⋆˚࿔ Greetings, ye folk of this Earth! Call me Reree, and I shall be at your service!
⋆˚࿔ Now, this shall be an x reader blog, created specifically for this. So whilst I am not opposed to ships (and I do dearly adore them) they will not be featured in this blog, as I have a separate one for them and my art.
⟢ This will exclusively be a BSD blog. ⟢
⟢ The reader will typically be gender neutral/feminine, and I am more likely to accept those requests. However, fret not! Because I will accept male readers (at the time of writing this. May change later).
⟢ Additionally, I will probably be writing a lot of impulsive, bold and brazen readers, because there is a horrid dearth of them, so I am forced to pick up the mantle.
{I have nothing against shy readers but good heavens they’re everywhere. We are in urgent need of more shamelessness.}
𝓡𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓼⭑.ᐟ
⟢ Basic Do Not Interact criteria. Don’t be a racist, homophobe, transphobe, ableist or any other such bigot. You’re not welcome here.
⟢ No NSFW. Can be implied, but nothing explicit.
⟢ Dark Content, such as Yanderes and overly possessive/obsessive/controlling behaviour, is allowed to an extent. I will not write anything such as amputation or cannibalism, or the basic deplorable shit: underage reader/character x adult reader/character; teacher x student; incest; and sundry. It’s a straight no.
⟢ Whilst I am willing to add certain physical characteristics on request, such as hair texture or height, I will not be doing anything hyper-specific, such as “the reader is a foreigner from X place, has X eye colour, X hair colour and X skin colour. She can speak French and Korean.” That is an OC, and not easily generalisable or relatable to most people.
fyodor x reader fic where he enthusiastically shows u his calico critter collection but ur actually a captive and he just cannot remember what he kidnapped you for
You’re a zoologist, and, as any proper zoologist is wont to do, you feel the urge to study and understand all forms of wild animals.
That includes the Siberian tiger; and the man that attempts to fell it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
{1.8k word count.}
Reader is assumed to not be from Siberia.
{SFW—Warnings: attempted animal harm; cursing. Tell me if I miss any.}
There is little else where you live but winter. Desolate plains of crystallised, frozen white tears that stretch onto the vague horizon; spindly trees that thrust up like worms and with branches that grapple at each limb like fingers; and a lashing wind that nearly strips you of your skin and lays you bare to steal into your marrow.
Nonetheless, Siberia has its own charm. A ragged, glass-cut charm, with far too many corners left unsanded and many more sharpened to a dagger’s point. You trudge through the piling snow, hiss through the thick scarf you wear; and, struggling through the mittens, pull the furred hood of your coat as far down as you can. The cold is unforgiving even to its own children—what is to say it will be any the more hospitable to you, a foreigner used to the welcoming warm hug of the sun?
Light reflects off of the untouched snow’s pristine surface, scattering prisms of piercing luridness across your vision. Your breath hitches for a moment, blinded by the sun that sees yet acts not, and in that split second of distraction, you hear it—
The low growl of a predator on prowl. You take a hesitant step back, unsteady breath warbling out as puffs of cold smoke, and you try, to the best of your ability, to remain calm. This is what you came here for. To study the Siberian wildlife and wild animals.
It is long time coming to study the tigers, too.
You do not kneel to its level, for you do not wish to be seen as prey. You do not stand tall either, for then you could be a threat. Slowly you regulate your breath, force frigid air into your lungs, and crouch slightly, and, when it comes into frame, you catch its eye.
It’s beautiful. Possessed of the same traits as the average tiger, it is, with stripped markings of black lining his fur and the distinctive orange coat with the white underside. Yet, it is far larger than any you have previously seen. It appears to be curious too, precariously stalking forwards, but showing no sign of outward aggression. Not yet at least.
You take your chance, thank whatever omnipresent force may be watching you, and, with excruciating care, slowly descend, sitting on the knifing snow. Whilst your ability, Whence We Spoke of Whens, is usually majorly useless, here, the ability to communicate with animals and for animals to understand you, comes quite handy; for the tiger has yet to pounce.
You smile softly, and through your ability communicating your feelings into something tiger-friendly, the Siberian tiger approaches. Its eyes are magnificent, truly, and the sheer depths of their intelligence mesmerising. It is this precise intelligence that requires careful care. The tiger, finally close enough, softly rubs its head against your cheek inquisitively. You bring a hand up to its hide, but before you can do much—
You notice it.
There, cradled within the shadows of the trees, glass twinkles. You do not think, wrapping both arms tightly around the tiger, hoping it at least understands the gravity of the situation, and with all your strength, you shove yourself and consequently the tiger to the side. The tiger’s responding growl is loud, yet you give it not a moment to act, for you jump onto your feet, eyes swivelling back to where that light was.
“I’ll be a moment,” You say, despite human language being incomprehensible to tigers. Your ability does the heavy-lifting, transmitting the sentiment, and the tiger, wise creature it is, quiets. You race off towards the light, pace dogged by snow and the heavy clothes.
It seems the person who fired has not moved. He is a man, tall and lithe as the trees that surround him, bearing the very shadows for hair, for it absorbs all manner of light, an abyss as dark as his eyes—a shade that you cannot quite place, that wavers betwixt a deep blue, to a haunting expanse of stygian darkness, to a most peculiar shaded violet.
It matters not. You walk up to him, vexation haloing each step and impressing groves onto the snow. You ram a finger into his chest, eyes narrowed. With a voice of steel you ask, “What, in the everloving and everlasting fuck, were you thinking?”
The man easily pushes away the finger, and you let him, but you do not cower. You stand your ground, lift your eyebrows in question, urge him to answer, for he best expound a reasonable justification lest that little melting-pot of patience you possess evaporate into dust.
“I should be asking you that,” the man responds, the words condescending. You open your mouth, ready to return the insult, but that ratty brute continues, “The tiger was about to maul your face.”
“This tiger?” You ask, deadpan. Your ability transmits your expectation, and the tiger predictably shows up, on the prowl for the man. “He now wishes to kill you. We were getting along perfectly fine!”
“That,” and the man emphasises with a point of his finger, “Is a tiger, a predator. I doubt you are aware of the danger you are in.”
“I am perfectly aware,” you hiss, “And I had it perfectly handled. But now the tiger’s in a shit mood, in no small part to you.” You crouch, and run a hand down the tiger’s back, hoping to lessen his agitation, but it does not work, for he continues glaring at the man, eyes concocting schemes of torment.
You cringe away slightly. “Really not in the mood. Holy shit, you really fucked it all up.” Then, to the tiger, with a gentle smile that is at complete odds with your earlier cutting words, you say, “Off and away. I’ll get you great meat later.”
The tiger begrudgingly, and not without one last growl, walks away.
“Your use of profanity is truly…”
“Inspiring? It best be, because see, I’m usually much more collected than whatever this is—“
“As is evident.”
“Hush! As I was saying, thanks to you, everything has been mixed up and now I need to find another tiger!” You huff, crossing your arms. Then, an idea crosses your mind, and you grab the man’s hand—the one unoccupied with that horrid weapon. “You’ll treat me to tea, at your place.”
The man smiles. And digs his heels in. “I fear not.”
“I fear yes.” You lift an eyebrow challengingly, “Unless you want me to call back that tiger? Tigers are really good at holding grudges.”
The man’s ever-present, ever-irritating polite smile twists into something slightly resembling a wince, should it have donned a rat’s face.
“Perhaps not.” Then, he adjusts his grip on your hand. It feels less like you are holding hands, and more that he is holding you, with a snake’s tight coil as his fingers wound around yours. You try to pull back, but his grip will not relent. “Is it not dangerous for hapless zoologists to be out and about in such wilderness all on their own? Much less invite themselves into a hunter’s home.”
“I retract that invite,” you say, voice slightly pained with strain, “And I’d like to retract my hand too.”
“Too late.” The man says. “It would be rather rude of me to leave you stranded as you are, and not pay for the emotional distress I’ve caused. My, that would have been quite rude of me. I’m Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and you?”
“None of your damn business.”
The man’s smile turns chilling, so much so, that perhaps laying on the snow bereft of clothes might be warmer than gazing at it. “You’re not from Siberia, that much is evident by your quivering in the cold, despite wearing an appropriate amount of layers. Your ability is to communicate with animals, though I have suspicions—“
A vine wraps tight against his leg, winding up his calves to twine around his knees. Your glare sharpens, and you yank your hand away, backing a few steps. “That it extends to the plants? All living organisms, in fact—but you. I’ve been compelling you to let go for ages, and only by sheer strength did it work.”
“It has its limitations,” Fyodor says, and with ease, he brings his hand down to the vines. With a touch, they brown and writhe into themselves, then blacken with decay and dust the snow with specks of ash. “Will it work on a man aware of it? Plants and animals do not possess that level of self awareness, but I do.” And his smile shutters, leaving his lips pale and drawn and a narrow line of death. “So, tea?”
“That does not sound like an invitation.”
His smile comes back, sardonic. “It does please me so for you to not be so dimwitted as to think so, dear.”
Despite the many layers, ice still finds a way to slither down your spine, dying it crimson with fright.
Back against the tree, you compel its branches outward, to lash against the man. They die a sordid death each and every time; and the man, with hoarse chuckles that rasp their way out, a gentleman’s laugh unfit for the demon it inhabits, allows them to pile up, hoarding death as one would treasure, and seemingly delighting in it, too.
Your breath comes quick. With each deflected attack, the panic mounts. In that split-slight darkness between one blink and the next—Fyodor is in front of you.
More damningly, his hand is on your cheek, cruel in its facade of compassion.
“Now, now, little mouse,” he smiles. It reaches his eyes. It is far more terrifying than any disingenuous facade could be. “You know what happens to mice who step on the trap, do you not?” Fingers brush down your cheek, to cup your jaw in hand, to snarl your eyes ahead and immure them to a violet penitentiary.
“They die.”
“Yes, they do,” then, that genteel facade slips back on, an easily deposited cloak, and one just as easily reworn. He steps back, but keeps a hand on yours. The threat is implicit, for you have seen what he had done to the plants. “But the master of the house may still forgive them, should they entertain him for tea.”
“How gracious of that master.” You say through grit teeth, but nonetheless follow. With each step that takes you closer to where that man lifts, your foolishness befalls you, an avalanche of regret.
If you had not invited him for tea, you would still be safe. If you had not sent that tiger away, you would still be safe. If you had not come out here today at all, you would have still been safe.
But no. Now you walk with the devil to the valley of death, where the Cerberus awaits you, and where it will clamp the maws of its three heads on you.
“Do not be so glum dear,” Fyodor says, and he draws closer, lets your hand go for just a moment that you attempt to seize—but, not even a second after, he has his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Tea is quite a bonding activity, no? A staple marker of new partnerships.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ᯓ★ Fyodor absolutely knew who you were, and this really was just an elaborate plan of his concocted so that your meeting together seems natural. He’s a little rat like that.
ᯓ★ Randomly gained an interest in Siberian tigers and was like, why not?
You, a sociology researcher, wish to investigate into crime syndicates in Yokohoma! Obviously, the Port Mafia is one of such—but you stand undaunted before such a task. For the sake of science and research, you undertake the task.
You don’t expect to cross paths with the notorious Demon Prodigy himself.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
{3.4k w.c} part 1 (?)
Reader is an overenthusiastic and reckless researcher. Beast-ish AU; Dazai’s still in the mafia.
{SFW—Warnings ⭑.ᐟ: cursing; brief strangulation; threats; slight degradation; slightly manipulative/deceptive reader. Tell me if I miss any.}
You’re not quite sure about what sort of inanity, insanity or ignorant naiveté brought you here.
With another huff, finally reaching the top of those ludicrous stairs, probably tall enough to reach the famed pearly gates of heaven—or at least, it seems so—you arise to a conclusion: scientific curiosity. A sociologist as resilient, as competent as you will not cower simply because they’re standing before a major organised crime syndicate’s base.
Just no. Fear is base, and fear you do not have—or so you convince yourself. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? Death? You doubt they’re trigger-happy enough to shoot a random researcher. But, glancing back down those stairs, the worst consequence if your gamble fails is getting a tumble down those stairs. Broken bone or two, but, in your humble opinion, it shall be worth the effort.
So, inhaling, fortifying yourself against the veritable lion’s den you are about to enter, you take a hesitant step. Surer of your conviction, you take another, till you’re standing before the glass doors. There are armed guards standing outside on each side, as a paranoid mafia is wont to do, but their weapons are hidden, and, probably assessing you as a negligible threat, leave their guns bolstered and allow you easy entry into the Mori Corporation.
A pharmaceutical of sorts, it is. With opulent, writhing chandeliers that drip down like brambled vines to cast stark, harsh lucid light unto the floor; the plush, padded cushions and sofas made of the smoothest velvet that scintillates a kaleidoscope of colours beneath the light; and the looming, sterile-white walls that stretch high as any sky. It screams of wealth, and, critically so, of a well-established pharmaceutical company, despite their status being somewhat of an open secret. Nonetheless, it is not exactly the drab and rackety underground place illicit dealings are done in, and this, despite being in greater danger within the literal lion’s maw rather than in some ramshackle gang’s hideout, brings you some sort of base comfort.
Beauty does tend to soften the most grotesque of things, after all.
But! No time for such silly musings. You shake your head, straighten your back, point your nose heavenward in a vain attempt to assume an air of authority, and walk straight to the receptionist.
She looks up, eyes shadowed by the glare of her sharp glasses. There are no pleasantries forthcoming of her mouth, so you are forced to assume the lead.
“Hello!” You say, with a cheer that is all too forced, to her stone-set face. You do not let it dampen your spirits, and you carry on, “I am here on a research project.”
“Denied.” Without even looking up! As if you’re some pesky fly!
You stand your ground. “I was wondering if I could have unstructured interviews and surveys as well as observations with some of the workers—“ mafiosos, “—it is apart of a greater project to ascertain the state of people and businesses within Yokohama!”
Ah, you think to yourself, barely two minutes in, and I’ve already violated an ethical rule—deception. Then, you mentally kick yourself. They’re mafiosos. They care little about something as banal as ethics. Additionally, it is safer for you to assume the role of the innocent researcher, unaware of their actual dealings.
That could pose a danger later down the line when your work is published and they identify you as the cause. But that is a future-you problem; current-you has yet to even gain access!
“Still denied.”
“I’ve already collected data from other pharmaceuticals,” for emphasis, you wave around the file. “They’ve neglected to make me sign an NDA.”
“Denied.”
With a mischievous smile, you lean onto the desk, rapping your fingers on the hardwood mahogany. “They’ve, your competitors, neglected to make me sign an NDA.”
Finally, the ennui-infested receptionist lifts her eyes, and bestows upon you her hard-earned grace. She types something, then finally responds with a full phrase, “The Chief Executive is busy,” cooking up schemes on how to better be a megalomaniac, you’re sure, “I will refer you to one of his executives.”
“Chief Financial Executive?” You ask, playing into your role. To sell it all the better, you keep your smile big and elated, fabricated down to each curl on each side.
The receptionist looks at you as if you sprouted another head, and perhaps also opened up your skull, pulled your brain out, and tossed it into the trash. If it was an honest question from your side, you too will be concerned if you’re a right idiot. “No.” And she draws it out, speaking slowly, as if in disbelief. “No. But he will take in your information, have it processed, and invite you over for interviews with set people.”
Now your grin turns genuine.
There are no NDAs to speak of. Because you haven’t researched other pharmaceuticals.
You take your victory, and reply gratefully, “Great! Thank you!” Then, before the receptionist returns to her much-beloved task, you inquire, “May I ask where the bathroom is?”
She points to a corridor down left. Elevators line the wall. “There, then take another left. There should be a sign.”
You gratefully bow, and scurry down the corridor. For a few moments, you pretend to be lost, clutching your papers tightly in hand. But, once certain that she’s no longer paying attention, you turn to the elevators.
It is fortunate you dressed in all black formal wear. Your suit easily blends in with the rest, and once in the elevator, nobody questions you.
Whilst waiting, you take out your pen, and flip to a blank page on your clipboard. You make observations, as surreptitiously as you could. You note how each and every one in the elevator, of which there are five excluding yourself, have a hand near their pockets, where the outline of a gun is faintly visible from your close proximity. It won’t be quite as visible from far away. You make a note of it all, and then again of their builds: they’re all muscled, and if not, at least toned. Like trained soldiers more than mere delinquents.
As the elevator rings, you hastily flip the doctored “pharmaceutical” research papers on top, with other papers below.
Everyone files out to the same floor. There are many doors, and, not wishing to seem odd nor cast upon yourself suspicion, you stow the papers away into a deep pocket in your blazer that you’d personally requested be made for this research, and follow them out. You try to mimic their posture, but their military stride is difficult for you to emulate—you naturally have a slight skip to your walk, a byproduct of your restless energy and outpouring enthusiasm. So far, it has been smooth sailing, and it is a trial to maintain a grim face and not allow your excitement to overtake it.
They stop near a door. A brave soul knocks on it, and a voice, bereft of cheer, calls out, “Enter.”
So they, and by extension you, enter. An office greets you, furnished solely by rising towers of papers and a singular, hardwood desk set in the middle, directly in front of the door. Before you could observe much of anything, the desk’s position casts its occupant centre-stage, and—well, he is something that wears the night like a cloak, and dons the Grim Reaper’s face. He evidently needs no scythe, for he instills fear simply by the harrowed stygian tenebrosity he excludes, forcing everyone onto their knee in greeting.
You are not quite sure of the proper posture, but fortunately, you are at the back. He cannot possibly descry you from so far off.
“Have preparations been made?” He says, and although you cannot see his face, for some reason, you get the feeling he hasn’t blinked, soulless, haunting eyes wide-open, surveying as well as any eagle or hawk. You quack a little, your palms sweat, but you still yourself. For the sake of your research, this must be done. And, despite it not going exactly according to plan—after all, you were planning on non-participant observation, scurrying about not unlike a rat, rather than participant observation—this is not too bad an advancement.
It will increase your research’s validity.
And put you in more danger, a nagging little voice, not unlike your teacher’s, repudiates. What’s proper research and findings without a little taste of danger?
Still, you shake.
“Yes, sir.” A mafioso in front replies, voice stringent and stripped of any emotion, doll-like and machine-like in equal measure. Your fingers itch for your notepad. Complete obsequiousness is expected, and, paralleling your prior observation, rather military in their procedures and addresses.
Ah, the discovery rocks you, even if only slightly as it is not wholly unexpected. They’re a paramilitary.
You maintain your repose.
“Then, what are you waiting for?” The man scoffs, and, in sync, everyone stands up. You were just a second behind. “Let’s go.”
Shit, shit, shit—triple the shit, fucking shit.
You decidedly do not have a weapon, and, even more so decidedly, are not a trained mafioso. Fuck!
Your feelings, a comorbid of fright and fear and something that sickeningly and sluggishly approaches petrification, broil within you, windswept within this man’s perforating storm. You keep a lid on your feelings, attempt to at the very least, and follow the orders mechanically: he has you file out of the room, down the elevator. The receptionist doesn’t glance up again, by some sort of sick divine grace, and, awaiting the squad you’ve joined in a ridiculously impromptu manner, is black van.
You all walk in, with someone splitting off to drive. Once you’re sat down, nearly thigh-to-thigh with the other person (a damn mafioso! your inner voice screeches), with sweaty hands you buckle yourself in.
That same man, the apparent commander of the squad, sits across you, expression empty. You swiftly swerve your gaze away, pretending to be enraptured by the desolate scenery—somewhere rural, likely a warehouse, you briefly note, and then briefly panic about it because rule one of any kidnapping is not to allow them to take you to a secondary location but does it really count if you’re technically doing this willingly and holy fuck you’re locked in a van with six other mafiosos fuck—
A ding cuts through the terse silence, clear as an arc of blighting lightning.
It comes from the man’s phone. He glances at it, and then, like an actor swapping one mask for another, his face shifts into a derisive, axing smile. “Ah,” he says, amused. Then, he looks around the squad. “Seems a little researcher wants to know all there is about us! Say, say, any of you wanna volunteer?”
Everyone shifts, uncomfortable. The man’s eyes scout, and, to your dwindling luck, land on you.
“You!” He exclaims. “I’m choosing you for the interview!”
“Why me?” You ask, jolted by the surprise question.
The man raises his eyebrow, and you belatedly realise that likely nobody ever asks their superior such a blithe question in an organisation as vile as this.
He takes no offence; instead, that smile splits into a soul-eating grin. He jumps off of his seat, standing, albeit crouched, on the moving vehicle, and pokes your cheek.
“You look like such a fresh-faced darling!” His eyes squint with the force of his smile. “You won’t sell out our secrets now, would you?” With derision, he scoffs. “You don’t even know them, lowly foot-soldier you are.”
There was a pause before the last insult, a pause that you felt in your heart. You say nothing in response, hoping he loses interest. And indeed he does, for you have reached the location—you were right. It is a warehouse out in the middle of nowhere.
Everyone files out of the car, and you follow.
“You know what to do.” The man says. You almost strangle him, because no you do not!
Silently seething, you shove a hand into your pocket, playing at clutching a gun. You’d follow the female soldier, that was the original plan, but for once, your brain kicks into gear. They have a set formation they’d already discussed. You’re unsure how they’re not suspicious of a random extra person, but you’re not one to kick a gift horse in the mouth, much less spur its suspicion by acting stupidly and following a plan you know jackshit about. Instead, as everyone disperses, you too pretend to be knowledgeable of where you’re meant to go, and walk off towards the parameter. There are handles lining the tall wall, there in case of emergencies. You take them one at a time, till you reach the top, wherein there’s a ledge and an open window. Peering inside, and seeing a massive crate just below, you push the window open wider, and jump down onto it.
There’s a noisy, keen clang upon impact. Murmurs break out, not those you recognise, and not a Yokohaman dialect, either.
You wonder, a bit faint, if you’d just blown the entire operation with your incompetence. It takes not a second for bullets to shoot, and voices to shriek in panic.
An amalgamation of noise, of metal against metal and of bullets piercing flesh and of that wet, horrid sound of death fill up your ears, waters of horror flooding in—overcrowding your brain, overcrowding your thoughts, cementing you in your place: on the crate. You fall to your knees, clutch them, but, somehow, you persist.
You pull out the notepad, then your phone in swift succession. You note down the coordinates of the operation, the people involved, that morbid commander. You note it all down, handwriting inked chaos spilling viciously across the page and tainting it all.
The gunshots die down. All that’s left is an overly sweet smell. You cannot breathe, not without inhaling lungfuls of it. It’s difficult to focus, with such little air entering you, but as you stand and attempt to tuck your observation notes away, a hand clamps down on your shoulder.
“Now, now,” The man from before, that wretched commander, clicks his tongue from behind you. You turn to frigid stone. Blithely, he snatches the notepad from your hands. “You’ve had your fun. But I’m afraid all this,”
And he waves it around, dangerously close to the edge of the crate, where it can fall down onto the blood-watered grounds. It’ll be unusable then.
There are also bodies down there.
“Will have to be the end of it.” He takes it between his hands. With excruciating slowness, sadism a joy that steals into his eyes and bequeathes it a light, he starts tearing it.
He barely gets half way before a body rams into him, sending him to the ground. It is that of a near-corpse. Not conscious enough to live.
But conscious enough to dream.
You snatch the dropped papers, shove them into your inner pocket, and turn back towards the open window. It is a height up, but, with a slight concentration on your hostage’s dream, they lift you up near the edge, and you draw yourself into that small opening.
You don’t get far before a hand clamps onto your ankle. With the viciousness of a viper it jerks you down, ramming you backwards and head-first onto the crate. Disoriented, you try to pick yourself up, but a hand, that same odious hand, wounds itself around your neck.
“Interesting ability you’ve got there,” the man says, and you question yourself, why hasn’t that soldier already reamed this man off of you? The answer comes with the crack of a whip. “Too bad it’s useless against me.”
Your breath hitches. Ah.
It’s the Demon Prodigy himself, Dazai.
His other hand, unoccupied by strangling you of breath and life, jams into your forehead. “Now tell me. Why should I let those papers,” he rummages through the inner pockets, and pulls them out, “be with you? Matter of fact,”
He draws closer, his nose a hair’s breadth away, his breath on your face—and those brown eyes, made of bitter coffee and the many sorrows that herald it, peer into yours with a cutting intensity. “Why should I let you live?”
You try to say something, but your words warble, throat constricted by his hands. The world spots, black butterflies flitting about and increasing. With a roll of his eyes, he loosens his grip. Not enough to release you, but enough for you to gasp a lungful of stale, crimson-hued air; enough for you to spout, “B-because, if you let me carry on this research, I could hand you information of your competitors.”
His hand tightens. You’re scared that soon enough, rather than merely hearing your own breath sputter, you’ll be hearing the crack of your neck.
“That trick won’t work twice. Those half-assed documents were clever, but they won’t work, especially so since you’re such a persistent pest, following me all the way here.” Then, his face mangles into a ghoulish grin. “Plus,” he singsongs, “Nobody gives a damn about the pharmaceutical facade.”
He draws ever closer, eagerly anticipating your torment, your tears and your cries. You are well aware the Demon Prodigy lacks in conscience, and savours death like one would honey. “What a pity,” his finger draws down, from your forehead, to between your brows. His thumb brushes the underside of your eye, where your tear duct lies, impatient for the awaiting tears. “That silly little gamble of yours was an utter loss! Death can really only be your repentance for even daring to think it works.”
“I—“ You stammer, and you clutch at the hand around your throat with both of your hands. Even that is not enough to pry his grip of steel off, but it does slacken, his curiosity a living beast within his doleful eyes. “Not on the pharmaceuticals I don’t! But I do have information on the most prominent gangs in Yokohama, classified information, with a brief overview of it below the pharmaceutical ones. Check it, for fuck’s sake!”
“Hm,” Dazai seemingly contemplates it for a moment. “But if I let you go for even a moment, that soldier over there will blow off my head!” He hums, his grin a little more hollow. “I don’t want to do extra work. Killing you is easier.”
“I’m a researcher,” you hiss, “Not a killer.”
“Great!” Dazai says, “Now remind me of the part where I said I care about this distinction?”
“Oh, fuck you!” Exasperated, you throw your head back, uncaring of the pang it sends through your skull. “Just be over with it.”
“I think not now,” There’s the acute ricochet of a bullet meeting flesh. That soldier you’d used is now well and truly dead. Dazai jumps to his feet, gleeful. “You’re interesting enough. I’ll look through those papers,” he tilts his head, smile screwed on, “and if even a single one proves false—well! I’ll allow my reputation to speak for itself.”
“They’re not false,” you huff, indignant, voice hoarse and raspy. As quickly as you could, on weak, fawn-like legs you draw yourself up. You’d rather not have to look at Dazai from underneath, like subdued prey. “I went undercover for all of them. They’re as valid as they get. Don’t insult my integrity as a researcher.”
“Lying in a pool of blood speaks of much integrity, does it?” He shoots back, eyes raptly roving over the words. After tense moments spent in a pendulum that swings betwixt life and eminent death, it settles on a side, and draws to a stop on life. Dazai folds the papers, and tucks them into his massive coat. “Alright. I’ll let you live. And, I’ll even let you investigate the Port Mafia to your heart’s content!”
You consider yourself a polite person. You also don’t consider Dazai worth said politeness. “The catch?”
His eyes glint. For a moment, you wonder if a soul truly lives there, and if, for just this second, you’d witnessed it.
“Well, of course you’ll hand us access to all the research you’ve done so far, complete and unredacted,” Then, with an easy confidence, he takes both your hands in his, and with an overwhelmingly joyful voice declares, “And you’ll have to follow me around, obey my orders, and be a good pet researcher!”
The words reek less of promise, and are rather poignant with threat.
Still, your research is imperative. You allow him to clasp your hands, your neck still throbbing with pain, and wonder what sort of hell you’ve thrown yourself headfirst into, as you utter an acceptance to his deal.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ᯓ★ First time writing Dazai, pretty please don’t crucify me for getting it wrong. Matter of fact, first time writing “x reader.” It never really was a genre I thought I’d engage with, but here we are.
ᯓ★ This was born out of my sociology class. If it wasn’t obvious yet, we were doing research methods, specifically into gangs, and the usage of certain research methods. I thought, “hey how ridiculous would it be if I were to, as a researcher, just waltz into a mafia building and politely ask for an interview?”
