twisted devotion || Yandere!DAZAI/READER

[25] Blood

Dazai feels at a loss. His throat feels dry. His eyes are unfocused, glazed over, as though still processing what had just happened. He stares at the door you had just left through, leaving him, his house, his heart. He felt as though he was staring at the world through eyes behind his back, feeling completely at loss with his body. His fingers felt numb, and he sat there on the floor of the living room, the urge to tear at his hair brimming in his fingertips.

He finds himself staring into empty space until the sun goes down; at last the exposing light of the sun disappeared into a faint whisper of red, and the twin moon rose with a bloody elegance that went unheeded by Dazai. The light searched for flesh when it beamed through the window; and when it did reach flesh, it went ignored, only brightening the darkness that was evident on his growing face, sharply contrasting against the lightness of his spinning head.

He dazedly stands up, seeing you in intervals of his vision, and could feel something familiar grow in his chest: revenge.

Revenge.

He had always liked revenge served cold, just like him, just like how he was in his past: cold, merciless, unforgiving. He had lost his edge.

It was time he got it back.

XX

Dazai could feel himself walk back into his shadow of his former past the moment he breached Port Mafia territory; no one dared to get in his way, not with the eerie look of pure hatred on his face, pure as a baby, pure as lamb. Pure, unadulterated, untouched: new. A new found hatred for this other you that had destroyed his world, leaving it in shatters and remnants that he would have to pick up.

He was always welcome back into the Port Mafia; there was a spot reserved for him.

For you, he would dismantle the Mafia if you wanted him to. He had come to hate the world when he was in the Mafia, and nearly everyone in it. He viewed it as a mean, hostile jungle teeming with dangerous creatures, a dog-eat-dog place filled with brutal iniquities. In circles, where he was moving in violent cycles of death, everyone smoked and drank and gambled, everyone hustled, everyone lied and cheated and stole. He trusted no one, except one with dark rusted hair; at the drop of a hat he'd kill anyone. For him, it was a simple equation: kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

But you had dismantled that schema of that world with a simple graze of your hand. That hand that had held him so gently, proof that he had been beaten and squeezed into a tight ball, and unfurled each crumple and wrinkle with care, as though dealing with paper mache. You knew of his unpoetic brutality, his capabilities for blood, and had acknowledged it when you kissed him on his collarbone: it still burnt with love.

"You've come back," A familiar voice sounds out, bringing him out of his world. Dazai doesn't have to turn out to recognize who it is, "I was wondering when you'd come, Dazai Osamu. Half of Soukoku."

"No one calls me that anymore," He says. He turns around and sees a replica of you, the original version of you that existed in this world, the version of you that was entrenched in blood up to her chin, barely surviving in her own bloodshed. She tuts.

"Your reputation precedes you," She says.

"I know it does. I've shed it off. It's a carapace I don't bother to deal with anymore."

"Dazai Osamu. Double black, but pale as snow," She struts towards him. He can see the sensuality of which she moved in, as though she were wearing heels and were walking on a tightrope, "A natural born Mafioso, even to Boss's standards."

His gaze turns dark, "That was a long time ago."

"Two years is not long."

"It is, to me."