❛ You trust me that little…? ❜
lieat sentence starters // accepting
The accusatory tone does not faze him in the least; it is a feigned hurt, for the Devil cannot be slain by something so insignificant. The question is airy, almost jocular, yet it carries an impossible weight that sinks into the rabid dog’s core. Akutagawa knows this is not a careless prod, but needlework with a frightening precision.
A breath of silence preludes the ripples in his thoughts, the calm threatening to turn tumultuous in a matter of seconds. It swells, an innumerable amount of words stuck to his palate that yearn for the air. Then it recedes, a voiceless exasperation tugging at his features in its wake. It leaves only vestiges of the storm that has formed within. He is in control of this deluge. For now.
What reason does he have to trust Dazai, the one who placed fetters ‘pon his heartless vessel? Each time he is confronted with this dilemma, rationality at the mercy of frayed strings that had been severed without warning. At times he will remember the fall and it is graceless — shameful. But one force does not waver: his wrath, all-consuming and insatiable, demands a sacrifice corporeal in nature. The commandments of the mafia dictate his every action; traitors will receive no magnanimity from a dog of hell. The only salvation he has to offer is DEATH. (Will you not accept what he can gift unto you?)
Akutagawa’s expression is a scowl, yet watchful. Wary. His words are arduously dredged from mire, syllables comprised of what has been buried long ago. “I do not have a reason to yield my trust to you in the first place.” A pause, two coughs following the string of words. “You will surely spurn it once more.” A reply bitten forcefully through teeth, yet delivered candidly. It is merely a truth he has come to terms with. The other must be aware of this as well.
Though ichor flows through your veins, your existence is godless ━ tainted an unholy black from your sins and corrupts even the ground beneath you if you so choose; each genesis at your fingertips is accompanied by inevitable ruin. Perhaps what is most fearsome is how you wield each breath as you would a carefully sharpened knife. Ambrosia drips from your tongue, a potent toxin disguised as honey descending viscously onto open, waiting palms. Your words are enough to instill rot and you are content to watch the putrid decay of all around you. You do not care for mortals. You never have.
But you have cultivated a beast with your capricious will, and you must meet its fangs when it does not intend to prostrate itself before you. (And it refuses to ever again, because nothing good has come from worshiping ghosts in human form.)
