#bwuh answers

[guhbwuh]

Just wanted to let you know I'm absolutely obsessed with your art it's fantastic

TY 🥹❤️ that’s so kind ahhhhhh

[elderwisp]

me when i see everyone’s hot masc simbs:

[shadowlinktheshadow]

bro woke up and chose violence

[sangfielle]

apparently im not actually that good at sleeping without holding onto a motherfucker

[osaka-lilac]

hi allie smash or pass joey logano ily brother

ily too brother

tbh after his fight last night i would so smash and smoosh him into a fine paste

[1980ssunflower]

RHYME EASY 1 YEAR WEDDING ANNIVERSARY TOMORROW!!!!!!

[gildead]

so i know i said i would never address the events surrounding [REDACTED] on this blog. and i still won't. i want to make something clear though, because of the chatter regarding villain muses.

team rocket, logistically speaking, probably had nothing to do with gold's death. i'll explain my reasoning under the cut.

imagine, if you will, that you are giovanni. while you once were the most powerful man in kanto, what with being the strongest gym leader AND the head honcho of team rocket, you have fallen from grace because your criminal dealings have come to light thanks to a smartass kid. you're a smart man, however. you lay low, leave the region for a while. even when your admins try to hold up a radio tower to call you back, you hang back - partially because you're ashamed of yourself, but also because they got THEIR asses beaten by a second smartass kid and frankly it's embarrassing it's happened twice.

now, suppose. you're licking your wounds in unova, having a drink at your favorite hole-in-the-wall. the news flickers on. a horrified reporter reads that the mutilated body of a young child has been found in the johto region.

they put up a picture of the boy. you recognize him. he's the one from the radio tower. the one who stopped your team's revival.

now. pay close attention because this part is crucial. who do you think they're going to start investigating first.

because that's not just a normal boy. that's the boy who beat red, the first smartass kid, on mount silver. the boy who earned sixteen badges and the respect of two pokémon leagues, which house in no particular order: a war veteran, two different ninjas, multiple strongmen, a powerful psychic, BLUE MOTHERFUCKING OAK, and two highly powerful dragon trainers from a long line of dragon trainers.

one of which who helped this boy strongarm his way into your base and is THE FORMER CHAMPION.

SERIOUSLY, YOU THINK THE INTERNATIONAL POLICE IS BAD? HAVE YOU SEEN LANCE AND HIS FIFTY MILLION DRAGONITE? THE MAN BLASTED A HOLE INTO YOUR BASE'S ENTRY, AND THAT'S JUST WHEN YOUR ORGANIZATION WAS ABUSING AND TRAFFICKING POKEMON. WHAT DO YOU THINK HE'S GONNA DO TO A GODDAMN CHILD MURDERER, HUH. SPOILER ALERT, IT WILL BE MUCH WORSE.

ahem.

you get what i'm saying though? ordering the violent murder of the kid who beat you the second time around in such a gratuitous manner is a bad move for the guy trying to stay away from the public spotlight, especially after his organization got exposed TWICE. and especially when nothing's been done to red. it's inconsistent, and i'm pretty sure gio HAS some kind of ethical code. even if it's a criminal one.

also gold was friends with his son so was he REALLY that bad a kid?

'but vetra, the executives-' up the shut. doggedly loyal to giovanni as they may be, they are not stupid. archer literally took the L with grace upon getting his butt whooped.

if it was a murder, team rocket would probably have a VESTED INTEREST in bringing said murderer to justice. granted, it's team rocket, so it's probably fucked up mob justice. but that's what happens when you encroach on their turf i guess.

[smokedbeans]

Cream and Emma !!

sonic and ai would be bestiesss I can stop thinking about them, the way theyd hype each other up

[mas-o-kissed]

(FROM THE IMPCO ARCHIVES, IT’S PART 1 OF AN EPISODE OF BRAINDRAIN.

CW: hypnotic intox, dubcon hypno, public humiliation, kidnapping)

It’s the middle of the night, and your television flickers. There’s a static haze, a soft droning. As the picture comes into focus, a jaunty, old fashioned tune plays over the title card:

BRAINDRAIN

with Imp

Camera slowly zooms in on a small, effeminate man, grinning at the camera. A lower third tells you that his name is Imp. The image is hazy, as if it’s an old broadcast, but you could swear he has horns and a devil’s tail. Are those fangs? What is this show?

“Good evening, Impsomniacs! It’s 3 o’clock, and you know what that means. It’s time for your favorite game show: BRAINDRAIN.”

The camera follows as Imp walks across the set.

“Now, I’ve been hosting this show for many years. It’s been so long, we don’t even remember that far back! The before times, the long long ago, it all fades into nothing, like a dark void at the center of my mind, and no matter how hard I try to remember, it’s like we’re filled with this emptiness. It’s frightening, but it’s exciting at the same time. Like, what even is hiding in that dark space? Is it better if we never find out? This guy knows what I’m talking about!”

Imp points lightheartedly at an audience member, who appears to be asleep. AUDIENCE LAUGHS.

“HA! Haha. Yes.” (Stage whisper, into his headset) “Get that guy out of here. He’s too far gone to laugh at any of my jokes.”

The audience member is swiftly carted away.

“We have a very special player on our show tonight. You might recognize him from such places as snooping around Impco at 6am, or the holding room where we keep all of our prisoner— I mean contestants.”

Curtains move aside to reveal a man chained to a podium by his neck and hands. There is a gag in his mouth. He struggles against the binding. The messy scrawl on his name card says: “POSTMAN (ALLEGEDLY)”

“Usually I’m not up so early in the morning, but today I was woken up by a terrible horn-ache, and that’s when I found contestant number one poking around the facility. What do you have to say for yourself, contestant?”

Imp removes the gag from the man’s mouth.

“I was delivering a package, you lunatic!”

“Oh? Really? And what was in this package?”

“That tie! You’re wearing it right now!”

Imp looks down at the tie around his neck.

“HA! Hahaha! Oh darling, I sure wish I believed you. But you see, we’ve already downloaded dozens of fun triggers directly into your brain. It would be such a shame to waste them. Not only that, but our audience is just aching to see what’s going to happen to you. They’re ravenous. Like dogs. Isn’t that right, folks?”

APPLAUSE AND BARKING.

The man continues to struggle.

“Now, I think we all know the rules by now, but because I’m so nice, I’ll explain how the game is played.

I spin the wheel of post-hypnotic suggestions (we’re still coming up with a snappier name for it).

Whatever it lands on is the trigger I’ll use before I ask you a question.

Will you have to answer a complicated math problem after having your IQ reduced by 30 points? Will I make you into my puppet and then ask you to grab something just out of reach? Will it be a mysterious third thing?

You don’t know! And neither do I! That’s what makes the game so fun. Are you ready to play, Luke?”

“Let me go! M-my name’s not even Luke. It’s Daniel.”

“GREAT! Time to spin the wheel of post-hypnotic suggestions. Ooooooh!”

Imp spins the large, multicolored wheel. In each color is a different image, indicating a different trigger. As the wheel spins, Imp’s eyelids start fluttering. He watches it, half-lidded, a blank look on his face. The wheel has stopped spinning. Five seconds pass. An Imptern in a black t-shirt and headset rushes onto the stage. She snaps her fingers in front of Imp’s face.

“Bwuh.. wha..?”

She hurriedly whispers, “Sir, you know you’re not supposed to look directly at the wheel.”

“It’s my show. I can look wherever I want.”

“You were just zoning out, again!”

“You know I can’t be effected by hypnosis, doll. Now, get off the stage, I’m trying to do a show.”

She rushes off. TEPID AUDIENCE LAUGHTER. Imp gestures to the wheel, which has landed on a drawing of a bottle.

“Oh, a classic! Are you ready for the trigger, darling?”

“P-please don’t, I-I…”

“Hmm, stuttering and slurring like that. Oh dear… How much have you had to drink?”

The contestant’s eyelids flutter. He looks confused. His cheeks flush.

“Whas… happening?”

“You heard me. How much have you had to drink?”

“I’ve haven’t had… anything. I… I feel…”

The contestant giggles, clearly drunk. AUDIENCE LAUGHS.

“Uh oh, I think he’s had a bit too much.”

“I don… nunderstand. I didn’t think it wass real but I ffeel…”

“Didn’t think what was real? Hypnosis? Brainwashing? If that was true, we’d all be out of the job! HA! Ohh, you poor thing, you look like you’re going to be sick. Are you ready for your test, darling?”

“Fffuck.”

“No swearing dear, we’re on LIVE TV! Considering your pitiful state, I’ll keep it simple. Your question is: If one doctor doctors another doctor, does the doctor who doctors the doctor doctor the doctor the way the doctor he is doctoring doctors? Or does he doctor the doctor the way the doctor who doctors doctors?

“I… wh… what?”

“I’m sorry, that’s wrong. I don’t know what the answer is, but I know that that’s definitely not it.”

“Youu asked me a trick queshtion! Ompurpose! How’m I supposed to answer something like… that…? Shit… the room wontstop spinn..ninng…”

“Easy there, tiger. It’s time for a quick commercial break, but don’t you fret. We’ll be back to seal our dear contestant’s fate after this! (BUY IMPCO PRODUCTS!)”

There’s a commercial for Impco brand hypno-goggles. You’re not sure what hypno-goggles are, or what you’re even watching. But that Imp seems so nice. And he said to buy Impco products. So maybe you should…

(Decided to break this up with the commercials since it’s long but part 2 is coming soon! When I post it I will link it here.)

[taxiderby]

Whenever someone says they’re a big fan of my work or that it’s an inspiration I’m like?? Huh???? Bwuh?!?! I am just a little guy who draws funny animal people. What ingredience are you gettin from me that you aren’t getting enough of elsewhere?? What is that secret spice!?!?!?? And HOW can I harness it for evil

edit: No. You fools. What's the appeal! Tell me! I don't need PRAISE I need ANSWERS

[jinko-hellhound]

“over and over, all born into great pain” — bungou stray dogs — chuuya, atsushi, dazai

“Atsushi appears on Chuuya’s doorstep covered in blood and full of drugs. Dazai, despite not being present, dutifully haunts the narrative. or: Strangers who’ve been shaped by the same person. or or: 4,000-ish words of musing and vibes and no plot.” — posted for @dazaibirthdayweek2024 !

words: 3,925

first published: 6/18/2024

characters: dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, nakajima atsushi

relationships: nakahara chuuya & nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu & nakajima atsushi, nakahara chuuya/dazai osamu

tags: mild hurt/comfort, light angst, introspection, no plot/plotless, implied/reference drug use, non-consensual drug use (off-screen), mild gore, tiger nakajima atsushi, implied/referenced cannibalism (crazy), caring nakahara chuuya

crossposted on ao3

Dazai’s stupid kid is crumpled on Chuuya’s doorstep.

Chuuya had wanted to head down to the liquor store. Instead, his boots hit boy as soon as he stepped out the door. Fucking Dazai, Chuuya thinks, because it must be Dazai’s fault.

Chuuya sighs. He turns back to his empty penthouse, as though expecting Dazai to pop out from behind his couch and shout surprise! then announce to him some stupid plan that absolutely necessitates the weretiger bleeding out in the hall.

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says. The weretiger gives a noncommittal grunt. Copper is already filling the air and seeping into the carpet from a wound that must be in the kid’s torso, way he’s doubled over it. God, the stain in the carpet. Chuuya should just get the carpet ripped out, with how often he has to call the cleaners. Doesn’t the kid have superhuman healing? Chuuya squints. Shouldn’t he be healed already?

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says again. The kid’s shoulder shifts a centimeter and that’s about all the response he gets. Well, okay. Questions later. First things first — the weretiger rises into the air and floats into the middle of the living room. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t seem to register the red glow around him.

“Bwuh,” the weretiger says. A conveniently stashed sheet of plastic (this is not Chuuya’s first rodeo) lifts up and settles over the couch cushions. The weretiger follows. “Bwuuuhhgggg,” he says smartly into the plastic. His left arm is a long pale line hanging off the couch, which Chuuya’s black Maine-coon is already clawing at. The weretiger seems unperturbed by this.

“Uh-huh.” The first aid kit deposits itself into his hands as he strides over to the couch. “Lemme see that wound.”

Except there’s nothing to see. Under the ripped up shirt and all the clotting blood and bits of loose flesh, it’s just smooth skin. So his ability has done its work, if belatedly. Some of this blood is only a few minutes old. It healed fast, but not as fast as it ought’ve. But the weretiger is still acting all loopy, whimpering like something hurts. Just blood loss? That doesn’t feel right.

Chuuya sits himself on his coffee table, knees bumping the couch. “What’s your name again?” It’s somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he ever hears is Akutugawa’s jinkos.

“Naka…” the weretiger starts, then seems to forget he was saying anything. He turns to the cat as though he only just realized she was drawing tracks down his arm, and coos, scratching at her chin. His pupils are huge. Ah, that’s one question answered at least. A hard drug hindered his healing — and it would have disoriented him enough to panic, go out searching for help. Now the question was what drug, why, and how the fuck did his mind, even drug-addled, end up at Chuuya?

“Naka…” Chuuya echoes, scratching his chin. He really should know this, considering the scuffles and the bounty and the general hot topic the boy was around the Port Mafia. The weretiger does not provide any more help. He is entirely caught up with the cat. Now fully turned onto his side, the weretiger has both hands around the cat’s face, scratching dutifully under both her ears. She purrs like a motorboat.

“Hello,” he says reverently. Big-eyed, he tilts forward until he and the cat can touch noses. When he smiles Chuuya catches braces and grimaces. “Hello, hello, meow.”

“Mrow,” the cat offers.

“Nakajima!” Chuuya finally settles on, triumphant. Nakajima looks up at him fully for the first time, grinning with a Dazai-like edge. Well — tree, apple, falling, etc. Chuuya supposes he’s not so much grinning like Dazai as he is grinning like someone high on nebulous hard drugs, which Dazai often is.

“What’s her name?” Nakajima asks, glossy eyes settling somewhere on Chuuya’s chin.

“Pingus,” Chuuya says, and Nakajima dissolves into giggle fits. He rolls over, pushing himself into the back of the couch, giggling so hard his feet kick out. Pingus, scandalized, climbs onto the couch and begins kneading at Atsushi’s side, trying to force her head under his hands. “What!” Chuuya says, even though he’s listened to a hundred people laugh at his cat’s name before. “It’s a fine Spanish wine, Nakajima, does your idiot mentor teach you anything—”

Nakajima’s laughter stops abruptly. Everything about him stops abruptly. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and Chuuya realizes he hates the sight of him — collapsed on Chuuya’s fine couch, which he’d bought with blood money; white hair and moonlight skin and tatters of a white shirt, all matted and sticky with his own blood, bits of flesh trailing down his stomach. He’s got, Chuuya realizes, red smears all over his chin, his neck, and if he opened his mouth a little wider it might be on his teeth, too. Chuuya had always thought the kid sweet, a bit naive, earnest and reckless. Akutugawa had called him a stupid dog. He wonders about the man-eating tiger stories; wonders what Dazai saw in him in the first place that he thought would make a good partner for Akutugawa. He wonders what Dazai’s taught the kid - what he’s nurtured in him.

“Dazai,” Nakajima says, just as reverential as when he’d been speaking to Pingus. “Dazai told me to come here.” Out of his front pocket, he pulls a crumpled, slightly damp piece of notebook paper and holds it out to Chuuya. He grins big, proud of himself.

A safe place in case of emergency! :D It reads, in Dazai’s stupid messy scrawl. Chuuya will be kind and keep Atsushi for a bit. Tell Chuuya Dazai sent you!

Below these instructions are Chuuya’s address, his phone number (Jesus, Dazai, Chuuya thinks — might as well start plastering Chuuya’s face all over Main Street), and, of course, nothing directed at Chuuya.

Chuuya sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Fucking Dazai — what was he thinking, sending Nakajima his way? Did he tell his whole gaggle of do-gooders Chuuya’s place was a safehouse? And why the hell would he send Nakajima straight into the Mafia’s hands?

(Unless, of course, he believed Chuuya would decline to tell the Mafia about this at all. It was a big risk, believing that.)

“So.” Chuuya leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He studies Nakajima, whose chest is heaving, every breath coming with a hint of a wheeze. Did he overdose? Chuuya taps his foot, considering — he has aspirin in his first-aid kit. Narcan too. “What happened, huh? Too much catnip?”

Nakajima grins lazily (yes, he was right — blood and braces), head lolling against the couch. His arm is limp when Chuuya picks it up, presses two fingers to the pulse point at the inside of his elbow. Nakajima’s offering way too much trust, either because of the drugs or Dazai — Chuuya could stop his blood from flowing at all, if he wanted to. But Dazai would shoot him in the temple, probably.

“I dunno,” Nakajima slurs. His mental condition is definitely unnerving, but at least his pulse feels fine, and his skin isn’t clammy.

Chuuya pinches his inner arm and Nakajima yelps, jolting — his arm becomes monstrous and heavy. Chuuya stares at it, considering the length of its claws. Man-eater, he thinks.

“Huh,” Chuuya says. Then: “Wake up, kid. Tell me what happened.”

“Um.” Pingus is rubbing her face all over Nakajima’s jaw. A deep purr rumbles in Nakajima’s chest to match Pingus’s, which Chuuya is only mildly surprised by. There’s some semblance of awareness in Nakajima’s eyes that Chuuya thinks is due to Pingus’s bothering. She’ll get extra fish with her dinner, as a reward. “Dazai and I were undercover…” Nakajima’s eyes roam the ceiling, running his (both now human, thank God) bony hands up and down Pingus’s back. “Undercover, and… Dazai told me to leave — really fast.”

“Why?”

Nakajima looks frustrated, and Chuuya understands. With a mind addled like his is, it can be hard to put words to things even if you know exactly what you’re trying to explain. But if there’s trouble, there’s no time to wait for Nakajima to sober up.

“Because…” Nakajima says, “He said we were drugged… we were at this fancy party, and I started feeling funny, and Dazai said, go to the Agency, but the Agency was far away… I left him there…” Nakajima jumps up, suddenly, throwing a yowling Pingus off his chest. White knuckling the back of the couch, Nakajima shouts, “Dazai’s in trouble!”

“Calm down.” Chuuya considers reaching out, pushing Nakajima back down onto the couch. That probably wouldn’t go well. “You know Dazai’s fine.” Fine was maybe a strong word, but alive was a fact that seemed to stay true no matter what. “I need more from you. How’d you get injured?”

Nakajima blinks at him. “Injured?”

“Injured,” Chuuya reiterates, pointing at the chunk of yellow fat smeared across Nakijma’s stomach. What a fucking sight. All the hallmarks of a corpse on his couch, except the actual injury.

“Oh,” Nakajima says, squinting down at his own blood. He sort-of snarls as he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, like he just realized the blood on it. “I don’t — remember? I think someone tried to stop me leaving…”

Chuuya puts the images together. Thinks it through — Nakajima and Dazai, both of them completely out of place in some party full of cocktail dresses and tiny sausages. The drugging had to be well hidden for Dazai not to notice, but he would have known the second it slid down his throat. He imagines Dazai’s panicked face — the one no one else ever notices except Chuuya, who is very well attuned to the tiniest twitches of Dazai’s eyebrows — imagines him calculating exactly how many minutes him and Nakajima had, making an estimated guess based on Nakajima’s size and ability and how much he’d unknowingly chugged, and then deciding the kid had enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

Nakajima would have had to leave as discreetly as possible, as though he didn’t know anything was wrong. But if someone had drugged them both, then they were watching them, too. Nakajima had been intercepted, gotten hurt, and — hm. The man-eating thing had only ever been rumors. But if he had claws like that, Chuuya could only imagine the teeth, and what one does when there’s an unknown drug and panic and blood loss all settling in at once. With his efforts to get all the blood off his teeth and out of the crannies of his braces, Nakajima is making a lot of funny faces.

So someone was probably dead. And Dazai was God knows where. And — okay.

Chuuya tilts his head up to the ceiling, ignoring Nakajima, who has once again become preoccupied with Pingus. Question time:

1. Where’s Dazai? Did he get himself out too? Or is he drugged up in someone’s basement?

2. Why Nakajima and not him? If it were one or the other, Dazai would have had a much easier time getting himself out than Nakajima. His tolerance is higher, he probably had less, and, frankly, he’d probably be much more useful in terms of knowledge.

3. For that matter: why not both? Why couldn’t both of them leave? Scratch question 2, then — the only reason Dazai would let himself get caught is if he had a reason to.

4. Fine then, last question, besides why come to Chuuya: how long should Chuuya wait for the stupid mackerel to show his face before he sucks it up and calls the Agency?

Hopefully, he won’t have to deal with the last question. Either Nakajima sobers up soon or Dazai escapes. It’s been a few years and Dazai’s gone weird and soft, but at the very least he should still be totally capable of escaping some stupid fucking kidnappers.

Chuuya should probably add who drugged them to his list of questions, but that’s not really his problem. With the story straight-enough in his head, he just needs to focus on getting Nakajima sober. By the state of the kid’s giant pupils and still-heaving breaths and incessant giggles every time he whispers Pingus to himself, it’ll be a while.

Babysitting duty. Ah, well — Chuuya’s used to babysitting duty, ever since Dazai fucked off and left the Akutugawa kids reeling and helpless. (Not that either of the kids would admit that’s what happened.) Dazai was always leaving him on babysitting duty.

Chuuya sighs, stands, retrieves a blanket. By this point Nakajima’s sunk back down onto the couch, holding a loaf of Pingus against his chest. “Rest up, weretiger,” Chuuya says, throwing the blanket over the both of them. He’ll wash all the viscera and shit off the blanket later.

Nakajima, covered up to his nose, blinks with those big, dual-colored eyes. With a little mrow, Pingus’s head pops out of the blanket and she starts nuzzling Nakajima’s cheek with his nose.

“Are you gonna tell Akutugawa I’m here?” Nakajima asks softly. It should be a question asked with fear, but it’s awfully bland — unafraid. Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“No,” Chuuya says, and heads into the kitchen.

Dazai used to do a lot of cocaine.

He probably doesn’t anymore. Or he’s really good at hiding it. Chuuya doesn’t imagine a cocaine habit would go over well with the detectives, and he doesn’t imagine Dazai could even hide something like that from the smart one. (From the others, he could definitely hide it. But not the super smart one.)

Chuuya’s done it a few times himself, but it’s never been his preference. The dignity of alcohol, the richness of it, and most of all the beauty of it — all those fine, expensive, aged bottles sitting on his shelves — has always appealed to him. But Dazai liked the way things like cocaine got him excited, amplified his mania. He liked uppers, from cigarettes to ritalin to coke, because they made him feel human.

Not that it’s cocaine, Nakajima’s got in him. It’s definitely not cocaine. It was probably ketamine or benzos, an attempt to make Nakajima all loopy and relaxed and weak. That’s not what happened, clearly. At least it’s not what happened immediately, because Nakajima had enough strength in him to escape an attacker. Must’ve been his ability slowing the drug.

It doesn’t matter. This is all to say that Chuuya has more than enough experience sobering himself and others up. He sets to work frying some eggs.

Nakajima’s not asleep; from the other room, Nakajima’s quiet voice wafts in, indistinguishable murmurs interspersed with giggles and Pingus’s mrows. At some point he starts humming a song which Chuuya has to strain his ears to hear. It’s a sweet, lilting melody — his brain fills in the lyrics instantly and his heart twists at the realization that it’s Dazai’s stupid song, can’t do a double suicide alone.

Chuuya slides the eggs off the pan with his spatula and sets them gently on the plate. Then he stops there, stares at the eggs, the shaking yolks. Thinks about being fifteen in Mori’s office, glaring at Dazai, the feeling in his gut that something horrible had changed in his life. Thinks about the stark red marks of Dazai’s hand on Akutugawa’s cheek. Thinks about childrens’ feet pattering softly down the halls of the Port Mafia’s safe houses and headquarters’ halls. Thinks about Nakajima, smiling at Dazai’s name, singing silly tunes Dazai taught him.

Toast pops out of the toaster. It’s a little burnt. Chuuya blinks and takes a breath that does not shake. He flicks on the radio — some public station playing soft jazz — and he can’t hear Nakajima anymore.

When Chuuya returns to the living room with two ham egg and cheese sandwiches, Nakajima pops fully up, although this time he holds Pingus to his chest so she doesn’t fall. The blanket falls, though, and it’s the same as it was before: the remains of a nice shirt falling over thin shoulders, drying brown blood splattering his stomach and chest and arms, his own fucking skin and flesh and fat stuck to him. Chuuya’s seen gore before — seen it a thousand times worse than this — but something about the sight has him keeping his eyes dutifully on Nakajima’s forehead.

Nakajima devours the sandwich in practically one bite, his jaw wider than it ought to be. Chuuya pretends not to be unnerved by this.

Once Nakajima has fully chewed his sandwich and patted his stomach and hummed his thanks, Chuuya asks, “Feel any better?”

The penthouse is cold. Chuuya likes it that way. But Nakajima shivers, pulling the blanket back up, tucking himself back down onto the couch. “A little,” he says, suddenly very childlike. As though he’s only just realized he’s cold (likely, considering what some drugs can do to one’s awareness of things like temperature), Nakajima curls more and more into himself on his side, pulling the blanket up his face. Ridiculous, that he’s on Chuuya’s couch right now. Ridiculous, that Chuuya doesn’t call Akutagawa. Fucking Dazai.

Chuuya stands abruptly. Nakajima blinks in response.

“Rest,” Chuuya says again, then promptly retreats to his bedroom.

Dazai is sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, twisting the soft black covers beneath him, hair fanned out over the pillow. He’s got a few bruises on his cheek but there’s no blood, Chuuya recognizes first, then recognizes second that Dazai is on his fucking bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chuuya says. Throws his hands up in the air, lets out a noise like a yell without any air — makes a scandalized face that Dazai only blinks at, throws his arms back down, then towards Dazai, into the air, then out, gesturing widely at the room around him. Every loose object in the room raises about a centimeter, drops, raises. “When the fuck did you get here!” He crosses the room in two long strides, pulls the lounging Dazai off the bed by his shoulders, and shakes him. “Your stupid kid is high out of his mind in the living room!”

Dazai groans, fake, squeezing his eyes shut. “Chuuya, Chuuya,” he whines, putting on a strange voice like a telenovela housewife, “Chuuya, my head is killing me!”

“You’ve done worse drugs,” Chuuya says, but he brings up a hand to start prying Dazai’s eyelids open and check his pupils. Yelping, Dazai bats him away, wiggles out of his grip, then rolls floppily onto the other side of the bed. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya says.

Dazai just frowns.

The window is open, Chuuya realizes, a breeze fluttering the blackout curtains. This is somehow an even worse realization than finding Dazai on his bed, and Chuuya has to fully turn on his heel so he’s facing away from Dazai. He grabs his face in his hands, bounces on his heels once, twice, thrice. The idiot had either broken into the apartment below and climbed up to the penthouse or started from the roof and climbed down — either way, it’s so ridiculous and unnecessary that the thought of it gives Chuuya heart palpitations.

“You have a key to this apartment!” Chuuya hisses, although something about it feels like he shouldn’t say it out loud, like it’s an admittance. “Why would you-!”

Dazai hums in a way that tells Chuuya he won’t get an explanation. Either he’d done it for fun or done it because it was all part of some stupid plan or mind game or manipulation. Chuuya decided he didn’t care, because the more pressing question was—

“Why would you give that kid my address?” He steps forward so his knees are bumping the mattress.

Doe-eyed and innocent, Dazai stares up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, “Chuuya is a good babysitter…”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya says, but he doesn’t add his usual violence to it because he’s squinting at Dazai’s pupils. Blown pupils, but his cheeks are a normal warmth, he seems perfectly able to move himself around. No need for the damn narcan, which is a blessing, because Chuuya’s had to give Dazai narcan more times than he’d like in this lifetime.

Dazai pats the spot next to him again. Rolling his eyes, Chuuya acquiesces. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee; fifteen, twenty-two. They sit in quiet a moment, Dazai taking deep breaths Chuuya recognizes as an attempt to sober up. The summer breeze through the window adds a bit of warmth to the cold room. Nakajima is humming that tune again, loud enough to hear through a closed door. Chuuya closes his eyes.

“I escaped a little faster than I meant, but I got good information,” Dazai muses. When Chuuya glances over, an eyebrow raised, he waves his hand in dismissal. “Agency business.”

“Agency business,” Chuuya repeats flatly, “but you can send Nakajima here in the middle of it.” He’s indignant, even though an hour ago he said whoever drugged the two of them wasn’t his problem. It’s the principle of the matter — he can decide he doesn’t care. Dazai can’t decide that for him.

Yawning, Dazai scratches at his jaw. “I didn’t specifically send him here. I gave him your information a long time ago. You were closer than the Agency.” The drugs are making him a bit less playful, more direct than usual. His gaze is sort of lizard-like, unfocused on the wall opposite him. “Chuuya’s a good babysitter,” he repeats. Chuuya could vomit. He leans a bit away from Dazai, but Dazai just lifts one leg and settles it over Chuuya’s, holding him in contact.

They’re silent for a long moment, in which Nakajima begins to giggle, repeating Pingus to himself several times.

“What’re you doing with this kid?” Chuuya finally asks, glancing sidelong at Dazai.

There’s that Dazai smile. The actor one, the robot one, that reaches his eyes as though it’s clawing for them. “Does Chuuya have a soft spot?” he asks, leaning back into Chuuya’s space, chin hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He whines when Chuuya plants a hand on his face and pushes him off. With the momentum he falls over himself so that he’s become a ball on Chuuya’s bed, moaning about how mean and awful and cruel Chuuya is.

“No,” Chuuya bites, “I just wanna know what you’re planning in your stupid mackerel brain.”

Said mackerel doesn’t respond for a while. Chuuya is reaching out to jostle him when he realizes the rise and fall of his back is real, actual sleep, and his hand stops in the air.

“Damn it,” he says, but it’s a quiet mutter. Out in the living room, Nakajima’s quieted, too.

He stands. Goes into the living room. Stares at the now-sleeping kid for a long moment. In sleep he’s serene, cheeks thin but still childlike, face still all smooth like an artist had just gone over the clay of him with her thumbs. Pingus curls under his chin. All sweet, except for the brown-red on Nakajima’s jaw, resting against Pingus’s dark fur.

Chuuya crosses into the kitchen, sits heavy in a chair, and considers. Considers — all of the safe houses Dazai could have sent Nakajima off to. Considers that stupid tune Nakajima and Dazai seem to love, and the edge to both their smiles, and the vigor with which Akutugawa and Nakajima hate each other. Considers how a man was dead, and how he probably deserved to die, but it had been a desperate, drugged eighteen year-old on a job who’d done it. Considers Chuuya’s a good babysitter, and tea with the Akutugawas, and Nakajima’s braces. He comes to no satisfactory conclusions.

[guhbwuh]

hii do u take commissions or requests? your art is beautiful 🫶

Hi!! Thank you for the interest! ❤️ and I’m so glad you like my art 🥹

I’ll not be taking commissions because I’m trying to keep a good work-life balance (<- im bad at this) while keeping art a hobby so I don’t get burnt out.

However! I will periodically open requests if I have the time/energy :^D and I’m usually pretty good at advertising them as open/opening them well before I’d be doing them so there will be lots of time to make requests! :^D

[irrealisms]

4, 7, 11 for the fandom ask meme?

warning in advance: the first answer is going to be obnoxious with censorship of words bc i'm a little hater in it and tumblr search loves to pick up posts with words in them even if they're not tagged & i don't want someone to be browsing the tag for Something They Like and encounter me being a hater. sorry hope u understand

4. Pairing that makes no sense to you?

ok so i realize that this will mean nothing to you and i should maybe have chosen an mxtx ship but the thing is. i can sell myself on almost any mxtx ship. most of the people in fandom aren't doing them well but i'm not going "this makes no sense under any circumstances". you know what makes no fucking sense to me? s.wagd.oons (this is a life.steal ship between ashs.wag and redd.oons). while they do stuff together outside of ls sometimes i genuinely cannot think of a single interaction between them on ls of major significance let alone one that is meaningfully shippy. nor are they like....particularly interesting as parallels or as characters with mutual friends or whatever? maybe you could do something with s3 and communism vs capitalism, i guess?? but overall! i dont see it! and it is the second-most popular ls ship on ao3, after clo.wnzy. i don't get it!!! i am open to explanations here as to what people see in them but i have spent the last year looking at canon and then looking back at ao3 and going "bwuh??????? this makes no sense to me????????"

7. Least favorite headcanon?

hmmmm. squints at headcanons i dislike. there's a lot of them. im a hater. uhhhhh let's go with transmasc wwx

11. Most unique merch you have for a fandom?

i really like my crocheted friend ~plushie from my time in dsmp!!! in general i have a lot of one-of-a-kind art from my friends which is Literally unique but i think Friend gets points for additionally being a more unusual ~medium?

(fandom asks)

[shadowlinktheshadow]

you’re cool!!!!!! and i love your art!! have a good day

WH

WHAT

HUH??

THANK YOU?? 😭💜

[faemytho]

Maybe some fun found family stuff with pitaya and snapdragon?

sorry gonna put holly in there too lol

it/its snapdragon, snapdragon lore headcanons, dragontongue headcanons (i made up a few words + language rules), hollytaya if you squint really hard. this got a little bit emotional instead of silly, my bad. hope you enjoy it anyways!

-

"What are you staring at me for?" Pitaya Dragon Cookie asked, ignoring the tiny dragon climbing on their head.

They had parted from Royal Margarine and Tarte Tatin upon reaching Dragon City. With their agreement to help in the upcoming war, Pitaya was following Hollyberry and Wildberry back to the Hollyberry Kingdom. She really hadn't expected to return with one dragon, let alone two.

"Nothing, I just- I never took you for the parental type," Hollyberry finally said, watching Pitaya scramble to catch Snapdragon when it fell, babbling happily.

"Parental type? Is that some kind of cookie concept I don't know about?" Pitaya asked, but they apparently weren't really looking for an answer as they turned their attention down to the dragonet in their arms. It babbled something in dragontongue, and they responded in dragontongue as well, the words clearly gleeful despite her inability to understand them.

"Yes," Hollyberry said awkwardly, turning her gaze to Wildberry. He gave her an impassive look, but she was good at reading the little twitches of expression in his face. She dug this hole for herself, he was saying, don't drag him into it.

Snapdragon babbled behind her, and Pitaya laughed.

"Parenting is when an older cookie, or more, takes care of a younger cookie with the intention of helping them grow up into an older cookie," Hollyberry explained, awkward and stilted, and realized she hadn't really been a very good parent herself. "With how well you're getting along with that little fella, we'd call cookies like that the parenting type."

"Well, there's only one problem with that," Pitaya said, finally looking up at Hollyberry. The depths of their eyes would never cease to astound her. "Neither of us are cookies, and Snapdragon and I are around the same age."

"Bwuh- huh?" Hollyberry said, elegantly. Even Wildberry looked confused, as much as he was attempting to avoid engaging in the conversation. "But it- How? Didn't it just hatch?"

"That's also two problems," Wildberry muttered, and was promptly ignored.

Snapdragon babbled again, little paws batting at a lock of Pitaya's hair draped over their shoulder from the rest of their mane. Pitaya shrugged, and let the little dragon do what it liked. "Yes," they answered Hollyberry, "it did. But it has been conscious for... about as long as I have existed. Its egg was laid in ancient times, back when I was still a little dragon myself!"

"Daond ahor?" Snapdragon asked, blinking up at the other dragon as cutely as it could manage. Pitaya laughed.

"Needy little thing," they cooed, petting Snapdragon's head. The little dragon babbled happily at the attention.

Hollyberry was still reeling, but if she didn't think about it too hard, she could somewhat wrap her head around it. "I still think it counts," she said, gazing at the two dragons. "Even if it is near in age to you, it still just hatched, and it certainly still needs guidance. You could be its parent."

"Eghk," Pitaya voiced their discomfort, looking down at Snapdragon. They held the little dragon away from themself, giving it a scrutinizing look. "Cookie family. What do you think?"

"Clann!" it shouted, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Curiously, the look of disgust had faded from Pitaya's face, replaced by something indescribably soft.

"Okay," Pitaya said softly. Hollyberry resisted the urge to double-take; she'd never heard them speak so quietly before, and they continued speaking in a murmur. "T'ihn clann wyit, tilt'hend."

Snapdragon squealed. "Tilt'hend!"

The Berry Forest came into view, but they didn't continue their conversation until they'd returned to the Hollyberry Kingdom. News of their victories had already spread, and they were greeted back as heroes, even with Pitaya among them. Immediately, there was a grand celebration; Hollyberrians were nothing if not expert party planners.

The night approached quickly, and they gradually retired from the celebration. As the Queen Mother of the realm, Hollyberry had a room set aside for her draconic guests. This didn't happen to matter much to Pitaya however, as they let themself into her chambers and threw their entire weight onto her bed with a groan in the early hours of the morning.

"Finally," they complained, laying face down. Hollyberry promptly set aside her book and glass of wine. "I just convinced Snapdragon to try to sleep. It's been in that egg for so long it didn't want to, and with all the excitement, it was so wound up..."

"Parenting troubles?" Hollyberry teased in amusement. Pitaya gave another groan, pulling themself up slightly to rest their face on their arms.

"Yes-" they started to complain again, but stopped short. Lifting their head a bit more, they fixed her with a slit-eyed glare. "Clann is not 'parenting troubles'."

Hollyberry laughed. "Seems a lot like it to me."

Pitaya rolled their eyes, muttering. "Of course, as a cookie, you wouldn't understand. Clann is like... a pack bond. To use cookie terms, it's a family you choose, where all within it are valued as equal, whether partner or blood or neither."

"Snapdragon asked you to be clan," Hollyberry realized, trying her best approximation of the dragontongue word. Pitaya nodded with a shrug.

"Yes, it did. Snapdragon is..." Pitaya trailed off, seemingly realizing something. They sat up now, wings flapping slightly in their scramble. "Dammit Hollyberry, this is parenting troubles!"

She laughed at them. She couldn't help it, and their distraught expression only made her laugh more.

"What are you laughing for?" they demanded, a slightly desperate look on their face. "Stop that, this is serious! I've never had a child before!"

"Oh, I'm sorry my friend," Hollyberry said through snorts of laughter, "I'm afraid I'm just finding all of this quite amusing."

"You've had children, right?" Pitaya asked, and the wisps of lingering desperation in their tone nearly set her off again. She managed to calm herself. The dragon cookie perched at the foot of her bed looked so genuine.

"Yes. Only one though," she answered, her laughter fading away. As she thought about her son, her smile fell away as well. She really hadn't been a very good parent to her son at all. It was one of the things in her past that she regretted the most. "Truth be told, I wasn't very good at the whole parenting thing. I'm afraid I won't be of much help if you're looking to ask me for advice."

Pitaya deflated, slumping back down on the bed and stretching out like a cat. "Ugh," they muttered, "I just don't want to mess this up. Snapdragon's been unhatched for so long and I've been without clann for so long-"

"Hey, none of that now," Hollyberry admonished them, her voice soft despite that. "You're the Greenish-Red dragon! Besides that, I can tell you already care a lot about it. So long as it knows you care, and keep caring about it, I think that's all you need. I wasn't very good about either of those things with my son, and its something I regret quite a bit."

Pitaya gave her a scrutinizing look. She met their gaze, unflinching at the depth of their slit-pupils and the black of their sclera. After a long moment, they sighed, and rolled themself off her bed.

"I'd better go check on it," they muttered, but they sounded better now. Less desperate.

"Have a good night, Pitaya," Hollyberry called after them, watching as they paused at the door.

"I never said this," Pitaya said, their hand on the doorknob and not turning around, "but thank you, Hollyberry. I feel better about Snapdragon, now."

"You're quite welcome," she responded with a smile. Pitaya huffed out a laugh, turned the knob, and left her chambers.

She had no doubt they would be good for the little rascal.

[basilpaste]

i did. actually classpect the rest of the nda. so heres the list + makoto is also there. for the record: i play my class pairs out mostly like the fandom consensus does, but i am an active page passive knight girlie.

halara: prince of mind (active+ class, forced to play a passive- role) destroys mind through logic. desuhiko: maid of space (also active+ in a passive- role) creates space through innovation. fubuki: thief of time (active+ in a passive- role) steals time to solve problems. yakou: page of rage (active+ class in an active+ role, tries to appear passive-) makes a path with rage. yuma: heir of heart (passive- class, forced into an active+ role) provides heart through logic. vivia: seer of void (passive- class, tries to play an active+ role) understands void through emptiness. kurumi: sylph of hope (passive- class, plays a passive- role) creates hope with belief. makoto: knight of heart (passive- class in a passive- role, tries to appear active+) protects heart through logic. shinigami: not a player, a sprite or a game construct of some sort, but plays the role of a muse of doom (passive- class, works as a passive- guide). leads others to doom as the embodiment of doom.

more incoherent rambling under the cut!

i knew from the jump that i 100% wanted to make halara a prince. all the canon princes (dirk, kurloz, eridan) are very self-oriented. mind was also a given. taking knowledge and understanding and breaking down falsehoods. its. yeah. halara is the most 'detectivey' detective in the cast.

i wanted there to be both a time and space player, so there could theoretically be a functional session. desuhiko worked for space for that reason! his forte works by altering the space he takes up, creating something new in that space. so i gave him an active class that creates things: maid.

fubuki was always going to be a time player. shes the time character. i jumped back and forth between thief and rogue for her, but i liked the idea of the majority of the master detectives having active classes. she steals time for herself. she may use it to assist others, but the time she takes is localized to herself.

everyones favorite contentious opinion: active page! rage, to me, is the aspect of emotion. yakou applies his emotion, makes a plan and utilizes the emotions of himself and others to create an end. pages have great potential if allowed to reach it. page of rage yakou.

ive already talked about yuma! heart player of all time.

i wanted vivia to have the most passive classpect i could think of. seer of void comprehends emptiness. vivia makes himself as 'empty' as possible. he sees into the void with his forte. forcing a seer into a situation where he actively fights against the truth while also forcing someone else to reach the truth feels very in line with his actual arc in the game.

kurumi is a sylph of hope! she inspires hope in others! she gathers information, she creates things from what she wants to believe in. but its all very much in the background. i also liked the idea of her and desuhiko being a passive/active pair.

ive talked about makoto too! woah!

shinigami would not be a player but she would effectively be a muse of doom. she doesnt give the answers but provides a way to them. without her influence, nothing would happen. but shes never actually the one solving the problem. she allows doom to happen.

oh also i think each mystery labyrinth would be equivalent to someones land! like... in chapter two it starts in desuhikos land and they end up in kurumis when they find that the paths all lead to each other. technically desuhikos land would have to be 'and frogs' since hes a space player but. bwuh.

makoto would have a solo session that kind of... bashes into theirs. if it was an actual game. the peacekeepers would probably be the midnight crew lmao. yomi is jack.

i guess order of operations as far as server/clients would be like. yuma 'has no server player' but other than that it goes: yuma -> halara -> desuhiko -> kurumi -> fubuki -> vivia -> yakou. and then its either 'technically shinigami is yumas server player' or 'technically makoto is yumas server player'. i guess with the twist of the game the second one makes more sense, though?