.ᐟ.ᐟ : thismightbeoocdontkillme, might be ooc(?), semi-established relationship, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, Dazai is getting better at feelings(sorta), PM!reader, PM strategist!reader, young mafia executive Dazai x PM strategist!reader, not proof read.
based on this request >> here!!
𝓨ou had a peculiar habit that you couldn't really control. a quiet habit that, regardless of your important role in the Port Mafia, always managed to get you either the pitying eyes of a superior or an annoyed sigh from a subordinate. frankly, you hated it. hated the unwanted attention.
as of right now, you were in the usual briefing room with the Port Mafia's highest ranked elites including the executives, discussing a mission that you had opted to block off in the first 30 minutes of it's starting discussion. your mind had begun to drift into it's own little world after they started discussing logistics for the mission.
for a "respected" member of the Port Mafia, you sure didn't act like one. at least that's what you thought and what you convinced yourself other people thought. you were easily distracted, your mind always drifted and lost focus in the middle of discussing life and death situations. It wasn't like you WANTED your thoughts to wander either, your mind just subconsciously drifted into a dream-like state.
moreover, you were far too.. what's it called—timid and cheerful for someone who worked for an organization as gruesome as the Port Mafia.
the room was buzzing with discussions and briefings for the mission, but you were too immersed in the clouds to even hear what they were talking about. your mind had long slipped into its default state: a vivid, childish daydream where the world wasn't soaked in blood, and where you could simply exist as a happy, unburdened soul.
until they called out to you, that is.
“[y/n]-san, are you listening?”
you're quickly snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of your name, the soft, almost childlike smile you had on your lips freezing before quickly dissolving. you blinked rapidly, the vivid colors in your mind dissolving into the sterile, dark mahogany of the briefing room. The sudden shift felt like a physical slap. “oh.. what were we—”
“‘oh?’ if the strategist is quite finished playing in the clouds, perhaps we could finally finalize the layout for this mission?”, one of the men spoke up with a cold and impatient tone, followed by a few mocking snickers and agreements from some of the others sitting around the table.
your cheeks heated up in embarrassment, feeling a sense of dread dwelling in the pit of your stomach as the attention shifted onto you. “my apologies..”, you stammered, your voice shrinking. you could feel the tips of your ears burning a deep, humiliating red, not liking how the whole trajectory of the room shifted towards you, making you very hyper aware of the stares you were getting.
“the...the perimeter security on dock four has a three minute blind spot during the guard rotation. I was simply calculating the—”, you were cut off by a loud chuckle. “calculating? you were staring out the window this whole time. If the strategist is gonna space out like a schoolgirl every time we do briefings, then the Boss should really reconsider your position", the man sneered, crossing his arms over his chest.
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard that you started to taste your own blood, a coppery taste that brought you back to the reality of the life you lived. the burning shame curled in your gut as you kept your head down, staring at your clenched fists under the table, your nails digging into the skin of your palms, hard enough to almost draw blood.
you weren't a child. you had earned your rank fair and square, and yet you still couldn't truly fit into the ruthless society of the Port Mafia. the words were a painful reminder that no matter how brilliant your strategies were, you'd still be the odd one out.
“oh, leave her be”, a lazy, chilling drawl cut through the air, making the mocking whispers and snickering die down in their throats.
you lift your head up as your eyes dart across the table towards the source of the voice. Dazai Osamu sat slumped in his chair, hands busy with what looked like a video game console of some sort. anyone out of the Port Mafia would doubt this guy was even a member if they looked at him now. actions can be deceiving.
“our dear strategist simply operates on a higher plane of existence than the rest of you dullards”, Dazai mused, his voice dripping with a subtle mocking amusement that made your stomach twist in discomfort.
he glances up to look at you, a sharp patronizing smirk playing on his lips. “though I do wonder if in that big, brilliant brain of yours, you've managed to daydream a scenario where we actually get out of this meeting before I die of utter boredom. If so, do share”.
a few of the high ranked members shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling very aware of the executive's gaze. you lowered your head once again to look at your notes, your hands still clenched into fists under the table, this time your nails really did pierce through your skin hard enough to draw blood. he seemed to enjoy tormenting you by reminding you of your flaws every now and then. you hated it.
—
the rest of the afternoon went by in a blur of humiliation and exhaustion. by the time you had finally locked yourself in your personal office, the emotional toll of masking your depression and struggling to fit into a place that demanded absolute perfection had left you entirely drained for the rest of the day.
you sat at your desk, completely exhausted. head resting in your hand, you blankly stared at the stack of logistical papers, your mind swirling. but this time, not to daydream.
click. the sound of the door opening is what gets you to jolt out of your spiral, your head snapping up to look at the uninvited visitor. Dazai strolled into your office as if he owned the place, well, like he always did. he wasn't there to bring you any paperwork, nor did it look like he had any actual business to discuss.
“caught in your mind again?”, he hummed, walking over to the leather sofa in the corner, throwing himself onto it as he draped his long legs over the armrest. "the atmosphere in the briefing room today was so dull. say, are you still in Lalaland or have you finally returned to earth?”
your hands clenched into fists on your desk, reopening the self-inflicted wounds from earlier. “I'm busy. please see yourself out”
Dazai didn't budge, reaching out to pick up a paperweight from the coffee table and tossing it lightly in the air. “boring”, he sighed rather dramatically. “you know, you really shouldn't let those old men get to you. though your face expression was really priceless, you looked exactly like a kid who found out Santa doesn't exist. do you practice that expression in the mirror or does the childishness just come naturally?”
that was the final straw. under normal circumstances, you'd let his teasing fly over your head, dismissing it with a frown or a huff. but this time it really felt like salt getting rubbed onto open wounds.
you stood up so fast your chair scraped violently against the floorboards, hands slamming down onto the desk.
“get out”, you murmured, your voice trembling, thick with a volatile mixture of anger and unshed tears.
Dazai paused, catching the paperweight perfectly as it landed in his palm. he sat up, his dark eye narrowed slightly to analyze the sudden change in your body language, how the pressure in the room shifted almost uncomfortably.
“get out of my office, Dazai!”, you snapped, your defenses completely shattering as you glared at him, your vision blurring. If it had been anyone else yelling at him, they would have bitten the curb before they could even utter another word. “I'm tired of being your punchline! I'm tired of everyone pointing out how "childish" I am, or how I shouldn't be in the Port Mafia! do you think I don't know that!?”
you sucked in a breath. you'll beat yourself over this later, right now, you were caught in the heat of the moment. “trust me, I'm more aware of that than anyone else”, you continued bitterly, eyes fixed on your desk, your vision blurring just slightly. “I'm tired of you making a joke out of the fact that I can barely handle reality. just leave me alone!”
the room fell into a suffocating silence. Dazai didn't move for a long moment, his face went entirely blank—the mask of the playful teasing slipping away to reveal the hollow, unreadable expression he gave to almost everyone. he didn't apologize, didn't even try to defend himself.
he just slowly stood up from the couch and tossed the paperweight back onto the table. then he just.. left. not even uttering a single word, no snarky remark, no nothing. the moment the door clicked shut behind him, you sunk back into your chair, the reality of what you had just done clawing at your chest. you buried your face in your hands, shoulders trembling as everything settled.
hours passed. the sun had begun to set, painting your office with the crimsons of a sunset. you hadn't moved from your desk at all. the crushing weight of your existence in the Port Mafia had you thinking for hours, the paperwork you were meant to finish left untouched. you would never truly blend into this society, you were just a childish, daydreaming fraud.
a soft, distinct knock suddenly sounded at the door, making you stiffen. was this your impending doom finally coming to take you?
“who is it?”, no answer. but your office door created open, slowly revealing a bandaged figure that stood in the threshold. Dazai had discarded the heavy, black coat he always had on his shoulders, left with the suit jacket he wore underneath. he held a paper bag in his right hand, one that smelled like sugary pastries while the other hand held a small medical kit.
he quietly closed the door behind him and walked over to your desk, just silently standing there for a few seconds. his expression was uncharacteristically subdued and.. hesitant?
he drops the paper bag and medkit on your desk before shoving his hands into the pocket of his pants. “the bakery down the street was closing”, Dazai finally spoke up, his voice devoid of the usual mockery or playfulness. inside of the paper bag were the sweet, cream-filled pastries you always ordered as a snack for when you were stressed with the stacks and stacks of endless paperwork. “they were going to throw it out, it'd be a waste”
you blinked, slightly taken aback. you stared at the bag then up at him, your brows furrowed in mild confusion. “what are you doing?”
Dazai shifted his weight, looking away from you and deciding that a random spot in your bookshelf was far more interesting to look at. he looked profoundly uncomfortable, his fingers twitching slightly inside of the pockets of his pants. Dazai Osamu understood the intricacies of human malice and manipulation perfectly—but genuine comfort and apologies were a foreign language he hadn't quite adapted to yet.
“you're an idiot”, Dazai muttered almost too softly, the words lacking any actual heat. “you think everyone in this building is perfect and that their words matter, but they're just mindless, predictable drones. they're all incompetent fools who will likely be dead by the next few months because they can't see three steps ahead of their own noses”.
he finally looked back at you, his dark eye, the one not covered by a bandage piercing through the gloom of the room. “your mind wanders because this place is boring. the world is boring, completely and utterly so”, Dazai continued, stepping a fraction closer to your desk. “but your strategies are the only reason half the vanguard returns alive. I don't—I don't care if you space out in the middle of meetings, and I don't think you're stupid”.
it was a clumsy, heavily veiled apology. for Dazai, this was the equivalent of pouring his heart out. he was acknowledging your pain without explicitly naming it, offering you a lifeline back from the edge of your own dark thoughts.
you felt a fresh wave of warmth hitting your eyes, but this time it wasn't from humiliation. “you're still a jerk”.
a tiny smirk returned to Dazai's lips as he snickered. “I know”, he murmured, eyes dropping to the palm of your hands where untreated wounds from your earlier nail-digging were still fresh. “get that treated before you get an infection”, he casually spoke before whirling around to leave your office.
he might not show it, but he cared more than he'd ever admit. he'd rather jump off of a building than admit to it, probably.
you chuckled, watching his retreating back. and that day, for the first time in a while, you felt more grounded to reality than anything else.
dazai definitely loves russian roulette. and i mean both the song poker face by gaga and the game itself. i can just picture him sitting locked in a room all by himself when he was 18, playing the game alone: pulling the trigger once by his temple, then giving the courtesy of an opponent by firing at the wall in front of him.
he definitely learned about the game on one of his many ventures as the port mafia executive, and almost nobody knows about this little habit of his. mori definitely thinks it's just one of dazai's "attempts," but is it really?
fascinating how he's never managed to get shot even once because he's learned the sounds of the cylinder moving and where exactly the bullet lies. he's deeply infuriated cause oh boy, he wishes he wasn't this observant.
&. chuuya once threatened to shoot him himself if dazai doesn't stop pulling up with this kinda bs 🥰
