#ahli spams bsd

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The BSD stage play is the REALEST for making Kunikida so playful and unpredictable, he’s like: “HAH I SURPRISED YOU RIGHT, DAZAI? TOTALLY SURPRISED YOU, LOOK AT YOUR FACE!!!” and then offering to hang out after work

If you watch the video, at the very end, it KILLS me when Dazai surprise melts into genuine relieved joy and laughter. Just the last picture doesn’t do it justice, god I love these two

Source

Bonus: Dazai being EXASPERATED by KUNIKIDA

Source

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Guys is fyozai dead or something why can’t I find new content in like any platform

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Rewatched that amazing scene where Dazai and Kunikida lock eyes with each other and then dash to opposite sides across the room . GOD I love them GOD I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!! I wish there were seasons of them solving mysteries together

ARENT THEY JUST SO

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WHATEVER YOU SAY BEAUTIFUL!!!

Bsd 120 raws

Fyodor’s little stretch…!

My thoughts? Honestly, it’s a bit of a nothing chapter (I say as I don’t know what any of the dialogue is but I know it’s just going to be Fyodor explaining more space-dimensional bullshit manga logic). It is exciting to have Fukuzawa face off against Fyodor, but Asagiri pulls this SO often man, where it’s like “A new challenger enters the ring” every chapter and multiple times per fight.

And this fight really should’ve been Akutagawa’s time to shine. I know he’s going to get back up, but man.

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Toska

Pairing: Fyodor Dostoevsky x Dazai Osamu

Content warnings: non-sexual choking, non-sexual nudity, non-consensual touching, references to suicide and sh, implied unrequited relationship, unhealthy relationships

Excerpt: “Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache.”

Fyodor is, upon close observation, a quite ugly man.

He is all misshapen joints, scabbed fingers, and sunken eyes. His eyelids strain to even blink, the skin stretched thin as paper.

Fyodor Dostoevsky is only pretty from certain angles, where light hits his jawline but shadows the rest of his body, and he is made briefly, into a painting. The picture of a corpse that hasn’t been told to decay. Dazai happily marks it with cigarette butts.

“I love you,” Fyodor says on one such afternoon.

Dazai says, “I know,” as he retches into his one-room, no-door bathroom. It’s ergonomic; Fyodor will immediately know whether or not he will have to drag Dazai out of the tub whenever he visits.

“I love you,” he presses, experimentally bold, the sharp edge of his mind heat-dulled. His tongue is heavy and stupid. “And if you knew how to…” Would you choose me?

Laughing through gagging, or gagging through laughing, Dazai says, “what?” but the lilt follows the Japanese “no.”

Fyodor lies back down, sweating in a pile of blankets, cold. “Then who else?” He grits through perfectly closed teeth.

“Nobody,” and even that word is in the cadence of another’s name as Dazai spits another lie into the sink. “If I could, it might be you.”

Fyodor back sticks to the sheets. He is downing in cold liquid as he says lightly, “don’t play this game with me, Osamu.”

“There’s no games! Now, now, don’t be so angry,” he’s right, Fyodor is so angry his corpse might rot awake, “you wouldn’t want my love anyways—“

Dazai leans into to kiss him, unrinsed mouth and all, “—because then, I wouldn’t be here.”

Fyodor pushes his face away, cringing. The unspoken question that succeeds that statement was already answered the moment they met. Fyodor knows this. Hurt pulses out of from his fingertips, spreads up his cigarette-marked elbows and urge him to move. His parietal lobe is numb. The weekend is at least five-eighths ruined; Fyodor will likely find a back alley junkie closet to mope within for the next week.

He shoves the blankets off, moves to get away until Dazai circles around him like a traitorous snake. “Fyo—Fed…Fedya,” he can’t even come up with his own nicknames, “stay, I have enough booze to last us two days.”

Dazai says it clumsily, medicated, with his arms loose and caging around Fyodor’s scrapyard body—Fyodor would pull them off now—useless crab arms. Peel the bandages off and eat them.

“Let go.” He pushes, and then when that doesn’t work, he pulls. Fyodor doesn’t have the mind to be dangerous at this moment, only the heart to be. He wants to find a safe place to rot.

(There are no safe places for him. Fyodor made sure of that, hundreds of nights and bodies ago.)

“No,” Dazai squeezes, and Fyodor’s body is even colder. “What did I say? What did I do?”

He does not want to be near Dazai right now, with all of his cat-like confusion and innuendos and riddles, despite it Fyodor habitually being able to return that sort of play. This afternoon, his brain is a fog and his heart has a traitorous homesickness—disaster looms.

“I want to go home.” He says flatly.

“What home?” Dazai asks. Fyodor should bite Dazai’s tongue out.

Fyodor’s hands roam up and down the highways of Dazai’s thighs. They are marked up—used—maybe a lamb or two has lost its way along his roads.

“I’ll bite your tongue out if you kiss me with vomit still in your mouth.” It’s a half truth, half lie. He would bite Dazai’s tongue out; truth. He wouldn’t kiss Dazai if he tasted like vomit; lie.

Dazai sticks his tongue out at him and digs his prettily manicured nails into Fyodor’s chest.

He wants Dazai in wholes disguised as halves, and Dazai wants Fyodor in halves that are halves. Throughout their time in each other’s sphere, Dazai had never lead him to believe anything else.

He didn’t have to.Traitorous inner voice. Fyodor’s hands ache; from his palms to his fingers, he bleeds hurt.

Where would Fyodor go from here? No really, where(what) does Fyodor even have? In his current rotation, he has an apartment complex in Bangladesh, a prison cot in Russia, his working office at [redacted], Dazai’s old shipping container here, in Japan—Fyodor wants to choke the leech of interest that immediately latches onto the thought of anything “Dazai’s”—What about staying at Nikolai’s? Sigma? …Bram? ……Fukuchi?

With each name that flits by his heat-addled mind Fyodor only further curdles with desperation-hate. Hate-desperation. He curls into his own body protectively, still in Dazai’s arms, and he can’t even pretend that he isn’t cold.

No where to go but through, then.

Fyodor finds where lines map Dazai’s wrist and squeezes. Dazai hisses, flinching backward as Fyodor twists. He puts both hands Dazai’s ribs, as if he can further cave them inwards, pushing him flat on the bed.

Fyodor is straddling on him, stark naked and flaccid, pallid and skintight, ugly the way a horror movie is under good lighting with his fingers around his victim’s throat. Dazai in beneath him, panting, thin and soft—godless curls spread out like dozens of cut brown wings. Skin gold lined enough to make a devil weep.

Dazai calls him “pretty,” in between his garbled choking and Fyodor almost wants to thumb his eyes for lying to him again. He doesn’t.

Fyodor enjoys choking Dazai less only because he knows Dazai will always enjoy it more. This time, he feels nothing at all.

Dazai’s arms frantically scrabble against grip, survival instinct kicking into overdrive as his nails rake against Fyodor’s wrists. Fyodor watches, as he has done dozens of times, the moment that light reappears within Dazai’s hole-dark voids seconds before he goes unconscious.

Dazai paws at him, whimpering quietly as his eyelids flicker dreamily. He is the picture of a perfect victim; an orphic martyr for himself. Petulantly, Fyodor releases him.

Sputtering, Dazai curls, staining the bed with spittle. He heaves as if to gag again, but swallows hard, turning to Fyodor unhappily, “what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You held on longer last time.”

Fyodor moves to snag a blanket off the bed, cover his own body, and grasp around the floor for his clothes.

“Why are you angry at me?” Dazai repeats from the bed, new bruise marks adorning his neck with an objective kind of beauty. Dazai, unable to ever live and let lie when the situation ever actually calls him to, says, “I like you, isn’t that enough?”

Fyodor cannot help the way he shivers, made stupid by the heat and the cold, the yesses and nos, and the man who may be the only one who will vaguely remember him if he fails. When he succeeds. He won’t fail.

Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache. He needs to trade out this body soon.

“I’m leaving. Do whatever you please with my phone.”

He wants to pray. To lick his wounds in dignity. Dazai can be tortured another day, when Fyodor does not feel like he might give up everything for the proximity of another body.

He tugs his shirt on, staggering to his feet but Dazai, Dazai will not let him go, Dazai yanks his arm with enough force to dislocate and they fall in a heap. Dazai will push him away when Fyodor wants him and pull him close when all Fyodor wants is absolution; he keeps—digging up Fyodor’s corpse to ogle, prodding at the cockroaches in his mouth and peeling his skin like dried dates—neither the man nor the though of the man will let Fyodor go, and now, ever since the day that Dazai’s criminal profile burrowed a home in his skull, Fyodor’s isolation has become unbearable.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He rasps.

“You wanted it,” Dazai says, in response to something else entirely. “You don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Not after everything you’ve done.”

“I never wanted you.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Laughing as if he isn’t a punishment, his fingers rake Fyodor’s hair taking clumps of strands with it. Dazai is the Yama to his Christ. The idea of finding divinity in the mundane is far too trite of a trope these days.

“Do you,” but Fyodor still licks his lips. Dazai’s gravity makes him a fool. “Do you really think that I’m—”

Dazai leans down and kisses the crown of his head as if he is a child. Or, maybe, one of his horrible high school flings.

He pities the corpse in Dazai’s grasp. It is shaking and whimpering, and it is surely not Fyodor.

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I never thought someone could rival my love for Alaruya as a fyozai fic writer but valleykey. MAN . Valleykey.

I just got done finished Emergency Number last night . And . Ah

For the past three years, I’ve been so, absolutely, completely confident in that my ideal Fyozai dynamic is screwed up, unhealthy, and most importantly of all, unrequited.

You know when?? You read such a good fic that it shelves itself in a compartment of your brain that recognizes what’s canon and what’s not?? They write SUCH good requited Fyozai it’s being shelved right next to the part of my brain that says ‘Dazai does not give a single emotional damn about Fyodor.’

No, but actually, I wanted to gush about Valleykey’s nikolai!!! Came for the ship, stayed for the clown, because I loved this shit-eater in Emergency Number so much.

I’ve been wanting to love Nikolai for weeks now, and I am very happy to say that I do love him and I can articulate why, because of Valleykey’s great writing. Besides the point that he’s not dumbed down to a rival, Nikolai is careful in his carelessness and ‘wears a mask of his true face on top of his true face’ as paraphrased by the way Valleykey describes it.

Nikolai is only pretending at insanity and frivolousness, and while he is definitely mentally ill in one way or another, he is so deeply empathetic. He cares, and actively tries to act against that feeling for his own autonomy. I feel like I finally understand that side of him much more! It was great feeling like I had an extended character study through fanfiction of this very interesting but underused manga panel.

I forget!! He’s like an extra fucked up Will Graham.

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BSD 120 DROPS IN 12 HOURS GUYS GALS FOLKS!!!!!

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I wrote a short little piece on Kunikida and Fyodor’s possible dynamic if Fyodor were to ever join the agency, and it was cute, but I didn’t post it because the themes and dialogue was all over the place.

I’m going to start from the bottom up, breaking down both of their flaws and strengths and thinking about where they both intersect and contrast each other, before I get to rewriting it.

Yes, Dazai is Fyodor’s near perfect foil but. Have you all considered the exceptional foil that Kunikida would be for fyodor?

Fyodor, like the azure king, is a great example of who Kunikida could become if his ideals were irrevocably broken; I could absolutely imagine a world where Kunikida used his own extremist principles to not only control his but also others lives.

Kunikida, like Dazai, represents the humanity that Fyodor sorely lacks and proves the inherent failure and hypocrisy in Fyodor’s isolation and theory-addled mind; I could imagine a world where Fyodor was on the side of good, having been surrounded by all of the positive things humanity + abilities can do.

In conjunction to these contrasts, they’re both governed by their inflexible ideals and have an all-or-nothing relationship with perfection.

One thing I really want to explore with this piece is the idea that Fyodor is highly empathetic, whereas Kunikida is not vs. the idea that Kunikida is highly sympathetic, whereas Fyodor is not.

I haven’t ever agreed with the idea that Fyodor is unempathetic, ever. A complete lack of empathy would suggest that Fyodor doesn’t understand other’s emotions, because he absolutely does, which is why he’s such a good manipulator. (He mostly doesn’t share other’s emotions, however, so the better term for what Fyodor has might be emotional intelligence?)

Whereas Kunikida lacks a bit of emotional intelligence(therefore lacking the ability to perfectly understand others emotions; therefore lacking empathy), but feels so much compassion and sympathy for others. I feel like people get on Kunikida’s ass so much for being short-tempered with Dazai, when really it’s a combination of Kunikida’s emotional callousness, and Dazai being really aloof and instigating. Kunikida loves his coworkers so much. He may not understand them intuitively, but Kunikida would sacrifice everything if only to save Dazai and everyone in the ADA if he had to.

I want to pit Kunikida and Fyodor against each other and watch debree fly as Fyodor constantly psychoanalyzes Kunikida and exploits his insecurities while Kunikida disarms Fyodor with his brutally honest jabs and unwavering kindness.

(Neither would fold to each other—it’d be a situation where Fyodor is constantly clocking Kunikida only for Kunikida to get more and more hurt and angry until he leaves—dumps home made food on Fyodor’s doorstep, immediately clocks fyodor harder than the former has throughout the entire conversation, and leaves to let fyodor deal with those revelations.)

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Thinking about Dazai in this art piece but specifically the ghost of canon!Dazai hovering over Oda’s gun paired with the text written in the background: “I am atoning. This is fine. Oh, I can only atone for my sins in a book. My only salvation…”

You could either interpret this at beast!Dazai speaking or canon!Dazai speaking, but I choose to interpret this as beast!Dazai lamenting the fact that he will only ever live to see a brighter future in a book he read about himself. A fictional story. Another universe.

Something I about a lot is that beast!Dazai saw everything. I don’t only mean that he saw Oda’s deaths in thousands of universes, I mean that he also saw him himself, Dazai Osamu, living as a happier and more whole version of himself—canon!Dazai eventually becomes someone who saves the orphans, gains deeply caring friends, and someone who uses his intelligence to help hundreds rather than harm.

But to beast!Dazai, that’s all that it is. Was. A distant fulfillment of a fictional character in a book. A book which he metaphorically could not finish became stuck on the page with Oda Sakunosuke’s name. In his obsession the prolong the brief happiness Oda provided to his younger self, Beast!dazai threw away his potential to have canon!Dazai’s future. He threw away his own happy ending.

By the time Beast’s storyline begins, it’s already too late for him. He had already gone too far, hurt too many people, risen too high in the port mafia to be the same man who joined the detective agency to better himself. To be the boy who Oda would’ve wanted to be friends with in the beginning.

Have you all seen that trope where the innocent past version of a character runs past the current version of a character? I instead propose the current version of a character watching as the person they could’ve been walk away from them.

Beast!Dazai only atones inside of a book he reads once. Potential futures and fiction; is there really that big of a difference? He closes it, smiles at his not-friend, only-friend, first-friend, and falls.

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I think it’s weird that even though Dazai and fyodor are my favorite characters I like. Really resonate the with Nikolai on a ideological level

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SOMEBODY ANYBODY WHO CAN I PAY TO MAKE THIS SONG INTO A FYODOR EDIT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!!!!

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Oh this is SO annoying my review for 120 just got ate up my tumblr

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Felt a little silly . My fyozai kid comic wip has over 11 pages somehow featuring NO Dazai or fyodor directly

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Thinking about how alaruya’s fyozai fic, residue, made me feel SO seen in terms of Fyodor’s surreal hallucinatory visions that would, at random points, appear while he laying in bed, working, or generally doing random things and Fyodor just. Not reacting to it most of the time until he does.

To this day, I still have no idea what exactly caused those unbearable intrusive thoughts and visions I used to have (Ive always attributed it to stress and sleeping on the couch?) and I’ve never really been able to talk about just how casually terrifying it is.

I will never ever shut up about residue; even today, the derealizing atmosphere of this fic is still so relatable to me

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Nothing much to post today but happy birthday both bsd and irl fyodor!!!

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I would like you to know that this is AWESOME

so im a sucker for tropes that humanize larger than life characters . Sue me!!

I know that the final showdown is about 99% almost completely canonically going to be between Atsushi and Akutagawa vs Fyodor but imagine . If u will:

Dazai and Fyodor having a Fucking Fist Fight

In this scenario:

Amenogozen is dead or occupied

Dazai is more injured and exhausted than Fyodor is.

Its destruction all around, smoke in the air, craters of stone in the ground—two men standing amongst a ruined battlefield. Dazai and Fyodor, face to face amongst the blood, sweat, and ruin that Fyodor had said he would always be above in mersault.

There’s a gun in between them, nestled in the dirt. There are no more pawns on the table, only two kings staring each other down on a wasteland checkboard. Dazai’s leg is broken. Fyodor is breathing hard.

Dazai lunges for the gun at the same time Fyodor does—in a mad scramble, he kicks out Dazai’s bad leg—Dazai screams in agony as Fyodor pins him down. The gun is kicked several feet out of reach.

But Fyodor is physically weak. The only reason why Dazai hasn’t already knocked him out cold is because of his broken leg.

Dazai elbows Fyodor in the chest so hard he breaks a rib. Fyodor chokes, his chest knocked free of air and ringing with pain as he tries to see Dazai through his rapidly blurring eyes.

He was flipped over in the scuffle, but Fyodor reaches down and grabs Dazai’s leg and digs his fingers to where he thinks the bones separate and presses. Dazai is so blinded by pain, he briefly lets go as Fyodor punches him in the face.

Dazai’s nose is bleeding, but Fyodor doesn’t have time to appreciate it as he pushes Dazai off—flips them over again—he is straddling Dazai with his weight on the former’s broken leg. His hands seize Dazai’s neck and grips with all his might.

Dazai’s hands claw at his face animalistically, scrabbling for purchase on Fyodor’s hair, eyes, anything. His eyes meet Fyodor’s—both of their swirling pairs of darkness are finally awake, alive, burning—and oh, this is what Dazai had meant, hadn’t he? In the silence of Dazai’s strangled wheezes and his nails dragging up dust, Fyodor realizes: this is what it means to be alive.

Dazai spits into Fyodor’s face. He lets go reflexively, yelping with disgust as blood-spit blinds him, while Dazai is gasping as he crawls for the gun; he’s halfway there before Fyodor blindly grabs one of Dazai’s legs. But it’s not the broken one—Dazai pivots his ankle and stomps with all of his might as Fyodor screams because several of his fingers as broken.

Dazai’s hand finds the gun.