Diaboyyys

((Ok Kanato we get it))

anon bean, i am looking at you through the screen with the same dead-eyed judgment reiji reserves for a chipped tea cup (while laughing so hard i'm legit seeing stars). logically, they’re stagnant corpses who only ingest blood, so the gastric bypass of it all suggests their digestive tracts are basically just hollow, cobweb-filled pipes that shouldn't produce enough gas to lift a feather

however, since we're trapped in DL game logic where they can somehow devour takoyaki and carbonara, we (ofc) have to address the supernatural air pollution

shu: would 100% rip one in his sleep, wake up briefly to the sound, realize he doesn't care enough to apologize for the biological warfare, and drift back into bach-land (bc never have i heard a classical composer more boring yet unbelievably hard to play—the auditory equivalent of a dry saltine) while you’re left to suffer through the methane fallout

reiji: would sooner submit to a silver stake through the heart than admit to a vulgar bodily function; if his internal pipes ever betrayed him, he’d mask the sound with a sharp cough, immediately spray the room with a $500 bottle of cologne, and gaslight you into believing you’ve developed auditory hallucinations due to your deficient human hygiene

ayato: the undisputed titan of biological comedy. he lives to drop one during reiji's most pretentious monologues just to watch the vein in his bro's forehead reach its breaking point. he’s also the guy who keeps a stash of whoopee cushions hidden under the dining room chairs; if he can't produce the sound naturally, he will manufacture it for the sole purpose of seeing reiji’s soul leave his body. and yes, he has 100% tried to see if he could use a lighter to turn his flatulence into a blue-flame flamethrower

kanato: teddy is the only one who knows the truth, and if you ever suggest he’s capable of something so unsightly, he will scream that you’re a disgusting, filthy human before throwing a strawberry tart at your head to mask the evidence with the smell of sugar

laito: interestingly enough, the diatwink most easily embarrassed by it. he wants so badly to be the elegant, ethereal predator, so a sudden, unscripted squeak is the only thing that makes him drop the 'fufufu' act in favour of a silent, wide-eyed crisis. he’ll immediately pull his fedora down to hide his flaming face, stammer something about "the floorboards being noisy", and flee the room in a state of genuine, uncharacteristic ego-death. for once, the pervert is the one who feels violated by his own existence