#f. bungou stray dogs

[luffys]

arahabaki is ME

happy (belated) birthday nakahara chūya | 04.29

[bungouchronicles]

How messed up it is that even in his last moments all Bram could think about was to protect his daughter just like how he tried and failed to do all those years ago

[melliemell]

Pairing: Sigma x reader

Contents: NSFW, sex pollen, hand-job, blow-job, sigma's exemplary panic-managment (he's trying his best okay, he is), Sigma gets affected by a sex pollen and thinks he's perfectly capable of handling it by not handling it, Approx. 3.4k words

Sweat.

Sigma could feel it dripping down his back, his clothes becoming more and more uncomfortable. He stood stock-still, gaze glued to the file you gave him. He could barely read it, the words blending in with every stubborn blink to finally make sense of it. Some time had passed, but he could still hear you speaking, diligent as ever, as you reported on your most recent task.

Sigma was glad for your focus because he doubted he could keep up this front for long. Not when his recovery time was a mere 7.32 minutes. He timed it. He had to.

And then it would start again. 

It didn’t matter what he thought of or how many times he had to swallow down his own mortification– one hand would cover his mouth, the other working fast at unzipping his trousers before he was thrusting viciously in his palm, breaths ragged as muffled against his hold. He barely had time to think anything through, the need setting in sudden and merciless each time. He’s never had a high sexual drive to begin with, so wrapping his hand around his cock, stroking until he all but blanked out from the sensation– that was beginning to take its toll. The fact that he was still at work, glued to his desk, made it all the worse. And to top it all–

Nothing helped.

Which, well… Well. Sigma should have figured as much.

It’s not like he didn’t know how aphrodisiacs worked. 

He had hoped it was something else at first. He really should have focused on his morning paperwork instead of answering your call for assistance on a… problematic guest gathering. The drunkenness and rowdy screams had caused enough noise complaints to rouse the entire floor of the royal suites’ accommodations. Only, it wasn’t just alcohol.

A substance, dark as ink and staining just as easily– Sigma had made the mistake of inspecting one of the many bottles discarded at the scene, only for it to leave blotches on his fingertips, a headache not an hour later and one of the worst instances of arousal he had ever experienced in his life.

Waiting for your report was the only saving thought he could hold onto. And now to hear it, hear you– Sigma could only blink angrily at the sheets before him, mind blank save for the ticking clock by his desk and the need for you to go away go away go away.

Worst of all– you were with him then. Saw and wrote down everything he drew your attention to. Clenching his hand now would hide the marks there, yes, but it would only serve to quell his shame if just a bit. 

There was no point in it when you knew what was there. Your sympathetic gaze made it worse, even if you tried to maintain professionalism as you discussed the finer details of the substance and how the other guests were fairing after their exposure. 

���So far we’re certain the beverages were brought in from our own supply. Mostly wine, but there were quite a few hard liquors. Still no clarity on how the bottles we found were smuggled in, but the good news is that most of the effects are fading the majority of the guests who used it,” you said matter of fact, eyes reading off the tablet in your hands. 

You seemed calm. At least Sigma knew the situation was being handled by capable hands. 

He took a steady breath, jaw clenching as he forced an even voice. “Speak with Background Security about guest identification first. I’ll grant you access to their files and the Safety Feature protocol.” Identifying who the culprits were would be no issue for the Sky Casino. It was more a matter of time than success.

You nodded, handing forward your tablet for the access signature. “I’ll be done by 3 pm. Our suspects are narrowed down to seven individuals. I’ll pull them–”

“No,” Sigma said. His headache was back, making his hand tremble as he drew his pen over the screen. “Pull all of them through.”

You hesitated. “Sir, there were over 40 people on the list. Not counting the associates.” 

“Yes.”

“This will take a lot of time.”

Sigma looked up at you. “I am aware of that. Do it.”

It was an uncomfortable sight; having a coworker narrow their eyes at him, uncertainty written all over their features. This was proving to be far more troublesome than he liked. The Casino relied on him, he could not let his workers’ trust dwindle like this. 

“Sir,” and there was an edge to your voice. A warning, as you pierced his very being with your prodding observation.

Sigma stood up, leaning against his desk for support, just in case. He forced all the confidence he did not feel to seep into his posture. “It’s alright. I’ll wait for your findings.”

You sighed. “You don’t seem alright.”

“There’s nothing to fret over,” Sigma said, mustering a smile. It felt odd on his face.

Sigma’s worry began to rise again the longer you stood there watching him. 

Lower, the sensation of… something blooming anew was slowly ebbing away at his concentration. The thought of you seeing him like this was simply– mortifying. He could feel his trousers beginning to strain again, his cock filling with blood for god knows which time. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort.

Sigma kept a neutral face, not moving a muscle.

“Frankly, you look like shit, and I worry. You have three more meetings before the evening. You can’t attend in this state,” you said.

Sigma pursed his lips. “I will be available in time.” He didn’t dare think of the alternative.

You blinked, not fazed at all. “I could call for an adult escort to be brought.”

Sigma’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not,” he said, the words coming out rushed and completely unprepared for that proposition.

“We can be discreet about it. Say she’s a regular guest and remove all records afterwards.” You cocked your head, considering. “Oh, I apologize. Or he. Whichever you prefer, of course.”

Sigma sat slowly on his chair, hand grasped firmly over his mouth as he could only look at you, not fully grasping that you out of everyone would suggest– suggest such a–

He took in a steadying breath. “No?”

“The effects of the aphrodisiac reduce after sex. At least according to the guests we interviewed so far. It was a scent thing, so long as someone’s near. It will be quicker this way… and less uncomfortable,” you said, resting your tablet on the desk. Sigma pulled back, feeling his back hit the chair as you leaned closer. “You look as if you’ve not slept in days and you’re constantly sweating. Sir. I– it’s just an idea, but please consider it. I know how much you care for your work and I don’t want you to worry even more. It might help.”

This… this was a complete mess. Sigma’s body sagged, and he dropped his face in his hands as his elbows rested atop the desk. The idea was absurd. He’d never even think of it, let alone agree. His hope stayed with figuring out more about the substance and who brought it. 

Even if he had to wait for your findings. He will manage. 

He will.

And maybe you’d find access to some type of sedative? Anything to counter it. 

But… he didn’t have the time. 

Sigma looked up at you through splayed fingers, dejection in his eyes. 

“Hey there,” you said.

“Hello.” I hate this.

“It will be alright,” you said, gaze knowing. But then you softened, eyes kind as you said,  “I have great respect for you, sir, and whichever decision you make– it will not change that.”

Sigma felt warm, the heat spreading fast. It was the aphrodisiac's work, he was certain of it. But just for a moment, he wanted to pretend… pretend it was your kindness that reached out and cupped his frail heart. Had his breath hitch. Gave him enough strength to keep on. The Casino was all Sigma had, and he wanted to do the best he could for it. For all of you.

“Well,” you said, drumming a finger on the desk’s surface. 

Sigma followed the movement with his eyes, mind going blank. Your hand was slender, fingers long and moving with an air of elegance the longer he looked. He liked them.

You were waiting for an answer. He couldn’t keep you here longer. Sigma closed his eyes, eyelids heavy with the weight of his failures. “Don’t call anyone. Please.” The thought of having a… a stranger touch him like that. Having to be this close and vulnerable–against his will if he’s honest–no. Such acts were reserved for lovers; someone who cared. He couldn’t use somebody like that, only to discard them later like it all meant nothing. It would feel even worse knowing they’d do the same to him. “I don’t want that.” 

“I understand,” you said, bowing in respect. “Although–”

Sigma wanted to shrivel up and die. “What is it?”

“Why not?”

“You’re asking me why I don’t want to bring a prostitute to our establishment?”

“Yes,” you said, calm as ever. It was driving Sigma mad by the second.

“Please go deal with Background Security,” Sigma said flatly.

“Oh, I apologize,” you said. Still hovering.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Sigma really needed you to leave. Now. Right now. The strain on his trousers was nearing painful, and the dampness from his already smeared precum made every move shoot jolts of sensation down his spine. He could feel his cheeks burning. What a sight he was making; all the more reasons to spare further embarrassment. 

For the both of you. 

Something must have slipped because instead of heading for the door, you took a step closer. “Damn it, I feel bad,” you began. “Just– you look really bad. Puffy.”

Sigma pursed his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome? Sorry. I mean– I wanted to ask, although I’m no expert or with much skill, to be frank, I wouldn’t mind helping. You have a meeting in about an hour, you might make it if it works.”

Sigma just stared. 

It’s not that he didn’t hear your words, it’s just that you did not just say that. Not only was this unprofessional, it was downright unacceptable for this to even cross your mind. He would never take advantage of an employee like that left a bitter taste in his mouth. And yet…

And yet.

Sigma remained still, forcing his every muscle to move, to say something. He could only look on at you, dumbfounded. Maybe it was the shock that–

No. No. 

“I can’t possibly do that to you, it is unacceptable.”

“Oh, not sex, don’t worry,” you corrected. “I could use my hands and it would probably work as well. So technically I’ll be “doing’’, not you. I don’t mind. If you’re comfortable with that?”

…Right. 

Sigma buried his head in his hands. 

He didn’t feel comfortable with anything. Let alone that. He knew you were waiting for an answer, standing patiently before him. Probably looking at him even now. God, how pathetic he must look. He has nothing impressive about him; not much to look at, really. Yet he was the man you should look up to as your employer. The one you could rely on in times of crisis. 

Not the other way around. 

Sigma curled up even further in himself. “I’m so sorry.”

A man like him should never have been put in such a high position. He knew sooner or later you’d all realize. He was not cut out for this, any of it.

A caress, gentle yet firm. Sigma froze, feeling your hand rest on his shoulder. Your thumb moved, the gesture almost calming.

“Sigma-san?” Your voice was close. Had you moved? Sigma wasn’t sure. He didn’t dare raise his head.

“Sigma-san.” 

Firmer this time. The hand trailed to his back, and then another joined, the feeling of being engulfed spreading as you all but draped yourself over his back, your embrace pulling him closer to you as you rested a cheek on the top of his head. 

“What are you doing?” Sigma asked, voice trembling. 

“You looked like you needed it,” you said, squeezing him even closer. “I’m sorry too.”

“What for?”

“If I had dealt with those guests alone you would’ve been okay. I’m sorry it happened like that. But to be honest, I was panicking. Your presence helped a lot,” you said.

“Oh,” was all Sigma could say. 

You stayed like that for some time, your breathing the only sound in the wide open space of Sigma’s office. He tried to relax as best as he could, but the conversation you two had, combined with having a full body pressed so close to his now… You felt his shivers begin to appear, a chill running through his entire body as he desperately fought against it. 

Too close. 

You were too close and Sigma could barely keep it straight. Your skin was cold, pleasant against his and all the more tempting. 

He could just bury his face against your neck, try and collect himself. But he was scared that if he moved, your hand would stop caressing his hair, playing absently with his locks as you rested against him. He wasn’t going to survive this, Sigma knew that. He groaned in exasperation.

You hummed atop his head. “Tell me what to do.”

It wasn’t a request, but not an order either. Just words floating between you as he pieced their meaning together. Somehow, it clicked quicker this time. “This is more than enough. You don’t have–”

“Might as well cross the bridge since we’re at it,” you said, pulling away.

Sigma closed his eyes, dragging in a calming breath. The more he thought of where this was going, the more his confidence dwindled. He hated to admit it, but leaving you lead was the only calming grace he could think of. With heavy eyelids Sigma looked up at you as he uncurled from himself as best he could. “Okay,” he said, short and simple. Easy.

If only it felt like that.

The first wave of shock came when you pulled him up, positioning yourself beside him as Sigma leaned on the desk, eyes blinking and cheeks getting redder and redder. Heat pooled beneath his naval as you tugged his trousers down, concentration written all over your features. The moment Sigma’s cock came free, a cold shiver ran up his back. Keeping as quiet as he could, he waited for your hesitant touch. 

Your hands felt cold against him, but any thought of discomfort flew out the window as the first stroke of your long fingers against his shaft had Sigma clinging to his desk for dear life.

Sigma released a shaking breath, his brows furrowed as you moved your hand, drawing forth his pleasure with every stroke. His tip began leaking again, precum trailing down his shaft. Your fingers reached up, spreading it over his tip even more, drawing a low moan from Sigma’s lips in the process. 

“Oh, this is good?” you asked, using his wetness to draw forth more stimulation. 

“Yes,” Sigma panted, his face blazing bright red. Looking at you now would be the end for him.

He’s masturbated before, of course, but nothing born out of desperation quite as this. Your body felt warm against his, anchoring him in case he lost even more of his balance. Sigma rocked his hips, breath ragged, seeking more of your attention. This was humiliating, yet his body acted on its own, melting underneath you. 

Sigma buried his face against your neck, stifling another moan just in time as you sweezed harder. He didn’t know how much experience you had, but you were taking your time with him, observing and testing out with your movements.

Soon Sigma felt like a mess, and he probably looked like one too. You had nudged his legs wider at some point, nestling in between them as you pushed him back on the desk, his bare ass planted atop the files meant for reading.

And not this. 

The world was spinning, his cock harder than he’d ever been and leaking enough to coat your firm grasp in its sheen. The sound of it too, slick and lewd with your strokes made his insides twist, his Addam’s apple bobbing every time he swallowed back a moan.

Sigma’s eyelids felt heavy so he kept his eyes closed. Having you so close to him was beyond him now. He could feel your hand stroking his cheek, pushing strands of hair over his shoulder or playing with his earlobe, tugging gently.

It was overwhelming– all those sensations coming from everywhere and all at once. He wondered if you’d kiss him. You haven’t yet. The longer this stretched the more his mind wandered– to your warm breath against his cheek, lips parting as you explored his tongue with yours. He wanted…

“Hey,” you said, smiling at him.

“Hey,” he could only answer, seeking more of your touch. The muscles in his lower belly quivered, Sigma’s breath hitching as the pressure was building more and more.

“You’re okay, right? It’s good?” you asked–

–and Sigma had to open his eyes then, show you what you’re doing to him when he was certain his words would fail him.

But he wasn’t met with your gaze. No, you were looking down, almost transfixed by the way his skin moved as you dragged it up and down his shaft. You had used some of your saliva earlier to ease the movement, sending Sigma in an even bigger spiral. The sight was engraved in his mind for all eternity.

“That’s a stupid question,” he breathed, swallowing hard.

A thoughtful, “hmm…”  was all you gave him, and you tilted your head, an idea springing to mind.  “Actually–”

Words cut by the sudden shrill of the desk phone ringing, freezing you both in place as the melody engulfed you.

Fuck. “Oh, no.” 

You peeked over Sigma’s shoulder. “Told you there’s no time. Meeting’s manager?”

“Yes,” Sigma said, sight growing foggy again as your thumb moved over his leaking slit, forcing a shiver out of him. “No, wait– I…”

“Don’t send to voicemail, but don’t pick up either. Just– give me a moment.”

This was the second shock Sigma experienced. Barely having time to react, to blink away the confusion of your words before you knelt down, lowering your head and–

A low guttural moan escaped Sigma’s lips, head thrown back as you took his length into your mouth. The phone was still ringing, distant to Sigma’s ears.. The only thing in focus was your tongue licking down the length of his dick before drawing back to swirl around his tip. 

Again and again and again.

You bobbed your head, the movement fast and precise. Sigma’s abdomen began to twitch and he had to grab onto his mouth to stifle the string of moans that threatened to slip any second. He didn’t expect you to do this, you weren’t supposed to– 

Your hand grabbed onto his thigh for support, your nails digging into his flesh. Sigma hissed, feeling his eyes water, and he knew he was near. He could  feel it rising and rising faster than he could articulate. 

“Wa–” 

Not even paying attention to him, you tongued his slit before letting Sigma’s cock bottom out in your throat, your little hums of encouragement pushing, until– 

Sigma tipped over the edge in seconds, barely having time to warn you as his load shot down your throat. He was a mess, trembling all over and he could only look down at you in shock, blinking his long lashes stupidly as you brushed the saliva trailing down your chin. The sight of it still– you between his legs, his cock still in your hand as it slowly became flaccid. Even seeing it, comprehending what happened, was another story in itself.

“Come on,” you said, pulling his underwear up. “Guess we made it in time.”

It took a second before Sigma realized, before he heard the phone still ringing.  

He groaned, running a hand through his face. “That’s why?”

“We still have work to do,” you said, and you slowly stretched up. 

“Yeah.” And a small little tug formed in Sigma’s chest. One that wanted a bit more time. Just…

His hand reached, picking up the phone. “Hello? Yes, I’ll be…”

You looked at him then, shaking your head in amusement. It was a comfort, in a way; knowing you’re still on good terms as you poked him in the cheek before patiently sitting on his chair to wait out his call.

After all, you had quite a bit to discuss after this.

[chuuyaszn]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOUNO!!

(sep 24)

AND CAPITALISM!!

[musamora]

ɪᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ · ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ʙꜱᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ༉‧₊˚

featured. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma. content. f!reader. based on a request. mentions of alcohol (dazai), mentions of food, nicknames, slavic dishes. (minor) spoilers for stormbringer. translation at the end. not proofread.

author's note. this was an incredibly fun request! these men either shift between being incompetent, or not being reliant on others, so it took a sweet turn.

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

synopsis. the kitchen can be many things. a refuge from the toils of everyday life. a workshop for the creation of exquisite tastes. an assemblage of conversation over collaboration.

but one thing is certain—a well-endeavored meal can warm the coldest of hearts.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 arrived home late one evening, tromping through the doorway with the confidence only a drunken man could muster. It had been one of those nights, ones in which he was all too aware of the hollowness of his own heart. One of those days where everything was too loud, the ones where he picked up every minuscule detail, whether he wanted to or not. So, he had taken to a drink or two to fill a void, only to dip into another���before he knew it, the room was spinning, and he found himself kicked out of the bar.

But he still had you to return to, so he gathered any soberness left within him and clambered to place his trench coat and shoes in the spots you had set out for them. He was glad you didn't hear him walk in. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been granted the opportunity to take in the view. You pranced around the kitchen, a lifted twirl in your heel as you stirred ingredients in a saucepan, the domestic mess of powders against your skin.

You were all his. The reason he had a home to return to. His sanctuary from his own mind. He often fretted—though he pretended not to—about the idea of you being taken away from him, a fact that he had come to accept as his reality. But in these simple moments, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that you encompassed for a moment longer.

His arms fit snug around your waist, his head like a puzzle piece against the curve of your shoulder. "Is that for me?"

You hummed, pressing a peck on his cheek as you leaned into him.

"You'll always have a meal to return home to, Osamu."

Yeah. He'd indulge for just a little longer.

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 did not expect to pass out. He had returned home from a weeks-long mission overseas, anxiously awaiting the moment you reunited and ran into his arms—only for him to arrive early to an empty home. You were at work, and it wasn't his fault the couch clung to him like a vice! For a moment, he thought he had been dreaming of the fresh smell of savory pasta sauce and spices.

Wait. He can't dream.

He cracked open his eyes, his vision steadily straightening out, and trudged into the kitchen with a befuddled pout, his sight narrowing in on exactly what you had been up to.

"Babe."

"Chuuya!" you yelled, almost losing your grip on your spoon before you managed to catch it, clutching it close to your chest as you twisted the knob on the stove to place the heat at a simmer. "You scared me!"

His arms crossed as he leaned on the doorway. "What're you doing cooking in here by yourself?" he asked sternly, scanning the contents of the pot along with your face. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was mad. But you did know better, catching onto the subtle tilt of his brow, narrowed in simultaneous amusement and disappointment. Cooking was often a partnered endeavor.

You couldn't resist laughter, cupping his cheek as if comforting an upset child. "You've had a long week, and you looked so peaceful lying there. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

He would've been quick to argue—you could wake him anytime, no matter the circumstance—but a thought overwhelmed him and kept his mouth at bay. You had done something for him, not with anything to gain, but simply because you cared. He was used to it happening the other way around, but this. . .this felt nice.

So, he relented, his ginger locks tickling your skin as he tucked his face into your neck with a sigh. "Thank you, baby."

𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 had been busy preparing the next phase of his plans, though you supposed he was always busy—too busy to take care of his own basic needs, that was for sure. He was always sorting through different data, exploring multiple angles to achieve his goals.

With the many tasks flooding his brain, he hardly had time to abandon his screens. The skin of his thumb had worn from his subconscious biting habit as he looked over another spreadsheet of banking information, his hands about to slide over the keys yet again.

The scent of stroganoff stirred him from his trance. His eyes shifted to find a steaming plate of the delectable dish sitting next to him on the desk. And he finally registered the firm hand propped against his shoulder, with you looking upon him from above with a sweet but knowing smile.

"Eat."

He wouldn't have customarily taken kindly to such a harsh demand, but he bent to the stern look of your gaze, one that hid behind it a level of care he ravenously craved. You worried for him, not in the same fashion as his so-called "friends," but with the genuine desire to see him thrive, no matter the circumstance.

So, the demon allowed himself a momentary reprieve, kissing a smile into your hand before taking a bite of the dish.

"Delicious, as always, моя милая."

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈 had practically burst through the door, prepared to recount the travesties and trials of his day. That was until he caught onto the unmistakable scent of savory pirozhki filling. He followed his nose like a bloodhound, the smell creating a distinct path into the kitchen, where you stood, unaware of the man behind you as you mixed spices into a pan.

"What'cha cooking, dove?" His breath bristled against your ear as he sprung up next to you, using his ability with a shit-eating grin. Your expression mirrored his own, used to the stint of your lover's sudden appearances.

"I found some old Ukrainian recipes online and wanted to try them out." You held out a spoon, and he bit into the filling without a second thought—a mistake. He clutched his throat as his eyes watered, realizing it was too hot for consumption far too late. He finally managed to choke it down, releasing a loud whew!

"Trying to kill me so soon! How cruel!" he exclaimed.

Your laughter roared throughout your home, a shaking hand rubbing his back as you wiped tears from your eyes with the other. "Is it good?"

He brought a finger up to stroke his non-existent beard, humming a quick tune. "Hmm, perhaps a cup of chili powder."

"Коля," you deadpanned. "That's too much."

He sighed, a pout settled on his lips, but you caught the hand sneaking into the interior of his overcoat, snatching his wrist before he poured something irreversible into your dish. He cackled, attempting to pull away as you chased him around the kitchen island.

For a moment, it felt as if you were the only two people in the world—free of restraint. He could feel the bonds tied around him loosen. He could reach out, taste that sensation of freedom for himself. A freedom he had always found in you.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 had arrived back to his section of the Sky Casino earlier than he expected, having a strange lack of paperwork. But he simply decided to take it as a sign that he had been doing good work, and ignored the anxious feelings that always sprung from not having anything to do.

"I'm home—!" he called, but was stopped in the entryway by a sweet aroma. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the temptation to lurk into the kitchen.

"Welcome home, honey!" you called back, your voice echoing down the hallway. He stripped himself of his coat, leaving it folded on one of the benches before he trekked across the threshold, a curious shift in his furrowed brow.

You were baking cookies, fluffy chocolate-chip cookies. He couldn't resist the smile on his face, even if he wanted to, nor could he ignore the bubbling warmth in his heart. But he couldn't help his confusion.

"Cookies?" he asked, dipping his finger into a batch of dough before he popped it into his mouth. "What's the occasion?"

You swiped at him with a flour-coated hand before dusting the rest of it off on a towel. "You've been busy lately, so I wanted to make you something sweet," you stated as if it were the simplest thing. But those few simple words took him aback.

You cooked for him. No one had ever done that before, not without being an employee or attempting to manipulate him—or both. And in a matter of seconds, only enough to let in a sweep of hot air from the oven to warm his skin, he realized something that had long remained empty had been filled. He felt whole.

"Sigma!" you exclaimed, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his face. The look of concern drawn through your strained lips, your furrowed brow, and your shifting eyes only further set in his new reality—he had his family. He had found his home.

"I'm okay, love. Just. . .thank you."

моя милая = my dear коля = kolya

TAGLIST: @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @sillyspookycat @aureatchi @mxxny-lupin @emyyy007 @betweensinners

© MUSAMORA 2024— do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[zzzx009]

SHEEP DACHU AU!

Aka au where dazai was in the sheep as well

[velvetyvoyage]

reader who has an ability where if they murder someone, they get the victims life span or smth. or a reader who has an ability similar to teruko's or fyodor's, that let's them live for however long they want.

fyodor who finds you in his every life and re-birth.

[growling]

port mafia days

The original in case any of you wanna draw ur oc commanding their goon to call people slurs or something

[fury176]

Not sure if these are blessed or cursed

The idea to play around with the Guild members' designs (hell yeah, I want to make more!!) came from me laughing at a mental image of Fitzgerald with long hair doing a fabulous hair flip. Someday I'm gonna draw that too - fem Fitz with long hair and really HUGE ti-- cough ANYWAY

[luffys]

Friends (7.08) | Bungou Stray Dogs (4.03)

[ilovechuuy4]

˚ೀ⋆｡˚ I Have an Excellent Father, His Strength is Making Me Stronger!

BSD boy/girl dad HCS/reasoning

Warnings; girl dad I GUESS. (Why are y'all so upset with bsd girl dad's.

A/N: UGH THEY MAKE ME SICK IN A GOOD WAY ANYWAYS!! Do enjoy! Just a drabble before dazais bday post!!!

ADAˏˋ°•*⁀➷

N. Atsushi - Boy dad - It's not that he isn't a girl dad it's just he def is rough-housing, he would still play dress up etc if he was a girl dad but boy dad seems more accurate.

D. Kunikida - Girl dad - If he was a boy dad I fear he'd be so hard on the poor boy. Not saying Doppo won't be hard on his daughter but he'd def have a softer side.

O. Dazai - Girl dad ALL THE WAY - He's going to play dress up with her, tea parties, daddy-daughter dates etc etc he loves it all (also just don't think he can handle a little boy running around.)

Y. Fukuzawa - Girl AND Boy dad - Take that he hypothetically raised Yosano AND Ranpo just proves he's a big boy and girl dad, taking them out and having fun with them anywhere they'd like.

PORT MAFIAˏˋ°•*⁀➷

N. Chuuya - Girl dad - Daddy-Daughter dates, take your kid to work, daddy-daighter dances etc etc. Even though he's busy with his work he still want a to put time and effort to have fun with his kid.

P. Verlaine - Girl dad - He would let his kid basically play dress up with him. He'd let his kid put plastic tiaras and princess dressed on him. Let his daughter braid his hair and try to put those fake plastic highheels on that refuse to fit but his daughter would still try to make it work anyways.

R. Akutugawa - Boy dad - Making little monster trucks out of Rashomon so they can have little truck battles. Making little fits out of Rashomon too.

S. Oda - Both, leaning boy - Let's be serious, dazai and oda were father and son. Oda would be such a good dad. When it comes to being a boy dad he's gonna help his son with everything like when he hits puberty and doesn't now how to shave facial hair he'll help. When it comes to his daughter he's going to try understanding minstruals and any drama she's having.

S. Ango (former) - Girl dad - He definitely reads his kids bedtime stories regardless if they ask or not. He also let's them pull at his glasses just as long as they don't break them.

THE GUILDˏˋ°•*⁀➷

F. S. Fitzgerald - Girl dad - It's canon, literally. But he's definitely spoiling his daughter, toys, candy etc etc spoiling her to death (metaphorically)

E. A. Poe - Both leaning boy dad - He def wouldn't know how to give much attention to his child since he's all too focused on his novels.

H. P. Lovecraft - Girl dad - I feel like he wouldn't want kids take he might be scared they would be scared of him cause of his tentacles but if he would have had one, it would be a girl. They would def braid each other's hair.

J. Steinback - Both, leaning boy dad - I just couldn't see him being a girl dad though if he had a diaghter he would treat her just the same as if he had a son.

M. Twain - Both, leaning boy dad - I feel like Twain wouldn't care all too much but I feel like he'd enjoy teaching his son how the sniper works when his son gets older (not me saying girls can't learn how guns work)

DOAˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Bram S. - Girl dad - Hes definitely very protective over his daughter (like how he was protective over Aya) He's definitely giving a Vlad and Mavis (Hotel Transylvania) relationship, he'd do anything to make sure his daughter is happy.

Fyodor D. - Girl dad - He doesn't purposely neglect he child but take he's a terroist and literally on the run he tries his best but when he's not home he definitely sends Nikolai over to go give his daughter attention and love.

Sigma - Girl dad - If he had to choose, he'd be a girl dad. Not saying he wouldn't be a good dad, he'd be amazing but he wouldn't know how to deal with the drama or menstruals for the very first time but he'd definitely understand as time goes by.

Nikolai G. - Girl dad - ALL. THE. WAY. GIRL DAD NIKOLAI CANON. He'd let his daughter do his makeup for dress up or just for his clown outfit. No matter how messy it was he'd wear it out if she wanted him to (to carnivals, circuses, fairs etc.) Also hair braiding and tea party's are a big thing with Nikolai and his kid.

HUNTING DOGSˏˋ°•*⁀➷

S. Jōnō - Girl dad - It may sound ridiculous but they are playing hide and seek but the only way that Jōnō was always able to find her was his daughters soft giggles through the house where she was hiding, he's a really good dad.

S. Tetchō - Girl dad - He'd teach his daughter how his ability works, a smile would almost always appear when he heard her laugh and cheer as he demonstrated.

[rae-pss]

masterlist

˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ . . . little something i wrote to help with my inner thoughts. ˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ . . . lowercase intended, 195 words, mentions of scars in the forearm, not specified the reason why they're there.

with a fondness almost unknown to you, his hand held your wrist firmly; raising your arm enough to have it close to his face. a lateral movement of his wrist and your forearm was already under his watchful eye. deep gaze that carefully examined your skin, marked by a pain that you never wanted to have to experience again. a part of you that you longed to bury underground forever, but, one more part of you for him to love.

—you don't have to do this. –you tried to reason, not wanting him to be aware of the pain that still resided in your grieving soul.

carefully, his gaze met yours, a prolonged silence formed between the two of you. however, with delicate slowness, in case you decided to reject his actions, he lowered his face until the gentle commissure of his lips made contact with the back of your wrists. unhurriedly and gently, he began to leave tender kisses all over your forearm, paying special attention to the deeper marks that decorated your skin.

—just... –he started uttering. —let me know all the times that, despite not knowing it, i failed to protect you.

satan, mammon (whb); jotaro, bruno, wammu, josuke (jjba); satoru, suguru, itadori (jjk); dante (dmc); dazai (bsd); jack, buddha, qin, hades (snv/ror); mammon, simeon, diavolo (om); giyuu, sanemi, rengoku, akaza (kny); draken, mitsuya, kakucho (tokrev); your favs (<3).

[lovereadandwrite]

Fyodor resurrecting for the first time: 🤷🏻‍♂️:3

[musamora]

the dreadful need in the devotee — bungo stray dogs oneshot

content. f!reader. poetic prose, discussions of mortality and death, existentialism, suggestive themes, allusions to greek and abrahamic myth, romanticized unhealthy relationship dynamics, possible continuity errors. notes and translations at the end. not proofread. 3.8k+ words. ⟶ features fyodor dostoevsky. this work is a sequel to another oneshot! reading it's not a requirement, but is encouraged. this is also a collaboration with @yonseibananamilk! please check out her half of the collab ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

The fire of Pyramus danced within its hearth, the crackles a plea for freedom. Wooden shelves shimmered in a spectrum of amber hues. The light married abstract shadows with the spines of ancient books, stories lost to civilizations no historian could neither name nor describe. However, the harsh rays softened as they reached the two huddled on a sofa in the corner.

The domestic flame of your shared nocturnal nook chiseled at your features. Meadowed plains melded into the hills of your cheeks before they dipped back into low valleys nestled on the cusp of your nose or at the curvature of your cupid's bow. Fresh streams fringed the waterline of your eyes, fluttering lashes portraying the underbrush that beckoned him, barely obscuring the mystery hidden beneath the murky brook. Such a delicate canvas, framed with messy hair, made his sick heart thump at such vulnerable dishevelment.

You drank every word of your book with reverence while he could hardly focus on the one he held. The careful movement of your fingers as you turned the page tainted his thoughts into fantasies where they instead traced the expanse of his skin—it was repulsive.

But he dreaded an infallible demise the moment you chose to lay against him, not a thought to the difference in your stations. That heated sensation of unfamiliar tenderness, shrouded from the world, only to be acknowledged in an unimportant room in an unimportant place, thumbed him with a sentiment he could not adhere a title to. You were powerless in the scheme of everything that enveloped you, yet held no regard for fear or fate.

Instead, you smiled.

He hid the quiver of his limbs as his finger brushed the underside of your chin. Your face craned upward, and he realized he had been parched for a taste of the features he had so painstakingly mapped to memory. Your eyes closed with leisure as you leaned into his touch and—

He cracked his eyes, unable to open them as they strained to readjust to the merciless glare of his monitors, their caustic luster a stark contrast to the imprisoned fireside of his daydreams. His muscles cried out when he stretched. The quiver in his limbs recurred in spasmodic vibrations, worsening the cramp of his hands as he flexed them. It was a relentless ache that had become all too familiar to him.

You were a distraction. He had lost whole minutes of time to fanciful delusions with you and that damning grin of yours at the center. In his preparations, he toyed with the idea of dispatching you to a remote location outside the ire of societal destruction before ridiculing himself upon further examination. If another one of his subordinates had become such an issue, he wouldn't have hesitated to snuff them out—you had to be the human incarnate of temptation, the ultimate test of his faith.

Men who had traversed the path before him did not do so without trial. He had scrutinized the warnings their stories contained—Adam, Samson, Saul—men who had strayed from their noble path only to lose their kingdom. Fleshly pleasures lured many a good man to condemnation, for how could such sweetness be considered a mortal sin?

The fallen had once been beautiful creatures of virtue, and you were but a testament to the scars left in their descent. It was temporary—you and the fragmented thoughts your presence created would pass in years' time. He only had to be patient.

A knock at the entrance to his workspace interrupted his internal toil.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

Patience would be easier said than done.

"Not at all."

Because you dissipated thought and reason from his frenzied mind the moment you blessed him with even a mumble. Your voice was the otherworldly harmony that strained atop his ballad of misery. Not the corrupt inflections he had become accustomed to over centuries of time, but rather a sincere, artless tune that only he was ordained to hear and that he alone could descry. He would only admit one fact—human companionship was a merciless mistress.

For he knew you were your happiest at his side as his right hand, but he could not understand the reason—it brought harm to your so-called "doorstep," and the workload was laborious at best. But even in this isolated instance, when the crooks of your smile didn't entirely brush the banks of your eyelids, a noticeable ease settled in your bones at the sight of him hunched over a desk. An ease he returned, albeit underneath the veil of his carefully crafted mask.

"The preparations for the cannibalism event are almost complete," you continued, maintaining an unusual manner of professionalism as you handed him a set of stapled documents and receipts. "I just need to receive your approval before sending out the orders." His eyes crossed each section without too much consideration for their actual contents, affirmed in his trust of your intellectual capabilities when it came to outlining critical components of his plans with the ire of a scrutinizing eye. 

"Thank you. These will do."

This was usually the time that you would dive head-first into a heated discussion about the latest novel from his collection or scurry off with a courteous farewell to complete the enormous amount of tasks you often procrastinated, but instead, you lingered. Your brows furrowed, locked in contemplation as your eyes stalled on his screens—schematics for his future "trip" to the European detention facility, Meursault. He cleared his throat, which luckily broke you from your daze.

"It'll be weird." You ran your thumbs across your knuckles, teasing at your bottom lip as you shifted from foot to foot. "Moving to a new hideout, I mean." The palms of your hands shifted to skim the dust and grime-coated surface of his barren shelves, toying with the clumps of debris that gathered on your fingers as your mind returned to its baseline. What did your thoughts stray to in times when they left you stranded, out of his reach, as they became more challenging to discern? He could only pray, in some twisted part of his dark mind, that they were a reflection of his own—then maybe those fantasies could be justified.

Outside his internal ramblings, he hummed lowly, acknowledging the truth behind that sentiment. Neither of you shared an attachment to the four walls that surrounded you—it was no home. It held none of the warmth or affection such a term required, though the idea of a home was foreign to you both.

Under those clouded waters, your eyes held a look he both adored and disdained. That muted hesitation had returned, like a criminal stood on trial, unable to utter a word of the truth lest they condemn themself. And you knew too much and said far too little. If you would surrender to your impulses, push him or pull him close so that, in some fashion, his conscience could be alleviated and he could refocus—but it seemed you were stuck within the same cycle of indecision.

You parted your lips, faltered, and closed them again, second-guessing yourself as you fiddled with your fist. But upon further inspection of your nervous disposition, he spotted an object that had been hidden in your back pocket. A book. He raised a brow as you slowly pulled it out.

"You've offered me so much reading material in the past." You handed him the book. Its cover was weathered and cracked; a once vibrant hue faded into a dark, timework brown. The delicate, diaphanous golden letters that spindled across the spin dulled with age but continued to catch onto the fluorescent light. "So I thought I'd return the favor. It's a book I've had for as long as I can remember."

"Poetry?" He couldn't withhold the amusement in his tone. You were such an adorable little woman—his heart squeezed in indescribable fondness at the incredibly fitting genre. The book cradled in his hands was even more charming, if possible. Several translucent tabs and disorder marks stacked the contents of the book, defining a distinct difference from his own analytical annotations. Part of him wanted you to leave sooner so he could delve into the contents away from distraction and be allowed to soak up every delectable notation.

"For wherever you plan to go. I hope you might find some use out of it." Your face softened. "I know it's helped me."

He huffed but knew that he was ultimately endeared. "Thank you, моя дорогая. If you enjoyed it, I'm certain I'll find it an enticing read."

A tremor trickled down your spine at the unexpected sound of his mother tongue. His thick accent sounded like velvet to the ears, but you quickly nodded and sent him the courteous farewell he had initially expected—but he couldn't allow you to leave without answering one more question.

"Which one should I read first?"

You paused, prodding the question around in your mind. The answer you stumbled upon was bold, and you contemplated your choices as your nails methodically drummed across the doorway's threshold. It was a risky choice, but one you had to take.

"Browning's Sonnet 22." Your expression could have locked him there for eternity. "It's my favorite."

And you left. You left, and indecision haunted him once more.

An abhorrent, unsightly torpor flooded within him like the Neva itself, the warmth of the Russian summer smearing any presence of intellect or acumen from his person. His limbs lay heavy from the sweltering heat as the underbrush tickled at his perspiration-laden skin, allowing him a momentary reprieve as he observed the breeze push against the bountiful flora that edged the bank of a creek older than he was in a homeland he had no way to return to.

"Федя."

He roused from the rush that engulfed his body and replaced his idleness, his mind ravenous at the mere whisper of such an intimate, almost forbidden name. Soft hands replaced the roughened roots of creekside plants, trailing his arms until their owner came into full view, beckoning him to lean forward with the purse of your lips.

You were somehow even warmer than the summer sun, and he melted like a tempered candlestick at your sheer touch, lips chasing your own as you drew away with a smirk and a laugh. The collision of your bodies onto the hardened ground drew the breath from his lungs, but he allowed himself to find it once more in your embrace, nose buried in your neck as he resisted the urge to indulge in mortal temptations and simply allowed himself to revel in the innocent embrace.

"Федя," you cooed. Your hands roamed the expanse of his hair, outlining the edges of his nape in a rhythmic motion that started to lure him into a dreamless sleep. 

That was until the sensation started to fade, and he felt the familiar stomach-dropping sensation of falling. His eyes shot open as the idyllic naturistic scene dissipated from view to leave a void. Only you remained, but he paled as even you started to fade, reassuring him with a pitiful smile that he had become far too acquainted with.

"I'm sorry, Федя. You'll have to go one without me this time."

Your presence melded until your touch was like the chill of an algid frost—it was like the expiration of a dying star, crumbling in on itself until it rematerializes once more. From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return. The contact was the biting notion of where and who he was, with every incapability and flaw that marred his flesh. It whipped at his skin, burned at his eyes.

He shook as you slipped through his fingers, drifting out of his grasp as he looked around for something to hold onto, anything to help either of you escape from—

"That must be a pretty good book you've got there."

The blinding aura of his circular cell was not a sight he wished to become accustomed to, the chamber he had been "forced" to occupy with the French prison. And to his utter dismay, it had been the lousy half of the Port Mafia's former Double Black that had stirred him from his waking nightmare, Osamu Dazai. The bandaged man looked like the cat that had caught the rat; his eyes narrowed as if he had finally pinpointed the Russian's weakness. An unseemly smirk drew across his pale face.

"You've been staring at the same page for the past five minutes, Fyodor," the detective crooned, splayed on on his bed with his head dangling at the side at an uncomfortable angle, almost like he wasn't locked in a high-stakes match of chess. "Your eyes haven't moved an inch. Leaves me to wonder what could possibly be so enticing about that book. You should lend it sometime!"

"I'm simply concerned for the well-being of your fellow agents," Fyodor sneered cooly, allowing his demonic mask to slip back on with his signature smirk. "I just can't help but worry for them. I'll be sure to pray for a swift, painless demise."

"Hmm, I'm sure."

But the suspicion of the detective didn't matter. Fyodor had ensured that you had no connections to one another, and your identity was completely erased once you went underground years prior. So, for the time you remained hidden, you were safe, and that terrible concoction of his mind would not come to fruition. You were in the midst of correcting course on any minor deviations from his plans if the smoothness of his operation was a testament—but in other moments between consciousness and sleep, he wondered if you shared these same thoughts. The split seconds that expanded into hours of dreams he wished never to wake from. 

He couldn't help but linger on the horrific scenario that cast an ever-present shadow over his every thought. It was a possibility, and he shuddered to think of the notion that it would someday become a reality. But this was his one opportunity, and he wouldn't waste it.

He glanced down at his book. In truth, he wasn't much impressed by the pages anymore. This was one of the many books with copies in his personal collection, but it lacked the vitality he had become attuned to. It had been your book of poems that revitalized him, yet he was unable and unwilling to bring such a valuable item into a place such as this. He would not risk the desperation of his opponent at finding his weakness, nor the capabilities of the Special Division for Unusual Powers in finding a connection to the book's owner—so it was contained somewhere safe and sound, where no one else could find it.

That book had opened a separate world that consumed him, body and soul. But that poem that you had recommended—you were quite the romantic, weren't you? His face had flushed during his first reading and the several times after it, though your annotations were even more telling. But it only made the pressure on his heart increase, and he swore it would implode. Perhaps that was an underlying medical condition of his previous host.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn't quite sure what he would do when he saw you again.

You dislodged yourself from the rubbled remains of the airport, fortunate to have been located further from the destruction Ame-no-Gozen created. The walls around you stood firm, but the roof caved in from pressure above, leaving only a sliver of room to escape to the intact remainder of the roof. Your hands ached and blistered with every inch of your ascent, halted as you took time to cough out the debris that generously clustered at the bottom of your lungs. You looked utterly worse for wear but couldn't find the time to mind given the circumstances.

After what seemed like hours of excruciating climbing, you made it to the top—but, of course, the fabric of your pants decided to snag onto a metal panel that had stubbornly remained intact.

"Oh, come on," you groaned, sitting down to tease and tussle with the ornery piece of cloth. It had been a restless last few weeks, and you simply wanted to sleep. You huffed as the shrapnel decided to release its grasp on your pants, but as you were about to stand back up, you took notice of the shadow before you.

There he was.

You could recognize Fyodor's striking eyes anywhere, even when he was clad in the attire of a fresh body without his signature hat and cloak, but you found that you didn't care much for the finer details when he was finally in front of you. His presence had formed a vacancy in your everyday routine, and for the first time in years, you found yourself completely alone. Even when there was work to be done and plans to create, the majority of his usual subordinates were killed as collateral—not that they had even been much company. But would you be forced to fall into the same line?

The question nauseated you, but you had known the possibilities when you took his hand for the first time. If there was a time for you to part ways, whether at his accord or your own, this would be it. This was your crossroads. But you knew as you slipped your hand into his, outstretched for you to take, that he wouldn't be letting go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part. It seemed your fears were unfounded since when you slipped your hand into his own, outstretched for you to take, you knew he wouldn't let you go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part.

You stood with his help, a contemplative tilt to your brow—but you couldn't stand the silence that continued to persist. So, in the echoes of his formulaic destruction, you allowed yourself to breathe. A release of that suspension and hesitation, unfurling your burden as you lifted your aching hands to cup his face, delighted in the widening of his eyes at the unbalanced scale between you tilted to the other side.

"Федя," you spoke, the sensation of the word foreign to your lips. A spark returned to his eyes as if you whispered the secret to raise him from the dead. "Are you alright?"

The wind rushed through him, breath tumbling with the breeze as it coasted along the metal platform you stood from. Despite reason pleading with him to run from your proximity, he instead chose to intertwine his fingers with one of your hands. He pressed kisses into the curve of your palm as he lined every scar and bruise with a tenderness that soothed your aches.

"I am."

He didn't need to utter another word—your brief separation had only strengthened your unified understanding of one another, with each crying gesture serving as the final touch. No more trials. No more secrets. The look in his eyes was one of stories. Eyes that had witnessed every dismal aspect of human nature, both in the past you shared, and in the past he traversed alone. But they had become worthless stories to him; the minuscule glimpses of resolution that had served as a sign from God of the promised end turned into the delusions of a desperate man as he found the reflection of the end in front of him—you. In every step he took since your destined encounter, you had been what he was searching for. His hope. His future. His reality. That fraudulent resolution was no longer at the end of a perilous tunnel but right before him.

You understood that the intimacy of your "relationship," with whichever label others tended to tack it with, could never be shared with another soul. Those voiceless, indulgent whispers and subtle, crinkled smiles were mere productions of your shared devotion. But more so, the hummed resonation of your souls spoke the loudest. They had remained empty for such stretches of time, so neither of you knew what to make of it when you somehow poured from your empty cups into the creation of a fulfilling bond. Your only comfort was the notion that this—this was the reason you were created. For each other.

He remembered the moment he laid eyes on you, the sensation that his long-time friend had turned foe, death no longer a temptation out of his grasp but a certainty he could not shake. Your straightforward disposition beckoned him, and he then understood why he had been made with a capacity for love despite acting as the immortal incarnation of its antonym. He had never once felt a need for fruitful devotion, not to some unseen voice from the skies, untouched by the heart and mind of humans, but instead for the one person who would take his heart to the grave with them.

He was immortal, whether by chance or fate, but it was your ability to shake off the temptations of fear that immortalized you in the end. Never once had you allowed your rift in mortality to halt the blossoming kinship between you, prodding at the walls of his solid foundations until they cracked and eroded over time. Fyodor chuckled—he thought he had a capacity for patience, between you were a godsend in comparison. He was the proclaimed "Demon of the North." The man sent to spread the wrathful will of God across the nations. So it was no wonder he had been so tempted when met with a force of benevolence, one which he had rarely witnessed and never known. He could never claim to be worthy of mortal worship when a creature like you stood before him.

You shivered at the sudden touch of his hands as they traveled across the exposed skin of your waist, soft despite his habits. They traced the contours of your figure like a sculptor transfixed on the finest marble. Time had not been merciful in his centuries alone—but it stilled for this moment. For the moment your lips met, and your odyssey was finally over. The spread of his touch was revolutionary, roaming with a cardinal fervor within this wasteland of human misfortune. It sparked a revolt within your mind—your union was taboo, but nothing had ever felt as destined to be.

The muscles of your face tendered as his thumb outlined the brushwood of your lashes. Your eyes drifted shut in a manner that wordlessly pronounced your insomnolence. He kissed a smile against your forehead as you parted, cradling your face as if you were his world. This was an intimacy that could not be replicated, and his mind shattered at the notion of loss.

"Never wander somewhere I can't follow," spoke the desperate man.

You flashed him a cheeky grin. "You won't be able to leave if you want me to stay."

He leaned in, lips close enough to brush. "I won't leave. Not ever again."

And he dipped back in for another taste, addicted to the ambrosial quality of your lips as he buried himself in the shrine of your arms. 

дорогая = dear федя = fedya

TAGLIST: @ruru-kiss @miloofc @osarina @meiluvrr @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @dazaisms @v4mpash3 @coffeeofsamu @just-another-crack-artist @snowsilver2000 @chyozai @justcallmesakira @little-miss-chaoss @himikoslove @osameowdazai @deepseafragments @aureatchi @tirasamu @kelperspelt @squigglewigglewoo @lovesick-fairy @zyilas @ishqani

a fyodor fic! very original for me, i know. nana and i planned out this collaboration months ago, and were luckily able to schedule it for the chapter release. again, please go check out her side of the collaboration! speaking of chapters, that update was certainly something. i'm intrigued to see the further development of atsushi and akutagawa through the end of this story arc, since it feels like they've switched roles in regards to the desperation, if that makes sense. and, of course, it was interesting to see fyodor express such strong emotion in reaction to atsushi, and i'm excited to see it unfold in the next installment! feel free to discussion discourse below :D

© MUSAMORA 2024 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[emmacarterhere]

🌼✨🌼✨🌼✨🌼✨🌼✨

You will spend the next six hours locked in your cage, completely naked and on all fours. The cage is just large enough for you to move slightly, ensuring you're always aware of its confines. A collar and leash will be attached, but the leash will be just short enough to keep your head bowed in submission. You will have a bowl of water and a bowl of plain, unseasoned food placed just outside the cage bars, forcing you to reach out like the obedient pup you are if you wish to eat or drink.

Every thirty minutes, I will come by to check on you. If you are not in the perfect submissive posture, you will earn an additional hour in the cage. If you behave well, perhaps I'll reward you with a brief touch or a gentle pat on the head. This is a test of your obedience and endurance, and I expect nothing less than absolute compliance.

[velvetyvoyage]

📣📣FYODOR FUCKIN DOSTOYEVSKY! , stop making people hate you! CHALLENGE!! GO!📣📣❗️‼️‼️💋‼️‼️(IMPOSSIBLE!)

📢📢FYODOR! STOP SERVING CUNT TO MAKE UP FOR YOUR TRACHEAROUS CRIMES!! GOO!! 🗣🗣🗯‼️‼️❗️‼️‼️💋💋‼️‼️