#Bungo stray dogs dazai

[dailynakaharachuuya]

Happy Valentine's day ❤️❤️

[literatureloverx]

Celebrating Valentine’s Day with BSD men

BSD men x reader, I did not use pronouns for the reader, but in some cases, it is subtly implied to be female, though not overtly so.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He would gift you—very much in line with what Asagiri confirmed—an entire country. Be prepared to manage political affairs because you will be the president and owner of your favourite nation. Congratulations!

Expect a lavish candlelit dinner, accompanied by classical music and an exquisite orchestra.

You can also look forward to many other gifts—he is never one to hold back. Your shared bedroom will likely be filled with presents, each meticulously crafted and designed just for you. The sheer intricacy and depth of his knowledge about you will leave you breathless.

The night will conclude with a magnificent fireworks display.

You made the right choice by choosing to live in isolation with him, basking in the luxury he provides—not that your answer would have made a difference if you had said no.

Dazai Osamu

We all know that Dazai—the Dazai—is, unsurprisingly, utterly broke and survives off the money of his fellow ADA members, such as Atsushi and Kunikida. (We love a pest.🩵)

He isn’t the overtly romantic type, but that doesn’t mean his love is any less intense.

He will likely buy you a bouquet of roses with Kunikida’s money and give Atsushi his best puppy-dog eyes to help him get you a pair of matching rings.

But then comes the truly unexpected part—he takes you stargazing in the freezing cold, having put in all the effort to create a soft, cosy space for you both to lie on, complete with extra blankets and pillows.

And when it starts snowing? You are going home, of course—not that he didn’t account for this. He has another present waiting for you there—one he actually bought himself, which is precisely why he had no money left for anything else.

He is a pervert. That is all I am going to say.

Nakahara Chuuya

Another man with refined tastes and a big, considerate, loving heart for his darling. He would spend weeks—if not months—thinking about the perfect way to celebrate this day with you, determined to make it unforgettable.

Chuuya pays attention—he really does, because he cares that much. Though he is not the best with subtleties, he does his best to take mental notes on everything you like and dislike, everything you want and do not want.

So, expect gifts that are carefully chosen, each one making it clear just how much he notices about you.

The evening will likely begin with him presenting you with a luxuriously crafted dress from a high-end designer—one he specifically picked for you. He wants you to wear it because he is taking you somewhere special, and of course, you will, with the brightest smile on your face.

You will dine at an exclusive restaurant, sharing exquisite wine and food together.

And knowing Chuuya, he will not stop at just one gift. Throughout the night, he will keep surprising you, giving you something new every half hour—because spoiling you is just second nature to him.

Nikolai Gogol

Haha, you silly thing. You actually think Valentine’s Day is romantic? That ridiculous day where Homo sapiens willingly cage themselves—not even in their own perception of love, but in the artificial fantasy constructed by capitalism?

Just joking. If you find it romantic, then of course, he does too. Or at least, he pretends to. Watching your reactions to his “gifts” is far too entertaining. He might as well play along and turn this whole romance thing into one of his little games.

Expect the most outrageous surprises—perhaps he will take you on a helicopter ride, only to reveal that he has written I love you on the ground below… using meticulously arranged corpses. A heartfelt, handcrafted message just for you.

Or maybe he will gift you something else grotesque—something that reminds him of you or symbolises your love in his own twisted way.

Oh, and expect plenty of Valentine’s Day quizzes.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Now, here is someone who has no idea what to do with himself on Valentine’s Day.

To him, it is pointless. Why should this day be any different from the others? And why are you looking at him like that? The expectation in your gaze makes him feel cornered.

But Akutagawa hates being behind on anything. So, despite thinking this whole thing is ridiculous (such a tsundere), he still makes an effort. He prepares something for you—a small but meaningful gift, something that proves he has thought about you, about this day, and has put effort into making you happy.

And once it is over, he lets out a relieved sigh.

Yet, later that night, when he recalls the joy on your face upon receiving his gift, he feels something warm and unfamiliar flicker inside him. He refuses to acknowledge it—but deep down, he knows.

[ribbonedreverie]

Valentine’s Day Special – Love, in All Its Forms

Because love is never as simple as it seems.

──────────

💌 Osamu Dazai – “A Trick, A Promise, A Ghost”

Dazai hands you a small, velvet box.

It is light in your palm, deceptively so. Wrapped in silk ribbon, its elegance feels like an illusion—like him. A perfect thing. A careful thing. A thing that cannot possibly be real.

“A gift,” he says, voice laced with quiet amusement, with something lilting and unreadable. “For you, my love.”

His smile is dazzling, careless, but his eyes are dark—twin abysses, where laughter and sorrow tangle into something unsolvable. He is beautiful like this, beautiful in the way ghosts are, in the way things that do not belong to this world always are.

You hesitate.

“You don’t trust me?” His voice is light, teasing, but there is something beneath it—something sharp, something fragile, something waiting.

You exhale. “Should I?”

His grin widens, but he does not answer.

The ribbon falls away. The lid lifts without resistance.

Inside is—nothing.

Empty.

You blink. A trick. A joke. A riddle without a solution.

Dazai tilts his head, watching you. “Oh? You look disappointed.” His voice is gentle, curious, almost sincere. “Were you expecting something real?”

And there it is. The truth of it. The sleight of hand.

Because the box was never the gift. The nothingness inside it was never the joke.

This was never about a gift at all.

This was about him.

About whether you would look into that emptiness and see absence or offering. About whether you would expect something from him that he does not know how to give.

And so, you close the box with steady hands. You set it aside. You meet his gaze and say, quiet, certain, unshaken—

“I don’t need gifts from you, Osamu.”

For a moment, the air is still.

Then, he exhales. His shoulders ease, the sharp edges of his expression softening, fracturing into something tired, something relieved. He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours, and when he smiles, it is no longer a performance.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he mutters, but the words are warm, affectionate, almost fond.

You say nothing.

But when your fingers weave into his hair, when you whisper, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Osamu,” with no demands, no expectations—

That is the moment he believes you.

That is the moment he allows himself to love you.

💌 Chuuya Nakahara – “A Love That Never Wavers, But Fears Losing”

Chuuya’s love is something tangible.

It is in the rich, crimson swirl of wine in crystal glasses, in the golden flicker of candlelight dancing across his sharp features. It is in the silk-wrapped box he presses into your hands—heavy, deliberate, a silent declaration. A promise, tied with a ribbon.

“You didn’t have to go all out, Chuuya.”

He scoffs, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. Of course I did.”

Because Chuuya does not love in half-measures. He does not believe in simplicity, in withholding, in doing anything by halves. Love is not a quiet thing to him; it is fierce, relentless, something he gives with his entire being.

And tonight, he wants you to know it.

Yet, beneath the warmth of your laughter, beneath the teasing remarks and the gentle clinking of glasses, something gnaws at the edges of his mind. A weight in his chest that refuses to settle.

It is a ghost of an old wound, an ache that time never truly dulled.

The knowledge that love is fragile. That the things he cherishes have a way of slipping through his fingers. That no matter how tightly he holds on, no matter how much he gives, nothing is ever promised to last.

He doesn’t say it aloud. But it lingers in the way he watches you when you aren’t looking, in the way his fingers twitch slightly against his glass, as if bracing for something inevitable.

Because he knows loss too well. He has worn it like a second skin, carried it in the quiet corners of his heart.

And so, when the evening fades into the hush of midnight, when the city hums softly beyond the window, when you settle into his arms and trace idle patterns against his wrist, the question slips out—raw, uncertain, too vulnerable for a man like him.

“You love me, right?”

It is quiet, rough, an unpolished edge of a confession.

You blink up at him, your fingers stilling. “Of course I do.”

But that is not what he means.

He means—will you stay?

Will you still love me when the fire turns to embers?

Will you choose me again and again, even when I falter, even when I break?

Will you hold onto me, even when the world turns cruel?

Because Chuuya has lost too many times. And every love he has known has come with an expiration date, with an ending written long before he ever had a chance to change the story.

And yet, as you lace your fingers through his, as you press your lips against his knuckles and whisper, “Always, Chuuya,”—

He lets himself believe you.

Even if it terrifies him.

💌 Ryunosuke Akutagawa – “A Love That Does Not Know Softness, But Tries”

Akutagawa does not celebrate Valentine’s Day.

Or rather—he does not see the point.

There is no logic in flowers, no necessity in chocolate. No reason to carve out a single day for affection when love, in its truest form, should be unshakable, unwavering, absolute. A thing not paraded but proven, written into the quiet spaces between battle and survival.

So when you place a small, wrapped box in front of him, he does not reach for it. Not immediately.

“What is this.”

Not quite a question. More like a demand.

“A gift, Akutagawa.”

His brows furrow slightly, suspicion flickering in the sharp cut of his gaze. And yet—his hands move before his mind can reason against it. A habit born from hunger, from a life spent knowing that the things given freely are often the most dangerous.

The paper unfolds in careful, precise movements. Not rushed, not careless—because things like this have always been fleeting for him. And when the lid of the box lifts, when he sees what rests inside—

He stills.

Tea.

Not just any tea, but fine blends—rarest leaves, carefully chosen, each labeled with delicate, handwritten notes.

One for quiet mornings.

One for sleepless nights.

One for when the cold settles too deeply into his chest.

Your notes are not grand declarations, not loud with sentiment, but they are something else. Something far more dangerous.

They are intimate.

Because you have seen him. Not just as a weapon, not just as a shadow against the world, but as something more. Someone who reaches for warmth in the smallest, quietest ways.

You shift slightly under his silence, fingers curling against your palm. Did you misstep? Did you give him something he would not want, something he could not understand?

But then—his fingers brush against the tea leaves. A ghost of a touch, reverent in its hesitance.

He knows these. He recognizes them. You must have noticed which ones he drinks the most, which ones he reaches for when he thinks no one is looking.

And yet—you have never asked. Never teased, never acted as though his small indulgences were something to be explained.

“…You noticed.” His voice is quieter than before, his expression unreadable.

“Of course,” you murmur, looking away. “I notice everything about you.”

His throat tightens.

This—this is unfamiliar.

Not devotion out of fear.

Not obligation disguised as care.

Not something he has to fight for, claw for, prove himself worthy of.

Just love, given freely.

A terrible, wonderful thing.

He exhales, slow and deep. And when he closes the box, he does not set it aside.

Instead, he pulls it toward him. Keeps it close. A choice made with intention.

Later, when he prepares his tea, he will reach for your gift before anything else. He will read your notes again and again, tracing the ink with the tip of his finger, as if memorizing the way you see him. As if trying to believe in it.

Because Akutagawa does not know how to accept love.

But for you, he is willing to try.

💌 Fyodor Dostoevsky – “A Love You Must Chase, But Never Quite Reach”

“You should stop looking at me like that, my love.”

Fyodor’s voice is smooth, the kind of smoothness that comes before a blade presses to your throat. A silk ribbon unraveling. A noose tightening.

“Like what?” you murmur.

A slow smirk. He knows. He always knows.

“Like I belong to you.”

The words settle between you like dust in an old cathedral, like scripture rewritten to suit the moment.

Because he does not.

You have always known this—Fyodor Dostoevsky belongs to no one but himself.

And yet, he lets you chase him.

Lets you press your fingertips to his wrist, feel the faint, steady pulse beneath porcelain skin. Lets you lean close enough to breathe in the scent of ink and candle smoke, of something fading, something fleeting. Lets you watch him, study him, search for something real beneath the layers of deceit, as if peeling them back will reveal a man instead of a ghost.

“I wonder,” he muses, tilting your chin up with the careless grace of a scholar dissecting a thought, “why you insist on following me, even when you know you will never catch up.”

Your breath shudders, but you hold his gaze. “Because I love you.” As if those words could be an offering. As if love could ever be enough for a man who has built his world upon something more divine, more tragic.

His smile is a quiet thing, hollow and knowing. It does not reach his eyes.

“Ah, such devotion.” His thumb grazes your lower lip, lingering, as if considering something. “And yet, you still expect something in return. How human of you.”

Because this is his game.

A love that pulls you in, then slips through your fingers.

A love that leaves you wandering through darkened hallways, chasing the echo of his laughter, the ghost of his touch.

A love that tests your faith, again and again, to see if you will break before he does.

And yet—when he kisses you, slow and deliberate, his hand ghosting over your pulse, lingering like a priest at the altar—

You wonder if this is what devotion is supposed to feel like.

If love is meant to be a hymn or a curse.

If you are kneeling at his feet, worshiping a god, or walking beside a demon who delights in leading you astray.

💌 Nikolai Gogol – “A Love That Makes You Question If It Was Ever Real”

“Close your eyes.”

You hesitate. “Nikolai—”

“Tsk, tsk. No trust?” His voice lilts, a mocking melody, amusement curling at the edges. Playful, yes—but beneath it, something lingers. Something fleeting, something just out of reach.

You sigh, letting your lashes flutter shut.

Silence. Then—a rush of air, the faintest shift in the atmosphere. The moment stretches, taut and uncertain. And then—

A breath against your skin. Warm. Lingering.

“You’re waiting for a trick, aren’t you?”

“Always.”

A sharp inhale. A pause that lasts just a second too long.

And then—a kiss.

Featherlight. A whisper of contact against your temple, so soft that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it.

Your eyes fly open.

But Nikolai is already twirling away, spinning like the world itself is his stage, his laughter the soundtrack to a performance only he understands.

“See?” he sings, arms spreading wide, as if inviting applause. “You never know what to expect from me!”

And you don’t. That is the problem.

Because in the flicker of candlelight, in the way shadows play upon his features, you cannot tell where the performance ends and the man begins.

Because you do not know if that kiss was real, or just another illusion.

Because Nikolai is a mirage in the winter fog, a trick of the light, a specter draped in a coat too heavy for his frame. A man who slips through your grasp like paper caught in the wind, always just beyond reach.

And Nikolai?

He will never tell you.

Because what is love, if not a trick of the senses?

What is devotion, if not a cruel joke, a story that unravels the moment you believe in it?

What is he, if not a character in his own tale, spinning lies so intricate that even he forgets where the truth once lay?

And so, you stand there, heart caught between longing and doubt, watching him disappear into the snowfall.

Wondering if he was ever really there at all.

💌 Sigma – “A Love That Wonders If It Is Enough”

Sigma holds the gift in his hands as if it is made of something fragile—glass, gold, a dream too delicate to last.

“It’s… for me?”

His voice is unsteady, uncertain, like a man waking from a dream he was never meant to have.

“Of course it is,” you murmur, watching him carefully, as if the wrong word might shatter him.

His fingers tremble as he unwraps it—something small, something simple, but something chosen. Something meant for him, without expectation, without demand.

And that? That is everything.

Because Sigma has spent his entire existence defined by others. By necessity, by purpose, by hands that molded him into something useful but never something loved. He is an answer to a question no one remembers asking, a creation given life without being given a reason to keep living.

He does not remember ever being given something just because.

He does not remember ever being wanted simply for who he is.

So he stares at the gift, fingers tracing its edges, as if trying to commit the weight of it to memory. As if it might disappear the moment he looks away.

As if he does not trust it to be real.

“You don’t have to look so shocked, you know,” you tease, nudging him gently, grounding him back into the present. “You deserve nice things too.”

Sigma exhales, and the sound is unsteady, like wind through an empty corridor.

“Do I?”

His question is not dramatic, not self-pitying. It is quiet. Honest. A thought spoken aloud, unguarded, as if he truly does not know the answer.

You take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers through his, warm and steady. A reassurance.

“Yes.”

A simple thing. A truth. A thread of certainty in the shifting, uncertain fabric of his existence.

But truths are difficult things, and belief is a skill he has never learned.

Still—when you kiss him, soft and steady, when your lips press against his like a vow he does not yet have the words for—

He lets himself want to believe.

Even if just for tonight.

Even if only in this fleeting moment, where the world feels small enough for love to exist without condition.

──────────

Happy Valentine’s Day, loves.

May today be wrapped in warmth, painted in soft blush hues, and filled with the kind of love that lingers—whether in a whispered confession, a fleeting touch, or a gaze that holds just a second too long. Love isn’t always grand or dramatic; sometimes, it’s found in the way someone remembers your favorite book or saves the last piece of chocolate for you.

So whether you’re reveling in romance, cherishing friendship, or simply indulging in the beauty of your own heart, know this—you are adored, you are captivating, and the world is all the more enchanting with you in it.

Consider this a stolen glance, a lingering smile, a little love note just for you. Happy Valentine’s, darling. 💌✨

[itsandyhere]

guess where this guy’s headed

[someonehasgiventheratsapen]

I know I haven't posted in a while, but happy valentines day <3

Also yeah soukoku is still my fave but I thought this would be silly :]

[aliyahgracedrawing]

Happy Valentine’s Day yall

I know it’s not Valentine’s Day where I am anymore, because I was too late and kinda forgot it existed, but I’m sure it’s still Valentine’s Day somewhere so this counts ig

[dazai-a-day]

Happy Valentine’s Day! Messy doodle of these guys :3

[mel-loly]

“Why are you smiling? Did you get a boyfriend/girlfriend on this Valentine's Day?”

-Unfortunately not, but I'm happy being the third wheel among them!

[nori-draws-sometimes]

Dazai is the ultimate consequence. Thoughts and prayers for kunikida

[drlqra]

The Painter and The Muse

in an AU where dazai is a painter, and oda was a writer-

while ango is a bitch LMAWOAKWJHJDAJK

[dailynakaharachuuya]

Silly little doodles of @petitesmafia's twts about Dazai trying to get Chuuya to be jealous (and failing hahaha)

[saltedbiscuiit]

Egg Bread

[ribbonedreverie]

“Unsent Love Letters”

Words they will never say, letters they will never send.

──────────

💌 Osamu Dazai – “To the One Who Almost Made Me Stay”

My love,

I wrote this knowing you will never read it.

Isn’t that the safest way to say what I mean?

I have always been a man of contradictions—laughing at things I do not find funny, living in a world I have no interest in staying in, reaching for love while knowing I will never hold it long enough to keep.

You, my dear, were the cruelest of them all.

Because you almost made me want to stay.

And that—that is something I can never forgive.

You saw too much. You noticed too much. You looked at me as though you understood, and I have spent too long hiding to let someone see me so clearly.

And yet, I almost let you.

Almost.

If there is another life, I hope I love you properly in that one.

Yours (but never truly),

Osamu

💌 Chuuya Nakahara – “To the One I Would Have Burned the World For”

Hey, doll.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

Maybe it’s because I never told you enough. Maybe it’s because I told you too much. Maybe it’s because you left, and I don’t know what to do with all the words I never said.

I would have burned the world for you. You know that, don’t you?

I would have given you everything I had, even the pieces of me I don’t know how to share.

But love—love is cruel.

And I am my own kind of monster.

I wonder if you ever think of me. If you ever wonder what would have happened if we had met in a different life, in a different world, where love did not come with a price.

I would have been better for you in that one.

But here? In this one?

I loved you the best way I knew how.

And I hope, somehow, that was enough.

Yours, always,

Chuuya

💌 Fyodor Dostoevsky – “To the One Who Thought They Could Save Me”

My dear,

You were a fool to love me.

A fool to believe in me.

A fool to think that someone like me—a man built of conviction and cruelty and ruin—could ever be softened by something as fleeting as love.

But you tried anyway.

You touched me like I was something fragile. You spoke my name like it was something worth whispering. You kissed me as if you thought I could be saved.

And for that, I will never forgive you.

Because for a moment—just a moment—I wanted to believe you.

That is the greatest sin of all.

I will not apologize. I will not beg. I will not ask for you to stay.

But if you do—know that I will ruin you in return.

Yours, if you dare,

Fyodor

💌 Nikolai Gogol – “To the One Who Should Have Known Better”

Ah, my dear!

Do you regret it? Do you wish you had run? Do you ever think back to the moment we met and wonder if things would have been easier if you had never looked my way?

Because I do.

I think about it often.

I think about how simple it would have been if I had never touched you, never kissed you, never let you get close enough to make me hesitate.

(Oh, what a terrible thing—hesitation.)

But you were fun. You were so fun.

And I am not a man who lets go of his entertainment so easily.

So tell me, darling—was it worth it?

Would you do it again?

Even knowing how this ends?

With a smile,

Nikolai

💌 Sigma – “To the One Who Made Me Feel Like More Than a Gamble”

I’m scared.

That’s all I know how to say.

I’m scared of what it means to love someone. I’m scared of what it means to be loved. I don’t know if I deserve it, if I know how to return it, if I know how to hold something that is not meant to slip through my fingers like all the other things I have lost.

But I wanted to try.

With you, I wanted to try.

I wonder if that is enough.

If you could be patient with me. If I could learn how to love without fear.

I don’t know how this story ends.

But if you are in it—I hope it is a happy one.

Yours (if you’ll have me),

Sigma

💌 Ryunosuke Akutagawa – “To the One Who Showed Me Softness”

I do not know how to say this.

I do not know how to say anything, really—not the things that matter, not the things you want to hear.

So I will say this instead.

I see you.

I see the way you wait for me to speak, the way you listen even when I have nothing to say.

I see the way you do not flinch when I reach for you, the way you do not ask for things I do not know how to give.

I see the way you are patient with me, even when I do not deserve it.

And I think—I think I love you for it.

I do not know if I will ever say this aloud.

But if you ever wonder—know that I have never tried this hard for anyone before.

And if that is not love, then I do not know what is.

Yours, in whatever way I know how,

Akutagawa

💌 Ranpo Edogawa – “To the One Who Already Knows”

Why would I write a letter when you already know what I’m going to say?

You always do.

You read me too well. You know my moods, my habits, the way I lean against you like a cat seeking warmth but refuse to admit I need you.

You know I will never say I love you outright—because it’s obvious, isn’t it?

I do not waste time stating facts.

I do not waste time on things that are already understood.

But if you need to hear it—if you ever need proof—just look at the way I let you stay.

Look at the way I let you close.

Look at the way I never correct you when you assume I love you.

Because you are right.

You always are.

Yours (as if that wasn’t obvious),

Ranpo

──────────

There’s something tragically beautiful about unsent love letters—words aching to be read, confessions swallowed by time. They hold a love that lingers, untouched by reality, forever suspended in what-ifs. Perhaps in another life, I sent them. Perhaps you read them. But here, they remain unread, and maybe that’s where they were always meant to stay. ♡

[sailor-4lexa]

BSD X THE KID AT THE BACK AU¡

[someonehasgiventheratsapen]

Recently saw the phrase "double-blind" in my psych textbook and it made me think of double-black. And then I thought of some more variations, so now i'm making it yall's problem.

I also did a little comic for "double-bind" but I'll post that separately

[refriedcaprisun]

‼️‼️CHAPTER 121 ‼️‼️

‼️‼️‼️ SPOILERS‼️‼️

This is what i imagine hallucination dazai was doing right before chap 121

genuinely dont know whats happening in the manga rn but i know im loving it 😼‼️‼️