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the freckles in our eyes are mirror images / and when we kiss they’re perfectly aligned
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I am actually so serious I think it really messes with a childs creativity and joy to tell them to never make a mary sue OC. Like that unbridaled form of joy where you make a self insert OC who super cool and everyone loves them and they have every superpower in the world SHOULD be something a kid makes, it nourishes their ability to create things for fun and not be stifled by "oh but what if my character is too overpowered and cringey...". whatever
#thinking about tohru honda as the first character i ever kinned#that bih taught me how to love tbh#she was a template for me and i think mary sues are a good guide for how we should aspire ??#we can never reach perfection but can’t we try ?#cheapy thoughts
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people drawing and writing bllk nagi and reo as squid game has me gagged
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building off of anon’s thing about oliver fucking girls with your name: your name is oddly unique. he has to search high and low. he feels so dirty n kinda guilty but he justifies it by saying the girl gets a fantastic fuck and he gets to moan your name as much as he wants, knowing it’ll never be you specifically.
-🍒
(x)
let me add a third layer to this fucked up scenario now: oliver's also your roommate. he thinks the guy you're dating is a piece of shit. and honestly, he just wants you to know—via your apartment's woefully thin walls—exactly what it sounds like when he's moaning your name.
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anti-survival horror where you're desperately trying to die but everyone is keeping you alive
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chuuya *yapping about his day*
dazai *falling for him all over again*
all credits to the original artist @perdizzion on X, ig & tumblr
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no actually though why didn’t dazai just ask chūya to come with him was he just dumb or something
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I think you guys can tell I like drawing Dazai
These are a bunch of doodles :3
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im sorry but the caption took me out


Bfs and their matching death panels
#this is the homoerotic love i long for#i need a bf who will die for me#away with you#god they’re gorgeous#and gay!!!#gah!!!
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maybe i’m too much of a staunch “atsushi is kind of a dick” purist but i actually don’t think him witnessing dazai’s abuse will actually change all that much in terms of the direct relationships between these characters and how they act towards each other.
part of it is i think sskk’s ultimate arc is moving past the spectre of dazai haunting them, and part of it is like. akutagawa is (was..?) an abuser too. it would make no sense for atsushi to flip on dazai for akutagawa because it’s either he believes redemption is real and dazai has changed (which like, he objectively has, regardless of whether he handled his relationship with akutagawa well) and akutagawa can change too, or abuse forever tarnishes your moral character and then atsushi must hate both these guys (which he clearly doesn’t).
ultimately bsd has a complex relationship with abuse that’s often uncomfortable to acknowledge, like the fact that akutagawa has abused two women on screen and hasn’t actually made proper amends either, and the fact that bsd both acknowledges that the mafia is a cruel organisation based in child abuse and exploitation that largely operates by grooming children into violence, and also posits that the mafia is kind of a necessary entity for the safety of the city. child abuse in bsd is interpersonal, yes, but it’s also a larger system of exploitation of ability users, largely for combat, and practically every character participates in that system to a degree.
even the agency has child members, and while for some it can be argued that the agency saved them from bad situations, kenji, for example, seemingly lived a normal peaceful life until he was recruited to be a child soldier.
ultimately i don’t think the wish fulfilment scene where atsushi explicitly rags on dazai for treating akutagawa badly will ever happen, especially considering this isn’t news for him and atsushi hasn’t been sympathetic to akutagawa about it before. i’m not saying it’s not going to be called out, but i don’t think the #dazaiisoverparty is happening guys hold your horses
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Can't help myself, have to request again because I was thinking about this the other day, and I need to see what you would create out of this scenario:
The men of BSD reacting to their lover calling them drunk. (reader insert) just like a mini-drabble of how they'd be in this situation because we know they'd all have drastically different takes.
If you're not comfortable with this specific scenario maybe just them reaching out to them when they need help (like they're out late at night and they're scared) just like an interesting/vulnerable-ish moment is what I'm interested to see how they would each handle.
You can do whatever men you want but I was hoping for: Ranpo (I love how you write him), Dazai, Chuuya, Akutagawa, Fydor, Mori, Fukuzawa, Oda, and Ango if at all possible. Just because I'm most curious about them. I know that's a lot though so no worries if it's less or not possible.
It was just an idea I had and was curious about how you'd handle but never feel like you have to. I know you're working on other things and if this doesn't fall within things you'd like to write about, no worries at all. I just love seeing your natural dialogue flow and wanted to see where you'd go with this interesting scenario and cast of characters.
I hope you'll consider the request <3
Whispers Between the Lines
This contains several heavy psychological and emotional themes, including psychological manipulation, gaslighting, Stockholm syndrome, unhealthy dependency, emotional coercion, control, power imbalance, toxic relationship dynamics, alcohol use, intoxication, loneliness, isolation, emotional vulnerability, implied emotional abuse, existential despair, and feelings of entrapment. (Most of these are for Mori)
Chuuya Nakahara: “Love Spilled Between Midnight Calls”
The moment he picks up, the world stills.
His breath catches, sharp, and when he speaks, his voice is edged with urgency.
“Where are you? What happened?”
He thinks something’s wrong.
But then you speak—soft, trembling, a quiet storm of love and longing spilling from your lips.
And oh—
Chuuya goes silent.
You tell him how much you love him, how he is everything, how you never thought you’d have this kind of love.
How you don’t deserve him—but God, you love him anyway, with every trembling, aching piece of yourself.
And Chuuya—
He is drowning.
His chest is too tight, his heart hammering like it’s trying to break free. He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, his breath uneven, his grip on the phone unsteady.
You don’t say these things often—not like this, not in this raw, unguarded way.
And you’re drunk, which means you are honest.
“Damn it.” His voice is thick, heavy with something he can’t name.
“You really think you don’t deserve me?” A breath—sharp, unsteady. “You—God, you’re my whole damn world, you idiot.”
And if your voice wobbles, if you sniffle even a little—he’s done for.
“Alright, that’s it. Stay where you are—I’m coming to get you.”
He doesn’t care if you tell him you’re fine.
He doesn’t care if you say it’s nothing.
Because the thought of you, alone, drunk and overwhelmed with love, is unbearable.
And when he finds you—wherever you are—he doesn’t speak at first.
He just pulls you in.
His arms are strong, steady, unyielding, as if holding you tight enough might press all your shattered pieces back together.
You can feel it, the way his heart slams against his ribs, how he clings to you like you are something sacred.
“You love me, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a tremor beneath it, something fragile, something breaking.
You nod, small and hesitant, as if love could slip through your fingers like sand.
And then—he kisses you.
Your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach. Soft, reverent, like a vow written into your skin.
“Good,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over your temple. ”‘Cause I love you more, and I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.”
Dazai Osamu: “Whispers at the Witching Hour”
The phone rings, slow and syrupy in the late-night hush.
A lull of static, then a voice—soft, silken, and just the slightest bit unsteady.
“Dazai~,” you purr, your words curling like smoke, slipping through the receiver in lazy ribbons. “It’s late, isn’t it? Or… early? I can’t tell. But does it matter?”
A pause—just long enough to feel like a caress, just long enough to let the silence hum between you.
Dazai leans back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. He recognizes that tone, the way it drips with something dangerous, something intoxicating.
“I’m bored,” you continue, sighing, and he can hear it—the delicate tilt of your lips, the way amusement colors the edges of your voice like the last traces of dusk. “And I thought of you… Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Dangerous?” Dazai hums, fingers twirling the cord of the phone absentmindedly. “My dear, you wound me. Are you saying I’m a bad influence?”
A giggle, light as the clink of ice in a glass. “Oh, Osamu… don’t play coy. You know exactly what you are.”
There’s a shift in your tone now—something teasing, something languid. It trails down his spine like fingertips dragging over silk.
“Won’t you come play with me?” you muse, voice dipping into something rich, something molten. “The night feels lonely without a little trouble to keep it company.”
Dazai chuckles, but there’s something sharp beneath it—something intrigued.
“And what kind of trouble are you looking for, my sweet?”
A laugh, breathless and honey-drunk. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”
Dazai exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. He can picture it—the way you’re likely sprawled out, limbs loose, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with mischief. The way your lips would part just so as you speak, as if inviting him closer even through the distance.
His fingers twitch against the receiver, the weight of the moment settling over him like a silk sheet—thin, delicate, and undeniably electrifying.
“Come find me, Dazai. If you dare.”
And then, just like that, the line goes dead.
Dazai blinks. For a beat, he simply sits there, the air thick with your lingering presence. Then, a slow, breathy chuckle escapes him, rolling through the quiet like the first drop of rain before a storm.
“Ah…” he murmurs to himself, running a hand through his hair. “What an interesting little game you want to play.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his mind already spinning. He should let it go—chalk it up to drunken whimsy, let you stew in your own mischief.
But where would the fun be in that?
A dangerous game, indeed.
And Dazai has never been one to resist temptation.
Ranpo Edogawa: “Dial Tone Confessions”
Ranpo doesn’t answer immediately.
His phone buzzes once, twice—persistent, an insistent little thing that refuses to be ignored. It’s late, too late for reasonable conversation, but curiosity flickers in the depths of his knowing eyes as he finally picks up, bringing the device lazily to his ear.
“Hmm~,” he drawls, the syllables of his greeting stretching like melted caramel, smooth, slow, indulgent. “It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?”
A giggle bubbles through the receiver, unfiltered and weightless, like the clinking of glass bottles on a city curb. Ah. He tilts his head, amused. There’s a slur in your tone, subtle but telling, a looseness that drapes over your words like silk slipping off a shoulder.
“Ranpooo,” you sing, voice syrupy, teasing, like you’re calling for a stray cat that refuses to be tamed. “Guess where I am.”
He exhales through his nose, a smirk curling at his lips. “On the floor.”
A beat of silence. Then a dramatic gasp.
“Okay, that was a lucky guess.”
“It wasn’t.” He yawns, stretching an arm over his head, already sinking further into his couch. “You’re drunk, and when you drink, you get clumsy. And when you get clumsy, you fall. You should be thanking me for my genius, really.”
Another laugh, softer this time. “What would I do without you?”
Now, that’s interesting.
His eyes glint with something keen, sharp, something infinitely amused but not entirely unserious. It’s always been like this between you two—an intricate push and pull, a game of cat and mouse where neither wants to admit who’s chasing who.
But here, in this hazy hour where the world is quiet and the walls are thinner, the game bends just a little.
“You’d be lost,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something quieter, something almost fond. “Obviously.”
You hum, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the faint crackle of the call, the weight of something unsaid pressing between you.
Then—
“You know,” you whisper, conspiratorial, as if telling a secret meant only for him. “If things were different… if I didn’t—if I wasn’t—” You hiccup, cutting yourself off. “We would be something.”
Oh.
Ranpo stills, lips parting slightly.
A lesser man might have asked something what? But Ranpo isn’t lesser—he is all-knowing, all-seeing, and the answer is already curled around his ribs like an old, familiar ghost.
Something ruinous.
Something catastrophic.
Something that would burn too brightly, too quickly, until all that’s left is the memory of its light.
But instead, he only chuckles, airy, effortless, a magician tucking a trick up his sleeve. “Oh, you,” he muses, closing his eyes. “You say the sweetest things when you’re drunk.”
You whine, half-complaint, half-laughter. “You’re so mean to me.”
“And yet, you keep calling,” he counters smoothly.
A pause. Then, barely above a breath—
“Because you always pick up.”
Ranpo’s eyes flicker open, caught, for the first time, off-guard.
But then, his grin returns, sharp and knowing, curling like the last move in an unwinnable game.
“Well, of course,” he murmurs, voice lighter than air but grounding all the same.
“I already knew you would.”
Mori Ougai: A Late-Night Conversation Between a Caged Bird and Its Keeper
The world was spinning.
Not violently, not chaotically—just in a slow, dizzying waltz. Like a star drifting off course, like the ocean tide lapping at the shore in endless repetition.
You lay sprawled across the floor of your dimly lit apartment, the ceiling blurring in and out of focus. A forgotten bottle of wine rested at your fingertips, its contents long since emptied.
Drinking away the silence had been the plan.
It didn’t work.
Loneliness settled deep in your bones, unshakable and cruel, whispering the same tired truth over and over: There is no one. You are alone. You will always be alone.
Your numb fingers fumbled with your phone. There was no thought behind the action, only instinct, only the need for another voice—any voice. The names on the screen blurred together until one stood out, sharp and clear.
Mori Ougai.
A dry laugh broke the silence. What a ridiculous idea. Calling Mori was like calling the executioner when already on the chopping block—foolish, dangerous, and yet… strangely inevitable.
Your thumb hovered over the dial button.
Don’t.
Pressed it anyway.
It rang. Once. Twice. Then—
“My, my. What an unexpected surprise.”
His voice was smooth as silk, sharp as a scalpel. He didn’t sound tired. He never sounded tired.
A shaky exhale. Hanging up now would be the right choice. Tossing the phone across the room and pretending this never happened would be the safest option.
But the line remained open.
“…Mori.”
His name slipped out, barely more than a breath, slurred just enough to betray your state of mind.
A chuckle. Soft. Knowing.
“What a rare occasion. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
You press a hand to your fevered forehead, warmth from the alcohol spreading beneath your skin.
“I… I don’t know.”
A pause. He was listening. He was always listening.
“Are you drunk, my dear?”
A small, breathless laugh. “Maybe.”
“And yet, you called me.”
The implication lingered.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe a distraction was all you needed—something to chase away the unbearable quiet, not… this.
But there was no taking it back now.
“Lonely, are we?” Mori’s voice was almost mocking, but not quite.
Silence.
He didn’t push, didn’t demand an answer. He didn’t need to.
“…Yes.”
A slow inhale. Then—
“How tragic. Loneliness is such a cruel thing, isn’t it?” His tone softened, coaxing. A doctor speaking to a patient on the verge of breaking. “No one to talk to, no one to hold you. It must be unbearable.”
A lump formed in your throat.
“It is.”
“But you called me.”
Not a question. A claim.
Shame coiled in your chest. What was the thought process behind reaching out to him of all people? Comfort from Mori? A joke. A pathetic, laughable joke.
“I should go.” The words were weak, barely convincing, but you said them anyway. The phone was halfway pulled from your ear when—
“Ah, but… if you hang up, you’ll still be alone.”
Your breath caught.
Because he was right.
It didn’t matter how dangerous, how cruel, how suffocating he was—he was still the only one answering the call.
Tears burned at the edges of your blurred vision. They weren’t welcome.
“Why are you doing this?” The voice that spoke barely sounded like your own.
“Doing what?”
“Being… this.”
A pause. A smirk, audible even through the phone.
“Being what, my dear? The only one who picks up the phone when you call?”
Damn him.
“If you need me,” he continued, smooth as a blade sliding between ribs, “all you have to do is ask. You know I take care of my own.”
Your breath hitched. His own.
Was that what you were now? Just another piece in his careful arrangement of pawns?
The worst part was that you couldn’t even argue.
Silence stretched between you. Long. Unspoken. Dark.
“Go to bed,” Mori commanded, voice deceptively soft.
A quiet rebellion flared in your chest. “And if I don’t?”
A chuckle. “Then you’ll stay on the line with me all night.”
A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear, not from warmth, but from something worse.
“…Goodnight, Mori.”
The call ended.
The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering against the floor.
But the damage had already been done.
The call had been made.
Ango Sakaguchi: A Call at the Edge of the Night
The phone rings at an ungodly hour.
You don’t expect him to pick up.
You don’t even know why you called—only that the weight in your chest was too much, too unbearable, and for some foolish reason, he was the first name your trembling fingers found.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then, a click.
“Angoooo…”
His name slips from your lips, loose and unguarded, tangled in something fragile. Something you’ve spent too long trying to swallow down.
A long silence.
Then, a sigh—one you feel more than hear.
“Where are you?”
Of course that’s the first thing he says.
Not why are you calling me?
Not what do you need?
Just the same, measured question he asks when dealing with people who have become problems—something to be contained, something to be handled.
You laugh, but it’s small. Hollow.
“Does it matter?”
You hear him shift. The rustle of paper, the faint scrape of glasses being adjusted.
You can picture him now—sitting in that dim, quiet apartment, surrounded by papers that dictate the fate of people he’ll never meet.
Maybe you’re just another name on a list to him.
Maybe you always have been.
“You probably think I’m pathetic.”
You don’t mean to say it. But the words are already there, slipping through the cracks in your chest before you can stop them.
Another silence.
Not denial.
Not agreement.
Just Ango, sitting in the space between words, like he always does.
“What happened?” His voice is quieter now.
You close your eyes. Nothing. Everything.
It’s too much, and yet not enough to explain the weight pressing against your ribs.
Because maybe it wasn’t just tonight.
Maybe it was the months of exhaustion settling in your bones, the ache of always giving and never being given to, the unbearable loneliness of knowing someone cares but never quite enough.
And maybe—maybe—that’s why you called him.
Because Ango never lets himself care.
And somehow, that makes it easier.
“Ango,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “If I disappeared… would you come looking for me?”
The silence is deafening.
Your heart twists.
You shouldn’t have asked.
You shouldn’t have asked because you already know how this ends.
Because you know what happened the last time he lost someone who mattered.
Because Ango doesn’t allow himself to want. To hope. To save.
Not anymore.
But then—his voice, low, steady, aching.
“Yes.”
Your breath catches.
It’s a lie.
Or maybe it isn’t.
Maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s the truth he doesn’t want to admit.
You swallow hard, chest tight, fingers gripping the phone like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.
“You shouldn’t say things like that, Ango.”
It comes out softer than you intend. A warning. A plea.
And maybe you imagine it, but for just a second, you think he wants to say something more.
But he doesn’t.
Because Ango always stops himself before he gets too close.
Before he lets another name become something more than just another loss waiting to happen.
The line goes dead.
And you’re left sitting there, staring at the empty screen, wondering why you ever thought he could be the one to pull you back from the edge.
Wondering why, despite everything—you still wanted him to.
────
Apologies for the delay; I found myself immersed in capturing these gentlemen as I perceive them. Admittedly, I might have enjoyed a drink or two while penning some of these. Additionally, I was engrossed in my psychology and philosophy classes, both demanding papers recently. I will post the remaining characters soon. ♡
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💌 BSD Men & Handwritten Notes Hidden in Your Things ✉️
Because sometimes, love is found in the smallest details.
⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙
💌 Osamu Dazai – Little Games, Little Confessions
Dazai’s notes are a game.
You find them in your coat pockets, tucked between the pages of books, slipped into your bag when you’re not looking.
Some are teasing.
“I saw you looking at me earlier. Falling for me already, bella?”
Some are poetic.
“If I leave before you wake, don’t think of it as me disappearing—think of it as me waiting for you in another moment.”
And some—the rare ones—are real.
A napkin from the café you both love, with only five words scribbled in his elegant handwriting:
“You make the world bearable.”
You never bring them up.
And neither does he.
Because Dazai will never say these things aloud.
But he knows you find them. He knows you keep them.
And that—that is enough for him.
💌 Chuuya Nakahara – What I Can’t Say Out Loud
Chuuya doesn’t write notes often.
But when he does—you keep every single one.
They’re never long, never dramatic—just small things, things he wouldn’t say aloud but still wants you to know.
Tucked inside your wallet:
“Buy yourself something nice. And don’t argue.”
Slipped under your coffee cup in the morning:
“You didn’t sleep well, did you? Take it easy today.”
And sometimes—the ones that mean the most.
Left beside your pillow when he has to leave for a mission before you wake up:
“I’ll be back soon. Be safe. I love you.”
(That one, you keep in your nightstand.)
Because Chuuya doesn’t say these things often.
But when he does—he means them.
💌 Fyodor Dostoevsky – Messages in Riddles and Ruin
Fyodor does not leave notes.
He leaves challenges.
You find them in the books he lends you—passages underlined, cryptic quotes with no explanation.
“Is it possible to love and still be cruel?”
“To know someone is to destroy them. Do you agree?”
Sometimes, it’s a chess move written on a torn scrap of paper, left on your desk, as if waiting for you to make the next move.
But one night—you find something different.
A letter, folded neatly, hidden under your pillow.
Not a riddle. Not a test.
Just one line.
“I will never ask you to stay, but I will always wonder if you will.”
And suddenly—you realize that even Fyodor Dostoevsky has things he is afraid to say.
💌 Nikolai Gogol – Do You Know the Magic Word?
Nikolai’s notes are pure chaos.
Scattered everywhere—on the fridge, in your shoes, attached to the ceiling somehow.
“What do you mean this isn’t the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you?”
“If I disappeared tomorrow, would you miss me? Trick question, I already know the answer. (You totally would.)”
“Do you know the magic words? (Hint: it’s ‘please give Nikolai a kiss.’)”
But then—there’s one that’s different.
No jokes. No games.
Just a single note, folded small, hidden in the sleeve of your coat.
“I know I make it hard to tell, but you are the only thing I’ve ever been afraid of losing.”
And for once—Nikolai does not ask you if you found it.
💌 Sigma – I Hope You Find This
Sigma’s notes are careful.
Neatly written, placed somewhere he knows you’ll find them but never where you expect.
Inside your favorite book:
“I noticed you like reading this before bed. Sweet dreams.”
Tucked into your luggage before a long trip:
“If you get anxious, just remember—I’m waiting for you to come back.”
And once—one that makes your breath catch.
A note he must have written long before he had the courage to give it to you, one that somehow ended up between the pages of an old journal:
“I think I love you. I don’t know if I should.”
When you ask him about it, his face flushes, his hands gripping his sleeves.
“You… weren’t supposed to find that one.”
But you’re smiling.
Because you did.
And maybe, deep down, he wanted you to.
💌 Ryunosuke Akutagawa – Words Are Not Easy for Me
Akutagawa does not know how to express himself.
So when you start finding his notes, you’re shocked.
A folded scrap of paper slipped into your bag before a mission:
“Be careful. Don’t be reckless.”
A small card tucked between the pages of a book he gave you:
“I don’t know what you like, so I chose something I thought was good. Let me know if I was wrong.”
A short letter, written in careful, deliberate strokes, as if he spent too long trying to make it perfect.
“I don’t understand why you stay. But I am trying to. I don’t know how to say this in person, but I… care for you. Even if I don’t always show it.”
(That one, you hold onto the longest.)
Because for Akutagawa, love is not spoken.
It is written.
In stiff, uncertain words.
In quiet, careful notes.
In ways he will never say aloud, but hope you understand anyway.
💌 Ranpo Edogawa – If You Need Proof, Here It Is.
Ranpo’s notes are ridiculous.
Written in crayon, scribbled on candy wrappers, left in your pocket when you aren’t looking.
“If you’re reading this, you owe me a snack.”
“I’m a genius, and you love me. What a great combination!”
“I know you miss me right now. Even if I’m in the same room. (Admit it.)”
But then—a different one.
Taped to the corner of your mirror, written more neatly than usual.
“I never write things down when I don’t have to. But sometimes, I like to remind you that you matter to me. Even though you already knew that, didn’t you?”
And when you ask him about it, he just grins, stealing a bite of your snack.
“What, you wanted me to say it in person? Too bad, I already wrote it down.”
But later—when he leans against you, his head resting on your shoulder—
You hear him mutter, “Just so you know… I meant it.”
And that—that is why you keep every single note.
⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙
There’s something so endearing about the little notes left behind—playful scribbles tucked between pages, heartfelt words slipped into coat pockets, a simple “thinking of you” on a post-it by the coffee cup. Love doesn’t always need grand gestures; sometimes, it’s found in ink-stained fingertips and the quiet reassurance of I am here, I love you, I remember you. The smallest acts of love are often the greatest, not because of their size, but because of the thought woven into them—the gentle proof that someone’s heart lingers with you, even when they’re not there. ♡
#bungou stray dogs#akutagawa’s omfg#so accurate to his character#it’s almost tangible wtf#brb let me cry#🥹🥹🥹
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dazai :) i love abstract art stuff so much its so fun and quick to make!!
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first post uhh hi gang
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oh god


I'm sorry but when this gets animated, how are we gonna get this prallel that's highlighted again and again in the manga when WHAT WE GOT WAS THIS:

ARE THEY GONNA MAKE ATSUSHI LOOK LIKE THAT WHILE DYING???
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