hold me like a grudge.

“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.

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

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.”

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!”