#bsdweek2018

[shira-san-ni]

bsdweek2018: [day 4] — For the tainted sorrow

[option 2: Favorite minor character] — The Russian duo: Fyodor & Nikolai

[redzeverin]

[Bungou Stray Dogs Week 2018] #7: The Guild/ Favorite Character/ Favorite Bond  (otp/brotp/relationship) 

"I'm gonna send a pic to Dazai." 

"....should I-" 

"Well, if you want to join in, first you gotta wear these." 

"...why." 

"If you wanna be strong, you gotta be badass, Akutagawa."

[thetaintedsorrows]

bsdweek2018 - day three: no longer human

[thecrux-deluxe]

Bsdweek2018 day 2: Rashamoun 

 option 3: Favorite Mafia member — Gin Akutagawa 🔪

[joo-joo-bee]

BSDweek2018: day three  — No Longer Human

[hikarikage744]

Bungou Stray Dogs Week 2018

Day 1: Beast Beneath the Moonlight (Favourite Organization - Port Mafia)

Gifs do not belong to me (I got them from the internet)

[bokutosbiceps-abandoned]

Jealousy // An Akutagawa Ryuunosuke Character Study

My only hope is for one word. A simple, trivial word from a certain person...for the sake of hearing that word, I have come through countless humiliating defeats.

It seemed to be his mantra; the explanation for his motives and the reasons he was the way he was. He killed, because he wanted to hear that one word. He hated, because he wanted to hear that one word. He lived, because he wanted to hear that one word.  

The metallic scent of blood was never perturbing to him as it wafted its heat across his nostrils. The familiar smell seemed to have a correlation to whenever he was finishing up a mission, as it dripped upon the floorboards, or pavement, or grass, and leaked into the earth below. The sight of blood is supposed to wrench one from their thoughts and throw them into action, mind racing with ideas on how to make the bleeding stop; but for him, the bleeding never stopped. His hands may have been covered in crimson sins, but his conscience was gleaming white and pure.

Jealousy is the fear of being replaced, but who was he afraid of being replaced by? He must have been doing all of this because he feared he would eventually be replaced. But he could not be replaced by merely anyone, so he was always secure in the fact that only he belonged to his mentor. He alone. But then his dictator left and took that security with him, stuffing it into his luggage like one would do something remembered at the last possible minute.

He couldn't decide if he was out of control. He couldn't decide if he liked being a pawn, a wild card thrown down when there was nothing left to play. He couldn't decide if any of this mattered. He was a dog of the mafia, but what was he after that? What was he when he was lying on the pavement in a pool of his own blood, or when he was getting beaten to a pulp by a man he called a mentor? He didn't necessarily agree with the things he did, but he had no time to think about them. In order to be powerful, one must have no convictions. He had relinquished the responsibilities for his actions long ago.  

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke had never had something that belonged to him and him alone; Rashoumon, his ability, and its purpose belonged to the Mafia, because he belonged to the mafia. His life was not his own, he knew that of course, because if it were, he wouldn't be wasting his time over such a trivial thing as capturing a man who turns into a tiger. He wouldn't care about the bounty hanging over the man-tiger's head, he'd simply kill him; the man turned tiger would make a fine and profound addition to his list of accomplishments that he could eventually present to--

"Akutagawa-senpai, we've located the weretiger--he's been taken in by the Armed Detective Agency." The name of the detective agency triggered the flash of a face wrapped in bandages, dripping in black blood, and smiling cruelly at him.

Perfect. A chance.

The chance at the weretiger did not result in what Akutagawa had expected it to, but it did result in what Akutagawa had hoped for. A chance to see him. A chance to put himself on display for his former mentor--but all of that was thrown to the wind when Akutagawa observed the manner in which the man in bandages regarded the weretiger.

Akutagawa now knew jealousy, and he knew from whom it stemmed.

[goddamnitdazai]

cherry {chuuaku}

For bsdweek // Day 2 - Rashomon // 1. relatable character - 2. favorite joke - 3. favorite mafia member(s)                 { Post Dark Era/ Pre - Canon } { Drabble // Platonic }                                              

Chuuya didn’t mind the heat at this hour. Earlier in the day it had been sweltering, suffocating. Even from the window of the infirmary he could feel the sun’s vigor boiling against the side of his face. He hated the scent of sterile tools and alcohol swabs and the ungodly sound of skin being sewn back together; he’d rather get choked out by humidity in the middle of the desert. But now as the moon won it’s nightly battle with the sun the warmth of summer didn’t bother him. Perched high on the metal skeleton in a row of partially constructed warehouses Chuuya could finally appreciate Yokohama’s transformation. Brilliant, golden lights climbing infinite skyscrapers, the sound of nightlife rousing from its slumber through the clinking of glasses and neon signs flickering to life. 

The new warehouses lined the port just in front of a row of bars and a convenient store that sold bottles with foreign names plastered on the label. Mafia protected, supposedly. Guilt furls in the pit of his stomach as Chuuya watches gentle ripples coast over the navy canvas underneath his feet. Just a week prior the sea had been stained a deep garnet, split apart by bullets flying and beams cracking in half. At first they were a minor annoyance, hitting trucks loaded with illegal arms meant for the black market. Then they went after the warehouses, the shops, the people merely existing in parallel with the mafia. Chuuya swallows thickly as memories swarm the forefront of his mind. He’d lost too many men too quickly; newly appointed at nineteen and already drowning. Chuuya couldn’t allow himself to feel despair for much longer, there was no point in mourning further than a day. Before the sun broke tomorrow morning there would be repentance for the lives lost on this very dock. For now, though, he would find solace at their unmarked graves. At least they found peace under the glimmering city lights; if he was ever to buried he’d rather have a good view of his city than share a hill with a bunch of strangers. The thought, though cryptic, eases the tension in his shoulders fragmentally as his thumb rolls over the neck of his wine bottle. Summer wine was only good at night. The decadent sweetness could be overpowering under the hot sun, but a blanket of lavender coated in starlight made the perfect setting. Cherries and something he couldn’t identify lace the back of his throat, numbing as it travels down and warms his belly. The throb in his side begins to lessen with each sip. “You shouldn’t be up here with your injury.” Akutagawa was unnervingly silent; if Chuuya hadn’t been surprised by the company of another member he might have gotten his head blown off. Chuuya simply shrugs and glances over his shoulder with a knowing smirk. “You’re one to talk.” Chuuya says eying the white sling cradling Akutagawa’s arm. The younger man simply blinks in response and shuffles forward with stunning composure. Silver glints of the beam as the moon rises overhead. Chuuya’s legs swing mid air, dangling over the dock carelessly. Only a portion of the warehouses had been rebuilt, and this one had only made it through the beginning stages, but Chuuya was stubborn and wanted to see the city shimmer to life. It’s metal beams were barely thick enough for Akutagawa to stand with both feet flushed together; but he moved with grace despite his clear irritation donned by knitted brows. “Want some?” Chuuya holds the bottle by the neck and shakes it, red liquid sloshing to the center. Akutagawa squints trying to read the label but he can barely grasp a single letter. He inches closer, side stepping to the thicker beam Chuuya’s perched on. Pain jolts through his shoulder and he lets out a hiss, barely audible unless you knew what to listen for. Chuuya’s eyes flicker to the side, hand shooting out with the bottle still in his grip. A scarlet brow arches; Akutagawa moves his gaze from Chuuya’s flushed cheeks to the water. “It’ll help the pain. And don’t act like you’re not feeling it from that broken arm. Just because you don’t talk much doesn’t mean I can’t sense your bullshit.” The air stills; Chuuya’s eyes narrow. “I don’t like bitter wine.” Chuuya blinks and frowns at Akutagawa’s response. “It’s not bitter. It’s summer wine. Just try it.” “I’m not of legal drinking age Chuuya-san.” “You’re in the fucking mafia.” Chuuya’s frown deepens; Akutagawa flinches. Minutes drag by before he concedes silently and eases himself down with one hand. Chuuya pushes the bottle across the beam gently before yanking a cigarette from his jacket pocket and plopping it in his mouth. Akutagawa doesn’t miss the uncomfortable angle Chuuya twists to ensure the smoke blows away from him. Chuuya’s teeth clench, free hand reaching towards his ribcage to ensure his stitches haven’t popped. Akutagawa sips from the bottle with apprehension. Chuuya’s brow arcs at the slight change in expression on Akutagawa’s face; enjoyment. Chuuya smiles, biting the sarcasm back on his tongue and flicking ash from his cigarette. A strip of moonlight cascades over the water reaching just over the dock to the base of the warehouse. Drops of crimson stain the sidewalk. Permanently etched into the ground just below Chuuya’s feet. Anger resurfaces in Chuuya’s blood. Akutagawa can feel it in snapping through the air, electrifying the small space between them. He had been there in the aftermath when Chuuya glowed red with rage and Rashomon twisted onyx through the rumbling cherry glow. Akutagawa can feel the beam vibrating beneath his legs. Chuuya’s eyes hyperfocus on the stain beneath him, unwavering, resentful. The air around him suddenly feels cold, as if ice had been dumped directly down his right side. Red static catches in his peripheral but as soon as he registers the entity its gone. Another smile tugs Chuuya’s lips upward as Rashomon refurls near his ankle. The bottle makes it back to Chuuya’s gloved hand; the beam stills. The glow of the city is as subtle as the summer breeze passing through the docks. Whipping calm waves towards the port and sliding down Chuuya’s back. There’s solitude woven in this particular silence, where Chuuya would normally prefer conversation he finds himself irrevocably content. Bitterness felt a lot less damning with company.