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          OH, BOY.  SOME BUNNY’S IN BIG TROUBLE.  hint: it’s him.  hint: he’s twenty-two and still can’t hold down his liquor.  maybe she won’t notice?  maybe she won’t oh there she is.   ❝  ane-san...  somebody else jus’ broke into your room and did this, i saw it all, i saw it happen.  ❞   @executs.

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      BOY I DIE !!  sorry guys !! i got caught up writing a dnd campaign..... i’m here and also i’m gay,  and also also please bully z @domineer into making kouyou so i can be complete inside. i want to ship myself ( reanna ) with kouyou the most.  canon bsd pairing

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🍻 + “ do you regret letting me close ?”

     kind of an odd question to ask someone who currently has her legs draped over his while lounging on his couch in his apartment, in his clothes and drinking his booze out of ridiculously expensive wine glasses.

     “Do I regret it?”

     the look she gives him is incredulous, baffled. is he that drunk? she gets that his tolerance isn’t the best and all but..

     hm…

     ah, to hell with it, she does laugh. because she’s that drunk.

     “Does it look like I do?” what with the fact that she looks very comfortable in her spot and all. “If I regretted letting you get close, I’m not sure we’d be having this conversation. I wouldn’t even be here. What kind of person do you take me for?”

      nursing her glass in one hand, she reaches with the other to let her fingertips skim over his shoulder, dancing along the lines of it to cup his chin, coaxing him to look at her properly before she continues.

     goodness does she adore that about him though. that sharpness and bite to him hides an underlying layer of sensitivity. for a mafioso, he sure does have a big heart no matter how much he tries to deny it. hurts his reputation, or something. it’s endearing to watch.

     “If I didn’t want you by me, you would’ve lost your hands awhile ago.” and she says this with all seriousness, of course. not that she doesn’t appreciate him checking on her or anything.. “Trust me when I say you can’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to.”

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In response to @frockhert‘s post, here’s a translation of the two Vol 7 bonus pages! (Shamelessly stolen from the Bungou Stray Dogs Vietnam Facebook group)

If you only saw the anime, there’s an extra scene in the manga where Atsushi saves a baby from Twain’s missiles and promptly offloads it onto Tachihara.

I seriously love these pages so much. So much.

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INDEPENDENT KUNIKIDA DOPPO ROLEPLAY BLOG. written by reid. 

❝        just what is an ‘ideal’? … if you ask me, the answer is clear. it is a word written on the cover of my notebook. my notebook is omnipotent. It guides me as a principle, as a master, as a prophet. at times, it becomes a weapon and also a key.       ❞

art credit / promo credit. 

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doppoem‌:

◁ ◁ ◁ ◁ ◁  @antigravi.

          had you told kunikida only a few months ago that he’d be spending his more of his evenings with a member of the port mafia than without, he’d not have believed it. he certainly didn’t understand it when it began happening  —  still doesn’t, not wholly. he does, however, know they’re far beyond questioning this for what it is ( this being time spent together entirely of their own free will and not being thrown crudely together by the hands of fate and circumstance  ) and by now, they’re well into acceptance. 

        that’s two of the five stages of grief.

        he considers for a moment that he’s too harsh in thinking that. after all, he wouldn’t bother with someone that he didn’t hold some kind of trust in; even if that trust was less than clearly defined. before he can reflect any further on the matter, nakahara proves his grievance right in just a simple movement  —   sat on the pool table, he manages to block the shot that kunikida has been meticulously angling for seven minutes and thirty four seconds with his boot. ridiculous.

       ❝   nakahara.   ❞  glare sharp and judging, kunikida frowns across the way at him and his brow furrows, distinctly in frustration. yet, if he were actually angry  — note, composed irritation and pure rage are two completely different beasts  — then he wouldn’t hesitate to aim for his teeth, right then and there. that, and if it weren’t chuuya across from him. him and that… indescribable quality of his; the very same one that drew kunikida to him time and time again.  

        ❝   intentionally blocking my perfect shot and looking at me with that shit eating grin is bad enough as it is, but dirtying this fine felt with your disgusting feet… tch. simply unforgivable.  move your hind end, or i’ll move it for you.  ❞

seven minutes.  does anyone truly know what can be accomplished in seven minutes, even while partially inebriated?  so much, it turns out.  the accumulated seven-to-ten minutes between turns in the world’s slowest game of pool had granted chuuya ample time to fuck around, at the very least, giving him the chance to nurse on three different fruity concoctions & create a masterpiece of gravitating nachos, tied into a string of art with a singular swish of salsa con queso. 

nobody claps.  hell, nobody even notices.  it’ll sell better when he’s dead, surely.

needless to say, it wasn’t enough.  short man,  shorter temper.  kunikida’s attention has been stolen away to angles and variables for far too long, and chuuya decides on his fifth turn that he simply won’t stand for it any longer.  it’s with ease that he hoists himself onto the table, precision and experience guiding his boot to flawlessly obstruct his perfect pocket. 

❝  oh, yeah.  easy pick.  move it for me.  ❞  that’s one singular brow quirked in challenge, the wordless come hither.  ❝  correct me if i’m wrong,  but i’m thinkin’ you would’ve done it by now if my ass really pissed you off, right?  ❞  how humbling and frightening it is to realize you’ve memorized another human’s facial quirks!  was it performed intentionally?  who’s to say.

❝  one thing.  ❞  chuuya grips the collar of kunikida’s shirt so naturally it might as well have been rehearsed, yanking him down to eye level.  ❝  when the hell are you gonna ask me out, fartnuts?  ❞

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domineer‌.

          as unladylike as it is – she snorts, paired with rolled eyes and a huff. he’s the only one that she knows of who’d bother sending people gift baskets of all things for something like this. she was sure to tell him that it tasted of bribery once she figured out how expensive the collection wound up being. paying for her silence, then? the fearsome gravity manipulator, the literal one-man army, chuya nakahara had to be carried back to a bed lest she leave him sleeping on the bar to fend for himself. how lucky he is to have been with a merciful angel like her at the time.

          “Should’ve let me pick how to cash out my favor. I hear those things are handy coming from… ah, people of your organization in particular.” 

          she doesn’t mind though, not really. he’s fine company to have when he isn’t sent out to come after their throats.

          the wink earns him an amused sort of grin, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear before she lifts a shoulder in a shrug. of course she’s been wanting an excuse to wear it.

          “Unlike some of us, we can’t all afford to dress pretty for work all the time. My coworkers like to leave a mess as it is, and I tend to be pretty hands on with my treatment plans.” cleaning up after their injuries (both previously there and caused by her) can be quite messy, and she’d hate to stain anything too nice. … ‘not so bad’, though? surely he can do better than that. she’s almost a little offended if that scrunch of her nose was anything to go by.

          when the round of applause surrounds them, she glances around the room to try to piece together what even just happened. a look from the bartender seems to say that he’s got no idea either. well, whatever. she’ll drink to that anyway! what a great game this is.

          a hum, thoughtful.

          “Play your cards right? One. I wouldn’t want you too drunk if you’re going to try to lead me in a dance.” she doesn’t want to get stepped on, thanks. “Ask me properly first.”

there are many words he would pointedly use to describe a woman like yosano akiko, and exactly none of them involve the phrase merciful.  pretty bold of her to cover that thought over her one-time kindness like a blanket statement of truth when he’s seen her raw attitude in and out of the covers; he’s seen her iron fists.  oh, but he adores them, naturally.  all of that would roll of his tongue like a compliment. 

❝  oh, eat shit.  ain’t drunk.  ❞  he’s lying.  he’s quickly approaching the nighttime station of dwindling sobriety and heavy bravado.  it’s actually a formidable suggestion on her part to slow down lest he does, in fact, squish a few toes.  does it still count as one if he’s already had two?

it’s made explicitly clear that their friendly neighborhood bartender is still too high-strung to appreciate the humor in this amazing floating glass, which he’d panicked about the first time it’d happened fifteen minutes prior to doctor yosano strutting her stuff into view & changing chuuya’s life, irrevocably, forever.  the same party trick, twice, and given a proper burial before its five minutes of fame.

boring.  know who’s not boring?

❝  akiko-chan.  ❞  he’s going out of his way now to make his voice that soft, hitting an entirely new level of gentle  —  be it for irony or mockery.  jury’s still out.  he summons his chin into a rest on the upturned flat of his palm, a lazy gaze preying from her eyes to her lips like he ain’t afraid to hide his intentions.  and why would he?  they never have.  ❝  will you dance with me?  ❞ 

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HE’S NO POET  —  nowhere close  —  but if he had to choose something profound to idly contemplate while dragging his feet across the pavement, he’d call this the first day of the rest of his life.  it’s a bitter mix of agony and fear settling in his belly once he and the agents leading him cross the threshold, introducing one young, exhausted nakahara chuuya through the doors of his new stomping grounds.

he aches, terribly.  too tired to bite back, too resigned to protest the way they prod and shove like he’s a misbehaving bovine.  and chuuya would be more rebellious in passing, he’d live up to the rumors and risk the need to be muzzled were it not for the sore lack of light in his eyes.

all that spirit and rage is earned right back in one quick look, though.

one quick look at a girl, to clarify.  a young girl, no more than six or seven years old.  it boils his blood on the spot, and the men with the clamped hands and rough palms never stood a chance.  they’re thrown back with the full weight of his ability, strewn haphazardly against the concrete of the port mafia headquarters.

❝  no fucking way.  are you someone’s kid?  are you kidding me?  ❞  it’s not right.  far from his business, sure, but certainly not something chuuya can just overlook.  ❝  you’re a child.  the hell did they do to you?  did they hurt you?  any of these bastards, did they hurt you?  ❞

                                   —————   @sncwrisen. ✦

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❝i gave you more money than the civil war cost and you spent it already?❞

@antigravi | meme  | accepting!      

                “ Don’t be so SIMPLE,Chuuya.  You can’t afford it in this lineof work .”

Simple is bothersome. Simple sees right through him. But Dazai knows nothing if not convolution and it’s that comfort that hashim smirking, leaning back with his hands in his pockets to obscure his stackeddeck; his upper hand; (so to speak.)

                “ I invested it.  That money means more now than it ever did with you .”  

He shrugs; exaggerated.  A magician always knows where to draw foolisheyes.  ‘Investment’ is a word of greysignificance, and with the right mind, any purchase can be one in something.  

               “ Besides …”

He steps closer, into the danger zone, the vicious circle;into harms way and pleasure’s reach.  Hisfingers work their craft in his pockets as Dazai draws nearer; a countdown ofpaces. Five. Four. Three. Two–.

               “—Money doesn’t mean anything in the—"

                                                                                  One.

                         “–END!!!!”

It’s and ugly grunt thatescapes him when Dazai strikes with (FULL FORCE); the strength of ten men! (or atleast, ten hands).  His wrists dart fromhis pockets like twin serpents; towards Chuuya’s face; grumpy and exposed.  It’s a good move; enough pull that theelastic tendrils of the 10 sticky-hands he’s purchased spring all in the rightdirection.  Dazai’s agents land with awet smack against Chuuya’s cheeks;against his forehead chin and nose.  Heisn’t so UGLY with speckles of multicolored goo as an accessory.  What he IS, if Chuuya is truly as simple asDazai believes, is angry.  

Money well spent is money worth protecting as Dazai startsto wind the hands back with a haste never known to man. His sing-song chant is no victory cry, but a prayer of DESPERATION. 

                                                    “ don’t doooo–n’t donnnn’t DON’T don’t !!” 

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         small tag drop!  part 1/?.

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Send 💞 for me to describe 5 ways my muse says ‘I love you’ to yours.

Can be verbal, or non verbal. Platonic. Familial. Romantic.  

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        Indie | Selective | penned by Samee

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crossfiires‌.

In his life, Oda was told that staring at others was rude, but he couldn’t pry his eyes off the unnaturally short, redheaded mafioso who stood on the other side of the street from him.

There was a storm of thoughts that immediately hit him, those along the lines of “why is he so short?”, “why is he scowling? is his face permanently like that?”, “his hair is so unnaturally red. is it dyed?”, and “why is he wearing a hat if it’s cloudy outside?”

Oda opened his mouth to say something, but every nerve in his body held him back from saying something ill-mannered.

“Hey,” He waved his arms in the air to grab Chuuya’s attention, “Why is your head so fucking red?” 

WHO THE FUCK?  pretty bold of this kid to assume chuuya would take the moral high road and cross the street.  no,  he started it,  so now they both have to deal with what can only be described as the world’s worst game of broken telephone.

❝  hah?  ❞  did he say there’s something on his head?  as if for emphasis,  he can’t help but cop a feel of the soft curve of his hat,  checking for any abnormalities.  when his investigation ends in a big fat NOTHING,  that same hand twists to instead flash him the finger.

and he waves it around,  too.  who waves their arms anymore?  two dudes.  these guys.  just guys bein’ dudes.  ❝  you got words for me?  man up and jaywalk,  you fuck!  ❞

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nullifi‌.

Tragedy comes in many forms and Dazai has a policy of avoiding it at all costs. Unfortunately, his walking-curse of a partner seems to leak the stuff like a shitty gas-station fountain lid. And surely, it’s Chuuya’s doing that today is at least the 5th worst day of Dazai’s entire life. And with tragedy comes mourning. And Dazai has never been one to hold back.

               “Nooooooooooooo!”

Comes the horrified wail as his treasured Pretz go flying across the parking lot and into the street. So quick to come into his life and so quick to leave it. Dazai’s arm is outstretched, reaching as it goes, as it goes, and as it’s gone. Fleeting. He slowly lowers it into his pocket, reminded of just how MEANINGLESS this all is. The snack is run over; crushed into powder in an instant. A hint of comfort. He smiles, fondly. 

                                          Wouldn’t that be nice?

But duty calls, and dreams are for sleeping. Chuuya has so kindly reminded him that Dazai has a whole lot of the former and shit to show for the latter. So he strides ahead to the driver’s side.

It’s .05 seconds before Chuuya ruins their new ride. Unsurprising. Dazai laughs; melodic, relaxed; any urgency only underlying his same mocking attitude. It wasn’t the best choice of car, no leg room at all, and Dazai’s half certain that on extra kick has compacted it even more.

                “Don’t go taking souvenirs before you’ve seen the attraction.”

It takes him a solid two minutes to figure out how to start the damned thing, and another three to differentiate between drive, neutral, and reverse.  

It’s after about an hour of driving that Chuuya makes his request. Information. Dazai could easily share his plan. Chuuya is nothing if not trustworthy; PREDICTABLE. And predictably, Dazai ignores the request.

               “It’s so cramped in here!” He groans, conveniently shifting towards the center console, fortuitously obscuring the FUEL EMPTY light beside the odometer.

                 “The lake will have to wait. It’s almost time.”

it’s the slowest hour of his life,  by the way.  chuuya has calmed enough of his outward aggression to press his chin firmly into the cup of his hand,  elbow parked on the base of a dirty passenger window while dazai fumbles with the gears.  drive much?  haha.  he’s ‘bout to vocalize that,  too,  but he’s too mad to make a sound.  the light mock is committed to later,  if he remembers. 

they seem to drive endlessly and endlessly through the fog of nothing,  and it’s amazing how there ain’t one single thing on the other side with the gall to capture his attention.  tends to happen in farmland,  especially when it’s too dark to point out or make fun of the obscure road signs with the one boy irritatingly capable of making him laugh. 

eventually his eyes slip closed,  and they stay that way for an aptly-timed power nap.  he’s stirred back into consciousness around the hour mark when the sleep gets too deep,  too heavy to hold  &  too curious to dream  —  dropping his temple down in a crash against the bone of his wrist,  begging for an ouchie.

ouchie never comes.  instead,  interrogation.  indisputably ignored interrogation.

❝  hey.  just once,  once,  can you cut it the fuck out?  with the cryptic shit.  big mouth.  kiss my ass.  it’s almost time for what?  ❞  interrogation,  take two.  ❝  ... are we slowin’ down or something?  ❞  and,  really,  it’s all an accident when he shoves sideways towards the center console,  more so when his eyes flicker towards the FUEL EMPTY light  —  which is thereafter spotted with a passion and furiously pointed at.

❝  are you stupid?  your big plan,  revealed!  running out of gas in the middle of nowhere!  good,  dazai.  stay here and get hit by a truck,  okay?  ❞  the dramatic exit would’ve had more flourish to it had he unlocked the door ahead of time,  instead uselessly wiggling the handle with more spite than bite until eventually he cheats,  kicking it open with the intent to unhinge. 

intent successful.  goodbye,  door!

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mortsicarius‌.

   she hasn’t talked much since that day ––––  nor does she ever try to make connections with others .  yes ,  she cares for her team ,  but she’d rather try not to get too attached in case one of them got hurt .  she doesn’t know what she’d do .  so when chuuya approaches her with an offer to go out with them ,  she’s silent .

   she turns her head slightly ,  debating to take him up on his offer .  tachihara did get on her nerves occasionally ,  but he was harmless .  she stands ,  brushing the dirt off her pants while giving a soft nod .  “ … i’m not very good ,  but i’m sure anyone would be better than tachihara - san . “

       whew.  from this point onward,  chuuya marks the conversation as a  full-on win,  all things considered  ––  and he would’ve done the same had she responded in meek gestures or head movements alone.  this?  this is almost overkill.  ❝  sassy.  keep that attitude and you might end up havin’ fun,  scary as that sounds.  ❞

as much as he pretends not to be,  he’s the empathetic sort.  how saucy for a criminal.  ❝  i know it’s not really your cup of tea,  but i think it’d do you some good to loosen up once in a while.  you comin’?  ❞