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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"We have bad news."
Those are the words spoken by Dazai as he enters the Agency conference room, his eyes closed and his lips turned into a slight smile. But when he opens his eyes, there's no light in them; his pupils are swimming in beautiful sepia pools, and there's abject concern swimming in his gaze as he swiftly turns around to face those sitting at the table.
"What is it, Dazai?" Atsushi asks. Dazai sighs, before cracking out the kinks in his neck as if this was a topic he was reluctant to speak of, because speaking of it would reaffirm its truthfulness in reality.
"We lost someone dangerous to the demon Fyodor."
A collective shocked silence.
"Who?" Yosano's the first to pierce the silence.
"(last name) (first name)," Dazai says. He receives inquisitorial gazes at the introduction of your name.
"She harbours an ability similar to the leader of The Decay of Angels," Fukuzawa says, slipping into the office. "With such a powerful ability, Yokohama is in grave danger."
"Say, what even is the ability?" Kenji pipes up, his hand raised.
"We don't know. She is as elusive as Fyodor himself. They unfortunately come in a pair," Dazai says. "But what we do know, is that her mother committed suicide 12 years ago, and her father is pretty much unknown."
"Her mother?" Atsushi echoes. "Why?"
Ranpo's eyes flit open. Dazai's words were tailored to give him an answer. "That's why she joined them. She thinks her answer lies there. She's doomed."
—
The headquarters of the Rats aren't lovely.
Those are the words you would use to describe your predicament as Fyodor walks you through the corridors, his footsteps echoing like a bamboo shoot on stone, descending further into the dark, falling into the black beautifully as if it were his second nature, swimmingly accustomed to the blindness of the abyss of shadows as though wading through a bog, gracefully cutting through like a blade to pave the way for you. Drafts woosh behind the greying walls, the metronome dripping of leaky pipes clicking every beat of the way. You're loyally behind him, staring at the back of his head, where a mop of dark hair was concealed by the fluffy white ushanka hat.
