#ainaki

Dazai and Poe would have NERDY as FUCK dates honestly like -

they’d go to the museum a lot? especially every time there’s a thing about crimes in the 19th century or some shit like that Dazai and Poe will just go and hang out (in Passerine they both go but Dazai waits in the museum cafe or looks at the art exhibit)

Poe sometimes takes Dazai out to an art store where they he can browse the shelves as much as he likes and then just. gets Dazai everything he expressed the slightest interest in. he’s the rich boyfriend :3

Dazai secretly loves getting to be all domestic with Poe in particular...he likes spending time that’s just the two of them at home, Dazai reading or distracting himself while Poe writes but obviously in the same space, doing different things together. 

Poe hasn’t seen much of Yokohama and Dazai likes taking him on guided tours of it - he likes taking Poe to secondhand bookshops and cemeteries and strange bars and tucked-away parks. 

(this is your headcanon but I’m stealing it briefly to go: Dazai has a bad day once and Poe draws all the curtains and plays the violin for him, something slow and sad that he’s exceedingly good at. it’s so dark that neither of them have to see Dazai crying into his hands, and afterwards Dazai is shaken and grateful and loving and Poe doesn’t regret someone knowing he plays for the first time in a long time.)

sometimes Poe will cook and Dazai will make some exceedingly fancy dessert and they’ll eat a whole spread, just the two of them, finally in a place where they can eat as much or as little as they want without anyone else looking. 

when Poe is sad or anxious Dazai gets himself, a whole lot of blankets, hot chocolate, and Karl, and cuddles him in bed. he reads poetry out loud to Poe and provides him with as much or as little interaction as he needs until he can fall asleep, and he always wakes up feeling better. 

Kunikida usually waits for Nikolai on the street outside the Agency dorms, waiting for him to be done getting ready. He doesn’t know why it takes so long when Nikolai seemingly never bothers about things like color coordination, or eating breakfast.

But it’s just one of Nikolai’s many oddities, and not the one Kunikida is most inclined to complain about. Besides, they’re never late. Nikolai is always precisely seven minutes late to the time Kunikida tells him, and that’s a precision Kunikida can factor for and respect even if it annoys him by not matching the schedule he carries.

This morning, though, Nikolai isn’t late. He’s early, already waiting downstairs when Kunikida comes down, and he’s so surprised by the fact that he’s going to be seven minutes early for everything today that he can’t even speak.

“Kunikida-kun!” Nikolai says, catching sight of him. Kunikida unfreezes.

“You’re early,” he notes warily. “Did something happen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nikolai answers, laughing his strangely pleasant, bell-like laughter. But up close he looks wan and pale, dark circles like he hasn’t slept.

Kunikida thinks through his options for a long minute. “Did you have nightmares?”

“Why would you think that,” Nikolai replies immediately, injured. Kunikida glares severely at him, and he wilts. “Yes, I did.”

“About what?” Kunikida asks then. It’s automatic, the firing off of questions while he tries to place this and figure out what’s happening, what to do, how to help. “Something from...before?” He knows little of Nikolai’s past, and Nikolai is cagey with it.

Everything he’s seen so far makes him worry. Were you loved, he wants to ask. Were you loved as much as you needed and deserved. But no one asks that.

“Yes,” Nikolai whispers, voice terribly small. He’s hunching into himself.

Kunikida reaches up on impulse, drawing Nikolai closer. He looks surprised, tense under Kunikida’s hands like he’s afraid of what touch means. Luckily for them, Kunikida isn’t. “Do you want this?” he asks.

“I need it,” Nikolai mumbles, a shameful secret, and Kunikida doesn’t need more than that to press their lips together, his hand tangling in Nikolai’s strawberry-colored hair. His mouth is cool and chapped, lips dry and still pleasantly textured against Kunikida’s. He gives in easily, with a sigh that sounds more like a plea for help. 

------

“What about jail?” Poe asks moodily, drawing a circle on the paper. 

Dazai looks up. “What about it?” 

“It would solve this plot hole,” Poe moans. “But it’s so contrived, it’s going to be obvious I was struggling for an alibi—who’s going to buy that the suspect was in jail the night of the murder—” 

“Ranpo-san!” Dazai yells, startling Poe. The pen skids across the page, splattering ink. Why Poe can’t write with a ballpoint like everyone else, they’ll never know. Fountain pens, in this day and age, god. “Ranpo-san, your boyfriend’s beating himself up about his writing again.” 

“He’s your boyfriend too,” Ranpo points out as he walks in. “What is it this time?” 

“He has a plot hole and he’s second-guessing his solutions to it.” Dazai pulls the paper and pen to himself, forcing Poe to turn back to his laptop. He sketches absently and far too quickly, too sure of himself to wait. 

Poe minimizes the word document sulkily and then pulls it back up out of guilt. “Your boyfriend is right here.” 

He gets two exceedingly blank stares in return. He’s long since given up on explaining why talking about someone who’s in the same room is odd—they both like being talked about. It’s inconceivable. Although Dazai insists that the way he likes them talking about him is the exception, not the rule. 

But then Dazai tangles their legs together under the table, and Ranpo refills his glass of water. “Just use it,” Ranpo advises. “Your editor will tell you if it isn’t good enough.” 

“Which it will be,” Dazai adds, “Because your writing is amazing and you’ll make it work.” 

“his self-destruction is quiet but it still IS” thanks now I’M in tears

18) were there any works you read that affected you so much that it influenced your writing style? what were they?

LITERALLY ALL OF THEM...the most recent one I can trace is @dyspunktional influencing my writing to be more metaphorical and descriptive, which is a style I dip in and out of but really like!

25) copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of

“This one’s on me,” Ranpo said apologetically. “I may have tripped you up.”

“Fuck you,” Dazai groaned. He rolled over, blinking into warm green eyes. Warm, warm, warm. Even the floor under his back was warm. “What's happening to me?” This last came out in a pathetic whisper.

Ranpo’s hands slid under his shoulders, shifting Dazai so that his head lay in Ranpo’s lap. “I think you can answer that better than me,” he said, stroking gently at Dazai’s hair. Dazai didn’t want to, though, so he stayed quiet. Closed his eyes, because if he tilted his head just right the sun couldn’t get at him, and Ranpo was touching him, light, like he was some sort of skittish animal.

Stayed quiet, because Ranpo was touching him, and it calmed the raging storm of empty that occupied his body. Turned it into a silent lake, grey water lapping at the worn-down sides of his ribs.

Delusional. That was just the tea he’d drunk earlier.

Fyodor’s hand was surprisingly messy - Chuuya wouldn’t have expected these slanting characters from him in the language they shared, or indeed the letters themselves. They arrived in no rhythm Chuuya could parse but unfailingly dated to the previous Sunday, and it wasn’t so hard to imagine Fyodor sitting in a cafe in Paris, a museum in Rome, a bookshop in London, penning these letters into a notebook he probably carried everywhere he went, ripping them out and sliding them into an envelope before walking to a post office to mail them to Yokohama.

Chuuya pictured it, Fyodor’s elegant hands and his hoarse voice when he didn’t expect to be heard, and ached for a man who couldn’t believe he had the right to share a room with Chuuya. He wanted to write back, but he didn’t have an address. He wanted to say, come home. Let me make you dinner. We can go see that temple you like so much. We can stay in all week. Just come home. 

When Akai said that a "quick nap" for him would be 200 years, and if we assume that naps for his species work the same as naps for us, where we have to nap for 20-30mins to get the "power" part of the power nap (I think after 30mins you enter REM and thus ur groggy or smth)

Meaning that, as a lower estimate, an "hour" would end up being 200x2=400 years, and the upper estimate would be 200x3=600

Akai's equivalent to an hour is 400-600 years I'm screaming

But!! If we ALSO assume that the days have 24 hours, then we get a range of 9,600 years to 14,400 years

Did you know that civilisation as we know it is only 6,000 years old if my knowledge is correct. A day for Akai is literally longer than civilisation as we understand it.