nonexistence1199

[nonexistence1199]

beast translation resources

a complete beast manga english translations resources list (ignore me trying to jam as many keywords as possible into one sentence)

so, i recently finished reading through the series and it was a pain to try to find all the different sources for translations, so here are the links i used if anyone else needs them.

ofc, all translations belong to the translators themselves, and the bungo stray dogs beast manga is written by Kafka Asagiri and illustrated by Shiwasu Hoshikawa, not me. please buy if you can!

chapter 1-9 

chapter 2-18

chapter 11-22

alternative sources:

chapter 1 (google drive)

chapter 11-22 (text only)

let me know if any of these links don’t work, and have fun!

EDIT: as of 1/26/2022, the BEAST manga has been completed!! its been a wild ride, and i’m super sad now hhhhhh updates to this post will be less frequent now, but if anyone has more resources feel free to lmk!! i will add them :)

[nonexistence1199]

Gotta redo my layout before coming back.. zzzzz 👀🥲

[nonexistence1199]

WHATEVER'S DEEMED NECESSARY ━━━━ . . . CONFLICT #01

⸝⸝ x bartender!reader

𝖲𝖸𝖭𝖮𝖯𝖲𝖨𝖲 — who would've known that simple words can impact someone's life forever? as a bartender, it's been some duty of yours (on a whim) to comfort drunkards tilt their last cups... including this one red-headed mafioso, nakahara chuuya. and it all took one bad day to be involved in his life.

𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖭𝖳 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦 — alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood/light gore-ish descriptions, chuuya-typical swearing, unhinged philosophy, british english (again. forgot to change keyboards.), chuuya is a mess, both dialogue heavy & paragraph heavy

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖧𝖮𝖱'𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤 — I am clinically insane but HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAKAHARA CHUUYA MY BOY

𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖣 𝖢𝖮𝖴𝖭𝖳 — ~2k words, not proofread

CHECK OUT WHATEVER'S DEEMED NECESSARY, OVERVIEW.

It was always around that godforsaken time of hour, 4:50 pm was when the bar you worked in—Garnet—took into full swing at fresh potential, brimming opportunities. With refined jazz music's soul-touching moods n’ devilious vibes with its firm, talk about fancy décor as Garnet's affluent atmosphere was inviting and soothe the nerves through the tops and bottoms of one's system in the body excruciatingly well. Well enough to serve as many drunken men and women alike to the point they're addicts to this one bar in particular. All of the drinks ordered are to be delievered with guarantee to be its highest qualities. Especially around 4 pm, however, is the time he would arrive. An executive from one of many organizations operating in the criminal underworld of Yokohama's heart,

Less than 29 or so minutes—You'd count—he stumbles inside of the establishment frustrated. Probably cursing at the sky and loose grip on the motorcycle the mafioso is on earlier, indubitably. His hat, European styled 'French-esque,' covers the eyes just right where it's hardly visible to almost anyone in a sharp and piercing glance at him. Red locks fall his face and he takes the front seat where... it's reasonable enough, yeah? The tall solitary stools are reserved for one bystander anyway, it's not so weird. He calls you over for a drink, for a moment, you compelled to go ahead and humble him his usual red wine, the man's favorite. Oh, no, no, no, no. Not tonight. Tonight would be different. Different in ways he acted, different in attitude, shift in scenery and oh so different when it regards your head.

For now, he orders. So focus on the high-end pay job. You'll need it... And so you listens.

All he asks for this time was tequila. Any kind—the guy added, more so like clarified in your face. Well he doesn't mind enough to tell you or must it be just inconsidered laziness? Perhaps his mind was terribly spent to coherently think a moment and specify a kind of flavour, who knows, but not you. It's not to care about. Regardless, staying none but pedantic to your silver cup and pour a bottle into it—sneak between ice cubes falls from those experienced fingers and closed the capsule in one swift move. Blink once, you're done. It's a relatively small trick you do remaining popularity from the bar's neverending list of patrons night for night. Ah, roars of a bygone moment in a burnt party. This man in question enjoys your little entertainer segment through the making of his glass but he straights up ignores you. Slump to the gloved knuckles kissing the mafioso's self cheek and not uttering another word other than making his order a minute ago.

Maybe it's one of those days.

Days that fade into a profound effect of watercolor blurs. Intangible assets or even the littlest details and parts of a day like drinking some strong canned coffee that taste reminiscent towards metal or tea. Wishful thinking the blunt and horrible mixture,

It was one of those days.

Boredom strikes you fast before you can react. Drunkards kept the tendency and reckless to tell random and nonsensical stories that mean nothing but their imagination and a stirred cup of a lone reality to a friendless bartender that may or may not be you. You never actually knew the distinguished man's name, in fact, but understanding he was a frequent. Not-so frequent no more, his appearance became more of a monthly thing. It's not like you mind anyway as tons care less on topic of it. Just hearing loops of the same old record soul-jazz music in the jamed boombox as antique as it can get and chatters distant from here you stand, the guy at front of you with an inclusive fedora usually had a bizarre tale to ramble as well, and it can't helped but be missed. Thought alongside once emptying the capsule and present the cocktail to him. A brief exchange between the eyes, when he pulls up 800¥ to the rich mahogany counter. A nod to those eyes. Brown as forest meadows, blue as pristine coral reefs, or gray as the common metal in day-to-day lives—what hell are even the color of his eyes... Curse the sweet smooth lighting that looks above the weaknesses of throats, hung on top.

And yes, that was it from interacting with him so insouciance from a seeming with the looks gentleman... For a brief minute. As you then so happen to take the cloth piece to dry your cocktail shaker the same moment he picks up his drink at last—in spite of all and needing a damn desperate refreshment after a long daytime spent handling an irrational mission. Unfathomable grumbles heard from the same young man, grasp his hand to the countertop furniture when he downs his cup, only God knows what occured to the mafioso during whatever was his relevant task. "Just a thought, you act a lot more violent today." Not by getting physical with anyone (a stranger) within approximate, that's for sure, and you're thankful since breaking up alcohol-driven fights are as hard enough. "Everything doesn't look great on your end."

"Because it's not." Hearing him answer is one thing but surprising at the most. He straight up walks into the bar with a horrendous attitude, for one. It's common anyway so you couldn't bother being offended. The redhead twiddles his liquor, mindless to his certain state. "...Nothing is working out these days and on God I'll ruin their worthless fucking bones to wrench. Made the mafia quarters a hellscape, kidnapping assests... Our subordinates." A twitch to his fist. And if for what it's rare to see him express another emotion than plain hatred you're used to from the mafioso's old regular visits... A sudden at that, was he already drunk? Sunrise tequila isn't, and absolutely never alcohol heavy in its taste or... In a sense, the sideffects.

You lean against... Something, maybe a wall or the cabinet, it's barely clear what. You're too invested in focus at the unfortunate mafioso's unsettling words that aren't a threat to you no matter how hard you try and think it is, but ticks the sensitive mortal heart. "Right. I'm listening, I won't judge." You admit with honest. The bar—Garnet—does the speciality of master the tongue and sweet-smooth comforting conversations, this place is neutral in every way possible outside of morning law that haunts. Even when you ignored the fine gentleman, it's inevitable to end up chatting. Duties call.

He took a second to eye you first. Those bluish grays... Or was it an accented brown? Unsure what but for one thing the mafioso stared right before speaking again. "The name's Nakahara Chuuya, by the way... Call me what ya like." The red haired man, who finally introduces himself as Chuuya, says. And here is when you figured—damn—he might not tell me his name. Perhaps something along those lines... It's difficult coming up good substitutions. "Right... Let's go with Nakahara-sama." Chuuya flares a grin. Albeit the honouring referral, he felt it always was too much. As it was, don't get him wrong. When you then told the established man your own, he reciprocates the affection��or more appropriately, respect, by uttering your own family name. "All right. Well, nice to be meeting ya a bit better than before." Chuuya jokes. "Yeah, totally agree." You stiff a chuckle.

"Let's cut to the chase."

"Busy with that work of yours? Fine me the details if you need someone to listen." To all of that inconsistent rambles, you fail to add. Humbled the slow burn cliché romances—Chuuya persists to admit the tough force that his current workload brings out of him and it's wasn't usually as that until the members and men at front decrease severely from kidnaps and brutal massacres.

"Alone?"

"What, what? Whaddya mean by alone?"

"You're handling all of those by yourself. Is that it?" You flip another empty glass soak in beer to clean it from the guy next to Chuuya three stools distance.

"Consider how you had no time spared to mourn over those subordinates. It must've been ruthless in those hands."

"...Damn bastards, right? I'll tear 'em limbs apart if they even try another fight to take down more of us."

Chuuya rut tips of his fingers hard flat across the expensive wood material. Clear cut on the cool surface when it slides forward a grip—another free hand takes his glass by instinct and swallows. That's instinctive, rotten to the core in fuel for seething rage plummets the gracious heart of his. Under no terms will it survive beneath this sort of cruel pressure applied to no one but himself—anger at himself for sacrificing and throwing a piece of his own morality out the window. That he's betrayed himself for nothing. What, the painting's clear of wet colors—must it not take an effort at the slightest bit to notice? "Who the hell do they think they are, dammit!? Messin’ around and make our subordinates drop dead on the floors! Just what more do they want from us?!"

Regret that rails the skin open in bruise "They demand mafia blood, they'd get it, alright. Got it too greedy, I'll give ‘em more. One of my own splat on my knuckles for a shitty—"

"Can't you go a little easier on yourself?" Chuuya would have never thought he would be able to hear those words—fragile and genuine to pinpoint when he shivers hearing your voice—to be hung over his sore neck. "...I'm sorry, what? Yeah, yeah. No pressure." You ease the deafen silence that is exchanged delightfully... Tense. It's like the whole atmosphere were upon Chuuya's gloved hands and controlled so hard it rotates the mind. Rolls up and places a burden put inside the stomach. "But it never once was like this on our ends this sense and terrorized neverending blood lust, the organization's tag line. Fuck, like I need to get on high... C'mon, boss... We have to show them." Chuuya was of no return, the no man's crossing.

Only now was the effect taken an increased toll in his pressured veins—a hyper adrenaline. Flushed cheeks in a second, this lightweight... The brand of tequila used ain't that high of a dosage. You sigh and prevent his hand, a grasp, a gentle grasp, delicate balance contrasts the punch of curled up fingers unforgiven to cross. You're never this nice. What's the change, difference, had he manage to enter in your world compare to all the other ignorant, arrogant, and self-centered men who dares to step in a heaven of no responsibility guarantee? Chuuya asks exactly that, what are you doing, why are you doing... This. You can't answer since there wasn't a reason to begin with. That's proper. "I don't know," You shrug. "I just wanted to if it seems right. It's all in the eyes, I can see it, you think this is right." Strangers but close enough to be familiarized with one another and state confident what you drawled, word for word. Chuuya blinks. Scrunched eyes, that sort of stuff in questioning manner. "Y'er actin’ as if y'know what to do with me."

"No, I don't."

"You really don't know?"

"I don't know anything. I don't know lots of things, why is it of such, how's the possibility and so on... I don't know people, I don't know life other than the fact it's lived in by our own perspectives and views of the world."

"If you ask me, I still don't know what is right."

"So you're spewing word vomits?"

"I think they mean something. I'd like to believe it does."

"In the back of my mind..."

"It always will."

"Well if that ain't the most romantic thing I've ever heard in this bar." Chuuya didn't mean it. It's unclear between joking or unseriousness, it's just how it's understandable that a man, mafioso, redhead, gentleman... Some random guy in your life by the names of Nakahara Chuuya said it. You sigh, played eyes. "I feel sorry if you haven't been flirted on yet." Taken pity route, worst idea ever, and yet you say so without fear. And Chuuya responds not-so much accordingly at the sassy comment. Or what he hears, processed, and thought of, at least... "...For granted, I should be the one who remarks that." He scoffs. "Sure, touché to that."

...

He's passed out on the countertops.

Saliva on the corners of Chuuya's lips, nasty—with folded arms in angel's rest.

And there you were staying until 6 am sharp. Are you then obliged to wake the man up already to closing time.

Now, was there anything special to this in particular is the question! Well, of course, no. It's been a thousand or so millions of time had this scene been ever recreated poorly. Without vomit, thankfully, as Chuuya groans initially from the sobbed pain that chokes his throat and mouth whole in burns, pooling his stomach hurt and completely dry as if devoid of some any sort of separate feeling. In the meanwhile, you serve to prepare free coffee to the low tolerant. No charge out of primary or boss's guidelines? No clue other than you're ordered to do so by a much more seasoned bartender... He's out of the picture, don't think about him with the entirety of that heavily trembling heart. Instead think of the man, Chuuya, who's lost his mind to the bet of glass. A sigh... "Hey." You call. A flick of that finger against the core of his forehead if anything hadn't happen yet. "Garnet's closing, sir. Get up... This'll leave a mark on my damn paycheck." If the business didn't love cutting corners.

Although the peace written on the facial features to Chuuya's looks stopped a bit of motif in those veins. Guilt to misery left to no imagine. You caress the free strands rust of ginger soft browns, mixes of ash oranges. That should've land on his face then stick. For how long, who knows, but for how long will you keep this up... "...Hey, wake-up, sleepyhead." You smooth-talk. Much more serene for effort and, well, timid to scare the guy awake. Until there was a slap to the counter, twice, and last third time. Attempt to shaken the mafioso awake finally. Wouldn't work in the end, unfortunately... "What to do then?" Smacking him is a horrible suggestion. You groan, defeated. Using your foot to fetch the stool behind you then sit. Hand to knead his hair a little longer more and more so.

It's calm,

Inviting,

Smells of rotten aftermath and terrible tips of whisky, liquor, spilt barrels and empty cups that linger in the air,

It's still peaceful regardless.

Peaceful... Being like this, the most rarer days. In rebel to the late nights in casual Yokohama.

You sigh, dug into those sleek fingers and enjoy the silent show at okay because not every time is this ending up a week-to-week occurrence. Not risk the paycheck cut...

Little did you knew.

[nonexistence1199]

Headcanon: Chuuya being on the ceiling is never planned—it just happens.

One second, he’s standing like a normal person. The next? He’s casually upside down on the ceiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Half the time, he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Someone pisses him off? Gravity shifts before he even thinks about it. Need to get out of a conversation? Ceiling. Dazai being insufferable? Ceiling. Need a moment to process? Ceiling.

At this point, the Port Mafia barely reacts. New recruits get spooked when they realise Chuuya is watching them from above like some kind of feral gargoyle, but the executives don’t even bat an eye.

Meanwhile, Dazai has an entire catalogue of dumb jokes. “Flew too close to the sun again, Slug?” “How’s the weather up there?” “Should I start leaving food on the ceiling for you?”

One day, Chuuya’s going to lose patience and dropkick him from above.

Might make this a running series of HCs.. someone please draw feral gargoyle Chuuya on the ceiling I will love you forever...

[nonexistence1199]

god bless...

The plan was simple.

Go to this world.

Check in on the Agency.

Make sure that everything went according to his counterpart's plan.

Leave.

The most important part: do not cross paths with Chuuya.

But when he spots ginger hair and a tacky hat from afar, it's only a matter of seconds before he's pinned to the ground, a familiar knife pointed at his throat.

"What kind of disgusting ability is this?" the man above him barks, words filled with venom.

"This is not an ability." Dazai states, calmly.

"Don't you dare imply you're him," the knife brushes against his throat, a sharp vessel for the man's rage. "Boss died. Threw himself off the Port Mafia building."

Dazai swallows. This Chuuya looks different from the one he has known for seven years.

He's not as vibrant. He doesn't shine as much he does.

He looks like he almost gave up on living.

"Chuuya—"

"You have no right to say my name, you fucking imposter."

"Please, listen," he pleads. Damn, he doesn't like this Chuuya. "I am Dazai, just—not the one from this world. Not the one you knew."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Chuuya questions through gritted teeth.

"I came here from a different timeline," he explains, careful, "I do share some memories with this world's Dazai, though."

"If you truly are Dazai," the name burns like liquid fire on his tongue, "then you must be a pathological liar as well. Why should I believe you?"

Dazai smirks. This Chuuya is a ticking bomb and he's ready to light his fuse.

"The first time he made love to you," he chooses his words carefully—they had sex plenty of times, but making love was new to them—"he told you he lov—"

Chuuya's fist meets Dazai's cheek.

It's painful, but Dazai didn't expect anything less from him.

"How the fuck did you come to this place?"

"I take it that Chuuya believes me." he grins, satisfaction making its way across his face. "It doesn't really matter. Let's say my ability comes in handy sometimes."

His Chuuya would have laughed at him. Probably told him he's a pain in the ass.

This Chuuya stays quiet and just... walks away?

Dazai's brow furrows.

"Where are you going?" the brunet asks, still sitting on the ground.

"I got nothing to say to you. You can go back to your fucking timeline." he snarls, that gloomy look plastered on his face.

"My, my, holding me accountable for what my counterpart did?" Dazai singsongs in his usual cheerful tone.

The next second he's avoiding the knife thrown at his head.

"I'm giving you one last warning," he growls, and Dazai swears he sees a reddish hue where Chuuya's brown eye should be. "Go. The fuck. Away."

"I just want to talk. About everything."

"You said you're not him, hah? Then you're nothing more than a stranger to me."

"I can explain why—"

"I don't care!" the ground shakes, courtesy of Tainted, but doesn't move beneath Dazai's shoes. "If he truly cared he would have told me about his fucking death plan instead of hiding everything from me!"

A long silence follows.

"Five minutes," Dazai pleas, "and I'll explain everything. Then I'll go back to my world."

Ten minutes later they're in the Port Mafia building, more precisely in Chuuya's office, which previously belonged to Dazai.

The detective glances at the empty chair and he can see it—the ghost of his counterpart, legs crossed, and the redhead standing fiercely on his left, covering his blind side.

There's something terrifying about it. A bond that was way different from the one he shares with his Chuuya; an unmatched level of trust and intimacy.

Imagining himself as the Port Mafia boss is making him sick to his stomach.

"I don't have all day," Chuuya complains, arms crossed. "Go on. I'll listen."

Once Dazai is done talking, the tension in the room is palpable.

"Why," Chuuya mutters, gripping the red scarf hanging over his shoulders, "Why didn't he tell me? Why did he send me on that fucking mission in London? I could have saved him."

"That's the point." Dazai sighs. "Saving him wasn't part of the plan. It would have ruined it."

"So ruining my life was the safest option, hah?" he scoffs, bitterness seeping through his words.

"You would have done the same for him."

'Yes', Chuuya wants to scream. 'Yes, and the fact that he prevented me from doing it keeps me awake at night'.

"You know," the redhead begins, breaking the silence, "I sensed something was off. At some point I realised we weren't on the same wavelength anymore. He treated me like shit then almost worshipped me as if his life depended on it."

"I guess you have figured out why."

"Yeah," the realisation burns the back of his throat. "He tried to detach himself. To make it easier for both of us."

'But he couldn't' is left unsaid.

"I don't know what you do to us, Chuuya," he blurts out, his mouth talking on its own, "It's terrifying."

He finds it easier to be a little bit honest with a Chuuya he's never going to see again.

If it makes him a coward, he doesn't care.

The redhead remains quiet and Dazai spots a myriad of emotions in his eyes.

Hurt, anger, sadness, longing.

"Am I happy?" Chuuya suddenly asks, "In your world."

"Are you happy in this one?" Dazai asks back, unsure.

"You want me to say 'yes' so you can feel better about all the mess your counterpart left for me to deal with? 'Cause I won't."

"This is the only world in which Od—"

"I know." he stops him. He doesn't want to hear that name again. "I just wish he talked to me instead of making all decisions on his own as if I didn't matter a damn thing to him. I guess I was useful as his strongest weap–"

"Don't." Dazai interrupts him, his voice firm. "You've never been a weapon. Not to him. Not to us."

The silence that follows eats them both alive. Talking to this Chuuya is filling Dazai with uneasiness for some reason he doesn't understand.

Seeing him so empty, inevitably similar to himself, makes him uncomfortable.

Does his Chuuya feel the same? Is he hiding all that resentment as well?

"Well, this took more than five minutes. I'll leave as I promised." he announces, suddenly unable to stand in that room anymore.

"Wait." Chuuya calls, his voice unsure.

He walks to Dazai until they're facing each other.

"I have one request. Then I'll let you go."

Dazai knows where this is going. That's why he didn't want to meet this Chuuya in the first place.

"Can I..." the redhead hesitates, "Have one last kiss before you go?"

Dazai's heart aches for the first time in ages.

"I'm not him." he states, voice flat.

They stare at each other's eyes, lost in the moment, and Dazai barely registers the way Chuuya is delicately pushing him against the desk until he's sitting on the black surface.

Neither of them dare speak, for any word would ruin the sacred religiousness of the moment.

Chuuya slots himself between Dazai's legs, bringing their bodies impossibly closer, and his hands reach for his scarf.

He removes it, his movements painfully slow, and Dazai swallows as the red cloth is placed around his shoulders.

Dazai's throat wobbles.

Chuuya's vision blurs.

Dazai feels seen as the redhead's eyes wander all over his face, scanning every feature so that he can store it in his mind until the last memory of the two of them fades.

A gloved hand reaches for Dazai's bandaged neck, caressing the fluffy brown curls, and Dazai's arms instinctively circle Chuuya's waist.

Would his Chuuya be mad at him if he found out?

"A Port Mafia traitor from another world, wearing his precious scarf... He would be feral." Dazai mutters, the forced proximity making him dizzy.

"He owes me." is all the current boss of the Port Mafia says, his eyes fixated on the detective's chapped lips.

His right hand comes to rest on the left side of Dazai's face, covering his eye, and their lips finally connect.

The kiss is tender, almost heart-shattering—it's nothing like the ones he shares with his Chuuya, and it's surely way different than the ones this Chuuya used to share with his counterpart—and yet its bitterness is suffocating.

This life wasn't designed for them, Chuuya thinks, but for now he'll just pretend his former boss is right in front of him.

It can't hurt more than it already does anyway.

Dazai pulls away first, fully aware that the longer this lasts, the more it's going to hurt, and Chuuya heaves a shaky breath in return.

He tries to keep the ghost of his former Boss close to him, but all his efforts are pointless against death.

"I'm going now," Dazai announces, placing the red scarf back on Chuuya's shoulders.

'It doesn't suit you at all', he thinks.

The detective twirls a ginger curl around his finger before walking away. "Take care."

"You will come back, will you?" Chuuya asks, both hopeful and hopeless, and Dazai wonders if this is how his Chuuya felt when he left the Mafia after Odasaku died.

Dazai smiles, quietly. "No. I have no right to be here."

"Always leaving me behind, no matter which universe you fuckers come from." Chuuya mocks him, but he speaks in loneliness. "Go, before I kill you."

"You wouldn't, neither of you." he replies, smiling to himself. "He's doing fine, by the way. Has gone through a lot, but never once lost his colours."

'You're both too good for us and that's why you'll never fully stop hurting', he thinks.

They steal one last glance at each other before Dazai finally disappears behind the door.

"Goodbye, Chuuya."

[nonexistence1199]

Thank you for the tag, @dark-sweet-muffin <33

Last song: Overdose - natori

Favorite colors: Black, white, grey, pastel blue, vintage brown

Last book I finished: The Dead Souls (Nikolay Vasilyevich Gogol)

The last movie I watched: Spirited Away (rewatching it after a long time and Studio Ghibli films always makes me weak in the knees... the movies are so good🥹)

Last TV show: uh....tbh I didn't remember:')

Sweet/savoury/spicy: sweet (or savoury? idk I'm into both)

Relationship status:

Last Google search: chemical formula of the reaction between metals and nonmetals (nah i could never get along well with science)

Looking forward to: finishing all the drafts I'm keeping from last year to now😭 and also continuing with my art wips:3

People I want to know better:

No pressure tag (i cheated!🤗) ▪︎ @yappingyappjng , @beyond-the-red , @saoirseyun , @literatureloverx , @osamucide , @crumbledtoast , @tumbler-rambler

Finally have the courage to tag people in now i'm scared helpppp🙈

got tagged by @labratdogheart and @advanced-thanatology ty both!! 💕🐛

Last song: I Love You Too by Ezra Bell

Favorite color: yellow in concept, green for objects, light blue for clothes

Last book I finished: not including books for school, Radio Silence by Alice Oseman

Last movie: genuinely cannot remember :( last letterboxd log was for Bodies Bodies Bodies though

Last TV show: Anne with an E! (rewatching with @seductivelychurnedbutter)

Sweet/savory/spicy: sweet!

Relationship status: 🐋🐠🐟🦐🫶

Last google search: "gogurt"

Looking forward to: going to a state park soon :)

the thing says "tag ten people you'd like to get to know better" but i dont know that many people so @seductivelychurnedbutter @ddiospyross @maxfischer98 @floor-archivist @chocochococoffee @katy-belacqua @ace-has-cupcakes @encryptidarchivist

[nonexistence1199]

The ship is so real, I mean, what?? rivalry for more than 7 years always ends up in two people being gay and denying their homosexual tendencies together.

(the same was applied for soukoku. IT'S THE FUCKING SAME THING)

get yourself a woman whose been keeping around a picture of you when you were kids for the. past ten years.

something something if a rivalry lasts longer than 7 years then you are no longer rivals you're just fuckin gay miss bartley

[nonexistence1199]

I really like revisiting the earlier chapters after reading the newer ones because it helps give new perspective on the earlier interactions of these two.

The way how Hanako speaks to Yashiro, even from the beginning of their partnership, is so cute and sweet in a way I don't know how to explain. Sure, he's definitely still a jerk at times, but the general manner in which he interacts with her makes me smile like an idiot.

I like how he's not even angry or too upset with her, he's simply like, "Stop the cap. Just fess up and I'll help."

[nonexistence1199]

NOOO😰

So how are we feeling everyone

[nonexistence1199]

I WILL FINISH THIS TODAY I SWEAR-

[nonexistence1199]

I know that I've been off for quite a while, but...

Happy Valentine's my darlings<3

[nonexistence1199]

"Don't hurt these things," - Chuuya tells him, - "Got it?"

that scene killed me. literally. i have no shame in admitting i bawled my eyes out reading this fic.

day #4 of my nearly everyday fanart challenge.

How All Stories End by Anonymous

[nonexistence1199]

Suddenly lots of Pinterest tag games appeared on my feed so here we go:)

@yappingyapping and @beyond-the-red

the original tag game was long so… new post! Thanks for the tag @sanguinerosie

rules: go to pinterest and type [your name] + “core” to show your aesthetic, then post the first 6 images.

Very very cool

Tagging w/no pressure

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[nonexistence1199]

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[nonexistence1199]

He Won’t Say I Love You

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Osamu Dazai – “Don’t Die Before Me”

Dazai doesn’t say “I love you.”

Dazai’s way of loving is contradictory, elusive, and impossible to pin down. His words are always laced with meaning, but never in the way you’d expect—because he does not speak plainly, not about things that matter. Love is a game to most, but to him, it is a ghost—something he has studied, something he understands deeply, yet something that has always evaded him.

That’s why he won’t say he loves you.

Because love, in its purest form, has never been kind to him. He knows love from the pages of books, from the way poets drown themselves in it, from the way people call it devotion but mean self-destruction. And Dazai is a master of self-destruction.

So instead, he turns love into something abstract. Something for you to decipher, something for you to chase, if you’re willing.

He flirts without effort, spins sweet words with a poet’s cadence, smiles like he’s already figured you out. But if you pay attention, you’ll notice the gaps—the empty spaces between his words, the careful distance he keeps no matter how close he leans. The way he offers everything and nothing at the same time.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll hear it in the way he remembers things he shouldn’t—the way your voice sounds when you’re tired, the exact time the streetlights in your neighborhood flicker on. You’ll see it in the way he steals your pen but always returns it, tucked next to a note written in his elegant, half-mocking script.

You’ll feel it in the way his fingers brush against your wrist just long enough to make you wonder if it was intentional.

You’ll notice it in the way he never lies to you. Not because he is kind, not because he trusts you, but because if you saw through him, if you recognized what he really is, he wonders if you would stay anyway.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you do leave, if you choose to walk away, he will not chase you. He will not beg, will not plead. He will laugh it off, throw some teasing remark over his shoulder, and turn the page as if you were just another fleeting story in his collection.

But late at night, when the city is quiet and the ghosts press in too closely, he will still pour two cups of tea.

“Don’t die before me.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Chuuya Nakahara – “You already know, don’t you?”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t want to—he does, more than he’d ever admit—but because love, real love, isn’t something spoken. It’s something you prove.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he proves it in the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, shielding you from passing cars. In the way he places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, steady, present. In the way he always remembers your favorite drink and orders it without asking, as if knowing your preferences is as natural to him as breathing.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he loves like a storm—fierce, untamed, all-consuming. But around you, that fire softens into something warm, something safe.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will roll his eyes when you forget your scarf but wrap his around you without a second thought. He will complain about your reckless habits but pull you into his arms the second you stumble. He will grumble that you’re a handful, that you make his life harder, but his hands will never let you go.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he loves with his entire being. He will hold you like you’re something precious, something irreplaceable, like he’s terrified that one wrong move will shatter the moment. He will kiss you like it’s a promise, like he’s memorizing the way you fit against him in case fate decides to be cruel.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you are hurt—if you so much as wince in pain, if you ever cry in front of him— he will carry the weight of it himself. He will fight with his teeth bared, his fists clenched, his body a shield between you and the world. Because no one gets to hurt what’s his.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will never ask you to stay. Not because he doesn’t want you to—but because he wants you to choose him, freely, without hesitation. He doesn’t need declarations, doesn’t need grand confessions—he just needs to know that when he reaches for you, you will be there.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he stands beside you in a room, offering his hand with a smirk that softens only for you, it’s there in the way he holds you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he sleeps better with you tucked beside him, when his hand finds yours even in dreamless nights, when he fights like hell to keep you safe, it’s there in the way he chooses you. Every time.

“You already know, don’t you?”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Ryunosuke Akutagawa – “Don’t die before I can protect you properly.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because love is foreign to him, something distant and unreachable, like the stars above the slums he grew up in. It is something delicate, something soft, something he was never meant to hold in his own hands.

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love, to him, has always been synonymous with loss. Everything he has ever cared for has been taken, ripped from his grasp before he even had a chance to understand it. So why would this be any different?

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way he teaches you how to fight, how he watches your every movement, memorizing the rhythm of your steps as if preparing to shield you before you even fall. You’ll see it in the way Rashomon hovers near you, shifting subtly, positioning itself between you and danger like an unspoken vow.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when you speak, he listens—truly listens, in a way he never does with anyone else. He absorbs your words like they are gospel, lets them settle deep in his chest, turns them over in his mind long after you’re gone.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you are hurt—if someone dares to lay a hand on you, if you ever bleed because of another, his rage will be instant, merciless. Not because he is angry, but because the sight of you in pain is unbearable in a way he doesn’t have the language to explain.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will stand beside you in silence, his presence unwavering, his eyes dark with something unspoken. He will never call you strong, but he will only ever respect those who are, and you are the only one he allows close.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever left, he would never stop looking for you. He would never say your name out loud, but it would echo in his mind like an unfinished sentence, like a prayer whispered too late.

“Don’t die before I can protect you properly.”

That’s what he really means.

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Fyodor Dostoevsky – “You amuse me.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love, to him, is a human weakness. A flaw. A crack in the foundation of something that should be unshakable. Love clouds judgment, warps perspective, turns the brilliant into fools—and Fyodor Dostoevsky is no fool.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you are an exception. A variable he did not account for. A contradiction he cannot solve. And that interests him.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will watch you—not with longing, not with sentimentality, but with the gaze of a man who is used to understanding everything, and yet, somehow, does not understand you. He studies you the way he studies a chessboard, as if you are a piece that does not belong, a move he did not anticipate.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will never lie to you. Not because he is kind, not because he respects you, but because there is no need to deceive something he already considers his.

He won’t say he loves you.

But his touch, when it comes, is deliberate. He brushes his fingers against yours as he hands you a teacup, lingers just long enough for the contact to mean something—but not long enough for you to be sure. He never calls you by your name when he can call you something softer, something more intimate, something that makes it feel like you are special, even when you know you shouldn’t be.

He won’t say he loves you.

But his affection is in the silences, in the spaces between words, in the moments when he allows you to stand close when he would never tolerate another. He lets you speak your mind, even when he already knows what you will say. He allows you to question him, because he enjoys watching you try to unravel something that cannot be unraveled.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he lets you live. And that, more than anything, should terrify you.

“You amuse me.”

That’s what he really means.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

Sigma – “Tell me I’m real.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He is a man who did not exist until recently, a being with no past, no childhood, no proof that he belongs in this world at all.

He won’t say he loves you.

Because to love means to claim something as your own, and he is still unsure if he is allowed to claim anything. He does not know what he is, where he came from, or what fate has planned for him—but he knows you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way he always makes sure your favorite things are stocked in the casino, even if you never ask. In the way his hands hesitate before pulling away, as if he wants to hold on just a little longer but fears what it might mean.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you are the only thing that makes him feel real. The only proof he has that he exists as something more than a placeholder in a story someone else wrote.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he will memorize your schedule, not out of control, but out of a quiet longing to be part of your world. He will watch you from the corner of his eye, wondering if he can be someone worth staying for.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when you leave a room, he waits an extra second before breathing again, as if your presence alone steadies him.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever tried to leave for good, he would not beg you to stay. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he fears that if you go, he will forget what it felt like to be wanted at all.

“Tell me I’m real.”

That’s what he really means.

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Nikolai Gogol – “You’re the only one who makes me stay.”

He won’t say he loves you.

Because love is a chain, and chains were meant to be broken. Love is something that binds, tethers, shackles—and he has spent his whole life cutting himself free.

He won’t say he loves you.

But he lingers longer than he should, just close enough for you to wonder if he means to stay. He calls you his little trick, his favorite act, his most entertaining performance—but the way he watches you when you aren’t looking? That’s not an act.

He won’t say he loves you.

But you’ll feel it in the way his chaos never quite touches you. In the way his games are never at your expense, the way he teases but never cuts too deep, the way he pretends to be fickle but always, always finds his way back to you.

He won’t say he loves you.

But when he speaks of freedom—his one obsession, the thing that drives him, the only thing he has ever truly wanted—you notice he never includes you in the things he wants to leave behind.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever tried to run, he would let you. He would laugh, twirl his cane, bow like a gentleman as if bidding farewell to a fleeting amusement. But if you watched closely—if you really knew him—you would notice the hesitation, the half-second of stillness, as if something inside of him had just unraveled.

He won’t say he loves you.

But if you ever truly disappeared, he would burn the world down looking for you, laughing all the while, like it was all just another game.

“You’re the only one who makes me stay.”

That’s what he really means.

[nonexistence1199]

:3 i did it lmaoo

Y'all r1999 fans where are you ( ^ ^)r゛゛

[nonexistence1199]

I finally know Mari's feelings when their final recital. I mean, the piece is honestly hard (not really, the movements are just kinda confusing for someone with a small hand like me), and since I've practised it PERFECTLY, I put high expectations on the violin player.

Damn I don't want to be pushed down the stairs. Not yet:P