PM Dazai + reader
2012 words
warnings: none
notes: not beta read
also on ao3.
Coming down from a mission high is often more exhausting than the mission itself.
Even cities like Yokohama have to sleep sometime, and it seems that time is 3 am. The streets are blessedly empty as your car cruises along. In the passenger seat, Dazai lets out a jaw-cracking yawn; his head bobs, long lashes dusting against his cheeks as his eyelids flutter. With each streetlight you pass, streaks of gold weave through his matted hair and dance across the freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose— only for his face to grow skeletal and gaunt in the shadows that follow. For once, he truly looks as tired as he feels. “Hey,” his voice is soft in the dark, “how much longer?”
“I can only drive so fast,” you hum back. The air in the car’s cabin is comfortably fragile, and it’s easy to get lost in the gentle pattering of raindrops against the windshield.
“It’s not that,” Dazai mumbles, bandaged hand trying to rub the grit from his one visible eye. He squirms, sinking down against the heated leather, and presses his forehead to the chilled window glass. “—warmer,” he demands, and you sigh.
You’re able to blindly hit the button for his seat warmer, and Dazai’s reflection visibly relaxes. The warmth seeps into his aching muscles, earning a contented sigh as he practically melts into the leather.
The rain picks up, going from gentle to a bit more insistent as it splashes against the glass; combined with the soothing heat that staves off pain and the rocking of the car, and Dazai isn’t sure he can keep his eyes open much longer.
“—it’ll be a bit longer,” you say softly, sparing a glance at your boss from the corner of your eye. Dazai takes that for what it is— permission, the answer to a question he never would’ve asked.
Dazai huffs as he wriggles into a different position. “Let me drive next time,” he grumbles, “and we’ll get there much faster.”
“Yeah, and in multiple pieces.”
“That part doesn’t matter.” Dazai ends the conversation by shrugging his expensive suit coat off his shoulders to use as a blanket instead. Curled up in the passenger seat, cradled between the pelting raindrops and swishing windshield wipers, Dazai doesn’t fight it this time when his eyes slide shut.
You have to squint against the angry red of a traffic light as the car slows to a halt, and as you wait for the signal to change, you take a proper look at Dazai. His face is much softer than you’ve ever seen; the ever-present tension between his brows is nowhere to be found. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look his age like this— it’s hard to believe he’s anything but human, no matter how much he insists otherwise.
Without Dazai’s voice to occupy your thoughts, the rest of the drive seems to pass in an instant. He’s still asleep in the passenger seat as you park in front of your apartment building. Rest is rare for Osamu Dazai, so you’re hesitant to wake him. Your eyes follow the glistening trails of raindrops as they race down the windshield, drifting through your reflections until they vanish off the glass. You switch the car off.
In the brief time it takes you to unbuckle your seatbelt and step out into the rain, Dazai wriggles again, stirred awake by the leather seat growing cold. His long lashes flutter as he glances around, absorbing information as easily as he breathes. Car has stopped— this isn’t his shipyard— he sighs through his nose, and by the time you’ve pulled the passenger door open, he’s gone limp again.
You’re damp from the overhead drizzle as you lean against the door frame and watch his sleeping face. Rainwater in gauze can’t be too comfortable— but Dazai’s chest is rising and falling in such a steady rhythm, the idea of waking him makes guilt burn in-between your ribs. Knowing him, it will be a long time before he manages to sleep peacefully again.
“Alright, sleeping beauty,” you sigh and lean over to unbuckle his seatbelt. Dazai’s eyelids flutter again, but before he can pretend to wake up, he feels your hands dip under the plushest part of his thighs. With some careful rearranging, you tilt his body forward until he’s nestled snugly against you. Head lolled against your shoulder, Dazai has to fight not to shudder as the pattering rain begins to dampen his hair and drip down his neck. Then in one swift movement you’ve hauled Dazai into your arms and out of the car.
Vertigo sets the world spinning around him, almost enough to end his little ploy early. He tucks his face further into the dip of your neck— the vestiges of your fading perfume makes his head spin in a much cozier way.
You nudge the car door closed with your hip and pad quietly— but purposefully— through the rain. Being Dazai’s right hand isn’t exactly a glamorous job, but it pays well enough; reacting to the key fob somewhere in your pocket, the front doors of your complex unlock and slide open on their own. Dazai shivers in the blast of air conditioning. Your grip on his thighs tightens.
Thankfully the lobby is empty at this time of night; Dazai isn’t sure he could live with anyone else seeing him in your arms like this. It’s too soft— a demon like him isn’t allowed this sort of kindness. But is it really a sin if nobody else notices—? Even now, every breath is calculated to the millisecond. Can’t let you know he’s awake— he’s sure you would put him down. And Dazai doesn’t want you to put him down.
There’s a soft ding as the elevator slides open. When you shift his weight in your arms, an unintentional panic pulses through him at the thought of landing on his feet— but as soon as you’ve hit the button for your floor, your grip on him steadies again.
A single eye flickers open to gauge his surroundings, only to be met with a wall of glass and the dizzying sight of Yokohama disappearing below. From this high up, through the haze of the rain, his beloved city looks like a dream.
And then Dazai’s gaze lands on his own reflection.
For once, he looks dead tired, having to blink rapidly so his vision even sharpens to begin with. Bandages damp and coming loose, his sopping hair leaving a visible wet patch against the collar of your shirt— yet through all the inconvenience that encompasses Dazai, the strength of your arms around him never falters.
He’s gotta be careful, because he could get used to this.
The chime of the elevator startles Dazai out of his thoughts and he’s quick to slam his eyes shut again. You’re humming as you step off the elevator, that same tune he’s never gotten around to asking the name of. He’s not sure he really cares, at this point— your soft voice is far more soothing than any lullaby could ever hope to be. When you shift him again so you can open your apartment door, he’s not nearly as afraid you’re setting him down.
When the door clicks shut behind you, Dazai knows he’s probably safe enough, but he doesn’t want to give up his little charade just yet. From his vantage point, he can observe your home without you protesting his curiosity; everything from the books on your coffee table to the color of your curtains is committed to memory, a snapshot he can turn over in his mind like a polaroid on lonely nights. The throw blanket on your couch looks especially cozy— for the briefest moment, Dazai lets himself imagine what it would be like to curl up together on the sofa, buried under that blanket and falling asleep to TV static. What a dream.
The sparsely-decorated wells of your hallway eventually melt into your bedroom, and it finally dawns on Dazai’s dozing brain— this is real. But it feels dreamy, even as you tilt him backwards onto your bed and the world spins around him. His shipping container is dark, dingy, and exactly what he deserves. But your room is safe. The bed is soft. Your touch is, too; as Dazai lays sprawled out on top of your comforter and only half-conscious, your hands hook into his belt loops and drag his slacks off his hips. His shirt is next, the wet fabric peeling uncomfortably away from his skin and leaving him shivering in the chilly air.
“Hang on a moment,” your voice drifts through his hazy thoughts. Dazai feels your presence shift away from the bedside; his eye peeks open for the briefest moment to track your movements, a tugging in his chest that hopes you’re not dumping him here and then going to sleep by yourself on the couch.
But you don’t go anywhere. A lamp clicks on, a dresser drawer slides open, your shadow flickering across the wall as you dig for something— anything— that would fit his broad shoulders.
Dazai blinks slowly— well, he thought he was blinking, but his eyes were clearly closed for longer than that. He’s brought back to the edge of consciousness by your hands shifting his body just enough to slip a shirt over his head. Your hands clasp around each of his wrists as you tug his arms into the sleeves, and he wonders if this is how dolls feel— cared for. Loved.
“Are you cold?” Your voice is distant even though he knows you’re leaning right over him. Dazai sleepily shakes his head, but a hand combs through his damp curls anyways, and he shivers as more droplets roll down his neck. “Yeah, ‘s what I thought.”
More shuffling at the edge of his hearing and then you’re gently tilting Dazai’s head off the mattress. He grumbles petulantly as you slip a towel underneath him and start gently scrunching the excess water out of his brunet waves. He shudders again, this time because your hands in his hair send electricity racing down his spine. Maybe it will clash with the rainwater and stop his heart.
This is nice. Maybe he could allow this every once in awhile.
“C’mon now.” He can’t tell if you’re mumbling, or if he’s just that far gone. Either way Dazai shifts as you nudge him, feeling you push and prod at his limbs until he’s less of a starfish across your blankets. It hits him again that he’s in your bed, but he doesn’t get to process that thought before the comforter is pulled up to his chest. He’s enveloped in a warmth he didn’t realize he’d been missing.
The bed dips at his side as you crawl in too, not entirely successful in your attempts to not disturb him.
Under most circumstances. Dazai would be too tense to sleep next to someone. Sleep is a body’s most vulnerable state, one that visits him so rarely, he doesn’t know how to be comfortable with it. Now, though, he’s almost miffed at the respectful distance between the two of you.
A click and the sliver of light underneath his eyelids vanishes. Rustling as you settle into place. As soon as you stop moving, Dazai gives up his game, letting his eyes flicker open so he can study your face in the moonlight. So you’re the last thing he sees before dozing off.
You’re staring right back at him.
“I knew you were awake,” a smug expression ghosts across your face before you’re interrupted by a yawn.
Dazai can feel the tips of his ears turn red, one of the very few aspects of his body he can’t control. “Shut up,” is his weak argument; justified, given the time, and the exhaustion quickly overtaking you both. Dazai tilts forward to smush his face into your chest and tries to ignore the way your breath hitches.
“—you’d better still be here when I wake up.”
“Wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”
I've held onto this for most of the year trying to get it done,, awhile ago my friend sent me a video of someone's Dazai art, and the art itself was really pretty, but the subject matter made me incredibly sad. Usually that doesn't happen to me, so I wasn't sure how to deal with the unexpected reaction, and I decided to take the same base concept and work it into something that made me feel better instead.
Those last two lines are open to interpretation, so whoever you think said them is correct!
sicktember prompt 7: borrowed hoodie.
PM Dazai + reader
~2400 words
warnings: none
also on ao3.
“—I’m cold.”
“Yeah, ‘s what happens when there’s no meat on your bones.” Even though you scoff at Dazai’s complaint, you’re already on your feet and padding towards the linen closet in the hallway. There’s a few old blankets folded and stacked on the shelves. You don’t put too much thought into which one you grab; maybe you should have, because when you drape it over Dazai’s sprawled-out form, he whines again.
“Don’t you have anything warmer?” He pouts up at you even as he pulls the threadbare throw up to his chin. His unbandaged eye is glassy; he’s already gaunt, but now he seems breakable; even with his new blanket, Dazai is still visibly trembling.
If you think about it, you should probably be glad he showed up on your couch instead of hiding away in his damned shipping container. This is about as close as you’ll ever get to him admitting he needs some kind of help.
Dazai lets out a dry cough, rolling over on the couch so he can press his face into the plush cushions. That does nothing to hide his sniffles. You roll your eyes and reach over to pluck at his shirt, damp with sweat. “Stop contaminating my sofa, you bastard.”
“‘M gonna go contaminate your bed next.”
You just roll your eyes again.
Dazai doesn’t move when you prop yourself on the arm of the couch, just above his messy head. He knows what’s next— he feels your hand dip into his damp curls and, embarrassingly, he leans into the touch. Your palm is cool against his burning scalp. He could finally fall asleep like this.
Unfortunately— predictably— good luck doesn’t surface this time. Your concerned hum breaks through the fragile drowsiness that had begun to settle over him. “You’re warm,” you say quietly. Dazai would argue that— he is shivering, after all. Before he can snark back at you, though, his breath catches in his lungs, and he curls in on himself in another coughing fit. Misery hits all at once; he can’t breathe, he can taste sick in the back of his throat, and he’s both freezing and overheating as his protective layer of bandages irritates his skin.
You make a vague noise of sympathy and pat his heaving back until he can breathe again. “—I think some steam would help with that.” You tug on the brunet strands at the base of his neck until he groans.
“Too much effort,” he rasps. And then he sneezes hard enough that his head bounces off the back of your couch. “Shit.”
“C’mon now,” your voice gets firm. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. Entire way there.”
That threat is enough to send an unfamiliar pulse up Dazai’s spine; he’s not sure if it’s pleasant or uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care enough to analyze his own feelings right now, not when it feels like his head is stuffed full of cotton. Instead, he lets out another long whine— like a puppy that doesn’t want to go for its walk— but hauls himself upright anyways.
It takes some struggling, some wrangling; despite his height advantage, Dazai is stick thin and incredibly easy to manhandle once you actually get your hands on him. Eventually you get him to fold his gangly legs underneath himself and sit on the bathroom floor. Even as you’re turning the shower on, he’s clearing his throat and trying to stifle another coughing fit.
As soon as the hot water is on, the entire bathroom begins to heat up, and Dazai visibly relaxes, the shivers finally vanishing. He lets out another weak cough as the gunk in his chest starts to loosen up.
“Now,” you fix him with a firm stare as he tries to get comfortable on the tile floor. “I’d better not turn around and find you digging through my bedroom or somethin’, okay?”
Dazai rolls his eyes and scoffs. “As if you own anything interesting to begin with.” Still, he’s not in the headspace to argue the way he would on a normal day; his head is fuzzy, and the gathering moisture in the bathroom is already dampening his gauze wraps. He’s the very picture of a wet kitten.
You close the bathroom door behind you and Dazai is left alone with his thoughts.
Not needing to keep up a facade once he’s out of eyesight, Dazai scrambles over to the shower, half-hanging over the edge of the tub as he hacks up a wave of gunk. He doesn't care that the shower water is soaking his hair and clothes as long as it washes away the slime leaving his lungs. It looks gross, it tastes gross, and Dazai is sure your neighbors in the next unit have a very low opinion of him right now— but, after a few long moments, airflow comes easier. He’s finally able to take a few deep, shuddering breaths that fill his aching lungs with more steam and warm him from the inside.
Now that he’s breathing again, Dazai’s self-awareness kicks back in. Wet hair he can deal with, but feeling the warm droplets roll down his neck and soak into his shirt, his damp bandages curling and itching against his sensitive skin? Too much too much.
You’re alone in here, Dazai reminds himself. One of his hands absently fidgets with the buttons on his wet dress shirt, delicate fingers tapping against the smooth plastic. It’s okay, it’s okay— you’re alone.
With one more deep breath, Dazai peels his wet clothes off all at once. He shudders, not because of the temperature change that hits his skin, but because all his shields are down. Vulnerability is worse than sickness.
The steam in the room has Dazai’s sinuses draining as he works; he swipes his bandaged wrist under his dripping nose only to immediately sniffle again. In the back of his mind, he can already hear you fussing about how outright gross that was. It’s always nice when his typical inner monologue is replaced by your voice.
His gauze seems almost like a moisture magnet, because even the strips that didn’t get caught in the shower stream are sopping wet and heavy. That makes it a bit harder to unravel his defenses, but eventually Dazai is standing alone and fully bared. Thank whatever god that the mirror is already fogged— he’s not sure he could handle the full image of his own body, gaunt and frail, coming apart at the seams. It’s too much.
There’s gauze in the towel closet. He’s seen it on the second shelf, next to your oft-used first aid kit he’s come to know so well. When he gets his hands on the packaging, Dazai is pleasantly surprised to see you’ve stocked up on his preferred brand, the only one that doesn’t irritate his raw skin. Probably just coincidence.
Dazai is well-practiced in the delicate art of wrapping himself back up; even with no suspiciously-fresh wounds, it often feels like the strips of cotton are the only thing holding his fragile body together. Once he’s nice and snug in his second skin— and boxers, for the modesty he pretends he doesn’t have— Dazai cracks the bathroom door open and peers out into the hallway.
After being stuck in such a warm room, the air conditioning feels nice against his flushed face. You’re nowhere in sight and, judging by the sounds of clattering metal down the hallway, it seems you’re probably engrossed in putting a meal together. Meaning you’re very distracted. Perfect.
Dazai leaves the shower water running so you don’t suspect anything as he darts across the hall and into your bedroom. He shivers again as he nudges the door closed behind him— the breeze of movement against his damp skin had only been nice for a moment before getting too cold again. As long as he’s in this body, he thinks he’ll be miserable.
There’s probably not too much time before you abandon your chore to come check on Dazai, meaning he’s limited on how much snooping he can accomplish before he’s caught. Still, your bedroom is so full of your presence, even when empty, and he can’t help but try and commit it to memory; the patterns on your bedsheets, the titles on your bookshelves, the pictures on the wall. It vaguely crosses his mind that he should add his own photo to the mix sometime and see how long it takes before you notice.
No time for that now, though. Dazai makes a beeline for your closet and tosses the door open.
When he thinks about it, your choice in casual clothes amuses him— the Port Mafia does have a semblance of dress code, so most of the shirts hanging here are things he’s never seen you wear. His hand drags across the various fabrics, enjoying some textures, jolting away from others. Ah, if only there wasn’t such a size difference between you both— he’d love to slip into one of the frillier shirts, just to see your reaction.
And finally his delicate fingers brush against an item he recognizes. It’s that oversized hoodie you’ve worn to the office more than once— the only item in your closet that he’s sure will fit his frame as well.
Fitting his broad shoulders is the main reason he’d been hoping to find that particular hoodie, but Dazai is still mildly surprised at how easily he’s able to slip it on, immediately enveloped in a sense of comfort he’s not sure he’s ever experienced. While it’s huge on you, it’s only a bit big on him; the hemline falls just past his hips, the sleeves almost long enough to cover his hands, and the whole thing is practically drenched in that perfume you’re always wearing. Dazai brings the fleecy fabric up to his nose and inhales deeply— in this borrowed hoodie and with his head clear for the first time all day, Dazai finally feels some level of okay.
There’s no time to stand around, though. If he lets the shower water run too much longer, you’ll demand he pay this month’s bill.
Dazai sneaks back into the hallway, making sure neither door slams shut as to not alert you to his wandering. With the hot water having run for so long, the tiny bathroom is nearly stifling, and he can immediately feel sweat beading at his hairline as he shuts the shower off. His clothes are still sitting abandoned on the bath mat, and he’d only bothered to kick the bandage wrappings in the general direction of the trash— meh, he’s sure you’ll make him pick it all up later.
There’s no real reason to creep down the hallway this time— you’re well aware that Dazai is in your apartment, after all, so he has no real reason to sneak around. Still, he finds himself toe-walking to keep his footsteps light as he passes the kitchen where you’re still banging things around as you cook.
Your back is to the door, so you definitely don’t see him as he tries to sneak past, but you seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to Dazai. “Are you feeling any better? Haven’t heard any coughing.”
At that Dazai forces out a light cough, not even able to make it sound bad now that his airway has cleared. “I think it’s terminal.”
“Mmm, too bad,” you hum without looking away from the stovetop. “Go lay back down an’ try not to die on my couch, okay?”
You hear Daza scamper away, no longer trying to hide his footsteps, and something prickles at the base of your neck. It’s suspicious when Dazai doesn’t argue.
Knowing your boss, Dazai probably hasn’t eaten in at least a day, possibly longer if his illness has smothered his already-rare appetite. Getting him to eat is hard enough on a normal day. Lifting the frypan off the burner, you slide the sandwich onto a plate before fishing cookie cutters out of a drawer. Chop the sandwich into cute shapes, spoon some tomato soup into a patterned bowl— it’s like you’re trying to entertain a toddler into eating their veggies.
“You’d better take at least a few bites,” you order as you carry the food into the living room. “I went through all the effort of a gourmet grilled cheese—” your voice falls off as you peer over the back of the couch, only to be greeted by Dazai wearing something that definitely doesn’t belong to him. That’s one of your favorite hoodies; it’s a bit surprising it fits him. “—where did you get that?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dazai hums, stretching out so his long legs hang over the far end of the couch. He makes a show of pulling the hood up until it covers his eyes. “It suits me, no?”
You just sigh. When you nudge him, he grumbles, but wordlessly makes room for you to join him on the sofa. As soon as you’re settled, he drops his head in your lap to use your warm thighs as a pillow. “You coulda just asked, y’know. Instead of sneaking around. I would’ve let you wear it anyways.”
The tone of your voice is different now. Dazai tilts his head back to read your face. “—you don’t mind?” He can’t quite get a read on you when you’re toeing the line of being too nice.
“Just eat your damned food,” you blatantly avoid the question by shoving the plate of warm food into his hands.
Dazai wriggles with a dramatic “noooo!” only for his whining to stop when you shove one of the sandwich bites into his open mouth. He pouts but doesn’t spit it out.
Your hand comes down to tug the hood back off his head, just far enough for you to slip your fingers back into his hair, and Dazai once again leans into your touch as he reaches for another bite of food. Even when he’s difficult, you stay gentle with him.
Dazai is only able to eat a little bit before his sensitive stomach begins to complain and he turns his face away. For once, he’s nice and full; the borrowed hoodie is deliciously warm, the itch to cough has vanished, and your hand in his hair is hypnotic. For the first time in a long time, Osamu Dazai manages to drift off into a pleasant sleep.
aaaaaaa I've never done sicktember before on any account and I know I literally had a death in the family but I'm irked that I wasn't able to finish much during the actual month,, I know the whole point is just to have fun but I'm only just now beginning to try and get over my perfectionism and stuff fghjhgfd
idk if anyone will read these so ig I'll just talk a lil bit. but man I started writing really young, and after college I feel like my writing got super messed up in comparison to how it used to be, so I'm really doing my best to try and get back to something I'm happy with. I've never written anything besides reader inserts!! I've also never ever finished a piece that had more than one chapter, even though I've been doing this for over a decade dfghjnhgfd. I want to start practicing other stuff!! but reader inserts are fun bc I wanna kiss the anime boys lmao
anyways!! I think I'm gonna keep trying to finish all my planned prompts even though we will definitely be rolling into at least october, possibly longer. and if I may be so bold, likes/comments/reblogs are all appreciated dfghgfd. if you read all this, thank you!!
there's a drug in the thermostat to warm the room up.
sicktember prompt 6: dizziness/vertigo
Ango Sakaguchi + reader
~1100 words
warnings: none
notes: I'd planned to have this up before midnight on the 6th but we had a death in the family so my schedule is a mess now rip
also on ao3.
He’s hoping it’s just because he’s been straining his eyes in the dim light. Or maybe it’s that fifth cup of coffee finally kicking in.
Once again, Ango has lost track of how long he’s been locked in his office, time only measured in milligrams of caffeine. His phone lays untouched and face-down on the desk to protect against compulsions to check the screen. The walls of his office resemble a library more than mafia headquarters; every bare patch of plaster hidden by floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed full of novels and paperwork that hasn’t been relevant in decades.
Dim lighting, lack of sleep, and an ancient organizational system that needs to be completely revamped— it’s enough to make Ango’s head spin.
Ah, that’s it— he just needs some air. The records room is effectively sealed tight in order to prevent damaging the materials, so after awhile, the place gets warm and stuffy. A hand to his forehead confirms that Ango is warmer than he’d realized. Tugging on his shirt collar to get some relief across his flushed skin, Ango finally stands from his desk to take a break.
The room tilts around him.
Ango sways on his feet as the room swims across his vision. Even shutting his eyes doesn’t stop the lurch in his stomach, although a few breathing exercises later the worst of it is settled. One eye cracks back open— okay, the floor seems steadier now.
Before Ango can psych himself up to try again, his phone rings on the desk, the harsh buzz against the wood sending his rabbit-heart thumping in his chest. Gladly collapsing back in his chair, he doesn’t bother reading the caller ID before answering; only a few people tend to interrupt him while he’s busy anyway. ‘Hello?”
“You gonna open the door or what?” Curt and to the point, as always. For some reason, the sound of your voice has Ango breathing out a quiet sigh of relief.
“—just a moment.” The screen goes dark before he can hang up. It may seem a bit cold, the lack of fluff in your conversations, but that isn’t a proper measure of the affection between you, and the both of you know it.
Ango takes a deep breath before he makes another attempt, leaning against the wide surface of his desk as he hauls himself upright. Immediately, his office sways again— prepared this time, Ango fixes his gaze on one particular knot in the hardwood floor, a designated heart in the mahogany veins that run through the entire room. Now that your presence has been brought to his attention, he’s more aware of it when you knock on the door again.
“Be right there,” he manages to fumble the words out. At least, he thinks he gets them out; it’s hard to hear over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
When Ango finally reaches his office door he has to take a few swipes before he finally grabs the handle— his blurred vision means there’s three of them to choose from. Somehow he gets his hand on the correct one in the first try. When the door swings open, he’s greeted by your (slightly) miffed face.
“I told you to quit lockin’ the damned thing,” your shoulder brushes his as you stride through the doorway, and even the unintentional nudge has Ango slamming his eye shut against the wave of vertigo that washes over him. “How am I supposed to make sure you’re not passed out in here?”
“I’ll admit, your timing is impeccable.” Ango is already soft-spoken, but something about his voice catches your attention this time. Behind his wide lenses, his eyes are cloudy, and the longer he’s on his feet the more color drains from his face.
“Are you—?”
“Passing out, yes.” Ango’s eyes roll back in his head as he begins to tilt forward; you dart to catch him before his head smashes against anything. The momentum of his body nearly takes you off your feet, but thankfully he comes to quickly, catching himself just enough that neither of you tumbles over.
“Alright,” your voice is firm and cuts through the ringing in his ears. “You’re taking a break, and I won’t hear any arguments.”
At this point in your working relationship, Ango knows better than to argue once you’ve put your mind to something. He couldn’t argue right now anyways— he can’t tell which reflection of you, wavering in his line of sight, is the real one. The ringing in his ears is intense.
Thankfully you’re not looking for a verbal response in the first place. “This place is a mess,” you huff; although you try to be gentle when you nudge a pile of paperwork out of Ango’s way so he won’t stumble, the stack topples over like the Tower of Babel. When the man at your side remains silent at the desecration of his workspace, your frown deepens. “—how long have you been locked up in here?”
“I’m nearly done with my reports,” Ango dodges the question by answering a different one you hadn’t asked. He lets you lower him onto the oft-neglected couch shoved in the corner opposite his desk, collapsing against the cushions, slipping his glasses off so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. It does nothing to keep the room steady in his senses.
The ringing echoes through Ango’s hearing again, almost drowning out your voice. “That’s not what I asked.” Still, it’s obvious he’s not in a position to really explain himself to you right now.
Quiet and pliable, Ango lets you shift him until his head is in your lap. Even gentle motions have him clenching his jaw against the wave of nausea that burns its way up his throat. But then your fingers tangle in the silky strands of his hair, and as your nails drag against his scalp, Ango relaxes almost all at once.
“You’ve gotta stop working so hard,” your voice is softer at the edge of his hearing. There’s a shift that he can tell is you leaning over to grab something; Ango feels your hand fumble in his pocket for his handkerchief, there’s the sloshing of a drink bottle, and then a deliciously cool cloth is pressed to Ango’s uncomfortably warm forehead. He lets out a loud sigh. You can’t help the smile that twitches onto your lips. “That feel a little better?”
“Mhm,” Ango breathes out quietly. There’s a moment of comfortable silence before he speaks again. “—thank you.”
“Whatever.” It may seem dismissive to others, but Ango understands you. “Just go ahead and take your nap, yeah? I’ll stay here until you wake up.”
a sweet and sour combination, prompting me to break a sweat.
Sicktember Prompt 2: Overindulgence
Ranpo + Reader
702 words
warnings: emeto, mentioned overeating
also on ao3.
Ranpo has never been a boyfriend before. It’s a lot easier than manga had made him believe.
Your apartment is small, but cozy, and he loves nights like this where the two of you can just curl up on the couch together and with nothing to worry about. His favorite part, though— homecooked meals. The kitchen is always alive, and clearly serves as the beating heart of your little home; no matter what time Ranpo arrives, your hands and shirt are stained with one recipe and something else bubbles on the stove. Potatoes, washes and ready to be mashed; diced cloves of garlic left abandoned on the cutting board as you whisk a sauce together elsewhere.
It’s all just so real. For the first time in his entire life, Ranpo’s heart and stomach are full.
Maybe too full, actually.
Camped out on the chilly tile of your bathroom floor, Ranpo can feel the air conditioning ruffle his hair, but he’s still flushed and sweaty as he tries to catch his breath. He’s already thrown up once, but his stomach continues to churn like a storm. This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
“You okay in there?” Your voice echoes through the thin door. Ranpo’s throat is too raw to do anything but whine; taking that as an invitation anyways, you step into the cramped bathroom, the door swinging shut behind you. “I told you, y’didn’t have to eat it all, y’know. Doesn’t upset me if you don’t clean the plate.”
“—it’s never as good if it’s reheated,” Your poor boyfriend croaks. Something in his stomach gurgles and he has to press a first to his mouth.
“Can’t imagine it tastes very good coming back up, either,” You hum as you step around him to get to the sink. One of your hands drops onto his head, carding through the sweat-slicked strands to fluff him back up, and Ranpo lets out a raspy sigh as he leans with your movements. His eyes only flutter closed for a moment; his overstuffed belly is currently protesting any movement, and he near-instantly doubles back over the toilet bowl to retch again. The sheer force to it makes you wince on his behalf.
As Ranpo empties his stomach of the dinner you’d so lovingly prepared, you dig out a clean cloth and dampen it in the sink. When the gagging and heaving devolves into Ranpo quietly drooling into the bowl, you crouch down on the floor with him, and a gentle nudge to his shoulder pushes him back upright. The damp cloth is cold as you wipe his face clean, and the detective wrinkles his nose like a toddler faced with the prospect of a bath. “Stop moving away,” you huff, “let me clean you up.”
“But it’s cold,” Ranpo whines back. His hands come up, one latching onto your wrist to push the rag away, other hand absently swiping at his mouth the same way you’d done. Now freed from his torment, Ranpo glances down at himself and makes a face. “Yuck.” Having come over directly after work, Ranpo’s clothes were already a bit disheveled, but now the white fabric is damp with sweat and clearly uncomfortable against his skin.
He doesn’t even have to say anything else; all Ranpo has to do is bat his long eyelashes and you sigh and give in. “C’mon,” you absently pluck at his buttons, “let’s get you changed.”
His face lights up. “Can I wear the—”
“You just threw up your dinner! No!”
“As long as you don’t make a mess of it.”
“And can I have dessert?”
His pretty face shifts into a pout you’re very, very familiar with. “Yeah, but that just means I’m gonna be hungry again— c’mon, you made so much! I don’t wanna waste anything!”
“And that’s how we got here to begin with, you brat—”
It’s never easy staying firm with Ranpo; he’s like a puppy begging for scraps, all wide eyes and soft whines. Even as he’s changing behind closed doors, pulling on the soft oversized shirt he’d stolen from your closet, he’s arguing his case. “If you don’t want me eating so much, you shouldn’t make such good food!”
PM Dazai + reader; intended platonic
apparently he gets carsick
~5k words
warnings: mild emeto, Dazai-typical suicide references, very brief reference to Dazai not eating
ao3
You know full well why Dazai isn’t allowed to drive; even disregarding his self-proclaimed urges to plow directly into oncoming traffic, he’s simply not good behind the wheel. It’s an immutable fact of life. What you didn’t know yet— at least, not when you’d volunteered to drive him into town and back for the meeting with the higher-ups— is why nobody ever wanted him to ride along, either. Even Oda, usually tolerant of Dazai’s shenanigans, had wished you luck before conveniently disappearing.
Dazai had been fine when he’d gotten in the car. Talkative as always, he’d immediately melted into the passenger seat, wriggling and grinning as you settled in at the wheel. “While you’re busy over there,” he’d hummed, watching you turn the key, “I’m going to strangle myself with the seatbelt!”
“You’d better not,” You had narrowed your eyes at him, “I don’t wanna explain to anyone why I’m driving a corpse around.”
Dazai had pouted with a heavy, dramatic sigh, one that might’ve convinced you to relent had he not been talking about killing himself. He was only quiet long enough to aim his puppy-dog eyes in your direction, batting his long lashes at you as his soft hair fell over his face; it’d didn’t work this time, because you’re practically immune to those things by now.
The conversation is a familiar song and dance. You would pass some signs declaring a must-see tourist destination at the next right, and Dazai would whine and beg for you to make just a quick stop and buy him something. On the long, empty stretches of road, his delicate hand would begin to crawl up your thigh, only for him to yelp out a curse when you slam your knees shut on his fingers. For a big bad mafia executive, Dazai really does have the ‘kicked puppy’ act down.
Now, several hours into the drive, things were different. Dazai had slowly grown more and more quiet, his teasing left to die on his tongue, leaving you with nothing but the nostalgic white noise of radio static. That silence is probably worse than his constant mouthing off— he was never quiet for this long. Something had to be wrong.
“—are you okay over there, Dazai?” Rarely the best question to ask. He’s always been the type to grit his teeth and avoid the question.
For his part, Dazai barely hears you speak. He’s too focused on regulating his own breathing, inhaling slowly and feeling the stretch in his sore lungs. His stomach churns— it has been for awhile— and although Odasaku had taught him all those breathing exercises to soothe nausea, they weren’t working at the moment. He isn’t too surprised; Dazai has always figured he’s built wrong in comparison to everyone else. Of course something like this wouldn’t work for him. He must just be designed to suffer.
As his stomach flips, Dazai can feel sweat beginning to bead at his hairline too. Just great; he was trying to actually behave in the car for once, and getting sick is just going to inconvenience you. His entire body feels sticky; it must be because he’s been wearing his coat this entire time. Definitely not sick enough to bother you with any of this. He tilts his head forward so he can press his forehead against the window glass and shut his eyes for a moment. It’s nice and chilly against his warm skin. Logically, he knows the glass can’t be as cold as it feels— which means he must be burning up.
“Dazai?”
Your voice is faint at the very edge of his hearing. It would be too much effort to turn and face you; his head feels heavy, and it would be too obvious he’s not feeling well. When he opens his eyes, the outside world blurs together across his vision. He feels his stomach lurch. Closing his eyes again doesn’t help— he’s already caught sight of how fast the car is moving, and his dizzy brain immediately relays that message directly to his stomach. Drool begins to gather much faster in his mouth, and that’s when Dazai knows.
“Stop the car.” He’s got a fist pressed to his mouth and refuses to look over at you.
You blink in surprise at his sudden demand. “Here?” The car was passing a row of fields and not much else; it’s been awhile since you saw any kind of structure, much less any people. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Dazai—”
“Pull over,” his voice grows more insistent, “or I’m going out the window.” He fumbles with his seatbelt until it unhooks, clattering against the door as his free hand finds the button to roll his window down. He’s already started to lift himself from his seat before you can hit the brakes.
“Okay okay, I’m pulling over!” Thankfully alone on the road, you jerk the wheel to the side, the car jolting as it rolls a wheel off the side of the pavement. The harsh movement pulls a groan from Dazai’s chest, and you wince. Before you’ve come to a complete stop, Dazai throws the door open and stumbles out, only making it a few steps before giving up and collapsing into the grass. By the time you fight free of your own seatbelt, you can hear him retching.
Knelt in the grass, Dazai heaves again, but nothing comes up. That’s not entirely surprising; skipping meals isn’t a foreign concept to him, so of course there’s nothing for his body to cough up. Still, he stays there on his hands and knees, each unproductive cough burning his throat. One of his least favorite parts of getting sick is always the salivating— even with nothing to purge from his stomach, his lips are slick, with thin strings of drool spilling out onto the grass as he coughs.
Should you approach him—? The young man seems miserable— although you suppose that’s pretty typical for his existence— spitting up nothing as his body revolts against him. But despite his clear need for some kind of support, Dazai always recoils at the slightest show of sympathy. It might be a better idea to just let him ride it out, because you know he’ll brush you off anyways.
And then he lets out a whine from somewhere in the back of his throat.
Before you know it, you land on your knees next to Dazai. Instinctively, he flinches away; that’s clearly the wrong move on his part, because his stomach lurches again. This time, when he doubles over, a wave of vomit splashes out onto the grass.
“Ugh…” Dazai lets out a low groan, barely able to lift his head as he tries to catch his breath. “I feel like shit,” he mumbles out, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his coat sleeve.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you hum softly, and he winces at how soft your voice is. Aren’t you mad he’s delayed your trip home? If you are, you’re hiding it well, because your hand comes up to rub gentle circles on Dazai’s back. He shudders at the warm touch. “Aw, I wish I’d known you get carsick, I would’ve—”
“I don’t!” Dazai chirps, although the effect is lessened by the rasp to his voice, throat sore from all that retching. “This is a one-time thing, so don’t think that— eugh,” he’s interrupted when his body decides to gag again. Instinctively, one hand comes up as if to cover his mouth; you grab his wrist and tug his hand away just before he spews again, spitting up nothing but stomach acid. Dazai whines again.
Eventually Dazai catches his breath, but not his voice. He rolls his shoulders to shrug your hand off his back and forces himself to his feet. He sways noticeably, but when you step closer to offer support, he takes a small step back; looks like you’re not making that kind of progress today.
The two of you are quiet for a moment as Dazai tries to gather himself; you, trying to figure out what to say, and him, blatantly refusing to look at you as his chest heaves. Finally, you settle on, “I should have something for motion sickness in the car—”
“Don’t need it,” he cuts right through your words, as if that kills the idea entirely. “I’m not carsick.” he spins on his heel to return to the car, only for a wave of vertigo to almost take him off his feet. Really not helping his fragile— and obviously untrue— defense.
“Then if it’s not carsickness,” you trail after him, fingers twitching with the urge to just grab his arm and help him stay upright, “it’s something else, and that’s just as bad. Did you have anything for lunch, breakfast? Anything for dinner last night? Besides that bottle of—”
“Fine.” Dazai stops walking. He grins at you over his shoulder, although it’s more a showing of his teeth than anything else, an attempted reminder that he’s a dangerous man. It doesn’t quite land, since his frail body is trembling like a wet dog. “We’ll say I get car sick, if it gets you to shut up.” He wobbles back on his heels, having to use the entirety of his body weight— admittedly, not much there— to swing the car door open. Before you can bite back, he folds his lanky self back into the passenger seat and slams the door behind him, separating the two of you with metal and glass. You just sighed.
Once you get yourself settled behind the wheel again, you reach across Dazai’s lap to pull open the glovebox— he lets out a whiny “Hey!” when the small door pops against his knees— and pull out a packet of nausea medication, exactly as promised, tossing it against his chest. “If you don’t take any of these, I’m not gonna stop if you need to puke again.”
Dazai makes a face as he turns the little box over to read the back. “I’m not taking any pills.” Hypocrite; he’ll pop any pill except the ones that might actually make him feel better.
Almost as soon as you pull the car back into the road, Dazai’s face goes pale again. His throat bobs as he swallows, and his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth, he vaguely wonders if he could actually choke on it this time. He hadn’t bothered with his seatbelt after getting back in the car, and he turns his body at an odd angle in his seat, pressing his warm face to the window glass once more.
“—sit up,” you huff, eyes flickering from the road to your boss and back. “No wonder you feel bad, you’re curled up like a shrimp over there.”
He rolls his eyes dramatically, only to immediately grimace and follow your order quietly. That’s how you know he really feels bad— Dazai never does what he’s told.
“Ugh,” he groans softly again, head falling forward, chin to his chest, the gentle curves of the road sending his stomach back into an unpleasant frenzy. “How much longer? You’re going too slow,” he grumbles.
“Well, going fast won’t make you feel better either,” you bring one hand down to fumble with the window controls, rolling his window down and then reaching over to nudge his shoulder. “Head out, fresh air helps too.”
“I’m not a dog,” he hisses, but he obeys anyway. He’d never admit it to you, but the breeze does feel good on his warm face, the fresh air settling his stomach just enough that saliva finally stops pooling under his tongue. The sun has begun to set too, taking with it all the uncomfortable heat in the air, only serving to cool him off further.
You keep an eye on him as best you can while you drive; thankfully, it isn’t much longer before the car crosses into town, familiar buildings looming and lulling you into a sense of security. Perfect timing, even, because Dazai is beginning to squirm in the passenger seat, his face twisting into another uncomfortable grimace. His hair is stuck to his sweaty face, one arm wrapped around himself as he wriggles in the passenger seat, trying to relieve the pressure on his stomach.
“If you take a left here, that’s a much quicker route to—”
“I’m not taking you back to your shipping container.”
Dazai stiffens in the passenger seat. His head slowly swivels in your direction, his unbandaged eye narrowing as if he can see directly through you and still doesn’t understand. Lips pursed and eyes forward, you try to stay firm, although your voice trembles. “If you’re sick, you don’t need to be by yourself in that stupid rusty box. We’re going to my place.”
Silence for a moment, and then a small, irritated smile crosses Dazai’s face. “I told you, I’m fine. Just drop me off. I’ll walk there, even.”
You shake your head and refuse to look at him. If you make eye contact, you know you’ll give in; whether it’s through intimidation or the power of his good looks, Dazai always gets you to do what he wants, but it's going to be different this time. He’s not going to talk you out of taking care of him.
The car falls silent again. You can feel Dazai’s intense gaze on your face as you make the few remaining turns, finally pulling into your apartment complex and parking. You don’t look over at him before climbing out of the driver’s seat, stepping around to swing the passenger door open for him. “Can you stand?”
“Yes.” Dazai tries to keep his voice light, but as he lifts himself to his feet, his unsteady legs almost give out under him; without thinking about it, he reaches out and wraps an arm around your shoulder to hold himself upright. “—I’m fine,” he lies through his teeth, resting most of his body weight on your much smaller form.
Supporting him as best you can, the both of you limp up to your apartment. Dazai figures he might as well be dramatic about the situation; he whines and moans and groans, slouching all of his body weight against you in an effort to make you stumble on purpose. Knowing him, he’s hoping you drop him down the stairs.
Dazai feels like he’s on fire— he might have a fever, but personally, he chalks it up to the effect of your hands all over him. He can feel more acid rising up in his throat, burning in his chest along with an odd sense of guilt; you should’ve been able to just go home after dropping him off, but here you are, dragging him along with the intention of making sure he feels better. It’s not something he can understand.
As soon as you’ve shut the door behind you both, Dazai’s glassy eyes study your home, taking in even the tiniest details. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but he isn’t surprised, either; the place looks just like you. But he doesn’t have time to think about that too in-depth, because he wheezes, his stomach rolling again.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you mumble softly as you drag him into your bathroom. Dazai immediately pulls away and sinks to his knees in front of the toilet, shoving the lid open so he can spit uselessly into the water. It’s irritating to watch him like this and know you can’t do much.
In his haste to get even some vague sense of relief, Dazai’s trembling hands begin to fumble with his clothes, pulling his suit jacket off and undoing his tie from around his throat. He drops them on the floor— those things probably cost more than you’ll ever see in your life so, desperate to help in even a small way, you gather them off the floor to go hang them somewhere later. “—I’m going to go make some ginger tea, okay?”
Dazai just lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine.
You make a point to leave the bathroom door open as you step back out into the hall. His coat and tie find themselves tossed over the back of a kitchen chair as you free your hands, digging through your cabinets to find a small pot to boil water in— listen, you don’t need ginger tea often enough to invest in an actual tea kettle— and then set about trying to remember where you keep the tea itself.
Dazai’s loud whines echo through the halls of your apartment, to the point where you can hear him clearly all the way in the kitchen. Yes, he’s known for being dramatic, but his acting skills aren’t that good. It sounds like he’s really in pain.
Unfortunately, desperation doesn’t make water boil any faster. You glare down at the pot of boiling water and, knowing that it’s a bad idea to step away from a hot stove, you do it anyways. Dazai is gagging and spitting and sounding entirely unproductive, and you can’t bring yourself to leave him alone like that.
Even though it’s your apartment, you still knock as you push the bathroom door open, not wanting to startle him. Dazai just groans weakly and doesn’t bother to lift his face away from the toilet.
You kneel down next to him for the second time today. He whines uncomfortable, his hands curling into fists in his lap as he leans forward. He gags again but spits up nothing but saliva. “It won’t come up—”
You press your lips together as you watch his pale face twist into another uncomfortable grimace. There really is just one option for that— with a quiet sigh, you roll up your sleeves. “Open up, Dazai.”
He immediately slams his mouth shut. Still slouched on the cold tile of your bathroom floor, he tries to glower at you, but it’s completely ineffective; under the harsh fluorescent light, he looks less like a mafia executive and more like the sick young man he really is. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, hiding under his stringy hair, obviously trying to think his way out of this.
“None of that,” you try to keep your tone firm. One of your hands comes up to grab his chin and squeeze. “Now, open up.”
Dazai whines again, jerking his head back in a vain attempt to escape your grasp. The motion makes his head spin and stomach lurch, but he’s determined to defy you, for no reason other than the fact that he can. He’s not your responsibility anyway— why can’t you just leave him to suffer alone? His efforts amount to nothing. Your grip on his flushed face tightens, thumb caressing his cheek until you can feel the dip where his teeth met. When you press down that time, it successfully forces his mouth open.
You shove your free hand past Dazai’s lips; apparently you’re a bit rough in your haste, because he whimpers and tries to pull back again. He’s too physically weak to escape your strong grasp, so all he can do is let his eyes slide closed in anxious anticipation.
It’s immediately obvious when you’ve reached far back enough; Dazai gags around your fingers, the contents of his stomach rushing up his throat and out his mouth. Wincing at the stickiness covering your hand now, you carefully pull back, and Dazai doubles over as he finally empties his stomach properly.
“Does that help at all?” You move to the sink, running your hands under hot water until you feel a bit better about the situation.
Dazai spits into the toilet again and takes a moment to catch his breath. “...yeah,” he mumbles, sounding almost disappointed that you care enough about him to shove your hand down his throat. “You’re so gross.” Even sick as a dog, he can’t just thank you for anything.
Rolling your eyes, you finish washing your hands, flicking cold droplets of water in the direction of his face. He clearly feels okay enough now to stick his tongue out at you.
Breathing heavily, Dazai shuffles backwards on the tile floor, resting his aching body against the wall. His eyes slide closed again as he tries to relax. “—not as nauseous,” he admits, “but the rest of me still feels bad.”
You hum in vague acknowledgement, mentally sorting through what else might help him feel better— not that Dazai ever feels good, but you at least don’t want him feeling this gross. If he refuses to admit to actively being sick, you can really only guess at remedies. There was that ginger tea you should probably go check on— the water’s probably all boiled out by now… and if he is feverish, you should probably grab an ice pack, if you even own any. And then, as you make your mental lists and graphs, one idea stands out above the rest. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t try going anywhere.”
Dazai scoffs at the idea of actually moving his limp body, but he nods, not bothering to open his eyes again. Satisfied that he’s too exhausted to go hunting through your bathroom for an overdose method, you leave him alone for a moment.
After a bit, Dazai’s breaths come easier, although they’re still shaky. He knows he must have a fever, because the chill of the bathroom’s tile feels delicious against his sweaty skin, even through his layers of clothing. At least his stomach feels mostly better—
If he dwells on his own thoughts for too long, he knows he’ll spiral. It would be all-too-easy to convince himself that he doesn’t deserve the help you’ve already extended to him; those thoughts have already been dancing at the edge of his mind, and he can’t give them a chance to breach the surface. So instead, he strains his hearing, an effort to trace your movements even from far-off.
Dazai tells himself it’s just to avoid dwelling on being so ill, but the new ache in his chest betrays his fragile reasoning; he’s also listening anxiously for the sound of the front door slamming shut, a sure sign that you’ve finally gotten tired of him. It’s something he’s always expected, really; he’s already been too selfish by allowing you to drag him into your home to begin with.
When he focuses, he can hear you shuffling around in what he assumes is your bedroom down the hallway. The rustle of fabric, the plastic clicks of storage containers being opened and shut again. After several more minutes, a soft hum leaves your throat— clearly you had found whatever you were looking for.
As your footsteps approach the bathroom again, Dazai forces his heavy head up, his eyes open. He can feel his pulse start to pick up at the thought of your return— as clinically logical as he normally is, his brain is foggy at the moment, so he hadn’t quite been able to figure out what you might’ve been grabbing. He lifts his eyes in the hopes of catching a glance as you pass the doorway, but instead of rejoining him on the bathroom floor, you continue walking. Dazai’s mouth twitches into a frown; he’s not used to being ignored, even if he’s convinced himself he wants to be left alone.
Without thinking about it, Dazai tries to call your name. It doesn’t travel very far; his throat still burns from all his unproductive gagging earlier, and it’s reduced his voice to a raspy whisper. Once it’s obvious that you hadn’t heard him, Dazai braces himself against the wall and slowly, carefully, manages to haul himself to his feet.
His head swims, the room spinning around him as he sways. Dazai lets out another soft whine as he begins to shuffle forward. His more rational thoughts are howling at him to sit back down, to rest, to leave you alone when you so clearly don’t want to deal with him. His aching body pushes forward anyway.
The hallway is dim in comparison to how harshly the bathroom was lit. a bit of the tension behind his eyelids immediately vanished, a relieved sigh leaving his mouth. He keeps his hand firmly against the wall as he tries to slowly move forward. Putting one foot in front of the other is more effort than he’d expected it to be; the hallway continues to twist and distort at the edge of his vision, the light of your kitchen seeming like a distant dream. His movements are sluggish, as if trying to move through water that was over his head. Drowning, he thought, would be much easier than this.
From somewhere off in the distance, Dazai hears something ding. Even from so far away, it’s a harsh noise, one that drills its way right between his eyes. Another grimace paints its way across his face; he presses a hand to his forehead, but it does nothing to lessen the dull ache as it began to crawl across the front of his skull. He grits his teeth in frustration— such a short walk, and he can’t even make it by himself. If he can’t even move from room to room, he’ll be nothing but a burden and make things harder for you, so he forces himself to take another step.
Wrong move. His legs give out under him, and Dazai collapses.
At the sudden heavy thud in your hallway, you immediately drop what you’re doing and peer around the corner into the hall; a knot tightens in your chest at the sight of Dazai, curled up on the hardwood in the dark.
He whimpers from his spot on the floor as you approach. His one visible eye slides open, and if you didn’t know Osamu Dazai, you would almost say he looks like he could cry. Kneeling next to him, you lift his chin with your hand in order to see his face properly. When your eyes met, he began to squirm; the blatant concern on your face made his body feel hot, even disregarding his apparent fever.
“Let go,” he slurs out, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I just slipped, it’s nothing—”
“Dazai.” There’s concern in your voice, too, and that just makes him want to curl up and disappear. “Just let me take care of you, Dazai.”
His tired gaze search your face desperately, as if he hopes you’re lying to him. But, to his dismay, you’re completely genuine— he’s already wasted so much of your time, and through his achy haze, he just can’t wrap his mind around why you would inconvenience yourself for something like him.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dazai mumbles. As you gently help him to his feet, he doesn’t even bother to hold himself upright, choosing instead to lean most of his weight against your body. “Just get me back to the bathroom and I’ll stay there, I promise.” His stomach felt heavy again. Not from nausea this time.
“Nope,” your reply is automatic. It’s a bit difficult to maneuver Dazai down the hall— he’s bigger than you and most of the people you know, sagging against your body like a cat starved for attention. “Taking care of you isn’t a problem. I’m doing this because I want to.”
Dazai was silent as you guide him into your living room. He groans as you carefully lower him onto the couch. Immediately, he melts into the cushions; his entire body is aching, muscles sore from the contractions and spasms as he’d thrown up earlier. Admittedly, your couch is much softer than the bathroom floor— if it wouldn’t be so selfish of him, he might decide to stay awhile.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” Your voice is soft, and it makes him feel fuzzy inside. Those thoughts will have to be dealt with later. Dazai knows you expect a response of some kind, but he doesn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he just nods and throws his arm over his eyes to block out the light.
Even though you were never too far, an anxiety he doesn’t understand surges through Dazai’s chest. Actually, he could only assume you weren’t going far— despite your repeated insistence that you want to care for him, he really wouldn’t blame you for choosing to leave him alone until he cried himself out. He rolls over onto his side on the couch, blurry eyes following your movements; thankfully you wandered into the kitchen instead of towards the front door.
Although Dazai has never been the type to think about his own feelings, being sick brings down some of his walls, even if just the slightest bit. You can see the relief and vulnerability behind his glassy eyes when you were, in fact, only gone a moment, exactly as you’d promised.
“Here,” you shuffle your hands behind your back, obviously holding something, “this always helps me whenever I feel gross.” From behind your back you produce— a stuffed animal. More specifically a giraffe, one with floppy limbs and fuzzy fur that smells like peppermint. Confusion washes over Dazai, visible on his face.
“—you know those are for babies, right?”
You puff your cheeks out in a pout. “Shut up! He’s cuddly and smells nice! Peppermint is good for nausea anyways.” Still huffing a bit, you hold the toy out to him, and Dazai finds himself absently reaching for it despite his protests.
The first thing he notices is the warmth. His eyes widen as he clutches the plushie closer to his chest— the concentrated heat is immediately soothing against the sore exhaustion that permeates his frail body. Out of curiosity, he ducks his head down to press his face into the giraffe’s soft fur. You were right; the scent of peppermint quickly begins to settle the churning in his stomach. Dazai hates when you’re right.
“Nice, isn’t it?” You hum softly, taking a seat on the couch with him, draping a wet washcloth across the back of his neck. With that and the heated toy, his temperature should regulate eventually. Your hand finds the remote, and you switch on the television, keeping the volume low as you flip through the channels. “You can hang out here until you feel better, I promise. It’s not a bother to me.”
Dazai stays silent. When you sit down with him, he shifts to drop his head in your lap, squeezing the toy giraffe even tighter. One of your hands finds its way to the top of his head, gently pulling away damp strands of his dark hair from where they’ve stuck to his sweaty face. As much as he hates to admit it to himself, Dazai is comfortable.
He tries to fight it, he really does; Dazai is well aware that something like him doesn’t deserve to be sprawled out here with someone like you. But, if it’s only going to happen once, he might as well take advantage of it, right? Your hands are incredibly soft in his hair, and the stupid giraffe is both making him hurt less and settling his stomach. His body is dead tired anyways— even if he could gather the strength to remove himself from your lap, there’s no way he would make it all the way back to the shipping container he calls home.
Yeah, that all makes a degree of sense. Having successfully debated his thoughts into submission, Dazai gives himself permission to relax for awhile, and he finally falls asleep in your lap.
my first-ever sickfic!! feel free to lmk if I spelled anything wrong lmao, I worked on this for like two weeks so my vision is definitely kinda blurring together haha. thank you for reading!
I'm trying to finish my Christmas event on my other blog but I was just thunderstruck with another stupid idea for Dazai and now I'm like. omg i wanna write that so bad. but what if nobody else likes it 😭
the results on that are already interesting,, I've never really been part of a community or anything, so I'm not exactly aware of what's common practice now
