Hear me out but gamer dazai whom you agreed to play against for a bet. That you now lost, so now you're his dog for the day
𐔌 ȶHE 𞋎OSER C♡LLAR.ᐟ ꒱
⌯⌲ me? dazai's... dog? ૮⸝⸝´ ٣ `⸝⸝ა a little longer than average. the implications…
“You motherfucker! I know you cheated!” You scream into the mic, chucking the controller across the room and gripping your hair. All you can hear in your ears is the grating sound of Dazai’s triumphant, egotistical laughter from the headset, and you are going to do everything in your power to find out how he rigged the game because there’s no possible way you could have lost — not like this. Not five times in a row.
“Sorry there, sweetheart, but I didn’t cheat,” he clicks his tongue, the pop! loud against your eardrum, his thumb tapping away at his phone as he types up a message. “You just suck.” Your phone buzzes then, seeing two attachments from him, and your heart sinks: one is a picture of the gameplay hours far exceeding 2,000; the other is your "prize".
“Dazai, what the hell is that?” You ask, voice distant, the dread already audible.
“That, my dear, is the loser collar.”
“Yeah, I can see that… It’s… Descript,” you murmur, staring at the screen with the thick black collar that literally has “LOSER” bedazzled into it. Complete with a leash hook. You have seen this only one other time, and it was on Atsushi after a brutal loss to the same game. You fear you got too cocky, thinking he was just terrible at it, that you could absolutely destroy Dazai and avenge the poor kid. But no. Now you have to wear the loser collar. “Maybe we can try one more time—”
“Ah ah ah~,” he sings in your ear. “I gave you best out of five, and you lost every. Single. Round.” He enunciates, each word punctuated as it nails into your brain and damaged ego. You truly thought this would be cake; however, it never dawned on you that he really has nothing better to do than sit around playing video games all day and torment whoever dares going into his vicinity. “Don’t be a sore loser, sweetheart! Take your loss and get over it. It’s one day, what’s the harm?” The tonal flip is devious, hearing it and knowing fully well he’s going to make that one day absolute Hell for you.
“Where did you even find that thing?” The question shakes in your throat, curiosity too grand to not ask.
“You wouldn’t believe what people on Etsy will make for you if you just pay them,” he says, nonchalant with a shrug of his shoulders, the sound of buttons smashing around on his controller filling your ears, and you shiver. “I got others, if you’re interested.” He taunts, evil, a harsh laugh following after, and you don’t necessarily want to think about what he could mean.
“You’re sicker than a dog.”
“Woof.”
♡
"This is dehumanizing," you grumble, arms folded, sitting on the edge of Dazai's desk at work, leg crossed over the other, and glaring ahead. The collar is strapped around your neck, a bit tight, but you don't have it in you to ask him to adjust it — you need to maintain some bit of dignity, whatever's left.
"Now, now," he flips through his book, laid back in his chair, not bothering to look up in your direction. "You lost, fair and square. As punishment, you are my dog, remember? We spit-shook on it." You grimace, nose wrinkling at the thought of you and him literally spitting in your hands and shaking on the deal that if you lost, you'd have to do whatever he said for a day. "Plus, you look so pretty sitting up there." He teases, the two of you at the agency office before everyone else, and you weren't entirely sure if that was to preserve the stares upon entering or a weird way to put you on display.
"You're a dick."
"That's the only insult you're allowed to have," he commands, flipping another page, quite literally not reading anything since he is so enthralled with tormenting you. "You have to be nice to me starting now." Your eyes roll, pissed beyond belief, already embarrassed you had to wear this stupid thing on the subway due to him showing up at your door just as you were stepping out to fasten it on you with too wicked of a satisfaction.
"Fine."
"Good girl," he slaps his book shut then tosses it to the side, his hands coming up to fold behind his head, and props his feet up behind you on the surface. "Got fetch me some coffee, yeah?" His tone of voice is nice, sure, but he's still rude. You huff under your breath, jumping down and stomping out into the hall toward the break room, his quiet chuckles drifting into your ears as you cross the threshold.
When you come back, you set it down by his ankle and fold your arms. "I spit in it."
"Oh~, extra sweet," he leisurely leans down to pick it up, taking a nonchalant but pointed sip, unphased completely. "I'm kinda hungry. Could you go get me something to eat from the cafe?" He waves you off with his free hand, drinking his tainted coffee, and your arms dramatically drop to your sides as you storm off. He wears his devilish grin, eyes glancing down at his mug — did she really...? He shrugs, taking another drink. I've had worse in my mouth.
You come back some time later, colleagues piled in and sitting at their desks, and you falter at the door. Dazai glances in your direction from his work, his cheek propped on his fist. "There she is!" He purposefully says loud enough to make everyone look at him, then to you. You try using some of your hair to hide the collar, but it's pretty much too late, and Atsushi has to hide a reaction. "Come on in, pup. I got worried from how long it took you. Thought I'd have to send a search party." Your eyes narrow, staying in place, hearing a few flitting giggles and chuckles in the room, and your fingers dig around in the bag with his pastry, tearing off a hunk and pointedly popping it in your mouth as he watches you intently. He simply smirks, knowing the humiliation is enough.
All day, Dazai barked orders at you, making you do just about anything under the sun, including his paperwork on top of your own, having convinced Fukuzawa that you were just 'so insistent' on helping him since he was behind; you couldn't believe he fell for it as he just said 'carry on, then'. Ranpo made dog jokes any time his eyes landed on you, offering to get you 'a fresh bowl of water'; Atsushi would quietly berate Dazai for forcing you to wear the loser collar to work; Kunikida muttered around the time Dazai was weirdly petting you to 'keep your kinks outside of the office' — that was your last straw, sending you down into a spiral of unbridled hatred toward Dazai unlike anything you have ever experienced before.
You shot him daggers constantly, albeit while doing whatever it was he asked, and he merely laughed softly at your obedient defiance. He allowed your small antics go without reprimand because he is enjoying this to quite the disgusting degree. He doesn't get upset when you spit in his drinks, you so annoyed that you're doing it in front of him, his eyes locked with yours as you do so — then holding that contact as he drinks directly from it. He doesn't care that you are taking greedy bites of his food he made you pick up and pay for before giving it to him — again taking a bite right where your teeth marks are left. He doesn't mind that you took to sitting right in the middle of his desk to do your work — it just means you're right the in front of him, in his line of sight at all times. It's not like I'm doing anything work-related anyway.
"Dazai, I really think you need to lighten up on her," Atsushi suggests, words slow, walking in on you two in the break room, you on all fours with his feet propped up on your back. Your arms are visibly shaking, primarily from your seething anger, and even more infuriated with yourself for following along with every demand he makes. Dazai hums, head lulling over in his direction, lids hooded from the nap he was about to drift into. He pulls his phone out to check the time then shoves it back in his pocket before folding his hands behind his head.
"The day isn't over, she's fine," he speaks for you, like he has the whole day, and your eyes squeeze shut to hold back the visceral tears trying to slip out.
"Look, I know you treat everyone equally, but she's a girl," Atsushi emphasizes. "Doing this to me is one thing. It's entirely different when you do it to a woman." He explains, as if his colleague is a child finally learning about the world. You hold back a scoff at his words, not really in the mood for someone trying to play white knight.
"A loser's a loser, point blank period," Dazai responds, tone flat and voice bordering harsh, waving the other off. "She made a bet, she lost, she gets the collar. With the collar comes being the dog. It's gender-neutral..." His eyes open to a cold leer, mouth in a line as he stares down Atsushi from his spot — a shiver running up his spine from the chill his demeanor change brought in. "And none of your business. Beat it." The octave drop in his voice made you shiver, having to remind yourself he's mean, and you've been a rather stubborn, unruly dog.
However, Atsushi didn't start moving yet, staring between the two of you, empathetic to your situation, considering you don't usually so easily bend to the will of Dazai Osamu like others. This was a deceptive tactic made by the detective to see how far he could push you — he knew his mentor would absolutely crush you, trying to warn you, but you were far too determined, and it felt like a lost cause at that point.
"Just go!" You strain, not bearing to be ogled at by others in this state, and that makes him turn to rush out the door back to his desk in the office; of course, not without sparing you one more pity-filled glance over his shoulder before disappearing. With that, the weight of the day's embarrassment relieves itself from your back, shoes clacking quietly to the floor, and a heavy sigh sounding in the room.
"Go ahead and get up," Dazai instructs, arm stretched out on the back of the cushion. "You're free for the day." He tells you, watching as you carefully get up, just enough to make it to the couch, and plopping down it while your limbs continue to shake and wobble.
"Don't tell me you take pity on me now," you mumble, brushing the knees of your pants and your palms of debris. He breathes out a sound, something like a chuckle, raising his head as he stares forward at nothing in particular.
"Hate to see pretty girls cry," he sighs again, standing up then, and turns to go. Though, he stops for a long solitary moment, leaning down to be nose-to-nose with you, and his finger snakes up to hook through the loop. Forcing you closer. "This stays on until I say, though." He whispers before letting you go, shooting you a wink before standing up straight once more. You stare up at him, flustered and confused by his voice and phrase, his hand coming out to pet your head, nails gently scratching at your scalp — as he had done numerous other times in the day, then walking out of the room. Involuntarily, your heart strikes up like an 808 in your chest, fingers inching toward the collar, and your brow arches at his strange behavior.
“I got others, if you’re interested.”
The silence of the room shrouds over your ailing body, replaying the day in your head: the names, the petting when you "did a good job", letting you spit in his drink and eat his food, repeatedly calling you a "good girl", and the continuous comments on how "pretty" you look today. You stare at the doorway, where he last stood, and the realization hits you like a freight train. A squeak pitches in your throat, cheeks flaring up to a bright red, and you have half a mind to run after him to drop kick him in the head. I wonder if he'd let me see his apparent collection.
*barks violently*
- ghxst
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