Is It Too Early To Kms

once again kunikida doppo being the agency's backbone fr

Headcanon that anytime anyone in the Agency gets a job they don’t feel comfortable taking, they’ll say Kunikida said no.

Even Ranpo and Yosano who are his superiors will just shrug like well I’d like to help but, Kunikida looked it over and has declined it.

Kunikida doesn’t know about it for the longest of time until Atsushi slips up and says it with him there.

Fortunately Kunikida, while confused agreed with him because I don’t want you taking such a task.

There were many conversations had later and it concluded with Kunikida saying to make let him know on such occasions.

Especially the teens.

Kunikida was surprised by it but he is rather touched that they trust him to take care of them like that.

And he vows to examine the cases they get through carefully so no one’s sent out on a case they aren’t comfortable with taking.

One time Fukuzawa got a call to meet with a rather unsavoury individual and without missing a beat simply said “I’ve consulted my second and I’m afraid I must decline your offer.”

drunk walk home ; soukoku

synopsis : dazai osamu's last night before he leaves for good— his last night with the only one who has ever truly seen him.

author's note : my first time writing soukoku!! i hope this isn't too ooc, god knows i tried. a bit rushed towards the end because i really should study instead (and i'm not <3) read on ao3

In the middle of the night, the only lights on are the ones near the port. Flickering street lights, late offices and the glow of distant bars; artificial stars dotting the bay city. The neon colours bleed into each other once again, burning into Dazai’s vision. Everything seems slowed, as if he was struggling to catch up with a reality that was far faster than his alcohol addled mind could keep up with. The occasional auburn blur was the only thing that reassured him that his current drinking buddy was still following along, despite being near the edge of a stupor.

Stumbling through the roads and the night marketplaces, Dazai attempted to find the shortcut to Chuuya’s home, a route he knew like the back of his hand. Well, usually. Currently, he's taken atleast three wrong turns. Chuuya’s no more helpful, considering he insisted on taking the shorter way back. They took a bit too long to realize that the main road would've been shorter, but what more can anyone expect from two absolutely drunken fools trying their level best to get home. Chuuya blinks, wondering where the hell he had left his bike. He parked it somewhere, well, obviously, but when he got back his beloved bike was nowhere in the parking lot, and after a few minutes of searching it was painfully clear to him that he's going to have to try again when he can actually walk straight. He's gonna regret all those tequila shots later in the morning, but there were just some problems wine can't drown.

That is exactly why the both of them end up in this situation every time, isn't it? The lure of relief was too hard to resist, even though they both would much rather drink with anyone than each other. Leaning his arm on Chuuya’s shoulder, much to the shorter man’s chagrin, Dazai stumbled through the narrow street. The fluorescent signs that lined this road were rendered hazy by the smoke that seemed to perpetually linger in the air, and the path itself was free of any pedestrians. Empty? Good. They hardly needed trouble at this hour, not when they both barely had the coordination to tell left from right. Even with their best attempt at being vigilant, Chuuya could only manage to note how the color of his friend’s eyes seemed to mellow into a honey like hue under the glow of a signboard. An artificial glow that, for a few moments, made him look a little more alive. Even as he pushes the thought out of his head, a strange disappointment gnaws at his heart. Like he should have stared a little longer, to remember it.

All the while, Dazai tried to hold up both their weight, even though it was quickly becoming a futile attempt; arm around Chuuya’s waist, fingers curled into the fabric of the waistcoat to make sure they both didn't just topple over one another. It's not like it hasn't happened before, but he doesn't particularly fancy another night passed out over this slug in a nameless alley. Been there, done that.

“You're surprisingly heavy for such a short guy, you know, slug?”

“What the fuck did you just call me, bastard?!”

Dazai gives his best performance of a weary sigh. “Now you're hard of hearing, too? Slug.” As if to emphasize, he spells out the word in a singsong manner. “s-l-u-g!! That clear enough for you?”

“…I think I’m gonna kill you.” Chuuya spat out, trying to not grind his teeth from the sheer annoyance this waste of bandages caused him. “I hope you get the worst hangover tomorrow. I hope you're sick for days.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, while Dazai held him up straight.

“We're both getting killer hangovers, dumbass.”

“It was your idea to go drinking!!”

“You know damn well your ass can't hold your liquor. Lightweight!”

“I ain't no fucking lightweight, I kept up just fine!”

“You gave up after the second goddamn round, slug. Now get off me, I think my arm’s going to break from your heavy ass.”

Chuuya let up a little, the faint red glow of gravity manipulation surrounding him. Making himself lighter helped stabilize him in this condition. Even after he stopped leaning, Dazai’s hand didn't leave his waist, bandaged fingers curled into the fabric as they crossed the smog filled streets. “You know what, yeah, we've been walking in circles for an hour. Let's sit down for a bit.” Dazai nods at the idea, though not without a comical exaggeration. “Tired already?”—he drawls—”I thought you'd have a bit more left in you than that!” The way Chuuya’s jaw tightens and how his brows furrow? God, that's cute.

The fuck?

A few seconds after a thought so uncalled for, Dazai’s expression twists into grimace from the sheer distaste. There's no way he just thought that. Meanwhile, Chuuya had already found himself a lovely little cargo crate to sit upon, not even humouring Dazai’s taunt, sitting down on it with that annoyed expression still on his face. Dazai follows suit, and watches as the petit mafioso flicks open his cigarette case, taking out a singular stick. Just as Chuuya’s thumb moved to close the flap, a bandaged finger slips another stick out of it.

“Hey! Get your own, damn bastard.”

Dazai twirled the cigarette with practiced dexterity. “Mmm, nope.” He pops the 'p' as he says it. Maybe a good smoke would get that thought out of his head. Whatever that was. His other hand reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, fishing out a lighter. The blue flame lights the tip of the cigarette. The familiar, acrid scent fills his senses, the dim ember makes him feel oddly warm. From the corner of his chocolate eyes, he noticed Chuuya struggling with his own lighter. That old thing was clearly was out of fuel. He extends the black lighter to his cigarette, watching how it dangles idly from his mouth. “Guess you needed me anyway, huh?”

Chuuya waited for the end of the smoke stick to burn, eyes singularly focused on the light. “…Shut it.”

Dazai shrugs off the rude remark, taking a languid drag of the cigarette. A bit stronger than the ones he usually carried with him, but they hit the spot. The puff of smoke exhaled into the air curls upwards, and then fades into the glow of the green and blue signboard lights. Pretty. Fleeting. Only such a shame their youth would suffer the same fate, even if neither will realize it yet. Perhaps in Dazai’s mind, those days were already gone, for this is the last night he'll allow himself to stick to his old ways. To stick with him.

The auburn haired man seems none the wiser about his eventual departure. A good thing, for a lie is so much easier to say than the truth. It's a burden of youth to fall in pursuit of a distant, unclear dream, the promise of light; only to ignore the glow of the bridges they were burning behind them. It's foolish, Dazai knows, but it would be the only way he could bring himself to leave this teenage wastleland of theirs. To save what was remaining of this worthless life.

But what is salvation worth when compared to Nakahara Chuuya?

The small cigarette break ends far too quickly, fingers itching to light up one more, but the night wasn’t getting any younger. Neither were they getting less drunk, and if they didn’t make it home in time for the streetlights and signboards to die out for the night, it's another night falling asleep in an alley. Once Chuuya is done, he impatiently stands up once again; an extremely dumb idea. His head swirls, disoriented by the sudden movement. Instinctively his hands reach for Dazai’s shoulders, until they both stood up, looking like absolute idiots. Dazai was going to taunt him again for being a lightweight, until something caught his attention.

Tap.

The water droplet hit his head, and a quiet 'ow…’ left his pallid lips. Right. They were in the middle of rainy days. And of course the skies had to pick just the right time to cry; when they both were utterly drunk out of their minds and who knows how far from home. Two follows one, three follows two, countless does three. The downpour had begun. Chuuya let out of a groan of utter frustration, shrugging off his coat the best he could with his balance, attempting to drape it over the both of them. Their makeshift umbrella didn't do much, but it was enough for them to get home without being miserably wet. “Ugh, hold this, mummy boy.” Chuuya did not fancy being on his tiptoes for the whole journey back, and Dazai took the edges of the coat from him, holding it up over the both of them.

“Think we can make it if we run?”

“Yeah, think you can keep up?”

“Any day, slug.”

Without hesitation, they were off with their mad dash in the rain. Stumbling once or twice over the curbs, they barely managed to keep the same pace so that they could still be under the coat’s canopy. Chuuya could feel the raindrops hitting his back, and Dazai’s bandages were damp already. They didn't know when they got back to Chuuya’s place; perhaps they should have tried this earlier instead of walking around like bumbling fools all over the place. Dazai set the drenched coat down once they were in the building; gravel streaked steps to the elevator. The two were out of breath, panting, realizing a bit too late that maybe it was a little stupid of them to run off with that kind of reckless abandon when they were drunk and tired.

Once they caught their breath, the ring of the elevator bell indicated that they'd reached their floor. Now they just had to hope they had the right number. 322 — yeah, that's mine.

Chuuya fumbled with the keys in his pocket, attempting to figure out which ones worked with this lock. Vision glazed over, the ridges looked far too blurry; hands clumsily undoing the lock. One of the keys worked; fifth try was the charm. The shoes were kicked off, flying to god knows what part of the living room; the two drunken idiots stumbled in. Dazai didn't hesitate without collapsing right there on the couch, although his friend seemed to atleast have a bit more sense to get himself a glass of water. Not like it mattered that much anyway when thirty minutes afterwards they were both puking their guts out, crawling out of the bathroom like zombies from a b-rated horror film. All those shots were definitely a bad idea, and they were feeling it. If reading minds were possible, one would find that they could only think the same thing.

I’m never drinking with shitty Dazai again!

I swear, this is the last time I get drunk with that hatrack!

And it was true for it was indeed the last time they did drink together.

By quite a bit of effort, they managed to reach the couch once again. Legs over chests and arms over heads, they fit in the most uncomfortable way, but they did manage to not fall over. “Get off me, you're heavy!” Dazai whined, and in truth, he would've shoved him off if he could tell where his hands ended and where Chuuya’s began. “Shut up, I want to sleep!” Perhaps he was right for once, maybe sleep would do them well. With an annoyed grumble, his bandaged fingers settled to curl themselves into the auburn locks that tickled his neck, legs tangled on the velvet sofa. Gloved hands reach to turn the light off.

It was no easy to ignore his thoughts in the dark, not when the silence festered thoughts of his eventual departure; the uncertainty that will grip his life for the days ahead. Perhaps if it weren't for that man’s final words, the promise he drew out of Dazai, he wouldn’t be so willing to upend this life. He wouldn't have even considered saving himself.

So, when we ask once again, what is salvation worth when compared to Nakahara Chuuya?

It is worth a promise. One that must be kept.

Dazai’s mind drifts away once this resolution is made. The symphony that plays in the space between the waking and the asleep is the soft breathing of the man beside him. Focusing singularly on the nearly inaudible sound, looking at the back of his eyes, he allows himself to feel the moment for a final time before he gives away to sleep. Trace away the weave of the fabric that makes the back of his shirt, feel the soft strands that sometimes pricks skin, take note of the sleepy mumbles that leave Chuuya through his dreams. And before the subtle sensation fades, his mouth opens to form the words he feels he must say or they will rend apart his mind forever.

“...I think I’m gonna miss this.”

big into platonic pairings lately

Party mean girls shit talking everyone in elvish

Baldur's Gate fanartists will draw Astarion like a renaissance painting and Wyll like the cover of an adventure novel and Gale like a Leyendecker drawing and Karlach like the cover of a trashy romance novel (where she is the beefy hunk and her love interest is the swooning maiden) and Lae'zel like a knight in a manuscript and Shadowheart and Minthara like the cover of a lesbian pulp novel and Halsin coming out of a lake like the bear equivalent of the Birth of Venus and they're all so right

once my exams end i'm gonna brainrot over my skk AUs again and YOU 🫵 will suffer with me

however i did make a playlist for my upcoming AU because i couldn't resist </3

listen i'm brainrotting about this fyolai fic idea ive had for a while

phantom of the opera style au with cabaret star nikolai and fyodor as the spirit in his mirror that talks to him in the guise of an angel. the trail of mysterious murders and missing persons lead nikolai back to the man in the mirror whose voice he hears every night, until he gets pulled by the strange 'angel' to the other side.

ugh i need to start getting to it but EXAMS 💔💔💔 i haven't been studying for SHIT all i think about are these mf gays 💔💔💔

mojo pin ; leon s kennedy

author's note: so uhm i'm an idiot and unhealthily obsessed with this man so i wrote this thing at 4am. listened to an ungodly amount of jeff buckley. yes this is a bsd account but i do write multifandom. more in my master list (still wip fml) enjoy!!

The sensation of blood rests sticky on his fingertips. When he scrambles to wipe it, he somehow feels more dirty than before, sullying everything that receives the tainted touch. The wound of disgust that presses ever so relentlessly into his chest, the knife of shame that he twists further within him; will the pain make it right?

Every sound grows dull by the time it reaches his ears. Sharp orders and rapid gunshots melt into a common noise, a cacophony that pushes his legs to run to wherever he's instructed to, that reload another magazine into his gun. In the brief second that passes before the body hits the ground with a thud that is lost among the chaos; the act of aiming is the only one that feels conscious in the moment of concentration.

The instant where life shatters like fragile glass and feels no more consequential than a coffee cup broken on the floor. Because it's so easy to take a life, because he is supposed to do so. In the unrecognisable, necrotic bodies that dot the floor of the laboratory and paint it's white canvas with sanguine, there is nothing human. Only a decrepit shell of what could've been. The weight that sits on his chest and permeates every cavity and every vessel feels like a complete embrace. Leon is aware that it is not guilt. For guilt implies that he would do things differently if there were a choice. 

Even if he would've, nothing would have changed. It would be another man standing here, with no future left to live for and a past mired with the same familiar taint on his hands. Ultimately, there would be no difference if it were him or someone else, for there are certain things in this world that nobody wants to do but have to be done. Only the instant where the man is reduced to a vessel remains, where he is no more living than a knife or a gun. It doesn't matter if there were choices that could've set him on a different path, or if the future has chosen a better trajectory. For he's already been deconstructed into something inglorious, visceral, instinctual; the need to survive. 

It's clear, this feeling isn't quite guilt. It doesn't feel like something that evolved in him by itself, but rather was inflicted, time and time again. The sticky wound that's comforting in it's sting and warmth, for it reminds him that there is something vulnerable in him that is capable of being harmed, that there is something he has to lose. The reminder of fragile flesh is something that is entirely his. This body may never be free from harm; but the sting of it's cuts remind him that it's still his.

The moment no longer holds the same clarity as it did a few minutes back. It must be a trick of the eye that the ceiling seems to melt into the floor as he continues to run, that the world gets less clear with the growing distance. And just when he is convinced his body will finally break down and give into the sweet embrace of the cold laboratory floor, all is silenced at once.

The illusion breaks as his eyes open, and what greets him is not a laboratory covered in gore, but the pristine walls of his own room glazed in the cool tones of moonlight. A figure uncertain and blurred, something touching his face, velvet soft and barely there. Your face appears unfamiliar when veiled by the sheen of tears in his eyes, those that are still dripping without his consent. It fills him with sense of shame, not due to the act of crying—he has never felt weak for allowing himself that solace—but for getting caught. Your hazy features linger in his gaze; concerned no doubt, this is already a common occurrence for the both of you. In the soft light, you seem more like an apparition, something dreamlike. You will disappear when he wakes up from this delusion too.

Won't you?

His tears are wiped quickly, though not without thought. Leon isn't stupid enough to entirely dismiss how you treat him. There has always been uncertainty in your hands whenever you have reached out to him, vascillating between a gentle touch and a ghostlike graze; as if you don't know how to touch him. As if he was something to treat carefully, like he could break any more than he already has. You treat him like something that can be salvaged. It's not something he can understand, but he knows it everytime you touch him. Sometimes, he feels like he's sustaining off your faith alone. He resents it so much, the taste of you is bitter on his tongue and he's sure he doesn't like feeling this weak, but he needs it. He's always known that he's needed it.

His blue eyes take in the exhaustion that lingers on your own; you couldn't sleep again. You never get tired, and he can't remember the last times he's been anything but tired. He isn't surprised when you don't ask him about why he's crying, why his hands feel cold and clammy or why his heart is racing in his chest like it's begging to be set free of the mortal confine, to render itself apart from bone and flesh— you question none of it because you know as well as he does that he doesn't want to remember. 

Leon can only do what he knows best. Take your hand away from his face, press a finger to your mouth when you're about to speak. Then pull you back to bed, making you lay down once again. "Just a bad dream. Don't think about it." Doesn't bother distinguishing whether he's trying to convince you or him. After a certain point, he had accepted that it doesn't matter. Your presence felt so natural , it might as well just be his.

Your affection feels the same as the weight that compresses his chest. But yours is not the warmth of an open wound or a bitter anger. Yours is that of the hot knife that cuts the heaviness in his chest like butter. You make yourself a spot in the gallery of broken hopes and missed opportunities that he calls his heart and purify the rot within. He wishes you could depollute him entirely. Twist that hot knife in deeper so that perhaps you could kill the source of his regret too. 

But he's no longer that naive. There is no curing his disease. His regrets are not something that can be chased away by basic kindness. He's learning to live with it, and this he knows has little to do with you. He'd only ever change if he wanted to. But he can't deny how your touch makes him feel, how it eases the moral rot that clings to his hands, face, hair—wherever blood that isn't his own had touched—and takes off it's taint, even just for a moment. 

He can hear you silently complaining when you're trapped in his grip. You're being unreasonable, honestly, it's a work night and you still think it's a good idea to not get any rest? 

"Come on, just go to sleep, you know you gotta get up early tomorrow."

"I'm gonna call in sick."

"Well I'm not, so stop moving so much."

You halfheartedly joke that he's being unfair to you, and all he can do is smile faintly as he hides his bloodshot eyes in your hair. Tonight, atleast, he won't let you go till you fall asleep. Even if it means he has to listen to you make smartass comments for a few more minutes. It's worth it when you can't help but close your eyes, and he can rest too. This body will never be safe from harm, but he always knows that you won't shy away from putting back the pieces of it together. All complete with a gentle touch.

yall PLEASE give me chuuya requests (yes it says requests closed on the blog but i specifically need chuuya asks </3) soukoku, hcs or full on x reader, it doesn't matter i just wanna write more chuuya <3

this is NOT a joke i'm DESPERATE!!

updates: req are closed now for all!