I Think I Got Around Six Chuuya Requests Y Now So Requests Are Closed Again !

finally made a carrd. it works ig

chococoa

chococoa

personal carrd!!

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 💔💔💔

the day after i killed myself ; dazai osamu

trigger warnings; suicide mentions, possibly ooc dazai.

author's note; first time writing literally anything on tumblr. haven't even finished bsd, so i'm sorry if this may turn out ooc. let me know how it goes. wrote this while half asleep as fuck in a warm sunny afternoon fuckkkk

Gloveless hands anxiously wrap around one another to grasp at a warmth that isn't there. The wind leaves behind a color of life on the cheek, a little mark of the stinging night. The world had stopped moving for the time being, yet there is an impending feeling of something to come. Something will happen tonight. He just ignores the vague feeling and continues on, walking on the narrow sidewalk. The steps on the pavement and the sound of distant cars is drowned out by the music currently playing in his head, the lyrics blurring the thoughts that flit past.

Now, Dazai should've been home countless hours before. And he was, if only for a moment, but as soon as the clock had started inching into the small hours of the night, there was a growing sense of restlessness he simply couldn't live with. The smoke tinged air of the room wasn't enough, the open window overlooking the street wasn't enough, and even now on the open road there is something uneasy under his pulse begging him to run off; it isn't enough.

But he's thinking too much. The brunet is certain that this kind of mundane insanity is simply because he has nothing to do at the moment. As soon as he would find a distraction, it’ll leave again. He's realized the absence of people brings about more thoughts than his head could keep in, as if to make up for the empty space outside of his body. A small message ping distracts him from his thoughts. Kunikida’s message, an attempt to check up on him. Some were still back at the Agency, settling affairs for the next day. His partner was one of them, though he would probably complain that his perfect sleep routine was thrown all out of order. Again. The message is responded to with a click of the button, a sticker of a cat sent in response. Such boring details don't deserve any merit on a night like this.

And it was so beautiful, too! The flickering lamplight shines over the glistening asphalt, city drenched in the afterglow of an evening rain. Dazai hums the song playing in his ears. Although that doesn't ease the feeling either. He wondered what felt more wrong, the absence of feeling? Or an overwhelming amount of it? The unexplained sensation remained in the back of his mind.

Dazai often avoided reflecting about his life. Atleast, about the things that lay under the surface. When he began to revisit the past, his new life started to look like something of a shiny new veneer painted over rust. The corrosion of the soul is all that’s left, and it is still fragile. But when he thought of the present, a lingering weight would still linger there somewhere between his ribs, a sensation that felt so physical for a feeling that should only exist in his mind. Burden.

But there is a third feeling; realization. Somewhere between sleeping and waking, in the instant where the flame burns the tip of the cigarette and creates the first ember. In the times when he catches himself smiling at a joke, whether someone else's or his own, and then suddenly becomes acutely aware of this short lived happiness and at that transitional moment he's already lived through the memory of that joy.

Then, it's gone as soon as it came by.

The idea of life is something fleeting, really. He's aware of the fact that for a man that covets death so much, there always seems to be a convenient excuse for him to continue on living. This paradox isn't lost on him, and the answer is so painfully simple, he knows. But for a while, he will continue to think otherwise. If only for those fleeting moments when he could feel life through his bandage wrapped fingers, the times where he was hit by the realization of this very obvious yet forgettable fact; yes, I exist. But standing on the edge of a bridge right now, looking down at the drop; he felt far too much. Suddenly so aware, without warning, without explanation. There is something tempting about such great heights, a siren call. The distance makes one feel so painfully full and empty at the exact same time; the chill in his bones no longer a product of the weather but that of an acute awareness of distance. He reaches out with one hand as if testing, if it makes him feel any closer to being human.

For there has always been something separating him from the rest of the world. Somehow this outstretched hand feels comforting. And when the song in his ears rises to a crescendo, he cannot help but want to close that distance, unable to resist the calling of that warm void. His eyes see that the ground is empty, yet at this instant he feels realization again. An acute awareness of life. As his leg dangles over the edge, the emptiness in his hands feels like it has been replaced by something.

And when he falls, it's not with purpose, but with natural ease. Falling as one does into a comforting hug, the air that whips through the strands of chocolate brown hair chilled, chest warm as it anticipates the coming embrace of death. Just this once he does not fight, even subconsciously, the depths that his body falls into. The neon lights melt into blues, and all bleed together to form a single, comforting hue. Black. The color of the void that called his name with such affection.

The next morning at home remains uneventful. When the sun hits, the empty cigarette boxes remain on the coffee table, the ashtray that lay next to it a dry memorial of a life lived far too long. At the Agency, it is quieter than usual. A lingering feeling of emptiness takes too much space in the room, though no one knows what it is yet.

When the lifeless body washes up ashore, his lips remain curved in a certain complete happiness, as the cellphone in his hand buzzes with calls never to be answered again. Perhaps in the pain that he leaves in his wake, he'd find meaning.

the BEST ideas always come through when i'm brain rotting and half asleep

tysm for ur thoughts ily <3

dazai and akutagawa make me sick too (though i discovered today that i had food poisoning and did not, in fact, actually throw up from bsd angst)

dazai was only a couple of years older than akutagawa and simply perpetuated that cycle of violence that the world around them followed, one lost and deeply disturbed kid trying to lead another and idk that just makes it all the more sadder because the intention behind dazai's actions weren't even malicious. who is to say dazai did not wholeheartedly believe, like he did for himself, that akutagawa could find meaning in the port mafia?

dazai, who had assimilated in the darkness, who lived around blood and violence each day, how would he have taught akutagawa something other than all he's ever known in his life?

i don't know i just feel like we need more nuance in this discussion when it comes to dazai's abuse of akutagawa, which isn't to defend him at all but to realize that it was a horrible position for either of them to be in; where the blind lead the blind.

watching a tutorial on how to ride a bike just to write this fic on god the brainrot is real

is it too early to kms

also yeah he'd probably make playlists for his friends and never be able to share them and just get reminded of a friend he couldn't be with everytime he hears his songs

him and dazai probably had a shared playlist from pm days to avoid fighting over the aux too and once he left it's just nvm im gonna take myself to the psych ward

low effort hcs : what music would bsd characters listen to?

everyone puts mother mother and tnbhd in dazai playlists but i can't stop thinking about how this guy would probably love 70s city pop. likes number girl and betcover!! as well. rotates between like five songs he's just obsessed with all the time.

he also feels like the exact type of mf to listen to the smiths and now it's canon in my head. 'there's a light that never goes out' is HIS song im convinced.

akutagawa is the kind of guy who would listen to visual kei. everyday that malice mizer is not on spotify he loses it a little. would also love classic goth. bauhaus, the cure, sisters of mercy, he likes all that shit. probably started with old panic! at the disco, it's that emo -> goth pipeline fr.

in my head chuuya loves rock. likes deftones but would be put off by the screaming. probably fucks with soundgarden, maybe sonic youth, rhcp, nirvana, alice in chains, the velvet underground. it just is the vibe to me. but most of all, i think chuuya would like jazz. chet baker, coltrane, miles davis. likes physical media and would spend a bit too much on records. listens to ultraviolence on occasion, i don't make the rules.

look me in the eye and tell me ranpo wouldn't love shibuya kei. lamp, pitcher56, 800 cherries, satellite lovers, roundtable ft nino. just the sort of music i could picture him listening to. would also love bossa nova. would listen to laufey. once again, i don't make the rules.

fyodor dostoevsky listens to only three kinds of music: symphonic metal, classical music and gregorian chants. this is true and real and you should believe me without question. i think he'd like opeth quite a bit as well. fyodor is also the kind of mf who hates when people refer to baroque or romantic compositions as 'classical'. Yes, he has the eras memorized. disgustingly skilled with most instruments. heard liszt play firsthand.

Guy who is touch starved but emotionally repressed goading you into punching him for completely normal reasons

that was too real

A.F. Vandevorst installation for Arnhem Mode Biennale 2011

“A girl sleeping in a hospital bed in her A.F. Vandevorst dress. But here, the girl as well as the mattress and pillow are made out of candle wax. Once lit, what starts as a perfect image will slowly melt and perish during the biennale.”