picture: sent

warshalq  asked:

My boyfriend doesn't believe Brendon has a smaller dick than Ryan help evidence please

well ryan’s bulge is A LOT bigger.

brendon:

ryan:

and if you believe them, their exes said stuff about their cocks, i think audrey said brendon was 4.5 inches hard? which isn’t a bad thing!!! oh, and this isn’t necessarily related, but z has confirmed that ryan is good in bed so …

sent (to the armed detective agency)

credit to: @bungou-stray-dogs-indulgences​ for “bungus snoop doggs,” which what i’ll be calling this mini-series, @supah-novah-betch pretty sure you’re mccree from chuuyaaf? for like all of the nicknames, @atsooshis for some brilliant ideas and alerting me about “communist group,” which mod lenin from @bungoustraydoots came up with. except i forgot to check the messages when i wrote this so i actually call them the “communist agency” instead.

late birthday one-shot for atsushi that did not turn out the way i expected at all because 1. i’m not good at being funny and 2. what are text aus


maple:


Kunikida to Communist Agency: So, this is the plan:

Kunikida to Communist Agency: At six A.M. sharp, all of you need to show up at the Agency.

Kunikida to Communist Agency: Naomi and Tanizaki, you put up the decorations.

Kunikida to Communist Agency: Yosano, work with Ranpo and Kyouka with the food.

Kunikida to Communist Agency: Dazai, keep Atsushi busy until we’re ready.

Kunikida to Communist Agency: And [Name], you keep Dazai from doing something crazy.

Yosano to Communist Agency: alright. I’ll let Kyouka know. Do we need to pick up anything other than cake?

Kunikida to Communist Agency: Did you order two?

Yosano to Communist Agency: Three. Ranpo insisted.

Kunikida to Communist Agency: Then, no.

Yosano to Communist Agency: No alcohol?

half-baked mummy to Communist Agency: I can bring some!


The leaves were flushed golden-red when you first met him.

Not quite green, decorating the trees and wrapping themselves around the branches in a twist of colors and wood. They fan out in the wind, the air crisp against your skin and rapidly cooling the city from the heat of the summer. You curse yourself mentally, wishing you hadn’t forgotten to bring your scarf, wrenching open the glass door and listening to the small metal bell rattle against the frame. The lights are on, and the pastries are lined up neatly just as they should be, set up by worker who had the shift before you. Your paths rarely overlap, perhaps because you attend the college nearby and almost always run a few minutes late, or perhaps because they never leave on time and instead cut work early. It hardly matters to you, for what goes on outside of your hours is not your problem to worry about until it makes itself troublesome enough. You prefer to keep to yourself, for if there is something you have learned in your years of existence it is that most of the time it is better to simply weather things and take them as it comes.

Inside the bakery is a warm respite, offering a shelter from the changing weather. The heat is on, its difference slight to prevent the glass from fogging up, enough for you to remove your cardigan and wrap it around the chair at the table nearest to the cash register. Lights flicker above, demanding replacement but receiving none. It is functional, at the least, and you pay it no mind.

There is a sort of peace that this place offers, the way it is now. It’s no busy cafe or social hot spot of a tea shop, but it the quiet and calm business you have always known, where the bell rings only twice each hour and your only constant company is your textbooks and the carefully constructed pastries. Friends do not visit - you’re not even sure if they would, if you told them where you vanish off to once the professor ends the lecture - and you could hardly care less. You are the reserved type; the atmosphere of an empty bookstore, the feel of a silent store, it is so much more welcoming to you because if you listen, you are not alone.

A sigh slips past your lips, fingers reaching behind your head to twist your hair up into an easy twist. Your apron hangs off to the side, as you had left it the day before, untouched, and you tie it with a sort of absence to your movements. Monday mornings are slow, and the first Monday of the fall semester is even slower. Your eyes are already tired, you realize, exhausted from the hours you spent in the morning scribbling notes and the hours you spent late the night before perusing your schedule and preparing. You had dropped your bag by the display, so you lift it from the ground before any of its contents can fall out and dump it on the chair with your cardigan. One day into the new school year, and you already cannot stand the amount of homework you have waiting for you. Sometimes you wonder, briefly, how you had managed to pull things off as you had the year before, in those moments finding weaknesses and tearing away at them.

You do not take up your position behind the register. Instead, you seat yourself at the table, across from your belongings, and lay your head on your arms, aimlessly staring at the backwards text written on the outside of the windows. They advertise the cakes and croissants and pies and tarts, boasting the prices and the perfection of it all, intended to catch your gaze but people only rush by, too preoccupied with their own lives to pay you and the bakery much mind.

It’s not that it matters. Not much, anyway. These days, you are interesting enough to keep the customers who do stop by amused enough to buy a little more, and uninteresting enough to never attract trouble.

Summer, for you, has long since ended. There is no more sun, faded behind the heavy clouds of a promised storm.

It will pass, when the winter has been weathered and the spring has taken root, when you pull yourself through this stage and emerge on the other end of the road.

The door opens just as you are straightening, and  through your daze, you manage to rattle off your welcoming spiel before noticing the way those purple-flecked eyes fix themselves on the cakes.

“Do you have anything without flour?”

Maybe you should have gotten a job at the student union.


local:


Kunikida to Communist Agency: None of you are allowed to bring alcohol. We have underage colleagues.

Yosano to Communist Agency: Really, Dazai? That’d be great.

half-baked mummy to alcoholics club: definitely. it’s just a small detour on my way to the dorms.

Ideals Mother to alcoholics club: I said NO ALCOHOL. NO DRINKS.

Ideals Mother to alcoholics club: Dazai, what did you do to the names? Change them back.

half-baked mummy to alcoholics club: so … yes? swell!

Yosano to alcoholics club: Thank you, Dazai. I’ll be at the bakery no later than seven. We want to be ready at eight, correct?

half-baked mummy to alcoholics club: I think so!

Tanizaki to alcoholics club: wtf is happening how is alcoholics better than communists

Tanizaki to alcoholics club: and wtf thats so early

Yosano to alcoholics club: Do us a favor and spell some things out?

Tanizaki to alcoholics club: no


These days, fate must find you to be a worthy puppet to kick around and tangle up in its marionette.

As reserved as you are, as wary of social interaction as you finds yourself to be, repeated and unplanned meetings with the same person is your definition of a nightmare. It is mortifying in its own way, when someone you know, yet don’t at the same time, encounters you so often, when you are given no time to prepare yourself to end up face-to-face with someone you have met before. It is almost as if a higher power if playing with you, as if your misery is just as amusing to watch as it is to inflict.

You’re not the superstitious type, not at all, but at this point it is hard not to think of your meetings in any other way. The red string must have tied the two of you together, not as soulmates but as two doomed to stumble across each other at the worst of times and only to exchange a few glances or, if the situation demands it, an awkward word or two.

You tire of the meetings quickly, always itching to vanish the second he stops in front of you, and you wonder if he has picked up on it. He never quite stops moving, poised on the balls of his feet as if ready to flee at any given moment, you have noticed. It is slight, barely there, but you notice these kinds of things. Maybe it is because you see it every time you look in the mirror, the light in your eyes that communicates a subtle type of fear hidden by the blankness you have schooled yourself to wear. A type of fear that leaves you frozen at times but drives you like a furious energy.

Not the same, he and you, but close enough.

Never the same, he and you. Like parallel lines, you decide, kicking at the stones underneath your foot as you wander down the path of the city gardens. Similar, but separate.

You gaze is distant, fixed on the trees and the rough bark. Before, you had been wondering about how much further you would have to go, to break free of your self-imposed limits, but he has broken into your mind. Again, barging in uninvited as he always has. You don’t know him, the mismatched boy with brilliant eyes, and he doesn’t know you, not in the conventional ways. But your paths cross so often that you wonder if the universe is trying to tell you something.

Drawing your stare back to the gravel in front of you, cutting away from the maze of foliage and the yellow grass, his gaze meets yours and it takes you a moment to realize. The day at your bakery flashes through your mind, the rapid scramble to recover from his strange demand and the frustrating call to a psychopath - no, it is rude to call his colleague a psychopath, especially when you don’t even know the person, but the amount of stress the conversation gave you was enough to give you less of a reason to care - and the small cake you had eventually packaged for him to take back to work.

Then the day you crashed into him on the streets follows, and the day he dropped a wrapped box on your foot and the woman in heels fixed you with a glare that chilled you to the bone until he apologized and stated over and over it was his fault, not yours -

“Oh, it’s you!” A grin splits his face, lips curling up in a smile and eyes lighting up at your presence. “I haven’t seen you around in a while!”

You can’t help it. The suddenness of the encounter, the abruptness of his voice, it sets off a panic. The book in your hand slips through your fingers, falling onto the ground, and you stare. Wide eyes, umbrella, and the pages of the book spill open. Words dance across the pages but never off, and as if on cue a wind flew through the path and sent the book skidding further away from you.

He blinks, head tilting. “What is it?”

It is not his fault, you remind yourself, your foot lifting from the ground as you take a step back. It is only yours, you who cannot find it within yourself to step away from the shelter you have built yourself.

“Nothing,” you say. “I - I have to go.”

You do not give him time to react. Pivoting, the rocks beneath your shoe crunch, and you hurry in the direction of the gate as quickly as you can without running.


sensational crime


greatest detective to alcoholics club: shut up

greatest detective to alcoholics club: ittts one in the morning

greatest detective to alcoholics club: let me sleep

Tanizaki to alcoholics club: turn off your phone then

half-baked mummy to annoying twits: can you turn off my life?

Ideals Mother to annoying twits: Nobody wants to hear this. Go to sleep.

half-baked mummy to annoying twits: why don’t you go to sleep?

Tanizaki to annoying twits: what did u expect

Tanizaki to annoying twits: you called him mom

Tanizaki to annoying twits: so he’s momming you

Yosano to annoying twits: Is that even a word?

Tanizaki to annoying twits: did u even go to med school?

half-baked mummy to annoying twits: it was nice knowing you.


Glass lies strewn across the hardwood floor of the bakery, glittering in the moonlight like diamonds in their own right. The overturned chairs and broken tables turn some of them dark, but they catch your eyes nonetheless as you crouch behind the counter. The display of pastries and cakes are empty, long since cleaned out, the lights above turned off in a poor attempt to trick someone that you are not hiding in the bakery. Pointless, but you know that, now, it is better to be take that extra measure.

Your fingers curl around your sweater sleeves, breath coming out shakily, and it takes all of your effort not to draw in a large, gasping amount of air. Perhaps the attacker already knows where you are - you wouldn’t be surprised if he did - but though his attention is elsewhere you have been told that it is a fickle thing. At any second he may change targets to you, deciding that it would be more effective to take you out. You cannot draw attention to yourself; that is what Nakajima Atsushi had told you, when the man in black and with a monster made of red and teeth and electricity attacked.

“What is going on?” you had gasped, heart stuttering and nearly failing you as you scrambled away. The explosion of the windows still echoed in your mind as the words slipped past your lips, ears still ringing. It was sudden, unexpected. One moment you had been listening to Atsushi go on about Kyouka and her latest crepe creation, and the next, glass had been flying through the air and you had been shoved into hiding and he had turned his back to face the man silhouetted in the light.

“How do you know this person?” you had asked, but received no answer. You are not stupid, reading into the tension in the air. There is history between the two of them, enemies sometimes and not quite friends at other times. It is a complicated one, woven with gray threads, and you expect no kind of explanation, not yet.

You inhale slowly, forcing your heartbeat to stop racing in an attempt to calm it down. Hands shaking, you pull your limbs towards each other even more, as if huddling in a ball could trick the enemy into leaving when his attention is elsewhere.

Perhaps it is the distance you had once viewed the world with that keeps you still, the small voice in the back of your head reminding you that what is happening is only temporary. If you wait it out, if you bring yourself to hide while someone else works out the problem, it will be over.

“Stay hidden,” Nakajima Atsushi had hissed. There was something in his eyes, an unfamiliar light, one you had never seen in the months you had known each other. Once, you never would have trusted him under circumstances like these. You are strong enough on your own, to scrape by and to survive your life, but he had sounded so certain of himself that you could not bring yourself to question him.

You hadn’t wanted to.

You don’t know him, not as well as you would have liked to, but you know him personally nonetheless. You know how he likes chazuke, you know his strange colleagues and even stranger workplace, you know the story behind his hair and the story behind the look he gets from time to time.

You had not known about his involvement with the Port Mafia.

“Who is he?” was a question you hadn’t asked. It would have been ridiculous to voice. You would recognize the attacker of your bakery anywhere, for his face is plastered on signs at the police station and displayed on the news every time you decide to pay attention. Akutagawa Ryunosuke, the Silent Rabid Dog of the Port Mafia, a ruthless killer and someone you never would have thought to pay you, a normal college student, any mind.

Light winks at you from the corner of your vision, as if trying to mock you but failing. You block out the noises, the sound of blood and the sound of a tiger, only pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Eyes sliding shut, you only hope.

You do not know him, not this part, but if he returns from this you will.


telepathy


Ideals Mother to annoying twits: Stop it. We are planning a party for our friend and colleague. We’re not here to argue.

half-baked mummy to Atsushi’s Party Planning: this is friendly banter, not arguing!

doomed to Atsushi’s Party Planning: you just told me it was nice knowing me!

doomed to Atsushi’s Party Planning: why do i feel more and more like i’m going to be murdered?

doomed to Atsushi’s Party Planning: i can see the headlines

doomed to Atsushi’s Party Planning: “high school dropout murdered by doctor after mistimed remark”

half-baked mummy to CATS: were you a dropout?

half-baked mummy to CATS: and hello, fukuzawa! we have everything under control. go back to sleep.

doomed to CATS: who knows?

Yosano to CATS: chainsaw.jpg

doomed to CATS: NO

doomed to rip tanizaki: I’M SORRY

doomed to rip tanizaki: TAKE THE CHAINSAW AWAY


The form lies on your desk. It’s blank, the lines waiting for you to fill them out, the black ink that the words are printed with mocking you with its promises. You have not spared it a second glance ever since Atsushi had given it to you, his words practically guaranteeing you the job. It isn’t as if you did not want to take it, to be a secretary at the Armed Detective Agency, but it is the risks that make you hesitate. These, you have seen firsthand, witnessing it in the bloodied clothes of his and witnessing it in the scar-free skin Yosano Akiko had delighted in healing. Perhaps you should have known, should have expected the invitation, should have expected the words of advice from the president that was anything but an invitation.

You would take the job. You had to, it was the only choice you had. After the incident at the bakery, after your connections with the Port Mafia - they aren’t really connections, it was more like a mutual acquaintance, if you could apply such mundane terms to the situation - you were hardly welcome to return. For a moment, you wonder if the person you had once taken over after class would have to do your shift as well, in that boring room with nothing but the frosting flowers and golden-brown of freshly baked pastries to keep them company, but then you dismiss the thought. The months have changed you, slowly but surely.

A pen twirls through your fingers, your movements deft as you stare blankly out the open window. Below, on the streets, numerous floors beneath your apartment, you watch cars and pedestrians and birds as they pass by.

A sigh escapes you, eyes sliding shut.

You would take the job, eventually. It isn’t as if you are hesitating because of the prospect of beginning again, in a way. In fact, it could hardly be counted as starting over from scratch. You know the people there, you know who they are, and you are not moving anywhere to make commute easier.

The reason is simple, and it stares you in the face as you set the pen down, the tip poised and ready to begin writing.

“What will change?” you ask yourself, words only a murmur. There is no one to listen, though, and you have no one to answer. Your mind has gears turning into place, but you are not quite willing to figure out exactly what will be different. Over the past few days you have managed to integrate yourself, albeit unintentionally, with those from the Agency, from the mistrustful Kyouka to the tense Kunikida. It was a step in a different direction, one you hadn’t planned for, and the consequences are unexplored.

You shake your head.

What was it Atsushi had told you, then his fingers brushed yours and his lips had curled up in that infectious smile of his?

“Nobody can tell you how to live your life,” he had said.

He had spoken, and he had understood. It had to have been the hours spent between the two of you; it had to be the familiarity you had grown and the unwavering trust you had cultivated.

“But please,” he continued, “consider this?”

It came out as a question, you remember. A smile of your own touches your face, and your pen begins to move.

“Alright,” you say, to the air and no one in particular. “I’ve considered.”


gelato


[Name] to rip tanizaki: can you guys maybe chill

[Name] to rip tanizaki: you realize atsushi can see all of this??

Ideals Mother to rip tanizaki: Fuck.

half-baked mummy to rip tanizaki: demoted

half-baked mummy to Communist Agency feat. Kunikida Doppo: you were the one who said no swearing, kunikida.

Ideals Mother to Communist Agency feat. Kunikida Doppo: Nobody asked, Dazai.

[Name] to Communist Agency feat. Kunikida Doppo: it’s your fault, too, dazai

[Name] to Communist Agency feat. Kunikida Doppo: you were going to rob chuuya, weren’t you

half-baked mummy to Communist Agency feat. Kunikida Doppo: maybe


Summer heat kisses your skin, the sunlight bouncing off of the canopy that the leaves, green and green and a welcoming shade to you, create. It is the early afternoon, your lunch break barely beginning, and Atsushi is chasing after Kyouka as the girl fixates her sight on the ice cream vendor at the street corner.

“Wait!” Atsushi shouts, only to be ignored as she comes to a stop and is already ordering by the time he catches up to her. “Don’t leave us behind like that.”

“Strawberry,” Kyouka says, paying the boy no mind. “In a medium cup, please.”

You laugh to yourself, an easy expression that you find yourself using more and more often as your days with the Agency pass. You do not quicken your pace, instead taking your time as you stroll down the street. It has been some time since you had been able to escape the office to explore the city this way, the workload you had been gifted with since handing in the application keeping you busy for so long. It is not unmanageable - it is more as if the others distract you so effectively that there is no need to separate work from enjoyment. They have been intertwined so thoroughly, packed into the fifteen minute breaks you take between reports and the weeklong vacations everyone takes after a particularly grueling case.

It is something different.

At first, you hadn’t been certain if it was a good thing. It had been a step outside of the comfortable bakery, the hectic schedule of a college student. But it had not taken you long to sort things out, to figure out what you wanted to do. The job was not meant to be temporary, Dazai Osamu had told you, two weeks in when he had caught you going up the elevator. He had turned his knowing stare on you, pinning you in place and reading yourself better than even you could understand.

The job was not meant to be temporary, to tide you over while you attended school to make your living. This was your life now, whether you liked it or not, whether you had intended it or not.

The realization shook you, but it settled. Atsushi had been there to help you through, a constant support in all the small things just as you had been for him. His world is different than yours, different from the very beginning, but the similarities you had seen were still there. You are not as different as you had thought yourselves to be, perhaps because of where you have ended up in the end.

You do not believe, not entirely, in the red string of fate. You are far from the superstitious type, far from the type to believe you have so little control over your own life. But, you believe that good things can happen. Chance events, coincidences, things you might have never considered before. Things that could change the course of your life so drastically you would be unable to imagine how your world would have turned out without it.

It is something different, something definitely better.

“I’ll take strawberry as well,” you say, coming to a stop behind Kyouka. The girl turns her head, already holding two cups in her hand. The look she fixes you with is appraising, but not in an unexpected way.

“Here,” she announces. Before you can react, she has shoved one into your grip. “I got this for you.”

You blink, then smile. “Thanks, Kyouka. Did - ”

“I figured you wanted one, too,” she interrupts, pulling her spoon from her mouth as she waits for Atsushi to finish paying. Never mind that she made her own money, it seemed as if every time she went out he would be somehow coerced into taking care of things.

“Did Atsushi get anything?” you ask, and she shakes her head. An odd look flits across her features, one that has her raising her dark gaze to you and a mischievous light dancing through it as her lips press together in a poor attempt not to smile.

“He said he wanted to stop by a bakery.”


Atsushi: should I pretend I’m surprised?

[Name]: probably

[Name]: unless you want to break all of them.

10

Tangle Largos!

A peace offering

The note that was sent was neatly written the crow that delivered it a sleek creature. But very large compared to his kin.

Blending in amongst many others until Xai had returned to his tavern. The only location she knew he would be eventually. The bird flew down to catch his attention. Only landing when noticed.

It held a small letter though there was a bag attached to it; bundled together around something smelling strongly of a mixture of herbs.

Originally posted by sasuke-x

The letter read simply:

Xaithan,

Consider this a peace offering if only to attempt to make things between us a little less antagonistic. The cigars are strong so do try to not smoke them all at once. Regardless of our own business, it’s clear we interact with similar groups so I suppose we’ll be seeing each other whether we like it or not.

Regards,

Adalea Sunglade

@xdarkwood