Bad Kind of Butterflies ♧ DazaiXReaderXDOA

13. The Strings He Plays

What allows someone to have complete control over you? Fear isn't the only factor, that you know for sure. You suspect that it has to be a mixture of the strongest feelings you know, other than terror...

Desire,

Jealousy,

Love...

It all has to do with how someone can play with everything that makes you you.

Physically.

Mentally.

Inside and out.

"I need to assure myself of your complete and utter devotion before I can trust you. You understand that right?"

Fyodor Dostoevsky's voice surrounds you in a trance as he pulls your hair back gently from behind, his head so close to yours that you are sure if you moved you'd collide with him.

Currently, you sit on a chair that was situated in front of the one Fyodor had been on with the cello before he played the last string and let it ring out in a melodious echo, following to where you were watching, your heart hammering deep and hard in your chest. Fyodor had smiled at you sweetly, an odd sight to see, then taking a hold of one of your shoulders with a strength you didn't know he possessed. That had led to gaining your full attention, your head forced back to look directly in his face before he loosened his hold on you.

"I won't kill you [f/n], you shouldn't be afraid of God. This is all for your well being." he had said softly, and now he was behind you, asking if you understood.

In truth, you didn't, but the feeling of his warm breath near your neck was enough to get a reaction out of you.

"Yes, but..I'm not-I'm not afraid of God." You breath.

Now, the demon stood in front of you regally, posture straight and his hair around his pale face with elegance as his eyes glow in the lighting of the room.

"No?"

"No."

"Then why don't I believe you?" Fyodor asks, his Russian accent smooth as he walks away from you towards his chair, reaching for his ushanka and overcoat and putting them back on with a rush, making you wait.

Dazai...Nikolai...

What does he know?

"I can see the worry on your face...you should know that to be afraid of God is to be afraid of me. My only mission is to rid the world of sin, and I can't have people like you ruin it all for...curiosity."

Curiosity?

Did Sigma tell him?

Has Gogol hinted at something?

He can't know. He can't...Dazai was obviously a mistake, and Kolya...Kolya just likes to play games!

Walking back towards you, Dostoevsky leans forward to meet your eyes, amusement dancing in his, the way his irises seemed to swirl mesmerizing. He knows he's steering things to go his way.

We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

The thought isn't yours, just a quote you had seen somewhere before your days at Sky Casino, but they applied perfectly to how you saw Fyodor. He interested you to the highest degree. It wasn't rebellious freedom he inspired, or an ability to your own accords without regrets. Fyodor Dostoevsky blew the embers of enlightenment too close, and the ignition too easy to fall into.

"You haven't told me why...why do you want to rid the world of all sin?" You ask in a hushed tone, trying to catch your breath.

What does he mean?

"All humans are sinfully stupid, [f/n] [l/n]...and you, so are you. However, salvation could still be yours...I just haven't decided if you are worthy of my plans yet."

Worthy?

You get up, standing close to him, head up and holding his gaze. Your ability acts up, and you hear his heart beat sweetly, like a soft echo deep in the ocean, strong but barely audible. You often wondered if Fyodor truly had a heart at all. He didn't strike you as human, and despite his reputation of being head of rats, right now he looked far from that too. Fyodor Dostoyevsky is, to say the least, beautiful. His mind, the way he holds himself, the way he got the best of you years ago convinced you to listen, to stay. Your need to live was hardly above your desire to please him.

Was it fear? You never described it as that. You couldn't describe it.

"I am worthy"

Take away my confusion.

I don't want to keep going around in circles.

Fyodor smirks, looking you up and down, intrigued.

"Prove it."

Prove it?

"I-"

Dostoevsky catches your hesitation at his demand, and suddenly he leans in, putting an arm gently behind you with just enough strength so that you can't pull away. You don't have to ask why, you don't even have to think to know the answer to why. Holding your chin up to keep your head looking up at him, Fyodor whispers to you in Russian, and you can just catch what he's saying:

"Без кота мышам раздолье"

Without a cat, mice will feel free.

Your bodies are practically plastered against each other, you can feel your heart booming in your own chest, Fyodor's always keeping its rhythm. They don't match up, always at different speeds, it was unnerving to hear in the back of your mind, but there was a rush to trying to dance to two drums, each trying to overpower the other when one automatically had the upper hand; had the steadiness. It's always been about authority, its always been about demonstrating that he's an otherworldly kind of trophy. Unreachable, unattainable. His mind incomprehensible.

But even a God on earth is chained by man's senses.

You want him to take control, you want to feel his light all over you, you want to be saved from all misery and sin. More than that, you want him to keep his attention on you.

It's been a long time since that day.

You lean into him, your lips hovering over his, his eyes looking trailing from your own to your lips and back up, a new need for exerting power surging in the deep, purple like ocean of his eyes.

"You want me to prove it? Show me how then, Fedya." You insist, your mind clouded by the closeness, by the heat and tension between the two of you. Any thoughts you had about Nikolai or Dazai, or concerns about Sigma were gone, and all that muffled your surroundings was the reminiscence of the cello's strings being perfectly played.

"With pleasure."