Hiii! How was your day? I just wanted to request a Beast!Dazai x Executive!reader mini fic where the reader has self esteem issues/doesnt like themself since i struggle with that ( *⁔*) could be angst with fluff at the end! ( I am the one who requested the overworked adhd Reader btw! I loved the fic! 𐔌՞⁔•͈ ·̫ •͈⁔՞𐦯 )
𝕁ust ℂare.
⌯⌲ with beastzai...? lemme see what i can do. may be slightly ooc.
You sit quietly in your chair beside Dazai in the meeting room, everyone else having already left, and his pen etches incoherent scribbles across the pages before him. Your leg is crossed over the other, hands politely in your lap, and he has taken note already of your silence. Considering you hadn't said a single word throughout the meeting with the other executives, but he had to pretend that was normal behavior, not something he needed to necessarily be concerned about.
"According to your post-mission reports, you fumbled," he speaks up finally, tone flat, but your gaze stays pointed ahead, as if you aren't listening. "Again." There is a small pause, him waiting for a response, you trying to think of one, until you sigh through your nose and curl your fingers in more.
"Yes."
He waits, to see if there's anything else you have to say, another half-assed apology, weeping, begging him to overlook it, just like all the previous times you had completely screwed up your mission. You've already been scolded to the nth degree by Chuuya over the ordeal, and while he is usually the more understanding of the two, it was enough to usher you into a self-loathing silence. You haven't been an executive long — whispers and rumors spread quickly amongst the mafia from mouths too used to keeping intel confidential, the theory of your appointment strictly being because you are the boss' lover.
It is true: you and Dazai are having a secret love affair, an accident, something neither of you meant to happen, but it has — and you wouldn't trade it for anything else. Your dynamic is unconventional, but it's between you two alone, and it works for you both. However, the relationship isn't what got you a promotion, more the exquisite work you had displayed while amongst Chuuya's underlings — the recommendation came from the top executive himself.
Yet, you have been proving time and time again lately that you are not what you have been propped up to be. It was already difficult believing you weren't good enough in your day-to-day, but to continue royally messing up every single mission you've been given since becoming an executive makes your undying hatred for yourself deepen. You aren't on a strike system, mostly because Dazai wouldn't dare do that to you, aware of your existing esteem issues, but it is beginning to take a toll on mafia operations, and you are fairly certain to be on your last leg with your position.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" He murmurs, tossing the pen to the side to spin his chair to face you — that mean scowl permanently carved into his features glares at you, knuckles propping up his head, and his lone eye narrows. "It isn't like you to actually maintain some composure." He remarks, that making your eyes drop to the floor as your fingers rub together. He’s right, as always, used to you being a blubbering mess in his arms while he holds you until you’ve calmed down. He’s actually more or less surprised by your ability to stay upright on your own for the time being; he only stayed back with you because he assumed he’d need to be hushing you and telling you that you’re one of his best workers, the status quo after every recap meeting. It isn’t his favorite thing to do, but he does anyway, because of how he feels toward you.
However, he has grown tired of the multitude of mishaps since your appointment, and he can’t continue to risk such dangerous and financial mistakes to keep happening.
"I'm simply not good enough," you murmur, but that only makes his eye roll, something you catch in your peripheral — that you choose to ignore. He can be kind, when he truly wants to be, but you suppose today he is over it, despite sitting here with you anyway.
"You're not some incapable weakling," he lightly scoffs, pushing himself to his feet as he gathers the paperwork he could care less about. "If you were, you wouldn't be my executive. So, what other excuse do you possibly have as to why you couldn't handle an otherwise benign mission attuned to your skills?" He waits, towering over you, his shadow casting, hiding you further underneath his presence, and you merely shake your head — not once ever looking in his direction.
"I don't have one, sir," you whisper. "I just truthfully am not good enough." His eye rolls again, not wanting to stick around to listen to sniveling and self-pity, knowing that isn't the honest answer. He has seen your work, read the reports, heard the high praise, and it's as if suddenly when you're an executive, it all withers away to nothing. Like it was make believe. He turns and leaves you there, floating out of the room over the threshold, and you don't know if it's worth following after him like you normally would — like a lost puppy too afraid to be alone.
Later that evening, after cautiously sneaking your way into his penthouse, Dazai didn't exchange many words with you — that is typical behavior. He doesn't talk often, primarily listens to you, offering conversational exchange where needed. You have been sitting equally as silent beside him on the couch, keeping to yourself, his arm draped over the back behind your shoulders, and he lets out a long but soft sigh.
"What's going on?" The question takes you by surprise, considering he hardly shows interest in your feelings, not seemingly willing to break into your mind to probe around for answers, especially considering he is one to avoid "emotions" where possible. “It feels like the moment you became an executive, you are suddenly worthless and making a fool of yourself.” He speaks gingerly, cautious, but the words are striking a chord. You swallow, stiff in your spot, but don’t say anything — which upsets him further. “Have I coddled you too much? Has our relationship made you believe you are lesser than you were before? Because in my eyes, nothing has changed aside from your work ethic.” He isn’t usually one to express his concern like this, and while the sentiment is nice, you wish he would be choosing his words more carefully.
“No,” you mutter, looking down at your feet again, and his head slowly turns to glance at you, his bandages gone to reveal his one darkened eye, and the blind gray one that only you know about. “I don’t think I’m cut out for executive work, is all. Maybe I need to go back to be a nothing subordinate.”
“You weren’t a ‘nothing’ subordinate. You were excellent,”he compliments, sounding more like it should be an obvious point. “If anything, you’re making it look like those asinine rumors spreading around are true.” Your gaze darts in his direction, his brows wrinkled together with his mouth in a line staring back at you. “You think I don’t hear everything that is said within my mafia? Especially when it comes to you?” He whispers, his features softening then as he gazes at you, lips subtly dropping to a genuine frown.
“I… I didn’t think you’d care,” you tell him, still sitting motionless with your hands to yourself, something you don’t usually do when you two are alone, and he can’t help staring at you as the pieces fall into place. So, that’s what this is about.
“You don’t think I care about you,” he phrases it as a statement more than a question, but it doesn’t make much sense. “Are you choosing to act out then because of that idiotic belief?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t speak to me like that, at least when it’s just us here in your home,” you calmly blurt, but tears are brimming on your lash line, and you want to curl up under the bed to never be found. “It does lead me to believe you don’t care and keep me around as someone to sleep with.” He pauses, the silence loud, numbing, and his brows twitch together.
"I didn't realize..." His sentence trails off when his mind allows him to acknowledge the glass sheen in your eyes, and he doesn't know how to handle this. You have more emotions than he is used to dealing with; admittedly, you can be too much to handle, but he likes you — maybe even loves you, and he would rather try to be more caring and sensitive to your overwhelming feelings. "Did you want to be an executive?"
"Not really, no, but it gave me access to be closer to you while working," you confess. "That's... That's all I really want. I want to be closer to you, and I feel like you're pushing me away, and it's because I can't do anything right." He eyes you up and down, his fingers twitching behind you, and he is trying to conjure up the right thing to say to you.
"You do plenty right," he corrects, his pointer finger gradually dragging along your shoulder then lightly up your neck. "You're an excellent worker, and if you want to go back to your previous position, it isn't an issue. I'd rather you continue putting out good work while content than miserable and screwing up because of it." You shoot him a small glare at his phrasing, only making him sigh heavily as he scoots closer, putting his arm around you fully now, inviting you to sit in his lap. But you don't budge, still closing in on yourself, not believing much of what he says. "What can I do to make you happy?" He murmurs, lips close to your ear as the back of his fingers graze your cheek.
You mull that question over before shrugging, gaze downcast again, too embarrassed to make such a request; his eyes are on you still, waiting for an answer, and you glance at him once more before shrugging again. "I would... I'd like you to stop treating me like a secret." He blinks once, sitting up a little straighter, then quirks a brow.
"I didn't think I was."
"You don't treat me any differently at work, though," you retort, huffing this time. "It's like I'm just another subordinate to you." He thinks for a moment, recalling your interactions with one another, and his head tilts, very much still confused.
"You told me not to give you special treatment," his finger hooks under your chin to force you to finally look at him, your nose scrunching at the action, embarrassed more than before. "If you want me to treat you better, you need to use your words, my darling. I'm intelligent, sure, but I'm not a mind reader. If it would make you feel better about yourself if I made it clear to everyone that you are mine, then so be it." His nose gently nudges yours, a small spark igniting in his one deep brown iris, and your hands shake from the strange anticipation churning in your stomach. "Will that help?" He asks, voice lowered, making you nod instantly while you hold contact with him. A dark brow arches again, as if giving you a silent commaned. Waiting.
"Yes, that will help," you murmur, earning a light kiss in return.
"Good. Now," he clears his throat, getting to his feet and running his fingers through his hair. "We'll have a demotion meeting tomorrow, you go back to getting your shit together, and I will make more time for you where I can in my busy schedule. Is that doable for you?"
"Yes, Osa, I would be perfectly fine with that," you watch his back, muscles gently flexing under his shirt as he moves, seeing his hand extend out to you in offering.
"Come along, I'm exhausted," a yawn follows his sentence, sleep evident in his expression as he waits for you; a hand slips in his, getting to your feet and following after him to his room for what little bit of sleep he will allow himself to have. He won't ever say it directly to you, but having you lay there with him, using you as a human plushie, it helps ease his mind into silence so he can get some shut eye, even if it's for a few hours before the nightmares take over. At least when he's jolted awake, you're there to remind him that maybe it all isn't as bad as he believes.
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