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...
Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide A/N: Japanese people celebrate Christmas by eating chicken/KFC.
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"DESIRE ITSELF IS EMPTY."
These tales are late tales. Most tales are late of course: too late, like a letter sent by a sailor that arrives in a bottle after he's drowned. And that is the unfortunate truth for you: your tales with mom have arrived after the tide has receded and left behind a green bottle, holding a curled piece of paper within its capacity. On that paper is a deciphered message: One that you can't understand, because you weren't trained to understand, not when you've been told all your life that a certain way of living was correct.
"Little mouse," Fyodor says, watching you across the long dinner table, his vision obscured by a black candelabrum. "What are your opinions on sharing your blood?"
You pause, your fork scraping the bottom of the plate. On your plate is some Russian food that Fyodor had his cook prepare.
"I'm not too fond of the idea that my body is to be shared," You finally say. "This body may be cumbersome to take care of but it's still mine."
"I expected that answer, but it doesn't make it any less disappointing," Fyodor sighs, lacing his fingers underneath his chin as he watches you place your fork down and look at him with critical eyes.
"What do you want to do with my blood?"
"Create bullets," He says. You frown.
"My ability obliterates a person just the same as a bullet does."
"Not to the extent of your ability," He answers. His eyes are half-lidded, the thin eyelids streaked with light blue and purple veins. Under the dim dead light of the chandeliers above, it was in this particular way he seemed like a monument to nature, designer of Adam and Eve. There was a lightness and thoughtfulness, a spatial sensibility, a tastefulness, a beauty and a play of symmetry on his face.
"I'm not interested."
"Shame," He says. "As long as you don't defect."
"I have no reason to defect," You say. He raises an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"Imagine this, I'm an object. I was designed to hold something, but the Agency can't fill me up. I remain empty. I'm a symbolic shrine to thirst for those who want to fill me up," You say, after a long period of thought. "I need to be filled up with thoughts. I need ideas. I need my reasons."
