of camaraderie Dazai couldn’t stand.
“Morning, princess,” Lippmann drawled when you entered, raising his mug in a mock-toast. “Early meetings again, huh? Your old man loves making us suffer.”
You smirked, sliding into the seat beside Chuuya, whose faint grin deepened as he leaned toward you. “Don’t mind him. He just hates wearing a tie.”
You would’ve laughed, if not for the sudden vibration deep inside you. Subtle, but devastating. Your breath caught, spine stiffening against the chair. Across the room, Dazai lounged in his usual careless sprawl, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, bandaged hand hidden casually in his pocket. His gaze flicked lazily to you, unreadable to anyone else — but you knew. The twitch of his lips. The gleam in his eyes. He’d pressed the button.
“Oi,” Chuuya nudged your arm. “You okay? You look… flushed.”
“I’m fine,” you managed, forcing the words through clenched teeth. The toy buzzed again, stronger, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.
Gin eyes lingered on you a moment too long, her expression unreadable. Then she looked away, silent.
Dazai exhaled smoke, watching you squirm as though nothing amused him more. “Our darling executive is probably just overworked. Meetings, meetings, meetings… Mr. Mori keeps her busy, after all.”
His tone was perfectly neutral only Chuuya caught the edge beneath it, and his eyes narrowed. “Tch. Don’t start, Dazai. She’s more capable than half the execs here. Including you.”
Another vibration. Longer this time. You gasped softly and disguised it as a cough, heat rushing to your face. Chuuya shifted, reaching for his coffee again, but you caught the flicker of suspicion in his eyes. Dazai leaned back, smoke curling around his grin. To anyone else, it looked like his usual taunt in response to Chuuya’s jab. But you knew better. He was daring you to crack, here, in front of them all.
The buzz grew sharper, relentless, pulsing through you in short bursts timed too perfectly with Dazai’s lazy exhales of smoke. You pressed your thighs together under the table, nails biting into your palm where no one could see. Every second dragged.
Lippmann was rambling about some botched smuggling run, Hirotsu nodding politely, Gin rolling her eyes. Normal conversation. The only thing not normal was the way your body betrayed you in real time, tremors shooting through your legs. Chuuya noticed. Of course he did. His sharp gaze cut to you again, lingering longer this time. “You’re pale. You sure you’re fine?” His voice was low, just for you.
You swallowed, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “I said I’m fine.”
Dazai pressed the button again. A longer pulse. You bit your tongue so hard you nearly tasted blood. Your knee jolted under the table, making the coffee in your cup ripple.
Chuuya’s frown deepened. He leaned closer, muttering under his breath, “Don’t bullshit me. Something’s wrong.”
You couldn’t take it anymore. If he kept watching you with that much concern, you were going to unravel completely. Scraping your chair back, you stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I—need a moment.”
All eyes turned toward you. Dazai’s most of all, smoke curling from his lips like a halo of sin. “Take your time,” he purred, so soft no one else caught it.
You made it into the hallway, breaths ragged, pressing your back to the cool wall in a desperate attempt to steady yourself. The toy still hummed faintly, cruel reminder that you were far from safe. Footsteps approached. Chuuya. Of course he wouldn’t let it go. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp. “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ I know you.”
You hesitated too long. The heat in your face, the tremor in your hands, none of it was subtle. Dazai was going to ruin you if you didn’t say something convincing. “It’s…” you forced the words out in a low rush, hating how easily they came, “just cramps. Period. That’s all.”
Chuuya blinked. His suspicion faltered instantly, guilt replacing it. “Shit. Sorry. Should’ve guessed. No wonder you look miserable.” His hand lifted, like he might touch your shoulder, then dropped awkwardly. “Go easy today, yeah? I’ll cover if anyone gives you trouble.” The kindness nearly undid you. You managed a tight nod, brushing past him before your voice betrayed you.
The faint click of the remote made your blood run cold. He hadn’t stopped. He’d never planned to stop. You barely had a second to breathe before the shadow fell across you. Dazai moved silently, as he always did, materializing at your side as if he’d been waiting for you to slip away. “Period cramps?” he echoed, voice low, mocking. The remote clicked once in his pocket and the sudden sharp buzz made you gasp before you could stop it. His smile widened. “How clever. Poor little Chuuya, fooled so easily.”
You spun toward him, eyes blazing. “Dazai—enough. Not here. Not today.”
He stepped closer, caging you against the wall with one bandaged hand braced near your head, the other still hidden in his pocket. His presence was suffocating, the scent of smoke and antiseptic bandages curling around you. “You look so lovely when you’re trembling,” he murmured, tilting his head as though he were studying an art piece. The faintest click, another pulse tore through you, harsher this time. You doubled over with a choked sound, biting your lip to silence it.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. “Please. Not in front of them. Not—” You swallowed hard, throat dry. “Not in front of my father.”
The grin he gave you was merciless. “Oh, my sweet executive… you think you’re begging me to be merciful. But what you’re really doing—” he leaned closer, whispering hot against your ear, “—is admitting you can’t handle me.”
Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. “Dazai. Please.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then he chuckled, low and dark, sliding the remote from his pocket and twirling it between two fingers like a toy. “I’ll be nice,” he said finally, pressing the controller flat against your stomach where no one could see, the vibration still humming inside you. “But only if you’re good for me in there. Sit still. Smile. Don’t make a sound. If you slip—” his teeth grazed the shell of your ear, “—I’ll make sure Mr. Mori is the first to know exactly what his precious daughter lets me do to her.”
Your blood turned to ice.
And then he stepped back, hands in his pockets, the picture of bored disinterest. “Come along, darling. We shouldn’t keep Daddy waiting.”
The boardroom was cavernous, its long mahogany table gleaming under the light. At the head sat Mori himself, sharp and smiling. The rest of the of the operatives filled their places — Hirotsu immaculate in his suit, Kouyou’s crimson hair catching the light, Chuuya sitting stiff-backed a few seats down from you. And, of course, Dazai beside you, slouched with his usual careless grace.
To anyone else, he looked bored. But you knew better. The first vibration hit the moment Mori opened the meeting. Subtle, just enough to make your thighs twitch under the table. You pressed your knees together, biting down on the inside of your cheek.
“Reports?” Mori prompted, glancing along the table. His gaze skimmed over you , warm, approving. Pride mixed with expectation. You forced yourself to meet it, nodding, even as the buzzing grew more insistent.
“Smuggling routes secured,” Hirotsu intoned.
“Western docks clear,” Chuuya added, voice clipped.
“Profits up six percent,” Kouyou noted.
You were next. You opened your mouth and Dazai pressed the button again, a long, cruel pulse that made your stomach knot. Words caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat silence fell. Chuuya shot you a sharp look, brows furrowed. Mori tilted his head, waiting. You forced your voice steady, every syllable strained. “My divisions report… no major setbacks. Revenue projections remain stable.”
Mori smiled, pleased, moving on. Relief washed over you until another pulse dragged through you so hard you had to curl your hands into fists under the table. Dazai didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. His smirk lingered as he toyed with the pen in his hand, remote hidden beneath the table.
Minutes stretched into agony. Every time you thought you could breathe, another vibration rolled through you. Your composure cracked in tiny ways a shiver, a sharp inhale, the way your teeth dug into your lip. To everyone else, it might look like fatigue. To Dazai, it was victory.
At one point, Mori’s gaze settled on you again, curious. “Are you unwell, my dear?” he asked, tone deceptively light.
Your blood turned to ice. Before you could answer, Dazai leaned forward lazily, voice smooth as silk. “Just working too hard, I’m sure. Isn’t that right?”
The vibration spiked mid-sentence, ripping a tiny gasp from your lips. You covered it with a cough, nodding furiously. “Y-yes. Just tired.”
Mori chuckled softly, dismissing the concern. Elise giggled, tugging at his sleeve, already distracting him. But Chuuya’s eyes lingered, narrowed, suspicion etched deep.
Later, when Mori called on you again, you straightened your notes, willing your voice steady. “My units along the northern district have confirmed—” The buzzing stopped. Just like that, silence. Relief crashed through you so sudden you nearly sighed aloud. “—that shipments will continue on schedule. Security has been—”
The remote clicked. The vibration surged back to life, twice as strong. Your words cracked, tumbling into a strangled inhale. The syllables collapsed, stuttering uselessly as you clenched your fists under the table.
Across from you, Dazai twirled a pen idly between his fingers, eyes lowered. He didn’t need to look at you. The faint curl of his mouth said everything. Chuuya’s head snapped toward you, blue eyes sharp with suspicion. Mori tilted his head, amusement flickering at the edges of his smile.
“Continue, my dear,” your father prompted, tone deceptively light. “Don’t lose your place.”
You swallowed hard, throat burning, and forced the rest of the report out in clipped, strained words. Every syllable cost you, but you made it through.
Mori moved on. Elise giggled at something whispered in her ear. The room’s attention shifted.
Dazai’s smirk lingered, his bandaged hand loose in his pocket, thumb idly caressing the button that kept you on edge. By the time Mori adjourned the meeting, you were trembling with the effort of holding yourself together, sweat damp at the nape of your neck.
And Dazai… Dazai was glowing with smug triumph.
The meeting broke with the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of papers, executives filing out in small knots of conversation. You stood slower than the rest, legs shaky, forcing yourself to keep your posture crisp and professional. Chuuya was waiting.
He caught up to you just outside the boardroom, falling into step with his usual brisk stride. “Alright. Out with it.” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut. “What the hell is going on with you today?”
Your throat went dry. “I told you already—”
“Don’t give me that cramps excuse again,” he snapped, grabbing your elbow to stop you. His eyes searched your face, narrowing when you wouldn’t meet them. “You were twitching through the whole damn meeting, (Y/N). You barely got your report out without choking. Something’s off, and if you think I’m too stupid to notice, you’re wrong.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, shame prickling under your skin. You opened your mouth, fumbling for something, anything, when a shadow fell over both of you.
“Well, well.” Dazai’s voice cut smooth as silk, lazy but dangerous. He slung an arm over your shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world, prying you out of Chuuya’s grip. “Chuuya, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were interrogating our darling executive.”
Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “I’m worried about her.”
“Oh?” Dazai’s smile sharpened. “Funny. I didn’t hear Mori expressing concern. And he’s her father. Seems to me if there’s something wrong, it’s a family matter, not a partner’s.”
Chuuya took a step closer, scowl deepening. “You’re hiding something.”
Dazai chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “You say that like it’s new.” He tugged you tighter against his side, his bandaged hand ghosting against your waist in a touch that looked casual but burned with promise. “Don’t worry, Chuuya. I’ll take very good care of her.”
You didn’t miss the way Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to argue, to press further but Dazai was already steering you away, his grip unyielding.
The moment you were out of sight, his arm slid lower, bandaged fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His silence was heavier than words, pulling you down the hall until he reached his office. The door shut with a soft click. The lock turned.
“Now…” Dazai finally broke the silence, stepping into your space until your back hit the desk. The remote appeared between his fingers, twirled lazily like a coin. His smile was wicked, his eyes dark. “…let’s talk about how badly you embarrassed me today.”
When he pressed the heel of his hand into your hip, it was rough enough that you felt the bruise forming under his touch. “Laughing too much with Chuuya, and the flags” he murmured, fingers sliding along the small of your back. “Nearly making me lose my… focus.”
The remote stepped up a notch and you flinched, a startled sound escaping you. He watched the reaction like somebody savoring a novel they’d read before but loved anyway. You hated how honest your body was, how it betrayed you the second pressure changed, and you hated how much of the hate felt like heat.
“I told you what would happen if you made a habit of it,” Dazai said. His voice was almost casual, but there was a brittle edge to it. “And you, you thought you could get away with smiling at him like that. Showing him your good side.” He scoffed softly. “How considerate of you.”
The toy pulsed again. This time you didn’t try to hide the way you shivered; hiding was useless when he was intent on watching. He toggled the intensity, a tiny click to raise it, a softer click to fall back, and in between his words came like small lashes.
Every time you opened your mouth to argue, he pressed the button and the sound died into a little broken thing in your chest. His mockery never became cruel; it was polished, intimate. He knew exactly how far to go. You trusted him in ways you couldn’t trust anyone else. That trust made the humiliation sharper. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly, low. “Tell me why you smiled at him, why you give anyone but me your smiles.”
You swallowed, words tangling. Your answer came out smaller than you’d meant it to be. “Because I like them,” you said. The admission felt indecent in the air, but it was true.
Dazai’s chuckle was soft, almost fond. “Dangerous answer.” He nudged the remote again, a teasing whisper, and you folded into it. “But also—useful.”
He leaned so close you could feel the brush of his breath on your ear. “You will learn to stop making me watch that,” he said, voice honeyed. “Not because you must, but because I prefer you remember who’s allowed to reach you.”
He kept the toy moving like punctuation to his sentences, each pulse a reminder. He listed the “charges” again—laughing, leaning, teasing—and each charge came with a little demonstration, a hike in intensity and the corresponding ripple of your body under his measured control. You felt small and seen in the worst possible way, threads of shame and want braided together until you couldn’t tell which was which.
When he finally paused, letting the toy fall to a whisper, it was only because he wanted you raw when he spoke the last, simple line. “Good,” he said. “Now we begin the lesson.”
You nodded because you had been expecting the lesson, because despite the humiliation your body answered with an odd relief. He straightened, rolling the remote between his fingers with that careless elegance, and for a second you could have sworn his expression was almost tender. Then the smile returned, sharp and private.
He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. One hand at the small of your back, Dazai guides you forward until your palms meet the lacquered wood. When he takes your wrists behind you, the motion is efficient, practiced and his bandaged fingers work the fabric through with a surgeon’s calm.
Your chest presses against the desk. The hem of your skirt rides up; the world narrows to the scrape of fabric and the tautness in your arms as he cinches the bandages until they hold. It’s snug enough to remind you of how small you are under him. It’s vulnerable in a way that colors your breath shallow. He hooks your ankles over the desk edge with a casual, almost absent motion, spreading you just enough to make the position painfully exposing. Your lower back arches reflexively and you feel heat bloom there, honest and unwilled. He pauses to examine the line of you, eyes roaming like someone appraising a work of art and a weapon rolled into one.
“You’ll stay like this,” he tells you, voice low and steady, “until you’ve learned some manners.” There is no question in it; the command sits in the air like a verdict. The remote is back between his fingers. He presses it and the toy answers with a tiny, insistent thrum. Your body responds before your brain can censor it—an involuntary jerk, a soft sound that you immediately try to swallow. Dazai watches that sound leave you as if he’s listening to a favorite piece of music.
He alternates the settings like punctuation—low, then a sharper climb—never long enough for you to find equilibrium. The intervals are cruelly unpredictable; the toy lifts you toward the edge and then abandons you there, leaving you suspended on the memory of sensation. Your whole body becomes a map of reactions: muscle, breath, heat. The restraint magnifies everything, makes every little pulse and hitch a public thing between the two of you.
He speaks while he toys with you, soft words threaded with possessive venom. “They get your smiles,” he says. “But I get this.” He lets the sentence hang and then nudges the toy up a degree. The change is a tiny escalation, and you feel it in the core of you—an answering slickness that betrays the part of you built to want. “You think Chuuya’d still look at you the same if he saw you like this? Open, trembling, needing me.” His tone is almost conversational, which makes the humiliation worse. It’s intimate and unbearable; the suggestion of being seen in this state by anyone else splits you between shame and arousal. The thought makes your cheeks flare and your breath stutter.
When you make a small sound at the implication, he hums pleased and possessive. “Pathetic,” he chides, but there’s something fond under the mockery. “You wear your loyalties on your face, and when you do that, I have to remind you who you belong to.”
You try to protest, half an instinct, half a plea, but the vibration swallows the words, folding them into a broken moan that you hate and own at once. He times his teasing with the precision of someone who knows exactly how far to push without breaking you. He watches your ribs rise and fall; he notices the way your hips tilt toward the pulse. He notes, privately, how much easier it is to command you when you’re this exposed.
He leans closer, and you can feel the heat of him at your ear. “Beg for me,” he murmurs. It’s a test and a token both: obedience delivered into the shape of a petition. His eyes glitter with that peculiar mix of mischief and ownership you’ve come to recognize.
You do—words scattering like fragile glass. You beg, small and raw. He lets you go on long enough to taste sincerity, long enough that the sound of it hangs between you.
And then, because he can, because it’s his lesson, he denies. The toy drops to a whisper and then to nothing. The absence is a pressure all its own; for a second you imagine the release that might have been and find yourself aching for it. He watches you feel the loss with an intensity that makes you feel naked in a new way.
He loosens the bandages only enough to shift your wrists so he can angle you differently on the desk, a small adjustment that keeps you bound but makes room for what’s next. For now, he leaves you breathless and aching—humiliated and claimed—while the lesson settles into you like ink. “We haven’t even reached the main course.” He tells you, voice like silk over steel.
When he steps back to retrieve the remote, you realize you are embarrassed, yes. Owned, certainly. But beneath that, threaded through the sharpness, is the warm, dull certainty of belonging.
The click is almost gentle — a sound that has, for you, become dread and promise wrapped in the same syllable. He pushes the toy back into life and there it is: the push that makes your ribs stutter, the small, traitorous heat pooling where you can barely feel the difference between wanting and needing. He rides the edge of you with calculated patience, easing you up to the line and then letting the current die so you hang there, taut as a wire. Your breath comes in broken pulls; the desk digs into your forehead; the bandages press a neat line of white across your skin. Everything you are narrows to the sensation at your hip and the sound of his voice.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, amusement and something darker threading the words. “So dramatic for such a small thing.” He kisses the nape of your neck almost without meaning to, then clicks the remote. The rise is immediate, like being pushed down the first stair of a long fall. Your body answers before your reason does. Muscles clenching, a sound you cut off with a hand over your mouth because you know he loves to hear the small noises you try to hide.
Every time your sound turns into a whimper too loud, he cuts the toy. It dies, and the loss is its own punishment — a hollow ache that syncs with your pulse. He watches the way your chest falls and rises, how your fingers twitch even though they’re bound. The look in his eyes is hungry in a manner that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with ownership. “Pathetic,” he says once, not cruelly, more like a disappointed teacher. “All it takes is my thumb on this button and you fall apart.” He presses it again just to prove the point, and your back arches involuntarily.
He makes you beg because he can. When the words come out of you, urgent, soft, fractured, you feel naked in the way only confession can make you. Your voice is hoarse; your pleas are little things offered up like contrition. “Say it like you mean it,” he instructs, and because you want his approval and because you fear his disappointment worse than being denied, you do.
“Please. Please, Dazai—please let me come,” you gasp, the sentence a raw thing you refuse to disguise.
He watches you, eyes glittering with that impossible, private smile. He leans so close that his breath fans your ear. For a delirious second you think he will take you—no, give you—the one thing you asked for. But he tilts his head and the corner of his mouth quirks, and then the world snaps to silence as the toy dies. “You don’t deserve to come,” he whispers, voice low enough that the words feel like a seal pressed over a wound. “Not after today. Not until I decide you’ve remembered who you belong to.”
It’s not just the denial that guts you; it’s the deliberate timing, the way he lets you see how close you were. He cranks the toy again, merciless and high, and holds it there long enough for your knees to tremble and for tears to spill over, hot and steady. Your body shakes under the strain of edging, every nerve raw, every muscle a single instrument played to the point of buzzing.
Then he kills it. The silence after the cut is a physical thing, heavy and cold. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm and slow. “You will learn restraint,” he says softly, almost kindly, and the contrast makes the words sting. “You will learn to hold on for me, or you will learn how much worse curiosity costs.”
When he returns it is with a different, closer patience. The kind that makes your bones feel both safer and more brittle. One hand presses at the small of your back to keep you anchored; the other finds the world beneath the hem of your skirt with a touch that is all promise and no finish. His mouth follows the path his hand sets, warm and impossibly intent, and every brush of breath across your skin is a sentence without a verb that your body understands perfectly.
You teeter on the edge with frightening speed. He knows the exact cadence of you. Where to press, where to trail, when to slow until your pleading sounds like a thing ashamed of itself. When your whimpers begin to climb, when the sound accidents into something too loud for the quiet office, he withdraws as if obeying an invisible rule. The silence that follows is sharper than anything he’s done; it becomes the instrument of your punishment as much as the vibration ever was.
“Speak properly,” he murmurs against your neck, fingers pinching the soft place beneath your jaw so you can’t hide the tremor in your voice. “Say it like you mean it.” His mouth is a map of heat and restraint; his hands are both scaffold and interrogator. He drags you up and then pulls you down again, teaching you the rhythm of wanting and waiting until your control is a memory and begging a reflex.
“Please,” you choke out, each plea a raw, honest thing. “I remember. I know. I belong to you—please, please.” The words fall out of you like a confession you’re relieved to make. They’re the answer he’s been shaping all night.
He smiles — slow, almost lazy, but with a violent smallness in it that sits heavy in your chest. He holds your words between his teeth as one might hold a favorite coin, inspecting them for worth. “Good,” he breathes. “Remembering is the first lesson. Obeying is the second.” He rewards you with a touch that sends you skittering toward the cliff again, then he stops, just as you begin to unfold. The stop is, precise; it leaves you flayed and gasping and, maddeningly, grateful.
He leans down so close your breath ghosts over his cheek. His fingers trace the line of the bandages binding your wrists. “You’d do well to remember. But you haven’t earned mercy yet.” He whispers, voice intimate and immovable.
He moves with a different kind of deliberation now, softer at the edges. When he loosens the bandages it’s slow, attentive; he watches your face the whole time, reading each breath like a page. He shifts you from the desk and settles you into his lap, one arm coming around your waist to hold you upright. Your wrists still bear the white lines of the wraps, but the pressure is eased; the world tilts back into something that resembles safety.
For a long beat he does nothing but hold you. The office hums faintly around you, the distant murmur of the building, the faint tick of an old clock. You let your head drop against his shoulder because you finally can. Your pulse is a relentless drummer under your skin; his heartbeat is steady under your ear, a metronome that tells you you’re not alone.
He smooths his hand through your hair in small, precise gestures. The touch is almost embarrassingly tender, delicate as if he’s handling something breakable. “Good girl,” he murmurs, but the words are soft enough now to be comfort rather than command. He presses a slow kiss to the crown of your head, then another at the jaw. When he speaks you feel the possessiveness in his voice, but so does the care. “You did well,” he says, fingers worrying at the frayed edge of one bandage. “You remembered.” He pauses, as if choosing the right tone. “Do you need water? Do you need—” He doesn’t finish the sentence; his meaning is obvious. He offers a small glass from a nearby shelf, and you take it like someone returning to shore.
He pulls his coat from the back of the chair and drapes it around your shoulders, the fabric heavy and familiar. It smells like him in a way that is grounding rather than invasive. He tucks it close at your neck, then wipes at the wetness on your cheeks with the pad of his thumb, gentle, unshowy. “You’re safe,” he says, and the simple sentence is anchoring. “I’m here.”
You find yourself answering before you think. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, not for wanting the correction but for the way you made things messy, for the embarrassment, for letting your loyalties show. The confession is small and honest.
He pulls you into a firmer hug, one arm against the small of your back, the other warm across your shoulders. “You don’t need to apologize. You let me teach you, and you did as I asked. That’s all that matters.” His voice is rough at the edges, the sound of someone trying not to sound soft and failing. He rests his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like some small, private reassurance. “Mine,” he says, softer than before, and then with a small, almost crooked smile.
You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in his coat, in his arms, in the quiet, until your pulse calms, until the tremor in your hands lessens. When he finally loosens his hold it’s gentle, not abrupt; when he unties the remaining bandage he does it with the same meticulous attention, checking the skin beneath for any rawness, any bruise that needs cooling.
“Aftercare,” he says with a hint of mischief that makes you smile despite everything. He produces a soft cloth and cools the tender places, then pulls the chair closer to the window where the light is softer. He fetches a blanket, tucks it around both of you so you sit half-lapped in a cocoon of fabric and heat.
“Dazai?”
“Hmm?”
“I…you… I didn’t get to come.”
His eyes twinkle with mischief, “Maybe tonight, if you earn it.”
Part two
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