d. fyodor x reader x o.dazai | You had been destined to die from the beginning. Through you does she slip, like sunlight through a sieve, settling onto the ruins of future human relationships, thereby destroying any chance of existence. Dead before...
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"I CAN MAKE THIS PLACE BEAUTIFUL."
Evening falls—or does it rise, like pressured hot gas, bursting up and fizzling like blue foam on the great expanse of the sky? It's still raining and you're still soaked to the bone, dragging your feet against the concrete pavement, a look of desolate despair in your eyes, in the tiny (eye colour) irises, trapped like a tiger in the midst of jumping through a flaring hoop: suspended, frozen, momentary.
You want more rain. More, more, more. There's a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing how far you can go in terms of mental and physical depravity; going that far proved that you were alive, a human, capable of living through nadirs and zeniths. And as you think that, the rain begins to peter out, reduced into a drizzle. People begin to put away their umbrellas as the rain completely stops, side-eyeing you with your soaked clothes and the look of absolute stillness on your face. The moon descends the skies and ignites your face to glow, but there's nothing alive in that gaze—it is all porcelain smooth and unmarred with emotions.
"Heyyyyyy," A drunk man slurs as he hoisters himself up by the wall, a lecherous look behind his glasses. His eyes are muddy, impure. You stare blankly at him. "What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone this late?"
His greedy eyes sink into your rain softened breasts. You make no attempt to cover them, and remain still as he walks closer to you. You can smell the alcohol in his breath as he inches closer towards you. Your ears tune out the noises of the traffic lights shrieks and the mumbles of the crowd, the curled cochleas now only focused on this man. Your eyes don't move from his droopy ones.
He reaches out and cups a soft breast.
Then, as if a black hole within him had suddenly blossomed into fruition, he collapses in on himself, screaming and howling, blood spurting and violently crashing out of him, pores exploding with geysers of cerise, the noise of bones crunching and cracking against each other as his entire spine twisted like a spiral staircase. Black splatters and pools cover the entire scene. A splash of blood slashes across your cheek.
It feels different from animal blood.
Sweat begins to bead on your face. A slow, unsettling grin growing on your lips. Pupils dilating into a pinprick amongst the pools of (eye colour). Hands shaking violently as you watched the mess of a body now before your feet. Delight that you have previously never known rushes into your heart like water crashing against a hard surface, white foam spitting and sizzling as it finds its level.
His screaming brings attention. People begin to gather as you turn away and begin to run. You break out into a sprint as police begin to cry out for you to stop, but you keep running. Your legs are pumping furiously, your calves burning as you run, but exhilaration numbs you to your body's pain; you tilt your head back and laugh, the misery and desolation dissolving like a pill to water at the wretched noise.
You're on an unknown road as you rest your hands on your knees and pant. There's not a single soul around you; you must have run into the margins of civilization, where only stray dogs prowled around for scraps of meat. The silence of the street was interrupted by the howling of dogs, a sound that chills to the bone by virtue of its distance from humanity, and tells you how lonely you were and how the night around you contained nothing to assuage the infinite melancholy of these empty roads.
A slow clapping resonates behind you.
"You never fail to surprise me, (first name)," The accented voice says. You turn around, face burning with exertion, and meet the calm, half-lidded eyes of Fyodor. His slim hands cease their applause and the echo haunts you, like a blanket of shadows flapped over your head, draping over your skull like a thin, silk veil. "I've only seen such joy for blood from Elizabeth Bathory."
You straighten yourself up. "It's you. Fyodor."
"Yes," He puts a hand on his chest. His clothes are dry, and his boots squelch against the rain puddles pooling on the floor. "It is I."
Your capacity for destruction and blood has awoken something in you. A lust stirs in your heart like cotton candy rapidly swirling into a pink cloud, growing larger and larger within every second as you regain your breath.
"You said that you would paint the land with the blood of the guilty," You recall his words. Your words are slow, calculated, the pieces of you falling into pieces; pieces that were not the correct placements, but into an image that was complete, at the very least. An incorrect image is still an image. "You talk like you are a God."
"With your ability and a few others combined, we can become our own Gods," He replies, his voice dulcet and smooth, like the decadent darkness of chocolate. "We shall discover the truth and filth behind humanity. Your mother included. Everything you wish to know, you shall receive." He outstretches a hand, palm up, towards you. "What do you think of this?"
You stare at his hand for a second, before your eyes flit back up towards his lightless eyes. They slowly blink at your hesitance.
"I don't remember much about mom," You admit. "And I don't know much about myself."
"It shall be revealed; the light will shine upon you. There is nothing to fear. Be by my side. It will be the best for you," Fyodor says. "My dear mouse, how could you live and have no story to tell? We shall create that story. You shall burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again if you heed to me. Do you understand my offer?"
"You want me to join you," You say slowly.
Then, like two metallic doors closing shut, groaning at the weight of its own steel, you place your hand on his dry palm. His lips form into a slight smirk; a victorious one at that.
